by R. J. Jagger
Teffinger had never seen anything so sexy.
Ever.
That was the truth.
“I’d walk for you but I don’t know where I’m going.”
She was about to drop down when Teffinger said, “Stay up.”
She did.
“Okay, turn right a quarter turn.”
She did.
“Now walk towards the sound of my voice. Just do it one arm at a time.”
She did.
Ten steps later, Teffinger grabbed her around the waist and swung her right-side up just before she was about to go off the dock.
She tossed hair out of her face and said, “Thanks.”
“It’s the least I can do and that’s what I always do,” he said.
She smiled.
“I don’t do that for everyone,” she said.
“You should,” he said. “The world would be a better place.”
“What makes you think I care about making the world a better place?”
He tossed his hair.
“Don’t you?”
“Not particularly,” she said. “You do, though.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You’re a detective,” she said. “That’s what detectives do. They get rid of the bad guys. The world turns into a better place.”
“How do you know I’m a detective?”
She said nothing and instead cast her eyes on the boat.
Then she slipped her high-heels off and said, “Give me the grand tour.”
40
Day 2—September 22
Tuesday Night
JONK AND WINTER DROVE UP Twin Peaks Boulevard, pulled into the viewing area parking lot, killed the engine and stepped out. A panoramic vista of San Francisco spiraled outward in all directions, as if they were in a plane coming in for a landing. Up an even higher hill, surrounded by thick eucalyptus groves, sat the red and white Sutro Tower, which carried antennas for most of the city’s TV and radio stations.
Twilight was heavy.
It would be dark in another half hour.
Lots of city lights already twinkled.
Jonk looked at his watch: 7:55.
“We just made it,” he said. “Five minutes.”
“Right.”
Jonk looked around for the buyer. He saw couples, sightseers, a group of teenagers, but no one alone, no one studying them and wondering if they were Zoogie.
“Maybe he heard the news that Zoogie’s dead,” Winter said.
“Let’s hope not.”
They leaned on the side of the car and watched the city. At exactly eight o’clock a red Mustang pulled into the parking lot and the headlights went out a heartbeat before it came to a complete stop. The driver got out, paid no attention to the view and scouted the lot as if looking for someone.
Jonk grabbed Winter’s hand, pulled her in that direction and said, “We’re up.”
The person was a female.
Casually dressed.
Wearing a baseball cap with her hair pulled through the back.
Late thirties.
Rough around the edges.
“Are you looking for Zoogie?” Jonk asked.
“Maybe. Are you him?”
“Sort of.”
HE EXPLAINED what was going on, namely that Zoogie got murdered last night, Winter was Zoogie’s girlfriend, Jonk was helping her find out who killed Zoogie, they suspected it had something to do with the coin.
“Did he say anything to you about where he got the coin from?”
The woman studied him.
“So there isn’t going to be a deal?”
“No,” Jonk said.
The woman made a face.
“Then I’m wasting my time.” She opened the door, slid inside and said to Winter, “I’m sorry about your boyfriend, but I have my own fights to fight.”
She pulled on the door but Winter grabbed it before it shut.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “You came for the coin. I have the coin.”
“You do?”
Yes.
She did.
And pulled it out of her pocket to prove it.
“I’ll do the deal. But you need to tell me what you know. Fair enough?”
The woman hesitated.
Then said, “Let me see the coin.”
41
Day 2—September 22
Tuesday Night
SONG GOT HOME Tuesday night to an empty apartment, which shouldn’t have been of significance but was. Nuwa had become a bigger part of her life than she realized and her absence was palpable.
A heavy storm beat against the windows.
Wine flowed in her veins.
This was the time to go to bed but the significance of tomorrow weighed on her.
Nuwa needed to be dead-on.
Rekker wasn’t a stupid man.
If he knew Nuwa was playing him, there would be consequences.
So far, Song had been nothing less than a hundred percent honest in her life, in everything she said, in everything she did and in everything she was. Designing a fake case was the first time she’d ventured out of her comfort zone. So far it had just been a plan, something that would happen in the future, so she hadn’t dwelled upon the moral implications too much. But now, with the plan set to go forward tomorrow morning, it was more than just a concept.
Was she doing something illegal without realizing it?
Or was she simply learning, finally, how to play in the big leagues?
The thought nagged at her so much that she logged on to Westlaw and researched the issue. As far as she could tell, an hour into it, a lawyer owed a duty of honesty to the client but the client didn’t have a similar duty in return. A lawyer wasn’t entitled to lie to a client as that would be a breach of the attorney’s fiduciary duty. If a client lied to a lawyer, however, the lawyer had no cause of action against the client. The client’s primary obligation to the lawyer was to pay the bill.
So, it was legally permissible for Nuwa to approach Rekker with a fake case and, by extension, it was permissible for Song to assist Nuwa in the matter.
There was a limit, though.
Nuwa couldn’t have Rekker actually file a lawsuit against a third party based on knowingly-false information. In that instance, she could potentially be held civilly liable to the third party for any damages sustained.
It wouldn’t get to that point, though.
There.
Song felt better.
SHE BRUSHED HER TEETH, stripped down to a T, turned off the lights and got into bed.
The storm beat down.
Wild.
Violent.
She flipped the pillow to the fresh side, snuggled in and closed her eyes.
She was almost asleep when she thought she heard something.
Something other than the storm.
She raised her head to listen with both ears.
She heard the weather.
Nothing else.
She listened harder.
Still nothing unusual.
She laid her head back down and listened with one ear. Then her mind wandered and sleep took her.
42
Day 2—September 22
Tuesday Night
RAIN CAME, HARD AND FAST. Teffinger closed the hatch all but a few inches and said, “I was afraid this was going to happen. Now I’m going to have to go to Plan B.”
“What’s Plan B?” Chase asked.
He shrugged.
“I don’t know. I never make it until I need it.”
“Okay, then, what was Plan A?”
“Plan A was to motor over to Alcatraz Island,” he said. “They let me tie up there after hours, off the record, so long as no one raises a stink, which no one has yet. There’s a rock cropping off the beaten path where I like to sit and drink a couple Anchor Steams and watch the city.” He paused. “I don’t know, maybe that was too lame anyway.”
Chase shook her head.
“No,
actually it sounds nice. Did you ever break in, you know, after dark?”
He smiled.
“Not since I was a kid,” he said.
“You did it then?”
“I did everything then,” he said. “That’s one of the only drawbacks to my job. Now I have to stay clean.”
“No, you just have to not get caught.”
He flicked hair out of his face.
“Unfortunately, staying clean is the best way I know to not get caught.”
“See, I’m just the opposite,” Chase said. “I’m more of a nature to do what I want when I want, and screw the consequences. Nine times out of ten it never catches up to you.”
“Yeah, it’s that tenth time you have to watch for.”
“Not really. You smile, apologize, beg for forgiveness and keep moving forward,” she said. “Life’s too short to not grab those other nine things. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not talking about cheating. I’ve never cheated on a man, not once, ever. That’s one of the places in life where I live by the rules. That and my health, I never try to cheat my health.” A beat, then, “You know what I want on my tombstone when I die?”
No.
He didn’t.
“What?”
“I want it to say, Not wasted.”
“Sounds reasonable.”
“We’re all wolves inside,” she said. “The secret is to not get caged.” She studied him and added, “You’re part Indian. How much?”
“Hardly any, only 1/32.”
“What kind?”
“Apache. You’d never know it looking at me.”
“I’m one-eighth Cherokee,” she said. Teffinger must have had disbelief on his face because she added, “I’m serious. My great-grandmother was a full-blooded Cherokee named Bandhura, which means pretty. Her daughter—my grandmother—spoke pretty good Tsalagi, in spite of governmental policies that cropped up in the fifties and forced the removal of children from Tsalagi-speaking homes. The language got passed on to my mother who then trickled as much as she could of it down to me. I’m not fluent but I can make out what’s being said, or at least I could three or four years ago. That’s the last time I heard it spoken. It’s almost extinct at this point. It’s really sad.”
Teffinger was impressed.
“You’re lucky to have a heritage,” he said. “My dad died when I was fifteen. I have a few of the genes but not much background.”
She studied him.
“You have the eyes of a wolf. Let’s take a walk.”
“In the rain?”
“Yeah, it’ll be fun. Let’s get drenched.”
He considered it.
“Come on,” she said. “I want you to see me ugly, with my hair flat and my makeup smudged and water dripping off my nose.”
43
Day 3—September 23
Wednesday Morning
JONK FOUND HIMSELF ON A COUCH in an unfamiliar room when he woke Wednesday. The first rays of morning were just beginning to shift through bent, aluminum blinds. He sat up and stretched. A gray cat trotted over and jumped into his lap. He gave it a pat on the head and got his bearings. The room was cluttered with twice as much stuff as it needed, maybe three times.
Cheap pine tables.
Torn-shade lamps.
A jammed bookcase.
An oval throw rug with years of wear.
The place belonged to Winter’s friend, Brittany Stevens, who put them up last night. That was safer than a hotel since the cops were looking for him in connection with Zoogie’s murder.
He headed into the bedroom, carrying the cat.
Giving it a good scratch behind the ears.
The women were still asleep and so buried in the covers that he couldn’t tell which was which. He headed over, took a closer look, figured out which one Winter was and shook her gently on the shoulder.
She opened her eyes.
He held the cat in front of her face and said in his best cat voice, “Time to wake up.”
Then he headed for the shower.
FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER he and Winter were on the road in Brittany’s car—bless her heart—with more than enough pancakes, strawberries and coffee in their guts.
Winter drove.
Jonk checked Tag’s cell phone to be sure it still had power for when and if Tag’s abductor’s called.
It did but the battery was fading.
They bought a pair of Bushnell PermaFocus binoculars at the first open store they passed that might sell such a thing, then headed to the place where Winter’s van plunged into the bay yesterday.
There was no activity on the water.
Good.
They parked a mile down the road, headed back part way on foot, took a position behind a rock outcropping and waited.
The plan was simple.
The other people, the ones from the white sedan, wouldn’t know if the treasure was in the van or not. For all they knew, the whole cache could have been in Zoogie’s possession and stashed at the dry dock. Winter might well have loaded every bit of it into the van. It might be sitting there in it’s entirety under the water right now, this moment.
They’d have to check.
It was too realistic of a theory to not pursue.
An hour passed.
No one showed up.
“Maybe they came last night,” Winter said. “Maybe they did a night dive.”
“I doubt it,” Jonk said.
“Why not?”
“Unless they’re divers, they’re going to have to hire somebody. They didn’t have time to do that yesterday, not to mention they were busy with Tag. Plus this place was pretty hot yesterday. I don’t know if they stuck around long enough to see what happened to you. It’s possible they think they killed you. It’s also possible that someone saw the whole thing and told the police about a white sedan.” Jonk shook his head. “Yesterday was too risky. Today’s risky too, for that matter, but they can’t put it off forever. They’ll scout the area, confirm the cops aren’t hanging around and then go for it.” A pause, then, “That’s what I’d do.”
They waited.
An hour passed.
Then another.
Nothing happened.
Their stomachs began to grumble.
Then Jonk’s phone rang.
THE CALLER turned out to be Jack Poon from Hong Kong wanting an update, which Jonk gave him.
“I’m sorry about Tag but there’s bound to be collateral damage in a project like this,” Poon said. “Your job is to not get distracted.”
Jonk’s chest tightened.
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning keep doing what I’m paying you to do.”
“What about Tag?”
“We’ll come back and attend to her after the treasure’s in hand,” Poon said. “The important thing right now is to not waste a second of time, especially now that we know we have competition.”
Jonk chewed on whether he should say what he was about to say, then decided to just do it. “You didn’t send a second team here, by chance, did you?”
Silence.
“I did,” Poon said.
“You did?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“That doesn’t concern you,” Poon said. “They’re on a separate mission.”
A separate mission?
What kind of separate mission?
“They’re focused on a man named Nathan Rock,” Poon said.
“Never heard of him.”
“No reason you would,” Poon said.
Jonk frowned.
“What’s this Rock guy have to do with this?”
“Nothing,” Poon said. “He’s just a loose end I’m tying up. If it turns out he factors into the equation somehow, you’ll be briefed.”
“Maybe they’re the ones who took Tag.”
“Never.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I trust them.”
Jonk grunted.
“No
one’s trustworthy when the stakes are this high,” he said. “It’s very possible that they’re double-crossing you and they’re the ones who took Tag.”
Silence.
“Call them off,” Jonk added. “If they haven’t mutated, they might. I can’t work if everything around me is polluted.”
A long beat.
Then Poon said, “Let’s get something crystal clear right now. It’s my treasure at stake, not yours. I’m the one in charge of this mission, not you.”
Jonk exhaled.
“I didn’t come here to be working in a blind spot,” he said. “Either get me fully in the loop and let me call the shots or find yourself someone else.”
“Be careful what you say, my friend.”
Jonk kicked a rock.
“Make up your mind and do it now,” he said.
“Don’t force my hand.”
Jonk took a deep breath and said, “Make up your mind.”
“Okay then, have it your way,” Poon said. “You’re out of the deal. Get your ass back to Hong Kong.”
44
Day 3—September 23
Wednesday Morning
THE FIRST THING Song did when she woke Wednesday morning was put on her glasses and peek through the corner of the blinds to see if anyone strange was lurking around in the alley. She saw no blue bandanas or strange Chinese men in white shirts.
The storm from last night was gone.
Puddles lingered but the sky was clear.
She showered, filled a bowl with cereal and milk, carried it down to her office, got the coffee pot going and reacquainted herself with the Chin file. At 7:45 she strapped her briefcase onto the back of her bike and peddled down to the San Francisco District Court for an 8:30 status conference.
She was on her way back to the office, peddling next to heavy traffic, when her phone rang. She kept one hand on the handlebars and answered with the other.
It was Nuwa.
“I have an appointment with Rekker at two o’clock this afternoon.”
“Good.”
“What are you doing, jogging?”
“Peddling.”
“Same thing,” Nuwa said. “You need to cut out all that health crap and start smoking.”
She smiled.
“The apartment was strange without you there last night,” she said.