Sanchez nodded and shifted one of the smaller boxes with his foot. “Wanna pop this one open? I’ll grab some shots, and we’ll have the lab guys up here to print stuff for us. I want to see if Bradley’s fingers were all over the contents too. It’ll be easier to talk him down from his holier-than-the-cops attitude if we’ve got something on him.”
Kane flipped open the cardboard flaps, then pulled back when the camera’s flash went bright and he saw what the box held. From the looks of things, Shing had emptied a sex shop of its toys during a half-off sale. His stomach rolled, and Kane inhaled sharply through his mouth, not wanting to pull the room’s scents into his nose. In some part of his brain, he suspected what Shing did in his closed up little hidey hole, and Kane didn’t want to think about it, not when Bradley Shing was still downstairs and within choking distance.
When Kel leaned forward to get a better angle, Kane spotted the camera’s white burst reflecting on something shiny wedged far beneath the bed frame. Leaving his partner to document the contents of the box, Kane kneeled down and reached under the bed. A squat metal box was long and buried deep behind an ocean of dust bunnies. Hooking his shoulder under the frame, Kane stretched his arm and snagged the box’s corner with his fingers, dragging it forward an inch. After working the box loose from the shadows, Kane pulled it free with a triumphant smile, only to see Kel standing there with a disapproving look on his face.
“Why the hell didn’t you just lift the mattress?” Sanchez sniped. “Aren’t you the brains of the outfit?”
“I’m tired.” Kane shrugged bashfully. “Okay, and I didn’t think about it. Sue me. I got it out.”
The case was heavy, resembling a vintage safety deposit box more than anything else. More than half of its long, flat side was lid, and a worn, battered hinge bisected the case’s top. Bright yellow and scored from years of use, the latch was broken, rattling loudly when Kane lifted it up onto the bed. A scrawl of Chinese characters was lettered across the top of the box, the bold black characters chipped in places from being shoved under the metal frame. Kane adjusted the case so it was straight on the mattress, then stood back, letting Kel document the outside of the box.
“Okay, let’s open it up,” Kel said softly, and Kane braced himself for what he’d find as he flipped the case’s lid up.
It was a scene out of Kane’s worst nightmare.
Most of the photos were turning spotty from being in the damp, suffocating room, but the scenes they captured were enough to turn Kane’s stomach. He counted at least three young teenaged boys in the photos, their faces wet with tears and contorted into masks of pain and fear. They were shot posed on the same dirty linens on the bed, or against the surrounding putty colored cinder block walls. All were naked or in various stages of undress. None of them looked like they wanted to be there.
At the bottom of the pile were stacks of glossy photos wrapped with wax paper and tied up with red ribbon bows. His fingers trembled as Kane reached for them, the black latex of his gloves slick on the shiny paper.
These photos weren’t throwaways for Shing. No, he’d packaged these carefully, almost lovingly, documenting a sickness he clearly enjoyed exploring. Kane didn’t need to unwrap the wax paper from the first stack to know the face he’d find in Shing’s treasure pile, but he did it anyway, needing to confirm the crawling suspicions vomiting up ill thoughts in his brain.
It was still a shock to see those haunting hazel eyes staring up at him from the first photo. Miki’s face was rounder and blushed with youth, but there was not a hint of innocence in the boy’s wide-eyed stare. Caught on film at an age when his world should have revolved around sports and dodging homework, Miki’s face was contorted with anguish, and his lashes were spiked with his tears. Even wrapped in Shing’s perversion and beaten down with bruises marking most of his pale body, Miki stared up at Shing’s camera and defied the man with a snarl on his young mouth.
“Fuck,” Kel whispered as he peered around Kane’s arm. “Looks like we’ve got a motive for St. John murdering Shing.”
“Looks like,” Kane agreed reluctantly. “Good thing he’s already dead or I’d kill the fucking bastard myself. Let’s go see what his son has to say about this shit. Suddenly, I’m not so tired anymore.”
Chapter 5
Hey, Damie, this song sucks.
You wrote it, Sinjun.
Yeah, I know. It still sucks.
Tell you what? How about if we finish it up? Then take the master tape and the sheet music and set them on fire in the alley. That way, no one’ll ever know this shit ever existed.
—Unknown song, never released. Burnt in a dumpster.
MIKI was back in the khaki colored room again, staring at the one-way mirror and wondering if there was anyone behind it. He’d been separated pretty quickly from Kane once they got to the station. The cop went one way, past a pair of swinging doors, while a woman in uniform dragged Miki down a hallway and into an interview room before he could object.