Lane relaxed. Then reached up and picked one of the green fruits from the fig tree. Rubbed it on his robe and took a bite. He returned to the deck, palmed the Diet Coke pipe and slipped back inside the sliding glass door.
Huay rolled back off his haunches and leaned against the fence. He needed a day off. Tomorrow he would drive his daughter to dance class, enjoy a regular day.
WOODLAND HILLS – 6:59 A.M.
Major Joel Lane slept hard. The Dilaudid and opium a combination left hook and overhand right. He returned to his favorite dream - driving the motorcycle across the frozen lake. This one featured Aimee squeezing him from behind, flashes of her face in the rear-view mirror…and then things began to change, he could feel the cold, the sky turned ominously dark and he saw a new face in the rear-view mirror.
He woke on the couch beneath the Mexican blanket, his heart beating like a rabbit. The dreams were almost never so unpleasant. He wondered if it was the synthetic pharmaceutical influence. The face had been familiar…but who?
Lane sat up and looked at the clock on Catherine’s vcr - seven a.m. He clicked on the television, lowered the volume to one bar. The news channel seemed uninterrupted. The death and injury count continued to scroll across the bottom. Lane watched fresh video of the Guard assembling in the coastal parking lots, stringing slinkies of barbed wire and unfolding endless rows of orange striped saw horses. Soon they would be sweltering in their full gear, flak vests and helmets – next to the lifeguards in their board shorts, flip-flops and tank tops. It was another good day to be a soldier. The grunts always got the short end of the comfort stick – even when they’d moved to the cul de sac suburbs and only grunted one weekend a month. The lifeguards were only armed with walkie-talkies and sunglasses versus M16’s, but they were all staying off the sand.
Lane walked into the dining room and unwound the string on the case file envelope. He read over the demand letter again, and then took a look at the screen capture of it printed from Le Monde’s website. He shuffled through the file and found the grainy surveillance photos from the Nixon library. There was one Asian man, suspicious because of the sunglasses and hat. The agents had blown up the images of all visitors wearing both.
Lane closed his eyes and brought back the image from his motorcycle dream. It was an Asian man, but not the opium dealer. Someone else. In humans, the left brain processes and sorts random images, sounds, smells, etc. Opiates give the user enhanced control of this region, allowing the sensations to sift a little more slowly, to make the dream story better. In his mind’s eye, Lane put the covered face in the photo beside the face from his dream…and then saw the two images slide together. Lane’s eyes snapped open. He knew, he knew who the face was.
His heart raced. Was he deluding himself? It was difficult for people to recognize faces of races different than their own. No. He was almost sure. And certain that he had to find out.
Lane tip-toed down the hallway and cracked the bedroom door. Catherine still slept. A petite puddle of moisture below her open mouth.
Lane went into the pink bathroom and put the scrubs back on. He looked in the mirror, “USC Med” was stenciled in black on the front and back of his shirt. He looked a little deranged. Definitely not like a doctor. With the wound on his face and the burns on his forehead, he resembled an escaped mental patient. And he was still without underwear.
Lane spent several minutes looking for his phone. He found it plugged into a charger in the kitchen beneath a dish towel. He called information to get Khieu’s phone number. Lane feared that it would be difficult getting the number since he knew information operators always had trouble with foreign names, but the woman he spoke with seemed amazingly competent. She got it on the first try and even read the number to him instead of transferring him to a recording.
Khieu was up and answered promptly. He’d just gotten home. Lane was relieved he didn’t have to talk to his wife. Lane needed only two things from his friend, a first and a last name.
“How do you spell it?”
Khieu spoke carefully. Lane wrote down the name with a leather-covered pen that was also from Coach.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I know his name a long time and also it was on the check.” In the background Lane heard Khieu’s wife ask him who he was talking to.
“Thanks my friend,” Lane said and hung up.
Lane called information again, but found no listing for Huay in Los Angeles or Orange County.
Reluctantly, Lane scrolled through the programmed numbers in his phone and buzzed Alan.
He answered on the first ring. Lane didn’t wait. “Are you at the office?”
“Yes, where are you?”
“I need you to do me a favor. I need the address for someone. Unlisted.”
“Is this a suspect?”
“It’s a wild lead. Somebody I know from Cambodia. Might be able to tell me if there are any rumors in the community, that kind of thing.”
“Do you want us to talk to him?”
“No, I’m just going to give him a call, informal, maybe have coffee together.”
Lane gave him the name and waited while Alan clicked it into his keyboard.
“Wow,” Alan said, “he owns a lot of stuff. There’s a bunch of business addresses. Three residences. A house in Big Bear, a condo in Las Vegas, and a home in Newport Beach.”
“Give me the address in Newport Beach.” Lane scribbled the address on the back of an envelope, double-checking the spelling of the street name.
“Thanks, Alan.”
“Don’t you want the phone number? I thought you were going to call him?”
“Right. Give me that.”
Lane wrote down the number, but he had no intention of calling.
Alan asked, “How’s the noggin?”
“Yeah.” Lane said and disconnected.
Lane found the Lexus key in Catherine’s purse. The electric controls to adjust the seat were overly complex, but once on the road the Lexus was definitely a superior automobile. Lane knew he had to drive downhill, but he was momentarily lost until he saw a sign at the corner stoplight directing him to the 101 freeway.
Before he hit the ramp, Lane pulled over and checked the glove box for a map. Finding only a leather-bound owner’s manual he flipped to the chapter explaining the in-dash navigation system. It was amazingly simple. He punched the address in and a map appeared instantly, 101 right in the center. Lane was impressed.
As he merged, Lane sparked a Gitane and courteously lowered the window. The screen refreshed and he cruised in total comfort - the hidden satellites above tracking and triangulating the small efforts of the humans in Los Angeles County.
NEWPORT BEACH – 9:35 A.M.
Lane sipped the 7-11 extra large coffee and put it in the cup-holder of the Lexus.
There were no cars parked on the street in Huay’s neighborhood, so Lane picked an empty-looking house and parked in the driveway.
He wasn’t a real stakeout artist, but he did have some experience setting up ambushes. He decided that if anyone asked him he would lie and say he was waiting for a realtor to show him the house. A lot of homes that were for sale didn’t post lawn signs. But he wasn’t worried, the Lexus gave him a certain amount of cover. It was not the car of a burglar.
Lane watched as Huay’s garage door opened and a Mercedes backed down the driveway. As Huay went by, Lane saw a young woman in the passenger seat wearing a scarf in her hair. He backed out and trailed a half block behind the Mercedes, speeding cautiously through the endless Spanish-named streets.
MERCEDES – 9:37 A.M.
Dominique said, “Father, I want to talk to you about something.”
Huay was instantly wary. What could she possibly know, had she seen his news tape? Somehow seen the mines in the car?
“Okay.”
“I’ve thought about it and researched it thoroughly and I really want to get blepharoplasty.” Huay was dumbstruck.
Dominique continued. �
�I know two girls who’ve had it done at Dr. Park’s clinic in Laguna. It looks really good and it’s only fifteen hundred dollars per eye. Plus there’s a summer special that provides an additional ten percent discount.”
Huay couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You look perfect now.” He hated the operation, (50-75% of all Asians are born with a single eyelid; that is, they lack the crease in the upper eyelid that is common to most other ethnicities. And, in Asians who are born with this crease, it often differs in shape and size from that of other ethnic groups. The creation of a double upper eyelid, sometimes called Asian eye procedure, has been one of the most popular procedures among Asian women in both Asia and America. The addition of a crease to the eyelid can make the eye appear larger and the face more welcoming. This procedure can also make it easier to apply eye makeup. Most Asians who opt for blepharoplasty choose the procedure for these reasons, not in order to appear more “Western” or “American.” Full blepharoplasty, which entails removing the excess fat and tissue surrounding both the upper and lower eye, is often performed to achieve a larger, more prominent eye opening.) although he had financed it for two exotic dancers, they had excellent cash flow and Huay could see the direct benefit for them. But he didn’t appreciate the cultural implications or anyone taking a scalpel to his daughter’s eyelids.
Dominique looked out the window. “A perfect girl with one leg.”
“Yes. That’s right. You’re beautiful. And you don’t need it. End of discussion.”
They drove the rest of the way in silence. When they arrived at the ballet studio she got out without a word. Huay said, “I’ll pick you up in an hour.” And Dominique slammed the door.
Ten percent off summer special? Was she starting to become bitter after all these years? Huay tried to let it go. It was something that couldn’t be helped, cultural influence was everywhere. She’d had more than her share of operations on her leg and perhaps that’s why she didn’t think it was a big deal. The strippers’ operations had gone well, but there was significant risk of an eye looking crooked. It was not a good idea to mess with human design.
Huay drove across the parking lot and parked in front of the Starbucks.
LEXUS – 9:37 A.M.
Lane only had to run one red light and swerve around a furious Mustang driver to stay with the Mercedes.
He followed Huay into an upscale strip mall, the navigator informing him they were in Costa Mesa. The young woman got out of the car and entered a dance school. Huay then drove across the parking lot and parked near the Starbucks. Lane backed into a spot so that he could keep an eye on the Mercedes, but he also wanted a closer look at the passenger.
Lane got out of the car and walked across the fire lane to the sidewalk that ran in front of the dance studio. It was already uncomfortably warm in the sun. Using his forearm to block the sunlight he peered into the window. Young women were perched along a horizontal pole, like awkward birds, stretching and reaching in warm-up routines. And then he saw her. The passenger. The woman with the scarf in her hair pulled off her foot and exchanged it for a stainless steel one she kept in her equipment bag. As soon as Lane saw it, he knew he had the right man.
WOODLAND HILLS – 10:05 A.M.
Catherine couldn’t believe he’d taken her car. And left without doing the incident report. She called Alan at the office. He relayed the phone number request Lane had made and told her about Lane’s prior call, in untranslated Khmer, to his friend. He also briefed her on the details of the current investigation. No mines had been found in Trevor Jenkin’s house. They were going to keep the mother in custody for another day. They were hoping to threaten her into full cooperation and statements that could be used against her son, although actually prosecuting her would be troublesome. Alan gave her the rest of his update:
Blake’s funeral was still not scheduled.
National Guard mine sweepers at Venice Beach had so far found a Frisbee, a metal canister containing an unoriginal USC thesis film, and a pie tin from The House of Pies in Los Feliz.
“Where’s Lane now?”
“Just a second…” Catherine heard the familiar click of Alan’s keyboard. “Costa Mesa.”
“Do you think ECHELON has a Cambodian speaker available?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure they’re in high demand right now, but I’ll give them a call.”
“Thanks.” She said and hung up the phone.
She didn’t like the feeling of not being in charge. Catherine looked at the blank incident report on the dining room table and frowned. She poured herself a Diet Coke and stepped out onto the patio. She was wearing only a t-shirt and underwear as she put her toe into the heart-shaped pool. The crawling octopus cleaner (a Cyclops Alpha 3) made its rounds along the bottom. There was something disturbing about having one of those things in a heart-shaped pool. Like it was an alien or giant aortic germ. The water was cold. She kicked a squashed kumquat off the patio. She thought about the spa, it got chilled overnight, but if she wanted she could heat it up to a hundred and five in less than a half hour. Her ringing phone interrupted her thoughts.
COSTA MESA – 10:00 A.M.
Starbucks didn’t have the best croissants…a little dry…as though the person making them was constantly running out of butter. Huay reflected on this as he sipped his grande soy latte and read the paper. The woman behind the counter had misspelled his name on the cup, but he tried to ignore it. Simultaneously he was listening to the news on 980 am and it was difficult to listen to news radio and read the paper at the same time, but a little easier with the USA Today.
A man opened the backdoor.
Huay felt the gun barrel at the base of his skull. Immediately he flashed back to a joke his Khmer Rouge commander used to play. He would wake people up in the morning by dry-firing a Colt .45 between a comrade’s eyes. It really got the blood pumping. And the commander had only made a mistake once. And no one in the unit was ever sure he didn’t do it on purpose.
Huay looked in the mirror. His assailant had vividly bloodshot corneas, scabs for eyebrows and what looked like a point-blank bee-bee gun wound on his cheek. He was being carjacked by a desperate drug-addict.
And then his mind clicked. No. It was the recycler’s friend. The man who spoke Cambodian.
“Good morning.” Lane said in Khmer, cocking the hammer of the Beretta.
Huay assessed his situation. The Colt Defender was under the seat. A ten minute old latte wasn’t much of a weapon, plus it was wedged deep in the cupholder. He glanced down at the USA Today. The high in El Paso, TX was predicted to be 112 degrees.
The voice in the back seat said. “In case you’ve forgotten my name. I’m Major Joel Lane. U.S. Special Forces, formerly assigned to the U.N. Mine Education Project in Battambang Province, Cambodia and presently on special loan to the Federal Bureau of Investigation as a terrorist advisor. “
Huay remembered the breath.
“I make my living taking land mines out of the ground. You’re putting them on the beaches.”
How did he know? The stock report on the radio reported the Dow down nineteen points.
“Turn that off.” Lane said.
Huay complied and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Huay couldn’t fathom where his meticulous planning had failed. But why was this man alone?
“I know you planted the Nixon Library mines. And I can tell by your age and your tactics what your background is. So before you try anything desperate, I should tell you that your name’s in the task force database. If I don’t come back, they’re going to get to you eventually. You can’t operate like that. And I saw your daughter back there. Before we discuss anything further, I want you to know that my fiancée was killed by a mine. I had to have her remains cremated in Angola.”
Of course. Task force. He was the man in Catherine Mills’ backyard. Why didn’t he kill him then?
Huay wondered if this was a tactic to make him confess and then the FBI would swoop in, he had been
extremely careful about physical evidence. “I’m afraid, Mr. Lane, you are mistaken.”
The barrel of the gun dug deeper into his skull. “Listen to me asshole. I don’t want to fire a bullet through your head, but if you don’t cooperate, that’s how this is going to go down. Do you understand? You’re not going to make it. Now I don’t know if you’re working with others, but if you placed the mines at the library yourself, I would doubt it.”
Huay was now reasonably convinced this was not a law enforcement ruse. Was he trying for a reward? An extortion payment? Huay knew he had to stall. Stall and he could think.
Toe Popper Page 19
