San Francisco Night

by Stephen Leather

  “Of course. See you later,” said Matthew.

  “Yes, indeed,” she said.

  She hummed her little tune again, as she headed for the mop and bucket. She planned to leave the tiled floor as sparkling clean as she always did. She did so hate a mess.

  CHAPTER 14

  Nightingale was eating a ham and cheese sandwich in his room when there was a double knock on his door, followed a couple of seconds later by another double knock, louder this time. He put down his sandwich and padded in his bare feet over to the door. He pressed his eye against the door viewer. There was an Asian woman standing in the corridor, wearing a gray suit, her long black hair tied back in a ponytail. Her right hand was at an unusual angle and he realised she was getting ready to draw a weapon. A cop, he figured. He opened the door and smiled at her. “Amy Chen?” he said.

  She frowned and her hand tensed. “Now how would you know that?”

  “Because I don’t now anyone in this city. Because you look like a cop. And because I was told that a Chinese detective was investigating the disappearance of Michael O’Hara. Father Mike. I figure Ms Winthrop told you I’d been to see her.”

  She nodded slowly. “Nice deduction,” she said. “Inspector Amy Chen. SFPD. Can I come in?”

  “I’m not really geared up for guests,” he said. “But I’m more than happy to help San Francisco’s finest.” He held open the door. “I didn’t tell Ms Winthrop where I was staying, though.”

  “No, but they took down the number of your car and you gave the hotel desk the registration number when you checked in.”

  Nightingale closed the door and he waved her over to one chair in the room, by the dressing table. She sat down and adjusted her jacket. There was a holstered Glock on her hip. She stared at him for several seconds. “Do you have some ID you can show me?”

  “Sure,” he said, taking out his wallet. He handed her a California driver’s license. It was one of the many forms of ID that Wainwright had given him and Nightingale had been assured it would stand up to any scrutiny. Inspector Chen studied it and then gave it back.

  “And why are you in San Francisco?”

  “I’m a journalist. Freelance. I’m putting together a story on missing persons.” He sat down on the edge of the bed.

  “You’re English?”

  Nightingale nodded.

  “With a California driver’s licence?”

  “I’m here a lot. The States, I mean. Not San Francisco.”

  “Green card?”

  “No. Can I ask you a question?”

  “That’s not normally how it works.”

  Nightingale smiled. “I know. I just wondered why you’re here.”

  “Why do you think I’m here?”

  Nightingale looked into her eyes. But like policemen the world over, Amy Chen’s eyes gave nothing away. He smiled. “The Bible.”

  “Got it in one,” said Chen. “So you admit stealing it?”

  “I borrowed it,” said Nightingale. He stood up. As he moved, the detective’s hand shifted towards the butt of her Glock. Nightingale raised his hands. “I’m just going to get it from the drawer.”

  “Why don’t you sit back down and I’ll get it,” said Chen. Nightingale did as he was told. The detective went over to the bedside table, opened the drawer and took out the Bible. As she bent down he saw a can of mace in a holster on the opposite hip to where the gun was. She went back to the dressing table but didn’t sit down. “Do you want to tell me why you stole it?”

  “I didn’t steal it. I borrowed it. I had every intention of returning it.”

  “You still haven’t told me why.”

  “I wanted some background. Father Mike spent a lot of time with his Bible. He made notes in it.” He shrugged. “I thought the notes would be helpful.”

  “Were they?”

  “Not really.”

  Chen looked at him without speaking. It was a cop’s trick, he knew. Leave a long silence and eventually the suspect would say something, anything, to break it.

  “What are you thinking, Inspector Chen? Are you thinking that I’m the killer and wanted a souvenir?”

  “Who said anything about a killing?” said Chen, quickly.

  “Killing. Kidnapping. What’s the difference?”

  “At the moment Father Mike is just a missing person. Or do you know something the SFPD don’t?”

  “He’s been missing for a while. Most missing people turn up within a few days.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You seem to know a lot about detective work.”

  “I watch a lot of TV. Big fan of Law And Order.”

  “And what got you started on Father Mike’s case?”

  “I’m looking at unusual cases. And he’s unusual, that’s for sure.”

  “What are the other cases you’re looking at?”

  Nightingale reached into his raincoat pocket and took out the printed sheets that Wainwright had given him - Sister Rosa, Suzanne Mills and Father Mike.

  She flicked through the sheets, nodding. “These are all my cases,” she said. She grimaced at the Mills sheet. “Suzanne was walking home from choir practice and never showed up. No history of problems. I’ve always had a bad feeling about Suzanne.”

  “Because she was a pretty girl?”

  Her charcoal eyes narrowed. “You say ‘was’ like you know something, Jack?”

  “Slip of the tongue,’ he said. “Have you made any progress on the three cases?” he asked.

  “No. Not really.”

  “They’re not the typical missing persons cases, am I right?”

  “A nun, a priest and a choir girl, no, I’d say not.”

  “Like I said, most missing persons turn up eventually, don’t they?”

  She nodded. “Ninety-nine per cent. And those that stay missing are usually alive and well but have a good reason for staying missing. Abusive spouse, debts they can’t pay, the cops on their trail. To be honest, most of my work is just keeping track of who is missing and who has turned up. The difference between the two is quite small and as I said, most of them have gone missing voluntarily.”

  “And these three?”

  Inspector Chen sighed. “Father Mike and Sister Rosa aren’t priorities, obviously. I checked all the hospitals and the morgues but other than that...” She left the sentence unfinished. Nightingale assumed that like police officers around the world she was overworked and underpaid. “The girl, I was more concerned about abduction but no one saw her being taken. I spoke to the family, no problems at home, and I checked her social media and she didn’t seem to be planning to run away with a boyfriend.” She smiled. “Or girlfriend. I did the basic checks, now we wait.”

  “Wait?”

  “To see if she turns up. I put her name in all the databases, if she tries to get on a plane or use her credit card or comes into contact with the police, I’ll be notified. And we check her against all Jane Does as they come in.”

  “But other than that, the investigation has gone cold?”

  “We’ve got priorities. You know about the two ten-year-olds who went missing last week?”

  Nightingale shook his head.

  “Brett Michaels and Sharonda Parker. Both just plain vanished.”

  “Any connection?”

  “None that we can see. He’s white and from a good family, she’s black, mother’s a single parent. They live on opposite sides of town. But they went missing on the same day.”

  “Coincidence?”

  “I hope so.”

  “You hope so?”

  “If it’s the same guy then he could strike again. If they’re just missing and they turn up, then all’s well that ends well.”

  “You’re assuming a guy.”

  She shrugged. “Women don’t usually abduct children, other than family members. And we’ve run all the usually family checks on both kids. Missing kids are always our priority.”

  “Sure, of course. I hope they turn up.”

  “You and me bo
th.” She gave him back the papers. “So when are you going to level with me?”

  “Level with you?”

  She smiled coldly. “You’re a journalist but you don’t take notes. You ask cop questions. And you’ve got a cop’s eyes.”

  Nightingale forced a smile, but his mind was racing. He couldn’t tell her the truth, but she’d already seen through one lie. All he could do was to try to tell her a better lie. And a better lie was one that was closer to the truth. “You’ve got me,” he said. “I’m a private eye.”

  “An English private eye working in the States. I’m not sure I buy that.”

  “Father Mike has relatives back in Ireland. They want to know what’s happened to him.”

  Inspector Chen pulled a face as if she had a bad taste in her mouth. “They think we’re not up to the job, is that it?”

  “They understand that you have priorities and they wanted to make sure that everything that can be done is being done. And I think there might be a financial motive too.”

  “How that?”

  “Father Mike still has some assets back in Ireland. Some land and a farm that’s rented out. If he disappears then it’ll be at least seven years before they can get their hands on it. But if he dies…” He shrugged. “They didn’t say that of course, they acted all concerned about his welfare, but it seemed to me if they were all that concerned they’d have taken care of him themselves and not dumped him in an old folks home.”

  “But why are you looking at these three cases?”

  “Because like you I couldn’t make sense of the fact that he’s just vanished. Old people don’t disappear into thin air. They have accidents and end up in hospital, or the morgue, or they turn up homeless on the streets, or they make their way back home. If Father Mike really has disappeared, then that has to be because someone did something to him. I don’t see that an old priest can have made many enemies so I started thinking that perhaps someone has it in for Catholics.”

  Inspector Chen’s jaw dropped. “What?”

  “I started looking into missing persons cases in the city and I came up with these three. All Catholics, all vanished without trace, all with no valid reason for disappearing.” Her phone buzzed and she took the call, turning away from Nightingale and cupping her hand over her mouth so he couldn’t hear what she was saying. When she’d finished she put the phone away. “Duty calls,” she said. She picked up the Bible. “I’ll return this. Don’t go borrowing things again without asking.”

  “I won’t. Can we talk again?”

  “You can’t come to the precinct,” she said. “I can’t be seen talking to a private eye.” She smiled. “Or a journalist. Or a tourist either, for that matter.”

  “Let’s make it social then,” said Nightingale. “Look, I’m going to be digging into these cases, I might come up with something helpful. I’m happy to share anything I find with you.”

  She nodded slowly and then shrugged. “What the hell. Most nights we have a few drinks down at Raw Bar, just down the road from the precinct. If you swing by there and say hello, I don’t see that’d be a problem. Just don’t lie to me next time.”

  “It’s a date,” said Nightingale, and grinned at her look of surprise. “Joke,” he said.

  “That’d be that famous English sense of humor I’ve heard so much about,” she said. “I don’t get it.” She flashed him a tight smile and let herself out of the room.

  CHAPTER 15

  Nightingale had just climbed into bed when his cellphone rang. He glanced at the display. It was Wainwright. “Jack? Where are you?”

  “In bed? My motel.”

  “Did you tell Mitchell where you were staying?”

  “Sure. But he didn’t want to come back with me. I’m seeing him tomorrow.”

  “Get out of there now,” said Wainwright. “Call me from your car.”

  The line went dead. Nightingale rolled out of bed, dressed, grabbed his belongings and hurried out of his room, taking the back way to get to his car. As he left the car park, he narrowly missed hitting a black SUV. Nightingale realised he’d forgotten to switch his lights on. He flicked them on and accelerated away from the motel. He drove for five minutes before calling Wainwright. “What’s going on, Joshua? What’s the panic?”

  “Mitchell’s dead. A cop on my payroll just called me to say they found his body on Alcatraz. Or what was left of his body, it was missing a lot of pretty essential parts. They’re thinking he was chewed up by a boat propeller. I’m thinking he wasn’t.”

  “I saw him get on the ferry, back to the mainland.”

  “So whoever killed him dumped him back in the sea. I’m not happy about this.”

  “I’m not thrilled, either.” He stopped at a red light and tapped the steering wheel impatiently, then realised he didn’t actually know where he was going.

  “I sent you to take care of him,” said Wainwright.

  “He wouldn’t go with me. He said he felt safer on his own.”

  “Well that didn’t work out well for him, did it?”

  “Joshua, I could hardly march him back at gunpoint.”

  “You should have persuaded him. But that’s water under the bridge. Looks like they had questions for him and my guess would be he answered them. Which means they know all about you. And me. I’m pretty safe, you, not so much. I doubt they’ll welcome interference, so watch yourself. Find yourself a new hotel.”

  “Joshua, I might have a problem. I gave Mitchell one of my credit cards.”

  “Shit. A skilled Adept could track you through that pretty easily, no matter what name is on it. Jack, you’re going have to watch your back. These people don’t fool around and you’re in their sights now.”

  “I hear you,” said Nightingale, ending the call. The light turned to green and he drove off in search of a place to stay.

  CHAPTER 16

  Nightingale booked himself into a cheap hotel just off Market Street. He shoved a chair under the door handle before undressing and climbing into bed. But he slept fitfully and woke up every time he heard footsteps outside. He climbed out of bed at eight o’clock the next morning, showered and shaved and grabbed a coffee and a Danish before heading back to the hotel car park. He walked around for a good ten minutes before he was sure the car wasn’t being watched but his heart was still pounding like a jackhammer as he unlocked the door and climbed in. He switched on the GPS, tapped in the location of Mitchell’s house and took a bite of his Danish as he waited for directions. It was less than thirty minutes before he pulled up in front of Mitchell’s house. It was modern and large, painted pink with white window-frames. There was a black Porsche 911 in the graveled driveway. Nightingale drove slowly by and found a place to park a short walk away, by the side of a pizza restaurant. He locked the SUV and walked slowly back to the house. It was a nice enough neighborhood, the houses were well-maintained and there were several dog-walkers on the sidewalk. A woman in a pink tracksuit with her dyed blonde hair pinned back in a ponytail flashed him a smile as she jogged by.

  He walked by the Porsche and saw that the driver’s door was ajar. The front door of the house was firmly shut though and he rang the bell twice, before walking around the side of the house. There were French doors that opened onto a small terrace. Nightingale tried the handles and the doors opened. He stood and listened for a full minute before stepping inside.

  “Anyone in here?’ he shouted, just to cover himself. His voice echoed but there was no reply and he stepped into the living room. He quickly went through the house. It was expensively furnished with plenty of black leather furniture, thick cream carpets, high ceilings and top-end appliances. Mitchell had an extensive collection of books, but none of them dealt with the occult. Nightingale had no real idea what he might be looking for, which always made a search more difficult. There was no sign of a computer or a laptop, but there was space on a the desk in the study where one might have been. There was no iPad or smart phone but there was a PlayStation 4 plugged into a mas
sive TV and a collection of games scattered across a coffee table.

  There was a dining room with a long black wooden table and eight matching chairs. A pair of silver candelabras stood at either end, but there was no tablecloth or places laid. There were another two candelabras on a black sideboard, either side of an ebony case containing solid silver cutlery. He pulled open the sideboard doors but there was only expensive crockery inside.

  He went upstairs. Mitchell’s master bedroom also came with cream carpet. There was a huge bed with black sheets and quilt cover. A giant TV hung on the wall opposite. Nightingale opened the closets on a large selection of designer suits, hand made shoes and shelves full of shirts, many still in their wrapping. He rummaged in pockets, looked under shirts, even checked inside shoes, but found nothing.

  “Come on, Lee,” he muttered to himself. “Help me here. Give me something to work on.”

  Nightingale checked the wardrobes and closet space in the other two bedrooms, bathroom cabinets, drawers and even looked under the beds. Nothing. He went back downstairs.

  He thought back to his years as a police officer. He’d been on dozens of drug searches and it had always surprised him how predictable dealers were when it came to hiding their wares. Toilet cisterns, loose floorboards, freezers. The floors in the house were solid hardwood and not easily lifted and all the toilets were plumbed into marble walls, but there was a large fridge-freezer in the kitchen, a stainless steel German model that was almost big enough to walk into.

  There were a dozen or so frozen steaks, each the size of a dinner plate, and underneath them a Tupperware container containing a small leatherbound book, the cover scuffed with age. Nightingale sat down on a stool by the breakfast bar and opened the book.

  It appeared to be gibberish at first sight, but Nightingale had seen something similar before. It was mirror writing, as used by Da Vinci to write his diaries and by generations of Satanists to hide their activities. Nightingale tried to make out a few words, then realized he was looking at reversed, Latin. He slipped the book in his raincoat pocket. Finding a way to decipher it could wait till he got back to his hotel. He shivered. It had gone suddenly cold in the kitchen. There was an air-conditioning unit set into the wall but it didn’t seem to be on. He buttoned his coat and headed for the front door.