White Tiger

by Stephen Knight

  “Sounds like a plan,” Manning agreed.

  ###

  Lunch was an uneventful part of the day, consisting of a six-inch tuna sandwich on white bread and a large Diet Pepsi from a local Subway. It was made even less memorable by the fact that he ate it at his desk while coordinating the rest of the investigation. Chee Wei had relieved Morales at the Zhu residence, and the rest of the detectives were either conducting follow-up interviews with the hotel staff or canvassing the rest of the immediate vicinity around the Mandarin Oriental, looking for any stray clue that might pop up. Ryker had taken some pleasure in adding Wallace to that detail; the fat cop was loathe to do much in the way of walking, and if this was the only way Ryker could inconvenience him without breaking his face (and getting suspended), then he was happy to do it.

  Raymond was still out of commission, and he wouldn’t expect her back for days at the least. With Chee Wei and Morales doing the babysitting routine, there wasn’t a lot else that could be done other than add various bits and pieces to the murder book, none of which were very illuminating nor truly served to move the investigation ahead. As he stuffed the Subway sandwich wrapper into the plastic carry-bag that came with it, he noticed the invitation Manning had left for him on his desk. Ryker tossed the bag into his trash can and picked up the card. He reread it once again; the words were the same, but the meaning remained hidden from him. Why would James Lin want him anywhere near his residence?

  And more importantly...would Valerie Lin be there?

  Ryker tossed the invitation back onto his desk and leaned back in his chair. He rubbed his eyes tiredly, feeling a creeping, mounting anxiety that he couldn’t get rid of. Too many things were coming together at once—the Lin Dan murder, the ostracism and political pressure in the department—and perhaps most dangerous of all, what was going on between him and Valerie Lin.

  And just what the hell is going on between you two, Hal? Ryker asked himself. She just lost her husband, got drunk, and then banged the hell out of you. Chances are damned good she regrets every moment of it now, providing her hangover’s gotten out of the way. What did you expect—to start wearing Danny’s Lin’s bathrobes around that big house in Sea Cliff, like Chee Wei said?

  Ryker rubbed his face. It was too ridiculous to even contemplate. He didn’t know much about Valerie Lin, but he did know that high-society women like her rarely took on lowly public servants as their significant others. To even consider that a casual possibility was naïve...and stupid. He’d gotten incredibly lucky by circumstance, by being in the right place at the right time—

  That’s not it at all, he chided himself. You knew you could get into her pants right now, when she’s the most vulnerable. Great way to treat a lady, Ryker. Nail her when she’s down and out.

  Movement by his desk brought him out of his self-recriminatory reverie. He looked up and was surprised to see Morales standing nearby, hands in the pockets of his trousers with an interdepartmental envelope clasped under one arm. He looked rumpled, and there were bags underneath his blue eyes. He smelled faintly of tobacco, and right then, Ryker thought he could kill for a cigarette.

  “Nick,” Ryker said. “What the hell are you doing here? You have the day off—you’re on a night rotation.”

  “Couldn’t sleep.”

  “Okay...so what are you going to do tonight? Fall asleep on the Zhu’s couch?”

  Morales shrugged.

  “I’ll catch some shut-eye later.” He pulled the envelope from under his arm and held it out to Ryker. “Here, an early Christmas present.”

  “What is it?” Ryker asked. He took the envelope and read the signatures. “The medical examiner’s report? Already?”

  “A lot of the fine-line stuff isn’t done. They didn’t have to crack open the chest, since the wound was obvious, and the toxicology screens are pretty much negative.” Morales rubbed his bristly chin. “You don’t know this, but the M.E. has family back east and wants to get into the same line of work for the N.Y.P.D. I made some calls, got some things arranged. That’s how I was able to get it so quick.”

  Ryker nodded and opened the envelope. Inside was a gray file folder, and some official routing documents he would have to sign and send back to the medical examiner’s office.

  “Didn’t realize you still had so much juice back in New York,” he commented.

  “Yeah well, it’s not like I’m some kind of fallen angel. Some folks over there still remember me.” Morales waved toward the folder. “Of course, I still had to go over and pick it up from them, the lazy humps.”

  “Never an easy day for you, is it?” Ryker asked. He signed the forms and put them aside, then opened the folder. “You read this yet?”

  “Nah. I got the Cliff’s Notes from the M.E. direct. It’s pretty much what it looks like—the stab wound killed the guy, though the loss of his main vein probably didn’t thrill him at the time, either.”

  Ryker went through the overview documentation, skipping the more detailed analyses for the moment. It was as Morales said; inspection of the wound site confirmed that the damage to the heart tissue had been severe enough to kill Lin Dan quickly.

  “Whoever did it, did it right.”

  “Yeah well, I always thought I’d be happy to die in bed. Now I can see that’s not always the case. When I check out, I’m gonna throw myself in front of a cable car. At least that way, I’ll be on the news and the folks back home’ll have something to talk about.”

  “You’re a sick man, Morales.”

  Morales shrugged and nodded.

  “A suitable epitaph,” he said.

  CHAPTER 19

  The Lin compound was a huge, sprawling Mediterranean villa that sat atop a hill in the town of Tiburon, an upscale community in Marin County, north of San Francisco. The villa had commanding views of the San Francisco Bay, from the Golden Gate Bridge to the heart of the city itself, as well as Angel Island. Manning hadn’t seen such eye-popping natural beauty in quite some time, and he had almost driven his GTO off the road while looking out across the Bay.

  The compound was gated, of course, and his identity was checked by the taciturn guard on duty there. After a brief conversation over his radio, he waved Manning through. Manning accelerated up the long, winding driveway. The grounds were immaculately landscaped, and an army of greens keepers were at work making last-minute grooming. They paid Manning no mind as he brought the car to a halt before a three-bay garage. Two Hispanic men in red vests approached him—valets, of course. Manning waved them away, ignoring their protests that he couldn’t leave his car there. He marched toward the villa’s front door and rang the bell. As expected, a tuxedoed butler answered. The man was portly and bald, and carried himself with a regal bearing usually reserved for members of the British aristocracy.

  “Yes sir, how might I help you?” Damned if the man didn’t have a British accent!

  “Jerome Manning for James Lin.”

  “Ah yes, Mr. Manning—I’ve been expecting you. Mr. Lin is not yet available, and I was wondering if you might meet with Mr. Baluyevsky instead?” The butler stood aside and waved Manning inside with a small bow.

  “That’s fine,” Manning said. He stepped across the threshold and tried not to marvel at the ornate entry hall that waiting on the other side. The ceiling was at least thirty feet high, and floor was solid white marble veined with shoots of black. Gold lamé adorned the curved ceiling and the ivory beams that supported it, and a chandelier that likely exceeded Manning’s entire net worth cast subtle light throughout the cavernous chamber. A sweeping staircase rose away from the entry hall, leading to what Manning presumed to be the living quarters.

  Manning mentally recited a classic Mel Brooks line: It’s good to be the king.

  “My name is Edwards, Mr. Manning. Will you be staying for the party?”

  Manning nodded to the butler. “For a time, certainly—though if it’s a black tie affair, I’m afraid I’m somewhat underdressed for the occasion.” He wore a dark blue su
it and an understated tie. Though it had cost him $4,000, it was likely worth less than one of Lin’s used handkerchiefs.

  “I do believe you’re on staff, sir, not a guest? Your attire is in keeping with Mr. Lin’s tastes. Now, if you’ll follow me...?”

  The portly bald man led Manning deeper into the villa, past large rooms filled with furnishings of unquestionable value. The opulence was almost beyond measure, which wasn’t surprising. Chinese elites had an image to project, and Lin obviously intended to live up to his part.

  At last, they came to a small suite of rooms located near the rear of the villa. Edwards knocked discreetly on a mahogany door before opening it, motioning Manning forward. Manning nodded his thanks and stepped into the next room.

  Inside, several flat screen monitors glowed in the semi-darkness. A man sat behind a horseshoe-shaped desk and watched the monitors. Various portions of the property were under closed-circuit surveillance, and audio was included. A small storage area network stood in a rack in one corner, humming to itself. Manning surmised that the camera footage was digitized and stored there for future review, if necessary.

  “Hello, Manning.” Baluyevsky was seated at a small desk on the other side the room, bathed in the wan light of a lamp. He closed the laptop computer before him and rose to his feet. His jacket had been draped across the back of the chair, and his white shirt drew tight around his expansive belly.

  “Baluyevsky,” Manning said.

  Baluyevsky waved to the horseshoe desk and the bank of monitors. “Our security station,” he explained. “The entire compound is under at least some degree of surveillance. This station isn’t manned routinely, but after the death of Lin Dan, we now have it operational twenty-four hours a day.”

  “You pay your people overtime?”

  Baluyevsky looked at Manning oddly, then pointed at one of the monitors. Manning’s GTO could be seen sitting in the wide driveway.

  “This is your car. You’ll have to move it,” the big Russian said. “This will be a drop-off point for the rest of the guests. They are scheduled to begin arriving in one hour.”

  “Don’t worry about it—I won’t be staying for long,” Manning said.

  “I’m afraid Mr. Lin has requested your presence throughout at least the first part of the evening.”

  “Huh. Didn’t think this was a party for the working class. Sorry, I’m not letting any valet drive my car.”

  Baluyevsky pulled on his jacket. “Very well, if it makes things more palatable, leave it there. I know how you Americans love your automobiles. Come, let’s go for a walk. I will give you a guided tour, I believe it is called.”

  Manning followed Baluyevsky out of the cool, darkened room and into the hallway. The big Russian led Manning throughout the lower floor of the villa, pointing out room after room filled with lavish furnishings and stunning artworks. Lin’s taste was hardly eclectic, Manning noticed. He preferred furniture that looked expensive, but was probably uncomfortable for more than occasional use. He was fond of statues from all over the world, and his framed artworks were likely first class, though such things were beyond Manning. Near the rear of the house, there was a windowed gallery where large paintings and wall hangings were on display. The windows overlooked the carefully sculpted gardens and huge patio, and a large swimming pool could be glimpsed past artistically manicured hedges. And the view from the courtyard was simply stunning: from the Golden Gate to downtown San Francisco, it was laid out for all to see. On such a peculiarly clear day as this one, it bordered on breathtaking.

  “The view at night is simply lovely,” Baluyevsky stated, as if sensing Manning’s thoughts. “The city and the bridge gleam like jewels.”

  “Probably the only things Lin doesn’t own,” Manning replied.

  “For now,” Baluyevsky said.

  ###

  They finally wound up in the large gourmet kitchen, which was full of white-clad staff scurrying back and forth as they prepared the night’s meals. Most were Chinese, but some whites and Hispanics were present as well. Baluyevsky led Manning to a large table off to one side, and motioned to one of the chefs as he sat. Manning sat down across from him.

  “Lin doesn’t have any African-Americans working for him?” Manning asked.

  “Observant. No, Mr. Lin does not care for blacks. Does this offend you?” Baluyevsky wanted to know.

  Manning shrugged. “Lin’s an old guy from China, and most Asians don’t care for blacks anyway. It’s not surprising. I just didn’t think he would care about those things.”

  “Mr. Lin cares about a great many things. In his world, perceptions are quite valuable.”

  One of the Chinese chefs approached the table, carrying a silver coffee service. On it were two espresso cups made of extremely delicate china. Baluyevsky ignored the chef and picked up one cup by its tiny handle. Manning was surprised the vessel didn’t shatter in his thick fingers.

  “Espresso,” Baluyevsky said. “Please help yourself, if you like.”

  “Thanks.” Manning brought his cup to his lips and tasted the hot, bitter liquid. It was first rate, of course.

  “So tell me of your meeting with the police,” Baluyevsky said.

  Manning raised a brow and looked around the busy kitchen. “Here?”

  “No one here cares about such things, and if they did, things would go badly for them.”

  “You guys really stick it to the little people, huh?”

  “I do not know what you mean by that, but no one here is threatened by us. They know what is required of them, and if they cannot provide a specific level of service—which includes discretion—then they are fired. That is all I meant.”

  “Ah.” Manning sipped more espresso. “I see.”

  He told Baluyevsky of his meeting with Ryker, and what his review of the murder book had revealed. There wasn’t a lot to go on, and Manning surmised that some things hadn’t made it to the book as of yet. Still, it seemed that Ryker and his team were moving ahead as quickly as they could. Solving a murder became substantially more difficult after the first forty-eight hours or so, and even though there was some substantial physical evidence, there was nothing that could offer up a suitable suspect. Manning told Baluyevsky that Zhu Xiaohui had been nominally cleared of any wrongdoing, but that the police were still interested in her.

  “And they are protecting her from us?” Baluyevsky wanted to know.

  “I got that impression, yes. You were made on the day that you stopped by her sister’s place, which wasn’t particularly wise.”

  Baluyevsky waved that aside. “What did you not see today? What was missing?”

  “Various interdepartmental forms. Background checks, things like that. I only saw the murder book itself, and while it was pretty thorough, I’m sure there’s stuff that hasn’t made it there yet. I asked for the forms to be shown to me tomorrow. Ryker said someone would handle that.”

  “Yes, Ryker...what did you think of him?”

  Manning shrugged. “Seemed competent enough. Contentious son of a bitch, but I can understand why. He’s got a bunch of outsiders looking over his shoulder and turning up the heat on his bosses, which doesn’t make things easier for him. He’s probably a very good cop, but he’s being kept on a short leash.”

  “How close is he to identifying a suspect?”

  “Not very. A lot of people hate Lin, both the son and the father, though the son certainly had a higher profile here in the U.S. I’m wondering if anyone has taken a look at his wife?”

  Baluyevsky frowned. “You would think that Lin Dan’s wife killed him, or had him killed?”

  “Look, the guy was taken out while having an affair with a much younger woman, right? That would cost a Chinese a lot of face. A lot of face, especially in circles like this one.” Manning indicated the house in which they sat.

  Baluyevsky shook his head. “That would be impossible. Valerie Lin is not that sort of woman. She knew of her husband’s infidelity, but she bore it silently. The onl
y action she took regarding that was to bring it to Mr. Lin’s attention.”

  Manning was surprised by that. “She took this to Lin himself? That’s outside the box for a Chinese.”

  “She has American sensibilities about some things, but you are right, it was a moment of great embarrassment for both of them. Mr. Lin was not pleased to be approached with such a development.”

  “So what did he do?”

  “He reduced his son’s standing in the business. Major responsibilities were transferred to others not in the family bloodline. And there was no chance that Lin Dan would keep his seat on the board of directors of Lin Industries, in either the U.S. or China.”

  Manning thought about that. “I guess it didn’t work,” he said finally. “Lin Dan still had his ladies on the side.”

  Baluyevsky sipped from his cup so delicately that it was almost comical. “No, it did not work. Apparently this woman is quite the artist.”

  “What do you know of her?”

  “Nothing. Only that she is a native Shanghainese, and that she has exorbitant tastes. Lin Dan was literally spending hundreds of thousands of dollars a year maintaining her. It was only when he brought her to California for their liaisons that Valerie Lin found out about Lin Dan’s ‘other life’, so to speak, and took action.”

  “So Lin Dan wasn’t a very cool cat, then.”

  Baluyevsky blinked. “What do you mean by ‘cool cat’?”

  “I meant he wasn’t the paragon of discretion.”

  “No. He was obviously not at all discreet,” Baluyevsky agreed.

  “Ryker investigated him earlier for something else?”

  “Yes. Lin Dan had cost his father much face before. He was an embarrassment to the family and the business more than once.”

  Manning sipped some more espresso. “Maybe Lin should send his son’s killer a thank-you note.”