The overweight woman shuffled from the back of the shop, stopped beside Stratton and plonked a bag of vegetables down on the counter. ‘This produce is crap,’ she announced, a fearsome look on her face.
‘That why they half-price,’ the shopkeeper replied dryly, as if the complaint was a normal occurrence. ‘Two dollar, please.’
‘If they’re half-price then they’re twice the fucking price they are at the market.’
‘This isn’t the market.’
‘Fucking Chinks,’ she said to Stratton as she tossed two dollar bills on the counter, grabbed her bag, and walked out of the store, muttering to herself.
The shopkeeper walked around the counter and looked out of his door to watch the woman walk away and see if there was anyone about. When he turned back to face Stratton he was glaring angrily. ‘Why you people come here again? I tell you everything last night.’
The man was obviously confusing Stratton with someone else and for the time being Stratton wasn’t about to let him think otherwise. ‘Are you sure you didn’t miss anything?’ he asked, grabbing at the first thing he could think of that might induce the man to talk.
‘Go ask your friends,’ the shopkeeper spat, glancing out the door again. ‘I tell them all I know!’
He was not threatening Stratton but he was clearly nervous about something as he went back behind his counter to continue stacking the shelves.
‘I need to double-check,’ Stratton said, wondering who the man could be referring to.
‘You promise you leave me alone when I tell you. I dead if they know I talk to you. I told you I not go to court or go downtown with you. I tell you the man who kill the woman and now you come for more. What more you need? I not talk to you any more. Fucking FBI. Get out of my shop!’ He paused to glare at Stratton long enough to reinforce his demand. Then he turned his back on him.
The Korean man was determined to end the conversation, out of fear or anger. Whichever it was, Stratton was up against a wall: short of physical violence there was no other way through as far as he could see at that moment. He picked up the fifty cents, deposited the coins in a children’s-charity box and walked out of the store.
Contemplating the shopkeeper’s revelation, Stratton walked back to the spot where Sally had been killed. The FBI had apparently interviewed the man the night before whereupon he had revealed the name of a suspect. Yet this morning Sergeant Draper had said he knew nothing. The police had responded to the incident within a few hours and the FBI had interviewed the shopkeeper a day later. The question was why the FBI had become involved in what looked like a local police matter. It might explain why Draper knew nothing or wouldn’t tell what he did know.
Stratton’s first thought was that he should go to the FBI, not that he expected any more joy from them than he’d had from the police – unless, of course, there was someone he could get help from. He walked down the road, racking his brains for anyone he knew or had known in the past who might be useful. By the time he arrived back on the bustling Main Street a name had struck him. There was one person who might be able to help although Stratton did not know him well enough to assume that he would. However, he was, in a very tangential way, connected with this and perhaps a favour could be coerced from him. It was worth a try.
Stratton took out his address book, flicked through the pages, found the number and tapped it into his phone. As soon as it started to ring he turned it off, realising the lack of wisdom in using his own mobile to make this particular call.
He saw a payphone on the other side of the street and darted through a gap in the traffic. He dug into his pocket to pull out the small pile of coins he had amassed, picked up the receiver, put all the silver into the slot and dialled the number.
A moment later the phone at the other end was answered by a voice he recognised.
‘Seaton?’ Stratton asked.
‘Who is this?’
‘Stratton.’
Seaton was in the living room of his comfortable suburban home, an open file on his lap. He was seated on a leather recliner. The room, like the rest of the house, was carefully furnished with reproduction veneer items and was glowing with middle-class ostentation. Unmistakably the creation of a self-obsessed wife it was full of framed family photographs, mainly of two smiling boys, the older of whom was in his very early teens. There were also plaques from various military intelligence outfits and special forces, not all of them American. One was from the SBS and it hung beside another from Navy SEAL Team 6.
‘Stratton? Hey, good to hear from you. How you doing?’
‘Fine. Where are you right now?’ Stratton asked – he’d called Seaton’s mobile phone.
‘I’m at home,’ Seaton said, having redirected his mobile to his home number.
‘Can you talk?’
‘Sure. Hey, I’m glad you called,’ Seaton said, sitting up and putting down his file. ‘I’m sorry I never made Jack’s funeral. I was ordered straight home after the op to do some follow-up. I tried to call Sally a couple days ago but I couldn’t get hold of her.’
Stratton paused to consider the best way of breaking the bad news that would also prompt a favourable reaction to a request for help. ‘I understand. Your card was much appreciated,’ he lied.
‘I still should’ve been there, but, well, I suppose I don’t need to explain to you … So, what can I do for you?’ Seaton asked.
‘I need a favour.’
‘Shoot,’ Seaton said, getting to his feet. He went over to his desk where a read-out on a small digital screen displayed the number of the phone Stratton was calling from and beneath it the location: Venice Beach, California.
‘I’m in California.’
‘California?’ Seaton said, feigning surprise. ‘Getting some sun and a taste of those famous babes, I hope.’
Stratton decided to get to the point. ‘Sally was killed a couple of days ago,’ he said.
‘What?’ Seaton said, dumbfounded. ‘Jack’s Sally?’
‘That’s why I’m calling.’
‘I can’t believe what I’m hearing … How’d she die, for God’s sake?’
‘She was murdered.’
‘
‘Here – in Los Angeles.’
Seaton pushed his hands through his short, mousy hair as he walked to his patio windows. The view beyond the wooden fence surrounding his groomed garden was of a dense collection of tall, deciduous trees belonging to Dranesville District Park, a small, pretty patch of green that hugged the south bank of the Potomac river in Maryland. ‘I can’t believe it,’ Seaton said. ‘What was she doing in LA?’
‘Getting away. Josh was with her. He’s okay. I’m working on how I can get him back to the UK.’
‘What do you need me to do?’ Seaton asked, sounding genu -inely concerned.
Stratton was still reluctant to ask directly, mainly because he didn’t know Seaton that well. It wasn’t a small thing and Stratton had not made up his mind whether Seaton was a team player, one of the guys, or a career man – no one got far up the promotional ladder by being one of the guys. Career-minded people didn’t stick their necks out without some self-interested reason.
‘How’d it happen?’ Seaton asked.
‘I don’t know exactly. She rented a car at the airport and somehow ended up in the backstreets of Venice. I’m guessing that she was looking for a hotel for the night. The police say she was attacked by a gang but they don’t know who. Thing is, the FBI does.’
‘I don’t understand. Why’s the FBI involved?’
‘Beats me. When I got no joy from the cops I went down to the crime scene and found out that the Feds have got hold of a name.’
‘I hear what you’re saying,’ Seaton said. ‘You want me to see if I can help you get custody of Josh?’
‘No,’ Stratton said, slightly irritated that Seaton appeared to have missed the point. ‘I want to know that whoever did this to Sally is going to pay.’
