Ridley Pearson - The Risk Agent

“No need.” So they wanted to know where she lived as well. “Seven. Business casual?”

“As you wish.”

“See you tonight, then, Ms…”

“Katherine Wu. I so look forward to meeting you,” the woman said. “Should I put you down for plus-one?”

“Yes. I will bring a client with me. Thank you.”

As Grace hung up, a throat cleared behind her. She looked over her shoulder wondering how much Selena Ming, Allan Marquardt’s assistant, had overheard.

An awkward moment, as neither spoke.

“Congratulations on the new apartment,” Selena said.

“A promise is a promise. Certain arrangements were made at the time of my hiring.” Grace knew that only executives of vice president and above were provided such luxury housing. She wondered how this might sit with the other Chinese employees. “Join me?” Grace motioned to an empty chair.

“I could not.”

“Please.”

Selena sat. “It is nice? The apartment?”

“Very nice.” It took Grace a moment to catch on. “Would you like to see it sometime?”

“Oh, please, I do not wish to trouble you.”

“No trouble. In fact, Mr. Marquardt has meant to deliver the EOY-the end-of-year-financials to me. Perhaps you would be so kind as to bring them along?”

“I can check with Mr. Marquardt. But if he clears it, most certainly.”

“Good! Thank you very much.” Grace had hoped to avoid that hurdle, but by putting the request to a third party, it pressured Marquardt to either deliver the accounts or explain to Brian Primer of Rutherford Risk why he would not.

The girl’s face brightened. “Yes. And thank you,” she said. Selena walked off, practically floating.

Grace reread her note about the cocktail party. She needed to reach Knox. Then, a new dress.

10:25 A.M.

HUANGPU DISTRICT

The air was guncotton gray, visibility less than five blocks. Commuters and pedestrians wore surgical masks against the smog.

Kozlowski waited at the entrance to the police impound, a door marked with a small plaque.

“If this works,” Kozlowski said, “I get my pick of the litter. But at your cost. No gifting.”

“Agreed.”

“As to your not so subtle requests. Let me drive home this point: tread lightly, friend.”

“An Inspector Shen shook down Berthold Group’s Allan Marquardt about a film crew and a missing cameraman,” Knox said, relaying what Dulwich had told him in their daily wrap-up conversation the night before. He knew quid pro quo was his best shot at winning favors-possibly Danner’s laptop, if Kozlowski had confiscated it, which Knox suspected.

Kozlowski did not break his cool, did not allow the slightest indication of any kind of knowledge to cross his face. It was new territory for their friendship.

Kozlowski was focused on Knox’s barked knuckles. He could easily have been informed of a Westerner having assaulted a man in an apartment house stairwell, or having dumped a motorcycle in a back lane of a lilong.

Knox said, “Given the restrictions our government faces concerning investigation inside China…If you ever needed an errand boy…”

“Shut up,” Kozlowski said softly. He took Knox firmly by the arm. “I ran that registration card as you asked. It’s legit. Issued in Beijing.”

Knox had been convinced the card would turn out to be a forgery. “Legit?” he said.

“Correct. So he’s either a Chinese, or he’s very well connected,” Kozlowski said. “As in: don’t go there.”

“I’m already there,” Knox said. “Who could get a legit registration card made for his hired muscle?”

“I don’t even want to think about that,” Kozlowski said.

“I do.”

“No, you don’t.” Kozlowski opened the precinct’s door for Knox and they entered. Kozlowski showed the receptionist his U.S. Consulate identification tag. She clearly recognized the name. He showed them into the back where a chisel-faced man in his forties with greasy hands welcomed them. Superintendent First Class Gao.

Following some small talk, all in Mandarin, Kozlowski presented Knox’s wish to be included in any auctions.

“Prior to auction,” the superintendent said, “station officers get first pick of litter.”

Knox recognized an opening. He said, “How many officers might there be in the office?”

“Fifteen, including myself. We each may advance bid on one vehicle per auction.”

“Perhaps one or two might be willing to serve as my proxy?” Knox said.

“I would be most pleased to present your card by way of introduction.” Gao was no stranger to exploiting loopholes. By working with Knox, he could pad his officers’, and his own, pockets; establish valuable guanxi with Kozlowski; and reduce his inventory.

They accepted the offer to tour the back lot, a mud yard surrounded by a rusted cyclone fence. Hundreds of motorcycles, motor scooters and electric bikes were chained together through their front wheels in ungainly lines. Some looked salvageable; a few looked interesting. All were rain-scabbed and filthy.

It took Knox less than a minute to spot a beautifully restored CJ750 and sidecar that matched Grace’s description of what she’d seen in Lu Hao’s apartment. Five bikes farther down the line, he identified a dark green Honda 220 street bike, reminding him of the owner’s manual for a 220 in Danner’s desk drawer.

“Beautiful,” he said in Mandarin, approaching the 750. He rattled off the bike’s specifications and caught Kozlowski staring at him, not the bike.

“A recent addition,” the superintendent said. “This one will not last. Will be reclaimed for certain.”

“This model, and ones like it, interest me greatly,” Knox said.

The superintendent wandered the lines, searching out other antiques.

Knox meanwhile moved closer to Danner’s Honda.

An agitated Kozlowski, hands in his pockets, didn’t know what to do with himself.

“It would be impolite to leave the captain alone,” Knox told Kozlowski, who glared back at him.

Knox reached Danner’s bike. Its right side was badly scarred. It had been dumped and had skidded a good distance.

Reaching it, he called out, “Hen hao!”-very good!-so that his spending time with it could be explained.

The superintendent hoisted a thumbs-up from across the yard-he could smell the yuan flowing.

Knox observed a bracket attached to the handlebars, its black plastic stamped GARMIN. He checked over his shoulder. The superintendent was busy searching for a similar prize.

Kozlowski watched Knox from a distance, like a worried parent.

Knox screened his opening of the motorcycle seat’s storage, and he rummaged its contents: a pair of foam earplugs, leather gloves, a cable lock, a small plastic funnel, bungee cords. And a black, faux-leather drawstring bag. He lifted the bag-the weight and shape making sense for a GPS-and he zipped it into one of the ScotteVest’s lower pockets.

The superintendent shouted as Knox was zipping up the jacket. “Do not make a mistake!”

Knox’s blood ran hot. It was too late to return the GPS. He got the seat compartment closed, believing he’d been caught in the act.

“That one may look pretty,” the superintendent said in blistering Shanghainese, “but the older ones run far better.”

Knox shouted at the superintendent. “I do not doubt! The young, pretty girl has nothing on the older, experienced woman!”

The superintendent howled. Kozlowski bristled. The superintendent indicated a beat-up 750 that lacked its sidecar. Knox moved in that direction, passing what looked like a vintage BMW or a good Russian copy of one.

They identified six bikes, including Lu Hao’s. The superintendent wrote down the plate numbers. Gao would talk to his men and be back in touch.