The Chiang Mai Chronicle: A Declan Power Mystery (7 page)

They came to a cell. It was awash in darkness. The iron doors creakily gave way allowing entrance. A rustling sound could be heard in the corner. The lantern meandered through the darkness providing a hazy dusty illumination. Martin Gay cowered against the wall. Rose recoiled. Half-eaten rats lay scattered by his feet.

She wanted to turn and run. The sight of him was horrific. Half man half beast, she was looking at a savage. Her master prodded her forward. She reluctantly followed the directions given her. The platter was dutifully placed at the man’s feet. No words were exchanged. Martin Gay’s eyes flickered to life with recognition.

Two legs were then placed beside the platter. Martin Gay ran around in panic. The man who had administered his torture was present. He was the deliverer of Ben Post’s legs.

A voice came from the shadowed doorway: “Bon appétit Martin Gay.” The voice caused Martin even more dread. His head scanned around wildly. Martin Gay’s captor had returned. His torment had yet to cease.

The procession silently paraded out of the cell and returned back down the ancient corridor. Martin looked down at the severed head of his former friend. A single tear made a solitary trek down his savaged face. He whispered hoarsely: “Ben.”

An anguished cry followed Rose as the end of the tunnel appeared. She exhaled as she exited the gates of hell. The bright moonlight washed over her face. She had found a home at last.

Declan Power rarely cried. His father had beaten into him the notion that a man never cried. He hated his father. He stared grimly as the sun peaked over the nearby mountain range. His thoughts thickly consumed by the fate of his best friend. Yet no tears emerged to give a hint to his distraught state. He could have saved Ben. At least he could have paid more attention. But he didn’t. He simply observed as the best friend he had ever known in these parts of the world pissed his life away. 

Oum came onto the balcony carrying a pot of steaming hot black coffee. He had told her everything as he always did. It was a story that was best kept undercover, but it was a tale she was knee deep in. Danger was at their doorstep.

“You’ll need to go back to your village Oum,” he stated firmly.

She looked at him sympathetically understanding his grief. Something came to her. “Why only the arm?” she questioned. “I watch Criminal Minds. You know, maybe the killer keep Ben alive.”

Oum, even in the worst of moments, could change his mood. His mood eased ever so slightly. “This isn’t TV baby.” He took a deep gulp of the rich Arabica.

“This is about Martin Gay. You tell me this yeah! Ben is the good friend of Marty too. Maybe jai lai, the evil one, take Ben to find Martin. Now jai lai send message to Bangkok Man.”

Declan looked at his bride-to-be with awe. He sat up straight, took another deep gulp, and lit a Marlboro. She had awoken him. Now, alert, his mind began to race. “You are brilliant my Pillsbury Dough Girl! Why not place Ben around the courtyard or museum as well? Just one arm, no, you’re on to something. A message is being sent. And it was delivered straight in the heart of Lan Na culture to boot.”

He stubbed his cigarette into the ashtray and raised his aching bones out of his chair.

“Where you go?” she asked happy to see his resolve return.

“I’m on a story so it’s off to the office.” He bent over to give her a big hug and motioned for the futon. “But before I go…”

“Ok bai, go out now, we have guest,” she said while bustling him towards the door.

Declan turned and kissed her deeply on the lips. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Then it’s up to the mountains for you, Martin’s wife, and the kid.”

“Sure, Nam and daughter go to village. Me, I stay! I have business to run.”

He thought to argue but knew it would only waste time. Time was of the essence.

Chapter 3

It had been some time since he had arrived at the Chiang Mai Chronicle’s office at such an early hour. A big smile broke on to his face. A few months back, during a late night doing his rounds, Declan and Ben had come across a ferret. It didn’t take long for them to figure out what to do with the furry little menace. They snuck into the office of the august editor-in-chief of Chiang Mai’s one and only daily and deposited the critter into his top drawer. Declan had gone home, showered, shaved, and reported to his desk at an unheard of eight sharp. The howl of fright and surprise was worth the cost of a mammoth headache. Peter Morgan could only glower in Declan’s direction.

He put the key into his office door and wiped away a slight bit of moisture from his eyes. He felt better. It was time to formulate a strategy. Declan had an idea. The story had to revolve around Mengrai University. He needed an interview with the big man on campus. Declan Power needed to get in Thanat Jaisaen’s office.

Jaisaen had become arguably the most important individual and civic leader in Chiang Mai. He promoted everything Lan Na and had an open distaste for the Bangkok elite. He was fat. Aside from Thaksin Shinawat, the exiled prime minister, Thanat Jaisaen was the wealthiest Thai north of Bangkok.

Nicknamed Jakrit, he had been gifted with Midas touch and saw Mengrai University as his own personal fiefdom. He took what he wanted. Much like the former Lan Na kings, he saw his rule as absolute. In fact Jakrit claimed to be a descendent from an unbroken line of rulers dating back to the founder of the Lan Na Empire King Mengrai. The truth was he was a distant cousin of the last king who could lay claim to the Lan Na throne which was abolished in 1929.

That fact was unimportant. The lie had been sold. The legend had been cast. His career had soared without blemish. That was, until Declan broke the story of the TEFL scam being run on his campus. Thanat Jaisan’s hand had been caught firmly in the cookie jar. But, he had not achieved his success without displaying an acute sense of timing and ingenuity.

Jaisaen acted quickly. Martin Gay was unceremoniously throne off campus with all computers confiscated. A show had been made of it as well. Martin had been invited to a meeting. In Martin’s mind the meeting was confidential. Jaisaen, with other ideas in mind, had alerted the leading Thai newspapers to be on hand. The King Mengrai Guard, a glorified and expensively uniformed campus police, was laying in wait for Martin who was photographed being roughly and literally thrown outside the university gates. It had all been great drama.  

Declan leaned back in his desk chair. Was Jaisaen capable of murder and, perhaps, kidnapping? The answer rushed forward. “Yes!” he exclaimed.

But he was reaching. He knew better than to reach for a story. Uncover one rock. That will lead to a bigger rock. And then, the story will come to him. Still, Thanat Jaisaen was the key. He needed an interview with the would-be king of a resurrected Lan Na throne.     

The newspaper reporter has little of use in his tool box. In reality, nobody wants to talk to a reporter. But a good reporter needs two things. First, a healthy dose of wit will lead you to the story. Then, a healthy dose of gumption is needed to carry the wit to where it can be put to the best use.

With that in mind, he strode into his boss’ office. Peter Morgan did not gaze up from his newspaper.

“You look like shit,” he commented dryly.

Declan was tempted to unburden himself after last night’s unwanted surprise. That’s what his wife was for. In any case, Peter Morgan would only be concerned about something that would aggrandize his bottom line. Declan smiled to himself. His wit could always outmaneuver a pinstripe mind.

“I’m a beat reporter. I should always look like shit at eight in the morning. Plus I need to be over to the shoot at eleven.” Declan had forgotten about the shoot and Rose as well. His mind began to scramble. Would the mamasan at Foxy Lady have received the news about her mutilated and murdered dancer? And what about Rose? She had also gone off with Ben.

Morgan put the paper down and flashed a rare smile his way. “I just nailed a full page ad with Chiang Mai Auto Mart. They want it run directly opposite our Chiang Mai Centerfold page.”

Declan was wrestled from his thoughts. ‘My centerfold page,’ his mind screamed. This was no time for icy barbs. He smiled. “Look I’m working on a story. Even with all the good press and recognition we got from our uncovering of the TEFL scam, Thanat Jaisaen hit us hard on the ad front.”

Peter Morgan scowled. “Yeah, recognition and good press, for you maybe. Your story hit my ad bottom line hard. I’m just starting to dig out.”

Declan smiled inwardly. His wit was taking Morgan’s pinstripe mind for a stroll. Hell, his editor had even dumped his phony clipped British accent for his native cockney. Time to dance. “Precisely. I think I can turn this to our advantage.”

“What do you have in mind?” his boss questioned suspiciously. “You’ve already done enough damage.”

“First things first, I need to get Rose over to the photo shoot and organize that. You’ve seen her photo?”

Morgan looked greedily down at his phone. “Yes I have. You really outdid yourself Power.”

Declan didn’t disturb him as he leisurely took in Rose in all her natural beauty.

“I need to up the ad price for this page,” he grumbled to himself.

“Once I finish that boss, I propose I work on a story that attempts to rehabilitate both the Mengrai University Language Center and World TEFL. I’ve set up an interview with the new director at World TEFL and I’d like for our office to set up an interview with Thanat.”

Peter Morgan’s head bolted up. “No,” he stated flatly. He rubbed his chin as if a vibrant new idea had crystallized. “It’s not a bad idea though. I’ll have Bart Hartin do it.”

This time Declan could not resist. “Bart the fart! You must be joking,” he said before breaking into laughter.

Morgan thrust his index finger in the direction of Hartin’s office. “Bartholomew Hartin is the one reporter here that gives this paper any semblance of legitimacy. He cut his bones in England for the Guardian lest you forget.”

That fact was quite unavoidable around the Chiang Mai Chronicle office and one that both the editor and the blubbering Mr. Hartin played up endlessly. This was no time for a sword fight though.

He shrugged nonchalantly. “I can go it alone.”

“What do you mean ‘go it alone’ Power!”

Declan rose from his chair, looked at his watch, and went for the door. “I talked with Burke down in Bangkok at The Nation. He’s been nipping at my heels looking to run with a follow-up to the TEFL scam story. I’ll go freelance on this one and run it through him.”

Declan was halfway out the door when Morgan slammed his hand on his desk. “Sit the hell down.”

Declan shrugged and returned to the chair. “What’s up boss?”

Morgan shook his head. “Ok, I’ll let you run with this. But you damn well better square things with Jaisaen. And,” he continued with a dramatic flourish, “Bart is your wing man!”

Phitak Pantrem knew he had to move nimbly. This was the reason he was chosen for this assignment. Thanat Jaisaen’s power was on the rise. It was a reality which gave the Bangkok elite pause. But there was more. The man called Jakrit was dangerous. His off the cuff remarks hinting at a return to the days of an independent Chiang Mai sounded an alarm bell within the halls of power of the Thai government.

The Martin Gay affair provided an opening. If Gay could be persuaded to talk, perhaps the Thanat Jaisaen deck of cards would come crumbling down. But Gay had gone missing. He had been warned about his foe’s ability to strike. The man was deadly. Last night bore that out. But Jaisaen was cautious. Last night was audacious. Not his style. Regardless, a message had been sent.

He was working in the dark. There was nobody he could trust. The working assumption had to be that everybody in the Chiang Mai political structure was on Jaisaen’s payroll. The Chief of Police would be no exception. Luck had shined on him in one respect though. The Chief had paid a visit to Ben Post only the day before. Hours before one of Post’s body parts would be found dangling at a murder scene. It was time to twist some crews.

“Shit Ben!” Martin Gay howled. “Do you think I ever meant for this to happen?” He took another big bite out of the beefy leg which had been deposited hours before. A surge of energy had returned to his depleted body. He slouched back down against the stone wall and met Ben Post’s hollowed gaze. “Well I bloody didn’t I can assure you.”

Gay tossed the leg from hand to hand while deep in thought. He then took another hearty bite. A smile waved over his dirt and blood encrusted face. He rubbed the wavy blonde hair on his friend’s head. “I’ve got a secret mate,” he whispered conspiratorially into Ben’s ear. “We’ve got an ace in the hole. I was thinking ahead for the both of us I was. Declan Power. That’s right. I stuffed an envelope with cash. Cash is king in this city my friend. I’ll bet my life Declan is digging for a story as we speak. Mum’s the word eh.”

Nothing is more depressing or dreary than a go-go bar the morning after a night of festivities. The smell, the haze, and the harsh glare of lights combine to add up to something hideous. The same could be said for the dancers just waking up after a hard night on the mattress. In just a few hours though, all would bloom back to life in a seductive glow.