Three Blind Mice

5

She was sitting out by the pool when Matthew arrived at three that afternoon. Green maillot swimsuit to match her eyes, reddish-brown wedge-cut hair catching the late-afternoon sunshine, a green terry band across her forehead, a faint sheen of perspiration on the sloping tops of her breasts above the suit’s bodice. She asked if he’d care for a lemonade. Or something stronger. She herself was having a gin and tonic. He said that sounded good, and she went inside to prepare it for him.

He sat watching the fields and the distant yellow-grey sky. The rain had not yet come today; someone must have forgotten to set the alarm. Jessica was back not five minutes later. She had wrapped a short filmy green scarf around herself, knotted it above her breasts. She handed him the drink, and then sat in the chair opposite his. The drink tasted cold and tart and sparkly. Especially after hours of reading transcripts in a room streaming sunlight.

“I’m sorry to bother you this way,” he said, “but I have some questions.”

“No bother at all,” she said. “With Stephen in jail…”

She let the sentence hang.

“I was reading the trial transcript this afternoon,” he said.

“Something, wasn’t it?”

“You know why they were acquitted, don’t you?”

“Sure. Guilt.”

He looked at her.

“Not theirs,” she said, “ours. Our massive American guilt. For the horrors we committed in Vietnam. This was compensation for that.”

“Well, maybe so,” Matthew said. “But I think there was a more practical reason.”

“And what was that?”

“Time,” he said.

“Time?”

“The jury couldn’t reconcile the contradictions of time.”

“The three of them were lying,” she said. “About everything. Including time.”

“How about the chef? Was he lying, too?”

“He was a friend of theirs. Yes, he was lying.”

“And the police?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“The police dispatcher who testified at the trial said that he took your call at twelve-forty A.M… ”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And that the responding police car — that would have been David car — reached you some five minutes later…”

“Those seem to be the correct times, yes.”

“But, Mrs. Leeds… the mall closed at ten.”

“Yes?”

“And you yourself testified that you began changing that flat tire at a quarter past.”

“Yes?”

“Don’t you see what confused the jury?”

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”

“You called the police two hours and twenty-five minutes after the attack started. And during that time…”

“During that time, I was being raped!”

“That’s what the jury couldn’t accept. The duration of the rape.”

“That’s how long it lasted.”

“Mrs. Leeds, the movie broke at eleven o’clock…”

“I don’t give a…”

“… people would have been walking back to…”

“… damn about…”

“… their cars, they’d have seen…”

“… the goddamn movie!”

They both stopped talking at the same moment. Jessica’s eyes were blazing. She picked up her drink and took a long swallow. Matthew watched her.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“No, you’re not,” she said. “You don’t accept the contradictions of time, either. Isn’t that true?”

“I’m only trying to understand what happened.”

“No, you’re trying to find out who was lying, me or those men. I’m telling you I was consecutively and repeatedly raped for more than two hours, yes!” She shook her head angrily and then took another swallow of the drink. “But what difference does it make?” she said. “They were tried and acquitted, so what difference does it make if I was raped or not?”

“No one for a moment ever questioned the fact that you were raped.”

“No, they only questioned whether or not those three bastards could have done it. Okay, they reached their verdict. Not guilty. So who cares anymore?”

“Patricia Demming does.”

“Who’s Pa — oh, the State Attorney.”

“Yes. I feel certain she’ll be calling you as a witness.”

“To what?”

“To your own rape.”

“Why?”

“Because she has to show that your husband killed those men in a blind rage. And the best way to do that is to have you describe the rape all over again.”

“Can she do that?”

“Sure. To demonstrate motive. Moreover, she’ll try to show that the verdict was a just one. She’ll say those three innocent little boys did not in fact rape you, could not possibly have raped you at the time you say they did.”

“But they did!”

“She’ll say you saw them at eight o’clock, while you were parking the car…”

“There was no one there when I…”

“Exchanged a few words with them…”

“No, no, no…”

“… and remembered them incorrectly as the men who later raped you. She’ll play that rape trial for all it’s worth, believe me. If she can convince the jury that those men were indeed innocent as found, then she can also convince them that your husband’s crime was doubly heinous. Not only did he commit foul and bloody murder, he committed it in error. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to tell me everything that happened that night.”

“You read the transcript, you know what…”

“Can you tell me again what happened?”

“I told it all.”

“Please tell it again, can you?”

She shook her head.

“Can you?”

She kept shaking her head.

“You’ll have to tell it again in court, Mrs. Leeds. She’ll make sure of that. I want to be ready for her.”

Jessica sighed.

He waited.

She turned her head away, avoiding his eyes.

“I got out of the mall at ten o’clock,” she said, “and walked over to the restaurant. It was still open at ten… a little after ten, actually, by the time I reached the car…”

She has parked it behind the restaurant, which is shaped like a pagoda, and which in fact is named The Pagoda. The car is an expensive one, and this is four days before Christmas. With all the traffic in the mall’s lot a dented fender is a distinct possibility, and so she has chosen this deserted spot behind The Pagoda, alongside a low fence beyond which is undeveloped scrub land. As she walks toward the restaurant, the mall’s parking lot is rapidly emptying of automobiles, except for those parked row after row outside the movie-theater complex at the far end. It is ten minutes past ten, she supposes, when she places in the trunk of her Maserati the several Christmas gifts she’s bought.

There are lights here behind the Chinese restaurant. It is not what anyone would call brightly lighted, but there is illumination enough to provide a sense of security. And besides, there’s a moon. Not quite full, just on the wane. Anyway, it is only a little after ten, this is not the dead of night, this is not a town where a woman alone needs to be afraid of unlocking the door of her automobile in an adequately lighted parking space behind a brilliantly lighted restaurant on a moonlit Thursday night four days before Christmas. Besides, there are three men standing behind the restaurant, smoking. All of them in shirtsleeves. Wearing long white aprons. Restaurant help. She unlocks the door of the car, closes and locks it behind her, turns on the lights, starts the engine, and is backing away from the low fence when she realizes she has a flat tire.

“That was when the nightmare began,” she tells Matthew now. “I got out of the car. I was wearing… well, you read the transcript, you know what I was wearing, the defense made me describe everything I…”

Q: Is it true that you were wearing black bikini panties that night?

A: Yes.

Q: Lace-edged?

A: Yes.

Q: And a garter belt?

A: Yes.

Q: Was this garter belt black?

“Your Honor, I must object!”

Skye Bannister, on his feet. At last.

“Yes, where are you going with this, Mr. Silberkleit?”

“It will become clear. Your Honor.”

“It had better. Witness may answer the question. Read it back, please.”

Q: Was this garter belt black?

A: It was black, yes.

Q: And were you wearing seamed nylon stockings?

A: Yes.

Q: Black, too, weren’t they?

A: Yes.

Q: And a short black skirt?

A: Yes.

Q: A tight black skirt, wasn’t it?

A: Not exceptionally tight, no.

Q: Well, it wasn’t a pleated skirt, was it?

A: No.

Q: Or a flared skirt?

A: No.

Q: It was a sort of tube skirt, wouldn’t you call it?

A: I suppose so.

Q: In any event, it was short enough and tight enough to reveal….

A: Objection.

A: Sustained. Get to it, Mr. Silberkleit.

Q: Were you also wearing black patent-leather high-heeled pumps?

A: Yes.

Q: What color was your blouse, Mrs. Leeds?

A: White.

Q: Sleeveless, wasn’t it?

A: Yes.

Q: Silk?

A: Yes.

Q: With little pearl buttons down the front, isn’t that so?

A: Yes.

Q: Were you wearing a brassiere under this sleeveless silk blouse?

A: Objection, Your Honor!

A: Witness may respond.

Q: Were you wearing a brassiere, Mrs. Leeds?

A: No.

Q: Tell me, Mrs. Leeds, is this the way you normally dress when you’re going out to…

A: Objection!

Q: … do your Christmas shopping?

A: Your Honor, I object!

A: You may answer the question, Mrs. Leeds.

A: That’s what I was wearing, yes.

Q: Thank you, we know what you were wearing, don’t we? But that was not my question.

A: What was your question?

Q: Is this the way you normally dress when you’re going out to do your Christmas shopping?

A: It’s the way I normally dress, yes.

Q: When you’re going out to a mall, is that right?

A: Yes.

Q: You wear a short, tight black skirt with black seamed stockings and high-heeled patent-leather shoes… by the way, how high were the heels on those shoes?

A: I don’t know.

Q: Well, I have here a list of the clothing you were wearing that night, and the shoes are described as having three-inch heels. Would you yourself describe them that way?

A: Yes.

Q: Shoes with three-inch heels.

A: Yes.

Q: For walking around a mall doing shopping.

A: I feel perfectly comfortable in high-heeled shoes.

Q: And no doubt you also feel comfortable in black, lace-edged bikini panties, and a black garter belt, and black seamed stockings.

A: Yes, I do.

Q: And a white silk blouse with no bra under it…

A: Yes!

Q: In other words, you feel comfortable in clothes that can be found in the pages of Penthouse!

A: No! Clothes that can be found in the pages of Vogue!

Q: Thank you for the distinction, Mrs. Leeds. Clothes, in any event, that any man might find provocative and seduct—

A: Objection!

A: Sustained.

Q: Mrs. Leeds, didn’t you specifically go to the mall that night in search of…?

A: No.

Q: Let me finish the question, please. Didn’t you go there in search of adventure?

A: No!

Q: And didn’t you attempt to find this adventure by blatantly flirting with three young boys…

A: Objection!

Q:… who turned down your advances..

A: Objection!

Q: And whom you later accused of having raped you!

A: Objection! Objection! Objection!

She knows how to change a flat tire, she has changed many of them in her lifetime, she is not one of these helpless little women who eat bonbons on a chaise longue while reading romance novels. She takes the jack out of the trunk, lifts out the spare, lays it flat on the ground behind the rear bumper, and then kneels beside the right rear tire to loosen the lug nuts on the wheel. She has removed one of them and placed it in the inverted hubcab, when…

From the very first instant, there is no mistaking the intent.

Someone seizes her from behind, yanking her over backward, away from the wheel. She drops the wrench on the ground. An arm is around her neck, choking her, stifling the scream that comes bubbling up onto her lips. Someone else twists her arm. The pain rockets clear up into her skull. There is no mistaking the intent, this is rape, she is about to be raped. She is falling backward, backward. The man behind her steps away, releases her as she falls. The back of her head hits the asphalt pavement. She almost blacks out, but danger shrills its warning to her brain, and she regains control of her senses at once.

There are three of them.

The three who were standing behind the restaurant.

One on each side of her, holding her arms. The third one behind her, crouching now, one hand over her mouth, the other twisted in her hair. She hears their voices, unintelligible, urgent, everything is happening so quickly, they are speaking what she believes to be Chinese, and somehow — she does not know why — this knowledge triggers the vain hope that she is wrong, this is not a rape, all they want is her money.

She starts to tell them they can take anything in her handbag, but everything is happening so quickly, one of them — he has a straggly new mustache over his upper lip, he is the leader — stuffs a soiled handkerchief into her mouth and then slaps her lightly as a warning against trying to spit it out. Slaps her on the left cheek, using his right hand, he is right-handed, she must remember this, the slap stinging but not bruising…

Q: Isn’t it true, Mrs. Leeds, that when you were removed by ambulance from the police station to the hospital, the examining physician could find no bruises anywhere on your body?

A: No, that’s not true.

Q: It’s not? Well, I have here the medical report…

A: There were bruises on my…

Q: Yes?

A: Breasts.

Q: Ah?

A: And thighs.

Q: I see. But you didn’t suffer a broken nose, for example, did you?

A: No, but there was a…

Q: Or even a bloody nose? Was your nose bleeding when you got to the police station?

A: No.

Q: Had any of your teeth been knocked out?

A: No. But there was a bump at the back of my head, from where I hit it on the…

Q: Were your eyes blackened?

A: No.

Q: Any black-and-blue marks anywhere else on your body?

A: I told you. My breasts and my thighs were.

Q: You’re not saying, are you, that those bruises on your breasts and thighs were the result of being punched?

A: No, but…

Q: Or kicked?

A: They didn’t kick me, no.

Q: Did they, in fact, harm you physically in any way whatsoever?

A: Yes! They raped me!

Q: Mrs. Leeds, did these men, who happened to be in the kitchen at the time you say you were…

A: Objection!

A: Strike it.

Q: Were you beaten up by these men who allegedly raped you?

A: No, but they…

Q: Yes, if you can tell us what they did do, without repeating over and over again that they raped you, I’m sure we’d all love to hear it.

A: They held me down.

Q: I see.

A: And they put a gag in my mouth.

Q: What sort of gag?

A: A handkerchief.

Q: I see. Do you watch a lot of movies, Mrs. Leeds?

A: Objection.

A: Sustained.

Q: What else did they do to you?

A: They… threatened me.

Q: Oh? In what language?

A: At the time, I didn’t know what language. I only knew…

Q: Oh? You mean you don’t speak Vietnamese fluently?

A: I knew what they meant!

Q: How could you possibly have known what…?

A: I knew.

She knows that the one with the new mustache is giving them orders, whispering urgent directions to the other two. Tear off her panties, he must be telling them, because on either side of her they grasp the legholes and rip upward toward her crotch, leaving her open to their hands. Another command and she is suddenly being lifted off the ground and onto the hood of the automobile. She tries to say something around the filthy handkerchief in her mouth, tries to say I’m a respectable married woman, please don’t do this to me, please, but the leader, the one with the mustache, slaps her sharply across the cheek again, and then whispers something to the other two.

“This was Ho. The one giving the orders was Ho. I memorized his face, I could see it clearly in the moonlight, he was the leader.”

They rip open her blouse, the little pearl buttons frying upward on the night, catching little glints of moonlight as they explode and fall onto the hood of the car, rattling there, rolling off. Two of them grasp her thighs and yank her legs apart. Ho, the leader, steps between her open legs, she hears the whisper of his zipper in the dark. The other two whisper encouragement. One of them laughs softly, almost a girlish giggle. The other leans into her and kisses her on the breast. Something gleams on his face, she realizes all at once that he has a glass eye, the eye is catching the moonlight, reflecting it…

“This was Ngo. The one with the glass eye. He was the one who… who… hurt me the most. Later. When they… they…”

One after the other, they violate her.

The Maserati, her cherished luxury automobile, becomes a bed of torture for her, she will hate this car for the rest of her life. The hood is a convenient height for these men. Whichever one is between her legs forces her open as he pumps furiously into her, his fingers digging into her thighs until she screams silently in pain around the handkerchief in her mouth. The other two hold her wrists pinned to the hood of the car on either side of her. With their free hands, they brutally knead her breasts; she will later show the emergency-room doctor the angry bruises their fingers have left, especially around the nipples. Her black panties hang in tatters, both stockings are torn now, one of them undone from its garters and falling to her knee.

When the last of them is finished with her…

“Dang Van Con, the youngest one. Eighteen, I learned later, when he was arrested, when they caught him and the other two. He was the one who… who went last when I was… when I was on my back and they were hold… they were holding my legs open. And then, when they… when they were finished with me that way… they… they…”

Ho is giving orders again.

The other two roll her over, face downward, on the hood of the car.

She screams No.

But they will not stop, they will not stop.

“For more than two hours, they… they did what they wanted to me,” she said, her face still turned away from Matthew. “At the trial, they tried to show that I was out looking for trouble and finally found it — but not with those three. I was mistaken, the rapists were three others. Those three were in the kitchen. They couldn’t have been outside raping me, I was mistaken.”

She turned to him at last.

There were tears in her eyes.

“But no,” she said, “I was not mistaken. They were there. And they raped me.”

She had repeated those words endlessly at the trial, they raped me, they raped me, they raped me — to no avail. Those words seemed to echo accusingly on the air now, they raped me… they raped me… they raped me. The pool made a steady, soothing trickling sound, and in the distant clouds there was the low hum of an unseen airplane. But the words hung on the air, seeming to smother all other sound, they raped me, they raped me, they raped me.

“I still have nightmares about what happened,” she said. “For months afterward, I’d take two sleeping pills before I went to bed each night. But they only made me sleep, they didn’t stop the nightmares.”

She turned to look out over the pool again, beyond the pool, over the fields stretching to the horizon and the yellow-grey sky. Her face in profile was magnificent, the classic nose and jaw, the russet hair swept back from her burnished forehead and cheeks.

“I wonder if the nightmares will ever go away,” she said. “Now that they’re dead, will the nightmares go away?”

“Mrs. Leeds,” Matthew said, “did you take any sleeping pills on the night of the murders?”

She turned to him.

“Did you?”

“No,” she said.

“But there are sleeping pills in the house.”

“Yes.”

“Prescription pills?”

“Yes.”

“Who prescribed them?”

“My doctor. Dr. Weinberger. Marvin Weinberger.”

“Here in Calusa?”

“Yes.”

“Is the prescription in your name?”

“Yes.”

“Refillable?”

“Yes.”

“When’s the last time you refilled it?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Would you know how many pills are left in the bottle?”

“I really don’t know. I haven’t taken them in a while.”

“Would you say it was half full? Three-quar—”

“Half, I guess.”

“And you’re sure you didn’t take any on the night of the murders?”

“Positive.”

Can you say for certain that your husband didn’t get out of bed at any time that night?

Well, I…

Became that’s what the State Attorney’s going to ask you, Mrs. Leeds.

I can’t say that for certain, no.

“Mrs. Leeds… did your husband know there were sleeping pills in the house?”

“I… guess so. Why?”

“He told me you’d both had an after-dinner drink before you settled down to watch the movie. Do you remember what you were drinking?”

“I had a cognac. I don’t know what he had.”

“And after that, you watched the movie.”

“Yes.”

“And he fell asleep.”

“Yes.”

“And you went to sleep sometime later.”

“Yes.”

“And slept soundly through the night.”

“Yes.”

I didn’t hear the car starting. I would have…

But you were sound asleep.

Well… yes.

So you wouldn’t have heard the car starting.

I guess not.

So you really can’t say for sure that your husband was home with you all night long.

Matthew was wondering if Bloom and Rawles had seen that half-full bottle of sleeping pills anywhere in the bedroom on the morning they’d arrested Leeds. He was wondering, too, if Patricia Demming knew that a Dr. Marvin Weinberger somewhere here in Calusa, Florida, had prescribed sleeping pills for Jessica Leeds, and that those pills were still floating around the house somewhere. He hoped she didn’t know, and he hoped she never found out.

Because then she might start thinking that the reason nightmare-prone Jessica Leeds had slept the whole night through after downing an after-dinner drink was that her husband, Stephen Leeds—

But Matthew himself did not want to start thinking that way.

The body-repair shop was called Croswell Auto, and it was in one of those industrial parks that blighted the Calusa landscape east of U.S. 41. Straddling the major east-west arteries that connected the city to its suburbs, these conclaves of commerce consisted more often than not of World War II Quonset huts sitting cheek by jowl with long, low, peaked, tin-roofed buildings that gave each busy complex a further resemblance to a military staging area.

In each of these greenless “parks” — Matthew found the very label onerous — one could find little unadorned spaces specializing in picture framing, or television repair, or appliance sales, or pet boarding, or pool cleaning, or plumbing supplies, or pest control, or marine engines, or roofing and siding, or any one of a thousand little enterprises eking out small existences where the rents were low and the maintenance minimal.

The owner of Croswell Auto was a man named Larry Croswell who had come down from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, long before it was ranked the number-one city in America by Rand McNally’s Places Rated Almanac. He did not regret the move. Florida in general, and Calusa in particular, suited his lifestyle right down to the ground. Croswell was a fat man with a sunburned bald pate, bright blue eyes, white sideburns, fringes of white hair curling around his ears, and a white beard stubble on his Pillsbury Doughboy cheeks and chin. He was wearing either a grey tanktop undershirt or else a very dirty white tanktop undershirt. He was also wearing blue shorts and white socks and high-topped workman’s shoes, and he was holding a can of Coors beer in the stubby fingers of his right hand. He was telling Matthew and the insurance adjuster just how much it would cost to repair the Acura. The adjuster’s name was Peter Kahn. He was a thin, grey-haired man who moved among the debris of wrecked autos like a wading bird who’d mistakenly landed in a metallic marsh. As Croswell spoke, Kahn jotted notes onto a pad attached to a clipboard.

“What we got here,” Croswell said, “we got a whole new quarter, plus an inner…”

“What’s a quarter?” Matthew asked.

“The quarter panel back here,” Kahn explained. “Where the other car hit you.” He even moved his head like a bird, Matthew noticed, bobbing whenever he spoke.

“Plus the inner panel,” Croswell said, and took a sip at his beer. “Plus we got to repair the unibody where it’s bent, and you’re gonna need a new taillight and bumper, and a new wheel — the wheel alone’s gonna cost you three hundred bucks — plus new molding. She done a nice job on you, this lady.”

Matthew nodded sourly.

“So what’s your estimate?” Kahn asked.

“You’re lucky there wasn’t no damage to the trunk,” Croswell said.

“How much?” Kahn asked.

“I’ve got to figure three thousand, including the frame repair.”

“Let’s make it two thousand,” Kahn said.

“There’s other body shops,” Croswell said,

“Don’t shlep me all over town, Larry. Twenty-two five and we’ve got a deal.”

“Twenty-five hundred sounds okay,” Croswell said.

“You’ve got it,” Kahn said.

“When will I have my car back?” Matthew asked.

“Two weeks,” Croswell said,

“Why so long?”

“Lots of labor involved. Also, we’re backed up.”

“Who pays for the rental?” Matthew asked Kahn.

“We do. Just send us the receipts.”

“Let me see if I’ve got all the keys I need,” Croswell said, and began moving toward the office.

“There’s only one key,” Matthew said. “Do you pay me or him?” he asked Kahn.

“We’ll pay him directly, if that’s okay with you.”

“Fine.”

The office was the size of a walk-in bedroom closet. There was a desk behind which sat an attractive woman in her early forties, brown hair piled on top of her head, pencil stuck in it, one long earring dangling from her right ear. She was sitting behind an Apple computer. The wall behind her contained a hand-fashioned calendar with huge squares for each date. Into each square a name was lettered, followed by the name of a car in parentheses. Hanging on the wall alongside the calendar was a wooden board with cup hooks screwed into it. Car keys dangled from the hooks, each key labeled with a small white tag. Croswell went to the board, found a key tagged hope, nodded, and then said, “You sure this one key opens the trunk, too?”

“Positive,” Matthew said.

“ ‘Cause we may have to get in there.”

“The ignition key opens the trunk and also the glove compartment.”

“Okay, if you say so,” Croswell said. “ ’Cause I hate having to call anybody about keys. I get people in here, they have two cars, they’ll leave the keys to the wrong car. Or else, they’ll call me to say they left the house key on the ring, they can’t get in their own house, would I please stay open till they got here? You be surprised the shit I have to go through with keys. When did I say?”

“Two weeks,” Kahn said.

“Mark that, willya, Marie? Hope, the Acura Legend, two weeks from today. That’s when?”

Marie rose from behind the desk and behind the computer. She was a compact woman with a tight, well-formed body. Kahn’s eyes went to her backside. So did Matthew’s. Croswell was spoiled; he sipped at his beer. Marie ran her hand down the calendar, her finger stopping on the Monday two weeks from today. The third of September.

“You figuring on Labor Day?” she asked.

“What?” Croswell said.

“That’s Labor Day, that Monday,” Marie said. “September third. We’ll be closed, won’t we?”

“So make it the Tuesday,” Croswell said.

“What time?” Matthew asked.

“End of the day,” Croswell said. “Four, five o’clock?”

“Which?”

“Five’d be good,” Croswell said.

“Who’s driving the rental?” a voice behind them said.

Matthew turned to the door. A man in paint-spattered coveralls was standing just outside the office, one hand on the doorframe, leaning into it.

“The Ford?” Matthew asked.

“That’s the one,” the man said. “Could you please move it, I gotta get a car out.”

“Sure,” Matthew said. “Are we finished here?” he asked Kahn.

“If you’ll just sign this release,” Kahn said.

Matthew read the paper swiftly. It granted boilerplate approval of the repair work to be done on the car, and permission to make direct payment to Croswell Auto. The man in the coveralls waited patiently in the doorframe while Matthew signed and dated the form, shook hands with Kahn, and then told Croswell he’d see him on the fourth.

“Five o’clock,” Marie said, without looking up from her keyboard.

“Five o’clock,” Matthew said, and followed the man out to where he’d parked the rented car. A Mazda with a bashed-in trunk was parked behind him. Matthew got into the Ford, started it, moved it forward until he had room for a turn, and then drove out of the driveway and out of the park. As he stopped for the traffic light on U.S. 41, some seven blocks away, he realized that he’d be driving this damn car longer than he’d hoped. Nothing wrong with that, he supposed, except that it was a rental. Who’s driving the rental? And a rental wasn’t a $30,000 smoky-blue Acura Legend coupe with genuine leather seats and a sun roof and a zero-to-sixty-in-eight-seconds capability. He had planned on getting away for the Labor Day weekend, maybe drive down to Lake Okeechobee. Now he’d have to make the trip — if he made it — in a rented Ford. And probably alone. He did not want to go on another vacation alone. He’d been to Italy alone. Alone was lonely.

The light changed.

He made his left turn and headed home.

He was in bed when the telephone rang at eleven that night. He recognized the voice at once; the only Vietnamese woman he knew was Mai Chim Lee.

“Mr. Hope,” she said, “I’m sorry to bother you so late at night…”

“Not at all,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said. “I know you are anxious, however, to talk to Trinh Mang Due, and…”

“Is he back?”

“Yes, this is why I am calling. A woman I know in the community…”

He realized she was referring to Little Asia.

“… telephoned just now to say he is home from Orlando. Shall I try to arrange an interview for sometime tomorrow?”

“Please,” Matthew said.

“All right, then, I will. And excuse me, again, for calling so late. I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

“No, no.”

“Well, good then, I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Good night,” she said, and hung up.