The Dark Root (20 page)

I did some quick thinking about retired Dragon Boy Michael Vu, the late Mr. Ut of the CTG, and the hard-eyed, upwardly mobile Henry Lam, who as a child used to travel between these old gangs. “Did Van Loc feel his karma played a part in his brother’s death?”

“I don’t know—it is not something that is asked.”

“But did he act on it, as far as you know? Seek revenge?”

“It is not realistic to seek revenge against destiny, Lieutenant.” A mental picture returned to me, drawn a few days earlier by John Crocker, of the driver of the car that had forced him off the road—a face empty of all feeling except cold rage. “Lots of people do, Mr. Tai. They find someone or something to act as a substitute, and then they open up with both barrels.”

“I’m sorry. You are right. I can’t answer your question. I only saw Truong Van Loc that one time, and I never heard from him or about him again.” There was a noise in the background. Tai quickly muttered, “Just a moment, please,” and covered the mouthpiece of his phone for a couple of minutes. When he returned, he said, “I’m sorry, Lieutenant, I must go back to work.”

“I understand, and I really appreciate the help you’ve given me. Could I call you in the future—in a pinch, I mean?”

This was obviously not something he wanted to hear, which made me wonder if his business interruption hadn’t been a fabricated convenience. “Perhaps,” was all he said.

I therefore pushed my luck a little. “One last question, then. Was Truong Van Loc ever called ‘Sonny’?”

“I never heard it if he was. Good-bye, Lieutenant.”

I hung up the already dead receiver, pleased despite that final disappointment. Regardless of whether the elder Truong had gone by the name Sonny in California, my instincts told me it fitted him well now, far better than it did Michael Vu. And there was something else: If Sonny and Truong were one and the same man, then I was pretty sure of the seething mechanism that was making him tick.

The big question was: If he was hell-bent on avenging his brother’s death, what was he doing in Brattleboro?

DAN FLYNN PICKED UP HIS PHONE
on the first ring. “VCIN—Lieutenant Flynn.”

“It’s Joe—who’s your Asian crime contact in Montreal?” I asked him.

“Sounds like you’re in hot pursuit,” he said, laughing.

“Maybe. I’m trying to see if Sonny’s actually Truong Van Loc. I want to find out some more about the hit in Montreal a couple of days after we did that traffic stop down here.”

I could hear him tapping on the plastic keys of his ever-ready computer. “How ’bout Jean-Paul Lacoste? He ran a seminar on Asian crime last year at Rouse’s Point. Big turnout, and everybody gave him high marks. Speaks good English, too, which doesn’t hurt. Plus he shares information.” He gave me a phone number and an address on Hochelaga Street, which he had to spell out.

“You had any nibbles on the BOL you put out on Truong?” he asked me then.

“No, but I just got off the phone with Customs and the Border Patrol. I asked them to make sure his picture’s on top of their pile. You haven’t logged any stops or arrests of an Asian male with a bandage on the back of his right hand, have you? We think he might’ve helped knock off Benny Travers. As soon as we get more details, we’re going to circulate a flyer on him, too.”

Dan hesitated. “We did have an accident involving two Asians about four days ago. An old lady in Rutland pulled out of a parking space without looking, and the Asians’ car wiped out her fender. Everyone was pretty shook up, but that was about it. All the paperwork checked out, the PD didn’t issue any tickets, and none of the names they fed me fit any of yours, so I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

“No, that’s fine,” I reassured him, although at this point almost anything concerning Asians in Vermont was interesting to me.

“There’s been some new activity in Burlington, though,” he added. “My contact at the PD there called me a few hours ago—told me there’d been a turf fight between an old gang and some newcomers.”

“Any names?”

“No, it was pure intelligence. No complaints or arrests, but the specialty involved was alien smuggling. Maybe Sonny—or Truong, if that’s who he is—is grabbing some of the market.”

“What was the upshot of the turf fight?”

“Rumor has it the newcomers won. How close are you folks to nailing something down?”

“We’re getting there, I hope. Some of the pieces are starting to fit, but I don’t think this is a typical gang. If I’m right, Truong Van Loc is more a man with a mission than just a hood on the make. Problem is, the people who work for him
are
hoods. It’d be pretty ironic if their screwups helped nail him.”

“What did Brandt say about the task-force idea?” Flynn asked.

“Thumbs down. I think Derby likes the idea, but then he’s got nothing to lose. We’re already one man short and Brandt’s not interested in losing me, so I guess we’re out of luck.”

“Too bad,” Dan murmured, and I could tell from his tone that he meant it. The prospect of officially involving VCIN in a specialized federal task force had obviously been appealing. “Well, keep me posted. By the way, did you fly that photo of Truong by Immigration?”

“No,” I answered expectantly. “Why?”

“I just remembered it was one of their customers who said Sonny had arranged his border crossing. If they still have the guy in custody, maybe he could identify Sonny. The INS agent who gave me that is a friend. If you’d like, I can chase it down.”

“Christ, yes. I’d appreciate it.”

“No problem. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

“Thanks, Dan,” I said, hanging up as Sammie appeared in my doorway.

“Sol’s back from Keene.”

I rose and followed her across the squad room to the conference area beyond it—a more comfortable setting than my office for any meeting exceeding two people. Stennis was already laying a newly acquired Ident-i-kit portrait on the wide table.

I stood by him, looking down at yet another hard, arrogant young face, a blight on the reputations of a few million other Asians who had shared his troubled past and yet continued to peacefully strive for their dreams.

“That him?” I asked.

“Yup,” Stennis answered, “according to four witnesses. He left an impression, too. He and his buddies scared the hell out of the nurses in the ER.” He quickly held up his hand as I opened my mouth—“No, they didn’t do anything out of line. And, no, I couldn’t get descriptions of the others, except that there were four of them—all males, all young, all Asians. The other three escorted this guy in and then waited outside in the parking lot.”

“Anyone make the car they were in?” Sammie asked.

Stennis shook his head. “No, but I do have some good news.” He laid a couple of documents next to the picture. “This is a copy of the patient form he filled out—one of the nurses gave me that, sort of under the table—and this is a copy of the information concerning his blood sample—the cross-matching report, I guess they call it.”

“Damn,” I muttered, “they did draw blood.”

“Yup. Apparently, he’d lost quite a bit. There was a second cut on the wrist—nicked an artery. So, after they sewed him up, they gave him a pint of blood—couldn’t do that without identifying what type he already had in his system. If you ask me, the doc who worked on him was suspicious. Not that he’d admit it when I put it to him. Still,” he added, his eyes glowing with satisfaction, “he did hand the sample over.” With a slight flourish, he pulled a sealed packet from his coat pocket.

“That’s his blood?” I asked, understandably startled. “How did you get it?”

Stennis’s smile broadened. “Through channels, like you asked. Keene PD applied for the warrant, and a judge issued it, but the whole thing only took two hours—luck of the draw. Everyone was in the right place at the right time.”

“That’s great.” I picked up the patient-information form. “Nguyen Van Hai—he gives the Central Street house as a home address. You’ve both been taking surveillance pictures over there. His face ring any bells?”

They shook their heads, Stennis adding, “While you were on the phone, I passed it around to some of the others. Drew a blank with them, too.”

I stepped away from the table. “All right. Nice job. You might as well get that blood to J.P. so he can send it in for a fast preliminary look—see if we can put Mr. Nguyen with Mr. Truong. Then, if we can actually find either of them, maybe we’ll get a lead on the missing third man.”

“Any ideas how we
are
going to find them?” Sammie asked skeptically.

I put the patient-information sheet back on the table. “He gave us an address. We might as well shoot for a search warrant and see if we get lucky. Also, now that we have that sketch, and a name to go with it, I think we ought to publish both it and Truong’s photo in every newspaper that’ll run it, just to see what happens—but not until those stitches are due to be removed. Nguyen may go back to have them out, and I don’t want to discourage him. That’ll also give us a little time to run checks on him, get the warrant approved by a judge, and maybe figure out if he has any favorite hangouts.”

I turned to face Sammie. “We better send copies of that sketch to all the hospitals, clinics, and doctors’ offices we just alerted.”

She nodded and momentarily left the room to retrieve a folder from her desk. “I got something, too,” she said, extracting what I instantly recognized as an autopsy report. “It’s Hillstrom’s verdict on the John Doe without the tattoo—the one Mr. Leung said was called An.”

I opened the report and began scanning its pages—consisting largely of a running commentary on which bullets went where. An was the one Ron had shot several times.

Sammie, clearly impatient, reached over and turned to the page she wanted me to see. “She says he had a bruise running across his chest.”

I saw the reference. “‘Consistent with markings resulting from a rapid deceleration against a diagonally mounted, driver’s-side vehicle seat belt,’” I quoted. “I’ll be goddamned. Dan Flynn was just telling me about a two-car collision in Rutland four days ago that involved Asians.” I hunted through Sammie’s file and retrieved the portrait taken of An at the morgue. “Sol, find out which officer handled the complaint, fax him a copy of this photograph, and get all the information you can from him—everything on the driver, his passenger, the car… The works.”

Stennis snatched the picture from my hand and disappeared.

I could tell from Sammie’s expression that this was only half her good news. “Remember when Dennis came to you with the stats from California on Vu and Henry Lam, and you sent him to me? Well, I compared them to what I already had. The date of birth on Lam was different, and when I ran the new birth date through the computer, I got this.” She handed me a printout. “Henry Lam’s Massachusetts rap sheet as an adult. It didn’t click on the name alone earlier because the system is DOB-biased, and I didn’t think to challenge it.”

“So, the little turkey was operating nearby,” I murmured.

“Not only that,” she added, again directing me where to read. “But it says here: ‘Consult Montreal Urban Community Police for more info.’”

I smiled at her refreshing optimism. “Not bad, Sammie. If An did get sliced interrogating Benny, that gives us two of his killers, as well as two of the three who tried to kill Ron and me. Now we’re cooking.”

Our self-satisfaction was abruptly interrupted by Harriet’s voice, calling for me urgently. She was sitting at her desk, holding the phone out to me as I approached. “It’s the hospital ER. There’s an Asian male having stitches taken out of his hand right now.”

I ignored the phone. “They didn’t stall him?”

“They tried to, but one of the visiting doctors overheard them and made a big deal about rendering rapid service.”

“Shit. He’ll be out of there in no time.” I grabbed Sammie by the arm and propelled her toward the door, shouting to Harriet over my shoulder as I followed, “Mobilize what you can find of the SRT, and see if we can’t borrow Maxine’s van for a take-down team. Also, find out if this guy’s alone or with friends, and try to get a description of his car.” I paused at the door. “And make sure no patrol units stumble in there by mistake. I don’t want to lose control of this. Nobody’s to confront until I get to the scene.”

Sammie and I ran toward the parking lot to one of the department’s two unmarked cars. As Sammie slid in behind the wheel, I paused, noticing two people step out of one of the TV trucks, attracted by our obvious haste.

“Something up?” one of them asked.

“Ran out of donuts,” I shouted back. I made a big display of slowly taking my jacket off and draping it over my forearm before I leisurely opened the passenger door and got in, trying to ignore Sammie’s revving of the engine.

“Code three?” she asked testily before I’d even shut the door. “Not on your life—not till we clear the parking lot.” She looked over her shoulder to where I was staring. “Oh, Christ.”

“After we hit High Street, you can play all the sirens you want, but only to within a couple of blocks of the hospital. I don’t want Nguyen getting nervous.”

She did a credible job of starting out slowly, leaving our two spectators flatfooted, but once she reached Oak Street, she took off with tires squealing. I pulled the mike from its clip and began orchestrating a coordinated approach, occasionally holding onto the door frame to keep from falling into Sammie’s lap.

The setting outside Brattleboro Memorial Hospital’s emergency room had several advantages as a take-down spot, assuming we got there early enough to position ourselves.

The ER was tucked away around the east side of the building, its separate, dead-end parking lot perched between the hospital and the top of a steep grassy slope that fell away to Canal Street far below. To the lot’s south was the driveway connecting it to the main parking area around the corner; to its west was the ER’s ambulance loading dock, sliding glass doors, and the long window of the ER waiting room; and to its north was a short wing of the building, built mostly of windowless brick.

A few blocks from the hospital, Sammie slowed down and killed her lights and siren. I picked up the mobile phone lying on the seat between us and dialed the ER.