White Tiger

CHAPTER 18

The day went as desultorily slow as the one that had preceded it. Manning spent most of the time poring over Lin’s calendar and examining the list of invitees for his dinner party later in the evening. There were of course a host of names which were entirely unfamiliar to him, and a precious few who were. One of those names was Senator Testaverde, a moneyed Democrat who represented California in the Senate. The Senator was chairman of the Finance Committee, which seemed just like the political power someone like Lin would wish to ally himself with. Like Lin, Testaverde was more than just slightly well off; unlike Lin, he was the scion of a California real estate and entertainment magnate, now long since dead. Manning knew precious little about the Senator beyond what he had read in the newspapers: he was a Liberal with a capital L, which made him the party’s pet viper to sick on the GOP; he loved getting in newspapers and on television; he had a flashy lifestyle that was at times at odds with that of a member of the United States Senate; he was twice-divorced; and while he portrayed himself as a champion for the Common Man, he had as much in common with the majority of the vassals he represented as Manning did with Liberace. If Lin had successfully managed a leech-grab onto Testaverde, then it had to be a two-way street.

The other name that leaped out at Manning was one that would be entirely overlooked in America. Ren Yun was a former member of the Chinese Communist Party, a functionary of the politburo, and an important one. He’d stepped down years ago when Jiang Zemin transitioned power to his replacement, and had avoided the spotlight ever since, as most Chinese politicians did when their reign came to an end. That the old man still had influence in some quarters of Chinese society was to be taken for granted, though Manning had no understanding how he and Lin were connected. Clearly, Lin’s time in the Chinese government had come to a close not long after Mao’s death, where Yun had managed to hold on for decades afterwards. No doubt his hand helped shape present-day China, though to what degree was anyone’s guess.

The rest of the names were players Manning didn’t know. It was a group of about twenty or so…a pretty damned big gathering, even if it was at a mansion in Sausalito. Would there be other individuals present as well, supporting the bigwigs? Manning felt that would be a certainty, though in what capacity one could only wonder. Security, for sure. At least the Senator would have a Secret Service escort. This didn’t make Manning nervous, though he presumed he would have to submit to a background check of sorts. He was certain his activities were off the Secret Service’s radar; he’d been cautious and adroit when it came to covering his tracks, and any events that might have triggered any alarms happened overseas. It was unlikely anything had made it back to the States.

Just the same, Manning cornered Baluyevsky when the Russian returned from whatever mission Lin had sent him on earlier in the day. Baluyevsky didn’t seem to be in much of a mood to chat, but Manning didn’t particularly care. They both answered to the same chain of authority.

“What is it, Manning?” Baluyevsky asked tersely when Manning entered his office. Like the man himself, it wasn’t exactly expressive; to say the room was merely Spartan might have been a drastic overstatement. The Russian’s bulk was so large that his desk looked too small for him, even though it was the same size as the desk in Manning’s own office.

“We need to go over this.” Manning put the list of invitations on Baluyevsky’s desk. “Not just who’s on it, but those who aren’t on it.”

“What do you mean, those who aren’t on it? Ah, you’re worried about the Secret Service, yes?” Baluyevsky smiled broadly, and the skin around his eyes crinkled. “You needn’t worry about them. As far as anyone knows, you are not an entity they would be interested in.”

“It’s not the Secret Service I’m worried about. It’s other folks. Who will be supporting these people?”

“Mr. Lin’s staff, of course.”

“Not what I meant. Who will be supporting Yun, for instance?”

Baluyevsky crossed his arms and laughed.

“You must be joking, Manning. Mr. Yun and Mr. Lin have been friends and allies for decades. If you think that Yun is somehow involved with-”

“Of course not. But someone on his staff? May be.”

The humor drained out of Baluyevsky slowly.

“You think someone on Yun’s staff would pose a threat to Mr. Lin? An interesting idea, but all are vouched for. All have either the approval of Mr. Lin or Mr. Yun. That was something I insisted on in the first place.”

“Don’t get lazy,” Manning advised. “A Chinese killed Lin Dan.”

“Really. And you couldn’t have done it?”

Manning snorted and shook his head.

“Not that way, no.”

“Ignore the sexual aspects,” Baluyevsky said. “If not for those, you could have committed the murder, and left the writing, correct?”

Manning considered it for a moment.

“Perhaps-though I’ve never tried to write Chinese characters in someone’s blood. But I don’t know that much about Lin’s past, so I couldn’t leave the message, from that aspect.”

Baluyevsky cocked his head.

“What do you mean?”

Manning sighed inwardly. Apparently, Lin hadn’t seen it fit to take Baluyevsky into his confidence completely. There were obviously things Lin did not want Baluyevsky to know, and one of those was the linkage between the scrawled message left on Lin Dan’s hotel room wall and Lin’s own past.

“The message must have some sort of relevance for Lin,” Manning said. “Otherwise, it’s a complete non sequitur.”

“Mr. Lin advises me he has no idea what the threat means,” Baluyevsky said. “Do you believe differently?”

Manning shrugged, wondering if he should even worry about trying to cover his tracks in this matter. Baluyevsky should know all about it anyway; how else to plan a defense?

“You’ll need to talk with Lin about that,” Manning said.

“As I’ve told you, I already have. Do you know something I do not?” Baluyevsky demanded.

“Talk to Lin about his past,” Manning recommended. “And do it soon.”

Baluyevsky stared up at Manning from behind his desk. His face was impassive, but Manning was certain the wheels were turning behind the cliff-like facade of his brow.

“If you know something,” he said after a time, “it would be in your best interest to tell me.”

“But apparently, it would not be in Mr. Lin’s. You and he need to discuss this, and leave me out of it. I’m not here to play any political games in this organization, nor am I angling for anything other than the salary that was promised to me. Once this mission is over, I leave. Understand that right now, Alexsey. I don’t want your job.” Manning tapped the list. “And that’s why I’m asking for the other names. If you want my opinion, leaving stones unturned at a time like this isn’t the wisest course of action. But you’re Lin’s security chief, you make that assessment. Me, I’m just going to keep the old man alive, because otherwise, I don’t get paid.”

“You truly are a mercenary,” Baluyevsky said distastefully.

And you’re not, you Russkie piece of shit? Manning wanted to shoot back, but he clamped down on his temper. Arguing over their philosophical differences wasn’t going to make things any better.

“What I am isn’t really important, Baluyevsky. What I do is. You want to start filling in the blanks as far as the supporting characters go, or do I need to do it myself?”

Baluyevsky looked down at the list before him. After a long moment, he nodded.

“I will attend to this, and I will present you with another list of names. From there, perhaps you and I can go over them together.” Baluyevsky hesitated for a moment, then grudgingly added, “You know much more about Chinese culture than I do. Perhaps you can see something I might have missed.”

“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 naive…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.