by Tim Maleeny
“You know how hard it is to find a pay phone in this city?”
Vincent thought about that for a minute. “Yeah, it’s impossible. They pulled ’em all out once everybody started carryin’ cell phones.”
“Exactly,” said Cape. “How about getting a cab?”
“A taxi?” said Vincent. “Even worse—you know, the other night the wife and I were—” He caught himself and scowled at Cape. “You enjoyin’ yourself?”
“Sorry, Vinnie,” said Cape. “It’s fun to see you get worked up about these things.”
“I got Beau busting my balls all day, thanks,” said Vincent. “Him, I gotta work with. You, I could arrest if I wanted.”
Cape held up his hands. “Point taken, Detective Mango.”
“So get to it.”
“What?”
“The point, dickhead, the point. Where’s the fuckin’ body?”
“I don’t know,” said Cape, shrugging. “I told you already—I found it by Harold Yan’s office—you talk to him again?”
Vinnie shook his head. “He’s not around, least not yesterday. We call or stop by and his secretary says he’s out shaking hands, tryin’ to get elected. He’ll be back soon.”
“You check the office?”
“No way. Yan is connected. Guy’s running for mayor, for chrissakes.” Vincent dropped his voice a few notches. “Excuse me, judge, but we have this picture that might be a dead body—but we’re not sure—and it might have been in front of Harold Yan’s office—but we’re not sure—and we were wondering if you could give us a warrant to search his offices, even though he’d call the press, accuse the current mayor of harassment and get us all fired.” Vincent shook his head. “How’s that sound?”
“You need probable cause, huh?”
“You must watch those police shows on TV,” said Vincent. “What I need is a dead body.”
“Sorry, all I’ve got is a picture.”
Vincent started to respond when the phone on his desk rang, loudly. It rang like a real telephone, before you had to plug phones into an outlet and they started chirping like birds. The bell on Vincent’s phone was loud enough to wake a dead man.
Cape watched as Vincent cradled the phone in his ear and dragged a yellow pad across his desk. After a string of uh-huh, when, yeah, right away, he said, “And tell them not to touch anything.”
As he hung up the phone, Cape asked, “What was that?”
Vincent looked at Cape for a moment before answering.
He said, “That was probable cause.”
Chapter Sixty-two
At the precise moment Cape started talking to Vincent Mango, an explosion destroyed Harold Yan’s office on Grant Street.
The second floor windows facing the street were blown out, sending a light snow of glass onto parked cars. The ceilings on the first floor cracked, plaster hitting the hardwood floors in clumps, but the real damage was contained to the second floor. Xan had used just the right amount of plastique. Neighboring buildings were untouched. A fire started in the reception area outside Yan’s office, which seemed to be the source of the explosion.
The fire department arrived within ten minutes from the station less than four blocks away, knocking down the door and rushing up the stairs. At first they feared a gas leak that could spread to other buildings until they realized Yan’s offices used electric power and heat. That was when they considered arson. But when they found the body of a dead Asian male with gunshot wounds to the chest in Yan’s office, they didn’t know what to think.
Ten minutes later Vincent’s phone rang.
As he grabbed his coat, Vincent told Cape they weren’t finished, would talk later, and Cape just nodded. He walked to his car and waited a few minutes before pulling away from the curb. By the time he approached Grant Street, the block had been cordoned off, the cop cars and truck from the medical examiner stacking up next to the fire engine. Cape kept driving.
He desperately wanted to sleep but forced himself to drive down the Embarcadero to park in front of Town’s End restaurant, known for serving one of the best breakfasts in the city. Cape knew the owners and wanted to be seen in public for a few more hours. He also didn’t want to go home just yet. If someone wanted to find him today, he didn’t want to make it that easy.
He grabbed a table next to the window and nodded at the cooks behind the counter, managing a half-assed smile. He felt his eyes go to half-mast and thought about ordering coffee but knew he’d hate it when it arrived. He thought of Agent Williams and waved down the waitress to order iced tea and scrambled eggs.
Cape wasn’t hungry when the food arrived, and after an hour the tea was eating a hole in his stomach. He’d been holding the paper in front of him but couldn’t remember a single sentence. The radio behind the counter finally broadcast a news update that mentioned the explosion at Yan’s office, but it didn’t give any details. He felt his stomach cramp up and walked to the men’s room and splashed cold water on his face, then washed his hands. They looked clean, but he could still see the blood all over them.
He dried his face and looked in the mirror but couldn’t find any answers in his own eyes. He turned away and stepped back into the restaurant to find someone sitting at his table.
John Williams looked up from the paper and smiled.
“Your eggs are cold.”
Cape shrugged. “Lost my appetite.”
“That’s too bad,” said Williams. “I just ordered.”
It almost made Cape smile as he sat down. “Coffee?”
“You bet,” said Williams. “And eggs and hash browns.”
“Bacon?”
“Goes without saying,” said Williams. “Getting your appetite back?”
“We’ll see.”
“Most important meal of the day.”
“It’s almost lunchtime.”
“Yeah, but these folks serve breakfast all day,” said Williams. “Your kinda place.”
Cape nodded absently. “How’d you find me?”
Williams jerked a thumb at the window. “Not that many beat-up convertibles in this town, where everybody’s gotta own a Lexus or a Mercedes. ’Sides, you parked on the biggest road in the city. Figured I’d check the streets in front of the breakfast places first.”
Cape felt himself relax. He reached for his tea, reminding himself why Williams was such a good cop.
“What’s up?”
“There was an explosion at Harold Yan’s office this morning.”
Cape pointed to the radio. “I heard that,” he said. “What’s the deal?”
“Bomb went off,” said Williams, getting right to it. “Plus they found a dead body.”
“Yan?”
Williams studied Cape for a moment. “Heard you sent the po-lice a picture.”
He hadn’t answered Cape’s question, an old cop trick. “So it wasn’t Yan?”
Williams shook his head. “Another fella, Asian male in his thirties.”
Cape concentrated on keeping eye contact. Liars always drift. “He died in the explosion?”
“He might have, if he hadn’t already been shot.”
“And you’ve never seen this guy before?”
“I haven’t, but that don’t mean much,” said Williams. “But it turns out, he’s got a record.” He took a sip of coffee and looked over the rim at Cape, adding, “He’s not the guy in your picture, though,” making that last part sound almost like a question.
“You sure?”
“I’m never sure,” replied Williams. “Plus it was a shitty photo.”
“I took it at night,” said Cape. “With a digital camera.”
“What did the cops have to say about that?”
“They’re pissed,” said Cape. “Said I should have stuck around.”
“They’re right,” said Williams. “But you had someplace you had to go, huh?”
“Something like that.”
“Don’t suppose you were awake at seven thirty this morning?”
“Sure,” said Cape. “I was over on Bryant Street, talking to the police.”
Williams raised his eyebrows and his mouth twitched, but he stopped the smile before it appeared. “That’s quite an alibi.”
“I’m flattered,” said Cape. “But shouldn’t you be talking to Harold Yan?”
Williams leaned forward on his elbows. “See, that’s the problem. The police had the same idea, and after they found the dead guy, no judge is gonna stop them from going over to Yan’s place and letting themselves in.”
“So?”
“They found an unidentified female in her late twenties, minus one finger, Harold Yan, and Harold Yan’s head.”
“Dead?”
“Yeah, all three of ’em,” replied Williams. “Yan’s definitely dead, so’s his head, and the girl’s been shot with a small caliber automatic, clutched in Yan’s hand.”
Cape grimaced and looked down at his plate. He could still feel the kick from Yan’s gun in his hand and see the small hole in Lin’s chest. Leaving Sally’s sword next to Lin was easy, but shooting a girl he once hoped to save wasn’t something he could shrug off. Sally told him it didn’t matter, Lin was dead and gone, but even she turned away after they spoke of it. It was Cape’s plan, and something he had to do alone.
When he looked up, Williams was watching him closely.
He said, “Seems Harold Yan wasn’t who he appeared to be.”
Cape met Williams’ gaze and held it for a minute, then nodded. Williams was giving him an opening.
“No, he wasn’t,” said Cape. “He set up the smuggling ring.”
“You saying Michael Long is innocent?”
“No,” said Cape. “I’m saying he’s stupid, and he broke the law, helped finance the operation. But Yan arranged for the ship, then when it went bust, he killed the guy in the warehouse and put the finger on Long.”
“You can prove this?”
“No,” said Cape. “But I can tell you Yan used a middleman, the guy in my picture.”
“Who was he?”
“He was supposed to be a bodyguard for Freddie Wang, but he was really working for Yan.”
“Doing what?”
“Making an impression on Michael Long, getting the money, scaring the shit out of him,” said Cape. “That was Yan’s idea, to frame Freddie Wang if the cops started looking any deeper. If Long identified the guy, no one would connect him to Yan, so Freddie ends up behind bars.”
“This middleman…you killed him?”
“No,” said Cape without hesitation.
Williams nodded and said, “Probably Freddie. Don’t suppose he’d be too happy about one of his guards two-timing him.”
Cape felt at least one of the knots in his stomach unwind.
He had accounted for all the killings except for the guy in his trunk, who obviously had been in the process of planting a bomb underneath Cape’s car. And Cape had rejected the theory that the man suffered a sudden heart attack but had just enough strength to lock himself in the trunk before he died. His neck had been broken by a professional.
Cape knew Sally had been going out on patrol at night and asked her about it. At first she just looked at him, her green eyes betraying nothing, but after a moment she smiled and said, “Don’t mention it.”
He never would.
Williams delicately picked up a piece of bacon between two fingers and took a bite. “That button you gave me, Yan gave it to you?”
“Yeah,” said Cape. “Figured you’d get to that right away, with his name on it.”
“Still talking to Interpol, but they’re pretty excited, want to know why I’m asking about some dude who’s been dead for ten years.”
“What did you tell them?”
“Said he was busy running for mayor,” said Williams. “Want to know what else?”
Cape waited.
“Once the cops finally called us, we checked the dead girl’s prints.”
“And?”
“They were all over the ship.”
Cape nodded. “Case closed?”
“Kinda neat,” said Williams. “Don’t you think?”
“You mean everybody being dead?” asked Cape. “Seems kind of messy to me.”
Williams took another bite of bacon. “Remember when I said you weren’t all that interesting?”
“How could I forget?”
“Changed my mind,” said Williams. “Know what that means?”
“You started a file.”
Williams nodded. “Sorta have to, if I want to keep my job, but it’s no big deal. In your case, there ain’t jack shit to put in there ’cept random bits of information that seem to come to you from above.”
“You leading up to a question?” asked Cape. “’Cause I noticed you have this roundabout way, sort of like you’re sneaking up on me.”
Williams chuckled. “You gonna tell me how you came by this information on Harold Yan?”
Cape seemed to think about it. “Not today,” he said. “That alright with you?”
Williams pursed his lips. “Yeah, I guess so,” he said slowly. “You obviously ain’t one of the bad guys, and truth is, this case’d be nowhere if you hadn’t stirred things up.”
“You think I stir things up?” asked Cape indignantly.
“Don’t push it.”
“OK,” said Cape, holding up his hands.
Williams glanced at Cape’s plate, the eggs runny and frigid. “Sure you don’t want something to eat?”
Cape looked over at the waitress, then glanced back at Williams. “You buying?”
Williams shook his head. “Not a chance.”
“What the hell,” said Cape. “Maybe I’ll have some pancakes.”
Chapter Sixty-three
Linda’s hair was barely visible over the top of the newspaper, shifting back and forth as she read aloud.
“…believed to have died in the explosion, his identity being withheld pending notification of next of kin…the suspected gas leak was confined to Harold Yan’s offices…” Linda lowered the paper, her hair lurching forward as she addressed Cape across the table. “I thought you said he was shot?”
Cape shrugged.
“And that there wasn’t any gas.”
Another shrug.
Linda scowled and raised the paper, muttering under her breath. “The Chronicle never gets their facts straight.” Her hair nodded in silent agreement as she resumed reading. “…police later found Yan in his home with an unidentified female, both apparently the victim of foul play…blah, blah, blah…the mayor was quoted as saying ‘The city has lost a valued public servant, and I have lost a worthy opponent and good friend, unless it turns out he was a criminal, in which case I am shocked and deeply concerned…’”
Cape arched an eyebrow. “It didn’t say that.”
Linda held up a hand, calling for silence as she continued. “…the mayor’s aides later denied any statement had been made, saying a press conference would be called tomorrow.”
Linda lowered the paper just as their food arrived.
They were having dinner at one of the many restaurants with Hunan in the name, two doors down from Freddie Wang’s place. It was an understated restaurant with very little tourist traffic—most of the neighboring tables were filled with young Asian couples or families. Linda was surprised when Cape suggested it but didn’t object. She had an abiding passion for sizzling bean curd.
“I thought you’d had enough of Chinatown for one week.”
Cape broke his chopsticks apart and rubbed the splinters off them. “Just the underside of Chinatown, the part I never knew existed. This part,” he paused as he skewered a fried wonton, “this part I miss.”
Linda concentrated on her bean curd for a minute before looking up. “Thanks for telling me what happened.”
“Thanks for your help,” replied Cape. “Sorry the Sloth didn’t come.” His friend rarely ate out, eating so much slower than everyone else.
Linda nodded. “He’s cou
nting on some leftovers, so try to restrain yourself.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Linda smiled, the lines around her eyes multiplying. After a moment, she said, “You left some things out, didn’t you?”
It was Cape’s turn to smile. “You always were a great reporter.”
“The messy parts?”
“Yeah,” said Cape, looking more serious now. “Very messy.”
Linda studied him. “You OK?”
“Ask me again in a week.”
They ate quietly for a while, the background chatter of the restaurant soothing, fits of laughter, snatches of happy voices, all sending a subliminal message that everything was normal again.
Linda broke the silence first, saying, “How’s Sally?”
“I can never tell, really,” said Cape. “And this was hard on her. She’s taking a few days off, going to visit some old acquaintances.”
“Really?” said Linda. “Where?”
“Hong Kong.”
***
Zhang Hui sat behind his desk, the only light coming from the small halogen next to the phone. It cast his face half in shadow, the left side pale, the right all but invisible. Both eyes were cavernous, the sockets dark pools, taking all of the light and giving none of it back. He raised his head idly as Xan stepped into the room and stood just beyond the shadows.
Hui asked, “Did you bring it?” His tone was casual, two old colleagues picking up where they left off.
“That’s what I said when I called.”
“So?”
“Your brother is dead.”
“So I heard,” Hui said indifferently.
“He was supposed to be dead ten years ago.”
“Was he?” asked Hui, leaning into the light.
Xan refused to be baited. “We were both here, with your father.”
The mention of his father got Hui standing, both hands on the desk.
“Don’t forget your place, Master Xan.”
“I never have.”
“Neither one of us is innocent.” Hui stood up straighter, his hands pressed in front of him.
“True,” said Xan. “I looked the other way when you killed your father, and I—”
“—tried to kill my brother,” said Hui.
