Faint Trace by M. P. Cooley Page B

fifteen.”
    â€œSo a late bloomer,” Ernie said. “And I take it there’s no school photos, tasteful portraits with rainbow laser effect glowing in the background.”
    â€œDon’t think we would have found those even if he had finished high school. His mom was in the life—­prostitution I think—­and his dad . . . well there’s no sign of him. Hu got his start on the drugs side of things. Not dealing, but forging prescriptions. But Pham Manh Due, the guy who started the Death Squad, he could spot talent, and started cultivating Hu’s gift for fake signatures and forgery.”
    My phone rang.
    â€œIs that Stanzler?” Ernie asked, crowding into my shoulder so he could see my phone. Jim Stanzler was special agent in charge of the FBI’s Bay Area Gang Task Force and more importantly, our boss. He was the reason that Ernie and I were here instead of participating in the raid on the Saigon Death Squad. Ernie didn’t like him, but I thought Stanzler was ok. Back when I’d first explained that Kevin’s short term leave for cancer treatment was turning into long term disability, Stanzler had offered me modified work assignments and even put in a call to the Albany, New York field office to see if we could arrange a transfer. The call was useless. I lacked seniority, a frozen budget meant they had no money to add a desk, and my years of experience in anti-­gang work made me practically pointless in a regional office where the big focus was anti-­terrorism.
    â€œGood news, Lyons and Aguilar,” Stanzler said, his voice tinny over the speaker. “The operation was a success.”
    â€œYou got Hu?” I asked.
    â€œNo, but we got seven members of the Saigon Death Squad. Found their little hidey-­hole and cleared them out. You know the old saying, give me a large enough lever and I can move the world? I think we found our lever.”
    I didn’t want to point out that Van Hu was an even bigger lever. He knew where the bodies were buried—­or rather, where the documents were filed—­with his expertise going far beyond faking signatures. If we could get him to turn state’s evidence, there was the possibility that we could take down the entire Saigon Death Squad, not just out in California, but in Minneapolis and Philadelphia and even New York, where it got started.
    â€œWe might have a lead on where Hu is living,” I said, reading Platon Valcaral’s address off the license.
    â€œI will bet my firstborn that the Death Squad won’t bother checking that address. It’s a fake,” Stanzler said, and I had to agree. “But of course we don’t want anything to fall through the cracks. Why don’t you two go visit, see if that’s where Hu is living these days.”
    My car’s air-­conditioning was a relief, Aguilar turning the vents so the air blew on his face. I followed the 13 to the Piedmont area, and I found myself scanning the neighborhood not just for our address, but to judge if it would be a nice place for me, Kevin, and Lucy to live. I preferred the East Bay and San Francisco to the flat peninsula of Silicon Valley, the hills making me feel at home in a way that lowlands never did. Kevin would tease me about needing defensible positions, but really it was the landscape I loved. Kevin just needed proximity to computers, space to bike ride, and good concerts. Not that we did any of those things anymore. Nonsmoking Kevin had lung cancer, according to the doctor’s current theory, and it left him breathless.
    We arrived at the house, quiet in the midday sun. Ernie knocked and we waited for a reply. A black Mazda full of young men rolled by, the growl of the car signaling significant engine upgrades.
    â€œGang members?” I asked. “In this neighborhood?”
    Ernie watched the car closely. “Are they a crew, or just little turds out demanding respect they