Hanging the Devil, page 9
The distortion of the mask and throat mike also made the voice hard to follow.
“It sounds like you’re supposed to keep doing exactly what you’re doing,” said Yan. “Only instead of copying Western masters, you’ll recreate Chinese classics.”
“And sculptures,” said Peng. “Mogwai talked a lot about statues.”
“Was all the art he described historical?”
Peng nodded. “Why?”
“It’s curious, that’s all.”
“I’ll be working with someone else, an expert from Hong Kong.”
“Another painter?”
“No,” said Peng. “A professor.”
“You’ve painted a thousand Rembrandts but never had to work anyone before.”
“I know, that’s what has me worried,” said Peng. “What if I mess up?”
“Don’t worry.” Yan leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “You’re the most talented person I know.” She stood and extended her hand to help him up. “Let’s go get something to eat.”
“Are you asking me out?” Peng grinned.
“No, you are taking me to dinner. I’m just informing you of the fact.” Yan smiled. “There’s a difference.”
“Was that our first kiss?”
“Absolutely not!” Yan looked dismayed. “That was a friendly kiss. If dinner goes well, you may kiss me later.”
Peng quickened his pace but managed to refrain from skipping. It wasn’t easy. “Are you going to make all the decisions in our relationship, Yan?”
“I haven’t decided,” said Yan. “Now, let’s go to dinner.”
20
“Before we go to dinner,” said Cape, “I want to give you something.”
Maria glanced across the seat and smiled. “Flowers?”
Cape looked bemused. “Are all Spanish women—”
“—this charming?”
“I was going to say—”
“—forward,” said Maria, “or assertive?”
“Something along those lines.”
“If you keep a man off balance,” said Maria, “he’ll never throw you off yours.”
Cape reached across Maria and inserted a key into the glove compartment. “I know you like to be disarming, but I’d prefer that you were armed.” He turned the key, popped open the compartment, and reached inside. Maria’s eyebrows rose as Cape placed a pistol in her hands.
“I thought you didn’t like guns.”
“Guns don’t bother me,” said Cape. “I just don’t like shooting people.”
“Is that something you do often?”
“No,” said Cape, “but it’s been known to happen.”
“It’s better than getting shot,” said Maria. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“That’s why I have a gun.”
“Which you gave to me.” Maria turned the pistol over in her hands. “Very nice.” The gun was black, six and a half inches long with a metal slide on a composite frame. “A 9-millimeter Heckler & Koch, subcompact model. Easy to conceal, good stopping power. You have good taste.”
“You must work for Interpol,” said Cape. “Most people would judge me for my car.”
“I don’t like convertibles,” said Maria. “My hair is too long.”
“The magazine release is ambidextrous,” said Cape. “And there’s an extra clip in the glove compartment if you want it.”
“If I need an extra magazine,” said Maria, “we’re already dead.”
“Agreed,” said Cape. “I doubt you’ll need it, unless we have to bluff our way out.”
Maria released the magazine, checked it was loaded, then thrust it back inside the handle of the gun. “Why aren’t you carrying?”
“Once we start talking, one of two things will happen,” said Cape. “We’ll either be having drinks with a bunch of Russians, or Valenko’s men will search me before we get close. And if I don’t have a gun, they’ll assume you don’t, either.”
“Sí, you are right.” Maria scowled. “Russians gangsters are the most sexist criminals on the planet. So are Russian policemen. Remind me to tell you about the time I kicked one in the cojones while on assignment in Moscow.”
“A gangster or a policeman?”
“I was never sure,” said Maria. “But he had it coming.”
“Remind me to never piss you off.”
“You have much better manners.” Maria hefted the gun in her hand. “We haven’t even had dinner, and already you gave me a present.”
“That’s on loan,” said Cape. “And I’m pretty sure it’s illegal for you to have that, since you’re off duty—”
“—and on vacation,” said Maria. “It is definitely illegal. That’s what makes it so fun.” She racked the slide to load a bullet in the chamber. “Oh, if we get arrested, I’m afraid I’ll have to say the gun is yours.”
“I figured.”
“Such a gentleman.” Maria dropped the gun into her shoulder bag.
Cape pocketed his keys and checked his watch. “Hungry?”
“Famished.”
Five minutes later they entered the Red Tavern.
Cape left his jacket in the car so it was clear he wasn’t armed. Maria wore her bag over her right shoulder as they followed the hostess to their table. Maria sat against the same wall as Sally, who was two tables down, looking disinterested in their arrival.
Valenko never turned around, secure in his position. Confident in his men.
Cape sat across from Maria but turned his chair sideways, as if angling for a view of the television mounted on the wall. The two bodyguards made similar adjustments to their seating when Maria sat down, each keeping one eye on the new dinner guests and the other eye glued to their favorite show.
Cape ordered a bottle of the same vodka the Russians were drinking, along with two glasses. Maria suppressed a smile and pretended to glance at the menu. The closest bodyguard turned his head to keep them in his peripheral vision, but his attention was clearly on the screen in the corner. Things were getting tense on America’s Got Talent.
A woman with a singing dog was halfway through her number.
The act was fairly simple. She accompanied the dog by playing the piano and joining in the chorus, but the canine crooner was the main attraction. It looked like they would make it to the finish until Mel B hit her buzzer so hard the other judges jumped in their chairs. Even Simon was startled by her savagery.
The Russian gangsters gave a collective sigh.
“Mel B is tough on singers,” said Cape, more loudly than necessary.
The bodyguard on the right gave Cape a steely stare, but after a long moment, he nodded and said, “Da, she is a tyrant.”
“Scary Spice.” Cape raised his glass and drank. The Russian held up his own glass before turning his attention to the show’s judges, who continued to argue.
Maria glanced over the menu. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to engage,” said Cape. “Maybe making a fool of myself.”
“You’re very good at it,” said Maria. “But don’t you want to eat first?”
Cape glanced over his shoulder. “Only two or three acts before the show ends.”
“And I thought you were a gentleman,” said Maria. “You won’t buy me dinner?”
“I bought you breakfast,” said Cape. “And we don’t have much time.”
Maria lowered the menu and lowered her voice at the same time. “They will think it’s suspicious if we come for dinner and don’t order food.” She smiled as the waiter arrived.
Cape glanced at Sally’s table without looking directly at her. “The steak looks good.”
“No, no, no,” said Maria, eyes still on the waiter, who had one eye on the television. “We’re going to share.” She ran a finger down the menu. “We will have the Baltic herring, pelmeni, blinchiki with meat, and pirozhki with cabbage.”
“I hate cabbage,” said Cape.
“Then just eat the pirozhki,” said Maria.
“What are blinchiki?”
“Another name for blini.”
“That doesn’t help.”
“Crepes,” said Maria. “They’re like crepes.”
“I love crepes,” said Cape.
“Everybody loves crepes,” said Maria.
“I like to think of them as pretentious pancakes.”
“Do you always say whatever you’re thinking?” asked Maria. “Or do you have filters?”
“Was that a rhetorical question?”
“Yes.”
Maria handed her menu back to the waiter, who made a slow turn so he could catch the end of the latest act. A magician was sawing a woman in half, but his act had a twist.
The magician was using a light saber. He was dressed as a Jedi, and his assistant was Chewbacca. Otherwise the trick was familiar to anyone who’d seen stage magic before. The Jedi was about to use the Force to stitch the two halves of the woman back together when Howie hit his buzzer. The dejected magician wheeled the two separate halves of the woman off stage, her legs kicking indignantly. Chewbacca howled at the judges.
The Russians howled in sympathy with the Wookiee and banged the table. Cape drank a shot in solidarity and slammed his glass on the table. Maria followed suit, which garnered a look of approval from the bodyguard on the left.
“We have this show in Spain,” said Maria.
“But it’s not called America’s Got Talent, is it?”
“You must be a detective,” said Maria. “Spain is in the title, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Same format?”
“Identical.” Maria spun the bottle of vodka to inspect the label. “I never knew it could be a drinking game.”
Cape checked the TV. “Another drink and my judgment will be impaired.” He pushed his chair back. “I’m going to say hello.”
“You Americans.” Maria put a hand on his arm. “Always in a hurry.”
“Not always.” Cape checked his watch. “But I am getting anxious.”
“I keep forgetting you’re not policía,” said Maria. “By now your friend, the inspector—”
“—Beau.”
“He’s checked the security tape from the museum.”
“Which means he’s seen my client.”
“I never thought of this before,” said Maria. “For someone like you, speed is an ally. For me, every step requires deliberation. Tonight I would observe. Tomorrow I would engage. Each night, I would file a report.”
“Procedures and process. It’s linear for a cop.” Cape shrugged. “You have all the resources. The only thing I have is momentum.”
Maria’s eyes sparked. “You are like a colibrí.”
“Is that a crepe,” asked Cape, “or a pancake?”
“It’s a hummingbird.” Maria’s hand zigzagged over the table. “You go where you please.”
“Then, please, let me go to the bathroom.” Cape jerked his head toward the hallway at the back of the restaurant. “And put your hand in your purse.”
Cape stood and strode casually past the tables, Russians on his left and Sally on his right. He could feel the bodyguards’ eyes on his back as he entered a short hall that extended past the kitchen to the restrooms. After entering the men’s room, he counted to sixty, guessing there were four commercials in the break. He wanted to return during the third.
He timed it pretty well.
Cape studied Valenko’s profile as he approached the tables. A leonine countenance, thick black hair with streaks of gray flowing past his collar. The rugged look of an aging movie star.
Cape was almost at his own table when he gave Maria a sardonic grin and spun on his heel. He spread his arms as if seeing an old friend after years apart.
“Maksim.” Cape took a step closer. “Maksim Valenko?”
All six Russians turned as one the instant Cape uttered the name.
The nearest bodyguard stood between Cape and his boss. Sally stood and headed to the ladies’ room. The Russians ignored her.
Cape held his arms away from his sides and nodded at the television. The last commercial was running. “Place a bet on the final act?”
The closest bodyguard moved laterally so Valenko could make eye contact with Cape.
“We do not know each other.” Valenko’s voice was a bottomless pit filled with corpses.
“We don’t,” said Cape, “but I’ll bet you the next act is a singer.”
The nearest bodyguard muttered under his breath. “Dancers, it will be dancers.”
Valenko’s eyes darted to the TV. “What if it is?”
“You answer my questions.”
“And if it’s not?”
Cape shrugged. “You decide.”
Valenko’s eyes narrowed at the prospect of doing whatever it is that someone like him enjoys doing to someone who loses a bet. Cape suspected it involved pliers and a car battery.
Valenko gave a nonverbal invitation by canting his head at the nearest chair.
Then Cape made a terrible mistake.
He lowered his hands too quickly as he stepped forward. Whether it was from his own impatience or the vodka, Cape was off tempo in an orchestra where all the musicians were heavily armed. The closest bodyguard brought his hands up in a fighting stance and moved sideways to block a path to Valenko. Two men on the far side of the table shifted in their seats and slid their hands behind their backs.
The bodyguard closest to the hallway on Valenko’s right was still seated. As he moved to stand, he pressed his right hand on the table with fingers spread wide to push himself up. His left hand began snaking under his jacket for his gun.
Cape heard the sharp click of a gun being cocked, but he couldn’t tell whose it was. It sounded like entropy clucking its tongue, and he cursed himself for his clumsiness. The mood of the room was accelerating toward chaos.
Someone started yelling. All eyes swung to the bodyguard sitting on Valenko’s right.
His head shook and his left hand banged on the table as he bellowed in pain. His gun clattered from his lap to the floor. It was obvious to everyone why he never managed to stand or point his gun at Cape.
His right hand was impaled by a steak knife.
The knife was embedded between the third and fourth fingers at the point where they branch upward from the back of the hand. The blade penetrated deep into the table so he couldn’t pull it out. Blood pooled under his palm in arterial waves of claret.
Sally was nowhere to be seen. The hallway was empty. Cape hadn’t moved.
Valenko’s men regained focus and gave Cape their undivided attention. Every one of them pointed a gun at the lone detective. The first shot was a thunderclap in the small restaurant.
Cape remained upright.
The Russians stared at the bullet hole in the wall above their heads. Then they turned their heads toward the shooter without changing the position of their gun arms.
Maria stood holding the compact semiautomatic, the barrel whispering a trail of smoke.
Maria swept her eyes across the men until they lowered their weapons, then she aimed directly at the television. Everyone gasped in horror.
“Gentlemen.” Maria smiled, but her bright eyes had gone hard. “Unless you want your show to be canceled, stop acting like a bunch of hyenas.” She sat down but kept her gun up.
Valenko glanced at his incapacitated bodyguard, then turned his gaze on Maria before locking eyes with Cape. The corners of his mouth curled upward as the commercial ended and the America’s Got Talent logo filled the screen. Once again he indicated the chair next to him.
This time Cape took a seat. All eyes looked to the television for an answer.
A moment later, a brother-sister duo took the stage and started to sing.
Valenko turned to Cape. “Ask your questions.”
21
Grace kept asking herself the same question.
Could she leave and come back before Sally returned?
Grace couldn’t sleep. Every time she started to doze, her uncle ran up the steps of the museum, waving her back from the window as the helicopter flew straight at her. Her day of training and the distraction that came with it had disappeared, gone with Sally, leaving Grace alone with the nightmare of her new reality.
She missed her uncle. She missed her dad. Memories were the only family she had left.
Grace felt a sudden yearning for a physical connection to her past. Something tangible, an artifact that proved she came from somewhere. From someone.
That once she had been loved, and not hunted.
There was a photograph. Her dad and her uncle together, years ago in Hong Kong. The two of them smiling as they pretend to fight over a bundle in her father’s hands, her uncle laughing as he makes an exaggerated grab. The bundle is Grace. Strands of hair escape from the shawl, her face is obscured, but infant Grace is giggling at the grown-ups.
Her father gave Grace that photograph the day he smuggled her out of Hong Kong so she could recognize her uncle Han after so many years apart. Now it was the only evidence that Grace had ever had a childhood. She wanted it back.
This is a bad idea.
Grace got up from bed before the voice in her head got the upper hand. The cat had been curled at her feet and now lifted his head to open one eye. It stood and arched its back with a disapproving mrrowll as Grace tightened the laces on her shoes.
“Don’t worry, Xan,” said Grace. “I’ll be back before Sally, so it will be our secret.”
Xan licked his paw with the lightning scar and gave Grace a skeptical look.
“You can keep a secret, can’t you?” Grace realized that a cat’s loyalty could be bought, so she knelt and scratched Xan behind the ears until he started purring. “Keep the bed warm until I get back.”
She crossed the wooden floor of the dojo and stopped before the vast wooden door. She worried exiting would be as puzzling as entering, but mounted on the wall was a circular handle roughly eight inches in diameter. It resembled a wheel on a ship’s hatch.
Grace studied the door, recalling that it slid into the wall left to right from her current perspective. If the wheel matched the movement of the door, that meant turn the handle clockwise.
