The Dark Root (16 page)

“Let me say something first,” I added quickly. “I know a little about what you’ve both been through, and I know you were threatened with reprisals if you spoke to the police. But things have changed since then—one is that all three of the men who made those threats are now dead. And because of the shooting, everyone knows what happened anyway. The general assumption will be that because the police are involved, the identity of the people who terrorized you will have come from police sources—criminal records, fingerprints, and the like. No one will know that you gave us any information. Do you both understand what I’m saying?”

“We will not be involved?” Peter Leung asked. “We will not appear in court or be mentioned in the newspapers?”

“Not as sources of information, and there’s no reason for you ever to appear in court, since there’s no case to try. Your wife’s probably already told you that the newspapers published your names this morning—but only as victims of a sensational crime. As far as I know, you’ve refused to speak to them, and you can continue to do so. None of them will ever find out that we’ve spoken.

“I should warn you about one thing, though,” I added, wishing I didn’t feel honor-bound to do so. “If you do mention other people by name to me—people who are still alive—then that could make you a witness in a legal case we might bring against that person at some future date. I am hoping you’ll overcome your fears and be as forthright as possible, but I don’t want you to think I’m trying to trick you in any way. Of course, your best defense is to help us catch them. But I won’t push you on that.”

I saw them exchange glances. Peter Leung then nodded slightly. “We will try to help. This is our new country. We have done well here and we would like to repay our debt. But we come from a country where the police are not our friends, and where to speak to them is to call for your own death.”

“I understand that,” I answered. “Does this mean you do have some additional information?”

“Yes. The leader was called Henry by the others. He didn’t wish only to rob us. He wanted me to use my business to clean his money. The robbery was to show he was serious, and he was angry I had no safe.”

I felt a tingle of excitement at the nape of my neck. From the research I’d gleaned from interagency intelligence bulletins, I knew that standard Asian home invasions are fast and uncomplicated, and usually conducted by people from far outside the region. It was one of the routine ploys that Asian gangs used to avoid detection—exploiting the loose, and therefore flawed, informational-exchange systems between law-enforcement agencies, counting on the fact that any fingerprints or identifications made at the scene wouldn’t find a match elsewhere for months or even years.

The revelation that this attack had been made to stimulate a local money-laundering operation broke that mold. It indicated a long-term interest in a specific area by criminal elements, and introduced the possibility of a conspiracy, which could be used as a selling point to the feds.

I tried to keep the satisfaction out of my voice. “Was Henry the leader, or did you feel someone else might be pulling the strings?”

Leung’s voice was definite. “No. They referred to another—a
dai ca
, which means ‘big brother.’”

“
How
did they refer to him?” I asked.

He gave me an apologetic look. “I am sorry. I don’t speak Vietnamese—just a few words.”

That was a disappointment. “They only spoke Vietnamese?”

“No—a little English, too, but not very good. That’s how they told me about the money cleaning.”

“So when they spoke to each other, you didn’t understand anything?”

“Very little.”

“Did you catch any names beyond ‘Henry’?”

Leung nodded, his mood improved from just a few minutes earlier.“Yes. One was called An, and the other Ut—those are first names.”

“Which one had the tattoo?”

“Ut.”

“Did anyone refer to Michael Vu, or Sonny? Or anyone else?”

Leung shook his head.

“Did any of them make any phone calls from your house?”

“Yes—the man Henry did, a few minutes before you arrived.”

A few minutes before Michael Vu arrived, I thought sourly, knowing the Leungs’ phone bill would reflect no local calls.

I let out a sigh, my earlier eagerness tempered. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“I regret, no.”

“Nothing was said to you other than what you’ve just told me?”

“Nothing besides the instructions to go to the bank. The man Henry bragged that Brattleboro was going to be a pot of gold.”

“Did he elaborate? Brag about other people he’d attacked?”

Leung shook his head sadly. “I am sorry.”

I rose to my feet. “Don’t be. You’ve been more help than you know.”

· · ·

The high-school cafeteria was jammed with students, their laughter and noise filling the large room. I stood with my back to a corner and scanned the crowd carefully. I finally spotted Amy Lee sitting at a middle table, talking quietly with another student. She looked better, not as skinny or forlorn. Her expressions were still muted—she played no role in the cheerful cacophony that vibrated off the walls—but the haunted look of a victim was gone.

I didn’t want to embarrass or scare her by a direct approach, so I asked a passing student to tell her that I’d be waiting to speak with her in the library down the hall.

She took several minutes to appear at the door. It was immediately obvious my attempt at diplomacy hadn’t worked too well. The haunted look was back.

I got up and came to her, taking her elbow and gently steering her to a table far from where anyone else was sitting. “Hi, Amy. How’ve you been?”

“Okay.” Her voice was a monotone, barely above a murmur.

I pulled out a chair. “Have a seat.”

She followed my suggestion robotically and sat staring at the tabletop between us.

“Have things gotten better since you went to Women for Women?”

“A little.”

“I thought they might. They’re good people. Are you still going?”

“Yes.”

“Do your parents know about it yet?”

She looked up at me abruptly, her eyes narrowed. “Are you going to tell them?”

“Not at all. That’s a private matter between you and them. I’m just happy you’re taking care of yourself.”

She didn’t answer and went back to looking at the tabletop.

“Did you hear about the shooting yesterday?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Did you see the newspaper pictures of the four men who were killed?”

She shook her head.

“I think one of them was among the three who attacked you. If it’s okay, I’d like to show you a photo of him.” I pulled the shot of Henry Lam—the one that had made her hysterical earlier—and cradled it in my palm, awaiting her decision.

It was a calculated risk, which was one reason I’d taken the time to watch her in the cafeteria. I’d wanted to see how she was behaving on her own, away from adult scrutiny, and what I’d seen had been encouraging.

She didn’t disappoint me. She slowly nodded, raised her eyes to the photo I laid before her, and murmured yes.

I took the picture back and put it in my pocket. “I’m sorry, Amy. If it’s any comfort, this also means you’ll never have to worry about him again.”

She didn’t respond.

“Could you answer a few questions about that night? If you don’t want to, that’s fine. And if you just want to answer some and not others, that’s okay, too. Would that be all right?”

“Okay.”

That was the first obstacle cleared. Whether it was the passage of time, the influence of her counseling, or the fact that her parents had given her such little support, Amy Lee no longer seemed so concerned with her father’s wish to keep silent, which was another reason I was here, and not trying to talk to him again.

“You told me there were three men that night. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Was the man whose photo I just showed you the leader?”

“It was him.” Neither her voice nor her posture had changed. It was as if I were talking to a soul hovering just outside the body before me.

“Did you catch his name?”

“Henry,” she said without hesitation.

“And the other two?”

“One they called Tri. The other one I don’t know—he never got near me.”

I let that last statement go, not wishing to cut too close to what we both knew had happened to her. “Did they speak in Vietnamese or Chinese?”

She looked up at me, surprised. “Both, and a little English. They spoke Vietnamese to each other. Henry spoke Chinese to my mother.”

“How about to your father?”

“Henry spoke English to him. He seemed proud of that—he bragged that he spoke good English.”

“Did he?” I asked, remembering my own encounter with him.

“It was dirty.” A tone of contempt had crept into her voice.

“You speak Chinese?”

“Cantonese.”

“And Vietnamese?”

She shook her head.

“Did they say anything besides giving you orders? Any references to other places or people or events?”

“No.”

I reached into my pocket and extracted a thick wad of pictures—mug shots, surveillance shots—all of which we’d accumulated over the past week. Included among them were the photographs I’d shown John Crocker.

I handed them to Amy like a deck of cards. “Could you give these a look? See if you recognize anyone else.”

She solemnly did as I asked, slowly and methodically going through the photos, never pausing throughout. She finally shook her head and laid the deck before me.

“Nobody?” I asked.

She looked me straight in the eye. “No. I’m sorry.”

I broke the rules a little then, extracting Michael Vu’s and Truong Van Loc’s pictures specifically. “How ’bout them?”

Again, she shook her head. “No.”

I returned the stack to my pocket. “Not to worry. What did the three men want that night? Money?”

“They took money, but they wanted more. Henry wanted to talk to my dad.”

It was an almost imperceptible shift, but I sensed her beginning to relax a bit, as if the realization that she spoke better English than had her attacker endowed her with a hint more pride and self-worth than she’d been feeling just moments before.

“About what?” I asked of her last comment.

“I don’t know exactly. Part of their talk happened in another room, and Mom was crying a lot, and screaming…” She hesitated, as if collecting her courage, before adding matter-of-factly, “They’d already raped me. It was near the end.”

I was impressed by her frankness—a good sign that she, if no one else in her family, was dealing with reality. “Did you hear any of what they discussed?”

She took a deep breath and seemed to think a moment. A furrow appeared between her eyes as she looked up at me. “I remember something about credit cards. Does that make sense?”

I smiled and squeezed her hand. “Yes, it does. When you’ve been out shopping with either one of your parents, have you seen them use credit cards?”

“Sure. Not often, though. My mom always pays cash.”

“What card does your dad use?”

“It’s a Visa… I think.”

“Okay—going back to the night of the attack, what did they take from the house? Anything?”

“My dad has a safe in his bedroom. They made him open that up. I think it had a lot of money, and maybe some jewelry.”

“Any pieces you could describe?”

“There was a pendant my mom let me see sometimes—gold and jade. It had the Chinese characters for her family name—Ho—engraved in the stone. I’m pretty sure they stole that.”

I opened my note pad to a blank page and pushed it over to her. “Can you draw it, along with the name?” I asked.

She took my pen and quickly drew the piece of jewelry, returning the pad with an apologetic smile. “It’s not very good, but that’s pretty close. The name’s right, at least—she taught me how to do that.”

“How’s she doing, by the way?”

A flicker of irritation crossed her face. “Who knows? She doesn’t say anything anymore. She cooks and does the housework and stares out the window and cries a lot.”

“And your dad?”

“He’s changed, too. When he looks at us, I think he’s sad, but sometimes, when he thinks he’s alone, he looks angry.”

“Do you think everything’s going all right at the restaurant?”

Again, she gave me that quick, slightly surprised double look. “I don’t think so. He stays later at work than he used to, and he doesn’t seem to like it much anymore.”

“Sounds like home isn’t much fun, either. How’re you holding up?”

She shrugged. “I got my friends, and dad never did much with me anyhow.” She paused, and then placed her hand against her cheek. Her eyes slowly lost their focus, and she went back to looking at the polished wooden surface between us. “I miss my mom, though.”

I SAT IN MY CAR AND WATCHED
Sally Javits receiving her dripping-wet wards at the exit of the car-wash tunnel. She’d motioned impatiently to the driver to proceed to a line painted on the asphalt, and then she and several others would launch themselves at the vehicle, flogging it with towels and chamois cloths with all the enthusiasm of an anger-venting therapy group. Several times I thought I could see a look of alarm growing on the distant faces of the drivers, just before the buff-’n’-shine crew abruptly withdrew, turning their backs contemptuously, to let the car timidly roll away.

This was her latest job, to be held, if she kept to her statistical norm, for a month at the most. It followed a string of similar employments—washing dishes, mopping floors, sloshing coffee at broken-down donut shops. Chances were always fifty-fifty that she’d get bored and leave before getting fired.

Still, she worked, albeit erratically, as did many of her streetwise cohorts, which is what distinguished a town like Brattleboro from the urban battlefields that monopolized the nightly news. We’d been spared the full-time preoccupation with drugs, violence, and general hopelessness that crippled those other places. So far.

I was parked inconspicuously down the street, waiting for Javits’s shift to end, and for a private moment in which to draw her attention.