The Dark Root Read online

  I added a little more forcefully, “And if he stops getting help, I need to know that, too.”

  “I understand. Thank you, Joe.”

  “Sure. And call any time—day or night.” She murmured something unintelligible and the line went dead. I hung up and stared at the phone for a moment, wondering about all the unacknowledged agonies I’d just glimpsed.

  · · ·

  I looked directly at Jack Derby. “Are you going to hand this over to the feds?”

  He looked from me to Tony Brandt and back. We were all three sitting in Tony’s office, and Tony was pretending to dig around inside his pipe bowl with a small scraping tool. “Seems like a reasonable option,” Derby admitted slowly, his political sensitivity heightened by the presence of no fewer than three television sound trucks in the parking lot outside. “It smacks of organized crime—that’s a Washington hot button right now. I thought the FBI might be interested.”

  “All right,” I countered, “but if you make that call through conventional channels, it’ll be to the Bureau’s Rutland office—Brattleboro’s in their jurisdiction. That means their senior resident agent, a guy named Joshua Bishop, gets the case, which in turn means we never see it again, because Bishop doesn’t work with locals. He doesn’t trust their security, their integrity, or their ability—he was burned one too many times when he was working in New York.”

  Derby was slightly confused. “So what’s your proposal?”

  “We approach the FBI through its Burlington-based supervisor—that’s Bishop’s boss—using the VSP as a conduit. I talked to Dan Flynn this morning about it, and he’s interested in helping out—”

  “Why?” Derby suddenly interrupted.

  “Because he sees this—like I do—as being bigger than just Brattleboro—that it’s a statewide problem in the making and that it needs to be nipped in the bud. Also, he has a selfish interest in seeing VCIN shown in a good light. He still has some old-school superiors with strong reservations about his informational lending library.”

  “All right,” Derby conceded, still probing for where I was heading, intrigued by now despite himself. “But why will the FBI’s Burlington supervisor be any better than Joshua Bishop?”

  “He came up through the ranks ‘far from the flagpole,’ as he puts it, in Montana, Wyoming… Places where he was the only agent for hundreds of square miles. His name is Walter Frazier, and he’s spent his whole career working with other agencies, and mostly in rural states. He’s perfectly happy to take an overseer’s role in a case, trusting the locals to do a professional job. We could put together an FBI-sanctioned task force, largely run by us and the Vermont State Police, working under the U.S. Attorney’s office in conjunction with you. That way, we would gain the advantage of having some federal clout, the state’s self-interests would be served with a fraction of the effort, and everybody’ll come out looking good.”

  Derby actually laughed. Brandt, his fiddling with the pipe concluded, sighed and stared stonily out the window.

  “And you think they’ll all buy that?” Derby finally asked.

  I smiled back at him. “You know as much as I do that personalities count for a lot in this business—getting the right judge on a case, treating the clerk of court decently, showing other cops you’re on their side. What do you think about what I’ve said—purely from your own perspective?”

  “I don’t think it’s particularly realistic, but it would make for some good politics.”

  I leaned back in my chair. “People don’t think ideas like this are realistic because they don’t think they could get them to work themselves. But if you picked your way through the system carefully, you might be surprised. You just admitted you’re half won over yourself.”

  “Well, I’m not,” Brandt finally growled, chilling the air. “Five people have died in this town in the last two weeks. We may have an Asian gang trying to take over the streets. Ron Klesczewski is out on indefinite leave; I’ve got media people jamming the halls like vagrants; and now you want to disappear and play federal task force with the VSP.

  “As the one person who has nothing to gain from this scheme, I don’t buy it. To me, it means another man lost whose salary I still have to meet. ATF and FBI and all the other alphabet soups have regional offices precisely so they can inherit cases like this from overworked, understaffed, poorly funded outfits like ours.”

  He turned his attention to me. “And I don’t agree that by working with the feds you’ll solve our problems here any quicker. You could do that best by staying put and working from this end while the feds work from theirs—that’s the sort of cooperation that’ll do us the most good.”

  He got to his feet and crossed over to the window, propping his elbow on the high cement sill. When he spoke again, his voice had lost some of its edge. “I’m not denying you have real concerns for the town’s welfare if this case isn’t properly handled. But there may not be a hell of a lot any of us can do about that—that’s the reality of the system. We do what we can, and then we let it go, which—I’ll admit if you won’t—is not something you do well.

  “I’m also wondering about the effects of this shooting on you. As far as I know, you haven’t reacted to it at all. You shouldn’t be here now. You should be at home with Gail, like Ron is with his wife, or spilling those overly controlled guts of yours to a department-paid shrink.”

  I felt hammered by this. Tony had suddenly diverted the discussion onto a totally different path, reducing my advocacy to some sort of psychological avoidance of reality.

  I couldn’t find anything to say to him that wouldn’t bolster his argument and make me sound defensive, so I stayed silent, trying to sense through my own anger if he might’ve been right.

  Tony removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Look, we all agree on one thing: We probably won’t have this case for much longer. Why don’t we do it by the numbers—keep working on it for a couple of more days, at least until we get some feedback on the inquiries we’ve sent? Maybe by then we’ll have found something juicy enough to make the FBI really take notice.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Derby quickly answered and rose to his feet.

  I got up also, nodding in agreement. Tony, in an effort to make amends, added with feigned hopefulness, “That’s probably what’ll happen. We’re due for a break.”

  “Right,” Derby said from the door. “We’ll kick it around later.”

  I made to follow him out, but Tony stopped me. “Joe.”

  “What?” I said, not looking back, unsure of what he’d hit me with next.

  “You all right on this?” he asked, his voice softened by concern.

  “Sure,” I answered, my earlier anger sapped by the knowledge that we were both merely twisting in the same stressful breeze.

  “I got a call from Time Magazine an hour ago. They’re going to use this in a cover article on violence in rural America. They want a list of people they should talk to.”

  I turned then and watched him standing by the window, the TV trucks outside as a backdrop.

  He crossed over to his desk and sat down heavily. “I know I took a cheap shot at you just then, but I am worried. If we screw this up, it’ll be open season on the entire department. With the networks, Time Magazine, and who-knows-who-else zeroing in, our people’ll be made to look like total hicks. I just don’t want to feed that.”

  I crossed the room and sat back down. “They may be better at protecting themselves than you think.”

  He made a face as if tasting something sour. “Maybe.”

  He put the fingertips of both hands up to his temples and gave himself a three-second massage, his eyes shut. Then he hunched forward, put his elbows on his desk, and looked up at me. “I’m not dead against you on this. I just don’t want to jump the gun. I want it clear to everybody we know what to do and how to do it.”

  I got up and returned to the door, satisfied that we’d cleared the air.

  Tony stopped me for the second time
. “Joe.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Things okay with us?”

  I leered malevolently at him and tapped the side of my head. “You know me, Tony—‘Never Forget. Never Forgive.’ Have a nice day.”

  He shook his head, but at least he was smiling back.

  11

  I FOUND SAMMIE MARTENS TUCKED away in her cubicle in the far corner of the detective squad room.

  “Everyone else at lunch?”

  She looked up at me in surprise. Small, athletic, and occasionally quick to temper, she was to me the most intriguing member of my crew. As experienced as Ron Klesczewski, she was blessed with more boldness, imagination, and perseverance. She could also be a victim of her own determination, however, pursuing a lead to the point of obsession. But she was utterly dedicated and, in her own tough way, caring.

  “What are you doing here? Didn’t Gail come down last night?” she asked.

  “She’s still here,” I answered vaguely, not interested in repeating the polemics I’d just gone through with Tony Brandt. “I hear you’re trying to ID the two shooters that were with Henry Lam.”

  She scowled at the litter of scribbled notes on her desk. “Yeah, and getting nowhere fast. I can’t find anything on them, they don’t appear in our new photo album, nobody at the two crash pads in town will admit knowing anything about them, and the car out front was registered to Lam. Willy, Dennis, and J.P. are out showing mug shots to all the restaurants and motels, but until we pin names or DOBs to ’em”—she gestured to the computer terminal across the room—“that thing’s going to be pretty useless.”

  “You’ve got Lam’s name.”

  That only increased her frustration. “Yeah, right, but the only record I found anywhere on him says he’s the lawful owner of a Massachusetts car.”

  “Any distinguishing marks on the bodies of the other two? Tattoos, maybe?” I asked.

  “The youngest-looking one had a tattoo of a panther crawling down his left arm, and the letters ‘CTG’ inscribed in the web of his hand, between the thumb and index.”

  “How old do you think he was?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. I suppose he could be in his twenties.”

  “On the off chance he was underage, put a description out to all juvenile-detention facilities. Maybe you’ll get lucky. Also, you could try running those letters by the various anti-gang task forces, organizations, and whatnot. They might stand for some known group.”

  “Or his mother’s initials,” she muttered bitterly.

  My mind wandered back to my earlier conversation with Derby and Brandt, and the potential usefulness of any federal violations. “Anything on the weapons they used?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing so far. They’re not on any hot sheets I’ve consulted. I still have feelers out, though. It’s all pretty early yet… Plus, any inquiry from Brattleboro, Vermont, pretty much gets hind tit, especially from the feds.”

  “It would help if these gangs weren’t so mobile,” I added. “You might want to push the Canadians for something on Lam. When I talked to him during that traffic stop, he implied he lived around a lot of snow. That may have meant Boston, but you never know. What about Vince Sharkey? Have we traced his last movements?”

  Her expression brightened. “We found out where his gun came from, at least, and there were a couple more at his apartment—all from the Paul’s Guns and Ammo heist last year. Willy was working on why Vince went after Vu when he did, but I asked him to help the others on the restaurant-motel detail. He’s pretty pissed off about that—just so you’re prepared.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I counseled. “What had he dug up till then?”

  “That Vince was sniffing glue and blowing dope all last night with some friends, getting weirder as he went. But he talked more about doing you in than Michael Vu.” She gave me a suddenly wry expression. “Of course, you have to consider our sources—Christ knows what he really said.”

  “Interesting that while I yanked Vince’s chain about Sonny, he went after Michael Vu. I didn’t even mention Vu.”

  Sammie looked at me, not knowing what to say.

  I checked my watch and then added nonchalantly, “You interested in being my second till Ron comes back? He’s taking a few days off. Might help you in dealing with Willy.”

  She didn’t try hiding her pleasure. “You bet.” She hesitated then and asked, “Is Ron okay?”

  “Between you and me? I don’t know. Wendy says he took it pretty hard. It might take some time.”

  The sudden silence emphasized the unasked questions, and the equally elusive answers. “Has anyone interviewed Peter Leung yet?” I finally asked.

  “VSP did, but only about the shooting,” she said quietly.

  “Okay—if anyone wants to know, that’s where I’ll be.”

  · · ·

  Peter Leung was still in the hospital, the focus of a lot of medical, legal, and media attention. I doubted he’d be in any better state of mind than when I’d seen him last, when a real gun was to his head, but I was hoping he’d remember me as the one who’d pulled him clear and helped save his wife from further harm.

  I found him on one of the upper floors, in a private room guarded by a state trooper, but knowing the trooper personally, I was allowed inside with no more ceremony than a nod of the head.

  I knew from the medical report that Leung’s right femur had been broken by one of the bullets, and his right forearm grazed by another, so it was no surprise to see him trussed up in plaster, with his leg in traction. He gave me a forlorn expression as I entered. His wife was sitting quietly in a far corner of the room.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Leung? Joe Gunther—good to see you again. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”

  “You spoke to the other officer?” Leung asked hopefully, obviously wishing I’d quickly nod and disappear. His wife merely watched me in silence.

  “Yes, I did, but he’s interested in the shooting. I’m interested in what led up to it.” I didn’t add that the state-police investigator had found both Leung and his wife incredibly frustrating to interview.

  I pulled up a chair and sat next to the bed. “I realize all this makes you uncomfortable, and I will try to respect your privacy as much as possible, but we’ve got to have some clear answers from you.”

  He remained silent.

  “You were seen removing a large amount of cash from the bank. Did the men in your house threaten to harm your wife if you didn’t pay them the money?”

  “To kill her.”

  “Why do you think they picked on you?”

  “They thought I keep our money at home. Many Chinese do.”

  “So they were hoping to rob your house while you were at work?”

  “Yes. They called me when they found no safe.”

  “Does the name Henry Lam sound familiar?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know who the other two men were?”

  “I had never seen them before.”

  “Did any of them refer to one another by name?”

  “No.”

  I turned to his wife. “Mrs. Leung? Did you hear any names mentioned?”

  She slowly raised her eyes to her husband, and I realized then that I’d merely increased their anxiety with no counterbalancing reassurances. The fear on her face was as real now as I remembered it being twenty-four hours earlier. No was all I was going to hear unless I tried a different approach.

  “Let me say something first,” I added quickly. “I know a little about what you’ve both been through, and I know you were threatened with reprisals if you spoke to the police. But things have changed since then—one is that all three of the men who made those threats are now dead. And because of the shooting, everyone knows what happened anyway. The general assumption will be that because the police are involved, the identity of the people who terrorized you will have come from police sources—criminal records, fingerprints, and the like. No one will know tha
t you gave us any information. Do you both understand what I’m saying?”

  “We will not be involved?” Peter Leung asked. “We will not appear in court or be mentioned in the newspapers?”

  “Not as sources of information, and there’s no reason for you ever to appear in court, since there’s no case to try. Your wife’s probably already told you that the newspapers published your names this morning—but only as victims of a sensational crime. As far as I know, you’ve refused to speak to them, and you can continue to do so. None of them will ever find out that we’ve spoken.

  “I should warn you about one thing, though,” I added, wishing I didn’t feel honor-bound to do so. “If you do mention other people by name to me—people who are still alive—then that could make you a witness in a legal case we might bring against that person at some future date. I am hoping you’ll overcome your fears and be as forthright as possible, but I don’t want you to think I’m trying to trick you in any way. Of course, your best defense is to help us catch them. But I won’t push you on that.”

  I saw them exchange glances. Peter Leung then nodded slightly. “We will try to help. This is our new country. We have done well here and we would like to repay our debt. But we come from a country where the police are not our friends, and where to speak to them is to call for your own death.”

  “I understand that,” I answered. “Does this mean you do have some additional information?”

  “Yes. The leader was called Henry by the others. He didn’t wish only to rob us. He wanted me to use my business to clean his money. The robbery was to show he was serious, and he was angry I had no safe.”

  I felt a tingle of excitement at the nape of my neck. From the research I’d gleaned from interagency intelligence bulletins, I knew that standard Asian home invasions are fast and uncomplicated, and usually conducted by people from far outside the region. It was one of the routine ploys that Asian gangs used to avoid detection—exploiting the loose, and therefore flawed, informational-exchange systems between law-enforcement agencies, counting on the fact that any fingerprints or identifications made at the scene wouldn’t find a match elsewhere for months or even years.