Read Online Violent Spring by Gary Phillips - Free Book Online Page A

of eating steady and sending something home to his folks and younger sisters. At basic training at Fort Wachuca, it came out that Grant had a pretty fair grasp of written and spoken German, another gift from his uncle Logan, who was of German extraction.
    And so the OSS, the Office of Strategic Services, saw that it could use a quick-witted youngster who read a lot and understood the enemy’s language.
    Monk told Grant about the case and gave him a copy of his notes. “I need you to find out something on Suh. I want to know who he was before he got to the States.”
    Grant fingered the file before him on the desk. “This is all they gave you?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œDo you think the Merchants Group is purposely holding back on Suh’s background?”
    â€œI think some of them in the organization have their mind set on one direction. Find the guilty, and damn the rest. And far as I can tell, Suh was an independent type. He didn’t belong to their group.”
    Grant touched his lips with the side of his index finger. “So they want to set an example, make a point that Korean shopkeepers won’t get pushed around.”
    â€œExactly,” Monk said.
    â€œYet the only employee they show that worked there is this Conrad James. The two of them couldn’t have worked ten to fourteen hours a day, and keep the inventory and whatever else you gotta do to keep a store going.”
    â€œI realize that,” Monk said testily.
    â€œSo why don’t they have other people listed who worked there?”
    â€œI’m working on it. I don’t even know if anything Suh did before he came here has any bearing on this case. Hell, I’m not sure Suh came straight from South Korea or Steubenville, Ohio. But I damn sure want to find out.”
    â€œAnd since I’m the one with the State Department contacts.…” Grant let it trail off.
    â€œCome on, I’ll let you buy my breakfast.” Monk and Grant left the office and walked down the block to the Cafe 77, a retro-fit Chinese joint that served great biscuits and grits for breakfast. Afterward, Grant drove off in his mint-condition ’67 Buick Electra deuce and a quarter, and Monk traipsed back to his office. Delilah was at her desk.
    â€œMarasco called for you. Dexter was here wasn’t he?”
    â€œYes he was.”
    She tapped the cylindrical vase to her left. Sticking out of it, unnoticed by Monk before, was a single fresh cut pink rose.
    â€œCareful, baby. You might blow his circuits if you fool around with him.”
    â€œOr he mine,” she replied to his back as he entered his office.
    Monk had an idea what his friend Lt. Seguin had called about and he was none too anxious to get into it with him just yet. On the other hand, he couldn’t ignore the call. Marasco was a good man, better than okay as far as cops went. But he did work for the LAPD, and when they put their pointed heads to it, they damn sure could land on you with both feet.
    Certainly it wasn’t a walk in the park for a Chicano straight off the hard streets of Boyle Heights to keep his nose relatively clean, not kowtow to the racism of the department, and still make lieutenant before forty. Added to that, he remained friends with a black private eye nobody else on the force associated with. But a call from a cop is a call from a cop.
    Monk dialed the inside line to the detective’s section of Wilshire Station on Venice Boulevard. “Is Marasco there? This is Monk returning his call.” A pause, then the line picked up.
    â€œIvan. Glad you called me back.” There was a formality in the voice that raised Monk’s antenna.
    â€œOf course. What can I do for you, lieutenant?”
    â€œWe’d like you to come down here and discuss this case of yours.”
    â€œWe being you and the chief?”
    â€œYou two can cut it out,” a new voice said. As Monk assumed, someone else was listening in.