The Dark Root

26

Honest Ed's Tool amp; Pipe looked as odd as it sounded. Set back from the road, hemmed in on both sides by a crush of prefabricated retail outlets, Ed’s appeared as either the cause of it all-the first and oldest roadside store along what had become an endless commercial strip-or a theatrically overdone attempt to go back in time to the “good-old days.” It was a wooden building with white peeling walls and enormous, dusty, plate-glass windows, crammed with junk either needing replacement, or at least a good cleaning. Over the front door-each letter highlighted by a trail of neon tubing as garish in color as the latest tricolor toothpaste-was a huge sign advertising Ed’s name. It was a helpful if unattractive addition, given that, without it, Ed’s might have been mistaken for anything from a closed pawn shop to a holding station for rejected tag-sale items.

It was true, however, that despite its antiquity and its almost militant anti-asceticism, Ed’s did fit in. Route 7, south of Burlington-the same Route 7 that blemished Rutland farther down the road-was one of South Burlington’s major arteries, and yet another perfect example of a “miracle mile” run amok.

I pulled into the pot-holed parking lot, reached back in for my ever-expanding mug-shot book, and headed for Ed’s front door.

Considering the cluttered windows, I was surprised by the spaciousness inside. The broad, bare wooden floors were free of the piles of junk I’d expected, and the long counter facing me was surmounted by colorful advertising posters. Parked along its polished surface were small displays of drill bits and screwdrivers and behind it endless racks of gleaming, heavy-duty tools, many of a size suitable for your average offshore oil rig. In the distance, vanishing into the gloom, were row upon row of stacked metal pipes.

A pot-bellied, red-faced, white-haired man stood near the register looking at me, his hands flat on the counter like a bartender between clients. “Help you?”

“Yeah-is Greg Binder here?”

There was a moment’s hesitation, the eyes as cool as the smile beneath it was friendly. “Sure. He done something wrong?”

“You Ed Binder?”

“Yup. Who’re you?”

I showed him my identification. “United States Deputy Marshal. I’d like to ask him some questions.”

A look of weariness crossed his face. “Oh, boy. What’s he done now?”

“That’s why I want to talk to him.”

He nodded slightly and chewed his bottom lip briefly. “Okay.”

He turned around and bellowed toward the back of the building, his voice reverberating among the metal racks. “Greg.”

There was the bang of a door, the sound of something heavy being dropped on the floor, and the scuffing sound of sneakers shuffling their way toward us. From out of the darkness came a short, skinny man in his early twenties, disheveled and acne-scarred. As soon as he saw me-and his uncle’s expression-he stopped in his tracks.

“What’s wrong?”

“Good question,” Ed Binder answered. “This man’s a Deputy U.S. Marshal. Wants to talk to you.”

Greg’s eyes shifted from one of us to the other. “What about?”

I removed the pipe cap I’d retrieved from Tyler, still in its white, clearly marked evidence envelope, and dumped it out onto the counter. “You sell this item here?”

Ed leaned forward slightly, not touching it. “We sell things like it-same manufacturer.”

“A lot of them?”

“Depends. If it’s a job order, yeah. We could sell dozens of ’em at a shot. We don’t move many as a single item, though. We mostly supply contractors.”

“Why’re you asking?” Greg wanted to know, still lingering a few feet back among the aisles.

I decided to show my cards, relying on what I’d heard from Digger about the relationship between the two men before me. “This cap was attached to a pipe bomb that killed a Brattleboro police officer.”

Ed grew very still. Greg’s eyes widened with fear. “Holy shit. I heard about that. What’s that got to do with me? I don’t know nothin’ about it.”

“Your thumbprint’s on it.”

Greg straightened as if hit with electricity. Both his hands flew up in front of his chest. “Oh, fuck. Uncle Ed, I swear to God, I don’t know what’s goin’ on. I only been to Brattleboro a couple of times-years ago. I wouldn’t do this-nothin’ like this.”

“Slow down, Greg,” his uncle cautioned, his eyes on me hard now. “Nobody’s said anything yet.”

I made that my cue to switch tacks and laid the mug book, closed, upon the counter. “If I were to buy a pipe cap, maybe two, how would I go about it? Are you the only one who works the counter, Ed?”

The older man shook his head. “It’s luck of the draw. Could be either one of us, or my wife-she’s the bookkeeper.”

“And any of you could fill the order? Locate it in the stock and bring it out?”

“Right.”

“Within the last few weeks-could even be the last few months-do you remember selling a pipe cap to any Asians?”

Greg’s face flooded with relief. “Yeah. It was like two days before that bomb, more or less. I remember him because he made me do a custom cut-said he only wanted a foot of pipe. I told him we didn’t sell that short-even told him where he might go to get a piece. But he didn’t want to. Told me he’d buy the shortest length we sold, pay extra to have it cut, and then give us back what was left. He was in a hurry.”

“So you did it?”

“Sure. I had nothin’ else going-things were slow, and I thought Uncle Ed would be okay over it. I mean, hell, it was almost like selling it and getting it back at the same time. A foot’s not much to take off a piece of stock.”

“What else did he buy?” I asked.

“Just the two caps and the piece of pipe. And he asked me where the nearest Radio Shack was.”

“Where is it?”

“’Bout a half-mile that way.” He pointed to his left. “On the other side of the street.”

“He paid cash?”

“Yup.”

Ed shook his head disgustedly. “My God, Greg. Didn’t all that sound a little suspicious?”

His nephew stared at him wide-eyed. “What do I know about bombs?”

“Was he alone?” I interrupted.

“Yup. I saw him drive up. One of those new Mustangs-bright red.”

“You get the license plate?”

Greg Binder shook his head.

“All right.” I spun the mug book around and opened it to its first page. “I want you to look at these photographs. Take your time. Tell me if you see the man you waited on.”

Greg stepped up to the counter and began leafing through the pages. He stopped on the third one. “That’s him.”

“No doubts in your mind? It’s not a great shot.”

He actually grinned at that, his sense of relief complete. “Damn-it’s just like in the movies. I’d swear to it in a court of law.”

“Cut the crap, Greg,” Ed muttered to him.

The young man grew agitated again. “I do swear, Uncle Ed. That’s definitely the guy. I’m not shittin’ you-honest.”

I closed the book. “You still have that shortened length of pipe?”

Ed Binder shook his head. “No, Greg told me about it. I put it with the odd sizes and sold it as part of a lot. It’s probably mixed in with somebody’s plumbing by now.”

I thanked them both and took my leave, heading for the Radio Shack Greg had mentioned, wondering what Edward Diep had been up to, all by himself, buying parts for a bomb.

An hour later I was in Walt Frazier’s office. “Radio Shack remembered him, too and had a sales slip to boot-listed him as ‘John Sing, Main Street, Burlington.’ He bought wire, some alligator clips, and a nine-volt battery. The sales clerk had no more trouble than Greg Binder did in picking him out of the book.”

“Okay.” Walt was taking the cautious route, waiting for me to make my case.

“The more we find out about Diep, the more of an independent operator he becomes, working all sides of the game. It got me thinking, how that would go down with his pals-at least the ones affiliated with Truong. I called the St. Albans prison to find out how Nguyen’s been doing. Turns out, ever since that explosion in Newport, he’s gotten several phone calls. I talked to the guard who sees him most, and he says he’s more fidgety-blows his cool with the other inmates. The way I saw him in Bratt, he was an icicle.”

“So what d’you think’s going on?”

“If we’re right, he’s losing confidence. He felt he was on the fast track, guaranteed to beat Da Wang. Now, he’s not so sure. Truong’s stash goes up in smoke, the pipeline is shut down thanks to Spinney and the VSP, and we’re breathing down everybody’s neck. All of a sudden, Da Wang’s looking stronger, and Nguyen’s looking to make a deal.”

“You hope.”

I laughed. “Maybe that part’s wishful thinking, but he’s feeling the heat. I’d like to have another crack at him. He’s the only bird we have in hand, he was high enough in the ranks to be in on a killing with the boss himself, and from the phone calls he’s been getting, he’s obviously still connected. If we can persuade him that things are just about over for him, he might trade for a lighter load. Most of these guys won’t talk because they’re scared-their families are vulnerable, or they’re worried about their own hides. But if the threat is removed, everything changes.”

Frazier mulled it over for a few seconds and then reached for the phone. “Okay, I’ll round up the appropriate troops. Let’s see what happens.”

The process was a legal minuet-a series of small, regimented steps in which all parties were consulted with unctuous propriety.

First to convene was the investigative team-Dan, Lester, Walt, and myself-to make sure a deal with Nguyen was in the best interests of the case. That was done in a conference call, since both Walt and I already knew what the vote would be. Spinney had laughed outright and claimed that our biggest problem would be not showing Nguyen how desperate we were.

Next in line were Maggie Lanier and Jack Derby. It was the Windham County State’s Attorney, after all, who had jurisdiction over Nguyen Van Hai. Murder alone is not a federal crime, and although murder for hire is, and some talk had been made about adjusting the charges, Derby still held the strongest hand. But just as he’d had no reservations about the creation of the task force, he also had no problem about greasing Nguyen’s palm. The victim’s reputation had something to do with this, of course-Benny Travers had died largely unmourned. Cutting his killer some slack probably wouldn’t cost Derby a single vote.

Then it was Paul Doubleday’s turn-Nguyen’s court-appointed lawyer. He returned Lanier’s call within the hour, since he’d been pestering Derby about a deal from the start. The conversation, on which Walt and I eavesdropped, reflected how intricately delicate, formal, and finally competitive the minuet could get. Lanier had to act bored and overworked, claiming Derby had run for cover, dumping the case in her lap. The evidence against Nguyen, she stressed, was so overwhelming that his conviction was a foregone conclusion. She was only calling Doubleday for purely practical reasons. Travers, after all, had been a scumball-not worthy of the taxpayers’ money-and a quick, cheap deal seemed the best of moral high grounds. How about twenty years in a federal pen, with no parole, instead of life?

Doubleday worked up a gasp, as if his client was the innocent victim of a monstrous frame. Are you kidding? That’s not a deal. Considering the circumstantial evidence, you’re running the risk of losing everything if you go to trial. Don’t try to buy something with nothing.

There followed a heated discussion about how circumstantial it was to find Nguyen’s blood mixed in with that of the man he was accused of killing, but common-sense logic, as always, played little part in it. Doubleday finally said he’d carry an offer to his client of fifteen years, with parole.

The response came the next day. Frazier paged me, and told me when I called him back, “Nguyen says no deal.”

That, I’d expected. “Did Doubleday seem interested in talking more?”

“Definitely.” Frazier then chuckled, “Though not in so few words.”

“Set up a meeting with him and his client, ASAP. I want to try something.”

The minuet’s final movements were conducted back at the St. Albans Correctional Facility, three miles northwest of town-a prison that would have looked like a modern boys’ prep school, complete with white-trimmed red brick, if it hadn’t been for the double rows of razor wire hemming it in. Myself, Nguyen, Doubleday, and Frazier, representing both the Bureau and Lanier’s office, were all sitting together in a plain, square room with four chairs, one table, and a closed door.

“In the interests of reality, Mr. Nguyen,” I began, “I should start by pointing out that, despite your lawyer’s reassurances, there is a strong likelihood that you will be found guilty and sentenced to life in prison, and that you will serve out your term in a facility like Rahway, or Attica, or Leavenworth. Those are among the worst this government has to offer, and I will make sure you end up at one of them.”

“If this is what you brought us all together to discuss, Mr. Gunther…” Doubleday started in, but I interrupted with, “No, it is not. I just wanted that made clear before we began talking.”

“Things better improve fast, or the talking just stopped.”

I looked directly at Nguyen, who had not said a word, but whose expression was much less remote than the first time we’d met. While he was still playing the same aloof role, I knew we had his interest this time-he was clearly less sure of his ground. “You are aware, I know, that your boss’s assets just recently went up in smoke. Mr. Doubleday’s presence here is one indication of that. He is from the public defender’s office, and is not the hired help your organization once might’ve been able to afford.”

“Let’s get to the point, Gunther. You’re wasting my time, regardless of how little it costs.” Doubleday was irritated, but he was also carefully trying to stall my momentum, and thus any impression I might make on his client. Nguyen, however, was a cut above the kind of knuckle-dragger Doubleday was used to, and remained totally focused on me.

“But money,” I continued, “is a funny thing, considering all its ups and downs. Even with the lid we’ve clamped on your network-another news item I’m sure you’ve heard about-you’re probably thinking, ‘Hey, it’s a temporary setback. The boss’ll find an alternate route, he’ll set up a big deal, he’ll do something to get back on his feet and get the cash flowing.’”

I leaned forward slightly, boring in. “Problem is, that’s not really good news, is it? ’Cause if the organization stays afloat, it can hurt you if you cut a deal at their expense. So what’re you supposed to do? Stay quiet and do hard time? Or help shut them down and run the risk they’ll seek revenge? Tough choice.

“You could tilt the odds by telling us what they have over you, of course-which family members might suffer or die if you talk. But you know what the police are like. They’re all on the dole-just crooks in uniform. We tell you we’re different, but what proof do you have? No. The only way out for you is to know for sure that the people who control you are out of the game.”

I sat back now and looked at him quietly for a couple of seconds. Even Doubleday-I could tell from his silence-was wondering where this unorthodox approach was leading.

“I’ve got the solution for you, by the way, although it’s a little different from anything your lawyer might have come up with. See, I happen to know that your organization has a bigger problem than your being in jail, or our shutting them down, or even than Da Wang trying to kill them. All those are things people expect in this business-it’s tough, and there are losses. What may come as a surprise is that you’re about to be blown out of the water from the inside. You have a time bomb in your midst-a traitor whose sole interest is to eliminate Truong Van Loc and ingratiate himself with Da Wang at the same time.”

I paused again, my eyes never leaving Nguyen’s. “So now you’re thinking, ‘Okay, let’s say he’s right-just for the sake of argument. If Truong is knocked off and the organization dissolved, I can still make a deal-maybe identify the guy who killed Travers with me and Truong-and get a lighter sentence. All I have to do is sit and wait.’”

I leaned forward again. “But there’s a problem with that. I want your help now, not later. I want Truong before he gets whacked. And I won’t forget that you didn’t play ball when I asked. And, you know? To be honest, Benny Travers was a pretty scummy guy to begin with, so I’m not that interested in nailing that third man, just to make your life easier. All of which makes this a one-time offer.”

I got to my feet and walked to the far wall, the three of them following me with their eyes. There, I turned and leaned back against the wall, tapping the side of my head with one finger. “Okay, but talk is just that, right? How can I prove there’s a traitor?”

I began pacing slowly back and forth in front of Nguyen. “Go back in time. Think about the movers and shakers of Truong’s organization. Think of what you’ve been told about Truong’s motives. Remember his little brother? The shooting in San Francisco? The end of the Chinatown Gang at the hands of the Dragon Boys? Truong On Ha was the apple of his brother’s eye, and he was destroyed in a fight between two gangs-the very kind of life Van Loc had hoped On Ha would never be a part of.”

“Truong vowed vengeance, but it was a family matter-a personal problem. And that’s how it stayed for several years, as Truong and Lam went after the hit team, one by one. But then came a problem. After knocking off all the underlings he could find, Truong set his sights on the man who had set them in motion in the first place. He went after Wang Chien-kuo.”

“But Wang was now a big-time leader, isolated in the cocoon of a well-armed gang, untouchable, especially since a few earlier attempted hits had made him almost reclusive.”

“So Truong had to increase the heat, turn a personal vendetta into a financial enterprise-a hit not just on the man but his entire organization.”

I stopped in front of him. “Think back, Nguyen, before all that let’s-go-for-the-money talk. Remember how it all began.”

I opened the folder I’d brought with me and extracted one of the mug shots Sammie had received from California. I slapped it face-up on the table before Nguyen Van Hai, like a playing card. “Johnny Xi was the first Dragon Boy killed, in Vancouver-tied to a door and skinned alive. A killing so brutal it was guaranteed to make the rounds-to put fear into a select few, and give Truong a reputation he could put to good use.”

One by one, I pulled out the four shots with deceased stamped across them, and slapped them down next to Xi, announcing each one’s name as I went. “Each one was hunted down, each one killed for what he’d done. There’d been nine of them altogether, four of whom were never found. But two of them had been drivers and hadn’t actually taken part in the shooting. And one was found dead in Florida just recently. I don’t know who killed him.” I laid a sixth photograph at the end of the row.

“But one got away. He moved, he changed his name, he severed all contact with his former life-with one large exception, which I’ll mention in a minute. And then he did something really clever. He hid in the one place where no one would think of looking for him. Remember the name, Lo Yu Lung? Truong must have mentioned it a thousand times, like anyone does who’s nursing an obsession. Ever see a picture of him-the last of Johnny Xi’s shooters-the one that got away?”

I slapped Edward Diep’s picture down in front of Nguyen.

Considering that when we’d first met, I’d had a difficult time telling if he was breathing, Nguyen’s reaction was downright explosive. After an audible intake of breath, he looked up at me with his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Bullshit.”

I laughed with real pleasure, convinced I’d just kicked free the one logjam separating me from Truong Van Loc. I placed both hands flat on the table and put my face a foot from Nguyen’s. “Think about it. I can tell you what we’ve got-how we figured it out, digging and scratching. But you were there.”

I tapped Diep’s picture with my finger. “Knowing who he really is, go back in your mind, ask yourself why he did things the way he did, why he was at one place when he might’ve been at another, what he said about himself and his past. Run it through your mind, and then tell me I’m wrong.”

I straightened up, tapped Walt on the shoulder, and moved toward the door. I then took my biggest gamble. I turned and added, “While you’re at it, ask yourself who planted that car bomb in Brattleboro-the one that stimulated the creation of a federal task force and spelled the death sentence for your whole organization. We’ve got two witnesses who sold him the parts.”

I got the satisfaction of a half-opened mouth and a stare of disbelief.

“We’ll let you talk to your lawyer alone, Nguyen-for a few minutes. Truong Van Loc is as good as gone. Either we’ll get him, or Lo Yu Lung will, right between the shoulder blades. But if Lo beats us to him, you’ll be on your own. Time’s running out. We’ll be outside.”

But Nguyen raised his hand to stop us. “This is just to see if I will deal with you?” His English was clear, precise, and carefully spoken.

“For openers, yeah.”

“And you are able to get people out of Hong Kong and into this country?”

“How many?” I asked, realizing, as I’d hoped, that even this emotionless killer had a weak spot-something both Truong and I had found a way to exploit.

“Members of my family-five.”

Frazier spoke for the first time. “If we can find them, we can get them out.” Nguyen nodded. “I will deal.” Beside him, ignored, Doubleday nodded his agreement.

Walt and I sat back down. “We want more than just bits and pieces. We want a breakdown of the organization-who runs it, who’s in it, how it’s operated-and we want to know all the watering holes, from the Far East to New York and Boston, including every way station in between.

“But,” I added with emphasis, “since we know you could feed us a lot of crap we wouldn’t be able to check out, we also want a good-faith offering up front. Our sources have it that Truong’s going to try to recoup his losses by making a big run across the border, bypassing the pipeline altogether. We need to know how he might do that-what routes he favors, what contacts are left that he still can rely on, and what technique he’ll use. If you give us that-along with the other intelligence I mentioned-and it pans out, we’ll honor whatever deal we agree to.”

“You’re not tying this to Truong’s capture, are you?” Doubleday quickly demanded.

“No. But the information he gives us had better be useful. We don’t want to be standing around in one place and have Truong take a route we knew nothing about.”

The lawyer looked at his client. “Can you do that? Can you be that precise?”

The answer was fast and unequivocal. “Yes.”

I glanced at Frazier, trying to hide the surge of relief that one word had stimulated.

Walter, the complete poker player, merely nodded. “All right. Let’s do business.”