by R. J. Jagger
The attacker put his weight on his arm.
The knife inched closer and closer to Jonk’s face.
Shit!
He was going to die.
Do something!
Now.
Now.
Now.
HE KNEED THE MAN IN THE GROIN.
When the pressure came off, he twisted to the left and got the gun out of his belt.
And fired.
The yellow explosion from the barrel was so bright that it lit the man with a flash as the bullet entered his body. The recoil was fierce and deadly. Blood splattered, indicating a hollow point. The man didn’t make a sound, not even a gurgle. He rolled to his side and stayed motionless. Rain splattered off his face.
Jonk got to his feet and headed for the car.
“Winter!”
No response.
TEN SECONDS LATER he got to it and jerked the door open. The dome light came on. Winter’s limp body fell out and landed with a dull thump on the ground. Her head and face were bloody from multiple punches.
Jonk shook her and got no response.
He didn’t know if she was dead or not.
She seemed dead.
Then something overpowered him, something that made him scream at the top of his lungs and kick the side of the car.
Hard.
Viciously.
Then again.
And again.
As if it was the enemy.
Bam!
Bam!
Bam!
The metal crushed in.
Terrible pain shot up his leg and drove straight into his brain.
He didn’t care.
Screw it.
Screw everything.
He slumped to the ground, took Winter in his arms and pressed his forehead to hers.
Then he rocked her.
She didn’t respond.
She was limp.
Her body was cold.
Colder than his.
86
Day 4—September 24
Thursday Night
EVERY CRIME SCENE before this one had been work, important work with high stakes and justice in the balance, but work nonetheless. This one, by contrast, was surreal. Teffinger walked past a black-and-white parked perpendicular in the road, blocking one lane of traffic from the north.
The light bar bounced blue and red flashes off the mountain.
Eerie.
Teffinger never got used to the lights.
He didn’t like them.
Another black-and-white sat across the road fifty yards to the south, equally eerie. Midway between the vehicles, in the closed lane adjacent to the hill, three portable light stands were on the asphalt, pointed towards the body which was ten steps off the shoulder in a crevice, face up, half submerged under a wash of storm water.
The victim was naked.
There was ink on her.
Tattoos.
Teffinger checked in with the scribe, got a flashlight from the crime unit and shined it on the ground as he walked towards the body, being careful to not disturb any obvious evidence.
His heart raced.
Finally he got to the body, bent down and shined the light directly on it.
He recognized the tattoos.
This was the woman from the dungeon.
No question about it.
Damn it.
Damn it to hell.
THERE WERE NO readily apparent signs of trauma. He couldn’t find any gunshot wounds or knife stabs or indications she was hit with a blunt instrument. Her skull was intact and there was no blood in her hair. There were marks on her throat, consistent with strangulation. Judging by the odor and by the stiffness of the body, she’d been dead three days.
Meaning Monday night.
He shut the flashlight off and turned his face toward the sky. The storm beat down.
Hard.
Hurtful.
He didn’t move.
He didn’t flinch.
He didn’t care.
He needed it.
The water washed his brain.
“TEFFINGER, YOU OKAY?” someone shouted from the road. He brought his face down, opened his eyes and turned the flashlight back on.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
He headed that way.
Paul Wu, one of the better crime unit guys, grabbed Teffinger’s shirt as he walked by and said, “Hey, what’s the deal?”
Teffinger stared at him.
Blue and red lights reflected on his face.
Eerie.
Surreal.
“Go ahead and process it,” Teffinger said. “Tell the coroner to leave the body in place until I give the go ahead.”
“Will do.” A pause. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
He nodded.
Then headed for Bertha.
87
Day 4—September 24
Thursday Night
JONK PUT WINTER in the back seat and took off. With his one eye it was dangerous to drive, especially at night in a storm, but it was even more dangerous to stay there. He didn’t know if Winter was dead.
He wiped his prints off the gun as he drove.
Then he threw it out the window as he passed a grove of trees down Lincoln Boulevard.
As soon as he did, he regretted it.
He wasn’t far enough away from the scene.
Some stupid Samaritan would find it sooner or later and turn it in.
He might have missed a print.
Or his blood might be on it.
Shit.
That was stupid.
Too late, though.
He couldn’t go back now.
It would take him an hour to find it.
Tag was in Sausalito with binoculars, learning what she could about Nathan Rock. Jonk dialed her up and told her what happened.
“Feel Winter for a pulse,” she said.
“I’ll have to pull over.”
“Then pull over.”
“I have no idea where I am.”
“Just pull over and do it.”
The traffic was thicker than he wanted but he pulled over and did it.
“I think I got one,” he said.
“We need to get her to a hospital.”
“How? I don’t know the roads. I have no idea where I am. I can barely see to drive.”
Silence.
Then Tag said, “Drive to the first intersection you can find and stop the car there somewhere safe. Then tell me what the two roads are.”
He did.
“Okay,” she said. “I’m going to call 911 and tell them to get an ambulance there ASAP. Wipe your prints off everything in the car as good as you can and get out of there before they arrive. Do you understand?”
Yes.
He did.
Fully.
He did as instructed, kissed Winter on the cheek as the flashing lights and sirens came up the road and then disappeared into the night.
88
Day 4—September 24
Thursday Night
AFTER THE CRIME UNIT processed the scene, Teffinger walked Chase over to the body through the storm and shined a flashlight on the victim’s face. Chase had some type of reaction but before Teffinger could turn his head to look directly at her she was expressionless. He ran the light down the victim’s body over the tattoos and then up to her neck.
“Welcome to my world,” he said.
“How long has she been dead?”
“I’m guessing since Monday night. She’s too young to be lying there,” he said. “Don’t you think?”
“Maybe.”
He tilted his head.
“Maybe?”
Chase closed her eyes and turned her face up to the storm.
Then she looked at Teffinger and said, “Life isn’t about length. It’s about intensity.”
He wiggled the light on the victim’s face.
“I’ll bet she’d disagree with you if she could.”
A beat.
89
Day 5—September 25
Friday Morning
SONG WOKE UP IN A BED that was too soft to be hers. Someone was next to her—Nuwa—still sleeping. She had to relieve herself, badly, this second, and headed for the bathroom. There, she remembered the events of last night, namely jumping down to the adjacent roof during the storm, hitting her head on something that made her brain turn black with disorientation for a few heartbeats, then getting to her feet and into the interior stairway. At street level she ran and ran and ran until her lungs gave out. Then she made her way to Nuwa’s place.
Her clothes were on the shower rod, still wet.
She slid them to the end and took a long, hot, heaven-sent shower.
Dry clothes were on the sink when she got out.
Two minutes later she walked into the kitchen, towel drying her hair. Nuwa handed her a cup of hot coffee and said, “The guy last night—did he have a gun?”
“I don’t know. It was too dark.”
“It would be interesting to get back onto that roof you jumped on and see if there are any bullet holes in it.”
Right.
Good point.
LATER THAT MORNING she checked but didn’t really know what a bullet hole looked like. There were scars on the roof and dents on the rooftop units that could have come from bullets or could not have.
Her apartment was as she had left it.
So was her office.
No one had broken in.
Right now, mid-morning with the sun shining, she felt safe.
Tonight would be a different story.
Her phone rang half a dozen times—all clients.
Then she got a call from a voice she didn’t recognize. “Is this Song Lee, the lawyer?”
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“My name’s Haley Key,” she said. “The word on the street is that you’ve been trying to locate me.”
Haley Key.
Haley Key was Detective Finger’s girlfriend, the person who testified during Kyle Greyson’s trial that Finger planted evidence to frame the defendant.
THEY MET an hour later at Chef Hung’s Restaurant, down the alley a short ways from Song’s office. The woman was petite, average looking, and had a nervous tic every so often on the left side of her face.
“Before I ask you what I’m going to ask you, rest assured that whatever you say is going to stay with me. It’s not going to come back to bite you in any way, shape or form. Do you understand?”
“Okay.”
“I mean it,” Song said. “This isn’t about you. It’s about Dirk Rekker, the attorney.”
“Okay.”
“Here’s the thing,” Song said. “You testified at trial that your then-boyfriend, Detective Frank Finger, planted evidence.”
Right.
True.
“My question is this—and please don’t take it personally—but what I want to know is whether Rekker somehow got you to say that.”
The woman tilted her head.
“What do you mean?”
Song squirmed.
“What I’m trying to figure out is whether Rekker blackmailed you or threatened you or did something to somehow get you to testify the way you did.”
“Wow, that’s quite a question.”
Right.
It was.
“So what’s the answer?” Song said.
90
Day 5—September 25
Friday Morning
TEFFINGER DUG HIS HEAD even farther into the pillow when the first rays of light seeped into the starboard window of Bad Add Vice. He stayed up until one in the morning last night, drinking Anchor Steam and wondering what to do about Chase. The clock by his head said 5:30. If he got up and scrambled, he’d be late for the six o’clock meeting but not by much.
He rolled onto his back and gauged his ability to get vertical.
He could do it.
But it would be painful.
Screw it.
If he got up now he’d be useless all day.
He rolled back over to his side.
At some point later his phone rang and pulled him out of a deep sleep with all the subtleness of a cattle prod. The clock said 7:54. The incoming number was the chief.
Teffinger sat up but didn’t answer.
Instead he got the coffee pot going and took a shower.
A message was waiting for him when he got out.
It was from the chief.
“You were supposed to swing by my office yesterday,” he said. “You didn’t do it. You were supposed to be at the meeting this morning. You weren’t there. The better way to phrase it would be, You weren’t there, again. I don’t know what’s going on with you, Teffinger, but I’ve got too much on my plate to figure it out. You forced my hand on this. I’m sorry you did, but you did. I’m going to have to relieve you of your position. Swing by the office by the end of the day and turn in your gun and badge. I’m sorry it’s come to this, I really am. I had high hopes for you. Contact human resources regarding health insurance coverage and all that other stuff. If you want, stop by my office and say goodbye. If you don’t, I’ll understand. Either way, take care. I’m sorry we had to do this by phone.”
Teffinger sank to the mattress and put his head in his hands.
Then he deleted the message.
THE STORM OF LAST NIGHT had moved on. A few early morning clouds still hung in the air but it looked like it would be a decent day. He locked up the sailboat walked down the dock to Bertha.
He stuck the key in and turned.
Bertha started.
Before he shifted into park, his phone rang.
It wasn’t the chief.
It was Brandi.
“Got another body for you,” she said.
He started to tell her he was fired, but the words were too hard to say.
“What kind of body?”
“A guy named Troy Trent.”
Troy Trent.
Teffinger knew the name but couldn’t place it. Then he remembered. Trent was the surfer-looking-guy who went into Condor’s house yesterday with a key and came out a few minutes later with a briefcase.
“Where’s he at?”
Brandi told him.
“I’m on my way.”
TRENT WAS STABBED in the back three times with a large knife. It happened in the driveway, between his car and the front door. Keys were clutched in his hand, ready to open the door he never got to. Between three and four in the morning, that’s when it happened.
Mere hours ago.
Condor did it.
Teffinger could feel it.
It had something to do with that entry yesterday.
That briefcase.
Maybe this is how Teffinger would reel Condor in; not with the SJK killings, but with the murder of Troy Trent.
91
Day 5—September 25
Friday Morning
IT WAS CLEAR that the lawyer, Rock, was behind the initial theft of the treasure from Poon. Where did he stash it? That was the question. Jonk and Tag got up early Friday morning and drove to the man’s floating house in Sausalito, not knowing exactly what they were going to do yet but knowing they were going to do something.
Jonk’s side hurt just as much now as it did last night.
More in fact.
Tristen’s bullet cut deeper than he needed.
Tag’s needle and thread stitch job of last night was good enough to close the wound and stop the bleeding, but in hindsight the stitches were too far apart. She should have put in double what she did. That couldn’t be corrected now. The area was so red and tender that he could barely touch it, much less get pierced with a needle ten more times. There was no visible infection, though.
That was good.
They pulled to the side of the road a hundred yards short of the marina as the sun broke over the horizon.
In
the parking lot were three or four police cars with the lights flashing, plus an ambulance.
What the hell?
Jonk and Tag approached on foot.
He wore a sweatshirt with the hood up.
She wore a baseball cap.
They both wore sunglasses.
There was traffic up and down the street, but no pedestrians.
Jonk had a sinking feeling that the cops had something to do with Rock. It didn’t take long to confirm his suspicion. The cops were at Rock’s slip.
“Do you think someone killed him?” Tag asked.
Jonk nodded.
“It might have been Tristen,” he said. “She knew about him. It could have been our Egyptian friends, too. Maybe they got wind of him somehow.”
“Now what?”
Jonk picked up a rock and threw it into the bay.
“Whoever killed him probably interrogated him first,” he said. “My suspicion is that Rock told them where he hid everything. That’s why he’s dead now. They had no use for him after that.”
“That’s not good,” Tag said.
Jonk agreed.
Not good.
Not good at all.
“The more I think about it, I don’t think it was Tristen,” he said. “It was the Egyptian guy and his little girlfriend. We need to find them and we need to do it now, this second.”
“How?”
He spotted a pop can on the ground, picked it up and tossed it into a trash container.
“Let’s go to that warehouse area where they kept you,” he said.
Tag wasn’t impressed.
“They’d never go back there,” she said.
“I agree,” he said. “But it’s all we have.”
92
Day 5—September 25
Friday Morning
HALEY KEY ATE SHRIMP stir-fried with veggies and swore up and down as she chewed that her testimony at Kyle Greyson’s trial was accurate and truthful and not the product of any blackmail or coercion by Dirk Rekker.
She was lying.
Song could feel it.
She could see it in the woman’s tic.