Read Online Riding the Snake (1998) by Stephen Cannell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Stephen Cannell
Ads: Link
Detective Williams, LAPD Asian Crimes Task Force. You're the one who found the body, is that correct?"
He nodded.
"What's your name?"
"Wheeler Cassidy," he said, his voice soft in the cold February night.
"Wheeler? Is that a nickname?"
"It's a family name. My great-grandfather, on my mother's side, was Jefferson Prescott Wheeler the Third. He was a Confederate General, 27th Richmond Regiment."
"Write down your address, please, and a number where you can be reached," she said and handed him her notepad and pen. He wrote down his address in Bel Air and his phone number.
"Why did you come over here, Mr. Cassidy?" she asked.
"Miss Wong was my brother's secretary. She didn't report to work and the office asked if I would come over here and check on her. My brother was a lawyer in Century City."
"Was a lawyer? Past tense?"
"He died last night, at his desk. And Miss Wong didn't come in this morning. The people in Prescott's law firm got concerned."
"Prescott . . . that's your brother?"
He nodded.
"How did your brother die?"
"I don't think it has anything to do with this," Wheeler said.
"Let me do the thinking, Mr. Cassidy. Tell me how he died."
"Heart attack. At least that's what the L . A . cops said."
"Prescott Cassidy was his whole name?" She wrote it down.
"Yes. Well, no. Prescott Westlake Sheridan Cassidy was his complete name." Off her look of disbelief, he added, "Southern names--they're calculated to piss people off."
She wrote it down. Then her gaze dropped and from this new angle out on the driveway, she saw a box behind the Dumpster she'd been digging in. A wood crate. The top was off and lying beside it. She moved over and looked down. Inside the crate was a small white paper doll about ten inches tall. "There it is," she said.
He had followed her to the box despite her instruction to stay back, and now he started to reach down and get it for her. She stopped him. "Don't touch it. The lab techs go nuts when you do that."
"Oh," he said and they both stood looking at it.
"What is it?"
"Death Doll. It was probably delivered a day or two ago. That's what I was looking for. It confirms this as a Chinese gang murder. You get a doll like this, it says you're going to die. Usually in a terribly violent way. Some Chinese who've received these just go out and commit suicide rather than wait for the inevitable."
"If what they do to you is like what happened to Angie Wong, I don't blame them."
"That's a ritual slaying called the Death of a Thousand Cuts. It's a Triad kill, also called Death by a Myriad of Swords." She was showing off for him now. She wondered why she was even making the effort. "The victim was kept alive while all of her main muscles and tendons were severed, in particular the calves, thighs, forearms, and biceps."
"Jeezus," Wheeler said, his expression darkening.
"You knew the victim?" she asked, and after a moment he nodded. "Can you make a positive identification? The body is pretty mutilated."
"It's about her size ... I just assumed . . ." He didn't finish.
"She didn't come to work for how many days?"
"Uh, I don't know. I don't work there. One day, I guess."
"Where do you work?"
"Where do I work?"
"Yeah."
He smiled a boyish smile. "I don't . . . I'm retired."
"Retired? What are you . . . thirty-five?"
"Seven."
"What kind of work did you do before you retired?"
"I was a Prankmeister," he said, the smile disappearing. "I pulled practical jokes on friends. Since my retirement, I mostly work on my golf game. It's pretty grueling. I'm simply killing myself trying to break par." There was a bitter self-loathing in the way he said it.
"I see," she said and flipped her book closed.
He didn't say anything more. He just stood before her; his face now seemed cut from stone.
"That's about it," she said, "unless you can tell me anything else about Miss Wong I should know, like whose picture was placed on her abdomen?"
He shook his head.
"You can go. I'll be in touch, probably
He nodded.
"What's your name?"
"Wheeler Cassidy," he said, his voice soft in the cold February night.
"Wheeler? Is that a nickname?"
"It's a family name. My great-grandfather, on my mother's side, was Jefferson Prescott Wheeler the Third. He was a Confederate General, 27th Richmond Regiment."
"Write down your address, please, and a number where you can be reached," she said and handed him her notepad and pen. He wrote down his address in Bel Air and his phone number.
"Why did you come over here, Mr. Cassidy?" she asked.
"Miss Wong was my brother's secretary. She didn't report to work and the office asked if I would come over here and check on her. My brother was a lawyer in Century City."
"Was a lawyer? Past tense?"
"He died last night, at his desk. And Miss Wong didn't come in this morning. The people in Prescott's law firm got concerned."
"Prescott . . . that's your brother?"
He nodded.
"How did your brother die?"
"I don't think it has anything to do with this," Wheeler said.
"Let me do the thinking, Mr. Cassidy. Tell me how he died."
"Heart attack. At least that's what the L . A . cops said."
"Prescott Cassidy was his whole name?" She wrote it down.
"Yes. Well, no. Prescott Westlake Sheridan Cassidy was his complete name." Off her look of disbelief, he added, "Southern names--they're calculated to piss people off."
She wrote it down. Then her gaze dropped and from this new angle out on the driveway, she saw a box behind the Dumpster she'd been digging in. A wood crate. The top was off and lying beside it. She moved over and looked down. Inside the crate was a small white paper doll about ten inches tall. "There it is," she said.
He had followed her to the box despite her instruction to stay back, and now he started to reach down and get it for her. She stopped him. "Don't touch it. The lab techs go nuts when you do that."
"Oh," he said and they both stood looking at it.
"What is it?"
"Death Doll. It was probably delivered a day or two ago. That's what I was looking for. It confirms this as a Chinese gang murder. You get a doll like this, it says you're going to die. Usually in a terribly violent way. Some Chinese who've received these just go out and commit suicide rather than wait for the inevitable."
"If what they do to you is like what happened to Angie Wong, I don't blame them."
"That's a ritual slaying called the Death of a Thousand Cuts. It's a Triad kill, also called Death by a Myriad of Swords." She was showing off for him now. She wondered why she was even making the effort. "The victim was kept alive while all of her main muscles and tendons were severed, in particular the calves, thighs, forearms, and biceps."
"Jeezus," Wheeler said, his expression darkening.
"You knew the victim?" she asked, and after a moment he nodded. "Can you make a positive identification? The body is pretty mutilated."
"It's about her size ... I just assumed . . ." He didn't finish.
"She didn't come to work for how many days?"
"Uh, I don't know. I don't work there. One day, I guess."
"Where do you work?"
"Where do I work?"
"Yeah."
He smiled a boyish smile. "I don't . . . I'm retired."
"Retired? What are you . . . thirty-five?"
"Seven."
"What kind of work did you do before you retired?"
"I was a Prankmeister," he said, the smile disappearing. "I pulled practical jokes on friends. Since my retirement, I mostly work on my golf game. It's pretty grueling. I'm simply killing myself trying to break par." There was a bitter self-loathing in the way he said it.
"I see," she said and flipped her book closed.
He didn't say anything more. He just stood before her; his face now seemed cut from stone.
"That's about it," she said, "unless you can tell me anything else about Miss Wong I should know, like whose picture was placed on her abdomen?"
He shook his head.
"You can go. I'll be in touch, probably
Similar Books
