Drawn in Blood (Burbank and Parker 2)

Jin Huang had said something about that when he’d been here earlier. Something in response to Ben’s plea that Xiao put an end to all this and just kill him.

He’d enjoy. Jin Huang’s taunt drifted through Ben’s groggy mind. But maybe he not come in time. Maybe you kill you first. Or maybe Johnson kill you…Johnson kill you…Johnson kill you…

Abruptly, the implication of Jin Huang’s prediction struck home.

He didn’t have time to react. Wallace was standing in front of him, with a deadly expression that told Ben all he needed to know.

“Shit,” he muttered, dropping his head in his hands and starting to tremble. Bile rose up in his throat. “He sent them to you. That son of a bitch sent them to you. Why? Why? Just to twist the knife in your gut? To kill you altogether? Because it’s not me he’s punishing. I’m already dead.”

Sloane had followed Wallace in. Now she went around to the side of Ben’s desk, spoke to him quietly. “So you know about the photos?”

His head came up when he heard her voice. “How could I not? They’ve been shoved in my face a dozen times. And each time, another piece of my soul gets eaten away.” Ben forced himself to look at Wallace. “Go ahead. Do what you have to. God knows, I deserve it.”

Wallace’s breath was coming fast, and his fists were clenching and unclenching at his sides. Exerting this self-control was clearly the hardest thing he’d ever done.

“If it comes down to it, I will,” he answered, his steely tone rife with suppressed rage. “I’ll kill you with my bare hands. But not until I get some answers.”

“I don’t know what to say.” Ben spread his hands wide, palms up in helplessness. “I don’t remember anything. I didn’t then. I don’t now. All I know is that I must be the lowest form of scum on earth.”

“Ben, listen to me.” Sloane touched his sleeve, intervening before the scene turned far uglier than she believed was necessary. “I need to know if you’re sober right now.”

“Unfortunately, sober enough. I donated a day’s supply of booze to the toilet, and stuck my head under a faucet of cold water.”

“Good. Then I want you to tell me everything you remember about the morning Sophie died. Every single detail.”

“Why? The photos say it all. Certainly more than I can.”

“No, they don’t. They only say you’re in your car, after it clearly was in a violent accident. What memories do you have about that morning before the hit-and-run? Do you remember getting into your car, or what your destination was?”

A hard shake of his head. “I’ve spent two and a half years racking my brain. I remember the night before. I’d just been given a new monthly rate by Xiao Long’s employment agency. I was frantic. He’d doubled prices since he bought the agency from its previous owner the month before. I couldn’t make the payments. So I called him. He said that we should discuss terms, that he’d review my previous contract and sit down with me in the morning. I agreed. I met him at six a.m. so we could talk alone.”

“Where?” Sloane asked.

“Some sleazy dive in Chinatown that Xiao owns. I think it was off Mott Street, south of Canal. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t hungry. All I cared about was that no one was around except him and me.”

“So you two talked.”

“Not that it did any good, but yes. He was nauseatingly solicitous—buying me drinks, explaining how the cost of labor had gone up since my previous contract with the old owner. But in the end, nothing changed.”

“In other words, he said he wasn’t budging on the rates.”

“I don’t know what the hell he said. I can’t remember that part. But it turned out to be moot. The next day, he showed me those vile photos. We both knew he had me. I’d pay anything to keep him from sending them to Wallace. So the rates, and the threats, remained the same.”

Wallace’s jaw was working furiously. He opened his mouth to say something, but Sloane held up her hand to silence him.

“Let’s back up,” she instructed Ben. “You met Xiao at six a.m. He’d reviewed your contracts, but brought nothing new to the table. Clearly, he’d decided he wasn’t bringing down his rates. So what was the point of the meeting?”

“To make me feel like

an even bigger ass? Who knows? Does it matter? With the ammunition he wound up getting to use against me, any chance I had of negotiating a compromise was over.”

“It matters. Xiao Long doesn’t waste time. He always has an agenda. You said he bought you drinks. A little odd at the crack of dawn.”

Ben’s laugh was hollow. “Maybe. But with the state of mind I was in, booze sounded good at any hour.”

“What kind of drinks were they?”

“Some traditional three-flower Chinese liquor called Sanhua Jiu. It was so strong, so bitter and nasty, I could barely choke it down. But Xiao Long made it sound like some kind of ritual. And I sure as hell didn’t want to offend the guy. So I drank it—two shots, in fact. I passed out right on the table. That’s why I don’t know what I did or where I went.”