Blood Passage (10 page)

“
Fung,” Hank said suddenly.

“
What’s wrong?”

“
Nothing,” Hank said. “Fung. William Fung, a.k.a. Billy Boy. Fung.”

“
What about him?”

“
That’s who that was at the hotel. The guy in the purple jacket.” Hank nodded. “I knew it’d come back to me. He’s one of Peter Mah’s employees. The other guy I don’t know.”

“
And Peter Mah’s Triad.”

“
Yeah. Mah ran his own gang as a juvenile fifteen years ago, the Biu Ji Boys. They were into typical street gang stuff, home invasions, extortion, distribution. His father, Jerome Mah, is said to have connections to the 14K Triad. The idea is that Peter grew up and joined the Big Leagues.”

“
Jerome Mah, the importer, is his father?”

“
Yeah.”

“
Wow.” Karen looked impressed. “He’s big. Very big. And he’s Triad, too?”

“
I’ve been sitting here trying to remember. I don’t get down into Chinatown very often. Yesterday morning, in fact, was the first time in months. As far as Jerome’s concerned I’m not sure, but I’ve heard he’s cooperative with them and is connected through his business to known Triad figures.”

Karen accelerated up the ramp onto the expressway that would take them out to Springhill. “So the old man’s not a Triad official, just an associate?”

“
Could be. But Peter’s said to be the Red Pole of the local society, responsible for enforcement, security, that sort of thing. He’s got a bunch of guys working for him, including Fung.”

“
So riddle me this, Batman.” Karen moved into the inside lane of the expressway and pushed the Crown Vic close to the speed of sound. “Why the hell is a Triad Red Pole leaning on a university grad student working a cock-and-bull reincarnation gig with a three-year-old kid? Why does this make perfect sense to the rest of the universe but not to me?”

Hank shrugged. “Maybe Peter Mah believes in reincarnation.”

“
Ha ha, very funny.”

“
Who knows? Maybe he does. Or maybe because it’s his cousin and it’s a family thing. Or maybe Martin Liu worked for the Triad and Peter screwed up the protection.”

“
And now he feels guilty and wants to find out who killed his cousin and whack their sorry ass.”

“
Could be. Maybe he’s grasping at straws and thinks the kid’ll say something that’ll give him an idea of where to look. I don’t know.”

“
Maybe somebody in OCU knows something,” Karen said. “Who’s the Asian specialist?”

Hank wasn’t sure if Karen was kidding or not. The department’s Organized Crime Unit was fairly small and spent most of its time liaising with the FBI or gathering and publishing statistics. During a budget crunch several years ago the original OCU had merged with the Anti-Gang Unit, a flashy, media-savvy outfit created during more prosperous times, and the resulting unit had been severely downsized. Most of the high-flying performers had jumped ship, and those left behind were generally viewed as a collection of computer jockeys and pencil pushers who were passive to the point that they might be mistaken for book-keepers at a suburban country club.

“
It used to be Melton,” he said. “I think he’s still there.” It had been a while since Hank had dealt with the Intelligence Division.

“
Don’t know him.”

“
He’s been around for a long time.”

“
Yeah, well, so’s the paper towel dispenser in the women’s washroom,” Karen said, “but I couldn’t pick it out of a lineup if I had to.”

“
Ouch.”

“
Whatever. What the fuck’s the address again?”

“
It’s 46 Parkland Crescent, same as it was fifteen minutes ago.” Hank glanced at his watch. “Let’s get something to eat first.”

“
Drive-through,” Karen said.

“
That’s fine. It’s my turn.”

“
Damn right it is.”

Karen worked her way over to Ellison Avenue, the main commercial thoroughfare in Springhill, and drove past muffler shops, strip malls, hardware stores, electronics outlets and furniture shops before finding the fast food outlet she wanted. While they waited in line Hank reached into the back seat and dug out his show and tell file from the manila envelope. Karen pulled up to the microphone and gave their order: a grilled chicken Caesar salad and tea for her and a double burger with fries and a large root beer for him. Hank gave her the money when they reached the window and took the paper sack from her so that she could grab the beverages and stick them into the cup holders in the console between them. She drove the Crown Vic over to a spot at the far edge of the parking lot and shut off the engine. They dug into their food. Hank continued to look through the file.

“
Check this out,” Hank said, passing her an autopsy photograph.

“
What am I looking at?” she said around a mouthful of salad.

“
Bullet wound on Martin Liu. Inner left thigh, about three inches up from the knee.”

“
Yeah. So?” She swallowed. “Got one at the scene?”

Hank sorted through the file and pulled out another photo.

“
Not much blood,” she said, forking more salad into her mouth while she studied the photograph.

Hank didn’t answer, being fully occupied with a mouthful of hamburger. Instead, he passed her one of the four-by-sixes that Josh had given him.

Karen studied it, frowning. “What the hell is this now?”

Hank swallowed, took a long drink of root beer, swallowed, touched his napkin to his lips and flicked the corner of the photo with his finger. “Josh Duncan tells me it’s a pic of the Chan kid’s leg. He has a birthmark in the same place as the Liu bullet wound.”

“
Bullshit.” Karen propped the photo on the steering wheel and fumbled to get the autopsy photo back out from underneath the plastic salad container on her lap. She took the two photos in her hands and held them side by side. “Damned if they don’t look the same. Gotta be a fake.”

“
We’ll find out.”

“
Jesus,” Karen said.

“
I know, it’s creepy. There’s more.”

“
Why am I not surprised.”

“
The gunshot wound was a through and through. Kid has another birthmark on the back of his thigh.”

“
Jesus Christ.” Karen held out her hand. “Let’s see.”

Hank juggled his half-eaten hamburger while he shuffled through the collection of autopsy photos. They were both completely oblivious to the graphic nature of the images. Hank occasionally wondered if it was a good thing to become that insensitive to such violent disruptions of the human body. He pulled out the photo of the back of Martin Liu’s thigh and gave it to her.

“
Here’s the kid’s other birthmark,” he said, finding the second picture that Josh Duncan had printed out for him.

Karen held them side by side. “Is this for real?”

“
Looks like.”

Karen handed him the pictures and turned her attention back to her lunch. “Who gives a shit,” she muttered, chewing. “We’re not investigating a reincarnation hoax, we’re investigating a murder. What we want is evidence that’s admissible in court, not a bunch of paranormal bullshit off of late night TV. This stuff about the kid has zippo to do with Martin Liu.”

Hank crumpled up his burger wrapper and shoved it in the paper sack with the empty cardboard sleeve that had held his french fries. He rammed the empty root beer cup on top and handed the bag to Karen.

“
This kid’s talking about the murder,” Hank said, “coming up with names and details we haven’t heard before. I don’t believe in reincarnation any more than you do, and I don’t believe this is the voice of Martin Liu talking through a three-year-old kid. Somebody around him must be talking about the murder and mentioning these names. I’d love to talk to these people to see if they know stuff they haven’t bothered to tell us up to now.”

“
Sounds good to me,” Karen said. She got out of the car and walked over to the nearest trash can, which was already overflowing with excess fast food packaging and other garbage. She shoved at the overflow, made a little space and crammed in their garbage with a mean expression on her face. As she walked back to the car her plastic salad container wormed back out of the trash can and fell on the ground. She got into the car and swore.

“
You know, back home when I was a sophomore in high school I worked at one of these dumps and got stuck doing lot and lobby all summer. What I’d like to know is why these fuckin’ idiots don’t bother emptying out the trash bins anymore. Look at it. Goddamned disgrace.”

She started the engine and gunned out of the parking lot into traffic. “What’s the fuckin’ address again?”

“
Forty-six Parkland Crescent,” Hank said, “same as it was ten minutes ago.”

“
I don’t know why I put up with this bullshit from you.” She glanced in her mirrors and switching lanes so violently that Hank was thrown against the door, sending a little shock of pain through his sore shoulder.

“
Because you love me so much,” Hank gritted.

“
In your dreams, pal.”

Fourteen minutes later Karen pulled up in front of an immaculate split level home on a quiet residential street with a grassy boulevard down the middle and mature maple trees lining both sidewalks. Hank studied the house for a moment, taking in the white siding and black trim, the green lawn and tidy gardens, the curtained windows and the big white front door with its large brass knocker.

“
Nobody home.”

“
Looks like,” Karen agreed.

They got out of the car and strolled up the front walk. On the left was a paved driveway leading to a double garage with big white doors. At the side of the garage was one of those big plastic bins that people put their garbage in to protect it from wandering dogs, raccoons and other prying vermin. Hank went straight for the bin while Karen went up the steps and pressed the door bell.

Hank lifted the lid and saw an aluminum garbage can and two recycling bins, one containing soda cans and empty bottles and the other holding paper waste. He took the lid off of the aluminum can and saw nothing promising. The smell of rotten fish assailed his nostrils and he put the lid back on. He moved on to the recycling bin with the paper. He was shuffling through advertising fliers when Karen came up behind him.

“
Anything good?”

Hank pulled out a piece of paper. “Here we go.” It was an internet printout of a real estate listing for a commercial property in South Shore West. There was a little picture of Grace Chan as the listing agent, along with the address and telephone number of the real estate office in Springhill where she worked.

Karen took it and folded it in half. “Anything else?”

“
Naw.” Hank rooted around a little more and saw one or two other property listings but nothing else of interest.

“
Probably conscientious shredders,” she said. “Takes all the fun out.”

“
Let’s go before someone calls the cops.”

Karen laughed.

They reached the real estate office twenty minutes later and swung into the small parking lot between it and a place that sold lawn mowers, chain saws and leaf blowers. Karen parked and they went inside. Although the outside was nothing special to look at, the inside was very sumptuously furnished. The receptionist sat at a glass desk with a discreet computer and telephone system on her right and a combined printer, copier and fax machine on her left. She wore clothing that might have come from the closet of a movie star. She was so beautiful it almost hurt the eyes to look at her directly. A small name plate on the desk declared that her name was Brandi Lemaire.

Karen rapped her knuckles on the glass desk. “Looking for Grace Chan.”

Brandi Lemaire smiled. “Do you have an appointment?”

Karen badged her with a bored expression on her face.

“
She’s with a client, but they should be finished very soon.”

“
We’ll wait.”

Hank sat down in a leather-upholstered armchair and looked through a doorway into a little kitchenette. If they had been prospective clients Brandi would probably be offering them coffee and croissants right now, but since they were cops the best they could hope for was to be politely ignored.

After a few minutes a door opened down the hallway behind the reception desk and three people came out. An older couple chatted briefly with a small Asian woman before shaking her hand and heading for the exit. Hank recognized Grace Chan. He stood up just as Brandi was pointing them out to her.

“
Mrs. Chan?” he asked, stepping forward and showing his badge, “I’m Lieutenant Donaghue from Homicide and this is Detective Stainer. May we have a few minutes of your time?”

Grace Chan looked at them, flustered. “Homicide? I have another appointment in ten minutes.”

“
This won’t take long,” Hank said.

Grace Chan gestured behind her. “In my office.” She led the way back down the hallway into a large office with a desk and computer, a meeting table with four chairs, and a row of filing cabinets. “Please, sit down,” she said, indicating the meeting table.

They sat down and Hank looked at Karen. She looked back without expression. He turned to Grace Chan.

“
We’re investigating the murder of Martin Liu,” Hank began. “I understand he was your cousin.”