by Scott Mackay
Was Sung now trying to implicate Pearl? Many arguments turned into homicides. Gilbert shook his head. “Why didn’t you tell me this when I came downtown to see you at your office?” he said.
Sung looked out the sliding glass doors at the swimming pool. The pool was a depressing sight in these first days of winter, with rainwater collecting in the dips of the cover. The man no longer looked so impervious. In fact he looked downright worried. He couldn’t possibly say that Edgar and Pearl having an argument didn’t pertain. It did pertain. Why the evasion?
“To understand that, you must first understand who Pearl is, and who she is married to,” said Sung. “Mr. Wu prizes his wife more than anything. He’s an extremely powerful man, and he wields that power calmly, wisely, and deliberately.” Within the context of the Asian crime world, Gilbert had to wonder how wisely anyone could wield power. “The only thing I’ve ever seen him get angry about is his wife. When he’s angry, he becomes persistent. When he’s persistent, he becomes dangerous. It’s not my place to make trouble for Mr. Wu or his wife. It’s not my place to implicate Pearl in this business. I hope this may give you at least some understanding of my various omissions.”
Why the evasion? Gilbert now saw it plainly. Fear. Concealed behind Foster Sung’s careful expression. Sung didn’t want to implicate Pearl Wu in the murder of Edgar Lau because he was afraid of Bing Wu. Yet in the end he had done just that, perhaps to save himself from further police inquiry.
“So you heard them arguing and what did you do?” asked Gilbert.
“I knocked on the door and asked them if they would like to meet Tak-Ng Lai. They of course stopped their argument the moment I knocked.”
“Who answered the door?”
“Edgar answered the door.”
“And what was his emotional state?”
“He was angry.”
“What was Pearl’s?”
“She was crying. She wouldn’t look at me.”
“Where was she standing?” asked Gilbert.
“In the hall.”
“Did she have her coat off?”
“No.”
“Was she carrying a bag of any sort?”
“Detective Gilbert,” said Sung, “before we go any further, I must stress to you that what I tell you in this room should never be in any way connected or attributed to me. There are certain loyalties and bonds you are forcing me to jeopardize, and certain risks you are asking me to take. I would never be able to appear in court should this ever come to litigation. In the world of our…our so-called little societies…we must always guard against the possibility of…of a stubborn grudge now and again.”
He had to admit, Sung was a master of euphemism. “I understand that.”
And with his understanding, Sung seemed willing to make a concession. “She had a bag,” he said. And a bag could mean a concealed weapon.
“And the two of them were alone in the apartment?” asked Gilbert.
“As far as I could tell, yes.”
“Could you tell if the French doors were open?”
“The French doors were closed.”
“Did you see any rainwater on the floor?”
Foster Sung frowned. “I wasn’t looking at the floor,” he said.
“And you saw Tony Mok leave the restaurant?”
Sung looked exasperated by the question. “I saw him leave the restaurant,” he said. “I saw him get into a taxi. I saw the taxi drive away.”
Warning bells went off in Gilbert’s mind. Sung’s story diverged from Hope’s. Hope had Mok walking down Spadina Avenue toward Baldwin, not getting into a taxi and driving away. He tucked the discrepancy away for future use.
“So you asked Edgar and Pearl whether they wanted to meet Tak-Ng Lai, and what did they say?”
“They said another time.”
“And then what did you do?”
“I rejoined my party in the restaurant,” said Sung.
The warning bells went again. Peter Hope had Pearl leaving Edgar’s apartment first. Foster Sung had himself leaving first.
“Did you see Pearl leave?” He had to pick at this.
“You ask me dangerous questions, detective.”
“You have my solemn promise,” said Gilbert.
“I saw her leave,” said Sung.
So. Sung had himself leaving first. Hope had Pearl leaving first. Who was lying? Gilbert played along with Sung for the time being.
“Did she come into the restaurant to say good-bye to you?”
“No. She left in a hurry. She had her sports car parked outside.”
Gilbert wondered if there was much point to this. Might as well try to establish a few more facts rather than try to figure out who was lying.
“Was she wearing gloves?” asked Gilbert.
Sung’s brow knitted; he was puzzled by the question. “Gloves?” he said. “I don’t know…I suppose she was…it’s December, and she still had her coat on, so I—”
“Beige driving gloves,” said Gilbert, trying to jog something. “Isotoners?”
Sung thought about this, tried to remember, but finally shook his head. “I don’t recall,” he said. “It was…rather a quick encounter.”
Gilbert heard a ruckus out in the hall, Lombardo cursing someone, and, a moment later, saw the door open. A gigantic Chinese man in a fern-green business suit had Lombardo by the scruff of the neck.
“I was trying to find the bathroom,” Lombardo protested. “Let me go.”
The gigantic Chinese man uttered an explosive phrase of Cantonese to Foster Sung. Sung gazed at Lombardo like a judge passing sentence.
“Let him go, Xu,” he said. A cool smile came to Sung’s face. The bodyguard let Lombardo go. The difference in size between the two men was marked. Sung turned to Gilbert with an expression of dismissal. “Gentlemen,” he said, “if you have no further questions, I have a busy day ahead of me.”
Gilbert saw that Foster Sung knew exactly what Lombardo had been trying to do, and under those circumstances thought it best not to press any further. If subsequent questions developed, he would simply make an appointment to see Sung again.
On the way back to headquarters, Gilbert told Lombardo about his conversation with Sung.
“He was reluctant,” said Gilbert. “He didn’t want to implicate anybody. He gave me the minimum.” Up ahead, where Leslie Street dipped to the Taylor Creek ravine, water flooded part of the road. Gilbert covered his brake as they coasted through. The car sent a Maui-like curl of water onto the curb. “But in the end, he more or less implicated Pearl. He has Pearl and himself up in Edgar’s apartment at the same time, like Peter Hope says, but in his version he’s the one who leaves first, not Pearl. Ergo, Pearl’s guilty.” His eyes narrowed as he went over the conversation in his mind. “Then he has…” He pictured the snake plants at the front of the Champion Gardens Restaurant, tried to imagine Mok standing there by the glass counter and cash register waiting for Pearl Wu. “He has Tony Mok leaving in a taxi instead of walking down the street.”
“And Hope has Mok walking down the street, not getting in a taxi,” said Lombardo.
“Exactly.”
“Tony Mok is starting to bug me,” said Lombardo.
“Me too.”
“I think Sung’s trying to protect Mok,” said Lombardo.
“Why do you say that?”
“He puts Mok in a taxi so he can get Mok as far away from the crime scene as possible. He’s obviously got some interest in protecting the guy. Especially if he’s willing to risk the consequences of implicating the China bride of the 14K.”
“The man was Mok’s legal guardian in Hong Kong,” said Gilbert. “That’s got to count for something.”
“Plus I found photographs upstairs,” said Lombardo.
“You went upstairs?”
“I decided why not take a risk?”
“The plan was for a plain-view, Joe.”
“I didn’t touch a thing. Everything I saw was in plain view.”
Lombardo looked away, defensive.
“All right,” said Gilbert, giving Lombardo the benefit of the doubt. “But what do these photographs have to do with Sung wanting to protect Mok?”
Lombardo squinted as he thought about it. “Because they’re photographs of Tony,” he said. “Some of May Lau too. Weird photographs. Like surveillance photographs. They had that telephoto quality to them. All in gold frames on top of Sung’s dresser. Some of Tony, some of May Lau. I recognized Tony from the mug shot we have of him. Quite a few of May Lau by herself in Saigon. She doesn’t even know she’s being photographed. One of her leaving a Chinese temple. Another of her in a park with Edgar. One of her in an outdoor café with a friend. And then these ones of Tony. There’s one of him standing by himself. I guess when he’s about sixteen or seventeen. In front of the President Restaurant downtown. The big Chinese place they tore down a few years ago. He’s wearing a suit. Like it’s a special occasion. Why would Sung have a photograph of Tony in a suit if he didn’t have some feeling for the guy?”
Gilbert flicked the left-hand signal on as they passed the Inn-on-the-Park. He thought about the whole thing. He realized that Lombardo had a point. But while he was interested in the Tony Mok photographs, he was also interested in the ones of May Lau. “Those photographs of May Lau,” he said. “I think Sung’s got a thing for her. I’ve been thinking that right from the start.”
“Me too,” said Lombardo. His eyes narrowed as he glanced up at the landmark Inn-on-the-Park sitting on its grassy hill. “Only it’s a one-way street, isn’t it? May doesn’t give a shit.”
“May doesn’t give a shit,” agreed Gilbert.
“I wish we could find Tony,” said Lombardo.
“Maybe we should broaden our posted lookout,” said Gilbert. “Send it further afield. Go nationwide on it.”
“Do you think Nowak will let us?”
Gilbert turned left on Eglinton, sighed, raised his eyebrows. “We can only try,” he said.
When they got back to headquarters, Gilbert had a Post-It note stuck to his phone with Carol Reid’s handwriting on it. From Dock Wen, the cook at the Champion Gardens Restaurant. Please call. So Gilbert called.
“How are you, sir?” asked the cook when Gilbert got through.
“Just fine,” he asked. “What’s up?”
“I think about what I say to you, and now I remember something I didn’t tell you.”
“And what might that be?” Gilbert couldn’t believe it, a civic-minded citizen, someone who was actually willing to inconvenience himself for the sake of a police investigation.
“I see a car,” said Wen.
“You saw a car?” said Gilbert, grabbing some notepaper and a pen. “When did you see a car?”
“When the big man ran away,” said the cook.
“You saw a car out in the alley?”
“It go very, very fast.”
“Which way?”
“Baldwin Street.”
“So it came from the west end of the alley, came around the corner, and went down to Baldwin Street,” said Gilbert, writing it down.
“That is correct,” said Wen. “Very fast.”
“Did you happen to get the make and model?” asked Gilbert.
“Volkswagen,” said Wen. In the background Gilbert heard the banging of pots. “Could be Golf. Could be Jetta. It had gold hubcaps.”
“What color was the car?”
“White.”
When Gilbert was done with the cook, he immediately went to his computer and called up the case file. He wasn’t sure about cars. Lombardo had done all the Ministry of Transport networking on the case.
He was gratified by what he found. Tony Mok drove a late-model white Volkswagen Golf. No taxi for Tony Mok, he thought. The getaway car had been around the corner all the time.
Thirteen
52 Division made a big stink about it but they finally handed over Constable Kennedy’s run-sheet for the evening of December fifteenth. At nine o’clock on the night of the murder, Kennedy answered a shoplifting call. The store owner decided not to press charges and the perp got off with a warning. At nine forty-five, down at the corner of King and Jarvis, he ejected an unruly drunk from the Shamrock Restaurant and Tavern. Gilbert leaned back in his chair, frowning at the next entry. The shooting call. What Gilbert didn’t get was how Kennedy could report himself as the closest officer to the scene. The Shamrock was down at King and Jarvis, miles from the scene. Officer Janvier, answering a domestic call at nine thirty, had in fact been the closest officer to the scene, right around the corner from the Champion Gardens Chinese Restaurant, on Phoebe and Beverley.
Gilbert pressed the button on the Marantz four-track tape deck, an old piece of equipment that had been kicking around Homicide for twenty years, never replaced because of Homicide’s tight budget, and listened to the radio tapes of the dispatch calls one more time.
“This is seven-four-three,” said Kennedy, announcing his unit number to Officer Janvier. “Repeat, this is seven-four-three; cancel that ten-seventy-one, I’m eastbound on Harbord, west of St. George, en route to that ten-seventy-one; do you copy, six-oh-two-nine? Do you copy, six-oh-two-nine?”
“Roger that, seven-four-three,” said Officer Janvier. “Will assist when able.” In other words, when his domestic-dispute call was over. “Ten-four, seven-four-three.”
“Ten-four. Dispatch, this is seven-four-three. Dispatch, this is seven-four-three; do you copy?”
A nasal female voice came onto the band. “Copy that, seven-four-three.”
“Code four that ten-seventy-one at 504 Spadina Avenue,” said Kennedy. “Am en route, east of Salem, westbound on Harbord, ETA in three minutes.”
“Copy that, seven-four-three. Code four. Ten-four.”
Time of transmission was three minutes past ten. The run-sheet had it down as nine fifty-five. A minute or two was fine. But eight minutes? That was too suspicious to believe.
On New Year’s Eve, Gilbert heard the doorbell ring and went to answer it. He found Joe Lombardo standing there with some flowers in his hand and a pair of ice skates slung over his shoulder. Lombardo wore his black leather jacket, a pair of stone-washed blue jeans, and fur-lined mukluks, about as casual as Lombardo ever got.
“Hi,” he said. “Happy New Year.” Lombardo peered past Gilbert’s shoulder. “Is Jennifer ready?”
Gilbert again had the sense that he had stepped into an alternate universe. “Is this real?” he said. “Tell me this isn’t real.”
“I’m taking her skating at Nathan Phillips Square for First Night,” said Lombardo. “She didn’t tell you?”
“And you bought her flowers?”
“No,” said Lombardo. “The flowers are for Regina.”
“First you charm my daughter, now you charm my wife?”
“It’s in the blood,” said Lombardo.
Gilbert felt exasperated. “Joe, I thought we agreed that you were going to ease out of this.”
Lombardo looked at him doubtfully. “Jennifer didn’t tell you, did she?”
“No,” he said. “She didn’t.”
“I told her to tell you.” Lombardo looked away. “Carumba,” he said.
“Joe, c’mon.”
“I know, I know,” said Lombardo. “But it was her idea. What was I supposed to do? Tell her I didn’t want to go to First Night with her after we had such a nice time at The Nutcracker?”
“She’s having rebound, Joe,” said Gilbert. “You’re going to end up hurting her all over again, and that’s the last thing we want.”
“I know,” Lombardo said, raising his hands. “And that’s why I wanted to have this one last evening with her. I plan to let her down easy tonight. I plan to boost her confidence. When she goes back to school I want her thinking she’s somebody special, that she can have any man she wants.”
“I’m never going to get used to this,” said Gilbert.
“Used to what?” asked Lombardo.
Gilbert put his hand
s on his hips and stared past Lombardo at the light rain. “Her having any man she wants,” he said. “Just be careful.” He looked at Lombardo. “And for God’s sake, try not to kiss her again.”
Gilbert woke up at two o’clock in the morning on the first day of the New Year. Having spent the evening watching First Night on City TV and working his way through a half bottle of President’s champagne with Regina, he hadn’t even made it to midnight, the combination of champagne and big enteric-coated aspirins making him so drowsy he conked out at eleven-thirty. He turned to Regina. She slept soundly. He pulled the bed covers aside and sat up. He hated champagne. He didn’t know why he drank it. He always felt so dried out afterward. He got out of bed and walked to the window. The rain had turned to snow, but a wet snow, ugly and pelting, the flakes whipping past the streetlight like tiny kamikazes. He bent his knees carefully, one after the other, felt the usual nighttime stiffness, as if his knee joints needed oil. He slipped his feet into his slippers and shuffled quietly to the hall.
He hoped, even prayed, that Jennifer would be in bed, but when he saw her door open he knew she hadn’t come home yet. He moved into the middle of her room and stared at her bed. Her room smelled of the potpourri she kept on her windowsill. He walked to her bedside table and turned on the lamp. She had The Lippincott Manual of Nursing Practice, a heavy blue tome the size of a telephone book, on the floor beside her bed, as well as Gray’s Anatomy and a paperback medical dictionary. She was in the nursing program at Queen’s University in Kingston. He was proud of her. An old candy tin commemorating the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II in 1952, something that had once belonged to his mother, sat on the windowsill, full of loose change. He looked up, checked some of the other books in her bookcase. What was this? She had three of his own books on top of her bookcase: Toronto Observed—Its Architecture, Patrons, and History; Architecture in North America Since 1950; as well as his big book on Frank Lloyd Wright and the Prairie School of Architecture. This was their common interest. Architecture. He remembered the family trip to Europe three years ago, how Jennifer had been content to wander for hours through old Norman churches, French châteaus, and German castles, talking architecture with her father while Regina and Nina strayed to the nearest shop or boutique to alleviate their boredom. A common interest. Yet now they seemed to have nothing in common. Now they seemed to come from different planets.
