by P. D. Martin
“Gee, thanks.” Hart smiles. “You sure know how to make a girl feel wanted.”
I leave the lab at 5:45 p.m., giving myself just enough time to get home and grab a snack before my kung fu class. I’ve been studying kung fu for nearly eight years, and in addition to attending classes three times a week I also have one-on-one sparring training with my teacher for half an hour before the Monday-night class.
I’m only a block away from the school when my BlackBerry rings. The traffic’s too heavy to glance down at the display to see who’s calling, but my headset is configured to pick up after two rings.
“FBI, Anderson.”
“Hey, it’s Darren.”
Detective Darren Carter and I met sixteen months ago, when I was new to the Bureau and working out of the Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico. I was investigating a serial killer who’d struck in Washington, D.C. but started off on Darren’s turf—Tucson, Arizona. We hit it off immediately and have stayed in contact. And if I’m honest, Darren’s a contender to maybe, just maybe, break the drought of men seeing me in lingerie. Or maybe not. Most days I don’t want any contenders in that department, but sometimes…
“What’s up?” I ask.
“The usual. Murder. You?” Darren works in Homicide.
“Surprise, surprise, it’s murder in L.A., too.”
He sighs. “Why do we do it?”
I know he’s not serious, but I answer him anyway. “To get justice for the victims and hopefully save potential victims.”
“That’s right.” The comment sounds flippant but I know it’s not, not coming from Darren. Darren and I have both been touched, personally, by murder. For me it was my brother when I was eight, and for Darren it was his aunt, over ten years ago.
“What’s your case about?” Darren asks.
Cases are confidential, to a point, but there’s no harm in discussing the basics with a fellow law-enforcement professional.
“Little Tokyo murder. No ID and the guy’s got a weird throat injury. You?”
“Nothing that interesting. Gunshot wound and we’ve got a jealous ex-boyfriend we like for it. We’re waiting on evidence from the lab, but the ex isn’t that bright. I think the forensics will nail him.”
“So you’ve got your man.”
“Looks that way.”
“I’m just starting out on this one. No suspects yet.” I swing into a parking space just outside the studio. “Listen, Darren, I’ve got to go. Kung fu class.”
“Oh, yeah, Monday night. You can tell me all about the weird throat wound another time. Go kick some ass.”
I laugh. “Will do.”
I rush into the school right at 7:00 p.m., but still have to get changed. The place is quiet, with only three people here so far—my teacher, Sifu Lee; his assistant, Steve; and Marcus, one of the other advanced students. Lee is on the warm-up mats going through a series of blocks and strikes, and Steve and Marcus are both stretching in one corner. Lee looks up when I burst through the door.
“Sorry I’m late. I’ll be out in a second.”
He nods. Lee’s in his forties and half-Chinese. His five-eleven frame is muscular, but not bulky, and extremely strong. He trained in China and Hong Kong in many different kung fu forms before choosing Tiger and Crane. He then trained to sifu—master—stage and has been teaching in L.A. for over fifteen years. And, L.A. being L.A., he’s also had some involvement with the film business, training students who’ve gone on to become stunt doubles in movies.
In the changing room I pull on my uniform: baggy black pants, a black T-shirt with the school’s logo on the front and my black sash. I also slip into my special martial arts shoes before running out to join Lee.
“I take it you’re not warmed up?”
“No, sorry.”
While Lee continues his own training, I do some quick stretches to warm up my legs and follow through with rotations of most of my joints. I pay particular attention to my shoulders and elbows, knowing how easy it is to jar those joints or hurt the surrounding muscles if you’re not warmed up.
When I’m ready I give Lee a nod. We start with punches, which he counts out as I strike the pad he holds in front of me. Once we’ve done straight punches, arrow punches and leopard punches, we move on to blocks. Lee gently throws pre-arranged punches and kicks my way, which I defend.
We’ve been going for fifteen minutes when Lee says, “Ready to spar?”
“Sure.” I’m definitely warm…and sweaty. I take a drink of water and suit up in my protective gear, putting on my shin guards, gloves and helmet. My groin guard is underneath my uniform from when I was getting changed. Lee only puts on a helmet and a groin-piece over his clothing—his hands and shins are rock hard from thirty-five years of conditioning. Once we’re on the mats, Lee and I bow to each other.
“Okay, try to hit me.” He gives me a teasing smile.
Our individual sparring time always starts off this way and, as usual, the invitation is enough for my competitive spirit to hit overdrive. I stand side-on to him, in horse, guard up. He mirrors this position, waiting for the first incoming strike.
I go with a left jab, followed quickly by a right, then a left, then a right. He blocks them all effortlessly and with precision, but I don’t let this discourage me. A right hook punch followed by a straight kick and then a roundhouse kick still leave me no closer to hitting my target, and, in fact, I can feel a slight buzz in my shin where his forearm blocked my kick and connected with my leg. I’m wearing shin guards, but his forearms are amazingly hard. Damn, he’s good. Then again, I probably shouldn’t be able to connect a blow with my instructor. Not when he’s been studying kung fu most of his life.
I try again, with another series of kicks and punches, including a spinning side kick, multiple jabs and even some fakes, where I start to throw a punch or kick then withdraw and go for my real move. But he’s fast enough, even for these. As usual, he’s left untouched and I’m left frustrated. One of these days…
He smiles. “Okay, my turn.” He glances briefly at the wall clock—five minutes before class starts. Now, the stream of students coming through the doors is at its peak—allowing people just enough time to get changed. There are more sets of eyes on us, and some people have moved closer to see the action. The onlookers make me self-conscious, but they also spur me on. I may not have been able to hit Sifu Lee, but hopefully I’ll be able to block most of his incoming strikes. I’m also aware that he won’t be using full force or speed—that’s too dangerous, especially since we’re so unevenly matched. Lee’s hands are lethal weapons, so he’ll have to hold back.
Again we start side-on from each other, in horse stance with our guards up. Lee begins with a couple of punches delivered at low speed. After I easily block those, he starts to increase the pace. Blocking is definitely my strong point. I’ve always been able to pick what my sparring partner is about to do next and react accordingly. Until recently, I’d assumed it was good reflexes, but now I think maybe my psychic abilities allow me to sense what’s about to come.
I adjust back and cross-block Lee’s incoming roundhouse kick.
“Very good,” he says, a hint of surprise in his voice. He waits only a second before sending some faster strikes my way, all aimed at my head. Again, I’m able to block these, but this time it takes complete concentration.
I move down to block a low punch—Lee changed it to catch me off guard. He keeps them coming, high, middle, low, and throws in a few kicks, but only one punch connects and even then I’d blocked almost in time, diminishing its impact.
Lee bows. “I’m impressed. Your blocks are still much better than your punches, so let’s keep working on improving your strikes.”
I smile and notice with some triumph that there are a few beads of sweat on Lee’s upper lip. It’s taken me four months of these one-on-one sessions to get him to sweat. He definitely stepped things up toward the end, too, and he may even have been close to going full speed with the last series of strikes
.
We both take our helmets off and Lee gives me a small bow before turning to face the students who mill around us. “Okay everyone, line up please.”
I move to the front of the class, and Marcus and the other second- and third-dan black belts join me. We always line up according to level, with the most advanced students in the front.
“You nearly had him that time, Sophie,” Marcus says, before taking the spot next to me. Like Lee, Marcus is also of Asian descent, though I’d put him as only one-quarter. He’s taller, at around six-two, and more overtly muscular than Lee. He wears his hair short all over, which accentuates the masculine angularity of his face—a wide square jaw, pronounced brow and high cheekbones. His skin is slightly olive, but that could be an L.A. tan rather than his racial heritage.
“One of these days I’m going to connect.”
Marcus laughs, highlighting two large dimples.
“You ever tried sparring him?” I ask.
“Once. And once was enough. But I should do what you do, organize to come in early and train with him like that. It’d keep me on my toes.”
Marcus is probably the best in our class. He’s fast, strong and efficient—all the hallmarks of a good kung fu fighter. He doesn’t really need the extra training, but at least he’s modest about it.
Lee takes us through a quick warm-up before dividing us into groups of two. The first group starts on forms with his assistant, while Lee takes the rest of us over to an area that’s set up with mats and punching bags. My group works on punches, kicks, throws and techniques to break falls, before swapping with the other group to focus on our kung fu forms. With half an hour to go, we break into our levels, creating four groups—black belts, first-dan black belts, second-dan black belts and third-dan black belts. Tonight, we focus on punches, with Lee and Steve supervising and teaching us new moves as necessary.
At 8:55 p.m. Lee brings the whole group together again for a five-minute cooldown, and while my body starts to relent, my mind doesn’t. When I leave just after 9:00 p.m., my adrenaline’s still pumping. It’s going to take me a good couple of hours before I can even think about sleep.
Five
I arrive at the office at 7:30 a.m. the next morning, after completing my three-hundred-meter sprint at Westwood Park in sixty seconds. It wasn’t as fast as I was hoping, but I still got a total of twenty-one points across all the tests, enough to put me in the same league physically as the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team. Mission accomplished.
The white, twenty-story federal building looms less than a quarter mile from I–405, and the hum of the traffic is always audible from outside. The first nine floors of the building are taken up by Veterans Affairs and a few other smaller departments, with the FBI housed on floors ten to twenty. Level ten is accessible to the public and serves as our official reception point, but the rest of the FBI area is secured. Direct elevator access to floors eleven to twenty is via three clear portals in the building’s belly. The portals have two security doors—you step in and the door behind you closes, trapping you in the small space, the other door only opening after you’ve scanned your security card and entered the five-digit pin. Great security, but a pain in the ass at peak hours when the employees are siphoned into only three units. Still, the people-jam is in step with L.A.’s traffic jams.
When I get to my desk, I notice there’s already a message on my phone, so while my computer’s booting up I dial voice mail. The computerized recording tells me the call was received at 7:15 a.m., and then Ramos’s voice comes on.
“Hi, Agent Anderson. It’s Detective Ramos.” He sounds extra cheerful, and I know instantly that he’s got news of some description. Maybe a bullet was found last night. Or maybe the lab came through with a fingerprint match.
“Got a call from the DEA this morning. One of their guys recognized the picture we e-mailed out yesterday. Give me a call.”
That’s way better than a bullet…our victim’s name. I punch Ramos’s number into my phone straightaway. “Morning, it’s Anderson. I just got your message. That’s fantastic news!”
“Don’t get too excited. It’s only a visual ID. DEA’s been trying to work out who this guy is for three weeks. He just suddenly showed up in their surveillance shots.”
Damn. Just when I thought we had a name. “Where were the photos taken?”
“A house in Long Beach that the DEA’s got under surveillance. Suspected meth lab, and it looks like the Asian Boyz are running it.”
“Shit.” The Bureau estimates that L.A. has over four hundred gangs, with combined numbers of around forty thousand members. The Asian Boyz is one of the biggest. “So Long Beach is their territory?”
“Yeah. Asian Boyz originated in Long Beach and nowadays Asian Boyz Eastside and Asian Boyz Northside are based there.” He takes a breath. “Long Beach is also home to one of the world’s biggest ports.”
I follow the train of thought. “So the DEA thinks they’re exporting? Using the port to ship the drugs?”
“It’s one possibility. That’s why they haven’t moved on the house yet. They’re watching for distribution.”
“You know much about gangs?”
“Yes and no. I’ve lived in L.A. all my life, so I guess I have a good general knowledge, but I don’t work gangs much. The LAPD has over three hundred cops in our Gang Enforcement Division…it’s their bag, not mine. I even had to hand over that drive-by shooting last week, once the involvement of MS-13 and the Crips was confirmed. What about you?”
“I’ve been reading up on them since I’ve been in L.A., but it’s not an area of specialization for me, either.” I haven’t had to profile any gang-related crimes yet, although it’s possible the young boy’s murder in the arcade has ties to L.A.’s gang culture. Fifty-seven percent of homicides in the city are gang-related, and there are specialized cops and FBI agents who work gang-related crimes. They know gang behavior, not me. Guess it’s time I learned.
“We’re in dangerous territory,” Ramos says. “And so was our vic. He was seen at the Long Beach house on three separate occasions. They’ve e-mailed me a sample of the shots and he looks pissed.”
“Can you forward that e-mail?”
“Sure.”
I hear typing in the background as Ramos sends the photos.
The vic being annoyed ties in with my vision from the coroner’s office. I replay the images in my head and I realize…the car…it was a right-hand drive. It didn’t strike me as odd at first, because right-hand drive cars still look normal to me, even though I’ve been in the States for over a year. It means our guy got that call when he was in a country that drives on the left-hand side of the road. So we’re talking England, Australia or maybe an Asian country. The places that immediately spring to mind are Singapore, Hong Kong and Japan, but there are other Asian countries that drive on the left, too.
“Hey, Ramos. Maybe this guy is from overseas. He flies into the country to do drug business with the Asian Boyz, maybe the shipment’s even bound for his home turf. And the vic being from another country would also tie in with him suddenly appearing in the DEA’s surveillance shots. I bet he arrived in the States about three weeks ago. Let’s check his prints with Interpol and immigration. Our guy would have been fingerprinted on the way in.”
Most visitors flying into the US have their prints digitally captured and recorded. If we match this guy’s prints, we’ll have a name—or at least the name on his passport, if he used an alias.
“You know anyone at the State Department?” Ramos asks.
“No, but leave it with me. I’ll get a name soon enough.”
“Great.”
“Oh, and I forgot to tell you yesterday—I went back to look at the body after you left.” Given I had to sign in, at some point Ramos will find out I had another look at our vic, and I don’t want him to think I was excluding him from part of the investigation. “I realized as I was sitting in my car that the victim’s hands struck me as odd. It’s probably insignificant,
but when I went back I figured out what it was—his hands were manicured.”
“Manicured, huh? So he’s gay or one of those metro guys?” Ramos jokes.
I laugh. “Could be.”
“Actually, male manicures in L.A. aren’t that uncommon. Actors, you know?”
“I’ll take your word for it.” I pause. “His hands were very smooth, too. And before this news about his possible involvement with the Asian Boyz, I was thinking maybe he had a rough start but then turned himself around. That would explain the earlier injuries.”
Ramos is silent for a few beats. “Or maybe he just moved up the gang hierarchy. Didn’t need to be hands-on anymore.”
His conclusion is more likely than mine. Here I was romanticizing the guy’s past and thinking he’d grown up on the wrong side of the tracks and then straightened up, but he probably just got promoted. It certainly seems more probable now that we’ve got him associating with drug dealers with potential ties to the Asian Boyz.
I notice my computer has booted, so I start my e-mail program. At the top of my message list is the one from Ramos. “I’ve got your e-mail from the DEA.” I open up the four attached images. In each one, our victim looks either stressed or very obviously angry. “He does look pissed.”
“Maybe his lackeys weren’t doing their jobs.” He stops to consider. “If our guy is from overseas, we could have stumbled on an international drug ring.”
“I guess we should meet with…” I scan down the e-mail to the bottom, and the signature. “Special Agent Joe De Luca of the DEA. See what he’s got to say about our mystery guy.”
“I’ll set it up. You free all day?”
“Depends if we’re going to sit in on Hart’s experiment at three. Although obviously a meet with DEA will take priority.” Watching Hart take potshots at the light might reveal some interesting facts, but our presence isn’t necessary.
“I’ll try to set up something with the DEA today. And I better touch base with our Gang Enforcement Division, let them know our homicide’s looking like it might be their turf.”
