Deceived (22 page)

"Gansu?"

"It is in
Northwestern China."

"How long
have you been here?"

"Eight
months."

Eyebrows
raised, Nick said, "You speak excellent English after only eight
months."

Jing-mei's eyes
flared, showed their first sign of life. "I have studied English since I
was a small child. Because I work in
…
in that place
…
you assume I
am uneducated."

Nick assured
Jing-mei that he had meant no insult, but she continued: "Many of the
people I work with have been to universities," she said. "One is a
teacher, one an engineer. Does that surprise you?"

An engineer
sewing blue jeans in a sweatshop? Yeah, that surprised him. "China's
economy is
…
good. Getting better. I would think they'd have had plenty of
opportunity there."

"In many
eastern cities, yes. In the countryside, away from the coast where I was born,
no. There is great poverty. If you don't have ties to the government, you are
nothing."

Nick had pegged
Jing-mei as shy. He'd been wrong. On some subjects, at least, she needed little
coaxing. He decided to keep her talking. "Couldn't they, you, have just
relocated. Moved to the coast?"

"Have you
heard of the Hokou System?"

"No."

 "Read
about it sometime. China is not like America. On birth you are registered
…
classified
as a rural citizen or an urban citizen. It is not easy to move anywhere you
want, even now. And if you do, you lose rights, you face discrimination. Many
of us can find more opportunity here. And more equality."

"Suyuan
and you, did you come here alone or with family?"

"My family
could only afford to send one person. They chose me. Suyuan's chose her."

Nick studied
the girl's face, jaw forward, teeth clenched. He family had chosen well, he
thought.

"Someday I
will repay them," Jang-mei went on, "in thanks and to send a
message."

"A
message?"

"In my
village, out of eighty or so children, only thirty were girls. Everyone knew
why, but few talked of it." She paused as her voice faltered. "China
has a one child policy, and girls are not prized. A girl is assumed to be a
liability, cannot be counted on to support her parents in their old age as a
boy can. And so people do what people do."

Nick bowed his
head. "I'm sorry."

"I am too,
Mr. Ford. And so I will prove them wrong."

They had
circled the park and now passed the swings for a second time. The peals of
laughter from the children
—
girls and boys in equal numbers
—
underlined
Jing-mei's account. Nick directed the discussion back to his investigation. "You
say you arrived by freighter," he said. "I'm assuming you were
smuggled into the U.S. illegally."

Jing Mei
paused, obviously anxious at the question. "Suyuan was a good friend. I
want to help, but
…
I cannot, will not, be sent back there."

"You're
not going back," Nick assured her. "I'm not with immigration. I'm
here to find out who killed Suyuan
…
that's all."

Jing-mei ran
her tongue over her lips, then nodded. "Yes, I was smuggled into the
country. So was Suyuan. We came with dozens of others. We were packed into a
shipping container and loaded onto a freighter in Shanghai."

"Where did
the freighter dock here? What port?"

She shook her
head. ""We spent two weeks locked in the ship's hold. Then we were
again packed into the shipping container. We were loaded in the back of trucks
without windows and driven here. It took many hours. I don't know where we
docked; I wasn't supposed to. All I can tell you is the name of the ship. The
Shansi.
It was stamped on the life preservers in the hold."

 Jing-mei spelled
the name, and Nick made a mental note of it
.

"How did
you and Suyuan find jobs?"

"The job
was part of the contract."

Nick didn't
understand and Jing-mei explained: "The price to get to America was
twenty-five thousand dollars; my family could raise only fifteen. The remaining
ten thousand dollars owed to the smugglers I must work off."

"At the
place I visited today?"

Jing-mei
shrugged. "That place, another place
…
wherever I am sent. Three
years, then I'll have my freedom."

"You only
owe ten thousand dollars, and they are making you work three years? That's
slave wages."

"There are
quicker ways to work off the money," the girl said, "luckily I am
considered too plain."

It took a
moment for Nick to grasp the inference, and all at once Jing-mei's transformation
made sense. The thick glasses, the unstylish haircut
—
defensive
camouflage. "And Suyuan, was she plain?"

"Suyuan
was beautiful."

"She
became a prostitute?"

Jing-mei shook
her head. "She told me she was approached, twice, but she refused."

"Is that
why she was killed?"

"The
smugglers, the people we had to deal with to get here
…
they are not good
people. Not the type of people you say no to. Suyuan did, and now she's dead. I
think the message is clear."

"Give me
names. Who was responsible?"

Jing-mei shook
her head.

"The man I
met
…
your supervisor?"

Jing-mei tossed
her head dismissively. "He is nothing."

"Then
who?"

"I don't
know," Jing-mei replied, rubbing her hands together nervously. "We
were cargo, and dealt only with intermediaries. I can give you no names; I can
describe no one." She looked to her watch then and said, "It's
getting late, I must go now."

"A few
more questions
…
" He asked where Suyuan lived, who her friends were,
where she hung out, but Jing-Mei knew little or nothing of importance. Finally,
she said, "I must go."

Nick pulled a
business card from his wallet and gave it to her; she hurriedly stuffed it in
her jeans pocket. "And if I need to get in touch with you?" Nick
asked.

"Don't,"
Jing-mei said. "For Suyuan, I have told you everything. That is all I can
do." With that she veered from him. "I must go." Hurriedly, she
crossed the street.

Nick almost
shouted after her, an offer of help, money, anything she might need, but he
didn't, and in less than a minute he lost sight of her.

Nick heard the
fax machine engage and started immediately for his study, where it sat beside
the computer. A page rolled slowly from the machine's top. He read its heading:
"Federal Maritime Commission."

The machine
idled after spitting out three pages. The cover page was short, just a quick
note from a Federal Maritime Commission member who Nick had done a few favors
for: "Glad I could help. Wayne." Nick skipped to the second page and
found what he had requested, a copy of the manifest from the
Shansi
, the
freighter Jing-mei said she'd been smuggled to America on.

Two columns
marked the manifest, the first a list of the
Shansi's
ports-of-call. Nick
ran his finger down the column searching for any within the United States. He
found only three, all at the same place: a shipyard in Norfolk, Virginia. Sliding
his finger to the right, he checked the corresponding dates of entry. The first
two dates meant nothing to him, the third a great deal. July 21st
.

The date jumped
out at him, snapping his spine straight
.

 
The
Shansi
had docked at Norfolk on July 21st, the same day Scott had been murdered.

Nick sunk to a
chair. The
same day
. Too much of a coincidence to ignore. His mind
connected dots: Suyuan Chunnu and Scott, their hands similarly mutilated;
Suyuan and the
Shansi
, the freighter she'd been smuggled to America on;
and now, completing the circle, Scott and the
Shansi.

Nick pulled a
road atlas from a shelf above his computer. He knew, roughly, Norfolk's
location, but felt a need to pinpoint it. He turned to the state map of
Virginia and did. Norfolk lay some one hundred and eighty miles south and east
of D.C., at the base of the Chesapeake, along the Atlantic coast.

Along the
coast.
Again Nick's mind clicked. Scott had told Meg his investigations
were leading him to the coast. To Norfolk? Nick wondered. And Carolyn had said
the police believed Scott's body had been moved. From Norfolk?

Nick folded the
fax, marked the Virginia state map with it, and stuck the road atlas under his
arm. Then he scooped up his car keys and made for the apartment's underground
parking structure. He did not waste time to deliberate the drive south, he just
started. What he expected to discover in Norfolk he couldn't say. Maybe after
seeing the shipyard
—
the workers, the ships at dock, the freight
—
something
would come to him, a hint of what Scott had uncovered. Maybe he'd walk through
the gate, talk to a foreman or a secretary on some pretext, and chance upon
some discovery. Or maybe
—
more likely
—
he'd learn nothing at all. Maybe,
in truth, he just needed to see for himself the place where Scott may have
died.

As traffic
thinned out of D.C., interstate turned to state highway to two-lane rural
route. As a rule Nick preferred the clean lines and order of a city. On those
rare occasions when he wanted to enjoy the country he did so his way: from
behind large picture windows at bed and breakfasts, beach houses, and resorts,
not through a windshield. But just being out of D.C., away from phones and
headlines, was a release. Taking secondary roads added three-quarters of an
hour to his drive, but he didn't mind
—
since the last senate hearing he'd
barely been able to think, and enjoyed the luxury of letting his mind wander,
as it did now
.

The passing
countryside
—
fields of peanuts, tobacco, and cotton bounded by scrub pine
and interrupted by the occasional barn or one story house invariably in need of
paint
—
raced by in hypnotic measure recalling distant memories. A dark
green pickup truck with whitewall tires; jeans rolled above the ankle; roadside
vegetable stands.

Nick stopped at
a gas station to purchase a more detailed Virginia map and an old stooped man
in neat overalls cleaned his windshield. My God, when had he last seen a gas
station attendant clean anybody's windshield? For that matter, when had he last
seen an attendant?

Small towns
gave way to urban sprawl as Nick approached, then crossed, the James River into
Norfolk. Whatever charms graced the city disappeared entirely as he neared the
port area. Even the air smacked faintly of oil.

He stopped by
the side of the street and checked his map. He had only to turn right at the
next 'T' in the road, pass the U.S. naval base, then start counting down the
miles.

He drove on.

Another five minutes and Nick again pulled to the side of the road. To
his left, a couple of hundred yards below the rise on which he had parked,
stood a square, nondescript warehouse circled by a tall cyclone fence. Fixed to
that fence was a weather beaten sign. Kiajong Shipping, it said.

Tired of
sitting, Nick shifted uneasily in the car seat. Two hours and he'd seen
nothing. No ship; no workers. The docks and parking lot stood empty, as did the
pad on his lap in which he had planned to record observations
.

So much for
learning anything. Nick checked his watch
—
it was late, nearing seven
.

Now what,
Nick? Now that you've gone off on your wild goose chase to no end, what next?

Nick finished
his coffee and watched the sun close on the horizon, wondering if Scott had
done the same from this spot a few short weeks ago
.

Was it only
weeks? It seemed so much longer.

Nick started
his car; he wouldn't drive home, not tonight. He'd take a room in Norfolk and
return to the shipyard early the next day. Scott had learned something here,
Nick felt certain
—
perhaps he'd discover what in the morning.

Retracing his
drive, Nick sighted the familiar sign of a national hotel chain just past the
port area. He checked in. A vending machine in the lobby provided dinner: two
granola bars and an apple juice
.

Nick retreated
to his room, hung his shirt in the closet and carefully folded his pants over
the back of the room's one chair. In the bathroom he followed routine
diligently
—
brushed and flossed his teeth, took a shower, clipped his
nails. Anything to prolong activity.

Finished, he
sat on the edge of the bathtub, head cupped in hands. He drew air sharply
through his nose, teeth clenched tightly.

He'd be
cleared, would get his job back. He'd find the persons responsible for Scott's
death. Things would assume their old order; everything would be okay.

Nick made for
the other room and the television remote on the night table between the twin
beds. He pushed the power button and filled the otherwise darkened room with a
bluish glare. Flipping through the channels, he came to a financial network and
turned up the volume. Three analysts debated fiscal policy. He forced himself
to listen, but soon the words meant nothing to him. They were drowned out by
his rapid breathing, and the pounding of his heart. Eventually a restless sleep
found him.

Nick was
showered, dressed, and at the front desk by sunrise. The counter hosted a slot
for room keys, and Nick dropped his through
.

At the noise, a
woman appeared from a back office. "Thought I heard something out here. You
checking out?"

Nick nodded and
the woman moved to a computer behind the counter. "Room number,
please."

Nick's mind
went blank. "Ah
…
Sorry, I can't remember. I just dropped the key
through the slot and
—
"

"Your
name, sir?"

"Ford. Nick
Ford."

The woman
punched in his name. "Here we are, Room 272." She smiled. "No
additional charges, Mr. Ford. You're all set. Have a nice day."

Nick froze as
the woman started for the back office. Of course she'd be able to pull up the
name of a guest on the computer. Stupid of him not to think of it. If Scott had
stayed here, stayed in Norfolk
—

"Excuse
me," he called, and the woman turned. Nick reached for his wallet and
removed his GAO identification card. "I'm trying to trace a man's
movements. I wonder if you could check your computer and tell me if he stayed
here within the last few months?"

The woman
scrutinized Nick's identification, then shrugged. "Sure," she said,
and returned to her computer. "What's the name?"

"Scott
Johnson."

The woman typed
in Scott's name, then frowned. "A Thomas Johnson, a Michael Johnson, a
Lois Johnson, but no Scott. Sorry. Can I help you with anything else?"

"Maybe."
Nick pulled the Norfolk map from his luggage and spread it out on the reception
desk. "How well do you know your competition?" he asked.