Cross Lies (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order)

by R. J. Jagger

  Jonk swung the towel around his waist, headed for the bathroom and said over his shoulder, “How’d you get in?”

  “I have my ways.”

  “I’ll bet you do.” He stuck his head out and said, “What’s Tag stand for?”

  “It stands for Tag.”

  “It’s not short for something?”

  “No.”

  Tag.

  Just Tag.

  Nice.

  “I don’t like the fog,” he said. “We don’t get much of it in Hong Kong and now I’m glad.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “You’ve been to Hong Kong?”

  “Poon flies me there on occasion.”

  “So you’ve met him, personally?”

  Yes.

  She had.

  “What do you think of him?” Jonk asked.

  “I think he has a lot of money.”

  Jonk smiled.

  “That’s a polite way to put it. The money is his curse. He’s not strong enough to control it. It takes him to strange places. It twists him.”

  “There are worse twists.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like the ones that come from having no money,” she said.

  Poon stepped out of the bathroom, wearing jeans but nothing else, toweling his hair.

  “The secret is to not have too much or too little,” he said. “Somewhere in the twenty to thirty million range is just about right.”

  “That’s your goal? Twenty or thirty million?”

  “I have lots of goals,” he said. “Money’s only one of them. Tell me why I’m in San Francisco.”

  “Poon didn’t tell you?”

  “No. All he told me was to check into the Hilton and someone named Tag would contact me.”

  She shook her head.

  “That’s so like him,” she said. A pause, then, “What happened to your eye?”

  “Why? You don’t like it?”

  She walked over, put a finger lightly on his forehead and slowly moved it down over his scar. Jonk closed his eyes as it passed over his left one, then opened them.

  “I like it just fine,” Tag said. “I’m just curious. What happened?”

  8

  Day 2—September 22

  Tuesday Morning

  SONG POURED SHADEN a cup of coffee and intentionally avoided looking at the envelope in the middle of her desk. “All right,” Shaden said. “Where do I begin? First of all, I’m an attorney with the New York branch of Rapport, Wolfe and Lake. We have offices all over the world. Have you ever heard of us?”

  Yes.

  Of course.

  Everyone in the legal profession had.

  “Remember, what I’m about to tell you is confidential,” Shaden said. “Anyway, one of the partners in the New York office is a man named Lloyd Taylor. He sent me here to the San Francisco branch to infiltrate it.”

  “Infiltrate it?”

  Right.

  “There’s a partner here in the San Francisco office by the name of Dirk Rekker. My job was to find out if he’s dirty.”

  “Dirty how?”

  “Taylor wasn’t really sure,” Shaden said. “In fact, there might not be a consistent pattern. Taylor said he’d been getting feelers—albeit dim and vague—to suggest that Rekker might be using private investigators to get dirt on people such as witnesses, judges and parties, to get them to do what he wanted in high-stakes cases. Taylor’s concern was that Rekker was not only engaging in behind-the-scenes blackmail, but was actually laying bait to get dirt when the dirt wasn’t already there.”

  Laying bait?

  What does that mean?

  “It means hiring a woman to lure a man into an affair,” Shaden said. “Things like that. Anyway, I came to San Francisco. The story was that I was interested in relocating to the west coast and would spend a week or two at the San Francisco office to see if I fit in. This particular branch has 117 attorneys, roughly half the size of New York.”

  Song nodded.

  Okay.

  “I DON’T UNDERSTAND why Taylor didn’t just go to the police,” she said.

  “He couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because if he was right and Rekker was dirty, the entire firm would be liable for his actions, including the New York branch,” Shaden said. “Those liabilities could be staggering—crippling, even. They wouldn’t be covered by insurance. More importantly, though, if it became public, the firm’s reputation would be forever polluted. Taylor needed to get rid of any dirt that might exist while simultaneously keeping the whole thing hidden from the world. He couldn’t work with anyone in the San Francisco office, because he didn’t know if anyone else was involved. If there was corruption, he didn’t know how far it went. So he came up with the plan to send me.”

  Okay.

  “So what happened?”

  “It didn't go well, as you can tell by the fact that I’m sitting in your office.”

  Song smiled.

  “I gathered that much,” she said. “You want some more coffee?”

  She did.

  She did indeed.

  “BEFORE YOU TELL ME the rest of the story, there’s one thing that’s been bothering me,” Song said. “Why me?”

  “You mean, why am I talking to you as opposed to some other lawyer?”

  Right.

  That.

  “Primarily because Rapport, Wolfe & Lake has something going on with almost every other firm in town,” Shaden said. “I needed someone off the radar screen. I ran a conflicts check. You were clean. That’s not the main reason though. The main reason is that I heard you charge only $95 an hour.”

  “So it’s about the money?”

  “No,” Shaden said. “I’m going to pay you $350 an hour, same as I make, if you take the case. The $95 an hour tells me you’re not in the practice of law for the money, like the other 99 percent of us. You’re in it to help people. That’s what I need, someone who’s interested in helping me.”

  Song tapped her fingers.

  “I’ve only been practicing law for four years,” she said. “Most of my cases have settled. I’ve only had three cases that have actually gone to trial, two to the court and one to a jury. None of them went particularly well. Most of the Rules of Evidence still baffle me. I can’t even spell hearsay, much less know it when I see it.”

  Shaden squeezed Song’s hand.

  “Enough.”

  “It’s only fair that you get full disclosure,” Song said. “With a few exceptions, almost every one of my cases from the day I hung my shingle has been small. Small monetary stakes. Small issues. Small bills. I’m the queen of dog bites, minor car accidents, rent disputes, leases, divorce, bankruptcy, contract disputes and twenty or thirty similar molehills. Most of my clients are Chinese, Thai or Korean. I still owe over $40,000 in student loans. Do you know where I live?”

  Shaden took a sip of coffee.

  And shook her head.

  “In a two-bedroom apartment right above this office,” she said. “I don’t have a car.”

  She paused.

  “Are you done?” Shaden asked.

  Song thought about it.

  Then nodded.

  “Okay, then let me get back to my story,” Shaden said.

  9

  Day 2—September 22

  Tuesday Morning

  THE BLOND FROM THE DUNGEON last night turned out to be someone named Chase St. John, who was an attorney in Rapport, Wolfe & Lake. Teffinger knew that because he was hiding in the rainy shadows last night when she came out of the building. He got her license plate number as she squealed into the night.

  Now, this morning, his watch said 7:32 a.m.

  He took a position in the lobby of the Transamerica Pyramid and sipped coffee from a large, disposable cup.

  She didn’t show up for a full hour.

  More than a hour, actually—8:43 a.m.

  At first, Teffinger wasn’t sure it was her. Gone were the slow, sensuous mov
ements of last night, now replaced with the purposeful, brisk walk of an attorney about to embark on a full day of work. The long, flowing locks of last night were pulled back tight. She wore a crisp white blouse and an expensive, gray pinstriped skirt with a matching jacket. Down below were nylons and black leather shoes with a two-inch heel.

  Teffinger headed over.

  Just as they were about to pass, he stepped in front of her and said, “You’re a lucky woman.”

  She looked up.

  Their eyes locked.

  Teffinger’s blood raced.

  SHE SAID NOTHING and looked as if she was about to step around him. Instead she tilted her head and said, “How am I lucky, exactly?”

  “You’re lucky because you don’t have coffee all over your blouse,” he said.

  “Coffee?”

  “In my younger days, when I saw someone I wanted to meet, I’d spill something on them,” he said. “I don’t do that any more.”

  “So now you have a new approach and this is it.”

  He nodded and took a sip of caffeine.

  “I know, it’s lame,” he said. “But here’s the thing. I saw you walking across the lobby. Has that ever happened to you? You see someone on the street, a perfect stranger, and you just can’t let them slip away? Something just comes over you and you don’t care if you have to do something stupid if it means getting to meet them?”

  She ran her eyes down his body.

  Quickly.

  Almost imperceptibly.

  “Are you an athlete?”

  He shrugged.

  “I can walk on my hands.”

  “Show me.”

  He smiled.

  “Here?”

  “Yes.”

  He took a long slurp of coffee.

  “I will if you will,” he said.

  She laughed.

  “That probably wouldn’t be too appropriate, me wearing a skirt and all,” she said.

  “I won’t look.”

  She tilted her head.

  “Does this work on other women?”

  He held his hands out in confusion.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “To tell you the truth, I’ve never done anything like this before.”

  “What about all those other strangers, the ones you couldn’t let slip away?”

  “They slipped away.”

  “So why is this time different?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  She walked away.

  Two steps later she turned and said, “I’ve never seen anyone with one blue eye and one green eye before.”

  “I didn’t think you noticed.”

  “Apparently I did.”

  10

  Day 2—September 22

  Tuesday Morning

  JONK TRIED TO NOT STARE at Tag’s legs as she drove, but they were so damn perfect that it was a battle. The fog was lifting and the temperature was rising. They were headed south, to the hideaway of a black-market trader named Black Bart, who wasn’t expecting them.

  Anything but, in fact.

  Tag explained as they drove.

  “Bart put out some feelers on Sunday—two days ago—to the effect that he had an ancient Egyptian coin for sale for $5,000. Amaury, back in Cairo, had his ear to the ground for that kind of thing and got wind of it. By the description, it sounded an awful lot like one of the coins from the tomb he looted. He called Poon to find out if he was putting the coins up for sale. If so, he wanted to warn Poon that he was significantly under-pricing them.”

  “Black Bart,” Poon said. “Wasn’t there a pirate by that name?”

  Tag nodded.

  “Believe it or not, a lot of these underground traders use pirate names,” she said. “But that’s not important. What’s important is that Poon now had the first solid lead to his treasure since he’d been robbed. He wanted Amaury to go to San Francisco and find out who Bart was working for, but Amaury was leaving the next morning to go back to the tomb and break into another chamber.”

  “More money for him there,” Jonk said, “no matter how much Poon paid him.”

  Right.

  Exactly.

  “That’s when Poon called me and gave me the assignment to dig into it,” Tag said. “I’m not just a pair of legs. I’m also a P.I., in case you didn’t know.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “No reason you would,” she said. “Anyway, Black Bart’s real name is Brian Zoog. He rents a house on Foote Avenue on the south edge of the city. That’s where we’re headed.”

  “Have you gone in yet?” he asked.

  No.

  Negative.

  “That’s why you’re here,” she said. “The last time I talked to Poon, he made something very clear.”

  Jonk raised an eyebrow.

  “What?”

  “That Black Bart was expendable.”

  Jonk frowned.

  “Everyone’s expendable as far as Poon is concerned,” he said. “That includes you and me.”

  BLACK BART’S HOUSE couldn’t have been exposed to more eyes if that was the goal. Immediately to the west was the BART line and the Southern Freeway. Immediately to the east was a busy street. His house was stuck in a throwaway wedge of land between it all.

  “That’s his place,” Tag said as they swung by.

  “Do you know if he’s home or not?”

  No.

  She didn’t.

  “He doesn’t have a job, at least none that I was able to find out about,” she said. “There’s no car registered to him either, meaning we can’t check the streets to see if it’s parked around here or not.”

  Jonk opened the car door.

  “Wait here.”

  “Where you going?”

  “In.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re not.”

  She stepped out, shut the door and said, “Let’s go.”

  11

  Day 2—September 22

  Tuesday Morning

  A KNOCK CAME AT SONG’S DOOR and a woman stepped through a heartbeat later with an empty coffee cup in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She was about thirty and wore a long-sleeve T with nothing underneath, at least as far as a bra went. Whether she had panties on was anyone’s guess. Judging by her hair, she just woke up. She was Chinese but not pure, more like someone with Portuguese or Spanish in her background, a combination that worked whatever it was. She cast a startled face at Shaden, said something apologetic in Chinese and backed out.

  Song laughed.

  “Sorry about that,” she said.

  “Someone you know, I assume.”

  Right.

  Nuwa.

  Song’s roommate, to be precise.

  She filled a disposable cup with coffee, said “Give me ten seconds—the only coffee maker we have is the one here in the office,” and headed upstairs. Twenty seconds later she returned empty handed. “She wanted me to apologize for barging in.”

  “No need.”

  “She was really embarrassed.”

  “Tell her she’s very pretty.”

  “Will do.”

  SHADEN LOOKED AT HER WATCH.

  It was getting late.

  “Let me finish, then I have to run,” she said. “Rekker heads up the firm’s criminal defense division. One of the law clerks who works on that end of the floor is a young woman named Rayla White. She caught me snooping around in Rekker’s office. I thought she was going to rat me out but it turns out that she’s not a big fan of Rekker. In fact, she’s always had a bad feeling about him and it had been getting worse over the last year.”

  Interesting.

  “Rayla helped me get into Rekker’s office on a few occasions, standing guard and having an excuse for me to be in there if I needed it,” Shaden said. “In the end, we found nothing.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, but tha
t’s not the end of the story,” Shaden said. “We decided to search his house.”

  “That’s pretty gutsy.”

  Right.

  It was.

  “Did you clear it with your contact back in New York?”

  “You mean Lloyd Taylor?”

  Right.

  Him.

  “No,” Shaden said. “Anyway, Rekker lives in a contemporary mansion halfway up a hill in Sausalito. The partners were having some kind of meeting Sunday night, meaning he’d be out. Me and Rayla parked a half mile away, walked to his house and hung out in the shadows until he left. We waited for ten minutes and then walked around to the back. It was dark out. We found an unlocked window, went in and turned on our flashlights.”

  Okay.

  “We split up,” she said. “I headed for the den and Rayla headed up a winding staircase to the upper level. Two minutes later I heard some kind of commotion. I came out of the den to see what was going on. Rayla was bounding down the stairs at full speed. The flashlight was jarring all over the place. She was moving so fast that she couldn’t even begin to keep it pointed. Then a gun fired. It came from behind her. I actually saw the flash. Rayla screamed. At first, I thought she was hit, but she kept going.”

  “Wow.”

  Right.

  Wow.

  “The gun fired again, then again,” Shaden said. “Rayla was running through the main part of the house. There wasn’t much light in the house, but there was some, and by this time I could tell that the person with the gun was a woman. When the gun fired again, I lunged at her and we both fell to the floor. She never saw me coming. We ended up in a struggle. During that struggle the gun went off. The woman screamed in pain and doubled over, holding her stomach. I stood up, totally out of my mind, and backed away. She gurgled for a few moments, then nothing—no sound, no movement, no nothing. We just left her where she was and got the hell out of there.”

  Song frowned.

  “Did you call an ambulance or anything?”

  Shaden diverted her eyes.

  Then she said, “She was dead.”

  “Did you check her pulse?”

  Shaden shook her head.

  “I didn’t need to,” she said. “I could tell she was dead by the sounds she made.”

  Okay.