Текст книги "Red Jade "

Автор книги: Henry Chang

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

Seekers

Mona had gone daily to the Chinese employment agency, a little cutout storefront near King Street that featured a wall of paper tickets on which various types of jobs were offered. She pretended to be a job seeker, and discovered most of the ads were for busboys, dishwashers, kitchen help. A few for laborers, grist for the construction trades. Some tickets for sweatshops.

Many of the seekers were Fukienese by dialect, but she’d understood a little of whatever Mandarin she overheard. Most of the seekers were in transit to other places, Say nga touh, Seattle, being only their first destination.

She’d have a cup of nai cha tea after each visit, at the Fuzhou Garden bakery across the street, still watching the little employment agency storefront.

The third week, Mona noticed her, a Chinese woman about the same height and weight as herself. Mona knew the woman’s eyes would be brown, and the hair color didn’t really matter. Age could be altered by a mask of calculated makeup, and besides, it was often difficult to guess the age of Chinese people.

Mona struck up a conversation with the woman, and over yum cha tea at the Fuzhou Garden, discovered that she had emigrated under a guest worker program visa, and had worked as a nanny for a Chinese couple in the Queen Anne neighborhood, who had a two-year-old child and also required housekeeping duties.

After almost six months, the husband had come on to her, pressing her for sex, and the wife had wound up firing her. She had considered working for Caucasians, the gwailo, but her English wasn’t any good.

Jing Su Tong was five foot two, 118 pounds. Yat yat bot. Yat bok yat sup bot. Sure to prosper, sure to grow. Twenty-eight years old. Perfect. She had straight shoulder-length black hair, with some partial bangs across her forehead.

Mona knew she could copy the look, could forge a realistic resemblance. The height and weight, approximately. Most customs workers appeared to feel that Asians all resembled each other anyway.

Jing Su had been hoping for work as a home-care attendant in Chinatown but hadn’t seen any such jobs posted. Her savings were being depleted and she was becoming desperate; her family in China needed her monthly contributions. She was considering going to San Francisco where she had relatives.

Appearing sympathic, Mona explained that her own tourist visa had expired, and wondered if they couldn’t help each other. She offered Jing Su five thousand dollars in cash in exchange for her Social Security card, non-driver’s identification card, and employment documents. Offering her too much would arouse Jing Su’s suspicions, thought Mona, but if she offered too little, the woman would ask for more anyway. Being firm was best. Five thousand dollars would cover the woman’s efforts to find work, enable her to send some money back home, and tide her over for at least three months. After that, she could report her cards lost or stolen, and some Wah chok wui, some Chinese service center, would help her get them reissued.

By then, Mona had planned to be long gone.

Jing Su accepted Mona’s offer, of course. To her, renting her papers for three months was a godsend. Buy time, find work, family in China. “Mo mon tay,” she declared. “No problem.”

No problem, thought Mona. If only it were true.

But the new identity was a ticket out.

The way of freedom.

Back in her James Street sanctuary Mona blew the steam off the Iron Goddess tea, caressed the jade charm in her palm, ran her fingernails over the bot gwa Taoist trigrams. Bok she’d touched. North. Mountains. Mountain over Water. The Chinese word for blindness came to mind—Beware the woman who sees the gold and not the man. Nothing good will come of it.

Blindness.

Childlike naïveté.

Yet all goes well?

She paused, unsure how to interpret this. Naïveté could lead to danger, but all goes well? She took a deep sip of the Iron Goddess.

Move forward, she resolved.

The way of freedom.

She looked at the large sack of jasmine rice propped up in the corner near the rice cooker. Plenty, she’d told the old couple, don’t stand on ceremony. Just ask if you need some.

She remembered the folktale about villagers hiding a fortune inside the rice barrels. What thief would suspect a fortune hidden in plain sight? But she knew that inside the rice sack, buried near the bottom, was a mahjong case full of gold Panda coins, diamonds, and jewelry. More than a quarter million dollars’ worth.

Soon she’d have a safe deposit box and wouldn’t have to take such risks.

She knew she had to be careful selling the coins and diamonds. Dumping the whole lot at once would draw the wrong type of attention, and lessen the value as well. There was enough cash to tide her over until she could set up the bank accounts. Gradually, she’d sell some of her cache, and offer a pair of diamonds, a few coins, to test the waters. An American gold firm that employed American-born Chinese, jook sings, could be useful. Less chance of a connection to the triads.

Perhaps it would lead to more opportunities; the American-born cared more about the markup than where the gold and jewels came from. Besides, she believed her new identity would shield her. After all, Chinese families sold off jewelry and gold all the time.

Or may tor fut. She whispered the Buddhist chant, rubbing the jade between her palms. Her fingers crossed the hexagrams as she read Heaven Over Lake. An escape route opens. Be mindful of small steps, and there can be safety even on dangerous ground. Tread around the tiger’s tail.

Savoring the Cherry

Gee Sin powered off the bionic hand, lest its electric murmur intrude, spoiling the mood of the expected debauchery.

A female cho hai, a new Grass Sandal, 432 rank, had selected them from an aspiring pimp, Kowloon Charlie, who’d guaranteed the girls were at least seventeen years old, even if they could easily pass for fourteen. Two siu jeer, “young ladies,” recruited from the impoverished zones and orphanages: the poor, the desperate, forsaken children. Gee Sin knew Grass Sandal would never place Paper Fan in jeopardy, given Hong Kong’s rigid underage prostitution–human trafficking laws. And the continuing police efforts targeting him. It was difficult to guess a young whore’s age anyway, he thought, even if you were Chinese and knew the clues.

Gee Sin also knew Kowloon Charlie had a growing interest in the triad’s prostitution rackets; he was an up-and-coming gai wong, pimp player, whom competing triads wanted to lure away. Or kill outright. Kowloon Charlie had been eager to please, to fulfill Paper Fan’s requests. Charlie had the best whores, and for the time being, nobody had wanted to bring the vice dogs from the Royal Hong Kong Police down into the lucrative operations, especially in Tshim Sha Tsui.

Sin motioned with his quiet arm, directing both girls into his bedroom. “Chue som,” he said in a low voice. Get undressed.

The first one would have been the age of a granddaughter if he’d had one: short, but Bok bok jeng jeng, with light skin and pretty, sweet with long black hair. She offered a crooked half-smile and a look of resignation as she stripped. She had small breasts with thick nubby nipples, but they were nicely shaped, he thought, and made her appear more juvenile. A waifish body, hardly any hips, but her backside was rounded and plump. Gow leng, cute enough.

Naked, she lay down on the bed, placed a thick pillow under her rear. She put one hand into her hair and fanned it across the comforter, extending her pink high heels toward the bed corners. She spread her knees open with her free hand.

The other girl was darker, ethnic Chinese from Southeast Asia, he’d guessed. Malaysia, Indonesia—he couldn’t tell which. Dark, silver-dollar nipples. Also short, barely five foot two, but with curves everywhere on her: a firm, virginal, country-girl body.

She’d been wearing a schoolgirl’s uniform, with a white see-through bra and a split-thong underneath.

He unbuckled his belt. Unzipped his fly.

Naked, she sat on the rear edge of his bed, with the other siu jeer behind her, and raised one leg, leaning back on her hands. Gee Sin stepped up to the bed, took a breath, sucking in the hom sup salty scent of the sex flesh splayed before him.

“Gway day,” he said softly to the dark-skinned one, kneel, just before he let his trousers drop.

She knelt down on the beige carpeting, slowly reaching for him as he leaned over the bed. He was bracing himself on his spread fingers, his attention turning to the one on his bed.

He was mesmerized by the hairless vulva, yum bo, fleshy labia, yum soon, cutaneous folds spreading toward soon hut, the hooded little pearl. Devouring the glistening pudendum with his lustful eyes.

He lowered his head, close enough that he could smell the sweet muskiness emanating from her.

She kept her eyes on him and slowly arched her back.

The one on her knees had tugged down his shorts and taken hold of him in her hands, caressing the swelling look go, tube of flesh. He noticed the faint mound of downy hair just above the hooded lips, the mons, below nymphae nestled there.

He dry-swallowed, marveling at the bo, orifice, beckoning to him, an old man in his twilight, drinking at the fountain of youth. It made him feel like a young man again, when he had two good hands, and touching a woman brought a lusty tingle to his fingertips.

The siu jeer on the carpet cradled his swollen gwun against her cheek, strummed her fingers across the taut balls beneath it.

He’d lost his bearings.

His legs began to tremble as he bent close enough to blow gently on the bo pearl, to gasp a hot breath onto it. He was caught in its spell. The tip of his tongue would make it hard, bring it to attention. Precious, bo. Worshipping at the orifice of precious pudendum. Labia. Yum soon.

Licking his lips in anticipation.

South

South Andover ran between two sets of railroad tracks, trapped inside the industrial spread and the freeway beyond, a beat-down neighborhood.

Number 44 was one of a forsaken inner-city string of row houses that’d fallen into disrepair. Now it was a rooming house for migrant workers, makeshift quarters, beds for rent in squalid conditions. It reminded Jack of the Fukienese crash pads along East Broadway where modern-day worker-coolies were stacked on top of one another in basements and tenement apartments.

Jack knocked on the door until someone answered, opening up cautiously to a shadowy interior of whispers and furtive faces.

“Si, que quiere?” asked a young face creased with wrinkles.

Jack showed his badge, said “Policia de Nueva York. No inmigracion.” Jack assured him, “No problema. I only have some questions for Carlos Lima. And Jorge Villa.”

There was a silence as the door opened wider and another Mexican man stepped forward. “Si,” he said. “Soy Jorge.”

“Jorge,” Jack began, “you sold two watches that were stolen—”

“No, no, senor,” interrupted Jorge. “I no stealin nossing, please.”

“I don’t care about the watches,” Jack insisted.

“No me. Fue el chino bajo,” Jorge said. “Chino malo, el chaparrito.”

Bajo, remembered Jack. Short, short Chinese. Eddie was fronting the watches? “Where?” Jack asked. “Donde?”

“No say. He calling, telefono, only.”

“Where did you meet him?” Jack scanned the dim hushed room. “And where is Carlos Lima?”

Comida Mexicana

Jack brought Jorge along and they followed the freeway back north to Holgate until they came to a fast-food restaurant next to a Metro bus stop. El Amigo offered a counter with stools and four small tables inside an old-time diner. There was an oven and grill setup with a microwave on one side, then a big steam table with pots of beans, sides, and assorted ingredients.

El Amigo served pozole, lengua, and tacos ten ways, with a full menu of burritos, tortillas, enchiladas, fajitas. Flan and sopaipillas for dessert. TAKEOUT ORDERS, DELIVERY FREE.

The place was empty this mid-afternoon, except for the grill cook. The savory aromas that wafted into the cold air pulled them inside.

“Carlos,” Jorge said to the cook. “Policia.”

A look of fear crossed Carlos’s face before Jack assured him, “No problema, bro.”

Jack showed him Eddie’s juvenile offender photograph.

Carlos paused, taking a good look at Jack before he spoke. “Chaparrito,” he said, referring to the photo. “He say hees work for hees oncle, jewree.” Carlos pointed to the Mexican ring on his finger, to the matching chain and medallion around his neck.

Jewelry store. Jack listened, knew it was Eddie running a story.

“He say beesnees no esta bueno, esta cerrado,” Carlos continued. “Hees oncle pays him con los relojes. Entiende? ” He tapped his finger on the knockoff Cartier tank on his wrist. “El chino bajo, he say we help him selling dem, then he geev us twenny dollar for one.”

“You get a twenty-dollar commission?” asked Jack.

“Si. He make up story for los gringos. Me and Jorge, we no stealing nossing.”

Jack took a moment to piece it together in his mind. They had sold the Movados to the pawnshops near the railroad yards and on Spokane because those places were closest to their immigrant rooming house on South Andover. Or had bajo chaparrito—Eddie—planned to steer clear of the upscale tourist destinations? Instead keeping to the low-rent areas, and drawing less attention? A heavyset man wearing a polo shirt came out of a back room, saw Jack, and asked, “Si? Hay un problema?”

“No problema,” Jack answered. “You’re the owner?”

“Si, and these are my best workers. And I know they never steal anything.”

“I’m not after them,” Jack insisted. “I’m only asking them about their Chinese amigo, who they said they met here.”

“Chinese?” he paused, puzzled, glancing from Jorge to Carlos. “You mean Koo Lung?”

Koo? thought Jack, recalling Koo Jai, Eddie’s victim in New York. “Who’s Koo Lung?” He showed the juvie photo, and asked, “He look something like this? Very short?”

“Chino chaparrito,” the man said, nodding. “He worked here for one week.”

“Why? What happened?” quizzed Jack.

“He saw the sign for dishwasher job in the window. But I also made him clean out the basement and paint the back room. And he didn’t like to make deliveries.”

Working him like a coolie, thought Jack.

“Too much work, he said. He wanted to be dishwasher only, so he quit.”

“Dishwasher only?”

“We say dishwasher,” the man said with a chuckle, “but really it’s garbage worker. And includes fix-up work, dirty work. Carlos and Jorge are good cooks, best in Puebla. Six days on, one day off. They don’t have time for the dirty work. Or deliveries.”

“This Koo Lung,” Jack asked. “You have any paperwork on him?”

“Only the job application. It’s just a formality.”

“Por favor,” Jack said. “I need to see it.”

The job application form listed the applicant as KOO K.LEUNG. There was an address in Central Seattle with a telephone number. Attached was a copy of a membership card from ASIAN VIPs NYC; Jack guessed it was a hostess club. Eddie had ripped off his victim Koo Jai’s card and used it as ID.

“This the only identification you got?” asked Jack.

“El chinito said he got robbed. Lost everything, except that.”

Jack flashed him a look of disbelief.

“It was only a formality anyway.” The man shrugged. “Something for the labor inspectors.”

Jack called the telephone number and got a recording announcing service had been canceled. He copied the address off the application and called a car service to Central Seattle.

Carlos said, “El chaparrito no esta bueno, no good. He shoot me pool, billar. He win me engañando.”

“Billiards?” Jack asked. “He hustled you? Where?”

“Donde viven los filipinos.” He gave Jack a crumpled newsletter from his pocket. A community center in Filipinotown.

“Gracias,” Jack said, giving Carlos his NYPD PBA card. “Call me if he comes here looking for you.”

Carlos and Jorge nodded as Jack went to the cab that had pulled up outside.

The address that Eddie had submitted turned out to be an administrative office building not far from the University District, on Summit near East Madison, closer to the market. Give a university location, figured Jack, and people took you for a student, especially if you were Asian. Part of the disguise.

A bogus address, a dead end.

Jack caught another cab to Filipinotown.

The Villamor Community Center was closed by the time Jack arrived. A schedule posted on the main door noted that the center was closed on Sundays as well. Another dead end.

Jack wasn’t far from Chinatown and decided to calm the gnawing hunger in his gut.

Jade Garden was one of the restaurants he hadn’t visited, so he stopped in for a plate of beef and tomatoes over noodles. He peeped the kitchen, hoping to see someone very short. Again, no luck. While he waited, a news bulletin about the red ball homicides was broadcast from a television set above the cashier’s counter. They’d arrested two suspects. Teenagers. He called the West Precinct. Detective Nicoll was still out, and Jack wondered whether he was finally getting some sleep.

Devouring the dish of noodles, he recalled the details of his investigation into Nicoll’s voice mail: the watches and pawnshops, the Mexicans, the bogus information, and, adding to the end of the list, he likes to shoot pool.

Jack knew he had only one more day in Seattle, and wondered how much more ground he could cover.

Overthrow the Ching

Alex nursed a martini as the master of ceremonies took the stage and quieted the audience for the ORCA Silent Auction. The CADS were among the hundreds of people in attendance, ready to bid on items for charitable Asian causes.

The first item up for bidding was an antique Chinese fan, reminiscent of the Ming Dynasty era. The white paper fan was made of bamboo and parchment, and had two thick outer ribs, bracing the thirteen accordion paper folds inside.

Alex took a sip of her cocktail and checked her watch.

“The fat ribs of the fan once represented the capitals of Peking and Nanking under the first Ming emperor. There are poems on both sides of the fan, believed to have been written by Dr. Sun Yat-sen himself. A white peony appears on the front of the fan, a red peony on the back. Turning the fan meant overthrowing the Ching Dynasty, and was a gesture of many secret societies.” The master of ceremony paused to catch his breath.

Alex was curious about where Jack was, and wondered if he’d call after the auction. She knew that cop stuff ruled his world, and figured he’d gotten himself involved in more police trauma. She drained her drink as bidding for the fan commenced.

Cop Stuff

Back at the Sea-Tac Courtyard, Jack took a hot shower that steamed up the little room. It was almost 8 PM and he considered calling Alex. She’d said she’d be free after nine.

He changed into the fresh suit from the backpack, thinking he’d meet Alex at the Westin bar lounge after her Service Recognition Award Dinner ended. They could start with a couple of drinks while he tried to reel his mind away from the Eddie monkey chase.

His cell phone buzzed. Alex hooking up, he thought.

But the voice was pale male, law enforcement. “Detective Yu?”

“Yeah,” Jack answered. “Who’s this?”

“SPD Patrol, sir.” Professional.

“What have you got?” asked Jack, swallowing.

“We have in custody a person of interest to you,” the cop said. “Come to Manila Street and Walker. Just off the freeway.”

The cab service dropped Jack off a block away from where the SPD cruiser sat, its lights out on the desolate street. The area was north of the motel, with highway noise humming in the distance. Jack approached and badged the driver, noticing that someone was in the backseat. One of the uniformed officers got out of the squad car and walked Jack a short distance away before he said, confidentially, “He said his name was Carl Lim, but he didn’t have any ID. We saw him playing solo nine-ball when we rolled into Julio’s Place on Manila Street. The patrol update was for a very short male, may shoot pool.”

“Yeah, go on,” said Jack, figuring the update was from Detective Nicoll.

“So we figured we’d bring him to the car, check him out. Okay. Once we leave Julio’s and hit the street, he gets free and we gotta chase him, like six fuckin’ blocks. Jimmy caught him first, took him down hard.”

Jack nodded, an offer of respect and appreciation.

“He was uncooperative after that,” the cop continued. “Started bitching police brutality.” He gave Jack a business card that read JOON KOREAN GINSENG DISTRIBUTOR, with a Jackson Street address. “We found that on him. Nothing much else. Anyway, we can hold him for disorderly, resisting, or assault on a police officer. Anything like that, he’s got at least a few days chillin’ with the bad boys.”

Jack understood that meant Eddie would be in custody a while, and since it was a weekend, it’d be harder to find a public defender even if he demanded one.

They turned back toward the cruiser.

“Bring him out,” Jack said.

The man could have passed for a kid, short enough, his head well beneath Jack’s chin.

“I was just shooting pool,” the Chinese man protested, “I didn’t do anything.”

“Heard you did the marathon, trying to cut out.” Jack yanked down the shoulder of the man’s jacket. Even in the dim street light, the Red Star tattoo was clearly visible.

“What the fuck,” the man complained. “Yeah, I ran. Those gwailo cops were looking to fuck me over!”

“Okay, cut the bullshit,” Jack said, pulling back the handcuffs to reveal a monkey tattoo on the man’s wrist. Curious George. “This is jing deng,” marveled Jack. Destiny.

“What’s that?” puzzled Eddie.

Ngai jai dor gai, remembered Jack. Short people are shrewd.

“So what’s your name again?” Jack pressed.

“Carl Lim.”

Jack chuckled “You mean like in ‘Carlos Lima’?”

The man’s face froze.

“How about ‘Jorge Villa’?” Jack challenged. “Who would you be then, George Hui? Curious George, huh?” Jack could see the man’s resemblance to the face in the juvenile offender photo, and decided to bluff. “Guess what, Eddie?” Jack deadpanned. “Your own dailo placed you at OTB.”

“Dailo?” sneered Eddie. “Bullshit.”

“He said you guys had a beef over watches, and money,” Jack prodded.

“Right. Last I heard,” Eddie said defiantly, “he was brain dead in Emergency.”

“Yeah, you keep believing that,” Jack snapped. “He put your shorty ass at the scene. In the alley.” Jack noticed Eddie flinch at being called “shorty.” “That’s right, you’re bad,” Jack added sarcastically, “so bad you’re good for Murder One, monkey boy.”

He pushed Eddie back into the cruiser, and took a better look at the Korean ginseng business card. The address was just off the fringe of Chinatown.

“Let’s roll,” Jack said as he slipped in beside Eddie.

Number 818 Jackson was on a street that slanted off the intersection of Jackson and Rainier, a quiet street this time of day. It was an old-style house with an addition built onto the back of it. There was a street-level back door that led inside.

An old Asian couple came out as the patrol car killed its flashing strobes.

Eddie stared at them from the backseat, his mouth quiet but his eyes scheming.

Jack came out of the cruiser and walked toward them. Korean, he guessed. The cops kept the cruiser’s interior lights on so the old couple could see Eddie behind the back cage partition.

Eddie finally bowed and twisted his face away.

Jack showed the man the business card.

“Ai goo,” the old man said. “He rent room from us.”

“Can I see the room?” Jack asked respectfully, offering a slight bow.

“Ari seyo,” the man agreed.

The inside hallway smelled like bulgogi and kimchi, with the menthol hint of salon pas drifting off the old couple. They led Jack to a side room. The small room had only enough space for a single bed with an all-purpose night table and a freestanding metal cabinet that doubled as a closet and a dresser. Some clothes were draped around a chair. No windows. No bathroom. Not many places to hide anything.

Jack considered the obvious: toss the bed, the cabinet, check the knapsack, and under the chair and night table. He gauged the concern on the faces of the Korean couple. Remembering the East Broadway railroad flat that Eddie and his victim Koo Jai had shared in New York’s Chinatown, he pictured the loose floorboards covering their stash spots.

The floor here was covered with old linoleum, and Jack didn’t see any loose edges or pried-up corners. He guessed Eddie was smarter than that. He heard a click, like a timer, then the hum of a fan unit nearby. Air. Since there were no windows, he looked for the vent, and saw the aluminum grate high on the wall, covering the extension of the ductwork into the room addition.

Too high up for Eddie to reach. Unless he stood on a chair.

Jack pulled the chair over, flashed his Mini Maglite into the grate. A shallow recess, empty. But there was a bend in the air duct. Although barely visible, he noticed a tiny plastic loop wrapped around the bottom slat of the vent grate. It looked like fishing line.

Jack opened his army penknife to the Phillips screwdriver and unscrewed the grate. It came free after a slight pry, but was caught on the nylon line. Jack tugged gently and saw a dirty plastic bundle emerge from the bend in the duct. He dragged it out and saw metallic watchbands inside. In one corner of the clear plastic bundle he could make out the denomination on a wad of fifty-dollar bills.

He unwrapped the plastic, then admired the expensive watches within: three Rolex Oysters, four Cartier Tanks, six Rados. And five black-dial Movado Amorosas. Probably fifty grand’s worth of deluxe timepieces, guessed Jack. He thumbed through the wad of cash, maybe five thousand, that had probably been ripped out of the victim’s pants pocket as he lay dying in the snow of the Doyers Street alley.

Damn clever, thought Jack, turning to the old couple as he scanned the room again. “Where’s the bathroom?”

Going back through the hallway, they came to a closet-size bathroom that consisted of a sink, a toilet, and a narrow shower stall with a sliding door and a vent fan in the ceiling.

Eddie was clever, Jack concluded, but in a predictable way.

Removing a roll of toilet tissue and a can of air freshener, Jack lifted the cover off the toilet’s water tank. The water was murky and he shined the flashlight into it. At the bottom of the tank there was a roll of black plastic. The cold tank water had pressed the plastic into the contours of a gun.

Jack felt the chill of the water as he pulled it out.

Inside the black plastic was a revolver, a .22-caliber Taurus with a nine-shot cylinder. The murder weapon from the OTB shooting. Jack took a breath. It had barely taken him a half hour inside the Korean house. He knew some of his effort here bordered on illegal search and seizure but he didn’t care. He had the killer, the murder weapon, and the swag all bundled up, just in need of a lab match for ballistics and forensics. What mattered was that the perpetrator was in custody, he thought. A lawyer, like Alex, might disagree, but Jack wasn’t feeling the need to be legally correct at this exhilarating moment.

Eddie was somber as Jack leaned into the back window of the cruiser and said, “We’ve got the gun, kid. You’re good, though, shooting .22s. A hitman’s caliber. You’re good for two kill-shots, and one critical hit.”

“Don’t know nothing about no gun,” Eddie insisted.

“How long do you think before we match up the ballistics? Before your prints come back off the watches? And off the vic’s VIP card from the titty bar, that you used for ID?” Jack shook his head dismissively.

Eddie grunted, smirked.

“What happened?” Jack needled. “You had a beef? Something over stolen watches? Come on, stop gassing me. It’s not like you’re going anywhere except to lockup. Right now, you’re good for the possession of the firearm, for the possession of stolen goods. Probably good for Murder One as well.”

“What the fuck is it to you anyway?” Eddie snapped. “The jerk-off scumbag had it coming.”

“Oh yeah, I’m sure,” agreed Jack. “But it’s not only that you shot this Koo guy in the back. And robbed him. Or even the big Ghost gorilla you took out.”

“What then?” was Eddie’s pained question.

“You also put two .22s into the head of a guy I used to know,” Jack said coldly. “It’s Yin-Yang, punk, and yours has come full circle.”

Jack turned to the patrol cop, asking, “How’d you make him?”

“We got the heads-up at roll call, for a Chinese,” the cop smiled sheepishly. “Exceptionally short, right? The update said he liked to shoot pool.”

“Good work,” Jack commended him, privately noting Detective Nicoll’s assistance.

“But if he hadn’t run,” the cop added, “we probably wouldn’t have had reason to hold him.”

“Thanks,” Jack offered. “I owe you guys big time. Pick the bar, the tab’s on me.” He clutched the two bags of evidence he knew he’d have to voucher with SPD, and realized he’d also have to advise his New York precincts of his actions.

By the time Jack was done at Seattle Police Headquarters, it was eleven thirty, with much of the International District already shut down. His adrenaline carried him until he remembered Alex and her events at the Westin. He felt like celebrating, wanting to tell her about the day’s investigations, the strenuous, dogged police work, then the collar. But he was too professional for that.

However, hooking up with her for drinks would be a treat, capping off a “mission accomplished” with a twist of jing deng, destiny.

He called Alex’s room at the hotel, and was surprised to hear a man’s voice. One of the CADS? Strangely, ADA Sing came to his mind. Music in the background. Caught offguard, he quickly hung up, going back into his jacket to confirm her room number.

When he called again, the phone rang until he got the hotel voice-mail message. Hadn’t Alex been rooming with Joann somebody? He decided not to leave a message, feeling conflicted, wanting to consider it just an innocent miscommunication.

After all, it wasn’t like they’d agreed to meet. He tried to downplay it. She was probably out with the ladies, the staffers. The uncertainty irked him and he didn’t know why, but he felt the fatigue of the long day setting in, and decided to return to the motel. He knew Alex still had one more day of the convention, and he hoped to see her at the gala finale.