No Good to Cry (26 page)

The tapes. More than one.

I played the ten-second video of the Little Saigon incident and then played it against the one produced by my own amateur acting troop, Gracie Patroni, director. Something was starting to click. The anomaly of movement. Something there. Yes.

The tape from the first crime—the death of Ralph. Jimmy stumbling into traffic.

Nothing.

Then I logged onto my computer, brought up YouTube, and found that rap video from SaigonSez. I'd watched it over and over, the gangsta stances, the in-your-face menace. Simon as thug. Frankie as thug. Worse, the bleak outlook on life. The dead-end philosophy. In the name of the devil. But oddly it always struck me now as the product of two half-baked wannabes dressing up for an amateur hour in a suburban school hall. Yet…there was a message there, perhaps not the one they might glibly proclaim.

I watched it again.

A teenaged fatalistic vision. The raw power of boys exalting evil. Celebrating the vainglorious ego of Satan. No good to cry. This is the way the world is, and it isn't pretty. Only evil lasts forever. Shakespeare: the evil that men do lives after them. The good is buried with the dead. Don't cry. No good to cry.

Simon and Frankie as Elizabethan troubadours on a dark landscape.

In the name of the devil

(awright you go to hell)

In the name of the devil

(awright I'll go to hell)

Did they describe themselves?

Boys with black and hooded heads

Cool and classy in the street

You and me—no good to cry

Only Satan lives forever.

I found myself thinking back to my literature classes. John Milton: Satan thundering after exile from heaven—better to rule in hell rather than serve in heaven.

What fresh hell is this?

Forbidden streets ain't got no map

Nowhere to run when you awake

A civics lesson, no less—bloodbath in Afghanistan.

Little Simon watching CNN and taking notes? What would Wolf Blitzer say?

I scrolled down the page. The number of “likes” had increased in a few days to 11,732. Who were these online viewers? Young kids? Disgruntled grownups? How did young folks navigate social media and discover SaigonSez? Lost Vietnamese immigrants pining in the Diaspora for a city that no longer existed? Sai Gon. Saigon.

Sez.

But there were fifty-seven “dislikes.”

I skimmed through the comments:

You boyz is all there is…You nail it.

This is a masterpiece. Somebody got real talent rap lyric telling.

I put this on my MP3 player and it plays thru my schoolday.

You got anymore raps? Upload.

SaigonSez a lot to me.

Yet some were negative, even strident:

What the hell you talkin about.

White boyz cant rap or jump and Asians too.

Find Jesus and cut the crap.

You sound like boys that kill for the hell of it. Awright then you can go to hell for all I care.

…Boys that kill for the hell of it…

Go to hell…

Awright…

The lines stopped me cold. I found myself playing and replaying the video. I reread the comments. Then I saw something. I scrolled up and down. I sat up, startled. Why hadn't I seen it before? How had I missed it?

I returned to my laptop and played the ten-second video from Little Saigon.

Over and over.

Sunlight on a city sidewalk, late in the afternoon.

Suddenly I had an idea of what had happened.

Chapter Twenty-nine

I called Hank to tell him my idea, and his long silence convinced me that I'd hit on a real possibility.

“But there's no proof,” he protested. “And it's a little preposterous.”

“But possible?”

As we spoke, I was pacing my rooms, antsy, manic. I straightened a picture on the wall, decided it had to be moved. Then I changed my mind. I looked out the front window at the street. A cloudy day, windswept. It started to rain, a driving spring shower, and a girl from Miss Porter's ran for shelter. I peered through the rain-splattered window, and my mind riveted to that cloudy ten-second video. So much revealed in so short a tape. Yes. An awful epiphany. There, hidden under all that brilliant sunlight.

“Yes.” Hank sucked in his breath.

I waited for that one word: yes.

As I was hanging up my phone, my land line rang. My mind elsewhere, I picked up the phone absently.

“Ardolino here.” The grumpy voice waited. “You there?”

I focused. “Yes.”

“It's polite to say hello, you know. Were you raised in a barn?”

“What is it, Detective?”

He made a gulping sound, then swore. “These goddamn lids don't stay on a cup, you know. Like that old lady, I should sue McDonald's for millions. Then I wouldn't have to be calling you with news.”

“You don't sound happy. Let me guess—good news for me?”

“Dream on.” Another slurping sound. “Well, I guess it is. We got hold of this surveillance video from this Pinkberry place where Hazel Tran said she was with your boys. Time of day, etcetera, etcetera. As it turns out, there they are, Hazel and criminal-at-large Simon, merrily chugalugging milk shakes without a care in the world.”

“They're kids,” I told him. “They
should
have a world without cares.”

“I believe in giving kids a dose of reality right off the bat.”

“Scare them straight?”

A forced laugh. “That way life ain't gonna take them off guard later on in life.”

“Is that how you raised your kids, Detective?”

The sound of gulping. “Whatever happened to my kids was the result of my wife hiding them from the truth.”

“Why'd you call?” I asked. “An apology?”

“Well, Simon and weasel Frankie—yes, even Frankie makes a guest appearance at Pinkberry. Christ, in my day no boy would never walk into a place called Pinkberry.”

“They also didn't have frozen yogurt in your day.”

A snarky laugh. “Yeah, like I'm one day older than water, Lam boy.”

I broke in, content. “So the boys couldn't have been the culprits in Little Saigon.”

“No, they couldn't. Not
that
episode. I mean, they ain't off scot-free from the other two—the ones that resulted in someone buying final lunch. But most likely not.”

“Good news, then.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I could hear him getting ready to hang up, his voice moving away from the receiver.

“Hold on, Detective,” I yelled into the phone.

He barked into the phone. “Yeah? More pleasant conversation? I guess you don't get to talk to cheerful souls like me on a regular basis.”

“Listen, Detective. I have a theory of what happened.” I could hear him bring the phone closer to his mouth. “Hear me out. Okay?”

“This better be good.”

I hesitated. “It's a conversation I really don't want to have. It's…sad…”

He cut in. “For Christ's sake, just tell me.”

I sat down on the sofa. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

Slowly, point by point, without any interruption from Ardolino—except now and a muttered “yeah, yeah, shit”—I outlined my theory, why I'd come to have it, what I needed from him.

“I don't think I can—”

A sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. “C'mon, Detective.”

“But…all right.” He stopped. “I'll call you back in a few hours. I'll make a couple calls. This better not be a wild goose chase, Lam.”

“I'm on to something.”

“Maybe. Give me three hours. Tops.” The line went dead.

***

Ardolino was a man of his word. Three hours later, almost to the second, my phone jangled, and his smoker's cough took up the first few seconds. I waited. A monstrous, phlegmatic bark. He muttered, “Jesus H. Christ.” Then, abruptly, “Lam?”

“What did you find out?” I held my breath.

“You were right on the money, Lam.”

I slapped my hand on the table. “I knew it.”

“Don't get too cocky. It ain't a nice character trait. But, yeah, the house of cards collapsed. All the pieces fitting in. Little Simon and his Neanderthal buddy Frankie get to bother a few more of my days.”

Then, wound up, he filled me in on what had transpired during that three-hour block of time: back-and-forth telephone calls, checking in with forensics, interrogation, and finally capitulation. Ardolino related the information piecemeal, with stammered gaps as he checked his notes. Consultations with superiors, faxes ignored, at one point a nasty call from a lawyer. But he persisted in the probe. A bulldog, driven, once he was convinced that I was right.

“A confession, no less. Signed and sealed. I can sleep a little better tonight.” A pause. “Just that one loose end to take care of. The D.A. is preparing a warrant as I speak to you.”

I rushed my words. “Let me do something first.”

“Like what?”

I told him.

“Is that a good idea?” Then, his voice dropping, “What the hell. All the pieces coming together. You have an hour. Hear me? Have a good time.”

That bothered me. “I'm not enjoying this.”

He made a clicking sound. “Well, yeah, I can understand that. You got a soft spot inside you.”

“And you don't?”

“It's my secret, Lam.” Someone behind him yelled to him. For a second he covered the receiver. “Gotta run.”

“You're welcome, Detective.”

“Like I said, arrogance ain't attractive, Lam. Didn't they teach you that in immigration school?”

“Goodbye, Detective.”

***

I pulled into Mike Tran's driveway, hoping Simon was at home to receive the good news. I wanted to watch his face—gauge how he'd changed, if at all. He'd no longer have Ardolino hounding him, threatening, accusing, a noisome shadow that never disappeared. I wondered if the boy would care—all along he copped that tough-boy attitude, indifferent to his fate. A simple protestation of innocence. Believe me or not, it's up to you. Then he went about his boyhood business, sinking deeper into quicksand.

Now it was over.

I rang the doorbell, and Michael Tran opened the door. I suppose I looked surprised because he laughed out loud. “I'm not an apparition, Rick.”

“But a rare visitor to the homestead, no?”

He was wearing a navy blue polo shirt that said Trinity Crew in gold stitching. “Time for a visit.” He stared over my shoulder. “And I had to deliver Simon back once again. That boy likes to run.”

“You're talking to your father?”

“My, my. Standing in the doorway and already the personal questions.” But he looked over his shoulder again. “As a matter of fact, yes. I like to surprise people.”

“So do I.”

He watched me closely, his eyes cold. “That's what I'm afraid of. Why are you here?”

“Can I come in?”

He stepped back. “Of course.”

Rushing from the hallway, Mike grabbed my hand and shook it too long. He put his arm over my shoulder and steered me into the living room. Lucy sat on the sofa, her body pressed against Hazel's. The girl looked weary, ready to cry. I nodded at her, but she looked away. Lucy nodded to a side chair, and I sat. Simon was not in the room, but I heard the
ping ping ping
of a video game played in the family room. For a second the noise stopped as a head peeked around the corner, checking out the living room—Simon's face, expressionless, staring. It disappeared.

Looking anxious to leave, Michael stood by the front door with his jacket in his hand.

“You're here for a reason,” he said.

“Call Simon,” I said.

His father panicked. He rushed toward the family room, but he stopped abruptly, faced me, beads of sweat on his forehead.

“It's all right, Mike,” I told him. “It's okay.”

“Simon,” he called out. A voice hollow, breathy. “I let them play video games today.”

Simon and Wilson stopped their game playing, though one of the boys let out a disgusted groan. Probably Simon. Both joined us, dragging their feet. Simon stood behind Wilson, eyes slatted, uncertain, unhappy.

“I didn't do nothing.” A scratchy voice.

“I know that,” I said to him. “We all know that now.” I caught Mike's eye. “I just spoke with Detective Ardolino. He's made an arrest. Simon and Frankie are in the clear.”

I expected some reaction from Simon. But there was none, simply the calculated indifference of a teenaged boy, shoulders hunched, eyes blank. Next to him his brother Wilson turned to look at him as though he expected Simon to say something. A quizzical smile on his face. He scratched absently at a pimple on his chin. Acne on his forehead, picked at until the spots bled.

Something happened in the room. Lucy stood up and stared out the front window, her hand clutching a curtain. She swiveled around, faced the TV, but seemed unable to settle down. We all watched her. She wore a haunted look as though expecting disaster. Her husband eyed her from his seat, his eyes hooded, and he said in a raspy, angry voice, “
Dung lo
, Lucy.” Don't worry. Then, softly, in English, “Sit down. It's all over.” Immediately she sat back down next to Hazel, who stared straight ahead. Silence, awful.

Michael was the first to speak. “Then, I suppose, we can get back to our boring lives.”

Mike, relief on his face, asked, “Then who? Why?”

I waited a heartbeat. “Judd Snow.”

Hazel screamed as her mother gripped her shoulder.

Mike looked puzzled. “But that makes no sense, Rick.”

Simon stepped back toward the family room, his face pale.

“Judd Snow,” I repeated. “An hour ago he confessed. He was already in jail for beating up his father but, questioned by Avon cops, he broke down, confessed.”

“But why?” From Lucy.

Michael's voice was tinny. “None of this is coming together for me. Really, Rick. I'm curious. How did they catch him?”

Suddenly Hazel was sobbing out of control. Every eye found her. She was wearing some eye makeup, and now it streaked her face, ran down her cheeks. When I repeated Judd's name, she squirmed, twisted out of her mother's tight hold. A low moan escaped from her throat.

We waited.

“No.” Only that one word. “No.” She repeated it. Then, slowly, “He…?”

She dipped her head into her lap. Lucy rocked with her. A choked sound, whispered. “No.”

I went on. “Judd Snow is an angry boy—man. You all know that. Striking out, battles in public.” I softened my words. “The way he treated Hazel for so long a time. The need to dominate—to
hit
her.” Her head jerked up for a second, then dropped back down. “And a toxic relationship with his father. A screwed-up childhood, filled with rage. A home life that…” I stopped. “Enough. Anyway, he told the cops he thought of doing those knockdowns because it was thrilling, forbidden. Bored, he could get his heart racing.”

“That seems extreme,” Michael protested.

“It is, and only one part of the story. The truth of the matter, as he acknowledged to the cops, was that he'd had that brawl with Frankie”—I shot a look at Simon who looked nervous—“a fistfight that ended with both taken to a police station. He was humiliated. You remember that he said he'd kill Frankie if they crossed paths again. Well, he harbored growing resentment—fury—at Frankie. Another scuffle at the mall. Then another fight on the lawn outside. He stalked Frankie the way he stalked Hazel, the way he stalked Liz. But then he decided a better way.”

“What?” Michael's voice was too loud.

“He was sitting in Burger King and was irritated by Ralph Gervase. They may have exchanged words, obscene gestures. He wanted to hurt him. So the opportunity presented itself—unplanned, most likely. He said he'd been talking of Frankie and Simon and their months in juvie. Knocking folks around. At that moment he thought—why not get back at Frankie that way? He says it was spur of the moment. But ratchet it up a bit. Copy Frankie and Simon all over again. Get Frankie sent to prison. Revenge. Stupid, yeah, but it's the thinking of a guy filled with hate he couldn't understand.”

“Diabolical,” said Michael. “But that would mean Simon would be implicated, sent away. The brother of his girlfriend? Why?”

“What did he care?”

Michael's eyes widened. “You mean, he confessed to all this?”

I nodded. “But only after he was shown proof. The second killing on Whitney was different. I imagine he was looking for blood—thrills, excitement. The cops found a postcard from GameStop, addressed to Frankie Croix. It could have meant nothing, but this morning I asked Detective Ardolino if they'd dusted it for fingerprints. Of course, they had. Ardolino's a stickler for detail. Mostly smudges, unreadable, Frankie's own print, but one partial print of a thumb at the edge of the card. Unidentifiable. No way to use it. But I remembered that Judd was booked and fingerprinted for the assault on his father, and I wondered about it. Anyway, Ardolino had the two compared. It has Judd's thumb on that card.”

“But how?” Michael asked. “How would his print be there?”

Simon spoke up, “That fight in the mall. He dumped out Frankie's backpack for spite, kicked it around. He took a video game. He stepped on his stuff.”

I nodded. “Yes, and he obviously pocketed a postcard that fell out. Or maybe it was attached to the game. In any event he pocketed it, saved it.”