The Killing Hands Page 19

  “FBI. Anderson.”

  “You’re looking for Mee Kim?” The voice is husky, male and softly spoken.

  “Yes.” I sit up.

  Silence. “You left your card with my wife today.” The caller speaks quickly. “You can find Mee Kim at 3560 Torrance Boulevard, in Torrance.” The line goes dead.

  I jot down the address while it’s still in my head. Eleven o’clock…Hana’s my best bet. As far as I know, she’s single—at least I won’t be risking waking kids if I call her now.

  I dial her cell number but get voice mail. So it’s Ramos or Petrov—I hardly know De Luca and Williams. I decide on Ramos, only because I don’t want to get the head of the task force out of bed for a routine check, not until I know if this is a legitimate tip-off. I dial Ramos’s number.

  “Ramos.” His voice is alert, but he also sounds a little grumpy, like maybe I interrupted something.

  “Detective Ramos, it’s Agent Anderson.”

  “Hey, Anderson. What’s up?”

  “I just got a tip on my cell phone. A possible address for Mee Kim tonight.”

  “You gonna send a patrol car?”

  My natural reaction is to investigate myself, but Ramos is right—we could just ask a patrol car to do a drive-by. On second thoughts I’ll stick with my original plan. “I don’t want to scare off Mee with cop cars, so I’ll go myself.” I pause. “You wanna ride shotgun?”

  “Guess you made me an offer I can’t refuse.”

  From the tone of his voice I think he’s dying to refuse, but he doesn’t want to leave me without backup.

  “Sorry. I did try Agent Kim first. I know I’m taking you away from your wife and kids.”

  “Don’t sweat it, Anderson. Kids are asleep and the missus is about to hit the sack, too.” He takes a breath. “One car?”

  “The caller said Mee’s in Torrance, Torrance Boulevard. Where do you live?”

  “El Monte.”

  “I’m in Westwood, so let’s make it two cars, but we’ll meet somewhere in Torrance and then continue in one.”

  “Okay. How about the corner of Torrance Boulevard and South Western Avenue? You know it?”

  “No, but I’ll find it.”

  “Cool. Do any of her English students live in Torrance?”

  “Don’t think so. Hold on, I’ll double-check.” I take the list from the Korean Cultural Center out of my briefcase and scan through it. “No. The caller said his wife had my card, so I guess she’s one of Mee’s students, but none of them have a Torrance address.”

  “Maybe the center’s database isn’t up-to-date.”

  “Let’s go find out,” I say.

  I change out of my shorts and T-shirt and into a pair of white linen pants and a dark blue singlet top. Next I slide into my shoulder holster, before putting a lightweight suit jacket over the top. The jacket only partially hides the shoulder holster and Smith & Wesson, but it’ll do. Before I leave, I check my gun to make sure the ammo’s full, even though I checked it this morning before leaving for work. While most people only check their guns periodically, I figure it’s better to be safe than sorry. I release the magazine clip on my Smith & Wesson 910S, and check all sixteen bullets are present and lined up in the double magazine before shoving it back into the gun’s butt. I also check the safety’s on, and then slot the gun into my shoulder holster.

  I’ve got a lot of questions for Mee Kim, but first off I just want to make sure she’s safe and sound, with us. The fact that she’s on the run can only mean one of two things: she’s hiding something from us or she’s running from someone else and for some reason doesn’t trust us. While her story to Moon was fanciful, maybe it’s based in fact—maybe she really doesn’t believe we’re law enforcement. Or perhaps she’s worried that Ramos, Petrov or I are dirty. Either way, it’s time for Mee Kim to come in before she puts herself in even more danger.

  I follow my navigation system’s instructions to Torrance Boulevard. I’ve still got a few blocks until South Western Avenue, but I scan for numbers. Sure enough, within a couple of minutes I cruise by number 3560. It’s a shop front, Kyoto Deli, with what looks like a residence over the top. Maybe one of Mee’s students owns the shop and is letting her hide out upstairs. I keep driving until I get to South Western. I’m surprised to find Ramos already waiting, leaning on his car under a streetlight. He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt, with his gun on his belt.

  I jump out of the car and look up. “You been waiting long?”

  “Nah. Couple minutes.”

  “You must have broken some records to get here from El Monte before me.”

  “Got the lights in the car.”

  I nod, but notice the flashing lights must be stowed away now.

  Ramos motions with his head toward my car. “Take yours?”

  “Let’s take yours.” Ramos is driving a silver SUV. “It looks less law enforcement.” I lock my car and jump into the passenger seat of Ramos’s Ford Territory.

  He starts the engine. “I checked out the address on the computer. It’s a shop.”

  “Yeah, I just drove by it. Kyoto Deli.” I fasten my seat belt. “It’s a two-story place, so maybe Mee’s been given the use of upstairs for a night or two.”

  Ramos pulls into the trickle of traffic. “It’s listed as an Asian delicatessen and the owner’s one Lee Wu.”

  “Wu…that name’s not on our list of students, either.”

  “Maybe the wife goes by a different name,” Ramos says. “Regardless, the system didn’t have anything on the shop or shop owner.”

  I nod, happy that Ramos got a chance to plug in the information. “At least we know Wu’s clean.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  It’s comforting to know we’re not walking into a business with criminal ties.

  Kyoto Deli is the middle shop in a small strip of stores. They’re the normal mix of shops you might find in a mostly residential area—a mini grocery store, a fruit store, a post office, a couple of cafés, a dry cleaner and a newsagent. At 11:45 p.m., they’re dark and quiet. We peer inside the windows of the deli, but it’s difficult to make out anything but shadows and silhouettes with only a streetlight helping us out. I can see shelves, a cash register and a little more light from underneath a back door, which presumably leads upstairs or out the back. There’s no movement or sound. We take a few steps back so we can see the upstairs windows, but it’s the same story—not much light and no movement or sound. Next to the main door is a small buzzer, so I press it. There’s no answer.

  “What do you want to do?” Ramos asks after a couple of minutes. “No warrant.”

  I ring the buzzer again. “Maybe Mee’s just asleep.”

  We wait another couple of minutes. “I can hear someone moving around in there.” I lean in to the glass again, and jump back when I’m greeted by a face, only about a foot on the other side. But still no lights.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming.” As he moves closer, right up to the door, we can see the figure on the other side—an Asian man in his late twenties or early-thirties. I was expecting an older man, an established shopkeeper. He wears a dressing gown, fully closed up, and it looks like we’ve woken him up.

  “What’s up?” He doesn’t make a move to open the door and I don’t blame him. Even if he was the husky voice on my cell phone forty-five minutes ago, he’ll want to see proof of ID first.

  I hold my badge up to the glass. “FBI and LAPD.” I jerk my thumb toward Ramos. “Open up, please.”

  He obliges, opening the door and standing aside to let us in. Great, no talk about search warrants or loitering at the door trying to get in.

  Ramos lets me in first, and then follows.

  “Are you Mr. Wu?” I ask, turning around as the man closes the door.

  “No. I rent the upstairs from Wu.” He puts his hands in his pockets and yawns. “What’s all this about anyway?”

  The next part happens so fast, too fast. He grabs Ramos with his left hand and brings his right out o
f his pocket, with a gun. He holds it to Ramos’s head. The tiredness is gone, the act over.

  My hand instinctively moves toward my gun, but the man shakes his head. “Don’t even think about it, sweetheart.” His language is condescending, and beyond his years. Sweetheart is old-school, more Ramos’s generation than this man’s.

  I put my hands up. “It’s okay. Take it easy.” My eyes dart around the room. Ramos and I should be able to disarm one man, even with a gun to Ramos’s head—at some stage we’ll get the opportunity to make a move. I look at Ramos. Despite the situation he looks pretty cool. But under that blank face his heart must be pounding like mine, and his adrenaline pumping.

  “You the ones been asking questions about Mee Kim?”

  “Yes,” I say, studying the gunman in the darkness. Half of his face is in full shadow, and half is only slightly illuminated by the nearest streetlight. He’s about five-ten, a hundred and sixty pounds, and sneakers poke out from underneath the dressing gown. Why didn’t we notice that sooner? The darkness certainly didn’t help us.

  I hear the door behind me open and I swing around. Another Asian man, also in his late twenties, steps into the main shop area. He leaves the door open, which gives us more light, and holds a gun that’s pointed at me.

  I take a step to one side and angle my body so I can see them both. “Take it easy.”

  The man pointing the gun at me closes the distance between us. “You shouldn’t ask so many questions.”

  He’s still not within physical striking distance, but even if I liked our chances with hand-to-hand—which I don’t—there’s no way I could disarm this guy without Ramos getting shot and probably me, too. We have to ride it out.

  “Asking questions is our job, man.” Ramos speaks for the first time.

  “Shut up.” The man at the door pushes the gun into Ramos’s temple. Any sudden move and he’d squeeze that trigger, even if by accident. Like a car backfires outside, he jumps and bam, Ramos gets a bullet in the head. He’s clutching tightly onto Ramos’s upper arm, and the extra light from out back is enough for me to see that the very top of his pinky finger is missing. Yakuza. I take a closer look at the men, wondering if it was these two who visited Mee—but I don’t recognize them from my vision.

  The guy with the gun trained on me comes closer, close enough for me to make a move, but I resist the temptation. He takes my gun out of my holster.

  “Nice piece,” he says. “I always wanted me an FBI gun.”

  “It’s all yours.” I keep my hands up slightly, nonthreatening.

  “Thanks, babe.” He gives me an arrogant wink.

  Babe, that’s more the language I’d expect from a twenty-something.

  “Knock it off.” The guy at the door is annoyed. “Put the gun away and focus.”

  So the one with Ramos is the dominant of the two. The boss, at least in this situation.

  He turns to me. “Leave Mee alone. She’s gone for good.”

  What sort of gone? I wonder. No, she’s not dead. I think I would have felt that…felt her presence or something. Perhaps I can press our attacker on the subject. Even though he’s got a gun to Ramos’s head he doesn’t seem especially angry or jumpy at the moment. This was a planned confrontation, so he’ll have some degree of self-control.

  “Where’s she gone?” I ask.

  “Don’t you worry about where she’s at. You should be worried about yourself, lady, you’re the one with a gun aimed at you.”

  He’s got a point. So why aren’t I worried? Both men hold their guns confidently, and while their calm attitude shows me they’re not letting their emotions rule their judgment, it’s also a warning sign. These guys have done this sort of thing before, perhaps routinely, and they’re cool and dispassionate about it, an attitude that might extend to murder. I flash to the vision I had of Saito’s attacker—he was dispassionate. Maybe one of these men is our guy. I look them over again…my one’s about six foot and the other guy’s around five-ten. Both are in the range Hart gave us, and both men hold their guns confidently, and could probably easily shoot out a parking-lot light. But is one of them capable of the Ten Killing Hands? Of dim mak? If our captors are that skilled, Ramos and I definitely won’t be making a move…certainly not a successful one. A glance at Ramos tells me he’s still cool as a cucumber and the tiniest shake of his head indicates we’re in sync with our thoughts on taking action…wait it out.

  “Come on, let’s go.” My guy jerks his head toward the back door, and the light. So we’re going upstairs. He steps back, giving me a wide berth. As I move through the doorway I see a rickety-looking staircase that leads upward. A light at the top of the stairs allows me to see detail—the steps are painted white, but it looks like the paint’s at least fifteen or twenty years old and has probably been peeling away for years. A thick layer of dust completes the puzzle—I don’t think the back part has been used much and I can’t imagine anyone lives up there. I mount the first step with my left foot.

  The gun’s muzzle pushes into my back. “Not that way. Keep going straight.”

  The path straight in front of me is dark, darker than the shop. I can make out the silhouettes of a couple of large industrial fridges, some boxes, and walls lined with shelves and produce. I can also see a door.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, getting nervous. The situation has taken a distinct turn for the worse. Moving locations is never a good sign. In the shop—that was a threat. But being taken somewhere else….

  I turn back in the hope of getting a look at Ramos’s face, but my guy pushes his gun into me again.

  “Move it, babe.”

  When we get to the back door my guy fishes something out of his pocket and gives the other guy a nod. Ramos is shoved next to me, and while the first guy keeps his gun trained on us both, mine blindfolds us. The darkness becomes complete, and with that my fear skyrockets. If I can’t see, how can I defend myself? How do I know what’s coming next?

  “This is going to make things worse, not better,” I say, falling back on what I do best—behavior.

  “Speak for yourself, babe.” His breath is hot and stinky on my face. And then I feel the rope slip around my wrists. If this was a stranger attack, I’d say now was my only chance of surviving, that I had to make a move before the rope was fastened and all control was taken by the perp. That’s what happens in sexual homicides and serial attacks. The perp takes control of the victim, and once you’ve been moved away from any hope of intervention and tied up you’re as good as dead. But I can’t project the psychology of a serial killer or sexually motivated killer onto these two guys. They’re career criminals and they’ve probably killed before. But they follow orders. So either they’re going to take us to a boss, or they’re taking us somewhere less public to kill us. Neither outcome is good because both are escalations on my original theory—that this was simply a warning.

  I have to make a split-second decision. I either keep my wrists nice and still and allow myself to be almost completely incapacitated or I use what might be our last opportunity to fight. And now I don’t even have the luxury of being able to look at Ramos to read his expression.

  “You’re making a big mistake.” Ramos’s voice is low and rough. “Messing with law enforcement never ends well.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll only mess with you a bit.” It’s the first guy who speaks, the leader of the two.

  “Why are you taking us somewhere else?”

  He sighs and says calmly, “It’s time for both of you to shut the fuck up.”

  Strong hands press tape across my mouth.

  Nineteen

  The car pulls to a stop, roughly fifteen minutes later. So wherever we are, at least we’re not talking about some deserted country road or forest where our bodies would never be found. That makes me swing back to my warning theory. However, we can identify both men, and that’s not good for our longevity.

  The front doors open and I feel the weight of the car lift slightly as our
abductors get out. The doors slam shut and I hear the automatic locks click.

  “What do you think?” I ask, momentarily forgetting that I’ve got tape across my mouth. All that comes out is a series of indecipherable grunts.

  Ramos responds with a grunt that rises at the end, probably a “What?” or “Huh?”

  Damn.

  Fifteen-minute drive. Maybe twenty. Where could we be? I visualize a map of L.A. Could be in Long Beach. At the drug lab.

  A large horn sounds, like a boat’s horn. We must be at the docks. I wonder…I lean forward slightly, giving my bound hands a little room behind me, and tap out D-O-C-K-S in Morse code against the car seat back. Does Ramos know Morse code? I’ve tapped it out four times and am about to give up when Ramos makes a loud grunt. I stop tapping, and Ramos starts.

  He taps out S-A-N P-E-D-R-O O-R L-O-N-G B-E-AC-H.

  Shit. So we know where we are…what good’s that going to do us? We should have taken a stand at the deli. I shake my head. If we had we’d probably both be dead by now. At least this way we might get another chance, one where the odds are more in our favor. What are our fight options? Our legs are free. I wonder what Ramos’s hand-to-hand combat without hands is like. Kicks could be all we have.

  I tap out F-I-G-H-T in Morse.

  At first there’s no response, then Ramos taps back H-O-W.

  He’s right. My kicks are pretty good, but against a gun…or two?

  With a mental block on what else to say, I tap out S-H-I-T.

  The grunt that follows from Ramos is either a halfhearted chuckle or maybe a hysterical one.

  I turn my body toward Ramos and feel along the car door for the handle. No harm in trying. But sure enough, the door’s locked.

  The guy who had Ramos is Yakuza, and I noticed a tat on my guy. I could only see the edge of it, but it looked like a cursive A, maybe for ABZ, which is the street name for the Asian Boyz. Is this all about the meth lab in Long Beach? Drugs and money? Probably. Although I’m still not sure how Saito and Mee Kim are involved. Man, I wish we knew what they wanted.