Diet Pepsi from a local Subway. It was made even less memorable by the fact that he ate it at his desk while coordinating the rest of the investigation. Chee Wei had relieved Morales at the Zhu residence, and the rest of the detectives were either conducting follow-up interviews with the hotel staff or canvassing the rest of the immediate vicinity around the Mandarin Oriental, looking for any stray clue that might pop up. Ryker had taken some pleasure in adding Wallace to that detail; the fat cop was loathe to do much in the way of walking, and if this was the only way Ryker could inconvenience him without breaking his face (and getting suspended), then he was happy to do it.
Raymond was still out of commission, and he wouldn’t expect her back for days at the least. With Chee Wei and Morales doing the babysitting routine, there wasn’t a lot else that could be done other than add various bits and pieces to the murder book, none of which were very illuminating nor truly served to move the investigation ahead. As he stuffed the Subway sandwich wrapper into the plastic carry-bag that came with it, he noticed the invitation Manning had left for him on his desk. Ryker tossed the bag into his trash can and picked up the card. He reread it once again; the words were the same, but the meaning remained hidden from him. Why would James Lin want him anywhere near his residence?
And more importantly…would Valerie Lin be there?
Ryker tossed the invitation back onto his desk and leaned back in his chair. He rubbed his eyes tiredly, feeling a creeping, mounting anxiety that he couldn’t get rid of. Too many things were coming together at once-the Lin Dan murder, the ostracism and political pressure in the department-and perhaps most dangerous of all, what was going on between him and Valerie Lin.
Ryker rubbed his face. It was too ridiculous to even contemplate. He didn’t know much about Valerie Lin, but he did know that high-society women like her rarely took on lowly public servants as their significant others. To even consider that a casual possibility was naive…and stupid. He’d gotten incredibly lucky by circumstance, by being in the right place at the right time-
Movement by his desk brought him out of his self-recriminatory reverie. He looked up and was surprised to see Morales standing nearby, hands in the pockets of his trousers with an interdepartmental envelope clasped under one arm. He looked rumpled, and there were bags underneath his blue eyes. He smelled faintly of tobacco, and right then, Ryker thought he could kill for a cigarette.
“Nick,” Ryker said. “What the hell are you doing here? You have the day off-you’re on a night rotation.”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Okay…so what are you going to do tonight? Fall asleep on the Zhu’s couch?”
Morales shrugged.
“I’ll catch some shut-eye later.” He pulled the envelope from under his arm and held it out to Ryker. “Here, an early Christmas present.”
“What is it?” Ryker asked. He took the envelope and read the signatures. “The medical examiner’s report? Already?”
“A lot of the fine-line stuff isn’t done. They didn’t have to crack open the chest, since the wound was obvious, and the toxicology screens are pretty much negative.” Morales rubbed his bristly chin. “You don’t know this, but the M.E. has family back east and wants to get into the same line of work for the N.Y.P.D. I made some calls, got some things arranged. That’s how I was able to get it so quick.”
Ryker nodded and opened the envelope. Inside was a gray file folder, and some official routing documents he would have to sign and send back to the medical examiner’s office.
“Didn’t realize you still had so much juice back in New York,” he commented.
“Yeah well, it’s not like I’m some kind of fallen angel. Some folks over there still remember me.” Morales waved toward the folder. “Of course, I still had to go over and pick it up from them, the lazy humps.”
“Never an easy day for you, is it?” Ryker asked. He signed the forms and put them aside, then opened the folder. “You read this yet?”
“Nah. I got the Cliff’s Notes from the M.E. direct. It’s pretty much what it looks like-the stab wound killed the guy, though the loss of his main vein probably didn’t thrill him at the time, either.”
Ryker went through the overview documentation, skipping the more detailed analyses for the moment. It was as Morales said; inspection of the wound site confirmed that the damage to the heart tissue had been severe enough to kill Lin Dan quickly.
“Whoever did it, did it right.”
“Yeah well, I always thought I’d be happy to die in bed. Now I can see that’s not always the case. When I check out, I’m gonna throw myself in front of a cable car. At least that way, I’ll be on the news and the folks back home’ll have something to talk about.”
“You’re a sick man, Morales.”
Morales shrugged and nodded.
“A suitable epitaph,” he said.
CHAPTER 19
The Lin compound was a huge, sprawling Mediterranean villa that sat atop a hill in the town of Tiburon, an upscale community in Marin County, north of San Francisco. The villa had commanding views of the San Francisco Bay, from the Golden Gate Bridge to the heart of the city itself, as well as Angel Island. Manning hadn’t seen such eye-popping natural beauty in quite some time, and he had almost driven his GTO off the road while looking out across the Bay.
The compound was gated, of course, and his identity was checked by the taciturn guard on duty there. After a brief conversation over his radio, he waved Manning through. Manning accelerated up the long, winding driveway. The grounds were immaculately landscaped, and an army of greens keepers were at work making last-minute grooming. They paid Manning no mind as he brought the car to a halt before a three-bay garage. Two Hispanic men in red vests approached him-valets, of course. Manning waved them away, ignoring their protests that he couldn’t leave his car there. He marched toward the villa’s front door and rang the bell. As expected, a tuxedoed butler answered. The man was portly and bald, and carried himself with a regal bearing usually reserved for members of the British aristocracy.
“Yes sir, how might I help you?” Damned if the man didn’t have a British accent!
“Jerome Manning for James Lin.”
“Ah yes, Mr. Manning-I’ve been expecting you. Mr. Lin is not yet available, and I was wondering if you might meet with Mr. Baluyevsky instead?” The butler stood aside and waved Manning inside with a small bow.
“That’s fine,” Manning said. He stepped across the threshold and tried not to marvel at the ornate entry hall that waiting on the other side. The ceiling was at least thirty feet high, and floor was solid white marble veined with shoots of black. Gold lame adorned the curved ceiling and the ivory beams that supported it, and a chandelier that likely exceeded Manning’s entire net worth cast subtle light throughout the cavernous chamber. A sweeping staircase rose away from the entry hall, leading to what Manning presumed to be the living quarters.
Manning mentally recited a classic Mel Brooks line:
“My name is Edwards, Mr. Manning. Will you be staying for the party?”
Manning nodded to the butler. “For a time, certainly-though if it’s a black tie affair, I’m afraid I’m somewhat underdressed for the occasion.” He wore a dark blue suit and an understated tie. Though it had cost him $4,000, it was likely worth less than one of Lin’s used handkerchiefs.
“I do believe you’re on staff, sir, not a guest? Your attire is in keeping with Mr. Lin’s tastes. Now, if you’ll
