Abuse of Power

by Michael Savage

“This is not a situation someone would slough off unless someone high up told them to do it,” Jack said, adding pointedly: “Someone high up told them to stay away. What happened when you got to the lot?”

  “After a while I called Mom again and she said they was gone and Jamal was resting,” Leon said. “I figgered he just pass out, y’know what I’m sayin’?” His manner was different now, cooperative and even contrite. “Next thing I know, you two show up and there’s an ambulance.” He averted his gaze again, sniffed back tears. “I get here an’ paramedics are already about, ‘Jamal OD’d’ and Mom is screamin’ that the cops kilt him. She said she came into the bedroom and found a needle lyin’ on the bed beside his mouth.” Leon glared into space. “My kid brother stuck himself under the tongue, right, ’cause his arm was in a cast? Is that real? We kept drugs on the nightstand so we could shoot up before bed! That’s bullshit, man!”

  “Isn’t that how you put your mother to sleep?” Maxine asked.

  Leon shifted uneasily.

  Jack leaned forward. “Are you sure Jamal didn’t take drugs?”

  “I told you, man, that kid was clean. Maybe smoked some weed, but that was it.”

  They were all silent a moment. There were a lot of pieces now, but they still didn’t fit. Try throwing a rock and see who throws it back, Bob Copeland had told Jack. What kind of target did they have?

  “The guy standing next to the Escalade,” he said to Leon. “Did you get a good look at him?”

  The kid shrugged. “Good enough, I guess.”

  “Can you describe him for me?”

  Leon dug a hand into his pants pocket. “Don’t need to.”

  He brought his cell phone out, pressed a few buttons, then handed it to Jack.

  A video started playing.

  Maxine moved around next to him and they watched together, a dark, shaky shot of the tenement house from about half a block down, a tall, muscular guy in sunglasses standing near the hood of the SUV, looking off toward Jamal’s apartment.

  Professional, Jack thought. But definitely not a cop, from the looks of him—local or federal.

  So who was he?

  The video cut to black and Jack punched a button to play it again.

  “What do you think?” Jack asked as the image replayed.

  “I think it’s amazing what you can shoot on a cell phone these days. That’s HD quality. Maybe I should chuck the vidcam.”

  He made a face but he let it pass. That was Max’s way of blowing off tension; she’d earned the right tonight.

  “Why, what do you think?” she asked.

  “If I had to guess I’d say private security.”

  Max squinted slightly, concentrating. “Y’know, there may be a way we can find out.”

  “How?”

  She pointed at the Escalade. “We don’t have a view of the license plate, but you see that little rectangle in the corner of the driver’s window?”

  Jack looked, nodded. “Parking sticker.”

  “Right. And I bet if I dump this video into my system at home, I’ll be able to enhance it enough to get a fix on that sticker. At least tell us where they park their car.”

  “It’s a start,” Jack said, then shifted his gaze to Leon. “Is there some way you can transfer this video to Max?”

  He shrugged. “E-mail.”

  Jack nodded. “Good. I don’t know who’s behind all this, Leon, but I’m gonna do everything I can to find out.”

  “Why?” the kid said. “Why do you even care?”

  Jack studied him grimly. “Because that’s just who I am.”

  12

  After they left Leon, Jack and Maxine walked along the street unassaulted and climbed into her car. Two of the gang members had been watching it for them. The kids left wordlessly when they arrived.

  They both needed a drink so they made their way to the nearest bar, found a booth, and ordered the best scotch the place had to offer. Jack liked Glenrothes single malt scotch but it was hard to find. He usually settled for Jameson 12, Irish whiskey.

  Jack was working on his third when his cell phone vibrated against his thigh, telling him he had a text message. He pulled it from his pocket, glanced at the screen, and saw that the sender was Bob Copeland.

  The message was short and simple:

  1600 hrs MOMA

  Jack did not bother to reply. Copeland wouldn’t expect or even want one. He knew that Jack would be waiting for him at the Museum of Modern Art at four P.M. tomorrow, so there was nothing else to be said. But Jack was happy to hear from him. Copeland would only be requesting another meet because he had new information.

  “Who’s that?” Max said, glancing at the screen as he put away his phone. “One of your many conquests?”

  Jack looked at her and grinned. “You know I only have eyes for you.”

  “And for some reason they keep staring at my chest. Men are so predictable.”

  “Well, you know how I feel about sex, Max, don’t you? ‘The position is ridiculous, the relief momentary, and the results catastrophic.’”

  She laughed. “Yeah, I’ve read Chesterfield, Jack. But I think that’s probably the scotch talking, Don Juan. Or maybe you’re just turned on by the fact that I saved your hide tonight.”

  “Not that I don’t appreciate it,” Jack said, “but I had the situation under control.”

  Max cocked an eyebrow, giving him a playful look. After working together with her for the past few months, Jack recognized it as the expression she wore when she was having fun with him.

  “What you had,” she said, “was a near-death experience. If I hadn’t come along when I did, you would’ve been riding in the back of that ambulance with Jamal Thomas.”

  Jack played along, not bothering to mention that he could have taken Leon with a Krav Maga move—step in, push the gun arm to his chest with your own perpendicular forearm, hold it there while you take a second step behind him, then snake that arm up and across his throat and put him in a chokehold. The way they were standing, however, the EMT would probably have taken a slug or two in the chest.

  “Are you purposely trying to deflate my sense of masculinity?” he asked.

  “I don’t think that’s possible. Let’s just call it a dose of reality.”

  Jack was about to respond when they heard a beeping sound. It was Maxine’s turn to grab her cell phone. She checked the screen and suddenly got serious. “Leon finally sent me the video.”

  “Good. You really think you can blow it up?”

  “Blowing it up isn’t the problem,” she said. “It’s the resolution I’m concerned about. Even though it’s HD, there’s no telling what we’ll have once the image is triple its size.”

  “So it’s a crap shoot.”

  “I’ve got a few high-end tools I can use to fill in some of the pixels, but no guarantees.”

  Jack nodded. “You have an ETA?”

  She smiled. “I could be working on it right now if you weren’t busy trying to get me drunk and figure out how to take advantage of me.”

  Jack grinned again. “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. Sometime tomorrow then?”

  “I’m working another shoot in the morning, but I’m pretty sure I can have a yea or nay for you by the time you get back from that little rendezvous with your hottie. I’ll call you the minute I do.”

  * * *

  Max dropped him off at his boat around eleven P.M.

  After a halfhearted attempt to invite her in—an attempt that went down in flames, as he knew it would—Jack bid her farewell and climbed aboard the Sea Wrighter. He wasn’t two steps on deck before he abruptly sobered.

  Someone had been here.

  Boaters tend to have a kind of sixth sense when it comes to knowing their space has been invaded—maybe because there’s often so little of it—and Jack had no doubt in his mind that he’d had a visitor tonight.

  Tony?

  Not likely. He would have left for Camp Parks hours ago.

  Carl
os Rodriguez, the kid Jack had hired to wash his boat? Carlos was an illegal and Jack had been trying to help him gain citizenship—although he was convinced that the illegal problem, coupled with corporate welfare, were two things that were surely and swiftly sinking this country.

  But Jack wasn’t without his sympathies, especially toward a young man he knew wasn’t afraid of hard work. His own grandfather, a Russian immigrant, had taken a similar path, working long, backbreaking hours to raise his family, and had spent many years living in poverty on New York’s Lower East Side. Jack saw the same thing in Carlos that he saw in his own family and people. A sense of pride and a willingness to make sacrifices.

  But Carlos only came to wash the boat on Tuesdays, and wasn’t due again until next week. So, if not him, and not Tony, who was the intruder?

  And, more importantly, was he still here?

  Jack glanced up toward the flybridge but saw no sign of movement up there. As a precaution, he pulled his .357 from its holster then quietly unlocked the starboard pilothouse door and slipped inside, carefully surveying the room. He left the lights off, leaving only the pale moonlight to guide him, but as far as he could tell, there was nothing out of place.

  Yet that feeling of invasion persisted.

  What was worse, Eddie would usually be leaping at his feet by now, over and over until Jack caught him in his arms. But there was no sign of him.

  Jack’s gut tightened and a fresh wave of uneasiness rolled through him. He was tempted to call out to the little guy but he remained silent. If anyone was in here, there was no point in announcing himself.

  Instead, he stepped past the helm to the port door.

  It was unlocked.

  Jack never left his doors unlocked. Not while he was gone.

  For a moment he considered backing out completely and waiting in the darkness on the dock for someone to emerge. But an unlocked door was merely proof that someone had been here, not that they’d stuck around. And he was worried about Eddie.

  Turning, he checked the salon, watching the darkness for any sign of movement, listening for any sounds of breathing, but there was a stillness in the air that told him it was empty. He moved down the short set of steps and crossed through to the aft cabin, which was also empty.

  Taking his cell phone from his pocket, he hit the flashlight app and the screen glowed. He shone the beam up the spiraled wooden stairway and cautiously climbed the steps to the flybridge, but there was no sign of anything amiss. A moment later he was back inside the pilothouse and headed down to the lower deck. He took the steps cautiously, keeping the .357 at the ready. He had no qualms about doing whatever was necessary to protect himself.

  When he reached the companionway he stood very still, listening. The boat gently rocked and the only sound was the quiet lapping of the bay against the hull. No sign of Eddie down here, either.

  So where was he?

  Dread washing through him, Jack used his cell phone flashlight again, keeping the beam low as he worked his way around to the guest stateroom, bracing himself for a surprise attack. But the cabin was clear—no bogeymen in the shadows, no sign of a disturbance.

  Turning, he was about to check the second guest stateroom when he noticed that the door to the head was ajar. He supposed it could have come loose somehow, but he doubted it, and he wasn’t prone to leaving the door unlatched.

  Tightening his grip on the .357, he approached the head carefully, half expecting to find someone hiding in there. But when he gently pushed the door open and shone the light inside, he discovered the small bathroom and shower stall empty.

  But his instincts had been right. Someone had been in here.

  In the light of his cell phone he saw a noose hanging from the shower head.

  An empty noose that had been fashioned from Eddie’s leash.

  * * *

  Tony was half asleep when Jack called.

  “Do you have any idea what time it is?” he groaned. “I got training in the morning. I’m trying to get some shut-eye.”

  “Sorry, man, but is Eddie up there with you?”

  “Up here?” Tony said groggily. “What the hell are you talking about? Why would I bring him up here?”

  “You two seem to be attached at the hip lately, so I was hoping you took him along for the ride.”

  The grogginess in Tony’s voice abruptly disappeared. “Jack, what’s going on?”

  “Someone broke into the boat and Eddie’s gone. And I’m not sure I want to tell you what I found in the head.”

  “You think they took him?”

  “Or worse. He’s nowhere around.” The dread Jack had felt earlier was rolling around in his belly like a bad stew. “I’ve tried calling him but he doesn’t come.”

  “Wait a minute,” Tony told him. “Hold on—”

  “What—?”

  “Go into your stateroom.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Just do what I tell you. This is something me and Eddie wanted to surprise you with.”

  “What the hell are you—”

  “Just do it, Jack. Trust me.”

  Jack hesitated a moment, still battling his rage, then did as he was told. He had already turned on all the lights, in hopes of spotting the little guy cowering in a corner, but grew more and more alarmed when he couldn’t find him.

  “You in there yet?”

  “I’m here,” Jack said.

  “All right. Now say, ‘FIDO.’”

  “What?”

  “FIDO,” Tony told him. “It’s an old military acronym. ‘Fuck It and Drive On.’ Trust me, just say it. And say it loud.”

  Jack hesitated, wondering what Tony was up to. “All right.… FIDO.”

  The moment the word was out of his mouth he heard Eddie’s familiar outsized growl coming from somewhere near the bed. The one he normally reserved for strangers. It was muffled, but clear, and Jack moved quickly to a low, narrow cabinet on the port side.

  When he opened the cabinet door, he found Eddie lying prone inside the tiny space, stretched out flat like a platypus.

  “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Jack said, relief washing through him.

  “A little self-preservation measure, in case someone ever broke in. I noticed the door on that cabinet was spring-loaded, so I started working with him about three weeks ago.”

  “Thank God you did,” Jack said. He tucked the phone under his chin and pulled Eddie into his arms, letting his friend lick at his face. “I was worried sick about him.”

  “No kidding. You ready to tell me what you found in the head now?”

  Jack gave the dog a quick back scratch, above the tail, then set him on the bed. “A noose made out of Eddie’s leash.”

  “What the hell? Did you call the cops?”

  “For what? They’ll just file a report and call it a day.” Jack sighed. “I’m used to death threats but this is a little too close to home. And I’m not entirely convinced it’s the work of one of my garden-variety stalkers.”

  “Then who?”

  “Good question. Bob Copeland told me I should watch my back, and after what happened to Jamal Thomas tonight—”

  “What happened?”

  Jack gave him the rundown on the trip to Sunnydale, Jamal’s overdose, and the men in the black Escalade. “The kid’s brother got one of them on his cell camera and Maxine’s gonna see if she can identify the parking sticker on the car.”

  “Jesus,” Tony muttered. “Sounds like we got this thing right. You and Eddie better not sleep on that boat tonight.”

  “This was just a warning, Tony. If somebody wanted me dead, they would’ve stuck around instead of playing games.”

  “Okay, but humor me. Get the hell out of there. Go to a hotel or hit up Maxine. Or your ex. She’s got plenty of room in that big house you left her.”

  “I don’t think the tax guy she’s been dating would approve,” Jack said.

  “Do you care?”

  Tony was right. About all of it.

&
nbsp; “Okay. I’ll make sure we get to safer ground. When are you due back?”

  “Sometime tomorrow night.”

  “Good,” Jack said. “See you then. Now get back to sleep.”

  “Keep your powder dry.”

  Jack nodded. “I always do.”

  13

  Jack thought of his apartment on Union Street as his Fortress of Solitude. The only people who knew he owned it were his real estate broker, the bank, and his former wife—and he wanted to keep it that way.

  He hadn’t even told Tony. Jack kept it separate from his everyday life, a place where he could seek refuge, to reflect and reminisce.

  A twenty-two-story sixties-era complex right off the Embarcadero, it was just a block from the bay. The beauty of the building was that there were four or five entrances and exits on various floors, and he sometimes marveled at how difficult it would be for any of the “progressives” who had threatened him over the years to stalk him here.

  You could elude a rampaging army in this place.

  He inwardly thought of the complex as a mini-UN. It was populated by a variety of people of various nationalities, and riding the elevator to the twentieth floor was often an education in cultural diversity. One day he’d be smiling and winking at a Norwegian child in a stroller and the next he’d be chatting with a businessman from Tokyo.

  The view from his window was spectacular. Facing north, it looked out across the bay. And just beyond the Richmond Bridge, you could see the East Brother Light Station, a small island lighthouse that had been in operation for over a hundred and thirty-three years.

  Jack had spent part of his honeymoon on that island, staying at the bed-and-breakfast there. And while he had found the place charming, Rachel had complained that they were too isolated to have any fun—beyond the bedroom, that is. Jack loved and could enjoy the birds, the bay, even the winds. That contrast in their attitudes was one of the many reasons they were no longer married.

  As with many marriages, Jack and Rachel stopped sleeping together years before the sex stopped. They had side-by-side separate beds, and later they slept in separate bedrooms.

  He liked to watch movies on TV, she liked to read. He went to bed early, she read until after midnight. He got up at first light, she slept until eleven. He was obsessed with politics and TV news, she found this too predictable. “What’s the point of getting excited,” she used to say to him, “they’re all liars and you can’t change a damn thing.”