False Witness (9 page)

“I know nothing,” Chin said defiantly. It was the same song he had sung earlier. “Those who hire me call on cell phones. The money gets wired from anonymous bank accounts. Why would they tell me where they live or work?”

He sounded more desperate than before, more sincere, but Clark still wasn't buying it. Chin had been arrested for RICO violations and skipped bail. Jessica's kidnapping had been carefully orchestrated by the mob and triggered when Clark had tried to apprehend Chin. The mob and Chin had to be working together.

Clark clamped down on Chin's sweaty scalp with his left hand, trying to hold his captive still. But Chin kept his mouth closed and jerked his head back and forth, small spastic movements limited by the duct tape holding his head in place, yet still enough to prevent Clark from grabbing a tooth with the pliers. They struggled for a moment before Clark slapped Chin hard across the cheek, stunning his captive. Chin gasped, and Clark latched onto a front tooth.

He squeezed the pliers with both hands and told himself to pry hard and fast. But he hesitated, relaxing his grip a hair, which allowed Chin to jerk free.

“I'm telling the truth,” Chin stammered. “Why would I protect them?”

Frustrated, Clark stood, turned his back, and walked away, trying to get a little distance. He felt disoriented, like a medical student performing his first autopsy.

How can I do this? Does Chin really know anything?

Clark walked to the Escalade and placed his left palm on the hood, leaning there for a moment, the pliers dangling from his right hand. He took a few deep breaths, fueled his resolve, and returned to his victim.
This is for Jessica.

He reached for Chin's head again, but the man jerked more violently than before, choppy movements limited by the constraints of the duct tape. Chin made it impossible to get a good grip with the pliers. He cursed at Clark, promising to kill him, protesting that he didn't know anything.

Clark stood. This wasn't working. It was too personal. Too sadistic. There had to be a better way to get this information.

As he thought about the next move, Clark felt a vibration in his right front pocket.
The cell phone from Xu.
His heart slammed to a stop, and he pulled the phone out quickly. It was a text message:
Twelve hours.

Clark checked his watch and thought about how little progress he had made. Even if he could get Chin to talk, what did he know? Suddenly Clark noticed a picture attached to the message and clicked it open as well. A photograph of Jessica, a head shot from the shoulders up. They had shaved her head. The sight of it shocked him—the pale skin of her scalp, the gaunt eyes, the fear and humiliation of her expression. She had no clothes on as far as he could tell. The rage boiled over, consumed him, the cell phone trembling in his hand.

“How can they do this?” he cried.

He pulled out his gun and turned on Chin, holding the cell phone in front of Chin's face. “This is my wife!” he screamed. “You see this! You did this!”

This time Chin's eyes went wide, his lips quivering. “I don't know anything, man,” he said, more adamant than before. “What they did—it's not right. But I don't know anything about it.”

“You're lying!” Clark shouted. He pressed the point of the gun against Chin's kneecap.

“I don't know anything! I've never even met your wife, man!”

“You're lying!” Clark repeated. He hesitated and gave Chin one last chance—a pleading look into the hit man's eyes.
Don't make me do this.

“I don't know where they're at,”
Chin repeated, but Clark chose not to believe him. This man
did
know. He
had to know
, or Clark was nowhere. This criminal, this man who killed others for money without thinking twice about them or their families, had to know precisely where Jessica was this very moment. Getting her head shaved. Being humiliated and prepared for torture as if she were some kind of lab specimen.

Clark tried not to dwell on what she might be going through, but the images kept popping into his head. He had purposefully
not
allowed his thoughts to go there before, but now his mind raced heedlessly ahead, considering the possibilities. Her shoulders were bare. Was that something they had done just for effect, knowing it would drive him crazy? Or was it a more sinister signal? How far had they gone—a defenseless woman held captive by remorseless men with twisted minds?

What if, God forbid, they have already raped her?

He turned his attention back to Chin. This man was one of them! This man
had to know
.

Enraged, Clark pulled the trigger.

15

Johnny Chin had lied. He confessed as Clark counted down to zero with his gun pointed at Chin's
other
kneecap. Writhing in pain, Chin admitted that he knew the cell phone numbers and the names of the leaders in Xu's organization. He begged Clark not to shoot again, swearing that he didn't know where Huang Xu was holding Jessica. But he could give Clark the cell phone numbers and an account number from a bank that had wired him money for the last job he completed for the Chinese mafia.

“These men are shadows,” Chin gasped, the pain and fear creasing his brow. “They don't ever show their faces.”

Convinced, Clark put the Glock back in its holster. He didn't have the nerve to use it again anyway. He loaded Chin into the passenger seat of the Escalade, fastened the seat belt, and duct-taped Chin's mouth, muzzling the hit man's moaning and cursing. As he drove back toward the city limits, Clark felt guilty, watching Chin squirm in an effort to decrease the pain, using his bound hands to support his wounded leg as much as possible, emitting muffled groans of agony every time he moved. The hit man was pale and looked like he might pass out at any moment.

Clark hardly trusted his own judgment now. He was beyond tired, his neck aching from the tranquilizer injection, or possibly from being thrown against the wall by Mortavius Johnson, or possibly from the head butt he had given Bones McGinley. He had a splitting headache. And he had that jittery feeling that comes from no sleep, no food, and too much caffeine. He was like a college student pulling all-nighters during exam week, living on energy drinks and coffee, his stomach churning up acid.

And he had just finished torturing another human being.

He needed to concentrate. His stopwatch now registered 24:17:12. He could send out another notice to bounty hunters listing the two new names of triad leaders Chin had provided—Li Gwah and Victor Chi. Given time, his network might locate one of them. But he didn't have that kind of time. Complicating matters, Chin's cell phone, containing the phone numbers of the leaders, and the bank account information were still in Chin's hotel room.
How could I have left that cell phone behind?

Clark knew he was out of options. Xu had warned him that bringing in the authorities would cost Jessica her life. But Clark had no chance of rescuing her alone. He still didn't know where Professor Kumari was hiding. Or even if the professor was still alive. Or where Jessica might be. What little information he could gain from going back to Chin's room—cell phone numbers and bank account information—was useless without the feds. The FBI could call the cell phones and triangulate the locations. They could get a warrant for the banking information. But that, too, took time.

Still, it was his only hope.

The small matter of Clark's own desperate crime spree also suggested that calling the feds might not be a bad idea. So far, he had been involved in kidnapping, malicious wounding, forging a driver's license, theft of an automobile, and probably a few more violations that he couldn't remember. If he went to the feds first, explaining the entire mess, he might be able to trade cooperation for immunity.

Might
being the key word.

He dialed the U.S. attorney's office for the district of Nevada. After a few minutes of getting shuffled around from one staff person to another, he finally reached an assistant U.S. attorney.

“My wife's been kidnapped by the Chinese mafia,” Clark began.

“Who is this?” the attorney interrupted.

“Just listen,” Clark said, his voice testy. “In less than twelve hours they begin torturing her. They've told me if I contact you, they'll kill her.”

Chin moaned loudly into his duct tape. Clark glared at him, but Chin only increased the volume.

“They're demanding that I find and kidnap another person and trade him for my wife.” Clark switched the phone to his left ear and made a chopping motion with his right hand.

Chin ignored him again and kept moaning.

“I need your name. Your wife's name. And the names of the persons who kidnapped her.” The attorney sounded calm, methodical.

“Will you grant me immunity?” Clark asked.

“Immunity for what? What crimes have you committed? Federal or state? How serious are they? What are you offering in return?”

This was getting too complicated to handle over the phone. And Chin, who suddenly seemed to have a second wind, wasn't making things any easier with his defiant moaning.

“Do you know where the side entrance is for the Mirage?” Clark asked the attorney.

“Yes.”

“Be waiting there in your vehicle in exactly twenty minutes. You might want to bring an FBI agent.” He paused for a beat and glanced at Chin, who quieted down a little, his eyes glazing over. “And have an ambulance waiting nearby. I'll need your cell number and your name.”

The attorney sighed. “My name is Magdalena Sorensen. But this isn't the movies, sir. In real life, you come to our offices and talk with me here. If you'd like, I can have my assistant give you directions.”

“No, wait. Listen, they've kidnapped my wife.” Clark raised his voice, trying to make this woman understand. “If they see me walk into your office, they'll kill her.”

“Who are you talking about? And what is
your
name?”

Clark shook his head in frustration. “I can't tell you that on the phone.”

“Then I can't help you.”

Clark blew out a breath. “Wait!”
What choice do I have?
“My name is Clark Shealy. And there's probably a state warrant out for my arrest already.” He paused for a beat.

“I'm listening,” Magdalena said.

Five minutes after hanging up with Magdalena, Clark's cell buzzed with a number he didn't recognize. His stomach clenched as he answered.

“Clark Shealy.”

“My name is Dennis Hargrove.” The name meant nothing to Clark. “You looking for a Indian man named Moses Kumari?”

Clark's heart leaped to his throat. When he spoke, he barely recognized his own breathless voice. “Yes. Do you know where he is?”

“As I understand it, Mr. Shealy, you're offering a sizable reward.”

“A million dollars. Where is he?”

“In the backseat of my car.”

16

Cash flow. Being a bounty hunter was not about manhandling bad guys the way Dog the Bounty Hunter did on A&E. It's about cash flow. Cash greased the palms of the bounty hunter's stringers and inside sources at “partner” companies—banks, the DMV, plastic surgeons, casino security guards. Cash kept the cops from throwing your sorry carcass in jail when you overstepped your bounds on a pickup. If you got busted by a clean cop, cash posted the bond to bail you out that same night. Cash paid the overhead. Cash made the bounty hunter's world go round.

For that reason, Clark had his banker on speed dial.

He called Harry and swore the man to secrecy before explaining what happened to Jessica.

“Did you call the police?” Harry asked. He had the instincts of a banker—play it safe; trust authority.

“I called the U.S. attorney, and I'm sure she called the FBI. They're on it. But in the meantime, I'm going to need as much cash as I can get my hands on. Liquidate everything I've got, increase the credit line, and consolidate it all in one account. I'll need at least three hundred thousand.”

Clark's request was met with silence by Harry. Even Chin had calmed down and was now barely conscious, staring straight ahead and emitting pitiful little groans only occasionally.

“Harry, we're talking about my wife here. You want it on your head if something happens to Jessica?”

“That's not fair, Clark.” Harry hesitated as if hoping that Clark might apologize for going too far. Clark waited him out. “I'll see what I can do,” Harry promised.

“You can't let me down on this one, Harry. I'll pay back every penny. You know that.”

“I'll try, Clark.”

“You've got to do better than try.”

“Call me back in an hour.”

“Oh. And one other thing. If you get a check presented for a hundred and fifty thousand from an outfit named Quad-A Bail Bond Office, don't pay it.”