Jordan Lock gave them exactly what they were expecting and more. When Gordon laid out a series of photographs, officers who resembled the vice squad and the four deceased officers O'Malley, Fuentes, Schiff, and Pham. Jordan pointed out Fuentes and Pham, the youngest of the bunch. He even identified Annh Le.
Back on the fifth floor, Gordon took any empty desk. More were cleared off now. He didn't think about what it might lead to. He just typed as fast as he could, getting the statement signed and handed off to Dent.
"I'll give you a call when Judge Hawkley signs it," said Dent, stepping down the stairs, sticking an arm through his coat. He glanced at his watch. "Give me thirty minutes."
"I think you're being a bit hopeful. Takes that much time just to go five blocks."
"I plan ahead, Jim."
Outside was daylight, but the last stretch of it, faint blue shrinking darker. Willis and Morrow stood beside their car. Morrow opened the back door for Dent. Willis gave Gordon a subtle nod, so subtle Gordon couldn't be sure.
"What are you going to say when you meet him?" said Dent.
Gordon glanced at the ground. The pavement was still damp. When he looked up, he saw Morrow and Willis watching from inside the car, listening quietly. He said nothing.
"It was necessary, Jim. I think you know that," said Dent, ducking inside.
Gordon watched them drive off, the light slowly fading. He glanced at his watch. It was almost time. He hadn't thought about what he'd say, or what he'd do. He had warned him, he'd sever ties with him if things got too personal and violent. But deep down, he knew this was inevitable.
When Gordon stepped inside, there was a quiet hush. The murmurs had stopped, several ducked into the back rooms. In any other city, he might have understood what it meant, but he was less certain here.
At the stairs, Bullock's voice rained down.
"Kid's got something."
Gordon climbed faster.
Sokha sat in a chair beside what had been Pinkerton's desk. Johnson and Bullock stood nearby. Rusty sat on the edge of Johnson's desk, while Chen was frantically flipping through pages at his own.
"What did you find?" he asked
Sokha glanced at his notepad. "My translation isn't perfect, but I found this one. It was the second-to-last entry in her journal." He read it aloud.
October 6th, 1979
I met a guy named Bayli at a coffee shop. He's dreamy like models in magazines with smooth skin, soft brown eyes, high cheekbones.
We talked over coffee about music and work, and family. He said his parents were Vietnamese, and that he worked in construction with his uncle. After what felt like hours, he invited me to a club. The Inferno. Said they play the kind of music I like.
I wore my black skirt and black lacy top. Put on some black makeup too, not too heavy, though. Just on my eyes. He picked me up at my apartment on a motorcycle!
I was nervous at first, but it was fun. Even in the cold. But it did mess up my hair. He said I still looked cute.
The club was inside this warehouse in North Saigon. It glowed blue and purple and leaked through the windows.
We danced for hours until a mosh pit started. He flung himself inside but came back out, pulled me to a dark corner where we made out.
"Let's get out of here," he said.
I thought we were heading back to his bike, but instead, we crossed the street to a car parked in an alley. He climbed into the back seat and slid over.
I didn't get in right away, but I glanced inside. There was a man in the driver's seat. I couldn't see him very well.
"Don't worry, I know the guy."
When I got in the back, I got a better look at the man. He was white, older, kind of gruff-looking.
I asked how they knew each other.
"We're neighbors," said Bayli. "I pay him to pick me up when I've had too many. Not safe to drink and drive, ya know?"
That made sense, I guess.
"There were six vice cops arrested?" said Gordon.
"Iverson, Westcox, Ruiz, Bardon, and Teller," said Bullock.
"My gut says the driver was Iverson or someone he trusted to check out the girls," said Rusty.
Bayli tried kissing me in the back seat again, but it felt awkward this time. Then we stopped at another club just down the street, and a second guy got in. He was tan, young, and had a nice smile. The girl with him was drunk, switching between Vietnamese and English. They started making out immediately. She was on top of him.
"Has to be Fuentes, right?" said Johnson.
"Could be Ruiz," said Bullock.
"Ruiz had a wife."
"I forgot cops don't cheat," said Bullock, which got a chuckle from Rusty.
"I just meant that it would raise brows with his old lady. Plus, he was in his late thirties. Can't see him blending into those bars in Saigon."
Bayli's hand slid up my skirt, I pushed his hand away. He stopped and just nodded.
The couple next to us kept going. I turned away, but I could hear them. Lips smacking, clothes shifting.
"You're so shy," he said.
"Is that a bad thing?" I asked.
"No," he said. "Shy is good."
When we got dropped off, I thought it would be an apartment. But it was a house.
He told me to go to the door while he talked to the driver. They stood there for a while. The driver looked at me, then said something to Bayli, who just nodded.
Bayli walked up to me and kissed me. I asked what his neighbor said.
"He says you're a keeper."
"They picked shy girls, probably figured they'd put up less of fight," said Rusty.
"The dates!" yelled Chen. "I told you they looked fucking familiar," he said to Rusty.
Chen held a stack of papers in his arms, dumping them on his desk beside Sokha, who looked on quietly and curiously.
"Carter said they used Iverson to run drugs from the mainland," said Chen, handing his statement to Gordon. "All of the dates these three went missing—even some that the freak found—they all happened a week before they did a job for Carter."
"You sure?" said Rusty, searching for the report with the missing persons files.
"Yes. The three we have match a set that Carter gave us."
"So what does that mean?" said Bullock.
"I don't know. But for sure it's not just coincidence," said Chen.
"How many dates did Carter give you?" said Gordon.
Chen glanced at Rusty like he didn't want to say the number.
"Thirty-six," said Rusty.
"Holy fuck, there can't be thirty-six girls," said Bullock.
There was a long silence as it settled that there were likely that many, or more.
"Let's go through the missing persons stack—pull all that fall within a week of the dates, and—"
A voice interrupted Gordon, Chief Bronson stood at the stairs waving him over, "A word, Jim."
There was no sternness, Bronson said it casually, but still Gordon didn't like it. He gave the team instructions before heading upstairs.