

# DEATH ON THE HILL

JAMES R. SNEDDEN

# _

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 James R. Snedden

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# DEDICATION

To, Beth, my wife, my collaborator, my editor in residence, and my staunchest supporter. Thank you for your understanding, help, and patience

# _

Death on the Hill was initially published by Barclay Books who returned the rights to me. This was my first novel, which contained far to many grammatical errors, thus I decided to update it, correct the obvious errors, give the cover a face lift and have it reprinted. The basic story line, characters, etc. remain the same.

# PROLOGUE

Focusing on the attractive Asian woman inside the house, the man crouching in the bushes was oblivious to the coastal evening chill.

The window acted like a large picture frame, accentuating the woman sitting across the room from the wide-screen television, white toy poodle cuddled on her lap, both unaware of the still figure observing their every move.

Instinctively his gloved hand felt for the handle of the knife tucked into the belt of his jumpsuit when he saw her reach for the remote. He knew her routine from past observations. It never varied, and tonight was no exception. At the conclusion of her show she would go to the hall closet, put on her windbreaker, and head to the side door to take her spoiled, noisy mutt out for its evening duty.

The click of the remote button, along with its mistress rising from her chair, was like a trigger signalling the poodle to go into its predictable routine, jumping up and down while yelping and barking like the idiot it was. He never understood how people put up with those noisy, useless little creatures.

As the woman put on her jacket he crouched lower in the bushes. The woman would be out of his sight for the time it took her get to the door. As soon as the light went on the poodle would be out the door running past the bushes in which he was hiding, without as much as a sniff, heading for his favorite shrub twenty feet down the driveway.

While the poodle was streaking past him, he pulled out the knife, knowing that the woman would soon be passing his hiding place as she hurried to catch up with her dog.

With the knife ready to strike, he remained motionless, his eyes following the woman as she cautiously made her way down the three steps to the driveway.

Suddenly, as lights of an oncoming car turned into the usually deserted street, the woman broke into a run, calling the dog's name. Shortly thereafter, headlights of a second car, from the other direction, appeared heading toward the house.

Hearing the garage door opening he dropped to the ground, face down, behind the bushes. It was only a matter of seconds before the car pulled into the driveway and the garage door began to close.

Rising up on one knee, he peered through the cracks in the bushes, observing the woman at the foot of the driveway. Again he froze, not making a sound.

He was surprised when he saw lights appear in the upstairs window. He thought the driver had seen the woman when he came up the driveway, but if he had, he obviously ignored her.

By that time the dog did what it had been let out to do, and was running back toward the side door, still barking. The woman followed behind admonishing it to be quiet, which it ignored.

With each of her approaching strides, his grip on the knife handle became tighter until the knuckles inside the gloves were white from pressure.

When she was four steps away, he sprang from his hiding place. Like a trained athlete, his next motion was automatic. His victim was so intent on the dog she never saw him coming from the bushes. One hand reached out in front of her, stopping her progress and stifling any outcry, while the other reached around, cleanly slitting her throat. She was lifeless before he dropped her body.

Quickly, he stepped over her, avoiding the blood gushing from her severed throat, gathered up the cowering poodle who it met the same fate as its mistress.

After cutting an ear off the dog, and another from the woman, he deposited both in a plastic sandwich bag he had removed from his jumpsuit pocket and disappeared into the darkness.

# CHAPTER ONE

My name is Jeremy Dawkins currently employed as an investigative reporter for the Chicago Tribune. Coincidentally, I was planning an extended leave of absence when my former college roommate called and suggested that I spend some time with him in Southern California.

Bill had recently bought a semi-weekly newspaper in Palos Verdes Estates, California, a suburb of Los Angeles, where he had grown up, and wanted me to take a look at his new "baby." Had I known what was in store for me, I might not have been so quick to take advantage of what appeared to be an opportunity for a free vacation.

On the second night of my stay in Bill's condo, I was awakened by the touch of a hand on my newly acquired sunburned back.

"Jeremy, get up," Bill said in a hushed voice, which was totally unnecessary since there were only the two of us in the place. "There's been a murder in Montemalaga, and we have to get there fast."

As he unceremoniously peeled the covers off my baked body, I regretted my day on the beach. "Who in the hell cares about a murder in Spain?"

"Montemalaga is here on The Hill. If we hurry, we can get pictures the other newspapers won't have."

Once a reporter, always a reporter. I scrambled into a tee shirt, shorts and tennis shoes, while Bill retrieved his car from the garage.

As we sped toward the crime scene, in an attempt to take my mind off the way Bill was driving, I coaxed the details of the crime out of him, starting with how he had found out about the murder if the larger papers, like the Los Angeles Times, hadn't. In his over simplistic manner he told me that the wife of the on-call detective had telephoned him.

"You were never one to infringe on someone else's territory, so why would she call you?"

He chuckled at my question. "She majored in journalism at UCLA, and now that the kids are in school she wants to get back to work. She does freelance stuff for me. Oh," he added as an afterthought, "we went to PV High together back in the old days."

"That explains everything," I remarked sarcastically, for no other reason other than I was still a little irritated from having the covers jerked off of me in the middle of the night, and the pain from my sunburn was killing me. "If the success of a weekly paper on the Palos Verdes Peninsula relies on homicides you might be in trouble, my friend."

"Local news is local news, and that's what we rely on to sell newspapers. People subscribe to get an in-depth view of what's going on locally, and a death on The Hill is as local as you get. Besides, it's a good diversion from covering the sorority dinners where the girls, and I use that word loosely, call a press conference to announce they are donating money to a local arts group, and then find out it's a fifty dollar check."

"Oh come on, it can't be that bad."

"Oh, but it is. Right after I took the paper over, this local sorority that was presenting a touring theatrical group with a check called us. A photographer and I went over and found out the high flyers gave the princely sum of fifty bucks. To make matter worse, the weren't even photogenic."

"You are terrible," I said. " And you tell me to be less caustic."

"It comes with the territory.

"Yeah," I replied, "but I can get away with it. When I get too sarcastic I have an editor who'll tone the piece down. You don't have that luxury and could end up biting the hand that feeds you, to use a cliche that's older than the two of us combined."

Our banter came to a close as we pulled into the street where the crime took place.

It wasn't difficult to find the house. There were enough police cars, floodlights and ambulances there to mistake it for a doughnut shop.

After parking several houses away and showing our press passes, Bill's from his paper and mine from the Trib which didn't even raise an eyebrow from the patrol person, we found out that Bill had been mistaken. Not only was the local South Bay Breeze there, but the Los Angeles Times was also represented.

To borrow a line from the comic Flip Wilson, the devil made me do it, I couldn't resist. "Looks like the little woman does a lot of moonlighting."

Bill incoherently mumbled something as I followed him up the lighted driveway.

While Bill was taking pictures I nosed around on my own. I didn't get very far before a detective stopped me. I knew he was a detective because of the badge hanging from his windbreaker. Not only that, he was a Palos Verdes Estates detective, so I found myself standing face to face with the husband of the biggest mouth in town.

"I don't believe I've seen you around before. I'm Detective Rodney Bilbo of the PV Estates Police Department. Who are you, and what paper are you from?"

"Jeremy Dawkins. The Chicago Trib!!

"The Chicago Trib? he said with the look of a person who was having his leg pulled and didn't like it. "What in hell is the Chicago Trib doing here?"

When I him told I was on vacation visiting Bill, he mellowed and told me what had gone on that night.

The dead person was an Asian woman in her late thirties. She had been home alone, which she often was because her husband was a commercial airline pilot. She had been out walking her dog, a toy poodle, when the assailant had come up from behind, slitting her throat with a knife. From the body indentations in the bushes by the side of the driveway underneath a window it looked as though the killer had been waiting for sometime. In fact, he had at some point lain prone on the ground.

"So the killer must have known that she walked the dog at night and waited for her?"

"That's what it looks like, so far" Bilbo replied.

"Who found the body?"

"The husband. He came home, parked his car in the garage, went upstairs and changed out of his uniform, and then came down to meet his wife. When she wasn't in the house he assumed she was walking the dog. That's when he found her and the poodle lying in the driveway and called 911."

"If the husband found the body on the driveway, the killer must have killed the wife when the husband was upstairs. Otherwise, he would have seen the body when he drove up."

"Right. He obviously knew the pattern!!

I interrupted. "Which means it wasn't a random thing, and he had either cased the situation before, or some third party told him. Do you have any suspects?"

"We've already checked the husband's story. He flew in from Hong Kong this evening. That's about all I can tell you now. We'll know more after we have a chance to go over the crime scene in more detail, and after the coroner does his thing."

"I'll be in touch."

"I'm sure you will," Bilbo said as he turned away to greet what looked to be someone from the lab.

It took me a half hour, but I finally succeeded in convincing Bill that (a) he didn't have a scoop, and (b) it would be better to give Detective Bilbo some time to sort things out. Then write an in-depth follow-up story after the Times and the Breeze had gone on to bigger and better things.

I even volunteered to write it. That was my first . . . no . . . second mistake. My first was allowing Bill to get me out of bed to come to the crime scene in the first place

# CHAPTER TWO

Bill told me that living on the beach did wonders for a person. I didn't know what he meant by that statement until morning when I woke up to a ferocious appetite.

Like myself, Bill is divorced, so I had a pretty good idea what not to expect for breakfast. There is nothing more pathetic than the refrigerator of a divorced male in his mid-forties, and Bill was no exception. To make matters even worse, he was a health freak living on chicken breasts and raw veggies.

When Bill gave up social events like romantic dinners in good restaurants because they fried too many things, and bike riding started substituting for morning sex, his marriage ended.

Although I've been trying to cut down on my fat intake, I haven't gone off the deep end like my buddy. Perhaps it's because I still live in the Midwest and haven't succumbed to the lure of Southern California where overreaction takes on a religious significance. I still like a good filet mignon, and I continue to be faithful to the Brewmeisters in St. Louis and Milwaukee who rarely let me down.

By moving things around in the fridge I finally unearthed a container of skim milk behind two bottles of water. The cabinet next to the fridge yielded a partial loaf of whole grain bread, which I had to eat without butter, honey or jelly. It's totally mystifying how anyone could live like this and still function.

*

The drive from the condo to the paper took seven minutes. I timed it. This was only three minutes longer than it took for us to walk from the condo to the garage. Now, that is disgusting. No one should have only a seven-minute drive to work. It's un-American to say the least.

Bill and I were the first to arrive, so he had to unlock the door. That too was foreign to me — a locked door to a newspaper?

There were four or five messages on his answering machine. I'm not really sure about that because I stopped listening after the first one. It was from one of his part-time reporters informing him to be sure and pick-up the Daily Breeze because there had been a murder in PV Estates last night.

At most newspapers, the first thing people do when they get to work is head for the coffee. On a weekly newspaper where the owner/editor/copywriter/advertising sales person is a health nut, the first thing to come out of the refrigerator is a bottle of water.

When my host handed me the bottle I asked him if he wanted me to water the plants. Bill totally ignored my stab at levity and took his place behind his desk. I found out later that protocol dictated that I suck on the water bottle at polite intervals. That apparently was one of the qualifications to running for "green" office.

Speaking of office, this one didn't look like it belonged to a newspaperman. His desk was neat, not at all like those of editors I have known. Not only that, he had things in files and on thumb drives, and what is more amazing, he kept it that way without a full time Administrative Assistant, formerly called a Secretary.

Sitting at his desk while I was still standing, Bill gave me the most serious look he could muster. A more prudent person would have made some lame excuse to leave, check into a local motel and get on with his vacation. But I have never been called prudent. Besides, old friendships can't be written off because of some slight inconvenience. They take too long to cultivate, and they are way too difficult to replace.

After the third or fourth time redistributing my weight from one leg to another Bill pointed to one of the chairs across the room and asked me to sit. He wanted to talk to me about something he thought of last night after we had gotten home. I thought he was going to discuss something about the case, until he started by buttering me up.

"You're one of the best investigative reporters in the business." Before I had a chance to agree with him he continued, "By my reckoning, this case won't be solved quickly. Both the Times and the Breeze will soon lose interest. They've got more than just Peninsula readership to satisfy. My paper, on the other hand, devotes one hundred percent of its coverage to local news, so my readers have a longer attention span."

The more Bill talked, the more excited he became. I can't remember seeing him so animated. His arms were flaying around like an Italian cook after being told his meatballs tasted like McDonald's hamburgers.

"If every week the Digest can have something new, regardless of size," he continued, "I'll pick up subscribers. More importantly, if the Digest can crack the case before the police, it can be in line for a Pulitzer. So, if you would nose around and see what you can come up with, at least for the time you're going to stay here, who knows what might happen?"

I got completely caught up by Bill's enthusiasm. After all when someone calls you one of the best investigative reporters in the business it pumps you up, even if it comes from your best buddy. Although I might be better than an average bear at investigative reporting, I also know that behind every great news hound are his sources, and my sources in Southern California were a big round zero.

That's exactly what I reminded Bill. "I don't have any sources here, particularly in the local police department to feed me information. Nor do I have ears on the street to pick up the news on that channel, and most of all, I still can't find my way to Torrance without stopping to ask for directions."

For fear of bursting his balloon and breaking his fragile heart I didn't mention that I also didn't have the prestige of a Times or Tribune behind me here to open doors.

While I was formulating my next response he trumped me. "Remember when we almost got caught in the panty raid at school? I saved your bacon and kept you from getting expelled because I was banging the housemother. If it wasn't for me you wouldn't even have a career." That's when I knew how desperate Bill was to get me to help him. When a person dredges up stuff that far back he's serious.

"All right, I said, "this'll wipe the slate clean for those sacrifices. I'll agree to work on the case as long as I still get beach time. In return, you smooth the way for me with the good detective, Rodney Bilbo. "

The last word was somewhere between my lips and Bill's ears when he picked up the telephone and punched in the number of the Palos Verdes Estates Police Department.

As usual when you call a policeman's private number, you leave a voice mail. I listened to Bill leave his message for the detective before he turned his attention back to me. "He'll get back to me. What angle do you want to start from?"

The office wasn't large enough to pace in, but I gave it my best shot. "Don't get too antsy," I reminded him. "First, I have to find out everything they know about the victim and the victim's husband." We both knew that the spouse is always the prime suspect, even if he had an alibi.

It was Bill's turn to pace. "Based on the husband's reaction, he's either a good actor or he's not guilty."

"I disagree. It's one thing to put a hit out on your wife, but quite another to see her dead body lying on the ground in a pool of blood. I've seen spouses go to pieces with the murder weapons in their hands when they see what they've done. No, the real thing is a little more unnerving in real time than in HD.

*

After we agreed to disagree about the husband's possible involvement, Bill led me to a small office cubicle I could call my own. Now he could pace in his own office without interruption as he worried about what else he was going to put into his paper besides the murder. I settled down to plan my strategy to get Bill his scoop.

The fact that I didn't have good sources in California wouldn't stop me from finding out some things about the lady now residing in the Los Angeles County Morgue. Bill had given me her name, and, as soon as I found out her maiden name I could make a few phone calls back to Chicago and have a make run on her through the Feds. There was also plenty of public record information for me to investigate. After all, that's why there's the word "investigative" before "reporter" in our job descriptions.

Investigative reporting is like good police work. You start digging and asking questions to see where they lead. The key is to ask the right questions and follow the right leads, then separate the truth from the fiction.

Everyone has a theory, and most want to share it with you, particularly if there might be a chance to get their names in print, or on the air. Every reporter has his or her own methods. Many of my colleagues use brainstorming, but I prefer the starbursting technique. Brainstorming allows the mind to flow freely from thought to thought with each one stimulating others. Starbursting focuses on a topic and flows outward. It begins by asking, "what are the questions?"

I wrote the first question: "Why an Asian?" Then, "Why this particular Asian woman?" It didn't take long before I had two pages of questions.

I moved to the second part of my ritual. I attempted to organize the questions and place them in logical groups.

First, the word "ethnic." Next came "instrument." From this cluster came the questions, "Why a knife?" "Why not a simple drive-by shooting?" "Why not a shotgun?" After all, it was dark and deserted in that part of town, and one blast of the shotgun would have done the job. There probably would have been less risk of detection than waiting in the bushes for half the night. The person could have been gone before the neighbors had a chance to turn on their lights.

My last cluster was "people." The provided me the most provocative questions, the obvious being, "Who uses knives?" followed by, "Why do killers use knives?"

I was soon totally absorbed in the subject and started getting ahead of myself, formulating a series of syllogisms. The first one I wrote was, "Most Asian assassins use knives and the woman was killed with a knife, therefore, the woman was killed by an Asian assassin." A good assumption, but I wouldn't bank my entire investigation on it. The next syllogism was more revealing to me. "Money is usually behind the killing behind the hiring of an assassin. The woman was killed by an assassin, therefore the woman was killed because of a business deal gone sour."

I soon had more theories than pro basketball players have groupies. But the one that kept coming up had to do with Asian assassins. If my hunch was correct, the police weren't going to solve this murder in the foreseeable future, if at all.

If I concentrated on why our Asian Queen was murdered, while the police focused their efforts on who, with any luck I could have something for Bill before they finished sifting through the forensic evidence.

I was engrossed in my battle plan when Bill poked his red-haired head into my cubicle and informed me that I had a lunch meeting with Detective Rodney Bilbo in San Pedro.

*

If the police leads were as bad as the directions to my luncheon rendezvous, they were in deep trouble. I ended up sitting in heavy traffic, attempting to turn left on the corner of Twenty-Second and Gaffey. Just as I was about to give up, there was an opening.

Turning left at that corner must be SOP (standard operating procedure) for the locals, but it's PYP (pee in your pants) for those of us less accustomed to defying longevity odds just to go to lunch.

I continued down Twenty-Second Street in search of the restaurant descriptively called The 22nd Street Landing. I guided the car into the parking lot that proudly announced I was entering San Pedro's favorite seafood restaurant. Although the entrance faced the street, the structure itself was right on the landing to the San Pedro Yacht Basin, where all sizes and shapes of pleasure craft rolled lazily at their moorings. It was a setting right out of the movies, directly responsible for a surge in immigration from the Midwest. The picture was made complete by the strategically placed palm trees next to the building, swaying in cadence with the rolling boats on the water.

As I was climbing up varnished wooden steps, I hoped that I would remember what Detective Bilbo looked like in the daylight. The one thing that I was quite sure of was he wouldn't be in dress blues.

I need not have worried. You can take the cop out of the uniform, but you can still spot him a mile away. Some day somebody's going to have to clue these guys in that mustaches don't necessarily have to be part of the costume. There he was, the only person in the place with a bushy mustache and a bulge on the left hip, wearing a sport coat and wrinkled pants, and he was talking to a waitress. If there was ever a caricature of a cop, it was Rodney Bilbo at that moment.

When I was first assigned to the police beat, the old man I replaced told me that if cops would spend as much time chasing the bad guys as they do chasing women, we could wipe out crime overnight. I was gong to have to do some research on women cops to see if they worked that way too.

As soon as he saw me, he broke off the conversation. He must have already gotten her phone number. With a wave of his hand he motioned me to a prearranged table.

"So," he said, "you enjoying Southern California?"

"Yeah, sure," I replied, "I always look for a good old fashioned homicide to cover so I don't get homesick."

He managed a forced smile at my stab at humor. "Bill mentioned that you're going to help him out with the murder story. He also told me that you are one of Chicago's hottest reporters and asked me to treat you like the local guys."

I wondered if he let all the "local guys" buy him lunch the day after a murder was committed. But, wanting to start off on a positive note, I held my tongue.

Right on cue, our perky waitress appeared at the table. Bilbo ordered sea bass and iced tea. I ordered Idaho trout and a beer.

As soon as we were alone again, it was my turn to get right to the point. "I appreciate your candor and the help. I want to assure you going in, that anything you tell me that will be off the record will be kept that way." If I've learned anything in all my years of digging, it's to respect sources, official and otherwise. In Los Angeles or in Chicago, you're only as good as your information, so your word has to be taken at face value.

He seemed to accept my statement and confirmed my suspicions. "Frankly, I don't think we're going to get much from the crime scene. It has all the marks of a professional hit. By tomorrow the lab will know the size and weight of the assailant, but little else. Just from what I saw, I would guess it was an Asian, but you can't print that. Besides, if you did, without any hard evidence, it wouldn't be politically correct and the paper would be accused of being racist." This time the smile was real.

"Don't worry about me," I reassured him,"I wouldn't want to have half of Bill's subscribers cancel their subscriptions."

He broke off a piece of sourdough bread, offering me the basket. "The way The Hill is going, it's going to be at least half Asian, heading toward two-thirds."

"That much?" I asked buttering the end piece.

"It's getting there. Not that much in the Estates, but when you get over to RPV, it's a lot heavier."

"RPV?"

"Forgot you're not from around here. That's short for Rancho Palos Verdes. They don't have their own department even though they're more heavily populated than we are. They contract police services from the Sheriff. The ethnic make-up of the Peninsula has been getting more Asian every year, which is the reason people from Redondo and Torrance refer to it as the 'yellow hill.' Torrance should talk though because UCLA has estimated that Asians will be 60% of that city's population within the next decade."

"Bill told me about the 'yellow hill' references last night, and I wondered if this population change has brought an increase in hate crimes along with it?"

"No" said Bilbo, "It's been too gradual. Old timers grumble and people get pissed off because they can't get a tee time on the local muni golf course, but there's no denying that the Asian influence has kept property values high. Companies like Toyota who have their American main offices in Torrance, have purchased housing?on the Peninsula for their Senior Managers." He stopped talking as two customers passed by our table, then resumed when they were out of earshot. "The only problem occurs at the high school."

"How's that?"

"Asian kids take their studies a lot more seriously than their socializing at the local library. The Anglos refer to the PV library as the Asian Community Center." He laughed at his own joke. "Also, with few exceptions, the Asian population doesn't assimilate into the community, but tends to socialize with their own kind. You find very few organization on The Hill that have an Asian membership even remotely consistent with their numbers. This has caused a certain amount of grumbling, but no outright hostility."

"So, what you're saying is that you don't think the murder last night was a hate crime?"

"You know as well as I do that we don't discount anything." Bilbo said. "But on a scale of one to ten, I'd place it at a two."

I looked to make sure that no one had been seated near us before I asked, "Do I dare mention it?" Another quick glance around the room. "What do you make of the ears?"

He also scanned the room to verify that we were still in relative isolation. "As you can guess, that's something we definitely don't want to print. It's the one detail we have that will separate the kooks from the real thing if someone calls up to take responsibility."

The more we talked, the more I liked the guy. He didn't have that "I-know-everything" attitude that's so prevalent among so many of Chicago's senior detectives.

I assured him that I wouldn't even think about printing that information, though it would make a great headline.

Bilbo leaned forward and lowered his voice a few decibels. "I don't really know what to make of it. Right now I'm inclined to think that it's proof of the killing so the person who made the hit can get paid. If that's the case, someone may want to view the body to be sure, so we'll be paying a lot of attention to those who pay the funeral home a visit. It also could be a trophy, which will be great evidence if we can catch the person who did this crime."

I couldn't resist. "I noticed you said 'if,' not 'when'"

He leaned back in his seat. " You know as well as I do, if this is a contract hit, the chance of finding the hit man is remote. We may eventually get the person who contracted for the hit, but not the hit man himself. Of course, to be politically correct, I should say hit person." This statement wasn't without humor, though there was a bit of sarcasm there. That wasn't unexpected. In spite of the spin that the local public servants have put on the proliferation of women in police departments, men aren't all that enthralled with the idea of having a one-hundred-and-fifteen-pound female as their primary backup.

I agreed with the premise, but added, "There is the possibility the killer could be a female."

"True," he replied. "And we might never know. From the indentations I saw, the killer was physically small. They could be female, Asian, or all of the above."

We halted the conversation when the waitress came with our lunch.

After she retreated back to the kitchen, I pulled out my notebook and bluntly asked him for some details. "Can you give me any details about the victim such as name, maiden name, how long married, where she comes from, all those little details to track down? I'd like to find out 'what' and 'who' about the victim."

Ignoring my poised pen, Bilbo pulled out a piece of paper from his sport coat inner pocket and handed it to me. "This will give you everything. The husband's been very cooperative. They've only been married a little over three years, and he didn't know much about her life before that time. This is the press release the department has prepared about her."

I glanced at the paper. Asian female, age thirty-nine, name Susan McCloskey, maiden name Susan Wong, married to Tom McCloskey, age forty-five, occupation Captain, Orient Airlines. Said female owned and operated U.S. Tours, a Hong Kong corporation specializing in tours of the United States for Far Eastern customers. That was it.

This lack of details only whetted my appetite for more information. I found myself eating faster so I could get out of this place. I had to talk to the husband. There was a lot more to Mrs. Susan Wong McCloskey that needed to be uncovered. Was it a coincidence that an Asian woman operating a travel service for Asian customers was murdered by an Asian hit man?

While I was searching for a way extract myself from this lunch without offending Detective Bilbo, my dilemma was taken care of when he started to rise. "I have to be going. Good luck. If you come across anything important, I know you'll bring it to our attention."

The detective left. Not surprising; the check came and I paid.

*

After stopping to take in the view one more time before I left I couldn't help thinking that somehow the Lake Michigan Yacht Harbors were not quite the same as what I was now looking at.

*

I was in luck. I found the McCloskey house with no problem. It was the only one on the street that had two stories. All the rest were one story with red tile roofs.

Luck was running with me today, for, not only did I find the house, the husband was in it. In fact, he was just coming out of the side door when I pulled up. I identified myself and told him we needed to talk.

His reply was the standard, "I told the police everything I know. Please leave me alone."

I've never known a successful reporter who ever let it go at that. Placing my body in his path, I replied, "Look, I know it's hard for you, and I won't take up much time. I'm not looking for tonight's headlines or do the police's work for them. I'm trying to find some background information about your wife, and I think you'll agree it's better for all concerned to get the correct information from someone who knows rather than gossip from neighbors."

He bought it and invited me into the house. I craned my neck to see as much of the place as I could to get some feeling for the people who lived there. The side door opened into the kitchen. To my left was a formal dining room, with a living room beyond. Not surprisingly, both rooms were decorated in a Chinese motif. My host turned right into a family room. I could see French doors leading from the back of the room out to a covered patio and kidney shaped pool. The family room had a more California contemporary look. I noticed a desk with a computer and printer, a leather couch and a small cocktail table sitting on what looked to be an old cow skin. The pictures on the walls were of various airplanes. A few featured a much younger version of the man before me in a uniform next to a Navy fighter plane.

It was obvious to whom this room belonged.

He didn't offer me a seat, so we stood face to face in the middle of the room.

"Look," he said, "I don't know much about my wife's life before we met. She said she was born in Montana, and she'd spent some time working in Hong Kong to get in touch with her Chinese roots. With the contacts she made there, she got an idea to open a travel and tour business to the States and eventually wound up in Los Angeles. Other than a birth certificate I found just this morning while I was looking for the key to her office, that's all I can really tell you. She always talked in the past tense about her family, so I respected that and didn't pursue it."

I couldn't wait for him to finish so I could ask to see the birth certificate. He retrieved it from the desk. I immediately copied the information to my notebook. It clearly stated that she was born in Great Falls, Montana. I then asked him about her business.

"I don't know too much about it," he said, finally gesturing me to a seat on a nearby couch. "She had an office in an executive suite in Rolling Hills Estates across from the library. I've only been there a couple of times. That's where I was headed when you showed up." He abruptly changed the subject. " Can't understand who would want to kill her. Do you have any ideas?"

The man before me was relatively calm and didn't appear to be a grieving widower. That bothered me, and I decided to say so. "First, I have to say that you seem to be taking your wife's death pretty well."

The bluntness of his answer surprised me. " I met my wife thirty-four months ago. We've been married for thirty of those thirty-four. I'm an airline pilot and make regularly scheduled flights trips to the Far East. She has her own business. We probably saw more of one another when she was on one of my flights to Hong Kong or Beijing than we did at home. When we were together, it was basically for sex. There are no kids in the picture, nor would there ever be any."

He repeated himself. "She had a career and a business, and so do I. We both knew going in that ours wouldn't be an old fashioned, Mid-Western marriage. Did I love her? Yes. Was it based more on physical love than mental love? I'd have to answer yes to that also. So now you know. I'd rather not see that in print, if you don't mind."

I assured him that it wasn't in my immediate plans. I didn't bother to explain that immediate meant the next issue, but that's as far as that commitment went. He accepted my answer, as if he had a choice at this juncture.

"Could you tell me how you met your wife?"

"She was on one of my flights. As you can see by her picture," he pointed to a framed picture of her on one of the end tables, "she was a very attractive woman. One that any red blooded male would turn around to look at. I went back to get a cup of coffee and to stretch my legs as she was coming out of the latrine. She told me that she always wanted to see the inside of a cockpit, and asked if I would show it to her. I told her I couldn't while we were in flight, but I would give her a tour after we had landed and were parked at the gate. The cockpit tour ended up with a dinner date, which eventually ended in marriage."

"And whose idea was it to get married?"

He thought for a moment. "I guess you could say it was hers. Never thought about it before. I sort of went along for the ride. Have to admit, I never regretted it. By the way, you haven't answered my question if you had any ideas about her death."

I told him the truth. "It has all the earmarks of a professional killing. From what I saw, and from what I understand from the police — don't quote me to them, please — the person who did it didn't appear to be an amateur."

"Do you think they will ever find the killer?" he asked, showing no surprise by my remark as he took a cigarette from a pack on the desk.

I refused his offer to join him and moved to the other end of the couch I was sitting on to be as far away from the smoke as I could get, and replied. "If it's a pro, they only kill for money. For the police to find out who actually did the killing, they would have to find out who paid for it to be done. That could be the tricky part. If I were to give odds, I'd give no more than a ten percent chance the actual killer will ever be found. Maybe a thirty or forty percent chance they'll find out who wanted her dead. Tying the two things together, maybe a twenty percent chance anyone will be hauled before a court to answer for the death of your wife.'

"Those aren't very good odds no matter how you look at it," he replied, blowing smoke away from me.

"No, they aren't. The police have a pretty narrow window in which to work. They have a lot of outstanding crimes to investigate. So, after awhile, things have a habit of slipping to the back burner. On the other hand, I can devote as much time as I need to get to the truth. Assuming, of course, that you will help me by piecing together your wife's past and present to arrive at who would want to see her dead."

His body language told me all I need to know without waiting for his reply. He bought it!

"You can count on me. Maybe we didn't have an All-American marriage, but in our own way we loved one another and she didn't deserve to go out the way she did. I have only one request."

"What's that?"

"I want to approve the stories you write before you print them."

"No can do, " I told him. "I'll tell you this, though, I won't make anything up. And if we find out something embarrassing that doesn't have a direct bearing on who killed your wife, and why, I won't print it for the sake of sensationalism."

We shook on it.

"Now," I said, "after you give me a good picture of your wife, let's get started by going to her office and see what we can find."

# CHAPTER THREE

The office of USA Tours was pretty much what I expected. The room was no larger than ten by twelve feet with a large picture window overlooking the street.

Chinese antiques made up most of the room's decor with a fantastic table as the centerpiece instead of a traditional desk. I couldn't resist caressing its polished mahogany top and the carved ancient dragons coiled around the legs of the magnificent piece. Off to the side was a mahogany framed rice paper room divider, hand painted with the same dragon as the carving on the table legs. It effectively hid an off-the-shelf ugly grey steel filing cabinet. Twin mahogany chairs with embroidered silk seats completed the furniture.

From the moment I walked through the door, something bothered me about the place.

McCloskey spotted it immediately. "It's the first time in my life I ever saw a desk in an office without a piece of paper on it. It doesn't even have any drawers to hide them." The remark, plus the fact that he didn't have a clue where anything was, backed up his previous statement that he wasn't a frequent visitor to his wife's office. In fact, he apparently had never been inside the place.

"Why don't we begin with the contents of the filing cabinet," I suggested.

Luckily it was unlocked because there were no keys in sight. This was also a clue that we weren't going to find much revealing information in it either. The files did reveal that Susan Wong-McCloskey was well organized. The first drawer we examined was arranged by tour groups the company had brought into the country, one every quarter of the year. The second contained more groups for previous years. When we got to the third drawer, we finally found something of substance. The first folders we looked at were bank statements. I got the impression when we placed them on the table that this was the first time McCloskey knew what his wife's business was really all about. The very last folder in the drawer contained two sealed envelopes.

"Be careful opening those," I cautioned. "Better use a letter opener. We don't want to destroy what might be evidence."

Our collective mouths dropped when he spread the contents of a file on the table. Staring up at us was the familiar face of Ben Franklin on a bundle of one hundred-dollar bills.

"I didn't know the travel business paid in cash," I said.

"It doesn't," replied McCloskey, "but I know that Sue had to grease a few palms in Beijing to cut through the red tape for some of the Chinese Nationals that wanted to come to the States. That's particularly true with those from Hong Kong after the handoff."

"Goes to show you, you can't hold a good capitalist down," I quipped, smiling.

McCloskey, on the other hand, spoke seriously. "Believe me, when it comes to good old fashioned bribery and kickbacks, the communist state officials are in a class by themselves."

"Good at it, huh?"

"Masters of the art," he smile slightly. "Do you think I should turn this over to the police?"

"I think you have to cover yourself and tell the police about it. Beyond that, I don't think I'd run to the local IRS office and declare it as income. If it's payoff money, your wife took it out of her accounts and didn't take it as a business deduction. The last time I looked, there wasn't a line on the tax form for that purpose."

"Look," he said, picking up the money and nervously inching his way toward the door, "I have an errand to run, so I'll just take this and see the PV police department on the way to tell them what I found."

Experience told me what would happen next. The police would want to come to the office and do what we were just doing. I needed time to go over the contents of the office a little more thoroughly before they came. "I need a couple of hours before they barge in here and seal it off, so why don't you run your errands and then tell the police about it?"

He agreed and left with the money. Realistically, I doubted Bilbo or anyone else would know about it, let alone see it.

As soon as I heard the outer office close, I looked for a copy machine. I didn't have much luck. The only one I could find was in the lobby for all suite residents. Not only didn't I have a key code for it, I didn't think the management would take kindly to a stranger copying the contents of their deceased tenant's file cabinet, so I did the next best thing. I called Bill. Bill suggested that he send a couple of people over to take the contents back to the paper and copy the files. Since his office was less than a mile away, he estimated that it would take less than an hour to copy the entire contents of the filing cabinet and return them before the PV police arrived.

While I waited for Bill's crew, I started sorting the files to see what we could eliminate. I made an executive decision to just take case files at random, which would eliminate much of the bulk. I stacked everything I wanted to have copied. By the time I finished Bill's people came, picked them up and took off again. In the meantime, I sat in Susan Wong-McCloskey's chair and surveyed the room.

On my second trip around a picture on the wall caught my eye. It was a photograph of the deceased taken in what appeared to be a ballroom. People don't hang pictures of themselves standing next to ordinary customers. Usually it is with dignitaries or celebrities. I took a closer look. I definitely had seen the person standing next to the deceased before, but couldn't place him.

It had to be someone I had seen on the tube or in the papers. I made a paper note to follow-up. Another thing I have learned over the years is that you can usually tell the kind of a person you are dealing with by the company that person keeps. After I learned more about this photograph, I'd know a little more about Mrs. McCloskey.

There was another interesting thing about the room. Except for the photograph, there was nothing else on the walls. Usually, in a person's office you see things like college degrees, pictures of spouses and kids, but in this office, nothing. I would have at least expected a picture of McCloskey decked out in his airline togs. Women like men in uniform, even if they're Greyhound bus drivers. Mrs. McCloskey apparently was the exception.

I had leads to follow and was cutting it close already, so as soon as Bill's people brought back the contents of the file cabinet I backed out of the office and made it to my car just as I spotted Detective Rodney Bilbo and two black-and-whites entering the executive suite parking lot.

*

Back at Bill's office I plopped into my chair, placed my feet up on my desk in my usual comfortable position and called the Great Falls (Montana)Tribune. After agreeing to a negotiated joint byline arrangement, and a promise of cooperation, the paper's managing editor promised to do some fast checking on Susan Wong and her family.

No sooner had I hung up the receiver when Bill was hovering over my left shoulder. "You have a story I can run yet?" he asked anxiously."

"I've got one in the oven." I assured him. "I think we'll have an angle the other papers haven't caught onto yet. I can feel it." I brought him up to date and explained the arrangement with the Great Falls Tribune.

He was hopping around like a Baptist Preacher on Easter Sunday. "We can't let anyone know what we're working on until it's too late for anyone else to go to press. Do you think you'll have enough to break this in the next edition?"

"We'll have something," I said, in the quietest tone I could muster. "But, it's asking a bit much to have the murder solved by then. not that we would want to. We need to milk this for awhile before that happens."

During our conversation, I kept thinking of Detective Bilbo. I hadn't wanted to embarrass him. I needed his cooperation, but his department obviously had links to the established Los Angeles and South Bay media, namely the Los Angeles Times and the Daily Breeze. I mentioned this concern to Bill.

"We have to share whatever we find out with Bilbo before he reads it in the paper, Bill replied, "I have to live with this guy. Make him look like a dummy in front of his chief and I'm in big trouble."

We decided that we would tell Bilbo what we had the evening before print, trusting him to tell no one except his Chief until the next morning. It was a chance we had to take, although we all knew that regular beat reporters have sources for confidential information within the department, just as the police have their stoolies on the streets. By telling him, however, rather than giving him something in writing, we had a chance to make it to press before Bill's competitors.

Then, in an instant brainstorm, it was my turn to get excited. I jumped up, pumping my arms in the air. "Yes, yes, that's it! That's the same guy. His name was Johnny something. I don't remember exactly, but he was the guy who arranged for the money from China to be filtered through the Democratic National Committee to the Clinton reelection campaign. Or little Miss Wong is chummy enough with him to get their picture taken together, and naive enough to plaster it on her office wall.'

An embarrassed look came over Bill's face, "I have a confession to make. When that was going on, I was involved in getting a paper going and didn't pay much attention to the election. In fact, I'm embarrassed to say that I didn't even vote. I'm afraid you're going to have to take me to school on the facts."

I did.

"You remember during the mid-term elections in Bill Clinton's first term in office, the Democrats lost Congress to the Republicans. It was the first time in forty years that Republicans controlled both the House and the Senate. Clinton's substantial ego was really bruised. He vowed that he would win big when he ran for a second term. No doubt he thought that if he did, his coattails would be long enough so that his party would once again control the legislature.

"As a consequence, about a year before the national election he started raising money for the campaign. Don't you remember the furor when he, in effect, rented out the Lincoln bedroom in the White House to large campaign donors? Also, during that same time Veep Al Gore attended a function at the Buddhist temple right here in Los Angeles, which turned out to be a fundraiser, which is illegal since the Buddhists enjoy tax exempt status as a religion."

"Yeah, I remember that."

"Even though you didn't vote, you must remember that before the election, the DNC ran an advertising campaign that attacked the Republican Party and Bob Dole, the GOP frontrunner before the campaign actually began. That, in itself, wasn't illegal, but our laws forbid candidates from taking part in such a campaign. However, it was pretty well proven that, not only did Clinton take part in that strategy, he also participated in formulating the ads.

"Anyway, a vast sum of money was raised by the Democrats for the Clinton campaign by Asian interests, including a check from some high Communist Chinese military figure. The money went directly into the 'Clinton for President' treasury,which is illegal since Clinton applied for, and received, matching funds from American taxpayers, which forbids such a practice to be eligible for taxpayer funds. The front person for the Chinese was that guy in the picture."

"Wait," Bill said. "If she was involved in something like that, why get your picture taken and hang it for everyone to see?"

"You're so right, my friend, which is why we have to find someone in the local Asian community to help us in this thing. The question is who? Neither you nor I have those contacts, and how in hell are we going to cultivate them in time to do us any good?"

"I'm sure the Sheriff's Department has them. I'm not sure the Palos Verdes Police Department does. However, small departments like the Estates do have a detective or two from the LA County Sheriff's Department assigned to help them out. In fact, I think most of them already have contacts in place for just this type of emergency."

"Crime doesn't respect city limits," I replied.

"You got that right. Particularly in Los Angeles." Bill went over to a map of the Los Angeles/Orange County area hanging on the wall. "Just look at the beach cities. Go north on Pacific Coast Highway. From PV you go to Torrance, then Redondo Beach, then Hermosa Beach, then Manhattan Beach, then El Segundo, then Los Angeles, all within eighteen miles at the outside."

He traced the area along the water. "Going South, you go from Torrance to Lomita, to Harbor City, to Wilmington, to San Pedro, to Long Beach, to Seal Beach, and so on until you get to San Diego a hundred and twenty odd miles away. That's a lot of geography, and an equal amount of jurisdictions."

I might not be polite, but as Bill was talking, my mind was concentrating on the problem. I wasn't naive enough to think that either the Sheriff or the PV police would give us preferential information, but I knew how to network.

I politely shooed Bill away. "You get on with your weddings and sorority parties for sixty-year old cheerleaders and over-the-hill flight attendants, and let me work on finding some sources within the Asian community."

*

Although there is a three-hour time difference between the West Coast and DC, Washington Bureau Chiefs don't respect the clock. The problem was, I had left my address and contact information on my desk computer, which was back in Chicago.

I called my editor in Chicago to get Stan's number.

The first thing he said was, "I thought you were taking a vacation?" The second thing was, "If you're working on anything we can use, remember who signs your paycheck."

I assured him that all I was doing was a favor for a friend and not to get his balls in an uproar. Typically, he told me he was too busy to run errands for me, and turned me over to the Washington desk, which I should have called in the first place.

I tried Stan's office first. No answer. Next, I dialed his home number where I woke his wife to find out that he wasn't home yet. I left messages in both places, then tried his cell phone number that his wife had generously given me, hoping he'd at least have it on vibrator mode so it would give him a thrill and put him in a good mood to call me back. That worked. He called me from his car within fifteen minutes.

If there was anyone in the District who had connections, it was our Washington Bureau Chief. Stan Wasnewski had cut his journalistic teeth in the trenches of Chicago's ward politics which made him uniquely qualified for his present position.

What made Stan so effective was the way he could blend his Polish bullheadedness with a charm so well oiled that he literally oozed his way into the inner sanctums of the powerful House Committee Chairmen. Although he made sure the Senate was covered, he spent his time at the House of Representatives, knowing it was the newsworthy body. I knew if anyone could network me into the Asian community in Los Angeles, it would be Stan in the nation's capitol.

I quickly dispensed with the formalities, summarizing the situation but emphasizing the photograph I found on the wall of the travel agency, blowing its role completely out of proportion.

Stan took the bait. "I'll get back to you within the hour with some names. This could be hot stuff and just the spin I can use here. Right now it's old stuff, but if we can tie a murder into it the old stuff suddenly becomes new stuff, and it's back on the Sunday morning talk shows.

"Don't tell Bob Woodward to move over just yet," I cautioned, "This is still a long shot, and we don't have much to go on." Woodward was the reporter for the Washington Post who broke the Nixon Watergate scandal.

"Yeah," he replied, "but as we learned in the first grade, from little acorns mighty oaks grow."

"I'll wait right here for your call," I hung up before he started quoting Shakespeare.

*

Less than an hour later Stan called back with the names and telephone numbers of no less than four people for me to talk with. Armed with that information I went out for something to eat, and then it was back to Bill's house. Tomorrow was going to be a busy day. Bye, bye vacation.

# CHAPTER FOUR

The people in Montana worked fast. I could hear the anxiety in the Great Falls Tribune editor's voice. " I have another copy of the birth certificate, and a little bonus along with it, a death certificate dated four and a half years ago."

"You sure it's the same person?" I asked, bolting upright in my chair.

"Sure am. The only way I found out was the clerk that issued both still works for the county. When I talked to her about getting a copy of the birth certificate for Susan Wong, born thirty nine years ago, she asked me if I also wanted the death certificate."

"Talk about luck," I replied once again, not trying to disguise my excitement. "We just fell into it."

The thought struck me that we should carry the investigation a little further. I asked him to have the clerk make a list of deaths of people of Asian descent for the past five years by name and age at death. Then she should cross-reference the list to requests for duplicate birth certificates.

I don't know where all of this is going to lead, but "from tiny acorns mighty oaks grow." I cautioned him to keep this quiet for a while so we could break the story together, if there was one, and my instincts told me there was.

The editor shared my enthusiasm. Achieving emotional orgasms on mere threads of exciting news is one thing all reporters have in common. On a good day, one could go home a sexual cripple.

We hung up agreeing to touch base when we had something to report.

I continued with my networking, calling the first number on the list that Stan had supplied me. Today was indeed my lucky day. The first person was real and not voice mail.

I noticed right off that the voice that answered didn't have an accent. I must have sounded hesitant after I identified myself. "I'm looking for Sidney Lu. Stan Wasnewski suggested I call."

"This is Sidney, or were you expecting Charlie Chan to answer the phone?"

I didn't like the sound of that and wasn't sure if he was defensive or had a sense of humor. I replied in my best impersonation of a professional tone "Did Stan tell you I would be calling?"

"He told me, and why. I've read about the case in the LA Times."

"Then you know I'm looking for some ears into the Asian community."

"Yeah, he told me that too. But I don't feel comfortable talking at any length over the telephone. Let's set up a meeting. I'm free for lunch tomorrow."

"Sounds good to me. Here or there?"

"Neither. Let's do it in Santa Monica. Say Madam Wu's at eleven thirty. I'll let you buy me lunch."

"That's gracious of you," I said, reverting back to my true character. I can carry a personality facade only so far.

Now all I had to do was find out where Madam Wu's was and how to get there, and I'd be in business. But first, I had three more people to call. There was no need to act like I had a deep dark secret to protect.

Stan was enough of a pro that he would give me only solid contacts, and the more probes I had out there the better my chances of ferreting out something I could use. I also didn't think I should worry much about the Breeze and Times finding out about the birth and death certificates until my first story came out.

I was confident that once our paper hit the street, it would grab the attention of a sharp editor in one of those publications. Then, they and the police would be concentrating in the same place. I couldn't help but smile when I thought of the scenario. It could resemble an old Mack Sennett comedy with everyone converging on their Asian sources at the same time. Chinatown informants would feel like quiz show contestants. The only problem was that under the same scenario the Times would come out the clear winner. It was doubtful the Daily Breeze, being a regional publication, albeit part of a national chain, would be in the ball game when the heat was turned on. They simply wouldn't expend the resources.

Unfortunately, I didn't have the resources either, so had to rely on quickness and fancy footwork. I began to have doubts that I should sit on the birth and death certificates lead much longer. One of the things wrong with that had to do with the husband. He had blabbed it to me and there was nothing to keep him from doing the same to the competition and/or the police, if he hadn't done so already.

The same was true for the travel office. The police might have already identified the person in the picture and started to make inquires.

*

When I called the next name on Stan's list I my luck had run out. I got my old nemesis — voice mail.

I left my message, which was never returned, and went to numbers three and four on the list, after which I ended up with two more appointments for the next day — one at three in the afternoon at an office downtown in the Biltmore Tower, and another actually in a Chinatown restaurant for dinner.

*

I had ignored them as long as I could, but staring at me was a pile of papers that contained all the copied material from the travel agency office. I started with the bankbook. Always start by following the money was the creed of the investigative reporter. Not surprisingly, it was from the Bank of Hong Kong.

I started copying down items that caught my eye, making a list of dates and amounts of deposits. There were a couple of large disbursements made out to cash that needed to be reconciled with the group folders. Other than that, all it contained were entries for the suite rental, and a post office box. I also jotted down the name of a health club that appeared every month.

Another folder that caught my attention was marked "loan." There I found loan papers made out to Susan Wong for an unsecured loan of $150,000. Referring back to the checkbook I didn't see regular monthly payments. I copied the name of the loan officer in my notebook and kept on plodding away. This case was getting more interesting with each document.

It wasn't yet noon, so I thought I would take the rest of the day off with pay and actually do one of the things that I had come to California for. I was going to have lunch near the beach and look at all the pretty blonde California girls, who were probably from somewhere in the midwest.

Jumping into the rental car that Bill had graciously arranged to have delivered to the office, I headed toward Rivera Village completely void of guilt. I had been told that they served great burgers at a place called The Brewery on Catalina Avenue where you could sit outside and do what California bachelors do best - watch women.

The beach cities along Santa Monica Bay have an abundance of single people who work nights so they can spend their time either sunning on the beach, walking or jogging along the beach, or sitting in places like The Brewery impressing each other with their coolness.

Since I don't jog, and I was hungry and still smarting from a sunburn, I chose the latter. It took me one beer and the time it takes to order a hamburger to find out my waitress's name was Lucinda. On the second beer I found out she was of Mexican ancestry. It took a third beer to find out she lived about three blocks away and was free for dinner that evening.

*

My date wasn't until seven so I had plenty of time to kill, which left me to do what every forty-year-old bachelor full of micro brew and a hot date that evening would do. I went home to take a nap.

I was asleep before my head made contact with the pillow.

Luckily, I had left a note for Bill telling him to wake me at five-thirty. I didn't say anything about having a date so he would think that it was business and be sure that I was up. No doubt had I not done that I would have slept through the night because the only thing I remember after going prone on the couch was Bill shaking me.

*

By 6:30 I was parked in front of Lucinda's apartment building trying to decide if I should wait for a half hour or go to the door early.

If I went up early, it would look like I was overly anxious. That wouldn't be all bad as it would signal my interest, but who would I be kidding? She knew I was interested, or I wouldn't have come on to her at the restaurant.

A leisurely walk around the block killed enough time so that at six fifty I was knocking on her door. She was ready. I took that as a positive sign.

"You know this area better than I do, where should we go?"

"What do you feel like eating?" I had anticipated the question and was ready with my answer. "How about seafood?"

"Great," she replied, "that sounds good to me."

So far so good. We made it through the type of food we were going to have, now if the dialog ran true to form we would progress to where.

Her quick answer told me that she had made up her mind on that before I had arrived. "There's a place on the Peninsula that's supposed to be good. Have you ever been to the Admiral Risty?"

"Never heard of it."

"Then that's where we'll go."

"Lead the way, " I said, as I opened the apartment door and led her down the steps to where I was parked.

"You're lucky you found a place to park so close," she told me as I guided her to the car. "Usually this time of the night all the places are taken by people coming home from work."

I couldn't resist. "This has been my lucky day, starting with choosing to have lunch at the Brewery, and picking your table."

She managed a giggle.

I was parked in the wrong direction so had to make a U-turn at the next light. It gave me time to think of something to say. I wasn't having much luck. There I was, a hot shot reporter who dealt with words, and I had nothing to say, so I did what all good reporters do, I asked her about herself. She accommodated me.

It wasn't long before I learned that Lucinda came from a family of three girls, and she had attended the University of Southern California where she had majored in marketing. After graduation she went to work for a marketing firm that had a client wanting to break into the Hispanic market. Being Hispanic, she had been hired to provide a bridge between the Anglo firm and the Hispanic culture they wanted to target.

It hadn't worked out, and she had been let go. She had trouble landing another job and had started waitressing to pay the rent. That had been over a year ago. In the meantime, she'd been offered several jobs to get back into the business world but declined as waitressing paid better.

It didn't make any sense to me, but what do I know? Journalism didn't pay worth a damn either, but I'd be darned if I'd leave it to wait tables. I held my tongue and soon we were speeding along Palos Verdes Drive West toward the restaurant.

*

The Admiral Risty was in a shopping center directly across from the ocean. If one ignored the cars zooming by on PV Drive, the view was spectacular, particularly at sunset, which it happened to be when we arrived. If I could have found a way to take credit for the timing I would have.

As we were being led to a table a familiar face came into view. Waving at me from one of the tables was the only person I knew in Los Angeles beside the murdered woman's husband and my friend Bill. Detective Rodney Bilbo and a slightly overweight, but cute, blonde were seated right in my line of traffic. I assumed she was his wife. Even cops wouldn't be brazen enough to bring a girlfriend to a popular eating establishment in the same town where they worked.

Bilbo was the last person I wanted to talk to, so I nodded a friendly hello, muttered a "nice to see you," and moved on.

As we moved into the next room, engrossed in serious conversation with a very attractive Asian woman, sat none other than Captain Tom McCloskey, widower all of three days.

The mourning period in Southern California must be a lot shorter than where I come from. In fact, the grieving widower hadn't yet had time to claim the body from the county morgue.

He didn't see me, and I didn't make myself conspicuous. Fortunately, Lucinda and I were seated where I was hidden by two other tables. I could watch him, but he couldn't see me — a perfect situation

I wondered if the presence of Bilbo in the next room had anything to do with the presence of McCloskey. Hell, I was working whether I wanted to or not, and kind of resented it. I didn't want anything to disrupt my evening with the enchanting Lucinda.

As the evening progressed, I glanced at McCloskey less and less. Not only was my companion beautiful, she was intelligent and had a wonderful sense of humor. Unlike the other women I had come in contact with since I had been here, she wasn't into herself. She actually had other interests, one being the obvious pride she felt about her Hispanic heritage.

Things were going well between Lucinda and me. So well I didn't want the evening to end. But the United States isn't Europe. The last morsel of food was no sooner off my plate when the waiter came to take it away. I have always felt that it was in bad taste to start clearing the table while someone at the table was still eating, so I told the waiter to leave it. I asked Lucinda why they did this.

She laughed. "The management tells them to. The quicker you get the table cleared, the quicker the guest leaves and they can give the table to someone else."

"Let's frustrate them tonight and linger a while over coffee and desert."

"I'll take decaf coffee, but pass on the desert."

"You're good for me. You seem to have this uncanny ability to suppress my decadent tendencies."

This got a wicked laugh out of her. "We haven't come far enough in our relationship for me to keep you from overdosing on fat and cholesterol."

I couldn't let that opening pass. "At least you're holding out hope for me that we may have a relationship brewing here. That's encouraging."

Lucinda was quick on the uptake. "I guess a person can assume when they get picked up and taken out to dinner there is something that sparked it. There's always a possibility that initial infatuation will turn into a relationship, otherwise why start?"

Sometimes I say stupid things. This was one of those times. "There's always a possibility of someone just wanting a free meal.

"I can afford to buy my own meals, thank you," she quickly replied, a defiant look on her face.

I made an effort to repair the damage and said in the sincerest voice I could come up with, "I didn't mean to imply that I was referring to you. I was merely pointing out another possibility, so please don't read anything different into it. After all, I am a reporter, so a certain amount of skepticism is natural for me."

She furrowed her brow and gave me an over-the-eyeglasses look, except she didn't wear glasses. "Should I know who you are?"

"No. I'm no one you would know about. Just a working reporter." At least I had enough sense not to tell her I worked for a Chicago paper. That could really foul up the evening by placing her in the one-night-stand category.

"What paper?"?I didn't lie. "Right now it's the Peninsula Digest. A friend of mine owns it. You probably never heard of it."

"Oh, yes I have. When I worked for the marketing company in Malaga Cove Plaza, we used to subscribe to the paper. It's mostly local news, so I didn't read it. I preferred the Times.

"Yeah, I said, mimicking Bill. "Local weddings, Junior League, and overage sorority parties are its forté, with an occasional murder thrown in for good measure."

"You must be talking about that Chinese woman that got killed up here the other day. Are you covering that?"

Everyone likes to feel important and impress their date, and I'm no exception, so I said, "Sure am. In fact, if you sneak a peek, two tables over you'll see the husband of the victim with another woman."

After looking back over her shoulder without being too conspicuous, she replied, "He's not wasting any time, is he?"

"Don't draw any conclusions by the company he's keeping. Note that it's an Asian woman about the same age as his former wife. No laughing and giggling like two school kids. And hey, a person has to eat."

"Still," she replied, "if you really love someone, you don't feel like going out with another person, even for business purposes, a couple of days after your wife is murdered."

"They had only known each other for a little more than three years before she was killed."

"Well, I know I certainly wouldn't feel like it."

What could I say. "Oh, well, nothing we can do about it either way. But it would be interesting to find out where they go after they leave here."

She quickly picked up on the comment. "Why don't we follow them when they leave? They're even taking longer to finish eating than we are. They were already eating when you pointed them out to me."

I don't normally like to involve amateurs in my investigations, but one doesn't squander an opportunity that drops into your lap either. Besides, she was very observant, so I agreed.

We followed McCloskey and the woman at a discreet distance out of the restaurant. Once out the door we went directly to the rental car as the other two stopped to talk by a white Jaguar parked closer to the restaurant. I noticed that he didn't even kiss her cheek as he opened the door to let her into the vehicle. She drove off alone.

The Jaguar turned right out of the parking lot, back along the coast the way we had come earlier from Redondo Beach.

My underpowered Toyota was no match for the Jag's power plant as the driver sped around the winding road up the hill. I lost her several times, but she always managed to come back into view when the street curved back into my line of sight.

After I thought I had lost her for good, Lucinda cried out excitedly, "There she is, going up that driveway over there." She pointed toward a large home just as its iron gates were closing.

"Get the number as we pass," I told her, "I don't want to slow down just in case someone is watching."

Tomorrow I would check the tax records to see who owned the property.

I was thinking of this when Lucinda asked what we would do now.

"Consider this as just a brief intermission in a delightful evening and continue on with what we were doing, which was.....?"

She completed the sentence for me. "Taking me home so I can get up in the morning for the early shift."

That put a definite hold on what I had in mind, but I didn't consider it a permanent setback. Just a bump in the road between first date and first time.

I turned the car around and headed back down the hill, my mind going back and forth between my attractive companion and the equally attractive Asian woman who had just disappeared behind a wrought iron gate.

My attention was suddenly diverted when, as I was approaching a sharp curve at the bottom of the hill, headlights appeared behind me from out of nowhere. The Toyota lurched forward when the bumper of the pursuing vehicle made contact. Lucinda screamed as I tried to keep the Toyota under control as the car behind us accelerated. I had to make a split second decision whether to try and manipulate the curve and probably overturn, or continue ahead through a white picket fence that was looming ahead.

I chose the picket fence. I didn't think whoever was pushing us against our will would follow.

Splintered wood flew in all directions as the Toyota tore through the fence into the yard. Luckily for us, it was a deep yard. By the time I managed to stop the car, about three feet from the house itself, the other car had disappeared.

It was only a matter of seconds before lights went on in the house. I geared myself for an angry verbal barrage when a man clad in blue shorty pajamas came tearing out of the house. "Are you all right?"

"We're fine," I replied, as we got out of the car. "We had our seatbelts on."

"I always knew this was going to happen someday." The owner was surprisingly calm for someone who just had a car tear through his yard.

I went to the rear of the car to check for dents. The bumper wasn't even dented, nor was the trunk. Great, no one's going to believe that I was pushed. At least I had a witness, who at that moment was telling the homeowner what had happened. My day was complete when I heard the siren approaching from a distance.

The friendly face of Officer Susan Constable got out of the patrol car.

Why I said it I don't know, but the first thing out of my big mouth was, "You left your light on, Officer." She smiled, shaking her head, obviously thinking that she was talking to a drunk. "Thank you for that bit of information, but are you the driver of this vehicle?"

"I am," I replied, giving her my best smile.

She ignored the smile. "Is anyone hurt?"

"No one, we were in seat belts."

Lucinda was soon at my side. "Someone tried to run us off the road."

The homeowner chimed in behind her. "They obviously succeeded. Look at my lawn."

*

By this time the neighborhood was totally alerted and was gathering on the lawn. Nothing like feeling like a marked man.

Witty Lucinda looked at me and started to laugh. "It's a good thing you're not cheating on your wife."

*

Arriving back at her apartment house, I had to double park, so didn't want to waste time. I was just starting to elevate my arm when she started laughing again (not a good sign), remarking, "I have to say one thing for you, you sure know how to make a date exciting."

My arm made it around her shoulders. "The next time will be better, I promise. We'll do something a little safer, like skydiving."

Her goodnight kiss made it clear that there would be a next time.

# CHAPTER FIVE

I awakened early after spending most of the night fantasizing about what I would do the next time I saw Lucinda. Unfortunately, however, I was facing a pretty full day and needed to put her out of my mind.

Detective Bilbo was probably a good place to start to get my being run off the road out of the way first. Next, I had to face the music with the rental car agency, as there were a few dents in the front from the fence. Following that, in order, would be: lunch with Sidney Lu at Madam Wu's in Santa Monica — I wondered if there was a relationship there; a meeting at the Biltmore Towers at three with Carleton Yang; dinner at the Mandarin Palace with Su Fu Yee.

Sandwiched in between those events I had to bang out a story for the paper. It had to go to press that night for the morning edition, which meant that I had to strategize with Bill and also talk to Captain Mc Closkey. I was sure the news that his wife wasn't really Susan Wong would come as a surprise to him, and if I wanted to keep him as an information source he shouldn't find out about it in the morning.

*

Bill was in the kitchen when I made my appearance downstairs. He had already seen the rental car. "What in the hell did you run into last night? You get bombed and hit something?"

"Nothing that simple." I filled him in on the details of the last evening.

"We've got to bring Bilbo up to date. Could you find the house where you followed the woman? The car that came after you must have come from there."

"It was dark and on a road that was as crooked as a politician," I commented. "I can only say for sure that it had a wall around it with an Iron Gate. I thought I had the address written down, but I can't find it."

"You've just described at least a half dozen houses on that stretch of road. You have to do better than that"

"Sorry," I said, "that's the best I can do."

"Damn, if you could spot it, it might be the break we're looking for."

I followed him outside and said, "Look, the woman in the car was Asian, so it's simple. I get a list of the Asians who live in that vicinity and we can narrow it down from there."

"We might be able to eliminate one or two entertainers, but that's all. Maybe Bilbo will have some ideas when you talk with him, and let's not forget to give the car back to the rental company. I know they're going to be thrilled."

"I hope you took out the insurance."

"Knowing you'd be the driver, you'd better believe I did. There's orange juice in the fridge if you want some. And water also, of course."

I declined, instead I went over my schedule with him. He suggested that as soon as we write the story we call Bilbo and have him meet us after dinner to go over it. Bilbo wouldn't be too happy with the scheduling, because he'd have to call his Chief at home so he wouldn't be surprised when reading the morning paper.

I left Bill and called Bilbo. He was in. He let me tell him the entire story before telling me that he had already gotten the details from Officer Constable.

"Do you think you could point out the house to me" he asked, as I knew he would.

I gave him the same answer I had given Bill, and he replied similarly.

"So where do we go from here?" I inquired.

"For starters, you should stop following women in cars in the middle of the night. Especially people who employ bodyguards."

"You think that's it? The people who ran me off the road were bodyguards who wanted to scare me?"

"Could be."

"I don't buy it. It's just too much of a coincidence that the woman was having dinner with a guy three days after his wife was murdered."

"Stranger things have happened," said Bilbo. "If you remember, I was there too. But you didn't see me following the woman back to her house, now did you?"

I was beginning to feel like a school kid who just got caught peeking into the girls' locker room. I decided it would be prudent to switch subjects.

"There's something else I need to talk to you about. I have to get some breakfast and wondered if you'd like to meet me for a cup of coffee? It's regarding the story I'm writing for tomorrow's paper. I don't want you to be surprised by it."

That got his attention. "Let's meet at a little sidewalk cafe right around the corner from the station."

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

I jumped into my dented Toyota and was there in twenty minutes.

*

This had to be the most interesting sidewalk cafe I had ever been to. It wasn't because the tables were actually on the sidewalk that made it unique, but because the sidewalk was on a steep grade. The tables and chairs had wooden blocks under them to compensate. But, if you moved a couple of inches in either direction you could find yourself eating with a tilt, starboard or port, depending on your place at the table.

Once again, Detective Bilbo had beaten me, and was already nursing a cup of coffee. "So how's Evel Knievel today?" he greeted me, referring to the former daredevil.

"Is that the thanks I get for helping you do your job?"

"What do you want the department to do? Put you on the payroll?" He answered his own question. "No thanks, our insurance policy excludes daredevils."

"Har, har har. I literally sacrificed my body for you guys in blue and all I get is abuse. You see if I ever do that again."

"Do I have your word on that?"

"Never," I replied. "Haven't you heard that a reporter will do anything for a story?"

A waitress appeared.

Before Bilbo answered I ordered leaded coffee and a bagel with good old fat-and-cholestrrol-laden cream cheese. After all the healthy stuff I had been eating, it was going to be a pleasure to clog a few arteries and experience some taste for a change.

As the waitress withdrew I followed her with the practiced eyes of a man who has a genuine appreciation for firm, young, female rear ends. When I refocused my eyes on Bilbo he got straight to the point. "You said you wanted to tell me what you're going to publish tomorrow."

"Our agreement was that I would keep you informed of what I was coming up with. Well, I have what I think is going to be my lead for the story, subject to one more verification."

I lied a little here. "Unfortunately, I won't have that until dinner tonight. I can say this though, if all checks out, it will turn out to be something startling." I should have majored in drama instead of journalism. I could have made more money. "I really can't tell you anymore until tonight. Just wanted to give you a heads up so I can contact you if I get verification. And, so you can do the same with your Chief."

I could tell by the look on his face that he wasn't all that happy with what he was hearing. That became clearer with his next comment, "So you want me to call my chief, tell him the Peninsula Digest will be coming out with a story on the case that we don't know about yet, but when it does it will make us look like a bunch of blundering idiots? Now it's my turn, my friend. How do you know that we haven't already discussed the same thing, and found it to be false?"

"Easy," I replied. "Because I won't print it unless I have it verified, so I know it's right. It won't make any difference if you have it or not. All I care about is that the facts are correct."

By now he was totally pissed. "You're telling me that as long as it's sensational, and sells papers you don't care if it might hamper the investigation?"

He was sharp all right, but I wasn't about to fall into his trap.

Making sure that my body language matched my words, I calmly replied in as firm a voice as I could muster without raising the volume. "I'm going to write it up and tell you the contents after dinner tonight. If you think it'll hamper your investigation in any way, convince me how, and we'll reconsider printing it."

The detective knew I wasn't bluffing. "I guess I'll hear from you tonight," he said as he drained his cup and left. He was content to have the last word, and to leave me to pay the check, again.

Breakfast completed, and one more look at the waitress's firm little tush it was on to my next appointment.

*

At the car rental company the manager wasn't all that happy either when he surveyed the hood and grill of my vehicle. It was liberally sprinkled with dents, scrapes, and white paint from the picket fence.

You'd think it was his personal car the way he was acting; however, it wasn't long before I was back on the road in another albeit older Toyota while newer models languished in their lot.

By this time it was after nine-thirty and I still had to go to the paper, talk Bill into a laptop computer to write my story in the car between appointments, and get directions to Madam Wu's Chinese restaurant.

*

Getting the computer was easy. Finding my way to Madam Wu's in Santa Monica wasn't. I made the fatal mistake that many visitors to Los Angeles make. I assumed that between morning rush hour and lunch I could just breeze up the freeway. As soon as I got onto the San Diego Freeway northbound I came to a complete stop, and I wasn't even to the airport exit yet. It was stop-and-go all the way.

My directions were to go west on Wilshire. It seemed like I was going to end up on the beach before I spotted the restaurant on my right. My watch confirmed that I was no more than fifteen minutes late. Not bad for a guy who thought LA traffic actually flowed instead of stopped for minutes at a time every three car lengths.

Pulling into the parking lot, I wondered if the place was open, or if there was more than on Madam Wu's. The place looked about as busy as a kosher deli in Tehran.

My faith in miracles was renewed when the door opened as I pulled on its handle, but doubt reemerged in my mind when I entered the dimly lit lobby. The sole lighting seemed to come from massive fish tanks that lined the outer lobby.

My eyes were still in transition from sunlight to darknesses when I was greeted by a very old, but still beautiful Chinese woman whose still shapely leg was visible in a dress split almost up to her waist.

I asked for Sidney Lu and was led through two rooms with walls covered with autographed photographs of former movie stars, all of whom were either dead or in assisted living homes waiting to die. I felt that I had just stepped back forty or fifty years back in time.

Unlike the vintage pictures on the walls, the person who stood in the doorway of a private room in the rear of the building was Harvard Business School, circa 2005, or there about. My car was older than he looked. Talk about oxymorons, I was meeting with a child in an establishment one step removed from silent movies. I felt like saying "Oy vei," and I'm not even Jewish.

He must have seen the look on my face. "The last time we talked, I asked you if you expected Charlie Chan. Now I know that's the case."

"Sorry," I said lamely. " I'll admit that you aren't what I expected. Usually people I meet through Stan aren't as presentable." I thought I made a good recovery, but he wasn't fooled.

"Don't worry, I just have a young face."

"It's not that, it has more to do with the circumstances."

"Madam Wu is an institution in Los Angeles My father was active in Los Angeles politics when the Oriental community was supposed to be seen and not heard. He wielded great power in backroom meetings. I have always admired and respected him. He accomplished a lot for the Chinese community in California. He was very good at both counting and delivering votes."

"And votes is what politicians understand."

"And votes is what politicians understand," he mimicked.

I tightened my lips as a waiter appeared at the door.

"You don't have to stop speaking in front of the waiter. Madam Wu has assigned us a waiter who doesn't understand English. Which is why I will have to order for you, if you don't mind."

"I guess if I mind I don't eat."

"You could point to the items on the menu and have a reasonable chance that you will get what you want."

"You go ahead and order," I replied. "I don't believe there's anything on the menu that I won't eat."

Sidney Lu didn't bother to look at the menu and ordered in Chinese, then turned back to me. "Stan only told me that you were working on the Palos Verdes murder of a Chinese woman. He asked that I give you whatever assistance I could."

I spent the next fifteen minutes, without interruption, telling him everything I knew about the case, including why I was working on it.

When I finished, he said, "And you want me to find out what the community knows?"

"You know that a reporter works on sources. I have zip in this town. Someone knows who and why that woman was killed. Not only that, someone knows who she really was, because we know that she wasn't Susan Wong born in Great Falls, Montana."

Cocking his head to one side, a serious expression crossing his face. "My initial reaction is, that it will be difficult and possibly dangerous. The Chinese, the Koreans and the Japanese, all have the equivalent of the Mafia in this country. And just like the Mafia, they have ties to their homelands. They are much more ruthless and efficient than the Mafia, for they operate in a society closed to occidentals. They have never been infiltrated by the FBI and generate no publicity."

"That's why I need someone like you to help me. Another thing, I've told you everything about me and the case, but I know nothing about you."

His expression didn't change. "I am a third generation American, born and raised in Los Angeles. I graduated from Stanford in political science. After graduation I used my father's many connections to work for a local councilman whose constituency encompassed Chinatown. When the councilman didn't get reelected, our many friends at city hall saw to it that I received a good position. I'm currently assigned to community relations as liaison between the city and the Chinese community."

I had mixed feelings. He would certainly be in the know among the establishment, but I wasn't sure about the street knowledge. Another concern of mine was that Los Angeles, like most large cities in America, was primarily Democratic. I wasn't sure he would do me any good because of the murder victim's apparent tie to a prominent Asian Democratic fundraiser.

What the hell! I decided to get what I'd come for. "What I'd like for you to do is to find out if there are any ties between these people, and to make some discreet inquiries about the murdered woman."

"I promise you," he replied, "I'll see what I can find out."

I was hoping for the best, but not expecting much.

*

It was only about 12:45 when I left Madam Wu's. My next appointment wasn't until three, so I had some time to work on my story. I had it pretty well formulated in my mind, but I do my best work when my fingers are on the keyboard.

I got back into my Toyota and headed East toward downtown Los Angeles. I was looking forward to the trip, because it was uncharted territory for me. Until today I wasn't really sure that Los Angeles had a downtown.

As I was driving past UCLA in Westwood, and about to enter Beverly Hills, I thought of Herb Caen, the now deceased columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle, and no admirer of the City of Angels. He had described Los Angeles as "seventeen suburbs looking for a city." Well, Herb, old buddy, I'm about to find that elusive city.

Actually, before proving Herb wrong I came upon a restaurant with the interesting name of Hamburger Hamlet. Looked like a good place to work on the story.

Since the local competitive papers had two full days of reporting the story, and we had yet to write anything of substance I decided to work the birth certificate angle as a point of difference.

*

The Digest has learned that the woman murdered at her home in Rancho Palos Verdes wasn't who everyone, including her husand, thought she was.

Her unsuspecting husband thought he was marrying a woman named Susan Wong and had a birth certificate to prove it: However, that document actually belonged to a woman by that name who was born in Great Falls, Montana and died 4 1/2 years ago.

The Great Falls Tribune, working with the Digest, confirmed that Susan Wong's birth certificate was that of a woman from Great Falls.

Further checking by the Tribune turned up a death certificate in the Great Falls area for the same person.

The real Susan Wong's family was not available to comment regarding this bizarre mystery.

*

I thought that would be an attention grabber and sell more than a few papers off the newsstands for Bill. I continued the story with the details of the case. When Bill included his photographs, and we worked on a few homey phrases, we'd have a completely different story than the competition.

Three cups of coffee and four rewrites of the article later, I was back in the Toyota and on the road again toward the skyscrapers that were visible in the distance. Half an hour later I was pulling into valet parking at the Biltmore.

*

The Offices of Carleton Yang, under the name Jade Treasures Imports, resembled a larger version of Susan Wong-McCloskey's. The furniture was all mahogany with carved dragon table legs and plenty of silk room dividers. The big difference was the enormous jade and ivory figurines displayed on equally impressive marble pedestals.

This obviously was not a working office, as the only filing cabinet belonged to the scintillating Chinese receptionist. She was right out of a James Bond movie. When she motioned for me to have a seat I didn't care if Yang took the rest of the afternoon before meeting me, as long as I could sit with her in my view.

The place was wired for WiFi so I took the opportunity to send my story to Bill. This would give him a chance to edit it and begin formatting it for the paper. I was sure he'd give it front page space. Normally I don't get excited about a headline, but this time I wished I could see the faces of the people involved in the case when they read it.

I also e-mailed the story to my colleagues in Montana. When our story came out they were going to be inundated with telephone calls from Los Angeles. That should make their day.

*

Unlike my earlier impression of Sidney Lu, Carleton Yang was exactly what I had expected. He did look like Charlie Chan in a business suit. I placed him North of sixty. Again, my first impression was disappointing in that here was another guy who wouldn't have a clue what was going on in the street.. On a positive note, however, since he was in business for himself, he might be a Republican and wouldn't mind digging us some dirt on the Democratic National Committee. Being an independent myself I didn't care if the dirt hit the Democrats or the Republicans as long as it made good copy.

After shaking my hand, Mr. Yang got right to the point. "So. You want my help in finding out about that unfortunate situation in Palos Verdes a few days ago?"

I gave him the same spiel I had given to Sidney, but added more. "The Susan McCloskey death looks like an assassination. If this were Chicago I'd say it was a mafia hit. But this is Los Angeles, and the woman was Oriental."

The comment struck a cord!

Yang uncrossed his legs and leaned forward as he started speaking. "Orientals have their mobs, as you call them. They are called Tongs and Triads. With the Asian population growing from roughly three and a half million to a projected twelve to fifteen million people in the United States by the year 2025, we in the Asian community can see better than anyone the organized crime that comes with it. And, with LA being the preferred destination — we are projected to have at least 41% of the Asian and Pacific Islander population at that time. We feel it here more than anywhere else in this country."

He paused to catch his breath, re-crossed his legs, and then continued. "Just like the Black population, where black against black crime far outnumbers black on other ethnic groups, Asian organized crime targets the Asian community. They extort protection monies, just as the Mafia did, or does. I don't know now.

"The Triads and Tongs are involved in drugs, extortion, alien smuggling, prostitution, loan sharking, murder, and all types of fraud. In fact one of the biggest targets in the past has been exchange students from Hong Kong and Taiwan. The student shows up with a new car, speaks limited English, and before long he's paying upwards of $10,000 a week just to avoid getting beat up. So, you see, these monsters prey on whomever, and whatever they can."

The numbers he was throwing out at me got my attention. Al Capone in his hey-day never generated the money these people were making just going after college kids. I made a mental note that this would be a subject worthy of my attention when I got back home.

Yang was still talking. "In 1995, I attended a conference on Asian Organized Crime in Boston, where Louis Freeh, Director of the FBI at the time made a speech on the subject. You may still be able to get a copy of that speech over the Internet on the FBI's web page."

I never expected a sixtyish Chinese exporter to be so with the times. Just goes to show you how little first impressions can mean.

"So," I said, "what you're telling me is that the murder, which looks like a mob hit, could be just that by a member of a Los Angeles gang?"

"Indeed. Which also implies that the murder victim could have been involved in something that wasn't entirely legitimate, or may have been the victim of extortion herself and was eliminated when she didn't pay up. There are an infinite number of possibilities."

"That's true," I replied. "But the type of execution still leads me to believe that it was a professional job. Because I'm bound by my word to the police, I can't tell you the exact details, but the killer left a distinguishing 'calling card' at the scene of the crime. In your nosing around, see if you can find any particular gang, or individual, that leaves a signature when they kill.

"Also, I don't know if the picture I told you about is anymore than just a memento of a one-time evening with the big boys, but the more we can piece this woman's life together, the better chance we have of coming up with what was behind the killing, and that's where the story is."

I was carrying on a furious internal debate about the birth/death certificate angle. I decided not to tell him for the time being. I could always call him in the morning and tell him about it then, after I thought it over some more.

Yang rose and extended his hand, giving me the not too subtle hint that the interview was concluded. I told him I'd be in touch within a day or two to touch base.

Walking with me to the door of the office, he told me to give him the weekend. If he had anything sooner he'd call me.

More time to kill. It was a little after four and my next appointment wasn't until six. Time to make a call or two. I took the elevator down and crossed over to the Biltmore.

*

The Biltmore Hotel surprised me. I never expected gauche Los Angeles to have a hotel that ranked with the best of the East Coast and Midwest for opulence. The lobby spoke of quiet elegance rather than LA tacky.

I found a convenient out of the way couch and called Bill. He had received my e-mail and was wild about the story, only he wanted more. I informed him that more could be found in the last two issues of the Daily Breeze and LA Times. In addition, I told my anxious editor that we should be able to follow this blockbuster with one in each of the next two issues of the Digest. I made a bet that before the story ran its course he'd increase his subscription readership by ten percent.

Bills response to this was, "Anything less than twenty won't pay for all the bills you're sending me. Are you lunching with every Oriental in town?" His chiding was only half in jest.

"Those that I'm missing for lunch I'm picking up at dinner," I retorted. "So keep the ink wet in your pen."

After leaving Bill I decided to walk around to see what the Los Angeles City Center was like.

Directly across from the Biltmore looked to be a park. It took me exactly six minutes to find out that Los Angeles is like the false storefronts of an old Western movie set. It's all a facade. There's the Biltmore and a strip of buildings running two blocks deep and four blocks long. Beyond that strip there are more beggars, winos, pimps and prostitutes than in Chicago and Milwaukee put together.

*

I had no trouble finding Chinatown for my next appointment.

As soon as I saw Sun Fu Yee I knew I had what I lacked with Lu and Yang — a person who would know what was going on out in the street. At least he looked the part.

Sun Fu was dressed like a Chinese hood, complete with ponytail. He had on black pants, black sneakers and a black jacket with a dragon embroidered on the back. He was either the real thing, or headed the Hell's Angels Chinese fan club.

The restaurant wasn't exactly where you would take your date for a memorable Saturday night, unless you felt like experiencing the Chinese equivalent of the Mexican two-step.

It reminded me of a trip to Taipei that I had once taken. I had been told by a Chinese-American in our party that if I ever wanted to eat there, I shouldn't look inside the kitchen. This was good advice to follow at the Mandarin Palace as well.

Despite my feeling that I was experiencing a time warp or had stumbled onto a Jackie Chan movie set, Sun Fu put me at ease. "How do you like my 50's look?" he asked. "That's the latest style around here. Pretty neat, huh?"

"Yeah, pretty neat. I don't think I've ever felt more out of it than I do now."

"At night they don't get many tourists in this place," he said, "but during the day a few stray families exploring the back streets of Chinatown find their way here. Most of the tourist action is down the street where the arches are. "What'll you have?"

"I had lunch a long time ago," I explained, "so just a beer. But don't let me stop you from eating."

"I'm just gonna have Low Mein."

Sun Fu ordered for us in Chinese when the waiter magically appeared, from where I had no idea.

"So," he said as the waiter walked away, "I understand you're looking for some help with the PV killing Sunday. Right?"

"Yeah, I'd like to find out a lot more about it."

By the time I finished outlining the situation for the third time that day my beer and his Low Mein arrived. Good thing I didn't order anything to eat. There were no knives and folks visible anywhere in the area, just chop sticks.

"I've got good contacts around here," said Yee after swallowing his first mouthful. "My guess is that it was a Triad killing, which means you're never going to find out who did it. Sometimes the pros are imported from either the mainland, Hong Kong or Taiwan. They execute the contract and are on their way back the same day, disappearing from sight."

"That has to be a pretty expensive situation, with round trip air fare and expenses."

"Depends on how much you want the person dead," said Sun Fu, scooping up some more of the Low Mein. "No way are the locals gonna find the executioner to talk. It's very effective."

"So what you're telling me is that the person who did the actual killing is probably long gone by now, never to be heard from again."

"You got that right, and furthermore no one will ever bring him back to the States to do another one, just to be sure."

What he was telling me wasn't very encouraging, but it wasn't unexpected. Maybe because it was getting late, or I just felt like he wouldn't run to the Times, I told Sun Fu about the birth and death certificates. I explained that we needed to find out more about the fake Susan Wong and not to worry so much about who killed her, although I did mention the killer's calling card.

He assured me that he was going to work on it, and would probably have something for me before the weekend.

I believed him.

# CHAPTER SIX

It was almost nine P.M. before I got back to the paper. Bill anxiously motioned me over to the table in the conference room to look at a proof of the story and layout of tomorrow's paper. It was great! He left my work intact with only a few minor changes, and integrated the less sensational facts of the case so that it all looked fresh. Even the pictures were fantastic. He had a larger quantity of different angles than either the Breeze or the Times. He ended up devoting one entire page to the story.

"There hasn't been more space devoted to a killing on the front page since Kennedy was shot," Bill informed me.

"How do you know? We were both kids."

"There's a copy of the Trib's front page in our lobby."

Bantering over, we ceased our self-congratulations, called Bilbo, and asked him to come over. While we were waiting, I called McCloskey and told him that it was probably going to be a couple hours, but I thought he should see what we were going to run. He said he'd wait up for me.

Bilbo was banging on the door as I terminated my call to McCloskey. He just nodded at me as he followed Bill to the table.

I didn't bother to get up.

As he read the copy, Bilbo's bland facial expression never changed. After he finished he looked over at me, "I'm impressed." Directing his attention back to Bill he said matter factly, "The Chief's not going to be happy with this. In fact he'll be pissed and he's going to chew my ass pretty good for not coming up with this myself."

I felt like a turd, but war is hell.

He asked to use one of the offices to call his boss.

Bill guided him to his office and closed the door. "He's taking it pretty good."

"Yeah. A helluva lot better than either of us would. But he's a realist and knows there isn't much he can do about it."

Bill smiled more to himself than to me. "I don't think I'll get invited to the Chief's birthday party this year."

"Were you last year?"

"Nope."

"So, you'll never know what you missed."

Bilbo came out of the office. "The Chief wants me to bring him a copy."

"No can do." Bill covered the galleys. "We just can't take the chance that the Breeze will see this before they put their morning edition to bed. What good will it do for him to see it anyway?"

"You're right," Bilbo replied, with a defeated shrug of his shoulders. "More than likely it was just a knee jerk reaction on his part. I'll just tell him that it's your working copy and you can't let go of it. What time'll the paper hit the streets?"

Bill looked at his watch. "Our carriers will pick them up here at four in the morning. A half-hour later they'll start on their routes, and by five-thirty most will be delivered. You'll get the usual complimentary copy at the station between five and five-thirty.

Bilbo turned his attention back to me. "Can I see the certificates?"

"They're on the way from Montana as we speak. As soon as they arrive, which should be by tomorrow, I'll see that you get copies."

"How'd you find out about this?"

"I can't reveal my source, you know that."

He just sighed. "What other surprises do you have in store for us?"

"Actually, Detective. none at the moment, but I'm working on it."

"I'm sure you are," he replied, "but you had better not be withholding evidence. This comes mighty close to it."

I disagreed, but let it drop. The guy had to say something to save face.

"Look Jeremy." He was heading toward the door. "I've got to get out of here. I'll let you and Bill discuss the finer points."

I gave him a wave of the hand. I had to get to McCloskey before Bilbo put everything together and came to the conclusion that the good Captain was the source.

*

Captain McCloskey opened the door before I knocked. "I've been waiting for you."

"Sorry I'm late, but we had to go over this with Detective Bilbo, so he wouldn't get too pissed when he reads it in the paper tomorrow."

McCloskey ushered me back to the same room we had talked in before. I took the same seat and proceeded to go over the story with him. He didn't interrupt. After I finished, he looked at me with the same bland expression that Bilbo had earlier. I'd never want to get into a poker game with either one of those two.

At last he responded with, "I don't know what to say. I had no idea. I think I told you once that I didn't know much about my wife's past when I married her." His tone of voice reminded me of a friend of mine who'd visited me one evening. He'd told me that his wife had just told him that she didn't want to be married anymore, and he had been like a blind person who couldn't find his cane.

I told the bewildered airline captain that Bilbo would probably put two and two together and figure out that he was the one who had showed me the birth certificate, and not to lie about it. "Just tell him that you gave it to me. I he asks why, say that I asked if you had one, and that the police hadn't. Don't admit that you volunteered it."

I then asked him if his wife had a safe deposit box, to which he shrugged his shoulders and told me he didn't know.

"I'll bet she did. From the things we've seen in the files, her bank is probably the Bank of Hong Kong." I advised him to go there and find out.

"I don't have a key."

"Under the circumstances that won't make any difference. They'll want to see a death certificate and probably a court order. The court will insist that a police officer be present when you open the box. I don't know of anyway around that procedure unless you have an in at the bank."

"I don't know anyone at that bank. I bank at the B of A."

He obviously had no knowledge of how the game is played so I told him what to do. "When Bilbo comes to see you, talk to him about the possibility of the box. Say something like, 'I was thinking my wife may have a safe deposit box and maybe we should try and find out where it is.' That should take his mind off the birth certificate. Then volunteer that you believe she did her business with the Bank of Hong Kong. He'll take it from there."

"Okay," he agreed, lighting a cigarette.

After my last visit he must have figured out that lighting one of those disgusting things was the fastest way to get rid of me. It worked. I bid him adieu and left by the side door, because I had a hunch that Bilbo would be showing up any moment.

*

Back in my car I entertained thoughts of stopping by the Brewery and looking for Lucinda, but given my state of exhaustion decided that bed was a more compelling alternative tonight. I could devote some time to cultivating my budding relationship with her sweetness tomorrow.

*

Thankfully Bill didn't wake me up and show me the paper, but left a copy on my nightstand so I wouldn't miss it. When I did see the finished product, I was even more proud of it than the first time. I wasn't much of a factor in most of the editions at the Trib — just one of many stories by one of many top notch reporters — so I felt closer to this one. It was the first time I'd felt that I was in the birthing room. It felt good!

What makes a good reporter tick is the thought of his story's impact. The one we had just put out would make a little wave, even in totally blasé Los Angeles. It might even smoke out someone who knew something about the killing. At least that's what I hoped it would do, beyond putting Bill's paper on the map.

After congratulating one another the evening before, I had told Bill that, unless something unusual happened that required my attention, I was not going to set foot in his establishment today. He'd faked being hurt, but told me to have fun and he'd try not disturb me when he left for the office.

It wasn't long after Bill left for the office that I was on the phone with Lucinda. When I apologized for calling so early she just laughed and informed me that she had already run five miles, done a half hour of exercises, taken eleven vitamins, and had finished reading my story.

I told her that I was taking the day off and had every intention of monopolizing her for the day. I didn't tell her that my exercise thus far that morning had consisted of sitting on the commode turning the pages of the newspaper.

"I'm not working until the evening shift," she informed me, "but I really don't want to get nearly killed again," referring to our previous hair raising episode.

I assured her that I would make every effort to avoid that situation in the future. She agreed to let me pick her up in an hour. Back in Chicago I would have specified an exact time, but I had quickly learned during my brief tenure in the Beach Cities of LA, that between one and two hours is as exact as one can expect. That's one of the many things I liked about the way of life in the beach area. They sort of ease into a day rather than being whacked in the face with reality.

With no great hurry, since I was only at the most 15 minutes from Lucinda's, as I started easing into my day on the patio, Bill called to inform me that he had already heard from the Chief of the Palos Verdes Estates Police, the Managing Editor of the Breeze who had called to congratulate him on the story, and one of the television networks asking for more information.

Bill also said that Great Falls had sent us a copy of their story, which was cross-complimentary. I could tell that Bill was trying not to sound like a college kid who had just scored with the homecoming queen.

If I were on the payroll this would have been a perfect time to ask for a raise. Instead, the best I could come up with was to tell him the receipts for my expenses were on my desk, knowing that in his current state of euphoria he wouldn't question anything, not that I would take advantage of that. Had I known that in advance I might have sneaked in a receipt for my evening with Lucinda, but I didn't.

I also inquired of Bill if he knew someone who could lift fingerprints. He couldn't think of anyone off hand, since that isn't normally a journalistic request, but he would do some checking. Before he had the chance to ask why, I told him what I had in mind, then I called McCloskey and asked him to bag a couple of his former wife's things that she alone would have touched, and bring them to Bill. All I divulged to him was that I was playing a hunch, which he bought without hesitation.

My next call was to Carleton Yang. I asked him if he had any connections with the authorities in Hong Kong. He told me that the Peoples Republic of China (PRC) had kept most people in their old jobs after the takeover, so he still had sources. He agreed to send Susan Wong's fingerprints to see if they could make an identification.

The local law would send her prints to Washington, where I was sure they wouldn't find anything. Washington would also send them to Interpol, where they could have something, but, by that time, if my hunch paid off, we would already have our information and another scoop. That triggered an adrenalin rush and really got me in the mood to see Lucinda, as if I needed that extra boost.

When I saw her, I knew for a fact that the person who coined the phrase, "look but don't touch," had never seen Lucinda in a tee shirt and shorts, starting with the the tee — just regular white cotton with a Miller's Beer Logo emblazoned on it — covering a firm set of mouth size little boobies. The palms of my hands were already twitching in anticipation of caressing those inviting morsels.

Quite naturally, my eyes flowed downward to her lithe hips, which bordered a tush that should be against the law. It made the little waitress at the sidewalk cafe look flabby. I could be sentenced to a jail term just for my thoughts, as I followed her down the steps.

Somehow I managed to get to the car without making a fool of myself. We had decided to go to Laguna Beach for lunch. I didn't realize that it was a good hour and a half away, but time had flown by quickly with Lucinda casually stroking my leg while I was driving.

I had absolutely no idea how we had gotten to Laguna Beach, and lunch in a public restaurant wasn't exactly what I was in the mood for when we arrived. It didn't seem to faze her in the least that, by the time we got out of the car I was sitting in a pool of sweat, panting like a half-crazed stallion.

My gosh, I thought, how can she think of eating at a time like this?

She didn't have any trouble at all.

We were seated at a window where we could see waves breaking over the rocks directly below us. It was idyllic and romantic, as if I needed more romance to get me in the mood. I had a hard time walking as it was. Any more romantic and I'd be stuck in my chair for the duration. In my condition it wouldn't be cost effective to get a motel room. If she brushed by me I'd be finished.

By the time lunch was over I was calmer. It's amazing how a combination Mahi Mahi and Chardonnay can mellow you. It seemed to work for Lucinda as well, only I wasn't sure that I wanted it to. I was mistaken. On the way back to the car her hand found one of my most vulnerable spots — the back of my neck. When she started massaging the hair in that area it drove me into a frenzy. Only one subject came to my mind — motel, and where to find one.

*

The little blue Toyota was transformed into a sleek red Ferrari as I zoomed out onto the Pacific Coast Highway heading north. The Travel Lodge near Newport Beach was the first motel that came into view.

As I pulled into the parking lot, the bundle of passion next to me asked, "What are we stopping here for?"

"What do you think?" I replied, my hand on the door latch.

"This isn't a very good time."

I was getting more than a little irritated. "Look honey, you have me so I don't even need an engine to propel this car. It could go for miles just on the heat that I'm generating."

"I'm sorry," she said, moving closer to her side of the car. "But it's that time of the month, and it makes me a little passionate." She kissed me on the lips,

"A little passionate. Geez, I have a probe sticking out so far that I can probably fuel an airplane in flight."

She kissed me on the lips. Big deal.

*

With the Toyota transformed back into a compact Japanese car, I got back on PCH heading toward the sanctuary of the South Bay. For my own sanity I changed the subject. "Tell me about that marketing job you had."

"Well, the company had a contract with a beer company that wanted to penetrate the Hispanic market. Incidentally, Hispanics consume a lot of beer. My job was to present the cultural perspective to promotional campaigns, primarily in the LA area." She elaborated by telling me further that the Hispanic market in Los Angeles was huge and getting bigger along with their population.

"How huge is huge?" After hearing Carleton Yang's Asian numbers I was genuinely interested in putting that in perspective.

"Let's put it this way. The Hispanic population in California alone is expected to double by the year 2025 and account for at least one-third of the nation's total population. In terms of people, Hispanics in California will be somewhere between sixteen and seventeen million. That's a lot of people."

I mentally added that figure to Carleton's number and came up with over twenty-two million people, give or take a million. Anyway you cut it, it amounted to a pretty sizable market for beer.

Lucinda was still talking. "Do you know that the Anglo population is staying fairly even, which means that whites will be less than half the population of California?"

I had to interrupt her to ask for directions. I had come up on a traffic circle and had no idea where I had to get off. After navigating through the maze, as much as I tried to listen attentively my mind wasn't in it, so I spent the rest of the trip politely nodding.

When there was a break in her dissertation I remarked how impressed I was with her grasp of he subject.

She placed her hand back on my leg. The same leg that remained sensitive from the earlier stroking. "Part of my course work at USC, and looking at census figures for my former job. I don't have much reason to use my brain much anymore. My waitressing clientele remain the same. Oversexed young men impressed with themselves and oversexed older men wanting a younger woman. What can I tell you?" She gave the inside of my leg a little pinch before removing her hand, while I wondered where in the description of her waitressing clientele she placed me.

By the time we got back to the South Bay we had just about solved the world's problems. Once again I had to double park, but the goodbye kiss was much longer and more inviting than before.

*

When I stepped inside Bill's, there was a note informing me to watch the local news. Sure enough, one of the lead stories was ours. We had done it. Not only had we scooped the Breeze and the Times, we'd put Bill's little paper on the map. Now we had to wait and see if this was the catalyst to rattle some bushes and drop something in our laps.

# CHAPTER SEVEN

For the next two days Bill had to chase his normal Peninsula stories. He covered a Junior League bazaar, an opening at the local playhouse starring one of Hollywood's aging performers, and one of the many awards banquets for local realtors, where everyone is honored as a top producer so they can display it on a business card.

I checked in frequently with the PV Police Department for anything new on the case but, like me, they were awaiting information. The only thing I learned was that they were continuing to actively interview any, and all, who might have known the deceased. Considering her lack of traceable background not many people were very forthcoming.

Without a mole in the department I was at the mercy of Detective Bilbo for my information. He had become noticeably cool toward me since the birth/death certificate story.

The Great Falls Tribune informed me that they had a call from their local police department at the request of the PV Estates department about their part in the story.

The relationship between the Great Falls paper and their local upholders of the law appeared to be on more solid ground than the one between the PV department and Bill's paper, thanks to me. I was told that the Great Falls department was also digging into the records listing all deaths of people with Chinese ancestry over the past five years, so we stopped our effort in that direction. I had a feeling that a request to the Social Security Administration would be part of their probe to find out if the numbers of those deceased individuals showed any activity. They promised me the list as soon as they received one.

Other than that I was resting, soaking up the sun, seeing Lucinda as much as I could, and generally doing what I had come to Southern California to do.

My goof-off period ended abruptly!

As I was watching the five o'clock news, one of Los Angeles' premier newscasters, whose sole claim to journalistic fame was a pretty face, good diction, and the ability to flawlessly read the monitor, announced, "We have a breaking story. Sidney Lu, a senior staff member in the city's Community Relations Department was murdered in front of his Chinatown apartment just hours ago. Police are now on the scene. We'll have more on this breaking story as it unfolds. Mister Lu was a longtime aide to former Councilman Mitchell Ling."

I immediately alerted Bill at the paper.

"Jesus," Bill replied, "You have a message on your voice mail from him. He said he mailed you something at the paper that you might be interested in and to call him as soon as you receive it."

"Bill, I've got a hunch that we might just be on to something that is a helluva lot bigger than we imagined. If Sidney's murder is related to the inquires he was making on our behalf, then we're playing with some pretty rough characters."

"You might be right, Jeremy."

"That means we had better start watching our backs a little better."

After Bill nodded his agreement he told me that McCloskey had called and wanted me to contact him.

Before contacting McCloskey I called Stan in Washington to give him the news. His reaction was the same as mine. "Sorry to lose Sidney, he was a good source." That was the extent of his sympathy. He also voiced to me the same thing I had to Bill, that we were on to something big. We agreed to touch base every couple of days.

My next calls were to Carleton Yang and Sun Fu Yee. I alerted them that Sidney Lu was doing essentially the same thing they were doing and had landed in the morgue, so they had better be extremely careful. I was walking a moral tightrope here. I needed to warn them of the potential danger, but needed them both.

Thankfully, neither was scared off. I got the impression that Yang had a nationalistic agenda that accounted for his willingness to help.

I couldn't figure Sun Fu Yee's angle. Neither person had asked for payment of any kind. God only knows what their relationship with Stan was, and I didn't really care to know. As far as I knew, Stan was straight. Unless he was a closet switch hitter. But I did know that he had a wife and two kids, not that it means anything in Washington, the mecca of kinky relationships.

Yang's response was, "Very interesting. Don't forget to send me the woman's fingerprints so I can relay them to Hong Kong."

Lee's response was out of character from his public persona when he told me to take care of myself as well.

I finally got around to McCloskey who was waiting for my call. He told me that he had a couple of his wife's items for fingerprinting and wanted to drop them off. I asked that he by-pass the middle man and just leave them at the paper for Bill, and to be sure they were bagged in something sterile like in a rolled up newspaper before being placed in an outer cover.

His next news floored me. "The travel agency office was broken into last night and all the files are gone."

"Have you reported it to the police?"

"They called me. The manager of the Executive Suites discovered it and called the Sheriff."

"Why the sheriff?"

"The sheriff's department has jurisdiction in Rolling Hills, and they called the PVE police who called me to ask if I knew anything about it. They sounded very accusing."

"Don't let it worry you, that's just the way they think. Remember, the spouse is always the prime suspect until its proven differently, and most of the time they're right."

That bit of information didn't seem to give him much comfort because the next thing out of his mouth was to ask me if I thought he had something to do with his wife's murder.

"Of course not," I replied, "I'm on your side, remember?"

It seemed to reassure him a little when I added a dose of realism, "This isn't a run-of-the-mill heart attack we're dealing with here. The police move at their own pace and have a job to do."

"God, I hope so." I could hear the frustration in his voice. "I just want this nightmare over with so I can get on with my life, starting with sorting it out."

The only other advice I could give him was to take it one day at a time. Then he dropped another bombshell. "We got a court order to open my wife's safe deposit box at the Bank of Hong Kong. Detective Bilbo had to be with me."

"And, did you find anything interesting?"

"You might say that. We found over a hundred thousand dollars in cash. The IRS is going to have a field day I'm afraid."

All I could think of was, "You got that right."

*

After we hung up I faced another dilemma. I had failed to tell McCloskey about the simple fact that I had a copy of his wife's files, so technically I had taken them without permission and hence they were stolen. Also, Bilbo could say I was tampering with evidence and given his feelings toward the Digest, we could expect some serious ramifications. On the positive side, there had to be something in those files that someone didn't want revealed. There was only one way to find that out, and that was to read them, only most of them were written in Chinese.

There was only one way I could go. I had to trust either Carleton Yang or Sun Fu Yee to go over the files. My inclination was to call on Yee. I don't know why, but I just felt more comfortable with him.

Yee agreed before I was done with my sales pitch and offered to meet me the next morning at the paper.

Bill was on call waiting before I got off the phone with Yee, to prod me for my next story. Another edition was due and he needed my copy post haste. We agreed to go with the break-in at the travel agency office as the lead story, hoping that neither the Breeze nor the Times would pick it up. No press release was issued by any of the law enforcement agencies on the matter, so it might just slip through the cracks. I cranked up the laptop and started to write:

-

The Office of U.S. Tours in Rolling Hills Estates was broken into last night, and all files removed. U.S. Tours was owned and operated by the brutally murdered Peninsula resident, who assumed the identity of Susan Wong. Wong was a deceased woman from Great Falls, Montana. The dead woman's true identity still remains a mystery.

The murder is still under investigation by the Palos Verdes Estates Police Department. This case continues to baffle the authorities who have failed to come up with either a killer or a motive. At the present time there are no known suspects.

This office burglary did not appear to be the work of amateurs. Other than the files, nothing was destroyed or vandalized. Sources have also confirmed that police have located, and confiscated, the contents of the victim's safe deposit box, but no further information from the authorities has been forthcoming.

-

Bill would clean it up and fill in the balance of the story with information from our last edition.

Ordinarily, I would have confirmed the details with the police, but having the victim's husband as the source was about as credible as it gets. I was probably over conscious of leaks to the rival papers, but Bill's small paper was still swimming upstream and I didn't want it to get swallowed up by the larger publications.

*

Next on my agenda was a little Hispanic lovely whom I was pursuing as adamantly as I was the Wong murder, but with more emotion. I still hadn't succeeded in worming my way into her apartment for any length of time, let alone her bed. She was definitely playing it right. I kept coming back.

There was no answer on her landline. It shouldn't have bothered me, but it did. I knew for a fact that she wasn't working. Intellectually I knew she had a life besides me. I couldn't, or shouldn't, expect her to just sit around and wait for my call.

The voice of reason inside me said that I was over forty years old and not going to make a long-term commitment to this woman, so I should lighten up and stop acting like a teenager having a testosterone attack. For once I listened to that voice, shoved my emotions aside, opened a beer, plopped my body on the couch and turned on "Law and Order" reruns.

*

The new day started with on helluva beginning. Sun Fu Yee must get up on East Coast time. He was waiting at the paper when I arrived. "Where you been?" he chided. "It's practically time for lunch."

"You should try it sometime. This is rarefied air up here compared to Chinatown."

Banter ceased when I took him inside the conference room and showed him the files. I confided in him about the situation, emphasizing that I would understand if this compromised his ethics.

He replied with what I assumed to be Chinese logic. "Hey, you didn't know the files were going to be burglarized when you copied them, so I don't see that you did anything so bad."

He started translating.

While I was with Yee, McCloskey had dropped off his late wife's things that he had promised me. True to my instructions inside wrapped newspaper pages within individual plastic bags was a compact and a leather wallet.

Bill had arranged for a fingerprinting expert through his security service. His contact had told him to drop off the items as soon as we had them, but to call first, and he'd deliver the prints within two hours.

Ten minutes later I was on my way down the hill toward Torrance. The security service was nestled in a grove of eucalyptus trees at the base of the hill off of Hawthorne Boulevard. As usual, I was in the wrong lane of traffic and had to go an extra block and then double back to the parking area.

When I returned to the paper Bill was pacing the floor brandishing a large manila envelope. "I think it came."

Hearing the commotion, Sun Fu Yee came running out to the conference room asking what was wrong.

"Nothing" I said. "Just Bill hyperventilating. A picture came from Sidney Lu which may give us a clue as to what he was up to, and why he was killed."

The envelope contained an 8 x 10 black and white photograph of two Asian males. One was the same person in the travel agency wall photo. The other I had never seen before. At first glance there was nothing unusual. Both men wore business suits, were neatly groomed, and appeared to be about the same age. On the back of the photograph was the logo, "Don Lee's Studios," along with an address and telephone number.

I asked Yee if he knew of the place.

"I know where it is, but I'm not familiar with the photographer. If Sidney Lu was killed because of this photograph, this guy Don Lee might be next in line."

I suggested we give Mr. Lee a call warning him.

Bill intervened. "He might think this is a crank call, or hang up and run to the police. Either way, we don't have much to tell him except a hunch."

Sun Fu Yee suggested that he be the one to call Lee. "I'll talk to him in Chinese and just tell him the we'd like to see him about the photograph he gave Sidney Lu. He'll be more receptive if I don't speak English."

We agreed, and Yee dialed the number that appeared on the back of the photograph. There was no answer and no answering machine picked it up.

The knot in my stomach felt like there was a bowling ball in residence. "I've got a terrible feeling that maybe we should take a ride to this place. We have to talk with him anyway. Let's just run this through the copier and take the copy rather than the original, just in case."

The consensus was that Yee and I would go. Bill would stay at the paper and get ready for printing. Before we left he extracted a promise that we would call him and let him know that we were all right. He also made it clear that should he not hear from us in an hour he was going to call the LAPD and worry about the consequences later.

"Make that two hours," Yee said. "It's going to take us at least an hour to get there, and double if there's an accident or something on the freeway."

Yee wanted to drive, and when I saw what he was driving I understood. He had a customized, and I assumed a modified, BMW coupe. We took off down Crenshaw like the guys I was calling idiots less than an hour ago.

As we were flying low toward Chinatown I asked Yee if he was coming across anything interesting in Susan Wong's files.

"It's too early to tell, except that I haven't found a pattern of anything. It's just names of people, and their passport numbers. I found an appointment book. Most of it doesn't make any sense, but there was one entry every Thursday at 1:00 PM for the past six months that piqued my curiosity."

"And?"

"It was just, 'meet L'."

"I'd ask the husband about it, but I doubt if he would know anything. They led separate lives. Is there a way to match the incoming and outgoing passport numbers, and if they were the same person?"

Lee replied that he hadn't looked at it that way. "I think the best thing to do is translate the files, then we can use the computer to enter each name and do some electronic sorting. That way we can play a bunch of 'what if' games and see if we can spot some logical patterns and match names."

I agreed that was probably the best way to proceed.

Listening to him talk I was getting the distinct impression that there was a lot more to Mr. Sun Fu Yee than 50's garb and hip talk. He spoke like someone who was at least computer literate. By the way he handled the photograph situation he was very astute when it came to crisis management. I made a mental note to talk to Stan about the person I was trusting, and whom I knew next to nothing about.

We drove the rest of the way in virtual silence, and he and every other driver on the Harbor Freeway concentrated on proving that the 55 mph speed limit continues to be a figment of bureaucratic imagination.

We zoomed past the city center and were easing onto the Hollywood Freeway when Yee exited onto surface streets. He stopped once to consult his Thomas Guide before maneuvering the BMW through a maze of side streets. When he came to a screeching halt in front of a small clapboard home he proclaimed it to be the studios of Don Lee.

Both of us jumped out of the car and ran toward the front door. The house would have been right at home in the Midwest, with a full sized front porch. Yee didn't bother to knock, but tried the door. It was unlocked.

It was immediately clear that we were too late. The place was a shambles Drawers were pulled out, books were out of bookcases. It had been throughly torn apart by someone who didn't care in the least about disguising their activity.

"Jeez," Lee remarked. "This place is a mess."

"Let's hope the owner wasn't here during their visit."

That turned out to be wishful thinking. We found him lying on the floor in the middle of what would have been a dining room.

"Is he dead?" Yee asked.

That question was answered when I turned the body over on its back. I barely kept myself from throwing up. The man's face was a mass of torn and bloody skin. Dried blood from multiple cuts was caked on a full white beard. Two teeth fell to the floor from between swollen lips. When I forced myself to take closer look I thought I saw the man's chest heave a couple of times. "He's alive!"

Yee felt for a pulse. "You're right, he's got a pulse. Weak, but it's there. He dropped the arm and looked around the room. "I've got to find a land line, being a business he must have one. We don't dare use our cells as they can be traced."

We scurried around.

"Let' just call 911 for help and get the hell out of here," I suggested. "I don't know about you, but I don't feel like answering a lot of questions that I don't have answers for right now."

"You got that right," Yee said as he charged into the front room. "I found one," he yelled.

"Make sure you don't touch anything." I was not far behind him.

Covering his hand with his handkerchief, Yee used a pen to punch 911. After giving the operator the number of the house and the nature of the problem, we jumped back into the BMW and headed for the freeway.

"I sure hope some concerned citizen didn't get your license number back there," I managed to tell him above the roar of the screaming engine.

On the way back, and to take my mind off of Yee's driving, I reflected on what had been happening. I started this thing by seeing a dead woman. Now I felt responsible for the death of Sidney Lu, the possible death of a person I had never met, and I've placed Carleton Yang and the man beside me in jeopardy. I debated about telling Bill that enough was enough.

Yee must have been reading my thoughts. "You can't go blaming yourself for this. Whoever did this would have eventually done the same thing when the police got around to checking on the original photograph. The same photographer took both of them."

I still didn't feel much better. "You might be right when it comes to the photographer. But that's not the case with Sidney Lu. If I had left it to the police he wouldn't have been involved."

"True" he replied. "But Mister Lu could have declined to help you. You didn't force him, just as you aren't forcing me to help you."

"I'd understand, though, if you wanted to cut your losses right now and get out of this mess."

"Not on your life," he said. "I want to see this to the end. I don't like people who do what we just saw, and I'd like nothing better than to get rid of their kind."

Yee started to sound like Carleton Yang. "From what I know about this case, we're dealing with people who are endangering my people. I'm helping you because I want to stop this shit before it gets to be like the Mafia was in your hometown back in the twenties and thirties."

"You don't happen to know Carleton Yang, do you? I ask because you sound like him."

His answer took me slightly aback. "Yes, I know Mister Yang."

"What's your connection?"

He evasively replied. "Our paths have crossed."

"How do you know Stan Wasnewski?"

"I've done some favors for Stan, and he's done some for me in the past."

"I didn't know Stan's job took him to the West Coast."

Yee smiled. "Stan told me when he called that you were good and asked me to cooperate with you. Let's say LA isn't exactly the colonies, and Washington the mother country. There is more campaign money funneled from LA to politicians in Washington than any other place in the union, including New York. Hollywood actors are greater contributors to the Democratic Party than anyone else in the country. Not only do they kick in bucks on their own, they donate their personalities, which brings in money by the bushels. Also, the Republicans don't exactly come off as the Little Sisters of the Poor here. Ronald Reagan, for example, had enough pledges from his Hollywood brethren to finance his initial dive into the political arena."

"To do his job in Washington," I said, "Stan has to have eyes and ears in Los Angeles. Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

"Yes," he replied, pointing to the houses adjacent to the freeway that were visible from the car. "So, in addition to praying that we don't stall right in the middle of Watts, let's just go along and finish what we started. Now we know we're not up against a bunch of boy scouts, so let's watch or respective assess."

I just couldn't let it lie there. "Who do you believe is behind all of this? And do you think that there's a tie between the contributions to the Democratic party and the murder of Susan Wong?"

Given that Stan had spent a lot of time working on that story, Yee telling me that he did some West Coast snooping for Stan, the photograph found in Susan Wong's office, the photograph uncovered by Sidney Lu, and the mauling of the photographer who took the pictures, it looked damn obvious that there was a connection.

"This whole thing smells Tong, or Triad," remarked Yee in all seriousness. "But, like you, I don't know why or how. The killing of the woman in Palos Verdes was typical, and it isn't mere coincidence that Sidney Lu was silenced when he found something he wasn't supposed to."

He paused as he guided the Beemer through a freeway interchange. "The photograph is something else again. Someone didn't want that picture in circulation, and Lu knew who, but was killed before he had a chance to tell you. I don't think the photographer knew anything, but was just in the way when someone broke in. I think he was taking pictures at the fundraiser and caught someone on film who didn't want his picture taken."

"It has to be the other person in the picture."

"Right. And I don't know who that is. You should send it to Stan. He knows a lot of people who know a lot of people."

He was right. The picture was snapped at a Democratic fundraiser and if the person in it was a large contributor, someone will recognize him.

Yee dropped me off at the office and returned to Chinatown. Before I went home I overnighted a copy of both photographs and the fingerprints to Stan asking him if he knew someone in the FBI who would see if they could recognize anyone, and check on the prints.

I had my hand on the doorknob ready to exit the building when the next brilliant idea came to me in a flash. Turning around, I called Carleton Yang. Luckily, he was still in his office and agreed to send a copy of the photograph, along with the fingerprints, to his contacts in Hong Kong. One of Bill's staff agreed to stick around until a messenger service could take the package to Yang that same evening.

# CHAPTER EIGHT

The next time I called Lucinda, which was as soon as I got home, she answered on the second ring.

"I've been trying to reach you."

"You've succeeded."

Deftly the ball was put in my court. The only thing I could do was ask her to dinner even though' if you think about it, it was kind of stupid constantly asking a person who spends ten to twelve hours a day in a restaurant. But, what the hell, it was all I could come up with off the cuff.

No matter, she replied by telling me how tired she was. She did ask me to go running with her in the morning.

Yeah, I thought, I'd get to the end of the block before dropping dead. "Why don't I go walking with you and save myself from cardiac arrest?"

"Okay, let's meet in front of my place around six. See you in the morning." I guess I was dismissed because the phone went dead before I could reply. I got the impression that I was not exactly in control of this relationship.

*

I hadn't come to Southern California to watch television. In fact, I wasn't doing anything that I had planned to do when I first got here.

The semi-brush-off by Lucinda put me in a rebellious mood. I'll show them. The hell with Bill's chicken breasts. To hell with Lucinda's fish. To hell with all the God damned health freaks who drink carrot juice spiked with celery and go to health clubs. To hell with running on the beach everyday with their spandex strangling tight little buns. To hell with all the wine drinkers of this stupid world.

In the mood I was in I decided to show them. I was going to have some rare red meat dripping with blood and wash it down with a Budweiser instead of a Corona with a lime hanging out of the opening so a guy couldn't even get a man sized gulp.

Several times in my trips from PV to Redondo Beach I had passed a restaurant called The Bull's Corral in Riviera Village that looked like a good old Midwestern meat establishment. Not only that, there was a Baskin Robbins right next door to it. Red meat wasn't going to be the only source of perversion. I could top the evening off with a chocolate sundae made with real ice cream for dessert. My arteries were going to stand up and salute this double fat whammy by the time this night was over. I'll show everybody what this Chicago boy is made of.

The Bull's Corral was just what I had expected. No pretensions here. I was in for a good old Midwestern style cholesterol food fest.

The hostess led me to a booth at the end of the dining room, adjacent to the bar. I ordered rare roast beef, mashed potatoes with gravy, and salad with chunky blue cheese dressing, along with a Budweiser on draft to wash it down. Now this was living, and the best part was that there was no one around to give me that disapproving holier-than-thou smirk. Every once in awhile it felt good just to be me.

My first bite reinforced my decision. I closed my eyes and savored the warm blood that dribbled over my lips and onto my chin. Raising my beer I paid a silent tribute to the valiant steer that so gallantly gave his life so that I might enjoy his supreme sacrifice. I proceeded to devour every morsel, then soaked up the juices left on the plate with a piece of white bread heavily laden with rich creamery butter, washing every delicious bite down with a mouthful of cold Bud.

Leaning back in the booth, I observed the patrons of the Bull's Corral. They definitely weren't your stereotypical Southern Californians. I'm not good at guessing ages, but it looked to me that everyone was between the mid-fifties and death-by-morning.

There also seemed to be an inordinate amount of single women sitting at the bar. Not hookers, unless they were retired, but a bunch of lonely widows and divorcees too young for the old folk's home and too old for Hennessy's Irish Pub.

I wondered if the place's name was the result of the food they served, or the service they provided. I've heard of places like this being called middle-aged meat markets, but until now I had never ventured inside of one. What the hell, I really didn't give a damn. I was totally content, and in no mood to perform a civic duty by hitting on a widow or divorcee, so one last belch and I paid the check and left.

It was still fairly early, so with nothing else on my social calendar, I drove the short distance to the Esplanade to watch the setting sun.

There was one thing I found out while sitting my the car watching El Sol disappear towards Hawaii — it's not something someone who is feeling lonely should do. The other thing I realized was that when you're in the middle of a Midwestern prairie, twilight doesn't take on the same finality as sitting on the western edge of the continent watching that fireball disappear over the blue waters of the Pacific Ocean.

When the last rim of brightness had disappeared, it was still too early for bed and I didn't feel like heading to any of the numerous local watering holes. Maybe it was the maudlin mood I found myself in that created the twinge of guilt I felt about Bill and his staff laboring late at night to get out the next morning's edition of the Palos Verdes Digest. Regardless, before I had a chance to change my mind I was en route up the hill to give Bill a hand.

*

The lights were burning almost as brightly as the setting sun when I pulled the Toyota into the parking lot. Bill was peering over the computer, setting his copy, when I pulled a chair up beside him. "Need a hand?"

The smile on his face was genuine. "Always able to use some extra help if the price is right."

He must have thought the price was right because he proceeded to give me enough to do until well past midnight. Only then did I realize what I had been treating in an off-handed way meant to my friend. This paper was his profession, his marriage, his family, and his mistress. It had become his total reason for being.

The dream and the fantasy were realized with every issue that hit the street. It was like being present at the birth twice a week. I wondered if I would ever find anything as complete. It also made my situation with Lucinda so damn insignificant. I almost wanted to stick my finger down my throat and regurgitate the evening's meal.

When the paper was finally put to bed, I felt the same sense of accomplishment and pride that Bill was feeling. The next morning people would wake up, open the news to read the latest in the death on the hill, and not even realize that a faceless Sidney Lu had died, or that Bill and his staff had worked almost all night to bring them that bit of trivia. Nor would they care.

*

For the first time since my arrival I was out of bed before Bill, thanks to a God awful six A.M. date with Lucinda. I was pretty proud of myself. I was only fifteen minutes late arriving at her place.

She saw me valiantly hunting for a parking space and motioned for me to pull into the alley behind her building. Heretofore I wasn't informed that there was parking there. I must be making progress. But I knew that was a stupid mistake as soon as I thought it. She just didn't want to wait for me while I circled the block another three or four times.

The running shorts I had put on for my morning's foray into this alien world made me feel as uncomfortable as a virgin in the Clinton White House.

My white legs were attached to a posterior that had succumbed to the earth's gravitational pull. It was obvious that I stood out in startling contrast to the firm buttocks and tanned legs of the local fanatics.

There's nothing like trying to impress the girl you want to succeed with. Unfortunately, I felt like a sideshow. Though I could suck in my stomach for an inordinate amount of time and carry that off pretty well, I couldn't keep my rear end from sagging. I supposed I could walk with a hand under each cheek, but that would become more than a little awkward.

I decided to let things fall where they may, yet making sure that Lucinda never walked behind me. As we started our walk, I discovered very quickly that I need not have worried. She took off like a mechanical rabbit at a greyhound park, and I was left in her wake doing my best to keep up.

"Let's walk to PV," she said turning South.

My immediate thought was that they called PV "the hill" for a reason. "I've never been north." I countered, having observed that it was all level ground that way. "Why don't we go that way?"

"Okay." She did a quick pirouette without seeming to break stride. "We can walk to Hermosa."

If memory served me correctly, Hermosa Beach is after Redondo Beach and we were still in Torrance. "How far is Hermosa?" I asked, hoping humor would disguise my terror when I heard the answer.

Her reply was a matter-of-fact, "Oh, it's only three or four miles. We'll follow the bike path." The last word was barely out of her mouth before she started down the steps from the sidewalk to the aforementioned bike path. The pathway paralleled both the sidewalk and the ocean, with about thirty yards of sand in between. Calling it a bike path was a misnomer. It served roller skaters, rollerbladers and pedestrians, as well as bicyclists going in both directions, on four feet of concrete. There was no such thing as a leisurely stroll, but a massive game of chicken with no winners. Bill had told me about some of his close calls with women jogging while pushing baby strollers. This clearly was not a place for the faint of heart.

All I needed to complete my humiliation in front of Lucinda was for him, meaning Bill, to come tooling by and make some outrageous comment such as, "watch him closely, we don't know how he might react in fresh air."

By my dogged determination not to let my male ego get in the way of common sense, I managed to set the pace, slowing my companion down to a more modest pace that fit my physical condition.

I was rapidly concluding that if our physical relationship was going to be confined to getting up at five thirty in the morning to dodge bikes and skaters so I could spend the rest of the day recuperating from all the exertion, I was going to try my sexual luck elsewhere. At this point, I didn't care that she was one of the sexiest looking women I have come across in a long time. Being physically exhausted to be sexually deprived just wasn't worth it. I had to admit that I was no longer in my twenties, or even thirties, so my hormones no longer rage like rapids on a roaring river.

We made it to the Hermosa Beach pier without a problem or pulled tendon. It was actually a pleasant walk once Lucinda understood the ground rules — meaning I was going to walk, not run — although I did manage to accelerate the pace once I made my point. After a brief rest I resisted the urge to call a taxi to take us back, and managed to return to Torrance Beach without the assistance of an oxygen tank.

*

It was almost noon before I dragged myself to the paper.

Bill greeted me apologetically. "I must have overslept this morning. You were gone before I woke up."

"I went for a walk along the beach with Lucinda."

"You better be careful. You don't want that fresh air to get to you. But you did better than I did this morning. I didn't even have my morning bike ride."

I asked him where he usually rode.

"I ride on the Peninsula, why?"

"I just wondered. We walked along the bike path, and it was like you said, we were dodging as much as we were walking."

He further informed me that in his words, "the only people who use that path are either those who can't ride on hills, or those who want to impress the girls. The varying terrain on the Peninsula makes it more challenging, and keeps you in better shape." Then he asked, since I knew where to ride, when I was going to take up that sport.

"You'll be the first to know. I can tell you this, that it won't be until they make more comfortable seats."

The subject was immediately changed when he remembered to tell me that Detective Bilbo had called about our latest story. "He sounded a little perturbed that we knew about the break-in at the travel office. He wanted to point out, once again, that we are walking a thin line printing stories like that without corroboration."

"Yeah, sure," I replied, "call him for corroboration. That just gives him a chance to try and bully us into not printing stuff. Just think how perturbed our friend Bilbo would be if he knew we had the files, and that we could tie Sidney Lu's death in with this one."

"Anyway," Bill continued, "he said if we knew anything more about it he would appreciate us coming forward. Maybe we should come clean about the files. After all, you had permission from McCloskey."

I reminded him of a small detail. We had McCloskey's permission to look at them, not to take them off the premises and copy them. Then I inquired if Sun Fu Yee had been back, to which he said no. "But the files are still in the conference room," he added, "so maybe we should take a look at what he's done so far."

Yee had gotten further than I thought. Now I was even more anxious to find out what made them so valuable.

We settled down with a laptop and spreadsheet program and started to work. Since I won the fastest typist contest by acclamation, Bill read off the names for me to input. By the end of the hour we had one year's tours all neatly assembled on the spreadsheet, and I even remembered to save the data. With the material safely copied to a flash drive to take home as a safety precaution we printed the data and placed it in Bill's file cabinet. This was probably a good example of overkill, but, with the travel office being burglarized, Sidney Lu getting murdered, and the photographer getting mauled and his studio searched, extreme caution was called for.

We didn't have much: a bunch of names and dates. It wasn't until Bill started going over the copies of the airline ticket folders that we found the answer. International tickets always have coupons for the entire journey as part of the packet, and during my first pass through the files I had assumed that was all they were and hadn't examined them thoroughly. Bill, on the other hand, acted like an editor and examined each copied item in detail and found several tickets with unused return vouchers. In each tour group there had been at least two, and up to four, people who had entered the country and never left. Also, the missing had never shown up.

"I'll bet when we look at other years we find the same thing."

"It only takes an hour a year," Bill replied, "so let's do it."

We did, and discovered that as the years progressed, the number of unaccountable people per tour group increased. "It was like they were running a pilot project. As they worked out the bugs the groups became more frequent and the people more numerous."

The pieces were beginning to fit together. Get into the country, get an identity from someone who had just died, take over their social security number, get a driver's license, register to vote at the same time and bingo, you've just became a U.S. citizen. The only way you could possibly be caught is if the real person had his or her fingerprints on file from being in the service, applying for a security clearance, or serving prison time.

"So, it looks like our mystery lady was involved in alien smuggling, and we can't say anything about it without going to jail for obstruction of justice," Bill lamented.

"It's only one piece of the puzzle" I reminded him. "There's still more. Who's in the picture that got Sidney killed? Why was I run off the road for following someone from a restaurant? And the big one — who killed Susan McCloskey?"

Bill was still thinking about a headline and story that was slipping away. "It's going to kill me not to use this. What a story it will make."

Just then Sun Fu Yee called to say that he wasn't going to make it in today, so I told him what we had discovered.

I could hear the excitement in his voice. "Man, we're really on to something here. This opens up all sorts of avenues."

"Or blind alleys," I reminded him, "it also makes the original death here on the hill seem like an amateur playing in a high stakes card game."

"I think we have already seen evidence of that."

My attention was drawn to the photographer and asked Sun Fu if he had heard anything more about the poor guy's condition.

"That's where I've been all morning. It seems he's regained consciousness and will be fine after his bruises heal. The police aren't treating this any different than they would any break-in, which in the Hollywood Division is routine for that area. At least there isn't any guard or anyone outside his hospital door. I walked right in."

I was astonished. "You mean you actually talked to him?"

"Yep, sure did. He told me that he was working when two Chinese men walked in and wanted to see all of his pictures from the fundraiser. Because of what he'd given Sidney Lu, he was immediately on guard and told them he had disposed of them a long time ago. He said one of the men punched him and the last thing he remembered was lying on the floor being kicked."

"I guess he wouldn't know if they found anything."

"I asked him that, and he said they wouldn't have found anything because nothing was there."

"Would he tell you what happened to the negatives, or the disc, whichever medium he had them on.??"Even though I convinced him that I was a friend of Sidney's, he wouldn't say where they were or if they even existed."

*

After Yee's call I called Stan in DC about the pictures and fingerprints that I had overnighted to him.

He had received everything and assured me that the picture was already circulating. Where and to whom I didn't bother to ask. He didn't hold out much hope for the fingerprints. "On the fingerprints unless they are from someone with a criminal record, we'll likely strike out; however, my friends in the Bureau told me that if they don't find a match they'll send them to Interpol to see if they have anything."

Once again Stan's cooperation amazed me. We had never been bosom buddies, and since I wasn't even working on a story for the Trib I wondered why he was being so damn nice and cooperative. I didn't usually get such service from anyone when I was pursuing a story. All of this buddy-buddy stuff made me cautious, so I didn't volunteer the information Bill had gleaned from the dead woman's files.

*

It was well into the afternoon and I was famished. Evidently Bill's stomach was sending him the same signal, because he proclaimed out of nowhere that we should break for something to eat. He wanted to introduce me to, in his words, "the best seafood in town at the cheapest price." After my red meat pig out the previous night, seafood was an easy sell.

Bill was right! It was a place called The Seafood Broiler, which looked like the old Victoria Station chain where the restaurant was actually several old railroad cars placed end to end.

For less than ten dollars, excluding beer and tax, I had a great meal of fresh Idaho trout, my favorite fish, with rice pilaf, cooked veggies, and coleslaw. Excluding my dinner with Lucinda, talking old times with Bill over this fine meal was the best time I had so far in California. Ever since I arrived, we had been obsessed with the case, and even though we shared the same living quarters, we hadn't had time to really sit down and catch up.

Bill confided that he missed married life, and still thought of his former spouse quite often. Not only was she re-married and living in Birmingham, Michigan, she was totally installed in local society, belonging to all those organizations he covered in his paper, like the Junior League and ladies club golf.

"She loves it," Bill said. "She realized she wouldn't have it with me. I'm too busy chasing my dreams. How about you? How do you feel about your divorce? Do you ever see Rita?" Rita being my ex.

I was honest when I told him, "A person couldn't share the things we shared and not remember all the good times we had. But I have no intention of ever getting married again. I don't need anything to complicate my life. Like you, I"m happy doing the kind of work that I do,"

"Are you going to stay with the Trib, and be an investigative reporter for the rest of your life?"

There wasn't an easy answer to that probing question. I admitted to my friend that I had been thinking of leaving the paper for some time to do freelance work, similar to what I was doing for him. "I find myself limited to what I can cover there," I elaborated. "I'd like the freedom to pick my own stories without restraints. The only problem is, I have to earn money for the basics, like food and shelter."

Bill surprised me with an offer that I knew I would have to seriously consider.

"Tell you what, the spare bedroom is yours for as long as you like. If you want to go off on your own you can live here with me. The only thing I would ask is for you to give me a hand once in awhile should something come up like we're working on now.

I promised to think about it.

More than a few after-lunch beers and an equal amount of war stories later we called it a day and did something neither of us had done in years. We went to an early movie.?

# CHAPTER NINE

The next three days were devoted to pleasure.

On the evening of the third day, after a rigorous afternoon on Bill's patio reading a good book and devouring junk food and beer, Bill told me Carleton Yang had called and asked that I meet him in his office the next day. He suggested ten in the morning and to call only if I couldn't make it.

My decadent lifestyle was coming to an end.

*

At 10:02 the following morning I was ushered into Carleton Yang's office where two others were already present. Yang motioned me to an empty seat and introduced the others as Messrs. Chen and Teng. They stood and shook my hand, nodding a silent greeting.

Yang explained, "Mr. Chen and Mr. Teng have just flown in from Hong Kong. They have an interest in the case that you are following. I have taken the liberty of telling them everything I know, but obviously you know more about it than anyone else, including the authorities."

I wasn't about to tell them anything more until I found out who and what they were, and said so. "May I ask what you interest is in this case?"

Yang nodded his head slightly and answered for them. "Of course." He then proceeded to tell me that they were both officials of the Chinese Government. Before the takeover they had been members of the Hong Kong police anti-crime division, now commissioned by the new government to continue their investigation into Triad and Tong activities in the province.

Listening to this bizarre turn of events, my mind went into warp speed. It was more than a coincidence that these two came here as soon as the picture and the fingerprints were sent. I addressed the two visitors. "I take it that the people in the picture and the fingerprints are the reason for your visit?"

Again it was Yang who responded in the affirmative.

While Yang was talking I looked closely at the two men from Hong Kong. Teng was the older of the two by maybe ten years. I placed him in his late fifties to early sixties, although he didn't have gray hair.

One statement I could make with absolute certainty — they both went to the same barber. Their haircuts were identical. Neither had sideburns, and there was no attempt at tapering to form an eye pleasing transition from the top of the head to the sides. There was also no effort to disguise where scissors stopped and razor began. They were both clean-shaven. In fact, it didn't look like either one of them ever had to shave.

By the fit of their suits, the first thing the Communist government must have done after they took over the territory was to eliminate all the good tailors and replace them with prison labor. Granted, they had just had a long flight, but not even sleeping in the same clothes for thirteen or fourteen hours could account for the fit. Chen's collar resembled a Columbo knock off.

It was obvious I wasn't going to be told anything until I spoke my piece. So, I started from the beginning and told them everything I knew about the case, including the files. Carleton interrupted me at infrequent intervals to translate some of the slang that I'm prone to use.

When I was done with my dissertation I looked directly at the two Chinese visitors. "Now that I've told you everything I know, I would appreciate reciprocation."

Both nodded assent. However, it was Yang who explained that he had known the two for many years and had worked with them on occasion when Hong Kong was under British control. They had maintained contact after the transfer of power from the British to the Mainland Chinese government. Because of this contact, he had sent the information that he had received from me directly to them. He said that they had immediately recognized both men in the picture, but only one was of interest to them. Our mystery man.

No surprises yet, although I have to admit I was sitting on the edge of my chair as the story unfolded. They also told me what had been in the back of my mind since Sidney's death. The mystery man was a notorious Triad leader from Hong Kong who had disappeared several years ago, but they thought he was still behind much of the smuggling and drug traffic in the province. He continued to be at the top of their version of the FBI's most wanted list.

Yang said that the United States authorities hadn't been alerted that Chen and Teng were here. This tidbit of information suggested to me that should they locate the Triad leader, they intended to smuggle him back to China, or flat out eliminate him. They were satisfied to know that their man was a criminal, and more than willing to use instant justice in handling the situation.

I informed them that at the moment I had no idea where they could find their man. Lurking in the back of my mind, however, was a hunch about where he could be found.

When they got around to fingerprints, they did surprise me. This time Teng, in perfect English, did the talking. "It seems that the prints of the murdered woman, Susan Wong-McCloskey, match the prints of our Triad leader's mistress, who disappeared when we lost track of him. We didn't think anything of it at the time, because it wasn't unusual. Her turning up as the wife of someone else did surprise us."

The one thing they knew for sure now that they knew she had a new identity was that the Triad leader also had been given a new identity, for all the good that would do us. Talk about the proverbial needle in a haystack. All we had to do was find out the name of some Chinese man who died somewhere in the United States who was approximately the same age as our Chinese Triad warlord at the time he dropped out of sight. Even in this wonderful age of electronic information, we needed more than that. The Chinese government must want this guy pretty bad to send two detectives here with such lousy odds.

After I voiced that thought, Teng said, "We realize that, but believe if you publish what you now know in your newspaper, it will, as you say, 'smoke him out.'"

Oh great, I thought. Sidney Lu can move over. I"m sure he'd love to have company wherever his spirit now resides.

I was getting stiff just sitting, so got up and moved around. I didn't know if this was the right protocol or not, but did it anyway. Carleton also got up and asked if anyone needed some refreshments. I thought they would ask for tea, being Chinese who lived and worked for the British most of their lives. They asked for coffee.

I continued with my thought, addressing Teng. "What you are saying is that our friend will want to find out where I'm getting my information and then, perhaps, silence me. I'll go to great lengths to get a story, but I don't relish the thought of joining Sidney Lu."

"That, of course, is your decision," Yang replied as he rejoined us.

At no time during the entire conversation did the two detectives betray their thoughts with body language or facial expressions. When they sat, they sat passively. When they stood they stood just as passively, arms at their sides, wearing blank expressions.

I have never considered myself a candidate for martyrdom, but this was shaping up to be one helluva story. My only concern was that I was so vulnerable. The Triad played for keeps. Even at that I have to admit it got me thinking rash things, like Pulitzer Prize for Journalism.

We had intended to pass on a story for the next edition of the Peninsula Digest, which was due out the next day (Saturday), but it would be awfully hard not to print what I just heard.

While I was thinking I was also listening to Carleton. "We would like to keep Mr. Teng's and Mr. Chen's visit our secret for the moment, but that should be no problem because you are not obligated under law to reveal your sources."

They were banking that my ego wouldn't allow me to not print the story, and they were correct. I hate it when people prey on a person's weaknesses, particularly when they're mine. They damn well knew, and they knew I knew, that I was going to print the story. I'd be lucky if it was only the Triads that would kill me. I might be better off with them than with Detective Bilbo after he reads the next edition. I made a mental note to talk to Bill about it being time to take Bilbo into our confidence. I might need some police protection before this thing was over. As story's often do, it was taking on a life of its own and I was being swept along with the tide.

My thoughts were interrupted and the conversation halted when the door opened and two young women, one I recognized as the receptionist from the outer office, entered with trays of coffee. The remainder of the meeting was filled with meaningless chit chat, while we finished our beverage.

Before I left I told them that I would think about their proposal and get back to them. I was anxious to get back to PV. I had a story to write.

*

Bill was as nervous as a prostitute in a confessional waiting for me. It may seem cruel that I didn't stop and call him, but I didn't have a cell phone with me, and there aren't many places along the Harbor Freeway to make telephone calls. Given the neighborhoods adjacent to the freeway in that area it's not a good idea to make any unauthorized stops.

He ushered me into his office before I had a chance to use the facilities. By the time I was through telling him what had happened he was really fidgeting. I could see him struggling with the decision whether or not to print the story. "I can't let you jeopardize your life for a lousy story," he finally said.

"It's a real blockbuster, Bill, and I can't justify not writing it; however, there just may be a way to spread the risk and make this more of a national story."

I could tell my his facial expression, and that he also stopped that damn fidgeting which was starting to drive me nuts, so I continued. "I owe Stan in Washington a shot at part of this story. If I know him, he'll play up the photo of this Triad warlord with a prominent Democratic Party fund-raiser and use the tie, while our story breaks at the same time using more of a local theme. That will put this on a national level and make it much riskier for them to try anything against us."

My reasoning failed to fool him. "Man, you're really reaching. But I agree that Stan has to be given something for what he's done to help us."

"He'll give the Digest mention. Hell, Bill, you may even get invited to one of the Sunday Morning shows. Fox would for sure like it."

To his credit, Bill still wasn't totally on-board. "I still don't know. I really have a problem with putting you at this much risk, because it's clearly you who's driving the story and you who they'll go after."

"Bill, you know as well as I do that I've written about the Mafia a dozen times and I've been threatened by them just as many, and I'm still here."

"That's different. The Mafia, as ruthless as they are, play by the rules. They don't go after the press. They know that's off limits. These guys play by a different set of rules, and I believe they have the same philosophy that the late Aristotle Onassis had when he said, 'the only rules are that there aren't any rules,' or something like that."

I wanted to run the story and told him so again but conceded that it was his paper and the ultimate decision was his. "I'm going to write the story and put it on your desk. What you do with it is your decision, knowing I want you to print it."

With that I was finally able to go to the toilet, then to the computer where I translated my thoughts to writing.

-

Identity of Mystery Woman Uncovered

The investigation into the death of Susan Wong-McCloskey continues to have bizarre twists. In the last issue of this paper we reported that the true identity of the victim was not known, but that she had assumed the identity of a deceased woman in Great Falls, Montana.

Sources in Hong Kong reveal that Susan Wong-McCloskey, the murder victim, is really Ling Mae, the former mistress of a noted Chinese Triad leader who fled Hong Kong at approximately the same time she assumed the identity of Susan Wong of Great Falls. Hong Kong authorities believe that the Triad leader now resides in the Los Angeles area.

These same sources believe that the travel agency operated by Susan Wong-McCloskey was involved in the smuggling of illegal aliens from China into the United States. Offices of the travel agency, U.S. Tours, were broken into several days ago and all files were stolen.

Triads, an Asian equivalent of the Italian Mafia, date back to the 17th century and flourished in Hong Kong during the first half of the 20th century. Their power diminished during a government crackdown in 1956, and they became little more than street gangs. They staged a comeback during the 1980's, with their main activities including, but not limited to extortion, loan sharking, credit card fraud and video piracy.

Some Triad members eventually immigrated to Great Britain where they are considered a "criminal cancer" and are looked upon as a major threat to society.

In the United States, the FBI began recognizing the problem of Asian organized crime in 1984. In 1987, the Bureau included Asian organized crime within the priorities of its organized crime national strategy.

Initially, the FBI's Asian organized crime program focused on groups believed to have the greatest potential to evolve into organizations which might rival the criminal influence of La Cosa Nostra, more commonly referred to as the Mafia. These included Triads and Tongs.

The FBI believes these groups to be highly organized, well-structured, extremely profitable, and often violent criminal enterprises, posing a serious threat to communities across the United States, moving into criminal activities once thought to be the sole province of the Mafia. With the Asian population in the United States expected to grow substantially, the FBI fears a significant expansion of criminal activity to follow as Asian mobsters seek to expand their criminal influence.

The Bureau considers Asian criminal enterprises such a threat that their activity aimed at that problem was one of only two FBI-organized crime/drug programs to receive continual funding. It is one of the main reasons the FBI established an overseas presence.

-

In writing the article I leaned heavily on one particular speech given to the 17th Annual International Asian Organized Crime Conference in Boston back in 1995 when Louis Freeh was the FBI Director. Subsequent research has shown that his words continue to be pertinent to the problem. It was the same speech that Carleton Yang had told me about during our first visit.

After completing my piece, I read it over and was satisfied that this should get someone's attention, wondering if the good people residing on the Palos Verdes Peninsula were aware of what was going on right under their noses. The only danger in an article like this was that it could give the wrong impression, and gloss over the fact that the Asian community is truly dedicated to family values and possess a strong work ethic. Their kids are continually in the top of the class when it comes to academics. Their presence at universities has led many people to fear that if students are given admission solely on the basis of grades, UCLA will stand for 'Us Caucasians Lost Among Asians." That frightens some people. I hoped the piece wouldn't fuel that fire of fear.

Bill was staring into space when I handed him my work.

Retreating to my rabbit hutch, aka cubicle, I called Stan in DC. I gave him an overview of the story and promised to immediately fax him a copy. He was going to handle the tie between the Triad boss and the Democratic Fundraiser at his end. I also called my friends at the Great Falls, Montana Trib and gave them the same info and the same promise. They informed me that they didn't have anymore on their end yet, but believed the local cops had a list of the names and dates of all the local Chinese that died within a year of the dates the real Susan Wong died. They could probably get a copy of it. I told them that I would find out how old the Triad leader was and feed it to them to narrow the list down.

I was still on the phone when Bill popped his head in and told me that he was going to run the piece and hoped he wasn't going to have to follow it up with my obit. I declined his invitation to hire a private detective to protect me.

"Then let's get out a paper," he said, and we went to work doing just that.

*

Although it was Saturday, Detective Bilbo had better luck tracking us down than he was at solving the homicide of Susan Wong-McCloskey. We were still at home. In fact, Bill was still in his blue and yellow spandex. Me. I was in my usual pair of faded jeans. I hadn't even bothered to put on a shirt yet. At eleven on a Saturday morning it was still too early to think about getting dressed.

We were sitting in the courtyard. Bill was sipping orange juice and I was gulping down black coffee when Bilbo made his appearance. One of Bill's neighbors told him we reminded her of the old Odd Couple movie with Walter Mathau and Jack Lemmon. I never saw the movie, but remembered the television show with Tony Randall and Jack Klugman. I don't think Bill and I were quite as bad as Felix and Oscar. Bill may be a health nut, but he isn't a neat freak. I might look like a slob on weekends and enjoy red meat and beer, but I at least throw the sheet over the pillows in the morning, hang up my towel and put my dirty clothes in the hamper.

The topic of our morning's conversation was our article on the murder. We were still congratulating ourselves on the way it had come out. Bill still had some trepidation about it, wondering if it looked like we were being racist and anti Asian. I had the same problem when I was writing the piece, but, as I told him then and was telling him again this morning, "Everything that was said is factual, and most of it taken directly from either Freeh's speech or the U.S. Census Bureau."

That led us to an intense conversation regarding the right to free speech, which, as journalists, we were adamant about. When the doorbell rang we had both agreed that the political correctness craze was becoming extremely nauseating and, as journalists, we should continue to be sensitive about those issues, though we couldn't ignore the facts just because some people are over sensitive.

"Who could that be on a Saturday morning?" Bill remarked to me and the world as he made his way to the intercom. The voice on the other end was Bilbo.

Joining us on the patio, Bilbo got right to the point. "You guys are digging up things that are mighty interesting and I thought we should have us a little off-the-record chat."

Here it comes, I thought. I just sat silently drinking my coffee. I didn't want to abandon Bill, but when push comes to shove, anything that was about to transpire was going to be Bill's decision. It was his paper, his liability, and, above all, his community. This is exactly what I told him when we excused ourselves and went into the living room, telling the detective that we needed to caucus.

Like all good editors I have ever worked with, Bill accepted the responsibility and told me to follow his lead.

He headed back to the table with renewed vigor and took the offensive. I noticed he remained standing while he talked with Bilbo. Bill started with, "We'll be as candid and open with you as we can, but you know we are not required to identify our sources, and we won't name names. However, I'll tell you what we can while protecting those sources. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Bilbo replied, looking up at Bill who made no move to sit. "I'll do the same with the understanding that, unless I say differently, what I'm going to tell you is off the record."

"No," Bill said retaking his seat, "I'd rather not be put in that situation. I'd rather take the position that whatever you tell us is on the record except when you specifically say it's off the record, because we may have already uncovered the same thing from another source and have already made the decision to use it."

I could see by his face that Bilbo didn't really care for this, but he agreed anyway. "What you have come up with makes good reading and I have to admit, has helped us in our investigation. But, except for trying to establish motive, we are looking for the killer of Mrs. McCloskey. The crime we are trying to solve is murder. Triad warlords, as you put it, who are wanted in Hong Kong, but who haven't broken the law here, aren't in our jurisdiction unless someone asks us to detain them for extradition, and illegal immigrants are a federal problem, not ours."

"So you shouldn't be upset with us for not coming forth with what we have," I interjected.

Bilbo directed his reply to me. "I'm not the least bit upset, but can't speak for my chief when I make that statement. He's upset that it makes us look like we aren't doing our job."

Bill cut in. "Okay, let me tell you what we have." He went on to tell Bilbo about our contacts in Chinatown without naming names, and how one of them came up with a picture from a Democratic Party fundraiser, which showed a prominent Democrat with the unidentified man. He was doing a masterful job of telling Bilbo everything without telling him anything that he hadn't revealed in the Peninsula Digest.

In return Bilbo told us that he had sent the fingerprints of the deceased to the FBI lab in Washington, and so far had drawn a blank. He had been surprised when he read in the paper this morning that we had done what the FBI couldn't do, which prompted his decision to come and see us. He dropped a real bombshell when he told us that a motel owner had come forth and told them that a person who looked like the deceased had checked into his motel with a younger woman ever week for the past six months.

I asked if they had registered, knowing it would have been under an assumed name, but also knowing that handwriting analysis could determine if it was Susan Wong-McCloskey's. He told us that the couple had registered, and that analysis had already been done and the handwriting was not Susan's.

"Sounds like Mrs. McCloskey was a switch hitter, and the other person signed the register."

"That's a possibility, but unless we locate the other person, we'll never know for sure." He went on to say that he didn't have confirmation that the dead woman was not Susan Wong, but he added, "Since she was married, she was legally Susan McCloskey." Beyond that they had been running into a stone wall and had nothing. None of the neighbors had heard or seen anything. There was nothing from which they could get a DNA or blood sample. There were no fingerprints and no clothing. They had no forensic evidence.

I sneaked a quick glance at Bill and saw the look of empathy come across his face. I knew he was feeling sorry for Bilbo, but Bill was a newspaperman through and through. I had faith he wouldn't let sympathy stand in the way of a legitimate story..

He didn't disappoint me. He continued to look directly at Bilbo and said, "Just for your information, we're going to continue actively pursuing the Triad and illegal immigration angles. We're not out to solve the murder for you. That doesn't mean we won't cooperate with your department, but we do have a parochial interest in breaking stories before our much larger rivals."

"I admit," Bilbo said, "that the department has a long standing relationship with the Breeze and the Times, and except for what I don't make generally known at the station, I can't guarantee nothing will be leaked."

It was pretty clear that he was a totally frustrated cop who was getting pressured to solve a case that was completely void of clues. He was correct that our stories were far off the field of what he was investigating, but he also knew that what we'd come up with had a bearing on his case. In addition, he realized, but couldn't admit, that at this point in time we had a better chance of getting to the bottom of the case than he did. It was to his advantage to work closer with us and vice-versa.

After Bilbo left I complimented Bill on the way he handled the situation and thanked him for not saying anything about the detectives from Hong Kong. We then got down to the serious business of making plans for the rest of the weekend.

# CHAPTER TEN

With Lucinda working, and Bill not wanting to get involved with anyone of he opposite sex until he had his business under control, our Saturday night turned out to be a movie and dinner in Redondo Beach.

I'm sure that people, including Bill's neighbors, thought we were gay, since I was obviously living there and they didn't see a parade of young females. They didn't, however, know my friend Bill and how focused he could be.

Bill knew his frailties. In that respect, he hadn't changed all that much; he was a one-woman man. He didn't seek one night stands. He was the direct opposite of a wrecking ball in search of a building to demolish. Even when he was sowing the wild oats of yesteryear, when Bill fell he fell hard. To my knowledge he'd never once cheated on a woman he was dating, let alone his fomer wife. Every relationship he went into, he went into for eternity. Lucinda should have met him instead of me.

Bill knew that when he met Ms. Right he would take his eye off the ball and devote too much time to her. In his mind, it was better not to get involved with anyone he would fall in love and have to make a choice between a woman and his newspaper.

A corporate executive once told me that the hardest part of his job was balancing his home life with his business life. "Some people can handle it," he had said, "and others, like me, can't."

After my former wife, Rita, left, I felt the best way to balance the two was to give up one. I never remarried and I was still a reporter. As I pondered the split I came to the conclusion that I was cheating on her. Only my mistress wasn't another woman, it was the Chicago Trib.

*

The movie was lousy. It was one of those no plot, special effects extravaganzas. The only acting in the entire film consisted of the female lead walking with boobs swaying in the wind while tush and fabric were engaged in a struggle for survival.

The male star's contribution was an exposed hairy chest, the flexing of silicon biceps, and close-ups of twenty-two year old buns. I counted no less than eight chase scenes, all on deserted streets of Los Angeles. That alone made it science fiction.

Such was our Saturday night out on the town. We were in bed, in separate rooms, before midnight.

I make it a habit to put a pencil and paper on my nightstand so I can write down things that come to me when I'm in the zone between consciousness and slumber. Usually the next morning what my subconscious thought during the night became a stupid idea.

Keeping a pad and pencil to write down thoughts in Bill's guest room was a feat unto itself. Bill was a fully functioning bachelor. The furnishings of his guestrooms were similar to the stocking of his refrigerator. As such, they consisted of a bed, and everything else was pure fluff.

Luckily for me, when Bill purchased the headboard it had a small nightstand built into it. The salesperson might have recommended that he purchase a lamp go on that nightstand; however, he must have forgetten to recommend a bulb.

*

I was in that never-never zone going over the murder investigation. Bilbo had been right. We had stireed up a lot of ancillary information, but not much on the crime itself. My revelation was that the key to the actual crime might just be the two detectives from Hong Kong. I jotted down a couple of questions for them: (1) What was the age of the Triad warlord? and (2) Was there a pattern to the warlord's gang murders?

The Hong Kong detectives wouldn't know about the severed ears. If the gang had that as an M.O., then we would know who was responsible for the killing. As I wrote this down, I jotted down some questions for myself. If the warlord arranged for the killing, why would he want his mistress to die, and why did he allow his mistress to marry an airline captain?

Those were the things I was thinking about as I rolled over to try and purge my mind so I could get some sleep. I was almost successful when Bill called out that Lucinda was on my phone, which I had left charging on the kitchen table. I raced down the stairs barefoot and in my underwear.

My fantasy that she was panting to have me come over crumbled as soon as I heard her voice.

"The woman is here in the restaurant," she said in a muted voice.

"What woman?"

"The one who we followed when we got run off the road, dummy," she replied.

"Oh, that woman." The significance of what she was telling me slowly began to register. "Is she alone?"

"Yes. What do you want me to do?"

I didn't know what to tell her, yet I couldn't tell her to do nothing. I had to say something. Luckily my instinct was better than my conscious judgement. "You need to get something that hasn't been touched by several people, like a clean coffee cup, and preserve it so that it only has her finger prints on it. Then you put it into a plastic bag and save it for me."

"Okay, gotta go. Call me tomorrow." The phone went dead.

It was only then that I noticed Bill standing in the entrance to his room. His Fruit of the Loom briefs were identical to mine.

I told him the gist of my conversation with Lucinda. "I hope she doesn't do anything stupid, like following the woman when she leaves."

"Don't think she will after that little episode of being run off the road. That pretty well squelched her desire to be an ace detective."

Bill asked if I wanted a cup of tea because sleep was probably out of the question.

It was going to be the same for me. It's hard to sleep when the adrenalin is gushing threw the arteries and veins. To partly change the subject, and because it was something I meant to do anyhow I asked him if he had a higher watt light bulb for my room light. "The one I have is so dim I feel like a young Abe Lincoln trying to read in front of the fireplace."

Without a word he rummaged in one of the kitchen drawers and produced a new 75-watt bulb. Without so much as breaking stride he then filled a copper kettle with water and put it on the stove. If a stranger would have been watching he would probably be shaking his head in disbelief at the entire disfunctional procedure. There was no resemblence of a segue taking place.

"Why don't you just put water in cups and microwave them?" I asked.

"Because I don't like using microwaves," he answered, "Those waves of radiation don't do you any good. If I had cancer and had to undergo chemo I'd do it for survival. But given a choice, I"d prefer not to. That's why."

He looked at me questioningly. "Am I missing something? What does the microwave have to do with the killing of Susan Wong?"

I threw up my hands and shrugged my shoulders.

Screwing up his face in obvious disgust at my diversion into trivia, he went on. "We have to find out more about this Triad boss, like how old he is, his modus operandi and things like that, because he's the key to the puzzle."

I placed the light bulb on the table hoping I wouldn't forget it when I went back to my bedroom. "I made a note to ask the detectives from Hong Kong those very questions." I also told him about my thoughts on the severed ears.

While I was talking Bill took the tea bag out of one mug and placed it in the other. I couldn't let it pass. "Bill, if you're running out of tea bags I'll pick some up in the morning, but I'd like mine to at least change the color of the water."

He looked sheepish when he replied. "There's no sense in being wasteful. Tea bags are perfectly capable making two cups of strong tea."

I felt like kicking myself in the rear end all the way to Chicago and back. I was so hung up on my wonderful favor for him that I never once contributed to household funds. The guy was probably in debt up to his eyeballs from buying the paper, and here I was sponging off of him like a relative rather than a friend.

My next move was totally spontaneous. I put my arm around his sholders. "I'm sorry for being so damn stupid and insensitive, old buddy. That was a dumb thing to say to a person who I've been freeloading off of for a week."

He put his arm around my waist and replied. "Hey, I asked you to come out, and you are really helping me at the paper. Hell, I was just being cheap. I can afford a tea bag."

"Yeah," I said removing my arm. "But the question is can you afford the tea bag and your payments on the paper?"

He laughed. "Well, now you know my secret. I'm making the payments by stretching the amount of cups I can get out of one tea bag. When I do it right, I've gotten up to three cups of tea per bag. Not bad, huh?"

"Now I'm afraid to ask for sugar."

"That, I have plenty of, but don't ask for Equal. I don't believe in using chemicals."

I took my mug and sat down at the table. "Seriously, Bill, I know it's none of my business, but, are you hurting?"

He sat at the opposite end. "You're right, it's none of your business, but, yes, it is a stretch to make the payments on the paper and the mortgage here, but it's doable."

I confessed that I have never owned anything except a car. "Of course, there is one thing we both have in common."

"What's that?" he asked.

"Neither of us can afford pajamas, slippers or bathrobes."

"Hell," he said rising from the table. "Let's get some sleep. Maybe you want to stay up all night, but I have to go riding in a few hours."

"Just be quiet when you leave."

*

I was still sleeping soundly when I heard the phone ringing downstairs. Bill didn't answer it, so the debate was raging in my mind if I should jump out of bed or let the machine get it.

The machine won. I did manage to see if I could hear whose voice it was. I immediately recognized the high-pitched sound of the lovely senorita who I haven't been seeing enough of lately.

*

She answered on the second ring. I could hear the laughter in her voice when she inquired if she had gotten me out of bed.

Of course she knew that she had, but I lied anyway. "No, I was out on the courtyard talking to a neighbor." I didn't even know a neighbor.

Ignoring my stab at levity, she got right to the point. "I have a spoon that she used to stir her coffee. I made sure that no one else's fingerprints could possibly be on it. I took it out of the dishwasher myself and held it in a place she wouldn't and placed it on the table. I saw her use it. Then, when she left, I placed it in a plastic sandwich bag and put it in my purse. It's still there."

"You're a complete sweetheart. Can I come over and retrieve it this morning?"

"I wish you would. My roommate's gone home to Santa Barbara this weekend, and there's nobody here but me."

I didn't know she had a roommate. I had never seen any signs of one when I had been in her apartment. But I didn't give the spoon, or the roommate another thought, as I hung up, cleaned up, and put on a pair of shorts and and a polo shirt. I made it to her place faster than lawyers get to accidents.

Much, much later, Lucinda retrieved her purse from the table in her living room and brought it back to the bedroom. Just as she said, the spoon was encased within a sandwich baggy, which she gave to me. When she took the spoon out of her handbag a folded piece of paper came along with it, which she opened and handed to me. "I forgot I even had this. It's the address from the night we were almost killed."

At that moment I don't know what had me more excited, the thought of spending more time with Lucinda, knowing the address, or the spoon with fingerprints. Since it was Sunday, there was nothing I could do about the fingerprints. I could drive by the house later, so my short-term priorities came back into focus.

*

When I arrived back home, Bill was ready to leave. He had been invited to dinner at the home of a married friend and apologized profusely about leaving me alone. I assured him that I was happy to spend the night watching an old movie on television. Knowing I was an old time movie freak that eased his conscience enough to enjoy his evening away from both me and business.

So as not to add any more anxiety to his evening I held back the information on the address, but I did show him the infamous spoon and he informed me taking it to the security service to lift the prints was prioity number one the next day.

As soon as Bill exited the room I retrieved the misplaced light bulb and went upstairs to get ready for a night with William Powell as "The Thin Man."

*

As part of my new resolve to help Bill as much as I could, the next morning I arrived at the paper before Bill returned from the security service. Awaiting me was a message to call Sun Fu Yee. I don't know why he hadn't called me on my cell.

Yee reported that the photographer had immediately recognized the picture. He remembered that he had taken another one immediately after that one with another man in the background, who had gotten very upset about it. He remembered because the man had offered to purchase the picture card from the camera. The photograper had declined, but volunteered not to print that particuar picture. He said the man appeared to be satisfied and gave him a hundred-dollar bill to cement the deal.

The photographer had kept his promise, but the image was still on the disc. If it had been anyone but Sidney Lu he wouldn't have printed it out. Sidney had taken the printed picture without comment. The next time he heard about it was from the goons that had beat him up when they ransacked his place.

What Yee told him had cleared up only one point that had been bothering me, which was why Lu had sent us a picture without the woman who had been murdered in it? However, I still didn't understand how the Triad warloard found out that Sidney had gotten the picture. I asked Yee, but he was also in the dark. The only thing I could think of was that Sidney had confided in someone unknown to me.

Just as I hung up with Yee, Bilbo called. He started the conversation by congratulating me on my sources. He had just heard from the FBI in Washington; they didn't have any matches to Susan Wong-McCloskey's prints.

I resisted the urge to gloat as he was having enough problems going through standard police investigative procedures without me piling on. Give him credit, he admitted that the official investigation was going nowhere. I told him that I'd let him know if my sources turned up anything else.

The next item on my agenda was a phone call to Carleton Yang. He took the call immediately. I got right to the point and asked him to find out the approximate age of the Triad warlord.

"He was fifty-eight his last birthday," Yang replied just as quickly. "April 22nd,"

He didn't even ask me why I needed the information. I guess he took the attitude that if I wanted him to know I would have told him. Nice trait to have, but he would make a terrible investigative reporter. I told him I'd be in touch.

After briefing Bill when he returned I outlined how I intended to proceed with the investigation.

"Sounds good to me," he replied, pushing the phone over to me. "Why don't you call Great Falls right now; they are only an hour earlier than we are."

I did and they were. When I told them the age of the Triad warloard they said that a copy of the same list the Great Falls Police Department had sent to the Palos Verdes Police Department was in transit to me.

After I gave them a synopsis of the last story we ran they asked for a fax of the entire piece. The saga had connected with their readers so they asked for every story we had run, including photographs.

"See, Bill. The Peninsula Digest is already famous in Great Falls, Montana."

"Wonderful," replied Bill, "But I don't think I'll take all the subscription revenue to the bank just yet."

It wasn't even noon and I felt like I had done a day's work already. It didn't take much contemplation to get to my next task. Taking the address on Via Coronel out of my pocket I retrieved my beast of a Toyota and headed westward on Hawthorne Boulevard toward the blue Pacific.

As usual, there was virtually no wind and the temperature was in the high seventies. Nothing unusual, just your typical Palos Verdes day.

I followed Hawthorne Boulevard past the Granvia Altimara turnoff, past the sign leading to the Los Verdes Golf Course and over the next hill where I descended into a panoramic seascape. In the middle of the seascape, just before it reached the end of the canvas, I turned right on Palos Verdes Drive toward Lunada Bay.

Now I was following the same route that Lucinda and I took after leaving the Admiral Risty. I instinctively ducked when I came to the house where I had gone through the fence (which had already been replaced) and continued up the hill until I came to the address I was looking for. How different it was in the daylight. The house was on my left with a ravine on my right, which meant that there was no place to turn off to get a better look.

After my second drive-by, I hadn't learned anything more than on my first drive-by. Short of scaling the wall, this reconnaissance was a failure, so I decided to return to the paper and implement plan "B."

*

By the time I returned the mail had arrived, including the package from Great Falls that I hoped would contain another piece of the puzzle.

The list contained eighty-seven names. Having very little knowledge of the place, until the past week if someone had told me that there were eighty-seven Asians in Great Falls, Montana I would have called them a liar. When I narrowed the list to males between the ages of fifty-five and sixty-two, only thirteen names remained.

*

My next stop was the County Recorder's Office where, less than forty-five minutes later, thanks to a very helpful clerk, I found another missing piece of the puzzle.

My euphoria was tempered by the emergence of a full-blown coughing jag. When I awakened that morning I started hacking a little but by the time I arrived at the Recorder's Office I was really miserable. As any wife will attest it is really a pathetic situation when a man is coming down with a cold. There are no limits to his search for sympathy. I was no exception.

The clerk in the office had made the mistake of looking at me with a motherly expression and saying, "Poor baby, you seem to be coming down with a cold."

That was all I needed. I sensed immediately that in my hour of need providence had delivered me into the hands of a caring person. I would be a disgrace to my gender if I didn't milk this kind lady for all the empathy she was capable of emitting.

As I leaned on the counter while she was looking up information for me, my coughing became harsher and more frequent. By the time she returned to the counter I was having a full scale spasm. I didn't have to intentionally bring this on. It happens by itself if you cough long and deep enough. The lungs can sense when they are needed to put on an Emmy caliber performance. The tickle in the throat sends a message that a mother figure has been sighted. The lungs know they must quickly rise to the next level to exploit the opportunity. If they have done their jobs correctly, the male's sympathy-invoking hormone is instantly activated. The chest starts to hurt, triggering a natural reaction to lean forward, clutching it with one hand while the other reaches out desperately seeking help. It would be a cruel woman indeed who could resist such a passionate and anguished plea.

After a cup of water, a reassuring back rub, and an admonishment to go right home and rest, I was on my way back to the Peninsula with the informaton I came for.

*

The next morning my gut was hurting from the coughing and my eyes felt like birds had nested on them all night. If I hadn't felt so miserable, I would have really been ticked off. I couldn't understand how I caught a cold in Southern California.

# CHAPTER ELEVEN

After two days of hell I arose again and took my place among the living. I wasn't completely healed, but was mobile enough to function out of bed.

Bill's anti-cold formula consisted of massive dosages of Vitamins A, C, E and a multiple as well as garlic pills, aspirin, and a zincl lozene for my cough made a difference. He also gave me his trusty Arrowhead bottled water, commanding that I empty several bottles every day. The water itself cleansed my stomach and assured me of plenty of exercise.

It was on wobbly legs, but I eventually made it down to the living room to return the multitude of telephone calls that were piling up on my cell. I had turned the ringer off when I initially committed my body to the supine position.

The first message I returned was to Carleton Yang. He wasn't the type to call to make small talk, so whatever he wanted was important. Also, I didn't figure that Teng and Chen, the Hong Kong detectives, were languishing around in an LA hotel room at the pleasure of the Chinese Government.

It was as I had surmised. Yang gave me a local number to call. The two detectives had made contact with the local Chinese community leaders and wanted to talk with me. The more I dealt wth those two, the more I learned about the way the Chinese conducted themselves with occidentals. Rather than telephoning me directly, they were much more formal about our relationship and preferred to make contact through Yang until they, and I, felt comfortable with a more direct association. In his own way, Yang urged me to contact them as quickly as possible. I assured him that my next call would be to them.

I lied. My next call was to Lucinda. She was concerned about my well being. When she didn't hear from me she had contacted Bill who told her of my situation, and made it clear that I shouldn't be disturbed.

Her other agenda was to query me on the murder investigation. It was the first time she asked about it directly and indicated that she was getting just as caught up in it as I was. Strange how something like being invovled in a mystery made the adrenalin flow. On the other hand, after having been run off the road the night we had gone to the Admiral Risty, she would have more than a passing interest in it.

Another zinc lozenge and I called the number Yang had given me.

The voice of a young lady answered. "Tse residence, may I help you please?" She repeated the greeting in Chinese before I could reply.

As soon as she stopped to take a breath I identified myself and asked to speak to Mr. Teng or Mr. Chen.

It was Chen who responded. "I hope you are feeling better, Mr. Dawkins, I do appreciate your calling. Did you find the information regarding the age of the Triad leader helpful?"

"Yes, I did, thank you very much for getting it to me in such a prompt fashion. I believe that we now have enough information to find out the name he is presently using."

"Now, Mr. Dawkins," the detective cautioned, "we should not divulge such information over the telephone. If you are well enough, I will arrange for a car to take you to where I am now staying." After I gave him Bill's address, he told me the car would be at the door in exactly one hour.

Before going up to dress I called Bill to bring him up to speed and was again cautioned to remember that we were dealing with an organization every bit as sinister as the Mafia was in their hey day.

I heard him, but the old adrenalin was on high octane. I took the stairs two at a time. There's nothing like mental stimulation to make a person forget he's one step away from hospitalization.

Trying to figure out what to wear was my next obstacle. While I had managed to keep up with my laundry, my dry cleaning had suffered. Besides jeans and shorts, I had only brought two pairs of slacks that could remotely be considered good enough for business purposes. I hadn't anticipated that I would be spending time on assignment. Lucky for me, one pair of tan pants hanging in the closet appeared to be accepatble, which is bachelor speak for only being a lttle wrinkled. Now, all I needed was a shirt that didn't look like it was a Salvation Army reject. Then I'd be in business.

I lucked out. One of my shirts was found to look presentable.

*

There was nothing understated about the black Lincoln Town Car that pulled up in front of the house. Detective Chen beckoned me to enter the vehicle.

In the back seat Chen was alone. A driver and a sober looking younger Asian men with blue suits, white shirts, and red ties like the Blues Brothers, occupied the front.

During our first meeting in Carleton Yang's office, Chen had been extremely quiet. Today he was just the opposite and very talkative about everything except what we were supposedly meeting about. I found out how much he loved the California weather and that he was a Western movie buff.

By the time we pulled into the now familiar Palos Verdes Drive toward Lunada Bay, I knew how many bad guys Audie Murphy had gunned down in every Western he had ever made. When we made the turn onto Via Coronel, he had exhausted Audie Murphy and had launched into the same analysis of Jimmy Stewart's work.

I smiled and nodded a lot but was only half listening because I was trying to see exactly where we were going. The first landmark was the infamous fence on the curve at the bottom of the street.

The next milestone was the mansion I had been casing before my bout of illness. We went past that home and two more, before pulling up to a house not quite as large and pretentious, but just as imposing.

Looking out the back window as we went up the circular driveway, I took note that we were directly opposite the other mansion, only at a slightly higher elevation. The Hong Kong detectives were either the greatest planners in the world, or the luckiest, for they had a perfect vantage point from which to case the place.

Somehow I didn't think this was all coincidence. My illness of the past couple of days was all but forgotten by the time the car stopped at the side entrance.

Standing in the doorway was a smiling Detective Teng. I noticed they had an even greater wardrobe problem than I had as both were in the same clothes they had worn at our first meeting. Mr. Teng, like Mr. Chen, seemed to be in good spirits. But why not if this is where they were staying.

"It's nice of you to come," Mr. Teng said as he held out his hand in greeting. "I understand that you haven't been well."

"I'm honored to be invited," I replied with as much humility in my voice as I could conjure up. Humilty had never been my strong suit, and trying to fake it was difficult.

"Please," he said with a sweeping arm gesture as he moved away from the doorway to leave room for me to pass, "Our host would like to meet you"

Mr. Chen had preceded us into house and was waiting for me as I entered a long hallway.

The first thing I noticed was the hardwood floor polished to such a high brilliance that you could see your reflection. We passed several closed doors before we came to a "T" at the end.

My escorts turned left to a foyer from the front entrance. On either side of the marble entry were two steps leading down into separate rooms, both covered with identical deep pile, pale blue, carpeting.

A quick glance at both rooms revealed a distinctly Western motif. I could be walking into any corporate tycoon's living and music rooms in any large city in the United States. The furnishings could have come right out of the pages of the latest issue of Architectural Digest. The place had the distinctive odor of money... lots of it. It made Bill's place look like a dump, and mine back in Chicago look like something the dump refused.

The wooden pieces, such as cocktail table, lamp table and library table, were made of solid walnut, not veneer. I know because my second best subject back in high school was shop, and our teacher used to give us a quiz every week on the identification of fine and exotic woods. It's something that stayed with me all these years.

Standing at the far end of the room near a large freestanding globe was a Chinese male, probably in his late seventies, early eighties. Except for his unmistakably Asian facial features, if you saw him from behind he could have passed for a European or American. He stood at least six feet one or two with an athletic frame, clothed in a stylish Italian-cut business suit. When he walked toward me holding out his hand I also spotted a pinkie ring.

He made his own introduction. "I am George Tse," he said with a tone of someone with authority. " I am very happy to meet such a noted journalist."

That was smooth, not many people have ever referred to me as "noted" before.

Thankfully, he saved me from having to reply to the compliment as he continued before I could reply, "I have enjoyed your articles on the incident involving the unfortunate Mrs. McCloskey, but one should not be surprised from a person who so brilliantly exposed the atrocious behavior of members of the U.S. Congress. Please have a seat." He pointed me to an oversized white satin Bergere chair. "Would you like a drink?"

I didn't bother to hide my smile. "I see you have done your homework on me." It wasn't the first time I had been exposed to people who roamed the rarified air of power. The tactic he had just used on me was one of the things a good interviewer learns within the first six months on the job. Never go into an interview without knowing everything you can about the person being interviewed, and then let him know you know. It wouldn't have taken much digging to find out about the incident he was referring to. It had made all the wire services. Still, he had gotten his point across. He had the advantage because he knew much more about me than I knew about him, and he had politely made that known.

I declined his offer of a drink. No sense in giving him more of an advantage, particularly since I hadn't yet found out why I was here, so I just settled back into the chair and employed a tactic of my own. The meeting was on their nickel so the best thing I could do is just shut up and listen. Not surprisingly, my host assumed command and dispensed with further pleasantries.

"It is our wish that you treat this meeting as "off the record" until we agree what should be published knowledge. If you can't agree to that, all we can do is thank you for the cooperation you have given us so far and we will see that you get back to your quarters."

I was proud of myself for keeping my emotions in check during the lecture and agreed to his demands with a caveat. The caveat was simple that after the conclusion of the meeting we revisit what could and could not be printed. It was basically the same thing as he had said only with different wording.

With a nod of agreement Tse once again assumed his professorial role. "Before we begin you should understand my role. I understand you know the roles of Mr. Chen and Mr. Teng."

I followed his gaze over to the detectives and acknowledged as much.

"Mr. Chen and Mr. Teng were sent to me by our mutual friend, Mr. Carleton Yang." Tse paused to sip his brandy, and then stood up from the love seat he had been sitting in, and walked over to an oil painting of three Chinese men on the wall. The oldest of the men was sitting in a chair flanked on either side by a middle-aged man and one that appeared to be in his mid-twenties.

Pointing to the eldest, Tse said with discernible pride, "My grandfather came to this country as a young boy. He worked in a grocery store until he saved enough money to open his own store. Being an ambitious man, he soon opened a second store, then another, and another until they numbered five. He was not yet thirty. He married my grandmother in an arranged marriage, which was the custom at the time in the Chinese community, and started a family. After the birth of his second son, he purchased one of the wholesalers that supplied his stores.

"By the time the last of his five sons was born, he was the largest wholesale supplier of goods in the community. He was still in his mid-forties. Determined that each of his sons would benefit from his good fortune and hard work he made all of them get a college education. Something he did not have."

He turned back to the painting and pointed to the middle-aged man. "My father was the oldest son and was fortunate to inherit his father's aggressive business acumen. As my grandfather aged he turned the day-to-day operations over to my father. Two brothers also entered the business, while the other two chose engineering careers."

His eyes looked squarely into mine. "I hope I am not boring you, but I believe that what I am telling you will give you a greater understanding of the Chinese heritage in this area. This should help you as you continue your excellent coverage of this incident. I must also be truthful that we are feaful that what is happening may have negative repercussions, due to the fear that we are, as some people have suggested, taking over California. I, too, see the numbers and know what they mean."

I noticed his voice becoming louder, and he began speaking more rapidly. "To digress a little, soon the Asian communities in this State will elect one of their own to high political office, either as Governor or United States Senator. That will be inevitable. At this point many do not vote, just as many Hispanics stay home on election day. But one day, when they have their own candidate, they will turn out and vote as a block, and then we will win.

"Again, I apologize for digressing. My father and his brothers continued to expand the business, as I have, since I took over from him, with the help of my two brothers and several cousins. We have built our companies to the point where we have a virtual one hundred percent monopoly in the wholesale grocery and restaurant supply business for the Chinese community in the South Bay. We also have a considerable presence in Orange County and parts of the central city."

He returned to his seat.

I hadn't moved a muscle since he started the discourse.

Though now seated, Tse wasn't finished. "We have heard over the past three or four years that many of the small retailers we service have been approached and are paying protection monies to local tongs. There have been sporadic attempts at this in the past, but we have managed to keep it invisible by handling it in our own way."

I had a pretty good idea what he meant, but held my tongue.

"However," Tse continued, "the activity has been getting much more agressive and better organized, leading us to believe that a Triad leader has emerged. We have you to thank for securing the picture that made it possible to identify who that leader is, which is why you are here now."

Though I had just been the recipient of a very well constructed sales job, the ball had just been thrown back into my court. Even so, I had no illusions that my relationship was only on a "need to know" basis. For Mr. Tse at least, I think the need consisted of me tempering future articles so as not to rock the boat and inflame an apathetic Caucasian public still content to believe they would always run the place.

I didn't for a minute believe Tse's agenda was the same as that of the two detectives, except for getting rid of the Triad warlord. I didn't want to be rude to my host, but I thought a quid pro quo might be in order.

"From your explanation," I said, "you are saying that you have a Chinese community within the South Bay, not that you are Chinese living within the South Bay community. There is a difference. Let me ask you. Are you a Chinese in the local Chamber of Commerce, or do you belong to a Chinese Chamber of Commerce?"

His smile spoke volumes. He understood what I had said. "I think you know the answer to that. I belong to both. I bridge a gap between the two. One of my sons is married to an occidental and doesn't even speak Chinese. As you see from the surroundings, I leave most of my ethnicity at my office, which is one hundred percent Chinese decor. We speak only English in this house, but speak only Chinese in the work environment. Since we are being candid with each other, the bulk of the Chinese community in this area does not embrace Western culture, but is most comfortable in keeping the old ways. From a business standpoint, this is to my advantage. As long as I treat my customers fairly, and bargain honorably with them, I will get their business. It is no different than the Irish in Boston, the Italians n New York, and the Polish in Chicago."

He had a point, except that the Irish in Boston eventually married the Italians in New York and the Polish in Chicago married the Lithuanians and they branched out from there, but I wasn't invited here for a discourse on the evolution of ethnicity in America. We understood one another and that was all that mattered.

"Touché," I said. "Now I think we should get on with our common problem. Mr. Triad Warlord, as I call him."

Up to this point the two Hong Kong detectives had remained sitting with bored looks on their faces. It's funny about bored looks. They are something you don't know you are displaying, and even if you did, they are difficult to disguise. Mr. Teng spoke. "You mentioned that you had some information for us regarding the identity of this man."

I handed him the folded paper that I had in my back pocket. "After you supplied me with the age of the suspect, I sent the information to my associates in Montana. We know the woman who was killed took her false identity from there, and thought perhaps he might have gone to that same community for his. The thirteeen names highlighted are aliases that could be used by your Triad Godfather. If I could access the Social Security Administration, which I can't, it would be simple to find out if any of those names are currently being used. I suppose we could also find out from the California Department of Motor Vehicles if someone with one of those names has a valid driver's license. That would involve the local police, and I don't want them involved just yet."

Mr. Tse asked Detective Teng if he could see the list, which he studied for sometime.

"Unfortunately," said Tse, "most of these name are quite common and I don't recognize them."

"I might be able to make the search easier." I told them about the woman who had dinner with McCloskey and my being run off the road afterwards. All three followed me to the window. "The person we want may be right in that house over there"

With all four of us clustered around the window, Teng asked Tse, in English, if he knew who occupied that residence. Tse answered that he had never met, or seen, the people. He assumed there was a large family in the house, which wasn't anything unusual. Most recent immigrants from Hong Kong and Taiwan brought relatives with them, which would explain any unusual heavy traffic.

I could have predicted Tse's next statement that he would find out. "If they send their shirts to the laundry or their dry cleaning out, if they order any supplies or have a gardener, I will get names and descriptions. Just leave that detail to me."

I didn't doubt him for a minute. He probably owned most of the local services he had just mentioned.

Retuning to our seats, Chen addressed me directly. "I must explain that Mr. Teng and I are guests of Mr. Tse in this house, so while Mr. Tse makes his inquires we will be watching the house over there, and will observe the movements of the people. It would seem that the distance is not so great. A camera with a high-powered lens should provide us with good pictures which we can send to our people in Hong Kong. Our colleagues there will be able to tell us if they are knowm criminals. I must ask that for now you do not print anything about what was said here today, and that the local authorities do not know what we are doing. Is that agreed?"

I nodded agreement and added, "As long as I am kept informed and remain a part of what you are doing, I have no intention of harming your investigation."

"Thank you," Chen replied. "Mr. Yang said that you were an honorable man and would stay by your word."

"Speaking of Mr. Yang," I addressed no one in particular, "may I ask what his interest is in the matter?"

As I expected, it was Tse who spoke. He had been sitting with his hands folded across his lap in a passive manner. When he answered the question, his hands came off the lap as he straightened his back in the chair. "Mr. Yang is a respected man in the Los Angeles Chinese community." I noticed he made a distinction between the South Bay and Los Angeles, meaning, I surmised, that Yang's influence was much more encompassing. "We belong to several of the same orgainzations."

"Is one of them fundraising for the Democratic Party?"

Tse gave me another one of those all-knowing smiles. "On occasion Mr. Yang and I have helped our political party with monetary assistance."

Although Tse had gotten up from his seat to conclude the meeting, I continued to probe. "Were you by any chance at the fundraiser where the picture that eventually opened up this Triad affair was taken? And was Mr. Yang at that same affair?"

Tse extended his hand to shake mine. "We will discuss that at some other time, if you don't mind. I'm sorry, but I must go. My driver will take you back to your home. l am sure either Mr. Teng or Mr. Chen will be in touch with you."

I know when I've been dismissed, so I dutifully followed Teng and Chen back through the house to the same black Lincoln with the same driver, only this time minus the guy riding shotgun. I guess they concluded that I was no longer a threat to anyone.

Before getting into the car, I told Teng that I would like him and Chen to have dinner with Bill and me, and would call them to arrange a time. They both nodded their heads affirmatively, and thanked me for the invitation.

A few minutes later I was back at Bill's having a relapse.

# CHAPTER TWELVE

It was Wednesday, two days after my visit to Tse's home, before I felt well enough to make my appointments.

I had been well during my Monday meeting only to come back home and collapse. Kneeling on the bathroom floor with my face thrust into the commode, I had upchucked the contents of my stomach. Memories of the early days of trying to drink Chicago dry emerged out of my subconscious. Thanks, but no thanks. Those were memories I could do without.

When I surfaced and became conscious of what day it was, I realized I had missed the deadline to contribute to Bill's paper. I hadn't had much to write about anyway, so no biggy. Being an old hand at the game, Bill would have done a great job of regurgitating the entire episode and quoting Detective Bilbo that the police department hadn't turned up any significant leads. This would keep the public interested. It was standard don't-let-the-public-forget-about-it, but-there's-nothing-to-write-about fare.

I had awakened determined to get things back on track. Sometimes you can't just let the stories come to you, you have to go to them. I have seen too many good stories die for lack of momentum, and I wasn't about to let this happen to something so important to Bill. The Daily Breeze and L.A. Times were already chasing more topical news, which is what a public conditioned to twenty-second sound bites responds to. As one of my favorite editors on a rival paper once said, "The public has the attention span of a gnat, so hit them hard and often within that limited window of opportunity."

I figured our window was closing, and we had at most another week to exploit it. The Anglo people on the Palos Verdes Peninsula, who would continue to dominate the demographics for the next few years, didn't exactly harbor a deep emotional kinship with the departed Susan Wong-McClosky.

Bill was already at the paper when I emerged from beneath the sheets, so I called him to let him know my plans for the day. I told him that, although I felt pretty good, I intended to do as much as I could from the house rather than infecting his staff.

When I asked if he would be amenable to having dinner with the two Chinese detectives he jumped at the chance. His and my thinking were running in tandem, that it was the best association we had in terms of keeping up, and actually affecting, developments in this case.

When I called it was Teng who answered. I reminded him about the invitation and suggested this evening. "One moment, please," was his response.

During the silence that followed, I contemplated what I was going to say if they asked where we could meet. I had just made an executive decision when Chen came on the line. He didn't object when I told him that we would pick the two of them up at Tse's home at seven.

Now, decision number two. I didn't have the faintest idea where to take them but, since Chen was a rabid Western fanatic, a steakhouse seemed like a good idea. But Bill didn't eat red meat, so we had to go some place where Chen could eat steak and Bill could eat fish. I threw my arms up in frustration and yelled at the potted plant standing in the far corner, I suppose Teng's a vegetarian. That would make it complete.

Rather than frustate myself anymore than necessary I did what every red bloodied male does when he doesn't know what to do. I decided to buck the problem upstairs to the boss. It was now Bill's problem although he didn't know it yet.

I don't know why I got myself so upset about somethng so trivial. It may have been because I either wasn't feeling like myself, or because the damned case wasn't coming to closure fast enough. I had a pretty good idea of who the principle players were and where it was headed, but I was having a tough time putting all the pieces in their proper places.

The puzzle was gradually coming together, but not to the extent that I could write about it without subjecting Bill to a gigantic libel suit. There were just a few more manipulations that I had to engineer before I could get out the laptop and draft my epistle. In the meantime, I had to put all my facts and assumptions down in writing.

The PV police and the county sheriff's deparment were looking at the murder as one tree, while the Hong Kong detectives were looking at the Hong Kong warlord as another tree. We were the only people looking at it as one tree with several branches. In fact, the murder of Sidney was being looked at as a third tree by the LAPD. I knew simply from watching television news that there were other people looking at the fundraising situation as yet another tree. This could be right since, other than the photograph of people attending a common function, there was nothing to tie it in with then murder, or the Triad warlord. The guy could just have been invited to a party. Most fund raising affairs I ever covered had only one thing as the criterion for an invitation — the ability to write a check that won't bounce.

I was convinced that the key to solving the case rested with the Hong Kong detectives. Early in the case, I thought we had a better chance to solve the mystery than the police did. Nothing so far had changed the situation. Tonight's dinner with those two could be crucial to closure.

I dressed and headed downstairs for a cup of decaffeinated tea and an English muffin without butter. Disgusting, but I was actually getting used to living this way.

Unlike Bill, I put a cup of water in the microwave and three minutes later was sipping a cup of hot tea. Basking in my inventiveness, I returned to the couch and got down to business.

Sun Fu Yee wasn't home so I left a message for him to call, just to touch base.

The call to Stan in Washington yielded the same result, with the same message.

I didn't get a voicemail this time, but the receptionist at the paper told me that Bill was out and promised to have him call me back. She was kind enough to inform me that our reservation for the evening was set at the Papadakis Taverna in San Pedro at seven thirty.

Just as she was about to give me her recommendation on what to order, she announced that Bill had just returned.

The first words out of his mouth were, "I have your fingerprints."

Again, I couldn't help it. When you write for a living you pounce on any lack of ambiguity. "What do you need my fingerprints for? You can't convict a person for wanting to kill his ex-wife."

That got a laugh out of him. Mentioning the thought of killing an ex-wife is always good for one when you are talking to a divorced man. "Pick a jury of men and you'd never get convicted," he said. "But that is not what I meant, wise ass. I forget who I'm dealing with. I have the fingerprints from the spoon your concubine gave you."

"Very funny, but the term concubine refers to a cohabitation of persons not legally married, which means it doesn't apply to Lucinda and me."

"Anyway, I'll bring them home with me."

"Good, I want to give them to our guests tonight to send to Hong Kong. Maybe it'll help us to get this thing wrapped up. After all, we don't have to convince twelve peers beyond a shadow of a doubt."

"We don't have to go to court for libel either."

I felt good after the conversation. Bill was a good newspaperman. Having him at the dinner was going to be beneficial as we were getting close to the kill, and I was dangerous when I smelled blood. My natural hip shooting tendency rose to the surface and I tended to go right for the jugular. It wouldn't hurt to have a cool head like Bill's around.

That taken care of, there was nothing for me to do but wait. Lucinda was visiting her sister in Orange County so I couldn't see her. I decided to take advantage of the Southern California weather while I still had the chance and take a stroll along the beach.

Since I had walked along the Esplanade in Torrance and Redondo, I opted for a walk along the cliffs overlooking the ocean near Lunada Bay. Bill had driven me by the place pointing out the cliff dwellings of several of the area's well known citizens. Knowing my weakness for movies, he had pointed out the cliff where they filmed the sports car going over the cliff in "Resurrection."

The decision turned out to be the right one. There was a gentle, cooling ocean breeze that hardly ruffled the leaves on the gigantic palms. Off in the distance, freighters and container vessels steamed toward the distant Pacific Rim countries from the Port of Los Angeles, which is actually located in San Pedro.

Stopping to watch the ships inching their way out of the bay fueled my already over active imagination. I had a difficult time deciding which ship I was on. Was it the first one about to disappear over the horizon bound for Casablanca where Humphrey Bogart was lighting another cigarette while still pining for Ingrid Bergman? Or was it the second one, still visible to the naked eye, on its way to Tahiti where I would meet up with Paul Gauguin and paint beside him as he transformed the island's beautiful women into international starlets? Why have to make a choice? Through the magic of my fertile imagination, I would be on both.

It took me a little over an hour to walk from where I had parked my car to the north end of Paseo del Mar to a natural stopping point where the street curved away from the ocean and back again. I had met only a couple of other cliff wanderers during my entire journey, a rarity in heavily congested Southern California. No wonder the local population resented sharing their idyllic setting with newcomers. I remember Bill reminiscing that the Palos Verdes Peninsula is the best kept secret in Los Angeles. Beverly Hills is gauche elegance while PV is country grace.

*

Back home, I called Stan again. This time he answered immediately. "Where's that big story?"

I brought him up to date on what was happening, making it a point to tell him that, when it came to his interest — Asian contributions to the Democratic National Committee — I had nothing. "However, Stan, I'm at a point here where we're going to have closure pretty quick, although the locals don't know it yet. I have to know more about Sun Fu Yee. I have a plan in mind to force the issue, but I don't know enough about him to know where to place him in the final scenario."

"I'll call you back on a hard line in about fifteen minutes."

Two gulps of water later Stan called back. "Can't trust the security of the cell phone, particularly in this town." He quikly got to the point. "To put it in simple terms, Yee is with the Bureau, as in FBI, assigned to the Los Angeles area as part of the on-going Asian Organized Crime Force that was started when Louis Freeh was the Director. He's also actively engaged in the Justice Department's investigation of illegal campaign contributions which come's up every election cycle. Yee has been a friend for some time. When you called, and particularly after the picture showing the very person Yee has been going after, he became interested.

"Let's put it this way. If you put it to him as a hypothetical situation beforehand, he'll be square with you and find a way to let you know without telling you."

Like most reporters, I've been down that route before, so I knew exactly what Stan was telling me.

While I had him in a talkative mood, I thought I'd push it some more. "Now let's go to Carleton Yang and Sidney Lu. Particularly Yang, since he's alive and has been very helpful."

His description of Yang's character fit my take on him to a tee. "Yang's one of those people you don't run into often. A real gentleman who is also very cognizant of the problems his people will be facing as they become more numerous here in the States. In fact, Yang would like to see the immigration tide slow down, particularly in Southern California. He's very worried that the rapid flow from Hong Kong and Taiwan, as well as the Philippines, is going to cause tensions that could be avoided if immigration happened at a more gradual pace.

"He's also concerned that his people will be equated with the illegals from Mexico and Central America by most of the Anglo population. I guess you can say he has the same attitude that the European immigrants had in the early 1900' — learn English as quickly as possible and integrate into society while maintaining your heritage."

"So, how'd you meet up with him?" "And what about Sidney Lu?"

"Sidney and I met at a symposium on the subject, quite independently from Yang. Sidney was attending as part of his Community Relations job for the City of Los Angeles. I turned Sun Fu Yee onto him."

"That's interesting," I said. "Yee admitted to knowing Carleton Yang, and, in fact volunteered it, but didn't mention he knew Sidney Lu."

"Don't forget, he's still a cop, even if it is with the Bureau. And you're a newspaper man. He's not going to tell you everything, just as you aren't going to tell him everything. Anyway, I hope I've been helpful, but I've gotta go. Keep me posted."

*

I was sprawled on the patio's chaise when Bill came home from the paper. He told me that he thought at first we were having an earthquake, but the closer he came to the place, the more he recognized my distinctive flutter when I exhaled at the end of my snore. I didn't doubt it. My throat tasted like someone had just dumped an ashtray in.

After our usual bantering about, I asked about the restaurant. "I assume with a name like Papadiakis Taverna it's Greek."

I thought he was still pulling my leg when he replied. "I don't know, I've never been there."

"Hello! Pardon my being dense, but if you've never been there, how did you choose the place?"

"I didn't. I told our food and beverage columnist that we were taking a couple of people out for dinner tonight and to make us a reservation at one of her favorite restaurants. She's single, really pretty, and wears classy clothes. Guys pick her up in Beemer's. In addition to writing a food column, she goes to all the local places, so why not take advantage of her. Why?"

"Well, I thought it odd that we'd take a couple of Chinese men to a Greek restaurant, that's all."

"Greek's as good as anything. No sense taking them to a Chinese place, they get plenty of that at home. Right?"

What the hell! I figured if they didn't like that would be their problem. All I really wanted was a place we could talk to kind of force the issue and get everything off dead center.

*

Bill thought the Triad house looked more like a fortress than a home when we drove by it to pick up our guests. To be fair, it wasn't much different from its neighbors on either side. Most of them looked like they could withstand a siege from the barbarians.

Before we could get out of the car in the driveway of Tse's house, the two detectives emerged. The first thing I noticed was that both wore better cut suits.

The conversation during the forty minutes it took for me to maneuver my little Toyota from Via Coronel to lower Sixth Street in San Pedro was light and cordial. Not surprising, we were all on the same side. No one mentioned anything about the murder, or the Triad. Our plan was to wait until the detectives had a couple of drinks to loosen their tongues before mentioning those subjects.

When I made the turn off on Gaffey Street in San Pedro (which the locals pronounce Peedro rather than the Spanish pronunciation with a hard "a"), I was greeted by a central business area in transition.

Bill explained that San Pedro had been in transition for as long as he could remember. It was like they couldn't make up their minds if they were going to renovate the entire place or skip every other block. On one block there was some fairly nice retail establishments while another consisted of boarded up storefronts.

I listened while Bill explained the area to our guests.

"San Pedro is a part of the City of Los Angeles and has a large Portuguese population. This is where its reputation as a fishing center comes from. Now, however, its biggest industry is the Port of Los Angeles, which employs over 247,000 people in Southern California. Over two and a half million tons of goods, worth in excess of $11.5 billion go through the port annually in trade with China alone.

While I guided the car into the parking lot, Bill was explaining that the city also is the home of Fort MacArthur. It was named in honor of Lt. General Arthur MacArthur, the father of General Douglas MacArthur, who commanded the American forces in the Pacific during World War II.

During Bill's entire litany, the two men hadn't said a word.

*

The moment we opened the door to the restaurant, my hope for a quiet dinner where we could talk was totally destroyed.

In the lobby there was this big Greek guy geeting all the women with kisses, and pumping the hands of the men while pounding them on the back. I wasn't sure if this was a test of physical stamina or a traditional Greek greeting. Either way, we must have passed because they honored our reservation and we were shown to a table.

There was one large lighted room with tables, no booths. On our way to the rear of the room where our table was located, we passed two well-known screen personalities with their families. No one was hounding them for autographs, so I figured that this must be a place the jaded locals go to avoid tourists.

The food was prototype Greek all right. Dishes of lamb and grape leaves wrapped around everything that could be rolled. That didn't faze our Chinese guests in the least. They deferred the ordering to Bill and then ate the lamb and grape leaves with all the gusto of a K-Mart shopper during a blue light special. Their ferocious appetites were only exceeded by their thirst. Both inhaled their beer while my arm was still trying to decipher the signal from my brain to bend my elbow.

A quick glance at Bill's frantic expression told me he was reading the situation the same as I was. This might be a business expense, but combining the prices of food with what was shaping up to be a case of beer at resturant prices, the tab for the evening was heading in the direction of the national debt.

To make matters worse, the set-up in the dining room wasn't conducive to a business conversation along the lines we had planned, so the talk continued to consist of meaningless chatter.

Much to his credit, Bill had learned to master small talk. His approach was simple. Get the subjects to talk about themselves. A tactic that hardly ever fails. A well placed question here, and another there, along with an expression of interest is all it takes. Bill was doing an outstanding job.

Mercifully, the hum of conversation around us was broken by the sound of music with a primal rap cadence that is as distinctly Greek as Oom-pah-pah is German.

At the rear of the room, the waiters discarded their trays and hustled to form a line. They stood side by side with arms extended on one another's shoulders. The music increased in intensity as the dancers began kicking their legs in the air as they swayed to and fro in unison. All this while the patrons were clapping in time with the music.

The dance completed, each took a glass from a nearby table, took a drink and threw the now empty glasses on the floor where they shattered.

During the entertainment, I alternated between watching the dancers and our guests. They were as caught up in the moment as the regulars and were clapping enthusiastically, swaying and smiling. The evening was shaping up to be a success.

During one of our trips to the rest room, Bill and I jointly decided that since we couldn't talk at our table, we would stop off at a more private place to have our conversation. We couldn't go to Bill's place since it didn't appear that our guests would be happy with Arrowhead bottled water. I suggested we go to a bar at one of the local hotels. This being a week night, the only people there would be businessmen talking business and sucking up to other businessmen. Bill suggested one he was familiar with a couple of streets over.

*

The cocktail lounge we went to was the exact opposite of the Papadakis Taverna. Except for the bartender, the place was deserted.

We took a booth at the far end and ordered drinks. The two detectives stayed with beer. Bill stayed with bottled water, and I switched to club soda. One more beer and I would be in danger of sloshing; that wouldn't be a pretty sight.

As soon as the bartender was out of earshot, I started the conversation with, "We would like to talk with you about the situation we are working on together. First, my friend and I would like to know if you have identified the person in the house as being the individual you are looking for?"

Teng stole a look at his partner, who answered. "Mr. Tse has arranged to have several people he trusts enter the establishment. They will take pictures for us to look at. But at this time we still cannot say for sure."

I leaned toward them, my serious gaze covering both. "And assuming that it is the right person, how do you intend to proceed? To our knowledge, he hasn't broken any laws in the United States for which he could be arrested, and I don't believe this country would extradite him to China. Even if they did, it would take a considerable amount of time."

My rather forthright question and comment caused some wiggling in their seats. This was fine. I was used to people being uncomfortable when I was questioning them. It was always to my advantage when they were. It wasn't just how they answered the question that gave me the answers. Their body language usually told me just as much as the spoken word.

After what seemed a long silence, but was actually more like a long pause, during which neither Bill nor I uttered so much as a grunt, Chen replied. "We do not see where the United States authorities would have to be involved with our taking him back to China to stand trial for his crimes in our country."

Bill asked, "So you have made arrangements, should the need arise?"

"That has been done, yes," Chen admitted.

"And may I ask how you will get the person out of the house?" I inquired. "It will have to be done discreetly, as he would have every right to seek the help of the local police, especially since they don't know you are here."

Chen look directly into my eyes, no wavering when he spoke, his voice low and distinctly sharp. "We will find a way."

Bill, seeing that the tone of the conversation was changing from conciliatory to slightly combative chimed in quickly. "Mr. Chen and Mr. Teng, we are not the authorities and certainly will not compromise your situation in any way. However, our story is the murder of Susan McCloskey. We happen to believe that the conclusion to that story lies in the house of the person you are after. He, or someone who is associated with him is responsible for her murder. That is the person we want to expose. Our interest in working with you is to accomplish that task. What you do with the person you are after is your business. Not ours."

The relief on Chen's face was obvious. "You have been helpful to us. We will, of course, continue to work with you. I assure you, if you have not found an answer to your question before we have him back in Hong Kong, we will extract the information from him there and see that you get it. That is our commitment to you."

I hope my shudder wasn't visible. I didn't want to know how the information was going to be wrung out of the guy, but I had every confidence that it would be. I could tell by the look on Bill's face that the thought of knowing how this was going to be accomplished didn't particularly appeal to him either.

Apparently Bill did feel comfortable with the answers we were getting for he pulled an envelope out of his coat pocket and gave it to Chen. "I have some other fingerprints that we would appreciate your sending back to your country for identification."

As Chen was reaching out to take them I told him whose they were and the story behind them. Chen handed them to Teng as he replied, "They will go out tomorrow by courier. I will be informed within two days if they are identified, which I am sure they will be."

"Wonderful, we appreciate that." I raised my glass of club soda. "Let us drink to a continuing trusting relationship, and may this mess be over very soon."

# CHAPTER THIRTEEN

There are days when a person wakes up feeling like a distance runner on the day of the big race. The morning after the night before with the Hong Kong detectives was one of those. I felt like the finish line was in my sights, which caused my adrenalin to pump like a West Texas oil rig.

As I was sitting on the patio in my early morning attire of shorts and tee shirt, sipping on a cup of hot tea, the only thing that bothered me was the story that was coming out of the investigation. I personally always had the philosophy that you told it like it was and let the chips fall where they may. However, Bill had his life's savings tied up in a local paper. In this era of nauseating sensitivity to anything remotely ethnic, he could well be accused of Asian bashing.

Fortunately for me, Bill was the one who had to make that call. I had to write it as I saw it and leave it up to Bill to take it from there.

My thoughts turned to Sun Fu Yee. He hadn't returned my call, so I did what a reporter always does when a person doesn't get back to them: I called him again. I was prepared to get a message beep so was surprised when a drowsy voice answered.

He apologized for not returning my call but didn't offer an explanation. That was fine. It probably would be a concocted excuse anyway. In response to my request to get together for a serious discussion about the case he agreed to meet at the paper that morning.

*

Before we left for the office to meet with Yee, Bill and I agreed that we would say upfront that the meeting was off the record and I would meet with him alone, as it would seem less threatening. He was FBI and, although he cooperated with Stan, from my brief dealings with the Bureau, they were victims of the Washington bureaucracy in that the required ream of paper documentation was required to accompany every meeting.

*

Sun Fu Yee arrived five minutes early for our scheduled meeting time, which in Los Angeles is a minor miricle.

After the brief obligatory Southern California laid back salutations of "How ya doing?" "Hanging in there," we made our way, coffee in hand to the conference room, where I closed the door and we took our favorite chairs.

From the outset I sensed that Yee wasn't acting his usual I"m-a-hip-and-carefree-dude personality. His face was tighter and his movements more deliberate than in our previous sit-downs. I detected that Sun Fu Yee the thespian was being replaced by Su Fu Yee the Federal Agent, and we were going to discuss serious stuff. That made it much easier for me to say what I was going to say.

"I asked that we meet because Stan told me you're with the Bureau. That puts us on a more level playing field. You've always known what I do, but I didn't know what you do. I want us to agree that unless we specifically say otherwise, our conversation is strictly off the record." I even surprised myself when I made that statement because it is the exact opposite of my usual insistence that everything is fair game unless agreed otherwise.

Yee looked at me over the rim of his coffee cup as he slowly took another sip. It wasn't until he put the cup back on the table that he replied. "It's much easier for you to say than for me. If I find something that clearly impacts an ongoing investigation, I have to use it. However, I doubt very seriously that you can tell me anything I don't already know, or have some idea about. All I can promise is that if I see us getting into that realm, I'll stop you and let you know. Is that agreed?"

No dummy this guy. But as Stan said earlier, he played it square. He laid out the rules he was willing to play by, then placed the ball back in my court. I could reject his rules and the meeting would be over, or I could play by them and see where we headed. I decide to play. "Agreed. You want to tell me what you know that I don't think you know, to get the ball rolling?"

He briefly reverted to the other Yee and actually let himself smile. "For starters, I know that you have been working with two detectives from China who are staying at the home of a man named Tse in Palos Verdes. They are watching a house directly across from the Tse house. They believe its occupant to be a Triad leader who has a false identity. They would like to get him back to Hong Kong to extract a measure of justice out of his hide."

As Yee was talking I could feel my poker face abandoning me along with my confidence.

Yee saw it too. "I also know that you gave fingerprints supposedly taken from the deceased to them. They told you that they belonged to the Triad leader's mistress. I find it interesting that he would let his mistress marry someone else. That is so unlike the Chinese. They don't like to share their possessions, particularly the female ones. Anyhow, I also know that you had dinner last night with the two gentlemen in San Pedro. How am I doing?"

Raising my eyebrows a twich, I replied, "So far you've convinced me that you are tailing me or the Hong Kong detectives, or you have a bug hidden somewhere."

"Since we are off the record, I admit to your being correct on both counts. But to set the record straight, the bug isn't on you or your paper. That would be illegal. Again, off the record, I owe you an explanation. My assignment here is part of the Justice Department investigation regarding illegal campaign contributions."

He was referring to the alleged illegal contributions made to the Democratic National Committee, including the infamous fundraiser held at the Buddhist Temple starring the previous Vice President of the United States. "Since I'm one of the few Chinese-Americans in the Bureau in a working as a field operative, I was one of the chosen few to be sent under cover. When Stan called me about you, I jumped at the chance to see what you had. As soon as I found out about the picture in the travel agency, and then what happened to Sidney Lu, I was authorized to follow this part of the case to see if there was a connection between our active investigation and yours."

"And your conclusion?"

"I found several of the players to be active in both." He got up from his chair as he finished his sentence. "But rather than continuing right now, could you meet with me downtown this evening? I think you'll find it worthwhile, and things will become clearer for you."

I was puzzled, but agreed to meet him at the Biltmore Towers. Carleton Yang had his offices in the same building. Although Yee told me to keep this to myself my years in Chicago had taught me otherwise. He agreed that I could confide in Bill.

*

The balance of the afternoon was spent doing nothing. I resisted the urge to call Lucinda. There comes a time when one must compartmentalize, and we were at that juncture now.

*

Yee had insisted that I be at the room in the Towers no later than six that evening. He was adamant that, should I be late I should not come at all. With that admonishment still fresh in my mind I allowed myself two hours to get from the Peninsula to downtown. I was knocking on the office door by five.

Yee made no mention of my being early after admitting me to the waiting room of an unoccupied office suite. "We can talk freely. We are the only ones here."

That remark made me feel that I was committing adultery. The feeling was reinforced as I followed him down a corridor of vacant offices into the corner office.

My adulterous mood passed quickly when I surveyed the room. To anyone who has ever watched a crime show on television, or seen a movie, it was immediately obvious what the office was being used for, and it wasn't clandestine sex. The first clue was the sophisticated monitoring equipment. The second was the empty Burger King paper bags being used as wastebaskets.

Absent were ashtrays with partially smoked cigarette butts in them. I guessed OSHA had infiltrated the FBI, and they had gone smokeless in the workplace.

"I guess by now you've guessed what that is." It was more a statement than a question as he gestured toward the equipment.

"Looks like something straight out of Law and Order."

Yee pointed to one of the folding chairs by the table. "Have a seat. We're going to be the only ones here. With the Grand Jury's indictment of Mr. Chan, the primary suspect in the DNC illegal campaign contribution probe, this tap has officially and legally come to an end and I've been ordered to disband. However, the group we've been monitoring is meeting again tonight and I want to hear what they have to say. I think you will too. Since the investigation is concluded I've turned off the tape. No notes. We're not here, if you get my drift."

I got the drift all right. In the absence of a warrant this could land my host in a pack of trouble. Regardless, to say that my interest was piqued would be putting it mildly.

"You mind filling me in a little more so I know what I'm listening to?"

I sat back, ignoring my discomfort, listened as Special Agent Yee paced the floor and began an unbelievable tale. As I suspected, the tap was in Carleton Yang's office. It started because Carleton Yang had been identified many years ago as a large Democratic Party contributor and Asian activist. He was a power broker in the Asian community, a strong voting bloc for Los Angeles county Democratic office seekers. He was also known to associate with those under investigation for illegal fundraising and alleged attempts by the Chinese government to influence the American presidential elections.

Yee stopped for a moment. "I'm telling you this part only as background information. This is as far as I'm going to go because it is still technically an open case."

I assured him that I understood.

He went on to tell me that, as a result of the surveillance, they had learned that a group of influential Asian businessmen, whom the eavesdroppers referred to as the Council of Elders, were meeting twice a month to chart the future of the Los Angeles Asian community.

"There is nothing illegal about people meeting this way," said Yee, "and they never indicated that they were plotting to overthrow the Government.

" Mr. Tse is a member of the council. The group spend most of their time talking about issues facing the various Asian communities in the Los Angeles/Orange County areas. When I say Asian, I'm speaking about the whole enchilada: Chinese, Korean, and Japanese, although they exclude the Vietnamese and Cambodians. One of the Filipino elected officials from Gardena, I believe, was involved."

I interruped him to ask what made Gardena, a community close to the city of Torrance, so important that they would bring in a politician from there. He told me that Gardena was a city that was almost totally controlled politically by people of Asian descent.

Yee said that listening to the group was like sitting in on a meeting of a local town council. They had both long-range objectives and short-range goals. For example, they had a committee to identify younger politicians to groom for city council and mayor of some of the larger municipalities, the latter for statewide office. They were all aware of the demographics. After a UCLA study showed that Torrance would be sixty percent Asian in a very short time, they targeted that city for an Asian mayor.

What piqued Yee's interest had to do more with the short-term. The council had discussed the increasing Triad and Tong activity in the area. Small shop owners were being charged protection money and were afraid to go to the local authorities, fearing their shop would be burned down and they, or their families, would be killed.

Just listening to Yee do so much talking made my mouth feel dry. I helped myself to a coke from the lone small refrigerator in the corner of the room.

Yee had continued without missing a pronoun. During one of the council's discussions Yee had discovered that I was not only working with him, but that I had also seen Carleton Yang. The Elders were very interested in what I was digging up and had voted to cooperate with me; however, they were concerned that I would spark fear and resentment among the non-Asian population. When I came up with the picture of the Triad, and Yang contacted his friends in Hong Kong it had caused quite a stir. Yang had been at the fundraiser and had met the man, as had some others, but had no idea who he was at the time. They took him for just another Hong Kong businessman who elected to leave before the communist government took control.

Yee abruptly stopped talking as a faint sound came from one of the amplifiers. "Someone is coming into the conference room where we have the bug," he said. "That will be Mr. Yang's assistant setting up the agenda. They are very organized. I wish our staff meetings at the Bureau were as orderly. I guarantee the meeting will start in precisely ten minutes, so if you have to relieve yourself do it now. The key to the john's over there on the hook."

*

When I returned from emptying my tank, Yee motioned for me to sit. "They are ready to begin. Mr. Yang just welcomed everyone. Get comfortable. Once they get going they don't stop."

"I hope it's in English."

"It is. Everyone in the room may be of Asian descent, but that doesn't mean they all understand each other's language. They could probably all read it because most of the characters are the same in the different Asian languages, but that's about it."

Yee turned up the volume for me to hear. The unmistakable high-pitched voice of Carleton Yang was heard telling the group that the main topic for the meeting was the problem in Palos Verdes; Mr. Tse would give a report.

Listening to Tse, I could picture him posing like an Oriental Napoleon as he had in his house. His report, however, was surprisingly short. He told them that after he had met with me (who he referred to as the reporter from Chicago), and was told where the Triad leader lived, he arranged for a trusted person to work for the gardener. He also arranged to have the driver of the truck that delivered fresh vegetables to the house every day secretly take pictures of whomever he saw there. He had circulated pictures of the Triad leader among the trusted, and two people had confirmed that the man was indeed living there.

He went on to report that the two detectives from Hong Kong had submitted their findings to their superiors in Hong Kong and were waiting for instructions.

A strange voice interrupted to ask if Tse had any idea of the alternatives they were looking at.

Yee told me that the voice belonged to one of the local politicians.

Tse answered the other's question. "My household staff have reported that they are discussing ways to take him out of the country for a public trial, or how to eliminate him here if that is the order."

The politician and several others chimed in to object to the latter course. Someone said, "We don't need another killing."

Another voice echoed the sentiment. "I don't object to killing him, but the Chicago reporter has already alarmed the people about gang activity, and to have another murder would do much harm to our image. We must keep our long-range objectives in mind. To have another killing that is tied to organized crime will only give conservative politicians more fuel to pass laws halting immigration."

Yee smiled as he looked over at me. "Hear how famous you've become in such a short time."

I laughed back. "You guys have a hard time understanding it, but it's true, the pen is mighter than the sword. Let this be a lesson to you."

"You're preaching to the choir, my friend."

Stan had told me that Yee was one of his "unnamed sources." This young man was well versed in how to use the press to his advantage, just as he was doing with me now, although I wasn't quite sure what he had in mind.

Our attention reverted back to the speaker as we both recognized the unmistakable voice of Carleton Yang. "We must persuade the people in China that killing this Triad person in the United States would be a grievous mistake. Taking him out of the country will not be noticed by anyone, but killing him here would be thoroughly investigated by the authorities."

There was a pause in the conversation when a voice I had not heard before spoke. From the look on his face I could tell that Yee didn't recognize it either.

"We know it can be arranged, " said the voice. "As we have learned on many occasions, it is only the amount of money it will take. The higher level of authority that must make the decision determines the amount. In this case, the authority is very high in the government, so we are talking thousands of dollars."

It was Yang again. "It is agreed then that we will begin the negotiations."

We heard what sounded like a bunch of grunts, then Yang spoke once again. "I will begin negotiations immediately."

Yee looked at his watch and turned off the switch. "They will be adjourning in about five minutes."

"How do you know?"

"Because Mr. Yang is as crafty a person as you are ever going to meet. As soon as he gets the decision he wants he adjourns the meeting before there can be any further discussion. He comes in with one agenda, manipulates things around until that agenda is completed, defers everything else until the next meeting and then adjourns. Since they stagger their departure times we had better get the hell out of here while we can."

We turned off the lights and left the room. We had no trouble getting an elevator at that time of night and were soon retrieving our cars from the garage.

*

The ride home was scary because I don't remember anything about it. My mind was churning over the evening so that I didn't give a thought to my driving. Lucky for me the traffic on the Harbor Freeway was unusually light.

For the umpteenth time, I muddled over in my mind the twists and turns that this case had taken in just a few short weeks. We went from a simple murder to Triads and Tongs and a plan to virtually take over the political process in California; involvement in an FBI wiretap, stolen identities, and Chinese detectives. That brought Detective Bilbo to mind. He has been very quiet.

*

There had been no ink from either the Breeze or The Times regarding the murder. From the lack of letters to the editor, the general public seemed indifferent as well.

Looking at it pragmatically, if we were going to sell papers we had to have something more sensational, keeping our stories murder-centered. Good stories aren't worth the cost of paper if no one bothers to read them.

*

Back in the friendly confines of Bill's condo we went over the evening in detail. I could see him processing the information as I was talking. When my monologue was completed he asked the pertinent question. "So, where do we go from here?"

I had been mulling the answer to that since leaving the Biltmore. "We just go with the flow, except that we have to be attached at the hip to our two detective friends. It's obvious the Elders weren't sure how much we should be involved. We either have to get closer to the Chinese detectives or find another way to assure that we're in the room when the curtain starts to go down."

While I was speaking another plan was beginning to formulate in my mind. We could screw around with all the little people, but, to get something done, you have to get to the one person who can make a decision. In this case that would be Carleton Yang.

Bill didn't totally agree with my new attack plan, but had no better alternative if we were going to take the initiative to move this case forward. He agreed that I would call Yang in the morning and set up a meeting that same day. I was positive that Yang had already called Hong Kong.

We also agreed that we would need Detective Bilbo's help soon. Legal authority would be needed to open doors, and, most importantly, make an arrest, which is the only way we could publish the story.

# CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Yet another day sneaked up on me. I may even have set a personal record for sleeping through the night. My exhaustion didn't surprise me. It was purely emotional and happened every time I worked on a good story that was about to be resolved. I would go through this until the final draft was written and then when I saw the finished product on the newsstands, there would be an ensuing rush of adrenaline and it would be history. Then on to the next one. Such is the life of someone in my profession.

I tried to ease into the morning with a cup of hot tea on the patio while Bill went for his early morning bicycle ride. Relaxing was impossible but it was too early to call Carleton Yang, although I stood a good chance of getting to Bilbo, so I called him.

Bilbo was in the office. Man, I thought, I'm really going to ruin your day. His greeting was cordial and hesitant until I just came out and asked him, "How long would it take you to get a search warrant?" Before he could reply I flung another one at him. "And, on a scale of one to five, with one being extremely difficult, how do the judges around here lean?"

He was silent for awhile, then quietly said, "What do you have in mind?"

I was ready with ` an even more evasive answer, calculated to make him drool on his tie. "Let's say that I may have something on very short notice. If you can get a search warrant quick enough, it could lead to an arrest that solves the case."

He paused again. "You know it's against the law to withhold evidence. You can get in a lot of trouble."

I needed him or I would have replied, At least someone is gathering evidence, which is more than I can say for the Palos Verdes Police Department. Instead I used all my will power and tactfully told him that if I wanted to withhold evidence and take credit for solving the case, I wouldn't be on the telephone with him.

He admitted that they could get a warrant within an hour. By this time he didn't bother to hide the anxiety in his voice when he replied, "If you can give me a rough idea of what we're talking about, I can get my Chief on board and we can do some preliminary skid greasing. If you can also give me a general time frame, it would speed things up even more. Then we could be sure the Judge we want will be available."

"Sorry," I answered, enjoying the posturing. "I'm at the mercy of other people on this. It could happen anytime between this afternoon and day after tomorrow. To be on the safe side, Bill will always be reachable. I think it would be prudent that you two know how to reach one another on exceedingly short notice."

He would have kept me for hours on the phone probing if I didn't cut the conversation, so I did by cutting in with a, "Gotta go. Talk to you later," and hung up on him. Ten to one that he was swearing, and twenty to one that he was in with his Chief before I had a chance to tell Bill, who was just coming through the door.

When I told him about Bilbo's reaction, Bill laughed so hard I thought he was going to pee his pants. "I can just see him now, coffee dripping off his mustache, tripping over the waste basket as he made a beeline to the Chief's office. They'll spend the next twenty minutes cursing you. Then they'll brainstorm trying to figure out what you were talking about so they could beat you to it. Then they'll try to decide what to say to the judge, because they can't afford not to."

By the time I got dressed it was time to make my call to Carleton Yang, who answered immediately. He must have sensed the urgency in my voice as he asked if I could come right over to meet with him.

*

Only a non-native Los Angeleno would make the mistake of agreeing to meet someone in downtown Los Angeles during the early morning commute hours. I soon found myself sitting in one of the infamous LA traffic jams on the Harbor Freeway. The ordinary one-hour drive ended two-and-a-half-hours later, compliments of a series of fender benders expertly spaced to assure maximum congestion.

*

I was ushered into the inner office the moment I presented myself to the receptionist. Mr. Yang came from behind his ornate desk to shake my hand and motioned me to join him at the conversation area in the corner of the room, where we were served coffee and tea by two young ladies who materialized from I know not where.

Mr. Yang was his usual courteous suave self as he asked me how I have been. I told him I was fine but the case was, in my mind, coming to a close and I wished to talk with him about coordinating my paper's efforts with the detectives from Hong Kong.

While I showed my anxiety by leaning forward and extending my hands outward while I was speaking, Mr. Yang was totally in control of his emotions. "I have been assured by the gentlemen from Hong Kong that they are fully cooperating with you. But they are representatives of the Chinese authorities and there is little I can do except to voice my desire that they continue to do so."

I got to my point. "Mr. Yang, I have appreciated your help since I first came to see you. Without your assistance I would be in the same place the local authorities are in, which is nowhere. But now, we both know that the Triad leader has been located, by me I might add. We also know that the detectives from Hong Kong are here without the knowledge of the United States authorities. Except for being in this country under false pretenses, the Triad has not broken any local laws. Given this, the detectives have two choices. They, by their own admission, will either try and smuggle him back out of this country, or eliminate him here. I personally don't care which of the two they do." I was playing back the information I had heard the night before when we listened in on the council meeting, so I knew that he would be in agreement with it.

He did no more than nod his head.

"Do you agree with me so far?" I asked him, to get some sort of a reaction.

The most I got was that he bowed his head a little further.

"The latter," I continued, "would be most unfortunate. It would not be good public relations for the Chinese community in Los Angeles." I paused and poured myself coffee. This type of action usually resulted in a verbal response from the other party. Anglos can't stand silence in the midst of conversations and always fill in the space. Reporters and interviewers rely on this when digging for information. Mr. Yang merely sat and waited for me to proceed. So I did.

"The key to solving the murder lies with the man the detectives want. To remove him without his supplying us with that information will take away any hope that the authorities will be able to find and punish the murderer. It will also force me," I paused again for effect, "to concentrate on the Triad leader's disappearance or elimination, the fact that the Hong Kong detectives were here, where they stayed, along with pictures of them coming out of his house," a bluff, but Yang didn't know it, "and other information I have to substantiate the story."

For the first time, Yang reacted. He folded his hands together and placed the tip of his fingers under his chin. "That would be most unfortunate."

I felt like I had just scored a major victory and allowed myself the luxury of sitting back in the chair and crossing my legs.

"Yes it would," I agreed, "particularly since it can be avoided."

"I will do what I can to see that you get your story."

I was sure we understood one another now, so considered it safe to impart another piece of information that I wanted the Hong Kong detectives to know. I told Yang about the severed ears.

That was probably the first bit of information he didn't know about. He nodded his head quickly and said, "I will ask the detectives if that is a trademark of any of the assassins they know."

"I asked them before," I reminded him, "if they knew of any trademarks of the Triad's known killers and since they haven't gotten back to me I've assumed they haven't come up with any information."

He reiterated that he would find out and call me directly with his findings.

Before leaving, I made one final demand. "I will give the detectives a number where I can always be reached. I must know immediately when they remove the Triad from his house. They must get information about the woman's killing and relay that information either before they remove him, or soon thereafter. If there is evidence in the house I must know where to find it, so that our authorities can use it. This is important to my emphasizing the murder itself and not the fact that the good people of Palos Verdes have Triads living among them."

I got up to leave.

Mr. Yang also got up from his chair and said in parting. "I understand and will make sure the message is also understood by Mr. Chen and Mr. Teng."

As we passed his desk on the way toward the door, he stopped almost as an afterthought and removed an envelope that had been sitting conspicuously on the ink pad while we had been having our conversation. "This is the information on the fingerprints you asked us to obtain from China. I think you will find it most interesting."

I opened it, read the short note inside, and replied, "You'll find it more interesting when you find out who these are from." I quickly told him the story.

"That explains much," he said still maintaining a passive expression.

I glanced at a photograph that rested on a credenza behind his desk. You wiley old bastard, I said to myself as I left his office.

*

The ride back to Palos Verdes was much better. I made it unscathed through the I-10 freeway interchange. A masochist posing as a traffic engineer must have laid out the Harbor Freeway. I read somewhere that the Santa Monica Freeway in that area is the busiest in the world. If the traffic at 11:45 AM is any indication, that rumor is true. The only way you can make it from the on ramp into the left-hand lanes is to put on the turn signal and a diaper and just do it. I did it, made it, and miraculously ended up back in Palos Verdes in less than an hour.

I went directly to Bill's condo, phoning him as soon as I was back. Then I called Lucinda. Since my cell number was the one I had given Carleton Yang I declined her invitation to meet at her apartment. I really didn't want to have her around listening when the call came in. She wasn't too happy about that, but such is life in the fast lane. There was nothing more I could do but wait, and there was no better place to do that than Bill's patio on a chaise.

*

It was exactly 7:59 PM, and Bill had just turned to AMC to catch an old movie we had last seen with dates when we were in college. The phone rang. It was Mr. Tse telling me that his driver would be at our door in fifteen minutes.

I jumped up from the couch and ran to my room for my notebook. The writing kind, not computer.

The television was still on when I returned, but Bill wasn't watching it. "I'll be by the phone until you return," he said with a concerned look on his face. "I don't like this one bit."

"You better telephone Bilbo to stay by his phone, also. I"ll be all right." I hoped I sounded more convincing than I felt.

By the time I reached the front sidewalk, the adrenaline was really pumping.

I didn't have much time to think, as Tse's Lincoln rolled into view, stopping directly in front of me. I waved to Bill, who was standing in the doorway as the back door swung open and I crouched to get in. As the car sped away, I looked out the back window to see Bill writing down the license number.

In the back seat with me was the same bodyguard who had escorted me to the Tse house for the first time.

"What's going on?" I asked him.

His only response was to give me a mask with instructions to put it on.

"I don't want to."

"Mr. Tse said if you won't wear it we are to turn around and take you back."

I pulled the mask over my eyes without further comment. I tried to determine how well I could see around the mask. I was sightless.

Rather than fight it, I leaned my head back against the seat rest and closed my eyes to concentrate on my hearing as I had see Sean Connery do in a James Bond film. It didn't work. I couldn't hear a thing. Damn, where was Ian Fleming when I needed him most.

I guessed we had been riding for around a half-hour. Several times I thought I heard aircraft. We seemed close to the airport, which stands to reason if you are going to smuggle someone out of the country. I didn't know the area that well, but well enough to figure that we probably had been traveling along the Pacific Coast Highway and/or Sepulveda Boulevard.

After several sharp turns, the Lincoln came to an abupt halt. Only then did my traveling companion speak. "Wait," he said. "I will come around and help you out. Please don't try to remove your eye convering until you are told."

The door opened and I felt his hand on my arm as he guided me out of the vehicle. As I was being turned around, I felt a second hand on my other arm. The driver must have joined the bodyguard. We stopped, I heard a knock and someone inside called out in Chinese. After one of my escorts responded, also in Chinese, the door opened and I was ushered inside. The hands on my arms guided me forward.

From underneath the mask I saw light for the first time. The hands relaxed their grip as a familiar voice told me it was okay to remove the mask.

At first the light blinded me, but soon I was able to distinguish the smiling face of Mr. Chen apologizing for the inconvenience, before directing me to follow him.

Looking around the room, my first reaction was that it was a restaurant supply storage room. Not surprising since Tse was in that business.

Walking into the next room, a musty odor greeted me. My flesh felt like insects were crawling over my entire body. I felt like I had just entered a medieval torture chamber. That feeling was reinforced when I observed an unfamiliar figure sitting in an armchair with a sheet draped around his torso. I was sure I was looking at the infamous Triad Chief.

I took a better look to see if I could recognize the man I had seen in the photograph. As I crept closer I saw that his arms were tied to the arms of the chair. Blood was oozing from under his fingernails. It almost turned my stomach when I realized what was happening. I had read about Chinese torture methods before, and I was staring at one of the most gruesome. Blood encrusted splinters of wood protruded from under the victim's fingernails. It wasn't a pleasant sight.

I looked into a face wracked with pain. His eyes were glazed over and he seemed to be in a trance. But even so, there was no doubt that this was the same man.

Mr. Chen said, "Mister Jung has something to tell you." He went over to the bound figure and put his hand under the man's chin causing him to raise his head. Chen bent down until the two figures were nose to nose, and spoke to the man in Chinese.

In halting English, the vanquished and broken Triad told me his story. Several times during the next half-hour I requestd that his captors give him water, which they did reluctantly. I listened to the tale unfold.

It surprised me how much I was piecing together. When he finished, his head slumped forward, his chin resting on his chest in a faint. I thought he was dead, and my insistence on learning who had killed Susan McCloskey had caused him to be tortured to death. I was relieved when I saw his chest was still heaving.

Mr. Teng appeared at my side. "It is unfortunate, but necessary for us to get the information you needed. What has been done to him is nothing more than he has done to many others, many times."

Teng must have noticed that I was looking a little queasy because he took me into a small adjoining office. He guided me to a chair as his partner handed me a glass of water. I deliberately avoided looking to closely at my surroundings, for if it ever came to my being asked to describe the place, it would be easy to say I couldn't, and mean it.

"How did you manage to get him out of his fortress?" I asked whoever cared to answer it.

Chen proudly explained how it had been accomplished. Every Monday at precisely 9:30 AM, Don Yee, the Triad's gardener, arrived at the iron gates of the mansion on Via Coronel. On the morning in question, the guard automatically waved the truck through without questioning that Yee had a new helper. Little did he realize that the helper that morning was Detective Chen. Yee had driven to the back of the house, and parked his truck next to the rose garden. Then Chen and Yee had unloaded their lawnmowers and started cutting the lawn. Later they loaded two large plastic bags of grass clippings into the back of the truck.

While they were busy pruning the rose bushes, the Triad chief emerged from the back of the mansion. When planning the venture, Yee had told Chen that the Triad chief never varied his routine. He always took a morning walk in his rose garden, then sat for a time in his gazebo.

The Triad didn't notice Chen working his way toward the gazebo. Grabbing the Triad from behind, Chen had located a pressure point behind his temple, which when pressed rendered him unconscious, then a sedative was administered to assure that he would stay that way. Yee then helped Chen place the unconscious figure beneath the bags of grass clippings. The drive out of the estate was as uneventful as their entrance.

Detective Teng was waiting for the truck when it arrived at Tse's estate. The unconscious Triad was given a second precautionary tranquilizer shot before being transfered into a waiting van.

Within an hour the two detectives had the by-now semi- conscious Triad tied to a chair in a room at one of Tse's warehouses near Los Angeles Internatonal Airport.

All the arrangements had been made to spirit the Triad back to Hong Kong, but first they had to honor their commitment to me to provide me with information about Susan McCloskey's murder.

The Triad's initial reluctance to part with any helpful information lasted longer than anticipated. It was only after they relied upon an ancient, but effective, torture technique that he parted with the information.

After Chen completed his story, Teng spoke again. "If you have everything you need, the driver will take you back."

I was more than happy to get out of there, but first I asked Teng what he was going to do with the man in the other room.

"He will be taken back to China within the hour."

I had a sneaking suspicion that there was one piece of cargo that might disappear over the Pacific Ocean. Before leaving I asked if I could call Bill to assure him I was all right. I could see by their faces that no one was all that thrilled, which was understandable given the shape of the guy in the next room. To set everyone's mind at ease, I told them I had no objection if they listened to my conversation.

Bill answered on the first ring. I told him that I was fine and would be leaving in a few minutes. As an afterthought I added, "I'm looking forward to being back with you and Bilbo." I hoped Bill deciphered the message and Bilbo would be there when I arrived. It was important that we get into the Triad's house as quickly as possible.

I shook hands goodbye with the two detectives and tried not to think about the slumping figure in the next room.

This time when the mask was handed to me I donned it without a comment before being whisked out to the waiting Lincoln. Unlike the earlier trip, the bodyguard and driver carried on a conversation in Chinese. There was also quite a bit of laughter, although I failed to see what was so funny. I knew I would never forget what I had seen,. It guaranteed that if I ever visited China I sure as hell wouldn't break any laws.

Maybe it was the constant chatter, but the return trip didn't seem to take as long. I knew when we arrived back on the Peninsula, and soon we were back at Bill's. This time my mask was taken off inside the car, and I was let out of the vehicle down the street rather than at the front of the condo.

Bilbo's unmarked police car was in one of the guest parking spots.

I had just put my hand on the doorknob when a visibly relieved Bill opened it from the inside. "God, I'm glad you're back."

I had never been called God before, but I sure thanked him when I felt the warmth within the room.

Standing in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips was Bilbo and an older thinner man who I hadn't seen since the crime scene at the McCloskey house. I shook hands with Bilbo as he turned toward the other man and introduced him as Greg Wilson, his chief.

I didn't bother to sit. "You guys ready to solve your crime? When you get the warrant to search that house on Via Coronel, you've got yourself an arrest."

The Chief answered sarcastically, "We'll get a warrant if you have something that will convince a Judge, so if you don't mind we'd also like to know who we are going to arrest?"

I resisted the urge to milk the situation and replied immediately. "The husband. Who else?"

Neither policeman said a word. Both just stood with the same blank look on their faces.

"Sit for a moment," I told them, heading for my favorite spot on the couch, "and I'll tell you what I have. But speed is of the essence here."

Bilbo took a seat beside me, the Chief took Bill's favorite chair, and Bill sat on a cushion on the floor.

I started with the obvious, referring to the last article I wrote explaining the Triads. I tied in the accidentI had following the Asian woman to the house on Via Coronel, explaining how that had led to my guess that the Triad leader, or chief, whatever you wanted to call him, lived in that house. Then I told them about the two Hong Kong detectives who had come into the country to find him after I had sent a picture that had been given to me to Hong Kong for identification. The Police Chief asked me where I got the picture. I hid behind the "I can't disclose my sources" argument.

I went on to tell them that the Hong Kong detectives had spirited the Triad leader out of the country, but before they did, they grilled him, at my request, about the murder. During the interrogation, he had implicated McCloskey and told them where to find the evidence that would prove McCloskey's involvement in his wife's murder.

I retrieved copies of the information I had gotten from the County Recorder's office. Chief Wilson took the official looking paper the motherly clerk had given me, looked it over and handed it to Bilbo.

"You'll notice," I said, "that the house the Triad leader lives in is in McCloskey's name. That's when I first suspected that he was either involved in his wife's death, or knew who was responsible for it, and why."

"There's no law against owning a house and letting someone else live in it," Bilbo remarked.

What a stupid comment, I thought. Chief Wilson's facial expression after Bilbo's remark showed that he agreed with mine.

"But add to it his having dinner at the Admiral Risty with the woman who lives in the house of a notorious underworld character while his wife's body is still warm, and even an amateur like myself begins to get suspicious."

I handed Chief Wilson the envelope that Carleton Yang had given me about the fingerprints of the woman McCloskey had been with at the Admiral Risty. I explained how I got them.

Wilson couldn't believe it. "They're the same fingerprints as the murdered woman."

"That's right, and that's why I knew that McCloskey was a key player in his wife's death. He gave me articles that supposedly were only touched by his wife."

"But why would he do that?" Bilbo asked. "It doesn't make any sense."

"Sure it does," the Chief said. "The Triad's mistress is here under an assumed identity, but she can't change her fingerprints, so here's a perfect opportunity to die and have the prints purged from police records."

"Exactly" I interjected. "Just a little insurance policy to bury her forever."

For the first time since I started, Bill commented that it was an insurance policy that would be regretted for a long time by everyone concerned.

Bilbo still wasn't satisfied. I could see it on his face, so I asked what was wrong.

His reply was, "I still don't understand why Susan McCloskey was killed. What was the motive?"

"I surmised from both the amount of cash in the wife's bank account, and what was found in her office, that she got too Americanized and ambitious and demanded more of the profits from their little smuggling ring."

"What smuggling ring? This is the first I've heard of a smuggling ring." Bilbo furrowed his brow and looked directly at me. "How do you know about the safe deposit box and what was in the files at the travel agency? We didn't find any cash there."

I had to resort to telling him part of the truth. "McCloskey told me about the cash, and the Hong Kong detectives told me tonight about the reason she was eliminated."

I continued with the story. "Chen told me that Jung, the Triad leader, told them that bringing in illegal aliens and giving them false identities was Susan Wong's idea. She was his mistress's niece and had run a travel agency in Hong Kong. She was bankrolled by the Triad to set up a travel business in the States. From her previous dealings with U.S. authorities, she knew that once a person got into the States there was little to no accounting for their whereabouts. Knowing that Congress was about to pass a law that made it mandatory for the U.S. Immigration Department to track foreign visitors and assure that they didn't stay in the country, she was anxious to make as much money as fast as she could before the law took effect.

"Since she also handled travel arrangements for United States citizens of Chinese ancestry going to Hong Kong and then into mainland China to visit relatives, it was a simple matter to pull past files, subscribe to newspapers in outlying areas that had Chinese -American communities, and read the obituaries. The families of the dead, whose identities they took, wouldn't say anything for fear their relatives back in their native provinces would be punished.

"The scheme worked so well that the Triad leader, who at the time feared the Communist takeover of Hong Kong, decided to use it for himself to transfer his base of operations to the U.S.

"Marrying McCloskey was also a calculated move by Susan. She thought someone in the airline business would be helpful in illegal alien smuggling, and later, drug smuggling. In addition, she needed to find a front person to purchase items, such as the house in Palos Verdes, so the Triad leader would remain anonymous. She was smart, but her ambition eventually did her in.

"The Triad leader didn't know what information she could take to the U.S. authorities for him to be deported back to a country where sure death awaited him. By making McCloskey arrange to kill his wife, he had a permanent hold on him. A bonus with Susan out of the way was that McCloskey could search for any damaging evidence the Triad leader thought Susan Wong had.

"Like all thieves, the leader didn't trust anyone, which is why he arranged the break-in at the travel agency offices to get the files. They contained the names of all the people brought into the country who, incidentally, the gang continued to blackmail. Those poor bastards would be paying for the rest of their lives for fear they would be deported. A pretty nice racket. One the Triad couldn't let an ambitious woman screw up."

When I finished, the room was silent as everyone absorbed what I had just outlined in detail.

Bilbo started to say something, but his Chief silenced him. Finally, the Chief turned to him and said, "I think we have enough for a warrant."

As they were leaving I cornered the Chief. "There is one more thing I forgot to tell you."

Both policemen stopped in their tracks.

I dropped my calculated bomb. "I happen to know exactly where to find the one piece of evidence the DA will need to tie the noose, and I will be happy to lead you to it. But Bill and I have to go with you."

*

Two hours later, at exactly 12.56 AM, we were following three Palos Verdes Estates police cars and one Sheriff's car up Via Coronel. When we arrived at the estate, the gates were locked, but we could see lights in the house.

Bilbo found the intercom and pushed the lighted button. He had to push it several times before a female voice responded.

After identifying himself, and stating that he had a search warrrant to enter the premises, I checked my watch. It was 1:02 AM.

At 1:06 we watched as two Chinese men in jumpsuits came toward us in an electric golf cart. Seeing the police cars with their overhead lights on, the men quickly unlocked the gates and swung them open without checking the warrant Bilbo was holding out for them to see.

Even in the dark, the entrance to the house was imposing. The Italian Cypresses that lined the drive seemed more monumental when silhouetted against a full moon. As we drove up the driveway, I couldn't help but remember the pathetic figure I had seen earlier in the evening and think how far the mighty can fall.

My thoughts were interrupted when we arrived at the front of the house. The teak double doors were flung open to reveal the woman who had been with Tom McCloskey at the Admiral Risty Restaurant. I didn't hear what Bilbo said, but I saw him thrust the search warrant in her face and brush her aside as he entered the house in advance of Chief Wilson and three sheriff's deputies, since the area is in their jurisdiction.

When I entered the massive foyer, I didn't have a chance to admire the paintings hanging on the walls. Bilbo instantly demanded that I lead the way.

I looked around the room to locate the woman. She was having a spirited conversation with Chief Wilson yelling. cursing and swinging her arms in every direction. I hated to interrupt the tirade. It's not often I witnessed a police chief getting his butt chewed out. I think Bilbo shared my sentiments because, when I glanced over at him, I could see him staring at the two with a barely disguised smile on his face.

When I worked up enough courage to get between the Chief and the woman she quieted down enough to turn her attention to me and utter "Yes," with pure venom.

I asked her to show me to Mr. Jung's study. I could tell by the change in her facial expression that I had thrown her off balance. Or maybe she just ran out of English curse words. Either way, I got her attention, especially when I addressed her as Miss Ching. her real name.

Her eyes widened, and her mouth dropped open. She tuned abruptly on her heels and tersly said, "Follow me."

Following her down the hall and up a flight of stairs wasn't exactly a chore. This woman made Susan Wong, who was beautiful even in death, look like a middle-aged, over-worked chambermaid. She had more curves under her black-lace robe than San Francisco's Lombard Street, which is billed as the crookedest street in the world.

Watching the rhythmic sway of her hips as she went up the stairs, made me think that if they arrested her I'd volunteer to have her paroled in my custody.

At the top of the steps she had to wait for the middle-aged men to catch up; she then proceeded down a long hallway. It was like a corridor in a major hotel with doors on either side. Several doors were cracked open with faces peering out.

I turned and commented, "There must be dozens of people here."

The woman replied. "There are eighteen people living here, if you must know. This floor is for family only. There are twelve family members. The servants live on the ground floor in another wing."

"And which part of the house do you live in?"

By that time we were at the end of the hall. She pointed to a door at the right. "That is my room."

"And where is Mr. Jung's room?"

"It is there." She pointed to the door at the end of the hall. "Next to mine."

Bilbo spoke from behind us. "And I'll bet the rooms are adjoining."

She ignored the remark and pointed to the doorway to the left of the Master bedroom. "There is the study. It is locked and I don't have a key."

By that time Bilbo had pushed his way forward. "Are you going to tell us where the key is, or are we going to have to bust the door down?"

She turned toward Jung's bedroom door. "I'll get the key."

Bilbo motioned to one of the uniformed officers to follow.

When Chief Wilson caught up to us, Bilbo told him that she was getting a key and remarked, "You notice she hasn't asked where Jung is?"

Wilson turned his attention to me. "How did they grab this guy?"

"I have no idea. I can't even tell you what he was wearing. He could have had pajamas on for all I know."

While we were talking, we heard movement in the study. The door opened and we all tried to squeeze through the door at the same time.

Once inside, I stopped to get my bearings. When the Triad Leader had told me where the safe was, he hadn't been very coherent. He said it was behind the bookcase.

I saw that behind a table, similar to the one in the travel office, was a wall-to-wall built in bookcase. I pointed to it and said, "We're looking for a safe behind a bookcase.

Bilbo ordered his uniforms to take a look.

The efficient officers located the safe behind the books within minutes.

The woman cried out, "You can't go in there." She made an attempt to grab one of the officers arms.

The other officer grabbed her from behind and wrestled her away. Bilbo directed him to get her out of the vicinity but not to take her far.

The officer who found the safe, swung the door opened. "It's not latched."

Bilbo, Chief Wilson and I all moved around the table at the same time. "Look for a picture. He told me all I needed to see was a picture."

We all deferred to Chief Wilson who pulled out several eight-and -a-half by eleven-inch brown manila envelopes one by one, handing them back to Bilbo.

When the safe was empty, Bilbo took them over to the table and examined their contents.

We found what we were looking for in the third envelope. A picture of McCloskey holding a jar containing his dead wife's ear and poodle's ear.

Wilson looked over at me. "You do good work. We owe you. This will pretty well wrap up this case." He told Bilbo to go pick McCloskey up.

Bilbo was ready to leave when I pulled him aside. "Got a favor to ask of you."

"Name it."

I turned to Bill. "How long will it take to get an edition on the street?"

Bill responded. "We can be on the street by six."

"You heard the man," I said to Bilbo. "Give us until six before you give this to anyone else."

From behind me Wilson answered. "Get going. You got it. If we find anything more after we search the rest of the place we'll let you know."

"Call us at the Digest office," Bill yelled over his shoulder as we dashed out of the study and headed for our car.

*

While Bill was calling his staff, I started writing the ending to a wild couple of weeks.

-

PALOS VERDES ESTATES

POLICE ARREST HUSBAND

IN ASIAN WOMAN'S SLAYING

Early this morning, Palos Verdes Estates Police, led by Detective Rodney Bilbo, arrested Tom McCloskey, husband of Susan Wong-McCloskey, who was found dead two weeks ago.

McCloskey is accused of hiring a paid assassin from one of the local Triad gangs operating in the South Bay.

-

It took me over an hour to finish. Bill took another half-hour to proof it. By the time we concluded, we had enough for a full page. It was quite a night's work.

# EPILOGUE

The special edition of the Peninsula Digest hit the streets with a resounding bang. The local public devoured every word. Most people said, "I knew it was him all along." For the second time since we started coverage, the wire services and the local television media picked up the paper's story. By the morning of the second day, it was relegated to a blurb in the mainstream press. By that afternoon, it had been replaced by the latest sex allegation in the nation's capitol.

Of all the people I worked with on the case, the most interesting had been Carleton Yang. I called him a wily old bastard when I left his office for the last time. I said that because the picture I saw behind his desk was of a young man in a cap and gown at a university graduation ceremony, inscribed to "dear uncle." The picture was of our friend, Special Agent Sun Fu Yee.

As soon as I saw that I knew I was set up. When I talked with Yee later, he admitted that his uncle had arranged the office bugging for my benefit so I would make demands. This would force him to intercede with the Hong Kong detectives on my behalf to get the information I needed.

Whey did he go to such lengths? Simple. The Elders wanted to stonewall me because of what I had written earlier. The meeting I listened in on had an agenda meant for my ears. Carleton Yang couldn't lie to them and work with me against their wishes. He was too honorable for that, so he had to find a way where they would have no choice.

The empty office we were using was leased by Yang, so it had been a simple thing for his nephew to transfer the equipment from an actual tap that had just been concluded to set up the charade.

One enormous tragedy was the death of Sidney Lu. His digging for facts to help me led to his death. The Triad had ordered it, strangely enough, because they didn't want to be attached to the DNC campaign contribution investigation.

No one ever found out who the mysterious "L" was in Susan Wong's appointment book. I have to admit that I had some nagging thoughts about who it might have been, and if my meeting with Lucinda had been accidental. Fearing the worst, and not wanting to know, I never asked her.

I went back to Chicago, but fully intended to take Bill up on his offer and relocate back to Southern California. The weather is great, and Lucinda is still available and willing.

I was going back to quit my job, and hoped to make a living freelancing. I haven't made the move yet, but I have made up my mind to adopt a more healthful lifestyle. Or at least try.

The End

# _

James R. Snedden draws on a very diversified background as settings for his stories. From humble beginnings in the rural midwest, where he attended a one- room schoolhouse, to European and Far Eastern capitals as an international business executive, along with writing a syndicated newspaper column, and a university instructor, James has a unique perspective from which to base his stories. Since moving to Tucson, Arizona more than a decade ago, James now devotes full-time to writing fiction novels.

Follow Jeremy in James Snedden's next mystery thriller, OSTARA NIGHT, Death of a Coven. When nine members of a Wiccan coven are found dead in the Sonoran Desert of Arizona, the local sheriff declares in a mass suicide. Jeremy now an investigative reporter for Crime Magazine, delves deeper into the beliefs of the Wiccans to prove otherwise. Motives and suspects are in abundance, but opportunity is not apparent until the shocking climax.

# OSTARA NIGHT, Death of a Coven
Prologue

The speeding car left a cloud of dust in its wake as it raced to beat the rapidly disappearing Sonoran Desert sun. It was important for the High Priestess of the Coven of the Earth Mother to arrive at the sacred covenstead before dark to prepare the circle. Not only was tonight an Esbat, a special night when the moon was full, but the coven was going to celebrate Ostara, the Spring Equinox, with a fertility feast honoring the reawakening sexuality of the earth after her winter's sleep—the beginning of the Pagan New Year.

The covenstead was on an old farm in a natural clearing among native mesquite trees, where their rituals would be in harmony with Mother Nature. On the ground, the sacred circle was clearly defined, with painted stones marking each quarter of the compass: green signified north, yellow was east, red was south, and blue was west. At the north end was a plain wooden altar wearing the weathered look of an old barn. For tonight's Ostara ritual, the altar would be relocated to the east.

After placing the altar over the yellow stone, she removed a simple, desert tan cotton cloth from a locked chest she carried in the trunk of her car, and reverently draped it over the top of the altar.

A bed of dry grass, crowned with a pentagram made of twigs, was placed in the center of the altar between two white candles in multi-colored Talavera candleholders. A standard three-ringed binder, containing the coven's Book of Shadows, was placed directly behind the pentagram. Occupying the north corner of the altar was a wand made of a Saguaro cactus rib.

In the center of the circle resided a firepit outlined with river rocks, over which the high priestess placed a tripod suspending a small cast iron pot, which would contain the evening's sacred potion.

After completing the ritual circle, the high priestess returned to her car where she retrieved two cages, each containing a rabbit, one male and one female.

Her preparatory tasks achieved, she sat on the ground in front of the altar to begin her private purification ceremony that would put her conscious mind at ease, enabling her to better communicate with her subconscious.

She was in this semi hypnotic state when the cars containing other members of the coven began to enter the area. Some members immediately took places where the sacred circle would be cast and began their own quiet meditation. Others examined the altar and the fire before taking their places. No one spoke! All, however, cleansed their minds through individual meditation. Unlike some other covens, whose members performed group activities, such as chanting and dancing, to purify themselves, the Coven of the Earth Mother preferred quiet individual contemplation to achieve a state of calm and peace.

When it was time to cast the sacred circle, the high priestess picked up the wand and, pointing it like a laser, walked clockwise around the inner perimeter of the circle as the others quietly fell in behind her.

Once in front of the altar to start their second journey around the circle, the group broke their silence and began to chant: "We cast this circle for protection against all energies, both positive and negative and forces that harm us. In the name of the Goddess we call only those energies for love to emerge."

On their third circuit, they chanted, "The sacred place is now created."

Completing their march, the individual coven members took places around the perimeter to begin the evening's sacrament.

Now that the circle was closed, no one would be allowed out of it until the conclusion of the ceremonies, when they would walk the circumference in a counterclockwise direction.

*

Ironically, the last earthly sound heard by the nine coven members gathered to commemorate a new beginning, was the distant yipping of coyotes celebrating a kill.

*

Cochise County Detective Sergeant Angel Martinez didn't mind getting called out in the middle of the night; it was the 70-mile drive from Bisbee to Cascabel he hated. Vince Polatanno, his partner and the other detective on call, was snoring peacefully in the passenger's seat of the SUV as it sped North up route 80 towards Benson, where they were to meet a deputy from the substation who would escort them to the crime scene.

Before leaving the Cochise County Sheriff's main office in Bisbee, all they had been told was that nine people were found dead in some sort of satanic ritual in the Cascabel area, and to get their butts in gear and get over there. The patrolling deputy had secured the crime scene and was now being assisted by additional deputies from the Benson substation. The Medical Examiner in Sierra Vista had already been alerted, so presumably she also was on the way. Sammy Chin, Cochise County's only Crime Scene Tech, also had been called, and, with Sammy's devotion to his job, would be there taking pictures and measurements before Martinez and Polatanno arrived.

They had already gone through Tombstone and were five miles outside the small hamlet of St. David before Polatanno stirred. By the time they picked up the escort and were on what passed for a secondary road in Southern Arizona, Polatanno was awake and bitching that all the shaking was going to make him pee his pants. Martinez ignored his pleading. He was having enough trouble following the deputy driving ahead of him. The asshole was driving like a maniac, forgetting, or not giving a damn, that Martinez couldn't see shit through all the dust billowing from behind the lead car. He made a note to have a little talk with the wiseass after they arrived at their destination.

Dawn was breaking when they arrived at the covenstead. Neither detective was in a very good mood: Martinez from eating dust for the past ten miles, and Polatanno because Martinez wouldn't stop by the side of the road to let him pee.

Parking the SUV outside the yellow crime scene tape, they put latex gloves on their hands before exiting the vehicle. "Damn, I hate these things," Martinez remarked, as he opened the car door. Polatanno just grumbled something inaudible as he exited the passenger's side and rushed toward the bushes for a pit stop.

The two detectives stopped short of the ring of stones to get an overview of the scene. "Nothing's been touched, right?" Martinez asked sullenly, as he turned to the uniformed sergeant who met them as they got out of the car.

"Of course, Angel, we know how to do our job," he replied, matching the detective's sarcastic tone. He too was pissed, not because he was in bed and called out, for he was the duty sergeant, but it meant he probably couldn't leave at the end of his shift and he had promised his kids to take them riding. "Sammy's been on the job for a half hour already and I have deputies waking up all the farmers in the area to find out if they saw or heard anything last night."

"Who called it in?"

"Don't know. All the 911 operator could say was that it was a male with a Spanish accent. He didn't identify himself."

"Probably a civic minded illegal passing through," Martinez replied with more civility in his voice after the sergeant's retort.

"I doubt that. The nearest pay phone is two miles down the road, and the only aliens with cell phones are the coyotes," he responded, referring to those who smuggle undocumented immigrants across the border into the United States.

"What else can you tell me?"

"Well, as you can see when you get around to looking at the bodies," he couldn't resist the dig, knowing that Martinez usually left the task of examining dead bodies to whomever he was working with at the time, "they're all stark naked, and before that they were only wearing long brown robes, like monks. We found their clothes in the parked cars. They must have all driven here in their street clothes, and changed into their robes at the cars before walking into that circle of stones."

"Barefoot in this area?"

"No, they all wore sandals or thongs, the kind you buy at Wal-Mart for two-ninety-nine."

"Any identification?"

"Nine bodies, nine current Arizona driver's licenses. They all lived in Tucson."

"In Tucson? That's a long way to come to kill yourself."

"A little early to make that determination, isn't it, detective?"

"Trust me, I have a nose for these things. It's one of those cult things where they all send themselves off into a better life in the hereafter."

"If that's the case, it's a crappy way to start the trip. The way they're laying in there they didn't die painlessly."

While Martinez and the sergeant were talking, Polatanno was examining the crime scene. He went from body to body, checking each as thoroughly as possible without disturbing the area, even though Sammy had completed his photography and meticulous measurements. Had he heard the sergeant's remark about not dying painlessly he would have agreed with him. Most of the dead were still grasping their necks when they died, and the few who weren't had marks or scratches where their fingernails had cut into throats searching for air.

There was no doubt that they had all died by drinking poison. A cup was on the ground near each body, and there was a cast iron pot with liquid in it, on a tripod over a still-smoldering open fire in the center of the circle of stones.

Polatanno took his own picture of the altar at the outer edge of the circle to study when he got back to Bisbee. At that point Polatanno was as convinced as Martinez that he was looking at the result of a cult's mass suicide. Only a bunch of stupid amateurs would pick a poison that gave them convulsions rather than something clean and fast, like cyanide.

By the time Polatanno had made the rounds of the bodies, and Martinez had procrastinated as long as possible, the Medical Examiner and her team had arrived.

"Better call the County Attorney's Office," Polatanno reminded Martinez, "you know Morrison wants to check out the crime scene on all high profile cases, and nine bodies lying around naked will certainly qualify. This one'll not only make the wires, it'll be on CNN."

"I'll call him from the car. He's probably already in the office. Right now we had better get back to Benson and get on the phone before some surprised husband finds out from the morning news why his wife didn't come home last night." The two detectives retrieved the cult members' identification and headed back to the Benson substation for the unenviable job of locating and notifying next of kin.

"What do think, Vince?" Martinez asked, as the SUV pulled out of the lane to the farm.

"Probably just what it looks like, a bunch of kooks who knocked themselves off."

"Anything hit you that would point to anything else?"

"Nothing yet. Maybe when we get the ME's report something will come up, but I didn't notice anything suspicious, and neither did Sammy. It was poison pure and simple; no visible signs of anything else. What about you?"

"I have a problem regarding who called the thing in. The sergeant told me that 911 said it was someone with a heavy Spanish accent. We'll have to get the tape and hear it for ourselves."

All of a sudden Martinez shouted, "Damn!"

Startled, Polatanno bolted upright in his seat, "What?"

"I forgot to ream out that friggin' deputy that made me eat his friggin' dust all the way from Benson."

