Page 24 of Facing the Enemy
“I’m sure you understand the importance of contacting her. Can you help us?”
Ms. Wright gave her consent. “She works at the same Vietnamese restaurant as her sister. If I’m not mistaken, it’s called Saigon Sampler. The sister speaks English but not the young mother who has the presumed missing baby.”
“It’s imperative we speak to her,” Jack said.
I spoke up. “Even if the situation there has nothing to do with our current case, a baby is missing.”
Ms. Wright lowered her head. Praying? She lifted her face and pressed numbers on her desk phone. “Suzi, this is Anna Wright. How is your sister and her baby boy?” She listened and closed her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I understand the problems of contacting the authorities, but the FBI can help Hai find the baby. This is a helpless child who could be anywhere or in a dangerous environment. I have no choice but to report the kidnapping, especially since your sister refused to take money for her baby.” She ended the call.
Ms. Wright wrote two numbers on a piece of paper and pushed it my way. “I pray I’m not making a mistake here, but the baby is what’s important. The first number is the restaurant somewhere in the Vietnamese community on the southwest side of town. Ask for Suzi. Her sister, Hai, is the mother of the missing baby. The second number is Suzi’s mobile, and she’s the one who told me about the offer to buy Hai’s baby. Please let them know I gave you the phone numbers.”
“We’ll stop at the restaurant late this afternoon before the dinner crowd,” I said. “Have any of your residents kept up with Hai?”
“I doubt it. She had an English barrier, which left her isolated. Her sister, Suzi, came to see her often.” Ms. Wright stared out a window behind us, but I doubted anything in the parking lot had seized her attention. “This is what I can do. Tonight, during our dinner announcements, I’ll share your investigation. Not about Hai’s missing baby but related to the buying and selling of children. Ask if any of them have been offered money or have information to pass on. If so, they can see me privately. If they know anything, they’ll feel more comfortable coming to me in confidence.”
We thanked her and I drove to our next maternity home location while Jack called the Saigon Sampler to confirm the restaurant was open until after dinner. After talking to two more centers and sitting in traffic, an idea rolled into my head. “I’m hungry. Ready to see what we can find out about the Phan sisters? An element of surprise is always a good thing, and I’d hate for those sisters to take off after lunch, thinking they’d miss us.”
“You bet. I feel like part of the FBI’s hospitality crew, spreading goodwill to all these maternity homes,” Jack said. “Social graces are not my expertise. But we never know where evidence lingers.”
Jack Bradford had an entertaining streak. “As I said to Ms. Wright, the Phan women may have nothing to do with our current case, but if it’s an abduction ring, I want to close it down.”
The restaurant had an industrial design except for the landscape paintings of Vietnam on the walls, rustic wooden tables, and rectangular lighting with bamboo coverings.
A middle-aged man eyed Jack and me like we were packing. That part was true. Two women waited tables—an older woman and a teen. A third young woman approached our table with reddened eyes.
Jack and I were the only non-Asians, and our server didn’t speak English, so we pointed to the menu.
I orderedph?, a soup with beef, rice noodles, and some things I recognized and some I didn’t. Jack helped me by pointing out a few of his favorite dishes. “You’re sure this is tasty?” I said to Jack.
“It’s outstanding.” He recommendedbánh xèo, a type of crepe or pancake stuffed with pork, shrimp, bean sprouts, and other unrecognizable foods.
I always believed that if I didn’t know what I was eating, then it didn’t reach my mouth. But I gave Jack the benefit of the doubt and ate the two dishes he suggested and a few more. Risa would have been proud since my preference for food were those I could pronounce and a source of her teasing. A few of the customers stared at us—why were two white guys here?
“Follow my lead.” I opened the wrapper around the chopsticks. “Would you ask to speak to the owner?”
“About what?” He blew out his exasperation. “For the record, I’d like to occasionally call the shots.”
“Noted.”
Jack pushed back his empty plate and motioned to our server. She brought the teen girl to our table who spoke English.
“What can I do for you, sir?” The young woman was about sixteen years old, very tiny.
“Our lunch was delicious,” I said. “We’d like to congratulate the owner.”
She summoned the man who’d been tossing visual darts at us. The owner changed his facade. Now he could find out why Jack and I were patronizing his restaurant.
I jumped right in. “Excellent meal and service. My compliments to the chef.”
“Thank you.” The owner turned to Jack. “Are you also pleased with your meal, sir?”
“Perfect. Trust me, I’ll be back.”
I stuck out my hand. “I’m Pastor Pat. My friend and I are planting a church in this area. Do you know who we could talk to about renting space?”
He took my hand for a limp shake. The frown from earlier returned. “I’m Buddhist. No room here for Catholics, Baptists, or Muslim.”
I smiled widely. “I understand. We’re nondenominational. We want to share the Word of God with residents in the community. A space to start a Sunday service is important, and we can pay.”
