Her penciled brows knit. “What do you mean?”
“I am talking about a diversion.” Let my daughter claim I don’t listen to her! “A noise, a commotion, perhaps deliberately meant to distract you. Can you recall anything?”
After a moment her eyes lit up. “Yes! Why, Chin Yong-Yun, you are correct! A loud argument, three thuggish young men. Near the peanut vendor. Pushing each other, shouting, almost coming to blows. They drew everyone’s attention. Then they ran off.” She beamed. “Is that helpful?”
“Most helpful. Thank you. Would you like more tea? If not, I am ready to work on your case.”
They both looked at me blankly. The son comprehended first. “Come, Mother.” He stood.
“Where are we going?”
“We’re leaving Chin Yong-Yun to her work.”
“Chin Yong-Yun?” the mother said incredulously. “What are you proposing?”
“You have hired us,” I clarified for her. “Have you not?”
“Yes!” the son said. “Whatever your fee is, I’ll pay it.”
“Of course,” I said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me?”
“We have…” the mother stammered. “It was Ling Wan-Ju we—he—wanted…”
“As I said, my daughter is not available, and as I also said, we often work together. Now, come.”
“But … the deadline…”
“Yes.” I turned to the son. “At the appointed time, if I have not recovered little Bin-Bin, you must give the kidnappers what they demand. No matter the consequences for you. Do you understand?”
He nodded glumly.
“But I don’t believe you have reason to worry,” I added, to be kind, though my daughter says she never promises a client she will solve their case, only that she will do her best. “Now. Perhaps you should go home and wait by the telephone in case the kidnappers call again.”
This time the son looked blank and the mother answered with a cold smile. ” They called him on his cell phone. He has it in his pocket.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course, his cell phone,” I said. “Yes. Still.”
I was astonished at the mother’s rudeness in forcing me to be so impolite as to ask guests to leave. But time was moving swiftly and I needed to begin my investigation. I walked across the living room and opened the door for them. With glances at each other—new hope in the son’s eyes, impatient disapproval in the mother’s—but without another word, they left.
Once they had gone I exchanged my house slippers for tennis shoes. I hoped the investigation would not demand a great deal of walking, because my bunions had been painful lately. But I didn’t think it would. Except that I didn’t understand what “code” was—a detail I regarded as unimportant—the situation seemed clear.
At the bottom of the three flights of stairs I opened the street door and peered cautiously around. The sidewalk held no one unexpected, so I emerged. I looked over my shoulder a number of times as I hurried to the park. I could not imagine who might follow me, with the exception of Tan Li-Li herself. That would be unfortunate, if not entirely unanticipated—clearly she had no faith in me—but she was nowhere to be seen.
In the park I questioned various women looking after their children and grandchildren. The number of people there was less than it would have been an hour ago, when Tan Li-Li had lost little Bin-Bin. By now many children had been taken home for their afternoon naps. Some of the women I spoke to had recently arrived, but still, I found a few who had been there for an hour or more. None of them, however, could give me any information about Tan Li-Li, little Bin-Bin, or any loud argument among three thuggish young men.
I was trying to decide what to do next when my own cell phone rang. I rarely use it, but I accepted it after my children repeatedly insisted. They claimed it would ease their minds to know I could contact them if I needed to. What kind of mother knowingly causes her children unease of mind?
I unclasped and unzipped my purse and pulled the phone from it. Pressing the green button, I said, “This is Chin Yong-Yun speaking,” not too loudly, because it’s very small.
“Yes, Ma, I know.” It was my daughter, no time for politeness, a busy detective. “Ma, I have a call here from a man named Tan Xiao-Du, who says he’s the son of a friend of yours and it’s urgent. Then I have another from his mother, who says never mind. What’s going on? Are you all right?”
“I? Of course I am. Why would I not be?”
“I don’t know. It sounded like there was something wrong.”
“Do not worry. I am taking care of their situation.”
“Their situation? Not your situation?”
“Of course not. I’m sorry, Ling Wan-Ju, but I’m very busy right now. I’ll explain later. Unless you’re not coming home for dinner?”
“Yes, Ma, I’ll be home. Are you sure you don’t need me? Or the Tans don’t need me?”
“They do not. I do.”
“You do?”
“Yes. On your way home, please stop for cabbage.”
It is important, under pressure, to be able to do two things at once. Therefore as I spoke to my daughter a decision had taken shape in my mind. Now, having said all I needed to say, I pressed the red button and replaced the phone in my purse, which I zipped. This was unfortunate, because as I was clasping the purse shut, the phone rang again. Ready to tell my daughter I really had no time for idle conversation, I unclasped and unzipped and took the phone from its pocket. I pressed the green button. “This is Chin Yong-Yun speaking.”
I was surprised to hear, not my daughter’s voice, but a man’s voice, low and growling. “Stay away if you know what’s good for you!”
“Who is speaking?”
“You don’t need to know! If Tan Xiao-Du wants to get his son back, you’d better leave us alone! Otherwise someone might get hurt.”
I asked again who was calling, but the connection had been broken. Many times that is caused by the inefficiency of the telephone company, but I did not think that had happened here.
Once again I replaced the phone in my purse. The voice had been quite threatening, but an investigator cannot allow herself to be intimidated. My daughter has said that many times.
Tan Li-Li’s friend, Feng Guo-Ha, lives near the park. I had some questions to ask her, so I proceeded to her apartment without delay.
“Yong-Yun!” Though Guo-Ha smiled quickly, she seemed quite startled to see me. This was unsurprising. I am not the sort of person who appears on doorsteps unannounced; that is rude. However, my investigation demanded certain adjustments and I was doing what was necessary.
“Guo-Ha, good afternoon,” I said. “I’m sorry to arrive without an invitation, but I must ask you some questions.”
“I’m delighted to see you, of course, Yong-Yun, but perhaps you could return later? My granddaughter Mei is having her nap right now.” Guo-Ha nodded in the direction of the hallway that led to the bedrooms.
“Oh, Mei is here with you today? What a fortunate woman you are, Guo-Ha.”
“Yes, thank you, I am. But Mei has trouble sleeping, so once she settles for her nap I take great care not to disturb her. The slightest sound—oh, dear, I think I hear her crying now. I’m sorry, Yong-Yun, but if you’ll excuse me—”
“I don’t hear anything.” I cocked my head to listen while delicately placing my foot in the doorway, in case the door shut accidentally. “Oh! Yes, I do. Allow me, Guo-Ha. I’m very successful with children.”
“No, Yong-Yun, you mustn’t trouble yourself—”
But I was already across the threshold and into the apartment. Guo-Ha’s natural courtesy caused her to move aside for me before she quite knew what she was doing. Over her protests I made directly for the rear bedroom, the one that had been her son’s. I heard a child’s voice behind the door. I have always been able to quiet children when they fuss, but I could hear before I even opened the door that Guo-Ha had been wrong. Her granddaughter wasn’t crying. She was laughing. “Hello, Mei,” I said, stepping into the room. And
to her father, sitting on the floor with her, a picture book on his lap, “Hello, Lao. I’m glad to hear your throat is no longer hoarse.” And to the other child, on Lao’s other side, “Hello, Bin-Bin.”
Since Bin-Bin had had his nap and was refreshed, I took him with me soon after. Really, my visit was almost short enough to be considered impolite, but I had pressing business. Clearly, neither Lao nor his mother had been the moving force behind this abduction: they were merely agents, hired for the crime. This sort of thing happens often in detective work, and, as my daughter would agree, it is pointless to go after the smaller criminal. My next focus would be their employer, because, though I had recovered the child, an investigator does not like to leave a case unresolved. But first I needed to return Bin-Bin to his worried father.
Both Guo-Ha and her son were abashed at what they’d done, but I told them, “We will speak no more about this.” I took little Bin-Bin’s hand and led him out the door. In the park I stopped to buy him roasted peanuts, but we didn’t linger. I considered calling my client on the cell phone, but Tan Li-Li’s apartment, where Xiao-Du waited, was not far, and while I understand the value of such mechanical devices for people whose lives are as busy as my children’s, still I consider them a poor choice for expressing matters of the heart. Also, it irritates me to press those tiny numbers.
The reunion of father and child was quite satisfying. Bin-Bin, who didn’t know he’d been missing, squealed with everyday delight and ran into his father’s arms. I’m sure he didn’t understand the tears of joy, or the many kisses and hugs, or the large, dinner-spoiling dish of mango ice cream that followed.
Through all that commotion and all of Xiao-Du’s repeated questions and thanks, Tan Li-Li regarded me with mascaraed eyes wide in wonder. Finally I was able to convey to Xiao-Du that I was not at liberty to discuss who the miscreants were, but that he had nothing more to fear from them, and also that he would receive a bill for services, payment of which would express sufficient gratitude. After all, would he thank the chef for cooking dinner or the barber for a haircut? Investigating is simply our job at LC Investigations.
Xiao-Du and his son settled down at the kitchen table to happily ruin their appetites together. I said to Tan Li-Li, “I’ll be on my way, then. Perhaps you’ll see me to the door?”
I should not have had to ask that, but I wasn’t sure Tan Li-Li would be courteous enough to accompany me otherwise. She nodded and followed. I stepped into the hallway; she had no choice but to do so too, shutting the door behind her.
“Chin Yong-Yun,” she stammered, “how did you—where did you—”
“Tan Li-Li,” I said severely, “I think it’s time you accepted that your son’s decisions about where to live and raise his family have been made.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course you do.” I’m afraid I spoke more bluntly than our relationship would have normally allowed, but this was not a time for niceties. “It was a clever plan. And you are fortunate to have in the Fengs loyal friends, to get involved in such business at your behest.”
She paled. “They told you?”
“They did not. They remain loyal. I discovered the truth by detecting. Why, for example, did the man who called Xiao-Du disguise his voice? It must be a voice Xiao-Du knows. It was bold of you to have him call me also, but I understand your desperation. He was an excellent actor, by the way. If I hadn’t been sure of who it was, I might have been frightened. Another thing, no one in the park remembered seeing you with Bin-Bin today. The peanut vendor, whom I spoke to just now, could recall no loud argument among thuggish young men near his stand. You invented that in answer to my question, isn’t that correct? Also, I asked myself, why did you leave a message with my daughter telling her to ignore Xiao-Du’s call? Finally, I was struck by your insistence that your son resign rather than explain the situation to his employer. That was because, in fact, the code was never going to change hands at all. Xiao-Du’s resignation was the solution, but to an entirely different problem.”
Tan Li-Li stared at me, her red lips opening and closing like a fish’s. It was comical, but laughing would have been unkind and I am not the sort of person who enjoys being heartless.
“You won’t tell Xiao-Du?” Tan Li-Li looked truly scared for the first time. If she had appeared at all frightened during our earlier interview, instead of merely short-tempered and aggravated, I might not have understood from the first the situation’s true nature.
“I promise I won’t,” I said. “But you must promise not to interfere with your son’s family decisions anymore.”
I trained a stern look on her. She nodded.
“Perhaps,” I suggested, “you might consider returning to Beijing when your son does, and spending some time with his family there.” Uppermost in my mind was how such a decision would strengthen the bonds between mother and son. The prospect of the cheeriness that might result around the mahjong table only occurred to me afterward.
Tan Li-Li nodded again, but said nothing.
I could feel her eyes watching me as I turned and walked away, but a detective has a sense about when she is in danger and I had nothing to fear from Tan Li-Li. I didn’t look back. It was time to go home and prepare dinner. I had promised not to tell Xiao-Du the truth about what had happened, but I hadn’t promised I wouldn’t tell the story at all. It was, I thought, a noteworthy case, and I was sure my daughter would be interested.
A Long Time Dead
Mickey Spillane And Max Allan Collins
FROM Strand Magazine
KRATCH WAS DEAD.
They ran forty thousand volts through him in the stone mansion called Rahway State Prison with eight witnesses in attendance to watch him strain against the straps and smoke until his heart had stopped and his mind quit functioning.
An autopsy had opened his body to visual inspection and all his parts had been laid out on a table, probed and pored over, then slopped back in the assorted cavities and sewn shut with large economical stitches.
One old aunt, his mother’s sister, came forth to claim the remains, and, with what little she had, treated him to a funeral. Kratch had left a fortune but it was tied up, and Auntie was on his mother’s side of the family, and poor—Dad had married a succession of showgirls, and Kratch’s mom had been the only one to produce an heir.
Whether hoping for a bequest or out of a sense of decency her nephew hadn’t inherited, the old girl sat beside the coffin for two days and two nights, moving only to replace the candles when they burned down. Her next-door neighbor brought her the occasional plate of food, crying softly because nobody else had come to this wake.
Just before the hearse arrived, a small man carrying a camera entered the room, smiled at the old lady, offered his condolences, and asked if he could take a picture of the infamous departed.
There was no objection.
Quietly he moved around the inexpensive wooden coffin, snapped four shots with a 35 mm Nikon, thanked Auntie, and left. The next day the news service carried a sharp, clear photo of the notorious Grant Kratch, even to the stitches where they had slid his scalp back after taking off the top of his head on the autopsy table.
No doubt about it.
Kratch was dead.
The serial killer who had sent at least thirty-seven sexually defiled young women to early graves was nothing more than a compost pile himself now.
It had been a pleasure to nail that bastard. I had wanted to kill him when I found him, but the chance that he might give up information during interrogation that would bring some peace of mind to dozens of loved ones out there made me restrain myself.
I knew it was a risk—he was a rich kid who had inherited enough loot to bribe his way out of about anything—but I figured the papers would play up the horror show of the bodies buried on his Long Island estate and keep corruption at bay.
So I’d dragged him into the Fourth Precinct station, let the cops have him, then sat through a trial where he got the death penal
ty, sweated out the appeal lest some softhearted judge drop it to a life sentence, then was a witness to his smoldering contortions in the big oaken hot seat.
Oh, Kratch was dead all right.
Then what was he doing on a sunny spring afternoon, getting into a taxicab outside the Eastern terminal at LaGuardia Airport?
Damn. I felt like I was in an acid dropper’s kaleidoscope—it came fast so fast, no warning—just a slow turn of the head and there he was, thirty feet away, a big man in a Brooks Brothers suit with a craggily handsome face whose perversity exposed itself only in his eyes, and the hate wrenched at my stomach and I could taste the bitterness of vomit. I had my hand on the butt of the .45 and almost yanked it out of the jacket when my reflexes caught hold and froze me to the spot.
Those same reflexes kept me out of his line of sight while my mind detailed every inch of him. He wasn’t trying to hide. He wasn’t doing a damn thing except standing there waiting for a taxi to pick him up. When one came, he told the cabbie to take him to the Commodore and the voice he spoke in was Kratch’s voice.
And Kratch was a long time dead.
I flagged down the next cab and told the driver to take me to the Commodore, and gave him the route I wanted. All he had to do was look at my face and he knew something was hot and leaned into the job. I was forty-five seconds behind Kratch at the terminal, but I was waiting in the Commodore lobby a full five minutes before he came in.
At the desk he said his name was Grossman and they put him on the sixth floor. I got to the elevator bank before he did, went up to the sixth, and waited out of sight until he got out and walked away. When he’d gone in his room, I eased past it and noted the number—620.
Downstairs I asked for something on the sixth, got 601, then went up to my room and sat down to try to put a wild fifty minutes into focus.
Harlan Coben Page 45
