by P. D. Martin
“So, what can I do for you?” He moves behind his desk and motions to the two seats in front.
“We’re investigating a murder that took place in Little Tokyo five nights ago and we believe Mee Kim may be able to help us with our investigation.”
“Really? How?”
“We’ve found a connection between the victim and Ms. Kim.” I decide not to give him any more details at this stage.
“Didn’t Phyllis tell you? Mee’s not in today.”
“Yes, she did tell us,” Hana says. “But we’d like to ask you a few questions, if that’s okay.”
He seems puzzled, but nods.
Hana kicks it off. “Have you noticed anything unusual about Mee Kim’s behavior recently?”
“Um…” He considers the question. “No, can’t say I have.”
“She hasn’t seemed happier or sadder, or preoccupied…or anything like that?” I press.
He shakes his head. “Not that I noticed. But you should talk to Doris Huntova. She and Mee are close. I’ll get Phyllis to track her down.” Merry picks up his phone and relays the request.
“How long has Ms. Kim worked here?” I ask, even though I know her police check was five years ago.
“Five years. Straight out of college.”
“And you’re happy with her? As an employee?”
Merry seems to think my question is a little strange, but he’s emphatic in his response. “Absolutely. She’s a very good teacher. Popular with the students and staff alike. And all her kids are doing well in math.” He pauses, rubbing his fingers across his lips in contemplation. “You don’t think she’s involved in anything—” he searches for the word “—untoward, do you? I run a tight and clean ship. My teachers must set an example for the students.”
Hana reassures him. “No, not at all. We’re just hoping she can help us, that’s all.”
He nods, the relief evident.
There’s no point sullying her name if she is an innocent bystander. If things change later and we discover she’s involved in blackmail, Principal Merry would find out when we indict.
“Anything else, Agents?”
Hana and I both shake our heads.
“Doris will be here soon.”
“Is there somewhere private we can talk to her?”
“There’s a small meeting room opposite my office.” He points to the door. “You can use that.”
I nod. “One more thing, Mr. Merry. Do you know what’s wrong with Mee today?”
“Phyllis took the call at around seven this morning. Apparently she sounded miserable. Nasty cold.”
There’s a knock on the door and a stunning woman in her late twenties comes partially into Merry’s office. Huntova has long, glossy brown hair with a slight wave, with two clips keeping it out of her face and eyes. Her face is sculptured, with dark soft eyes and pouty lips. She’s dressed conservatively but appropriately for such an attractive woman teaching young boys. She wears loose but well-cut navy blue woolen pants and a matching cream twin-set on top. She glances at us, then at Merry. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Yes. These are Agents Anderson and Kim from the FBI. They’d like to talk to you about Mee.”
“Mee? Is everything okay? Is she okay?”
I keep my face expressionless, but note with interest Huntova’s assumption that Mee’s well-being may be in question. “Everything’s fine, Ms. Huntova,” I say. “We’ve just got a couple of questions for you.”
She seems relieved, but also a little confused.
Hana and I stand and both thank Mr. Merry before ushering Huntova into what turns out to be a small meeting room with a table and six chairs crammed neatly into the space.
“So Mee’s okay?” Huntova sits down, but chews on the fingernail of her middle finger. I love it when people are easy to read—it makes my job so much easier.
“Yes,” Hana replies. “As far as we know. We’re going to see her at her house after this, but we thought we might as well talk to you while we’re here.”
“Is there any particular reason why you thought something might be wrong with Mee?” I ask.
Huntova stops biting her nail and rests both hands on the table. “I rang her last night for a chat and she sounded strange. Kinda nervous. And then she started telling me what a great friend I was.”
“Go on,” I prompt.
“I asked her if anything was wrong, but she kept telling me she was fine.”
“But you don’t think she was,” Hana says.
“No.” She sighs. “I’ve known Mee for four years now, since I started working here, and we’ve become real close. We often talk on the phone, but last night she was definitely not herself.”
Hana and I both nod.
So maybe Mee did know Saito. Maybe he is her father and she knows it.
“Any ideas what might be wrong?” Hana asks.
Huntova shrugs. “Last night all I could think of was her boyfriend, Paul. You know, maybe they’d had a fight and she was upset. But I’m sure she’d tell me about that.”
“Was she usually open with you about her relationship?”
“Yes. I mean, she’s not a kiss-and-tell sort of girl, but I’m sure if she and Paul had had a fight she would have confided in me. Especially given I pressed her about it a couple of times.”
“Is it serious? Her relationship?” I ask.
“She hopes they’ll get married.”
I nod, taking notes. “Do you know Paul very well?”
“Not really. They’ve been together for a couple of years, but Mee and I tended to do things just the two of us. Maybe because I’m single, I don’t know.”
“Have you spoken to her today?” I ask.
“No, and that’s when I got really worried. I called her during our first break, but the phone rang out. I’ve been trying her cell ever since, whenever I could.”
“No answer?”
“No.”
While part of me is surprised, the other part of me suspected the sick day was too coincidental. Especially given she seemed healthy less than twenty-four hours ago.
Huntova shrugs. “She gets migraines sometimes and she usually turns her phone off or to silent, so she can sleep. Maybe that’s it?” She’s trying to convince herself.
I change the subject. “Did Mee ever talk about her father?”
Huntova shakes her head. “It wasn’t a subject she liked to discuss. She said her father died in a car accident and that she didn’t remember him at all. But she also said he and her mum weren’t married. And that her mum didn’t like to talk about him.”
That gels with what we know, and what Mee told us yesterday.
“Did she ever mention her father’s name?” I ask.
Huntova pauses, thinking. “No. Don’t think so.” After a beat of silence, Huntova asks, “So you’re going over there now?”
“That’s right.” I glance at my watch—4:30 p.m. “One more thing, Ms. Huntova. Have you ever heard of someone called Jun Saito?”
She gives it only a few seconds’ thought. “No.”
I study her reaction closely—she certainly seems to be telling the truth.
“So Mee never mentioned that name?”
She shakes her head. “No, I don’t think so.”
“What about Jo Kume?”
Again, she shakes her head. “Is one of those men her father?”
“We’re not sure at this stage,” I admit, without bothering to tell her they’re one and the same person. “Anything else you think we should know?”
Huntova shakes her head and I take down her contact details before we head back to the car.
“What do you think?” Hana asks once we reach the car and some privacy.
“I think she’s telling the truth.”
Hana nods. “Yup. Seemed straight-up to me, too.”
Fifteen minutes later we pull up outside Mee Kim’s house.
“Her car’s not there.” I motion to the driveway. “So much for being si
ck.”
We both get out of the car.
“Let’s take a look.” Hana crosses the sidewalk and heads toward the front door. She’s already rung the front doorbell by the time I catch up.
We wait, but no one answers. Hana moves toward the left-hand front window, the living room, and I go to the other front window, the dining room. It looks just like it did last night. I move down the right-hand side of the house, to what must be a bedroom. The curtains are drawn, but don’t quite meet in the middle. I cup my hands around my face and lean in.
“Damn!” Although I can only see a small portion of the room, the bed has several items of clothing strewn around it and the floor’s the same.
“What have you got?” Hana comes up directly behind me.
“See for yourself. Clothes everywhere.” I move back and Hana leans in for a look. I bite my lip. “So either Mee’s made a hasty exit or someone’s been in and ransacked the place.”
Hana takes another look. “If she did know Saito, chances are she’s been pulled into this mess, one way or another.”
“Or maybe she pulled him back into the Yakuza.”
Hana raises one eyebrow. “I haven’t met her…did she seem like the organized-crime type?”
I shrug. “Not on the surface, no.” I pause. “No, you’re right. If she’s involved, it’s more likely Saito pulled her in.”
Hana nods. “Unless it’s the boyfriend. Maybe he’s the one with underworld ties or ties to Saito, the Yakuza or the Asian Boyz.”
“Only one way to find out….”
“You got his details?”
“Uh-huh.”
Hana leans on the window ledge. “Mee could be in danger.”
“Could be.” I pause. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Hana nods.
If we feel Mee’s in danger right now, we don’t need a warrant. The fact that her car’s not here makes it more probable that she’s out and left of her own accord, but Hana’s right…Mee could be in danger. And if our bosses or some judge gives us a slap on the hand down the track, so be it.
I suddenly remember my dream of someone being shot—could it be Mee? The situation takes a sudden turn for the worse. I draw my gun and Hana follows suit. “Both in the front?” I confirm our strategy.
“Yup, let’s stick together.” She flashes me a grin. “We both want to live to see ninety, remember?”
“Let’s go.”
I open the screen door with my left hand and lean on it, keeping it back. Hana tries the door but it’s locked. No surprises there. I flash back to last night, when we were leaving, and try to recall the lock system. No use even trying to break it down if Mee uses more than one lock. She had one dead bolt, a lock on the door handle and a chain.
“She’s got a dead bolt. Sorry, just remembered.” I move away from the door. “Let’s try out back.”
We hurry down the left side of the house, looking in windows as we go. The living room looks relatively normal, as does the kitchen, which we can see clearly from a side door. The door has glass in the top half, and from the far right angle I can see she’s got a dead bolt on the back door, too.
“Looks like we’re breaking some glass.” I sigh.
“You go. This is a new sweater.” Hana smiles and cocks her head to one side.
“Gee, thanks.” I look at my suit jacket—I don’t particularly want to rip it, so I use my gun’s butt to smash one of the glass panels in the door. Way noisier, but we are on the right side of the law.
“Well, I could have done that,” Hana jokes, but then her face becomes serious and she raises her gun. “Let’s go.”
Moving my arm through the broken glass, I push the handle down. The door swings open, and I lead with my gun, taking the left while Hana follows me in and takes the right-hand side of the room.
The draining board on the kitchen sink has a bowl, spoon and cup on it. “Looks like she had breakfast.”
Hana’s eyes dart my way for a second and she gives a nod.
My side of the kitchen’s a dead end—the kitchen wall—but Hana’s side is the open-plan portion that leads to the living room. A quick visual check tells us that no one’s there, but we still keep our guns drawn as we move out. The living room is clear, and we move into the hallway. Again, I stay to the left, and the hall, while Hana moves toward the dining room. I leave her to that room and make my way down the hallway. The next room on the right is a bedroom, the one we could see from the outside. The room’s a mess, but no Mee. I head down to the next room, a second bedroom that Mee’s turned into a minimalist study. It’s bare except for a bookshelf, large desk and an office-style chair. Hana meets me in the hallway and we both shake our heads. The last door at the end of the hallway is the bathroom and, like the rest of the house, it’s empty.
With the house checked, we can now have a closer look, maybe get an idea of what we’re dealing with. Did Mee run? And if so, from us, the Yakuza or the Asian Boyz? Or has someone nabbed her? I need to find out if she’s the subject of my dreams.
After I’ve pulled on some gloves, I open the medicine cabinet in the bathroom while Hana moves back into the hallway. Mee’s cabinet contains standard stuff—moisturizer, toner, extra soap, tampons, deodorant, painkillers—but nothing prescription, nothing unusual. I also notice that the cabinet is neat and orderly, without any old boxes or crusty medicine.
Moving down the hallway, I pass Hana in the study. “Anything?” I ask her.
“No. But I don’t want to switch the computer on.”
I nod. We’ll need to get a full crime-scene unit in here, and they’ll deal with the computer. They certainly won’t be happy if two gung-ho field agents switch it on.
“The file’s only got bills.” She points to a small expandable file on the desk. Again, it’s neat—no bits of paper peeking out over the top. Mee certainly does work hard not to accrue excess stuff.
“Nothing unusual in the bathroom.”
We move into Mee’s bedroom together and the room’s a stark contrast to the rest of the house. While her chest of drawers still looks orderly from the outside—the drawers are closed and photos and ornaments sit neatly on top—when you pull out the drawers the few clothes that are left inside are unfolded and jumbled, as though they’ve been shoved back in or rifled through.
“Someone’s been through this room,” Hana comments.
“Yes, but who?” I stand at the door surveying the room and chewing on my lip. “This doesn’t seem like Mee, from my read on her. If she did this, it’s because she felt threatened or panicked in some way.”
“It does look very different to the rest of the house. If I didn’t see this room, I’d say Mee was a neat freak.” She shakes her head. “It’s not looking good.”
“No.” I move us back into the living room and move around. “Two photos are missing.”
“Really? What of?”
“A photo of her mum and one of the two of them together.” I smile, relieved.
“That makes it look like Mee was the one who decided to clear out.” Hana jumps to the same conclusion as me.
I nod. “If someone grabbed her, they might throw together some clothes for her, or look for something in her bedroom, but they’re not going to take photos. Mee wanted those with her.” I pause, looking around the room again. “And the dishes on the sink. She had time to clean those, she was herself at breakfast.”
“So something happened after breakfast that made her run.”
“Looks that way.” I take out my phone. “Let’s get a search warrant and some crime-scene techs down here anyway. I’ll call Petrov first, let him know what’s going on.”
Hana nods, and takes a closer look at the photos while I catch Petrov up.
“Well?” Hana asks when I hang up.
“Petrov’s on his way over. Says he’ll have a search warrant and a crew together by the time he gets here.”
“Great.” Hana looks around again. “And we should get in contact with th
e boyfriend. See what he knows about all this.”
“I’ll call him now.” Paul hadn’t been a priority before Mee’s disappearance, but now…
Thirteen
Paul Bailey stands out in front of the house with Agent Kim, Petrov and me, while the crime-scene techs sweep the house. We’ve got guys dusting for fingerprints and vacuuming for trace evidence, and a computer forensic technician is working on the computer. Bailey’s Caucasian, in his thirties, and well dressed in a casual but trendy style—black jeans, print T-shirt and leather jacket. He shifts uncomfortably from side to side, hands in his pockets, looking anything but gangster-hip. The guy’s nervous and worried—and wearing his emotions on his sleeve. His demeanor confirms that he and Mee are probably innocent bystanders in this, but then why did Mee run?
“And you think Mee knows this dead guy?” It’s the third time he’s asked us the same question.
“Jun Saito. Yes. He made regular deposits into her bank account.”
He shakes his head. “You’re talking about her mom’s life-insurance payments. Not some payments this Saito guy made.”
“The payments were made by one of Saito’s front companies.”
“No, you got it wrong. And why would this guy pay Mee anyway?”
I shrug. “Could be he’s her father?”
He shakes his head again. “No. Not possible.”
“What do you know about her father?” Hana asks.
He sighs. “Not much.”
We all stare at him.
“Okay, okay, nothing. She never talked about him, other than telling me that he died in a car accident before she was born.”
“You didn’t ask about him?” I suggest. As a relationship progresses, it’s natural to ask questions. “Did you ask her his name? What he did for a living?”
“Yeah. She told me his name, but it wasn’t Jun Saito. I can’t even remember what it was. This is like nine months ago.”
“What about Jo Kume? Does that name ring a bell?”
He shakes his head. “No, that wasn’t it.” He pauses. “She said he was a salesman. Does that help?”
“Salesman?” Petrov gives a snort. “Jun Saito was a member of the Yakuza.” Petrov’s obviously decided to drop the bomb, see what sort of a mess it makes.