Beating the Babushka (20 page)

“Anything else?” she asked.

Cape glanced at the man face down on the floor, then at Freddie, the black orb of his eye glowing darkly through the smoke. It wasn’t the look of a cooperative man. Cape glanced at Sally and shook his head.

“Let’s go find a decent restaurant.”

They let themselves out, the guards tracking them down the stairs but making no move to stop them. Back on the street, Cape turned to Sally.

“What did you say to the son?”

“A Chinese epithet,” she replied. “Loosely translated, I told him that if he spoke again I would inflict so much pain upon him that his ancestors—and all his descendants—would writhe in agony for a thousand years.”

“He looked moved,” said Cape.

“It’s more poetic in Chinese,” Sally assured him.

“He’s obviously not a lover of poetry.”

“He’s young and bold,” said Sally gravely, “but too inexperienced to take over from Freddie.”

“But Freddie’s getting old.”

“Freddie’s already old, but it takes more than old age to kill a reptile.” They walked the next few blocks in silence. “You learn anything tonight?”

“Yeah,” said Cape. “I’ve lost my appetite for Chinese food.”

“How about Japanese?”

“Better—no fortune cookies.”

“I know a place.”

“Let’s go,” said Cape. “Maybe with some food in my stomach I’ll be able to make sense of this case.”

“I doubt it, but at least you won’t die of hunger.”

“At this rate, that’s probably the only thing that won’t kill me.”

“See?” said Sally. “Things are looking up.”

Chapter Forty-six

Anthony felt like an intellectual without his gun.

He prided himself on his vocabulary and made this weekly trek to Stacey’s Bookstore on Market regardless of the weather. The walk took him far enough from North Beach that he didn’t have to worry about running into any of Frank’s other goons, and he knew he wouldn’t see them in a bookstore unless they’d stepped in to use the john. Most of them couldn’t read the paper, let alone a book.

That was the hardest thing about working for Frank, the sheer banality of the conversations. Fuckin’-this and fuckin’-that all the time. It was like Frank had attended a training seminar called How to Act Like a Wiseguy, lessons in how to forget prepositions and shave your IQ in half by following a simple daily regimen.

But Anthony had a talent, a moral detachment and lack of empathy that few professions rewarded except for certain branches of the military, and they didn’t pay well enough. As crude as Frank Alessi might be, he was a businessman, a product of natural selection in the free market. He understood the value of talent, and Anthony had a gift. He could look down his hawk-nose at a man and shoot him in the eye without blinking, then sleep like a baby. His work ethic was unencumbered by conscience, which made him very valuable to a man like Frank.

Anthony had picked out four new books and five periodicals, paid, and was just leaving the store as a short man in a nice-looking suit held the door for him, waiting until he could enter himself. Anthony nodded his thanks and moved onto the street as a large black man stepped from the curb and smiled as if they knew each other. Anthony’s radar, suppressed during his bookstore reverie, kicked into gear too late. He felt the gun against his spine just as the black cop—he was sure they were cops—swung a lazy arm toward his solar plexus, clenching his fist at the last minute and knocking the wind out of him. Anthony doubled over and dropped his bag onto a pair of size-fifteen shoes.

“Nice of you to hold the door like that, Vinnie,” said Beau pleasantly.

“We are public servants, after all,” mused Vincent, bending over to grab Anthony by the collar. As he stood, coughing, Anthony noticed that a ridiculously large handgun had appeared in the black cop’s right hand. Without a word, Anthony put his hands behind his head and waited to be frisked.

“Ain’t you the cooperative one,” said Beau.

“We’ll see about that,” said Vincent, pulling Anthony’s arms down to cuff him. Some people were milling about, watching, but Beau gave them a look and they scattered. The two detectives led Anthony to their car.

Anthony twisted his head around and sighed in relief. The cop in the good suit had remembered his books. It occurred to him that going to jail would give him plenty of time to read.

Maybe today wasn’t such a bad day, after all.

Chapter Forty-seven

Cape was north of the city when the earthquake hit San Francisco.

The Golden Gate Bridge had made it through the 1989 quake unscathed, but this time it was the first to fall. The people on the bridge never had a chance.

Traffic was light—a small blessing—but there were still over four hundred cars driving across the span when the first tremor hit. The surface of the road buckled and surged like a wave, sending cars slamming into each other. Before anyone realized what was happening, the bridge twisted from a second tremor so powerful it caused the unthinkable—one of the giant suspension cables snapped. The cable whipsawed back and forth, a giant snake scattering pedestrians and cars like leaves. As men and women plummeted toward the churning waves below, their screams were drowned by the shriek of twisting metal.

On the rugged hills overlooking the bridge from the north, a dark-haired woman watched helplessly as she clutched a young girl to her breast. She looked on in horror as an enormous shadow swept over them, blocking out the sun. The tidal wave was only seconds away.

Grace turned to Cape with a broad smile.

“Isn’t it great?”

Cape was speechless as he watched the tidal wave sweep across the screen in the edit studio, washing away the bridge and crashing into the city near the Ferry Building. As the century-old clock tower broke in half and the wave devoured the streets south of Market, he turned to Grace with an indignant look on his face.

“You just destroyed my apartment.”

Grace put a hand on his knee and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

“It wasn’t personal,” she replied. “I had to destroy the whole city.”

“Oh, I guess that’s okay then.”

They were sitting in an edit suite at Industrial Light & Magic, the room dark except for the flickering light from the television monitors. Cape sat next to Grace on a black leather sofa about ten feet back from the screens, below which sat a young man with a goatee and a hoop earring. He moved his hands like a pianist across a mixing board covered with buttons, dials, and sliding knobs. After the city was reduced to churning rubble by the elemental fury of the ocean, he turned and looked questioningly at Grace.

“You want to see it again?”

“Absolutely,” replied Grace. “Can you play it at half speed?”

When the earthquake struck again, Cape unconsciously gripped the arm of the sofa while Grace narrated.

“The asteroid has broken into fragments in space,” she explained, “because the attempt to destroy it has failed. So a massive meteor shower is pummeling the Earth.”

“And when is this supposed to take place?” asked Cape as he watched the suspension cable snap and twist across the bridge in slow motion.

Grace ignored the question, too caught up in her descriptions. “One of the bigger chunks hit the ocean about a hundred miles off the California coast, which triggered a massive earthquake and, of course, a deadly tidal wave.”

“Of course,” said Cape, forcing a smile.

“Jake,” Grace called to the editor. “Freeze it there.” The editor pushed a button. On the screen hundreds of people stood by their cars, clutched their loved ones, ran for safety, or simply stared impotently at their impending aquatic doom. Grace stepped to the monitor and circled some of the tragic figures with her index finger.

“See these people?” she asked.

Cape nodded, squinting at the screen.

“They’re not real people.”

“Of course they’re not real people,” replied Cape. “They’re actors.”

Grace shook her head. “They’re not even that. One hundred percent digital, created one pixel at a time by a computer.” She nodded at the editor, who pushed a button. The picture zoomed and started to move, one frame at a time.

Cape looked more closely. The people on the bridge looked as real as anyone he’d ever met, down to the smallest detail. One man’s hair was tousled as if he’d just run his hands through it—you could see each strand move independently in the wind. Behind him a woman had lost her shoe. Cape could see a small hole in her sock and the tiny blister on her heel. Grace’s finger traced the panicked crowd one by one, pointing out wrinkles, folds, even reflections in their eyes.

“Why pay extras when you can make them yourself?” She rested her hand on the editor’s shoulder. “Thanks, Jake.”

Cape was still studying the screen. “Incredible.”

Grace smiled, obviously pleased to have impressed him.

“The CGI is cutting edge—sorry, computer-generated imagery. You saw the last three Star Wars movies?”

“Sure.”

“Remember the winged alien with the elephant’s nose?” she asked. “The one who owned Darth Vader’s mother as a slave?”

“Yeah,” said Cape. “He was blue.”

Grace nodded. “He was completely digital, created by the artists here. All they did to complete the character was hire an actor to record his voice.”

“I think I read an article about that.”

“That was just one character, but now we can create hundreds.”

“Must be expensive.”

“Not as bad as casting calls and talent payments, by the time you’re through,” replied Grace. “And no problems with SAG, the actors’ union. But it does get expensive, and time consuming. That’s why I’m so excited—we’re ahead of schedule with this scene.” She turned back to the screen and frowned. “But I think the tidal wave needs more work. It needs to be…bigger.”

Cape looked hopeful. “Does that mean I’ll have time to move into an apartment on top of one of the hills in Pacific Heights before the tidal wave hits?”

Grace smiled apologetically. “We’re destroying the whole city.”

Cape shrugged. “Then how about a last meal?”

“Good idea,” replied Grace, checking her watch. “I’ll buy.”

The cafeteria was nicer than most restaurants in the city, plus it was relatively deserted. The producers, editors, and computer artists worked such odd hours that the typical lunchtime rush didn’t occur. People came and went at all hours, sometimes just grabbing food to bring back to their editing bay.

Cape went for a turkey sandwich and chips while Grace loaded up on Cobb salad. Once the necessary condiments and utensils had been gathered, they sat down at an empty table some distance from anyone else.

“So how is it going?” Grace asked.

Cape hesitated by biting into his sandwich, trying to decide what to tell her. He’d given her regular updates, but now that he was sitting across from her, he realized that he’d omitted some details along the way. Grace knew he’d almost been killed in Ghirardelli Square, but he never mentioned his attackers were Russian. Similarly, he never told her about the Major’s visit to his office, or about Ursa. Cape described his meetings at the Empire’s offices but left out the Pole. All along he had edited himself instinctively, thinking he was being expedient, focusing on things that mattered directly to Grace. But now Cape wondered if his subconscious had other reasons.

He told himself Grace would only worry, or maybe even stop the investigation if she feared too much for his safety. A detective’s job was to solve the case, not burden the client with his problems. But studying her now, as Grace looked at him expectantly, Cape wondered if some part of him didn’t completely trust his own client. And after the past few days, he worried it might be impossible for him to trust anyone, period.

He shook himself from his reverie as Grace’s expression changed to concern at his extended silence. “It’s going just fine,” he said reassuringly. “If discovering what you don’t know is considered making progress, then I’m about to crack the case.”

She smiled sympathetically. “You were looking for a connection to the drugs in Tom’s room?”

“Yes,” said Cape. “But I’m not sure that’s the right angle. I talked to some of the characters involved in the local drug trade, and I didn’t get the reactions I was expecting.”

“But that doesn’t mean they weren’t involved.”

“True.” Cape nodded. “But suspecting a connection and establishing one are worlds apart. And unless that’s the right angle, I’ll never establish a motive. Without a motive, it’s hard to track a killer.”

Grace worked the muscles in her jaw. “Which means you won’t find the people who killed Tom.”

Cape studied the grim determination in her eyes, suddenly disgusted with himself for having doubts about her integrity.

“I’ll find them,” he said. “I just need a new angle.”

“That’s why you called about the movie’s budget?”

“Yeah,” he said. “How’s it look?”

“It’s a mess,” replied Grace, pulling a folder from her bag and laying it on the table. “Frankly, I don’t know what to make of it.”

“Why not?” asked Cape. “You’ve handled the entire production budget on other films—isn’t that what you told me?”

Grace shook her head. “That’s not the problem. I understand the entries, but it doesn’t make any sense. I thought Tom—” She hesitated before continuing. “I thought Tom would be more organized.”

Cape leaned forward and opened the folder. “Give me an example.”

Grace ran her finger down a column of numbers along the left side of the first page. “These are estimates,” she explained. “Pretty standard entries for a film of this scale, separated into three broad categories: preproduction, production, and postproduction.”

“Preproduction is scouting locations, that sort of thing?” asked Cape.

“Exactly,” replied Grace. “Everything you do before you start shooting. Once the cameras start rolling and you’re on location, then you’re in production.”

“And postproduction?” asked Cape. “Is that editing?”

Grace nodded. “Among other things—post can include editing, sound effects, film transfer, color correction, and special effects added to the film.”

“Like the people on the bridge.”

“In this case, yes,” said Grace. “Sometimes special effects get classified as production if they’re part of another scene you’re actually shooting, but Tom separated all the digital effects into postproduction budgets.”

“Okay,” said Cape. “So what’s the problem?”

Grace turned to the next page and pointed to a table of line items and corresponding numbers. It looked like a standard spreadsheet program.

“These are supposed to be actuals,” said Grace, frustration audible in her voice. “The real costs incurred so far on the film.”

“So?”

“So according to this, we’ve already blown our budget,” said Grace, “and we’ve spent money too early, where it shouldn’t be spent yet.”

“What do you mean by yet?”

“Look at this,” said Grace, pointing at a number. “This is supposed to be the running total for computer effects, and it’s already over budget. But when Tom did this sheet, I hadn’t even started working with the guys here at ILM. That means Tom had already spent money on digital effects before I arrived.”

“What effects?” asked Cape. “Early work on the bridge or the tidal wave?”

“That’s what I thought, but nobody here seems to know,” replied Grace in an exasperated voice. “Like I said, we’re ahead of schedule on the effects, so maybe that’s what happened.”

“Maybe it’s a billing error,” suggested Cape, “or some of the costs were pre-billed to the studio.”

“I’ve got the bill,” replied Grace, “but it’s short on details. Just some dates and studio time. If I can’t determine what it’s for, I’m going to make ILM eat the costs.”

“Can you do that?’

Grace nodded. “I don’t like to be a hard-ass, but a lot of production costs get swallowed by suppliers if you run over. So much of the actual cost is people’s time and not hard costs, the accounting gets a little fuzzy sometimes.”

Cape looked at the numbers, but they were meaningless to him. His experience told him to always follow the money, but he was in way over his head. He couldn’t even do his own taxes. This case made more sense when people were shooting at him.

“What else?” he asked.

“Travel is over budget,” said Grace. “Still tracking down receipts for that category, but it’s almost triple what it should be.”

Cape stared at the numbers as if they were tea leaves. “Anything else?”

“Talent costs are also out of whack.”

“I thought you were creating virtual actors in the computer, not paying them,” said Cape.

“That’s the idea,” said Grace. “Don’t get me wrong—there are still a lot of real actors in this picture, like the woman watching the bridge collapse—the one holding the girl.”

“She was in the last movie.”

“Right,” said Grace. “But Tom and I discussed keeping these costs down by going digital, so I have to find out why the original budget got blown.”

“When can you do that?”

“Not while I’m finishing this movie,” said Grace. “To track down all the actual bills and costs incurred so far, then separate fact from fiction…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “It will take weeks, if not months.”

“Have you told the studio?” asked Cape.

“Of course,” said Grace. “As soon as I saw how screwed up things were, I called Angelo, and he put me through to Adam.”

“How did he react?”

“Not as pissed as I expected,” replied Grace. “He said there’s nothing we can do about the budget right now, but we’re screwed if we don’t finish this picture on time. And you know what, he’s right.”

Cape nodded but didn’t say anything.

“But he wasn’t sanguine about the situation, either,” added Grace. “This is a big deal—if we’ve blown this budget, even the best opening weekend won’t make back the money spent on this movie.”

“Doesn’t that affect people’s percentages—the profit sharing?”

“For some people, absolutely,” said Grace. “For me, and for Tom’s share, it might be adios.”

“Not Adam or Harry?” asked Cape. “Or the director?”

“Not necessarily,” said Grace, a sarcastic smile creeping across her lips. “It’s an old Hollywood trick—the senior people get a percentage of the gross, while the hired talent gets a percentage of the net.”

“What’s that mean in English?” asked Cape, wishing he hadn’t slept through accounting.

“Some people get a percentage of how much money the movie generates at the box office—that’s the gross of the picture.”

“Okay,” said Cape tentatively.