I briefly consider pointing out the hypocrisy of being criticized for my male pride, then having to listen to them worry about saving face with other agencies, but I decide against it.
“Already taken care of,” says Wallis. “I’ve contacted Hawthorne and explained that we have reason to believe those weapons are in play with an ongoing investigation we have. I said I was letting them know as a courtesy, if they wanted to help clean up their own mess.”
“Nice,” says Johnson.
“What did they say?” asks Chambers.
“They’re going to send a liaison over, who should be here in the morning,” replies Wallis.
“Well, that’s something,” she says. “What else have you got?”
“I’ve got two dead naval officers,” he continues. “A Petty Officer Higgins, and an Ensign Lyman. Both found dead within the last week.”
“How’s that related?” asks Johnson.
“Both bodies were found within seven blocks of Pellaggio’s warehouse. Both were on active duty in the area at the time. Both were shot at close range with a silenced Beretta 92A1.”
I frown with concern as I feel all eyes turn to me.
“Hey, it wasn’t me,” I say. “You all know that — you’ve got my guns here. Wallis, was that weapon on Turner’s list?”
He checks his notes.
“Yeah,” he confirms.
“Right, so this is another sick little message for me. Question is, why kill two active navy personnel?”
“Could they just be random, like the shootings at the Transamerica building?” asks Johnson, thinking out loud.
“Possibly,” says Chambers. “But they weren’t really random the first time, and this doesn’t feel random either. A Petty Officer and an Ensign, shot at close range…”
She looks at me. Her face is a mixture of confusion, resignation and despair.
I nod back.
“They were executed,” I say, confirming her suspicions. “We just need to figure out why.”
“We do,” she agrees. “But right now we have to focus on the things we can actively work with.” She turns to Wallis. “That’s great work,” she says. “When the liaison from Hawthorne gets here, I want you to work with them on that lead. They might be able to offer some extra insight.”
“Got it,” he replies.
“Johnson,” she says, turning to him. “You’re with me and Adrian.”
“What are we doing?” I ask.
“We’re going to follow up on the only solid lead we have,” she says.
“We’re going to the warehouse?” asks Johnson, somewhat apprehensively.
“Even if he’s not there anymore, we might find some clue about where he’s gone.”
“Well, you know it’s gonna be a trap, right?” I say. “He wouldn’t invite us down there if there was any real chance of us actually finding him.”
“I know,” she says with a smile. “It’s almost certainly a trap of some kind. That’s why you’re going in first.”
I smile back. She’s starting to think like me, the poor woman. But she’s also starting to see what it takes to win these types of games…
I nod. “Works for me.”
14
It was funny noting the contrast between them all. Chambers armed herself with her Glock and Kevlar vest quickly and professionally. Johnson had done the same, but in the way a child would do their chores — like it was necessary, but he can think of a billion things he’d rather be doing instead. Wallis, on the other hand, had been visibly unhappy not to be included, as if sitting behind a desk was his idea of hell.
I was surprised at how little convincing Chambers had taken to get her to give me my guns back. All I had to do was ask.
We’re huddled together around a table in the smaller office area by the conference room. The whole team of agents is here, game faces on. I look around the crowd as Chambers prepares to explain what’s about to happen. I notice at the back is Agent Green. I’ve not seen him since he arrested me a couple of days ago outside City Hall. I stare at him for a moment, but he doesn’t acknowledge me.
“Myself, Special Agent Johnson and Adrian are going to go and check out the warehouse,” announces Chambers to the room. “We want to keep this discreet, just in case Pellaggio is still there. The last thing we want to do is give him more notice to run. We’ll carry out a preliminary search of the property, then call it in. We’ll have a second team on stand-by to come in and carry out a full analysis. We’ll want Forensics in there too. Hopefully we can find something that will give us an indication as to what Pellaggio’s next move will be.”
There are a few murmurs from the crowd — a mixture of agreement and concern.
“Okay, let’s get to it,” says Chambers, before looking at Johnson and me in turn and gesturing us to follow her.
The crowd disperses with practiced efficiency. They all return to their own workstations as I follow Chambers and Johnson out of the office area and through the small network of corridors to the elevator. We take it down to the lobby and walk out to the street. There’s a sedan parked out front and we climb into it before setting off for Pellaggio’s warehouse. Johnson’s driving and Chambers is riding shotgun. I’ve climbed into the back.
Chambers turns slightly in her seat to face me.
“Are you ready for this?” she asks.
“For once, we’re doing something I wouldn’t do any differently on my own,” I replied. “Just get me to that warehouse.”
The traffic is flowing steadily, despite being mid-afternoon and approaching rush hour. Johnson navigates the increasingly busy streets with ease as we make our way over to The Embarcadero, which runs the full length of the coast where all the piers are, and where the ferry ways converge.
“I’m glad you approve of the operation,” says Chambers, sarcastically. “But just remember — this is still our show. We work as a team. You don’t go off on your own and start blowing things up or anything, okay?”
I can’t tell how serious she’s being, so I simply raise an eyebrow in silent acknowledgement.
After ten minutes or so, we turn left at Embarcadero and Broadway. Johnson points to our right.
“It should be just along here,” he says. “I think it’s the third pier up from where we are.”
I look behind us, seeing Pier 7 just on the other side of the junction.
“Yeah, that’ll be about right,” I say. “He was right down at the far end, wasn’t he?”
“Yeah, Pier 17,” confirms Johnson. “We can drive straight down.”
“I suggest we park halfway down and approach on foot,” says Chambers. “It’ll make our presence less obvious, if anybody is there.”
“Agreed,” I say.
There’s only one way in or out of the warehouse, which I don’t like. If I’m infiltrating somewhere, I look at all entrances and pick the hardest one to get in. That’s always the one least protected. But in this instance, we have no choice, and I hate being so exposed.
“We’re here,” says Johnson, as he pulls over to the parking lot and eases the sedan to a stop just by the entrance to the pier.
I look around. Along the side of the street are a few parked cars. The sidewalk isn’t busy, but there are a few people walking back and forth. The parking lot is half-full, and the entrance to the pier is open. There are a couple of businesses that occupy the warehouses nearest to us, and there’s some hustle and bustle as they go about their day.
“Okay,” says Chambers. “Let’s make a slow approach.”
Johnson set offs again, turning cautiously onto the pier. The sun glares through the windshield, reflecting off the Bay and partly blinding us. Both Johnson and Chambers pull down the visors and squint as we make our way along.