Chapter Nine

Friday

            Peter awoke in the morning to find his father already up and moving about.  Caine, fresh out of the shower, was donning his usual street attire of Levi’s and a raw silk shirt, this one gold.  Peter watched in silence for several minutes, reviewing again the plan that had come to him in the middle of the night, checking it for weaknesses.  Presently he said, “Dad?”

            Caine, buttoning his cuffs, looked around and smiled at him.  “Good morning, son.”

            “Is Skalany still here?”

            “As far as I know.”

            “I need to see her before she leaves for work.  Could you ask her to stop in, please?”

            “Of course.”  Caine finished the buttons and began tucking the shirt in at the waist.  He was wondering about the reason for Peter’s request, but he would not ask.

            As if he could read his father’s mind, Peter said, “I’ve made up my mind about Wayne Sung, but I’ll need a couple of favors from Mary Margaret to make it work.”

            Caine merely nodded as he fastened his belt.  He sensed the difference in Peter’s emotional state and knew that the decision, whatever it was, had put his son’s mind at ease.

            Peter went on to say, “That talk we had last night helped a lot.  Thanks.”

            “I was merely a sounding board,” Caine replied, “but you are welcome.”

            After Peter outlined his plan for Skalany and Caine, she exclaimed, “Wow!  I’m impressed.  Do you think he’ll go for it?”

            “He won’t have much of a choice,” Peter said.  He looked at his father and was gratified to see a gleam of approval in the older man’s eyes.  “What do you say, Pop?”

            “I think he will accept, but he is stubborn, and therefore you must be prepared for both possibilities.”

            “Okay.  Mary Margaret, can you be here tonight, just in case?”

            “I’d hate to miss it.”  She looked at Caine.  “You’ll back me up if he decides to fight or run?”

            He nodded.  “Of course.”

                                    *                                        *                                        *

            Sergeant Broderick was taking advantage of a rare lull in the morning’s chaos to straighten up a couple of shelves under the front counter, when he heard a throat being cleared , and someone said, “Excuse me.”

            Broderick sighed and straightened to his full six-foot-three height.  He beheld a middle-aged, medium height Asian male wearing a plaid shirt and gray slacks, and carrying a large object wrapped in what appeared to be a black plastic trash bag.  “May I help you?”

            “I’d like to see your head detective, please.  Or whoever is in charge here.”

            “Do you want to report a crime?”

            “Possibly.  And turn over some evidence.  At least, I think it’s evidence.”

            “That’s what’s in the bag?”

            “Yes.”

            “What kind of crime are we talking about?”

            “Embezzlement, probably.  But maybe murder.”

            Broderick’s ears perked up immediately.  “And what kind of evidence?”

            “Computer disks and backup tapes.”

            “And your name, sir?”

            “Steven Ling.”

            “Let me match you up with one of our detectives, Mr. Ling.”

            Politely but firmly, Ling said, “I need to see the boss--the inspector or captain or whatever he is.”

            “She is.  The captain’s busy right now, sir,” Broderick replied just as firmly, “so you’d be better off telling your story to a detective first.  Before I take you back there, though, I’ll have to take a look at the bag’s contents.  That’s a required precaution.”

            Steven Ling smiled thinly and lifted the bag onto the counter.  “It’s not a bomb, sergeant.”

            “Probably not, sir, but we can’t be too careful.”  Broderick loosened the top of the bag and peered inside.  “Movies?”

            “Just the can.  Go ahead and look inside.”

            The sergeant did so and found exactly what Ling had claimed:  floppies and tapes.  He wrapped everything back up, pushed the bag toward Ling slightly, and said, “Follow me, please.”

            Jody Powell was at her desk, working on reports while waiting for Skalany to return from the courthouse, and it was her turn to catch the next case.  Broderick introduced Ling and gestured him into a chair next to her desk before leaving.

            “What can we do for you, Mr. Ling?” Jody asked as she resumed her seat.

            “A friend of mine has disappeared.  He was hiding out with me because a powerful man was after him.  He went to meet someone, and he told me if he didn’t come back, I should give the contents of this can to the cops.  Well, he didn’t come back, so here I am.  He’s probably dead, though I can’t prove it.”

            Jody had already felt her heart rate picking up speed.  With a flutter of anticipation in her stomach, she asked, “What’s your friend’s name?”

            “Ben Chou.”

            “Steven Ling manages the movie theaters at the mall,” Jody was explaining to Jennifer and the Caines a few hours later, “as did his father before him.  He and Chou go way back, and Chou had worked for them as a projectionist off and on from high school until he got his CPA license.  The projection booth made a nearly perfect hideout for most of the past few weeks.  Think about it.  Nobody ever sees the guys who run the movies.  Chou probably could have hid out in the theater indefinitely, Ling says, but he was getting more and more fearful of discovery.  He set up a meeting with a reporter--guess who!--on Wednesday, but he never came back to work.  Ling had standing instructions to wait a day or two, then go to the police.”

            Jennifer asked, “Does Ling have any idea what’s on the tapes and disks?”

            “Not specifically.  Simms is putting Kermit to work on them, along with investigators from the DA’s office who deal with fraud and white-collar crime in general.  Be a while before they really have a handle on what they’ve got.  Meanwhile you’re supposed to continue to keep your head down and be cautious.  Don’t go anywhere alone.”

            Jennifer frowned, disliking the ongoing restrictions even though she knew the advice was good.  Since Wednesday she had often wished she had never heard of Ben Chou.  The investigation might drag on for weeks before Garson could be charged with anything.  Then he would undoubtedly hire attorneys who would do everything possible to prevent or delay a trial, and it could be months before she would be called to testify.  Meanwhile she would have to keep looking over her shoulder, both here and in San Francisco.  Maybe she was the one who should consider a stay in Hong Kong.

            “Well,” she said resignedly, “it’ll give me time to write one hell of a story about all of this.  The only problem will be getting the hookup to transmit it to the magazine.”

            Skalany spoke up cheerfully.  “Oh, I think we can find a way to handle that.  Just let us know when you’re ready.  By the way, Caine, you can tell Peter that I’ll be back after my shift with all the paperwork he requested?”

            That evening when Louis and Wayne Sung arrived, the Caines, Jennifer, and Skalany were in the studio workroom .  The priest/apothecary was puttering with his herbal concoctions.  Peter sat across the table from him, in the one good chair Caine had, with pillows arranged to cushion his back and buttocks.  He was wearing his father’s shirt with the crane design on the right shoulder, though much of the design was obscured by the blue cloth sling.  Jennifer and Mary Margaret sat on the platform pallet, from which Mary Margaret was entertaining them all with anecdotes about cases she had worked on before being paired with Peter. 

            The conversation ceased immediately when Louis and Wayne entered the room.  Peter noted with interest that they were both wearing business suits; there was no sign of Wayne’s fancy Dragon’s Disciples jacket.  Caine put his tools down and returned their courteous bows to him.  Jennifer hopped off the platform and came to greet her uncle with a kiss, Wayne with a touch on his arm.  Skalany followed Jennifer and, when Caine introduced her, shook hands with them Western style. 

            Only Peter made no move except to sit up a little straighter, nor did he believe they expected him to rise.  The Sungs bowed to him with apparent deference, but it was Caine that Louis addressed first.  “We have returned, as agreed, to learn what your son has decided to do about the assault by my son and his friends.  Specifically, will he press charges, or is the alternative I suggested acceptable to him?”

            Quietly Caine replied, “My son will speak for himself in this matter, Sung Lu Wei, and so must Sung Wen Ching.”

            With a perfunctory nod, Louis Sung turned to Peter, whose bearing was dignified despite the marks of the beating still visible on his face, and who regarded both of them levelly.  He looked, Louis thought, like a man confident of his position.  Louis could only hope that that position would not be damaging to Wayne.  He said, “Detective Caine, I’m pleased to see that you have recovered enough to talk to us.  May we know your decision?”

            “Sung Lu Wei,” Peter said formally, “my father explained the plan you outlined to him.  It may be acceptable where your son is concerned, but it does not cover his accomplices.”

            “I have no influence over them, Detective,” Louis pointed out.

            “No, but your son has.” The look Peter directed at Wayne held challenge and accusation.  “Considerable influence, I would say, to persuade them to commit a crime for him.”

            “They didn’t do it just for me,” Wayne said somewhat smugly.

            Unruffled, Peter said, “No?  Then, even if you are gone, they might do the same thing again, to someone else, for their own reasons?”

            After a hesitation, Wayne shrugged.  On the one hand, he was uncertain about the wisdom of directly admitting such a thing; on the other, it was tempting to let the cop think that the Disciples, with or without him, were a force to be reckoned with.

            “That’s what I thought,” Peter said grimly.  “Your father’s plan holds you accountable for what you did, but it carries no penalty for the others, and it doesn’t prevent them from assaulting another victim.  That’s why I can’t accept his plan as stated originally.”

            Louis Sung looked from Wayne to Peter in alarm.  “Wait, Detective.  Don’t be hasty.  We can talk about this.”

            “You’re wasting your breath, Father,” Wayne said acidly.  “I told you he wouldn’t accept.  Let’s go.”

            Louis snapped at him, “Wayne, be quiet!  You’ll only make things worse.”

            Wayne subsided into sullenness, crossing his arms across his chest.

            “Listen to me, both of you,” Peter said in his most authoritative voice.  “Squabbling accomplishes nothing.  I will tell you my terms, which extend the ones you offered earlier, and you can either take them or leave them.”

            Louis drew back a little in surprise.  “Go ahead.”

            “First, you required Wayne to apologize to my father and me, and he did that.  I require that he also apologize to Jennifer for the embarrassment and distress he’s caused her, and to you and his mother, for the same reason.”

            Too astonished to speak, Louis glanced at his son, who was turning red.

            Peter continued, “Second, you said you would send him to Hong Kong for an indefinite period, but at least until the end of this century.  That, I can accept, because then he won’t be able to attack anyone else here.  Third, you required him to pay my medical bills for these injuries, as well as pay for lost days of work.  That’s also acceptable.  But I want him to get his four cronies to pay an equal amount of money--each of them--which will then be donated to one or more of the charities on this list.  Mary Margaret?”

            Skalany, who had returned to stand near the platform while listening, now reached behind her and picked up a paper, which she handed to Wayne.  Peter said, “Those organizations are known for helping to promote understanding and tolerance between races and ethnic groups in this city.  They always need money for their projects, and I can’t think of a better way for the Dragon’s Disciples to spend their money.”

            Wayne, absolutely furious,  looked for an instant as if he might tear the paper up.  A glare from his father squelched that impulse, however.  Louis then studied Peter with growing respect.

            “Is that all?” Wayne asked caustically.

            “Not quite,” Peter replied evenly.  He had promised himself and his father that he would not lose his temper no matter what Wayne said or did, and that he would try not to be condescending or overbearing.  He knew he was in the driver’s seat, and if the Sungs did not know it yet, they would soon enough.  He went on, “There’s a kind of poetic justice in making your buddies pay to improve race relations in the community, but it doesn’t guarantee that they won’t strike again.  So, here’s the last requirement.  My partner is handing you five copies of a statement that describes your attack on me.  You will see that your name is on one, Joe Cheng’s on another, and the rest have places for the names to be added.  There are signature lines, and each one has a place for a notary to make it official.  You are going to sign yours and get it notarized, and you will persuade your four friends to do the same thing.  When you bring them back, I will put them away in a safe place.  As long as you behave yourselves, you’ll never have to worry about these papers.  But if I ever hear that you or any of the others is involved in an assault on another person, I’ll give these documents to the district attorney, and you’ll be prosecuted for both crimes.”

            Wayne had taken the papers from Skalany and was reading them over.  Incredulous, he sputtered, “This is a goddamned confession!”  He looked up at Peter.  “You’re crazy!  You expect me to convince my friends to give you signed confessions?  I won’t do it!”  He shoved the papers into his startled father’s hands.

            “Then you’ll leave here under arrest, Sung Wen Ching,” Peter informed him.  “The last papers my partner has in hand are the formal complaint I signed earlier and a warrant for your arrest.  She is prepared to charge you with aggravated assault--which, by the way, carries a ten-year prison sentence in this state--read you your rights, and take you to jail tonight, if that’s what you prefer.  And your friends will join you there by morning.”

            “You double-crossing son of a bitch,” Wayne snarled.  He made a slight move, almost as if he might attack Peter again, but stopped when Skalany’s hand reached for the gun at her waist.  Then he glared at his father accusingly.  “And you led me right into this trap, old man!”

            Louis’s face had paled with shock.  He looked beseechingly at each of them in turn--Wayne, red-faced with rage; Peter, calm and cold; Skalany, alert and watchful; Jennifer, anxious--and finally appealed to the only person who had any authority over Peter.  “Caine!  Help me!  Are you going to let him do this?”

            The priest, battered by Louis’s anguish, remained to all outward appearances quite composed.  If he had some sympathy for Louis as a father, he had little or none for Wayne.  He drew in a deep breath and expelled it before saying tightly, “Sung Lu Wei, you know your son committed a cowardly and criminal act.  He has already had two more days of freedom than he was entitled to.  He has a choice here, to follow a path that will keep him out of jail and atone for what he did.  You should urge him to take it.”

            Wayne burst out, “How the hell do we know, if I get the others to sign, that you won’t  arrest us anyway and use those papers against us?”    

“You have my word on it, that’s all,” Peter responded.  “I don’t give that lightly, and I never break it.  However, if you prefer, we might find some third party we both trust to hold the signed documents, hoping they’ll never be needed.”

            When Wayne still hesitated, seething, Peter said, “Think real hard about this, Wayne.  Think of the shame you’ll bring to your family if you’re arrested.  Think of how it’ll affect your parents.  Think about the fact that your cousin and your aunt will be subpoenaed to testify against you.  Think about serving a prison sentence during some of the best years of your life and having a felony conviction to screw up your resumé forever after.  Think about explaining all that to your kids some day--when you have them.”

            Wayne made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.  The irony was too much.  He wanted to shout, “I’m not likely to have any, damn it!  My fiancée broke our engagement rather than go to Hong Kong with me!”  But he would not give Peter Caine the satisfaction of knowing that his attempt to split Peter and Jennifer had cost him his own girlfriend.  He slammed his fist into his other palm, wishing that the target was the cop’s face again but knowing that if he swung on Peter, he would be either shot by Skalany or flattened by the Shaolin.  This time he was really, hopelessly trapped.  Between gritted teeth he growled, “Suppose I can’t get all four of them to sign.”

            Peter answered steadily, “The ones who refuse will be arrested and prosecuted, and the others will be called as witnesses against them.  Make it clear to them, Wayne: This is one time when a signed confession keeps you out of jail.  Bring me the notarized documents, and I’ll tear up the warrants.”

            Wayne looked to his father in desperation, but the elder Sung shook his head.  “Cut your losses, Wayne.  Take the deal.”

            Wayne stared at Peter for a long, tense minute, then said fervently, “I hate your guts, Peter Caine.”

            “Yeah.  Well, now you finally have a reason to,” Peter replied.  Then, impatience breaking through his control at last, he added sardonically, “Serves me right for trying to do you a favor.  Do we have a deal?”

            Silence.  Interminable silence.  Then Wayne cleared his throat and said, almost inaudibly,  “Okay.”

            Peter concealed his elation.  He said matter-of-factly, “Good.  Bring the statements back as soon as possible.  I’ll give you an itemized accounting of the medical bills, etcetera, as soon as I have them.  When all of that is cleared up--plus the apologies--you’ll be free to leave the country.”

            When Wayne did not answer but continued to glower at him, Peter added in a more conciliatory tone, “Look, Wayne, your friends may be grateful that you’re giving them a way to stay out of jail.  When you’ve had a chance to cool off and think things over, come back and talk to me.  For Jennifer’s sake, we should get over being enemies.”

            For his response, Wayne grabbed the papers out of his father’s hand, muttered, “I’ll wait for you downstairs,” and walked out.

            There was an uncomfortable silence.  Then Louis Sung pulled himself together, bowed, and said, “I must apologize for my son’s poor behavior.  I have been lenient with him, in some ways, for too long.  But that will change.”  To Peter he said, “I appreciate what you have done, Detective, even if he does not.  He did not want to come here tonight; he was so sure that you would reject my offer.  ‘Let Peter Caine come after me, if he wants me,’ he kept saying.  Bravado!  He has no real concept of what prison is like, what it would do to him.  Some day he will realize what you have spared him from.”  Louis Sung squared his shoulders.  “I will make sure he brings you the documents.  Good night.”

            He bowed again and followed his son.

            When she was sure he was gone, Skalany said, “Whew!  Masterfully done, Peter, but you’d better hope they don’t consult lawyers about those statements.”

            “If that happens,” Peter retorted, “they’re all jailbait.  It’s that simple, partner.  I don’t plan to diddle around with these jokers.”

            “I know.  Well, I think a celebratory drink is in order.  How about some tea?  I’ll go put the kettle on.”

            “I will come with you,” Caine said.  He gave Peter’s good shoulder a quick squeeze and trailed after her.

            During the conversation with Wayne, Jennifer had sidled back to the platform and hopped onto its edge.  Now, from the pallet, she rested her chin on her knee and said solemnly, “Thank you, Peter.”

            “Was that okay?  You haven’t said much.”

            “You were terrific.  I was just scared.  Wayne has such a rotten temper sometimes, I really thought he was going to jump you. “

            “That’s why Skalany was here, hon.  And Dad.”

            “How did you come up with those ideas, anyway?  Yesterday you sounded as if you were probably going to have Wayne and his pals arrested.  What happened to change your mind?”

            “I talked to Dad, but we couldn’t figure out a solution.  Then in the middle of the night I woke up and the idea just popped into my head out of nowhere.  Are you satisfied?”

            Jennifer smiled warmly at him.  “You bet.  I just hope the dummy has the sense to realize how lucky he is.  Would those statements really be admissible in court?”

            “I don’t know.  Maybe not.  But if they believe they might be, and they behave themselves as a result, that’s all we can ask.”

            Jennifer just looked at him for a bit without speaking.  Her dark eyes were shining, and what Peter thought of was how pretty she was.  It occurred to him that he had always found Chinese faces particularly appealing; that ever since his childhood they had been symbols of beauty and strength and security.  Why not?  He had spent so much of his life surrounded by them, and they had been worn by some of the finest people he had known.  He had been attracted early on to Jennifer’s saucy mouth and smooth skin and infectious smile, as much as to her warmth and humor, intelligence and courage.

            She broke into his thoughts by saying, “I’d like to give you a big hug, but I guess I still can’t do that.”

            He almost said, “Go for it,” but he knew he had better not.  Instead, he said, “A kiss . . . would be an acceptable substitute.”

            “You’re sure it won’t hurt your mouth?”

            “On the contrary,” he said semi-seriously, “I expect it would have a healing effect.”

            She grinned and hopped off the platform.  Bending over him, she touched her lips to his very lightly, teasingly, then drew back and regarded him owlishly.  “Too painful?”

            “Only when you stop.”

            She kissed him again, more firmly, and again, and he responded enthusiastically until the bruises really did hurt.  When he pulled away slightly, he said, husky-voiced, “What I can’t forgive Wayne for is that he took away the time we would have had together.”

            “I know.  But we’ll make up for it, as soon as you’re well enough.”  Jennifer’s hand caressed his face lightly before she leaned in for a deeper kiss, the last one of the night.  “Wo ai ni, Peter.”

            The kiss stopped his speech for a moment and left him slightly dizzy, but he replied, “Wo ai ni, Jenn.”

            Simms, working late in hopes of clearing some cases off her desk before the weekend, heard a footstep near the office door and looked up. Kermit was leaning against the frame of the door, his jacket slung over his shoulder and his tie loose. He yawned hugely, thinking that this was like the bad old days, when he would run on three hours sleep and a gallon of coffee to escape some hair-raising peril. God, he missed it sometimes.

            But only sometimes.

            “What did you learn?” Simms asked.

            “You aren’t going to believe it.”

            “Try me.”

            “The one tape was audio. A confession. One of those ‘If you are hearing this, I must be dead’ deals. Lays out the whole scheme, chapter and verse—the dummy charities and officers, how he switched money around and cooked the books, where the bank accounts are—everything. Sweet, sweet setup, too. So good that, even in Chou’s absence, it continues to dump money into his and Garson’s pockets to this day. Without the tape it might have been weeks before we figured it all out. Anyway, Jenkins has authorized warrants for Garson’s arrest, warrants for searches, and subpoenas for the A.C. financial records. But it’ll be hours before all the paperwork is completed. Hardly anybody there to do it on a Friday night.”

            “So?”

            “So, I’ll go home and take a little nap, then come back tomorrow to help with the searches.”

            “Not going to stick around for the bust?”

            Kermit shook his head. “It’s Jody’s collar. Besides, I’d probably fall on my face and start snoring.” After a push, he asked, “You coming in tomorrow?”

            “I’m trying to avoid it, but we’re shorthanded with Caine laid up, so I may have to. Also, this will be a high-profile arrest, and once the media descend, we’ll be in for it.”

            Kermit grimaced. “There’s a happy thought. Well, till then, good night.”

            Karen Simms smiled marginally. “Good night.”

            High-profile arrests rate high-ranking cops. On Saturday morning it was Chief Strenlich himself who accompanied Jody Powell and one member of the D.A.’s team to Garson’s apartment building to make the arrest. It had taken some time to work out the politics of this and to assemble the necessary warrants and subpoenas. So far, the news media seemed unaware of what was happening, but Strenlich knew that advantage would not last.

            The Carleton was the kind of place that bragged about its security, beginning with a front desk where guests had to be cleared before proceeding further.

            “Whom did you wish to visit?” the prim receptionist inquired as the three officers drew near. Her frosty smile faded as they flashed their badges.

            “Howard William Garson,” Jody replied as Strenlich eyed the overdressed security guard standing nearby.

            “I’m afraid you’re too late, officers,” the receptionist said. “The Garsons requested a cab early this morning. Said they had a plane leaving at sunrise.”

            Jody stared. “You’re not serious. You are serious. Did they say where they were going?”

            The receptionist was rolling a pen between her palms. She shrugged. “I’m not sure. Did they mention South America?” She appealed to the guard. “Jerry, did they say anything to you?”

            The guard shook his head. “Only that they needed to get away from it all for a few days.”

            “I’ll bet they do,” Jody muttered under her breath.

            Strenlich said, “That was Garson and his wife who left? Anyone else with them?”

            “Not that I saw.”

            “Great,” said Jody. She looked at the chief. “Go ahead with the search?”

            “Might as well.” But Strenlich turned to the D.A.’s man and said, “Marburg, go call the director of airport operations and have him find out what airline the Garsons used and where the plane was going. Maybe we can arrange for a welcome on the other end.”

            As Marburg walked away, Strenlich directed a thin smile at the receptionist. “Now, who’s going to let us into Garson’s apartment.”

            When Simms asked Skalany about working on Saturday, her day off, because of Peter Caine’s absence, Skalany came back with a counteroffer: that she would provide Jennifer Sung with witness protection free of charge for that day rather than report for duty at the precinct. Simms stared at her for several seconds and tried to keep her lips from twitching. Finally, she scratched her nose to cover the amusement. “Quick thinking, Mary Margaret. Okay.”

            Skalany did wonder, for a moment, whether her friend Jody would regard her as a traitor for what she was doing. She decided that Jody had a more generous soul than that, and besides, the believed that keeping Jennifer Sung safe was the right thing to do.

            Skalany, however, had never intended to sit around Caine’s place all day. She and Jennifer did some shopping, swung by Peter’s apartment to round up a few items he had asked for, then went to Jennifer’s mother’s house, where they did laundry and waited for Grace to come home from her half day at work. Jennifer called her editor and talked at length about the week’s events and the direction of their story about Garson and Allied Charities. She was still on the phone when she heard a key turning in the front door lock, and her mother walked in.

            “Gotta go, Marty. I’ll call you later.” Jennifer said hurriedly. She hung up and ran to give Grace a hug.

            After Skalany had been introduced, Grace said to her daughter, “So, Jenn, looks as if your story on H.W. Garson will be his obituary.”

            Jennifer looked at her in blank confusion. “What?” She glanced at Mary Margaret, who seemed just as puzzled.

            Now Grace was surprised. “You haven’t heard?”

            “Heard what, Mom?”

            “About the plane crash this morning. It’s been on the news for the past hour or so.”

            Stunned silence. Then, in unison, Jennifer and Mary Margaret said, “What?”

            “I’m sorry, Jenn, I thought you would have heard. Garson and his wife are presumed dead in a crash in southern Mississippi. The bulletin said a small plane, bad weather, maybe a lightning strike. Details were sketchy, but the one thing they knew was that the Garsons were on the plane and no one survived.” 

            “Oh, my god.” Jennifer sagged against Skalany, who held her up. “I don’t believe it!” She straightened up and pushed her hair back off her face. “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry or—have a stiff drink. Let’s turn on the TV and see if they have anything on it.”

            Her first efforts to find some kind of news bulletin on television were futile, but Grace caught a report on an all-news radio station, and the three of them listened raptly, even though they heard little beyond what Grace had already related. When it was over, Jennifer said, “It seems sick to be rejoicing over someone’s death, but I feel like I’ve been released from jail. If only it could have been just him, though, and not his wife and those other men.”

            “Life isn’t that tidy,” Skalany said grimly. “But I know how you feel. At least it’s not a case where the other people die and the guilty one walks away unscratched.”

            Jennifer said suddenly, “Jeez, let me call Marty back. He must not’ve heard either. And then, Mary Margaret, we have to go tell Peter right away. There’s no radio or TV at Caine’s.”

            “Jennifer, you’re not going to run off again so soon!” Grace protested. “I just got home.”

            Jennifer winced guiltily. “Mom, I’m sorry, but—" Inspiration struck. “Come with us!”

            Grace opened her mouth to say no, then wondered why she should. “All right, I will.”

            Both decisions had been made impulsively. Grace figured that only by tagging along would she see her daughter for more than five minutes at a time. Jennifer figured her mom would never abandon the idea of having Larry Feng for a son-in-law unless she became better acquainted with Peter Caine. In the car, though, other plans were hatched, and they made quick stops at a grocery store and at the Ancient’s house.

            The bedroom door was slightly ajar. Jennifer rapped lightly. “Peter? You awake?”

            “Yeah. Come on in.”

            With the bedroom wall again serving as a headboard for the futon, Peter was propped up on a combination of his father’s bedroll, a folded blanket, and several pillows, and he was balancing a thick hardcovered book against his drawn-up legs. He said, “Hi, how was your day of freedom?”

            Jennifer set the department store shopping bags to one side, knelt, and leaned over to kiss him, then plopped back on the mattress next to him. She was grinning widely. “I have big news, both good and bad.” She noticed the book’s contents suddenly. “Herbal medicine?”

            “Just checking out what my father’s been using on me. So, what’s the good news?”

            “Garson’s dead.”

            She watched the shock register on his face and wondered if her mother had seen the same expression on hers.

            “Who killed him?”

            A natural-enough assumption for a homicide detective, she thought. “Destiny. Fate. God. Mother Nature. Take your pick. His plane crashed this morning, cause unknown. Jody thinks he was trying to flee the country, but nobody knows for sure. Anyway, he’s gone.”

            Jennifer proceeded to tell him everything she had heard about the crash as well as additional details Skalany had learned in a phone call to the precinct. Peter laid the book aside and listened in amazement, his other emotion being great relief that the danger to Jennifer was over. He was also frustrated to be confined to bed and out of touch when so much was happening. When she was finished, he said, “It’s too bad about the other victims, but the main thing is that you’re in the clear. So, what’s the bad news?”

            Jennifer’s smile shrank almost to nothing. “I have to go back to San Francisco as soon as possible. Marty’s decided to pull the lead story from the next issue and go with the Garson story instead, while it’s a hot topic. We probably can’t beat the newspapers to the streets, because once they cover the plane crash and start sniffing around Garson’s bio, they’ll probably get wind of the D.A.’s investigation. But we’ll have information nobody else has. So, bottom line, I have to get back with all my notes and write the thing.”

            “I thought you said you could write it here and send it in,” Peter said plaintively, his unhappiness apparent.

            “Some of it, yes. But we can get it into final shape faster if we’re all in the same room. I’m sorry, Peter, but I’ve already been here longer than I expected, and I’ve seen more of you than I ever thought I would.” She suddenly dimpled. “In every way.”

            Peter’s answering grin was crooked and fleeting. “Right, I guess I’ve just gotten used to having you around, and I like it. I had myself convinced that the legal issues were going to keep you here a while, testifying at hearings and trials. Now there won’t be a trial for Wayne or Garson, just for the two guys who broke in the other night. But those are the breaks. I’m happy for you. It’s a great story, a great opportunity. Probably make you famous.” He smiled again, this time with more conviction.

            “Hardly that.” Jennifer’s expression became anxious. “Actually, it’s a bit scary, though I’ll have plenty of support. But, Peter, the prospect of leaving makes me sad, too. I want to take you with me.”

            “Great idea, but . . .” Peter looked down at himself and shrugged with his good shoulder.

            “I know. But, darling, can we make a deal?”

            “Probably, but what kind?”

            Jennifer took a deep breath and plunged ahead before she could lose her nerve. “Peter, Tuesday night I was a basket case. You were hurt so badly, I was afraid you’d die, and I felt responsible for what had happened to you. The thought of a world without you in it was unbearable.

            “Before all this happened, you and I had sort of an agreement not to make any demands for commitment. But you almost went ahead and got engaged to someone else without ever giving me a chance to say yes or no. That just about killed me, when I found out. I know that right now, again, you’re not ready to settle down. I can see it in so many things you say and do. And probably I’m not, either, or I wouldn’t be running back to San Francisco so fast. But wouldn’t it bother you if you heard that I was getting married without ever telling you that the competition had suddenly become serious? Or am I wrong about that?

            It would bother him, Peter realized, and he said so.

            “Then can we make this agreement?” Jennifer went on. “That if I meet a guy I really like, and I think a proposal is imminent, I’ll call you and say, ‘Peter, this is what’s happening, and do you want to do anything about it?’ And you do the same if you meet someone.”

            At first Peter frowned as he pondered this concept, which seemed simple but wasn’t. It had an inherent fairness to it, however, that finally prompted him to say, “Okay. A deal.” He found himself hoping that he wouldn’t be forced to make the choice too soon. Then he wondered why he felt that way, why he couldn’t bring himself to make an emotional commitment even when he cared for someone as much as he did Jennifer Sung.

            Jennifer’s big dark eyes were regarding him intently. “We’d make a good match, Peter Caine, if we could just clear our separate agendas before it’s too late.”

            “ Yeah, “ he agreed thickly, nodding. “You’re right.”

            That was enough of the really serious stuff, Jennifer decided. She turned and hauled one shopping bag closer. “I brought you something.” From its depths she pulled out two items. The first was a portable cellular phone, which she handed to him. ”It’s Mary Margaret’s, actually. She’s loaning it to you to keep in touch until you go back to your apartment.” The second item was a portable radio and tape player. She placed that within reach of his left hand. “This is my old one, which I’d left at Mom’s. I put new batteries in it. Now you can hear the news bulletins about Garson for yourself, of listen to a ball game or something. Your dad won’t mind, will he?”

            “Hell, no,” Peter said. He was delighted. “As long as I keep the volume down, anyway. Thank you very much.”

            “No problem. How are you feeling?”

            “Well . . . not bad. Still sore, but in fewer places. Just getting up to use the john wears me out, but give me a few more days, and I’ll be fine. Either that or stir crazy.

            Smiling, she said, “You have until I come back to testify against those two hitmen. After that, watch out. We have a postponed date to make up for.”

            “Count on it.”

            “Good. Now, I know your diet has been somewhat restricted lately, but are you well enough now to eat lasagna?”

            “Absolutely.” He was not as positive as he sounded, but he thought he could eat a little.

            “Okay, then here’s the deal. My mother came along with Skalany and me. The three of us are going to make a lasagna dinner for you and your dad—and the Ancient, too, if Mary Margaret can persuade him to come. And Kermit said he might stop by. How does that sound?”

            Peter laughed. “Great.”

            “Okay. So, I’ll leave you to play with the radio and the phone while I go help with dinner.” Jennifer kissed him tenderly, eyes shining, and left.

            For a while Peter just lay there, depressed and grouchy. He told himself he shouldn’t feel that way; she was safe, she was going to have a big boost in her career, and she wasn’t going to be gone forever. In addition, they were about to have the closest thing to a dinner party that this place had seen during his father’s occupancy. He should be upbeat, not down.

            The lecture didn’t work. Peter knew that his irritation stemmed in part from restlessness after four days of physical discomfort and inaction. He was tired of hurting, tired of being tired all the time, tired of sleeping, tired of bland, safe food, tired of not knowing what was happening in the world outside. The fact that it would be several days more before he would feel anything like himself again, and even more before he would be pain free, did not help his mood.

            But some of his discontent was due to confusion, ambivalence—perhaps even guilt—about his feelings toward Jennifer. He had told her he loved her—and he believed it. That terrible hour of waiting on Wednesday, while his father ran to the mall to rescue her, had showed him how much he cared. At the same time, the more he thought about it, the more Peter recognized that he was holding back as a matter of self-protection, not letting himself fall head-over-heels as he had so often before. He had had enough of brief, intense, passionate affairs that always seemed to end in misery—or death. He had not yet recovered from the trauma of Rebecca Calvert’s murder. Tired of emotional roller coasters, tired of grieving for lost loves, he wanted no serious, deep romantic involvements for a while. The relationship with Jennifer, being joyous and free of pressure, had seemed perfect for this particular time in his life. Although they had, in all, seen less than two weeks in each other’s company, the friendship carried the promise that, given time, it might ripen into something that they would want to make permanent. They would need the time, too, to overcome the family opposition. Now, though, they had attached a kind of string to the relationship, and he wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

            Besides, for some time he had had a sense that he had some unfinished business to take care of before he could settle down to marriage and a family. He just wasn’t sure what it was.

            Undoubtedly the problem would seem more manageable when his physical condition improved. With a sigh, Peter forced himself to turn on the radio and look for something that would divert him.

            While the lasagna baked and Skalany went to fetch the Ancient, Jennifer excused herself to put her clean clothes away and do some preliminary packing, leaving her mother to the tender mercies of Kwai Chang Caine. Caine invited Grace to join him on the terrace, where—because the Ancient had once complained about having nowhere to sit—he had put together a makeshift bench of cinderblocks and planks. The Shaolin himself perched on the edge of the parapet. After the first five minutes Grace ceased worrying about whether he would fall.

            Among her reasons for tagging along were, first, an obligation to thank the Caines for saving Jennifer’s life and, second, great curiosity about them. Although the Shaolin was well known in Chinatown by now, Grace’s path had not crossed his for a long time, and some of the stories circulating about him strained credulity, to say the least. She was uncertain what to expect. Her first sight of this old, dingy building had filled her with misgivings, but the meditation room with its familiar, reassuring ambience had calmed her anxiety. So had the fact that Jennifer seemed so much at home here.

            Caine had started by remarking that she had a daughter to be proud of, and when she evaluated his manner, she decided that the compliment was meant sincerely, not just as an attempt at flattery. One glance around the terrace told her that gardening would be a safe topic, and so they compared notes about this mutual interest. Eventually she asked how he happened to find this unique apartment at the top of an old factory/warehouse building. By the end of a half hour, they knew one another’s life histories, in general, and Grace had to admit that she felt quite comfortable with Caine. She had already seen that Jennifer was at ease in his presence, but her own reaction surprised her because she had been determined to be skeptical. She found him to be a quiet, serious, insightful man with a quick mind and a dry wit—quite charming, in his own way. When asked a direct question, he gave a straightforward answer. Obviously, he had very little interest in creature comforts and the trappings of wealth. Grace wondered how much of his attitude about money had rubbed off on his son and whether Peter’s apartment looked anything like his father’s. She had trouble believing that her daughter would find Peter so attractive if it did. Jennifer had previously shown no interest in Spartan living.

            Grace also found out a good deal about Peter’s upbringing and career choice during the conversation. She was interested to learn that Peter, like Jennifer, had lost one parent at an early age, and that she and Caine had both faced the challenges of single parenting. When Caine mentioned the fifteen-year separation from his son and Paul Blaisdell’s role in Peter’s life, Grace suddenly understood how a Shaolin priest ended up with a son who was a cop.

            Skalany returned with the Ancient, who was using a cane, and Caine moved swiftly to greet him and put him in a chair at the table immediately. Mary Margaret and Grace were about to go check the food when Jennifer and Peter entered the studio.

            Grace had not seen Peter Caine for many months and then only briefly, when he had come to pick Jennifer up. They had never had a sustained conversation. She recalled an impression that he was good-looking for a Caucasian, but her mental image of him had been fuzzy; now it came into focus sharply, vividly. He was taller and leaner than she had remembered, also more athletic-looking, though that was perhaps because of the gray sweatpants and sweatshirt he was wearing. The only bruises visible were the fading ones on his face, and they did not take away much from his looks. When he entered the room, his left hand was on Jennifer’s shoulder, but after two steps he removed it. He walked carefully, with a look of serious concentration, until he saw the Ancient; then his face broke into a smile.

            While Grace watched the interactions, there were greetings all around. Skalany exclaimed over the fact that Peter was walking around; Peter made a fuss over Lo Si, for whom he obviously had great affection. Then Jennifer said, “Mother, you remember Peter, don’t you?” by way of introduction, and he turned to Grace with full attention. The intensity of the widest hazel gaze nearly mesmerized her, made it hard to get any words out. She mumbled something appropriate, and he said, with a slight bow, “Your presence honors this home, Mrs. Sung.” Grace did not want to be captivated by either of the Caines, but she realized that.it was going to be hard not to succumb.

            Jennifer was carrying two pillows, which she now arranged in the one curved-back mahogany chair that Caine owned, so that Peter could sit down. There was some good-natured kidding from both Skalany and Lo Si about Peter’s need to use pillows, but he took that in stride. Then the women, in accordance with their plan, left the men alone and went off to finish the dinner preparations.

            In the kitchen Jennifer tried to worm out of Grace her first impressions of Kwai Chang and Peter Caine. Grace, however, refused to be baited, saying she preferred to reserve judgment a while longer. Skalany smiled to herself and kept her own counsel. Peter and his father, she figured, didn’t need any P.R. from her.

            Roughly two hours later the Caines, the Sungs, Skalany, and Lo Si were gathered for dinner around one of Caine’s all-purpose worktables in the studio. As Caine scooped spoonfuls of lasagna onto plates, Kermit and Jody walked in. Kermit was carrying a small black box like a Walkman, which he set on another table for the time being. “Greetings,” he said cheerfully. “I could smell that wonderful aroma all the way up the stairs.”

            “With that schnoz, no wonder,” Peter ribbed him.

            Unfazed, Kermit grinned and pointed at him. “You must be feeling a whole lot better, kid, to take me on already.”

            “I know you won’t pick on an invalid,” Peter retorted with a laugh.

            Caine said, “Please join us. As you can see, we have more than enough.”

            The two detectives looked at each other. “All right. Thanks.”

            Caine handed Peter the serving spoon and went to find more chairs while Jennifer fetched plates and utensils. Finally, they were all introduced, settled, and ready to dig in, whereupon Skalany said, “So, what’s the scoop? I know you two didn’t stop by just to wangle a dinner invitation.”

            “Hardly,” Kermit replied. “We thought Jennifer might have an interest in the progress of the investigation.” He knew he had their complete attention, but he tasted the lasagna and complimented the cooks first.

            “Never mind that,” Skalany said. “Come on. What’s happened?”

            “Jody? You’re on.”

            “Okay. We found the van we think the hitmen used on Wednesday night. It was impounded after piling up a bunch of violations at a meter on the next block. Inside we found electronic equipment including a scanner and wiretap gear. Blake says the wiretap device is the same kind he found at your house, Mrs. Sung. There was a lot of other stuff, including a pen from a local hotel. We showed mug shots to the hotel people, and, sure enough, that’s where the three guys were staying. Searched the room and got their ID’s. Dennis Park, Hugh Reger, and Yoon Suk Lee. And yes, that’s his real name, not a joke. They’re not local, and we haven’t gotten all of the records out of the computers yet.

            “But that’s not the best part.” There was a cat-that-ate-the-canary element to Jody’s smile. “In the room was a set of car keys. The car they fit was in the hotel parking lot. And in the car was a Blackhawks sweatshirt. The Crime Lab techs are going over that car, especially the trunk, and if they can find hair, fibers, or anything else that’s a match for samples from Chou’s house, we have the killers nailed.”

            “Oh, yeah!” Jennifer exclaimed jubilantly. “Nice work, Jody.”

            “Very nice,” Skalany agreed. “You really had a busy day.”

            “Well, I don’t claim credit for all of that,” Jody protested. “A lot of people were working on various angles.” She stole a look at the person whose opinion mattered most to her, and he gave her a warm smile and a wink.

            Kermit said, “Jennifer, there’s one more thing we need from you. Tomorrow we’d like to take you to the police lot and see if you can pick out the car. A sort of auto lineup, if you will. Just one more link in the chain of evidence, if it works.”

            Jennifer nodded slowly. “I’ll try. Can we make it early, though. I have to catch a plane back to San Francisco in the afternoon.”

            “Oh? Well, sure. No problem. Now, one more thing.” Kermit produced, from his pocket, an audio tape and held it up for all to see. “An extra copy of Ben Chou’s confession. After dinner I’ll play it for you, Jennifer, in the interest of accuracy in media. I can’t give it to you, but you can take notes for your story.”

            Momentarily Jennifer was at a loss for words, but she finally said, “Thank you, Kermit. You’re sure you won’t get into trouble?”

            “Just keep my name out of it.”

            “Absolutely.”

            It was an eerie, sobering experience to listen to the dead man’s voice as he explained the swindle he and Garson had devised, and accused Garson of having him murdered. Jennifer, the only one who had ever heard the living Ben Chou speak, confirmed that it was his voice. The detectives knew that if the tape were ever played for a jury in open court, it would cause a sensation. Whether that ever happened would depend on whether Garson could be linked to Park and Reger—and on a lot of other things. Peter wondered aloud whether news of Garson’s death would make the two hitmen more or less likely to confess, and while Jennifer replayed the tape and scribbled more notes, the four cops planned a strategy to try on Park and Reger the very next day.

            In the kitchen during cleanup, Grace asked her daughter whether she would stay here for her last night in town or come back to her old home. Pulled in two directions, Jennifer took her time about answering. She did not want to leave Peter, but she also did not want to wear out her welcome. Caine had been patient with her, considering the problems she had brought him, and now that the danger was over, she should probably just get out of the way.

            “I guess I’ll stay at your place tonight,” she finally said, trying to keep her hesitancy from being too apparent and hurting her mother’s feelings. “How soon are you planning to leave? I need time to finish packing and say goodbye.”

            “That’s up to our driver.” Grace nodded at Skalany, who said, “No rush. Take your time.”

            In the studio Caine felt Peter’s increasing restlessness. Pillowed or not, his son was growing uncomfortable and weary from pain. He wanted to escape, yet he was reluctant to leave while his friends were still there. While Kermit was telling a story about Afghanistan, Caine caught Peter’s eye and lifted an eyebrow at him with the unspoken question, Back to bed? Peter shook his head almost imperceptibly.

            When Grace and Mary Margaret returned from KP duty without Jennifer, Peter asked where she was. “She’s packing,” Skalany explained. “Now that it’s safe, I’m gonna drive her home with her mom.”

            Peter started to argue, then realized that yielding gracefully now would gain him more favor with Grace Sung in the long run. He closed his mouth and nodded agreement. A sideways glance at Caine told him that his father agreed with the decision.

            Jody, usually sensitive to Peter’s moods, turned to Kermit and said, “Let’s hang it up for tonight so Peter can get some rest.” Then she said to the Ancient, “Lo Si, may we give you a lift home, since Skalany’s got another passenger now?”

            The Ancient gratefully accepted the offer. As the three of them were heading for the stairs, Jennifer reappeared, setting her luggage down in the hall while she said goodbye to them. When she reentered the studio, Peter levered himself out of his chair, smiled, took her hand, and led her onto the terrace.

            He knew her plane would leave shortly after three the next day. “If you have time, stop by tomorrow before your flight.”

            “I’ll try. I’ll call first.” She grinned, “Just don’t wear out the batteries on the phone too fast, okay?”

            He chuckled and nodded.

            She gazed up at him, thinking how handsome he was. “I don’t really want to leave.”

            It’s hard to hug someone when one arm is in a sling but he pulled her into a left-handed embrace and kissed the top of her head. “I know. I wish you didn’t have to.”

            The terrace gave privacy to their conversation, but the French doors allowed too much visibility, to Peter’s way of thinking. He guided her through the arched door into the dim passageway from the terrace to the main hall and kissed her lingeringly. She slipped her right arm under his left and around his back wanting to hug him fiercely but afraid to exert any pressure. His body, as always, was firm under her arm, all muscle and bone and sinew. But even her light touch caused a flinch, quickly disciplined. “Sorry,” she whispered, dropping her arm.

            “It’s okay.” His arm tightened momentarily in compensation. “Still sore here and there, is all.” He kissed her again with such tender passion that she desperately wished he were well enough to carry this through to completion. Finally, he let her go but kept her hand in his. It took him a moment to catch his breath and regain control. Then he said, “Come back soon.”

            “I will. Call me as soon as you go back to your place.”

            Hand in hand, they walked slowly back into the studio, where Jennifer spoke first to Caine. “If I had gone back to Mother’s on Tuesday night, they probably would have killed Chou first, then me, and maybe Mom, too. It’s a debt too big to repay. All I can say is thank you—again—and if you ever need a favor, big or small, from either of us, don’t hesitate to ask.” She bowed first, in respectful Oriental fashion, then hugged him and surprised him with a kiss on the cheek, which made Peter grin in delight.

            Caine insisted on carrying Jennifer’s bags downstairs to Skalany’s car. When he returned, the studio was empty and dark except for a couple of candles on one table. He did not need light to sense that his son was on the terrace, gazing out at the city lights, and to feel his fatigue. Caine walked out to stand beside him and offer support if needed. After a few moments of silence, he said, “You will see her again soon.”

            “I know.” Peter looked around and smiled a little. “I’m okay.” His expression became serious. “Pop, I don’t know what I would have done without you this week.”

            Caine shrugged. “You would have had a whole hospital fussing over you.”

            “And by now, would have been mourning Jennifer’s death,” Peter replied. “She was right about that.”

            Caine did not argue the point. Peter grabbed him and planted a kiss on his forehead. “Want your bed back?”

            Smiling, Caine shook his head. “No. Not until you are better. I can sleep anywhere.”

            “On a picket fence or a bed of nails. I know. How about some tea with a shot of brandy for a nightcap.”

            “A worthwhile suggestion.” Elbows linked, they strolled back inside.