The Killing Hands

by P. D. Martin

  “Yeah.” I talk Hana through my spreadsheet and the columns I’ve set up. “So all you need to do is look up each person, write up any criminal record they’ve got and put a Yes or No in the fingerprint column.”

  “Sounds easy.”

  “Yeah, just time-consuming.” I flick the ring on my finger. “I’ll split the spreadsheet in two and forward half on to you.”

  “Great. I’ll get started on it today.”

  “Thought you guys had the day off.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “No, relax. It can wait until tomorrow. Besides, your folks are still there, right?”

  “Yeah. They fly out early tomorrow morning. What about you? Are you going to follow your own advice?” Hana teases.

  “I am, actually. You think my mother would let me spend any more time on this today?”

  She laughs. “True.”

  Although I’d normally never call it a day when there’s so much to do, today I find myself tired and my concentration waning. I guess this is the closest I’ve come to a full day’s work in nearly two weeks. I’d planned to spend at least a couple of hours flicking through the personnel files, but the mole will have to wait until tomorrow.

  Twenty-Six

  I wake up to movement in the kitchen. Mum.

  I stretch. “Good morning.”

  “I’m sorry, darling. I was trying to be quiet.”

  “That’s okay.” I look at my watch. “Whoa, it’s eight-thirty.” I sit up. “Can’t believe I slept so late.”

  “Maybe yesterday tired you out?” She says it tentatively, trying a different approach.

  Man, I hate it when she’s right. “Maybe a little,” I admit.

  She smiles, humble but triumphant.

  “But I still need to get some work done today, Mum. And I was hoping to visit Detective Ramos, too.”

  “How is he?”

  “Getting better. I spoke to his wife yesterday, and it looks like they’ll release him some time next week.”

  “That is good news.” She brings me over a glass of orange juice. “I’m sure he won’t mind if you visit him on the weekend if you’re not up to it today. You need to take it easy, darling. You’re expecting too much from your body.”

  “I’m fine, Mum. Really.” I down the orange juice and stand up, giving her a hug. “I can’t believe you and Dad are leaving tomorrow.”

  “I know.” She plays with my hair. “I’ve really enjoyed this visit…even with everything that’s happened.”

  I smile. “Me, too.”

  “I know I’ve nagged you a lot…about work.”

  “It’s okay, Mum. It’s probably just as well I’ve had someone to keep me in line.”

  “I’m glad you realize that, Sophie.”

  “I do.” Despite my resistance and complaining, I know that if Mum and Dad hadn’t been here I would have done more harm than good.

  She brings me in for a hug. “I wish we could see you more, honey.”

  “What are you doing in July?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “Don’t know. Our usual Christmas-in-July party for your father, I guess.”

  “Well, after that, let’s meet for a holiday in Hawaii.”

  She gives me another hug. “That’d be wonderful, darling.”

  “I’ll wait a couple of weeks and then submit a request for leave.”

  “Oh, Soph. That sounds so good. A real family holiday.” She stands up and races into my bedroom. “Bob, we’re going to meet Soph in Hawaii in July.”

  Mum and Dad come out of the bedroom together, hand in hand.

  Dad gives me a grin. “That’s great news, honey.” He’s dressed and his hair’s wet—I didn’t even hear the shower this morning. I must have been in a deep sleep.

  I throw a fleece on over my pajamas. “Have you guys had breakfast?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “You wanna do brunch? Down the road?”

  “Sounds good.”

  They’re both smiling a little too much, so I decide to set them straight. “I still need to do some work today, right?”

  Dad sighs. “We know.”

  “Give me fifteen minutes.”

  I jump in the shower and lean back into the water, finally able to enjoy the sensation of warm water on my left shoulder blade without pain. I am healing.

  My estimate is good, and I’m showered, dressed and ready within fifteen minutes. I lead the way to a small, Italian-style café a few blocks from my apartment. It’s busy for a Thursday, but we manage to get a table.

  When the waiter comes to take our orders, I go for French toast and a soy latte. Mum and Dad both order bacon and eggs.

  Dad raises his eyebrows. “I was sure you’d go for the fruit, yogurt and muesli.”

  “I normally do here, but I’m starving and the French toast is delicious.” I grin. “It does come with strawberries.” I’ve only had it a couple of times, usually going for the healthier alternative, but today I feel like treating myself.

  I’m devouring my meal, eating like a woman who hasn’t seen food in days, when my phone rings.

  My parents both look at me, a touch-it-and-you-die look.

  I hold my hands up. “I’ve got to at least see who it is.” I grab my BlackBerry out of my bag and look at the screen. Petrov. Damn. “It’s the SAC for this investigation.”

  “Sack?” Mum says.

  “Special agent in charge,” Dad whispers as I answer the phone.

  “Hey, Petrov.”

  “Anderson. You free?”

  “In about fifteen minutes.”

  “Good. Meet us at Joe’s Diner, 10901 Lindbrook Drive, in half an hour.” The phone goes dead.

  Well, that was bizarre. It must be something to do with the mole.

  Half an hour later I run into Petrov, just as he’s arriving at the diner.

  “Cloak-and-dagger?” I ask.

  “Something like that.” He opens the door for me and I see De Luca already sitting in the end booth. “This is our usual meeting place,” Petrov explains.

  “Welcome to our club,” De Luca says as I take a seat.

  The walk, albeit short, has left me a little breathless, a fact that I hope I’m hiding. I’m one of the few people De Luca and Petrov can trust now, and I don’t want to let them down.

  “How’s Agent Young doing?”

  “Still alive. That is what you meant?” De Luca’s words are harsher than his tone.

  “Yes.”

  The waitress comes over and we all order coffee. When Petrov orders two, I ask him if we’re expecting someone else.

  “Sure are. Our boss.”

  On cue, I look up to see Brady opening the door. He joins us at the end table, not even glancing up until he’s seated. This is obviously a regular routine for these guys.

  “Gentlemen.” Brady gives them a nod, and then looks at me. “Sorry to get you in when you’re on leave, Anderson.”

  Petrov clears his throat.

  Brady notices the reaction, but keeps talking. “How are you feeling?”

  “Good. Much better, thanks, sir.”

  He nods. “So, what’s the big news?”

  “We’ve finally got confirmation from inside,” De Luca says. “Young has been able to verify that the Yakuza does have someone in the L.A. Gang Impact Team, but he hasn’t been able to get a name. Moto finally made a reference to an inside source, but only referred to the person as ‘our insider.’ Didn’t even indicate whether we’re talking a he or a she.”

  Four cups are placed in the middle of the table, and the waitress pours steaming coffee into each. “Cream and sugar on the table, folks.”

  Once she has gone I say, “I’m still not convinced about Hana. To say she left her BlackBerry in her car the night Ramos and I were shot…an agent is never without their phone.”

  “I know what you’re saying, Anderson.” De Luca takes a sip of his coffee. “But I’m afraid it’s not the first time someone’s forgotten something at an inopportu
ne moment. It could be a genuine excuse.”

  I sigh. “I don’t know.” Even though before I got shot I was getting along well with Hana—I liked her and still do—I find myself looking suspiciously at everyone now.

  “Petrov tells me you’ve got the personnel files.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I know what’s going on, Anderson. That you’re working from home.” Brady’s tone is judgmental, but I know he can’t truly be upset about having another resource on the case, even part-time. He’s not the caring-sharing type—he just wants the job done.

  “I’ve been doing a little bit, yes, sir.”

  “You suspect Agent Kim? From her personnel file?”

  “Actually, sir, I haven’t had a chance to spend much time on the files. What with Christmas and all. But I was going to look at it today.”

  He nods. “Keep us in the loop.”

  “Yes, sir.” I pause. “We could find out if the leak’s Williams or Hana for sure. Let’s feed them some information and see if it gets back to Agent Young. If it does, it’s Williams or Hana. If it doesn’t, we know it’s someone in the wider gang team.”

  Brady agrees. “That’s viable now that we can isolate two people.”

  Petrov nods. “So, what info are we going to feed them?”

  “The million-dollar question.” Brady shifts his cup around in his hands. “It has to be something significant enough for them to make contact with whoever’s paying them for information, and something believable enough that it won’t arouse suspicion. We don’t want the insider to think we’re on to them or the Yakuza to think their source has been compromised.”

  We’re all silent for a minute or so. “What about something in your profile?” De Luca suggests. “You could add in something extra, something false, and see if it gets back.”

  “I’m hoping to draft the profile this Sunday, and brief you guys Monday. So that’d work.”

  “Okay, that’s our first option. What else?” Brady obviously wants a few choices.

  “What about your theories on the employer, Petrov?” I ask. “Maybe we can come up with a reason to point the finger in one direction. The suspected source of the hit—Asian Boyz, Yakuza, Mafia or whoever—should definitely get back to Agent Young if Hana or Williams is the leak.”

  “Good in theory,” Petrov says, “but then someone could wind up dead. We tell them Russian Mafia hit Saito, and next thing we know Yakuza’s doing a drive-by and killing Russians.”

  Good point.

  We’re all silent.

  “There’s one other option, but it’s risky—” Brady looks at De Luca “—risky for your undercover operative.”

  “What is it?” De Luca asks, but his tone of voice and body language indicate he’s not interested in adding to Young’s risk factors.

  “We could tell Williams and Hana that we have an agent inside the Yakuza and see if that gets back. We keep Young wired and pull him if there’s even a hint of a threat.”

  De Luca doesn’t even contemplate the suggestion. “No way. He risked his cover for Anderson, taking that shot. But it was a calculated risk…this plan is too dangerous.”

  “You know I wouldn’t normally suggest anything to endanger an agent, De Luca. But Agents Kim and Williams are only two of the twenty-four-strong task force. Chances are Young will be safe, and then at least we can eliminate Williams and Kim once and for all. Bring them into the fold.” Brady leans back. “Besides, you’re already sure it’s not Agent Kim.”

  This time De Luca gives the plan some thought, but eventually shakes his head. “There must be another way.”

  We’re silent, thinking, but my thoughts stray to me and Ramos getting shot. “By the way, did Young ever question Moto? Find out if he changed the order to kill?”

  “Dan was in the right, Ken in the wrong.” De Luca runs his hand across his skull. “The orders were shoot to harm and Ken was heavily reprimanded. For a moment, Dan thought Moto was going to ask for Ken’s little finger.”

  “I bet Young’s happy it wasn’t him in that position,” I comment.

  “I’ll say.”

  We’re silent again, thinking about the mole once more.

  “What about the hit man’s name?” I suggest. “I’m expecting to hear back from US State Department today on Chinese nationals entering the US on multiple dates that correspond to our hits. We should have a few names soon and then Williams and Kim will have those names, too. If it gets back to Young that the task force has nearly identified Saito’s killer, then we know the Yakuza’s source must be Williams or Kim.”

  My suggestion is met by initial silence, but I can tell from their faces that the silence is a good thing—they’re trying to find a reason why it might not work, and there isn’t one. “It’s much more concrete than adding something to my profile,” I add.

  Brady drains the rest of his coffee and gives a small nod. “Make it happen.” He stands up and leaves.

  “How long till we have a name? Or a couple of names?” Petrov asks.

  “I’ll chase my contact now. She’s been off the past couple of days, but back today. Give me a few hours and I’ll let you know.”

  “You think you’ll get one name?” De Luca seems unconvinced.

  “No. I think our guy’s using aliases. We’ll get a few names, but they might all be the one person.”

  “Any point drafting a profile then? If we’ll have the name of the killer soon anyway?” Petrov asks.

  “A profile will help us narrow down our suspects. If we do get a few matches and they’re not all different names for the one man, it should help us pinpoint the one.”

  De Luca leans back. “And Williams and Hana are expecting an offender profile. It’ll make our planted lie more believable.”

  There’s silence for a few moments before De Luca stands up. “Let’s set it in motion.”

  He heads off, leaving Petrov and me to finish the dregs of our coffee. Petrov doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to get back to the office…or maybe he just doesn’t want to walk with De Luca.

  “You normally return separately?” I ask Petrov, wondering if their paranoia extends that far.

  “Yeah.” He stands up. “But this time I think De Luca is just avoiding the tab.” He gives me a salute and a grin. “Me, too,” he says and walks out of the diner.

  I can’t help but chuckle. What is it with these guys and juggling the coffee tabs? I finish my coffee and pay the bill.

  Walking back to my apartment slowly, I try to convince myself I’m soaking up the winter sun, but in reality this is close to my top pain-free speed at the moment, especially now that I’m not even on the garden-variety painkillers. I’m tender, no doubt because I’ve moved more in the past couple of days than the previous two weeks. The tenderness in my shoulder and chest makes me feel weak, vulnerable. At least it’s my left side—Dan really did do me a favor. I could still draw down on a suspect, quickly, if need be. It’d just hurt.

  This vulnerable sensation makes me think of AmericanPsycho. He stopped using his real initials with his monthly flower delivery two months ago, indicating that his old name and identity are gone forever. Now he only sees himself as AmericanPsycho, the president of The Murderers’ Club. I’m sure he’s in France somewhere, maybe even forming a new club. Certainly he’ll be up to his old tricks. But I can’t exactly hop on a plane and hang out in Paris looking for him. I could spend my whole life doing that and still not run in to him.

  Twenty-Seven

  As soon as I get home and get my breath back, I dial Rodriguez’s direct line.

  “Rodriguez.” Her voice doesn’t sound as refreshed as I’d expect after a couple of days off.

  “Hey, it’s Anderson.”

  “Sophie…sorry. I’ll have your list in one hour.”

  “Sounds good. Thanks.”

  “You have a good Christmas?” she asks.

  “Yeah. My folks are still here from Australia. What about you?”

  “You know…the
turkey was overdone and my uncle drank too much…the usual.”

  I smile, knowing that Rodriguez may well have described at least half of the population’s normal Christmas Day.

  “I’ll e-mail it through as soon as I get it. Need me to call, too?”

  “No, I’ll keep my BlackBerry handy.”

  “Cool. Adios.”

  Sounds like she’s having a busy day already.

  “Coffee, darling?”

  I look up to see Mum setting up the filtered coffee.

  “That’d be great.”

  “How’s it going?” Dad asks from behind his paper.

  “Good.”

  They’re being so well behaved that I feel guilty. They didn’t even comment on how pale and tired I looked when I got back from the diner. And I know I did, because I checked myself out in the bathroom mirror. We haven’t done any touristy stuff, not much together outside my apartment really.

  “Do you want to go to Santa Monica Pier in a couple of hours?” I suggest.

  Mum and Dad exchange a surprised glance.

  “That sounds terrific, darling.” Dad gives me a smile. “You up to it?”

  “Sure. We’ll be driving anyway.”

  “I thought you wanted to visit Detective Ramos,” Mum says.

  “You were right, Mum. Ramos can wait another day. You guys leave tomorrow.”

  She gives me a broad smile.

  But before I do touristy stuff with Mum and Dad, I need to work on the mole for at least a bit. I take the file from my locked briefcase and go into the bedroom. I’ve only just laid the twenty-four files out on the bed when Mum comes in, coffee in hand.

  “Here you go, darling.”

  I jump up from the bed, not wanting her to get any closer and see what I’m working on. “Thanks, Mum.”

  She glances over my shoulder briefly at the bed, but then leaves me to it.

  I’ve got the files laid out in alphabetical order and that’s how I start—with Agent Acorn. I read through the files, looking over each person’s service record, family situation, psych reports, personality tests, everything. As I go, I take notes, marking down anything of interest, such as undercover work, strange cases they were involved in. I also spend a few minutes looking at each person’s photo and trying to induce a vision. I get a few flashes into people’s lives, but nothing particularly incriminating or interesting.