Inspector Zhang and the Disappearing Drugs by Stephen Leather Read Free Book Online

father.
      And I'm her boss, hoss.
    She looked over her shoulder and flashed her perfect white teeth at me as I walked into the shop.
    My shop.
    Dao-Nok Antiques. It's sort of a pun on my name. Dao-Nok is Thai for turtle-bird and my name's Turtledove. I'm not sure if anyone else gets it but it makes me smile.
    Ying was carefully rolling bubble-wrap around a wooden Chinese screen that we were shipping to Belgium. “Good morning Khun Bob,” she said.
    Khun. It means mister, but it's also a sign of respect. She respects me because I'm older than her and because I'm her boss.
    “You are late,” she added, still smiling.
    Not much respect there. But she wasn't being critical, she was just stating a fact. I was normally in the shop by nine and it was now nine-thirty.
    “There was a mango queue,” I said.
    “I see,” she said, even though she didn't.
    “All the way down Soi Thonglor.”
    “I told them you wouldn't be long.”
    “I see,” I said, even though I didn't.
    “They're waiting, in your office.”
    I frowned. “And they would be…?”
    “An American couple. They need your help.”
    There was a coffee maker by the cash register and I poured myself a cup and took it upstairs. The door to my office was open and my two visitors looked up, smiling hesitantly. He was a big man run to fat, in his mid to late forties. His wife was half his size, with wispy blonde hair, and probably five years younger. He pushed himself up out of his chair and offered me his hand. It was a big hand, almost square with the fingernails neatly-clipped, but it had no strength in it when we shook.   “Jonathon Clare,” he said in a Midwestern accent.   “This is my wife Isabelle.”
    “Nice to meet you, Mr. Clare,” I said. Mrs. Clare smiled and offered me her hand. It was a child's hand, milk-white skin with delicate fingers as brittle as porcelain.   “Mrs. Clare,” I said, shaking her hand as carefully as possible.   I went and sat behind my desk and flashed them a reassuring smile.   “So how can I help you?” I asked.
    “Matt Richards at the embassy said that you might be able to find our son,” said Mr. Clare, dropping back into his chair. It creaked under his weight.
    I nodded.   Matt Richards was an attaché at the US Embassy. He was an acquaintance rather than a friend, someone I bumped into from time to time on the cocktail party circuit.   He was an affable enough guy but hard to get close to. I kind of figured he was a spook, CIA or maybe DEA.   Whatever, he was cagey enough never to let his guard down with me and I never really cared enough to do any serious probing. It wasn't the first time he'd sent along people who needed help that the embassy couldn't – or wouldn't - provide.
    I picked up a pen and reached for a yellow legal pad.   There were a whole host of questions that I'd need answering, but from experience I'd found that it was often better just to let them get it off their chests as quickly as possible.   “I'm listening,” I said.
    Mr. Clare looked across at his wife and she nodded at him with raised eyebrows.   He was twice her size but I got the feeling that she was the one who ruled the roost in the Clare household.   “We're Mormons,” he said, slowly. “From Salt Lake City. Utah.   I'm telling you that because I want you to know that Jon Junior is a God-fearing boy who has honored his mother and father since the day he was born. He's not a boy to go wandering off without telling us where He's going and what He's doing.”
    Mr. Clare reached inside his suit jacket and slid a colour photograph across the desk. I picked it up. It was a graduation photograph, Jon Junior grinning at the camera with an all-American smile, his wheat-coloured hair sticking out from under a mortarboard, his blue eyes gleaming with triumph, a diploma in his hand.
    “Second in his class,” said Mr. Clare proudly. “Scholarships all the way.   A man couldn't ask for a better son.”
    “The apple of our