Stephen Knight - White Tiger

“What is it, then?”

Ryoko squeezed his hand. “I don’t want you to think of me. I don’t want you to call me, or email me, or message me in any way. I want you to go about your life, and do whatever it is you need to do in America. I’ll be fine while you’re gone. I’m much better now, and I know what my limits are. But I think the time has come for both of us to try and get on with our lives in some way.” She turned her head and looked at him.

“I’m not saying I don’t want to see you ever again. I’d be lying if I said that. But really, I’ve been using you to hide behind, even now, and that’s not fair to either of us. I know what you do. I think I know what you were, and what you are now. I respect you because no matter what you think of yourself, you are very, very decent.” Ryoko reached out and touched his face. “And decent men tend to worry about little girls like me too much, and that’s got to come to an end. At least whenever you’re not in Japan. We can start that way, can’t we?”

Manning sighed. Leaving her was one of the harder things about his new assignment, not because he was in love with her-he did love her, of course, but as a kindred spirit that gravitated toward one of its own kind, not as a soul mate-but because he did feel a responsibility to her. He wasn’t sure he could just turn that off, no matter how much either of them might have wished it.

“I’ll do my best,” he said, and he was surprised to find his throat was tight. “I’ll try and do whatever it is you need, so you can get on in life. You have my promise.”

“Domo arigato gozaimasu,” she said, bowing her head. “I hope you have a good flight tomorrow, Jerry. And I hope that San Francisco isn’t dangerous or stressful. Be safe. Be well.”

With that, Ryoko Mitake kissed his cheek, and let herself out of the car. Before Manning could do anything more, she entered her apartment building, and the gate locked behind her.

San Francisco, California

Ryker hadn’t made it to his apartment in the city’s South of Market section until after 4:00am, so getting up for another day on the job was an arduous journey. He showered and shaved, and managed not to slit his own throat even though his eyes couldn’t focus. He examined his face in the mirror, and wondered how someone on the high side of 40 could look closer to 50; he decided the bloodshot eyes didn’t help matters, so he found some Visine in the medicine cabinet over the bathroom sink and popped three drops in each eye. It didn’t help much, but then again, not much did these days.

He found a suit that wasn’t quite as rumpled as the one he’d worn the day before-the others were waiting for him at a local dry cleaner, and he hadn’t had the time to fetch them-so he was left with no choice but to slip it on, even though it was a static gray affair that likely dated back to 1998. He slipped on his pair of Rockports and decided they needed a shine…something he would attend to later. He also selected yesterday’s tie, as it wasn’t in such bad shape.

His apartment was a rather bland affair, reflecting his current station in life. At $1,800 a month, it wasn’t as much a bank-buster as many other places in the city, but he was getting what he paid for: white walls, gray carpets, a bedroom that was only slightly larger than a closet, and a miniature living room that was essentially the Siamese twin of the galley kitchen, sans appliances. There was no balcony, and certainly no view, not that SoMa had any to begin with. A battered cloth sofa and equally battered mahogany coffee table were the only furnishing in the living room, with the former directly oriented upon the forty inch flat screen television. But at least he had the parking space in the garage for free, something the building manager had arranged since he was cop.

Ryker marched down to his car, a white 2003 Chevy Impala, a vehicle he didn’t particularly adore but it was cheap and fit in most the parking spaces he was likely to encounter in the city, not to mention it wasn’t terribly tough on gas. When-if-he made it to Lieutenant, he would get a department ride fulltime, which meant that he wouldn’t have to pay to tank up, he could do that at the station free of charge.

Though that’s not going to happen until I pass the test, he thought, unlocking the car door and sliding inside. Just another thing to add to the list of missed accomplishments.

He made it to Central Station in a little less than twenty minutes, having the misfortune to get caught behind one of the Muni buses as it lumbered through the city, and the stream of traffic was thick enough that he couldn’t get past it for at least five minutes. The constant stop-and-start was aggravating, but at last he made it. He pulled up to the gated parking lot and waved his security card before the reader. The gate opened, and Ryker pulled in and parked.

The detective room was as bland and plain as anyone could have possibly made it, with twenty steel desks arranged in pods of five. At each pod, four detectives sat in two-by-two formations, one pair of detectives facing the other, while the fifth desk at the head of the pod was for the sergeant running the squad. Ryker walked to his own pod, and found only Chee Wei sitting at his desk. Chee Wei’s usual partner, Garofolo, was out on medical leave after falling down a flight of steps while drunk. He had broken a leg, and wouldn’t be back for weeks. Of the other pair of detectives, there was no sign. Nor was the Lieutenant in; his glass-walled office was empty.

“Hey, nice threads,” Chee Wei commented when Ryker approached. “Nice job with the razor, too.”

“Huh?” Ryker stalked toward his desk, situated directly across from Chee Wei’s. Chee Wei touched a spot on his chin as Ryker pulled out his chair and fairly collapsed into it.

“Nice cut right here,” he said.

Ryker ran his hand over his chin, and felt a small scab underneath his chin. It stung lightly when he played with it.

“Fuck,” he said simply. Well, this one’s off to a galloping start.

“Not your day, huh?” Chee Wei said, smiling.

Ryker sighed and removed his pistol from its holster. He dropped the Glock 17 into a desk drawer and locked it with a key on his key ring, then slipped the keys into his pocket.

“Not so far. Where’s Spider?” Ryker nodded toward the vacant lieutenant’s office.

“Dunno, haven’t seen him. You want to get some coffee, though. Your day’s probably not going to get any better.”

Ryker looked over the computer monitor on his desk at the Chinese detective.

“How so?” he asked, suspicious.

Chee Wei waved toward the hallway.

“Grab some coffee. We’ll talk,” he said.

Ryker rubbed his eyes wearily and did what the younger man suggested. He stopped by the men’s room first and washed the blood off his chin, then made his way to the break room. There, he filled a cup with some of the most rancid coffee he’d ever tasted even after he tried to soften it by adding copious amounts of sugar and four Mini-Moos creamers. Mission accomplished and his taste buds almost certainly assassinated, he returned to the homicide office. He slid back into his chair and faced Chee Wei again. He sipped the coffee and grimaced.

“What’ve you got?”

“Zhu lawyered up last night,” Chee Wei said. “I just got a call from the D.A.’s office.”

“So?”

“Her representative is Victor Chin,” Chee Wei said. He leaned back in his chair and clasped his fingers together behind his head.

Ryker sighed again. Victor Chin had started out as a Bay Area ambulance chaser, who now made more money representing specific Asian interests in the city. His current calling was acting as counsel to the “underrepresented” Chinese community whom had been “victimized” by the racist San Francisco Police Department. The S.F.P.D., and more importantly the District Attorney’s office, were already handling several lawsuits initiated by the do-gooder and social crusader with the two thousand dollar sharkskin shoes named Chin.