Kunkle wobbled his hand from side to side equivocally. “Vince doesn’t get much respect without Benny around. If Vu or Sonny knocked off Benny to grab his business, there’s not much Vince can do about it.”
“So, was hassling Scott Fisher and Alfie Brewster and the others just his looking for a soft spot, or is Sonny out to dominate everything in town?” I asked.
Sol Stennis, who was in on this meeting because of his knowledge of juvenile crime, now spoke up for the first time. “Vu’s been dropping by the local hangouts a lot, talking to the kids like a recruiter, using Sonny’s name. He’s paid for a few parties and takes people for drives in a new Beemer he just picked up. Rumors are he’s offering drugs and guns and cars to any converts. It’s looking pretty serious. He’s also been making regular visits to the Asian restaurants and businesses, probably to keep himself financed.”
I turned to Billy Manierre, the rotund and avuncular chief of patrol, who commanded the uniformed troops. “We can’t afford an around-the-clock tail on him, but I want Michael Vu to see us damn near every time he looks up. I want him pulled over for minor traffic violations, questioned for anything he or one of his people does that warrants a conversation, and I want everyone he deals with to feel the same heat. Keep in touch on the radio when you see him around town, and keep him company as much as you can. And take pictures-I want to build a photo album of everyone he contacts. Asians, whites… I don’t care. And get names if you can. Don’t be subtle. Word should get out fast that dealing with Michael Vu is like dealing with us.”
Manierre nodded, and I addressed the others. “In the meantime, I want us digging into this clown’s background, beyond just his rap sheet. I want calls made to California to find out where he came from, who he hung out with, where he’s been. I want to know what he’s been suspected of doing, as well as everything he’s done. Dennis, once you’ve checked what’s on your desk, maybe you could start on that.
“Also, none of us has even set eyes on Sonny yet. I want to find out how the two of them keep in touch. Find out if Vu makes a habit of using a particular pay phone. And ask around about Sonny, too-find out who, if anyone, has seen the guy, or had a conversation with him, and if they have, get a description, a psychological profile, anything you can. We need to know who Sonny is.
“And J.P., don’t give up on that crime scene yet. That routine with the tape, the chair, the knife, and the plastic bag sounds like a practiced MO. Circulate the details everywhere you think makes sense, especially cities with big Chinatowns, like San Francisco and New York. And don’t forget Canada. Toronto not only has the oldest Chinatown on the continent, but it’s considered the primary trans-shipment point for aliens coming into this country.”
Tyler nodded silently.
I held up a cautioning finger and looked specifically at Kunkle. “But, remember, leaning on Vu does not mean leaning on every Asian you come across. It’s the innocent people who are the primary targets of gangsters like this, so we’re working for them, not against them, all right?”
“What about the tail on Vince?” Ron asked. “You want that maintained?”
I thought for a moment. My just-completed speech to the contrary, I hadn’t totally overruled Willy’s dismissal of all this as paranoia. Twenty-four-hour-a-day surveillance was beginning to sound excessive, especially given what little it had produced. Besides, if we started watching Michael Vu with a magnifying glass, we’d pick up Vince Sharkey if he wandered within sight.
“No,” I answered him, “I think we can call it off.” But a small doubt lingered-one I hoped I wouldn’t come to regret.
8
"Joe, there's a call for you on line four. A Mr. Crocker,” Harriet Fritter announced from the new phone console on my desk. “He says it’s about the hot-rodders on Upper Dummerston Road.”
“Thanks, Harriet,” I answered to thin air, without touching the phone, a disengagement from the norm I found fundamentally rattling, despite having had this new phone system for over a month.
I picked up the light, flimsy-feeling receiver. “Mr. Crocker? Joe Gunther.”
“Oh, hi.” The voice was a light tenor, slightly breathless. “My name is John Crocker. I’ve been out of town on business all week, and I got back last night and was going through my mail when I saw the article in the paper about the hot-rodders you were looking for on the Upper Dummerston Road.”
“What do you do for a living, Mr. Crocker?” I asked, to slow him down a little.
“What?… I design lenses.”
“For glasses?”
He gave a small but pleased laugh. “Oh, no. Optical lenses for high-resolution equipment. I’ve had some of my designs sent into space. One of them flew on the shuttle.”
“And you live in town?”
His voice had lost its nervous edge, and I instinctively began forming an opinion of him as a witness. “North of town-Hillwinds.”
“Nice place.” One of the most expensive in the area, in fact, and located off the Upper Dummerston Road.
His yes sounded vaguely embarrassed, so I got to the point. “You saw some of these hot-rodders?”
“Good Lord, yes. I was almost killed by one of them. It was the day I was heading out on this trip I mentioned. I was driving past the golf course, going south, when I saw two of them heading right toward me, across both lanes, at a terrific rate. I pulled over as far as I could and slammed on the brakes-put one wheel in the ditch.”
“Did they hit you?”
“No, no. I don’t know how they missed. It couldn’t have been by more than an inch or two.”
“Did you see them go by?” I asked, visualizing him with his hands over his eyes.
“I’d thrown myself across the seat, thinking that might give me a little more protection when we collided.”
I nodded to myself and let out an inaudible sigh. “So you didn’t get a good look at them.”
“Actually, I did-at one of them.” I froze in my chair, suddenly alert. “Can you describe him?”
“Well, I don’t know how good I’d be at that, but he was young, and Oriental.”
“Mr. Crocker, where are you calling from?”
He sounded surprised. “My office. On Main Street. The Bank of Vermont Building.”
“Would you mind if I dropped by and finished this conversation face to face? I have some pictures I’d like you to look at.”
“Right now? Well… I guess that would be all right.” He gave me the number of an office on the second floor.
The Bank of Vermont Building, named after the establishment on the ground floor, was a rare successful attempt at integrating a modern structure with its hundred-year-old neighbors. As squared off as they were, and with a complimentary touch of red brick around its foundation, the bank was nevertheless a light and airy addition to the block, slightly recessed from the sidewalk and adorned with a couple of small trees on each corner. It took me all of five minutes to walk to it from my own architectural tribute to Dickens.
Crocker’s office was behind a plain door marked only by the number he’d given me. A slight, short man, with glasses and a receding hairline, John Crocker matched his tentative tenor voice perfectly. “Mr. Gunther?” he asked as he opened the door himself. He gave me a moist, limp hand to shake. “I guess they don’t call you ‘Mister.’ I am sorry. Is it ‘Officer’?”
“‘Joe’ will do fine. Something occurred to me on the way over. Why didn’t you report this near-accident?”
He cast his eyes to the floor and shuffled his feet slightly. For a man who must’ve been in his forties, he reminded me of a nerdy teenager caught in a lie. “I was running late. I had a plane to catch at Bradley, and once it was all over, and I found that my car was okay and that I could back it out of the ditch, I didn’t see the point. I hadn’t gotten the numbers off the license plate, and I didn’t think there was much anyone could do in any case.” He lifted his eyes slowly to meet mine. “Was that breaking the law or something?”