Masters paused, then added, “But it’s usually not bug detectors that find the bugs, Patrick. Most times it’s just plain ol’ good counterintelligence work. Someone will eventually realize information is getting out. A local PD might not have sophisticated detection or backtracing gear, but all they need to do is plant false information to try to ferret out a snooper. Once you start using the information you get, your days of bugging offices will be numbered. They’ll just swoop down on you one day and it’ll all be over. Might be hours, might be days.”
But Patrick wasn’t listening. “Thanks, Jon,” he said. “I’ll start monitoring the taps, and I’ll talk to you after we get some worthwhile information. Once we find out who the enemy is, we’ll plan our next move.”
Masters nodded. Patrick McLanahan always knew what he was doing. “Wendy called while you were out,” he said. “They’re going to keep her in the hospital for another few days to be safe. They’ll discharge her on the thirtieth.”
“Good,” Patrick responded.
Jon was startled. “ ‘Good’?”
“That’ll give us more time to come up with a plan,” Patrick said. “I want to move before the police do. I want first shot at these dirtbags.”
“Are you trying to hide this from Wendy?” Jon asked incredulously. “You’re not going to tell her what you’re doing?”
“Not now,” Patrick said. “Not right away. I want to formulate a plan of action before I tell her. I’m hoping they’ll catch the terrorists before too long, and if I tell Wendy about this, it’ll upset her for no reason.” Jon shook his head at this backward logic, but decided not to argue the point. “I’m off to Mercy San Juan. I’ll be back later.”
He knows what he’s doing, Jon Masters told himself for the third or fourth time that evening. It’s Patrick McLanahan. He always has a plan. He always knows what he’s doing. Always…
Special Investigations Division Headquarters,
Bercut Drive, Sacramento, California
Monday, 29 December 1997, 0925 PT
“Here’s what we have so far, Chief,” Captain Tom Chandler began. He was giving an update briefing to the chief of police, Arthur Barona, as well as to the deputy chief of investigations and the deputy chief of operations of the city of Sacramento. “It’s not much:
“The private security company for the Sacramento Live! complex has still not heard from one of the guards who was on duty the night of the shootout, Joshua Mullins. He’s being sought as a material witness, but we’re looking at him as an accomplice to the robbery. Mullins is ex-Oakland PD, resigned while under suspension. Lived in an apartment downtown, but the place was cleared out. He has some ties to local biker gangs, so we did some interviews in some of his hangouts. No one’s seen him.”
“I want him,” Barona said. “Send out his description on the wire to all state agencies. He’s probably headed back to the Bay Area.”
“Already out,” Chandler said. “We’re setting up surveillance on local biker bars-the Bobby John Club, Sutter Walk, Posties, a few others, as much as manpower allows. Sacramento County is cooperating with us in setting up surveillance on biker bars in the county, and we’re working with Yolo, Sutter, Alameda, San Francisco, and Placer County DA’s to gather intelligence on biker bars in their jurisdictions.
“Our informants are giving us information on a guy that Mullins may have been in contact with who goes by the name of the Major. No information yet on who he is, where he comes from, what he’s up to, or why he might have wanted Mullins. The sergeant in charge at the Sacramento Live! shootout says he thinks he might have heard one of the gunmen shouting in German or some other language after being hit, so we might be looking at a foreign terrorist group. I’ve been in contact with the FBI and Interpol, but we don’t have much to go on except their outfits, weapons, and MO. All of the gunmen hit during the shootout were carried off.”
Chandler stopped. Barona looked at him in surprise. “That’s it, Chandler? That’s all you have?”
“ ‘Fraid so, Chief.”
“Tom, that’s completely unacceptable,” Barona said angrily. “It’s been over a week and we haven’t got an arrest in sight. We need to get some action going on this case or the city’s going to eat all of our lunches for us. Now get me some arrests.” The chief stormed out of the conference room.
Chandler ran his fingers through his hair in exasperation. “Anything else I can frustrate you gents with today?” he asked.
“We know you’re stretched to the limit, Tom,” said one of the deputy chiefs. “Put everybody you got on finding this Mullins guy. We’ll see about tossing some uniforms your way to ease the workload. What do you have in mind?”
“I’ve already wasted the next two months’ overtime budget,” Chandler said. “Any more and I trash the entire next quarter’s budget almost before it starts. I’ve got enough manpower for round-the-clocks at just two places. Posties and Sutter Walk are private clubs; Bobby John’s is public. Mullins’s more likely to turn up at one of the private clubs.”
“Then put your surveillance units there,” the deputy chief said. “Then as soon as you can, get someone on the Bobby John Club too. We’ll send out a notice to watch sergeants to circulate Mullins’s description to their patrols. But if he has any brains at all, he’s long gone out of this town. We’ll try to juggle some money around for overtime, but don’t count on it. Do the best you can, Tom.”
“ ‘Do the best you can,’ he says,” Patrick McLanahan mused as the recording fell silent. “How can he? Every one of those cops in the entire division is already working twelve-hour shifts.”
“Yeah. We’ve heard talk about that ‘Major’ guy before. He’s starting to sound like the mastermind of that robbery.”
“Sure does,” Patrick agreed. He paused for a moment, then added: “We need to bug the Bobby John Club. No telling how long it’ll take for SID to start up surveillance there.”
“Sounds good to me,” Masters said. “You know anything about the place?”
“Just enough to stay away from it,” Patrick replied. “Having a drink or shooting pool with the bikers at the Bobby John Club used to be the cool thing to do in high school, but I never went. They certainly were never any competition for the Sarge’s Place’s business.”
“Well, Chandler said it was a public bar,” Jon pointed out. “I suppose you have as much right as anyone to go in there. If there’s a million motorcycles parked out front, we’ll just go in another time.”
Bobby John Club, Del Paso Boulevard,
North Sacramento, California
Tuesday, 30 December 1997, 0127 PT
Bobby John’s had been around a long time in the Del Paso Heights neighborhood of Sacramento. Several big Harleys were parked out front. The wind had kicked up, and it felt raw and blustery, heightening the sudden sense of dread Patrick felt as he opened the door and stepped inside, four surveillance bugs tucked away and ready to go.
Although his family had run a bar for years, Patrick never liked going into them-especially strange bars, in lousy parts of town, at night, and alone. Even when it’s dark outside, there’s always a time after walking into a bar when your eyes aren’t adjusted to the gloom within. Patrick felt vulnerable: Everyone inside could see him, but he couldn’t see them-or danger coming. Tables and people were shadows. He felt on display, naked, a stranger invading unknown territory-it was like walking into a cave knowing there were bears lurking inside. He could run headlong into the guy he was looking for and never recognize him.
Patrick decided to withstand the heads turning toward him, the stares, and the muffled comments, and just wait in the doorway until his eyes adapted. If his target tried to leave, at least he’d have a chance to intercept him. Standing there, he realized that to the hostile watchers he must look like some kind of Wild West gunfighter, but there was no other solution.