“I'm pretty sure it's them,” Michelle said. “Don't get me wrong, there's some sleaze in their billionaire class outside the official Communist party leadership that might do something this dickish if given a chance, but...just the whispers I'm getting suggest this is backed from the top of the government. Of course, that's nothing you can take to the bank...”
“I can't rely on the word of criminals? What is the world coming to?”
Michelle smiled. “So...boss wants you to quit. You know there's more to this. What are you going to do?”
I looked her right in the sunglasses, shook my head, and walked away. “Like you even had to ask,” I muttered, just loud enough she could hear it.
“That's what I thought,” she called after me. “Good luck.”
“I don't need luck,” I said, crossing the street during a break in traffic. “I need a damned break in my case,” I said, this time, mostly to myself.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
“Who's that you were talking with out there?” Holloway asked as I came in. He was already in his seat, and I could see the report from the previous night already pulled up in his word processor.
“Aren't you suspended for shooting someone?” I asked.
“Technically, yes,” Holloway said, turning his attention back to the screen. “Aren't you?”
“I'm above such mortal concerns,” I said. “Though technically, probably yes. But I, too, have reports to file.”
Holloway snorted under his breath. “Which you could write from home, like your co-millennial.”
“Uck,” I said. “Don't compare me to Hilton. I have yet to drop an overshare on you, Holloway.”
“I don't know, the constant jibes about my hemorrhoid cream seem like the very definition.”
“Yeah, but you know you're wearing hemorrhoid cream, so I'm not really 'sharing' it with you.”
“But a decent person would let me keep the appearance of my dignity.”
“No one has accused me of being decent,” I said, flipping on my computer. “At least not lately. Word of my character has spread to all corners of the earth, clearly.”
“Yeah, well, it's certainly spread to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue,” Holloway said. “Got a call from the White House offering congratulations from some functionary.” When I looked at him blankly, he elaborated. “For solving the case.”
“Which is not entirely solved yet,” I said. “As to who I was talking to–”
“That mob boss from New Orleans!” Holloway snapped his fingers. “The one with the yoga pants that sent you on the chase down Bourbon Street after the Chinese grandma!”
“Yeah,” I said. “Anyway, she says–”
“Wait, she's your CI on this?”
“Yes, and please keep up.”
“I saw your feet after what she did to you,” Holloway said, staring at me with barely veiled disbelief. “You really gonna trust anything she says after that?”
“She helped us nail Governor Warrington.”
“Uh, no,” Holloway said, “if you'll recall, he jumped out a window after we left town.”
“Po-tay-toe, po-tah-toe. Justice was served.”
Holloway let out a low peal of laughter. “Remember when you told me you joined the FBI to re-establish your sense of justice? Because I do. Seems like you might have forgotten, given you're now cool with people kersplatting on the street without trial...”
“Can we focus?” I asked. “What she told me? There are more people missing than were on our list.”
“That list hasn't been released to the public yet,” Holloway said, almost whispering. “You can't go showing it to–”
“Just pretend she's a CI,” I said. “That's what I pretend when I have to justify shit to myself to get things done. There is more to this case than we've unveiled. It's not over.”
Holloway just stared at me, shifting in his chair. “Tell me something I don't know. Except our boss disagrees.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said, folding my arms in front of me. “But I can't just...let it go. I mean, the people packed in that container...”
Holloway nodded slowly. “Pitiful sight, right?” He let out a long sigh. “I'm game if you are.”
I stared at him. “You mean...for keeping this going? Even though Chalke says we're done?”
He nodded his head slowly. “Yeah. Where do we start?”
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
Chapman
He watched the scene of re-commitment between Nealon and Holloway play out in near-disbelief. It was morning; sunlight was shining through his windows. He felt a little sticky, but a kombucha was already dripping condensation on his desk, and he'd been ready to go.
Then the revelation played out. First from Nealon talking to the lady who he couldn't quite see. Then from the chat with Holloway.
“I thought this thing was over,” Chapman moaned. His phone started to buzz and he looked down at it.
Shit. Huang.
Of course he had to answer, so he did. “Hey, Wu.” Definitely some cringe to his voice, though.
“Good morning, my friend.” Wu sounded pretty...uh, well...jacked, actually. “I have excellent news.”
“Oh?” Chapman was bracing himself. He had a feeling good stuff was coming, only to be snuffed out as soon as Huang and the Chinese government got wind of the fact Nealon wasn't moving along with grace.
“Yes,” Huang said. So chipper. For now. “I am assured by friends in Washington that everyone is putting this chapter behind them now that this mercenary company that was kidnapping people has been dispensed with.”
“Yeah, I saw that,” Chapman said. “Uh...I don't mean to be the bearer of bad news, but I should warn you – it's not over.”
There was a forever pause before Huang spoke. “What do you mean?”
“I'm sure the government is letting it go, but Sienna Nealon...” Chapman paused for breath. Felt like he was falling. “...I don't know, Huang, she's a dog with a bone. She and her partner aren't letting it go.”
Huang's voice rose a little, an edge of concern – panic, maybe even – undergirding it. “I was assured by my friends in Washington that it was over.”
“Everyone sensible wants it to be,” Chapman said. How could he placate Huang but still deliver the bad news? That would have been a question to have an answer for before he picked up the phone. “It's just Nealon. She's not quitting.”
There was a very long pause before Huang responded again. “Interesting. I trust your sources are good on this?”
Chapman let out a small chuckle. “Wu...let's put it this way: I heard it straight from the horse's mouth.”
“I appreciate your assistance in this matter,” Huang said. “You have faithfully tried to help keep this deal on track in spite of the ups and downs. This new information is important to our interests. I will transmit it to those who would most be affected and try to make sure their gratitude to you for passing it along will not be marred by the message itself.”
“Sounds good,” Chapman said, feeling a little dry mouth set in. Needed some water. “I'll let you know if anything changes.”
“Please do.”
And that was that. Chapman pondered the conversation for a few minutes, wondering where it might go from here, but truthfully – he didn't want to think about it. And he had a full schedule today, so he put aside watching the monitors for a while and moved on, hoping that whatever and whoever Huang was going to talk to, they'd solve the problem for everyone.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
Sienna
The hours passed like lead. I stared at my computer screen, in a mental fog after having checked the forensic records on everything, from the .22 bullet recovered at Cathy Jang-Peters's crime scene to rereading the witness statements from her and the guy who saved her. I combed through the reports on the van, the dead bodies of the kidnappers, the furniture store, the house in Baltimore, the abandoned car...
And so on, and so on. We had accumulated reams of evide
nce in this case. More forensic reports piled in by the hour.
None of it led anywhere. Except somehow, mysteriously, to a dock in the Port of Baltimore, where we'd found a shipping container filled with people of Chinese ancestry who'd been kidnapped for unknown purposes.
“Are you getting the feeling that this is a maze?” Holloway turned to me, and I could tell by his bleary eyes that he, too, was hitting a wall.
“It's amazing, all right,” I said with a sigh. “I had a thought, though, sort of related to our last break.”
“Oh, you mean the corporate search thing?” Holloway let out a yawn. “What about it?”
“Remember the guy that owned the building?” I asked. “Huang?”
“Yeah.”
“I started to look into him – you know, when I got tired of going through the evidence that didn't contain anything actionable,” I opened a tab I'd been fiddling with a while ago, “and boy, does this guy own a lot of stuff.”
Holloway slid over. “You just did a search?”
“And started reading the results,” I said. “Look at this. In addition to the huge share of Jaime Chapman's company, he owns dozens of holding companies in the US with stakes in an incredible number of industries. Petroleum, manufacturing, banking, real estate – if there's a sector of our markets that this guy doesn't have a piece of, I'm not seeing it.”
“An expert on investing, are you?” Holloway asked, leaning forward.
“Well, I don't exactly have a huge portfolio to manage these days, so no,” I said. “But I'm not economically illiterate.”
Holloway nodded, grudgingly, as he read. “Hell, buying that piece of Chapman's company alone put him in several sectors. Look at what that guy has – social media, search engine, that company you see the ads for all the time–”
“If you're seeing them, I assume they're the ones related to erectile dysfunction.”
“Hah hah,” Holloway said, but his face fell. “No, I mean the ones where you send in the DNA swab and they match you with relatives you never knew about and will probably regret finding once they hit you up for a loan 'just til payday' a hundred times in a year.”
I stared at him curiously. “I think your family experience is maybe a little different than mine.”
“Yeah, your people have probably lived for a thousand years, during which they've developed that investment portfolio you're so keen to start.” Holloway settled back in his seat. “I mean, if finding clues consists of sifting the dirt, seeking for gold, then this guy owns a mountain range. How could you even find anything to pull on his portfolio? It's not like that HKKCME company, with its tiny holdings. He owns pieces of thousands of companies.”
I picked up a pen and tapped the end at the corner of my mouth. “Right, but he doesn't wholly own them. What if we looked at companies he owned a majority stake in, like this real estate company that leased to HKKCME? Because those would be the ones that he'd be able to have some influence over, if he's dirty.”
“He could have influence over a lot of things, even if he's not a majority stakeholder,” Holloway said. “Look at that Chapman douche. You know how much of his company he owns at this point? Fifteen percent.”
My eyebrows went up. “Really?”
“Yeah, because he holds the majority of the voting stock, which is different than the common stock,” Holloway said, staring at the screen. He must have sensed my surprised eyes holding on him, because he shifted his gaze to me. “What? I have a portfolio. It's about half the size it used to be thanks to my ex-wife, but still.”
“Is there a way to find out who owns the voting rights in a company?” I asked, staring at the screen.
“Yeah, my buddy can do it,” Holloway said, “but for a holding the size of what this Huang guy has? It goes way beyond a favor. And the fact we're officially without an investigation?” He shook his head. “This is too close to the line. We're supposed to investigate crimes, after all, not go trolling for possible lawbreakers like some local cop pulling over people for minor violations to see what majors they can haul down.”
“So you're saying we won't get help on this?” I looked back to the partial list of Huang's business enterprises. It filled multiple computer screens. “Argh.”
“Yeah,” Holloway said with a sigh. “I know how to do a few things on this. Let me get started, then I can probably show you how to do – well, the second stage of it, which is combing through bullshit.” He rubbed his weary eyes. “This could take a bit, though.” He paused, and I saw a thought run over his face. “You know what I could really use right now?”
I let out a low, long grunt. “You're going to turn me into your coffee and lunch bitch, aren't you?”
Holloway flashed me a grin. “You said it, not me. But since you mentioned it...this is thirsty work. And hungry work. And there's that Chinese takeout place a couple blocks over...”
CHAPTER SEVENTY
I hit the street with a plan in mind: get the Chinese takeout order, hit the coffee place on the corner for a quick refuel, and head back to the office, where Holloway had damned sure better have something for me to work on to justify me being an errand girl for his sorry ass.
It wasn't that I objected to being sent to fetch food, coffee, elements of survival. It wasn't as though it was beneath me. I just didn't like being told what to do or made to feel like a servant for other peoples' quality of life.
Just ignore the fact that, really, that's what I was, in total. I stopped bad guys before they could wreck people’s lives. How was that different than fetching coffee and lunch for a bureau colleague?
Well, it just was. Less bloody. Less violent. Less likelihood of dying. To me, these were all negatives.
The DC street was quietly abuzz. It was so much different than life in suburban-ish Minnesota. I'd lived in a quiet neighborhood – mostly. Just south of the city, with yards and fences and leafy trees in the front yard, when it wasn't all blanketed with snow.
This part of DC was busy, bustling, like my neighborhood in New York. People were everywhere, at all hours. In my Minnesota neighborhood, you could go out at three in the morning and not run into a soul. Hell, you could even potentially go out at three in the afternoon and not run into a soul.
Not a chance in DC, or New York. I missed that element of quiet, that increased space between people. I wasn't big on closing the personal distance unless I was going to pummel a person. Or...hug them, I suppose? Though the former was more common with me, especially lately.
I raked the street with my eyes. This was another element of the city I disliked. In a suburban neighborhood, it was harder to hide a threat. Sure, a SWAT team could come bursting out of a garage as you walked by, or a group of mercs could swarm you out of a panel van parked on the street, but those spaces were obvious. Panel vans weren't common; you could cross the street to avoid walking past one. Garages were a ways off the sidewalk, you'd have some warning before you got hit. Unless you got shot right from a window.
In DC, at least, the buildings didn't extend quite so far up as in New York. I had sniper fears, especially this last year, worrying that someone might take a potshot at me from above. I had a lot of non-fans out in the world, and it would be easy for someone on an eighth floor to blast my brains out from a hundred yards away without me even seeing the gun barrel extending out the window. Here, the limited rise of the buildings versus the skyscrapers of midtown provided a lower limit to the number of windows I had to scan as I walked the city.
And scan I did. The cars going by, the people passing on the sidewalk, the windows overhead. All of them got eyeballed from behind my tinted sunglasses, the things worthy of a second and third look mentally filed away for further checking. A van I passed three cars back: darkened windows up front, no windows in back. Who's hiding what there? The face I saw two floors up, one block down on the left: is it a kid watching the street? Or a hostile watching me?
Such was the life of Sienna Nealon, the world's most paranoid person. Havin
g been thoroughly bushwhacked to the point of nearly losing my life on numerous occasions, my guard was forever up. I could be in flagrante delicto with Harry, and I'd shush him because a strange noise outside our door sounded like someone scraping metal against the lock, trying to pick it. (That actually happened. He explained to me that the neighbor across the hall was drunk and uncoordinated and we proceeded, my gratitude for having a precognitive boyfriend never more present than in that moment, maybe.)
Taking my time and doing all this observation, I didn't move as fast as I could have if I was determined to meta-speed it across town. I could be at my destination in minutes, and back in the same time. Brisk jog for me, car-like speeds for a normal person. It was all possible, but I didn't do it. Not here.
Making people feel safe meant not tooling down the sidewalks at thirty miles an hour, blurring past as people wondered, worrying what crisis I was into. So I walked at the equivalent of a snail's pace – for me – and took it all in. The two businessmen arguing about politics as they exited the swanky new restaurant across the way. The hipster guy ironically wearing an old-timey railroad engineer's coveralls and a pork pie hat (God, let it be ironically). The Asian guy stepping out of the carpet cleaner's van parked just ahead of me–
I slowed my pace and stepped to the edge of the sidewalk. Maybe I was racially profiling, but I caught him looking at me as he got out. Nothing too heavy, just a glance in the rearview mirror, then another glance as he circled the vehicle to the back door and opened it–
No swarm of mercs came flooding out, which was a relief. There was equipment inside, equipment I couldn't quite make out. A door slammed down the block, behind me, and I chanced a look. Lady in a power suit, staring at her phone, heading across the street to the tax consultancy across the way.
I filed her under innocuous and prepared to cross the street, just in case the carpet cleaner wasn't on the level.
Dragon: Out of the Box (The Girl in the Box Book 37) Page 25