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  “Thanks. But first, would you mind telling me about him in your own words?”

  Cheung crossed her outstretched ankles, put her arms back for support, and promptly set one hand down on the forgotten slice of tomato. Her nose wrinkled violently. “Oh. gross! I can’t believe—”

  I reached into my jacket pocket and brought out a reasonably clean tissue.

  “Oh, thanks. I’m such a slob. You know, I went to J-school—journalism—at Northwestern, and the whole time I pictured myself all dressed up in a terrific suit shouting terribly penetrating questions at a White House press conference. So instead I end up in jeans on the floor of my crummy office, up to my wrists in slimy tomato pulp.”

  “Don’t feel bad: I studied sociology at Berkeley and dreamed of doing Important Research that would Help People. Instead I ended up running skip traces. And once getting shot in the ass.”

  Cheung stopped scrubbing at her hand and stared at me, clearly fascinated. “Really? That must have hurt like hell.”

  “Plus you can imagine how embarrassing it was.”

  “Still, there must be a lot of satisfaction in your job. I mean, in a way you are doing that important research.”

  I shrugged. In my up moments I tend to romanticize what I do—the memory of which is always vaguely humiliating in my down moments. During those, I often bleakly reflect that I’m fighting, and mainly losing, a minor skirmish in a global war.

  Cheung said, “Well, to get back to the subject—in order to understand Lionel Ong, you’ve got to understand the Hong Kong money elite. You know much about them?”

  I shook my head.

  “First of all, except for a few patriarchs, they’re relatively young—forty-five, tops. And they control billions. They’re also extremely well educated; the rich Hong Kong families send their sons and daughters to the best U.S. colleges and business schools—Harvard, Wharton, M.I.T., Stanford, Michigan—and then turn over their U.S. operations to them.”

  “What kind of operations are we talking about?”

  “Real-estate development is the big one; they own about a tenth of the downtown here. They’re also into parking garages, hotels, apparel companies. Lately there’s been an increase in the number of Chinese-owned banks. Not many restaurants.” Cheung smiled. “Too risky, and you can’t move enough money that way. Besides, these people shy away from stereotypes.

  “They’re the real movers and shakers in San Francisco finance these days,” she went on. “Very well connected politically, with a lot of clout with City Hall and the state legislature. Family ties are important; that’s the Chinese way. And they can be tough adversaries.”

  “How so?”

  “Have you ever heard of Sun Tzu’s The Art of War?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it’s a twenty-five-hundred-year-old classic work on military philosophy. There’s an in joke that the Hong Kong business community patterns its strategies on it. But nobody really laughs at that. Let’s just say they’re people who don’t enjoy losing—at any game.”

  I thought of the bullet holes in Mick Erickson’s chest and the armed Chinese guards on the mesa above Stone Valley. “How far would they go to avoid losing?”

  “That would depend on the individual.”

  “And if the individual were Lionel Ong?”

  She considered. “I’d say he’d go very far indeed.”

  “Tell me more about him. I know the facts are in the file, but I’m also after subjective impressions.”

  “Just as you’ve got to understand the Hong Kong money elite to understand him, you’ve also got to understand the Ong family. They’re hard-driving and ruthless. A lot of deprivation and tragedy in their past. According to my research”—she motioned at the file—“they came out of Guangdong province in south China in the thirties, during the Japanese occupation. I’m not clear on the details, but a couple of the children died, and the mother—Lionel’s grandmother—was shot to death during the border crossing. Once they got to Hong Kong, the grandfather became relentless; in less than a generation the family went from virtually nothing to billions.”

  “In what industry?”

  “Primarily shipping.”

  “Lionel was born in Hong Kong?”

  “Yes. Attended Saint Stephen’s Prep School—a lot of the elite did. The grandfather chose him over his older brother as the one to guide the family enterprises. Lionel was sent to Stanford and later to Harvard Business School with only two instructions—to earn top marks and become an American citizen. And those were all the instructions he needed.”

  “The entire family is in the U.S. now?”

  “Just Lionel. The rest will probably remain in Hong Kong until all their assets are moved out of there and the territory reverts.”

  “Where does Ong live?”

  “Here in the city. Most of his peers favor the upscale suburbs—Hillsborough is most popular—but Lionel prefers to be close to the action. He’s got a huge house just below Sutro Tower—needs it, too, since he and his wife have done their duty to the family by having five kids. Not that it slows him down any; most of the Hong Kong families like to keep a low profile, but Lionel’s all flash. Sharp dresser, drives a red Mercedes convertible with vanity plates, lunches in all the right places with all the right people. There’s a girlfriend—Caucasian—living in a Transpacific-owned condo in Telegraph Hill, and another for weekend getaways in Sausalito.”

  “So he’s smart, shrewd, and self-indulgent.”

  “He’s a moneymaking machine that’s fueled by greed and instant gratification. That’s all he’s supposed to be; the grandfather didn’t see the need to instruct him to be human.”

  Cheung’s voice had taken on a bitter tone. I could understand how a man like Ong would be an affront to a modern and thoroughly American young woman of Chinese descent.

  I wanted to ask more, but the receptionist appeared at the door, her brow creased in annoyance. “Marcy,” she said, “will you please put your phone back on the hook? The printer’s called three times now.”

  “The idiot! I told him—” She broke off and took the file from my hands. “Listen, if I promise to put it back on the hook, will you make copies of these for me?”

  “It’s a deal.” The woman took the file and disappeared down the corridor.

  Cheung made no move toward the receiver. To my questioning look she said, “Not until she brings your copies back.”

  “I’m really sorry to have taken so much of your time when you’re swamped with work.” And then I thought of a favor I could do her—which would also help me. “Marcy,” I said, “how about if I conduct the interview with Lionel Ong? I interview people every day, and I’m good at it. You have a prepared list of questions, don’t you?”

  She was looking surprised but somewhat receptive. “Uh-huh. And as I said, it’s to be taped, so you wouldn’t even have to transcribe it. Besides, you could be the worst interviewer in the world and still do better than my former assistant.”

  “Have you scheduled an appointment with Ong?”

  “For four o’clock tomorrow afternoon at his home.”

  “Well, how about it?”

  “Why not? It would sure free up my schedule.”

  “Do you mind if I add some questions of my own?”

  “Not at all. If it’s material I can use, I will; otherwise I’ll edit it out.” She hesitated. “A couple of things, though: I don’t ever want it to get back to my boss that I talked this candidly about Ong. Or that you’re anything other than a professional interviewer who’s doing me a favor.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Just remember to watch yourself. Lionel Ong would make one hell of an enemy.”

  Twelve

  After I left the Sino-American Alliance, I walked down the alley next to the building and took a seat at an umbrellaed table outside the little café. I wanted a Pernod with my steamed mussels—in memory of my one trip to France—but in the interests of clear thinking I ordered min
eral water instead. As I ate I read through the file Marcy Cheung had given me. The background on Lionel Ong was a bare-bones sketch of what she had told me, but the information on Transpacific Corporation held my attention.

  For one thing, their recent divestments and acquisitions struck me as inconsistent with their intention to go into large-scale commercial mining. There was no history of involvement in heavy industry, unless you counted shipping in that category—which I didn’t—and most of those assets had been liquidated as the company moved its operations to the U.S. Here Transpacific had acquired commercial real estate, including office buildings, parking garages, and hotels. It held a minor interest in the city’s newest Chinese-owned bank. But many of its downtown properties had been sold several years ago in order to finance a large resort complex in Carmel Valley, and plans were under way for a second in Palm Desert.

  I wondered why Ong and his associates had decided to plunge into such a different field of endeavor. And how had they learned of the gold-mining potential in Stone Valley in the first place? Through Mick Erickson, most likely. But where had they acquired the expertise to evaluate the feasibility of the project? Geologists had been hired, of course, but they could only make recommendations; it was the management team’s responsibility to make the final decisions. And why diversify now, when to all appearances the company’s focus had been narrowing? I’d have to talk to Larry about this, see what he thought. If I needed information on exploration and development of natural resources, I could ask George to refer me to someone in his family’s former company; the Kostakos money had been made in oil and natural gas.

  Finally I turned to Cheung’s list of questions for the Ong interview. They were straightforward, designed to place him and Transpacific in the best possible light. I read through them twice, marked a few places where I could insert questions of my own without interrupting the flow or alerting him to the fact that I was after anything more than a flattering puff piece. Then I stuffed the file in my briefcase, paid the lunch tab, and went to hand over an amount that I was sure would be only slightly less than the value of my car to the Embarcadero Center parking garage.

  It was after four when I got back to All Souls. Ted and the Xerox repairman were in conference over the corpse of our oft-dead copy machine, so I grabbed my waiting messages and took them upstairs. The only one requiring immediate attention was from Kristen Lark. I dialed Bridgeport and spoke with three people before she came on the line.

  “I was just checking to see if you’d come up with anything on Michael Erickson,’’ she said.

  I explained what I’d learned so far, summing up, “I’m fairly certain his wife is afraid of something, but I can’t pin down what.”

  “Well, her husband was just murdered. I don’t know about you. but that would throw me some.”

  “Of course, but this is different.”

  “Maybe she’s got reason to suspect they’ll come after her next.”

  “Maybe, but I don’t think that’s it. I had the impression it was more a fear of something I might ask, something that might come out during the investigation.”

  “Why did she agree to talk with you, then?”

  “It probably never occurred to her not to. I said I was working with the police; I have the feeling Margot Erickson is one of those people who wouldn’t dream of not cooperating with the authorities. On the other hand, she could have agreed because she wanted to find out how much I know.”

  “You think she knew what her husband was doing here?”

  “I doubt it. He covered his tracks so well even his secretary thought he was really in Japan.”

  “They both could have been lying.”

  “Anything’s possible. I’m just going on my gut-level reaction here.”

  Lark sighed. “Sometimes that’s all you can go on. You say he was out of contact with his office after the first phone call?”

  “Yes.”

  She was silent for a moment. Finally I said, “Kristen?”

  “Just thinking. There are a few things I didn’t tell you when you stopped by yesterday morning. Didn’t think you needed to know, just to gather background material on the victim for us. But given the kind of things you’re finding out … well, I’m telling you now. First, there were bruises on Erickson’s body, looked like he’d been in a fight. They weren’t inflicted at the time he died—too well developed for that—but the fight could have taken place earlier that day.”

  “Okay. What else?”

  “That rented Bronco—it had been wiped.”

  “Completely?”

  “No, just the steering wheel, shift, door handle on the driver’s side.”

  “Keys in it?”

  “Yes.”

  “So someone moved it after he disposed of the body.”

  “Looks like. We checked for hair and fiber samples, anything that might identify whoever drove it, but all we came up with was dirt and leaves—could have come from anywhere in the area.”

  “Any evidence it was used to transport the body?”

  “None.”

  “So it was moved only to cover up where he was killed.”

  “Probably. What we found and didn’t find in the vehicle is interesting, too. We didn’t find any clothes, suitcase, shaving gear; since he’d shaved that day, he must have had stuff with him, left it wherever he was staying. But we haven’t been able to get a line on where that was. And what we did find was a gun—forty-four Magnum—in the glovebox. It had been fired three times and fairly recently.”

  “You trace the gun’s ownership?”

  “We’re still working on that, but it wasn’t registered to Erickson.”

  “Any fingerprints on it?”

  “A few partials, not enough to identify them. And the deceased’s.”

  “And no shootings reported?”

  “None.”

  I thought for a moment. “He could have been using it for target practice.”

  “Maybe.” But Lark sounded doubtful.

  I thought a bit more, but came up with nothing that made sense of her mixed bag of findings. “So where are we?”

  “Things are even less straightforward than before.”

  “Well, maybe my interview with Lionel Ong will produce something useful. I’ll keep you posted.”

  “You do that, McCone. And send me the tape of your interview with Erickson’s wife.” With characteristic abruptness, Lark hung up.

  I stuffed the tape into a mailer, addressed it to Lark, and put it in my out-box. There was a note from Rae on my desk, saying she wanted to talk with me. I went down to the converted closet under the stairs, smiling as I recalled my earlier thoughts about the bosses’ offices standing empty while the staff toiled in cubicles. But I myself had occupied Rae’s closet until Hank bequeathed me the room upstairs after he married Anne-Marie and moved out of the co-op, and Rae’s name wasn’t far down on the waiting list for larger space once it became available. In the meantime she had made the most of her cramped quarters. The walls, once faded yellow, were now pale blue, covered with a collage of posters from art exhibits at the de Young Museum. She’d refinished the battered desk, installed a good light fixture, even imported a ficus plant that thrived on the rays from an ultraviolet bulb and frequent airings on the service porch. It embarrassed me that in a short time she’d managed something I hadn’t gotten around to in years.

  She was at her desk, making notes on a legal pad, the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth as she struggled to write legibly. When she saw me she put down her pencil, sighing with relief. “I didn’t think you’d get back this afternoon, so I was just drafting a report,” she said, “but now we can talk in person.”

  I started to sit in the ratty armchair she’d inherited from me (even that was spiffed up with a blue-and-white slipcover), but she stopped me. “Don’t—I’m feeling claustrophobic. Besides, you could probably use a glass of wine before you pick up your mother.”

  I looked at my watch. “My moth
er and the dessert to take to George’s. But I’ve got a little time, so let’s.”

  We went back to the big old-fashioned kitchen at the rear of the house, and Rae dug out glasses while I located a jug of Chablis in the overcrowded fridge. After we sat down at the round oak table by the windows, I propped my feet on a chair and asked, “So what were you putting in your report?”

  Rae’s round face lit up in triumph, as it always does when she scores an investigatory coup. “The DMV had a recent traffic citation on Earl Hopwood.”

  “Great! Where and when?”

  “Here in the city—corner of Clay and Sansome. A month ago yesterday—illegal left-hand turn.”

  The intersection of Clay and Sansome is in the financial district, in reasonable proximity to where I’d been earlier.

  “What do you think?” Rae asked.

  “I think you did good work. Keep trying to trace the daughter. Check Vital Statistics for marriages and divorces— she’s rumored to have had three. Maybe Cal has a current address for her—or the alumni association.”

  Rae looked vaguely disappointed. I supposed she’d thought the information about Hopwood’s traffic citation more important than it was. But the financial district encompasses many people and places; he could have been visiting any one of its numerous offices or just passing through.

  After taking a sip of her wine Rae asked, “Do you have time to tell me about the case?”

  “Briefly, I can.”

  As I spoke she nodded periodically, then scrunched up her face in concentration. “Nothing fits,” she said.

  “Not at this point.” I looked at my watch again, saw it was close to five. “I’d better get going if I’m to pick up the cake before I fetch Ma.”

  “You getting it from Elena’s?”

  “Yes. Her Double-to-die-for Chocolate Fudge Cake.”

  Rae rolled her eyes. “She’ll love it!”

  “She’d better,” I said—a shade grimly.

  “This morning you told me you were looking forward to the dinner.”