The Killing Hands

by P. D. Martin

  I save Williams and Hana for last and slow the process down. I want to eliminate both of them as suspects. The thought that they’re somehow involved disturbs me so much that at times I have to block it out. Otherwise I don’t think my acting skills would cover me.

  I look at Williams’s official service photo. It looks like it was taken a few years ago now; there’s definitely less gray in his hair and maybe fewer lines around the eyes, too.

  I fire my weapon, adrenaline pumping.

  The insight into Williams’s life is fleeting, but the emotional hangover is strong. Williams was frightened, and that fear and adrenaline pump through me now. I look up his file for any recorded discharge of his weapon and find one instance. It was seven years ago, armed robbery. He was off duty at the time, and during an exchange of shots, one of Williams’s four bullets hit the perp. Williams escaped unscathed. The robber, an eighteen-year-old male, was shot in the stomach but the wound wasn’t fatal. The perp had no ties to any gang that we know of, so it’s probably not relevant to Williams’s work in the L.A. Gang Impact Team. I look through the rest of Williams’s file carefully, but nothing stands out.

  I spend a few minutes looking at Hana’s photo, waiting to see something, but when nothing comes I move on to her records. Given she’s younger than Williams, her file is much thinner. Again, nothing stands out in her arrests, jobs or family. I go back to her photo. This time I’m rewarded.

  A woman sits on a park bench, head down. A man sits next to her, places an envelope beside her, and then stands up.

  The scene is over quickly, just as with my insight into Williams’s life. I replay the images, dwelling on the obvious: What was in the envelope? It could be innocent, although the nature of the meeting suggested something more sinister. The woman’s head was down and I didn’t see her face, so it could also be anyone. I blow out a sigh, frustrated.

  At almost exactly noon, the e-mail comes in from Lara Rodriguez. In total, there are only ten names with two or more entries that match our dates. We’d have even less if I didn’t allow a full month before each attack. It’s most likely he flies in two to three weeks before the kill, but I don’t want to risk narrowing the dates down that much. I immediately e-mail a list to Lee’s cousin in the Beijing Police, typing out the subjects’ full names and passport numbers. I pick up the phone and dial Lee. Given his cousin doesn’t speak English, all contact will have to be routed through him. Probably not as expedient as talking directly to him myself, but beggars can’t be choosers.

  Lee picks up after three rings.

  “Hi, Lee, it’s Sophie Anderson.”

  “Hey. What can I do for you?”

  “I’ve e-mailed ten names to your cousin and I was hoping you could call him in a few hours and ask him to look them up in their system.”

  “It’s early there…Four in the morning, actually.”

  “So we have to wait…four hours? Five?”

  “Five will give him time to check his e-mails. Do you wanna do a three-way chat? That way I could interpret as you go.”

  “That’d be great.” It’ll also give me a chance to ask questions as we go along.

  “Okay. I’ve got a conference facility on my office phone.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I say. “I’ll initiate the call so the Bureau picks up the tab.”

  “Don’t forget Chung wants to keep this unofficial. Can the call be traced to the Bureau?”

  “All our outgoing calls are unlisted numbers, but maybe it’s better if he just gets a call from his cousin in L.A., huh?” On Lee’s request, I’d already used Chung’s Hotmail address rather than his work e-mail.

  “Yeah, let’s keep it casual.”

  I hang up and print out all the details for each of the ten Chinese men who matched our criteria. We don’t have much on them at this stage—just their names, dates and places of birth, passport numbers and the information from their entry cards. For the visits after 2004 we also have fingerprints, digital photos and iris scans. Although I haven’t actually drafted the profile of our hit man yet, I feel as though I have a good handle on his personality. One thing that may help us narrow the list down even further is the airline. I see our guy as being a nationalist, proud of his country, and so I’m thinking he’s more likely to fly Air China than any of the other carriers that fly from Beijing into the States. I use this as a point of difference, and go through the names again to see which men flew Air China. That leaves me with three names—An Kwan, Lok Ng and Quon Liao. It’s possible the three people are really one using aliases.

  I ring up Sifu Lee. “Sorry to bug you again, but I was hoping to run three names by you. See if you recognize them as kung fu practitioners back in China.”

  “Shoot.”

  “An Kwan, Lok Ng and Quon Liao.”

  “Quon Liao sounds familiar. Can you leave it with me?”

  “Sure. Thanks. Bye.”

  We have photos of An Kwan and Lok Ng from their most recent visits, so I look at the images more closely. Certainly they look alike, maybe enough alike to be the one person using disguises. They are of similar build and while Kwan has close-cut hair almost military in style, Ng has longer hair—but nothing an expensive and well-fitted wig couldn’t achieve. Kwan also has puffier eyes and a bigger, squarer jaw line. Again, someone expert in this field could easily make these adjustments to their appearance, and the two men do look different enough in the photos if you don’t compare them directly. But this time I am looking at their pictures side by side. I’ll need to send the digital images for a review with facial recognition software to verify my hypothesis.

  In addition to their facial similarities, both men are roughly the same height according to their passports, Kwan at six feet and Ng at six-two. Quon Liao is also in the same ballpark at six-one. The fingerprints and iris scans we have for Kwan and Ng are different, and while it’s extremely hard to fool these biometric scans, we are talking about a high-end professional hit man, someone with the resources for multiple identities and disguises, potentially down to fingerprint pads and contact lenses to give a faulty iris scan.

  Next I look more closely at the movements of my three top targets. An Kwan entered the country for the first time on March 22, 1998, flying into L.A. Hop Fu was murdered on April 4 in San Francisco, and An Kwan flew from L.A. to Beijing on April 10. I’d expect a faster exit strategy, but maybe he thought leaving too soon after the murder might look suspicious—or maybe he just wanted to be a tourist for a few days. Four years later, in August 2002, An Kwan flew into San Francisco and fifteen days later Bao Tran was killed in L.A. And Kwan made his return trip three days after the death.

  Lok Ng has also made two visits to the US. One that ties in with the 1996 New York victim who survived, and one that coincides with the 2007 murder of Russian Mafia man, Alexander Ivanovich.

  Last is Quon Liao. His first visit fits for the 2000 Chicago slaying of Yakuza member Shiro Matsu, but the 2008 one doesn’t line up with anything we have on the system. But given what we now know about the killer’s expertise in dim mak, you can be sure that someone had a heart attack during Liao’s visit. It’s looking pretty good, but it’s too early to jump to any conclusions. Let’s see what Lee’s cousin finds on these men, and the other seven first, see if facial recognition software identifies An Kwan and Lok Ng as the same person.

  It’s time to check in with Petrov, but before I do I look through the other seven names. One man is too young, so I discount him. Of the remaining six men we only have digital photos of two, but my quick visual comparison indicated they could all be the same man. I dial Petrov’s number.

  “Anderson, what’s up? You got something?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Shoot.”

  I tell him my findings and follow-up plans.

  “Excellent. So how long until your man has something for you?”

  “It’s five in the morning there at the moment so I’m going to call him in a few hours.”

 
“Okay. Let’s keep it quiet for the moment.”

  “What if we use one of the Bureau’s people for the recognition software? Someone not involved in the Gang Impact Team.” Mercedes Diaz immediately comes to mind, but this isn’t her area of expertise. Petrov will know someone from Ed Garcia’s team.

  Petrov hesitates. “Should be safe enough. E-mail me through the photos and I’ll set that one up. How did you go with the personnel files?”

  “Okay, but not great. I’ve got a list of eight people I’d put at the top of our list, including Hana.”

  Petrov nods. “Her name’s come up a lot. She did undercover work in San Francisco for a couple of years. But Joe’s sure she’s clean. Who else?”

  I rattle off the other seven names. I can tell by Petrov’s reactions that most of them gel with his thoughts, until I get to the ATF’s Rory Parsons.

  “Parsons? Really?”

  “So he wasn’t on your list?”

  “No. No undercover work that could have potentially exposed him to corruption, and all the checks on his immediate family and friends came back okay. Plus we couldn’t find any skeletons in his closet worthy of blackmail. What made you add him to the list?”

  “His arrest record. He was put up for a promotion eighteen months ago and I wondered why. Turns out it was because his arrests had skyrocketed.”

  “So you think some of the arrests were set up?”

  “Could have been. Plus, fourteen months ago he arrested a guy called Aran Sarit and had previously arrested Sarit’s brother-in-law, who’s part of the Asian Boyz. Both of them had their charges significantly reduced and I wondered if Parsons played a hand in that.”

  Petrov whistles. “That does sound suspicious. I better tell the others about this. But I still think we should go ahead with our plan to test Agents Williams and Kim. When you get info from Beijing call me. But sit on it. We’ll present it to the team on Monday.”

  “Okay. Whatever you say.”

  With all my phone calls out of the way we head off for Santa Monica Pier, which keeps me occupied while I wait to hear back from Lee. We’re on our way back in the car when my BlackBerry vibrates, right on time at 5:00 p.m.

  “Lee?”

  “Yup. I’ll just dial-in Chung now.”

  I get hold music for about a minute, before Lee’s voice comes back on the line. “Okay, we’re on.”

  “Great,” I say. “First off, can you please thank him for helping us out?”

  Lee talks in Mandarin to his cousin and, after a short reply, Lee tells me that Chung is happy to help.

  “Thanks. Can you ask him what sort of information he’ll be able to get for me, and how long it will take?”

  “Sure.”

  I wait while Lee asks Chung and he responds. This time, the conversation is much longer. After a couple of minutes, Lee says, “He’ll be able to get marital status, driver’s license details if applicable, educational background and criminal offences. He said the government keeps a lot more information on its citizens, but he doesn’t have the clearance to access most of it.”

  “That sounds great. More than we can get on this end. How long will it take?”

  “Give him an hour,” Lee says.

  “I guess the info will be in Mandarin?” I ask Lee.

  “Yes. But I’ll translate it for you. Depending on how much we get, that should only take me twenty minutes or so.”

  “Great. Did Chung find any similar attacks or deaths in China?” I wait until Lee asks the question in Mandarin and Chung responds.

  “No,” Lee says. “But I’ve been thinking about that—in China the killer would be especially careful to make sure the death looked completely accidental, like a heart attack, because any sign of violence would alert authorities to the possible use of dim mak. General knowledge on the topic is quite high.”

  “And he’d want to avoid police attention…especially in his homeland.”

  “Exactly,” Lee replies.

  I can’t think of anything else, so I thank Lee and ask him to thank his cousin.

  Lee says something in Mandarin before I hear a click as Chung disconnects. “Okay. I’ll call you as soon as I have the info and have it translated.”

  “You’re a star.”

  “Happy to help. Speak to you later.” Lee hangs up.

  When my phone rings at 6:15 p.m., I snatch the handset up eagerly, hoping it’s Lee on the other end with some answers. It is.

  “How’d it go?” I ask.

  “Good. Chung has sent through information on six of the names you e-mailed through and one has a criminal record.”

  “I doubt our guy has a record, but can you e-mail the info through?”

  “Sure.”

  “And what about the other four names? Chung couldn’t get anything on them?”

  “No. He was a little perplexed by it, actually. There should be records of these men.”

  “Unless they’re aliases.”

  “Ah, yes. Of course.” He pauses. “Quon Liao. Now I remember.”

  “You recognize the name?”

  “Yes. My father once told me a story about Quon Liao, a young warrior boy from thousands of years ago who is said to have fought one hundred soldiers—and won.”

  “So perhaps our killer is using the name Quon Liao as homage to this boy warrior?”

  “Yes. It’s when you said aliases that it made me remember. One boy I competed against in tournaments used to wear the name Quon Liao on his robe. He saw himself as the boy warrior.”

  “Do you remember his name?” My voice quickens.

  “Park Ling.”

  “Would Ling have the skill for these attacks?”

  “I haven’t seen or heard of him for over twenty years, but if he’d continued studying kung fu, he would certainly know the Ten Killing Hands and dim mak.”

  “Really?” So, assuming Park Ling still lives in China, we have a Chinese national who has the skills for the murders and uses Quon Liao as an alias. “Thanks, Lee. Can Chung get some recent info on this Park Ling?”

  “I’m sure he can. Give me five minutes and I’ll call you back.”

  I pace on my apartment balcony, BlackBerry in hand.

  After a couple of minutes Dad pops his head out. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. Great. Just waiting on another call.”

  “Ah, you’ve got something?” Dad says.

  “It looks promising, yeah.”

  He smiles. “I can see it in your eyes…the fire. It’s kinda neat, honey. I’m glad you enjoy your job.” His face crinkles. “If you can call it enjoyment.”

  I laugh. “I know what you mean, Dad. It’s weird, but the job’s horrific and rewarding all at the same time. This part—when the break’s about to come—I love.”

  My BlackBerry rings.

  “You’re on,” Dad says, closing the balcony door and going back inside.

  “Lee?”

  “Chung found him. He’s forty-two, no criminal record, spent five years in the military after his compulsory two-year service and he’s married with one child. He lives in Beijing now, but originally he’s from the same town as Li Chow…the other name you asked about.”

  “Really? So they may have known each other.”

  “Possibly. It’s quite a small town.” He takes a breath. “I’ll e-mail the details through now.”

  I’m silent, processing the information. It’s not much, but it fits with my impression of the killer. It’ll be good to draft the full profile and do a direct comparison between it and the six Chinese nationals we’ve got information on, and Park Ling.

  I hang up. Park Ling…is our contract killer within our grasp?

  Twenty-Eight

  Mum and I are both in tears at the airport, and even Dad’s looking emotional.

  “Thanks for looking after me…And I’m sorry. Sorry to give you such a terrible scare.”

  Mum nods, but the tears fall a little faster.

  “Come on, Jan. We have to go throu
gh.” Dad’s looking at his watch.

  “Okay, Bob.” She gives me one last hug, before picking up her carry-on luggage.

  Dad grabs me in a tight bear hug. “Bye, sweetie.”

  “Bye, Dad. And thanks for everything. Including Mum.”

  He nods. “At least the flight back will be better than the one over here.”

  I grimace as Dad’s grip loosens. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  His grip tightens again and he wipes a stray tear from my face before taking Mum’s hand.

  “We love you, honey.” Mum starts walking backward toward the security checkpoint.

  “I love you, too. I’ll see you in July,” I yell, waving.

  They both smile and Dad shouts, “We can’t wait, honey.”

  I watch as they place their personal items on the security belt and walk through the metal detector. Once they’re through the security checkpoint, they turn around and wave again, before disappearing toward their gate. I wipe the last of the tears away before making my way back to my car.

  When I get home at around 6:00 p.m., I heat up some leftover pasta. In another couple of days all Mum’s leftovers will be gone and I’ll have to start cooking for myself again…and cleaning.

  I’m relaxing and trying to find something good on TV when the phone rings.

  “Soph, it’s Darren.”

  “Hi. How are you?”

  He laughs. “Asks the woman who took a bullet.”

  I smile. “Fair call.”

  “So, how are you feeling?”

  “Recovering well. Getting organized for work on Monday.”

  “Are you ready to go back?”

  “Sure.”

  “Really?”

  “You’re as bad as my parents. I’m fine. I’m ready.”

  “Sorry. Did they make their flight okay?”

  “Uh-huh. They should be somewhere over the Pacific Ocean by now.”

  “So how did the visit turn out in the end?”