“They were a long shot, since Dahlin’s pointer card said Michael Vu was into illegal aliens. But they said they’d heard Sonny’s name just recently. A couple of illegals the Border Patrol handed over to them said that Sonny had made the arrangements. I called a friend at the Border Patrol. He couldn’t help me with Sonny or Vu or any of the other names I had, but he did say the number of Asian crossers had gone up, and it looked like the regular channels were either being changed or challenged.”
“By a competitor?”
“Who knows? Asian illegals are the tightest-lipped of all of them. Sonny could’ve been operating for years, and we just tumbled to it now. And habits in border crossings change all the time, for all sorts of reasons. That’s the problem with all this information-you can mold it to fit whatever theory you want.”
That last comment made me stop and think a moment. “Dan,” I finally asked, “what’s your own gut reaction? Am I way off base here?”
He laughed. “Hell, Joe, you’re talking to somebody who’s paid to see conspiracies under every rug. I’m a believer.”
I hung up the phone and contemplated where we stood. In conventional terms, I was in trouble, having a rape with no complainant and a murder with skimpy evidence. Only Truong Van Loc was good news, since I was convinced his reappearance could have far-reaching consequences.
But even there, I was in a jam. Assuming I was heading in the right direction, it was starting to look as though Truong and Sonny and the others might be involved in federal-level violations. Which meant that if some government agency suddenly took an interest in this case, and the State’s Attorney was willing to wash his hands of it, our sole reward would be a pat on the head for some preliminary ground work, and the hope that somebody might end up doing federal time.
Which gave me scant comfort. The old bloodhound in me was reluctant to give up the scent of a good case, and I had a habit of following things to the end.
9
It was near five o'clock in the afternoon when Ron Klesczewski yelled through my office door, his face flushed with excitement: “Something hot’s going down.”
I caught up to him halfway across the parking lot. “What the hell’s happening?”
“A source at the bank called,” he said, unlocking his car. “She just paid out fifty thousand dollars cash to the owner of the Century Cinema, Peter Leung. He was nervous as a cat. She said she thought he might have a heart attack right on the spot. He even dropped some of the money he was stuffing into a briefcase. She knows she could get fired for giving us the tip, so I figured we better give it a look.”
“Where’s Leung now?” I asked, swinging into the passenger seat.
“Heading home, I think. A patrol unit picked him up on the qt about four minutes ago heading west on Route 9. He lives out on Green Meadows.” He suddenly gave me an apologetic look as we sped out of the parking lot. “I know this may be nothing-that he has the flu and a mortgage payment due at the same time or something-but I thought we better play it safe. Ever since you tumbled to this Asian thing, I’ve been reading up, and home invasions where one family member is sent out for the cash while the rest are held captive are supposed to be pretty common.”
“No problem,” I said, privately wondering if Ron would ever overcome the insecurity that would probably forever keep him halfway up the corporate ladder. His actions just now had been flawless-fast, decisive, and intelligent-but I sensed that had I raised one finger in opposition, however wrongheaded, he would have folded his tent. Still, I comforted myself, he had come a long way-he never would have stuck his neck out this far in the old days.
We pulled onto Route 9 and picked up speed heading west.
“What’ve you got lined up?” I asked him.
“In addition to the patrol unit and us, I had Harriet rally what she could get of the Special Reaction Team. They’re to stand ready at the West B fire station. I hope that’s okay.”
“Fine with me.” I didn’t know where Peter Leung lived specifically, but I was familiar with Green Meadows. A short horseshoe attached to the side of Greenleaf Street, it was an archetypal slice of suburban America, with ranch-style homes, lawns with swing sets, a swimming pool or two, and graceful young trees coming into bloom. It was as far from the town’s meaner streets as it could get, both physically and psychologically. If this did turn ugly, though, and Ron’s worst fears were realized, Green Meadows could well become a combat zone.
Not knowing which scenario might play out-or even if Leung was heading home-was going to severely cramp our style. The safest approach-sealing off his street, evacuating the neighbors, waiting for the transaction to go down, and then picking up the pieces-was almost ludicrously out of the question. Instead, we would have to be discreet, leaving the patrol unit and the SRT people nearby but out of sight, and making the approach to Leung’s house ourselves, without visible backup, without body armor, and with only our concealed sidearms for protection.
The radio crackled beneath the dash. “O-8 from O-20. Subject car has pulled into Green Meadows.”
Ron unhooked the microphone. “10-4, 20. Find a spot where you can see both ends of the street. O-3 and I are going to make a direct approach.” He looked over at me questioningly. I nodded without comment.
We pulled off Route 9 onto Greenleaf Street and drove up a short distance to Green Meadows’s first entrance. Ron paused a moment and looked around. Almost completely hidden by a large, leafy tree farther up and across the road, a fender and part of the windshield from O-20’s patrol unit looked like any other parked car.
“Where’s he live?” I asked as we entered the horseshoe.
“Right in the middle. East side.”
I glanced over at him. His eyes were straight ahead, scanning the street before us, his tension completely at odds with the smells of spring wafting in through the open windows, the sounds of a dog barking in the distance, of a mother somewhere calling for her child. I took a deep breath to relax.
“There,” he said, “gray house, red roof.”
It was all but indistinguishable from its neighbors in mood and tidiness, but it had a strange stillness about it, emphasized by shut windows and drawn curtains. One car was parked outside the closed garage, another-sportier, more pretentious, built for speed, and with Massachusetts plates-was by the curb. Both were empty.
Ron pulled over beyond the house, on the opposite side of the street. He cleared with Dispatch on the radio, killed the engine, and wrestled a portable radio from his pocket. “O-8 to all units and Dispatch. O-3 and I are approaching the front entrance. The SRT can stand by out of sight on Greenleaf beyond Green Meadows.”
A small chorus of muttered “10-4s” followed us as we left the car and walked slowly across the street, keeping several feet apart from each other. Ron held the radio in his hand, hidden behind his leg as he went.
I watched the windows for any movement, hearing the odd piece of gravel crunch under my shoe, feeling the weight of my gun in its holster. Those earlier sights and sounds of a neighborhood in early spring faded from my consciousness, until all I could focus on was that utterly still house, and the front door looming ever closer.
We crossed the sidewalk and came to the entrance from different angles, stepping on the grass rather than the paving stones leading up from the street. We reached the door, positioned ourselves to either side of it, our backs to the wall, and paused a moment. Ron’s face was glistening with sweat, as I suspected mine was. We exchanged glances, I nodded, and he knocked loudly.
At that moment, instead of the door opening, a snow-white BMW appeared around the bend in the street and pulled up behind the car already parked there. Loud music could be heard pulsing against the tinted, closed windows.