The Dark Root (32 page)

· · ·

An hour later, we were back among the flat fields of southern Québec, heading home.

“What do you make of Diep on that video?”

I paused before answering. “When we stopped them on I-91 last winter, none of those three seemed to know each other. I played the what’s-your-buddy’s-name routine on Truong, and he flunked—called Diep ‘Jimmy.’ Normally, that would actually make sense. From what I’ve researched, when a hit is ordered, the contract goes out to a jobber—like a middleman. He calls on his usual people, or others who’ve been recommended to him, and he names the rate—five thousand, fifteen thousand… I read a cop can go for fifty. Once he selects the team he wants—each member of which comes from a different part of the country—the deal’s done. The team comes together once, the target’s whacked, and the team disperses. They do not trade names or addresses, they keep the small talk to a minimum, and they’re only in contact for a few hours.”

“Except that this time Truong was contractor, jobber, and hit man rolled into one, so he should’ve known who everyone was,” Spinney concluded.

“Not only that, but Lam and Diep both have links to Montreal, and Truong and Lam originally lived in California…”

“And Diep and Lam also lived on the East Coast, and Truong and Lam showed up in Brattleboro to aggravate the hell out of you. In every case, Lam is the common denominator.”

“Okay,” I agreed. “But if Diep was the newest member, introduced to Truong by Lam, what was he doing in Montreal with Truong, for what we assume was a hit on Da Wang’s snakehead? And why was that receipt Diep collected found in a Canadian car that was used to kill Benny Travers?”

Spinney turned both his hands up in resignation. “All right, so the hit team couldn’t have been made up of people who didn’t know each other.”

“Then why didn’t Truong know who Diep was when I asked him?”

Spinney didn’t answer.

· · ·

Walt Frazier dimmed the lights and hit a button on his remote. The VCR across the room stirred awake, and the television set above it lit up with a ragged nighttime camera shot of a decrepit one-story bungalow, glistening in the reflected glare of several bright lights. Police in bulletproof vests scurried back and forth, getting into position. After a moment’s telling pause, they rushed the building’s front door, the cameraman in hot pursuit. There was no sound track.

“This is a drug raid in Berkeley, California, eighteen years ago,” Frazier explained. “The occupants had been ordered to come out. One shot had already been fired from inside.”

The first officers at the door swung a two-man metal battering ram against the doorknob, busting it open at the first crack. They then flattened themselves against the outside wall and let the others, assault rifles ready, scramble by them. The cameraman followed and led us through a central hallway, the image jittery, bouncing badly, sweeping to either side as the operator went by open doorways through which officers could be seen fanning out. The camera was moving too fast for me to focus on any of the occupants’ faces, but I could clearly see they were all Oriental.

“The cameraman’s a cop,” Frazier went on. “They were experimenting using videos on raids for training films, and maybe in court. I don’t know that it’s any improvement. This gives me a headache.”

Finally, the lead cops reached the kitchen at the back of the house, joining the team that had entered through the rear. They all stood around a small group of shirtless young men with their arms over their heads, crouching in a corner. The camera lens calmed down enough at this point to pan the group so we could actually see who was being videotaped.

Frazier hit the pause button. “Recognize anyone?”

I leaned forward in my chair, squinting. The tape quality wasn’t great, and being in pause mode didn’t help, but in the upturned face of one of these young men, I could clearly recognize the hard-eyed malevolence of Truong Van Loc.

“What was his role in this?” I asked, sitting back.

“Just one of the boys. He was arraigned with the rest of them, treated as a minor, kicked loose in short order. But this wasn’t his first arrest. Our office in San Francisco dug up quite a bit on him—the DEA was a big help, too. Interesting story, actually. Truong’s an unusual guy. Came out of Vietnam when we closed shop in ’75, age around ten or twelve—birth date’s a little vague, along with his family history. He arrived here with a little brother and was absorbed by the Vietnamese community. The brother was taken on by a family named Phan, while Truong got sucked under by the gangs. Difference was, he kept coming back to the brother—visiting him, getting after him on his homework, arranging for private tutors. He paid the Phans for his upkeep, and seemed bent on making sure the kid flew straight.”

“So he was in the gangs just to make ends meet?” asked Spinney.

“That’s the funny thing,” Frazier answered. “He was ambitious—a natural leader. Not that anyone had proof enough to ever make a case. But our intelligence has it that he was organizing smash-and-grabs right off the boat, extorting with the best of them, and hell-bent on climbing the ranks. By the time he was about twenty he was a wealthy man, running a small group of his own.”

“Then he quit. Paid off his soldiers so there were no ill feelings, made sure they got relocated with other gangs, and went into the import business.”

“Import, as in drugs?” I asked.

“No. Legitimate goods—rugs, fancy foods, yarn, the kind of crap you find in Pier One—hammered-brass spittoons from Burma—junk like that. Customs checked him out, IRS, DEA, Interpol, the Hong Kong Police—you name it. He went straight. But it wasn’t like some tear-jerker movie. He was just as ruthless as before. And it’s not like he got any closer to his brother, either. If anything, they saw less of each other as time went on. But On Ha kept to the straight and narrow, so I guess Van Loc’s efforts paid off.”

“Was Van Loc’s business a success?”

Frazier gave me another ambivalent expression. “Not particularly. Our sources suspect he probably socked away a pile from his gang activities. He certainly didn’t lose money as an importer, but considering the good life he was used to, the switch didn’t make much sense.”

“I was told,” I explained, “that On Ha’s death was seen as a reflection of Van Loc’s bad karma. Could Truong have gone straight because someone told him he had bad karma? Maybe he felt On Ha was at risk, and he was doing what he could to save him.”

Spinney looked doubtful. “I thought Lacoste told us that karma couldn’t be changed—if life is shitty, there’s nothing you can do about it.”

I thought back to a similar comment by Nicky Tai. “I’m just guessing, but if Van Loc was ambitious enough to make it to this country alive and become a kingpin as a snot-nosed teenager—supporting both his brother and the family that was raising him—he might be egotistical enough to think he could change his karma. People try to cheat their gods all the time.”

“So he went bonkers because the Chinatown Gang massacre proved him wrong?” Spinney asked.

Frazier killed the video and twisted open the narrow venetian blinds, letting in just enough light not to blind us. “All we know for sure is that he dropped out of sight after the funeral. The business was handed over to an associate, and he disappeared.”

The pager on my belt began vibrating soundlessly. I glanced at its miniature display and recognized Dan Flynn’s number. Frazier nodded toward his phone, giving me permission to use it.

Spinney was still asking questions. “No credit card trail? Phone calls?”

Frazier shook his head. “None that we know of. Credit card use is not a big item with these folks, at least not legitimately. They tend to like cash. My bet is that Truong had a serious nest egg tucked away somewhere.”

“And,” Spinney added, “if Joe’s right about Truong stealing business from Da Wang, he’s got a new money source in any case.”

· · ·

Flynn picked up on the first ring.

“What’s up?” I asked him.

“How fast can you get to Hartford? Heather Dahlin called. One of her people spotted Michael Vu in White River Junction. He disappeared before they were able to grab him, but he hasn’t been spooked. She’s put her entire department on the lookout for him, though, along with the Lebanon Police across the river.”

I told him we’d be there in under an hour, and explained the situation to the others.

Frazier looked slightly put out. “We haven’t really finished here.”

“I sure would like the first shot at Vu if they nail him,” I countered.

He conceded with a half smile. “All right. I’ll stay here and play with my paperwork."

· · ·

I let Spinney drive. All the ribbing from municipal cops aside, it was true that state troopers—even ones who had been in plainclothes for years—had more experience driving at warp speed on the interstates than any of the rest of us. As if to prove the point, he made the ninety-minute trip from Burlington in half that time.

We found Heather Dahlin standing by her car in White River Junction, near the Route 4 bridge leading into New Hampshire.

“We think he might’ve gone across,” she said, gesturing to the far side of the river with her thumb. “Could be he’s rounding up some money.”

I introduced Spinney, and she stuck her arm in through the car window across my chest to shake hands. I could tell she was tense and frustrated. “We’ve had patrols out all over—haven’t seen a trace of him since that first sighting.”

“What was he doing?”

“He was on foot, entering a building. But by the time they figured out who he was, he’d disappeared.”

“But you’re pretty sure he didn’t spook.”

Her brow furrowed a bit more. “Pretty sure. But he’s got to know there’s a BOL out on him.”

The radio in her hand muttered unintelligibly. She lifted it to her mouth and answered. Spinney and I clearly heard what came back. “We might have something on your subject.”

I leaned back and opened the rear door for her. “Hop in.”

She did so without hesitation, parking both her elbows on the seat back between us. “Cross the bridge, take a right at the light.”

Spinney moved the car quickly into traffic and entered New Hampshire. I gestured to Dahlin’s radio. “Who’s on the other end?”

“Lebanon Police.”

Spinney took the right, drove through the village of West Lebanon, and bore right again to take Route 12A into the heart of the most heavily commercialized area along the entire Vermont-New Hampshire border. Almost a mile of plazas, malls, and megastores, this strip of 12A paralleled the Connecticut, crossed the Mascoma River—a small, fast-moving feeder—and went under the east-west bridge of Interstate 89. At the best of times, it was as jammed a spot as any good-sized urban downtown. At the worst, it virtually became gridlock. As we entered from the north, I could see things were about fifty-fifty.

“What’s your location?” Dahlin inquired on her radio.

The voice on the other end didn’t sound happy. “Below the interstate, east side. Chinese restaurant parking lot.”

Spinney found his way there, having gone beyond the lot, turned left onto the airport road, and then doubled back along a back street. Road planning had not kept up with development.

A Lebanon police cruiser was discreetly parked between two other cars, its clearly marked tail end facing a music-store window. One of the patrolmen had draped a jacket over the car’s roof light, further disguising it. All three of us got out and joined them.

The driver, a tall blond with mild acne, looked disgusted. “We figured we’d wait for you here. Find out what you wanted to do. He went in there”—he gestured to the Chinese restaurant far across the big parking lot—“but we don’t know what happened to him then. When he didn’t come out after half an hour, we went inside. Nobody. We showed his picture around. They all said they’d never laid eyes on him.”

Heather Dahlin kept her voice tightly under control. “You didn’t want to call for backup when you first saw him?”

The blond looked uncomfortable. “We weren’t even sure it was him. We only caught a glimpse, from across the street.”

Her eyes narrowed. “So maybe it wasn’t him?”

I moved to defuse things a bit. “Considering he’s vanished, it probably was. It sure as hell was
somebody
who didn’t want to stick around and chat. Did you check for a back exit?”

The patrolman nodded sadly and looked over at his partner. “Wayne here did a few minutes after the guy went in—that’s why we thought we had him bottled up tight—but I guess he’d already split. He must’ve cut through the place at a dead run.”

Spinney stretched and yawned, seemingly unconcerned that he’d driven at supersonic speed to come to this conclusion. “Well, if he wasn’t spooked before, he sure sounds it now.”

“Wrap it up?” Dahlin asked of me.

I nodded. “Might as well. A half-hour head start, he could be anywhere.” I shook hands with the patrolman. “Thanks, anyway. It was worth a shot.”

He merely shook his head, pulled the jacket from off the cruiser’s roof light, and got back behind the wheel.

The three of us returned to our car.

“What now?” Dahlin asked as we walked.

I checked my watch. “It’s getting late. We might as well bunk down at a motel here, and then head back to Waterbury tomorrow.”

Deflated by the anticlimax, no one spoke as Spinney nosed up to the line of traffic and waited for an opening. Heather sat back in her seat, staring out the side window, her radio ignored beside her. Although totally different in style, she reminded me then of Sammie Martens, which made me wonder how things were going back home in Brattleboro.

Spinney was finally waved into line by a courteous driver and drove up to the red light just south of the interstate overpass.

Reminiscing brought me to Gail, whom I hadn’t seen since the funeral. I had been hoping that tonight I could drive down from Waterbury to South Royalton—a short half-hour trip—and spend a little time with her, but that was obviously not to be. I’d call her anyway, even though the phone had become more of an irritant than a remedy to the isolation I was feeling.