Free Little Mountain by Bob Sanchez Page A

suspected, he and Viseth were probably in on it together.
             Sam tucked the list of names and addresses into his shirt pocket. There were only three Khems in the phone book, but maybe he could get someone down at the station to check again. But if this fellow just drifted in from Long Beach or Providence, then the local phone book wouldn’t do Sam a lot of good.
             Sam took Fitchie’s list and picked up the telephone, starting with the name that Fitchie had called earlier.
             “Yes, hello?” The voice belonged to an Asian woman, her voice pitched high.
             “Yes,” Sam said in Khmer. “My friend tells me to meet him in front of Paradise. He’s on his way and I forget how to get there. Where are you, please?”
             The woman gave an address, sounding pleased that she didn’t have to struggle with English. Of course, Sam already had the address, and had no immediate plans to go there. “What kind of place do you have? Do you sell videos?”
             “No, this is a restaurant. We open at eleven. Maybe you and your friend like to eat lunch here.”
             “Maybe so. But my friend Mister Chea must have his soup. Do you serve kao poun? ”
             “No, we don’t. You come, though, and we show you our menu.” The woman didn’t seem to react at all to Chea’s name. Sam had hoped for something dramatic: a gasp of terror would have been perfect. That wasn’t likely, given the commonness of the Chea surname. But even a simple Ah, that’s the name of our owner would have done for now.
             Within thirty-five minutes, Sam had gone through Fitchie’s list of seventeen names. Most had raised-in-Rhode-Island accents, and Sam marked x’s next to each of their names until there was one name left; the phone rang thirty times before Sam hung up. He headed for the parking lot. At least the list of Khems was shorter, and the names were local.
     
    At the first apartment, a tall woman opened the door a few inches and peered out at Sam and his badge. She unhooked the chain and opened the door, but she did not invite him in. She nursed a baby that she cradled in one arm. Alarm filled her eyes.
             “Khem is my husband,” she said in Khmer. “He’s at work. What is the problem?”
             “There is no problem. I just need to ask him some routine questions.” In the woman’s arms the baby’s eyes were closed, its black eyelashes fluttering from a dream. Her white blouse draped around her breast, creating a private world for mother and child.
             “What routine questions?”
             “What does he do for a living, ma’am?”
             “He’s a computer programmer. We have lived here for three years.”
             “What is your landlord’s name?”
             “Mister Peters.” She gave him the landlord’s address and phone number; he thanked her and left. Later he would double-check her information, but for now it seemed to lead nowhere.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    Had they felt safe in America, free from the madness of the killing fields? Had they consoled each other over their loss, one by one, of children and parents and friends? Had they finally begun to feel peace until Bin Chea opened the door? Until Mrs. Chea saw his blood on the walls? The poor woman could be forgiven some confusion ¾ unless she’d planned to lie, then panicked.
             Sam headed back toward 11th Street, where the killing had occurred. What were the possibilities? Okay, Mrs. Chea might be lying. Why would she have an extra bowl of soup on the table? Was she expecting someone at any minute, or had someone just left? Could she have hired someone to slaughter her husband? A woman like that, who looked so much like his own grandmother? No, she’d been distraught last night, unless she was a very good actress.
             But what Cambodian could not