Chapter Four
San Francisco Bay looked like the freeway at rush hour.
The container ship listed drunkenly on its keel: the bow stuck in the loose shoal around Alcatraz, the stern braced by two tugboats commandeered by the Coast Guard. Two cutters idled on either side of the huge vessel while a harbor patrol boat circled Alcatraz Island to maintain a secure perimeter.
Just beyond this tenuous ring of authority, chaos reigned. Sailboats, powerboats, and even a few rowboats jockeyed for position as tourists, locals, and reporters tried to get a closer look at the spectacle.
Overhead, a Coast Guard helicopter hovered noisily, its rotors blowing foam off the already choppy water. Within an hour of the accident there had been almost eight helicopters in the sky, most of them from television news bureaus. The choppers from Channel 5 and Channel 7, two stations in a fierce ratings war for the right to call themselves “The Bay Area’s Favorite News Source,” almost collided directly over the ship. That prompted the Coast Guard to establish a no-fly zone the rest of the day.
Onboard, the scene was no less frenetic, the deck crowded with the Coast Guard, INS, Customs Service, Harbor Patrol, FBI, and the San Francisco Police. It got so jammed that uniformed cops were sent to keep order after an FBI agent took a swing at a guy from Customs when the two men bumped into each other.
The almost two hundred refugees and what remained of the crew were taken ashore and held in a makeshift command center on Treasure Island, the former naval base. Interpreters were already there, trying to figure out what happened.
Back on the ship, it was obvious something had gone terribly wrong.
The area immediately outside the main cabin was cordoned off with yellow tape, which caused an eddy in the foot traffic across the deck. Two homicide cops stood just inside the tape watching the forensics teams go to work.
“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Vincent Mango announced, bracing an arm to compensate for the slant of the deck. He was dressed immaculately, an Italian sport coat offset by pleated slacks cuffed over Ferragamo shoes. His tie was a subtle shade of green, which, at that precise moment, seemed to match his complexion.
“It’s all in your head, Vinnie,” said the man next to him, voice booming like the surf. Almost six-eight and built like a defensive lineman, Beauregard Jones looked enormous even against the backdrop of the ship. He wore jeans, a black T-shirt, and a leather shoulder rig holding a Beretta stretched taut across his chest. He wore no jacket, smiling broadly at his partner as if he were immune to the cold, his ebony skin shining from the spray off the water. He said, “You can’t be seasick if you’re not at sea.”
Vinnie tried to focus on a spot between his feet, the only part of the deck that didn’t seem to be moving. “I hate boats.”
“It’s a ship, Vinnie,” replied Beau, “not a boat.”
“Whatever.”
“Nah, this shit’s important,” Beau insisted. “You tell those guys with the Coast Guard you’re on a boat, just see if they keep takin’ you seriously. Next thing you know, we won’t get a ride off this thing.”
The prospect of staying onboard got Vinnie’s full attention. “OK, it’s a ship.”
“That ran aground,” said Beau. “It’s like standing on a pier.”
“Don’t tell me how I feel,” snapped Vinnie, who risked raising his head to glare at his partner. “The deck is rolling.”
“Aye-aye,” said Beau amicably. “But I’m tellin’ you-we ain’t movin’. The boat’s stuck.”
“I thought you said it was a ship.”
“Whatever.”
Vinnie leaned over and spat between his feet. “Let’s change the subject.”
“Fine.”
“So what do you think?” Vinnie jerked his chin toward the cabin.
Beau squinted against the wind and frowned.
“This is a freak show, Vinnie.”
Vinnie nodded slowly. “That’s what I think. You sure this is gonna be ours?”
Beau shook his head. “Hell, no. At best, we’re gonna have to share.”
“You must’ve dealt with the feds before, when you were in Narcotics.”
“Lots of times,” replied Beau. “Mostly DEA, but the boys from the bureau showed up once or twice.”
“How was it?”
“A cluster fuck, usually,” replied Beau. “They didn’t share information, got in the way during the investigation, then took credit after the bust went down.”
“Swell,” said Vinnie. “I can hardly wait.”
Beau smiled at his partner. “This one’s gonna be worse.”
“How you figure?”
“Remember all those news choppers were here earlier?”
Vinnie nodded but didn’t say anything, his gaze returning to the spot between his shoes.
“We’re gonna have reporters up our asses till this is over. And since the nice Chinese folks down in the ship’s hold probably didn’t have green cards, visas, or even a get-outta-jail-free card, you just know the fuckin’ State Department is gonna stick their noses in. That makes it political, which means the mayor’ll get involved.”
Vinnie moaned. Beau couldn’t tell if it was because of the jostling of the ship or the mention of the mayor.
“Guess we don’t get a lot of choice in the matter,” muttered Vinnie.
“To serve and protect,” intoned Beau solemnly. “Or is that just the motto of the L.A. police?”
“I think it’s ‘protect and serve’ in San Francisco,” said Vinnie. “We serve later than they do.”
“That sounds about right,” agreed Beau. “But either way, we’re stuck out here till the next chopper arrives to take us back to dry land.”
“When are they gonna fly the stiffs out?” asked Vinnie.
“Guy from forensics says it’ll be at least another hour,” replied Beau. “I just hope we’re not in the same chopper.”
Vinnie risked standing upright and took a deep breath. “What was the count?”
Beau took a small black notebook from his back pocket and gave it a cursory glance. “Four.”
“That include the guy in the hold?” asked Vinnie, grimacing. “The one who fell?”
Beau frowned. “We both know he wasn’t killed by no fall.”
“Yeah,” Vinnie shrugged. “So that makes five?”
Beau glanced again at the notebook. “Just eyeballing it, I’d say we’ve got a broken neck, at least one crushed larynx, one ‘no visible causes,’ and one extremely fatal stab wound.”
Now it was Vinnie’s turn to flinch. “Want another look?”
“Not really,” replied Beau, shaking his head. “But we probably should, before it gets cleaned up.”
The two men walked around the side of the cabin to a heavy steel door set between the round glass of the windows overlooking the deck from the bridge. Slumped against the bottom of the door was a Chinese man in his early thirties, a scraggly growth of beard at the very base of his chin. The rest of his face was long and narrow, his almond-shaped eyes staring vacantly at the two cops.
Embedded in his chest was a knife approximately eight inches long, the blade an anodized black material that seemed to absorb all surrounding light. A rusty trail of dried blood ran from the center of the door to the back of the man’s head, tracing the path of his collapse. Still clutched in his right hand was a gun, a small-frame automatic. Less than a foot away, a brass shell casing gleamed dully in the afternoon light.
Written just above his head on the left side of the door was the number “49.” It had been scrawled using the same dark paint that once flowed freely through the dead man’s veins.
“Jesus,” Beau muttered under his breath.
