3rd Degree (9 page)

make it, Cindy typed back. Even if it means I have to hear a sermon from you.

She scrolled down the rest quickly. A response from a researcher who was doing background on Lightower and Bengosian. That bastard had been in court, fighting forty-six class actions from policyholders who were dumped in the past two years. What a sleaze!

She was about to delete the last message from an address she didn't know when the headline caught her eye. SLAM@ hotmail.com. It was titled, WHAT HAPPENS NEXT.

Cindy clicked on the message and prepared to send it to the ether grave of all spam. She took a swig of juice.

Don't ask how we got your name or why we're contacting you. If you want to do some good, you will do the right thing now.

Cindy rolled her chair closer to the screen.

The “tragic” incidents of the past week are only the tip of things to come.

The finance ministers of the world are meet-ing next week to carve up the last marginal remains of the “free” world economy left after Breton Woods-that which they have not already savagely consumed.

Cindy's heart was thumping as she read on.

We are prepared to kill one prominent blood-sucking pig every three days unless they come to their senses and denounce the global virus that is the system of free enterprise, that has imprisoned helpless nations in the Great Lie that trade will make them free; that has enslaved our fellow sisters into the sweatshop bondage of the multinationals, that has stolen the savings of the American worker in a stock market that is no more than a corrupt, insider scheme.

We are no longer isolated voices.

We are an army, just as lethal and far-reaching as the vampire superpowers.

Cindy blinked disbelievingly, almost unable to move. Was this some kind of Internet hoax? Somebody's idea of a joke?

She hit the PRINT key, clearing off her desk and cradling the phone in her neck as she read on.

The reason we have chosen you is that the normal channels of the media are as corrupt and self-serving as the global multinationals that own them. Are you part of the corruption? We'll soon see.

We ask the important people who will meet in San Francisco next week, the G-8, to do some-thing historic. Unlock the chains. Forgive the debt. Stand up for freedom, not profit. Set back the machines of colonization. Open the economies of the world.

Until we hear that voice, you will hear ours. Every three days, another deserving pig will die.

You know what to do with this, Ms. Thomas. Do not waste your time trying to trace it. Unless you don't want to hear from us again.

Cindy's mouth was dry as dust. [email protected]. Was this real? Was someone messing with her?

She scrolled a little farther to the bottom of the page. For the next few seconds, she was unable to move.

The e-mail was signed, August Spies.

BACK AT MY DESK, there was a message from Chief Trac-chio waiting for me, and one from Jill.

“And the Chronicle's waiting for you,” my secretary Brenda called.

“The Chronicle?”

I looked up and saw Cindy, sitting knock-kneed on a stack of files outside my office. She pulled herself up as I approached, but I just didn't have the time for her.

“Cindy, I can't meet right now. I'm sorry. There's a briefing scheduled -”

“No,” she cut in, stopping me, “I have something to show you, Lindsay. This takes precedence.”

“Is everything all right?”

She shook her head. “I don't think so.”

We shut the door to my office behind us, and Cindy re-moved a piece of paper from her knapsack. It looked like e-mail.

“Sit down,” she said. She put the page in front of me and sat next to me. “Read.”

One look at Cindy's eyes and I knew this wasn't good.

“It came in my morning e-mail,” she explained. “I'm listed on the Chronicle website. I don't know who it's from. Or why they sent it to me. It's just that I'm a little freaked right now.”

I started to read. Don't ask how we got your name or why we're contacting you.... The more I read, the worse it got. We are prepared to kill one prominent bloodsucking pig every three days.... I looked up.

“Keep reading,” Cindy said.

I looked back down and read the rest of the page. I was trying to decide if it was real. I reached the bottom, and knew that it was.

August Spies.

My chest was building up pressure. Suddenly, it was clear where all this was headed. They were holding the city hostage. This was a statement of terror. The G-8. Their target. It was scheduled for the tenth - in nine days. The finance ministers of the top industrial states around the world would be in San Francisco.

“Who knows about this?” I asked.

“You and me,” Cindy said. “And them.”

“They want you to publish their demands,” I said. “They want to use the Chronicle as a soapbox.” I was thinking of all the possible scenarios. “This is gonna make Tracchio shit.”

The countdown had already started. Every three days. Today was Thursday. I knew this e-mail had to be turned over. And once I did, I knew it would no longer be my case. But there was something I needed to do first.

“We can try and trace the address,” Cindy said. “I know a hacker -”

“It won't lead anywhere,” I said. “Think,” I pressed her. “Why did they contact you? There are plenty of other reporters at the Chronicle. There's got to be a good reason.”

“Maybe because my byline's on the story. Maybe because I have roots in Berkeley. But that was ten years ago, Lindsay.”

“Could it be someone from back then? Someone you knew? That asshole Lemouz?”

We looked at each other. “What do you want me to do?” Cindy finally asked.

“I don't know....” They had made contact. I knew killers enough to know that when they want a dialogue with you, when there's anything you can do to put off the next grisly act, you talk.

“I think I want you to answer it,” I said.

EVERYTHING SEEMED to be pointing to across the bay. The sources of the Internet messages. Where the Lightower baby was found. Lemouz. Wendy Raymore's pilfered ID. The clock was ticking. A new victim every three days...

I was tired of waiting for things to come to me. A swarm of FBI agents had descended on the Hall, tracing, dissecting, analyzing Cindy's message. It was time to take it to them, whoever was responsible for these outrageous murders.

Jacobi and I called on Joe Santos and Phil Martelli, two Berkeley cops who headed up the Street Intel Unit. Santos had been around since the sixties - Robbery, Homicide, one of those old-line veterans who had seen it all. Martelli was younger, out of Narcotics.

“Basically, you've got every shit bag outfit going operating in the Free Republic,” Santos said with a shrug. He popped a Mento. “You got your BLA, IRA, Arabs, free speech, free trade. Everybody with an axe to grind - and an axe - is over here.”

“Word is,” Martelli added, “we got some nasty riffraff from Seattle drifting down here to make some mayhem for the G-8 meeting, all those big economic geniuses, those world-beaters.”

I brought out the case file, grisly photos of the Lightower town house and Bengosian. “We're not looking for a bunch of sign wavers, Phil.”

Martelli smiled at Santos. He got it. “Other day,” he said, “we got this undercover outfit staking out some SOB who's been creating a nuisance about PG and E.” Pacific Gas and Electric. Our utility robber barons. Since Enron, there wasn't a person in California who didn't feel he wasn't being ripped off, and he was probably right.

“Everybody's got a grudge against those bastards,” Jacobi said, “including me.”

“This individual's doing a bit more than some casual bitching at the customer service rep. He's been picketing headquarters, handing out leaflets urging people not to pay their bill. Free People's Power Initiative, it was called. We got the sense,” Santos said, chuckling, “that this was a very angry individual.”

Martelli picked up the story. “Crazy bastard is always lug-ging around this big duffel. We figured it was filled with these leaflets of his. One day this undercover guy stops him and gets him to open the bag. Guy's got a goddamn M49 rocket launcher in there. Next we raid his house. There're grenades, C-4, blasting caps. The Free People's Power Initia-tive. They were planning to blow up the fucking power com-pany over their bill.”

“So, Joe,” I said, shifting the subject, “you mentioned rad-icals moving down here to disrupt this G-8 meeting? That's a place to start.”

“Do better than that...” Santos popped another Mento and shrugged. “One of our undercovers told us there's some kind of rally planned today. A B of A branch, over on Shat-tuck. Said some of the biggies'll be around. Why don't you come see for yourself. Welcome to our nightmare.”

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, we pulled up about two blocks from the Bank of America location in Santos and Morelli's unmarked car. About a hundred demonstrators were crowded around the entrance to the branch; most were holding crudely painted signs: A FREE MONEY SUPPLY IS THE SIGN OF A FREE PEOPLE, one read. Another, GIVE THE WTO AIDS.

An organizer in a T-shirt and torn jeans was standing on the roof of a black SUV, shouting into a microphone, “Bank of America enslaves girls before puberty into oppression. Bank of America sucks the people's blood!”

“What the hell are these people protesting,” Jacobi asked,

“mortgages?”

“Who knows,” replied Santos. “Child labor in Guatemala, the WTO, big business, the fucking ozone layer. Half of them are probably losers they pick off the welfare line and buy with a pack of smokes. It's the leaders I'm interested in.”

He took out a camera and started snapping shots of people in the crowd. A ring of about ten police stood between the bank and the protesters, riot clubs dangling at their sides.

Things Cindy had said began to resonate. How in the comfort of your own life, you could just turn the page when you read about the uninsured or the poor, or underdeveloped countries drowning in debt. But how some people couldn't turn the page. A million miles away, right? Didn't seem like that now.

Suddenly a new speaker climbed on top of the SUV. My eyes bulged. It was Lemouz. Imagine that.

The professor took the microphone and began shouting. “What comprises the World Bank? It is a group of sixteen member institutions from all parts of the world. One of them is the Bank of America. Who loaned the money to Morton Lightower? Who were the underwriters who handled his company's IPO? The good old B of A, my friends!”

Suddenly the mood of the crowd changed. “These bas-tards should be blown up!” a woman shouted. A student tried to start a chant: “B of A. B of A. How many girls have you killed today?”

I saw pockets of violence begin to break out. A kid hurled a bottle at the window of the bank. At first I thought it was a Molotov, but there was no explosion.

“See what we have to deal with over here,” Santos said. “Problem is, they're not all wrong.”

“Fuck they're not,” contributed Jacobi.

Two police officers invaded the ranks and tried to corral the bottle thrower, but the crowd banded together, impeding their way. I saw the kid take off down the street. Then there was screaming, people on the ground. I couldn't even tell where it all had started.

“Oh fuck.” Santos put down his camera. “This could be getting out of hand.”

One of the cops swung his stick and a long-haired kid sank to his knees. More people began to throw things. Bottles, rocks. Two of the agitators started wrestling with the police, who dragged them down, pinning them with their sticks.

Lemouz was still barking into the microphone. “See what the state must resort to - cracking heads of mothers and children.”

I had taken about as much as I could sit back and watch. “These guys need help,” I said, and went to open the door.

Martelli held me back. “We go in, we get made.”

“I'm already made,” I said, unstrapping the gun from my leg. Then I ran across the street with Martelli a few strides behind.

Cops were being shoved and pelted with debris. “Pigs! Nazis!”

I pushed my way into the throng. A woman held a cloth to her bleeding head. Another carried a baby, crying, out of harm's way. Thank God somebody had a little common sense.

Professor Lemouz's gaze fixed on me. "Look how the police treat the innocent voice of protest! They come with drawn guns!

“Ah, Madam Lieutenant,” he said, grinning down from his makeshift podium, “still trying to get yourself educated, I see. Tell me, what did you learn today?”

“You planned this,” I said, wanting to run him in for disorderly conduct. “It was a peaceful demonstration. You stirred them up.”

“A shame, isn't it? Peaceful demonstrations never seem to make the news. But look...” He pointed toward a news van pulling up down the street. A reporter jumped out, and a cameraman was filming as he ran.

“I'm watching you, Lemouz.”

“You flatter me, Lieutenant. I'm just a humble professor of an arcane subject not in vogue these days. Really, we should have a drink together. I'd like that. But if you'll excuse me, there's a case of police brutality waiting for me now.”

He bowed, produced a supercilious grin that made my skin crawl, then started to wave his arms over his head, stir-ring up the crowd, chanting, “B of A. B of A. How many girls have you enslaved today?”

CHARLES DANKO STEPPED INTO the depressingly drab lobby of the large municipal building. There was a security station to his left, two desultory guards inspecting bags and packages. His fingers tightened around the handle of the leather case.

Of course, Danko wasn't his name right now. It was Jeffrey Stanzer. Before that, it had been Michael O'Hara. And Daniel Browne. He had gone through so many names over the years, changing them, moving on whenever he felt people getting too close. Names were fungible, anyway - as easy to change as making a new driver's license. What had remained con-stant was a belief that burned deeply inside his soul. That he was doing something here that was very important. That he owed it to people close to his heart, people who had died for a cause.