The Stone Monkey

by Jeffery Deaver

  Rhyme didn't know the young man well but he remembered curly hair, an easy disposition and a consuming passion for anything containing microchips.

  "Howsat?" Dellray asked.

  "First of all, don't get your hopes up. It's virtually untraceable. We call 'em 'hot phones.' The memory chip's been deactivated so that the phone doesn't record the last call dialed or incoming calls--the log features are out completely. And it's a satellite phone--you can call anywhere in the world and you don't need to go through local service providers. The signals are relayed through a government network in Fuzhou. The Ghost or somebody working for him hacked into the system to activate it."

  Dellray snapped, "Well, let's juss call somebody in the People's fuckin' Republic and tell 'em this bad guy's using their system."

  "We tried that. But the Chinese position is that nobody can hack their phone system so we must be mistaken. Thank you for your interest."

  "Even if it means helpin' collar the Ghost?"

  Geller said, "I mentioned Kwan Ang by name. They still weren't interested. Meaning they were probably paid off."

  Guanxi . . .

  Rhyme thanked the young agent and they hung up. Score one for the Ghost, the criminalist thought angrily.

  They were somewhat more successful with the firearms database. Mel Cooper found that the shell casings matched one of two weapons, both of them dating back nearly fifty years: a Russian Tokarev 7.62mm automatic was one type. "But," Cooper continued, "I'm betting he was using the Model 51, a Chinese version of the Tokarev. Virtually the same gun."

  "Yeah, yeah," Sonny Li said. "Gotta be 51, I'm saying. I had Tokarev but lost it in ocean. More peoples in China got 51's."

  "Ammunition?" Rhyme asked. "He might need to replenish it here somewhere." He was thinking that if the ammo was rare they might stake out the most likely places the Ghost would go to purchase more.

  But Cooper shook his head. "You can buy the shells in any good-sized gun shop."

  Damn.

  A messenger arrived with an envelope. Sellitto took it and tore the end off. He extracted a handful of photographs. He glanced at Rhyme with a raised eyebrow. "The three bodies the Coast Guard recovered from the water. About a mile offshore. Two shot. One drowned."

  The photos were facial shots of the dead men, eyes partially open but glazed. One had a hole in his temple. The other two showed no sign of visible injuries. There were fingerprint cards too.

  "Those two," Li said, "they crew members. Other guy, one of immigrants. Down in hold with us. Don't know name."

  "Pin them up," Rhyme said, "and run the prints through AFIS."

  Sellitto taped them to the board under the GHOSTKILL heading and Rhyme realized that the room had gone silent as the members of the team stared at the macabre additions to the evidence charts. He supposed that Coe and Deng had little experience with corpses. That was one thing about crime scene detail, he recalled: how fast one becomes immune to the countenance of death.

  Sonny Li continued to gaze at the photos silently for a moment. He muttered something in Chinese.

  "What was that?" Rhyme asked.

  He glanced at the criminalist. "I said, 'judges of hell.' Just expression. We have myth in China--ten judges of hell decide where your name go in Register of Living and Dead. Judges decide when you born and when you die. Everybody in world, name is in register."

  Rhyme thought momentarily of recent doctors' appointments and of his upcoming operation. He wondered exactly where his own name was entered in The Register of the Living and the Dead . . . .

  The silence was then broken by another beep from the computer. Mel Cooper glanced at the screen. "Got the make of the driver's car at the beach. BMW X5. It's one of those fancy four-by-fours." He added, "I myself drive a ten-year-old Dodge. Good mileage, though."

  "Put it on the chart."

  As Thom wrote, Li looked at the board and asked, "Whose car that?"

  Sellitto said, "We think somebody was at the beach to pick up the Ghost. That's what he was driving." A nod at the board.

  "What happen him?"

  "Looks like he panicked and took off," Deng said. "The Ghost shot at him but he got away."

  "He leave Ghost behind?" Li asked, frowning.

  "Yep," Dellray confirmed.

  Rhyme ordered, "Run the make through Motor Vehicles. New York, Jersey and Connecticut too. Can you break the search down to, let's say, a hundred fifty miles outside of Manhattan?"

  "Yup." Cooper logged online, heading for the secure DMV sites. "Remember when this took weeks?" he mused. With a faint hum Rhyme's wheelchair drove up to the screen in front of the tech. Only a moment later he could see the screen fill with the names and addresses of all the registered owners of X5's.

  "Shit," Dellray muttered, walking close. "How many we got?"

  "More popular car than I'd hoped," Cooper said. "Hundreds."

  "What're the names?" Sellitto asked. "Any Chinese?"

  Cooper scrolled through the list. "Sounds like two. Ling and Zhao." He looked at Eddie Deng, who nodded his confirmation. "Yep, they're Chinese."

  Cooper continued, "But neither of them're close to downtown. One's in White Plains and the other's in New Jersey, Paramus."

  "Have New York and Jersey troopers check 'em out," Dellray ordered.

  The tech continued to scroll through the list. "Here's a possibility--there're about forty X5's registered to corporations and another fifty or so registered to leasing agents."

  "Any of the corporations sound Chinese?" Rhyme asked, wishing he himself could pound on the keys and scroll quickly through the list.

  "Nope," Cooper replied. "But they're all pretty generic--holding companies. You know, it'd be a bear but we could contact all of them. And the leasing companies too. Find out who's actually driving the cars."

  "Too much of a long shot," Rhyme said. "Waste of resources. It'll take days. Have a couple of officers from downtown check the ones closest to Chinatown but--"

  "No, no, Loaban," Sonny Li interrupted. "You got to find that car. Number one thing you do. Fast."

  Rhyme lifted a querying eyebrow.

  The Chinese cop continued, "Find it now. Beemer, right? You call them Beemers. Put lots people on it. All your cops, I'm saying. Whole bunch."

  "It'll take too much time," Rhyme muttered, irritated at the distraction. "We don't have the manpower. We'd have to find somebody in the corporation who was in charge of buying cars and, if it was leased, talk to the dealer's leasing agent, get the records and half of them wouldn't do it without a court order. I want to concentrate on finding the Changs and the Wus."

  "No, Loaban," Li insisted. "The Ghost, he going to kill that driver. That what he doing now, looking for him."

  "Nup, I'ma thinking you're wrong," Dellray said. "His pri-ority's killing the wits from the boat."

  "What you mean 'wit'?"

  "Witnesses," Sellitto explained.

  Sachs agreed. "My take is that, sure, he's pissed about the driver leaving him and maybe he'll go after him if he has time later. But not now."

  "No, no," Li said, shaking his head emphatically. "Important, I'm saying. Find man in Beemer."

  "Why?" Sachs asked.

  "Very clear. Very obvious. Get that driver. He lead you to snakehead. Maybe use him as bait to find Ghost."

  "And what, Sonny," a testy Lincoln Rhyme muttered darkly, "is your basis for that conclusion. Where're the data to support it?"

  "Lots data, I'm saying."

  "What?"

  The small man shrugged. "When I on bus coming to city this morning I saw sign."

  "A road sign?" Rhyme asked. "What do you mean?"

  "No, no, what you say it? I don't know . . . . " He spoke in Chinese to Eddie Deng.

  The young detective said, "He means an omen."

  "An omen?" Rhyme barked, as if he were tasting spoiled fish.

  Li reached absently for his cigarettes then left them untouched when he saw Thom's sharp glance. He continued, "I am coming into
town on bus, I'm saying. I saw crow on road picking at food. Another crow tried steal it and first crow not just scare other away--he chase and try to peck eyes out. Not leave thief alone." Li raised his palms. This was, apparently, his entire argument.

  "And?"

  "Not clear, Loaban? What I say?"

  "No, what you're saying isn't the least fucking bit clear."

  "Okay, okay. I remember that crow now and I start thinking about Ghost and who he is and thinking about driver--man in fancy Beemer--and who he is. Well, he is enemy to Ghost. Like crow stealing food. The families--the Wus, the Changs--they not do anything bad to him personal, I'm saying. The driver . . . " Li frowned, looked frustrated and spoke again to Deng, who offered, " 'Betray'?"

  "Yes, betray him. He now Ghost's enemy."

  Lincoln Rhyme tried not to laugh. "Noted, Sonny." He turned back to Dellray and Sellitto. "Now--"

  "I see your face, Loaban," Li said. "I not saying gods come down and give me sign of crows. But remembering birds make me think different way, open up my mind. Get wind flowing through it. That good, you not think?"

  "No, I think it's superstitious," Rhyme said. "It's woo woo and we don't have any time for--What the hell are you laughing at?"

  "Woo woo. You say woo woo. You speaking Chinese. 'Woo' mean fog. So you say something woo woo, it foggy, unclear."

  "Well, to us it means supernatural bullshit."

  Even facing Rhyme's considerable bluster, Li wouldn't back down. "No, this not bullshit. Find that driver. You got to, Loaban."

  Sachs's eyes were studying the small, persistent man. "I don't know, Rhyme."

  "No way."

  "Fuck good idea, I'm saying," Li assured the criminalist.

  There was thick silence for a moment.

  Sellitto intervened. "How 'bout if we put Bedding and Saul on it, give 'em a half-dozen guys from Patrol, Linc? They can check corporate and lease X5 registrations in Manhattan and Queens, only those--Chinatown here and the one in Flushing. And if there're any other breaks and we need bodies, we'll pull 'em off."

  "All right, all right," Rhyme said angrily. "Just get moving on it."

  "Half-dozen just six, right?" Li complained. "Need more than that." But Rhyme's glare silenced him. "Okay, okay, Loaban."

  Pecking crows, stone monkeys and The Register of the Living and the Dead . . . Rhyme sighed then looked over the team. "Now, if it's not too much to ask, can we get back to some real police work?"

  GHOSTKILL

  * * *

  Easton, Long Island, Crime Scene

  * Two immigrants killed on beach; shot in back.

  * One immigrant wounded--Dr. John Sung.

  * "Bangshou" (assistant) on board; identity unknown.

  * Ten immigrants escape: seven adults (one elderly, one injured woman), two children, one infant. Steal church van.

  * Blood samples sent to lab for typing.

  * Injured woman is AB negative.

  * Vehicle awaiting Ghost on beach left without him. One shot believed fired by Ghost at vehicle. Request for vehicle make and model sent out, based on tread marks and wheelbase.

  * Vehicle is a BMW X5. Checking registered owners.

  * No vehicles to pick up immigrants located.

  * Cell phone, presumably Ghost's, sent for analysis to FBI.

  * Untraceable satellite secure phone. Hacked Chinese gov't system to use it.

  * Ghost's weapon is 7.62mm pistol. Unusual casing.

  * Model 51 Chinese automatic pistol.

  * Ghost is reported to have gov't people on payroll.

  * Ghost stole red Honda sedan to escape. Vehicle locator request sent out.

  * Three bodies recovered at sea--two shot, one drowned. Photos and prints to Rhyme and Chinese police.

  * Fingerprints sent to AFIS.

  * No matches on any prints but unusual markings on Sam Chang's fingers and thumbs (injury, rope burn?).

  * Profile of immigrants: Sam Chang and Wu Qichen and their families, John Sung, baby of woman who drowned, unidentified man and woman (killed on beach).

  Stolen Van, Chinatown

  * Camouflaged by immigrants with "The Home Store" logo.

  * Blood spatter suggests injured woman has hand, arm or shoulder injury.

  * Blood samples sent to lab for typing.

  * Injured woman is AB negative.

  * Fingerprints sent to AFIS.

  * No matches.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The family name Chang means archer.

  His father, wife and children sitting around him, Sam Chang, with a calligrapher's magic touch, drew the Chinese characters for this name on a slat of broken wood he'd found in the backyard of their new apartment. The silk case holding his prized wolf-, goat-and rabbit-hair brushes, ink stick and stone well, had gone down with the Fuzhou Dragon and he was forced to use a dreadful American plastic pen.

  Still, Chang had learned calligraphy from his father when he was young and had practiced the art all his life, so, although the line width of the ink didn't vary, the strokes were perfectly formed--they were, he decided, like the studies by sixteenth-century artist Wan Li, who would do a simple rendering to record a scene he would later paint on ceramic--the sketch was half-formed but beautiful in its own right. Chang took the piece of wood representing the family name and rested it on the impromptu cardboard altar sitting on the fireplace mantel in the living room.

  China is a theological shopping mall, a country in which the Buddha is the most recognized traditional deity but where the philosophers Confucius and Lao-tzu stand as demigods, where Christianity and Islam have large pockets of devotees and where the vast majority of people hedge their bets by regularly praying and sacrificing to folk gods so numerous no one knows exactly how many there are.

  But highest in the pantheon of gods for most Chinese are their ancestors.

  And it was to the Chang progenitors that this red altar was devoted, decorated with the only ancestral likenesses that had survived the sinking of the ship: seawater-stained snapshots from Chang's wallet of his parents and grandparents.

  "There," he announced. "Our home."

  Chang Jiechi shook his son's hand and then gestured for tea, which Mei-Mei poured for him. The old man cupped the hot brew and looked around the dark rooms. "Better than some."

  Despite the man's words, though, Sam Chang felt another wave of shame, like a hot fever, that he was subjecting his father to such a mean place as this. The strongest duty after that owed to the ruler of the government, according to Confucius, is that which a son owes to his father. Ever since Chang had planned their escape from China he'd worried about how the trip would affect the elderly man. Ever quiet and unemotional, Chang Jiechi had taken the news of their impending flight silently, leaving Chang to wonder if he was doing the right thing in the old man's eyes.

  And now, after the sinking of the Dragon, their life wasn't going to get better any time soon. This apartment would have to be their prison until the Ghost was captured or went back to China, which might be months from now.

  He thought again about that place they'd stopped at to steal the paint and brushes--The Home Store. The rows of glistening bathtubs and mirrors and lights and marble slabs. He wished he could have moved his father and family into a home outfitted with the wonderful things he'd seen there. This was squalor. This was--

  A firm knock on the door.

  For a moment no one in the family moved. Then Chang looked out through the curtain and relaxed. He opened the door and broke into a smile at the sight of the middle-aged man wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. Joseph Tan walked inside and the men shook hands. Chang glanced outside into the quiet residential street and saw no one who looked like enforcers for the snakehead. In the humid, overcast air was a foul smell; the apartment, it turned out, was not far from a sewage treatment plant. He stepped inside, locked the door.

  Tan, the brother of a good friend of Chang's in Fujian, had come over here some years ago. He was a U.S. citizen and, since
he had no history of dissident activity, traveled freely between China and New York. Chang had spent several evenings with him and his brother in Fuzhou last spring and had finally grown comfortable enough to share with Tan the news that he intended to bring his family to the Beautiful Country. Tan had volunteered to help. He had arranged for this apartment and for Chang and his oldest son to work in one of Tan's businesses--a quick printing shop not far from the apartment.

  The easygoing man now paid respects to elderly Chang Jiechi and then to Mei-Mei and they sat down to tea. Tan offered cigarettes. Sam Chang declined but his father took one and the two men smoked.

  "We heard about the ship on the news," Tan said. "I thanked Guan Yin you were safe."

  "Many died. It was terrible. We nearly drowned, all of us."

  "The TV said the snakehead was the Ghost."

  Chang replied that it was and that he'd tried to kill them even after they came ashore.

  "Then we will have to be very careful. I will not mention your name to anyone. But I have people around the shop who will be curious about you. I had thought you should start work right away but now, with the Ghost . . . It would be better to wait. Maybe next week. Or the week after. I'll train you then. Do you know about American printing equipment?"

  Chang shook his head no. In China he'd been a professor of art and culture--until his dissident status had gotten him fired. Just like the displaced, and despised, artists who'd lost their jobs during the Cultural Revolution of the 1960s, Chang had been forced to do "right-thinking" work--labor. And like many of the calligraphers and artists from that earlier era he'd gotten a job as a printer. But he'd operated only outdated Chinese or Russian presses.

  They spoke for a time about life in China and life here. Then Tan wrote out directions to the shop and the hours Chang and his son would be working. He asked to meet William.

  Chang opened the door to the boy's bedroom. He stared--first in surprise, then in dismay--at the empty room. William was not there.

  He turned to Mei-Mei. "Where is our son?"

  "He was in the bedroom. I didn't see him leave."