Little Mountain (34 page)

         “Except the gold chain,” Vanney said.

         Sam sat up straight.
“With a big medallion?”

         “I’ve seen bigger and better ones.”

         A few minutes later, Vanney got out of the car a couple of blocks from his house. The rain had eased, and he sprinted down an alley and disappeared into the darkness.

         Suddenly, Sam felt wide awake. He drove to the end of Eleventh Street and walked in the direction of Bin Chea’s apartment. Across the street, he could watch from the darkness of the playground--the street lamp was still out. Had Viseth hidden here before he murdered Bin Chea’s house guest? On the top two floors, lights shone from the living-room windows. It was beginning to make sense. Nawath Lac’s eyes held the same cold void as his father’s eyes. Viseth Kim had molested that little boy Ravy, not knowing he’d messed with
Angka.
That he’d messed with Bin Chea’s grandson. And maybe Nawath had taken down one of the palm fronds that graced the
apsara
in his living room. Palm rips a throat just as well as a knife.
Angka will follow you across the ocean--you are never safe.

         The light went out on the top floor. Could be that wasn’t Bin Chea’s apartment at all; it may have been just a convenient place to stage his death. No one would be looking for him anymore. Sam’s shirt was soaked, and a light breeze made him shiver. God, a warm bed would have been perfect. The porch light went out, and Sam waited. A minute later, the front door opened and someone stepped onto the porch. In the gloom, Sam couldn’t tell who it was. He walked to the driveway as Sam moved quietly to his own car. A pair of taillights flicked on between two houses, and Sam dashed for his car.

         Sam followed the car through the downtown, careful to keep a safe distance. He followed to the old mill building where he usually went to his health club; then he parked his car across the street. It was five stories and had hundreds of rooms, most of them unrented. Only security lights were on in the building, except for a light on the third floor. Sam waited out by the road while his quarry threw something on the ground, probably a cigarette. Then he apparently took out a key, opened a door and stepped inside. The man had been too far away for Sam to make out any of his features. Did Bin Chea smoke? The light in the parking lot cast a yellow glow on the car so that Sam couldn’t tell its real color. He noted the make and model. The license number wasn’t one he recognized, and he kept his distance because of the car alarm.

         Sam checked his watch; it was almost two-thirty. The rain had stopped, and puddles still glistened on the asphalt parking lot as he ran toward the door. He squatted down and picked up an unfiltered cigarette butt that was still warm--“mel” was all that remained on the shred of soggy white paper. The smoker in Bin Chea’s apartment had left menthols behind, so who was this? Only one person Sam knew smoked unfiltered weeds. From the overhang came a steady drip-drip-drip. His heart pounded as he pulled the door open.

         The elevator light was out; whoever had gotten here ahead of Sam must have used the stairs. To his left were the doors to the exercise club, a weight-loss outfit, and a telemarketing firm. He walked down the hall into the darkness. Industrial carpet muffled the sound of his shoes, as it may have been doing for someone else. For a moment all he heard was the sound of his own breathing. Sam drew his .38 as he stood at the door to the stairwell, just listening. Then he climbed the stairs, making as little noise as possible.

         At the third-floor landing he waited again,
then
eased himself into the hallway. His mouth felt like paper. The office lights would be down the hall to his left, though he didn’t see them yet. He hadn’t gone far in that direction before he heard their voices. A cloth partition separated them from Sam.

        
“--money.”

        
“--gun down.”

         “--nail your gook hide to the wall.” That was Tommy Wilkins, not a doubt about it, expressing his true self in the shadows of the night.

         “Look, I am a reasonable man.” But whose voice was this? “If you want more, just allow me to get it for you. I have cash right here in the desk.”

         Then there were gunshots, four of them in quick succession. One ripped through the partition in front of Sam’s nose. He stepped around the partition with his .38 leveled. “Freeze!” he shouted.

         Nawath looked up at him, startled. There were four gaping holes in his desk; splinters scattered across the floor in front of Sam. Wilkins was down and bleeding, his gun on the floor beside him. From behind the desk, Nawath’s hands seemed to be adjusting to a new target. Sam squeezed the trigger twice, and Nawath fell backwards with two red blotches on his chest.

Nawath Lac was dead, and Wilkins lay in surgery at Lowell General with a bullet in his left shoulder. How Wilkins would explain that night’s events, the chief said he could hardly wait to hear. At least, thank God, he hadn’t lost any men, though he might have to fire a couple of them. Sam spent what seemed like the rest of the night answering questions.

         By daybreak the Chief looked thoroughly exasperated. “Wilkins had said you were off the case,” he said. “Lucky for him you didn’t listen. But now I have to put you on paid leave until we finish the investigation. Meanwhile, go spend some time with your wife and kid.”

         “They’re in New Hampshire now, at her folks’ cabin.”

         “
All the
better. Go there and stay put until we call.”

        
“Yes, sir.”

        
“And Sam?”

        
“Yes, sir?”

         “This case is closed.”

         Sunlight streamed in the window. Sam hadn’t been to sleep yet. Images swirled in his brain, the stuff of a waking nightmare. Muzzle flashes. Bin Chea with a butcher’s knife at Julie’s neck. Sambath smoothing the dirt over his father’s grave. “No, sir,” Sam said. “It’s not closed.”

         The Chief bristled at Sam’s insubordination. “I don’t want to discipline you. I suggest you get some rest,
then
join your family. Grill some hot dogs. Go fishing. Take your kid on a water slide, my grandson loves those. But whatever you do, don’t--I repeat, don’t--pursue this case anymore. Now get out.”

The sun was already heating up the city. Sam couldn’t drive to New Hampshire, because he was bone-tired. And he couldn’t go home and go to bed, because he’d just sleep until the afternoon. So he drove to the park that adjoined Bin Chea’s properties, found a bench underneath a tree, and stretched out in the shade. The wooden slats were hard. A couple of mosquitoes flitted around his face. A muffler backfired, a boombox blasted, and people laughed nearby. None of it mattered. The air was filled with the warm scent of maple leaves and mown grass, and the sun’s rays danced among the leaves overhead. Sam dozed, his eyes trying to follow as Bin Chea raised a knife, about to rip--

        
“Hey Sam, you all right?”
Fitchie stood next to him, agitated, and Sam opened his eyes. “I saw your car, you okay? I heard you saved the lieutenant’s ass last night. We’ve got to talk.”

        
“Mm?”

         “Look, they just pulled a body out of the Pawtucket Canal.” Sam sat upright. “Cambodian kid, they ID’d him as Vanney Lek.”

         “Shit!” Sam held his head. “And I’m responsible.” He explained the events of last night, and Fitchie said he already knew. Fitchie drove Sam to the Owl Diner for a cup of coffee. The place was packed, and they had to wait for a booth. “
Angka,
” Sam said. “We have to crush
Angka
.”

         Fitchie gave a quizzical look over his coffee cup. “Explain,” he said.

         Sam told Fitchie about the group that had terrorized the countryside of his native land. “I understand,” Fitchie said patiently. “And the organization is here now?”

         “
Right,
and I know just how to bring them down.”

         “How about you get some shuteye, then we’ll talk?”

         Sam drained his coffee cup and left a dollar bill under the saucer. “I’ve had all the sleep I need. Let’s do it now.”

They parked near Bin Chea’s house and waited. Mrs. Chea’s car was not in the driveway. “What’s the plan?” Fitchie asked.

         “To piss off a dead man,” Sam said.

         “Chief’s gonna love you for it,” Fitchie said. “But I’m in.”

         After an hour, a taxi pulled up in front of Chea’s house. The driver stepped out and pulled two bags of groceries from the back seat. Mrs. Chea stepped out the other side.

         “We should help with her bags,” Sam said. “I wonder who’s using her
car?
”

         Sam and Fitchie caught up with them on the porch. “Thanks for your help,” Fitchie told the cabbie. “We’ll take it from here.” He lifted a ten-kilo bag of rice from the cabbie’s arms.
A lot for one person.

         “Thank you, detective,” Mrs. Chea said in Khmer. “But I have already paid the driver to help me.”

         “I apologize, Mrs. Chea, but we have more questions. May we help you put your groceries away?” Sam headed upstairs without waiting for her reply.

         “Yes, of course. Thank you,” she said, though her tone suggested the opposite.

         All signs of damage had disappeared from the apartment. The living room had new wallpaper, pale blue with a floral print. Against the wall, where a picture of a Thai stewardess had hung, a statue of Buddha sat on a table, golden and serene. The telephone sat on a side table next to the couch. Mrs. Chea put the food in the kitchen cabinets and heated a pot of water. Sam and Fitchie declined her offer of tea.

         “But may I use your telephone?” Sam asked.

         “Yes, please,” Mrs. Chea said. Sam picked up the handset, pushed the redial button and heard seven beeps and a ring. It was a local call. Judging from the tone pattern, it was likely a number here in Lowell.

         “Yes?” An unfamiliar voice spoke in Khmer.

         “Um, yes,” Sam said in Khmer, his voice soft and tentative. “Um, is this Paradise?”

         There was a long silence on the line. In the background, a bus rumbled by. “Who is this?”

         “I’m--I mean--I’m trying to find Bin Chea?” Sam’s voice rose at the end of the sentence, striving for the right note of uncertainty.

         “He’s dead.”

         “I know that. But--”

         The man on the other end of the line hung up. Sam hit the redial button again. The same man answered.

         “But I have something for him,” Sam said.

         “Who is this?”

         “It is only for him, I can trust no one else.”

         “You idiot, he’s dead!” The phone slammed down. Sam hit redial; this time the phone rang a dozen times before the man picked up.

         “
What?
”

         “Bin Chea is alive and in great danger. I have the name of his greatest enemy.”

         There was a pause on the line, and then a different voice.

         “Yes?”

         “Comrade Bin?”

        
Silence.

         “You can run or you can stay and kill your enemy, Comrade.”

         “Who is he? Who are you?”

         “You aren’t Comrade Bin. I must see him in person.”