Authors: Steven Gore
Power Blind (9 page)
G
age heard the floor squeak as someone inside crept toward the front door of the tiny shingled bungalow along Seventeenth Avenue in the flatlands south of Golden Gate Park. He leaned in toward the door as a hot afternoon wind gusted up the street and rattled leaves on the sidewalk. Another squeak. The curtain behind a wood-framed window to the right fluttered, then came to rest. Finally, a squeak close to the threshold. Gage watched the pinprick of light in the peephole vanish.
“Mr. Porzolkiewski?”
“Who is it?”
“My name is Graham Gage.”
“What do you want?”
“I'd like to talk to you about TIMCO.”
“Ancient history.”
“Two months ago isn't ancient history.”
“What does two months ago have to do with TIMCO? It was fourteen years ago.”
“That's when you talked to Charlie Palmer.”
Gage heard the floor squeak twice in the silence that followed, as though Porzolkiewski had rocked back and forth.
“Mr. Porzolkiewski?”
The floor squeaked again.
“Mr. Porzolkiewski?”
“I think you better leave now.”
“Can I give you my card?” Gage said, hoping that would get Porzolkiewski to open the door.
“Just leave it.”
“I'd rather hand it to you. I don't want it to blow away.”
Gage reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a business card, then held it up in front of the peephole. He heard the scrape and click of a dead bolt, then the rattle of the loose door handle as Porzolkiewski turned it. Gage could see the left side of Porzolkiewski's face when he opened the door a few inches and reached out his hand. Eye moist and bloodshot, in a deep socket surrounded by pale and droopy skin. He looked as though he'd once been a boulder of a man, but had been eroded by tragedy.
“I'm sorry about your son,” Gage said, handing him the card.
“Lots of people were sorry. Didn't bring him back.”
A Siamese kitten darted through the open door. Gage reached down and picked it up. Porzolkiewski slipped the card into his pants pocket, then stretched out his palm to receive the cat, but Gage cradled it on his left forearm, holding it hostage. Porzolkiewski dropped his hand to his side.
Since Porzolkiewski hadn't denied talking to Charlie, Gage took a shot: “I really just came for the wallet.”
Porzolkiewski's face didn't react. “I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Look. If Meyer wanted to press charges, he would've. There were fifty-six depositions in the TIMCO case. You were with him at more than thirty.”
“I wasn't
with
him. I was against him.”
“He was against you is more like it. In any case, he knows who you are. Lawyers tend to remember people who dive at them from across a conference table.”
“I don't have it.”
“Where is it?”
“I gave it to somebody.”
“Palmer?”
Porzolkiewski glanced away for a second, then nodded.
“He said if I gave it back, I'd never be bothered again. They didn't want any trouble because it would slop back on Landon Meyer's presidential campaign.”
That explanation made no sense. Palmer never came at people without some kind of leverage to move them the way he wanted, and Porzolkiewski's glancing away told Gage he wasn't a good liar.
“You mean he promised you your probation wouldn't get violated and you'd stay out of state prison.”
Porzolkiewski shrugged. “Something like that. Palmer said they could get me for robbery. But that's not what happened. I didn't steal the wallet, it just fell out during the scuffle. The little putz Meyer ran away. Just left it on the sidewalk and I picked it up.”
“A Good Samaritan.”
“Sort of.”
“What was the scuffle about?”
“You mean did I go hunting for him?”
“No. I wasn't assuming anything. It was just a straight question.”
“I was on my way to the night drop at the bank. Meyer was coming the other way. I blocked the sidewalk just to see what the asshole would do.”
“And that was?”
“His eyes started darting around, but there's no place to go. Stores closed, too much traffic going by. So he just stopped in his tracks, and then turned around and started scurrying away like a rat. I kind of lost it and went after him.”
“When did you give the wallet to Palmer?”
“He called me one morning. I met him that afternoon.”
“At the Ground Up Coffee Shop?”
Porzolkiewski's eyes widened. “How do you know that? Palmer tell you?”
“I found the receipt.”
“I didn't figure he'd tell you about the meeting.”
“Why not?”
“That's for me to know and you not to find out.”
“You ever see him again?”
“No. And I never will. I saw the obituary. Good riddance.”
Gage extended his hand holding the kitten. Porzolkiewski opened the door the rest of the way, accepted it, and then rubbed its cheek against his own.
“You open the wallet?” Gage asked.
“I'm not a thief.”
“That's not what I meant.”
“I was curious.”
“Anything unusual?”
“For a human being or for a scumbag like Meyer?”
“Either.”
“Isn't he married?”
“Thirty-some years.”
Porzolkiewski smirked.
“There was a condom in there. New. I could tell by the expiration date. I sell them behind the counter. Twice as many as sandwiches. Lots of guys from the financial district slip into the Tenderloin for a nooner with a hooker.”
“Maybe you should have a daily special. Half a sandwich, a cup of soup, and a condom.”
“I hadn't thought of that.” Porzolkiewski finally smiled. “Maybe I can franchise it like McDonald's and KFC.”
“Why didn't you call the
Chronicle
? At least embarrass him.”
“Because it would turn into a chess game I couldn't win.”
Gage imagined lawyers ganging up on a man who'd seen more than his share of pinstriped suits.
“In Poland they say
Kowal zawinil, a Cygana powiesili
. The blacksmith was guilty, but they hanged the Gypsyâand I didn't want to be the Gypsy.”
“Anything else in the wallet?”
“Driver's license, credit cards, about seven hundred dollars, frequent flyer cards, a couple of scraps of paper, stuff like that. It was so thick, I figured it made him taller sitting down than standing up.”
“You make copies?”
Porzolkiewski looked away for a moment, then he smirked again, this time calculated. “You think I'd waste the paper?”
“I think you're not an idiot.”
“There was no need for copies. It wasn't like I was going steal his ID and order a bunch of iPads. I told you, I'm not a thief.”
P
orzolkiewski isn't coldblooded enough to shoot Charlie down in the street,” Gage told Faith when he arrived at their hillside home in the East Bay late that night. They stood in the kitchen, her in a robe, him in Levi's and a sweatshirt and cutting on a smoked ham. Faith leaned back against the counter, her hair hanging loose. “But he lied to me about seeing Charlie only once.”
“How do you know?” she asked.
“First. There's no way Charlie would've telephoned Porzolkiewski and asked him whether he robbed Meyer and whether he wanted to give back the wallet. He would've either showed up at his house and pushed his way in, or followed him somewhere and corralled him.”
“And second?”
“He flinched at the wrong times.”
“I'd have flunked you in Anthro 101,” Faith said in mock disapproval. “Flinching isn't considered evidence at UC Berkeley.”
“Unless it's a lab rat.”
Faith shuddered. She was on the university committee tasked with ensuring the humane treatment of research animals.
“Anyway, investigating isn't a science.” Gage raised a cupped hand, then blew on his fingernails. “It's an art.”
“So Van Gogh, what's next?”
“I'm not sure, I'm waiting for inspiration.”
Faith untied her robe.
He raised his eyebrows and smiled.
“I'm suddenly inspired.”
T
he screech of slammed brakes, the squeal of skidding tires, and the crunch of metal on metal propelled Shakir Mohammed out of his chair and toward his second floor office window facing the midnight street. Overhead halogen lights illuminated two cars jammed together nose to nose. A man lay sprawled on the pavement next to an open driver's door.
Seconds later, a fist pounded on the back door and a man yelled, “Please, help! Please, help!”
The plea drew Shakir two steps at a time down the stairs. Four jabs at the alarm pad and he pushed the door open.
The first punch caught him under his rib cage.
T
he call shook Gage and Faith awake at 2
A.M.
“Boss.” Alex Z's voice was shaking, choking, verging on tears. “It's about Shakir.”
Gage sat up.
“What happened?”
“He's hurt. Really hurt. The ambulance is here. I'll ride with him.”
G
age called Viz as he and Faith drove toward San Francisco Medical Center.
“Looks like some crooks faked an accident to trick Shakir into letting them in. Head down to the office. Make sure the police don't get into anything they shouldn't. If you can't control them, call Spike.”
Twenty-five minutes later they walked into the emergency room teeming with the night's sick and damaged, the air a miasma of sweat and pain and fear. Alex Z sat in a plastic chair, staring at the cell phone in his hand. He looked over as they worked their way down the crowded aisle.
“I called his parents in Boston,” Alex Z said, then glanced at his watch. “They'll take the first flight out they can get seats on.”
“What are the doctors saying?”
“Nothing. They won't talk to me because I'm not family.”
Faith sat down and reached her arm around Alex Z as Gage strode toward the reception station. He scanned the on-duty board behind the receptionist as he approached. He stood by the counter until he was certain the clerk was ignoring his presence as she made notes in a chart, and then said, “I'd like to speak to Dr. Kishore.”
“I can't call her,” the woman said, eyes still down.
“I'm her brother-in-law. There's a family problem I need to talk to her about.”
The woman finally looked up. “Yeah, and I'm Mother Teresa.”
Gage glared at her. “You want to make the call or roll the dice?”
He'd never understood why, but the phrase seemed to unnerve people more than an actual threat.
The woman snorted, then picked up the phone and punched a three-number extension.
“There's a guy here to see Dr. Kishore.” She smirked at Gage. “What's your name, brother-in-law?”
“Graham Gage.”
She repeated his name into the receiver.
Ten minutes later, Dr. Ajita Kishore walked through the ICU double doors, still wearing her surgical scrubs. She smiled as she approached Gage. It wasn't the first time they'd talked in that hallway.
“How was the flight from Mumbai?” Kishore's British-Indian tone was droll.
“Quick.”
“What can Iâ”
“Shakir Mohammed.”
Kishore's smile died. “I didn't work on him myself. I only saw the before and after. Somebody really beat on him. We had to remove his spleen and sew up a puncture to his left lung. Forty stitches on his face. He'll remember this night every time he looks in the mirror.”
Gage exhaled. At least Shakir would live to remember it. He nodded at Alex Z, who clasped his hands together.
“He arrived in a lot better shape than your friend Jack Burch,” Kishore said. Gage had first met Kishore when the international corporate lawyer was gunned down in a gangster's attempt to contain a securities fraud investigation. “And his recovery will be a lot quicker.”
“When can I talk to him?”
“It'll be a couple of hours.” Kishore glanced back at the double doors. “I've got to get back inside. I'll make sure someone calls you if anything changes.”
Gage turned as Faith and Alex Z walked up after Kishore returned to the ICU.
“He'll be okay,” Gage told them.
Alex Z hung his head.
“It's my fault. I shouldn't have left him there alone. He's too new.”
“What happened?”
“I don't know. I stopped by on the way back from our gig at Slim's to check on him. The back door was open. But not like somebody busted it. I found Shakir in his office. Tied to a chair. Unconscious. Soaked with water.” Faith reached up and covered her mouth as the same horrifying thought entered each of their minds: The burglars had knocked out Shakir, and then tried to revive him in order to interrogate him further; maybe they even succeeded.
Alex Z dropped his head into his hands and started to cry. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve and said, “Sorry, boss.” He swallowed hard. “And there's something else. His and my computers are missing.”
S
hakir gazed from his ICU bed at Gage and Alex Z. It had been seven hours since the surgeon had finished putting him back together. Faith had gone back across the bay to teach a morning class.
Gage could see only Shakir's eyes, the bottom of his nose, and his mouth. The rest of his face with its dark, delicate features was wrapped in bandages. Two IVs fed into his arms. One for saline, the other for morphine.
Gage took his hand and sat down next to the bed.
“Tell me what happened,” Gage said.
“Car accident . . . pounding on back door . . . I thought injury . . . men rushed in . . . wanted files.”
“Could you recognize them again?”
“Masked.”
Shakir tried to lick his lips. Gage wet the sponge end of an oral swab and moistened Shakir's mouth.
“Voices?” Gage asked.
“One . . . New York. . . . One . . . kind of Southern.”
“Why'd they beat you up?”
“Security code for . . . for the storage room.”
Gage looked at Alex Z, who shook his head. He hadn't given Shakir the number. No matter how or how long they tortured him, they'd never get it.
“What files?”
“Charlie Palmer's.”
“Did they get your computer password?”
Shakir nodded. “I'm sorry. My computer, too.”
Alex Z spoke up. “No problem. Everything is replaceable. We have backups on the server.” He looked down at Shakir. “Did they get your file encryption key?”
A flicker of a smile appeared on Shakir's bruised lips.
“No.”
G
age and Alex Z stood in the hallway outside Shakir's room.
“Stay with him,” Gage whispered. “The nurse has notified the detectives he's awake. Tell Shakir it's okay to talk about the antitrust case, but play dumb about what else you two were working on. Otherwise this thing might spin out of control. I don't want to see Brandon Meyer's name on the front page of the
Chronicle
tomorrow.”
Gage turned as footsteps came to a stop behind him. He faced a man who appeared to be a twenty-five-year-older version of Shakir and three inches shorter. His eyes were red, his brown suit was rumpled, the oversized knot of his tie hung an inch below his collar, and his fists were locked at his sides.
“You . . .” The Middle Easternâaccented voice caught. Behind him a woman stood twisting a handkerchief in her hands. A black hijab framed her face. “You . . . you did this.”
“It was my fault,” Gage said. “I didn't do a good enough job of teaching him our security procedures. I hope you and your wife will forgive me someday.”
Shakir's father didn't respond, just stood there looking up at Gage.
His mother stepped forward and asked, “How is he?”
“He has a long road ahead of him, but the doctor says he'll be fine.”
“Can we . . .”
Gage nodded, and then Alex Z opened Shakir's door and Gage followed them inside.
W
hen Gage returned to the waiting room he spotted Alex Z sitting with a thirty-year-old uniformed Filipino cop. He first thought the officer was trying to pry information from Alex Z, but then noticed the officer's eyes were vacant, his slim body was rigid in his seat, and his hands were folded in his lap.
Alex Z caught the motion of Gage walking toward them and rose. The officer followed.
“This is Rodrigo, he's . . .” Alex Z glanced toward the ICU where Shakir's parents remained. “He's Shakir's partner.”
Rodrigo shook Gage's hand, then shrugged, his face pained.
“Shakir's parents don't know,” Rodrigo said. “His father couldn't deal with it.” He took in a long breath, then exhaled. “And he's a hard man. He'd never let Shakir see his mother again.”
“You work swing shift?” Gage asked.
“How'd you guess?”
“It explains why Shakir wanted to.” Gage read Rodrigo's nameplate: R. Balatico. “Your name is familiar. You have a relative in the department back when I was there?”
Rodrigo shook his head.
“He was on the news a couple of months ago,” Alex Z said. “The armored truck robbery outside of Macy's at Union Square.”
Gage smiled. “It didn't cross your mind to duck behind a car when those crooks came running out of the store?”
Rodrigo blushed, then tilted his head back to emphasize the six-inch height gap between him and Gage. “I figured I was a small target.”
“Not for a shotgun.”
Rodrigo sighed. “So I realized in my nightmares for the next week.”
Gage reached out and gripped Rodrigo's upper arm.
“Be careful,” Gage said. “There's a guy down the hallway who needs you.”
