Chapter 19

Two days later, Conley and Kendricks visited the River Street tenement, and followed an old Cambodian woman whose long, rust-colored dress whispered. A gold sash circled her ample waist, a silk crown on hips that swayed like a ship on rolling seas. The hallway walls were the color of candy apples, the trim a bright orange, floors painted lemon yellow.

They passed a room with benches and smoky incense burners that fogged a statue of Buddha. Kitchen sounds grew loud as they neared the end of the corridor—a splash in a sink, the hiss of boiling water, chop of a knife on a cutting board. They turned into the big kitchen and were greeted by the backs of a half-dozen working women.

Channary and Sheila Thompson sat on stools at a butcher block island, mixing paste in a bowl with wooden spoons. The young girl’s eyes were as bright as Conley remembered. They brightened more when she saw him.

Thompson slid off her stool and greeted them.

“Welcome to Cambodia West, Detectives. Channary’s learning English fast. She had some lessons at the orphanage. I’m teaching her to read.”

A woman eyed them and quickly turned back to cleaning dishes.

“Can we talk with her?” Conley asked.

“No talk,” the woman at the sink barked. Her round, sweaty face flashed over her shoulder. “Work.”

Channary was shucking corn now, throwing husks in a bag on the floor.

“Do either of you speak French?” Thompson whispered.

“I know a bit,” Kendricks said. “Cajun variety.”

“They say Channary’s too busy to talk. The only way I’ll get them to leave is for a holy man. Do your Sunday best, Detective Kendricks. Their English is sketchy, but they know French.”

“There’s one problem. They ain’t Baptist.”

“They’re not fussy when it comes to salvation.” Sheila turned to the women, waved her arms, and called “un saint homme” in singsong. She pointed to Kendricks.

“Ecoutez. Holy man, ladies. Ecoutez.”

Kendricks stepped forward.

“Bienvenue a la Dieu, mes soeurs. Bienvenue.” He placed his big hand on his chest and it almost reached shoulder to shoulder. His free hand shot toward the ceiling like a preacher’s. “Alleluia!”

One by one the women waddled out of the kitchen, past the giant black man who beckoned them with a strange, impassioned drawl. Thompson herded them to the hallway and shouted “Shaman!” to the laggards.

Kendricks followed the shuffling women to the prayer room, voice dropping an octave every time he spoke Cajun, arms open as if to encircle his new flock.

Sheila stepped back to the counter and put her hand over the girl’s. “You’ve got your time, Detective Conley. Channary’s English is coming along, but she talks in idioms—riddles if you will. They can be hard to decipher.”

“I’ll manage,” he said.

Channary was chopping now, peppers as big as grapefruit. She held a large knife, both hands on the worn handle.

He pulled a stool in front of her and sat. She pressed down on a big bell pepper and it scurried away from the knife and rolled across the cutting table. Conley caught it before it fell.

“Channary, what did you see when you walked into the church that night—the night we met?”

She looked past his shoulder and selected an onion from a basket. She hacked it open and the stinging scent filled the air between them.

“Aunties were flying,” she said.

Conley hesitated and turned to Thompson.

“Those are the Aunties,” she told Conley, jerking her thumb toward the women who’d left. “That’s what she calls them. Channary says they look like the saints on the church ceiling. They have flowing robes.”

“And a man,” she said suddenly. “He came down from the altar.”

“What did he look like?” Conley said.

“I sat in a tall deadbox, so I could barely see.”

“Deadbox?” he said.

“She hid in the confessional,” Thompson said, “a box like an upright coffin.” She smiled. “That one was kind of easy.”

A dozen questions—a dozen puzzling answers.

Kendricks’ shouts rang from the prayer room, his voice booming now, switching between English and French. He sounded like he was singing backup for himself.

“Welcome the Lord into your life every day, ladies, so He’ll welcome you on your last. Vous venez a Dieu.”

The incense smoke was seeping into the kitchen. Channary rubbed her eyes and coughed. She slid off the stool and stretched to get a glass from the cabinet.

“La Dieu est venire.”

Lloyd sang Amazing Grace in a deep, rich voice that seemed to carry on the sweet-smelling smoke. Conley ran his hand down his face. If progress were to be measured by the number of meaningless, disconnected facts collected, he was doing well.

Conley closed his eyes.

We’re going to need more than prayer, Kendricks, because we’re getting nowhere. Playing games.

“Your partner has talent, Conley. These ladies have low tolerance for the uninspiring. He’s doing well.”

Kendricks returned and the ladies went back to work.

“We need to go,” Conley told him. “We’re wasting time.”

“Wait,” Thompson said. “I found out more about Channary. Friends International traced her to a nasty orphanage in Kompong Cham. They also tracked her family.”

“Family? You said she was in an orphanage.”

“Most kids in Cambodian orphanages have parents who are just too poor to keep them. Unfortunately, many of these places are preyed on by the orphan tourists. Predators pay a few dollars to get in and check out the kids. Somebody took a liking to Channary and ‘adoptedʼ her.”

“Bought her, you mean. How’d she get here?”

“A rich tourist hired a mule to bring her to the states and get her past immigration. She was probably about to be groomed. We got her just in time.”

“Now what?”

“Friends International wants to arrange for a ticket back, but the D.A. won’t release her because she’s a witness to murder.

“And there’s more. Channary’s the sister of a local Cambodian legend. Her brother’s in a gang that prowls the Mekong River. Evidently he ripped off a drug lord and became Robin Hood—and Santa Claus. He leaves money for poor families while they’re sleeping, along with a written Buddhist prayer for enlightenment. They call him ‘The Ghost’.ˮ

Conley wrote, closed his notepad, and stood.

“Detective Mazzarelli says you’re looking to do some undercover work,” she said. “Told me to ask you about the Paladin.”

“Mazzarelliʼs got a big mouth.”

“So, what is it? This Paladin?ˮ

“You donʼt want to know.ˮ

“Maybe not, but Iʼll do anything to help. I’ve done undercover before.”

“Right. An undercover social worker.”

“Former Army Ranger and a black belt in judo, and I’ve got a masters in law enforcement. Care to compare resumes, Detective?”

“I’m impressed, but no thanks.”

Channary was walking toward them, smoothing her dress, combing her hair.

Thompson’s face hardened, and when she spoke her voice was hushed but powerful. “Here’s some advice for you, Detective. You need my help. In fact, from what I can see, you need it badly.”