by R. J. Jagger
Teffinger took a long noisy slurp of coffee and lowered his voice.
“Pull the file on Pamela Zoom,” he said.
The third victim.
The waitress.
“Why?” Neva asked.
“I JUST BUMPED INTO CONDOR.”
“Condor?”
Right.
Condor.
“That witness said he wasn’t the one she saw,” Neva said.
“Yeah, yeah, I know all that,” Teffinger said. “Here’s the thing. The third victim, Pamela Zoom, the waitress, was wearing small loop earrings during her shift the night she disappeared. They weren’t there when she was found. Do you remember?”
No.
She didn’t.
“They had a real small diameter,” Teffinger said. “Half an inch, maybe less.”
Okay.
“So?”
“So, Condor was wearing an earring exactly like that when I saw him not more than a hour ago.”
Neva frowned.
“That’s a generic thing,” she said. “You can walk down Market Street and find ten more in as many minutes, both guys and girls.”
Teffinger didn’t care.
“It’s so perfect,” he said, “wearing a souvenir out in public. That’s exactly the kind of guy we’re dealing with. Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to go through all the files and refresh our memories as to every souvenir that got taken. Then you’re going to follow him.”
“Condor?”
Right.
Condor.
“You’re going to mark down every place he goes,” Teffinger added. “We’re going to get every security tape we can and see what else we can find him wearing—rings or chains or whatever. With any luck, he switches to something new every day.”
“You’re not serious,” she said.
He was.
Dead.
“This is just between you and me,” he said. “I don’t want anyone else to know about it.”
She almost asked why.
But said, “Okay.”
31
Day 2—September 22
Tuesday Afternoon
BY THE TIME TAG got her Accord turned around from dry dock, the black van was a long ways down the road, swaying dangerously as it disappeared around a curve. “We’re losing her,” Jonk said.
“I know that.”
“Go.”
“I already am.”
Jonk pushed Tag’s right knee towards the floorboard, forcing her foot all the way down on the pedal. The car sped up, not a lot, but perceptible, then swung around the curve.
The van came back into sight.
So did something they didn’t expect, namely another car, a white sedan with dark tinted windows, right on the van’s bumper.
What the hell?
“I can’t drive this fast,” Tag said.
“Yes you can. Don’t slow down.”
“We’re going to crash.”
“No we’re not. Just keep going.”
They were heading south, paralleling the cold choppy waters of the bay to their left. It wasn’t clear if the sedan was chasing the van or just a tailgater.
Then it rammed forward.
The back end of the van swayed momentarily then straightened out.
“Who is it?” Tag said.
“The guy who killed Zoogie.”
Tag’s foot eased up.
Jonk pushed her leg down.
“Don’t lose them.”
The sedan rammed the van.
Then again.
And again.
The swaying in the van’s backside got more and more pronounced.
“She’s going to crash,” Tag said.
“I see that.”
The sedan rammed forward again. The van veered to the left and crossed the center line, out of control, then overcompensated to the right and flipped. It rolled once, landed back on the wheels, rolled to the left and then disappeared over an embankment.
“Shit!”
THE WHITE SEDAN CROSSED the centerline and screeched to a stop at the edge of the embankment. The driver looked down, briefly, then floored it, throwing gravel from the front wheels. It was already around a twist in the road by the time Tag got there and slammed the Accord to a stop.
Jonk got out and ran to the edge .
The water was a good ways off, fifty yards minimum, down a precipitously steep cliff. The roof of the van was visible in the water, twenty meters off shore. The air inside was keeping it afloat, but not for long. Not much of it was showing, and even that disappeared when a wave rolled over it.
Jonk headed down.
It was steep.
A lot steeper than he thought.
He got ten yards, then the inevitable happened.
His foot twisted.
He lost his balance.
Rather than tumble, he kicked off with his other leg, trying to get enough air to carry him past the jagged rocks below and into the water.
Halfway down he saw he wasn’t going to make it.
32
Day 2—September 22
Tuesday Afternoon
LATE TUESDAY AFTERNOON, SONG walked through Chinatown and looked in store windows, ostensibly shopping, but using reflections and mirrors to see if Mr. Blue Bandana was in tow. She didn’t really expect to see him and wasn’t prepared for it when it actually did happen.
There he was.
Across the street.
Three stores down.
Her instinct was to run, just get the hell out of there at full trot, so fast that he couldn’t dare follow without becoming obvious. She took two brisk steps and stopped. Then she did something she didn’t expect.
Something un-delicate.
She looked directly at him and headed that way, already picturing the conversation. Get the hell off my tail or I’ll haul you and your little boss Rekker into court for a restraining order. Five steps later, the man turned and walked briskly around the corner. By the time Song got there, he was gone.
Her heart pounded.
Her hands shook.
She held one in the other to steady them. Then she turned back, abruptly, needing more than anything to get out of there. Wheels suddenly squealed and a vehicle slid into a panic stop just short of running her over. It came so close that it actually touched her stomach.
She was in the street.
It was her fault.
The driver was wide-eyed, even more startled than she was.
The vehicle was a taxi.
No one was in the back seat.
Song slapped her hand on the hood, got into the back and said, “Drive!” The man turned and stared at her for a second, then took off.
AT FIRST, she made him head down Jackson Street out of the area. Then she made him go back and zigzag through Chinatown. What she hoped and feared would happen actually did—she spotted the blue bandana.
“Pull up next to that guy and stop!”
The driver said, “In English, lady.”
She repeated it.
In English this time.
The car slid to a stop.
She threw a twenty into the front seat and stepped out.
33
Day 2—September 22
Tuesday Afternoon
LATE TUESDAY AFTERNOON Bertha decided to break down. In true diva style, she didn’t do it on a side street. Oh no, not Bertha. She broke down on Market Street. Not on the side, either, but directly on the cable car tracks. As if on some type of conspiratorial cue, a trolley clanked down the street almost immediately, jam-packed with passengers to the point of hanging off the back. It was all the startled driver could do to release the car from the cable and get the people-moving beast to a stop before rearranging Bertha’s posterior forever.
Traffic backed up.
Horns honked.
No one was amused.
Five guys came over and helped Teffinger push Bertha up the street into the first available parking spot, which was
a lot farther than any of them wanted it to be.
Teffinger offered money.
They refused.
He was glad.
He was popping the hood when his phone rang and the voice of Neva came through.
“Bad news,” she said.
“Hold on.”
Teffinger got the hood all the way open and said, “Go ahead,” as he looked around. The fan belt was in place, frayed, but still alive and living where it was supposed to.
“Condor made me,” she said.
Teffinger leaned against Bertha’s front fender.
“Tell me you didn’t say what you just said,” he said.
“I don’t know how, I was way back,” Neva said.
“How do you know he made you?”
“Because he looked directly at me and did one of those things with his fingers,” she said.
Huh?
What things?
“You know, where you take your index finger and middle finger and point them at your eyes, then you turn them around and point them at someone else. It means I see you or I’m watching you. That’s what he did to me.”
Teffinger exhaled.
“Bertha just had a nervous breakdown,” he said.
“Another one?”
Right.
Another one.
“You need to retire that girl,” Neva said. “Honest, Teffinger, I was being careful with Condor.”
“I know you were.”
A pause.
Then she said, “Now what?”
“Now we go to Plan B.”
“What’s Plan B?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I didn’t even know we needed it until ten seconds ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” he said. “Forget it.”
THIRTY SECONDS AFTER he hung up, Teffinger figured out the cause of Bertha’s indigestion, namely the negative battery terminal was all crusted over.
He cleaned it up.
Bertha thanked him by firing.
“Good thing you’re so cute,” he said.
Two blocks down the road he called Neva and said, “Meet me at the boat.”
“Why?”
“Because I just figured out Plan B.”
34
Day 2—September 22
Tuesday Afternoon
THE SWELL ROSE UP just as Jonk landed, giving him two feet of water over the jags of the rocks, not enough to keep him from making contact but enough to keep him from hitting full force. His head went under. The water was cold and immediately filled his eyes and nose and ears. A sharp pain fired from his left shoulder and shot straight to his brain. He swam to the van, frantic.
It was lower than before.
Only one corner of the top broke the surface.
He took a deep breath and dived down to the driver’s door. Visibility was next to nothing. He felt around for the doorknob, found it and swung the door open.
“Help me!”
Bubbles shot to the surface.
Just like that, the air from inside was gone.
The van was already sinking, fast.
Jonk grabbed the woman, pulled her out, tucked her in one arm and swam for the surface. The woman kicked and fought but he didn’t let go.
Hold on!
Hold on!
Hold on!
When they broke the surface the woman screamed, “I can’t swim! Don’t let me die!”
“Relax your body!”
She didn’t.
Not even close.
Instead she tried to climb up him. He was the only solid thing there, the only thing she could get on to get her head out of the water.
Jonk couldn’t get her into position.
“Calm down!”
She didn’t.
Anything but.
Her fingernails gouged into Jonk’s skin.
He had no choice but to punch her in the face.
As soon as he did, the fight went out of her body.
And Jonk got her to shore.
THEY COLLAPSED ON THE ROCKS just out of reach of the water, too exhausted to go another step, and didn’t move for a long time, ten or fifteen minutes at least. Then Jonk got some wind back in his lungs, pulled the woman—Winter—to her feet and said, “Let’s go.”
She cast an eye on the embankment.
“It’s too steep.”
Jonk agreed.
They walked down shore, eventually found an easier way up, then doubled back in the direction of Tag’s car. It came into sight around a curve, still three or four hundred yards away. Jonk hoped that Tag would spot them and double back but that didn’t happen because that’s the way his life worked.
They had to walk all the way to the car.
Every single step.
When they got there, Tag was gone.
The keys were in the ignition.
Her purse was in the console between the seats.
But she was gone.
JONK SHOUTED, “TAG!”
No answer.
“Tag!”
Nothing.
“Where are you!”
Silence.
He ran to the embankment and looked down.
No Tag.
He looked up the road.
No Tag.
Same thing the other direction.
The white sedan must have swung back and taken her.
His brain spun and he slammed his hand on the trunk of the car so violently that Winter jumped.
35
Day 2—September 22
Tuesday Afternoon
THE BLUE-BANDANA MAN didn’t see Song until she grabbed his arm from behind and spun him around. “Who the hell are you?” The shock on his face was palpable. “Why are you following me?”
He looked across the street.
Nervously.
“Lower your voice. You’re making a scene.”
“I don’t give a shit. Stay away from me. You got it?”
She expected him to back off.
To disappear into the crowd.
Instead, he grabbed her hand and pulled her into the nearest doorway, which turned out to be a Chinese herb shop filled with aromas that dated back to ancient times. He pulled her to the window and pointed across the street.
“See that man over there?”
She focused.
“Which one?”
“The one in the white shirt.”
She saw who he was talking about, a Chinese man in his late twenties. His right arm was heavily tattooed.
“Do you know him?” the man asked.
“No. Why?”
“He’s been following you.”
“Why?”
The man ignored her and instead looked towards the back of the shop. The shopkeeper was an elderly Chinese woman with a shy face.
“Is there a back way out of here?”
“No English,” the woman said.
Song repeated the question, in Chinese.
The woman nodded and pointed towards a smaller, adjoining room.
“Leave that way,” the man told Song.
“I don’t understand. What’s going on?”
“Just do it.”
Then he left out the front door and walked in the same direction as the man in the white shirt.
SONG STOOD THERE, uncertain what to do, then left by the back door and walked to her office through the thickest crowds she could find, with one eye over her shoulder.
Maybe what just happened was real.
Or maybe the blue bandana duped her.
She couldn’t know which.
One thing she did know, though. Blue bandana would be replaced with a fresh face now that he was busted.
This was all related to Shaden’s case.
Something was back there in the shadows.
Something big.
Something that didn’t want Song poking around.
SHE LOCKED THE OFFICE behind her and walked up the wooden steps to her apartm
ent.
Nuwa wasn’t there.
She poured a glass of white wine, made a half-sandwich and carried them back down to her office, together with a small bag of chips.
She was taking the first bite out of the sandwich when her phone rang.
36
Day 2—September 22
Tuesday Afternoon
TEFFINGER’S SAILBOAT had a name painted in red letters on the transom. The previous owner had a different name, NO VNE, which stood for No Velocity Not to Exceed. That made sense for him, being a jet pilot, but didn’t for Teffinger, who could hardly even be a passenger much less a pilot. It was bad luck to change the name of a boat but he did it anyway.
Now it was Bad Add Vice.
He didn’t come up with it, an old girlfriend named Chance did.
“The Bad stands for you, because you’re such a bad ass,” she said. “The Add Vice stands for the fact that you need someone to add vice to your life.”
“Like you?”
“Precisely,” she said, “like me. The whole thing together, Bad Add Vice, stands for the fact what whenever you give advice, it turns out to be bad. So it’s multilayered. What do you think?”
He laughed.
And that was it.
In many ways the vessel was the nautical equivalent of Bertha, meaning good bones but bad skin. Being an older model, there was a truckload of exterior teak, too much for anyone who had a job to keep sanded and fresh. The hull was thick and built for the worst. It was also faded to a flat, industrial off-white.
The window trimmings were brass.
Crusted with blue.
The interior by contrast was spacious and nice, with rich wood, a complete galley, a head with shower, and most importantly a forward berth big enough for Teffinger’s frame.
He was sitting on the deck, leaning against the mast and eating a bowl of cereal, when Neva showed up.
SHE LOOKED AT HER WATCH AND FROWNED. “We’re in the middle of a workday, SJK is right around the corner, and here you are doing some kind of Jimmy Buffet thing. Why are we here instead of at the office?”
“Nice to see you, too,” he said. “Want some cereal?”
No.
She didn’t.
He patted the deck next to him and she sat down.
Seagulls flew overhead.