Red Alert_An NYPD Red Mystery Page 14

  “What do you think?” Matéo asked.

  “Mind-boggling,” I said.

  Kylie shrugged. “It’ll do.”

  I could see in his eyes that Matéo, like men everywhere, was dazzled by her.

  “Your flight will be approximately seventeen hours,” he said. “We have three pilots on board. Captain Dan Fennessy is in command. Normally there would be only two in the cockpit, and a second team would be flown commercially to relieve them when we set down to refuel. But Mr. Wells pulled this together in such a hurry that there was no time to get a relief crew in place.”

  “Pretty sloppy way to run an airline,” Kylie said.

  “I’ll make a note to management,” Matéo said, half smiling, half drooling. “Can I get you anything to drink before takeoff?”

  “A glass of water,” I said, clearly disappointing him again.

  “I’ll stick with champagne,” Kylie said.

  We sat down, buckled up, and Matéo brought our drinks.

  “Water?” Kylie said to me. “You’re an embarrassment to freeloading cops everywhere.”

  Cheryl had given me an Ambien, and I popped it.

  Five minutes later, we were airborne, and Matéo invited us to make ourselves comfortable in the main cabin, where he’d set out platters of cheese, caviar, and seafood.

  “This looks great,” I said, “but I could use a before-dinner nap. Do you mind if I stretch out back there?”

  “This is your airplane, Detective Jordan,” he said. “Think of it as a hotel at fifty-one thousand feet. There are fresh linens on the bed, and there’s an assortment of nightwear in the closet.”

  “Zach, you are no fun at all,” Kylie said, spooning caviar onto a toast point.

  “Wake me in half an hour,” I said. “I promise to be more fun then.”

  I went to the bedroom and found a supply of men’s silk pajamas, all black. I changed, donned an eye mask and a pair of Bose noise-canceling headphones, and crawled into bed under a thick comforter.

  People actually live like this, I thought as I drifted off. The next thing I knew, I was jolted awake. It took a few seconds to remember that I was on an airplane, and I figured that the bump I’d felt was turbulence. I took off the headphones, and I could hear the hum of the tires on a runway. We’d landed. I had no idea where or why.

  I peeled off my eye mask and got hit by a second jolt. There was a body, also wearing black silk pajamas, lying next to me in bed. Kylie.

  She put her hand to her head. “I think I drank too much.”

  There was a knock on the glass bulkhead, and Matéo called our names.

  Kylie muttered something that sounded like an invitation for him to come in. He did.

  “Good morning, Detectives,” he said. “Welcome to Helsinki. Can I start you off with some coffee and fresh-baked korvapuustit?”

  I didn’t answer. I was still staring at the woman in my bed.

  CHAPTER 43

  “Give us a few minutes, Matéo,” Kylie said.

  Without a word, he backed away and eased the door shut with all the grace of an English butler who knows that what happens in the master bedroom stays in the master bedroom.

  Kylie sat up, leaned back against the headboard, and drilled her eyes into mine. “And what are you staring at, Papa Bear? Goldilocks is sleeping in your bed? Is that a problem?”

  Of course it was a problem. But not one I wanted to discuss with Kylie. “No,” I said. “More like a surprise.”

  “What was your last partner’s name?” she asked. “Shanks, right?”

  “Omar Shanks.”

  “So if you were making this trip with Omar, and you rolled over and saw him asleep next to you, would you give him that same what-the-hell-are-you-doing-in-my-bed look?”

  “It depends. Did Omar and I bang our brains out when we were in the academy together? Because if we did, I might give him a weird look if he suddenly hopped back into the sack with me twelve years later.”

  “Oh please, Zach. Get over yourself. Don’t dredge up what happened a lifetime ago. Plus I didn’t exactly hop into your bed—excuse me—the bed, the only bed, which technically makes it our bed. I tried to wake you after a half hour, then I gave you another half hour, but you were lying there like a dead mackerel. So I had dinner and more wine than I should have, and I crashed. Remember, you’re not the only sleep-deprived cop on this airplane.”

  And just like that, I’d been sucked into the exact high school, soap opera dialogue I’d wanted to avoid. I knew Kylie. She never met an argument she didn’t like to win. And now, here we were once again, all cozy in bed, tempers flaring, passions rising, and if I’d learned anything during our torrid affair, it was that this wasn’t a fight. It was foreplay.

  Sex with Kylie had always been a twelve on a scale of one to ten. But some times were better than others. One was mornings. Especially if she woke up with her hair tousled, her eyes at half-mast, looking like a drop-dead gorgeous lost waif who’d wandered into my bed during the night. Our other best time was make-up sex. This was starting to feel a lot like both.

  The black silk pajamas clung to her in all the right places, but she’d left the top three buttons open, and despite the fact that I knew every inch of her naked body, undressing her with my eyes was driving me crazy.

  I was completely turned on.

  If I were in New York, I’d have gone running to Gerri Gomperts at the diner, but I was a continent away from my quasi therapist. I was on my own, and I might not have handled the situation all that well so far, but I knew the exact right thing to do now. Stop eyeballing your ex-girlfriend’s awesome cleavage and get the hell out of bed before you do something you’ll regret.

  I swung my legs over the side. “You know what?” I said. “This is dumb. Sorry if I stared at you funny. Feel free to crash in our bed whenever you want. I’m going to take a shower.”

  I stood up and headed straight for the lav.

  “Don’t forget to lock the door, Sugar Pants,” she chirped.

  I didn’t respond. Letting her have the last word—and the last laugh—was the best way to convince her she’d won.

  I turned on the shower and stepped under the hot water. I would also need a blast of cold before I stepped out, but at least the moment had passed.

  I dressed, then checked my cell phone. It was the middle of the night in New York, but Cheryl had texted me before she went to bed.

  Hope you slept well. Love you.

  I texted back, thanking her for the Ambien and all the other contributions she’d made toward tiring me out, but I left out the part about waking up with my ex-girlfriend curled up next to me.

  Kylie was in the main cabin enjoying the breakfast feast Matéo had laid out. “Sink your teeth into this,” she said, handing me a warm cinnamon roll. “And check out the DVD collection. We could fly around the world ten times and not run out of movies.” She winked. “It’d be a lot of fun—assuming we could work out the sleeping arrangements.”

  It was classic Kylie. Always happy to get in one more dig. Knowing her, it wouldn’t be the last.

  Our pit stop was fast and efficient. We left Helsinki at 9:15 a.m. and flew through half a dozen time zones. It was the shortest day I’d ever experienced and one of the most relaxing. Kylie and I watched movies, catnapped in our respective seats, and ate like royalty.

  We touched down at Suvarnabhumi Airport shortly after midnight. A black Lincoln with an American flag mounted on the fender was parked on the tarmac. A tall young man in jeans bounded toward us. “David Hinds, U.S. Embassy,” he said. “Welcome to Bangkok.”

  He whipped us through customs and immigration, and within minutes we were on the road to our hotel.

  “When do we get to interview Segura and Samuels?” I asked.

  “Who?”

  “We’re here to meet with two prisoners. When do we get to see them?”

  “Sorry, Detective, but I don’t know anything about that. I work in the mushroom division of the embassy.
They keep us in the dark and shovel shit on us. All I know is that tomorrow you’re scheduled to meet with Pongrit Juntasa, head of the Department of Corruption.”

  “The what?”

  “Department of Corrections. That was embassy humor. You’ll be his honored guests at the Muay Thai matches.”

  “That’s lovely,” Kylie said, “but we didn’t come here to watch boxing.”

  “Muay Thai is not boxing. It’s an ancient fighting style known as the art of eight limbs—fighters use their fists, feet, elbows, and knees. It’s practically a religion in this country.”

  “David, tell Mr. Juntasa we’re flattered by the invitation,” Kylie said, “but we’re here on a homicide investigation.”

  “Detective, did anyone teach you anything about Thai culture before you got on that airplane?” Hinds said.

  “You mean like remove your shoes before entering someone’s house or don’t sunbathe in the nude?”

  Hinds laughed. “You are so New York,” he said. “But that won’t cut it in Bangkok. Thais don’t do business—wham, bam—on the first date. They have to get to know you. He’s aware of why you’re here. Just don’t jump into it until you’ve spent quality time together.”

  Kylie rolled her eyes. “Define quality.”

  “Small talk, some laughs, break bread, and, most important, be seen together. Pongrit Juntasa is a high-ranking government official who wants everyone to know that two esteemed New York City police officers flew halfway around the world to bask in his aura. To put it in diplomatic terms: the more you kiss his ass, the more likely you are to get his blessing to meet your prisoners.”

  Kylie shook her head and looked at me. “Zach, you know what I hate about this job?”

  “Ass-kissing,” I said. “But on the plus side, you’re getting very good at it.”

  CHAPTER 44

  We checked into the Plaza Athénée Bangkok at two in the morning. Separate rooms. By the time David Hinds picked us up at 4:00 p.m., my body clock felt like it was ticking on Bangkok time.

  “Sorry about the wheels,” he said, opening the back door to a red Toyota Yaris. “This is my roommate’s car. The embassy Lincoln is in the shop.”

  “If you’re going to work for the State Department,” Kylie said, getting in the front seat and relegating me to the back, “you’ve got to learn how to lie better.”

  I could see the panic in the kid’s eyes. “Ma’am?”

  “Don’t ma’am me like you don’t know what I’m talking about. You’re low man on the totem pole, David, so I get why you were the one stuck picking us up at the airport at midnight. But it’s a bright new day; we’re meeting with some Thai honcho, and not only is there nobody here resembling a career diplomat, but now there’s no embassy car. And it’s not in the shop. What’s going on?”

  Hinds got behind the wheel and started driving. He cleared his throat. “Gambling is illegal in Thailand.”

  “Cut the bullshit and get to the point,” Kylie said, “or I’ll dump you on the side of the road and leave your roommate’s car in downtown Bangkok with the doors open and the motor running.”

  “The embassy fucked up,” Hinds said. “They thought Juntasa was taking you to a sanctioned Muay Thai match in an arena, or even in the prison. But we just found out the fights are in the Khlong Toei district.”

  “Bad neighborhood?” Kylie said, poking at him.

  “The fights are in a shithole gym in a back alley in shantytown. It’s an illegal gambling operation run by the Thai Mafia, and the First Secretary doesn’t want anyone from the embassy near it—including our car.”

  “But they don’t mind sending you.”

  “I’m a peon driving his roommate’s Yaris. Besides, I know my way around there.”

  “You’re a fan of the sport?” Kylie asked.

  “You mean do I like being invited to Lumpinee Stadium and watching two nak muays bow, and scrape, and pray, and do ritualistic dances around the ring, while my host recounts the legend of Nai Khanom Tom, the father of Muay Thai? I did it once, and once was enough.

  “But I’m an action junkie. Where I’m taking you today—that shit is raw, brutal, but they draw the best boxers in the world. The matches are all fixed. The judges are bribed. The fighters are doped up, and some of the wannabes will get in the ring with anyone. I watched a young kid get beat to a pulp by a seasoned pro with twenty pounds on him. And the crowd—they’re insane: drinking, screaming for blood, and betting on every punch, every foot thrust, every knee strike. Money is flying everywhere. One night I walked away winning twenty-seven thousand baht, which is like seven hundred and fifty dollars.”

  “How’d you make out on all the other nights?” Kylie asked.

  He laughed. “The only ones guaranteed to make money are the promoters, and I’ll give you one guess who runs the operation in Khlong Toei.”

  “Pongrit Juntasa from the Department of Corruption,” I said.

  “Oh, so close, but no cigar. Juntasa is the puppet master, but his sister Buppha runs the ring.”

  “A woman?”

  “More like a world-class hustler. She weighs about ninety pounds, and she’s the most dangerous person in the room. You still want to go?”

  “More than ever,” Kylie said.

  We drove through slums, past a slaughterhouse, and then through winding, fender-scraping streets dotted with tiny shops that were shuttered or hidden behind rolling corrugated metal doors.

  “And here it is,” Hinds said after twenty minutes. “The no-name gym.”

  Technically it had a name. There was a sign over the door, but with most of the letters shot out, No-Name Gym would have to do.

  One of Juntasa’s men led the three of us into a smoke-filled cavern thick with the musky smell of sweat and testosterone. Nobody noticed us. There was a fight going on. The spectators, almost all men in work clothes, were in a frenzy, some screaming at the two fighters in the ring, some waving fists full of paper money at anyone who would take their bet.

  There were about twenty tables at the front of the room, and men in white shirts weaved adeptly through the melee of fans, carrying trays of drinks to those privileged patrons who could afford seats and waiter service.

  The bell clanged, signaling the end of a round, and our escort delivered us to our host, who was sitting at a primo ringside table.

  I’ve met my share of corrupt government officials. They tend to be a smarmy lot, and Pongrit Juntasa lived up to type. Even as he extended a hand to welcome us, his body language cried out “Dangerous. Not to be trusted.”

  “You are just in time,” he said. “The boy in the red trunks is Kob Sook Meesang, my protégé. He is fighting for his freedom.”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” I said.

  “He killed a man who raped his sister. A noble act, but foolish. He is in prison for forty years. But as a Muay Thai fighter, he can bring honor and glory to his country. In exchange, we will reduce his sentence.”

  “By how much?” Kylie asked.

  “Today I have promised him six months off for every fight he wins. So far he has won three.”

  “And now he’s fighting his fourth match?”

  Juntasa smiled. “He’s young, he’s smaller than his opponent, and he’s fatigued, so the crowd is betting against him, but they have no idea that he is fierce. He can rip the heart out of a lion.”

  The bell rang, and Juntasa turned toward the ring.

  Our young guide from the embassy leaned close to us and whispered, “The fix is in. We should get in on the action. The crowd is hungry for anybody who will put money on this kid.”

  Kylie put her arm around him. “You pull a single baht out of your pocket,” she said, “and I will rip your heart out, personally deliver it to your ambassador, and tell him to stop hiring idiots.”

  The crowd suddenly erupted. The fighter in the red trunks had just slammed a roundhouse kick into his opponent’s head. The man went down hard, the referee counted him out, but he still co
uldn’t get up. His cornermen jumped into the ring and dragged him off.

  Kob Sook Meesang had just knocked another six months off his sentence.

  CHAPTER 45

  Juntasa’s golden boy won two more fights, both by decision. The fact that the losers were both foreigners and the judges were all locals was not lost on the crowd. So when Kob Sook Meesang stepped back into the ring for the seventh time, the room went wild.

  The betting was frenzied and totally lopsided. Everyone wanted a piece of the new hometown hero, the scrappy little man with the wide smile, the big heart, and the judges in his back pocket. Correction: almost everyone. In the back of the arena, a wisp of a woman wearing black pants, a black tunic, and a Bluetooth called the shots as her minions circulated through the mob, covering the bets.

  To her credit, Juntasa’s sister Buppha gave the suckers their money’s worth. In the first round, Meesang kicked his opponent right through the ropes. The man grabbed a tray from one of the waiters, jumped back in the ring, and smashed Meesang over the head with it.

  It wasn’t quite up to the entertainment level set by the WWE, but it was pure theater, and the crowd reaction was earsplitting. Meesang came back strong the next round, and per the script, he took a dive thirty seconds into round three. Hinds, who had whispered the outcome to me before the fight started, shook his head like the loser on a TV game show who knew the answer but didn’t buzz in fast enough.

  We sat through six more matches. Finally, Juntasa stood. “I would be honored if you would dine with me in my home,” he said.

  We assured him that the honor would be all ours.

  We drove to the gated community where Pongrit Juntasa lived. The homes were opulent, and his was bordering on palatial. Clearly the bureaucrats in Bangkok lived a lot better than their counterparts in the States.