by R. J. Jagger
“I didn’t know you were into this kind of stuff,” Jonk said.
“I wasn’t always,” Poon said.
“It’s interesting.”
Poon smiled.
“Interesting is one word for it,” he said. “Lucrative is another. Dangerous is yet another. The Egyptian government engaged the services of the two women who found the first tomb—Prarie Lafayette and Alexandra Reed—to find this new one. They assembled a small team. One of the members of the team was a Cairo man named Amaury, who was Prarie’s boyfriend at the time, but more importantly was a black market trader. They searched for two years, found nothing and called it off.”
“So it’s still out there somewhere,” Jonk said.
“Yes and no.”
“What’s that mean?”
“ABOUT ONE YEAR INTO THE SEARCH, Amaury figured out where the tomb was or, to phrase it more properly, came up with a solid theory where to dig. He didn’t tell anyone, not even his girlfriend Prarie. Instead, he spent another year out there in the desert sun, looking in all the wrong places and pretending he was giving them his best.”
“He’s more of a snake than I am,” Jonk said.
Poon tilted his head.
Considering it.
“He’s your equal, no more or less,” he said.
Jonk laughed.
“In any event,” Poon said, “after the search ended, Amaury bided his time for six months to be absolutely sure the area was dead. Then he went back, this time with his new girlfriend. His theory turned out to be correct. They found the tomb.”
“Wow.”
Right.
Wow.
Wow indeed.
“It was probably the most significant archeological find in the last thousand years,” Jonk said. “Do you know how tombs were constructed back in that day?”
No.
Not even close.
“THEY WERE DIVIDED into a number of separate and distinct chambers. The chambers were separated by solid walls, called blockings. Amaury got lucky and hit the main chamber, the one with the mummified remains of the pharaoh, on the first dig. What he found was quite extraordinary. The most significant piece was this gilded cartonnage mask right here,” Poon said, tapping the laptop. “Do you know how mummification works?”
No.
Not a clue.
“I know how women work, that’s it,” Jonk said.
Poon smiled.
“Then you’ve cracked the secret code,” he said. “Mummification entails a number of wrappings held together with a resin. For important mummifications, jewels would be embedded in the resin. In this case there were lots of jewels. Amaury pried every one of them out with a knife. For all practical purposes, the processes destroyed the remains. From a historical purpose, that was too bad. But that’s what happened.”
Jonk pushed hair out of his face.
“What does this have to do with me?”
“Hold on, we’re getting there,” Poon said. “The other thing of interest about tombs, in case you care, is that they usually contained an inventory list that was scribed at the time of the burial. The inventory list for this particular tomb was located in the main chamber. It indicates that there are seven chambers in all and describes what is in each one. Like I said before, this guy had accumulated a considerable wealth. Although the treasures in the main chamber were almost beyond imagination, according to the inventory list, the other chambers were just as rich.”
“Rich, like what?”
“Rich like jewels and gems,” Poon said, “but even more importantly, jars and jars filled with gold coins. The main chamber of this tomb, in and of itself, had 2,232 gold coins. Each one is inscribed with the markings of the time. Each one, today, is worth a fortune.” Poon pulled up a photograph on the laptop. “This is what they look like.”
Jonk studied the picture and said, “Cool.”
Right.
Cool.
“AMAURY AND HIS GIRLFRIEND emptied the first chamber and then reburied it,” Poon said. “They didn’t want to press their luck by going into the other chambers at that time. They wanted to get at least part of the treasure secure rather than risk being spotted and potentially loosing it all.”
Jonk nodded.
Good thinking.
That’s what he would have done.
“I had purchased a number of black-market pieces from Amaury over the years,” Poon said. “Amaury’s first phone call, when he got back to Cairo, was to me. He told me what he had. I purchased the entire lot, every single item. That was a good deal for Amaury, because if he had to sell things piecemeal, the word would eventually get out and the Egyptian government would start hunting for him. It was a good deal for me, because first of all, I got everything for a fraction of what it’s worth, but more importantly because the whole is worth more than the sum of its parts.”
“Lucky you,” Jonk said.
“Lucky me for a while,” Poon said. “I didn’t guard it like I should have. Someone stole it right out from under my nose, not everything, not the jars or senet games or the bigger pieces, but the mask, the coins, the gems and a handful of small statues. Part of what I want is to get it back. The other part of what I want should be obvious.”
“That’s where I come in,” Jonk said.
Poon nodded.
Right.
“That’s where you come in. Both parts. Your cut is 20 percent of what you recover, paid in kind, meaning for every ten coins you recover, you keep two. We’ll have to come up with a monetary figure for your 20 percent of the mask, and we’ll figure out a fair way to split up the gems and minerals.”
Jonk considered it.
“This is bigger than I thought.”
Poon nodded.
“IT’S BIG ENOUGH that when you find them, a thought is going to enter your head. Do you know what that thought is?”
Jonk shook his head.
No.
He didn’t.
“Yes you do,” Poon said. “The thought is going to be, I SHOULD JUST KEEP EVERYTHING FOR MYSELF. I’LL MAKE UP A STORY. I’LL TELL POON I COULDN’T FIND THEM. I’LL HIDE THEM, SOMEWHERE SAFE. I’LL SIT ON THEM FOR A YEAR OR TWO OR FIVE, WHATEVER IT TAKES. POON WILL FORGET ABOUT ME. THEN I’LL SELL THEM ON THE BLACK MARKET.”
Jonk smiled.
“That’s quite a scenario,” he said.
Poon frowned.
“It’s just a realistic prediction of human nature,” he said. “Let me emphasize, when that thought enters your head, resist it. Resist it with everything you have. The reason is this. If you don’t, I’ll hunt you to the ends of the earth. There won’t be a rock or tree or wall anywhere on the planet that you can hide behind. I’ll find you, count on it, count on it with every breath in your lungs. It may not be right away, it may even be years, but I’ll find you eventually. And when I do, the pain will start. It will be a horrible, slow pain, and there won’t be a thing in the world you can do or say to stop it once it starts. Are we clear?”
Jonk’s chest tightened.
Then he forced his face into a smile and slapped Poon on the back.
“Lose the drama,” he said. “No one’s going to screw you. I’m going to keep you in the loop. I just want to be clear that there are no guarantees, other than you’ll get my best efforts. I may be able to recover them, I may not. Either way, I don’t want to worry about you thinking I’ve screwed you just because everything doesn’t magically fall back into your lap.”
“If you’re honest, I’ll know,” Poon said. “If you’re not, I’ll know that too.”
“Deal,” Jonk said.
They shook hands.
5
Day 2—September 22
Tuesday Morning
SONG LEE had a one-room law office on Waverly Place, which was an alley in Chinatown between Grant Avenue and Stockton Street, sometimes referred to as the Street of Painted Balconies. Being on the second floor and with only a small sign at street level, hardly anyone knew about the office u
nless they were Chinese, so it was strange when a well-dressed Caucasian woman walked in early Tuesday morning. She was about thirty, curvy, five-seven and pretty, even with the serious expression etched on her face.
“Are you Song Lee, the attorney?”
Yes.
She was.
Song knew the reason for the question, namely she was wearing red tennis shoes with a faded black T-shirt tucked into gray khakis. It didn’t help that she was only five-two and wore black glasses, which made her look younger than her actual age, twenty-eight. Her hair was long, thick and shinny black, currently pulled back into an uneventful ponytail. She looked more like someone off the Berkeley campus than a lawyer.
“My name’s Shaden Jade,” the woman said. “I was wondering if I could talk to you about something.”
The words were cracked with stress.
Song leaned forward and said, “Are you okay?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“What’s the problem?”
“This is confidential, right? Our conversation?”
Yes.
Totally.
“This is an attorney-client communication, a hundred percent confidential even if you don’t retain me.”
The woman sat down in one of the two beat-up chairs in front of the desk, paused, then looked Song directly in the eyes and said, “I’d like to hire you to find out something for me.”
“Find out what?”
“Find out whether I killed someone.”
Song tilted her head.
“This is a joke, right? Moon Lee put you up to this.”
Shaden said nothing.
Instead, she pulled a white envelope out of her purse and pushed it across the desk. “That’s a cash retainer,” she said. “Fifty thousand dollars. There’s more if you need it. Money isn’t the issue.”
SONG LEFT THE MONEY WHERE IT WAS.
“What’s this about?”
“I need to warn you in advance that this could be dangerous,” Shaden said.
“How so?”
“Look,” Shaden said, “I’m going to say something and I don’t want you to take it the wrong way. It’s pretty obvious that you could use the money. Before I tell you what this is about, though, I want you to promise me something.”
Promise something?
What?
“Promise me that if you do decide to take the case, you’ll do it because it fits you on a personal level, because you really want to help me deep down, not because of the money.”
Song stood up, walked to the window and looked down.
Chinatown was already in full motion, even here in the alley.
She turned, locked eyes with Shaden and said, “Who’d you kill?”
Shaden exhaled.
“I’m not sure that I did,” she said. “That’s what I want you to find out.”
“Okay, let me rephrase it,” Song said. “Who is it that you think you may have killed? What’s the person’s name?”
“She’s a woman but I don’t know her name.”
“Is she someone you know?”
“No, she’s a stranger.”
“How’d you kill her, if you did?”
“With a gun.”
“With a gun?”
“Right, with a gun,” Shaden said. “It’s probably best if we back up and start at the beginning.”
6
Day 2—September 22
Tuesday Morning
TEFFINGER WOKE TUESDAY BEFORE DAYBREAK and climbed out of the cabin of his Island Packet 35 sailboat to find a thick fog shrouding the Pier 39 Marina.
He hated fog.
San Francisco was fine as cities go but someone should have designed it without the fog. A twist to the right on the temperature dial wouldn’t have hurt anything either.
Say ten degrees.
He pulled his hair into a ponytail as he walked down E-Dock , then broke into a jog out of the marina, past the Aquarium of the Bay, and down The Embarcadero, which already had more traffic than it should.
Cars.
Cars.
Cars.
Too many cars.
That’s how Teffinger would die, he already knew it—some idiot car would run him over, probably a taxi. He picked up the pace, letting his legs stretch and his lungs burn.
Condor was the September/June killer—SJK.
Teffinger was 99 percent certain of that following last night.
The first victim, a young attractive blond named Paris Zephyr, was murdered on September 26th, three years ago. Someone placed her on her stomach, tied her hands behind her back, tied her ankles together, bent her legs at the knees and then ran a rope around her neck to her feet. There was some slack in the rope but not much, meaning she had to keep her legs bent to keep from choking herself to death. Of course, the human body can’t endure something like that forever. Her legs eventually convulsed and straightened, after a long desperate struggle, which of course was the fun part. The killer dumped her body near a boat repair yard on the southeast edge of the city. Before he left, he inserted a yellow rose in her mouth—all the way in, almost down her throat.
SHE WAS REFERRED TO AS PARIS ZEPHYR until June 5th, two years ago.
That’s when another blond—a young woman named Jamie van de Haven—was murdered the exact same way, right down to the yellow rose.
At that time, Paris Zephyr stopped being referred to by her name and started to be called Number One. Jamie van de Haven hardly got referred to by her name at all. She was called Number Two.
NUMBER THREE was yet another young blond, a waitress named Pamela Zoom. She was not only killed the same way as the first two, but she was also killed exactly one year after Number One, on September 26th.
A pattern was emerging.
NUMBER FOUR, a blond named Samantha Payton, was killed the same way on June 5th of last year, exactly one year following Number Two.
September 26th.
June 5th.
September 26th.
June 5th.
That’s when the press gave the killer a name.
SJK.
TRUE TO FORM, Number Five came on September 26th of last year, again a blond, again with a yellow rose in her mouth. Her name was Brenda Poppenberg, an Alcatraz tour guide.
NUMBER SIX came right on schedule, June 5th of this year, a woman named Syling Hu. She was Chinese, the first non-Caucasian victim. Her hair was black, not blond. The killer dyed it blond for her.
She was born with black hair but died a blond.
That sent a shiver down San Francisco’s spine because for the first time non-blonds weren’t immune.
NUMBER SEVEN would come in four days.
On September 26th.
This time would be different, though.
This time Teffinger knew who he was after.
EVEN AFTER TAKING A FIVE-MILE JOG and swinging by his 2-bedroom condo on Masonic, just south of Haight, to shower and change, Teffinger still got to the office before anyone else.
He flicked on the fluorescents, kick-started the coffee and watched the pot as it filled.
He felt good.
No, not good.
GOOD.
The terror would soon be over.
He was filling up his first cup of caffeine when Neva Leya walked into the room wearing a sleepy face. She was twenty-seven, Latina, and a natural born hunter. Her only drawback was her chest. It was too big and too perfect.
She grabbed a disposable cup, threw him a sideways look and said, “Someone’s up to no good.”
“Me?”
“It’s all over your face, Teffinger,” she said. “What have you done this time?”
“Nothing.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Honest, nothing.”
“Go ahead and be that way,” she said. “The chatter’s getting intense on SJK, in case you haven’t noticed. It was on all the radio stations this morning. People are saying the city should close on the 26th and everyone should stay inside. I
think they’re right so that’s what I’m going to do that day.”
Teffinger smiled.
“Nice try. I think he’s going to cheat this year. I think he’s going to do it before the 26th.”
She tilted her head.
“No way, June 5th and September 26th are his days. He’s not going to deviate.”
Teffinger considered it.
“He’s going to do it earlier and the yellow rose is going to change to a red one.”
“What makes you say that?”
He lowered his voice.
“It came to me in a dream last night. Don’t tell anyone, though, they’ll just think I’m nuts.”
“You need to leave your Apache blood out of this and stay focused.”
He cocked an eye.
“My dreams don’t lie,” he said. “You know that.”
She studied him.
He was serious.
No question about it.
“You’re messing with me,” she said.
Teffinger tried to stay somber but busted out in laughter. “Maybe a little,” he said.
She punched him on the arm.
“I don’t even know why I listen to you half the time.”
“Had you going,” he said.
“Look at you, all proud of yourself.”
“Yes I am.”
7
Day 2—September 22
Tuesday Morning
JONK’S REDEYE touched down on a foggy SFO runway just as the sun crested the earth. He’d never been to San Francisco but didn’t expect much, not compared to Hong Kong. He took a taxi to the Hilton in the financial district, checked in and took a shower. He was toweling off, walking out of the bathroom, when he saw something he didn’t expect.
A black woman.
Standing by the window.
With her back to him.
Looking down on the city.
She wore white shorts that showcased a taut ass and sprinter’s thighs. Her skin was mocha, not much darker than his. Her hair was straight, light brown and thick.
