by Elle Gray
It’s not that both Graham and his family’s company weren’t doing well before. But they were nowhere near as profitable now that they have a Supreme Court that is far friendlier to corporations. The three Justices that were installed have swung the Court in a way that allows for corporations to exploit labor and natural resources and shields them from a heavy tax burden at the same time—paving the way for them to increase their profit margins exponentially. The amount of money flowing into the coffers of these people and these corporations is obscene.
While what I’m holding in my hand right now doesn’t constitute proof of a conspiracy—I couldn’t even get a warrant with what I have right now—it does certainly point me in the right direction. It also casts Graham’s warning to me about sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong in a whole new light. I didn’t really understand at the time, but he wasn’t speaking to me as a US Senator. No, I believe he was speaking to me as a member of the Thirteen.
They know I’m looking into them, thanks to Mark. But they don’t know just how close I am to putting this all together. And I genuinely do feel like I’m getting close. Of the people I’ve vetted so far, I’ve come across a dozen people I feel are involved with this conspiracy. There’s still a lot of legwork to do to drum up proof to back up my claims, but I think I’m starting to get there. Slowly but we’re getting there.
I now have a working suspect pool, and that’s always a good place to start. You pick one you think might be useful then squeeze them until they sing, and soon enough, they’ll lead you to the next rung on the ladder. And you keep climbing until you get to the top. Once you’re there, you have got to cut off the head of the snake. I don’t think Graham is the head of the snake, but based on that veiled threat in his office, I’m convinced he’s part of the chain. Now all I need to do is prove it.
As I sit back and take another drink of my wine, I let my brain process it all. I feel that sense of momentum building in my gut I get when a case starts gathering steam. I feel like we’re getting to that point, and it sends an electric thrill stealing me. But that feeling is blunted by thoughts of my sister. Her elusiveness is becoming an issue for me. I really need to know who she is and what she’s doing.
Draining the last of my wine, I get up and head back to her room. I pause outside the door knowing what I’m thinking is wrong. I should trust her and not invade her privacy the way I’m contemplating. But so far, she hasn’t earned a bit of my trust. As a law enforcement officer, I should know who and what is staying beneath my roof. If she’s involved with something illegal, that’s going to blow back on me. And with as much as I have on my plate right now, that could be catastrophic to my career. It could even land me in jail.
I’m not wrong, but I feel like it’s a justification and rationalization of a bad act as I open the door. I step inside, flip on the light, and see that everything is neat and tidy. Nothing is out of place. It’s such a stark contrast to how she kept her room as a kid that I can’t help but smile. I look around for her bags and spot one underneath the bed. It’s black and is one of those hard shells with an extendable handle and rollers.
I kneel down, sliding the bag out from under the bed and pulling it toward me. My stomach is churning and my head is spinning as I contemplate what I’m about to do. It’s a violation of her privacy and I know she won’t take it well if she finds out I snooped. I’m risking everything, risking any chance of a relationship with my sister, by opening this bag. But I don’t really feel like I have any choice either. If she’s dealing drugs or weapons or any of a host of other illegal things out of my house, I’m going to pay the price.
I open the bag and find that it’s completely empty. She’s moved all her clothes into the dresser. I don’t know why it surprises me, but it does. I suppose maybe putting all her clothes into the dresser implies a sense of permanence. Roots, in a way. By not living out of her bags, it feels like she’s saying this isn’t necessarily a temporary thing, but that she’s back for good and isn’t going to leave. That thought brings a smile to my face.
I reach inside the bag anyway. I know it’s empty, but I also know people sometimes smuggle things in hidden compartments. I take nothing for granted. And when I feel the seam, I know my instincts have paid off again. It takes me a minute, but I’m able to lift the lid off the secret compartment and when I see what’s inside, I feel my heart drop into my stomach. My mouth grows dry and my heart thunders inside of me.
I reach a trembling hand into the compartment and pick up the half dozen passports inside. Beneath that are credit cards made out to different names, as well as bundles of hundred-dollar bills. I open up the passports and look at the different names from half a dozen different countries—all of them attached to the same picture of my sister.
“My God, Kit,” I whisper, my voice trembling as much as my hand. “Who in the hell are you and what are you into?”
Thirteen
Kensho Tea House; Capitol Hill District, Downtown Seattle
“You know, for a guy who’s supposed to be laying low, you certainly stand out,” I comment.
Huan Zhao, more commonly known as Fish thanks to his past as an immigrant fishmonger, stands up and looks down at himself. He’s wearing a metallic pink suit with black scrollwork up the sleeves and a white shirt beneath a pink vest. When he moves, the light in the room sparkles off his suit, very nearly blinding me. All I can do is laugh. Fish has always had an eccentric sense of style. But hey, when you’re the rich, well-connected head of a crime syndicate that Fish is, who’s going to say anything?
“Do you not like this?” he asks with a sardonic grin.
“It’s very you, Fish. It’s very, very you,” I say. “It’s just, I thought that you’d be out of the Seattle area, given…”
He waves me off and smiles. “It will take more than an angry Armenian to run me out of my own home,” he says. “Besides, I am taking precautions.”
He comes around the table to greet me, a wide smile on his face. He pulls me into a warm embrace. I laugh as he pulls me tight. We make an odd couple, that’s for sure—the crime boss and the Fed. But as strange as it sounds, I have a lot of respect for Fish. I also trust him. Despite being a crime boss, he has come through for me more times than I can count. He’s provided me intel over the years that has netted me some of my biggest busts, even when it’s been to his own detriment.
He has been insisting lately that he’s going straight. That his current operations are all on the up-and-up, and that he’s put the life of crime behind him. I’ll believe it when I see it. But for now, I’m glad to have him in my corner. He’s provided me intel over the years that has netted me some of my biggest busts, even when it’s been to his own detriment.
It’s one reason I feel awful that he’s being forced to live on the run, so to speak. He’s been moving from place to place, never staying in one area for very long. And he’s having to do that because he helped me with a case that involved the Armenian mob. Steven Petrosyan, the head honcho of that organization, wriggled out from right under our noses. We had him dead to rights, but he got one of his lackeys to take the fall for him, even though he clearly ordered the hit on his daughter’s boyfriend. And ever since then, Petrosyan has been looking to take Fish out as revenge. So, rather than initiate a full-scale gang war, Fish has simply moved himself and his operation underground. And with as vastly connected as Fish is in Seattle, it makes him hard to find and even harder to kill.
“Blake, it is wonderful to see you,” he says in his smooth, cultured voice. “It feels as if it has been forever.”
“It’s only been a couple of weeks,” I point out.
“This is true, but time always seems more satisfying in your presence. Without you, it seems to drag on and on.”
“That’s smooth, Fish. That’s a really good line,” I tell him. “Drop that on the ladies and they’ll be eating out of the palm of your hand.”
He laughs and gestures to the table and holds my chair out for me
. I take a seat with a nod of thanks. Fish is many things—some of them downright frightening—but at heart, he is a gentleman. Or he tries to be. He prides himself on having proper manners and insists that his guests do as well. It’s just one of the many contradictions that make up the man before me. To say he’s an enigma would be selling him short. He’s way more than that.
He pours us both a cup of tea and I watch as the steam curls off the surface for a moment before picking it up. Fish raises his cup to me and inclines his head.
“To your continued good health and good fortune,” he toasts.
“And to yours as well.”
We take a sip of our tea and I smile as my mouth explodes with flavor. “This is really good. Amazing, actually.”
He smiles. “We’re experimenting with different flavor profiles. I am pleased you like it.”
“We?”
He nods. “This is my establishment. I am reviving it,” he says. “And what better place to do it than Capitol Hill? You know these youths love all things quirky and offbeat.”
“Look at you, knowing your market,” I say. “I’m impressed.”
He smiles. “Dear, I have known my market longer than you have been alive,” he tells me. “Albeit before, it was a little more—rarified—and less refined.”
That gets a laugh out of me. “You certainly have a way with words, Fish,” I say. “And let me just say again, I’m so glad you’ve gotten out of the drug game.”
“As am I,” he replies. “I find that as I grow older, I have less tolerance for the cretins who inhabit that world. I would rather get out of that game than end up killing them all.”
I give him a small grin and shake my head. Unlike when Kit said she’d kill Torres for me, I have no doubt in my mind that Fish would absolutely make good on his word. Back in the day, he was one of the most ruthless crime bosses in the entire Pacific Northwest. He’s mellowed with age and for reasons I can’t possibly guess at, has reordered his own priorities. Has started thinking—and more importantly, doing—things differently.
“So, this whole going legit thing isn’t just a phase?” I ask. “Not just a passing fancy?”
“Not at all. I am on the verge of obtaining the necessary permits from that council of crooks running the city to break ground on my waterfront project,” he tells me, beaming like a child on Christmas morning. “I am going to build up the waterfront. Office space, restaurants, small businesses. I’m even thinking of putting in a theme park—eventually.”
“Wow, Fish,” I say, stunned. “I am really thrilled for you. I’m really proud of you.”
He gives me a grateful smile. “Thank you, Blake. Perhaps your nature has finally rubbed off on me.”
I laugh. “I don’t know that I’d go that far.”
“Perhaps not,” he teases. “But just between you and I, don’t think I’ll be rolling up my entire network. It pays for a man in my position to continue having a finger on the pulse of the city. I may be divesting from my less-than-legal enterprises, but I will continue to keep a network of eyes and ears around the city. So, do not be afraid to come to me if you need information.”
“That’s good to know, Fish. Thank you.”
“But of course,” he says. “Now, what is it that brings you to my tea house?”
“Well, speaking of your network…”
“As they say, mi casa es su casa,” he replies.
“A Chinese man, speaking Spanish, in a Japanese tea house, in America,” I note. “How very multicultural of you.”
"One does what one can,” he laughs softly. “Now, about this information you seek.”
“Well, I know this is a shot in the dark. I know that being underground as you are—”
“Being underground does not halt the flow of information,” he says with a smile. “It allows you to hear more, actually. If you know how to listen, that is.”
“Well, I for one, am glad you know how to listen,” I say. “You know about my sister. I’ve told you about her, yes?”
He nods. “Yes. A terrible, tragic situation.”
My smile is small but warm. “Well, it turns out she’s alive. She’s back.”
He looks at me, surprise coloring his features. “Back? As in—”
“As in, she’s staying with me.”
“And you’re certain it’s her?”
I nod. “One hundred percent.”
He sits back in his chair and whistles low. “Well, this is certainly a plot twist.”
“You don’t even know the half of it.”
“You’ll have to tell me the rest of it, then.”
I nod. “I will when I have some time.”
“Then I’ll look forward to hearing your tale.”
“For now, I need to know what Kit is up to,” I tell him. “More specifically, I need to know who she’s aligned with—if anybody?”
“Is there somebody specific you have in mind that she’s aligned with?”
“A group known as the Thirteen,” I say simply.
Fish laughs softly and shakes his head. “You certainly do know how to pick your enemies well, Blake,” he says. “A group that can manage to murder three sitting Supreme Court Justices is not a group you want to be on the wrong side of.”
“Unfortunately, I didn’t pick this enemy. They’ve been in my life ever since they murdered my parents and abducted my sister,” I say.
“And you think your sister is an operative for this group and has been sent back into your life to do… what?”
“Spy on me? Kill me? I don’t know just yet. I don’t even know if she’s aligned with them,” I say. “But I’d really like to know before this situation comes to a head.”
“The Thirteen is a devious, insidious group of thugs and thieves—albeit very well-dressed, well-coiffed, and well-educated ones,” Fish says. “And they have the nerve to call me a criminal. The hypocrisy is astounding.”
“I agree,” I reply. “They know I’m working to take them down. That’s why they planted Mark in my life. And it’s why I’m suspicious about Kit suddenly reappearing.”
“You’re wise to be suspicious,” he chuckles to himself. “You most certainly have a very colorful and interesting family history, I must say. If I were the creative sort, I’d say there’s a screenplay in your story.”
“If you help me with this, you can have the rights to the story.”
He smiles wide, as if the thought pleases him greatly. “Can you see me as an Academy Award-winning screenwriter?”
“Having seen the way you’ve changed over the years, Fish, I believe you can do anything you set your mind to,” I say sincerely.
My words seem to please him, and he smiles, a dreamy look in his eyes. I can almost see him daydreaming about making an Academy Award acceptance speech; the thought makes me laugh softly. I like that he’s thinking about a life outside of his criminal empire. Fish is a good man with a good heart. I’d like to see good things happen for him.
“All right,” he says. “Give me a little time to look into your sister. If there is something to find, trust that I will find it.”
“Thank you, Fish. I owe you one—more than one, actually,” I say. “Oh, not to press my luck, I need to ask you for another favor.”
“You owe me nothing more than your pleasant companionship, Blake. We’re friends. This is what friends do,” he says. “What is your favor?”
“I was hoping that you had a vacant office somewhere,” I say. “I need a safe, clean space to run this investigation into the Thirteen. I’m afraid the heat is going to come down at some point and I’d like to have someplace safe to keep the evidence and case files. I’m going to take them down and I don’t want them to bury it.”
“Do you know who’s involved?”
“Getting there,” I nod. “We have a suspect pool, but narrowing it down to the major players is going to take some time.”
“I’ll have my man deliver you an address and some keys,” he says. “Feel free t
o use it as long as you need. And fear not, Agent Wilder, it is a safe, discreet, and secure place. It has a private entrance so nobody will see you come and go.”
“Thank you, Fish. You always come through for me.”
“As you do for me,” he replies. “I would not be where I am right now if not for you. Your kindness and generosity over the years is something I will never forget. You have been a true friend to me, Blake.”
I give him a smile. “We’re friends, Fish—the unlikeliest friends you’ll ever find, but friends nonetheless,” I say. “And that’s just what friends do.”
Fourteen
Fat Buddha Chinese Café, Chinatown-International District; Seattle, WA
“Okay, computers are up,” Astra says. “We are up and running.”
From my place at the whiteboard I set up, I look over to see her putting the final touches on the pair of workstations she set up on the oak partner desks. We moved all the files and boxes from my apartment to the office set above Fat Buddha’s that Fish gave us use of. The smell of the restaurant below us is strong and makes my mouth water.
The office we’re in is a spacious, one-room deal. The walls are stark white and are lined with photos of Seattle in its early days. Three large arch-shaped windows are set into the south wall, giving us a view of Chinatown. There’s a square conference table set up in the corner with four chairs around near the window on the left.
A pair of partner desks are pushed together near the window to the right, and there is a sofa and loveseat forming a sitting area against the wall opposite the windows. The bathroom is discreetly hidden in a small closet-sized room behind the sitting area and large area rugs are set under all the furniture in the room. It’s a plush, cozy little place. The paint on the walls is so fresh I can still catch faint whiffs of the paint fumes. Fish went all out getting this place ready for us.
