Boxing the Octopus Read online

  Also by Tim Maleeny

  Jump

  The Cape Weathers Investigations

  Greasing the Piñata

  Stealing the Dragon

  Beating the Babushka

  Copyright © 2019 by Tim Maleeny

  Cover and internal design © 2019 by Sourcebooks

  Cover design by The Book Designers

  Cover images © 3DMI/Shutterstock, AlexZaitsev/Shutterstock, Radoslaw Lecyk/Shutterstock

  Sourcebooks, Poisoned Pen Press, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Poisoned Pen Press, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  sourcebooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Maleeny, Tim-author.

  Title: Boxing the octopus / Tim Maleeny.

  Description: Naperville, IL : Poisoned Pen Press, [2019] | Series: A Cape Weathers investigation

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019021335 | (hardcover : acid-free paper)

  Subjects: | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3613.A4353 B69 2019 | DDC 813/.6—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019021335

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For Phil Zinn

  Driving a 1966 Thunderbird

  “The development of San Francisco’s underworld in all likelihood would have proceeded according to the traditional pattern and would have been indistinguishable from that of any other large American city.

  “Instead, owing almost entirely to the influx of gold-seekers and the horde of gamblers, thieves, harlots, politicians and other felonious parasites who battened upon them, there arose a unique criminal district that was the scene of more viciousness and depravity, but which at the same time possessed more glamour, than any other area of vice and iniquity on the American continent.”

  —Herbert Asbury, The Barbary Coast: An Informal History of San Francisco’s Underworld

  1

  As he suspected, the village was full of misery, fear, and blood.

  The Doctor adjusted his headphones, cranking the volume. After visiting the first two villages, he couldn’t get the sounds of dying out of his head.

  Nothing a little Katy Perry or Ariana Grande couldn’t fix.

  It wasn’t his fault these people were born on the ass end of the planet. One thing he’d learned in medical school is life is cheap, and not everybody gets to live in the first world. Or even in the same century.

  There were over a hundred cities in China with populations in excess of a million people, but this wasn’t one of them. After a three-hour drive from the urban sprawl and pollution of Beijing, the Doctor crested a mountain range at the border of Hebei province. The Toyota Land Cruiser barely fit on the dirt track running to the village from the main road, the terrain as inhospitable as the surface of Mars. Some of the homes were only accessible by foot.

  The Doctor stepped gingerly into the temporary structure erected on the outskirts of the village. The cots were full, most of them occupied by young children and their grandparents. As cities grew and jobs disappeared from rural China, many teenagers and able-bodied adults left family behind in the villages and headed to the nearest city, in hopes of bringing prosperity back home one day. The Doctor knew that day would never come.

  These people were dead before they were born.

  One of the nurses handed him a clipboard, but the Doctor already knew what it would reveal. He didn’t have to take off the headphones or listen to her nervous voice explain that everyone who took the placebo was doing fine, but over twenty percent of the patients who took the new drug were writhing in agony, blood seeping from their ears, eyes, and nose.

  Three weeks to the day since the drug was ingested. Just like the trials in Tunisia and Angola.

  Two more sewers where years of work and millions of dollars got flushed down the drain.

  The Doctor thumbed the controls on his phone and skipped over Beyoncé to find a better tune. He needed a new playlist. Beyoncé was overrated, and he desperately needed to cheer the fuck up.

  He stepped outside onto the barren earth and stood under the unforgiving sun. The Doctor didn’t want forgiveness, and the irony that this place was hot as Hell wasn’t lost on him.

  As his SUV bounced along the rutted road and the village shrank in his rearview mirror, he passed the convoy of mercenaries coming from the opposite direction. They were late, and he wasn’t going to wait around to give them instructions. This was the third village, and they knew the drill. After Tunisia, the Doctor made sure they brought enough pro
pane to keep the burn pit going for days.

  …you just gotta ignite the light, and let it shine…

  It was almost as if Katy Perry had written that song just for this moment. The Doctor hummed along as he grabbed the satellite phone from the passenger seat. The song would be over soon, and he needed to make a phone call. He kept his eyes on the road ahead as he dialed, not sparing another glance in the rearview mirror.

  He had witnessed enough death for one day.

  2

  No one should witness his own murder.

  The thought didn’t occur to Hank because he had other things on his mind.

  His partner was fifteen minutes late. Not the end of the world if you’re giving someone a ride to the airport, but a very big deal when you have five million dollars in your vehicle.

  Time to go, Lou.

  The armored car squatted on the pier, its fat tires clutching the broken asphalt. San Francisco Bay sloshed lazily in his side mirror, and the engine vibrations threatened to rock Hank to sleep. Coffee wasn’t an option unless he felt like pissing in a bottle, and his aim wasn’t what it used to be.

  Hank fingered the cross around his neck and considered asking God to find his partner or grant him the divine power of telepathy so he could summon the dipshit from the other side of the pier.

  Where the fuck are you?

  Lou didn’t answer. Neither did God.

  The backside of Pier 39 was almost deserted, only restaurant employees cutting behind the buildings where they worked. Although this access road was quiet, Hank knew the main thoroughfare of the pier was buzzing this time of day, clogged with families from a dozen countries navigating an obstacle course of souvenir shops and chain restaurants on their quest to find the sea lions swimming at the end of the pier.

  Visited over ten million times a year, Pier 39 had become San Francisco’s leading tourist attraction, and none of the locals could understand why.

  For Hank the pier was simply a job. It was also proof that even a natural beauty like San Francisco could look like a tramp if you dressed her like one.

  He had parked along a narrow strip of asphalt running behind the pier, in the shadow of a crooked line of buildings on the east side. This was the last stop before the pier opened onto the street and he drove to the bank.

  To his right, the rear entrances of the merchants, and on his left, a wooden railing to protect drunken tourists from falling into the adjacent marina. Sailboats, motorboats, and skiffs bobbed gently in the current from the bay. Hank caught the smell of dead fish every time he breathed through his nose, even though he couldn’t roll down the windows in the armored car.

  Hank twisted in his seat and looked to the uppermost level, almost directly above him. A lone window, curtains open, but no sign of movement.

  She’s minding the store. Doesn’t have time to wave at you, dumbass.

  Hank smiled and felt himself relax. Maybe Lou had found himself a girlfriend on the pier, too. There was a reason Hank preferred making the pickups instead of waiting in the car, but today was his turn to drive.

  He glanced at the sloping driveway at the front of the pier, scanning traffic like he was trained to do. Taxis and cars drifted past, a monotonous blur of color.

  A forklift emerged from the back of an eighteen-wheeler parked on the shoulder of the main road. The semi was too heavy for the pier, so the forklift turned off the street, boxes stacked high, and headed down the ramp. Hank had parked closer to the marina railing than the stores, so there would be plenty of room for the narrow forklift to pass. His only job was to sit tight.

  Hank watched the forklift bounce and shimmy toward him.

  A UPS truck followed a moment later, just narrow enough to fit on the ramp. The driver angled to avoid scraping the undercarriage, and Hank got a clear view of the man behind the wheel.

  It was Lou.

  It took a second to register a familiar face in a confusing context. By the time it clicked, there was nothing Hank could do.

  The forklift spun violently against Hank’s front bumper, the steel arms sliding beneath the armored car. The boxes were empty, collapsing and temporarily obscuring Hank’s view. A metallic scream rose with the arms of the forklift. Hank’s world swooned as his front wheels left the surface of the road.

  As the broken boxes fell to the ground, the forklift driver leapt from the cab and ran toward the main road. His work was done.

  Hank locked eyes with Lou as the UPS truck slammed mercilessly into the back of the forklift, driving it under the armored car like a wedge. The car reared backwards, balancing on its rear wheels for a sickening instant before flipping onto its roof.

  The day wasn’t supposed to go down like this.

  Sparks flew as the car skidded across the asphalt and crashed through the wooden railing at the end of the pier. Free fall, and then the armored car struck the water. Hank bit through his tongue, the blood tasting like an unpaid debt.

  He was upside down and sinking, and he couldn’t roll down the window. Boats sloshed into view through the windshield. He threw his weight against the door but only a small gap appeared. Water poured in, drowning any hope of escape.

  He tried to take a deep breath, but the frigid water had other ideas. Reflexively, Hank reached for the gun on his hip, but the small part of his brain still working remembered the glass was bulletproof.

  The car hit bottom twenty feet down, the water green and murky.

  Dashboard lights reflected off the windows, transforming them into mirrors. The only thing Hank could see was himself. He stared at his reflection as the water rose, a lone witness to his own fear.

  By the time the water crested above his chin, it was a face he barely recognized, wearing an expression he’d never seen before.

  He looked like a man who didn’t want to die.

  3

  Cape Weathers looked like a man who wanted to kill someone.

  He glanced at his desk and wondered if he could use his stapler as a bludgeon. The client sitting across from him followed his gaze but kept talking.

  A self-important and bellicose man, Roger Simmons was a San Francisco divorce lawyer known for big settlements and famous clients. His cuff links cost more than Cape’s car, and his droning voice could make Lady Justice wish she were deaf as well as blind.

  The stapler wasn’t going to work. Cape scanned the cluttered desk, wondering where he’d put his letter opener.

  “Distracted?” Roger’s voice rose an octave.

  “Disgusted.” Cape abandoned his search and looked his client square in the eyes.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You hired me because you were worried about your wife.”

  “No.” Roger sat up straighter and pulled his gut away from the edge of the desk. “I hired you because I thought my wife was cheating.”

  “You implied she was missing,” said Cape.

  “I said she’d run out,” said Roger. “What’s the difference?”

  Cape set his elbows on the desk and rubbed his temples, his blue eyes almost gray in the subdued light of the office. The unexpected detour along the bridge of his nose spoke of past conflicts that didn’t get resolved from behind a desk.

  “I find people,” said Cape. “That’s what I’m good at. It’s why people hire me.”

  “So?” said Roger. “You found her.”

  “She wasn’t really missing.”

  Roger pointed across the desk, his index finger both judge and jury. “What else did you find?”

  “I found that you were already cheating on her,” said Cape. “With two different women, one of whom is also married.”

  Roger’s mouth opened and closed a few times before the words became small enough to emerge. “You…followed…me?”

  “You hired me to investigate.” Cape shrugged. “So I investigated.”

&nb
sp; “But I’m the one paying you.”

  “I’m paying you back.” Cape took a check from his drawer and placed it on the desk in front of Roger. Cape felt stress flow out of him.

  Who needs yoga when you can fire your client?

  Roger’s face turned purple. “Are you banging my wife?”

  “I’ve never met her,” said Cape. “But now that you mention it, she is very attractive.” He shuffled some papers out of the way. “Have you seen my letter opener?”

  Roger came halfway out of his chair. “You’re supposed to be a private investigator!”

  “This is a private matter,” said Cape. “And it should stay that way.”

  “I thought private dicks helped people get divorced.”

  “I’m not a dick, Roger, you are,” said Cape. “And that’s not my job description.” He sighed. “But I’m the idiot who took your case. Sorry I wasted your time.”

  Roger blinked like a broken traffic light. “What?”

  “Go home, talk to your wife,” said Cape. “And try to stop being an asshole.”

  “I hired you,” said Roger. “You can’t fire me.”

  “Maybe your conscience hired me and forgot to tell you.”

  Before Roger could reply, Cape held up a hand, stepped away from his desk, and walked to the open window. He needed some fresh air.

  The office was longer than it was wide, the furniture as well-worn as a comfortable shoe. To the right of the desk was a leather couch that looked like it sometimes doubled as a bed, the middle cushion visibly lower than the other two. A cluttered bookcase covered the opposite wall, worn paperback novels stacked alongside legal volumes and local directories. Cape ran his fingers along the spines of the books as he crossed the room.

  Roger stood abruptly, his chair falling over backwards. Cape heard the crash but didn’t turn around as his ex-client stomped to the door. When he reached the threshold, Roger turned and muttered loud enough for Cape to hear.

  “I’m going trash you on Yelp!”

  Then he slammed the door.

  Cape almost smiled. He’d been punched, stabbed, strangled, and shot, and more than a few times, he’d found people that others believed were lost forever. Most of his business came from referrals—people talking to people in the analog world. Yet now his reputation depended on some loser with a laptop.