The Dark Root (39 page)

“Okay,” Walt answered, “I’ll bite.”

“Because he doesn’t exist. And he didn’t want to set up a phony address that a quick call to some buddy or relative down the street would prove was bogus.”

Having thus stacked the deck, I asked the $64,000 question. “You said earlier that of the two San Francisco shooters still missing, one was definitely dead and the other presumed so. Was the second one named Lo Yu Lung?”

“Yes,” came the surprised reply.

“He and Diep are the same person—I’ve got the proof right in front of me. Which means Truong’s right-hand man is one of the people Truong is hell-bent on killing.”

“Damn.”

“That’s why the Philadelphia address makes sense. If you’re an Asian and you want to hide from the cops, what kind of address do you hand out? One in Chinatown. But if the people you’re trying to confuse are Asians, the reverse logic sets in. Diep—or Lo—was ducking Asians, not us.”

“Certainly one particular Asian,” Frazier murmured. “All right. Keep in touch.”

I hung the phone back up and smiled at Sammie. “Nice work. What else’ve you got?”

She looked a little startled and glanced down at her folder, seeing her erstwhile paltry efforts in a whole new light. “I finally heard back from the Lowell PD. Remember I’d been bugging them to give me what they had on Henry Lam and the guy Ron shot—Chu Nam An? I was hoping I could put them in the same place at the same time. It’s probably academic by now, but I did come up with a connection, not just between those two, but with Diep as well. All three of them surface at the same address in a door-to-door canvass report the cops did about a year ago, when they were looking for a child-killer.”

“Diep must’ve been wooing Lam to get on Truong’s good side later on—using the quote-unquote surrogate son to sneak in under the father’s defenses. Sure as hell worked. You’re on a roll, Sam.”

She read on, “J.P. heard back on that fingerprint he found on the pipe-bomb cap, but we hit a dead end. The print belongs to Greg Binder, who did a short stint for car theft a few years ago, but we can’t find a current address. The old one’s over a year out of date. It was up in the boonies in Orleans County, and the deputy we asked to check it out said nobody he talked to even remembered the guy. We’re still chasing it down, of course, but it doesn’t look good.” She handed me a sheet of paper. “And there’s nothing in his sheet to indicate any connections to Asians, or explosives, or violent behavior, or even Brattleboro.”

“I got one idea—a long shot.” I reached for the phone again and dialed Dan Flynn.

“Ask Digger something for me,” I told him when he got on the line. “See if the name Greg Binder rings a bell.”

Sammie watched me, her sallow cheeks regaining some of their color.

Flynn returned. “Says he’s known him from the time he was old enough to pry off a hubcap.”

“We need to find him. Any ideas?”

There was another long pause before Flynn got on again. “Try his uncle in South Burlington—runs a hardware store called Honest Ed’s. Digger says when things got tough for Greg as a kid, that’s usually where he headed. Ed Binder’s one of your salt-of-the-earth types.”

“Thanks, Dan. I’ll tell you later what’s up.” I disconnected, dialed Information, and got the number for Honest Ed’s.

“Is Greg Binder there?” I asked the voice on the other end.

“Sorry. You just missed him—went out on a delivery. Take a message?”

“No, thanks—I’ll call back.” I hung up and sat back in my chair.

“You’re shitting me,” Sammie stared at me.

I laughed. “When you mentioned Orleans County, I remembered that Bill Shirtsleeve—that’s Digger—used to work the outpost out there a few years back. Pure luck.”

She was shaking her head—smiling. “You going to check out Mr. Binder?”

I looked at my watch and saw, almost regretfully, that I had time to do just that. I had been looking forward to visiting Ron, and Tony as well, who I’d heard had been shipped back to a regular room at Brattleboro Memorial. But since the bombing in Newport, a new sense of urgency had arisen; if I hoped to deploy the preemptive moves against Truong that Walt Frazier was trusting me to make, I was going to have to move fast. We had to end this soon, and considering the price already paid, we had to be successful.

HONEST ED'S TOOL & PIPE LOOKED
looked as odd as it sounded. Set back from the road, hemmed in on both sides by a crush of prefabricated retail outlets, Ed’s appeared as either the cause of it all—the first and oldest roadside store along what had become an endless commercial strip—or a theatrically overdone attempt to go back in time to the “good-old days.” It was a wooden building with white peeling walls and enormous, dusty, plate-glass windows, crammed with junk either needing replacement, or at least a good cleaning. Over the front door—each letter highlighted by a trail of neon tubing as garish in color as the latest tricolor toothpaste—was a huge sign advertising Ed’s name. It was a helpful if unattractive addition, given that, without it, Ed’s might have been mistaken for anything from a closed pawn shop to a holding station for rejected tag-sale items.

It was true, however, that despite its antiquity and its almost militant anti-asceticism, Ed’s did fit in. Route 7, south of Burlington—the same Route 7 that blemished Rutland farther down the road—was one of South Burlington’s major arteries, and yet another perfect example of a “miracle mile” run amok.

I pulled into the pot-holed parking lot, reached back in for my ever-expanding mug-shot book, and headed for Ed’s front door.

Considering the cluttered windows, I was surprised by the spaciousness inside. The broad, bare wooden floors were free of the piles of junk I’d expected, and the long counter facing me was surmounted by colorful advertising posters. Parked along its polished surface were small displays of drill bits and screwdrivers and behind it endless racks of gleaming, heavy-duty tools, many of a size suitable for your average offshore oil rig. In the distance, vanishing into the gloom, were row upon row of stacked metal pipes.

A pot-bellied, red-faced, white-haired man stood near the register looking at me, his hands flat on the counter like a bartender between clients. “Help you?”

“Yeah—is Greg Binder here?”

There was a moment’s hesitation, the eyes as cool as the smile beneath it was friendly. “Sure. He done something wrong?”

“You Ed Binder?”

“Yup. Who’re you?”

I showed him my identification. “United States Deputy Marshal. I’d like to ask him some questions.”

A look of weariness crossed his face. “Oh, boy. What’s he done now?”

“That’s why I want to talk to him.”

He nodded slightly and chewed his bottom lip briefly. “Okay.”

He turned around and bellowed toward the back of the building, his voice reverberating among the metal racks. “Greg.”

There was the bang of a door, the sound of something heavy being dropped on the floor, and the scuffing sound of sneakers shuffling their way toward us. From out of the darkness came a short, skinny man in his early twenties, disheveled and acne-scarred. As soon as he saw me—and his uncle’s expression—he stopped in his tracks.

“What’s wrong?”

“Good question,” Ed Binder answered. “This man’s a Deputy U.S. Marshal. Wants to talk to you.”

Greg’s eyes shifted from one of us to the other. “What about?”

I removed the pipe cap I’d retrieved from Tyler, still in its white, clearly marked evidence envelope, and dumped it out onto the counter. “You sell this item here?”

Ed leaned forward slightly, not touching it. “We sell things like it—same manufacturer.”

“A lot of them?”

“Depends. If it’s a job order, yeah. We could sell dozens of ’em at a shot. We don’t move many as a single item, though. We mostly supply contractors.”

“Why’re you asking?” Greg wanted to know, still lingering a few feet back among the aisles.

I decided to show my cards, relying on what I’d heard from Digger about the relationship between the two men before me. “This cap was attached to a pipe bomb that killed a Brattleboro police officer.”

Ed grew very still. Greg’s eyes widened with fear. “Holy shit. I heard about that. What’s that got to do with me? I don’t know nothin’ about it.”

“Your thumbprint’s on it.”

Greg straightened as if hit with electricity. Both his hands flew up in front of his chest. “Oh, fuck. Uncle Ed, I swear to God, I don’t know what’s goin’ on. I only been to Brattleboro a couple of times—years ago. I wouldn’t do this—nothin’ like this.”

“Slow down, Greg,” his uncle cautioned, his eyes on me hard now. “Nobody’s said anything yet.”

I made that my cue to switch tacks and laid the mug book, closed, upon the counter. “If I were to buy a pipe cap, maybe two, how would I go about it? Are you the only one who works the counter, Ed?”

The older man shook his head. “It’s luck of the draw. Could be either one of us, or my wife—she’s the bookkeeper.”

“And any of you could fill the order? Locate it in the stock and bring it out?”

“Right.”

“Within the last few weeks—could even be the last few months—do you remember selling a pipe cap to any Asians?”

Greg’s face flooded with relief. “Yeah. It was like two days before that bomb, more or less. I remember him because he made me do a custom cut—said he only wanted a foot of pipe. I told him we didn’t sell that short—even told him where he might go to get a piece. But he didn’t want to. Told me he’d buy the shortest length we sold, pay extra to have it cut, and then give us back what was left. He was in a hurry.”

“So you did it?”

“Sure. I had nothin’ else going—things were slow, and I thought Uncle Ed would be okay over it. I mean, hell, it was almost like selling it and getting it back at the same time. A foot’s not much to take off a piece of stock.”

“What else did he buy?” I asked.

“Just the two caps and the piece of pipe. And he asked me where the nearest Radio Shack was.”

“Where is it?”

“’Bout a half-mile that way.” He pointed to his left. “On the other side of the street.”

“He paid cash?”

“Yup.”

Ed shook his head disgustedly. “My God, Greg. Didn’t all that sound a little suspicious?”

His nephew stared at him wide-eyed. “What do I know about bombs?”

“Was he alone?” I interrupted.

“Yup. I saw him drive up. One of those new Mustangs—bright red.”

“You get the license plate?”

Greg Binder shook his head.

“All right.” I spun the mug book around and opened it to its first page. “I want you to look at these photographs. Take your time. Tell me if you see the man you waited on.”

Greg stepped up to the counter and began leafing through the pages. He stopped on the third one. “That’s him.”

“No doubts in your mind? It’s not a great shot.”

He actually grinned at that, his sense of relief complete. “Damn—it’s just like in the movies. I’d swear to it in a court of law.”

“Cut the crap, Greg,” Ed muttered to him.

The young man grew agitated again. “I do swear, Uncle Ed. That’s definitely the guy. I’m not shittin’ you—honest.”

I closed the book. “You still have that shortened length of pipe?”

Ed Binder shook his head. “No, Greg told me about it. I put it with the odd sizes and sold it as part of a lot. It’s probably mixed in with somebody’s plumbing by now.”

I thanked them both and took my leave, heading for the Radio Shack Greg had mentioned, wondering what Edward Diep had been up to, all by himself, buying parts for a bomb.

· · ·

An hour later I was in Walt Frazier’s office. “Radio Shack remembered him, too and had a sales slip to boot—listed him as ‘John Sing, Main Street, Burlington.’ He bought wire, some alligator clips, and a nine-volt battery. The sales clerk had no more trouble than Greg Binder did in picking him out of the book.”

“Okay.” Walt was taking the cautious route, waiting for me to make my case.

“The more we find out about Diep, the more of an independent operator he becomes, working all sides of the game. It got me thinking, how that would go down with his pals—at least the ones affiliated with Truong. I called the St. Albans prison to find out how Nguyen’s been doing. Turns out, ever since that explosion in Newport, he’s gotten several phone calls. I talked to the guard who sees him most, and he says he’s more fidgety—blows his cool with the other inmates. The way I saw him in Bratt, he was an icicle.”

“So what d’you think’s going on?”

“If we’re right, he’s losing confidence. He felt he was on the fast track, guaranteed to beat Da Wang. Now, he’s not so sure. Truong’s stash goes up in smoke, the pipeline is shut down thanks to Spinney and the VSP, and we’re breathing down everybody’s neck. All of a sudden, Da Wang’s looking stronger, and Nguyen’s looking to make a deal.”

“You hope.”

I laughed. “Maybe that part’s wishful thinking, but he’s feeling the heat. I’d like to have another crack at him. He’s the only bird we have in hand, he was high enough in the ranks to be in on a killing with the boss himself, and from the phone calls he’s been getting, he’s obviously still connected. If we can persuade him that things are just about over for him, he might trade for a lighter load. Most of these guys won’t talk because they’re scared—their families are vulnerable, or they’re worried about their own hides. But if the threat is removed, everything changes.”

Frazier mulled it over for a few seconds and then reached for the phone. “Okay, I’ll round up the appropriate troops. Let’s see what happens.”

· · ·

The process was a legal minuet—a series of small, regimented steps in which all parties were consulted with unctuous propriety.

First to convene was the investigative team—Dan, Lester, Walt, and myself—to make sure a deal with Nguyen was in the best interests of the case. That was done in a conference call, since both Walt and I already knew what the vote would be. Spinney had laughed outright and claimed that our biggest problem would be not showing Nguyen how desperate we were.

Next in line were Maggie Lanier and Jack Derby. It was the Windham County State’s Attorney, after all, who had jurisdiction over Nguyen Van Hai. Murder alone is not a federal crime, and although murder for hire is, and some talk had been made about adjusting the charges, Derby still held the strongest hand. But just as he’d had no reservations about the creation of the task force, he also had no problem about greasing Nguyen’s palm. The victim’s reputation had something to do with this, of course—Benny Travers had died largely unmourned. Cutting his killer some slack probably wouldn’t cost Derby a single vote.