I didn’t expect to find much criminal activity going on there. I was sure it was a legitimate and worthy group of people doing their best to help the children. God knows a lot of abandoned kids and runaways in San Francisco needed organizations like it.

  But it was necessary information gathering and precaution. Like most investigative work, it was like throwing a dart at a board without a bullseye. You gathered bits of data here and there incrementally, and finally some of the pieces came together and started to make sense.

  Or, just as often, not. You ended up with more questions than answers and continued to flail around in the dark.

  Hopefully, Marley was competent, despite his personality, and he and his men would quickly identify a suspect. It definitely looked like an act of impulse or passion by an amateur so, at first glance, an eminently solvable case.

  But it turned out that that conjecture on my part couldn’t have been more premature or more wrong.

  Six

  At 8:45 a.m., Dr. Newburgh returned wearing a poker face.

  Phoebe immediately jumped to her feet and rushed him. Q and I weren’t far behind.

  “She’s out of surgery. She’s in intensive care, so it’s still touch and go, but Dr. Ardmore is hopeful. We were able to stop the internal bleeding. But, as the result of an injury to her head when she fell, there was some trauma to her brain and a buildup in fluid. We’ve induced a coma to allow her brain time to heal.”

  “Oh my god. A coma?” Phoebe’s face blanched, her fingers tugging absently at her lower lip. “For how long?”

  “That depends. Time will tell. We’re monitoring her closely.”

  “Can we see her anyway?”

  “Not at the moment. As I said, she’s in a coma and can’t respond. She’s hooked up to machines and heavily drugged. The police want to see her, too, ask her questions, of course, but I told them that was impossible at the moment.”

  I’d noticed several officers lingering in the area. A couple who I’d seen at the nightclub, but I hadn’t spotted Marley among them.

  “When...” Q asked, but his voice trailed off.

  “It’s hard to say right now. Perhaps, if you can, go home and get some rest. Leave your contact information with the nurse, and we’ll let you know as soon as anything changes.”

  He patted Phoebe’s elbow and offered a half-smile that attempted reassurance, but didn’t quite make it, before trudging away.

  As we stood there awkwardly, deciding what to do, a young woman approached the nurse’s station just across from us, and said, “Could you tell me if it’s possible to see Sarah Swan?”

  We all turned our heads toward the voice at the same time.

  The four of us huddled around our coffees and teas at a small table in the hospital cafeteria.

  Q brought the woman, Ms. Rachel Wambaugh, up to date on the events of the past seven hours.

  Both Q and Phoebe knew her, and so did I by name, although I’d only had the dubious pleasure of meeting her mother.

  The lion’s share of her genetic inheritance must have come from her father because the only resemblance I noticed to Plain Jane Mom was in the tiny ears, and even those seemed more appealing in the daughter. Rachel’s looks were classical and in perfect symmetry: high cheekbones, smooth, unblemished skin, eyes the piercingly clear color of the water off Kailua Bay in Hawaii where I’d snorkeled.

  Even the sadness in them couldn’t diminish her beauty.

  Our conversation was stilted because the relationships amongst us and Sarah remained undefined. Supposedly, Rachel was the sister of Sarah’s boyfriend.

  Where was Christopher? Had he sent his sister in his stead? Possible, but what kind of boyfriend wouldn’t bother to rush to the hospital under these conditions? Maybe he didn’t know and couldn’t be reached.

  So, even though no one had clued me as to why she was here, and nobody here had any idea how much I knew about the situation, I asked, “Rachel, are you a close friend of Sarah’s?”

  She blushed, reached down, wrapped her hand around the Darjeeling tea-filled paper cup, and said, “Yes. My brother has been dating her...but I think they’ve kind of broken up. But the two of us...Sarah and me, have kind of gotten...to be friends.” Her eyes remained on her tea.

  I looked over at Phoebe, who was staring at Rachel with an unreadable expression. I felt Q’s gaze on me, and I met it. He shook his head subtly back and forth, indicating that I should back off.

  I can be a bulldog at times but hadn’t intended to press Rachel further. It wasn’t the time or place. She was obviously very upset about Sarah, as was everyone else at the table. I wanted to question her and Phoebe and Q, but it would have to wait.

  Suddenly, Rachel turned the tables on me. “What is your involvement, Mr. Plank? Are you a friend of Sarah’s?”

  “I had some private business to discuss with her, and I just happened to show up at the wrong time.” All on account of your dear sweet mother.

  “From what Q tells me, you did your best. Trying to catch whoever did this.”

  I glanced at Q, who avoided my eyes. Sarah and Rachel had to be good friends for him to call and let her know what had happened in the midst of the chaos.

  “I just reacted without thinking. Not quick enough though.”

  “Thank you, anyway,” she said, holding my eyes.

  Q rose and said he had an appointment he had to keep but would return in the early afternoon. Phoebe said she was going to stay all day if necessary. Rachel reached across the table and grasped Phoebe’s hand.

  I gave my card to Phoebe and asked her to call me as soon as she had an update on Sarah’s condition or if she needed anything. I bid both women goodbye and left.

  It was almost ten a.m., and I had a long day ahead of me.

  Seven

  The Sweet and Sour is Dao and Meiying’s eighty-five-foot yacht docked a few hundred yards from my own modest little houseboat.

  The luxury vessel is made of fiberglass and carbon and finished in teak and stainless steel. It has two Jacuzzis, a pagoda, a game parlor, a sky lounge, and enough state of the art gizmos to beat the band twice.

  Dao and I were at the granite-topped bar in the main stateroom, sitting on leather barstools staring down at a cribbage board made of polished rosewood.

  I looked up at Dao, who was studying his hand. He was in his early sixties, a short, plump man with ruddy cheeks and wide, curious eyes. He’d made a fortune for and with some of the world’s top hedge funds and now traded only for himself and a select group of clients. He knew more about money, finance, and economics and the history of it than anybody I’d ever met. And I’d had more than just a few encounters with Wall Street types.

  Contrary to popular opinion, they weren’t all ethically-challenged greedy savages looking for the quick score and heedless of who got hurt in the process. There were those, sure. Too many of them. But I’d also met some honorable, trustworthy souls, fascinated by the bump and grind and casino action that you can find on Wall Street and precious few other places in American work life. I guess Hollywood offers the same trick or treat thrills, but I’d had less experience with the glitterati.

  Within a few minutes of meeting up with Dao, I concluded that Marsh was right about him. There was something bothering my friend. I had actually beaten him the first two games that we played. Not extraordinary, but unusual. His heart and mind were somewhere else and not on the game. This had never happened in the five years we’d been playing regularly.

  I do win a consistently small percentage of games, but this was different.

  Meiying appeared in the doorway with a tray of won tons and spring rolls and two fine china cups filled with steaming tea that filled the air with an orange and minty scent. She moved to the bar and placed the tea and appetizers between us. I’d brought Frankie along, and she was up on the deck practicing her skateboard moves and, as soon as Meiying returned, would be schooled in the intricacies of dominos.

  Dao kept his eyes on the cribbage board, ignoring her presence. Something was definitely wrong. Even after more than thirty years of marriage, he adored her, and whenever she was in the same room as him, his whole affect changed subtly but perceptibly.

  She stepped close to me and said, “Plank, you marry Alexandra now.”

  I frowned at her.

  “Do not give me that face. Frankie should have Momma and Poppa. Momma and Poppa who are married to each other.”

  “Alexandra doesn’t even have permanent custody yet.”

  “No matter. Frankie needs good example now. Plank needs wife.”

  I knew it was no use arguing with her. I sighed and flashed her my attempt at a cooperative smile.

  Her eyebrows arched up until the midlines were touching and her lips pursed. “Otherwise, I know a very nice lady. She Thai. If Alexandra not right,” she slapped the table three times with her fore and middle fingers, “and Plank, she is perfect. But if Plank too crazy, then Meiying have very nice Thai. Her name Anong. You know what Anong mean in Thai?”

  “No, Meiying, I don’t believe I do.”

  “Mean gorgeous. And Anong is. You want to meet?”

  “No.”

  “Then you marry Alexandra.”

  I shook my head in amazement at the woman’s guileless determination.

  She reached over and put her hand over mine. “Listen to Meiying. Men, they not know what they not know. Dao is perfect example.” Then she rose and left the room.

  I looked at Dao.

  He shrugged his shoulders and moved his eyes back to the cribbage board.

  I stared at the top of his balding head as he shifted the cards in his hand and examined them as if they held the secret to life.

  “What’s wrong, Dao?”

  His eyes stayed on the cards.

  “Dao?”

  “Mmmm?” He looked at me for a moment, then handed me the deck to cut. I did so, and he took it back and started dealing.

  “What’s bothering you?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  He finished giving each of us six cards and spread his deal open between his fingers. He discarded two cards to the crib and waited for me to do the same.

  “It’s something,” I said, and tossed my pair on top of his. I lifted the remainder of the deck roughly in the middle and Dao slipped a card out and placed it face up on top. A Queen of Spades. It seemed significant somehow.

  I’m sometimes subject to presentiments. I don’t always pay attention to them, but my gut instincts have been tuned and heightened due to the unusual number of dodgy encounters I’ve experienced, so I do pay attention to these premonitions.

  Dao held his hand low, rubbing his fingers absently on the backs of the cards. Usually his play was lightning-quick, but today it was molasses-slow.

  “None of my business, of course.”

  “Yes. True.”

  He began play and, once again, blew an opportunity to peg and made another thoughtless error, which allowed me to pull ahead and then win the game.

  I downed two crisp, delicious spring rolls and followed with a sip of the orange-minty tea in silence.

  This too was unusual. Dao was a wily raconteur, always ready with an anecdote or obscure fact whether we were discussing cribbage, local politics, the history of steel factories in Pennsylvania, or the latest Kung Fu movie out of Hong Kong.

  After what seemed like an hour, but was probably only five minutes, he turned to me and said, “This is my burden. But perhaps you can offer advice. I am not practiced in the ways of these people, although I understand their nature. They fall outside any predictability patterns.” His cheeks flushed red. He clasped his hands tight in a ball and looked over my shoulder into a corner of the room.

  Dao is not a man given to exaggeration. Nor is he easily ruffled. He abhors violence, but few situations, no matter how stressful, throw him off his game. My muscles tensed just listening to him and observing his body language.

  “Tell me,” I said.

  “You cannot repeat any of this to Marsh.”

  “Marsh loves you, Dao.” And that’s saying something. You could count on the fingers of one hand the people he loved and still have a finger or two left over.

  “And I him. But he is a violent man. I know he is skilled, but, even for him...and you, this is far too dangerous.”

  I had never found the situation in which Marsh couldn’t dish out more than he took, but I nodded agreement that I’d keep Dao’s secret to myself, at least for now.

  “All right. Last spring, do you remember the offering that you were invited to?”

  I did. Two or three times a year, Dao had a dinner party on the yacht where he announced one or two particular investment opportunities that he was offering to a select group of rich one-percenters. I’d been to a few of these. They were usually populated by a preponderance of older Asian gentlemen and younger Asian beauties. Money and its unvarying ornamentations. I’d skipped the last couple because Meiying was always trying to set me up with some extraordinarily attractive young woman.

  Not that I have anything against extraordinarily attractive young women, but I liked to pick my own dates. I’m funny that way. And besides, Alexandra didn’t seem to appreciate my attendance at these functions. She trusted me, sort of, but she’d see seen the stock of talent that Dao attracted, and it would intimidate any woman, no matter how beautiful.

  As mentioned, Meiying really likes Alexandra and wants me to marry her. But her prime objective is to get me hitched, no matter the woman.

  Dao explained that he’d offered a rather more speculative opportunity than is his custom. He warned the investors of the risk and advised that they invest only a small portion of their assets, an amount they were willing and able to lose. The private offering was in a small pharmaceutical startup called FutureCare. They had one drug, a possible breakthrough for Alzheimer’s, that was still in FDA trials, but showed great promise. Dao admitted that his own avid interest and emotional connection to the disease that had ravaged his father and his older brother may have clouded his assessment. But he insisted that he’d made the risks clear to the investors, and he had financial statements testifying to their lofty net worths.

  A month ago, the FDA had announced disappointing results for the drug in the latest trials. There was a still a chance it might do some people some good, but the side effects—brain clots—were more than disturbing. The offering immediately lost ninety-five percent of its value, and the future of FutureCare was precarious, to put a positive spin on it.

  Dao and eight of the yacht invitees had invested, and he’d fielded concerned or disappointed calls from several of them, but they’d taken the losses in stride. Dao had made most of them so much money over the years that an occasional bump in the road was just the cost of doing business.

  But one of the investors, a new invitee, who had been recommended by an outside financial consultant, had come to the yacht to discuss the situation. Dao was picky about who he invited to these “offering parties” as he called them. He liked working with just a small number of clients, and the amount of money you had wasn’t the most important factor in his assessment of a new client. He wanted only stable, seasoned, and reasonable people who were easy to work with, or as easy as rich people can be, used to having things their own way as they are.

  He admitted he’d taken on this new client as a favor to his friend and perhaps had not checked him out as thoroughly as is his custom.

  Mr. George Liu was a man in his eighties, a successful entrepreneur in the import-export trade. Or at least that was how he represented himself. Dao requires financial statements and then does some follow-up research on his own, and Liu checked out satisfactorily although since he was recommended only a couple of days before the dinner party, Dao didn’t investigate to the extent that he normally does. Afterward, he let it slide because he’d gotten a favorable impression of the man.

  Five days ago, a young man and three associates arrived on the yacht without benefit of an appointment and insisted upon seeing Dao.

  “I didn’t like the look of them, but I could see that they were not going away until we met.”

  “What is that you didn’t like?”

  “Slick hair. Slick suits. Too much jewelry. The look in the eyes, particularly the man who claimed to be Liu’s nephew, Takeshi. His eyes were cold, disdainful. There was no respect in any of the young men.

  “...so we stood right here in this room. They refused to sit. And Takeshi told me that I had taken advantage of his uncle. He said that his relative had lost too much money by investing in FutureCare and was despondent. Millions of dollars, he claimed.”

  Dao paused, shook his head, his eyes a little unfocused. After a few seconds, he continued, “I interrupted, telling him that I’d recommended caution and advised that only a tiny percentage of assets should be risked. And, despite the fact that I didn’t think I was talking to anyone of financial sophistication, I asked if he’d seen the prospectus and my letter outlining the risks.

  “Takeshi stepped close to me and put his nose right up in my face. He towered over me, and I had to look up into his eyes. I must admit that a shiver of fear ran through me. There was nothing but contempt and hatred in his look. I remember his exact words, ‘Old man. You cheated my uncle. He is a little crazy. He doesn’t remember things well. I think he suffers from the disease that your drug was supposed to fix. You took advantage and now my family suffers.’

  “Max, George Liu seemed as sharp as anyone on the boat that night. There were no signs of trouble.” He paused again, curling his fingers around the tea cup, lifted it, then immediately dropped it back down without taking a sip. “Of course, anything is possible. Alzheimer’s and dementia are progressive and hard to spot in the early stages...” His voice trailed off as doubts took hold.

  “What did he want from you?”

  He took a long breath and let it go with a sigh. “A good faith gesture.”

 

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