by J. A. Jance
“Down in the basement,” Mel answered from somewhere out of sight. “Far back bedroom on the right.”
With the fight over, my fake knees—including the bruised one—were knocking like mad. My breath came in short, jagged gasps. Spent with effort, I staggered into the living room, swept a pair of empty cardboard boxes off a nearby couch, and sank down onto it.
Mel showed up an instant later, her face alive with concern. “Are you all right?”
“I’m okay,” I said, “but I feel like I just went toe-to-toe with a prize-fighting welterweight.”
Mel laughed. “I think you did,” she said.
“Thanks for taking that knife out of play.”
“We’re a team, remember?”
“How did you get inside?”
“There’s a backyard patio with a slider that wasn’t locked. I let myself in through that.”
“How’s Harden?”
“Not good. Unless you have a very strong stomach, I wouldn’t advise your going down there. My guess is the poor man hasn’t been allowed out of bed for several days.”
The next person through the front door was, of course, Paul Kramer. “What the hell is going on here? What’s Bian doing in the back of a patrol car? And who the hell do you two think you are?”
Just then, the EMTs trooped back through, pushing a loaded gurney. Even with a sheet spread over the man’s body, the stench was appalling. Kramer’s florid face went surprisingly pale, and he took a step back. “Larry?” he croaked. “Is that you?”
Larry was in no condition to speak, so Mel answered in his place. “It’s him all right,” she said. “Bian had him cuffed to a bed frame down in the basement. I believe you’ll discover that she’s kept him drugged for months on end.”
“Holy crap!” Kramer exclaimed. “She’s been drugging him? Are you frigging kidding me?”
“No, I’m not,” Mel said faintly. “I only wish I were.”
Naturally we stayed around to speak to whatever detectives would be dispatched to the scene. While we waited, I noticed a wet bar at the far end of the room. Out of sheer curiosity, I got up and walked over there to take a look. The bottles lined up in a neat row on the black granite countertop were all top-shelf brands.
While Mel and I had been in the process of redoing our new home in Bellingham, Jim Hunt taught me a thing or two about countertops. Black countertops look slick, but they require constant maintenance. If you don’t keep after them, they show every speck of dust, grease, and dirt. In this instance, Bian’s indifference to good housekeeping definitely showed. A thick layer of gray dust covered the entire countertop, and near the end of the row of bottles, was a dust-free spot where one bottle was obviously missing, leaving behind a distinctive rectangular mark.
“See that?” I said pointing. “That’s where Todd’s murder weapon was sitting.”
“The bottle of Jägermeister?” Mel asked. “How can you tell?”
“Because,” I told her, “when it comes to booze bottles, I’m something of an expert.”
CHAPTER 31
ON THE WAY DOWN TO SEATTLE PD FOR OUR INTERVIEWS, we stopped by Belltown Terrace long enough to walk Lucy and drop her off upstairs. She had already spent more than enough time stuck in the car, and we knew we were in for a long day of it—a long, grim day of it.
Kevin Blaylock was dead, and every badge in sight was equipped with a black band of mourning. Bian Duong had been booked into jail charged with assault with a deadly weapon, resisting arrest, and elder abuse. But all that was just for starters. An initial inspection of the room where Lawrence Harden had been held prisoner revealed a pharmacy of illegal drugs in large enough quantities that drug possession with intent to distribute was also on the list. My hope was that, once we told investigators what we knew and suspected, plenty more charges would surface.
Naturally, Mel and I were scheduled with two different detectives in separate interview rooms. Mel was led into hers by a baby-faced homicide cop who looked far too young to be a cop, let alone a detective. While I sat in a small lobby, waiting my turn, the phone rang with Ben Weston’s name showing in the window.
“Hot damn, Beau!” Ben exclaimed when I answered. “I just heard you may have taken down the Ghost Girl. And she’s Bian Duong? How the hell did you figure it out?”
“I didn’t exactly figure anything out,” I replied. “It was more or less a case of mistaken identity. All along I thought Lawrence Harden was the bad boy, but it turns out he may have been little more than an innocent bystander right up until he turned into another victim.”
“How bad off is he?”
“Pretty bad.”
“Anyway,” Ben continued, “everybody in the neighborhood is in shock. Bian Duong has always been considered the unofficial queen of the Rainier Valley—top-drawer student at Franklin High, a popular cheerleader, and a college graduate with a high-powered job at the Port of Seattle. She also maintains the reputation of being a dutiful daughter by faithfully looking after her widowed mother.”
“And all the while, this supposedly dutiful daughter has been operating a lucrative criminal enterprise right under everyone’s noses. How did she do it?”
“It turns out several of the LABs, including Duc Nguyen, were and are blood relatives of hers, and in the gang world, blood is definitely thicker than water.”
“Wait, are you saying that hit-and-run victim was related to her?”
“Yup,” Ben replied, “Duc was her first cousin—the son of Bian’s mother’s dead sister. When his father threw him out of the house for hanging out with the wrong people, that’s where he went looking for help—to his aunty and his auntie’s daughter—which got him caught up with even worse people.”
Another connection and another miss. I had been one hundred percent convinced that Larry Harden had been the one behind the wheel of that speeding Escalade. Now, of course, I realized that the poor man would have been in no condition to do such a thing. The driver had to have been none other than Bian.
“Presumably Bian played a part in getting Duc into the LABs, but why would she run him down?” I asked.
“Maybe he did something wrong,” Ben suggested. “Everything I ever heard about the Ghost Girl said that nobody dared cross her and that she didn’t tolerate failure, either.”
“Maybe that’s why Duc died,” I mused. “If he was supposed to burn down Maxwell Cole’s house, he blew it big-time.”
“That could very well have caused her to turn on him,” Ben agreed. “For right now, though, the good news for us is that the LABs appear to be in a state of blind panic. They’re worried Bian will cut herself some kind of plea deal and let the cops take down everyone else. We’re trolling the water to see if we can find someone who’s willing to beat her to the punch.”
And that’s when I remembered the two guys in the van.
“Speaking of LABs, I’ve got some photos to send you, some shots Mel and I took of two men removing packing crates from Harden’s antique shop down on Occidental earlier this morning. With any kind of luck, maybe you’ll be able to ID them for me. Hang on while I find them and send them.”
I scrolled through my photos, located the ones I wanted, and texted the whole batch to Ben.
“Take a look at what I just sent you,” I said. “Let me know if either of those two guys looks familiar.”
There was a short pause in the conversation. “Okay,” Ben said seconds later. “I’m looking at them now. That one shot is especially good. Give me a couple of minutes to run these through the gang unit’s facial rec program. We’re trying to build up a catalog of all these guys and their various associations. That way, when something bad happens, it makes it easier for us to follow the dots. I’ll get back to you on this.”
Closing my eyes, I imagined how that would have worked back in the olden days. Searching by hand through reams of paper mug shots would have taken a matter of days or even weeks, but now it’s a brand-new ball game. Ben called me back in less than a minut
e.
“These guys are definitely LABs,” he announced. “Bao Tran and An Duong—the latter is another of Bian’s cousins on her father’s side.”
“So she believed in keeping it all in the family,” I observed.
“Evidently,” Ben said with a chuckle. “By the way, I was just talking to one my fellow GU officers. Do you happen to know what the name Bian means?”
“I have no idea.”
“It means Keeper of Secrets.”
“Well,” I told him, “that certainly suits her to a T.”
Ben hung up again, leaving me sitting there with the phone in my hand and thinking about Bian’s name. She wasn’t merely a keeper of secrets—she was a keeper of deadly secrets. It made me wonder if there’s a Vietnamese name for Black Widow. That one would have fit the bill as well.
Detective Greg Stevenson showed up a few minutes later. He had been new to investigations and was still working property crimes at the time I left Seattle PD. He was older now, confident and well seasoned in the job.
“Good to see you again, Beau,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m taking the lead on Detective Blaylock’s homicide. I understand you and your wife gave us some much-needed assistance today, and that you may have critical information in regard to my case. Mind if I ask you a couple of questions?”
“Not at all.”
He led me into an interview room. Although the interview was being recorded, when Detective Stevenson pulled out his iPad and prepared to use that to take notes, it reminded me of Kevin Blaylock’s steno pad.
“Before we start, can I ask you some questions?” I said.
“I’m not sure I’ll be able to answer them.”
“I was with Detective Blaylock yesterday evening at a bar on Queen Anne Hill—Sneaky Pete’s—which seems to have played an important part in three recent homicides.”
“Three?” Stevenson asked. “Which ones are those?”
“First would be Harden’s stepson, Todd Farraday. Next came the fatal house fire where a guy named Maxwell Cole died. The third one is the hit-and-run case Blaylock was investigating.”
“Duc Nguyen,” Stevenson supplied with a nod. “He’s the guy whose prints were found at the site of the fire.”
“Correct.”
“Okay, so the last two incidents are on the board,” Stevenson countered, “but the death of the stepson is news to me. Are you sure the case is being investigated as a homicide?”
“Maybe it isn’t now, but it will be soon. Initially it was considered an accidental death—a combination of acute alcohol poisoning and exposure, but it’s a homicide all right. Talk to Dr. Rosemary Mellon up at the ME’s office. She can tell you everything you need to know.”
“So what’s the deal with the bar—Sneaky Pete’s did you say?”
“Blaylock and I met up there and spoke to the owner—Meece is his name—and he let us take a look at the security footage for the two nights in question. Maxwell Cole had dinner with Todd Farraday the night before Todd was found dead on the front porch of his stepfather’s home a few blocks away. Then, the night before Max’s fatal fire, we saw footage of him at the bar sharing drinks with Nguyen. The evening ended with Max having car trouble—a flat tire—and with Duc Nguyen offering to help him with it. The two of them left the bar together and both ended up dead in separate locations a few hours later.”
Stevenson had been listening with avid interest. “So they’re all connected.”
“That’s what I believe. I think Detective Blaylock arrived at the same conclusion, and that’s what got him killed.”
“But you don’t know that for sure?”
“No, I don’t. At some point in the evening, Blaylock cut me off. We were working together and then, all of a sudden, we weren’t, so here’s my question. Have you located Blaylock’s electronics, by any chance, or even his steno pad? He was taking notes in that.”
“So far we’ve found none of his goods,” Stevenson told me, “but the last transaction on his computer was a request to the DOL checking for registration information on Lawrence Harden’s vehicle.”
That was not news to me. I had suspected as much all along. He’d been on the computer doing that just as I returned from the restroom at Sneaky Pete’s. That’s when Blaylock made the connection between Harden’s vehicle and his hit-and-run, and it also had to have been his fatal tipping point. That was when he had decided to shut me out and go off on his own to look into it.
“How did he die?” I asked.
In a typical interview I wouldn’t have been asking any questions at all. But this one was different, and Stevenson didn’t hedge.
“Multiple gunshot wounds.”
“Signs of a struggle?”
“No defensive wounds whatsoever. We suspect that he had been incapacitated in some fashion—either in the vehicle or out of it—and then driven to the location where he was shot.”
“We suspect that there was a supply of flunitrazepam in the room where Lawrence Harden was found chained to his bed.”
“Flun what?” Stevenson asked.
Thanks to Dr. Roz, I was able to negotiate the pronunciation pitfalls just fine. “Flunitrazepam,” I repeated. “Otherwise known as a date-rape drug.”
“Like roofies you mean?”
“Exactly. Not only that, but I believe tox screens on the victims will eventually reveal that the same substance played an essential part in everything that’s happened here—in all four homicides and in Lawrence Harden’s deteriorating mental state.”
“You don’t think he has Alzheimer’s?”
“No, I think he has a vicious wife who’s been poisoning him all along.”
At that point we launched off into the real Q-and-A part of the process. Stevenson had promised a “couple of questions.” It turned out there were far more than that. The interview continued for the better part of three hours. I started with Erin Howard and worked my way up to the morning’s confrontation with Bian. Along the way, I passed along the photos Mel and I had taken down on Occidental.
“Can you think of anything else?” Detective Stevenson asked at long last.
“Nope.”
“If you do, you’ve got my number,” he said, handing me a card. “Thanks, Beau,” he said. “And now, with any kind of luck, I’m on my way to swear out a whole passel of search warrants—one for the house, one for the antique store, and one for that storage unit. If we can bring down that whole LAB organization, the gang unit is going to love you, and so will I.”
CHAPTER 32
TWO TEXTS HAD COME IN DURING THE COURSE OF MY long conversation with Detective Stevenson. One had been from Mel, two hours in, saying she was done. The other was a series of outraged questions from Scott:
You’re here? In an INTERVIEW ROOM??? WTF?
Okay, so I should have been more up front with Scott when he had called me that morning. When it comes to dealing with kids, I’ve always come up short. Since it turns out old habits are hard to break, the response I texted back was more of same:
Busy right now. Call Mel.
As a consequence, when Detective Stevenson led me from the interview room back to the lobby, where Mel was waiting, Scott was part of the welcoming committee, too. He was wearing his uniform, his badge, and his black mourning band. He didn’t look happy, and he greeted me with a scowl.
“Mel clued me in on everything that’s been going on today, but you should have told me yourself. If you already knew Detective Blaylock was dead, you might have at least mentioned it.”
Scott was angry, and I couldn’t blame him.
“You’re right,” I said at once. “I should have, and I didn’t. I’m sorry.” That’s something that hanging around with Mel Soames has taught me—if you’re going to apologize, do it without making excuses. “Kevin Blaylock told me he knew you. He also said he thought you were a good cop.”
I know that was fudging Blaylock’s exact words just a little, but right then was not the time to mention that he had
actually called Scott “a good kid.” That wouldn’t have been fair, not when Scott was grieving his colleague’s loss right along with every other member of the department.
“He was a good guy,” Scott said.
“Yes,” I agreed. “I’m sure he was. How did it go with finding the murder weapon? I half-expected Mel and I would run into you when we were at the crime scene.”
Scott didn’t exactly roll his eyes, but it was close. “Dad,” he said, “I fly drones. I don’t go to crime scenes looking for weapons—my drones do.”
So much for my antiquated ideas about crime scene investigation. In addition, although Scott is a cop, I was glad to know that he hadn’t been on hand to see his friend’s body zipped into a body bag. Bottom line, Scott may be a cop, but he also happens to be my kid. Kids and crime scenes do not mix. Color me conflicted on that score.
Before the conversation could go completely sideways, Mel stepped in. “Okay, guys,” she said. “It’s the middle of the afternoon. Your father and I haven’t had breakfast or lunch, and I, for one, am starving. What about you, Scott?”
“I haven’t eaten, either,” he admitted.
“Good,” Mel said. “If Cherisse is up to it, why don’t we reinstate our canceled lunch date? We’ll go out. It can be our treat. That way you won’t have to cook. This has been a tough day for everybody, and talking about an upcoming baby will be good for what ails us.”
Ironically, Scott suggested Chinook’s at Fishermen’s Terminal—the same place where I’d met up with Erin Howard to talk back toward the beginning of this whole mess. Since the restaurant is close to Scott and Cherisse’s house, we agreed to meet up with them there after stopping off to let Lucy out. I was slowly coming to terms with one of the challenging realities of having dogs in your life—you have to think about their schedules as well as your own.
“Thanks for bailing me out of hot water with Scott,” I told Mel as we made our way back to the car.
“You’re welcome,” she said. “I could see that he was upset about Blaylock and taking it out on you.”