Burning Moon

by Richard Barre

  Wil sat where they had; dark pupils followed him through the Plexiglas. Finally they blinked and Vinh said, “My wife told me what you said to the press. We are grateful”

  “You doing all right?” Wil asked.

  “In here? A palace, all things considered.”

  “Have you anything to tell me?”

  The expression was one of contempt. “Why? So you can tell your friends in uniform?”

  “No. So I can make your time in here not mean nothing.”

  Vinh Tien brought his hands together, regarded them as though deciding. Then, “I was at my brother’s house—a second time that day. The police know this.”

  A second time.

  Wil just sat there.

  “I went to beg him not to do what he was doing to her. To offer him money.”

  “I see,” Wil said. “And what time was that?”

  “Three—three-thirty—I don’t recall the exact time.”

  Which meant Yanez had it on tape all along via the system.

  Son of a bitch…

  “What happened?”

  Vinh’s face tightened. “He had me thrown out in the road. After telling me she was the best he’d ever had, that he had big plans for her. That in the long run—” pausing to clamp down on it. “In the long run she’d be handing me money in the street, as an empress might a peasant. This while smiling at me.”

  “Go on.”

  “I had the knife. From the boning rack at work. Down my back.”

  Shit, shit, shit. “You’re telling me you pulled it on him?”

  Vinh glanced at the guard, tapped his teeth with the double fist. “Had it been twenty years ago, ten even, there would have been no doubt as to the outcome. As it was, the one who knows martial arts nearly broke my arm while the others laughed.”

  “Did you tell Raymond Ky this?”

  “I did. He told me not to worry.”

  “What do you think of Raymond Ky so far?”

  “When I can afford an opinion, I will render it.”

  Wil tried another approach. “Luc was having guests, he mentioned it when he tried to hire me. They were in the house when you were there?”

  “More in the background,” Vinh answered. “But yes.”

  “Any idea who they were?”

  “Laughing faces. I don’t remember.”

  “Nothing you might have overheard?”

  The guard approached, held up five fingers, moved off to resume his stance. Lowering his voice, Vinh said, “They were speaking the language. Something that they were expecting: an arrival of some kind.”

  “Of what?” Wil asked.

  “I don’t know, but one slapped a girl on the rump as she was leaving. Then they all did it. Luck, or something.”

  “You heard nothing else?”

  “I had other things on my mind.”

  Wil let it slide, said, “You know the word is out, don’t you? About you being Viet Cong?”

  Nod. “As we speak.”

  “Meaning what? You’ve had threats?”

  “If one didn’t know better, one might call them that.”

  “Tell the guards,” Wil said. “They’ll have you moved.”

  “And if these things were spoken of in front of a guard?”

  Wil ran a hand over his hair, rubbed the back of his scalp.

  To the gesture, Vinh said, “I have seen men like this before. They are cowards, unwilling to make a move because of what I am alleged to have done. Weaklings that need the pack.”

  “Don’t underestimate them.”

  He waved it off as he might a mosquito. “I have a favor to ask. If, at this point, you would consider it.”

  “What’s that?”

  “My family,” Vinh Tien said. “Whatever you can do to keep them safe, you will find me appreciative.”

  “That’s not a favor,” Wil answered. “It’s a given.”

  “You may wish to rethink that.”

  “Only when a long list of other things comes to pass.”

  Vinh Tien glanced up as the heavyset guard returned. “My signal to go,” he said.

  “Have some faith in us,” Wil told him, rising also.

  The black eyes bored in. “You must understand: Luc was my blood. Even though we were of different fathers, I never wished him dead, merely stopped from what he was doing to my family.” Glancing at the guard, then back. “There is something I must know from you. Would you have accepted my brother’s money?”

  Wil held the eyes. “Would you have put a bullet in me twenty-five years ago?”

  ***

  They were at the dining table, drapes pulled back, afternoon light slanting in through the curtains, the bamboo now in partial sun.

  “How did the media know we were even there?” Mia asked.

  “Word gets around,” Wil said. “And money.”

  He could still see the flashes going off, hear the shouted questions regarding the Cong, ones similar to last night about his knowledge of Vinh’s involvement, his denial of Vinh’s guilt, comments on the revocation-of-citizenship rumors as they emerged from the facility and made their way to the car. Some reporters even asking if Li Tien were VC as he pulled from the lot.

  Mia said, “At least he looked better than I expected.”

  “Your father is a man,” Li answered her in Vietnamese that Wil barely made out. “He has endured worse.”

  Mia turned to him. “Do you think he’s in danger in there?”

  “It’s a controlled environment. I’d say the odds are with him.” Knowing she was seeing through it and saying nothing for her mother’s sake.

  “They were here before you came,” Li said in English. “With their trucks and their cameras. Their endless questions.”

  “You might as well get used to it,” he told her.

  “What more do they want from us?”

  Wil felt Matt nose his hand and stroked him. “Mainly to feed the beast. Part is way Luc was killed, part is the twenty-fifth anniversary of the fall of Saigon and the extension of trade agreements, the politics.”

  “So what do we do?” Pouring more tea into their cups, Mia refusing hers.

  “We go about our business.”

  “Which is?” Mia.

  “Helping your dad by acting normal,” he said. “Not letting this get to us. Beyond that, I have some ideas.” And, to her look, “Nothing I won’t include you in once they’re formed.”

  Mia’s eyes drifted to the dregs in her cup; she looked up at her mother. “Viet Cong, my God. I mean, how could he have put us in this position?”

  The slap was gunshot unexpected.

  For an instant everything froze, then Li Tien was laying into her stunned and openmouthed daughter. Wil was following none of it when the front window exploded inward and a rock the size of a softball grazed the table leg and struck the wall.

  Diving, Wil was conscious of Mia’s scream and Matt barking, of Li Tien where he’d sought to shield her with his body, of shouting at Mia to take her mother into the hallway NOW, of the Mustang in his hand. Of being at the window then, watching a black pickup, a barechested man clinging to its roll bar, his other fist pumping as the truck squealed through the curve and disappeared.

  No way, no chance.

  Then, Mia’s voice from miles away:

  “What was that you were saying about normal?”

  51

  Wil was packing when he heard the pop of gravel, feet on the stair steps. He had the door open as Frank Lin topped the landing.

  “It must be nice to be so in demand,” Lin said, glancing back at the press contingent, one with a long lens aimed at them.

  “Thrill a minute,” Wil said.

  “Hey, you’re pretty good copy these days. Ask Rudy.”

  “Guys who flatten tires like me.”

  “Can I come in, or shall we do this for their benefit?” And when Wil gestured him inside, “You planning a trip somewhere?”

  Wil thrust his .45 and two clips of hollowpoint
s he’d wrapped in an old sweatshirt, plus his windbreaker, into the duffel. “And if I were?”

  “Might be wise to let us know.”

  “Us…”

  “Me,” Lin said. “Remember?”

  Wil went through it for him: the smashed window and phone threat that followed, the punk in the black pickup, the vacant eyes of the responding deputy. Li Tien’s eyes when she said it reminded her of postwar days before Vinh had been able to send for them.

  “I saw the log on it,” Lin said. “One of ours will swing by periodically. I will, too, when I can.”

  “I’ll pass it on. Meantime I intend to be out there.”

  Lin looked out at the ocean, late afternoon sun backlighting the surf. “Rudy was in Nam, too, you know. Twenty-second Airborne. From the stories I’ve heard, he had a pretty hellish time.”

  “A lot of guys did,” Wil said, continuing to pack. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact. He’d rather you were more guarded in your comments to the press. That they’re helping neither the process nor the family. With which I happen to agree.”

  Wil put a box of lapsang into a side pocket and zipped it up. “I was referring to the videotape, Frank, the second visit. The one you guys forgot to mention?”

  Slow exhale. “So you’re not in Rudy’s loop, Wil. BFD. On camera the guy pulls the knife that winds up in Robb’s neck. How would you have handled it?”

  “There’s a question for you.”

  Lin turned back to the window, shook his head. “This is like two spikers banging at the net. You think we might call a fucking truce here?”

  “Not a bad idea,” Wil said, transferring underwear. “You can start with the tail you guys have on me.”

  Lin left the view to face him. “Somebody’s dogging you?”

  “A pro. Somebody I was thinking might owe Rudy a favor.”

  “Bullshit. For what reason?”

  “I found the bodies, Frank, I had the run of the place. Maybe I’m withholding something from him.”

  Pause. “Are you?”

  “If I was and if it was material, you’d have it.” Wil thinking You’re welcome Lorenz. Knowing full well who rolled the dice by choosing to keep secret her involvement: not the firmest leg on which he stood. “That said, how long do you think I’d last if I ran everything by Rudy first?”

  “Save the act, Wil, I’m not the press. And I’ll check around and see if it’s one of ours out there.”

  “All I can ask.” Sticking his Dopp kit in the duffel, zipping the main flap, more signal of intent than actual readiness. “And Frank, about your cruising the Tien place? Thanks…them and me.”

  ***

  After Lin had left, Wil got out John Pereira’s fax regarding Harmony’s location coordinates. He was thinking of the best way to handle what he had in mind when the phone rang. Expecting another request to put an eager young Bernstein wannabe across from him in confidential circumstances, he let the machine take it and heard, “Pick up if you’re there. If not, I’ll try the cell phone and the hell with less secure.”

  “Lorenz?” he answered.

  “Flushed you out, did I? Can you come by tonight? I’ll be back by eight. It’s important.”

  “Not the best of nights,” he said. “How about breakfast tomorrow? On me.”

  “It’s Mac. I still haven’t heard from him. He hasn’t been by your place has he?”

  “No,” Wil said, mulling it. “You check his room?”

  “I look like Helpless Hattie to you? Of course I checked his room.”

  “How long?” he asked.

  “Since the night you were going out to Luc’s.”

  Going on four days. Wil said, “And that’s unusual for him?”

  “Damn right, it’s unusual. Mac has enemies, people who’d like nothing better than to take him apart. Tell you the truth, I’m worried about him.”

  “Enemies,” he repeated. “Along the lines of our conversation?”

  “Places he’s been, the things he’s seen? What do you think?”

  “Who is he, Lorenz? No bullshit, no plastic banana rock and roll.”

  She hesitated. “Mac is a good agent and an old family friend.”

  “Just not one used to operating on a tether.”

  “You’d make a good dentist, you know that? Probe till it bleeds.”

  “As if you wouldn’t,” he said. “Any chance Maccaffee might have slipped it?”

  “You don’t know him the way I do, or you wouldn’t say that.”

  The concern in her tone apparent, he said, “No argument from me.”

  “Forget it,” Lorenz said abruptly. “This is obviously a wrong number.”

  “Hold on a minute, Inez. Maybe later if I—”

  But by then she’d hung up.

  Carrying it around like a burr, Wil finally found Lorenz’s business card and dialed the ATF number in Los Angeles: ten to five by his watch, hoping someone was still there.

  Something was: a recording that led him deeper into no-man’s land, then recycling his options, none of which applied. Punching out, he dialed the FBI agent he knew from Holly Pfeiffer’s kidnap and another case involving murdered vets.

  “You’ve reached the desk of FBI Special Agent Albert Vega. I’m not here right now, but—” Live suddenly, out of breath: “Rosen? Al Vega. Thanks for calling back.”

  “Who’s Rosen?” Wil asked.

  Deep breath. “Who’s this?”

  “Just remember that your mother and I love you very much, Albert.”

  There was a pause, then Vega saying, “Hardesty? How’d I get so lucky?”

  Wil said, “Just wondering if you knew any human beings over at ATF. Preferably of the supervisorial genus.”

  “I’m due in a meeting. Supervisorial of whom?”

  “With syntax like that, you must be Special Agent in Charge by now. At the very least.”

  “I’d love to chat, Hardesty, but I’m expecting a call.”

  “Rosen, whoever she is,” Wil said.

  “He, smartass.” Pause, the sound of fingers on a keyboard. Then, “Try Marotta, Louis.” Spelling it “Not much for charm, but competent.”

  “That mean you know him?”

  “Heard him speak once after Waco.” Vega rattled off a number and an extension. “Tell him I suggest he hang up on you, which is what I’m about to do.”

  “Al, Al. You always hurt the one you love.”

  “On second thought,” Vega said, “tell him to change his number.”

  Sorting out his approach, Wil dialed the ATF extension, waited three rings, then heard, “Marotta.” New York horseradish on a California roll.

  Wil said, “Peter Giannini over at the Wilshire B of A inquiring about an Inez Lorenz who says she works there?”

  “You’ll need Personnel for that,” the voice came back. Busy.

  “It’s about a loan,” Wil added. “Won’t take a moment.”

  “A moment more than I have, Mr. Giannini.”

  “Call me Pete, everybody does,” Wil said. “And is that Queens I detect in your accent?”

  “Call the office tomorrow, Mr. Giannini.”

  “We just want to inform her that it’s been approved, but we seem to have deleted the information. It’s most embarrassing.”

  “Yes, well, I’ll be hanging up now.”

  “Mr. Marotta you can’t want to see her lose a one-time rate like this. She’ll be saving almost four hundred dollars.”

  Hesitation. Then, “L-O-R-E-N-Z, Santa Monica. But you won’t reach her.”

  Wil let out a breath. “Then I’ll have no choice but to recycle her application, Mr. Marotta. Do you see my dilemma here?”

  “It’s Special Agent Marotta. And I suggest you reconsider since she’s on administrative leave.”

  Bingo—but which meant what? Disciplinary? Investigative? Agency cover for the Luc Tien op? It made sense, when you tracked the nature of their contacts with him, but if so, why?

&nbs
p; “And this second reference she’s listed,” Wil went on. “A Thomas Maccafee? Would you happen to know him?”

  Long pause. “On second thought, Mr. Giannini, will you hold?”

  Fifteen seconds went by, twenty, too much like a tap: Wil broke the connection and sat with it. Administrative leave. Opening his laptop, he keyed up a search engine, typed in INEZ LORENZ in quotes and got no hits. He tried THOMAS MACCAFEE, then TOM MACCAFEE, with similar results. Trying another engine, he struck out there, too, and a third and fourth. On a whim, he typed in just the name MACCAFEE and got seventeen—sports figures, musicians, academics, different first names. He was about to head out when he tried the single name LORENZ.

  Twenty-four hits, all but the last hit irrelevant.

  ABDUCTED AGENT FOUND DEAD IN RAID

  Choluteca, Honduras, 1991. U.S. Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms agents, acting on a tip, found the remains of Special Agent E. Russell Lorenz, abducted during a failed raid on what was thought to be an arms dealer’s cache. With the death of Lorenz, the raid now has claimed twelve: a local peace officer, two civilians, three arms traffickers, and six of the forty foreign nationals thought to be awaiting passage to the U.S. who were released from quarters the traffickers set ablaze.

  An investigation into the raid’s failure has been launched, but a leak inside the agency is believed responsible. Lorenz, a decorated veteran of Vietnam as well as ATF, leaves behind a daughter, Inez Almeria, age 25, currently in Virginia completing her ATF training….

  But it was the accompanying photo that kept Wil glued to it: four men in jungle fatigues looking at the ground where several tarps had been laid, one pointing at something or someone out of frame. Three were Federale types.

  The fourth was Tom Maccafee…

  Even with hair, Wil recognized him. Standing slightly behind the others, hand cupped to the cigarette in his mouth, he seemed just to have become aware of the viewfinder fixed on him.

  Wil was glad he hadn’t been the cameraman.

  52

  Wil got to the Tien’s after seven, but if they minded, it didn’t show. On the flip side, both Mia and her mother looked drawn. Dinner was a silent affair, as if the flattened cardboard laid in over the shattered window were a presence in itself. That and the spare answering machine Wil had brought and had Mia program with the sheriff’s emergency number, the machine’s alert diode a red throb across the room.