Faint Trace by M. P. Cooley Page A

thirteenth month of disability due to cancer and a three-­year-­old daughter needing my attention. So as my partner, Ernie was on the JV team too.
    â€œThis shit is all fake,” Ernie said. “Why don’t the Death Squad just make more?” He rolled his eyes, using his sleeve to wipe sweat off his neck. “What am I saying? They’re greedy bastards.”
    â€œWe’re not talking small change, here. Ballpark number of the value of that stuff we found? Five or six hundred thousand.” I thought of the room packed with fake documents and memorabilia, the autographs and signatures all carefully rendered. “And capturing Hu, the guy who created all that? Worth a whole lot more than half a million to the Death Squad.”
    Van Hu was the person we all wanted to find. Counterfeiting is what the Death Squad did best, but from reports the gang leaders had Van Hu doing a little bit of everything: falsified land deeds, fake driver’s licenses, and of course the stuff in the storage facility. They would execute him once they found him.
    The FBI wanted him just as badly, but planned to capture rather than kill Hu. We wanted to get all the information Hu had on the inner workings of the gang—­as a longtime member who’d defected, he knew enough about its operations to steal at least six shipping containers from them, redirecting the cargo using false bills of lading and invoices. We were betting he knew a whole lot more. There was the small matter of the fourteen warrants out for his arrest on state and federal charges; but those could probably be forgotten, if he gave us the evidence we needed against the Saigon Death Squad.
    The problem was finding a man who falsified documents for a living. Over the course of the last few years The Bureau had dug up six different aliases across four states that at different times listed his ethnicity as Asian, white, or Pacific Islander. It seemed impossible that we wouldn’t be able to find a picture of someone in this digital age, but Van Hu remained elusive.
    I looked at storage facility’s business office, the front window now covered with plywood. The door swung open, and the owner ducked out, blinking in the noonday sun.
    â€œHey! FBI ­people!” he yelled, waving us over. Looking over his shoulder I could see destruction: papers strewn across the floor and a bloody handprint where the night manager had tried to stop his slide to the floor after having his head smashed in with a folding chair. The owner handed us a copy of a driver’s license. “Platon Valcaral was the name on the rental. This is the guy you’re looking for, right?”
    â€œHe’s passing himself off as Mexican?” Ernie was offended.
    The picture on the ID showed a heavyset young man, age listed as twenty-­three, head tilted back, his eyes hidden behind rolls of fat. I thanked the owner, who went back to reorganizing the documents the gang had dumped on the floor. Personally, I would have begun the cleaning by scrubbing the blood off the wall.
    â€œThe ID is fake,” Ernie said blowing out a frustrated breath. “But I’m bettin’ the picture isn’t. Why did the Squad grab the shipping documents but leave this behind?”
    â€œThey know he’s probably got three other aliases in play—­his name means nothing. But the transportation contract, that could help them figure out which trucking outfits are moving the stolen goods from the port to more permanent storage—­like this place.”
    â€œAnd then they’ll what? Beat up some teamsters? I’d like to see them try.” Ernie pulled the copy of the photo close. “Van Hu was in the Saigon Death Squad for over ten years and on the FBI wanted list for the last three. Surveillance must have picked him up at some point.”
    â€œBackroom guy,” I said. “I read his file, and he got started all the way back when he was