Dead in Hong Kong (Nick Teffinger Thriller)

by Jagger, R. J.

  Prarie’s heart raced.

  “Why?”

  “Because no one gets to know where the studio is,” he said. Prarie must have had a look on her face because the man added, “This is a deal-breaker.”

  Prarie looked at Emmanuelle who exhaled and put the blindfold on.

  Prarie followed suit.

  The car pulled away.

  THEY DROVE FOR A LONG TIME. Based on the decreasing traffic congestion, they were probably going north. No one spoke. Ostensibly, all the cloak-and-dagger was to keep the location of the studio unknown, not only because of the inventory of replicas, but because the artist was also a collector.

  He was ripe for the robbing if a robber knew where to look.

  He took no chances.

  “We’re almost there,” he said. “Two more minutes.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Day Five—August 7

  Friday Afternoon

  ______________

  AFTER LOSING THE TRAIL of the mystery woman, Teffinger called Fan Rae and told her he just got a call from Denver and needed to handle an emergency matter this afternoon. A man charged with murder filed a motion to exclude evidence and the D.A. needed to email a number of documents to Teffinger and go over them.

  That was a lie; a lie to avoid seeing Fan Rae until he could figure things out.

  “We’re still on for tonight, right?” she asked.

  “Absolutely,” he said. “I’ll call you as soon as I’m free.”

  When he hung up, he called Dr. Leigh Sandt, the FBI profiler from Quantico, Virginia. She answered on the third ring, groggy, getting woken up. He pictured a classy lady sitting up in bed, about fifty, with the best legs in the universe—Tina Turner legs.

  “It’s me,” he said.

  “Nick?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you know what time it is?”

  He did a quick calculation.

  It would be 4:00 a.m., Virginia time.

  He should have waited three hours.

  “Look, I know I’m waking you and I’m really sorry about it, but I have a situation,” he said. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

  “You sound faint,” she said. “Where are you?”

  “Hong Kong.”

  “Hong Kong?”

  “Right.”

  “What are you doing in Hong Kong?”

  “Hunting,” he said. “But here’s the thing. I’m working with a Hong Kong detective by the name of Fan Rae Fan. I just came across some information to the effect that she’s actually connected to the people I’m looking for—I’m not sure yet if she’s part of them or covering up for them or what. But I do know that she’s dirty and she’s lying to me. What I need is some background on her.”

  Silence.

  “That would be a CIA matter,” she said.

  “I know,” Teffinger said. “Can you make a call?”

  Leigh grunted.

  “God, Nick, if it was anyone but you—”

  “Love you,” he said.

  “Be careful,” she said. “It sounds like you’re way out of your league.”

  “I usually am.”

  “I’ll call you as soon as I know something,” she said. “It may be a couple of days.”

  “I don’t have a couple of days. I might not even have a couple of hours.”

  “Nothing’s ever normal with you, Teffinger,” she said. “Do you know that?”

  Unfortunately, he did.

  HE SPENT THE REST OF THE AFTERNOON on the Star Ferry, ping-ponging across Victoria Harbour between Hong Kong and Kowloon, hoping that the salt air would clear his thoughts.

  It did, to a point.

  He was able to figure out a few things.

  Fan Rae knew who d’Asia was, meaning she had been deceiving Teffinger by pretending she knew nothing. The reason she had been deceiving him was because the mystery woman was going to kill d’Asia. Fan Rae was either going to help her or, at a minimum, manipulate Teffinger until the deed was done.

  Based on that information alone, Teffinger’s opinion about Fan Rae should be easy—namely, that she was a woman he couldn’t ever respect or love, not in a million years.

  But there was a problem.

  When they made love, it was real.

  Fan Rae hadn’t been faking it.

  Nor had he.

  As much as he wished he could, he couldn’t turn off his feelings about her just because it made sense.

  He still liked her and maybe even loved her.

  There was one more problem, too, a big one—he still thought about d’Asia. He could still see feel her straddling him in the dark. He could still smell the rain in her hair. He could still taste her skin.

  What to do?

  What to do?

  DR. LEIGH SANDT phoned just as dusk settled on Hong Kong and the neon lights started to flicker “I called in some markers and officially owe three blowjobs,” she said. “Unfortunately, nothing bubbled to the surface. Based on what everyone could throw together fast, the woman is clean. That doesn’t mean there isn’t something there to find, given time and effort, but if it’s there it’s going to take some digging.”

  “Thanks.”

  He appreciated it.

  He really did.

  “You want us to dig deeper?”

  Teffinger ran his fingers through his hair and pictured the process, namely surveillance, interviews, records searches, the kinds of things that took weeks.

  “Hold off for now,” he said. “Let me see how the next couple of days go.”

  “Okay.”

  “I owe you one,” he said.

  She laughed.

  “Yeah, right, one—followed by two zeros.”

  “I didn’t know you were keeping count,” he said. “Next time you’re in Denver, I’ll take you out and get you drunk.”

  “Deal,” she said. “At a cowboy bar. Do you still have some of those around?”

  He did.

  He did indeed.

  “Okay then,” Teffinger said. “I’ve got you penciled in.”

  “Oh, no, not pencil, buddy—pen. I know how your pencil works.”

  FAN RAE CALLED TEN MINUTES LATER.

  “Are we still on for tonight?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I’ll pick you up at 9:30,” she said. “I’m wearing something dark so I don’t stand out too much.”

  Teffinger thought, g-punk.

  “Good idea,” he said. “Just be sure it’s something that comes off.”

  “Do you want me to wear pants or a dress?”

  A dress, a short one.

  The shortest one she has.

  “What color underwear?”

  “No underwear.”

  “You want me to wear the shortest dress I have and no underwear?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I didn’t know you were so nasty,” she said.

  “Now you know.”

  “I’ve never done that before.”

  “Do it tonight.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I asked you to. Show me I’m special.”

  “But you are special.”

  “Prove it.”

  Silence.

  “Okay,” she said, “but in return I expect you to get me seriously drunk.”

  “Done.”

  TEFFINGER HUNG UP and didn’t know why he did what he just did. Maybe it was to see what her limits were, and whether she’d go there for him. Maybe it was just so he could squeeze her bare ass whenever he felt like it.

  “Don’t over-think it,” he muttered. “Your brain isn’t that big.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Day Five—August 7

  Friday Night

  ______________

  RA BUSTED ONTO THE SOHO SCENE eight months ago and became the instant big dog. It had a section for every sin. Paramount was an insanely massive techno dance floor with women in suspended cages who gyrated in their underwear. But there was also a live
band room called the Inferno, a hostess bar called Twisted, and a bed and sofa lounge called Chills. Every nook and cranny was filled with sexual tension and the most beautiful people in Hong Kong.

  Kong ran the place.

  He was in charge of all hiring and firing, meaning no one worked there without his approval. He personally chose the bartenders, doormen, dancers, and everyone else. Only the pretty needed to apply. He was also present most nights, with his smiles and rock star looks and perfect clothes seductively unbuttoned, to be sure that the customers had a good time, with particular attention to the GQ, the models and the rich and relevant.

  His job sounded easy.

  It wasn’t, anything but.

  He earned his money.

  Behind him, in the background, was an army of geeks who handled the mundane, things like ads and promotion, booking the bands, liquor inventory, security, insurance, bookkeeping, licensing, housekeeping, maintenance, payroll, benefits, taxes, et cetera.

  Jack Poon owned the place.

  It was a drop in his bucket.

  It could evaporate and his bottom line wouldn’t even twitch.

  Kong had been managing a smaller club in Lan Quai Fong called Freefall, also a Poon club although no one knew it, and got moved over to Ra when it opened. Kong didn’t meet Poon for five months and even that was just a quick handshake.

  Poon didn’t micro-manage.

  He delegated and then disappeared.

  Friday night was the big one at Ra, the party night.

  Kong got there early, an hour before the club opened.

  Good thing, too.

  Problems were already in the making.

  SHORTLY AFTER MIDNIGHT, something unexpected happened. Jack Poon showed up, in the flesh. That by itself would have provided cause to take notice. To add to the spectacle, however, his slender frame was sandwiched between two women, both western, both blond, both a good six inches taller than him, both drop-dead gorgeous.

  Everyone in the club stared.

  Most didn’t know who he was, at least by sight, but everyone knew one thing—he had deep pockets, lots and lots of deep pockets.

  For that reason alone, people parted as he walked.

  Kong hustled his way over to see if the man needed liquor or a roped-off booth or private room to screw his lovelies or whatever.

  “Actually, I swung by to talk to you,” Poon said. “Remember that new plan that I was going to work on?”

  Kong remembered and nodded.

  “Well, I think I came up with something.” He slapped Kong on the back and said, “You’re going to be in awe. It makes that airplane thing look like a day at the zoo.”

  Kong swallowed, both excited and repulsed.

  “No parachutes, right?” he asked.

  Poon grinned and said, “You’re too much.” Then he handed one of the blonds to him and said, “This one’s for you. Let’s sit down somewhere and have a drink.”

  THEY ENDED UP IN THE HOSTESS ROOM, Twisted, at the booth in the back corner. Poon ordered six women, shoved money in their crotches and got them drunk. Then he positioned them as a visual wall around the perimeter of the table and motioned for the blonds to get underneath.

  They did.

  Kong felt his zipper slide down.

  Poon cocked his head and said, “The rules are simple. Keep your hands on the table. The first one who comes is the loser.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Day Five—August 7

  Friday Night

  ______________

  TWO MINUTES AFTER the artist said “Two minutes,” the vehicle came to a stop and the engine shut off. Prarie reached up to uncover her eyes when a vice-like hand wrapped around her wrist and brought it down.

  “Leave the blindfolds on until we get inside.”

  “Why?”

  “Just humor me,” he said. “It’s only a few more minutes.”

  He led them out of the car and through a door.

  “Okay, you can take them off,” he said.

  Prarie expected to be in a studio, standing in the midst of paintings. But she was in a dark industrial warehouse, mostly empty and gutted, but with scattered silhouettes of ancient machinery here and there. Two sturdy wooden chairs sat on the concrete in front of her. Each had rope tied on the arms and legs, where a person’s wrists and ankles would be. The man looked at Emmanuelle first, then Prarie, and said, “You are very stupid ladies.”

  Suddenly a second person grabbed Emmanuelle from behind.

  It was a man, a strong man.

  She screamed.

  The scream stopped when the man brought a cloth to her mouth and pulled it against her face.

  She struggled violently.

  It did no good.

  Then she dropped to the ground.

  AT THE SAME TIME someone grabbed Prarie from behind, a third man.

  A terrible saturated cloth came to her mouth.

  Her first instinct was to grab the man’s hand and pull it off, but she couldn’t. Then she dropped straight down, slithered out from under his arms and rolled when she hit the ground. Something was there next to her—Emmanuelle’s purse.

  The man came at her as a cat would a mouse, slowly, enjoying the anticipation.

  “So, you want to play?” he said.

  Before she knew it, the gun was in her hand.

  The man by Emmanuelle saw it and charged with a knife.

  Fast.

  With obvious intent.

  She fired.

  Bam!

  Bam!.

  He dropped to the ground, twitched, gurgled and then stopped moving.

  The other man came at her.

  The cat.

  She turned the gun on him.

  “Stop right there!”

  He hesitated, as if deciding, and then stopped.

  The air was deathly silent.

  No one said a word.

  Not a sound came from anywhere, other than the air passing in and out of everyone’s lungs.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Day Five—August 7

  Friday Night

  ______________

  WEARING A SHORT BLACK DRESS and matching high heels, Fan Rae picked Teffinger up at the Fleming after dark and headed east on Hennessy Road towards the Wan Chai district. The garment rode up as she drove, dangerously high, and the smooth golden skin of her thighs occasionally flashed with a neon blue or green or yellow. Fan Rae must have caught him staring because she said, “I did what you wanted.”

  “You mean the panties?”

  She nodded.

  “Lack thereof, to be precise,” she said. “Go ahead and check.”

  He almost did, but said, “Later.”

  “You’re such a tease.” She exhaled. “Hong Kong nights get me horny. They’re the best in the world. I’ve been to a lot of places—Bangkok, Tokyo, Rome, Paris—none of them compare.”

  “Have you ever been to the United States?”

  She shook her head.

  “No interest,” she said.

  Minutes later they were on Queens Road East, pulling into the parking lot of a standalone building with a neon sign that said High Tide Bar.

  “We’re here,” she said.

  A LARGE NUMBER OF WOMEN were inside, all young, all beautiful, all professional flirts. From what Fan Rae told Teffinger earlier, most of the hostess girls in Hong Kong were now from the Philippines or Thailand. Their main function was to fawn over the men, get them drunk, feed them fruit, sing Karaoke, rub their legs and laugh heartily at anything that was even remotely funny.

  They were adorable young women spending time with older, not-so-adorable guys.

  For that, the men paid roughly $500 HKD per hour per girl.

  Plus the bar tab.

  Plus tips.

  Many of the men were Chinese businessmen who came to close deals and show respect to their counterparts by spending money on them. In those situations, the girls were careful to not favor one man over another, as such wo
uld be an act of disrespect.

  Then there were the westerners, expats and weary travelers, looking for a little company and hoping there would at least be an under-the-table handjob at the end of it all.

  There wouldn’t be.

  There was no sex, not in the club anyway.

  Many of the women though wrote down their phone numbers for after-hours services, off-site.

  One Girl, One Room.

  That was the most popular form of prostitution in Hong Kong, meaning one woman with her own, private apartment.

  No pimps.

  No hotels.

  The High Tide Bar, like most hostess bars, started life at a topless bar. Then there came a point when licenses were no longer given out. The topless bars eventually disappeared as they were traded or sold. Hostess bars sprang up in their stead as the next best thing.

  TEFFINGER AND FAN RAE TOOK A BOOTH. A few minutes later, a classy woman named Sun An joined them. She was old enough that she was clearly not one of the girls but probably had been ten years ago.

  “Would you like me to send a girl over?” she asked.

  Fan Rae nodded.

  “Yes, Syling Wu,” she said.

  Sun Ah frowned.

  “Syling has not shown up yet.”

  “Is she scheduled?”

  “She is.”

  “When was she supposed to be here?”

  Sun Ah looked at her watch.

  “An hour ago.”

  “Is she usually late?”

  No.

  Never.

  Not even five minutes.

  This was very unlike her.

  “Did she call in?”

  No.

  She didn’t.

  “We’ll wait for a little and see if she shows up,” Fan Rae said.

  Sun Ah patted her hand and said, “Fine. In the meantime, would you like someone else to join you?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Do you see one in particular that you’d like?”

  Fan Rae looked at Teffinger and said, “You choose.”

  Teffinger surveyed the landscape and said, “Who would Syling want here, if she shows up and joins us?”

  “Probably her,” Sun Ah said, nodding.

  “Okay then,” Teffinger said. “Her.”