San Francisco Night

by Stephen Leather

  “Clearly,” said Chen.

  “Look, Jack, it’s great having your own personal cop but she’s not going to be able to set up a perimeter for you. We can see trouble before it gets to you. Hopefully deal with it before it becomes trouble.”

  “How many people do you have?”

  “Best you don’t know. Just act as if we weren’t there, the last thing I need is you looking around for us. Just forget about me, get on with your business. Believe me, you won’t know we’re there.”

  “We know that guns won’t do any good, though,” said Chen.

  Dragan frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Nightingale flashed her a warning look. “Just that you can’t go firing your weapon in public,” he said.

  “I don’t plan on shooting anyone,” said Dragan. He reached inside his coat and took out a business card. There was no name on it, just a cell phone number. “Any problems, you call me.”

  Nightingale took the card and nodded. “I’m changing my Sim cards on a regular basis,” he said. “Each time I change, I’ll send you a text.”

  Dragan pushed himself up off the sofa with a grunt and headed towards the door, the floorboards groaning under his weight. Chen opened the door for him and he ducked to go out.

  Chen closed the door and shook her head. “Was he big, or what?”

  “A giant among men,” agreed Nightingale. “He doesn’t know about the Elementals. Or any of the black magic stuff. So far as he’s concerned, it’s just a straightforward body guarding job.”

  “How is a guy that big going to follow you without sticking out like a very very large sore thumb.”

  “He’ll have people, I’m sure. Did you see the size of his shoes? They were like bloody canoes.”

  “You know some interesting people, Jack, no question of that.” She sat down and gestured at the tracking equipment. “We are going to get in so much trouble if we get caught doing this,” she said. “And by ‘we” I mean ‘I’ of course.”

  “We’ll be careful,” he said. He looked at his watch. “Fancy striking while the iron is hot?”

  CHAPTER 51

  Chen took Nightingale downstairs to the underground car-park where she kept her car, a bright red Mustang convertible. Nightingale nodded his approval. “Now that, Amy, is one hell of a car.” He was carrying the briefcase that Dragan had given them.

  “My pride and joy,” said Chen. “It’s a 1965.”

  “I can see why you weren’t thrilled with the idea of my driving it,” he said. “I’ll pick up another rental.”

  “He is my baby, it’s true,” said Chen, opening the driver’s side door. “You like classic cars?”

  “In another life I had an MGB,” he said. “Nowhere near as nice as this. Did you do the work yourself?”

  ‘Some,” she said. “My dad’s a car nut, always has been. This was his 18th birthday present to me, but it was a wreck back then.” She climbed into the car and opened the passenger door for him. As he climbed in she turned the ignition key. It started first time and its healthy roar echoed off the car park walls.

  Nightingale chuckled. “To get mine to start you had to pump the accelerator, turn it over at least three times and more likely than not get a jump start.”

  “The engine’s cherry,” she said. “Dad and I had it on a bench in the garage for six months.” She looked across at him. “We need to do something about your clothes.” She was wearing a dark pants suit with a pale blue shirt and had her gun on her hip. He was wearing his raincoat over jeans and a polo shirt. “You look nothing like a cop.”

  “Cops wear raincoats.”

  “No they don’t. Not in San Francisco. The FBI do but theirs are black or blue. What color is that? Beige?”

  “Brown.”

  “Well cops in this town don’t wear brown raincoats. And they don’t wear brown shoes. What are they?” She gestured at his feet.

  “Hush Puppies,” he said. “They’re very comfortable.”

  “That’s as may be, but cops don’t wear shoes like that. And they wear neckties. And real shirts. No one is going to believe you’re a cop dressed like that. We need to go shopping.”

  An hour later they walked out of Macys with Nightingale wearing a dark blue suit, gleaming black shoes, a white shirt and a dark blue tie. His Hush Puppies were in a carrier bag but he was still wearing the raincoat. Chen gave him a final once-over before he climbed into the Mustang. “You’ll do,” she said. “Now, this is how we’ll do it. I’ll introduce myself and show him my ID. I’ll introduce you as my colleague and as he’s looking at my ID, just flick your wallet out. Ninety nine times out of a hundred civilians don’t take a close look at our ID, they’re too flustered at being spoken to by a cop. Stand a little back from me and let me do the talking. Clear?”

  “Clear,” repeated Nightingale.

  “I’m serious, Jack. I could lose my job over this.”

  Nightingale nodded. “My lips will be sealed,” he said.

  “Good. I’ll tell him we need to check his car, I’ll stand with him on one side, you fix the tracking unit on the opposite side.”

  “Got it,” he said.

  They climbed into the car and Chen drove to the Speckman mansion. Nightingale kept checking the mirrors, looking for a tail.

  “You’re jumpy,’ said Chen.

  “I just want to be sure we’re not being followed.”

  “I’m a cop with a gun, they’ll think twice about following me,” she said.

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Nightingale figured it best not to tell her that he’d already visited the place. He stayed in the car as she got out and pressed the button on an intercom at the side of the massive wrought-iron gates. She took out her shield and held it up at a CCTV camera and a few seconds later the gates grated open.

  She got back into the car and headed up the driveway.

  There was a white Humvee parked outside the triple garage and next to it a small blue Honda. “I’m guessing the Honda belongs to the maid,” said Nightingale.

  Chen parked next to the Humvee. As they climbed out, the front door opened and Kent Speckman came down the stairs to meet them. He looked as if he had been interrupted during a work-out, he was wearing a gray sweat-stained t-shirt with cut-off sleeves and black shorts and had a white towel around his neck. “This isn’t about parking tickets is it?” he asked. “My assistant was supposed to have taken care of them last week. I wasn’t even driving.” He was well over six feet tall, his forearms were bigger than Nightingale’s thighs and his hands were the size of small shovels. Close up, Nightingale realised that the man’s hair was graying at the temples.

  “It’s not about parking tickets, Mr. Speckman,” said Chen.

  Chen took out her shield and showed it to him. “Inspector Amy Chen, I’m with the SFPD Missing Persons unit.”

  Speckman looked at the shield, then at the gun on her hip, and frowned. “No one I know is missing,” he said. “There’s a few people I’d like to be missing, though.” He looked back at the car. “What is it? A 1965?”

  Chen nodded.

  “You don’t see too many cops driving around in old Mustangs,” said Speckman. He nodded appreciatively. “That is one sweet ride.”

  Chen nodded. “You’re a Mustang fan?”

  Speckman ran his hand gently over the bright red hood. “Sure am. I’ve got a 1965 Cobra and a 1968 Shelby Cobra GT 500KR.”

  “Excellent,” said Chen, nodding her approval.

  “And a Ford Mustang Boss 429,” he said.

  “No way,” said Chen. “The seven liter V8?”

  “Of course.”

  “Wow.”

  “Is that good?” asked Nightingale. He had flicked out his wallet when Chen had shown her shield and was now slipping it into his back pocket.

  “Half a million dollars good,” said Chen.

  “And some,” said Speckman. “Do you want to see it?”

  Chen’s eyes sparkled. “Damn right I do.�
��

  Speckman laughed and led them around to the back of the house where there was a single-storey building with a flat roof that was a good fifty yards long. There were more than a dozen up and over garage doors leading onto the Tarmac courtyard.

  “How many cars do you have?” asked Nightingale.

  “I’m not sure. I have a dozen on order from Italy and Germany, I’m not sure what their delivery status is.” He pressed a button by the side of one of the doors and it rattled up. Nightingale’s eyes widened in amazement. The area inside was filled with cars, most of them luxury sports models. Half were classics, half were modern, some looked futuristic. There were two Formula One racing cars which Nightingale doubted would be street legal. “Fifty or so. I lend some out to friends, and photo-shoots,” continued Speckman as they walked inside. There was a black man wearing blue overalls leaning over the engine of a white Mercedes and Speckman called over to him. “Hey, Leon, how many cars we got now?”

  “Fifty-six,” said the man without looking up. “But there’s the Ferrari arriving this evening, that’ll be fifty-seven.”

  “There you go,” said Speckman. He frowned as he looked over at Nightingale. “You’re an Australian?”

  “British,” said Nightingale.

  “He’s on attachment to the SFPD,” said Chen quickly. “We’re showing the Brits how we do things in the US of A. This is an awesome collection, Mr. Speckman. You’re a very lucky man.”

  Nightingale watched her behaving like a kid in a sweetshop. Yes, there was no doubt that Speckman was a very lucky man. But where had that luck come from?

  “Is that a 1967 GT40?” asked Chen, nodding at a white sports car with black circles on the doors.

  “Sure is,” said Speckman.

  Chen looked over at Nightingale. “Ever seen a car worth a million bucks before?”

  Nightingale shook his head. “How many does it do to the gallon?”

  Speckman laughed. “Funny man.”

  “So which of these cars do you usually drive,” asked Nightingale. “I’m guessing you don’t drive down to the supermarket in a million dollar car.”

  “True,” said Speckman. “The Humvee is my runabout. It’s a good size and I feel safe in it. There are so many idiots on the road these days.”

  Chen went over to the GT40 and reached out to touch it, then jerked her hand away as if reluctant to risk sullying the pristine paintwork. “Do you drive it?” she asked Speckman.

  “Sometimes,” he said. “To be honest, it’s a bit small for me. But I love owning it. Jay Leno tried to buy it but I outbid him. He was madder than hell.” He put his hands on his hips. “So tell me again, why are you here? You said something about a missing person?”

  “A young boy went missing last week,” said Chen. “You’ve probably heard of him. Brett Michaels. We’ve had a report that there was a white Humvee in the area when the boy disappeared. A white Humvee with a broken tail-light. We’re checking all the white Humvees in the area, obviously.”

  “No problem,” said Speckman. “Come and look for yourself.”

  He took them outside and over to the Humvee. Chen went with him to the back of the vehicle. “See,” he said. “Nothing broken.”

  Chen bent down and examined the offside tail light. Nightingale walked nonchalantly to the front of the Humvee. “Looks fine to me,” said Chen. She moved across to the nearside tail light. “Is that one cracked?”

  Speckman bent down. At the same time Nightingale slipped a tracker under the offside wheel arch. “Nah, it’s cool,” said Speckman.

  Chen bent down and nodded. “You’re right.” She straightened up. “The boy disappeared on Friday afternoon last week,” she said. “Do you happen to know where the vehicle was that day?”

  Speckman rubbed his chin as he frowned. Then he nodded. “Poker night,” he said. “Some of the guys were over.”

  “Starting what time?”

  Nightingale moved away from the Humvee, his hands back in his pockets.

  “Eight. Before that I was in my gym here, working out. There’s not much to do training-wise as the season doesn’t start until September.”

  “What about the afternoon. Four-ish?”

  Speckman frowned again. “I was here but I don’t know what I was doing.”

  “And the car was here all day?”

  Speckman nodded. “No question,” he said.

  Chen smiled brightly. “Then I guess we don’t need to take up any more of your time,” she said.

  “Always happy to help the SFPD,” said Speckman.

  He walked them back to Chen’s Mustang and waved as they drove away, before heading back inside his mansion.

  “He seems like a nice guy,” said Chen as she guided the Mustang through the gate and onto the highway.

  “Devil-worshipers often do,” said Nightingale.

  Chen looked across at him. “How many have you come across?”

  “A few,” he said. “And they don’t all look like something from a horror movie. They can be sweetness and light in public, but when they’re in a Sabbat they reveal their true selves and their true natures.”

  “A Sabbat? What’s that?”

  “It’s a meeting of a coven. It comes from the French, s’ebattre which means frolic. Sabbats are when the really nasty stuff gets done, the special rituals. Then there are the Esbats, which are the regular meetings. They take place during the full moon cycle, generally, so there tend to be thirteen every year. That’s when they tend to teach the newcomers.”

  “And on April thirtieth, will that be an Esbat or a Sabbat?”

  “A Sabbat,” said Nightingale. “But it’s possible there will be a regular meeting before that. And if Speckman goes, hopefully we’ll be able to track him to the Temple.” He looked at his watch. “I guess it’s too late to visit Lucille Carr tonight.”

  “Daytime would be better,” agreed Chen. “I still can’t get over the fact that you think that one of the biggest movie stars in America is a devil-worshiper.”

  “Have you seen any of her movies?”

  “Sure. And the TV show that made her. Blood Network.”

  “Never heard of it,” said Nightingale.

  “It’s a vampire show. Rubbish, but watchable. Why would a devil-worshiper appear in a show about vampires? Wouldn’t that be drawing attention to herself?”

  “Hiding in plain sight,” said Nightingale. “It’s always the best way to hide.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “I can eat.”

  “How about Chinese?”

  “Are you cooking?”

  “I don’t cook, Jack. We’ll pick up a take-out on the way home.”

  CHAPTER 52

  Nightingale watched with amusement as Chen speared a chunk of Kung Pao chicken with her fork and popped it into her mouth. “I’d have expected you to use chopsticks,” he said.

  Chen helped herself to fried rice. They were taking their food from cartons and spooning it onto their plates – chicken, sweet and sour pork, beef and broccoli, and egg fried rice. “My dad wasn’t allowed to use chopsticks. His parents came to the States in the fifties and they wanted their kids to fit in, to be real Americans. They spoke English all the time and made him use a knife and fork. My dad did the same with me and my brothers.”

  “I’ve never understood why anyone would use chopsticks anyway, once they’d seen how a fork works,” said Nightingale.

  “Tradition, maybe. But I don’t feel Chinese. I’m American through and through.”

  “And your grandparents? Why did they leave China?”

  “My grandpa was a Christian at a time when Christians weren’t well-treated in China,” she said. “He managed to get out and swore that he would never go back.” She put down her fork, stood up and went over to the framed photographs on the window sill. She picked it up and took it over to him. It was an antique silver frame, a dragon on one side and a tiger on the other, as if protecting the two figures in the photograph. The man was
in his thirties, his back ramrod-straight, arms clasped behind his back as he stared straight-lipped at the camera. He was wearing a tuxedo and next to him stood a beautiful Chinese girl in a flowing white dress, holding a posy of pink flowers. “He met grandma here in San Francisco. Turned out she had lived in a village close to his in China but they had never met. He got a job mowing lawns and she was the maid in one of the first houses he worked at. They married six months later.”

  “Life’s like that sometimes,” said Nightingale.

  Nightingale examined the frame. “Is this Chinese?”

  Chen nodded. “I got it at a flea market years ago,” she said. “I love it because grandpa was born in the year of the dragon and grandma was year of the tiger.”

  “You must miss them?”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Nightingale held up the frame. “You know…”

  She realized what he was getting. “They’re still alive, you idiot. They live in a retirement community in San Pablo. Still in love, still happy.” She shook her head. “You really are one of those ‘the glass is half empty’ guys, aren’t you?” She took the photograph from him and put it back on the windowsill before picking up a remote control and scrolling through the on-screen menu.

  “Looking for something in particular?” asked Nightingale, helping himself to more sweet and sour pork.

  “I’m pretty sure Blood Network is on,” she said. “Featuring Lucille Carr. There you go.”

  The episode had just started. Chen put down the remote and continued eating. She had opened a bottle of red wine and they were half way through it.

  Nightingale thought Blood Network was utter rubbish. Two gorgeous heroic sparkly vampires battling against a mob of demons and evil vampires. Naturally, the good vampires lived off artificial blood, could go outside on cloudy days and spent most of the show wandering around looking gorgeous and saying profound stuff about bad vampires.

  Lucille Carr played a girl vampire, and the camera loved her. Every time she was in a scene, the camera focused on her almost to the exclusion of the plot and any other actors. Her long red hair and wide green eyes filled the screen, drawing Nightingale’s attention to her, and making him forget the paper-thin story. She was beautiful, but it was more than that. She had a magnetic quality, and it wasn’t just a sexual thing. Nightingale noticed that Chen’s breathing had slowed, she was giving all her attention to the screen. “She’s good, eh?”