The Doll Brokers (30 page)

She rolled out of pure instinct. Every day of her life since she'd been fourteen years old she considered all of the things she could have done,
should
have done, to fight off Mad Dog. Now, all those well-rehearsed alternatives came to her in a flash. She slid onto her back, brought her legs up close to her chest, and kicked out hard. Blindly.

He was Chinese. He stood above her in some kind of fighter's stance. Without thinking, she repeated the gesture, gathering her knees close, shooting her feet at him with more power than before, aiming straight for his groin.

He screamed out in Cantonese, doubled over, staggered back. But there was another man standing by.
Another? No, no, no, she couldn't fight two of them!

She felt part of her mind sinking down. Going wild, feral. And she roared a sound of pure rage. Her legs pumped and her fists flew as the second man leaned over, trying to grab her. She caught a glimpse of a gun at his belt. She wouldn't—couldn't—let him get a grip on it. She kept screaming and kicking. Somebody, please see this, hear this, she thought.

The first man had now recovered and hit her in the face. Something red then white mushroomed in her vision before Ann's teeth found the flesh of his hand. She bit down with everything she had.

She continued flailing her arms and legs, until she realized she was just swiping at air. The men were gone. An arm in a short blue
sleeve reached to help her up. She bit hard on that hand, too, and heard the sound of pain and surprise. Ann scrambled away, crouching at a safe distance.

She was sobbing, shaking. The stranger was saying something she didn't understand.

“I don't speak Chinese,” she choked.

The man moved toward her, holding his hands out to show he only wanted to help. Ann mewled low in her throat. She noticed her briefcase on the pavement where it had fallen. She shot to her feet, swayed, then lunged and grabbed for it, almost losing her balance. “I'm okay,” she said to the man. “I'm okay.” Then she turned and ran.

S
he limped to a stop at the first corner she came to, her breath still coming in jagged gasps. She'd lost a shoe and thought about going back for it. No. She needed to keep moving ahead. Away from them. She hurried off, no destination in mind.

Who were they? She wondered.

She removed her other shoe and tossed it into the street. By the time she reached a small Chinese restaurant her stockings had shredded. Her steps finally faltered and she veered inside, past the tables to a restroom in the back.

Closing the door, she leaned her weight against it, her cheek pressed to the cool wood. When she stopped shaking, she straightened and looked around. She was alone. She locked herself in, let her legs give out, and sank to the floor. She fumbled with the latches on her briefcase. She needed her cell phone—had to call Jonathan.

Ann shoved the briefcase abruptly to the floor.
No.
She couldn't—wouldn't run to him like a kicked puppy. She'd been through worse before. Alone. She'd always saved herself.

She had to figure out what to do.
Why
had it happened? A random mugging? No, they'd had a gun. So what?
Muggers use guns, you idiot.
Ann shook her head in disgust and her brain
throbbed with pain. She rested her forehead on her drawn-up knees, willing the hurt away.

Still, it could not have been a random attack. They had not taken her briefcase. Their plan had been to drag her off somewhere. And somehow she knew, if they had succeeded, she would not have survived.

Why?
Was this part of Chow's bizarre plot to ruin Hart Toy and the Morhardts—to
kill
her?

None of this made sense.
None
of it. Why would Chow destroy the company that had been the source of his livelihood for so long? Did a million and a half dollars warrant the risk? Yes, she supposed it did, especially here in Hong Kong, where money was worshiped like a religion.

But why would Chow choose to disappear now? Why not allow things to move along and collect as much money from Hart Toy as possible, including the additional percentages? Why settle for the first million-five?

Unless … Patrick
was
somehow involved? The accusations against him were serious. Could he actually have beaten up an innocent woman, battering her nearly to death? Where was the connection? What, if anything, did Patrick have to do with any of this?

Ann was stymied; she couldn't get an angle on it.

They would have to locate Chow, she thought. Once the authorities get their hands on him, the pieces of the puzzle would come together.

Someone knocked.

Ann groaned as she stood unsteadily and pressed her palms against the door. “Just a minute,” she called. Her throat was raw.

She limped to the mirror. Her hair was wild. A bruise was growing under her left eye. She pressed her fingers to the back of her head where she'd first been hit. There was a noticeable lump.

Of course, it was impossible for her to go on to the people on
her list. She was a mess. It was a miracle she'd gotten through the restaurant without being stopped.

She cleaned up at the sink as best she could, stuffing the paper towels into the trash bin. When she opened the door to exit, there was no one on the other side.

Ann made her way out, keeping her head down to hide her battered face. She had to get back to the hotel and do whatever damage control she could: change her clothes and apply sufficient makeup.

Thinking ahead grounded her, gave her something on which to focus.

She began to walk, unsure of the correct direction. At the first corner she came to, she looked around, then crossed the street. There was no sign of the men who had accosted her.

Finally, a taxi appeared. She slid into the back seat and gave the driver the name of her hotel. Fifteen minutes later, she was just entering her room when her cell phone went off.

“Mr. Morhardt, please,” Captain Tang said.

“Hello, Captain,” she greeted him, having recognized his voice. “Mr. Morhardt is busy right now. May I help you?”

“Yes, Ms. Lesage. I have wonderful news. I found Charles Ling. He is with me now. He can be at your hotel within the hour.”

Her mind sizzled. Could she have heard right? This was too good to be true. “Did you say you—uh—found him?
The
Charles Ling we are looking for? The inventor of our baby doll?”

“Yes, yes, the very same.”

Quickly, she looked at her watch. The crystal was broken, but it seemed to be keeping time. Not wanting to take a chance, she said, “Let's see, it is now 11:48. Correct?”

“That is correct, Ms. Lesage.”

“Okay, then. One hour from now should be fine.”

She no sooner disconnected then a well of emotion burst inside of her. This was good news. No—
great
news!
Move, move, move.

The spray of the shower hurt and she had to force herself to withstand the pain. She clenched her fingers into fists and extended her arms upwards. Her curses were camouflaged by the roar of the water.

By the time she stepped out of the shower, her sole objective was to find a way to conceal the damage, especially the bruises on her face.

Pancake, rouge, lipstick; she tried it all, going so far as to apply an extra layer of each. She was careful with her choice of dress, finally picking a simple Yves St. Laurent number in lime green that suited the color of her hair.

When she heard an abrupt rap on the door, she sighed. This would be Jonathan, she was sure. She turned her face away as he strolled past her into the room.

“And how was your—” he started to ask. He broke off and stared at her. “Jesus. What happened to you?”

So much for makeup, Ann thought.

He came at her fast, reached a tender hand to her swollen cheek. “Who did this to you, Ann?” His voice was pained.

She let him hold her, but something shattered in her head. Whatever it was that had kept her moving after the attack, now broke into a million small pieces and rained down inside her. It happened with a sound like a pop behind her eyes, within her ears—something only she could hear. And she felt herself coming apart.

He finally peeled back, held her at arms length. “What happened? Please tell me.”

Despite her resolve, she began to cry.

He'd only seen her cry once before, when she'd gotten misty-eyed during their trip to the American retailers. But this was gulping, shuddering. She couldn't seem to get her breath. He wrapped his arms tightly around her. “Come on now. Easy does it.”

Even while she buried her face in his neck, her hands started pummeling his shoulders. “I needed you!”

The knot in his gut twisted. “I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry.”

“No! I
needed
you!” But her fists slowed in their pace.

“I should have been there.”

“No, you should
not
have been there!” She yanked away from him. “And I shouldn't have run for you!”

“You couldn't have run for me, Ann. We were far apart.”

“Would you stop being so reasonable and just
get
this?”

“Ann, darling—I'm not sure what it is I'm supposed to be getting.”

“I was going to call you!” she shouted. “The first thing I thought to do was
call
you!”

Ah, he thought. The independence thing again. It wasn't just sex that made her panicky, he realized. It was more a matter of this … needing.

“I'm here now,” he said.

She couldn't tell him how happy she was to see him. At least, not yet. But she did allow herself to soften a bit. She began to give him the details of the attack. She kept it as simple and as abbreviated as possible, purposely leaving out the part about the gun. Before she could finish, however, the hotel phone rang.

“Ms. Lesage?” a stranger's voice asked.

“Yes?”

“My name is Ling.” Broken accent. “Charles Ling.”

“Yes. We were expecting you. Is Captain Tang with you?”

“No. He no come. So sorry.”

In a way, Ann was relieved. “Well, could you join us in my room, please?” She gave him the room number.

By the time she disconnected, Jonathan was curious. “Who was that?”

She shrugged. “Sorry. I should have told you. Captain Tang found Charles Ling. He's on his way up to see us now.”

“He is? That's fabulous, Ann.”

As if on cue, there was a knock on the door and Jonathan went to answer it. A moment later, Charles Ling shyly stepped into Ann's room. Like many tall men, he seemed to hunch a little, as though trying to minimize the impact he had on his environment. He was gangly and nervous. Around forty-five, Ann would guess. In spite of his height—or maybe because of it—everything else about him seemed small: his features, his hands, his feet. Only his brown eyes loomed unnaturally large, the effect of black-framed glasses.

Ann and Jonathan took seats on the small sofa, allowing their guest to have the only chair in the room, a hardback model that was positioned next to the desk.

“Do you know Edmund Chow?” Ann asked without preamble.

“Yes, he is one of three people I showed my latest invention to,” Ling said. But Ann realized these were not quite the words he was using. His English was fractured. As he spoke she automatically adjusted the grammar in her head, knowing if she didn't she would lose the meaning of whatever it was he was trying to tell them.

“But other people showed no interest,” he continued. “Only Mr. Chow. I asked him to sign the agreement. He told me it wasn't necessary.” The man's voice broke, genuine grief causing his face to spasm. “He took my one-of-a-kind sample. And I haven't heard from him since.”

Ann could see how upset the man was. “Who is Mae Sing Creations?” she asked.

Ling made an odd gargling sound, then blanched.

“What is it?” Ann said.

“That is my wife.”

“Mae Sing Creations?” A headache swelled inside her skull as she tried to assimilate it.

“It is my wife's name. We have no creations, other than our children.” He gave a weak smile.

Ann looked from the man to Jonathan, and back again. “How do we know you are the creator of Baby Talk N Glow? I mean, what proof do you have?”

Ling frowned. “Baby what?”

“I'm sorry,” Ann said. “I should explain. That is the name we have chosen for the doll.”

The man's smile didn't exactly expand but his countenance transformed. Where there had been anxiety and hesitation was now resolve. From his jacket pocket he removed a four-page legal document, written in Chinese and stamped by some Hong Kong authority.

“This is proof of the copyright,” Ling said. “You are welcome to show it to your lawyer.”

Ann passed the document to Jonathan who gave it a perfunctory glance. It could have been Greek, for all he knew. Looking for more familiar ground, he turned to Ling and asked the man to tell them about himself.

Ling's look revealed his bewilderment.

“Where were you born?” Jonathan began again. “Where did you go to school? How did you become, of all things, a doll inventor?”

Ling finally understood the line of questioning and began to talk about being schooled in Quangzhou. “I studied creative arts but was always able to draw, ever since a child,” he said. “My cousin opened a toy factory in Shenzhen and I joined him as chief designer. I worked many years for low pay. Even after I got married, had two children. Still, my cousin did not increase my salary. But it was my creations that were being sold to countries around the world, even America. My wife begged me to leave, to go out and open my own business. She got her family to loan us money. Eight months ago we moved to Hong Kong and set up an office in an apartment that was also to be our home. It's been very difficult. Creating something from nothing takes time. Finally, I
came up with my baby doll. Everyone told me she was unique. Weekends, evenings, every moment I could, I spent to make her perfect. The electronics make a difference, but I concentrated on the styling, the balance…”