by Mary Moylum
She mulled the question over seriously as Cadeux ranted on in his self-important way. The consequences of disclosing her connection with Nick could be a public reprimand and dismissal by the ethics counsellor. However, if she kept the truth to herself, she would have a chance to be on the inside of a historic case. And maybe render a landmark decision. Who wouldn’t want that?
Could she — as Nick’s lover and as a member of the same cultural community as the claimant — actually maintain professional impartiality and objectivity? She was sure she could. But there was still the matter of appearances. The optics weren’t so good. She might appear to be biased, but weirdly, toward both parties. It was a conflict-of-interest situation, on a very public case. Could she get away with it? What if the newspapers found out?
Someone might leak to the papers that she’d been seen with Sun Sui socially. But she had been no more than polite to him, and had not returned his phone calls. Maybe she should mention that to Cadeux, right now, and insist there was no conflict of interest. But that would open her up to further scrutiny. Or worse, public scrutiny. The problem with honesty was it sometimes made you look guiltier than you really were. But if she didn’t disclose the facts, and the press got hold of it they would make it out to be far, far worse than it really was. A real can of worms.
She looked at Cadeux over the rim of her cup. This was the moment to be honest. But — tell the truth to Cadeux? If she liked him, maybe, or even trusted him. As it stood, she was one of his least favourite adjudicators because she wasn’t into the sucking-up he expected from his subordinates.
As if reading her mind, Jean Cadeux said, “A word of warning. I saw you at the minister’s tea party standing at the bar with that departmental manager from Immigration. I don’t want: to see you chattering with immigration officers like this Mr. Slovak. His beliefs are too far to the right for him to be a trusted friend of this government.”
“I try to overlook ideology when I’m socializing.”
“In our job we can’t afford to be social with everybody.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
He looked at her, trying to look through her. She let the moment pass. She tried to think of excuses to weasel out of the case.
“As we both know, Asia is not my geographic region of expertise.”
He made a dismissive gesture with his hands. “I realize that. But you’ve a secondary interest in that region, don’t you?”
“Not really.”
“Surely you’re familiar with the political history?”
“Just because I’m half Chinese doesn’t make me half an expert on China. I wouldn’t want to expose how limited my knowledge is in a public case such as this. I’d hate to screw up and embarrass the Commission.” She racked her brain to come up with a more convincing excuse.
“This public case demands a competent adjudicator. Not to mention a hearing that’s expeditious. The international trade minister is putting heat on me, which means I have to perform. Hence I’m asking for your help, Grace. I know you can handle it. I know you won’t disappoint me.”
Was he trying to flatter her into agreeing? He was such an unpleasant person even his flattery sounded like a threat. “I’m not sure I — ”
He interrupted her. “I don’t need to remind you that your political appointment is at the pleasure of this government.”
There was no mistaking the threat, this time. She held his gaze, and said, “I feel taking on this case would put me under the microscope of whoever killed Crosby.”
“Have you received death threats?”
“No.”
“Have you received any annoying phone calls? Callers who won’t speak, just hang up when you answer?” “No.”
Jean Cadeux looked thoughtfully at the Liechtenstein on his wall, as if it had a connection to their work. “Grace, you’ve been on the job now for four years. How many nasty calls have you had in all that time?”
“When I first started, as you know, I was deluged with hate mail from left-wing groups who thought I had sold out because I didn’t grant asylum to every applicant who appeared in my hearing room. Since I’ve been on the Commission I’ve had to change my telephone number twice. I now have an unlisted number. I’ve had the odd wacko follow me from the office.”
“But, Grace, that comes with the territory. You’ve faced it before. It’s nothing new.”
“Excuse me, sir?” The callousness of his remark astonished her.
“Grace, we’re decision makers. Judges and parole board staff are always at risk, often threatened and subjected to harassing phone calls. We’ve had to provide police protection to a few who were followed home by former inmates.”
“Are you telling me, sir, that I should accept this kind of behaviour as the norm?”
“You could say that, yes.”
Grace wondered why he was railroading her into taking this case. Trying one last tack, she said, “My other concern is that I could be accused of bias from various groups.”
“Your record is immaculate, Grace. You’ve never been accused of bias.”
“I was thinking of positive bias, sir. What if my decision went positive? How would that look to the public?”
“If we chose someone else and the case went negative, the multicultural communities would also accuse the Commission of bias. That seems to be the problem Immigration is having right now. In other words, Grace, we can’t always factor in public opinion. We just have to do our job the best we can.” He leaned forward and smiled at her. He seemed to be trying to make his eyes look appealing and his expression warm, but his smile was false and grating. “I want this hearing to be fair and expeditious. Most of all, I want the public to feel confidence in the system.”
“Sir, there is a possibility that I could run into the claimant socially. How would that look?”
“I have faith that you will comport yourself in private so as not to cross that fine line.” Jean Cadeux’s eyes locked on hers in a determined way.
“Thank you for your confidence in me. But all the same …”
“You’re my choice, my selected candidate for this case.” His tone was no longer friendly. “If there’s anything I can do, or if you need anything, call me directly. I’ll help you out. In the meantime just keep me informed of events since my office will be fielding calls from the press.”
“Sir, I decline the case. If that’s all right with you.”
The look he gave her could have turned water into ice. The veneer of civility was gone from his manner. “No, Grace, it’s not all right with me. You’re the presiding judge. The matter is now closed.”
“Why wasn’t I consulted before this decision was made?”
“There is no need for judges to be involved in the policy or management decisions of the agency. You are assumed to be available for whatever cases are assigned to you. If you decline now, against my express wish, your non-cooperation will be noted, and I’ll have no choice but to mention the matter to the judicial discipline committee.” There was an unmistakably nasty edge to his voice. “Now, I’ve an exceedingly busy schedule. Please take this file of press clippings and background information with you. I want you to study it before the actual file comes in. One more thing, if there are any calls from the press, just refer them to my office here. Media lines will have to be developed. I’m sure you can see yourself out.”
She gave him the mental fuck-you as she left his office.
Nick got back from New York and headed straight to his office. His cubby hole was bathed in afternoon sunlight and summer humidity. Not yet rush hour, and already the view from his window looked out onto the four lanes of traffic backed up on University Avenue.
“We gotta hit,” said Dubois. “Amazingly, the two strands of hair check out. The perp’s already in one of our crime databases. Are you sitting down, Nick?”
“Give it to me.”
“Mann Lea. Charged and convicted back in 1995 for trying to smuggle a couple of Korean business types
across the border into Montana.”
“Umm,” replied Nick. It was between a grunt and something thoughtful. “What about address?”
“We’re checking on that. Back then his address was an apartment building in downtown Edmonton. Needless to say, he’s no longer a resident. A young woman who works for the forestry department is the present leaseholder.”
“Good work, Dubois. Call me if anything else develops.”
BJ and Harry, from the van, watched her as she left her office. They followed half a block behind as she walked to her health club in her short sleeved tunic suit buttoned at the throat.
“Fucking hot and the bitch is wearing a suit,” cursed BJ.
“So what? She looks good in that suit.”
BJ threw Harry a dirty look. “What the hell do you know about broads? Her legs are okay, but she ain’t our type. The bitch’s wearing way too much clothes. I like broads to show more skin. And have more tits too.”
Before BJ had been incarcerated, he used to work for the Hell’s Angels part-time, shaking down small time businessmen, and forcing girls into prostitution. His idyllic life came to an end when he went to prison for killing three of his hookers who were not bringing in enough business. He wondered what happened to the other five girls. After he iced the lady judge, he would track them down. Get free sex and be back in business as a biker pimp.
They watched her turn down a residential street. Harry slowed the van until they dropped back to a safe distance, two blocks behind. “We still don’t know if she can ID us in a police line-up,” said Harry, sounding depressed.
“Harry. We got to do it. We already decided that. Now all we have to decide is when.”
“Yeah. We got to find the right moment. But, BJ, if the broad can’t identify us, what’s the point of whacking her? She didn’t do us any wrong. We don’t have a beef with her,” protested Harry.
BJ had long ago chosen to live outside the law. He gave his friend an impatient look. “On the other hand, Harry, why take stupid chances?” Yep, he could easily imagine doing her out of spite and cruelty.
chapter fifteen
Dubois’s tip led Nick to the zoning office at the City of Montreal. In turn, that call was directed to a property assessment officer for the City, who ran extensive computer searches and called back that very same day with promising results. The house was registered as belonging to a Hispanic family. However, Hydro Quebec records revealed that a Thu Li Mann resided at that address. Other utility records recorded his last name as Vu. Nick wondered, briefly, what his quarry’s genuine family name was: Thu or Vu? Maybe neither one. He assigned Rocco to look into it, while he and Kappolis flew to Montreal.
Their flight arrived at 9:45 p.m. Pumped up on caffeine and adrenaline, they drove at high speed from the airport to the address, with RCMP cruisers and two crime scene vans behind them. It was the kind of low-rent neighbourhood where the presence of cops does not raise eyebrows. Even the sight of yellow police tape was common enough that the neighbours just went about their business. However, the sight of the special-weapons-and-tactics team with their paramilitary arsenal had curious teenagers daring each other to worm under the police tape. Nick warned them back, holding up his badge.
The SWAT team led the way, bursting through the front doors. Dressed in Kevlar flak jackets, Nick and Kappolis followed close behind with their own weapons. Once inside, they split into teams. A thorough, cautious circuit of the house verified what the silence had already told them. Nobody was home.
“Seems Li Mann Vu has flown the coop,” announced Kappolis.
“Looks that way, doesn’t it?” said one of the Montreal SWAT team. The evidence technicians were right behind them, carrying in their metal suitcases full of equipment.
“Toss the place from top to bottom,” Nick ordered.
He watched as they slapped on their latex. And left them alone as they reached for their black dusting powder. Hands in his pockets, he surveyed the house, careful not to disturb anything, as the technicians busied themselves taking photographs, dusting for fingerprints, noting the location of objects. One of them carried a video camera, recording the rooms as he walked through.
Nick wasn’t quite sure what to make of the place and its absent occupant. The furnishings were genuine Asian antiques mixed in with kitschy fakes. And then there were the four TV screens, the satellite dish, the expensive computer equipment and the police scanner in the dining room, which had been left on. He walked through the rooms trying to get a feel for the man who had taken the life of his friend and colleague. There was nothing to indicate much of a life being lived. There were no photographs of loved ones, no mementos of Li Mann’s homeland. It was as if his entire life was lived only in the moment: on hold for something. One could only guess what. Li Mann Vu’s house said he lived a rather pathetic life, that he was a man without an anchor. Crime, Nick thought, must be his only connection with other people.
His other observation as he toured the house was the rigidly ordered neatness and newness of everything. The stove was hardly used, Waterford crystal was still in its boxes, the cupboards were filled with unopened boxes and packages of food.
Bizarre was the adjective that came to his mind. The place was like a movie set.
“Must have been too busy killing people or smuggling illegals into the country to bother with a cooking course,” remarked Kappolis, picking up a brand new copper pot.
“No phones, no jacks. The phone company didn’t know about this guy,” remarked Nick.
Nick always tried to understand the thought processes of his suspects, and he’d developed some very definite ideas about human motivations. The act of committing a crime put things in a different perspective. In his opinion, it was easy to go down the road of being a criminal. The willpower was in staying clean, in not cheating on welfare or unemployment insurance, in not coveting your neighbours’ possessions or robbing them blind while they were at work. Nick was used to people who were not exactly what they appeared to be. But in this case, he couldn’t get a handle on the exact immorality of the man he was hunting. Somehow the pieces didn’t quite fit together.
“Box every slip of paper you find,” Nick ordered the evidence technicians.
There were blank entry visas into the United States and Canada, blank birth certificates for just about every province in Canada and a dozen states south of the border. The drivers’ licences were kept separately in a drawer along with the health cards. In another room, one of the evidence techs found a box of blank American social security cards.
“Boss, do we notify the Americans?”
Nick did not answer right away. He was thinking about what it all meant. All you needed was a birth certificate. With that one piece of paper, you could apply for a driver’s licence, a social security card, and an authentic American or Canadian passport.
“Let’s not notify our pals south of the border yet. We’ll make the call as soon as we have some answers. No need to upset them right away,” Nick replied.
They all knew that they were damned if they called and damned if they didn’t call Washington. One way or the other, Canada would be blamed for its lax immigration policy. But if they didn’t inform their counterparts, and the news was leaked to the press, they would be lambasted publicly.
“Blank visas, passports, birth certificates. This guy must be the premier agent smuggler of bringing illegal aliens into the country. Are these things real or fake?” asked Rocco.
Nick turned to him. “I want you to run checks and see if there’ve been any thefts or break-ins lately at any of the Canadian embassies around the world. Leave the American embassies to me.”
They checked the house one last time. On the inside door of one of the kitchen cabinets was a pinup calendar of gorgeous Asian girls and Vietnamese recipes. Kappolis passed it to Nick. “What do you make of this?”
Nick flipped through the pages. “A calendar advertising the services of a photocopy shop. Qwik Kopy: Two cents a copy. Cou
ld be worth checking out.”
Nick took the card from Kappolis. He copied down the address and telephone number before passing the card to the evidence tech.
“So we got ourselves a couple of leads, but still no photograph of what Li Mann actually looks like,” said Kappolis.
“Even with a photograph, it would still be like looking for a needle in a haystack.” Nick, the last to leave, closed the door behind him.
The Qwik Kopy printing shop was located in a strip mall in downtown Windsor, a stone’s throw from the bridge into Detroit. From outward appearances, the photocopy shop primarily catered to university students, and the mom-and-pop businesses in the neighbourhood. Signs declaring “Two Cents a Copy” were plastered on the walls and counters.
“Okay, this is what we got,” said Rocco, sitting next to Nick in the Bronco. “According to business records the company is registered to Thu Li.”
“Sounds like a play on names. Li Mann Vu. Li Mann Thu. Thu Li. We got enough evidence to search the place.”
Nick walked into the printing shop, looking the place over. There was only one employee. The clerk was a small, slight, young man, dressed in worn, outdated clothes that looked as if they came from the Salvation Army or some second-hand outlet. He seemed no older than eighteen or twenty. Probably a university student working part-time.
“This is a criminal investigation. This here,” said Nick, shoving an official document in front of the man’s face, “is a copy of our search warrant. We suggest you cooperate with us.” Nick slapped a couple of blank identity documents and a phony passport down on the counter. “What you’re doing is totally illegal.”