Friday Harbor, page 30
"Name!" Miles shouted, slamming his palms on the table as Bill continued taking the man apart. He was beginning to think this Chinese man had some sort of sensory deficiency. Either that or he was made of iron. He was taking the sort of beating that brought most men twice his size to tears. But aside from the occasional, uncontrollable sound of air being forced, violently, from his lungs, he didn't make a peep. And he never looked distressed. More bored than anything.
The interpreter, William, on the other hand, looked very uneasy. "Gentlemen, gentlemen," he said. "Pardon my interruption. But this seems, ah, irregular."
"It is irregular," Miles said. "This whole week has been irregular. Very irregular. And we've gotten to a point where we need some damned answers."
"I see," William said, sounding doubtful if not alarmed.
"You're going to knock him unconscious," Floyd complained. "What information will we get out of him then?"
Miles gestured for Bill, who seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself, to stop. He tossed Bill a towel to wipe off his blood-covered knuckles. There was blood everywhere. On the table. On the man's clothes. Pooling on the floor beneath his feet. "He's a tough little bastard," Bill said. "I'll give him that."
"Let's try a different tack," Miles said. "Tell him we know the tongs run illegal immigrants through San Juan Island, and that it's therefore a perfect spot for them to hijack and destroy the property of a rival tong. A tong they're feuding with. Tell him we already have the names of the girls right here," he said, unfolding a sheet of paper and pointing to the names he'd copied from the steamship passenger manifest logbook of seven Chinese who'd departed together on the Bangor a month earlier. "See? Right here. Seven girls. Seven girls who aren't on any arriving ship's manifest, meaning they were smuggled onto the island."
"Ah, pardon me," William said. "Not seven girls."
"What? Look—one, two, three, four—"
"No, no. That's five girls and two men," William said. "These two names, here," he said, pointing, "are male."
"Two men? What about here?" he asked, pointing to the names of the six Chinese individuals who'd left the island together in April. "All girls?"
"No. Four girls. Two men."
Suddenly, it seemed all the more possible that the highbinders had come to simply rendezvous with and escort the young girls to Seattle or wherever they were bound. Not to kill them. Indeed, it seemed to Miles an entirely plausible explanation. After all, presumably, the immigrant girls wouldn't know how to get from San Juan Island to Seattle. They'd need guides. For that matter, how on earth would one tong have discovered the route and timing of another tong's human trafficking operation—one that had, to his considerable embarrassment, evaded Miles's own notice all this time even though he was the head of law enforcement on the very island being used as a transit point? It seemed an unlikely thing.
But why were the highbinders still on the island? Were they waiting to see how the investigation shook out? Waiting to find out who killed their girls and who to target for revenge?
Miles didn't have long to think about it. The station telephone rang, as if on cue. It rang twice before the group of them seemed to realize a call was coming in.
"Floyd, would you mind?" Miles asked.
"Of course." Floyd went to answer the call. A moment later, he reappeared in the doorway. "It's for William."
"For William?" Miles said.
"Ah," William said. "Pardon me." He disappeared into the office section of the station, but was back in a flash. "Forgive me. I must go."
"Go?" Miles said. "You just got here."
"I'll return as soon as I can. Is the steamer to Seattle still here?"
Miles looked at the clock on the wall. "For another three minutes. You'll have to run for it."
"Forgive me."
"What happened?"
"My mother—I'm sorry, I must go."
*****
Ten minutes after William the interpreter had left them in a cloud of dust, Floyd was, via three different telephone calls to headquarters, able to find out why he'd had had to rush back to Seattle.
"His mother was reported missing," Floyd told Miles as he hung up. "Probably abducted," he added with a sinking heart
"What?"
"Abducted by a tong."
"What makes you say that?"
"They left a basket of oranges on her bed. Her sister discovered it earlier today."
"I don't follow you, Floyd."
"It's some sort of tong message. It can probably be interpreted to mean that they've taken William's mother hostage to see that he doesn't help us anymore. Or else."
"Or else his mother meets the business end of a meat cleaver?"
"Something like that."
"Judas H. Priest. What the hell is going to happen next?"
The door flew open and a tall white man in what might have been the flashiest suit Miles had ever laid eyes on sauntered in, chin high, body language screaming that he owned the place.
"Help you, pal?" Miles asked.
"A. Harold Dewey, attorney at law."
"Good for you."
"You are holding my client, Kwan Ping, in your jail."
"I am?"
"Illegally, in fact. That is to say, without cause."
"Ping, you say?"
"Kwan Ping."
"Huh. This is news to me. Nice pocket watch, by the way."
"He's a Chinese man.
"With a name like Ping? You don't say."
"You sound confused, Sheriff. Do you have a lot of Chinese men in your holding cell? Perhaps, despite holding him in violation of his rights, and probably—shall we say—encouraging him to speak, you still don't know his name. No matter. You'll take me to him at once."
The phone rang. "Hold on a second, A. Harold Dewey," Miles told the lawyer. "Sheriff's office," he said into the phone.
"Miles, it's Jon Boren."
"Hey, Doc."
"I've had a chance to take a preliminary look at the three bodies exhumed from out by the settler's cabin. Three young females in Oriental clothing, each in a different state of decay, so I would guess they were buried at different times over the past year or so."
"Different shipments of girls?" Miles muttered to himself.
"Pardon?"
"Sorry—nothing."
"Though my assessment is of obviously limited value given that the bodies are decomposing, none of them have any apparent signs of trauma. No bullet holes or broken bones. So it's quite possible that they died of illness and not by violence."
"I suppose that will have to suffice for good news today," Miles said before hanging up. He wondered how many different groups of smuggled Chinese girls had been temporarily housed in that old cabin.
"You were taking me to my client, Kwan Ping," Dewey said, breaking Miles out of his trance.
"Look, mac—"
But Miles was cut off, mid-sentence, by the lawyer thrusting a document in his face. It was a San Juan County court order commanding Kwan Ping's immediate release, signed by his honor, Judge Carl Angstrom—an octogenarian Miles thought was far too forgiving and soft with his gavel.
"Unless you wish to be held in contempt, you will release my client at once."
"You want for me to throw this city peacock out into the street?" Bill asked, glaring at the lawyer as Miles continued to read through the court order.
"I do. Very much. But I don't think we had better."
Miles took Dewey to the cell and, with deliberate slowness, released Kwan Ping. The lawyer didn't bother with any expressions of outrage at Ping's battered and bloody condition. He merely waited as his client gathered up his things.
Just another day at the office for these two, Miles thought.
As they made their way out, Kwan Ping stopped and turned to Miles. "If you would be so kind as to give me back my hat, please," he said without the least trace of an accent.
Miles's eyebrows rose. "So," he said. He shook his head and almost smiled. "Do you have his hat, Bill?"
Bill, looking venomous, nodded at the coat rack. An unfamiliar bowler hat hung from an upper hook. Bill made no move to get it, so the lawyer did it for him. Then they watched, frustrated and helpless, as lawyer and suspect walked right out the door.
"Well, that's just great," Floyd said. "Now what?"
"Go back to Seattle and re-interview the Chinese Peace Society?" Miles said.
"Why? So they can sit there and stare like a bunch of mute zombies again? So they can laugh at us the moment we leave?"
"Yeah, maybe not." Miles plopped down in his desk chair and put his feet up on his desk. "Well. Who are we marionettes for now?"
FIFTY-FIVE
Miles used the unexpected lull to call Marion again. This time, to his instant joy, she answered. In an oddly stilted conversation, Miles asked her to dinner. Of course, Sylvia had to come along too. So with a glimmer of hope that it might help him find a moment to be alone with Marion, he invited Floyd to join them.
They met at a cozy place on Harrison Street called Kelly's—the only alternative to Morgan's for a sit-down dinner. It had been a thriving pub before Prohibition. But its Irish-influenced menu, including its hugely popular lamb stew, kept it alive.
Miles and Floyd arrived wearing the same suits they'd had on all day—Floyd's pressed, Miles's rumpled. But Marion and Sylvia came looking as tony as ever, sticking out like a couple of fashionable sore thumbs in an unfashionable one-horse town. They all ordered the stew, split two rounds of brown soda bread served with salted local butter, then lingered over fresh blackberry cobbler and coffee as Miles caught them up on the basics of their investigation.
"In sum, as of a few hours ago, we had two tong highbinder assassins, a rabidly racist labor agitator, an assaultive temperance fanatic, and heaven only knows how many murderous rumrunners, opium smugglers, human traffickers, pirates, and deranged revenue agents loose on and around the island," Miles said.
"And let's not forget our cutthroat salvager-maybe-turned-treasure hunter lurking in the surrounding seas," Floyd added, apparently no longer concerned about discussing an investigation with two civilians.
"And no promising leads," Miles said with emphasis.
"You should write a book about this case," Marion suggested.
"My mother would say the story is too complex for the impatient, lazy modern mind," Floyd said.
"And it has no ending," Miles added. "Yet."
They fell quiet as their server refilled coffee cups.
"So how long does it take you to travel out here from New York?" Floyd asked.
"Four days," Sylvia said.
"Holy cow. I'd lose my mind, sitting in a train seat for four days."
"Oh, no—the long-distance trains are really quite elegant. There's a restaurant car, a lounge, a game room. And we get sleeping berths. The bedding is Egyptian cotton."
"Oh. How many times did you have to change trains on the way out here?"
"Only once. We rode the Broadway Limited from New York to Chicago, then the Oriental Limited from Chicago to Seattle. I'll tell you, that Oriental Limited is a gorgeous train with a gorgeous route. The Rocky Mountains. The Cascades. Indian lands of the golden plains."
"Sounds romantic," Miles muttered.
"It is, indeed," Sylvia said, with a covert glance at Marion.
"And you're from Boston, Sylvia?" Floyd asked.
"I am."
"I would love to go to Boston. So many great universities. So much science and education and enlightenment."
"Enlightenment?" Miles said, giving Floyd a dubious look. "I'd always heard it was a town full of drunk Irish Catholics."
"Who says alcohol isn't the path to enlightenment?" Marion asked. "And my mother is Irish, you insensitive ass."
"Some neighborhoods—the Jewish ones—are more enlightened than others," Sylvia added with a wink.
As the weather was good, they took an after-dinner walk, making a rough circuit of town. Marion and Sylvia smoked aromatic brown cigarettes jammed into the ends of long cigarette holders. Before long, with each of them pausing in different places to peek through darkened shop windows or gaze out over the quiet harbor, and with Miles doing a bit of surreptitious maneuvering, the group split in half, with Miles and Marion bringing up the rear, a block or so behind Sylvia and Floyd who were laughing and chatting away. The sun had set and the town and harbor glowed in a magical pink light. Miles kept sneaking glances at Marion. She was as beautiful as ever.
"How is your grandfather?" he asked.
"Still hanging on. He's a strong old man."
"Maybe that's where you get it."
"It's hard on my mother though. Sometimes I think it would be better for her if he'd just let himself move on."
"You mean pass away? Can a person decide that?"
"I'm sure you can. Think how many stories you hear of people with broken hearts willing themselves to die just after their spouses pass away."
Miles figured such stories encompassed coincidence and only seemed commonplace because they were so memorable.
"So you may be staying in town longer then?" he asked, his heart leaping in his chest.
"Good question. We have engagements back in New York."
"Engagements?"
"Sylvia teaches at Mount Sinai Hospital, and I'm enrolled at Barnard College."
"You're in college? I'll say it again: you amaze me."
"And I'll say it again: I am amazing. Still, it's hard to imagine leaving my mother alone in this situation. Maybe I'll just send Sylvia home."
"Yes?" Miles said, trying to keep the surge of joyful hope from showing on his face.
"It's just that I hate the idea of her travelling alone."
"She's been to war, Marion. I'm quite sure she can handle first-class train travel."
"Do you care for her?"
"For Sylvia? Yes. Very much."
"I'm so glad. That means quite a lot to me."
"Really? You've never struck me as the type to care what anyone else thought about who your friends were."
"Well. She's a very good friend. And so are you. It's different."
They walked half a block in silence. Twice, Miles caught Marion sneaking quick, cautious glances at him. Was this really happening? Was she attracted to him? Was she working up the nerve to say so? His heart began to pound.
"Sylvia told me something of your conversations," Marion said, her tone confusingly reluctant.
"Yes?"
"About the war."
"Oh." Miles deflated. "What did she tell you?"
"Nothing specific. She tends to speak in metaphors when it comes to this sort of thing—at least when she talks to me. Probably because I'm such a delicate flower."
"Ha-ha."
"But she said that you've gazed into the abyss."
"Hmm."
They walked a few more steps, then Marion stopped in her tracks and looked at him. "Life has more to offer you, Miles. I know it's easy for me to say. But I miss the happy, spirited boy I grew up with. I want you to find a way to reconnect."
"Yes." He swallowed hard. "Actually, along those lines, it would mean the world to me if—"
"Sheriff!" Bill shouted, jogging up the street. The commotion got Floyd and Sylvia turned around. "Just got a call from the RCMP in Vancouver."
"You were still at the station?" Miles asked.
"Just tying up some loose ends. Mopping blood out of the cell and so forth."
The mention of blood drew a troubled look from Marion.
"You're a dedicated man," Miles said, not quite able to conceal the irritation in his voice. "What's up?"
"They found Angus Cooper's boat."
"The Daisy? Where?"
"Mouth of the Fraser River, run aground on a sandbar just off Steveston."
"In British Columbia?"
"Sounds like Cooper ran for it to Canada," Floyd said.
"I got the number for the RCMP constable handling the case. He said he'd wait up for your call."
Miles's jaw tightened in frustration. He turned to Marion, aching to pour his heart out to her, restraining himself in the presence of everyone else. "Listen, we should continue this conversation," he said to her.
"I know. Call me tomorrow. I'll be at home all morning."
She leaned in close and, for the first time ever, kissed his cheek. For a split second, he caught the scent of jasmine in her hair, and his mind reeled in the dazzling light of a thousand happy memories from their shared past. He felt as if his whole body were suddenly filled with a sustaining warmth—the formerly hollow parts of him brimming over with a sensation he instinctively recognized as eternal, pure, and good. He yearned to wrap his arms around her. To hold her. To keep her.
Instead, he had to content himself with a longish hand squeeze and one more look at her smiling face framed by the otherworldly backdrop of a dusk-lit Friday Harbor and a sky filling with stars.
FIFTY-SIX
Miles woke from a poor and restless night's sleep, irritated and stupefied at how many times he'd been thwarted in his pursuit of Marion. As he'd half expected, the phone conversation with the RCMP constable hadn't been worth cutting his evening short for. All he'd learned was that someone had attempted to scuttle the Daisy by chopping a hole through the inside of her hull with an axe. If Miles had to hazard a guess, he'd have said that Angus Cooper fled across the border with his daughter to escape the law or whatever killers he'd gotten himself mixed up with. Then, in an effort to cover his tracks, he'd tried to get rid of his boat once they'd reached the Fraser River Delta, hoping the Daisy would drift out into the Strait of Georgia and sink. Instead, the Daisy managed to beach herself on one of the many sandbars that made the entrance to the Fraser River shipping lanes so treacherous. Unfortunately for Miles, the wreck of the Daisy had been swamped and tumbled about in at least a dozen tides since its abandonment, so there was, predictably, no useful evidence found aboard. In fact, the vessel was already half buried in tidal muck. And Cooper was probably well on his way to the Alaska Territory by now. Or perhaps headed east on a Canadian train. Out of practical reach, at any rate.
