what to do with something like that, anyway.”
Ryker shrugged and started toward the stationhouse. Other police officers were arriving; to his great displeasure, Ryker saw Cueball hurl himself out of his flashy new Dodge Charger. Their eyes met, and Cueball favored Ryker with a half-sneer, half-snarl. Ryker merely looked away.
“I wouldn’t know about that,” he said to Chee Wei. “By the way, how were the dumplings?”
Chee Wei let out his breath like a deflating tire.
“Man, you know about that?”
“Of course-I am a detective, after all.” Ryker walked up to the glass door leading into the stationhouse and pulled it open, motioning Chee Wei ahead. “Go on, I’ve got the door-you’re obviously having a tough day.”
“Thanks, and blow me,” Chee Wei said, marching through the door.
“Can’t we just cuddle?” Ryker stepped across the threshold and let the door close just as Cueball piloted his bulk toward it. Ryker didn’t wait to check out his expression, just turned his back toward the bigger man and followed Chee Wei.
“Let’s take the stairs,” Ryker said, pulling open the stairwell door. Chee Wei turned back, a questioning look on his face. It faded as soon as he saw Cueball pushing through the door behind Ryker.
“Yeah, let’s.” He followed Ryker into the stairway as the older man began climbing them, taking them two at a time. Chee Wei hurried to keep up.
“Hey, where’s the fire?” Chee Wei asked. “This your new exercise routine or something? Trying to get yourself in shape for Valerie Lin?”
Ryker turned on the landing and shot Chee Wei a sharp glance without meaning to. Chee Wei caught it and smiled, happy that he had stroked an apparent nerve.
“Yeah, that’s it, a couple of days running up and down the stairs’ll make you into a lean, mean fighting machine,” the younger detective continued. “Pretty soon, you’ll be in as fine of shape as, say, me.”
“And I really look back on those days when I was a skinny twelve-year-old kid with acne,” Ryker shot back, resuming his climb up the stairs. “Did Zhu cop to anything yesterday? Anything that might be relevant to the case, that is. I’m sure she told you all about the lady Rolex watch she wants for Christmas.”
“Uh-huh, the one that’s diamond-encrusted. I told her I’d go knock over the Federal Reserve and see what I can do. No, she didn’t come up with anything we didn’t already know. Once the lab results came in, I thought we were writing her off?”
“I’m not writing off anything. Lab reports can be wrong, and they’re not infallible. You start believing in everything some crime scene tech brings to you, and you’re either fat and lazy-”
“Hey, I ain’t Cueball!”
“-or you’re just plain retarded,” Ryker continued. He started trudging up the last set of stairs, mounting the flight with substantially less than vigor than when he had started. His chest already felt tight, and his breath was beginning to sharpen.
Ryker pushed open the door to the fourth floor and stepped out, Chee Wei right behind and absolutely no worse for wear; the climb probably hadn’t even elevated his heart rate. Ryker straightened his red and blue striped tie and strolled toward the squad room. Cueball had beaten them, but only just; as Ryker and Chee Wei entered the room, the fat detective was just pulling out his chair. A bag of doughnuts from Winchell’s sat on the desk before him.
“Hey Cueball, those double-long cinnamon twists have about four times the amount of fat and cholesterol required to choke a whale,” Chee Wei commented as they breezed past his desk.
Cueball patted his crotch.
“The only thing that’s double-long and fat is what’s right here, and I have the testimonials to prove it,” the rotund detective claimed loudly.
“Yeah right, like I care what they say about you when you’re singing karaoke for the twinks over at the Midnight Sun,” Chee Wei shot back, referencing one of the Castro’s better-known gay night clubs.
Cueball grunted, and his small eyes locked onto Ryker.
“Hey, Ryker! Looks like your little pet here needs to go back and complete his sensitivity training-some of the gay guys here might get offended by his act. Either that, or he’s trying to compensate for some latent sexuality he’s been repressin’ for too long.”
Chee Wei turned, his face turning red.
“Hey Wallace? Fuck you,” he said, voice even despite his obvious anger at the jibe.
Cueball laughed and pulled lowered his big ass into his chair. It creaked beneath his weight.
“Punk,” he said, opening the bag before him and pulling out a sticky glazed doughnut. “You know what you remind me of? A little Chihuahua on a leash, barkin’ up a storm but not able to do shit.”
“You-” Chee Wei started, but Ryker put a hand on his arm, interrupting.
“Enough,” Ryker told the younger detective, pulling him away. “We’ve got work to do.”
Chee Wei allowed himself to be pulled off, but not before giving Cueball an award-winning case of Evil Eye. Cueball laughed and licked his fingers.
“Like I said, a little Chihuahua…and now, you’re bein’ led away on your leash.” The fat cop bit into his doughnut. Chee Wei tensed, but Ryker continued to pull him away toward their pod.
“Don’t worry about that piece of shit,” Ryker said. “He’s not worth getting all riled up over. Let him choke on his doughnuts.”
Once Chee Wei was settled down, Ryker had him go over the murder book. There was nothing to add, other than a few isolated tidbits that had very little bearing on the case, namely the latest lab results. More would find their way to Ryker’s desk over the coming weeks, each hopefully more detailed than the last. Nevertheless, Ryker wasn’t holding out hope for a bonanza of physical evidence that would identify the killer. But anything that might help would be certainly welcome, even though the chain of command wouldn’t be content to wait for all the results to come in. If ever there was a case that required the slam-dunk, this was it.
Ryker made some inquiries into the health of Raymond-she was at home, resting comfortably, and taking her meds. He called Morales on his cell phone to see how he was holding out, and found that all was well at the Zhu woman’s residence; there hadn’t been any indication the house was being watched, which didn’t surprise Ryker at all. If James Lin wanted Zhu Xiaohui, he wouldn’t need to resort to strong-arm tactics when one telephone call to the assistant chief could likely result in what he wanted being hand-carried to his office. Ryker promised Morales that Chee Wei would be over to relieve him within an hour or so.
After that, Ryker paid a visit to the coffee machine and grabbed himself a tall cup of the extra-potent battery acid that the department called coffee, and lamented not stopping by a real coffee house on the way in. He dumped in a handful of Mini-Moo creamers to avoid suffering from a seared esophagus for the rest of his life, and plodded back toward his desk. He noticed a newspaper sticking out of his previously-empty mailbox as he walked past, and he altered course to grab it. Setting his coffee on the countertop, he pulled the publication from the narrow box and opened it up. He scanned the headline and groaned loudly.
“Ah,
Wealthy Chinese Industrialist’s Son
Slain in Hotel
By Emerson Loo
special to the San Francisco Chronicle
San Francisco — The son of wealthy Bay Area industrial magnate James Lin was found dead in a suite at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel at 222 Sansome Street. Cause of death was classified as a homicide.
Authorities are still trying to identify Mr. Lin’s assailant, but have not yet made an official statement regarding the cause of death. An undisclosed source within the San Francisco Police Department has confirmed on the condition of anonymity that Mr. Lin’s death was in part caused by ritual mutilation of his sexual organs…
“A real bummer, huh?”
