The Killing Hands (5 page)

I try again, with another series of kicks and punches, including a spinning side kick, multiple jabs and even some fakes, where I start to throw a punch or kick then withdraw and go for my real move. But he's fast enough, even for these. As usual, he's left untouched and I'm left frustrated. One of these days…

He smiles. “Okay, my turn.” He glances briefly at the wall clock—five minutes before class starts. Now, the stream of students coming through the doors is at its peak—allowing people just enough time to get changed. There are more sets of eyes on us, and some people have moved closer to see the action. The onlookers make me self-conscious, but they also spur me on. I may not have been able to hit Sifu Lee, but hopefully I'll be able to block most of his incoming strikes. I'm also aware that he won't be using full force or speed—that's too dangerous, especially since we're so unevenly matched. Lee's hands are lethal weapons, so he'll have to hold back.

Again we start side-on from each other, in horse stance with our guards up. Lee begins with a couple of punches delivered at low speed. After I easily block those, he starts to increase the pace. Blocking is definitely my strong point. I've always been able to pick what my sparring partner is about to do next and react accordingly. Until recently, I'd assumed it was good reflexes, but now I think maybe my psychic abilities allow me to sense what's about to come.

I adjust back and cross-block Lee's incoming roundhouse kick.

“Very good,” he says, a hint of surprise in his voice. He waits only a second before sending some faster strikes my way, all aimed at my head. Again, I'm able to block these, but this time it takes complete concentration.

I move down to block a low punch—Lee changed it to catch me off guard. He keeps them coming, high, middle, low, and throws in a few kicks, but only one punch connects
and even then I'd blocked almost in time, diminishing its impact.

Lee bows. “I'm impressed. Your blocks are still much better than your punches, so let's keep working on improving your strikes.”

I smile and notice with some triumph that there are a few beads of sweat on Lee's upper lip. It's taken me four months of these one-on-one sessions to get him to sweat. He definitely stepped things up toward the end, too, and he may even have been close to going full speed with the last series of strikes.

We both take our helmets off and Lee gives me a small bow before turning to face the students who mill around us. “Okay everyone, line up please.”

I move to the front of the class, and Marcus and the other second- and third-dan black belts join me. We always line up according to level, with the most advanced students in the front.

“You nearly had him that time, Sophie,” Marcus says, before taking the spot next to me. Like Lee, Marcus is also of Asian descent, though I'd put him as only one-quarter. He's taller, at around six-two, and more overtly muscular than Lee. He wears his hair short all over, which accentuates the masculine angularity of his face—a wide square jaw, pronounced brow and high cheekbones. His skin is slightly olive, but that could be an L.A. tan rather than his racial heritage.

“One of these days I'm going to connect.”

Marcus laughs, highlighting two large dimples.

“You ever tried sparring him?” I ask.

“Once. And once was enough. But I should do what you do, organize to come in early and train with him like that. It'd keep me on my toes.”

Marcus is probably the best in our class. He's fast, strong and efficient—all the hallmarks of a good kung fu fighter. He doesn't really need the extra training, but at least he's modest about it.

Lee takes us through a quick warm-up before dividing
us into groups of two. The first group starts on forms with his assistant, while Lee takes the rest of us over to an area that's set up with mats and punching bags. My group works on punches, kicks, throws and techniques to break falls, before swapping with the other group to focus on our kung fu forms. With half an hour to go, we break into our levels, creating four groups—black belts, first-dan black belts, second-dan black belts and third-dan black belts. Tonight, we focus on punches, with Lee and Steve supervising and teaching us new moves as necessary.

At 8:55 p.m. Lee brings the whole group together again for a five-minute cooldown, and while my body starts to relent, my mind doesn't. When I leave just after 9:00 p.m., my adrenaline's still pumping. It's going to take me a good couple of hours before I can even think about sleep.

I
arrive at the office at 7:30 a.m. the next morning, after completing my three-hundred-meter sprint at Westwood Park in sixty seconds. It wasn't as fast as I was hoping, but I still got a total of twenty-one points across all the tests, enough to put me in the same league physically as the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team. Mission accomplished.

The white, twenty-story federal building looms less than a quarter mile from I–405, and the hum of the traffic is always audible from outside. The first nine floors of the building are taken up by Veterans Affairs and a few other smaller departments, with the FBI housed on floors ten to twenty. Level ten is accessible to the public and serves as our official reception point, but the rest of the FBI area is secured. Direct elevator access to floors eleven to twenty is via three clear portals in the building's belly. The portals have two security doors—you step in and the door behind you closes, trapping you in the small space, the other door only opening after you've scanned your security card and entered the five-digit pin. Great security, but a pain in the ass at peak hours when the employees are siphoned into only three units. Still, the people-jam is in step with L.A.'s traffic jams.

When I get to my desk, I notice there's already a message
on my phone, so while my computer's booting up I dial voice mail. The computerized recording tells me the call was received at 7:15 a.m., and then Ramos's voice comes on.

“Hi, Agent Anderson. It's Detective Ramos.” He sounds extra cheerful, and I know instantly that he's got news of some description. Maybe a bullet was found last night. Or maybe the lab came through with a fingerprint match.

“Got a call from the DEA this morning. One of their guys recognized the picture we e-mailed out yesterday. Give me a call.”

That's way better than a bullet…our victim's name. I punch Ramos's number into my phone straightaway. “Morning, it's Anderson. I just got your message. That's fantastic news!”

“Don't get too excited. It's only a visual ID. DEA's been trying to work out who this guy is for three weeks. He just suddenly showed up in their surveillance shots.”

Damn. Just when I thought we had a name. “Where were the photos taken?”

“A house in Long Beach that the DEA's got under surveillance. Suspected meth lab, and it looks like the Asian Boyz are running it.”

“Shit.” The Bureau estimates that L.A. has over four hundred gangs, with combined numbers of around forty thousand members. The Asian Boyz is one of the biggest. “So Long Beach is their territory?”

“Yeah. Asian Boyz originated in Long Beach and nowadays Asian Boyz Eastside and Asian Boyz Northside are based there.” He takes a breath. “Long Beach is also home to one of the world's biggest ports.”

I follow the train of thought. “So the DEA thinks they're exporting? Using the port to ship the drugs?”

“It's one possibility. That's why they haven't moved on the house yet. They're watching for distribution.”

“You know much about gangs?”

“Yes and no. I've lived in L.A. all my life, so I guess I have a good general knowledge, but I don't work gangs much. The LAPD has over three hundred cops in our Gang
Enforcement Division…it's their bag, not mine. I even had to hand over that drive-by shooting last week, once the involvement of MS-13 and the Crips was confirmed. What about you?”

“I've been reading up on them since I've been in L.A., but it's not an area of specialization for me, either.” I haven't had to profile any gang-related crimes yet, although it's possible the young boy's murder in the arcade has ties to L.A.'s gang culture. Fifty-seven percent of homicides in the city are gang-related, and there are specialized cops and FBI agents who work gang-related crimes. They know gang behavior, not me. Guess it's time I learned.

“We're in dangerous territory,” Ramos says. “And so was our vic. He was seen at the Long Beach house on three separate occasions. They've e-mailed me a sample of the shots and he looks pissed.”

“Can you forward that e-mail?”

“Sure.”

I hear typing in the background as Ramos sends the photos.

The vic being annoyed ties in with my vision from the coroner's office. I replay the images in my head and I realize…the car…it was a right-hand drive. It didn't strike me as odd at first, because right-hand drive cars still look normal to me, even though I've been in the States for over a year. It means our guy got that call when he was in a country that drives on the left-hand side of the road. So we're talking England, Australia or maybe an Asian country. The places that immediately spring to mind are Singapore, Hong Kong and Japan, but there are other Asian countries that drive on the left, too.

“Hey, Ramos. Maybe this guy is from overseas. He flies into the country to do drug business with the Asian Boyz, maybe the shipment's even bound for his home turf. And the vic being from another country would also tie in with him suddenly appearing in the DEA's surveillance shots. I bet he arrived in the States about three weeks ago. Let's check his prints with Interpol and immigration. Our guy would have been fingerprinted on the way in.”

Most visitors flying into the US have their prints digitally captured and recorded. If we match this guy's prints, we'll have a name—or at least the name on his passport, if he used an alias.

“You know anyone at the State Department?” Ramos asks.

“No, but leave it with me. I'll get a name soon enough.”

“Great.”

“Oh, and I forgot to tell you yesterday—I went back to look at the body after you left.” Given I had to sign in, at some point Ramos will find out I had another look at our vic, and I don't want him to think I was excluding him from part of the investigation. “I realized as I was sitting in my car that the victim's hands struck me as odd. It's probably insignificant, but when I went back I figured out what it was—his hands were manicured.”

“Manicured, huh? So he's gay or one of those metro guys?” Ramos jokes.

I laugh. “Could be.”

“Actually, male manicures in L.A. aren't that uncommon. Actors, you know?”

“I'll take your word for it.” I pause. “His hands were very smooth, too. And before this news about his possible involvement with the Asian Boyz, I was thinking maybe he had a rough start but then turned himself around. That would explain the earlier injuries.”

Ramos is silent for a few beats. “Or maybe he just moved up the gang hierarchy. Didn't need to be hands-on anymore.”

His conclusion is more likely than mine. Here I was romanticizing the guy's past and thinking he'd grown up on the wrong side of the tracks and then straightened up, but he probably just got promoted. It certainly seems more probable now that we've got him associating with drug dealers with potential ties to the Asian Boyz.

I notice my computer has booted, so I start my e-mail program. At the top of my message list is the one from Ramos. “I've got your e-mail from the DEA.” I open up the four attached images. In each one, our victim looks either stressed or very obviously angry. “He does look pissed.”

“Maybe his lackeys weren't doing their jobs.” He stops to consider. “If our guy is from overseas, we could have stumbled on an international drug ring.”

“I guess we should meet with…” I scan down the e-mail to the bottom, and the signature. “Special Agent Joe De Luca of the DEA. See what he's got to say about our mystery guy.”

“I'll set it up. You free all day?”

“Depends if we're going to sit in on Hart's experiment at three. Although obviously a meet with DEA will take priority.” Watching Hart take potshots at the light might reveal some interesting facts, but our presence isn't necessary.

“I'll try to set up something with the DEA today. And I better touch base with our Gang Enforcement Division, let them know our homicide's looking like it might be their turf.”

“Good idea.”

“We also have an Asian Crime Unit. I'll give them a heads-up, too.”

“Will the case be reassigned?” I ask.

“Maybe. Depends how it pans out. DEA might want to take the lead.”

Drugs and gangs are big business, especially in L.A., and there are multiple agencies and task forces involved, with local, state and federal law-enforcement personnel. At the federal level the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives (ATF) is a player because gangs are often involved in illegal firearms, and likewise with the DEA and drugs. Then you've got the United States Custom Service, the Immigration and Naturalization Service, the US Attorney's Office, the IRS…the list goes on. And unfortunately we don't necessarily all play nice together. Lots of cops resent the FBI—see us as elitist egotists who take the credit for their hard work—and the DEA is referred to as “Don't Expect Anything” in some cop circles. We're just one big happy family.

“What about task forces?” I ask.

“Yeah, we've got a few of them to consider, especially in the wider county area.”

“Let's start with the Safe Streets task force here in L.A.” The Bureau runs the Safe Streets project, which has over one hundred and forty task forces around the country. Given it's Bureau-run and I know at least a couple of the FBI agents on it, it makes sense for me to take that one. “I'll contact Safe Streets here and you can follow up with LAPD.”

“Okay. The ATF also runs Violent Crime Impact Teams. You wanna contact them?”

“Sure.” I jot the task down. “Any other updates?”

“Not really. We've run all the license plates from the parking lot and I've got officers doing the initial interviews with owners at the moment. Nothing looks out of the ordinary…yet.”

“Okay.”

“Well, catch ya later.” Ramos hangs up.

I figure our victim's name is the most important thing, so I get moving on the fingerprint search. My first point of contact, as always, is Brady's assistant, Melissa. She's got her finger on the pulse and seems to know a helluva lot of people in L.A. law enforcement. Maybe her knowledge extends to the State Department and, if not, I'm sure she'll be able to point me in the right direction.

Sure enough, a couple of phone calls later, I'm on the line with Lara Rodriguez from the US State Department.

“Hi, Ms Rodriguez. I'm Special Agent Sophie Anderson with the FBI.”

“Hey. What can I do for you, Sophie? And please, call me Lara.”

“Thanks, Lara. We've got a John Doe who we think may be a foreign national. I'd like to e-mail you his prints for you to check your database.”

“Sure.” She spells out her e-mail address.

“I'll send the prints to you now.”

“I'll give you a call the minute I get something.”

“That'd be great. Thanks.” I'd missed a call when I was talking to Rodriguez, so I dial up my voice mail. Ramos.

“Hi, Anderson. Joe De Luca from the DEA can't meet us until late this afternoon, so I've set up a five-thirty with him. Catch ya later.”

I delete the message and add the 5:30 p.m. appointment into my calendar. Time to do some walking. My first stop is Agent Pasha Petrov, who reports to George Rosen and heads up the FBI's gang unit here in L.A. Petrov's first-generation American, and speaks fluent Russian. It makes him a major asset for dealing with organized crime run by the Russians in L.A. He consults to at least a couple of the Safe Streets task forces in L.A. Petrov also happens to share a surname with a nasty serial killer I was lucky enough to apprehend—but Petrov is a very common name in Russia and Bulgaria.

He looks up as I approach. “Agent Anderson. What brings you here?” His ice-blue eyes contrast his friendly tone, but I'm used to his eyes now and realize they're alert rather than cold. This is the first time I've come directly to Petrov, although we see each other in the weekly division-head meetings. Over the past few months I've discovered he's worked for the FBI in New York as well as L.A. and has particular experience with the Russian Mafia and to a lesser extent some of the Asian gangs and organized crime operations.

“Hey. I'm looking into a John Doe, and it seems it might be gang related.”

“What you got so far?”

“Victim was found in Little Tokyo early Sunday morning. Detective Ramos from LAPD sent around an e-mail with his pic and we heard back from Agent Joe De Luca at DEA. Our John Doe was photographed coming out of a house in Long Beach.”

“Yeah, I saw that e-mail from the LAPD. And I know Joe. We both consult to the Los Angeles Gang Impact Team.”

“Safe Streets?” I ask, also noticing the use of Agent De Luca's first name—they must know each other well.

“That's right. The Gang Impact Team is this area's Safe Streets task force.”

I nod. “Is there anyone else I should be talking to? Other task forces?”

“The e-mail should be enough for the moment. It would have gone to all the relevant people. You meeting with Joe?”