Gone in Hong Kong (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order)
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“Got paid by who?”
“I don’t know his name,” Pak said. “He was just a voice on the phone.”
KONG PACED, two seconds away from planting the hatchet in the man’s skull. Then he made a sour face. “I’m losing my patience,” he said. “We’re at the point of no return. You need to understand that.”
Pak looked at Kong but couldn’t focus.
He collapsed onto his back and held the wound.
“I’m bleeding to death,” he said. “I’m just an artist. Leave me alone.”
Kong stood there, not sure what to do.
Emmanuelle shook his arm.
“He’s dying,” she said.
“I can see that.”
Emmanuelle slapped Pak’s face until he focused on her. “Do you have a needle and thread anywhere?”
“Kitchen,” he said. “Drawer.”
To Kong, “Get it.” Then to Pak, “I’m going to stitch you up.”
He said nothing.
Then his eyes closed.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Day Seven—August 9
Sunday Afternoon
______________
A WAVE ROLLED OVER PRARIE’S BODY. She closed her eyes and held her breath until there was no breath left. Then at the absolute last second, the water rolled back and she choked for air. She’d be able to do that two more times maybe three, then the water would be over her for too long, just a second too long but that’s all it would take.
She’d breathe in while she was still under.
She’d drown.
She said goodbye to the people she loved.
Then braced for death.
The grim reaper had come for her.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Day Seven—August 9
Sunday Afternoon
______________
THE COTAI STORM HOTEL & CASINO had enough glitz and glamour and lights and action to rival the Bellagio or Mandalay Bay or anything Monte Carlo had to offer. Take away the Asian signs and faces, and it might as well have been sitting on Las Vegas Boulevard. Teffinger grabbed Fan Rae’s hand, led her to an opulent bar with a octopus tank backdrop, and ordered two Margaritas from a cute woman in skimpy sailor-girl attire. He gave her a healthy tip, looked at his watch and said, “We’re supposed to meet Jack Poon in forty-five minutes. Where would that be?”
She thought about it and shrugged.
“I don’t know. The penthouse?”
“Right,” Teffinger said. “That’s what he said. Where’s the elevator for that?”
She pointed.
“It’s all the way over there,” she said, “past the tigers. The elevator on the right serves the top three floors. There’s an operator. Just check in with him and tell him you have an appointment.”
“Thanks,” Teffinger said. “Can we take our drinks with us?”
“Absolutely.”
They headed that way.
Fan Ran linked her arm through his as they walked and said, “You get too much just by using your smile. It’s not fair.”
“Actually, it only works 80 percent of the time.”
“And what do you do the rest of the time?”
“Use my mean look,” he said.
“You got one of those?”
He nodded.
“Unfortunately.”
THEY PLAYED THE PASS LINE at a party-hardy craps table that had a good view of the elevators and waited. They were down $300 HKD when Brittany So Kwak finally stepped out of the elevator.
A man was with her.
They stepped to the side to finish a conversation.
Teffinger leaned over and whispered in Fan Rae’s ear—“Is that Poon?”
“Negative.”
After a few moments, the P.I and the man walked away in different directions.
Teffinger and Fan Rae finished their hand.
“You take him,” Teffinger said. “I’ll take her.”
“Where do we hook up?”
Good question.
“Across the street,” he said. “The more we’re away from the cameras of this place the better.”
TEFFINGER EXPECTED THE P.I. to get into one of the casino’s private limousines for a ride to the Predator. Instead, she sat down at a Baccarat table, laid a handful of bills on the table and got a stack of chips.
Teffinger watched from a distance.
A cocktail girl passed.
He grabbed her arm and said, “What’s your name?”
She stared as if trying to place him, then grinned.
“You’re the man from the newspaper!” she said. “The one who was partying with Yuki!”
Teffinger nodded.
“Right, what’s your name?”
“Yen,” she said. “This is so exciting. Is Yuki here? Is she with you?”
“No,” Teffinger said. “Not right at the moment. Do you know how to play Baccarat?”
She did.
And told him.
Two minutes later, Teffinger sat down next to Brittany So Kwak and bought as many chips as he could without breaking out the small bills.
The woman looked at him, just for a heartbeat, then turned away.
“How you doing?” he said.
She turned back to him.
“That’s not the question,” she said.
“So what is the question, then?”
“The question is, How is Yuki doing?”
Teffinger smiled.
Then he pulled out his phone, dialed her number and handed it to the woman. “Here, ask her yourself.”
Chapter Seventy
Day Seven—August 9
Sunday Afternoon
______________
WHILE EMMANUELLE CLEANED the artist’s wound and sewed his chest closed, Kong searched the house. He found the two purses missing from the VW Passat, but didn’t find anything to indicate who commissioned Pak to paint the fakes. Maybe the man was telling the truth, namely the person—the he—was just a voice on the phone. The interesting thing was Pak’s bank statements which showed five separate cash deposits of $1 million HKD, consistent with Park’s story that he got paid and that was the end of his involvement.
It made sense.
What use could he serve, other than as the artist?
On the other hand, would he really get involved in something so big without knowing who the other players were?
And if he did know, he’d have to protect them.
No question.
The stakes were too high.
Stratospheric.
If he gave them up, they’d kill him.
If he even thought about giving them up, they’d kill him.
PAK SPENT THE NEXT TWO HOURS slipping in and out of unconsciousness. When he finally got to his feet, he went to the back window and looked out over the sea.
“The tide’s going out,” he said. “It crested over an hour ago.”
“Forget the tide,” Emmanuelle said. “Tell me where Prarie is.”
Pak got a distant look.
Then led her into the smaller of the two bedrooms.
He pointed to the bed and said, “She was right there, with her hands and feet tied, still sleeping at seven this morning when I started to paint. When I checked up on her at eight, that window that you see open right there was open, and she was gone.” He walked them over to the window. “See that blood right there on that little jag of wood that sticks out? My guess is that’s hers. She scraped herself when she dropped out. I searched around outside but she was gone.”
Emmanuelle wrinkled her forehead.
“If that’s true, she would have surfaced by now.”
Pak shrugged.
“She probably got scared and headed into the hills,” he said. “You can be up there for hours before you hit a road.”
Emmanuelle called the InterContinental.
No one answered the room phone.
She looked at Kong.
“What do we do, search the hills?”
&nbs
p; He grunted.
“It’d be a waste of time,” he said. “She could be a million different places.”
THEY LOOKED AT PAK, searching for lies and finding none.
“If she dies,” Emmanuelle said, “you die too. Make no mistake about that.”
Pak tensed up with defiance.
“You’re the ones who broke into my house, not the other way around,” he said. “And you’re the ones who swung knives at me. If something happens to her, she brought it on herself. I’m just an artist minding my own business in my own home. She left and she’s gone. She’s not my problem.”
No one said anything.
Then Kong grabbed Emmanuelle’s arm and said, “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
She grabbed the purses.
Kong got in his car and took off.
She followed in the VW.
Chapter Seventy-One
Day Seven—August 9
Sunday Afternoon
______________
WHEN TEFFINGER SHOWED UP across the street two hours later, Fan Rae said, “Where have you been?” He told her—playing Baccarat next to their P.I. friend, Brittany So Kwak. “She gave me her number,” he said. “I’m supposed to call her tonight.”
“Well aren’t you the little Romeo—”
The comment was meant to be light but had an undercurrent.
He wiped sweat off his forehead.
“What’d you get on the guy? Anything?”
“I got enough that you’re not going to need that phone number.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Do tell.”
“I’ll cost you a kiss.”
He paid up and said, “Talk.”
SHE TOLD HIM she followed the man to the Venetian where he checked in under the name Vance Wu.
“How’d you get his name?”
“I got in line right behind him.”
“Did he see you?”
“Of course, but I was just one more person checking in. It didn’t mean anything.”
“So you actually checked in?”
Yes, she did, she didn’t have an option not to.
Teffinger scratched his head.
“Why would he check into the Venetian if he’s here to see Poon? If he’s going to stay in town, why wouldn’t he stay at Poon’s place?”
“Teffinger, focus,” Fan Rae said.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I just told you his name. Vance Wu.”
“I know, I heard you.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“And, does that ring any bells?”
Teffinger searched his memory.
No.
It didn’t.
Was it supposed to?
“Okay, let me give you a hint,” Fan Rae said. “What’s the name of the missing woman?”
“Syling Wu,” Teffinger said. “Okay, I get it, same surname.”
Fan Rae nodded.
“That’s what I like about you Teffinger,” she said. “Nothing escapes that genius mind of yours. Our man, Vance Wu, is Syling Wu’s father.”
“Are you sure?”
She was.
“I already checked it out.”
Teffinger raked his hair back with his fingers.
“So Jack Poon and Vance Wu hired a P.I. to find Wu’s missing daughter.”
“That’s what it looks like.”
“A P.I. who believes that Syling was taken by someone,” Teffinger added. “At least according to the white-panties roommate.”
“Right.”
“The P.I. must believe that because either Jack Poon or Vance Wu told her.”
Fan Rae cocked her head.
“Quite possibly,” she said.
“So how did they know?”
“Easy,” Fan Rae said.
TEFFINGER LOOKED AT HER.
Confused.
“Easy, meaning what?”
“That’ll cost you a kiss,” she said.
He paid up, then said, “Talk.”
“Easy, because whoever took Syling Wu told either Jack Poon or Vance Wu that he took her,” Fan Rae said.
Teffinger pondered it.
“So what are you saying? That she’s being held for ransom?”
“That’s my theory.”
“I’m impressed.”
They walked in silence, dealing with the heat and checking out the scenery.
“The target must be Poon,” Teffinger said. “He’s the one with the deep pockets, unless there’s something to Vance Wu that I don’t know about. I wonder if a payoff is set for later today or tonight. Maybe that’s why Vance Wu is hanging around town.”
Chapter Seventy-Two
Day Seven—August 9
Sunday Afternoon
______________
KONG WAS HALFWAY BACK TO HONG KONG when his phone rang and a female’s voice came through. “This is Brittany So Kwak,” the woman said. “I believe Jack Poon mentioned me.”
“You’re the P.I.,” Kong said.
“Exactly,” she said.
“I’m at your disposal.”
“Good, because there’s been a development. A man and a woman followed me today from my flat to Macau, where I had a meeting with Poon this afternoon. The man later sat down next to me at a Baccarat table and tried to get in good with me. I played along and gave him my number. Then I coordinated with Poon as to what to do. He wants me to meet the man tonight for a drink and find out what he’s up to. He wants you to be in the shadows.”
Sure.
No problem.
“Call me with the particulars once you get them,” he said.
“We have lots of footage of the two from the casino’s surveillance cameras,” she said. “Poon’s going to email some pictures to you. The guy, by the way, is in today’s paper, in the entertainment section. Apparently he was partying with Yuki last night at the Dragon-i.”
“Yuki the singer?”
“Right.”
“I’m impressed,” Kong said. “Who is this guy?”
“His name’s Nick Teffinger. Poon doesn’t like him.”
“That’s not healthy.”
KONG HUNG UP AND SWITCHED GEARS. The woman he was supposed to kill—d’Asia—lived in a fourth-floor flat in a nice apartment building in Causeway Bay, coincidentally less than a thirty minute walk from his boat.
He headed over, just for grins, and knocked on the woman’s door.
If she opened, he was going to punch her in the nose as hard as he could and then snap her neck.
He didn’t have time to mess with her.
The real money was in the paintings.
No sounds came from within.
No one answered.
He knocked again, just to be sure.
Same thing.
No response.
Now what?
SUDDENLY THE DOOR ACROSS THE HALL opened, just a touch, and a young girl about ten peeked through the crack. She held a doll in her left hand.
“I’m looking for the woman who lives here,” Kong said. “Do you know when she gets home?”
“She hasn’t been here for a couple of weeks.”
“She hasn’t?”
“Uh uh.”
“Where’s she been?”
The girl opened the door wider and shrugged.
“I don’t know,” she said. “A lady’s been looking for her too.”
“Do you know the lady’s name?”
No.
She didn’t.
“What’s your name?” Kong asked.
“Anki Bo Lam.”
Kong rubbed her head.
“You’re a very pretty girl, Anki Bo Lam,” he said. “Your doll’s very pretty too. It was nice to talk to you.”
Kong walked down the hall.
“My mom has the key to her mailbox,” the girl said.
Kong stopped.
Then came back.
“She does?
“Yes.”
“Does your mom send her mail to her?”
Anki Bo nodded.
“Do you know where she sends it?”
“No. My mom knows.”
“Is your mom home?”
“No.”
“Does your mom have it written down, where she sends the mail?”
“Yes,” she said. “It’s on the refrigerator.”
“Can I see it for a minute? What your mom has written down—”
She fetched it for him.
He memorized the address.
Then he handed it back and rubbed her head.
“You’re a very nice girl.”
Chapter Seventy-Three
Day Seven—August 9
Sunday Afternoon
______________
THE THREE ADDITIONAL LONG BREATHS that Prarie needed actually carried her through high tide. Each successive breath after that was a little less demanding. Now, two hours later, the water didn’t even touch her any longer.
But now she had new demons—the heat, the sun and the incredible screaming of her muscles.
Pak had abandoned her to die.
She knew that.
Then something unexpected happened.
She heard voices up by the house, voices other than Pak’s.
“Help me!”
The words came out scratched, weak, the victim of insanely dry vocal cords.
Help me!
Help me!
Please somebody help me!
Then someone said, “Hey! Look down there! There’s a woman.”
By the time they got to her, she was crying; crying with joy, crying with relief, crying with thanks that she had been strong enough to make it. One set of hands worked at untying her wrists, another worked on her ankles.
Then she was free.
Movement was painful.
The men didn’t force her.
They were gentle and flipped her over.
She gasped and recoiled.
They were the men from the warehouse, the friends of the man she shot.
“Well I’ll be damned,” one of them said. “Look at this.”
THEY CARRIED HER up the bluff to the house. Inside, things were worse than she thought. The artist, Guotin Pak, was lying face down on the studio floor with a hatchet buried two inches into the back of his skull.