Chapter 12

The next day, Phoenix, Arizona

“What is he up to, Gifford?”

“They’re talking,” Gifford observed through a pair of small binoculars.

Fay and Gifford, seated in an SUV, were in surveillance spy mode.

Under her breath, Fay urged, “Come on, man, get with it.”

“Do I detect impatience in your voice, Commander?”

“Yeah.” Fay fanned her face with a sports magazine. “Surveillance sucks. And it’s hotter than Sharon den Adel in a mini.”

“Who?” Gifford asked.

“Do a search on it, bro.”

“Thanks. It makes one wonder how the feds do this day in and day out,” Gifford observed.

“It’s this sitting, this watching, this god-awful sweltering heat that builds those mighty donut bellies.” Fay chuckled. “Speaking of donuts, I could use some food. How about you, sir?”

Gifford offered, “How does Chinese sound?

“Anything will do. I’m famished,” Fay replied, continuing to fan her face.

“Mercy, it’s hot! About one-ten!” Gifford exclaimed. He tapped at his cell phone. “Sharon den who?”

Fay pointed toward the car’s dashboard. “More air,” she ordered. “And it’s Adel.”

Gifford responded by flicking the air conditioner power setting to its highest level. Then, he went back to his cell. “Oh. My! Hello!”

“Sharon den Adel?”

“All of her. And then some,” Gifford observed.

As the car’s heat was replaced with cooler air, they continued to watch while a man attempted to charm the mini-skirt off one of Phoenix’s many rent-a-chicks.

“Don Valley. Devoted husband, AmeriCon CEO, pillar of the community,” Fay said, describing the man they were surveilling. “Help me, sir, what have I left out?”

“Womanizer,” Gifford added. “What’s his bimbo count?”

“This week? I think this is hooker number three in the last four days. So far, we have Valley on three counts of first-degree tackiness. I think we’re going to need to have more on him.”

“What Mrs. Valley would say if she knew her husband was blowing, excuse the pun, the milk money on hookers?” Gifford asked.

“No question.” Fay snapped another photograph. “She’d be pissed. But I don’t think us confronting Don Valley with photos and threatening to expose him to his wife will be a compelling enough reason for him to want to cooperate with us.”

“Valley appears to be our boy, all right,” Gifford corroborated. “But I agree with you; we need more.”

Fay sighed and smiled. “Chinese food, huh? Any recommendations?”

“I know a great restaurant, not too far from here. It’s called Bo-ling,” Gifford suggested.

“Bowling?” Fay asked, amused.

“Sounds like bowling,” Gifford acknowledged. “I decided I liked the place when the owners converted a neon sign from an old bowling alley, blacked out the ‘w,’ and hung the sign over the entrance.”

Fay laughed. “No shhh-ah…how quaint!”

“The last time I dined there, the menu boasted ‘Sweat and Sour Children.’” Gifford chuckled.

Fay laughed again. “A typo? I know I’m going to like your restaurant.” With that, she snapped another photo. “Let’s go.”

As Fay and Gifford sped away, she kept her gaze on the man conversing with the woman through the window of the white Cadillac. Don Valley was apparently trying to determine if his latest conquest might not be a cop. “Ima Hooker” was likely evaluating how many minutes of downtime Don John Valley would cost her.

“Tacky bastard,” Fay muttered.

Fay closed her eyes and rested her head on the passenger seatback. When next she reopened them, they had arrived at Bo-ling.

Her cell phone chirped.

Fay answered her phone with a “Hey!” She knew who was calling: JP, from the airport.

Their conversation was brief.

When the call was over, Fay informed Gifford, “Our eagles have landed.” She watched the flickering Bo-ling sign. “Dad came with them.”

Gifford did not respond.

“I know he wants to help, and I’m sure he will be accommodating. I don’t want him to draw attention to me or our operation,” Fay continued.

“Go easy on your dad, Faydra,” Gifford suggested. “He managed to run the most powerful nation on earth for eight successful years, without screwing anything up. He is trusted with national secrets no one will ever know but he and a select few. I think he will be able to pull strings for us that we might have had a difficult time with.”

“You’re right. Maybe I am being too protective,” Fay acknowledged. “Thank you.” She reached across the seat to pat Gifford’s forearm. “His health is failing,” she went on, sighing. “I’m looking forward to seeing him, and yet I wish it were under different circumstances. This whole GFA thing has been a strain on us all.”

“The Galaxy Friendship Association is a major reason we have the excessive defense spending and cost over-runs the taxpayers have been suffering over these past five years. For America’s sake, we need to put Roman Justine and the GFA out of business,” Gifford declared.

Fay glanced again at the flickering red neon Bo-ling sign. The whole idea behind the sign brought a smile to her face.

“We can sit here all night worrying about cost overruns and wasted tax dollars, or we can go inside and worry about calorie overruns and expanding waistlines,” Fay stated. “Your call.”

Gifford open the car’s door. “I’ve never thought of Chinese food as fattening.”

****

As he spoke on his cell phone to Virgil, Deputy Doug sounded excited. “Sheriff. Y’all’d better get on down to the morgue. We have our fisherman!” he exclaimed.

“You there now, Doug?” Virgil asked.

“Me and Lonny’s here,” the Deputy confirmed. “Come on down. We’re on to somethin’.”

Three minutes later, Sheriff Gus was pushing through the double doors leading into the county morgue. Doug, Lonny, and Sue Nguyen stood next to a stainless-steel gurney. On the gurney lay a body.

“This is the guy who rented the skiff?” Virgil asked them.

“We found our fisherman, Virgil,” Lonny Boyd confirmed, pointing to the corpse.

“No kiddin’?”

“Yup.” Lonny nodded. “Same guy. He matches the composite sketch. The marina manager is on his way over to give us a positive, but his prints match a set we lifted from the skiff.”

“What about the tumbler?” Virgil asked, moving closer to the gurney.

“Same thing.”

Virgil surveyed the corpse from head to toe. His gaze settled on Dr. Sue Nguyen. “Who, why, when, and where?” he asked the ME.

Sue’s solemn face brightened. “That’s what I like about you, Sheriff. You’re direct and to the point.” She took several steps away from the corpse, retrieved a clipboard from a nearby table, and returned. After studying a report, she looked up at Virgil and asked, “You want the condensed version?”

He nodded. “Always.”

“Ronald Reagan Stanton…age forty-five…drowned 10:00 P.M. on the same night Alvin Joe died, give or take an hour,” Sue reported. “Found by two fishermen in the Sawsashaw River about two hundred yards from where Alvin Joe’s body was found.”

“Thanks, Sue.” Virgil shifted his attention to Lonny Boyd. “Fill in the blanks.”

“Other than his jingoistic name, Stanton was a transient,” the Deputy explained. “One prior. Nothing more than car prowling.” He offered Virgil a large evidence envelope that he had been holding in his left hand. “Here’s his personal effects.”

Virgil accepted the envelope as his searching gaze darted around the room.

“Here,” Sue said, offering him latex gloves.

After slipping his large hands into the gloves, Virgil opened the envelope and peered at the contents inside. He glanced back at Lonny. “That’s it?” he asked, surprised.

Lonny nodded. “Just the wallet, Sheriff.” He hesitated. “It’s what’s inside the wallet that will pop your cork.”

****

The evening dinner crowd at Bo-ling Chinese Restaurant was small. Five tables were occupied by what appeared to Fay to be Phoenix’s affluent youth. She and Gifford were shown to a table situated adjacent to a sizeable tropical fish aquarium. Fay sat facing the aquarium and was soon mesmerized by its tranquil ambiance.

They sat in silence until the waitperson arrived seeking their drink orders.

“Do you have iced tea?” Fay asked, shifting her gaze from the antics of a small bright orange and white stripe clownfish to the waiter.

“No. I’m sorry,” the waiter apologized. “We do have cola. Would that be okay?”

“How about a whiskey and cola?” Fay asked.

The waitperson smiled and noted her order on a small order pad. Then she turned to Gifford Champion. “And for you, sir?”

“Same for me.”

The waitperson smiled, bowed, and left the table.

“Where are you?” Gifford asked, looking at Fay. “You seem to be a thousand miles away.”

“I’m sorry, Gifford. I was thinking about when we first met.”

“Seoul, Korea. You were angry at me when you discovered I was writing a story about you and not about the sinking of the U.S.S. Jonathan Carr, as I had led you to believe,” he reminisced.

“I thought you’d betrayed me. I was mad…and hurt,” Fay admitted.

Gifford’s gaze shifted from Fay’s eyes to her lips and then back to her eyes. “The image of you, standing there, your white dress uniform amplifying the crimson shade of your face…your lower lip was quivering, and all the time, you were trying so hard not to cry. Or throw something at me. That single image will forever be etched in my memory. I felt like an ass. I was ready to trash the entire story in exchange for a smile and your friendship,” he divulged.

Fay smiled. “I’m glad we’re friends, Gifford. And thank you for volunteering for this op.”

“No. Thank you, Commander,” he asserted. “At the time, I knew I had the right partner for the job, and I still do.”

“Speaking of Korea,” Fay said, “from time to time, I think about our dear friends Colonel Jangho Kim and President Lee Ka Eun.”

“You may have heard the annual APEC is going to be held in Aspen, Colorado next month? President Lee Ka Eun will be attending, as will all the twenty-one-member nation heads of state,” Gifford offered.

“I would imagine her attaché Jangho would accompany her?” Fay guessed.

“Do you think Kim could be useful to us?”

“At the moment, no,” Fay replied. “But I do have him on my mind.”

The waitperson returned to their table with their drinks, ready for the dinner orders.

Fay had not yet looked at the menu, so she told Gifford, “Order for me. This desert heat seems to have warped my brain.”

Gifford looked through the menu before placing his order in Mandarin. The waitress was delighted to hear her native tongue spoken by an American, and she scribbled down Clifford’s order. She bowed once more and walked into the kitchen through the double swinging doors.

“How many languages do you speak again?” Fay asked him.

“Seven.”

“Doesn’t surprise me.” Gifford Champion was a whiz kid, in Fay’s opinion.

“I’m a creation of years of CIA-sponsored language schools, I’m afraid,” Gifford said.

“Mandarin clearly being one of them,” Fay replied.

“Plus two Chinese dialects, Korean, Japanese, and Russian,” Gifford revealed.

Fay whispered, “I’d imagine those are useful for a spook to have at his command.”

“Very helpful,” he whispered back.

“Et vous parlez Français aussi bien,” Fay replied. (“And you speak French as well.”)

Gifford smiled. “Oui. Oh, you speak French too!”

“Oui,” Fay confirmed, before holding up her glass for a toast. “Voici à vous mon ami.” (“Here’s to you, my friend.”)

“And to you.” Gifford clicked his glass against hers, completing the toast.

Soon their food arrived, delivered by the waitperson and a matronly woman. More bowing, smiling, and Mandarin-speaking ensued.

In English, Gifford said to Fay, “Faydra, this is Mrs. Mu-Wong, Bo-ling’s owner.”

Then, Gifford spoke to Mrs. Mu-Wong in Mandarin.

In English, Mrs. Mu-Wong said to Fay, “I am honored to meet you, Fay Green, honorable daughter of the great man, William Green.” Mrs. Mu-Wong bowed again.

Fay smiled, drew her hands into the Anjali Mudra position near her face, and returned the bow. As a president’s daughter, she knew diplomacy and protocol well. “The honor is mine, Mrs. Mu-Wong,” she replied. “You have an exquisite restaurant. I am looking forward to your hospitality.”

Mrs. Mu-Wong answered, “The dinner is my pleasure for my honored guests to enjoy this evening.” She smiled, bowed, and slipped away from the table.

Gifford must have read the concerned look on Fay’s face. “Don’t worry,” he assured her. “We’ll leave our waitperson a tip equivalent to the dinner.”

“And we will send Mrs. Mu-Wong roses first thing in the morning.” Fay flashed him a smile. “Great choice. I needed this.”

Concern came to Gifford’s face. “How’s your foot?” he asked.

Fay considered her foot. “It feels fine. I hardly notice it anymore. Thanks for asking.”

He studied her for a moment, and then asked, “What’s bothering you?”

Fay offered him a weak smile. She sighed. “A lot is bothering me,” she divulged. “But I’m back to thinking about our pal Sussy Baka.”

“Sussy Baka?” Gifford repeated, confused. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, do a search on it.”

“It’s from a videogame,” Fay explained. “The term ‘sussy’ describes a shifty or suspicious character.”

“Oh! That Baka! Okay. now I’ve caught up with you!” Gifford exclaimed. “You mean regarding his insatiable appetite for the hos?”

“Yeah. I have a hunch there is more to this than meets the eye,” Fay relayed. She sighed again. “Oh well, that is his business, I guess.”

She sat back with her drink in her hand and took a long sip. She allowed herself to relax and unwind. But the brief interlude did not last long.

Her eyes widened. “Ho!” Fay gasped. “The ho!”

“Ho ho what, Santa?” Gifford quipped.

“No. The hos. The hookers,” Fay clarified. “Vinny Astoria told me Justine has a voracious appetite for prostitutes.” She sat up. “Valley’s pimpin’ for Justine!”

“Why would the CEO of one of the largest defense contractors in the nation pimp for one of the wealthiest men in the country?” Gifford asked skeptically.

“Recall what Joey Stumpanato told us,” Fay instructed him. “Justine has gotten Valley dirty by having him commit a felony. Made him taste fruit of the forbidden tree, so to speak. He will hold this over Valley’s head, like the Sword of Damocles.”

“He’s got Valley by the short hairs,” Gifford observed, sipping his drink while considering what she had said.

Fay smiled and nodded. “Exactly.”

“When Justine asks Valley for more, Valley will discover he’s already committed several felonies,” Gifford guessed. “To put it another way, it’s a clever blackmail.”

“Justine has a razor-sharp mind,” Fay realized.

“Does that surprise you, Fay?” Gifford asked drily. “He was an attorney.”