Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

By Henry C. Lee and Jerry Labriola

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

THE BUDAPEST CONNECTION

Prometheus Books

Chapter One

Dr. Henry Liu had never seen anything like it. Three nude dead bodies arranged into the shape of a perfect triangle. All white female. All young. All in their late teens. They lay face-up, each with one eye open, one closed. He spotted a single gunshot wound at each girl's left temple.

Dr. George Silvain, a noted forensic pathologist from New York City's east side, had been summoned to the crime scene at the edge of the Brooklyn Marine Terminal, a complex running two miles along the waterfront. Surveying the bodies, he in turn requested the assistance of the other four members of GIFT, the Global Interactive Forensics Team. They had been winding down their regular monthly meeting at Baderro's, a four-star restaurant in midtown Manhattan.

"They're like winks," George said. "The killer's scoffing, don't you think?"

"No, they have more meaning than that," Henry replied, peering down at the women. "Even the triangle does." He walked carefully around the bodies, his hands clasped behind his back, conscious of the "give" in the wooden dock. "How about it, Ed? Rings a bell?"

Ed Blegan, a state police sergeant, had driven him to the scene. Ed looked at the bodies. "Don't tell me the Triads?" he whispered. "We were just talking about them last week."

"Uh-huh," Henry said, his attention divided. He glanced back at their car, then to the right toward a short wooden jetty. There, he couldn't account for twin shadows that swept over the open water and dissolved into the blackness beyond. Or, in a fleeting moment, another shadow he caught in the corner of his eye; it disappeared behind the nearest harbor building.

"The handiwork of the Chinese Mafia?" Silvain finally interjected.

"Maybe I'll explain later," Henry replied. "Ed, do me a favor. Get the camera. Take a distant shot of the full bodies from right here. Then a closer shot of each one and a close-up of their faces."

The sergeant left for the parking lot. Henry shouted, "And bring some gloves."

Since the inception of GIFT, Ed was a bodyguard to the group when assembled and to Henry in particular. He became Henry's sidekick, confidant, and most reliable sounding board. Barely forty-at six foot four and 250 pounds with probing eyes and hollow cheeks-he was a remarkable Clint Eastwood look-alike, except a bit heavier. And Henry reminded him of it regularly.

"Does that make your day?" Ed would ask and he'd laugh at his own comment as if he never made it before.

"But wouldn't it really make your day if you could squeeze into your uniform?" Henry once teased.

"Why should I?"

"Why shouldn't you?"

"Because Eastwood never shows his muscles."

The sky was overcast, the moon pale. To the far left, the sign for Pier 6 could be made out on a stanchion. Its light cut through wisps of vapor usually seen at daybreak. Several cargo ships lay moored nearby, dockside cranes with dangling nets silhouetted above their poles. The combined sounds of a distant foghorn and barking dog seemed rehearsed. There was no fishy smell, which Henry would have expected on such an unseasonably warm night, and no stevedores around, which he wouldn't have. Back in the adjacent lot, six blue and white police cruisers were angled haphazardly, their strobe lights still flashing, doors open, radio transmissions spewing police-code jargon. Several nondescript cars were grouped alongside. Thirty feet from the bodies, a mobile unit of lights flooded the area like a highway construction site at midnight. Half a dozen uniformed police officers stood at attention along a strip of yellow tape that formed a wide cordon at the periphery, while a handful of plainclothes detectives quietly milled about its center, not far from Henry. Twice as many news reporters craned over the tape.

"No picture taking, folks," a police lieutenant exclaimed, "or we confiscate your cameras."

A short, bald detective, Harold Latimore, eased up to Henry. They had worked together before. "What do you think, doc? Any ideas?"

"Hal, you know my stock answer at this stage of the game.... So, who found the bodies?"

"Two of our men were cruising the area and they saw a car speeding away. It shot right out of the rear driveway of the parking lot. Out of sight like that," he said, snapping his fingers. "They thought they'd better investigate rather than chase after the car."

Henry looked back. "One driveway," he said. "Two parking lots. The one we all parked in, and over the scrub brush to the right of that, probably one for overflow. Did the officers say they saw the car leave from one of the lots or just from the driveway?"

"From the lot, as a matter of fact."

"Which one?"

"Overflow."

"I see," Henry said, running a finger over his lower lip. "Could they identify the make of the car?"

"No, too far away, but they said it was a sedan. Dark color."

"So they searched the area, saw the bodies, and radioed in?"

"Correct. Then we dispatched our uniform and detective divisions. I.D. should be here any minute."

Henry nodded politely. He signaled George over and said, "The police called you directly?"

"Yeah, I was halfway to the meeting-got a late start. Figured I'd hightail it here, then call you guys."

A tall, paunchy sixty-year-old, George's hair was bushy at the sides, as if to compensate for the bald spot on top. Even his clothes appeared bushy, or at least baggy. His serious demeanor and rationed smile were at odds with his inclination to hug anyone he knew more than casually, whether female or male.

"Where are the others?" he asked.

"What's that?"

"Karl, Gail, Jay. Didn't they come with you?"

Henry stared at his colleague. "C'mon, George, when was the last time you saw us hang together once we got to a scene?" He looked around. "There's Jay-with Gail, of course. I guess that's a detective they're talking to. And Karl with his goddamn camera over there-like always, drawn first to peripheral things. What the hell he's doing taking a picture of a cargo net, I haven't a clue."

Ed returned with a pair of latex gloves and moved to take photos of the three women. Henry snapped on the gloves, waited for Ed to complete his work, and leaned his six-foot-one frame over each body, concentrating on each victim's head.

He was proud of his build-far taller than his parents. He theorized that it must be a genetic mutation. He had their black hair and brown eyes, but, in contrast to other family members, he was the only male who appeared top-heavy, with the upper-body contour of a less towering man, perhaps a boxer. Under different circumstances, his smile was rich and beguiling and would pleat the skin around his eyes.

After a cursory inspection, he looked up at Ed and said, "Amazing. Such similarity: young, blonde, pretty, nude, heavy lipstick, polished nails, no jewelry, no distinguishing marks, the eyelid thing. Even the cause of death."

"Shot?"

"Left temple on all."

Henry studied one victim's wound with the larger of the two magnifying glasses he always carried in the right inside pocket of his blue blazer. He once joked that they provided balance, since on his left side was a Smith and Wesson...