I wouldn’t be holding my breath waiting for the return call. It would probably take a direct order from Colin to get her to give up anything, but I wasn’t ready to drop that bomb yet. I would give the nice route a try and if that didn’t work, I’d drop the hammer tomorrow.
Then I had an idea. Reilly had told me that unit 603 was rented by that dubious Chinese holding company, but he couldn’t get a warrant to check it out because, officially, he wasn’t on the case. Maybe the place had already been cleaned out and scoured, and maybe it hadn’t. There was only one way to find out.
When I knocked on Mr. Mo’s door, the superintendent was even less glad to see me than he had been the last time. He was wearing his usual black track suit and a worried expression.
“The police lady,” he said. “What do you want now?”
If he thought I was a police lady, who was I to contradict him? “Our review of the records shows an issue with Apartment 603. I will need the key to conduct a search”
“Ah, and do you have a warrant for this search?”
“I could get one, but then I’d probably want to look at several other apartments as well. I’m very thorough. I’m afraid it would cause quite a disruption. That’s why I am focusing only on this one apartment, to make things easier for you.”
Mr. Mo clearly wasn’t buying it, but I could see him doing the mental calculation. What if what I was saying was true? And 603 had no regular tenant. If I got in and out quickly, perhaps no one would know.
“All right, but this is a very kind act on my part. I will get the key.”
He went back inside his own apartment and quickly reappeared with a brass key. “Please, do this as quickly as possible,” he said. “Management would frown on such activity.”
“Don’t worry. Management will never hear about it from me.”
I took the elevator back up to the sixth floor. As I had hoped, there was no one in the hallway. Number 603 was to the right of the elevator, at the end of the hall. My shoes made no sound on the stained red carpet of the hallway. I could smell someone frying fish and could hear the sound of television in 602. To be safe, I tapped lightly on the door. There was no answer. I turned the key in the lock, opened the door just a crack, then waited to see if I could hear any sound inside. Nothing.
I swung the door open wide, then stepped quickly into the apartment. In the weak light of the evening sun, I saw an impersonal space with two grey, cloth-covered couches facing each other, separated by a glass coffee table. The walls themselves were a dark grey. There was no mess, no disarray, no personal photos. A cheap print of a generic sunset hung on one wall. I took my shoes off and walked quietly into the kitchen, careful not to alert the tenants below. The room had been updated with white IKEA cupboards and stainless steel appliances. I opened the fridge. It was empty except for half a dozen cans of Bud, a container of orange juice and a part loaf of rye bread that was growing some interesting looking green mould. The cupboards contained a set of white dishes, neatly stacked.
The bedroom held a king-sized bed with a headboard of faux black leather. The bed was so neatly made that I half expected to see a chocolate on the pillow. There was a single dresser. The drawers were empty. I pulled open the night table drawer, wondering if I would find Gideon’s Bible. Instead, I saw an array of sex toys, one of them black and quite impressive. The love nest theory was starting to shape up, although the sex toys didn’t say much for the stamina of Mae’s lovers, if that’s what this place had been all about.
The bathroom was tiny, just like my own. It held a walk-in shower the size of a phone booth, a pedestal sink, a toilet and a medicine cabinet. In the perfect world, there would have been a pill bottle with Mae’s name on it, but instead there was only Aspirin and a half-used bottle of Astroglide. Everything a woman really required.
I pulled back the covers from the carefully made bed and sniffed the two pillow cases. One smelled of coarse male cologne. Brut, I thought. I had once inadvisably gone on a date with a guy who wore it. The other held the lingering odour of a perfume. I thought it was one that I had smelled at Mae’s apartment, but there was no way to know for sure.
I checked the closet next. Empty of course, except for a bunch of hangers. Nothing on the upper shelf. I got down on my knees and lifted the red comforter that hung nearly to the floor. Peering under the bed, I saw a nice collection of dust bunnies on the hardwood floor. Then something shiny caught my eye.
I reached under the bed and fished out a thin silver necklace. It was broken at the clasp, but a Chinese symbol pendant still hung from the chain. I had no idea what the symbol meant, but it certainly upped the chances that Mae had been in this room.
I sat on the bed and ran my fingers along the necklace, feeling the pendant, then rubbing it with my thumb. I closed my eyes and imagined the necklace on Mae. Had there been a struggle in this room or had the necklace simply broken?
The last rays of the sunset came through the bedroom window and I could see dust motes floating in the air. The apartment had that particular quiet that occurs when the occupants are absent. The air seemed stale, almost heavy, and yet somehow disturbed. Mae hadn’t died here. That chain of events happened on the roof, but I would bet that it had started here.
I considered what to do with the necklace. It was evidence, maybe, but at best it would prove that Mae had been in the apartment. We already knew that she had been in the building. I slipped it into my pocket. Maybe the piece of jewelry would spark something with Mae’s roommate.
It was time to go, but first I took out my phone and took a few shots of the bedroom. If this story ever landed, the desk would want art.
That task complete, I stepped quietly toward the door, my feet cool on the wooden floors. Just as I reached the door, my phone started to ring. Shit. I pulled it from my jeans. It was Colin. “Can’t talk now,” I said, conscious that I was whispering. “I’ll call you back.”
“What’s up? Why are you whispering?” he said in his usual booming voice. I hung up. Maybe Farrell’s caution about phones was just paranoia, but maybe not.
TWENTY-NINE
Suzy Morin parked her BMW in front of the Poplar Street address she had been given by Xi, the lawyer/cook from the Golden Dragon. Poplar was a short street of modest, mostly flat-roofed houses in the area on the borderline between Chinatown and Little Italy. Night had just fallen, but there was still a faint pink glow in the west. The streetlights had come on, and that was a relief. The street looked a bit sketchy to Suzy. She hoped her car would still be there when she was done talking to Xi.
She would have loved to get this interview done earlier, but Xi had to finish his shift. Nearly two days had passed since Suzy met him at the restaurant and she had almost given up on him when he phoned and offered to meet. She was pleased that her intuition about him had been proven right. He had been cryptic and sounded a bit paranoid. Maybe it was because he had been at work. She had heard kitchen sounds in the background.
Still, it was a lead.
Suzy walked up onto the verandah of the little house, which had dingy white siding and some kind of fake stone across the lower part of the front. As instructed, she took the door on the left and climbed a steep and narrow flight of stairs until she reached a red door with a shiny new lock on it.
She knocked and Xi opened the door but didn’t release the security chain. “Ah, it is you,” he said.
“As promised. You going to let me in?”
“Of course,” he said, swinging the door open.
Suzy was surprised by the apartment. It was tidy and modern, the walls white, the furniture black leather or an imitation of it. A red and white rug in a geometric pattern filled most of the living space. A desk stood in one corner of the main room. The computer was shut down, but she saw stacks of books on the left side of the workspace. Law books, by the look of them.
Xi was neatly dressed in black pants and a white shirt. His hair was still wet as if he had just gotten out of the shower. Getting rid
of the cooking smells, she thought. He waved her to the couch and said, “Tea?”
“Do you have green?”
“Of course.”
Xi went down the hall to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Suzy took the opportunity to give the room a closer look. There was only one personal touch. On a little table between the couch and the chairs was a framed photograph of a slightly younger Xi with a Chinese woman who was holding a child of perhaps two. His family, she presumed. What had happened to them?
Xi returned quickly with the green tea. It wasn’t her favourite, but if she went with Earl Grey at this hour the caffeine would keep her up all night.
Suzy reached into her purse and took out a notebook and her phone, which she used to record interviews. Xi immediately held up his hands in a “stop” gesture and said, “I am willing to give you some help, but I can’t have my name in the paper. My situation here is complex.”
Suzy put her phone back in her bag but kept the notebook out. “Actually, I don’t even have your full name,” she said. “I won’t need to quote you or name you, but I do need to take some notes, for accuracy. So, let’s start with you name.”
“You can just call me Xi.”
“No first name?”
“What’s the point? You are not going to use it. My last name might not even be Xi.”
Suzy smiled, reminding herself to be patient. One thing she had learned investigating Philip Yam’s murder was that Chinese people never went in a straight line if they could reach the same destination by going in a circle.
“All right. Xi it is then. Tell me a little bit about yourself. I know you were a lawyer back in China. How did you end up here?”
“In a cargo container on a ship, but that’s a different story.”
“Trouble back home?”
“You could say that. Lawyers who defend opponents of the regime are branded opponents themselves. I was lucky to get out.”
Suzy gestured toward the photograph of Xi with the woman and child. “What about your family?”
“They are alive and safe. Someday, I hope to bring them here.”
“I’m guessing you are here illegally.”
“I prefer the term ‘undocumented’,” Xi said, allowing himself a small smile.
“You do sound like a lawyer.”
“An occupational hazard. I am not a lawyer here. Seeking that status would put a spotlight on me that I cannot risk.”
“I understand. Tony said that you do some work helping new immigrants, though.”
“Yes. I try to help others. I actually enjoy cooking, but working for Tony does not occupy my mind.”
Suzy could see that Xi wasn’t going to be particularly forthcoming about himself, and it didn’t really matter. While it was important to break the ice with a source, it was what he knew about Mae Wang that really counted.
“Let’s switch gears,” she said. “Mae Wang. She was murdered. I am trying to find out who did it, but the first problem I have is that I know next to nothing about Mae. She was an interpreter at the embassy and a student at Carleton. Those things are true. She said she was from Vancouver, but that’s pretty murky. I suspect you are going to tell me that Mae was someone else altogether.”
Xi sipped his tea and looked closely at Suzy, as if he were making one last effort to read her intentions. Then he said, “That’s exactly what I am going to tell you. The woman you call Mae Wang is actually Zhao Mei. I knew her family in China. I was shocked when I saw her in the restaurant. I had no idea that she had gotten out.”
“And you knew her family how?”
“Her father, Zhao Yang, was a great defence lawyer, a champion of those who criticize the state. To punish him for this, they sentenced him to 10 years in prison. That was more than two years ago. I was a junior associate at his firm. I got out before they could lock me up, too.”
“So what was she doing working for the embassy?”
“I don’t know exactly how that came to pass, but consider the leverage the regime had over her, with her father in jail. They might well have sent her here to be among their eyes in the capital. Many important world players come here and attend events at the embassy. Mei was an attractive woman. I don’t know the details.”
“So her job was to charm information from people who were guests at embassy events?”
“Charm is perhaps too delicate a word.”
Now Suzy could see it. First they lock up Mae’s father, then they basically whore her out while threatening to do him harm. What a bunch of bastards.
“She tell you all of this?”
“Not exactly. I am offering some surmise, but she is not the first one to be used like this.”
“Did you try to help her?”
“She didn’t want my help and she didn’t want anyone to know who she really was. We only met one time after I ran into her in the restaurant. She was afraid that she would be seen talking to me. With my reputation with the regime, that would have been very bad for both of us.”
“Of course, I understand. What you’ve told me really makes me want to get these guys.”
Xi smiled in a way that was closer to enigmatic than friendly. “That is a very noble ambition, but I assure you, these people are well beyond the reach of a journalist.”
We will see about that, Suzy thought. “So Xi, what’s your theory on why she was killed? Apparently she was pretty useful to the people here and I’m sure having her in their power gave them even greater control over her father. Why kill her?”
“A perplexing question. It would not seem to be in China’s interests to do so, although their agents would not hesitate to act if it was. There is something more there.”
“Maybe she was going to go to the authorities here with her story.”
“No, I don’t think so. That would have led to her father dying in prison. Accidentally, of course.”
Suzy picked up her now-cooling green tea and tried to think what more she could get from Xi. Who knew if he’d ever meet with her again? Finding out Mae Wang’s real identity was huge, but there was still so much she didn’t know.
“Is there anything else you know about Mae? Anything that would help? I really do want to bring to justice whoever did this to her.”
“Ah justice. I have researched you, Suzy Morin. You have covered the so-called justice system for a long time. Do you really think there could be justice for Mei?”
“I’ll admit that it’s not going to be easy. The police don’t seem motivated. Politics and diplomatic considerations will come into it. That’s not going to slow me down, though. Letting the world know what these guys did is worth something.”
“Just so,” Xi said. “I wish you well in your quest. I have told you everything I know, and I expect that we will not meet again. If asked, I will deny ever meeting you.”
Suzy still hoped to sweet talk him into being a source later on. Her success rate there was pretty high, but Xi wasn’t the typical cop or crook. And really, the name and family connection were the only facts he had. Or the only ones he was going to give her.
“I should go,” she said. “You have been very helpful and I appreciate that you are doing this. It’s the right thing. Should I keep you up to date on developments?”
That was her best technique for drawing a source into the story and making him feel like it was a joint project.
“I will read the newspaper and see what happens,” he said.
Suzy stood up and shook his cool hand. Xi didn’t seem like the kind of guy you’d hug. Her next task would be to head back to the newsroom and start scouring the web for anything she could find on Zhao Mei and Zhao Yang. She really should tell Kris the news, but it was getting late. Maybe tomorrow.
Suzy let herself out, then paused on the verandah to look at the starry night. She had done a good day’s work. And there was her BMW, still parked across the street with all four wheels intact. She started the car and pulled quickly away from the curb, eager to get back to her apartment for a
cold drink and a hot bath. She didn’t notice the black SUV several car lengths behind her.
THIRTY
The old spymaster contemplated the peace and calm of his Rockcliffe study. It had long been Sharpe’s one oasis in the turbulent and secret world in which he worked. Walnut shelves lined two walls of the study, heavy with volumes from his rare book collection. History of the British Empire was his specialty. The books gave the room a faintly musty smell that he rather enjoyed. Persian carpets, passed down through generations of Sharpes, covered the creaky wooden floor boards. A three-paned, leaded window looked out on his back garden, just coming into fresh leaf. That had been Janet’s domain and it had grown rather wild since she died two years ago. Somehow, he couldn’t quite bring himself to replace her with a gardener. With his wife gone, all he really had left was his work. Maybe that was all he had ever had.
Sharpe drew his heavy grey cardigan tighter. It was cool in the study. Perhaps he would lay a fire later. For the moment, he needed to think about the phone call he had just received. It confirmed what he had been hearing from other sources, and it was from a person with first-hand knowledge. One that was entirely reliable. A situation that seemed mildly intriguing when he had been talking to young Derek Hall earlier was proving to be a much more complex problem with multiple dimensions, significant implications and, he was sure, opportunities to advance his own interests.
The challenge was determining how best to play it. He had immediately ruled out taking his information to Hall. Intel of this value wasn’t something one would simply give away to a lackey who would then take all the credit. He had briefly considered approaching the PM directly, but the truth was, he couldn’t tolerate the man. After all of his years of serving the country, under both Liberal and Conservative rule, the new administration had summarily dismissed him in favour of Hakeem Agbaje, an academic who knew little or nothing about the real world of intelligence, but who reflected the PM’s enthusiasm for diversity.
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