“I’m looking into the fatal accident at the Metro station Friday night. I got this security tape from Fleet Bank this morning. They have two cameras running twenty-four hours a day near their ATM at Fourteenth and Eye Street. One of the cameras is a close-up, focused within five feet of the ATM machine.”
“A mugger camera.”
“Exactly. The other camera is an overhead feed with a footprint that covers the entire corner. This is the surveillance from Friday, five minutes before the call to 911. I watched this one already, but I was interested in seeing the tapes simultaneously.”
A couple strolled in front of the ATM, hand-in-hand, laughing like young lovers do, months before the incessant fighting and bickering sets in. A minute later an older gentleman walked by with a cane and a cigar.
Detective Wallace hit the fast-forward for a few seconds and then released the button. “Then two minutes pass and there is no one until this character appears.”
“Big boy,” Detective Nguyen said.
“And Asian.” Detective Wallace added. As if on cue, Chow Ying turned his face toward the camera and held still for a full three seconds, his pony tail resting on his left shoulder.
Detective Wallace paused the VCR with Chow Ying’s face front and center. He hit play on the remote control for the TV in the corner. “Then from the overhead surveillance you see who I assume to be Marilyn Ford stumble, cross the street, and limp to the sidewalk in the direction of the subway station.”
Detective Wallace hit play on the TV on the table. “The Asian guy turns his back to the ATM, looks to his right for a moment at something just outside of the view of the camera, and then follows behind Marilyn. Both of them are out of sight once they go around the corner and under the building, but you can’t argue that it seems a little suspicious.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I don’t know. You used to work the gangs, right?”
“Yeah…used to, when I was on street patrol before becoming a detective. When the Asian gangs started making their mark a few years ago, I was brought in to help. Everyone just figures it takes an Asian to know one. There aren’t too many of us in the D.C. Police, in case you haven’t noticed. We set up the Asian Liaison Unit before Chinatown got squeezed. Now, the Latino gangs have taken over most of the activity outside the heavy drug turf, which is still black. No offense, Sarge.”
“None taken. You ever see this guy before?” Detective Wallace asked. He rewound the tape and froze it on the black-and-white, grainy shot of Chow Ying’s face.
“Can’t say that I have, but Christ, you can’t miss him. What do you figure he goes, six-four, two-forty?”
“I would say that is about right, give or take a Big Mac.”
“Sorry, I don’t know him.”
“That’s all right. Let me know if you hear anything, will you?” Detective Wallace asked.
“Sure thing. If you want me to help you out, pound the pavement a little, just give me a shout. I would be happy to lend a hand. Or my Asian face. And I could use the overtime.”
“Ah, the truth comes out,” Wallace said, jokingly. “But you’re on. I’ll keep you in the loop. In the meantime keep your eyes peeled for a large Asian guy.”
“Will do.”
Chapter 22
Jake introduced himself to Marilyn’s replacement when he came into the office. Three days in the whirl of Winthrop Enterprises and the new secretary was still over her head. Between a stack of notes on her desk, and a phone with three customers waiting to be transferred, Marilyn’s replacement managed to squeak out a “good morning.” Shelly Fink, a formerly out-of-work executive administrative assistant, was recommended by a business acquaintance of Peter Winthrop who trumpeted her as mildly competent and stunningly beautiful. It was a half- honest evaluation. Peter took Shelly in as a favor, and intended to keep her in the office until he could find a permanent replacement. In the meantime, all she really had to do was keep his schedule straight and look good. The latter came naturally. Her long brown hair stood out in an office with a heavy slant toward blondes, and her body put every secretary in the building to shame, even the knockouts two floors below in the youngest corporate law office in the city.
The invitation to after work business came through Shelly, delivered in a scratchy voice that bordered between sexy and emphysematous. “Jake, your father wants to know if you are interested in joining him for drinks after work? It is business related.”
“What’s today?”
“Thursday.”
“Yeah, I guess. I was supposed to have dinner with my girlfriend, but she stood me up to go out with some friends. Tell him I’ll go, but I don’t plan on staying out too late.”
“I’m sure he will be pleased.”
“Yeah, well, who cares?” Jake said with a snap, his mind elsewhere.
Shelly stopped her retreat long enough to look back at Jake, his hostile answer unappreciated. “Humph,” she said on her way back to her desk. ***
Hasad Bakar got out of the cab and slipped his way through the crowded doorway of Club Mombasa, a funky, semi-techno bar with a smattering of jungle motif thrown in for the happy hour animals. Jake and his father were seated on adjacent chrome stools, Peter slugging his way through his second whiskey and water.
“I’m sorry I am late,” Hasad said with a thick Turkish accent. He had a slightly high-pitched voice, as if his nuts were slowly being pinched. His voice was somewhere between a robot on speed and a Middle Eastern, New York taxi driver. “It is so good to see you again, Mr. Winthrop. So good.”
“Hasad, this is my son, Jake,” Peter said standing from his stool.
“Your son! Fabulous. Yes, he does look like you, now that you mention it.”
Hasad and Jake shook hands as Peter finished off his glass and pushed it away.
“Well. What do you think?”
“Of what?” Peter asked.
“The club—Club Mombasa.” Hasad spread his arms wide as he announced the name with a shrill. “My cousin is part-owner. He is doing very well. Very well. The club opened two months ago and already it is making good money. Very good money indeed. At the rate he is going, he should break even in the first six months. Very good for a restaurant.”
Peter smiled. Like the great businessmen of the world, the Turks love their numbers.
“That’s great,” Peter answered.
“What do you think, Jake?”
“It’s nice. A good place to hang out,” Jake answered with the authority of a twenty-four-year-old. He knew his father hated it.
“Shall we have something to eat?”
Peter was here on business and he wasn’t going to let some techno music, blue neon lights, and a plastic jungle on the patio stand in the way. “Sure, let’s get a table,” Peter said.
“Nothing but the best in the house,” Hasad responded with pride, disappearing in search of his cousin.
“He seems interesting,” Jake said, not searching for another adjective.
“He’s an idiot,” his father replied. “But he is a rich idiot, and the son of an even richer one.”
“What does his family do?”
“A little bit of everything. His father is Onur Bakar, a shipping mogul worth at least nine zeroes.”
“A billionaire. That’s a lot of money. What does Hasad want?”
“I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me. The last time I did business with him he was looking for four identical Hummers, outfitted with the usual son-of-a-billionaire security features—bulletproof glass, grenade-proof undercarriage, run-flat tires and of course a one-thousand-watt stereo system.”
“Any money in exporting automobiles?” Jake asked out of earnest curiosity.
“There is money in everything, son. Generally I don’t get involved in onesy, twosy type deals. But when a
