Steve made a detour to morgue on his way to the locker room and begged for help waterproofing the stiches in his left arm. Ingenuity, tape and a section plastic sheet gave him the freedom to shower the way he wanted and needed. Promising the tech a six pack when everything was over, he tried hard not to think about the intended use of the supplies while he waiting for the elevator.
He stood in the shower and let the hot water wash away the last 24 hours. His brief conversation with Mike in the back of the ambulance had done little to ease the terror he felt from being trapped under an avalanche of dirt. Despite the heat of the water, he shivered recalling his helplessness in the face of suffocation and death. He was certain that this latest misadventure would occupy his dreams for the foreseeable future. As much as he hated the idea, he considered calling Lenny when he had a chance.
When he finally felt dirt-free, he carefully dried off and dresses, a process made more difficult by the limited usefulness of his right arm. He was just grateful that his locker had yielded a change of clothes, substandard as they were. He was sitting on the bench between the lockers contemplating his next challenge when a uniform cop he knew from the academy took pity on him, tied his shoe laces and help him sling and brace his right arm and shoulder. Before he left the locker room, Steve looked down at the filthy pile of clothes next to the bench and, deciding they were a total loss, chucked them in a waste bin and headed for the bullpen.
Steve was shocked to see Larry Talbot on the elevator when the doors opened.
"I'm surprised you're back so soon."
"My boss wanted me to read you guys in in person. Considering that you found Meyer, he thought it was the right thing to do. Plus, I wanted to thank you. You really saved my ass out there. I won't forget it."
"Thanks, but it really was all three of us. You, me and Mike. I was just the schmuck who opened the window first."
Talbot laughed, "If you say so. I'm just glad you look better than when I last saw you. How do you feel?"
Steve ran his left hand through his wet hair, "I wish I could say I felt good, but I would be lying. Don't get me wrong, the shower and clean clothes make a huge difference, but..."
"I get it. It's been a tough day, physically and mentally. It's gonna take me a long time to wipe that out of my memory. But hopefully, with what I have here," he held up a folder, "we will get those SOB's who tried to kill us. Then you'll get your murderers and I'll put Claus Meyer away for good. I think that will make us all feel better."
Steve nodded in agreement, "Hey, do you still have our evidence? Even though we got these guys dead to rights for drugging and planting us in the vineyard, we still wanna be able to prosecute for Steiner and Thompson's murders."
"Yeah, I got it and you'll get it back. The box is down in the car. I'll bring it up after the briefing. You know, Jones was the one who wanted it in the first place, I just never got to give it to him. Which, in retrospect, was a good thing. I still can't believe he was in on this."
"No kidding. But I gotta tell you, that was some sneaky crap you pulled with Dan Morgan. What did you promise him, that he'd get Norm if the evidence disappeared?"
"Something like that. I feel bad about it, but it was Jones' deal, I was just the middleman. And in light of what happened to Sgt. Morgan..."
"What happened to Morgan?"
"He's dead and I pretty sure that crime was all Jones. Made it look like a suicide, just like his partner overseas. What a piece of work he turned out to be."
Steve was stunned, "When did that happen?"
"Apparently, the call came in today," Talbot peeked at his watch, "well I guess yesterday, when you and Mike were out at the farm. Your guys told me about it on the way back to the City. I think Haseejian was the one who made the connection."
Steve shook his head, "This whole thing is incredible."
The two men made the rest of the ascent in silence. There was nothing left to say.
00000
Mike looked up and saw Larry Talbot holding the door for his partner. He got up from his desk and entered the bullpen.
"Well look what the cat dragged in." he said with a broad smile. "You were gone so long, I thought you might have drowned in the shower."
"Well, Hardy-har-har. With jokes like that, you should be a comedian."
"Still in a great mood I see. I thought the shower would have helped."
"It did, but I'll be happier when we get these creeps behind bars. You heard about Morgan?"
Mike nodded, "Norm told me on the way in."
Steve turned to Larry Talbot, "Okay Marshal, I think it's time for show and tell."
Talbot looked around at the tired, but expectant faces in the room, "How about we get some coffee and find a place where we can all sit down. Then I'll go over the plan."
Steve was the first to respond, moving toward the coffee pot. "That's the best idea I've heard in the last two hours."
Mike, Steve, Norm, Bill, Dan, the Captain and the Marshal proceeded to the conference room. Steve's notes were still taped to the walls.
Mike introduced Captain Olsen to Marshal Talbot while everyone settled.
Talbot opened his folder and took out several typed sheets. "Ok, now that we're all caffeinated and comfortable, here's where we're at."
The plan that Talbot had presented was a good one. To everyone's surprise, SFPD would share responsibility with the DoJ. It was a testament to the leg work Mike and Steve had done on the case that they were included at all. Immigration was also called in on the case.
Mike would run the operation at the airport, Talbot would be point man at the docks. A combined unit of SFPD and Federal Marshal, armed with photographs of their suspects would focus on Passport Control and the international departure gates at both facilities in hopes of preventing Brian Jones and the Garrod Family from exiting the US. The only hiccup that Talbot foresaw was the age of the Juan Garrod/Claus Meyer's photo. At 30 year's old, it was probably useless. If he wasn't traveling with his sons, IDing the Ex-Nazi could prove to be problematic.
Steve sat nursing a third cup of coffee in Mike's office after everyone else involved in the operation had mobilized shortly after three am. It tasted terrible and really wasn't doing any good. After dozing off towards the end of the briefing, the Captain correctly decided that a one-armed inspector on pain killers was not an asset in the field. To Mike's surprise, Steve hadn't even bothered to argue the point. If he couldn't stay alert or hold a gun, his presence would be more of a hindrance than a help. The last thing he wanted to do was put any one in danger due to his current limitations. His job would be to man the phones and keep the two sides of the operation coordinated from Mike's desk.
After looking at the clock for the tenth time, Steve leaned back in the chair and put his feet up on the desk. It was nearly 4 am. With SFO dormant for another 2 hours or so and departures from the cruise port beginning even later in the day, the operation would be quiet for several more hours. Steve called the Duty Sargent and asked him to ring Mike's desk phone at 5:30. He would start worrying about Mike, Talbot and company then. With nothing else to do, he closed his eyes, deciding much needed sleep was the best use of his time.
00000
It was several hours before dawn. Peter Garrod gazed out at the inky waters of the Bay. A strong sea breeze blew counter current, intensifying the sound of the water. In his mind's eye, he saw the wind knocking the tops off white-capped waves. He felt the cloying wetness of a persistent drizzle.
Ignoring the discomfort, he sat with his back to the fence that separated the old military installation from the treacherous vista at Battery Spencer. It was meant to keep people off of the crumbling cliffs, but the barrier was largely ignored by everyone except tourist. The overlook was one of his most cherished spots with a spectacular, albeit illegal, view of the Golden Gate. The bridge was fully illuminated, but the pervasive mist caught the light and blurred the edges. The panorama had the soft-edged quality of an old oil painting.
Oil painting, he thought ruefully. That's what started this whole mess. He could not believe how the situation had spiraled out of control. Miriam dead. An innocent waitress murdered. Law enforcement officers buried alive in his beloved vineyard. Where did it all end? He grabbed an emerald green bottle out of a paper bag and pulled out the cork, drinking a large measure. He didn't need to see the label to know it was the '71.
He'd dropped his father at the Fairmont earlier in the day. His intention being to deliver the crated paintings to China Basin for shipping and ditching his car. He instead drove the length of the City, saying goodbye to his favorite sites. Ultimately, he wound here, high above San Francisco Bay.
He took another swig and thought about his life. If he was honest with himself, he supposed he'd always known his father had done unspeakable things in the past. The few times he'd asked about why they had moved to Argentina, he'd been rebuffed. As he grew older and learned more about the war, his suspicions were more or less confirmed. His father was in hiding and Peter's privileged existence was a lie. After he went to Vienna and heard Miriam's tales of the missing Klimt, a painting he had lived with his whole life, it only served to deepen his guilt. That was when he made his decision to distance himself from the family; from his father and from Georg. That's why he had come to California: to start over.
In the end, it made no difference. He had introduced Brian to Georg and his father. He had called Miriam and tried to use his father's ill-gotten spoils of war to save his dream. That one phone call had kindled a fire that rapidly grew out of control. In the end, he was no better than his father, his brother and his friend. There was no possibility of redemption. He took another deep drink, trying to steel himself for his next step.