by Tim Maleeny
“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Vincent Mango announced, bracing an arm to compensate for the slant of the deck. He was dressed immaculately, an Italian sport coat offset by pleated slacks cuffed over Ferragamo shoes. His tie was a subtle shade of green, which, at that precise moment, seemed to match his complexion.
“It’s all in your head, Vinnie,” said the man next to him, voice booming like the surf. Almost six-eight and built like a defensive lineman, Beauregard Jones looked enormous even against the backdrop of the ship. He wore jeans, a black T-shirt, and a leather shoulder rig holding a Beretta stretched taut across his chest. He wore no jacket, smiling broadly at his partner as if he were immune to the cold, his ebony skin shining from the spray off the water. He said, “You can’t be seasick if you’re not at sea.”
Vinnie tried to focus on a spot between his feet, the only part of the deck that didn’t seem to be moving. “I hate boats.”
“It’s a ship, Vinnie,” replied Beau, “not a boat.”
“Whatever.”
“Nah, this shit’s important,” Beau insisted. “You tell those guys with the Coast Guard you’re on a boat, just see if they keep takin’ you seriously. Next thing you know, we won’t get a ride off this thing.”
The prospect of staying onboard got Vinnie’s full attention. “OK, it’s a ship.”
“That ran aground,” said Beau. “It’s like standing on a pier.”
“Don’t tell me how I feel,” snapped Vinnie, who risked raising his head to glare at his partner. “The deck is rolling.”
“Aye-aye,” said Beau amicably. “But I’m tellin’ you-we ain’t movin’. The boat’s stuck.”
“I thought you said it was a ship.”
“Whatever.”
Vinnie leaned over and spat between his feet. “Let’s change the subject.”
“Fine.”
“So what do you think?” Vinnie jerked his chin toward the cabin.
Beau squinted against the wind and frowned.
“This is a freak show, Vinnie.”
Vinnie nodded slowly. “That’s what I think. You sure this is gonna be ours?”
Beau shook his head. “Hell, no. At best, we’re gonna have to share.”
“You must’ve dealt with the feds before, when you were in Narcotics.”
“Lots of times,” replied Beau. “Mostly DEA, but the boys from the bureau showed up once or twice.”
“How was it?”
“A cluster fuck, usually,” replied Beau. “They didn’t share information, got in the way during the investigation, then took credit after the bust went down.”
“Swell,” said Vinnie. “I can hardly wait.”
Beau smiled at his partner. “This one’s gonna be worse.”
“How you figure?”
“Remember all those news choppers were here earlier?”
Vinnie nodded but didn’t say anything, his gaze returning to the spot between his shoes.
“We’re gonna have reporters up our asses till this is over. And since the nice Chinese folks down in the ship’s hold probably didn’t have green cards, visas, or even a get-outta-jail-free card, you just know the fuckin’ State Department is gonna stick their noses in. That makes it political, which means the mayor’ll get involved.”
Vinnie moaned. Beau couldn’t tell if it was because of the jostling of the ship or the mention of the mayor.
“Guess we don’t get a lot of choice in the matter,” muttered Vinnie.
“To serve and protect,” intoned Beau solemnly. “Or is that just the motto of the L.A. police?”
“I think it’s ‘protect and serve’ in San Francisco,” said Vinnie. “We serve later than they do.”
“That sounds about right,” agreed Beau. “But either way, we’re stuck out here till the next chopper arrives to take us back to dry land.”
“When are they gonna fly the stiffs out?” asked Vinnie.
“Guy from forensics says it’ll be at least another hour,” replied Beau. “I just hope we’re not in the same chopper.”
Vinnie risked standing upright and took a deep breath. “What was the count?”
Beau took a small black notebook from his back pocket and gave it a cursory glance. “Four.”
“That include the guy in the hold?” asked Vinnie, grimacing. “The one who fell?”
Beau frowned. “We both know he wasn’t killed by no fall.”
“Yeah,” Vinnie shrugged. “So that makes five?”
Beau glanced again at the notebook. “Just eyeballing it, I’d say we’ve got a broken neck, at least one crushed larynx, one ‘no visible causes,’ and one extremely fatal stab wound.”
Now it was Vinnie’s turn to flinch. “Want another look?”
“Not really,” replied Beau, shaking his head. “But we probably should, before it gets cleaned up.”
The two men walked around the side of the cabin to a heavy steel door set between the round glass of the windows overlooking the deck from the bridge. Slumped against the bottom of the door was a Chinese man in his early thirties, a scraggly growth of beard at the very base of his chin. The rest of his face was long and narrow, his almond-shaped eyes staring vacantly at the two cops.
Embedded in his chest was a knife approximately eight inches long, the blade an anodized black material that seemed to absorb all surrounding light. A rusty trail of dried blood ran from the center of the door to the back of the man’s head, tracing the path of his collapse. Still clutched in his right hand was a gun, a small-frame automatic. Less than a foot away, a brass shell casing gleamed dully in the afternoon light.
Written just above his head on the left side of the door was the number “49.” It had been scrawled using the same dark paint that once flowed freely through the dead man’s veins.
“Jesus,” Beau muttered under his breath.
“This wasn’t the refugees,” said Vinnie.
Beau nodded. “Most didn’t look strong enough to walk without help, let alone kill someone holding a gun,” he said, adding, “But they did a number on that guy who fell.”
Vinnie grimaced again. “Don’t remind me.”
Beau turned to look along the length of the deck. “The others were clean, Vinnie,” he said into the wind. “Really clean.”
Vinnie followed his gaze, then looked at the windows of the cabin. They were streaked with grime but otherwise unremarkable. He knew there were three more bodies inside, but you couldn’t tell from where they were standing. There had been no signs of a struggle and almost no blood.
“After this guy out here, it happened fast,” mused Beau. “Not a lot of people know how to kill like that.”
“That could narrow the field.”
“That’s what I’m thinking.” Beau’s eyes drifted out of focus as he stood facing the Golden Gate Bridge in the near distance. The wind picked up and Beau hunched his shoulders, seeming to feel the cold for the first time that day.
Vinnie noticed the expression on his partner’s face. “You’re not thinking of someone in particular?” he asked incredulously.
Beau shook his head, his eyes shifting their focus to Vinnie. He forced a smile before answering.
“No, not necessarily.”
Chapter Five
Hong Kong, present day
“The snakes are poisonous, you know.”
The man behind the desk seemed calm as he spoke the words in Cantonese with practiced ease, his voice deep and resonant. His black hair shone dully in the subdued lighting of the office, slicked back from a high forehead that was smooth and unlined. The corners of his mouth curled into a smile as he talked. It was only his eyes that betrayed anger. They were utterly black, each pupil indistinct from the iris, two bottomless wells that threatened to swallow anyone who met his gaze. That was one of the reasons Chan did not look him in the eye.
The other reason was that Chan was hanging upside down, a heavy, braided cord wrapped around his right ankle. Directly beneath him a trap door had opened in the
hardwood floor, revealing a hole roughly four feet square. In the dim light it was difficult for Chan to see the bottom of the shaft, but every few seconds something stirred in the darkness, the reflected light betraying sudden animal movement.
And if Chan ever doubted what lay beneath him, the sound made it all too clear. When the hatch opened, a reptilian susurrus flooded the room. To Chan it sounded like the rasp of silk sheets being dragged over a corpse, and in his mind’s eye he saw his own face revealed.
A heavyset man of around forty, he swung awkwardly above the opening. His hands opened and closed reflexively as he tried to stop turning in circles.
“You’re positive it’s missing?” The man’s voice was calm but insistent. The same question had been asked several times already this evening.
“The case was empty, lung tau,” Chan cried, his voice unnaturally high.
The man behind the desk did not acknowledge the title, lung tau.
Dragon Head.
He’d carried the appellation for so long, at times he forgot his real name.
“I see, the cabinet was empty,” he said pleasantly. “And who was guarding the room?”
Chan jerked frantically, trying to face his captor. “I was on guard, shan chu,” he said, trying to sound respectful. “But I swear-” He gasped abruptly as the rope lurched downward three feet.
Chan’s inquisitor took his finger off a button set into the wide teak desk. As he did, a figure standing in the shadows behind him leaned forward and spoke quickly in his ear. The second man faded into the shadows almost as quickly as he appeared, but not before Chan caught a glimpse of the ragged scar running the length of the man’s face. Even from his inverted position, Chan recognized his accuser and knew, at that moment, there would be no escape.
“I will find it!” cried Chan. “I will bring it back-it is my responsibility.”
The man behind the desk pursed his lips as he placed his index finger on the button. When he spoke again, his voice was almost friendly.
“Not any more.”
As he pushed the button, the rope slipped through the pulley and released. He watched impassively as Chan disappeared from view, and the slithering became a dull roar, the movement of the snakes like a crashing wave.
The trap door snapped shut, cutting short Chan’s scream and chasing the liquid sound of vipers from the room.
The Dragon Head leaned forward, his hands steepled in front of him. Without turning, he spoke to the man in the shadows, his voice sounding loud in the sudden quiet of the room.
“A bit melodramatic.”
“But there is something to be said for tradition.” The man with the scar stepped from the shadows. His black hair was cropped close to his skull, the scar starting just below the hairline on the right side and zigzagging past his eye until it ended at the corner of his mouth. As he smiled, it twitched like a lurid bolt of lightning trapped in his skin, the scar tissue catching the light at odd angles. “He talked quickly, wouldn’t you agree?”
The man behind the desk nodded. “Too bad he had nothing to say.” He sighed deeply. “You will find it and bring it back.”
The lightning bolt danced in the shadows. “Of course, lung tau.”
“And you will find the one who took it from us.”
“And bring them back, also?”
“Only the heart,” came the reply. “I only want the heart.”
Chapter Six
San Francisco, present day
“Are you trying to take advantage of me?”
Cape Weathers sat behind his desk and tried to think of a suitable answer. The man asking the question was supposed to be his client, after all, so he should take the question seriously. On the other hand, the man in question was a pretentious prick, a subspecies found crawling around the upper echelons of San Francisco society. They were known to consort with unctuous assholes and pseudo-intellectuals, two other life forms common to the Bay Area.
“Actually, I was trying to decide whether or not to shoot you,” replied Cape pleasantly. He leaned forward in his chair and began rummaging through his desk drawer.
“I beg your pardon?” Richard Choffer was clearly used to being in control. He pursed his lips menacingly as he tried to force Cape to make eye contact with him. The scion of a famous publishing magnate from New York, Richard had moved to San Francisco fifteen years ago to start his own publishing empire with Dad’s money. Now he had a successful line of titles that the critics liked to call picture books for adults-a series of heavily art-directed books on photography, music, and pop culture. Batman, Pez Dispensers, Diners Across America. Every photo was given its own page and two lines of copy, then bound into a handsome volume suitable for gift-giving when you ran out of ideas for gifts.
Cape had no problem with the way Richard made his living. It was arguably more respectable than the way Cape made his. And the books were undeniably successful-he’d even bought one or two himself over the years. He could even look past Richard’s insistence on being called Richard Choffer, Esquire, or the fact that his business card said “Literary Director,” even though most of his books had barely fifty words from cover to cover. It must have been hard growing up in Dad’s shadow, which obviously stretched all the way from New York to San Francisco.
But Cape couldn’t abide being lied to, especially by a client.
“Ah, here it is,” announced Cape cheerfully. In his right hand was a matte black revolver, a Ruger.357 Magnum that held six cartridges. It had a size and heft that made it intimidating, especially if you weren’t used to guns.
“Wh-what are you doing?” demanded Richard, his thin lips drained of color. Cape casually dropped the gun onto the desk, causing Richard to jump in his seat.
Cape looked up from the desk as if he’d forgotten Richard was sitting across from him. “What?”
“Explain yourself, sir,” said Richard. The words came out in a rush, but he was secretly pleased he’d been able to keep his voice under control.
Cape leaned forward and looked at Richard for a long minute before answering. Without realizing it, Richard leaned back in his chair and drew his knees together.
“I agreed to take you on as a favor to Bob Grecken,” said Cape. Mentioning the name of a well-known San Francisco lawyer would matter to someone like Richard. “And you hired me to determine if your chief financial officer was embezzling from your company.”
“I know why I hired-” began Richard, but Cape raised a hand to cut him off.
“But what you really wanted to know was whether or not your wife, who also works at your company, was having an affair with your chief financial officer.”
“I said it was a possibility,” said Richard. “I didn’t mean-”
Cape’s hand rose up again.
“Bullshit.”
Richard blinked but didn’t say anything.
“You didn’t want to come out and say it, or maybe Bob told you that I don’t take divorce cases anymore,” said Cape. “But you probably figured in the course of another investigation I might notice a few indiscretions along the way, and then you’d have what you wanted in the first place.”
Richard’s eyes narrowed. “What are you implying?”
“I’m not implying anything,” said Cape, his voice taking on gravel. “I’m telling you that you’re a moron.”
Richard’s eyes doubled in size.
“Here’s how it breaks down,” said Cape. “You’re boffing your secretary, a seemingly nice but hopelessly naive twenty-three year old with literary aspirations. And your wife-who is not nearly as naive as your secretary-is on to you.”
Richard’s mouth dropped open.
“And you signed a prenuptial agreement that would make Bill Gates fear for bankruptcy,” continued Cape, “since there was an infidelity clause in the document. I guess your wife knew enough about your past indiscretions to protect herself or at least guarantee that she could tear your balls off if you ever fucked her over.”
Richard’
s mouth started working but nothing came out. With his eyes bugging out, Cape thought Richard looked like one of those bobble-head dolls.
“But the best part,” said Cape, his tone softening as he smiled, “is that you’re embezzling from your own company.”
Richard’s right eye started to twitch.
“Apparently those cocktail parties the local news is always mentioning cost more than you thought they would,” said Cape. “Or maybe you’ve got a gambling problem-you’ve been to Reno three times in the last two months and Vegas five times. It’s probably the gambling.”
“H-how…?” stammered Richard.
Cape ignored the question. “Then you cooked the books to frame your CFO, who, as far as I can tell, is a perfectly nice guy. He is a bit friendly with your wife, but not nearly as friendly as you are with your secretary.”
“We…we’re a privately held company,” Richard protested. “I showed you only portions of our financial reports. What you’re talking about is…is…” he trailed off lamely, realizing too late that protest was the quickest path to confession.
Cape shrugged. “I had someone hack into your network,” he said matter-of-factly. “And the rest was straightforward detective stuff.”
Cape briefly wondered how that would look on his business card:
Cape Weathers
The Straightforward Detective
But then decided against it. Too many words.
“Bob…the lawyer…he said I could trust you,” said Richard. His voice had dropped to barely more than a whisper.
“I talked to him myself,” said Cape. “He said I was honest-there’s a difference.”
Richard didn’t know what to say to that. Either that or he didn’t understand the distinction.
Cape shrugged. “Just goes to show, you can’t trust lawyers.”
As he waited for his future ex-client to say something, Cape absently took note of footsteps in the hallway outside his office. A heavy tread-either someone big or a Clydesdale, he couldn’t be sure. Finally, Richard broke the silence.
