Eleventh Hour (3 page)

He started with an e-mail to Chief Dexter Kreider.

SAN FRANCISCO

At three-thirty on Monday afternoon, San Francisco time, after a five-hour-and-ten-minute flight from Dulles, Dane Carver threaded his way through the large open room toward Inspector Delion’s overloaded desk. He paused a moment, studying him. The older man, with his bald, shiny head and thick handlebar mustache, was hunched over a computer keyboard, typing furiously. Dane sat down in the chair beside his desk and said nothing, just looked at the man at his work. It was like every other large cop shop he’d ever been in. Cops with their suit jackets hung over the backs of their chairs, their ties loosened, sleeves rolled up, a young Hispanic guy in handcuffs lounging in the side chairs, trying on sneers, a couple of lawyers in three-piece suits doing their best to intimidate—nothing at all unusual for a Monday afternoon. A decimated box of jelly donuts lay on a battered table in the small kitchen, a coffee machine that looked to be from the last century beside it, along with stacks of paper cups, packets of sugar, and a carton of milk Dane wouldn’t touch in a million years.

“Who’re you?”

Dane came to his feet and extended his hand. “I’m Dane Carver. You called me last night about my brother.”

“Oh yeah, right.” He rose, shook Dane’s hand. “I’m Vincent Delion.” He sat again, waved Dane to do the same. “Hey, I’m real sorry about your brother. I called you because I knew you’d want to hear what was going on.”

The brothers had been close, Delion knew from Carver’s sister, Eloise DeMarks. And Delion wasn’t blind. The man was hurting, bad. He was also a Fed. All the Feds Delion had ever met hadn’t seemed to feel much of anything. They all just wanted to press their wing tips down hard on his neck. Of course, he’

d never seen a Fed in this situation before. Murder of a family member—something very personal, something over which he had no control at all. It couldn’t get tougher than this.

Dane said, his voice effortlessly calm and compelling—it was a very good interview voice, Delion thought

—“Yes, I appreciate that. Tell me what you have.”

“I’m really sorry about this, but the first thing we need to do is go over to the morgue and you need to identify the body, not that there’s any doubt, just procedure, you know the drill. Or maybe you don’t.

You ever been a local cop?”

Dane shook his head. “I always wanted to be an FBI agent. But yes, I know the drill.”

“Yeah, I hear that’s usually the way the thing works. Me, I always wanted to be local. Okay, Dr. Boyd did the autopsy this morning, and yeah, I was there. Your brother died instantly, like I told you last night.

Boyd also says that was the case, if it’s any comfort. I’ve spoken to your sister. She wanted to come up today, but I told her you would be here to handle things, that you’d fill her in. I’ll need to speak to her, but in a day or two. I figured you’d rather take care of things.”

“Yes. I’ve spoken to Eloise. I’ll speak with her tonight. Now, about the gun—”

“No gun found at the murder site or anywhere in the church or within a two-block radius of Saint Bartholomew’s, but the coroner extracted a twenty-two-caliber bullet from the concrete wall behind the confessional. So the bullet passed through your brother, out the confessional, and another six feet to the wall, not very deep, just about an eighth of an inch into the wall, and it was in pretty good shape. Our ballistics guy, Zopp—yeah, that’s really his name, Edward Zopp—was on it right away. The thing is, you know, your brother was a priest, a very active, well-liked priest, and that’s got priority over about everything else going on. The bullet was intact enough to weigh and measure, and Zopp was very happy about that. Usually it’s not the case. Zopp said he counted the grooves and the land, and determined, of all things, that the gun is probably a JC Higgins model eighty or a Hi Standard model one-oh-one—both of those weapons are really close.”

“Yeah, and they’re also pretty esoteric. Neither of them is made anymore, but they’re not hard to find, and they’re not valuable. They’re cheap, in fact.”

“Yeah, that’s it. Also Zopp told us it was weird because it’s like the same gun the Zodiac killer used back in the late sixties and early seventies. Ain’t that something? You remember, the guy was never caught.”

“You’re thinking there could be some sort of connection?”

Delion shook his head. “Nope. We’re wondering if maybe our perp is an admirer of the Zodiac killer.

Hey, it’s a real long shot, but we’ll see. Since we got the bullet, when we find the gun, we’ll be able to match it for the DA.”

Dane sat back in his chair and looked down at his wing tips. He hated this, hated it to his soul, but he had to ask. “Angle of entry?”

THREE

“The killer was sitting right opposite your brother. They were looking at each other. The killer raised the gun and fired through the screen.”

Jesus, Dane thought, seeing Michael, his head cocked just slightly to one side, listening so carefully to the penitent, trying to feel what the person confessing was feeling, trying to understand, wanting to forgive.

But not with this guy, Dane was sure of that. His brother had been worried about this guy. The guy just raised the damned gun and shot him right through his forehead? For a moment, Dane couldn’t even think, the horror of what had happened to Michael deadening his brain. He wished it would deaden the rest of him, but of course it didn’t. He felt hollow with pain.

Delion gave Dane Carver some time to get himself together, then said, “We’ve already started checking local gun shops to see if they still carry either of these models or have carried them in the past, and if so, who’s bought one in the last few years. Our local gun shop folk keep very thorough records.”

Dane couldn’t imagine using such a gun to murder someone, particularly if he’d bought the gun here in San Francisco. He’d get caught in no time at all if he bought it here, but it was an obvious place to begin.

“How was he discovered?”

“An anonymous call to nine-one-one, made only minutes after the murder.”

“A witness,” Dane said. “There’s a witness.”

“Very possibly. It was a woman. She claims she saw the man who shot your brother come out of the confessional, the proverbial smoking gun still in his hand. She says he didn’t see her. She started crying—and then she hung up. Nine-one-one calls are taped, so if you’d like to listen to the call, we can do that.

We haven’t got a clue who the woman is.”

“The woman hasn’t called again?”

Delion shook his head.

“She didn’t say whether or not she could recognize him?”

“Said she couldn’t, said she’d call if she thought of anything helpful.”

Great, okay, Dane thought. At least there was someone. Maybe she would call back. He said, “Have you spoken yet to the other priests at the rectory?”

For the first time Vincent Delion smiled beneath his thick mustache, the ends actually waxed, Dane realized when he saw him smile. “Guess what? I figured you’d be ready to climb up my ass if I didn’t let you in on that. So, Special Agent Carver, are you ready to move out?”

Dane nodded. “Thank you. I really appreciate this. I’m officially on leave from the FBI, so I’ve got time.

Father Binney’s got to be first. When we exchanged e-mails last week, Michael mentioned Father Binney.”

“Oh? In what way? Something pertinent to this?”

“I’m not sure,” Dane said, shrugged. “He just wrote of problems with Father Binney. There’s something else,” Dane added, raising his head, looking straight at Delion’s mustache. “My brother said something to me on the phone the other night—something about how he felt helpless and he hated that. I’m hoping that Father Binney will have some ideas.”

They passed the small kitchen area with microwave, coffeepot, and three different bowls of peanuts.

“Hey, you hungry? Want some peanuts, a cup of coffee?”

“Peanuts, not donuts?”

“Cops living on donuts, all sporting a big gut—that’s a myth, that’s just television,” Delion said. “We’re not big on donuts here, all of us are into fitness. We like peanuts in the shell from Virginia. Sometimes even the spicy ones.”

“What’s that then?”

“Well, that’s just one jelly donut, probably the cleaning guy brought it in.”

It was hanging off a paper plate, ready to make its final leap to the floor. Dane thought it more likely that the cleaning guy wouldn’t touch it. He smiled, shook his head. “I ate on the plane. Thank you, Inspector.”

The god-awful reality of it hit Dane when he saw his brother through the glass window in the very small viewing room at the morgue. Dr. Boyd, a tall, white-haired, commanding man, with a voice to make a sinner confess, had taken them through the security door, down the short hall into the room, and drew back the curtains. There was Michael, a sheet pulled up to his neck, only his head visible. Dane felt a lurch of pain so deep he almost gasped. He felt Delion’s hand on his shoulder. Then he saw the red dot on Michael’s forehead; it looked so fantastical, like it had just been painted on, nothing more, just a dab of makeup, some sort of fashion statement or affectation. He wanted to ask Dr. Boyd why they hadn’t cleaned it off, but he didn’t.

Dr. Boyd said very gently, “He died instantly, Agent Carver. There was just the slap of the bullet, then he was gone. No pain. I’m very sure of that.”

Dane nodded.

“You know that we’ve done the autopsy, taken fingerprints and DNA samples.”

“Yes, I know.”

Delion stepped back, his arms folded across his chest, and watched Special Agent Dane Carver. He knew what shock was, what anguish was, and he saw both in this man. When Dane finally nodded and stepped back, Delion said, “Chief Kreider wants to see us now.”

Chief Dexter Kreider’s secretary walked them into the chief’s office. The room wasn’t all that big, but the view was spectacular. The entire side wall was windows, looking out toward the Bay Bridge, a huge Yahoo! sign and a neon-lit diet Coke sign the other landmarks in view. There was a large desk, and two large cabinets filled with kitsch, something that made Dane smile, for a moment. Just about every higher-up’s office he’d been into had had at least one display case. And here, there was also a touch of whimsy—in a corner stood a colorful wooden carousel horse. Utilitarian and whimsical, a nice combination.

Dane knew that Chief Kreider could never sit on that carousel horse. He was a huge man, at least six-foot-four-inches, a good two hundred sixty pounds, not much of it excess, even around his belly. He had military-short hair, steel gray, and lots of it, wore aviator glasses, and looked to be in his mid-fifties.

He wasn’t smiling. “Carver? Dane Carver? Special Agent?”

Dane nodded, shook the chief’s hand.

“It’s good to meet you. Come, sit down. Tina, bring us some coffee.”

Delion and Dane sat at the small circular table in the center of the room. The chief still didn’t sit, he stood towering over them, his arms crossed over his chest. Then he began to pace until Tina, an older woman, with the same military precision as the chief, poured coffee, nodded to the chief, and marched out. Finally he said, “I got an e-mail from Dillon Savich, your boss back at Disneyland East.”

“That’s a good one,” Delion said.

Kreider said, “Yeah, fitting. Savich writes that you’re smarter than you’ve a right to be and you’ve got great gut instincts. He asks that we keep you in the loop. Delion, what do you think? You want to cooperate with the Feds?”

“No,” Delion said. “This is my case. But I’ll accept Carver in on the case with me, as long as I’m the boss and what I say goes.”

“I don’t want to take over the case,” Dane said, “not at all. I just want to help find my brother’s murderer.”

Kreider said, “All right then. Delion’s partner, Marty Loomis, is out with shingles, of all things, laid up for another couple of weeks. Inspector Marino has been in on this since Sunday night with Delion. I’ve given this some thought.” He paused a moment, smiled. “I knew Dillon Savich’s father, Buck Savich. He was a wild man, smart enough to scare a crook off to Latvia. I hear his son isn’t wild—not like his father was—but he’s got his father’s brains, lots of imagination, and is a professional to his toenails. I respected the father and I respect the son. You, Carver, I don’t know a bloody thing about you, but for the moment I’ll take Savich’s word that you’re pretty good.”

“Like I said,” Delion said, “I don’t mind him tagging along, sir. Hey, maybe he’ll even say something bright every now and again.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Kreider said. He paced a couple more times, then pulled up right in front of Dane. “Or would you rather go off on your own?”

Dane looked over at Delion. The man wasn’t giving anything away at all. He just stared back. Dane wasn

’t a fool. He slowly shook his head. “No, I’d like to work with Delion.”

“Good.” Chief Kreider raised his coffee cup, took one sip, and set it down. “I’ll have the lieutenant reassign Marino. Delion, I expect twice-daily updates.”

After they were dismissed, Delion said as they walked to the garage, “Lots of the guys wonder how Kreider makes love since the guy is always pacing, back and forth, never stopping. Tough to get much done when you can’t hold still.”

“Didn’t you see that old movie with Jack Nicholson—
Five Easy Pieces
?”

Delion rolled his eyes and laughed as he pulled the 1998 Ford Crown Victoria, white with dark blue interior, out into traffic on Bryant Street. Delion headed north, crossed Market Street, and weaved his way in and out of traffic to Nob Hill. They found a parking slot on Clay.

Delion said, “Dispatch sent a field patrol officer from the Tenth District. He notified Operations, and they called me and the paramedics. Here, our paramedics are the ones who notify the medical examiner.

Because it’s very high profile, Dr. Boyd himself came to the church. I don’t know how well you know San Francisco, but we’re near one of the gay districts. Polk Street is known for lots of action. It’s just a couple of streets over.”

“Yes, I know,” Dane said. “Just in case you’re wondering, my brother wasn’t gay.”