Russian Hill (Abby Kane FBI Thriller - Chasing Chinatown Trilogy Book 1) by Ty Hutchinson

pick up on every word their customers say.”
    “I’ve been thinking about our list.”
    “Yeah, and?”
    “Chinatown is so synonymous with San Francisco. I feel like the killer might try to do something with it—maybe a tie-in with a dancing dragon or fireworks, or even Chinese food. Dim sum, perhaps.”
    “What’s the body part associated with it?”
    “You know, we may not need one. Your vic remained fully intact. He used her entire body as his performance piece.”
    “The Golden Gate Bridge is another large icon of San Francisco. Maybe she might throw someone over,” I added.
    “Are we officially switching from he to she?”
    “I think so.”
    “There’s no way for us to prevent her from throwing someone off the bridge. We would need round-the-clock surveillance.”
    I sipped my horchata and nodded my agreement. “Maybe we’re still coming at it wrong, thinking too grand. Remember, everything she did was understated, almost hidden.”
    We were walking in circles when it came to figuring out where our killer might strike next. I was running out of ideas, and we were running out of time.
    As I picked at my food, I started wondering what our next move would be if the picture of the mystery woman drew no tips from the public. The future looked dim. I tried to concentrate, but I could sense Kang’s eyes boring into my skull. “What?” I finally asked.
    He shrugged. “You have a healthy appetite.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?” I said, finishing the last of my meal and wiping my hands.
    “I didn’t mean that in a bad way. I’ve known a lot of women who were picky eaters or were full after a grape.”
    “Well, that’s not me.” I stood and grabbed my purse. “Come on; there’s a cab driver we need to speak to.”
    A longer-than-expected drive later—Kang had gotten us lost, and I had put us back on track with the map on my phone—we arrived outside the Yellow Cab Company. We pulled into a parking lot and faced a sea of yellow. “Apparently, this is where all the cabs are when you need them,” I joked as we climbed out of the car.
    Kang chuckled.
    We headed toward the large, white building, devoid of windows except one near the door. Attached to the building was a garage area where mechanics were busy working on cars. A short, stocky man in baggy jeans and a blue sweater walked our way.
    “We don’t do cab service here. You have to call.”
    “We’re not here for a cab. We’re here for one of your cabbies,” I said.
    Kang and I made our introductions to the man.
    “Did one of my guys do something wrong? Which one was it?”
    “Actually, we think one of your guys can help us with a case. What’s your name?” I asked.
    “My name is Rod Warner,” he said, pulling up his jeans. “I’m the shift manager on duty.” He had Popeye forearms, except his tattoos were faded.
    I produced Piper’s picture and showed it to Warner. “Her name is Piper Taylor, and her body was found Sunday morning on Mount Tamalpais. A witness tells us that a Yellow Cab picked her up in Sausalito on Saturday and drove her and a friend to Muir Park.”
    “How can this witness be so sure it was one of our cabs? There are other cabbies out there with yellow cars.”
    “This witness gave our victim the number for your cab company.”
    “Oh.” Warner rubbed the stubble on his chin. His fingernails and cuticles were stained with grime, yet clearly bitten down, which grossed me out more than a little.
    “The call should be in the log book. Follow me.”
    Warner led us to a small office that looked more like a junk closet. There were stuffed filing cabinets that couldn’t close completely and stacks of banker boxes filled with what I could only imagine was crap. “Have a seat,” he said as he pointed to two mismatched plastic chairs. “I’ll be back with the book.”
    Honestly, I wanted to douse the chair in hand sanitizer. The place disgusted me—especially his desk, which had a layer of everything old