Dirty Harry 02 - Death on the Docks (2 page)

And it rang. And it rang. Whoever was on the other end had a good idea that Harry was home and was not about to give up. Finally, unable to stand it any longer, Harry surrendered.

“Callahan.”

“Harry? Can you get down here right away?”

Lieutenant Bressler did not need to introduce himself; his voice was immediately—and painfully—recognizable to Harry.

“You got the wrong man, Lieutenant. You forget, it’s my day off.”

“It used to be your day off. Don’t worry, we’ll make it up to you. Someday. It’s important, Harry.”

“Is this an order you’re giving me?”

“Think of it as a personal favor.” With that Bressler hung up.

“Personal favor, shit,” muttered Harry as he sat up in bed, wondering just how he was to get a handle on the coming day. And God knows, there was a lot of the day to come: it was only six-thirty in the morning.

The phone rang again.

“Callahan.”

“Harry, this is DiGeorgio. The lieutenant says to tell you to make sure you pick up a paper on the way to work.”

“What’s he going to do, test me for my knowledge of current events?”

“Front page, Harry. That’s all you have to know.”

“Tell him he owes me twenty cents then. And the day.”

MASSACRE IN PALO ALTO
Tuber, Wife, Kids Shot
Union Elections Postponed

Harry scanned the
Chronicle’s
coverage of the slayings; it went on for pages. Nothing like a juicy bit of mayhem to get the adrenalin rushing in a jaded reporter, he thought.

The paper folded in his hand, Harry strode through the station house which smelled like stale cigarette smoke, stale coffee, and stale sweat. No one looked particularly awake, neither the officers who were getting off nor the ones who were just coming on duty.

DiGeorgio was tapping out a report on a cranky old typewriter. He glanced up as Harry passed. Observing that he’d picked up a copy of the paper he said, “It’s a shitty business, Harry. Two kids. Adults, that’s one thing. Kids. What kind of son of a bitch blows defenseless kids away?”

Harry just shook his head. He didn’t want any part of it. It was his day off, or it used to be, and the killings took place in Palo Alto. This was San Francisco.

Bressler had a succinct enough explanation. “You’re being lent out, Harry.” He was pacing back and forth behind his desk. He, too, appeared fatigued. Harry could sense, when the lieutenant was about to snap; you could see it in his eyes, there was a real coldness there, absolute zero coldness. He didn’t like Harry, and yet usually he could keep his distaste for him under control. But when the lieutenant got like this, frazzled, worn down, that control slipped away.

“Mind telling me why I’m the lucky one?”

“Let’s just say it’s your type of case. Sick, scummy, dirty.”

“And political?”

“Who said anything about politics?”

“Tuber was a dissident. He opposed Braxton and Braxton’s handpicked candidate Ryan. He was going to win.”

“That’s speculation. Who knows who would’ve won. That’s not your concern.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Lieutenant. Suppose it was Braxton who ordered the hit, you think you’re going to put the darling of every politician and bureaucrat in this state behind bars?”

Bressler pretended to ignore him. “You seen this?” He indicated a column on the front page of the
Chronicle
that Harry had already read. That didn’t stop Bressler; he insisted on reading it aloud: “ ‘Matthew Braxton, retiring president of Local 242 of the Brotherhood of Longshoremen, when informed of the murders, said that he was “anguished and shocked beyond description,” adding that he “would do all in my power to see to the arrest and conviction of the perpetrators of this horrible outrage.” To that end, he has instructed the union to put up a fifty thousand dollar reward for information leading to—’ ”

“I get the picture, Lieutenant. But as far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t mean shit.”

“They’re expecting you in Palo Alto, Harry. I’ve told them you’re on your way. The man you see there is Redhorn. Captain Redhorn.”

“Got it.”

Redhorn would have made a terrific tour guide. He had a face for poker games and a mind for computer chess. He escorted Harry through the Tuber house as though he’d been doing it for the last twenty-two years. Everywhere Harry looked members of the Palo Alto force were exploring for evidence. There were ballistics people and homicide people and forensics people. What the hell did they need him for?

The Tuber house, in fact, could have been some ancient archaeological site the way investigators were poring over it. Flashbulbs were popping furiously as police photographers sought to record every possible nook and cranny. Specialists were down on their hands and knees with knives, shredding flakes of dried blood into plastic envelopes which were then labeled and sealed. Others were gouging out chunks of the walls in which bullets were embedded.

“We’ve questioned the neighbors,” Redhorn was saying. “An elderly couple across the street say they heard some noises around midnight, but they apparently didn’t get out of bed to see what it was. The problem is that this house is located way at the end of the street. As you probably saw when you got here there’s nothing behind the house. Just woods. As for the house right next door, it’s up for sale so no one’s in it.”

“No witnesses,” Harry said, “and no suspects.”

“You’re jumping to conclusions.” Redhorn was guiding Harry up the stairs which were now naked wood, the bloodied carpet having been stripped completely and sent down to the Chem-Toxicology lab for analysis. “While we don’t have any suspects yet we’re waiting word from PATRIC. PATRIC hasn’t failed me yet.”

PATRIC, Harry remembered, was an acronym for a computer system called Pattern Recognition and Information Correlations. The system contained a vast bank of data on known criminals, MOs, outstanding warrants, stolen vehicles, rap sheets, field reports. If it was fed the right sort of information, in twenty minutes it could come back with a list of possible suspects. But this was not a case where PATRIC could be of any help.

“The fucking people who did this,” Harry said, starting grimly at the jagged stain the six-year-old’s blood had made on the wall, “are professionals.”

“Professionals!” Redhorn scoffed, looking at Harry, probably wondering why they sent somebody like him from the San Francisco office. “Professionals do a much cleaner job. And they don’t generally do a number on kids. It’s my opinion that this is the work of psychopaths, raving lunatics—maybe high on drugs.”

“You don’t think it has anything to do with the union?”

“The union, the union. That’s all I ever hear about. This morning when I get here the press is outside screaming about the union. What do I know from unions?”

Harry understood that in this Palo Alto captain he was not about to discover an ally.

“I don’t know what else I can tell you. Once we get the results back from ballistics and the serology report we’ll let you know. And I’ll get a copy of the field report to you.”

“And PATRIC? I’d like to hear what PATRIC has to say.”

Redhorn didn’t catch the mockery in Harry’s voice. “Oh sure. Absolutely. Fuck-ups who pull this kind of thing, they should stick out like a sore thumb. PATRIC should pick them up pretty quickly.”

PATRIC didn’t pick up shit, of course. Serology reports showed only blood from the victims was present on the site and none from any perpetrator. The ballistics report revealed that the bullet that had killed Tuber’s son was a 9mm Parabellum cartridge. Otherwise, all the bullets were 2¾-inch, 12-gauge shotshells, fired from Kawaguchiya M-250 autoloading shotguns. The Kawaguchiya, imported through a marketing firm in Tucson, was something of a newcomer to the country. It was hoped that the ones used to murder the Tubers wouldn’t be too difficult to trace. Harry knew better. They’d never find them. It wouldn’t surprise him if the shotguns were back in Japan; who knows, maybe some clowns were using them right now to hold up a Tokyo bank or blast one another away on the Ginza.

In any case, Harry wasn’t convinced that finding the hit men was the most important part of this case. The hit men were only flunkies, probably imported like the Kawaguchiyas they used. But the man who had employed them, for all his protestations of innocence, that man was right here in San Francisco. Matt Braxton.

C H A P T E R
T w o

“D
orothy, show Mr. Callahan in.” The voice that came through the intercom was booming. Whoever owned that voice was not a man to be trifled with.

Dorothy had nice long legs, delectably revealed by a seemingly endless split in her skirt. Harry didn’t mind following her at all.

The offices of the Brotherhood were spacious, airy, with picture windows yielding splendid panoramas of the Embarcadero and the sparkling blue waters of the bay. The most striking object in the room into which Harry was brought was the desk. It was low and lean and dominated the room and, like all the rest of the furniture, it was Swedish Modern, very tasteful.

The man who sat behind this desk didn’t look like he fit in very well with the decor. He was a big, bulky specimen of humanity who seemed to have had to squash himself to get into his chair. One look at his rough-hewn face, with crags and juttings that could have been pilfered from the Grand Canyon, and you had a good idea why he was known as Bull. John “Bull” Ryan. The man who would be king. Well, not king, but president of the Brotherhood. Which was one hell of a lot of power for a man to wield.

Bull was doing his utmost to appear dignified. But he didn’t seem to find his pinstriped jacket and indigo tie any more comfortable than his Swedish Modern chair. Papers were strewn over his vast desk, and there was a telephone with half a dozen extensions, all of which were lit up when Harry walked in.

Bull stood up, and leaning across his desk, he grasped hold of Harry’s hand. His was a grip that could turn a man’s fingers to the consistency of gum.

He motioned for Harry to sit. He sat himself, muttering, “A terrible thing, a terrible thing about poor Bernie and his family,” wanting to get a head start on the business at hand. “This is a blot upon our union.” His voice was thick and hoarse, possibly from the cigarettes he kept lighting up and then, a minute or so later, jabbing out in the cluttered ashtray. “Keep trying to quit,” he said. “I try these low tar things. Low tar’s for shit.” He slouched back. “So ask away. That’s what you came here for, isn’t it?”

“When did you last see the deceased?”

“Bernie? A few weeks ago. At a rally he was given. I just happened to stop by. I was interested in his campaigning strategy. As his rival, you know, I was naturally curious to see what he was saying.”

“And what was he saying, Mr. Ryan?”

“Bull, please. Everybody calls me Bull. Well, he was saying some very nasty things. Malicious statements. No basis in fact. But, hey, you shouldn’t talk mean of the dead, right? Bernie was, shall we say, misguided? Accusing my predecessor and myself of corrupt practices, of stealing union funds for our own personal use.” Bull shook his head gravely.

“By predecessor you mean, I take it, Mr. Braxton?”

“Matt, of course, Matt. I tell you something, Mr. Callahan. Matt Braxton worked and slaved all his life for this union. The police—excuse me for saying this—the police worked him over in the old days. You can’t count the times Matt got his head bashed in on picket lines. And to accuse this fine individual of stealing from the very men he fought for! It’s an outrage.”

“So was what happened to Tuber and his family,” Harry remarked dryly.

“Of course. Life’s an outrage when you think, about it.”

“Do you have any suspicions about who might have been responsible?”

“Jesus, I wish I did. Our union has put up fifty thousand dollars, you know. We’re as interested in apprehending the killers as you people are.”

This was an answer that Harry had anticipated. He realized he was only going to be wasting his time if he persisted in questioning Bull. Bull was in any case a mouthpiece. He would say whatever Braxton wanted him to say.

“Do you think you could arrange for me to meet Mr. Braxton?”

“Well, Mr. Braxton’s a very busy man. Speaking engagements all over the state. This morning he had to go down to Sacramento to meet with the Governor.”

“I can appreciate Mr. Braxton’s heavy schedule but all the same I would like to talk to him.”

“Of course. I’ll speak to his secretary and we’ll set up something for you in the very near future.”

“Make it soon,” said Harry as he rose to leave. “I’m a very impatient man.”

As soon as Harry had left, Bull instructed Dorothy to put him in touch with Braxton at his hotel suite in Sacramento.

“I was just going out the door,” Braxton said, sounding irritated at having been disturbed. “What is it, Bull?”

“I just had a cop in here, name of Callahan, Harry Callahan. Questioning me on the Tuber thing.”

“That’s to be expected. Is that why you called me?”

“Well, I wanted to know if we should expect any trouble.”

“From the cops? Hey, look, Bull, this is Matt Braxton you’re talking to. Nobody’s about to touch Matt Braxton.”

Bull was wondering whether this insurance extended to him as well but decided not to ask. “This Callahan fellow wants to talk to you.”

“So let him talk, what the hell do I care? Bull, if you’re so goddamn worried about him put somebody on him. I’m telling you though there’s nothing to worry about. Now I really got to get going here. Mustn’t keep the Governor waiting.”

Even a small matter like ordering surveillance on a lone inspector of the San Francisco Police Department was nothing that Bull could determine without word from Braxton. That was exactly why he was Braxton’s hand-picked candidate. He was the next best thing to a marionette.

Half an hour after a man had been put on his tail Harry was aware of him. Harry actually felt him before he saw him. It was a sixth sense he had, honed after too many years on the force. An eye in the back of his head would have served him no better.

When he glimpsed him, it was from half a block away. The tail was a creature made for anonymity; of average height and weight, he could have passed for a bank, teller, an insurance salesman, a bureaucrat sapped of life and humanity, the sort that could lose himself on Main Street in a ghost town. Harry knew his kind. You lost sight of him and the next thing you knew he was putting a gun to your skull and blowing out its contents.