Fall Guy

by Scott Mackay

  “I admire your pragmatism, Detective Gilbert.”

  “You were sitting at Foster Sung’s table in the Champion Gardens Restaurant on the night Edgar Lau was murdered?”

  Hope nodded. “I was.”

  “And which way were you facing?”

  “I was facing the street.”

  “And could you see out the windows?” asked Gilbert.

  “I could.”

  “And did you see Pearl Wu?” He was double-checking Foster. Sung’s story about Pearl.

  “I saw her arrive, yes.”

  “You saw her arrive?”

  “She came to our table.”

  “She did?” He was getting confirmation again.

  “Yes.”

  “For what reason?” asked Gilbert.

  “To say hello. Plus I had a word with her about her flight arrangements to Hong Kong the next day.”

  “Did you see her leave?”

  “Yes, I saw her leave,” said Hope.

  “And she left by the front door?”

  “She left by the front door.”

  Gilbert shook his head, as if he were perplexed by the whole thing. “And the next day she went to Hong Kong,” he said.

  Hope’s lips parted in a smile. His teeth looked like sharpened pieces of ivory in his leathery face. He lifted a bent index finger, shifted in his chair, looked as if he were about to make a major and heretofore undiscovered point about the celestial arrangement of the universe.

  “You see?” said Hope. “That’s why I’m here. To clarify. Yes, I saw Mrs. Wu. Yes, she did indeed visit Edgar Lau shortly before he was murdered. And then the next day she left for Hong Kong. No doubt you’ve had witnesses tell you the same thing. So even one such as I, one so woefully ignorant of police matters, understand why you made such erroneous assumptions about Mrs. Wu’s culpability when she flew to Hong Kong. But I assure you, her flying to Hong Kong had nothing to do with Edgar Lau’s murder. She wasn’t running away. Quite simply, she went home for the holidays. She has a large and loving family in Hong Kong. She wanted to spend Christmas with her husband. That she should freely return to Canada thirteen days later should allay at least some of your suspicions. She flies back and forth to Hong Kong all the time. She’ll be flying there again for the Chinese New Year.”

  Gilbert shrugged. “Maybe so,” he said. “But six years ago Edgar Lau slashed her face, destroying her career as a model, and excuse me, that’s a motive. Not only that, we know about the gun charge, the Derringer she had in her purse. These are facts that do nothing to allay my suspicions.”

  “Perhaps it’s appropriate for me to now point out that Mrs. Wu wasn’t the only one to visit Edgar Lau in and around the time he was murdered,” said Hope. Hope’s smile disappeared and a reflective expression came to his face. “Foster Sung went up ten minutes after she did.”

  Gilbert nodded. “When Mrs. Lau came and got him.”

  “No, no,” corrected Hope. “This was before.”

  “Before?”

  “Yes,” said Hope. “A full half hour before Mrs. Lau came down and got him. A full half hour before we learned Edgar Lau had been shot.”

  Gilbert leaned forward, his eyes widening. “You mean Foster Sung went up twice?” He couldn’t believe it. Maybe going after Foster Sung might be the right route after all.

  “Yes. He was up there while Pearl was up there. The two of them were up there together.”

  Gilbert glanced at the one-way glass. Hukowich had to be dancing a jig. “The two of them were up there together?” he said, wanting to get it right.

  “Yes.”

  “And the two of them came down together?”

  “No. Pearl came down first. Foster came down five minutes later.”

  Gilbert felt his lips stiffening. He was galled. “And Pearl went home?” he asked.

  “I assume so. She had an early flight.”

  “And Sung came into the restaurant when he left Edgar’s apartment that first time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you notice any outward change in him?”

  “No,” said Hope. “Or at least…he seemed preoccupied. I understand he’s experiencing some business difficulties just now.”

  “Do you have any idea why he went upstairs that first time?” asked Gilbert.

  “He was going to ask Edgar and Pearl if they wanted to join us,” said Hope. “At least that’s what he said.”

  “And when did Mrs. Lau come into the restaurant to get Sung?”

  “About a half hour later.”

  “Who was sitting at your table?” asked Gilbert.

  “Foster Sung, myself, Xu Jiatun, Tak-Ng Lai and Charles Peng. I should mention that Pearl came with a friend.”

  “She did?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who was her friend?”

  “A man I scarcely know. Tony Mok.”

  Gilbert studied the Red Pole; either he was the best of liars or he was telling the truth. Tony Mok was there? In the restaurant? In and around the time of Edgar’s murder?

  “Could you describe Tony Mok?” He had to be certain that Hope had the right man.

  Hope nodded. “Chinese, twenty-four or -five, short but muscular, broad across the shoulders, long hair, wearing a leather jacket with a Harley-Davidson logo on the back, unkempt blue jeans, and sneakers. I sometimes wonder where Pearl finds her friends.”

  Hope’s description was detailed and perfect, as one might expect from a battle tactician.

  “I gather you don’t approve,” said Gilbert.

  “Mrs. Wu isn’t particularly prudent in her choice of friends,” he said.

  “And is that why you’re here?” asked Gilbert. “To make sure she doesn’t choose the wrong friends?”

  “My duties are various and many, Detective Gilbert. If I must guard Mrs. Wu against her more naive proclivities, then that’s what I’ll do. This Tony Mok…” Hope shook his head. “I’ve had the man investigated. He’s nothing but an extortionist and rip-off artist.”

  “And you hardly know the man?”

  “I know what I must do to protect Mrs. Wu.”

  Was this a break in the case, wondered Gilbert. They had the possible match on the bullets. They had Constable Austin’s story that Mok shot Edgar in Vancouver, and possibly in Toronto. Now Peter Hope placed Mok at the scene.

  “Did Tony Mok go upstairs to visit Edgar Lau with Pearl?” he asked.

  “No,” said Hope. “He waited at the front of the restaurant while Mrs. Wu came to our table to say hello.”

  “Did she tell you why she had come to visit Edgar Lau?”

  “She said she had a Christmas present for him.” Hope’s eyes brightened. “You see? Despite her horrible injury, she’s forgiven Edgar.”

  “And Tony waited at the front of the restaurant while Pearl said hello?”

  “Yes.”

  “And when Pearl went upstairs, where did Tony go?”

  “He went outside,” said Hope. “I saw him walk south on Spadina, toward Baldwin Street. Frankly, I was relieved.”

  Gilbert thought of Baldwin Street, how it was just south of the Champion Gardens Restaurant, how it connected to the alley behind the restaurant. Rainwater on Edgar’s floor suggested the killer might have come through the French doors. And if Mok had been heading toward Baldwin Street…

  “When you saw Tony Mok, was he behaving strangely in any way?” asked Gilbert.

  Hope raised his eyebrows. “He was behaving the way you would expect someone of his background to behave,” he said. “Hands in his pockets, looking all over the place, waiting for the next opportunity to steal anything that wasn’t nailed down.”

  After Hope had gone, Gilbert, Lombardo, and Hukowich went to the fourth-floor cafeteria for coffee. A water pipe had burst above the drop-down ceiling. Building Services had removed seven of the large acoustical tiles and had secured the area with police tape—POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS. Gilbert, Lombardo, and Hukowich watched the men work for a while. Wa
ter damage looked extensive. Even now, two days after the discovery, the smell of damp acoustical tile lingered in the air, mixing with the smell of Tuesday’s Special, sauerkraut and sausage.

  “Hope puts Sung in Edgar’s apartment at the time of the murder,” said Hukowich. “I think you should write a warrant.”

  “Frank, you’re not looking at the other circumstances,” said Gilbert. “What about the glove? I find a glove in a tree, it’s dry on the inside, it hasn’t been up there long, and then the lab tells us it tests positive for barium and antimony. Sung was in the restaurant. Ask Joe. Did he have gloves on? No. He had his coat hanging on a coat-tree. His face wasn’t red from the cold and his hair wasn’t wet. He hadn’t been outside.”

  “I don’t like your glove, Barry,” said Hukowich. “And neither does Ross. You found it too far away from the crime scene to make it fit plausibly into your investigation.”

  “That’s not true,” said Gilbert. “I found it in a tree, discarded in a hurry along the most likely escape route.” Gilbert shook his head, frustrated with Hukowich. “Then you have the two bullets, both thirty-eight-caliber, both soft-nose wadcutters, a kind of ammunition you don’t see often, both fired from the same gun.”

  “I talked to Murphy,” said Hukowich. “He’s only seventy percent sure. I don’t buy it.”

  “The only reason you don’t buy it,” said Lombardo, getting fed up, “is because you want to arrest Sung any way you can.”

  “So?” said Hukowich. “If we arrest Sung, we have a way of getting to Wu. You guys have no idea what’s tied up in all this. Millions of dollars have been spent on this investigation.”

  “I still don’t know why you’re not going after Pearl,” said Gilbert. “She’s a far stronger suspect, and she’s married to Bing Wu.”

  “Because our intelligence suggests she knows next to nothing about Bing Wu’s operations,” said Hukowich. “Maybe a bit about the laundering, maybe a bit about the shipping procedures, but Wu’s kept her largely in the dark. He adores her. He worships her. He wants to protect her any way he can. So he keeps her out of it. At least as much as he can. Foster, on the other hand, worked with Wu extensively through the 1980s and most of the 1990s. He knows Wu’s organization inside and out. He’s in a position to name names. He has evidence. If we can turn him into an informer we can build prosecutable cases against dozens of Wu’s people, maybe even against Wu himself. But we need leverage if we’re going to do that, and that’s where you guys come in.”

  Gilbert couldn’t help thinking how Hukowich seemed to be losing sight of Edgar Lau, how Edgar’s death didn’t matter to him at all, how it had become a side issue. He had to make Hukowich and Paulsen understand that there were other possibilities, that their single-minded witch-hunt was out of place when measured against the evidence in hand.

  “But can’t you see we have to look into these other suspects?” said Gilbert. “What about Garth Surrey? He’s missing. He went missing on the night of the murder. The cook sees a man matching his description behind the Champion Gardens Restaurant on the night of the murder. This man is seen running away from the crime scene. Was he wearing beige Isotoners? I don’t know. But he could have been. Was he Garth Surrey? I don’t know. But he could have been. Before we can go after Sung, we’ve got some winnowing to do.”

  “How can Surrey be a suspect?” asked Hukowich. “Why are you guys needlessly complicating this thing with those photographs of Rosalyn Surrey? Why don’t you just cut through all that crap and do your job? Write a warrant on Sung.”

  “We can’t do that,” said Gilbert.

  “You’re forgetting the central aspect of this case,” said Hukowich.

  “And what’s that?” asked Gilbert.

  “Twenty-four hundred grams of China White in Edgar Lau’s attic.”

  All expression left Gilbert’s face. “As far as I’m concerned, Frank,” he said, not bothering to hide his disgust anymore, “the central aspect of this case is Edgar Lau lying dead on his dining room floor.”

  Gilbert had to go for a walk after that. Lombardo came with him. They walked east along College Street toward Yonge, Gilbert stamping a few pigeons away with more force than necessary. Lombardo glanced at him. Gilbert shrugged helplessly.

  “The guy bugs me,” he said, exasperated.

  “So you take it out on the birds?”

  “They were in my way,” he said.

  “You want a hot dog or something?” said Lombardo, pointing to a vendor up the way. “You hardly ate a bite in the cafeteria. Maybe you’re hungry. Look, he has onions. You love onions. Pile them on thick. Go for broke.”

  “You’re the one who usually gets mad,” said Gilbert. “Why don’t you punch that mailbox? Just seeing you punch that mailbox would make me feel better.”

  “That’s government property,” said Lombardo. “You’d arrest me.”

  “He doesn’t seem to understand why we became homicide cops,” said Gilbert.

  Lombardo shrugged innocently. “I just drifted into it,” he said. “All I ever wanted to do was sell shoes.”

  “You know what? You’re not government property. Let me punch you. That’ll make me feel better.”

  “Everyone has their own agenda, Barry,” said Lombardo. “Hukowich is no different.”

  “But he doesn’t even care about Edgar. I’d like him to take one good look at May Lau. If he could see her eyes, and hear the way she plays that Chinese violin, the way it sounds so sad…that’s why we do it, Joe. That’s why we put up with all this crap. So we might make a difference to someone like May Lau.”

  They walked in silence for a bit, past an old Fran’s Restaurant, a landmark from the 1950s, one of those places that never close down. They finally came to Yonge Street, the city’s main drag.

  “You want to walk down Yonge?” asked Lombardo.

  “I hate Yonge Street. The prostitutes and pushers keep getting younger every year. Plus I hate that guy who plays the drums. There should be a law against drum solos in public places.”

  “You don’t like drum solos?” said Lombardo. “Drum solos are cool.”

  “Even when I went to rock concerts, I hated drum solos.”

  “You went to rock concerts? How can that be true? I heard you whistling King of the Road the other day. I thought Burl Ives was more your style.”

  Gilbert grinned, feeling a bit better. “You might make a good mailbox yet,” he said.

  They crossed Yonge Street. College turned into Carleton. They came to Maple Leaf Gardens. Gilbert glanced up at the impressive gray building, no longer home of the Toronto Maple Leafs, just an old discarded arena where they held monster-truck rallies and other culturally edifying events. He kept thinking of Hukowich. He didn’t mind taking advice from outsiders, but when the advice was dead wrong, he had to put his foot down.

  “What’s with that guy?” he asked Joe. “Does he think we can write warrants any time we feel like it?”

  “Like I say, he’s got his own agenda,” said Lombardo.

  “But what doesn’t he understand about it?” said Gilbert, as they continued east along Carleton toward Jarvis Street. “We’ve got someone who matches Garth Surrey’s description behind the restaurant at the time of the murder. We’ve got Pearl upstairs. We’ve got Tony Mok in the restaurant—along with two matching bullets and Constable Austin’s claim that Tony Mok killed Edgar. And okay, I admit, we’ve got Foster Sung going up to Edgar’s apartment twice. But if we arrest Foster Sung now, that’s it, the investigation’s over. What doesn’t Hukowich get about that? If Foster Sung didn’t do it, Edgar’s real killer goes free. And what good does that do May Lau? The only comfort she’ll have is playing sad songs on her Chinese violin.”

  Rain started again late in the afternoon, a persistent gray precipitation that seemed to permeate every bit of concrete, glass, and asphalt in the city, running in the gutters in half-hearted trickles, blighting the sky with its damp pall.

  Having received an unexpected cal
l from Rosalyn Surrey, Gilbert drove his unmarked Lumina to the Annex, a trendy residential neighborhood just west of the University of Toronto’s St. George Campus. She lived on Palmerston Avenue, a street lined with globe lamps on black metal posts, in a detached renovated Edwardian house with granite pillars and pilasters supporting an impressive portico, the kind of house Gilbert, as a former student of architecture, dreamed of owning some day. He climbed the steps and knocked.

  She opened the door. He was surprised by the difference. She no longer looked so hard. She wore a pink Roots sweatshirt, faded blue jeans, moccasin slippers, and had her blond hair tied in a pony-tail with a piece of turquoise yarn. She was thirty-two, but she now looked twenty-two.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t want to keep you working late. You probably want to go home.”

  “I’m used to working late,” he said.

  She looked down at the welcome mat, as if she were unsure of how to proceed.

  “I’m sorry about this morning,” she said. She looked up at him and grinned, and he could see that her grin was genuinely contrite. “I shouldn’t have threatened you.”

  She was demure. She was amenable. She was ready to talk. He smelled the faint scent of eau de lavande coming from behind her ears.

  “It’s all right,” he said.

  “And I’m sorry about the phone. I don’t feel safe talking on the phone.”

  He still had no idea why she didn’t want to talk on the phone, why she had to talk to him in person.

  “If you don’t feel safe…” He shrugged, accepting her conditions.

  “Let’s go inside,” she said.

  “Sure.”

  He followed her inside. The hardwood floor glowed like gold in the soft lamplight. Group of Seven reproductions—melancholy depictions of northern Ontario’s pine, rock, and lakes—hung on the walls. A variety of ornamental dried grasses, some yellow, some blue, stood in large cut-glass receptacles on the floor. She had a fire going. She had a Christmas tree, but the Christmas tree looked sad to Gilbert, an artificial one, entirely silver with small red lights, and three unopened gifts wrapped in gold paper under the glimmer of its lowest boughs. A bone-white baby grand piano, scuffed and battered, with a Montreal Jazz Festival sticker stuck on the underside of its opened lid, stood in the corner.