Chapter One
That night the wind came hard off the Pacific, an El NiΓ±o
event that would blow three inches of rain onto the roofs
of San Diego. It was the first big storm of the season,
early January and overdue. Palm fronds lifted with a
plastic hiss and slapped against the windows of
McMichael's apartment. The digitized chirp of his phone
sounded ridiculous against the steady wind outside.
"Somebody killed Pete Braga about an hour ago," said
McMichael's lieutenant. "You're up on the wheel of
fortune, but I'll give it to Team Two if you want."
It was a question McMichael could think about for a long
time but didn't.
"We'll take it."
"Somebody bludgeoned Pete in his house, Tommy," said the
lieutenant. "Blood and brains all over the place. Patrol's
holding the cleaning lady or some such thing."
It took McMichael a moment to transfer Pete Braga from the
roster of the living to the ranks of the dead. Murder was
always a surprise. Especially if it was someone like Pete,
who seemed like he'd live forever.
"We'll take it," he said again.
A brief pause. "You're sure about this, Tom?"
"I'm sure."
"The Irish are a stubborn people. About as stubborn as the
Portuguese. Okay, then. Pete Braga's yours."
Eighty-something years old, thought McMichael. It wouldn't
take a gladiator to crush the old man's skull. A local
badass hero, done in by the cleaning lady.
"I'll make the calls, Tommy. You get moving. Need the
address?"
"I know it."
Pete Braga's estate was on the bay side of Point Loma,
right down on the water. Three levels of weathered redwood
and plate glass descended to the sand. The glass caught
the wind-fractured lights of Shelter Island and the city
across the bay.
The driveway gate was open and McMichael could see three
San Diego PD patrol cars, two slick-back Fords, a
paramedic truck and a red Beetle parked in the sweeping
brick drive. A small crowd had gathered at the crime scene
tape that ran across the driveway. They looked like
carolers between songs, McMichael thought, uncertain and
self-conscious, coats and scarves and hair riled by the
wind. He lowered a window and badged a uniform. The
officer untied one end of the tape and it shot from his
hand toward the water.
McMichael followed the walkway to the front door. The path
was lined with bronze light fixtures shaped like leaping
tuna. Behind the lights a stand of Norfolk Island pines
swayed against a faint moon wrapped in clouds.
At the front door an officer T. Sterling handed McMichael
an entry log. Before looking at it McMichael studied the
outside doorknob, the jamb and frame.
"Shoot," he said, scanning down the log.
"We were first on scene, sir," said the officer. "Slow
night, maybe because of the storm coming in. Then the
watch commander dropped a possible one-eightyseven on us.
We got here in seven minutes. The nurse who made the nine-
one-one call let us in. I noticed substantial amounts of
blood on her hands, face and clothing. The old man was in
his trophy room, or whatever you'd call it, by the
fireplace. His head was caved in. The nurse was upset and
not really cooperative, so Traynor took her into the
dining room. I ran a warrants check on her and she came
back clean."
McMichael signed the log and looked into T. Sterling's
eager gray eyes.
"A nurse, not a cleaning lady."
"That's what she said."
McMichael gave the log back to Sterling. "The blood on her
clothes, was it smears or spatters?"
"I'm not sure. Mostly smears, I believe."
"What about her face?"
"I think smears too."
"You didn't let her wash up, did you?"
"I don't think Traynor was going to."
Another officer led the detective to the scene. The trophy
room was down a long hallway, then to the right. McMichael
felt the coldness of the house in his shins. The hall was
wide and well lit by recessed ceiling lights. There were
paintings hung museum style, with individual viewing
lights fastened above the frames: all ocean scenes --
ships and waves in violent moments, the grandeur of
catastrophe at sea. One light was trained on nothing, just
blank wall with a hanger still nailed to the plaster.
He stepped down into the trophy room, smelling blood and
feces and cigar smoke. Two small bundles of firewood lay
at his feet. Above him was a cavernous cross-beam ceiling
with heavy-duty shop lamps hung in two rows of six. The
lamps washed the room in a strong incandescent glow.
McMichael pulled the little tape recorder from the pocket
of his bomber's jacket, checked the tape and turned it on.
He spoke into it, setting the time and date and location,
then narrating what he saw.
Ahead of him was a wall of glass facing the water and the
city. Beyond the glass, windblown leaves swirled through
the deck lights and a quick blizzard of sand rose toward
San Diego Bay. A navy destroyer sat moored to the east,
irrationally large amidst the tenders and pleasure craft.
To McMichael's right was a cedar-paneled wall festooned
with Pacific trophy fish -- tuna, yellowtail, dorado,
swordfish, sailfish and sharks. In the lower right corner
of the wall hung some of the gear used to catch them --
rods, reels, gaffs and fighting belts.
His eye went to the two empty hangers, like he'd seen in
the hallway. One amidst the fish, one in the gear.
The main attraction was a white shark that looked to be
three times the length of a man. It was obscenely thick.
Rows of teeth glistening, its huge head swung outward in
the posture of attack. McMichael noted that the
taxidermist had gotten the eyes right, rolled back into
the head for protection. He remembered that Pete Braga had
made TV and the papers with that one ...
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