‘Have you called the police?’
‘No.’
‘Call them. I’m on my way.’
After Cross called and failed to get connected to Collins, he provided the dispatcher with the information, after which he went around to the front of the home and sat on the stoop. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his face and neck. It was still pretty warm out. Then there was the stress. This wasn’t a happy ending for poor Edelman. It wasn’t likely to have a happy ending for him either, Cross thought.
The lights on the neighborhood porches started coming on when the fire truck arrived. The firefighters arrived before the police and Cross directed them to the garage. A couple of undercover cops arrived shortly after and two marked cars followed in moments. What was once a quiet, dark street was now bustling with flashing lights and various vehicles.
One of the uniformed cops told Cross he’d have to hang around, that someone from the homicide section was on the way. Someone from the coroner’s office entered the area behind the garage. Cross went back around front to get out of the way. He could hear the growling engine of Kowalski’s Harley several blocks away. The lawyer pulled in at the same time as the big black Crowne Victoria parked across the street.
He had hoped for Collins. Instead he got Lieutenants Swann and Rafferty. Swann was an older cop with a not quite shaved head and Wal-Mart suit. He was what cops were supposed to be in an ideal world – by the book. Rafferty was a con artist. He was bigger and softer than Swann, but like Collins he dressed a bit too well.
‘Who’s this?’ Rafferty asked when Kowalski stepped between Cross and the arriving officers.
‘My attorney.’
Rafferty laughed.
‘What are you doing here, Cross?’ Swann asked.
‘We have to talk first,’ Kowalski said.
‘It’s all right,’ Cross said to Kowalski, then turned to Swann, ‘I wanted to talk to him.’
‘To Edelman?’ Swann was taking notes.
‘Yes. He was the only who knew that the Lincoln was being repo’d.’
‘The one with the bodies in the trunk?’ Swann asked.
‘That one, yes.’
‘Why is that?’ Rafferty looked bored. He glanced around.
‘He wanted the car picked up that night and he wanted me to do it.’
‘So you were upset?’ Swann asked.
‘Of course.’
‘You were not just upset, you were pissed.’ Rafferty said. ‘You were so pissed you might have killed him.’
‘I didn’t get the chance,’ Cross said.
‘Why don’t we make arrangements to talk in the morning?’ Kowalski said.
‘We need to get some facts now,’ Swann said in even tones. ‘Maybe he’s the perp. Maybe not. But he’s a witness and I am going to get a statement, attorney or not.’
‘Tell them exactly what happened here tonight,’ Kowalski said to Cross, ‘and not a dime’s worth more.’
Cross told them how he came to find Edelman in the garage. Swann took notes dutifully.
‘Come by tomorrow morning,’ Swann said. ‘You can bring your lawyer if you want. Nine, OK?’
‘Where’s Collins?’ Cross asked.
‘Your place,’ Rafferty said, ‘having a look around.’
SIX
After a visit to the Gem Center and a few other places known for what was referred to as ‘colored stones,’ and Shanahan’s business card with his Thai contact information written on the back had been appropriately distributed, he and Maureen went sightseeing. Channarong, after guiding them to some of Bangkok’s most exotic landmarks, would take the late afternoon and evening off and return to the hotel in the morning.
Shanahan was pleased to see Maureen enjoying herself. Maybe not just Maureen. In Indianapolis, where he’d spent the last couple of decades, people drove to parking lots and then went inside a building, whether they were searching for food or movies or merely a place to wander. No one walked, not even, it seemed, to bus stops. Bangkok’s streets were alive at all times. People walked, rode bikes and scooters, boarded and rode tuk-tuks, taxis and buses and hopped on the Skytrain for long trips or on to boats to travel the city on the canals. People spilled out everywhere.
When Thais were hungry they stopped for a moment at one of the thousands of outdoor food vendors to pick up something to eat. These were mobile kitchens, fueled by charcoal, sometimes under small awnings, where the richest and poorest of Thais dined side-by-side, eating crepes or satays, coconut rice pancakes, grilled fishcakes, hot and sour noodles and many items that Shanahan could not identify. The sizzling of the grills and the aroma of the food added to the sounds and scents of the city.
Maureen was a curious and adventurous tourist. She nibbled her way back to the hotel. By late afternoon she had taken a short nap and a quick shower. She swam a few laps in the pool on the top floor, the city spread out three hundred and sixty degrees below her. Shanahan climbed up a few flights of stairs from their room to check on her and noticed that there was a guard posted on the stairwell of each floor, where he could also monitor people arriving by elevator. They did not stop him or even seem to notice. Was it for safety? Probably not, Shanahan thought. It was more likely the uniformed guards were there to keep freelance masseuses from taking the action away from those employed by the hotel.
Maureen, in her one-piece black swimming suit and white swimming cap moved effortlessly, parting the otherwise still water. Back and forth, again and again. When she had completed the last lap, she climbed out of the pool, took off her cap and shook her auburn hair free. The two of them went downstairs, showered and dressed. Maureen was already looking forward to a nice meal at a restaurant of Channarong’s recommendation.
The guide also suggested the two of them go to the Patpong night market with the admonition not to buy anything.
‘Lots of fakes and even if you find something you like, you can get it cheaper at other night markets.’
They arrived early, and while initially disappointed, Maureen was enthralled watching the transformation of a busy street into a lively, magically lit marketplace. Dozens of shirtless, muscular young men hauled out trunks, tents, poles, tables and electric lights. The construction seemed choreographed, but no doubt the extraordinary coordination came from repetition. Night after night they would do this, eventually turning an empty street into a marketplace, back-to-back stalls of fabrics, carved wood, metal Buddhas and jewelry. On the sides were the regular businesses – many of them sex clubs, judging by their names. The music poured out from their doors.
It was Shanahan’s nature to always be prepared for the worst. He looked around, realizing the futility of noticing anyone following them. Not only was it crowded, it was also dark.
Afterward, they strolled past stalls where vendors hawked the best names in designs – Rolex, Louis Vuitton and Gucci.
‘Last chance for a real Georgio Armani,’ Shanahan said to Maureen.
‘It’s probably Georgio’s shady cousin Antonio.’
The two grabbed a tuk-tuk that took them down to the river.
‘I want you to step into Thai culture slowly,’ Channarong told them earlier, explaining that the market and the restaurant were both favored by tourists. ‘You will see the real Thailand, I promise you.’
A teak-paneled boat picked them up and took them to the Supatra River House, which was across from the Grand Palace and where they dined on fresh, steamed fish. They sat outside, looking down at the reflection of the lights on the Chao Phraya River. Maureen was relaxed, happy, welcoming all the new sensations with the joy of a child at an amusement park. For him, underlying the calm he very much wanted to portray was impatience. He had come to do what he had come to do. He felt he was frittering away the time. It took him until the taxi-ride to the hotel to come to terms with reality. He had only set things in motion. Tried to set things in motion. Nothing may come of it. Something may come of it. But at the moment he could do very little. He relaxed. After all, w
asn’t he in an exciting city with the most beautiful woman in the world?
In the morning, Channarong met with them at breakfast. At one point he sensed Shanahan’s renewed restlessness.
‘This may strike you as foolish,’ Channarong said, ‘but the more you understand the ways of this little world, the less you will be at the mercy of them.’
Shanahan nodded. It was true.
Channarong offered to take ‘the Americans’ on a trip through the city. It began at the legendary Oriental Hotel, then on to a boat that took them along a canal to the Jim Thompson house. This was another of the ‘tourist’ trips, but rewarding. Thompson was a former military intelligence officer – Shanahan knew of him – who, after his service was done, helped revive Thailand’s silk industry. After he built a spectacular home, where he kept his collection of Southeast Asian art, he mysteriously disappeared.
As Channarong told the story, his eyes engaged Shanahan, more than would be usual, suggesting, maybe, that the old detective, whose own background was in military intelligence, might find the story especially meaningful. It also meant that Channarong might have learned more about Shanahan than Shanahan thought.
‘Is that a warning?’
‘I believed the story might interest you. Many people find it fascinating.’
‘It is fascinating,’ Maureen said. ‘Do these disappearances happen often?’
Channarong grinned. ‘Many people come here to get lost,’ he said, ‘sometimes voluntarily. It is all part of Thailand’s charm.’
‘There’s charm and then there’s charm,’ Maureen said.
The guide smiled, his face nodded in a subtle bow.
Shanahan liked Channarong. And he liked the Thai people. From what he could gauge from taxi drivers, the hotel staff, and restaurant waiters and waitresses is that unlike many of their counterparts in other countries they were neither resentful nor subservient. They weren’t disengaged either. Mutual respect was the atmosphere created between the server and the served. There was a pleasant civility here – at least on the surface.
Certainly last night’s trip on the river with the fairy-tale lights glistening on the water was enhanced by the magic of the evening. In the harsh, yet gray light of the day, the water in the canal, or klong as they call it, was a pea soup green. It was dense and impenetrable. The water was as polluted as the air.
Jim Thompson’s house, or houses – it was more like a compound – was simple and elegant. Doorways acted as frames for art or something artful that reflected the beauty of nature. Maureen was taken with it and wondered what kind of man would be able to create such a beautiful and peaceful atmosphere.
The afternoon unfolded with a further exploration of the canals lined with homes ranging from the dilapidated to the ornate. There were other boats on the canals, some filled with tourists and others filled with Thais going about their daily business. The boat passed through a floating market – small flat boats loaded with melons, long beans, bananas, coconuts, lychees, strawberries and other goods.
‘Everything is available here,’ Channarong said. ‘Not all of it is so publicly presented.’
Maureen bought some lychees. She remarked at how beautiful they were. Slightly larger than a walnut, the surface was delicately patterned in rose and tan as if carved by an artist. Channarong showed her how to peel them. Her eyes widened as she tasted one.
‘So sweet,’ she said, ‘it’s almost painful.’
There were also floating restaurants. Channarong, Maureen and Shanahan dined on crab as their boat slid through the maze of canals. Temples rose to the left with orange-robed monks going somewhere. Half-naked children played along the canal, happily taunting the tourist boats.
Shanahan thought that Thailand had only partially given in to the great Western influence.
‘Did you know,’ Channarong said, seemingly picking up on Shanahan’s thoughts. ‘Thailand is the only country in this part of the world that has never been colonized, never been occupied by a foreign culture?’
‘I did,’ Shanahan said. ‘They’re still holding the rest of the world at bay.’ It was an admirable trait, he thought.
Thailand was different from his decades old memories of Japan, China and Korea. He could see how someone could be seduced by how beauty nestled up against ugliness in Thailand.
Back at the hotel, Maureen and Shanahan showered, swam a few exhilarating laps in the rooftop pool. Shanahan had two bottles of beer, green bottles with an elephant logo and he too napped until Maureen woke him up, afraid she might miss dinner.
It was at dinner – a place not far from the hotel they took a chance on – that Shanahan began to believe his message had been delivered, that he was being watched. He couldn’t be sure. There might be other reasons for a skinny man to be glancing at the old detective nervously. When Shanahan looked back, the man looked away. When Shanahan’s gaze steadied, the man disappeared.
Rain came at night. Again. It was torrential as it was the night before. Shanahan fell asleep under nature’s violent nurture.
SEVEN
If fate ruled the world, then fate had it in for him. If the world were ruled by chance, then he had been enduring a particularly malicious run of bad luck. Cross fought the self-pitying cloud that hovered over him, but he had just come through a hellish period and here it was again; unless he had another and quite evil personality he knew nothing about. Karma was ignoring fairness, he thought. He was being set up to take the fall for two murders he didn’t commit. And fate or chance was piling it on.
Cross was back downtown. No doubt the cops were more than a little upset to be on duty and in the office that time of night. But things were going worse for Cross. The search that Lieutenant Collins performed at Cross’s place uncovered a man’s Cartier watch and an engagement ring, both belonging to Marshall Talbot, one of two victims of the shotgun murder found in the trunk of the car Cross was driving.
The two lieutenants had gone home. Cross had been brought into Collins’s office to wait, guarded by a uniform. Kowalski was there, sitting in a chair beside Cross at Collins’s desk. The lieutenant was purportedly on his way back to talk with Cross.
Cross was numb.
‘Why did Collins conduct the search?’ Kowalski asked. ‘One of the lesser mugs could have done it.’
‘Yeah, one of the lesser mugs might have shot Shanahan’s dog,’ Collins said coming through the door.
‘That happen a lot?’ Kowalski asked.
‘Too many times.’
The lieutenant sat on the edge of his desk. He held plastic bags containing the evidence in his hand. The expression on his face said: Explain this.
‘If they are willing to plant bodies,’ Kowalski said, ‘it wouldn’t stretch the imagination for them to plant some jewelry.’
‘And by “them” you mean?’ Collins asked.
‘I believe you call them perps, don’t you?’ Kowalski said.
‘Oh Kowalski, stop watching TV.’
‘That’s where the cops are the good guys,’ Kowalski said.
‘Maybe you don’t watch TV.’
‘I’m engaged in real life.’
‘Cross!’ Collins shouted to pull Cross from wherever he was. ‘What are we going to do? Swann thinks you need to be put away. Rafferty is spinning the idea that you should be referred to as a “person of interest” or “valuable witness,” rather than a suspect. But there’s only so much we can do when the evidence that keeps rolling in says it’s you.’
‘I know,’ Cross said. ‘We’re not looking for an idiot.’
‘That supposed to disqualify you?’ Collins said, smiling. ‘All right. We’ve been through this already, but let’s look at it again. Who has a hard-on so bad they’d go to all this trouble?’
Cross shook his head in bewilderment. Then he looked up. ‘Edelman was the link between me and the trunk full of bodies. The only person who knew where I was going and when I was going, besides me, was Edelman.’
‘So Edelman ha
d to go,’ Collins said. He shook his head and made a face. Disbelief.
‘Sure. The murderer is tidying it up,’ Cross said.
‘Was Edelman murdered?’ Kowalski asked. ‘Do we know that?’
‘Why would he kill himself?’ Collins shrugged. ‘I don’t know what to tell you,’ he said. ‘I’m gonna make the call. You can go home. I’ll have to deal with the DA in the morning. Who knows what will happen after that? In the meantime, keep your lawyer close. Right, Kowalski?’
Cross sat up for hours, sipping on tequila. What he wanted was to sort out all of the details, make sense of them. He was – and he knew it – sabotaging the effort with each sip. It was his nature.
He went outside, sat at the table under some pine trees. Casey followed him out and plopped down beside Cross’s chair.
‘Thanks,’ Cross said. ‘I need a friend.’
Cross wasn’t a sad, self-pitying drunk. Or an angry or mean one. He was a what-the-hell drunk. And he only got drunk alone. He’d let no one see him drunk, except for Casey. And Casey would keep his secrets.
‘It wasn’t me they wanted to set up. They just wanted someone and I was handy. And really,’ he spoke into the darkness, ‘I was perfect. A low-life repo guy who has a track history of being involved in dirty business. Prostitutes, crooks, questionable deaths.’
It was refreshing in a way because, despite the tequila, he was looking at himself clearly, at least in the way the cops would, as a jury would, as the general public would depending on media spin. He looked good for all three murders. It wasn’t a stretch.
He had his work cut out for him.
Shanahan woke earlier than Maureen. He pulled the drapery aside. Outside was an eerie gray; but the light was coming. She was enjoying her sleep. He was restless. He left a note in the unlikely event she would be awake before he returned. He went in search of a cup of coffee and an English-language newspaper. Outside the air was a vast steam room. The streets were flooded ankle-high in some places from the night rain. Soon the sun would bring it to a boil. He dodged the water that would soak his socks, zigzagged on sidewalks and streets eventually making it to a news-stand and then with a little luck to a diner. The streets were bustling. He watched as well-dressed women boarded dilapidated and very crowded buses. In the short, narrow alleys vendors were bringing wares out to the street. Motorbikes weaved around waiting automobiles to get pole position at the stop light. When the light changed they swarmed off in a deafening buzz.
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