Russian Hill (Abby Kane FBI Thriller - Chasing Chinatown Trilogy Book 1)

by Ty Hutchinson

  In the days leading up to the big dragon event, a tactical team scouted the area and picked out a location where our safety team could position themselves and monitor the situation. Since Kang and I would most likely be on the move, another team of agents, dressed as spectators, mobile food vendors and security would follow us around. It was a large operation for a hunch, but as Kang had mentioned earlier, we had no idea what we were walking into.

  The day of the races, Kang and I arrived at the island at eleven in the morning. We were wired so we could maintain radio contact with the team, who had arrived earlier to get into position. Reilly and his team were overseeing the operation from a tent disguised as a life insurance exhibit, something that would receive very little foot traffic, if any.

  “Carlsons, Command Center is operational, and your perimeter team is in place. We’re waiting on your go,” Reilly said over the radio.

  “We just parked and are heading to the entrance. Let us know when you have eyes on us,” I responded.

  The first agent to pick us up was Agent House. “This is ground security at the entrance. I have the Carlsons in my view. Proceeding to follow.”

  It didn’t take long for the entire team to lock us in their sights and for us to spot them. I had handpicked every agent. It was comforting that I knew every one of them.

  “Carlsons, do your thing. We’re watching,” Reilly chirped in.

  “Hundreds of dragons churn the waters,” Kang said.

  We really didn’t know what steps to take. All we knew was that the Carlsons had a riddle tied to fortune cookies and they Googled manufacturers. From that, we extrapolated that they had visited the Fortune Cookie Company in Chinatown and received their answer. Not much to go on, but how hard could it be? Solving the riddle wasn’t the end goal. The kill was. It had to be a challenge that could be easily completed.

  We headed down to where the boats were docked, thinking they might hold our answer. The boats were long and narrow like the skiffs used in rowing events, but they had a deeper and larger hull like a canoe. A dragon’s head carved from wood was mounted on the stern of each boat. They were painted in a variety of bright blues, oranges, yellows, and reds. The dragon detail continued along the side of the narrow vessel, making the entire boat look like a beast moving through water.

  “They look really cool,” I said. “But I don’t get the feeling that what we’re looking for is here. It’s too literal to the riddle.”

  “I think you’re right. It’s something else.”

  We turned around and headed back to the top of the festival grounds where the majority of the exhibits were and where there was a great view of the racecourse.

  “What else do you know about this festival? Why do they race dragon-themed boats?” I asked.

  “Well, there are a couple of theories. The most popular is the story of a scholar who, in a form of protest to government corruption, committed suicide by throwing himself into the Miluo River on the fifth day of the fifth lunar month. The villages were so impressed by his sacrifice, they used leaves to wrap rice into little triangles and threw them into the river. You and I know this as the rice dumpling snack called Zong Zi.”

  “That’s how Zong Zi was invented?”

  “According to the story, yes. Anyway, they did this to prevent the fish from eating the body.”

  I stopped walking and turned to Kang. “Feeding the fish rice so they don’t eat a body? Are you messing with me?”

  “No, I’m serious. Mind you, this supposedly took place in 278 BC. That’s the way minds worked back then. Anyway, in their efforts to keep the fish snacking on rice, they paddled boats out onto the river to spread more rice around and that’s how the dragon boat racing came about.”

  “Who’s the scholar responsible for this commercialized myth?”

  “I think his name was Qu Yan.”

  “Does he look like that guy over there?” I held my arm up and pointed to a Chinese man dressed in traditional ancient garb with a fake wispy mustache that hung from the corners of his mouth. Groups of people were having their pictures taken with him.

  “Yeah,” Kang mumbled.

  “I guess he’s the Dragon Festival’s answer to Disneyland’s Mickey Mouse.” I grabbed Kang by his arm and dragged him toward the character. “Honey, look. It’s Qu Yan!” I squealed. “I want a picture.”

  “He’s not that popular. Bring it down a notch.” The words squeezed out of the corner of his mouth.

  We waited as the woman in front of us had her boyfriend take her picture over and over because she wasn’t satisfied with his iPhone photography. After the fifth picture, my patience had started to grow thin. “What’s the point?” I said through gritted teeth. “She’ll probably slap multiple filters on it, and it’ll look nothing like the original.”

  “Happy thoughts, dear. Happy thoughts.”

  Kang’s response initiated a few chuckles from our listeners. I had forgotten briefly that we were mic’d. Finally, Miss Inconsiderate okayed a photo, and they left. I stood next to the man and hooked my arm around his. While Kang took out his phone to snap a picture, I leaned in and said, “Hundreds of dragons churn the waters.”

  Nothing. Not even a slight acknowledgment that I had said something. I tried once more, only louder and with a throat clear to grab his attention. Still, he only stared at Kang, who was suddenly bent at the knees with one leg stretched all the way back while he tried to maintain balance.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Trying to get the right angle.”

  “The right angle is you standing straight up and taking the picture, dear.”

  I had the opposite problem from the girl who had stood here before me. Smile cramp had started to set in, and Kang appeared no closer to taking the picture. He was of the mindset that he had something much more substantial in his hand than a phone camera.

  I tugged on Qu Yan’s arm, gaining his attention, and repeated the riddle once more. He only smiled back at me with a gentle nod. I then mentioned, “Team Carlson.” Same response. What the hell was I doing wrong? Maybe Qu Yan wasn’t our point of contact, but surely someone was. I doubted we were looking for an object. Qu Yan was the reason for this festival. If not him, then whom? Finally, grasping at anything, I said, “Chasing Chinatown.”

  At that point, Kang had finally snapped a picture, and Qu Yan had wriggled his arm free from my grip. At first, I thought he was in a rush to go elsewhere. I didn’t blame him; I wouldn’t want to spend another second with a wannabe pro phone photographer and his clingy wife. I still hadn’t decided if I wanted to let this guy go. I could hear Reilly in my earpiece asking for an update. I couldn’t say anything and was mindful not to accidently give the signal for everyone to move in—putting my hair behind my left ear.

  Not having any other reason to keep clinging to Qu Yan, I relinquished and set him free, expecting him to hurry away, but he didn’t. I watched him reach into one of the many folds in his robe and remove something. I couldn’t quite see what it was, but he grabbed my hand, and in it, he placed a small Zong Zi.

  “There’s been an exchange,” Reilly said over the radio. “Team, wait for the signal. Carlsons, are we grabbing this guy?”

  I waited for Qu Yan to move out of earshot. “He gave me Zong Zi. It’s a rice dumpling associated with the festival.”

  “Are we grabbing him?” Reilly stated once more.

  “No. He’s only the messenger. We need to keep playing the game.”

  “All right, team. Let’s wrap it up.”

  I showed Kang the dumpling before addressing the team. “Team leader, we will rally back at your position.”

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  The man dressed as Qu Yan watched the couple hurry away, like two kids who had just received a present from Santa Claus. He watched them disappear into the crowd before turning around and heading in the other direction. He avoided eye contact with any potential picture takers and made his way past a few exhibition tents to an area whe
re only exhibitors were allowed. He didn’t stop until he stood under a large olive tree, one of the few that still thrived since its planting during the 1935 Golden Gate Expo. There, he removed a cell phone from his robe and made a call.

  A low scratchy voice answered the call. “Yes.”

  “Team Carlson check in for fifth Attraction. I give them answer.”

  “Thank you, Wei. This is good news.”

  “No. Not good news.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Wrong couple.”

  Chapter 53

  Jing Woo pressed the end button on his cell phone and set it down on the wobbly teak table in front of him. Even with a crack running the length of the tabletop, it was sturdy enough to hold the pot of tea that he always kept near him. He sat Indian style on an array of colorful silk cushions while leaning back against a larger, fluffier one that had been propped against the wall—not an office you would expect for the head of the local Triad gang.

  Everyone had heard of Jing, but very few had ever met him. Most of his conversations took place over the phone or through other individuals, and he had an army of men who did his bidding. Jing liked it that way. It’s what made him powerful, what made Chinatown impenetrable by outsiders.

  Jing slipped the ivory cigarette holder between his lips and inhaled deeply, causing the cigarette to crackle and burn brightly. Swirls of gray circled his head, noticeable from the tiny bit of light that shone through a small, frosted window above his head. Large candles spread out around the room contributed to the ominous look by casting an array of harsh shadowing and flickering light. Furnishing was sparse outside of a few small tables and bookshelves populated with books and Chinese pottery. Like the table, they, too, were fashioned out of teak and decorated with either ivory or mother-of-pearl inlays.

  Very few people were allowed inside Jing’s retreat. In fact, only his most trusted advisor had carte blanche to enter. That man’s name was Quai Chan, but he was commonly referred to as the Black Mantis.

  Jing picked up a small bell and rang it. The entrance door to the room opened quietly, and a man slipped inside. Jing adjusted himself on the pillows as the shadowy figure approached until the red glow lit his face. “You requested my attention.”

  “Yes, Quai. Please, sit. I received an interesting call regarding Team Carlson. What do you know of them?”

  “They have played the game well.”

  “They have, yes. Very creatively, too. Today, however, they did not collect the password for their final objective.”

  “Why is that? Could they not figure out the riddle?”

  “No, no. That wasn’t the problem.” Jing took another long toke and allowed his exhale to linger.

  “What then?” There was alarm in Quai’s response.

  “Another couple showed up in their place.”

  “Impossible,” Quai blurted.

  “Is it?” Jing brought his teacup to his lips.

  Quai knew that was the end of the conversation. It was his job to discover the problem and fix it. He stood and bowed respectfully to his boss before exiting the room. His next course of action was to find the couple from the dragon race in a discreet way. Jing Woo and his crew were well protected within the borders of Chinatown, though on the outside, it was a different story. It was important they work from the shadows, especially when problems arose. That was how their kind thrived in their popular neighborhood.

  Quai was an expert at his trade—intimidation. That’s why he was called the Black Mantis: his ability to strike an opponent from out of nowhere without any witnesses gave fear to those who knew him and a short life to those who didn’t. In addition to his savvy street smarts, Quai’s ruthless ability earned him the title of Jing’s most deadly assassin. His greatest asset was his height and weight. He stood no more than five-feet, five-inches and barely toppled the scale at one hundred thirty pounds; he was the most unassuming opponent a person would ever face.

  Chapter 54

  Back at the Bureau’s office on Golden Gate Avenue, Reilly, Kang and I gathered around the laptop. I pulled up our fifth attraction and typed the word Zong Zi as my answer. The screen went dark, and a moving graphic of the word “Congratulations” appeared. Tiny fireworks shot out of the top of the letters. We all looked at each other, wondering if this were some sort of joke. The graphic design was reminiscent of what existed on the Internet back in the mid-nineties. Add to that the strangeness of celebrating another step forward to finding out how the next kill would be dictated, and it was all morbidly troubling.

  After a few seconds of fanfare, the firework display disappeared and the paper scroll appeared, except that time, our task was revealed at the bottom.

  ATTRACTION #5

  Hundreds of dragons churn the waters. Find them and find your clue.

  Answer: Zong Zi

  Task: Order Chinese takeout.

  Upload

  “Another riddle?” Kang stood up straight and planted both of his hands on his hips. “This is stupid. What kind of killer goes through all this trouble to kill a person? They could walk out of their home and end the life of the first person they see if they want.”

  “I’m with Detective Kang on this one, Abby. It’s not making a whole lot of sense.”

  I understood how they could be frustrated. The department had spent major bucks on a surveillance operation only to walk away with a rice snack and another riddle. Even I felt doubt creep into my head, but I quickly gave it the boot as I recalled the crime scenes of our other victims. “Look, guys, I know it seems like this is getting us nowhere, but step back and look at the entire picture. Consider our other victims and how they have met their deaths. All of the crime scenes connect back to this game play.”

  “Or maybe we wanted them to and made the connections work,” Kang suggested.

  I turned to him. “You of all people should recognize that’s not true. The last objective was also indirect: ‘Leave someone’s heart in San Francisco.’ We just need to apply a little killer instinct to this one.”

  “Say we do come to an agreeable answer as to what this means. What then?” Reilly asked.

  “We stage the scene and submit the photos. It’s the only way to get to the person behind all of this.”

  “Chinese takeout!” Kang threw his arms up in the air. “How much more nebulous can that be?”

  Kang continued his rant but I had already tuned him out and focused back on the statement in front of me. Order Chinese takeout. Literal or not? Hmmm… I wonder if… that’s it! “Hey, listen up. This isn’t a riddle. We’re the ones turning it into a riddle when it shouldn’t be.”

  “What do you mean?” Reilly’s eyebrows shot upward, widening his eyes.

  “This is, and has always been, about killing. This is the time when the killer does what they do. They only need to link their kill to that phrase. There is no right or wrong way to do it. It’s about showmanship at this point. This is where the staging comes from. It’s now about how entertaining or clever can they make their kill.”

  Kang’s head bounced around as he pondered.

  “The simplest form of delivering is to kill a Chinese person. But do you get points for that? Is that enough to seal the deal? Is it too obvious? If so, how could a killer add some pizzazz to that?”

  Reilly sat up. “Chop up the body and deliver it in a large takeout container.”

  Kang and I both looked at Reilly at the same moment.

  “What? I’m riffing here.”

  “That’s exactly what we need to be doing—coming up with a bunch of ideas until we hit the one.”

  “How do we know if we hit the one?”

  “We’ll know.”

  Everyone quickly got on the same page, and our killer brainstorm session progressed at a fast rate. Within twenty minutes, we had written down fifteen possible ideas for our kill. I really didn’t think the Carlsons spent much time thinking about their execution. I honestly believed they probably settled on the first or
second doable idea they came up with. The Carlsons weren’t the type to agonize over their methods. They were all about the excitement of the thrill kill, not a ritual they needed to complete. Though, I began to understand why they were attracted to this game play and why they would go through the trouble rather than, as Kang put it, “walk outside and kill the first person they see.” The riddles and the creative execution multiplied the thrill for them.

  Chapter 55

  Our idea, given the situation, was simple and didn’t require a bunch of resources—something we thought the Carlsons could easily pull off. We simplified Reilly’s idea of chopping up a body and placing it in a five-foot-tall replica of a Chinese takeout container by settling on a moped used to make deliveries. On the back of the bikes were large warming containers. Our idea was to park one of those delivery bikes in Portsmouth Square, a popular, one-block park between Kearny and Grant, and inside the delivery container would be the head of a Chinese person—fake, of course.

  With our idea solidified, we focused on the logistics. It basically sounded easy, but where do you get a fake head that looks real? We hired a special effects artist in L.A.: Monte Jenkins. He had spent years at Stan Winston’s Studios and had been instrumental in creating the velociraptor in Jurassic Park, but now, he worked for himself.

  Our SFX guy stressed that he needed at least two days to deliver the finished prop. “Hey, you’re lucky I have a head I can refurbish, or else you’d be looking at week, minimum,” he said over the speakerphone. He also insisted we fly him up to SF so he could apply the finishing touches with pig’s blood. “It’s a must for authenticity, and it needs to be applied at the time of the killing so the blood coagulates the way it should.”