I shouted his name again, though he’d be hard-pressed to hear me over the din. My first instinct was to retreat and call the police. Then again, though I didn’t like him, Thomas Chan could be in trouble and even a short delay while the police arrived might be disastrous. Or, on the other end of the spectrum, maybe he was having sex in his bedroom, the loud music his strange aphrodisiac. Calling the police might embarrass Chan, make me look stupid, and piss off the cops, broken doorframe or not.
Inside the darkened entryway, I ran my hand along the wall for a light switch. The first switch flicked on the porch light, the second the entryway. Everything in the living room and dining room looked undisturbed, just as it had appeared the day before.
Though the music would have masked the sound of my steps on the hardwood floor, I tiptoed to the kitchen. A full bottle of wine sat open on the counter, an unused glass beside it. Everything else was spotless, no dirty dishes or other signs the kitchen had been recently used.
“Thomas!” I called again. I picked up a flashlight on a small table in the utility area beyond the kitchen and turned back to explore the rest of the house. The flashlight needed batteries, but its weak beam provided enough light to enable me to locate the source of the music—a cell phone plugged into two speakers on the mantle. I turned the music down below earsplitting level, but loud enough to mask any sound I might make walking through the house.
The opened door to the first bedroom revealed it had been converted into an office. Sweeping the room with the flashlight confirmed it was empty and appeared to have been undisturbed. I worked my way down the hall to the next door, which opened into a bathroom. Again, nothing. At the end of the hall awaited two rooms, one to my left, the other to my right.
I checked out the room on the right first because its door was opened but found nothing more impressive than a standard bedroom with an undisturbed bed, a nightstand, and a dresser. That left what had to be the master bedroom. No light shone from underneath its door. I turned the doorknob enough to confirm it wasn’t locked.
“Chan,” I said in a voice just above the music in the other room. A few seconds later, I knocked and repeated his name. I put my ear to the door and heard nothing on the other side. Opening the door halfway, I looked through the opening and saw a figure lying on the bed. Again, I called his name. When he didn’t answer, I shone my flashlight at the bed.
With its back to me in a fetal position was a fully-clothed man lying atop the bed. I switched on the overhead light. If the man noticed the light, he didn’t react to it. He was wearing a white T-shirt and tan pants, with no shoes or socks. At the side of the bed I reached over and gave his shoulder a push and then stepped back. He didn’t awaken. When I went to the other side of the bed, I could see no amount of pushing would rouse Thomas Chan.
The chocolate colored handle of a butcher knife protruded from his gut, the bedspread on his front side saturated with blood. Chan’s eyes were wide open and, for a moment, I felt as if he was pleading for help, that I had not arrived too late. His right arm splayed out on the bedspread at a right angle to his body.
I gasped when I saw why he needed the bandage earlier in the day. The gauze had been unwrapped and lay in a pile on the floor.
The ring and index fingers of the hand had been cut off, the thumb and pinky folded down towards his palm, leaving his middle finger extended in an unmistakable “fuck you” gesture.
The sight unnerved me almost as much as Chan’s bloody corpse. I stepped back and looked around the room. On the wall above the bed, scrawled in blood, were three letters: SCS.
thirteen
I didn’t sleep that night. The Sacramento Police Department kept me occupied until one in the morning with questioning, fingerprinting, and lab work to determine if any of Chan’s blood had splashed onto my body when I knifed him. I tried to tell them about the Golden Dragon gangster I’d spotted earlier in the day, but they were more interested in my relationship to Chan. When I offered my opinion on the meaning of the SCS letters on the wall, I drew smirks from both detectives interviewing me. In the end, they released me, though they wouldn’t declare me free and clear of the crime. I was asked not to leave the Sacramento area without letting them know.
At nine the next morning, I drove to the offices of Chan International, located on the corner of 20th and S streets, a midtown Sacramento mixture of craftsman homes and single story commercial buildings. Chan’s office was housed in a flat-topped stucco structure divided into four quarters, each quarter home to a different business. I tried the glass door to the office, but it was locked. I hit speed dial on my cell.
“Hey,” Rubia answered.
“Adam Benzer. MBA from Granderson. Works for Chan International. Can you get a home address for him?”
“Well, hello to you, too.”
I gave a theatrical sigh. “Good morning, Rubia. How are you?”
“Better. What’s the deal with Benzer?”
I told her what I remembered from his website bio to help her narrow the search. I then recounted the gruesome scene I’d found in Chan’s bedroom.
“Shit. Sounds like the Dragons,” she said.
“Maybe. Right now the leader in the clubhouse is the SCS. But there’s too much going on with Chan and his company to ignore.”
We ended the call, and I returned to my car. Not five minutes later, Rubia called me back.
“That was fast,” I said.
“The guy’s in the online white pages. You could have done it yourself.”
“It must have been simple if I could do it myself.”
“Exactly.”
“Just give me the address.”
Fifteen minutes later I arrived at Benzer’s apartment complex in South Land Park. The place had seen better days, a rundown two-story building with peeling white paint and overgrown shrubs for landscaping. The Plaza Arms Apartment sign out front was missing several letters, requiring Wheel of Fortune acumen to puzzle out the name.
Benzer’s unit was in the front of the building on the second floor. I knocked. Someone moved about on the inside, and the light coming through the peephole darkened. I waved at the peephole and smiled. The door remained closed.
“Adam,” I said to the door. “My name’s Ray Courage. I’m an investigator. I’d like to talk to you about Thomas Chan. Open the door please.”
Downstairs, an older couple stood outside an apartment watching me. In the apartment next door to Benzer’s drapes parted and then closed when I glanced in that direction.
“Adam.”
A few seconds later he opened the door. “What do you want?”
“First of all, I want to offer my condolences. I’m sorry about Thomas’s death.” I didn’t know the extent of the two young men’s relationship. Even if they hadn’t been friends, solely business partners, it had to be tough losing a colleague like that, especially one so young.
“You said you’re investigating his murder. Do you have some ID?”
I gave him a business card. He frowned as he read it. People did that a lot with my card. Maybe I needed a new design.
“You’re not a cop? I thought you said you were a cop.”
“I said I was an investigator, not a cop. Can I come in?” The older couple continued to rubberneck us, and I didn’t want them to overhear our entire conversation.
“What are you investigating?” He didn’t seem to be too distraught about Chan’s murder. His antsy manner suggested paranoia rather than sorrow.
“That’s a good question.” I was tired and didn’t know what to say. The Monarch Project had been the initial object of my investigation; now it seemed to include Thomas Chan’s murder. “It’s a matter tangential to Thomas’s death.”
“Tangential? What the hell’s that mean?”
“Can I come inside?”
After a pause, he stepped back and let me in. The inside of the apartment was much neater and more well-maintained than the apartment complex itself. Though the furnishings appeared to
come straight out of an Ikea catalog, Benzer’s place looked more upscale than the dwelling of a typical recent college graduate.
“Can we sit down?”
Benzer didn’t appear comfortable with the prospect of a lengthy visit, but he pointed to the living room where we settled into a couple of matching leather chairs. He was a bit on the chubby side, with a thatch of dark hair and a day’s worth of stubble. He sat upright in the chair while I affected a comfortable slouch to try relaxing him.
“Nice place,” I said. “Not far from your office, grocery store, and a couple of restaurants nearby. Everything you need.”
An orange and white tabby cat emerged from behind the couch and approached me, rubbing its cheek on my shin. I reached down and petted it.
“Nice cat. What’s its name?”
“Can I ask why you’re here?”
“Do you know Candace Symington?” The cat slid past my leg and then returned in the opposite direction, again rubbing its cheek on my shin.
“Sure. She is…was…Thomas’s girlfriend. Or ex-girlfriend, I guess.”
“Did you know anything about her work in the science lab at Granderson?”
“Not a clue. We weren’t friends or anything. I knew her through Thomas. The three of us didn’t hang out or anything. It was more like ‘hi’ and ‘goodbye’ when she stopped by the office.”
“Did you ever hear her mention anything about a project called Monarch?”
“Nope.”
“What about Thomas? Did he ever mention it?”
Benzer shook his head, his face now a mix of anger and boredom.
“Do you know Professor Wiggin or Jack Cassidy?”
“Heard the names. Candace mentioned them every once in a while.”
“I thought you only said hi and goodbye to her?”
“Oh my god! Are you always this literal? Look, I just lost my friend and business partner. I don’t need this bullshit. Please leave.” He stood up and seemed to grow angrier when I didn’t follow suit.
“Please sit down. I won’t be much longer.”
He still looked ticked off, but he sat down.
“Okay, so you don’t know Wiggin or Cassidy.”
“No, not at all.”
“Can you tell me a bit about your business, Chan International? From what I’ve learned, your business model is to connect US companies with offshore manufacturers.”
“I don’t see why we need to discuss my business. I’m not sure what you’re driving at here. You asked about Thomas’s girlfriend and her work, and then you want to know about our business. What are you investigating?”
“It’s complicated. Just help me understand a few things. From what Thomas told me yesterday, and what I gather from your website, you and Thomas brokered business deals between US companies and Chinese manufacturers.”
“Yeah, that pretty much covers it. We have clients all around the country and some local ones, too.”
“Like Regal Systems and SMUD.”
“Yeah.”
“You managed to put together pretty big deals for both of them. Not bad for a couple of guys recently out of business school.”
He glowered at me. “You’ve been digging into our business with clients?”
“I talked to a couple of people.”
“You talked to our clients? Goddamn it! You have no right to do anything like that.”
“Take a valium there, Mr. Paranoid. I didn’t do anything to compromise your business dealings.”
He fumed, and I sensed he was about five seconds from showing me the door. I understood his not appreciating my talking to his clients. No businessman would. But his reaction seemed out of proportion to the offense.
“Can you tell me more about the inspection fees related to the Regal and SMUD contracts?”
“No.” His jaw was so tight I thought he might grind the enamel off his molars.
“Harry Terrick and Roger Talbert said there were kickbacks to the Chinese companies. When they raised the issue with you, the inspection fees disappeared. How did that happen? Did the companies withdraw their demand for a kickback? Or did Chan International cover it so you wouldn’t lose the deal?”
He shook his head in irritation. “American companies don’t understand how business is done around the world. There are certain customs and operating procedures that need to be followed to get the best deal possible. The Chinese companies we partnered with for Regal and SMUD expect a relatively small cash gift as a show of good faith.”
“Sounds like a bribe to me.”
He shrugged. “It’s not illegal. Look, these companies put in such low bids that their margins were minimal. They did so for two reasons. One, to keep their employees working. And two, to build relationships with US companies in the hopes of future business. The gifts are a goodwill gesture to the Chinese executives for selling their services at such a low price.”
“So tell me, did they drop the request or did you pay it?”
“We paid it, okay! It’s not a big deal. Now get out, please.”
He stood, walked over to the door and opened it. I started to ask him about the bribes offered Terrick and Talbert, then thought better of it because it would shed no new light on where they’d gotten so much cash. As I reached the door, I stopped to face him.
“Where did you get that kind of money? A hundred and fifty thousand to pay off the Chinese? And that’s just for two clients. How much more in kickbacks have you paid for other clients?”
“My parents loaned me the money, okay? Now get out of here.”
“Well, I don’t have to be told twice,” I said. “Well, maybe I do. By my count that’s the third time you’ve asked me to leave.”
He did more of the jaw-clenching thing. I was an expert on personality types, but this guy was definitely a Type A, a heart attack waiting to happen in ten years, if not sooner.
“Have a nice day.” I smiled at him as I stepped through the doorway.
He slammed the door. The older couple downstairs stared up at me. I smiled at them and headed for my car.
fourteen
I looked at the bag on the passenger seat, the stapled prescription form with my name, the drug name, and the dosage instructions. Zoloft. Active ingredient: Setraline, an antidepressant of the selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor class. I’d read about it before going to the pharmacy to pick up the prescription, which I’d let sit for three days. I wasn’t much for meds. I stuck the unopened bag into my glove compartment. Since visiting Dr. Nelson, the nightmares had vanished, the images of bullet-riddled bodies no longer my sleep companions. It was as if hearing him say the problem was in my head—real but in my head—and not rooted in a physical affliction gave me permission to vanquish the nightmares. The day visions persisted, but with less frequency and diluted intensity. My thoughts drifted back to that evening now and again as I relived the eerie stillness following the gunshots, the smell of cordite heavy in the air, Rubia’s shocked face, and then the first words to break the silence: “Holy shit, Ray.” I should have been more straight up with the doctor, telling him the real reason why the nightmares and visions troubled me.
I opened the heavy wooden doors leading into the Sacramento Oaks Country Club lobby. It was after ten in the morning. This was my first visit to the exclusive club east of downtown. The club’s proximity to the capitol building reputedly attracted scads of legislators and lobbyists. I surveyed the room to determine where the business offices might be. In front of me, beyond the foyer, was a dining room with dozens of tables and a bar. At mid-morning, twenty or so members feasted on late breakfasts or early lunches. Except for a table with two couples wearing tennis whites, everyone wore golf clothes of varying degrees of garishness.
To my immediate right, a hallway led towards the pro shop I’d noticed on my walk from the car. Several door lined the hallway, which I took to be the staff offices. On the right side of the dining area was the marked entrance to the men’s locker room. A similar entrance to th
e women’s locker room was beyond that.
I headed down the hall as a woman emerged from an office and greeted me.
“You must be Mr. Courage.” She had a sincere smile, her eyes looking into mine.
“Ray.” I shook her hand and returned her smile.
“How nice to meet you. I’m Jolene Gillingwater. And please call me Jolene.”
She was attractive, maybe early forties, blond hair parted on one side, allowing her long bangs to sweep across her forehead. She wore a black sweater, unbuttoned, over a gray patterned dress. She looked dignified, and I could see what Danny Cashmore saw in her. I had gone back and forth about the wisdom of meeting her face to face. I decided the odds of her putting me together with Danny were rare, given our infrequent socializing. Besides, I was curious about this woman and wanted to learn more than what an employment background check would reveal.
“You’re right on time,” she said.
“You know what they say about punctuality.”
She gave me a quizzical look. “What do they say about punctuality?”
“I’m sure they say something. They have something to say about everything.”
She laughed. “Can I get you a cup of coffee or something stronger from the bar?”
The coffee sounded pretty good, but I wanted to get through this as quickly as possible. I felt awkward snooping in on my friend’s potential fiancé under the pretext of wanting to join her country club.
“No, thank you. I’d just like to learn more about the club.”
“You said on the phone you were looking to get back into playing golf,” she said.
“Yes, it’s been a while since I’ve played, and I’d like to start up again.”
“Well, I think you’ll like what you see.”
We walked towards the dining room, and she explained the operating hours of the kitchen and bar, the chef’s credentials, special event dates, and so on. As we crossed the room, several of the diners assessed me with their eyes. Sacramento Oaks was by no means the fanciest or snobbiest club in town. But they had their standards. From the reflexive scowls I appeared to be eliciting, I didn’t seem to be meeting those standards.
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