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The Great Mediocre Earthquake of 1989


Jake Cisneros finally found Ford in the computer research lab on the third floor of City Hall. The last two times he had been here were on official business, so he had been escorted. This time, however, he was alone, and found navigation a bit tricky. For almost twenty minutes he wandered aimlessly until he finally found himself on the wrong side of a roped-off construction area.

"Can I help you with something?" asked a matronly woman in a simple black pantsuit.

"Um, yes actually," Jake replied, scratching the back of his head. "Can you tell me where I might find the County Records office?"

"Building or Vital Statistics?" she asked.

"Um, building."

"Current or Archive?"

"Archive."

"No, sorry."

"Excuse me?" Jake asked, confused.

"I said I can't help you," she said, turning away. "I don't work here, I'm a liaison for the architecture firm handling the retrofit."

"Oh, then why -" Jake paused. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a moment, then walked back to the main hallway. One thing he thought he would never get used to was the way San Franciscans were just as rude and had just as little regard for their fellow man as New Yorkers did, but were terrified of actually appearing rude. This led the average San Franciscan to try to be as helpful as they could without inconveniencing themselves by actually doing anything.

It was a further twenty minutes or so before Jake found the County Records Office. However, they didn't know Ford, hadn't seen anyone fitting his description, and told Jake that, in all likelihood, what he actually wanted was the County Recorder's Office. The Recorder's Office told him to try the City Building Inspector. The secretary at the Inspector's office, however, knew Ford very well, and told Jake that he would be, most likely, playing games on a computer in the research lab, which he wasn't. He was surfing the web.

"Hey," Jake said, approaching the cubicle Ford was tucked into.

"You know what we need?" Ford said, without taking his eyes off of the monitor. As Jake rounded the corner, he noticed Ford quickly closing browser windows and saw, or thought he saw, at least one picture of Julie Strain.

"What's that?" Jake asked.

"San Francisco needs more bad guys like the Crustacean."

"The who?" Jake asked.

"Supervillain. Telepathic lobster."

"Uh, right," Jake said, sitting down. "Is this all you've done today?"

"No," Ford replied, hurt. "I also read Sluggy Freelance, Tommy Atomic, and downloaded a Quicktime bootleg of the 'X-Files' season premier."

"Good Lord," Jake said, shaking his head. "Weren't you supposed to be working on a case?"

"Bah," Ford said, waving him off. "You know what's great about this new CI.SF web stuff? They've got records on just about everything, and it's all archived as far back as the city's been keeping records."

"So you found something?"

"No," Ford said, shrugging his leather jacket on. "But Doris over in the Recorder's office gave me a few tips. Did you know that the construction site is owned by International Travel Concepts?"

"Yeah, they bought the place from Commissioner Zvolen."

"That's right," Ford said emphatically, "Joseph Zvolen, the Mayor's Commissioner for Tourism and Development."

"I don't get it," Jake replied, as they left the research lab.

"Think about it. Let's head upstairs, I want to show you something," Ford directed, pointing to the stairs on the other side of the elevators. "So think about it, who had to approve ITC's plans to lease space to Hilton?"

"Um, the Tourism and Development Commission?"

"Bingo!" Ford said, snapping his fingers.

"I still don't get it," Jake shrugged. "I mean, so what, the guy's crooked. Ninety percent of the people on the Mayor's Commissions are doing favors for their friends."

"Ah, but it's more corrupt than that," Ford said as they reached a roped off area. "It's Ok, we can go in. I'll give you two guesses as to who owns fifty-five percent of the stock of ITC."

"Zvolen."

"Good man, good man. Care to guess who owns thirty-two percent of the remaining shares?" Ford asked. When Jake implied, with a shrug, that he had no clue, Ford continued. "Rich Brubakker, Zvolen's law partner."

"So what does this have to do with your case?" Jake asked.

"Nothing," Ford said, opening a heavy steel door. "But I'm quite certain it's indicative of the kind of evil surrounding it."

"Oh yes," Jake replied. "Evil travel agents. Booking people on one-way trips to hell."

"You scoff," Ford said, "but there's still a brisk white slavery trade going on in the Middle East."

They were now under the dome atop City Hall. Jake looked up to see three men in white overalls lying on their backs on scaffolding, dabbing paint at the inside rim of the dome.

"What are they doing?" he asked Ford.

"When the 'Great Mediocre Earthquake' hit in 1989, the dome of City Hall was twisted around on its lead fittings," Ford said, then, seeing Jake's expression, "no, I don't know why they used lead to hold up a multi-ton dome either. It took them ten years to get around to fixing the damage; first they had to lift up the entire building and put it on rubber chunks. When they finally got around to repairing the damage to the dome, a group of eco-nuts protested the city's decision to replace the lead fittings that failed with new lead fittings. The solution the city came up with was to use iron fittings and paint them to look like lead."

"You know," Jake mused, "that's so positively inane that there's no way you could be making it up."

"Quite," replied Ford.

They stood together, under the scaffolding, for several minutes, just staring up and watching the painters. Then Ford shrugged and said, "Ok, enough of San Fransilliness. Let's go."

"And do I need to ask where we're going?" Jake asked.

"To Novato," Ford smiled. "To see if we can get an interview with the Commissioner."

Almost forty-five minutes later, they pulled up outside of a one-story office building. The entire building had a showroom gleam. A sign reading "Brubakker and Zvolen, attorneys at law" leaned against the wall unmounted. The Lexus sitting in the parking space next to the front door was spotless.

"There's just one thing I don't understand," Jake said, getting out of the car and pulling off his sunglasses. "If hydrogen burns so well, why doesn't the Crustacean just light him on fire?"

"Because," Ford said, leading the way to the front door of the office, "he can control his hydrogen powers. He doesn't burn if he doesn't want to."

The blinds were closed in the windows of the building, and the inside of the front door was lined with reflective foil. Before they had a chance to open the door, it was opened for them, and a middle-aged man in an Armani suit stepped out. He seemed to be expecting them, and folded his hands behind his back after shutting the door behind himself.

"Can I help you gentlemen?"

"Yes," Ford said. Both he and Jake snapped their badges out and presented them. "I'm detective Ford, and this is detective Cisneros. We'd like to ask Mr. Zvolen some questions."

"I'm sorry," the snake said, oozing charm. "Mr. Zvolen isn't available. Maybe I can help you?"

"And you are?" Ford said, offering his hand.

"Richard Brubakker," came the reply, and a clear snub of the proffered handshake.

"Well, Mr. Brubakker, it's very doubtful that you can. The questions I have are for Mr. Zvolen."

"Are you sure?" Brubakker said, in mock sincerity. "I'll answer any question you have relevant to your case."

"Ok then," Ford said, pulling his notebook from his jacket. "Perhaps you can tell me how a low-grade ambulance chaser gets a new partner and magically swaps his usual clientele for commodities frauds and stock cheats and trades his Audi in for a brand new Lexus."

Brubakker made no reply, but it was clear from his expression that he wasn't happy about the question. His face reddened and he glanced down at his feet, tucking his hands in the pockets of his suit as he did so.

"Or how the Assistant County Controller for Sonoma County makes the leap to Commissioner of Tourism in San Francisco. Or why the Commissioner sells family property to a company he owns and then uses his office to have it turned into the sweetest real-estate deal of the decade."

"Look, Detective," Brubakker said, looking at Ford. "You're not Munch, and I'm not some random street thug. So why don't you drop the 'Homicide' routine. Whatever you think you've stumbled onto, I can personally assure you that it is far beyond your abilities to deal with. And if you don't have a warrant or a line of questioning relevant to your case, our conversation is at an end."

With that, Brubakker turned and started back up the stairs to the office. At the top of the flight he stopped and rubbed his chin.

"Oh, and one last thing," he said, without turning around. "If you value your job, I suggest you be careful not to overstep your authority."

"Do you believe that?" Ford said, after the door had closed behind Brubakker. "Who does he think he is, a Mickey Spillane bad guy?"

"That had to be the most poorly rehearsed speech I've ever heard," Jake agreed.

"Something's up," Ford said, returning to his car. "I'd bet my right ear that Zvolen is in there, but why send the flunky out? I just don't get it. I mean, it's going to be hard enough to prove this kid was murdered, Zvolen knows I don't have a prayer of pinning it on him. So why is he being so defensive?"

"Maybe he's just trying to scare you," Jake replied, flopping into the passenger's seat.

"There's still one thing I don't get," he continued, as Ford eased back onto Highway 101.

"What's that?" Ford asked.

"How can a mini-lop possibly be that vicious?"


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About Christopher Ford, Amateur Paranormalist

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