by Sanchez, Bob
“We heard a loud noise last night after everyone had gone to bed,” Sichan said. Worry clouded her face as she fingered a small medallion attached to the gold chain around her neck, then looked away. Her nails were bitten close, and her left cheek was swollen and blue. “And there was terrible screaming. It woke me out of a sound sleep, and then I called the police. Was someone shot?”
“On the top floor. Bin Chea was killed.” Both women looked as though he had slapped them in the face. Sam maintained a neutral expression. What an odd question--with all the commotion, with officers talking to the neighbors, how could they not know what happened?
“Did you hear anyone leaving the building? Maybe someone running down the front stairs?”
“Yes, I think maybe there were two people. It seemed like I heard someone say ‘shut up’ in English, but I’m not sure. I was too sleepy. At first I had thought it was one of my nightmares.”
“I know what you mean.” What kind of nightmares did Sichan have? Did the mud drip from her fingers as she clawed her own grave? Did she sit bolt upright in bed just as the club reached her face? But for now, what about the man sleeping in the other room? “Who is he?” Sam asked.
“That is my husband Nawath. He was at work last night.”
“How many people live here, ma’am?”
“Just the four of us.”
She was lying. The room with the guy in it had room for at least four people, and they wouldn’t pack everyone into one room. There was a closed door that probably led to another bedroom, but that didn’t matter. “Ma’am, I’m not here for that. I won’t report how many people live here. I just need to know who else might have heard or seen something last night. Anything. Maybe I can come back and talk to the others.”
“That’s impossible. There is no one else.”
Sam’s voice softened. “All right, ma’am.” He’d be back anyway.
“I am so sorry for Mrs. Chea,” the old woman said. “Now she has no family.”
“Did Mister Chea ever fight with his wife?”
“Such a shameful question. Perhaps you should ask me if she killed her husband.”
“Did she kill her husband?”
The old woman’s face flushed. “No!” Sam had no reason to suspect Mrs. Chea. Not yet. But in a murder case the spouse was always a suspect.
“Who do you think killed Bin Chea?” Sam asked.
“I really don’t know,” she said. She crossed her arms across her chest, warding off further questions. “I can’t say any more.”
A light snore came from the bedroom, and Sam looked again at Sichan. “When may I talk to your husband?”
“Maybe you should talk to him at Samson Cleaning Service tonight. He works there.”
“What time does he start work?”
“At eleven tonight.”
“If you have only four people in the apartment, why do you need extra mattresses on the floor?” She looked at him nervously and didn’t reply. Who could blame her for being nervous? Lots of Cambodians kept expenses down by sharing apartments.
“I would like to speak with your husband now, please.”
She shook her head. “He will be angry with me.”
“Ma’am, what happened to your face?”
She chewed on her knuckles, looked down at her bare feet. “It’s nothing.”
“Did he hit you?”
“I slipped and fell. I am very careless.”
“No one should ever hit you, Mrs. Lac. If anyone ever hurts you, I want you to call me.” He held out a business card, but she waved it away as though it were a poison mushroom.
“Hide it in your purse,” he whispered.
“No. Please go now.” She looked away from him.
Nawath came out of the bedroom, tightening a belt on his trousers. He was barefoot and shirtless, and wiped his eyes with callused hands. He blinked twice, apparently dispelling the last remnants of sleep. “I’m up,” he said. “What do you want?”
Sam wanted a lot: What did Nawath hear last night? What did he see? How well did he know the landlord Bin Chea? Did he know of any troubles Mister Chea had with anyone--with other tenants? With anyone at all?
“A peaceful guy,” Nawath said. “Wouldn’t harm a roach. We’re all going to miss him. I can’t think of anybody who’d want to hurt the old man.”
“No one? No problems, ever?”
“How the hell should I know he has problems? Hey, what were you trying to give my wife? Your home phone number, you want to mess around with her?” Nawath offered a sly smile.
“This is a murder investigation,” Sam said. “If you have any information, please let us know.” He held out the card that Sichan Lac had refused, and Nawath took it. Sam let himself out, realizing that he hated Nawath. But why? The fellow was probably a wife-beater, and he might be withholding information. But the Commonwealth of Massachusetts didn’t require an officer of the law to hate anyone. So why did Sam want to turn Nawath’s nose into gristle?
CHAPTER FOUR
Viseth Kim sat on the cement steps while air radiated in waves from the street, down the hill from Bin Chea’s place. He couldn’t remember when it had gotten any hotter than this in the camps in Thailand. He could feel his skin turn brown under the scalding sun. Sweat beaded on his forehead, soaked into his tee shirt, worked between his toes and fed whatever growth it was that made his ratty high tops smell so bad.
The others in his gang were trading germs in the city swimming pool or toking up so they didn’t care so much about the heat.
Viseth swigged his beer. Tonight was the payoff whether the man liked it or not. That son of a bitch put off payment till things settled down. The man was right, though. If he disappeared too soon, they’d suspect. Cops were so damn suspicious. Meanwhile, he should just take a little time and get rid of the gun. Get laid one more time before his girlfriend shut him off. She was getting so big, so damn big. No way she could come with him to Long Beach in that condition. State would take care of the baby, then he’d get himself somebody else for fun. When he got settled, he’d call and find out if she had a boy. If so, maybe he’d send for her.
And maybe he wouldn’t.
His mind drifted to the girl in the car last night. Too bad he didn’t know where she lived. Probably wasn’t here on 11th Street. Now he could show her some real fun. He could stretch her out on the hood of his old Chevy while her boyfriend looked on--
A Cambodian woman wearing sunglasses walked toward him with brisk steps, her face looking straight up the hill. Though he didn’t live in the neighborhood, he knew she was a single mother who lived in the same house Chea lived in, and that the girl who scampered along the edge of the park was hers. Nice body mom’s got, long legs, bet that ass could swing. “Hey lady,” he called out. “Let’s go someplace cool and get to know each other.”
She didn’t turn her head or slow her pace, but he could feel her eyes looking at him. The faintest hint of a scowl shaped her lips. Her heels clicked on the cement sidewalk. She wanted him, he could tell. She walked by, close enough that he could smell her perfume. “It’s your lucky day,” he said. “I’ve got twelve inches all for you.”
The woman looked across the street and waved at her daughter. “Pheary, be careful crossing the street.”
Up the street where she walked was Rocky, the Cambodian kid who put out one of the street lights for him. Rocky was a skinny little shit in a red bathing suit, shower clogs, and a golden brown back. Who the hell cared what his real name was? Rocky threw small rocks at a pair of sneakers that dangled over a telephone wire, then popped a bulb on a telephone pole. Damn kid was good, he had to admit. “Hey Rocky,” he called. “I told you to stop that shit. Once was enough.” Sure as shit, if the boy got in trouble for darkening the street, the kid would blame him. Cops might connect him with last night. He was unclear on that. Was there any way they could tie him to the murder? If there wasn’t any light, then no one saw him leave, unless--. He should have thought more about tha
t ahead of time.
A police car turned the corner and headed up the street toward Chea’s place. As the cruiser passed by, the driver looked at him for a moment, then double parked. Up the street was that Cambodian cop, the asshole who kept trying to bust him. He’d slipped away from the cop after the robbery a couple of weeks ago, but maybe he was pushing his luck to hang out here. Freakin’ guy had muscles that could lift a pick-up truck, and eyes that could see through a barrel full of shit. Now he was in street clothes. Did he think he was fooling anybody? He was working his way down here. Viseth was fucked. If he ran, he was dead. Itchy beads of sweat clung to his forehead.
The other cop stepped out of his car and said something to Rocky, then ambled across the street toward Viseth. Had Rocky called the cops? He should’ve paid the kid an extra five to shut his mouth. Or dunked him head first in the canal, see how long he could hold his breath. The cop’s revolver was snapped into a holster on that thick black belt they all wore. He had dark skin and a round baby face. Gonzalez, his name tag said. What did they call them again, was it spics? This guy had to be new--Viseth was on spitting terms with most of the force.
“Do you live here, sir?” Gonzalez said. He wiped his forehead with a hairy arm.
“No.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“This is a free country, right?”
“Right. So what are you doing here?”
“This is my sister’s place. First floor.”
“What is her name?”
“Kim.”
“What’s her last name?”
“Kim. That’s her last name. Teeda Kim.”
The officer looked past him, probably to the name on the mailbox.
“What’s your name?”
“Kim.”
“Your full name, please?”
“Viseth Kim.”
“Mr. Kim, can you tell me where you were last night?”
“On a date.”
“Where did you go on your date?”
“The movies.”
“What theater?”
“Cinema 3.”
“What did you see?”
“Nothing. We stayed in the parking lot. I got the lay of my life.” He wished.
Gonzalez smiled. “I’m happy for you, sir. What’s his name?”
“You hurt my feelings. I only do girls.”
“I’ll bet you do. When did you get home?”
“About ten, ten-thirty.”
“You’re a Battboy, aren’t you?”
“No, Officer. I’ve been good.” He feigned his best hurt expression. Up the street, the Cambodian cop was talking to the little girl. Maybe Viseth could slip away.
The cop’s expression didn’t change. “Let me try again. Are you a member of the Battboy gang?”
“We’re not a gang exactly. Just a few Cambodian kids who hang out together.”
“What kind of name is Battboy, anyway? You guys play baseball?”
“Boys from Battambang. Place in Cambodia.”
“Where’d you get that shiner?”
Viseth rubbed his sore eye. “Fell out of bed. No, my old man popped me one.”
This asshole cop had no reason to bother Viseth. His mother would swear that he was home for the night by ten, ten-thirty, whatever he told her to say. Yes, my darling son. I will protect you. She was a blind old woman, but she’d kept him out of jail before. No jail time, not even overnight. He was untouchable, and a lot smarter than his reputation.
“Do you know Mister Bin Chea?”
“Yeah, I know who he is.” There was no use lying about that.
“How do you know him?”
“He’s my landlord.”
“And you live on--?”
“Mersey Street.” Viseth wanted to rip that little notebook out of the cop’s hands and jam it up his nose, but being unarmed and a head shorter discouraged him. He pictured this skinny spic with tire tracks on his back. Road kill in a blue uniform.
“Know anybody want to hurt him?”
“Hurt him?” Oh, shit. “No. What’s this have to do with me?”
“Why do you think this has anything to do with you?”
Viseth placed his hand over his thumping heart. “No reason,” he said. “No reason at all.”
Soon Gonzalez left. Rocky chucked another stone that sailed high above the sneakers and bounced off a car’s hood. The sun was too damn hot after all. Maybe Teeda had more beer in the fridge. Maybe Rocky needed a lesson.
CHAPTER FIVE
The mongoose and the cobra, was that it? Two creatures with a mutual hatred built into their genes? Sam was still trying to understand his gut reaction to Nawath. Best not to take that analogy too far, though. When the mongoose and the cobra meet, one must die.
Meanwhile, Sam wanted to nail Nawath for something.
When he stepped out of the second house it was like joining a turkey in the oven, and he basted his forehead in the noonday sun. Ten thousand BTUs chilled the apartment he’d just left, and nothing else useful had come of the visit. How could the fans in his apartment possibly keep Trish and Julie comfortable tonight?
Yesterday the hot, sticky air that had lingered after the sun dropped below the horizon snuck into his apartment and stayed the night. It had curled up with Trish and made her whine, sidled up to Julie and made her snarl, pushed Sam out of bed and made him sit silently in front of the living-room fan, his arms and legs spread to catch all the breeze they could. Now the sunlight glared in mustard-colored discs off the roofs of cars; curdled air shimmered off the pavement. The smells seemed to form layers that swirled together when a car drove by: mown grass, exhaust fumes, sticky hot top, roses. Two cops worked the apartments down the street, but the neighborhood was otherwise quiet. No kids riding bikes in the park, no mothers walking their babies, in fact no one but a few cops--and a girl who played by herself under a tree in the park.
Not enough people answered the knocks on their doors, so Sam decided to drive over to the hospital to visit Mrs. Chea. He crossed the street to find his car wedged so tightly between two others that he wouldn’t easily get out. A yellow parking ticket graced his windshield, and the hood of his Ford sported a brand-new dent. On the sidewalk, a dog with a summer haircut sniffed at a fire hydrant.
This had been no random killing. Bin Chea was a prominent businessman, if a reclusive one. The shooter apparently hadn’t tried to rob him, so what was the point? Maybe it was a gang bang, or maybe a hit.
The young girl approached from the playground, smiled, and stuck out her hand. She was about six years old, and she looked perfectly comfortable in her pink skirt, white ruffled blouse, and black patent-leather shoes. Behind her and down the grassy knoll, the swings were still, the playground nearly empty.
“How do you do?” she said in English. “My name is Sopheary. What is your name?” She looked up at him with big, trusting eyes, her hand thrust halfway up to his face. He hesitated, and she waited. Clearly she expected him to meet her halfway, and would not settle for any less. Sam felt uneasy around children--except for Trish, of course.
Sam shook her hand. “I am fine, young lady--”
“I am not a lady, I am a little girl. You may call me Sopheary.”
“Then I am fine, Sopheary. You may call me Detective Long. And you may let go of my hand, please. Thank you. Didn’t your mother tell you not to talk to strangers?”
Sopheary cocked her head and narrowed her eyes as though she wasn’t used to hearing such foolish questions. “You’re not a stranger,” she said. “I know you now.”
She was far too trusting. This young girl needed a talking to, but not by him.
The cars were jammed together like rush-hour traffic. Could he push the Toyota in front of him? Not likely. It was a tight squeeze, as though cars had been lifted by a magnet and dropped into the spaces. That seemed how he would have to get his car out. Lift and drop. God, couldn’t there be a little breeze?
“I have to go home for lunch now
,” Sopheary said.
“Where do you live?”
“Over there.” She pointed to the first blue house, the one where Bin Chea had died. A boy looked down at the crime scene tape as he walked by. “I live on the first floor, behind the yellow stripe,” she said.
“Is anyone home there? I knocked and there was no answer.”
“My mother is there now. She just got back from shopping. She’s very pretty. Would you like to marry her?”
Sam laughed. “No, thank you. I’m already married. I would like to meet her, though. There is some business to talk about.”
“Then hold my hand,” she commanded, but he shook his head.
This didn’t seem right, encouraging a little girl to hold a stranger’s hand. “I can’t do that. I’ll just follow,” he said. She frowned, then shrugged as though it was his loss. He sighed and held out his little finger. His big sister Sarapon used to do that. She would walk him to market where she bought fish caught in Tonle Sap and dried on racks. They would share an orange soda that she bought from a vendor on the cyclopousse, and then they would walk home, his small hand clasped firmly on her little finger.
Sopheary took his finger and smiled. At least she didn’t cry. “I found a foot on the step,” she said. “Do you want to see it?” She pointed to the cement stoop that led up to her porch, where a work boot had made an impression on one of the stairs. “I wish I could do that,” she said.
“The cement has to be wet,” Sam said. “And then people will get mad at you if you step in it.”
“Did they get mad at him?”
Sam ignored the question. Sopheary’s mother came to the door as her daughter and Sam approached. Sam showed his badge and introduced himself in Khmer. “I worry about your daughter approaching strangers,” he said. “A man died here last night.”