San Francisco Night by Stephen Leather Page A

“Let me check out the back,” he said. “We had some items in from an estate sale last week, I seem to remember there was a large cross but I’m not sure what it was made of.”  He disappeared through a door leaving Nightingale alone in the shop. Nightingale was surprised at being left alone but then realized that the shop was covered with three CCTV cameras.
    The man was only away for a minute and he reappeared with a red velvet box. “I was right,” he said, opening the box and holding it out. Inside was a large silver cross, about three inches long and two inches across. There was a ring at the top through which was threaded a thick silver chain.. “It’s quite heavy, but not hallmarked,” said the salesman. “Central European, we think. Probably mid-nineteenth century, I’m guessing once owned by a high-ranking church official.”
    Nightingale picked up the cross. It had a rough texture, like wood, and seemed to have been cast in one piece. The chain was almost three feet long so it would have hung down almost to the wearer’s waist.
    “It’s an unusual piece,” said the salesman. “Probably too large for your aunt.”
    “No, I think it’ll be perfect,” said Nightingale. He gave it back to the salesman along with a Visa card that Wainwright had given him. “I’ll take them both.”
    “I haven’t put a price on the cross yet,” said the salesman, frowning.
    “Whatever you think is fair will be fine with me,” said Nightingale.
    “Excellent,” said the salesman. “Would you like them gift-wrapped?”
    Nightingale shook his head. “I’ll do that at home,” he said.
    Five minutes later he was back in his SUV. He slipped the penknife into his right pocket and the cross and chain in his left.  He hoped that he wouldn’t have to face an Elemental again but if he did at least this time he’d be prepared.
     
     

CHAPTER 19
     
    Nightingale woke early and after showering and shaving he went out to buy a copy of the San Francisco Chronicle. Lee Mitchell’s murder was on the third page, including a photograph of the man standing next to his Porsche that appeared to have been lifted from a Facebook page.  Nightingale went to a nearby diner, ordered coffee, toast, scrambled eggs and bacon and read the article as he waited for his food to arrive. The headline was ‛Mutilated Body Of Young Banker Found On Alcatraz’ which summed it up, pretty much. Twenty-two year old Lee Charles Mitchell’s body had been found washed up on San Francisco’s famous prison island. The young man had worked for the Bay Banking Corporation in their securities department, where he was described as a ‛rapidly rising star’, but hadn’t shown up to work for two days. A security guard making her rounds of the island had found the body in the small hours, and it had been identified by the credit cards and driver’s license in the billfold. The body had severe injuries, leading police to suspect Mitchell had fallen from a boat, been hit by the propeller, then carried by the fierce currents onto the island.
    Nightingale wasn’t convinced. He was pretty sure that Mitchell had suffered most of those injuries before they put him in the water. And the fact that the body had been found so quickly indicated that the killers wanted to send a message.
    Nightingale’s phone rang as he stepped out of the diner. It was Mrs Steadman. “I haven’t called at a bad time, have I?” she asked. “I can never get the hang of time differences.”
    “It’s fine,” said Nightingale, shutting the door.
    “I do have someone you can talk to there, though he now lives outside San Francisco. It’s been a few years since I spoke to Father Benedict but I’ve spoken to him and he’s happy to help if he can.”
    “Brilliant,” said Nightingale, reaching for a sheet of hotel stationery and a pen.
    “He’s the abbot of Our Lady Of Spring Bank Cistercian Monastery out near Santa Teresa, which is about sixty miles from San Francisco.