SILENT GUNS (26 page)

Jim added, “We can’t figure this one out. Don
mentioned extortion. Extortion is not in his pattern. He has been
in prison three times, short terms. Got a record a yard long, minor
stuff. I guess he appreciates his limitations and leaves the more
subtle forms of crime alone. Robbery - preferably with violence -
is his forte. Extortion? We doubt it, but he could be moving up.
The
Helga
could be tied in somehow. It’s a pretty thin
lead.”

“
But a lead, nonetheless,” Simons
cast a worried look. “Put out an APB on Schiller. Check out the
Helga
. Find out fast if this extortion note is for real.” He
handed them the note as they hurried from the office.

“
Satisfied, Hiram?” the Mayor
hissed.

Hiram Chitterman sweated as he clutched at his drink
as if it was ready to slip from his fingers. Joe Grille chortled at
his obvious discomfort. That turnabout was fair play was obvious on
the Mayor’s face as he usually found himself at the brunt of
Chitterman’s political opportunism. Sam Simons felt the tension
between the two. It was strange, almost unnerving how they would
clash. He didn’t understand politics, and he liked politicians even
less. But, he couldn’t stand to watch the Council president
whimper, fret, and turn morose, only to emerge in a fit of
righteous indignation. Chitterman was as predictable as an atomic
clock, Simons mused as he lit a cigar.

“
Can’t we do more?” Hiram asked,
drawing himself up. “Sure, Hiram. You go find thirty million bucks.
Let the Council sink its teeth into that…instead of my butt, for a
change.” “Thirty million dollars!!!” Hiram’s face turned
ashen.

The Mayor cast Simons a slow smile, then leaned back
and enjoyed Hiram’s reaction. “Well, you asked didn’t you?” he
pressed. “The Council controls the purse strings. Here’s your big
chance to loosen up a little. Do some good!” The Mayor laughed:
Chitterman pouted. Simons puffed vigorously on his cigar. Political
carnage was not his cup of tea, it left him queasy. He deliberately
stared at his watch. It was almost noon. Solving murders, assaults
and burglaries were easy, but screwballs…and politicians? Without
notice, Simons left the office.

* * *

Sam Simons rushed past Murial. His teeth were
clenched down on the stub of an unlit cigar. Murial moved to greet
him, but decided the better of it. He was visibly upset and not
easily ruffled. She closed the door behind him. Gleese and Frances
were waiting as Simons had ordered them straight to the Mayor’s
office.

“
Better get Hiram, too,” Simons
suggested.

“
Hell. Hiram’s all thumbs and
toes. I had all I could do to get him out of here this morning.
Can’t we discuss this without him?” the Mayor pleaded.

“
It’s for real, Joe!”

“
Jesus! Nobody’s going to tag a
screw-up on me...Murial, get Hiram up here,” the Mayor hollered
through the closed door…they waited for a puffing Chitterman.
“Hiram, you’re the only guy I know who puffs after an elevator
ride, even from the 10th to the 11th floor.” Chitterman wheezed too
hard to realize he was the butt of a joke.

“
Let’s have it, Sam,” the Mayor
begged.

“
I’m going to let Jim and Annette
report.”

“
Well, Mayor,” Jim started, “we
located the
Helga
and Captain Larsen. The
Helga
got
in last night around 2130. The Captain says he was chartered to
take a work crew and their gear out to the
Missouri
. The
Navy is getting her ready to tow to Long Beach. The Captain figured
out what they were really up to when they stole shells off a Navy
ammo barge. They held both Schiller and the Captain prisoners until
last night. He says a guy named Anthony Trent asked Schiller to
deliver the message.”

Gleese added, “The Captain said he didn’t know any
more and wouldn’t admit to working for Schiller. He said he didn’t
know why Schiller was on the
Helga
, but that Schiller wasn’t
one of them.”

“
Where is the Captain now?” the
Mayor asked.

“
Downstairs. We brought him in.
We’re getting his statement.”

“
Where’s Schiller?”

“
We put out the APB, but no
response yet.”

“
Anything else?”

“
Yes! Those were 16-inch
shells.”

The Mayor glared at the Simons and jumped up,
“Jesus! Get this Schiller. Fast, or heads will roll.” Facing a
calamity, Simons’ face flushed; he nodded acquiescence as he bit
his tongue. The Mayor spun to the Council President, catching him
completely off guard. “Well, Hiram. Have you got the money?” He
allowed a little sarcasm to filter into his tone. Rebuked,
Chitterman’s jaw dropped.

“
You said this was a
joke.”

“
Does it sound like a joke,
Hiram?”

Sam Simons, his stomach knotted up, slowly got up
from his chair and stepped to the bar. He poured himself three
fingers of whiskey. The chill moistness of the glass felt calming
against his palm. He needed answers, good solid answers. Simons
reasoned it was not a bomb that had to be disarmed, but a human
being.

* * *

In the early 1920’s, the room’s decor would be
typical in a public building. Nowadays, it held all the appeal of a
reclaimed storeroom. Hot and stuffy, a funk of weeks old coffee and
stale cigarette smoke hung in the air. The ceilings and walls had
degenerated from white to a hard to describe dingy beige. A
half-hearted attempt had been made at repainting. Worn spots in
drab, flecked, steel-gray linoleum floor showed concrete. Police
officers sat and talked in nervous tones. Ice-cold cans of pop,
glistening with moisture, stacked on a small table, quickly
disappeared. The door clicked open and Chief Sam Simons strode
briskly into the room. His cold eyes flittered briefly across the
assembly of intent faces, as if assuring himself there were none
missing. He sat down heavily and gestured for the others to follow.
He cleared his throat, “We have a tough task ahead of us.”

A large, colored, gridded map imprinted with a black
circle was uncovered. The circle marked the range limit of the
Missouri
16-inch guns. A large red dot at its center
pinpointed the
Missouri
. After the room settled down, Simons
read the extortion note out loud. Officers Jim Frances and Annette
Gleese debriefed the group on what was known as of Thursday 2116.
Jim looked at his watched, and said, “Sorry, 2117.”

“
Are you sure?” a ripple of
laughter transmitted itself around the room.

Chief Simons gave a wry smile, leaned back in his
chair and re-lit his cigar. “Mike. Did you contact the Commander of
the Navy Yard?”

“
Yes, sir. It came as a complete
surprise to the Navy.” Sergeant Mike Halpern stood up. Of medium
build, the former Marine cast an authoritative appearance in his
sergeants’ uniform. “I spoke with a Commander Ward Conover. At
first, he refused to believe me: he said it was impossible. He
threatened to hang up; but I cautioned suppose it were true? He
simmered down real quick, and then agreed to check it out. Conover
and Rear-Admiral Brian Burns, he’s the new Commander of the Navy
Base, called back pretty quick. The Admiral had dispatched a shore
patrol party to check it out. They’re there all right. The patrol
tried to board across the gangway, but they took a warning spray
from a machine gun high up, so they backed off. They’ve pulled
ships’ power and cutoff all shore-side facilities.”

Sam Simons feigned listening. He was tired. When his
day should be ending, it was just beginning. The confined
stuffiness of the room didn’t help. Damn Government, for a few
bucks they could have an air conditioner, he cursed. He could have
retired last month, and should have, he thought ruefully.

“
Chief, since they’re holed up,
what’s the Navy going to do about it? An officer spoke, his voice
uneasy.

“
Good question,” the Chief
growled, searching for the man’s face -- he found him. “Charlie
Wingate has contacted the Navy.” Wingate, a man known to his
intimates as Wingy because of a predilection to ‘wing it’ on his
own, was credited with solving a number of cases previously filed
under “unsolved.” He was very tall and tough looking. He sported a
layered hairstyle and a neatly trimmed mustache. He thrived on
working outside the system; but most importantly, the Chief liked
him. Charlie was certain his career would spiral into a black hole
the day Chief Simons retired.

Charlie reported, “I’m meeting with Admiral Burns
and Commander Conover at 2400. I’ll catch the last ferry over and
will keep in contact from the Navy Yard.”

“
Is the City going to pay off?”
The questioner sported a somber expression. Simons knew what
everyone thinking, but afraid to ask. He coughed, self-consciously,
and replied, “The City Council and Mayor are meeting in executive
session at this moment. Although this looks legit, the City Council
might not agree to pay. They might decide to stall, to ask for more
time, more proof. Knowing how government works, they will probably
want to negotiate. That takes time. Our job is to keep the threat
from being carried out. We must assume the threat is real, and that
the Smith Tower will be shelled. Don’t assume otherwise. The
shelling is set for 0500 tomorrow.”

“
The
Missouri
is…miles
away. Those guys could miss.”

Another voice. “Let’s hope they don’t.”

The team shifted uneasily in their chairs, and some
cringed, dread in their faces. Sam Simons stood up and glared at
them holding their eyes for long seconds. His stare finally fell on
Dave Harrison. “What’s the plan, Dave?”

“
Here, Chief. I have a joint team
ready to clear the Smith Tower and the surrounding streets. We will
move into the area at 0300. Sergeants Mallory and Johnson will
cordon off the area.” He continued. “Lt. Mark O’Hara, of the Fire
Department, is coordinating assistance. Fire Chief Eddie Marks will
have his Fire Department on full alert.”

Simons warned, “I want no deaths and it’s absolutely
critical we avoid a citizen’s panic.” He let his words hang in the
air. “I want us to know these terrorists better than they know
themselves. Focus on the leader, Anthony Trent. Dig into his
background; uncover his motives. Consider his options. Anticipate
his moves, so we can move quickly to counter them. Now, get to it.”
Simons jutted his chin forward. Chairs pushed back, feet scuffled
and quickly the room emptied. Sam Simons sat, too weary to go back
to his own office. He had done all he could for the moment, now it
was up to the politicians. He shook his head: he was sure they’d
fuck-it up somehow. They always did, amateurs all, he convinced
himself. A rough shaking stirred his shoulder.

“
What’s up?”

“
Schiller’s talking. They caught
up with him in Lynnwood heading for the border,” Gleese
reported.

“
Get anything out of
him?”

“
He had fifty-five grand on him.
Schiller claims the Captain paid him what he owed him, the final
payment on the boat. The Captain claims he took it. Schiller really
had the old man in a spin.”

“
Yes! Yes! What about the
Missouri
?” Simons interrupted. “Schiller says he uncovered
the gig and was going to turn them in; but they caught him. They
locked him up with the Captain then let him go to deliver the
extortion note,” Gleese went on, “He said he just wanted to be a
good citizen, so he agreed.” Simons exclaimed. “That’s a line of
bullshit. Just trying to save his own ass. Ten bucks says he tried
to cut in on the action and they told him to go piss up a rope,” he
laughed, harshly.

“
Jim Frances figured it that way,
too.”

“
You still haven’t told me
anything.”

“
I got a rundown on the guys; at
least a partial list of names. So far, six are involved, and get
this, one guy just retired from the Navy Yard. He’s the one that
got them in.”

“
What else?”

“
They’re old farts. Oops! Excuse
me, Chief,” Gleese stumbled,” I mean they’re in their late fifties.
All Ex-Navy men. Schiller didn’t believe they signed up for just
the money.” The Chief sat silent for a few moments as a smile
crossed his face.

Gleese looked at him blankly. “I don’t think you
would understand, Annette.” Gleese was left with a puzzled look on
her face. She was too young to realize her own life was slipping
by; not old enough to look back with regrets on what might have
been. He prayed this Trent fellow knew what he was doing. He felt a
twinge of sympathy, but he was still a cop. He had a job to do.
Slipup’s, and they could end up cold-blooded killers, he thought.
He wondered what had shaped Trent. What pulled his trigger?

Sam Simons threw his jacket over a hook then shut
the door to an anteroom just off his office. Small, he could barely
move about, but it had privacy. He collapsed on a sofa, laid back
and closed his eyes. He pondered Trent, and then sleep overtook
him. Angry rings, he reached out to snatch at them. You never get
used to the phone, he thought, every time it rings, it twists your
gut into a knot. It rang again.

“
Chief. Frank Gonzales, here. The
Mayor and Chitterman are here.” He answered, as he peered at his
watch and grimaced, “I’ll be right down.” A one-hour snooze was
better than nothing. He felt like warmed over death.