Dead Calm

by Lindsay Longford

  “I know better. Cool your jets. I know we’re in a shakedown phase, but we’re going to be real uncomfortable if you keep calling me on everything I say. Cut me some slack, okay?”

  “When I’m sure you’ve earned it, I will.”

  “Fair enough.” He leaned forward. “You know, Tyree, you called me on not opening up, but you put up walls, too. You act like the joker, but underneath, man, you hold up this measuring stick of yours to everything I say or do. Behind your easygoing mask you’re pretty damned judgmental and untrusting yourself. You ever going to get past your suspicions of me being a white-bread Southern cop?”

  Tyree waited a beat, then said, “Looks like that’s something we’ll both have to find out. Not going to be easy for either of us.”

  “Anyway, I was thinking of something Sophie said.” Feeling cranky with Tyree and tired in spite of the short sleep he’d had in the car, Judah climbed out the passenger side.

  “She said the woman took care of herself. Sophie thought she probably lived in a house or apartment. Not expensive, but nice. Well-kept. She could have been describing this neighborhood.”

  Tyree said blandly, “Sophie would be the doctor you happened to talk to earlier this morning when you were running down the lead? And then decided we should be the primaries on the case? That doctor?”

  “Yeah, that would be Sophie.” Judah grunted irritably.

  Tyree sent him a quick, measuring look. “Hands off?”

  “Yeah. No. Hell, I don’t know.” Judah shrugged. “We’re both running short of sleep.”

  Tyree laughed. “There’s the understatement of the month. And you decided we needed even more work, huh? Okay. Let’s move on. You think our vic might have lived in this area?” Scanning the quiet sidewalks, he frowned. “Worth a shot, like you said. Baker and Radar give you any grief about taking over their case?”

  “Nope.”

  Beside him, Tyree stepped around a deep puddle. “How’d you talk them into letting us have it?”

  “Asked.”

  “Ask and ye shall receive?”

  “Something like that, yeah.” Judah halted and, like Tyree, scanned the area. “They hadn’t had time to work it, weren’t that interested, thought they’d sooner head down to Okeechobee for some post-Thanksgiving hunting and fishing. Didn’t seem to care we’re ass-deep in cases.”

  “And nobody’s caught the kettle thieves. All that time wasted yesterday. So here you and me are, working on a Saturday when at least one of us has better things to do,” Tyree muttered glumly. “I mean, I know everyone calls you St. Jude, patron saint of lost causes, behind your back, but still, I figure that makes both of us idiots.”

  “You could be right. St. Jude, huh? I didn’t know that.” A tiny movement caught Judah’s attention. He narrowed his eyes, waiting for it to repeat. “There. Did you see that blind move?”

  “In the white house?”

  “The green one. With the lemon tree in front.” Judah stared at the still house where nothing now moved. “Somebody’s checking us out.”

  “Probably because we’re such studs.”

  “Must be.” Judah lengthened his stride. “C’mon, stud. Let’s go to work.”

  “Want me to take the north side, you the south?”

  “Let’s stick together. See if we get the same impressions.”

  “Hoo, joined at the hip, it is then. Not gonna be too much togetherness for you, cowboy?”

  Judah stifled a grin. “Probably, but you’re growing on me, dude. But don’t think this means we’re in love or anything.”

  “Damn. And I had my hopes up.”

  They walked up the narrow sidewalk leading to the house closest to them. Yellow hibiscus bloomed brilliantly along the edges of the walk, and a freshly painted red door with a brass dragon knocker opened before they set foot on the stoop.

  “Whoa.” Judah stopped, Tyree close behind him. “Afternoon, sir. Wonder if we could ask some questions?” He flashed his badge. “We’re with the police—”

  The door slammed shut. The brass knocker banged hollowly against the strike plate.

  Glancing down the block, Judah saw the same quick flicker at the green house again. “You know, either people in this neighborhood are scared of cops, or somebody knows something about our dead woman.”

  “You’re about as good at this detecting stuff as I am,” Tyree said. “Figuring that out so fast. I am impressed. Want me to buff up that shiny badge for you?”

  “You’re full of it, that’s what you are.” Judah scowled at the shiny red door. “I don’t like having doors slammed in my face. How about you?”

  “Nope. I don’t like it either. Sort of gets my dander up.” Tyree rested his hands casually on his hips. “Seems kinda unfriendly-like, don’t you think?”

  “Very unfriendly.” Judah stomped up the concrete steps. He rapped the knocker twice.

  No sounds came from behind the door. Somewhere in the distance he heard the tolling of a church bell and remembered there was a Catholic church a few blocks over. Saturday afternoon mass. Poinciana was a town of churches. And synagogues and temples now.

  He waited, then rapped harder. “Open up. This is a police investigation.”

  Slippered footsteps approached the closed door. Eventually a crack appeared between the shiny door edge and the doorjamb. A brown hand gripped the door. An Asian man peered out, his manner guarded.

  “Police,” Judah repeated quietly. He could smell fear mingled with cilantro and lemon grass and the faint aroma of fish. “We have some questions, that’s all. No problem, sir.” Holding his badge to the crack, he stepped back a step, made his posture unthreatening.

  From the sidewalk Tyree nodded toward the door. “A couple of questions, sir. Nothing to worry about.”

  The door opened. The man’s hand still gripped it closely. He might have been afraid, but he wasn’t intimidated. His wary eyes met Judah’s. “Very well.”

  “An injured woman was found on the corner last night.”

  “Yes.” The door never moved. The man’s eyes never left Judah.

  “We have a picture of her. Would you take a look at it? Making no sudden moves, Judah waited. Despite the man’s slight, stooped frame, Judah could see he had once been tall, though still shorter than Judah’s six feet. “We’re wondering if you know her?”

  “Why is that?” Shrewdness and sharp intelligence gleamed in the man’s dark eyes. “I do not know her.” He started to close the door.

  “Take a closer look.” Judah flipped the picture out and stepped up to the door so fast that the man, startled, stepped back, letting the door swing wide.

  He didn’t glance at the picture. “I tell you already I do not know her.”

  “Hey. Slow down a second, will you?” Judah blocked the door. “Take a good look. That’s all we’re asking. We’d appreciate any help you can give.”

  “I can give you no help.” Almost as fast as Judah, the man reclaimed his door. “I do not know this young woman.”

  “Perhaps you’ve seen her, sir? In the neighborhood?”

  “No, no. Goodbye. Large of luck in your job.” He shut the door again.

  Judah snatched the picture free as the door closed gently and with finality.

  “Tough old bird, huh?” Tyree said.

  “Absolutely. He knows something. But I don’t know if he knew our woman.” Judah moved swiftly down the steps. “He wouldn’t look at the picture, but he knew she was young. So he has information. And if he does, someone else does, too. Let’s hit some doors before the phones start ringing. You think this is a Vietnamese neighborhood, Tyree?”

  “Could be.”

  “The old man’s English is good. Smooth, except right at the end. He understands better than he lets on. And he was getting nervous. He knew what I was asking. From the door I saw a watercolor map of Vietnam. New immigrants tend to live close to other immigrants. The woman who died was Asian. Nobody knows if she was Vietnamese, but she might be. She was
found here. I’m betting there’s some connection. I thought I knew Poinciana inside out. Didn’t know about this block, though. I should have.”

  “Lot of changes going on in this town. Anyway, like they say, you learn something new every day.”

  “Guess you do at that.” Judah thought of what he’d learned today about Sophie Brennan, and heat speared through him once more. He couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

  It was definitely a disturbing thing.

  And inconvenient. He adjusted his slacks inconspicuously.

  He tapped Tyree’s shoulder. “Let’s go knock on some more doors.”

  “Right behind you.” Tyree matched him stride for stride. “Want to start with the green house?”

  “No. I want whoever’s behind that blind to watch us and get good and nervous first. I want him or her, and I’m guessing it’s a woman, to wonder what’s going on and when we’re going to walk up that sidewalk by the lovely lemon tree. I want that person to be panting with anxiety and ready to talk.”

  Judah was wrong.

  The block wasn’t a Vietnamese neighborhood at all. It was part of a neighborhood primarily made up of retired mid-westerners, wintering in the Sunshine State. Like the man they’d first interviewed, these transplanted, tanned senior citizens said they didn’t know anything about the excitement in the neighborhood. Unlike him, however, they wanted to talk. They knew where the best early-bird dinner specials were. They knew about the local golf course. They knew which grocery store gave double coupons.

  And they were eager to relay it all to Judah and Tyree.

  They were curious, sure, about the police activity the evening before, but with their windows closed—“We wouldn’t dare leave our windows open at night!”—several of them hadn’t known that a woman had been found beaten on their block.

  After the eighth house, the buzzing in Judah’s head was so painful he was ready to kneel down on the sidewalk and beg for aspirin.

  “Officer, are we safe?” asked one woman with fluttering be-ringed hands and carefully styled bright-white hair. A set of expensive golf clubs leaned against the wall near the door. “This is dreadful. I’m here alone. I’m not going to be able to sleep a wink.” She tapped her hand against the V-neck of her turquoise shirt. Cataract-dimmed blue eyes narrowed. “I need to get a gun.”

  “No, ma’am. You do not.” Tyree beat Judah to the punch. “That’s a really bad idea.”

  “But you have a gun,” she said reasonably. “I’d feel a lot safer if I had one, too.”

  “But you wouldn’t be,” Judah said. “Poinciana’s a safe town.”

  “I read the papers, young man.” She shook her hand at him. Rings glittered in a blinding rainbow on twisted fingers. “I may be getting on in years, but I keep up with things. My girlfriends do, too. Don’t underestimate us older folks.”

  “No, ma’am, I sure won’t. I don’t.” When she closed the door behind them, Judah raked his hands through his hair and pulled. “That’s just what we need. A gang of senior citizens armed with guns and golf clubs.”

  “You gotta admit they’re a game bunch.” Tyree laughed. “Damn. We should deputize them. I think it would cut down on crime. Wouldn’t you freeze in your tracks if she came after you with a gun?”

  Judah shuddered.

  Taking a deep breath, he headed through the late-afternoon splashes of sun to the house with the lemon tree in front.

  A cluster of small birds scattered with a rush of wings and chitterings as he pounded on the door. “Open up! Police!”

  A woman finally opened the door slowly. She was small, delicate, and middle-aged. Terror shone in her brown eyes. Her words spilled forth, the distress and fear rising with everything she said.

  And Judah didn’t understand a single word.

  With his head pounding and Tyree shadowing him, Judah finally repeated, “Okay, okay,” in the most soothing voice he could manage.

  The woman was so frightened, her head turning constantly to check the sidewalk, to look up and down the street as the incomprehensible flood continued, that Judah felt helpless to ease her distress. She flinched when he reached for his badge.

  He felt like the bully of the Western world.

  He didn’t think he bullied people, but Sophie had accused him of doing so earlier.

  Did it come with the cop territory?

  He tried to dial down any threatening aspect so that the woman would relax.

  But the whole situation got sillier and more frustrating as he tried to mime his questions, pointing to himself, to Tyree, their badges. Her terror, his inability to get through to her, the not-so-subtle clearing of Tyree’s throat added up to a headache of bragging-rights proportion.

  Finally, in desperation, he slowly reached for the grainy photo of the woman who’d been beaten to death.

  Figuring a picture was worth the proverbial thousand words, not to mention the humiliation of miming the impossible, he held it out carefully. “Do you—”

  Her moan was soft, stricken.

  Nobody needed a translator.

  Here was grief and distress, raw and immediate.

  He patted her arm. This time she didn’t flinch. The picture in her hand shook violently. Touching the face in the picture, she kept saying something that sounded to him like she was asking about a bay and a duck.

  He repeated his question in Spanish. Bewildered, she shook her head.

  He turned to Tyree. “Know any French?”

  “A little high school,” Tyree said.

  Hearing Tyree’s comment, the woman said, “Français? Non, non.”

  Tyree continued in halting French, then turned to Judah. “She is Vietnamese. Her name is Hoang Lan Thoa. I didn’t get much more, but I think she said our woman is Le Duc Nhu. And bébé. This is going to get ugly, man. I feel it in my bones. She’s asking about a baby.”

  As the woman repeated “bébé?” hopefully, Judah felt a shiver down his back. He shook his head in a universal no. “Well, that didn’t work. Since your French isn’t much better than my Spanish.”

  As helpless as they, the woman continued to stare at them, the photograph held in her trembling hand.

  Feeling like an idiot, Judah mimed holding a phone to his face and pointed to the car. The woman gestured down the block. He thought she pointed to the house with the hibiscus plants where they’d interviewed the man earlier. He reckoned she was indicating that the man could translate.

  Judah considered trotting down to see if the man would help, but figuring the gentleman had made very clear his desire to stay uninvolved, Judah stayed where he was. He didn’t trust the man to tell them exactly what the woman said.

  They called from the car to see if the department had anyone who could translate. They did, but it would take a while for them to get there.

  “Never fails, huh?” Tyree put down the mike. “Hurry and wait. And wait.”

  “Oh, the glamour, the glamour.” Judah rested his head back against the seat. “Got any aspirin?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well.”

  “Deep subject.”

  Judah shut his eyes.

  Time passed in a dreamy haze as sunlight warmed the interior of the car. In those sleep-hazed moments he found himself on a sun-bleached beach, where white sand blazed and everything was clean and blue.

  Peaceful.

  Far out on the horizon, beyond the breakers, a small, bright figure endlessly beckoned to him.

  Sophie.

  Every time he tried to swim toward her, a huge wave came rearing up out of the tranquil sea and tossed him back onto the sand, where he watched hopelessly as she drifted farther and farther into the blinding sunlight and away from him in the darkness on shore.

  A knock on the side of the car door shot him bolt upright. Sweat drenched his clothes. “Sheesh!”

  Hoang Lan Thoa stood there. Gesturing them toward her house, she poured an imaginary drink, then used both hands to urge them out of the car.
The edge of the photo peeked from the pocket of her dress.

  Inside her neat home, they waited while she put a kettle on the gas range, assembled ingredients for tea, and kept up a constant stream of talk. Somehow it was all soothing—waiting for the water to boil, the small woman’s low voice murmuring like a gentle river, the brush of sun against the red placemats on her table.

  He almost dropped his head onto one of them and went back to sleep.

  When the elderly translator arrived, the work began. Dressed in a suit and tie, slim and tall with carefully cut black hair, Mr. Dai introduced himself, shook hands, and sat down at the table with them. He sipped his tea and then, placing his cup gently and precisely on the table, he translated their questions.

  Judah found himself watching Hoang Lan Thoa’s face as she responded. It was clear to him that the woman was terrified and sick with worry. Tyree was right. It was going to be ugly.

  And he and Tyree had to make it right.

  As right as anything could be when death and violence were involved, anyway. They would do what they could.

  It wouldn’t stop the ugliness. It wouldn’t change anything for the victim.

  But they’d give her justice.

  They could do that small thing.

  His stomach tightened. He shoved his chair back from the table, folded his arms, and waited.

  In a tremulous voice, the woman responded with questions of her own. “Co Le Duc Nhu bay goi o dau? Chuyen gi da xay ra voi co ay? Con cua co ay o dau?”

  Back and forth the questions and responses went.

  “Here’s what she’s telling me,” Phan Dai finally said. “She’s very frightened. Her friend has vanished. She wants to know why you have her picture. What has happened to her and to her baby? What you want I tell her?”

  “The truth.” Tyree looked at Judah. “Right?”

  He nodded. “Mr. Dai. See if you can find out where the woman lived, if she had any relatives. You know the drill, I’m sure.”

  “Thank you. Yes, I know the drill very well.”

  Finally he inclined his head to Hoang Lan Thoa, folded his hands and reported to them. “Three young boys came to Le Duc Nhu’s house. Three very bad boys, she say. Much noise. They run up and down the block. Loud boys. Perhaps not quite boys, maybe older. They disappear. Mrs. Thoa hasn’t seen her friend since. Mrs. Thoa does not call the authorities. She is afraid. She does not speak English. She does not know what to do. She is worried about Le Duc Nhu’s baby, very worried. She wants to know where is Le Duc Nhu’s baby?” Mr. Dai lifted his hands. “Do you know?”