Michael Savage - Abuse of Power

According to the timetable, part of that journey would involve passing over the Golden Gate Bridge at approximately 2200 hours that night, and Jack got the impression that the Bridge Authority had not been notified of this shipment. The truck itself would be marked as a milk tanker.

In other words, this was a so-called black shipment. Okay; Jack had no doubt that happened all the time.

The question was, why had this package been left on his deck, and who had left it?

Searching through the package again, Jack found a business card for a Linda Hodgkins of the Department of Defense. After mulling it over, Jack flipped open his cell phone and called the number.

It was picked up after three rings. “Yes?”

“Is this Linda Hodgkins with the Department of Defense?”

A hesitation. “Yes, who is this?”

“Ms. Hodgkins, my name is Jack Hatfield and it seems a package of yours has been left on my boat. Would you know anything about that?”

A longer hesitation. “Copeland said you can be trusted.”

“You know Bob Copeland?”

“Yes, I wanted him to take the briefcase but he told me to leave it on your boat.”

“Maybe you’d better back up a bit and tell me what this is about.”

She hesitated again, as if trying to gather her courage, then she said, “Yesterday afternoon my colleagues and I went to lunch at Fisherman’s Wharf and we left some sensitive materials in the back of our van. Somebody broke in and took everything except that briefcase, including a classified laptop computer.”

“Okay,” Jack said. “So what does this have to do with Copeland?”

“We’ve already been burned and are looking at some serious disciplinary action. I went to Bob for help and he suggested I stash the briefcase and documents in case I ever need to use them for leverage.”

“And he told you to give them to me?”

“Yes. He said he was too hot to be hanging on to them for now and that you’re the most trustworthy person he knows. But when I went to your boat you weren’t there, so I left them by the door.”

“Something that sensitive,” he said. “You just leave it like a UPS package.”

“That’s exactly right,” she replied. “It’s called a Poe Drop, after Edgar Allan. From ‘The Purloined Letter.’ Hide what people are looking for in plain sight and they’ll never see it.”

“If you say so. What are you expecting me to do with them?”

“Just keep them safe until Bob can take possession of them. That’s all I ask.”

“Okay,” Jack said. “I think I can manage that.”

“Thank you. Now, I really have to go. I don’t want to be on this line any longer than necessary.”

Then she abruptly hung up.

Jack stared at the phone for a moment, wondering how this played into everything that had happened so far, but couldn’t for the life of him make a connection.

Just another typical bit of Bob Copeland cloak and dagger, he supposed.

Taking the papers from the briefcase, he stuffed them into a manila envelope and put them in the safe in his cabin.

Yet another question to ask Copeland when he saw him this afternoon.

At ten past four, Hatfield stood in the central atrium of the Museum of Modern Art wondering if Copeland would ever show.

After the events of this morning and that bizarre phone call last night, he was concerned about the guy. Shortly after the second call, he’d remembered that Copeland had a house in San Mateo, and before going to bed, he’d called every number listed in the book. But all he’d succeeded in doing was pissing off a bunch of half-asleep strangers.

Jack sent his friend several text messages during the day, using their usual contact number, but so far there had been no response. Not that this was all that unusual. It often took Copeland a while to get back to him. And based on the guy’s behavior this morning, Jack wouldn’t be surprised if he was still passed out somewhere, in an alcohol-induced coma.

But none of this made him feel any better. He liked Copeland and hated to think of him that way. There were, of course, other matters to consider. Copeland wouldn’t have requested this meeting if he didn’t have information, and Jack was curious to know what that information was.

Like the building itself, the atrium of the Museum of Modern Art was a thing of beauty. Jack had always had a soft spot for great architecture, even if his knowledge about what was stored inside this place was limited. Fine art was more Rachel’s territory, and in their ten years of marriage they’d come here several times to see various exhibits.

The place had been a San Francisco icon for nearly two decades, and still had that edgy, modernistic look that made it stand out in a crowded urban environment. The atrium was cavernous, boasting a huge, tubular skylight, and you couldn’t help having a feeling of awe every time you entered the place.

Unless you had other things on your mind.

Jack checked his watch. Four-twenty, still no Copeland.

He stood there wondering if he should stick around a while longer or call it a day. Maybe check in with Maxine, see how the video was coming. Just as he made up his mind, his cell phone rang.

It was Tony.

Jack clicked it on. “Hey, Tony, I can’t really talk right now. I’m in the middle of-”

“You’ll want to talk about this,” Tony said. “Are you near a TV?”

“No, why?”

“Your friend Bob Copeland is all over the news.”

Jack’s gut tightened. “What do you mean? We’re supposed to be meeting right now. I’m standing here waiting for him.”

“Yeah, well, you’ll be waiting forever,” Tony said. “Copeland’s dead.”

It didn’t take long for the smear job to start.

Bob Copeland himself had said it best: “Nobody spews that kind of venom unless they’ve got something to hide.”

His body was found in a landfill in Oakland, when the driver of a garbage truck dumped his load for the afternoon. Copeland came tumbling out like an oversized rag doll, his three-piece suit stained and askew, one of his shoes missing, and enough bruises on his body to suggest he’d been beaten pretty badly.

The part about the shoe hit Jack hard. He couldn’t purge his friend’s slurred voice from his head, talking about the shoe, and he kept second-guessing himself, wondering what he could have done to prevent this from happening.

“Don’t start the blame game,” Tony told him.

But the truth was, if Jack hadn’t contacted Copeland in the first place the man might still be alive.

The initial reports on Copeland’s death were sketchy, but as the night wore on more and more sordid details came to light, and the more Jack heard, the more he wanted to break his TV.

Those initial reports had told of Copeland’s service in Vietnam, his work with the think tank, the Pentagon, and the two Bush administrations, his dedication to cybersecurity, and his regular appointment to the board of trustees for the San Francisco War Memorial and Performing Arts Center.

In other words, Bob Copeland was a patriot, through and through. An outstanding human being on just about every level.

But once the news had gotten that part out, they were done with it and quickly moved on to the more salacious details, half of which seemed to have been cooked up by a bad mystery writer.

Every time you changed the channel there was a slightly different version of events. But as far as Jack was concerned they’d all gotten it wrong. This was, the news insisted, the story of a man who had had a mental breakdown, distraught over a lawsuit, a dispute with his neighbor about the building of an addition to the house across the street from his home in San Mateo.

According to police, several incendiary devices-smoke bombs, it turned out-had been set off at the construction site shortly after midnight, and they claimed they’d found Copeland’s cell phone buried under some construction debris.