Steven Gore - Power Blind

“And second?”

“He flinched at the wrong times.”

“I’d have flunked you in Anthro 101,” Faith said in mock disapproval. “Flinching isn’t considered evidence at UC Berkeley.”

“Unless it’s a lab rat.”

Faith shuddered. She was on the university committee tasked with ensuring the humane treatment of research animals.

“Anyway, investigating isn’t a science.” Gage raised a cupped hand, then blew on his fingernails. “It’s an art.”

“So Van Gogh, what’s next?”

“I’m not sure, I’m waiting for inspiration.”

Faith untied her robe.

He raised his eyebrows and smiled.

“I’m suddenly inspired.”

The screech of slammed brakes, the squeal of skidding tires, and the crunch of metal on metal propelled Shakir Mohammed out of his chair and toward his second floor office window facing the midnight street. Overhead halogen lights illuminated two cars jammed together nose to nose. A man lay sprawled on the pavement next to an open driver’s door.

Seconds later, a fist pounded on the back door and a man yelled, “Please, help! Please, help!”

The plea drew Shakir two steps at a time down the stairs. Four jabs at the alarm pad and he pushed the door open.

The first punch caught him under his rib cage.

T he call shook Gage and Faith awake at 2 A.M.

“Boss.” Alex Z’s voice was shaking, choking, verging on tears. “It’s about Shakir.”

Gage sat up.

“What happened?”

“He’s hurt. Really hurt. The ambulance is here. I’ll ride with him.”

G age called Viz as he and Faith drove toward San Francisco Medical Center.

“Looks like some crooks faked an accident to trick Shakir into letting them in. Head down to the office. Make sure the police don’t get into anything they shouldn’t. If you can’t control them, call Spike.”

Twenty-five minutes later they walked into the emergency room teeming with the night’s sick and damaged, the air a miasma of sweat and pain and fear. Alex Z sat in a plastic chair, staring at the cell phone in his hand. He looked over as they worked their way down the crowded aisle.

“I called his parents in Boston,” Alex Z said, then glanced at his watch. “They’ll take the first flight out they can get seats on.”

“What are the doctors saying?”

“Nothing. They won’t talk to me because I’m not family.”

Faith sat down and reached her arm around Alex Z as Gage strode toward the reception station. He scanned the on-duty board behind the receptionist as he approached. He stood by the counter until he was certain the clerk was ignoring his presence as she made notes in a chart, and then said, “I’d like to speak to Dr. Kishore.”

“I can’t call her,” the woman said, eyes still down.

“I’m her brother-in-law. There’s a family problem I need to talk to her about.”

The woman finally looked up. “Yeah, and I’m Mother Teresa.”

Gage glared at her. “You want to make the call or roll the dice?”

He’d never understood why, but the phrase seemed to unnerve people more than an actual threat.

The woman snorted, then picked up the phone and punched a three-number extension.

“There’s a guy here to see Dr. Kishore.” She smirked at Gage. “What’s your name, brother-in-law?”

“Graham Gage.”

She repeated his name into the receiver.

Ten minutes later, Dr. Ajita Kishore walked through the ICU double doors, still wearing her surgical scrubs. She smiled as she approached Gage. It wasn’t the first time they’d talked in that hallway.

“How was the flight from Mumbai?” Kishore’s British-Indian tone was droll.

“Quick.”

“What can I-”

“Shakir Mohammed.”

Kishore’s smile died. “I didn’t work on him myself. I only saw the before and after. Somebody really beat on him. We had to remove his spleen and sew up a puncture to his left lung. Forty stitches on his face. He’ll remember this night every time he looks in the mirror.”

Gage exhaled. At least Shakir would live to remember it. He nodded at Alex Z, who clasped his hands together.

“He arrived in a lot better shape than your friend Jack Burch,” Kishore said. Gage had first met Kishore when the international corporate lawyer was gunned down in a gangster’s attempt to contain a securities fraud investigation. “And his recovery will be a lot quicker.”

“When can I talk to him?”

“It’ll be a couple of hours.” Kishore glanced back at the double doors. “I’ve got to get back inside. I’ll make sure someone calls you if anything changes.”

Gage turned as Faith and Alex Z walked up after Kishore returned to the ICU.

“He’ll be okay,” Gage told them.

Alex Z hung his head.

“It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have left him there alone. He’s too new.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. I stopped by on the way back from our gig at Slim’s to check on him. The back door was open. But not like somebody busted it. I found Shakir in his office. Tied to a chair. Unconscious. Soaked with water.” Faith reached up and covered her mouth as the same horrifying thought entered each of their minds: The burglars had knocked out Shakir, and then tried to revive him in order to interrogate him further; maybe they even succeeded.

Alex Z dropped his head into his hands and started to cry. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve and said, “Sorry, boss.” He swallowed hard. “And there’s something else. His and my computers are missing.”

S hakir gazed from his ICU bed at Gage and Alex Z. It had been seven hours since the surgeon had finished putting him back together. Faith had gone back across the bay to teach a morning class.

Gage could see only Shakir’s eyes, the bottom of his nose, and his mouth. The rest of his face with its dark, delicate features was wrapped in bandages. Two IVs fed into his arms. One for saline, the other for morphine.

Gage took his hand and sat down next to the bed.

“Tell me what happened,” Gage said.

“Car accident… pounding on back door… I thought injury

… men rushed in… wanted files.”

“Could you recognize them again?”

“Masked.”

Shakir tried to lick his lips. Gage wet the sponge end of an oral swab and moistened Shakir’s mouth.

“Voices?” Gage asked.

“One… New York… One… kind of Southern.”

“Why’d they beat you up?”

“Security code for… for the storage room.”

Gage looked at Alex Z, who shook his head. He hadn’t given Shakir the number. No matter how or how long they tortured him, they’d never get it.

“What files?”

“Charlie Palmer’s.”

“Did they get your computer password?”

Shakir nodded. “I’m sorry. My computer, too.”

Alex Z spoke up. “No problem. Everything is replaceable. We have backups on the server.” He looked down at Shakir. “Did they get your file encryption key?”

A flicker of a smile appeared on Shakir’s bruised lips.

“No.”

G age and Alex Z stood in the hallway outside Shakir’s room.

“Stay with him,” Gage whispered. “The nurse has notified the detectives he’s awake. Tell Shakir it’s okay to talk about the antitrust case, but play dumb about what else you two were working on. Otherwise this thing might spin out of control. I don’t want to see Brandon Meyer’s name on the front page of the Chronicle tomorrow.”

Gage turned as footsteps came to a stop behind him. He faced a man who appeared to be a twenty-five-year-older version of Shakir and three inches shorter. His eyes were red, his brown suit was rumpled, the oversized knot of his tie hung an inch below his collar, and his fists were locked at his sides.