An eyebrow hopped up to signal Lt. Cruz’s skepticism.
“We were in the waiting room,” Durant explained. “Both of us were scheduled for root canals. We started talking and decided we’d rather have a drink than a root canal and so that’s what we did.”
“When?”
“About three years ago.”
“She was still married when you met her?”
“Yes.”
“And her husband died — when was it — six months later?”
“About that.”
“You know, of course, how he died?”
“In San Francisco.”
“That’s where — not how.”
“A hit-and-run accident.”
“The driver was never caught.”
“No.”
“The date,” Lt. Cruz said, “was August twenty-first, 1983.” He paused, as if waiting for Durant to point out the date’s historic significance.
Durant decided to oblige him. “They both died the same day, didn’t they? Benigno Aquino, gunned down here at the airport, and Patrocinio Cariaga, struck down in San Francisco on Polk Street.” Durant shook his head slightly, as if at the wonder of it all. “Emily and I sometimes talked about it and whether it meant anything. We didn’t come to any conclusion except coincidence but that’s not much of a conclusion.”
“You knew him then — Cariaga?”
“Sure. I knew Pat.”
“Were you friends?”
“Not exactly.”
“Did he know you were sleeping with his wife?”
“He never mentioned it, but then he had no reason to, did he?”
“That’s what I’m trying to determine,” Cruz said, staring at Durant as if he had finally decided to memorize him. “I believe Pat Cariaga and Ninoy Aquino were political allies, true?”
“Not really.”
“They both opposed Marcos.”
“But from opposite ends of the political spectrum,” Durant said. He gestured with his left hand. “Aquino was sort of over here.” He gestured with his right hand. “Pat was sort of over there.”
“You talked politics with Cariaga then?”
Durant shook his head. “I listened to his views is all.”
“And?”
“I thought they were claptrap.”
“Bullshit, you mean?”
“Right.”
“Why were they — claptrap?”
“He thought once they got rid of Marcos, the right people would step in and run things the way they should be run.” Durant smiled without humor. “Pat always thought he’d make one hell of a foreign secretary.”
Before Lt. Cruz could comment, the sergeant with the low comforting voice hung up the phone and left the living room. Lt. Cruz watched him go and then turned back to Durant.
“Did Mrs. Cariaga share her husband’s political views?” he asked.
“No,” Durant said. “She’s one of Mrs. Aquino’s strongest supporters.” He paused. “Was.”
“You sympathized with those views?”
“More or less.”
“Then you’re a man of the left, Mr. Durant,” Cruz said, making it a declaration rather than a question or even an accusation.
“No,” Durant said.
“But since you’re clearly not of the right, that leaves only the center. Tell me, do you find it comfortable there?”
“There’s a guy in Texas called Hightower who claims there’s nothing in the middle of the road but yellow stripes and dead armadillos. I tend to agree with him.”
“Still, you obviously have more than an academic interest in politics.”
“That’s because politics affects profits.”
“And what kind of business are you in — primarily?”
“Several kinds.”
“Insurance?” Lt. Cruz asked. “Reinsurance, to be precise.”
Durant nodded, staring at Cruz and longing suddenly for a cigarette. He’s even swifter than you thought, Durant realized. “I’ve considered the reinsurance business.”
“You were in business with — or maybe I should say in league with — the late Ernesto Pineda. I believe you even identified his body. Up in Baguio. True?”
“True.”
“Poor Pineda was a distant cousin of our deposed President,” Cruz said. “Did you know that?”
“Ernie may have mentioned it in passing.”
“Isn’t it... regrettable, Mr. Durant, that you should be concerned with three horrible murders within the space of a single week? It must affect your asthma most severely.”
While framing a reply, Durant again coughed delicately. But before he could say anything, the soft-spoken sergeant returned and whispered something into Lt. Cruz’s ear. Cruz replied, “Immediately.”
The sergeant left the room. Cruz smiled pleasantly at Durant and said, “We have a visitor.”
Both turned to the door as it opened and Artie Wu entered, wearing his white money suit, his Panama hat and his cane. Wu ignored Lt. Cruz, went directly to Durant, and placed a large comforting hand on Durant’s shoulder.
“Sorry, Quincy,” he said. “I’m just as sorry as I can possibly be.”
Durant said nothing.
Wu turned to inspect Lt. Cruz, taking time to admire the vanilla silk suit, the two-tone shoes and the rest of the homicide detective’s getup. Artie Wu then nodded, as though in approval, and said, “And you, sir, are...?”
“Lieutenant Cruz,” the detective said, smiling and examining Wu’s outfit with the frank appreciation of a fellow fop. Still smiling, Cruz rose, extended his hand and said, “Welcome, welcome, Mr. Wu.”
Chapter Nineteen
For the next hour, Lt. Cruz peppered Wu and Durant with questions about themselves, about the late Ernesto Pineda (whom even he had begun referring to as “poor Ernie”), and about Emily Cariaga.
“What connection was there between her and poor Ernie?” Cruz wanted to know and seemed dissatisfied when Durant replied none that he knew of. After that, Cruz began asking Wu and Durant about each other.
He inquired of Durant whether Wu was married and if so, what were the given names of Mrs. Wu and the children. Durant rattled them off. He then asked Wu if Durant had ever sought treatment for his asthmatic bronchitis. Wu nodded gravely, replying that Durant had sought out the best specialists in Los Angeles, Denver, Zurich and, in a few weeks, would be consulting a Harley Street specialist who looked promising.
“We have good doctors here, you know,” Cruz said, not bothering to mask his jingoist feelings.
“It was my doctor here who recommended the one in London,” Durant lied with what Artie Wu noted was his usual artistry.
“We have the best dentists in Asia,” Cruz said, apropos of almost nothing.
“In the world, for my money,” said Artie Wu.
Cruz seemed to know when he was being gulled so he resumed his questions. “You’re obviously a well-educated man, Mr. Wu,” he said, his tone clearly anticipating a lying response.
Artie Wu only shrugged. It was Durant who supplied the details. “Princeton. He even made Phi Beta Kappa.”
“And you, Mr. Durant. Are you also a Princeton graduate?”
“No. I went but failed to graduate.” Durant saw no need to explain how he had sat through all of Artie Wu’s classes not as a student, but as the ever-present bodyguard of the pretender to the Chinese Emperor’s throne.
Lt. Cruz abandoned all efforts to suspend his disbelief. “What you’ve been trying to sell me is that two intelligent grown men — well educated, well traveled, a couple of real been-arounds — let themselves get taken by a three-peso buy-and-sell hustler.” He gave his head two quick skeptical shakes. “Let’s hear it all. Even the dirty parts. You first.” He pointed his chin at Artie Wu.
Wu’s sigh seemed full of embarrassment. “I’m afraid poor Ernie was, as you say, Lieutenant, nothing but a confidence trickster.”
“Really,” Cruz said, making sure his sarcasm was heavy enough to be noticed. He then smiled a gleaming smile that had been fashioned in part by one of the best dentists in Asia. “How much did Ernie take you for?”