“I don’t know. But I’m sure you’re aware of the SWAT-team raid on your house last night, the bungalow she was renting from you.”
Lee was silent for a moment. Then: “Yes, the authorities came to my own home last evening, after the raid, to ask about her.”
“Mr. Lee, these authorities…who were they?”
“Three men. They claimed to be with the FBI.”
“Claimed?”
“They showed me credentials, but they were lying.”
Frowning, Spencer said, “How can you be sure of that?”
“In my life, I’ve had considerable experience of deceit and treachery,” Lee said. He didn’t seem either angry or bitter. “I’ve developed a good nose for it.”
Spencer wondered if that was as much a warning as it was an explanation. Whichever the case, he knew that he was not in the presence of an ordinary businessman. “If they weren’t actually government agents—”
“Oh, I’m sure they were government agents. However, I believe the FBI credentials were simply a convenience.”
“Yes, but if they were with another bureau, why not flash their real ID?”
Lee shrugged. “Rogue agents, operating without the authority of their bureau, hoping to confiscate a cache of drug profits for their own benefit, would have reason to mislead with false ID.”
Spencer knew that such things had happened. “But I don’t…I
“I’m sure she isn’t. If I’d thought so, I wouldn’t have rented to her. Those people are scum — corrupting children, ruining lives. Besides, although Ms. Keene paid her rent in cash, she wasn’t rolling in money. And she worked at a full-time job.”
“So if these weren’t, let’s say, rogue Drug Enforcement Administration operatives looking to line their own pockets with cocaine profits, and if they weren’t actually with the FBI — who were they?”
Louis Lee shifted slightly in his chair, still sitting erect but tilting his head in such a way that reflections of the stained glass Tiffany lamp painted both lenses of his spectacles and obscured his eyes. “Sometimes a government — or a bureau within a government — becomes frustrated when it has to play by the rules. With oceans of tax money washing around, with bookkeeping systems that would be laughable in any private enterprise, it’s easy for some government officials to fund covert organizations to achieve results that can’t be achieved through legal means.”
“Mr. Lee, do you read a lot of espionage novels?”
Louis Lee smiled thinly. “They’re not of interest to me.”
“Excuse me, sir, but this sounds a little paranoid.”
“It’s only experience speaking.”
“Then your life’s been even more interesting than I’d guess from appearances.”
“Yes,” Lee said, but didn’t elaborate. After a pause, with his eyes still hidden by the patterns of reflected color that glimmered in his eyeglasses, he continued: “The larger a government, the more likely it is to be riddled with such covert organizations — some small but some not. We have a very big government, Mr. Grant.”
“Yes, but—”
“Direct and indirect taxes require the average citizen to work from January until the middle of July to pay for that government.
“I’ve heard that figure too.”
“When government grows so large, it also grows arrogant.”
Louis Lee did not seem to be a fanatic. No anger or bitterness strained his voice. In fact, although he chose to surround himself with highly ornamented French furniture, he had a calm air of Zen simplicity and a distinctly Asian resignation to the ways of the world. He seemed more of a pragmatist than a crusader.
“Ms. Keene’s enemies, Mr. Grant, are my enemies too.”
“And mine.”
“However, I don’t intend to make a target of myself — as you are doing. Last night, I didn’t express my doubt about their credentials when they presented themselves as FBI agents. That would not have been prudent. I was unhelpful, yes, but
Spencer sighed and slumped in his chair.
Leaning forward with his hands on his knees, his intense black eyes becoming visible again as the reflections of the lamp moved off his glasses, Lee said, “You were the man in her house last night.”
Spencer was surprised again. “How do you know anyone was there?”
“They were asking about a man she might have been living with. Your height, weight. What were you doing there, if I may ask?”
“She was late for work. I was worried about her. I went to her place to see if anything was wrong.”
“You work at The Red Door too?”
“No. I was waiting there for her.” That was all he chose to say. The rest was too complicated — and embarrassing. “What can you tell me about Valerie that might help me locate her?”
“Nothing, really.”
“I only want to help her, Mr. Lee.”
“I believe you.”
“Well, sir, then why not cooperate with me? What was on her renter’s application? Previous residence, previous jobs, credit references — anything like that would be helpful.”
The businessman leaned back, moving his small hands from his knees to the arms of his chair. “There was no renter’s application.”
“With as many properties as you have, sir, I’m sure whoever manages them must use applications.”
Louis Lee raised his eyebrows, which was a theatrical expression for such a placid man. “You’ve done some research on me. Very good. Well, in Ms. Keene’s case, there was no application, because she was recommended by someone at The Red Door who’s also a tenant of mine.”
Spencer thought of the beautiful waitress who appeared to be half Vietnamese and half black. “Would that be Rosie?”
“It would.”
“She was friends with Valerie?”
“She is. I met Ms. Keene and approved of her. She impressed me as a reliable person. That’s all I needed to know about her.”
Spencer said, “I’ve got to speak to Rosie.”
“No doubt she’ll be working again this evening.”
“I need to talk to her before this evening. Partly because of this conversation with you, Mr. Lee, I have the distinct feeling that I’m being hunted and that time may be running out.”
“I think that’s an accurate assessment.”
“Then I’ll need her last name, sir, and her address.”
Louis Lee was silent for so long that Spencer grew nervous. Finally: “Mr. Grant, I was born in China. When I was a child, we fled the Communists and emigrated to Hanoi, Vietnam, which was then controlled by the French. We lost everything — but that was better than being among the tens of millions liquidated by Chairman Mao.”
Although Spencer was unsure what the businessman’s personal history might have to do with his own problems, he knew there would be a connection and that it would soon become apparent. Louis Lee was Chinese but not inscrutable. Indeed, he was as direct, in his way, as was any rural New Englander.
“Chinese in Vietnam were oppressed. Life was hard. But the French promised to protect us from the Communists. They failed. When Vietnam was partitioned in nineteen fifty-four, I was still a young boy. Again we fled, to South Vietnam — and lost everything.”
“I see.”
“No. You begin to perceive. But you don’t yet see. Within a year, civil war began. In nineteen fifty-nine, my younger sister was killed in the street by sniper fire. Three years later, one week after John Kennedy promised that the United States would ensure our freedom, my father was killed by a terrorist bomb on a Saigon bus.”
Lee closed his eyes and folded his hands in his lap. He almost seemed to be meditating rather than
