Final Price

by J. Gregory Smith

  Chang walked over to a second city police cruiser. Time to get a statement from the civilian who found the body. An Officer Burris stood guard. He was almost as tall as Chang and carried a roll of weight around the middle.

  Burris glanced at Chang’s identification. “Oh good, the cavalry. I feel so much safer now that a professional is here.” He shifted his gaze to Chang’s neck. His scar. “You lose a sword fight or something?”

  Chang felt blood rise in his face. He didn’t know if the witness could hear Burris inside the car or not. He stepped close enough to smell garlic.

  “I didn’t lose. Does this man have a name?”

  Burris stepped back and shoved a clipboard at Chang. “You’re the expert—it’s all here.”

  Chang scanned the report. The man in the cruiser, Norm Chandler, found the victim, Rami Patel, shot dead. Patel, thirty-six, no wife, no kids. Chang stared at Burris until he moved away, then opened the car door.

  “Mr. Chandler?” The man looked up. He appeared to be in his early fifties. Chang introduced himself. “I understand you were the first to find the deceased?”

  “I guess so. I called it in as soon as I saw what happened.”

  “Tell me exactly what you saw.”

  “Got off my shift at the GM plant in Newark around three o’clock and stopped here on my way home, like I usually do. I thought Rami was in back, but then I saw the feet and I thought he might have passed out or something.” Chandler looked pale.

  “What then?”

  “Like I said, I thought Rami passed out or had a heart attack or something, so I ran over to see if I could help. Soon as I saw all that blood I got the hell out of there and called you guys.” He breathed faster and his forehead grew slick.

  “Did you check to see if he was still alive first?”

  “Hey, I was in the service, and I know what a dead guy looks like, okay? Besides, I didn’t want to stick around to see if there was anyone still in the store, you know what I mean? I have a wife and three kids.”

  “You called the victim by name. Did you know him well?”

  “Just saw him once a day to buy coffee and the paper and shit like that. He wore a nametag. He had a strong accent, so we didn’t have too many deep, meaningful conversations or nothing. His English wasn’t good like yours.”

  “Thanks.” Chang pushed aside memories of endless diction lessons and surprise tests at the dinner table by his father. “Did you see anything else out of place? Was anyone coming out of the parking lot when you pulled in?”

  “No. That time of the morning the lot’s usually empty.”

  Chang thanked him and verified contact information.

  Back in the store, Burris peered down at Patel’s body. He shook his head.

  “Damndest thing I ever saw,” Burris said.

  “Why do you say that?” Chang’s Uncle Tuen always told him that a wise man will jump at a chance to make amends.

  “Robbery and some shootings I’ve seen, but that lemon thing is weird. The Staties got you from homicide in New York, right?”

  “That’s right.” Chang stared at the mangled lemon perched on the victim’s face.

  “Thought so. Do you know what the crushed fruit means?”

  “Not yet.” Something buzzed in Chang’s head. Why did this remind him of the Elsmere murders? Killer played with food there, too. Vietnamese use lemongrass in their cooking. Connection to the Nguyens?

  “Well, that ought to break the case wide open. Good thing you stopped by. I think we got it from here.” Burris showed his teeth.

  “Excuse me?” Chang watched Burris puff out his chest. No more second chances.

  Burris waved to the forensics team. “City limits, champ. This is ours. We’ll call if we need any more New York perspective.”

  “I don’t think so. You said it yourself. Unusual circumstances. I call it for State.”

  “The hell you say. How do you figure?”

  Chang quelled the urge to flip Burris to the ground and instead affected an exaggerated Asian accent. “Confucius say: Man who turn face into juicer, not using food for thought.”

  “Huh?”

  “I think this crime is tied to that double murder in Elsmere. I’m the lead on that investigation, and this case is now part of it.” The small blue-collar town was outside city limits, but Burris wouldn’t go quietly.

  Burris planted his feet. “I don’t agree.” By now the forensics team, a short woman and tall man, watched and waited.

  “And I don’t need your consent. If you don’t like it, take it up with the colonel. Until he says otherwise, this one is mine.” Chang closed the distance and stared down Burris. When Burris looked away, Chang held out his hand for the clipboard to sign off on the body. The tall man gave it to him. Burris stood for a moment, and then Chang heard him grunt “Uppity slope…” under his breath and walk away.

  An ambulance crew loaded Patel’s body after the forensics team cleared it.

  “Aside from the lemon on the victim, it looks like a straightforward shooting,” the short technician said, jotting notes.

  Her partner nodded agreement. “Two rounds to the subject’s head, one slug likely still in the skull and one we have a chance at locating, given the size of the exit wound.”

  Chang wanted a second opinion. “Where was he when he got hit?”

  “Facing the door.” The short tech pointed to the fan of blood and tissue on the floor.

  The killer made eye contact.

  Chang aimed his finger at approximately head level for Patel. He scanned the wall. “There you are.” Chang took out a pocket knife and gently dug around the hole. He pulled out a lead slug.

  Chang held up the bullet to the lanky tech. “Looks like a .38, don’t you think?”

  “Good eye. It’s a little deformed from the wall, but it looks too heavy to be a nine. We’ll know more if the other one comes out of the victim.”

  Gilpin returned after thirty minutes. His uniform sported several large stains.

  “Sir, if he ditched it nearby, it wasn’t in any of the dumpsters I searched. Why did Burris say I shouldn’t talk to you?”

  “Never mind him. Thanks for the effort.” Chang pressed a twenty into his hand. “For the cleaning bill.”

  When Chang drove off, he saw Gilpin wave. Burris stood nearby and shot Chang the finger.

  CHAPTER 3

  Overtime

  A couple hours before dawn. No point going home; he wouldn’t sleep. Chang pointed the unmarked car toward Quaker Hill. Never met a Quaker in this rough part of town, but he didn’t seek pacifists when he walked the streets.

  Chang parked on a lonely side street and tossed his shield in the glove box. His shift was over, and he felt the switch flip in his head. He got out of the car and felt the weight of his pistol under his armpit. In his mind, he let the facts flow from this and another puzzling murder. His instincts cried out that there had to be a connection. He wandered the empty sidewalks and relished the dark windows of the slumbering businesses. Like closed eyes. No judgment.

  In half a month, two sets of murders that didn’t fit the area norm. Two weeks ago the double murder at a Vietnamese grocery in Elsmere.

  A Vietnamese immigrant couple, Tran and Min Nguyen, shot to death, execution style. Both tied up, seated in chairs, and each shot twice in the back of the head with a .22-caliber weapon. The empty cash register was no surprise; not so the merchandise in each victim’s lap.

  Chang figured the killer must have entered the small grocery store near closing time. Nobody reported anything until the Nguyens’ son came by to work the early shift at the store the next morning.

  Jason Nguyen had given clear answers through tears Chang knew he must have been embarrassed to shed in front of a stranger. His parents held a respected position in the community, and they owed no large debts. The store earned enough for a modest living. They’d just replaced their twelve-year-old Honda Civic with a new one they planned to drive for the next twelve. No l
ife insurance, and Jason was their only son. Chang ruled him out as a suspect.

  The photos of the cans and vegetables ran through his mind, block after block in the predawn gloom. He flashed back on the crushed lemon on Patel’s face. What’s the link? Must find one soon, or Burris and the locals would take the case away from him.

  The weapon used to kill Patel was probably a .38, bigger than the .22 used on the Nguyens. Tied up and shot in the back of the head versus twice in the face. Takes more guts to look the victim in the eye, he knew.

  The Patel shooting fit a robbery gone wrong, but the lemon rippled that surface appearance like a rock in a pond. Never saw a thief mash a fruit into a dead man’s face. A message? A warning?

  Jason Nguyen showed trust when he admitted to Chang that his parents paid “protection” money each month to a local Vietnamese organized crime group. He didn’t think the kid noticed the way Chang’s anger and sympathy swirled together in a poisonous blend.

  Gangs…Chang noticed the stars fade at the first signs of dawn. The streets and alleys in this part of town reminded him of the gang-controlled territory of his youth. The signs were in English, but he could see his Uncle Tuen move inside the glass storefronts. Chang passed a pawnshop, and a small jade figurine on display reminded him of the way Tuen’s long fingers would turn an antique piece over and over while he explained its history and spiritual meaning.

  The image of his uncle’s kind eyes and quick hands gave way to the hatchet-hacked nightmare left for Chang to discover. The Tongs had spoken: Pay up.

  Did Jason Nguyen get the same message?

  Uncle Tuen taught him to take all the indignities of life in Chinatown, white America, even the demands of his parents, and place them in a sphere in his heart. Chang could still hear his voice: “Concentrate on business. Do not give power to others; live well. Best revenge…”

  Jason never saw anybody slip out the back door like Chang did so long ago. Maybe that was best. The sight of the killer and Tuen’s body gave Chang his first glimpse of the Dragon. Tuen’s sphere turned out to be what Chang thought of as an egg. The brutal murder caused it to hatch. The Dragon had a voice of its own, and the fury in Chang’s chest said, Payback.

  Police knew the local gang that shook down the Nguyens. For the most part it kept to zoning bribes, property scams, and questionable merchandise brought in through Philly. They didn’t stand out for excessive violence against the tightly knit Vietnamese community in north Delaware.

  Chang’s face burned with shame in the cool morning air. After Uncle Tuen was killed, his father groveled to the Tongs with bribes. Probably would have for the rest of his life if Chang hadn’t repaid the Tongs and survived their own retaliation. Chang rubbed the thick cord of scar tissue that ran down his neck.

  Were some of Jason’s tears for the shame he felt?

  He remembered the mixture of relief and embarrassment when Father sold the business and left New York for Delaware. Art professor was an honorable position, but why did he have to run from New York?

  Chang and the Dragon wanted war; his father wanted peace. The price was too high either way, and Chang never managed to close the chasm before his father’s heart gave out years later.

  Pink light filtered through the early morning mist. Something about this case. Strange uses of food. Should he ask Nelson for help?

  Nelson. His closest friend and biggest burden. Some days he wished the guy had stayed in New York, but Chang had brought him down here and thus felt responsible for him.

  Now the man just holed up in his little town house in Bear and played with his dog. He told Chang he liked his job with the state. Chang knew he lied, but pretended not to notice. Nelson’s cop days were over.

  On the job, Nelson was like some sort of weird bloodhound for clues. At least before his breakdown. Was it fair to drag him out again?

  The sound of breaking glass cut through the fog in Chang’s mind. He strode toward the corner and heard muffled voices and a scream.

  “Pull him out. Hit him again. Do it.”

  Chang neared the corner. The screamer moaned now. He heard a thump that reminded him of the way old ladies in Chinatown used to hang rugs out the windows and beat them with bamboo rods to clean them.

  He poked his head around the wall. Two men with their backs to him, one with a bat. Long, straggly brown hair. Both white. On the ground, an elderly black man with a white, wooly head of hair. Dressed well, coat and tie. A bunch of keys lay on the ground in front of a pharmacy door.

  The old man met Chang’s gaze for an instant. Pain and terror. Chang felt the Dragon stir in his chest.

  CHAPTER 4

  In the Grip of the Dragon

  One final kick and the old man lay on his chest, unconscious. The jackals still didn’t know Chang was there.

  “Get the key. Hurry up.”

  Chang smelled the spicy jasmine oil from Tuen’s shop. He felt the scales of the Dragon slide through the bars of its cage and fill his chest, arms, legs, head…

  One of the animals fiddled with the keys. Shaky fingers, all twitchy and hungry. The other, thick and strong, held the bat. Heard the footfalls and turned. “Dude.”

  The skinny one jumped and gave a little feral snarl. He reached into his back pocket and flicked open a knife. The big one smiled and rested the bat on his shoulder.

  “Well, well, well. You here to get your vities nice and early?” Both hands on his bat.

  Pinpoint eyes. Probably high. Won’t feel as much pain…Yes, he will.

  “Speaky English?” Poked the bat at his stomach.

  Rapid laugh from the knife guy.

  “Don’t run.” Chang heard the flat voice that came out of his own mouth. He felt like an observer.

  “Don’t worry.” Baseball bat came at him, looked like it was in slow motion, and Chang watched his own foot lash out to catch the big guy in the knee. He barely registered the off-balance blow on his shoulder and felt something give in the guy’s leg. Howl of pain and the guy fell. The aluminum bat clattered on the sidewalk.

  Knife. Chang leapt back from the silvery flash that arced along his side. He didn’t feel a cut but was beyond pain. Maybe later.

  “Evan, get up! Fucker’s quick,” Skinny said.

  Evan rolled on the ground and clutched his knee. Skinny gripped the knife and stabbed at Chang’s midsection. Chang backed up a couple steps, and Skinny kept jabbing with the knife. The old man groaned again. Not dead. Good. Chang let Skinny get closer, and when he tried to stab him again, he turned sideways, parried the knife arm, and grabbed it by the wrist.

  He used Skinny’s momentum and redirected him face-first into the stone wall of a building. He held the wrist with his left hand and twisted Skinny’s fingers with his right until Skinny shrieked and dropped the knife.

  Chang kicked the knife away and began to crush the fingers. The Dragon sent wave after wave of adrenaline into his hands. The sound of snapped pencils filled the air. Skinny dropped to his knees. Blood ran down his face, and he cradled his mangled hand. A hard knee to the side of his head was all it took to ease his pain. Chang yanked the reins of the Dragon before it tried to finish Skinny off. He was able to turn its gaze toward Evan.

  Evan was crawling down the block. Chang waited for him to try to get up. When Evan started to hop, he closed the distance. Evan raised his hands.

  “Dude, you win. I didn’t get anything off the guy. Let me go.”

  Another sound from the old man.

  “Dude, you broke my fucking leg. All right?”

  No. Be quick.

  Evan tried to run and fell. When he began to crawl, Chang saw his own shoe flash into the beefy ribcage, once, twice, three times. Enough. He yanked on the reins with every ounce of his will. Evan was either too hurt to move or smart enough not to entice the Dragon again. Chang ran back and checked on the old man. He wasn’t awake, but his vital signs were strong. Chang found a pay phone and used his shirt to muffle his voice when he called for an ambulance. He wi
ped the receiver with his sleeve.

  The Dragon slid back into its cage to digest its meal. Chang stepped into an alley and vomited his dinner onto the oily bricks.

  CHAPTER 5

  When a Stranger Calls

  The Wilmington Daily Post

  Usually Patrick Flannigan sucked on his cigarette until he could taste the filter. He hated the new rule that banished smokers out onto the gulag of a concrete square behind the newspaper’s main building. When he dragged his bones outside, rain or shine, he made it count. Not today.

  He ground out the cigarette with his heel and left the butt next to the sand bucket. Screw ’em. He wasn’t the fucking janitor. He also wasn’t the joke the sales team thought he was. Their meeting was about to end, and the most obnoxious of them would rush out here to share a smoke with the “Hunchback of Notre Dame.” Little shits. His alma mater would have rejected half of them. Let them live with osteoporosis for a month and get back to him with bell-ringer jokes.

  His column, “The Blarney Stone,” may not have had the following it once did, but it still sold papers. He held no illusions about what would happen if he lost the rest of his readers. Since last week he didn’t think that was going to be a problem.

  “I’ve got a seeeecret…” He could still hear the voice from over a week ago. He remembered the charge he felt at the muffled words. He got his share of crank calls, but right away he smelled a headline. His instincts weren’t dead yet.

  “Want to know more about the two yellow worms killed last night?”

  “You know something that wasn’t in the paper?”

  “Everything…” Excitement in the voice.

  Flannigan mouthed a silent prayer. He only needed a little luck.