by R. J. Jagger
HE WASN’T SURE what he was looking for, other than some kind of connection between Rock and Poon. Five minutes into it, he came across a leather pouch hidden at the bottom of a dresser drawer, underneath a stack of sweaters.
He opened it.
Then smiled.
Yeah, baby.
Oh yeah.
Oh yeah indeed.
Inside the pouch were ancient gold coins, exactly like the one Zoogie had.
They were from the treasure.
No question.
He counted them.
Twenty.
HE STUCK THEM IN HIS POCKET and continued searching.
Nothing else of interest appeared.
He left the way he came in and headed down the dock.
Suddenly two teenage girls came out the front door of a boat, laughing and carrying on, and bumped into Jonk on the dock.
They apologized.
He said, “No problem.”
74
Day 4—September 24
Thursday Afternoon
SONG HAD NEVER BEEN FIRED by a client, much less for lack of performance, and found the experience akin to being smacked upside the head with a dead fish. She sat by the phone, willing Shaden to call with a change of heart, but her powers of suggestion weren’t strong enough.
The phone sat there.
Quiet.
Oblivious.
She walked down to her bicycle, ripped the transmitter from under the seat and threw it on the ground where she smashed it with her foot.
Partly transferred aggression.
Partly a show of defiance.
Proof she wasn’t delicate.
That made her feel better for all of two minutes before the emptiness of being a failure consumed her again. She needed motion but had nowhere to go, nowhere to be. She wandered down the street and ended up getting on a cable car. Half an hour later she got off and walked. Then she saw an empty cab, waved it down and hopped in.
“Sausalito,” she said.
On the other side of the Golden Gate bridge, she gave the cabbie instructions to Rekker’s house on Harrison Avenue, had him stop a hundred meters short and got out. The fare was more than half of what she had in her wallet. She wouldn’t have enough to get home. She tipped him anyway and watched briefly as he disappeared back towards San Francisco.
Why was she here?
She didn’t know.
All she knew is that she was.
THE PLACE WAS PRETTY MUCH as depicted on Google Earth. From the street it only looked like two stories. Actually, it was a three-tiered mansion carved into the hill, about halfway up on the bay side, overlooking a large marina.
Money.
That’s what Rekker had.
Money, money, money.
She walked past it, to all intents and purposes just someone in the neighborhood out for a stroll. The driveway was short and had no gate. Eucalyptus trees hugged both sides of the structure and cascaded down the hill.
It looked peaceful.
Elegant.
In reality, though, a woman may have been murdered there Sunday night.
Or maybe not.
That was the question.
There was another question, too, namely why did she care about the answer any longer? After all, she was fired, off the case, on her own time.
There were no cars in the driveway.
The front door was shut.
The house looked empty.
For a split second, Song had an urge to sneak around to the back, break a window, climb inside and see if she could find bullet holes in the walls or bloodstains on the floor. If she did that, she’d be where Shaden needed her to be.
She’d be back on the team.
She’d be delicate no longer.
She actually took a step in that direction before stopping and continuing down the street.
SHE WALKED for fifteen minutes, then doubled back. This time there was a car in the driveway, an average-looking blue Honda 4-door. She already knew the cars that were registered to Rekker, namely a black Audi sedan and a white Toyota Tacoma pickup, meaning this vehicle belonged to someone else.
She memorized the license plate.
Then she had a sudden urge to knock on the front door and see who answered.
The urge was so compelling that she actually found herself walking up the driveway.
Her heart raced.
This was stupid.
Insane, even.
Still, she didn’t stop.
75
Day 4—September 24
Thursday Afternoon
TEFFINGER WATCHED Neva’s face grow increasingly somber as she watched the DVD of him snooping around in Condor’s house. When it was over, he killed the power to the TV and said, “He’s got me by the short ones. What I’ve done in effect is give him a get-out-of-jail-free card.”
Neva didn’t disagree.
“So what are you going to do?”
He shrugged.
“There’s only one way this can turn out the way it’s supposed to,” he said. “Well, I take that back, two ways actually. The first is if I catch him in the act on the night in question and he ends up dead.”
“That’s a long shot,” she said. “Especially since he knows you have him in the crosshairs. He’ll probably disappear the day before and hide out somewhere just to be absolutely sure no one’s on his tail.”
Teffinger nodded.
True.
“The second is if I catch him with London Fogg between now and then,” he said.
“You don’t even know that he took her.”
“He paid a visit to Falcon the same night Syling Wu got killed,” Teffinger said, “so Falcon intersects his prior kill. London Fogg intersects Falcon in that they both worked for Passionate Interludes. They’re all links in some kind of chain.” He pulled his hair out of his face. “The more I think about it, maybe every new victim is connected to the prior one. Maybe he chooses his new one the same night. That way he doesn’t get a gap in his lust.”
“If that’s the case, he sure plans ahead better than I do,” Neva said. “I don’t even know what I’m having for supper tonight.”
Teffinger smiled.
“We know he’s a planner,” he said. “He dyed Syling Wu’s hair. He obviously bought the dye before the night in question. He knew ahead of time who he was going to kill.”
Neva wrinkled her forehead with seriousness.
“The chief’s going to fire you.”
“FORGET ABOUT HIM right now,” Teffinger said. “Here’s the thing. I stuck a GPS transmitter under Condor’s car. The problem is, it only has a range of about two miles.”
He picked up an electronic device the size of a book and handed it to her.
“That’s the tracker,” he said. “It bleeps the location every ten seconds and displays it with a red dot on a street map. What I need you to do is park somewhere by Condor’s house, out of sight. Rent a car to do it, something that’s definitely not a cop car. When he comes home you’ll pick up his signal. Keep your eye on the tracker. When he starts to move, follow him and call me. I’ll join in with a second car.”
“Bertha?”
“No, I’ll have to get something else.”
She frowned.
“I could be sitting there all day.”
“It’ll be worth it,” he said. “He’s got to be checking up on London Fogg at least once a day to feed her and be sure she hasn’t escaped and whatnot. If we do this right, he’ll lead us right to her.”
“And what are you going to be doing while I sit around all day?”
“Doing what I do best.”
“Which is what?”
“Drinking coffee. I thought you knew that by now.”
76
Day 4—September 24
Thursday Afternoon
THE THING THAT INTERESTED JONK was that the bag from Rock’s floating house had exactly twenty coins—a very even number. If Rock was the one who gave Zoogie a
coin to sell, that means he would have had twenty-one—a very uneven number.
Did Rock have another bag stashed somewhere?
A bag with, say, nineteen coins?
Or, even more interesting, did he have the entire cache? Was the bag at his boat simply there as something of interest to look at now and then, or whip out and impress some woman when he got too drunk?
Interesting.
Very interesting.
Rock was the key.
He was the key to everything.
Winter knew nothing about him and had never heard Zoogie mention his name. “He never said anything about working with someone who was a lawyer, either,” she added. “I think he would have mentioned that, if he was. He hates lawyers. He had one once named Trish Collins. She was a freaking bitch.”
“Maybe Rock made him promise to keep his mouth shut,” Jonk said.
Winter shrugged.
“Could be.”
JONK LOOKED AT HIS WATCH. It had been five hours since he spoke to Tristen. She said she’d call back in two and, at the time, made it sound like even that was too long. Then she didn’t call back at all.
What was going on?
Did the Egyptian man somehow find out about her?
Was she being interrogated?
Was the entire treasure being stolen right out from under Jonk’s nose?
The coins?
The jewels?
The mask?
BACK AT THE HOTEL, Jonk and the two women—Tag and Winter—logged on to the net and found out everything they could about Nathan Rock. He wasn’t high-profile outside his quiet circle of expertise. Inside it, though, he was a rock star.
World renowned, even.
Martindale-Hubble had a list of representative clients that the firm represented. One of them was Van Gogh Holdings, a Tokyo corporation registered to do business in the United States. All of the stock of Van Gogh Holdings was owned by Wild Dragon Hill, a Hong Kong corporation. All of the stock of Wild Dragon Hill was owned by Jack Poon.
“Rock was Poon’s lawyer,” Jonk said.
“One of them,” Tag said. “He’s got hundreds.”
Right.
One of them.
“So what did he do, pay Rock in coins for legal services?”
Jonk shrugged.
He didn’t know.
“I need to talk to the woman, Tristen, and pick her brain,” Jonk said.
Suddenly the phone rang.
IT WAS THE CALL HE’D BEEN WAITING FOR.
Tristen.
“Are you up for the meeting or not?”
“You were supposed to call back in two hours,” Jonk said.
“I know,” she said. “Poon called and said he didn’t want you back on the team after all. Then he called me again five minutes ago and said he did.”
“So which is it?”
“Right now you’re in,” she said. “We’ll meet tonight, you and me, alone. Get a pencil, I’m going to give you instructions.”
77
Day 4—September 24
Thursday Afternoon
SONG WAS TEN STEPS AWAY from Rekker’s front door when a vision popped into her head—a vision that the Honda in the driveway belonged to the man who’d been following her, the man with the blue bandana. She pictured him answering the door, making a strange face—like What the hell are you doing here?—then grabbing her neck with an iron hand and yanking her inside.
The vision pounded her heart.
It was too real.
Too compelling.
It made her turn and walk away.
Before she got to the street she hated herself.
Delicate.
She was too delicate.
It would never change.
Ever.
That’s why she’d never amount to anything.
SHE WALKED DOWN THE HILL to Bridgeway where the shops and marina were, flagged down a passing cab outside Taste of Rome and took it as far as it would go with the money she had left, less a little for the cable car. Then she walked for a half hour, got to a trolley line and took it to Chinatown. She had two dimes left in her purse when she unlocked the door to her office and stepped inside.
Shaden had told her to forget about the $10,000 that got stolen.
She wasn’t prepared to do that, however.
She calculated the hours she worked before she got fired.
It didn’t come even close to $10,000.
She was still in the hole.
AT HER DESK, she took her glasses off and laid her head down on her arms, just to rest her eyes for a few minutes. At some point later which could have been thirty seconds or two hours, the ringing of a phone pulled her out of a fitful sleep.
She picked it up, put her glasses on and said, “Hello?”
“Is this Song Lee, the attorney?”
The voice belonged to a woman.
Someone she didn’t know.
“Yes,” she said. “Who’s this?”
“That’s not important,” the woman said. “The reason I’m calling is to warn you that someone’s going to kill you. It’s going to happen tonight. Do you understand what I just said?”
Song’s hand shook.
She knew she should answer.
She couldn’t.
“This isn’t a joke,” the woman added.
The line went dead.
The phone dropped out of Song’s hand and shattered into two pieces when it hit the desk.
78
Day 4—September 24
Thursday Afternoon
AFTER NEVA LEFT, Teffinger got in Bertha and stuck the key in the ignition. He patted the dash and said, “Don’t be a bitch,” then turned the key.
Silence.
No starter noise.
No engine noise.
No nothing noise.
He popped the hood, jiggled the battery cables and tried again. This time Bertha responded, but she also had a new groaning sound, something he’d never heard before, in addition to her usual coughing and blue smoke.
His phone rang.
He didn’t want to answer, partly because it might be the chief who was still expecting Teffinger to swing by his office, but mostly because Bertha was busy filling the garage with carbon monoxide.
He flipped the phone open, said “Hold on,” then closed Bertha’s hood and pulled her out of the garage. “Okay,” he said. “It’s me.”
“Where are you?”
The voice belonged to Chase.
He told her.
“Want me to come over?”
He did but said, “I’m in the middle of this SJK thing. How about tonight?”
“Maybe you should use me as bait,” she said
Teffinger shook his head.
“You never say what I expect you to,” he said. “Why is that?”
“I don’t know, but I’m serious,” she said. “I’m blond. He likes ’em blond. Seems like a match made in heaven. Plus, no one’s ever given me a yellow rose. I’m due for one.”
Teffinger wasn’t amused.
“Don’t even joke about it.”
DRIVING DOWN HAIGHT STREET he spotted a mom-and-pop florist, which was strange because he’d passed by hundreds of times and never noticed it. On the spur of the moment, he swung in and bought a dozen yellow roses plus a vase.
He’d give them to Chase tonight.
He wedged the vase between the seat and the passenger door and made a mental note that it would fall out if someone opened the door.
Then he did something else unexpected.
He drove over to Condor’s and put one of the roses on his doorstep.
He wasn’t sure why.
Maybe it was a message he was going to kill him.
HE WAS TWO DOORS DOWN when a Lexus sped up the street and jerked to a stop in Condor’s driveway. Teffinger ducked behind a UPS truck and watched as a man got out. He had the build and bushy blond hair of a surfer. Teffinger expected him to ring the bell when he got to the top of the st
airs. Instead, he picked up the rose and studied it with a puzzled face.
Then he stuck a key in the doorknob and disappeared inside.
Strange.
Who did Condor know well enough to give a key to?
Teffinger didn’t see anyone looking out the windows so he walked past and looked at the vehicle’s license plate just long enough to memorize it.
Two minutes later the man came out carrying a black briefcase.
He got in the car and disappeared down the street.
79
Day 4—September 24
Thursday Night
THURSDAY NIGHT AFTER DARK, a mean thunderstorm swept in from the Pacific and engulfed San Francisco. The wipers of Winter’s car—a Camry rental—swept back and forth at full speed and still couldn’t keep up with the slop. Winter concentrated on the road as she drove, barely talking. Jonk sat in the passenger seat, staring out the windshield with his one good eye. They wound over to Lincoln Boulevard and then cut off to the right onto the service road that dead-ended in a large public lot for Baker Beach. They circled through it and saw only one car. A couple of teenagers poked their heads up from the back seat as they passed. Winter parked back-end-in at the far northeast corner, where the meeting was supposed to be, and killed the engine.
Rain hammered the roof.
“Get in the back on the floor,” Jonk said.
“Why?”
“Just a precaution.”
She did it.
Jonk got out of the car and sat on the front fender. Lightning arced around him. He didn't care. Five minutes later headlights punched through the weather down the access road. They slowed to a crawl when they got into the parking lot then stopped thirty meters away and went out.
A woman got out and came towards him.
Her walk was strong and purposeful.
Her hands were empty.
Right now she was nothing more than a black silhouette in a black night. It wasn’t until she got right up to him that Jonk could make out her features. She was attractive, late twenties or early thirties, and wore a dark, long-sleeve shirt that hung down over jeans, not tucked in. Her hair was already flat from the weather.