Steven Gore - Final Target

“How’s Jack?” Gage asked as they drove away.

Faith’s quick smile gave him most of the answer.

“The tube is out of his throat,” she said. “He’s alert but has a hard time talking. They moved him from SF Medical to UCSF this morning. He really wants to see you. Courtney was hoping you wouldn’t be too jet-lagged.”

“It’s not too bad. Knowing Jack came out of the coma made it easier to sleep on the plane.” Gage glanced at the dashboard clock. “Let’s stop by the office on the way.”

“That reminds me. Alex Z asked me to pass on a message. He said you’d be annoyed when you got it. A U.S. Attorney named Peterson called about Jack.”

Gage felt his fists clench. Burch was barely out of a coma and Peterson was already pouncing.

“Alex Z was right.”

“Who’s Peterson?”

“The guy who wants to put Jack in jail.”

“Jack ’n Jail.” She glanced over at Gage. “Is that a new game in the U.S. Attorney’s office?”

“Apparently.”

Faith handed over the number and Gage punched it into his cell phone as she eased her way around the cars stacked up along the curbs in front of the domestic airlines.

“This is Gage.”

“Graham.” Peterson’s tone was jocular. “I heard you’ve been in London.”

Gage didn’t rise to it. “Nothing new in that.”

“How about a little sit-down?”

“Depends on how you found out.”

“From Devlin in the Serious Fraud Office.”

“If you agree not to tell Matson, then we can meet.”

“No problem. How about my office at 10 A. M. tomorrow?”

“How about mine? I don’t want anyone over there putting the same two-and-two together like I did.”

Gage disconnected.

“How come you didn’t ask him what he wanted to talk about?” Faith asked.

“Because I already know-and because he might’ve told me, and canceled the meeting. I want to see his face when he tries to scare me off. I need to figure out whether he has Matson in his pocket, or it’s the other way around.”

Faith merged into the freeway traffic heading north toward San Francisco.

“Sounds like you and Peterson know each other.”

“We do. He’s okay, just too ambitious for his own good. Always thinking about how cases will play in the media. And this one would be big. Jack goes from road-rage victim to international crook. I can already hear the six o’clock lead: In a stunning turn of events… ”

“You think you can get Jack out of this?”

“I don’t know. I’m still at the edges. The only thing that’s clear at the moment is that all the cops and crooks in the case have an interest in making Jack look guilty.”

“Can I see some ID?” the officer on duty asked Gage an hour later as he and Faith approached Burch’s room in the critical care unit at the University of California Hospital.

Gage extended his folding ID case.

“Graham Gage?” The officer smiled. “Spike’s friend?”

Gage nodded.

“He came by a little while ago. Talked to Burch.” His smile faded. “Sorry there hasn’t been much progress in the case.”

“You’re keeping him alive, that’s good enough. Thanks.”

Courtney hugged Faith and Gage, then used the push button control to raise Burch’s bed a few degrees. A myriad of plastic tributaries spread out from Burch’s bruised arms. He held a pillow against his chest to allow him to cough without exploding his still-healing sternum. An oxygen mask covered his nose. His lips were chapped.

Despite the devastation, Gage felt his heart lift as he leaned over the bed. “How are you doing, champ?”

Burch pulled the oxygen mask away from his nose. “Been…better.”

Courtney put it back, then pointed to the oxygen level on the monitor. “When it gets to ninety-five percent, they’ll take it off.”

“Too dry,” he said, squeaking out a smile. “Like dead…dingo’s…donger.”

“Now, Jack,” Courtney said, reddening.

Gage took his hand. “It’s okay, I’m not sure we qualify as polite company.”

Burch pointed at his breastbone. “Maybe…someday…we can…compare…bullet…wounds.”

“I was twenty-five years younger. It bounced off.”

Burch smiled, then coughed, gripping the pillow against his chest.

Gage patted Burch’s shoulder. “I think we better let you take it easy.”

“Wait.” Burch looked at Courtney. “The photos.”

“The lieutenant came by with photographs of possible suspects,” Courtney said, “but Jack didn’t see the man who shot him. Their heads were all too round or blockish. Jack thought the men in the photos all looked Russian.”

Burch nodded, then his eyelids lowered and he drifted off to sleep.

Courtney held her forefinger to her lips, then pointed toward the door. They followed her into the hallway.

“I’m not sure Jack got a good enough look at the man,” Courtney said. Her resigned tone told Gage that she had no hope Jack would ever be able to pick the shooter out of a lineup. “He just got a glimpse of a thin face and a gun in the man’s left hand. That’s all.” She peered up into Gage’s eyes. “The man who shot him will always be out there, won’t he?”

Gage reached his arm around her shoulders. “It’s all right if Jack can’t identify him. I’m going at it from another direction.”

P eterson and Zink arrived ten minutes early for their meeting with Gage. He met them in his first floor conference room, bringing with him photos of Gravilov and the other gangsters who had met with Matson, the files he’d taken from Fitzhugh’s cottage, and records he’d collected at the Companies House in London-ready for a little show-and-tell.

“I don’t think you can get your friend Burch out of this one,” Peterson began. “He went too far.”

“Based on what?” Gage kept his voice flat. He wanted to provoke Peterson into laying out his case, not into an argument.

Peterson grinned, then settled back in his chair. “You show me yours and maybe I’ll show you mine.”

Gage crossed his forearms on the desk and fixed his eyes on Peterson. “All Burch did was act on a referral from a big name in venture capital. I looked at records in London. Granger and Fitzhugh dummied up an appraisal for a failing company in Dublin, then flipped it to SatTek for three million shares. That was Granger’s big payoff.”

Peterson glanced at Zink, who clenched his teeth. “I’m still working on it.”

Gage hit his punch line hard. “Fitzhugh was Granger’s guy, not Burch’s.”

Peterson sat forward “You got it wrong.” He nodded at Zink. “Show him.”

Zink lifted a briefcase from the floor. He pulled out a file and slid it toward Peterson.

“These are Burch’s phone records from two months before Matson went to see him for the first time,” Peterson said. “There are six calls from Burch to Fitzhugh. Every wheel has a hub and Burch was it. Fitzhugh was Burch’s guy.”

Peterson was on a roll. He couldn’t wait to show the rest of his.

“Burch put Fitzhugh in the middle of the fake product sales to Asia, then put him in the middle of the offshore stock sales-and there’s more on the domestic side.”

Gage threw up his hands. “You’re not claiming he brought in Kovalenko?”

Peterson slapped the desk. “Bingo.” He then flicked his head toward Zink, who slid over another file while smirking at Gage. Peterson withdrew the top page.

“These are the State of Nevada records for Kovalenko’s companies. Chuck Verona is the registered agent. Kovalenko even has his name on a couple.”

Peterson withdrew another sheet.

“These are all the companies Verona is the agent for. A bunch of them were set up by Burch. Like the one that owns Kovalenko’s car.” Peterson grinned. “For that one, Kovalenko is the president, secretary, and water boy. If that’s not enough, look at Burch’s phone records for September, last year. Right in the middle of the pump and dump. There’s a call from Burch’s inside line to Kovalenko’s inside line at Northstead Securities.”