Nocturnal: A Novel

“You mentioned high-level access,” Pookie said. “How many people in the department have that kind of access?”

John thought about that for a second. “I’m not sure. I know a lot about the system, but I’m just a mid-level user. People like me wouldn’t have the access privileges. We can count out the IT guys, they would have done it right. So between administrators, their support staff … I’d guess thirty or forty.”

A waitress brought menus. Pookie ordered coffee. John just asked for water.

The waitress walked away. Pookie grabbed a handful of sugar packets from a little bin at the back of the table and started stacking them into little piles. He couldn’t exactly investigate thirty or forty cops. John’s work gave him some great info, but nothing he could act on.

“What about the Oscar Woody crime-scene photos?” Pookie said. “Sammy Berzon took about a hundred shots of those symbols. Those are still in the system, right?”

John shook his head. “Not anymore. They were deleted shortly after they were entered. I saw links to them in the index files, but the actual images are gone.”

Pookie flashed back to that blue tarp at the Father Paul Maloney scene, to Verde being in such a hurry to get Pookie and Bryan off that roof. Had that tarp been covering another blood symbol? Baldwin Metz had been there, the first time anyone had seen him outside of the morgue in going on five years. Then Metz had a heart attack. He wasn’t available when Oscar died. Maybe that was the connection — Metz hadn’t been there to run things, to stop Sammy and Jimmy from processing the Oscar Woody scene. Sammy and Jimmy had followed protocol and entered the photos of the symbols into the system. Then someone found out about the photos and deleted them.

But Zou had seen those photos. So had Sean Robertson and Captain Sharrow. Zou would have also seen the photos from the Maloney murder. If there had been a blood symbol under that tarp, than Zou knew the two cases were related.

She’d have known there was a possible serial killer out there. Known, and taken her two best guys off the case. She should have already formed a task force and moved on to assigning more resources. Instead, she’d given it all to Rich Verde.

“Don’t look so glum, chum,” John said. “I also brought you some good news.”

“You can make my penis grow two inches in a week or less?”

John laughed, a soundless thing that made his bony shoulders bob up and down. “Stop believing your spam emails. Remember that local request for information on the symbols, the one that was twenty-nine years old? In the archives I found these old database printouts. They were all in binders, the kind of thing that’s been sitting around forgotten long enough that no one knows if they should throw them out or not, you know? I spent about twelve hours in a truly Herculean effort of page-by-page data hunting, and I found the name and address of the guy who made that request. He’s still alive, working out of the same place he was then. He’s a fortune-teller in North Beach.”

A name and an address. Goddamn. An actual lead.

“John, that’s amazing,” Pookie said. “You still got it, brother.”

John’s smile faded. He looked out the window onto Mason Street. “Still got it? I can barely leave my apartment, Pooks. I almost had a panic attack coming here to see you. I mean … it’s still dark out, you know?”

Pookie didn’t know. He could only imagine what it felt like to go from being a cop on the streets to — for lack of a better word — to cowering behind a desk and not being able to do anything to change it.

“You do what you can,” Pookie said. He instantly felt like a dick for trying to put any kind of positive spin on it.

John kept staring out the window. No amount of words was going to help.

“Let’s eat,” Pookie said. “Had the chocolate-chip pancakes here? I swear they are made of crack dipped in gold.”

“Aren’t you and the Terminator going to go talk to the fortune-teller?”

“Priorities,” Pookie said. “Without coal, the choo-choo train just sits on the tracks. And I doubt a fortune- teller is up at six A.M. What’s this guy’s name, anyway?”

“The name on the FOI was Thomas Reed, but he goes by a different name for his fortune-telling crap.”

“Which is?”

“Mister Biz-Nass.”

“Interesting,” Pookie said. “Come on, order something. Hey, is it racist if I suggest you get the fried chicken and waffles?”

“Incredibly racist,” John said. “And it sounds delicious. I’ll get that.”

They ordered. Pookie tore open one of his sugar-packet piles and dumped the contents into his coffee.

“One more thing, Mister Burns. Considering the deleted files, I think it goes without saying, but—”

“Keep this to myself?”

Pookie nodded. “I think things could get dangerous.”

John shrank in on himself a little, his head again lowering as his shoulders again rose up. “I’m not stupid. We’re digging up what someone wants to keep buried. If they find out, they might try to bury us, too. I know the risks. I might not be your partner anymore, but I still have your back.”

Pookie wished he could go back in time, to six years ago, to that night in the Tenderloin when he’d had the drop on Blake Johansson. Pookie could have taken Johansson out, but he’d hesitated. Because of that hesitation, John Smith wound up with a bullet in his belly, a bullet that took a great cop off the streets.

“Order up, BMB,” Pookie said. “Breakfast is on me.”

Like Father, Like Son

Bryan sliced into the second kielbasa link. A little jet of fat shot out and landed on the back of his thumb. It was hot, but not enough to burn. He grabbed a slice of rye bread, dabbed up the fat with it and shoved it into his mouth.

“Glad to see your manners haven’t changed much, Son.”

Bryan smiled despite a mouth full of food. Considering his dad had a bottle of Bud Light in one hand, a Marlboro in the other, and was sitting at the table in a threadbare T-shirt, white boxers and black socks, he wasn’t exactly the poster boy for social protocol.

Bryan didn’t care that his throbbing body and sour stomach told him this meal was coming up later. The food tasted amazing. It tasted like home. He scooped up a forkful of sauerkraut. “Dad, when you write your book on etiquette? I’ll be first in line to buy it.”

His dad laughed. That was what Bryan needed, some normalcy — Mike Clauser in a T-shirt and boxers, drinking beer and feeding Bryan kielbasa and sauerkraut at 7:00 A.M. because that was the only thing Mike knew how to cook. When Bryan had been a little kid, he’d sat with his father at this same chipped Formica table. Breakfast with his dad was a giant step away from the insanity of psycho dreams, burning kids and dealing with butchered bodies.

“So, my boy, want to tell me what’s going on? You’re wound up pretty tight. I know the job is hard and all, but … well … you kind of look like shit. You feeling okay?”

“Been a little sick,” Bryan said. He couldn’t tell his father any of it. Mike wasn’t a cop and he just wouldn’t understand. “And some stuff at work is getting to me, stuff I don’t really want to talk about.”

Another kielbasa quarter went under the knife and into his mouth.

“Work,” Mike said. “Sure it’s not girl troubles?”

Oh, man, were they going to go over this for the umpteenth time? “Leave it alone, Dad.”

“When are you bringing Robin over for dinner again? I’ll order Chinese.”

“You know damn well I moved out of her place.”

Mike Clauser waved the Marlboro-holding hand in front of him as if his son had just cut a nasty fart. “Son, I love you to death, but no way you can do better than that girl.”

“Gee, thanks for the compliment.”

“You’re welcome.”

“What am I supposed to do? She told me to move out.”