Telling Lies

Chapter Twenty

“What?” Mike asked. “The kid has a long white beard?”

“No. Paix is a very nice-looking young man.” I took Mike’s arm. “He is also very Asian.”

“So? This tells you something?”

“Yes. It means Marc was not Paix’s father.”

Mike drew away to give me a narrow-eyed glare. “I’m lost. Could you back it up a little?”

“Celeste inferred that Marc fathered her son.”

“And you believed her?”

“Never. I remember what Marc used to say about Celeste. He had no interest in her. Marc could be a wild man, but he was cast in a Beau Geste mold. He believed in true love.”

“But you believed her enough to worry about it.”

“To think about the implications, anyway.” I sat on the base of Sun Yat-sen’s statue. “What Garth said about Celeste was true: she’s full of shit.”

“The things that come out of your mouth,” he tsk’ed. He quickly grew serious again. “Just watch your backside. She’s a powerful woman in this town, and she has a bad reputation for the means she uses to get her own way.”

I looked up at him. “For example?”

“I’ve heard stories.” He shrugged. “Why do you say she’s full of it?”

“She told me this sad tale about how she enrolled Paix in an exclusive preschool, but when he showed up, the place was suddenly full. The little guy, she said, had been a victim of conspiracy-someone had gotten to the school.”

“You don’t buy it?”

I started to shake my head, but it was throbbing, so I thought better of it. “Maybe Paix didn’t get into the school. I can think of more ordinary reasons why that might have happened. We’re talking twenty years ago. Here’s the equation: single mother with a bad rep, fatherless Asian child, high-dollar baby school. Can you make succotash out of that?”

“Maybe not.”

I looked up at Mike. “Where was Celeste when Emily was shot?”

“All over town, getting ready for her party. We can’t pin her down very well. No one close to her will give us a goddamn thing.”

“Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

“A lot of things make me wonder.” He stood up and offered his hand. “Let’s go get you an ice pack.”

“I thought we were going to skulk around the wishing well and Hop Louie’s for a while.”

He shrugged. “No need. The area has been staked out since the shooting.”

“Then why did you say you would meet me here?”

He grinned. “Because it’s where you said you would be.” I stood up too fast and made myself woozy.

“You okay?” Mike asked.

“Yes.” I took a deep breath and walked beside him, trying not to jar my head. “I like your new tie. The hula dancer is just true art.”

“Thanks. I like it, too. Made me think all day about where my other tie was.”

We were just passing Hop Louie’s on our way over to Hill Street. I turned to look over my shoulder toward the mouth of the alley where Emily had been shot. I had walked past the same spot maybe half a dozen times in the last couple of days. Though I had given it considerable thought, I hadn’t been able to bring myself to go into the alley and see for myself where it had happened. In my mind’s eye, I saw Emily lying there among the crates of trash, alone, in the rain. It may sound spooky and superstitious, but I believe I felt she was still in there.

Mike had my hand. He, also, was looking down the alley. “I’ll show you, if you want.”

“Not yet,” I said. “It’s pretty dark in there.”

“No it isn’t.” He tugged a little. “You’ll feel better if you look, Maggie. Let’s get it over with.”

He was already walking. I could have kept going right on toward Hill Street, but I followed him as far as the mouth of the alley. I stopped to tuck in my shirt. I looked up at the sky to make sure it wasn’t going to start raining anytime soon. I remembered three or four phone calls I had to make that really could not wait a few more minutes.

Mike stopped opposite Hop Louie’s back door and waited. “Don’t be afraid. There’s really nothing to see.”

“For crying out loud,” I said. “I am not afraid.”

“Then get to steppin’.”

I ventured in. The alley was just like any alley behind a restaurant. There wasn’t room for a dumpster. Instead, there were lots of full trash cans, a stack of wood-slat lettuce crates, a couple of up-ended milk crates surrounded by cigarette butts, some broken Naugahyde chairs. Pots clattering inside the kitchen covered most of the street noise.

“Where did it happen?” I asked.

“Down here.” Mike walked on past the door to a small nook where the alley made a dogleg. He moved a couple of boxes and stood in the angle. “This is where she was found. A couple of busboys came out for a smoke and found her in a heap. The boss tells them all the time to keep bums from sleeping back here because they make a mess that gets him in trouble with the health department. So they came over to get her to move along.”

“Did they know her?” I asked.

“She was the doc,” he said matter-of-factly. “They took good care of her until the paramedics came, put a cover over her to keep the rain off.”

He crossed the narrow alley and ran his hand along the back wall of the opposite building, a china shop. He laid his finger next to a spot where a chip had been gouged out of the stucco.

“See this?” he asked. “It looks like a bullet impact. Emily was shot at fairly close range; we saw significant gunpowder tattooing on the skin, scorching of the hair around the wound. The bullet made a through and through wound to the head, and still had enough juice left to ding the wall here. A slug, looked like a.38, was recovered from the pavement. There was very little bleeding, virtually no other physical evidence.”

I went back and sat down on one of the up-ended milk crates. I did some more deep breathing, but I was okay. It was just another alley after all, and I felt terribly let down. There was no stain on the pavement where Emily had been found. The bullet impact on the wall was nothing. For all the damage that had been done, all the pain, there wasn’t enough to show for it. I thought there should be a wreath, at least.

“Thanks, Mike,” I said.

“Anything else I can do?” he asked.

“Tell me what you see here with your trained eye.”

“It’s what I can’t see. Come here.” He gestured me over to the angle in the wall. “Take a look. From here, you can’t see either end of the alley, right? And unless someone comes out the kitchen door, no one can see you, either. The shooter did his homework, picked a good spot.”

“You think it was a local?”

He shrugged. “It’s easy homework. The trick is getting Emily in here.”

“Not much of a trick for a friend to pull off, is it?”

“You’re right.” He took my hand again. “Seen enough? Or would you like to sit here for a while longer?”

I took a last careful look around. Mike had been right to get me into the alley. Emily was not there. A kitchen worker came out and dumped a pot of cabbage ends into a can. He glanced up at us as he tried to force the lid back down.

“Think he speaks English?” I asked Mike. “Maybe he saw something.”

“Maggie, he’s been questioned. Everyone has been questioned.”

“May I see their statements?”

“No need.” He put an arm around my shoulders and impelled me back out toward Gin Ling Way. “Maggie, the answer will not be found in fingerprints, or eyewitnesses, or sock fibers left at the scene. We won’t need any of that until we get to court. If we get this to court.”

“What are you saying? You aren’t investigating?”

“Of course we are,” he said, with some heat. “I’ve been doing this work for a lot of years. I’ve learned a thing or two. I know that the vast, vast majority of murder victims know their killers. Emily knew her killer. Right now, in the county morgue, a forensic pathologist is trying to identify the burned corpse of the person who took a shot at you this afternoon. When he makes that ID, it will be someone you know. And when we figure out who, why will follow right along.”

“You’re saying all we can do is wait for the pathologist.”

“We have to wait.” He smiled slyly as he ran his hand down my back. “But that’s not all we can do.”

“You’re a pushy guy, Flint.”

“Trust me,” he said. “Go home. Close your eyes and think about what you know, and you’ll get a whole lot closer to the truth than you ever would reading police reports.”

“If I close my eyes, I’ll go to sleep.”

Caesar, with his dog dragging behind, accosted us when we were about halfway across Hill Street.

“Evenin’ pretty lady. How’s it hangin’, officer?”

Mike started for his pocket, but I stayed his hand.

“So, Caesar,” I said. “Have you had dinner yet?”

“I was just about thinkin’ about it.”

“Why don’t you join us?” I said. If looks could kill, Mike…

Caesar seemed incredibly suspicious. He looked askance at both of us. “What is it you have in mind?”

“Dinner,” I said. “Chinese noodles of some kind. Please, be our guest.”

“You’re not thinkin’ nothin’, you know, about after dinner, the whole three of us?”

“Just dinner,” I said, smiling like Emily Post. “We’ve come to be such good friends, I’d like to show you some family photos. That’s all.”

Caesar still seemed suspicious, but he capitulated. Mike was still looking daggers.

“What are you up to?” Mike rasped in my ear.

“Maybe you wouldn’t mind picking up a nice bottle of wine,” I said. “What goes with noodles?”

Caesar was finally smiling again. “I like a little wine with dinner. Up at the Center, they don’t serve nothin’.”

“We’ll see,” Mike said, sticking close to me.

The vile graffiti on Mrs. Lim’s front wall had been painted out. The heavy-cover paint wasn’t exactly the same color as the original, but it was a definite improvement. Caesar looped the dog’s clothesline leash over the rail along the front steps and ordered it to stay. The dog lay down and closed its eyes.

Once again, Mrs. Lim must have been lying in wait. As soon as I bolted the front door, she was out of her apartment. She didn’t seem very happy to see Caesar, but she said nothing about him. I knew that Emily brought people home all the time.

“New door,” she said, handing me a small brown envelope. “New key.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Send the repair bill to me.”

She waved me off, went back into her apartment and locked her own door.

The new key fit the new door smoothly.

“Caesar, Mike, make yourselves comfortable,” I said as we went inside. Everything was as it should be. And spotlessly clean.

Caesar took off his hat and looked around. “Nice place you have, pretty lady.”

“This is Emily’s apartment.”

“The doc?”

“Yes.”

“Nice-lookin’ shower in there.”

“Caesar,” I said, “would you like to take a shower while I get dinner ready?”

“There a lock on the door?”

“Yes, there is.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

“Wait just one second,” I said. I ducked into the closet and found Em’s navy sweats. They would fit Caesar better than they had fit me. I handed them to him. “There are clean towels on the rack. We’ll be in the next room when you’ve finished.”

As Caesar locked himself in the bathroom, I took Mike by the hand and led him into the sitting room. I sat him on the sofa, straddled his lap, and kissed him. I met no resistance. “Nice,” he said. “But what are you up to?”

“Just what I said. I’d like to show Caesar the family album. You going to get us a bottle of wine?”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea. You shouldn’t have anything if you’re on painkillers. And he shouldn’t have anything, period.”

“Whatever you say.” I kissed his cheek and got up to go heat the noodles.

There was rather more than noodles. Mrs. Lim had made a beautiful chicken chow mein, with a green salad, fried wontons and sweet rice balls. It was more than enough for three. I heated what needed heating, tossed the salad, and found three plates in the cupboard over the sink.

Emily had no kitchen table. I imagined her eating in the living room, as we had been. I set the plates, forks, paper napkins and a pitcher of water on the coffee table.

“Can I help?” Mike asked.

“Yes.” I handed him the photograph of the Honolulu airport meeting that Jaime had given me and an album I had found in the bookcase of Emily’s study. “You know the A list of suspects. See if you can find a picture of each one.”

“Maggie, what were we just talking about down there?”

“What can it hurt?”

When Caesar came out of the shower, I hardly recognized him. He was redolent of Yardley complexion bar, peach-stone shampoo, Colgate toothpaste. I don’t know what he used for a toothbrush-I had been using Emily’s-but I planned to burn whatever was in the rack. With his hair slicked back and his beard groomed, he was a fairly nice-looking man. He padded in on cleanish white socks, preening a bit.

“Caesar,” I said, “why don’t you sit on the sofa beside Mike. Mike wants to show you some pictures.”

I made three trips, bringing in food and water glasses. While I fussed, Caesar went through the photographs like polite company stuck with vacation snaps. I knelt on the floor across the table from them and began to serve the food.

“See anyone you know?” I asked.

“No’m. ‘Cept for the doc.” Caesar took a gulp of his water and shivered all over.

“Sorry,” I said. “We’re all out of wine.”

He was being the considerate guest. He smiled, but I saw that it cost him.

“You don’t recognize anyone else?” Mike asked.

“No,” Caesar said, nudging a picture of Rod Peebles with the end of his fork.” ’Cept maybe him. Take off his hair, an’ he look like this dude keep runnin’ for boss aroun’ here. Keep his picture up all over town.”

“That’s how you know him?” I asked. “From his political billboards?”

Caesar nodded as he stuffed his mouth with chow mein. “Like you say. From his signs.”

“Maggie.” Mike grinned. “Like I say, just close your eyes and think.”

“Caesar, have some more rice,” I said. I pushed a nice full-face shot of Celeste closer to his plate. He looked at her, smiled, and popped a whole rice ball into his mouth.

Mike was looking very smug. He finished his chow mein; then he leaned back on the sofa and grinned at me. “You’re quite a cook.”

I glared at him. “I think I’m getting a headache.”

“Chinese food sometime’ give me a headache, too,” Caesar said. “Pretty lady, think there might be some extra I could take down to my dog?”

“Yes.” I got up. “I’ll wrap some for you.”

“Excuse me, pal,” Mike said. He picked up his plate and followed me into the kitchen. While I picked chicken bits out of the chow mein for the dog, he leaned against the sink beside me.

“Who did you think he’d recognize?” Mike asked.

“The man with the skinny nose. The woman who walked the walk.”

“They’re old pictures. I’m surprised he knew Rod.”

“Rod cheats,” I said. “I saw one of his billboards today. He uses old pictures and has them airbrushed. As Caesar said, take off the hair and they look the same.”

A buzzer went off somewhere close by, and I jumped. First I checked the oven timer; then I looked around for an alarm clock.

“It’s me,” Mike said. He pulled off his pager and checked the readout. “Borrow the phone?”

“Try the study.” I wrapped the chicken and carried it in to Caesar.

“How was your dinner?” I asked.

“An elegant sufficiency,” he said, grinning.

“I hope your dog likes this.”

“Thank you,” he said, rising to take the bowl from me. “You were real nice to ask me in.”

“My pleasure. I hope we didn’t bore you with the pictures.”

“Just one thing,” he said. He set down the bowl and began rummaging through the pictures scattered among the dishes. Mike came in from the study with a deep, serious expression on his face.

“That was Bronkowski,” he said. “The coroner called in. They’re still working on the ID, but they found something tangled with the body that was interesting.”

“What?” I said.

“It was really charred and they had some trouble cleaning it up enough to read, had to use the infrared in the end.”

“Mike.” I was out of patience. “What was it?”

“Dogtags.”

Caesar tapped my arm, and when I turned, he handed me a snapshot. I took it without looking at it.

“Mike,” I said, with some heat. “Whose?”

“Marc Duchamps, USMC.”

“Say that again?” I said.

Caesar was pulling on my sleeve. “See him?”

“Who?” I snapped.

“That’s him who I saw at the wishin’ well that time. I told you, he was lookin’ for the doc.”

I held up the picture. Caesar had handed me a snapshot Marc had sent from Vietnam. He was snapped standing in the jungle, in the rain, with his face grinning out of an olive drab poncho. I had never noticed before how thin his nose was.