White Tiger

by Stephen Knight

  “Where is my son now?” Lin asked.

  “The coroner has him,” Ryker said. “As soon as they complete their examination they’ll release his body to your family.” He opened his wallet, took out a card and was about to offer this to Lin—but instead turned and offered this to Han, who took it and inclined his head. “The number’s on there. I’d give them until mid-afternoon. Lin Dan will be given priority but he isn’t their only client. We talked to his wife before we came here.”

  “Yes, I know. Thank you for that. And for your courtesy. Of course I will inform her when the body becomes available. If there is nothing else, detective sergeant, my manservant will show you out.”

  Han gestured to the door, after you, but Ryker said, “Perhaps you’ll permit me to ask a couple of questions, Mr. Lin.”

  “What questions?” Lin regretted not taking up the gweizi’s suggestion to go somewhere where he might sit down. There were no chairs in the conservatory. A muscle above his right knee had begun to twitch uncontrollably and the weakness was spreading.

  “You’ll appreciate we don’t get many incidents like this. Oh, they appear from time to time. You may remember the Bobbitt case? Wife attacked her husband with a knife after he beat her. He survived, and surgeons were able to make him whole again once they found his piece. But that was Virginia. We’re a little more civilized here; at least I like to think so. That’s why I was wondering, what with your family coming from China, whether the method of his...execution...was something you recognized? I mean no insult and I apologize if I offend you. But you’ll appreciate we’re investigating a murder. Your answer might give us a significant clue.”

  Lin shook his head. It took tremendous effort. “I am neither insulted nor offended, detective sergeant. China is a country of many facets. Not all are pleasing to the eye. But the answer is no. I have not encountered such a thing before.” He had no wish to discuss Lin Jong’s death with these strangers. Enough that he had to answer questions from the Shanghai police who were even more insufferable than their Western counterparts.

  Lost Soul Fong said, “You ever hear of Lin Yuk-sang?”

  “I don’t know that name,” Lin said, although he did know it.

  “It’s a pretty famous incident. Happened in Hong Kong, 1986 or ‘87. Lin Yuk-sang’s wife cut off his penis with a pair of scissors when she found out about his mistress. She flushed it down the john. I guess you’re not related.”

  “My family is from Shanghai, not Hong Kong,” Lin said, hating him.

  “Sorry for bothering you, Mr. Lin,” Ryker said. “I hope you understand the necessity of our intrusion. Please accept our condolences.”

  “Maybe Mr. Lin knows what the message means,” Lost Soul Fong said, stopping Ryker as he turned away. A look passed between them and Lin seized its meaning at once: the gweizi hadn’t wished to bring up the subject.

  Han obliged by demanding, “What message? What have you not told us?”

  Ryker’s shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly as he surrendered to the inevitable and said, “A message was left on the wall of Lin Dan’s suite at the hotel. It was written in Chinese.” He glanced at Lost Soul Fong.

  “Bu zhan bu he,” Fong said immediately.

  Lin let the words wash over him. They unlocked memories he’d never expected nor wanted to review again. Parts of his life that he’d put inside black lacquered boxes, then put inside other boxes, never meant to be reopened.

  “I’m told it translates to ‘No war, no peace,’” Ryker said. “Do you recognize the phrase, Mr. Lin? Does it mean anything to you?”

  “I wish it did,” Lin said. “Especially if it has any bearing upon my son’s death. But I’m afraid I have no idea what it signifies. None at all.”

  He was afraid that something in his tone might betray him, but to his relief they accepted the lie without comment and allowed Han to escort them out. As soon as they were gone Lin lurched for the door. He only just made it back to his study where he collapsed into his chair gasping for breath. He squeezed the arm rests until his fingers hurt and the room stopped spinning.

  Both my sons are dead.

  He wanted to cry but could not. Tears were a luxury he’d given up some time ago, as one of the many prices he’d paid so his family could survive the horrors of the Cultural Revolution and China’s agonizing metamorphosis into a dominant world power, a process that was still ongoing. How many had died during this bloody evolution? The numbers were huge and without meaning. But Lin remembered every single person whose death he had precipitated. How could he possibly forget? The trick lay in isolating these memories. Consigning them to the black lacquer boxes. Pushing them so far back into the darkest recesses of his mind that their murmurings would never bother him again.

  Until something entirely unforeseen rose up to strike him on the face and demand the boxes fly open to reveal their grisly contents.

  Bu zhan bu he. Lin almost giggled. So absurd. How many years now? How many years? And still the words had returned to haunt him.

  He opened his eyes and found Alexsey standing there, his massive hands clasped over the swell of stomach that some might easily mistake for fat but was in fact solid overdeveloped muscle, like the rest of his outsized weightlifter’s body.

  “Lin Yubo, I offer my condolences on the death of your son.” Alexsey’s coarse Russian accent had benefited from his time in the United States. So had Lin’s business dealings, thanks to Alexsey’s connections with Russian Mafiya and his friends in the military, which had smoothed out certain problems with deliveries and production behind what was left of the Iron Curtain.

  “Who was with my son last night?” Lin said.

  “I believe he took the usual woman back to the hotel.”

  “Did you have anyone watching him?”

  Alexsey stared at the floor. “A misjudgment on my part, for which I apologize.”

  Lin slapped the top of his desk. “Nonsense. You were not to know someone intended Lin Dan harm. Find the woman. Han knows her name. If she has not fled the city then she will be with her friends, in Chinatown. Call me when you have found her.”

  “You believe she killed Lin Dan?”

  Lin pondered that question for a moment. “If not then she may know who did. She was with him. The police do not yet know her identity. I wish to speak to her before they do.”

  Alexsey nodded understanding. As turned to go Lin added, “She must not be harmed. If it turns out she had a hand in my son’s death, I’ll deal with her myself.” Alexsey left the study closing the door silently, leaving Lin alone with his grief.

  But he was not unaware of the duties he still had to perform. He opened the lid of his laptop, typed his password and watched as the screen brightened, returning him to his unsaved e-mail. He read what he had already written, felt dissatisfaction with his poor choice of words, deleted the entire message, and started writing again from the beginning.

  CHAPTER 7

  Tiburon/San Francisco, California

  The electronic gates swung open as Chee Wei’s Crown Vic neared the end of the driveway that led to James Lin’s residence, a sprawling Spanish-style mansion in the exclusive Marin County community called Tiburon. The taciturn guard at the shack at the corner waved them through. Ryker watched the sprawling building recede in his side mirror as he analyzed how he felt about that brief and unsatisfying interview. Lin had given nothing away, nothing at all. They might as well have been talking about the weather as about his son’s death. Did Lin have emotions? Or did he just keep them buried so deeply that nothing showed on the surface, except his very obvious contempt for the police, and for Ryker in particular?

  “What did you think about that old guy?” Chee Wei said, zooming through the open gates and onto the road. “He gave me the creeps. Real spooky.”

  “Pull over onto the next street,” Ryker said. Chee Wei gave him a funny look but did as he was told. There was another road perhaps two hundred yards down from the entrance to James Lin’s hou
se. Chee Wei pulled the Crown Vic onto the road and turned it around so its grille pointed back the way they had come. The Ford’s Police Interceptor engine purred while Ryker sifted his thoughts.

  “What’s up?” Chee Wei asked. “Was it that war and peace thing? Things were a little tense, I thought maybe you forgot to ask him.”

  Ryker shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. The old guy. Lin called him his manservant. What does that mean? In Chinese terms.”

  Chee Wei shrugged. “Same as it does here. Except, maybe, it’s a role rather than just a job. These things are traditional. I bet he’s worked for Lin and his family all his life.”

  Ryker unwrapped a mint and popped it into his mouth. With this new information in mind he revised the conversation—and suddenly the manservant’s noisy interruptions made perfect sense. “They were a double act,” he said, pleased that he’d figured it out so quickly. “The manservant distracted us so Lin wouldn’t betray himself.”

  “Man, you sound just like my sister. She lies in bed all day watching soaps then talks all that ‘betrayed himself’ stuff. So what’s the big deal? The merry widow called him before we got here. Lin knew his son was dead. He’s not gonna want to go all misty eyed over that, not in front of a pair of cops, especially when one of them is white.”

  Ryker found himself agreeing with Chee Wei, but only to an extent. The beats were all wrong. Lin had taken the news of his son’s death remarkably well. Ryker had admired his self control; he wasn’t sure if he could be so outwardly calm if someone dropped by unannounced and told him something had happened to his daughter, God forbid. But then Ryker had revealed the method of Lin Dan’s death. That had sparked off the manservant’s tirade, taking their eyes from Lin. Very clever. And the second time, when Chee Wei had intervened? They’d been talking about the woman at the hotel, who might have been Lin Dan’s companion, or his murderer, or both.

  “Bogey at twelve o’clock!” Chee Wei said, snapping Ryker’s train of thought.

  Ryker looked up just in time to see a black sedan dart past, heading down the street that led from Lin’s house. Ryker recognized the stylish Mercedes S500 as the one that had been parked in Lin’s driveway.

  “That was one of Lin’s rides. You know, I’ve always wanted to say this—follow that car!” Ryker said.

  Chee Wei snorted and dropped the Crown Vic into gear and accelerated toward the intersection. He pulled out after the Mercedes without really bothering to check for oncoming traffic. Lucky for him, there was none.

  “Don’t get too close,” Ryker said.

  Chee Wei rolled his eyes. “What, you think I forgot all about this stuff? You sure that’s one of Lin’s cars?”

  “You didn’t check out the cars when we were going into the house?”

  Chee Wei shrugged. “A Lamborghini I’d look at—a Mercedes? Who cares?” He didn’t close on the Mercedes, instead he sat well back and allowed other cars to change lanes and overtake. The skies had turned dark, angry weather coming in off the ocean following the earlier rain shower. Ryker wished he’d brought a coat.

  They followed the Mercedes across the Golden Gate Bridge.

  Chee Wei said, “Looks like we’re heading back to the Mandarin Oriental. Maybe they’re gonna take a look at the murder scene?”

  Ryker didn’t dismiss that possibility but he was pretty sure their destination was Chinatown. The Mercedes kept in lane, confirming his suspicion. Chee Wei grunted. The GPS slowly scrolled the streets, bright yellow on a lemon background. The red dot that represented the hotel slipped past on their right. Other points of interest coming up were the Cable Car Barn & Museum and the Transamerica Pyramid, which oddly enough he hadn’t ever visited in all the years he’d lived here.

  The Mercedes seized his attention. A head in the back seat had turned round and was staring at them from three car lengths ahead.

  “We’ve been made,” Chee Wei said.

  “Maybe he’s just admiring the car.” Ryker glanced to his right and watched a stunning blonde in a black jacket and tight skirt walking her poodle.

  The Mercedes powered ahead, stretching the distance between them. Chee Wei didn’t give chase, although his fingers tapping on the wheel suggested he was itching to burn rubber. “Now what?” he said.

  Ryker’s reply was denied by his cell phone’s sonar ping ring tone. He recognized the displayed number and accepted the incoming call only with reluctance. He didn’t like Bob Jericho, not one bit, and Jericho didn’t much like him. He supposed that was a normal relationship between any working cop and their boss. “What can I do for you, captain?”

  “It’s almost eleven and I’m only just hearing about James Lin now. You should have called me, damn it. Where are you? You haven’t spoken to Lin yet, have you?”

  “Captain, something like this, we can’t sit on our butts. We visited the widow first. We think she was busted up in a quiet Chinese kind of way.”

  Chee Wei rolled his eyes.

  “Answer my question, Ryker.”

  “We’ve spoken to James Lin, yes.”

  He heard Jericho sucking in a deep breath. “What did you say to him?”

  “We informed him of his son’s death. We offered condolences, of course. Captain, we’re in the middle of something, can I call you back?”

  “What did you say to him? Tell me what you said.”

  “Captain, relax. We told him his son had been murdered, and we’re looking for a woman who was probably with Danny Lin last night. Forensics are on it. Lin seemed satisfied with our response.”

  “What woman?”

  “Not his wife. Girlfriend, mistress, hooker, take your pick. She left behind a diamond earring, very expensive, could be designer. We’re heading into Chinatown right now, following up a possible line of inquiry.”

  “You should have come to me first. You know that.”

  Chee Wei changed lanes and the Mercedes was three hundred yards ahead, turning left through a red light and setting off a chorus of horns. Chee Wei immediately took the next left and glided down a street with lighter traffic.

  Ryker said, “I wish you’d trust me not to embarrass the department, captain. What happened before with Danny Lin, that’s water under the bridge. This is entirely different. We’ve talked to Lin and broken the bad news and we shouldn’t have to bother him again. I expect he’ll want regular updates. That’s where you come in.” He winced when he blurted out that last part.

  “What the hell does that mean, detective sergeant?”

  “Just what I said.”

  Ryker imagined Jericho hunched over his desk, beads of sweat dripping off his nose, dark stains growing under his armpits. This would go all the way up to the commissioner and all the way back down to Jericho. Ryker derived malicious satisfaction from the situation.

  “All right,” Jericho said. “Report your progress every hour. That’s every hour, you got that?”

  Chee Wei made a hard right turn that made Ryker lean in his seat. There was no sign of the Mercedes.

  “Got it, captain. Over and out.” Ryker ended the call and made a jerk off motion with his hand. Chee Wei grinned. They cruised through two intersections, slowing at each to look both ways. As they passed a third Ryker caught a glimpse of the Mercedes’ tail vanishing around a corner. The Crown Vic leapt ahead. They approached a set of traffic lights. Ryker expected them to turn red but they held long enough for them to proceed without killing a whole bunch of civilians and making the six o’clock news.

  At the next intersection they were fractionally ahead of the Benz, two streets down and running parallel. Chee Wei whistled through his teeth as he spun the wheel and took them on an intercept course. He swerved around a delivery truck, slowed to allow a sedan to park at a meter, then he was off again. The Mercedes flashed past up ahead. A Chinese woman waiting to cross the street stared at Ryker, who judged her age at somewhere around two hundred and three. Stores and restaurants garishly proclaimed their identities in Chinese. Ryker considered making a
wok the dog joke but thought better of it while Chee Wei was in combat pilot mode.

  Chee Wei took a left, cruised down a narrowing street, squeezed by a delivery van and turned right into an alley, narrowly missing a man who had to take a long step to avoid a broken pelvis. He shook his fist in Ryker’s side mirror. The Crown Vic splashed through puddles, sending spray against the walls on either side. White sheets hung from washing lines above. Chee Wei hit the brakes and stopped just after a narrow alleyway that gave them a momentary glimpse of the back of a nondescript building, and the black Benz whose occupants were climbing out, the three Chinese and the Caucasian, a powerfully built man with a goatee and a crew cut. Chee Wei unlocked his belt, opened his door and climbed out. Ryker climbed out and joined him.

  “They went inside,” Chee Wei said over his shoulder. “They look like rented apartments. Wonder who owns them? Might be able to tell us who lives there.”

  Ryker said, “Forget it, Jake. It’s Chinatown.” They both chuckled at the old joke. But there was a serious side to the saying, too. Trying to track down a Chinese landlord would prove nigh on impossible, Ryker knew, and for the landlord to be willing or able to supply the names of his tenants was even less likely. With apartments like these rent was paid in cash and no questions asked. Non-payment would result in immediate eviction, no argument accepted.

  “So what do we do?” Chee Wei said. “Just wait here?”

  “Unless you’ve got any better suggestions.” Ryker certainly didn’t. For all he knew, the Caucasian and the three Chinese were visiting a brothel.

  A Chinese girl with blue highlights in her hair and wearing a black leather jacket and knee-length boots stepped out of a doorway near the corner of the building and walked quickly away, her head bowed as she cradled a cell phone to her ear.