the police on his neighbor, whose only crime is having a dog that does what everybody wants their dog to do: bark at strangers. The dispatchers cringe when they see his name and address pop up on the 911 screen.”
“What about the one the chief judge read the riot act to?”
“That’s Number Thirteen. Zink found out that he’s showed up at the arraignments of everybody this grand jury indicted. He really enjoys seeing people humiliated in public. Killing them would take the fun out of it.”
“So we’re at a dead end?”
“That’s the way it looks.”
“Have you come up with any ideas that won’t force us to reindict two hundred defendants?”
Peterson came prepared to answer that question, but knew he had to give it in exactly the right manner. He propped his forearms on the armrests of his chair and steepled his hands.
“Let me put it this way. We have no proof there’s a leak from this grand jury. We have no proof there have been prior leaks from this grand jury. Everybody indicted by this grand jury deserved it. They’re all righteous cases. This grand jury worked long and hard. Very, very long and hard.”
Rose arched his eyebrows. “How long is very long?”
“Their term expires in ten days.”
“Tsk, tsk.” Rose smiled his understanding of what Peterson was trying to say, then pushed the unopened folder of Zink’s reports back across the desk. “What a shame to have labored so diligently on SatTek, then to run out of time.”
“That’s just what I thought.”
Rose leaned back in his chair, then gazed out toward the fog oozing into downtown San Francisco from the Pacific. There were other headlines he was worried about, ones generated by crime victims’ groups demanding to know when something would finally be done to punish the crooks behind SatTek.
He looked back at Peterson. “Suppose you got a new grand jury impaneled the moment the old one expires, then jammed them real hard, ten hours a day. How long would it take to get an indictment?”
Peterson was ready with that answer, too. “A week.”
CHAPTER 57
M atson arrived for his dinner meeting with Mr. Green and Mr. Black, driving a metallic blue Mercedes 600 Roadster and wearing a navy sports jacket and a yellow button-down shirt. After handing his keys to the valet, he waited by the entrance to Buccio’s Italian Cuisine for Gage and Blanchard, who were pulling into a parking space.
Gage had been amused by Matson’s choice. The chateau-style restaurant, standing at the far end of a commercial district that trailed off into a neighborhood of Tudors and California bungalows, had for two generations served as the meeting place and watering hole for the criminal and financial elite on the Peninsula.
Blanchard looked over at Gage and smiled. “Isn’t this the place where-”
Gage nodded. A year earlier, an FBI bug hidden in the men’s restroom as part of a racketeering investigation revealed that the mayor of San Jose not only was on the take from a local contractor, but had severe prostate problems.
“Matson’s an idiot,” Gage said, as he turned off the ignition. “This is out of a mafia movie. If he says bada- bing I’ll strangle him. It’s a damn good thing we’re not for real.” He glanced at Blanchard. “Turn on the transmitter. Do the date and time and put it in your coat pocket.”
“Is this the lab part of the course?”
“It counts for fifty percent of your grade.”
They crossed the parking lot, then nodded to Matson and followed him inside, where the maitre d’ greeted him by name.
Matson left for the restroom shortly after they were seated. Gage followed him. By the time he arrived, Matson was in a stall. He came out a minute later and stepped up to wash his hands. Gage dried his own, then reached over and grabbed Matson by his back collar, spun him around, and jammed him back inside.
Matson pawed the walls as Gage forced him to look down toward the clean, clear water in the bowl.
“You fucking amateur.”
Matson hadn’t used the toilet, so he hadn’t flushed.
Gage yanked Matson out of the stall, patted him down, then spun him back around. He reached into Matson’s right breast pocket, pulled out a small digital tape recorder. The screen showed that it had been running for only thirty seconds. Gage dropped it on the floor and crushed it with his heel.
“Are you some fucking snitch?” For a moment Gage really felt like Mr. Green, and showed it. “Are you setting me up, you fucking asshole?”
“No, no. I just…protection. I needed protection…in case you rip me off. That’s all. Really, that’s all.”
Sweat beaded on Matson’s face as he tried to lick his lips with a dry tongue. His eyes were wide, as if imagining himself strangled, propped up on the toilet until his body was discovered at closing time, or maybe not until the following day. Gage released his grip moments before Matson’s bladder would’ve given way.
“You try this shit again and I’ll blow your fucking brains out.” Gage stared down into Matson’s reddening eyes. “You got it?”
“Yes. I got it.”
“Let’s go back.”
Matson grimaced. “I need to pee.”
“I’ll wait.”
Gage walked behind Matson as they left the restroom. Matson snagged a napkin from a supply cart near the kitchen, wiped his face and then dropped it into a dirty dish tub. Gage gave Blanchard a thumbs-up as they approached the table.
A waitress distributed menus as soon as they were re-seated, and then laid the wine list in front of Mr. Matson, the regular.
Matson lowered his menu, mouth looking sour. “I’m not very hungry.”
“Come on, man,” Gage said. “Everything’s gonna be okay.”
Matson rubbed his forehead, still hot and moist, then let out a sigh while looking around the restaurant at the normalcy around him. The well-heeled diners sipping their wines and savoring their pastas. The waiters poised to serve.
“It’s a dog-eat-dog world,” Gage continued. “Anybody with a brain will grab a little money for themselves. It’s called business.”
“Yeah…I guess.”
“I’ve heard you’re a smart guy. A smooth operator. Somebody who knows how to seize an opportunity.”
Matson brightened. “Yeah, I’ve done that a few times.”
“Us, too. And this one will make us a lot of money.” Gage smiled. “Let’s celebrate. On me. You pick the wine.”
Matson reached under his menu and pulled out the wine list. He turned the pages back and forth, working his finger up and down the lists, until he finally settled on a Cavallotto Barolo Boschis ’98. Gage signaled the wine steward, who remained expressionless as Matson mispronounced his selection. He slipped away, returning a minute later, bottle in hand. He and Matson did the label-cork-taste dance, which ended with filled glasses.
Gage picked his up first. “To business.”
Then Blanchard, “To business.”
Finally and unenthusiastically, Matson said, “To business.”
It wasn’t until their salads arrived that Matson was ready to pop the money question.
“I think we can go as high as two-point-five,” Gage said. “Three is just way too much.”
“Does that include the ten percent?”
“No, that’ll drop it to two-point-two-five.”
“How about we split the difference?”
Gage shook his head. “No can do. I trust Mr. Black. He told me what we can sell it for and I believe
