Dead in Hong Kong (Nick Teffinger Thriller) (22 page)

“If you killed her—”

“I didn’t kill her.”

KONG STAGGERED TO HIS FEET, grabbed the hatchet out of Prarie’s hand and stood over Pak. “You painted the fakes that went into the museum,” he said.

Pak didn’t answer.

He ripped open his shirt to check the wound.

It was messy
, d
eep
and s
erious.

“You bitch,” he said to Emmanuelle.

“Shut up!” Kong said. He raised the hatchet to strike and said, “Where are the originals?”

“What paintings?”

“Don’t play games,” Kong said. “Otherwise I’m going to start chopping your fingers off one at a time. Do you think that will help you paint better?”

Pak hesitated, s
izing Kong up.

Then he said, “I don’t have them.”

“I already figured that,” Kong said. “Who does have them?”

“I don’t know,” Pak said. “I just painted the fakes and got paid for them. That was it.”

“Got paid by who?”

“I don’t know his name,” Pak said. “He was just a voice on the phone.”

KONG PACED
, t
wo seconds away from planting the hatchet in the man’s skull.
Then he made a sour face.
“I’m losing my patience,” he said. “We’re at the point of no return. You need to understand that.”

Pak looked at Kong b
ut couldn’t focus.

He collapsed onto his back and held the wound.

“I’m bleeding to death,” he said. “I’m just an artist. Leave me alone.”

Kong stood there
, n
ot sure what to do.

Emmanuelle shook his arm.

“He’s dying,” she said.

“I can see that.”

Emmanuelle slapped Pak’s face until he focused on her. “Do you have a needle and thread anywhere?”

“Kitchen,” he said. “Drawer.”

To Kong, “Get it.” Then to Pak, “I’m going to stitch you up.”

He said nothing.

T
hen his eyes closed.

Day Seven—August 9

Sunday Afternoon

______________

A WAVE ROLLED OVER PRARIE’S BODY. She closed her eyes and held her breath until there was no breath left. Then at the absolute last second, the water roll
ed back and she choked for air.
She’d be
able to do that two more times maybe three, t
hen the water
would be over her for too long, j
ust a second too long
b
ut that’s all it would take.

She’d breathe in while she was still under.

She’d drown.

She said goodbye to the people she loved.

Then braced for death.

The grim reaper had come for her.

Day Seven—August 9

Sunday Afternoon

______________

THE COTAI STORM HOTEL & CASINO had enough glitz and glamour and lights and action to rival the Bellagio or Mandalay Bay or anything Monte Carlo had to offer. Take away the Asian signs and faces, and it might as well have been sitting on Las Vegas Boulevard.
Teffinger
grabbed Fan Rae’s hand, led her to an opulent bar with a octopus tank backdrop, and ordered two Margaritas from a cute woman in skimpy sailor-girl attire. He gave her a healthy tip, looked at his watch and said, “We’re supposed to meet Jack Poon in forty-five minutes. Where would that be?”

She thought about it and shrugged.

“I don’t know. The penthouse?”

“Right,”
Teffinger
said. “That’s what he said. Where’s the elevator for that?”

She pointed.

“It’s all the way over there,” she said, “past the tigers. The elevator on the right serves the top three floors. There’s an operator. Just check in with him and tell him you have an appointment.”

“Thanks,”
Teffinger
said. “Can we take our drinks with us?”

“Absolutely.”

They headed that way.

Fan Ran linked her arm through his as they walked and said, “You get too much just by using your smile. It’s not fair.”

“Actually, it only works 80 percent of the time.”

“And what do you do the rest of the time?”

“Use my mean look,” he said.

“You got one of those?”

He nodded.

“Unfortunately.”

THEY PLAYED THE PASS LINE at a party-hardy craps table that had a goo
d view of the elevators a
nd waited.
They were down $300 HKD when Brittany So Kwak finally stepped out of the elevator.

A man was with her.

They stepped to the side to finish a conversation.

Teffinger
leaned over and whispered in Fan Rae’s ear—“Is that Poon?”

“Negative.”

After a few moments, the P.I and the man walked away in different directions.

Teffinger
and Fan Rae finished their hand.

“You take him,”
Teffinger
said. “I’ll take her.”

“Where do we hook up?”

Good question.

“Across the street,” he said. “The more we’re away from the cameras of this place the better.”

TEFFINGER
EXPECTED THE P.I. to get into one of the casino’s private limousines for a ride to the Predator. Instead, she sat down at a Baccarat table, laid a handful of bills on the table and got a stack of chips.

Teffinger
watched from a distance.

A cocktail girl passed.

He grabbed her arm and said, “What’s your name?”

She stared a
s if trying to place him
, then
grinned.

“You’re the man from the newspaper!” she said. “The one who was partying with Yuki!”

Teffinger
nodded.

“Right, what’s your name?”

“Yen,” she said. “This is so exciting. Is Yuki here? Is she with you?”

“No,”
Teffinger
said. “Not right at the moment. Do you know how to play Baccarat?”

She did.

And told him.

Two minutes later,
Teffinger
sat down next to Brittany So Kwak and bought as many chips as he could without breaking out the small bills.

The woman looked at him
, just for a heartbeat, then turned away.

“How you doing?” he said.

She turned back to him.

“That’s not the question,” she said.

“So what is the question, then?”

“The question is,
How is Yuki doing?”

Teffinger
smiled.

Then he pulled out his phone, dialed her number and handed it to the woman. “Here, ask her yourself.”

Day Seven—August 9

Sunday Afternoon

______________

WHILE EMMANUELLE CLEANED the artist’s wound and sewed his chest closed, Kong searched the house. He found the two purses missing from the VW Passat, but didn’t find anything to indicate who commissioned Pak to paint the fakes. Maybe the man was telling the truth, namely the person—the he—was just a voice on the phone. The interesting thing was Pak’s bank statements which showed five separate cash deposits of $1 million HKD, consistent with Park’s story that he got paid and that was the end of his involvement.

It made sense.

What use could he serve, other than as the artist?

On the other hand, would he really get involved in something so big without knowing who the other players were?

And if he did know, he’d have to protect them.

No question.

The stakes were too high.

Stratospheric.

If he gave them up, they’d kill him.

If he even thought about giving them up, they’d kill him.

PAK SPENT THE NEXT TWO HOURS slipping in and out of unconsciousness. When he finally got to his feet, he went to the back window and looked out over the sea.

“The tide’s going out,” he said. “It crested over an hour ago.”

“Forget the tide,” Emmanuelle said. “Tell me where Prarie is.”

Pak got a distant look.

Then led her into the smaller of the two bedrooms.

He pointed to the bed and said, “She was right there, with her hands and feet tied, still sleeping at seven this morning when I started to paint. When I checked up on her at eight, that window that you see open right there was open, and she was gone.” He walked them over to the window. “See that blood right there on that little jag of wood that sticks out? My guess is that’s hers. She scraped herself when she dropped out. I searched around outside but she was gone.”

Emmanuelle wrinkled her forehead.

“If that’s true, she would have surfaced by now.”

Pak shrugged.

“She probably got scared and headed into the hills,” he said. “You can be up there for hours before you hit a road.”

Emmanuelle called the InterContinental.

No one answered the room phone.

She looked at Kong.

“What do we do, search the hills?”

He grunted.

“It’d be a waste of time,” he said. “She could be a million different places.”

THEY LOOKED AT PAK, s
earching for lies
and f
inding none.

“If she dies,” Emmanuelle said, “you die too. Make no mistake about that.”

Pak tensed up
with defiance
.

“You’re the ones who broke into my house, not the other way around,” he said. “And you’re the ones who swung knives at me. If something happens to her, she brought it on herself. I’m just an artist minding my own business in my own home. She left and she’s gone. She’s not my problem.”

No one said anything.

Then Kong grabbed Emmanuelle’s arm and said, “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

She grabbed the purses.

Kong got in his car and took off.

She followed in the VW.

Day Seven—August 9

Sunday Afternoon

______________

WHEN
TEFFINGER
SHOWED UP across the street two hours later, Fan Rae said, “Where have you been?” He told her—playing Baccarat next to their P.I. friend, Brittany So Kwak. “She gave me her number,” he said. “I’m supposed to call her tonight.”

“Well aren’t you the little Romeo—”

The comment was meant to be light
b
ut had an undercurrent.

He wiped sweat off his forehead.

“What’d you get on the guy? Anything?”

“I got enough that you’re not going to need that phone number.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Do tell.”

“I’ll cost you a kiss.”

He paid up
and
said, “Talk.”

SHE TOLD HIM she followed the man to the Venetian where he checked in under the name Vance Wu.

“How’d you get his name?”

“I got in line right behind him.”

“Did he see you?”

“Of course, but I was just one more person checking in. It didn’t mean anything.”

“So you actually checked in?”

Yes, s
he di
d, s
he didn’t have an option not to.

Teffinger
scratched his head.

“Why would he check into the Venetian if he’s here to see Poon? If he’s going to stay in town, why wouldn’t he stay at Poon’s place?”

“
Teffinger
, focus,” Fan Rae said.

“What does that mean?”

“It means I just told you his name. Vance Wu.”

“I know, I heard you.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“And, does that ring any bells?”

Teffinger
searched his memory.

No.

It didn’t.

Was it supposed to?

“Okay, let me give you a hint,” Fan Rae said. “What’s the name of the missing woman?”

“Syling Wu,”
Teffinger
said. “Okay, I get it, same surname.”