The Dark Root (25 page)

Those twin disabilities were not slowing him down now, however. He angrily scribbled on the pad before him and shoved it across his blanket at me. “You SOB,” it read. “You know I didn’t want you doing that!!!”

I wrote back: “The department needs it, I need it, and the case will benefit. And I’ll be coming back and forth. If Billy gets in a jam, he’ll know where to find me.”

I watched his face as he read that, interpreting the successive waves of anger, frustration, disgust, and finally, a hint of resignation—the last of which was most eloquent in his choice of words: “Has the FBI signed off on it yet?”

“Not yet,” I wrote an answer. “Jack Derby and the U.S. Attorney have—the latter as of this morning—pending FBI approval. But Frazier says he’s optimistic. They even called him to DC to make his pitch personally. He says they don’t do that unless they’re interested.”

“What about the selectmen?” he queried next.

That was stickier. No one in town except he and Billy knew what I was up to, and yet the final decision to release me was going to rest with the town manager or, if he was feeling insecure, the board of selectmen. But the fact that Tony had bothered to ask was another sign he was starting to cave in.

“I’ll wow ’em somehow,” I wrote on the pad, and then stood up.

Tony read those words and turned slightly to look out the window. He finally let out a sigh. “Don’t get yourself killed,” he printed without enthusiasm and waved me out the door.

Driving back to Brattleboro, I had to admit his fatalism was not unique. The bombing—and the numbing resurgence in media interest—had cloaked the whole department in a depression. Within the detective squad, or what was left of it, this mood exhibited its variations with each individual. Harriet had become business-like to the point of brusqueness, and J.P. was even more submerged in his swamp of forensic minutiae. Sammie had begun virtually living at the office, and Willy still hadn’t been seen in days. He had reportedly been spending his time in the streets, working his contacts and chasing down leads, but no one knew if he’d come up with anything—or even if the rumors of his hard work were true. As for Ron, he remained at home, remote, removed, virtually unreachable. My only consolation with him was that he was supposedly still showing up for his regular counseling sessions.

The attentions from the press had followed the norm. White-hot interest surrounding Dennis’s death—the parking lot full of logo-decorated cars and trucks for days on end, the hallway clogged with reporters—followed by a gradual dwindling of zeal, until all that was left were the local people we knew by name. Nevertheless, it was here that Brattleboro’s uniquely politicized character came most alive. Dennis’s death, Tony’s maiming, the threat of Asian crime, the fate of wayward youth, and the police department’s role in all of them—and more—became fair game for everyone, from the press to the politicians to the unusually large assortment of resident town cranks.

Letters to the editor, call-in shows on the radio, debates on the local cable channel, and a never-ending onslaught of editorials, opinion columns, and feature articles cascaded on the consciences of the department’s members to the point of distraction. Initial bafflement or cynical bemusement were slowly burnished into anger, resentment, and defensiveness, heightening a cop’s natural sense of isolation to the level of paranoia.

Exacerbating it all was the hard realization that we had made but little progress since the explosion. Just before he’d died, Dennis had mentioned he’d received news about the dead man with the tattoo—the one I’d shot, named Ut. Sammie had spent days going through Dennis’s desk and files, trying to put order into a professional lifetime of archival chaos. Eventually, and perhaps inevitably, she’d found a handwritten reference to a contact in California—scribbled on a piece of waxed paper last used to wrap a donut—with the word Ut, followed by three exclamation marks.

She’d located the source and discovered that the tattooed La Luy Ut had been an early member of Chinatown Gang and had been nicknamed “Louie La” at the time, which had explained why Nicky Tai had drawn a blank on the name Ut. Despite his youthful appearance, La Luy Ut had been almost thirty at his death. His age was an interesting detail—not only had he been a contemporary of Truong Van Loc, Michael Vu, and the late Johnny Xi of Vancouver, he’d also been older than Henry Lam, the reputed head of the three home invaders we’d shot. I’d learned by now how rare it was to have an Asian leader who was younger than his followers. It spoke of a man of ambition, charisma, ruthlessness, and—most interesting to me—connections.

The hope kindled in me that, despite having been remarkably ornery in life, Henry Lam might yet become an ally from the grave. I was beginning to think he might be the string I could follow all the way back to the elusive Truong Van Loc.

That, however, would take research and time, the latter of which was in short supply. We’d lost well over a week recovering from the bombing, and the trail of Dennis’s killer was getting colder all the time. The impatience of everyone—inside and outside the department—was approaching a frenzy. In order for my little gambit with Flynn and Frazier to work, it was crucial to
specifically
connect the headline-grabbing bomb attack to the promise of a solution. But since the final approval for my joining a federal task force lay not with the professionals I’d been lobbying—as Tony had so well understood—but our own civilian bosses, I knew I’d need more than a tangled maze of obscure, historical connections before they’d grant me a green light.

It was a predictable irony that, while I might get permission to proceed from the head of the Vermont State Police, the U.S. Attorney’s office, the State’s Attorney’s office, my chief, and the Washington office of the FBI, I might still be done in by three out of five beleaguered, anxious, publicity-conscious members of my own board of selectmen.

Sammie’s cubicle looked like a war-ravaged foxhole, and she like the sole survivor of some disturbing psychological experiment. The crowded space around her desk was littered with fast-food wrappers, cardboard trays, and Styrofoam cups, and smelled of stale clothes and leftover fries; its occupant was pale, worn, edgy, and needed a shower.

I moved a crusty paper plate from her guest chair and tentatively sat down. “Hi Sam. How’re you doin’?”

She gave me a deadpan, humorless glare. “Fine.” She’d moved the squad’s computer terminal—usually located in Ron’s cubicle—onto her desk; its pale-green glow did little for her appearance.

“Can you give me an update?” I asked conversationally, figuring her stamina probably couldn’t take any small talk, or her emotions any deviations from the case.

She reached for a legal pad beside the computer. “I better warn you, I haven’t been making any friends out among the benevolent fraternity of police departments,” she started out. “Just in case you wonder why all your chummy contacts start hanging up on you.”

“Been leaning on them a little?”

“That’s the way they’ve been acting.” She waved at the glowing screen. “We’re hooked up to this piece of shit because we’re all supposed to cooperate with each other, right? When somebody calls me and says, ‘Hey, I’m up a creek—can you do this or that, ASAP, and call me back?’ I do just that. Well, I’ve been finding that’s a one-way street. Everybody and his fucking uncle’s been putting me on the back burner.”

I shrugged it off. “Pretty natural they take care of their own turf first. Not everybody gives this job what you do, Sammie.”

She smiled weakly. “That’s a nice way of saying I’m neurotic.”

“I’m not complaining.” I smiled back. “So what’s on your pad?”

She blinked a couple of times to focus. I wondered when she’d slept last. “Let’s see. Piddly stuff first: When Chu Nam An had his accident in Rutland, his registration came out of Lowell, Mass., so I asked the PD down there to check out the address. It took ’em forever, but the place was empty. They said it had definitely been a crash pad, and probably been abandoned over a week ago. Landlord knew nothing. All transactions had been in cash. I also asked for Chu’s records, but they still haven’t sent them on. All I have so far is bare-bones info that shows him being involved in a lot of gang activity—typical Asian-on-Asian MO.”

Her voice brightened a notch as she read on, her interest slowly beating back her exhaustion. “The reason I’m pushing so hard for more on Chu is that I finally did get something interesting on Henry Lam. Remember the date-of-birth scam he pulled to cover his Massachusetts history? Turns out he hung out in Lowell a lot—there’s a big Asian population there—lot of bad apples. I want to cross-reference Chu and Lam and see if they connect, and if so, with who else. I know in my gut they have a mutual background… Makes it real frustrating.” Her voice tapered off as she flipped the page.

“Here’s an interesting one,” she resumed. “You’d asked J.P. to check out what happened to the team Johnny Xi led on that restaurant shooting in San Francisco. The PD there was a little faster getting back to us—they have a special Asian-crimes squad—and they said that, as far as they know, most of the team is dead.”

“Any common denominators?”

“Half of them got it execution-style. It’ll take time before the PD can send us the actual names and records.”

“How many were involved?”

“Witnesses said seven, all with automatic weapons. They drove up in two cars. I guess that makes nine, with the drivers. Anyhow, seven of them sprayed the place—all hyped up, screaming and yelling—and then they took off. Truong On Ha wasn’t the only bystander killed—it was a real massacre. The PD knew right off it was a Dragon Boys hit. Even lined up a few witnesses—that’s how they identified the shooters—but the witnesses faded overnight. One was found dead; the others got the message. The cops had to fold their tent.”

“But they don’t know why most of the team is now dead?”

“Not officially. They had their suspicions, but the whole thing’s history now. I tried out all our names on them—Truong, Vu, and the rest—but aside from Johnny Xi and Truong’s little brother, none of them connected.”

“You said
most
of the team is dead.”

She smiled at me. “Right. I noticed that, too. I’m having mug shots, prints, the whole caboodle forwarded to us. The two drivers were never made, I guess because nobody paid attention to them, so that makes five out of the nine who’ve been killed, and two out of the four survivors that’ve been identified.”

She extended her pad to me, her finger underscoring a couple of scribbled Chinese names.

She sat back and flipped to another page of the pad, resuming her narrative. “I didn’t get much else. I tried Henry Lam out on the Canadians. The name did come up on their computers, but all they said was that they’d get back to me. They’re pretty close-mouthed, and I got the distinct impression they didn’t consider us a high priority.”

I resisted telling her of my hopes to improve our prestige considerably. “I take it there’s nothing new on the pipe bomb?”

She shook her head. “Worse than that. Michael Vu disappeared, along with most of his soldiers. It’s been like finding fish in the middle of a desert. J.P.’s still hoping the bomb fragments might tell us something. I took the liberty of issuing a high-priority be-on-the-lookout for Vu, by the way.”

“That’s fine.”

We both heard the door to the hallway bang open, followed by a man’s heavy tread. Willy Kunkle rounded the corner, bearded, wrinkled, dressed in dirty jeans and a work shirt, and making Sammie smell like a rose by comparison.

He leaned against the edge of the soundproof partition and looked down at us, grinning like a contented wolf. “Hey, boys and girls.”

“Where you been?” I asked him, none too kindly.

Rather than answering directly, he reached into his breast pocket and held out his one good hand. Cradled in its palm, encrusted with dirt, was a small, delicate, jade-and-gold pendant, attached to a thin gold chain—exactly as Amy Lee had drawn it in my notebook.

“I been poking around,” he finally said.

I GENTLY REMOVED THE PENDANT
from Willy’s outstretched hand. “Nice work,” I murmured, “Where’d you get it?”

“Garage north of Horton Place, right next to a dark-green Trans Am with Québec plates and a smashed-in front grille.”

“Jesus,” Sammie muttered.

“I got a unit guarding the place till I get a search warrant,” Willy added, his eyes betraying his nonchalance, “so you’ll understand if I gotta go.”

“Call me when you’re ready,” I told him. “And take a shower before you meet with the judge.”

Horton Place is one leg of a semicircular street that attaches to the east side of Canal Street like one of those large, plastic horseshoe-shaped magnets. The other leg is named Homestead Place. What the back end is called—the part that connects the two legs—is anyone’s guess, but it was there that Willy Kunkle led Sammie, J.P., and me about two hours later.

The Horton-Homestead loop has no option other than to double back on itself. It is shoved up against a steep, fifty-foot embankment that looms overhead like a semi-forested cliff. Within the confines of the horseshoe are several beaten-up homes and two or three century-old, three-story wooden apartment buildings—all peeling paint and stacked, sagging balconies. Across a weed-choked backyard are two decrepit concrete garages. A squad car, its driver leaning against the fender, was parked in front of one of them.

The structure in question was free-standing, had two solid, old-fashioned pull-down doors on cantilevered hinges, and looked about ready to collapse. It had no windows that I could see.

“Round here,” Willy said, leading the way. He was still unshaven and wearing the same clothes, but he now smelled of too much deodorant.

On the garage’s west side was a narrow wooden door. Willy turned the knob, shoved it open, and stepped inside. We paused on the threshold, our eyes adjusting to the darkness. Before us was a single stall with an earthen floor; apart from some tires and a broken armchair, it was empty. There was a second opening, without a door, on the far wall separating this stall from its mate, but there wasn’t enough light to see through it. This last fact alone, coupled with the assumption that the Trans Am was parked in the second stall, set off my internal alarm bells.