Authors: Michael J. McCann
ShonDale Gregg lived like a prince while working only part-time at a club. Obviously what he made at the En-R-G Club wouldn’t pay for the lifestyle he was maintaining here. Smoke thought Gregg might be looking out for Asians who were slumming at the En-R-G Club. Maybe he spent a lot of his time with his old college friend Tommy and his gang, making extra money on the side.
Beverley called him in and showed him a gun he’d found in the drawer of the nightstand.
“
Kel-Tec,” he said, holding it up by the end of the stock with his right thumb and index finger. “P-3AT, three-eighty. I have my laptop with me, so I can run the serial number if you’re interested.”
“
I’m interested.” Hank thought about it for a moment. Gun in the kitchen, gun in the master bedroom. Gun in every room?
He walked back out into the living room and began to search. After a few minutes he was down on his knees, staring at a dark shape underneath the sofa.
“
Bev! Can you give me hand for a minute? In the living room.”
Beverley came in muttering under his breath.
“
Something under here,” Hank said, straightening up. “Can you help me tip it up?”
“
It better not be a cat,” Beverley groused, setting his camera aside. “I got scratched by a cat that had been shut in a closet at a scene last week. Lucky I didn’t get infected.”
Hank took one end of the sofa and Beverley the other, and together they tipped it back onto its rear legs. Beverley released his end and kneeled down.
“
Nice one, Lieutenant.”
A holster had been affixed to the underside of the sofa. Beverley snapped a couple of photographs before putting down his camera and gently removing the revolver. “Nice. Smith and Wesson 686.” He knelt on the floor, examining it. “Well kept. Better than the Kel-Tec in the bedroom.” He opened the cylinder. “Fully loaded.” He tipped the rounds out into his hand.
“
Bev?”
“
Three-fifty-seven magnum,” he murmured, looking at the rounds in his palm.
“
Bev?”
“
Hmm?” Beverley slowly looked up.
“
Can I put the sofa down now?”
“
Oh, uh, sure, Lieutenant.” Beverley moved out of the way, allowing Hank to lower the sofa back down onto the floor.
“
I take it you’d like me to run this one, too.”
Hank nodded. “And the one Butternut found in the kitchen.” He looked around, musing. “Master bedroom, kitchen, living room. Let’s take a look in the master bathroom.”
They found a Glock 31 loaded with .357 SIG cartridges at the bottom of the laundry hamper. Unlike the Smith and Wesson 686 in the living room, it had seen rough handling during its day. Hank shook his head at the bipolar nature of the victim and his living space: expensive, upscale decor and furnishings mixed with coke in the kitchen and a gun in every room. And the capper? Somehow, with all this firepower distributed around the place, someone had gotten the drop on ShonDale while he was sitting in his kitchen eating a bedtime snack.
Beverley told him that although the Smith and Wesson revolver from the living room was registered to ShonDale, the Kel-Tec from the master bedroom was registered to a Roderick Allan Borden of Washington, D.C., and had been reported lost a year ago last January. A search of Mr. Borden’s record showed that he was a small-time dealer with several convictions for possession and trafficking. Similarly, the Glock 31 from the laundry hamper had most recently belonged to a Terence Dean Milligan of Manchester, about a hundred miles upstate. Milligan had a conviction for possession of marijuana.
“
Where the hell is he getting these guns?” Beverley frowned at the screen.
“
He was a bouncer and security guy. Maybe he took them from losers trying to get into the En-R-G Club and then just kept them.”
“
Could be. I’ll test fire them when I get back and see if we get any IBIS hits. You never know.” The Integrated Ballistics Identification System provided law enforcement agencies with a database of projectile and shell casing evidence for comparison to evidence recovered at crime scenes.
“
His computer’s in the guest bedroom,” Hank said. “Check his e mail, Facebook account, Twitter, whatever the hell you can find. I want to know about his connections.”
“
Aye aye, sir.”
Hank’s cell phone vibrated. It was Karen.
“
I’m downstairs. Are you just about done up there?”
“
I can be. What’s up?”
“
They’ve started bringing in Mah’s worker bees. We need to get started on them.”
“
Sounds good. I’ll be right down.”
As he punched the button to summon the elevator he thought about what they’d found in ShonDale’s apartment and shook his head. How the hell had they gotten the drop on the guy?
They used three interview rooms to interview Peter Mah’s employees. Hank took one, Karen another, and Waverman reluctantly worked the third room with Tim Byrne. Additionally, a patrol officer named Buddy Hum came in on short notice from Midtown District to act as an interpreter as required while Captain Martinez and Lieutenant Jarvis listened in from the observation rooms.
Hank began with Yi Chin.
“
Mr. Yi, you’re the manager of the Bright Spot Restaurant?”
“
Already said that.”
“
Were you at the restaurant yesterday evening?”
“
Already said that, too. Until closing time.”
“
When did the restaurant close?”
“
Sunday nights close at eight o’clock. Very slow.”
“
What did you do afterwards?”
“
Went upstairs to watch baseball game, have dinner.”
“
You went upstairs to your apartment above the restaurant? Can anyone corroborate that?”
“
Wife. She at market now. You miss.” Yi grinned at him.
“
Yeah, okay. We’ll have a word with her. Did you go out at any time after that?”
“
No, fell asleep. Boring game. Nobody score. How win bets with nobody scoring runs? You tell me that.”
Hank showed him a photograph of ShonDale Gregg. “Ever seen this guy?”
“
No. Who he?”
“
Peter Mah ever talk about a guy named ShonDale?”
“
I no listen to Mr. Mah when he talk, unless he talk to me,” Yi said gravely. “When he talk to somebody else, bad for health to listen.”
“
Peter Mah ask you to do a special favor for him? Take this guy for a ride and put a few bullets in him?”
“
You crazy? Mr. Mah never ask me to do anything like that. Mr. Mah give me shit for slow food, lazy waiter, ask Daniel to fix dinner. Don’t have nothing to do with these other things you talk about.”
“
Anyone unusual stop by the restaurant last evening?”
“
Unusual? No.”
“
Was Peter Mah there?”
“
In restaurant, you mean? He come downstairs for dinner at seven, like always. Go back upstairs at eight.”
“
Anyone meet with him during dinner?”
Yi shook his head vigorously. “No way. Nobody ever bother Mr. Mah during mealtime, I make sure. Bad for health. Mr. Mah get very upset.”
“
Bad things happen when Mah gets upset?”
Yi shrugged. “Mr. Mah don’t like indigestion. Do you?”
Meanwhile, Waverman and Byrne were questioning Daniel Chun.
“
Where were you yesterday, Mr. Chun?”
“
At home,” Daniel replied. “It was my day off.”
“
What about last night?”
“
At home, I said.”
“
Can anyone corroborate that for you?”
“
Of course. My wife, for starters.”
“
You work for Peter Mah, Mr. Chun?”
“
Yes.”
“
You’re the cook at the Bright Spot Restaurant, are you?”
“
No,” Daniel replied shortly.
Waverman looked at Byrne, confused. “Tim, isn’t this supposed to be the cook?”
“
Explain it to him, Chun,” Byrne said.
Daniel sighed. “I’m a chef, you cretin.”
Waverman blinked. “Chef? Oh, uh, right. Like a cordon bleu chef, something like that?”
“
Something like that,” Daniel said sarcastically.
“
You have to forgive the detective, Chun,” Byrne said. “He’s a little confused as to why someone who claims to be a trained chef would be working in a dump like the Bright Spot deep frying chicken balls and steaming bean sprouts.”
“
I’m employed by Mr. Mah to prepare his meals for him. I also oversee the preparation of the restaurant food, but we have a
cook
who’s directly responsible for that.”
“
Who’s that, Mr. Chun?” Waverman asked.
“
The cook? I believe her name’s Millie.”
Waverman shuffled through papers in his file. “Millie? Uh, Millie Lung? Would that be her?”
“
Could be.”
“
It says here you live at 547 Jackson Court, Unit 2301, Mr. Chun. That’s a long way from Chinatown. How do you get to work in the morning?”
“
Mr. Mah sends a car for me.”
“
Someone picks you up? Who’s that?”
“
I don’t know their names, for godsakes. Sometimes it’s the big bald guy and sometimes it’s the punk with the scar or the muscular guy with the long nose.”
“
But you don’t know their names?”
“
Why on earth should I? They’re drivers.”
Byrne placed a photograph of ShonDale Gregg on the table in front of Daniel. “What about this guy, know his name?”
Daniel glanced at the photograph. “Of course not.”
“
Ever see him around the restaurant?” Byrne pressed. “Maybe talking to Mah or one of his flunkies?”
“
No. We don’t get people like that in the restaurant.”
Byrne leaned forward. “Maybe you saw him in the trunk of a stolen car with a couple of bullet holes in his forehead?”
“
That’s not very funny. I have a sensitive stomach.”
“
I take it that’s a no?” Byrne said. “You didn’t see him with a couple of bullet holes in his head?”
“
No, no, of course not!”
“
Ever heard your boss talk about Jim Brown?”
“
No.”
“
ShonDale Gregg?”
“
No.”
“
Virgil Trucks?”
“
No.”
“
Someone named Gary?”
“
No, no, no. I pay absolutely no attention to what goes on in Mr. Mah’s business. He pays me phenomenally well to prepare his meals for him and to ensure that Millie, or whatever her name is, doesn’t poison the customers. Other than that, I mind my own business.”
“
But what about between times?” Waverman insisted. “Between meals? Surely you’re interacting with the restaurant staff and overhearing things. Maybe one of those names came up and you heard some talk.”
Daniel stared at him. “Are you out of your mind? I told you I mind my own business. Between meals I sit at a table in the back room, I drink coffee I make myself from my own private stock and I read.”
“
You read?” Waverman repeated incredulously.
“
Yes, Detective. I read. You know, books, magazines. Perhaps you’ve heard of them?”
“
I don’t believe it. You’re telling me that Peter Mah pays you phenomenally well, as you put it, to sit there and read?”
“
No, Detective,” Daniel replied, his voice heavy with contempt. “He pays me phenomenally well to prepare for him the most exquisite food he’s ever tasted. Not something you’d know anything about, I suspect, at your pay scale.”
Waverman looked at Byrne. “I’m done here. This guy’s no help to us at all.”
“
That’ll be all, Mr. Chun,” Byrne chuckled. “You’re free to go. Have a nice evening.”
Waverman rubbed his forehead as Daniel walked out the door. “What an asshole.”
Karen, meanwhile, was in the third interview room with Wu Tan, the waiter at the Bright Spot. She showed him a photograph of ShonDale Gregg. “Do you know this man, Mr. Wu?”
“
Never seen before,” Wu replied.
“
Heard anyone talking about a guy named ShonDale Gregg around the restaurant?”
“
Nope.”
“
What about a guy named Gary?”
“
Nope.”
“
Where were you last night, Wu?”
“
Work.”
“
At the restaurant? How late did you work?”
“
Eight.”
“
Then what?”
“
Went home.”
Karen pretended to be surprised. “Right home? Without going anywhere else?”
“
Yeah, sure. Right home.”
“
Bullshit you did. Unbelievable. What the fuck are you lying for, Wu?”
“
Not lying.”
“
Sure you are, and as soon as we talk to your wife we’ll have the truth, now won’t we? Patrol just brought her in. We’ll find out you were off somewhere putting a bullet in this guy’s brain.” She tapped the photograph of ShonDale Gregg with a finger.