Hanging the Devil, page 24
The four-sided clock tower was 245 feet tall, each clock face twenty-two feet in diameter. Since 1898 the landmark stood ready to welcome visitors to San Francisco, though very few arrived by ferry. Most drove across the Oakland Bay Bridge, visible to the right and close enough for Maria to see California drivers give new meaning to the term passive-aggressive.
Container ships moved cautiously across the bay, notorious for its shallow stretches and cross currents. Sailboats cut across whitecaps on their way to the Golden Gate Bridge. Fog was only hours away, and the wind never left San Francisco alone.
“I’m coming to you with a tip,” said Cape.
“No.” Beau held up a warning hand. “You’re about to tell an inspector in the Robbery & Homicide Division—that’s me, in case you forgot—about a crime before it occurs.”
Cape nodded. “A tip.”
“It’s more of a warning,” said Maria.
“What you just told me—”
“—was only the beginning,” said Cape. “You haven’t heard—”
“—and don’t want to,” said Beau. “That wasn’t a tip.” He gave Maria a bemused look. “Or a warning. That was a confession.”
“No, that was the preamble to a well-conceived plan,” said Cape. “We’re—”
“—going to be criminals.”
“You haven’t heard the rest of it,” said Cape. “I admit, the plan assumes we don’t get killed, or caught, or—”
“—seen,” said Maria. “We can’t be seen.”
“Enough.” Beau pushed his chair back from the table but remained seated. A container ship rode the waves over his left shoulder. “The museum is closed till further notice. Repairs could take months.”
“We only need a few hours,” said Cape.
“Knock it off.” Beau shook his head. “You can’t make me an accessory before the fact.”
“Obviously,” said Cape.
“That won’t keep you out of jail,” said Beau, “but it could cost me my badge.”
“Jail?” asked Cape. “Who said anything about jail?”
“He did.” Maria tilted her head in Beau’s direction. “Just now.”
“Somebody’s paying attention,” said Beau. “The policeman said something about jail…want to write it down?”
“I have a pen,” said Maria.
“He doesn’t need a pen,” said Beau. “He needs to listen.”
“Remember the last time I had a plan?” asked Cape. “I didn’t tell you, and—”
“—you got shot,” said Beau, “because it was a shit plan.”
“It was worth the risk,” said Cape.
“The city got sued,” said Beau. “And a lot of fish died.”
“Fish?” asked Maria.
“I’ll tell you later,” said Cape.
Beau spread his hands. “Maybe you should let the police handle criminal matters.”
“What’s your plan, then?”
“I’m a cop,” said Beau. “We don’t make plans. We just wait for horrible shit to happen, then we arrest somebody.”
“He’s not wrong,” said Maria. “That’s what we did at Interpol.”
Beau caught something in her voice. “Did?”
“I turned in my badge,” said Maria. “Well, I still have the badge, but I resigned.”
Cape’s eyebrows rose behind his coffee cup.
“Sorry I didn’t tell you,” said Maria. “I called my boss before I came here—to tell him something important—but before I got a single word out, he demanded that I fly home…”
Cape figured she’d called about the rediscovered Rembrandt, but he kept silent.
“…when he finished his rant, I asked how much pressure he was getting to drop my investigation.” Maria’s mouth did a cynical dance and settled on a smile. “He didn’t answer, so I asked where the pressure was coming from…then he threatened my job. When he finally took a breath, I told him I quit.”
Beau ran his hands over his clean-shaven head. “How’d he react?”
Maria shrugged. “He’s probably relieved.”
“He didn’t say anything?” asked Cape.
“I don’t know,” said Maria. “I hung up as soon as I said the words.”
“Damn.” Beau’s tone suggested the same idea had crossed his mind, more than once. He raised his cup of coffee. “Salud.”
“What will you do?” asked Cape.
“I have connections at the Policia Nacional through my father,” said Maria. “And friends in the Carabinieri Art Squad in Rome—I always wanted to live there.”
“Sounds like a plan,” said Cape.
“It’s an idea,” said Maria. “For now, I’m a tourist enjoying her vacation.”
“That’s funny,” said Beau, “because most tourists go to Fisherman’s Wharf, drive across the Golden Gate, climb Coit Tower, visit Chinatown—”
“—we visited Chinatown,” said Cape.
“—what they don’t do,” Beau continued, sparing a glance at Cape, “is hang out with well-meaning reprobates who think they’re Dudley Do-Right.”
“Hey,” said Cape.
“What is this Do-Right?” asked Maria.
“He’s a Canadian Mounty,” said Beau. “Always trying to save the day, but too stupid—”
“—it’s a cartoon,” said Cape. “It’s an old cartoon.”
“His horse is smarter than he is,” said Beau.
“I don’t have a horse,” said Cape. “And I’m not Canadian.”
“He’s always blowing shit up,” said Beau.
“Now you’re thinking of Wile E. Coyote,” said Cape.
“No, I’m thinking of you.”
“Okay, that’s fair,” said Cape. “But this time, I don’t plan on blowing anything up.”
“It’s true,” said Maria. “That is not part of the plan.”
“That’s the problem with plans, isn’t it? Somebody always changes them.” Beau watched a container ship slide under the Bay Bridge, then turned to Cape. “You know, the coffee in the squad room is free.”
“And it tastes like it.”
“Then don’t get caught,” said Beau.
51
“If you get caught, you’re on your own.”
Maksim Valenko spoke slowly and clearly, not because he was a patient man, but because he suspected the men sitting across from him were morons.
Ely and Pasha sat side by side on a narrow couch. Their knees were touching and they fidgeted like wayward students in detention.
Their discomfort began the moment they were shown into the office. Valenko had yet to arrive, so Ely suggested they sit in the chairs opposite the desk. Pasha refused, convinced the most feared man in the Russian mafiya might decide to impale them with a letter opener. After all, Pasha argued, to escape the police after vaporizing the guy with the garish shoes, they had ditched the car Valenko loaned them. Was there any doubt Valenko had killed for less?
Pasha suggested they sit in the love seat set against the wall of the office, which faced the desk from a distance and sat adjacent to a side door. With backs to the wall, no one could sneak up and strangle them, and if they decided to run, the door was right there.
Unfortunately, the love seat was really an overstuffed chair intended for one average-sized Russian gangster, not two brothers with long legs and short attention spans. When Valenko stepped through the other door and took a seat behind his desk, they were climbing on top of each other in an attempt to squeeze between the curved arms of the chair. Now they were trapped, pinned in place like two insects on display.
“I cannot risk a war with our associates in Chinatown,” said Valenko. “But Freddie Wang took my nephew, so I must take something in return.”
“We understand, Pakhan,” said Ely.
“Just tell us what to do,” said Pasha, glancing at the door.
“The first man from the robbery died in hospital, which is just as well. You eliminated the other man.” Valenko chose his words carefully. “And though your approach was…unconventional…it was thorough.”
“Sorry about your bodyguard’s car,” said Ely. “We’ll pay you back—”
“—or him back,” said Pasha. “We can pay him back.”
“We’ll pay someone back,” added Ely.
“Anyone, really,” said Pasha. “Tell us who to pay and—”
Valenko held up a hand. The two brothers stopped talking.
Though his first language was Russian, Valenko spoke several others, and his English was superb because he read constantly. He understood the power of history and had taken to reading in his adoptive language, to learn what came before so he could shape what happened next. Recently Valenko had discovered a word in the course of his reading that perfectly described the two brothers sitting in front of him.
Muttonheads.
These two were muttonheads of the first order. Slow-witted but quick to act, eager to please and prone to action. They would throw themselves at any task and bring absolute havoc to any situation. Setting them loose would be like lobbing a grenade into Freddie Wang’s restaurant without any consequence of direct reprisal.
“What I want you to do is fairly simple,” said Valenko.
“We’re good at simple,” said Pasha.
“Clearly,” said Valenko.
“Tell us who—”
“Revenge is a young man’s obsession,” said Valenko. “I am more interested in justice.”
“Should we be taking notes?” asked Ely.
“Definitely not.” Valenko pressed his index and middle fingers against his temples. “Freddie took someone from me, but the only way to hurt Freddie is to take something from him. He will certainly make another attempt on the museum, and when he does, I want you there to make sure it’s a complete disaster.”
“We’re good at disasters,” said Pasha.
Valenko smiled.
“I’m counting on it.”
52
Freddie Wang counted to fifty once the ghost left his office. Then he did it again.
And again.
At two hundred, he turned to Feng. “Check the hallway.”
Freddie wasn’t superstitious but was exceedingly careful, if not paranoid. The ghost could hear better than a bat and move as silently as a wraith. Freddie couldn’t risk any eavesdropping on what he was about to say.
Feng returned and Freddie gestured for the twins to sit across from him. He stroked the belly of the golden Buddha on his desk and studied them with his good eye.
“You realize who this man works for,” said Freddie.
“The ghost?” asked Fang.
“He is pale, but he bleeds red,” said Freddie. “Never forget that.”
Fang looked skeptical but didn’t say anything.
“He works for the Triads,” said Feng. “Doesn’t he?”
“No, we work for the Triads,” said Freddie. “Look at it this way—the Triads are arms that reach across the Pacific, and the tong gangs—our gangs—are the hands that squeeze the lifeblood from this city. This relationship gives the Triads influence in another country without direct interference with our business in Chinatown. As long as we deliver their share on jobs they recommend, we don’t have to reveal the secrets of our underground economy.”
Freddie fixed his minatory gaze on Feng, hoping at least one of them was bright enough to see where this was going. Both brothers remained silent.
“The ghost is nothing but a mercenary,” said Freddie. “He was excommunicated from the Heaven and Earth Society.”
“Why?” Fang knit his brows together wondering what possible offense could get a person kicked out of a crime syndicate.
“No one knows,” said Freddie, “and no one asks.”
“Why haven’t they killed him?” asked Feng.
“They tried, many times.” Freddie’s smile was not a pretty sight. His rheumy eye bulged in its socket. “After the ghost killed twenty of their men, the Triads made a deal. The ghost works for them, on a contract basis. They stay out of his way, as long as nothing he does interferes with their business.”
Feng’s eyebrows were twin arrows pointing up at his spiky hair. “Is he interfering with their business?”
That was the right question, thought Freddie. Maybe there was hope for this one, after all.
“Since we’re an extension of the Triads,” said Freddie, “one could argue that if the ghost disrupts my business, he is messing with theirs.”
“We lost two men,” said Fang, parroting what Freddie had said earlier.
“Yes, Fang, we have,” said Freddie.
“That seems disruptive to me,” said Feng.
“Me, too,” said Fang.
Freddie rubbed his hands together. “Now that we see the problem, a solution presents itself.” He took a long drag on his cigarette and exhaled through his nose, a wizened dragon contemplating his next meal. “The ghost works for a Beijing firm that specializes in the retrieval of lost antiquities, but this is merely a sidebar for a much bigger business that deals in all sorts of things. Weapons sales, domestic surveillance, counterintelligence, and, occasionally, global economic disruption.”
Two blank stares suggested Freddie had slipped into giving a lecture. He boiled it down to the simplest argument he could make, if only to practice what he would say in his own defense when Beijing called.
“Some believe this company, which claims to be independent, is merely an extension of the Chinese government.”
“What do you believe?” asked Feng.
“I believe China should stay out of Chinatown,” said Freddie mildly.
He ran his finger through a trail of ash and studied the brothers’ expressions for signs of discomfiture. Feng was first to take the hint.
“What if something happened to the ghost?”
Feng was indeed the smart brother. Fang may be loyal, but Feng might be cunning.
“It might discourage other visitors.” Freddie’s guileful smile was yellow from decades of unfiltered cigarettes. “If there was an accident.”
Feng shrugged. “We are dealing with explosives.”
“Well, then,” said Freddie, “be careful.” His black eye glowed. “Be very, very careful.”
The brothers nodded to Freddie and then looked at each other, silently confirming what they just heard. They moved to stand, but Freddie waved them back into their chairs.
“We’re not done.”
Fang and Feng glanced at each other again. Neither had ever been in Freddie’s company for this long. His reputation suggested shorter interviews were best, with less chance of him changing his mind or his mood.
Feng took a deep breath. “How can we serve?”
Freddie pointed a bony index finger at Feng’s head. “Change your hair.”
Feng’s eyebrows collided in consternation. Clearly Freddie didn’t understand the work involved in getting the spikes to hold. It had taken Feng almost an hour.
Before he could open his mouth to object, Freddie waved his hand at Fang.
“Or his hair,” said Freddie. “I don’t care which.”
“You want us to look the same?” asked Fang.
“You do look the same,” said Freddie. “I want you to look identical.”
“Why?” asked Feng.
“It will annoy the ghost, maybe even confuse him,” said Freddie. “And anyone else.”
“Who else?” asked Fang.
Freddie cleared his throat until the gravel in his voice settled lower in his chest. “You heard me speak of the Little Dragon?”
The brothers gripped the arms of their chairs and brought their legs together until their kneecaps were touching.
“You look like you’re about to wet yourselves.” Freddie traced a pattern in the ash on his desk. “She is not the target. I want her preoccupied, it’s your job to distract her.”
“How?”
“By hurting someone else.”
“The little girl?” asked Feng. “I thought the gho—”
“—a man,” said Freddie, “who’s stuck his nose in my business one too many times.”
“You want us to cut off his nose?” asked Fang.
“No,” said Freddie, “I want you to hurt his whole body.”
“What if we kill him?” asked Fang.
“Then he’ll be dead,” said Freddie.
“What’s his name?” asked Feng. “And what does he do?”
“He’s a private detective,” said Freddie, “and his name is Cape Weathers.”
53
“Cape is counting on you,” said Sally. “And I’m counting on you.”
“What do you want me to do?”
Grace knelt on the tatami mat an arm’s length away, her expression resolute but unafraid. Sally marveled at the young girl’s ability to catch whatever life threw at her. She had not only regained her composure, she seemed ready for anything.
Resilience was the art of looking ahead at what could be, not back at what might have been, but it took most people a lifetime to learn that lesson. Grace had both eyes forward as if there was nowhere else to look. Maybe that was because nothing could ever look the same after what she’d been through.
Sally knew it was only a matter of time before Freddie connected the dots on the missing girl. Though the loft was nearly impregnable, someone with sufficient firepower could break in eventually. That seemed unlikely, but if Grace really had seen a ghost, Sally suspected he graduated from her alma mater. A venerable institution that did a fine job with reading, writing, and arithmetic, but which excelled at teaching its students how to circumvent trip wires, avoid booby traps, and kill with their hands.
Sally could break into a place like this, which meant that he could.
“I have a present for you.”
Grace eyed the racks of weapons on the dojo walls. “A sword?”
“No,” said Sally. “I already gave you a set of tonfa sticks.”
“But a sword is so—”
“—much more likely to cut your hand off,” said Sally, “if you haven’t been trained.”
