by R. J. Jagger
Her tits were almost out of her dress.
“Want’s the caption say?” Teffinger asked.
“It says, YUKI GOES WESTERN. Everyone in Hong Kong’s going to want to know who you are.”
Teffinger grunted.
“Well, if they get the answer to that one, I hope they let me know,” he said, “because I’m still trying to figure it out myself.”
Then something happened, something that made his heart race. He spotted something in the background of the picture, namely the mystery woman—Tanna—sitting on the couch. It wasn’t a perfect picture but was a picture nonetheless. Now he had something to show d’Asia.
Yeah, baby.
He slapped Fan Rae on the ass.
“It’s going to be a good day,” he said.
She slapped his ass back.
“We’re getting tattoos today,” she said. “Don’t forget.”
He’d forgotten about that.
“Don’t worry, I didn’t forget.”
TEFFINGER TOOK A SHOWER, wrapped a towel around his waist and then followed his nose towards the aroma of coffee. Fan Rae poured him a cup and said, “I just got a call from Tu Lien Lo.”
Tu Lien Lo.
Tu Lien Lo.
The name was familiar but Teffinger couldn’t place it.
“Syling Wu’s roommate,” Fan Rae added, “the one with the white panties.”
He pulled up a visual.
Right.
Fan Rae punched him on the arm and said, “I knew you’d remember that part. Anyway, she said another P.I. showed up to talk to her.”
“Really?”
Fan Rae nodded.
“Someone besides the creepy guy?”
She nodded again.
“A woman, this time.”
HE WAS JUST ABOUT TO ASK “WHO?” when his phone rang and the voice of Sydney Heatherwood came through. After catch-up and chitchat she said, “The reason I called is, I gave that videotape to Kwak to enhance, like the chief wanted.”
“Right.”
“Kwak’s been acting funny ever since,” she said.
“Acting funny how?”
“I don’t know exactly, it’s just the way he looks at me,” she said.
“Has he said anything?”
“Nothing specific.”
“So what are you saying, that he recognized me?”
Yeah.
Maybe.
“He looks torn.”
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Day Seven—August 9
Sunday Morning
______________
KONG WASN’T INTO PAIN except as a last option. He interrogated the blond woman, Emmanuelle Laurent, briefly last night after he got her secured to an X-frame in Kam Lee’s dungeon. She wouldn’t talk. Kam Lee took a riding crop off the wall and ran it in a circle around the woman’s bellybutton.
“Give me ten minutes with her,” she said.
Kong considered it.
He almost consented.
“We’ll let her think about it until tomorrow.” Then to the bound woman, “That’ll be your last chance to do it the easy way. Do you understand?”
Silence.
Defiance.
“That’s a promise.”
Emmanuelle spent the night on the dungeon floor, inescapably handcuffed to a steel bolt, with the door closed and locked.
Kong went back to Dangerous Lady and fell asleep to the sound of the water lapping against the hull.
That was last night.
WHEN HE WOKE UP this morning, the water was calm. He dived in and swam with a strong overhand stroke between the junks and the yachts out into Victoria Harbour and then east along the coast.
His body worked like a machine, a Tarzan machine.
He had lungs to spare, shoulders to spare, arms to spare, kick to spare.
When he got back an hour later, Dangerous Lady had another vessel tied to her—the Predator.
What the hell?
“Jack Poon wants to see you.”
“Doesn’t that guy ever rest?”
“Be warned, he’s in a bad mood.”
AN HOUR LATER, Poon poured two cups of coffee in the penthouse kitchen and handed one to Kong. He took a sip, said “Thanks,” and set it down on a newspaper that was sitting on the granite. Poon beat around the bush, feeling Kong out, before he finally got to the point. He had a situation, a very delicate situation, one that required drastic measures and the utmost discretion.
“Are you interested in hearing more?”
Kong shrugged.
“Sure.”
Poon studied him and said, “I want someone dead.”
Kong didn’t flinch.
He expected something like that.
“Who?”
Poon handed him a photograph of a woman, a stunning woman, Kong’s equal if there was such a thing.
He tossed the picture on the newspaper, looked into Poon’s eyes and noticed for the first time that they had a touch of jaundice.
“What’s her name.”
“D’Asia.”
D’Asia?
Right.
D’Asia.
“Nice name,” Kong said. “I’m still listening.”
They talked money and came to an arrangement.
“Don’t look into her eyes,” Poon said.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want you falling for her.”
Kong laughed.
“Don’t worry, that’s not going to happen.”
HE DIDN’T ASK POON why he wanted the woman dead and Poon didn’t volunteer. There was, however, one small snag. The woman might be hard to find.
Kong left with a suitcase.
Inside was the picture and cash, a down payment; good faith money, win lose or draw.
He took a glance into the bedroom as they walked past.
A young woman was sprawled out on the bed, unconscious and naked, the latest and greatest Fion.
TWO MINUTES AFTER the Predator dropped Kong off at Dangerous Lady, his cell rang and Kam Lee said, “Where are you?”
“On my way,” he said. “I had an unexpected interruption. How’s our friend?”
“Feisty.”
Kong chewed on the word.
Feisty.
“Well that’s going to change and change fast,” he said. “I’m tired of screwing with her.”
“You want me to warm her up a little bit before you get here?”
Kong pictured it.
He didn’t necessarily like what he saw but needed this part of his life over with.
“Yeah, do it.”
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Day Seven—August 9
Sunday Morning
______________
SOMETHING JAGGED ON THE WINDOWSILL sliced a long gash down Prarie’s left arm as she dropped out. She registered the pain and saw the blood but didn’t have time for it. She ran, lifting her knees, not looking back and gasping for air.
Shouting came from behind her.
“Get back here, bitch!”
The words were closer than she thought. She tried to go faster but couldn’t. Her lungs burned. Her legs hurt. Then suddenly the man was right behind her, breathing heavily, closing in. He must have dived at her, because he got a hand around her ankles and her legs went out from under her. Her chest and face hit the ground, hard, before she could get her arms in front to block. Pain exploded from her nose and blood filled her mouth.
Then the man punched her in the back of the head.
She didn’t pass out but everything went foggy and the fight went out of her.
THE MAN LIFTED HER OFF THE GROUND, threw her over his shoulder and huffed towards the house. She pounded on his back but it was like hitting a boulder. He didn’t slow down and didn’t even tell her to stop.
She looked around for witnesses.
There were none.
Before she knew it, they were back inside the house.
The door slammed so hard that the win
dows rattled.
She knew she was about to die.
Chapter Sixty
Day Seven—August 9
Sunday Morning
______________
TEFFINGER DIDN’T KNOW if he would actually go through with the tattoo part of the arrangement, but Fan Rae and Xiang were so excited about it that he couldn’t back out. It turned out to be a simple abstract design of three black parallel wavy lines, about two inches long, the brainchild of Fan Rae. They all got them at the same place, namely on the right leg, outside calf.
“Which line am I?” Teffinger asked.
“Which one do you want to be? The one in the middle?”
Teffinger chewed on it.
“Let me be the one on the right.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t get to be right that often.”
Fan Rae chuckled.
“Okay,” she said. “Me and Xiang are the other two.”
They dropped Xiang off at her flat, kissed her, and headed over to see Tu Lien Lo, the white panties girl.
SHE ANSWERED THE DOOR wearing a white tank top and white panties. She smelled like smoke. Teffinger couldn’t resist making a comment.
“You don’t like pants that much,” he said.
She looked at him, confused.
Then he remembered she couldn’t speak English.
Fan Rae translated for him and then translated back. “She says Hong Kong is too hot for pants.” The young woman led them to the kitchen counter, poured coffee from a fresh pot and said something to Teffinger as she handed him the cup.
“What’d she say?”
“She said she remembered your addition.”
“Tell her fondness, not addiction.”
Fan Rae rolled her eyes.
“I’m not going to lie to her, Teffinger.”
THE WOMEN CHATTED in Cantonese for ten minutes. At one point, Fan Rae showed Tu Lien her tattoo, who then looked at Teffinger shyly, as if in awe.
Then they left.
Outside, Fan Rae handed Teffinger a white business card and said, “That’s the P.I. who went to see her.”
Teffinger read it.
Brittany So Kwak.
“At first, she didn’t want to give her name, other than Brittany,” Fan Rae said. “But then Tu Lien told her she wasn’t going to talk to her unless she had some identification. That’s when she handed over the card.”
Teffinger nodded.
“So what did she want to know?”
The answer turned out to be long but simple. She was looking for any information as to where Syling was or who might have taken her.
“The thing that struck Tu Lien as weird was that the P.I. seemed to know somehow that Syling was alive and that someone had taken her. Her words, not mine, taken her.”
“How could she possibly know that?”
Fan Rae shrugged.
“She didn’t volunteer much,” she said. “She mostly asked questions.”
Teffinger twisted the card in his fingers.
“I think we need to have a chat with our new friend, Brittany So Kwak.”
Fan Rae frowned.
“If she knows something, it’s not like she’s just going to spit it out. She’s a professional.”
“Then we need to get some leverage on her.”
“How?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “My job is to think of the problems. Your job is to solve them.”
“In that case, I want to switch jobs.”
THEY STOPPED FOR LUNCH and Teffinger took the opportunity to hit the restroom and call the Fleming.
No, no one had left any messages for him or dropped anything off.
Damn it, d’Asia, don’t be like this.
THEN HE CALLED SYDNEY IN DENVER.
By the tone of her voice, he’d obviously woken her up. “Sorry to wake you,” he said. “I can’t even begin to keep the time difference straight.”
No problem.
What’s up?
“Nothing, really, I just wanted to hear the sound of your voice.”
“Bullshit, Teffinger,” she said. “Whatever it is, spit it out so I can get back to sleep.”
Spit it out.
Right.
Spit it out.
Why did he call her?
He honestly didn’t know.
Then he said, “I think I’m in trouble. It’s like I’m in a car doing a hundred miles an hour, headed straight for a concrete wall. I can see it ahead of me, plain as day, and I have plenty of time to stop. But instead of putting my foot on the brake, I just keep pushing down harder on the gas. I know I’m going to die, but I just keep going faster.”
“Do you want my advice?”
He paused.
Then he said, “No, because I won’t take it, and then I’ll feel bad.”
Silence.
“Nick, you’re on the edge.”
He knew that.
“But that’s where you go when you need to,” she said. “That’s the difference between you and everyone else in the world. You’ve always been able to make your way back.”
“So what are you saying, No problem?”
No.
She wasn’t, not at all.
“What I’m saying is, Be careful.”
“Of what?”
“Of yourself.”
Chapter Sixty-One
Day Seven—August 9
Sunday Morning
______________
KAM LEE MET KONG in the back of the mansion and led him to one of the dungeons that had a private entrance. Emmanuelle Laurent was gagged, naked and stretched tight in a standing spread-eagle position. She didn’t look anywhere nearly as defiant as last night.
“I’ll take it from here,” Kong said.
Kam Lee headed for the door and said over her shoulder, “Have fun.”
Alone with his captive, Kong removed the gag, then sat on the floor and leaned against the wall.
“It’s not too late for you to get out of this alive,” he said. “But as you can see, I’m out of patience and out of time. What you do in the next five minutes is going to determine if things get ugly or if things get nice. Now I want you to close your eyes and think about that for a minute.”
She stared at him.
“Do it!” he said.
She closed her eyes and kept them closed.
“Have you thought about it?” Kong asked.
She opened her eyes.
“Yes.”
“And what’s it going to be, ugly or nice?”
“NICE.”
Kong nodded.
“Good choice,” he said. “Now, I’m going to ask you some questions. You’re going to answer each one fully and truthfully. If you lie, even once, the deal’s off. Things will get ugly and there won’t be any turning back. There will be nothing you can do or say to get you back to where you are right now. I want to be sure you fully understand that. Do you?”
She nodded.
“Say it.”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes I understand,” she said. “Can I ask one question before we start?”
Kong raised an eyebrow.
Curious.
“Sure.”
“Where’s my friend?”
Kong nodded, respecting the concern.
“What’s your friend’s name?”
She hesitated.
Kong gave her a warning glance.
“Prarie Dubois.”
“See, that wasn’t so hard,” Kong said. “Your friend—Prarie Dubois—to the best of my knowledge, never came out of the house last night.”
“Is she alive?”
Kong shrugged.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I didn’t stick around to ask questions.”
OVER THE NEXT HOUR, she told him a story that he could hardly believe, except that it was too strange and too detailed to be fabricated. Her friend, Prarie Dubois, was kidnapped while attending the University o
f Hong Kong, as leverage to make her father participate in stealing five paintings from Musee d’Orsay in Paris. Emmanuelle was currently working in an unofficial capacity for an insurance company to recover the paintings. Prarie was helping her.
“Why?”
“Lots of reasons,” Emmanuelle said. “Primarily to find out who killed her father, but also to get the paintings back where they belong, as a way to restore her father’s legacy and reputation.”
“Is she going to kill them, when she finds them?”
“Who?”
“The people who killed her father.”
“I don’t know,” Emmanuelle said. “I’m not sure she’s capable.”
Kong smiled.
“You are though, aren’t you?”
She looked away, then locked eyes with him.
“Yes.”
“That will be your gift to her for helping you.”
“Yes, if she wants.”
SO WHY WERE THEY ON KONG’S SAILBOAT?
“We thought that you were the one who picked Prarie up at the club and slipped something into her drink,” Emmanuelle said. “That’s why we broke into your boat, to try to get more information. That’s why we took the computer.”
“It wasn’t me,” Kong said.
“Okay.”
“I mean it.”
“I believe you.”
“No you don’t,” he said. “But it’s true. It wasn’t me.”
WHAT ABOUT THE HOUSE LAST NIGHT? Why were they there?
That belonged to someone named Guotin Pak.
“Now that we’ve been inside, we’re almost positive he was the one who painted the replicas that ended up in the museum,” Emmanuelle said.
Kong cocked his head.
“So he might know where the originals are?”
“Exactly,” Emmanuelle said. “At a minimum, he knows who else is involved; and they would know.”
Interesting.
Very interesting.
“How much are these paintings worth?”
She shrugged.
“Somewhere upwards of $80 million a piece, in U.S. dollars.”
Kong did a quick conversion to Hong Kong currency.
The number shocked him.
“This is huge,” he said.
“Yes it is,” Emmanuelle said. “And you can be part of it if you want.”