“How many calls have we logged?”
“Over five hundred so far on our toll-free line. Frothing at the mouth, most of them. Want to deport every coloured face out of the country. Scary, actually,” said Rocco, leaning against the door.
Nick nodded. “Racism flares up when stuff like this happens. This is what we’re gonna do. The press will want to bypass Public Information for the inside scoop. That will be you.”
For the next half hour, Nick briefed Rocco on what to give to the press on the investigation Immigration was conducting into the drive-by shooting.
“We pick two reporters. Print and television. The Globe and CTV. I want you to leak to them that we’re running our own checks on the Flying Dragons triad members. We think the shooting wasn’t really about alien smuggling, it was about gang warfare and fighting for turf. That way we toss the ball back into the police commissioner’s lap.”
“Why are we leaking it to those two reporters?”
“First of all, we need to buy time. And secondly, we want to put a reporter or two in our debt. That will make the other reporters jealous, and they’ll chase the story that much harder.”
“I don’t quite follow.”
“We want the reporters to push the investigation. Any information they find will help us. One of them will be sharp enough to track down the owner of the Mandarin Club. And hopefully we get who we want in the spotlight.”
Rocco’s eyes opened in amazement. So that was how spin worked. Manipulate the press to get them investigating a few leaks Nick fed them. Massage the message, give them a bagful of half truths, and stand back. With luck, they’d get a lot of new information.
“We’re buying time until we finish our investigation. Remember, we never lie. We just withhold some information until the time is right. We need time to organize our investigation.”
“Okay. I follow.”
“Good. Handle the media scrum this afternoon. Don’t let the reporters trip you. Watch yourself with that reporter from the Times. Jamie Singh. He likes to ask the same question ten, twelve different ways. Then when you give a wrong response he’ll correct you. And you trip yourself by talking too much. Giving out more information than you meant to.”
Rocco nodded.
“Jamie’s one of the sharpest reporters around. English is his first language — don’t let that Sikh turban of his fool you. Remember, be very careful with him.”
After Rocco left, Nick tried to close a few files. But he couldn’t work. He needed to clear his head and think. He needed oxygen. Everything was racing too fast for his brain. Instead of hiding in his office, he dodged out the back of the building and took a walk. Why had Andy Loong been gunned down last night? Who knew about the raid at the Mandarin Club? Just himself, Kappolis and the squad cars waiting in the side street. He didn’t think it was an inside leak. Was he being followed? He looked behind him as he walked along King Street towards Spadina Avenue. Or had someone inside the club made a quick exit when the raid began? That seemed more likely. The police had tried to seal off all the exits, but they didn’t know the precise layout of the building. Supposing this someone knew what was going down, quickly got out, and alerted the head honcho, who ordered the drive-by hit on Loong. Why? To silence him. Whatever Loong knew had died with him. What the hell did he know that was worth his life?
He power-walked up Spadina. As he crossed the first set of lights, he played back what he knew because too many theories were spinning around his head. The Mandarin Club’s membership list had not turned up Li Mann’s name or anything close to it. Unfortunately, he had no idea if Li Mann was a real name or a nickname. Some cultures, like the Somalis, used nicknames in the place of real names. To Nick, they were all aliases designed to confuse law enforcement officials, nothing else.
Chinatown was a sea of life, sounds, smells and people. Nick grabbed a bite to eat at a street vendor’s stall. He could remember when Spadina had been the heart of the Jewish community, defined by delis and garment factories. After the Jews had moved up and out, the Chinese had moved in. The Yiddish theatre had been replaced by a movie theatre featuring kung fu movies. The old Jewish synagogue had been converted into the Chinese Community Centre. But in the last few years, immigration had altered the four-kilometre stretch again. Now the Chinese were following the Jews and the Italians in their migration to the suburbs, and the Vietnamese were taking over the area, giving it yet another identity as Little Saigon.
He detoured around large trucks unloading and delivering boxes of fresh produce and cases of frozen fish to the crowded shops and street markets. Before the crosswalk, he elbowed his way through a throng of shoppers who were busy checking out T-shirts, fake Rolexes, and other knock-off merchandise. Waiting patiently for the streetlights to change, he curiously eyed a pair of young Asian girls on the other side, hair bleached reddish-blonde. One of them sported a nose ring, while her companion had a ring through her belly button.
Crossing the street and walking past the synagogue, Nick noticed that it had been transformed again; this time into a pool hall. He didn’t know why it bothered him but it did. A lot of things were beginning to bother him. Particularly about the case. Officer Philip Wong had left a voice-mail message that he had some evidence that the shooting might have been done by a rival gang, the Vietnamese Lo Chien.
Maybe. But Nick was far from convinced that Loong’s murder was really about gangs rubbing out the ethnic competition. If so, what about the timing of the hit? Coincidence, or what? Maybe the Lo Chien gang had been hired to take Loong out to keep him from talking to the police. That seemed plausible. But then, who bought the contract hit? He went over and over the facts, trying put them together in a way that made sense.
All he could do was keep pushing. Stay in touch with Dubois. Maybe Kappolis would have some ideas about where to go next.
In the back of his mind one persistent, maddening thought never went away: that Walter Martin’s killer was still out there somewhere. So far, the son of a bitch had gotten away with it.
chapter seven
“Where’re you now?”
“I’m calling from the Toronto airport,” replied the General.
“We’re in trouble,” said a voice on the other end. “Big trouble. Have you read the papers?”
The words seemed to clear the General’s mind, reminding him of the events of last Friday. They revealed to him the risks he had to take and the limited options that were open to him. Standing at a payphone without his gun, the surprise and fear hit him with a freshness he had almost forgotten.
“Call me when you get to New York tonight,” the distant voice continued curtly. “If you don’t call, then I’ll know that you didn’t make it. Remember the place in New York’s Chinatown we talked about? Go and stay there for awhile until things cool down. Or until I tell you otherwise.”
And then the line went dead.
As he passed through the metal detectors at passport control he was glad he had discarded his weapons before boarding the airporter bus for Pearson International. He stifled his mind not to think anymore. After all, he knew the procedures and route well.
“The length of your visit?”
“One week.”
“Business?”
The official handed him back his boarding pass.