White Tiger

related.”

“My family is from Shanghai, not Hong Kong,” Lin said, hating him.

“Sorry for bothering you, Mr. Lin,” Ryker said. “I hope you understand the necessity of our intrusion. Please accept our condolences.”

“Maybe Mr. Lin knows what the message means,” Lost Soul Fong said, stopping Ryker as he turned away. A look passed between them and Lin seized its meaning at once: the gweizi hadn’t wished to bring up the subject.

Han obliged by demanding, “What message? What have you not told us?”

Ryker’s shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly as he surrendered to the inevitable and said, “A message was left on the wall of Lin Dan’s suite at the hotel. It was written in Chinese.” He glanced at Lost Soul Fong.

“Bu zhan bu he,” Fong said immediately.

Lin let the words wash over him. They unlocked memories he’d never expected nor wanted to review again. Parts of his life that he’d put inside black lacquered boxes, then put inside other boxes, never meant to be reopened.

“I’m told it translates to ‘No war, no peace,’” Ryker said. “Do you recognize the phrase, Mr. Lin? Does it mean anything to you?”

“I wish it did,” Lin said. “Especially if it has any bearing upon my son’s death. But I’m afraid I have no idea what it signifies. None at all.”

He was afraid that something in his tone might betray him, but to his relief they accepted the lie without comment and allowed Han to escort them out. As soon as they were gone Lin lurched for the door. He only just made it back to his study where he collapsed into his chair gasping for breath. He squeezed the arm rests until his fingers hurt and the room stopped spinning.

Both my sons are dead.

He wanted to cry but could not. Tears were a luxury he’d given up some time ago, as one of the many prices he’d paid so his family could survive the horrors of the Cultural Revolution and China’s agonizing metamorphosis into a dominant world power, a process that was still ongoing. How many had died during this bloody evolution? The numbers were huge and without meaning. But Lin remembered every single person whose death he had precipitated. How could he possibly forget? The trick lay in isolating these memories. Consigning them to the black lacquer boxes. Pushing them so far back into the darkest recesses of his mind that their murmurings would never bother him again.

Until something entirely unforeseen rose up to strike him on the face and demand the boxes fly open to reveal their grisly contents.

Bu zhan bu he. Lin almost giggled. So absurd. How many years now? How many years? And still the words had returned to haunt him.

He opened his eyes and found Alexsey standing there, his massive hands clasped over the swell of stomach that some might easily mistake for fat but was in fact solid overdeveloped muscle, like the rest of his outsized weightlifter’s body.

“Lin Yubo, I offer my condolences on the death of your son.” Alexsey’s coarse Russian accent had benefited from his time in the United States. So had Lin’s business dealings, thanks to Alexsey’s connections with Russian Mafiya and his friends in the military, which had smoothed out certain problems with deliveries and production behind what was left of the Iron Curtain.

“Who was with my son last night?” Lin said.

“I believe he took the usual woman back to the hotel.”

“Did you have anyone watching him?”

Alexsey stared at the floor. “A misjudgment on my part, for which I apologize.”

Lin slapped the top of his desk. “Nonsense. You were not to know someone intended Lin Dan harm. Find the woman. Han knows her name. If she has not fled the city then she will be with her friends, in Chinatown. Call me when you have found her.”

“You believe she killed Lin Dan?”

Lin pondered that question for a moment. “If not then she may know who did. She was with him. The police do not yet know her identity. I wish to speak to her before they do.”

Alexsey nodded understanding. As turned to go Lin added, “She must not be harmed. If it turns out she had a hand in my son’s death, I’ll deal with her myself.” Alexsey left the study closing the door silently, leaving Lin alone with his grief.

But he was not unaware of the duties he still had to perform. He opened the lid of his laptop, typed his password and watched as the screen brightened, returning him to his unsaved e-mail. He read what he had already written, felt dissatisfaction with his poor choice of words, deleted the entire message, and started writing again from the beginning.

CHAPTER 7

Tiburon/San Francisco, California

The electronic gates swung open as Chee Wei’s Crown Vic neared the end of the driveway that led to James Lin’s residence, a sprawling Spanish-style mansion in the exclusive Marin County community called Tiburon. The taciturn guard at the shack at the corner waved them through. Ryker watched the sprawling building recede in his side mirror as he analyzed how he felt about that brief and unsatisfying interview. Lin had given nothing away, nothing at all. They might as well have been talking about the weather as about his son’s death. Did Lin have emotions? Or did he just keep them buried so deeply that nothing showed on the surface, except his very obvious contempt for the police, and for Ryker in particular?

“What did you think about that old guy?” Chee Wei said, zooming through the open gates and onto the road. “He gave me the creeps. Real spooky.”

“Pull over onto the next street,” Ryker said. Chee Wei gave him a funny look but did as he was told. There was another road perhaps two hundred yards down from the entrance to James Lin’s house. Chee Wei pulled the Crown Vic onto the road and turned it around so its grille pointed back the way they had come. The Ford’s Police Interceptor engine purred while Ryker sifted his thoughts.

“What’s up?” Chee Wei asked. “Was it that war and peace thing? Things were a little tense, I thought maybe you forgot to ask him.”

Ryker shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. The old guy. Lin called him his manservant. What does that mean? In Chinese terms.”

Chee Wei shrugged. “Same as it does here. Except, maybe, it’s a role rather than just a job. These things are traditional. I bet he’s worked for Lin and his family all his life.”

Ryker unwrapped a mint and popped it into his mouth. With this new information in mind he revised the conversation-and suddenly the manservant’s noisy interruptions made perfect sense. “They were a double act,” he said, pleased that he’d figured it out so quickly. “The manservant distracted us so Lin wouldn’t betray himself.”

“Man, you sound just like my sister. She lies in bed all day watching soaps then talks all that ‘betrayed himself’ stuff. So what’s the big deal? The merry widow called him before we got here. Lin knew his son was dead. He’s not gonna want to go all misty eyed over that, not in front of a pair of cops, especially when one of them is white.”

Ryker found himself agreeing with Chee Wei, but only to an extent. The beats were all wrong. Lin had taken the news of his son’s death remarkably well. Ryker had admired his self control; he wasn’t sure if he could be so outwardly calm if someone dropped by unannounced and told him something had happened to his daughter, God forbid. But then Ryker had revealed the method of Lin Dan’s death. That had sparked off the manservant’s tirade, taking their eyes from Lin. Very clever. And the second time, when Chee Wei had intervened? They’d been talking about the woman at the hotel, who might have been Lin Dan’s companion, or his murderer, or both.

“Bogey at twelve o’clock!” Chee Wei said, snapping Ryker’s train of thought.

Ryker looked up just in time to see a black sedan dart past, heading down the street that led from Lin’s