Lethal Legacy

by Louise Hendricksen

  Although the routine wasn’t rigorous, Amy knew she had muscles by the time the session ended. She gave a small groan as she got into Hue’s compact car. “What kind of conditions?” She asked, picking up where they had left off.

  “Many of our people lived in Cambodia during Pol Pot’s reign of terror. Ghosts of the Khmer Rouge’s harvest of death still haunt them. This man yearns to live out his life in peace.”

  “Will he talk to me?”

  Hue drove out of the lot and headed toward the main part of town. “Yes.” She glanced at Amy and quickly away. “But refuses to give you his name or to let you see his face.” She sighed. “You do understand, don’t you?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll be grateful for whatever information he can give me.”

  “Good.” Hue traveled two blocks before she continued. “I arranged for him to meet us at a friend’s restaurant. He’ll be on one side of a screen, you and I will be on the other. I’ll interpret.” She turned up an alley and halted behind a two-story wooden building that housed the Angkor Temple Restaurant.

  Amy touched her arm. “Thank you for your help, Hue.”

  Hue met her gaze. “It’s nowhere near enough. Mai was a good friend,” She stepped out onto the shale-covered roadway and looked around quickly before beckoning to Amy. “We’ll go in the back door. It’ll be best if we aren’t seen.”

  Inside, Hue led her down a corridor to a room with a wall-sized painting of the temples of Angkor Wat. On other walls, images of richly adored celestial maidens, their arms and fingers held in graceful curves dancing for Khmer royalty.

  At one end of the room, a white silk four-panel screen blocked off a corner. Hue took one of the low stools beside a short-legged table, motioned Amy to the other stool, and poured tea into thin chinaware cups. “Now, what do you need to know?” she asked.

  “Anything he can tell me about the car.”

  Hue took a sip of tea, then started to speak in Khmer to the man behind the screen.

  The man replied in a thin, quavery voice. Hue turned to Amy. “A Japanese model. Fairly new. Blue like spring sky.”

  “Did he see the license?”

  “Only an A and a four.”

  “That’s better than nothing. Did he know the driver?”

  After Hue had asked the question, the man was silent Hue frowned and shook her head.

  Finally, Amy heard the man answer in a whisper. Hue said, “He didn’t know him then, but he’s seen him since.” Hue stared down at the table for several minutes. “He is one of the yavana. If the shopkeepers don’t pay them, their shops are burned.”

  Hue’s remark didn’t surprise Amy. Nathan had sensed the people’s fear. Although she guessed what the answer would be to her next question, she felt she had to try. “Will he identify the man if he’s arrested?”

  To Amy’s astonishment the man responded to her directly with a hissed “No.” Then he reverted to his own language.

  When he stopped speaking, Hue stood up. “That’s all he’ll say.”

  They left the restaurant then, and Hue drove Amy back to her station wagon in Fenwick’s lot. Amy thanked Hue again, then remembered the mysterious woman with whom Cam said he’d spent the evening the night Mai died. “Hue, do you know a Chea Le?”

  Hue shook her head. “She’s not from around here.” She waved and drove away.

  Amy stopped off at the courthouse to pick up the list Cam had made her of his friends, then headed for home. As she cruised along the two-lane road, she ticked off items on a mental list. The caretakers of the greenhouse had been eliminated. Cam said the three men were elderly and had worked for Pran for years. Tomorrow, she’d have to start questioning Cam’s acquaintances.

  She topped the hill and started into the switchbacks. As she came out of the first curve, she braked to slow her speed. The pedal smacked the floorboards.

  No brakes. She pumped the pedal. Nothing. Shift down. Shift down. Metal ground against spinning metal, refusing to mesh. Adrenaline racing her pulse, she steered toward the pavement’s edge, hoping the gravel shoulder would slow the car. Crushed rock caught her tire, jerked her to the right, sent her skidding toward jagged basalt slabs.

  Amy spun the wheel frantically and the vehicle straightened, picked up speed, and veered into the outside lane. On the incline below, she glimpsed a logging truck.

  Cold sweat broke out along her spine. Blasting title horn, she yanked the steering wheel, swinging the station wagon back to the inside lane. It pulled sideways. One fender grating a rock shelf, she careened around a corner and angled into a sweeping S-turn. Too fast.

  Tires squealing, the car jounced off a guardrail and corrected its course. She grabbed the hand brake. Acrid fumes billowed through the air vents.

  Fir saplings growing at the road’s edge slapped the windows as she raced by. The speeding automobile created its own deep-throated roar. She fed in the clutch again. Metal screeched in protest. The station wagon fishtailed and spun in a wide arc toward the ravine.

  Please, Lord, I can’t die now. The car caromed off a boulder, whipping her head back, then veered back toward the cliff face. Brown water cascaded down from the bluff above, carrying bushes, rocks, and debris. She swerved and the fender raked a screeching scar.

  Ahead, the logging truck rounded the curve, its massive load of cedar logs swinging into her lane.

  No room. Can’t make it. Nathan, help me, help me.

  The station wagon ripped a path through the dense vegetation. Limbs snapped and thudded against the floorboards. Thundering on, the machine plunged up and over a talus ridge and for a horrifying moment became airborne. Amy gripped the wheel and prayed.

  The vehicle landed with a grating, shuddering, teeth-jarring crash. Her head snapped forward, hit something hard.

  Darkness.

  12

  “Lady. Hey, lady.”

  Amy felt a cold wet cloth on her face. Someone shook her shoulder. When she opened her eyes, pain ricocheted inside her head. “What happened?”

  “You damn near scared the shit outa me, that’s what happened.” The man’s sandy hair bristled from his scalp like an angry porcupine. “Never saw such crazy drivin’. You trying to kill yourself or somethin’?”

  “Brakes failed,” she said in a whisper; talking any louder caused rockets to go off in her throbbing skull. She took the sodden red bandanna from him and pressed it against her forehead.

  “No shit!” The man grinned. “Lady, you sure as hell got balls. I get nightmares about my rig goin’ wild. Them friggin’ logs would squash me flatter than a piss ant at a picnic.” He peered at her. “You want to ride into Wheeler with me?”

  “No,” she motioned to her cellular phone, “I’ll call a tow truck in Ursa Bay.” She switched the wet bandanna to her left hand, retrieved her purse from the floor, and took out her notebook. “What’s your name?”

  “Doug Hawley. I work for Cascade Logging. You sure you shouldn’t see a doctor?”

  She cleared her throat and managed to speak in a stronger voice. “I am a doctor.”

  “Okay, I hope you know what you’re doin’.” He closed her car door.

  “Thanks for helping out,” she said and held out his bandanna.

  “Keep it. You need it worse than I do.” He started off, then slogged back through the wet salal, bracken fern, and huckleberry bushes. “I’ll tell the sheriff you’re here.”

  “Oh, God.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’d rather not see him, but I guess I’ll have to.”

  Smile lines spread across his craggy features. “Yeah, he’s a real double-domed fathead, ain’t he? If he knew half as much as he thinks he does, he could graduate from the third grade. You take care now.”

  She stretched her legs and moaned. Everything ached, her fingers, her knees, her legs, her feet. Closing her eyes, she tried to form a plan of action. Her father would have to know. She gathered her strength and called him first. “I’ve had an accident,” she said, in as steady a voice as she could must
er.

  “Were you hurt?”

  “A few bumps is all.” She began to shiver and had to concentrate on every word. “I’m going to have Northwest Auto Repair give me a tow.”

  “You want me to come get you?”

  She braced her quaking body against the door frame. “That’s not necessary. I’m waiting for Sheriff Boyce.”

  “You sound funny. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I th-think so-so. Dad,” she stammered.

  “Like hell. Where are you?”

  “W-West side of file first hill out of Wheeler,” she replied.

  “You got a blanket?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wrap it around you and prop your feet up. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  By evening, she had seen a doctor and her car had been examined. Miraculously, both of them had come through the ordeal with only minor scrapes and bruises. She still felt a trifle rocky, but didn’t know whether that was due to the accident or to the fact that she had decided to call Nathan.

  She picked up the receiver twice before she overcame her nervousness enough to punch in his number.

  When he answered, in the background, she heard a Patsy Cline ballad. Her flesh began to quiver. “Nathan, this is Amy.”

  “Amy!” She heard a thud, a thump, and the singing stopped.

  The raspy sound of Nathan’s indrawn breath made her pulse race. Without being in his room, she knew where his mind had been, how his body had reacted to the sound of her voice. In the one night they’d spent together; she’d learned the depth of his passion.

  “Amy, what is it? Has something happened?” he asked in a shaky voice.

  Swallowing to wet her dry throat, she said, “No. Everything’s fine. Just fine.” She dug her nails into her palm. Lying to someone as perceptive as Nathan didn’t come easy. “I only called to find out if you saw all five of the employees who work at the Fenwick Athletic Club?”

  He hesitated for a moment. “No. One of the Asians works the evening shift. Why? What’s wrong?” he asked, his tone rising an octave.

  “I was there today. I parked my car at Fenwick’s and later at the courthouse. On my way home, my brakes failed. The garage mechanic said I have a punctured brake line.”

  “Were you hurt?”

  She forced a laugh. “Only a bruised knee and a big knot on my forehead.”

  “Thank God.” He gave a long sigh. “I knew something had happened to you.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. “You knew? How?”

  “I sensed you were in danger; I thought I heard you call my name.”

  “I might have. I was plenty scared.”

  He groaned. “Amy, you’ve seen what this person is capable of. Let someone else take over the investigation.”

  “I can’t do that, Nathan.”

  “Then don’t go anywhere alone.”

  “I’m nearly finished in Wheeler. I’ve learned a few things about the hit-and-run. And that Mai’s father’s name is Taun Keo, not Chantou Pran.”

  “How did you find that out?”

  “Jed found a letter in Pran’s safety deposit box.”

  Deep silence hung between them for a long beat. “Jed? Who’s Jed?”

  She tensed. Oh, hell, not him too. “Jed MacManus,” she said, her voice a bit more sharp than she’d intended. “He’s Cam’s lawyer.”

  “How much do you know about him?”

  Her mouth tightened. Why did all the men in her life keep pushing on her? “I met man last night for the first time. Why? Do you know something I don’t?”

  Another silence. “He’s there. I’m here.”

  Her heart gave a wrench. “I’m not looking for someone to replace you, Nathan.”

  “I’m sorry…” He swallowed. “Amy, when I was with you, I got the impression you weren’t quite well. Is everything all right?”

  Amy steadied herself. “Just a little stomach upset. Probably stress. I’m fine, really.”

  “It’s been four months since we made love. If there was something I should know about, you would tell me, wouldn’t you?”

  Acid spurted into her stomach and she pressed her hand against her midriff. “Of … course I would, Nathan,” she said, and hoped she sounded convincing.

  13

  B.J. took up the task of interviewing Cam’s friends while Amy recuperated at the office, keeping an ice pack on her swollen knee. She winced at the bruises on her face every time she looked in the mirror, and thanked God she had gotten through the accident relatively unscathed. She used the time to get her lab and paperwork up to date.

  Four days later, she drove to Harborview Medical Center in Seattle to speak to me supervisor of the hospital’s volunteers.

  When Amy walked into the office, she approached a woman seated behind an oak desk, who peered at her over half glasses. “How may I help you?” the woman asked.

  Amy handed her one of her business cards. “I’m investigating the murder of Dr. Nguyen’s wife.”

  “Terrible. Absolutely terrible.” The woman removed her glasses and tucked a tendril of graying hair into place. “How do you do? I’m Nancy Waring. I simply cannot believe that nice doctor would ever do such an awful thing.”

  “That’s why I’m here, Mrs. Waring. Cam says he had dinner that night with Chea Le, one of your volunteers. Would it be possible for me to talk to her?”

  “Chea Le? Let me check.” She repositioned her glasses, leafed through a file, and drew out a card. “Looks as if she hasn’t reported in for over a week.”

  “Do you have a number where she can be reached?”

  “There’s only a reference number and a phone where messages can be left.”

  “Could I have those and her address?”

  “I’m not sure whether…” She stood up and smoothed her navy blue skirt over plump hips. “Excuse me just one moment.” She took Amy’s business card and left the room.

  Ten minutes later, Mrs. Waring bustled back into me room. “My goodness, I had no idea you were related to Dr. B.J. Prescott.”

  Amy smiled. “He’s my father.”

  “I’m always reading about him in the papers.” Her cheeks turned pink. “Such a fine, intelligent man. And so distinguished looking.” She wrote down some information on a sheet of paper and handed it to Amy. “You must be very proud of him.”

  Amy thanked her and hurried out to use her cell phone. When she found that both the numbers the woman had given her were no longer in service, she consulted her city map and set out to find the address Mrs. Waring had provided. It turned out to be a vacant building.

  After consulting her notes, she drove to the upscale apartment complex where Cam had said he’d gone after he and Chea Le had dinner.

  She knocked on the manager’s door. A man with a slim, aesthetic face opened the door. He wore a pewter gray suit of Italian silk, a platinum gray shirt, and a contrasting tie. “Mr. Pham?” she asked, addressing him by the name engraved on the door.

  He studied her with an arrogant expression, unclamped his lips, and said, “Yes?”

  “I’m Dr. Amy Prescott.” She showed him her I.D.

  “Investigator?” He eyed her narrowly. “Why are you here?”

  “I need to ask you a few questions.” She eased her foot past the doorjamb. “Could I come in?”

  “I see people only by appointment.”

  “I’ll only take a few minutes.” He moved back just far enough for her to plant both feet in the deep white pile of the foyer carpet. She opened her notebook. “On January tenth of this year, did a Miss Chea Le occupy apartment 105?”

  A muscle tensed in his cheek and he caught a quick, shallow breath. “No one lives in apartment 105. It is the one I show prospective residents.”

  Amy took her time recording his statement. When she glanced up, she saw the man swallow nervously. She fastened her steady gaze on him. “Did Chea Le bring a man to that apartment on the evening of January tenth?”

  “I do not have a tenant by
that name.”

  “Mr. Pham, did a man and a woman occupy 105 for several hours that evening?”

  His features froze into a tense mask. “No.”

  Amy closed her notebook. “May I see the apartment?”

  He folded his arms and glared at her. “I’m afraid that is impossible.”

  “I can easily get a search warrant, sir.” She issued up a silent prayer.

  Tight ridges formed on either side of Mr. Pham’s mouth. “I’ll give you exactly ten minutes and no more. I have people coming.”

  “That will be sufficient.” She held out her hand. “May I have the key?”

  “No, you may not,” he said. He retrieved a ring of keys from his desk and motioned for her to follow him. Number 105 lay only a short way down the hall. The chances of anyone having used the apartment without his knowledge was highly unlikely, Amy determined.

  He flung open the door and stood back for her to enter. A sweep of sand-colored carpeting issued into a living room with champagne walls and furniture in muted shades of green and marsh brown. She observed the nubby-textured wool upholstery and continued on into the bedroom, where jade green damask hung from brass drapery rods. A matching spread covered a king-sized bed.

  Mr. Pham followed at her heels until suddenly his phone shrilled from down the hall. He flung an agitated glance in her direction, excused himself, and left the room.

  Amy hurried into the living room, took a pair of scissors from her purse, and snipped fibers from the back of each piece of furniture. She was able to bag the fibers before Mr. Pham returned. She met him at the door with a nonchalant smile. “I believe I’ve seen all I need to see,” she said. “Thank you for being so gracious.”

  On her way back to Ursa Bay to have lunch with Jed MacManus, she wondered what Mr, Pham’s response would have been if she had mentioned the yavana, the Khmer Rouge, or the harvest of death.

  Amy waited for Jed at Jack’s Café and Bookstore. Knotty pine shelves stuffed with books bracketed her table on two sides. A third side gave a view of Ursa Bay’s polished granite courthouse, the town’s architectural monument to the wealthy founders of the town and their equally well-to-do descendants.