Hanging the Devil, page 12
“I do.” Maria pointed at the ceiling, above which sat the lobby of the hotel. “On the surface, this place is all business.” Maria smiled as thunder boomed overhead. “But beneath the serious facade, fun awaits.”
“You think Americans are fun?”
“Some more than others, granted.” Maria swirled the ice around in her drink. “Spaniards still know how to laugh at themselves. Germans laugh at the French, usually behind their backs. The English laugh at each other, but most of Europe takes itself far too seriously.”
“You chase crooks all over Europe; maybe that colors your perspective.” Cape took a drink and winced at the sour cocktail. “But what would I know? I’m just a frivolous American.”
Maria raised her glass. “Dinner was fun.”
Cape tilted his mug in her direction. “If you’d shot the television instead of the wall, we’d be cut into little pieces and stuffed into pelmeni.”
“How did you like it?”
“You shooting the wall?” asked Cape. “It was very dramatic.”
“The pelmeni,” said Maria. “Wasn’t it delicious?”
“Honestly?” said Cape. “The vodka made my tongue numb.”
Maria sighed. “I’m dodging the question, aren’t I?”
“You don’t have to answer,” said Cape. “I’m used to a certain amount of trouble, but then again—”
“—then again?”
“I can shoot as many TVs as I want and not lose my job,” said Cape. “I don’t carry a badge and don’t want you to lose yours.”
One corner of Maria’s mouth turned up. “You’re very gallant for a—”
“—fun American?”
“The truth,” said Maria, “is that I’m already in danger of losing my badge.”
“Beau said your supervisor put you on leave.”
“A suspension,” said Maria.
“But you were right about the museum.”
“That just makes it worse.”
“Because it makes him look foolish?”
“Because it makes him look guilty,” said Maria. “Or weak.”
Cape mused over Chinese art disappearing from museums around the globe. “You think he’s caving to political pressure.”
“Definitivamente,” said Maria. “When I outlined the case for coming here, he ordered me to Italy to retrieve a missing Rembrandt.”
“In other words, he wanted you to investigate a crime that’s actually happened versus one that might occur but hasn’t yet.”
“A bureaucrat’s logic.”
“Is the Rembrandt very valuable?”
“Compared to other paintings, sí.” Maria shrugged. “Compared to other Rembrandts, not so much. Besides, it’s just a Rembrandt—”
“—just a Rembrandt.” Cape laughed.
“There’s always a missing Rembrandt,” said Maria. “He was one of the few masters famous in his own lifetime. Ran his studio like a factory, turning out portraits for wealthy patrons. There are so many paintings and sketches in circulation that Rembrandts have become a legitimate currency in the underground economy. Crime syndicates accept them for ransom, collateral, as investments for a rainy day. Fine art retains its value more than gold.”
“As long as the provenance doesn’t land you in jail.”
“There are ways around that,” said Maria. “Auction houses look the other way, buyers remain anonymous, museums pay the ransom.”
“That’s not why you’re here, drinking fruity cocktails,” said Cape. “Is it?”
Maria looked wistfully at the band. “I’m pulling on the tail of a tiger, a global syndicate of state-sponsored art thieves, and my boss wants me to chase down a lousy Rembrandt.”
“How much influence does China have in Spain?”
The strobe of lightning flashed in Maria’s eyes. “You ask very good questions.”
“It’s my only real talent.”
“Interpol gives senior agents a lot of latitude,” said Maria. “As long as I clear my cases, I can pursue as many leads as I want, especially on an investigation that cuts across borders.”
“So when you were told to stay away from San Francisco you got—”
“—enfadada,” said Maria. “Pissed off, enough to do some homework at the foreign office. China has been investing heavily across Europe for years, their ‘belt and road initiative’ that links all the major trading centers into a single network with access to China.”
“Investment doesn’t always mean influence.”
“Except in politics,” said Maria. “China manages or holds a stake in every major port in Europe…Valencia in Spain, Vado in Italy, Kumport in Turkey…and some of those are free ports.”
“Free ports.” Cape knew the term but couldn’t nail it down. “A port that operates like a tax haven…or something like that.”
“Close,” said Maria. “A commercial port with a special charter that exempts it from taxes, inspection, or customs laws of the local country. Think of a free port as an embassy for a neutral, nonexistent country, only it’s a working port. Very popular in the art world.” Maria grinned savagely. “Especially the world of stolen art.”
Cape reached for his coconut. “So if I have an art collection and don’t want to pay taxes when I buy, sell, or move one of my paintings—”
“—and you want to keep it safe—”
“—I ship it to a free port—”
“—and keep it there.” Maria rubbed her hands together. “Climate-controlled warehouses designed to hold the world’s treasures. You can visit your painting, sell it to someone, or put it on a ship and send it home, all without stepping foot in the host country.”
“Who pays for the ports?”
“Any country that wants access to the special economic zone of the free port,” said Maria. “And the biggest investor outside the EU is China, so there’s your answer about influence.”
“But who are they influencing?” Cape took one of the discarded paper umbrellas and twirled it between his fingers. “In Spain, for example, who pays for the free port, besides China? Is it Germany or France or…?”
“EU trading partners,” said Maria. “Most of Europe pays a share.”
“Now I see why you went rogue.” Cape tossed the umbrella onto the table.
“The countries that fund the ports,” said Maria, “also fund Interpol.”
“So you’re investigating the people who pay your salary.”
“Seguramente,” said Maria. “You see my dilemma.”
Cape leaned back in his chair and didn’t say anything for a minute.
The band got the room swaying to a sultry ukulele playing “What a Wonderful World.”
“All your evidence is circumstantial,” said Cape.
“Unless I can catch a thief.”
Cape barely knew Maria, but he understood her. She had rushed into a burning building, and now the only way out was to fight her way through to the other side. The lightning strobes flashed, and Cape caught his own reflection in Maria’s eyes as the band found its groove.
I see skies of blue,
and clouds of white.
The bright blessed day,
the dark sacred night.
“What a wonderful world, where you have to break the rules to enforce the law.”
“That’s the world you live in,” said Maria, “am I right?”
Cape was about to reply when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was a big hand, and the squeeze was none too gentle. Maria’s eyes widened in recognition and amusement.
Cape followed the mahogany fingers up the arm to Beau’s smiling face and flat cop stare.
“The lyrics in the last stanza make me think the songwriter didn’t have kids.” Beau grabbed a chair from a nearby table and sat perpendicular to the table. “Tell me how babies crying is wonderful.”
“Nice to see you again, Inspector,” said Maria.
“Beau is just fine, Maria.”
Beau’s voice was as deep as the thunder rumbling from the nearby speakers. His eyes scanned the room before coming to rest on the litter of umbrellas on the table. “What in God’s name are you drinking?”
“It’s vaguely disgusting,” said Cape, “but tropical.”
“Would you like one?” asked Maria.
“Absolutely not,” said Beau, adding, “No, gracias.”
“El gusto es mio.”
Beau flagged a waiter and ordered a beer.
“Maria thinks Americans are fun,” said Cape.
Beau snorted. “You haven’t been in town long enough.”
“We met some fun people tonight,” said Maria.
Cape nodded. “We had dinner with Maksim Valenko.”
Beau almost spit his beer across the table. “No wonder you’re guzzling umbrella drinks.”
“His nephew was the helicopter pilot,” said Cape.
Beau raised his eyebrows. “Not bad.” He drained the rest of his beer. “You work fast.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I would have found—”
“—a week,” said Cape. “By the time you got the warrants, a week would have passed.”
“I think those fruity drinks are making you defensive,” said Beau. “Too much sugar.”
“Are you off duty?” asked Cape.
“I’m drinking beer,” said Beau. “Does that answer your question?”
“No,” said Cape. “Am I talking to Beau or Inspector Jones of the SFPD?”
Beau took a long sip of his beer. “Yes.”
Maria jumped in before Cape could reply. “Valenko was angry,” she said. “Very angry.”
Beau glanced at Cape and slowly shook his head. “Had to poke the bear, didn’t you?”
“How did you find us?”
“You’re changing the subject,” said Beau. “Maria is staying at this hotel, Sherlock, and you’re the only dumbass who drives a convertible in a city covered in fog.”
“Why did you find us?” asked Maria.
“Wanted to share a couple of things,” said Beau. “Three, actually.” He waved for another beer. “Might help with your investigation…and mine.”
“That’s very generous,” said Cape. “Some might say suspicious—”
“—or I could arrest you for obstruction,” said Beau. “That’s still on the table.”
“Share away.”
“Vinnie and I saw a ghost,” said Beau. “And I shot a guy in the shoulder.”
“That’s only two things,” said Maria.
“Why did you shoot him?” asked Cape.
“He was about to kill your client.”
26
Tommy Chen wanted to kill the nurse.
He was in the hospital when he regained consciousness, the throbbing in his shoulder a painful reminder of how he got there. Tommy closed his eyes and visualized the little museum brat skulking behind the couch in her apartment. Almost within reach, until a freight train hit Tommy in the shoulder. He tried turning his head and almost fainted.
His chin bumped against a bandage the size of a watermelon. The bullet must have passed through his shoulder and out the back. The cop probably used hollow points, so Tommy counted himself lucky to have his arm attached to his body. Freddie Wang would pay the hospital bills, but Tommy would have to learn how to shoot left-handed for a while.
The painkillers were wearing off, and his thumb was sore from pressing the call button. He tried moving his right hand and heard a rattle. Pressing chin to chest, he saw his right hand handcuffed to the bed. No wonder the nurse wasn’t in a hurry. There was probably a cop at the door telling her to stay clear until it really started to hurt.
Take a shot at one cop and they all hold a grudge. Didn’t seem fair.
Beige curtains shifted from a chill breeze outside. Tommy found that odd, an open window in a hospital room, especially in a city where temperatures could drop twenty degrees in a day. His eyes fluttered and the needles tingling in his shoulder were getting sharper. He blinked to stay awake but his vision was blurry.
He pulled the call button closer and heard the cord smack against the bed frame. He dropped the button onto his lap and tugged at the cord, felt no resistance as it snaked over the covers.
No wonder he was languishing, the call button had been disconnected.
The breeze got even colder as something paler than the curtains drifted into the room. Tommy thought it was fog until it coalesced into the shape of a man. Tommy’s eyes regained focus as the ghost appeared at his side.
The albino had a gentle smile on his face.
“You’re awake.” The ghost spoke softly in Cantonese, his red eyes shifting to the door. “There’s a policeman outside.”
Tommy nodded. “Figured.”
“Now that you’re awake…” The ghost reached under his white robes as if straightening his shirt. “…they’ll want to get your statement.”
“I haven’t talked to anyone.” Tommy shifted his weight to sit up.
“I know.” The ghost extended a chalky arm. “And now you won’t.”
Tommy gasped as icy fingers pressed against the soft flesh at the base of his neck. He felt a slight pressure, followed by a sensation of something folding inside his throat, his larynx converted to origami. When he tried to speak, his voice sounded like paper tearing. A sibilant plea to an uncaring world.
“Tch-tch-tch.” The ghost spoke soothingly. “It only lasts a few minutes.” His other hand emerged from under his jacket holding a syringe. “Under normal circumstances.” He caught the fear in Tommy’s eyes. “Don’t worry, it’s empty.” He held the needle to the light and retracted the plunger. “Nothing but air, see?”
Tommy was now wide awake, the pain in his shoulder a mere nuisance compared to the adrenaline rushing through his veins. He tracked the ghost’s long fingers moving assuredly along the length of the IV until they found the valve where medicine could be injected into the drip.
“It’s unfortunate you got shot,” said the ghost. “And worse that you got caught.” He paused. “If this were any other crime, Freddie would see to your release and you’d get back to work.” The ghost’s rueful expression was etched in alabaster. “But you know what was inside that helicopter.”
Tommy rasped in protest, but the ghost put a cadaverous finger to his lips.
“With the painkillers they give, who knows what you might say? A night in jail we could handle, you’d be out before the police connected the dots, but you landed in here.” The ghost looked mournful. “And it’s just too soon for anyone to know what we’re really up to.”
Tommy swung his arm sideways but the ghost wheeled the IV stand out of reach before it toppled.
The fluorescent lights seemed to dim until the brightest thing in the room was the spectral figure standing over the bed. “I’m telling you because I would want to know,” said the ghost. “You didn’t do anything wrong, you just…got…caught.”
Tommy tried to bang his handcuff against the bed frame but the ghost had already inserted the syringe into the valve. With deliberate slowness, he pressed down on the plunger.
“I told you it was empty,” said the ghost. “Nothing but air.”
Tommy’s eyes started to bulge.
“Air in an IV sends bubbles racing through the bloodstream.” The ghost moved to the curtains and swung one long leg over the windowsill. “Delicate depth-charges inside your veins.” Someone in the hallway began to turn the door handle. “The embolism that follows can cause cardiac arrest, or more commonly a stroke.”
Tommy’s eyes went flat as a thin line of drool ran down his chin.
“Záijiàn, Tommy.” The voice was a whisper of wind in an empty room.
The door opened. The uniformed policeman stepped inside to check on his prisoner, with the nurse close behind to check on her patient.
All they found was a corpse, still warm but cooling rapidly in the night air.
The ghost was nowhere to be seen.
27
“Your ghost is nowhere to be seen on the security tapes,” said Beau. “But something’s there, a distortion, a heat wave. Nothing when the other two are standing still, but every time they move, it’s there.”
“Why is it my ghost?” asked Cape.
“Who are the other men?” asked Maria.
“My partner’s working to ID the tall one, but the shorter guy is Tommy Chen.” Beau picked up one of the tiny umbrellas and jabbed it at Cape. “Who works for your old friend Freddie Wang.”
“Why is he my friend?” asked Cape. “And why is it my ghost and not our ghost?”
“Two drinks ago…” Beau made a show of counting umbrellas. “…you admitted you had a client.”
“An unnamed person of indeterminate age who may or may not appear in the museum security tapes,” said Cape. “Who told me there were three thieves—”
“—not counting the pilot,” said Beau.
Cape nodded. “Not counting the pilot.”
“And when I said there were only two,” said Beau, “you said that’s because—”
“—the third is a ghost,” said Maria.
“According to your client,” said Beau.
“I don’t have a client,” said Maria. “In fact, I might be unemployed.”
“I have a client,” said Cape. “So I guess it is my ghost.”
Maria placed her hand on Cape’s arm. “We can share the ghost.”
“Did you drink at dinner before you got here?” asked Beau. “Or are those dumbass tropical drinks that strong?”
“Yes—” said Maria.
“—to both questions,” said Cape.
“Your client,” said Beau, “I’d like to speak to her.”
“She comes from a part of the world where they no longer trust the police.”
“You mean anywhere?” said Beau. “Or everywhere?”
“I’ll ask her,” said Cape.
“Persuade her,” said Beau. “You’re good at that.”
“On one condition,” said Cape.
Beau waited.
“Drive me home,” said Cape. “I’ve been drinking.”
“Do tell.”
“And let us see the security tapes,” said Maria.
Beau looked at her, a smile and frown wrestling for control of his mouth. “Okay.”
