“Zhang Daiyu,” he said. “I wish I could say it was good to see you, but not in these circumstances.”
“Thanks for calling me,” she replied. His sorrow only made things harder and she fought back more tears. Kha Delun, Ling Kang and Jiang Jinhai were her colleagues, and she thought back to all the moments she’d spent with them — laughing at Delun’s lame jokes, arguing over the best noodle stands with Kang, or discussing cases with Jinhai, who was always the most serious of the trio. She couldn’t bear to think they were gone.
“We believe the assailant or assailants used knockout gas before shooting them. We found the canister in the van.”
“And Shang Li?” she asked.
Her boss had texted her to say he was on his way here because Jinhai had summoned him.
Chen shook his head. “No sign of him. We found drag marks near the van. They’re patchy, but they lead over the parking lot to the bank of the reservoir. We have divers in the water searching for him.”
Shang Li was the warm, generous man who’d recruited Zhang Daiyu from the Beijing Police. She knew his wife and children, and didn’t want to be the one to break this terrible news to them. She prayed Chen was wrong in assuming her boss had been drowned.
“What were they doing out here?” he asked.
“Following a lead,” she replied.
“That sounds a lot like detective work,” he countered.
Private detectives were officially illegal in China, but they existed thanks to a loophole that permitted consultants and advisers to help individuals and organizations solve operational problems. Anything overtly investigative was against the law, and would be punished, but Zhang Daiyu and Chen went way back and she knew there was no need for pretense between them, not least because they were standing a few yards away from a van full of surveillance gear.
“This lead have a name?” Chen asked.
Zhang Daiyu was saved from answering by a shout from one of the officers involved in the fingertip search.
“Sir, I’ve found something,” she said, rising from the ground. She hurried over and showed Chen a tiny USB drive in the palm of her gloved hand.
He thanked her and carefully put on a pair of latex gloves before taking the small data-storage device. Zhang Daiyu followed him to the nearest forensics truck. The blast of air conditioning was welcome relief from the mid-morning heat.
There were two crime-scene technicians working at neighboring benches, analyzing and bagging evidence recovered from the scene.
“Check this for prints,” Chen said to the nearest technician, a young woman whose face was the only visible part of her body. The rest of her was concealed beneath a hazmat suit. The technician nodded and sprayed light-sensitive fluid onto the USB, before holding it under a UV lamp. She shook her head.
“No prints or biological material. You want me to bag it for analysis?”
“Thanks. I’ll take a look at it first,” he replied.
He beckoned Zhang Daiyu over to a workbench in the corner of the truck and popped the drive into the USB port of a laptop. The screen came to life and the computer automatically opened a file window.
“All the hard drives in the surveillance van have been erased,” Chen revealed. “Whoever did this was trying to cover up something.”
There was a single video file contained in a folder. He played it.
The screen filled with surveillance footage shot by a drone, showing a man standing in a courtyard on the nearby university campus. His face was familiar to Zhang Daiyu, and she knew Chen too would recognize him as one of Beijing’s richest men.
“David Zhou,” he said.
The footage ended, freezing on an image of Zhou’s face.
“Was this your lead?” Chen asked.
There wasn’t any point in denying it. Not now. So Zhang Daiyu nodded.
“Then I think we’ve found our suspect.”
She couldn’t argue. They’d been hired to investigate David Zhou, and now three members of the surveillance team were dead and the head of the Beijing office was missing, presumed drowned.
“I’m going to have to let the boss know,” Zhang Daiyu said. “My American boss.”
She pulled a phone from the pocket of her trousers and called Jack Morgan.
Chapter 3
The music was so mellow I could feel the stress of the day melting away. A. Ray Fuller was on stage with his band, eyes closed, lost in a world of smooth sound, transported by the riffs of his electric guitar. The bass, drums and keyboard accompanied his perfect fingerwork brilliantly, and the sight of a group of artists so into their craft brought a smile to my face.
I looked across at Justine, nodding her head to Fuller’s easy jazz rhythms, and she caught my eye and smiled. It had been a long day. I’d been stuck in the office, dealing with admin from our national and international branches, and Justine had been immersed in the Griffith Strangler case, helping LAPD profile a serial killer who was preying on young women around Griffith Park. We were both feeling drained and beleaguered by the time we called it a day, and to breathe some life back into us, I’d suggested we catch Fuller’s show at Vibrato, a jazz dinner club in Beverly Glen.
The lights were low but the flickering candle on our table illuminated Justine’s face, and I was reminded once more how lucky I was. She was beautiful, with wavy brown hair that fell to her shoulders and eyes that shone with intelligence. The fatigue of the day behind her now, she seemed so alive. We’d had our ups and downs, but after all our difficulties, love had triumphed. We’d found a way of being together that worked for us.
A server deposited our drinks on the table — a couple of highballs. I nodded my thanks and the server made his way back through the crowded restaurant to the packed bar. The other patrons were similarly rapt in the music so I drew looks of irritation when my phone rang. I felt like an idiot because we’d been asked to turn them off at the beginning of the performance and I thought I’d switched mine to silent. I signaled an apology to those around us and the band, who didn’t drop a note. Fuller shook his head and smiled as I silenced my phone.
I recognized the name on-screen — Zhang Daiyu, number two in the Private Beijing office — so I got to my feet, hurried through the maze of tables and answered as I reached the main entrance.
“Jack Morgan,” I said.
“I’m sorry to trouble you, Mr. Morgan.”
Zhang Daiyu spoke fluent English — she’d been educated in England if I remembered her personnel file correctly.
“It’s not a problem, Zhang Daiyu. What can I do for you?”
I was outside now, near the valets who parked for the retail complex in which Vibrato was located.
“I have bad news,” she replied. I thought she might be crying. “Three of our colleagues were murdered last night. Kha Delun, Ling Kang and Jiang Jinhai are dead, and Shang Li is missing, presumed dead.”
My stomach plummeted and I thought for a moment I might vomit. My head felt light. I leaned against the storefront next to Vibrato to steady myself. Then I checked my phone to make sure the call was really coming from Zhang Daiyu and this wasn’t a sick prank.