Deadly Lullaby (28 page)

The Asian receptionist seated in the lobby of KN Imports is about as enthused at my appearance in her bright white-and-gray domain as she was yesterday. She's just as attractive today, but is dressed and coiffed differently, her shoulder-length hair now pulled back into a ponytail, her sleeveless gray business suit of yesterday replaced with a maroon one of similar cut—the small “KN” script logo emblazoned on her right breast is gray today. I say, “Well, hello again,” badge her, and ask to speak with Mr. Khang Nhou.

From her slack expression you'd think I was a medieval peasant asking for an audience with the Emperor of China.

Before she has time to kick me out, I say, “I know he's here. His Lamborghini's parked outside. Tell him there could be something of great value in it for him if he meets with me. All I need is a couple of minutes, tops.”

Making it clear by her mechanical movements she has no other choice, she picks up her desk phone and punches a button. She speaks in a language I recognize as Khmer from listening to the interpreter talk to Mrs. Khemra the night before last. She pauses to hear the response, then signs off, blinking and shaking her head as if unable to believe her ears. “Mister Khang Nhou will see you. Please be seated,” she says and nods to my left at a section of gray and maroon, interlocked, chrome-frame seats that comprise the waiting area.

My hunch is I'm in for your standard twenty-minute executive wait; I'm seated for about only one, though, when Khang appears through the shiny gray door to the right of the reception desk. He's dressed more formally today in a gray silk suit and maroon tie, and has a pleasant enough expression on his face when he sees me. He confidently strolls up to me, shakes my outstretched hand, and bows his head slightly as if cautiously greeting a tough but respected business competitor. “Detective Crucci.”

For privacy's sake, I take a few steps toward the warehouse door at the end of the lobby opposite the reception desk. Khang follows at my side, his hands clasped behind him. “Assure your lawyer,” I say, “that as far as I'm concerned everything that's said between you and me today is off the record. You, of course, can repeat what I say to anyone you want.”

He doesn't overtly respond, but there's agreement in the gleam of his eyes, the single slow shuttering of his eyelids.

“I've had a tough day,” I say, “and want to get to the bottom of who killed Sonita as quickly and easily as I can”—I concentrate on his eyes—“with as little bloodshed as possible. So, I have a deal to offer you. You tell me who you think killed Sonita. You don't have to tell me how you know it. Just tell me who you suspect. Then I'll take it from there and never mention to anyone what you told me. In return, I promise you a favor in the future. As an LAPD detective, there are a lot of things I could do for you that would protect your business interests.”

Actually, I'd help him immediately if he tells me what he knows. To get my mind off squabbling with the old thug on the phone, I drove back to the Karma, had lunch, and thought a lot about the “old man” who hired Sonita. The obvious question was why he was willing to pay Sonita for her tip that Khang had a big haul of heroin coming in soon. I don't buy Monique's story that the old man's a retired cop. The fucker has too much money to blow to be a cop, retired or otherwise. My hunch is he's involved in the drug trade, either directly or through a connection. Or, he could be a paid snitch, an ex-con, maybe, who was once in the Life. Or, he could be under indictment and is using the information for a reduced sentence. Or, hell, he could be a retired cop who hit the lottery and was looking to turn on his old buddies to a hot tip. Whatever he is, the only reason he'd get jazzed over Khang's shipment is that it represents a nice target, either to him or to whomever he'd pass the info along to. The point is I'm more than willing to tell Khang that somebody is onto his shipment if he tells me what his boys learned from torturing Vannak. Sure, there's a chance Khang had nothing to do with Vannak, but the odds of that are so slim in my estimation that I'd slap my money down on them every time.

Khang says, “Yesterday you offered to eliminate the man responsible for Sonita's death and tie him up in a bow for me—figuratively, of course.”

“That promise is still in play. My most recent one is in addition to that.”

Khang thinks about it, then stiff-arms me, smiling politely and saying, “I spoke with my sister early this afternoon. She has gained her discharge from the hospital and is well enough to speak with you. Her cousin will be at her side around the clock, and will act as an interpreter.”

Disappointed, but not surprised, I sigh before saying, “I'll run by after leaving here. Thanks.”

“And thank you for working so diligently for us.” He withdraws a card from his breast pocket and hands it to me. “After Sonita's case is resolved, please call me. Or stop by my club again. I promise you will be treated very well, and respectfully.” With another brisk little bow of his head, he turns toward the way he came.

“One more thing, Khang, please.”

He halts. “Yes.”

“There's a kid I talked to today. His name is Vann Phan, a Cambodian boy.”

He gives no indication he recognizes the name. “Yes?”

“Should you or your guys ever run across him”—I shrug—“don't hurt him. I gave him a tough time and he's paid enough of a price for what he did.”

The silence that passes between us is not the least awkward, and it's as if we've reached a complete understanding before he says a word. “This
Vann Phan
you speak of,” he says, “has no reason to fear me,” and there's something about the way he says this—the tone of his voice, the cant of his eyes—that says to me,
Not anymore.

Maggie and I are enjoying the waning sun on my patio when Chief lopes around the corner of my house through the side gate, his battle-scarred Coleman cooler swinging from his hand like a grade-school lunch box. He is as relaxed as ever until he sees Maggie sitting in the chair very close to me and stops dead in his tracks, entranced.

“Chief,” I say. “What a pleasant surprise.”

This is a true statement.

“Come on over and meet my girl Maggie. I have told her many nice things about you.”

This is also a true statement.

Chief swipes his paw down the length of his face, which is flushed, twists his neck, gulps, and shuffles toward us the way a schoolboy would approach his new teacher. “Nice to meet ya, Maggie,” he says.

Stunning in a tranquil, postcoital way, Maggie still wears her short-short cutoffs and my ragged, oversized, wifebeater tee, and is damp with perspiration. “Nice to meet you, too, Mister Chief,” she says. “That's, um, a nice outfit you have on there.”

This is
not
a true statement.

Chief wears a Hawaiian shirt and identically matching shorts, predominantly bright blue, brown dress shoes, and black socks.

“Thanks,” he says, casting his eyes shyly downward, toeing the pavement. “Hey,” he says suddenly, extending the cooler at her. “You wanna beer?”

She throws back her head in laughter. “Mister Chief, I think I'll share at least a
dozen
beers with you before the night's over.” She pushes herself up. “But, first, I'm going to shower and get decent. You're staying for dinner, okay? I'm grilling turkey burgers, mixed veggies, and potato wedges, and we have
plenty.
”

In a trance, he says, “Sure. I love turkey burgers.”

Right,
I think. Maggie could be grilling pit-bull burgers and you would say the same fucking thing.

Maggie pinches his cheek, winks at me, and walks inside.

After a few seconds, I raise my hand in the air and snap my fingers in front of his face.

“What?” he says, startled.

“How about a beer for me, asshole?”

“Oh,” he says, “here,” and plops the heavy metal cooler in my lap while continuing to gaze after Maggie. He finally looks down at me and says, “How'd you ever manage to meet a nice chick like her?”

Removing the ice-cold cooler from my lap, I say, “Uh, at a taco bar,” and quickly add, “Sit down, man. We have much to celebrate.”

This brings him around. “No shit, pal,” he says, musses my hair, and sits heavily in the chair Maggie just vacated. He releases a torrent of breath and pats his chest. “We almost bought the farm today, pal.”

The cooler is now between my feet, and I withdraw two iced High Lifes and hand one to Chief.

We clink the bottlenecks together. “Here's to suckin' wind,” I say.

“Amen, brother.”

We drink deeply.

“Babe, I gotta say you had a great plan, man. I thought we were so
fucked.
”

“No plan works without great execution, Chief. And you pulled off your part to perfection.”

“Yeah, when I had my guy pinned against the wall, you should'a seen the look in his eyes when he heard the shots from you poppin' his guys. He knew he was dead.”

Smiling, we clink bottlenecks again, and drink.

He reaches into the cooler and comes out with a bottle of Jack Daniel's. “I wish I could drink this whole bottle tonight, but I can only have a couple drinks,” he says, unscrews the top and takes a big swig, rests the bottle between his legs. “Look, we gotta talk about somethin' before Miss Maggie comes back.”

“Yeah, what?”

“Joe Sacci called just a little while ago.”

“What did he want?”

“He asked me—fuck, practically begged me—to help him with something tonight, a one-time job, he said. He offered me twenty grand.”

The stash-house raid, shit. Twenty grand is chicken feed for helping with that. “Did he say what the job entailed?”

“Nope, just that it could be dangerous. He said to show up at the Venetian around nine o'clock to talk to him and Donsky about it. It's real hush-hush. He said once they told me what it was, I couldn't leave their sight.”

“Did you say you would do it?”

“Yeah, the money's good. Why the fuck not?”

“Perhaps because you have had a full day already?”

He shrugs. “Strike the iron while it's hot, shit. I told Joe I'd only do it if my end of the job was easy, and he said they'd have me standin' lookout for the heavy work the other guys are doin'. And twenty grand is twenty grand, right? For twenty K I can even put up with Donsky for one night. Joe says Fecarotta's not involved.” He swills beer. “Oh, yeah, listen, you still have an assault rifle? I need to borrow it. Joe said I'll need heavy firepower to pull the guard duty.” He winks.

Well, if he knows he needs an assault rifle, he has all the information he needs to realize what he is getting into. Chief is a big boy, and I promised Joe and Viktor I would keep my mouth shut about their little plan. I will keep my promise. I nod and say, “I have an AK-47 knockoff in a storage shed, a Chinese one that is completely untraceable, with plenty of ammo. I will give you the key before you leave. Just stop by the shed and help yourself. Keep the weapon and whatever ammo you have left after the job. I have no need for them anymore.”

Abel calls as I'm on the way to The Back Stop. Last time we talked, he cut me off before I reported much of what Monique told me about the old man who hired Sonita, and he revisits the subject. There's little I have to say, remaining faithful to my promise to Monique to not reveal what she disclosed to the guy about Khang's stash house. Abel doesn't need to know anyway, since I can work the information she provided me to an end point without Abel's assistance. All I tell Abel is that Monique could shed almost no light on the old man beyond the fact that he was old and had enough coin to hire Sonita at will.

I say to him, “The only remaining avenue on ‘the old man' is the driver's phone number we pulled from Sonita's cell. Did you get the subpoena served on the phone companies for the driver's call data?”

“Crucci, it's my job to hound people around here about getting things done.”

“I know that, I—”

“Then don't hound me,
damn it
….Have
you
called any other numbers that were on the call list of Sonita's phone?”

“No, other than the driver's number, there were none that recurred over more than a single day, and my guess is they were all one-shot customers trying to make an appointment with Sonita.”

“Use your best judgment on that one. Did you find Phan?”

“I did. I guess you could say he exercised his constitutional right to not incriminate himself.”

“You tune him up?”

“It didn't work.”

“Tough kid, huh?”

“Harder than a ball-peen hammer.”

“Fucking dinks can be almost supernatural under physical stress. My old man was a marine grunt in 'Nam. One of these days I'll pass along some of his stories to you over drinks.”

I can't wait.

I say, “What's the sheriff's office saying about their investigation into how Oliver just happened to get assigned to a cell with two Oriental Boyz?”

“ ‘The investigation is ongoing.' ”

“Of course it is.”

He says, “Before I forget, Doc Marten out of Central called a little while ago. He said you showed up at the scene of a bank robbery over on Beverly.”

“I was having lunch at the Karma down the street and heard the all-units call. I got fucking curious—so what?”

A pause, then, “Don't be so defensive. I'm trying to pay you a compliment. Marten said I ought to give you an attaboy for taking the initiative.”

Jesus Christ.

I clear my throat. “I'll have to remember to thank him for that….And, uh, thanks for passing it along.”

“Don't mention it. What else did you accomplish on the Khemra case?”

“I finally talked to Mrs. Khemra, at her house, right before you called. Her cousin interpreted. Bottom line is she loved her daughter but didn't really know her, and had not a clue how to control her. And she worships her brother Khang. She wouldn't say a bad word about him, and said he loved Sonita as much as she did.”

“Did you tell
mamasan
what Sonita had been up to with her friend Monique?”

“Generally, yeah.”

“Damn, son.”

“It was her daughter, Christ. She had the right to know.”

“How did that go over?”

“In a word: bad. She refused to believe it, said Sonita was too good of a girl to prostitute herself.”

“Naturally,” Abel says. “The thing about this job that never ceases to amaze me is the way parents can be so blind to the failings of their children.” A pause. “Come to think of it, children can be just as blind to the failings of their parents.”

“Now you're giving me a legitimate reason to be defensive.”

The fucker chuckles, says, “Some shots are just too wide-open to pass up,” coughs and clears his throat. “Seriously, remember what I told you about my father, Crucci. I'm speaking from experience. Fathers like ours will drag us down.”

Not if they won't even talk to you, I think.