“And Frank Seymour? He was killed in the Rincon Center blast the other day. Seymour was the lead agent on the Hope Street raid that killed your son. Charles is out there. He's killing innocent people, Mr. Danko. I think he's gone mad. I think you do, too.”
The old man took a deep breath. He stared into the fire, then got up and went over to a desk. He took out a pack of letters from a bottom drawer. Tossed them in front of me on the coffee table.
“I didn't lie. My son has been dead to me. I've seen him once, five minutes on a Seattle street corner, in the past thirty years. Few years ago, these began to arrive. Once a year, around my birthday.”
Jesus, I'd been right all along. Charles Danko was alive....
I took the letters and began to sort through them.
The old man shrugged. “Guess he's teaching college or something.”
I inspected the envelopes; no return addresses. But the last four had originated up north. Portland, Oregon. One, as recently as January 7, four months ago.
Portland.
A thought flashed through my head. It couldn't be a coin-cidence. Stephen Hardaway had gone to college in Portland. Reed. I looked back at the old man. “You say he's teaching? Teaching where?”
He shook his head. “Don't know.”
But I knew. Suddenly I knew with a clarity that was inescapable.
Danko was at Reed, wasn't he? All this time, he was up there teaching college.
That was how he and Stephen Hardaway met.
Womans Murder Club 3 - 3rd Degree
Chapter 101
I WAS PATCHED THROUGH to Molinari at the Palace of the Legion of Honor. The vice president's reception was less than two hours away. The G-8 had begun.
“I think I know where Danko is,” I barked into the hand-held phone. “He's at Reed College. In Portland. He's a teacher there. Joe, Reed is where Stephen Hardaway went to school. It fits.”
Molinari told me he would send an FBI team out to the college while I headed back to the city. I had the lights flashing and the siren on the whole way. South of Vallejo, I couldn't wait any longer. I got the general number for Reed.
I identified myself to an operator and was patched through to the dean of academic studies, a Michael Picotte. FBI agents from the Portland office were arriving as he got on the line.
“We desperately need to locate one of your professors. This is an emergency,” I told the dean. “I don't have a name or description. His real name is Charles Danko. He'd be approximately fifty years old.”
“D-Danko?” Picotte stammered. “There's no one by the name of Danko connected with the college. We have several professors in their fifties, including myself.”
I was growing more exasperated and impatient. “Do you have a fax?” I asked. “A fax number I can have?”
I radioed in to the office and got Lorraine on the line. I told her to locate the FBI wanted poster of Charles Danko from the seventies. The resemblance might still be there. Dean Picotte put me on hold as the fax came through.
I was approaching the Bay Bridge; San Francisco Interna-tional was only about twenty minutes away. I could fly up to Portland myself, I was thinking. Maybe I should get on a plane and go to Reed right now.
“All right, I have it,” the dean said, coming back on the line. “This is a wanted poster....”
“Look at it closely,” I said. “Please... Do you recognize the face?”
“My God... ,” the dean seemed to choke.
“Who is he? I need a name!” I yelled into the phone. I sensed that Picotte was hesitating. He might be giving up a colleague, even a friend.
I pulled off the bridge into San Francisco and onto Harri-son Street. “Dean Picotte, please...I need a name! Lives are at stake here.”
“Stanzer,” the dean finally said. “It looks like Jeffrey Stanzer. I'm almost certain.”
I pulled out a pen and hastily scribbled the name down. Jeffrey Stanzer. Stanzer was Danko!
Danko was August Spies. And he was still on the loose.
“Where do we find him?” I said. “There are FBI agents at the college now. We need an address for Stanzer right now.”
Picotte hesitated again. “Professor Stanzer's a respected member of our faculty.”
I pulled to a halt on the side of the street. “You have to give us a specific location where we can find Jeffrey Stanzer. This is a homicide investigation! Stanzer is a murderer. He's going to kill again.”
The dean exhaled. “You said you were calling from San Francisco?”
“Yes.”
There was a pause. “He's down there with you.... Jeffrey Stanzer is presenting at the G-8 meeting. I think it's sched-uled for tonight.”
My God, Danko was going to kill everybody there.
Womans Murder Club 3 - 3rd Degree
Chapter 102
CHARLES DANKO STOOD amid the bright lights outside the Palace of the Legion of Honor, and his body jittered with nerves and anticipation. This was his night. He was going to be famous, and so would his brother, William.
Anyone who thought they knew him would have been surprised he was speaking in San Francisco tonight. Jeffrey Stanzer had spent years in a secluded academic life, carefully avoiding the public eye. Hiding from the police.
But tonight he was going to do something far bolder than deliver some boring speech. All the theories and analyses didn't mean anything now. Tonight, he would rewrite history.
Every cop in San Francisco was looking for him, August Spies. And the laugh was, they were letting him in - right through the front door!
A chill cut through him. He clutched his briefcase tightly against his rumpled tuxedo. Inside was his speech, an analy-sis of the effect of invested foreign capital on the labor mar-kets of the Third World. His life's work, some might say. But what did anyone really know about him? Not a thing. Not even his name.
Up ahead, security agents dressed in tuxedos and gowns were poking through the pockets and purses of economists and ambassadors' wives, the kind of self-important, self-involved functionaries who flocked to this sort of thing.
I could kill all of them, he was thinking. And why not? They came to carve up the world, to put their economic thumb-print on those who could not compete, or even fight back. Bloodsuckers, he thought. Ugly, despicable human beings. Every-one here deserves to die. Just like Lightower and Bengosian.
The line made its way past a cast of Rodin's The Thinker. Another flutter of nerves rippled through his limbs. Finally, Danko presented his special VIP invitation to an attractive woman dressed in a black evening dress. Probably FBI. No doubt a Glock was strapped underneath her gown. Chicks with dicks, Danko thought.
“Good evening, sir,” she said and checked his name against a list. “We apologize for any inconvenience, Professor Stanzer, but can I ask you to place your case through security?”
“Of course. It's just my speech, though,” Danko said, handing her his briefcase like any nervous academic. He extended his arms while a security guard waved a metal-detector wand up and down his body.
The security man felt around his jacket. “What's this?” he asked. Danko removed a small plastic canister. There was a pharmaceutical label on it and a prescription made out to him. The canister was another of Stephen Hardaway's masterpieces. Poor dead Stephen. Poor Julia, Robert, and Michelle. Soldiers. Just like him.
“For my asthma,” Danko said. He coughed a little and pointed to his chest. “Proventil. Always need it before a speech. I even have a backup.”
The guard regarded it for a moment. This was good fun, actually. He and Stephen had perfected the canister. Who needed guns and bombs when all the terror in the world was right in the palm of his hand.
William would be proud!
“You can go inside, sir.” The guard finally waved Charles Danko ahead. “Have a good night.”