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Sloane’s cell phone vibrated.
“Go ahead and answer,” Connie said. “All we have left is the sensory reeducation wand and the Peg-Board. I’ll set them up.”
“And I’ll make this quick.” Sloane punched on the phone. “Sloane Burbank.”
“It’s me.” Derek’s familiar baritone grazed her ear. “Just wanted to bring you up to speed. Both the Newark field office and the Atlantic City RA are cooperating. They’ll cover the Stockton campus while you’re away. And I’ll be meeting Deanna Frost for coffee tomorrow morning. I’ll get ahold of you in Boston if any new information materializes on any front.”
“Call me either way,” Sloane qualified.
“Fine. Gotta go now. My squad’s waiting.”
“Understood.” Sloane swallowed, grateful for the news, wishing it didn’t make her feel so damned indebted to him. “Thanks for the quick work. I hope something pans out from it.”
“Me, too. So long.”
“Bye.” Sloane was about to punch off when her call-waiting beep sounded. “Sloane Burbank.”
“Sloane, it’s Bob Erwin. I just wanted to let you know that we found a blue hair band on the John Jay campus. We found it behind the building where the pool is. Two members of the swim team said that Cynthia Alexander has one just like it.”
“Does it look like she accidentally dropped it?”
“No way. The bushes in the area indicate signs of a struggle. Plus, there are spots of blood on the ground and on the hair band. Everything’s being tested for DNA. But if the report comes back the way I think it will, we’ve got an official crime scene.”
CHAPTER
EIGHT
DATE: 27 March
TIME: 0100 hours
I saw her today. She’s a true goddess, the epitome of all the word conveys. I wish it were time. But it’s not.
It’s them. I can feel their anger pulsing. They’re unrelenting tonight. I have no choice but to answer their call.
Nom Wo Club
1:55 A.M.
The beat-up white van was parked on Mott Street, half a block from the target. Inside the van, the electronic surveillance was picking up every word being said around the table where John Lee was sitting. So far, there’d been an interesting exchange about pickup arrangements for a shipment arriving at the Canadian border next Tuesday night. That “shipment” would be another installment in Lo Ma’s human trafficking enterprise. Helpful advance notice for C-6. With the assistance of ICE, the transaction would help the Bureau build their case against Lo Ma and his international criminal activities.
Other than that, it was a typical night at the gambling parlor. But if the information Lee had gotten was correct, all that was about to change.
Derek sat in the rear of the van, legs sprawled out in front of him, listening intently and eating the last of his shrimp chow fun out of the carton.
“This stuff is great, even cold,” he commented.
“Yeah, one of the fine perks of the job,” Derek’s partner, Jeff Chiu, returned drily. “Great food and an imminent gang war. Who could ask for more?”
“Can’t imagine.” Derek finished off the quart of food, and sat up straight as he heard the tone inside the gambling parlor change, become tense. “What are they saying?”
“They’re making preparations.” Jeff was one of the few agents who was fluent in the complex Fukienese dialect. “Positioning themselves with their weapons. It sounds defensive, not offensive. They’re waiting to see what Xiao Long’s enforcer plans to do.”
“Trash the place, or trash them,” Derek muttered. He peered out the window as two dark sedans pulled up to the curb outside the club. “It’s showtime. Let’s see how far things go before the NYPD has to go in and break up the fighting.”
“What did they say when you clued them in?”
“They sent over a couple of unmarked cars that are parked around the corner. The plan is to keep our presence here under wraps, and to give us as much time as possible to get something on the Dai Los. But as soon as violence or gunfire erupts, the cops will move in. At which point, they’ll put the fear of God in both gangs. Maybe that’ll make them think twice before they start an all-out turf war.”
