Kowloon Connection

CHAPTER 1

I thought my marriage was over. The divorce papers I had struggled with for months were ready for her to sign. I believed she had already done her part. I had done my part to the best of my ability and I felt satisfied with the outcome. I felt OK. No general thanksgiving; no sad departure. God and my right. Or maybe even my left. The motto of the Canadian Court on the wall of the Toronto court room.

We weren't Canadians but had ended up living there on one of my first assignments with the CIA in a joint task force mission out of Mississauga, Ontario with CSIS, the Canadian version of the CIA. Things had gone well then. Both the assignment and our marriage. Life was simple. The assignment turned out to be more social than business and the Company shipped me back to Los Angeles. Melissa never stopped complaining after that. She missed her job, her friends and one old Aunt who had married a local butcher and settled in North York, a Toronto suburb.

I believed that I could contribute more to my country if I could do more work for the Agency in a place like the Middle East. I wanted to stop 'terror' and the assault against our country. The aftermath of 9/11. Be given some hideous international crime to investigate. Melissa never believed in it. It never happened. She was right, It cost me 22 years of waiting and frustration laced with bureaucratic constraints which finally spilled over and ruined my relationship with her. But I was free now, or so I thought. I was back where I started, in LA. As I sat motionless in my deserted office, my mind drifting off to some strange new corner of the world I heard my cell phone ring. I ignored it and continued to sit there searching the office and ruminating. One dingy cubical after another stretched out in front of me. A phone, a desk, a pad of paper. Phone after phone, desk after desk. A couple of post-it’s stuck on some dingy spot of the bulletin board. This was all there was. Where was the excitement I had anticipated when I left the army medical core to join one of the most prestigious arms of international government? I heard my phone ring again somewhere in the distance.

Yes.

Where are you?

At the depot.

That's kind of what I thought. Shelly said.

Shelly took care of everything for me these days. She was great. She created a buffer between Melissa and me for starters, and the list went on. She wasn't the knock out Melissa had been, but she was very bright and perky. Full of energy, and a great shape. She almost always had a big smile, for me anyway.

I met her at off-site training initially when both of us were first hired. Shelly Eggers was the kind of woman who gained respect almost from the get go. She didn't even have to do much and there it was. We got along so well from the very beginning. She was my first, and for a long time, my only friend in the Agency. We worked on many assignments together utilizing her computer skills and my medical knowledge hardwired into me from the medical corps. Nothing romantic until Melissa walked in one day and announced that she was leaving. Packed her bag and went, God knows where that night.

What's up?

Look, do you have an assignment yet?

No, not yet.

That's good. You've got a message here from Melissa I just pulled off your contact phone.

Yeah...

She says the final papers still aren't ready and wants you to come by to see her.

Does she say why?

No, she doesn't .

How does she sound?

I was hoping you'd ask that. I think she sounds very anxious; nervous even.

Not like her.

No, not the way you ever talked about her.

She wasn't even a nervous bride, if there really is such a thing.

My mind started to drift again back to better days with Melissa, before everything crashed. Days when the sunshine and warmth of love made everything good, even though I had the nagging feeling that it was just a temporary illusion which would shatter my world eventually, which it inevitably did. She was a huge thrill when I met her. Nothing conventional. Always changing. A kaleidoscope of behavior and emotion.

Every experience with her became an incredible memory back in those days. This was her best talent. That's what she called love I guess. She used it to woo, seduce and win any vulnerable male in the world. She did it so well because she was a student of life and war. Not the kind I fought, but her own version of it. Taught, nurtured and sustained by all the elements her experiences had shown her.

I was so young when we met. Rough on the exterior, but much too vulnerable for a woman like her. I had just been released from field operations and had seen too many mutilated bodies and crying women and children. It kept me awake at night and drove me to the bar again each morning. I needed some kind of purpose and something to stay home for. She seemed like the kind of person who could stand alone and lift me up with her. The only problem was she couldn't stand alone. But she could pull up any guy any time she wanted. So I was finished from the get go.

She took me under her wing and unfortunately there was a lot more there than feathers. Believing I was nuzzling in the warmth of love and security, I believed my situation with her was an improvement in my status as a male. Unfortunately, it proved to be an omen of death.

Are you going to go see her?

I don't know. Does she say where she is now, because I don't know where the hell she is. She could be living under some underpass in Anaheim for all I know.

Shelly didn't respond right away to my remark. I heard her take a deep breath, trying to get my attention back to the task at hand and get a handle on her emotions. She went into her curt and polite mode as if I were some stranger she was trying to direct to a business meeting.

Her message says she's on Selma Avenue in Hollywood, Shelly sighed even more deeply, in an effort to reduce the on-going tensions between us.

339, that's the street number she left on her message.

Good.

What are you going to do, in case she calls again. Shelly always covered all the bases.

Go by and try to figure out what kind of game we're playing. Chess or checkers. I uttered a feeble laugh which was certainly not returned.

I'll give you a call when I figure out if there's any kind of problem. You have a cold Mickie's ready for me tonight?

Is that what you want?

You know what I want. You always do.

Mickie's it is.

And you?

Me too.

CHAPTER 2

My concern for Melissa became more intense. I grabbed the steering wheel of my Crown Vic and turned the key and it started immediately like a well programmed robot. Old habits just keep getting older, just like us. Then one day you're forty. You just don't care anymore. The only problem was that I did care and that worried me too. I pulled out of the lot and k-turned the car north on I-5 then further north again on 101. Since I was leaving from south of LAX at close to six pm on Friday night it was no surprise to drive into gridlock almost immediately. I knew what I was in for, or at least I thought I did. Sometimes you're just never prepared. I pulled as far right as possible to avoid a lot of the traffic exiting the freeway to make a little time and from there I would maneuver back and forth between the commuter lane, when it looked safe to be alone with no interference from the CHP.

It was August and the air was filled with every kind of smoke known to the American nostril. Leaves fell from the trees, but not for reasons of climate. They were dry and dirty and filled the gutters and graveled pull off areas.

I was still off in my dream world when I caught the cut-off for Hollywood in my mirror, so I knew I had just passed the first off ramp and better keep a close eye for the second. I thought about when I first saw her. She was a beautiful young model. Tall, thin, lithe. Beautiful chestnut hair and blue green eyes that seemed to change color when she got angry at me. A real Irish beauty. Skin like silk and a mouth that begged for the slightest touch to be made whole.

I just glimpsed her and I was a gone completely overboard. I saw her that first day at the after my final discharge. I just followed her around from then on. She thought she was an actress and so did I. I just didn't realize how really good at it she was. I watched her on the stage practicing for her up-coming performance and I was done. I had to have her, and I did soon after. Life was never the same again.

We laid there in my room afterwords for hours. I floated and felt like I was somewhere near the ceiling looking down on myself for the first time in my life. My God I was naive. I still wonder sometimes if any other man ever felt that way, but since men never discuss those things I guess I'll have to keep wondering.

I had finally come out on top. That was short lived. They had been so short of nurses on the battle field and I had jumped at the chance to work with the camp doctor. Before I knew what happened I was on the battlefield putting victims of everything from aggravated assault to suicide bombs back together with anything we had handy from sutures to duct tape.

No one really recognized any type of stress disorder in those days. You were discharged and then you were on your own. I thought because I needed her, she felt the same. She did. Just not all the time.

I'd come home and no Melissa. Two or three hours or even days later she would arrive and act as though nothing had happened. When I asked her to explain herself she would just throw her head back and laugh at me. The closest she ever came to an apology was to promise to do better the next time.

I still remembered the time she disappeared for over a week. Even her crazy mother was worried toward the end. I had sent out dozens of resumes outlining my more or less formal education and my life in the army. Even though I only had one tour of duty before I returned to school, I had achieved a very high security clearance level. I was sitting there in our cramped and somewhat dingy studio apartment counting the cockroaches on the wall and drinking a beer when the phone rang. Hoping for some word about Melissa's whereabouts I quickly answered it and was asked to come for an interview the following day. Twenty minutes later Melissa walked through the door with a big smile on her face. She plopped herself down on the sofa, picked up my beer and took a big slug, and sat back.

I sure missed you, she said and smiled at me as though she expected me to be impressed.

You sure have a strange way of showing it.

Ah now, you sound a little sarcastic there. Did you mean to be sarcastic?

You bet your ass. Where have you been?

Just visiting my mom. That's OK isn't it? You like my mom.

Well you better call her then and tell her you were there because she didn't seem aware of your presence the last time she called looking for you and crying to me about it.

Melissa got up off the sofa and walked into the kitchen. She stopped and looked around the tiny cubbyhole we cooked our meals in and opened the fridge door and took out another beer which she swiftly opened and proceeded to drink.

You sure need to clean this place up and you need more beer. This won't last long. Why don't you be a good boy and run out to the store and give me a chance to clean this place up?

That's sweet. Why don't you try cleaning yourself up in the process?

On that note I through my beer into the fake fireplace and stormed out of the apartment. All I could think of was that I hoped I got the job because I needed to at least work and get back some of my self respect which Melissa loved to steal from me one act of dereliction at a time.

The interview went much smoother than I could have hoped for and six weeks later I was part of the Company, sitting in the local bar, sipping on the occasional beer and gossiping about 'boots on the ground guys' I had known in Kuwait while anchored in Savonarola, Spain. Melissa was in and out of our house like a delivery service only none of her packages were addressed to me.

She was like a little bird in flight. Determined to go wherever she wanted when she wanted and with whom, and yet fragile enough that one big crow could finish her off very quickly if it had the opportunity. Opportunities were abundant where Melissa was concerned.

All of the glamour I perceived in the store made up for the drudgery found in the real world of international intelligence missions. The assignments in those days were an exercise which allowed

CHAPTER 3

I couldn't stop the overflow of information which constantly occupied all my brain cells. At least the ones I had available these days, or maybe I should say had left. I remembered vividly that one dark January day four years ago in San Francisco when the phone rang like it had when Shelly called today, only that time it was my old partner, Dave Mercer.

You better get out here. I just got a call from Central and your old place is crawling with cops.

Hey, slow down. I haven't even had my coffee yet.

The sun was creeping down around our small apartment strewn with dirty dishes and fast food containers and various remnants of yesterdays fast food awaiting Melissa's attention today. Melissa, who was nowhere to be found as usual. I looked over at the sink piled high with dirty dishes and tried to focus on Dave's voice dribbling out of my cell phone like drops of water from a tap.

I'm right there now and it's a pretty grim sight.

I had never heard Dave sound so tense or even emotional. Nothing ever shook the guy and it sent a bit of a chill through me. I knew he wasn't the kind of guy to dramatize anything and if the situation bothered him that much it had to be bad.

The 17 is backed up all the way to 101 from this end and it could take you a while to get here.

Don't worry about it. I can always grab an alternate route. Do they have any suspects?

None that they'll talk about. Nobody is talking, none of these guys. You know what local guys are like. It's their way or nothing.

I let the phone drop on the sofa and reached across the table for my keys. Next I grabbed my jacket and my Glock. I was on my way out the door.

The morning sun was filtering down through the marine layer and smog which lay in scattered pockets blanking out some buildings while exposing others in a typical California haze. As I pulled from the driveway I felt the stark chill of Dave's message crawling up the back of my neck until it held my head rigid in its grasp. I traveled so fast I was almost motionless against the backdrop of the sunrise as I moved silently along 17 east past Oakland. As the streets in the distance became narrow roads and the pecan trees began to dominate the rolling hills I felt my foot start to ease of the gas pedal and the torque carried me off on a high speed run into the city of San Leandro.

My thoughts continued to race as I drove almost mechanically to my old place of residence near an old farm which had survived the scourges of urban development and re-zoning permits. A typical California style apartment block of the sixties complete with eucalyptus and ice plant. Marked and unmarked cars were everywhere along with yellow crime scene tape. Some were parked up against oak trees, others left in virtual abandonment almost in the middle of the road like the aftermath of a Florida tornado.

What's up? I called out to anybody who might be willing to respond.

Some cop on the other side of the lot looked up. He was obviously local and looked like a high school student on some kind of work program. He appeared startled an jumped, then fidgeted with his holster as though he was having some kind of epiphany. No seasoned investigator, this guy.

Who are you, sir?

This guy had to be right out of school, no question. No man of the streets for sure. Too stiff and too educated. Even his tone of voice gave him away. Probably some kind of criminal science major with his first real job. Completely sober, that was obvious. Trying hard to appear nonchalant in the face of scrutiny and doing a pretty poor job of it.

Staton, CIA.

This blindsided the young officer and in the middle of his hesitation and confusion he completely missed asking me for any kind of ID.

Looks like murder/suicide, but until we can get some forensics from the coroner, it's still difficult to say.

Mind if I take a look?

No sir, not at all. There are a crowd of guys milling around in there including guys from the bureau. I doubt that anyone will even notice you.

Why Fibbies?

It seems these guys were involved in some sort of fraud scheme from some place in Florida involving trafficking, money laundering, protection, all the usual Asian activities. By the way, the name's Harmon. Jake Harmon.

I wasn't really sure this guy knew much of anything, but he seemed pretty willing to talk and that was always worth something. He was standing beside an unmarked vehicle, a slate gray Shelby GT-C trying to act as nonchalant as possible and still give the impression it was his. It could have been, but I doubted it. He walked past it toward the passage between the old buildings and the tape. The windows of the old Spanish stucco apartments were small and dark. They seemed to peer down on Jake like officious neighbors looking for gossip as he ducked under the yellow streamers and walked toward the sidewalk on the other side of the building where all the commotion was centered.

There was still no ambulance, no coroner's wagon. Nothing on the scene to pick up the bodies. Just an assortment of various law enforcement guys in many stages of dress. Some plain clothed, some uniform, milling around in a state of organized confusion. Some walked through flower beds and over the meticulously manicured hedges in an attempt to look as though some great investigation was in progress and accomplishing little, if anything.

The crime scene was located in a downstairs apartment and from where I stood I could see directly into the cramped unit where the bodies were still visible and big as life. Each of them was meticulously outlined with white chalk while blue-white flashes of camera strobe lights peppered them from every angle.

As I walked slowly toward the door and looked deeper into the room I realized it was more cramped and dingy than I had realized at first. The streaked and sun-bleached drapes looked like they had provided at least 25 years of shade from the California sun for the room and its contents. I doubted if even the poorest thrift store would have accepted any of the furniture as a donation. The old harvest gold shag carpeting had received enough traffic without any form of cleaning that it resembled old burlap.

The whole place reeked of cigarette smoke oozing from large hotel style ashtrays strewn randomly around the room to accommodate a graveyard of cigarette butts of various lengths bent one on top of the other.. Some had been left to burn out completely while others had been ground out shortly before being totally consumed for the benefit of all of their nicotine and various other chemicals cigarettes have to offer the eager recipient these days.

A wire was strung behind the sofa and a couple of clothes pegs punctuated it's length which might have stopped someone from running into it or it might have provided a place to hang laundry on an indoor clothesline typical of many Asians living in tight quarters.

The first cadaver lay almost serenely sprawled, supine and free of any struggle with the exception of some superficial bruises and some scratches around the throat just above the shirt collar. The subject was about 50 to 55 years old and looked distinctly Korean. He was dressed in a business suit, shirt and tie, all of Brooks Brothers origin with all jewelry, watches and rings clearly visible. He had the distinct air of a dot com entrepreneur who wanted for nothing and no one. He was a statement of success in terms of Asian business in all of his manner and grooming and looked distinctly out