In Plain Sight

14 The Restaurateur

Alex suppressed a laugh. “That plague at the mission, a weapon? A weapon against what?” he said. “Dinner parties?”

“Yes,” Sorsha said. “And any other place where people gather. Office buildings, race tracks, army barracks, Grand Central Station, or a Dodgers game. Whoever made this could target any group of people without risking letting loose a plague. It’s a work of genius.” She sounded impressed, but Alex detected a tremor of fear in her voice.

Iggy nodded.

“So why is it here?” Alex asked. “Whoever made this thing didn’t do it to target a mission full of vagrants.”

“It was probably a test,” Iggy said.

“Maybe to prove to a buyer that the weapon did what its creator claimed it did,” Sorsha said. “Or as a dry run.”

“Which would mean,” Alex said, “that our mad scientist already has a target in mind?”

“The conference,” Sorsha gasped. “There’s a conference, Monday, on the European problem. Dignitaries and military leaders will be there from all over the world.”

“A conference? What’s this conference for?” he asked. Alex hadn’t heard about it, but that wasn’t surprising; politics in any form bored him.

“Don’t you read the news?” Sorsha rolled her eyes.

“Just the funny papers,” he said.

“Germany is saber-rattling again,” she explained. “Hitler has promised that he has no military intentions, but Europe’s worried. This conference is an attempt to get everyone talking.” She motioned Agent Davis over to her and began issuing orders to contact Washington and alert them to the threat. When she finished, he scurried off, and she turned back to Iggy.

“This conference is being held in the grand ballroom of the Waldorf Hotel,” she said. “Can you give me an idea of how this weapon could be used against the attendees?”

Iggy stroked his mustache for a moment, pondering the matter.

“Well, it’s too fragile to remain airborne for any length of time. That means that the disease would have to be spread inside the hotel.”

“Why not infect someone before the event?” Alex asked. “Let them carry it inside.”

“Too many variables,” Sorsha said, shaking her head. “What if the infected person felt sick and went to a doctor, or decided to stop for breakfast? The only way to ensure the weapon hits its target is to release it inside.”

Alex hadn’t thought of that, but it made sense. Sorsha was pretty good at her consultant job.

“Correct,” Iggy confirmed. “Also, whoever is infected first will be someone who will circulate, giving them the best chance to spread the disease — so make it a waiter or a hostess.”

“Or security,” Sorsha said. “For an event like this, there’ll be over a dozen agents. It sounds like the best chance of catching our assassin is when he tries to bring the disease inside.” She pulled her notebook out of the air and flipped it open.

“It would be in a flask or vial, sealed with lead,” Iggy said. “Not very big, just an ounce or two. He’d have to sprinkle it somewhere the first victim would come in contact with it.”

“Like on a towel or in a drink?” Sorsha said.

“Anywhere would do,” Iggy said. “Even a doorknob.”

Sorsha jotted down Iggy’s words. “Good,” she said when she finished. “This should help us secure the conference.”

“If the conference is even a target,” Alex said. Sorsha shrugged.

“You could be right; this might have nothing to do with politics, but I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

At that moment, Agent Davis returned and motioned Sorsha over to the door.

“Thank you, Doctor Bell,” she said, shaking hands with Iggy, then she gave Alex a frosty look and left.

“I see why you like her,” Iggy said, watching the retreating figure of the Sorceress in her form-fitting dress.

“I don’t like her,” Alex said, watching too. Iggy grinned, and his mustache rose up to meet his nose.

“Sure you don’t.” Then his face turned serious. “Alex,” he said, his voice dropping. “You’ve got to find out who’s behind this. Whatever they’re after, they aren’t going to stop with the Brotherhood of Hope Mission. More people are going to die.”

“I know,” Alex said. “If I could just get a line on Charles Beaumont, maybe I could trace him back to where he got infected.” Alex recounted to Iggy his efforts to track the elusive burglar. While he spoke, Iggy stroked his mustache, deep in thought.

“So,” Iggy said once Alex finished. “If Beaumont was this Spook fellow, he’s not just any burglar.”

“Not by a long shot,” Alex agreed. “He knew exactly what to take; highly valuable, small and light.”

“Yes, but he didn’t take the kinds of things that would be easy to fence,” Iggy said. “You said he took a set of silverware that was once owned by Napoleon, and a painting by Renoir?”

Alex nodded; he’d been through the list of stolen property so many times he knew it by heart.

“What are you getting at, old man?” Alex asked when Iggy didn’t immediately respond.

“You can’t just sell a Renoir after you steal it,” Iggy said. “It’s too well known. The only reason to take it is if you’re sure you can move it.”

“You think Beaumont had a buyer already lined up for the painting? Alex said.

“Not just for the painting,” Iggy said. “I’d bet my mustache that he had buyers ready and waiting for everything he stole.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Alex said. “But how does this help us?”

“A thief, even a high end thief, usually doesn’t travel in the kinds of circles where you meet collectors of stolen paintings and hot wine.”

“No one likes hot wine,” Alex said with a grin. “Least of all a collector.”

“My point,” Iggy said, ignoring Alex’s attempt at humor, “is that rich people aren’t likely to know a burglar, so how do they hire one when they want something stolen?”

Alex smiled as the light went on. “They know someone who knows Beaumont,” he said. “A neutral third party who serves as the intermediary for larcenous socialites who want to hire a burglar.”

“Exactly,” Iggy said. “There can’t be many people in the city capable of doing that kind of work. It’d have to be someone with serious criminal connections who’s also a socialite.”

Alex thought about Arthur Wilks and his network of fences, but that wasn’t quite right. Whoever Beaumont’s fixer was, he was a member of high society, and Alex couldn’t imagine anyone on Wilks’ list fitting that bill. Besides, there was no way Wilks was going to share any names with a private detective.

Thinking about Wilks reminded Alex of the reason he’d gone to see the insurance agent in the first place. He had half a day left before the weekend, so he needed to find Jerry Pemberton’s murderer fast. Still, if Wilks and his network couldn’t track down the missing stones, what chance did he have? Whoever had them didn’t seem to be in a hurry to sell them, after all.

Or maybe they already had.

What if Pemberton had a buyer already, just like the Spook? Someone who wanted the stones ahead of time and approached Pemberton. Pemberton hires the thief and they do the job.

No, that wouldn’t work.

Even with Pemberton’s map, the thief would have to get in and out undetected. No mean feat. So it must have been the thief who approached Pemberton. But, how did the thief line up his buyer? He must have used an intermediary, too.

Alex told Iggy his idea, the words spilling out of him in his excitement.

“That would explain a lot,” Iggy said, nodding vigorously. “If Pemberton or the mystery thief held out for more money, that would have given the buyer incentive to torture the thief’s identity out of Pemberton.”

“It also explains why the stones aren’t being fenced.” Alex said.

“Good work,” Iggy said. “I think you’re on to something. The question is, how do you find the intermediary?”

Alex had an answer for that, but the thought of it made his stomach turn.

“If you want to find a high class crook,” he said, “you ask a high class crook.”

Twenty minutes later, Alex stood on an inner ring sidewalk a block from the Core. Across the street stood the Lucky Dragon restaurant. The Lucky Dragon was famous for its dumplings and about as Chinese as Grauman's Chinese Theatre. It was a trendy hot spot for the well-to-do and those who aspired to appear so. It was also a front for the Japanese mafia. Its owner was an older man named Chow Duk Sum. His real name was Shiro Takahashi, an American citizen raised in Brooklyn by Japanese parents.

What only a handful of people in the entire world knew, was that Shiro was also Danny Pak’s father.

Danny didn’t know that Alex knew about his familial relationships and Alex had never said anything. He’d found out when Iggy was teaching him how to track people through birth records. Alex had used his friend as a test and wound up learning way more than he ever wanted to know. Now he was about to put that knowledge to use in a way that might end his friendship with Danny forever.

It might also get him killed. Alex didn’t know much about the Japanese mafia, but if they were anything like the Italian one, just knowing who Chow Duk Sum really was could be enough to earn him a pair of cement shoes.

He took one of his cards out of his pocket, scribbled This is about Danny on the back, then crossed the street.

An attractive young hostess in a brightly colored robe greeted him when he entered. Her features were Asian, but her accent was cultured, with a hint of Great Britain.

“I’m sorry,” she said, when Alex asked to see the owner. “Mr. Chow is very busy right now. If you’re not here to eat, then I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

Alex handed his card to her, forcing his hand not to shake. “Have someone give him this,” he said. “If he still doesn’t want to see me, I’ll go.”

The girl hesitated, then she took the card over to a young Asian man in a silk suit sitting at a table in the corner. After a whispered conversation, she returned, and the young man disappeared into the back. He came back only a moment later.

“Mr. Chow will see you,” he said, simply. “Follow me.”

He led Alex back, through the kitchen, to a narrow set of stairs that went up to the second floor. At the top, a long hallway ran the length of the building with doors on the left side. The man stopped at the first one and opened it. Alex briefly saw runes glow along the frame. He wasn’t familiar with the angular, painted characters of the Kanji style of runes, but he could feel their power as he passed through the door.

The room beyond looked nothing like the somewhat-garishly decorated dining room. It appeared to be right out of the pages of a fashion magazine. Elegant furniture surrounded a low wooden table with Tiffany lamps in the corners.

“Please sit,” the young man said, then withdrew, shutting the door behind him. Alex sat on one of the long couches and waited, trying to convince his nervous body not to sweat. He wasn’t sure what to expect, but the aging Asian man in a black tuxedo who entered a moment later definitely wasn’t it.

Alex stood and bowed to him as he entered.

“Mr. Takahashi, I presume.”

The man looked startled, then he bowed in return. He was medium height and slim, with long hair that he tied behind his head in a ponytail. His face was crisscrossed with lines, but his dark eyes were bright. He looked like an older version of Danny.

“I figured I’d be seeing you sooner or later,” he said. “You’re Daniel’s detective friend.” He said all this in an easy, conversational manner, then sat across the table on the opposite couch. “You know my real name, so I’m going to assume you know who I am,” he said. “That means you understand the predicament you’ve put me in just by being here.”

“I apologize for any inconvenience,” Alex said. “I wouldn’t have come if it weren’t important.”

Shiro Takahashi looked him over for a long moment. “Then I guess you’d better tell me why you came.”

Alex explained what happened with Jerry Pemberton, the stakeout of the customs warehouse, and how that had made Captain Rooney look bad. While he talked, Shiro simply sat, unmoving, and listened.

“It seems you have gotten Daniel into quite a bit of trouble, Mr. Lockerby,” he said once Alex finished. His voice was soft and calm and far more intimidating than if he had shouted. “It took Daniel a long time to convince his fellow officers to take him seriously. Prejudice against Japanese is still strong here.” He looked around at the luxurious room. “It took me a long time to carve out a place for myself,” he said. “Daniel did it at a much younger age. I’m very proud of him.”

“I understand,” Alex said.

“Then you will understand that I will take it personally if you cost my son his job.”

It was said without anger or malice and Shiro’s tone was mild, congenial even, but the threat there sent chills down Alex’s back.

“I take it,” Shiro went on after a brief pause, “that your presence here means you believe I can help you with your investigation. Unfortunately, I’ve never heard of Jerry Pemberton.”

“Actually, I was hoping you could help me find someone else,” Alex said. He explained about the stones not being fenced and his theory that someone had commissioned the theft. “There can’t be that many people who can provide this kind of service,” Alex finished. “I just need to know who does. If I can find the man who arranged the theft, I can find his client, and that will be the person who murdered Jerry Pemberton.”

Shiro steepled his hands under his chin and sat, unmoving for a long moment.

“There is only one man in New York who handles this sort of work,” he said. “There are many lesser men, for lesser jobs, of course, but anyone making this kind of arrangement would require ten percent of the job up front. You said the insurance check was for one hundred and fifty large, that would be fifteen thousand down. Only high-end clients can pay that kind of fee, and only one man in New York takes that kind of action. His name is Jeremy Brewer, but everyone just calls him the Broker. You’ll find him in a Core nightclub called The Emerald Room. That’s where he conducts business.”

“Thank you, Mr. Takahashi,” Alex said, trying not to stand too quickly, but Shiro waved him back into his seat.

“I’ve enjoyed our talk, Mr. Lockerby,” he said. “You showed both respect and intellect, both in finding me and in knowing what question to ask me.”

Alex opened his mouth to respond, but Shiro kept speaking.

“Clearly you are a worthy friend for my son. That said, coming here could expose Daniel, and I won’t have that. If you come here again, for any reason other than to eat dumplings, I will take it as a sign of disrespect.”

Alex tried to control the shiver that ran across his shoulders but couldn’t.

“Furthermore,” Shiro said, “the Broker is a dangerous man. He won’t give up the information you want without…coercion.” Shiro raised his eyes and stared into Alex’s. “Under no circumstances is my name, or Daniel’s, to come to his attention. Am I clear?”

“Crystal,” Alex said. “And thank you.”

Shiro leaned forward and picked up a tiny silver bell from the coffee table. He rang it once and the young Asian in the silk suit reappeared.

“Please show our guest out,” he said. “And, Mr. Lockerby, good luck.”