“It’s OK,” said Cape. “I told you-I bought ice.”
“Isn’t that against the law?”
“No,” replied Cape. “Ice is perfectly legal in the state of California. It’s one of the few things that is anymore, unless you want to count medicinal marijuana.”
“That’s not what I meant,” snapped Linda. “And you know it.”
Cape held up his hands and shrugged.
Linda crossed her arms. “I have no interest in getting arrested as an accessory to…to…to whatever it’s called when you drive around with a corpse in your car.”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” Cape said simply.
“What are you going to do with him?” demanded Linda. “I mean, with it?”
“I haven’t decided,” said Cape matter-of-factly.
Linda made a noise that sounded like harumph.
Cape smiled hopefully. “Can we talk about the ship?”
Linda didn’t answer right away, but she turned her frown toward the plasma screen, which Cape took as a conditional “yes.”
“Where was it registered?”
The words materialized on the screen, each new phrase causing the previous one to disappear.
REGISTERED IN HONG KONG…PICKED UP CARGO IN FUZHOU.
“Who is it registered to?” asked Cape.
KOWLOON IMPORTS.
Linda cut in. “But Sloth thinks that’s a dummy corporation.”
Cape looked at the Sloth while asking Linda the question. “How come?”
“He hacked their network and checked their balance sheet, then compared it with other Hong Kong shipping companies, including two that work the same trans-Pacific routes.”
“And?”
The screen on the right resolved into four quadrants, each filled with a series of columns and numbers. At the top of each square was a company name. Kowloon Imports was written in the lower right quadrant. The amount of detail on the screen made it difficult to read, and Cape didn’t know where to look. As he watched, a blue rectangle flashed across the screen, stopping at certain figures in each quadrant before jumping back to the top and beginning a new course through the data.
“The cash flow doesn’t line up with actual dates in port,” explained Linda. “We checked the records from the harbor masters in Fuzhou, Hong Kong, and San Francisco.”
Cape knew the answer to his next question but asked it anyway. “You have access to that kind of data? I thought only the feds could plug into those records.”
Linda smiled sheepishly as the Sloth’s mouth twitched.
Cape shook his head. “And you’re giving me shit for driving around with a dead guy in my trunk,” he said. “Talk about a double standard.”
“That’s not the point,” said Linda defensively.
“What is the point?” asked Cape.
THE COMPANY GETS PAID FOR
SHIPMENTS THAT AREN’T MADE.
“By whom?” asked Cape.
Linda answered before any words appeared. “We don’t know yet,” she said simply. “The money trail is complicated, but you’d think the companies expecting shipments would notice.”
“Unless they were part of the scam themselves,” mused Cape.
Linda nodded, her hair bobbing excitedly. “That’s what we thought.”
“So who owns the blue jeans?” asked Cape.
Linda nodded toward the screen.
GASP
“Gasp?” said Cape.
“That’s what everyone calls them,” said Linda, “but you’re supposed to say the letters: G-A-S-P. It’s an acronym.”
“For what?”
GREAT ASS, SEXY PACKAGE…G-A-S-P.
Cape looked from Sloth to Linda. “Unbelievable.”
“So are midriff shirts that look like they got shrunk in the dryer,” replied Linda, “but all the young girls are wearing them.”
“They’re the new designer jeans, right? Supposed to go up against Levi’s and the Gap?”
“Except they cost over a hundred dollars a pair,” replied Linda.
“Are they selling?”
“They did at first,” said Linda, “but sales have slowed considerably. They’re not the kind of jeans you’d wear every day of the week.”
“Is the company publicly traded?”
Linda nodded vigorously, her hair threatening to take flight. “GASP went public right before the crash a couple of years ago-their stock is in the toilet.”
“And they’re made overseas?”
Linda nodded. “Just like everything else.”
“In China?”
“In Fuzhou, to be specific,” said Linda. “Same place the ship came from.”
“Well, well.” Cape looked back at the screen. “Where are their headquarters?”
“Right here in San Francisco,” replied Linda. “Actually, they’re on the Embarcadero, right next door to the new headquarters for the Gap.”
“Butting up against their competitors,” said Cape.
Linda groaned. “Was that an attempted pun?”
“Couldn’t resist,” said Cape. “I don’t suppose GASP Jeans has any warehouses in town?”
An address flashed onto the screen. Cape recognized it as south of Market Street.
“Interesting.”
“What?” asked Linda.
Cape didn’t respond. Freddie Wang had basically told him to check some warehouses south of Market Street. That was fine. But he also told Cape to go fuck himself, if not in so many words. Freddie spoke in half-truths, and Cape had no way of knowing which half was bullshit. But the address on the screen was too much of a coincidence to ignore.
Cape put his hand on the Sloth’s shoulder and squeezed. “I’d be lost without you,” he said gently.
YOU STILL MIGHT BE LOST.
Cape nodded. “You’re probably right, but at least I’ve got somewhere to go.” He turned to Linda. “You mind doing one more thing?”
“What?”
“Who owns GASP?”
“Michael Long,” replied Linda. “Chairman and CEO. Used to work for Disney and, before that, the Gap. Rumor has it, he used to manage strip clubs in Vegas before coming to California.”
“That would explain his fashion sense,” said Cape. “Can you get me on his calendar tomorrow?”
Linda shrugged, her eyes narrowing. “What do you want as cover?”
“Tell him I work for your paper,” replied Cape. “And we’re doing a story on local fashion icons-Levi’s, the Gap, and him-he should love that. Tell him I’m the fashion editor.”
Linda gave him a deliberate once-over, stopping at the running shoes.
Cape shrugged. “I’ll be presentable,” he said. “I promise.”
Linda looked skeptical but nodded. “Just don’t wear jeans,” she said, “unless they’re his.”
“Got it,” replied Cape. “And thanks.”
Linda smiled, her eyes just visible beneath her shifting hair. “Anything else?”
Cape glanced at his watch. “Yeah,” he said, looking past her toward the kitchen, then over his shoulder at Sloth. “Can you spare some ice?”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Tokyo, 11 years ago
Sally had been sitting at the bar for over an hour when she saw the bartender’s eyes go wide with fear.
Kano had arrived.
It was the same expression Sally had noticed the other night, when Kano brutalized the young couple. Now Sally sat alone on a barstool, her black skirt hiked up as far as it would go, letting the pounding bass from the speakers override her heartbeat and protect her from what was about to happen.
She felt Kano’s hand on her back.
Swallowing bile, Sally turned and smiled, nonchalantly knocking his hand aside.
“I’m working,” she said.
For an instant, Kano’s face twisted into a mask of rage, but he quickly recovered, showing Sally a smile that was half sneer, full of bravado and male posturing.
“You’re new, heh?”