Hanging the Devil, page 21
“—but you can grab my foot,” said Sally. “Physics and gravity will do the rest.”
“You think someone will try to kick me?” Grace sounded earnest, not afraid.
Sally considered who might be coming after Grace. The two men from the museum weren’t a threat. One died in the hospital, and the other had his DNA blasted across the city by a bazooka.
But Freddie Wang had more men, scores of them, and he bribed or controlled enough businesses in Chinatown to put Grace under constant surveillance. She could hide here until the case was resolved, but Sally knew that criminals sometimes got away with murder.
You could kill Freddie.
The thought swept across her mind like a cirrus cloud and vanished just as quickly. Sally knew she could kill Freddie, and he knew it, too. But his insurance policy was bulletproof.
Freddie wasn’t the dragonhead. He answered to people far, far away. Cut off his head and another would grow in its place. He ran drugs, gambling, and prostitution rackets from his restaurant in Chinatown and controlled the local tong gangs. He was a soulless bureaucrat, a garden snake with fangs. Freddie didn’t give the orders, he just executed them.
What if you had something Freddie wanted more than the girl?
The idea was amorphous, a mere wisp of a thought. Sally shook her head and focused on Grace. “I think a larger opponent will have a hard time catching you because you’re fast. Suppose it’s a man about the size of Cape.”
“That’s a funny name,” said Grace, “don’t you think?”
“He’d agree with you,” said Sally. “You should ask him about it…now focus…”
Grace stood up straighter.
Sally continued, “Your attacker is going to be heavier, with longer reach, so he might try to hit you or, if you’re quick enough to duck, to kick or trip you.”
“So I grab his foot.”
“Yes,” said Sally. “It’s actually easier to take a kick than a punch if you’re trained. Let your body move with the motion of the kick, use your arms to slow its momentum—remember to bend your arms. Then grab the foot, or the shoe, if he’s wearing one. Shoes are good because they have heels, laces, lots of things to get your fingers around. Then twist like you’re opening a giant ketchup bottle with both hands.”
“I don’t really like ketchup.”
“Neither do I,” said Sally, “but you get the idea.”
“And then I run away?”
Sally nodded her approval. “You run away.”
“When did you run away?”
The question caught Sally off guard. Their conversations were a constellation of small bits and pieces shared inadvertently in the context of something else. Sally knew all relationships were merely mosaics of smaller moments, the final picture not visible till the end, but this type of relationship was new to her. She hadn’t spent much time around children, other than her students, since she was Grace’s age.
“I was older than you when I left Hong Kong,” said Sally. “But I lost both my parents when I was five.”
Grace bit her lower lip. “My mother died when I was five, but my father remarried when I was nine.”
“How was that?”
The corner of Grace’s mouth twitched. “I still miss my mom.”
Sally didn’t say anything.
Grace looked at her hands. “Do you think my father is dead?”
“I don’t know.”
“I still talk to him as if he’s alive.”
“I talk to my parents all the time,” said Sally.
“Do they answer?”
Sally tilted her head. “Usually by the time I finish the question, I know the answer.”
“So maybe they do.”
“Yes,” said Sally. “Maybe they do.”
“Who raised you?”
Sally thought about her own life’s mosaic and tried to visualize a better picture for Grace. “A nanny, my caretaker from when I was little.”
Who sold me to the Triads.
“And then you went to boarding school?”
“Yes,” said Sally, “with lots of other girls.”
Who were trained to be assassins, consorts, and spies.
“Was it nice?” asked Grace. “Your school?”
After I killed the dragonhead’s son, it was time to leave.
“I liked the other girls,” said Sally. “And learned a lot.”
“You’re a good teacher.”
“Glad you think so,” said Sally. “Because there’s still lots to learn. We covered running, and today we practiced grabbing. The next two subjects will be hitting and gouging.”
“What’s gouging?”
Sally took her thumbs and pressed them against her own eyelids. “You put your strongest fingers, usually your first two fingers or thumb, and press against something soft…and keep pressing as hard as you can.”
“That’s gross.”
Sally opened her eyes. “And effective.” She extended the index and middle finger of her right hand and poked Grace in the shoulder.
“Hey.”
Sally prodded Grace in the other shoulder, then hip, elbow, and neck. She took Grace’s right hand in hers and pressed a thumb into the soft flesh where Grace’s index finger and thumb came together. Grace yanked her hand away as if she’d been shocked.
“That felt like electricity.”
“There are pressure points all over the body,” said Sally. “That’s how acupuncture works. And there are soft spots, like eyeballs.”
“Yuck.”
“I’ll give you a chart to memorize,” said Sally. “And a quiz tomorrow.” She bowed deeply to indicate the lesson was over.
Grace returned the bow. “What are we going to do now?”
“Eat,” said Sally, “and plan.”
“What are we planning?”
“A robbery.”
46
“Maybe it’s a robbery.”
Maria’s mouth was very close to Cape’s ear as she whispered. It made him want to whisper all the time, but the shoe on the floor had a foot in it, and unlike the last shoe he’d seen, a body was still attached.
“If it’s a robbery,” whispered Cape, “then my name is Rumpelstiltskin.”
“I might have guessed,” said Maria. “I have a hard time believing that Cape is your—”
“—you mind if we focus on the corpse in the hallway?”
Cape pulled his head back from the opening in the door and removed the gun from his pocket. He thumbed the safety off and kept his index finger straight along the slide and away from the trigger.
“What did you see?” asked Maria.
“A man’s body,” said Cape. “And unless he dropped a bottle of ketchup, a lot of blood.”
“Is he moving?” asked Maria. “Maybe he’s still alive.”
“I forgot to mention what I didn’t see,” said Cape. “Parts of him are missing.”
“Which parts?”
“Important parts.”
“How important?”
“You could ask him,” said Cape, “but I don’t think he’d hear you.”
“Because he’s dead?”
“Because his ears are missing, along with the top of his head.”
“He’s probably dead, then.”
“What have I been saying?”
They took a step back from the door and scanned the upper windows, but the shades were drawn and motionless. They listened intently, but the only sounds were somnolent bees and distant ravens.
“We should call the police,” said Maria.
“Definitely,” said Cape.
Neither of them reached for their phones.
Cape held Maria’s gaze for a beat. “Since we have one gun between the two of us, let’s circle the house before—”
“—we go inside.”
Cape led Maria around the left side of the house. Nothing was visible through the windows save for expensive furniture and rare art. Every shelf held a sculpture or artifact. The walls were covered with paintings. Cape heard Maria gasp more than once.
The back of the house opened onto a broad lawn that sloped down to the forlorn vineyard. The rear windows revealed a sitting room filled with overstuffed couches, a grand piano, and more artwork, but the walls were sparsely occupied. Empty rectangles in a shade darker than the surrounding paint outnumbered the paintings.
“Caro,” said Maria quietly.
“What?”
“You were right, the divorce was expensive.” Maria counted the number of blank spaces on the wall. “Assuming the missing paintings are as valuable as the ones still on the walls.”
Cape was anxious to return to the body in the hall but didn’t want to be struck on the head with a candlestick by Colonel Mustard. Far better to know what was inside before barging through the front door. They moved quickly but carefully as they worked their way around the back. Neither robbers nor residents were visible through any of the windows. It was when they came around the right side of the house that they discovered who killed the man in the hallway.
Alistair Beckett sat in an armchair in the middle of his study.
He was wearing tan slacks, a sky-blue polo shirt, and brown loafers. His hair was more silver than black, his face handsome and tanned, his eyes dark brown. Beckett’s head oscillated back and forth as if he was looking for something but was too tired to get up and search.
Two of the walls were covered by bookshelves. The wall behind Beckett was filled with art. A thin stream of blood ran from Beckett’s outstretched fingers onto the carpet.
A shotgun lay a few feet away from the chair.
Cape and Maria moved soundlessly to the front door. Cape handed the gun to Maria, wrapped both his hands around the edge of the door and pushed slowly but deliberately until the gap was wide enough to pass through.
The walls looked like a Jackson Pollock painting. The cream paint was splattered with blood and other organic material that Cape preferred not to identify. The body was facedown, despite not having a face. Cape could tell from the profile that the flesh was gone down to the jawline, and the top of the skull lay in fragments near the door.
Cape wasn’t a forensics expert but guessed the deceased had been the first man inside. A ragged hole in the wall near the door looked like a miss from a shotgun that had punched through the plaster. The second shot must have blown the intruder against the door as it decapitated him. The body fell forward after the brains flew backward.
A second man never made it inside, and there was no car in the drive except the MG, which Cape assumed was Beckett’s. The Honda Civic that spun onto the highway came to mind. Thousands of Civics on the road, fast enough for a getaway car, perfect for two men.
Blood radiated from the shattered skull like a lopsided halo. It had stopped pooling, so Cape felt they could avoid leaving bloody footprints if they were careful. He didn’t mind disturbing evidence, up to a point, but becoming a suspect wasn’t on his list of things to do.
A glint of metal was visible on the man’s left side, where the arm bent at an unnatural angle. The butt of a small caliber semiautomatic—not something that needed their fingerprints.
It might have been smarter to enter through the back of the house, but Cape wanted as little noise as possible, and picking a lock or breaking a window didn’t always go smoothly. Clearly, Beckett was inclined to shoot first and ask questions never.
Which meant he’d been expecting intruders.
Cape held up three fingers, then lowered them in turn. At three, he stepped lightly past the corpse and hurried down the hallway toward the study, Maria close on his heels. The house was silent as they passed an open door on the left. A glance inside revealed a dining room with an open archway in the far wall that led to the first room they had glimpsed from outside. The dining table was set but had the appearance of tableware arranged for its appearance, not daily use.
Two heavy candlesticks sat at the center of the table.
The door to the study was ten feet ahead on the right. Cape paused and felt Maria press close. Speed was their ally. It wouldn’t take long for Beckett to grab the shotgun.
As they approached the door, Maria used her cop voice.
“Señor Beckett, we are coming in.”
Beckett jerked at the sound but made no move to stand or reach for the shotgun. His head moved in a lazy arc, a backyard swing with one of its ropes cut. An empty bottle of bourbon lay on the carpet. Moist eyes focused on his unexpected guests.
Cape nodded in greeting and crossed to the shotgun. He nudged the barrel with his shoe until it was out of reach for even the most desperate lunge. He moved closer to Maria so Beckett wouldn’t have to pivot his head. Maria had the gun down by her right leg, visible if you were looking but not the first thing you’d notice.
“Have you seen my phone?” asked Beckett.
“Cómo?” asked Maria.
Beckett swiveled his head from bookcase to bookcase. “My phone.” He looked at Cape. “I can’t find my fucking cell phone.” Back to Maria. “You know, to call the ambulance.”
Maria handed the gun to Cape and moved to the chair.
Beckett’s shoulder was damp with blood. Careful to avoid any drops hitting her shoes, Maria gingerly lifted the edge of his polo and hissed between her teeth.
“Bastard got my shoulder before I found my mark.” Beckett’s voice was strong but hoarse. “A lot tougher than shooting skeet…” He trailed off until his eyes found his weapon. “…but hard to miss twice with a shotgun.”
Cape made eye contact with Maria. “How bad, from an ambulance point of view?”
“No artery,” said Maria. “A deep gash, but no bullet…I’d say no immediate danger. He could drip like this for hours—”
“—still,” said Cape, “we can’t—”
“—find my phone?” asked Beckett. “Neither can I.” He jutted his chin toward an overturned end table. “I left it there, but damned if I know where it is now…used to be phones in every room…shit, I grew up with rotary dials, remember..?” Beckett’s pendulum head found Maria. “You seen my phone?”
“I haven’t.” Maria stepped back from the chair. “But I’ll look.”
When Maria came closer, Cape spoke under his breath. “Five minutes, then one of us calls an ambulance.”
“Agreed,” said Maria. “Can you find a towel, maybe a cloth napkin from the dining room?”
Cape returned to the hallway and navigated his way to a bathroom. He ran cold water over a hand towel and grabbed another, then returned to the study. He put the dry towel against Beckett’s shoulder, then took Beckett’s good arm, bent it gently and laid the hand on top of the towel.
“Press down.”
Cape draped the cold towel across Beckett’s forehead and tilted his neck so it wouldn’t fall. He noticed a sideboard and returned with another bottle of bourbon. Cape unscrewed the cap and offered it to Beckett, who nodded.
He held the bottle to Beckett’s lips and tilted it slowly. When he started to pull it away, a sublingual protest sounded deep in Beckett’s throat. When a third of the liquid was gone, Cape withdrew the bottle and tucked it between Beckett’s uninjured side and the chair.
Beckett’s eyes cleared almost imperceptibly. “You from the sheriff’s office?”
Cape shook his head. “We’re from the city.”
“SFPD?”
Cape let that sit and didn’t say anything.
“Who tried to kill you?” asked Maria.
“Probably meant to scare me,” said Beckett, “but I wasn’t taking any chances.” His head listed to the side so he could see the shotgun. Somehow the towel stayed in place. “Man’s got to defend his home, am I right?”
“You knew they were coming,” said Cape.
“I’m not getting in a car with someone who points a gun at me.”
“Is that what happened?”
“I got shot, didn’t I?”
“Yes,” said Maria, “you got shot.”
Interviewing a suspicious suspect was a stamina game—ask the same question over and over, a slightly different way each time. Once you get an answer, throw them a curve.
“You were expecting them,” said Cape.
“I expected someone,” said Beckett.
“Because the museum heist went sideways,” said Cape mildly.
Beckett blinked a few times but said nothing.
“The helicopter—”
“—at the museum,” added Maria.
“No loose ends.” Beckett squeezed his eyes shut and breathed through his nose. “They said no loose ends.” His eyes opened wide. “You caught the crooks?”
Cape chose his words with the care of a fisherman picking bait. “We caught up with one of them, yes.” Obfuscation is a detective’s best friend.
Beckett sagged in his chair. “Guess he talked.”
He was blown to pieces before we could question him.
“He did talk,” said Cape.
He must have talked to someone, about something, when he was alive…he just never talked to us before he spontaneously combusted.
“Maybe you want to talk,” said Maria, “while we look for your phone.”
“My wife left me,” said Beckett.
“We heard.” Maria walked around the room examining the books and sculptures on the shelves, occasionally checking the carpet for a phone.
“You needed money,” said Cape.
“Ex-wives are expensive,” said Beckett. “So are wineries.”
“Especially one that’s not producing any wine.”
“We had fires,” Beckett snapped. “Maybe you heard?”
“So you told the thieves when the artwork would be delivered to the museum.”
“You think they squeezed me into telling them.” Beckett laughed, a cruel cough that lasted only a second. “Unbelievable…no, insulting…I am insulted…I am shot and I am insulted…and can’t decide which is worse.”
“I’d rather be insulted,” said Maria.
“I get insulted all the time,” said Cape.
“Maybe,” said Beckett, “but you don’t have my name.”
“Alistair?”
“Beckett…the Beckett name…look back over the generations…we may be a lot of things, but we are never an easy mark…not to anyone…the only deals we make are the deals we make, understand?”
