The Walt Longmire Mystery Series Boxed Set Volume 1-4

by Johnson, Craig

  "Off and on.”

  He squatted down beside me. “Where was the wound?”

  “Right side of the head and toward the back, just at the crown.”

  “Just one?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Henry looked back toward the door. “Is it possible that he was struck once, and then, when he started to rise, the assailant hit him again? That would explain the two stains.”

  “It’s possible.” I studied the spread that had been flung back from the corner of the bed, revealing the end of the angle-iron bed rail and the corner of the mattress, stained with blood.

  Henry studied the corner of the bed frame. “So he was struck and then hit the corner?”

  “Maybe.”

  The Cheyenne Nation studied me. “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking I want to talk to Tuyen.” I stood and noticed that the metal case that was in Tuyen’s car was on the dresser. “Under the strictest sense of the law, I’m not really supposed to be going through his personal items.”

  “No.”

  I walked over to the bureau and flipped the leather-wrapped handle. “He didn’t say anything about missing his wallet and nothing else in the room seems disturbed, which leads me to believe that it wasn’t a robbery attempt.” I nudged the corner of the case with my finger. “Heavy; possibly a computer. If I was going to steal something in this room, I think I’d start with this.”

  “Yes.”

  "That makes this a suspicious item.”

  "Yes.”

  “And as a duly appointed law-enforcement official, it would be my responsibility to open it.”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s only one problem.”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s locked.”

  With a sigh of exasperation, Henry slid the case toward him and flipped it up, looking at the four-digit combination. He paused for a moment and then rolled the thumbwheels until it read 1975. “Fall of Saigon.”

  Click.

  Saigon, Vietnam: 1968

  I heard the safety go off but wasn’t sure where. The bouncer still stood in front of us, big, too big to be Vietnamese—probably Samoan. Our noses were about six inches apart—I was a couple of inches taller, but he probably had me by a good forty pounds. The really disconcerting part was that he was the one wearing a cowboy hat.

  Baranski held his badge over my shoulder into the giant’s face. “Look, Babu, Criminal Investigation Detachment. We’re on a homicide investigation.”

  That much was true.

  “We’re working with your own ARVN intelligence sector...”

  Not particularly true.

  "... And if you don’t step aside, I’m going to tell USMC specialist Longmire here to drag you over to the Long Bin stockade and specialize in stomping a puddle in your chest and walkin’ the motherfucker dry.”

  Hopefully true.

  He didn’t move, but after a few seconds, he turned toward a slick-looking little fellow standing to the side, who disappeared behind the giant and then reappeared. He nodded his head, and the bouncer slipped to the left. I took a step forward but kept my face to him as Baranski and Mendoza passed behind me.

  “Fuck you, son-of-bitch.”

  I slowly smiled my best Powder River grin, the one that would’ve made Owen Wister proud. “Smile when you call me that.”

  Western Town’s theme was western, but whose was anybody’s guess. The ubiquitous dancing girls wore white go-go cowgirl boots and either cheap costume cowboy hats or multicolored war bonnets, the kind that came from the Woolworth’s back home. In the dim light, I could see the walls were raggedly festooned with western movie posters that were hand-painted with Vietnamese print or maybe Japanese. I could hardly move with the amount of people in the place; nearly all were locals, but the few servicemen who were mixed in with the mass of civilians were mostly enlisted. It looked like we were the brass, for better and probably worse. Mendoza and Baranski were already scouting the crowd but, from their continued craning, it was pretty clear that they hadn’t spotted Hollywood Hoang yet.

  Mendoza leaned in and spoke above the music. “You stay here, man, and we’ll walk through and see if we can’t flush him out.”

  “What about the back?”

  He shook his head. “This your first time to the rodeo? There ain’t no back door.”

  I watched as they disappeared into the crowd. There was a dance floor where Jim Ed Brown’s “Pop a Top” warbled through the narrow building and made me homesick. I planted myself against a newel post leading to a stairwell to the basement and a beaded door. I was tired and all I wanted to do was sleep, so I closed my eyes for only a second. When I opened them, there was a teensy Vietnamese woman in a brightly feathered child’s war bonnet who was standing on tiptoes to get my attention. “You like dance?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “I give special plice?”

  “No, that’s okay.” It was easy to see over her; only the tips of the feathers were in my line of sight. With the constant flux of people going in and out, it was hard to keep track, but if Hoang was wearing his trademark powder-blue jumpsuit and white silk scarf, I figured he’d be easy to pick out of the crowd.

  She stepped in closer and put her hands on my uniform. “Special plivate dance?”

  I blew on the feathers to get them away from my face. “No, really . . .”

  “You look for fliend?”

  “No...” I glanced down, and her eyes carried a greater intensity than they should have. “What?”

  Her voice lowered but still held the same urgency. “You look for fliend?”

  I was glancing over her head for either Baranski or Mendoza, neither of whom were in sight. “No, really, I’m a monk.”

  She stared at me for a moment, looked back into the main part of the room, and then glanced down the stairs leading to the basement. “Onree you.”

  I stood there looking at the sheen of the Southeast Asian night on her skin and thought of Mai Kim. I was assaulted by the hokey music, and the tumblers fell into place. “Do you know Hoang? Hollywood Hoang?”

  Her eyes flicked back over her shoulder and then down the stairs again. “Onree you.”

  “Is Hoang down there?” Her face remained immobile. “I’m not going to hurt him, but I can’t leave this spot unless he’s down there.”

  The feathers bobbed imperceptibly as she nodded. My nod was just as slight. I slipped around the railing and started down the steps and thought about Hoang—how much he’d thanked me for saving his life in Khe Sanh, and how, if he’d really wanted to kill me, he probably would have already. He’d certainly had a bunch of opportunities.

  But you never knew.

  I unsnapped the strap on my .45 and pulled the hammer back. There was no door, just the beaded curtain, and it was dark. I thought about what a great backlit target I was making, parted the curtain, and stepped through.

  The basement was even narrower than the bar. I walked past a dirt shelf that held a bunch of tiny compressors that looked more like gerbil wheels than coolers as they valiantly attempted to keep the upstairs, well, cool. There were boxes to my left, stacked to the ceiling as far as the light from the doorway would allow me to see. Jim Ed Brown had given way to Buck Owens and the Buckaroos upstairs, so I raised my voice a little and rolled the loaded but still holstered dice. “Hoang?”

  I thought I could make out the sound of a movement behind me and to my right. I turned slowly and looked into the beer-can barrel of a Walther PPK silenced pistol.

  His eyes were wide, and sweat had saturated the powder-blue jumpsuit to a sopped navy. I raised my hands without being bidden. “How are you, Hoang?” He didn’t say anything and scanned to the right for anybody who might’ve been following me. “I’m alone.”

  His eyes couldn’t remain still, and I could see the barrel of the pistol shaking in his hands. “Mai Kim...”

  “She’s dead.”

  His eyes welled, and he half swallow
ed, like there was something in his throat that wouldn’t go down. He looked at the ground between us, but the pistol stayed where it was. After a few seconds, his voice wavered. “You know who kill her?”

  I lowered my hands a little and he didn’t seem to take exception, so I let them drop to my sides and slowly placed the .45 in my duty holster but left the safety off and the leather strap unsnapped. “You know, that’s funny—we had a little discussion about that; your name came up.”

  He shook his head vehemently. “I no kill Mai Kim.”

  I was developing a hard-fought talent in Vietnam for being able to tell if people were lying to me. He was convincing, and I let the weight of it settle and drift us toward more conversation. “Well, then, who did?”

  “I no kill Mai Kim!” The fat barrel faltered a moment then came closer to my face; I turned my palms out and took a half-step back, dropped my gun hand down, and gestured with the other. “All right, all right.” He switched the gun to his other hand. “If you didn’t kill her, then why are you holding a pistol on me?”

  His lips compressed, and he swallowed again, the barrel not moving. “You on up?”

  “What?”

  “You on up?”

  I inclined my head. “You mean the up-and-up?”

  He nodded. “Up-up.”

  I took a breath and sighed. “Yep, I’m on the up-up or else why would I be in a bar basement off Tu-Do Street with my sidearm back in its holster?”

  He paused for a moment, took a deep breath that caused his whole body to shudder, and then lowered the Walther. I took another half-step back to show him I’d meant what I’d said, leaned against the dirt shelf, and listened to the rickety compressors and Buck and the Buckaroos. “Hoang, if I wanted you dead, I’d have left you in the mud at Khe Sanh.”

  His eyes were steadier now, even with the sweat coursing down his face. “No mortar.”

  “What?”

  “No mortar.” He said it again, emphasizing each word.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “At Khe Sanh, no mortar.”

  I felt cold, and it had nothing to do with the temperature. “You mean the round that hit the helicopter?”

  He gestured with the pistol, the barrel coming up and to my left. “No mortar. Timer was . . .”

  The shot compressed the confined space, and the spray of blood splattered in my eyes, making me blink. It didn’t feel like I was hit, but something was falling against me and I caught it. It was Hoang, choking on his own blood with a sucking wound that made ghastly noises in his chest. He was already covered with blood, and his eyes looked up at me, imploringly. I lowered him to the dirt floor as Baranski and Mendoza approached with their guns drawn.

  I unzipped the flight suit and looked at the wound, blowing air with his breath, the bubbles flowing with the blood as it drained down Hoang’s side. I gently pulled the silk scarf from around his neck and raised him up, wrapping the length of cloth around and under his shoulder to secure the front and rear wounds as best I could.

  I looked up at the security officer and the CID investigator. “God damn it, why did you fire?”

  Baranski looked incredulous. “Hey, new guy, I just saved your fucking life.”

  “He wasn’t going to shoot.”

  He looked at Mendoza and then back to me. “He was pointing that bazooka at your head and why do you think he was using a silencer, dumb ass? You were about to become the honored dead.”

  I ignored him and began picking Hoang up.

  “What’re you doing?”

  I pulled the tiny man against my shoulder, careful to avoid the entry and exit wounds. “I’m taking him to a hospital.”

  Baranski snorted; the Texan remained silent. “He’s dead.”

  “He’s not dead.” I glanced down at the little man’s eyes and watched as he blinked but didn’t seem to be able to focus on my face. “You’re not dead, do you hear me? You’re hurt pretty bad, but we’re gonna get you to a hospital and they’ll patch you up. Do you hear me?”

  His eyes clinched like they were capturing my words, and I knew he understood. I stepped forward, moving the two men back. “And you can either help me or get out of my way.”

  It’s amazing how fast you can clear a path in a crowded club with guns and a mortally wounded man. I climbed into the back of the jeep and carefully placed Hoang on my lap. His pupils were a little constricted, and I was beginning to suspect that the pilot/drug dealer might’ve sampled a little of his own product and that it was the only thing that was keeping him alive.

  Baranski backed the jeep into the crowded street, swung it in a tight circle, and took a left at the next block. I knew the nearest hospital was in the other direction. I yelled above the shifting gears as the M-1A1A veered around traffic and started north on Highway 1. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

  He yelled back at me over his shoulder. “I’m not taking that little dink to a civilian hospital here in Saigon where he can conveniently disappear. I’m taking him back to Tan Son Nhut.”

  I looked at Mendoza, who stared straight ahead with an arm braced against the dash.

  I looked down at Hoang. “He’ll die.”

  “We’ve got the best medical care in Southeast Asia only five minutes away, so hold on and shut the hell up.” Baranski shifted into third, and the jeep slipped from the traffic and followed its headlights into the glowing dawn at the edge of the war-torn town.

  * * *

  “How are you feeling?”

  He smiled and shrugged. “Rather foolish, actually. That, and I have a headache.”

  “I bet you do.” I sat in the mauve-colored chair Durant Memorial provided for visitors and took off my hat, placing it on Tuyen’s metal case at my boots. Santiago Saizarbitoria stood by the door and, like all good flies on the wall, was doing his best to remain inconspicuous. “I hope you’re feeling up to answering some questions.”

  “Oh, yes.” He used the electric control to push himself further up on the bed and pulled a pillow down lower. “They’re keeping me here overnight for observation, but other than the headache, I feel fine.”

  “That was quite a hit you took.”

  “I’ve had worse.” He glanced at the floor. “Is that my case?”

  “Yes, it is. I was thinking that you might like to have it.”

  “Thank you.”

  We were both aware that I was making no attempt at giving it to him. “Mr. Tuyen, are you sure you don’t have any idea who might’ve attacked you?”

  He looked up. “None whatsoever.”

  “Were you visited by anyone today? I mean before the attack?”

  He didn’t hesitate in responding. “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  He waited for a moment, perhaps weighing the old adage that when law enforcement officials ask questions, they usually know the answers. He looked down at his hands. “There was someone who came to visit me early this morning.”

  “And who was that?”

  His eyes returned to mine. “The bartender.”

  “Phillip Maynard?”

  “Yes.”

  I leaned in, placing my elbows on my knees and casually flipping my hat around by the brim. “Do you mind telling me why you lied to me just now?”

  “He wanted more money, and I didn’t want to get him into trouble. It was a bad thing I did, paying him to be silent, and I did not wish to make the same mistake again.”

  “Mr. Tuyen, that’s twice that you’ve dissembled when I’ve asked you a direct question. I’m going to advise you in the strongest terms, no matter what the circumstances, to not do it again.”

  He nodded. “I’m sorry, I . . .”

  “What did he say?”

  He seemed startled at my abruptness.

  "He...he said that he could make my life difficult unless I gave him more money.”

  “Difficult in what way?”

  “The conversation didn’t go much further than that. I told hi
m that if he threatened me again, I would contact you.”

  I looked into my hat, knowing full well that none of the answers to my questions were there. “But you didn’t. You didn’t tell me about Maynard’s visit, his attempts at extortion, or anything.” It was quiet, and we all listened to the thrum of the air-conditioning. “Did it ever occur to you that Phillip Maynard might’ve been the one who killed your granddaughter and that withholding this kind of evidence could be seen as an obstruction of justice?”

  “I’m very sorry.”

  I looked at the worn label in the hatband of my hat and then back up to Tuyen’s face. “Maynard left?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  The questioning look returned. “I’m afraid I don’t...”

  “When he left, how did he leave, on a pogo stick?”

  “On his motorcycle.” I continued to watch him and could just see the little bits of anger at the corners of his mouth. “He came and left on his motorcycle.”

  I nodded. “Mr. Tuyen, were you struck once or twice in your motel room?”

  “I believe once, but I could be wrong.”

  “Mr. Tuyen, I’m getting really tired of your inexactitude.”

  He clutched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Sheriff, my granddaughter is dead. . . .”

  “Mr. Tuyen, you have yet to provide me with any documentation proving that she was your granddaughter.”

  He took a breath but kept his eyes shut. “You don’t believe that . . .”

  “I’m not sure exactly what I believe, but you’re not making it any easier for me.” I stood, placed my hat back on my head, and picked up his case. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you for a birth certificate, either Vietnamese or American.”

  He started to interrupt. “Sheriff, surely you understand the red tape involved.”

  “Papers such as baptismal, school records, or anything that will lead me to believe that Ho Thi was your granddaughter.” I continued to hold the case, and we were both very aware of it. “Now, you can provide me with this information or I can contact the probate courts in California and have a deputy from the Orange County Sheriff ’s Department expedite the information.”

  He looked up at me and then spoke slowly. “Ho Thi was not adopted; she was my blood granddaughter.”