The Killing Hands

by P. D. Martin

  “If that’s the case we’d be looking at someone close to one of these three men. A professional acquaintance, maybe their boss or some other colleague, a family member or a friend. They suspect Saito, or maybe they know for sure he’s the doer, so they take their own justice. They make him suffer…”

  “They kill his girl.” De Luca completes the sentence.

  “Yup.”

  “I like it, Anderson. But I think we’re talking a family member or friend, not a business acquaintance. Crime organizations like the Yakuza have unwritten codes of conduct.”

  “And killing someone’s girlfriend is overstepping the mark?”

  “Usually. Don’t get me wrong, it happens in extreme circumstances. But it’s more likely to be personal than business.”

  “Okay.” I look at the L.A. Yakuza files and the Asian Boyz files. “So we need to find someone in here who knew one of Saito’s Tokyo victims.”

  “You still got that Interpol contact?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I know we’ve got Saito’s file, but maybe it’s time to get more detailed info.”

  I nod. “The full files on all the murder victims, info on the Yakuza in Tokyo around 1990, and anything else Interpol in Japan can dig up.”

  “Yup.”

  I make a quick call to Latoya Burges and pass on our latest request. Another waiting game. But in the meantime we’ve still got plenty of paperwork to keep us going.

  De Luca takes a deep breath and blows it out. “Let’s get to it.”

  Thirty-Two

  At nine o’clock on Wednesday night I get a call from Petrov.

  “We need to meet. At the diner. See you there in half an hour.” The line goes dead.

  Something’s up.

  I get out of my tracksuit and pull on some jeans, a black sweater, my shoulder holster and gun and my leather jacket. It’ll take me only fifteen minutes to get to the diner, but I leave as soon as I’m dressed. I’d rather wait around there than here.

  I’m the first to arrive and take a seat in the end booth. I order a coffee, thinking I might be in for a long night, and wait.

  Five minutes later De Luca shows up. “Hi, Anderson.” His face is tense, with his brow furrowed and his jaw muscles working.

  “You know what this is about?” I ask.

  “Uh-huh.” He slides in opposite me. “Agent Young didn’t report in this evening.”

  “He ever missed a check-in before?”

  “A couple times. No point checking in if it’s going to blow your cover.”

  “This time’s different?”

  He sighs. “Maybe not. It’s just—” De Luca stops short and looks behind me. The waitress is within earshot. She asks De Luca what he wants and De Luca orders a coffee. Once she’s out of range, De Luca leans in. “It’s a combination of things this time—events that may have led to his discovery.”

  “Such as?”

  Again, De Luca’s eyes are on something behind me. I turn around to see Brady on his way down to our booth. He looks different, not himself, but then I realize it’s because he’s wearing jeans and a denim jacket and I’ve never seen him in anything but a suit.

  “Anderson, De Luca.” He gives us both nods.

  The waitress arrives with De Luca’s coffee and Brady orders one for himself plus an extra one for Petrov.

  De Luca is silent so I prompt him. “Why are you worried this time?”

  “First off there’s still a question mark about whether Ken was supposed to harm or kill you guys. Moto confirmed the order as not to kill, but there’s still doubt in Dan’s mind. And now we’ve potentially siphoned information through to the leak. What if it came through and Dan asked one too many questions about the source? Our plan could have endangered him.”

  “Dan’s been undercover for a while, he knows how much he can push.”

  Brady nods. “Anderson’s right, De Luca. I’m sure he’ll check in tomorrow.”

  “That’s the protocol?” I ask.

  Petrov walks in and strides down to our booth. He slides in next to me, giving us all nods and a communal “Hey.”

  Once the waitress has poured two more cups of coffee and departed De Luca continues. “His brief is to make contact as soon as possible after the scheduled meet. Maybe late tonight, maybe tomorrow…maybe the next day.” De Luca slurps down a large mouthful of coffee.

  “I’m sure he’s okay, Joe.” Petrov’s voice is reassuring.

  De Luca shakes his head. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this op. It’s been the same ever since Saito got offed.” Sometimes cops have to trust their gut instincts. De Luca knows Young, he knows the context, so if he’s worried, I’m worried.

  I bite my lip. “Can we extract him?”

  “That’s what we need to talk about.”

  “I understand you’re worried, De Luca, but it’s early days.” Brady holds his hands around the warm mug of coffee. “We don’t want to burn that bridge unnecessarily.”

  “How long then, Brady?” De Luca’s voice holds unchecked aggression.

  “A sensible and reasonable amount of time.” Brady keeps his tone even yet forceful.

  De Luca shakes his head. “That could be too late.”

  “Can you initiate contact?” I ask.

  De Luca is silent at first. “We have procedures in place, of course, but it’s usually Young who initiates contact.”

  “So what’s the procedure for you initiating?” I ask, feeling like a bit of a peacekeeper.

  “I send him a text. But with a new, untraceable SIM card to be on the safe side.”

  “Okay…so let’s do that.”

  De Luca drums his fingers on the table. “What to put in the message? Young’s mother has been sick recently, so if her condition changes I’m supposed to send a message that says ‘Call Mom.’ And if I think his cover’s blown, it’s ‘Haven’t seen you in ages.’”

  “This is a little different.” Brady leans back.

  “Yes.” De Luca is still hostile.

  “How about ‘It feels like I haven’t seen you in ages,’” Petrov suggests.

  De Luca nods. “I’ve got a couple of spare SIM cards at my task force desk.”

  Brady stands up. “Good luck. Let me know how it goes.” He leaves, his half-full coffee cup still steaming on the table.

  “What an ass,” De Luca says as soon as Brady’s out the door.

  Petrov shrugs. “He’s not that bad. People skills just aren’t his forte.”

  “I’ll say.”

  Petrov stands. “Come on, let’s drop into the office.”

  The three of us walk the couple of blocks to L.A.’s FBI field office, sign in and ride the elevator to the fifteenth floor. Except for Petrov and me making a few reassuring comments to De Luca, we’re silent.

  At his desk, De Luca hunts around for a locked money box and opens it up. Inside is about a hundred dollars in smaller notes, a couple of keys, a phone and a few SIM cards.

  “Okay.” He takes the SIM card out of his phone and puts in one of the new ones. While he works the keypad, Petrov and I wait.

  “Done.”

  Petrov nods. “Now we wait.” He leans against the desk behind him.

  “What if Young doesn’t have his phone switched on? Or doesn’t hear it?” I am worried about Young, but part of me agrees with Brady—he’s deep undercover and there’ll be times he can’t check in.

  “Young always has his cell on, and handy.” Sure enough, as if on cue, De Luca’s phone gives a double beep.

  “That’s promising.” Petrov pushes himself fully upright.

  “What does it say?” I ask, peering over De Luca’s shoulder.

  De Luca reads out the message. “Yes. Feels like ages to me, too…too long. The info came through.”

  “Is that code?” I ask.

  “No. It’s not code.” De Luca hunches over.

  “So he can’t get away and he’s worried his cover’s been blown?” Petrov confirms.

 
“Yes.”

  “What about the info part?” I ask. “It must mean the information about Park Ling and Quon Liao.”

  “Uh-huh.” De Luca takes a deep breath. “I wonder how easy it is for him to receive and send messages. Phone calls, even.”

  “Well, obviously he’s still got his phone on him. That’s a good sign,” I say.

  “But for how long?” De Luca starts pacing. “If I send another text right away, it might arouse even more suspicion. But if I wait, he might not be able to get the message or text me back.”

  We’re silent for a few beats.

  “You have to text him, now.” I bite my lip. “Like you said, it might be the last chance.”

  De Luca stops pacing and lets out another quick, sharp breath. “Okay. I’ll say, ‘Maybe it’s time to go home. Name the time and place.’ That way if he wants out, we can extract him tonight, now.”

  Petrov and I both nod, and then De Luca presses the send button.

  Agent Dan Young never responds.

  The next morning it’s business as usual at the office, with most people oblivious to our predicament. Only De Luca, Petrov, Brady and I know that our agent in the Yakuza is in danger…maybe already dead. Although if Young’s cover has been blown, then the leak probably knows all about his predicament.

  “The fact that the names of our two suspects filtered through to the Yakuza indicates the leak must be Agent Williams or Hana.” Petrov’s comment is met with silence. It’s no revelation, but it still stops us in our tracks.

  “But how would that put Young in danger? How would it blow his cover?”

  We’re silent at first. Brady leans in, resting his arms on the table.

  “Maybe something else blew his cover,” I suggest.

  “Like what?” Petrov drums his fingers on the table.

  “Is it possible someone’s been eavesdropping on our conversations?” I move us on to another option. “Either physically or electronically?”

  Brady stands up. “Let’s organize a bug sweep. See what we get.” He pauses. “But it will have to be done out of hours, when our mole isn’t around.”

  “We should also check the diner, sir,” Petrov says. “Given that’s where most of our sensitive conversations took place.”

  Brady gives a short nod. “I’ll authorize the paperwork. Get it rolling.” He walks to the door and turns back with his hand on the knob. “We need to keep working this case. Find out who contracted our killer. If Young is in trouble, it might be related. Especially if the hit wasn’t sanctioned by Moto.”

  Petrov nods, slowly. “It’s possible they don’t know Young’s DEA. Someone might be trying to clean up their own mess, and Young found out who the contract killer was or discovered who betrayed Moto in the organization.”

  “And so this third person needs to get to Young before he talks.” I stand up, too, going with Petrov’s theory. “Needs to cut him off from all communication, like his cell phone. Whoever put a contract on Saito would also need to make sure the news of his identity doesn’t move up the hierarchy, to Moto.” I’m eager to get back to my desk and in contact with Interpol. Hopefully the information from Japan has come through overnight.

  Petrov nods. “That’s what I’m thinking.” He sighs. “That brings us back to Agents Williams or Kim. For the leak.”

  We all pause, processing the implication.

  “Yes.” Brady lingers at the door. “Let’s get confirmation before we go to the regional bosses of the ATF or DEA, though.” With that, he exits.

  De Luca rubs his eyes. “What a mess. And how are we going to confirm whether it’s Williams or Hana if we can’t reach Young?”

  “I’ll put a tail on both of them.” Petrov taps his pen on the paper. “See if either of them leads us to someone in Yakuza.”

  After a moment of silence I make a move for the door. “De Luca, I’m going to contact Interpol. See if they’ve got anything yet.”

  “I’m with you.” De Luca stands up. “I’ll get us set up with the paperwork we already have in one of the meeting rooms.”

  Back at my desk I check my e-mail, but when there’s nothing new in my in-box I ring Latoya Burges at Interpol.

  “Hey, Latoya. It’s Sophie.”

  “Hey. You’re chasing your Japan info?”

  “Yup.”

  “I’m still sorting through my e-mails. Hold on a second.”

  I wait while she scans her in-box. “Okay, I’ve got something from our Japan office. I’ll forward it now.”

  “Thanks, Latoya. You’re the best.”

  “Yo.” She hangs up and within less than a minute the e-mail arrives. It’s a big file and I scan through all the different attachments. It includes full police and autopsy reports on all three murder victims, plus some historical reports on the Yakuza’s activities in Tokyo. One’s dated May 1990 and the other one June 1995. All useful information. I print everything out and look for De Luca. I find him in meeting room two.

  We start with the crime-scene photos, even though some of them were in Saito’s file already. When nothing hits us there, we move on to the surveillance shots. And that’s when I see it.

  “This guy looks familiar.” I point to a man standing with the person who would eventually become Saito’s third Tokyo victim.

  De Luca takes a closer look at the pic, which hasn’t scanned well. Eventually he says, “It looks a bit like Jo Hoshi, Tomi Moto’s bodyguard, but the age is all wrong.”

  I study it once more, comparing it to our most recent pic of Jo Hoshi. “It really does look like him.”

  There’s a knock at the door and Hana enters. “You guys aren’t going to believe this—we got a hit on the facial recognition software.”

  “What? Our hit man’s here?”

  “Looks that way. The software came up with an eighty percent match, and our analyst reckons it’s a definite match, bar bonier eyebrow structures and a bigger nose.”

  “Facial disguises,” I say.

  Hana nods. “That or recent plastic surgery.”

  “What about the fingerprints and iris scans? And the name?”

  “All different. Although the first name’s the same as one of our marked guys.”

  “So a totally new identity.”

  “Yup.”

  “When?”

  “Flew in early this morning. His digital entry pic was sent to us with a lunchtime batch from State.”

  “This morning…” I wonder where he’s staying. I feel a slight hint of dizziness, accompanied by a rush of nausea.

  I’m on a plane, reading. I glance at my watch, and then pull my personal screen out in front of me. Using the touch screen, I bring up the flight’s progress. Hawaii. Eight hours to go. Enough time for a good sleep. I recline my seat fully, taking up the extra space of first class to get horizontal. I drift to sleep, an image of my target in my mind. He’s committed to memory now and I’ll recognize him anywhere.

  It’s a replay of the dream I had on Monday night with one key difference. This time I remembered the target’s image…it’s Dan Young.

  Thirty-Three

  We hover around Damien Rider’s computer screen on the sixteenth floor as he takes us through the photos.

  “So, we’ve got a facial match here, here and here.” Rider points to the eye shape, the cheekbones and mouth of one Lok Hung who entered the US at Los Angeles International Airport exactly five hours and six minutes ago. “And if we overlay the photos of An Kwan, Lok Ng and Park Ling, we can see the similarities,” Rider continues, as his computer screen merges all four photos together. “We’re talking about a ninety-two percent match.” The jawline is different in one, the brow line different in another, the cheekbones slightly more pronounced, and even the hairline is farther back for Park Ling…but there are more similarities than differences.

  “We need to find him. Now.” I try to keep my voice as calm as possible, despite my panic. Agent Dan Young’s days are numbered.

  “He listed the Kyoto Grand Ho
tel and Gardens in Little Tokyo as his address,” Hana says.

  “The chances of that being legit are zero.” I shake my head. “Our guy’s smarter than that.”

  “So how can we find him?”

  Silence.

  “We have to find who put the hit on Saito. He or she will know how to contact our hit man.”

  De Luca is right—especially given the source of the hit on Saito is probably the same person pulling Park Ling’s strings now. Find him, and hopefully we find Ling before the next contract is fulfilled.

  “I’ll still check out the hotel, just in case.”

  “Good idea,” De Luca says to Hana before turning on his heel and heading for the meeting room. De Luca is keyed up enough as it is; if he knew Young was next on our hit man’s list…Although I’m still not sure why. If his cover was blown and the Yakuza wanted him dead, wouldn’t they just kill him themselves? I can only assume that whoever’s contracted the hit on Dan Young wants it to look like an accident, maybe even a heart attack. And Ling can deliver that.

  “Where were we?” I say, looking at the photos on the table. “Yes, the surveillance shots and this one that looks like Jo Hoshi, standing with Saito’s third suspected victim, Hiroki Kawa.”

  De Luca and I both look at the photo again.

  “It’s not Hoshi, but I guess it could be a relative. Older brother, uncle maybe,” De Luca says.

  “Let’s check out everything we’ve got on Hoshi and see if we can link him back to the Tokyo victim,” I suggest.

  De Luca shuffles files and brings Jo Hoshi to the top. “Here we go.” He flips it open to a recent photo of Hoshi, blown up as an eight-by-ten color picture.

  “Was he born in the US?” I ask.

  De Luca flicks through the papers. “No. Came here in eighty-five at the age of fifteen.”

  “And this man, Hiroki Kawa, was murdered in Tokyo in 1993.” I pause. “So Hoshi wasn’t even in Tokyo during the murder.”

  De Luca looks up Hoshi’s immigration paperwork. “No. Hoshi immigrated here with his mother. The father is listed as deceased, one Naoko Hoshi.”

  “The man in this picture isn’t old enough to be Hoshi’s father.”