Lethal Legacy

by Louise Hendricksen

  He laughed. “Sounds like a typical Prescott case.” He motioned her to a chair. “Sit down and I’ll see what I can dig up.”

  After awhile, he came back with a big smile. “Found her. We arrested her eight months ago for prostitution and petty larceny.”

  Amy glanced at the sheet of paper and saw that it included a birth date, social security number, and an address. “This is tremendous. Can you find out if she has a car registered in her name?”

  A pained expression settled over his face but he trudged off. hi ten minutes, he came back with another sheet of paper. “A 1992 Honda Civic. License number ATY434. Purchased at King Street Honda. The car’s serial number is there too.”

  “Thanks for your help.” She grinned at him. “I’ll try not to get involved with anyone in your bailiwick.”

  “I’d appreciate that. Doctor. Too many fingers in the pie gives me ulcers.”

  Elated at the new lead, Amy drove to the address on Chea Le’s arrest record. The manager of the apartments said the woman had moved out months ago. Amy sat in her car and tried to figure out what to try next.

  Her wandering gaze alighted on a café with a gray, ripped awning that flapped in the wind. A row of red metal newspaper vending machines ranged near the front door of the white stucco building.

  Suddenly, an idea struck her. She stopped at the first telephone booth she came to, snatched up the yellow page directory, turned to “newspapers” and ran her finger down the list. A Cambodian newspaper! Maybe they could give her a lead.

  Street lamps blinked on as she entered an area the locals called Chinatown. Lighted windows beckoned shoppers to Thai, Chinese, Japanese, and Vietnamese variety, grocery, and furniture stores. Elaborate neon signs glittered above ethnic restaurants and gave the street an exciting, exotic charm it lacked in the daylight.

  Amy located the newspaper’s building sandwiched between a dry cleaner and a Chinese import store. A single globe in the ceiling lighted the room. Shelves that held pencils, scratch pads, reams of paper, boxes of envelopes, and rolls of adding machine tape ranged in tiers on age-darkened walls. In a shadowy corner, a covered printing press crouched like a black, humpbacked beast.

  An Asian woman with thin gray hair and a multitude of wrinkles sat on a stool at a long table rolling newspapers and sliding them into clear plastic sleeves. “You needin’ someting?” she asked in a reedy voice.

  “I’m looking for a young woman named Chea Le.”

  The woman blinked and knotted her fingers together in front of her. “I fine out” She pattered across the room and through a door.

  Amy heard a clamor of voices speaking in a language she didn’t understand. The next moment, a group of people poured out of the door, two men, one who looked to be in his thirties and one in his mid-fifties; two women of about the same ages; and a couple of little girls.

  At the sight of her, all the adults stopped and again had a spirited consultation. One of the little girls clung to the younger woman’s leg. The other one edged around her mother and sucked her finger as she fixed Amy with an unblinking stare.

  The wrangling ceased and the younger man stepped forward. “I am Antoan Yong,” he said. “My family want to know who you are.”

  “Dr. Amy Prescott,” she said, holding out her I.D. All of them crowded around to see it. “I’m an investigator. I’m looking for a woman named Chea Le.”

  She made eye contact with each of the adults. “Did any of you know her?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized she’d used the past tense and cursed her stupidity.

  Silence fell as each of them weighed her. “I know Chea,” the young woman said. “We were in school together. My motherin-law,” she gestured to the older woman, “and her mother were friends before Chea’s mother died.”

  “Does she live in this neighborhood?”

  The young woman and Antoan exchanged glances and Amy wondered if they knew about the prostitution charge.

  “She comes and goes,” the young woman said.

  Antoan’s mother asked him a question and he relayed it to Amy. “Why are you looking for Chea?”

  “I work for a lawyer. He is defending a man who has been accused of murdering his wife. This man says he was with Chea the night his wife was killed. So the lawyer wants to talk to Chea to find out if the man is telling the truth.”

  The young man translated, the others said, “Ahh,” nodded their heads, and another heated exchange took place. Finally, the older man spoke sharply and gestured to his son.

  “Chea works as a hostess at the Golden Turtle Lounge.”

  Amy checked the time and found it was five o’clock. “How do I get there?”

  The older woman scowled and started shouting at her husband and son. Antoan threw up his hands. “My mother says you should not go there alone.” With solemn expressions, the rest of the group nodded in agreement.

  “Why not?”

  “Bad place,” the mother said emphatically. “Very bad.”

  26

  Amy steered her car into traffic, then turned to Antoan. “Why does your mother think the Golden Turtle is a bad place?”

  “My parents are old-country people.” Antoan regarded her for a moment. “Have you heard about Pol Pot and his Khmer Rouge?”

  “Yes.”

  “The terrible times my parents went through made them paranoid.” He uttered an embarrassed laugh. “They’re always imagining they see Polpotites. Turn right at the next light.”

  “From what I hear, Mr. Yong, they may be right”

  He stared at her, the streetlights glinting on the whites of his eyes. “You’re joking.”

  “No, I’m not.” Amy signaled and turned onto a darker, narrower street. “The FBI think former members of the Khmer Rouge have infiltrated many of the Asian communities.”

  “No,” he firmed his lips and shook his head, “Immigration is very strict. They’d never allow such a thing to happen.”

  “Aliens have been coming ashore here, or sneaking over Canada’s border, for years. There are probably many more illegals here than we think.”

  “No way. Dr. Prescott. Everyone in the neighborhood would be talking about it. There,” Antoan pointed to a two-story, tile-roofed building with sweeping up-tilted eves, “that’s the Golden Turtle.” A sign with hundreds of glistening gold lights outlined the image of a turtle. “Park at the side,” Antoan said.

  Amy did as he instructed and turned off the ignition. “Does your mother think the Golden Turtle is connected to the Khmer Rouge?”

  “She says Mr. Chinn, the owner, collaborated with them.” Antoan made a face. “She has not yet learned to trust people.”

  Amy took in a breath and let it out slowly. “I hope she’s wrong.” She checked her shoulder holster. “Thank you for showing me the way.”

  “I’d better come in with you.”

  Red lacquered panels trimmed with intricate gold and black scrolls framed the dimly lighted foyer. Man-sized bronze Fu-Lion dogs crouched on either side of the entryway. A massive Asian, wearing a blue suit that threatened to part at the seams if he flexed a muscle, leaned against the archway leading into the lounge.

  He regarded her imperiously as she approached. ‘Tourists aren’t welcome here,” he said.

  “I’m Dr. Amy Prescott. I’d like to see Mr. Chinn.”

  “Make an appointment.”

  “No,” she narrowed her eyes, “I’ll call Police Lt. Salgado instead.” She hoped the lieutenant never found out how often she used his name. “He sent me to see Mr. Chinn. He’s not going to like it when he finds out I was prevented from speaking with him.”

  “What you want?”

  “I’d rather discuss my business with Mr. Chinn.”

  He pointed a sausage-sized finger at her. “Wait here.” He marched across a darkened room filled with small tables. On each one, stubby candles flickered in gold-colored glass containers.

  Amy moved inside the archway to get her eyes accustomed to the
darkness. A bar lined with stools occupied one wall. On the other side of the room, tables bordered a small dance floor. A couple danced to a Dinah Washington tune that was playing on the juke box.

  The doorman came back and growled, “He’ll give you five minutes.” He jerked his bullet-like head and started back the way he’d come.

  Amy and Antoan followed him down a corridor decorated with gold foil wallpaper printed with soft charcoal renderings of bamboo. A number of doors opened off the corridor and at the far end, a stairway led to the second floor. From behind one of the doors came the voices of a number of men.

  Their escort knocked at the door closest to the stairs. When a man said, “Come,” their escort let them in and left.

  A man dressed in a pale pink shirt and black suit sat behind a teakwood desk. He had broad cheekbones, a long face, and a square chin. He wore a diamond ring on his right hand and his open-throated shirt displayed a heavy gold chain around his neck.

  In a nearby corner stood a mirror-lined and glass-fronted curio cabinet filled with Shoushan stone chops depicting the Chinese astrological years. Off to the man’s right, a sliding glass door led to an enclosed bonsai garden with hidden lighting.

  She and Antoan crossed the room, their feet sinking into plush silver gray carpet. Mr. Chinn got to his feet Amy was surprised to find he was over six foot tall.

  “I am Mr. Chinn, Dr. Prescott,” he said, letting his gaze travel over her. “This is a delightful surprise.” His smooth vanilla voice sent a riffle of apprehension along her skin. “I must say, doctors have certainly changed since I last saw one.” He turned up the corners of his mouth in a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

  She put out her hand. “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Chinn.” She gestured to Mr. Yong who had halted several steps behind her. “Do you know Antoan Yong?”

  “We’ve met.” Mr. Chinn’s attention didn’t shift to Antoan, nor did he offer to shake hands. “What can I do for you. Doctor?” he said, waving them toward a couple of straight-backed chairs in front of his desk.

  “I’m an investigator, Mr. Chinn. Mr. Yong tells me a young lady by the name of Chea Le works here.”

  Mr. Chinn swiveled his head slowly and his black eyes honed in on Mr. Yong like a timber rattler on a ground squirrel.

  Mr. Yong twisted his fingers together. “I, I may have been mistaken, of course.”

  Mr. Chinn lifted one shoulder dismissively and once more focused on Amy. “Why are you looking for this woman?” he asked.

  Amy repeated the story she’d told the Yong family and added, “Does she still work here?”

  “No. I can’t depend on her. Comes in late, doesn’t show up when she’s supposed to.”

  “When did you last see her?”

  He picked up a needle-sharp letter opener with a green jade handle. Without taking his eyes off of her, he tilted back in his white leather chair and cleaned his fingernails while he pondered her question.

  In the silence, sounds from the adjoining rooms became more apparent to her. The murmur of men’s voices seeped in from one side. From overhead came a woman’s laughter, then a rhythmic thumping sound. As she realized the probable cause of the noise, her cheeks flamed.

  Mr. Chinn observed her embarrassment with a half smile and raised one eyebrow a fraction. The sounds escalated and Mr. Yong squirmed with discomfort.

  “My sister.” Mr. Chinn pointed his chin toward the ceiling. His eyes met Amy’s. “Quite insatiable.” He took a black record book from a drawer and ran the letter opener’s glistening tip down the page. “The last time Chea Le graced us with her presence was January the twelfth.”

  “Do you have an address, or a phone number where I might reach her?”

  “I don’t keep employee records.” He stood up. “If there’s nothing further, I have work to do.” Amy and Mr. Yong rose to their feet and started for me door.

  “Yong,” Mr. Chinn said. “A word, please.”

  When Amy stepped into the corridor, she pulled the door to her until it almost closed and stood with her back to it.

  “Don’t you ever interfere in my business again,” Mr. Chinn said in a cold, hard tone, keeping his voice low. “Otherwise, you and your family won’t have a business, nor a building to run it in. Clear?”

  “Yes, Mr. Chinn. So sorry, Mr. Chinn. It’ll never happen again, Mr. Chinn.”

  Amy hurried down the corridor, edged into the lounge, and sat down at a table. When a cocktail waitress approached her, Amy ordered an orange seltzer and asked, “Do you know where I can find Chea?”

  The woman looked at her with a startled expression. “Why?”

  “A man might go to prison if I don’t find her.” Much to her exasperation, Antoan picked that moment to appear in the doorway. With a scared look, the waitress backed away and returned to the bar. Amy swore under her breath as she watched Antoan scurry across the room without looking right or left.

  Amy scanned the faces of the happy hour crowd. At a nearby table, two men sat talking, their faces intent. One turned his head and she glimpsed a scar that extended from his cheekbone to his ear.

  She frowned and chewed the edge of her lip. Not too long ago, she’d seen a scar like that, but she couldn’t remember where. The waitress appeared at Amy’s side, set down the seltzer, left the change, and hurried away.

  When Amy lifted the bottle, she found a small, folded piece of paper. She palmed it and headed to the rest room. Once inside a stall, she unfolded the note and found a message that read. Meet me in the parking lot in fifteen minutes.

  Amy sauntered back to her table, sipped her drink, making it last as the minutes dragged by. Finally, she rose and made her way to the parking lot At the back of the building, nearly obscuring the rear exit door, stood a large green dumpster. Amy waited in the shadows.

  Five minutes. Ten. Twenty. Amy had begun to lose hope when the exit door opened and me woman slipped through. “Over here,” Amy whispered.

  The woman ran to her. “We can’t talk here.”

  “I have a car.”

  “Good.” She crouched down beside the dumpster. “Start the motor, open the back door, and I’ll get in.”

  Mission accomplished, Amy took off down the street with the waitress crouched on the floor behind the front seat.

  “Sorry.” the woman said. “I don’t dare let anyone see me talking to you.”

  “Why not?”

  “The whole place went on full alert the instant you went into Chinn’s office.”

  “Because of the gambling rooms and the prostitution upstairs?”

  “How did you know?”

  “I’m an investigator. I worked at the crime lab in Seattle at a time when there were several stabbings in this area. I learned the nature of the business conducted in a place like that.”

  She turned onto a quiet residential street, pulled over, and shut off the motor. “What’s your name?”

  The woman sat perched on the edge of the backseat, wringing her hands. “Lian Choy.”

  “What can you tell me about Chea Le?”

  “We rent an apartment together.”

  “Is she home? Can I talk to her?”

  Lian shook her head. “I haven’t seen her in two weeks.” A sob tore from her throat “I didn’t know what to do. She wouldn’t like it if I talked to the police.”

  “Because she’s involved in prostitution?”

  “That was Chinn’s doing.”

  Amy stared at her. “What do you mean?”

  “If Chinn asks a girl to come work in his crib and she won’t, he has a friend of his on the police force pick her up on a prostitution charge.”

  “Oh, now I see. Mr. Chinn pays her bail, she comes to work, and never gets out of debt.”

  “You got it. The dirty, rotten bastard.”

  “Was Chea dating anyone?”

  “Yes, but I never met him. We worked different shifts.”

  “Did she leave anything in the apartment that’d give me an idea of where s
he might have gone, or who she might have been seeing?”

  Lian shook her head. “One day I got home from work and everything except her furniture was gone. All her clothing. Even her books.”

  “Did she leave a note?”

  “Nothing.” She drew in a tremulous breath. “We’ve been friends for a long time. It’s not like Chea to walk out on people.”

  “Did any of the neighbors see her move out?”

  “The woman down the hall said she saw a man she didn’t know in the hall.”

  “Does she remember anything about him?”

  “I was so upset, I didn’t ask her.”

  “Did Chea have a car?”

  “Uh-huh. She borrowed from Chinn to get it. Said she might as well, she’d be working on her back for the rest of her life anyway.”

  Amy turned, knelt on the front seat and took the other woman’s hands. “What kind of a car?”

  Lian saw the look on her face and tears overflowed her eyes. “Oh, God, something awful has happened to her, hasn’t it?”

  “What’s the color and make?”

  “A-a…” Her slender body shook. Her teeth chattered. Finally, she got the words out. “A b-blue Honda.”

  27

  Amy arrived at the Cove Restaurant ten minutes late and headed for the rest room. She combed her wind-blown hair and put on some lipstick. In her haste, she moved too quickly and winced as the nagging pain in her back radiated into her side and took her breath away. Damn! Was this what the doctor meant when he said her bones would spread apart to accommodate the twins?

  She pressed her hand against the sore spot and sank onto a padded stool. God, she was tired. The thought of dealing with Jed and her father at once added to her weariness.

  With a resigned sigh, she rose and went to find their table.

  Both men stood up as she approached. B.J. put his hand on her shoulder. “Have a bad day?”

  “You could say that.” She seated herself.

  Jed gave her a long, cool look, sat down, and picked up his drink. “So, do we know who the dead woman is?”

  “Captain Morelli said he’d put a rush on the fingerprints.” She took her notebook from her purse. “Victor Samphan owns the gray van I saw behind Kim’s place.”