by Scott Mackay
Twenty-Two
At that point, far to the southeast, a boat appeared. All Gilbert could see were its lights. Mok’s body stiffened and he stared at the boat with animal intensity, his concentration razor-sharp. The boat moved to the northwest. Mok hoisted the anchor, then went to the wheel of their own boat and started the engine. Keeping the running lights off, he drove slowly to the northeast, away from the other vessel.
They moved at no more than five knots, driving quietly through the dark for the next twenty minutes, leaving only a small wake behind them. Pearl killed Edgar. Gilbert could see it now. She was impulsive. She was prone to mood swings. Her emotional barometer, as he had witnessed firsthand, was fickle, prone to wild and sudden changes. The swell of the sea was even, with perfect aquamarine arches and dips, translucent and smelling of brine, making the boat bob. He couldn’t help thinking of the gunshot wound. Ripping Edgar’s flesh open on the left, tracing a superficially damaging path to the right, coming to a stop just above his duodenum. If Mok had fired, the bullet would have followed an entirely different trajectory. The sideways trajectory meant Pearl had fired. From the hall.
Far to the rear, the lights of the passing boat grew intermittent, twinkling, and finally disappeared. Poor Pearl. Confused, trapped, desperate, making one last futile attempt to escape from the tyranny and brutality of her husband. Heartbroken and double-crossed. Burned, as Mok called it. Was pulling the trigger really such a hard thing to do under those circumstances?
“Why did Pearl marry Bing Wu in the first place?” he asked.
Mok increased his speed; their small wake began to bubble more insistently, frothy and silver, churning the water into whirlpools, leaving an ever-widening train of foam behind them. Mok glanced over his shoulder.
“Because her family was in debt to him,” he said. “Her parents owed him money. They couldn’t pay him. So Wu came up with this alternative. To marry Pearl. Pearl had no choice.”
This made Gilbert pity Pearl all the more. He thought of her stunningly beautiful face, the childlike quality of her eyes, their veiled desperation, and remembered how on that night in One Park Lane she had seemed somehow ruined, lost, beyond redemption. The China bride, as Lombardo had called her. But she hadn’t been a bride at all. She had been a sacrifice. Payment for a loan gone bad. She had been a victim. Now, in her desperation, pushed by her changeable and erratic personality, she had shot Edgar. It didn’t seem fair that she should go to jail for that. At least not for the next twenty-five years.
“How did she and Edgar meet?” he asked.
Mok eased up on the throttle, turned on the lights, stood up and peered over the windshield, looking for something, or maybe afraid of running aground. Satisfied that the way was clear, Mok again glanced at Gilbert. He raised his voice over the noise of the engine.
“They met as kids in Hong Kong,” he said. “When Edgar first got there from Vietnam. He was in a boarding school for a while. Victoria College. They met there. She went to the girls’ school next door. St. Michael’s. Foster knew Pearl’s parents. I think that’s how Pearl and Edgar got introduced. They became friends. They always kept in touch. Even after Edgar moved to Canada.”
Gilbert remembered the China White knapsack from Edgar’s attic, the one with the Victoria College emblem on it. Pearl was thirty-five now. She must have been extremely young when she’d met Edgar for the first time. Childhood sweethearts maybe? Two kids in love? Perhaps with plans to marry from way back? But then Pearl’s parents borrowed money from Wu. A big mistake. And Pearl had had to sacrifice herself—and her love for Edgar—so that her parents might live. The whole thing oppressed him. He wanted to help Pearl. He didn’t want to see her go to jail for any unreasonable length of time, not when events had so unreasonably conspired against her.
“We found Edgar’s blood in your car,” said Gilbert, believing he still might yet shift the guilt to Mok.
“I was standing right next to Edgar when she shot him,” said Mok. “I got blood all over me.”
Perfectly plausible. He knew Mok was telling the truth. But what he didn’t get was why Mok was taking all this trouble to tell him the truth. What was his agenda? What did he hope to gain? Why not just take Gilbert out to the middle of the sea, shoot him, and dump him? What was Mok’s motive? Gilbert knew he had to have one.
“Deal?” said Gilbert. “What deal?”
They were now anchored within sight of land, a dark low strip on the eastern horizon with a few lights showing here and there.
“We had a deal and Bing Wu broke it. Now he has to suffer. The only way he suffers is through Pearl. I want him to suffer badly. I want him to understand that he can’t get away with what he’s done to me. And Pearl’s got to understand too. She played right along. She knows what’s going on. As much as I like her, and as much as I feel sorry for her, she’s got to be made to understand that she can’t do this to me.”
Gilbert raised his eyebrows. “And what have they done to you?” he asked.
“Bing hired me to take the fall,” said Mok, as if it were obvious. He folded his arms in front of him. “He hired me as a defendant to take the fall for Pearl on Edgar’s murder. If she was ever arrested for Edgar’s murder, I was to step forward.”
“As the perpetrator?”
“As a way to keep Pearl clear of trouble for shooting Edgar.” Mok nodded. “When Wu found out how seriously you were investigating Edgar’s murder…when he discovered that the police were taking a close look at Pearl…and at me…he offered me a million dollars to take the fall. He knew if I stepped forward, the police, because of all the circumstantial evidence against me, would likely arrest me and make me stand trial for Edgar’s murder. That would remove Pearl from risk.” Mok gestured toward the south, where the Jewel of Asia—Hong Kong—cast a misty glow into the scattered clouds from behind the dark ridge of coastline. “He invited me to Hong Kong to get my money. That’s why I’m here. To get my million dollars.”
Bing was obviously willing to go to a lot of trouble and expense to protect Pearl from what Peter Hope called her more naive proclivities. The scheme was original, and Gilbert, beginning to understand why Wu was so close to the pinnacle of the organized Asian crime underworld, had to concede at least that the man might have a true and dire weakness for Pearl. Wu wanted to protect her. Did that mean he loved her? Honestly and truly loved her? Was such a man—the dark vortex at the center of all this—capable of love? And if so, was his love unrequited, just as Foster Sung’s love for May Lau was unrequited? Here was an interesting parallel, he thought. Two men driven by women who didn’t love them.
“He said he would hire the best lawyers for me,” continued Mok. “That was part of the deal. I talked to a couple of lawyers on my own. They said any good lawyer could argue the killing down to a manslaughter.” Twenty thousand feet up, a jet hissed by. “So I said yes to Wu. I told him I would take the fall. I might catch eight years for manslaughter, but the lawyers said they could get me out in three. That’s over three hundred grand a year for just sitting around. That’s good money as far as I’m concerned.” Mok took a deep breath. “So I came to Hong Kong,” he said. “And I was treated like a king. At least for the first few days. I was Pearl’s savior. I had dinner with the old man twice.” Mok looked up at the jet. “Then Wu’s guys came and got me in the middle of the night at my hotel.” The frequency of the waves momentarily increased. “They beat me.” Mok looked proud of his beating. “They tied me up. It took seven of them. They kept me on that houseboat.” The waves lessened, and for several seconds the speedboat was still. “Bing Wu came to the houseboat and personally told me the police had watertight evidence against me. Bing likes to gloat whenever he can. He likes to parade in front of his enemies. When you’re his age, there’s not much else to do. He asked me why he should waste all that money on me when officers in Toronto were already convinced I was the one who had killed Edgar?” Mok shook his head and sighed in irritation. “He burned me. Burned me just the
way Edgar burned Pearl. And now he has to pay. He has to learn that no one burns Tony Mok. The only way you can teach Bing Wu anything is by hurting Pearl. You’ve got my testimony. I knew you were coming. When you send Pearl to jail, Bing might finally learn his lesson. I hope you send her away for a long time.”
So. Here was the reason Mok was telling him all this. For revenge. Three hundred grand a year. For just sitting around. Now it was gone. To a young man like Mok, it must have seemed like a fortune. And now he was, to use his own word, burned. Gilbert’s knees started to ache as the adrenaline eased from his body. He saw now that he had been duped by the Red Pole. But that didn’t bother him so much. What bothered him was how Pearl was going to suffer. Gilbert had everything on tape. Even a mediocre lawyer could argue that the tape was admissible evidence. And Pearl would take the fall, not Mok. Hukowich and Paulsen would have a field day. They would go in for the kill. They would hurt Bing Wu—just as Mok wanted to—by hurting Pearl. Because they couldn’t get Foster Sung, they would take Pearl as a consolation prize. He knew they would. And he couldn’t let that happen. Not when she was such a victim in the first place. He had to do something.
“So Edgar drew his gun on you,” he said, “and then Pearl drew your gun on Edgar?” said Gilbert.
“Yes.”
“I want to get this straight.”
“That’s the way it happened,” said Mok.
“Do you think there’s any possibility that Pearl might have shot Edgar to defend you?”
Hukowich and Paulsen would have yet more conniption fits. But he had to do this. His own moral sense forced him to forge ahead. A line came to Mok’s brow. Mok sucked in his lower lip, chewed it, nodded.
“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe.”
There. That’s all it needed. Even a mediocre lawyer could take that somewhere. Victimized into a marriage she detested, her beauty barbarously mutilated, her lover double-crossing her at the last minute—Pearl didn’t deserve anything more than a few years as far as he was concerned. Pearl pulling the gun in defense of Mok might help. Crime, law, morality, compassion. Not many people suspected how often a homicide detective had to deal with these things, and how sometimes it ultimately came down to the homicide detective to decide the fate of a perpetrator like Pearl. What had him scared, what had him thinking his little effort for Pearl might not work, was the messed-up apartment. The messed-up apartment could easily be construed by any jury to be the aftermath of a robbery. Even if Kennedy had been the one to ransack the apartment, looking desperately for whatever incriminating evidence Edgar had against the corrupt police ring at 52 Division, Hukowich and Paulsen would inevitably try to prove first-degree murder by contending Pearl was responsible for the ransacked apartment. With the time lines so close, and the China White sitting there like a beacon, even a mediocre lawyer could argue away Kennedy’s involvement. Pearl shooting Edgar during the commission of a felony robbery, even if it was in defense of Mok, was first-degree murder, plain and simple, according to the criminal code. The judge would sentence Pearl to twenty-five years under stiff parole stipulations. Bing would get his comeuppance. And they would send the poor woman away. She would be victimized yet again.
“So she shot Edgar, and then what happened?” he asked, thinking more details might help. “How does Foster Sung fit into all this?” he asked Mok. “When did he come up?”
“He came up a few minutes after May Lau did,” said Mok. “I’m not sure why he came up…obviously he came up for something. By this time, May had Edgar lying on the floor. Pearl still had the gun in her hand. She looked white. I’d never seen her look so white before. I was standing there trying to get the blood off my coat with a piece of newspaper.” Gilbert remembered the bloodied piece of newspaper from the apartment. “Foster came in and took control of the situation. He knelt beside Edgar and had a good look at his wound. May had this ball of Kleenex pressed against it. Foster took that away and lifted Edgar’s shirt. The blood was coming out fast but he said he didn’t think it was a fatal wound. He went to the kitchen and got a dish towel. He got May to press the dish towel tight against the wound. He said he thought we better make up a good story. We had to protect Pearl. The police and ambulance would have to be called and the last thing we wanted was Pearl to get in trouble. We all knew Bing Wu would make us pay if Pearl got into trouble. So we made up this story. Edgar is surprised by an unknown assailant coming through the balcony door. We all cooperated. Even May cooperated. That’s how afraid we are of Bing Wu. My part was small. I got rid of the gun. I got rid of Pearl’s gloves. We didn’t want the police testing them for residue. I threw them in some back yard as I was running to my car. But then I thought I better not leave them there, so I went back to look for them. I only found one. I wanted to get out of there fast, so I didn’t stick around to look for the other. Foster got rid of Edgar’s gun. We all went our separate ways. Foster and May were going to pretend to discover Edgar ten minutes later, which I guess they did. I took off in my car. I met Pearl downtown later on. Just to make sure she was all right.”
They put to shore in a small fishing village on a rocky beach well after midnight. Mok puttered into a protected cove and turned off the engine as they drifted to a rickety dock. He jumped onto the pier and tied the boat to a mooring ring. He then got back in and freed Gilbert’s hands.
“I’m sorry I have to leave you like this,” said Mok. Mok looked at the village. “But I have to make my getaway now,” he added facetiously. “Wu will be after me. I guess I’m going to have to hide for a while. I hope you can use what I told you. If it hurts Bing Wu, then all this was worth it.”
With a final few twists, the twine came loose from Gilbert’s wrists. “Can I have my gun?” he asked. “It’s under the front of the boat where those paddles are.”
Mok smiled. “Sure,” he said. “I’ll toss it to you once I’m moving.”
Gilbert nodded. He climbed out of the boat onto the dock. He felt sorry for Mok. He didn’t hold out much hope for Mok. Mok was right. Wu would be after him.
“Tony, you should really come back with me,” he said.
“Just go for Pearl,” said Mok. “That’s all I ask. I’ll be fine.”
“You should come back with me,” he said. “We’ll see what we can work out in the way of protection. And immunity. Other agencies are going to be interested in what you have to say about Wu. And what you have to say about Pearl. You should really give yourself up. Wu’s going to come after you.”
“I’ll be fine,” he said. “Just go after Pearl.”
Mok eased the throttle forward, moved away from the pier, and tossed Gilbert’s gun to the dock. Mok waved, put the throttle to full, and sped away. Gilbert watched him go—watched him until he rounded the point. He sighed. He picked up his gun and put it in his holster. His shoulders eased, as much from relief as disappointment. He turned around and looked at the village.
He felt as if he had stepped into the fifteenth century, that’s how old the village looked. He walked down the pier to the village. He counted the number of dwellings—twenty-three—plus an official-looking building in the village square. All the lights were out. As a foreigner, he wasn’t about to go knocking on doors in the middle of the night. He was just going to lie low till morning.
He walked to a tree and sat down. He sat there thinking about Bing Wu. The invisible monster at the center of it all. Forcing Pearl into marriage. Making Edgar slash Pearl’s face. Getting Tony to take the fall for Pearl’s crime. A monster. He shifted, made himself more comfortable. He took a deep breath. Bing Wu. He could see why Hukowich and Paulsen were so eager to go after the guy.
At ten o’clock the next morning, having not slept at all, Gilbert sat in a barren but functional office in the village post office. He had a telephone pressed to his ear. A man in an olive-drab uniform with a red star on his cap stood before him staring at him suspiciously. He was in Kwangtung Province, nowhere near Hong Kong. A portrait of President Jiang Zemin hung on the wa
ll. A few villagers peered through the window. Gilbert was covered in blood—Hoi’s blood. His gun had been taken from him yet again. He looked a ruin. He was the only white man—the only Westerner—for miles around. The man in the uniform had every right to be suspicious.
“Ian?” said Gilbert into the telephone.
“Barry!” said Dunlop. “Blast it all, where are you, man?”
Gilbert glanced at the Chinese officer, exasperated by the whole long evening. “In the People’s Republic of China,” he said. “Without my friggin’ passport.” His lips stiffened. He wanted to see Regina. He wanted to see the girls. “Could you please come and get me? And bring me a decent cup of coffee while you’re at it.”
