Seaweed in the Soup Read online

  “I’m not saying nothing till I talk to a lawyer.”

  “You’ve been watching too much Hollywood TV, Maria. In Canada, you’re re not entitled to a lawyer until you’ve been charged with a crime. We’re just having a little exploratory conversation.”

  “You heard what I said. Talk to my lawyer or save your breath.”

  Bernie waved a finger. “So you’ve decided to be naughty. We have an expression for such behaviour. We call it suspicious. You’re a doubtful character, which is bad enough. We don’t want to add uncooperative to the list as well. So listen up: Do you know the penalty for wasting police time?”

  After a beat, Maria said, “My tits will fall off?”

  Bernie stiffened. “Stop playing the fool. I know you’re not as stupid as you look, so tell me the truth. Why did you run away from Ronnie Chew’s house, and what is your friend’s name?”

  Asking serial questions is bad interrogation technique. Bernie always complains when I do it.

  Giving Bernie an insolent stare, Maria said, “I don’t like your attitude.”

  “Many people don’t, I’m used to it,” Bernie returned with an indifferent shrug. “How long have you and Ronnie been friends?”

  “I told you before, mister. It’s none of your business.”

  Bernie raised his voice a little. “You’re acting like an idiot, better think twice before your smartass cracks make things worse. Now. Let’s get the ball rolling with something simple. Tell me where that diamond ring and those pearls came from.”

  She mumbled something incomprehensible.

  “Hear that? Bernie said jocularly, to nobody in particular. “I’ll go to hell, this kid is one smart shopper. The ring is probably two and a half carats, and she bought it at Wal-Mart?”

  Maria shrugged.

  “Ever been arrested before, Maria? Is this your first time?”

  Her expression calm and unaltered, Maria used the Coast Salish word for idiot.

  “Did she say something cheeky?” Bernie asked me.

  “Not sure,” I lied. “I don’t think there’s an English equivalent.”

  “You don’t like to speak English?” Bernie asked her. “Comprenny franglais?

  Maria’s tongue came out like a third lip.

  Things progressed like that for a while because Maria, who had never been arrested before, didn’t realize how serious things were.

  “Well Maria, you seem to enjoy a little fun occasionally,” said Bernie, watching her with an eagle’s eye. “You and your friend certainly enjoyed yourself with Ronnie Chew.”

  “I hardly know the guy.”

  “There you go again, telling stories.”

  “It’s true,” Maria said, completely at ease and relaxed. “I just met him the one time, that’s all. He was nice, cute. And he wasn’t mean, not like some. He had a funny way of talking that made us laugh.”

  “Funny? Funny’s not the word that normally springs to mind in connection with men like Mr. Chew.”

  “He was a lot funnier than you are, I’ll say that for him.”

  “Let’s see how amusing you think this is: we found Mr. Chew’s digital camera, and there were pictures of you and your friend in it,” Bernie said.

  Bernie reached into a briefcase sitting on the floor beside his feet, and drew out an eight by ten glossy. Tut-tutting in mock distaste, Bernie laid it down on the desk and said, “This is a blowup.”

  The picture came as a shock. It showed Maria in Chew’s basement room. She was posed naked across Chew’s bed with her knees bent, legs wide apart, smiling coquettishly without the least show of shame. One cupped hand supported her head. The other hand lay on her lower belly.

  Maria pretended she wasn’t interested in looking at the picture at first, till overcome by curiosity. Her reaction surprised us. Instead of embarrassed shame, or horror, she flushed with anger. “Bastards,” she yelled. “That’s private, see? I don’t want you showing it around, hear me?”

  Bernie gazed at her from under his heavy eyebrows. “Why not? You’re not exactly a shrinking innocent, are you, Maria? Chew’s camera is full of images like that. Quit play-acting and start talking. What have you got to say for yourself now, eh?”

  “Them pictures is private. There’s no law against taking private pictures of people. It’s not like I was . . . You got no right, showing that in public.”

  “We’re not the public, we’re the police.”

  “Yeah, a bunch of fucking policemen. And this is the way you get your rocks off I guess, flashing sexy pictures around in your goddamn men’s room, sniggering and leering at each other. Pulling your puds and telling jokes. Bastards!”

  “This is the way things look so far,” Bernie replied calmly. “You and your pal had fun and games with Chew. Then, when he was asleep, you cut his throat and robbed him.”

  Maria’s eyes narrowed in stupefaction; her mouth fell open. “Cut his throat? What the hell?”

  Bernie rose to his feet. Glaring down at Maria, he shouted,”You killed him, didn’t you? Maybe it was a sex game. You may as well come clean, we’ll be more lenient if you do.”

  Maria flinched backwards; her mouth opened but no words came out.

  To everyone’s surprise, Bernie terminated the interrogation. “Screw this,” he said, his jovial manner returning. Turning to the two female officers, he said, “Take this woman away. Give her a good wash and some clean clothes, then you can lock her up in Wilkie Road. We’ll continue this after she’s had a chance to contemplate her sins. See how she rates Wilkie’s nice comfy cells and institutional cuisine.”

  Maria appeared dazed when she was led out. After frowning at the picture for another few moments, Bernie put it back into the briefcase.

  Bernie got up from his chair and crossed to the window. His grin returned when he looked outside. “That picture is just a sample of Chew’s art, but just between you and me I’d rather look at chick pics than look at shit on the sidewalk.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Certainly,” Bernie answered with a wide grin. “Chew’s camera is full of it. Pictures of Maria, and her girlfriend. Twosomes, threesomes, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Really?”

  “Well no, not really, it’s no worse than Hustler, but it makes a difference if you know the girl I suppose. Anyway, Silas, what’s the deal here?”

  “I dunno, it’s too early to tell.”

  Restless, Bernie sat down again. “This is open and shut, isn’t it? You just don’t want to say anything because of the Native angle. That slavekiller club, the two Indian girls. Maria won’t talk because she’s guilty. Maybe it was a sex game that went wrong. Whatever. I’m betting that Maria and her friend killed Chew for the jewellery.”

  “Whoever it was, he or she, the killer was very very angry. Chew was almost decapitated. Is that the MO a couple of petty opportunistic thieves would use to commit an unpremeditated murder?”

  “Who says it was unpremeditated?”

  “Come off it, Bernie,” I said. Choosing my words with care, I added, “It’s time we had a talk. Man to man.”

  “About what?”

  “You know what. How long have we known each other?”

  “Ten, fifteen years?”

  “Bernie, it’s more than twenty years. If I didn’t give a fuck, I’d keep my mouth shut, but I do give a fuck, so here goes. It’s time you either took a vacation or retired. You’re losing it, pal. That interview just now, for example. You cut it off before it hardly got started. What are you playing at?”

  Bernie brought the corncob out again, held it in his hands, pointing it towards me like a gun. I couldn’t read the expression on his face. He looked a little pale, otherwise normal. He said, “Okay, keep going.”

  “I’ve said enough. I hope you got the message.”

  Bernie put the corncob down on his desk. He smiled at me and shrugged his shoulders. Suddenly overcome by nervous yawns, he reached into a bottom drawer of his desk for a bottle
of eau-de-cologne. He poured a little onto his hands and vigorously massaged his scalp. Still yawning, he put the bottle away.

  Lately, Bernie had been using glasses for reading. He put a pair on and glanced briefly inside the red three-ring binder lying on his blotter. It was the Chew murder book—already half an inch thick.

  “What’s a phony Canadian birth certificate worth these days?” Bernie asked me.

  Bernie’s question was rhetorical. Before I could answer, he went on, “On the street, the going rate for a good fake Canadian birth certificate is a thousand dollars.”

  “Lord a mercy!” I said, in mock astonishment.

  “Once you’ve got a birth certificate, acquiring a driver’s licence or a passport is a piece of cake. In spite of that, forensics hasn’t been able to find Chew’s driver’s licence, his passport or a BC Medical card. Not a single scrap of paper with Ronnie Chew’s name on it. That leather notebook we found is written in Chinese characters, but it’s some kind of code. Our brains branch can’t figure the goddamn thing out. But, there was fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of clothing in Chew’s closet. His BMW is worth sixty thousand, at least. Ronnie Chew, gardener, didn’t exist. He was a sham, an impostor.”

  “A John Doe?”

  “Not quite.” Bernie grinned. “We put Ronnie Chew’s fingerprints on the wire. Vancouver got back to us promptly. Chew’s prints are on file. The name Ronnie Chew is an alias. The murdered man that we saw on Collins Lane is a Big Circle Boy. His actual name is Raymond Cho.”

  Bernie looked at me. Instead of asking the question that immediately sprang to mind, I remained silent.

  Bernie said, “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that not only did Ronnie Chew never exist, it’s more than probable that Raymond Cho never existed either. What exists, in all likelihood, is a mystery man with several aliases.”

  “So we might never know his actual name?”

  “We know enough to be going along with,” Bernie said, rubbing his neck. “How about a cup of coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  Bernie hit an intercom button on his desk, spoke sweetly to Mrs. Nairn, leaned back in his chair and cupped both hands behind his head. He said, “I attended a Combined Law Enforcement Unit conference in Vancouver last month. Their east side is an ungovernable disaster. It’s a drug supermarket awash in crime and violence. The CLEU told us that in Vancouver’s east-side district, five percent of newborn babies emerge from the womb addicted to crank. Little League games get cancelled because junkies don’t give a fuck. They dump their used needles in parks and in playgrounds where kids can pick them up and stick them in their arms to show off. Cartel enforcers are running the streets in armour-plated SUVs, popping each other with AK 47s.” Bernie wasn’t telling me anything new. I let him vent. “Since last year, at least four gang battles have been raging in the Lower Mainland. It’s like prohibition-era Chicago over there. Innocent bystanders are getting killed as well. It’s a mess. The way things are going, Vancouver Island will soon be in the same boat. Things are reaching the point where police forces are losing control using normal methods. The ordinary man on the street has no idea how weak our security system is, but we know. We know and we’re worried. Victoria is worried all the way up the food chain to the mayor’s office. Even Superintendent Mallory is worried.”

  My thoughts turned to Cynthia Leach, worrying about a damaged bumper. I said, “Are you worried, Bernie?”

  “Goddamn right. I’m worried because I’m worried. It used to be I didn’t take stuff personally, I didn’t give a damn either.” Bernie’s scowl deepened. “Two months ago, on a quiet Sunday morning at about 3:00 AM, near the intersection of West Boulevard and 41st Avenue in Vancouver, an SUV boxed in a black Bentley driven by a recent Southeast Asian immigrant with gang ties. A masked man got out of the SUV and opened fire through the Bentley’s windows. Two of Vancouver’s finest, who were drinking coffee in a nearby McDonald’s, heard gunshots and took off in pursuit. The killers got away. When the coffee drinkers went back and checked, the man in the Bentley was dead. He was Devander Raj, aged 23. Raj’s assassination brought to 12 the number of gang-style killings in Metro Vancouver this year. Since then, there have been 11 more gang-style assassinations. Vancouver’s serious crimes squad thinks that Raj’s death and many other violent killings are linked to the murder of Ivor Wright, another gangster. You probably remember that case; it was front-page stuff for weeks. Ivor Wright was a member of Twinner Scudd’s Vancouver crew. Now it’s no-holds-barred open warfare. Vietnamese gangsters are involved. The Triads are involved. Gangs from Richmond and Surrey and Vancouver’s Chinatown are involved. Big Circle Boys are involved.”

  “You mentioned Twinner Scudd, and I know the way your mind works. Do you think that Scudd is involved in Cho’s murder?”

  “It’s possible, why not? Twinner Scudd is a Native Indian who also happens to be the biggest villain on Vancouver Island. I’m not jumping to any conclusions yet, I’m just pointing out that there’s another possible Native involvement in this case. And don’t forget, Silas, that Nicky Nattrass’ mutts found that slavekiller club near the Echo Bay house. Face it. The Native connection is getting stronger all the time.”

  I thought that Bernie was talking crap, but kept that opinion to myself.

  Looking down his nose at me, Bernie went on, “I just had a long phone conversation with Harry Bryce, in Vancouver. He’s an inspector with BC’s Integrated Gang Task Force.”

  Bernie had my full attention. He went on, “According to the BCIGTF, these guys are battling for turf and Raymond Cho was an assassination target. A lot of gangsters stand to benefit from Cho’s death, and several attempts were made on his life before somebody finally nailed him.”

  “So that’s why Cho moved here, to escape the heat?”

  “Right. Cho moved here and masqueraded as a gardener. It was a clever ruse. Too bad for him that it didn’t work. Whatever. For me, it’s a serious development. A quarter of Vancouver’s crimes squad detectives are tied up with gang-related issues. Victoria is already stretched to the limit, so the last thing I want is Asian hit men and stickup crews coming over here from the mainland. Knocking people off and thinking they can get away with it.”

  “I think I know where you’re going with this now. Twinner Scudd stands to benefit from Cho’s death. That’s what you’ve been getting at. You think Cho was bumped off by a Native hit man.”

  Bernie took his glasses off, laid them on his desk, scratched his head and said, “Hit man? No, I don’t think he was killed by a hit man. Because forensics says that there was dried semen on Cho’s penis and on his lower belly. Shortly before his death, Cho was involved in sexual activity with female partners, and we know who they were because we have photographs to prove it. We don’t even need DNA evidence. It’s simple. Two Native girls killed Cho. Afterwards, as a little bonus to themselves, the girls helped themselves to some jewellery. For us to think anything otherwise stretches credulity beyond the breaking point. Face it. The girls might have been taking orders from somebody else. Twinner Scudd maybe. But they did it all right.”

  The door opened. Mrs. Nairn came in carrying a tray and put it on the desk. I poured two cups of coffee and helped myself to three chocolate chip cookies. Bernie moved the remaining three cookies beyond my reach before adding sugar to his own cup.

  He put a cookie in his mouth and crunched into it. Broadcasting crumbs, he tapped the binder on his desk and said, “The Murder Book is filling up nicely. Dr. Tarleton’s estimate, based on rigor and temperature, is that Cho bled to death and died two or three hours before Mrs. Milton found him. The back of Cho’s head was caved in first by a single blow from a heavy object, and I’m betting that the DNA on that slavekiller club is a match for that blood in Cho’s bedroom. Tarleton found a partially digested Chinese dinner in Cho’s stomach. And there’s more evidence, because Cho grappled with his killer. At the autopsy, foreign human skin tissue and blood was found under his fingernails.<
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  “In addition, we have Inspector Manners’ account of an interview with Tudor Collins, the guy who made that 911 call. He is a steady seventy-year-old man who has lived in Victoria his whole life. Collins knows the difference between a Native Indian and a Chinese. According to Mr. Collins, the two women that he dimed were Native Indians. I keep going over the same ground, Silas, because you are a hard man to convince sometimes. Look at it this way: that slavekiller club is Indian. Twinner Scudd is Indian. One might assume, given the time frame involved, and after sexual intercourse with Cho, the aforementioned Indian sex partner turned around and murdered him. So who do you think the finger is actually pointing at?”

  “A giant female spider?”

  My flippant remark rolled right off him. “The finger is pointing at two Native Indian girls.”

  “Women,” I corrected him. “And that’s another giant leap, Bernie . . . ”

  Bernie butted in. “It’s a working hypothesis with a very high probability of being proved accurate.”

  “Do you want me to go up against Twinner Scudd?”

  Bernie looked at the coffee grounds inside his empty cup as if for an answer, but apparently didn’t see one. “Frankly, if Twinner Scudd is involved, I’d like to dump this whole case, but that’s not an option. Because of the Native angle, I’d like to get you involved in the case. Interested?”

  I felt a huge surge of relief; Bernie’s insistence that the two girls had killed Cho bothered me greatly. I said, “Sure, I’m glad you asked. I’d be happy to get involved, as long as I can work out of my own office instead of headquarters.”

  “What’s wrong with working out of headquarters?”

  “Nothing. I’ve got responsibilities to my neighbourhood, is all. Irons in the fire that need watching.”

  “Fine, you are co-opted into this mess as of now. I’ll square things with the front office. Poke around generally, but don’t go poking yourself too far up Twinner Scudd’s ugly nose. Or up Nice Manners’ pretty nose. As a first priority, I need to find out who the other Native woman is and what really went on at Echo Bay.”