Robert was curled in a corner of the warehouse trying to sleep through the waves of pain when the waiter from the insulting restaurant ran into the warehouse. “He’s dead.”
“How do you know that?” demanded the Tong leader.
“Gay men are nurses throughout Vancouver – in the morgues too. I sent out the word and back it came. The ‘rag man’ was named Larry Allen. He was a lecturer at Langara College.”
“I need to see the autopsy report,” said Fong. No one moved. Fong turned to the Tong leader. “That shouldn’t be so hard for a connected guy like you?”
“Forensic labs are run by Japanese, not Hakka Chinese. You may recall our history, Inspector – there is no love lost between our two nations.”
Fong threw up his hands.
“Would the autopsy report go into a database?” the Tong leader asked.
“I would assume as much.”
The Tong leader looked to the young glasseswearing member of his “boys.”
“So?”
“Shouldn’t be a problem.”
“How long?”
“Ten minutes, twenty, tops.” The voice was confident but extremely high. Like that of a teenage girl’s.
The Tong leader read the data from the computer screen over his IT guy’s shoulder. “They found the rag man’s body in an alley behind Pender Street.” That stilled the movement in the room. Then he added, “He was cut into pieces. Severed cleanly at the joints. The coroner makes a notation that the work was done with ‘tremendous haste but great accuracy.’” He lit a British cigarette that had a goldcoloured filter then added, “You’ll love this. The heart was cut out of the guy’s chest then slit in half. They only found one of the halves at the crime site.”
“What!” The single word leapt out of Fong’s mouth with such force that every eye turned to him. “Say that again!” he ordered.
The man repeated the details of the severed heart. Fong couldn’t believe his ears. “I want that confirmed.” He turned to the Tong leader and said again, “Can you get confirmation of that?”
“Why?”
“Because if it’s true then none of us in this room, yourself included, smart guy, are safe. Is that a good enough reason?”
“Why would that . . .”
“Because that’s the signature of a guild assassin.”
“Oh come on that’s nothing more than . . .”
“Myth? Fairy tale? Listen to me! Nine years ago I killed a guild assassin. He butchered two men on the streets of Shanghai in broad daylight. In each case the bodies were left like human jigsaw puzzles and the hearts had been pulled from the victim’s chest, then cut in half. The half that was found, in both cases, had a piece bitten out of it.”
“But did this one,” asked the Dalong Fada leader, “have a piece bitten out of it?”
“Scroll,” the Tong Leader ordered. “There.” A strange smile came over the Tong leader’s face. “No. But there were markings on the cut side of the heart that the coroner couldn’t identify.”
“What kind of markings?” asked Fong.
“The coroner called them soft impressions.”
Fong tried to put that together but couldn’t.
“What does all that matter? Nine years ago you killed a guild assassin – you got him. So he was just . . .”
“It wasn’t my skill that allowed me to kill him. It was him,” Fong paused unwilling to put on the table his surmise that Loa Wei Fen had in fact committed suicide. Fong knew he had to offer up some sort of explanation for the young guild assassin’s death. All he could think of saying was, “Something was wrong with him.”
There was a lengthy pause in the room. No one knew what to say next. Finally the Tong leader said, “So this assassin is here, in Vancouver now?”
“I sensed that I’d been tracked for some time.” He didn’t bother mentioning the feeling of someone tracing the outline of his heart as he slept on Jericho Beach or the image he’d seen in the running-shoestore’s plate-glass window. “He’s here. A guild assassin in your city.”
Fong looked at the men in the room. The heads slowly nodded as the idea of a guild assassin in their midst solidified in their minds.
“But he may also be our last point of access,” Fong said.
“To what?”
“To whom,” Fong corrected.
“So to whom?” demanded the Tong leader.
Fong ignored the question. “The guild does not kill at random. They are sanctioned by the state. They are a last resort. I can only assume that the reason he hasn’t attacked yet is that he hasn’t been given the order to kill.”
“He killed the rag man.”
“Mr. Allen must have been unfortunate enough to have seen him up close.”
“But who would give the order?” Robert asked in a hoarse, weak voice.
“The money behind all this. The silent partner.”
“But who would be his target?” asked Matthew.
As all eyes turned to Fong, Fong’s mind was far away. Of course he would be the target. But the problem was that even if he could stop the assassin, how could he get the man to tell them who gave him the order to kill – in other words, who the silent partner was.
Dirty sunlight splashed across his face. He looked out the filthy window. It was another day.
As the assassin tracked Fong from the warehouse he felt the snake skin handle of the swalto blade turn towards his hand. “Soon,” he cooed softly. “Very soon.” He felt the weight of the ancient snake on his back. He felt purpose. He felt strength. He felt the presence of Loa Wei Fen at his side, begging him to revenge his death.
“I need it and I need it fast, Lily.” Fong was speaking too loudly into his cell phone and he knew it but he couldn’t stop himself. He was walking east on West Georgia trying to stay in the midst of as many people as possible. He knew it was no real defence, but it was all he could think of doing.
Lily hesitated but finally responded, “It was a long time ago Fong. Another world.”
“But the old coroner kept great records. Lily, I know this is hard. I know you cared about him. But he’s been dead a long time and he was the best coroner Shanghai ever had – and he was a meticulous record keeper. Lily, please. Get me those records.”
Again Lily hesitated. Fong heard her take a deep breath and then let it out slowly. When she spoke her voice was more centred – in fact, it was determined. “Will it help catch the people who are making this happen in Anhui Province?”
“Yes, Lily, I hope it will.”
“Not enough good, Short Stuff,” she said switching to her version of English. Then in her elegant Shanghanese she finished with, “Promise me. Promise me for our daughter, for Xiao Ming, that you will get these bastards.”
“I promise,” he replied in English, although he had no idea if he could fulfill his promise.
Lily held her breath and entered the old coroner’s office. As a young forensic specialist she had spent many hours in the old coroner’s domain. Never having known her own father, Lily often thought of the old man as her– well, as her father. When she turned on the light in the old autopsy room in the basement of the Hua Shan Hospital she was immediately flooded with memories. She felt that at any moment he would appear at her side hacking his guts out which was his normal “good morning, how’re ya” greeting – a lit cigarette on a constant dangle from the corner of his slightly downturned – or was it just his basic snarly – mouth. He never acknowledged it but he loved to teach and Lily was an avid learner. Over his shoulder she watched his remarkably delicate hands take apart the smallest sections of human tissue and pronounce upon the trauma evidenced there.
The old autopsy room had been converted into a storeroom when the Hua Shan Hospital finally completed its expansion. They hadn’t bothered to remove the slanted metal table and now it, as well as most of the available floor space, was piled high with the old coroner’s file cases.
Lily shook off the sentimental world of memory and forc
ed herself to concentrate on why she was in the midst of this room stacked high with mouldy paper. Anhui – AIDS – a peasant man now walking some 1,000 kilometres to an empty home.
A rat skittered across the floor and disappeared behind one of the boxes. She walked calmly over to the box and shoved it hard against the wall. A momentary high-pitched squeal pierced the quiet of the room – then was no more. Lily didn’t wince. Killing rats was important for the health of the hospital and its patients. Finding rats was important for the health of defenceless peasants in Anhui Province who were dying in the thousands.
She grabbed the first file and scanned for dates.
It had been a while since the old assassin had seen his own blood.
He held up his hand and turned it in the morning sun. The blood that came from the back of his hand and circled its way down his inner arm didn’t bother him although he was taken aback that so much blood had been caused by such a little knick. He was however stunned that he had accidentally hit his hand. Control of both body and emotion had been central to his talent for so many years that he took it for granted. Then this.
He kicked at the sand, sending a spray of pebbles far out into the water. In the inlet a small boat ferried people to Granville Island and its overpriced tourist shops. The boat looked like a bathtub with a motor.
He turned back to the rock structure that he’d inadvertently smacked his hand against. It was a series of granite rocks that were balanced one upon the next, forming a rough image of a human. From the literature he’d read he knew that these were the works of aboriginals. He stepped back and examined the rocks. His blood stood out starkly against the colour of the stone in approximately the position of the sculpture’s nose – if it had a nose.
The sun glistened off the blood smear and he stepped away from it. Again, more inadvertent than intended. He shallowed his breathing and reminded himself of the need for patience. But his patience was running short. Loa Wei Fen’s ghost was screaming in his ear for revenge and Zhong Fong was there on the beach waiting for something.
“I found it.” Lily’s voice was tight, tense.
“Are you all right, Lily?” Fong asked.
“I’ve been better.”
“I’m sorry I had to ask you . . .”
She didn’t want to hear an apology. She wanted to hear that he was going to be all right. That the father of her daughter was going to return home safely. “Shut up, Fong and listen. I found the file on Loa Wei Fen’s death. And there’s something in it that might help us.”
“What?”
“The coroner completed the autopsy on the body then it was shipped back to Taiwan. There’s a notation in the file that the body was picked up from the airport over there by a group of people.”
“Who were they?”
“There’s no mention in the file, Fong. But Taiwan is paranoid when it comes to security so I’m sure there are video surveillance images available.” She paused, then added, “In Taiwan, which is not exactly our best friend these days, Fong.”
“Joan could help.” There was a very long pause. “You still there, Lily?”
After another very long pause Lily answered in her own hybrid version of English, “Now my ex me wants to talk to his new non-ex, neh?”
“Call her, Lily, she might know a way to get hold of the surveillance tape.”
Lily thought about that for a moment. Then she remembered the deep sadness in the peasant’s eyes when she told him that his wife had died and said, “Same number, Short Stuff?”
“Yes, Lily, it’s the same number.”
“Fong?”
“Yes?”
“It’s raining here.”
Although it was brilliant sunshine in Vancouver, Fong replied, “Here too.”
Joan had to ask a second time, “Who is this?”
“Fong’s Lily wife.”
Joan took a deep breath and tried to steady herself. “Is Fong hurt?”
“Not yet.”
“What does that mean?”
Lily was tempted to say, “Don’t talk like that, young lady” but knew it made her sound old. She switched to Shanghanese, “Fong needs information from the Taiwan security police.”
“Special Investigations has . . .”
“. . . a liaison officer, I know. But Fong needs this information now, not after days of negotiation.”
“So what can I do?”
“You’re from Hong Kong, dammit. It’s almost the same as Taiwan. Pick up the phone and call someone – now!”
Joan had to call four different sources, each of whom called two others. Then she waited. The ding from her computer momentarily set her heart fluttering. Then up scrolled a high angle shot, evidently from the open cargo bay of an airplane. The coffin with Loa Wei Fen’s remains was on a dolly of some sort. A very young woman and three clearly athletic men had their hands on the coffin. There was a fifth figure. An old serving man who pushed the dolly.
She waited for further images. None came. At midnight Shanghai time she emailed the image to Fong’s BlackBerry.
Fong sat with his back against the railing of the small ship that had attempted a northwest passage. He’d spent much of the day on the dry-docked vessel. It struck Fong as terribly ironic that the Golden Mountain only existed because Europeans were so anxious to find China and they had used boats like this to find the way. The cramped quarters of the boat didn’t bother Fong and he found the narrow access to the boat a kind of safety. From his position on the railing he could watch everyone who bought a ticket and came on board – and there were a limited number of tickets sold at one time which also helped him.
His BlackBerry sounded. He punched the Receive button, and up came the pixelated photo from the Taiwan airport.
Lily’s comment, “Only picture we have,” appeared then disappeared.
Fong scanned the picture carefully: a simple pinebox coffin on a hand trolley wheeled by an old serving man towards three fit young men and a young girl who waited by a black hearse.
Fong manipulated the scan so that each face filled the entire screen. He ignored the girl who seemed only eight or nine years old and examined the three men’s faces closely. But nothing jogged a memory. No face, even taking into consideration changes that could have taken place over nine years, matched the rogues’ gallery in his head.
He saved the image in a JPEG format then turned off the machine. The image dissolved irregularly with parts from one section disappearing to wherever it is that pixels disappear to before parts of other sections.
He put in a call to Matthew and within an hour was standing in the deserted warehouse with his “troops.”
Matthew had made copies of the BlackBerry image and gave them out.
“Oh, hey, the girl looks tough,” the Tong leader snarked.
Fong thought, this image is nine years old. She could be quite tough now. “Do we have any way of identifying the three men?”
The glasses-wearing Tong youth shook his head. “I could put the three images through time-lapse. Nine years isn’t all that much but the changes could be interesting. As well, I’ll do images with facial hair and glasses.”
“How long?”
“Seconds.” The dweeb plunked and scrolled and punched his computer, and out tumbled three images of each of the suspects. Everyone grabbed copies and stared at the faces.
“Now what?” asked Matthew.
“Robert gets his car.”
Fong helped Robert to his feet. The man was exhausted and clearly in pain.
“I thought it was bugged,” Robert said.
“It not only was, but it is bugged,” Fong said. “Now we lead them.”
“Into a trap?” asked the Tong leader.
“The art of war is very clear on how to do this.”
“I know. Just tell me where?”
Fong thought for a moment. He wanted as few Asians around as possible so that the guild assassin would stand out. “Up towards the Capilano swinging bridge. Have you
r people set up a roadblock on the way. The road is steep and only two lanes. There are parking lots along the side. Robert and I will lead them up; you cut them off.”
The Tong leader smiled.
Robert coughed blood onto the steering wheel. “We should take you to the hospital.”
“Timing’s not so good for that, Fong,” Robert said as he swung the rental car out into traffic. “Besides, if I check in I’ll never check out.” Fong was about to respond when Robert added, “Like a roach motel.”
“A what?”
“Never mind. So should I drive slowly or something?”
“No. The opposite. Drive aggressively. It will imply that we’re running.”
The yellow luminescence on the cell-phone screen began to move. And so did the guild assassin. And others.
Traffic jammed the way across the Second Narrows Bridge, but Robert kept his foot on the accelerator any time he could. His stomach felt like it was dropping through his body, through a pool of warm cancersoaked crap. He put a hand on his belly and pushed. The pain almost made him cry out.
Fong was watching the traffic that finally thinned as they left the bridge. Fong had given the Tong members lots of time to set up their fake roadblock and insisted that they set up a second.
Robert took the hard right-hand turn and headed up the mountain gorge. He was having trouble steering. His mind drifted. Fong seemed far away. The trees seemed beautiful.
It was the pale blue eyes that got the Tong leader. The itch he sensed behind them. The violent purity of the racial hatred. “You boys always dress like cops or is it Chinese Halloween already.”
The Tong leader went for his cell phone only to find the pale blue-eyed cop’s gun pressed hard against his right eye. “You can make a call at the station, if you’re real nice.”
The large force of cops behind the blue-eyed cop quickly disarmed and “uncellphoned” the Tong members.
“I should have gotten a call telling me that they’re set up,” said Fong.
“They called that they were already there.”
The Golden Mountain Murders Page 21