by Tom Fowler
I’d never experienced such intense muzzle blast nor the sound of a bullet the size of a .45 smashing a mass of small bones before. Just before ringing took over my hearing was a noise akin to a series of sticks all being snapped at once, only with the volume cranked up to eleven. As if in a silent movie, the Chinese man’s gun bounced once on the hardwood, he clutched his lower leg, and crashed sideways away from his weapon.
I stood, bent to pick up his gun with two fingertips, and set it atop my desk. Then I sat on the corner and looked down at him. Screams evidenced by his wide-open mouth gradually subsided as my hearing returned, but he effected major grimaces, and sweat covered his forehead and face. His breathing came in rapid gulps of air. I snapped a picture or two of his face with my phone.
“You’re going into shock,” I said. “And there’s a good chance you’ll never walk normally again.” My voice sounded normal despite loud tinnitus; I hoped it sounded the same way to him. My heart stopped pounding, but my trembling foot told me adrenalin still coursed through me.
“You . . . shot me,” he said in Chinese.
“You’ll live. Assuming I call for medical attention, which I’ll be glad to do as soon as you tell me where the girls are being kept.”
“I don’t . . . know.”
I shrugged. “It’s your leg. At least for now it is. Your choice.” I tried not to look at the mess I’d made of his lower extremity or the mess on my formerly beautiful hardwood floor.
“I mean . . . it. I . . . don’t . . . know.”
With the twisted mask of agony he wore, discerning the truth from a lie proved impossible. He could have said anything to get help, so why not at least make up a location to get me to call 9-1-1? Instead, he said a few times he didn’t know. I had to believe him, and I couldn’t let him bleed to death in my office. Even my conscience has its limits.
I called 9-1-1.
Chapter 14
I became acquainted with Officers Jennings and Brennan of the BPD over the past year. Whenever I experienced some incident requiring police intervention, they were the ones on the scene. They both nosed around the room as a crime scene technician took measurements, swabbed blood, and frowned like making faces was the crux of his job.
“You ever seen this guy before?” Jennings said. I shook my head. “Know why he came here?”
“When he pulled a gun and pointed it at me, I inferred the reason.”
Jennings rolled his eyes. “Must be your private school education. I mean, why would he come here and point a gun at you?”
“Obviously, he doesn’t like me for some reason.”
“This dislike couldn’t be related to whatever case you’re working on?” said Brennan.
“Probably, but I don’t know how he plays into the whole thing.”
“Is there something you’re not telling us?”
I put my hand over my chest and gasped. “Me?”
This time Brennan rolled his eyes. Jennings said, “What’s your case?”
“Between me and my client,” I said.
“You don’t want to tell us?”
“Knowing what I’m working on isn’t going to give you an epiphany.”
“How do you know?” Brennan said.
“Because it hasn’t given me one yet, and I’m smarter than you,” I said with a smile.
They both closed their notebooks. “We’ll let you know if we find anything important,” Jennings said.
“Is he going to live?” I said. “He left a lot of blood on my floor.”
“Paramedic thinks he’ll live, but he could lose his foot. Forty-five slugs tend to wreck joints like the ankle.”
“What do you care?” Brennan said. “Guy came in here and meant to kill you . . . or at least point a gun at you. Why do you care if he lives?”
“Because I’m not a killer,” I said.
“And maybe because you want to know something more from him?”
“The living are more useful than the dead when you have questions.”
“Not all of them,” Jennings said. I couldn’t argue.
Having uploaded the pictures to my desktop, I now ran them through the BPD’s facial recognition program. They added it a few months ago, and I soon discovered it on one of my many unauthorized excursions onto their network. One of these years, they might try to keep me out. It wouldn’t work for more than a few minutes, but I would appreciate the effort. In the meantime, I appreciated the access.
With no idea how well-known my Chinese friend would be, I set the widest search parameters the BPD’s software would allow. It would connect to a few federal databases. The process could take a while, so I went into the kitchen and whipped up a quick dinner. Gloria came in while I had the gnocchi boiling on the stove.
“Something smells good,” she said, doffing her mink jacket and hanging it in my coat closet.
“Doesn’t something always smell good in this kitchen?” I said.
She planted a kiss on me. “Yes, it does,” she said with a smile. “What are you making?”
“Gnocchi and meat sauce with chopped sausage. Garlic bread is in the oven. I needed something quick.”
“Why, is your case pressing?”
I filled her in on the details since the last time we talked. “We might have a day to find this girl, so I need to keep working, make sure I keep my energy up, and skip sleeping as much as I can.”
“You’re really dedicated to finding this girl.”
“I don’t want her getting sold into some sex ring and disappearing overseas,” I said. “It might have happened with the other girls. We have a chance to prevent it this time.”
Gloria looked pleased—maybe a bit proud? “No, it’s good,” she said. “I understand why you’re doing it. I’m sure her mother is grateful.”
“Right now, her mother is overwhelmed.” I took the gnocchi out of the pot. Their fast cooking time made up for the sauce. I made two plates of the entrée and put the garlic bread on a third, then added two glasses and a small pitcher of tea to the table. Gloria sat after I did and inhaled the aromas wafting from the dish.
“Smells really good,” she said, “especially considering how quickly you made it.”
I ate garlic bread while I waited for the gnocchi and sauce to cool. “I had to shoot a man today,” I said.
Gloria had started moving a forkful to her mouth and stopped. “What happened?” she said. “Are you OK?”
“I’m fine.” I told her the details.
“It sounds like he’ll live,” she said.
I nodded. “Worse for the wear, but yes.”
“He’s the second crook you needed to shoot, right?”
“Yes. At least this one will make it.” A couple months before, I put three in the chest of a man. He didn’t make it.
“This is dangerous.” Gloria grabbed my free hand. I looked down but didn’t pull back. Concern creased her brows. “I’m worried about you. Loan sharks, maybe sex trafficking, and men trying to shoot you in your own home.” She shook her head. “At least tell me you’re getting an office soon.”
“As soon as this case is over,” I said.
“Good.” She pulled her hand back and ate. We didn’t talk much for the rest of the meal. After I cleared the table, Gloria stayed in the kitchen while I walked back to my office and checked the facial recognition software. It showed a match. Jiyang “Johnny” Chen was a hired fist and gun who worked for shady people like David Rosenberg. His sheet sported a few arrests but none for anything more than simple assault, and he never remained a jailbird long. Under his list of known associates, I found another Chinese name, someone he met in prison: Edwin Zhang. Maybe he was the second man who came to kidnap Katherine Rodgers. I took as good a picture of his face as I could and sent it as a text message to Zachary Rodgers.
A minute later, I got a return text: Maybe. Measurements seem right and the eyes look familiar. Good enough for me. I started looking for Zhang in the hopes he would lead me to Katherine Rodgers and
whoever killed Stanley, which was the case I originally signed on for.
Soon after I started my search for Edwin Zhang, Mouse called. I could use a shot of positive news. “Tell me something good, Mouse,” I said.
“I think I can,” he said. “Meet me somewhere. How about The Greene Turtle in Fells Point?”
“The Turtle’s a move down from the steps of M and S, isn’t it?” I liked the Turtle, but it didn’t fit with Mouse’s incongruous interest in looking upscale.
“A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do,” said Mouse. “Can you be there in fifteen minutes?”
“I’ll do my best,” I said.
I made it in nineteen. Federal Hill and Fells Point aren’t far apart as the crow flies, but as the car drives, complicating factors emerge. Afternoon traffic had picked up in Baltimore. It wasn’t rush hour yet, but there were enough people on the road driving like assholes to do a close approximation. I got stuck behind a bunch of them, especially on Pratt Street. Once I got into Fells Point, parking was an adventure. I circled the block a few times before sniping a spot on Broadway.
When I got into the Greene Turtle, Mouse already occupied a booth as removed as possible from the happy hour crowd. I heard snippets of conversations about hot girls, bicycles, and mutual funds as I passed. At least they found one interesting thing to talk about. I slid onto the booth opposite Mouse. He nursed a whiskey-based drink stronger than the selection of beers he usually chose. Mouse inclined his head at me, and then his beady eyes flitted away as a comely young waitress appeared. Her Greene Turtle T-shirt struggled to hold her breasts in place, and I thought it could lose the fight any moment. I found her eyes, wondered how many people never did, and ordered an iced tea.
“Figured you could use a stiff drink,” Mouse said.
“Maybe when the case is over,” I said.
He pointed at his glass. “You want a sip of mine?”
“No, thanks.” I shook my head. “I have a policy of never drinking after people nicknamed for rodents.”
Mouse shrugged and took the sip he promised me. The waitress came, dropped off my tea, and asked if we needed anything else. Mouse ordered some onion rings, and she disappeared again. “I found out some stuff about your Chinese friends,” he said.
“The friendship is strained,” I said, “after I shot one of them.”
“Wow.”
“In my defense, he menaced me first.”
“Who’d you shoot?”
“Johnny Chen,” I said. “I’m currently looking for Edwin Zhang.”
“Good,” Mouse said, “he’s the one I heard something about.”
“What did you hear?” I said.
“He came here with a few other people,” Mouse said. Rented some kind of a warehouse in Catonsville. Fake name and all. I heard he and his people had an agreement with Rosenberg. He gives them some pretty girls when he can’t collect, and they give him some cash.”
“Sounds consistent with what I know.”
The waitress returned and dropped off Mouse’s onion rings. They came in a stand with two dipping sauces. One was ranch dressing, but I couldn’t identify the other. It appeared the color and consistency of Thousand Island dressing, which sounded repulsive on onion rings. Mouse bit a piece of the onion ring breading and let it cool before he dunked it in the mystery sauce.
“What’s the other dip?” I said, jutting my chin toward the red-orange stuff.
“I dunno,” he said, “some kind of spicy mayo shit. It’s probably bad for you, but it tastes really good. You want one?”
Having lunched frequently with Joey Trovato, I was unaccustomed to being offered part of anything. I became good at picking my spots and swooping in to steal a morsel at the most opportune time. Mouse raised one eyebrow, which made me realize I simply sat and looked at him when he offered me an onion ring. “I need some rest,” I said. “Sure, I’ll have one.” I took a medium-sized one from the basket and set it on my appetizer plate to let it cool.
“Where were we in the business conversation?” Mouse said.
I said, “You were about to tell me everything you heard about Edwin Zhang and his operation.”
“I told you most of it already.”
“You said he and his people struck an agreement with Rosenberg. Who are Zhang’s people?”
“One’s Johnny. I’m guessing he’s the one you shot. He has one or two other guys. I didn’t catch the names. Some Asian shit. His old man is here, too. Guiren Zhang.”
I chuckled. “Name is ironic.”
“How so?” Mouse said.
“Guiren means, ‘valuing benevolence.’ I don’t think Zhang values anything close to it. I don’t think he knows what it is.”
“Doesn’t sound like it.”
“The name is familiar, though,” I said. “I heard it when I was in Hong Kong.”
“In hushed tones?” said Mouse
“Pretty much, yeah. I knew who they were. We were pretty bold hackers, but we didn’t want to tangle with them.”
“What about now?”
“Now we’re going to have to tangle with them,” I said.
Chapter 15
I told Rich and Rollins what I'd learned from Mouse, and what I heard of the Zhangs during my time in Hong Kong. We sat at my kitchen table. Gloria went upstairs. I wanted her to go home, but she said she’d stay until the case was over. I made coffee for everyone, and we all sipped from our mugs. "Sounds like we have a problem on our hands," Rich said.
"A serious one," I said. "These people can't be taken lightly."
"How many men do they have?" Rollins said.
"I don't know. Mouse didn't say a number, only the people he saw or heard about. If they rented a warehouse, though, we can presume they brought enough to keep the place running."
"You mean keeping the girls in line."
I gave a grim look with the barest of nods.
Rich frowned and took a swig of his coffee. "We need to get police involved now," he said. "This is too big for us to take on by ourselves."
Rollins didn't say anything. I shook my head. "No," I said. "If they catch the police sniffing around, they'll pack up their operation, and we'll never find Katherine Rodgers. We have a chance to save her and however many other girls they're holding."
"We're not the Keystone Kops," Rich said. "We're not bumblers. You assume the department getting involved means the Zhangs will find out about it quickly."
"It’s possible they will,” I said.
Rich slapped the tabletop. "I wish you'd stop supposing we’re so incompetent."
"I don’t, but we can’t afford the risk."
Rich rolled his eyes until they came to rest on Rollins. "What’s your take?"
"He's right, to a point," Rollins said. "You guys might not bungle it, but it’s a high-risk, low-reward scenario. One badge not stowed away properly ends everything. I don't think it's a worthwhile risk."
"I can't believe you want to go after these people by ourselves.” Rich threw his hands in the air.
"Not what I said," I retorted. "I'm saying we can't risk official police involvement."
"Because you’ve got us down as buffoons." Rich glared.
"No, but like Rollins said, one little mistake can be all it takes. Besides, the Zhangs are rich and careful. They may have paid off someone . . . or a few someones. We don't know who we can involve."
"So now the police are corrupt, too?" Rich shouted loudly enough for Gloria or my neighbors or most people in Maryland to hear. I couldn't back down, though. On some level, he knew I didn't think the cops were on the take, but now Rich was entrenched and defending his own.
"We're both saying the risk is too great, is all."
Rich seethed in his chair for a minute. "I'm going to call this in."
"No, you're not," I said.
He put both hands on the table and glowered across it at me. "Are you going to stop me?"
I stared back. "Yes."
Rich narrowed unblinking
eyes at me. He gripped the end of the table hard enough to turn his knuckles white. I didn’t waver. I understood his interest in protecting his own, but we weren't attacking them here. Finally, Rollins spoke. "As much as a staring contest between you two interests me, we might need to move past this."
"How do you suggest we do it?" said Rich, still not looking away. His left eyelid twitched.
"I agree with C.T. You're outvoted."
"Ah, democracy," I said. My eyes dried and stung. I wouldn't blink until Rich did, though. At least I fought for pride.
"Fine," Rich said, releasing a deep breath. "I'm outvoted for now." He blinked, and I did, too. It came as a relief. "I'll give it until sunrise tomorrow. We have a soft deadline for the girl anyway. If we're not pulling girls out of a crate by then, I'm bringing the entire BPD in on this."
"Fair enough," I said. His deadline gave us about thirteen hours.
"But the three of us can't take on the Zhang organization."
"I agree. It’s why I'm going to call for reinforcements."
"Will I like this?" said Rich.
"I think so,” I said.
I hadn't worked with Captain Casey Norton of the Maryland State Police since Rich and I took down a shady veterans’ charity in Garrett County. Like most cops, he didn’t care much for me at first, but came around to see the value I added to the investigation. Now I counted on him wanting to help me off the books. I tried his desk first, then his cell phone. He answered, and I reminded him of our combined case-cracking.
"You still working out in the sticks?," he said.
I didn't know how to take his tone. "I’m trying to spread my charm and personality to the rest of the state."
"I’m sure you are. What can I do for you?"
I gave him most of the details of the case to this point. "We don't want official police involvement for fear of scaring these guys off."
"And they would either leave with the girls or just shoot them and find more somewhere else."
I hadn't even considered the more grisly option. "Yes," I said, wincing at the thought of telling Pauline Rodgers her daughter was dead. “We’re trying to avoid either of those, but we don’t have much time. We probably have until tomorrow morning.”
