The Holdouts (Buddy Lock Thrillers Book 2)

by James Tucker

  Yet the crows, cloaked in sleek oily feathers, remained calm. They took no notice of her.

  “Damn you!” she cried. “Leave us! Leave us!”

  Two of the birds near her toddled five feet in the opposite direction before turning and pointing their beaks at her.

  She clenched her fists, considered shouting again, but knew it would do no good. Yet she believed she had to make the crows leave or there would be terrible consequences.

  Returning to the house, she went in and removed her boots. Quietly, she padded barefoot to the larger bedroom, where Ben was sleeping. After pulling open the closet door, she stood on tiptoe and from the top shelf took hold of a nylon case. It was heavy, but she could carry it in one hand. Kneeling down on the floor of the closet, she rummaged through her duffel bag and found the box of ammunition. In the kitchen, she unzipped the case, took out the .38 revolver, put six rounds in the cylinder, pushed the cylinder back into place, and carried the gun in both hands to the front door. After stepping into her boots, she walked outside.

  The crows parted as she walked into their midst, some of them eyeing her curiously. Most ignored her, even now as she pointed the revolver skyward.

  Sliding the pad of her right index finger on the trigger, she held her breath and squeezed the trigger four times.

  Immediately, the birds shrieked and leaped into the air, all of them, together in a black cloud, then wheeled overhead and down, down, toward Rockridge. Their alarm echoed around her, and she shrank at the awfulness of the sight and the noise. But then everything grew quiet. Silent, even.

  “Mei?”

  She turned to see Ben standing in the doorway in his pajamas. His hair was tousled and nearly obscured his eyes.

  “I had to,” she told him. “I had to make them leave.”

  45

  Mario called at six fifteen that morning. “You were right,” he said.

  Buddy sat up on the sofa, blinking at the faint light coming through the large windows, and held the phone to his right ear. He glanced around the room, remembering everything. Head throbbing, he got up and went into the kitchen.

  “Buddy? You all right?”

  “Yeah, Mario.” He opened a cupboard, poured two Advil tablets into his palm, and swallowed them dry. He realized he needed coffee, or his brain wouldn’t work today.

  “The Sungs, Buddy. Chen and Lily.” Mario spoke rapidly, excitedly. “You were right about them.”

  Buddy filled his Mr. Coffee with water and poured coffee into the mesh filter. He said, “What’d you find?”

  “That’s just it. They’re missing. I spoke with their eldest son. He described his parents. He described his mother’s engagement ring and told me it was inscribed with for L. Which meant ‘for Lily.’”

  Buddy felt relief. He may have discovered the identities of the bodies found off Long Island. But his relief was tempered with apprehension. If the Sungs’ deaths had something to do with the razing of the Nanjing building to make way for the Haddon House project, then he’d opened a can of scorpions and pushed his finger inside. Forcing himself to take one step at a time, he spoke into the phone. “That’s not enough for positive ID.”

  Mario’s voice rose with excitement. “Buddy, the Sungs’ oldest son went to OCME this morning for identification. He confirmed it. They’re the bodies of his parents.”

  Buddy’s mind raced. “Yeah,” he agreed absently.

  Mario said, “The guy, though. The man. The eldest son told me he had no identifying marks except he wore some kind of medallion with the Chinese symbol for sacrifice. No sign of a medallion, Dr. Silva told me. But it probably fell off in the ocean. So we’re good, Buddy. You solved the case.”

  Buddy pressed his thumb and middle finger into his temples, hoping to lessen the pulsing headache. Then he walked back to the master bedroom, reached under the mattress, and brought out the medallion. He stared at it, turned over the side with the symbol to the other side that was smooth black onyx.

  “Buddy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you hear me? You solved the case.”

  Buddy breathed deeply. “You think this is a missing persons case?”

  Mario was quiet. Then he asked, “Don’t you?”

  Buddy said, “How do you think the Sungs—a retired man and his wife—wound up in the Atlantic in January?”

  “Must have been suicide. Right?”

  “Not necessarily, Mario. We don’t know.” He stood over the Mr. Coffee and inhaled. He thought if he drank all the coffee, he could make it through the day. He said, “Call the Sungs’ adult children. Get a meeting with them.”

  “When?”

  “Today. Now.”

  46

  “Now” ended up being two hours later: 8:00 a.m.

  Buddy held on to the handrail serving the four steps up to the front door of the Nanjing building. The headache had faded. Maybe it was the Advil or the coffee, or both. He’d regained most of his stability.

  Mario stood on the top step, checked the building directory to the left of the door, and pressed the white button next to the name Sung.

  A buzzer sounded almost immediately, and Buddy followed Mario inside.

  The small lobby was tired but not dilapidated. All furniture had been removed, leaving only scuffed terrazzo floors. Above them hung a dusty chandelier that might have been fifty years old. Buddy thought the building seemed abandoned, and he supposed that in a way it had been. Taped to the elevator’s bronze-colored door was a slip of paper that read “Out of Order.”

  They climbed the terrazzo staircase to the third floor. No lights functioned in the hallway, and over the stairs, they noted only a series of weak bulbs. At each level, above their heads, an exit sign glowed cherry red. The walls were painted taupe, the carpeting was brown and marked with stains. The third unit along the right side of the hallway, marked as number 305, had a nameplate with the name Sung.

  As Mario knocked on the door, he glanced at Buddy. Yet Buddy’s attention had been caught by movement down the hall to his left.

  The door at the end of the corridor had opened and closed.

  Buddy saw a young woman walking toward him. As she drew near, he saw that she was in her early or midtwenties, with large eyes, angular features, and clear skin. Her long brown hair, which she wore under a black ski hat with a marijuana leaf sewn into it, couldn’t hide her attractiveness. Nor could her puffy gray down parka, blue jeans, and expensive-looking knee-high boots.

  The door to unit 305 opened. Mario held up his badge and introduced himself to a young Asian man.

  Buddy took a last look at the young woman in the corridor. The light from the interior of the Sungs’ living room fell on her wrist. Buddy thought he recognized a man’s stainless-steel Rolex with a blue face.

  He smiled at her and said, “Good morning.”

  She glanced at him. “Hey.”

  Then she was past him.

  He could hear the sound of her boots echo on the staircase down to the lobby.

  Mario called him inside the Sungs’ home.

  Buddy said, “Go on in, I’ll be there in a moment.”

  He walked down the hall to the doorway of unit 309. Seeing no nameplate or other identification, he returned to the condo unit of Chen and Lily Sung.

  Inside, he faced the three adult children of the missing couple. They were sitting on a sofa under a large window, watching him expectantly. He said, “I’m sorry for your loss. This must be a tough time for all of you. But we have a few questions.”

  As he spoke, he watched them closely. He was surprised to see the eyes of the Sungs’ children were dry. No expression crossed their faces. They didn’t cry or, for a few moments, even speak.

  Then one of the young men sat forward on the sofa and said, “We were expecting this news.”

  47

  Buddy stood in the middle of Chen and Lily Sung’s living room. To his left, Mario sat in an armchair. In front of Buddy, on a large cloth sofa the color of car
amel, were the three adult children of the Sungs. They’d exchanged names. Wang, the older son, on the left. June, the middle child and only daughter, between Wang and Leo, the younger son.

  Wang handed Buddy a piece of heavy white paper, the kind someone would use to write a formal letter. On the paper was a typewritten note that read:

  Our dearest children,

  We love you more than words can describe. Your lives are stars that, for us, will never burn out. We do not wish to burden you with the destruction of the illness. The two of us cannot be apart.

  So we have chosen to end our time with you. We have chosen to end our lives. And we have chosen to set you free.

  Goodbye, and love always.

  Under the text of the note, he saw Chinese characters.

  Buddy looked up at Wang, who pointed to the characters.

  “My parents’ signatures,” Wang explained. He then handed Buddy a second piece of paper.

  Buddy read it quickly. The letterhead at the top was from a doctor at NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital. It was a typewritten and signed diagnosis of pancreatic cancer in Chen Sung.

  Wang rejoined his sister and brother on the sofa. He looked up at Buddy and said, “They told us they were going to end their lives, but not when or how. We offered to comfort my father, to give him the best care, but he didn’t want to be incapacitated. He wanted to die on his own terms. We tried to convince my mother to continue living, for her grandchildren, for us, even for the senior ballet classes she loved. But she said she couldn’t live without our father.”

  As Wang spoke, Buddy glanced at Wang’s siblings. June, a woman of about forty, was watching her older brother with rapt attention. Leo, perhaps five years younger than his sister, kept his eyes on the floor.

  Buddy studied Leo. The younger man had hair to below his ears and eyeglasses with translucent frames. He wore a black turtleneck, jeans, and black leather boots. Several braided leather bracelets looped around his wrists, as well as an enormous watch of black metal. While Leo’s older brother spoke, he said nothing.

  The pattern, Buddy thought. It wasn’t right. There was a wrong note. Played softly, but wrong just the same.

  He excused himself to use the restroom and went into the back hallway. After closing and locking the bathroom door, he searched the small space but saw nothing of note. Next he tried the master bedroom. It was plainly decorated with tan walls and framed photographs of the family on vacation, mostly in California, Arizona, and Florida. There was a queen-sized bed with night tables on either side and, above the headboard, two double-hung windows with lime-green curtains. He saw a small armoire. To its left was a ballet barre, each end of the wooden pole attached to the wall with a stainless-steel bracket.

  Returning to the now-silent living room, he handed his card to all three siblings. He took out his small notebook and pen and asked them for their full names, dates of birth, occupations, and contact numbers. He learned that Leo was a television director who worked frequently in London. Leo didn’t meet his eye when he handed Leo a card.

  He knows something, Buddy thought. Or he suspects.

  Mario let the family know how to claim their parents’ bodies. And with that, the detectives repeated that they were sorry for the family’s loss and closed the door behind them.

  Downstairs in the lobby, Mario pushed open the door and began walking down the steps to the sidewalk. He turned back to see if Buddy was following him and then stopped on the bottom step. Mario called back, “What is it?”

  Buddy was standing on the top step. He’d turned to study the building directory just above the street door’s buzzer. Two names in white lettering remained on the black background.

  His headache had intensified. The names blurred. He shut his eyes, breathed deeply, and tried again.

  The names took shape. The first was C. Sung, unit 305. The second? S. Richardson, unit 309. He took out his notebook and wrote down the young woman’s name.

  As they got in Mario’s Interceptor, Buddy again thought of Leo Sung, the dead couple’s youngest son. Leo’s body language hadn’t shown agreement with the statements of his older brother, Wang. He hadn’t shown disagreement, exactly, but Buddy thought Leo had shown skepticism if not more.

  He’d give Leo two hours, and then he’d call him.

  Mario was speaking into his phone. “We solved the missing persons case.”

  This was a knife blade stuck into Buddy’s chest. He turned to Mario and asked, “Who are you talking to?”

  Mario held the phone to his chest. He said, “Chief Malone.”

  “Why are you doing that?”

  Mario shrugged. “The chief told me to call with any significant developments.”

  Buddy gripped the seat with his left hand and the door handle with his right. He wouldn’t hit his partner, not yet.

  Mario ended the call and turned on the Latin pop music he liked.

  Buddy kept his eyes straight ahead, but he wasn’t taking in the scenery of Chinatown. He said, “Mario, stop the car.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Stop the fucking car.”

  Mario pulled the Interceptor along the east curb of Broadway but didn’t put the car in park.

  At last Buddy turned to him. He knew his face was red, and his left hand had curled into a fist. He said, “Mario, never, ever talk to Chief Malone or anybody else, unless we’re on the same page. Got it?”

  Mario let go of the steering wheel and held up his hands. “But what page are you on, Buddy? The Sungs were suicides. We have the proof. The proof, got that?”

  Buddy ignored him, didn’t respond to the lip the junior detective was giving him. He’d deal with that later if he couldn’t get a different partner assigned to him in the next week. He said, “Did you hear from the lab on the prints off the credit card I gave you?”

  Mario sighed. “Yes, I heard. Nothing. No matches.”

  Buddy considered this. So Tan Jacket had no ID, no money, and no criminal record. Something was off there; he wasn’t sure what it was. Buddy returned his attention to the case and Mario’s failure to be on the same page. He said, “Confirm Chen Sung’s diagnosis with the doctor on the note.”

  “Sure thing, but it’s a waste of time. The case is closed. We can move on and solve some real homicides.”

  “Yeah?” Buddy asked.

  “Damn right. Let’s do some work.”

  “That’s what we’re paid for, isn’t it, Mario?”

  Mario’s expression tightened. “Sure, man.”

  Buddy said, “Ever been to Switzerland?”

  “Switzerland? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Never been there?”

  “Of course I’ve never been to Switzerland. Have you?”

  Buddy remembered playing concerts at the Tonhalle-Orchester Zürich. He’d been eleven years old, traveling with his father. But that was a long time ago. He said, “Where do you bank?”

  Mario turned to him and screwed up his face. “Hey, amigo, what the hell?”

  “It’s a simple question. Where you do bank?”

  “Citi. Why?”

  “No other accounts?”

  “No. I’ve got my pension with the NYPD. Why are you asking me this shit?”

  Buddy didn’t answer. Instead, he said, “You have a numbered account in Zurich, don’t you? At Basler Holding.”

  Mario reared back. “What the hell has gotten into you? Numbered account? I don’t know anything about a numbered account.”

  Buddy kept his eyes on Mario’s. He lowered his voice at the same time Mario’s rose. He said, “Four hundred thousand dollars.”

  Mario stared at him. “I’ve got less than fifteen grand to my name. Wherever you’re getting your info, it’s bullshit.”

  Buddy didn’t respond. He got out of the Interceptor and watched Mario steer away from the curb.

  He thought Mario was telling the truth. But he’d been wrong before.

  48

  In the late morning, Ben h
eard the distant sound of a machine. He was sitting at the table in the great room, watching his math class on his computer, and at the same time completing a worksheet with a ballpoint pen.

  A car, he thought as the sound increased, and he heard an engine and tires on the asphalt driveway outside the house.

  He didn’t move. He felt his stomach rising as if he might be sick. “Mei!” he called out. “Mei!”

  She hurried into the great room from the hallway. Her eyes widened. “What? What is it?”

  He didn’t move, didn’t turn toward the door. He was frozen, listening as Mei went behind him and looked through the window to the right of the door. He knew Mei had a revolver in the closet, and wondered if he should try to get it out.

  He said, “Who is it?”

  “The police.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I don’t know. But it’s the officer we saw at the café yesterday.”

  Ben heard Mei open the door, but he kept his eyes on his computer screen. He thought if he didn’t look at the policeman, the policeman wouldn’t take him away. Because that was surely why the policeman was here. Judge Sylvia Miles must have ordered him taken away from Mei and Buddy, and she would force him to live with his aunt and uncle. Hands over the keyboard, he typed nonsense, but listened carefully.

  “Good morning, ma’am. I’m Officer Lingwood.”

  “Hello.”

  “You all right?”

  “Yes,” Mei said quickly. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

  “Well, ma’am. I had a call about a disturbance up in this neck of the woods.”

  Ben stopped typing.

  “A disturbance?” Mei asked.

  “Yeah. Gunshots. A few of them. Did you fire a gun up here?”

  “No, Officer. Why would I fire a gun?”

  Officer Lingwood didn’t immediately reply. “All right,” he told her. “But if you hear anything, please let me know. And of course keep in mind that your neighbors here might be farther away than what you have in the city, but they’re close by, and everybody hears everything.”