Dead in Hong Kong (Nick Teffinger Thriller) (23 page)

Fan Rae nodded.

“That’s what I like about you
Teffinger
,” she said. “Nothing escapes that genius mind of yours. Our man, Vance Wu, is Syling Wu’s father.”

“Are you sure?”

She was.

“I already checked it out.”

Teffinger
raked his hair back with his fingers.

“So Jack Poon and Vance Wu hired a P.I. to find Wu’s missing daughter.”

“That’s what it looks like.”

“A P.I. who believes that Syling was taken by someone,”
Teffinger
added. “At least according to the white-panties roommate.”

“Right.”

“The P.I. must believe that because either Jack Poon or Vance Wu told her.”

Fan Rae cocked her head.

“Quite possibly,” she said.

“So how did they know?”

“Easy,” Fan Rae said.

TEFFINGER
LOOKED AT HER.

Confused.

“Easy, meaning what?”

“That’ll cost you a kiss,” she said.

He paid up
, t
hen said, “Talk.”

“Easy, because whoever took Syling Wu told either Jack Poon or Vance Wu that he took her,” Fan Rae said.

Teffinger
pondered it.

“So what are you saying? That she’s being held for ransom?”

“That’s my theory.”

“I’m impressed.”

They walked in silence
, d
ealing with the heat
and c
hecking out the scenery.

“The target must be Poon,”
Teffinger
said. “He’s the one with the deep pockets, unless there’s something to Vance Wu that I don’t know about. I wonder if a payoff is set for later today or tonight. Maybe that’s why Vance Wu is hanging around town.”

Day Seven—August 9

Sunday Afternoon

______________

KONG WAS HALFWAY BACK TO HONG KONG when his phone rang and a female’s voice came through. “This is Brittany So Kwak,” the woman said. “I believe Jack Poon mentioned me.”

“You’re the P.I.,” Kong said.

“Exactly,” she said.

“I’m at your disposal.”

“Good, because there’s been a development. A man and a woman followed me today from my flat to Macau, where I had a meeting with Poon this afternoon. The man later sat down next to me at a Baccarat table and tried to get in good with me. I played along and gave him my number. Then I coordinated with Poon as to what to do. He wants me to meet the man tonight for a drink and find out what he’s up to. He wants you to be in the shadows.”

Sure.

No problem.

“Call me with the particulars once you get them,” he said.

“We have lots of footage of the two from the casino’s surveillance cameras,” she said. “Poon’s going to email some pictures to you. The guy, by the way, is in today’s paper, in the entertainment section. Apparently he was partying with Yuki last night at the Dragon-i.”

“Yuki the singer?”

“Right.”

“I’m impressed,” Kong said. “Who is this guy?”

“His name’s
Nick
Teffinger
. Poon doesn’t like him.”

“That’s not healthy.”

KONG HUNG UP AND SWITCHED GEARS. The woman he was supposed to kill—d’Asia—lived in a fourth-floor flat in a nice apartment building in Causeway Bay, coincidentally less than a thirty minute walk from his boat.

He headed over, just for grins, and knocked on the woman’s door.

If she opened, he was going to punch her in the nose as hard as he could and then snap her neck.

He didn’t have time to mess with her.

The real money was in the paintings.

No sounds came from within.

No one answered.

He knocked again, just to be sure.

Same thing.

No response.

Now what?

SUDDENLY THE DOOR ACROSS THE HALL opened, just a touch, and a young girl about ten peeked through the crack. She held a doll in her left hand.

“I’m looking for the woman who lives here,” Kong said. “Do you know when she gets home?”

“She hasn’t been here for a couple of weeks.”

“She hasn’t?”

“Uh uh.”

“Where’s she been?”

The girl opened the door wider and shrugged.

“I don’t know,” she said. “A lady’s been looking for her too.”

“Do you know the lady’s name?”

No.

She didn’t.

“What’s your name?” Kong asked.

“Anki Bo Lam.”

Kong rubbed her head.

“You’re a very pretty girl, Anki Bo Lam,” he said. “Your doll’s very pretty too. It was nice to talk to you.”

Kong walked down the hall.

“My mom has the key to her mailbox,” the girl said.

Kong stopped.

Then came back.

“She does?

“Yes.”

“Does your mom send her mail to her?”

Anki Bo nodded.

“Do you know where she sends it?”

“No. My mom knows.”

“Is your mom home?”

“No.”

“Does your mom have it written down, where she sends the mail?”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s on the refrigerator.”

“Can I see it for a minute? What your mom has written down—”

She fetched it for him.

He memorized the address.

Then
he
handed it back and rubbed her head.

“You’re a very nice girl.”

Day Seven—August 9

Sunday Afternoon

______________

THE THREE ADDITIONAL LONG BREATHS that Prarie needed actually carried her through high tide. Each successive breath after that was a little less demanding. Now, two hours later, the water didn’t even touch her any longer.

But now she had new demons—the
heat
, t
he sun
and t
he incredible screaming of her muscles.

Pak had abandoned her to die.

She knew that.

Then something unexpected happened.

She heard voices u
p by the house
, v
oices other than Pak’s.

“Help me!”

The words came out scratched, weak, the victim of insanely dry vocal cords.

Help me!

Help me!

Please somebody help me!

Then someone said, “Hey! Look down there! There’s a woman.”

By the time they got to her, she was crying
; c
rying with joy
, c
rying with relief
, c
rying with thanks that she had been strong enough to make it.
One set of hands worked at untying her wrists
, a
nother worked on her ankles.

Then she was free.

Movement was painful.

The men didn’t force her.

They were gentle and flipped her over.

She gasped and recoiled.

They were the men from the warehouse
, t
he friends of the man she shot.

“Well I’ll be damned,” one of them said. “Look at this.”

THEY CARRIED HER up the bluff to the house. Inside, things were worse than she thought. The artist, Guotin Pak, was lying face down on the studio floor with a hatchet buried two inches into the back of his skull.

“He didn’t have any answers,” one of the men said. “You better hope for your sake that you do.”

“I don’t know anything,” she said.

“We’ll be the judge of that.”

Two minutes later she was in the truck of a car
b
eing taken somewhere.

Day Seven—August 9

Sunday Afternoon

______________

SUDDENLY THE TIRES SQUEALED and the vehicle jerked back and forth. Then it crashed into something, hard, and flipped. Prarie’s body whipped wildly in the trunk and she covered her head as best she could so her neck didn’t snap. The torturous metallic twisting lasted forever and then finally ground to a stop.

A wheel spun, but otherwise everything got quiet.

Prarie moved her limbs.

Her left arm hurt but didn’t feel broken.

Voices came, faint but there, belonging to the men, o
ut of the vehicle now
and a
rguing about something.
Then they faded into the distance and disappeared.

Time passed.

A vehicle pulled up behind her.

A door opened and then slammed shut.

The car shifted, slightly, as if someone had gotten in.

For what?

To get the keys?

Then the trunk latch released and the lid popped up a couple of inches. Prarie kicked it and it opened all the way. The light was so bright that she could hardly see.

Then someone had their hands on her
, p
ulling her out.

It was
Emmanuelle.

“Come on,” she said. “We got to get out of here.”

Day Seven—August 9

Sunday Evening

______________

FAN RAE WAS DOWN on the casino floor somewhere, positioned to follow Vance Wu when and if he appeared.
Teffinger
called her and said, “I’m going to step into the shower,” meaning she wouldn’t be able to call him for the next five or ten minutes if Wu appeared.

“Roger that,” she said. “Nothing’s happening on this end anyway.”

“Roger that? Is that what you just said?”

She smiled.

“Yeah.”

“Roger that,”
Teffinger
repeated. “You’re getting way too into this.”

He hung up and checked his watch.

In an hour, he’d meet Brittany So Kwak for their big date. In hindsight, it was probably a waste of time, now that they already knew about Vance Wu’s involvement. But this might be his only chance, so what the hell?

He got the shower up to temperature, stepped in and lathered up.

Fan Rae.

Fan Rae.

Fan Rae.

She was a poison.

A sweet poison.

A killer poison.

How did he let himself get this involved with someone like her? A year ago this wouldn’t have happened. He was getting weak. He was letting his own personal needs cloud his judgment. He was becoming his own worst enemy.
Sydney
was right; that’s who he needed to be careful of—himself.

Maybe he should end it now
.

Maybe he should confront Fan Rae and t
ell her that he knew about her involvement to kill d’Asia.
Maybe he should t
ell her that he’d turn her in if she didn’t drop it.

He stuck his face under the spray.

The water felt good.

It felt c
lean.

D’ASIA WAS THE WOMAN FOR HIM, not Fan Rae. He knew it in his brain and he knew it in his heart. He could still feel her from that night back in Denver. If she was around where he could see her and touch her and talk to her, getting the poison out of his life would be easy
; n
o, not easy
, b
ut easier.

D’Asia was the antidote.

He got out of the shower, dried his hair with a towel just enough so that it wasn’t dripping, and got dressed. Downstairs, he spotted Fan Rae at a craps table, eased in behind her and wrapped his hands around her stomach.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said.

She pressed his hands tighter against her.

“About what?”

“Maybe Syling Wu isn’t being held for ransom,” he said. “Maybe she’s being held for leverage.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that maybe she wasn’t taken to force Jack Poon or Vance Wu to pay money. Maybe she was taken to get them to do something.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Just roll it around in your brain.”