“Any other time, we get one dead body, we know pretty much what to do about it. Now we’ve got five and we’re basically nowhere. And on top of that,” I concluded, “I’m no longer sure the guy I’ve been after isn’t a figment of somebody else’s imagination.”
“I’ve lost you, Joe,” Gail said, smiling at my rambling.
“No one’s ever set eyes on the mysterious Mr. Sonny. I’m beginning to think Michael Vu made him up.”
The phone rang inside the house. Gail moved to answer it, but I got to my feet first. “I thought that damned thing was off the hook.”
She gave me a warning look. “Dinner’ll be ready in five minutes, okay?”
It was Dennis DeFlorio. “Hi, boss, sorry to call you at home, but I got something I thought you’d like to hear right away. Remember you asked me to look into Michael Vu’s background in California, for something beyond his rap sheet?”
I shifted my weight impatiently. I’d received this update right before I’d gone out to meet Sally Javits. “Yes.”
“I think I might have found something. It doesn’t actually have anything to do with Vu, but Sammie was real excited about it.” He paused, as if he’d just given me something I could work with.
“Keep going, Dennis,” I encouraged him, used to his style.
“Right, well, after you left this afternoon, I got hold of a cop who’d dealt with Vu. He wasn’t real helpful-friendly enough, but kind of busy. I got to talking to him about what had happened here, you know, trading war stories and stuff, and I mentioned Henry Lam. He jumped on the name, said he’d dealt with Lam as a juvie. ’Course, it was a long time ago and, like I said, he was busy, but he told me to talk to a caseworker who’d handled Lam early on, from when he first came to America. He said this caseworker was super-involved with the Asians-that since he was retired now and a regular civilian again, he’d probably be free to give you the lowdown on Lam and maybe some of his buddies.”
“Up-to-date information?” I asked, my interest caught. Lam’s only official appearance in the information network-that of his license registration-had been on the East Coast. This sudden California connection created a potential historical link to both Michael Vu and Truong Van Loc.
“I guess. He hasn’t been retired long.”
“This is good news, Dennis. Nice job. Did you or Sammie call him?”
There was a predictable pause on the other end. The response, when it came, fit Dennis like a glove. Having started out well, he was unsure of how to proceed. “No… Sammie told me to, since she’s kind of swamped, and I was about to, but then I figured if this guy is as good as the cop said he was, you’d probably want to talk to him anyway. You know-ask him things I wouldn’t think of, maybe.”
I smiled at the receiver and shook my head, all traces of my earlier depression washed away. “What’s his name?”
“Jason Brown.” He gave me the number. “That’s a business number. He works full-time as a hospice volunteer now.”
Gail appeared in the doorway as I was writing it down.
“Dennis,” I said, “if Willy’s around, put him on, will you?”
Kunkle came on the line a minute later, sounding peevish. “What?” It was more of a statement than a question.
“Relax,” I told him. “You’ll like this. Find Alfie Brewster. Sally Javits thinks Brewster might’ve set up both Vu and Sharkey for that shoot-out. Find out if he supplied Vince with the goodies for last night’s smoke-’n’-dope bash and if he knew about the home invasion ahead of time, okay?”
Predictably, Willy sounded suddenly more cheerful. “Sure.”
“But be careful,” I warned him. “Sally also told me he’s surrounded himself with hired help.”
Kunkle merely laughed and hung up.
“No dinner?” Gail asked from the door.
“Maybe. I’d like to see if I can contact this character first, if only to set up an appointment.” I checked my watch. “He lives in California-should still be at work.” I passed along briefly what Dennis had told me.
“Can I listen in? Sounds interesting.”
I hesitated a moment. It wasn’t a request she’d ever made in the past, nor was it even remotely within department rules. On the other hand, she and Tony Brandt were my two best sounding boards, and with Tony in his present mood, I wasn’t sure how much I could lean on him. Besides, I rationalized, with Gail’s ambitions to be a prosecutor, she was almost a part of the family.
“Okay,” I said.
She disappeared to turn off the stove while I dialed long distance. By the time she returned, a portable phone in hand, I was waiting for Jason Brown to come on the line.
“Hello?” His voice was deep, quiet, and curiously comforting-the voice of an older man.
“Mr. Brown, my name is Joe Gunther. I’m a lieutenant with the Brattleboro Police Department in Vermont.”
“Hello, Lieutenant, what can I do for you?”
I found the lack of usual chitchat about Vermont and its quaint and provincial reputation-or my profession-reassuring.
“I’m on a bit of a fishing expedition, really. Did you ever have dealings with a young Asian calling himself Henry Lam?”
“Yes, I did,” came the immediate answer. “What’s he been up to?”
It was a fair question-Jason Brown didn’t know anything about me. But I also didn’t know him-or whether he and Lam had enjoyed a lasting friendship. Telling him right off the bat that I had killed him seemed a little impolitic.
I hedged a bit. “I’m afraid he’s dead.”
“Ah.” Brown’s voice trailed off, and I heard the sense of loss in the brief silence. “I thought that might happen.”
“You had some trouble with him?” I asked diplomatically.
“Not personally,” Brown answered, “but he was more prone to the wrong sort of influence than some of them. He wasn’t very old when we met-just nine-but he’d had a terrible time of it and had already been in trouble a few times. Meeting him was a little like seeing someone just beyond your reach, sinking out of sight underwater.”
I could tell from Gail’s expression that she was as struck by the image, and the sympathy in Brown’s voice, as I was.
“How did he die?” came the inevitable question.
The truth would have been simply, “In a shoot-out with the police,” but I took a gamble that a little generosity would serve me well here.
“I’m afraid I had to shoot him. He opened up on me with a machine gun.”
The response was unexpected. “Are you all right?”
“Oh, yes. Some of my clothes got slightly shot up, but I’m fine. He was part of a home-invasion team, and my partner and I sort of stumbled into them. We don’t know who the other two were-they died, too. We’re trying to figure out where they came from, and why they were in our neck of the woods.”
“Yes, I don’t guess Brattleboro is much like L.A. Tell me something, these other two boys, were they younger than Henry?”
“They certainly looked it-mid-teens, I would guess.”
I could almost visualize him nodding at the other end of the line, reflectively taking his time.
I opened my mouth to say something, but Gail shook her head.
She was right. The next thing Brown said was, “Maybe I should tell you what I know about Henry Lam.”
I smiled at Gail and merely answered, “Please.”
“When I met him years ago, he was already as tough as nails, and God knows he should’ve been, considering everything he’d been through. He was Vietnamese by birth, but of Chinese heritage, which in Vietnam is a little like being black in the South in the fifties. After the Communist takeover, the fact that his father had been with the South Vietnamese Army made life pretty difficult for the whole family. Henry was only a year old when the U.S. was booted out of there in ’74, and his father tried to get by for about six years afterward.