White Ginger (32 page)

He smirked, leading her to conclude the Feds weren't giving out points for good behavior.

The guard buzzed them into the inner offices, where Rivers led her straight to a glass-walled enclosure. An agent, male, sitting behind a desk, stood up to greet her. He offered her his hand while beaming a smile in her direction. “Miss Jiang, I'm Special Agent McKay. We spoke on the phone earlier.”

She studied him as she took his hand, her eyes eventually meeting his gaze. Special Agent McKay was tall with hair clipped short to hide the fact he was balding. Black plastic-rimmed glasses made him look scholarly. The white shirt and dark tie with an American flag pin made him look like a Fed. He didn't look especially special to her.

His eyes studied her, in turn, with the same guarded intensity.

Not stupid, she decided. They stood with hands locked, warily sizing each other up.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” he finally asked, releasing her hand and edging back to give her space.

“And some dry clothes, please,” she replied, “unless, of course, this interview is going to be a short one. In which case, I'll just answer your questions and be on my way. I don't want to smell up your office.”

He hesitated, his eyes taking in her soggy attire.

“Agent Carrey,” he said, not bothering to look at his subordinate, “why don't you go with Miss Jiang and find her some official FBI sweats while I arrange for coffee? Agent Rivers, thank you for escorting Miss Jiang. I'm sure you're anxious to get back to your team in the field. I won't keep you waiting.”

Not a short interview, Bai mused.

Agent Carrey touched her elbow, and Bai did an about-face to follow her out of the office. Rivers followed to walk off in the opposite direction. McKay had issued marching orders. Everyone shuffled to do his bidding, which suggested that McKay was, in fact, special, and Bai just couldn't see his special-ness.

Carrey escorted her down a hallway to a ladies room that also served as a locker room for female agents. Bai gladly exchanged her wet clothes and soggy trainers for a pair of clean sweats, adorned with the FBI logo, and a pair of heavy cotton socks. Forsaking underwear, she decided to go commando rather than sit around in soggy briefs. She stuffed her identification and credit cards into her baggy pockets. Carrey provided a plastic garbage bag for the cast-offs, which Bai carried with her back to McKay's office.

Carrey ushered her into a seat directly across from McKay. He hadn't bothered to rise when they'd entered and seemed absorbed in paperwork. A large ledger sat on his desk. Carrey handed Bai a paper cup containing coffee, while McKay continued to ignore them both. He appeared to be deep in thought.

“You seem to have made some enemies, Ms. Jiang,” he observed. He lifted his eyes from the ledger to pick up a stained coffee mug. His elbows rested on his desk. While sipping, he regarded her with interest. “Just exactly what were you and Agent Ranse doing in Folsom this morning?”

“Ranse? So that's his name.” She mulled the name over. “Is his first name John?”

She'd avoided the question with a question. She could see from the exasperated look on his face McKay wasn't fooled by the evasion.

“John Ranse is the man you know as John Race. But getting back to my question, what were you doing out there?”

She took a sip of coffee and leaned back in her chair. “You make a good cup of coffee here. It reminds me of Starbucks. The Bureau isn't working with them, are they? I've had my suspicions for some time now that, contrary to popular opinion, Starbucks harbors a subversive agenda.”

He smiled tightly but played along. “Although their prices may seem exorbitant, I don't believe they could be considered un-American. But you haven't answered my question about Golden Heights.”

“That's another thing,” Bai shook her head with concern. “Why would someone name a land development in what is, essentially, a valley, ‘Golden Heights'? That's like buying a strawberry surprise only to find out the surprise is there aren't any strawberries.”

Special Agent McKay didn't appear to be amused. “This interview can go on for as long as you'd like, Ms. Jiang,” he said wearily. “How much time do you feel like spending here?”

She stopped to think. “I would assume the reason for our trip to Sacramento would be in Agent Ranse's report.”

She stalled, trying to determine how much to tell him. She didn't want to divulge any more than she had to, but she didn't want to piss him off either. He could tie her up for a long time if he wanted.

Smiling, he nodded his head. “I need to hear it in your own words, if you'd be kind enough to indulge me.” The tenor of his voice said she wasn't going anywhere until she told him what he wanted to hear.

“Perhaps an exchange of information is called for?” she asked.

He frowned. “You're hardly in a position to barter.”

“And you have no reason to hold me. Your own agent will clear me of any wrongdoing. You're on a fishing expedition and we both know it. Have you ever heard it said, ‘Dogs have so many friends because they wag their tails, not their tongues'?”

His face clouded over. “I can hold you indefinitely on suspicion of terrorist acts. That was a car bomb that went off in Folsom this morning, and it was loaded with enough explosives to take down a building. Do you have an explanation for that?”

He was bluffing. There was no way he could pin the bomb on her.

“You'll find the bomb was aimed at me. The car, in all likelihood, had my good friend and attorney inside. I don't make a habit of killing my friends. And if you have any illusions about holding me here, let me give you some advice. I can turn this incident into a case of racial profiling, and sue both you and this agency for false imprisonment. I really don't think you want to go there.”

He sat back in his chair to stare at her, a sigh escaping from between his lips. He dismissed her threat with a flick of his hand. “I think we've gotten off on the wrong foot. We're on the same side here. Is it asking too much for a little cooperation?”

She looked at him, unmoved by his appeal. “Have you read my file?”

He looked ill at ease. “I have.”

“Did you bother to count the number of interviews I've had with the FBI over the past fifteen years?”

He shifted awkwardly in his chair. “You're a known associate of criminals.”

“My only offense was being born, Agent McKay. I've been persecuted by this organization you happen to work for my entire life because of who my parents were. I don't owe you anything.”

“Just let me ask, then, who's behind this attempt on your life, if that's what it is?”

She threw up her hands. “If I knew that, would I be sitting here?”

“Then let me ask again. What were you doing in Folsom today?”

She gave him what was already public record. “We were looking at property my lawyer had recently purchased on my behalf.”

“And that would be the same lawyer in the car that exploded this morning?”

“That's correct.”

“And his name?”

“Benny, Benjamin Chin.”

“Do you have any idea why someone would want to kill your lawyer, Miss Jiang?”

“No.” She looked up defiantly. “Benjamin Chin was a nice man, a sweet man. There was no reason to kill him.”

When she spoke the words, she meant them. There'd been no reason to kill Benny. It'd been a spiteful and malicious act.

He studied her from across the desk, his mood softening a little. “Is there anything else you can tell us?”

She looked at him and shook her head. “I really don't know what's going on. My lawyer purchased some real estate. As a result, he's dead. I'm assuming his death has something to do with the property, but I don't have any firsthand knowledge to back that up. Right now, your guess is as good as mine. Did you find a shooter on the ridge? Race, er, Ranse said he'd seen someone on the ridge.”

He stared at her mutely a moment. “We found a body. It hasn't been identified yet.”

“I see.”

It was pretty obvious he wasn't giving away information, or maybe he just didn't have anything to give. The FBI had a dead shooter, and sooner or later they'd identify him. It seemed unlikely they'd share that information with her.

He interrupted her thoughts. “What you've told me pretty much substantiates what Agent Ranse put in his reports. I can't make you confide in me, but I'd caution you about looking into this on your own.”

“Why?” she asked while staring at him coldly.

“I'd hate to see you come to any harm.”

The look he gave her might have been construed as a threat. Then again, maybe he was just trying to talk sense. It didn't matter. Her friend was dead, and she was going to find out who killed him.

“Is there anything more you'd like to tell me?” she asked.

“I believe that's my line, Ms. Jiang,” McKay said affably.

She shrugged off his clumsy attempt at chumminess. “Am I done here?”

“That's all we need for the time being. Agent Carrey will see that you're comfortable until your associate is ready to join you. Have a good day, Miss Jiang.”

She blinked. The dismissal came as a surprise. She'd expected endless hours of grilling. She stood, and Agent Carrey showed her out of the room and down the hall to an interview room where she was left with her coffee cup and her garbage bag for company. When she tried the door, it was locked.

 

Two hours later, the door opened and Lee came into the room wearing FBI sweats and a plastic cast on his arm. He carried his clothes in a plastic bag identical to Bai's. His smile said he was happy. Behind him came Agent Carrey. She looked considerably less happy.

Bai nodded a curt greeting at the female agent then turned her attention to Lee.

“How bad is it?” she asked while gesturing at his arm.

“I feel great. I can't remember the last time I felt this good.”

She looked at his eyes. They were dilated. He was stoned.

Carrey interrupted. “You're both free to leave. I'll escort you out.”

The offer was delivered tersely, her expression sour. Obviously, questioning Lee had proved futile. From the look of him, Bai was pretty sure it had been entertaining.

The agent walked with them to the security desk where their weapons and phones were returned. She stuffed her gun back into its holster then tucked it into the waistband of her sweatpants. Her knife went into the plastic bag, wrapped up in her wet jeans. She flipped her phone open to find she didn't have a signal inside the building.

“You'll have cell access in the lobby,” Carrey informed her as she gestured toward the elevator, a pointed indication it was time for them to leave.

The agent followed them into the elevator.

“We can see ourselves out,” Bai suggested.

“My orders are to escort you to the lobby.”

They rode in silence to the ground floor. Agent Carrey waited until they'd stepped out of the elevator to punch the button for her return trip. She stared at them wordlessly as the doors slowly closed.

“Nice woman,” Lee remarked. “I think she might have a thing for me.”

“That ‘thing' is probably an arrest warrant.”

She flipped open her phone and was grateful to see it had a signal. She called a cab, providing their location to the dispatcher as she walked toward the glass doors in the front of the lobby. While they waited for the cab to arrive, she dug her muddy leather jacket out of her bag and used her tee-shirt to clean it off.

She slipped the jacket on and transferred her identification and credit cards into pockets, surreptitiously sliding her knife back into the sleeve sheath.

“What's the stuff in ditches that makes them smell?” she asked, sniffing diffidently at the sleeve of her jacket.

He looked at her and grinned.

“They gave you more meds in the emergency room, didn't they?” she guessed, looking at his happy face.

“Yes, they did,” he replied triumphantly. “But to answer your question, the technical term for the stinky stuff is
muck
. Muck, muck, muck, muck . . . muck. I really like the sound of that word.”

“So what's in muck?”

“You really don't want to know the specifics. Suffice it to say, everything on God's green earth poops, even slimy things that live in mud.”

“That's a little disturbing. And you're right. I really didn't want to know.”

A cab pulled to the curb in front of the building. She took off her heavy socks and ran barefoot out the door to clamber into the backseat of the taxi. Lee piled in on top of her, laughing as he tossed his bag of dirty clothes on the floor and sat with his legs crossed, Indian-style, on the seat.

The cabbie's grizzled face turned around at the commotion with a surprised look. In a strong Southern accent he asked, “Y'all FBI?”