And Ray—Ray had told the NYPD. She couldn't believe this but it was true. He'd betrayed her.
He remembered her foot,
her ankle, her thigh. He set the little yellow sneaker on his truck's dashboard, a shiver of misery going through him. Oh, God, I miss Jin Li, Ray thought, every part of her. He sat parked in the lot of a check-cashing operation across the street from Victorious Sewerage, which was no more than an odd-shaped muddy lot surrounded by a twenty-foot fence topped with concertina wire, all this protecting a battered construction trailer at the rear and ten enormous, virtually identical sewage trucks parked in a haphazard line, including the one that Richie had driven into the lot twenty minutes earlier. A hulking cement-block building lay behind the trailer but it wasn't clear whether this was part of the operation. The day was done, past six p.m., and time was passing, he knew, clocks ticking everywhere, one on Jin Li, another on his father, a third on how long it would take Richie to get deeply paranoid.
A small Mexican man—a boy, really—with a red hose was standing atop one of the trucks, running steaming water into a valve. Murky water ran out of another valve at the bottom. Richie emerged from the trailer, walked over to a pickup truck, a certain spring in his step, like he was a man with a plan, and rolled out of the lot—
—with Ray following him. At the light, Ray pulled up close enough to jot down the license plate number. Then he saw Richie looking up at his rearview mirror. Ray pulled down his windshield shade. The idea was to follow Richie home.
The light was still red but now Richie sped across the intersection, barely missing three teenage girls on foot, each talking on a cell phone. Richie turned at the next corner. Ray was disgusted with himself. When the light changed he sped to the corner, turned, looked for Richie's truck—it was gone.
His father opened his eyes dully. "The report, please."
Ray ran through it.
"I thought you knew to sit back on a tail."
"At least I got the plate."
"Give me the phone. No, first get me some illegal coffee."
A few minutes later, his father had on his old half-frame glasses that he hadn't worn in a month and pointed a bony finger at a phone number for Ray to dial. He held the phone near his head and closed his eyes, summoning a voice he hadn't used in a long time. "Ellen, this is Ray Grant . . . no, no I'm doing great, thanks." The coffee sharpened him up fast, thought Ray. "A little chemo and that's it, but thanks for asking. Listen, this is the thing, I'm on a private job here and could use a little . . . we got a plate number and need the registration address. Yeah, yeah, sure." He read her the plate number then waited. "I've known her thirty years," he said to Ray. He returned to the phone. "Number two Sixth Street? South Jamesport? All the way out there?" He nodded. "Great. Hi to everyone."
His father dropped the phone, panting now. "This guy lives way the hell out on the east end of Long Island!"
"That's where I'm going, then."
He looked accusingly at Ray. "These Chinese guys want the sister, not some bullshit sewage-truck guy!"
What was wrong? "Dad, Dad, I'm going to break into her apartment tomorrow morning."
"What took you so long to have that brilliant idea?" But his father didn't wait for an answer. "Anyway, it's not good enough! You got to start figuring out what that girl is
thinking."
He pointed his finger at his own head, shaking it like it was a loaded gun, and stared ferociously at
Ray, eyes unblinking, teeth bared. "Either you or somebody else! Fact, let me tell you something, you gotta go like hell, Ray, you go twenty, maybe twenty-one hours
at a time
now, drink coffee, get ahead of it, see, things are—this Vic, I keep
almost
remembering! I don't get it, something—" His father looked around wildly, like there were other people in the room, shades at the door. "Hey! Hey! Get out of here!" He looked back to Ray and beckoned with his hand, his voice in a low conspiratorial whisper.
"I got a feeling that together you and I, we can
—" His eyes shot over Ray's shoulder, became terrified. "No, no I can't!" he yelled, "Not yet! I got my gun here!" He pawed the covers frantically. "Ray, Ray! Get them!"
But Ray had reached for the Dilaudid machine and pumped two boluses straight into his father, who in a minute or so looked at him with sudden passivity, his mouth munching in wordless speculation—before his eyes rolled up in his head and he slumped backward into the pillow, hawing the breath—the stench—of the near dead.
Ninety miles, rainy road. Long Island, the largest island in the United States, split at the end, the South Fork leading to the swankfest Hamptons, filled with people who wore white clothes to expensive summer parties, and the North Fork, which was traditionally more working class, populated by farmers, tradesmen, retired NYC cops, and firemen. South Jamesport was one of the first few towns on the North Fork as you drove east. Ray found the house, a little bungalow ranch on a corner, Richie's pickup truck in the driveway. Hell of a drive into the city every day, but then again, you get to leave the city every day, too. Guys like Richie lived in their trucks, anyway.
Ray parked next to some woods and walked back to the house along the dark road. What exactly was he going to do? Not sure. He carried a short crowbar in his jacket, mostly as a weapon. He also had a battery-powered speed drill with a carbide saw attachment. Two-inch rotary blade, goes through anything until it gets dull. He slipped along the road. It was a quiet neighborhood, which meant people minded
their own business. Ray edged along the back side of the house, found a window. Richie was sitting in front of his television in clean clothes, hair wet. He had a beer and a bowl of oatmeal on the arm of his chair.
Can you tell if a man is a murderer just by watching him? Of course not. So his father would say. If you know a hundred other things about him, then maybe.
The phone rang. Richie muted the television, kept watching. "Yeah," he said. "About ten minutes."
Ray eased around the side of the house. A moment later Richie came out, smelling of some kind of aftershave, climbed into his truck, and drove away. On his way out for the big date.
Now or never, Ray thought. He considered going through a window, but a neighbor, or even someone driving by, could easily see this. Same with the front door. Instead, he hunched down among some unkempt boxwoods and thought about breaking into the metal ground doors leading to the basement. You made a four-inch box cut, then reached in and pulled back the slide bolt. The carbide blade worked perfectly. A little noisy. Thirty seconds of noise. Couldn't be helped. The box of steel dropped away and Ray waited for the edges to cool, then reached in and opened the door. Then he lifted the door, slipped inside, and let the door fall soundlessly back into place. He found a light. The basement was jammed with boxes of mildewed clothes, broken furniture, sports equipment, and empty beer bottles. A weight-lifting machine sat in one corner. Ray turned off the light and scooted past a washer and dryer piled with dirty laundry—the smell of sewage distinctly noticeable—and up some internal stairs that led to a small living room dominated by a wide-screen television. All the lights were on. Why? This worried him. He kept moving. The small bedroom was taken up with a big bed. More dirty clothes. A couple of golf clubs on the floor. In the bedside table drawer he found four dirty pistols and several ammunition boxes. He didn't touch them.
He poked his head into the bedroom closet, meeting a strong whiff of shoes. What am I doing, he asked himself, what am I looking for? Even assuming Richie was the guy who killed the two Mexican girls—
just a speculation—what connected him, a meatball who lived in this low-rent dump, to Jin Li, a highly educated, stylish Chinese woman who worked in midtown Manhattan ninety miles to the west?
I need to find something, Ray muttered to himself. In the kitchen he opened Richie's refrigerator: beer, milk, orange juice, batteries, a baggie filled with unidentified pills, several cartons of muscle powder, perhaps $200 worth of nice steaks, and, in the freezer, what appeared to be a giant frozen rat wrapped in a plastic bag.
A sound?
No.
Yes!
A truck had pulled into the driveway, speakers booming. Ray wasn't sure he could make it to the basement stairs. He back-pedaled blindly and was confronted with a choice of the bathroom or Richie's bedroom.
" . . . shoulda cleaned up," he heard Richie say, coming inside the house.
"I like it," came a girl's voice. "It's cozy-like."
He chose the bedroom, nearly tripping on a golf club. Where to go in such a small room? The closet. He opened it and stumbled atop a pile of golf shoes and balls. He pulled the door shut. The crowbar was tucked by his side. It was a good weapon but not in a closet.
The minutes passed and Ray felt himself becoming stiff. Maybe he should have tried for the basement stairs. He could hear a low murmur of voices, a little music. The bedroom light, he realized, was on. Had he turned it on? He couldn't remember.
" . . . waiting for?" came Richie's voice, as he walked in to the bedroom. He flicked off the light.
A girl followed.
"I redid your
totally
terrible drink." She giggled.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, I made it better, too."
"So I never went to bartending school. Come here."
"I will," she sang back. "I like this bed. Wait, let me just smoke. The train was so slow! I really needed a cigarette. Drink your drink and I'll smoke one."
"I thought that was for after."
"Gets me in the mood. You guys are always in such a hurry."
Ray could smell the cigarette. He felt a golf ball under him and quietly put it into a shoe.
"How long you lived here?"
"Four years."
"Rent or own?"
"Rent. Shoulda bought a few years back."
"Tell me about it."
"But you know, I pull down some good dollars, make a little on side jobs."
"You haven't told me if you like the drink."
"I do, I do."
"Good, or else my feelings were gonna be hurt."
"So this is kind of nice," Richie ventured. "This isn't in a hurry."
"That feels good," came the voice a few moments later.
"Want to roll over there?"
"You seem pretty relaxed," she said. "I mean,
most
of you is relaxed. Some guys, you know, they get nervous . . . first time out of the gate."
"Yeah, you know, whatever." The great lover, shrugging humbly at his own talents of seduction. "Plus, I got the home field advantage."
"I
guess.
Why don't you lie back, let me start relaxing you."
"Can't argue with that."
"First finish the nice drink I made you. I worked hard on it, too, just so you know."
"—right?"
"Yeah, that's it. Just lie back . . . good . . . take a breath . . . so, you been living here long?"
"Four years, remember? Come on, give me a little action here."
"Keep your pants on, guy, I'm getting there."
"Thought you wanted my pants
off."
"I do, definitely."
"I'll take them off."
"You go, boy."
Sound of clothes, a belt buckle.
"So you were saying about living here?"
"That's better."
"Good."
"You're good at that."
"Just relax, Richie."
"I am, very."
"Good, good."
"You?"
"Right here."
"Sleepy, kinda."
"It's okay, it's nice to lie here with you."
The room was quiet. A minute passed.
"You—" came Richie's voice.
"Shhh, it's okay."
"Wait, wait . . . fuckin'
sleepy."
"Shh, don't worry."
"Did ya—? I'm very . . ."
Ray could hear Richie breathing. It slowed, deepened, and a rasp of a snore introduced itself. He hadn't heard the girl move. Maybe she'd fallen asleep, too.
Then came trill of a cell phone. It scared him and he had to stop himself from reacting. She picked up quickly, after just one ring.
"Hey. He's asleep . . . you owe me. I had to touch his
dick!
Goddamn disgusting. What? No, the door is open. I'm not moving, in case he wakes up. Just get here fast, okay?"
She hung up. More cigarette smoke.
The snoring had become a deep sawing gasp that reloaded and gasped again.
Ray tried to slow his own breathing and concentrate on not moving. Someone was coming to the house, and it made him nervous. If the girl left the room, he could run for it—maybe. Golfballs all over the floor. The room had a window. Maybe it opened easily, maybe not. He felt one foot slipping, pulled it back. Once the girl stopped watching the drugged man on the bed, her attention would begin to drift and she would notice Ray. She might not consciously hear him but she would feel him. It was a proven thing. Tibetan monks with their ears
plugged and eyes covered with a satin sash could be led into a room, breathe a few times while turning in a circle, and identify in which corner of the room another monk sat motionless on a prayer rug. You see that once, you never forget it.