Free Little Mountain by Bob Sanchez

Got a rumor some of these guys are terrorizing other Asians, but no one’s talking yet.”
             “Sammy,” said Wilkins, “ anybody seen this Kim with a sawed-off twelve gauge?”
             “Lieutenant, would you please call me Sam? Or Sambath?”
             “My, aren’t we touchy?”
             Yes, we are. Get our names right. “No, Lieutenant. I’m not. None of these punks normally keeps weapons like that. Cheap stuff they can hide is more their speed, like a .25-caliber.”
             “Well, aren’t you the freakin’ fountain of knowledge? These kids do any dope?”
             “Half the kids on Mersey Street do dope.”
             “Is Kim our Mister Trigger-Happy?”
             “Maybe he knows something.”
             “Battboys are more or less a close group, though. They don’t snitch a lot.”
             “They don’t talk a lot, period.”
             Wilkins propped his elbows on his desk, and rested his chin on clasped hands. “You’re a trouper, Fitchie. Is all I got to say. Look, you should take some time off, be a husband and father--”
             “Thanks,” Fitchie said, “but a husband and father earns a living.”
             “Exactly what you’ve been doing. But your boys, your wife, they need you now.”
             “You need my help on this Bin Chea murder.”
             “What you need, my friend, is perspective. Knowing that in times of crisis, your family comes before your work.” This coming from Wilkins, of all people.
             “I don’t--”
             “That’s why you’re taking three days off as of now. You need more time, you just call me and it’s arranged.” His fingers formed a church steeple, and his eyes filled with compassion.
             The meeting went on for another five minutes, with Fitchie mentioning that Samson Cleaners had an all-Asian cast. He hadn’t seen Nawath there. Finally, Wilkins closed his folder. “Okay, people. We’re more or less finished here. Sammy, you stay a minute.”
             Wilkins closed the door behind Fitchie. “I got a complaint from the hospital you got on that old lady’s case.”
             “How do you mean, Lieutenant?”
             “I mean sometimes you’re over-fucking zealous.”
             Wilkins acted as though Sam had been his burden for two years instead of two days. “What did I say?”
             “How should I know? You talked to the woman in Cambodian, you were the only one there who could talk to her. Hospital says you had the woman in tears.”
             “Of course she was in tears, Lieutenant. She just lost her husband, and it’s my job to ask her questions. For all I know, she hired the shooter.”
             “Bullshit, she’s not capable. Well, she’s out of the hospital now. I don’t want you being an asshole to the old lady. Just find out which Battboy pulled the trigger.”
             “Lieutenant, I also need to find out where this Khem Chhap is, and somebody should talk to those people at Paradise Trust.”
             “That’ll be your job.”
     
    At his desk, Sam tapped away at a computer keyboard with his index fingers. The department was tied into a national network that kept track of Asian gang members, who tended to treat a coast-to-coast trip as casually as a drive to downtown Lowell. From this network, Sam knew of a dozen cross-country trips to Long Beach and Stockton by Battboys such as Viseth. The 952 zip code on Bin Chea’s hate mail turned out to be from Stockton, but the prints were smudged.
             Sam held down an arrow and the names scrolled up the screen. There was Viseth, but where was Khem Chhap? His name wasn’t on the computer list, but the list was probably nowhere near complete. If Khem did have anything to do with the killing, Sam