McPhail couldn’t resist making a price comparison. “I wonder what she’d think this place smells like. Hamburger. Who can afford steak?”
“Brandon was rich,” said Calvino. “But he wasn’t cooking a steak inside the short-time room.”
Scully rubbed his jaw; it was one of those habits he used to signal that he was thinking through a problem.
“From what you’ve described, it might’ve been caused by a Taser.”
“Tasers aren’t lethal. That’s the point of using one,” said Calvino.
“Tasers can cause a heart attack,” said McPhail. “There are stories all over the Net about people dying of heart attacks from being Tasered.”
“Scully, you might be on to something,” said Calvino.
McPhail touched the envelope, shoving it deeper into his shirt pocket, and raised his glass. He saluted Calvino. “Think I’ll go over to Villa and buy some steaks for dinner tonight.”
Calvino leaned forward, looking Scully in the eye. “Mike, what do you think? Do the marks look like something a Taser would make?”
He shrugged. “Can’t be sure. But it’s possible. Say the victim had a bad heart—a jolt from a Taser could kill him. You can’t look just at the weapon; you gotta consider the medical history of the man who died. Maybe the sound of a car backfiring or maybe just watching a close baseball game would have caused the same result. No one uses a Taser to cause a heart attack. They’re used to subdue someone who’s aggressive. The idea isn’t to kill the person.”
Mike Scully was starting to sound like Colonel Pratt spelling out the official line. Law-enforcement personnel had a mentality that sought to explain a suspicious death as an accident, a freak of nature. It was human nature to look for an out to avoid a wrongful-death lawsuit.
“Is it possible that a man could be electrocuted by a Taser?”
“Where are you going with this?”
“I’m thinking out loud. If someone tinkered with a Taser and knew what they were doing, is it possible to juice up the voltage to a lethal dose?”
“What evidence do you have that he was electrocuted?”
“After the autopsy, I talked with the pathologist. He said he’d found tiny hemorrhages on the lungs and other internal organs. That’s consistent with electrocution.”
“And what do you do in the afternoons, Vinny? Sit around thinking how to turn a Taser into a lethal weapon?” asked McPhail.
Scully didn’t blink an eye. “I’ve heard rumors about people who’ve fooled around modifying them. One guy came up with a battery that boosted the Taser to fifty thousand volts.”
“That’d do the job,” said Calvino, without confirming that that was the voltage number the assistant pathologist had used on the phone.
Scully nodded, drank his beer, and sighed. “It’s better than a gun. No ballistics to worry about. There’s no lab guy who can match a Taser wound to a specific weapon. There’s no slug to identify and run through a database. The weapon would pretty much eliminate the usual blowback that comes from using a gun.”
“Any idea how to find such a weapon in Thailand?”
Scully replied with a glassy-eyed stare, the one he used with Anne when she asked him where he’d been for three hours. “Thais like guns. But I’m told they think that Tasers are for pussies.”
“How easy is it to bring one into Thailand?” asked Calvino.
“Everything can be bought in Thailand,” said Scully. “If you have the money, you can find whatever you want. But like I said, a gun is much cheaper.”
“Do you have any idea how many guns are floating around in Thailand?” asked McPhail.
“Enough to make America look like a country of pacifists,” said Calvino.
“You got that right,” said Mike Scully, flashing his blue eyes.
That sounded like an invitation. “I’m going to need some help here, Mike. If you’ve got the time, I’ll make it worth your while to ask around and see if you can pick up any information about Tasers that have come into the country in the last little while. I’m just trying to find out if a friend of mine might have got himself on the wrong end of one. If you can’t get out of the house, I’ll understand.”
The Lonesome Hawk regulars had pegged Mike Scully as someone whose wife kept him on a short leash.
Mike nodded. “I might have to do a little traveling. All of it in country, of course.”
“I’ll cover your expenses and throw in two hundred and fifty dollars a day,” said Calvino. “And another twenty thousand baht for you if you come back with a lead to the importer.”
Calvino could tell from Mike’s eyes that he was interested. He was the kind of man who should never get into a serious game of poker—or try to lie to his wife about his interest in another woman.
“I’ll see what I can do. Who can I say I’m working for? Vincent Calvino?” He waved the waitress over for another bottle of beer; the chits for the first couple had already been stuffed in Calvino’s chit cup. Free food, free beer, and a job assignment; it really had been Scully’s day.
He waited for Calvino to give an instruction.
“Tell anyone who asks that you’re working for Jack Malone,” said Calvino.
McPhail lit a cigarette and exhaled through both nostrils, a thick rope of gray smoke, violating the new non-smoking law on the basis that the Lonesome Hawk had diplomatic immunity, since Old George had landed in the second wave at Normandy. Jack had died in Hua Hin some years ago, a victim of mistaken identity. When Calvino or McPhail was asked for the name of a man who needed something special, they always used Jack’s name.
“Jack Malone it is,” said Scully.
“Be cool with that name,” said McPhail. “Jack was one of the good guys.”
As Calvino watched Mike get up from the booth and walk into the back to piss on ice, he was reminded of another Calvino’s law: No man is ever as tough as he thinks, as truthful as he pretends, or as good in bed as he brags to himself.
“How do you know that Mike won’t come back with some bullshit name that had nothing to do with Brandon’s death?” asked McPhail.
“Scully understands we’re moving around in a small world,” said Calvino.
“They can feed Scully a line of bullshit, but does he know it? He gets his twenty grand either way. They might lead him to a dead end, and then you’ve got nothing for your dough.”
“I wouldn’t hire him if I thought he was stupid. He’s ex-FBI, and he’s heard enough bullshit to fertilize the rice crop in Thailand and China. Plus, he has an incentive to do the job. He’s gotten himself into a hostage situation with his wife. If this case works out, he’s in business, and if he’s in business, he’s got an excuse to get out of the house,” said Calvino.
Scully returned, slipped into the booth, his hands clasped, still wet from the washbasin, dripping on the table, and drank his beer. “If this assignment pans out,” said Calvino, “I have a nice little investigation business, and you can count on more work. With your background, you’d be a natural.”
“What are you expecting in return?”
“Bring me one of the modified Tasers and the name of the man who’s behind making and delivering them. And I’d like the information in a couple of days.”
Scully rolled his eyes. “In a couple of days? And that’s it?”
Calvino shook his head. “If you can get me the details on the guy who killed Brandon Sawyer, I’d say that’d be worth a hundred thousand baht. But I’m not expecting that information to fall into your lap.”
“Have you at least got a lead?”
“I’ve got a couple of ideas.”
“But you’re not going to make my life easy and give them to me, right? It’s like working for the Bureau again.”
“What the pathologist told me was off the record,” said Calvino. “It wasn’t in the autopsy report. Because it had already been agreed that Brandon had died of a heart attack. Too much detail can get you into trouble. But you’re an old pro, Scully. Yo
u know where to dig and how far to dig before the shovel hits a vein.”
“Sometimes you strike gold, other times blood,” Scully said.
McPhail held up the envelope, which had been glued shut and had Calvino’s signature written across the seal.
“There’s a thousand dollars cash inside,” said Calvino. McPhail stuffed the envelope back into his shirt pocket.
“I’ll keep it safe.”
“No one gets paid until the work is done.”
“The honor system,” said McPhail. “That means I get the honor of holding the bills close to my heart.”
Calvino stretched his arm over the table and snatched the envelope. He pressed it into Scully’s hand. “Take the fucking money, Mike. I trust you. If Anne lets you out of the house long enough, I have a feeling you’ll earn it. If not, then I’m out a grand, but the grand won’t compensate you for the knowledge that you’re just another farang husband hostage who’ll never be rescued.”
“You don’t worry about me, Vinny. When I go to work, I’m my own man.”
As Scully got up from the booth, stuffed the envelope in his pocket and headed to the door, McPhail sipped his vodka and tonic, sucking on a slice of lime. “Any man who’s only his own man at work is fucked.”
Before he’d left his office, Calvino had entered a number of names into a file marked “Possible Suspects”: Marshall Sawyer, Tanny Craig, Scott Baker, and Wei Zhang. Marshall had been in New York, and that should, in theory, eliminate him. Tanny had been with Calvino at the time of death, and that gave her cover as well. The Chinese businessman would have had his entourage around him. None of the people on the list would have done it themselves; they would have used a professional to do the job. Being on the scene at the time wasn’t necessary. Most hits in Thailand were done when the mastermind was with a group of people a long way from the scene of the murder.
Calvino reviewed the possibilities. Scott Baker, who’d been humiliated by Brandon Sawyer at the Foreign Correspondents’ Club in front of a large audience, was another possibility. Had Scott Baker taken his ideological commitment that one step too far, getting rid of Brandon Sawyer and also Achara because, in his view, the murders were necessary to achieve a larger good? Then there was Zhang, who Achara had said had been angling to worm his way in as a joint-venture partner. He had been disappointed when Brandon had been brought into the deal, excluding Zhang. Achara had never explained why someone with his roots in China, love for the culture, and admiration for the history, would have chosen Brandon over Zhang. But he obviously had his reasons. As he’d told Colonel Pratt when Marshall’s name came up, Zhang was a businessman, and it was a rare deal that led a man to murder for business reasons.
But it happened. Marshall, Tanny, and Scott would have appealed to the Thai police. Any one of them would have been slotted into the category of neutral to good news. No serious implications for the image of the department or of the country. Zhang, a Chinese national, would be another matter. The brass and the politicians went out of their way not to offend the Chinese. Accusing one of their nationals of murder guaranteed trouble from inside the government.
THIRTY-FOUR
ANYONE WHO CALLED Bangkok the Venice of the East must have been blind drunk when he visited Venice. A couple of generations ago, when there were hundreds of klongs, it was easier to pass off this counterfeit coin as legitimate. It was sometimes used as a marketing gimmick. Calvino understood that marketing and reality slept in different rooms and never bred anything other than mules. He tracked down Scott Baker along the Saen Saeb Canal. Baker squatted on the Pratunam Pier, his outstretched hand touching the surface of the water—brown with the runoff from sewers, factories, and, farther out, chemicals used on large commercial farms.
“Hey, you found me,” said Baker. “Foreigners can’t get around because there aren’t many signs in English.”
Calvino squatted down beside the klong. “That smell doesn’t bother you?”
“You get used to it,” said Baker, wiping the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve.
“I want to ask you some questions about the other night at the Foreign Correspondents’ Club.”
“So you said on the phone. You were in the audience.”
A ferry glided close, gently nudging, bumping, and finally coming to rest against a bank of old car tires that ran the length of the pier. Passengers who waited a few meters from where Calvino squatted had walked down from the garment district, Central World, or Pantip Plaza.
“Saen Saeb is one busy klong,” said Calvino, watching the express boat’s engines kick in and the propellers throw back waves, rolling out and splashing against the car tires and the pier.
“And one of the most polluted. That’s why I’m taking samples. We’re testing the water for lead and mercury content. If a kid eats fish from this klong, do you have any idea what that can do to his health?”
Calvino nodded. “Nothing he’d want on his résumé. The other night at the club, Brandon said some hurtful things. He picked on you. He poked fun at your arguments. Public humiliation can make a man do crazy things.”
Scott Baker wrinkled his nose, making himself look like an elf with a short, reddish beard. “I promise not to sue him for libel,” he said, flashing a smile. “Mr. Calvino, I went to boarding school. I understand bullies. The school I attended in England invented the term ‘bully.’ I learned to have a thick skin and never take their feeble attempts to humiliate me too seriously. That is one of the unfortunately few benefits of a public school education.”
“Brandon Sawyer died later that night.” Calvino watched him closely for a reaction. “You look surprised.”
“I didn’t know,” he said, pulling in a vial on a piece of string, then capping the top and affixing a label. “He didn’t look ill to me. But I’m not a doctor.”
“You studied engineering at university. I bet you’re pretty good with electrical things—fixing them, rewiring—someone who knows how to get the best out of an appliance. Juice it up.”
“I can fix a toaster, if that’s what you mean.”
“Then you could modify a Taser if you wanted.”
Baker carefully put the vial at the end of a row inside a small padded metal case. “I’ve never tried. You have one that needs repairing?”
“After you left the club, where did you go?” asked Calvino.
“I hit a couple of bars in Nana Plaza.”
“Never thought of Nana Plaza as a green meeting place. Circulating with all those large-carbon-footprint people ought to give you a guilty conscience,” said Calvino. Lost Horizon was close by Nana Plaza. Fighting the pavement choked with vendors, hookers, johns, pickpockets, dwarfs, katoeys, and beggars, it still wouldn’t take more than ten minutes to walk over to Lost Horizon, and about the same amount of time to get back. Thirty minutes to an hour hanging around the dinosaurs and fake tropical plants to catch Brandon alone. In theory the job could have been done in an hour. Scott Baker could have been in and out of a couple of stopovers and still had time to do the job.
“You came out here to call me a hypocrite?”
That hadn’t been Calvino’s intention. The stink of the klong, the motion of the pier bouncing up and down with each express boat, they’d distracted him. “Anyone at the bars who might remember you?”
“I don’t really think that’s any of your business.”
“Brandon Sawyer’s dead. He was my business.”
Baker removed his glasses, wiped his arm against his face and put them back on. “I’m sorry he’s dead. But what does it have to do with me?”
“The police say he had a heart attack. But I think someone made it look like one.”
Baker stood up. “And what are you saying? I killed him because we got into it at the club?”
“Did you?”
“Are you barking mad?”
Scott Baker admitted that he’d bar-fined a regular squeeze, a ying who wore a plastic badge with the number 59 and not much else. That eveni
ng Calvino chased down Baker’s lucky number. Her name was Taengmo, a pole dancer who worked at Lollipop, which meant she danced onstage hugging a chrome pole and making eyes with different customers. Number 59 was a pro at keeping them interested, like a juggler spinning plates on sticks.
When her shift finished and the next shift shuffled onto the stage, Calvino tipped the mamasan and asked her to bring Taengmo over for a drink. She dragged her over to Calvino’s table. Taengmo didn’t seem all that happy that the choice of customer had been made for her by the mamasan.
She’d had her eye on a farang who looked like he was in his early thirties, the basement of his brain flooded with testosterone. Taengmo saw the signs that he was going under and, like any predator, could spot an easy kill. But she did what the mamasan told her and joined Calvino. Half a smile was all she could manage.
“My name Taengmo. Buy me lady drink, okay?”
Calvino signaled the waitress and ordered the lady drink. “I know your name. I want to ask you a couple of questions.”
“You pay me three thousand baht short time.”
“How much did my friend Scott Baker pay you?”
The fire came into her eyes. “You know Scott?”
“He’s my younger brother.”
“You bullshit me.”
“You’re right. I am bullshitting you. Now I want some answers that aren’t bullshit.” He pulled a couple of thousand baht notes from his wallet. “I don’t expect you to give the non-bullshit answers for free. I’m paying for the truth. That may be a difficult concept, but do the best you can.”
Her eyes grown large in the presence of the money, she took her lady drink from the waitress, sipped the cola, and counted the money again. “Okay, what you want to know?”
It turned out that Taengmo had been twenty-two years old when she’d left Surin province two years earlier. She danced dressed only in a permanent suntan and long eyelashes, and she had a waist the size of an hourglass with most of the sand above the fall line, and a client list and income that equaled a general’s. ‘Watermelon,’ the English translation of her name, was no ordinary garden fruit. Calvino figured that she’d bought herself a truckload of face in her Surin village.
The Corruptionist Page 28