by Sheena Kamal
At the marina, I look over at the boats. Vidal’s is docked in the same place it had been the last time. But there’s no one in it. I wait for an hour in the cold. Nothing. No sounds of bodies slapping together, no knock-kneed women limping up the path in tears. No men who exude power and disdain.
No Vidal.
Not even Lam, whom I’d met once and has decided, very inconveniently, to remember me.
I’m out here alone, just me and the night, lit up by a crescent moon shining over the calm sea. Thinking of Lam and his timing, which I’d initially thought was very poor. But it only was terrible for me.
For him, though, maybe it was great. And maybe that wasn’t an accident.
Bernard Lam is a man full of surprises.
20
Brazuca is waiting for me in the office the next morning, and he’s furious.
“You lied to me,” he says. “When I showed up at the club, you weren’t there and Joe Nolan wasn’t on the door.”
I don’t deny it. “I was worried Nolan wouldn’t talk to you. Turns out it was for nothing because he didn’t even show up.”
“Is that your idea of an apology?”
We both know it’s not. I’m not in the habit of apologizing, especially to Brazuca. There is too much between us to be sorry for. We could be here for days. I heat up some stale coffee and hand him a mug instead. “This client of yours who may know something more . . . is it Bernard Lam?”
He sits up straighter in his chair. I’ve got his full attention now. There’s a shift in his expression, like admitting Lam is his client is his dirty little secret. “What happened?”
“Lam was there last night, with Vidal. All nice and cozy. What does he know?”
“He knows,” says Lam, from behind us, “that before the Devi Group, Peter Vidal worked for the law firm Jimmy Fang used for his legal defense when he got busted. And he also knows that you and I, Nora, seem to have a mutual interest in Three Phoenix.”
No potential client has ventured through those doors since I’ve been here, and everyone in the office seems quite accustomed to the emptiness. So much so that we have conversations out in the open where anyone could walk in on us. Like at this moment, for example. Lam stands in the doorway, holding a wool overcoat. He’s wearing a three-piece suit, with his tie arranged just so. All that’s missing is a sidekick and bowler hat, and then he could really be a Sherlock Holmes cosplayer.
“Good morning, Jon.” He nods to Brazuca and then looks at me. “Hello again, Nora. You turn up at the strangest places, you know? I’m in the middle of setting up a meeting with Peter Vidal to support his new development, and then you show up panting after him like a puppy.”
I’ve been accused of worse things than showing up in strange places, but never in my life have I ever panted after anyone. I’m not about to let that one go. “I show up to talk to a businessman with connections to the criminal world and I find you, offering to give him money. What should I make of that?”
He grins. “I’ve always liked you.”
Brazuca looks as surprised by this statement as I am. Why be loose with your affection when you can hoard it inside you until it shrivels and dies? I can see Lam is telling the truth, that he does like me, but it doesn’t explain why he feels the need to be here to tell me that. There’s only one reason for his sudden visit that makes any kind of sense to me, but he’s prepared to make me wait.
That’s okay. I’m prepared to dig in. From the looks of it, so is Brazuca.
Eventually Lam gets bored of the stalemate and begins to speak.
“A woman I knew died of an overdose. She took some coke that was contaminated with a synthetic opiate. Jon was looking into the supply chain for me and had come across a Three Phoenix connection. Apparently, the drugs came from underground manufacturing facilities in China. Three Phoenix, though they are dismantled, have a shadow network here they use from time to time for things like drug distribution.”
“What’s that got to do with Dao?”
“Nothing. Not directly. I’ve employed people to help me track down the network in China, but it’s almost impossible. They exist on encrypted messaging apps and use cryptocurrencies for their transactions. We’re not making progress. I need to speak to someone who knows something of this shadow network. I want to do something to get these labs shut down. Or at least get the drugs out of my city. Names to give to the police, prosecutors. The works. I think we should work together. I have the resources you need to find Dao, and you have some kind of personal connection to him.”
“Why do you want him so much?”
“I don’t. At least not Dao specifically. I want names, and he’s my main lead.”
Great. Another amateur detective in the mix. “Okay, but why do you want them? What is this about for you?”
He pauses here and looks at Brazuca, as though searching for advice on how to proceed. Brazuca remains impassive.
This is an interesting development.
The last time I’d seen these two together they had seemed like friends. But something has changed between them.
Lam turns back to me. “The woman who died . . . I loved her very much. Making sure these people don’t hurt anyone else is . . . of interest.”
There’s a photograph I’ve seen once, of Lam at the opening of some art gallery or the other. He is dressed in a tuxedo and has a glass of champagne in his hand. Even though he’s surrounded by people, there is a shield around him. Men this powerful don’t allow other people into their personal space. They demand fealty, but they don’t necessarily give it. It’s lonely to be at the top. He’d brought someone into his circle, and her death was a kind of betrayal. Even if he didn’t love her as much as he claims he did, he may never have had something taken from him before.
Or maybe he’s got too much time on his hands and spending Daddy’s billions isn’t as spiritually fulfilling as it once was.
As I consider Bernard Lam’s offer, I can feel Brazuca’s disapproval directed at Lam, and at me by extension. He shifts his weight, blocking my view of Lam slightly. He’s doing that thing that men sometimes do, but I’m not his to protect.
“Okay,” I say to Lam now. “Let’s find Dao.”
Lam breaks into a smile. “Good. I have a meeting with Peter Vidal to set up in the next day or so. We’re going to discuss my support of his development project. Maybe he’ll be inspired to tell me all about Jimmy Fang.”
When Lam leaves, taking his old-money smell and mysterious fashion sense with him, Brazuca deflates. “This is a mistake.”
“You were playing both sides again. You knew we were both looking for Dao and Three Phoenix but kept it from me. And him.”
“I never lied to you.”
“You weren’t honest, either.”
“Because he was a client. The reason Three Phoenix was on my radar at all is because of Lam.”
“I don’t like secrets.”
“Nora, this, whatever it is, is a suicide mission. You see that, right? You need to go to the police. I know you’ve had a bad history with the authorities. I know you don’t trust them, but goddamn it. Can’t you see this is bigger than that? Lam may say he has no one else, but he has money and power. He can get away with things you can’t. Don’t do this. Don’t work with him. I don’t trust him. Not with this.”
“I’m trying to find information to take to the police. They won’t believe me without evidence.”
He closes the door and stands in front of me.
“I have a friend in Homicide,” he says. “Let’s go to him. Dao put a hit on you in Detroit. Nate Marlowe was hurt, and that case got a lot of press. That Detroit detective, Sanchez, can vouch for you, that you’re in danger. Let’s try it that way. For once.”
“No.” I can’t explain my aversion to cops in terms he’ll understand. I won’t ever trust them. They don’t care about people like me, the ones who are not upstanding, the women who believe that someone is after them. What can the police do about Dao whe
n they can’t even save women who know where to find their stalkers? “Lam has money and power. You said it yourself. He has what I don’t have. And he can get to Vidal.”
“Don’t get into bed with men like that.”
“I think we’re safe there,” I say, since I’m not planning to get in bed with any man in particular at the moment. I’m a little busy. “But I’ll work with him.”
He slumps against the doorframe. His desire to be a part of whatever is happening here with me is warring with his instincts, which are clearly telling him to run as far away from this as he can. I’m not surprised by what he says next. “Nora, I have a bad feeling about this whole thing.”
And there it is. His nerves. He’s at the end of his rope and is smart enough to know it.
“No one is forcing you to look into this with me. I think you should take a step back.”
“Is that what you want?”
“Yes,” I say, without hesitation.
Every person has within her a certain amount of self-preservation to guide her. But when the self in question has taken the sheer number of knocks that I have, the preservation instinct is ground down. Mine is a fine dust, little particulates that have all but disappeared. I’m not sure what self there is left to preserve. I guess I’m upset because he’s finally leaving me alone. There is some small part of me, a wishful, stupid part, that doesn’t want him to go.
“Take care of yourself, Nora,” he says.
“You, too.” And I mean it. I really hope he does.
My phone buzzes an hour later. Brazuca has sent an article. Clicking on it will dig into the data allotment on the burner I’ve purchased. Since I’m already living dangerously, I do it anyway.
The headline reads: man, 49, found dead on second beach.
Joe Nolan, who never showed up for his shift at the Van Club, is now dead. His body was found lodged in between two large rocks. A follow-up article says Nolan’s car keys were still in his pocket, along with his wallet and a rolled-up joint. His phone was missing, though.
They think he stepped off the path to smoke a blunt, tripped, and hit his head when he fell. He bled out on the rocks just steps away from the path.
Just your average middle-aged stoner who went into the darkness to light up in one of the most cannabis-friendly cities in the world, where marijuana is now legal. He did this on one of the coldest nights of the year. A tragic accident. Nothing suspicious at all.
21
Detective Christopher Lee isn’t in a good mood. He’s not pleased to find Brazuca waiting for him in his driveway when he arrives at his North Vancouver house, across the city over the Lions Gate Bridge.
“What are you, a stalker?” he asks, getting out of his car.
“I thought you enjoyed my company.”
“That was in the past. Before . . .” Lee searches for a time he enjoyed Brazuca’s company. Comes up empty. “Fuck it. I can’t even remember.”
Lee unlocks his front door and waits until he disarms the alarm system before turning to Brazuca. “It’s been a long day, bro. What do you need this time?”
“Can’t I just visit my old partner?”
“Not really. How can I be of service to you today?” Lee’s tone is light, but Brazuca worked with him long enough to know his old partner’s patience is at an end.
“The man found on Second Beach. Nothing suspicious there?”
“That story in the papers? It didn’t land on my desk, so I don’t know the specifics. But from what I heard, we’re not treating it as a homicide at this point. Unless you know something?”
“He used to be associated with a gangbanger twenty years ago.”
“Is this all that old triad shit you’ve been looking into?”
“Not sure yet. A white guy named Joe Nolan isn’t going to be triad, but he went to school with one and they kept in touch.”
“But you’re talking about twenty years ago, right?”
“Yeah.” Brazuca sighs. “That’s the problem. We know nothing about these people anymore. They may not even be a gang.”
“Any recent involvement in criminal activity on this guy Nolan’s part?”
“Not that I know of. Just got a bad feeling.”
Lee shrugs. He gets a beer from the fridge. “Want one?”
“No. I’ll head out now. I’m off that case anyway. I was just satisfying my curiosity, so to speak.”
Lee grins at him. “Once a cop, always a cop.”
“That’s bullshit.”
His ex-partner watches him go. “You know that bad feeling of yours could be indigestion. When was the last time you ate something, bro?”
“Fuck,” says Brazuca. He’s already at the door. “I can’t even remember.”
Brazuca backs out of the driveway, thinking about what Lee has said. Once a cop, always a cop. He hopes it isn’t true. Nora said she didn’t want him on this anymore. Hell, she hadn’t hesitated for a second. But can he really leave it alone?
22
People don’t do at-home social calls anymore. That’s the sad truth of the society we live in. Nobody wants a relative, friend, acquaintance, or friend of an acquaintance to show up suddenly on their doorstep. A phone call is equally as undesirable because who wants to hear your voice when they don’t want to see your face? A text message is also suspect if read-receipts are activated. Emails are preferable, and social media messages the best of them all. With the latter two you can pretend you’ve never heard of the person or are too busy living your fabulous life.
Krista Dennings can be found through all the communication platforms that exist, living her fabulous life out there in the open, which is why she’s so perplexed that I’ve rung her doorbell. She recognizes me immediately. “You’re Sebastian Crow’s friend,” she says, a frown on her face. Her Afro is a thing of beauty, a feature that makes her stand out in any crowd of reporters. It makes people remember her. Seb would often complain that she got the best tips because she was so striking, but he would say it with a smile. They were friends. At least, until he got sick and forgot he had any but me.
“Yes,” I say. “My name is Nora Watts. Can I come in?”
I can tell she wants to correct the can with a may—but only because I knew Seb long enough to pinpoint these types. Not only is she a journalist, she was also a copy editor for some time. Language is her trade, and the only way to get her attention is to use it very well or poorly.
Poorly wins out. She waves me inside. “Sure, yes. I could use a break, anyway.”
There’s another woman at the dining room table, with papers spread about her. “This is my wife, Celine,” Krista says. “Celine, this is Nora Watts. She’s a friend of Sebastian Crow’s.”
“The journalist whose funeral you attended? I remember. Nice to meet you, Nora,” says Celine, in a Parisian French accent. She’s an extremely tall woman, even sitting down. When we shake hands, hers almost engulfs mine.
“I didn’t see you at Sebastian’s funeral,” Krista says.
“I was out of town when he passed. I couldn’t get back in time.”
“What’s wrong with your voice?”
“Okay, that’s my cue,” says Celine, unfolding her long limbs. “Krista is in her grilling mood again. A bientôt, Nora.” She leaves the room. We hear her on the stairs and a door upstairs shut.
“About your voice?” Krista asks again.
“The effects of poor life choices.”
“I can see that. You always had a reckless quality about you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Just an impression. There’s always been something unpredictable about you, I suppose.”
This gives me a pause. I’m a woman over twenty-five. I’m so used to people ignoring my existence that it’s startling when someone admits they’ve been paying attention. Then again, Krista Dennings is also a woman over twenty-five. Maybe we’ve each been paying attention while the other isn’t looking.
“I need some information,
” I say to her. I don’t tell her the full sad story because she’s heard hundreds of these before. I get to the point, which is something she appreciates.
She listens until I’m done, tapping a pencil against her chin every now and then. “Okay, so what you’re saying is you’re digging up info on Jimmy Fang? I did that for the better part of a decade. And I got a call about it a few weeks ago from a PI. Celine and I were on our honeymoon then, and I haven’t had a chance to call him back yet. A Bazucci or something? You know him?”
“Yes. Jon Brazuca. We work together sometimes. Most of the in-depth articles I’ve read about Jimmy Fang, the deep dives, had your byline.” It was something I noticed in Brazuca’s research. Krista’s name shining bright at the top of almost every article.
She nods. “Jimmy and I had a bit of a rapport. Some of these gangsters like to talk to women they know they’re never going to fuck. You go in, make them feel like a big man, and they get chatty. Jimmy gave me tips, indulged his own sense of ego. I think he liked seeing his name in print. He grew up poor, but he was ambitious. Smart. People liked him.”
“Do you know where he went? After he jumped bail?”
“He went to Hong Kong, Macau, the Philippines, and finally, according to a rumor, Indonesia. I think he got a whole new identity in the Philippines and disappeared from there.”
“But how could that happen?”
“His people had the resources to get him out. There’s a hell of a lot of money floating around British Columbia, in commercial and luxury real estate, gambling, resource development, the works. Three Phoenix was a piddling little street gang that Jimmy Fang elevated through his own personal ambition. Word is he wormed his way into the 14K ranks. Their criminal network is vast and highly adaptable. Technology has made it easier to have reduced numbers but still have their grubby hands in pies all over the world. This province has always had a strong Pacific connection that our good old politicians have exploited for their own personal gain, so we’re particularly ripe.”
