however, his skepticism melted away.
He believed this woman.
When she finished her statement, Steiger glanced at his watch, realized he had barely blinked in the half hour it had taken her to tell her improbable tale. Thirty years as a cop, he mused. He thought he'd seen and heard it all... until now. "Anything to add, Mr. Taylor?"
Jason leaned forward, rubbed his swollen jaw. "Yeah, actually there is something, detective. Since my lovely fiancée here won't ever say it, I'd like the record to reflect how incredibly courageous she was through all of this. As God is my witness, those pirates were meaner than junkyard dogs. And the whales? Nuclear subs on steroids."
Jia-li wrapped her slender fingers around Jason's forearm, squeezed gently.
He smiled. "She's a hero in my book. And so are you, detective. Thank you."
Steiger gathered up his things. "No problem. Look, I'll likely have more questions later on, but that's it for now."
"Sure," Jia-li said. "Can I ask you something before you go?"
"Shoot."
"I know Ned talked to you about releasing the story—the timing, I mean. What are you thinking at this point?"
"Like I told him, Ms. Han, I need to run all this by the brass downtown. But unless those goofs masquerading as pirates come back from the dead, I'd say bring it on. I'll call you later this morning with a definitive answer. Fair enough?"
They all stood, shook on it.
Five minutes later, Steiger walked out the front door of the building, jumped into his cruiser, turned the ignition, and rolled the vehicle off the sidewalk. Despite the long night, he was on his game, like the great athlete who throws down a 360 tomahawk jam at the buzzer to ice the championship. Easing into traffic, he snatched the mike and keyed it. "Dispatch," Steiger said with a satisfied grin. "This is 624. I'm on my way in."
Chapter 9
29 March, 1:45 AM PDT
Marin County, California
After stopping for a drink at the Buckeye Roadhouse in Mill Valley, Chandler and Savannah were ready to call it a night. The pub was crowded and because of that, they'd tabled the distasteful discussion involving Samson. No telling who might be listening in. Instead they talked about Savannah's parents—both retired musicians living in Darien, Connecticut—and her 25 th college reunion coming up in the fall.
She had graduated at the top of her class from Smith College with a degree in art history, added a master's degree a year later, and made plans to go into teaching. Law enforcement hadn't even been on her radar, but a police officer friend suggested she give it a shot. She did, found she liked the work, the challenge, the chase. Eventually, she was recruited by the FBI, her knowledge of the eccentric world of art giving her a leg up on most of her colleagues in the art-theft unit. Savannah quickly became drawn to a criminal enterprise with estimated losses running as high as $6 billion a year, making stolen art the third largest illegal trade, behind drug trafficking and arms smuggling. She was good at the job, too, though it had ended rather badly.
Twenty minutes after leaving the popular watering hole, Rizzo headed down Belvedere Avenue, negotiating a series of twists and hairpin turns over an impossibly narrow road. Swerving to miss a deer, he hung a left on Cliff Road, made another left at the bottom of the hill, then pulled up in front of a charming clapboard doll house. The home was nestled among tall trees and lush foliage that seemed, even in moonlight, to wrap it in a blanket of green.
Chandler gave Rizzo his marching orders for the following morning and followed Savannah inside. The décor of the home, like its owner, conveyed a sense of casual elegance and charm. They climbed two flights of stairs to a cozy loft with jaw-dropping views—Mount Tamalpais to the north; Golden Gate Bridge to the west; San Francisco to the south.
"I really should sell the place," Savannah said, her eyes fixed on the glittering skyline. "And I
He believed this woman.
When she finished her statement, Steiger glanced at his watch, realized he had barely blinked in the half hour it had taken her to tell her improbable tale. Thirty years as a cop, he mused. He thought he'd seen and heard it all... until now. "Anything to add, Mr. Taylor?"
Jason leaned forward, rubbed his swollen jaw. "Yeah, actually there is something, detective. Since my lovely fiancée here won't ever say it, I'd like the record to reflect how incredibly courageous she was through all of this. As God is my witness, those pirates were meaner than junkyard dogs. And the whales? Nuclear subs on steroids."
Jia-li wrapped her slender fingers around Jason's forearm, squeezed gently.
He smiled. "She's a hero in my book. And so are you, detective. Thank you."
Steiger gathered up his things. "No problem. Look, I'll likely have more questions later on, but that's it for now."
"Sure," Jia-li said. "Can I ask you something before you go?"
"Shoot."
"I know Ned talked to you about releasing the story—the timing, I mean. What are you thinking at this point?"
"Like I told him, Ms. Han, I need to run all this by the brass downtown. But unless those goofs masquerading as pirates come back from the dead, I'd say bring it on. I'll call you later this morning with a definitive answer. Fair enough?"
They all stood, shook on it.
Five minutes later, Steiger walked out the front door of the building, jumped into his cruiser, turned the ignition, and rolled the vehicle off the sidewalk. Despite the long night, he was on his game, like the great athlete who throws down a 360 tomahawk jam at the buzzer to ice the championship. Easing into traffic, he snatched the mike and keyed it. "Dispatch," Steiger said with a satisfied grin. "This is 624. I'm on my way in."
Chapter 9
29 March, 1:45 AM PDT
Marin County, California
After stopping for a drink at the Buckeye Roadhouse in Mill Valley, Chandler and Savannah were ready to call it a night. The pub was crowded and because of that, they'd tabled the distasteful discussion involving Samson. No telling who might be listening in. Instead they talked about Savannah's parents—both retired musicians living in Darien, Connecticut—and her 25 th college reunion coming up in the fall.
She had graduated at the top of her class from Smith College with a degree in art history, added a master's degree a year later, and made plans to go into teaching. Law enforcement hadn't even been on her radar, but a police officer friend suggested she give it a shot. She did, found she liked the work, the challenge, the chase. Eventually, she was recruited by the FBI, her knowledge of the eccentric world of art giving her a leg up on most of her colleagues in the art-theft unit. Savannah quickly became drawn to a criminal enterprise with estimated losses running as high as $6 billion a year, making stolen art the third largest illegal trade, behind drug trafficking and arms smuggling. She was good at the job, too, though it had ended rather badly.
Twenty minutes after leaving the popular watering hole, Rizzo headed down Belvedere Avenue, negotiating a series of twists and hairpin turns over an impossibly narrow road. Swerving to miss a deer, he hung a left on Cliff Road, made another left at the bottom of the hill, then pulled up in front of a charming clapboard doll house. The home was nestled among tall trees and lush foliage that seemed, even in moonlight, to wrap it in a blanket of green.
Chandler gave Rizzo his marching orders for the following morning and followed Savannah inside. The décor of the home, like its owner, conveyed a sense of casual elegance and charm. They climbed two flights of stairs to a cozy loft with jaw-dropping views—Mount Tamalpais to the north; Golden Gate Bridge to the west; San Francisco to the south.
"I really should sell the place," Savannah said, her eyes fixed on the glittering skyline. "And I
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