The Killing Hands (35 page)

By the time my front doorbell rings, I'm close to hyperventilating. How can I answer the door like this? Pull yourself together, woman. I try to bring some of my professional calm into the equation. I can act, just like I often have to when questioning a suspect. I take a deep breath in, then out, then swing the door open.

“Hi, Darren.”

“Hi.” He grins.

I'm immobile.

“Can I come in?”

“Sure. Sorry.” I aim for breezy, but I don't think I pull it off. I move out of the doorway, down the hall and into the kitchen. “So how was your flight?” I turn around. He's grinning way too much. He's enjoying this. Enjoying my nervousness.

“Good. The flight was good.” He walks straight into the living room and puts his overnight bag on the floor next to the sofa bed. At least he didn't put it in the bedroom.

“Thirsty?” My voice cracks a little. Man, this is torture. I'm so out of practice it's not funny. Well, maybe it's funny for Darren. “Beer?”

“Sure.”

I open a beer for Darren and hand it to him across the kitchen counter, trying to hide the slight shake in my hand.

“You're not having one?”

“I've got an important call coming in.”

“Oh…” Disappointment. He takes a few steps back, moving across my small dining area until he's leaning on the back of the sofa. “When?”

“Five.”

“So you need to work now? I can disappear for a couple of hours.”

“No, it's okay. We're kinda waiting on this call…for the case. Not much more to do until it comes in.” I don't tell him about the personnel files now locked away in my briefcase.

He takes a swig of beer. “I see.”

Silence.

I'm still standing in the kitchen, the kitchen counter and dining room table between me and Darren. And that's just fine by me for the moment.

“So you're getting close? To finding the killer?”

“Yeah, we are actually. We've even got a couple of names. The call I'm waiting for is from China. Checking a few details.”

“Sounds promising.” Darren pushes himself off the sofa back and starts heading my way. I hold his gaze until he's at the kitchen bench, then I turn around to the fridge.

“Think I might have a juice.”

I hear Darren's footsteps, getting closer, then a clunk as he puts his beer on the counter. He comes in behind me, close, and his hand reaches over my shoulder to close the fridge. He leans down slightly, and I can feel his breath on my neck. His arms close around my waist as he kisses the side of my neck, ever so gently. My body takes over and I instinctively lean back into him, letting the back of my head rest against his face. His kisses run the length of my shoulder, my good shoulder, before his right hand comes up to my face and he slowly spins me around. Our faces are touching and I open my eyes. It takes a moment of adjustment as my eyes focus and I see Darren up close and personal. He keeps his eyes shut, but his breathing is fast.

I run my hand along his jaw and bring him closer, shutting my eyes at the same time. My nerves are gone, replaced by desire. Our lips meet, fast, hot kisses, the sort you only get when sexual tension has been building…and building…and building.

I bring him in closer to me, my left leg encircling his waist. He moves us back until we hit the kitchen bench on my side. He lifts me up onto the bench, but it's the side with the cupboards and I forget to duck. My head hits the cupboard with a clunk.

“Ouch!” I break the silence but don't stop kissing him.

“Sorry,” he mumbles into me, also unwilling to break the contact between our lips. He grabs hold of me, taking my full weight, and spins us around before backing us onto the
other kitchen bench—the one that borders my kitchen and dining room.

I try to get closer to him, but our bodies are already flush against each other. I move on to his clothes, pulling his sweater up. As it comes up over his shoulders, we have to stop kissing for it to pass over his head. But as soon as it's clear, Darren brings me in close again so we can kiss. I run my hands over his chest, back, arms and stomach, reveling in the sensation of smooth, hot skin under my fingers.

He starts unbuttoning my shirt and then pushes it gently over my shoulders. His fingers run over the small plaster patch there and he stops kissing me, but keeps our foreheads pressed together.

“Oh, Soph…”

“I know.” When Darren was shot I was with someone else. I was attracted to Darren and I cared about him, but we'd only known each other for a few days. Now, even before today, it would be completely different. If it had been Darren who had been shot two weeks ago I would have been going out of my mind. He tried to express it in the hospital but I brushed him aside.

I tilt my head back and bring his lips to mine again, eager to pick up where we left off. After a couple of minutes he undoes my bra and starts kissing and caressing my breasts in between kissing my lips.

As each second goes by I want him more and more, more than I've ever wanted any man before. I can feel him against me, but it's not enough. I undo his belt and jeans, pushing them over his slender hips, and then I pull him closer again. I can feel him step out of his jeans, one leg at a time. My pencil-line skirt has already ridden up my thighs and onto my hips, but I pull it up more. The sensation of his skin on mine, so close to me, makes me go even wilder.

I pull him closer and then inside me. We both let out a deep breath.

“Oh, Sophie,” he says into my ear.

It's Darren who comes to his senses first. “Condom.” The word rushes out of his lips on an uncontrolled exhale.

“Uh-huh,” I murmur, not wanting to stop for anything.

He lifts me up and carries me to the living room, and then lowers me down onto the floor, using one hand to hunt around in his bag. Soon he comes out with a condom.

I'm usually sensible, but this time the few seconds seem unbearable. “No,” I gasp as he unlinks us, tears the condom wrapper and rolls it on. He's fast, and the whole procedure takes less than ten seconds. We both let out a sigh of relief, or maybe just of lust, as we reposition ourselves. It feels different, not as good, but the seconds helped me come to my senses a little more. At least Darren was thinking.

I flip us over, my knees on either side of him, and we hold each other close as I writhe on top of him. After a while, his breathing becomes heavier, and the thought that he's about to orgasm topples me over the edge, too. His groans are followed closely by mine, before our bodies are still.

We caress each other, silent for a little while, before Darren says, “I'm sorry. I'd wanted it to be a little more romantic…tender.”

I push off the ground and let my face hover above his. “Darren, that was perfect.” I smile. “We can do tender later.”

He laughs and I watch as his beautiful dimples form.

“Man, your dimples are sexy.”

“Really? I always thought they were too boyish to be sexy.”

“No.” There
is
a boyishness about Darren, and I remember thinking when I first met him that he looked like a boy who'd grown too fast for his body, but now that boyishness has become sexy. I like his long limbs, and today I've unearthed good muscle tone on his naturally slender frame.

He runs his hand along my face. “You're so beautiful.” He sighs. “I've wanted this from the moment I first saw you.” He laughs. “You certainly put an end to my wicked ways. I haven't been able to think about another woman since I met you.”

“Thanks…I think.” Then I shake my head. “And you thought this would be slow and tender after fourteen months of celibacy and sexual tension?”

He laughs again. “True.”

I give him a jab on the arm. “And I notice you came prepared!”

He shrugs and gives me his best boyish grin. “I was hopeful. You sounded…different on the phone.”

“And you, you bastard. You were laughing at me when you got here.”

“Well, come on—it was pretty funny seeing you nervous. I've never seen you nervous, Sophie. And all on my account.” He pauses. “I guess it made for a nice switch-up.”

“Maybe.” I roll to his side and rest my head on his chest.

“How's the shoulder?” he asks.

“A little sore.”

“Hope we didn't give it too much of a workout.”

“I'll be fine.”

“So, any plans for tonight?” He strokes my hair. “Besides the obvious?”

“We've been invited to a party. But I've also got some nice food for dinner and a bottle of champagne.”

“So you were prepared, too?”

I give him a cheeky grin. “It is New Year's Eve.”

We're still lounging about in each other's arms when the call comes in. I shift into professional mode quickly and easily—even though I am still half-naked.

“Hi, Lee.”

“Hey, Sophie. I'll dial Chung in now.”

I wait until I hear two voices speaking in rapid Chinese and then Lee says, “Okay, shoot.”

“Did he get my most recent e-mail?”

After a few words in Chinese, Lee says, “I've translated it and forwarded it on, but he hasn't checked his public account yet.”

“Okay. I want to find out more about Park Ling. Can you please ask Chung if he can do a search to see what type of car a person drives?”

This time during the exchange, Chung gives a short, sharp chuckle.

“My cousin wants me to explain that car use isn't like the US. Not many people own a car.”

“I know, one car to every thousand people. But I think our guy, our perp does. And remember, Park Ling does have a driver's license. It would be really helpful if he can access those records. And I really need a photo of him.”

Following another exchange that lasts a minute or so, Lee says, “My cousin's impressed that you know the car stats.” Again, a brief exchange in Chinese. “Can you stay on the line? He can look it up for you now.”

I smile. “Tell him thanks.”

It's only a few minutes before the two cousins converse again.

“Okay, Park Ling drives a 2006 Chery QQ. So you think he's your guy?”

“Looks like it. But we'll have to wait until he comes to the US again before we can intercept him or maybe start the extradition process.”

“You don't want Chung to pay him a visit?”

“No! Definitely not. I'm sure Chung could handle it,” I say, even though I'm not sure at all, “but if Park Ling is our guy, he's extremely dangerous. You know exactly what I'm talking about.”

“Yes, he is. Okay, I'll tell Chung.”

“Maybe Chung can have a look at the profile I sent through and see what he thinks about Ling as a match. Or maybe there's something else in the profile he can check out.”

“I'll pass it on.”

“Thanks, Lee.”

“You're welcome. See you back in class…soon, I hope.”

“It'll probably be another three weeks.”

“Okay. Take care. And Happy New Year.”

We say goodbye.

“Well?” Darren says. “Good news?”

“Looks that way. I just have to send an e-mail and then I'm all yours.”

“You're on.”

I quickly type an e-mail telling the team about Park Ling, his use of Quon Liao as an alias, and the fact that Quon Liao's entry details into the US match some of our ViCAP dates. Once I've covered the similarities between Park Ling and our profile, including the fact that he drives a Chery QQ, I finish the e-mail off by saying:
I think we've found our contract killer
. It's true, I do think we've found the killer, but the line is direct enough that if Williams or Hana is our leak, they'll touch base with their Yakuza contact and the info will get back to Young. I send the e-mail to Petrov, De Luca, Hana and Williams.

“Done.”

“Good.” Darren's behind me, ready to start all over again. “I want my shot at tender now.”

I laugh. “Let's try our best.”

I
wake up with a start. My bedside clock flashes 3:44 a.m. Still half-asleep, I reach out and pick up the notebook and pen and jot down what I can remember of the dream. The map showed the plane's progress, with the start city being Beijing and the end city being Los Angeles. That, coupled with the fact that the subject of my dream could afford first class, makes me think it's related to this case, to our hit man. The guy was also thinking about his target, but I can't bring that face into my conscious mind.

I get another start when I hear a groan, right next to me. I turn around quickly…Darren…that's right. I smile and snuggle into him. It's been a long while since I shared a bed
with anyone and I'd forgotten how nice it is to roll over in the middle of the night and feel their skin against mine.

 

A couple of hours later I wake up feeling groggy. The radio's blasting in my ear and I hit the snooze button. Even that's not like me—normally I get up first go.

Darren rolls into me. “You really have to get up?” His voice is filled with sleep haze.

“Yeah.”

“But it's New Year's Day,” he mumbles.

“Oh, yeah.” I'd forgotten. “You're right, we're off today.” We don't always get public holidays off, but Petrov has given the team this one.

“So I've got you all to myself?”

“Uh-huh.”

He rolls me into him and starts kissing my neck.

“I could get used to this,” I say.

“Me, too.”

We finally surface around ten, driven out of bed by hunger more than anything else. We sit across from one another at the table, eating breakfast and grinning. Soon the dream sinks into my conscious mind.

“I had a dream last night.”

“What sort of dream?” Darren gives me a wink.

“Not that sort…the other sort.”

“About the case you're working on?”

“Yeah. From the hit man's point of view.” I have to assume it was our killer, on the way to a hit. But was it Saito, one of the other targets we've identified in the US, or a new hit, someone who may be about to lose their life? I still can't tell the timing of my visions, and because I get flashes and dreams from the past, present and future, it's impossible to know. I may be gaining some control over my skills, but I'm by no means a master. “I was on an airplane, Beijing to L.A.”

“And that's consistent with your vic's murder?”

“Yes. But it could be another hit—past or future.”

“Take me through it. Was there anything that would indicate a date?”

I think about the elements in the dream. “The killer was reading…”

“Can you see what?”

I focus on it, but can't get a visual image on the reading matter. “No.” It could have been a newspaper with the day's date on it or it could have been a book.

“What about his surroundings? In the plane?”

“He was traveling first class. But that's in line with our conclusion that we're dealing with a high-level, freelance professional. Someone skilled, who's called in at great expense.” I sigh. “Nothing new, nothing that will help me push the investigation in one direction.”

“Well, it sounds like the investigation doesn't need help at the moment anyway. You've ID'd your guy, right?”

“We've got a very good suspect.” But another part of the investigation could do with help—the leak. Not to mention figuring out who contracted Park Ling in the first place.

“There's something else, isn't there?” Darren studies my face. He does know me well.

“Yes. But I can't discuss it…with anyone.”

He nods. “I understand.” And he really does.

 

Darren's flight is early the next morning, but not early enough that I can drop him at the airport and still get into work at the normal time of 7:30 or 8:00 a.m.—not with the 405 between me and my desk. So we have to say our goodbyes at my apartment.

“I'll see you soon?” he says.

“That'd be good.” We don't say anything, but we know it'll be hard to see much of each other around our work schedules, especially with a two-hour flight complicating things. I can't leave L.A. unless I'm on official vacation time, so we'll be relying on Darren's two days off per week and him flying up.

“We can make this work, Sophie.”

I narrow my eyes. “Hey, you reading my mind or what?”

He smiles. “We can. I know we can.”

He's right. Lots of people only see their partners on the weekend. If we can somehow sync our days off…

“Any chance you can change your shift work to Monday to Friday?” I ask. Homicide tends to be busiest on the weekend, so it can be hard for a homicide cop to get Saturdays and Sundays off.

“I'll give it a shot.”

“That'd be great.” As a more office-bound employee, my official working week is Monday to Friday, but I'm also on call 24/7.

He smiles and we lean in together for another kiss. The kiss soon turns into more, until Darren pulls away, grinning. “I'm going to miss my plane, Soph.”

“Okay. Go. I'll see you soon.”

We give each other one more quick kiss, and then he leaves.

I shut the door and let out a large, satisfied sigh. My best New Year's Eve ever. I quickly shower and get dressed for work—Darren's not the only one running late.

I feel weird hopping into my car and starting the drive to the office without having done any exercise. Exercising is all about setting a routine and sticking to it—I hope my six weeks off won't end with me lazing in bed hitting the snooze button when I should be at the gym or out jogging. Although, having someone lying next to you isn't exactly incentive to get out of bed. Besides, I did get exercise of a sort this morning….

I'm working on the spreadsheet of Lee's US-based kung fu practitioners when I look up to find Hana leaning on my desk.

“You coming?” she asks.

A glance at my watch confirms it's time for our 9:00 a.m. meeting. “Wow,” I say. “Time flies.”

“When you're having fun.” She completes the cliché.

“Yeah, fun.”

We're both being sarcastic, of course. The truth is, time flies when you're busy, engrossed in a case.

“You working on the spreadsheet?” Hana asks.

“Yeah.” I shrug. “I know we've got a good suspect, but I decided it wouldn't hurt to finish the task off…just in case we find something to indicate our killer's not Chinese, not Park Ling.”

“You think that's possible?”

I shake my head. “No. I think he's our guy. But like I said, it's good to cover all bases.”

“I haven't done anything on my list since Monday afternoon, to be honest.”

“It was the New Year.” I stand up. “How was your party?”

“Awesome. We had a great night. Although Jae had about thirty friends there and I only had ten.” She laughs.

“Sorry I didn't make it.”

“That's okay. It was late notice.”

Even if I'd had all the notice in the world I doubt I would have gone—Darren and I weren't interested in anyone's company but each other's.

Hana and I are the last ones to arrive in the meeting room. We don't even have our butts on the seats when Petrov starts.

“So, now that we've found a suspect, we need to look at gathering more evidence against him and confirming that he really is our guy. Let's start by focusing on who contracted him.”

“Can't we just ask him?” Williams says.

“
You
want to fly over to China and interview the kung fu master?” Petrov says sarcastically.

“Point taken.”

“We have to start the extradition process or wait until he tries to get into the US again. His prints, aliases and iris scans have all been flagged.”

“What if he uses a new alias…new prints and contacts?” I ask.

Petrov cocks his head. “That'll make things difficult.”

“Have you actually started the extradition process yet?” Williams says. “If Ling doesn't know we're on to him, there's no reason why he wouldn't go with an alias he used in the past.”

“But he could have other names he uses, or he's intending to use,” I say.

“We could run facial recognition software over all pics of Chinese nationals entering the US,” Hana suggests. “I
know there'll be a delay because the airport's not fitted with the software, but we could organize to get pics e-mailed to someone on a daily basis or after each flight's come in. And then we get someone to check the pics.”

“Good work, Hana.” Petrov smiles, happy to close a potential loop. “You want to make it happen?”

Hana nods and scribbles it down in her notebook. I hope Hana's not the mole—otherwise the facial recognition task might be going nowhere.

“Now, back to our contractor. The key is to find out why Jun Saito was targeted. That should lead us to the who.” Petrov pauses. “Let's go back in time, see what we can dig up in his past.”

“I'll look after that if you like, sir,” I volunteer, knowing that I already have an insight into Saito's past and I know one thing no one else does—Saito didn't kill his pregnant girlfriend. So who did? And who was following him that night? If I can discover that, I might find our contractor. It has to be someone who lived in Japan at the time, then moved to the US. Maybe Yakuza. “I'd like to look at everything we've got on the Yakuza here in L.A., including their ties with Japan.”

“Let's work on this one together, Anderson,” De Luca says. “I'm up to speed on most of the players.” He certainly is up to speed—he's got a direct line to Agent Dan Young and the L.A. Yakuza.

 

An hour later, Agent Joe De Luca and I are in a meeting room, blinds drawn and door shut. He's being careful, but I guess after over a year he just wants the leak stopped—for good.

“So, this is everything we've got, including all the information Young's fed us over the past twelve months. Anything flagged or highlighted has come directly from him and is something that only Petrov, Brady and I know about.”

I nod, flicking through the papers briefly. On the top is the Yakuza organization chart, complete with digital images and
the players' names. There are lots of gaps, but there are also lots of names. “When was the last time you spoke to Young?”

“Six days ago. We're scheduled for another meet tomorrow.”

“It's always weekly?”

“Uh-huh. Unless he can't check in for some reason.”

“He must be sick of it,” I say.

“Yeah, he is. At first it was exciting, but things have got increasingly difficult as time's gone on.”

I nod, well aware of the psychological impact of deep cover. He's completely alienated from his real friends and family, and may even find himself liking some of his new “friends.” Plus, given his standing in the Yakuza, he's going to be witnessing crime and be powerless to do anything about it in the short term.

“We need to find the leak and get him out.”

“That's the plan.” De Luca leans back. “But that's been the plan for over a year now.” He's disheartened.

“But you must have got some great information from him in the past twelve months? Stuff that's really made a difference.”

“Some. But we can't act on much of it until he's out. Otherwise Yakuza would start looking at its people and Young would probably be the first suspect—he came from interstate and is new to the L.A. arm. Most of the other guys grew up with each other. They know each other's families, their girlfriends, who was a shit at school…everything.” The disheartenment has turned to concern.

“We'll get him out soon,” I say, hopeful.

De Luca nods, but without confidence.

I bring out Saito's file. “I've had a thought. On Saito.”

“Yes?”

“Suppose he didn't kill his girlfriend.”

“His prints were on the murder weapon, Anderson. Open and shut.”

“I know. But maybe too open and shut. Like it was a setup.”

De Luca's face tells me he's not going with it.