Burning Moon

by Richard Barre

  “Raymond Ky came by again,” Mia said at one point. “He’s made a formal request for isolation.”

  Wil looked up from Matt, beside him on the floor. “He optimistic about it?”

  She shrugged. Li Tien said nothing.

  “Have they announced an arraignment date yet?”

  “Not that he told me.”

  Silence.

  “I’m going back to classes tomorrow,” Mia said, putting down her fork. “Finals aren’t far off.” And with a glance at him, “We thought it best, Raymond and I.”

  Raymond and I. “Well, if I had to pick a place, I suppose that would be it.”

  Li Tien’s fork clinked her plate. “I need to say something,” she said. “Inside they hurt as we hurt, the ones who threw the rock, who lost friends and family to the war.” Her eyes shifted to Mia. “Why do you think your father kept those things in that box, but to remind him?”

  No answer.

  “Your wife called,” she said to Wil. “We talked. It was good of her.”

  “Ex-wife, mom,” Mia corrected.

  Li regarded him. “You are not married to her anymore?”

  “No. Not for a number of years.”

  There was a pause. Then, “Why is that?”

  “Mommm!”

  Shaking her head, Li rose as did her daughter, Wil trailing with his dishes, setting them in the sink as Mia began rinsing them. Extending her hand to him, Li said, “This has been a long day. Thank you for coming to wait with us.”

  “You are most welcome.” His Vietnamese bringing a tired smile.

  After saying he’d take the couch rather than Jimmy’s bed, Wil sat brushing Matt and flashing on the Maccafee photo, what it meant in the overall. He made a mental note to try Vega again, the possibility of a service record or agency file. He called the Skyway motel, room 20, and got no answer: almost nine and Lorenz still out.

  Tomorrow for that.

  The TV he had on without sound came up on a newsbreak, shots of him, Mia, and Li getting into the Bonneville, reporters mouthing silent questions, a talking head to explain it. He was searching for the remote to regain sound when the break ended, so he clicked it off.

  Finished with Matt, he emptied the brush, washed his hands and lay back, thinking it was nice being in a house with people in it. He felt the gentle rise and fall of Matt’s breathing, heard Li Tien say again Why is that?…Why is that?…Why is that? until it became an echo rolling through a faraway canyon, then nothing at all.

  ***

  Next morning, Wil tried Al Vega’s number again. Put on hold, he scanned headlines, a front-page photo of himself, Mia, and Li coming out of the jail, the cropping making the closely gathered knot of reporters look like a lynch mob.

  PROSECUTORS MAY SEEK DEATH IN BROTHER CASE

  Videotape Plus Witness Puts Tien at scene.

  PI Denial As Lawyer Ponders Self-Defense.

  Wil cut the line and dialed Raymond Ky’s Los Angeles number off his card, connecting on the third ring.

  “You see the papers yet?” he asked.

  “Not yours,” Ky answered. “What about it?”

  Wil read him the subhead, his quotes about the plea.

  “Trial balloon,” Ky said, “I’ve notified the family.” Sipping from something. “They’re on board. As is the Vietnamese community.”

  “On board what? The Lusitania?”

  “Mr. Hardesty, there’s a reason they’ve denied our client bond. With what we’re facing, self-defense may be the best we can hope for.”

  “At the risk of sounding like a broken record, what happened to not guilty?”

  Ky sighed, the beleaguered but patient attorney gathering himself to explain life’s facts. “Mr. Hardesty, we appreciate your efforts, and I know the family does, but you’re neither Vietnamese nor a lawyer representing one. I suggest you leave the legal part to us.”

  Us…

  Wil bit down as the lawyer went on.

  “You heard the Argabrite woman identified him as having left an hour before the SUVs did? Which gave him time to start the fire then go back in, figuring Luc would have stayed.”

  “It’s bullshit, Ky. No matter how it looks.”

  “How about letting me be the judge of that?”

  “I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “Good-bye, Mr. Hardesty.”

  The Vietnamese community—terrific. Wil dialed Vega again, heard from his secretary the FBI agent was in meetings all day, and left a message: Maccafee’s name, a question mark, and his phone number. He was toying with the idea of calling ATF again, but decided Marotta was a burnt bridge. Instead he rummaged the recycling stack, finally found what he was looking for: the newspaper front section from right after the first Lorenz/Maccafee encounter.

  August 9. San Francisco.

  LOCAL COP DEAD IN CHINATOWN SHOOTOUT

  AOCTF Mourns Its Own. Two Attending Funeral Also Die

  Wil scanned: Detective Sergeant Arthur Loh, the dead cop…two reputed organized-crime figures attending the Chinatown funeral of old-time tong leader Kan Wan Yee the targets…quotes from Detective Sergeant Terry Leong…

  He called information, then the number: Following the inevitable bureaucratic bounce, he asked a male voice answering “Asian Organized Crime Task Force” for Detective Terry Leong, finally getting, “Leong here.”

  Wil explained who he was and where, his ties to Vinh Tien, and heard, “The Vietnamese the locals made for killing his brother?”

  TV—the San Francisco station following the Asian angle. He said, “Right story, wrong perp, though you’d get some argument from a sheriff’s Lieutenant down here. I was thinking it might have more to do with your field.”

  “You have something to say here, or do I make my conference?”

  Wil drew a breath. “You lose a man to the Vietnamese who take out the two Po Sang, right?”

  “Arthur Loh. Go on.”

  “Po Sang hires the hitter who reminds your cop outside the Hall of Justice of Steve McQueen. He drops the first hitters. End of story?”

  “Is that a question?”

  “More the premise,” Wil told him. “It’s my belief that Luc Tien was behind an attempt to organize his Rising Dragons based on a New York gang’s nationwide model. Born to Kill, now defunct.”

  Pause, then, “And your source for this?”

  “A certain government agency.”

  Intake and exhale, Terry Leong saying, “Mr. Hardesty, let me tell you how it works, if you’re not aware. You show me a card from your deck, I may show you one from mine, not the other way around. The fact we’re still talking is because of Artie Loh, for whom I had the greatest regard and the highest respect.”

  “I understand that.”

  “So, count of one: you have a card to show, or am I back at it?”

  “ATF,” Wil said. “Agents Lorenz and Maccafee.” He spelled out the particulars.

  “Neither of whom I know,” Leong said after a pause to note it. “And you think Luc Tien might be involved why?”

  “Luc has a nice street crime business going, wants to expand in a hurry and sees an opportunity. He orders the Po Sang hit to show them he means business.”

  Wil heard the sound of a cigarette being lit, the exhale from it, then Leong. “Look, let’s cut the shit. Po Sang’s a paper tiger and has been for years. Gangs like Rising Dragon smell blood and rip off an arm before they realize it’s costing them two of their own to ante. These days it’s about alliances. Who backs whom.”

  “Mel Gibson and the warring Scots,” Wil offered.

  “Somewhere along those lines.”

  “The Dragons and the Po Sang?”

  Dismissive laugh. “About like Serbs and Kosovars lying down together. Unless…”

  What the hell, Wil thought, nothing ventured. He said, “Unless somebody stronger than either of them were to make both like it?”

  This time there was a long pause, muffled background. Then, “Look, I’m late and
getting later for this thing. Airport food do anything for you?”

  “All depends on the airport,” Wil said.

  53

  Somehow it worked. Most of it, anyway.

  Wil just had time to park and buy his ticket, wander outside the red-tiled Santa Barbara airport terminal. He was looking at his watch, eyeing the Skyway Motel, sun glinting off what looked to be Lorenz’s car, when they called the 12:42 and there went the thought of phoning her. As if to make up for it, the flight was smooth enough to shave four minutes off the time. Even the fog was on good behavior, cresting the ridge of coast mountains but advancing no further on Millbrae and South San Francisco, the eons-long construction that was SFO.

  He recognized Terry Leong immediately. Early-to-mid forties, cop bearing on a taller-than-Frank Lin build, metal-frame glasses over Chinese-black eyes, sports coat over Dockers and Rockports, Tag-Heuer when his sleeve pulled back in the restaurant booth. Slight bulge at the right hip.

  “First thing we get straight,” he said after they’d settled on omelets. “This is not some buddy-buddy deal.”

  “Nice meeting you, too, Sergeant.”

  Leong blew out a breath. “You ever been hammered by a civilian review board determined that whatever you say is a cover-up.”

  “Not as such,” Wil said.

  “I thought you might have been ex-cop. Most P.I.s I know are.”

  Wil drank from water the busboy set down. “Coast Guard Port Security a long time ago. Second tour.”

  Black eyes met his and blinked. “Two tours, a VC client, people you must have known lost to them. Want to help me out with why?”

  “Something to do with lost causes, I imagine.”

  “Whatever.” Terry Leong pulled out a Winston and stuck it in his face, took it out as the waitress brought their food and left. “Let’s make this count: We were talking about gangs, networks. Some notion about one stronger than either making them shut up and like it.”

  “I’m saying it might explain some things.”

  “Don’t let me stop you.”

  Wil said, “If I’m right, these hits resemble a sports match. Rising Dragon hits Po Sang, Po retaliates. So either they lick their wounds and call it even or Luc Tien is about to fire back when he winds up dead. Nothing as simple as gunfire, either. More like pay attention, here’s what happens when you still want trouble.” Hungrier than he’d realized, he bore down on the omelet. “But then what do I know?”

  Leong rolled the unlit cigarette between his fingers. “And a brother’s rage and revenge?”

  “True, my version exonerates Vinh Tien,” Wil admitted. “But that’s because he didn’t do it.”

  “That’s convenient for both of you.”

  “But unconvincing for some.”

  “Not altogether,” Leong said. Shifting the cigarette, he forked in a bite, seemed to decide on something. “Are you up on your Triads at all? Those fun-loving crime cartels we Asians are so good at?”

  “Red Sun a few years ago.”

  Nod. “Thailand-based: drugs, cars, hardware—small potatoes by comparison. People are the big thing now, girls they can turn into prostitutes. Fifty to a hundred thou to bring them in, years of servitude for the deadbeats and troublemakers they don’t turn into fish chum.” Leong paused. “So the name Under Heaven wouldn’t ring a bell?”

  “No,” Wil said. “Should it?”

  “Actually I’d be surprised. We don’t even know much about them. Which doesn’t mean the feds don’t.”

  “ATF?”

  “I’m speculating,” he said. “Rumor has it that Under Heaven is a brainchild of the Chinese Army, crime as a way to finance their military buildup. Big money is their blood in the water, and they’re heavily armored politically. Only reason I know of them is a Po Sang informant told me they were getting leaned on and that name came up. The plan was to shoehorn the Pos into high tech crime and leave the street stuff to the Viets. Specialize to maximize.”

  “The Viets meaning Rising Dragon,” Wil said.

  Leong nodded. “My guy didn’t know, and this was before the Dragons hit the Changs and Benny Lum. From what we’ve gathered, they were trying to rip the Pos off while the Pos were in transition.”

  “Po Sang being weak for some time, you said.”

  “Inbreeding. Which always schools up the sharks.”

  Wil felt loops rounding on each other—and something else that fit: Maccafee saying that Luc hated the Chinese. He said, “So the Pos are a wounded fish both the Dragons and these new guys are after. Which would put them and Luc at cross purposes.”

  “Under Heaven, and maybe is all I’m saying here,” Leong said around a bite. “Got it?”

  “You still thinking Po Sang hired the McQueen hitter?”

  “It’s not SOP, but I can see where they’d want somebody from outside. And unless they’re getting better under my nose, this guy was way polished for local talent.” He focused in. “Why? You know something about it I should know?”

  Wil met his gaze, locked in the setting. “Just curious.”

  “Let’s make no mistake here. This guy may have taken out the trash for us, but that’s not the way it works. For what he did to Artie, Dao Hong was mine. Now this guy is, and I’ll get him. Nobody freelances on my turf—are we clear on that?”

  “I think so.”

  “Deal is, you hear something, you call me. Otherwise, you’re in the same cell he is. That clear, too?”

  “Crystal.”

  The waitress brought coffee, eyed the unlit cigarette in Terry Leong’s free hand. She looked about to say something when she caught the expression on his face and retreated to a family in Aloha shirts that were casting about for her.

  “I hate to eat and run,” Leong said. “I did have a chance to pass your ATF names to a guy I know who’s hooked in, though.” He stuck the cigarette in his face again but made no move to light it. “Interesting what these things will turn up.”

  Wil waited as Leong sucked air through the Winston.

  “Goddamn pathetic what some people do to each other, isn’t it?” he said. “Your Lorenz seems to have authority issues, thought to involve her upward mobility. Maccafee—if it’s the right Tom Maccafee, he of the three tours and the Air America stint, meaning CIA—shows up not at all after 1991. Some ATF raid that went south.” He slid from the booth, looked back at Wil. “A suspended malcontent and an ex-spook who’s been doing who knows what for a decade. That tend to complicate your life, or what?”

  54

  “Frank, hear me out,” Wil said into the pay phone, his other hand cupped to block the terminal noise. “What it means is that somebody besides Vinh Tien had a motive to kill Luc.”

  “An example to other gangs,” Frank Lin said. “To not piss off this whatever-it-is you called it.”

  “Under Heaven.” Over the hollow clatter, the foot shuffle, the unintelligible airline announcements, he could hear office sounds, someone speaking behind Frank.

  “Under Heaven,” Lin repeated as though thinking out loud. “As in the extant of what they’re out after?”

  “Who knows with these people, Frank?”

  “Hey, why stop there? Rudy digs a dreamer.”

  Wil checked the time, an hour and fifteen until the flight he’d been able to book left for Santa Barbara. Using the call to start the ball rolling, knowing how far he’d get with Yanez, he’d dialed his hole card.

  “Frank, it fits,” he said for what had to be the fifth time.

  “And for grins, you came by this wisdom how?”

  “A gang cop up here named Terry Leong.”

  Hesitation. “The guy who lost his partner? We talked to him. Right after the media ran with it.”

  “And?…”

  “And nothing,” Lin said. “By then we had our man. And local cops, even city ones, aren’t plugged in like that. So who else did you get smart from?”

  Figuring he’d already told Leong, Wil took a breath and spilled it, no way around it any
more: The ATF connection, Lorenz and Maccafee, his arrangement with them to further the Jimmy angle.

  Sorry Lorenz, but there comes a time.

  A long moment passed, an expulsion of breath, then Lin: “Are you fucking out of your mind? You hold out on a homicide investigation in which your client is the suspect, and you expect the shit not to hit the fan?”

  “Sometimes your best call isn’t,” Wil said. “It happens.”

  “Not like this, it doesn’t. Man, I am not hearing this.”

  “Open your ears, Frank. I may have screwed up, but you’ve got the wrong man in jail.”

  “And Mr. Right is this vague entity imposing its will on the gangs and, in the process, pocketing the globe.”

  “By halting a gang war that at minimum calls attention to itself,” Wil said. “By sending a message to its target: Do not fuck with us.”

  An older woman who’d just sat down and was fumbling for coins shot him a look as she moved to the opposite side of the phone bank.

  “Sorry,” he mouthed at her.

  “What?” Lin said.

  “I said, I’m sorry for my language.”

  “Playing to an audience, are you? Well, dang me—old Luc had his own set of demons. That’s what you’re saying here?”

  “You got it.”

  “Maybe. What about Jimmy?”

  Wil said, “I’m working on that. You get anything from Luc’s computers?”

  “No, and we’ve had people turning them every which way. Hard drive’s irretrievable, no backup drive in evidence, no disks. Apparently he used encrypted e-mail for backup. We located the server.”

  “Anything there?” Knowing the answer before it came.

  “This case, you kidding? Luc took the password swimming with him. Server says forget about it, one chance in a mil or something to decode.”

  Wil let a kid with a boombox pass. “Any indication how long he’d had the account?”

  “Server said last December one, paid a year in advance,” Lin said. “Obviously the guy had a Plan B.”