I’ve never seen Marsh go gaga over any lover. I don’t think he’s ever been deeply in love. He loves sex and has it regularly. He doesn’t exactly use people, but he seems always to be firmly in control of his feelings and urges.

  That’s been a problem with Tom, his current and longest-lasting relationship, going on almost two years. Tom wants love and marriage. Both words are anathema to Marsh.

  “Did you see any messages to or from Christopher or Rachel that indicated trouble?”

  “Yes. But not the I’m-going-to-murder-you kind. She’d stopped responding to Christopher’s pleadings. He was emailing and messaging her through Facebook several times a day for a couple of weeks and she’d asked him to stop. He didn’t and so she ignored him. In the couple of weeks before the shooting, the messages had dwindled to a few. Quite pathetic. And whiney. She was much too patient with him. I had to keep reading to make sure there was nothing there, but they made my stomach turn. I wanted to take him by the lapels and shake him and tell him to man up.”

  “But he never threatened her or said anything that might have indicated real craziness?”

  “No. Just weakness.”

  “How about Rachel?”

  “Kind of the opposite of her little brother. The first messages started roughly three months ago when Sarah was first trying to break off with Christopher. In the past months, the messages on both ends got more affectionate. They signed off using the L word. No strong indication that they were having sex, although I’d bet a pretty penny they are, but, of course, they’re female so not quite so crude and rude as the weaker sex.”

  “Anything else?”

  He looked over at Rob, who was sitting on his blue blanket looking like he’d just lost his girlfriend. “She had a manager of some kind. Looks like she fired him about a year ago. It appears they were lovers, too. It appears to have been messy. Speed was angry with her when she cut him off, personally and professionally.”

  “Yes, Q told me a bit about him, and he’s going to follow up with his contacts in the music business to see if he can find out more about his recent doings. Any threatening messages from him?”

  “Not in the past several months. He did say he was going to sue her. I’ll look into that and him.”

  “Okay. Anything else?”

  “There were four zip drives that I found in a desk drawer. I haven’t looked at them yet, as I didn’t want to linger in the apartment too long. I assume that they’re mostly backup for her hard drive, but I’ll have a look at them soon to confirm.”

  “Okay. Anything else.”

  “She is hot. Saw photos.”

  “Do you ever feel any kind of moral qualms or ickiness about invading someone’s privacy like this, because I do.”

  “None whatsoever. Better me than others. I’m reliable and trustworthy. Her secrets are safe with me.”

  “I’m sure she’d be comforted by that.”

  He shrugged. “So where are we at here?”

  I sighed. “I don’t know. Christopher has to be our top suspect at this point. The only thing is I don’t see him as capable of it. He’s immature and soft. He might have gotten carried away, rushed to the club, and shot her in the spur of a rash moment, but I think there was a little more method to the madness. First of all, you’re right, the fact that I was there is too coincidental. Someone likely wanted me there or wanted to get rid of her before I talked to her. Secondly, the flowers and the break-a-leg message. Innocent on the surface but also suspicious as hell. And why twenty roses? Of course, that means the shooter was tipping his or her hand, like they weren’t too worried about being caught, but also needed to convey their dislike of Sarah overtly before trying to kill her.”

  “Who else?”

  “Mrs. Wambaugh. She really hated and was threatened by Sarah. This old boyfriend/manager Speed just because of the animosity you describe. The father, Fogerty you said his name was, because he’s so mysterious… Any word on him, by the way?”

  “Nothing yet. He seems to have covered his tracks pretty well. I have people working on it though. I imagine we’ll have something soon.”

  “I told you he’s probably in Las Vegas.”

  Marsh nodded. “How about her bandmates? Phoebe? The old guitar player?”

  “They both love her. I see nothing but sincerity and genuine affection there.”

  “Can’t eliminate them yet.”

  I knew he was right, but I’d already done so.

  “Next steps?”

  “You keep after Mr. Wambaugh, and do you think you can have someone follow Christopher for a couple of days? I’d like to know where he goes, what he does. Hopefully, he leaves the house every now and then.”

  “Sure.”

  “And I’m going to take another crack at Mrs. Wambaugh.”

  “You’re a glutton for punishment.”

  Sometimes it did seem I had masochistic tendencies.

  Fifteen

  Bo Fiddler is my oldest friend. We were in a band together throughout college and into our twenties. We were a local semi-sensation and got a little radio play for a few of our songs. We probably came as close to making it as most good bands.

  But, ultimately, time and friction with various members of our band, to say nothing of drugs and alcohol, took their toll.

  None of it ever came between Bo and me.

  I was in the kitchen of the Rusty Root, Bo’s restaurant at Fisherman’s Wharf. Rope Rivers, his edgy, fabulous twenty-seven-year-old chef, was stirring a pot of cioppino. The seafood and tomato smells made my nose swoon and my mouth water.

  Rope was wearing his ubiquitous bandana over his flaming red hair. His rosy cheeks were copiously freckled. He was the thinnest chef I’d ever seen. He dipped a large spoon into the soup and tasted, “Ahhh. Perfection.”

  “Max,” he said and moved the spoon in front of my mouth. I sipped the broth. “Rope, you slay me.”

  He smiled, tapped my arm companionably, and turned back to his work.

  Bo leaned back against one of the massive stainless-steel refrigerators, his arms folded across his chest, telling me about the troubles in his daughter’s marriage.

  “It’s not a big surprise, Bo. They’re too young to play house.” I was Jen’s Uncle Max, I loved her, but she was only nineteen. Her betrothed was the same age. They’d been married less than a year.

  “Doesn’t make it any easier. They don’t have any money. He keeps getting fired from his minimum wage jobs. She was going to be a veterinarian but now she’s working as a waitress in a diner. She doesn’t tell me much, but I can see it on her face. My happy-go-lucky baby girl is feeling the weight of the world. I’ve offered to pay for her to go back to college, but she won’t take the money.”

  “That’s a good sign.”

  “It’s stupid. Unless Brad locates a little gumption or ambition, they’re heading nowhere fast.”

  “They’re young. They can still work it out.”

  “I guess. But I can’t tell if he’s treating her right. She hasn’t said anything, but before they were married, she couldn’t stop gushing about him. Now she just says they’re doing fine. Never tells me how wonderful he is. He’d better be, or I’m going to break…” Bo paused and them mumbled, “Shit.”

  It was early afternoon, so the kitchen wasn’t bustling yet. Rope and the sous chef were the only other people nearby.

  “Lookit, if you find out he’s not treating her right, that’s one thing. But there’s no reason to go there right now. Most young couples struggle in a lot of ways early on. She wants to make her own way. She’s a sensible girl, at least outside of her decision to marry Brad. Trust her.”

  “That’s what Sandra says, too. I’m probably overreacting.”

  I knew he wasn’t going to stop worrying. I’d been worrying since I’ d first heard about the wedding plans. No one should get married before the age of thirty, and if they know what’s good for them, they should wait until they’re forty or, better yet, forget the whole damn thing.

  Turning to the real reason I’d come to the Rusty Root, I said, “Bo, I need a favor.”

  “What else is new?” he quipped. “Hit me.”

  “I want you and Rope to throw a dinner for me.”

  “What are we honoring you for?”

  “It’s not actually for me. It’s for a very, very rich woman. It’ll be at her house in Atherton. It’ll be good publicity for you, and you’ll have the opportunity to impress a lot of rich people.”

  “Is this woman going to pay for the event?”

  “No. You’re going to offer it to her for free. Turns out she’s big fan of Rope’s and is going to be thrilled.”

  “So I’m just going to donate the thousands of dollars it’s going to cost?”

  “That would be nice.”

  “But I’m not that nice a guy.”

  “I knew that. We’ll pay for it.”

  Or, rather, Marsh would front the money and, eventually, I hoped that Mrs. Wambaugh would pay for it herself.

  “That might work.”

  “But time is of the essence.”

  “When?” he asked, raising a suspicious eyebrow.

  “This weekend.”

  “No way. Not possible. You’re nuts.”

  I answered all three of his negative statements, and then we bickered for another ten minutes before he agreed to my terms.

  Sixteen

  I was on Acapella Blues, getting ready for a very exciting evening, making sure I had the right balance of tools for the task, when my cell phone rang.

  Phoebe was on the line and said, excitedly, “I found it.”

  “What?”

  “The note. With the flowers. I mean, I didn’t find the flowers, but I found the note.”

  “Great. Can you read it to me?”

  “It says just what I told you. It’s typed so no way to identify from handwriting. It’s addressed, Dear Sarah. Break a Leg. Your ardent admirer.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. It’s great you found it. Where are you now?”

  “At the club. I’ll be here for another couple of hours.”

  “I’m going to send someone over to pick it up.”

  “You going to try and trace it somehow?”

  “I’ll probably turn it over to the police and have them look for fingerprints or any other traces that might help. Thanks again,” I said.

  I was expecting a five p.m. call from Marsh, and it came in on the button as I was drinking an espresso and munching on a vanilla biscotti out on my deck. There was a middling breeze ruffling my hair and my cool black shirt, but the sky was mostly blue, and the sun was heading south and west when I said, “Marsh,” into my cell phone.

  “I’m at the Sweet and Sour. Everything’s set.”

  “How’s Dao?”

  “Basket case.”

  “I don’t blame him.” Even though Meiying was at Alexandra’s place with Frankie and out of harm’s way, this had to be unnerving for my good friend.

  “Takeshi’s gang is supposed to arrive at eleven. I’m going to catch a bite with Tom and get back here by nine. You should do the same.”

  I hung up the phone and called Frankie.

  She answered on the first ring and said, “Max. I miss you.”

  “Me too,” I said. “I’ll take you to a movie tomorrow. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Can I speak to Meiying?”

  “She’s making meatballs and spaghetti.”

  “Great. I just need her for a minute.”

  Frankie disappeared, and a few seconds later, Meiying said, “Plank.”

  “How’s everything there?”

  “Very well. We are having good time. Frankie is making me make spaghetti. For her, I do it. How’s Dao?”

  “He’s okay. A little nervous, of course. Marsh is with him, and I’m going over. We’ll take good care of him and get rid of those bad boys.”

  “I trust you. But if anything happen to my Dao…” She paused. I could hear her breathing softly on the other end of the line.

  “Nothing will happen to him. I promise.”

  As those words came out of my mouth, I understood that sometimes we just say things to people we care about to try and make them and ourselves feel better.

  Seventeen

  The supply room connected to the bar was as neat and orderly as you’d expect from Dao and Meiying. One wall had a floor to ceiling cabinet filled with dining and party accoutrements: plates, cups, glasses, napkins, bowls, and utensils appropriate to various party motifs. A wine rack with about a hundred bottles sat beside a boxful of hard liquor bottles and a giant stainless-steel refrigerator. Beside it, a sharp wall indentation held cleaning supplies, mops, and brooms. The room had a red and white checkerboard linoleum floor and a ceiling painted light blue. It smelled of lemon polish with a floral accent.

  I stood leaning against the door jamb trying to keep Dao’s spirits up. He sat at the bar nursing a green tea and fidgeting nervously with a nautical map of San Francisco Bay. All of us, save perhaps Marsh, would rather be sailing away than facing the remains of this day.

  Marsh was enjoying a whiskey sour from an adjacent bedroom connected to the sky lounge and bar by a short corridor not visible from the main part of the room.

  We’d debated confronting them openly, all three of us, but decided to let the Yakuza wannabes get comfortable with their big advantage before surprising them with the fact that things might be a little more complicated than they’d hoped for.

  We also thought it might be best to observe them as they circled their prey and thus gauge their level of sophistication, malevolence, and intent with Dao, before letting them know that the game had changed, that the demon would have to slay a dragon and not just an aging financial wizard to earn his payday.

  It was seven minutes after eleven p.m. when I heard steps out on the gangplank.

  I moved back into the supply room and tipped the door until I had narrow sliver of sight into the bar area.

  Dao spun his stool toward the door to the sky lounge and clutched his knees with his hands.

  It took more than just a few minutes for the young men to enter the room. I heard footsteps traveling up and down the gangway and onto the boat. Noise above and below me. They were obviously casing the joint, trying to make sure that Dao had complied with their demands and was facing them alone.

  Marsh had stationed one of his men in an inconspicuous hangout near the dock most of the day, keeping an eye out for the comings and goings in and around the Sweet and Sour, and he’d reported back that there’d been no sign of anyone else doing the same.

  Finally, they entered the sky lounge. Dao fixed his eyes on something at the far end of the room.

  “Old man, you’ve been a bad boy, haven’t you?” a chiding, high-pitched voice said.

  Dao glanced toward me and then quickly glanced away.

  “Your friends can’t save you, old man.”

  So they had been watching. I wondered briefly if it was from a nearby building or boat that Marsh’s man might have missed.

  Steps above me. Steps below me. They weren’t casing the joint. Takeshi had brought a large contingent, and they knew where we were and were surrounding us hoping to engineer their own little Custer’s Last Stand.

  I watched Dao through my slender porthole, and he didn’t look good. His face was drained of color.

  “Old man, tell your friends to show themselves. We know they are in this room. Tell Max Plank that we know where he is hiding Meiying. Tell him the Demon lurks close to her and the little girl.”

  I felt like somebody had just punched me in the gut. I opened the door and stepped out into the bar, behind Dao.

  “Hello, Max Plank.”

  Takeshi was a handsome brute with a small nose, high cheekbones, and unusual light brown eyes. He was thin but looked in shape. Beneath an expensive-looking black sport coat, he wore a long-sleeved black shirt and black jeans. He smiled at me when he said my name. He was happy to see me, which almost, but not quite, made my day.

  Behind Takeshi stood a half-dozen young Chinese males. All possessed a certain élan, a dangerous je ne sais quoi. Four held pistols with silencers, two held Uzis, their barrels pointed sideways, away from us.

  More noise from the deck above ours.

  “Where is your friend, Max Plank?”

  “He’s hard to keep track of. Don’t know where he’s gone to at the moment.”

  “Max Plank, don’t play games. This is serious business.” And still, he was smiling.

  “I am not my brother’s keeper, Takeshi.”

  While we bantered and I studied the whole gang gathered so aggressively in front of me, I remembered the briefing that Marsh had given me earlier in the day. He’d discovered that George Liu’s nature was not dissimilar to Dao’s. He’d started buying houses and apartments in Hong Kong and ended up owning shopping centers in America. In middle age, he’d parlayed his real estate holdings into an import-export business and had prospered further. Everything he’d ever touched had turned to gold, or at least tarnished silver. He was now in his eighties, a widower, living with his extended family in Santa Rosa. No hints of corruption or overt criminal activity, although that doesn’t mean there weren’t any.

  His younger brother, Ling, a modest man by all appearances, followed his brother to the new world and ended up working at the Santa Rosa post office where he labored for forty years until his recent retirement.

  Ling’s son, Takeshi, appeared to be rather unimpressed by his father’s modest achievements and wanted a faster route to the top than his successful uncle’s. He’d been arrested for petty theft when he was thirteen. Assault and battery when he was fifteen and armed robbery when he was seventeen. He’d spent a fair amount of time at juvenile halls but had somehow avoided real prison so far. Maybe George Liu had saved him with expensive lawyers.

  He had no arrests for the past five years, which made him either lucky or smart.

 

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