False Witness (6 page)

She breaks it off. “Next time, get a little more height. And jump straighter up, not backward so much.”

“There's not going to be a next time,” he says, climbing down.

After a few minutes the memory was gone; Jessica's blonde hair had morphed into the twilight haze of a Los Angeles night. She was a thirty-two-year-old kid, the trampoline her one release. He wondered if they would ever be that carefree again.

6

After Clark finished canvassing the house, he checked with the neighbors. Nobody had seen Jessica since early morning. Nobody remembered any delivery trucks or strange cars or other visitors to the Shealy house. Two of the neighbors hadn't been home all day. Clark thanked them, his throat growing tighter with each visit, then returned to his house to think.

He slumped into the desk chair in the cluttered office he shared with Jessica. He glanced compulsively at his watch, the tenth time in the last few minutes. It was nearly nine o'clock. He changed modes to the stopwatch: 7:13:23. He wrestled with the idea of calling the police, letting the experts start their own investigation. But the threats of Jessica's captors kept him from doing so.

Though he had watched his mirrors all the way and found nothing when he checked the house for hidden cameras, Clark still had a sense he was being monitored. Based on their capture of Jessica, these guys were pros. They had left a cell phone to track his whereabouts. Somehow, they would know if Clark called the police. Besides, he had worked with law enforcement enough to realize that speed was not their specialty. The investigation would be out of his control.

He couldn't take that chance. Instead, he decided to take a chance of a different sort. He pulled up Outlook and e-mailed the bounty hunters he had contacted that afternoon, increasing the bounty on Kumari from five hundred thousand to a million. He would figure out where to get the money later. He also broadened the net. He attached pertinent information and a photo of Johnny Chin, offering a bounty of five hundred thousand. He finished the e-mail with the biggest gamble of all.

In addition, for information concerning the present whereabouts of a man named Huang Xu, believed to be in the Los Angeles area, I will pay $500,000 U.S.

Clark corrected a few words highlighted by the spell checker, promised God he would do anything God asked if Jessica came back safely, then hit the Send button.

The replies were almost immediate.
Xu is high-level Chinese mafia,
one read.
I don't do mafia.
Another came back more bluntly:
Take me off your distribution list.
And another:
Xu and Chin are members of the Manchurian Triad. I don't mess with the triads, even for a million bucks.

Clark replied to everyone, asking questions and prying out more information.
How do you know that Xu's with the triads? What businesses are connected with him? Where does he live? Where is his office?

I'm a bond enforcement agent, not 411,
a man called Cyclone wrote back. But Clark was making progress. He learned that Xu was reputedly a lieutenant in the Manchurian Triad and that he was basically responsible for United States operations. Xu was young, tattooed, cold-blooded, and a martial arts expert, like a younger, evil brother of Bruce Lee.
He has a thing for women,
one e-mail said ominously,
especially American blondes.

Clark deleted it immediately.

The e-mails seemed to indicate that Johnny Chin didn't instill the same level of fear that Huang Xu did. Chin was just an independent contractor for the mob, a hit man with no personal loyalties. Apprehending Chin would not guarantee a mob contract on the bounty hunter's head, though several of Clark's contemporaries still thought someone would have to be an idiot to try it. Others seemed to believe that, for the right price, they could probably be talked into finding Chin.

Five hundred grand was apparently the right price. The same guys who had turned up their noses when Clark had been hunting Johnny Chin for a bounty of a hundred and fifty were suddenly interested. Chin liked hanging around the Vegas casinos, they said, and had been known to go on gambling binges for weeks on end.

By ten thirty, Clark had collected all the information he could gain online and started going stir-crazy again. He spent the next thirty minutes putting together one-page information sheets featuring pictures and identifying information for both Kumari and Chin. He ran off two hundred copies of each.

He stuffed the tools of his trade into the back of the Escalade—handcuffs, a stun gun, a large black luggage trunk big enough to stuff an entire body inside, a slim-jim for breaking into cars, a baseball bat, glass cutters, pliers, screwdrivers, a ratchet set, his laptop and printer, a laminating kit for fake identifications, two handguns, and a Kevlar vest. He grabbed a Coke out of the refrigerator and pointed the Escalade toward Vegas.

He couldn't just sit around. He would be back in Vegas by 2:30 a.m., not too late to begin canvassing the major casinos. If he worked straight through the night and the next morning, he could speak to the security firms for most of the major gambling establishments on the Strip.

He would find Johnny Chin no matter the cost.

7

Tuesday, August 10

Las Vegas

By 9:00 a.m., Clark had been to more than half the major casinos, passed out dozens of photos of Johnny Chin and Professor Moses Kumari, and still had nothing to show for it. He dropped onto a barstool at the New York–New York casino and checked his stopwatch: 19:13:54. Bone weary, he put his forehead in his hand and tried to think. His nerves had caught fire, the seconds ticking away with Jessica's life on the line, while Clark kept striking out.

If anything happens to her, I'll hunt down Xu if it takes me the rest of my life. Kill him. Then kill myself.
Through twelve years as a bounty hunter, Clark had never been forced to kill a man. But he had no doubt he could do it now. The pain and the hatred were feeding on each other. It felt like another man, cold-blooded and vengeful, had taken control of Clark's body.

“Can I get you anything?”

Clark looked at the bartender. “Coffee. Black.” It would be his third within the last few hours. Even before this new shot of caffeine, his hands had started trembling a little. But he couldn't afford to sleep. Not with the clock ticking.

As the bartender retreated to the coffeepot, Clark caught his own reflection, just above the liquor bottles, in the mirror that lined the back of the bar. He looked like death on a bad day. Matted blond hair. Bloodshot eyes underscored by dark circles. Bagging eyelids. In his younger days, he had been something of a ladies' man. Now, at age thirty-six, an all-nighter made his haggard face look like it belonged on a hostage. Even the piercing sky blue eyes, accentuated by colored contacts, seemed hollow and lifeless. He needed to get the contacts out, but his glasses were in the rental car. Dry eyeballs were the least of his worries.

Two sips into his coffee, Clark decided to take a step he had been contemplating all night. If nothing else, he had to at least know that Jessica was still alive. He blew on the coffee, took another sip, and played out the next conversation in his mind. He ran through it three times, then placed a five-dollar bill on the bar and took a few steps away. He felt his gut tense, the coffee and bile working overtime. He pulled out the black Motorola Razr phone that had been left on the seat of his car and speed-dialed 1.

“I assume you found Kumari,” said the same voice he heard yesterday. Perfect diction. Huang Xu.

Clark took a breath, told himself to stay calm. “I'm making progress, but I'm going to need more time. And first, I need to speak with Jessica.”

“I told you to call when you have Kumari,” Xu replied firmly. “Not before.”

“If you want your man, let me speak to my wife.”

Xu scoffed at the suggestion, waited a beat, and lowered his voice. “This call will cost you twelve hours. We start pulling her teeth tomorrow morning at 1:45 a.m.”

“Wait!” Clark shouted, his mind reeling. He hadn't anticipated this. He swallowed the curse words, reaching for something that might stop the madman. “I've got a lead, but these things take time. If you touch her, even one small cut, I'll stop hunting Kumari and start hunting you. I'm willing to do this deal, but I've got to have a little more time.”

“Nineteen seventeen thirty,” Xu said. He paused. “Nineteen seventeen thirty-five. . . . Nineteen seventeen forty.”

Clark cursed loudly into the phone, threatened Xu again, and drew a number of concerned stares from those around him. He took a breath and listened. Dead air had replaced the counting, but the relentless march of seconds continued unabated in Clark's mind.

Nineteen seventeen fifty-five.
In less than seventeen hours, they would start on the teeth.

8

Out of options, deep in despair, Clark climbed into the Escalade and made his way toward the North Vegas police station. His instincts told him this was a bad move, but he knew that if he wanted the police to help, he couldn't wait until the last minute. He had thought about trying to contact Silvoso but rejected that idea. Jessica's captors would probably be watching the plastic surgeon like hawks.

Driving north on the Strip, just past the Riviera Hotel, Clark received a text message on his cell phone.
I've got the drop on Johnny Chin,
the message read.
Call me.
It was signed by a bounty hunter named “Bones” McGinley, one of the add-ons to Clark's original list, a notoriously shady operator who made his reputation hunting down reprobate Vegas gamblers. Clark dialed the number and felt the adrenaline surge through his sleep-deprived body.

“Quad-A Bail Bond Office,” said a deep female voice at the other end.

“I need to speak to Bones McGinley.”

“He's not in right now. Can I take a message?”

“This is Clark Shealy. He just sent me a text message. Can I get his cell phone number?”

“Mr. Shealy!” the woman exclaimed as if they were old friends. “He said to put you right through.”

The bounty hunters quickly exchanged greetings. “You know where Chin is?” Clark asked.

“They say he's got mob connections,” Bones replied. He had a gravelly smoker's voice, but higher pitched than Clark expected. Clark had heard that Bones weighed in at over three hundred. “You know anything about that?”

“Every hit man has mob connections,” Clark said, trying to sound casual. Bones himself was rumored to have connections with a few Italian mob families in the casino business. He probably wanted to avoid a conflict of interest. “But I don't think Chin's are anything special. He was apparently working for the Russian mob when he first got busted.” Clark deliberately left out Chin's suspected connections with the Manchurian Triad.

“Russian, huh?” Bones paused, apparently mulling it over. “Here's the deal. I'll drop a dime on this guy on two conditions. First, you keep my name out of it. Period. Nobody ever knows where you got your tip.” Bones paused and coughed.

“Done,” Clark said. He would agree to anything. This was his first and only lead.

“Second, you wire the five hundred K into my account. Angel will give you the wiring instructions. I'll call back when it shows up.”

Clark, of course, didn't have the money and suspected Bones knew it. “He might be gone by then,” Clark said quickly. “Tell me where he is. I bust him. Then you get paid.”

Bones laughed—a big, throaty, taunting laugh. “I was born at night, but not last night. Call me back after you make the wire transfer.”

For the second time in half an hour, someone holding all the cards hung up on Clark.

Clark called him back immediately.

“Quad-A Bail Bond Office—”

“Get me McGinley,” Clark interrupted.

“Who is this?” Angel asked, sounding perturbed.

“Clark Shealy.”

Without comment, she put Clark on hold. A long minute later, she was back on the line. “Mr. McGinley asked me to give you wiring instructions for our account,” she said. “Do you have a pen and paper?”

Clark felt his temper flaring again but beat it back. He needed some allies right now. “I can only do a hundred fifty thousand right this minute,” he explained. “I'll do the rest later today after Mr. McGinley gives me the information I need. Ask him if that'll work.”

“Please hold.”

When Angel came back, she was all business. “Mr. McGinley says we need all five hundred thousand before he'll talk to you. Do you want those wiring instructions or not?”

Clark bit his tongue and wrote down the wiring instructions. “I'll need your tax ID number and business address for tax purposes,” he explained. After he hung up, he entered the address into the Escalade's onboard GPS.

“Turn left at the next light,” a sexy female voice instructed him.

“My pleasure,” Clark said.

9

The AAAA Bail Bond Office was located about two blocks from the city jail, across the street from the Bad Boyz Bond Office. The neon sign for Bones's operation was larger, though the modular trailer that served as an office couldn't compete with the real brick building that the Bad Boyz called home. Bones plainly didn't believe in burning money on overhead.

There were only two cars in the parking lot—a Lexus that undoubtedly belonged to Bones and a run-down foreign car. Clark parked the Escalade, stuffed his Glock into a shoulder holster, and threw on a blue sports coat to cover the gun.

He barged through the door and surveyed the seedy waiting area. A few wooden chairs. A messy reception desk manned by a chubby lady with too much red lipstick—Angel Sparkman, according to the nameplate. She had a phone stuck to her ear and was looking at her computer. She motioned for Clark to sit down.