The Canton Connection (2 page)

Jake could have forgotten about the brutal homicide along the bike trail, but he woke up that Saturday morning thinking about what Amber had said. Han Chu owned a computer firm, and Chinese hackers were in the news.

Was there a connection?

If cyber crime was involved, this would become an FBI case.

He wanted to go for a jog, but not for the exercise.

He slipped on his running outfit and zipped his building’s pass card into the inner pocket of his shorts.

“Which way are you going?” Amber said drowsily from the bed.

“I thought I’d go west,” he said.

“Uh-huh.”

“Uh-huh, what?”

“I knew it,” she said. “The Chinese man.”

“You just go back to sleep.”

“I can’t. I’m heading to Dewey Beach this morning.”

“So I’ll see you tonight?” he said.

“Sunday. Maybe.” She groaned and kicked her legs about under the sheet like a spoiled child.

Oh, right. He leaned over and gave her a kiss. He took the opportunity to study her eyes, still sleepy and half closed, but beautiful.

“Be sure to lock up,” he said.

“…and not let the door hit me on the way out,” she finished with a sarcastic smirk.

He thought about trying to heal that wound, but decided to let it bleed. She was just looking for sympathy.

The day was brisk for August. Which meant it was only eighty-two degrees at sunrise. The good news was that the humidity was less than ninety percent.

Jake could jog down his street to the bridge that spanned I-66 and the multi-use W&OD trail. A sidewalk spiraled from the bridge down to the forested gully where bikers and runners were already performing their weekend routines. He could go east or west, but the crime had taken place a couple of miles to the west. He headed west.

Saturdays were always a confusing jumble of fast walkers, skate boarders, dog walkers, biking groups and people with backpacks heading to the farmers’ market. He ran in and out of the slower pedestrians with good humor. It didn’t pay to get upset about others using a path intended for speed.

He counted off the half-mile markers. There was an occasional emergency phone, and he found one only fifty yards from the crime scene. The yellow tape and the police officer protecting the scene attracted the mild curiosity of passersby.

He tried to visualize the setting the previous afternoon.

If a middle-aged Chinese man was pulled into the bushes, could a passing runner notice the bludgeoning and knifing? Highway traffic was muffled by a high wall, and the bike path was straight, giving the witness a long, wide line of sight.

But a witness on the path would be even more visible than the perpetrator. Why didn’t the perpetrator wait until the witness had passed before making the attack?

The 9-1-1 recording had revealed that the witness who reported the crime hadn’t called from a cell phone, a land line or the emergency phone.

Many runners and bikers carried cell phones, but not everybody. The emergency phone was within sight, but that wasn’t used.

He reviewed the 9-1-1 call in his mind. The call originated from a Voice over Internet Protocol number that was untraceable to a location, account or person. The witness had phoned in the report from a computer or smartphone.

Jake wiped some sweat out of his eyes and veered off the asphalt bike path onto a gravel trail where walkers or slower runners could let others pass.

Vines reached out and tickled his calves. The trail maintenance crew hadn’t cut back the encroaching foliage for some time. Clearly it wasn’t one of them who had discovered the body in the bushes and made the call. He looked back at the emergency phone. It was close enough to the scene of the attack that he could see why the witness might not want to use it for fear of being seen. But there were easier options than using a VoIP device.

The next exit off the bike path led up to another bridge and cross street. He climbed up the grassy embankment and came out on top. It was a residential neighborhood with split-level houses. Surely asking someone to use their phone would have been far simpler and faster than finding a computer to make the call.

But no, she had sought out an internet or WiFi connection.

He returned to the relative quiet of the bike path to recall the sounds he had heard on the 9-1-1 recording.

The witness had no discernable accent. Nor could he determine her age. But from the quaver in her voice, she was clearly distraught. The emergency operator had asked for her name and address, but she declined to give either. She sounded unnerved, her call was rushed, and her voice was trembling, but her intention was clear. She wanted to alert the police to the exact location of the body.

“He’s lying in bushes at the 4.5 mile marker,” she had said. “You’ll find him on the south side of the path about twenty yards east of the overpass.”

It was a precise description, made by an observant person.

“Are you in any danger?” the operator had asked.

“No. I’m safe.”

Jake had replayed the recording several times to listen to the background sounds. There was no traffic, nor were there sounds of nature. The call seemed to have been placed from indoors. In fact, there was the hum of an air conditioner in the background. From the rattle, it had sounded more like a wall unit in a personal residence than an office setting. The clipped on and off of her voice as carried over the internet had prevented him from gathering ambient sounds during the times she wasn’t speaking.

In general, it was a frustrating piece of evidence.

Who was this terrified, but tech-savvy woman who wished to both report the crime and
remain anonymous?

She might want the criminal caught, but might also have reason to worry about personal retribution. Had she been observed by the perpetrator? Had she known the victim? The fact that she had gone to extraordinary lengths to preserve her anonymity indicated that she knew more than she was willing to report.

Heading home, Jake joined the colorful panoply of people using the bike path. There were families, couples and individuals. Was one of them returning to the scene of the crime?

The funeral was set for Sunday afternoon. It was hastily arranged, but the victim had no family and, after the autopsy, there was no reason to delay the ceremony.

Jake had called his contact at the coroner
’s office for the results of the autopsy held Saturday morning, and the results came back as he had expected. The trauma to the forehead was major, but the cause of death had been internal bleeding from the stab wound to the chest. The murder had been swift and brutally efficient. Several members of Han Chu’s company had come in and positively identified the victim as Han Chu, and the body was subsequently released to the company’s business manager where it was promptly taken to a funeral home and cremated.

The funeral service was held at graveside behind a Protestant church just off Carlin Springs Road. It was a peaceful spot to be buried, and many employees showed up to pay their final respects, but ultimately, it was a place to be left and forgotten.

Jake was interested in who would show up at the funeral. It was an opportunity to see many of the victim’s acquaintances at one time. It wasn’t his case, but he didn’t want to lose the opportunity in the event that it became his case.

He pulled into a crowded parking lot under a stand of trees and slipped in between some nondescript cars. Judging from the diversity of license plates, Han Chu’s company employed people from all over the Midwest and East Coast.

He walked up to the gathering in leather-soled shoes that squeaked on the grass. A minister was speaking before a closed coffin.

Jake sensed an aura of grief in the crowd. A few people read handwritten testimonials to Chu’s work ethic and even-handed treatment of employees. One man swallowed hard and told a story in clipped English about Chu’s favorite restaurant, a Hunan joint near the office.

Jake gazed over the bent heads. He noticed that all were young and male. Was that just the nature of the software industry?

Then the chief engineer made his remarks. He showed more grief than the others, but Jake couldn’t tell whether the
tremble in his voice was genuine or
pro forma
. He didn’t know enough about Chinese customs to tell if emotion was expected.

When he reflected on it, he didn’t know much about Chinese customs.

Nor apparently did someone else at the gathering. Toward the back, a young blonde with bushy hair, jeans and a gray tank top steped into view. She stood between two black suits and looked around.

She was studying the faces in the crowd when her gaze fell on him.

Her eyes were bright blue and exotically clear. She was an attractive woman, and he liked what he saw. It wasn’t a great idea to meet someone at a funeral, but he couldn’t ignore the fact that time seemed to stand still and it made him feel wonderful.

But a determined look overcame her, and she took her eyes off him. She spun away, and all he saw was a swish of blonde hair disappearing behind the crowd.

He wanted to find out more about her. Perhaps ascertain why she had attended the funeral and who she was looking for. Perhaps to get her name and number.

He apologized and moved quickly through the group.

Then an unexpected thing happened. One of the mourners turned to hurry off with her. He put his arm around her shoulders in a familiar way. Young, short and slim, the guy moved gracefully like a Chinese gymnast.

By the time Jake reached the street, the blonde had opened the door to a
metalic-gray Jeep Cherokee. She glanced back and their eyes locked once again. In that moment, he detected a mixture of mild acceptance and intense scrutiny. Then she jumped behind the wheel. She pulled away with the young man in the passenger seat.

Jake reached into his coat pocket for a pen and pad of paper. He jotted down the number of the Virginia plate.

It was too hot to stand around in formal wear. He wanted to remove his suit coat, but didn’t want to expose his shoulder holster to the general public.

Then he felt a tap on his shoulder. “I knew you wanted this case.”

It was Detective Red Stokes in his Sunday best.

“Trawling for suspects?” Jake asked.

“Aren’t you?”

“See the woman?”

“How could I miss her?” Stokes replied with a raised eyebrow.

“Get her plates?”

Stokes showed him his iPhone with a photo of the car.

“So why’d you scare her off?” the detective asked.

Thinking about it, Jake was interfering with police business. It hadn’t become an FBI case and it wouldn’t. “Sorry if she was part of your case.”

“Don’t worry. It won’t be my case for long.”

Jake studied him. “What makes you so sure?”

“You saw the tattoo. I don’t get mixed up in that kind of stuff.”

“I talked with Chu’s employees. They think the gang was from his youth.”

“Aw, Jake. Don’t write it off so easy. This could be the big one.”

Jake doubted it. It was a puzzling crime that didn’t add up, but also didn’t amount to a federal offense.

“Do you want to email me that photo?” Jake said, indicating the picture of the car on Stokes’
iPhone.

“Haven’t you heard? The phone network went down this morning.”

“What phone network?” Jake asked.

“All cell phone services in Northern Virginia.”

“Weird.”

Jake stepped away from the cemetery and tried to clear his head. Why was he there? He was getting too involved with a case that wasn’t even his.

So the case was short on clues. Let the Arlington County police deal with that, once they got their communication back in order. It was unfortunate that a productive member of the business community had been knocked off. But it was a big city and those things happened.

He stepped off the sidewalk and aimed down a winding road that led into a leafy valley. The restful sounds of nature helped calm him down.

He thought about the young woman. He mostly remembered her clear blue eyes, but didn’t forget her untamed mass of blonde hair. Or her pale skin and red lipstick. She had a slim figure that was flattered by her jeans, especially while she was running away.

Why did she turn her attention to him, then try to avoid him?

He approached the bottom of the valley and heard the gurgle of a broad stream. Several cyclists zipped past on the W&OD trail.

Why had the blonde come to the funeral?

Maybe she knew Han Chu and had come to pay her final respects. Maybe her boyfriend worked for the company. Maybe she was just driving past and stopped to see who had died.

It was possible to explain everything except her hurrying away from him. What did she have to hide?

His heart quickened when he thought of her involved in any way with the heinous crime.

Let Red Stokes sort that one out, lucky bastard.