Little Mountain (4 page)

        
“Or her.
Could have been a woman, more or less.
Two sisters, maybe.
Or they might be neighbors. Catch the neighbors early, before they go to work.”

         “But Mrs. Chea won’t be in the hospital very long. She may leave and go stay with friends. I should talk to her while Fitchie starts interviewing neighbors.”

         “Don’t buck me, all right? She’ll stay put till you get there. I’ll see to it. Now go see Fitchie. He more or less can’t give you his full energies, ’cause of his family situation. You work with him on this.”

         Sam found his desk with a wave from Sergeant Fitch, who had sandy hair surrounding a large bald spot on top. DeVito said it looked like a horseshoe when Fitchie bent over. Sam said he would take DeVito’s word for it.

         “Welcome to days, Hot Dog. Looks like your night crawler buddies left you a present.”

         It was a marble paperweight with an inscription that read:

           
Detective Sambath Long

            “Illegitimi Non Carborundum”

        
“It’s Latin,” Fitchie said. “Don’t let the bastards grind you down. You could put it in your notebook.” Seemed everyone knew about Sam’s notebooks.

         “How’s Ellen doing?”

         Fitchie’s voice quavered.
“Not good, Sam.
She’s skin and bones now. I’ll be in and out of the station for a few days. Help you where I can, but--”

         “You take care of Ellen and the boys, I’ll be fine.” Sam was not at all sure how he’d be without a full-time partner, but Fitchie’s dying wife was more important.

By seven thirty, Sam drove his Ford along 11th Street, his Vanillaroma air freshener swinging from the rear-view mirror. Children dashed across the narrow street that separated a row of four-deckers from a playground and its jungle gyms, and he eased his car along until he found an empty space. Today was going to be one of those three-alarm scorchers where the older kids opened the fire hydrants and the little kids mobbed the Good Humor trucks. Young men wiping their tee shirts on their faces would ogle the young women in halter tops and tight cutaway jeans. Married detectives would try not to stare.

         In front of Bin Chea’s house, he walked up to a white picket fence. Climbing roses cascaded over the top of the fence, and blossoms poked between the slats. The bush stretched from the chipped cement steps to the edge of the asphalt driveway. In the enclosed yard, a gas-powered lawn mower sat untended on a patch of grass hardly big enough for a person to stand on.

         A sign in Khmer said “Keep out.”

The door to the third-floor apartment creaked as the chain stretched taut. A short Asian woman looked out, her eyes filled with suspicion and fear. Her hair was white with streaks of gray, and hung limply over her ears. In the middle of her forehead was a purple welt the size of a half dollar. The woman must have been new to America, or else why didn’t she just use aspirin for her headache? Sam’s mother used to treat his headaches the same way, with a glass cup and vacuum created by a lighted match.

         A stale smell of camphor drifted out the door. The woman opened her mouth as if to say “I don’t know anything.” She had no teeth. Sam held up his badge and spoke in Khmer. “I am detective Sambath Long from the Lowell police,” he said. “May I ask you and your husband a few questions?”

         She stared at him as though he were speaking a foreign language, as though she were deaf. Her husband came to the door, his mouth a toothless cavern. Why wouldn’t they answer him? Finally they spoke to each other, and he remembered that the Cambodians weren’t the only Southeast Asians around. These folks weren’t speaking Khmer. “Are you Lao?” he asked in English. Suddenly the woman and her husband nodded. “Do you speak English?”

         “No, no. Just little,” the man said, and that was the last that Sam understood.

In the second-floor apartment, he sat at a kitchen table and spoke to a pair of women. “I am Sichan Lac,” the younger woman said in Khmer, “and this is my mother.” A Super Mario video game beeped and screamed in the living room, where a young boy pushed down on a control pad in front of the biggest television Sam had ever seen. A bookcase was filled from floor to ceiling with videos. The older woman had gray hair cropped short, gold-capped teeth, and wore a loose-fitting tee shirt that said “Aloha.” Hawaii was an expensive trip, but anyone could buy a shirt.

         Light shone past an open door and into a bedroom where drawn shades kept out the sun. Inside, a man dressed only in boxer shorts lay on a bed with rumpled sheets. Two more mattresses lay flat on the floor, signs of a crowded apartment. The living room had a sofa with a bit of bed sheet that jutted out from underneath the cushions. Hanging on the wall was a plaster
apsara
, one of the mythical dancers from heaven who were immortalized in the stone temple of Angkor Wat. A pair of palm leaves crossed the corner of the bas-relief. Sam couldn’t see how they were attached, but he liked the effect the palm and the
apsara
made together. The traditional Cambodian image made him think of his sister Sarapon. In the front window, an air conditioner hummed softly.

         “We heard a loud noise last night after everyone had gone to bed,” Sichan said. Worry clouded her face as she fingered a small medallion attached to the gold chain around her neck, then looked away. Her nails were bitten close, and her left cheek was swollen and blue. “And there was terrible screaming. It woke me out of a sound sleep, and then I called the police. Was someone shot?”

        
“On the top floor.
Bin Chea was killed.” Both women looked as though he had slapped them in the face. Sam maintained a neutral expression. What an odd question--with all the commotion, with officers talking to the neighbors, how could they
not
know what happened?

         “Did you hear anyone leaving the building? Maybe
someone running
down the front stairs?”

         “Yes, I think maybe there were two people. It seemed like I heard someone say ‘shut up’ in English, but I’m not sure. I was too sleepy. At first I had thought it was one of my nightmares.”

         “I know what you mean.” What kind of nightmares did Sichan have? Did the mud drip from her fingers as she clawed her own grave? Did she sit bolt upright in bed just as the club reached her face?
But for now, what about the man sleeping in the other room?
“Who is he?” Sam asked.

         “That is my husband Nawath. He was at work last night.”

         “How many people live here, ma’am?”

        
“Just the four of us.”

         She was lying. The room with the guy in it had room for at least four people, and they wouldn’t pack everyone into one room. There was a closed door that probably led to another bedroom, but that didn’t matter. “Ma’am, I’m not here for that. I won’t report how many people live here. I just need to know who else might have heard or seen something last night.
Anything.
Maybe I can come back and talk to the others.”

         “That’s impossible. There is no one else.”

         Sam’s voice softened. “All right, ma’am.” He’d be back anyway.

         “I am so sorry for Mrs. Chea,” the old woman said. “Now she has no family.”

         “Did Mister Chea ever fight with his wife?”

        
“Such a shameful question.
Perhaps you should ask me if she killed her husband.”

         “
Did
she kill her husband?”

         The old woman’s face flushed. “No!” Sam had no reason to suspect Mrs. Chea. Not yet. But in a murder case the spouse was always a suspect.

         “Who do you think killed Bin Chea?” Sam asked.

         “I really don’t know,” she said. She crossed her arms across her chest, warding off further questions. “I can’t say any more.”

         A light snore came from the bedroom, and Sam looked again at Sichan. “When may I talk to your husband?”

         “Maybe you should talk to him at Samson Cleaning Service tonight. He works there.”

         “What time does he start work?”

        
“At eleven tonight.”

         “If you have only four people in the apartment, why do you need extra mattresses on the floor?” She looked at him nervously and didn’t reply. Who could blame her for being nervous? Lots of Cambodians kept expenses down by sharing apartments.

         “I would like to speak with your husband now, please.”

         She shook her head. “He will be angry with me.”

         “Ma’am, what happened to your face?”

         She chewed on her knuckles, looked down at her bare feet. “It’s nothing.”

         “Did he hit you?”

         “I slipped and fell. I am very careless.”

         “No one should ever hit you, Mrs. Lac. If anyone ever hurts you, I want you to call me.” He held out a business card, but she waved it away as though it were a poison mushroom.

         “Hide it in your purse,” he whispered.

         “No. Please go now.” She looked away from him.

         Nawath came out of the bedroom, tightening a belt on his trousers. He was barefoot and shirtless, and wiped his eyes with callused hands. He blinked twice, apparently dispelling the last remnants of sleep. “I’m up,” he said. “What do you want?”

         Sam wanted a lot: What did Nawath hear last night? What did he see? How well did he know the landlord Bin Chea? Did he know of any troubles Mister Chea had with anyone--with other tenants?
With anyone at all?

         “A peaceful guy,” Nawath said.
“Wouldn’t harm a roach.
We’re all going to miss him. I can’t think of anybody who’d want to hurt the old man.”

        
“No one?
No problems, ever?”

         “How the hell should I know he has problems? Hey, what were you trying to give my wife? Your home phone number, you want to mess around with her?” Nawath offered a sly smile.

         “This is a murder investigation,” Sam said. “If you have any information, please let us know.” He held out the card that Sichan Lac had refused, and Nawath took it. Sam let himself out, realizing that he hated Nawath.
But why?
The fellow was probably a wife-beater, and he might be withholding information. But the Commonwealth of Massachusetts didn’t require an officer of the law to hate anyone. So why did Sam want to turn Nawath’s nose into gristle?

CHAPTER FOUR

Viseth Kim
sat on the cement steps
while
air radiate
d
in waves from the street, down the hill from Bin Chea’s place. He couldn’t remember when it had gotten any hotter than this in the camps in Thailand. He could feel his skin turn brown under the scalding sun. Sweat beaded on his forehead, soaked into his tee shirt, worked between his toes and fed whatever growth it was that made his ratty high tops smell so bad.

         The others in his gang were trading germs in the city swimming pool or toking up so they didn’t care so much about the heat.

        
Viseth
swigged his beer. Tonight was the payoff whether the man liked it or not. That son of a bitch put off payment till things settled down. The man was right, though. If
he
disappeared too soon, they’d suspect. Cops were so damn suspicious. Meanwhile, he should just take a little time and get rid of the gun. Get laid one more time before his girlfriend shut him off. She was getting so big, so damn big. No way
she could
come with him to Long Beach in that condition. State would take care of the baby,
then
he’d get himself somebody else for fun. When he got settled, he’d call and find out if
she
had a boy. If so, maybe he’d send for her.