“Because we’re short-staffed and overworked? Because the fucking feds axed our budgets and allocated our crime-fighting money to tax collection instead?”
“You said it. We’re embittered misfits. Let’s not go there right now,” said Nick.
“I hear ya.” Dubois bit into a muffin and spoke with his mouth full. “We raided Shaupan Chau’s house. Found a cache of AK-47s tucked into a hidden compartment in his bedroom.”
“He was out on parole and collecting AK-47s?” said Nick, more to himself than Captain Dubois. They both knew that the Russian firearm was the weapon of choice of Vietnamese gangs for a number of reasons. Many gang members had been trained on the AK by their Soviet masters. It rarely jammed and was easy to clean. “The smugglers are Vietnamese?” he asked Dubois.
“Yeah. It’s funny. I didn’t think the Chinks ever worked with the Vietnamese.”
“Hey, it’s one big global village now. They can’t speak each other’s language, but they all accept U.S. currency.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” replied Dubois, slurping his coffee. “The RCMP collected that snakehead from the Americans like you asked. Engle’s staff shipped him to us late last night. We ran his fingerprints. He goes by the name Gee Van Tung. Couldn’t find any other aliases. His crime sheet isn’t in the same league as Shaupan but he’s a Dragon triad member all right. Born in Vietnam.”
“Hmm,” said Nick rubbing his chin. “I just came from Gerrard East. Spoke to a travel agent who works as a commissioned salesman for a human smuggler called Tu. I wonder if Tung would know anything about that?”
“Don’t know, but we can ask,” said Dubois, scooping up donut crumbs with two fingers. “The other thing is, Tung has a reputation as something of a bungler.”
“A bungler? What kind of bungler?”
Dubois chortled into his coffee. “You’re gonna love this story. Coupla years ago he shot off the end of his dick with a .45 he had kept stuffed down the front of his pants. Walked into emerg with some story about being in a shootout. But gunpowder marks on the inside of his pants told a different story.”
“Jesus, no kidding!”
The two men laughed so hard that they spilled coffee on the table and themselves. Nick wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and asked, “What about a search of Gee Tung’s house?”
“The OPP did the search. Turned up diddly-squat. Someone sanitized it before the cops got there. Another thing, we analyzed the blood from the side of the boat. Type O. Doesn’t match any of the smugglers or aliens, but we’d already assumed that. Also, no new hospital admissions of patients with bullet wounds on either side of the 49th parallel with type O blood.”
“André,” said Nick. “I refuse to believe that Walter’s killer can just get away. He’s somewhere. Possibly hiding in Toronto, Montreal, or Vancouver. Or even New York or San Francisco. Any city with a large Asian population would allow him to blend in. We’re going to have to call in the FBI and maybe Interpol on this one.”
Dubois picked up on the hard edge in Nick’s voice. “Because of Walter, you’re going for the jugular on this one?”
“Damn right I am,” replied Nick. “Let’s see if Interpol or the FBI has a file on this Gee Van Tung.”
“Well, I got something that could be of interest to you. We found a telephone number in Gee Van Tung’s pocket. We ran a trace. It’s a Toronto number. Belongs to the Mandarin Club. Could be something, could be nothing. Wanna run it from your end?”
“Sure. What is it? Gang hangout?” asked Nick as he flipped open his notebook and jotted down a few entries.
“Some of my officers think it’s a den of illegals working under the table.”
“I’ll check it out myself.”
“I’m flying back to Ottawa on the four o’clock. Gonna interrogate Gee Tung. The RCMP’s already moved him to the West Detention Centre. Wanna sit in?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“My flight from the island airport leaves in less than two hours.”
“That gives me just enough time to check something on our database,” replied Nick.
“How about we hook up at the airport? I’ve got a few things to wrap up, too.”
Back in his office, Nick logged into the Citizenship and Immigration Database, which held the records of hundreds of thousands of resident aliens. The system supplied, at a glance, information on how, when, where and under what class a person had entered the country, and his or her current immigration status. This morning the network was slow. It meant that there were too many officers across the country logged into the system running background checks.
Patience had never been one of his virtues but in this case Nick endured the lengthy transmission delays. If Gee Tung could lead him to the identity of Walter Martin’s killer, then justice would be served, and from a department standpoint, a blow would be struck against the global trade in human trafficking. He thought about how much things had changed since his first year in enforcement. His predecessor had been reamed, by the minister of immigration himself, when Canada was caught off guard and 158 South Asians waded ashore in Newfoundland to claim refugee status. A hundred and fifty-eight was nothing these days. Last year, over five thousand people claimed refugee status at Canadian airports.
A couple more clicks of the mouse and he was finally in the system.
Gee Van Tung had entered Canada when he was ten years old under the Family Reunification Program in 1979 at Mirabel Airport. A few more keystrokes and he learned that the entire family had landed immigrant status, but there was no record of citizenship. That meant Gee Tung could be deported. Next, he opened a deportation file to execute the removal of Gee Tung from the country. But in this case, Nick was prepared to trade information for asylum — if Gee Tung came across with the information he wanted. Granting asylum wasn’t within his jurisdiction, but he’d cross that bridge when he got to it.
Detention centres had never ranked high on Nick’s list of favourite places. They were worlds unto themselves. Sterile buildings that housed deportees prior to their removal from the country. Drug dealers, serial killers, kidnappers, war criminals. Once you had been inside a detention centre, the rose-coloured glasses were off forever. The Ottawa West Detention Centre was situated on what had once been prime farmland. Swell, thought Nick. Displace crops for crooks. He wondered if the politicians had ever offered that choice to the voters.
The armed security guards, electric fences, high tech security codes, and magnetic identity cards were for others. Nick was waved through without the usual checks.
Corridors were heavily monitored by overhead television cameras. A female guard escorted them past several sets of airlock doors and into Gee Tung’s cell.
“Look at that. The perp’s got private accommodation at our expense,” said Dubois, breaking the silence for the first time since they walked into the detention centre.
The prisoner lay on a bunk bed, hooked up to an IV bag. One leg was bandaged up to his thigh and elevated at an angle. At the sight of Nick and Dubois, the passive look on his face changed to one of alarm.
Dubois had never been a fan of prisoners’ rights.
“I’m with the RCMP and he’s with Immigration,” said Dubois, and waited, lighting up a cigarette. In the lengthy silence that followed, Dubois took a few drags and then pulled up a chair across from the prisoner. The staring match had begun. Nick preferred to stand. He leaned his back against the wall with an air of detachment as he sized up the prisoner. Gee Tung was about thirty years old, thin, and had a scar that ran the length of his face from his left eyebrow down past his ear.
Dubois observed the prisoner