San Francisco Night

by Stephen Leather

  “I remember.”

  He waved at an empty chair. “Can we talk?”

  “I guess so,” said Chen. She sat down. “You eaten?”

  “Not yet, no.”

  “How are you with oysters?”

  Nightingale shrugged. “I’ll give them a go.”

  Chen waved a waitress over. “Sue, bring us a dozen raw. And another Anchor.”

  “You’re buying me dinner?” asked Nightingale.

  “No, you’re picking up the tab,” said Chen.

  “No problem,” said Nightingale.

  The gun wasn’t on her hip and she caught him looking at the place where it had been. “I changed holsters,” she said. “Off duty it’s under the arm.” She pulled open her jacket to reveal the butt of her Glock.

  “How did you know what I was thinking?”

  “I’m a cop. That’s my job. So, you were a cop, before you were a private eye? I was right about you having a cop’s eyes?”

  Nightingale nodded. “I was a beat cop for a while, walking around London in a pointy hat.”

  “They really wear those? I thought that was just a tourist thing?”

  “Only when you’re on foot,” he said. “They’d keep getting knocked off if you were in a car. Then I joined the armed response unit.”

  “Yeah, I never understood why most of the British cops go out unarmed.”

  Nightingale shrugged. “They call it policing by consent. The idea is that the public respect cops and do as they’re told.”

  Chen laughed. “And how does that work?”

  “In the good old days it worked just fine. These days, not so well. There isn’t the same respect that there used to be, and a lot more gangbangers carry guns.”

  “So they should give all the cops guns too.”

  “It’ll come,” said Nightingale. “But at the moment guns are only carried by Specialist Firearms Officers. That’s what I was. I carried a Glock and an MP5 mainly.”

  “Ever fire a shot in anger?”

  “I never shot anyone, if that’s what you’re asking. I was a negotiator, too.”

  “Talking to would-be suicides?”

  “People in crisis is what we called them. Sometimes suicides, sometimes people with weapons who’d got themselves into a situation, more often than not domestics.”

  “And you gave it all up to become a gumshoe?”

  “Cops in the Met are swamped with paperwork these days. A lot of the fun has gone out of the job.”

  “The Met?”

  “Metropolitan Police. It’s what they call the London police force.” He smiled. “Actually it’s not a police force any more. Hasn’t been for a few years. It’s a service. And the criminals are clients. You couldn’t make it up.”

  “And you make a good living as a private eye?”

  “Sure. I do a lot of legal work, a fair bit of checking on businessmen and companies, and I get a lot of cases that the cops can’t be bothered to do.”

  He sipped his drink and wondered if she would mention that she had gone to Father Mike’s retirement home.

  “And you got a pension?”

  “I wasn’t in long enough,” he said.

  “It’s one of the best thing about this job,” she said. “Do your thirty years and you’re set for life.”

  “You’ve a long way to go,” he said.

  “I’m getting there.”

  “And you chose Missing Persons?”

  She shook her head. “It’s not what I want to do. Robbery Squad is what I’m after but that’s very much male-dominated and apparently I don’t have the required testosterone levels.”

  “You seem quite feisty to me,” said Nightingale, and her eyes narrowed again.

  “You do like using that English charm, don’t you?” she said.

  “I just meant that you could hold your own in a male squad, that’s all.”

  Nightingale was saved any further embarrassment by the arrival of their waitress with a platter of oysters on ice and a fresh beer for Nightingale.

  Nightingale had never been a big fan of oysters, but he figured that he needed to keep her company. Chen squeezed some lemon onto an oyster, held it to her mouth, sucked and swallowed. Nightingale followed suit. He tasted the lemon, felt a slippery sensation in his mouth, then his throat, and that was all.

  “Good?’ asked Chen.

  “Hits the spot,” lied Nightingale. A salty taste had kicked in but he still wasn’t over-impressed. Chen was already on her second.

  “I’ve been Googling,” he said.

  “Have you now?”

  “And I’ve come up with a few more Christians that have gone missing.”

  She frowned. “What?”

  “Christians. Father Mike, Sister Rosa, Suzanne Mills, their Christianity was a common thread.”

  “They were all white, too. And probably right-handed. Why have you singled out their religion?”

  “Maybe I’m clutching at straws.”

  “But it’s Father Mike you’re interested in. Why are you bothering about other cases?”

  “Because it’s starting to look to me as if Father Mike isn’t just missing.”

  “You think he’s dead?”

  “I do, yes.”

  “But you need proof because that’s the only way his relatives are going to get paid out?” She took another oyster, squeezed lemon on it and swallowed it in one smooth motion.

  “If I can show that a serial killer has targeted Christians then I could possibly get him declared dead and that’d be a result for me, yes.” He didn’t like lying to her, but Nightingale didn’t see that he had any choice.

  “Tell me about the other cases,” she said.

  Nightingale reached into his coat and pulled out the sheets that he’d printed in the library. She flicked through them, nodding slowly. “Morton Steele only went missing last week.”

  “He was a regular church-goer, according to the paper. And Caroline Shaw was a church organist and a devout Christian.”

  “That was some time ago.”

  Nightingale nodded. “Six months.”

  “You think this has been going on for some time?”

  “I don’t see why not. If there is a serial killer targeting Christians, he could have been doing it for a while.”

  “Shirley Davenport. It doesn’t say she was a Christian.”

  “Seventy and unmarried. Spinsters tend to be religious.”

  “And a monk.”

  “Yeah. He just vanished.”

  “Five months ago?”

  “Yeah, vanished into thin air. You tell me, how often do monks go missing? It’s not as if they have families to run away from, is it?”

  Chen put the sheets of paper down on the table and tacked another oyster. She washed it down with beer and then cocked her head on one side. “What is it you want from me, Jack?”

  “I can only get so far on Google,” he said. “I really need a look at the California Missing Persons’ Register.”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “No, but you can access it.”

  “And do what?”

  “See if there are more that I haven’t found.”

  “Missing Christians?”

  “I’m looking for a pattern. One a month, maybe.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Just a hunch. And I think they might be going missing in the run up to a full moon.”

  Her eyebrows shot skywards. “Why would you think that?”

  “Because Father Mike went missing a week before a full moon. So did Sister Rosa.”

  She shook her head. “You’ve got to be careful extrapolating like that.”

  “I’m looking for patterns, that’s all.”

  “I can see that, but focusing on patterns that don’t exist can mean that you blind yourself to real connections. If there are any. You might be chasing shadows.”

  “It’s worth a try. An hour or so on a computer.” He smiled. “Pretty please.”<
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  “And then what? Assuming there are more?”

  “We look for a link.”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you? You think there’s a serial killer targeting Christians?”

  “You don’t think it’s a possibility?”

  “I think you’re grasping at straws, that’s what I think. If there was a serial killer at work, I’m pretty sure PCD would know.”

  “PCD?”

  “Personal Crimes Division. Part of the Investigations Bureau. They investigate homicides.”

  “If whoever is doing it is covering their tracks they’d stay under the radar.”

  “That’s one hell of an ‘if’, I have to say.”

  They were interrupted by one of the men she had walked in with shouting her name. Chen looked over and the man mimed playing a pool shot.

  “I’ve got to go,” she said. She swallowed a last oyster and stood up. She took out her phone. “You’ve got a cell?”

  Nightingale told her the number and she keyed it into her phone. “If I find anything, I’ll call you.” She pointed at the rest of the oysters. “They’re aphrodisiacs, you know?”

  ‘Wasted on me then,” said Nightingale.

  “You never know, the night is young,” she said. She laughed and went off to join her companions.

  CHAPTER 24

  Nightingale phoned Father Benedict after breakfast. The call went through to voicemail and Nightingale left a message. He was halfway through his second coffee when his phone rang. It was the Abbot returning his call. “I was in the vineyards,” he said. “A problem with the irrigation system.”

  “No rest for the wicked, so they say,” said Nightingale.

  “That’s certainly true,” said the Abbot.

  “I was joking,” said Nightingale.

  “I got that,” said the Abbot. “I assume you’re calling about the diary?”

  “Are you getting anywhere?”

  “I’m about halfway through,” said the Abbot. “I spent most of the night working on it, in fact I fell asleep at three o’clock in the morning and missed dawn prayers. It’s fascinating stuff, and really very, very worrying.”

  “So it is a diary?”

  “It’s a diary, but it’s more than that. It contains details of various rituals, including the words that need to be spoken. It’s nasty stuff, Jack. Very nasty. And you are right, I’m afraid. This group is all about human sacrifice.”

  “That’s what I feared.”

  “I’m transcribing this onto my computer. When I’m finished, what do you plan to do?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “You have to take it to the police, surely?”

  “The problem with that is that they almost certainly won’t take me seriously. There are no bodies. No forensic evidence, in fact no evidence at all that any killings have taken place.”

  “You have this diary.”

  “Which could be a work of fiction,” said Nightingale. “The police will want proof, and so far I don’t have any.”

  “I saw something that might help you take this further,” said the Abbot. “There was a Latin phrase that seemed a little out of place, where the author refers to seeking enlightenment on the path of hatred from the prophet who watches the stars.”

  “That’s a strange thing to say.”

  “That’s what I thought. It was a bit of a puzzle and I have to say I’m a fan of puzzles. Crossword puzzles, especially. Then it hit me. He was referring to Haight Street. It was a pun.” He spelled out the word for Nightingale. “Haight. Hate. Very clever.”

  “Haight Street? Where’s that?” he asked.

  “In the city’s Haight-Ashbury district. It’s where all the hippies lived in the seventies. I would suggest you continue your search there.”

  “When do you think you’ll have finished?” asked Nightingale.

  “Late tonight, I hope,” said the Abbot. “Unfortunately I have several meetings this afternoon, but I’m clear from four o’clock onwards.”

  “I’ll drive out to see you tomorrow morning,” said Nightingale. “I can return Brother Gregory’s rosary.”

  “Was the rosary any help?”

  “It’s not good news, I’m afraid. You need to prepare yourself for the worst.”

  “I’d already done that,” said the Abbot. “And if this diary is true, there is more to come.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Nightingale’s SatNav took him to the middle of Haight Street but he ended up driving around for another fifteen minutes before he could find a parking space. He lit a cigarette and started walking back down towards the city center. He could well believe that this had been Hippy Central in the seventies, and plenty of traces of it still remained. The stores here were much smaller than in the center, none of the major chains, small clothes boutiques, music shops, a succession of bars catering to all preferences, smokers’ requisites, second-hand book stores. He had walked about a quarter of a mile when he came across an astrological shop. The sign above the store read WRITTEN IN THE STARS. It was a single unit with one large window to the left of the door. The window display consisted of a variety of crystals and candles set against a background of astrological charts and T-shirts bearing the signs of the Zodiac.

  Nightingale pushed the door open and stepped inside. Bells announced his arrival and a short, bald man appeared from a back room. He wore a neatly trimmed gray goatee, and was dressed in tight black jeans and a black, ribbed, roll-neck sweater. There looked to be not an ounce of fat on his body. The lack of hair made him look older, but Nightingale guessed early thirties. The man leaned forward against the shop counter and flashed Nightingale a professional smile. “Well, good morning. And how can I help you?” he said.

  “This is a shot in the dark, but have you ever seen this man. Lee Mitchell?” Nightingale showed him the photograph of Mitchell that he’d ripped from the newspaper. He figured it would be best not to reveal up front that Mitchell was dead.

  The man squinted at the picture, then his face creased into a smile. “Young Lee,” he said. “Such a very nice boy. And how do you come to know him, Mr.....”

  “Just call me Jack,” said Nightingale.

  “Jack it shall be then. I’m Gabriel. Gabriel Starr. Two 'r’s.”

  “Quite appropriate, you being an astrologer.”

  “So it is, that’s why I took it. Kronstein didn’t work so well at all. Hah, but look at me, we’ve known each other two minutes and already I’m telling you my life story. So tell me, why did our friend send you to me. What can I do for you...Jack? And why haven’t I seen him in a while?”

  “To be honest, I’m not sure how you can help. I’m in the dark, so far. Grasping at straws, really.”

  “I don’t follow you,” said Starr.

  Nightingale took back the photograph. “I’m afraid he’s dead.”

  “Dead?”

  Starr grimaced. “Poor little sod. He was always in way over his head. Bastards. Let’s have some privacy.”

  He walked over to the door, slid the bolt and turned the sign to 'CLOSED’. He ushered Nightingale into a back room and they sat at opposite ends of a faded and cracked brown leather sofa. The room was as big as the shop itself and appeared to contain nearly as many trinkets, candles, T-shirts and charts. There was a large desk at one end, covered in charts, rulers, protractors and compasses.

  “What do you mean, he was in over his head?” asked Nightingale.

  “I’m sorry, I need a drink,” said Starr. He stood up, looked for a second as if he was going to lose his balance, then went over to a bookcase and picked up a bottle of brandy. He poured himself a slug and threw it down, then refilled the glass and waved the bottle at Nightingale. Nightingale shook his head. Starr shrugged and carried the bottle and glass back to the sofa.

  “How much do you know about what young Lee had got himself into?” asked Starr as he sat down heavily.

  ‘Some of it,” said Nightingale. “I found a diary of his.”

  �
�A diary? He kept a diary?” Starr shook his head. “He was playing with fire, it’s not surprising he got burned. What happened?”

  “His body was found washed up on Alcatraz. The police think that he fell off a boat and was churned up by the propeller.”

  “The police have no idea what’s going on,” said Starr. He emptied his glass and refilled it. “You know he was gay?”

  Nightingale shook his head. “I didn’t.” Nightingale was sure that Mitchell wasn’t gay, though he might well have been bisexual. But he figured it best not to burst Starr’s bubble.

  “I met him about four years ago, at a party somewhere. He hadn’t really...accepted himself then, still trying to fight it, but it was easy to see. We hit it off, met a few times. Took it a little further. I was his first, but there was always something a little different about him, and not just being unsure.”

  “Different how?” asked Nightingale.

  “He was inexperienced, young, gauche almost. But there was a power within him, he was going places in the bank far younger than you might have expected. Of course, I figured it out fairly quickly, the first time I ever drew his chart. He was tapping into a source of power and wanted more. I spoke to him about it, but he was reluctant to admit it.” He shrugged. “We were pretty much over by then, he kept trying to change himself, deny his real needs. Maybe he saw me as a symbol of them, so he drew away from me. I think his occult friends expected him to swing both ways. I didn’t see him for months, but then last week he showed up here. Needing help badly, or so he said.”

  “Did he say what he was afraid of?”

  “He’d fallen in with a bad crowd. Some very heavy-hitters. He had realized that he was in over his head. Way over.”

  “Did he mention a group called The Apostles?”

  Starr shivered and nodded.

  “And the sacrifices?”

  Starr nodded again, then frowned. “Sacrifices? He told me about one. That was when he came to me. I told him to get out straight away, but he was working for someone. Playing both sides. A dangerous game.”

  “Playing both sides? What do you mean?”

  “He said he’d found someone who would help him, but that someone wanted more information about the group. He wanted names. And he told Lee that he had to stay in the group a while longer. It was driving Lee crazy. He was so scared.”