Little Mountain (31 page)

        
You are my only love,

And I will wait for you.

        
And then he fell asleep.

The ring on the phone was too damn loud. How long had it been ringing? He fumbled for the receiver, and it slipped out of his hands and onto the floor.
Too sleepy.
Who the hell--? It seemed that the telephone screamed when it fell. Sam picked it up.

         “Yes?”

         The voice spoke in Khmer, indistinct, distant,
frantic
.
“Oh, no.
D-Don’t. P-Please don’t. I didn’t--” The voice screamed again like the ghosts in Sam’s nightmares, and then the words dissolved into
a babble
, a gurgle, and a click.

         Sam heard a dial tone, and the soft breath of Julie’s sleep. It was three-thirty. He was wide awake.

Sam called work at 6:55.

         Wilkins was adamant. “I want you in here at seven sharp. No excuses, no bullshit.”

         “This is urgent, Lieutenant.”

         “What’s the problem?”

         “I need to move Julie and Trish. They’re not safe in this apartment.”

         “Sending them back to her parents?”

         “No, I’ll feel better if they’re out of town. Her folks have a place up on Lake Sunapee.”

         “You’re more or less worried for nothing. I told you we’re wrapping this up. You’ll be getting another assignment.”

         “I’ll be back before noon. I’ll make up the time.”

         The trip to Lake Sunapee took two hours, mostly on smooth, well-paved highways. No one spoke more than a few words during the whole trip.

         The cabin stood surrounded by pine trees at the water’s edge. Julie’s father had built it when she was born. Every spring, he refreshed one side of the cabin with white paint and black trim. For two springs in a row, he had turned down Sam’s offer to help with the painting.

         Beach chairs.
Toes in the water.
Sailboats in dazzling red and yellow, their sails teased by the languid air.
Sam could take it. But today he left these pleasures to Julie and Trish. He drove east to the interstate and headed south.

Sam arrived at work at 11:30. Wilkins and Fitchie had both signed out on the whiteboard.

         He checked the number of the St. Bridgid’s rectory and dialed. The voice on the other end of the line was Father McClafferin’s booming brogue.

         “Well, sure I do. We get them from the archdiocese. They’ve got some buyer who handles purchases for all of the local parishes.”

         “Any place they can buy palm fronds locally?”

         “The archdiocese gets them from Texas or Florida. You know, there isn’t much call for them except around Easter.”

         At least Sam knew that no one walked into a local store and bought his murder weapon. He had to travel to get it, or maybe someone traveled to bring it to him. Most likely, one of the Battboys brought palm fronds from California. In that case, there wasn’t much point in pursuing local sources.

         He called the Stockton Police on the West Coast. He introduced himself to Detective Garrels and waited several minutes while Garrels pulled out a file.

         “Okay, I got it,” Garrels said. “I remember this Khem Chhap,” Garrels said.
“One assault, no conviction.
He tried to punch a guy’s lights out over some grudge from the refugee camps.”

         “What do you mean, he tried?”

         “Chhap was a frail fellow.
Being treated for cancer, as I recall.”

         “What was the victim’s name?”

         “Nawath Lac. He eventually dropped the charges.”

         Sam thanked Garrels and hung up the phone. He put in for a week’s vacation starting with the end of the day; meanwhile, he kept busy with paperwork and tried not to think about how he had let his family down. A photo of Viseth Kim’s body lay on Sam’s desk, underneath a cup of cold coffee. Best picture of the bastard he had ever seen. Maybe Wilkins was doing Sam a favor by taking him off the Chea and Kim killings, but certainly not on purpose. Wilkins never helped anybody without a good reason.

         Sam snapped a pencil and threw it in the trash, then reached in his desk for the rest of the pencils. Then he snapped another one, a number 2.5 Dixon Oriole, destruction of municipal property, probably a misdemeanor, but it came apart with a satisfying crack, and Sam pictured his hands wringing Bin Chea’s neck.

        
Cancer.
Snap.

         Khem Chhap had cancer.
Snap.

         Maybe he was the one Viseth killed.
Snap.

         And maybe Bin Chea was still out there. Sam reached for another pencil, but they were all gone. He stood up, aware now that Colleen McGinnis was staring at him, and went into the men’s room to wash his face. Somehow he had to regain control of himself and get back to business.

        
Think.
Who had called Sam at home last night, and what on earth did he hear?
“Don’t. Please don’t.”
The voice had sounded vaguely familiar, almost like Viseth crying from the bottom of a barrel. He’d heard pleas like that a dozen times at Little Mountain, but why would someone say those things to him? Maybe the call was just a prank by some sick Battboy. That made no sense at all, but he wasn’t going to put up with it. He called the telephone company and requested an unlisted number, effective as soon as possible. He would call Julie tonight,
then
tell her parents.

         Sam thumbed through his address book for the number of The Asian Store; then he picked up the phone again and dialed.

         “Mister Tip, this is detective Sambath Long. I am serious about the carry permit. Would you please visit me here at the station? The paperwork will take only a few minutes.”

         Tip’s voice carried none of the traditional Cambodian politeness. “I don’t have time to get a carry permit. Forget it.”

         “Do you have time to spend a year in jail, then? Please come now, so I can return your weapon.”

         When Souvann Tip showed up fifteen minutes later, Sam ushered him to a swivel chair next to his desk.

         “Thank you for your promptness, Mister Tip. I realize how busy you are. Last night you said the calls
stopped,
the ones you were getting in the middle of the night. What were they like?”

         “Is this why you called me here? I told you already. I would pick up the phone and no one would say anything.”

         “I called you because you absolutely need the carry permit. You didn’t get a dial tone?”

         “No, just breathing. Like an obscene phone call.”

        
“Any noise in the background?”

         “I don’t think so. It was very quiet.”

         “Who do you think was calling you?”

         “Bin Chea, or somebody calling for him. Nobody else had a reason to bother me.”

         “Can you tell me anything about a man named Khem Chhap?”

        
“Him?
I know the old fool. He was obsessed with the past, with blood grudges. He swore he would cut out Bin Chea’s liver and fry it for lunch, as Chea supposedly did to some boy. Chhap sounded like a foolish drunk, so I didn’t think much of his wild stories.

         “I spoke to Bin once out of friendship, and let him know what Khem had told me. Bin said he didn’t know Khem but wanted to make his peace with him, and could I arrange for them to meet. Bin said that as soon as they met, Khem Chhap would realize his mistake. I’m not sure if they ever got together. Do you think Khem killed Bin?”

         “I’m more interested in what you think,” Sam said.

         The telephone rang. “Come see me right away,” Wilkins said.

         “Excuse me for a minute, Mister Tip.” Sam went into Wilkins’ office.

         “Shut the door behind you,” Wilkins said. Sam eased the door closed and resigned himself to breathing the same air as Wilkins.

         Wilkins popped a stick of chewing gum into his mouth. “Who’s the guy with the sling?” he said.

         “Souvann Tip from
The
Asian Store. Remember the fellow who was shot in a robbery?”

        
“Yeah.
Didn’t tell us shit.”

         “Now he’s talking. Says he owed money to Bin Chea, and he was getting harassed.”

         “You trying to keep that case alive, I’ll kick your ass.
Told you to let it go.”

         “The Tip shooting isn’t closed, and the victim is giving me important information.”

         “A hot dog gets a hot tip, right? Well, listen up, my boy. I’m more or less doing you a favor keeping quiet about you killing the punk.”

         Sam took a deep breath and swallowed his resentment. “I didn’t kill anyone, Lieutenant.”

         “Whatever. You and Fitchie dug into the files trying to make me look like a liar. So don’t try my patience. The Chea thing is history.”

         Yeah, last week’s bloodbath.
Happens all the time.

         Sam went back to his desk, but Tip was gone. He’d left behind his signed request for a carry permit.

         Blood pounded through Sam’s temples, and his muscles tightened like coiled springs.
Illegitimi non carborundum,
the plaque said; its marble back felt heavy in his hands. How far could he throw it, and how big a dent would it make in the wall? No, he shouldn’t be a fool. The marble might break, and he’d piss off the friends who gave the plaque to him. Stop, Sam. Stop and think before you--

         He slammed the plaque on the coffee cup.

         --do something irrational.

         Viseth looked like a squashed bug, brown blood splattered across Sam’s desk, don’t let the bastards grind you down.

         “What the hell’s going on?” Fitchie said.

        
“Swatting flies.”

         Fitchie looked at the mess on Sam’s desk. “Damn. Next time ask for a fly swatter. Let’s take a ride. Get you some air, we can talk.”

         While Sam sat in the car and waited for Fitchie, he imagined holding Bin Chea’s mouth open and pouring Khem Chhap’s ashes down his throat.

         “I signed us both out,” Fitchie said. “Move over. You’re in no condition to drive.” Sam took a deep breath and slid over to the passenger side. Fitchie might have saved him from assaulting his boss.

         They turned left onto Central Street and headed toward the park, where they walked in the shade of a red maple tree. Nearby, a woman watched her child play on a jungle gym.

         “Sam, what’s your take on this Chea case? You must have a theory.”

        
“My theory?
I think Khem Chhap’s ashes are sitting on Mrs. Chea’s nightstand. She’ll file an insurance claim as soon as her grief subsides. The hospital wouldn’t release his records, but I didn’t see any medical bills in his mail. No prescription drugs in his cabinet. But we know from Katsios that the victim was dying from lung cancer. Chhap smoked menthols, the kind we found in Chea’s apartment.”