Of the four officers who committed suicide only one was Asian, Officer Liu Pham. He owned a townhome in North B, one in a crisp row of near-identical units. Just a few blocks north from Main Street and Elm, and several more from the Chiarello Hotel. Shrubbery screened the back patio from view.
He slipped a pick into the lock. One click. Then another. The door eased open and he slipped inside.
The door snicked shut behind him.
A quick scan: narrow kitchen, small window nook with a rounded table. A short hallway led into the living room with a couch and TV. Clean. Too clean. No papers, no mess, no clothes dropped to the side, or trash flung haphazardly. No signs that anyone lived here or that a team had rummaged through the place. Forensics had probably been told to keep things tidy. Pham was still a cop, after all.
"Twenty-one, barely two years in, and he owns a townhome?" Alfred muttered.
"Dirty money stacks fast."
"Still. That much, for a rookie?"
"Iverson did side work for Carter," he stopped at the stairs beside the front door, "Maybe he let a few loyal officers in on the job."
"True, but men like Captain Iverson are not known for generosity."
Upstairs, the walls were bare. Not just empty and sterile. A faint trace of bleach lingered in the air. There were three rooms at the top of the stairs, and wood floors throughout.
First room: a weight set and a floor mat. Second: bedroom. Third, down the hall.
The bedroom was as minimal as the rest. A queen bed with a white spread, wood headboard, long dresser, en-suite bath.
"The Polaroids."
"What about them?" Alfred asked.
"The girl, Annh, she was on a white bedspread."
He stepped to the bed, crouched. Nothing beneath. When he came back up, he noticed something etched into the headboard. He stood, leaned forward. Partially covered by the mattress was a carving. He pressed down on the bed to get a better look.
"Something's carved into the headboard."
"Like a manufacturer's mark?"
The carving had two crosses on either side connected at the center by interlocking shapes. "No. It's too big. About fourteen inches."
He found a pencil and notepad in the nightstand, tore a piece, and traced the symbol. Folded it. Tucked it into a compartment in his belt.
Then glass shattered below.
Boots scraped tile. Slow, heavy steps on hardwood. Climbing the stairs.
He pressed to the wall, listening. A man's ragged breath. Then footsteps outside the bedroom then past it.
A burglar? Or worse?
In the far room, a bag dropped. Metallic clank. Tools. Rustling fabric. Then dull knocks and wood splitting. A man's voice cursing in a low tone.
Then another set of steps creaked up.
"Who's there?" barked the first voice.
Footsteps moved out of the far room. A flashlight beam swept down the hall.
"It's me," said a gravelly voice from the stairs.
"Shit, Bobby."
"You find it?" said Bobby.
"Right where we told him to store it."
"All of it?"
"Yeah."
"Does it have the vials?"
"I think so." Rummaging. Glass clinked.
"Good," said Bobby. "We should head back to Newtown."
"I still gotta hit Fuentes'."
"Goddamn it, Billy. You were supposed to do that yesterday."
"They released me late," said Billy. "Plus I had to pay off the Newtown cops watching my house. Shit ain't cheap, and some of the boys said Loeb won't help us."
"He will. He's got to," said Bobby.
They stood just inside the bedroom doorway, talking in the dark. The man called Bobby was growing increasingly irritated with Billy.
"I don't want excuses. We're in this mess because of you and Pham."
"That wasn't on me! Pham was supposed to tie her down, but the idiot got cute with the camera—"
"I said no excuses. Just finish it."
A pause.
"What about the other thing?" Billy asked.
"Ruiz will handle it. Take everything to him, and he'll torch it. Understood?"
"Yeah. I'll head down there after I hit Fuentes'."
That was enough.
A silver sphere rolled into the hallway.
Hiss. Smoke bloomed thick and white.
Shouts. Coughing.
He lunged at the man closest to the door, seized his wrist, and twisted. The flashlight clattered to the floor. No punches, just sharp jerks, precise twists, and the man was down, subdued.
The second man stumbled coughing down the stairs.
He bound the man fast at the ankles and wrists. Then he ran.
Outside, the man moved slowly, his weight and age dragging at him. He paused at the patio gate under the streetlamps. The man had thinning hair, a heavyset frame, a brown coat, and eyes wide with panic.
He pushed open the gate and ran to his car. Engine roared. He sped off.
From the street, he watched the car turn the corner and vanish. His lip curled with annoyance. Then he turned and ran back inside.
Upstairs, the hallway was empty. The zip ties, cut.
The second man, gone.
"Damn it."
"You lost them both, I take it?" Alfred's voice.
"Yes."
"You know what might've prevented this?"
He didn't answer. A faint sound pulled his attention. Just a few feet from his boots, a vial had come to rest against the baseboard. He picked it up. Clear liquid swirled inside. A powdery residue clung to his glove, left behind by the vial.
"You've got an urgent page."
"Who?"
"Ms. Thanh Ha," said Alfred. "Last time she sent an urgent page, it was about Detective Gordon."
His eyes drifted to the bed. To the carved symbol that was well hidden beneath the mattress. Pieces to a puzzle.
"What's the address?" he asked, clutching the vial in his hand.