Where Echoes Live (20 page)

In attire, Ong matched the room: he wore black suit trousers; his black silk tie was loosened; the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up a couple of turns to expose a watch with a heavy gold-link band that seemed too massive for his fine-boned wrist. The look was casual—and calculated. I sensed Ong did nothing, not even roll up his shirtsleeves, without considering what the visual effect would be.

“You had no difficulty finding me?” he asked.

“Some,” I admitted. “I'm not overly familiar with this area.”

“Not many people are—that's one of the reasons I chose it. It's quiet, and a good place to raise my family.”

It certainly was quiet; I couldn't hear a sound, and none that would indicate the household contained five children.

Ong seemed to realize what I was thinking; he smiled. “My family is in Hong Kong visiting relatives, and I've given my help the time off. We'll talk in my den.” He gestured toward a wrought-iron spiral staircase that descended to the lower level.

The room down there had a wall of plate glass opening onto a terrace that overlooked the northern sprawl of the city and the distant bay. Two other walls were covered with built-in bookcases that appeared to be constructed of white pipe trusses; more trusses with an ornamental zigzag motif supported the ceiling and railed off a balcony that looked down from the room above. The den was sparsely furnished with glass-and-chromium tables and low-slung chairs upholstered in black-and-white stripes. What struck me immediately was the absence of anything reflecting Ong's Chinese heritage.

He motioned for me to be seated and went to a wet bar opposite the glass wall. “Cognac?” he asked.

I'd heard that the affluent Chinese were partial to cognac; one of the big liquor distributors had recently begun pitching a super-premium French brand especially to the Asian market. But it was something I couldn't drink on a near-empty stomach. “Do you have anything lighter?”

Ong nodded and produced an iced Napa Valley chardonnay from the small refrigerator. I gave it the nod and began removing my tape recorder and Cheung's file from my briefcase. After toasting the success of our interview, Ong and I got down to business.

Cheung's first questions were commonplace, and Ong answered them smoothly, as if they'd been put to him many a time before. On his boyhood in Hong Kong: “I'm ashamed to admit how fortunate I was; we had servants, went to private school. My brothers and I were spoiled rotten.” On his arrival in the U.S.: “As soon as I saw San Francisco, I knew this was where I wanted to settle. It's a lot like Hong Kong, you know—a port city built on hills. But the freedoms we enjoy here, those were the real appeal.” On his schooling at Stanford and Harvard: “Top drawer all the way. Chinese families view their offspring's education as an investment in everyone's future, and they invest wisely.” On the family moving the major portion of its assets out of Hong Kong: “The nineteen ninety-seven deadline hung over us like a sword. Tiananmen Square proved our fears were justified.”

Only one of Cheung's initial questions elicited any strong response from Ong, and its intensity startled me. I asked, “Do you attribute your family's success to the hardships your people endured before you left China?”

His face tensed, eyes becoming shiny black stones. He said, “I would say that the adversities my family encountered in China and elsewhere are the driving force behind our successes. They have certainly caused me to strive for greater heights.” And then he smiled ironically, as if mocking the emotion he'd allowed to crack his well-constructed facade.

As the interview proceeded, Ong explained how Transpacific Corporation had come to diversify. “The Port of Oakland did not seem receptive to another major home-based ocean carrier at the time we looked into moving our shipping line there. San Francisco was hopeless: the port's declined and never was suited to container cargo, since its geography prohibits a major rail network. We had to get out of shipping.”

“So you liquidated the shipping line and moved your assets into real estate?”

“Yes, and that was extremely lucrative for a time. But San Francisco has a problem in the commercial sector: because of rising costs we've had to price ourselves out of the market; companies are moving out of the city, to areas like north Marin or Contra Costa County. Again, we've had to diversify—to hotels and, ultimately, to resort development.”

“The hotels came first, then.”

“Yes. They're still profitable, but again San Francisco has a problem: a lot of hotel rooms are sitting vacant.”

“Why?”

“We—local hoteliers—overbuilt in the eighties. Then there was bad press that caused tourism to decline: the AIDS epidemic, the eighty-nine quake, the severity of the homeless problem.”

“So now you're into resorts. Carmel Valley, and soon Palm Desert?”

Ong nodded and went into an enthusiastic description of the resorts and their amenities. The golf courses and discos and world-class restaurants and group activities might have thrilled a habitué of Club Med, but they left me cold. A good book and a largely uninhabited beach—or even my backyard deck, if finances didn't permit—were greatly preferable to me.

“And now,” I said when he finished, “you've diversified further—into gold mining.”

Ong's brow furrowed at this question that I'd slipped into Cheung's prepared list. Reaching for his glass of cognac, he asked, “How did you come upon that information?”

“I thought it was common knowledge.”

“It's not. We haven't made an announcement yet about the Golden Hills project because our sampling process isn't complete. How did you hear about it?”

I improvised. “A relative of mine lives in Mono County; the prospect of the Promiseville mine being worked again is big news there.”

He nodded, seeming satisfied with the explanation. “I prefer not to go into the subject for purposes of this article. As I said, the sampling process has barely begun. We're not sure how much gold is left in the mesa—if it's enough to justify a full mining operation.”

But according to what Lily Nickles had observed, the sampling process had begun and abruptly been aborted. And Transpacific's consulting geologist, Alvin K. Knight, had told Ripinsky that the company expected to take a minimum of half a million ounces of gold out of the mine. I said, “Off the record, then: how did Transpacific learn of the gold-mining potential in Stone Valley?”

Ong smiled thinly. “We have our fingers on the pulse of opportunity, Ms. McCone. If profit potential exists, Transpacific is aware of it.”

“Even if it's in an area of investment that's so far removed from your typical ventures?”

“Even then.”

“How do you go about assessing the feasibility of such a project?”

He got up, took both glasses, and went to the wet bar. In the mirror that backed it I could see his face; it was tensed, eyes vigilant. I was reminded of Ripinsky's description of Frank Tarbeaux, the gambler: “Ice cold and totally focused.”

Ong played for time, rinsing the glasses before refilling them. When he carried them back to where we were sitting, he asked, “Would you repeat your last question?”

I did.

He shrugged, as if he found the inquiry naive or stupid, then sat again. “As any company does, we rely on the opinions of experts.”

“That would include geologists, of course. What about the parties you purchased the land from?”

“What about them?”

“When you made your initial contact with them, did they voice any opinions as to the mine's potential?”

A fleeting expression of annoyance crossed Ong's face. “Of course,” he said with exaggerated patience. “After all, they were trying to sell the land to us. If anything, they overrated its value.”

“Did either Franklin Tarbeaux or Earl Hopwood seem qualified to evaluate that potential?”

Annoyance again, tinged with surprise this time. “How did you learn those names?”

“Through my relative in Mono County.”

“I see.” But it was clear he didn't believe me. He took a long drink of cognac—I'd noticed that, instead of sipping, he drank it as he might beer. In the silence that followed, he appeared to be trying to frame a reply.

I added, “Were you aware of Franklin Tarbeaux's real identity? And that Mick Erickson was shot to death in the Tufa Lake area Saturday night?”

Slowly he turned his head to look at me, eyes narrowed and hard. He set his glass down carefully and seemed about to speak when the phone next to his chair rang. Quickly he picked up the receiver.

“Ong here…. Who? … You're where? ...All right, take Seventeenth Street and— Yes, left off Glenbrook onto Saint Germain.” When he hung up, he'd composed his face into its former pleasant lines.

“You must excuse me,” he said. “My office is messengering over some contracts; it seems to be a different service than the usual, and the driver is lost. I need to go outside and make sure he finds the house.” He took another gulp of cognac and clattered up the spiral staircase.

Irritated at the untimely interruption, I turned off the tape recorder and went to the glass door that opened onto the terrace. It was unlocked, so I stepped outside. The wind— strong up here even on the warm October days that are jokingly referred to as San Francisco's summer—whipped my hair about and molded my skirt to my thighs. The city spread below, edges softened by a faint haze.

I stood for a moment contemplating the minuscule city-scape, the smallest of the houses barely distinguishable, the largest no more imposing than Tinkertoys. For those who craved power, there must be inspiration in a view that made it seem possible to scoop up the Bank of America building in the palm of one's hand. For an already powerful man like Ong, the vista would be an affirmation.

After a bit I moved to the terrace wall and peered down the overgrown slope. Through a tangle of conifer branches the red-tiled roof of another house was visible. The road I'd ascended on curved in the distance, an old yellow van—the awaited messenger?—toiling up it. I watched until it passed from my view, then went back into the house.

Ong was still absent. At first I could hear nothing from upstairs; then a car door slammed and faint voices drifted down from the courtyard.

I crossed the room and began looking at Ong's bookshelves. Their contents gave evidence of fairly eclectic tastes: besides the expected volumes on finance, real estate, and management, there was an impressive collection of works on world history and philosophy, as well as mainstream fiction and poetry. I reached for a slim volume by Robinson Jeffers, one of our own California poets, and was about to open it when I noticed that the voices in the courtyard were now raised. I set the book back in its place and moved toward the staircase.

Ong said, “This is absurd!” The outrage in his voice thinly masked an undercurrent of panic.

The other person spoke—the voice higher pitched and not so loud. I couldn't make out the words or if the speaker was a man or a woman.

By the time I reached the bottom of the steps the voices had fallen silent. While I was debating whether to venture up there, I heard a car door slam. Then another, and an engine starting up. The messenger leaving?

But Ong still didn't return to the house. I put one foot on the bottom step, then withdrew it. Ong was a man who would not appreciate prying; I didn't want to destroy what fragile rapport remained between us after my questions about the gold-mining venture.

But where was he?

I glanced up the staircase, saw only the sterile wintry light of the foyer. Listened, but heard nothing save the wind rattling the fronds of the yucca trees in the courtyard.

Quickly I moved up the spiral staircase. The foyer was empty, the front door standing open. I hurried across the black marble floor and peered outside. No one was in the courtyard, and the gate was also ajar.

As I started along the path, an object on the ground near the gate caught my attention. A thick nine-by-twelve envelope. I went over and picked it up. There was no address label, no markings of any kind. Its flap had been undone, but its contents were undisturbed. I pulled them out, turned them over. Blank sheets of paper, about half a package of cheap lined notebook filler.

Nearby a terracotta pot containing a succulent plant had been knocked on its side. Pebbles littered the stone pathway, and the ground next to it was scuffed. I rushed to the gate and looked out.

The street was deserted. No delivery person or van. No Lionel Ong, either.

I glanced back at the house. No, I would have heard him if he'd returned.

This is absurd!

My mind replayed the panicky note in Ong's voice. Reviewed the signs of an apparent struggle in the courtyard. And I remembered that I'd heard two car doors slam.

Had Ong simply taken off without telling me? Or had he been abducted while I waited downstairs in his study?

Cautioning myself against jumping to conclusions, I went back to the courtyard and looked around some more. The signs that indicated a struggle, I decided, could also be the residue of haste and/or clumsiness. The envelope full of blank paper that I held didn't necessarily have to relate to Ong, might even have been slipped through the gate for one of his absent children. And the panic in his voice? Could I have been mistaken about that? No, I thought, I couldn't.

1 crossed the courtyard and went back into the house. It held that heavy silence that only an empty dwelling does. Even though I was certain Ong wasn't there, I called out to him. My voice bounced back at me off the walls of the foyer. And now what should I do? I wondered. Call 911? Tell them what? It wasn't a police matter if Ong had simply driven away with his visitor. And if I said I thought he'd been kidnapped, they'd ask what evidence I based that on.

Some scuffed-up ground, an overturned flowerpot, the envelope, the panic in Ong's voice that only I had heard: it wasn't much. The police would tell me to wait twenty-four hours and if he didn't return have someone related to him file a missing persons report.