by Charles Ayer
“I hadn’t thought about that, but you’re right.”
Doreen logged out of her accounts and shut down her computer. We left the office and headed back to the kitchen. The ice in our tea glasses had long since melted, but I took a drink from mine anyway.
“It’s only three o’clock, Matt,” said Doreen. “I’m going to get out of this sweaty tennis outfit and go for a swim. Do you want to keep me company? For that matter, you can stay for supper if you like. The kids are both going to be out late tonight.” She looked at me, her eyes seemed to be inviting me to say “yes,” but I knew that Lacey was right: I was probably just kidding myself. Or was I?
I don’t understand women. I certainly didn’t understand Doreen, no matter how badly I wanted to, no matter how much I wanted to believe that I wasn’t just imagining the invitation in her eyes. I thought of the wedding picture, and I thought of my best friend. But I couldn’t make myself stop wanting Doreen.
But in the end it wasn’t guilt, it wasn’t Lacey’s admonitions that I was kidding myself, and it certainly wasn’t a robust morality that saved me from myself.
It was Tommassino Fornaio, the thug, the man who had finally made me realize that what I really wanted, even more than I wanted Doreen, was not to be a mediocrity anymore. Tommassino Fornaio had forced me to confront the fact that I hadn’t lived up to my own expectations or anyone else’s since I’d taken off my football uniform for the last time, and I was sick to death of it. I’d been a good cop, and maybe I could have been the NYPD Police Commissioner; but I’ll never know because I gave up on myself before anyone else gave up on me. Maybe I could have been a successful lawyer, but I was too sloppy and lazy to find out. I didn’t even know how to file my own taxes, for chrissakes. No wonder Marianne dumped me. She was right: I was a failure, and I had no one but myself to blame for it.
And now I was pushing forty. I was running out of time. For once in my life, for nobody’s sake but my own, I needed to devote myself to something, no matter what it was, and do it as well as it could be done. It didn’t matter what I chose to do, it was how I chose to do it. That was the lesson I’d learned on the football field and had proceeded to forget as soon as I left it. I would never forget it again.
“Doreen,” I heard myself say, as if from a distance, “you have no idea how much I’d love to stay, but I have to find David, and I have to find him before it’s too late. I have to make a few phone calls before the day ends, and then I have to drive down to the city in the morning. I can’t waste any more time. I hope you understand.”
She was silent for a few seconds. She moved close to me and put her hand on my chest. She looked up at me with those eyes. She gave me a kiss that she let linger. So did I.
“I understand,” she said, her eyes still boring into mine. “Maybe another time.”
“Another time,” I said.
I left while I still could.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I SKIPPED THE THRUWAY AND TOOK THE PALISADES PARKWAY down to the Tappan Zee Bridge because it’s such a pretty ride, especially on a summer morning. People used to call it “Harriman’s Driveway,” but no one remembers who Averell Harriman was anymore, so the nickname has lost its caché.
I spent most of the drive down thinking about Doreen, and that kiss. Until that moment, I’d been willing to listen to Lacey’s lectures and assume that I was just kidding myself, that the attraction I felt for Doreen was a one-way street that led to a humiliating dead end, no matter what fantasies my loneliness was nudging me to engage in. But that kiss had been unmistakable: Doreen wanted me, too, and no one, including Lacey, could convince me otherwise. The question I should have been asking myself was, why? Of course, I now knew that a great deal of the David Chandler Persona was a fiction, and Doreen had been honest about that. But she had more than made up for any shortcomings he had as a provider, and she had never given me any indication that she was unhappy with the marriage because of his failures. Despite all that, she was genuinely worried about his disappearance, and she had paid me a lot of money to find him. And perhaps more than anything else, I knew Doreen Chandler; I’d grown up with her. She had an unbreakable moral compass. She just wouldn’t behave like this. But she was, so what was I missing?
The drive went quickly. I’d waited until the rush hour was over, so the rest of the drive down to Manhattan was a slide on ice: The Saw Mill River Parkway to the Henry Hudson Parkway, down to 34th Street and over to the Midtown South Precinct House. Miraculously, there was a free parking space on 9th Avenue. I got out of my car and locked it, and my thoughts of Doreen were pushed to the back of my mind as I felt the soles of my shoes slap Manhattan pavement.
Walking into the NYPD precinct house was like walking into my old elementary school: Just the smell of it brought me back with a jolt to times long since past, memories long since buried, and to a self that I thought had ceased to exist. There’s a rhythm to the place that I’d always loved, and it hurt to know that I was now just another outsider. I signed in at the front desk, and was escorted down a hallway by an attractive young patrolwoman who looked like she could kill me before I could say “good morning” if she’d been so inclined. She took me up the stairs to the Detectives’ Squad Room, pointed to a cubicle in the far corner, and left without a word.
Walter Hudson and I were once patrolmen together, but he’d stuck to the path that I had always thought that I would take; he’d paid the price that I’d been unwilling to pay, and now he was a Detective Lieutenant. Follow-through is everything. Rumor had it that he was on an inside track to the Police Commissioner’s office. I felt a twinge of jealousy that I had no right to feel as I walked into his small cubicle.
I’m a big man, but I’d always felt small next to Walter. He stood six-four in his bare feet and weighed two-forty, not an ounce of it fat. His massive head was covered with thick, dark hair, and his nose had been broken at least once. His hands were the size of cast iron frying pans, and just as hard. The man had landed a lot of punches in his life, and he had the swollen knuckles to show for it. I don’t think I’d ever seen a man, no matter how tough, get up after being taken down by one of Walter’s fists. But he had a boyish demeanor that was disarming, and the old joke had always been that the only human being on Earth that Walter Hudson feared was his tiny wife, Sarah.
I’d heard that Sarah had recently inherited a not-so-small fortune, but you’d never know it from looking at Walter. His dark, off-the-rack suit and his white shirt with a worn collar were clearly made of some synthetic blend, and his tie was frayed at the bottom.
“Matt, what a pleasant surprise!” he said, rising from his chair and offering me his hand. I managed not to wince.
“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, Walter,” I said. “You must be a busy man.”
“Ah,” he said, scanning his desk, “if you can call pushing paper being busy. I’d give up half my paycheck just to get back on a beat. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
“Are they still lacing it with battery acid?” I said.
“Of course.”
“Then I’ll have a cup.”
“How do you like it?”
“Black, please.”
“Brave man,” he said, as he walked off toward the coffee machine.
“So tell me again,” said Walter, after he’d returned with two cups of coffee, “who this guy is you’re looking for?”
“An old high school friend of mine,” I said. “His wife hired me to find him.”
“So you’re a private dick now, huh?”
“That’s the plan.”
“I thought I heard you’d become a lawyer or something.”
“I did, but it didn’t work out the way I hoped it would.”
“It usually doesn’t,” said Walter, grimacing. “I was never smart enough even to think about law school. Probably just as well.”
“Trust me on that,” I said, hoping to escape the conversation on a humorous note.
“And you think
this guy, Peter Kwan, might know something?”
“I’m guessing, Walter. But David Chandler got a lot of money from someone, and this is the only lead I’ve got right now, so I’m chasing it down.”
“I know the feeling,” said Walter. The man was legendary for never giving up, chasing down every lead, and always closing his cases.
“I’m pretty sure Peter Kwan is on the up and up,” I said, “but I’ve heard that his family might not be so much so.”
“That’s what I’ve heard, too,” said Walter. “Look, Chinatown isn’t my territory, and the Organized Crime Division usually handles stuff like this.”
“So you think you could line me up with someone over there?”
“No,” said Walter. “I mean, I could, but I won’t.”
“Oh,” I said. A sinking feel started to settle in my stomach, and I didn’t think it was the coffee.
“No, no, it’s not that,” said Walter, noticing my expression. “It’s just that I don’t think you want to hook yourself up with those guys.”
“Why not?”
“The Organized Crime guys are in their own little world, you know? They don’t like interlopers, not even guys like me. And besides, if they did agree to help you, they’d be fitting you for bugs, giving you a crash course on how not to sweat too much, and otherwise taking your measurements for a coffin. I don’t think that’s the kind of help you want.”
“No, it’s not,” I said.
“So anyway, I didn’t want you to leave here empty-handed, so I asked a friend to stop by.” Just as he finished speaking his eyes shifted toward the door and a smile lit up his face. “Levi!” he said. “Come on in.” He turned to me and said, “Matt, I’d like you to meet Levi Welles, NYPD’s new Deputy Commissioner for Intelligence.”
So this is Leviticus Welles, I thought to myself, a man already a legend in his own time. Just a few years back, the story went, he’d been an unemployed salesman, but then he’d stumbled on a dying man in an alley near the Empire State Building. He’d helped then Sergeant Walter Hudson tug ever so patiently on the loose threads of that murder until they eventually unraveled what could have been one of the most disastrous conspiracies in the history of the nation. Police Commissioner Sean Donahue had noticed, and the rest, as they say, is history.
He was an unprepossessing man of average height with a slight build, and his close-cropped hair was thinning and going silver at the fringes. He wore gold-rimmed glasses that magnified his eyes, giving him a bookish appearance. I guessed he was about fifty.
“Levi,” said Walter, “this is Matt Hunter, an old friend of mine. He’s an ex-NYPD beat cop, so you know you can’t trust him.”
“Nice to meet you,” said Levi reaching out his hand to shake mine. It was half the size of Walter’s, but it was dry and his grip was firm. His voice was soft, and conveyed genuine warmth.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” I said.
“Please, it’s Levi,” he said.
“Coffee, Levi?” said Walter.
“Uh, thanks, but no,” said Levi. The two exchanged grins.
“So, Matt,” said Walter, “why don’t you tell Levi your story.”
I probably talked for about five minutes, going back to the beginning of my involvement in the case and my background with David and Doreen. Levi listened quietly, his eyes alert behind the glasses. He took no notes and asked no questions.
“Interesting story,” said Levi after I’d finished. “Mixing your personal life with your business always makes things messy. Believe me, I know, and so does Walter.” Walter nodded emphatically.
“It’s not something I’ll ever do again,” I said.
“Oh, you probably will,” said Levi, “but at least you’ll know what you’re getting yourself into next time.”
“So, what can you tell us about the Kwans, Levi?” said Walter.
“Not much, but I think what we do know might fit with your case.” He had brought no notes with him, and he kept his eyes steadily on me while he spoke. “Peter Kwan, in fact, runs a successful import/export business, named South China Commerce, Ltd. The business is run out of a warehouse in Long Island City, but Peter rents office space in the Empire State Building where he maintains an office staff and meets with customers.”
“Thereby giving me a cover for sticking my nose into this in case if anyone asks, since the Empire State Building is in my precinct,” said Walter.
“Right,” said Levi. “In any event, he seems to be respected in the industry and lives a quiet life with his wife and two kids out on Long Island. He’s not rich, but he seems to be doing well enough.”
“What about his family?” I said.
“His father died young of apparently natural causes, but who knows? Young Peter was brought up by his mother, his grandmother, and his paternal grandfather, Alistair Kwan.”
“Alistair?” I said. “Is that his real name?”
“Well, he has a Chinese name, of course, but Alistair is what he goes by. The old man is in his eighties now, but he apparently still runs a large organized crime operation in Chinatown. He’s supposedly immensely wealthy, but he still lives with his wife in the little apartment on Mott Street where they raised Peter. His wife still cooks all his meals for him.”
“What kinds of activities is he into?”
“You name it: human trafficking; prostitution; drugs; gambling, and, of course, loansharking.”
“I’m assuming at reasonable rates,” I said.
“The best information we have is thirty to one hundred percent per month, but it’s hard to get people to talk about it. The ones who do talk are often already missing a few fingers or a hand, and they usually turn up dead afterwards.”
“Do you think Peter Kwan would have referred his friend to his grandfather?” I said. “Why not just loan him the money personally?”
“Because his grandfather’s strictest rule is that Peter can never even give the appearance of being involved in his businesses. Peter must be immaculate in the eyes of the law.”
“And is he?”
“Well, we strongly suspect that Granddad uses Peter’s business to launder his money, but no one can prove it.”
“Still,” I said, “I think it’s odd that Peter would send a friend into the warm embrace of Granddad.”
“I imagine your friend David insisted,” said Levi. “It sounds like he was desperate.”
“So, where do I go from here?” I said.
“I would suggest,” said Levi, “that you call Peter and see if he’ll talk to you. I’m pretty sure, though, that he’s going to send you to see his grandfather.”
“And at that point,” said Walter, “you call me. Do not, I repeat, do not go down to Chinatown alone. Do you understand?”
“I think I do,” I said.
“Good,” said Detective Lieutenant Walter Hudson.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I’D LIVED AND WORKED IN NEW YORK CITY for years, but I’d never been inside the Empire State Building. It’s a New Yorker thing. Tourists go to the Statue of Liberty, take the Circle Line, and take the elevator all the way to the top of the Empire State Building. New Yorkers don’t.
The offices of South China Trading Company, Ltd., Peter Kwan, President, were on the 37th floor, so I took the elevator to the 37th floor. The offices occupied a large corner space that stared out at the United Nations building to the east and Central Park to the north. Peter Kwan occupied the corner office.
He hadn’t changed a lot since the last time I’d seen him at Doreen and David’s wedding. He was still slim in a nicely tailored suit, still had a thick head of dark, carefully combed hair, and his face was tanned and unlined. Long Island living clearly suited him.
“It’s good to see you again, Matt,” he said as he shook my hand, smiling. His teeth were white and even. “It’s been a long time.”
He’d sounded hesitant to talk to me when I’d called. I think he remembered that I’d been headed to the NYPD after
college, but even after I’d managed to convey at the beginning of the conversation that I’d long since left the force he’d still sounded cautious. He sounded friendly enough now, though. I’d actually been more than a little surprised when he agreed to see me. But then he must have figured that he would immediately arouse any suspicions I had if he refused; so he probably decided to take his chances on the hope that he could deflect me and, most importantly, keep me away from his grandfather. I tried to remind myself that it was still possible that he had nothing to do with David Chandler’s mysterious money, even though every cop instinct in my body told me that he did. Either way, I was now going to find out.
“Yes, it has,” I said. “It’s good to see you, too.”
“I was just about to have some tea. Would you like some?”
“That sounds great,” I said, not lying. The precinct house coffee had gone down hard.
He pushed a button on an intercom and said, “Nancy, could you please bring us some tea? Thanks.”
Peter invited me over to a corner furnished with a comfortable looking sofa, a couple of chairs, and a coffee table. Before we’d even had a chance to get settled, an attractive middle-aged Caucasian woman, presumably Nancy, came bearing a large tray with a pot of hot water, a creamer, a bowl of sugar, and two mugs, each with a paper tag that said “Lipton Tea” hanging over the rim. She set it on the table and left. So much for the mysterious Orient. We each poured our tea. I added cream; Kwan didn’t.
“So, you told me on the phone that you wanted to talk about David Chandler,” said Kwan. “What is it in particular that you’d like to discuss?”
“David has been missing for almost two weeks now, Peter. His wife and I suspect it may have something to do with money. I know that you saw both David and Doreen at a social function earlier this year, and I was wondering if he had approached you, either at that time or subsequently, regarding a loan.”
“David and I are not close, Matt. That is the only time I’ve seen either him or his wife since their wedding.”
“But you were close once, close enough to be a member of his wedding party. If he were in big enough trouble, I wouldn’t be surprised if he came to you, especially since he’d just bumped into you at a social event.”
