San Francisco Night (18 page)

Chen took Nightingale to a local diner for brunch. Nightingale had a steak sandwich but barely tasted it. Chen nibbled at a chicken Caesar salad. Chen spent most of the meal asking Nightingale questions, about what had already happened and what he thought would happen next.

She lowered her voice as a waitress walked by. “And they’re going to kill the children on April 30? In four days?”

“It’s a blue moon. As in the expression it happens once in a blue moon. It’s when there are two full moons in a month. But this next blue moon is even more special. It’s on a Walpurgisnacht  Wednesday. That’s a big night for witches in Germany. But it also plays a big part in the Satanism of Anton LaVey who founded a Satanic church here in San Francisco. So yes, all the signs are that it’ll happen on April 30. We need to check out that mansion, Amy. And soon.”

“We’d need a search warrant. And I don’t see us getting one.”

“There has to be a way.” He cursed and hit his forehead with the palm of his hand.

“What’s wrong?”

“I sent an email to a guy who might be able to give me some information on the whole San Francisco Satanism thing. I gave him my number but I threw the Sim card away. If he does call..” He cursed again.

“No problem,” said Chen, waving for the check.

Nightingale took out his wallet. “I’ll get it,” he said. “I’m on expenses.”

“Damn right you’ll get it,” she said.

Nightingale paid the bill and Chen took him along to a T-Mobile store where he bought half a dozen pay-as-you-go Sim cards. “That’s a bit of overkill, isn’t it?” she said as they walked out of the shop.

Nightingale lit a cigarette, then offered her one when he saw how she was looking at the pack. He lit it for her and she cupped her hands around the flame of his lighter to shield it from the wind that was blowing down the street. “I’ve got to be careful,” he said. “I don’t know how well connected The Apostles are. For all I know, they could have someone high up in the phone company. Or in the FBI, the DEA, the
CIA
, any set of initials you can name. You don’t know who you can trust.”

“I trust you,” she said, then blew smoke up at the graying sky. “God knows why.”

He grinned. “The feeling’s mutual,” he said. “Look, I know I keep asking you to do things for me, but I’m going to need a car and I’d prefer not to get another rental.”

“So I save your life, let you sleep on my sofa, cook you breakfast, risk my life getting your stuff from your hotel…is there anything else?”

“That’s about it,” said Nightingale.

“And now you want me to give you my car?”

“Lend me your car. I’ll give it back.”

“You’ve got a cheek, Jack, I’ll give you that.”

“So is that a yes?”

“It’s a maybe. Today’s Saturday. I can drive you tomorrow. We’ll talk about Monday on Monday.” She held up the cigarette. “I can’t believe you’ve got me smoking again.”

“At least you don’t have to buy them.”

“Yes. there’s always that,” she said, her voice loaded with sarcasm.

As soon as they got back to Chen’s apartment, Nightingale slotted one of the Sim cards into his phone. Chen let him use her computer to send another email to Basil Dukas, including his new phone number. He had just hit the button to send the email when the intercom buzzed. “That was fast,” said Chen. She went over to the intercom unit and picked up the handset. She listened and then turned to Nightingale. “Are you expecting a dragon?”

Nightingale looked at his watch. With no traffic it was a six-hour drive from Los Angeles to San Francisco, so Dragan had made good time. “The fire-breathing kind, no. But a guy called Dragan, yeah. Can you let him in? He’s delivering the tracking stuff.”

Chen buzzed the man in and a couple of minutes later there was a quiet knock on the door. Chen opened it and took an involuntarily step backwards when she saw the size of the man standing there. Dragan was a fraction under seven feet tall and almost as wide as the door itself.  He smiled showing slab-like teeth, acknowledging the effect he’d had on her. He was wearing a black leather coat that Nightingale reckoned had probably cost the lives of at least three cows, blue jeans and boots that were so large that they must have been custom-made. His head was almost a perfect sphere, his hair shaved to reveal two thick scars over his left ear. There were a dozen or so small scars on his right cheek, all irregular as if he’d been hit by shrapnel years earlier. He was holding an aluminum briefcase that looked positively tiny compared with his bulk. “I’m here for Jack,” he said. His voice was like gravel being poured from a metal bucket, Eastern European but softened by his time in America. Chen recovered her composure and opened the door. Dragan stepped through the threshold, ducking down slightly so as not to bang his head on the door frame. He nodded at Nightingale. “You Jack?”

“Sure am,” said Nightingale. He stood up and offered his hand. Dragan’s hand enveloped his own, like an adult grasping a child, and the slight squeeze he gave was enough for Nightingale’s fingers to go numb. “Bloody hell, Dragan, you’re a big one, aren’t you?”

“You should see my brothers,” said Dragan. “I was the runt of the litter. Now my dad, he was a big man.”

“Dragan, can I offer you a drink?” said Amy

“Do you have tea?”

“Sure, I have tea.”

“Green tea?”

“My favorite sort.”

“Then I’d love one.”

She waved him to the free sofa as she headed over to make the tea. Dragan put his briefcase on the coffee table and sat down. The sofa seemed to groan in pain as he settled his vast bulk. Nightingale sat down opposite him. Dragan looked around. “Nice place,” he said, approvingly.

“It’s Amy’s.”

“She’s nice, too.”

“She’s lovely,” agreed Nightingale.

“Girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Pity.”

Nightingale looked over at Chen who was standing waiting for the kettle to boil, far enough not to be overhearing them. “Yeah, maybe.”

“I had a friend who had a Chinese girlfriend. He said the sex was great but half an hour later he wanted another one.” Dragan’s laughter boomed around the apartment. Nightingale looked over at Chen, hoping that she hadn’t heard the joke.

“Jack, do you want tea or coffee?” she said, so he figured he was in the clear.

“I’ll try the tea,” he said. He turned back to Dragan. Dragan smiled. “Did you drive?”

Dragan shook his head. “Flew most of the way,” he said. “Mr. Wainwright fixed up a plane for us?”

“Us?”

“I came with a few friends,” he said.

“The more the merrier, I guess,” said Nightingale. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“How much do you weigh?”

Dragan laughed. “I don’t know. Most scales don’t go up high enough.”

Dragan was big, but he was clearly fit, too. It was all muscle. Nightingale couldn’t help but wonder what it would take to kill a man like Dragan. A head shot maybe. Or a bullet to the heart. Anything else he’d probably be able to shrug off.

Chen came over with a brown earthenware teapot with a bamboo handle and three matching mugs on a tray. She put it down next to the briefcase and then sat down next to Nightingale before pouting tea into the mugs.  Dragan sipped his and nodded appreciatively. “Nice,” he said. He put down the mug and flicked the two locks on the briefcase. He swung it open and took out a small metal box, not much bigger than a pack of Nightingale’s favorite cigarettes. “This will stick to any metal,” said Dragan. ‘The chassis is best but under a wheel arch will do just fine. The battery is good for four to five days usually, any longer than that and you need to think about connecting it to the car’s electrical system. The tracker only switches on when the car is moving.”

“I don’t think hard-wiring will be possible, but four days should be long enough,” said Nightingale.

Dragan took an iPad from the case and placed it on the coffee table. He tapped the screen and they were looking at a Google map of San Francisco. “You can see all the activated units on this screen,” he said. “I’ll show you.” He picked up the tracking unit and pressed a small black button on the side. A few seconds later a small red dot flashed on the iPad screen.

Chen picked up the iPad and nodded. “That’s us,” she said. “That is a nice piece of equipment. And totally illegal without a warrant.”

“It’s untraceable,” he said. “No serial number, no manufacturer’s marks. No comeback.” He reached into the briefcase again and took out two iPhones. “The same app is on these phones if you want to carry them in your pocket,” he said.

“Brilliant,” said Nightingale.  “They’re just what we want.”

Chen nodded, impressed by the equipment but clearly still worried about the legal implications of what they were proposing to do.

Dragan took another three of the tracker units and put them on the table before closing the briefcase. “There’s four units, I can get you as many as you want.”

“Four is more than enough,” said Nightingale.

“Mr. Wainwright wants us to keep an eye on you,” said Dragan, leaning back on the sofa. The creaking sounds from the back legs made it sound as if the sofa was in pain.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” said Nightingale, switching off the tracking unit. The red light vanished almost immediately.

“We’ll be discreet. You won’t even know we’re there.”

“Who is this Wainwright?” asked Chen.

“He’s a guy I work for from time to time,” said Nightingale.

“He’s your boss?”

“Sort of,” said Nightingale. He looked at Dragan and gestured at Chen. “Amy here is a cop,” he said. “With a gun.”

“All cops have guns,” said Dragan. He pulled back his coat to reveal a handgun in a shoulder holster. “I’ve got one, too.”

Chen jumped to her feet but Dragan held up his hands to reassure her. “I have a CCW permit,” he said. “I’m legal.”

“I’d like to see that,” said Chen.

“No problem,’ said Dragan. He reached slowly into his jacket pocket and pulled out a black plastic wallet. He gave it to her and she opened it.

“CCW?” asked Nightingale.

“Carrying a concealed weapon,” said Chen, reading the information on Dragan’s permit. “California’s gun laws are quite restrictive, we don’t hand these things out like candies. But Mr. Dragan’s seems in order.”

She gave it back to Dragan and he smiled. “Friends in high places,” he said as he put it away.

“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?”

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 18
^th
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.”