Final Target Page 7

  “Dangerous?” Faith said, glancing over, her eyebrows raised. “The dinner was in the grand ballroom of the St. Francis Hotel, dear, not at some falafel stand in Baghdad.”

  “Not that kind of dangerous. He risked drawing attention to the offshore bank accounts and front companies we used to smuggle medical supplies through Pakistan, and those are exactly the kinds of deceptions the U.S. Attorney might accuse him of using in SatTek.”

  Gage flashed on an image of Burch and him sitting with a Pashtun jirga near the Afghanistan border three years earlier; Burch extending his hand holding a hundred thousand dollars of his own money, the first of a series of payoffs to tribal leaders so they’d let the material pass unmolested through their territories.

  “To say nothing of currency smuggling and bribery.”

  “But that wasn’t part of any fraud,” Faith said, voice rising in their defense. “Just the opposite.”

  “But it was fraudulent. And we could’ve gotten twenty years in Lompoc.”

  Faith flinched. “I wish you wouldn’t say things like that.”

  “Sorry. As Jack would say, no worries. No U.S. Attorney would dare go after us for what we did over there. Anyway, SatTek may be the case that proves the rule.”

  “Which one is that?”

  Gage reached for Faith’s plate, set it on top of his, then looked over and winked the same exaggerated wink with which Jack Burch always preceded his punch lines. “If they ever get us, it’ll only be for something we didn’t do.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Mr. Hackett, there’s a Mr. Peterson on line one.”

  Daniel Hackett hesitated before picking up the receiver. He lived for these calls, but despised them all the same. He knew he’d get what he wanted; it was just that the whole thing made him feel like a weakling and a fraud. Peterson had the power, so he could play it and Hackett however he wanted. And the only way to keep his dignity was to sign on, join the team, ally himself with the prosecutor against his own client.

  “I think we can do a deal,” Peterson said. “I’ve talked it over with the case agent. We’re convinced Matson can give us Granger and Burch, and I know you won’t let him keep talking for free.”

  Hackett adopted a firm tone; his first move in a fox-trot where Peterson had already taken the lead. “You got that right. I think I’ve let him say as much as I should without something on the table.”

  “But there’s too much money involved to let him walk.”

  “I warned him that would be your position.”

  “It’s not my position,” Peterson said. “The Corporate Fraud Task Force wants everybody in this case doing jail time.”

  Hackett knew that Peterson really meant it wasn’t the task force’s position alone.

  “So what’s next?” Hackett asked.

  “A plea agreement. It’ll be sealed until I’ve indicted the others. And he’ll have to plead to the sheet.”

  Peterson said the word “sheet” as if the indictment would be handed down like the Ten Commandments, not spit out of his own computer—but Hackett didn’t challenge him. The dance wasn’t over. “What will it be?”

  “Conspiracy to commit securities fraud, conspiracy to file false reports with the SEC, and money laundering.”

  “Money laundering?” Hackett feigned surprise. “You’ve got to be kidding. The sentencing guidelines are ridiculous. He’d rather roll the dice.”

  Peterson paused as if deciding whether to drop the money laundering count. As if. They both knew before the conversation even began that Peterson wouldn’t insist on it. The pretense of negotiation was merely a bone tossed for the sake of Hackett’s dignity and to give him leverage with his client. Now he could tell Matson that he hung tough with Peterson, made him dump the heaviest charge.

  “Okay,” Peterson finally said. “No money laundering, but it’ll have to be all the rest.”

  “What about time? Uncertainty is stressing the guy out. Let’s agree on something now, at least a range.”

  “No can do. His sentence will depend on his performance. Heads on a platter. Can you sell him on the fraud and false reporting?”

  “Probably. It’s just that I don’t think he’s clued in his wife yet. And he better be wearing riot gear when he does. She thinks he actually earned it all.”

  “And I’ll bet she’s been spending like he did.”

  “Her personal shopper at Neiman Marcus has been named Employee of the Month like clockwork since the day she first laid down her credit card.”

  Peterson laughed. “When this is over, she’ll be doing layaways at Kmart. No way she really believed your client earned that kind of money on his own.”

  Hackett leaned forward in his chair, as if Peterson was actually in the room to observe the significance of what he was about to say.

  “Don’t underestimate the guy. Matson may have started out as a kind of a Silicon Valley used car salesman. And I know he looked pathetic during his Queen for a Day—all these guys look that way spilling their guts. But once Granger got him started, it didn’t take him long to learn to play the offshore game. He even got pretty good at it. That’s why he’ll be a damn good witness for you. He’s a lot lighter on his feet than you think.”

  “Take it easy, Hackett, you don’t need to sell me on the guy, except for one thing. Matson seemed to get a little squirrelly when we got to talking about Burch. Is he afraid Burch will try to cut a deal and roll back on him?” Peterson didn’t wait for an answer. His voice hardened as he pushed on. “You can tell him I’m not making any deals with Burch. If he ever walks out of that hospital, he’s gonna spend the rest of his life in federal prison—whether your guy delivers him up or somebody else does.”

  Hackett wanted it to be Matson, needed it to be Matson. He wasn’t about to humiliate himself losing the case in trial. “When can you send over the plea agreement?”

  “This afternoon. Most of it’s boilerplate. I just need to plug in a statement of facts.”

  “And those would be?”

  “Granger laid out the overall stock fraud strategy and Burch executed it using the dummy offshore companies.”

  “Sounds fair. I’ll get Matson in here to sign it.”

  “And we want the money. All of it.” Hackett visualized Peterson pounding his forefinger on his desk. “If we catch him lying about where it is, there’s no deal and the money laundering comes back in.”

  Hackett had already given Matson that lecture.

  “When do you want him in court?”

  “Day after tomorrow. The sooner I can get him in front of the grand jury, the sooner I’ll get the indictment. United States of America v. Burch, et al. All the Burches of the world do is help fraudsters like Matson and Granger, and they make an obscene amount of money doing it. When the rest of them watch Burch doing the perp walk past the TV cameras with his tail between his legs, being hauled off to the joint, they’ll all be closing up shop. Every one of them.”

  “You mean if Burch survives long enough to get convicted.”

  “No. He just has to live long enough for me to get him indicted.”

  Hackett set the phone back on its cradle, then looked through his window past San Francisco’s western avenues toward the Pacific Ocean. He never quite understood the arrogance of jingoistic prosecutors like Peterson, amateurs who didn’t have a clue about international business. How, exactly, could U.S. corporations operate in dozens of different tax jurisdictions, dozens of national sovereignties, accommodating dozens of competing masters around the world, without lawyers like Burch?

  His gaze settled on the Transamerica Building. What about Transamerica International registered in Bermuda? Or Bank of America Securities in London, Santiago, Singapore, and Taipei? Did these arms of U.S. companies spring out of foreign soil through spontaneous generation?

  Why were the tough-guy prosecutors like Peterson always so damn naïve? Hackett already knew the answer: It was because they lived in a simple, unambiguous world, structured by simple
rules. They believed who they wanted and what they wanted and did so absolutely.

  Hackett comforted himself with the thought that he saved Matson’s ass because that’s what he got paid to do, and had gotten paid almost half a million dollars to do it. Anyway, he didn’t know the truth. He hadn’t been there, in Burch’s office. He didn’t know what Burch said, what Matson said. It was all he said, she said. That was the law of conspiracy. Nothing more. Nothing less.

  Did Burch cross the line once in a while? Maybe. Maybe not. Who knows? But Peterson taking the word of Matson? Did he really believe that stunted, pastel-packaged liar was reborn a saint when he slithered into the Church of the U.S. Attorney, the Chapel of Cooperation? It was worse than merely naïve; it was damn stupid.

  Hackett leaned back in his chair, wondering what would be the cost to Burch of that naïveté, that stupidity—but not for long. Hours spent thinking about abstract matters weren’t billable, and the clock was ticking. He reached for the intercom, then hesitated and dropped his hand to the desk.

  Decades of criminal defense work painted a picture in his mind; it showed him how it would end. Even if it was just a failure of due diligence: Burch too preoccupied with his wife’s illness to pay attention. Peterson would make not knowing look like not wanting to know; and make not wanting to know into greed. Using the hammer of his office and the anvil of a jury composed of peons looking for someone to blame for their own liabilities and others’ enormous assets, Peterson would metamorphize Burch’s negligence into willful conspiracy. That would be the price Burch would pay.

  Burch is already judicial roadkill, Hackett thought. Even his pal Graham Gage won’t be able to yank him out of the way of this steamroller.

  Gage. Shit. He’d forgotten about Gage. Every insider in the legal community knew how close they were. And he was out there, somewhere—

  But there’s nothing Gage can do for Burch. Conspiracies are about words, and the words Peterson is listening to are Matson’s.

  Hackett breathed again and a blurry future snapped into focus: One way or another, guilty or innocent, Burch would have to take a plea. Despite Peterson’s grandstanding about giving Burch life, he’d offer twenty years, maybe twenty-five, and Burch would take it. Only idiots go down in flames.

  And while Burch might be a crook, he wasn’t an idiot.

  CHAPTER 12

  Gage and Spike were working the Take Back the Streets rally in Pacific Heights. Neither had spoken the words, but both knew they needed a witness to do what Burch might not live to do: identify the shooter.

  Four hundred joggers and cyclists blocked the sloping intersection of Webster and Pacific. Uniformed officers ceded the street at Spike’s order and redirected traffic to the surrounding neighborhood. Television reporters with trailing camera crews worked the crowd, searching for anyone who knew Burch or Courtney, reaching for fragments of fact and grasping at rumors.

  “Whoever shot him was looking for a fight,” a taut, middle-aged man wearing a black ASICS running suit told Gage and Spike.

  “How do you figure?” Gage asked.

  “I jog here every day. A lot of us run in the street to avoid the dog walkers and the strollers. Some of these asshole drivers go out of their way to force us off the road. I heard some people saying that the shooter had flipped off the runner.” The man scanned the throng, then pointed at a young couple in matching gray sweat suits standing next to a stroller. “There they are. I’ve got to get to the office. If you need anything else, you’ve got my number.”

  As Gage and Spike started toward them, a local television reporter blocked their path. She jammed a microphone in Spike’s face, then looked at the camera.

  “I’m with Lieutenant Spike Pacheco of the San Francisco Police Department…Lieutenant Pacheco”—she cocked her coiffured blond head toward the crowd behind her—“can you confirm the rumor that Jack Burch was shot because of a love triangle?”

  Spike grabbed the top of the microphone and twisted it out of her hand, then glared at the cameraman. “Turn that fucking thing off.” Then toward the reporter, his brown face reddening with rage. “It’s not good enough for you that the guy’s lying in a coma? You’ve got to try to destroy his reputation, too? For what, Jane? For what?”

  He looked over at Gage, who shook his head. Let it go. Don’t let her create a story where there isn’t one.

  Spike tossed the microphone to the cameraman, then jabbed his forefinger at her face. “You do this kind of shit one more time and nobody at SFPD is ever gonna talk to you. You might as well go back to doing the farm report in Boise.”

  Gage grabbed Spike’s arm and led him away. “Take it easy. Get the press officer out here to run interference for you. I don’t want your face showing up on television again, and mine ever. We can’t let the guy see us coming until it’s too late for him to get away.”

  Spike glared back over his shoulder. “Asshole. Who the fuck does she think she is?”

  His fury faded as they walked along the edge of the crowd toward the young couple. He displayed his badge as they approached.

  “Thanks for coming out, Lieutenant,” the woman said. “We were hoping to speak with you.”

  Gage pointed back from where they came. “A guy told us he overheard you two say something about the shooter flipping off Jack.”

  “That’s not what I said.” The woman’s voice hardened, as if being misquoted was a personal assault. “I said that I saw a driver’s left hand, framed in his window. For all I know, he was scratching his nose. It was dark outside and his car was dark inside. The car was heading east, like us, but Jack was running the other direction. It was only a few minutes ago, when we overheard someone describing the car and its route, that it crossed our minds that the driver might’ve circled the block and went after him.”

  Gage looked at Spike, who nodded. That’s what Burch was trying to communicate with his raised hand as he was wheeled into surgery. Graham. Tell Graham. For the first time Gage felt Burch’s dread that those words and that gesture would be his last—and no one would ever understand.

  “Male or female?” Gage asked.

  “Male. I’m sure about that.”

  “Race?”

  “White. Maybe Hispanic, but light-skinned.”

  Spike obtained their telephone number, then he and Gage headed back into the crowd.

  “I’m still thinking the guy was a helluva good shot,” Spike said. “Two trigger pulls and two hits. Side-by-side.”

  “At least we know he’s left-handed.” Gage stopped and turned toward Spike. He held up his left hand, forefinger extended and bent. “I think they saw the shooter’s trigger finger.”

  Spike grunted as he dropped into the driver’s seat of his car an hour later, then glanced over at Gage. “We’re just going through the motions. The guy who shot Jack is gone. Long gone. And the partial description we’ve got is all we’re ever going to get. And I know you’re thinking the same thing. I saw you checking out the streetlights, figuring how the shadows fell. There’s no way Jack could’ve seen the shooter.”

  “We don’t know that yet. He was moving. The shooter was moving.”

  “I know what you’re trying to do, Graham, but neither one of us has ever been good at wishful thinking.”

  Gage watched Spike’s pupils flit side to side, as if he was torn by an inner conflict that extended beyond the morning’s frustrations. “What’s going on?”

  Spike took in a long breath and exhaled. “Since I took your spot in homicide, I’ve been doing the same thing every day—gunshots, autopsies, and chingasas on dope. Most of my life doing the same damn thing.”

  “But you’re the best—”

  “Bullshit. There’s no best in police work, just degrees of failure. And I’ve had twenty-nine-point-nine-nine-nine years of it.”

  Spike fell silent for a moment, then he sighed and looked at Gage. “You got out when you’d seen all there was to see around here. Your world is London, Hong Kong, Moscow. Me, I s
pent the whole time trapped in a few square miles, a place that looks like a crushed potato. And it’s like I’ve just been watching the same damn movie over and over and over, and the ending never gets any better.”

  Gage crossed his arms over his chest, then settled a little in his seat. “You know why I really left? More than anything?”

  “I thought you wanted to go to grad school, read some philosophy books, ponder the deep thoughts.”

  “There were things I wanted to think through, and Cal was a good place to do it, but that wasn’t the real reason. I just never fit in. Most people in the department were there to prove something, get over something, or hide from something behind the badge.”

  “What about me?”

  “You were the exception. You were trying to save the world. Every day coming into the squad room, big smile on your face.”

  “And you?”

  “I didn’t have your optimism.”

  “Well, I didn’t save much of it.”

  Gage glanced toward four uniformed cops standing together by a patrol car, sipping coffee, ignoring the milling crowd. “More than your share, and more than any cop I ever knew.”

  Spike’s eyes went vacant, then he nodded. “Now I get it.”

  “Get what?”

  “What you said just before you resigned. You said it was like we were all in different departments together.” Spike smiled to himself, then rotated his thumb toward Gage. “You know what we used to call you behind your back?”

  “I never had a nickname.”

  “You just didn’t know it because nobody had the guts to say it to your face. We called you Buddha. Like when you got your detective’s badge, the other guys beaming like the teacher gave them a gold star, you looking like somebody handed you a glass of water.”

  Gage shrugged.

  “But that wasn’t the truth.” Spike looked out at the intersection where Burch was shot down. “No cop ever felt the tragedy in a homicide scene more than you. You just didn’t show it. While the rest of us hid behind callousness and gallows humor—or even just the mechanics of how the thing happened—you’d immerse yourself in it, imagining what happened as if you’d been the guy lying inside the chalk marks.”