White Tiger (20 page)

Ryker smiled. “I’ll see what I can come up with.”

The patrol sergeant motioned to his younger Hispanic partner, and the black-and-white hitched forward a bit as the driver dropped it into gear.

“All right, we’re out of here unless you need us to stay. We gotta get back into the rotation.”

“See anyone entering or leaving?” Ryker asked.

The Hispanic patrolman behind the wheel jerked a thumb toward the pastel yellow house off the car’s left rear fender. It had the right number, 2423.

“Saw some activity on the second floor,” he said. “Just someone peeking through the curtains every now and then.”

“Good enough,” Ryker said. “Thanks again.”

He motioned Chee Wei to pull ahead. Chee Wei took his foot off the brake and the big Ford sedan drifted up the street. He watched in his rearview mirror as the patrol car pulled away from the curb and turned onto Quintana. There was a spot a bit further up the street, and he pulled into it without a problem, shoehorning the Crown Vic between an old Chevy pickup and a Toyota Prius.

“I’m the parallel-parking master!” Chee Wei crowed.

“Make sure you send your audition tape to
America’s Got Talent
,” Ryker said before he unbuckled his seat belt and opened the passenger door.

“You really need to be more supportive,” Chee Wei griped good-naturedly as he hauled himself out of the car.

Ryker walked down the sidewalk toward the house on the corner. He stopped when he heard Chee Wei call out to him.

“Hey, check it out,” he said.

Ryker turned. Chee Wei was still in the street, looking toward the south. Ryker followed his gaze, and sure enough, the glossy black Mercedes-Benz S550 was parked at the curb about a hundred feet down, its grille pointed toward them. Behind the wheel was a Chinese; beside him was a huge Caucasian man with broad shoulders and an equally broad face. The same men Ryker and Chee Wei had seen leaving Lin’s estate in Tiburon.

Chee Wei bent at the waist and placed his hands on his knees. He stared directly at the car.

“They’re all there—two up front, two in the rear. Good call putting the squad car on the house. You’ll thank me for badgering you about that later, right?”

“Let’s have a chat with them,” Ryker said, reversing course and walking toward the parked Mercedes. Chee Wei fell in with him.

As they advanced, the white man in the passenger seat favored Ryker with an open, appraising stare. He then said something to the driver. The car took off from the curb immediately.

“Hey!” Ryker shouted. “S.F.P.D., stop right there!”

The Mercedes did no such thing. It pulled into a driveway on the opposite side of the street, executed a three-point turn, and accelerated away from the two detectives. Ryker didn’t even have the time to pull his badge.

“Now that’s illegal, disobeying an officer of the law like that,” Chee Wei said, reaching for the cell phone clipped to his belt. “I’ll call it in
—
our pals on patrol’ll have them pulled over in no time.”

Ryker thought it over for a moment, then shook his head. He didn’t want any more issues with Jericho...or Lin, for that matter.

“Let them go,” he said, as he turned away from the street and headed back toward the sidewalk.

“Come on!” Chee Wei exclaimed. “They were waiting for the patrol guys to pull out, so they could go up there themselves!”

“And what’s wrong with that? It’s a free country.”

Chee Wei hurried after him. “How about that part where they’re interfering with an investigation?”

“So far, they’re not, not really,” Ryker said, stepping onto the sidewalk. He turned and faced Chee Wei. “They can talk with anyone they want to, and we can’t necessarily stop them from that.”

“And they can beat people, like those two gays and the girl in the Tenderloin?”

Ryker put his hands in his pockets and faced his younger partner.

“Chee Wei, the way I see it, this investigation is going to last longer the less we piss off Lin,” he said. “All Lin has to do is make one phone call to set things in motion, and the eventual response will be that Jericho’s balls retract and we’ll get pulled off the case.”

“Even James Lin couldn’t stop us from conducting a murder investigation,” Chee Wei replied. “And why the hell would he want to? His own
son
was whacked, for God’s sake. For sure he wants to find out who did it, and bring them to justice.”

“I kind of think Lin has a different definition of justice than you do,” Ryker said, glancing back over his shoulder at the neat yellow house at the corner. “I don’t know if he’s figured it out yet, but eventually, he’s going to want cops who are more sympathetic to him on the case. That way, if S.F.P.D. finds the killer, said person gets delivered to Lin’s goons. And this”
—
he nodded his head in the direction the Mercedes had taken off
—
“was just par for the course, an initial reaction. Once Lin calms down, he’ll either use us or pull us.”

“Dude, you really have a thing for conspiracy theories,” Chee Wei deadpanned.

“Hey, this is San Francisco, home of the loony liberal left. Conspiracy theories are what we live on out here.” Ryker waved toward the house. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

The two detectives walked toward the house. The entry was on the second floor, accessible by a winding, stucco-covered staircase. Chee Wei bolted up its length, his Bostonian loafers clacking loudly on the red tiled steps. Ryker climbed it unenthusiastically, his rubber-soled Rockports barely making a whisper. Chee Wei rang the bell as Ryker clambered onto the stoop behind him. A wind chime suspended beneath an ornate glass dragonfly hung beside the door, making small tinkling sounds as the light breeze caressed it.

There was no answer. Chee Wei rang the bell again.

“Think one of us should watch back?” he asked.

Ryker looked through the opaque window next to the door. He shook his head.

“No. Someone’s coming.”

He stepped back from the window and pulled his badge. Chee Wei did the same as the door opened. A security chain prevented it from opening more than five inches, and a thirty-something Chinese female face peered out at them. She was only borderline cute, and had the look of a mother, not a sexpot. There was no way this could be Xiaohui Zhu, Ryker decided.

“What do you want?” the woman asked, her English heavily accented.

“San Francisco Police,” Chee Wei said, showing her his badge. “I’m Detective Fong, this is Detective Sergeant Ryker, from Metro Division. May we come inside for a moment?”

“Why you want to come in?” the woman asked quickly. “I didn’t call the police!”

“We’d like to discuss some things with you,” Chee Wei said. “You’re not in any trouble, but we think you might be able to give us some assistance.”

“I don’t
—
”

“Do you have a sister named Xiaohui Zhu?” Ryker asked abruptly.

The woman behind the door looked at him, then back at Chee Wei. It didn’t take a degree in rocket science to see that she was trying to decide upon something...like whether to lie or not.

“No,” she said simply, choosing to lie. She started to close the door.

Ryker shoved it back open, slamming the door back against the chain. The woman shrieked a little and jumped behind it and out of view.

“This happens one of two ways,” Ryker said, his voice firm. “You let us in to talk with your sister, or we get a warrant. And some very,
very
bad people are looking for your sister. If you make us get a warrant, we’ll have to leave, and then they’ll show up before we can come back. Believe me, they’re not really all that interested in talking with her, and the kind of conversation they’ll likely have won’t last more than ten seconds. So you might want to consider letting us in so we can begin to straighten this whole thing out.”

The woman stepped out from behind the door after a moment, wide-eyed and clearly frightened.

“How I know you real police?” she asked.

Ryker reached into his wallet and pulled out one of his business cards. He held it out to her.

“Call the number on the card, but don’t dial the extension. Press three instead, and you’ll get the watch officer. Ask for me. He’ll tell you I’m away from the station.”

The woman regarded the card for a moment, then snatched it out of his hand. Ryker allowed her to slam the door shut.

Chee Wei checked his watch then looked out over the street.

“Well, this could take a while.”

“Patience, grasshopper.”

“Whatever you say, Blow-My-Wand Kenobi.”

The corners of Ryker’s mouth twitched upward slightly, as much of a smile such a comment deserved.

The chain rustled on the other side of the door, and it opened an instant later. The woman looked at both detectives suspiciously for a moment, but it was obvious that at least the question of their identities had been resolved.

“Why you want my sister?” she asked.

“Your sister is a known associate of Lin Dan,” Chee Wei said, pronouncing the deceased’s name with perfect Chinese intonation. “We really need to speak with her regarding her whereabouts last night.”

“I know nothing about this,” the woman protested. She was wearing faded blue jeans and a gray Gap T-shirt, over which was a light blue sweater. Worn slippers adorned her feet. She wore no makeup, and her face was relatively plain without it. A simple gold wedding band reflected the sunlight from her hand.

“Ma’am, may we come in?” Ryker prodded.

After another brief hesitation, she nodded curtly and stepped to one side. Ryker shuffled in ahead of Chee Wei, and the woman closed the door behind them. She locked it and slid the chain back into place. The smell of ginger and garlic was in the air. From deeper in the house, a small dog yapped.

“Why you want to ask my sister about this man?” the woman asked.

“You know of him, then,” Chee Wei said.

“Not me, I don’t know anything.”

“Lin Dan could be a female name as well, but you knew it was a man.”

“It’s on the news,” the woman countered, pointing down the small hallway toward what was probably the living room. “Chinese station.”

Ryker rubbed his eyes tiredly.

“May I have your name, please?” he asked.

“Mabel Chan,” she replied automatically. “My husband, his name is Eugene.”

“And your sister’s name is Xiaohui Zhu,” Ryker continued. “And we have it on some pretty good word that she’s here.”

There was a spell of silence for a long moment. Ryker looked around the small entry hall; white tile, beige walls, Victorian-style crown moldings, and a slightly battered wall table holding up two antique-looking bowls of green glass. Both were overflowing with old mail. He reached out past Chee Wei and snatched up one envelope. Mabel Chan opened her mouth and took a quick breath to protest, but he ignored her. The envelope was indeed addressed to the Chan family. He returned it to the bowl, and turned to face Mabel.

“Mrs. Chan
—
Mabel?
—
it’s for the best that we speak with your sister as soon as possible. She could be in some serious trouble, and we need to figure out if she needs help from us.”

Mabel looked from white man to Chinese man and back to white man.

“Come with me,” she said. With that, she led them to a small living room outfitted with two small leather loveseats. One was against another beige wall; the other had its back to the window overlooking the driveway outside. Both were oriented toward a large plasma screen television. On it played a Chinese news program, the volume muted. English captions flashed at the bottom of the screen, and Ryker thought that was odd.