Two Songs This Archangel Sings

As I reached into my pocket for change to buy a Times, I scanned the day's headlines; one story leaped out at me, and I sucked in my breath and involuntarily took a little step backward.

The Times had the story halfway down the front page, in the third column. However, both the Daily News and the Post carried the item as their sole lead story, complete with large, grisly photographs. Liu Sakh Po, notorious ARVN colonel and alleged unreformed whore-master and gangster, would not be answering my questions, or anyone else's, since he was quite dead, his brain having been mashed inside his crushed skull sometime during the previous evening. I felt lightheaded and slightly nauseated; it was an eerie feeling to be standing on a windy, snow-blown corner in New York City looking at headlines announcing a man's death in a city a hundred and fifty miles away and knowing you are responsible. There was no doubt in my mind that it was my trip to Seattle that had killed him.

I bought copies of all three newspapers. I had a strong urge to stop in some warm coffee shop and start reading at once, but I had an even stronger urge to get my Freedom of Information Act request on Veil filed. I folded the newspapers under my arm, turned to my left, and started to cross the street. I glanced up, stopped so suddenly that the man behind me had to do a little pirouette in order to avoid tripping over me.

On the opposite corner, casually leaning against the side of a building, was the big man with the triangular face and cold, pale eyes. I had no idea where the man had come from, but he was unmistakably there, staring directly back at me with a slight, mocking smile on his face. Game time was over. He had appeared out of nowhere, like a ghost; his lack of pretense and his smile were a challenge, a blunt statement that I belonged to him, no matter what I did. He could hide or not hide, as it suited him, leave me be or kill me. He was saying that he would be with me each step of the way as I tried to piece together the pieces of the puzzle that would help me find my friend; if I finally found Veil, he would have found him too. And there was nothing I could do about it.

I found the man's skill unnerving, his arrogance enraging. My face flushed and hot, I started toward him-then abruptly stopped. He hadn't moved; he remained leaning against the side of the building, hands jammed into the pockets of his sheepskin coat, the same mocking smile on his face. He was in charge of the situation, I thought, not me. I had been startled, was now frustrated and upset, and I could think of absolutely nothing I could say to the big man that would make me feel any better. He had already made a fool out of me; by crossing the street and confronting him, I would only run the risk of making a fool out of myself. The only way for me to seize the initiative from this man and his employers was to gain the information I needed.

I stepped out into the street and hailed a cab, told the driver to take me to the Federal Building. When I looked back through the window the big man was gone, but I was certain he was in one of the dozen of so cabs behind.

When I got back to Garth's apartment building, I took a long look up and down the block. The man tailing me had special skills, to be sure, but he was no ghost; he had to have access to food, warmth, and shelter someplace close by, and he had to have help.

Directly across the street from the apartment building an oversized Consolidated Edison van was parked beside an open manhole cover inside a barricaded work area. There was also a lot of digging and electrical equipment. It was the kind of scene one passes a dozen times a day in New York City. However, what was curious about this setup was the fact that there were no utility workers on the work site — unless the entire crew was down in the manhole, which I seriously doubted. Also, there was no driver behind the wheel of the van.

Now that I thought about it, it occurred to me that the van, barricades, and digging equipment had appeared across the street the day after I'd moved in with Garth, and I had never seen anyone working on the site. I noted the plate number of the van, then went up to Garth's apartment.

The flag on Garth's telephone answering machine had fallen, indicating that at least one call had come in while I was out. However, at the moment I was far more interested in the information in the newspapers I was carrying. I poured myself a cup of coffee, spread the Times out over the kitchen table, and began to read.

The lead story and accompanying obituary were rich in details concerning Po's background-the scandal surrounding his activities in Saigon during the war, his mysterious disappearance at the height of the scandal, and his unexplained-and, at the time, unnoticed-entry into the United States after the fall of Saigon. No one questioned the legality of his immigration, but there was no record of which American official or officials had sponsored him. A long sidebar detailed Po's alleged criminal activities since his entry into the United States and mentioned the investigations that had been cut short by his death.

The background pieces were interesting, but I could find nothing relevant to my interests in them that I had not already learned from Loan Ka and Kathy.

Po's death had been quick, brutal, and mysterious. Despite the fact that his Albany mansion had an intricate alarm system and a half dozen live-in bodyguards, somebody-the police theorized one man-had managed to penetrate that tight security and kill Po without leaving a trace. Po's skull had been crushed and his neck broken by a single, powerful blow-possibly delivered with a bare fist-to the top of the skull. Although a window in the third- story study where he had been killed was found open, the authorities did not believe it possible that the killer could have scaled the outside of the building and entered that way. Suspicion now centered on Po's bodyguards, and each was being questioned extensively. The police had issued a statement to the effect that they believed Po had been killed by another gangster and that it was probably an 'inside' job.

There was no mention of a severed and missing right thumb, but that was the kind of detail police might keep secret. I knew damn well Po hadn't been killed by a business rival, and I seriously doubted that any of his bodyguards had been involved. I knew a man who was capable of scaling the mansion wall and killing with a single blow of his fist, and I suspected that I might have met another.

The Times, as usual, was long on information, short on sensationalism. For sensationalism-and the photographs I wanted to see-I turned to the Daily News and Post.

The main photo in both papers, attributed to a UPI photographer, showed Po in his dressing gown sitting at a massive desk in his study. His head was tilted forward at an impossibly acute angle, and it looked like it had literally caved in. Blood which had seeped from his skull and burst from his nostrils and mouth had puddled on the desk in front of him and stained much of the newspaper he was clutching with both hands. Behind the desk, slightly to his left, was the open window mentioned in the Times report.

Something about the photo struck me as odd, but I couldn't immediately identify just what it was. The picture in the Post was large and slightly clearer than the one in the Daily News, and I spent some time studying it; I still could not tell what it was in the picture that was not as it should be. I folded the newspapers, rose, and went to the answering machine in Garth's study.

The counter on the machine indicated one message. I rewound the cassette, listened to it. It was from the New York florist through whom I had placed the order for flowers; she was asking me to call her to provide 'clarification' on the instructions I had given her. I thought my instructions had been quite clear, and I experienced a growing sense of unease as I picked up the phone and dialed the number.

'Haley Florists.' It was the woman who'd taken my order.

'This is Robert Frederickson. I placed an order earlier for-'

'Yes, Dr. Frederickson. There seems to be some confusion in Seattle over just what you want done with the flowers. I recall that you specifically requested that the flowers be sent to the residence of Mr. Loan Ka, but the florist in Seattle insists that you must want them delivered to the funeral home.'

'What funeral home?'

There was prolonged silence on the other end of the line. When the woman finally spoke again, her voice was halting, distinctly uncomfortable. 'Was Mr. Loan Ka a close personal friend of yours, Dr. Frederickson?'

'Yes,' I managed to say.

'Sir, I don't know quite how to say this. There… is no longer any residence to send your flowers to. According to the florist in Seattle, it was destroyed two nights ago in some kind of explosion the police think may have been caused by a defective boiler in the basement.'

'And the… family?'

'All dead, sir,' the woman said in a small voice. 'Also, there was the body of a young woman. I'm so sorry you have to learn about it this way, Dr. Frederickson. It's such a terrible tragedy.'