Ghost Hero by S. J. Rozan Page A

until after I met you. Hah!”
    A short silence; then Bill said, “Okay, here’s the big question. Do you want out?”
    Jack frowned. “What? You mean me? Are you nuts? Ditch a client? Never.” He sat up and pounded the arm of his chair. “And besides, no one shoots at Jack Lee and gets away with it!” He slumped back again. “There, isn’t that what I’m supposed to say?”
    I nodded approvingly. “And well delivered, too.”
    Jack squinted at me. “It’s really true, what Bill said? You’re not afraid of anything?”
    I glanced at Bill in surprise. “A complete fabrication,” I told Jack. “I just hide it well.”
    He kept his narrowed gaze on me. Finally he said, “Anyway, quitting, besides ruining my self-image, would only mean I’d be out of the loop. I wouldn’t feel any safer, just lonelier. No, I want to be right in the middle of finding out what the hell is going on here. Right in the middle, with one of you guys on each side. With a gun.”
    “You mean, we should work together?”
    “Why not?”
    “For the same reasons as this morning.”
    “This”—arm waving from broken window to drilled ceiling—“makes it not the same as this morning. Look, you don’t trust your client and I don’t trust mine. It’s perfect. Though at least I didn’t just meet mine today.”
    “No?”
    “I’ve known Dr. Yang for years. No way he’d shoot me. He doesn’t shoot people anyway, just vaporizes them with his eyes. But there’s definitely something he’s not telling me. Listen, you guys, if people are firing away in the middle of Madison Avenue, this whole thing is even farther from what we thought it was than we thought it was. Don’t!” He pointed at Bill, who’d been about to speak. “You know what I mean. What I’m saying is,” his voice and eyes grew serious, “I don’t trust my client, but I trust you guys.”
    “You just met me this morning,” I said.
    “Technically correct, but I’m willing to take a chance. How about it? If we combine our info and resources maybe we can figure out what’s going on before we all get killed.”
    “What do we do when we find the paintings?” I asked.
    “We worry about it then.”
    We sat in silence. A chilly breeze charged through the empty window frame and spiraled some papers off Jack’s desk. He gave them a glare but didn’t go after them.
    I looked at Bill. His eyes were telling me your case, your choice . I knew that; what I was searching for was but I wouldn’t recommend it . I didn’t see that.
    “Okay,” I said.
    “Yes!” Jack fist-pumped. “Porthos, Athos, Aramis.” He pointed at each of us. “The Three Musketeers.”
    “Weren’t there really four of them, though?”
    “We’re better.”
    “Okay,” Bill said, standing. “Good to be working with you, Aramis. Come on, you need a drink. I’ll buy you a martini.”
    Jack cocked his head. “A pickletini?”
    “For me to pay for that,” Bill said, “there’d have to be blood.”
    Jack spent a few minutes locking his computer and his Hasui in a closet, in anticipation of the emergency window repair and the inevitable sawdust. Then we headed downstairs. Jack spoke to the manager of the ground-floor chocolate shop. “Sorry about the mess,” he said, giving her his key for the window crew.
    She shrugged in a very French way. “Some excitement. Good for the neighborhood.”
    While that was going on, Bill crossed the street. He prowled the sidewalk, looking at Jack’s building from various spots. Jack and I followed on the next light.
    “Something up, Sherlock?” Jack asked.
    “That shot came from over here.”
    Jack scanned the ground. “Footprints?” He sniffed. “Gunshot residue still in the air?”
    “The length of the track in your ceiling. A shot fired from your side of the street would’ve gone straight up. Probably right through the floor above.”
    “And plugged poor Mischa, who rebuilds violins up there. I’ll be sure to tell him how lucky he is.