The First Billion

"Will a million francs suffice?"

Brunner looked at the three golfers glaring in his direction. One raised his arms as if to say "What the hell is going on?" Brunner waved them onward. He would pick up his ball and return to the clubhouse at once. It was a sin not to finish a round, especially when he had a chance to take them all, and on such a beautiful day… but alas, duty called.

"You're too generous," Brunner responded at once. "Now, as to the account details…"

***

It was 8 a.m. Pacific Daylight Time, and in San Francisco the fog had returned. It hugged the streets, curling through alleys and climbing the city's steep hills like a fibrous, undulant snake. Approaching the end of Broadway in Pacific Heights, Roy DiGenovese pulled his car into the driveway and killed the engine. He took a moment to finish his double espresso, then wiped his mouth and climbed from the car. He was tired. The flight from Miami had been long and bumpy. A guy six-foot-two just didn't fit in the back of a commercial airliner- at least not in seat 32J he didn't, sandwiched between an Hispanic Hindenburg and the rapper DMX's biggest fan. Maybe someday he'd warrant business-class travel. Maybe someday he'd get to ride in that Lear Mr. Dodson had been going on about. And maybe someday he'd be a Supreme Court justice. DiGenovese laughed at himself. It wasn't so bad being an optimist, he thought. Just keep it real.

Two cars had parked behind him, and their occupants met him on the sidewalk. This morning, they had no need to hide, no call to sneak in the back way. Leading his team of five special agents, DiGenovese knocked on the front door.

An Hispanic woman opened up a few seconds later. "Good morning," she said. She was older, dressed in blue slacks and a 49ers sweatshirt. Her eyes were cautious, scared.

"I'm sorry to bother you so early, ma'am," said DiGenovese, smiling and showing his badge. "We've come to take a look through Mr. Gavallan's belongings. It shouldn't take too long, an hour or two at most. We hold a warrant from a United States Federal Magistrate giving us a right to search the premises. Here's my card. If you'd like, you can call my supervisor. His name is Mr. Dodson. He's at the number written right there on the back."

"Mr. Gavallan, he is okay?"

"He's fine, ma'am."

DiGenovese made it a point to be polite. His mother had spent her working life cleaning homes and offices, and as a child he'd accompanied her on her rounds. He would never forget the dismissive glances, the rude comments, the smug ill will of the moneyed classes.

The woman studied the card for a moment before shrugging and yielding the door. "Okay. You can go."

"Thank you. We'll try to leave things as we found them."

DiGenovese set off through the house, directing his men to take the bigger rooms first: living room, den, guest bedroom, office. He wanted the master bedroom for himself. Gavallan was a former military man. If he kept a gun, odds were it was nearby, either in a night table or a closet.

The house was open and casual, with just the right amount of furniture, not cluttered like the homes of a lot of rich people. The floors were mostly wood, the décor kind of Spanish, giving the place a hacienda-like feel. By the time he reached the bedroom, DiGenovese had decided it was just his style. If, that is, he were to ever become a multimillionaire.

Inside the bedroom, he made straight for the night tables. He pulled out each drawer in turn, finding a few books, a handkerchief, a box of allergy medicine. He moved to the opposite side of the king-size bed. That night table was empty, not even a used Kleenex. Lifting the mattress, he ducked his head and checked for a gun. Nothing.

To the closet. Shelves to the left. A hanging bar to the right. He ruffled through the stacks of shirts and sweaters, at first setting them neatly on the floor and then, growing frustrated, flipping them onto the ground. No bullets. No holster. Nada.

DiGenovese paused, catching sight of himself in the mirror, seeing the furrowed brow, the look of stormy determination. Actually, he didn't want to find the gun. But not finding it drove him crazy just the same. Go figure.

He moved into the bathroom.

Drawers. Nil. Medicine cabinet. Nil. Beneath the sink. Nil.

"Roy!"

The call came from Gavallan's office. DiGenovese hurried to the oak-paneled study, collaring his excitement. "What do you got?"

"Check it out," said Rosemary Duffy. She was a short, stocky woman, thirty, with cherubic cheeks and sparkling blue eyes. "Gavallan's holster. Minus the piece."

DiGenovese rushed forward and examined the leather. It was creased and worn from long years of cradling a pistol. He rubbed a finger inside it, and it came away oily. "What do you think? A long time since the pistol's been removed?"

Duffy smelled the holster. "A week. A month. Hard to tell."