Trigger City

by Sean Chercover

  “That’s understandable,” I said. “What happened with the FBI’s investigation of Zhang?”

  “No idea,” said Sten. “Once I passed it on to them, it was out of my hair. Zhang was not a threat to us anymore, so I moved on.” Flip-spin-snap. “I sincerely hope that, once you pass all this to Mr. Richmond, he can move on, too.”

  It sounded like a warning but I decided not to notice. I smiled. “I hope so, too.” Sten nodded, did the Zippo dance again. I said, “Your lighter fluid bills must be astronomical.”

  “You ever been burned?” He rubbed the closed Zippo against the puckered skin on his face.

  “Not seriously.”

  “Most people haven’t. I’ve been stabbed, shot, fragged, and burned. And I’ll tell ya, burned is the worst.” Flip-spin. But no snap. Sten watched the flame burn, said, “Fire is the most powerful weapon there is, bar none. Know why?”

  “No.”

  “Because it scares people the most.”

  “If your yardstick is what scares people the most, then public speaking is the most powerful weapon there is,” I said.

  Snap. Sten looked at me, laughed through his nose again. “Funny.” He stood and put the lighter in his pocket. We walked to my car and shook hands and this time he took it easy on me. I opened the door and got in, rolled down the window, and turned the ignition over.

  “Nice wheels,” said Sten.

  “Thanks.”

  “Cubs fan, huh?” He lit a new cigarette. “Your car, white with blue stripes. Cubs colors. Mr. Cub, Ernie Banks,” he added.

  “My favorite,” I said.

  “Mine, too. Ernie Banks.”

  Our obligatory professional sports team bonding successfully accomplished, Sten gave me a short wave and turned back toward the building.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Isaac Richmond opened his front door and looked at me for a full five seconds before speaking.

  “I wasn’t expecting you until next week,” he said.

  “We need to talk,” I said.

  “I suppose you’d better come in then.” Richmond led me inside but instead of turning toward his study, he opened a door under the staircase. I followed him down carpeted stairs into a finished basement that must have been twice the length of the structure above ground. The front room looked like any upscale basement den, and through a door I could see what looked like a darkened workshop in back.

  “Runs all the way to the back of the property,” said Richmond. “I bought during the development phase, before construction began, and I had the developer alter the plans to include all this.” Richmond opened a door to our left and flicked a wall switch. Pot lights illuminated the long room. “This is my personal recreation center.”

  There were two fully functioning bowling lanes, complete with electronic pinsetters, scoring system, and automatic ball return. Immediately before us was a scoring table and chairs. It looked just like what you’d find in a real bowling alley, minus the beer bellies and cigarette smoke.

  Next to the two bowling lanes was a two-lane gun range with electric clothesline mechanisms for sending out paper targets and bringing them back. On a side bench sat a stack of paper silhouettes, hearing protectors, and eye protectors. A Fort Knox gun safe stood in the corner.

  “I was just bowling a few frames,” said Richmond. “Helps to clear my mind.” He picked up a ball, set his fingers in the holes, and executed a perfect strike. “Some people meditate, I bowl. Care to join me?”

  “I don’t bowl.”

  “Never too late to learn.”

  “I can’t bowl, Colonel Richmond. I have a shoulder injury.”

  He looked at me with what I thought might be mild skepticism. “I didn’t know that,” he said.

  “I guess your intel was lacking.”

  Richmond seemed to finally pick up on my anger. “Get you a drink?” But it wasn’t really a question and he was already walking back to the den.

  He gestured to a leather couch and I sat and he went upstairs and came back with two bottles of Wisconsin Amber, the same beer that was currently stocked in my office bar fridge. He handed me a bottle and sat in a leather wingchair and we both drank.

  I said, “A year ago Steven Zhang worked with your daughter at Hawk River.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that when you hired me?”

  “To be frank, I wanted to see how long it would take you to learn it on your own. I thought if you came to me after two weeks for our first briefing and you still didn’t know, then you were the wrong man for the job.”

  “I assume you also know that Joan was killed just before she could testify before Congress.”

  “You do work fast.”

  “So why don’t you tell me why you really hired me, Colonel? Because it sure as hell wasn’t to help you come to terms with Joan’s death.”

  Isaac Richmond looked down at the floor, then to the label on his beer bottle, which depicted the largest granite dome in the world. His back was still ramrod straight, but his perfect posture now seemed more defensive than proud. “I admit, I was not completely forthcoming at our first meeting. But I wasn’t insincere. I really do believe that Steven Zhang was mentally unstable, and that he killed Joan.”

  “But…?”

  “And I really do need to come to terms with her death. But I can’t help but have questions. Suspicions, if you like. Put yourself in my shoes, knowing what you now know. If she were your daughter, someone you loved…wouldn’t you have questions?”

  I knew far more than Richmond realized, and I had plenty of questions. Big, ugly questions. The thing is, I wasn’t sure how far I wanted to pursue them or what the cost would be if I did.

  “Why didn’t you just level with me from the start?”

  “I didn’t know if I was being paranoid,” he said. “Another occupational hazard, with the career I’ve had. I was fully aware that, as a father, I wanted to believe Joan died for a reason. I mean a more tangible reason than the fact that her attacker was crazy. A reason that made more sense, in the big picture. A reason that provided meaning to her death.” He said it as if it were a shameful admission.

  “That’s perfectly normal,” I said.

  Isaac Richmond’s eyes glistened and he shook his head and took a swig of beer. I figured that was as close as he came to crying. He said, “I thought the police had the right man, but they concluded the investigation so quickly. Joan never told me that she’d been called to testify before Congress, and there wasn’t a lot of media coverage because they were closed-door hearings, so the issue wasn’t even on my radar. And I didn’t know that Steven Zhang had worked at Hawk River.” He made eye contact, held it. “I really didn’t know—I want you to believe me. It wasn’t until after the police closed the case so quickly that I became suspicious. Something didn’t seem right, so I made a few calls, and I learned these things. Then I visited the police lieutenant and he recommended you. I thought, if you came up with the same information and it also made you suspicious, then maybe I wasn’t just an old man refusing to accept that his daughter’s death was senseless.”

  I felt sorry for him, but I didn’t much like being tested. And that made me think of Amy Zhang, who also didn’t like being tested.

  Isaac Richmond said, “You’re right, I should have leveled with you from the start. Now I have. Please don’t turn your back on me.”

  If I hadn’t met Amy Zhang, I would’ve quit the case right there and refunded the rest of his money. But I had met her and the deeper I got into this case, the more I became convinced that her life was in danger. I suspected, perhaps more than Richmond, that Joan had died for a very good reason and it was the same reason that Amy lived in fear.

  And I wanted to do something about it.

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll stay on the case for now.”

  “Thank you,” said Isaac Richmond.

  I reached into my briefcase and withdrew Joan’s diary, handed it to him. He opened the
cover and saw Joan’s handwriting on the first page and dropped the book on the table like it might be coated in anthrax.

  “It’s Joan’s diary,” I said.

  “No, I-I know.” Richmond’s mouth twitched three times in quick succession. “I don’t want that.”

  “You said you wanted to know everything I learned about her.”

  “Well, I do. But I can’t…” He swallowed some beer. “You can just brief me on it, tell me what it says.”

  “It says a lot. Maybe it would be best if you didn’t know. That’s your call. But I’m not giving you a book report on your daughter’s private thoughts. Especially her thoughts about your relationship.”

  Isaac Richmond stared at the diary for a long time and when he looked up at me, his eyes were wet and his face no longer seemed young for its age. “Just tell me this,” he said. “Was she happy?”

  “No, sir, she wasn’t.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I powered up my cell phone and there was a voice-mail message waiting. It was Terry. Apparently my bad behavior was forgiven and he wanted to meet later and compare notes on the Richmond case. I called him back and we agreed to meet at the Billy Goat at midnight.

  Then I called the local FBI headquarters and asked for Special Agent Holborn. He was not in the office, so I told his voice mail that I needed to see him and left my cell number.

  I considered calling Gravedigger Peace. Gravedigger was the head groundskeeper at Mount Pleasant Cemetery, and a very old friend. He was also a former soldier for hire and he might be able to steer me in the right direction on this thing. But I decided to put that off for now and approach him later, with as complete a picture as I could.

  I arrived at my office just after 7:00. I unlocked the door and entered, flicked the lights on and picked up the mail, and took off my jacket. It wasn’t until I dropped the mail on my desk that I saw it.

  For a moment I didn’t know what I was looking at. A random pattern of shapes, brown and black, scattered on my desk blotter. A metal spiral. Below the spiral…a little Cubs uniform?

  The Cubs logo snapped me out of my cognitive hiccup and now I saw what I was looking at. Saw it clearly.

  Ernie Banks lay on his back on the desk blotter. Ernie’s bobble head had been smashed into about a half-dozen pieces scattered around the spring that served as his neck.

  And then I remembered what Blake Sten had said, when he took that phone call.

  Break it. And leave it there.

  And later, in the parking lot: Mr. Cub, Ernie Banks.

  I looked away from Ernie Banks and saw something even more disturbing—my gun was in my hand. I couldn’t remember drawing it from the holster.

  I reholstered my gun. Get a grip, Dudgeon. Exercise control…

  I dumped the remnants of Ernie Banks into the wastepaper basket and took quick inventory of my office. They’d gone through my filing cabinet but all the files were there. Desk drawers, closet, even the cupboards in the kitchenette. All searched but nothing taken. I went around the place shifting items ever so slightly, returning everything to its proper position. But I still couldn’t get comfortable. Even sitting at my desk, I felt the presence of the intruder who’d sat there as he combed through my computer only hours earlier.

  I went back to the closet and brought out a black, hard-shell case, took it to my desk. I snapped open the clasps, lifted the lid, and pulled out my bug detector. I spent the next twenty minutes sweeping the place for listening devices. Checked everywhere that could be checked.

  Nothing.

  I put the apparatus back in the case, pulled out the tap detector, and took my time checking the phone and fax lines.

  Nothing there, either. I put the machine back in the case, snapped it shut, and stowed it back in the closet.

  I opened a beer and set fire to a cigarette, sat at my desk. I went online and did a search for “Jia Lun Hong Kong journalist” and found a photo easily enough. It was the same guy who’d been photographed drinking coffee with Steven Zhang. Didn’t find anything online to suggest Jia Lun was an MSS agent, but didn’t expect to. When the second beer bottle was empty, I got up and put on my coat and headed for the door.

  I didn’t want to be in my office anymore.

  I locked the door, despite the obviously limited value of such a gesture. Shunned the elevators, took the stairs down thirteen stories to burn off a little of the residual adrenaline that had leaked into my system when I’d discovered the violation of my office. Walked over to State Street and up two blocks to the Borders bookstore at Randolph, where I found a copy of The Book of Ralph.

  Sometimes after a few fastballs, life throws you an unexpected changeup. I was headed to the cash registers when I saw Jill in the poetry section. My heart raced and I took a step backward and watched her. She was dying her hair a darker shade and the cut was a little shorter, revealing her long elegant neck. She was standing in that familiar pose, weight on one leg, the swell of her left hip showing through her tan raincoat, and in that instant I felt the cumulative ache of the nine months we’d been apart. In that instant, I missed her more than I’d have thought it possible to miss anyone. She closed the book she was reading and took it to the checkout line, passing so close that I could smell her perfume. Amarige. I almost passed out.

  I caught my breath and got in line directly behind her. She didn’t turn around. I stood three feet behind her and imagined taking her by the shoulders and kissing the back of her neck. The fantasy made me light-headed and I pushed it from my mind.

  Jill walked forward and paid for her book, and I paid for mine two cash registers down the line, but she didn’t look over. We were both environmentally friendly consumers and both declined a plastic bag for our books.

  Outside, Jill walked around the corner and stopped in front of a North Community Bank ATM machine. I stopped beside the row of newspaper boxes barely ten feet away. She still hadn’t noticed me, and it bothered me that she was so unaware of her surroundings.

  She seemed particularly oblivious, seemed lost in thought. Dangerous for anyone—man or woman—navigating the streets of the big city. Human predators smell unawareness like dogs smell fear. It’s the smell of easy prey.

  She withdrew some money from the machine and stuffed the money and her bankcard into a wallet and stuffed the wallet into her purse. Crumpled the receipt and tossed it into a full garbage can as she walked away. I plucked the receipt off the top of the trash and stuck it in my pocket.

  She walked back to State Street and toward the stairs that led down to Washington Station. I opened my mouth and said, “Jill,” but I didn’t say it loud enough and she kept walking and started down the stairs.

  “Jill,” I said, louder. Too loud. She spun around. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” I said. “I saw you in the bookstore.” I held up my book as if that explained everything.

  “Hello, Ray.” The same English accent I remembered. “How’ve you been keeping?” An awkward smile.

  I smiled back, hoping mine looked more comfortable. “Well, I’d be a lot better if you’d have a drink with me.”

  I held my breath for about an hour until Jill said, “All right, but one is my limit. Work overbooked and they sent me home but I’m still on call.”

  We walked around the corner to the Elephant & Castle. Along the way I asked about her work. She said things about it never being dull in the ER and about how she might stop taking night shifts even though they pay better than days. We walked side by side and I felt the proximity of our bodies like the collision of two energy fields, wanted to reach out for her hand. Of course I didn’t do it.

  “What about you?” said Jill. “How’s the Mike Hammer business these days?” I wasn’t deaf to the undercurrent of hurt in her mild sarcasm.

  “Oh, you know how it is, dollface,” I said, “another day, another gunfight. But if I don’t save the world, who will?”

  “Sorry,” she said, “I didn’t intend for it to sound so sharp.” She stopp
ed walking, ran fingers through her hair, said, “Look, maybe this isn’t such a terrific idea…”

  “Hey, it’s just a drink,” I used as lighthearted a tone as I could muster. “You can even tease me about my job.” I turned to walk and gently placed my hand in the small of her back and she came along.

  We found a relatively quiet booth in the back corner of the pub, took off our coats, and sat. Jill was wearing a burgundy turtleneck. Outside the sweater a silver chain hung around her neck and a rose pendant lay against her chest just above the swell of her breasts. I didn’t remember ever seeing the necklace when we were a couple and I wondered if it was a courtship present from the good doctor.

  I ordered a pint of Guinness and Jill ordered a gin and tonic and after the waitress left Jill pointed at my book, on the table across from hers. “A friend of mine is reading the same book. She says it’s excellent.” She. Jill didn’t want to say “he.” I took that as a positive sign.

  “It’s really good to see you, Jill,” I said. Thinking You idiot—It’s really good to see you? That is so lame.

  She didn’t answer, just stared into my eyes. Then her hand inched forward and came to rest on mine and zing went the strings of my heart. After a few seconds her hand retreated and she looked away and said, “What am I doing here?”

  But she said it quietly, really to herself, and our drinks arrived at the same time so I pretended not to hear it. I knew I should respect her pullback, not force things. I tried to think of another subject. Took the bank machine receipt from my pocket, slid it across the table. “You should be more careful at bank machines,” I said. Jill read the receipt, recognized it.

  “You were following me.”

  “Yeah, I was right behind you at the ATM. You never noticed me. If I were a mugger, I’d have watched you punch in your PIN number.” I gestured at the receipt. “And I’d know how much you’d withdrawn and your bank balance. You need to pay attention to your surroundings.”