The Killing Hands Page 22

  “Yeah. I’d say so.”

  “I’ve spoken to him twice today. He heard that you’d been shot on this morning’s news and rang Brady straightaway. I spoke to him, told him you’d be okay. But he wants you to call him as soon as you’re up to it. He’s been talking about flying up, too. He sounds nice. Real nice.”

  I smile. There have always been a few sparks.

  “I see that smile, Sophie.” Melissa gives me a wink. “And you keep telling me you’re just friends.”

  “We are.”

  “Want me to read the card then?”

  “Sure.”

  “It says, I hear we have matching bullet holes. Thinking of you always, love Darren. Still just friends?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve heard that before.” She looks down at the card. “Matching bullet holes? You didn’t tell me he’d been shot.”

  “Darren was shot in the chest. Same side, but a bit lower than mine.”

  “Oh. That is romantic,” Melissa says sarcastically.

  I laugh. “Come on, next one.” I look at the only other bunch in the room, lilies.

  Melissa crosses over to the vase and plucks the card out of the centre. “Okay, so this one says, A single…Oh, my gosh.”

  “What? What is it?”

  Melissa’s face is white. “I’m sorry, Sophie.” She reads out the whole card. “A single red rose just wasn’t right this time. Get better. AP.”

  I shake my head. “He won’t leave me alone.”

  “Can’t Interpol do anything about this guy?”

  “They’re trying, Melissa.”

  “I know. Sorry.”

  The somber mood is broken when Mum hurries into the room.

  “Oh, Sophie.” She runs toward my bed with such emotion and force that I have to say, “Careful, Mum,” for fear she’ll throw herself on my bed and rip a stitch or two in my shoulder. But instead of flinging her full body weight on top of me, she grabs my right hand in hers and uses her other hand to caress my hair as she kisses my cheek. “Thank goodness you’re okay, baby.”

  I squeeze her hand. “I’m fine, Mum. Honest.”

  Dad comes to the other side of my bed.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Hi, sweetie.” He grabs my left hand and gives it a squeeze. “We were worried.” The king of understatement…like lots of men.

  “I bet Mum drove you crazy on the flight over here.” I smile.

  “She wasn’t too bad.” He gives her a strange look and she responds with a tight-lipped smile.

  “What? What’s up?” I ask.

  “Up? Nothing?”

  “Dad, you’re trying to fool a behavioral analyst. Give it up.”

  “Sophie, I’ll leave you to it.” Melissa gives a little wave from the doorway.

  “Sorry, Melissa. Melissa Raine, meet my parents, Jan and Bob Anderson.”

  She comes back to the bed and shakes their hands. “It’s real nice to meet you both.”

  “You’re the one who called us,” Dad says, recognition in his voice.

  “That’s right. I knew you’d want to know straightaway. Before it was on the news.”

  I laugh. “On the news in Australia? I don’t think so.”

  Both my parents are silent.

  “Serious?”

  Dad sighs. “An Australian working for the FBI got shot. Of course it made our news. We saw it at the airport.”

  I instantly get a flash of my parents watching the news and hearing about my gunshot wound that way. Thank goodness Melissa called. “Thanks, Melissa. I really appreciate it.”

  She smiles. “No worries.”

  “She’s teaching you the Australian slang, I see,” Dad says. “It took me years to pick it up.”

  “You don’t sound very American anymore, sir.”

  He laughs. “The Aussies think I sound American and the Americans think I sound Australian.”

  Dad’s been living in Australia for thirty-five years and his accent’s morphed into something that sounds a little foreign in both countries.

  He looks back at me. “We were so worried, Soph.”

  “I know, Dad. I’m sorry.”

  “Well, it was nice to meet you.” Melissa tries her departure once more. “I’ve left some magazines there for you, Sophie, and I got your BlackBerry for you, too. It’s been examined by forensics for the phone call you got last night.”

  “And?” I say, eager to find out who made the phony tip-off.

  “The call was made by Jason Pham. One of the guys killed last night.”

  “Oh…okay.” But the information is anything but illuminating. Pham’s a dead end—literally.

  “Wish I could bar work calls on it somehow. And e-mails.”

  “You know our daughter well, Melissa.” My mother sits down beside my bed. “And don’t let us rush you away.”

  “No, no, I’ve got to get going. I’ll pop by tomorrow morning, Sophie.” She smiles. “And don’t forget to call Detective Carter.”

  “I will.”

  She leaves with a wave.

  Mum’s already shaking her head. “I’m sure the detective can wait, Sophie. You’ve been shot, can’t they leave you alone for a couple of days?”

  “It’s a personal call, Mum.”

  “Really?” The excitement in her voice makes me regret not thinking on my feet. I would have been better copping the flack of making a work call than all the questions she’s going to have for me now.

  “I didn’t know you had anyone special over here. Why don’t you tell us these things, darling?”

  “He’s just a friend, Mum. We met on a case over a year ago and we’ve stayed in contact. That’s all.”

  “A friend.” She doesn’t even try to hide her disappointment.

  “Come on, Jan.” Dad takes her hand. “Give it a rest.”

  I give Dad a grateful look, but I know this conversation is anything but over. No doubt tomorrow I’ll get the biological-clock talk…again. But for the moment, Mum gives a little nod and starts to tear up.

  “Sophie, I just can’t tell you…can’t tell you how it felt when the phone rang and Melissa said something had happened to you. I just…”

  “I’m sorry, Mum. I am careful. You know that.” I pause, not sure whether I should say the next bit. I bite down hard on my lip. “I don’t want to put you guys through this. But I love my job. Love helping people…including kids like John.”

  Mum looks away, the tears overflowing, but Dad takes my hand. “We know that’s why you do this, Sophie.”

  Silence falls. We’re damaged, my family. Just like so many of the victims’ families that I meet in this job. When I was eight years old my brother, John, was taken from his bedroom in the middle of the night. A year later, his body was found, but they never caught his killer. You can’t have something like that happen and move on, unaffected. It chose my career for me. It changed Mum from a relatively relaxed, independent mum to a wrap-me-in-cotton-wool mum. She lost one of her babies, and she can’t stand the thought that she could lose the other one.

  “I’m sorry, Mum.” The words aren’t enough, but I still feel the need to repeat them. “I’m sorry.”

  But what comes out of my mother’s mouth shocks me. Through her tears, she manages, “We’re proud of you, darling. Proud of what you do and the families you help.”

  Tears flow down my cheeks and it feels as if I’ll never stop crying.

  Twenty-One

  My hospital-room phone rings, right on time.

  “Anderson,” I say with as much energy as I can muster.

  “I’m still not so sure about this, Anderson,” Petrov says.

  “Come on. I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine, Anderson.” He pauses. “But we need to hand over some of your tasks and that’s the only reason you’re part of this update.”

  I’m tempted to argue, but I know not to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Okay.”

  “Hey, Sophie.” It’s Hana’s voice. “How
you feeling?”

  “Much better, thanks.”

  “Good to hear.” I recognize De Luca’s voice.

  “Great to hear your voice, Anderson,” Williams says.

  “Thanks, guys.”

  “Okay, let’s get this moving.” Petrov takes command of the meeting. “I don’t want to keep Anderson too long.”

  Again, I resist the urge to protest and reassure everyone that I’m fine.

  “So, our list from Friday. How’s everybody doing with their tasks? We’ll start with you, Agent Kim. How’d you go with the follow-up on Corey Casey?”

  “The doctors couldn’t pinpoint the cause of the liver failure. According to family and friends, Casey never took drugs and wasn’t much of a drinker. There was no sign of hepatitis or any other primary cause.”

  “So maybe Lee’s right,” I say. “His death was a result of the 1996 attack.”

  Petrov clears his throat. “I’m going to touch base with Grove on this. You were thinking he’d be up to speed by now, Anderson?”

  “Yes, sir. He was planning to read up on the dim mak techniques on the weekend.”

  In fact, Grove is probably more up to speed than me now. Lee’s remaining three books sit on my bedside table, but I didn’t feel up to reading on the weekend. Hopefully today my concentration will be a little better.

  “Anything else, Agent Kim?”

  “The wife did notice bruises after the attack, but can’t remember exactly where they were.”

  I nod. “So they could have been targeted on pressure points or they could have been generic bruises from the attack.”

  “That’s right.”

  Petrov takes over. “Okay, next on the list was looking for any link between the two Yakuza victims, Matsu in 2000 and Saito. That was yours, De Luca.”

  “I’ve pulled everything we’ve got on Matsu, and spoken to the cops that investigated his death. We’ve been going through Matsu’s movements in the 1980s and 1990s, seeing if maybe he ran into Saito, visited Japan, but nothing so far.”

  “Okay. Keep on it.” Petrov pauses, presumably looking up the next task. “Williams. Li Chow in New York. Did he know his killer?”

  “I’ve been in contact with New York and they’re sending me his file today. I’ll let you know.”

  It is only nine o’clock Monday morning, so it’s not surprising that we haven’t had any major breakthroughs in the past forty-eight hours.

  “Okay, next was me, looking into the Russian victim and why he may have been killed with the butterfly swords. I spoke to San Diego on Friday afternoon. Apparently the victim, Alexander Ivanovich, was known for his obsession with knives…blades. He’d been suspected in four homicides and all victims had been cut up—bad.”

  “So whoever ordered the hit wanted him to go the same way?” De Luca suggests.

  “That’s the logical conclusion,” Petrov replies. “It’s why our killer would have departed from his standard MO. Would that fit, Anderson? Psychologically speaking?”

  “Yes. Our guy’s a professional, and if a client asks for the murder to be carried out in a certain way, he’d satisfy that request. But he still marked the victim as his own by using the Tiger Leopard Fist to severely disable and disorientate him first. Plus he didn’t use a regular knife, he used martial-arts weapons.”

  “Okay,” Petrov replies. “So that anomaly makes some sense now.” He pauses. “Next on our list was the Jun Saito victimology, but that was you and Ramos, Anderson.”

  I manage a chuckle. “Yeah, we haven’t got to that yet.”

  “I can work on that now, sir,” Hana says.

  “Great. Where were you at with Interpol, Anderson?”

  “Contact Latoya Burges for an update, Hana. She requested info on Saito and on his alias of Jo Kume and was hoping to get something late last week, but nothing came through.”

  “Okay.”

  “And I’ll give you what I’ve got on his history from fifteen years ago,” Petrov says. “A lot of what I told the task force at the briefing last Thursday was from memory, but I should be able to dig up some historical paperwork, too.”

  “Thanks, sir.”

  “Anderson, it was you and Ramos for the next one, too. Trying to find Mee.”

  “Do you want me to take that now, sir?” Williams asks.

  “No, I’ll look after that one,” Petrov replies.

  But I know he won’t have to do any actual work—he knows where Mee is.

  “We’ve also got Saito’s hotel and Mee Kim’s house. I’ll follow up with the lab on those results.” Petrov pauses, maybe writing his task down, before moving on. “The next three items were all yours, Anderson. The offender profile, giving us some generic psych material on contract killers and following up the pressure points with Grove.”

  “I’m afraid it’ll be another few days before I’m up to the profile, but I can organize to get you that generic info. It’s just a collection of documents.”

  “That’d be real useful.” Hana’s voice is light. “But only if you’re up to it.”

  “I’ll be fine.” I move on. “As you know, we did find evidence that dim mak was used on Saito, with four pressure points showing trauma. I’ll follow up Grove with a quick phone call today to see what he made of the dim mak book I lent him.”

  “I can take that, Anderson.” Petrov’s voice is slightly protective. “I’ll ask Grove when I contact him about Casey’s liver failure.”

  “I’m feeling okay, honestly. And I’m soooo bored!”

  Petrov gives an amused sigh. “Let’s do it as a conference call. I still want to hear Grove’s opinion firsthand.”

  “Yes, sir.” I try to lean forward, but find the movement painful. “There is one other thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “I was thinking we should get a list of all Chinese nationals who entered the country within, say, a month prior to Saito’s murder. If our hit man is Chinese and was flown in for the job, his name would be on that list.”

  “Great idea, Anderson. Who wants that one?”

  “I’ve got a contact over at US State,” I say. “It’s only a phone call.”

  Petrov’s silent, but then sighs. “Okay, Anderson. But don’t even think of going through that list. Get it and pass it on to us.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay, that’s it, people. Keep me in the loop.” Petrov’s wrapping up the meeting and, although I should also flag the need for some new ViCAP searches that focus on dim mak without the use of the Ten Killing Hands, I keep my mouth shut. Given my kung fu knowledge, I’m the best person to do those searches and I don’t want Petrov handballing the task to someone else.

  “And Anderson,” Petrov says, “get some rest.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As soon as I’m off the phone, I dial Lara Rodriguez from State. “Hey, Lara. It’s Agent Sophie Anderson.”

  “Oh, my gosh. Are you okay? I saw it on the news…you were shot.”

  “Yeah, just a flesh wound.” I downplay my injuries.

  “Really? Are you sure?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You back at work already?”

  “No, still in hospital, unfortunately.”

  “Hospital? Then what the heck are you doing ringing me?”

  “I’m working on the case from here.”

  “Sounds crazy to me. How did it go with your vic? Did his ID help?”

  “Actually, Jo Kume wasn’t his real name.”

  “Get out of here.”

  “His real name was Jun Saito, and he used to be Yakuza.”

  “Whoa. Is that who shot you, Yakuza?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You’re messing with some serious people, Sophie.”

  “I know.” I pause. “Anyway, we’re looking at a professional killer and we think he may be Chinese and have flown in for the contract on Saito’s life.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup. Can you do another search for me?”

  “Shoo
t.”

  “Can you e-mail me through a list of all Chinese nationals who entered the country from November 6 until December 6?” It’s unlikely the killer only flew in on December 6, less than twenty-four hours before Saito’s murder—it wouldn’t have given him enough time to plan the hit—but I may as well keep my date range broad.

  “You just want names, or full immigration details and pictures?”

  “You may as well give me the works, if that’s okay.”

  “No problem. It’ll be tomorrow or Wednesday. Okay?”

  “Sure.” I thank Rodriguez and hang up. I’m about to call Grove when my parents walk in.

  “Hi, darling. How are you feeling this morning?” Mum comes in first, and behind her is Dad, laden down with an overnight bag for me.

  I push myself more upright. “Much better.”

  She nods but doesn’t look convinced. “You look tired, darling.”

  “I’m fine, Mum.”

  “You sleep okay?”

  “Yes,” I lie. In fact, I tossed and turned all night, thinking about who the mole is in the Gang Impact Team. It’s a large team, but it’s also possible that the leak is Williams or Hana. In fact, if Tomi Moto got Moon’s details from the mole, it must be one of them. I push the thought away. According to Young, Moto had lots of people looking for Mee, and Williams and Hana are only two people out of a twenty-four person task force—the statistics are in their favor.

  “What you got there, Dad?”

  Dad places the bag down and moves in, kissing me on the forehead. “Your mother organized a few more clothes for you. And a couple of books.”

  “Books…great. They’ll be the only thing keeping me sane in here.” Although I won’t be reading any books until I finish the dim mak titles.

  Mum unzips the bag. “I could only find two sets of pajamas, so I brought them in and picked you up a nightie at Macy’s.” She pulls them out of the bag. “Which do you want to wear first? The pajamas have got buttons but the nightie’s low cut, so they’ll have no problems checking your wound.”

  “Red pj’s.”

  She nods and folds the other set of pajamas and nightie, before placing them in the top drawer of my bedside locker. “I also bought you a dressing gown and a tracksuit, for when you’re up to walking.”