The Killing Hands (38 page)

“Yes, sir,” Hana says, and Williams gives a nod.

Once they're out of sight, Petrov nods at the door and I close it.

“Mee's not as safe as I thought,” Petrov admits.

“No.” De Luca manages to sit down. “She may have been while Agent Young was looking out for her, but now….”

“We still can't confirm that Young's cover has been blown.” Petrov clasps his hands together. “And without word from Young we can't confirm if Mee's alive or dead.”

We sit in silence.

“Maybe Young found out Suzuki was behind the contract, and Suzuki intercepted him before he got to Tomi Moto.”

De Luca adds his voice to the theory. “Suzuki might not realize Young's an undercover agent. He might just think he's someone who can jeopardize his standing with Moto.”

“Either way,” I say, “Young's in trouble.”

Quiet again.

The conversation's path is such that I feel I can add in the next part without it sounding too left field. “What if Park Ling's in town to kill Agent Young?”

Petrov slowly nods his head. “It's possible that Suzuki would bring Ling in again to tie off all the loose ends…including Mee Kim. It'd give him distance from the hits and like you said, Anderson, he's probably hoping that if they look like natural deaths Moto will never suspect his involvement.”

De Luca stands up again. “We've got to get Young and Mee Kim out now. They're both in danger.”

“Agreed,” I say.

Petrov is silent on the matter, and both De Luca and I look at him expectantly.

He puts his hands in the air. “It's just that we don't know for sure that this mistress, Ima, isn't alive and well in Tokyo or somewhere else. Jun Saito disappeared for fifteen years, why can't she? Her brother may have been the one who organized for her to disappear.” He sighs. “We'll put Takeshi Suzuki under surveillance for the next twenty-four hours.”

“But what about Park Ling?” I ask. “He might take the hit on Young in the next few hours.”

“Anderson, you think that's likely?” Petrov says with some disbelief. “You profiled the guy.”

Petrov's right. I'm letting my emotions run away without thinking about our hit man's behavior. Each hit is planned, and well planned, and he's only been in the country for six hours. Our hit man isn't going to be rushed by anyone. And if Suzuki needs it to look like Young died of natural causes, they'll need to find a location for the attack to occur.

“No, you're right. He normally plans the hit for days or weeks. I don't think he'll wait that long this time, but we've probably got twelve to twenty-four hours.”

Petrov nods. “Good.” He looks at De Luca. “What was the latest report from Young on Mee's location?”

“An address in Carson. But she'd been moved once already.”

“Okay, let's check out the Carson address and the earlier one, too. Put them on twenty-four hour watch and see if anyone's coming or going. If Park Ling enters either premises, or if anything else looks potentially threatening, we go in.”

“I'll take first watch on the last address Young gave me,” De Luca says, “the house in Carson.”

“Okay. I presume you'll take Agent Kim?”

“Uh-huh.” He looks down. “I'd like to keep her close at the moment.”

Hana can't report in to the Yakuza if she's with De Luca.

“And I'll take the other location, with Williams.”

“No way, Anderson. You're desk-bound.”

“Come on, sir. It's only surveillance. What's the difference between sitting in a chair here or in a car seat?”

“You know the difference, Anderson. Here you won't have to draw down on a suspect, you won't have to watch Williams's back.”

“But, sir, Suzuki's probably moved Mee and Young to a new location. One that Moto doesn't know about.”

“Where is the other address, Joe?”

“California Heights. Another private house.”

Petrov's silent for some time. “You can ride out there with Williams, but I'll be sending someone to relieve you.”

“But, sir—”

“No buts, Anderson.” He looks down at his computer, not even returning my stare…or should I say glare. “I'll organize people from the Gang Impact Team to work on shifts with you guys.”

“But what about the leak?” I ask. “What if it's not Hana or Williams? If it's someone in the wider Gang Impact Team, we'll be letting them know we're on to Mee's past locations. Then Agent Young's cover will definitely be blown.”

“It has to be Kim or Williams, Anderson. It's the only thing that adds up.” Despite his words, after a few seconds Petrov lets out a sigh. “Okay. I'll talk to Brady, get a few of our regular field agents assigned to this for twenty-four to forty-eight hours. But I might only be able to get four, which would mean twelve-hour surveillance shifts.”

“Fine by me.” De Luca is quick to respond. He's got an agent inside.

“Me, too.”

Petrov catches me out. “You'll be on about a one-hour shift, Anderson.”

I keep silent, resisting the temptation to argue—it's futile.

“Okay, Joe, you give the assignments to Agents Kim and Williams and e-mail me through the addresses. At least this way we can keep them close to us.” Petrov looks at his watch. “Someone will relieve you guys at 11:00 p.m. and you'll be on again at eleven tomorrow morning.”

Petrov's made it nearly nine hours from now, which will make for an extremely long day for De Luca, Hana and Williams. I wish I could say the same for me—it wouldn't be the first time I'd have to work around the clock.

I follow De Luca back to his desk and write down the California Heights address. Then we pull Williams and Hana off their task of trying to find Takeshi Suzuki's current whereabouts and split up to start our surveillance work.

On the way to Cerritos Avenue in California Heights, Williams calls his wife to let her know he won't be home until late.

“Petrov must be real worried about Mee Kim,” he says, “to order round-the-clock surveillance on two locations. Especially given they're only addresses of interest.”

Williams still doesn't have the benefit of our extra knowledge—that
two
lives are in the mix and that these locations are confirmed Yakuza hiding spots for Mee. I'd like to tell him all this so he's not operating in the dark, but I could be sitting next to the very person who's been feeding the Yakuza information.

“Yeah,” I say, “well, I guess with Park Ling back in town it's possible he's here to take out Mee Kim this visit. Any lead is better than nothing.”

Williams shrugs. “I guess so.”

The house on Cerritos Avenue is two stories, bagged and painted white on the outside with dark blue window frames and door frames. It looks well kept, not something I was expecting of a gangster hideout. But maybe the Yakuza has high standards. We drive by, U-turn and park six doors down so we have a good line of sight of the house and its front door.

We'd stopped for some food and drinks and take-out coffees on the drive over. We both finish our coffees before Williams says, “So, what do you want first? Your cashew nuts or fruit?” Williams motions to the stash in the backseat.

I smile. “I'll hold off for a little while, thanks.”

“I'm going to start with my donut.”

Our food choices at 7-Eleven were quite different. I went for a bag of unsalted cashews, a sandwich and my treat food of a chocolate bar. I also got a couple of Diet Pepsis for extra caffeine. Williams, on the other hand, went for pure refined carbs and sugar, and lots of it—donuts, bags of chips, several chocolate bars and lots of Coke, the nondiet variety. And that's what will be his body's fuel until 11:00 p.m.

As he munches into his donut I try to think of a way to convince Petrov that I'm okay for surveillance. Yes, it's
active duty, but we all know that nine times out of ten surveillance is anything but active. We don't even know if this house has any occupants at all, let alone Mee and Agent Young.

An hour later I'm still trying to think of a work-around when another car pulls up. I recognize the occupant as FBI agent Rob Black who works under Rosen in our Criminal Division.

I sigh. “This must be my replacement.”

Williams gives me a sideways glance. “Don't look so down, Anderson. You're going to be sitting on your sofa tonight.”

“Yeah, but I'd rather stay here. Just in case something happens.” I couldn't bear it if I missed the action.

“Well, I'd love to trade places with you.”

“Why don't you?” I say. “You can take my car and I'll stay here with Black.”

Williams gives me a look. “It's a tight race between facing my wife's wrath at midnight or Petrov's later today, but I'm going to stick with the rules this time.”

“Chicken.”

He laughs. “You're right about that one, Anderson.” Williams gathers his stakeout goodies. “So, what's this Rob Black like?”

“A complete ass,” I lie. “You'll hate him.”

Williams laughs again. “I'll tell him you said that.”

A few seconds later Williams is in Agent Black's car and I'm driving off alone.

D
riving by either location—the Carson house or the California Heights house—is probably not a good idea, at least until after 11:00 p.m., when there's a chance the agents on duty won't know my car. Of course, depending on who Petrov assigns, the relief agents may well know both me and my Bureau-issue car. So for the meantime, I head to the office—it's only 1:00 p.m. At the moment we've got most of our case invested in Ima Yamada being dead, not missing, and Takeshi Suzuki as our contractor on Jun Saito. But I need some sort of verification that Suzuki is our man.

I go through the files De Luca and I were reviewing this morning, paying particular attention to the information we have on three people—Takeshi Suzuki, Hiroki Kawa and Ima Yamada. After I've gone through Suzuki's file, I spread the photos of him out in front of me, pushing the other materials away. I pick up a photo, hold it in my hand and study his face closely. I slow my breathing, taking longer, deeper breaths in and out. I focus on relaxing my toes, then my feet, then my torso, my shoulders, and lastly I let the tension in my face drop away. I close my eyes, enveloped in a bubble of relaxation.

But nothing comes. No vision, not even a flash of Suzuki. I open my eyes again and look at the photo for another twenty minutes or so. Still nothing.

Frustrated, I move on to Saito and repeat the process. This time I am rewarded with a vision, but it's a replay of Saito discovering his girlfriend's body—Saito's tense, trying to get home to his girlfriend, but when he arrives she's dead.

Next I move on to Ima Yamada. Is she the reason Saito's dead? The reason Saito's girlfriend was murdered, too? The file we've put together on her is small. A couple of surveillance shots taken with Hiroki Kawa, a couple of interior shots of her apartment after she'd gone missing, and a two-page missing-persons report filed by her mother. I wonder if Takeshi helped with the report, or if he already knew the likelihood of his sister's fate. I close my eyes, controlling my breathing once more.

I find myself slumped over the meeting-room table, waves of nausea riding me. The nausea is more severe than usual, and I can't help but wonder if it's because it was such a long vision. Usually I get much smaller snippets.

Eventually the feeling subsides and I'm able to straighten up without worrying I'll be sick all over the files. The first part of the vision was from Ima's point of view, and then once she was dead I jumped into Jun Saito's shoes. And there's no doubt, it was Jun Saito. Ima Yamada's dead all right, and no wonder her body was never found—she was buried soon after her death, atop who knows whose grave. Without the name on the tombstone she lies under, her body will never be found.

I start to replay the vision, hoping to find something else useful in there. One of the men lowering her body into the grave must have been Saito, but who was the other man? Whoever it was, I'm guessing he told Takeshi Suzuki what really happened to his sister that night. And once Suzuki knew, Saito had to run. We'll never know the exact sequence of events—maybe Saito just sensed something was wrong, was worried he was being followed and decided to run with his girlfriend. Or maybe he knew of his friend's betrayal, knew that his days were numbered if he stayed in Tokyo. Either way, Saito was ready to pack up with his girlfriend and leave the Yakuza and Japan for good.

I think back to the start of the dream…Hiroki and Ima in her apartment making love. There's something familiar about her bedroom. Something that I've seen before. I take out all the photos we have relating to Takeshi Suzuki, including shots Agent Young has taken. We have surveillance shots of several Yakuza buildings: the two “safe houses” where Mee was held, a restaurant in Little Tokyo out of
which Tomi Moto runs an office, a karaoke bar and nightclub that Suzuki runs; and, through Agent Young, we know where some of the key players live. Moto lives in a large security-gated house in Rancho Palos Verdes, and Suzuki lives in a smaller but still glamorous house in Newport Beach. Both houses have swimming pools and tennis courts and both have high levels of security. Young has been to their homes, and was able to take a few snaps on his cell phone during visits about six months ago. It's in these grainy photos that I see the familiar item—a painting of a cherry blossom that hung above Ima Yamada's bed. Obviously Suzuki brought it with him to the States.

Looking at the photos gets me thinking…could Suzuki be stupid enough to hold Mee and Agent Young at his home?

I dial Petrov's number. “Hi, it's Anderson. Are Moto's and Suzuki's houses under surveillance at the moment?”

“Hold on, I'll just check for you.”

I hear papers shuffling and the sound of a keyboard as Petrov looks up the current surveillance operations.

“Not from the Gang Impact Team. Why?”

“Just wondering.” I bite my lip, trying to work out how much I can tell Petrov without him asking questions. I can certainly present the hypothesis. “You think Suzuki might be holding Mee Kim and Agent Young at his house?”

Petrov's silent for a few beats, thinking. “He's married with three kids. How's he going to keep two prisoners in his own home without major questions?”

Women who are involved with members of organized crime syndicates rarely have more than a superficial understanding of what their partners do. Sure, she may know he's involved in the Yakuza, but she probably prefers not to think about it. It's a strange arrangement, and the women definitely subscribe to the old saying: See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. So Petrov's right—Suzuki isn't going to hold Kim and Young in the house while his wife and children go about their normal day-to-day lives. That would be way too close for comfort. But he might have somewhere else he can take them.

“Have you tracked him down yet? For the tail?”

Another moment of silence from Petrov. “Not yet. I'm still trying to get some people.”

“Okay.” Resources are tight, particularly when we don't want to use anyone from the Gang Impact Team or anyone Petrov doesn't feel he can trust one hundred percent. And I imagine after spending over twelve months trying to find the bad apple, Petrov's trust levels have plummeted.

“Leave it with me,” Petrov says.

We say goodbye and hang up. I'm sure Petrov will assign someone to Suzuki in the next twenty-four hours, but in the meantime, what harm is there in a drive-by? Or maybe even sitting out front for half an hour or so. Plus I've still got a few snacks in the backseat, so at least I'll be set up if I decide to stick it out at Suzuki's home.

I pull into Seascape Drive just before 6:00 p.m. and try to get a fix on numbers. Eventually I see a number on my right, and I cruise slowly down the street until I come to Suzuki's home. I recognize it from the surveillance shots, although now the trees are bare instead of laden with crisp green leaves. Most of the fence line is marked by a high cream wall, but a large wrought-iron security gate at the driveway gives me a visual on the house.

I park opposite and at an angle that allows me to see up the driveway and to the double-story redbrick home. The house itself is modern, but the grounds have been landscaped with touches of Japan—cherry blossoms, Japanese maples and a large Japanese-style water feature. Taking out my binoculars, I focus on the front room and catch a glimpse of movement. I move my binoculars until I find the source, a woman and two children sitting up at the table. I keep my eyes peeled, but it looks like Takeshi Suzuki is out. I reach for my cashews and a Diet Pepsi. Surveillance is definitely not good for the waistline. Although at least I'm doing a little better than Williams.

Two hours later a silver Mercedes pulls up at the house. I can't see the driver, but I have to assume it's Suzuki. I check the license plates—it's a match for his car. The wife greets
him at the door, but I know the kids went to bed nearly an hour ago. Within a few minutes, Mr. and Mrs. Suzuki are sitting down to dinner. There's still no sign of any of Petrov's agents.

At 9:45 p.m. Suzuki goes into the front room to take a call. He paces while he talks and within five seconds of putting the phone down the front door opens. I keep the binoculars trained on him as he gets into his car. The headlights go on, and soon he's rolling down the drive, heading to me. I sink down in my seat, conflicted by my need to get a visual confirmation that the man is Suzuki and my desire to stay hidden. In the end, self-preservation wins out and I sink low—too low for him to see me, and too low for me to see him.

I wait about five seconds before I start my car, swing a U-turn and follow the man that I have to presume is Takeshi Suzuki. Who else would be in his house and driving his car?

We cruise through the streets of Newport Beach, making our way north and toward downtown L.A. It's easier to tail someone in the dark, because all they can see in their rearview mirror is lights and general shapes. Soon we're cruising into Little Tokyo and turning into a laneway that runs alongside Takeshi Suzuki's karaoke bar.

I idle out the front, taking a little bit of risk for a big return. The man parks the car in a space at the end of the laneway and gets out. He makes his way to a small door, presumably a back entrance to the bar, and once he's under the light that hangs on the door I can see him properly. Bingo…it's Takeshi Suzuki, all right. With the visual ID confirmed, I roll the car forward, looking for a spot and considering my options. I want to go into the bar; problem is, Suzuki was in the warehouse the night I got shot. He knows what I look like. I pull into a parking space a little less than a block from the bar.

My options are limited, so limited that I decide to take an even bigger risk. I sweep my hair up into a French roll and hunt around the car for one of my baseball caps. I tend to have hats lying around the place—in the car, in the house, in my bedroom, in bags—ready for the time I need sun pro
tection. I'm not disappointed this time, as my hands clasp around a black Nike baseball cap. I take a look at my reflection in the rearview mirror. I still look like me, of course, but the cap hides my hair and hopefully changes my appearance enough to fool someone who's only seen me once. I'm also expecting the karaoke bar to be appropriately dark.