“Do you know the lady’s name?”
No.
She didn’t.
“What’s your name?” Kong asked.
“Anki Bo Lam.”
Kong rubbed her head.
“You’re a very pretty girl, Anki Bo Lam,” he said. “Your doll’s very pretty too. It was nice to talk to you.”
Kong walked down the hall.
“My mom has the key to her mailbox,” the girl said.
Kong stopped.
Then came back.
“She does?
“Yes.”
“Does your mom send her mail to her?”
Anki Bo nodded.
“Do you know where she sends it?”
“No. My mom knows.”
“Is your mom home?”
“No.”
“Does your mom have it written down, where she sends the mail?”
“Yes,” she said. “It’s on the refrigerator.”
“Can I see it for a minute? What your mom has written down—”
She fetched it for him.
He memorized the address.
Then he handed it back and rubbed her head.
“You’re a very nice girl.”
Chapter Seventy-Three
Day Seven—August 9
Sunday Afternoon
______________
THE THREE ADDITIONAL LONG BREATHS that Prarie needed actually carried her through high tide. Each successive breath after that was a little less demanding. Now, two hours later, the water didn’t even touch her any longer.
But now she had new demons—the heat, the sun and the incredible screaming of her muscles.
Pak had abandoned her to die.
She knew that.
Then something unexpected happened.
She heard voices up by the house, voices other than Pak’s.
“Help me!”
The words came out scratched, weak, the victim of insanely dry vocal cords.
Help me!
Help me!
Please somebody help me!
Then someone said, “Hey! Look down there! There’s a woman.”
By the time they got to her, she was crying; crying with joy, crying with relief, crying with thanks that she had been strong enough to make it. One set of hands worked at untying her wrists, another worked on her ankles.
Then she was free.
Movement was painful.
The men didn’t force her.
They were gentle and flipped her over.
She gasped and recoiled.
They were the men from the warehouse, the friends of the man she shot.
“Well I’ll be damned,” one of them said. “Look at this.”
THEY CARRIED HER up the bluff to the house. Inside, things were worse than she thought. The artist, Guotin Pak, was lying face down on the studio floor with a hatchet buried two inches into the back of his skull.
“He didn’t have any answers,” one of the men said. “You better hope for your sake that you do.”
“I don’t know anything,” she said.
“We’ll be the judge of that.”
Two minutes later she was in the truck of a car being taken somewhere.
Chapter Seventy-Four
Day Seven—August 9
Sunday Afternoon
______________
SUDDENLY THE TIRES SQUEALED and the vehicle jerked back and forth. Then it crashed into something, hard, and flipped. Prarie’s body whipped wildly in the trunk and she covered her head as best she could so her neck didn’t snap. The torturous metallic twisting lasted forever and then finally ground to a stop.
A wheel spun, but otherwise everything got quiet.
Prarie moved her limbs.
Her left arm hurt but didn’t feel broken.
Voices came, faint but there, belonging to the men, out of the vehicle now and arguing about something. Then they faded into the distance and disappeared.
Time passed.
A vehicle pulled up behind her.
A door opened and then slammed shut.
The car shifted, slightly, as if someone had gotten in.
For what?
To get the keys?
Then the trunk latch released and the lid popped up a couple of inches. Prarie kicked it and it opened all the way. The light was so bright that she could hardly see.
Then someone had their hands on her, pulling her out.
It was Emmanuelle.
“Come on,” she said. “We got to get out of here.”
Chapter Seventy-Five
Day Seven—August 9
Sunday Evening
______________
FAN RAE WAS DOWN on the casino floor somewhere, positioned to follow Vance Wu when and if he appeared. Teffinger called her and said, “I’m going to step into the shower,” meaning she wouldn’t be able to call him for the next five or ten minutes if Wu appeared.
“Roger that,” she said. “Nothing’s happening on this end anyway.”
“Roger that? Is that what you just said?”
She smiled.
“Yeah.”
“Roger that,” Teffinger repeated. “You’re getting way too into this.”
He hung up and checked his watch.
In an hour, he’d meet Brittany So Kwak for their big date. In hindsight, it was probably a waste of time, now that they already knew about Vance Wu’s involvement. But this might be his only chance, so what the hell?
He got the shower up to temperature, stepped in and lathered up.
Fan Rae.
Fan Rae.
Fan Rae.
She was a poison.
A sweet poison.
A killer poison.
How did he let himself get this involved with someone like her? A year ago this wouldn’t have happened. He was getting weak. He was letting his own personal needs cloud his judgment. He was becoming his own worst enemy. Sydney was right; that’s who he needed to be careful of—himself.
Maybe he should end it now.
Maybe he should confront Fan Rae and tell her that he knew about her involvement to kill d’Asia. Maybe he should tell her that he’d turn her in if she didn’t drop it.
He stuck his face under the spray.
The water felt good.
It felt clean.
D’ASIA WAS THE WOMAN FOR HIM, not Fan Rae. He knew it in his brain and he knew it in his heart. He could still feel her from that night back in Denver. If she was around where he could see her and touch her and talk to her, getting the poison out of his life would be easy; no, not easy, but easier.
D’Asia was the antidote.
He got out of the shower, dried his hair with a towel just enough so that it wasn’t dripping, and got dressed. Downstairs, he spotted Fan Rae at a craps table, eased in behind her and wrapped his hands around her stomach.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said.
She pressed his hands tighter against her.
“About what?”
“Maybe Syling Wu isn’t being held for ransom,” he said. “Maybe she’s being held for leverage.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that maybe she wasn’t taken to force Jack Poon or Vance Wu to pay money. Maybe she was taken to get them to do something.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Just roll it around in your brain.”
HE GOT FOUR STEPS AWAY when Fan Rae grabbed his arm and pulled him to the side. “I forgot to tell you—I got a return phone call while you were getting ready for your date,” she said.
“My investigation, not my date,” he said. “What’d you get?”
“Vance Wu is no ordinary guy,” she said. “He’s an archeological broker.”
Teffinger looked at his watch.
He needed to leave now if he was going to be there on time.
“What’s that?”
“He finds buyers for people who are selling expensive, historically unique things—treasures, in e
ffect,” she said. “He has a network of contacts that spans the world.”
“Sounds like a fun job,” Teffinger said. “Travel, exotic ports of call, high stakes, mysterious underground meetings. If you see him tonight, ask him if he wants a partner.”
She punched him on the arm.
“Teffinger, you’re never serious about anything.”
“I’m serious about one thing,” he said.
“Oh yeah, what?”
“If you don’t know the answer to that then you haven’t been paying attention.”
He walked away.
Then he heard her shout, “Coffee.”
He gave her the thumbs up without turning around.
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, Teffinger knocked on Brittany So Kwak’s door. She answered wearing a classy gray dress and chic high-heels, neither of which she had when she left the flat this afternoon, meaning she bought them just for this occasion.
She smelled like strawberries and looked dangerous.
For a brief moment, Teffinger pictured her and Fan Rae huddled in a shadowy corner of the night, planning something.
Weird.
Where did that come from?
“I didn’t think you’d show,” she said.
“Well, I’m glad you were wrong,” he said. “So, what’s the agenda?”
She shrugged.
“Why don’t you take me somewhere and get me drunk?”
Teffinger nodded.
“Sounds reasonable.”
Chapter Seventy-Six
Day Seven—August 9
Sunday Evening
______________
THE TIPSY TYPHOON was a bar in the Cotai Storm Hotel & Casino meant to replicate an old wooden pirate ship in the deadly throes of a savage storm, complete with churning waters, ripped sails, lightning arcs and rolling thunder. Jack Poon spontaneously conceived the idea two years ago as he watched a typhoon ravage Thailand on the news. Kong watched his target, Nick Teffinger, take Brittany So Kwak to the darkest corner of the Tipsy Typhoon and fill her with drinks.
Brittany So Kwak looked nice.
Sexy.
Sultry.
Kong liked her.
He didn’t like Teffinger though, not a bit, not from the second he laid eyes on him. He wasn’t sure he could take the man in a fair fight. Teffinger might have had the same chiseled body as Kong at some point in his life, but didn’t now. Still, the man had obvious strength and moved like a cat. Plus he was bigger. More importantly, though, he had a street-fighter look.
Although Kong was ostensibly there for surveillance and protection, he knew otherwise.
Right now, at this second, Jack Poon was watching Teffinger on a flat-screen monitor. There was nothing Kong could see that Poon couldn’t. Hell, Poon probably had a microphone planted on the table.
No, Kong wasn’t there for surveillance.
He was there for action, if Poon decided he wanted action taken. That, in turn, would depend on what Brittany So Kwak extracted from the man.
KONG’S CELL PHONE RANG and the voice of Emmanuelle came through. “Where are you?” she asked.
“Macau, on business.”
“We had a development,” she said. “I got Prarie back.”
“How’d you do that?”
“It’s a long story,” she said. “I want you to talk to her.”
“Sure, put her on.”
Another female voice came through and asked him a number of questions, none of which seemed particularly relevant to anything. Then Emmanuelle came back on.
“What was that all about?” Kong asked.
“I wanted her to hear your voice,” Emmanuelle said. “If you were the person from the club, she’d know it.”
Kong grunted.
“Tricky,” he said.
“Sorry about that.”
“I assume I passed.”
“You did,” Emmanuelle said. “You’re free tomorrow, I hope.”
He thought about it.
He needed to kill d’Asia.
He’d get up early and do it in the morning, wrap up by noon.
“As far as I know right now, I should be free in the afternoon,” he said.
“Good, we’ll hook up then. I have some ideas I’m working on.”
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Day Seven—August 9
Sunday Evening
______________
PRARIE GOT AN AMAZING STORY from Emmanuelle, about how she got abducted by Kong, taken to a dungeon, and ended up forming a pact with him. Emmanuelle and Kong went to the Pak’s house to find Prarie and to interrogate Pak about the paintings. “He said you escaped,” Emmanuelle said. “At first it rang true, but then while Kong and I were driving back to the city, I started to have my doubts. I doubled back. Kong never even knew that I did it.”
She saw the men from the warehouse throw Prarie in the trunk of a car.
She followed, then got along side and rammed them.
The accident followed.
“I knew you might get killed,” Emmanuelle said. “I made a judgment call. It turned out okay but my hands are still shaking.”
Prarie retreated in thought.
“So you never went into Pak’s house after you doubled back,” she said.
Correct.
“They killed him,” Prarie said. “One of them buried a hatchet in the back of his head.”
“Really? He’s dead?”
Prarie nodded.
“They would have killed me too,” she said. “Not just because I knew they killed Pak, but because I killed their buddy, what’s his name?”
“Pierre Durand.”
Right.
Him.
“I can’t believe I killed a man and can’t even remember his name,” Prarie said. “So your judgment call was the right one; they would have killed me for sure The only question is how much they would have tortured me to get me to talk before they did it.” She hugged Emmanuelle. “Have I said Thanks yet for saving my life?”
“Actually, no.”
Prarie smiled.
“Well don’t worry, I will.”
Emmanuelle laughed.
“I’ll watch for it,” she said. Then she got serious. “It’s funny how things work. If Pak hadn’t put you down on the bluff, you would have been in the house when those guys showed up and started swinging the hatchet. More than likely the heat of that moment would have spilled over to you.”
THEY CONTEMPLATED IT.
Then Emmanuelle said, “Oh my God, I just thought of something.”
“What?”
“Well, Pak passed out because of that death star I hit him with,” she said. “When he woke up, he looked out the window and said something about the tide cresting more than an hour ago. It didn’t mean anything to me at the time. Looking back on it, though, he must have thought you were dead. That’s why he didn’t tell us where you were, because I had already told him that if you were dead, he would be next.”
Prarie shivered.
“This is all too much,” she said. “I need sleep.”
Emmanuelle did too.
They showered, then fell asleep as soon as their heads dropped.
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Day Eight—August 10
Monday Morning
______________
SYDNEY WOKE TEFFINGER Monday morning with bad news. “The chief wants you back in Denver,” she said. “The official reason is that he’s stretched the budget as far as he can with this trip of yours. Unofficially, though, if you want my opinion, I think he wants to talk to you about something.”
“You mean the videotape,” Teffinger said.
“That’s my opinion,” Sydney said, “but like I said, I could be wrong.”
Teffinger looked at Fan Rae, still asleep, so damned gorgeous.
He thought of d’Asia, equally gorgeous.
“Tell the chief I can’t leave right now,” he said. “Tell him I’m going to pay for this whole trip out of my own pocket.
I’m not going to submit any reimbursement requests. So he can relax about the money.”
“Nick, you don’t have—”
“I’ll sell the ’67 if I have to,” he said. “I have three weeks of vacation coming. Tell the chief I’m taking my vacation time, starting the day I left. As far as the videotape goes, that might become moot anyway.”
Silence.
Then, “What does that mean?”
“It means I like Hong Kong,” he said.
“You’re not coming back?”
“Maybe yes and maybe no,” he said. “I have to wait and see how things play out. By the way, don’t spread it around. This is just between you and me.”
A pause.
“It’s that Fan Rae Fan woman,” Sydney said. “She has you in her spell.”
True.
She did.
But d’Asia did too.
They both did.
“You need to get some distance from that place and clear your head,” she said. “You’ve spent a lot of years and a lot of energy building up your career here in Denver. Do you really want to throw all that away?” She exhaled. “I’m half tempted to fly there and drag you back.”
“I just thought of something,” he said.
“What?”
“I need coffee.”
“God, you’re impossible sometimes.”
TEFFINGER FOUND A CASINO RESTAURANT that served pancakes smothered under strawberries and whipped cream. With a fork in his right hand and a coffee cup in his left, he gave Fan Rae more details about his “date” with Brittany So Kwak last night, where he got nothing out of the woman.
“I came away with the feeling that she really isn’t working the Syling Wu case very hard,” he said.
Fan Rae cocked her head.
“That doesn’t make sense,” she said. “If Poon laid his money down, he could walk to the moon on it. You think she’d be billing the hell out of him.”
Teffinger grunted.
“That part she’s doing,” Teffinger said. “I’m not saying she isn’t putting in the hours. I’m saying she isn’t putting in the creativity.”
“Maybe she doesn’t have any.”
“No, she has it,” he said. “She’s just not breaking it out.”
Dead in Hong Kong (Nick Teffinger Thriller) Page 17