Chapter 14

As curious as he was to discover what information his father had unearthed, Steve still decided to postpone his explanations until after they'd eaten. Not only was he ravenous, but, from the underlying gravity in his Mark's expression, he guessed that his father's revelations would be easier to tolerate on a full stomach.

They ate with only the occasional inconsequential comment breaking the silence, savouring the cuisine and the tranquility, both of them understanding it was likely to be the calm before a new storm. Mark used the time to surreptitiously assess his son's condition, happy to see a hint of natural colour in his cheeks instead of the hectic flush of fever or the pallor of shock and stress which had alternated there during the past few days.

At last, Steve leaned back, wiping a smudge of grease from beneath his chin with a paper towel. Fortified by good food, a long rest and, most importantly, respite from the constant tension, he felt ready to tackle the case head on.

"OK, Dad, what have you found?" Knowing his father's love of the dramatic, he wasn't surprised when Mark countered with his own question.

"What do you know about shipping?"

Steve paused, the query more out of left field than he had anticipated. "It's done on ships," he answered with deliberate obtuseness, meeting his father's eyes gravely.

Mark's mouth twitched, acknowledging both the seeming irrelevance of the question and the obviousness of the answer. "Is that your final answer?" he asked in his best Regis Philbin style.

"Unless you have a million dollars to award me for a more complete response, then yes, I'd have to say that that's my final answer."

Mark's eyes gleamed with the enthusiasm of a man eager to share newly acquired knowledge. "Let me enlighten you with more than you ever wanted to know about the import business. A ship owner has to register his ship on a national registry, but for an ocean-going ship, tends to have a fairly free choice about which country to choose. It is normally known as 'flagging'. These days, most owners don't register under US or European flags, even if that is their own nationality, because these countries have very strict safety and inspection regimes. They also insist that the officers and most of the crew must be of the home nationality. This all makes it too expensive to be economic for a normal merchant ship."

Steve cleared his throat in the hopes of spurring his father to reach his point, but Mark merely waved an unrepentant and quelling hand in response and continued without missing a beat.

"Instead, most ship owners register with 'flags of convenience'. The main ones are Panama and Liberia, since these have lax laws, and favourable tax treatment. Most of the world's merchant fleets are registered with these two, but there are also others. There has been some talk post 9/11 that flags of convenience should be clamped down on, but nothing has happened yet. The convention is that ships are recorded by their name, their flag and their port of origin. You just say, 'the tramp ship Sarah Jane out of Antwerp, under the Panamanian flag'. However, each ship has a reference number for paperwork, but these are not normally referred to."

Mark pulled out Latiere's notebook, pointing at the entries that had initially intrigued him. "These are ship registration numbers," he finished triumphantly.

"So, what that lengthy, and totally fascinating, exposition boils down to is that it confirms what you originally thought, that these are definitely entries of things smuggled into this country -- guns, drugs etc. The Ganza family is still alive and kicking, which isn't really surprising. How does that help us?"

Mark was not disheartened by his son's lack of enthusiasm. "Look at the last completed entry. It's dated several weeks ago, yet, when you went with the Task Force, you were told that a shipment had just arrived. According to this, that was a lie."

Steve didn't like the implications of that revelation. "So, it was definitely a set up. That means you suspect who....the Chief?"

"Not necessarily," Mark demurred. "I'm still reserving judgment on that one. When he came to my house and told me that... you know." He was surprised by the intensity of remembered grief that washed over him, forcing him to stop and clear his throat of the sudden obstruction. "Well, to be honest, at the time, I was too... upset for anything he said to really register. But now, I think he was trying to tell me something important. He said that he'd been given the information by 'an impeccable source'. Who could that be?"

Steve shook his head patiently, accustomed to feeling slow on the uptake while his father's mind leapfrogged over hunches and sprinted to deductions. "I don't know; the only person who...oh. You think it's Ross Canin. But he's a cop!" Even as he said it, he recognised the naivete of his reaction and flung up a hand to forestall Mark's response. "And we know just how many of them are on the take."

Mark nodded in ardent confirmation. "Actually, that was one of the things that made me suspect him. Who better than a cop to know which of his fellow officers could be safely approached -- who needed money and whose standards could be compromised."

Steve knew that Mark weighed many subtle factors before reaching a conclusion, but he felt obliged to protest. "Come on, Dad. It could be anybody. Any cop would fit that criteria. Don't forget, if it wasn't for Canin, you could still be on Death Row...or worse. He helped us."

"If I'm right," Mark rebutted, "helping me was incidental to his main objective. He got the Ganza money back. Helping to take down the Trainers not only ensured the family fortune was intact, but also substantiated his position on top of the family hierarchy. Absolute power corrupts absolutely."

"I want some coffee." Steve did indeed feel the need for caffeine to jumpstart his brain, but he also desired time to wrap his mind round this new and disturbing concept, to weigh its probabilities for himself.

Mark allowed him his breathing space uninterrupted, but when Steve returned to the table, handing his father his own cup, Mark leaned forward, the light of conviction in his face. "You know the thing that bothered me from the beginning was who stands to gain from all this."

"Revenge?" Steve posited halfheartedly, playing the role of devil's advocate to let his father work through his theory verbally.

"No, too simple," Mark rejected the possibility. "There's a lot more involved here. Let me ask you another question. Who knows that Canin's a cop?"

Steve shrugged. "I'm not sure. You, me, the Chief, Tanis, maybe some members of the Task For.....Oh." Again, his father's question opened the floodgates of insight, and he fought to stay afloat in the torrent of ramifications that cascaded through his mind. He stood up abruptly, nerves demanding action. He did his best thinking on the move. "So, if his plan had worked, the Task Force would be gone, you'd be dead or in prison and there'd be no one to connect him to his former life."

Mark smiled ruefully. "I think it was even cleverer than that. You told me yourself, he used the Task Force to consolidate his power, weaken the other crime families. Then he turned round and killed everyone who offered a potential threat to his position in the police force. It was brilliant. He had the best of both worlds and he controlled it all, pulling the strings on both sides like a puppet master."

Mark enjoying bouncing his ideas off Steve, trusting him to offer an objective perspective. Although the two of them tended to present a unified front to the world, privately Steve never hesitated to question his father's assumptions, poke at weak spots he found, enabling Mark to fully explore his hunches, formulating the reasons for his theories in a coherent and persuasive manner. It was teamwork, and Mark wouldn't have it any other way. He watched affectionately as his son paced, almost able to see ideas tumbling inside his mind. It was comforting to recall all the other times they had run through a similar routine, although normally the stakes weren't as high. He was also relieved by the normality of Steve's incessant motion. He had checked on his sleeping son several times and, although happy Steve was catching up on much-needed sleep, had been rather unnerved by his prolonged stillness.

Steve correlated his father's theory with his own interactions with Canin, testing it for flaws. "You know, I once interrupted a confrontation between Canin and Ian Trainer that I could have sworn would have ended in murder if I hadn't shown up. But, where does Masters fit into all this? According to your theory, he should be the next target and Tanis is in terrible danger too."

"Tanis is safe for now, with comprehensive security around her, and I asked Jesse to keep a close eye on her. As for Masters, we have to consider two choices. Either he's the next target as you say, and they just haven't got to him yet -- I don't imagine it's easy to predict his movements. Or, he's actually the man behind Canin. After all, he set him up in this position and he sent the Task Force out."

Steve stopped pacing at the French doors, tilting his head consideringly, gazing down the hill at the ocean just visible in the distance. "I can't see him deliberately sending us all out to die." The truth was, he didn't want to contemplate a betrayal of that magnitude.

He resumed his restless movements, reflecting on how easy it was to fall into old patterns. Here they were, hashing out a problem as they had so many times before, but this time he didn't have the authority of a police officer to enforce any decision they reached. Canin's guilt was something of an academic issue for now.

"I presume this is all supposition at the moment, we don't have any proof?" he asked wistfully. He wouldn't have put it past his father to have sorted out the whole sorry mess while he slept, but somehow he doubted it.

Mark shook his head regretfully. "I'm afraid not. Is there anyone on the force you can talk to -- without being arrested on the spot, that is?"

"Cheryl, but Dad, I can't go to her and ask her to risk her career. She probably would if I asked, which is why I can't." He looked apologetically at his father and saw only understanding there.

"Well, the only other thing that occurred to me is to go to the media. If the whole story was splashed across the headlines, someone would have to investigate it."

Steve's pacing increased in speed, betraying his inner agitation at the thought. "If you do that and Canin is innocent, we're signing his death warrant. And even if it's all true, the reputation of the LAPD would be blackened irreparably." If it were the only way to guarantee his father's safety, Steve would do it and live with the consequences, but he'd hate it. "I'll tell you what, Dad, let's keep that plan in reserve; see if we can't come up with something better in the meantime."

Mark accepted his son's reasoning, not enthusiastic about the option himself. "We've got one more small thing in our favour. See this last entry in the book. The date shows a ship is due to dock in three days. We could arrange through an anonymous tip for it to be seized and maybe catch a significant portion of Canin's organisation."

"I'd certainly like to keep the shipment off the streets and prevent Canin from profiting anymore from his illegal activities, but it's doubtful that Canin himself will be there." Steve tried not to sound too negative, but the extent of the task ahead, with the two of them alone facing the combined resources of Canin's organisation and the police department, suddenly seemed overwhelming.

"Well, let me keep digging. We'll get to Canin somehow," Mark asserted confidently, sensing his son's pessimism.

Steve flung himself on the sofa, his injuries protesting the abrupt movement. "The key question here is whether Masters is involved," he reflected.

Mark eyed him warily. "Yes. Do you have an idea?"

Steve nodded thoughtfully, meeting his father's eyes with a slight, rueful smile. "Yep, I'm going to ask him."

Mark stared at his son, words momentarily failing him. While his mind was weaving elaborate schemes, Steve tackled the issue in his typical straightforward manner: assess the problem, form a plan of attack, resolve the situation, and move on. What it lacked in subtlety, it tended to make up for with the element of surprise. "Do you think that's wise?" he said at last.

Steve shrugged nonchalantly. "Well, if he's guilty, I've got nothing to lose. If he's not, then, according to you, he's in terrible danger and deserves to be warned. He would make a very useful ally."

Mark sensed it would be impossible to talk Steve out of his proposed course of action, but he wanted more time, both to enjoy the luxury of knowing his son was safe and to work on a solution that wouldn't further endanger him. Ruthlessly playing on his son's good nature, he pleaded, "Hold off for at least one day. Neither of us is in any condition to go anywhere at the moment. Give us 24 hours to recuperate and work this thing from all angles."

At Steve's reluctant acquiescence, Mark attempted to find a diversion for them both. He pushed himself to his good foot and hobbled over to the sofa. "We need a break from this, and then we'll come back to it fresh. How about a game of chess?"

Steve looked at him quizzically. "Being routed at chess is supposed to make me feel relaxed?" he asked in amusement.

"I'll spot you a knight and a pawn," Mark challenged.

Steve's competitive instincts were aroused. "You're on."

During the close game, Mark watched the tension ease out of his son. It was so normal, a friendly, father/son game in quiet surroundings. Yet Mark couldn't help but notice that his earlier observations on their problem-solving strategies held true in their styles of playing chess. Steve tended to bludgeon forward, sacrificing pieces in a swift attack in the hopes of overwhelming his opponent by sheer force, while Mark's play was subtle and complex. A frisson of anxiety trickled coldly down his spine as Steve eventually tipped over his king in acknowledgement of defeat, and he hoped it wasn't a foreshadowing of the impending devastation of Steve's plan.

Mark found he wanted to maintain the relaxed atmosphere. They both needed to escape from the constant pressure that had been squeezing the humanity steadily out of them leaving only the animal instinct of survival.

"Let's play something else," he suggested hopefully.

Steve walked over to the cupboard, tilting his head slightly to one side as he read the titles. "I need something with less strategy and more luck involved," he mused. "Monopoly?"

"We'd be here for the next three days. How about something a little shorter."

Steve spotted a wooden board shaped ornately like a whale. "Cribbage," he proposed.

Mark allowed his mind to relax, not attempting to think about the case. He knew from experience that his best insights popped up when he wasn't focusing, like glimpsing phosphorescence in the ocean in your peripheral vision that was invisible directly ahead.

His earlier work had found the straight-edge pieces of the puzzle, establishing the framework of understanding. Now, his subconscious would keep working on filling out the middle, fleshing out the details, sorting through minute details by discarding some and turning others around until they slotted into place with an almost audible click.

The cards favoured Steve and, with great satisfaction, he placed his peg in the last hole while Mark was stranded half-way down the board. "Hmm," he said, stretching smugly. "A game of great skill."

Mark snorted. "A game of pure luck! I'll take you in the rematch."

Steve felt inexpressibly lighter after an afternoon of thinking of nothing weightier than the turn of the next card. He admitted to himself what a good suggestion it had been. His mind felt sharper, cleared of the numbing adrenaline fatigue that had clouded it for the past few days and, with that clarity, he became aware of the familiar sensation of hunger.

He eyed his father's elevated foot ruefully, realising that he was the appointed cook for the interim.

"Are you hungry, Dad?"

Mark smiled in appreciation. "I should sprain my ankle more often."

"I don't think there's any danger of that. You know my cooking too well."

His father chuckled. "Hey, I'm not about to insult the hand that feeds me. While you do that, I'm going to check in with Jesse on the messaging system."

Steve suppressed a grin. His father was like a child with a new toy; he couldn't resist trying it out. "Are you sure it can't be traced in any way?" he cautioned.

"Not as far as I can tell, and it's set on both ends to vibrate, not ring, so no one except Jesse will know we're calling."

"Tell him thanks and also check on Tanis for me."

Steve left his father tapping intently on the new device and moved into the kitchen where he eyed the ingredients in the refrigerator thoughtfully. His repertoire of recipes had expanded considerably since taking over BBQ Bobs -- a natural outgrowth of pinch-hitting for the chefs in emergencies -- however, he'd never regard cooking as his forte.

He was stirring a concoction of potatoes and onions on the stove when he became aware that something was wrong. Whether it was an odd stillness and silence from the other room that alerted him or an awareness of his father's moods that bordered on telepathy, a feeling of unease thrummed deep inside, like a string plucked on a harp.

From the kitchen, he could see that Mark sat motionless on the couch, but his face was turned slightly away, concealing his expression. As Steve neared, he could see the phone, now inactive, held loosely in his father's hands with his gaze fixed blankly on it. Steve sat beside him, gently touching his arm to attract his attention.

"What's wrong, Dad? Is it Tanis?"

Mark's head swung round, at first blindly then, with an effort, he focused on his son. "No, she's..." he had to clear his throat, "...she's...her condition's unchanged -- still in a coma. No, it's Elise. She's missing. She never returned home that night."

Mark's distress was obvious, and Steve wondered once again about the relationship between his father and the married woman whom he could not remember his father mentioning before this crisis. Without this knowledge, it was hard to respond appropriately, so he took the safest path and patted his father's knee awkwardly. "Sorry, Dad."

"It's my fault." Mark's voice was tight with self-condemnation. "I should have realised they'd go after her thinking she'd know the contents of the notebook."

"We didn't even know what we were getting into. There was nothing you could do."

"I didn't really even think about her," Mark admitted painfully.

"Dad, you're not responsible," Steve insisted. "You've had a busy time lately."

Mark shook his head but didn't pursue the topic, funneling his guilt into a more productive determination to bring her murderers to justice if she were indeed dead. "Oh," he added as an afterthought. "Since I was the last one to see her, there's a warrant out for my arrest."

Steve froze in place as if struck by a sudden paralysis, adrenaline washing through his body in a dizzying surge, erasing former reservations at the painful image of his father in a cell, vulnerable to the abuse and violence of the prison system. He'd lived with that nightmare once before, confined at first to a hospital bed and imagining the worst. Ironically, the largely solitary nature of Death Row had protected his father then. But if Mark were placed with the prison population at large, probably with men who could hold them both responsible for their incarceration, his father wouldn't stand a chance, and Steve wasn't about to let that happen. He slammed both hands on the coffee table in front of him as he bolted to his feet.

"That's it. We'll go to the press."

Mark started as the noise broke through his contemplation, and he eyed his fuming son with concern, understanding what had precipitated the burst of agitation. "We can't do that," he contradicted with sympathy. "Elise might have gone to ground or be dead already, but there's a strong chance they could be holding her as leverage for the notebook. If we go to the press, they'll kill her. I owe her more than that, Steve."

"Then what?" Steve's voice was loud with frustration.

"We follow your plan and talk with Masters."

"WE?" Steve's eyes glinted hard and resolved as they met his father's.

For a moment, Mark glared back with equal determination but, remembering the consequences of his stubbornness the night before, his scowl tapered off and he dropped his gaze contritely. Although his ankle was considerably improved, and with sturdy support he could walk normally, it wouldn't stand up to vigorous exertion.

"I could slow you down," he admitted quietly and with palpable reluctance. "It's your choice."

Steve had entertained no thoughts of allowing his father to accompany him, but suddenly doubts as to the wisdom of his intentions crept in. Left to his own devices, Mark was unequaled at finding trouble. This house seemed to be a safe refuge, but, as a police officer, Steve knew that minor circumstances beyond their control could easily lead to discovery. Furthermore, with the mysterious Elise missing, Steve wasn't sure that his father would wait for his return if more news came through in his absence.

"Damn it! I'm sick of this!" Mark heard the capitulation behind the frustration in his son's voice and waited for the storm to pass, listening with interest to Steve's colourful and descriptive language articulating exactly how tired he was of making such impossible choices. Eventually, he ran out of steam and plonked himself down again next to his father.

"Feeling better?" Mark asked brightly, coaxing a grin from his reluctant offspring.

"Not really. Okay, let's find the Chief."

This proved easier in theory than in action and, after a frustrating 24 hours of wielding internet and telephone directory with all their accumulated detective skills, they were still no closer to finding him.

"The man's a ghost!" Steve exclaimed in disgust, throwing down the phone book. "He doesn't eat, he has no house. I'm beginning to think he's just a figment of our collective imaginations."

"That could explain why Canin hasn't got to him yet," Mark remarked thoughtfully. "He doesn't want to take him out at a station full of cops and hasn't located him elsewhere either."

In the end, it was Jesse who tipped them off to the lead they needed, culled from an article buried in an obscure section of the Los Angeles Times. "Police chief attends conference on Safer Cities: Responding to Urban Insecurity, Crime and Violence." All attendees would be staying for the three days of the meeting in the mildly luxurious surroundings of the Omni Hotel, a venerable, old ten-story edifice in downtown LA, its business boosted by the latest round of urban renewal efforts.

Steve read the message over his father's shoulder with satisfaction. The delay had chafed his patience, although the respite from physical exertion had done them both good. Mark's ankle had strengthened considerably, and Steve's own injuries were healing nicely with only the occasional twinge from an injudiciously sharp move to remind him of the continued need for caution.

As a bonus, Mark was familiar with the layout of the Omni Hotel, having attended more than one medical conference there. He'd taken scant notice of security at the time, but had observed enough that the two of them could make educated guesses about precautions in place and make contingency arrangements to circumvent cameras and personnel.

With a few discrete purchases, they were prepared to implement their plan and, once night fell, they drove out under cover of darkness. Leaving their sanctuary and reentering the fray had a dampening effect on both their spirits, and the ride was mostly silent, each man immersed in his own thoughts.

It was past 11:00 pm when an elderly man entered the lobby of the Omni and approached the lone clerk working at the front desk. Mark had decided that no elaborate disguise was necessary; he should meld right in with their normal clientele. He played up his age, but not to the exaggerated lengths he had resorted to before. Engaging the clerk in friendly conversation while arranging for a room, he pushed a button on the phone in his pocket, sending Steve a prearranged signal. Moments later, the desk phone rang, the caller asking to be connected to Chief Masters. Mark knew from previous experience that the extension numbers matched room numbers, and he made sure he was situated in an excellent position to see the digits the clerk pressed to transfer the call.

Completing his transaction, Mark smiled his thanks and made his way at a dignified pace to the elevator, where he was joined by his son, who strolled confidently across the lobby, keeping his face turned away from the security camera near the doors.

Masters' room was on the sixth floor. With the advent of electronic key cards, gaining access to a room illegally was getting trickier and extended beyond Steve's burgeoning criminal prowess. They had debated the relative merits of a variety of methods of gaining entry. The balcony was one possibility, but Mark was beyond such feats of athletic agility, and they agreed that Masters was too shrewd to fall for such obvious subterfuge as phony room service.

To their relief, their first attempt at purloining a master key card was successful as Mark, in his guise as a new guest, employed dexterous sleight of hand to neatly exchange it for a hefty tip as the maid giggled at his gallantry. They didn't expect the theft to stay unnoticed for long, but they only needed enough time to break into Masters' suite.

Despite that concern, Steve's first inclination was to leave Mark in his recently acquired room until he had verified the Chief's position and involvement. "You stay here and guard my back. I'll buzz you when I've got things sorted out."

Mark was adamantly opposed to that plan, suspecting that he would be needed as a buffer between the two proud, stubborn officers. "It's really hard watching your back with walls between us," he pointed out dryly. "It would be easier if I was actually behind you and could see your back. In fact, I believe it's a prerequisite."

"Dad, this is between me and Masters," Steve objected. "I want to talk to him alone."

"I think that's a mistake. It would work smoother between you, me and Masters. He might be more willing to listen to a civilian who is not technically under his command," Mark stated diplomatically. "Besides, you never know what would happen if you left me here, what trouble I could get into."

Steve regarded his father with a jaundiced eye at this flagrant blackmail. "Okay, but you stay behind me at all times. You do not come into the room until I tell you it's safe. Agreed?"

Mark nodded virtuously, willing to consent to reasonable restrictions as long as he was included.

It was very late or early depending on your perspective, and most of the guests were in bed. Steve hoped fervently that Masters was among them, although he thought morosely that sleep was too human a frailty for the Chief to indulge in. The hallways were fortunately deserted. Steve slipped the card in the lock gently, then withdrew it carefully, wincing at the subdued beep and subsequent click that announced the door was now unlocked.

Turning the handle as quietly as possible, he eased the door open and slipped inside. He sensed the nearby presence almost immediately and swung his gun round, but froze at the unmistakable sensation of a gun barrel ground viciously into the side of his neck.