The Simeon Chamber (11 page)

along the bed toward the bathroom between the two adjoining hospital rooms. By the time he reached the end of the bed Sam was able to walk without clinging to the furniture or the walls, though his body was stiff from nearly three days in bed. He entered the bathroom and felt for the light.

An instant after he threw the large plastic toggle switch the fluorescent tube over the sink flickered and came on. He squinted at the image in the mirror under the bright light. The attack in his apartment had taken its toll. The long narrow stitches in his head, still unbandaged from the intern’s inspection of the previous afternoon, ran along his scalp on the left side of his forehead. A small patch of hair no more than half an inch in diameter had been shaved from his already receding hairline. There was a heavy growth of stubble on his face, which provided some color to the sallow complexion and baggy eyes that stared back at him from the mirror.

Sam finished in the bathroom, turned off the light and returned to his bed. He lay awake for several hours and considered the attack in his apartment, which was in ruins with no obvious articles of value taken. It was a second-floor room, not the usual target of an experienced burglar. Entry had to be made through the front door from a common hallway, increasing the risk of observation by others living in the apartment house.

No, Bogardus was certain that it was not a random burglary. The intruder was looking for something specific. There was only one thing it could be—the Davies parchments.

But why, after all of these years, had the documents surfaced, and how did his assailant know that he had them? His analysis kept returning to Jennifer Davies. He remembered the letter he’d dictated to her before leaving his office three days earlier. There was no need to wait now. The attack in his apartment excused the need for discretion. He would call Jennifer at her office, and if there was no answer he would call her at her stepfather’s house. She could provide needed information. She could also be in danger.

Sam lay wide-awake, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, his mind playing and replaying the events of the past week. Just before eight o’clock an orderly entered the room with a breakfast that could only be characterized as sterile. By eight-thirty he had devoured the shredded wheat, two pieces 115

of buttered toast and juice and had gagged down a half cup of tepid coffee.

It was still early but Sam could not wait any longer. He reached for the telephone next to the bed and dialed the office. He was cut off by an operator who told him he would have to dial nine for an outside line. Sam redialed. He let it ring for several minutes. There was no answer. He hung up and dialed again, a “back-line” number that only he and Pat used. It rang three times and was finally answered. He recognized Pat’s voice.

“Hi. Sam here.”

“What are you doing calling at this hour? You’re supposed to be taking it easy. That doctor read me the riot act yesterday afternoon.”

“Yeah, and I’ll bet it’s an act that usually impresses the young ladies. Next time you see him tell him what you do for a living. The only thing they hate worse than disease is lawyers. Do I have any messages?”

“Nothing that can’t wait. Carol and I can handle everything until you’re up and around again.”

“Fine. I don’t think I had any scheduled court appearances until early next week. But I did have quite a bit of paperwork on the desk. Maybe you can take a look and see if anything is pressing.”

“I’ve already taken care of it.” There was a cool efficiency in her voice. “I filed the Armadeck articles of incorporation and reserved the corporate name with the Secretary of State in Sacramento. I’ve sent the articles under a cover letter to the client. I canceled two new client interviews and told them to call you back next week. Oh yes, I also obtained a continuance on the briefing schedule in the Buckster case. Talk about living on the edge. Your replay brief was due today, but I told the clerk you were in the hospital and the other side agreed to an open continuance.”

“Carol didn’t do any of my dictation, did she?” Sam cut in.

“I don’t think so. I’m sure she would have run it by me if she had. She’s not in yet, but I’ll ask her when I see her this morning.”

“There’s no need,” said Sam. “The only thing on the tape was a letter to Jennifer Davies, and I’ve decided to give her a call and schedule another meeting rather than write.” 7

“Oh? I thought we were going to get an investigator to chase that one down.”

“Yes, but you weren’t pressuring, remember.”

“Is that what I said?”

“Yeah, that’s what you said. I wasn’t that drunk. Listen, do me a favor? Look on Carol’s desk and see if you can find the file with Davies’s telephone number. There should be one of my business cards inside. She wrote her office number on the other side. I’ll also need the residence phone from the file jacket.”

Pat whispered profanities under her breath as she left the phone. A few seconds later she returned.

“I have a residence phone, but no business card or office number.”

Then Sam remembered. He’d placed the business card with her office number in his wallet. By now it would be locked in the hospital vault, common procedure on the admission of an unconscious patient. They had left only his keys and a small pocket comb, though Sam could see only the comb in the jumble of magazines and other gifts on the nightstand.

“That’s okay, give me the home number.”

She read as Sam jotted the number on a pad of paper from the nightstand.

“I should be talking to the doctor this morning,”

said Sam, “and I’m gonna shoot to get out of here tomorrow at the latest if he’ll listen. I’d like to leave right now, but I doubt if he’d go for that.”

“Take as long as you need. Everything’s fine back here. Really.”

“Pat, thanks. And say hello to Carol for me. Thank her for the mission of mercy with my mother yesterday. I never knew a ladies room could provide so much relief, particularly to the male of the species.”

He hung up and dialed Jennifer Davies’s home number. The phone rang several times and was finally answered by a man.

Sam hesitated for an instant, remembering Davies’s admonition and her concern for her stepfather. It was too late now.

“Is Jennifer Davies in?”

“Yes, but I don’t know if she’s available right now. Can I ask who’s calling?”

Before Sam could answer he heard a voice from a distance on the other end of the line then a muffled response from the man. 9

“Sure, I’ll hang up down here.”

A second later Sam heard Jennifer Davies come on the line.

“Hello, who is this?”

“Sam Bogardus, Ms. Davies.”

“What in the world are you calling here for? i told you not to use this number.” Sam’s placid image of the vulnerable female was shattered. Her voice was aggressive and harsh. “Apparently the attorney-client privilege means absolutely nothing to you.” Sam was taken aback by the hostility in her voice. But the events of the past two days had taken precedence over his concerns for confidentiality.

“I had no choice. I’m in the hospital in San Francisco.” His tone was stern, not apologetic.

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line. Jennifer stuttered. “What’s wrong?

What happened?”

“I was attacked in my apartment a couple of nights ago by somebody looking for something.” Sam hesitated. “I think they were looking for your parchments.”

“The parchments—but why? Are you all right?”

“Except for a sizable knot on my head and a few stitches I’m fine.”

“What makes you think anybody would be looking for the parchments?”

“I thought maybe you could tell me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Only that my apartment is in ruins, nothing of any value is missing, it’s on the second story, not an easy touch for your run-of-the-mill burglar. And they didn’t run when they heard me.” Sam thought for a moment. There was something more that he had not told anyone else. He’d only realized it himself at that moment. It was too foolish to put into words. But he’d had a strange feeling that someone had followed him from the office that evening and that he was not alone when he’d left for lunch earlier in the day, after his meeting with Jennifer. Suddenly his mind was jarred.

“Oh my God—Nick. He has the parchments.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Listen, I can’t talk now. I have to see you. We have to talk. Can you meet me here later this morning during visiting hours, say at eleven?”

There was a brief hesitation. 1

“Certainly. I’ll be there.” Her acceptance was grudging and Sam detected something else in her voice, something he’d not heard before—fear. She took down the directions and the hospital room number and hung up.

Sam immediately dialed Nick’s office in Berkeley. The phone rang several times and was answered by a student. Nick hadn’t arrived at the department yet and was not scheduled for a class until one that afternoon. Sam left an urgent message to have Nick call him at the hospital as soon as he arrived, then he hung up and dialed information for Nick’s home number. Jorgensen used an alias rather than an unlisted number to avoid midnight calls from worried students before examinations. Sam got the number and dialed it, but there was no answer. He hung up the phone and waited for Nick’s call, hoping that his worries were unfounded.

After talking to Sam on the phone, Pat had gone to Carol’s desk and found the microcassette tape dictated three days earlier. She listened to the letter intended for Jennifer Davies. In it Sam told her of his discoveries at Treasure Island, about the letter from Jack Caulford and the attached list of personal items, including the four pages of parchments with the stamp from the Jade House on Old Chinatown Lane. Hearing the message in Sam’s voice, its tone animated, conveying an energy that had been absent from his practice for more than a year, only served to heighten Pat’s sense of defeat, the feeling that she was losing him. After their relationship had ended, they managed to save something of themselves in the partnership. But now that too seemed to be evaporating. Pat felt suddenly engulfed by a sense of helplessness, powerless to reverse the course of Sam’s drift away from her. Soon there would be nothing left of the love they’d shared.

It was something she’d never confided to another soul, but Susan Paterson had come to regret the career choice she’d made. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy the practice of law; it satisfied her driving ambition and fed her ego. But she wanted it all, and something was missing. She had denied it through her twenties and early thirties. And while she hated the cliche she had to admit that the “biological clock” was catching up with her. In her own way she loved Sam Bogardus 123

more than any other man she’d ever met, and if she didn’t move quickly it would be too late for them.

Forty minutes later she stepped off the bus at the corner of Broadway and Old Chinatown Lane and began walking south into the heart of Chinatown. Under her arm she carried a light satchel briefcase and a small handbag.

Though it was not yet ten o’clock, the exotic odors from the multitude of small restaurants that lined the street had already begun to mingle with the fragrance of incense from the curio shops. The narrow streets were crowded with cars weaving their way around the parked trucks unloading their foodstuffs and merchandise at restaurants and small shops.

A handful of early morning tourists wandered aimlessly along the sidewalks peering through shop windows. Local residents scurried in and out of stores, making the purchases needed for the day’s cooking and housekeeping. Pat never noticed the two men who followed her a half block behind.

She had gone three blocks when she saw a large sign hanging out from a drab two-story building over the sidewalk across the street that was more of a narrow alley: THE JADE HOUSe

She wasn’t surprised that the shop had remained in business during the thirty years since the war. Businesses in Chinatown were institutions handed down from one generation to the next. The Chinese were the one ethnic community that retained fee simple ownership of the land under their businesses. Developers who coveted the valuable square mile that was Chinatown met their match in the Asian shop owners who could not be enticed to sell for high-rise development. More importantly, their political power was sufficient to thwart urban renewal and other governmental schemes that had been used to dispossess others when their property became too valuable.

Pat crossed the street and entered the shop to the tinkle of the small bell over the door. Inside was a maze of oriental handcarved furniture, porcelain vases and rows of glass display cases crammed with carved jade figurines and other items of onyx and polished hardwoods. The shabby exterior of the building was in stark contrast to the fine selection of merchandise and 5

furnishings inside. This shop was not for the common tourist, but was one of those places reserved for antique dealers, interior designers and fine jewelers—those who catered to a professional clientele for whom price was no object when it came to that tax-deductible piece of art or antique for the office.

So overwhelmed was she by the quality of the merchandise that for a moment she became distracted from the principal purpose of her trip. She mused through the aisles of furniture, and stopped in front of an ornate cherrywood desk and matching chair, both inlaid with ivory. For a fleeting instant she visualized the pieces in her office. There were no prices listed on any of the items—an ominous sign to the wary shopper.

“May I help you?”

Pat turned to find an attractive Asian woman standing behind her. In her mid-thirties, the clear tan complexion of her face was framed by long, shimmering black hair that flowed over her shoulders. She was striking in a full-length silk dress that clung to the gentle curves of her body.

“I was just admiring the desk set. It’s lovely.”

“Yes, it is beautiful, isn’t it?” The woman spoke flawless English, but then, why shouldn’t she? The girl was probably third-or fourth-generation San Franciscan.

Yet there was something strange about her. At first Pat couldn’t isolate the feature that made the woman’s appearance so unique. Then she realized it. Her eyes were not almond but round and gray-green in color. Their shape and hue contrasted sharply with the bronze complexion of the woman’s face.