Hanging the Devil, page 16
“Your guess is as good as mine,” said Wen, “but whoever wants this painting is in a very big hurry.”
34
The ghost seemed in no particular hurry as he emerged from the drain to walk among the homeless.
The semipermanent encampment numbered close to a hundred people and a dozen dogs. It radiated outward from the base of Pioneer Monument, a cluster of historic figures flanking a much larger monument that stood atop a stone column almost ten feet in diameter. The central figure was an eight hundred-ton sculpture of the Roman goddess Minerva, more commonly known by her Greek name, Athena. She was the goddess of wisdom and war, and standing twenty feet high, clearly wise enough to stay above the battle for human dignity occurring daily on the streets of San Francisco. Minerva’s gaze took in city hall less than a block away, its opaque windows blind to the godforsaken throngs outside.
At Minerva’s side was an enormous grizzly bear symbolizing the state of California. The flanking statues covered the points of the compass and dated to the late 1800s. Each told a chapter in the story of the pioneers who settled California. One dramatized the gold rush, two were female figures symbolizing commerce and plenty, though it wasn’t clear which was which. The last plinth once featured a tableau of a missionary, a vaquero, and a Native American, but it was removed in 2018 after a city commission decided it was racist.
After its removal, one of the committee members accused another member of being racist, who then decried her colleague for being sexist, at which point everyone else on the committee took sides until it was agreed that everyone was racist but only some of them were sexist. That seemed to settle things down until the homeless moved in, the taxpayer-funded commission ran out of money, and everyone agreed that the rest of the statues, and the homeless, could stay where they were.
The ghost didn’t know this city’s history and didn’t care to learn any of it. Politics bored him, though politics could sometimes be a means to an end. The ghost did not trust the communists any more than he trusted Hong King’s government under British rule, but it was true that the Triads had more autonomy and ability to expand their operations since the handover to China in ’97. There were over fifty clans in Hong Kong alone, only a dozen under routine surveillance.
The police were too busy monitoring student groups and quelling protests to bother with known criminal organizations that predated the founding of the city. Accommodations had been made, deals were struck, palms greased, and the underground economy grew.
The ghost didn’t question the illicit nature of his work; it was all he had ever known, but his loyalties remained with his clan, not the ruling class. He would ally with anyone who got him closer to his goal, and remove anyone who stood in his way.
The people sleeping at his feet right now could have been the ghost in another life.
Abandoned at birth, an albino child was too much of an aberration for a culture built on conformity. The ghost would have died on the street if he’d been left on any other doorstep. He often wondered how many people had walked past the screaming bundle in the basket, eyes averted, until the door finally opened.
The Triads weren’t known for their compassion, but they understood the concept of not fitting in. They had also perfected the art of shaping human flesh like steel. So the ghost was adopted by the heaven and earth society before he could crawl.
Raised as a son, forged as a weapon.
There was no name pinned to the basket in which they found him, no monogrammed blanket. They decided to call him Guĭ because he was white as a ghost and wailed like a lost soul. When he was older, some of the kids called him èmó, which meant demon, fiend, or devil.
He liked Guĭ better and made it his name. He was a ghost, a spirit. Weren’t we all? And if ever he doubted it, all he had to do was look in the mirror.
Guĭ also liked that his name sometimes meant sinister plot or dirty trick. It made him feel clever, and in time he learned that being clever was not a characteristic all his classmates admired. Everyone in his school was expected to be strong, but he wanted to be smart. By the time he was ten, it was obvious which of his friends would follow and which ones would lead.
The men he had led here in San Francisco, those who joined him in the helicopter, they had not been clever. They were blunt instruments for a crime that hadn’t turned out as planned. The pilot was cocky and tried to land on the roof instead of hovering as the ghost instructed. They could have been in and out within ten minutes, using the cable winch to haul the art into the belly of the helicopter.
Even the best-laid plans go up in smoke, and that night the ghost’s had burned along with the pilot. Now he needed a new plan. Freddie Wang, that old cur, was probably right—he should hit the museum in New York, stay clear of San Francisco for a while.
Guĭ wasn’t stubborn, but he wasn’t patient, either.
He moved through the crowd considering the options and ignoring the stares. An old man sitting cross-legged on the ground made the sign of the cross as the ghost passed. The dog by his side started to whimper. Most of the people huddled together were sleeping, but those awake followed him with a mixture of wonder, fear, and fascination. Their eyes on his back felt like a familiar weight across his shoulders, one he had borne so long that it was more of a comfort than a burden.
The ghost stepped around the corner to face the main entrance to the museum. He looked around the square. No civilians in sight, barely any sounds of traffic, his only company the vagrant horde and the thin tendrils of fog dancing in the dawn.
The stone façade consisted of two levels rising from the top of the granite steps. The first level framed three mammoth doors, the primary entrances and exits during visiting hours. The upper part of the building was an open balcony broken into five sections by columns shaped in the Greek or beaux-arts style, a classical design suggesting the building had once been something other than an Asian art museum. Five giant tapestries hung between each set of columns, artfully decorated to promote the latest exhibits. Behind the tapestries were shadows, but Guĭ wondered if there were glass doors leading onto the second floor.
Could it be so simple?
The skylight and helicopter had seemed the obvious choice after their success in Norway. The doors on the ground floor were heavy, wired for alarms, and the side doors were metal. But the bottom of this ornate balcony was only twenty feet from the top step, and the space between the columns was vast, at least ten feet. That made the balcony itself almost sixty feet wide, plenty of room to maneuver.
The ghost spun on his heel to make a clockwise scan of his surroundings, then glided to the base of the building directly below the last column on the left. Unwrapping a coil of white rope from around his waist, he reached inside his cheongsam-style jacket and removed a grappling hook from one of his many hidden pockets.
Guĭ tied the rope assuredly through the eye at the base of the clawed hook, then took a step back from the wall and started spinning the rope like a lasso. His first throw did the trick, looping over the granite balustrade so the hook caught the rope on the backswing. The ghost remembered practicing as a boy until his hands bled. His instructors made the entire class do it again until everyone mastered the throw.
He tugged on the rope, then leaned back on his heels to make sure the hook was set. He climbed up the rope and scaled the balustrade in less time than it would have taken to ride the escalator. He unfastened the hook, retrieved his rope, and ducked behind the tapestry.
His light-sensitive eyes adjusted quickly. The balcony was deep, but light from inside the museum shone through the windows. There were five sets of glass doors, and they all opened onto the second floor of the museum.
Staying in the shadows, the ghost moved to the closest set of doors and ran his long fingers along the window casings, the seam where the doors came together. He took a thin strip of metal from inside his jacket, longer than a lock pick but too delicate for a car jam, and slid it carefully between the doors at eye level.
The ghost slid the metal in minuscule increments up to the top of the window and then down, checking for wires. He met no resistance. That could mean nothing, because the base of the door could have pressure-sensitive buttons, or an electric beam might be mounted inside, since the doors opened inward from the balcony.
An undetected alarm would limit their time, but they only needed a few minutes, and the ghost was skeptical the security system extended to these windows. Museum security around the world was a joke. Alarm systems in banks, even in stores and homes, were far more elaborate than the bare minimum deployed at most institutional buildings.
This museum, like so many others he had robbed, was run by people who considered their world beyond reach. Complacent in their authority and smug in their belief they were entitled to the art they possessed simply because it was in their possession.
By that logic, the priceless paintings would rightfully belong to Guĭ as soon as he took them. And that would be very soon indeed.
35
“When is soon?” asked Grace.
“Soon is another way of saying not yet,” said Sally.
“I want to walk on the rooftops again,” said Grace. “That was fun.”
“It was necessary.”
“The policeman seemed nice.”
“He is,” said Sally, “but he’s still a policeman, and they have to follow rules.”
Grace made a face. “You mean the law.”
“Sometimes,” said Sally. “Other times, the phone on their desk rings, and they have to take orders from city hall.”
“The government.”
“Yes.”
Sally let that sit. Grace had told her about the day she lost her parents, the protest in the park. Not easy to see the world without a filter, let alone at eleven years old.
“I’m just saying it might be safer,” said Grace, “if I came with you.”
“A rhinoceros couldn’t get in here.” Sally gestured around her loft and pointed at the sliding door. “The problem isn’t someone getting in, Grace, it’s you sneaking out.”
Grace looked at the floor and fidgeted. “Robin wouldn’t stay home.”
“Excuse me?”
Grace looked up and held Sally’s bemused gaze. “Batman always brings Robin with him. Captain America had Bucky, then later the Falcon. Aquaman has Aqualad.”
“Aqualad?” Sally frowned. “You made that one up.”
Grace looked indignant. “Flash has Kid Flash.”
“You read too many comic books,” said Sally. “Schools in Hong Kong have really gone downhill.”
“I want to be safe,” said Grace, “but I feel safer with you.”
Sally’s mouth twitched. The kid changed tactics as soon as she met resistance. A natural negotiator. Grace had all the characteristics of someone born in the year of the rooster. One of those was an ability to persuade others, in part because a rooster would never give up. She combined the stubbornness of a preteen with the guile of a poker player.
“I’m going to find the tall man from the museum,” said Sally. “The one who tried to grab you in the alley.”
“The one I kicked in the balls?”
“That’s the one.”
Grace took a deep breath. “The policeman said they were looking.”
“I know where to find him,” said Sally. “He works for…” She paused, trying to find the right words to describe Freddie Wang. She went with the comic book narrative. “…a villain.”
“A supervillain?”
“Definitely not,” said Sally. “He’s an old, bitter man who steals from other people. There is nothing super about him.”
“Then—”
“—that doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous,” said Sally. “I live in the same neighborhood.” She almost added “and once worked for men like him” but merely said, “And I know his men.”
Grace made a last stand by appearing contrite, her voice resigned. “I understand.”
Sally’s mouth twitched again and she snorted, a laugh cut short. She felt as if she’d traveled back in time and was arguing with herself, or staring into a mirror.
You started much younger than she did, and no one gave you a choice.
After a pause, Sally said, “It’s your decision, but whatever you choose, the same rules apply. You do exactly as I say, when I say it, or next time we’re on a roof, I’ll throw you off.”
Grace nodded, her mouth a straight line.
“It may be dangerous.”
Grace nodded again.
“Your call,” said Sally.
“I want to go with you.”
No one spoke, and neither blinked for a full minute.
“Okay, Kid Flash,” said Sally. “Let’s go catch a bad guy.”
36
“The bad guy is dead,” said Beau. “One of them, anyway.”
Beau slid his phone into his jacket, thunderclouds forming on his brow. He looked at Maria without seeing, his focus somewhere else. She was still on her knees putting pieces of charcoal together and hadn’t heard him. Cape had and walked over to his friend.
“Which one,” asked Cape, “the guy you shot?”
“Yeah,” said Beau. “Tommy Chen.”
“He did try to shoot you.”
Beau’s eyes snapped into focus. “This isn’t me feeling bad. If he’d shot me first, then I’d feel bad. And if I have to put someone down, you know me, I sleep—”
“—like the dead?”
“Exactly,” said Beau. “But I was close, my aim was good, and I shot that stocky scumbag in the shoulder.”
“He died in the hospital?”
Beau nodded. “A stroke. Happens sometimes after traumatic injury, the body throws a clot that pinballs its way up to the brain.”
“How old was he?”
“Couldn’t have been more than thirty-five.”
“Anybody visit him?”
“Just the nurse,” said Beau. “The cop stayed outside during his shift. Besides, I know the patrolman, and he’s not bent.”
“Convenient, Tommy dropping dead like that.”
“Very,” said Beau, “since we hadn’t questioned him yet.”
Both men watched Maria for a minute. She had completed two puzzles and was working on the third, her brush painstakingly slow. Most of the wreckage was oily ash, but she managed to find enough strips of color to make a faint constellation of art come to life.
Cape turned back to Beau. “Maybe it’s coincidence, but it’s fishy.”
“I hate fish.”
“I don’t like salmon,” said Cape, “but most other fish, I’m good.”
“They all stink after a few days,” said Beau. “Like this case.”
“How about the other guy, the taller one?”
“Vinnie tagged him as Gerry Gao,” said Beau. “He’s going to bring him in today.”
“You think Freddie is cutting any loose ends that lead back to his business?”
“Wouldn’t you?” Beau patted his pockets to make sure he didn’t forget anything. “If I leave you here with Indiana Jones…” He jutted his chin at Maria. “…think you can lock up?”
“Where are you headed?”
“To sit behind a typewriter,” said Beau. “I shot the guy, so I do the paperwork.”
“That’s why I’m not a cop,” said Cape. “When I shoot someone, all I have to do is go to jail.” He crossed to Maria and knelt down, said a few words. She nodded and returned to her work. Cape rejoined Beau. “If you’re okay with Maria closing up, I’ll walk out with you.”
Beau glanced at Maria. It was obvious she’d be at this for at least another hour.
“I’m useless here, clearly,” said Cape, “so I’m going to try and answer a riddle.”
“Which is..?”
“How do you catch a ghost?”
37
“That’s an intriguing question.”
“I knew you’d like it,” said Cape. “But is it possible?”
Dumont Frazer rubbed his chin and worked his jaw as if the answer would emerge in the form of a bubble from his mouth. His black hair was streaked with gray, with an unkempt look that suggested his brush was actually his fingers. His eyeglasses reflected the overhead lights in a subtle semaphore of contemplation. His unbuttoned lab coat partially covered a T-shirt which featured a drawing of a man holding a blaster, the bold type proclaiming Han Shot First.
Cape had never seen Dumont without a lab coat and wondered if the scientist wore one when he went out to dinner, in case he wanted to experiment with his food.
The laboratory was a converted warehouse on a stretch of Market Street known for its street vendors, squalor, and empty storefronts. His door looked like a garage entrance to the adjacent building, so unless you knew Dumont was here, he remained invisible to passersby.
Long tables were covered with test tube racks, beakers, dismantled computers, tasers, miniature drones, car parts, and loose wires. Shelves were cluttered with clockwork devices, wooden items that resembled three-dimensional puzzles, and books on everything from organic chemistry to secret societies and historical weapons.
Everyone who knew Dumont existed came to him for help, even the police. The SFPD had become infamous for scandals involving mishandled evidence, lab accidents, and cases overturned by ruined samples. Detectives and DAs who couldn’t afford to lose a case found the money to hire Dumont.
Fortunately for Cape, the inventor’s rates varied depending on his level of interest in a problem. Dumont held patents on several devices currently in use by the Pentagon and law enforcement agencies across the country, in addition to his patents for educational children’s toys, so the only thing Dumont couldn’t afford was to be bored. Cape tried not to disappoint as he described every detail of the museum heist and invisible thief.
When he had finished, the scientist was smiling. “That’s very good.”
