Trigger City

by Sean Chercover

  Contrary to what you see on television, private eyes don’t just set up surveillance in a residential neighborhood whenever the urge strikes. First you check in at the nearest police station. You show your ID to the desk sergeant, explain that you’ll be conducting a surveillance on such and such a block and give him the plate number and description of your car. And if you decide that the desk sergeant is that kind of cop, you grease his palm. It’s a tricky dance.

  If you do the dance successfully, then when a worried civilian calls the cops about some guy sitting in a car all night, the cops will assure the civilian that they know about the guy in the car and everything is fine.

  Malibu Man didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who follows such etiquette. And anyway, he hadn’t had time to check in. So I could call and act like a worried civilian and the cops would dispatch a prowl car to check him out. And that would motivate him to terminate surveillance for the night. But if I did that, he would know he’d been made.

  And they’d be more careful next time.

  I decided not to act. Amy returned and poured fragrant Lapsang souchong into cups. We drank the smoky tea in silence for a minute. She put her cup down and brushed a stray hair out of her eyes.

  She said, “Was he still there?” Progress.

  “Still there. Who is he?”

  “I really don’t know. I’ve never seen him before. He was hanging around in front of my mother’s building when I arrived. The way he avoided looking at me, it caught my attention. I watched him from the window for a while. He didn’t leave. So I called you.”

  “Do you always arrive at the same time?”

  “Between four and four-thirty.”

  “Every day?”

  “Every weekday. Weekends I go in the morning.” So they knew her routine.

  “You said you’ve never seen him before, but you’ve seen men like him,” I said.

  Amy thought a while before answering. “Not…I don’t know,” she sighed. “After Steven…did what he did…I thought that I was being watched. There was often a man in a car outside—not that car and not that man, but someone similar—and sometimes I thought I was being followed. But then it stopped, and for the last month I didn’t see anyone. Until today.”

  The timing made sense, if my theory was correct. Someone at Hawk River had convinced Amy to go along with a cover-up, and they’d kept an eye on her for a while. Probably dropped by a couple of times to test her, as she’d implied during our first meeting. They couldn’t waste manpower forever, so once they were reasonably sure she was sticking to the deal, they’d eased off. But my visit to Joseph Grant put them on edge, and then Terry’s call pushed them over the edge.

  So they put a man on her again. If my theory was correct.

  I picked up the teapot and refilled our cups. “You’re still not telling me everything.”

  “I still don’t know if I can trust you.” She looked at me steadily.

  “Not much choice. You don’t have anyone else.”

  Her eyes moved away, down to her teacup. “Trusting the wrong person is worse than having no one to trust.” One step forward, two steps back.

  I wanted to say something harsh, forced myself to tone it down. A bit. “Knock it off. I know you’re in a difficult position but I’m getting tired of it. You want me to stay, you have to talk to me. Bottom line. I can’t help you without information.”

  Amy didn’t speak or meet my eyes but offered an almost imperceptible nod of her head. I said, “Good. Steven’s mental illness was an act, wasn’t it?”

  Slender feet rose to the couch and she hugged her knees to her chest. A silent tear ran down her left cheek. When she spoke, it was so quiet I had to strain to hear her. “I spend a lot of my time hating Steven these days. Really hating him. I don’t hate him for what he did to Joan Richmond—and that probably makes me a bad person, but I don’t. I hate him for what he did to me and what he did to Theresa.” A new tear followed the path of the first, and then another on the other side. “And I hate him for what he did to my husband.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I watched as Steven killed the man he was, the man I knew, and became someone else. Could he have been pretending? I can’t allow myself to believe that. But if he wasn’t, then he drove himself insane by conscious effort. Right in front of me. He annihilated himself. He took my husband and Theresa’s father away from us…before he shot himself. Do you understand?”

  “I think I do.”

  Her arm moved in a gesture of futility. “And how do I come to terms with that? Joan Richmond’s father is having a hard time coming to terms with her death? How do I come to terms with that?”

  Amy’s tears flowed freely now and she didn’t wipe them away. They rolled down her face and fell onto her dress, making little dark spots on the fabric.

  I didn’t know what to say. I crossed to the couch and sat beside her and put my arm across her shoulders. It felt awkward and I started to think I should retreat. Then she curled her body toward me and buried her head in my chest. I put my other arm around her back and held her as she sobbed for a very long time. I stroked her silken hair and rocked her gently until the convulsive gasps subsided.

  I kissed the top of her head and immediately wished I hadn’t. But she didn’t take it the wrong way. She sat up and sniffed and wiped her face with her sleeve and put her right hand on my chest.

  “I shouldn’t have had any wine. I’m sorry.”

  I brushed tear-soaked hair out of her eyes, “It’s okay.”

  Her eyes met mine and didn’t run away. “Maybe I can trust you,” she said. She wiped her eyes, blew her nose loudly into a Kleenex.

  “Charming,” she said and grabbed another tissue from the box.

  “We still need to talk a little more. Can you do that now?”

  “I guess. I’m just so tired. I’m tired of looking over my shoulder, tired of not knowing what’s going to happen next. Tired of trying to think of what I can do about it, when I really can’t do anything.” Amy curled into the fetal position on the couch, facing the room, and rested her head on my right thigh. “Do you mind?” she said.

  “No.”

  “Can you—can you pat my head again?”

  “Sure.” I put my hand gently on her head.

  After a minute of silence she said, “When I was a little girl and had nightmares, my mother would come into my room and sit on my bed and pat my head like that.” She wiped her nose with the tissue. “I just wish this nightmare could be patted away.”

  “You and me both.” I stroked her hair.

  “All right,” said Amy, “ask your questions.”

  I said, “You knew that Steven worked for Hawk River.”

  “Yes.”

  “And that he was fired.”

  “Yes.”

  “What reason did he give you?”

  “He said that a man named Sten was framing him. Sten had manufactured evidence that made it look like he was stealing from the company.” Amy’s exhaustion was taking over and her voice sounded sleepy, far away.

  “Stealing what?”

  “I don’t know. Information to sell. Steven wouldn’t tell me anything more. He said that Sten had built a strong case and he couldn’t fight it. He just had to take it. I knew Steven for sixteen years…he had the strongest character of any man I’ve ever met. I’d seen him handle stress that would kill most people. But I’d never seen him so scared…so helpless, as the day he was fired from Hawk River.”

  It’s harder to lie convincingly in that grogginess before sleep and I figured this was probably my best chance for getting Amy to tell the truth, uncensored by fear. Fear is a mighty censor and although Amy was opening up, she was still measuring her words carefully.

  I said, “Sten told me that Steven was stealing employee records and trying to sell them to the Chinese government.”

  “That’s absurd. Steven would never do—would never have done that. That’s one thing I am absolutely certain of
.”

  “He said that Steven was in debt over his head. Gambling.”

  She sat up and there was fury in her tired eyes. “Oh sure, he’s Chinese so he must have a gambling problem. Bullshit.”

  “I’m not making the accusation. I’m just telling you what Sten said.”

  “Steven did not gamble. We lived within our means. And he hated the Chinese government…even more than I do. I can’t believe you’re—”

  I held up my hand. “Stop. I’m on your side here. I’m just trying to figure out what Sten was up to.” I reached out and put my hand on Amy’s shoulder, guided her back down to the couch. She didn’t resist and settled with her head on my thigh again. I said, “Why would Sten set him up?”

  “I don’t know. Steven wouldn’t tell me. He said it was for my own good, that it was better for me not to know. I pushed him, but he wouldn’t say.”

  “Any guesses?” I put my hand back on her head.

  “I think he learned something about Hawk River when he was working on their computers. Something he wasn’t supposed to know. Something bad. So they framed him and fired him and threatened to go to the police and press charges if he complained. That’s what I think. But I’m guessing.”

  “And maybe he shared what he learned with Joan Richmond. She quit less than a month later.”

  “Perhaps. They spoke on the phone a few times after he was fired.”

  “Did they continue to have contact after she quit?”

  “They spoke on the phone occasionally. And we had Joan over to dinner once, just after she started her new job. She felt badly about what they’d done to Steven, even though it wasn’t her fault. She promised that she’d hire him for any IT work she needed at the department store. And she did.”

  “Did you see Joan again, other than that dinner?”

  “No.”

  “Did Steven?”

  “Not that I know of, until he got the contract at HM Nichols. They spoke on the phone every month or so.”

  “Back to the dinner. What was the conversation like?”

  “They didn’t talk about Hawk River, if that’s what you mean. As I said, Joan told us how sorry she was about the way things turned out there, and Steven assured her that it wasn’t her fault, but that was it. We tried to have a pleasant evening. We talked about the dinner. I made veal marsala. We talked about the neighborhood. And music. I should say, they talked about music. Steven loved American pop music and Joan recommended a lot of bands he should listen to. I didn’t really pay much attention. Music is not my thing, so I focused on Theresa and got her to bed.” Amy was drifting off as I stroked her head and her words were slurring.

  “Anything else?”

  “Um, not that I can, uh, remember. It was a long time ago and it was…none of it seemed important at the time…just, you know, a social dinner, like…any other…” Then she said, “Am…so…tired…”

  There were more questions but they could wait until morning. I took my pistol from the holster on my hip and put it on the coffee table in front of me and settled against the back of the couch. I patted Amy’s head some more and listened to her breathe.

  Once she was asleep, I slid her head off my thigh and onto a sofa cushion, turned off the lamp at her end of the sofa, moved to a recliner facing the front door. Took the gun with me, put it within reach on a side table.

  She was a beautiful woman. Not the kind of beautiful that you see in the movies or magazines. Beautiful and smart and not yet defeated by all that she’d been through. Not yet defeated, but tired and running out of energy. Running out of fight.

  And this new round of fighting was my fault. They’d stopped following her before I got involved. I’d walked right up to the mouth of the cave and poked at the sleeping monster with a stick. I’d even brought Terry into it, handed him a stick, too.

  And now the monster was awake.

  You learn to watch out for red flags when working on a case, and if there are enough of them, you get out. I couldn’t even see this case for all the red flags. But to get out would be to abandon Amy. There was no way around it.

  My grandfather often said, “In for a penny, in for a pound.” It was an expression he picked up from the Brits, back when he was in the navy. Back when the British pound was worth three bucks.

  I watched Amy sleep and thought, In for a penny, in for a pound.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  For Amy Zhang, morning came laden with regret. She was reluctant to answer more questions—didn’t even want to talk about the previous night except to say that she shouldn’t have had any wine and had said too much. And I pressed her aggressively, which just made things worse.

  I’d been outside four times since sunrise. No Malibu. No occupied cars nearby of any make or model. Amy and I now stood in her bright kitchen. At an impasse. I tried various angles but she still wouldn’t talk about it. I grew frustrated and said something unpleasant. Now we stood bathed in morning sun, facing each other, saying nothing. I thought she might bolt from the room. She didn’t. She approached me tentatively. Then leaned against me, her ear to my chest. Despite my frustration, I put my arms around her.

  She said, “Thank you for last night. I needed to cry on someone. And God knows, I needed the sleep. But I find this hard to accept. Without the wine clouding my head…it just seems too absurd. I’m supposed to believe that you were working for Joan Richmond’s father and you suddenly decided, for no reason at all, to risk your life on my behalf…”

  “And it’s easier to believe that Hawk River sent me to test you again,” I said. “I thought we were past that.” I touched her chin but she wouldn’t look up.

  She said, “If you are working for them—”

  “Hey—”

  “No. If you are working for them, then you’ll go back and report that I can’t be trusted.” She said it without emotion, like she was working on a math problem. “And that’s that. They’ll kill me. Or you’ll kill me.”

  “Amy, stop it.”

  “I just want you to know, Theresa knows nothing about it. Do you understand? I told her nothing.”

  “That’s enough,” I snapped. “Cut it out. I’m not working for them.”

  “Then why are you doing this for me?”

  I considered mentioning justice for Ernie Banks, but that was far too glib. She deserved the truth. I owed her that.

  “They left you alone a month ago, right? Why the hell do you think they’re back? I’m the one who started asking questions about Joan’s murder. I’m responsible for this.”

  Amy looked up at me. I couldn’t read her expression. She said, “You didn’t start this.”

  “Neither did you,” I said.

  “No, but I’m in it. You don’t have to be.”

  I brushed a hair out of her eyes. “I do have to be.”

  She broke contact, moved to the other side of the kitchen, folded her arms across her chest. “Please, no questions this morning. I need some time to think.”

  That was my limit.

  “Okay, I’m done,” I said. “The back-and-forth game gets old real fast. You need some time to think? Fine.” I snatched my car keys off the kitchen counter and stalked to the front door. Amy ran after me.

  I slipped into my shoes and coat and unlocked the door. I said, “Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone. Do not visit Theresa today. Call and make an excuse. You’ve got the flu, you don’t want her to catch it. Lock the door behind me and don’t leave the house. If anything happens, call my cell. I’ll be back tonight.”

  “Ray, I’m sorry. Please try to understand, it’s hard for me to—”

  I didn’t stick around to hear the excuses and apologies. I left her babbling at the front door and walked away.

  I stopped at my office and called a contact at DMV, gave her the Malibu’s license plate, hung up the phone, and wrote a check for a hundred bucks and put her home address on the envelope. I dropped the envelope down the mail chute in the hallway.

  Then
I tossed darts at the board until my fax machine buzzed and spat out the answer.

  The car was a rental. Rental cars move around the country, sometimes on one-way hires. But I got lucky. This car’s “home base” was a rental agency in Chicago, at the north end of the Magnificent Mile. I left the office and called Vince from my car. He didn’t answer so I left him a voice mail. Called Terry, left him one, too.

  I drove the rest of the way to North Michigan Avenue on autopilot, regretting my blowup with Amy. She has every right to be wary…she’d be crazy not to be. In her shoes, you’d be just as guarded…maybe more so. Hell, no maybes about it. Some guy just shows up at your door and generously offers to save your life? You’d never believe him.

  Still, her reluctance bothered me and I had to remind myself not to take it personally. Truth is, the previous night had been the most intimate I’d had with a woman in a very long time. And I hated to see it lost this morning.

  By 11:30 I was standing in the little white office of a car rental chain, talking to a skinny kid in his late twenties. The kid had a tangle of blond curls perched on his head, a shark’s tooth on a hemp string around his neck, and the demeanor of a surfer who got stoned in California and woke up in Chicago.

  “Dude, I’d love to help you, really,” said the kid, “but I’m not allowed to give out that kind of info, ya know? I mean, like, I could get fired.”

  I shifted my hand on the counter so he could see the fifty-dollar bill peeking out from under my fingers. Not so long ago, a twenty would’ve made an impression on a kid like him. Now it took a fifty.

  He wiped his mouth with his hand, said, “I’d like to, but my manager can see if I call up customer info on the ’puter…”

  “Forget the computer,” I said. “Tell me what you remember about the customer.”

  “Well, he was, like, big? You know, tall? A mean-looking dude, kinda like a cop, but different. Hair real short. Had a long black coat, he put it right there on the counter. And the dude was built.” It was the same guy.

  “Remember his name?”