Dead in Hong Kong (Nick Teffinger Thriller) (9 page)

Emmanuelle hung in the shadows across the street
, w
aiting for the rock star to emerge.

He didn’t.

Not for an hour.

Or another.

Or another.

Then he did, s
hortly before dawn.

She followed him to the Causeway Bay Typhoon Shelter. There he fired up a dinghy at a wooden dock and disappeared into the darkness. “Obviously one of the boats moored out there is his, but I have no idea which one,” Emmanuelle said.

“So now what?”

A seagull swooped out of the sky, grabbed a chunk of bread off the sidewalk, and took off.

Two other gulls gave chase, t
rying to steal the food in mid-flight.

“At this point, I think we need to buy a pair of good binoculars,” Emmanuelle said. “It shouldn’t be too hard to find him from shore if we’re patient enough. The main thing is for you to get a better look at him so we can figure out if he’s the right guy or not.”

“I’d be clearer if I could hear his voice,” Prarie said.

“Understood, but that might not be so easy,” Emmanuelle said. “We need to be careful. If he sees me, he’ll know something’s up. And we definitely can’t let him see you.” Prarie must have had a look on her face because Emmanuelle said, “How are you holding up? Are you okay?”

Prarie nodded.

“I’ve sort of given up hope on finishing out the semester,” she said.

“Sorry.”

“My head’s so far out of the books at this point that it isn’t even funny. It looks like I’m yours until this thing is resolved.”

EMMANUELLE PULLED OUT HER CELL PHONE and called the art galley guy, the one who had her $1,000 HKD in his wallet. “It’s me,” she said. “You were going to make some calls regarding a replica painting.”

“Yes, I’ve been waiting for you,” he said. “Do you have a pencil handy?”

She did
, a
nd wrote down a name
—Danny Wing Wan—and a number
.

“Do you want some advice?” the man asked.

“Sure.”

“Forget the painting,” he said. “Most of these replica guys are involved with fraud to one degree or another. Sometimes they’re not nice people, if you catch my drift.”

“Consider the drift caught. Thanks.”

She hung up, looked at Prarie and said, “Got a name and number, but it comes with a warning.”

The wind blew Prarie’s hair over her face.

She pulled it to the side and held it.

“So what do we do?”

“We keep moving forward,” Emmanuelle said. “Things are going to get dicey from this point on. When we pick up the binoculars, we’ll get a couple of survival knives too.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

No, she wasn’t.

Day Five—August 7

Friday Morning

______________

INSID
E THE APARTMENT of the victim, Nuwa Moon, they found a
pile of newspaper clippings about young women who had disappeared. “I wonder if one of these missing girls was a friend of hers,”
Teffinger
said.

Fan Rae titled her head.

“More to the point, she must think they’re all connected somehow. Why? What does she know that we don’t?”

Teffinger
shrugged.

“I don’t know, but she probably talked about it to this woman right here,” he said, tapping the photograph on the fridge.

After five more minutes of looking around, they figured out the friend’s name.

It was
Syling Wu
.

SYLING WU lived at Flat 301, 3F, No. 137, Sai Wan Ho Street, Sai Wan Ho, six kilometers east of Central. The street was typical Hong Kong, with street-level shops and housing above, accessed by a single door and a flight of stairs. Several scooters sat on the street to the right. Many of the shops had sun-bleached canvas canopies. Signs cantilevered out from the buildings, but they weren’t as large or as many as on the streets to the west. The buildings weren’t as high, either—most topped out at four stories.

The sky was dark and twisty.

“It’s going to storm like the devil today,” Fan Rae said.

Teffinger
looked up but then spotted something more important.

“Would they sell coffee over there?” he asked, pointing.

“Yes.”

Beautiful.

Beyond beautiful.

Five minutes later, with coffee in hand, they climbed three flights of stairs and knocked on the woman’s door.

No one answered.

Teffinger
tried the knob.

It didn’t turn.

He frowned and said, “Now what?”

Fan Rae stood there for a second
sipping coffee, then
turned and knocked on the door across the hallway.
The door opened timidl
y for a few inches before a chain snagged it
. The face of a young woman appeared. She was holding a baby.

Fan Rae talked to her in Cantonese for a couple of minutes.

Then the door shut and she said, “She doesn’t know where Syling is and doesn’t know much about her, other than she works as a hostess girl at a placed called the High Tide Bar.”

A hostess girl?

“What’s a hostess girl?”

“You don’t know what a hostess girl is?”

No.

He didn’t.

“You’ll find out tonight, if she doesn’t show up beforehand.”

TEFFINGER
ALMOST PRESSED THE ISSUE but his thoughts had gone elsewhere—to d’Asia. He came here to help her and hadn’t done a thing.

He needed to get refocused
, r
ight now
, t
his minute.

THEN SOMETHING POPPED INTO HIS HEAD.

“Have you ever heard of someone called Billy Shek?”

“Billy Shek?”

“Right.”

She paused, processing it, then looked at him and said, “No. It’s not ringing a bell.”

“He’s a photographer.”

She shrugged.

“Don’t know him. Why?”

“D’Asia knows him,”
Teffinger
said. “He’s the one who told her to come and see me.”

“If you want, we can head back to the office and run him down,” she said.

He wanted.

“No problem,” Fan Rae said. “I want to get back there anyway and pull the files on all these missing women. I’m really anxious to see if they’re connected somehow.”

Day Five—August 7

Friday Morning

______________

KONG PLUNGED TOWARDS EARTH. The wind was more dangerous than he thought. It created a wicked vacuum that hardly let him breathe. Then things got worse—he entered the clouds.

Arcs of lightning exploded around him
, d
eafening
, d
eadly.

He tried to see the ground to gauge his height but saw nothing. His fingers held the ripcord with an iron grip.

Pull now?

Wait?

Five seconds, wait five more seconds.

He waited three seconds and pulled. The chute opened and snagged him. Then it collapsed, and he dropped, almost as fast as before but not quite.

His heart raced.

He was going to die.

He should have known better.

He should have never jumped.

The chute’s drag slowed him to some extent, but he released it before he got tangled. He dropped faster. Then suddenly he saw the ground, closer than it should have been.

He was too low
, w
ay too low.

He pulled the cord for the emergency chute as fast as he could.

It snagged him and fluttered, about to collapse.

Second after second passed.

Then he hit the ground hard, three times more forceful than he should have. He tucked and rolled.

He didn’t die.

He immediately got to his feet, desperate to see if his body still functioned.

He walked, forwards, sideways, backwards
, t
esting his legs
, w
aving his arms
, r
olling his neck.

Everything hurt but nothing was broken.

Then something bad happened.

IN THE DISTANCE, THE PLANE PIERCED through the bottom of the clouds, nose first, spinning out of control and heading straight down at an amazing speed.

Pull up!

Pull up!

But the pull didn’t come
, n
ot at all
, n
ot even at the last second.

Then an explosion came
. A
bright orange fireball
rolled upwards into the sky f
ollowed by
the
thickest, blackest smoke Kong had ever seen.

He wrestled out of the chute, dropped it to the dirt and ran in the other direction.

THE IMPLICATIONS WERE ALREADY UPON HIM. His life had changed, just like that, because Fion and the pilot were dead. If Jack Poon got tied to it, he might be criminally liable.

Kong was one person who could tie him to the event
, m
eaning that Poon might be better off if Kong was dead.

Would Poon kill him?

Day Five—August 7

Friday Morning

______________

KONG HADN’T BEEN ON THE GROUND for more than ten minutes when Jack Poon called and said, “We need to talk.” An hour later Kong walked into Poon’s penthouse, apprehensive. “You’re probably wondering what happened,” Poon said. “Let me show you.”

A flat-panel TV turned on.

Kong watched.

He saw himself jump out of the plane. He watched Fion go absolutely crazy with fear. When the pilot finally emerged from hiding and started to make his way to the cockpit, a terrible downdraft rolled the plane and sent it spiraling. The pilot fought to get to the controls but never made it. Then the transmission stopped.

“It’s not my fault and it’s not your fault,” Poon said. “The pilot is the one who had the responsibility to stay out of the sky if the plane couldn’t handle it. I didn’t hold a gun to his head and neither did you. We could have done it tomorrow just as easily.”

Kong nodded.

That was true
to some extent.

“You did your part and you did it good,” Poon said. He handed Kong an envelope and added, “So good that I’m kicking in a little bonus.”

Kon
g took it and opened it briefly, j
ust long enough to see it was a lot of money.

He shoved it in his back pocket.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Even though what happened isn’t your fault or mine, it would probably be a good idea to never tell anyone what happened.”

“Exactly.”

“Good,” Poon said. “We’re in agreement. Of course, using the transmission is now out of the question. One of the rules is that the person being scared can’t actually die or be harmed. So I have to think of something new. My question to you is whether you want to be a part of it, once I get it figured out.”

Kong shrugged.

“Sure, why not?” He grinned and added, “As long as there aren’t any parachutes involved.”

Poon grinned and slapped Kong on the back.

Day Five—August 7

Friday Afternoon

______________

THE WIND GOT MEANER and then the rain came. Prarie and Emmanuelle bought a good pair of binoculars and two eight-inch, lightweight, razor-sharp survival knives, which went into their purses. Then they hugged the east shore of the Causeway Bay Typhoon Shelter and surveyed the boats—hundreds of which were moored in an eclectic seascape of old meets new, east meets west. Many of the vessels were modern, expensive yachts. Just as many were old, Chinese junks, throwbacks to an age all but gone, with live-aboard families.

A sizeable break-wall ran along the north edge of the shelter, giving it protection from Victoria Harbour.

Breakers bashed against it.

Even inside the wall, the water was anything but calm.

Choppy whitecaps bobbed the boats and stretched their mooring ropes.

Prarie trained the binoculars on the vessels for all of two minutes and said, “Forget it, no one’s out. Everyone’s taking shelter from the weather.”

They headed for the Metro
, s
oaked.

Before they got there, something weird happened.

The storm blew past
j
ust like that.

They sky got calm.

The sun peeked through the haze.

They headed back to the water.

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, they spotted the rock star on a fairly large sailboat that had Dangerous Lady written in English on the side. He got into a dinghy with the same name, pulled the rope of a small outboard motor, untied a line at the stern and headed west, towards the Royal Hong Kong Yacht Club.

“Come on, hurry,” Emmanuelle said.

The rock star was just leaving the area when they got there, nicely dressed and carrying a briefcase.

“He’s going somewhere,” Emmanuelle said.

“I see that.”

“What I mean is, a meeting or something. He’s not going to be back for a while. This is our chance.”

“To do what?”

“To go aboard, what do you think?”

“Why? What’s onboard?”

Emmanuelle shrugged.

“I’ll know it when I see it,” she said. “Here’s the plan. I’m going alone. I’m going to use his dinghy, because that’s what’s supposed to be tied to his boat. You’re going to stay on shore and call me if he shows up.”

“And what if he does?”

“I don’t know,” Emmanuelle said. “Hopefully he won’t.”

“Be careful.”

“I will.”

“You can swim, right?”

Emmanuelle hesitated.

“Not exactly.”

“You can’t swim?”

“No.”

“Not even a little?”

“No.”

“Well if you fall in, you’re dead.”

“I won’t fall in.”

Prarie exhaled, wondering if she was going to actually say what she was about to say, and then said it—“I’ll go, you stay here.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I’m not going to argue about it.”

Emmanuelle looked as if she was about to reply, but then she said, “The hatch might be locked. If it is, pry it open with your knife. If you find a laptop, grab it.”

THEY TOOK ONE LAST LOOK AROUND to be sure the rock star was gone, then walked down to the dinghy, which was tied at a wooden dock, dinghy city. People were around, but no one paid attention. Prarie got in as if she owned it, fired up the outboard and pointed the bow towards Dangerous Lady.

An old woman on a colorful junk hung clothes and gave Prarie a long stare as she motored past.

Prarie waved.

The woman waved back and then disappeared inside.

Two minutes later, Prarie reached Dangerous Lady and tied up.

The door to the cabin was closed but not locked.

Good.

She walked down six steps and looked around.

Ample light came through the portals.

The floor was teak.

The sink was full of dishes.

The bed was unmade.

Stuff was everywhere.

A flat-screen TV was off.

Then something caught her eye
; a
semi-automatic pistol
, b
lack.

She never held a gun before and found it heaver than she expected. Then she looked around for a safety, found it, and figured out how to flick it off.

What are you for?

To get drunk and shoot seagulls?

SUDDENLY HER CELL PHONE RANG and a panic-laced voice came through—“He’s back!”

“You got to be kidding—”

“He’s standing right where his dinghy was, looking around for it.”

“Damn it.”

“You got to get out of there.”

“I just got on board. I haven’t even looked around yet,” Prarie said.

“There’s no time. Get in the dinghy and head east. I’ll meet you over there.”

“No.”

“But—”

“Just stay where you are and keep an eye on him,” Prarie said. “If he actually gets in something and starts heading this way, let me know.”

“That’ll be too late. You’ll be trapped.”

“We’re wasting time,” Prarie said.

Then she hung up and looked around with the gun in hand.

Talk to me, Dangerous Lady.

Talk to me fast.

Day Five—August 7

Friday Afternoon

______________

TEFFINGER
SHORED UP ON COFFEE and watched while Fan Rae worked the computer, looking for Billy Shek and having lots of luck—all of it bad. There were a billion Sheks in the city, but no Billy. “Lots of people go by a western name but never officially change their legal name,” Fan Ray said. “It’s a real problem.”

“So I see.”

It was a
nother dead end.

Wait, maybe not.

“Can you cross-reference the Sheks to photographers?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“No.”

Okay.

Dead end.

The computer wasn’t any kinder when they searched for Syling Wu. It was as if she didn’t exist.

Weird.

“You know what I need?” he asked.

No.

She didn’t.

“A thermos.”

“A thermos? Why?”

“For coffee,” he said. “I like to have it with me.”

HIS CELL PHONE RANG. It was
Sydney
so he stepped into the hall and answered. “How are things going over there?” she asked.

Teffinger
grunted.

“I’ve never spent so much time going absolutely nowhere,” he said. “I’m not a single inch closer to finding d’Asia than I was two years ago before I even met her.”

“Yeah, well, that doesn’t make two of us.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning I’ve had a few developments,” she said. “Double-F bumped into me and asked how things were going on that railroad case. I told him about the videotape. He said to give it to
Kwak
and see if he could enhance it.”

Teffinger
twisted a pencil in his fingers
, t
hen snapped it in half.

“Do it,” he said.

“I will, obviously, but that’s not the main reason I called,”
Sydney
said. “One of the black-and-whites picked up a homeless guy for trespassing down at the tracks this morning. They got to talking. The guy said he was there the night the woman got dumped. He was sleeping in a boxcar when headlights woke him up. He looked outside and saw a pickup truck. A white man pulled a woman from the bed of the truck and dumped her
on the ground. He got a good loo
k at the guy.”

“How could he?”

“He said the guy dumped her near the front of the truck and the headlights lit his face up pretty good.”

Teffinger
remembered it.

He paced.

“I took his statement and then he spent an hour working with a sketch artist, but without any luck,” she added. “So there won’t be a composite sketch going on the news tonight. This guy swears though that he’ll recognize the guy if he ever sees him again.”

She paused, w
aiting.

“What’s his name?”
Teffinger
asked.

“Charles DeFry.”

“Don’t know him,” he said. “Maybe he’ll wander off to some other town.”

“He’s been in Denver for five years.”

“Of course he has.”

“Even the winters,” she added.

FAN RAE APPEARED with a brisk step and grabbed
Teffinger
’s arm as she walked past.

“Come on.”

“Where we going?”

“To a bar I just found out about from an anonymous caller,” she said.

“Why? What’s there?”

“Smoke, if my hunch is right,” she said. “The same smoke that was in Nuwa Moon’s hair.”

“Wait a minute.”

He disappeared down the hall, into the kitchenette, and reappeared ten seconds later with a cup of coffee in hand.

“Okay,” he said.

HONG KONG starts at sea level but quickly rises as it stretches south out of Victoria Harbour. Within a short distance, the terrain gets too steep to build skyscrapers and the cityscape screeches to a stop. From the air, the city looks like a long thin strip of congestion sandwiched between the water and the mountains. The higher portion of the city is called the Mid-Levels. An enclosed escalator runs for several blocks and connects the sea level portion of the city to the Mid-Levels. In the morning, the escalator only runs downward. After ten, it runs both ways.

That’s what
Teffinger
and Fan Rae ended up takin
g, t
he escalator
, w
hich
carved through SoHo
.

They got off on Conduit Road and walked west for three blocks, staying on the shady side of the street. Then they came to a bar called
Hei Yewan
, which turned out to be a large underground hideaway, barely noticeable from the outside.

It was closed b
ut when they pounded on the door, someone finally answered—a man about 25, dressed in all things black, heavily pierced and tattooed. His hair was spiked and dyed pink.

Fan Rae explained who she was and asked, “What’s your name?”

“Dustin.”

“No, your real name.”

“On Yu Liou.”

“Are you the owner?”

“No, I’m the manager.”

“Show me the back room,” she said. The man hesitated and Fan Rae said, “Just do it. I’m not in the mood.”

THEY WALKED through a large dark space big enough to hold three hundred drunks, with a cement floor, black walls, multiple bar areas and dozens of speakers. At the back was a velvet rope guarding a black door.