Cale Dixon and the Moguk Murders

by David Dagley

  Victoria asked, “Mr. Cummings, where is Mr. Stell headed in this photo?”

  “To the elevators to go to his room, I imagine.”

  “Two things, Mr. Cummings; one, Mr. Rayman Stell is thirty-eight years old, and two, if you could, please keep searching for more photos or footage. We need to see his face or a tattoo, anything to confirm it’s Rayman Stell. The photos are rather vague, but we do appreciate them.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. It may take me a couple of days, but I’ll keep looking.”

  “Thanks. And thanks for sending these, Mr. Cummings. It does help clear up a few things,” said Victoria.

  “Glad to help. I’ll contact you if I find anything,” said Mr. Cummings and he hung up.

  Victoria hung up the phone and looked at the photos, puzzled. She looked across the room at Cale’s desk, remembering the photos Cale had shown her of the bank robbers in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia and Brisbane, Australia. She got up and walked over to Cale’s desk and sat in his chair, bending over to open the bottom drawer. Sifting through Cale’s files all the way to the back, she found an untitled folder. Victoria sat at Cale’s desk and opened the folder. Staring her in the face was a man wearing a similar trench coat and hat with a suit bag over his shoulder.

  Victoria got up, walked quickly to the captain’s office, and entered.

  The captain looked up, “What? No phone call first, no knocks?”

  “Captain, I think Cale’s in trouble.”

  “You have no idea. Mr. Won just flew to Washington DC. Where is Cale?”

  “He’s on his way to Washington DC to visit with Monica Stell, Rayman’s cousin. I just got a fax from the Squire Hotel where Rayman says he stays sometimes for the auctions he goes to in New York. This is a photo the head of security just sent us of Rayman Stell.” Victoria dropped the photo on the captain’s desk.

  The captain looked at the photo of a man in a light trench coat and hat carrying a suit bag over his left arm and said, “That could be anybody.”

  Victoria placed another photo next to Rayman Stell’s photo and explained, “This is a photo out of a bank robbery file Dixon has stashed in the back of his filing cabinet. It’s not Rayman. Rayman is thirty-eight years old. This is the same guy in both photos, and he’s approximately fifty years old. And I’m willing to bet that his time in New York coincides with some of the robberies, if not all of them.”

  The captain nodded, “Can you reach Dixon?”

  “No. His phone goes straight to an answering service. And he’s on a plane right now, heading either to Seattle or Denver for a connecting flight, or he’s already caught his connection to DC.”

  “Which airport in DC?”

  Victoria shrugged her shoulders and said, “I don’t know. Probably Dulles. It’s the closest to where Cale’s trying to get, the Dupont Circle area.”

  “All right, contact both airports and try and get a message to the gate.”

  —

  40

  —

  Monica Stell walked down the congressional building stairs, passed the elevators, and signed out at the desk. She found her car with another parking ticket under the windshield wiper and frowned. She grabbed the ticket, put in her purse, and got in car. She drove out to Pennsylvania Avenue, turning on her radio as she drove. Traffic was heavy. Bike messengers raced through traffic, slaloming around cars like racing pickets and blasting through the traffic lights and cross traffic. She arrived at Dupont Circle and followed it around on her way to Eighteenth Street. She drove up the hill to a red light and stopped. She was almost home. Monica pulled out her cell phone. dialed a friend’s number, and waited.

  Three Hispanic young men walked in the crosswalk, all wearing tan pants, black belts, and white, sleeveless t-shirts. One of the boys tagged his friends arm to direct their attention to Monica, sitting in her car with her elbow out the open window. One of the boys stepped out of the crosswalk in Monica’s direction. Monica noticed and turned off her cell phone, pulling her elbow in the car and pushing a button to raise the window.

  “Yo, Asia! Come on, bitch, let’s talk together. You and me. Ola senorita bonita. Que pasa, Asia? Tu no vives aqui. Donde vas?”

  The window closed, and the boy yelled through the glass. The boy’s friends slammed their fists on the hood of her car.

  “Come on, Southeast meets Southwest. We can make a Catholic baby together. Yeah, we can name it Juan, after my grandfather!”

  The light changed, and Monica honked her horn and pushed the gas pedal slowly. The boys at the front of her car stepped aside and pounded on her hood and roof as she passed. She turned right onto Euclid and drove two blocks, watching her rearview mirror. She saw two police officers standing on the right corner of an intersection ahead of her, and a group of young blacks stood on the opposite corner, all milling about in a tight circle. She drove through the intersection and pulled over in front of her condominium’s brick staircase. As she got out of her car, she glanced at the usual two police officers watching the group of mingling blacks. She walked up the brick stairs and into the courtyard of four bleach-white brick condos. She felt sorry for the policemen standing, watching helplessly while the young boys and girls sold crack and other goodies twenty-five feet away. One last glance down the street to the buyers and sellers strolling in from every direction, right past the police, through the crowd, and out with the bag or bindle of their desire. She unlocked her white door and walked in, locking the door behind her with a chain and knob lock. Her living room felt cool as she put her coat over the back of a chair and leaned her briefcase against the backrest. She took a deep breath and turned into the kitchen to get a glass of water. Standing at the sink, looking out her window, she watched the scene down the street. A siren sounded off in the distance, and an Asian man came up the courtyard stairs, looking at a piece of paper.

  Mr. Won looked at the numbers next to the condo doors as he walked and came to Monica’s door. He felt the weight of the Un Jang Do in his pocket and separated the knife from its sheath without taking it out of his pocket. He knocked on the door.

  Monica, standing over her sink, watched the man come to her door and knock. She put down her glass of water and walked back to her front door. She opened the door without taking off the chain lock latch, looked out, and asked, “Yes?”

  “Does Monica Stell live here?” asked Mr. Won.

  “Yes. That’s me. What can I do for you?”

  Mr. Won was stunned. He peered into the crack of the door and saw a beautiful Asian face staring back at him, dark brown eyes, dark hair, and fair skin. Mr. Won quickly realized who he saw in this young woman before him. “Miss Stell, my name is Mr. Won. I am from South Korea. I am one of your mother’s older brothers. I knew your father and your uncle when they were stationed in Seoul, South Korea. May I have a few minutes of your time? I would very much like to explain some things to you about your family and your inheritance.”

  “Inheritance? My mother divorced my father when I was very young. And my father has been missing for many years now, so I really don’t know how I can help you. I’m sorry.” She looked Mr. Won up and down and then at the two police officers down the street.

  “Just one moment, one minute, please,” Mr. Won reached into an inside coat pocket and pulled out a picture of his family, “This is a picture of your family.” Mr. Won began by putting his finger on a woman and explained, “This is your mother when she was twenty-one years old, and this is me and three of your uncles. This is your aunt,” he continued, pointing at another woman in the picture. “And this man in the chair is your grandfather. And this is your grandmother. My mother sent me here to invite you to come and visit with us, in Seoul, South Korea, before my father dies.”

  Monica recognized her mother in the photo and felt saddened by this nice man humbly standing in front of her locked door. She smiled at Mr. Won and said, “I have that same photo, but I never knew who any of the other people were except, of course, my mother and her parents.” Monica
unlatched the door and opened it, smiling coyly at Mr. Won. “Won’t you come in, Uncle Won?”

  Mr. Won returned the smile and gave a short head bow before walking in past Monica. He quickly glanced around and said, “You seem to be able to take care of yourself. That’s good. This place has a very comfortable feeling.”

  “Thanks. Please, would you like to sit down? Or can I get you anything to drink?” asked Monica.

  Mr. Won saw Monica’s ice water by the sink and responded, “Ice water would be nice, thank you.” He took off his coat, laid it over the back of a couch, and moved around to the front of the sofa to sit. He saw some framed pictures over the fireplace hearth and walked over for a closer look. He recognized everyone. As Monica came and handed him a glass of water he put his finger on one of the photos, “This would be Rayman.” Then he moved his finger through the rest of the photos, “This is Robert after he returned from service, and this is John and your mother, Ji Tun, before they were married.”

  Monica looked at the photograph, “I didn’t realize when the photo was taken.”

  Mr. Won smiled and explained, “This photo was taken by your grandfather at our house in Insa Dong. You know, many Korean families are against cross-cultural marriages. They say the blood is no longer pure. What do you think, Miss Stell?”

  Monica shrugged her shoulders and said, “I’m not Korean. I’m American. Cross-cultural marriages and births are commonplace here.” Monica looked at the photos again and then said, “Maybe if I went to Korea, I would be looked at differently, but it’s not something I did wrong. My dad always spoke fondly of my mother. He loved my mother very much, and I believe she loved him, at one time, and I don’t see anything wrong with that. Do you?”

  Mr. Won smiled politely, shook his head, and said, “No, there is nothing wrong with love.”

  Monica moved away towards a chair at a table and sat down.

  Mr. Won pulled his eyes away from the photos and looked at the bricks in front of the fireplace saying, sadly, “News of your mother’s death shook the foundations of our family, Monica.”

  Monica looked at her glass of ice water and focused on the streaks of thin, elongated bubbles stretching through the ice cubes, “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. I’ve always wanted to know more about her. I would have loved to have at least met her and talked to her.” Monica squinted to see the smallest of bubbles and the spaces between them. Close to the edges of the ice cubes, she noticed there was clarity between the bubbles, and her fingertips were magnified on the far side of the glass. She followed the circles and lines in her fingerprints.

  Mr. Won mentally felt the weight of the knife pulling at his coat draped over Monica’s couch. He turned and walked to a chair near where Monica was sitting and explained, “When my sister and your father met, they were immediately attracted to each other. It didn’t take long for my father, your grandfather, to see the future. He tried to keep them apart and explained to your mother many times the honor of marrying another Korean to keep our bloodline strong. My father wanted her to marry someone from a respectable Korean family whom he knew. But, of course, she refused and sent word to the suitor’s family herself rejecting all contact. Eventually your grandfather couldn’t fight her anymore. Your father was very nice to her and my mother; our whole family began to like him and your Uncle Robert, as well. They always came over with gifts, sometimes food, fruit, tobacco, sometimes flowers for the whole house. Eventually they were accepted by everyone, except my father. He remained reserved. I didn’t understand it myself, but now I know he saw something that we children couldn’t have perceived at the time. After your parents moved to the United States and got married, things began to go badly between the Stells and our family.” Mr. Won unbuttoned his top button and pulled on a gold chain until it revealed a gold oval key. “This key belonged to my older brother. It was given to him by my father. Have you ever seen one of these, Monica?”

  Monica looked away from her glass and saw the key. She slowly pulled on a chain around her neck and exposed an almost identical key. “My mother had a safety deposit box that expired on my eighteenth birthday, and the contents were sent to me. There was a note warning me to not show this to my father.”

  Mr. Won’s eyes lit up, “Your father has never seen this key?”

  Monica shook her head, “Not that I know of. And apparently I’m supposed to explain that to your mother when I meet her. At least that’s what it says in the letter. It was a very cryptic note. I didn’t understand it all, but it said that, too. She said someone would eventually contact me, and here you are, twelve years later, almost to the day my father disappeared.”

  “May I look closer, please?” asked Mr. Won.

  Monica didn’t take it off, but leaned forward. Mr. Won reached out and held the key in his hand, flipping it over to see the markings. “This is a Cho key. This was your mother’s key.”

  “Yes. My father has one, too.”

  Mr. Won looked into Monica’s eyes and let the key fall against her blouse. He sat back in his chair with a stern frown and responded, “Well, Monica, the key your father wears is not his. It was stolen, among other keys, from your great uncle in London, my father’s brother.”

  Monica squinted her eyes, gritted her teeth, and flared her nostrils, insulted by what Mr. Won had just said, but she wanted to know the truth. Still on edge, she asked, “Are you saying my father is a thief, Mr. Won?”

  “My family is under the impression that he borrowed my sister’s key to gain access to the other keys. But what you have told me means that your father may not have had her key and that she may have died protecting it, or he did use it and then she died to keep him from using it again.” Mr. Won watched Monica, trying to figure out if she knew how her mother died.

  Monica looked down at her key and asked, “What does it open?”

  “The keys open vaults of historic proportion.”

  “Where are the vaults?”

  “Each key opens a different vault, Monica. I don’t know where your vault is located, but if you are interested in knowing about the key, you would have to come to Seoul and begin your studies. Your grandmother would be very pleased to enlighten you with all she knows, I’m sure. But there’s much more to explain, Monica. Mr. Won reached over the couch, grabbed his coat, and pulled out the Un Jang Do. He set it on the table in front of Monica and asked, “Have you ever seen this before?”

  “Yes. My father said it belonged to my mother’s family, and it had been given to her as a wedding gift from her mother and father.”

  “That’s right. It’s also the knife with which your mother committed suicide after she found out that your father had betrayed and deceived her by borrowing her key to open her vault. My uncle, in London, died by a bullet from your father’s gun as he fled my uncle’s antique shop, stealing three keys that rightfully belong to our family.”

  Tears welled up in Monica’s eyes as she grew physically upset. She pulled her key off her neck and put it on the table, “If this is what you’re here for, then take it!”

  “No. This key is rightfully yours, handed down from your mother and the Cho family. Monica, I came to the United States to identify my brother’s body at a police station in San Francisco. So you see you have just lost another uncle who you will never get to meet.” Mr. Won pulled out his family photo again and pointed to his dead brother. He watched Monica look at the photo.

  Monica snapped her head back and glared at Mr. Won, “I thought you said your mother sent you here to invite me to Korea?”

  He said slowly, “I’m sorry. This is very complicated to explain, so please bear with me. I just learned that you existed within the last twenty-four hours. My mother has known of your existence since your birth, but for some reason, she didn’t mention it to my father. If he knew you existed and you were Ji Tun’s daughter, he would invite you to Seoul, as well. Your grandmother called me at the airport after shipping my brother’s body back to Seoul, and she asked me to bring you back with
me.”

  Monica looked at the knife on the table. She reached for the knife slowly. Mr. Won watched cautiously as Monica pulled the knife out of its sheath and rotated the blade back and forth, admiring the detail of the craftsmanship. She noticed the dark stains in the etchings and at the base of the blade and asked, “What does this say on the blade?”

  “It’s a common phrase of the time, ‘One woman to one man; One man to one country.’ But I found out at the Cho Estate Museum recently that your mother changed one of the sayings in order to warn our family. On the other side it says, ‘One woman to one man; One man to one self.’ This knife was to be returned to my family in Seoul where we would have learned of your father’s deceit a long time ago. The knife is very old, hundreds or more years old, maybe over one thousand years old.”

  Monica looked at Mr. Won with cold, black, frightened eyes and concluded, “You came here to kill me.”

  Mr. Won looked into Monica’s tear-stained eyes and admitted, “That was one option. I cannot do that. I want you to come to Korea with me and see the other half of your family. It’s not too late to salvage some family ties. You can come back to America whenever you want. I just think you should allow yourself to know of your past and what your father kept from you.”

  “And my cousin, Rayman? Is he part of your extended family as well?” asked Monica.

  “I’m sorry, no. The Stell ranch house was burned to the ground early this morning. A body was found in the ashes.” Mr. Won waited a minute before continuing, “I think you are the only survivor of the Stell family, but that may not last.”

  “Why not? Did you kill him?”

  “No. I was in California. I saw it on the news after making arrangements for my brother’s body to be sent back to Seoul for a proper burial. Like I said, I didn’t know you existed until I heard it on the television at the airport a few hours after the fire occurred. Then my mother called me to tell me that she knew of your existence and to bring you home. Whoever killed my brother, and possibly Rayman, most likely saw the same news I did and is now looking for you, like I did, and they will be here soon.”