3rd Degree - James Patterson [28]
“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.
Chapter 39
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 shitbag 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 lugging 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 Initiative. They were planning to blow up the fucking power company over their bill.”
“So, Joe,” I said, shifting the subject, “you mentioned radicals 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 Shattuck. Said some of the biggies’ll be around. Why don’t you come see for yourself. Welcome to our nightmare.”
Chapter 40
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