by R. J. Jagger
Jonk considered it.
“This is bigger than I thought.”
Poon nodded.
“IT’S BIG ENOUGH that when you find them, a thought is going to enter your head. Do you know what that thought is?”
Jonk shook his head.
No.
He didn’t.
“Yes you do,” Poon said. “The thought is going to be, I SHOULD JUST KEEP EVERYTHING FOR MYSELF. I’LL MAKE UP A STORY. I’LL TELL POON I COULDN’T FIND THEM. I’LL HIDE THEM, SOMEWHERE SAFE. I’LL SIT ON THEM FOR A YEAR OR TWO OR FIVE, WHATEVER IT TAKES. POON WILL FORGET ABOUT ME. THEN I’LL SELL THEM ON THE BLACK MARKET.”
Jonk smiled.
“That’s quite a scenario,” he said.
Poon frowned.
“It’s just a realistic prediction of human nature,” he said. “Let me emphasize, when that thought enters your head, resist it. Resist it with everything you have. The reason is this. If you don’t, I’ll hunt you to the ends of the earth. There won’t be a rock or tree or wall anywhere on the planet that you can hide behind. I’ll find you, count on it, count on it with every breath in your lungs. It may not be right away, it may even be years, but I’ll find you eventually. And when I do, the pain will start. It will be a horrible, slow pain, and there won’t be a thing in the world you can do or say to stop it once it starts. Are we clear?”
Jonk’s chest tightened.
Then he forced his face into a smile and slapped Poon on the back.
“Lose the drama,” he said. “No one’s going to screw you. I’m going to keep you in the loop. I just want to be clear that there are no guarantees, other than you’ll get my best efforts. I may be able to recover them, I may not. Either way, I don’t want to worry about you thinking I’ve screwed you just because everything doesn’t magically fall back into your lap.”
“If you’re honest, I’ll know,” Poon said. “If you’re not, I’ll know that too.”
“Deal,” Jonk said.
They shook hands.
5
Day 2—September 22
Tuesday Morning
SONG LEE had a one-room law office on Waverly Place, which was an alley in Chinatown between Grant Avenue and Stockton Street, sometimes referred to as the Street of Painted Balconies. Being on the second floor and with only a small sign at street level, hardly anyone knew about the office unless they were Chinese, so it was strange when a well-dressed Caucasian woman walked in early Tuesday morning. She was about thirty, curvy, five-seven and pretty, even with the serious expression etched on her face.
“Are you Song Lee, the attorney?”
Yes.
She was.
Song knew the reason for the question, namely she was wearing red tennis shoes with a faded black T-shirt tucked into gray khakis. It didn’t help that she was only five-two and wore black glasses, which made her look younger than her actual age, twenty-eight. Her hair was long, thick and shinny black, currently pulled back into an uneventful ponytail. She looked more like someone off the Berkeley campus than a lawyer.
“My name’s Shaden Jade,” the woman said. “I was wondering if I could talk to you about something.”
The words were cracked with stress.
Song leaned forward and said, “Are you okay?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“What’s the problem?”
“This is confidential, right? Our conversation?”
Yes.
Totally.
“This is an attorney-client communication, a hundred percent confidential even if you don’t retain me.”
The woman sat down in one of the two beat-up chairs in front of the desk, paused, then looked Song directly in the eyes and said, “I’d like to hire you to find out something for me.”
“Find out what?”
“Find out whether I killed someone.”
Song tilted her head.
“This is a joke, right? Moon Lee put you up to this.”
Shaden said nothing.
Instead, she pulled a white envelope out of her purse and pushed it across the desk. “That’s a cash retainer,” she said. “Fifty thousand dollars. There’s more if you need it. Money isn’t the issue.”
SONG LEFT THE MONEY WHERE IT WAS.
“What’s this about?”
“I need to warn you in advance that this could be dangerous,” Shaden said.
“How so?”
“Look,” Shaden said, “I’m going to say something and I don’t want you to take it the wrong way. It’s pretty obvious that you could use the money. Before I tell you what this is about, though, I want you to promise me something.”
Promise something?
What?
“Promise me that if you do decide to take the case, you’ll do it because it fits you on a personal level, because you really want to help me deep down, not because of the money.”
Song stood up, walked to the window and looked down.
Chinatown was already in full motion, even here in the alley.
She turned, locked eyes with Shaden and said, “Who’d you kill?”
Shaden exhaled.
“I’m not sure that I did,” she said. “That’s what I want you to find out.”
“Okay, let me rephrase it,” Song said. “Who is it that you think you may have killed? What’s the person’s name?”
“She’s a woman but I don’t know her name.”
“Is she someone you know?”
“No, she’s a stranger.”
“How’d you kill her, if you did?”
“With a gun.”
“With a gun?”
“Right, with a gun,” Shaden said. “It’s probably best if we back up and start at the beginning.”
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