His Song Silenced

by Michael Arches

  “Nope, actually didn’t expect to see any of them again. My mom told me everybody’s constantly pitching shows to the TV networks. Only one in a thousand gets accepted. Those were ridiculous odds, but Tyrone paid my way there and back. I lived in luxury for four days, so why not?”

  “Did Wang tell you anything about his family?”

  She looked around as though trying to find an excuse to abandon me, but the only customers I’d seen earlier had left. “Nope.”

  Had Pam steered me wrong? I knew she wouldn’t intentionally, but maybe she’d assumed too much. “So, you heard nothing about Wang’s family’s connection to organized crime?”

  “He didn’t talk about them, and even if he’d said anything like that, I wouldn’t have listened. Everybody in hip-hop claims to know some lowlifes. Part of the gangsta rapper shtick.”

  “Were you at the going away party the night Wang disappeared?”

  “You’re not listening,” she said with an exasperated voice. “Everybody was there, and everybody said how much they loved everybody else. I said how much I loved blah, blah, blah, because otherwise Tyrone…”

  “Would’ve gotten rid of you.”

  “Yeah, like that. But fast-forward, and it turns out, Mom was wrong. The show got picked up by MTV. A fucking miracle. I might get out of this hellhole of a town. Just found out yesterday. I’m going to be cooped up with twelve crazy rappers for a month.”

  For the first time, she smiled.

  “Do you have any idea why Wang left the party early?”

  “Nope. I left even earlier. Tyrone had paid for my flight back to Denver, and it left at godforsaken six a.m. I had to get up at four-thirty, so I bolted the party at eleven—after saying goodbye to everybody.”

  She hesitated. “Guess I’ll never see him again. Nice guy.”

  Her last comment sounded wistful. She sure as hell was right about not seeing him again. And for the first time, she showed a flicker of a care about what’d happened to the poor bastard.

  “Did the producer say or do anything in remembrance?”

  She shrugged. “All of Wang’s people were from China. Don’t know what they do there. Wang’s manager was a prick, but I tried to send a sympathy card. Mom said that would be the thing, but when I emailed the manager for a mailing address, he didn’t answer.”

  To test her reaction to the manager’s untimely demise, I said, “He might’ve had a good reason. Apparently, as soon as he reached China, someone whacked him for not taking better care of their golden boy.”

  Her face remained passive. “Didn’t know the guy.”

  A weird reaction to cold-blooded murder.

  “Did anybody else piss you off?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “I got along with the other rappers and sang my songs. That was all that mattered to Tyrone. And looking good. It weren’t no accident that everybody on the show is smoking hot.”

  She glanced around, maybe realized she was talking too much. “That’s it. Don’t bother me no more.”

  She strode into the kitchen.

  I headed back to my departmental SUV and tried to figure out whether she disliked all cops, or just me. It had to be all cops because I hadn’t mistreated her or accused her of doing anything wrong.

  While her comments were fresh in my mind, I typed my detailed interview notes into my laptop.

  Then I called Willow and relayed what I’d learned. Although she wasn’t a cop, she turned out to be a great sounding board. Asked great questions that got me thinking.

  At one point, she said, “Here’s what I don’t understand. White claimed she hardly talked to Wang, but didn’t Pam tell you White and the Hong Kong rapper had seemed close?”

  “Sure, she did, but the thing is, Pam only saw that group every now and then. She might’ve gotten a wrong impression. Dinah doesn’t have any obvious reason to lie that I can see. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to put any effort into those relationships because she didn’t expect the show to get picked up by a network.”

  “Or maybe she doesn’t want to become involved in a murder case. I can sympathize about that.”

  I realized that, too, but without witnesses, cops would never solve a lot of crimes.

  “What’s next, flatfoot?” Willow giggled. “I’ve always wanted to say that to a police officer. My father and I loved the old American gangster movies. We’d speak like that for days after watching one on DVD or via a download.”

  That was so ridiculous—made me laugh. “Glad you got that off your chest. I’ll make arrangements to fly to LA early in the morning. Don’t know how many of the rappers from the workshop will speak to me, but I’ve got to give it a shot. No other evidence to guide us to a killer.”

  “You’re just starting, Hank. As my American friends like to say, cut yourself some slack.”

  That sounded particularly odd when spoken with a French accent. “I’ll try. Any news about the Hong Kong triads? White didn’t seem to know anything about them.”

  “Making good progress. Contact me when you reach LAX. I’ll tell you then what I’ve learned.”

  -o-o-o-

  My flight to the city of angels was uneventful and arrived late in the morning. Thanks to data from various cellphone companies and more research Willow had sent me, I knew addresses for the nine rappers from the Aspen trip who were living in LA or the surrounding suburbs.

  One of them was from Baltimore, though. I tried to call her several times and left messages, but no response.

  At LAX, I rented the cheapest car I could find. Before I drove off in the rental, Carson called me. He was the senior FBI agent I’d met at Ernie’s house.

  “You’re in luck,” he said. “Our LA expert on triads is willing to talk to you. Ready for his number?”

  “Do you have his address? I happen to be in LA right now, and I’d prefer to drop by his office, if possible.”

  “I’ll give you both. See what you can arrange.”

  I took down the info and thanked him profusely for following up on my request.

  Chapter 9

  The FBI’s office was north of the airport on Wilshire Blvd. The Federal Building was a typical high-rise like those I’d seen in downtown Denver, but this one sat off by itself. Probably a good thing because it had to be ground zero for domestic terrorists in the region. The building was surrounded by dozens of concrete pillars. They obviously were intended to stop a truck bomb like the one that’d taken out the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City.

  Inside, the security was tighter than at the airport. They particularly focused on my left foot, as though a cop would want to smuggle a bomb in.

  My contact, Sam Chin, met me in the lobby and took me up to his office.

  He was a portly, whitehaired man wearing a dark suit, white shirt, and narrow dark tie. He could’ve been an extra in one of the Men in Black movies. He walked with the help of a cane and led me to a small, neat office furnished with a cheap, modern desk and matching chairs. Just like cop shops everywhere. When I sat in one of the visitor’s chairs, it creaked. Maybe I needed to cut back on pastries from the bakery near our office.

  A map of southern China covered his desk. “I grew up in Macao,” he pointed at a spot along the coast, “across a large bay from Hong Kong. Centuries ago, Macao was given to the Portuguese as a trading post. It developed into a major resort area like Las Vegas, including lots of gambling. Being a port city, like Hong Kong, there was always an enormous amount of smuggling.”

  “No surprise there,” I said.

  He nodded. “Macao and Hong Kong naturally attracted organized crime, which thrived under loose regulation by Portugal and Great Britain. Then, during the late 1990s, those cities were absorbed back into China. But the old ways have continued to flourish.”

  I told him what little I knew about Splendid and his mobbed-up family.

  Sam listened patiently, then said, “I can’t get over the similarities between Wang Cha
o and Frank Sinatra. Both singers were extraordinarily talented and clean-cut while remaining close to some of the world’s worst criminals. Wang’s family has been a major opium smuggler for centuries. And after World War II, they expanded into other illegal drugs. Of course, that business has made them immensely wealthy.”

  I wasn’t surprised. “Wang Chao is closely related to a man named Wang Bin. He owns a palatial ranch near Aspen that I’ve seen from the outside. It’s stunning.”

  “Chao’s uncle is a billionaire,” Sam said. “Despite our many attempts to prosecute him, we’ve never collected enough evidence for an arrest. Potential witnesses against him have a nasty habit of vanishing.”

  “Is there much infighting between the Wang family and other triads?” I asked.

  “Constantly, going back hundreds of years.” Sam gave me a detailed explanation of the six major clans in southeastern China.

  Then, I asked, “If you had to guess, which other family do you think would hate the Wangs enough to kill the young musical phenomenon?”

  He paused for a moment and tapped an index finger against his chin. “Seven years ago, Wang Bin is reputed to have ordered the bombing of a yacht in Hong Kong’s harbor. It held Li Bo, the patriarch of the Li triad. The Lis have not yet responded. And even more recently, three years ago, Wang’s elite group of mercenaries blew up a warehouse in Macao. The Chen family had been using it as a drug laboratory. The explosion killed two powerful lieutenants for the Chen family. Again, no response yet. If I had to guess, I would say one of those families might’ve exacted their revenge.”

  “From so many years ago? Would they really wait so long?”

  Sam snickered. “They would wait for decades to find the perfect moment to express their extreme displeasure with the Wangs. Nobody in Southern China believes either the Li or Chen families will fail to avenge their honor. The only thing that puzzles me about using Wang Chao as revenge is that no one has claimed credit. Revenge is only meaningful if everyone knows a family’s honor has been restored.”

  “Maybe the Wang family does know who murdered Wang Chao,” I said. “That would be enough, wouldn’t it?”

  The old man shook his head. “A public insult requires a public response.” He hesitated then said, “But it is possible that the family responsible for Chao’s death has delayed claiming credit for some strategic reason. Not likely, but possible.”

  The same kind of tit-for-tat mob murders used to occur in the US during the Prohibition years and for decades afterwards. “How can we find out for sure whether a triad was responsible for Wang Chao’s murder?” I asked.

  “Wang Bin would know. In three weeks, he’s scheduled to attend a trade conference in San Francisco. If the truth hasn’t emerged before then, perhaps you and I should confront him and ask.”

  “That sounds great,” I said.

  Sam nodded then pointed at me with an index finger. “In the meantime, remember that he’s an extremely volatile and vicious thug. You may well be on his enemies list for failing to protect his nephew.”

  That was just what I needed—a billionaire mobster after me, and he controlled a whole fucking militia of trained killers.

  -o-o-o-

  After I left the FBI’s office, I headed to East Hollywood where the closest rap star wannabe’s apartment was located. I imagined Tinseltown would be fancy, but East Hollywood definitely wasn’t. It reminded me of the dreary, rundown portions of Denver along its west side. Lots of closed businesses and graffiti on the walls.

  My destination was a pink stucco apartment building that contained a dozen units on two floors. The paint on the outside walls was chipped and faded, and someone had used the building’s sign for target practice.

  I pressed the button for unit seven.

  “¿Qué pasa?” a woman asked.

  I didn’t understand Spanish, but I knew this was my only chance to talk my way in. “Excuse me, I’m Detective Morgan with the Pitkin County Sheriff’s Office. I’d like to speak with Maria Sanchez in connection with the disappearance of Splendiferous Wang.”

  “Do you have a warrant?” she asked in heavily accented English.

  “No, you’re not in any trouble. I just want to ask a few questions.”

  “Don’t talk to cops. Get lost.”

  I tried to change her mind, but she ignored the rest of my comments.

  The worst part was, I couldn’t drag her before a LA County grand jury without jumping through a huge number of hoops. Because I was from out of state, it would be much harder than convincing a Denver prosecutor to help me.

  I gave up on Sanchez and headed to the home of my second potential witness, Luther Masai. He lived near the University of Southern California. That part of the region was much nicer, with beautiful landscaping along the streets. The witness’s apartment building was much nicer, too, including flowering shrubs and a fountain in the courtyard.

  But I didn’t have any more luck. Over the intercom, Masai said, “Don’t know jack about Wang. My cousin Joliba is a damned lawyer. She says don’t talk to nobody with a badge. Call her.” He rattled off her phone number.

  I explained I was just looking for a witness, not accusing him of anything. No response.

  I realized I’d been spoiled back in Colorado. Virtually nobody in the Centennial State would refuse to talk to me. Folks might not have told me the whole truth, or they might’ve pretended not to remember something, but nobody had shut me down like these LA assholes. It made me wonder what these people were trying to hide.

  In any case, showing up unannounced wasn’t working. So, I called my next potential witness before leaving Masai’s complex. When I got the witness’s voicemail, I left a message.

  Although I waited for fifteen minutes, no answer.

  This was turning into a complete waste of time. My best chance for cooperation might be the rap show’s producer, Tyrone Payton. He wasn’t some idiot kid with nothing to lose, and he was bringing his crew back to Aspen for a month. Willow had researched him and found he was very successful with videos and music.

  I called his business, Camden Waterfront Productions, which was located in Century City.

  A woman named Sharlene answered with a no-nonsense tone and a deep gravelly voice.

  I introduced myself and tried not to whimper. “I came all the way from Colorado to investigate Splendiferous Wang’s murder. The thing is, I’m having trouble convincing witnesses to talk to me. I’m really hoping I can speak to Mr. Payton sometime soon.”

  Her voice immediately warmed up. “Hank, I read about that recent shooting in Aspen. Was that you who got the guy?”

  Her words sparked some hope within me. “Yeah, and now I’m trying to find the murderer of Splendiferous Wang. Sure could use Mr. Payton’s help.”

  “Count on it. Tyrone will talk to you, but we got one teensy, weensy, little problem. He’s in the middle of an important meeting with the head of Paramount, the big cheese himself. Still, I know Tyrone wants to help you the minute he has a chance to take a breath. Let me check his calendar.”

  For once, I seemed to be getting somewhere. I could hear her typing on a keyboard.

  “Oh, honey, today ain’t lookin’ good. Not a bit. In twenty minutes, he’s gotta run for a production meeting at Warner Brothers Records. Then he’s off to a new release party at Kendrick’s mansion. No, girl, today ain’t gonna happen, I’m afraid.”

  “How about tomorrow?” I asked. “I can be available any time after five a.m.”

  She snorted. “What you talkin’ about? That’s when my boy might get to bed. I can squeeze you in first thing tomorrow. That means ten a.m. Fair warning. He’ll probably be late.”

  Relief flooded through me. I should have done a better job of setting this trip up, but on the plus side, he could probably tell me most of what the other witnesses would’ve. “Perfect, Sharlene. I really appreciate your help. See you at ten tomorrow morning.”

  After I hung up,
I began jotting down questions I needed to ask super-busy Tyrone. No more going off half-baked.

  By the time I finished my list, my stomach was growling. It was after seven, which was actually an hour later than in Colorado. I needed to find my motel and somewhere cheap to eat.

  I’d reserved a motel room off of the Santa Monica Freeway west of downtown, and I plugged in the address on my maps app. It sent me north to the interstate.

  Everybody drove so damned fast here. I stayed in the right lane, and let people roar past me, some honking their horns. I tried to go the speed limit, but my brain was frazzled after the long, frustrating day.

  Then I noticed a black SUV to my left. Unlike everybody else, he wasn’t racing by. Odd.

  I glanced over, and a darkly tinted window rolled down. A black guy with a baseball cap turned sideways stared at me. Looked like a lion about to jump on a wildebeest.

  My whole body tingled. Even before he stuck his arm out, holding a chrome plated revolver, my foot had slammed on the brakes. Pure instinct.

  Three shots rang out but passed in front of my car.

  Thank God, he’d missed. Tires behind me screeched. I tensed up, waiting for the guy riding on my ass to slam into me. By some miracle, he didn’t end up in my backseat.

  The black SUV sped away, wove through the heavy traffic, and vanished. The license plate had been covered, so I didn’t have any idea who the vehicle belonged to.

  Fucking son of a bitch!

  I tried to keep my speed up. My hands shook like crazy.

  Why me? I let out the breath I’d been holding. My heart pounded in my ears. The bastard had almost killed me.

  Too rattled to think, I took the next exit off the freeway. At the first parking lot available, I pulled in. A convenience store. There, I tried to catch my breath. My heart still pounded in my chest. Pay more attention to your surroundings, idiot. You’re not in Colorado anymore.