“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.