The Chiang Mai Chronicle: A Declan Power Mystery (15 page)

A surprisingly brisk afternoon business had arisen causing Oum to gather her full stable of girls into service. The main topic of conversation, among foreigner and Thais alike, was the Lan Na Ripper. The Chiang Mai Chronicle had put on the streets a rare evening edition with the accompanying photos illustrating a tale of terror. She was amazed Declan could even put such misery into words.

Despite the calamity, Best Bar was experiencing its heaviest afternoon traffic in memory. The girls would not be let for hire on this day however, unless, of course, Secrets was the preferred choice. Oum took note of the time. Joe and Mimi had well exceeded their hour. She smiled. Joe did love Mimi, a tad too much one might say, and often one hour became two. Scanning the scene she saw everything was running smoothly. The girls were taking care of their men, beer was flowing, and the cash register filling up. A thought registered. With all the commotion of the previous night she had not made her customary nightly cash deposit.

Filling up her bank envelope she made for Secrets to pick up last night’s receipts. Something caused her to hesitate. A feeling of dread crept over her bones. Her head gravitated to a portrait Prem had recently hung on the wall. It was a rendering of a ghost, a spirit, what others might call a guardian angel. It was a powerful spirit dear to the people of the hills. Oum began to struggle to catch her breath. She had a premonition. The cloak of evil had descended on her home, her life, her business. Oum turned to her bartender.

“Pott, grab the gun.”

Pott looked at his boss and saw the serious demeanor which had overcome her. He grabbed the pistol, discreetly placed it under his shirt, and followed his boss out the back exit. Oum paused outside of Secrets entrance. The door was slightly ajar. The bartender sensed what Oum was thinking. He nudged in front of her and slowly pushed open the door. The dark shadowy interior obscured his view.

“Hello,” he shouted. No answer came. They leaned closer to steal a peek inside. The darkness revealed nothing. Suddenly, the loud roar of an engine startled them away from the door. A motorcycle taxi, a famed Chiang Mai tuk-tuk, roared down the narrow alley. “Shoot,” Oum screamed. Pott hesitated. The tuk-tuk driver bore down on them menacingly. Finally he steadied his hand and pulled the trigger. The sound of a bullet pinging of metal could be heard. It did not stop the tuk-tuk’s advance.

Oum dove to the ground. The pebbly alley scraped at her skin. She didn’t see the driver brandish a sword in his left hand as the taxi swiftly careened towards them. She did not hear Pott emit an anguished scream as the sword cut into his upper torso. Oum only heard the loud sound of the engine and tires as the vehicle screeched to a halt. She crouched in fear as she clung in fear to the craggy pavement. A hood roughly was placed on her head as she was stuffed kicking and screaming into the back of the vehicle. Her cries were easily muffled. The tuk-tuk roared back to life speeding away from the scene with the wails of her captor’s laughter filling the air. 

The drive back to the Chiang Mai Chronicle was conducted in silence. Declan was consumed with the information he had garnered from the interview. An interview with a killer he questioned himself. The call from Martin Gay’s mystery woman seemed to point in that direction. Her dread was palpable. She had clearly stated that the person she feared was Thanat Jaisaen. She had texted her address. Nikki from World TEFL had called the mystery girl ‘Hi So.’ High society indeed judging from the tony address he was gazing at. He returned the text and suggested meeting at the Mediterranean restaurant which was located in the condominium’s first floor lobby. Declan Power was not going to walk into a trap. She quickly replied. They would meet in the early evening. It was now three. Another message jumped onto his phone’s screen. Declan smiled. His front page story, The Lan Na Ripper Strikes Again!, had just hit the streets.   

Arriving at the newspapers office, Declan didn’t bother to go in. His Honda chariot beckoned. He needed to be on the street, in the shadows, in the story. A light mist began to fall. It was carried by a stiff wind hurtling down from the mountain. It sent a shiver through his bones as his motorcycle picked up speed. Or did that shiver spring from a different well? Oum hadn’t picked up her phone. On any other day that would not give him pause, but on this day, they were playing from a different deck.

His thoughts eased as he pulled up to the front of Best Bar. He was met by an unusually heavy afternoon crowd. The place was rocking, Loi Kroh was alive, the cries of ‘Welcome welcome,’ could be heard up and down the street. Small cliques of people, men and bargirls alike, could be seen hovering over a Chiang Mai Chronicle, gawking at the gruesome photos that lay beneath his headline.

Declan was barely noticed as he elbowed his way to the back office. Oum was nowhere in sight. He poured himself three fingers of whiskey. As he settled behind his desk Declan set his mind to the task at hand. A follow-up to this afternoon’s blockbuster headline needed to be written. The readership would be hungry for more. It was a beast Declan would gladly feed. He also had promised Thanat Jaisaen a quick turnaround on the interview. Chiang Mai’s most prominent magnate had strongly requested it to be featured in the following day’s paper to coincide with the upcoming Lan Na Cultural Festival. The question remained. Was Thanat Jaisaen capable of the atrocities reigning down on the city? Was he the Lan Na Ripper? An idea began to gather in his mind, something was beginning to form, a thesis taking shape. He focused on something that was said and a fact that was avoided. Honing in, he was rattled from his thoughts by a blood curdling scream that cut through the club’s high volume music. It came from the alley. “Shit,” Declan bellowed as he made for Secrets.

The meeting with Declan Power had gone well. Better yet, the afternoon ambush had gone off flawlessly. Rose had become such an unexpected weapon. She could seduce a man to his knees and then use her charms to lethal effect.

“Rose, my dear, come.”

Rose did as ordered lowering her gaze. She then prostrated herself at her master’s feet.

“Go relax yourself in the pool. I shall join you shortly.”

She obediently rose to her feet letting her loose frock fall to the floor. Her master leisurely gazed at the unadorned beauty that was held fast in the power of lordship. The gentle caressing of her breasts brought on a ferocious wave of passion which overtook her. Quivering, she felt the passionate heat well inside. Rose elicited a dim moan as she accepted the whip which was handed to her before silently retreating to the spa.

“Yes, a monarch needs to have concubines that represent the most beautiful in the land,” the future king of Lan Na spoke to the other person in attendance.

“And a king needs a secret police,” said the guest standing at rigid attention.

“True. That is the exact reason why these tunnels were built into the side of the mountain in the first place.”

“I thought it was built for the monkhood.”

An admiring nod of the head accompanied the knowledgeable response. “Indeed it was. But then who said monks could not also be spies. You are well-schooled which will aid us greatly. But now we have a problem.”

“That being?”

“Today’s, well, let’s just say the Lan Na Ripper has struck again. The plan worked to perfection. However, an item went missing in the raid. Rose lost hold of a very ancient dagger, a dagger with the Lan Na crest engraved in its handle. She lost grip of it as the taxi sped away. It could be a problem.”

The King’s assassin raised an eyebrow. It was met with a shrug of embarrassment.

“Yes, I have a soft spot for Rose. But, as you can see, she left with a whip which will be put to could use later this evening.”

“So, you need for me to retrieve it.”

“Yes, I’ll need for you to make the proper arrangements.”

“I have a man well trained for such a job.”

The Chiang Mai Chronicle was slid across the table. A finger was placed firmly on the photo of the Chiang Mai Chief of Police. “His nickname is Pao. What I need is for this man to die. He is the one person I cannot control at Police Headquarters. And yes, if possible, find the dagger. I don’t need for that to be traced back to here.”

“And the newspaper man, you can control him?”

Relaxing in a chair that had sat many a king, an icy response was delivered. “The thought of what I’ll do to the love of his life will control the actions of Mr. Declan Power. You will be the viper and he the bard.”

Oum struggled to open her eyes. The last thing she remembered was having a sack placed over her head and being bundled into the back of the tuk-tuk. She adjusted her sight to the darkness which inhabited the chilly space. Where was she? A voice called. “Oum, Oum! You have come to save me.”

She awkwardly climbed to her feet. Her body ached. If sight was difficult to harness, the sense of smell was vivid. The stench of urine and feces were all too evident. But that was not most disturbing, something more insidious lurked, the smell of death hung about subjugating all other senses.

“Oum, over here,” the voice continued to call. She slumped back down against the jagged wall, placed her head in her hands, and cried. Perhaps the Christians were right she considered. Their stories of heaven and hell, given weekly in the small poor village that was her childhood home, all in exchange for a daily meal, rang clearly in her head. “Become a prostitute and go straight to hell,” they admonished. She took in the evil smells which permeated the air, felt the cold hard stone which was her bed, and listened to the devilish voice which continued to beckon. Certainly she was in hell.

Phitak Pantrem looked at the pool table in shock. The scene at Stairway To Heaven earlier this morning, four o’clock to be precise, had seemed like a dream. But now, four in the afternoon, the carnage displayed at Secrets struck home in a more direct way. Two severed breasts, with a shorn penis in between, had been carefully placed on the green billiard felt. They were not as disturbing as the two heads, one male one female, which stared at each other from across the table.

Pantrem did an about face. He needed a breath of fresh air and the glare of the late afternoon sun to right his senses. There was nothing he could say to Power. The Chief and his lieutenant were huddled with the furious newspaper man presumably plotting a strategy to track down his girlfriend. He spotted a man hovering closely near the police barricade. The man was just one of many. But he seemed to be looking for something the way his eyes darted about. The eyes were the key Pantrem knew. The mouth was a liar. But the eyes, even on the most skilled of cheats, could never cross that line. He lit a smoke and put on his shades. The man continued to spy his eyes concentrating on a shred of shrubbery just outside Secrets entrance. This was a man he wanted to have a conversation with. He looked well conditioned, thirtyish, and someone who wasn’t foreign to a fight.

Inside Secrets Declan paced nervously. Lieutenant Job and the Chief were interviewing a person who had witnessed, at least partially, the event as it took place in the alley. “Why hadn’t you contacted the police,” Pao admonished. He jabbed his index finger rudely into the frightened man’s chest. The man shouted that he didn’t want any involvement with the police or the mafia thugs who roared away.

Prem lay dead behind the bar. It was a sight that made Declan suppress a knot forming in his throat. But the reluctant witness insisted Oum was alive, dragged kicking and screaming into the back of a tuk-tuk. This gave him hope. He looked closer at the corpse which was quickly losing color. Prem clutched a pen in his right hand his vacant stare squinting forlornly at the door. Ever the artist thought Declan. His eyes drifted to the wall opposite the bar. Prem was a true artist as these works would attest. ‘Every picture is a story,’ Declan remembered the Secrets manager proclaiming proudly. The words struck a chord.

He quickly strode behind the bar and knelt beside his fallen friend. There, firmly wedged between the uncut limes, a piece of paper jutted out.

“Declan,” Job hissed. “Don’t touch anything. Let forensics in first.”

“I found something,” he replied gently dislodging the paper. “And we need to move fast!”

He quickly emerged from behind the bar carefully negotiating his steps through the lemons which still lay scattered. He went to sit on the sofa on the other side of the lounge and was quickly followed by Job as the Chief continued his harsh and increasingly physical investigation of the recalcitrant witness. Declan placed the paper on the coffee table and flattened out the neatly folded edges. The curious lieutenant peered over his shoulder. Declan fumbled for his glasses. “It can’t be,” he mumbled.

“Who is it?” Job queried.

Declan held up the paper into the light. “That’s Rose,” he answered, his voice dumbfounded.

Peering closer Job’s eyes opened wide. He had only met the chrome pole superstar but once. Yet her vision was one that did not fade. “You’re right, Declan”

Declan hopped off the couch. The Chief had their witness collared in a headlock. He placed the detailed sketch in the over-zealous policeman’s face.

“Rose!” the Chief bellowed with surprise. He let the man out of his vice-like grip and pulled him up by his straggly pony tail. “Is this the lady you saw get in the back of the taxi?”