Raymond’s nimble fingers worked the tape deck controls. The tape ran in reverse. The doorman opened the door and the woman back-stepped into the lobby. She’d almost vanished off-screen, returning to the point where she’d first appeared, when Raymond hit Play again. The woman walked toward the entrance. Her reflection showed in the glass doors. Just before the doorman opened the door for her, her reflection became more solid, almost equal in quality to a low-resolution digital camera picture. The doorman’s uniform jacket, behind the door, darkened the glass and somehow gathered sufficient light to show her face, clearly enough for Ryker to realize she was Chinese. Raymond hit a button and the face swelled to fill the TV monitor. The edge of the screen flickered uncertainly while the center of the picture remained stable, giving them a blurry but almost-distinct mug shot. To Ryker’s relief, she looked nothing like Valerie Lin whose features were softer and more feminine. Not that this woman was by any means ugly. He thought of Michelle Yeoh, whose strong features had mesmerized him throughout Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.
Raymond indicated a slimline printer connected to Duffy’s master control panel by a USB cable. Ryker expected the printer to do something, but Raymond picked up a folder with the hotel logo instead, and opened it to show him a glossy hardcopy of exactly what was on the TV monitor. “Here’s one I prepared earlier,” she said. “So how are we doing?” Her smile told him she already knew she’d made a lot of people very happy, starting with Ryker and not necessarily ending with Captain Jerko.
“You’ve shown this to hotel staff?”
“Soon as the ink was dry. Duty manager doesn’t know her. Cleaning staff manager is checking it out, they hire temporary staff as needed, and they took on four new employees last week. Kitchen staff is more stable.”
Ryker stared at the print. He knew it was just a trick of light and camera angle, like a portrait whose eyes followed you around the room, but the woman seemed to stare at him, and he didn’t like what he saw. The killer’s eyes were lifeless black stones. He didn’t deny that her face held a measure of physical beauty, but those eyes....
“Where’s the cleaning manager?” he said, passing the print to Morales.
Raymond got up and headed for the door, clapping Duffy on the shoulder as she passed him by. Ryker added his nod of thanks, which Duffy acknowledged with a serious scowl that said he was too busy doing his job to shake hands or exchange verbal pleasantries, but had nonetheless taken a professional pleasure from assisting the S.F.P.D. in their hour of need.
“Just so we’re clear,” Morales said, as Raymond led them toward another door. “That wasn’t Danny Lin’s wife, was it?”
“That would be too easy,” Ryker said. “No, it’s not her. She’s a new player, worse luck. We need to fax this to Furino, stat. Luis, can you talk to the duty manager?”
“Sure.” Morales took the print to the reception desk.
Raymond knocked on the door and entered, taking them into an L-shaped office with a window onto a delivery bay. Two of the three desks were occupied by women wearing matching black pants suits. Raymond introduced Ryker to one of the pair. “Hey Martina, this is Detective Sergeant Ryker. You got anything for us?”
Martina spread four sheets across her desk, turned so Ryker could read them. They contained employee names, addresses, contact telephone numbers. Each had a passport-sized photograph stapled to the top right corner. None matched the Chinese woman who’d left the hotel at 08:18. One was Caucasian, two were Afro-Americans, the fourth a Latina with a winning smile.
“They started work here last week?” Ryker asked.
“That’s right.”
“The woman we’re looking for is Chinese.” Martina gave Raymond a look, as if accusing her of withholding that gem of information. Ryker said, “We only just found out ourselves. How about before last week? Can you check everyone who started this month?”
Martina chewed her lip for a second. “I suppose that’s okay. I’m not trying to be difficult or anything. I’m just not sure if I should be asking for a warrant, that’s all. Because it’s private employee information, I mean.”
“We’re not taking anything away, Martina,” Raymond said. “We just want to look at the photographs. We’ll get a warrant if we need to take anything away. Okay?”
Martina opened a filing drawer divided into sections with colored folders. She extracted one, flipped through pages, and fished out half-a-dozen sheets. To Ryker’s annoyance only four of them had photographs attached. Two were Chinese, but neither resembled the face he’d seen reflected in the glass door. He studied the two sheets without photographs. The first had been filled out by Maria Fernandez, aged 25, whose flowing looped handwriting was legible but required concentration to read. The second was filled out in neat capital letters that could have been printed by a machine. Amy Wong had been working at the Mandarin Oriental for eleven days. She’d had two of those days off. Her supervisor’s initial comments were favorable, Amy was punctual, her work was satisfactory, and she worked well on her own.
Ryker tried to recall where he’d heard that name before. When it came to him he nearly slapped his head. Amy Wong was one of the characters from Futurama, a show whose off-the-wall humor consistently made him laugh out loud. He accepted that it was probably just a mild coincidence. There must be hundreds of Amy Wongs in the country, perhaps dozens lived in San Francisco alone. Did he really expect a killer to watch the same cartoons as he did and pick a character name as her alias?
In the file was a copy of Ms. Wong’s photo identification, in this case, a California driver’s license. Ryker looked at it eagerly, but frowned when he saw the picture. Amy Wong we definitely in her 50s, and the jowls on her jaw line didn’t jibe with what he had seen in the video.
Well, she’s all we’ve got.
Raymond wrote the name in her notebook. She moved into a corner and turned her back to the room while she made a call on her cell.
Ryker tapped Amy Wong’s sheet and said, “Martina, did you hire this woman?”
“I don’t remember the name. Some are referred to us through agencies who do the hiring and firing. Let me look up the reference code. Right here, see?” She pointed to a string of letters and numbers printed along the top of the sheet. She tapped on her computer keyboard. Something changed on her LCD monitor, which Ryker couldn’t really see because of the angle. “Oh, for Pete’s sake. Whoever assigned that code made a mistake when they typed it into the system. Carelessness.”
Ryker would have called it stupidity, and included Martina in that general category, but he kept his mouth shut and looked at Raymond, who was listening to whoever was on the other end of her phone. She held the device away from her ear and said, “The address is a rented apartment in Chinatown. The lieutenant wants to know if you want a SWAT unit.”
“Let’s keep it low profile,” Ryker said. “Request a search warrant. Call the building supervisor and have him meet us inside, with keys.”
Raymond relayed his request. Martina looked up at him, confused. “You don’t mean to tell me this woman’s a criminal?”
“We’re just checking her out, along with a hundred other people who work here. I’d appreciate if you don’t talk about this with anyone.” Ryker stared at her until she lowered her gaze and nodded, taking the hint.
Raymond offered Ryker her phone. He took it and said, “Ryker.”
Spider said, “How sure are you that this could be the killer?”
“It’s a zillion to one. That’s why I’m stepping lightly.”
“I’m not suggesting you might screw this up, Hal. But don’t screw it up.”
“Ten-four.” Ryker hung up and gave the phone back to Raymond. “Want to come along?”
“Let me think about it. Please God, yes.”
They rounded up Morales and headed back to the parking lot. Raymond still seemed a little surprised as she buckled herself into the back seat. She gave Morales the address and Ryker stuck the flashing bubble on the roof, but th
e car stayed put while Morales consulted an A-Z street guide. “Guess we’re missing the heavy metal rock track,” Ryker said. Raymond quickly looked out the window to stop herself from laughing.
“I like to know where I’m going before I burn rubber,” Morales said. “You hot shots want to drive, just say the word.” He put the car into gear and headed for the exit ramp.
“For the love of God don’t say ‘burn rubber’ again, it turns me on,” Raymond said. Before Ryker had a chance to think up a suitably witty reply she added, “So what happens if we find Miss Wong? We know she likes to play with knives.”
“That’s why I don’t want SWAT kicking the door down,” Ryker said. “All due respect to our boys in black, I’d like to have the opportunity to speak with Miss Wong.”
“You think she separated Danny Lin from his yang? That’s no way to die, man,” Morales said.
“I don’t think she killed him—this broad’s in her fifties. But if she did, then she’s a dangerous psycho bitch until proven otherwise.”
Morales’s route took them past the Transamerica Pyramid, then down toward the Bay. Chinatown grew up around them and they were absorbed into its labyrinthine streets. Morales slowed down, and indicated the A-Z. Ryker flicked through the pages until he found their position.
“Next right, two blocks down,” he said. Morales steered that way. In no time they were within sight of the apartment block. Morales pulled in and stopped. A black-and-white sat parked in an alley, out of sight. Two uniforms climbed out along with an inoffensive-looking Chinese guy who smiled weakly as Ryker approached, Morales and Raymond a half-step behind.
“This is the supervisor, Mr. Lau,” the older of the two cops said. Ryker shook Lau’s hand, which was cold and limp. “Get this. He’s got family in the same building, a nephew and his wife and kid. Isn’t that right, Mr. Lau?” Lau nodded eagerly. “They live on the second floor. The woman’s one floor up. Mr. Lau called them and asked if they saw her today. They said yes. They think she could be up there now. Mr. Lau says she keeps to herself, pays her rent on time, doesn’t cause any trouble.”
“She won’t even say hello to my nephew’s family,” Lau said. “What kind of person won’t say hello to their neighbors?” He shook his head in disgust, then eagerly added, “Of course, I think I still need to see a warrant, right?”
Ryker pulled a facsimile copy of the warrant from inside his coat and showed it to Lau. Sometimes he loved technology. Sometimes. Lau checked the name and address were spelled right, folded the warrant, and handed it back to Ryker.
“What’d she do?” the cop asked.
“Murder suspect,” Ryker told him. “Emphasis on suspect. If we’re wrong, no big deal.”
“If we’re right,” Raymond said, “big deal.”
The cop shrugged. “Whatever way you want to play it.”
“I want you come along behind us and cover the stairs after we’re inside, keep the neighbors under control. Mr. Lau, you’ll help too. We’re going to unlock the door and walk right in.” He held out his hand and Lau gave him a key. The plastic tag read 303.
“Simplest plans are always the best,” the cop said.
They entered the building without drawing attention and climbed the stairs. Morales put himself into wingman position, establishing Raymond as tail-end Charlie, the backup gun if things went pear-shaped. When they reached the third floor landing they drew and checked their weapons. They padded silently along the corridor until they reached 303, and passed it by without stopping. Ryker pulled out his badge. Morales did the same. They crept back to the door. Raymond sucked in a deep breath. Morales crossed himself. Ryker fought an overwhelming urge to pass wind. To hell with this, call in SWAT, let them take the risks they’re paid to take. He ignored that logical advice and inserted the key into the lock, turned it as Morales turned the door handle. They squeezed inside.
A narrow hallway. Doors to left and right. Bedroom. Bathroom. Kitchen. They peeked into each of these apparently empty rooms on their way to the living room at the end of the hallway. Ryker stepped into the living room and swung left, Morales went right. Empty. He peered beneath the couch and chairs. Nothing. He turned back to the hallway, saw Raymond at the open door in marksman’s stance, both eyes open, aiming right at him. As Ryker relaxed and Morales came up out of his crouch, she lowered her weapon. He realized that her expression must mirror his: disappointment that the neighbors, Lau’s nephew’s family, were wrong. Nobody was home.
A shadow fell across the hallway and obscured his view of Raymond for only a second. When he saw her again she was sitting outside, her back against the corridor wall, legs spread wide, head bowed so her hair cascaded down over her face. He bolted along the hallway and out into the corridor. His shoe struck Raymond’s gun as he skidded to a stop, sent it spinning away. Raymond’s arm flopped. Her head came up, her mouth moved, but she didn’t say anything. Her eyes rolled, following the direction of her flopping arm. Pointing? Ryker swung round, gun cocked, finger on the trigger. The shadow stood on the landing, looking back at him. That same face he’d seen in the security camera print, eyes like black stones, terribly beautiful, yet also terribly frightening. He pulled the trigger even as his senses acknowledged the shadow’s blurred movement up and over the hand rail, plunging down the stairwell. The narrow confines of the corridor reflected the percussion and deafened him; at the same time recoil slammed up his arm and hurt his shoulder. He already knew he’d missed. He ran toward the landing as Morales emerged from the apartment and moved to assist Raymond.
Lau and the two cops stood at the bottom of the stairway. They looked up at him with astonished faces. The older cop said something, cupping his hands around his mouth. Ryker pointed at his ear and shook his head, indicating that he couldn’t hear. His ears popped. It sounded like he had a sea shell covering both ears, giving the effect of waves on a beach. Morales’s footsteps grew louder. He joined Ryker and peered over the rail. “The hell happened?”
“She was here!” Ryker said. He shouted down to the cops, “Where is she?”
They looked at each other dumbly as if he’d spoken a foreign language. Then both men shrugged and spread their hands, the universal expression of incomprehension that told Ryker they didn’t have the slightest idea what he was talking about.
Ryker went down the stairs four at a time, leading with his Glock. Morales caught on and followed him. They reached the next landing down. Ryker peeked around the corner. The corridor was empty. At the far end, net curtains fluttered, pushed by a breeze. Ryker crabbed sideways along the hallway, pressing himself to the wall. Morales took the other side. They reached the curtains, which concealed an open window. Ryker peered out. The fire escape ladder was up, it hadn’t been used. Below the window lay a narrow alleyway with a row of trash bins. He leaned out as far as he could but there was no one down there.
“What happened?” Morales said. Ryker was torn between taking the fire escape down into the alleyway, and going upstairs to check on Raymond. “What the hell happened?”
“Stay here,” he told Morales. “Watch the alleyway. If anything moves, shoot it.”
Morales took up station, clearly bewildered. Ryker hurried back to the landing and called down to the cops, telling them to check the alleyway, even though he knew it was hopeless. They ran outside and Ryker climbed back up to the third floor, where he found Raymond on her feet, leaning against the wall and breathing deeply.
“Sandra. Talk to me.” He examined her for signs of injury, of blood, but couldn’t see either.
“I’m okay,” she said. “I’m okay.”
“Did you see her?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know.” Raymond shook her head, then winced when it apparently hurt. “Give me a second. I don’t know, what the fuck, I was looking at you, next thing I knew....” She rubbed her neck, massaged the area of her collarbone. Ryker opened her jacket. Her white blouse was intact and blood-free.
“It hurts there?”
“Yeah
it fucking hurts, don’t touch me. Christ, I thought the bitch must have shot me. The impact, I couldn’t feel my legs, what did she hit me with? It threw me back. My legs stopped working. A fucking sledgehammer or something?” He sensed her panic, a result of confusion and fear. They moved together instinctively and she clung onto him for dear life, trembling with reaction. Her words came out in breathless sobs. “I thought I’d be in a wheelchair. What did she do to me?”
“Sandra, did you see her?” He held her tightly, twisting his hips away from her to avoid any crotch contact. Last thing he needed right now was a hard-on.
“I saw something. It must have been her. She was there. Then she was gone.” Raymond delivered one last gurgling sob into his shoulder, then stepped back, disconnecting from him. “She was dressed in black, from head to foot.”
“She must have had some kind of weapon,” Ryker suggested. “A club, a T-bar, something like that?”
“I don’t, I’m not sure, if she had anything in her hands.” She touched his chest, making a fist, tapping him around his collarbone as if trying to visually recreate what she’d experienced.
“She punched you?”
Raymond frowned and shook her head, uncertain. Ryker’s phone rang, he flipped it open, saw Morales’s name on the display. “Luis, talk to me.”
“Our guys are in the alley,” Morales said. “Nada.”
“She hit Sandra,” Ryker said. “Knocked her right over. I don’t think anything’s broken. We’re going to the hospital to make sure.”
“That’s not necessary,” Raymond said.
“You hit your head. We’re going to the hospital. No argument.” To Morales he said, “Our bird has flown. We need to get someone to check out her apartment. And stick around in case she comes back. Call Furino, Luis. Tell him what’s happened. We missed her. She was here and we missed her.”
CHAPTER 15
An intern shone his flashlight into Raymond’s eyes, asked her a bunch of questions and seemed pleased with her answers, which pleased Ryker too. He decided to wait outside when they unbuttoned her blouse and exposed the livid purple bruise that had spread across her upper chest and over her shoulder. Thankfully a curtain cut off his view of further discolored flesh, and Raymond’s unblinking stare.
White Tiger Page 24
