Gibson & Clarke (Failed Justice Series Book 2) (4 page)

CHAPTER 6

“You’re not going to believe this. I’m still pinching myself. The man is a wizard. Or a god damn psychic.”

Marta was having trouble keeping her thoughts straight. She wanted to tell Billy everything. All at the same time.

First, she described what she was wearing and the expression on Mr. Yeung’s face when he saw the outfit. She had guessed right. Then she went on to describe, as only a woman can, the outdoor garden where the luncheon had been served.

“It was right out of the movies. Maids and trays and flowers and all kinds of delicacies. I couldn’t believe it, and he was the perfect gentleman. After we finished the hummingbird soup, he casually mentioned that he heard a large shipment of heroin was coming in town next week and wondered if our newest employee, Rik Scott, heard about it or was involved in any way. Billy, I never mentioned Rik’s name. How did he find out about Rik?”

Billy smelled a rat. A very large Asian rat.

“Go on.”

“He mentioned Tao was very pleased with the bail hearing and of course, everything said between he and I, meaning Yeung and myself, was privileged. I casually remarked I graduated law school twenty-some years ago and understood attorney/client communications. I was polite but a bit edgy. On purpose. He was trying to tell me something, and I let him know if he did not have one hundred percent confidence in his choice of lawyers, perhaps we should stop talking right this minute. He didn’t flinch and again mentioned, although he was not directly involved, if there were problems, we could be representing the ‘bad guys.’ He wanted to make sure Rik—I mean Scott—would not be placed in a compromising position.”

Billy was tempted to ask what the relationship was between Marta and Rik but decided to wait for another day.

“Yeung also mentioned our fee would be ongoing, and as long as we were on his team, the packages would keep coming. I thanked him but let him know we work with him, not for him, and were not for sale. I hope I did the right thing.”

“I’m sure you did. I’m sure you did.”

Marta smiled to herself. When Billy was nervous or trying to make a point, he often repeated himself.

She then wanted to end the conversation. There was little else to report. She had an urge to talk to Rik, to let him know he might be in danger. And most of all, to be with him.

“Let me call you when I know more.”

“Fine. And give my regards to Rik.”

Damn it, he knows.
As Marta sat there, she realized
; I’m a big girl, never been married, can do whatever I want, sleep with whoever I want to. So why am I hiding what happened a few nights ago? Maybe because he’s only a deputy sheriff and I am a well-known defense attorney. Maybe because I am in my early forties and he is in his late twenties. Who gives a damn!

***

“Rik, it’s me. Can you come over to my place? No, my apartment, not the office. It’s important. Make sure no one follows you.”

Strange comment. Is this business or a “personal services” call?
Rik wondered.

He would soon find out.

***

Xiang Yeung was now having a long conversation with himself. He had a photographic memory and was replaying the questions and answers one at a time that took place at the luncheon. The fact she went to the trouble of dressing was a big plus. It showed respect, something you cannot buy or manufacture. It also showed she was not terribly familiar with Chinese culture. It was the Japanese, not the Chinese, who favored kimonos. He did give her an A for effort.

Unfortunately, Americans tend to lump us all in the same ethnic pot.

She had not appeared intimidated, and when he mentioned additional funds would be coming her way, she’d made it clear
, “We will work with you, not for you, and we are not for sale.”

That took some guts, he acknowledged to himself.

Xiang Yeung had gotten as far as he had by trusting his instincts. Those same instincts told him he should trust Ms. Clarke. He prayed he was right—for her sake, not his.

He was about to call for the confirmation for the next shipment of heroin but decided to wait another twenty-four hours, just in case. It was not as if he did not trust Ms. Clarke—he did. It was Rik Scott who was still an unknown. He would have to prove himself—or else.

***

“Thanks for coming over so quickly. Just so you know, this is strictly business. I would never ask you to take time off from work for a—” here Marta blushed “—a nooner. Not that it wouldn’t be nice and a way of getting rid of much too much tension in my life.”

“So, what’s up? Why the hush hush? Who do you think would be following me, anyway?”

“What do you know about Xiang Yeung or anyone who works for him?”

Rik was not following.

“This has to be one hundred percent confidential. Swear?”

“I’m not in the boy scouts or on the witness stand. Either you trust me or you don’t. It’s that simple.”

“No, it isn’t that simple. It’s not simple at all. You may be very smart, but I’ve a few years on you when it comes to dealing with the criminal element. So sit down and listen to me. It could mean the end of your employment, our relationship, assuming there can ever be one, and most important, your very life.”

Rik sat down. He had never seen this side of Marta.

After a good twenty-minute conversation, Marta talked and Rik listened. He just shook his head. Why would the head of one of the biggest crime syndicates on the East Coast tell her there was a major heroin shipment coming to Newark, and how did anyone know he would be working for Marta or, more accurately, the new law firm in less than a few weeks?

“It makes no sense. Yeung is far too smart to trust you at this stage of the game. How he knows about me is a different story. My car was parked a few doors from your house overnight. I’ll have to be more careful, or you’ll have to be more open.”

Marta again blushed.

“The obvious answer is to do nothing. To say nothing. The fact is, you have no idea whether he’s lying or not, and if he is telling the truth, which I doubt, there’s not a damn thing you can do. I’ve got to get back to the office. Call me when you need me. Business or pleasure. Bye.”

With that, and before Marta could come up with a smart answer, Rik was out the door.

***

Billy Jo had told everyone he would be flying up to Newark on Monday morning. The flight time was a brief one hour and fourteen minutes. The actual drive mileage was four hundred seventy-two miles. By leaving early Sunday morning, Billy could be at Marta’s by mid-afternoon at the latest. It was not as if he did not trust Marta, but wanted to get a lay of the land without being noticed. He decided to lease a vehicle. He didn’t want anyone checking the vanity license plates,
‘NOT GLTY’
on his very high-end white BMW M-6 convertible.

Something’s not kosher. No way would Yeung tell Marta squat. There’s more to Rik than meets the eye. Personally, I don’t care what’s going on between the two of them, but I’m paying half the freight. A little detective work on my part can’t hurt. Who knows what I’ll turn up?

CHAPTER 7

The leased late-model, dark blue Toyota four-door parked half a block from Marta’s apartment. A gentleman wearing khakis, a rolled-up light blue dress shirt, and Reebok running shoes got out. He was wearing a METS baseball cap and wearing dark sunglasses. He looked like a half dozen other people on the block.

No one would have guessed the man behind the glasses was Billy Jo Gibson.

He took a window table at the corner Starbucks and gazed out the window like he didn’t have a care in the world. He memorized every car anywhere near Marta’s apartment. He also observed anyone just “hanging out.” At six on the button, a black Mercedes parked four doors from Marta’s front door.

No one got out.

At 7:25, a tall black gentleman pulled up. The plates showed it was a government-owned vehicle. The man carried several bags. He handled it gingerly, like it was hot. It just had to be Chinese take-out. Five minutes later, Marta’s dining room lights went on. Billy was able to add two and two together. Apparently so could whoever was behind the wheel of the Mercedes.

The Mercedes left. It would be back later. Much later.

***

They both had the same idea. The leased Toyota returned a few minutes to six—in the morning. Billy Jo had checked into a nearby motel and left a five a.m. wake-up call. The Mercedes showed up not fifteen minutes later. They both took note of the government-issued Ford.

At 7:43, the tall black man left Marta’s apartment building, got in the Ford, and left. Not three minutes later, the Mercedes was gone.

Now Billy Jo knew. Someone was watching both Marta and Rik. The next step was to see if they would lie about it. It had nothing to do with the act itself—who cared? They were both consenting adults. The question was would they attempt to cover it up.

Less than an hour later, one of the questions had been answered. The license plates on the Mercedes had been issued to Yeung Enterprises, Inc., a Maryland foreign corporation.

Billy called Marta. He was now “officially” in town, had rented a car, and would like to meet her for lunch at the office.

***

Yeung received a confidential report; no special activity was planned for the next few days as far as Drug Enforcement knew. Rik Scott had given the customary two-week notice. He didn’t mention where he was going next. He was given no new assignments and was now in the process of cleaning up all old files.

Xiang made the phone call on one of his many throwaways. The order would be delivered—same place, same terms, in the next seventy-two to ninety-six hours. It was coming directly from the Golden Triangle, the largest opium-producing area in the world. The triangle in southwest Asia was bordered by the Ruak River, the Mekong River, and the borders of Laos and Myanmar. No one knew how it got into the USA. Some said through the Port of New York; others swore it came into the Western Hemisphere through the Caribbean, to Key West and up the east coast of the United States.

No one really cared as long as it arrived.

Only a small portion would remain in northern New Jersey. The bulk would be gone within forty-eight hours.

Yeung felt comfortable knowing it was on its way. He notified Tao, who was now second in command. Although Tao reported directly to Xiang, so did many others.

They were all expendable.

Yeung knew this. So did Tao.

Xiang Yeung stood up, all five feet four, and wondered if he was getting too old for the business. It was no longer about the money; it hadn’t been for years. The profit he made in the first few years would last him a lifetime. He honestly had no idea how much he was worth—certainly more than three hundred million. A good part of it was tucked away safely back home.

Although he had been a citizen of the United States for more than thirty-five years, he still considered China his home.

Xiang owned a great many clothes: shirts, suits, jackets, and pants. They were all the same material; they were all the same color. Cream colored, pure silk. He weighed no more than one hundred twenty-five pounds, had a long gray ponytail, and a small goatee. He dressed immaculately. His long-time personal tailor, a Mr. Soo Chang, made sure of that.

He was born the only son of poor poppy farmers in Hangzhou, not more than one hundred kilometers from Shanghai. His parents knew that while they struggled to put simple food on the table, the owners of the land were mostly wealthy. Those who bought the poppy seeds from all the land owners in the province were super wealthy. It was decided when Xiang was only seventeen years old that he would move to the United States of America. There, he would establish a residence, and from time to time, packages would arrive from China. This was long before sniffing dogs, FedEx, or the DEA.

When he could afford it, he would send for his sickly parents and Mei Ling, his younger sister.

That day never came.

Xiang learned at a very early age: never accept an excuse. Any excuse. Never forgive one who lies to you. Any lie. Small lies quickly became large ones. There was only one way to command respect. Violence. Swift, unexpected, absolute and total violence.

Xiang often told his associates the small silk purse he kept with him at all times contained the index fingers of those who did not take him seriously. From time to time, he would empty the purse of the old fingers to make room for the growing supply of new ones.

As the purse grew heavier, the wallet grew thicker. Soon, just the sight of the cream colored purse brought fear and respect. And more coins of the realm.

Today, he supplied most of northern New Jersey, parts of New York, and a section of Pennsylvania with heroin. Mr. Xiang Yeung had come a long ways from the poppy fields of China so many years ago. He had been made aware both his parents sacrificed all their lives for both their children. They died of a plague—sick, poor, and hungry, but knowing their only son was safe in America.

Try as he might, he had never found out what had happened to Mei Ling, his little sister. Xiang assumed she too had died in the plague that had wiped out half his little village.

Xiang had never married and, to the best of his knowledge, had never had any children. At times, he wondered if it had all been worth it. A wealthy, wealthy man with no children, no grandchildren, and hundreds of millions sitting in banks all over the world earning more millions in interest.

For what? For whom?

Today, his concern was on a nondescript ten-year-old eighteen wheeler carrying hand-made and colorfully painted bamboo furniture that would soon be winding its way up from Mexico to Texas, to Arkansas, through Tennessee, Kentucky, and West Virginia and finally up the east coast to New Jersey. There, it would be unloaded to a safe and definitely secure warehouse just outside Newark.

The furniture was indeed hand-made with hollowed out arms, legs, and backs. It was worth more than its weight in gold. The street value of the contents was more than two hundred fifty million.

Xiang did not need the money. He had no idea why he was still risking everything. For him, nothing would ever really change.