Текст книги "Red Jade "

Автор книги: Henry Chang

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

Red King

He shuffled the deck and deftly fanned the cards out. The articulation had become second nature. He packed the deck, then cut it into halves, folded them back together.

Gee Sin shifted the cell phone, waited for the connection to clear. The line had experienced interference recently. He flipped out a card, replacing it in the deck. Flipping the cards open-faced had been harder to master, having as much to do with the thumb and finger as with wrist and forearm.

He flipped up a pair of jacks.

Jacks in the morning, the king takes warning.

Outside his picture window, the clouds spread over Victoria Harbour under a shrimp-gray sky. He swallowed a Vicodin, chasing it with a shot of brandy, neat. The splash of cold water that followed chilled the fire in his throat. He knew the painkiller would make a beeline to his brain.

It was Tsai’s voice on the international connection to New York, giving Gee Sin the call he knew would come. Tsai, still a 432, Gee Sin evaluated, but up and coming.

Paper Fan saw the gloomy expanse of the Wan Chai waterfront, the Mid-Levels, Mongkok, fading into the soupy mist. He held the cell phone to his left ear with his shoulder, shuffled the deck again, and spread the cards out on the countertop.

“This comes to us,” Tsai said, “from one of our sister Grass Sandals.”

There was a short burst of static over the line. Gee Sin knew some of the local chapters had recruited women into their operations.

“A woman made a donation to a temple,” Tsai continued, “in Say nga touh.”

Gee Sin understood that he meant Seattle, and asked, “Don’t women make donations all the time?”

“Yes, but not in gold,” emphasized Tsai. “They don’t usually donate gold coins.”

“A coin?” Gee Sin remembered the stolen one-ounce Pandas. “What make of coin?”

“A gold Panda.” Tsai paused. “She wasn’t sure what size.”

“But why donate a gold coin?” Gee Sin felt the pulling drifting sensation of the Vicodin. There was more breakup, clicking on the line.

“It’s an old way of thinking,” said Tsai. “From when our countrymen were refugees, during jo non, fleeing from the Japanese. Our hingdaai, brothers, converted all their paper money to gold. Because metal doesn’t burn like paper does, and gold doesn’t lose its value like government currency.”

Gee Sin gave this a moment, then asked, “Was this an older woman, then?”

“No, she fit the general profile. Thirties to forties, short to average height.”

“What else?” asked Gee Sin, the brandy rushing through his blood now.

“The monk said she prayed briefly and left.”

“Is that strange?” He caressed the deck of cards, his vision starting to blur.

“Well, it was after the Lantern Festival. Lots of people in and out of the temple. Our female cho hai there reported that the sister monk remembered that the woman didn’t sign the log-in book.”

They waited through a moment of crackling noise.

Tsai continued, “She said the woman was dressed all in black, and reminded her of a movie star in a magazine.”

“You have people in place?” Gee Sin’s words began to slur.

“We’re watching the temple,” Tsai said crisply, “with help from local 49s, Hip Ching say gow jai, fighters.”

“Where are you now?” Gee Sin heard himself asking.

“I’m preparing to go to the airport. JFK.”

Gee Sin didn’t approve of using the 49s, but advised, “Call me when you get to Say nga touh.” He hung up, and put the cell phone down.

The deck of cards beckoned him as a feeling of goodness and compassion washed over him. He squeezed the deck and smoothly flipped out the top three cards.

A King of Hearts.

A Queen of Spades.

A King of Diamonds.

He put the deck down. A black, hak, queen, trapped between a pair of blood-red kings.

Soon, Gee Sin the Paper Fan anticipated, the trail ends.

Fot Mong, Nightmare

Mona felt groggy, looking up as if in a daze, snug beneath a shiny black covering, a blanket. She was observing a candlelit ceremony of some kind, two men in robes, Buddhist-like, in front of an altar. One man wore a red sash, the other a green headband. The shadowy air was thick with incense. Chanting? But not Buddhist.

The man who was the Incense Master wore a grass sandal on his left foot and was exchanging hand signals with the gathering of new recruits.

She was almost swept away by a wave of dizziness.

She’d thought the recruits were dogs at first, obediently seated on their haunches. The murmuring sound cut abruptly to silence and she soon realized these were men on their knees, sitting back on their heels. Their faces were flickering images in the candlelight, glimpses of an ancient ritual. They were reciting an oath.

I shall not betray my brethren …

Angling for a better view, she discovered she was bound onto a black mattress, spread-eagled and naked under the covering. Like a sacrificial lamb.

I shall not betray. The penalty is death. The oaths declined to murmurs again.

Then the Incense Master held up a Ming Dynasty–type dagger, and the recruits turned their attention to her on the mattress. She saw lines of leering lecherous men, evil hock sear wui, snakeheads, rising up from their crouched postures.

They formed a long line as, to her shock, the black satin sheet that was covering her was slowly pulled away, exposing all of her in the dim shadowy light. With lolling, dripping tongues, the men resembled dogs again. Triad mongrels.

She struggled against the ties that bound her, helpless. It only excited the men more. She screamed as the first group of men surrounded her, screamed as the first engorged erection penetrated her.

Yelling, she’d jerked herself awake. She was sitting upright in her own bed, her heart pounding even in the reassuring quiet of her basement apartment. She caught her breath trying to shake the fot mong, nightmare, from her head, clutching the jade charm in her fist.

Beware, it warned, beware.

She’d already transferred half of her bank account to the Vancouver branch of the AAE bank. She’d be able to transport the remaining gold and diamonds traveling overland by bus, or else by sea, on a ferry.

Gradually, her spirit calmed, but she could not find sleep, wondering how she could advance her plans.

Thunder over Water floated to the surface of the charm, tingling at her fingertips.

Find direction, it urged, make haste to go.

Jun bay, prepare.

Carry-all

She took the razor blade from the travel sewing kit and slit open the edge where the padded lining met the hem of the jacket, a cheap black barn jacket she’d bought at the Ming Wah Mall. All the old Chinese wore the same drab discount items from the Chinese mall stores and she wanted to blend into the mix when the time came.

She spread the seam open with her fingers, popping the thread work until the opening was more than the width of her hand.

She grabbed a plastic bag from the makeshift kitchenette, a clear Ziploc bag that was large enough to hold a magazine. She neatly inserted bank documents, a paper-clipped stack of eight one-hundred-dollar bills, and a mini zip-bag containing six diamonds wrapped in wax paper. She added the little red envelope with the key to the safe deposit box, and the Social Security card identifying her as Jing Su Tong.

Pressing the air out, she zipped the plastic bag and slipped it beneath the lining of the jacket. She inserted her hand and spread the plastic flat, patting it into place. From the sewing kit, she got a needle and ran six loose loops of thread and closed the edge at lining and hem. It will be easier to open when the time comes, she thought, remembering Make haste to go.

She kept the Seattle non-driver’s license in her pocket, the photo ID describing her as Tong J. Su: 118 pounds. Twenty-eight years old. She’d memorized the numbers 2, 11, 8: all auspicious.

At the foot of her bed, the black rubber “Prago” bag was a knockoff, a zippered shoulder bag big enough to hold travel necessities, and then some. She’d also found it at Ming Wah, where cheap copies of the world’s best designs were available. Into the shoulder bag she tossed a Chinese newspaper, a senior citizen’s discount bus voucher, a souvenir Chinatown letter opener. She clipped the travel brochures from Trans World Asia together, tossing them in. She’d made advance arrangements for Vancouver, a week’s stay at the Budget Hotel near Chinatown. She’d also booked a tour, a bus shuttle from Victoria to Vancouver.

Beware, beware.

She caressed the red bangle with her thumb, urging forth luck and courage.

She placed eight gold Panda coins into the inside zipper-pouch of the black carry-all. In her pants pocket was a thousand dollars in folded hundred-dollar bills. She’d still need heaven’s help, she knew, but at least the numbers were on her side.

Having a Ball

A huge Chinese crowd thronged the lobby of the Westin, milling and mixing its way toward the music inside the ball-room. The gourmet-dinner portion of the event had concluded, the awards had already been presented, and the liquor was flowing freely.

Jack straightened his jacket and joined the shuffling, swaying procession heading toward the bright lights and raucous laughter. Inside the cavernous ballroom, a Filipino rock band was banging out “La Bamba.” The crowd near the stage bopped and hopped to the beat. Young Chinese-American ORCA interns were letting off corporate steam as Jack scanned the crowd for Alex. Lots of men in tuxedoes and old money all around, thought Jack.

All the sophisticated ladies wore jazzy gowns and the scene was loud, jamming, and everything looked fabulous. Jack made his way toward the stage. More women, shiny dresses, glittering jewelry, and coiffed hair. A flute of champagne in every delicate hand.

He heard quick exchanges of repartee everywhere. Everyone looked rich and carefree.

Alex suddenly emerged from a group of designer tuxedoes and shimmering outfits. She was radiant in a gold dress and heels, with all the fine accessories, reveling in her moment. She came toward him with a long lingering smile, followed it with a kiss on his cheek.

“Finally,” she said. “Glad you could make it.”

The group of CADS and ORCAs noticed Jack, and his familiarity with Alex.

“Ladies’ room calling,” she said, smiling. “I’ll be right back. Go ahead and mingle.”

“Sure,” Jack said, scanning the hundreds of exquisitely dressed Chinese. He watched her walk away, a gold sheath swaying to the music, until she disappeared into the masses. He wasn’t the mingling type, he thought.

One of the CADS greeted him with, “You must be the lawman Alexandra told us about.” Another lawyer-type turned and said, “Why don’t you regale us with some of your adventures?”

Jack was momentarily speechless, holding his thoughts but displaying a smile on his face. Regale? he mused. I’m here to entertain you? He bit down inside the frozen smile. Adventures? Murder and horrific brutality were adventures? He wondered if it was too soon to dislike them, and decided to wait until Alex returned.

Abruptly, ADA Bang Sing stepped from the group and came to Jack’s social rescue.

“Detective,” Sing said, “I hate to talk shop but can I have a word?”

“Sure,” Jack answered, gratefully. “Excuse us, gentlemen.”

They stepped away, joining another crowd beside one of the mobile bars.

“Don’t mind them,” Sing explained. “They get a little obnoxious after a few drinks.” He paused, then grinned.

“You know how lawyers are.”

“Yeah, right,” Jack said, smiling. “But thanks anyway. Anything new with the Johnny Wong case?”

“No,” Sing replied. “He’s still cooling at Rikers. But he’s getting more calls from Hong Kong.”

“He’s allowed calls?” puzzled Jack.

“E-mails,” Sing said.

“About what?”

Bang Sing shrugged. “That’s all I know.”

Jack took a breath, saw the group of CADS from the distance. They were partying hearty to the booming beat, and oddly enough, he felt happy for them. They deserved it. For their time and commitment to righteous causes. Party on, by any means necessary.

At the bar, they pounded beers. “Thanks again,” Jack repeated, wondering now about Sing’s relationship to Alex. Relationship?

“Sure thing,” Bang Sing toasted, “sure thing.”

It seemed as if the crowd parted for Alex as she returned, a vision more lovely than Jack had recalled. She took him by the hand, led him away from ADA Sing and the crowded floor.

They lit up cigarettes near a side exit, refreshed by the cool night air.

“This is great,” Jack said. “But for the record, I did try to call you last night.”

“Last night?” Alex sounded puzzled.

“It was late,” Jack continued. “Some man answered.”

“Man? Who?” she challenged.

“Don’t know,” Jack demurred, “didn’t ask.”

“Well, the bunch of us went room-hopping,” Alex recalled. “Drinking nightcaps. Why didn’t you leave me a message?”

“It was late. I didn’t want to interrupt.” Jack crushed out his cigarette.

“Interrupt?” she said skeptically. “Interrupt what?” She paused. “Were you annoyed?” Another pause as she finished her cigarette. “Wait … you weren’t jealous, were you?”

“Jealous?” Jack laughed, “Me? Why would I be jealous?”

Alex smiled a knowing smile, shook her head at him. “Right. Who’d be hitting on me anyway, right? The lady’s got baggage, going through a divorce, has a kid, drinks too much …”

“I didn’t mean that,” said Jack defensively. “I never said that.”

Alex took his hand again. “Come on, let’s go,” she said quietly.

“Where?” he asked as he looked back toward the ballroom. “You’ve got music, alcohol, right in there.”

“I’ve had enough drinking and dancing for a weekend,” she offered. “Plus I owe you a rain check. From New York.”

“Yeah,” Jack remembered. “Espresso, with sambuca.”

“You’ve got a good memory,” he heard her say. “Then again, you’re a cop.”

He put out his cigarette, said, “Okay, sure,” and followed her back through the crowd.

In the Mood for Love

Her suite was small but featured two single beds and some countertop space that also served as TV stand and coffee table.

“Weren’t you rooming with someone?” Jack asked as Alex prepped the coffeemaker. She was a bit tipsy in her heels, and he noticed the bottle of sambuca had already been opened.

“Joann left already,” she answered. “She had an eleven o’clock flight.” She dimmed the light from the table lamps.

“Red-eye back to New York, huh?”

“Right.” She poured shots of the sambuca liqueur.

Jack could smell the coffee brewing, then the fragrance of herbal shampoo, or body spray, as Alex nudged up beside him, high heels off now, in her bare feet.

“So, how was your weekend?” she asked, lighting a cigarette.

“You wouldn’t believe it.” He wanted badly to tell her, to brag a little, but knew better. She helped him out of his jacket, draping it over the lone chair.

“Try me,” she challenged.

“Let’s just say I caught a bad guy.” He grinned.

“Always the good cop, huh?” she quipped, taking a sip of the liqueur. She clicked on the bedside radio to a bluesy saxophone tune, then dialed down the volume to low.

He noticed a wood-and-brass plaque with her name on it and an inscribed crystal bowl on her night table.

“Congratulations,” he said admiringly.

“Thanks,” she replied with a big smile. “Coffee’s almost ready.”

He resisted the urge to hug her, to taste the sweetness of the sambuca that glistened on her lips.

“What?” she said as she noticed his stare. “Is there something on my face?”

“No, it just feels good to look at you.”

“You drunk or something?” she teased.

“Nowhere near as drunk as you are,” he teased back.

“Oh yeah?” She poured a little more liqueur over the coffee in the little Styrofoam cups and took a sip. “Here you go,” she said, abruptly planting a soft kiss on his lips, the taste of espresso trailing her smoky breath.

He took a steamy sip of the mixture.

“You know this will keep you up,” he warned.

“Exactly,” she grinned. “My final night in Seattle. I want to make it last.”

They savored the aroma, then rested their cups on the countertop. She closed her eyes and slowly rolled her neck. He massaged her taut shoulders, which brought a deep sigh from her. He smelled a musky scent emanating from her.

Alex turned and looped her arms over his shoulders, leaning into his body. Jack pulled her even closer, his hands sliding to her hips. They found themselves drifting to the slow grind of saxophone blues, and he assumed that the electricity dancing between their bodies came from the shuffling friction of their feet along the carpet.

He could see questions in her eyes, even in the dim shadowy light.

It started with a series of light, little kisses, with his lips lingering on hers, then pulling back slightly, savoring it. He was captivated by the scent of her skin, the warm licorice exhalation of her breath. More kisses were exchanged between searching looks, questions unanswered in the fleeting moments.

“Unzip me,” she said softly, and he tugged the zipper down smoothly to the small of her back. She shrugged her shoulders and twisted against him until the gold dress fell away to reveal skimpy gold satin lingerie.

He took a breath before kissing her hard on the fleshy part of her throat. She shuddered, and reached for his belt buckle just as his cell phone vibrated. A buzz kill.

His first thought was to ignore the call. Surely it could wait, damnit. But after the second vibration he wondered who might be calling at this hour, here in Seattle. He thought it might be Detective Nicoll, or SPD, something to do with Eddie Ng in custody. A quick update? His curiosity got the better of him and he shot Alex a sheepish look before backing away to take the call.

He never took his eyes off her until his cell-phone screen lit up the frown across his face. It was Captain Marino, transferring a trans–Atlantic call through bursts of static interference. Something to do with the northern lights.

The international call had been patched through via the 0-Five, vetted and approved, Jack guessed, by Captain Marino himself. The Royal Hong Kong Police was partnering with INTERPOL, he heard through the static.

Jack recalled different law enforcement agencies as he waited through the introduction. INTERPOL was shorthand for the International Criminal Police Organization, headquartered in Lyon, France. It consisted of more than a hundred member nations and dealt with international crime through local law enforcement. Its focus included watching for lost or stolen passports and locating fugitives from justice.

A Red Notice was INTERPOL’s highest level of alert, an arrest warrant that circulated worldwide.

The RHKP’s voice was typically Chinese-British, formal and to the point: “A fugitive who is a top member of an unlawful secret society may have arrived in the United States, at Seattle. His name is not important, as he travels under an alias anyway. He is sixty-three years old, a number 415 Paper Fan rank, in the second tier of command of the Hung Huen, Red Circle triad, a criminal organization.”

Jack quickly recalled what he knew about triads, their ranks, their history. He could hear the echo of Lucky’s words, rapping about the tongs. Triads were Chinese secret societies, benevolent brotherhoods that went back through the centuries. Mostly now they were criminal gangs operating out of Hong Kong and China, gangs that had fingers in everything from China White heroin to human trafficking. Everything from knockoff handbags to money fraud, not to mention gambling, gang protection and prostitution, muscle mayhem and murder.

As for how the ranks were set up, Jack knew it all started at the top with the Dragon Head, the loong tauh. Lucky had demonstrated some secret hand signals once. Beneath the Dragon were several officers: a planner, consigliere, called Paper Fan. An enforcer known as a Red Pole. Couriers, like liaisons, were Grass Sandals. Then there were other ranks Jack wasn’t sure of. Incense Master. Vanguard. The stuff of folklore and Chinese legends.

The sambuca was working against his mental clarity now. He felt the thirst for alcohol even though he knew hot tea would be better.

“Hocus-pocus,” Lucky had said, ho-cuss poke us. “Fuck dat, kid. Me and the boyz are blood-in by deed, understand? We ain’t lighting candles and reciting shit, and jumping through smoke. We ain’t pledging to nothing but the dollars. Kill the chicken, drink the blood? Get the fuck outta here. Each of my boyz came in and did the deed, you know it? This ain’t no fuckin Boy Scouts, okay? China White? Yeah, their H is hot, but we ain’t jumping through no hoops for it. Membership? We like the money maker, not the money taker. We don’t pay dues, we collect dues.”

Big statements from Lucky, thought Jack. Comatose at Downtown now.

There were three hundred thousand triad members in Hong Kong. Not counting the members across the waters, in China and Taiwan.

The RHKP’s voice continued after a quick breath. Jack wondered if he was being read a prepared statement.

“Paper Fan faces numerous warrants for currency and credit card fraud, money laundering, human trafficking, child pornography, prostitution, and copyright piracy.”

Jack listened patiently, feeling his lips going dry.

“Billions of dollars of theft. He is suspected of involvement in three homicides in three different countries. While he is highly insulated in Hong Kong, and well protected in Canada, he avoids Amsterdam, where he is vulnerable to drug charges. He travels infrequently but we believe he can be taken in the United States. Therefore the Red Notice to your headquarters. As always, we are grateful for your cooperation.”

Jack glanced at Alex, who had slipped on a robe, and was sipping sambuca again.

“Why Seattle?” Jack asked.

“The triad believes there’s a woman there who they want badly.”

A woman?

“A woman who stole something from them. A woman they believe killed someone in your precinct, in Chinatown New York.”

Mona, Jack knew immediately. Here in Seattle? How much “destiny” could he take?

“What do you have on her?” he asked.

“They believe she visited a temple.”

“Temple?”

“And we have an address. It’s on South King Street”

“What about Paper Fan?” Jack redirected.

“Find the woman, and you’ll find him.”

Thanks, thought Jack, another shot in the dark.

In the dim light he could see Alex giving him the look, asking, What’s up? They were losing the moment, had lost the moment, passion dissolved into the coffee and the background music.

“And she’s where?” Jack asked.

“She’s in south Seattle, somewhere in the five-mile area of Chinatown. We don’t know where exactly. Yet.”

Jack rubbed his temple, trying to clear his head.

“I will keep you posted,” the RHKP voice promised, “since we have a direct connection now.”

“Ten-four that,” Jack acknowledged, making a note of the address.

“The Red Notice covers everything.”

“Ten-four that,” Jack repeated, hanging up as Alex nuzzled into him. “I’m sorry,” he apologized to Alex, and briefly explained the new developments.

When she heard “human trafficking,” she said, “I’m going with you.”

He considered the situation as she changed into a sweater and jeans. Because the scent of Alex still lingered, and against his better judgment, he would allow her to come along. It may come to nothing, he thought.

It was past 1 AM as Jack passed the updated INTERPOL information into Detective Nicoll’s voice mail.

“We need to get to South King,” Jack said.

Alex borrowed a car from a member of the local ORCA chapter and they got directions from the hotel concierge. They drove toward the waterfront until they found the temple on South King at the edge of Chinatown. The street was deserted during the graveyard hours, but in the yellow light of streetlamps they could make out the signage above a storefront. The words PURE LIFE WORLD TEMPLE ran across the front, which bore a pagoda motif.

The temple was closed but Jack observed a dark sedan parked farther down the empty street. It had California plates, and he associated that with San Francisco. He saw two occupants, male, as he drove past. And there was a big dent on the rear fender.

“Let’s circle the block,” he said, wheeling the car right around the corner.

They came around again, well behind the parked sedan this time. Jack pulled in half a block away and killed the headlights. Two men, at this hour? He wondered if they had noticed him, wondered if it had been wise to allow Alex to tag along.

“Stay put,” he told her. “I’m going to have a look.”

“Careful,” she said quietly, unable to conceal her concern.

“Yeah, sure,” he said as he exited the car. Could be anything, he told himself, could be nothing. Play it by the book.

Alex watched as Jack went down the dark street. He was still three car lengths away when a Chinese man wearing wire-frame eyeglasses stepped out of the passenger side and walked away from Jack. The man, who was slightly built, took off his glasses and pocketed them as Jack neared the driver’s side.

Jack reached into his pocket, palming his detective’s gold shield. Could be nothing, he thought again. He leaned toward the car and flashed the badge as the driver powered down his window.

“Aww, chaai lo ah?” the thick Chinese face said, smiling. A cop, huh?

Cantonese, Jack recognized, his eyes darting momentarily toward the man who’d left the sedan, who’d thrown a look back over his shoulder.

“Jouh matyeh a?” Jack asked the driver. “What’s up?”

“Mo yeh, nothing much, ah sir,” the driver answered with sarcasm in his voice.

The second man stopped walking and turned toward Jack. His hands went into his jacket pockets. Let me see your hands, Jack was thinking, his attention divided. The slim man muttered something under his breath; it sounded like dew nei louh mou. Fuck you, motherfucker.

Suddenly, the driver threw the car door open, knocking Jack backward.

The second man stepped toward Jack as the driver sprang from the car. He was tall and rangy, maybe six foot two.

Alex watched with astonishment when the shorter man reached back and flung something that struck Jack with great force. Reflexively, he clutched at his ribs, and was distracted long enough for the big man to whip out a pair of nunchakus.

To Alex it was like a chop-socky sequence in a bad kung-fu movie.

The smaller man took two quick-bounding steps and then threw a high kick at Jack’s head. Jack blocked the kick with a bow arm, deflecting it with his elbow, but the contact threw him off balance. The big man flailed wildly with the metal nunchakus and caught Jack across the shoulder, then slammed him a second time before he could pull his service revolver. The second man pulled a knife from his waist as Jack fell to the pavement.

Jack could hear Alex screaming as the smaller man lunged at him with the thick blade. Snapping a straight kick upward into the man’s knee, Jack rolled instinctively just as the iron nunchakus slammed into the asphalt near his head. He pulled his Colt Special and aimed it, but the knife man lashed out a front kick that sent the gun clattering across the street.

Alex’s screaming got louder, closer.

“Jouh!” he heard the big man yell. “Split!” The goon hadn’t figured on assaulting a woman.

Struggling to his feet, Jack saw Alex dashing his way as the big man started up the sedan.

“Stay back!” Jack yelled, but Alex had already flashed past him, still screaming like a madwoman.

The knife man cursed and dove into the passenger side as the car screeched away.

Jack retrieved his Colt, watching the sedan disappear around the corner and into the black night. Alex came back to him, her face flushed and gasping for air. He caught his breath, patting his ribs and left side. Something had struck him and was embedded in the thick folds of his jacket. When he worked it loose he saw it was a razor-sharp five-pointed shuriken, a throwing star, a weapon that ninja assassins used centuries earlier. It had pierced his bunched-up garments but had barely broken his skin.

“What the hell was that all about?” Alex asked incredulously.

“They were waiting for someone,” Jack answered, pocketing the shuriken, “and it sure wasn’t Buddha.”

The message he left with Nicoll sounded like a telegram: “Two AM, Got call from INTERPOL. Went to South King, got into a fight. Two men, Chinese. Something to do with a triad.” Pause. “Or a tong. There’s another person of interest, who may be a suspect. A woman. Keep in touch.”

Jack brought Alex back to his airport motel room, where she applied ice packs to the swollen welts that ran across his left shoulder. He could tell she was embarrassed by the economy room, comparing it to hers at the Westin.

She noticed old scars on his chest and arms, and remembered visiting him in the hospital after he’d been shot while investigating the murder of the food delivery boy.

Meanwhile the big man with the iron nunchakus had reminded Jack of Golo, the tall Hip Ching enforcer, and the vicious fight they’d had in Brooklyn’s Chinatown. They’d wounded each other then, but Jack had since left Golo very dead on a San Francisco rooftop. Now Jack was again chasing the same woman who, in his mind’s eye, was just a fleeting image disappearing behind a rooftop door as he sent two hollow-point bullets after her.

The triad information from INTERPOL made Jack think of the old men of the Hip Ching Benevolent Association back in New York; they’d played dumb about their murdered boss, offering up the Fukienese newcomers as bait.

Jack felt that the fight and flight on South King had the stink of the Hip Chings around it. It’d been their business from the start and they were finishing it now. The Paper Fan was connected to the Hip Chings somehow, and Jack heard the echo of the RHKP’s voice: Find the woman, you’ll find him.

It was almost 3 AM when he and Alex delved back into the Seattle directories. They sought addresses for anything Hip Ching: cultural organizations, benevolent societies, trade associations, credit unions, fraternal and village societies, immigrant self-help services.

Outside the motel window the night sky had opened up to pounding sheets of rain.

Within an hour they’d narrowed it down to an address in Chinatown that housed three Hip Ching-affiliated organizations. Three, a magic Chinese number, Jack knew.

Alex was wide-eyed, wired.

The adrenaline and the espresso-and-liqueur mixture had juiced them up, and they went to the car for the drive back to Chinatown.