by R. J. Jagger
He walked over to the bed, sat down and took the woman’s hand in his.
She didn’t resist.
The fear on her face softened although the confusion remained.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Winter.”
“Winter? Like in snow and cold?”
She nodded.
“I like it,” Jonk said. “The front door was open. We came here looking for Brian Zoog.”
The woman wrinkled her forehead.
“Zoogie,” she said.
“Okay, Zoogie.”
“Zoogie,” she called. No answer. “He should be here.”
“Do you remember anything from last night?”
She ran her fingers through her hair.
No.
“My head hurts,” she said. “I need aspirin.”
“In a minute,” Jonk said. “Are you Zoogie’s girlfriend?”
“Sometimes,” she said.
“Sometimes?”
“When he’s nice, I’m his girlfriend,” she said. “But that’s not all the time.”
Understood.
“There’s probably no easy way to tell you this so I’m going to just get to the point. Someone killed Zoogie last night. It looks like they stabbed him and then pushed him off the deck. He landed on the patio. That’s where he is right now.”
“You’re messing with me.”
Jonk said nothing.
“Was someone with you two last night?”
She pushed off the bed, walked to the deck and looked down.
“We’re not the ones who did it,” Jonk said.
WINTER DIDN’T BELIEVE HIM.
It was on her face.
In her eyes.
On her trembling lips.
She looked around, frantic, found no escape and was two heartbeats away from jumping over the railing when Jonk grabbed her around the waist, swung her off her feet and tossed her on the bed.
He sat down next to her and got his voice as calm as he could. “The blood’s brown. He’s been dead for some time. If we were the ones who did it, why would we still be hanging around?”
She didn’t know.
She didn’t care.
“I want to leave.”
“That’s fine,” Jonk said. “You can leave in just a minute. First tell us where he keeps the stuff he sells on the black market.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“He had a coin for sale.”
“I don’t know anything about a coin.”
“We don’t want it,” Jonk said. “We’re not going to take it, if that’s what you’re worried about. All we want to know is where he got it.”
“I already told you—”
Jonk scrunched his face.
“He’s dead because of that coin. Whoever killed him was after that coin. Would you like to help us figure out who that was?”
She looked at him.
Hard.
Defiantly.
“You killed him,” she said. “So fuck you!”
She jumped off the bed before Jonk even knew what she was doing, pushed Tag in the chest so hard that she fell on her ass, then bounded down the stairs two at a time.
Halfway down her foot missed.
She fell.
Violently.
Too fast to even scream.
17
Day 2—September 22
Tuesday Morning
SONG PEDDLED HER BICYCLE to the Hall of Justice on Bryant Street to file a formal report on the break-in, and ended up speaking to a detective named Margaret Pinch, a terrible looking woman with too much sugar in her smile. She was careful to not mention the name of any of her clients or the source of the missing cash, all of which she was bound to maintain as confidential under the attorney-client privilege. Nor did she mention her suspicion that the incident was possibly a warning in connection with a recent case—Shaden’s case, to be exact— because she wasn’t at liberty to even acknowledge such a case to a third party, much less discuss it.
Pinch took the information without emotion.
Clearly unimpressed.
She would drop by later today or tomorrow to have a look, if Song wanted. Given the tone of her voice, Song didn’t think it would be necessary, and thanked her for her time.
FROM THERE SHE PEDDLED to the Transamerica Pyramid, dialed Shaden and said, “I’m down here on the street outside your building. We need to talk.”
A pause.
“There’s nothing to talk about. You’re off the case.”
“I can’t be.”
“Why not?”
“Because ten thousand dollars of that retainer is gone,” she said. “I don’t have the money to pay you back. I have to work it off.”
“Forget the money.”
“But—”
“Consider it payment for the meeting and all the brain damage,” Shaden said. “We’re even.”
“So you’re giving up?”
“You mean on the investigation?”
Right.
That.
“No, I’m not giving up,” Shaden said. “I’m just not going to put you in harm’s way.”
“If you get someone else, they’re going to be in the same position. Whoever you get, Rekker will figure it out sooner or later. All you’re doing is buying time.”
“I’m going to get a male.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
A pause.
Then, “It means you seem like a nice person and a good attorney, but let’s face it, you’re a little on the delicate side.”
The delicate side?
SONG SPOTTED an empty Coke can and kicked it.
Hard.
She mostly missed.
It only went a couple of feet.
She got her voice as calm as she could and said, “I’ll be paying that ten thousand back to you, every single penny, I’m just going to need a little time to do it. You can stop by whenever you want and I’ll give you a check for the other forty. Good luck with your new attorney.”
Then she hung up.
18
Day 2—September 22
Tuesday Morning
TEFFINGER WAS A LITTLE ASTONISHED that he had negotiated his whole career without even a single thought of getting dirty and now here he was, in the middle of a second illegal entry in as many days, this time in broad daylight no less, with his personal car parked outside where anyone with two eyes, or even one for that matter, could see it and jot down the license plate number, not that they needed to because everyone in town knew it was his.
Not good.
Not good at all.
Downright, totally, one hundred percent not good.
He needed to chill out with an Anchor Steam or two or three and reflect on his sanity or lack thereof. That would be a good project for tonight.
The dungeon didn’t look like a dungeon.
There were no devious contraptions.
There were no whips or cuffs or chains or ball gags hanging from racks. It was basically just a shell with industrial green walls and a wooden floor, empty except for a padlocked metal storage bin in the corner. On closer inspection, Teffinger spotted eyehooks bolted into the exposed, tress ceiling.
The chains and vibrators and other assorted goodies were probably in the storage cabinet. He took a closer look. The padlock was a tough one, casehardened. Even bolt cutters might not do the trick.
He suddenly realized he was stupid last night.
He was so excited when he spotted Chase and jotted down the license plate number of her car, he left right afterwards. What he should have done was hang around and see if a body got carried out and stuck in a car trunk.
So obvious, in hindsight.
Suddenly his phone rang.
It was the last person he expected.
Chase St. John.
“I’M GOING TO LET YOU take me out tonight,” she said. “Plan whatever you want, just be sure I’ve never done
it before. I’ll be at your boat at eight.”
“How do you know about my boat?”
She tapped a finger on the phone.
“See you then.”
The line went dead.
He grinned an evil grin.
Yeah, baby.
Oh yeah.
Suddenly he realized something.
Something bad.
At this very moment, Condor might be looking through the telescope directly at him.
His phone rang again, this time it was Neva.
“Where are you?”
“Somewhere, why?”
“Don’t tell me you forgot.”
He tossed hair out of his face.
Forgot?
Forgot what?
Then it came to him.
He looked at his watch.
Shit!
“I’m on my way,” he said. The surroundings made him pull up an image of Chase strangling the tattooed woman. “Hey, wait a minute, are you still there?” She was. “Have any dead bodies been called in today?”
No.
Why?
“Are you expecting one?” she asked.
“No, just curious. On my way.”
“We’ll save you some coffee.”
“Save me all of it.”
19
Day 2—September 22
Tuesday Morning
WINTER CRASHED AT THE BOTTOM of the stairs at a terrible angle that slapped her head against the wall. She moaned for a second, then curled into a ball and didn’t move. Jonk got to her in a heartbeat. Her forehead was already swelling up and lots of blood was coming from it.
“Call 911!”
Tag pulled her phone out, then hesitated.
“They’ll trace the number to my phone,” she said.
Damn it.
That was true.
Jonk had seen a land line somewhere in the house but couldn’t remember where. Then it came to him. “There’s a phone on the kitchen counter.”
Tag ran that way.
Jonk put pressure on Winter’s head with his hand to control the bleeding. Suddenly Tag appeared next to him and said, “I called. They’re on their way.”
Jonk’s chest tightened.
“Look around and see if you can find a laptop,” he said.
Tag scouted the first floor, animated, frantic, then said, “Nothing down here!” as she ran past Jonk to the upper level. Jonk patted Winter’s pocket, detected something hard and found what he hoped to find, her cell phone.
He shoved it into his pocket.
Blood was still pouring out of her head
Blood.
Blood.
Blood.
So much blood.
Tag bounded down the stairs with a laptop in hand.
“Got it!”
“Wait for me out back.”
JONK KEPT PRESSURE on Winter’s head until the ambulance screeched to a halt in front of the house. Then he ran out the back door so fast that he tripped over Zoogie’s body.
“Come on!” Tag said.
Jonk got up and almost ran, but something in the deep recesses of his mind made him stick his hand into Zoogie’s jean pockets first. He grabbed what was there—a wallet and a cell phone—and took off.
They ran into a grove of trees at the end of the street.
A BART train shot past.
Close.
No more than thirty or forty feet.
Faces in the windows stared at them.
They saw two frantic people running.
A Chinese guy.
And a black woman with nice legs, carrying a laptop.
One of them, the guy, had blood all over his hands.
He was clutching something.
Possibly a wallet.
“Fifteen people are calling the police right now,” he said.
“I already know that,” Tag said.
20
Day 2—September 22
Tuesday Morning
FROM THE TRANSAMERICA PYRAMID, Song peddled back to her office with her head down. She had always had a fear, deep down, that she wasn’t destined to be a lawyer of importance. Now here she was with her first big case, fired within hours.
She didn’t own a car.
She was twenty-eight.
Single.
Sometimes when she drank wine at night, she wondered if she’d screwed up her life. She wondered if she had made bad decisions and squandered opportunities. She wondered if she should just pack a suitcase, change her name and get on a bus to New York.
Start fresh.
London.
That’s what she’d change her name to, if she did it.
London Lee.
A person could get ahead in the world with a name like London. With Song, not so much.
She was a lawyer of little consequence. She had hoped that it was because she was still new to the profession. It took time to build a practice and a reputation, especially solo. But now, after getting fired by Shaden right out of the gate, she had no option but to take a good hard look at herself and face the realization that she might still be small because that’s all she would ever be.
She’d never land the big case.
She’d never hold a news conference.
She’d never walk down the courthouse steps arm-in-arm with a exuberant client while reporters shoved microphones in her face and asked how in the hell she did it.
Small.
Small.
Small.
That’s what she was.
Or, to put it even more accurately, delicate.
SHE HADN’T BEEN IN HER OFFICE for more than two minutes when Nuwa busted through the door with a cigarette in her mouth, studied her for a heartbeat and said, “What the hell happened to you?”
“I got robbed.”
“I already know that,” Nuwa said. “I’m talking about your face.”
“Why? What’s wrong with my face.”
Nuwa blew smoke.
“There’s no life in it.”
“Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you’re delicate.”
Nuwa tilted her head.
Then she grabbed Song’s hand, sat her down on the couch and put her arm around her shoulders.
“Talk to me,” she said.
SONG HESITATED.
Legally, she couldn’t.
It was all confidential.
Then she exhaled and said, “I’m going to put you on the payroll of the law firm, starting now.”
“Sure. Why?”
“Because if you’re part of the firm, I’m allowed to share attorney-client information with you,” she said.
Nuwa took a long drag.
“How much are you paying me?”
“A dollar an hour.”
Nuwa smiled.
“That’s not minimum wage, but fair enough. Now tell me what’s going on.”
21
Day 2—September 22
Tuesday Morning
THE CONFERENCE ROOM WAS PACKED when Teffinger walked in with a cup of coffee in hand, twenty minutes late. Neva made a face, which he took as a warning that something bad was about to happen. Every homicide detective was there, plus the DA and the chief, C. C. Castenaux—Triple-C. To the chief’s right was someone Teffinger hadn’t expected, namely the mayor. On the chief’s other side was a new person—a man about fifty, with a tough, creased sailor’s face. His hair was half-gray and half-brown, swept straight back. His eyes were intense and fixed on Teffinger the way a predator stares down prey. He wore a crisp, dark-blue suit with an expensive hang.
Teffinger didn’t like him.
The chief introduced him as Lance Northstone.
Teffinger recognized the name immediately.
Northstone was the head of New York’s homicide department. He’d built an international reputation over the last ten years for his uncanny ability to hunt down the worst of the worst, not just here in the States but also in Europe and Asia.
“He’s here as a res
ource,” Triple-C said. “So, now that we’re all here, how do we catch this son-of-a-bitch? What’s the grand plan?”
Teffinger swallowed.
Every face in the room, with a few lazy exceptions, was looking for a team position, an assignment, a role in what would be one of the greatest hunts in San Francisco history. The worst thing he could do right now would be to mention Condor’s name, because a group can’t be controlled, even when it was a group of professionals. Everyone in the group would be on the move. The noise on the street would be deafening. Condor would pick up on it, go deeper, get smarter, maybe even change his pattern altogether by striking earlier or later.
But what was Teffinger supposed to do?
Tell the group to chill out?
To not be a detriment?’
HE BROUGHT THE COFFEE CUP to his mouth and took a noisy slurp. Before the caffeine hit his stomach, he knew what to do.
He set the coffee down and said, “Obviously I’ve been thinking about this a lot and have a number of ideas. What I didn’t know, until just now, is that we’d have someone as renowned and experienced as Lance Northstone with us. What I’d like to do, unless there’s an objection, is turn the meeting over to Lance and see what his thoughts are.” He looked at Northstone. “Lance, would you be willing to do that?”
No problem.
No problem at all.
The man stood up, walked to the white board, uncapped a blue erasable marker and started talking.
There.
Done.
Northstone had the group.
That freed Teffinger to hunt on his own.
HE DUCKED OUT THE BACK of the meeting ten minutes later.
The phone rang.
Being the only one there, Teffinger answered.
The voice of Barb Peterson from dispatch came through. “Teffinger, is that you?”
It was.
“You never answer the phone.”
“I do when it’s you.”
“Are you sweet talking me? Because if you are, we can make it work.”
He smiled.
