Crush - Alan Jacobson [110]
Vail stopped and took in the 180 degree panorama, from the brightly glinting white and gray skyscrapers of San Francisco off to the left, to the scores of small white sailboats listing in the bay, heading back after a day on the ocean. Oh—and there was a huge orange-red bridge splayed out before her. Larger than life, it seemingly grew out of an outcropping of mountain beneath her feet and spanned the bay to her right, landing somewhere on the San Francisco shore at two o’clock. A large cargo ship was passing beneath at midspan, moving slowly but steadily, leaving two parallel, relatively small wakes behind it.
From their perch, they were standing midway up the North Art Deco tower, looking down onto the roadway and the dozens of cars below.
She looked over at Friedberg, who was sucking on his cigarette. A stiff wind blew against her face. “Amazing view. I’ve never stood above a bridge and looked down on it from so high up. That color is so . . . dominating and unusual. Not quite golden, though.”
Friedberg took another long drag, then blew it out the side of his mouth. The smoke caught the wind and rode around his neck. “Golden Gate refers to the strait below us, the entrance to the bay from the Pacific. The color’s called International Orange, whatever that means. They’ve only repainted it once, since 1937. Know how long it took?” He turned to Dixon, who was standing slightly behind Vail. “You’re from around here.”
Dixon shrugged. “Haven’t the slightest.”
“Twenty-seven years.”
Vail nodded. “Job security. And a great view.”
“Now they’ve got an army of thirty-eight painters. Their whole job is touching up the bridge. It’s the salt air. Very corrosive.”
“You know a lot about the bridge,” Vail said.
“A buddy of mine is one of those thirty-eight painters.” He shook his head and laughed. “Marty says the damn thing can sway twenty-seven feet to either side on a windy day. And the roadway can drop about ten feet when fully loaded—”
“Inspector,” Vail said. “I love the view. It’s—” she turned and looked back at the expanse before them—“among the more beautiful I’ve ever seen. But the flip side to all this beauty is the killer Investigator Dixon and I are trying to find. While I’d love to sightsee and get the VIP tour, I just don’t have the time. No offense.”
Friedberg sucked hard on his cigarette. His eyes were riveted to Vail’s. He blew away the smoke, then nodded. “Fair enough. Totally understand. So let me get right to it.” He turned to face the bridge and stood there a long moment without speaking. Finally, he threw down his cigarette and ground the butt into the dirt. “Follow me.”
Friedberg picked up the squished cigarette, then trudged off, away from the bridge, up the inclined frontage to a sunken, below-ground-level concrete complex. A low-slung steel pipe fence surrounded the area, most likely to prevent a kid or careless adult from falling over the edge and landing below on the cement ground.
Friedberg tossed the spent butt into a garbage pail, then led the way down a set of stairs. Directly in front of them was a twenty-foot raised circle of concrete, with an inner ring of thick, rusted bolts protruding from the surface. Off to the right, one level lower, was a central roadway that split barracks-style quarters on both sides. But the inspector headed left instead.
Vail took a step forward to get a better view of the ugly, flat-topped one-story buildings—oddly out of place against the green undulating hills of the mountain peaks behind them. “What is this place?”
“Battery Spencer,” Friedberg said. “A gun battery that was used from the 1840s till World War Two. The military considered San Francisco Bay to be the most important harbor on the west coast. So they stationed three huge rifle guns here to protect the city and the bridge from attack. Right here,” he said, motioning to the large circular platform in front of them, “was the emplacement for Gun 2.” He stepped onto the gun mount and walked