Stephen Knight - White Tiger

That’s not it at all, he chided himself. You knew you could get into her pants right now, when she’s the most vulnerable. Great way to treat a lady, Ryker. Nail her when she’s down and out.

Movement by his desk brought him out of his self-recriminatory reverie. He looked up and was surprised to see Morales standing nearby, hands in the pockets of his trousers with an interdepartmental envelope clasped under one arm. He looked rumpled, and there were bags underneath his blue eyes. He smelled faintly of tobacco, and right then, Ryker thought he could kill for a cigarette.

“Nick,” Ryker said. “What the hell are you doing here? You have the day off-you’re on a night rotation.”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Okay…so what are you going to do tonight? Fall asleep on the Zhu’s couch?”

Morales shrugged.

“I’ll catch some shut-eye later.” He pulled the envelope from under his arm and held it out to Ryker. “Here, an early Christmas present.”

“What is it?” Ryker asked. He took the envelope and read the signatures. “The medical examiner’s report? Already?”

“A lot of the fine-line stuff isn’t done. They didn’t have to crack open the chest, since the wound was obvious, and the toxicology screens are pretty much negative.” Morales rubbed his bristly chin. “You don’t know this, but the M.E. has family back east and wants to get into the same line of work for the N.Y.P.D. I made some calls, got some things arranged. That’s how I was able to get it so quick.”

Ryker nodded and opened the envelope. Inside was a gray file folder, and some official routing documents he would have to sign and send back to the medical examiner’s office.

“Didn’t realize you still had so much juice back in New York,” he commented.

“Yeah well, it’s not like I’m some kind of fallen angel. Some folks over there still remember me.” Morales waved toward the folder. “Of course, I still had to go over and pick it up from them, the lazy humps.”

“Never an easy day for you, is it?” Ryker asked. He signed the forms and put them aside, then opened the folder. “You read this yet?”

“Nah. I got the Cliff’s Notes from the M.E. direct. It’s pretty much what it looks like-the stab wound killed the guy, though the loss of his main vein probably didn’t thrill him at the time, either.”

Ryker went through the overview documentation, skipping the more detailed analyses for the moment. It was as Morales said; inspection of the wound site confirmed that the damage to the heart tissue had been severe enough to kill Lin Dan quickly.

“Whoever did it, did it right.”

“Yeah well, I always thought I’d be happy to die in bed. Now I can see that’s not always the case. When I check out, I’m gonna throw myself in front of a cable car. At least that way, I’ll be on the news and the folks back home’ll have something to talk about.”

“You’re a sick man, Morales.”

Morales shrugged and nodded.

“A suitable epitaph,” he said.

The Lin compound was a huge, sprawling Mediterranean villa that sat atop a hill in the town of Tiburon, an upscale community in Marin County, north of San Francisco. The villa had commanding views of the San Francisco Bay, from the Golden Gate Bridge to the heart of the city itself, as well as Angel Island. Manning hadn’t seen such eye-popping natural beauty in quite some time, and he had almost driven his GTO off the road while looking out across the Bay.

The compound was gated, of course, and his identity was checked by the taciturn guard on duty there. After a brief conversation over his radio, he waved Manning through. Manning accelerated up the long, winding driveway. The grounds were immaculately landscaped, and an army of greens keepers were at work making last-minute grooming. They paid Manning no mind as he brought the car to a halt before a three-bay garage. Two Hispanic men in red vests approached him-valets, of course. Manning waved them away, ignoring their protests that he couldn’t leave his car there. He marched toward the villa’s front door and rang the bell. As expected, a tuxedoed butler answered. The man was portly and bald, and carried himself with a regal bearing usually reserved for members of the British aristocracy.

“Yes sir, how might I help you?” Damned if the man didn’t have a British accent!

“Jerome Manning for James Lin.”

“Ah yes, Mr. Manning-I’ve been expecting you. Mr. Lin is not yet available, and I was wondering if you might meet with Mr. Baluyevsky instead?” The butler stood aside and waved Manning inside with a small bow.

“That’s fine,” Manning said. He stepped across the threshold and tried not to marvel at the ornate entry hall that waiting on the other side. The ceiling was at least thirty feet high, and floor was solid white marble veined with shoots of black. Gold lame adorned the curved ceiling and the ivory beams that supported it, and a chandelier that likely exceeded Manning’s entire net worth cast subtle light throughout the cavernous chamber. A sweeping staircase rose away from the entry hall, leading to what Manning presumed to be the living quarters.

Manning mentally recited a classic Mel Brooks line: It’s good to be the king.

“My name is Edwards, Mr. Manning. Will you be staying for the party?”

Manning nodded to the butler. “For a time, certainly-though if it’s a black tie affair, I’m afraid I’m somewhat underdressed for the occasion.” He wore a dark blue suit and an understated tie. Though it had cost him $4,000, it was likely worth less than one of Lin’s used handkerchiefs.

“I do believe you’re on staff, sir, not a guest? Your attire is in keeping with Mr. Lin’s tastes. Now, if you’ll follow me…?”

The portly bald man led Manning deeper into the villa, past large rooms filled with furnishings of unquestionable value. The opulence was almost beyond measure, which wasn’t surprising. Chinese elites had an image to project, and Lin obviously intended to live up to his part.

At last, they came to a small suite of rooms located near the rear of the villa. Edwards knocked discreetly on a mahogany door before opening it, motioning Manning forward. Manning nodded his thanks and stepped into the next room.

Inside, several flat screen monitors glowed in the semi-darkness. A man sat behind a horseshoe-shaped desk and watched the monitors. Various portions of the property were under closed-circuit surveillance, and audio was included. A small storage area network stood in a rack in one corner, humming to itself. Manning surmised that the camera footage was digitized and stored there for future review, if necessary.

“Hello, Manning.” Baluyevsky was seated at a small desk on the other side the room, bathed in the wan light of a lamp. He closed the laptop computer before him and rose to his feet. His jacket had been draped across the back of the chair, and his white shirt drew tight around his expansive belly.

“Baluyevsky,” Manning said.

Baluyevsky waved to the horseshoe desk and the bank of monitors. “Our security station,” he explained. “The entire compound is under at least some degree of surveillance. This station isn’t manned routinely, but after the death of Lin Dan, we now have it operational twenty-four hours a day.”

“You pay your people overtime?”

Baluyevsky looked at Manning oddly, then pointed at one of the monitors. Manning’s GTO could be seen sitting in the wide driveway.

“This is your car. You’ll have to move it,” the big Russian said. “This will be a drop-off point for the rest of the guests. They are scheduled to begin arriving in one hour.”

“Don’t worry about it-I won’t be staying for long,” Manning said.