Dead in Hong Kong (Nick Teffinger Thriller) (25 page)

Kong had been there many times.

Today, just like every other day, he fell in love with the place all over again.

There was something about t
he salt
, the ruggedness, t
he luxury
and t
he bustle.
Chinamen dressed in traditional garb ferried camera-clicking tourists up and down the waterways in wooden junks that had tire-lined hulls and ragged canopies.

Seagulls flew.

THE VESSEL KONG WAS LOOKING FOR turned out to be at the end of a dock.

It was big
, steel and o
ld.

Wooden rooms had been added wherever deck space allowed, morphing the once-seagoing lines into something that hardly looked like a boat any longer. Air conditioners stuck out of windows. A large black-and-white dog laid outside on the port walkway. Clothes hung from lines. This is where d’Asia was staying, if the information Kong got from 10-year-old Anki Bo Lam was correct.

He took a seat in the shade, across the waterway, thirty meters off, and watched.

Nothing happened for a long time
, t
hen a woman emerged
—
D
’Asia.

Kong’s pulse raced.

Even at a distance, there was no mistaking the beauty of her face or the lines of her body. No wonder Poon warned him to not look into her eyes. She set a bowl of water next to the dog and then scratched his head as he lapped at it with a long fat tongue.

Then she went back inside.

Kong didn’t get it.

What was she doing wasting her life away in a dump like that?

Caring for a sick relative?

Screwing some sailor boy?

Weird.

One thing was clear, though.

It was going to be hard to kill her there.

She was surrounded by activity and eyes.

Plus there was the dog.

KONG WAS JUST ABOUT TO hitch a ride across the harbour, walk down the dock, step aboard and knock on the door, when he spotted a woman thirty or forty meters to his left who appeared to be watching the same boat.

She was positioned where she wouldn’t be seen
, l
ooking directly at it
u
ndistracted by the buzz.

What the hell?

Day Eight—August 10

Monday Morning

______________

MONDAY MORNING, THE PARIS P.I. that Emmanuelle hired to get background information on the men from the warehouse called. “I got lots of stuff for you,” he said. “And I’ll have you know, it wasn’t easy. It didn’t just drop out of the sky and land on my desk.” Ten minutes later, emails with attachments started arriving. The attachments included the contents of the men’s computers together with stacks of hard-copy documents that the P.I. took from their houses and then scanned so they could be transmitted electronically.

Emmanuelle and Prarie ordered room service
a
nd a pot of coffee
, and another pot of coffee, a
nd went through it all.

It was some time before they were done, but they now had a much better picture of their enemy. The men’s phone records shows lots of calls to and from a number registered to Gustave Sevenette.

The name
didn’t mean anything to Prarie b
ut it did to Emmanuelle.

“He bought a beautiful building right on Champs-Elysees just down from the Arc de Triomphe,” she said. “He left the first level restaurant intact, gutted the rest of it and turned it into his own private palace. Two years ago he dumped his wife of fifteen years and took up with a 20-year-old Barbie Doll named Darielle Trickett. Does any of this ring a bell?”

No.

It didn’t.

“I don’t read the papers that much,” Prarie said.

“The bottom line is that this guy has a huge bottom line,” Emmanuelle said. “Although he’s never been formally charged with anything, the word is that none of his money is particularly clean.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning that every guy in Paris who screws a first-class escort or watches a dirty homegrown DVD is throwing money into Sevenette’s wallet,” she said. “He’s also big into political contributions. He gives favors and gets them.”

Okay.

“HERE’S THE KICKER, THOUGH,” Emmanuelle said. “His Barbie Doll girlfriend has an older sister named Lanelle Trickett. She, in turn, is on the board of Musee d’Orsay. The board members, of course, know about the stolen paintings.”

Prarie thought about it
, t
hen cocked her head.

“So you’re saying that Gustave Sevenette learned about the stolen paintings from Barbie Doll who learned about it from her sister, Ms. Board Member.”

Emmanuelle nodded.

“The guy we’re dealing with, the one at the top of the food chain, is Gustave Sevenette,” Emmanuelle said. “He’s bankrolling the hunt. The two guys he sent out here from Paris, Nicholas Lefebvre and Pierre Durand, are his henchmen.”

“What about the guy who lives here? Michael Chow—”

Emmanuelle shrugged.

“Sevenette needed someone on the team who spoke the language and knew the lay of the land,” she said. “Somehow Michael Chow got chosen to fill that role. How people like that find each other is way beyond me.”

Prarie stood up and looked out the window.

Victoria Harbour was beautiful
, a
ctive
and v
ibrant.

Then she turned and said, “So how do we get him off our backs?”

Emmanuelle frowned.

“We can’t,” she said. “At this point, he’ll hunt us to the ends of the earth just to avoid loose ends. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he sends someone special just to get that done.”

Prarie sat down on the couch.

Then
she
looked at Emmanuelle and said, “He’s the one who killed my father. He either did it himself or gave the orders.”

Emmanuelle shrugged.

“Maybe,” she said. “Let’s check out of this place. We need to go deeper underground.”

Day Eight—August 10

Monday Morning

______________

FAN RAE GOT A CALL TO HANDLE A HOMICIDE, right now this minute, and couldn’t get out of it, so she and
Teffinger
chartered a boat back to the island. Halfway there, heavy seas and gusty winds set in. The world suddenly turned from strawberry pancakes to a primitive high-stakes battle of man versus nature. They were drenched ten times over by the time they hit dirt but didn’t care because
they were actually on dirt again, beautiful
gorgeous dirt.

Teffinger
must have had a look on his face because Fan Rae laughed and said, “Toughen up, cowboy. It was just a little chop.”

He flicked hair out of his face.

“You weren’t saying that out there.”

They swung by her place for dry clothes.

As they were about to leave,
Teffinger
said, “You know what? I’m going to use the downtime to handle a few things in Denver. Do you mind?”

She didn’
t, a
nd left.

Teffinger
was alone in her flat. He waited for two minutes, just to be sure she didn’t forget something and pop back in, and then began the search.

Come on, Tanna.

You’re here somewhere.

Make it easy on yourself.

FAN RAE HAD TWO COMPUTERS, a desktop and a laptop. Both were locked with passwords.
Teffinger
couldn’t get into either of them.

All of her handwritten notes were in Cantonese.

He had no idea what they said.

Her bank statements and the like were in both English and Cantonese, but nothing of interest popped out of them. He found no phone bills.

Damn it.

Dead end.

HE CALLED FAN RAE, got told that she would be working for a couple of hours at least, and took a cab to the crime scene. It turned out to be a standalone house on a low bluff all the way on the south side of the island, past Repulse Bay.

The body had already been removed
b
ut Fan Rae showed him digital pictures.

Someone had buried a hatched in the victim’s head.

“Ouch,”
Teffinger
said.

She made a face.

“What?”
Teffinger
asked.

“That’s the same thing I said when I saw him.”

Ouch.

“He had a serious chest wound, too,” Fan Rae said. “It looked like he got hit with a death star and then someone stitched him up with a regular old needle and thread.”

A death star?

What’s a death star?

She took him to the kitchen and showed him one.

Sitting on the table.

“That could ruin your day,”
Teffinger
said.

“Yes it could.”

In the north room was an art studio. A half-finished painting sat on an easel. Next to it was a table filled with detailed photographs of the original. “I’ve seen this painting before,”
Teffinger
said. “It’s a Renoir. Did you measure the size of the canvas?”

No.

She hadn’t.

Why?

“I’d just be curious to know if it’s the same size as the original,”
Teffinger
said. “Look at these paints. These are all hand-made, not store bought. He was actually replicating the original pigments used by Renoir. That would take a lot of time. You have to do the research first to find out what the original compositions were, then locate the base ingredients, mix them, et cetera. This guy was really going for a first-class replication.”

“Why? Is there a market for something like that?”

Teffinger
scratched his head.

“I guess so,” he said. “The hard part would be aging it. I’ve heard stories, though, of how it can be done with exposure to bright lights and heat and smoke and stuff like that.”

“How do you know so much about art?”

“I do a little painting on the side.”

Really?

“I’m in a few galleries,” he said. “We’ll get on the web later and pull up their sites if you want.”

“You’re so mysterious,” she said. “What else don’t I know about you?”

Day Eight—August 10

Monday Morning

______________

THE WOMAN STALKING D’ASIA walked across a bridge and then down a crowded promenade next to the water, at the base of the buildings, where the shops and restaurants and bars sat. Kong followed. There was a particularl
y sexy sway to the woman’s walk, a
dangerous sway.

She knew how to use her body
.

Kong could tell.

Men’s heads turned after she passed.

When she disappeared into a noisy eatery, Kong took a seat in the shade and waited. Five minutes later the woman opened the door, stepped outside and looked around. Then she walked in Kong’s direction, so close that she would pass within a few steps. He turned his face to avoid eye contact and raised his hand as if to scratch his forehead.

She stopped directly in front of him.

He looked up.

Their eyes locked.

She was nicer than Kong thought, a
lot nicer.

He even liked the glasses.

She said, “I ordered for you. Come on before it gets cold.”

She turned and headed back inside.

Kong sat there
, f
rozen.

Then
he
followed.

INSIDE, SHE WAVED TO HIM from a wooden table in the corner. He headed over, found a plate of crab legs, rice and vegetables in front of the empty chair, and sat down.

“I thought that as long as you’re stalking me, you might as well be comfortable,” she said.

Kong’s first instinct was to deny it.

Instead he said, “Thanks.”

She held out her hand and said, “My name’s Tanna.”

Kong shook her hand and said, “Kong.”

As soon as the word came out of his mouth he wanted to suck it back in and swallow it.

“Kong,” she repeated. “Kong as in Hong Kong or Kong as in King Kong?”

“Take your pick.”

She studied him.

“You have qualities of both.”

Kong chuckled.

“Oh, yeah? What are my King Kong qualities?”

She cocked her head.

“You have that bad-boy look.”

Kong leaned across the table, as if what he had to say was so important that he needed to whisper. She leaned in to meet him halfway, so close that they could almost kiss. “Do you like bad boys?” he asked.

She leaned back and blew him a kiss.

“Sometimes.”

“Interesting.”

“Isn’t it?” She paused, looked him directly in the eyes and said, “I saw you stalking d’Asia.”

He kept all expressions off his face.

“Is she a friend of yours?” he asked.

She rolled her eyes at the absurdity of the question.

“Not hardly,” she said. “Are you going to kill her?”

Kong’s heart raced.

“Why would you ask a question like that?”

“Because she does things that make people want to kill her,” she said. “It’s just a matter of time.”

“How do you know?”

“Just trust me, I do.”

AFTER LUNCH THEY BOUGHT A BOTTLE of white wine, stepped over to a junk and said, “How much do you want for just us two for an hour?”

An elderly Chinese man worked the numbers in his head
, t
hen told him.

“Done,” Kong said.

They paid him in advance, took seats in the bow and drank from the bottle as the sights rolled by. 

“Let’s suppose, hypothetically, that you’re looking to kill d’Asia,” Tanna said. “And let’s suppose, hypothetically, that I am too. Wouldn’t you think, hypothetically, that we’d have less risk working together?”

Two seagulls flew by.

Close.

Squawking.

Kong looked at her and said, “Why would I bother any more if, hypothetically, you were going to do it anyway?”

“I could ask you the same question,” she said. “If, hypothetically, we each waited for the other one to do it, it would never get done.”

“That wouldn’t be good,” Kong said.

“Agreed.”

“So, then, have we come to an understanding to work together, hypothetically speaking?”

Kong nodded.

“I think we have.”

Day Eight—August 10

Monday Morning

______________

PRARIE AND EMMANUELLE checked into a small no-frills hotel in the Shau Kei Wan district, seven kilometers east of Central, under the name Song Chen. The woman behind the desk chuckled at the name and winked. They winked back
a
nd paid cash in advance for three nights.
Emmanuelle pushed an additional $500 HKD across the counter and said, “If anyone comes looking for two women who look like us, what are you going to say?”

The woman picked up the money and shoved it
in her bra.

“I am going to tell them the truth just like I always do,” she said. “I never heard of any such people.”

Emmanuelle squeezed the woman’s hand.

“Thanks,” she said. “And be sure to tell us, if anyone comes around.”

“I will.”

“It’s important,” Emmanuelle said.

“I understand.”

The hotel was on a busy street, above a bar, sandwiched between apartments on either side, with no separation between the buildings. Their room was small and on the fifth floor. The elevator was broken and so was the air conditioner. There were no parking spaces but pubic parking was only a block away.

“I feel better already,” Emmanuelle said. “No one would ever look for us here.”

“I know I wouldn’t,” Prarie said.

THEY GOT IN THE VW PASSAT and headed back to the road where Prarie had been dropped off after initially being held captive for a week. The gas station at the crossroads was right where they left it. A petite man stacking cigarettes watched them from the moment they stepped out of the car.

Emmanuelle got right to the point. “We’re looking for a man with a tattoo on his neck,” she said.

The man wrinkled an already-wrinkled face.

“Why?”

“It’s personal,” she said.

He shrugged.

“I’ve never seen anyone like that.”

Emmanuelle exhaled, pulled a bill out of her pocket and held it so the man could see the denomination
;
$500 HKD.

“Think,” she said.

The man retreated in thought.

“Does he drive a small green car?”

“He might.”

“There’s a man who drives a small green car,” he said. “He has a tattoo on his neck. He lives up that way somewhere, but I’m not sure exactly where.”

“What’s his name?”

“I don’t know.”

“Describe the car better.”

He did.

The back bumper hung at an angle. There was a big dent in the driver’s door.

Emmanuelle handed him the bill.

AN HOUR INTO THE SEARCH, Prarie said, “There it is!”

S
he was right too, t
here it was
, l
opsided bumper and all
, p
arked next to a standalone structure.

“Is that where you were kept?”

“I never saw the outside,” Prarie said. “I’d have to get inside to tell.”

Emmanuelle stepped on the gas, pulled to the side of the road two hundred meters later, and killed the engine. Prarie shook her head and said, “If that’s his car, then he’s home.”

“Relax,” Emmanuelle said. “We’re just going to scout it out and figure out the best way to get in, once the car disappears.”

They headed back on foot
, h
ugging the trees.

When they got there, the car was gone.

The structure looked deserted.

“What do you think?” Prarie asked.

Emmanuelle stared at the house. “It could be a trap,’ she said. “The guy from the gas station might have tipped him off. If it’s not a trap, though, this would be such a sweet opportunity.” Suddenly Emmanuelle grabbed Prarie’s arm and started running towards the rental.