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“Of course.”
“He’s convinced that Graham Parker …”
“I’m very aware of that … But,” Katia said, her voice thick with … what? Concern? Irritation? “But … oh, I just don’t know … I’m worried Micky’s losing it …”
“Drugs?”
“Everything, Johnny. Everything. It’s almost as though he has some weird death wish.”
“So you think Graham Parker has nothing to do with it?”
“You’re the PI.”
He fell silent, looked back to the room filled with people. There was a sudden commotion. A woman ran over from a doorway in the far wall. She was shouting something, but Johnny couldn’t make it out over the thumping music.
Katia was at the door to the main room. Barged her way through the packed room sending drinks flying. Johnny followed in her wake.
The music stopped abruptly and a hundred threads of conversation died with it.
They had reached the far side of the room and Johnny followed the girl through a door. The woman who’d rushed into the main room a few seconds before was now back, standing in the doorway. Katia ignored her and plunged into a cavernous bathroom, Johnny a second behind. Three men stood around a prone form on the floor. A fourth was leaning over the figure, an opened case beside him.
“Fuck … Yob … Govno,” Katia screamed, mixing her languages. She fell to the floor.
Micky was semiconscious, drenched in sweat, foam at his lips. His arms and legs twitched.
Katia suddenly seemed to recognize the man with the case. “Dr. James …” she said.
The man ignored her.
She went to grab Micky.
“Please!” the doctor snapped.
Dr. James pulled a syringe from the case, squeezed the plunger a fraction of an inch letting liquid dribble from the tip. Then he leaned forward, and with one shockingly violent movement he thrust the syringe into the middle of Micky’s chest, right through to his heart.
Micky jolted upright. Then, as the doctor withdrew the needle, the rock star slumped back, his eyes snapping wide open. He rolled to one side and vomited.
Johnny noticed the package he’d seen Parker hand to Micky ten minutes earlier. It was opened on the floor, a used syringe and an empty vial lying on a rectangle of cloth.
Chapter 82
HO WAS SITTING on his living-room couch, dressed in cream chinos and a polo shirt. As he rose to shake my hand, I could see that he’d shaved badly, a line of bristles missed close to his chin.
“What’s happened?” I asked heavily.
“Dai has disappeared. I called his cell and home number half a dozen times. Went to his apartment. No response. I let myself in. There were signs of a struggle. A gun had been fired into the wardrobe.”
“Any blood?”
Meng shook his head, gazed at the plush cream living-room carpet.
“And you haven’t contacted …?”
Ho looked up. “No, Mr. Gisto, I haven’t called the police.”
I sighed. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
“A ransom note. Same as before. Either I do as they say or my son die
