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“What’s up, Bob?”
“How are you doing, kid?”
“Oh, you know, okay.”
“Sure. Okay.”
“I’m nailing guys right and left. Women, too. You wouldn’t believe how people cheat.”
“Sure I would.” Bob hesitated. “Listen, I have a favor to ask.”
“Anything.” Luke owed Bob; he owed him big. The man was retired now, but he’d been a Juvenile Division cop back when Luke had met him. Luke had been in college, San Francisco State, when he’d been injured and lost his athletic scholarship. For a while back then he’d felt hopeless and angry, and he’d quit school and gotten into trouble. Luckily, a judge gave him community service instead of hard time, and he was sent to Lieutenant Bob Bennett, to help him coach an inner-city school football team.
Big Bob, as he was known even then, set him straight, got him back into school and then helped him enter the Police Academy. Bob had been his mentor, his father and his family for twenty-two years. Luke had never known his own family; he was an orphan, one foster home after another. Bob understood why Luke had been asked to resign from the force last year. Luke’s mentor didn’t judge; he accepted. Oh, yeah, Luke owed the man.
“My daughter’s in trouble,” Bob said flatly.
“Your daughter?”
“Yes, damn it, Grace. You know, my kid.”
“Sure, I know her, but, wow, it’s been years. I mean…”
“Grace has a little boy named Charley. She got this kid from a junkie. She’s his foster mother.”
“Oh, right, I remember.”
“Anyway, the idiotic judge in Boulder gave custody of Charley back to his biological mother, and Grace took the boy and went underground.”
“She did?”
“Oh, yeah, my little angel. And in a couple days she’s going to be a federal fugitive. She’s in deep, and I’m afraid I’m about to get in just as deep.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“Exactly.”
“You sure it’s wise for you to get so involved?”
“Luke, she’s my child. I’ll go to the ends of the earth to help her.”
“Maybe she should turn herself in.”
“She’s afraid for the boy’s safety. She won’t do it and I’m not going to advise her to.”
“But what…hell, what can I do?”
“You could help get the goods on the biological mother for Grace. She’s a sad sack—drugs, jail time for armed robbery. Says the boyfriend forced her to help him. She’s no fit mother, that’s for damn sure.”
“And where is this biological mother?”
“Denver, Colorado.”
“Mmm.”
“If this wasn’t so important, I’d never ask. But, Luke, can you take some time off and help Grace out?”
He couldn’t refuse. No matter what. Big Bob had saved his life and his soul, and he’d never once asked for help. Luke didn’t hesitate. “Sure I can. Let me get a few things finished up here. I have vacation time coming.”
“She’s driving in today. I want you to meet her, kid. Sally and I will watch the boy, and she can use our car. I’ll take care of hers. I mean, she has to disappear. Tell me where she can meet you. She’ll be able to give you the whole story.”
“Meet her, huh. You want me to come out to your house?”
“No, no. I don’t want her here at all. The feebies will talk to our neighbors—the usual drill. Can she come into the city, meet you somewhere, you know, discreet?”
“Sure. Does she know her way around?”
“You forget, kid. She was raised here.”
“Okay. How about Lum Lee’s, in Chinatown, on Grant Avenue. I’ll be there at six. Will that work?”
“Sure. Lum Lee’s.”
“Does she remember what I look like?”
“I’ll update her,” Bob said dryly.
“I don’t know what I can do, but I’ll try.”
“Hey, listen, Luke, you’re the best investigator the department ever had. You can do it.”
“I was.”
“You’re still the best, kid.”
“Yeah, sure, my man.”
“Six at Lum Lee’s. And don’t forget, this is my daughter you’re helping here.”
Luke barely had time to consider what he was getting into before the perfunctory morning meeting at Metropole Insurance was convened. He took up his wrinkled sport coat and slipped it on, gritting his teeth. Every morning, 10:00 a.m. sharp, it was meeting time with the “suits.”
This morning, sitting around the giant oval boardroom table, it was the same old litany. Bottom line, bottom line. What the suits meant, was: Who can we screw today to increase the bottom line? Which Luke translated more aptly as, How can we keep Metropole’s shareholders happy and increase our personal golden umbrellas?
Metropole’s offices took up the entire sixteenth floor of the steel-and-glass skyscraper—earthquake proof, of course—on Powell Street across from Union Square. Next door, an older office building had been razed—imploded, actually—and for the last few months Luke had whiled away his time in the meetings watching the new structure take shape. More specifically, he watched, and marveled at, the steel walkers, the guys who worked fearlessly atop the steel beams as they were hoisted toward the blue heavens.
Luke had a thing about heights. A real thing. He didn’t even fly, not if he had anything to say about it. Driving took longer, sure, and the gas and rooms cost, but at least he didn’t have to sit on a plane, desperately holding it up in the air through sheer willpower. Yeah. Driving was fine by him.
“Twenty-three cases of suspected arson since January 1 of this year,” a voice was saying—one of the suits. “Are you aware, Mr. Sarkov, that Metropole has paid out on nine of those cases? Three of which were assigned to you?”
Luke dragged his thoughts from the swinging steel beam being levered into place and cleared his throat. “Yes, sir, I am fully aware of the numbers.” Then he smiled thinly. “The trouble is, sir, those three fires were legit.”
“Excuse me?”
“Look, sir—” the sir came out a little too heavy “—things just sometimes burn down. There are accidental fires, and a lot of lives are ruined.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” the suit said impatiently, “but we are not fully satisfied that this structure in San Jose at…let’s see, on Marina Boulevard, was accidental.”
Luke grinned ferally. “A nursing home, sir? A profitable, family-owned and-operated nursing home? Come on.”
“I don’t like that tone, Sarkov.”
“Look,” Luke said, no apology offered, “the report from the fire marshal in San Jose, the nursing home’s books—everything came out clean. It was an electrical fire on the new wing. That happens.”
The suit made a blustering noise, then moved on to Luke’s present case, the fire last week at Sammy Rae’s restaurant up near what was known as the Haight. A rough area.
“I’m on it,” Luke said, wanting to suppress a yawn right in this jerk’s face. He glanced at his wristwatch. “In fact, I’m late for a meeting with the fire chief as it is.”
“Well, all right, get going, then. But no matter what the chief says, we all know this is a case of arson. Prove it. Damn it, prove it and let’s not get into a long and drawn-out court case. Nothing is more costly, Mr. Sarkov. The restaurant owner knows that and is counting on Metropole to pay off. Do whatever it takes, but dig up enough on this Sammy Rae to force him to acquiesce or face criminal charges.”
“Of course,” Luke said, rising, escaping. God-damn, he hated this job.
He didn’t have to meet the fire chief for an hour, so he checked his voice mail—nothing from Judith—then grabbed a sandwich at the corner deli. Breakfast and lunch rolled into one.
He sat on the bench in Union Square and ate half the Reuben, leaning over and dripping sauerkraut juice on the sparse grass. Idly chatting with the bum resting coiled up behind the bench, he tossed crumbs to the pigeons. “Hell,” he said, “insurance companies are no different from carjackers. One is legal. The other is not.”
“Hear, hear,” the bum grumbled.
Grace Bennett. Gracie, Bob used to call her. Yeah. It was coming back now. She must be in her mid-thirties, because when Luke knew her—or had seen her once or twice—she’d been maybe fourteen or fifteen years old.
He shook his head disdainfully. She’d been painfully skinny when she should have been filling out. Yeah. And long stringy blondish hair—no style to it. Glasses. Right. A real academic nerd. He hated to think about Big Bob’s kid that way, but really. And he couldn’t imagine her any different now. Still, the kid—well, woman—was in trouble. On the run. As far as the law was concerned, she’d shortly be a kidnapper.
Go figure, he thought, splitting the last of the crust with the pigeons, then laying a five-spot on the bum before rising and dusting himself off. Time to go to work.
The fire chief handling the Haight-Ashbury district met Luke at Sammy Rae’s—or what was left of the restaurant—exactly on time.
Luke stood on the still-charred sidewalk in front of the burned husk of building and whistled under his breath. “Well, this one sure went out in a blaze. Any of your men injured?”
Fire Chief Rollins shook his head. “Lucky was all. Whole building went in less than an hour.”
“Gotta be arson.”
“Oh, yeah, you better believe it. The lab’s got at least twenty samples of combustibles from hot spots.”
“Good. Where did it start?”
“You mean where was it started? Kitchen, of course. Grease trap.”
Wearing hard hats, they made their way into the scorched, fallen remains of Sammy Rae’s.
“Careful,” Rollins kept saying, nodding and pointing, stepping over debris, his big utility flashlight spearing the dimness.
“Phew,” Luke said once, “stinks to high heaven.”
“Yeah, the whole thing stinks.”
The fire chief showed Luke what was left of the grill and the ventilation hood, then pointed out the grease trap on the side of the fire-twisted grill. He showed Luke the so-called hot spots, which had burned too easily and too quickly, at the same temperature and for the same amount of time as the fire source, indicating that the hot spots and grease trap had all gone up in flames together. Of course, modern forensics would no doubt turn up the starter fuel. Nowadays, fires were creating a whole new field of science and a whole new set of problems for the average fire starter, who merely wanted to collect on his insurance.
“Think I can tell the suits over at Metropole they can keep this out of court?”
“Oh, I’m sure. In fact, we’ll probably have enough to press charges on old Sammy.”
“Well, then, I assume I can have copies of the lab reports when they’re done?”
“No problem. I’ll sign the requisition.”
They made their way back out into the sun, and Luke took off his hard hat and handed it to Rollins, dusting off the sleeves of his jacket. “Thanks for your time, Chief,” he said, turning to go.
Then Rollins spoke. “You don’t remember me, do you?” he said.
Luke pivoted. “I, ah, no, not really.”
“It was ten, twelve, years ago.”
Luke shrugged.
“A waterfront fire down on Third Street.”
“Sorry, but I…” Then it came back to him. Sure. Rollins. He’d been a fireman then, and some real junked-out dudes had been playing chemist at home and blown up their rat hole of an apartment. Luke and his partner had been on a Vice surveillance two buildings down. They’d raced to the scene only seconds after the explosion, and Luke had helped Rollins drag an entire family of illegal immigrants from the blazing second story to safety.
Sure, now he remembered. Back then, Luke had been a hero.
“The fire,” Luke said, nodding. “We both got some good press that night.”
“Yeah,” Rollins said. “Well, anyway, I just wanted to say I’m sorry about your…job. Your resignation and all that.”
“Mmm,” Luke said.
“I saw your name in the papers last year, and well, I felt real bad for you and all the others who, ah, resigned. I just wanted to tell you that.”
“I appreciate it,” Luke said, and he lifted his hand, gave Rollins a short wave, turned and headed to his car.
No one, he thought, was sorrier than he.
CHAPTER FOUR
GRACE PACED in front of the main entrance to the Avenues Mall in Oakland and gripped Charley’s hand. She’d wanted to meet her parents at their house, somewhere familiar and comfortable, for Charley, but, as Bob had told her, it was a bad idea. The feds would be nosing around once she was declared a fugitive, and one of the first things they’d do would be to stake out their house. An ex-cop’s home, she thought, cringing, knowing what this action of hers was doing to her father, her law-abiding father.
Charley was being an angel, looking forward to seeing Gramma and Grampa, but he was bound to wear down soon. So much traveling. A new bed every night, new faces, hours and hours stuck in the hot car. It wasn’t fair.
