Stealing the Dragon

Chapter Thirty-six

San Francisco, present day

“Get in the car.”

Before Cape could answer, a tan Buick pulled in front of the GASP building and idled at the curb. Cape could see a lone driver, his features obscured by the shadows cutting across the street.

“Now.”

Cape felt the barrel of the gun pressing against his back, urging him onward. He didn’t turn around, but he shifted his weight and braced his feet against the sidewalk, letting the man behind him know this wasn’t going to be easy.

The man’s feet shuffled as he stopped short, surprised that Cape wasn’t skipping across the curb. The voice came again but sounded uncertain, not as profane as Cape would have expected.

“I’m not bluffing here.”

“That cinches it,” said Cape, turning around slowly. “Anyone who says they’re not bluffing usually is.”

A young man of about thirty stood before Cape holding a Glock at waist height, his index finger straight along the barrel and not curled around the trigger. The way they taught you at the bureau, not the way hired muscle held their guns. The man’s blond hair was combed neatly and parted on the side, his blue eyes masked by his wire-rim glasses. His fair skin was turning red as he struggled to maintain his composure.

Cape smiled, holding his hands out from his sides. “How long you been with the FBI?” he asked pleasantly.

The man’s jaw started to drop but he caught it, his eyes narrowing. “I told you to get in the car,” he said testily.

“I heard you,” replied Cape. “What do you want?”

“I could detain you,” said the man, gesturing vaguely with the gun.

Cape looked from the Glock to the young man and gave him the once-over before shaking his head.

“I don’t think so,” he said matter-of-factly.

The young man’s jaw tensed but he holstered the gun, his eyes darting toward the waiting car. It was one thing to jam a gun into a man’s back for a quick snatch-and-grab; it was another to stand in the middle of the sidewalk in broad daylight having a conversation.

“I could arrest you,” he said.

“For what?”

The man squared his feet with an expression of frustration and anger, looking as if he might take a swing at Cape at any moment.

Cape held up his hand. “While you figure out your next move, I’m going to breakfast,” he said, pointing down the street. “See that restaurant with the green awning on the next block? It’s called Delancey Street, in case you’re not from around here. I’m going to walk there right now and get a table. You and your friend can join me if you want. If you want to arrest me after I eat, that’s up to you.”

Cape turned without waiting for a response. When he was almost ten feet away, he heard the man behind him curse, not quite under his breath.

Five minutes later Cape was looking over a menu when the man with the glasses walked into Delancey Street behind his partner.

The man in the lead was older. He was black, his hair shaved close and peppered gray at the temples. He was taller than Cape, maybe six-two, with broad shoulders under a tan blazer. Cape put him at one-ninety. His eyes were dark brown and his smile relaxed. He held out a hand as he slid into the booth across from Cape, a knowing look passing between them.

Cape shook his hand. “Cape Weathers,” he said. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

“John Williams,” came the reply. “And this here’s-”

The younger man jumped in. “Special Agent Dickerson,” he said as he lowered himself into the booth. He didn’t offer to shake hands.

Cape glanced briefly at Dickerson but brought his eyes back to Williams.

“How come you guys are always Special Agents?” he asked. “Aren’t there any regular agents at the FBI?”

Williams shrugged. “Guess the bureau figures it might impress law-abiding taxpayers.”

“I’m definitely impressed,” replied Cape, glancing over at Dickerson.

Williams started to laugh but gracefully turned it into a cough. Turning to Dickerson, he reached into his pocket and passed over a handful of coins.

“I forgot to put money in the meter,” he said amiably, but something in his tone said he didn’t expect an argument. “Wouldn’t look right, two government agents getting a parking ticket on the taxpayer’s dime.”

The muscles in Dickerson’s jaw flexed, but he took the money and stalked out of the restaurant. Williams watched him leave, then turned back to Cape.

“Getting you in the car was Jimmy’s idea,” he said simply. “Jimmy, Special Agent Dickerson, just graduated law school. Hasn’t spent much time on the street yet.”

“So the bureau teamed him up with you.”

“Yeah,” said Williams, leaning back against the booth and sighing. “Something like that-so I’m letting him learn from his mistakes, one day at a time.”

“Must make for some long days,” said Cape.

Williams nodded. “He’s a smart kid, wants to do the right thing-we’ll see. The bureau goes for those young, gung-ho types, and Jimmy’s better than most. Long as no one gets hurt, I got the time.”

A waiter came up to the table and stood expectantly, pad and pen in hand. He had a worn, heavily creased face-as if he’d spent many long years someplace much less pleasant than this restaurant. His thickly muscled arms sported tattoos on both forearms.

“I’ll have two eggs, scrambled, with bacon and wheat toast,” said Cape. “And iced tea.”

Williams looked up at the waiter and nodded. “Same, but with rye toast. And coffee.” He glanced at the menu. “And some French toast for my friend-and coffee.”

The waiter nodded and collected the menus, then left for the kitchen.

Williams turned his gaze on Cape. “Iced tea?”

Cape shrugged. “I could use the caffeine, but I don’t drink coffee.”

“Why not?”

“I like the idea of coffee,” said Cape, “more than I like the coffee itself. When I was younger I’d try it every once in a while, see if it tasted any different than the last time. Finally gave up.”

“You shoulda tried it at an inflection point,” said Williams.

“What?”

“Inflection point,” repeated Williams. “That’s how addiction starts. You experience something at a time of personal change. You ask people when they started smoking, smoking pot, drinking coffee-you name it-the answer’s always when they changed schools, started dating, went to college…some shit like that. Me, I started drinking coffee when I was ten.”

“You had an inflection point?” asked Cape.

Williams nodded. “My Dad died,” he said simply. “That man sure loved his coffee. Day after he died, Mom put his cup down in front of me, right on the kitchen table. Didn’t say nothin’, just filled the cup. Guess it was her way of sayin’ I was the man of the house.”

Cape nodded but stayed quiet. Williams looked at him for a long minute before saying, “You know why I told you that story?”

Cape shook his head.

“Me neither,” replied Williams, shrugging.

“How long you been with the feds?” asked Cape.

“A long time, but not long enough to forget I was a beat cop first,” replied Williams. “I got recruited by the bureau when I was in my twenties.”

“That must have been flattering.”

Williams shrugged. “It was during one of their color drives.”

Cape arched an eyebrow. “Promoting and encouraging diversity?”

Williams smiled. “Something like that. For me, it meant a better paycheck, maybe a better class of criminal.”

“Is there such a thing?”

Williams shook his head. “Nah, a scumbag’s a scumbag, white collar or not.” He held Cape’s gaze for a minute before blinking, letting him know he was serious about his job. They were talking, but they weren’t friends.

Cape nodded.

“Anything else you want to know?” asked Williams. “’Cause, you see, I’m supposed to be the one asking the questions.”

“I just figured you already know all that’s interesting about me.”

“No offense,” said Williams, “but you ain’t all that interesting. Used to be a reporter-supposedly a good one, whatever that means these days. Did some time overseas, right? Then came back and worked the local crime beat.”

Cape nodded.

“Got involved in an investigation into a missing girl, sister of one of your friends, found her before the cops did. Figured maybe you could do that for a living. Work standard cases-credit checks, skip tracing, insurance fraud, the usual. Still do some reporting, freelance, when you have to pay the rent. But mostly you find people, am I right?”

“When I can.”

“That’s it, in a nutshell,” said Williams. “Other than you got a funny name.”

“We can’t all be named John.”

Williams smiled. “Read it was short for Capon-that true?”

“Yup,” said Cape. “A castrated rooster. But I never really went by my given name.”

“Can’t say I blame you.”

Cape shrugged. “Mom sold capons every day. She worked as a butcher.”

“Who didn’t like men very much?”

“Not at the time,” said Cape. “She was in labor thirty-six hours.”

Williams, who had been shot twice in the line of duty, grimaced and squirmed in his seat. “Ugh. I couldn’t imagine.”

“I doubt she was in the right frame of mind to be naming anybody,” said Cape.

“You ever think of changing it?”

“Why bother?” asked Cape. “By the time you’re old enough, you’ve already taken all the shit. Plus, the short version’s not so bad.”

“Makes me think of Superman.”

“I wish,” said Cape. “So tell me, Agent Williams-if I’m not that interesting, why are you buying me breakfast?”

Williams chuckled. “That was smooth,” he said. “OK, I’ll get the tab if you answer some questions.”

“Go ahead and ask,” replied Cape amiably. “But I can’t make any promises.”

“You’ve been talking to Freddie Wang,” said Williams matter-of-factly.

Cape didn’t say anything at first, his face deadpan. An image of the corpse in his trunk flashed into his mind.

“Since that was a statement and not a question,” said Cape slowly, “I’m not really sure what you’re asking.”

Before Williams could answer, Special Agent Dickerson and the waiter arrived simultaneously. The scowl on Dickerson’s face suggested he didn’t approve of dining with suspected felons, but Williams gestured toward the chair next to Cape.

“Got you French toast,” he said amiably.

Dickerson’s scowl faltered as he sat down. It was hard to stay mad in the face of French toast.

Williams nodded toward Cape but looked at Dickerson. “Mister Weathers here was just telling me what he and Freddie Wang had to discuss.”

“Freddie’s a bookie,” said Cape tentatively.

“Among other things,” replied Williams, clearly not taking the bait. “You saying you’re placing bets with Freddie?”

“What?” said Cape. “You don’t think I’m a gambler?”

“Oh, I’d say you’re a gambler, all right,” replied Williams, “otherwise we wouldn’t be havin’ breakfast together. But I doubt you’re placing any bets with Freddie.” He smiled before adding, “But you didn’t expect me to believe that, did you?”

Dickerson shifted in his chair, clearly uncomfortable with the friendly tone of the conversation, but said nothing. His mouth was full of French toast.

Cape spread his hands. “I was talking to him about the refugee ship,” he said simply. “But you already figured that, too, right?”

Dickerson coughed, turning in his chair to face Cape. He swallowed rapidly and tried to clear his throat, but Williams held his hand up, palm out.

“Eat your breakfast, Jimmy,” he said, his eyes never leaving Cape’s. “Go on.”

Cape shrugged again. “I want to know what happened on that ship.”

“You got a client?”

“Sure,” said Cape, holding Williams’ gaze. Liars always blink, and they always look away.

“Who?” demanded Dickerson, having recovered from his near-death experience with the French toast.

Williams cut him off again. “Doesn’t matter, Jimmy. Besides, I doubt even Mr. Weathers is that cooperative.”

Cape smiled.

“So here’s the deal,” said Williams, leaning forward to sip at his coffee. “This is a federal case, with lots of important people expecting guys like us,” he jutted his chin forward, indicating Dickerson, “to find the bad guys, quick. In case you’re not up on current events, the State Department has an interest in keeping things nice and friendly with the Chinese.”

“I read the paper,” replied Cape, “and, despite my view of most politicians, I even pay my taxes. So why don’t we move past the foreplay and you tell me what you have in mind.”

Williams leaned back in his chair and nodded. “What did Freddie have to say for himself?”

“You don’t have his place bugged?” asked Cape.

Williams didn’t respond.

“He didn’t say anything directly,” replied Cape, “but he suggested I follow up on the cargo.”

“And you did?”

“That’s why I was next door,” said Cape, “visiting Michael Long of GASP jeans. It was his shipment, his cargo.”

Williams nodded. “Another pair of agents is going to see him later today.”

“I doubt it,” replied Cape. “The cops are headed this way to pick him up.”

Williams sat forward in disbelief. “What did he tell you?”

“It wasn’t exactly a confession,” replied Cape, “but it was enough.”

Dickerson banged his fist on the table, the suddenness of it like a gunshot in the small restaurant. In the silence that followed, all three men heard the sound of sirens coming toward them.

Williams started laughing.

“Son of a bitch,” he said as he fished some money out of his wallet. “You coulda mentioned that when we sat down.”

“Then you wouldn’t have bought me breakfast,” said Cape.

“True,” said Williams. “Just one more question, cowboy.”

“Shoot.”

“You done with this?” Williams asked. Cape knew he wasn’t talking about breakfast.

“Just getting started,” replied Cape. “I don’t know where it’s going, but I’m definitely not done yet.”

Williams nodded. “Then neither are we,” he said. “We’ll be talking to the cops and see what comes next-see if this Michael Long has anything to say.”

“You get him motivated,” replied Cape, “and he’ll talk.”

“You did strike me as the motivational type,” said Williams.

“That’s me,” said Cape, “a regular Anthony Robbins.”

“That’s why I bought you breakfast,” said Williams. “See, Jimmy and I have to follow the rules-and the rules for the feds are even worse than for the cops. So by the time we get an assignment, the necessary clearance, and the warrants-the clues have faded and the suspect has fled the vicinity.”

“Must be frustrating.”

“It pretty much sucks,” agreed Williams, who seemed untroubled as he said it. “But a man like you, he can do whatever he wants. By the time I get a warrant and coordinate with the local authorities, you’ve come and gone.”

“And had breakfast,” added Cape.

“Exactly.”

“That’s one of the few advantages to being me.”

“I don’t give a shit about your case,” said Williams. “And I don’t expect you to give a shit about mine. But having looked at your background, I think you’re straight.”

“Thanks.”

“So I want you to call me.”

“What if I told you I was more inclined to call the cops?”

“They ever buy you breakfast?”

“Once or twice.”

“Go ahead and call them,” said Williams. “Like I said, I don’t give a shit. Just don’t leave me out in the cold.”

“What’s my motivation?” asked Cape.

“Well, Mr. Anthony Robbins,” replied Williams, “how about this: you could have a friend with the feds, or you could be an asshole.”

“Do I have to choose now?” asked Cape.

Williams smiled and shook his head.

“And what if you find something?” asked Cape. “You saying you’ll return the favor?”

Williams held up his hands. “Can’t promise that,” he said. “National security, all that shit. But I’ll say this-you call me, and I promise you won’t be the only one doing the talking.”

Cape nodded and stood to leave. He held out his hand. Williams extended his own and shook.

“Thanks for breakfast,” said Cape.

“It’s the taxpayer’s money,” replied Williams. “So in a way, you bought me breakfast.”

“Swell.” Cape nodded at Dickerson, who sat sullenly chewing the last of his French toast. Cape wondered what the two mismatched partners would say to each other after he left.

Two police cruisers sat outside the GASP building, their lights rotating silently, painting the street in lurid reds and blues. A small crowd of tourists had gathered on the sidewalk to see what was happening. Cape imagined Michael Long would be escorted out of the building any moment. He turned up his collar and stuffed his hands in his pockets, walking in the opposite direction, taking the long way across the street to retrieve his car.

He wondered if Long would say anything about the photograph Cape had shown him. Long might be too scared and confused about the body in his warehouse. With any luck, it would be hours before the cops worked their way back from the warehouse to Long and ultimately to Cape, assuming his part came to light during the questioning.

Cape hoped it would take at least that long. The feds hadn’t asked about the warehouse because they didn’t know about it yet, but Williams hadn’t said anything about the dead body Cape left in Chinatown, either. That meant they hadn’t made the connection to Freddie.

Or it meant they didn’t know about that body, either.

Cape felt something in his pocket and suddenly remembered what was so important: the lost thread from last night. He pulled the rough card into the light and looked at the heavy lines of the blood red triangle painted on its back. Turning it over, he read the address on the front of the card and frowned.

It was time to go back to Chinatown.