But what? An old marriage certificate, by itself, meant nothing. She married this man several years ago and then he died. But there was the corporal’s story of seeing the same woman with a different man. So either she was married to multiple men at the same time—which seemed as though it would be a lot of work for a murderess—or…
“Is it possible,” she said slowly, “that this woman is… recycling a marriage certificate?”
“Recycling?”
“Imagine that she… connects with multiple men, and kills them. Then she uses the marriage certificate to prove that she deserves a share of their life insurance?”
“But that would only work if the men all had the same name.”
“Like Zhang Wei?”
“Ahh, yes. A most common name. Perhaps that could be her strategy. Assuming the man isn’t really married,” Wiriya pointed out, “because surely his real wife would object?”
“So perhaps she preyed on men who were not married?”
“Ah, I see. That is very clever. You are either a very good detective or…” He paused. “You have a bright future as a murderer.”
Ladarat wasn’t sure how to respond to that assessment, so she said nothing. But Wiriya didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he posed a question in return.
“But, you see, there is a very large problem with that… strategy. To be successful, our friend Anchan would need to find men—single men—with the same name. Granted, it is a common name. A common Chinese name. But how would she do that?”
“I don’t know,” Ladarat admitted. “She seems to be very quick, too, if your corporal is to be believed. Only three months from one death to the next? At that pace, she can’t rely on chance meetings, and she couldn’t rely on friends, who would become suspicious.”
“Perhaps she is placing advertisements somewhere,” Wiriya suggested.
“Ah, it would be difficult indeed to use such advertisements to find a man with the right name. But perhaps she is using a dating service, which has a database she could search,” Ladarat suggested. “And that would point to a younger woman.”
There was a moment of silence on the line, and then Wiriya asked why she should say that.
“Ah, well, younger people are more likely to use services such as online dating.” She paused, smiling. “It is a known fact.” Like the known fact that women use poison. So there.
And indeed, when she thought back about conversations she’d had, she could only remember hearing about such services from the younger nurses.
“Maybe,” Wiriya said tentatively, “older people who use such services are more… traditional. And thus they’re embarrassed to talk about them.” He paused.
“Ah.”
“Ah,” she said again.
Then he rescued her. “So you see, it is possible that an older man or woman uses one of these services. But it is also possible that they might use a more… discreet service.”
“To avoid embarrassment?”
“Exactly so.”
“But there must be dozens of such services,” she said.
“Hundreds, actually,” he said. “I looked.”
She resisted the temptation to ask whether he had looked for personal or professional reasons.
“But can’t we simply… question her?”
“Ah, we could, if we could find her.”
“But surely her name is unusual. Anchan Pibul? I don’t think I’ve ever met an Anchan before. You must have databases to search…”
“I do, and in fact, I’ve been looking as we’ve been talking these last few minutes. There is no record of a phone number or address of such a person in Chiang Mai.”
“Perhaps that is a… pseudonym?”
“Perhaps,” Wiriya admitted. “But that name was on the marriage certificate. She was listed as his wife, using that name.”
Ladarat didn’t see how that could mean anything. What would stop her from giving any name she liked. Unless…
“She needed the death certificate to obtain the life insurance money. So… that must be her real name.” Because certainly she would need to provide some proof that she was actually the man’s wife in order to receive the life insurance payment. So unless she had many forged documents that would be good enough to fool a tight-fisted insurance company, then there was an excellent chance that her name really was Anchan Pibul.
“So if that really is her name, and I can’t find her,” Wiriya said, “then she is making an effort to be hidden.”
Which would, of course, make a great deal of sense if your hobby was murdering middle-aged men. It was not the sort of activity that cried out for a high profile.
“Then how can we find her?” Ladarat asked. “She wouldn’t use her real name in a dating service profile, I suppose?”
“No, people don’t use their real names in what’s available to the public. In order to find a person’s true name, they must agree to share it with you.” Again, she wondered how the detective knew such information. But perhaps it’s the sort of thing that police know.
“Then how can we find this woman?” she asked again. They sat in a companionable silence for a moment, thinking.
Was this what detectives did? They made some progress, and then they ran into a dense thicket that prevented any movement. And then, she guessed, there would be a breakthrough. The silence on the phone lengthened.
Now would be an excellent time for a breakthrough to occur.
And then, just like that, it did.
“A matchmaker,” Ladarat said. “There might be benefits of using a matchmaker when one is searching for a spouse.”
“Perhaps,” Wiriya agreed. “Some people will use a matchmaker. They might, for instance, if they were shy, or were anxious about meeting new people.” He paused. “But if there are hundreds of dating services, there must be just as many matchmakers.”
“Ah, but what if matchmakers—or dating services, for that matter—specialize?”
“Specialize?”
“What if,” she asked excitedly, “our woman Anchan is looking for a particular type of man. A… Chinese man?”
“I see… then she might go to a service that specialized in just such matches.”
“And such services do exist,” she said. “I read about them. Because of the one-child policy in China, there is a shortage of wives. So Chinese men, and particularly middle-aged Chinese men, search for wives in Myanmar and Laos and Vietnam and Thailand.”
“Exactly so,” Wiriya said. “But… how would we find this person?”
But Ladarat had a ready answer.
“I have…” What was the word the police used? “I have… a source,” she said.
“Ah, indeed?” Although he knew perfectly well who her source was. “Well then, you are becoming a true detective.”
And in that moment, Ladarat could think of no higher praise.
THE LIMITED PATIENCE OF MANGOES
The day wasn’t yet over, and Ladarat was a little cautious as she left by one of the hospital’s back doors. More than a little cautious, truth be told. It wasn’t yet five o’clock and she was hurrying to her car in the parking lot next to the nursing school.
Hopefully Khun Tippawan was not watching her right now. Ladarat looked over her shoulder but saw no one. Only an empty parking lot. Still, there were the windows of the nursing school to her left. Five floors, each with a row of windows as long as a city block. Any one of them could be the lookout post of one of Khun Tippawan’s spies.
Did that seem paranoid? Perhaps. But some paranoia was justified, was it not? The Director of Excellence seemed to have an uncanny ability to know when Ladarat was not at her post.
Although surely people realized how hard she’d been working to prepare for the inspection? Still, it would be her luck to meet Khun Tippawan. Or… worse… the hospital director himself. He would joke about how some staff had such an easy life…
She played that scene out in her head several times, making it more uncomfortable with ea
ch iteration, until finally she reached her car and heaved a sigh of relief as she slid into the driver’s seat.
Eeeeeyyy. Fortunately she’d come in early that morning and had been able to get one of the best spots under an immense banyan tree close to the hospital building. Still, it was hot. Whoever it was in Germany who designed these vinyl seats didn’t think about weather in Thailand. Her next car would have air-conditioning. And perhaps a radio. A radio wasn’t truly necessary, of course. One always had one’s thoughts for company. But it would be nice to hear another voice, for a change.
Then she patted the Beetle’s dashboard gently, feeling disloyal. Not that she’d be getting a new car anytime soon…
Ladarat threaded her way out of the university hospital complex and onto Suthep Road, and then cut over to Arak—the westernmost side of the perfect square that encircles Chiang Mai’s old city. She followed the road around the square—south, then east, then farther east on Sridonchai Road toward the Ping River.
Farang thought Chiang Mai was old and quaint because they mostly saw the old city. But out here, and on the Ring Road in particular, you could be in a suburb of Chicago. There was a wide divided highway with big stores and supermarkets and gas stations. She didn’t like this part of Chiang Mai, because it was ugly. But she was proud of it, too, in a way. Proud not that her town could boast strip malls, but that those strip malls could coexist with traditional Thai values. At least for the time being.
She turned left at Charoen Prathet Road, which led north to Tha Phae, the tourist avenue that led from old city down to the night market and the river. Anything farang wanted—from girls to elephant hair bracelets—they could find along this half-mile stretch of road. But this wasn’t her destination.
There was an unnamed soi, or small street, about halfway down Tha Phae, where she could usually find a parking spot. It was little wider than an alley; nevertheless this soi was filled with farang, many of whom would nod appreciatively at her yellow Beetle. Some of the older ones were perhaps remembering fondly their own motoring history. If she ever sold the Beetle, she decided, patting the dashboard again for luck, she would park it here with a big “For Sale” sign in English. She’d find it a good home with a car collector in… California.
She found a parking space even more easily than she’d hoped and greeted the owner of the fruit stand across the street, whom she knew by sight.
The mangoes looked particularly good. Still partly green, they’d mostly turned a promising warm yellow. She gave one a gentle squeeze. Ahh, almost ripe.
“I’ll be back, Khun. Save one for me.”
The man smiled and shrugged. “You cannot expect a ripe mango to wait for you. Mangoes—they are not a patient fruit.”
Ladarat nodded agreement. Fruit stand philosophy was oddly comforting right now. But not helpful.
She didn’t need a sackful of ripe mangoes where she was going. But a bunch of bananas would be perfect. She bought them and paid 30 baht, or about a dollar. She waved her thanks and crossed the small soi, entering an even narrower alley. It was shadowy here, and a few degrees cooler. Still, she hurried. This wasn’t a neighborhood she liked to be seen in.
Even if you had never been to this part of Chiang Mai before, just the names of the businesses around her would tell you in no uncertain terms what this street was all about. There was the Cowboy Bar, and the Paradise. And the Shangri-La.
This was a street that catered to the worst appetites of farang. Big greasy meals and T-shirts and women. And women. And more women.
Every other business, it seemed, had the same stylized figure of a naked woman with long hair. It was as if someone, somewhere, had decided that this was the universal symbol of a girlie bar, in much the same way that traffic signs had become international.
Halfway down the street, though, the businesses lining the soi seem to lose their focus. There was an electronic repair shop, and a small crockery store, and a kitchen supply warehouse. Beyond that was another plain storefront that announced itself simply as “The Tea House.” That business had the same stylized woman’s figure in the lower-right-hand corner of the door, but the little sign was the only indication of what went on inside. And that, Ladarat knew, was exactly the way that her cousin Siriwan Pookusuwan wanted it.
Ladarat slipped through the oversize wooden doors, a little surprised that they were unlocked. Usually they weren’t open until after six o’clock, to discourage the odd traveler who wandered in looking for tea. They served tea, of course. But anyone looking for tea was probably in the wrong place. The place was a brothel, although Ladarat was careful never to call it that.
As her eyes adjusted to the dark, the contours of the large room emerged, stretching back into the dim corners. There were century-old teak floors and walls, with a large sunken table more than five meters long in the center. Wood carvings and silk tapestries lined the walls, and a Buddha to her right watched over the entrance.
That Buddha was the ubiquitous Thai Hing Phra. Many places of business had one inside, just as they had a Saan Jao, or spirit house, outside. It was a balance that Ladarat found comforting. Outside you’d pray for luck and good fortune or good crops—all materialist things. But inside you’d pray for harmony and enlightenment. She paused and knelt, depositing the bananas as an offering in hopes of her own enlightenment regarding matters of detection.
As she rose, out of the darkness a man materialized in front of her. A blond farang, the biggest she had ever seen. Easily two meters tall, with broad shoulders and a crewcut, the man looked like he’d been designed by a Thai casting director who’d been told: “Give me a typical big American surfer.”
The man turned toward her, holding up a hubcap-size hand. “We’re not open…” he said in English. He looked nonplussed for a moment, then switched to heavily accented but perfectly serviceable Thai. “Hello, so good to see you, Khun Ladarat.” He offered a high wai, which she returned. “And how have you been?”
“Well, I thank you, Khun Jonah. And you?”
“Krista’s pregnant,” he burst out, unable to contain himself. “It’s going to be a girl,” he said shyly.
“That’s wonderful. I’m so happy for both of you.” And she was.
Jonah had had a rough life. As a tourist just out of college, he’d gotten involved in a scam to run drugs to Koh Samui to make enough money to travel on to India. But as many unsuspecting farang are, he’d been caught and had ended up in prison for five years. He’d gotten hepatitis in his third year and had been transferred to Sriphat Hospital, where she’d met him when his family had come over to try to get him released. She had translated for those meetings, and much to her surprise, their director had gotten involved and had intervened.
Somehow—she wasn’t sure how—Jonah had been released. You’d think he would have left Thailand immediately, but he hadn’t. His girlfriend, Krista, had come over to live, and he’d taken a series of jobs as a bouncer at some of the bars around the old city, where his size had been enough to quell most farang disturbances before they started. One look at him, and even the most inebriated Australian would decide he’d rather make trouble somewhere else. But not always, and sometimes he had to wade in.
It had been after one such brawl that he’d ended up in the hospital and Ladarat had met him again. He had asked her, jokingly, whether she knew of a bar where he would be less likely to get hit over the head with a full bottle of Mekhong whiskey. And much to his surprise, she’d said yes.
“Please, sit,” he said now. “I’ll get the mamasan.”
Ladarat took off her pumps at the door and padded over the polished teak floors to the large table. She was met by a smiling, bright-eyed girl with the broad, pretty face of an Isaan farmer, who offered her a wai, and a cool glass of ginger tea and an iced towel. Her name was on the tip of Ladarat’s tongue.
“It’s so good to see you again,” the girl said. “It’s been so long. You are well?”
“Yes, very well. Thank you. And you…”
Kittiya, that was it. “Ya” was her nickname.
“Khun Ya? And your family?”
The girl smiled proudly. “My parents’ house is finished, and my brother has passed his civil service exams with honors. So he will be starting work in the Ministry of Health next month.”
What she didn’t say, but they both knew, was that Ya had paid for that house, and her brother’s education, as well as a herd of twenty water buffalo, out of her earnings at the Tea House. Also unspoken were her plans for the future. Many girls from Isaan came to Chiang Mai or Bangkok and found they liked the flashy, glamorous life. But not Ya. She would probably escape soon. One day, she would simply disappear and go home to begin a new life.
“Well, that is very good. I am so happy for you.”
“Thank you.” She gave another deep wai. “I must sweep upstairs.”
Jonah and the girls all cleaned, and mopped, and cooked, and prepared drinks. The Tea House didn’t employ people for those jobs. At first Ladarat thought this rule was the tightfisted result of her cousin’s efforts to cut costs. But it was really just Siriwan’s way of making the Tea House seem more like a home, and their customers more like guests. It was odd for a business of this type, but not too different than what she tried to do in the hospital.
That was just one way that this place was different than many of the other so-called “girlie bars” on the street. So different, in fact, that it was in a category of its own. There were no bar fines, as there were at other places—payments the man had to make before a girl could leave with him. All “business” was transacted here, where the mamasan could keep an eye on things. And where Jonah could intervene forcefully if there were any difficulties.
There were half a dozen spacious rooms upstairs, as clean and as large as hotel rooms. Men often spent the night, staying for breakfast in the morning, and money changed hands surreptitiously. Many men who were repeat customers would simply hand the mamasan a wad of baht when they entered, trusting her to deduct the appropriate amount. And almost all customers were repeat customers. You couldn’t find this place unless you had heard about it from a friend. There were no advertisements, and no touts out on the street.
Murder at the House of Rooster Happiness Page 8