by Ponzo, Gary
“My camera is in my purse.” Vicki gestured toward the desk.
She disappeared into the bathroom, ignored the tub, and stepped into the shower stall. She fiddled with the hot and cold knobs until the water temperature was perfect. She stood still, letting the drops massage her neck and back as she recounted the day in her head. Those thoughts produced a smile. She lathered bath gel across her arms and belly but stopped at her breasts. There, she traced a straight line across her chest a number of times before snapping out of her trance. She continued showering and washed away whatever remaining desire she might have had for sleep. She then wrapped her short, black hair in a fluffy white towel and slipped on an equally soft robe before exiting the bathroom.
“I feel so much better,” Vicki announced as she approached Jerry from behind.
He sat at the desk, browsing through a photo organizer on his laptop. He had plucked photos one by one and dragged them to a desktop folder titled Piper.
She leaned down and let her arms rest on his shoulders. “What pictures are you thinking of using?”
“There are a bunch of good ones, but I’ll show you the ones I think are the best.”
He clicked on the folder, and it sprang open. “This first one is of you and Piper on the ferry.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s a good one. We look like we’re having fun.”
“Here are the two of you eating cotton candy at the pier. It really shows off Piper’s beautiful, hazel eyes.”
“Indeed.”
“This one is from our hike in Muir Woods. You two were trying to stretch your arms around a redwood tree. Remember that?” he asked, twisting his head around.
“Those trees were so tall.”
“But I think what will really seal the deal here is the video.”
“I’m glad you recorded this time around.”
A black rectangle popped up on the screen, and a moment later footage of a young woman with a ponytail began to play. She walked on a trail while looking up at the trees around her. Every now and then, she would playfully look back at the camera. “Why are you filming me? You should be filming your wife in all this beauty.”
“Oh, it’s just that we’re both having such a wonderful time with you,” said a male voice off camera. “I want this for memories. Isn’t that right, dear?”
“Absolutely.” Another woman’s voice could be heard outside the frame. She stepped into view and hooked arms with the young woman. “Trust me, Piper; he has a ton of pictures of me. It’s nice not having to be the focus of his lens.”
“You both look great,” said the male voice.
The young woman let go an innocent laugh. She appeared unaware of her beautiful Mediterranean looks. Her long locks started with dark roots until right above her shoulder, where they began to lighten into perfect, washed-out surfer strands at the tips. She stood tall at six feet even and sported long, graceful limbs. The cut-off denim shorts and gray, San Francisco Giants T-shirt she wore complemented her naturally olive complexion, and her cross-trainers perfectly highlighted her slender calves.
The three had left the paved path of the park, where most visitors spent their time, and ventured on to one of the many trails that crisscrossed the surrounding forest. Forty minutes later, and without passing a single other hiker, they reached a beautiful clearing and rested. Birds could be heard talking to each other while the leaves rustled every so often from the gentle breeze—a calmness foreign to most city dwellers.
“This reminds me of growing up in Ohio,” Piper said from the screen. “It was so quiet there—only the sounds of nature. Nothing more.”
“This is the part we’ve been waiting for,” said the man as he poked his finger at the volume button on his laptop, maxing it out.
Piper had been looking straight up toward the trees while slowly spinning around. As she turned toward the camera, the older woman entered the frame with her right arm cocked back. She firmly planted both feet before swinging her arm around in a wide arc as hard and as fast as she could, driving a small hatchet directly into Piper’s chest. Thunk. The force nearly toppled the young woman, but the older woman grabbed her shirt and steadied her before backing out of the frame.
Piper’s eyes widened as she looked down at the instrument buried deep in her chest. Her bottom lip trembled as a dark, red stain spread from the hatchet and across her shirt. She took a few quick breaths, looking straight into the camera. A moment later, she dropped to her knees. The camera followed. Still, she focused on the lens, unable to speak and barely breathing.
She reached out with one arm, her only way to convey the two words her mouth no longer could: Help me.
And then she fell.
The camera followed as she hit the ground on her left side, her eyes still gazing at the lens.
One breath. Then another. Then nothing.
Jerry closed the video window and looked up at his wife.
“Bravo! Excellent work, my dear,” Vicki cheered. “I love how you followed her to the ground. Brilliant.”
“I couldn’t have done it without you. You have a great arm. And that disguise—I love you with longer hair.” He stood up, grabbed his wife by the waist, and gave her a kiss. “But Piper is the real star, a wonderful participant.”
“Shall we upload before dinner?” Vicki asked.
“Yes, of course. I’m very excited about this one.”
Jerry sat back down and clicked on his Games folder, then on a dragon icon. The screen went black before a gold and red, animated dragon appeared, snorting a few breaths of fire before morphing into a logo with the title “Chasing Chinatown.”
He entered a password, and a few seconds later, a map of the world appeared with a waypoint in Toronto and San Francisco connected by an arced line. Two cartoon turtle avatars dressed in nautical outfits appeared in the upper right-hand corner over the words “Team Carlson.”
“Just think; six months ago we were bored and looking for adventure. Now we’ve logged five thousand miles and left our mark in two major cities, all thanks to this little program.”
There were five links to the left of the map: Attractions One through Five. Jerry clicked on the third and started uploading photos. Within a few seconds, the transfer was complete. A confirmation message appeared, followed by another stating that their content was under review.
“I hate this part—the waiting.” Vicki took a seat on the bed and leaned back on her hands.
The wait seemed like an hour, but only thirty seconds had passed before the screen erupted into fireworks and the word “Congratulations!” appeared. After the light show, the header titled Attraction Four turned from red to green. Jerry clicked on it, and a graphic of a paper scroll appeared. It unraveled, revealing a message: Good fortune comes in many forms. Find the right one for your next clue.
Vicki sat up and leaned forward for a closer look. “Good fortune? Could they be any less clear?”
Jerry looked back at his wife. “Don’t worry; we’ll figure it out. We can talk it through over dinner if you want. But for now, let’s enjoy the fact that we completed three Attractions.” He stood up and pulled his wife off the bed. “We’re on a roll.”
He danced with her, spinning her around before dipping her back, her towel falling off her head and her robe opening, leaving her naughty bits in plain view.
Vicki smiled as he brought her back to a standing position. She planted kisses all over his face before pulling away. “You were so right about this trip. I’m glad we did it.”
“Yeah, me, too. I’m having a killer time.”
Chapter 2
Dim Sum Sunday.
That’s what Ryan and Lucy had come to call it. I had fallen into the habit of taking the family out for brunch every Sunday. We all enjoyed the outing, especially my mother-in-law, Po Po. She had made friends with a few of the shopkeepers in Chinatown and used that time to talk, most of it gossip. She felt the need to converse in her native language. I didn’t crave it like she did, but I cou
ld understand. The language was a part of her and needed to be expressed. Plus, sometimes a story is funnier in Chinese.
I spoke English most of the time, and so did the kids. But they were learning Cantonese—not Mandarin, the official language of China—because Po Po was determined that they were to learn the language we spoke in Hong Kong. When I wasn’t home, she would only communicate with them in Chinese. English wasn’t allowed. She was firm on that issue, and I agreed. Being bilingual would give Ryan and Lucy an advantage someday. They didn’t seem to mind. Both took it in stride as something normal.
We all loved Chinatown for different reasons. For Po Po and me, it gave us a taste of some of the things we missed: the up-and-down tones of Chinese spoken on the street, the smell of dried everything and anything wafting out of the pharmacies, and the plethora of Chinese restaurants serving up our favorite foods, to name a few. For the kids, it was the usual: toys and sweets.
Lucy, my youngest, was six and a half and had come to develop a mind of her own. Instead of shadowing me like she had in the past, she found other ways to entertain herself. Everything Hello Kitty was her obsession. Whenever we passed by the store that sold those stickers, she would pull me inside, hoping I’d pull out my wallet.
At age nine, Ryan continued to mature and seek his independence. More and more, he spent time with friends and in numerous after-school activities, ranging from Judo to soccer and even taking cultural lessons at the Chinese Youth Center. His Chinatown guilty pleasure was the little boxes of snappers. He would beg and promise me he wouldn’t throw them at his sister. The last time I bought him a box, he threw the very first snapper at Lucy’s head. I threw the rest into the trash.
I remember telling him, “I told you not to throw them at people.”
“But, Abby, you didn’t say you would throw them away.”
“I expect you to listen to me whether you know the consequences or not.” I may not be his biological mother, but I am still his mother, and I make the rules.
Ever since then, he would ask, and I would say no. However, that day, my mood was positive, and I felt lenient. He had been punished long enough, so I bought him a box and reminded him of the rule.
We’d finished brunch a half hour earlier and were enjoying a stroll along Grant Avenue when Po Po stopped us in front of the Eastern Bakery. “I go buy rice cake for later.”
That was another treat that had become customary.
She disappeared inside while the three of us remained on the sidewalk, hovering on the edge of the Sunday foot traffic. No sooner had I looked away from the kids than I heard a yelp, and Lucy ran behind me.
I looked at Ryan. “Did you just throw a snapper at your sister?”
“She said I could,” he said calmly as if he had an airtight defense.
“What did I tell you earlier?”
He raised his shoulders and held his arms out. “But she said it would be okay.”
He started to huff and stomp his feet; he knew what was coming.
I held out my hand. He handed over the box, and into the trashcan it went. I looked down at Lucy, who had a devious smile on her face. I reached down and took the package of stickers from her hand.
“Hey, those are mine.”
“Not anymore.” Into the trash they went. “Next time, don’t taunt your brother.”
Po Po returned to find two kids moping—frowning at the sidewalk when they weren’t glaring at me or each other. Before she could ask what had happened, a loud cracking sound caught my attention. I drew a sharp breath. A gunshot! I quickly ushered the kids and Po Po back into the bakery. “Stay here.”
Back outside, my eyes scanned the area. To my left, about fifty yards away, I noticed a commotion. I stepped off the sidewalk and took two steps into the street for a better look. That’s when I saw him: a male teen pushing his way through the crowd. Behind him, in pursuit, I saw a tall man in a suit. Elderly people were pushed into one another as the teen bumped off them like a pinball. He soon left the sidewalk for the open road. That’s when I spotted the gun in his right hand.
I couldn’t tell why he was being chased, but as he approached me, I saw that his shirt was torn, and tattoos covered his chest. I’m not saying that made him a criminal, but I was in Chinatown, and I knew the neighborhood had Triads, a Chinese gang.
No sooner had I noticed his ink than he fired another shot at the suit following him. This kid is nuts. The sidewalks were packed with people, mostly families. If he kept shooting, the odds were that some innocent bystander would get hit.
I was off duty, but I still had my weapon on me. However, I didn’t want to encourage him to fire his gun by pulling out mine. I figured at his speed, I could trip him up. He wasn’t tall, but neither was I. A tackle was out of the question. I looked around for something to take his legs out but saw nothing. I worried whether my legs were long enough to tangle with his and if I could keep my balance. He was closing in. Fast. I had to decide.
Right as he was about to pass by, I stepped back into the street and swung my arm up as hard as I could. My forearm and fist caught him at the top of his chest, right below his Adam’s apple. The force stopped him and kicked his feet up in front of him, causing him to land flat on his back, hard. He groaned as the gun fell out of his hand, and I kicked it away. The clothesline method triumphed again.
A few seconds later, the man in the suit arrived and flipped the kid over. He wheezed pretty hard as he tried to speak. “I’m a detective. Back away.” He put a knee into the kid’s back and handcuffed him.
“You shouldn’t have interfered. It’s dangerous,” he said, still working on finding his breath.
My head jerked back, and my brow crinkled. I was expecting a thank you of some sort. “From the looks of it, you needed the help.”
“I was catching up,” he said between breaths.
He squatted, resting his hands on his thighs for a moment before standing fully upright. That’s when I really noticed his height—unusual for an Asian. He had to have been at least six two, though a little on the skinny side. Sweat poured down the sides of his face and seeped into his collar. I watched him loosen his tie.
“You okay? You look like you’re about to pass out.”
He squinted at me. “I’ll have you know I chased this guy up California before turning down Grant. You know how steep California is?”
“Mm-huh,” I said as I clucked my tongue.
Just then, another tall man in a suit appeared. He was bald, white, and muscular.
Let me guess, SFPD paired up the two tall guys. “You caught him. Good work,” he said with a Russian accent.
I cleared my throat.
Both men looked down at me. I shifted my weight to my left leg and folded my arms across my chest.
“She helped,” the Asian one admitted.
A large smile appeared on the other guy’s face, followed by a deep laugh. He then bent down and yanked the kid off the ground. He radioed for a squad car to meet him at the corner.
“Why were you chasing him?”
He paused before speaking. “He’s a wanted suspect.”
“Looks like a gang member with those tattoos on his chest.”
“You normally involve yourself in law enforcement matters? What are you, a first-year law student or something?”
The left eyebrow arched. “Only when I help law enforcement do their job.”
“Like I said, I had him.”
By then, Po Po and the kids had returned to my side. “Well, it looks like everything is under control.” I patted my stomach. “We just finished a large meal of dim sum. Time to go home and rest.” Zing!
Clearly irritated and ready to move on, the detective handed me his card. “If you end up seeking medical attention for your arm, call me. I can probably get the department to reimburse you for any expenses.”
“Thanks.” I snatched the card out of his hand with the arm I had used earlier.
I watched him hurry to catch up with his partner b
efore looking down at the card: Detective Kyle Kang, Personal Crimes Division.
Chapter 3
The next day, I arrived at the Philip Burton Federal Building at my usual time, 9:15 a.m. I had a travel mug full of hot tea in one hand and an onion bagel stuffed with cream cheese and double lox tucked away in my purse. My stomach grumbled during the elevator ride to my floor. I couldn’t wait to sit down and devour my breakfast.
The office doors opened to a quiet floor. That week, an unusual number of agents were out in the field working cases, which I loved. A little quiet time coupled with my lox bagel was all right with me. No sooner had I placed my breakfast on my desk than I heard the one thing capable of ruining my morning.
“Abby!”
Dammit! I looked to my left and saw my supervisor, Special Agent Scott Reilly, leaning out of his office and tugging at me with his index finger. Generally he was okay and fair with a sense of humor. But boy did he have the worst timing of anyone I had ever known. I slipped my heels back on, picked up my tea, and made my way over to his office.
“Take a seat.” He removed his wire-framed glasses and wiped his face with his hand before letting out a breath. “How’s that case with the attorney coming along?”
“We’re close to raining on his parade.”
The case I had been investigating involved an attorney who stole the identities of his terminally ill clients to fraudulently obtain millions of dollars from insurance companies. I thought I saw some sick bastards when I hunted serial killers back in Hong Kong, but this guy took it to a whole new level.
He would purchase variable annuities with death benefits and death put bonds and list his clients as co-owners. When they died, the bonds allowed survivor options, meaning the bond could be redeemed years before maturity at face value. Same thing with the annuities he purchased: they provided a guaranteed return of all money invested plus a guaranteed profit upon the death of the person named the annuitant. All he had to do was wait for them to die—which they did. We were days away from raiding his office and making an arrest.
