“Meatball Man is Donghai An Bo, formerly of the People’s Armed Police Falcon Commando Unit. He probably stole the gear when they dumped him.”
Pike said, “The Falcons are their version of a Special Forces Antiterrorist Unit. Like Delta.”
Stone smirked.
“These clowns aren’t close to Delta. We’d eat them for snacks and shit their toenails for fun.”
Pike and I both looked at him.
Stone said, “It’s an expression.”
Pike said, “Tell him the rest.”
“The PAP court-martialed him for theft of the People’s property. His record shows two later arrests, one for aggravated assault and one for murder. Did time in prison and currently works for Crystal Future as what they call a foreign security advisor.”
“What about Chow?”
“The ChiCom version of an all-American corporate shit-heel success story. Multiple indictments for shady business practices. Always skates, likely due to connections within the Communist Party. No known connection to PRC Intelligence.”
“So they’re not foreign agents?”
“They are not foreign agents.”
“So it’s all about Josh and Skylar. They’re not interested in Adele.”
Stone shrugged, like he didn’t care either way.
“Who’s to say?”
I looked at Pike.
“Where is he now?”
“San Gabriel. He found your card and drove direct to the LWL Development building.”
Reporting to Tarly. I wondered if Chow had been there as well and what they were planning.
My phone buzzed with an incoming call.
“Poitras. I have to get this.”
Pike said, “Go.”
I picked up the call.
Poitras said, “The individual’s name is Jared Walker Philburn, spelled with a p-h. They set him up at the Bright Day Shelter, let him get something to eat, clean up, whatnot. No guarantee he stayed. You can’t force these people.”
“I understand. Now I have something for you.”
I sent him the full-face photo of the meatball.
“This is Donghai An Bo, also known as the meatball. He works for Chow Wan Li. He’s also a convicted criminal from the People’s Republic.”
I sent the photo of his sedan showing the license plate.
“He uses this car, which is leased to LWL Development Inc. in San Gabriel.”
Poitras said, “A light-color sedan.”
“The car may be there now.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Show Mr. Philburn. I’ll call after I talk to him.”
I killed the call and googled Bright Day Shelter. It was located in a repurposed bus terminal not far from Union Station. Like most shelters, they cooperated with police and other law enforcement agencies, which they viewed as community partners. But shelters usually weren’t so cooperative with private citizens or paid snoops. Private citizens often turned out to be drug dealers, debt collectors, or long-lost associates looking to settle old scores. I needed an introduction, so I called a social worker friend named Carole Hilegas. Carole’s practice focused on domestic abuse and sexually abused children, and she had shelter contacts all over town.
“Hey, Carole. Elvis Cole. Are you familiar with the Bright Day Shelter downtown?”
“I am. What do you need?”
“An introduction.”
Carole was great. She offered to call the director, and forty-two minutes later I parked in a pay lot three blocks away.
39
The sidewalks surrounding the old redbrick building were crowded with lingering men and women and more than a few children. I made my way to the entrance, introduced myself to a woman seated behind a flimsy desk, and asked to speak with Beth Lawrence. The woman eyed me as if I’d come to shut them down and didn’t like me any better when I told her Ms. Lawrence was expecting me.
She said, “Wait here at this desk. Don’t go wandering off.”
“Ixnay on the wandering.”
A burly man with a large gut and a pockmarked chin was leaning against the wall a few feet behind the desk. He wore a faded green vest with security stenciled on the flap and didn’t seem to like me any more than the woman.
I gave him a nod.
“Hey. How’s it going?”
If he moved I didn’t see it.
“Can’t bring in weapons. No guns or knives, no screwdrivers or ice picks, no hammers or clubs.”
“Left them in the car. Thanks.”
“No brass knucks, saps, broken glass, or sharp objects.”
“Flamethrower okay?”