“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.”