Dead in Hong Kong (Nick Teffinger Thriller) (26 page)

“What are we doing?”

“You’ll see!”

THEY SPED UP THE ROAD in the direction of the crossroads. The green car came into sight up ahead. It passed the gas station and kept going. They did a 180, parked where they were before and trotted back to the house.

Emmanuelle knocked on the front door.

No one answered.

She tried the knob.

It was locked.

They headed around to the back, found that door equally locked, threw a large rock through a window, and knocked out as much stray glass as they could. Prarie boosted Emmanuelle through.

Ten seconds later Emmanuelle opened the back door.

Prarie stepped inside.

“This might be it,” she said.

They headed deeper into the house.

Day Eight—August 10

Monday Morning

______________

FAN RAE WAS JUST ABOUT to wrap up the hatchet in the head crime scene investigation when
Teffinger
noticed a wooden floor plank under the bed that wasn’t flush. When they pushed the bed to the side and investigated further, the wood lifted up easily. In the cavity under the flooring they found a file folder—nothing else, just a single file folder. Inside that file folder wer
e nine photographs; photographs of paintings
to be exact
; p
hotograp
hs of impressionistic paintings
to be even more exact.

Teffinger
recognized two of them.

Claude Monet’s “Poppies.”

Vincent Van Gogh’s “Self Portrait.”

He didn’t recognize the other paintings, per se, but knew who the artists were.

August Renoir.

Edgar Degas.

Edouard Manet.

Each photograph had a date on the back.

“So do you think our dead friend painted these, or do you think they’re reference photos of the originals?”

Teffinger
shuffled through them.

“They’re too small to be reference photos,” he said. “He painted them. These are part of his shrine to himself.” A pause, then, “Maybe he sold these as originals, then the buyer found out they were fakes and decided that Pak would look better with a hatchet sticking out of the back of his head.”

“That’s a good theory, actually.”

“This is interesting,”
Teffinger
said. “Three of the pictures are of Claude Monet’s ‘Poppies,’ but each one has a different date on the back. Same thing for Van Gogh’s ‘Self Portrait’—there are three pictures of that painting, but each one has a different date.”

Fan Rae studied them.

“Maybe he made a couple of small changes to them and then re-photographed them,” she said.

Teffinger
looked at “Poppies.”

“I don’t see any changes,” he said. “All three look identical.”

“I’ll have the lab do a digital conversation and an overlay,” Fan Rae said. “If they’re different, it won’t be hard to tell.”

“Let’s find out where he banked,”
Teffinger
said. “Maybe he made some deposits that can be traced—a wire transfer or something like that.”

Fan Rae smiled.

“You’re pretty sexy when you think,” she said. “Did anyone ever tell you that?”

Teffinger
grunted.

“As a matter of fact,
Sydney
Heatherwood
said that to me once,” he said. “She also added, Good thing it doesn’t happen that often.”

“That is so freaky.”

“Why?”

“Because I was just about to say that same thing.”

“Great, just what I need in my life, two
Sydney
s.”

“I want to meet her,” Fan Rae said.

“No way,”
Teffinger
said. “She has too many stories about me.”

“Any bedroom stories?”

Teffinger
shook his head.

“She’s my partner,” he said. “Even I have a few boundaries.” He cocked his head and added, “I did bounce a quarter off her ass once, though.”

“Tell me about it,” Fan Rae said. “But not now, the next time we’re drunk.’

THEY LEARNED A LOT over the next few hours. The five paintings depicted in the photographs were all from the same place, namely Musee d’Orsay in Paris, France.
Teffinger
was right about the other three artists.

The Renoir was called “Nude in the Sunlight.”

The Degas was “Absinthe.”

The Manet was “At the Beach.”

The interesting thing, though, was that the three photographs of Claude Monet’s “Poppies” were all slightly different paintings, rather than refinements or modifications of the same one 

“He painted that one three different times,”
Teffinger
said. “I wonder why.”

“Maybe he didn’t like the way the first two came out,” Fan Rae said. “It took him three tries to get it the way he wanted it.”

Teffinger
shrugged.

Maybe.

But the first two looked pretty good to him.

The same was true of Van Gogh’s “Self Portrait.” It got painted three separate times.

The other interesting thing related to Pak’s bank account. He deposited $1,000,000 H
KD on five separate occasions, c
ash each time.

“He sold them to someone for a million each,” Fan Rae said.

Teffinger
nodded.

That was t
rue.

“One thing baffles me,” Fan Rae said. “If he painted nine paintings and sold five, what happened to the other four?”

Teffinger
shrugged.

He didn’t know.

“The other thing that baffles me is—”

“Wait a minute, cowgirl.”

“What?”

“You said
One thing baffles me
,”
Teffinger
said. “Emphasis on the One. Now you’re adding a second thing.”

“I can’t add to the baffle list?”

“Baffle lists are set in stone,” he said. “You can’t mess with baffle lists.”

She punched him on the arm.

“Okay, let me put it like this,” she said. “In addition to the
One thing that baffles me
, there’s something that interests me too.”

Teffinger
nodded.

“Better,” he said.

“And that is, who would be crazy enough to pay $1,000,000 for these replicas? There’s no way he could sell them as originals. Anyone with an Internet connection can find out in two minutes that the originals are in Musee d’Orsay.”

Teffinger
shrugged.

“It is baffling,” he said.

“And interesting.”

Day Eight—August 10

Monday Morning

______________

A MAN NAMED DEWEL HO SHEK owned the steel vessel in Aberdeen Harbour where d’Asia was staying. He went by the name Billy—Billy Shek—but only among friends. In the photography world he still used his legal name, probably because it had a more professional ring to it.

“Billy,” Kong said. “I saw a spaghetti western about Billy the Kid when I was about ten. That’s the only Billy I’ve ever known.”

“Well now you know two,” Tanna said.

“What’s he like?”

“He’s big.”

“That’s not good.”

No
, i
t wasn’t.

“D’Asia hardly ever leaves the boat,” she said. “When she does, it’s usually just a quick trip on foot up to the stores. Billy gets home at the same time every day, about five o’clock. They hang out inside until after dark. Then they come out on deck and drink wine.”

“So they’re lovers?”

Tanna shook her head.

“No, they’re just friends,” she said. “I’m sure he’d like it to be more, but she’s way out of his league.”

Kong spotted a rock and threw it at duck.

He missed, but got close enough to scare the bird into the air.

“You’ve done your homework,” he said.

“I’ve been at this a while,” she said. “I’m ready for it to end. Here’s my plan. I’m going to find a way to make a move on Billy and get him to take me out. That will leave d’Asia alone, after dark. You swoop in and kill her.”

Kong chewed on it.

“Works for me,” he said. “We’ll do it tonight. If you can’t lure him away, we’ll both swoop in. I’ll take care of him and you can take care of her.”

Okay.

Fine.

“Either way, it’s done and over tonight.”

Day Eight—August 10

Monday Morning

______________

PRARIE AND EMMANUELLE headed deeper into the tattoo man’s house. In the basement, at the end of a large room, they spotted a solid steel door. They opened it to find a windowless room with a bed and a bathroom.

“This is it!” Prarie said.

“Are you sure?”

“You got to be kidding,” Prarie said. “I know every square inch of this place. Look at me, I’m shaking.” She held her hand out to prove it. Sure enough, it trembled.

Emmanuelle got a strange look on her face.

Prarie sensed trouble
, t
hen she understood.

Someone was in the hous
e, u
pstairs.

There was no way to get to the outside from this level. The only way out was to go up.

“What do we do?” Prarie whispered.

“It might have been a trap after all. If it’s not, he’s going to spot the broken window any second,” Emmanuelle said. “We need to get out of here now before it’s too late.”

SHE HEADED FOR THE STAIRS. Prarie tried to follow but she couldn’t breathe and sank to the floor.

Day Eight—August 10

Monday Afternoon

______________

TEFFINGER
CALLED THE FLEMING to see if anyone left a message. No one had. He couldn’t justify the expense any longer and checked out as long as he was on the line. When he hung up, Fan Rae wanted to go back to Guotin Pak’s house and have another look around.

“Why?”

“Because there’s too much going on,” Fan Rae said. “We got blood on the windowsill, as if someone crawled through it and got scraped on the way down. We got lengths of rope lying around, as if someone had been tied up. We got the victim injured with a death star, then sewed up, then snagged in the head with a hatchet. There’s a story that connects it all and I want to know what it is.” She patted
Teffinger
on the knee. “You want to come with me?”

Teffinger
cocked his head.

The Pak murder was interesting.

It was fresh.

He didn’t have a dog in that fight, however.

He needed to stick with Syling Wu.

On the other hand, he had no idea what to do next in that case.

“I’ll tag along,” he said.

AT PAK’S, THEY PARKED IN THE DRIVEWAY, unlocked the door and stepped inside. Fan Rae said, “I’m going to use the facilities,” and headed that way.
Teffinger
thought he heard something in the studio.

Weird.

He listened harder.

Silence.

When he walked into the room, a fist came out of nowhere and smashed him on the side of the head.

Hard.

Serious.

He tried to stay on his feet but staggered and then dropped to the floor. His eyes focused just long enough to see a man dive headfirst through the back window
, r
ight through the glass.

Then everything went fuzzy.

“
Nick
!”

Suddenly Fan Rae was there with him, pressing something cold and wet onto the side of his head, stopping the bleeding.

“Did you see who did it?” she asked.

“Just a bit,”
Teffinger
said. “I think it was Vance Wu but I’m not positive.”

“Vance Wu?”

Right.

Vance Wu.

“Vance Wu from the casino?”

Right.

Him.

“Are you sure?”

“No.”

“WHAT WOULD HE BE DOING HERE?” Fan Rae asked.