by Robert Greer
“Were you a soldier in Vietnam?” asked Flora Jean, slipping off the other boot.
Le Quan frowned. This time the question Flora Jean had asked was far too personal. “No.”
Flora Jean set the boots aside and stood. Smiling, she looked down at Quan. “A VC youth organizer, then?”
Quan stepped back and flashed Flora Jean a look of disdain. “What you want, lady?”
“Nothin’ but some boots and a few answers. A friend of mine told me you might have some information for me. Said you knew Peter Margolin—that you might know something about his murder.”
Visibly shaken, Quan stammered, “Who your friend?”
“Someone who doesn’t like his name tossed around.”
Quan’s eyes darted in every direction until the look on his face turned into a hostile stare. Glancing toward the front of the store for the woman who’d escorted Flora Jean in, he shouted. All Flora Jean could make out was “hurry” and the name “Chi.” Turning back to Flora Jean, he said, “You get out my store.”
Before Flora Jean could say anything, Chi, whom she thought must be Quan’s daughter, was standing directly in front of her. “Leave,” she said, her tone clear and demanding.
“What about my boots?” said Flora Jean.
“Leave now or I’ll call the police.” Chi Quan grabbed Flora Jean by the arm.
“Take your hand off me if you want to keep it, sugar,” said Flora Jean, suddenly and unmistakably a marine.
The look on Quan’s face told Chi she’d better comply. She released her grip, but not before flashing Flora Jean a look that said she wasn’t afraid. Determined to show the woman that she could also play the fearless game, Flora Jean sat down and, as the woman and Quan towered over her, slipped her shoes back on, placed the boots side by side back inside their box, and turned to leave.
Le Quan offered a parting shot: “Don’t come back.”
His daughter said nothing. The hostile look on her face said it all.
Five minutes later, in a back room, Le Quan chewed on the remains of a stale Slim Jim. He was still shaking. Half of the unappetizing Slim Jim, still partially wrapped in cellophane, disappeared with the next bite.
Chi, still smarting from Flora Jean’s visit, stood next to the walker her mother had been forced to use for six months before she succumbed to ovarian cancer, and eyed her father. Before Quan could take another bite from the greasy beef stick, Chi said, “Things just never seem to change. Now we have some black Amazon threatening to disrupt our lives.”
Quan ate the final piece of Slim Jim, deep in thought. The cellophane crackled. He was fifty-nine years old, resilient, and well schooled in the ways of the world. Chi was naive, sheltered, and still unsure of herself even at the age of thirty-two. He had spent his formative impoverished Vietnamese childhood outwitting French colonials in order to survive. He and his wife had learned from, outwitted, and out-thought the Americans who Ho Chi Minh had once predicted would slowly bleed to death on the soil of his homeland. Chi had been born in America on laundered sheets in a hospital in San Francisco, and as his firstborn, she’d been educated, indoctrinated, and even indulged in a way he still didn’t fully understand. There were things she needed to learn that she hadn’t.
“Daddy, are you listening?”
“I am.”
“Why was she here?”
“I don’t know.”
“You know something. Why else would you have called for me to help?”
A look of acquiescence slowly worked its way across Quan’s face. “Panic.”
“Like you did when you read about that congressman, Margolin, dying? Like you did for more than a year and a half after Mother died? What did the woman say to you that made you call out?”
“She threaten me with my past.” Quan lowered his head and eyed the floor.
Chi Quan’s eyes widened and the muscles in her face went taut. “That’s it! That’s enough! I’m calling Robert. Whoever they are, whatever that woman’s after, they won’t destroy us again.”
“Your brother can’t help.”
“I think he can.” Chi slipped a cell phone out of the pocket of her jeans.
“This not his fight.”
Chi didn’t respond. She was too busy punching in her brother’s number. Robert could help. He was a lawyer, the lethal, take-no-prisoners kind. Unlike her, he had fought his way off the streets of Denver after a youthful stint with Vietnamese gangs. Above all, he had connections. He was a New Mexico assistant attorney general.
It was a few minutes before 9 p.m. when, in response to his sister’s plea for help, Robert Quan made a phone call.
After detailing their father’s continued meltdown since the death of their mother, his panic seemingly triggered by the death of a Colorado senatorial candidate, and the visit from the jack-booted black woman, Chi had been blunt. “I don’t plan on taking a return trip to that world we grew up in, Rob. It may do wonders for your political poor-mouthing, but it doesn’t suit me.”
Her brother’s response had been terse, calm, unruffled, and accepting, as if he’d somehow been expecting the call. “I’ll handle it,” was all he said before hanging up.
His phone call to a Washington, D.C., suburb was equally brief. From dial tone to dial tone, his message to the man on the other end of the line, who grunted into the phone only “This is Alex,” took thirty seconds. “We’ve got water buffalo in the duck pond,” Quan said, clearing his throat before hanging up.
Chapter 18
Alex Holden’s 8 a.m. Flight from Dulles Airport to Chicago was bumpy, the flight from O’Hare to Albuquerque bumpier still. He detested choppy air; it reminded him too much of his days as a fighter pilot. And he disliked Albuquerque for the simple reason that its moistureless air and five-thousand-plus-foot elevation gave his chronically inflamed sinuses fits. But more than anything, especially when it came to the necessities of his job, he hated mopping up.
The hour-and-fifteen-minute drive north on I-25 from Albuquerque to Santa Fe, a drive that traversed high-plains piñon forest, moonscape-looking arroyos, and an endless expanse of chickweed and sage, reminded him that he was a born-and-bred creature of the East, an unabashed lover of the bean and the cod, and that despite the odds against it, he’d been forced to make more trips west in the past three weeks than his sinuses could handle.
By the time he checked into his $39.99-a-night bed-and-a-deadbolt, no-cable, no-frills, no-questions-asked Cerrillos Road motel, his sinuses, sucked dry by the altitude, had started bleeding. He took several cottonballs out of a plastic baggie he removed from his briefcase, stuffed one in each nostril, and shook his head disgustedly before taking a seat and punching in Robert Quan’s number on his cell phone.
When Quan answered, he said, “Holden. We still on for 3?”
“Yes.” Quan’s answer was a nervous whisper. He didn’t like the idea of meeting with someone who lived his life as if it were the days after World War II instead of sixty years later. But meet, they would.
Owen Brashears had driven the thirty miles from Boulder to Denver in a rush of noonday traffic at Lieutenant Wendall Newburn’s request. It was a summons more than a request when you split the hairs of their tense conversation. “Meet me at Cold Stone Creamery ice-cream parlor in Cherry Creek at 12:30. Wear your military history hat and try not to be late,” was the way Newburn had actually put it.
Upset at having to bow out of a meeting in which the specifics of a new layout for the Boulder Daily Camera’s editorial page would be discussed, Brashears had acquiesced, and he now sat at an undersized bar-height glass-topped table nursing a vanilla milkshake and preparing for a second round of questions from Newburn.
He’d already told the flat-foreheaded black cop with a receding hairline, who seemed as interested in being noticed in the trendy ice-cream parlor as he was in getting answers to his questions, that he had indeed been a Stars and Stripes reporter during the Vietnam War, that his Stars and Stripes assignment had coincided with Margolin’s tour,
and that he had no idea if Peter had had enemies left over from his days in Vietnam.
“Love this place,” said Newburn, continuing to put away the triple-scoop French vanilla cone he’d ordered. “Best ice cream in town,” he added, surprising Brashears by taking a small bite from his ice cream instead of licking it. “Come here all the time. Gets me out of the office. A little sunshine and sweets never hurts.” When Brashears didn’t return his smile, Newburn said, “It’s a phrase my mother used to use. Now, back to Margolin. Any familiarity with the army’s Star 1 teams?”
“Yes,” said Brashears, aware that the best way to respond to lawyers, commanding officers, and cops was to tell the truth.
“Have any experience with ’em during the war?”
“No.”
“Full of words today, aren’t we? Well, let me fill you in on what we know about the army’s Star 1 teams and your friend Margolin. Were you aware that Captain Margolin commanded a Star 1 team during a portion of 1971?”
“Yes.”
“But you said you didn’t have any experience with them,” said Newburn, trying to determine if Brashears was lying.
“I meant that I didn’t serve in one. Stars and Stripes reporters didn’t serve in fighting units.”
“You’re yanking my chain,” said Newburn. “Funny how your service records follow you everywhere. No matter what. Like with CJ Floyd, one of our city’s high profile bail bondsman. Heard of him? Maybe from Ginny Kearnes?”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“Good.” Newburn took a lick of ice cream and grinned. “When I tried to connect a few military-record dots, just for the fun of it, I started with Floyd, looking for prior service in a Star 1 team.” Newburn looked down at the spiral-bound notebook lying on the tabletop. “I didn’t get a match, and believe me, I was sure hoping I would. But when I tried the same kind of match with the name Cortez, bells and whistles started popping.”
“And all this has what to do with me?”
“Oh, I’ll get to that. Once that military-records search of mine really got rolling—and it took a couple of days for the army records folks to agree to play ball—I came up with a whole list of names and a bunch more connections.”
“What’s your point, Lieutenant?”
“This,” said Newburn, taking a lick from his ice cream, which had started to run. “Your friend Captain Margolin was in charge of what’s sounding more and more to me like an eight-man team of army misfits.” Newburn referred to his notebook. “Sergeants Langston Blue and Lincoln Cortez, Private Richard Wells, and their captain, Peter Margolin. Now, that’s as far as my search was able to take me before I got stonewalled, but I did pick up a little tidbit when I did an end-around the army and called up some public records on our trusty departmental computer. Drew nothing but blanks for half a morning until I somehow ran across a link that took me to our military’s sterling example of covert fighting heroes in Vietnam, its so-called Studies and Observations Group.” He eyed Brashears intently. “Any idea how such a fine example of a fighting man like Margolin got picked for Star 1 team duty instead of drawing an assignment with the SOG?”
“Sure. Peter got stuck with the Star 1 job because someone up there didn’t like him. The whole time he was a Star 1 team commander, and it was only for about six months, he was griping, feeding me inside dope. Telling me about their missions, giving me fodder for postwar stories. We even thought about writing a book.”
“What derailed your plan?”
“Peter’s team went on a mission in the Song Ve Valley south of Quang Ngai. Only three of eight men in his unit came back. Seven weeks later all the teams were dismantled, gone.”
“What happened to Margolin?”
“He got reassigned.”
“And the other men in his unit?”
“One of the sergeants you mentioned earlier, Cortez, mustered out. Blue, the other sergeant, deserted.”
“They ever find him?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Pretty heady stuff,” said Newburn.
“War usually is, Lieutenant.”
Newburn stroked his chin, took a lick of ice cream, and stared Brashears down. “You wouldn’t have had any reason to kill Margolin?”
“Are you crazy?”
“Maybe Margolin kept you from winning your Pulitzer.”
His eyes burning with rage, Brashears said, “If I were you, Lieutenant, I’d start with Peter’s enemies, not his friends.”
Newburn smiled. “You’re the navigator here. Point me in the right direction.”
“I’d try Elliott Cole, chairman of the Colorado Republican Party. He’d be first.”
“The reason being?”
Reveling in the fact that he finally had a chance to be one up on Newburn, Brashears flashed the probing lieutenant a quick gotcha kind of smile. “Cole was the one who stuck Peter with that Star 1 team assignment in the first place.”
Newburn caught a drip of ice cream with his left hand. “Well, well, well. I’ll do that. And while I’m at it …” The chime of Newburn’s cell phone interrupted him. Flipping the phone open, he said, “Newburn, here.” He listened intently to the caller for a few seconds before saying, “I’m on it.” He flipped his phone closed and glanced over at Brashears. “Guess we’ll have to stop here. Got something urgent. But I’ll be in touch.” He bit off the shrunken head of the remaining ice cream and tossed his waffle cone in the nearby trash can.
“That urgent?” asked Brashears.
“Things are always urgent when you’re a homicide cop,” said Brashears. “Surprised they didn’t teach you that in journalism school,” he added, shooting Brashears his own version of a gotcha smile before making his exit.
Newburn got back to the precinct a little past 2:30, set to log in another John Doe homicide. He didn’t see the salmon-colored Post-It note resting on his desk until, looking as if it had floated down from outer space, the note made a perfect landing in his lap as he swiveled in his chair to get a fresh computer disk out of a side drawer.
He picked up the note, read the lightly penciled lowercase letters that read, See me. Morris. 2 p.m., and said, “Shit!” Responses to e-mails from his division captain, Emery Morris, could for the most part be delayed and sometimes flat-out ignored, and Morris’s phone calls could also be returned when necessary, which meant not immediately, about half the time. But a personalized see me note, the kind Morris delivered only when someone higher up the food chain was chewing at his ass, meant trouble. And a delivery time on the note, printed out as if it had come from some hourly worker’s time card, meant there would probably be hell to pay. Newburn rose from his chair, checked his watch, and headed off to meet his captain.
When he reached Morris’s office the outer office door was open. He walked into an area no bigger than an oversized dining-room table to find Morris talking to a man wearing a black pinstriped suit and a charcoal-and-cranberry tie. The man had the hint of a contrived 5 o’clock shadow, and his hair, not a single strand out of place, looked as if it were waiting for someone to say the word, Action!
“I’ll come back,” said Newburn, watching the eyes of both men land directly on him and knowing without having to ask that the man talking to Morris had to be a lawyer.
“No, no, come in. We’re discussing something that pertains to you,” said Morris. “Adam Marx, Wendall Newburn,” he added by way of introduction. They shared a brief handshake before Morris went on, “Adam’s one of Colorado’s premier assistant attorney generals. He came by to pay us a visit at the request of a friend.”
Marx said, “A buddy of mine from law school asked me to drop by. Nothing official, of course. We work in different states.” His tone rose as he talked, becoming higher pitched, almost effeminate.
“But it’s the same street,” said Morris, his tone full of butter.
“Anyway, my friend, Robert Quan, who has a job similar to mine in New Mexico, asked me to see if I couldn’t get a line on where you guys are with
the Peter Margolin murder.”
“That’s …”
“Let him finish, Lieutenant,” said Morris, cutting Newburn off.
Marx smiled and continued, “Anyway, Robert says that yesterday a huge black woman barged into his father’s shoe store over on Federal and implied that his father was a communist, when in fact he’s a Vietnam War survivor, a naturalized U.S. citizen, a community leader, and a prominent businessman. On top of that insult, according to Robert, she suggested in the next breath, although she didn’t actually say it, that his father might know something about Peter Margolin’s murder.” Marx barely took a breath before adding his high-pitched trump card: “So I’m here to share my outrage, to offer you a new lead in your investigation, and of course to pass along to Robert Quan any insights you might have—without, of course, compromising your investigation.”
Aware that he was under no obligation to share anything about his investigation with anyone, especially some nasal-sounding tight-assed junior league A.G., Newburn simply smiled. But politics and peace of mind being what they are, and payment-on-demand missiles from one’s captain being key to one day being either promoted or punked, Newburn asked, “Did your friend say whether the woman who confronted his father had both arms encased in bracelets?”
“In fact, he did,” said Marx, surprised by the question. “Brightly colored ones, and she wanted to buy combat boots.”
“Got a make on her?” asked Morris, ready to score a few points with the office of the attorney general.
“Flora Jean Benson, more than likely,” Newburn said matter-of-factly. “She’s a dog-sniffer for CJ Floyd.”
Morris’s eyes widened. “That cheroot-smoking bail bondsman?”
Newburn nodded.
“Well, we have a connection,” Adam Marx said enthusiastically. “I told Robert our Denver homicide detectives were first rate. Anything else I can share with him about the case?”
“Not really,” said Newburn.
“You’ll deal with the Benson woman, and Floyd?” Morris said sternly.
Newburn nodded. “They’re now officially part of the Margolin case.”
