Julie Beard - Touch Of The White Tiger

“I’m glad you’re back,” she said, beaming up at me with a resilient smile, minus one front baby tooth. “Was your trip productive?”

I laughed to hear such a sophisticated word from her little mouth, but I quickly sobered and felt cold inside. How and when would I tell Lin that I was a murder suspect? After my disastrous interview with the Diva, I’d called Lola from P.S. #1 and told her my retribution job was over and that I’d decided to spend the night with Marco. I wasn’t prepared to admit to my ex-con mother that I, too, was now in trouble with the law. Lola had decided to tell Lin that I’d unexpectedly gone on an overnight trip.

Lola, of all people, didn’t want Lin to think I was sleeping with a man. When I was a kid, I’d lost count of her lovers, but I couldn’t fault her for trying to be better at grandmothering than she’d been at motherhood.

I pressed Lin’s head gently between my hands and positioned her for a loud, smacking kiss on the forehead. “Yes, my darling girl, I had a productive night.”

Lola tromped up the stairs, fanning herself. Her frazzled red hair had obviously revolted in the late blast of summer heat. Her cheeks were flushed and, beneath her voluminous red polysynthe gown, her double-D breasts heaved in her bid for air.

“Hello, Lola,” I said.

“Honey, you got problems down there. Some idiot reporter just asked me if you’d ever threatened to kill anyone when you were growing up. I said, ‘Other than me? No.’” She laughed and I groaned.

Lola was the only person I’d ever known who could catch her breath and expend it without pause at the same time. Suddenly remembering my alleged sleepover at Marco’s, she raised her brows with prudish disdain. “Did you enjoy your trip?”

“It’s a long story,” I said, combing Lin’s silken black hair with my splayed fingers.

“I have all the time in the world,” Lola replied as she headed for the couch. “Lin, honey, fetch Grandmama a glass of iced tea.”

“Grandmama?” I repeated.

She flopped down on the couch and leaned her head back so she could mouth at me: mind your own business. Nothing Lola did was my business, yet everything I did was hers. But now wasn’t the time to get in a mother-daughter spat.

“What’s wrong with Grandmama?” Lola asked petulantly.

I held up both hands in surrender. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“What is the matter, Baker?” Mike came up beside me.

I hadn’t heard him coming up the stairs. His calm, accented words washed over me like warm, soothing water. “Oh, Mike, am I glad to see you.”

I put my arms around him, craving his strength. He held himself upright and firm, yet I felt his affection in the light embrace he gave me in return. “What happened, Baker?”

While Lola and Lin played cards in the living room, I joined Mike in his renovated coach house in the back of my garden. I ended up drinking an entire pot of green tea while I told him all that had happened. Fortunately, I had a twelve-foot wooden privacy fence around my oblong garden, so I didn’t have to worry about snooping reporters.

Sitting on the futon on Mike’s floor, gazing at his small stone fish pond through the open French doors of his one-room haven, I began to unwind and restore a sense of inner peace.

Mike listened to my incredible tale and took it all in stride. That was easy to do because he was a former Chinese Shaolin monk who had survived three years of indentured servitude in the poppy fields of Joliet, Illinois, before finding a place to call his own in my backyard. Opium production was legal as long as the harvest was sold only to legitimate pharmaceutical firms. But the poppy farms kept a low profile, preferring to hire foreign immigrants. Mike was such a one. He’d naively signed away his freedom when he signed up to work for the Red Fields opium plant. I’d rescued him and he’d been devoted to me ever since, saving my butt on numerous occasions. Nothing could shock or defeat Mike.

“Who do you think did this, Baker?”

“I’ve been thinking about that, but can’t say for sure. Lots of petty criminals I’ve hauled in for retribution might want to harm me or my friends. But none of them has the power to alter phone records or get into my safety deposit box.”

“What about one of the mobs?”

“That’s more likely.”

There was so much governmental and corporate corruption and the various criminal syndicates had so successfully infiltrated the establishment that sophisticated crimes were hard to trace.

“It could be anybody,” I said. “But the person who comes to mind is Corleone Capone.”

That was the ridiculously archetypal alias of the head of the Mongolian Mob. He’d chosen Capone because he was obsessed with the notorious Prohibition-era gangs that became rich through bootlegging. As for Corleone, he’d supposedly chosen the name in homage to Don Corleone, the main character in the novel and movie The Godfather.

His alias notwithstanding, Corleone Capone dressed like an eighteenth-century Mongolian warlord and spent most of his time trying to outdo the neo-Russian syndicate.

I’d majorly pissed him off last month when I’d negotiated the release of the Chinese orphans from his archrival, Vladimir Gorky. Gorky had kidnapped the girls from Capone for the sole purpose of foiling the competition. Gorky knew that Capone had spent seven years preparing the girls for sale. For Capone, losing the girls permanently to loving, adoptive homes was humiliating and financially devastating. I had been waiting for him to get back at me in some way. Maybe this was it.

“Yes,” I agreed. “It was probably Corleone Capone. But why didn’t he just kill me? Why did he involve me in a bizarre and pointless double murder?”

“Maybe he wants to make you suffer.”

“Well, he succeeded.”

“Do not worry, Baker. We will prove your innocence, Baker,” Mike said with his usual lack of expression. He didn’t need histrionics to prove his points. Not when he could down three men at once with fei mai qiao, “the leg flying like a feather,” or gang jin juan, “the diamond fist,” or any number of the other amazing kung fu moves he used so effortlessly. “You need rest now.”

I nodded and stretched out. Mike pulled a sheet up to my chin and tucked it around my shoulders with great care. I felt safe and loved. Why could I feel that way with a friend but not with a lover?

“Marco betrayed me,” I said with cool detachment that belied the pain I wasn’t prepared to deal with.

Mike exhaled and assumed a lotus pose, sitting next to the futon. “Perhaps he had a reason.”

“He could have given me a character reference to Q.E.D., but he didn’t even admit to the lead investigator that we knew each other. And I believe he planted my gun at the scene. He was the only one who knew I’d put it in the bank.”

“Did you ask him about it?”

I shook my head. “I didn’t have a chance. I’m not sure I want one.”

Mike mulled this over silently, and I felt a prick of irritation that he didn’t immediately condemn Marco. A breeze softly buffeted the wind chimes hanging outside. They tinkled soothingly.

“You should get your crystal ball,” Mike said at last. “Find out why Detective Marco betrayed you.”

I could do it. Marco himself had forced me to accept the fact that I’d inherited Lola’s psychic abilities. I’d used them to help us find Lin’s missing friends. I suppose I could use my talents to help myself as well. But the very thought of learning any more about Marco made me feel queasy.

“The less I know about Marco the better,” I said, closing my eyes for much needed sleep. For now, ignorance would be my only bliss.

Date With Destiny

Detective Riccuccio Marco had an inbred devotion to truth, justice and the American way. Granted, all three lived in the shadows of his own crimes and guilt, but he’d learn to compartmentalize his life, and so far the positives still had his dark side on a tight leash.

Two years ago he’d entered a new program to streamline the training of solo detectives to replace those killed by the R.M.O., the Mongolian Mob, and other crime syndicates. His colleagues in the psy-ops department of the Chicago PD assumed he’d been motivated by the desire to learn more about the drug-related shoot-out that killed his rookie-cop kid brother, and in part that was true.

Handsome, articulate, sensitive to emotions and bred into a lifetime of nuance, Marco had easily excelled at crime-fighting propaganda campaigns, psychological profiles on seriously twisted suspects and media appearances. None of his superiors would guess that he’d majored in psychology so he could understand his own horrific crimes. R.M.O. attorneys had illicitly wiped his record clean.

Prior to his long years of study at the University of Chicago, he’d been a sgarrista—a foot soldier—for the Russian Mafiya Organizatsia. And before that, he’d been an innocent kid. Everybody started out in life innocent. Few were lucky enough to die that way.

Angel was still innocent, though she pretended otherwise. But she wouldn’t be for long if she got stuck in the prison system. She needed help. So Marco made two calls. One was to one of the best lawyers in town, a former prosecuting attorney who was so clean his shit didn’t even stink. The other call was to a shyster who acted as an equivalent of a capo bastone, or underboss, to R.M.O. leader Vladimir Gorky. That call cost Marco—how much he didn’t even want to know.

Both attorneys—upstanding and crooked—essentially said the same thing: Angel Baker was screwed.

Gossip in the substation’s coffee bar confirmed as much. While the department sold whiskey-flavored coffee, Marco concluded that he needed a shot of the real thing. Not even the chameleon-flavored alcohol marketed as Vivante would do. So he tossed back a quadruple espresso and headed for the nearest exit, glancing at his watch. Six in the morning wasn’t too early, or late, to drink he concluded. Not considering the circumstances. Then it would be time to call in some more chips.

Marco almost made it out the door. His mistake was taking a shortcut through the eastern corridor, which took him past the psy-ops interview suites.

“Hey, Marco, is that you?” came a bulldog voice. Captain Mitchell Deloire stuck his head out of one of the suites. “Fancy meeting you here. I need you to come in and interview a suspect before you go.”

“I’m leaving, Del,” he said, waving off the older man.

With a round, seemingly neckless head planted on broad shoulders, Deloire looked like a bulldog. But instead of growling, he whined.

“Come on, Marco, give me a break. I got nobody here from psy-ops and this nut-ball they call the Cyclops says he’s ready to talk. I just need somebody to do a quick psych profile. Then you can wash your hands. He thinks he’s King Richard III. You can brush up on your Shakespeare.”

Marco stopped and looked back with longing. He’d always had a weakness for delusional personality disorder. “I’d like to help you out, Del, I really would. But I hung up my shrink hat. Now I’m—”

“Yeah, yeah, a hotshot detective. Maybe he’ll tell you something to help with the Cloisters case. That suspect you brought in with Townsend—Angel Baker—she’s the one who brought down this wacko thespian. Maybe King Richard can tell you something about her that will nail your investigation.”

News travels fast, was Marco’s first thought. Of course, when the mayor’s son is killed, the details would travel like wildfire throughout the department. His second thought was that Angel had never told him she’d tussled personally with the Cyclops. To know she had risked her life so thoroughly and hadn’t even told him made the low-burning flame of frustration she fed in his gut flare up.