“Yeah. Then, too.”
It bothered me. It was bothering both of us.
“Eun-hi saw him in the U.N. Club. Miss Ku saw him outside the Kayagum Teahouse. The guy was watching us.”
Ernie nodded. “He sure was.”
We sat in silence. I looked at him. No wiseass remark. No cynical sneer.
He felt worse about cheating on the Nurse than I had thought.
“We have to find out his name,” Ernie said. “But how?”
I stirred my coffee and gazed into the black swirl. “There must be a way.”
“How?”
“I’m not sure yet,” I said. “I have to think about it.”
Ernie respected that. He was never one to push. Still, he was worried.
“I think we might be getting close. And if we get close enough, this guy’s liable to know it.”
“And come after us, you mean?”
“It could happen.”
Ernie shuffled in his seat and glanced around the crowded cafeteria. “Sure would be nice to know what he looks like.”
“Sure would.”
When we returned to the office, there seemed to be a lot of barking into phones and pacing back and forth.
Riley pulled us aside. “A call just came in from the KNP Liaison. You ever heard of a place called the Tiger Lady’s?”
“Yeah,” I said. “We’ve heard of it.”
“Lieutenant Pak of the Namdaemun Precinct wants you two guys down there ASAP.”
“What happened?”
“There’s been a killing. Some gal. Something he called a kisaeng.”
As we reached the doorway, the First Sergeant’s voice bellowed down the hallway.
“Bascom! Sueno!”
I looked at Ernie.
“I didn’t hear anything,” I said. “Did you?”
“No. Not me.”
We ran to the jeep.
24
Thekiller squatted next to the body, keeping his feet out of the blood, trying to fight back the rage that pumped into his brain-blinding him.
It was still dark out and bitterly cold. Snowflakes swirled in the gusting wind, like spirits endlessly tormented by the night.
With the back of his hand the killer cleared his vision, forcing himself to concentrate.
She’d been dumped here, an arm and a leg cruelly twisted beneath her limp body. She wore a nightgown and a robe. No slippers. Red welts stood out angrily on the soft flesh of her neck. Her fingernails had been shredded and, before her death, oozed crimson, which was now clotted and dark.
Tortured.
How much information had she given them? Probably everything. But it wouldn’t do them any good. They still wouldn’t find him. No one would.
Not, at least, until he took his revenge.
Cuts had been sliced along her arms. Not fatal. At the top of her flat belly gaped a long gash. Probably the final death-dealing wound.
The killer almost laughed.
So that was their game. Put the blame on someone else. An old trick.
She’d written a note and left it, as he’d instructed, at the message drop: Contact. Two Americans.
He was miles away when he received the transmission. Still, he’d dropped everything and returned immediately. As fast as he could, but not fast enough. He gazed down at the corpse.
She’d done her best. In her note she said that she would try to delay one of them. Apparently, she succeeded. Her only reward had been death.
He touched the dead woman’s cold flesh. Just meat. Like so many he’d seen before.
When he first brought her into the operation, he’d used terror to train her. He showed her the photographs he’d taken of her younger brother and sister on their way to school, of her mother beating laundry with a stick at a stream near the family home. He’d demonstrated to her how he would kill them-running the edge of his blade lightly across her neck-if she didn’t do exactly as he instructed. Or if she tried to run away.
At first she’d trembled with fright, but she was stronger than most. She accepted the situation. She even seemed to enjoy the work, especially after he paid her for the first completed missions.
He remembered the long nights they’d spent together. And her lust for pain. Ever more pain.
And now she was gone. Stolen from him.
A pot clanged against stone.
He swiveled in a crouch, ready to fight, and surveyed the darkness.
No movement.
Inside the big building, people were starting to stir. The sun would rise soon. He glanced back down at the body.
His fists clenched. They’d pay for taking this from him. This that was his.
Like a shadow blown by the wind, he floated into the gloom.
25
Ernie and I pushed through a crowd of gawkers outside of the House of the Tiger Lady. We entered the cool confines of the main ballroom. A uniformed policeman escorted us down the hallway.
The huddled kisaeng, their faces naked and raw in the morning light, almost leapt back in fright when they saw Ernie.
Outside in the alley, Lieutenant Pak was hunched over in a conference with some older men. Our blue-clad escort went out, conferred with him, came back, and asked us politely to wait here in the hallway.
Ernie was nervous, chomping on about three wads of gum, glancing back and forth, fidgeting with the knot in his tie. I told him to wait, took a few steps toward the back alley, turned a corner, and saw the body slumped in a puddle of blood.
Miss Ku. Her eyes still open, mouth slack. Her neck twisted and her stomach gouged with something sharp and long. Blood had dried like a frozen waterfall of cinnabar slime.
She was in her nightclothes: Silk gown with only a bathrobe wrapped around her slender body to protect her from the cold. The job looked familiar. The same long, deft jab below the sternum, slicing into the heart. Probably while holding her from behind with a powerful arm crooked around her frail neck. Then letting her go. Letting her slump to the ground in death.
There were cuts on her arms. Whoever had killed her had toyed with her, as Whitcomb had been toyed with. If it was the same killer, it made sense.
What didn’t make sense were her fingers. The tips were raw and red. The nails had been ripped back one by one.
Another thing that didn’t make sense was that the body was too close to the back of the Tiger Lady’s kisaeng house. On the other side of the wall resided a couple of dozen women, and at least some of them must be light sleepers. Yet the killer had finished his bloody night’s work while disturbing no one.
There was blood on the cobbled road but not much. Not as much as we found beneath Cecil Whitcomb.
I turned, took a few deep breaths, and returned to Ernie.
Something pushed through the crowded hallway. People were jostled, slammed against walls. The Tiger Lady, gray-black hair splayed like the mane of a lion, eyes as intent as the eyes of a viper, plowing through the bending reeds, heading right for us.
Ernie straightened himself and stood away from the wall.
She screeched. “Shangnom-al” You bastard! And launched her crimson claws at his eyes.
Ernie twisted his head away just in time, but she sank her nails into his shoulder. He rotated his body and pushed her, slamming her into the wall. Like some enraged simian, she rebounded and renewed her attack.
Women screamed. Policemen cursed.
Ernie bounced back and grabbed her wrists as she came toward him again. Somehow he managed to retain his balance with her weight pushing against him.
I moved forward to help but three girls emerged from the crowd, swinging tiny fists, and simultaneously punched me in the stomach. I held my belly and looked at them.
“You stay back, Goddamn-uh!” one of them said.
Ernie and the Tiger Lady rocked back and forth like two bulls in a pen until finally the Tiger Lady collapsed and fell to her knees and covered her eyes with her withered palms. She started to cry.
“Nuga, nuga, nuga kurei?” Who, who, who would do this?