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Unfair Advantage

Ron Rhinehart

Ref. No. 802003ms
Length 90,000 words

Summary

Unfair Advantage is a crime thriller bringing new perspective to the illegal immigration debate. The story begins 150 years ago, setting up the current day drama. A Harbor Patrol officer is killed under mysterious circumstances, and his partner’s investigation pulls him into a confrontation with a Chinese gang boss. Help from his late partner’s brother raises moral questions about his motives and means. The climax and resolution give the reader food for thought instead of giving easy, pat answers. The story will appeal to readers who enjoyed Tom Clancy’s blend of real-world issues and dramatic conflict.

From The Book

Chapter 1 (Prologue)

Guangdong Province, Southern China, 1850

The village lay quietly beside the river, waiting for the light of dawn to slip over the mountains that lined the eastern horizon. Just over a dozen small huts, spread in a rough circle, constituted the entire village. At the riverbank, four rough-hewn boats had been pulled up on the bank, ready for another day of fishing. A solitary heron cried upriver, impatient to begin his own day of fishing.

A man slipped noiselessly from one hut and made his way to the river. His morning absolutions complete, he returned to his hut and emerged moments later with a small cloth sack that he looped around his neck. Following a footpath worn into the forest by countless generations before him, he made his way south. By the time the rest of his village awakened, he would be many miles away. Saying goodbye and telling his parents of his decision would have been the honorable thing to do, and he felt vaguely ashamed, but he feared that he would lose the courage to leave if he had to face their disappointment.

During the past ten years, his village, like many others in southern China, had been devastated by the whims of nature. One morning before dawn, nature visited the region with a powerful earthquake that shook the villagers from their sleep. The earthquake destroyed a natural dam in the nearby mountains, releasing a flood that swept through the village. Two of their boats were lost, a hut that had been built too close to the river’s edge disappeared into the wall of water, and the mud that thickened the river made it difficult to find the fish they needed to survive.

The villagers belonged to the Hakka clan, relative newcomers to the southern provinces, and relegated to the least-productive fields by the Han majority. They had diligently cultivated the fields during the ensuing years, and brought forth crops that sustained them. When a powerful storm blew up from the south, the winds that reached one hundred miles per hour over the ocean had slowed, but still wreaked havoc on the land. The small huts were no match for the storm, and their crops disappeared in dusty cyclones. In the span of a single day, the villagers were left homeless, their crops in ruin, and their stores destroyed. The devastating combination of a flood followed by a drought brought the village near extinction. During the ensuing winter, many of the elderly members of the village died from exposure.

Man brought the next round of hardship to the region. A mystic named Hong was capitalizing on the unrest in the region, and recruiting followers to oppose the ruling elite of the Qing dynasty. Nature’s devastation over the past ten years, combined with the benign neglect of the rural provinces by the rulers, made fertile ground for Hong’s firebrand speeches. Many young men joined the growing army by choice, while others were forcibly conscripted, and guerrilla actions aimed at the local ruling class were becoming routine. It was obvious that a major confrontation was brewing.

The man who was now striding steadily through the forest had escaped recruitment twice, the first time by fortuitously being away from the village hunting for food, and the second time by hiding in the storehouse buried in a pile of grain. He had little idea what Hong’s mob were fighting for, and less interest. He only wanted to be left alone to help his village recover from the storm, and to find enough food to feed himself and others. He couldn’t see how fighting an army of two million men would help accomplish that. He knew that if he stayed, however, it would only be a matter of time before he found himself fighting – and likely dying - for someone else’s gain.

Two days walk to the south was the port city of Guangdong. He had been there the previous year to buy seed and supplies for the village, and had seen colorful pamphlets and heard the stories of ships that sailed for the Golden Mountain, far to the east. A land of comfortable climate, neither too hot nor too cold, where a man could find valuable stones lying in the riverbed. His plan was to reach Guangdong and gain passage on one of those ships, collect enough of those stones on Golden Mountain, and return to help his village.

Near sunset on the second day, he entered the city. His ears were assaulted by the cacophony of calls and clatter from the marketplace. A thousand smells wafted towards him, some familiar and some hinting at faraway places, and he briefly had second thoughts about leaving his homeland. A narrow alleyway to his right led to the rooms he and his companions had rented for the night when they had visited the city the prior year. Away from the sounds and smells, tired from his long trek through the forest, he quickly fell asleep.

The next morning, he rose early, dressed and carried his bag to the docks. There he stood, gazing in amazement at the two clipper ships tied up there. Each ship was far larger than any building he had ever seen, taller, longer, more imposing. They bore no resemblance to the tiny boats his village used to fish the river, and little resemblance to the small trading ships which had been tied up here last year. The West had learned of treasures to be found in the Far East, and wealthy merchants were sending ever bigger, ever faster ships to bring those treasures to eager buyers.

“You there, what do you want?”

A tall, burly white man shouted at him from the bottom of the gangplank of the first ship. He realized he had been staring at the ship, mouth agape. Quickly, he closed his mouth and looked around to determine if the man was talking to him. There did not appear to be anyone else in the general direction, so he approached the man.

“Go to Golden Mountain? Work very hard, very strong.”

His few words of English, taught him by the same men who had told him the legend of Golden Mountain, were sufficient. The man at the gangplank looked him up and down, shrugged and gestured with his thumb over his shoulder at the ship.

“Get aboard and get to work. What’s your name, chinaman?”

“Name Chang. Work very hard, very strong.”

“Aye, I got the work hard part the first time. Get aboard, Chang, and find a box to carry. Plenty of work for a chinaman who wants a free ride to San Francisco.”

Chapter 8

San Francisco, 2008, Sunday afternoon

Sloppiness, Chang thought. That was the primary threat to his organization. Over the years, he had addressed the challenges of supply and demand, of cash flow and protection from legal authorities, and been amply rewarded. He prided himself on paying attention to the slightest details, mindful that minor mistakes could grow rapidly into large problems, but he could not be personally involved in every aspect of his business. He was forced to rely on hand-picked subordinates and their web of underlings, he reflected, and that was where the problem arose.

At each level below him, the sloppiness increased exponentially. Take Wu, for example. A reasonably intelligent man, able to focus on the objective set before him, and ruthless enough to drive others forward without faltering. In that drive to achieve the goal, however, was both his strength and his weakness. Chang glanced at the wall of his office, where an elaborate pencil sketch hung, framed in black lacquer. Composed of tiny circles containing the ancient symbols of jin and jang, the subtle variation in their shading allowed the many individual pieces to blend into a single large symbol. He had found the sketch in Shanghai many years before, and admired its artistic rendering of his view of the world.

Yes, the same trait could be both strength and weakness, in a man or an organization. His thoughts returned to Wu. The man let nothing get in his way, yet he rarely stopped to consider whether a stealthy approach would yield greater results than the application of force. Chang looked at the message on his computer monitor. Everything was coming together as planned, but the next week would be critical, and he would need Wu to manage some of the lesser details. He pressed a button on his telephone, activating the intercom function.

“Wu!”

Within seconds, he heard rapid footsteps approaching. The door to his office opened, and Wu stepped in, inclining his head briefly as he stepped forward toward the desk.

“Yes, sir. What do you need?”

Chang gestured brusquely towards one of the black leather chairs facing the desk.

“Sit. Many things must be accomplished this week.”

Chang pointed at his monitor.

“I must fly to Vancouver on Monday to deliver the payment. The Long Beach transaction will happen on Tuesday, and the yacht from Vancouver will arrive here in San Francisco on Wednesday. The cash from Los Angeles and San Diego has been delivered to the contact in Las Vegas, and is carefully being washed through the casinos. By the end of next week, I will have taken complete control of these operations and have my fee safely deposited in my offshore account.”

He stared at Wu, his cold black eyes boring into the man.

“Is everything under control with our usual businesses here in San Francisco, Wu?”

Wu had barely settled into the chair, and now sat stiffly upright. He stammered briefly, his discomfort obvious.

“A few minor problems, sir, but I will have them straightened out immediately. Nothing to worry about, I promise you.”

“Fool! Who are you to tell me whether or not I should be worried? What are these minor problems?”

Wu shifted in his seat, feeling the heat rise in his face.

“A few months ago, there was a confrontation at one of the free clinics, between one of my men and an off-duty policeman. My man was beaten up and embarrassed in front of his wife and son. I told him to leave it, that we would handle it through our connections downtown. Two days later, he was found dead at the bottom of a cliff. His wife said he called the cop and threatened him, and left the house late the night before intent on revenge for the beating.”

He leaned back in his chair, raising his hands in apology, and rushed onward with his account.

“I have sent the woman and her son off to our contacts in Las Vegas. No one will find them, and the matter should have been closed. I have lost a man who was useful for some errands, but such men can be found again. Just today, however, I heard stories that the cop has been returning to the clinic, and asking questions. It appears he has learned of the man’s connection to some of our other businesses, and has appeared at those locations. He will not find anything, of course, but I will look into this myself and find a way to eliminate him.”

Chang clenched his fists, then took a deep breath.

“Stupid! You must control your people better! I will not have my operations put at risk, certainly not this project this week, by some stupid ape who can’t follow instructions. We must be disciplined, and organized. Great things can be accomplished by ordinary men, if they think before they act, and act according to a carefully designed plan. Sloppiness cannot be allowed. Take care of this problem, Wu, and do it immediately.”

Wu nodded rapidly.

“Oh, and Wu… make sure this sort of thing does not happen again.”

Wu rose from the chair, his head bobbing foolishly, as he scrambled backwards towards the door. Outside in the hallway, he slumped against the wall. It was like walking on the ridge of a high mountain, working for Chang. Great exhilaration as long as you did not slip to one side or the other, where steep cliffs promised certain death. Lying to the boss about what had happened was unthinkable, but telling the truth entailed risk as well.

He would deal with this interfering cop himself, and quickly. There were many ways to stop inconvenient questions from a policeman. A small bit of cash satisfied some, while others required pressure from their superiors. The troubling aspect was the unexplained death of his man. Threatening a cop and arranging a second confrontation would normally result in an arrest, not a corpse. This one might be more complicated, Wu considered. A more permanent solution might be necessary.

Chapter 9

Sunday afternoon

Tony drained the last of his beer, and banged the empty bottle on the table.

"Gotta run, guys. Need to hit the boat shop before they close and get some supplies. Catch you later."

Sully nodded and watched Tony disappear out the door.

"So, Jimmy, what big plans do you have tonight? Friday night on the town?"

The young redhead blushed, and Sully knew he had hit a sensitive spot.

"C'mon, man, give it up. I want to know who she is, where you're taking her, and what kind of flowers

you're buying her. God knows if I don't give you some grownup advice, you'll make a mess of it…"

Around the corner, Tony unlocked his car and slid behind the wheel. The big V-8 growled as it came to life, sending ripples of vibrations through the car like a tiger flexing its muscles after a long slumber. The old GTO might look a little aged on the outside, but under the hood Tony had tuned the engine to perfection. He didn’t care about winning prizes at classic car shows. Performance was what mattered, and she was faster and better handling than the day she rolled off the showroom floor. He dropped it in gear and rolled out of the parking lot and headed west.

Four blocks west, underneath the onshore ramp of the Bay Bridge, a long building of faded red brick bore testimony to the limits of the redevelopment process. Its crumbling exterior and many cracked windows gave faint evidence of a manufacturing plant, many years ago. Its usefulness had not been fully expended, however. At the southern end of the building, a rough storefront had been created. An awning had been hammered from sheet metal, and bolted to the façade over an old steel door. Next to the door, black and green paint created a camoflage motif on the the single window, identifying the interior as Rudy’s Survival Store. Tony pulled into the parking lot, rolled up in front of the door and cut the engine. Ignoring the “No Parking” sign, he pushed open the glass door.

The bearded man behind the counter squinted at Tony, then grunted a primitive form of acknowledgement. He had apparently dressed himself from his own inventory, judging by the baggy camouflage pants, olive drab shirt, and heavy boots. Tony nodded and made his way down one of the narrow aisles to a glass display case in the back of the store. The stale odor of dust and unwashed human visitors hung in the air.

Rudy wandered back to meet him.

“You look like a man who knows what he wants. What will it be today?”

Tony pointed into the display case.

“The Sony video camera, unless you have something with better zoom and optics. The night vision binoculars. ”

“Nice equipment. You mentioned night vision. Don’t want to pry into your business, but you should look at the new infrared illuminators over here. This one here is our top of the line. Turn it on and use one of these day/night cameras, and everything within 300 feet is lit up like daylight. Human eye can’t see a thing, but the camera works just fine.”

Rudy shrugged, but his eyes shone with a cynical gleam.

“Deer hunters seem to like them. Like I said, don’t want to intrude on your private business, but thought you looked like somebody who might be interested.”

Tony picked up the illuminator, and turned it side to side in his hand.

“Human eye can’t see anything, huh? Probably good for home security, too, huh?”

Rudy chuckled. Yeah, he acknowledged, definitely would be useful in home security.

Tony slid the illuminator and camera to one side.

“What if I wanted audio at that distance?”

“Audio? You thinking of recording owls or something?”

Tony waited silently, his dark eyes fixed on Rudy. The store owner raised a hand apologetically, then led Tony towards another counter.

“You can go three ways with audio. If you want to be discreet, we’ve got recorders that look like pens or clocks. If size isn’t important, you go with either this shotgun mike that’s good to 300 feet, or this parabolic that can pick up from 900 feet away. Prices don’t vary as much as you’d think, really just comes down to what you prefer.”

Tony nodded, and pointed to the shotgun mike. Add that to the other two items, he said. I’ve got a couple more things I’ll need to grab off your shelves, then I’m good to go.

Rudy tried his luck one more time.

“Yep, with this you’re all set to make a little nighttime movie, and nobody the wiser. Whatcha got going that’s worth filming?”

Tony stared at the man for a long moment, then turned and walked through the narrow aisle towards the front counter. Reaching into one of the plastic bins lining the tall shelves, he selected a black wool balaclava and an insulated pair of black gloves.

Rudy met him at the cash register, and accepted the stack of bills from Tony’s hand without further comment. It wasn’t unusual for his customers to be reluctant to share their plans and thoughts, but the few who felt talkative had entertaining stories to tell. The door swung closed behind Tony, and the GTO roared off to the west.

On the fourth floor of the Civic Center, a middle-aged man sat behind a government issue desk. A thin cherry veneer concealed its cheap pine construction. A hundred similar desks were scattered throughout the building, occupied by similar middle-aged men in similar gray suits. The veneer was lifting slightly on one corner, but a wooden inbox, courtesy of his wife on his last birthday, served to press the disobedient flap into place. The office was decorated with framed photographs of the San Francisco waterfront, illustrating its transition through the past 150 years from a muddy tidal estuary to one of the great harbors of the world.

His phone rang, and he picked it up, answering it absentmindedly while shuffling through the papers on his desk. At the sound of the simple question, posed by the cultured voice on the other end of the line, he dropped the papers on his desk. A sly smile slowly creased his face, and he leaned back in his chair, yet another piece of office furniture provided by the low bidder. The chair squeaked annoyingly as he leaned back, but his attention remained fixed on the telephone receiver.

“Yes, yes, of course I am still planning to attend your gathering tonight. Actually, I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ve spent entirely too much time behind my desk this week, and a little fresh sea air will do me good. Very kind of you to invite me, of course.”

His smile broadened as the cultured voice demurred with soft words of flattery. He did his best to match the polite tone with his own.

“I’m just a simple government employee, and of course, you understand that regulations prohibit any discussion of our business transactions tonight, but we are friends after all, and no regulations prohibit us getting together for a drink or two. Yes, I’ll be there at nine o’clock.”

He nodded his head, sitting upright in his chair as his delicate ego received yet another stroking.

“Thank you, sir. Very kind of you to say so. No, I haven’t mentioned anything about it to my colleagues. Yes, I’m sure you understand professional jealousies. Thank you, and I look forward to seeing you tonight.”

He hung up the phone, and checked his watch. A couple hours of meaningless paperwork, and then a relaxing evening on the man’s yacht. Finally, someone had recognized his contributions and provided a bit of overdue recognition. He leaned back in his chair, his reverie disrupted as the spring below the seat gave way, depositing him abruptly on the floor.

Chapter 10

Sunday night

The lights of the Golden Gate Bridge shone like a beacon through the night, reflecting off the dark waters of San Francisco Bay. The towering office buildings of downtown San Francisco to the south stood in stark contrast to the hillside mansions of Sausalito and Tiburon to the north. The expanse of water between lay still tonight, rippling gently in response to a faint breeze. Hours earlier, the bay had been filled with sailboats and the occasional container ship, but now it seemed empty and lifeless.

In a marina situated on the southeastern edge of the city, hundreds of boats sat in the shadows, tied securely in their slips, orderly rows lining the dozen or so docks extending from shore. Small sailboats rocked in response to the slightest ripples, while the bulk of larger vessels left them mostly undisturbed. Only the occasional cabin light interrupted the darkness that lay across the marina like a blanket. The lapping of the water on fiberglass hulls, and the clank and clatter of rigging against masts, were the only sounds to break the silence of the night.

Out towards the end of one of the docks, the steady blackness of the shadows was disturbed by furtive movements. A piece of the darkness, unnoticed just a moment before, slipped alongside a boat. Disappearing alongside the hull, then reappearing momentarily above the deck rail, dissolving again into the shadows. No sound escaped to attract the attention of anyone who might happen by on an evening stroll.

Five minutes later, the shadowy figure slipped back over the rail and disappeared into the darkness. Near the harbormaster’s office, a security guard patrolled slowly on his bicycle, nodding acknowledgement to those he encountered. A young couple, arms entwined and engrossed in intimate conversation, were oblivious to his presence. A heavy-set man extracted himself from his German sports car, grunted in response to the guard’s greeting as he hoisted a duffel bag from the passenger seat, and limped under the load towards the dock gate. Towards the end of the marina, a man dressed in black jeans and matching black pullover, head down as if absorbed in thought, gave a vague wave of the hand in return for the guard’s greeting.

Shortly after nine o’clock, a large yacht floated quietly from behind the marina breakwater, across the flat surface of the bay. Under the moonless sky, the yacht made its way slowly north through the pilings of the Bay Bridge, the artless double-decker span that connected San Francisco with Oakland. As it headed towards the shadowy mass of Angel Island, a particularly careful observer would have noticed a shadow trailing behind it. Two hundred yards astern, a matching pair of faint ripples formed a gentle wake, the only clue to its passage.

As the yacht closed on the east side of Angel Island, a man slipped from the fly bridge to the bow. The boat slowed to a stop and he quietly but efficiently let out the bow anchor. He climbed back to the helm, and backed the boat down to set the anchor. The engine noise subsided to a murmur.

The powerful speedboat which had followed the yacht drifted silently past. It had no running lights on display, and its dark hull blended with the water on the moonless night. Aided by the low cloud cover which typically filled San Francisco Bay on summer nights, it was virtually invisible. From behind the wheel, a dark-clad figure knelt silently at the gunwales. A faint splash carried briefly across the water, unnoticed out here in the middle of the bay.

Suddenly, a massive explosion rocked the night, and the speedboat was engulfed in flames. Within seconds, someone had darted to the bow of the yacht to raise the anchor, and engines roared as it raced quickly around the point of the island into Raccoon Straits, where it cut power and cruised towards Sausalito. Behind it, what remained of the speedboat burned to the waterline and sank beneath the waves, even as a Harbor Patrol boat, lights flashing, streaked towards the pillar of smoke and flame.

“Did you hear that explosion out on the Bay tonight?”

The muffled voice was low and throaty, and the desk sergeant had to strain to make out the words.

“The explosion out by Angel Island? Do you know anything about it?”

His attention aroused by the reference to the evening’s sole bit of excitement, he listened intently to the caller’s quiet response.

“Just another dirty cop getting what he deserves. I don’t care much if cops want in on a drug deal now and then, but they should know their place.”

The desk sergeant sat up in his chair, the dull ache in his lower back suddenly forgotten.

“Who is this? What dirty cop are you talking about?”

The line went dead, and he stared at the receiver in his hand for a couple moments. The caller ID had been blocked, and it was most likely just a prank. Probably just some troublemaker wanting to stir things up, but he’d better call Internal Affairs, though, he thought. Investigating the call would give those jerks something to do, whereas not reporting it would look bad if it turned out to be something serious. He was too close to pulling his pension to take chances like that.

He dialed the internal extension for IA, and passed along what he had heard. An officer named Morrison grunted his thanks and hung up abruptly. The desk sergeant shook his head. He hated talking to the IA guys. They were arrogant and cynical, and nothing good came your way from dealing with them, he mused. He felt relieved as he hung up the receiver, then shrugged and turned his attention back to the sports pages, the call quickly forgotten.

Chapter 11

San Francisco, Monday morning

Just one foot in front of the other. He repeated the mantra to himself, as his running shoes tapped a staccato

rhythm on the pavement. Running a marathon wasn't really necessary, he thought. Years of martial arts study had brought him close to the coveted black belt, but the indoor training had grown stale and sent him looking for an outdoor workout. He could have just taken up jogging like the rest of the guys his age, but he'd felt compelled to go for the full twenty-six mile race. If it's worth doing, it's probably worth overdoing. A wry smile crossed his tanned face briefly. Yeah, Sully, a therapist would have a field day with that one, but who cares. Just one foot in front of the other. Just one foot…

One mile turned into two, then five, and he looped around the monument at Aquatic Park and headed up

Laguna to get in some hills. No shortage of those in the City – it was just a choice of how many

and how steep. There was the Hayes Street hill on the famous Bay to Breakers race course, and the cable

car chase route up California Street, and there was Nob Hill, and Russian Hill, and on and on. He ran

steadily up Laguna alongside the luxury condos and homes of Pacific Heights. Blocks of contemporary structures were interrupted by the occasional Victorian, but this was predominantly a neighborhood where money bought you incredible views from anonymous buildings. At the crest of the hill, he turned left through Lafayette Park, marveling as always at the tiny parcels of green in the midst of such a crowded city. The idea of extending his run to go through Golden Gate Park crossed his mind, but that was more than he felt like tackling today. Instead, he exited the park and made his way down Clay through the edge of Chinatown. The Transamerica Building, its trademark pyramid, pierced the sky before him as he dodged early morning shoppers. Suddenly, the tiny shops and bright banners gave way to the steel and glass skyscrapers of the Financial District. He reached the Embarcadero, turned right at the newly-restored Ferry Building, and headed towards the ballpark light towers that were visible beyond the Bay Bridge.

Back at the marina, he slowed to a walk, feeling the tightness in his calves and thighs, and the slight ache in

his knees that reminded him he'd seen the far side of his thirtieth birthday. You’re not a kid anymore, he lectured himself. He grasped the railing to brace himself as he methodically started his stretching routine. First the Achilles, then the calves, on to the hamstrings and quads… reluctantly, he had to admit that he was more flexible and recovered better since he had adopted the routine Bridget had outlined for him.

As the sweat ran down the back of his neck, tracing a cool path all the way to the small of his back, he ran

his hand across his close-cropped blond hair, slicking the sweat away. Just as he turned to head down the

ramp to the docks, he heard the door to the harbormaster's office open behind him.

"Yep, there he is, just like I said. If he doesn't answer his cell phone, he's probably out running

somewhere. Just have to wait until he shows up. Didn't I tell you?"

Sully shook his head at the sound of the harbormaster's voice. Twenty years out on the West Coast, and

Jimmy still sounded like he was working in the Back Bay. The long vowels of his native Boston still

persisted and that distinctive sound, combined with Jimmy's inability to communicate at anything less than

maximum volume, made him easily identifiable around the marina. Identifiable, hell, you could locate him

by the sound alone. Sully often commented that the man would be a fit replacement for a coastal foghorn.

Jimmy stood at the door to his office, pointing at Sully from twenty yards away. The man standing next to

him had cop written all over him. Hair cut high and tight, cheap blue suit, and shoes with thick rubber

soles. Sully didn't recognize him, not entirely surprising since Harbor didn't mingle much with the street

cops, but couldn't think why someone from the force would be out here looking for him on his day off.

Frowning, the cop made his way directly for Sully.

"Michael Sullivan? Sergeant Michael Sullivan from Harbor division?"

It was Sully's turn to frown. Headquarters wouldn't send somebody out with good news. They'd wait

until you were on duty. No, a personal visit on his day off from some suit wasn't good news. He wracked

his brain to think what might have gotten him in trouble. Making the mental list was easy, but nothing

seemed serious enough for this. Maybe last weekend when their patrol boat buzzed the captain's sailboat, drenching everyone on board… but that was just good fun. The captain wouldn't have filed a complaint.

"Sullivan! I asked you a question. Are you Sergeant Sullivan?"

The cop now stood inches in front of Sully, leaning in, his jaw jutting forward.

"Another inch and I just might kiss you. Now, back up and be nice, or I'll back you up." Sully maintained

eye contact, unblinkingly, and spoke in a soft voice.

The cop's face reddened, but he slowly pulled back a few inches. As compensation for pulling back, he

puffed out his chest an extra inch or two, and glared at Sully.

"I'd like you to confirm who you are. Assuming you are Sergeant Sullivan, I need you to

accompany me downtown. I've already wasted a half hour here looking for you."

Sully smiled without breaking eye contact.

"You're gonna waste another half hour, buddy, because I have no intention of going downtown in my

running clothes. A little damp and sweaty for my taste, so I'm going down to my boat and throwing on

some dry clothes. You can wait or not. Up to you."

He turned on his heel and walked away.

He got three paces before he felt the cop's hand grab a handful of shirt near his right shoulder. Guy must be slow from sitting behind a desk, he thought. If he was going to get physical, he should have caught me within two steps. The slow reactions and the needless posturing weren’t consistent with a street detective, he instinctively analyzed. Who else would be down here in plain clothes from headquarters? While one side of his brain analyzed the information for possible conclusions, the other side transmitted electrical impulses to his muscles in milliseconds, causing a physical response based on a mixture of training and survival instinct. His left hand whipped up, grasped the cop's wrist, and pulled it as leverage to spin his body around. In a second, he was facing the cop, who was twisted forward, grimacing at the pain radiating through his wrist and elbow.

"What the hell do you think you’re doing, grabbing me like that? I’m a police officer, you idiot, not some punk on the street. Rude and unprofessional, not to mention incompetent. You do that on the street, and you’ll get shot with your own weapon. I don’t know who you are, but your social skills are seriously deficient.”

Sully released his grip on the cop's wrist, and spun back towards the dock gate. Behind him, the cop straightened up and rubbed his wrist. As Sully walked away, he called back over his shoulder.

“You’ve got a choice. You can wait patiently for me to change into dry clothes, or you can crawl back behind your desk and bring charges against me, but don't ever grab me again."

Ten minutes later, Sully slid into the passenger seat, dressed in jeans and a faded red polo shirt.

"So, what's this about? Who are you and why are you getting in my face on my day off?"

The cop started the engine, threw the car into reverse, and drove towards the gate. He waited until the car

cleared the barrier and was out on Embarcadero before he answered.

"Your buddy Jackson died last night. Blew up with his boat out behind Angel Island. We got a tip that a

dirty cop was doing a drug deal out there, but looks like somebody else got there first. I'm from Internal

Affairs and since you and Tony were so close, we’d like to ask you a few questions downtown. Lose the attitude, or you might not be carrying that badge much longer."

Ten blocks away, at the Hall of Justice, he was directed into an interrogation room. The officer who had brought him from the harbor was named Morrison, and his partner, an older cop named Giamatti, joined them. Morrison leaned against the wall while Giamatti sat opposite Sully at the table.

“First of all,” Giamatti began, “we’re sorry to be the ones to tell you about Tony. The troubling part, and the part that brings Internal Affairs into this, is the tip we received that he was involved in drug trafficking out there. Based on your relationship with him, at work and outside, we wanted to let you know Internal Affairs will be leading the investigation into his death. We have a few preliminary questions for you today, but we’ll need to schedule a more detailed interview for a later time.”

Giamatti paused briefly, ignoring the darkening tone of Sully’s face. Sully leaned forward.

“You tell me my friend died last night in an explosion, and because of an anonymous tip, his death has become an IA investigation instead of a homicide investigation? And you want my help? No way. You do whatever you want, but I’m heading upstairs. There’s gonna be a homicide investigation, that’s for sure. I’ll talk to my lieutenant, to the captain, to the chief himself, but we’re not starting with the assumption that Tony was a dirty cop!”

Giamatti stood up, and rested his beefy fists on the table.

“Sergeant, I heard about your attitude at the harbor when Morrison came to pick you up. I was willing to overlook it, assume that it was a minor misunderstanding, and that we’re all mature enough to cut each other some slack. Now I’m starting to wonder if maybe you have a more serious attitude problem. Headquarters has already decided who will be investigating Jackson’s death, and it’s us. I don’t really care how you feel about it, and I doubt if anyone upstairs cares much, either. You just answer our questions, stay out of our way, and we’ll tell you what we find out when we’re done investigating. Give us any more trouble, and we’ll add your name to the investigation as well. I’m sure that would do wonders for your career.”

Sully glared across the table, then took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Pushing his chair back from the table, he allowed a smile to cross his face.

“You guys are pathetic. You’re more willing to believe an anonymous tip than to have faith in a cop who showed up every day and did a superb job protecting the community. And your concept of friendship and loyalty are so diluted, you think threatening my career will make me roll over and help trash my buddy, before we’ve even had the funeral?”

He glanced at Morrison, allowing his gaze to pause at the IA cop’s bulging waistline.

“Have a good time with your investigation, but count me out. You won’t find anything, because there’s nothing to find. Even if there was, you wouldn’t find it. Personally, I’m surprised you can even dress yourselves. Go to hell.”

Morrison lunged forward, but was halted by a sharp word from his partner.

“Let it go, Morrison! He’s not worth it. Probably just as dirty as his partner – excuse me, ex-partner.”

Giamatti turned back to the table, and pointed an index finger at Sully, glowering under heavy black eyebrows.

“I will be reporting your refusal to participate in an Internal Affairs interview, Sergeant. That will result in your immediate suspension, so you might save yourself a trip back over here and drop your badge at the desk on the way out. Also, we’ll be watching you, Sullivan, so you might want to keep your nose clean. Somebody thought there was enough question about your buddy to warrant giving us the case, and my instincts tell me that you were heavy into whatever he had going. It’ll be a pleasure to expand our investigation to include you. Oh, and just in case you get any smart ideas about getting in our way while we dig up the dirt on your buddy’s little extracurricular activities, remember the section about interfering with an investigation. Have a nice day.”

Sully took a deep breath, and let the shock of suspension slide off. Pushing himself back from the table, he rose and walked slowly towards Morrison. He approached the IA cop until they were only inches apart. They stared at each other for a long moment, then Sully turned to the door, letting his shoulder brush Morrison’s just enough to antagonize him a tiny bit more.

“See you guys around. By the way, there’s a donut shop around the corner from the marina – I’m sure that’s where you’ll do your best… investigating.”

About The Author

Ron Rhinehart spent twenty-five years working around the world as a sales and finance executive with Silicon Valley companies. Living in Europe gave him new perspective on current issues in America, but taking a sabbatical on an island in Puget Sound gave him time to finish this first novel.

Copyright 2008-2009, Ron Rhinehart (Expires February 5, 2009)

To request information on this author or a manuscript contact the listed agent or e-mail: dbooth@authorlink.com

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