Rogue Justice (8 page)

28 March, 11:15 PM PDT

San Francisco, California

Two hours later, following a lively performance by one of Oakland's top jazz ensembles, Chandler and Savannah said their goodbyes and slipped out of the still-crowded room. They jumped into the big limo and settled back for a short ride across the Bay.

Rizzo practically sideswiped a screeching cable car as he pulled away from the front entrance of the Fairmont. He dropped down the hill toward the Embarcadero and, within minutes, the Town Car was rumbling across the Golden Gate Bridge on Highway 101. The famous span had opened in 1937, linking two very different worlds—one, urban and congested; the other, rural and wide open.

Now, it was all congestion.

As they rolled into Marin County, Chandler felt a strange sense of unease. There was something about this place, this Mecca of wealthy liberals and New Age proselytizers, something that had always set his pulse racing. The home Savannah had purchased after taking the high-tech job, however, was located in much friendlier political territory. Once an island, the mega-rich enclave of Belvedere was connected to the mainland by two roads layered over sand bars. She had since moved to a penthouse apartment near CGE headquarters in Olympia, but still owned the charming home. It was a rather modest dwelling, certainly when compared to the regal estates that surrounded it.

Chandler recalled the first time they'd met, during an art auction at Sotheby's in Manhattan. Nearly five years ago now. He was there to bid on a 17
^th
century masterpiece by Vermeer. She was following up on a tip involving a painting stolen from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston. The brazen heist—orchestrated in 1990 by two armed men wearing police uniforms and dime-store mustaches—resulted in the loss of thirteen precious works of art, now estimated to be worth more than $300 million.

Entering the crowded room that rainy fall day, Savannah had held every eye, vivacious and confident, but without any trace of arrogance. In the end, the bad guys never surfaced, and Chandler decided to pass on the Vermeer. But he walked away from the event with something far more valuable, an introduction to one
very
remarkable woman. Yet, despite the attraction and numerous job offers, it had still taken him nearly two years to entice her to join the firm, and another eighteen months before things turned serious between them.

He was thinking about all that when his cell phone burred.

It was Colby Freeman.

Freeman apologized for the lateness of the call, then came right to the point. He recounted what Dr. Kincaid had said about Samson's condition, her analysis of the test results, and the dire prognosis.

"Jesus, Colby," Chandler said in an annoyed tone. "I thought Big Boy said it was a virus, something that could be treated with antibiotics?"

"Yes, sir, he did."

"And?"

A long pause.

"I'm afraid he was wrong."

Chandler considered that. He knew it had been a mistake to hire his old Vietnam buddy, but the guy had saved his life, for God's sake. And Big Boy was a damn good vet too, at least when he was clean and sober, which hadn't been all that often in recent months. "What about the marine biologist?" he asked, trying to focus on the crisis at hand. "Any chance
she
got it wrong, Colby?"

"No, I'm afraid not. The test results don't lie. I managed to buy us forty-eight hours..." Another long pause. "Make that forty hours now. I was going to call you earlier, but didn't want to mess up your evening. I guess I—"

"Never mind that. Just tell me what's going on."

Freeman then took several minutes to explain how he'd used the friendship between Dr. Katrina Kincaid and head trainer Leanne Bucaro—specifically Leanne's ill daughter—as a bargaining chip. He further explained that Samson remained isolated in an enclosed sea-pen guarded round the clock. "Only a handful of employees know about his condition," he assured Chandler. "And they've all been sworn to silence."

Chandler said, "Okay, what are you proposing, Colby?"

"Well, sir, as you know, we've issued several press releases announcing new safety measures being implemented in the wake of that incident at our Osaka park. The work is scheduled to begin next week. So I plan to issue another release in the morning saying construction has been delayed. Happens all the time, no reason it should raise any red flags."

"And when the whale dies?"

There was a long silence.

"I don't know," Freeman said. "I'm doing the best I can here."

Chandler dialed down his angry tone a bit. "Okay, look, go ahead with the press release. Then sit tight. I need some time to think this through."

"Of course, sir, I'll get on it first thing."

Chandler clicked off, sat quietly holding the phone in his hand.

"What's going on?" Savannah asked.

He told her.

After several seconds of silence she said, "Jesus, Mitchell, why wasn't I told about this?"

"I had no idea the whale's condition was this serious," he snapped. "Goddamn Big Boy. I told him—"

"I'm afraid Big Boy might be the least of our problems," Savannah said, her eyes flaring. "What about the hordes of picketers lining up outside the parks? Their numbers are growing every day."

"Tell me about it. I'm constantly being hounded to shut down the whale exhibit in Japan. And if Osaka closes, the other fourteen parks will fall like fucking dominos." Chandler paused briefly, sighed. "They're demanding the orcas be set free, all thirty of them."

"Would they even be able to survive?"

"No. At least I don't think so. But the jury's still out on that one."

"Well, come to think of it, it's not such a bad idea, Mitchell, releasing the whales, I mean."

Silence.

After some contemplation, Chandler said, "Maybe someday, Savannah, but not now." He was thinking there was no way he could walk away from a $5 billion operation that threw off insane profits. Certainly not after the company's filmed entertainment division had just dropped one of the biggest box office bombs in movie history. In fact, thanks to the lousy global economy, four of the company's other five divisions were also bleeding red—Real Estate, Energy Management, Casinos, and Telecommunications. No, the lucrative Aquatic Theme Parks division must be protected at all costs.

Chandler leaned back in his seat, thinking hard. His mind worked like an intricate machine, especially under stress, and the wheels were already turning, channeling his anger and frustration into cold resolve. In that instant, he was suddenly struck with an idea. "Rizzo, hand me my bag, will you?"

Rizzo grabbed a well-worn leather attaché case off the passenger-side seat, passed it back to his boss. Chandler released the metal latch, reached inside, and pulled out a thick book. He knew Savannah was familiar with it—the book was required reading for all senior managers with CGE—yet he had never really explained its history to her... or anyone else for that matter. He wasn't sure why he decided to do so now, but he did, beginning at the beginning.

His late father, Harry Chandler, was a decorated World War II pilot, flying more than a hundred missions over the Philippine Sea in an F6F Hellcat. He racked up twenty-seven kills. Most flyboys, he said, were thrilled with one or two. After the war, Harry settled in Des Moines, married his high school sweetheart, and opened a successful tool and die shop. "I arrived in 1951," Chandler added. "My sister, Tess, came along three years after that. The old man was a tough guy, mentally and physically. Never did less than the best he knew how, expected the same from me. 'Son,' he'd say, 'the most pig-headed mistake beats the hell out of not trying.'"

"Pretty good advice, Mitchell."

"I guess so, but the man never let up. It all changed after the accident though." This part of the story Chandler had already told Savannah, the part about the humid summer day in the mid-sixties that changed everything. His mother and sister were returning home from the market when a drunk driver with three priors crossed the median and crashed head-on into their vehicle. He escaped with minor injuries. They were killed instantly. "Dad went into a deep depression after that, made life a living hell for me."

Savannah took Chandler's hand in hers. "So, you hit the road and became a street kid at, what, twelve years old?"

"Yeah. Dad gave me this book for my ninth birthday. I was hoping for a baseball mitt, read it anyway, several times in fact. It became my bible. So, when things at home got totally unbearable, I left. Nothing but the clothes on my back, ten bucks in my pocket, and my prized possession stuffed inside an old canvas bag."

"Then you bounced from one abusive foster home to another, right?"

"Right. But I grew up fast and I grew up smart. It made me what I am today." Chandler paused for several long moments. He then turned over the hand-tooled red leather book revealing a gold-embossed title, "The Art of War." It was written by a famous Chinese general named Sun Tzu. He'd been dead for more than 1,500 years.

Savannah said, "Hey I know you admire the man, but I'm not sure I see the fit here."

"His approach to warfare, Savannah. It was radically different from his contemporaries then and still relevant to this day, maybe more so. Here, let me show you." Chandler flipped to a couple of highlighted passages and began reading, "'Warfare is the Way—Tao—of deception. Attaining one hundred victories in one hundred battles is not the pinnacle of excellence. Subjugating the enemy's army without fighting is the true pinnacle of excellence.'" Pausing again, he added. "Look, we both know the goddamn activists will hit the war path if they get wind of Samson's death, right? One whale... that's all it will take to set them off."

"So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying... what if there's no war to
fight
?"

"Meaning?"

"I'm not sure yet, Savannah. I'm not sure."

Chapter 8

29 March, 12:30 AM PDT

Seattle, Washington

An unmarked, black Chevy Caprice pulled away from the front entrance of Harborview Medical Center, turned left, sped down the hill, then headed north on 4
^th
Avenue. Seattle homicide Detective Cloyd Steiger was behind the wheel, Jia-li Han and Jason Taylor huddled together in the back seat. Jason looked like fifty miles of bad road. He sported purple welts under both eyes, a busted nose, and bandages covering a pair of stitched-up lacerations.

Jia-li was banged up, too, but mostly she looked exhausted.

Steiger had been assigned to track down the high-profile reporter and her fiancé after they were reported missing. It had taken some serious digging, but his investigation eventually led him to the Seattle Yacht Club where Jason docked his big cruiser. Two hours after that—with the able assistance of the U.S. Coast Guard—the couple was safely back on land, at the rescue operation's headquarters on Pier 36, close to downtown. The mission, however, had hardly been a slam dunk. Puget Sound extended a hundred miles or so from Olympia, Washington in the south to beyond Deception Pass in the north, and was more than five miles wide in some places. But thanks to a bright moon and starry night, the
Lois Lane
was quickly spotted in calm waters by the USCG's workhorse helicopter, the MH-60J.

Moments after touching down, Jia-li and Jason were rushed by ambulance to the closest ER. In addition to treating cuts and bruises, doctors diagnosed mild cases of hypothermia and suggested they remain overnight for observation. Both refused.

"You two okay?" Steiger said, raising his voice over the constant chatter of the police radio.

Jia-li looked up, sighed wistfully. "Yeah, I think so. Still can't believe what happened out there."

"Me neither," Jason added. "If there's such a thing as a waking nightmare, we just lived it."

"Look, I need you both to tell me everything, top to bottom," Steiger said. "But it's got to be on the record, so hold those thoughts, okay?" Ideally their statements would be taken at headquarters, but he'd offered to conduct the interview at the TV station instead. It wasn't a big deal really. In fact, the familiar setting might prove advantageous. Experience had taught him to play every angle on every case. What might seem insignificant now could prove crucial later.