Touch of the White Tiger (16 page)

I hurriedly flipped through the photos, collecting the two other apartment building pics. After close examination, I found a total of two still cameras and one video, all pointing my way.

Someone was spying on me. And they weren’t fooling around.

I decided drastic action was needed. I had to break into the apartment across the street and surprise the spies. If I could find out who was watching my apartment, I would probably also find out who had murdered Roy, Victor and Getty.

But three cameras might mean three operatives, and I didn’t like those odds. I would need help. Mike was apparently still in old China Town. Who should I call instead?

“Brad,” I whispered.

My choice, which was immediate and instinctive, rocked through my consciousness like an earthquake tremor, signaling to my brain that all was not well in paradise. I had this vague but profound gut instinct telling me that while I could trust Marco with my heart, I couldn’t quite trust him with my life. It was a perverse distinction, and one that broke my heart.

I wanted so desperately to love Marco, to be loved by him. Even to have a happily-ever-after with him. I would admit to that absurdly sentimental and boringly commonplace aspiration. But clearly that wasn’t my destiny.

Like Jimmy’s, my mind teemed with conspiracy theories. I just hoped that when and if my new leading theory proved to be reality, Marco wasn’t behind the plot. It pained me to admit my suspicions about him, but I could no longer ignore them. Nor could I deal with them right now. I was too busy putting out fires.

Brad was all too happy to come to the rescue for a second time in one night. I wasn’t sure his ego could handle the overload, but it was obvious when he strutted into my apartment, smoothing back his mussed, bleach-blond hair, that he didn’t share my concern. For a retributionist, saving someone from an act of violence was like a surfer catching the perfect wave. Brad was riding the big kahuna and wasn’t about to take a dive in order to play it safe.

Fearing that my apartment might be bugged, I invited him down into the garden and showed him the photos. We discussed strategies and decided that he and two other retributionists would go for broke, break into the apartment, and capture the slime bags who were snooping into my life. With
all the violence that had been directed at our colleagues over the last forty-eight hours, the time for discreet recognizance had already passed. It was time to bust some butts.

Brad e-flashed Tad and Tom Crain, twin brothers who comprised two of the four members of the DCR retribution team. They arrived quickly, adorned with so many weapons I began to understand why some people thought retributionists were turning into assassins, even if they were used only in self-defense.

Dressed in forest green flak jackets, camouflage paint and headbands, they looked like members of a Marines special ops unit, with one notable exception. In keeping with the Dead Corpse Rising theme, winding sheets, used in precoffin days to wrap the dead, encircled their waists and crisscrossed over their shoulders, giving them the vague look of Roman gladiators. All told, Tad and Tom looked like two dudes you didn’t want to mess with.

Jimmy and I took our decoy positions in the living room. We set up a card table in plain view of the window to keep our spies busy while the guys snuck around to the back of the building. I wasn’t cut out for the role of lady-in-waiting and didn’t like it one bit. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion.

“Are you going to deal those cards or are you going to just shuffle them all night long?”

“What do you want to play?” he replied.

I glanced nervously at the window, then forced myself to look at Jimmy and pretend I was having a good time. “I don’t know. Anything.”

“What do you like to play?”

“Go fish.”

He raised one provocative brow and began to distribute the cards. “Is that an invitation?”

“No, it is not an invitation,” I said sharply through a smile meant for the cameras across the street. “I can’t believe you’re flirting with me at a time like this.”

“Brad was flirting with you.”

I picked up the five cards he’d tossed my way and began to organize them in pairs. “Brad is allowed. He’s human. You’re not.”

Jimmy studiously organized his hand. “As I understand it, you didn’t mind it when Bogie flirted with you.”

“Bogie!” I looked at him incredulously, then took a calming breath and smiled again. “Who told you about my association with him?”

“Lola. As I understand it, you had much more than an
association
with his Rick Blaine character.”

I shook my head indignantly. “That’s none of your business, and if you insist on continuing this conversation, Jimmy, I’m going to have to file a complaint with your programmer.”

His eyes twinkled. “Oh, now, don’t spin off into a tizzy. Do you have any threes?”

Body and Soul

A
half hour later, I was surprised to see Tom and then Tad exit from the building’s front foyer for all the world to see. Where was Brad? For a heart-stopping moment, I half expected to see a couple of thugs exit the building, dragging Brad’s body behind them.

Thankfully, he appeared a moment later with Keshon trotting at his side. He ambled with apparent ease into the glow of the streetlight, where the three guys consulted, joked and high-fived one another.

“Why are they being so obvious?” I wondered aloud.

“They apparently have nothing to fear,” Jimmy replied.

The men nodded and shook hands, then the brothers departed.

I buzzed Brad in and met him at the top of the stairs. “Am I glad to see you. Come on in and tell me what happened.”

Master and wolf strolled into my apartment. Keshon took one look at my PLD and started growling at it.

“Keshon, back!” Brad commanded, and she circled around to the door and stretched out, still eyeing “Gigi” warily.

“That’s just a contraption I’ve been meaning to get rid of,” I said and turned it so it faced the wall. “I growl at her sometimes myself. So, what happened?”

Brad crossed his arms, assuming his normal wide and cocky stance. I noticed he’d changed since the meeting. He wore a black leather jacket studded with silver. In stark contrast, his bleached hair stood stiffly.

“Well,” he said, dragging out the suspense, “you were right. It was the R.M.O. keeping an eye on you.”

“I’m not surprised. I guess it’s a relief to know for sure.”

“They were gone when we got there. I thought we had done a good job sneaking up on them, but apparently not.” He pushed his way past me and went to the bar, pouring himself a neat shot of Vivante. “Whiskey,” he murmured, and tossed back the shot.

“How did you figure out it was the R.M.O.?”

“And what about the cameras?” Jimmy inquired.

Brad looked over at the wheelchair, noticing Jimmy for the first time. Brad made a big deal of licking the last of the Vivante from his lips, frowning dubiously, as if debating whether to treat Jimmy like a person or a thing.

“The cameras were gone,” Brad finally replied, and I was glad he didn’t ask me to explain Jimmy’s presence. “Thanks for the drink, Angel. Mind if I stretch out a moment?”

He made himself comfortable on my couch, kicking his boots up on one end and fluffing a throw pillow on the other. “Nice digs, Angel. Mind if I spend a few days here?”

“Yes, I do mind. No offense.”

“None taken.”

As hot and hip as Brad looked to me at this particular moment, I had a mental flash of him lying on a couch watching the digivision, tossing aside empty beer cans, belching and farting. It was really hard to predict which men would improve with age like a fine wine, and which ones would balloon like bread dough with too much yeast. Brad was still in the questionable category.

“So they saw you coming somehow,” I remarked, trying to steer the conversation back to business.

“I guess. We figured they were R.M.O. operatives because of this.”

Brad reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. I took it and tried to make heads or tales out of it.

“That’s obviously Russian, or some related language,” Brad said. “Maybe a Chechen dialect.”

“What does it say?”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t really matter, does it? It’s the smoking gun we needed. For whatever reason, somebody in the R.M.O. wants to keep tabs on you, babe. I’d watch your pretty little ass if I were you.”

Little. He called my ass little. Maybe I should let him stay after all, just by way of thanks. I helped myself to a shot of Vivante as I recalculated the risks based on this new information.

“Brad, the way I look at it, Gorky’s
organizatsia
is either keeping tabs on me, or I’m being set-up as the next murdered retributionist.”

“That’s cool. I mean it’s not cool, but it may be accurate.”

“Jimmy?”

The compubot winced soberly, “Well, uh, Angel, ah, I guess I’d have to agree.”

Having Jimmy second the frightening notion made my
stomach drop down into my little ass. “For the first time in my life, I wish someone would disagree with me.”

“Angel?” Lola called out, then knocked on the door. “Angel, are you awake?”

“Oh, my God!” I whispered. “She’s back!”

Jimmy and I both began to move without direction. I stumbled into the card table. He banged into a wall with his extended leg. Brad bolted upright, but was obviously confused about why we all were reacting in such a panic. I explained, sotto voce, “It’s my mother. She may be involved with those spies. She had a date with Gorky tonight. I don’t know whether I can trust her anymore.”

No one spoke for a long moment while we all seemed to register the same thought. If Gorky had picked Lola up, he most certainly had dropped her off.

Brad twisted around to look out the window. I made a dash for the couch. Jimmy started wheeling our way, but crashed into the coffee table.

“Damn,” he muttered.

Brad and I reached the window just in time to see Gorky’s limousine drive out of sight.

“Crap!” I cursed, although I wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t as if I wanted to confront Gorky.
Oh, by the way, Vlad, have you been spying on me as well as schtupping my mother? Well, isn’t that quaint. And you plan to murder me, too? Fancy that
.

“Angel, is that you? Why don’t you open the door, sweetie?”

“Lola?” I inquired, stalling for time. “Is that you?”

“Yeah, honey, it’s me. What’s the matter? Open up.”

“I can’t.” I went to the door and conversed through the wood. “I’m…busy.”

“Busy with what?”

“I’m…giving…a reading.”

“At this hour?”

I had no response and turned back to Brad and Jimmy, whispering, “What should I say? I can’t see her right now. She’ll figure out that we know that she knows that Gorky has been spying on me. Then she’ll tell Gorky.”

“I’ll distract her,” Brad offered.

“Angel, what is going on in there?”

“Um…I’m having trouble concentrating. I’m going to send my…client…home. We’ll try another time.” I opened the door. Lola’s hair was more tousled than usual, and I wondered if she and Gorky had…No, I wouldn’t go there. Surely a man who could have any starlet he could buy wouldn’t bed my outrageous mother simply to camouflage his apparent plans to assassinate me.

“Mom,” I said, knowing that would soften her up, and I could tell by the surge of moisture in her rheumy blue eyes that it did, “this is Brad. Brad, this is Lola, my mother. I’m sure she’d be happy to show you to the front door. Wouldn’t you?”

“Whatever you want, honey,” she said in her froggy smoker’s voice. “Come on, Brad, let’s go downstairs.”

She clabbered down the wooden stairs in her impossibly high heels. Brad stopped in the doorway, pressing me against the frame with his lean, hard body. Though scarred, his face was fresh and unmarred by the cynicism that creeps in with age.

“I’m going to kiss you, Angel Baker,” he whispered, smelling hot and horny like the stud he was, “like you’ve never been kissed before.”

For a moment, I thought, what if he’s wrong? But he wouldn’t be. Brad succeeded by virtue of the risks he took and the outrageous promises he made, which he did confidently because he’d never known failure, lucky devil. Doubtless, he was even convinced he’d outwit death in the end. Looking into his audacious, bright blue eyes while he pressed
his erection provocatively against my pelvis, I willingly suspended disbelief.

He tilted his head to the side, like a curious bird, then moved in suddenly, pressing his mouth to mine. Surprisingly tender, I felt the briefest flicker of his tongue. Just as I warmed to his style, he pulled back and stroked my jawline with one finger, murmuring, “You think you know me, but you don’t. I’ve learned a lot since we last…met.”

I swallowed back a tsunami of lust and managed a faint, “Oh?”

“Yeah. And since you now owe me big-time, we’ll have a chance to really get reacquainted.”

“But I’m…injured,” I croaked.

“Bruises and scrapes. I’ll give you forty-eight hours to recover.” With that, he slowly marched down the stairs to his destiny.

With some effort, I shook off his temporary spell and turned back to Jimmy. “We have to unravel this whole assassination plot in forty-eight hours, because I am
not
going to bed again with Brad the Impaler.”

“Why not?” Jimmy said, eyes full of mirth. “Afraid you won’t like it?”

“No.” I sighed. “I’m afraid I will.”

When I finally went to bed, I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. I didn’t dream. I didn’t stir. I think I even woke the next morning in the same position, which exasperated the stiffness that settled in my bruised body overnight. But the sun was shining and the air smelled of autumn, crisp and cool, and I was in the mood to count my blessings. It didn’t take long. I was all for looking at the bright side, but only after the dark side had been fully exposed.

And that led me to another session with my crystal ball.
I’d been in denial of my psychic abilities for so long I had to remind myself to use them. Now that I knew the R.M.O. was spying on me, I needed to know why.

Unfortunately, the crystal ball was dead to my touch. I don’t know if it was because my emotional well had run dry or because my body had been through hell and back again, but I didn’t see so much as a blip of light. Nothing was going my way.

But as I dressed in three-quarter-length sleeves for the first time in months, I determined that today would be the day I turned the tide in my favor. Something different, something special would happen today. I had no clue as to what, but I knew who could help me figure it out.

As I approached Mike’s shed, leaves from the giant elm that towered over and shaded my walled-in garden shuffled on the stone pathway, sounding brittle and lost. I paused to gaze at Mike’s orange and red koi. These foot-long goldfish must have thought I was some omnipotent being, because they lunged at the water’s surface, smacking their lips together like hands in prayer, apparently trusting that if they went through the motions of eating, I would provide the food. Alas, their faith was wasted on me today.

“Sorry, fellas,” I said, sliding my hands into my empty pockets. “I didn’t bring any bread. But don’t worry. Mike will feed you later. I’ll see to it.”

When I circled around to the entrance of the converted carriageway, Mike’s accordion, double six-pane glass doors were open. He sat cross-legged on his mat flooring next to a heating pad where he made tea.

“You promised a feast to those swimming piglets?” Mike said in his Chinese accent.

“Yes, I did.” I crossed my arms and leaned against the door, smiling down at his bald head with more appreciation than I’d ever known. “You got a problem with that?”

“No. I will feed them later. I do what you ask, Baker. You know that.”

“Yes, I do. You’ve never failed me yet.”

“Come. Sit and drink tea. I went shopping very late to get you good Chinese herbs. They make you better.”

I gingerly lowered myself onto the mat, ready to be cared for by Mike. He was so tough yet so caring. My best friend was an enigma, a man of contradictions.

This thirty-something former Shaolin monk, wushu master and dear friend was often surprisingly superstitious and usually expected the worst in any given situation, which perhaps was to be expected from someone who’d spent three years in indentured servitude. But in spite of these ostensible flaws, Mike always handled himself with dignity and finesse, which he managed to do by being ready for anything, even the worst.

More important, Mike put the well-being of others first. I’m convinced that’s why he’d had the good fortune of running into me, the one person on the planet impulsive enough to risk everything to help him escape from the opium plant in Joliet. With that chance meeting, Mike had won his freedom. God really did work in mysterious ways when He had to, if that’s what it took to look out for the good guys.

Then again, maybe I was like the fish, giving too much credit to a higher power that really didn’t give a squat about me. What the heck, I’d be happy with a few bread crumbs myself at this point.

“Drink this.” He filled a small round ceramic cup with a dark, pungent tea that had the consistency, color and odor of pond scum.

I took a sniff but hesitated to actually swallow. “Is this supposed to kill me or cure me?”

“Either way, you will feel better.” He didn’t smile, rarely
did, but his onyx eyes lit with humor barely visible beneath his slanted eyelids.

“Here goes.”

I knew from past experience with Dr. Mike’s hideously flavored remedies that guzzling was advisable, because if you stopped to take a breath, every fiber of your being would revolt against a second swig. I swilled, swallowed, then put the empty teacup down and cut loose with a full body shiver and an ungracious gagging noise.

“Hmmm,” I said, clearing my throat. “Delicious.”

“Now you should meditate. Your chi is no doubt out of balance.”

“My chi is so far out of balance that it’s fallen flat on its back. I haven’t meditated or worked out since my arrest.”

“If you want things to go well, Baker, you must be in balance.”

“I know, Mike. In theory, I agree completely. But I have a little time problem here. I think someone is about to murder me. And I don’t particularly want to be sitting in a lotus position when it happens.”

“Who?”

“The same someone who has been dating my mother. Gorky.”

“Vladimir Gorky?” Mike was unusually emphatic. Then again, he had reason to be. He was by my side when I went into Gorky’s northside compound last month, demanding the release of the girls. “Why does he want to harm you this time?”

“My guess is that he couldn’t find the Maltese Falcon where I told him it would be.”

Mike poured two cups of green tea that had been steeping in a small, brown earthen teapot. I sipped. “Ah, much better.”

“I wasn’t sure if he was serious when he threatened to come after you if your vision was wrong.”