Jonathon Redding
Chapter 4
It was dark in the Alameda Station House, much like the night shifts at the CBI office back in Sacramento. People were working, but lights were dimmed, conversations hushed, as if to remind folks of their natural circadian rhythms and the universal power of the night.
Kimball Cho folded his phone, slipped it into his pocket and reached for his coffee.
"They just fished Jane out of the Bay."
"What?" Rigsby looked up sharply, then shook his head. "That guy's got more lives than a cat. What was he doing in the Bay?"
"I dunno. Something to do with Nelson and Rayer."
"The real Rayer or the fake Rayer?"
"Didn't say. She wants you to call Grace. Have her drive up with our bags."
"Cool." He bit into a stale donut. They had just returned from questioning the real Douglas Rayer and had begun filing their reports back at the station house. Nothing had been touched, so as far as they were concerned, Interrogation Room 2 and all its contents, were still theirs. Including that afternoon's plate of donuts. "We staying in Alameda?"
"Nah," said Cho. "We're heading out to the Field Office in San Fran."
"Sweet."
"Speaking of sweet, how can you eat that donut? It's as hard as a rock."
Rigsby shrugged. "Willpower."
"I don't think you're Bert," mumbled Cho. "You're the Cookie Monster."
"Oohh yeah."
Cho grinned and bent back down to his report.
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The dockyards were illuminated with light.
Yellow lights beaming from the headlights of the squad cars jamming the area. Blue and red lights flashing from the bubbletops. White light pouring from the powerlamps used to light up the dark water as divers searched for the body of Mark Mooney aka Douglas Rayer aka Rodger Saulay. Lisbon pinched the bridge of her nose. All the lights were giving her a headache.
The paramedic turned back to her.
"Okay, so his hearing should return to normal within 24 hours. But, just in case it doesn't, you know what to look for?"
She nodded. "Headaches, lethargy, persistent ringing in the ears, inability to focus. Yep," she nodded again. "I got it."
"And if the hearing doesn't return…?"
"Take him to the hospital."
"He really should go to a hospital now, you know…"
"I know. He hates doctors."
The man threw one last glance at his patient, who was leaning against the hood of a cop car, wrapped in a grey wool blanket. He looked back at Lisbon.
"Good luck, ma'am."
And with that, the paramedic climbed back into his ambulance and rolled slowly backwards off the pier.
She sighed, shoved her hands in her pea-coat pockets and ambled back to where Jane was leaning.
"Hey," she said. "How are you feeling?"
He glanced up at her, still holding a warm pack against one ear all the while trying to keep the paramedic's woolen blanket tugged up over his shoulders. The water had soaked him to the core, made his hair bunch into damp curls, but had done little to touch the splatter of Mooney's blood on his cheek or collar.
"What?" he yelled.
She laid a hand on his arm. "You don't need to yell, Jane. I can hear."
"Everything is ringing!"
"I know." Gunfire at point blank range was deafening, figuratively and literally. That was why people needed headphones at firing ranges. And Jane seemed particularly sensitive. He always flinched at the sound of gunfire. "They haven't found Rayer's body yet."
"Mooney," he said, still loudly. "Mark Mooney."
She shook her head. "What the hell was he doing here anyway?"
"Where's Nelson?"
"Um…" She looked around. The pier was crawling with cops, plainclothes and uniforms. Nelson was in his element, the big dog in a fawning pack. She gestured and it was with great reluctance that he trudged over to the CBI agent and her drenched consultant.
"Yeah?"
Jane stared at him. Even with a pack over one ear and a wool blanket over his shoulders, his eyes were sharp and shining. "Why'd you shoot him?"
Nelson frowned. "He had a knife at your throat. I got a clean shot. I took it."
Lisbon leaned in. "He saved your life, Jane."
Jane shook his head. "He wasn't going to kill me. It wasn't my turn."
"Your turn? It wasn't your turn?" Now it was Nelson's turn to shake his head. "You're a nut bar, you know that?"
"May I see your gun?" Jane held out his hand.
"What? No. I gotta turn that in at the precinct for verification. Once they find the kid's body 'n all…"
Jane waggled his fingers. "Now. I just want to see it."
Nelson glanced at Lisbon. She shrugged.
"Hand it over, detective," she said, turning to face him.
The man snorted before reaching around to pull his piece from his hip, passed it firmly into Jane's waiting hand. Jane felt the weight of it, the grip, the metal. "What is this?" he asked as he turned it over and over in his hand.
"A Kimber TLE/1911 semi-automatic. Sweet, powerful and fast. All the SWATs carry 'em."
"Hmm…"
Nelson rolled his eyes. "Look, I don't know what this is about. It was a legit shooting."
Lisbon shook her head. "Don't worry. He hates guns. If he wants to see it, it's likely only for –"
It took almost a full second before the slide and click of the weapon being cocked registered in her mind. The sound was immediately followed by many other slides and clicks, and she realized with dread that they suddenly had a 'situation' on their hands.
Patrick Jane was pointing a gun at Det. Sergeant Nelson's head, and six other officers were pointing their guns at his.
"Jane…" she hissed. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Oh, just seeing what it feels like." His voice was light, but his eyes were steel. He seemed oblivious to the other officers, had eyes only for Nelson. And to her surprise, his grip was perfect, as if he had held many such weapons before. The thought frightened her, just a little. "Hm, yes. Power, intimidation, ego. Actually, it's a bit of a rush. Just what I would have expected from a buffoon like you."
"Jane, put it down."
It took another few moments, but he did, and there was a collective sigh from the cops. Only Nelson remained frozen in place. Still seemingly oblivious, Jane pulled the weapon close to examine it again in the flood of multicoloured lights that now illuminated the pier.
"You do know, Det. Nelson, that you just killed our only link to a serial killer…" He pressed the mag release and the clip dropped out into his hand. "And that three more people are going to die before this stops? If it stops." He tossed the clip to the detective. "You are a small-minded, bigoted and insecure little man and your idol is power."
And with that, he pushed up from where he was leaning, turned and flung the Kimber with all his might into the dark sky over the bay. It hit the water with a splash.
Nelson released a deep breath. "You're insane, man. Seriously insane."
"I'm sorry. I can't hear you." Jane smiled and turned back to Lisbon. "Can we go, now?" He hiked the blanket up around his shoulders once again.
Heart still pounding in her throat, she nodded, followed him woodenly to where a squad car was waiting, and together they drove back to the Alameda Station House. Nelson drove back alone.
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The dawn brought with it a welcomed change of venue, as the investigation was moved to the CBI office in San Francisco. It seemed prudent, as Big Sur, Berkeley and Alameda were all in close proximity to the city by the Bay, much closer than Sacramento. So they took a hotel near the regional office that morning, one that met the CBI budget requirements. They had their choice of nice ones, but for of all the team, only Patrick Jane had a request.
Not the Fairmont, he had pleaded. Any hotel but the Fairmont. *
And so they checked into the San Francisco Super 8, a 6-storey hotel with few amenities, with the exception of free parking and several nearby donut shops. It was a dive, but then again, it was only for sleep, and as Lisbon had repeatedly reminded them, it was well-within the CBI budget. Hightower would have approved.
Grace Van Pelt had driven up with a second SUV and their overnight bags from their lockers back at HQ. They booked 3 rooms, one for the women, one for Cho and Rigsby and one for Jane. It wasn't until they hit the elevator that Rigsby noticed something.
"Hey," he said suddenly as the bell dinged the second floor and they kept on going. "How come Jane always gets his own room?"
Jane grinned at looked at Lisbon, eagerly awaiting her answer. There was still blood on his face. She sighed.
"Do you like sleeping, Rigsby?" she asked dryly.
"Yeah."
The bell dinged for the third floor, and they kept on going.
"Jane doesn't sleep, remember? He watches late night movies and the Discovery Channel and the Shopping Network. He paces and goes for long walks at all hours of the night. He does his Sudoku and Kakaro and a hundred other Japanese puzzle things that end in a vowel. And if he doesn't do any of that, he's going to talk. He's going to talk and talk and talk and talk. He's going to show you magic tricks. He's going to ask you embarrassing questions about your mother. And once he's finished with that, he's going to hypnotize you into doing something completely asinine in front of your colleagues, the cleaning staff or worse, passersby on the street outside. That's what he's going to do if he shares a room with you."
Jane grinned and looked at Rigsby.
Rigsby looked at Jane. "You would do all of that?"
"And more," grinned Jane.
The big man pouted. "What if he bunks with Cho?"
"Cho knows where you sleep and he has a gun."
Cho grinned and looked at Rigsby.
"And that's why I get my own room," said Jane, rocking back on his heels.
The bell dinged for the third floor and Cho stepped out. He turned to his partner. "You coming?"
Rigsby looked at Jane. "You would do all of that? Really?"
"And more," grinned Jane.
Rigsby walked out and the door slid shut.
After a moment, Jane sighed and looked at Lisbon. "He's right you know. It's not really fair."
"And you care about fair…since when?"
The consultant shrugged. "Grace could have her own room…"
"And you would bunk where?"
"With you."
Van Pelt bit her lip, turned her dark eyes to the ceiling. The bell dinged for the fifth floor and they kept on going.
"With me?" Lisbon gaped at him, not sure whether he was serious or not. "I don't think so."
"Why not? You would have one bed, I would have the other. I'm reasonably certain you don't snore, so—"
"Absolutely not!"
"Maybe I don't like San Francisco."
"So?"
"Bad things happen to me in San Francisco…"
"Bad things. Like what?"
"Vampires, Berkeley students, earthquakes, buffoon cops with SWAT guns. I won't be able to hear the alarm. I'll sleep right through the wake up call. You'll get mad at me again…" He looked at her, earnestly. "Bad things."
The bell dinged for the sixth floor.
"Good night, Jane. Or good morning, as the case may be. Meet us at the coffee shop at noon." And with that, both she and Van Pelt strode out of the elevator, turning left as they went.
Patrick Jane sighed and looked at his key. It was a key, not a key card. Old school.
Bad things happened to him. And not just in San Francisco.
He stepped out of the elevator and turned right down the hall.
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Even with the blinds drawn, it was difficult for her to fall asleep. The events of the night kept running over and over in her mind. The discovery of the real 'Roger Saulay', the dark pier, Jane at knife point, the gunshot and the splash, the sickening tightness in her chest until the blond head resurfaced, wet and miserable but still in one piece. The way he had held that damned gun.
She sighed and pressed her palms into her eyes. He hated guns. What the hell was he thinking, pointing it at Nelson like that? The cop was filing charges, for heaven's sake. They hadn't found Rayer's body. They still hadn't found the Kimber either. It was probably halfway to Hawaii by now. What had he been thinking?
With another sigh, she rolled up to sit on the edge of the bed, debated running a hot tub or an even hotter shower, but with this dive of a hotel, the water would likely be lukewarm. She glanced around at the furnishings. No little fridge, no wet bar. Probably a good thing, otherwise she would be tempted to wash this sinking sensation away with a little Scotch. No, it was good there was no fridge.
The gunshot and the splash. The blond head in the dark water.
The way he'd held that damned gun.
She pushed herself up and headed for the shower.
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It was sunny when they met in the coffee shop at noon. It was a second rate coffee shop, that much was obvious, but it was a Super 8 – one couldn't expect the Hilton. None of them was particularly refreshed from the six hours of sleep, but at least they'd had a chance to shower and change into a fresh set of clothes. Overnight bags were a staple of Bureau work. You couldn't leave home without one.
They'd ordered off a menu that offered 24-hour breakfast, and Rigsby had taken them up on it, ordering bacon, eggs, sausages and hash browns. Cho'd had a burger, Lisbon a club, Van Pelt a salad. No one was surprised that they had almost finished by the time Jane ambled down to meet them, arms filled with paper, what was left of his pencil tucked behind one ear.
"Nice of you to join us," Lisbon smirked as she sipped her coffee. She made a face. It was nowhere near as good as the one from the Ragged Branch.
He smiled at her, looked around. The waitress hadn't removed the dirty dishes and there was no room at the little metal table. So he placed his armful on a second table, dragged the entire thing, rocking and scraping, over to where they sat. From a corner, the waitress eyed him but said nothing.
"Tea please!" He waved a hand at her, dropped himself into a brown fiberglass chair. "Did anyone else hear that accursed ringing all night?"
"Are your ears still bothering you?"
"What?"
Cho and Rigsby glanced at each other. Van Pelt bit her lip.
Lisbon leaned forward. "How is your hearing?"
"And good morning to you too, Lisbon." He rolled his eyes. "My, but you're chipper this morning. Then again, you didn't almost get your ears shot off and fall in the Bay of San Francisco last night, now did you? No indeed."
She looked down, rubbed her forehead with her hand.
"So we need to go back to Berkeley. And where is my tea? Miss? Miss?"
"Next time I'll make sure not to miss…" Lisbon growled under her breath.
Jane sighed and turned around. "Okay, no tea. Fine. Now that we know who and what we're looking for, it should be easy, especially since we have the general vicinity to work with. You have to admit it was very clever on their part. That took a lot of digging, a lot of computer work…" He raised his brows, shook his head in admiration, "and one hell of a vivid imagination to work this one out."
"Jane…"
"But I'm convinced if they can do it, so can we."
"Jane…"
He pulled the pencil out of his hair, grabbed the sheets, began to shuffle, looking for something.
Lisbon reached out, put a hand on his sleeve. "Jane, what are you talking about?"
"What's that? Speak up, woman."
"What. Are. You. Talking. About?" She spoke up, pronounced every syllable.
He frowned. "The case. What else?"
"Do. You. Know. What's. Going. On?"
"Of course. Don't you?" He glanced around again, caught the waitress' eye, waved at her. "Tea, please!"
With a shake of her head, the waitress rolled off her station and into the kitchen.
Lisbon rolled her eyes. "A serial killer was shot on the pier last night. The only thing left for us is to clean up the details, tie up the loose ends and go home."
He stabbed at her with his pencil. "And which case are you working on, then?"
"Jane…"
He pushed a sheet of paper at her. On it were five names.
Mary Anne "Polly" Nichols
Annie Chapman
Elizabeth Stride
Catherine Eddowes
Mary Jane Kelly
She frowned. For some reason, the names were familiar.
She passed the sheet to the others. Immediately, Cho's head snapped up.
"Oh no…"
Jane grinned. "Aaaah…"
"What?" asked Rigsby, munching on his last piece of toast.
"The Cho knows. He's a reader." Jane nodded at him, like an approving parent. "And readers are leaders."
Cho sighed, sat back, ran his hands over the back of his head. He frowned at Jane. "Really? You think?"
"All the time, and yes. I do. Don't you?"
Lisbon dropped a hand on the table. "What the hell is going on? Cho, does this make sense to you?"
"Yeah," he said. "It does."
"And it means….?"
He glanced at Jane, who was smiling at the waitress as she dropped a steaming cup in front of him, splashing it over the side and onto the saucer. She turned and shuffled away. Jane frowned.
"That doesn't look like tea."
Lisbon leaned forward. "Cho? Jane? What does it mean?"
Jane lifted the cup to his nose, sniffed, dropped it back down again, sighing. "This is coffee."
"What. Does. It. Mean?"
"It means this waitress will not be getting a tip."
"I will shoot you both. I swear."
Jane pushed the cup away. "Bad things happen in San Francisco."
Cho's dark eyes met hers.
"Tell me," she growled.
"Jack the Ripper," he said finally.
"I told you," Jane sighed again. "Bad things."
End of Chapter 4
*referring to "Blood Red Moon" by 221b Baker Street