Stephen Knight - White Tiger

Lin hesitated, glancing out the window once again.

“Last night, one of my most trusted employees left to fetch the medical examiner’s report of my second son. He took two men with him, both trusted and well-trained. They did not return.”

“I see.” Manning leaned back in his chair and drummed the tabletop absently for a moment. “Mr. Lin. Are you certain that Baluyevsky has the ability to protect you?”

“He has never failed me, and he is well paid for his vigilance.”

“Very well, then. In that case, I’ll need access to your personal schedule, as well as background on all your upcoming business-related and personal travel-I can’t expect the police to show me everything, so I’ll have to get more information to fill in the gaps. If you withhold anything from me, you’ll severely cripple my chances of doing my job.”

“Everything you ask for will be done,” Lin replied instantly. “Everything. And I would like you to start immediately. I’ve already gone through the trouble of having your weapons brought up from the lobby security guards. They’re waiting for you in the office I have arranged for you.”

Well. That didn’t take long, Manning thought.

“Then I’ll get started,” he said. He rose to his feet and nodded to Lin. “I’ll do everything in my power to ensure your personal safety, Mr. Lin. And when it comes time, I’ll guarantee you your revenge.”

The way Wallace paused in the rest room doorway to check whether any of the stalls were in use, and if anyone was outside in the hallway, warned Ryker that this wasn’t a social call. Wallace was a big man in every sense of the word. His fat gut fooled a lot of people, but beneath that flab lay thick muscle spread over a solid frame, which added up to substantial strength and power. Ryker had heard stories about Wallace slapping suspects around to get answers, and he believed them. Not that this made Wallace a bad cop in Ryker’s eyes. Name me a cop who hasn’t leaned on some junkie punk who deserved all they got. What made Wallace a bad cop was his inability to sense where lines existed-to perceive that some rules were etched in stone, never to be bent or broken. The irony of it was, Ryker had no choice but to bend a couple of rules himself in response to what was coming next.

Ryker shook his hands dry and watched Wallace’s reflection as the rest room door swung shut with a soft click. “Ryker, you goddamn pussy. Where the fuck do you get off, reassigning everyone’s caseload?” Straight to the point, no beating about the bush with Cueball.

“I guess you weren’t listening when Lieutenant Furino told you this comes direct from the captain,” Ryker said, taking out his comb and running it through his hair. He had an unsettling feeling that his hairline had retreated slightly since this time last year. He’d need to see an old photo of himself to be absolutely certain, but his suspicions were aroused. Another sign of impending old age, just what he needed. He vowed to suck the barrel of his own gun on his next birthday-unless somebody gave him a really nice present, in which case he wouldn’t.

“You and Spider can dress it up any way you like. You think I don’t know it’s down to you? You son of a bitch.”

Ryker put his comb away. He loosened his tie, slipped it off, tucked it into his jacket pocket. “Maybe I am, but your momma wore Army boots, and your daddy was a bunch of soldiers,” he said. It didn’t matter what reply he gave; Wallace’s stance, his tightly clenched fists and his reddened face had provided all the clues that were needed. This conversation could only end one way, as incredible and as infantile as it seemed. Wallace’s anger and aggression filled the room. All that was missing was steam coming out of his ears.

Wallace grabbed Ryker’s shoulder and pulled, turning him around to set him up for a haymaker. Ryker was pretty sure Wallace would hold back, since he didn’t want to be charged with murder, but that proved academic as Ryker caught Wallace’s wrist and slammed the heel of his hand into the startled cop’s elbow, straightening his arm with an audible pop. Ryker drove the toe of his shoe under Wallace’s right kneecap, gave him a little push under the armpit to totally wreck his balance, then dropped down and swept him off his feet with savage force, far more than was needed. Wallace’s legs pointed at the ceiling and his head and shoulders hit the tiled floor hard enough to shake the building.

Ryker put his tie back on and straightened it in the mirror. He took some toilet paper from a stall dispenser and blew his nose. He dropped the makeshift handkerchief into the trash bin on the way to the door, stepping around Wallace, who lay on the floor curled up like a baby, his useless arm cradled against his chest. “Listen up. You make any more chink jokes when Chee Wei’s around? I’ll tear you a new asshole.” Wallace didn’t reply. Ryker opened the door and went out.

Morales stood waiting for him by the coffee machine, a puzzled look on his face. “What was that noise? Sounded like something really big hit the deck.”

“Cueball’s just taking a dump,” Ryker said. Chee Wei entered the detective room, saw Ryker and headed his way. “You got something?”

Chee Wei offered Ryker a couple of sheets that were paper-clipped together. He recognized the lab header and snatched the sheets out of Chee Wei’s hand. He scanned the report, hoping for something major. Instead he only found disappointment. It was by no means the full criminologist’s report; the sheets only contained the results of Miss Xiaohui Zhu’s swab-semen, positive, Mr. Daniel Lin-and blood tests on her skin and on the clothing she’d worn to the Mandarin Oriental-negative, no trace. Since these tests were relatively simple they had been rushed through ahead of the others, for which Ryker supposed he should be grateful. But the report shut a door in his face. It suggested that Xiaohui Zhu hadn’t cut off Danny Lin’s dick, nor had she climbed onto the bed or onto him to perpetrate the knife thrust to his heart that had killed him. No spatter, no smear. She was clean.

Morales sipped his coffee. “Doesn’t look like she’s your girl, unless DNA and other tests show up with something radical.” Ryker nodded thoughtfully. Morales headed back to his desk. He’d been uncharacteristically quiet since returning from court. Ryker would grab him later and give him the opportunity to get his frustrations out.

“We’re fucked,” Chee Wei said, meaning the report.

“That’s the technical term,” Ryker agreed easily. “How about we have another cozy little chat with Miss Zhu anyway?”

“Suits me fine. What’s the angle?”

“Daddy Lin is the angle. She knew the son. I wonder if she knows the father?”

Chee Wei grinned. “You mean in the Biblical sense?”

Ryker chuckled at the joke to mask his trembling reaction to the close encounter with Wallace in the rest room. Norris, Seagal, Van Damme, Jet Li and the rest made it look easy in the movies, but the amount of adrenalin pumping through Ryker’s system would take time to dissipate. He was glad Morales hadn’t offered him a coffee, he would have spilled the damn thing all over the floor.

They made their way downstairs to the holding pen. Xiaohui Zhu’s room was almost comfortable, with cushions on the benches and a window that couldn’t be opened, but let in natural light and gave an illusion of freedom. After peeking in on her and earning himself a frosty glare, Ryker greeted the veteran sergeant, Hoffer, who manned the desk and kept track of the division’s latest customers. They’d known each other back when Ryker drove a black-and-white. “Hey, Hoff. Where are the donuts?”