Little Mountain

Little Mountain by Bob Sanchez Page B

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Authors: Bob Sanchez
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named Chun, a punk who’d spent his share of time in court. Shoplifting, assault, that type of thing. Sympathetic judge, no time served. A damned shame.
             “Did they threaten you or your husband?”
             “Yes, we had phone calls in the middle of the night. Somebody said to be careful or we’d have an accident.”
             Maybe one of the neighbors. Would Nawath Lac have a motive to harass his landlord? “Any troubles with tenants?”
             She said no.
             “Did your husband go out in the evening?”
             “Yes, he had other houses to look after. He’d collect rent or fix things. Those people always complained about something.”
             “Any phone calls last night?
             “No, I don’t remember any.”
             “How long have you lived in Lowell?
             “Five years next month.”
             “And before that?”
             “Long Beach, California.”
             “Do you have children?”
             “Three, all dead.”
             “I am sorry. Where did you and your husband live before the war?”
             “In Kratie Province.”
             In the east. Near Vietnam, not near Little Mountain at all. “What was his job there?”
             “My husband was a teacher.”
             “How many houses do you own?”
             “We have ten buildings.” He jotted down the addresses; Mersey Street caught his attention. It was in a tough neighborhood.
             “Did your husband have another job?”
             “No. Taking care of our property kept him very busy.”
             “Tell me about the cassette tapes in the other bedroom. What did he do with them?”
             “He sold them.”
             “Of course. Who were his customers?”
             “I don’t know. He never told me who bought them.”
             “What is Paradise?” That question earned him a blank look. “The note on one of the boxes--”
             Mrs. Chea shook her head. Maybe Bin Chea went to Paradise and didn’t tell his wife. Or she just didn’t have a lie ready.
             “Do you have a job?”
             “I collect the rent.”
             “Can you give me a list of your tenants and business associates?”
             “Yes, I can give you a list when I get home.”
             “I also need to see canceled checks, account books, diaries, anything you can think of.”
             Mrs. Chea hesitated, then began to cry. Was Sam pushing a grieving widow too hard? He felt a twinge of sadness at her pain. “Must I do all this?” she asked.
             “We don’t know who killed your husband or why, Mrs. Chea. But the longer we wait, the harder he is to find. Your husband’s business records may give us some answers.”
             “Then I will try to help.” Mrs. Chea seemed frail as she wiped away a tear with a bony finger, a dime-sized age spot on the back of her hand.
             “The other night, you said ‘Not like this, husband.’ What do you mean?”
             “I--I don’t remember saying that, but I expected to grow old with my husband. One day I become a widow, yes of course. Perhaps one morning ten or fifteen years from now he maybe just not wake up, and I prepare an altar to comfort his soul.”
             “Who else was in your apartment last night?” Someone who might have lifted Bin Chea’s wallet, which he hadn’t found.
             “No one.”
             “Are you sure , ma’am?”
             “We were alone!” Her voice sounded frantic, and the nurse stepped back into the room.
             “I don’t understand. Why did you and your husband already have three bowls of soup on the table?”
             She covered

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