And just like that, I’d been sucked into the exact high school, soap opera dialogue I’d wanted to avoid. I knew Kylie. She never met an argument she didn’t like to win. And now, here we were once again, all cozy in bed, tempers flaring, passions rising, and if I’d learned anything during our torrid affair, it was that this wasn’t a fight. It was foreplay.
Sex with Kylie had always been a twelve on a scale of one to ten. But some times were better than others. One was mornings. Especially if she woke up with her hair tousled, her eyes at half-mast, looking like a drop-dead gorgeous lost waif who’d wandered into my bed during the night. Our other best time was make-up sex. This was starting to feel a lot like both.
The black silk pajamas clung to her in all the right places, but she’d left the top three buttons open, and despite the fact that I knew every inch of her naked body, undressing her with my eyes was driving me crazy.
I was completely turned on.
If I were in New York, I’d have gone running to Gerri Gomperts at the diner, but I was a continent away from my quasi therapist. I was on my own, and I might not have handled the situation all that well so far, but I knew the exact right thing to do now. Stop eyeballing your ex-girlfriend’s awesome cleavage and get the hell out of bed before you do something you’ll regret.
I swung my legs over the side. “You know what?” I said. “This is dumb. Sorry if I stared at you funny. Feel free to crash in our bed whenever you want. I’m going to take a shower.”
I stood up and headed straight for the lav.
“Don’t forget to lock the door, Sugar Pants,” she chirped.
I didn’t respond. Letting her have the last word—and the last laugh—was the best way to convince her she’d won.
I turned on the shower and stepped under the hot water. I would also need a blast of cold before I stepped out, but at least the moment had passed.
I dressed, then checked my cell phone. It was the middle of the night in New York, but Cheryl had texted me before she went to bed.
Hope you slept well. Love you.
I texted back, thanking her for the Ambien and all the other contributions she’d made toward tiring me out, but I left out the part about waking up with my ex-girlfriend curled up next to me.
Kylie was in the main cabin enjoying the breakfast feast Matéo had laid out. “Sink your teeth into this,” she said, handing me a warm cinnamon roll. “And check out the DVD collection. We could fly around the world ten times and not run out of movies.” She winked. “It’d be a lot of fun—assuming we could work out the sleeping arrangements.”
It was classic Kylie. Always happy to get in one more dig. Knowing her, it wouldn’t be the last.
Our pit stop was fast and efficient. We left Helsinki at 9:15 a.m. and flew through half a dozen time zones. It was the shortest day I’d ever experienced and one of the most relaxing. Kylie and I watched movies, catnapped in our respective seats, and ate like royalty.
We touched down at Suvarnabhumi Airport shortly after midnight. A black Lincoln with an American flag mounted on the fender was parked on the tarmac. A tall young man in jeans bounded toward us. “David Hinds, U.S. Embassy,” he said. “Welcome to Bangkok.”
He whipped us through customs and immigration, and within minutes we were on the road to our hotel.
“When do we get to interview Segura and Samuels?” I asked.
“Who?”
“We’re here to meet with two prisoners. When do we get to see them?”
“Sorry, Detective, but I don’t know anything about that. I work in the mushroom division of the embassy. They keep us in the dark and shovel shit on us. All I know is that tomorrow you’re scheduled to meet with Pongrit Juntasa, head of the Department of Corruption.”
“The what?”
“Department of Corrections. That was embassy humor. You’ll be his honored guests at the Muay Thai matches.”
“That’s lovely,” Kylie said, “but we didn’t come here to watch boxing.”
“Muay Thai is not boxing. It’s an ancient fighting style known as the art of eight limbs—fighters use their fists, feet, elbows, and knees. It’s practically a religion in this country.”
“David, tell Mr. Juntasa we’re flattered by the invitation,” Kylie said, “but we’re here on a homicide investigation.”
“Detective, did anyone teach you anything about Thai culture before you got on that airplane?” Hinds said.
“You mean like remove your shoes before entering someone’s house or don’t sunbathe in the nude?”
Hinds laughed. “You are so New York,” he said. “But that won’t cut it in Bangkok. Thais don’t do business—wham, bam—on the first date. They have to get to know you. He’s aware of why you’re here. Just don’t jump into it until you’ve spent quality time together.”
Kylie rolled her eyes. “Define quality.”
“Small talk, some laughs, break bread, and, most important, be seen together. Pongrit Juntasa is a high-ranking government official who wants everyone to know that two esteemed New York City police officers flew halfway around the world to bask in his aura. To put it in diplomatic terms: the more you kiss his ass, the more likely you are to get his blessing to meet your prisoners.”
Kylie shook her head and looked at me. “Zach, you know what I hate about this job?”
“Ass-kissing,” I said. “But on the plus side, you’re getting very good at it.”
CHAPTER 44
We checked into the Plaza Athénée Bangkok at two in the morning. Separate rooms. By the time David Hinds picked us up at 4:00 p.m., my body clock felt like it was ticking on Bangkok time.
“Sorry about the wheels,” he said, opening the back door to a red Toyota Yaris. “This is my roommate’s car. The embassy Lincoln is in the shop.”
“If you’re going to work for the State Department,” Kylie said, getting in the front seat and relegating me to the back, “you’ve got to learn how to lie better.”
I could see the panic in the kid’s eyes. “Ma’am?”
“Don’t ma’am me like you don’t know what I’m talking about. You’re low man on the totem pole, David, so I get why you were the one stuck picking us up at the airport at midnight. But it’s a bright new day; we’re meeting with some Thai honcho, and not only is there nobody here resembling a career diplomat, but now there’s no embassy car. And it’s not in the shop. What’s going on?”
Hinds got behind the wheel and started driving. He cleared his throat. “Gambling is illegal in Thailand.”
“Cut the bullshit and get to the point,” Kylie said, “or I’ll dump you on the side of the road and leave your roommate’s car in downtown Bangkok with the doors open and the motor running.”
“The embassy fucked up,” Hinds said. “They thought Juntasa was taking you to a sanctioned Muay Thai match in an arena, or even in the prison. But we just found out the fights are in the Khlong Toei district.”
“Bad neighborhood?” Kylie said, poking at him.
“The fights are in a shithole gym in a back alley in shantytown. It’s an illegal gambling operation run by the Thai Mafia, and the First Secretary doesn’t want anyone from the embassy near it—including our car.”
“But they don’t mind sending you.”
“I’m a peon driving his roommate’s Yaris. Besides, I know my way around there.”
“You’re a fan of the sport?” Kylie asked.
“You mean do I like being invited to Lumpinee Stadium and watching two nak muays bow, and scrape, and pray, and do ritualistic dances around the ring, while my host recounts the legend of Nai Khanom Tom, the father of Muay Thai? I did it once, and once was enough.
“But I’m an action junkie. Where I’m taking you today—that shit is raw, brutal, but they draw the best boxers in the world. The matches are all fixed. The judges are bribed. The fighters are doped up, and some of the wannabes will get in the ring with anyone. I watched a young kid get beat to a pulp by a seasoned pro with twenty pounds on him. And the crowd—they’re insane: drinking, screaming for blood, and betting on every punch, every foot thrust, every knee strike. Money is flying everywhere. One night I walked away winning twenty-seven thousand baht, which is like seven hundred and fifty dollars.”
“How’d you make out on all the other nights?” Kylie asked.