It had only been about a week since the first kill, barely a mention in the local paper. Who cared about a foolish old lady? Not San Francisco.
The Voice had no intention of making another mindless kill. No mistakes. This time the city by the bay would pay attention. The next showcase had to be someone the city would care about, a young person maybe? They always drew attention––but whom? There were plenty to choose from. How about someone with a bright future? Better yet, someone who has had everything handed to them.
Walking quietly with padded shoes allowed The Voice to barely leave a trace of his presence. Suddenly up ahead, the back door to a restaurant popped open. The clinking and clanking of multiple woks fed into the alley while a yellow light struggled to penetrate the fog.
The Voice stopped and leaned back against the wall. A thin kitchen worker appeared dragging two heavy bags of trash from the restaurant to a dumpster.
The Voice studied the young man. He appeared tired and his clothes were tattered beyond repair. Probably made pennies for a salary. He was not ungrateful. He was not aloof. He did not deserve to die.
This further convinced The Voice that the next choice had to be an ingrate––someone who has it all, yet was unthankful. The Voice knew exactly what to hunt: a spoiled-rotten teenager.
The Voice scampered through the alleyways along with the rats, crossing Grant Street every so often. This was the second pass through Chinatown, an hour into the hunt. The first tour revealed a lot of potentials but nothing felt right.
It was the spoiled young of the first generation families The Voice wanted. They were the ones who knew no economic hardship. They grew up comfortable with all the material things they could want and yet showed no appreciation.
In fact, these ingrates often had an air of entitlement. They did whatever they wanted and coveted the latest fashionable accessories. They attended private schools and took luxurious trips with their friends.
As they grew older, it only got worse. They refused to work in the family business. Too lazy. Too embarrassed. Too whatever. They drove BMWs, Mini Coopers and Audis. So self involved, they made for easy prey.
Suddenly a young one caught the eye of The Voice. He was perfect.
Chapter 30
The black Escalade crept along Grant Street. It was a recent model with tinted windows and a chrome trim package. Eminem radiated from the lowered driver-side window.
Behind the wheel was a young boy, seventeen or eighteen at the most. He had a smug look about him as he rested one hand on the top of the steering wheel and dangled the other outside the window. A cigarette protruded from his lips and he wore his San Francisco Giants cap off to the side.
You! Yes, you, spoiled one. You will do fine.
The teen was the only one in the vehicle. The Voice kept watch and followed closely, hoping an opportunity would present itself. And then a lucky break: The SUV turned down Jackson Street and into a gas station.
Like the wind, The Voice moved to take advantage of the opportunity. Disappearing into an alley The Voice later reappeared across the street from the gas station. Thirty seconds separated The Voice from his target.
The station attendant sat tucked away in a protective shell of an office. The spoiled one lowered his vanity mirror and checked his hair and fussed with a pimple on his chin.
Don’t worry. I have the perfect remedy for pimples. I get rid of you.
The spoiled one got out of the SUV and made his way over to the attendant to pay for the gas. He spoke on his cell phone the entire time.
The Voice darted across the street straight toward the vehicle. Almost there. Hurry, before everything is ruined.
The spoiled one reached the attendant booth at the same time that The Voice reached the passenger side of the vehicle. Leaning back against the metal door, facing the street, The Voice remained invisible even under the cloak of florescent lighting thanks to the foggy haze.
It didn’t matter; soon, The Voice would be in the darkness. That was the beauty of third-row seating. Slip inside, blend, wait, and mutilate. Perfect.
Crouched against the Escalade, The Voice reached for the door handle. It was locked. He tried the rear door. It too was locked. Time was running out, and his opportunity slipping away. The Voice knew he had to move around the vehicle to the driver’s side and risk being spotted, even with the cover of the fog.
Over by the attendant booth, the spoiled one fumbled with his pocket, trying to remove cash. Mixed in with twenties, even a few hundreds, were receipts and gum wrappers. He fished out a twenty and slid it through the opening below the two inches of bulletproof glass.
The Voice moved around to the back of the vehicle. The front passenger door had to be open. Do it now. What are you waiting for? Now!
The spoiled one declined the receipt and asked for pack of cigarettes.
Annoyed, the attendant looked up from her iPod. “What was that?”
“Pack of Marlboro Red. Can I get one?”
The Voice, still trapped behind the vehicle, wondered if the spoiled one was on his way back. Anger filled The Voice’s head; it had hesitated and was now unsure. The Voice knew it had to make a move soon.
Peeking around the vehicle, The Voice saw the spoiled one still at the attendant stand. Go now!
The spoiled one shoved the change into his pocket and headed back to his SUV.
Tap, tap, tap, the pack sounded off against the palm of his hand. He lifted the handle off of the pump and stuck it into the vehicle’s gas tank. The spoiled one slipped a cigarette into his mouth.
And then it appeared, right in front of him. The spoiled one froze for a second, and then lit his cigarette, ignoring the no smoking sign.
Chapter 31
Detective Kyle Kang was a fifteen-year veteran of the force. Born and raised in Chinatown, Kang was one of the few trusted by its citizens. Besides Chinatown, Central had the task of covering North Beach, Fisherman’s Wharf, the Financial District and the three famous hills, Telegraph, Nob and Russian.
He was settling into bed and looking forward to Letterman when his cell phone rang. “Not now,” he mumbled. Who calls after eleven?
The police did.
The caller ID read Peter Sokolov. Sokolov was Kang’s best friend and his partner on the force. He emigrated from Russia with his mother when he was fifteen. Even then he was a big man, already at six-foot-two and one hundred ninety-five pounds. Unfortunately his father was a gambler and got in over his head with the local Russian vory––thieves. And then one day, he disappeared.
Kang met Sokolov in high school and the two had stuck together ever since. They were an odd pairing: a Chinese and a Russian. Kang also stood tall at six-foot-one. People referred to them as The Wall and The Curtain.
“Tell me you’re calling to wish me sweet dreams.”
“Sorry, buddy. We caught a bad one. Meet me at the Chevron on Kerry and Washington.”
Kang groaned. He was tired and had just come off of a large case involving two rival gangs shooting up the Embarcadero. A few tourists got put down as a result of the exchange. This got the attention of the media which got the attention of the mayor, who got the attention of the chief of police, who came down hard on the captain in charge of Central Station, who then made it a point to get all up in Kang’s ass to close the case quickly. Thirteen million tourists visited these areas every year. That was a lot of income for the city, and the city didn’t like anyone messing with its payday.
When Kang got to the Chevron station, the area around the gas pumps and a black Cadillac Escalade had already been cordoned off. His first instinct was a drive-by shooting but there was no broken glass. A team of techies were combing and sifting the area, hopefully not tainting the evidence.
The tall blonde with her hair in a bun was a comforting sight. Carol Kissinger was the supervisor for the San Francisco Police Department CSI unit. Her crew always ran a tight ship, real professional. That’s a good start.
Kang didn’t see the co
roner’s van anywhere. This meant the body was still here.
“Kyle!” Sokolov shouted.
He saw Sokolov standing next to an officer as he waved him over.
“Kyle, this is Officer Shen, first to arrive on the scene. He is giving me a rundown. Only one witness: the attendant.”
Kang didn’t recognize the officer, a newbie. “Hello, I’m Detective Kyle Kang. Anyone talked to the witness yet?”
“I did a prelim to get a handle on what happened,” Officer Shen said. “According to the attendant, the owner of the Escalade pulled in, exited the vehicle and paid for $20 worth of gas and a pack of smokes. She said she didn’t pay much attention––”
“She?”
“Yeah, Latina over there.”
About twenty feet from them was a woman sitting on the curb outside of the attendant office. She picked at her nails while she sucked on a cigarette. Her left leg bounced up and down a mile a minute. She looked to be in her mid-twenties. A medic was busy looking her over. Her eyes were empty, blinded from what she must have seen earlier. Kang knew that look of emptiness. He had seen it on hundreds of victims and witnesses.
“Odd for a woman to be working the night shift alone in this area,” Kang said.
“Yeah, I didn’t get the impression it was her usual shift,” Shen replied.
“This woman was covering for someone?” Sokolov asked.
“Looks like it.”
“Officer Shen, what makes you think she was covering?”
“She was afraid to leave the booth.”
“Afraid?”
“When I spoke with her earlier, she said about twenty minutes had passed before she noticed the vehicle was still parked at the pumps. She tried engaging the victim over the speaker but there was no response. She tried again ten minutes later and still there was no response. She did not want to leave the booth, even tried calling her cousin to come down.”
“Did the cousin make it over here?”
“No, he was busy but he offered to stay on the phone while she went to see what was going on. That’s when she discovered the body.”
“Make sure I get a copy of the report as soon as possible and she doesn’t leave. I’ll want to do my own interview as well. Is someone tracking down the cousin?”
“Yeah. We got a unit heading over to his place now, detective.”
Kang and Sokolov headed over to the Escalade.
“What do we know about the victim?”
“Asian male. Eighteen. Driver’s license tells us he’s Marcus Lang. No priors. School ID says he’s attending Stuart Hall in Pacific Heights. Most likely comes from a well-to-do family.”
Sokolov stopped Kang a few feet from the body. “It’s bad,” he warned.
As Kang got closer to the SUV, he saw a large red pool of thick liquid gathered below the vehicle. “Is all of that blood under there? Was the body moved?”
“It is. Nobody touched the body. The kid bled out entirely,” Sokolov said.
Kang snapped on a pair of latex gloves. He peered into the vehicle. Marcus Lang was as white as a ghost. A large wound opened up the entire right side of his neck. The length of the wound ran smooth then jagged then smooth again. Someone had trouble with their weapon. He could see the exposed jugular vein almost hanging outside the neck like a rubber hose. Parts of the wound ran deep, enough to see white bone.
Sokolov let out loud sigh. “It looks like a blood bomb went off in here.”
“How did the blood get out? Was the door open?”
“I think it was open just a bit. The pump was still in the gas tank so the kid was probably waiting.”
“A lot of force would be needed to leave his neck open like that, don’t you think?”
“Kyle, it looks like some type of blade was the weapon.”
“Yeah, definitely parts of it scream that, but look over here.” Kang’s finger pointed at flap of skin that looked torn rather than cut. “What happened here? Did the knife hit a snag? Also the entire carotid artery looks ripped open rather than slit open. Either this guy’s an amateur or he’s rusty.”
Kang flicked on his pen flashlight for a better look. “One things for sure, he wanted the kid dead. Wounds like this are guaranteed to bleed the body dry. The heart will pump everything it’s got right out of the body. Even pump when there’s nothing left to pump.”
Sokolov patted Kang on the back. “One more thing, boss. The thumbs of the victim were hacked off. We found them in the ashtray.”
“Hacked off? Any evidence of gang affiliation?”
“None. The kid is clean.”
Kang didn’t know what to make of the thumbs. Sometimes street gangs will mutilate the body to make a point. Get up into organized crime and the Triads have been known to chop up their victims. They favor the knife as a weapon. But there was nothing at the scene so far that pointed to either one.
“Do we know if Marcus was alone? Any passengers?”
“The kid was riding solo tonight. The attendant said she was pretty sure the victim was alone and no one else pulled up to the station during that time.”
Kang opened the rear door and leaned inside. “From the angle of the wound, the killer most likely struck from there, the back seat. But if he wasn’t a passenger, how did he get into the back seat?”
“He slipped inside while our victim paid for gas?”
“Which means he was stalking the boy. His gold chains are still around his neck. Robbery wasn’t the motive.”
Kang walked around to the other side of the vehicle. Both passenger doors were locked.
“If the attacker was following the boy, it had to have been by foot. Not for long, though. It would be impossible to keep up. When our victim got out to pay for the gas, our killer could have come out from hiding and taken cover here.”
Kang knelt down next to the passenger door of the SUV. “He could have then slipped around and into the vehicle. The limousine tinting on the windows is the perfect cover.”
Kang looked up and spied the eye in the sky. “Have we pulled the surveillance tapes?”
“The owner’s the only one who has a key to the safe box where the recorder is. He’s on his way.”
“Let’s hope Big Brother saw something other than fog.”
“Kyle, remember the old woman from the alley a week ago? She also had a knife wound to the neck and bled out.”
He turned to Sokolov, “You thinking there’s a connection?”
“We ruled out robbery there too. The victim had money in her pocket.”
Great. A serial killer.
•••
The murder of Marcus Lang was the top story the next morning. The San Francisco Chronicle dubbed the murder “The Chinatown Chop” because of the near decapitation of the victim. This time there was no mistake. San Francisco was paying attention.
Chapter 32
Kowloon Peninsula, Hong Kong
I probably looked dead to the untrained eye. It took two nudges for the hurried flight attendant to wake me.
“We’ll be landing in twenty minutes,” she said. “Please bring your seat forward.”
I lifted the shade to my window and spied Victoria Harbor down below. It wasn’t much from above, but still I was excited. I’d already made arrangements to stay at a wannabe Radisson. I remember the pictures on the hotel’s website: large beds with tan and white bedding, okay brown furniture, and a twenty-seven-inch television. It looked like a great deal for a centrally located hotel: only a hundred and fifty a night.
The hotel was located in the heart of the Kowloon, near the Mong Kok district. This was the home of the famous Temple Night Market, the red-light district, and many bars and nightclubs where Triads are known to hang out.
It was nearly eight when I got to my hotel room, and I was beat. For a minute I thought about grabbing a bite to eat but decided it wasn’t necessary. It would be better for my body if I lay down for a few.
I noticed a dark spot on the ceiling. It looked like an elephant
shooting water onto his back with his trunk. Sadly, this was my way of tricking my brain into thinking that it wasn’t a large mold spot with a healthy growth going on. It wasn’t too bad. Better than the long black pubic hair I found lurking on the toilet seat.
What did it matter? I was here to put Get Organized into action. Soon enough, I would be rolling in the dough and luxury hotels would be the new standard. If this worked out, I would need to find a way to thank Mr. Fu. New teeth, maybe?
The next morning, the pea green curtains on the windows did nothing to mask the sun from forcing me to accept an early rise. I glanced over at the beige alarm clock. It was 7:05 a.m. local time. If the honking of the traffic on the street below was any indication, Hong Kong had already started its day. I got out of bed and jumped into the shower.
Thirty minutes later I sported a clean-shaven face and wide-awake smile. I was all too anxious to start my search. However, I needed one more thing to complete my ensemble. I dug around in both suitcases until I found it.
In my hand I held a snazzy metal case. I flipped the lid open. Inside were fifty freshly minted, double-stock business cards.
Darby Stansfield
Telecommunications Consultant
[email protected]
Helping the organized get organized.
I printed five hundred cards before leaving San Francisco. It was important to come across as a legitimate business. I took this venture seriously and I wanted my clients to take me seriously. As far as I knew, I was the first and only telecommunications consultant to the underworld. Well ain’t that something.
By the time I made it out of the hotel, the uneven sidewalks were full of stop and go shoppers. The building facades were littered with windows and balconies filled with the morning’s washings––mostly socks, shirts, and panties. Weaving my way though the human traffic jam required some deft side steps, supplemented with generous doses of stiff arms.
The most obvious thing to do was to seek out Wi, but that was impossible. Mr. Fu never said what became of him. Still, I had what I thought were two solid leads to pursue. The most enticing were the massage parlors Mr. Fu and Wi operated. Li Li was the madam managing the parlors for the cousins. Mr. Fu never mentioned a last name, but he spoke fondly of her. It was clear to me the relationship between the two was more than professional. An Internet search for Li Li came up without any useable leads, but Mr. Fu did remember the names for some of the parlors. A few were still operating. Li Li could still be alive and in business. It was my job to find out.
Darby Stansfield Thriller Series (Books 1-3 & Bonus Novella) Page 8
