Final Price Read online

  “Why me and not the beat reporter?”

  “I like your stuff.”

  A fan.

  The voice gave him specifics about the killings far beyond what appeared in the paper. Flannigan had contacts in the department. It would only take a moment to check them out. It would only take a moment to check them out. It would also be a simple matter to get the information the caller wanted as part of his offer.

  “Here’s the deal. If you work with me, I’ll give you the first look at my gifts. I think I’m supposed to make the world a better place, and I need to share with someone I can trust.”

  “What do you want from me?” The phone felt slick in his hand.

  “First a test. I see the article listed some cop named Chang on the case. I want his full name, home address, and phone number.”

  “I can’t…” Flannigan’s protest was reflexive.

  “Don’t insult me. You aren’t supposed to, but you can. What do you say? Or should I call the Inquirer?”

  “No.” Flannigan hated the pleading tone that jumped in front of his usual smoky bark of a voice. “I’ll need a day.” Just like that, he knew he’d taken his first step of a long journey. He didn’t care where it led if he made it back to the big time.

  “Good. I’ll call you back tomorrow. You give me the information, fast as you can. If you try to keep me on the line, I’ll hang up and make you my top priority, understand?”

  “Get in line behind the Marlboro man.” Flannigan tried to laugh but instead lapsed into a spasm of coughs.

  “Tomorrow, then? If what you tell me checks out, we can do business.”

  “Wait. Use my cell.” Flannigan gave him the number. Even the paper didn’t know about this phone.

  Sure enough, the guy called back. Same muffled voice. Flannigan checked with his source. The caller knew too many details to be a prankster. The guy was for real. Flannigan kept his voice steady when he gave him the information, and he even tossed in the cop’s mother’s address. The line went dead the instant he finished with Chang’s phone number.

  He knew he couldn’t warn the cop, not directly. He thought about how he might try. An anonymous call? Nah. He’d seen a picture of Chang once. Big bastard, especially for a Chinese guy. He was supposed to be hot shit anyway. He could take care of himself.

  Flannigan returned to his desk and rubbed the cell phone in his pocket. He had a feeling it wouldn’t be long before it would ring. Call it a reporter’s instinct.

  CHAPTER 6

  Chip Shot

  Chang walked into the information department where Nelson worked. Clusters of cubicles chopped up the open workspace, and he made his way through the rat maze. Blonde hair caught his eye, and he was too late to turn away before a familiar face looked up.

  “Hey, cutie! I didn’t know you were coming down here. How did you find me?” The woman stood, and her ponytail bobbed.

  Chang let her hug him while he searched his recent memory. Dover Downs Lounge, aggressive, a back-scratcher. Had her number at home. Janet? Janice? Forgot she worked for the state…“Hi. Just good luck. I’m here to meet a friend, a guy.”

  “It better be a guy.” She gave him a little punch on the arm.

  “You should call me. We can go dancing or something.”

  Or something. He skimmed his eyes over her desk and saw her nameplate. Janelle. If he could find the number maybe he would. “Sure. I’ve been busy…”

  “It’s cool. No need to explain. You have my number.”

  He caught her defensive tone. Time to go.

  “Absolutely. You take care.” He kissed her cheek and ignored the stares of the other women nearby. He made a mental note not to pass this direction on the way out.

  When Chang reached the other side of the huge room, he could see his friend’s back while he tapped on a keyboard. Gray streaked the unmistakable home-cut black hair, and ragged tufts circled his oversized head.

  Nelson chomped on a cookie. A second “care package” of brownies sat untouched on top of the computer monitor. The ladies in his office were always leaving home-baked goods on Nelson’s desk, but Nelson looked thinner than ever. Chang pushed away a twinge of guilt. Too often he stayed away from this side of the building just to avoid his old partner.

  Betty, the nosy soccer mom in the next cubicle, peered over the wall. “Nelson, what did you get for four letters across, Moro letter opener?”

  “Kris.” Nelson took another bite, and Chang saw the completed puzzle, in pen, on his desk.

  “Chris?” She counted the letters on her hand.

  Nelson continued to type while he spoke. “With a K. Knife with a wavy blade.”

  “Oh. Thanks.” She ducked back behind the wall.

  Chang kept his voice low. “You ready for tonight?”

  This startled Nelson, who swiveled around in his chair. His dark eyes met Chang’s. He wiped cookie crumbs off his mouth. “Does it matter?” Nelson stared harder at Chang, who gestured for him to follow. “Hey…”

  No point sharing with the whole office. Chang led Nelson away from eager ears.

  “What happened to you?” There was concern in Nelson’s voice, but at least he whispered.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “You’re hurt. Your side, isn’t it?”

  Nelson’s uncanny powers of observation could chafe worse than the leather strap of his shoulder holster. The punk’s cut wasn’t deep, but it went right under the rig for his compact Kimber .45. An inch higher and his gun would have hit the sidewalk that night. Another inch deeper and he might not be here. Fate had its own schedule.

  “I said I’m fine.”

  Nelson’s eyes were the only locus of strength on his scrawny frame. “The Dragon? Don’t answer; I don’t want to know.”

  Chang knew Nelson had never seen the Dragon up close.

  “Did you read the poker booklet I gave you?” Chang was going to drag Nelson to this game if he had to cuff him.

  “I still don’t know what I’m doing. Why do you need me there, anyway?”

  “You never get out of the house, and I need someone I can beat. It’ll be good for you.” Chang didn’t know how to explain his Asian sense of responsibility for him. Shu understood.

  Chang wanted a friendly face for his first time as host. He’d played once before with the troopers from the elite Special Operations and Response Team (SORT) unit, Delaware’s answer to a SWAT team. They first surprised Chang with an invite to play, then again when they accepted his offer to host. He knew Nelson would be uncomfortable around other cops who looked more like marines, but Chang had to do something to bring him back to the world.

  “You’ll do fine. You don’t even need to know the game. Just watch their eyes.” The human lie detector.

  “I can’t always read you.”

  More than he’d like, but Shu’s teachings paid off.

  “They’re not so different. You catch killers, something in common with that crew.” Chang saw Nelson’s shoulders sag.

  “I used to. Now I catch computer bugs.” Nelson sounded resigned. “Seven tonight?”

  “Don’t be late.”

  CHAPTER 7

  In the Fold

  Wilmington

  Chang liked that the fieldstone exterior and professional landscaping enabled his house to blend into the quiet neighborhood. Its four bedrooms surpassed his needs, but the home had once housed two with the hope of more.

  Inside, he was proud of the changes, and he thought even Colleen would approve of the way he finished what she started with the feng shui. In the front hallway he installed black shelves that set off the pale antique jade figures of dragons and Buddha. He drew from their smooth strength. Chang looked at the wall scrolls that showcased famous warriors from several dynasties. The formal dining room featured paintings with bamboo and other trees to incorporate green elements. Teak and cherry furniture met the wood requirement on his feng shui bagua map.

  He was especially pleased with his collection of
Chinese masks that lined the upstairs hallway and his bedroom. Colleen always complained that the brightly colored masks stared at her during lovemaking. He took them down for her, but after she left for good they were back up by the end of the day.

  The Asian artwork throughout his home was a more aesthetic reminder of his heritage than the late-night visits to his mother’s.

  Chang heard his doorbell and knew it was Nelson because he pushed the button like it gave him a shock. Most of the crew was already waiting downstairs.

  In the kitchen, after letting Nelson in, Chang grabbed a tray of chips and pretzels. Not many guests since Colleen left.

  “Take that cooler,” he said. Nelson grunted from the effort.

  In the basement, two guys who could have been Marine Corps bookends sat at a circular card table. Tate and Wiggins. A hanging lamp cast a pool of light on the green felt in the long room. A heavy punching bag hung in the far corner. The men looked up and stared.

  They were both Chang’s height, about six-four, their bodies as chiseled as his. Both wore SORT sweatshirts. Nelson looked like a clothes hanger compared to them. Chang left Nelson to let in the last player, Carl Hull.

  Where the twenty-something Wiggins and Tate were bodybuilders, Carl was a power lifter with massive shoulders and a large stomach. Hull was their boss on the SORT team.

  “Evening, Cap,” the pair said in unison. Hull nodded and crossed the room.

  “Beer, Paul?” Hull held out a can to Chang and opened one for himself.

  “Maybe one, thanks. I get all red in the face if I have more.” Never mind what they thought. Booze lubricated the bars on the Dragon’s cage.

  “I could use a cold one.” Nelson grabbed the can and took a big pull. Chang saw his eyes water. Nelson was no drinker.

  Chang sipped his beer.

  “Let’s get started.” Chang pulled out a deck of cards and began to shuffle them. A tray of poker chips sat on the table. “Nothing fancy, a quarter ante, and let’s say a dollar limit per hand, okay?”

  “We’ll go slow for you, Nelson,” Tate said.

  Chang didn’t know a good way to warn them. “Nelson may surprise you.”

  “Might not.” Nelson hit the beer again.

  Nelson lagged early, but soon he barely looked at his cards and instead watched faces. He began to win and folded whenever another player held a strong hand. Chang knew Nelson could read subtle cues from the other players.

  There was nothing subtle about the frustration on the men’s faces. Their polite amusement at the strange little man wore off when he continued to win. Nelson stopped asking for cards. He sipped his beer and stared at the other players.

  Wiggins drank heavily all night, and Chang didn’t need Nelson’s sensitivity to see his anger. On one hand, everyone but Wiggins and Nelson folded. The biggest pot of the night sat between them.

  “Showdown. Come on, Wiggins, win one for the team here,” Hull said.

  “After you,” Nelson said.

  “You’re bluffing. You got nothing, and I’m taking the pot with this junk.” Wiggins turned his cards over and showed a pair of threes. When Nelson showed fives, Wiggins’s face flushed red.

  Chang’s pulse picked up.

  “Bullshit. That’s a trick. What are you, a magician?” Wiggins pulled down the last three-quarters of his beer and crushed the can.

  Nelson stifled a belch. “Not my fault. You told me what you had.”

  “You were really a cop?” Wiggins looked at Nelson like it was the first time he’d noticed him. “Special operations or Special Olympics?” He snorted and looked around at his friends.

  “New York’s finest.”

  “For how long?”

  “Too long.”

  Chang sat still. Pressure began to build in his chest.

  “Yeah? What kind of weapon did you carry?”

  “Air pistol.” On the job, Nelson invariably failed surprise inspections because he left his gun at home and wore an empty holster.

  Wiggins frowned. “You ever kick in a door and make an arrest?”

  “Nope.”

  “Ever land a guy after a vehicle pursuit?”

  “In New York, bad guys take the subways. You must not get out of Delaware much.”

  “You ever catch anybody?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “How’d you arrest ’em? Probably had guys like me watch your back and do the dirty work so you wouldn’t get hurt.”

  Nelson faced Wiggins. “Sort of. They didn’t call me ‘Nervous Nelly’ for nothing.”

  Chang heard a touch of a Brooklyn accent creep into Nelson’s voice. “Nervous” came out “Noy-vus.” It only happened when he was excited or angry. Between foster homes, Nelson was educated in a Catholic orphanage. Chang knew that a diminutive nun “beat the accent out of him,” as Nelson liked to put it.

  Chang’s own father spent a fortune to make sure his son received a firm grounding in the King’s English. Father’s obsession that Chang sound neither Asian nor like a New Yorker worked. What Father called “better” everyone else called different.

  Nelson’s body language made Chang think of a bowstring. Chang saw him lean toward Wiggins and say, “Good news or bad news? Don’t be scared, Wiggins.”

  “Of what? You?” Wiggins sounded tough, but his eyes showed uncertainty.

  Nelson gestured toward Tate and Hull. “Good news is that one of your friends doesn’t think you’re weak.” Nelson looked at the two. “I won’t say which one. It’ll be our secret…”

  Wiggins started to stand.

  Chang heard his own chair fall when he sprang up. “Sit down or come after me.” Hull and Tate put their hands on Wiggins’s shoulders, and he sank back into his seat. His expression told Chang that the Nelson-style sucker punch hit a nerve.

  Nelson turned to Chang.

  “Thanks for inviting me.” He nodded to rest of the group. “Gentlemen, enjoy the rest of your game.”

  The bowstring went slack.

  “Hold on.” Chang followed Nelson up the stairs and into the front hallway.

  “I don’t belong with those guys.”

  “I don’t know what Wiggins’s problem is, but I’m going to find out.” Chang felt the thunderheads build.

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “He thinks that any cop who isn’t part jarhead doesn’t rate. I’ll make sure he gets it.” Whatever it takes.

  “I don’t want his pity.”

  “For what? I’ll straighten these guys out.”

  “Just leave it.” Nelson dropped his gaze.

  Chang couldn’t allow Nelson to withdraw.

  “No. Good cops come in all shapes and sizes.” Even skeletal geniuses. “I might need your help.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Later. Go home.” Chang closed the door before Nelson could say anything else.

  Chang’s anger sought release. Couldn’t go downstairs yet…Chang strode into the kitchen. Above the sink on a small shelf sat “Banzai,” the bonsai tree Colleen had given him in what turned out to be one of her last real efforts to salvage their relationship. Named after her mispronunciation, he insisted on keeping it even after she tried to discard it when she realized it was part of Japanese culture, not Chinese.

  Chang took the tiny scissors off the wall and began to prune the tree. His hand felt more like a talon, Dragon-strength making the shears seem clumsy.

  Sometimes it relaxed him, and he was determined not to embarrass himself in front of his colleagues. While he worked he pictured a stream and clear, cool water flowing over his anger…

  Chang’s reverie broke when he saw that he’d just hacked half the branches down to the trunk. He flung the scissors into the sink and tossed the maimed tree into the trash can. He glanced at the clock and saw it had only taken him five minutes to ruin a seventy-five-year-old dwarf pine.

  When he went downstairs, Chang could hear Wiggins’s voice above the others.

  “…find that guy,
anyway? What does he see in him? He couldn’t arrest a jaywalker.” Wiggins broke off when he saw Chang.

  “Let’s get one thing clear. When you are in my house, you will respect the other guests.” He kept his voice even.

  “Hey, I didn’t mean to run the guy off. I was just messing with him. Is he sick or something? You shoulda told me he was so thin-skinned.”

  “I’ll tell you why right now.”

  Everyone pulled up a chair.

  After the last guest left, Chang finished his cleanup. It helped to restore order to his home. Then he put on a scarlet silk robe. He never liked dredging up New York, but he wanted the men to understand what he and Nelson had endured.

  He’d told them he wondered if Nelson didn’t have some sort of undiagnosed high-functioning autism. His ability to think like a killer dueled with his inability to relate to regular people.

  Before his breakdown, Nelson could act “normal” when he wanted to—the only reason he made it through the academy. The brass must have laughed when they forced “Nervous Nelly” and “Bang-Bang Chang” to partner.

  Their success and ultimate failure was a matter of record. Even after the smear job following the Topper murder, anyone could read the newspapers and understand they were an effective team.

  Operative word: were. If he dragged Nelson back into the game, who was it for?

  Chang stared at the remains of Banzai. He couldn’t throw it away with the empty beer cans. The side he hadn’t cut looked healthy. Maybe he could nurse it back…

  Chang heard a metallic sound from outside. It took a moment to register: the lid to his garbage can. Raccoon?

  He tiptoed into his dining room to look out from a darkened window. He didn’t want to spook the animal yet. He saw a large, dark shape bent over one can, and when it stood up he saw a dark mask and white eyes. Not an animal. Someone was going through his trash.

  Tongs? Stupid. They come with knives while you sleep. They’re not here in Delaware. Who is this?