by Sheena Kamal
When Vidal leaves, Lam turns to me. “Dao used to work for Ray Zhang, as you know.”
I nod. When I met Lam for the first time, this was the piece of information he gave me. At that time, I was looking for Ray Zhang because of his connection to Bonnie’s disappearance.
“The official story is that Ray Zhang died in Hong Kong last year from a stroke. His son, Kai, is dead. So is his daughter-in-law, Jia, as well as their son. Zhang-Wei was a family company. After Ray’s death, Zhang-Wei Industries was in trouble, and Mike Acosta’s Nebula Corporation took over whatever Zhang-Wei international assets they could get their hands on. Zhang-Wei was into mining and real estate all over the world.”
“You think Dao tipped him off? That they knew each other?”
“Zhang and Acosta were friendly rivals, but they ran in the same circles here in Vancouver. Head offices for both of their companies were based here.”
“Head offices for most of the world’s mining companies are in Vancouver.” It’s something I remembered from the time I’d been looking into the Zhang family and their business dealings.
“Yes, yes. You’re not going to give me a lecture, are you?”
“You won’t get a lecture from me,” I say. I’m not my sister. “When Ray Zhang was out of the picture, maybe Dao transferred his allegiance to Acosta.”
“That’s exactly what I’m thinking,” Lam says. “Maybe Dao was friendly with Acosta—or Acosta’s security. Dao had a reputation as someone who worked his way up to the head of Ray Zhang’s private security detail. Acosta has done business all over Asia, especially in Indonesia. Dao likely knew Acosta, very well.”
“Dao worked for the Zhang family for years. He knew how those kinds of high rollers operated. Knew how to handle their security and the various unsavory aspects of their lives. He was trusted and respected. He would be an asset to any team.”
“He always struck me as a company man,” Lam says. “A soldier for the Zhangs.”
“When we’d first met you told me that he was triad, but how did you know that? Who is he, really?” He shrugs it off, but something jolts my memory. “You said he seemed like a soldier. To me, he had a military bearing. What are the chances that he has some military experience, somewhere in his past?”
“It would make sense. Especially if he worked for someone as high-profile as Ray Zhang.”
“And now Michael Acosta. Now what would a guy like Michael Acosta need a ruthless, loyal soldier for?”
It occurs to me, much later, that I should have brought up Joe Nolan’s death just to gauge the temperature in the room. I don’t see Vidal pushing him onto the rocks, but I would have liked to see his reaction. It’s an opportunity missed because I’ll probably never be in the same room as Vidal again. But I have Michael Acosta, who might be Dao’s new employer. If I—we—can figure out what role he plays in Acosta’s vast empire, there’s a chance we can find him.
Then what? asks a voice in my head.
I tell it to fuck off.
25
The daylight is seeping away when Krista Dennings calls. “I’m on deadline so I don’t have a lot of time, Nora,” she says, as soon as I pick up.
“What’s up?”
“One of my sources for the article on the private money lenders called. I couldn’t give you her name before, but when she contacted me, I asked if it was okay. Stephanie Kwan’s ex-husband owed money to Nguyen’s people and Nguyen used the debt in an attempt to get her to sign over the property. But she knew nothing about the loan. She says she’s received threatening phone calls from Nguyen’s secretary and one from someone claiming to be Nguyen himself but nothing for the past week. On the phone he’d said the next time he spoke with her he’d bring his friends with him. It was an explicit threat. Today her landscaper called while she was at work—she’s a chemist—and said some guys had driven by the house a few times and slowed down specifically to get a look at her property.”
“You think it’s Nguyen?”
“Maybe you should talk to her. She’s called the police, and they said they sent a car over but saw nothing.”
“She’s alright with speaking to me about him?”
“Yes,” says Krista, after a moment.
“I’m not sure I understand why you’d be giving me one of your sources.”
“Usually these guys prey on newcomers and exploit their fears to extort them out of money and their homes. But Stephanie is a force to be reckoned with. She doesn’t take lightly to anyone threatening her, so she was pissed. That previous time, and today, too, when she called to give me the update. I explained to her that you’re looking for some information about a threat to your own safety. Maybe she remembers something she hadn’t before in her conversation with me, I don’t know. I would run this down myself, but—”
“You’re on deadline.”
“That’s right.”
“How did you know there’s a threat to my safety?”
She laughs, but it’s a knowing laugh, one without the least bit of humor. “Nora, I pay attention. It’s my job. You don’t have any obvious tells, but I could see some part of you was worried. Scared, even.” Then she grows serious. “And besides, why else would you be looking into an old gangster like Jimmy Fang? Or trying to use an equally old gangster like Nguyen to get to him? You must be desperate.”
After I take down the address, we end the call. Whisper and I get into the Corolla. There’s no denying that Krista Dennings is right. I am desperate.
I arrive just moments before Stephanie Kwan does. I’m barely out of the car with Whisper when a sensible Subaru Forester rolls up. A middle-aged woman with blondish streaks in her dark hair gets out of the car, hoisting the largest handbag I have ever seen out of the back seat.
She gives me a frank once-over and turns to Whisper. “Hey there, buddy! Do you want a treat?”
While she rummages in the bag, she says to me, “I’m assuming you’re Krista’s friend? The one looking for information on that fucking asshole who’s been calling me?”
“That’s me,” I say, watching her hand my dog the treat. Whisper gives it an exploratory sniff and then takes it delicately into her mouth.
“What a lady!” Stephanie says, beaming at Whisper. I like her immediately, this woman. She’s still smiling when she turns back to me, but the smile disappears as something just beyond my shoulder gets her attention.
A Bentley pulls up, blocking the driveway entrance. Two men get out of the car, and I try to control my shock. One of them is much larger than the other, younger, too, though the second man wears nicer clothes. I focus on him, Mr. GQ.
Van Nguyen hasn’t changed much in twenty-odd years, but for graying hair and a small, sharp goatee that doesn’t particularly suit him.
The larger man halts at the sight of Whisper, who’s off-leash.
“Miss Kwan, we’d like to speak with you inside. Alone,” says Nguyen. “I think you know what this is about.” While he’s ignoring me, I pull my hood up to cover as much of my appearance as possible.
Stephanie Kwan isn’t impressed. “Get out of here, you asshole! I’ve already called the cops!”
Nguyen yawns. “We should settle our business privately.”
She reaches into her purse and pulls out a canister of bear spray. The larger man tenses. I see him reach for something inside his jacket. Whisper growls.
I want information on Nguyen, but this is getting out of hand. I move to block Stephanie and wrap my fist around Whisper’s collar. “Neighborhood watch,” I say to Nguyen and his goon. “Who did you say you were?”
“Oh, I don’t think I did,” says Nguyen. His voice sounds shockingly young for a man his age. He frowns at me, as if he’s trying to place me. He’s about to say something else, but Whisper tugs on her leash, moving forward. His attention is on her now.
I step past him, bringing Whisper with me. “Is that a Bentley? You wouldn’t mind if I take the license plate down, just to put it in our records? North Vancouver
is getting dangerous, so we like to keep track of who our friends are.”
“Maybe this isn’t such a good time, since you have company,” Nguyen says to Stephanie Kwan. “We’ll be back.”
We watch him and the larger man leave. Stephanie doesn’t put away the bear spray until they turn the corner.
“Was that everything you dreamed and more?” she asks.
“What?”
“You were looking for information on the guy who says I owe him money for my house. Happy now?”
“Not really.”
“Neither am I. I’m calling the police. Again.” She fishes in her bag for her keys, then invites me inside, where she gives me a run-down of the phone calls and threats Nguyen’s people had made.
“Here are the numbers they used to call me,” she says, scrolling through her call list. I log them into my burner. “What’s this about? Do they also think you owe them money? Because they didn’t seem to recognize you.”
Which is strange, if Nguyen is Dao’s guy here in Vancouver. If he’s responsible for farming out the surveillance, he should know what I look like at least. Or maybe with most of my face and hair covered by the hood, he just didn’t put it together in time. “I’m looking for information on someone they used to know.”
“Well, you didn’t do a very good job of asking them!”
“I know.”
She puts out a bowl of water for Whisper. “Maybe I should get a guard dog.”
I nod. “That’s a great idea.”
“Look, don’t feel bad. Those guys weren’t going to tell you anything anyway.”
“I know that, too.” I missed my chance to follow them, collect information on where they went, who they talked to. Figure out, somehow, what they know about Jimmy Fang and Dao.
“Thank you for staying with me,” she says. “It was good to have someone here when they showed up.”
“You really should get a dog.”
I stay until a police squad car shows up, then say good-bye to her. I’d wanted to go since Nguyen and his friend had taken off, but I couldn’t leave her alone with nothing but bear spray for protection. It’s fully dark by the time Whisper and I get back into the car. From our vantage point, Vancouver is laid out in front of us across the water, the city lights shining bright.
26
Dao is suffocating. There’s dust in his mouth. In his eyes. He takes a swipe at them to clear his vision, and the first thing he sees is that he’s trapped. The bed collapsed on top of him, and he’s breathing into a pocket of air.
He tests his fingers, toes, limbs. Everything is intact but hurts like hell. There’s a bump on his head, and that seems fitting. This is what he gets for going to look for a wayward employee and stumbling on the seemingly free gift of sex. But nothing is free, especially not sex, and his life is the price he might have to pay for it if he doesn’t get his ass into gear.
He flips onto his stomach and crawls toward the air pocket.
He has no idea how long he’s been out, but from his extreme thirst and the weakness he feels, he’s been here for quite some time.
It makes sense. He’s the only resident, and the compound is minimally staffed. That lazy bastard Anto must be gone, so it’s just Dao and Riya, the maid . . .
Who’d been screaming somewhere above his head. It’s the last thing he remembered before being crushed.
There’s a loose beam blocking his way. He grabs it and pushes it with all his might. The pain is unbelievable, but he manages to budge it. Another push. Some more give. He works like this for some time, taking frequent breaks. He’s got no leverage here, only his strength.
Finally, he’s moved it enough to wedge his body through.
He can see a speck of the morning sky. He keeps going, crawling through toward that blue, pushing against the debris in his way. He’s so damn tired. It feels like he’s got nothing left, but then there’s a sound. A cry so loud, so unearthly, it almost shatters his eardrums.
Instinctively, he moves toward it. He can’t stop now. If he stops, it’s over. Part of him wants it to be over. A damn hill fell on top of him, after all, shook loose by an earthquake. And the one before that, and the one before that, too.
The Ring of Fire.
In the Pacific. This archipelago, full of little islands. Rife with volcanos and along fault lines. The meeting point of several tectonic plates and both the Indian and Pacific Oceans.
He’s been in Indonesia for over a year, and it feels like it’s been trying to push him away ever since he got here. Not that he’s wanted to stay. Hell is still hell, no matter how nice the weather is.
There’s that cry again. A woman shouting about a baby. Who brought a baby to a natural disaster?
He breaks free and hoists himself onto the ground. Lays there on his back, stunned. The rising sun warms his face, makes him sweat, even though his hands are cold. He sees someone digging frantically through the rubble close by. It’s the little maid. Riya. She’s shouting at him to help. In English. Which she pretended not to be able to speak.
Women.
She goes over to him and, with a strength he didn’t know she possessed, pulls him to his knees, then to his feet. “My baby,” she says, her eyes wide and pleading. She’s filthy. Her dress is torn in several places, and her hands are bleeding. There’s a nasty cut along her cheek that she touches gingerly with her fingertips. Blood on blood. He feels like retching. She reaches to grab him, but he pulls away from her.
“Please!” she shouts, when he stands still for several seconds, just looking at her.
He snaps out of his daze. “Where?”
She pulls him toward the rubble. “I think here. Please.”
“Call someone,” he tells her. “Get help from the village.”
“Can’t find my phone,” she tells him. “Main line down in the house.”
“Then go get someone.”
“No time! I can’t leave my baby!” She kneels a few feet away. Pulls at the debris with her bare, bloody hands. So he starts to pull, too. Soon, he hears people behind him. Villagers, three men and two women, coming to help on their own. One of them tells him the village is in a bad state and rescue workers haven’t even made it there yet. Other areas were hit harder by the earthquake. Together, they clear the rubble from the landslide, which smashed into the staff house, causing it to collapse on itself.
He fights it, but a wave of heat builds inside him.
It gets so bad that he remembers Ahmići. Another cursed place. He’d been so young himself, barely twenty, when the army had sent him overseas. And that village. Both mosques had been mined, but he didn’t know that at the time. He only saw the one. Then the bodies in the houses, burned. The people burned. Their corpses.
He is pulled back to Bosnia, a place he has tried so hard to erase from his memory. Now he remembers the children most of all. It was why he left the military, those images of massacred children burned into his brain.
Something broken inside him.
Riya speaks to the others in her language. One of the men offers to take over where Dao is working, but he sends the man away with a single look. There’s a baby down here, she’d said. It’s now hitting him.
A child is buried under here.
Dao doesn’t stop. Now his hands are bloody, too. They work in silence, moving chunks of the building away.
Dao is the one who sees it first. The beam, fallen across a crib. Peeking out from under it is a chubby little arm covered in dust.
Riya goes to the child and pulls its little body out. She’s crying, keeling over. Rocking back and forth on her haunches. This is what she was hiding. Why she didn’t want him to go asking after Anto the Invisible. She brought her kid here to this place, even though it was against her work contract to do it. There was a no-child policy in the staff house. Boss’s orders.
She brought her kid here to die.
The child cries. It’s alive. But the knowledge comes too late. Something inside Dao snaps.
&nb
sp; He strikes the little maid across the mouth, opening the cut on her face even further.
She stumbles but, in a flash, is up again. One hand holding her child, she hits him back. It takes every single one of the villagers in the compound to pull them off each other, and only then because he’s weak with exhaustion. Riya is screaming, she’s so furious.
Oh, so now when he’s weak she can speak perfect English? Hit him back like this?
In his mind her face blurs . . . she starts to look like Nora Watts.
27
All the numbers Van Nguyen’s people called Stephanie Kwan from are disconnected. So that’s a dead end.
When I need ideas, there’s only one person I go to. Problem is, she seems to have disappeared, which is annoying. That’s my role in the relationship. She has never put me in the position of having to hunt her down before, and I wonder if my warm and cuddly personality has driven her away for good. It occurs to me that though we have known each other for years, I have no idea where she lives.
I ask around our old AA meeting group, but no one has seen Simone lately. That’s not like her, but I try not to worry. Maybe she needs some distance.
This depressing thought takes me to the bar down the street. I linger outside for a moment. There’s nothing I want more than to drown my sorrows in the cheapest liquor I can get my hands on.
I don’t want to go in, but I cross the threshold anyway.
It’s not a nice bar. The people here seem sad and mostly alone. There are a few couples at tables, but they seem sad and alone, too. There’s a slim, ethnically ambiguous man sitting at the bar, staring into a shot glass. He looks at the glass for a long time, and then he raises it to his lips and knocks it back.
When I slide into the seat next to him, he doesn’t blink an eye or look over.
“How did the meeting go?” asks Simone, who is not in drag. Who I’m seeing for the first time as her alter ego, Simon.
Simon is drunk and pretending not to be.
Neither of us knows what to do. I’m having some pronoun difficulty because I don’t want to get it wrong. Simone once said that the only people who get worked up over pronouns are those who lack imagination. She’d said it in such a judgmental tone that I didn’t want to admit I possibly lack imagination. Especially today. I don’t want to upset this friend of mine, who is going through something I understand all too well. A relapse.
