“Just what in the name of all that’s good and holy do you think you’re doing, Detective Johnson? This man’s a
suspect
.”
I turned and saw the Chicago Office’s ASAC, Special Agent Leonard Percival. Percival was tall and slender and pale, his eyes a watery blue, his hair the color of straw. At least that’s what I saw. Behind the glamour he was really something else.
A unicorn.
I don’t like unicorns. They’re prissy and self-righteous and usually have creepy love lives. You’ll only sleep with unspoiled maidens? That comes uncomfortably close to pedophilia.
“Hello, Agent Percival,” I said. “Feeling horny?”
Percival scowled.
“This
subject
might have some, ah, insight,” said Johnson, casting an angry glance at me.
“As of right now this is a Federal case,” Percival snapped. “I won’t tolerate any more—”
“Horsing around?” I said innocently.
If looks could kill (and sometimes they can) I would have been smoking pile of cinders right there. “Get him out of here,” he snarled, and then turned on his heel and left.
“I thought you were gonna be cool,” said Johnson angrily.
I shrugged. I knew Johnson hated Percival even more than I did. “You’re not really going to turn me over to fibbies are you? Make
him
a hero?”
Johnson’s handsome face tightened. And he put me back in cuffs.
“You still have me on the grave-robbing thing,” I said brightly.
“Shut up,” he said wearily.
***
When we came out of house, Chinese mob was crowded around the police barriers, their faces blank and watchful. Every single man in the crowd was staring at me with glittering black eyes. They saw Chicago PD leading Russian mob boss in cuffs out of the mansion of their dead leader. I hadn’t killed Zhang, but I didn’t think there was even one man in that crowd who would listen.
I noticed a man in their ranks, a small man with brown, sun-baked skin, his face framed by a neatly trimmed black beard, his eyes dark. He was dressed like a Pashtun: white linen shirt, a gray
shalwar kameez
, a black vest, and a brown
pakol
, the wool hat flat on his small head. I doubt I would have even noticed him, but he had to be the Black Dragon’s connection for H, and Afghani H was very much on my mind right then.
The heroin that had caused so much trouble.
Johnson put me in the car and we drove away, the Chinese watching us go.
“Hey, mebe I can help,” I said from the caged back seat.
Johnson snorted. “We tried that already.”
I glanced back at the Chinese mob. They were still staring at the car, not making a sound.
“No,” I said, “really. Look, it’s in my interest to avoid full-scale Russian-Chinese war. And it’s in city’s interest, too. Let me help.”
Johnson was quiet for long time, thinking it through. He is actually smart, for policemens, at least.
“I don’t trust you,” he finally said.
I shrugged. “You shouldn’t trust anyone.”
“What do you need.”
“Let’s start with crime scene photos.”
***
So I sat in leetle interrogation room, watched through one-way glass, perched on painted-gray steel chair, behind painted-gray steel table, looking at picture after picture after picture after picture.
Crime scene techs are all apparently budding photojournalists. I had said Zhang Shaoming had been smashed into million pieces, well there was a shot of every piece, each from several different angles. And pictures of the neatly-groomed lawn. And the rock path. And the burnt-out light bulb Zhang was coming out to change when he died. And the new light bulb that Zhang planned to replace it with. And the porch light that was home to light bulb. It was regular light bulb docudrama.
If the chair hadn’t satisfied the Geneva Convention definition for torture, than surely all the light bulb pictures did.
Here’s the thing I was wondering. Zhang was one of the most powerful wizards in all of Chicagoland. And yet someone killed him. And not just
killed
him, but humiliated him. They’d turned him into a terracotta soldier, for God’s sake.
What if Zhang’s murder and the attempt on my life were connected? Ever since I stole the Chinese H, my life and his, my
survival
and his, had been intertwined. And here he was murdered on the same night when someone had tried to kill me.
And both acts of violence displayed a twisted sense of humor. Killing a Russian with a zombie seemed to fit with turning the most powerful Chinese wizard in North America into a terracotta statue. After all, during Soviet era, Russia was ruled by Zombies. Twice.
But no matter how long I looked at the pictures I couldn’t seem to find it. The missing piece.
“How’s it coming?”
I looked up. Johnson was leaning over me, one hand on the table, studying the pictures over my shoulder.
My eyes flickered to the one-way glass and then away. I was tired of being watched.
He followed my quick look and let the air leak out of his lungs in a long sigh. “Come on. I’ll walk you out of the building.”
I didn’t say a word until we reached the street.
The pink glow in the eastern sky behind a row of blond-brick apartment buildings was the only hint that the sun was coming up, but the city’s peasants already crowded the sidewalks. An el rumbled past the tracks mounted across the street. The morning smelled like diesel exhaust and rust and motor oil and, just slightly, the promise of rain. It was already blazing hot.
Standing there in the privacy of the crowd, I was willing to talk.
“There’s something in the pictures,” I said.
He raised his right eyebrow as if to say,
Well?
I shrugged. “I can’t say what it is, but it’s there.”
He chewed on this for a moment. What I’d told him
sounded
helpful, but offered no concrete way forward. It was just what I’d say if I was playing him. I wasn’t, but that’s how Johnson would read it.
“Anything else?” he asked, his voice carefully even.
“What if Zhang’s murder is connected to . . . what happened to me last night?”
Johnson gave me a piercing look.
“Think,” I said. “You kill leaders of two strongest families and you throw city in turmoil.”
“Who does that help? Family number three?”
I shook my head slowly. “There is no number three.”
The Chinese had ultimately blamed the Yakuza for the heroin theft and had wiped out the Japanese gangsters. And the Italians were engaging in an ugly turf war with the Salvadorans. Break all the dishes and then pick up the pieces is a good strategy—but only if there’s someone left at the end.
“Then
what?
” said Johnson.
I said nothing.
“Don’t leave the city,” he said.
I barked out tired laughter. If there was something out there that could murder Zhang Shaoming and turn my own zombie against me, where was there to go?
***
I walked down the street, hands shoved deep into the pockets of my filthy, blue suit, thinking hard but not getting anywhere, when I felt someone press the muzzle of a machine pistol into the small of my back. Someone else pulled my Glock out of my pants so expertly I didn’t even feel his hand brush against my back.
Apparently the privacy of the crowd wasn’t as private as I’d thought.
One of the someones whispered in my ear. “Speak any words, Russian Dog, and you’ll be peeing blood out of a catheter.”
The speaker was a man. A
Chinese
man.
They’d come for me.
***
They put me in a car and I expected them to drive me to a lonely construction site where a concrete foundation was conveniently being poured, but they didn’t. Instead they took me to the Palmer House, one of the ritziest hotels in city. I didn’t understand why until they escorted me into the grand ballroom, the chandeliers glowing softly, wall-mounted lights shaped like candles bringing out the gold of the wallpaper, intricate arabesque patterns painted on the plaster ceiling in gold leaf.
And sitting in the center of the room, a single man.
Except he wasn’t really a man—I could see that right off. Like the FBI’s unicorn, he was showing me a glamour. I knew what he was, but I wouldn’t say it aloud and I wouldn’t ask what he was called. True names hold power and so this kind of creature never liked to give a name, didn’t even want you to guess.
As I walked toward the creature it showed me its true self, just for a moment, a hundred feet of golden coils as thick as a horse’s body, crocodilian scutes running down its spine, tendril feathered back from its great head, each of its razor-sharp teeth as long as my forearm.
A golden dragon.
Now
here
was a creature powerful enough to reach through the veil of death and turn my zombie against me.
My mouth tasted like burnt metal.
And then it was a man again, a small, still man in a gold brocade coat open at the front, his folded hands disappearing into oversized sleeves, jet black hair framing a passive face, but his dark eyes dangerously alert.
I stopped a respectful distance from the great creature and offered it a little bow. “Good morning,” I said, fighting the impulse to add an honorific.
“Valeri Kozlov,” the man who was not a man said softly, “you have caused much trouble for Zhang Shaoming.”
“Yes,” I admitted, “but not yesterday.”
The dragon looked at me closely.
You cannot lie to a dragon, they are too clever for that. If you are a fool, you may try to mislead them. Generally, that just pisses them off.
“So you did not kill our servant?” said the dragon.
“No,” I said, flat out. No attempts at diversion or evasion, just
no
.
“Who did?”
“I do not know.” That, too, was the truth.
The dragon regarded me coolly. Finally it said, “Zhang Shaoming has served us longer than the United States has been a country. We were most fond of him. We are most distressed at the dishonor done to him.”
And right then, I saw the danger. Because so far I had been able to answer all the questions honestly. But we were coming to a point where I wouldn’t be able to, and the dragon would smell the lie on me.
“Here is what we really want to—”
I took a step toward the man who was not a man. “No,” I said.
The man’s dark eyes flashed gold. “No?” it said, and the word was a dangerous rumble from deep in its chest.
It is never wise to say no to a dragon—and it is even worse to interrupt to do it.
“I am Krasny Mafiya. I did not murder Zhang Shaoming, I am not your servant, and I’m not here to answer all your questions.”
Dragons were powerful and dangerous creatures not to be crossed lightly. But the Russian mob had its own powerful allies. This dragon could kill me easily enough—but not without consequences.
The creature’s control slipped. For heartbeat I could see the coiled dragon, its long, golden tail twitching nervously.
Then the man was back.
“This is what I believe,” it said. “I believe
you
took the missing 47 kilos of heroin, not Yakuza as Shaoming believed. And I believe your actions led to his death,
even
if you did not kill him yourself.”
“I did not kill him,” I said ignoring the first part of his statement. “Nor did I order him killed.”
The dragon glared at me and I glared right back. Only strength would get me out of this room alive.
Courtesy and consideration would get me killed.
“You answer my questions very carefully,” the dragon observed.
I shrugged, not trusting myself to say anything.
“You are expecting the power of the Red Mafia to protect you against retaliation.” It wasn’t really a question.
I answered it anyway. “You would find us to be formidable adversaries.”
The dragon leaned back in his chair. “I invite you to demonstrate that your actions did
not
cause Zhang Shaoming’s death.”
I frowned. “How can I possibly do that? I don’t know who killed him.”
The dragon’s lips quirked slightly. “I am sure
I
do not know,” he said, “but I suggest you solve the riddle soon. Or Krasny Mafiya will be forced to choose which wish to preserve—peace with Black Dragon Triad.
“Or your life.”
***
My mind raced as I stepped out of Palmer House and onto East Monroe Street. I was of great value to Krasny Mafia. But I had no illusions about what would happen if the organization were forced to choose between my life—and all out war with a dragon. Especially if it seemed that I’d engineered the whole crisis by stealing Chinese heroin and using it as cover to murder my chieftain.