Vulture Peak (25 page)

Now I’m back in the hovel dressing and combing my hair, which the victory dance disheveled somewhat, at the same time as I’m putting a few finishing touches to what, if I may say so, is an impeccable piece of detection, when my attention is suddenly diverted against my will. It’s called possessiveness. I can’t help it—with conjugal alienation, I’ve become sensitive to little things, such as the fact that her telephone just rang and she turned away from the door and began speaking too softly for me to hear.

“Who was that, darling?” I say, putting on my Zegna jacket and trying to look as if I’m just making conversation.

“Ah, that was Colonel Vikorn, darling.”

I turn, aghast and confused. Why didn’t he talk to me? Controlling myself: “Really, what did he want?”

“He wanted to know what you were wearing, so I told him.”

“He wanted to know—”

My phone rings. It’s Vikorn. “Why are you wearing that getup?”

“To go to the bank.”

A pause. “Don’t go to the bank. Isn’t there a General Zinna line for you to follow up?”

“Yes, but—”

“Good. Go see Zinna. And change out of that crap. He’ll think you’ve turned gay and try to screw you.” He closes the phone.

Now I’m sitting bewildered on a chair. Chanya stands behind me and strokes my hair, then starts to massage my head.

“You were spying on me,” I say.

She giggles. “Honey, if you’ve worked out what I think you’ve worked out, then d’you think Vikorn and the Americans would want
you making contact with the person I think you are trying to make contact with?”

“I’m a murder squad detective,” I say. “I got carried away. For a moment I was a real cop.”

“I understand that,” Chanya says, still massaging. “But—and do correct me if I’m wrong—isn’t there a genuine Zinna line? I mean, how is it that he has so many connections in Phuket? Isn’t that worth following up?”

I hear myself saying, “Yes. I guess I’ll have to make another trip down there.”

She freezes for a moment, then transforms. At lightning speed she has processed the thought that I might cheat on her in Phuket, closed all emotional hatches, and refocused with 200 percent attention on her ambition. “Of course you will,” she says, staring at the street. The massage is over.

Now my phone rings again. It’s Vikorn. “Have you been to the morgue yet?”

“Of course I went to the morgue.”

“I mean after the first time? Dr. Supatra called yesterday, I forgot to tell you. She says she has made progress with identification of the three victims.”

In Dr. Supatra’s underground lair, death imbues everyday tools with an outlandish dignity: giant pruning shears; those big handsaws normally used for cutting up logs; and rotary electric saws of various sizes. The one that gives me the creeps more than any other is the longhandled wire cutter, the kind you see in war movies when the sappers crawl on their bellies to cut through barbed wire: Supatra uses it to bust her way through rib cages. In the case of the three anonymous ones, though, there wasn’t a lot left to investigate.

The doctor is in her office next to the autopsy room. She smiles when she sees me through the glass wall and stands to come to the door to greet me. “Detective, that software I told you about finally arrived. I’m halfway through. It’s quite exciting.”

She leads me to her desk and gestures for me to pull up a chair. She is finding it difficult to suppress a girlish glee in her new toy. When she jogs her mouse, a human head appears on her monitor in stark ghost white against a green background: eyeless, faceless, thin neck.

“It’s the second girl, the thin one.”

“I thought you said it was two men and a woman?”

Dr. Supatra shifts her gaze to something on the wall. “We all make mistakes. We thought she was a young male who had been castrated. It turns out she had very poorly developed genitals—not uncommon.”
She glances at my face, then turns back to the computer. “Sometimes even the Olympic organizers can’t tell a man from a woman. It’s not always totally clear. She had no breast development at all.” She pauses to look at me. “Of course, in reality sexual identity is merely another illusion we seize on in our pathetic need to be
someone
. You know that.”

She clicks on the mouse, and a second portrait appears. “You see, the computer takes a three-D photograph of the skull, or rather a whole series of photographs turning three-hundred-sixty degrees, then puts together a three-D image. That’s the easy part. Then we have to input other details, such as approximate age, genetic origins, et cetera. I wasn’t sure so I simply clicked on ‘Southeast Asian.’ ”

Now we are looking at a generic bald Southeast Asian with somewhat slit eyes, flat nose, and high cheekbones. It’s a boyish face with no distinguishing features.

“That’s as far as we’ve gone with that one. There’s still a lot of data to input.” She clicks on a side panel a few times, then types something on her keyboard. “I’ve reached about the same point with the other woman. But the man is nearly finished. Now, here is the untouched three-hundred-sixty-degree image of the male.”

The screen is filled with another eyeless, faceless skull, somewhat fuller and stronger-looking than the other. At the next click we are staring at the skull-plus-eyes-and-skin phase. Once again the eyes are slightly mongoloid in the Thai style and the nose small and flared. I nod.

“Now, here he is after I’ve put in all the data.”

The next window produces an individuated male face with black hair, oval eyes with black pupils, and a well-modeled nose, still small but slightly aquiline. My jaw is hanging open.

“What’s the matter? D’you recognize him?”

“Can you squash the eyes a bit more, make them more Mongoloid—I mean Chinese, not Thai?” A few clicks, and the eyes stretch. “A moustache, tightly clipped, very thin, jet black, for the whole length of the upper lip.” More clicks. “Make the hair a bit longer at the front with a cowlick that crosses his forehead from left to right, and a beauty spot just under his left eye.” More clicks. I’m
riveted by the screen. “Can you make him smile? The teeth are perfect, slightly large for the mouth, and brilliant white. Good, now darken his skin just a little, not Thai brown, but not Chinese porcelain either—between the two.” I’m squashing my own face between my palms.

“Do you know his name?”

“Not To.”

“Not To? You mean Notto, or his name is not To?”

“Yes. Can we work on the other two together?”

It takes about an hour, with Supatra constantly cross-referring to her base data to make sure I’m not straying from what is scientifically justified. Now we have Notto and his two female assistants, one hardly distinguishable from a boy, the other full-bodied and voluptuous with black-rimmed spectacles. I stand up and pace the room, throwing wild glances at the monitor, as Supatra clicks, and To with his two assistants appear one by one in a revolving show.

There goes my beautiful theory; I make a note of the life lesson: that’s what you get from premature victory dances. “Can you do a group portrait with the man in the middle, the young woman on his right, the older woman on his left? Perfect.” I am transfixed. As I pass and repass the screen, Notto’s eyes follow me. I can almost hear him speak:
Oh no, you do not go anywhere. You stay here in Bangkok
. “Please print everything. I need copies of each plus copies of the three together.”

“So, do you have a lead now?” Supatra says as I prepare to leave with the printouts.

“No. I have to start from scratch.”

In the cab on the way to the airport, I fish out my cell phone and the card with the heart on it.

She answers on the third ring. “Hello, Detective.”

“How did you know it was me?”

“I kept your number on my phone. I even put you in my address book under Det. Must be love, no?”

“Does your charm always work so well?”

“I don’t use it on anyone else.”

“Because you don’t need to?”

“You sound excited. Are you going to tell me why you called?”

“I just happen to be on my way to Phuket. Want to meet me at the airport?”

“Anything you say.”

She is waiting for me: jeans, T-shirt, flip-flops. Her hair is shiny and full-bodied, a black forest of unlimited fecundity. I am overwhelmed by tenderness. She sends me the same message with a touch of humor in her infinitely yielding eyes. If I were twenty, I would whisk her away somewhere—a lonely beach hut where we could live happily ever after until the world caught up. I take her hand, in flagrant violation of all the rules of interrogation, and lead her out of the terminal.

“I thought we were flying?” she says, leaning toward me.

“We are,” I say.

The office for the helicopter company is about a hundred yards from the terminal down a service road. I already booked by phone, and the reception says the chopper is waiting. It’s a small one with only four passenger seats. Now two pilots arrive and greet us with
wais
, and we’re taking off in that oblique turning motion that reminds me of Vietnam movies. I think Om has been in the chopper before. She knows where we are going.

The entire journey takes about ten minutes. Now we’re at the helipad on Vulture Peak, a giant H painted atop a mound in a circle of asphalt about two hundred yards from the house, concealed by shrubs. Om has turned to stone—this isn’t the romantic assignation she had in mind—but she follows me to the house, slavelike. I use the key I obtained from the forensic team to open the magnificent door. When she has closed it behind us, I turn to look her in the eye.

“Why are you doing this?” she asks.

“You’re used to luxury,” I say. “I couldn’t afford anything so grand myself.”

She is bewildered but shows no sign of fear. I take her hand and lead her into the vast salon, with its tinkling streams and giant teak
pillars. We cross one of the streams to the balcony. It’s dusk; the sun’s glancing rays have turned the sea to blue velvet. It might have been a Tantric moment—two spiritual beings joining our bodies for the salvation of the world—but it would have needed different bodies in a different age. When I put my arm around her, she sags against me, resigned to whatever male fantasy I have in mind.

“Which room do you normally use?” I ask.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“For your customer. The one who brings you here. Which room is it?”

She stares into my eyes. “You’re jealous? That’s what this is all about? If you care that much, why don’t you do something about it? Make me your second wife? Look after me? If that’s what you want. I don’t care about money, just so long as I have enough for my mother’s medicine and some food. I’m not greedy. If it’s just sex you want, tell me how you want it. I’ll do what you want, so long as it doesn’t hurt.”

“How much do I have to pay?”

She turns away, humiliated. “Whatever you want to pay. Nothing, if it makes you feel better. Will it prove that I like you if I don’t take any money? Okay, I don’t want money.”

“What do you wear, usually, when you come here? Does he make you change into anything?”

“He doesn’t make me change into anything. It’s not like that.”

I’m grasping her wrists. “Not like that? Then what is it like?”

“What is it like?” From the wild look in her eyes, I guess that she has guessed: now she knows I know, but it’s impossible to talk about: an emotional furnace. I’m sweating. She turns her wrists to let me know I’m hurting her. I let go.

My voice is quite hoarse when I say, “Do you want to take a shower first? There are towels and bathrobes in every room. You don’t have to use the master bedroom if you don’t want to.”

She shrugs and turns away, puzzled. I watch her cross the salon and enter one of the bedrooms. I choose the master bedroom itself, which the forensic team have cleaned up in the neat Thai way. I wonder
if I too should undress. May as well go the whole hog and shower under the great chrome splash shower, use up the last of the gel, grab a towel that the cleaning staff must have renewed, and change into a buff dressing gown with monk’s hood. When I leave the bathroom, I hear her showering in the other room. I take out three photocopies from my backpack and lay them on the bed. The noise of the shower stops. She spends about five minutes drying herself, then walks through the door, also in a buff dressing gown, looks for me, sees me standing by the bed, and smiles. She has eyes only for me and does not see the three photocopies.

I know too much about whores not to understand that she is still clinging to the hope that I will provide a way out;
second wife
may not offer much in the way of status, but the income is usually regular, and the dignity infinitely greater than bar work. Her smile is frank, vulnerable, sincere. I wish she were more cynical; it would make what I have in mind a lot easier. When I stare at her, she pulls at the belt on her robe, which falls open.

I stride up to her and pull the gown off her shoulders until it drops to the ground. “Tell me how it is with him,” I say. “Is it like this?” I slide my hands down her back, grab her buttocks, and press her pelvis against mine with as much harshness as I can manage. “Is it?”

She is shocked, disillusioned: her dream of a more dignified future has collapsed in less than a second. She shakes her head, tearful.

“No?” I hear the roughness in my voice. “Or maybe like this?” I fall to my knees and lick her nipples one after the other with pathetic gratitude. Her hand drops to my shoulder, then follows the line of my neck to my ear, which she cups and fondles. “Like this?”

“Yes,” she says behind the tears, “like that.”

“Every time? No dominance, no rough stuff, no fantasy?”

“Only the first time. Manu changed after the first time.”

“Manu? That’s his name? And you are the only one who can tame him?”

A shrug. “That’s what he says.”

I stand up and turn away from her. “Please get dressed,” I say to the window. I hear her leave the room. Five minutes later she is back in
her jeans and T-shirt, waiting for my next move. I point to the bed where I have placed the photocopies of To and his two women. She puts a hand over her mouth and closes her eyes.