Sweat (31 page)

“Did anyone question the girls?”

“No, sir. Not yet. All indications are that they were at work. They couldn't have seen anything.”

“No surprise, I guess.”

“No sir, I guess not. Do you want to question them? It could take all night to do it right.”

“If it takes all night, it takes all night. They may not have had the opportunity to do any killing here today, but every last one of them had the motive.”

“I'll get the foreman. He should be able to lead us around.”

“Fine. I'm going to take a look at the crime scene. Come find me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Captain Talua stepped into the infirmary and looked at Lee Chang's coagulated blood on the tile floor. A crime scene investigator, who issued parking tickets during the week, milled about taking snapshots. He measured the distances between objects in the room and the locations of the now absent bodies. The quiet clicking of the camera shutter and flashes of light filled the room. The captain looked around at the empty beds in the infirmary, all perfectly made. He checked the bathroom, which was spotless and smelled of bleach. The room was sterile enough to host an organ transplant operation.

The crime scene investigator stepped from Wei Ling's former residence in the storage room and looked around for any obvious photo shots he may have missed. He had been there an hour already, snapping through two hundred shots with the bodies and another hundred after they had been removed.

“Good afternoon, Captain,” the investigator said, finally speaking.

“Not for the two victims.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Give me the scoop. Tell me what I need to know.”

“Two victims in the infirmary. One Caucasian, the other Asian, all signs indicating that it was Lee Chang, though I have never met him.”

“I saw him in the body bag. It's him.”

“Like I said, I never met him.”

“What's in that room?” the captain asked, nodding in the direction of the storage room.

“It seems like a storage closet that has had a bed thrown in it. The room is pretty clean of evidence as far as the crime is concerned, less for the handcuffs. One bed, one side table, a trash can, a bed pan….”

“…handcuffs?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I would say that's out of the ordinary. An empty infirmary and a bed in the storage closet with handcuffs.”

“A worker who was being punished?” the investigator asked noncommittally.

“Possibly,” the captain answered, suddenly concerned that he may have to explain the situation to someone outside of the comfort of his island.

“Where is the person who was in this room?”

“It looks like she left with the doctor.”

“The doctor? I thought the doctor was pulled off the beach a few weeks ago.”

“He was. A new doctor arrived from China sometime during the last week.”

“Where is he now?”

“We don't exactly know. We're trying to locate him. He was staying at a hotel in Garapan City. No one really seems to know much about him.”

“Has anybody notified next of kin for Lee Chang?”

“The housekeeper is upstairs. She made the call about thirty minutes ago.”

“Did she see anything?”

“She claims she was upstairs working.”

“Squeeze her a little. Make her cry if you have to. She knows something. Lee Chang wasn't changing any bedpans himself.”

The captain thought as he looked around the crime scene. What a mess. As the crime scene investigator left the room, Captain Talua gave his parting remarks. “I have to check on something, but I want updates every thirty minutes. Phone, radio. Whatever.”

“Yes, sir.”

With Jake in the passenger seat, Tony drove the SUV down the last hundred yards of road and came to a halt in front of the police barricade. Two squad cars were parked at an angle, head-to-head, blocking the road and the main entrance to Chang Industries under the auspice of checking passing vehicles. In the last hour, traffic had amounted to one delivery truck that was turned away and now Jake and his three burly guests. Tony looked at the police and his natural aversion to blue flashing lights made him squirm in his seat.

Jake looked at the looming fence with its roll of razor wire running along the top and his lips puckered slightly. The description of Chang facilities as a prison went far beyond proverbial. Tony eyed the fence through the windshield and had a flashback of a federal vacation he had endured in New Haven, Connecticut, for getting caught with an eighteen wheeler full of stolen cigarettes.

“Jake, maybe we should come back.”

“It would be too suspicious. Besides, I didn't just fly halfway around the world to get cold feet. We are U.S. citizens on U.S. soil. We haven't broken any laws.”

“Yet,” Tony added. The Castello brothers sat expressionless in the back seat.

“We aren't going to break any laws, Tony. Chang Industries cannot keep us from meeting this girl. This is not a prison. She is here of her own free will. If she decides she wants to leave, we are here to assist.” Jake held a folder in his hands with legal documents quoting every law that Lee Chang was breaking on U.S. soil, unlawful imprisonment at the top of the list. Tony and the Castello brothers were there purely as a show of force. A combined seven hundred pounds of persuasion.

Jake rolled down the passenger side window, nodding and smiling at the officer.

The elderly statesman of the Saipan Police Force was quick to try his rusty, ornery officer routine.

“Who are you?”

“Jake Patrick.”

“What are you doing here?”

“We had an appointment to meet with Lee Chang. These gentlemen are my business associates. Here is the invitation and our itinerary.”

Jake produced documents that would have made Lee Chang wonder if he had arranged the meeting himself. They were perfect forgeries, including an invitation on Chang Industries letterhead complete with the signature of the rapidly cooling Lee Chang.

“You are awfully young to be a businessman.”

You are awfully old to be a police officer
, Jake wanted to say, but stifled it. Instead, he went for “good genes.”

“Well, Mr. Patrick you won't be doing any business here today. A serious crime has been committed on the premises. Turn your car around and get out of here.”

Jake looked at the old officer who hadn't been on a crime scene in nearly a decade and then looked at the activity on the grounds of Chang Industries. As Al would have said, the police presence was not a “positive development.”

“Sir. I can see you are busy, but it's urgent that I see Lee Chang.”

“You'll have to come back.”

“It's important,” Jake said one more time.

“If it's important enough, you'll come back.”

The officer's radio crackled and Tony jumped in his seat. Officer Moses cut off his radio and looked at Jake. “What are you waiting for? Move out.”

Tony stared straight ahead and waited for the nod from Jake, who was changing mental gears. His call several weeks prior to the Saipan police had proven fruitless. The Saipan Police were in a position to lie without impunity and he would never know the difference. He, quite simply, didn't know if they were friend or foe.

The elderly officer gave him his answer. “Move your car or I'll have you arrested for obstruction of justice and interfering with a police investigation.”

“Yes, sir,” Jake replied, throwing in a “thank you” for added politeness.

Tony looked at the flashing police lights in his rearview mirror and felt better with every foot of distance he put between the car and the scene behind him.

“What now?”

“We go to the hotel and check in. I need to make a phone call,” Jake said trying to keep some semblance of a plan. Al's words and the sight of Chang Industries bounced around in Jake's head. He tried to force them out.
The girl is probably already dead.
Al's comments didn't seem so melodramatic now. Maybe they had just left the murder scene.

As Tony drove, Jake read directions from a page he had printed off the hotel's website. After getting lost twice, they asked a middle-aged man out for a run to point them in the right direction. An hour after leaving Chang Industries and taking a tour of some of the finest Saipan residential neighborhoods, the SUV stopped in front of the hotel.

“This place is a dump,” Tony said flatly as Jake got out of the vehicle.

“When you are paying the bill, you can choose the hotel,” Jake answered.

Jake and the small team of pasta lovers approached the hotel's front desk. An unattractive island native with dark skin and shark teeth smiled over his wire-framed glasses as Jake placed one hand on the desk. “Welcome to The Dunes. How may I help you?”

“My name is Jake Patrick and we have a reservation for three rooms.”

“Mr. Patrick, just one moment please.” The front desk manager vanished behind a doorway and returned a few seconds later. “There is a message for you, Mr. Patrick. Please take a minute to read it before you check in. I was told it is important.”

Jake read the message with a single glance. “Thanks,” he said before turning to Tony. “Back in the car. Change in plans.”

Tony took one long look at Jake and tilted his head toward the car. The Castello brothers started bitching and Tony put them in line. “The sooner we are done here, the sooner our lives get back to normal.”

“Please have a seat, detectives,” Peter said with a powerful voice. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee perhaps? My secretary Shelly makes a fine espresso. We have a machine right in the breakroom.”

“I'm fine,” Nguyen said.

“I would love an espresso,” Wallace said, not missing the opportunity to create rapport. It was something Nguyen would learn with time on the job. If a person-of-interest in an investigation offers you a dish of fried crickets, you did your best to choke them down.

Peter went to the entrance of his office and gave the order to Shelly from the doorway. He found his seat at his desk and looked over at his guests.

“How can I help you this morning?” Peter asked, knowing damn well what the detectives wanted.

“We want to discuss the photograph we left with you last week.”

“Ah, yes. The photograph. I apologize for not getting back to you sooner. I have been in and out of the country on business.”

“That's what your receptionist told us,” Wallace said.

“Have to work to pay the bills.”

“Doesn't everyone?”

Detective Wallace pulled out a copy of the photo and placed it on the desk. No one needed to be reminded of the photo, but Wallace did it to measure Peter's reaction.

There wasn't one.

“I have the copy of the photo right here in my desk,” Peter said.

“Mr. Winthrop, do you recognize the man in the photo?”

“Sure I do. He works for a business associate of mine. A garment manufacturing facility in Saipan.”

“You wouldn't know his name would you?”

“Detective…?”

“Wallace.”

“Detective Wallace. I only met the man once. He was a new employee. I don't remember his name. The man who runs the facility in Saipan is named Lee Chang. I can call him first thing in the morning, Saipan time.”

“That would be helpful.”

Detective Nguyen flipped to the page in his notebook from the detective's interview with the senator. “We met Senator Day last week. He referred to the man in the photo as the ‘Mountain of Shanghai.' Does this ring a bell?”

“Yes, I do recall the senator gave the man a nickname. He has one for everybody. Unfortunately, his geography isn't so good. There are no mountains in Shanghai. It's a port city. Pretty flat.”

Wallace ignored the comments. “Any idea why this man is in D.C.?”

“None. But he works for Lee Chang, and the Chang family has business interests around the world. Not unlike myself. He is probably in town on business, visiting some lobbyist on the K Street corridor.”

“Mr. Winthrop. The night that picture was taken was the night your former secretary had her accident. That photo, as I explained on the note, was taken from an ATM across the street from the Metro station where she died.”

“Are you saying this man had something to do with Marilyn's death?”

“That is why we are here. We were hoping you could answer that question,” Detective Wallace said.

Peter didn't flinch.

“I thought her death was ruled an accident?” Peter asked. He spent enough time with lawyers to know how to ask his own questions.

“That was the original finding.”

“Well, detectives, I have been doing business with Lee Chang and the Chang family for years. I assure you they are not interested in killing my secretary.”

Wallace didn't have an answer for the seemingly simple statement.

“Do you know anyone who would want to harm your secretary? A boyfriend? Disgruntled employee?”

“Not that I'm aware of. She wasn't dating anyone recently that I know of. As for a disgruntled employee, we are one big happy family here at Winthrop Enterprises.”

Shelly knocked on the edge of the doorframe and delivered the espresso to the desk for Detective Wallace.

“Are you familiar with St. Michael's Catholic Church?”

“I hope so. I was married there. As much as I would like to forget it.”

“Are you a parishioner?”

“No, no. My ex-wife was. I was raised a Baptist. But my wife came from a strict Catholic family. It was a concession on my part. You have to pick your battles when it comes to marriage.”

Detective Wallace smiled with understanding.

“So you haven't been to the church recently?”

“Not since my ex-wife's funeral.”

“Let me ask another question.”

“Please, that's why we're here.”

“How well do you know your son?”

“Well enough. We haven't been as close over the years as I would have liked, but he has been working here this summer. He is a good kid.”

“Your son works here?”

“Yes.”

“Can we speak with him?”

“He's not in the office today. He has been out all week, getting ready for school to start next month. Registering for classes, whatever it is you have to do these days.”

“We would like to speak with him as well. It's rather urgent.”

“What does my son know about all this?”

“We don't know. We went to his apartment but his neighbor said he was out of town.”

“Out of town?”

“That's what his neighbor said.”

“News to me.”

Wallace and Nguyen both scribbled in their notebooks.

“We have reason to believe your son may have been with your secretary the night she was killed.”

“I thought it was an accident.”

Wallace rephrased the sentence. “We have reason to believe your son was with your secretary the night she had her accident. The night she died.”

“He might have been. They were co-workers. You don't suspect my son had anything to do with her death, do you? I thought you were suspicious of the man in the photo? Are you saying there are two suspects? Working together?”

Wallace felt like he was in the hot seat. “No sir. Your son is not a suspect. We would like to ask him a few questions about that night. Maybe he saw something that could help us get to the truth.”

“I thought the medical examiner's office already got to the truth.”

Wallace didn't like the way that line of questioning was going and changed topics. “Do you have a phone number for your son? A mobile phone number?”

“Sure, I can get that for you. Is there anything else I can help you with? I have to meet someone at the airport, and if I get going now, I should be right on time.”

“No, that's it. If you think of anything that may help us, please contact either me or my partner here.”

“Certainly. And if you need to reach me, here is my direct number. Either Shelly or I will answer the call. She will get you my son's phone number on the way out.”

“His mobile phone number. We have his home number,” Detective Nguyen said for clarification.

“Yes, she will provide you with whatever you want.”

Detective Wallace checked his notes. “And we will be waiting for the name of the man in the photo.”

“Yes, detective. I will get that to you as soon as possible.”

Peter Winthrop picked Hasad up at Reagan National Airport with Shawn, his driver, behind the wheel. Shawn, dressed in his usual black suit with a white shirt and blue tie, put the bags in the trunk as Hasad gave Peter his over-the-top greeting. Handshake, half-hug, followed by another handshake.

“So good to see you again, Mr. Winthrop. So good.”

“How was your flight?”

“Long. As you know. Istanbul to New York was non-stop. Zipped into Manhattan to visit a friend for lunch and caught the Delta shuttle here.”

“Well, I hope you can survive for another hour or so.”

“Where are we going?”

“Baltimore.”

“I love Baltimore,” Hasad said. “They have the best Hooters restaurant, right there on the harbor. Maybe we can stop there for a late dinner.”

“I think we can work it into the schedule.”

“Where is Jake?”

“He's not going to make it.”

“That's too bad. I enjoyed our night out in D.C. on my last visit.”

“So did Jake. He would be here but has been busy preparing for school. He's been out of the classroom for almost two years and said he needs to re-register, talk to some professors, see what classes he needs to take.”

“I understand,” Hasad answered, no longer listening.

Baltimore Harbor is home to the third largest port on the eastern seaboard after Newport News and Charleston. Its larger siblings accounted for most of the steel and commodities coming into the U.S., the continued strength of a hundred plus years of post-slave imports. Baltimore, in contrast, had a little bit of everything. Located at the foot of the Northeast Corridor, the container ships lined up five miles out for their turn to load and unload.

Life on the docks never stopped. A stench of dead fish and diesel fuel was as consistent as the flow of the brackish waters where the river met the bay. A massive conglomeration of warehouses, docks, and miles of cracked pavement—work went on twenty-four hours a day, performed by some of the hardest men ever put on God's green earth. U.S. Customs resided in the main facilities building on the west side of the complex, overlooking the forklifts that milled about like ants. Cranes swung back and forth, delivering cargo to the decks of ships that stood sixty feet out of the water. Pneumatic conveyors blew powdered goods from the ship hulls to waiting railcars at the far end of the yard.

The strip of warehouses and storage facilities that began near the water stretched as far as the unaided eye could see, running south like a retired couple from northern Michigan. Each building was an unofficial standard size—ninety feet by a hundred twenty. Each one was three stories, a sea of metal boxes holding priceless valuables and crates of worthless crap. Over the years the warehouses had yielded numerous front-page-worthy finds, including a stolen Picasso and a mummified family of five dating back to the Great Depression.

Warehouse 21-C was the third building down from the main access road that ran through the middle of the field of storage. Some of the smaller warehouses were divided into two multiple storage facilities, separated by a wall of plyboard and chicken wire, each side large enough for a full basketball court. Warehouse 21-C was undivided, Winthrop Enterprises its lone resident.

Dark clouds formed a front to the west as Shawn pulled into the Baltimore Harbor Warehouse and Storage facilities. A passkey combination started the gate in motion with a thud, followed by the silence of well-greased wheels on their tracks.

“Looks like storms are coming, sir.”

“Yes it does. What's July in the D.C. area without a few afternoon boomers?”

“Yes, sir. Just letting you know the forecast.”

“Thanks, Shawn,” Peter said. “Pull the car over to the right.”

The black sedan-for-hire parked next to a roll-up door on the warehouse across from number 21-C. On cue, the rain started falling in a light pitter-patter. Peter and his Turkish client got out of opposite sides of the car. Peter pointed in the direction of the warehouse with an open hand extending from the cuff of his suit. Hasad followed as the rain picked up in intensity, larger drops, cold to the touch.

“Is this your main warehouse?” Hasad asked, unable to keep silent, even when there was nothing to say.

“I don't own it. Winthrop Enterprises leases it on a semi-permanent basis.”

Peter opened the side door with a key and a nudge from his right shoulder. The warehouse was pitch black and Peter fumbled his hand along the right side wall until he found the oversized power switch. With a pull on the lever, the floor of the warehouse illuminated.

Boxes filled the back half of the floor space, each box neatly labeled and stacked in separate piles, some twenty feet high. The concrete floor was swept and clean. A lone forklift was parked in the back, near an emergency exit with an intermittently flashing sign.

“What's in all the boxes?” Hasad asked.

“Let's see,” Peter answered, walking among the stacks. He looked at the labels and started the tour. “I believe we have some Civil War memorabilia going to a collector in India. The collection includes a set of rare cavalier sabers, and a few cannon remains. Not a big shipment, but we are still finalizing some documentation before it can be exported. We keep most of our large shipments in another location. Heavy items that can't be moved as easily by forklift.”

“Things like Hummers.”

“Exactly. Your Hummers were retrofitted not too far from here.”

“They are great vehicles.”

“I am glad you enjoy them.”

“I do, I do. My friends and I enjoy them very much.”

Shawn looked through the window of the parked car, rain cascading down the windshield in sheets. He saw a figure in front of the car and hit the wipers. The swipe of rubber across the glass brought the leveled gun into perfect focus. The door was yanked open from the outside and Shawn looked out of the corner of his eye to see another gun—very real and very close.

“FBI. Don't move,” Special Agent Ann Cahill said with glee. “Keep your hands on the wheel where I can see them.” The agent had fire-red hair and a personality to match.

The rain on the roof of the warehouse drowned out the pounding of heavy feet, fit bodies weighed down by thick bulletproof vests and rifles. Two teams in standard cover formation closed in on the warehouse exits, one team going through the front door, another team with a door-ram coming in the back.

Inside the warehouse, Hasad was enjoying the conversation, marveling at the breadth of interest of Winthrop Enterprises' clients. It was Hasad's turn to grease the wheels of politeness. A little business before
his
business. The tour was winding down and Hasad knew the neatly stacked boxes near the large rolling door were his shipment. It was the only section of the warehouse Peter hadn't shown him. Hasad knew the American was saving the best for last.