by R. J. Jagger
BACK AT THE LAW OFFICE, Song made a fresh pot of coffee and logged on to the net. Shaden had been sent to the San Francisco office to investigate whether Rekker was engaging in bribery, blackmail or other illegal activities to get an edge in high-stakes litigation.
Getting Nuwa on the inside was one way to potentially crack the question.
Realistically, though, it was a long shot.
There was another shot to take, also a long shot, but a shot nonetheless. And that was to locate all the high-stakes cases that Rekker had been involved in over the last several years, get into the guts and details of those cases, and see if anything unusual or unexpected happened.
A witness suddenly changing testimony.
Or an opposing counsel not taking a key deposition or not subpoenaing a key witness for trial.
Or a settlement of case on terms ridiculously advantageous to Rekker’s client.
Something like that.
There were a lot of databases that could be tapped for information. Westlaw contained most published court opinions, both state and federal, as well as many unpublished ones. It could be searched by keyword, including an attorney’s name. That would be a good starting point to identify the cases where Rekker was an attorney of record.
Then there were local court records, also accessible online by members of the bar, which showed all docket entries for a case, including motions filed by either party and orders issued by the court. Not only were those items listed, but the actual documents could be pulled up and read.
Then, of course, as a last resort, any member of the public could go to the clerk’s office and ask to see the actual case files.
SONG ACCESSED WESTLAW and did a search for REKKER.
A number of cases popped up.
She printed the page.
Then took a sip of coffee and clicked on the first case.
45
Day 3—September 23
Wednesday Morning
TEFFINGER JOGGED BEFORE SUNRISE Wednesday morning, paying enough attention to traffic to not get run over but otherwise focused with all his might on Chase. Last night had been nothing like what he expected. All day long he anticipated getting her on her back, peeling her cloths off one beautiful layer at a time and slowly turning her into a heap of nothing but raw animal lust.
That didn’t happen.
It could have.
He wanted it.
She wanted it.
But it didn’t happen.
He didn’t know why at the time but now by the light of day did, namely they were building something bigger than that.
Nice.
Exciting.
But dangerous.
If she turned out to be a killer, then what? He didn’t know, but did know one thing—he needed to see her again.
Tonight.
BACK AT THE SAILBOAT he took a shower, ate cereal and headed to the parking lot to see if Bertha was in the mood to start. He stuck the key in, said Come on, baby, and turned the ignition. Bertha sputtered in protest for five seconds and then coughed blue smoke out the tailpipe as she reluctantly rumbled to life.
Teffinger patted the dashboard.
That’s my girl.
He was usually the first one to work so it was a shock to find everyone already there, spread out in the conference room. All eyes were on Northstone who was standing at the front and talking animatedly. Teffinger opened the door, walked in and took a seat in the back. The chief turned briefly, threw him an evil look, then refocused on the man from New York.
Northstone didn’t motion for Teffinger to join him up front.
Teffinger tried to listen but his mind kept bouncing to Chase.
Then Condor.
Then Zoogie.
Then back to Chase.
Something in his peripheral vision got his attention. He turned to find Tracy Pendergast waving at him through the window. He got up as unobtrusively as he could and headed for the door, looking back only long enough to see the chief watching him with a mean face.
Tracy Pendergast was from the missing persons unit.
Teffinger had asked her to immediately notify him of any women who were reported missing, regardless of age, hair color or ethnic background.
“You got something?” he asked.
“I got this,” she said, handing him a photograph.
It was a woman.
Nice looking.
Mid-twenties.
African American.
Black hair.
“Her name’s London Fogg.”
“Like the raincoat?”
“Exactly like the raincoat, except two g’s,” Tracy said. “According to her roommate, she went missing last night. I’m sorry to pull you out of the meeting, but you wanted me to tell you about any female missing person cases right away, so that’s what I’m doing.”
46
Day 3—September 23
Wednesday Morning
JONK KNEW that if he didn’t show up in Hong Kong by tomorrow at the latest, Poon would conclude that he was hanging around San Francisco to try to recover the treasure for himself. Poon would send a hitman to be sure that didn’t happen. Jonk would never see him coming. Right now though, at this moment, he didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was Tag.
Late morning came.
Nothing happened.
Noon came.
Same thing.
“If I don’t get food I’m going to disintegrate,” Winter said. Jonk didn’t want her walking down the road alone, nor did he want to leave his position to watch over her.
“Call for pizza,” he said.
“You’re kidding, right?”
No.
He wasn’t.
So she called.
Half an hour later a pizza delivery guy pulled to a stop on the side of the road, not exactly where instructed but within fifty yards. Winter waved him in the rest of the way, gave him a twenty-dollar tip and carried everything midway down the bluff to the hiding spot.
Greasy.
That’s what the pizza was.
Greasy and good.
They were halfway through it when a fishing boat meandered into the area and dropped anchor twenty yards from where the van went down.
Jonk pulled it in with the binoculars.
“Bingo.”
“Is that them?”
He passed the binoculars and said, “You tell me.”
“I’m almost positive the dark skinned guy is the one who was driving,” she said. “He has that same look. I don’t see the woman who was in the passenger seat.”
“She’s probably watching over Tag.”
THERE WERE FOUR MEN on the boat, total. Two of them suited up with wetsuits, tanks and fins and jumped overboard. Within the hour, they had everything salvaged out of the van.
Suddenly the Egyptian man pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and dialed.
Inside Jonk’s pocket, Tag’s phone rang.
Jonk answered.
“You want your friend Tag back, right?”
Jonk didn’t have to ask who was calling.
He was actually watching the man through the binoculars as the words came out of the phone.
“If you hurt her, you’re dead,” Jonk said.
“Save the drama,” the man said. “We want Brian Zoog’s girlfriend, Winter, the one who was driving the van. We’ll make you an even trade—Tag for her.”
47
Day 3—September 23
Wednesday Morning
IF THERE WAS ONE THING Song discovered during her research, it was that almost every single case Rekker touched was high-stakes in one way or the other. She also discovered that he touched a lot of cases.
There was a lot to run down.
Too much.
The biggest case, of course, was Rekker’s defense of Kyle Greyson who was charged with the murder of Paris Zephyr, the first SJK victim. That was the case where the head detective, Frank Finger, had been telling his girlfriend how he planted
evidence to implicate Greyson. He got drunk and beat her up the day before he was set to testify. She retaliated by telling Rekker about the fabrications and then testifying to the fact at trial. Finger never admitted any wrongdoing but everyone knew he was lying. Based on the girlfriend’s testimony, the DA dismissed the charges during trial.
Song checked the docket sheet.
The girlfriend’s name was Haley Key.
Seeing it in writing jogged Song’s memory.
The woman had been beat up pretty bad by Finger. When she testified, her eye was almost closed shut and the entire side of her face was black, green and purple.
Haley Key.
Haley Key.
SONG’S STOMACH CHURNED. She looked at her watch to find the morning entirely gone, plus half the noon hour. She locked up and headed down to Utopia Café which was next to Double Dragon Massage, a place she was tempted to peek in every time she passed it.
Nuwa would be up at two.
By mid-afternoon, Song would know if Rekker had taken the bait.
She ate a full bowl of veggies.
Still hungry, she ordered a second.
The place buzzed.
Everyone was in motion.
She could hardly think, but that was okay because she wasn’t in the mood.
Suddenly, a very strange thought entered her head. It had to do with the girlfriend, Haley Key. What if Rekker had dug up some dirt on her, something she wouldn’t ever want the world to see? What if he came up with a perfect plan, namely that she tell the jury that Finger had told her he had fabricated evidence? What if everything she said was a total fabrication? What if Finger never beat her up at all? What if those injuries were inflicted by Rekker himself, with her consent, as part and parcel of the scheme?
Rekker would have known that his client, Kyle Greyson, was innocent. He would have known that from their private conversations and from looking into the man’s eyes.
He would have also known, however, that Greyson might nevertheless go down.
He’d want to protect him any way he could.
Even if it meant putting pressure on a witness to lie.
The ends would justify the means.
SONG FINISHED HER NOODLES and headed back to the law office with a pounding heart.
She needed to dig into Haley Key’s past.
She needed to find the same dirt that Rekker had found.
Once she did that, she’d confront the woman head on.
48
Day 3—September 23
Wednesday Morning
LONDON FOGG turned out to be a high-priced escort, very high-priced in fact, upwards of $4,000 a session. For that the client got four hours of company in either a private or public venue, ten minutes of oral gratification and a missionary-style ending. The price went up from there, depending on the particularities of the client’s palette. London’s roommate—a stunning blond by the name of Savannah Anderson—knew and knew full well because she was equally employed.
Right down to the same prices.
“We have an understanding,” she told Teffinger. “We either come home at the end of the night or we call to say we won’t. Last night, she didn’t do either.”
Teffinger probed her.
She told him London wasn’t the kind to forget or get too wrapped up in something to space it out.
She didn’t do drugs, well, nothing heavy, and never with clients.
“Her phone is shut off. I can’t even leave her a message. That’s totally unlike her. She never shuts it off.”
“So, who are you two employed by, exactly?”
Savannah hesitated.
Deciding.
“It’s a group called Passionate Interludes,” she said. “They set up the sessions and keep half the money. The woman gets the other half. They’re supposed to screen the guys but they don’t. They only care if the credit card clears.” She exhaled and said, “Here’s the problem. Last night wasn’t a company session. All the girls set up sessions on the side, you know, to keep all the money. This was one of those. It was supposed to go from eight to midnight. She never told me the guy’s name. He would have been someone she met through the company, someone from that group.”
“Do you know where she was supposed to meet him?”
No.
She didn’t.
“All I can tell you is that she left in her car,” she said. “If you can find that you’ll probably be close to where she was going to meet him.”
Teffinger’s cell phone rang and Neva's number popped up as incoming. He stepped into the hall and answered.
“WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?”
He told her.
“So your theory is what? That SJK is going to abduct someone in advance and hold her until the due date?”
“Right.”
“He’s never done that before,” she said.
“He’s never had this kind of pressure before either,” Teffinger said.
“Do you want some advice?”
“No.”
“Good, because here it is,” she said. “Get back up here to the meeting before the chief fires your ass. He doesn’t see the humor in you being AWOL all the time.”
He looked at his watch.
The morning was already moving on.
“I have a better idea,” he said. “Come down here and sit in on the rest of this interview. Then I’m going to want you to cross-reference this London Fogg woman to all the SJK victims.”
“You’re not serious.”
Wrong.
He was.
Dead.
HE PRINTED A PHOTOGRAPH of Condor’s driver’s license from his office computer, went back to the interview and handed it to Savannah. “Have you ever seen this guy before?”
She studied it.
“He looks a little like Nicholas Cage.”
Right.
He knew that.
“From that movie, Bangkok Dangerous,” she added. “Where his hair was longer.”
“Did London ever mention him or anyone like him?”
She searched her memory.
“Not that I remember.”
“Would she have mentioned it, if she knew him?”
“Probably not.”
Teffinger paced.
Then he grabbed Savannah’s hand and pulled her up. “Come on, we’re going to take a little field trip.”
49
Day 3—September 23
Wednesday Morning
WHEN THE EGYPTIAN MAN offered to trade Tag for Winter, Jonk’s first thought was to do it—be careful, be sure it went down the way it was supposed to, but do it. For a split second, he even pictured being in bed with Tag this very evening, screwing like there was no tomorrow. But when he looked at Winter and saw the trust and innocence in her eyes, he knew he couldn’t do it.
“Yes or no?” the Egyptian man said. “You have five seconds to decide.”
Jonk hardened his face.
Then said, “Yeah, sure, fine. When and where?”
“I’ll call you in an hour.”
The phone went dead.
Jonk took one last look at the man through the binoculars, then dropped to the ground.
“What’s going on?” Winter asked.
“They want to trade Tag for you,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because they didn’t find the treasure in the van,” he said. “They want to interrogate you to see if you know where it is.”
She processed the words.
Then sank to the ground next to him.
“I don’t care if they interrogate me if that’s what it takes to get Tag back,” she said.
“That’s a nice gesture.”
“It’s not just a gesture. I’m serious,” she said. “I don’t know anything. Sooner or later they’ll figure that out.”
Jonk threw her a quick glance.
“And then what?”
“Then they know I’m no use to them.”
“And then what?”
She shrugged.
“And then they let me go, I guess.”
“You guess wrong,” he said. “Then they kill you.”
“You don’t know that.”
Jonk grunted. “Zoogie’s the proof,” he said.
She picked up a rock and threw it.
“So what do we do?”
“We only have one choice,” Jonk said. “We play along like there’s going to be an exchange and hope to hell we figure out a way to get Tag loose.” He studied her and added, “Are you up for doing that? For playing along?”
She nodded.
Of course.
“It will be dangerous, make no mistake,” he said.
“I already know that. I don’t care.”
Jonk looked at his watch and stood up.
“They’re going to call in fifty-five minutes,” he said. “Do you know anywhere we can get a gun in that time?”
No.
She didn’t.
“How about Zoogie? Did he have one?”
“No. That wasn’t his style.”
50
Day 3—September 23
Wednesday Afternoon
THE INTERNET NEVER HEARD of Haley Key outside of her trial testimony, which brought Song’s quest for dirt to a very sharp and very premature halt. She took her glasses off, leaned back in her chair and spun around with her eyes closed.
Now what?
If the dirt was there, who would know about it?
The ex-boyfriend might.
Detective Finger himself.
Ex-detective, actually.
If he knew about it, though, he could have whipped it out at trial. He could have testified that Haley Key was making the whole story up, possibly to hide her own dirt. He could have then told the jury what that dirt was. At the very least, that would have put her credibility in issue and taken some of the heat off him.
He didn’t do that, though.
That meant he didn’t know about it.
It was secret dirt that even he didn’t know about.
Song spun around again.
Then again.
Wait a minute, there was another possible explanation too. Maybe he did know about it but didn’t want to put her in the hot seat even to save his own posterior. Maybe he still loved her in spite of what she was doing to him. Maybe he understood that she had no choice in the matter.