Deceived (21 page)

The street on
which Suyuan Chunnu once worked stretched from affluence to despair. Nick
followed it the entire range, as neat homes and cafes gave way to rundown
apartments and pawn shops. Along with the deteriorating neighborhood the mix of
races shifted, from white to Hispanic, black, and Asian
.

Counting down
the addresses as he drove, Nick found the number he looked for topping the door
of what appeared to be an abandoned storehouse. A half-block farther, at the
first available parking spot, he pulled to the side of the street
.

Nick couldn't
help but notice that his car stood out from its neighbors, as he himself did on
the walk back to the storehouse. Strange and somewhat unnerving to feel
suddenly in the minority, to attract stares and wonder what thoughts hid behind
them
.

Nick peered
through the storehouse's dirty windows. He saw old and rusting bits of
machinery
—
fly wheels and fan motors and tangles of insulated electrical
wire
—
but no activity and no lights. Perhaps Harry had been wrong,
perhaps the D.C. cops had found time to close this particular sweatshop.

The entrance
stood at the storehouse's far corner; Nick tried the door, expecting to find it
locked
—
it wasn't. He hesitated momentarily, then stepped into a hallway;
the door creaked closed behind him. From above, somewhere along the flight of
stairs before him, came a buzz of activity. Voices, footsteps, machinery, all
muted and mixed
.

Nick followed
the narrow passage upward, taking the stairs worn bare to wood one at a time,
cautiously, as latent fears made themselves known.
What was he doing here? Alone?
In this neighborhood, in this building? No one knew he had come; no one would
know where to look if he disappeared.

Nick forced
himself on; he'd come too far to turn around
.

One flight and
the noise grew louder, more distinct. Many voices, sharp exchanges. Another
flight and Nick came to a small landing. The voices, the sounds, came from an
opening on its far side marked by an oscillating fan circulating humid and
stuffy air.

Nick hesitated
at the side of the fan, seeking clues to the occupants beyond. Their voices
were now distinguishable, as was the language they spoke
—
Chinese.

Nick stepped
forward past the fan and into the opening, his senses instantly immersed in
noise and commotion. He looked upon a large, hi-ceilinged room, its windows
painted over in off-white. Rows of fluorescent lights along the ceiling, most
burned out and blackened, lent the room at most a marginal illumination.

A grid of
tables covered the sagging floor, each with sewing machine and operator. Nick
did a quick count. Three dozen figures, all Asian, bent over the humming
machines: men, women, old, young.

Most of the
workers wore dark pants and white shirts, but here and there a splash of color
—
red,
yellow
—
appeared on the women. Otherwise no discernible distinction
existed between the sexes. A real equal opportunity position.

The workers
chattered among themselves, but their eyes rarely left their work. Paid on
production, Nick guessed, they concentrated on the job. No one took notice as
he entered the room.

The workers
moved quickly, effortlessly, stitching together precut swatches of denim then
adding pockets, zippers, and belt loops. Minutes, and a newly folded pair of
jeans lay on a stack of the same while another swatch of denim began to take
shape. The work went quickly, still it amazed Nick more of the assembly wasn't
mechanized. Maybe this particular shop was too small to afford the equipment,
or maybe the illegal workers were just too cheap not to take full advantage of.

A few feet from
him an older man
—
he looked mid-sixties, but Nick guessed this type of
labor might add a premature stoop and a dozen phantom years
—
sorted
designer labels from a box set on the floor. All counterfeit, Nick assumed, but
that would be of little concern to the legions of discounters and street
vendors more interested in labels than authenticity
.

Nick squatted,
balanced on the heels of his shoes, next to the old man. "Excuse me,"
he said loudly, speaking over the clamor.

Immediately a
silence rippled outward; heads turned at his voice. The old man, however, offered
Nick only an expressionless glance before continuing his work.

Nick asked if
there was someone in charge, someone he could talk to. The man pointed to the
entrance. Nick followed the man's line of sight but saw nobody. "Perhaps I
can ask you a few questions."

The old man
paused in his work, then rose and left for the landing. Unsure whether the man
intended to bring help or just escape an annoyance, Nick remained. He reached
into the box, selected a leather label
—
Polo by Ralph Lauren
—
then
left his heels, drawing himself to his full height.

The room had
quieted, sewing machines and conversations. Nick scanned left then right,
everywhere met by stares. The old man, he noticed on looking back toward the
landing, had disappeared.

Nick spent a
moment twirling the leather patch between the forefinger and thumb of his right
hand self-consciously. Another few seconds and he decided a more aggressive
course of action was called for. He pulled his wallet from his pocket, held it
above his head, the GAO identification card hanging free, and announced loudly:
"I'm with the General Accounting Office
…
Special Investigations. A
woman worked here a few months ago
—
Suyuan Chunnu. Does anyone remember
her?"

No hand shot
up, no voice broke the silence.
Had they understood the question?

Nick stepped
into the center of the room and tried again. "Suyuan Chunnu. She was
nineteen. I'd like to speak with anyone who remembers her. Anything you tell me
will be kept absolutely confidential."

He rotated in
place, seeking eye contact with every worker as he repeated Suyuan's name for
the third and fourth time. Most regarded him dumbly, but one girl
—
a bit
on the plain side with ungainly hair and thick, dark rimmed glasses
—
avoided
his eyes. Nick lowered his hand, the one holding the I.D., and started toward
her. A voice to his rear caused him to spin.

"What you
want here, mister?"

The speaker was
Chinese, short, balding, already red in the face. He struggled with the zipper
on his pants as he walked purposefully in Nick's direction. Pulled from the
bathroom by the old man, Nick guessed
.

If their height
disparity
—
Nick stood a good five inches taller
—
intimidated the
balding man, he didn't show it. A few paces from Nick, he repeated angrily,
"What you want here?"

"Who are
you?" Nick asked.

"Supervisor.
What you want?"

Nick flashed
his I.D. "A woman worked here. Suyuan Chunnu."

The
supervisor's eyebrows bumped up a fraction. "Many woman work here."

"I'm only
concerned with one
—
Suyuan Chunnu. She was murdered, about three months ago.
You remember her?" he asked.

The man
considered for a moment, then shook his head. "No. You go now."

"I know
she worked here. I need to ask you some questions. About her
…
about her
death."

Two more men
suddenly appeared at the landing. They took up positions on each side of Nick. "You
go now," the supervisor yelled again.

"I'm not
looking to cause any trouble, I just want to
—
"

The supervisor
reached out and bumped Nick on the upper arm. "You go now, mister."

Nick stood his
ground, arms crossed. "When my questions about Suyuan Chunnu are answered,
I leave," he said coolly, feeling anything but
.

The supervisor
unloosed a stream of piercing Chinese, and the faces of the two men to Nick's
sides turned cold
.

Nick peered
back over his shoulder, seeking unsuccessfully for the girl in the thick
glasses. Only when the two men began to advance did Nick retreat. He
sidestepped the supervisor who proceeded to launch another salvo of what Nick
assumed to be obscenities.

Instinct told
Nick that to flee in fear would be a mistake, might trigger an assault. Instead,
his back to the three men, he descended the stairs slowly, deliberately, as if
leaving of his own accord. The supervisor continued to yell but didn't follow
.

Not until he
stepped out on the street, into the welcoming sunlight, did his heartbeat slow.
Jesus Christ, what the hell had he been thinking?

Nick took a
series of long, deep breaths, then started unsteadily for his car. His hands
trembled as he unlocked the driver's door. He'd handled the threat of violence
better than he would have imagined, but now, after the threat had passed
—
He sat in the bucket seat, let his head fall back on the rest, and worked on
controlling his breathing.

Nick looked at
the storehouse. If he wanted answers out of the supervisor, he'd have to
involve the GAO, and that might not go well. Admitting to an unauthorized
investigation during a forced leave of absence
—
his lawyer would love him
for that
.

Nick thought
suddenly of the girl in the thick glasses. She knew Suyuan Chunnu, he'd bet on
it. Questioned alone
…

He checked his watch. Quarter past three. He had nowhere to go, nothing
to do. For a minute he deliberated, and then, mind made up, locked his door and
settled back into the seat. He'd wait, at least until dark.

Shortly after
five-thirty workers began to file from the storehouse's front door: groups of
two and three, and then, finally, the girl in the thick glasses.

She left in the
company of an older woman, but after exchanging a few words the two split in
different directions. Alone and walking quickly, as if in a hurry to distance
herself from the storehouse, the girl passed Nick on the opposite side of the
street. At the first intersection she turned right and soon disappeared from
view.

 Nick started
his car, merged into traffic, and followed. By the time he rounded the first
corner, the girl had melted into the crowd. He cruised slowly in the right
lane, searching the passing profiles. After a block he spotted her and some
fifty yards farther on pulled to the side of the street. He exited the car and
waited.

The girl did
not notice Nick at first. When she did, her eyes jumped swiftly from
recognition to panic. Nick held up his hands, palms out. "Miss," he
said, "if I could just talk to you for a few moments
…
"

The girl
glanced over her shoulder nervously
.

"Just a
few questions," Nick continued, "about Suyuan Chunnu."

"I cannot
help you," she said, in accented but otherwise perfect English, then sped
past him
.

Nick matched
her pace. "Did you know Suyuan?"

The girl kept
her eyes focused forward and charged ahead, but after twenty or thirty yards,
when it became apparent ignoring Nick was not going to make him go away, she
stopped abruptly and turned on him. "If someone sees me talking to you
…
"

"Please,"
Nick pleaded. "It's important."

Her eyes darted
back down the street; when they returned to Nick they showed indecision.

"Please,"
Nick repeated. "I need your help."

He could almost
read the girl's deliberations as she lowered her head and drew her upper lip
into her mouth. Finally she said under her breath, "There is a small park,
a playground, on Whittier Street and Fourth. Do you know it?"

Nick shook his
head. "But I can find it."

"Be there in an hour," she said, then hurried off down the
street. Nick made no attempt to follow.

Nick checked his
watch. 6:55. Either the girl was running late, or wasn't coming. He scanned the
park again: a few mothers with infants, children playing near the swings. No
way he could have missed her.

He left the
bench he'd been sitting on and began a slow lap around the park. Head down,
hands folded behind his back, he considered his next move. Instead of
alternatives, however, he saw only dead ends. He kicked at a pebble, watched it
hop across the sidewalk and disappear into sparse brown grass.

A voice caused
him to raise his head. The girl from the sweatshop approached from his right,
dressed in jeans and T-shirt. Much prettier than he remembered
—
more
stylish. She'd removed the thick glasses, pulled back her hair, and for the
first time Nick took note of her intelligent, delicate features
.

"You
came," he said when she neared, conceding surprise.

"I almost
didn't, but
…
" She looked away, clearly nervous.

"I'm glad
you did. My name's Nick. Nick Ford."

"I am
Jing-mei," she said after a moment's hesitation.

Nick pointed down
the sidewalk. "Would you like to walk, Jing-mei?"

She shrugged
and fell in step beside him.

"You knew
Suyuan Chunnu?" Nick asked after a few seconds of silence.

Jing-mei cast
her eyes to the sidewalk. "Why do you wish to know about Suyuan?"

"You know
she was murdered?"

Jing-mei nodded
solemnly.

"It's
possible whoever murdered Suyuan murdered a friend of mine."

She turned her
head, appraised him, then continued on in silence. Finally, she acknowledged,
"We came across together."

"Came
across?"

"From China.
On a freighter."

"Did you
know her, in China I mean?"

"She was
from Gansu, like me. But no, I did not know her there."