Текст книги "Death Money "

Автор книги: Henry Chang

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

Knowledge Is Power

IN DAYLIGHT, THE stitches looked uglier than the night before, and surface pain from the cuts on his legs pinched with every step.

He was still groggy when he arrived at the Tombs, the place already abuzz with the processing of the morning’s criminals. He badged his way to the clerk’s office in the back and found the faxes he was hoping for.

The first one was from the Royal Hong Kong Police Force, February 21, 1995:

RHKPF Headquarters Mongkok Station, Kowloon

PRINT Subject Wanted in HK for triple homicide in 1975

.

DETAIN Subject indefinitely. Fax from

Immigration and Naturalization Service to follow

.

In small type at the bottom of the fax:

Thanks, Inspector Chow Yin Fat RHKPF

The second fax was more recent, from Interpol, shorthand for the International Criminal Police Organization.

PRINT Subject is Red Notice, wanted member of illegal Triad society, Hok Nam Moon. Absconded via Hong Kong 1975. Detain without fail. Immigration/Deportation to follow

.

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

If Gaw was a Triad true believer, he wasn’t going to flip on Bossy or the Triad or whoever put him up to Sing’s murder. Maybe he’ll take his chances with deportation.

As Jack was pondering it, another fax chugged through the machine. It was a reply to Jack from the New York City Bureau of Records, referring to Gaw’s Social Security number that he’d used on a license/DOT vehicle registration form. Following Jack’s inquiry, the holder of that assigned Social Security number was declared inactive, dead in 1974.

A hunch has paid off.

Somehow, Gaw had managed to assume another Chinese identity, a dead man. Whether the Triad or Duck Hong’s people had arranged the paper deal, Jack couldn’t know, but he realized now that Gaw had been hiding in plain sight for two decades.

And he probably wasn’t going to be cooperative.

JACK CROSSED OVER to the detention/holding side of the Tombs facility. There was a room with a small table where they brought Gaw to be interviewed.

“I know Gaw’s not your real name,” Jack started in street Cantonese.

Mak Mon Gor laughed quietly.

“I know you suckered Zhang with a bullshit abalone deal, then killed him,” Jack said. “But I think someone put you up to it. It was your boss, Jook Mun Gee, wasn’t it?”

“Dew nei louh mou,” Gaw cursed. “Fuck your mother.”

“I should have figured it earlier,” Jack said.

“I should have killed you earlier,” Gaw spat.

“What did Bossy offer you?” Jack challenged. “Money?”

“Dew nei louh mou.”

“You killed him in that little park.”

“Fock you, mathafocker.”

The door swung open, and an older man in a business suit entered the room. Gray hair, fiftyish. The man parked his expensive briefcase on the table.

“Interview’s over,” the man said. “I’m his lawyer.” He slid his business card onto the table. “Solomon Schwartz.”

Jack wasn’t surprised, knew legal would appear sooner or later. “The interview was over before you got here,” said Jack.

“It’s an outrage, Detective,” Schwartz complained, “not allowing a phone call from the precinct? He’s been denied due process.”

“The process isn’t perfect,” Jack said. “But I’ll tell you what’s due, Counselor. A judge is going to remand without bail. Your ‘motherfucker’ client here is a flight risk. Not only did he try to kill a cop, but he’s wanted for even more trouble than your fancy words can get him out of.”

Gaw frowned and mumbled curses under his breath.

“I’ll have him out in twenty-four hours,” said Schwartz.

“I don’t think so. Hong Kong’s got first dibs. Interpol’s tagged a Red Card on him, and Immigration’s been notified.”

Solomon just shook his head, uncertain if it was a bluff or if he’d been outplayed on the overnight by the Chinese detective.

“Here or at Rikers, it doesn’t really matter,” continued Jack. “I don’t think he’ll be staying long.”

“How’s that?” Solomon asked.

“Interview’s over,” Jack said with a smile. “Send Bossy my regards.” He left the room throwing a last look in Gaw’s direction. Gaw was still scowling, staying inside himself. Could he have another card to play? wondered Jack.

He left the Tombs, went past the guard booth. One of the overnight officers apologized. “Sorry about the lawyer,” he said. “Prisoner claimed he was sick, needed medication. Needed to call his doctor. So they let him make a call. He spoke Chinese with someone.”

“No problem,” said Jack, figuring, Gaw probably called Bossy, who called Schwartz.

WITH CAPTAIN MARINO’S help from the Fifth Precinct, Jack obtained two warrants—one for Gaw’s Town Car, the other for his Pell Street apartment. Jack borrowed Gaw’s keys from Property, headed for Rickshaw Garage first.

The manager recognized Jack and escorted him to the Lincoln. The five-year-old car still looked in mint condition. According to the ticket, the car was returned a few minutes before Jack first spotted Gaw walking into Pell Street. But where he’d been prior didn’t seem to matter much anymore. Jack waited until the manager left before sliding into the passenger side.

The interior of the car was pristine, a somber gray color, the same as the hundreds of other cars that the see gays drove to cemeteries, weddings, and proms. There was a box of tissues on the backseat. He checked under the seats, along the door panels, in the center console. All clear.

In the glove compartment he found some Hong Kong pop music tapes, a few transportation maps of the tri-state area, and tour brochures of Boston and Philadelphia Chinatowns. There were booklets from a car dealership, a pen from China Village restaurant, some auto wipes, and a plastic Ziploc bag with wah moy, chan pei moy, and hawthorn flakes, Chinese candies for the road. Otherwise, all clear.

He moved to the rear of the car and popped the trunk using Gaw’s key. There was a plastic milk crate that served as a road emergency kit: flares, jumper cables, flashlight, tow rope, a can of tire inflator. To one side a roll of paper towels; some plastic takeout bags; a gai mo so, feather duster; and a can of air freshener. A collapsible shovel, an ice scraper-brush-combination tool. A carton of cigarettes, Marlboros, with a few packs missing. And no New York State tax stamp.

He placed the carton of cigarettes carefully into one of the plastic bags before checking the spare-tire storage well. Finding nothing there, he closed the trunk, taking only the smokes.

He left Rickshaw and walked the block and a half to number 8 Pell. Slipping on the disposable latex gloves from the precinct, he keyed the street door, went up to the third floor. At apartment 3A he inserted the other key, twisted it, and entered. There was a wall switch just inside the door, and he flicked it, lighting the room from a fixture on the ceiling.

The walk-up wasn’t a typical Chinatown apartment; 3A was a railroad flat, three rooms back to back to back in a straight line. The first room was big, with a small bathroom in front of him to his right. An alley window and a table with chairs were to his left. Beyond that, at the far wall, was a kitchenette setup: range top, sink, small refrigerator.

The place looked like it’d had a face-lift over the last couple of decades.

He hung the bag with the carton of smokes on the front doorknob.

To his right was another narrow room, or corridor. He flicked another light switch. There was a closet on his left, a worn club chair in a nook facing a small television set with an ashtray and a pack of Marlboros on top of it.

He went into the last room, hit the switch. The bedroom was a small square with a full-size mattress bed, a small nightstand with a cheap table lamp to the right of the headboard. Along the wall to his left were a dresser with a mirror and a folding chair with folded laundry on it.

He took a settling breath and went back to the kitchenette.

He checked the refrigerator, then the cabinets. In the refrigerator freezer he found frozen dumplings and yu don fish balls, some red bean ice bars, and a bag of lotus seed baos. On the inside door there were bottles of soy sauce, oyster sauce, Sriracha. On the bottom shelf there was a brick of tofu, a package of lop cheung sausage, a box of salted eggs, and a can of lychees. A bottle of Absolut vodka to one side.

There was a shopping bag of plastic takeout bags on the floor next to a garbage bin. A six-pack of water bottles nearby.

In one cabinet he found bulk packs of assorted ramen and mei fun rice noodles. Stacks of plastic plates and cups, forks, and spoons that looked like restaurant supply. The second cabinet was emptier; it held just a small bag of rice, a box of tea bags from Ten Ren, and an assortment of sweets and candies, mango slices, and the kind of wah moy he’d kept in the car.

Beneath the cabinets was a sink, with a dish-drainer tray next to it. In the rack was one cup, one dish, one bowl, a pair of chopsticks, and a spoon. At the end of the counter there was a small electric rice cooker.

The range top held a wok, a teapot, and a soup pan.

So far everything indicated that Gaw’s apartment was a single bachelor’s setup. Jack grabbed some of the plastic takeout bags and continued.

At the wall edge of the table was a tin of Tea Time cookies, a bag of roasted Chinese peanuts. Almost covered by the bag of nuts was a can, which upon closer inspection turned out to be a can of abalone. “Abba-lone-nay,” Jack remembered Ruben saying in Spanish. Abalone. He dropped the can into one of the takeout bags, leaving it on the table for the time being.

He’d hoped to find a weapon, maybe contraband, and turned his attention to the bathroom.

The mirrored medicine cabinet held Tylenol and Band-Aids and an assortment of Chinese herbal treatments and liniments like mon gum yow and deet da jao.

He checked under the sink and toilet bowl. Clean.

There weren’t any weapons or drugs in the toilet tank.

He headed for the second room.

The middle room, with the little closet and the notch out, was the equivalent of a living room, a small area where you could sit down, watch the little TV, and have a drink or smoke a cigarette. A chill-out area before the last room, where you had sex or just went to bed.

Inside the closet was a lightbulb on a pull chain. Jack tugged on the chain and illuminated a line of clothing hanging off a rail. Shirts and jackets mostly. Nothing in the pockets. Above the rail was a shelf holding sheets and towels. He ran his latexed hands through the folds and along the shelf’s edges.

At knee level there was an empty piece of rollaway luggage. On the floor next to it was a stack of magazines. Some Hong Kong periodicals and mail-order catalogs. The periodicals had dog-eared pages featuring recent Triad violence; he couldn’t read most of the Chinese words, but the graphic news photos told the bloody stories clearly enough.

The mail-order catalogs, addressed to Gaw, had Golden Mountain Realty, Bossy’s office, as the mailing address. They also had dog-eared pages. The first one was a BadZ catalog of On the Edge knives, featuring all kinds of exotic, themed, and commercialized blades from tantos to tomahawks. He thumbed through the dog-eared pages, looking for a dagger or dirk that might fit the murder weapon. He found several: the Scorpion Dagger was a four-inch blade that was compact, flat, and easily concealed. A second knife was also a dagger, a 4.33-inch stainless-steel blade with a black rubber, water-resistant handle. Easily concealed nylon shoulder harness with sheath. $29.95.

There was a tactical knife with plastic handles. It had a long blade, six inches, and the pierced handle allowed for a lanyard.

They were all cheap knives, thought Jack, probably made in China, so the steel wasn’t trustworthy. He picked up the next catalog, a thicker one with a slick cover that was headlined Sporting Knives Annual. Featured on the cover were high-end knives, collectors’ and enthusiasts’ blades from mostly American and European manufacturers.

Several selections had been dog-eared.

Böker USA offered a combat knife, a Colonel Rex Applegate model. The sheath system allowed for nine carry positions including boot, waist, neck, hip, pocket, and jacket-pocket carry. It had a fiberglass-reinforced Delrin handle with a forward-bending crossguard and a stainless-steel, drop-point blade. Indentations in the handle provide a nonslip, firm grip. An ideal knife that weighs only 2.3 ounces.

Murder weapon? wondered Jack. On order at $99.95.

The second dog-eared choice was a cousin of the combat knife. The Buck Diamondback claimed the same quality steel on a shorter blade. Tactile-patterned handle with quickdraw sheath.

The last choice in the catalog was a Gerber knife. The Expedition IB offered a black-finished, 3.25-inch, highcarbon steel blade inside a glass-reinforced nylon handle. Includes plastic, multidraw sheath. Available as double-edged or with stainless-steel finish. At $75.

He bagged the catalogs and folded them into his jacket.

Turning to the club chair, he pulled it out and tipped it over. Nothing underneath. He bagged the pack of smuggled Marlboros on top of the television. The television itself was connected to a long extension cord so that it could be placed on top of the dresser. Watch TV in bed if desired. He ran his fingers under the TV stand. Clear.

He repositioned the club chair and went into the bedroom.

He flicked the wall switch, though the ceiling light was unnecessary. The bedroom, or front room, since it had windows overlooking Pell Street, was clearly lit and sparse, no clutter, the room of an orderly, calculating person. Jack conducted a sweep of the bed, behind the headboard, under the mattress, the box spring. Nothing there.

The nightstand was empty, top and bottom.

The dresser, with its fake-wood finish, had three wide drawers. The top drawer held mostly shirts and knits, a couple of sweaters, winter fashions. Blacks and grays mostly, with a few red-colored items for Chinese New Year.

He checked the edges, the bottom of the drawer.

The second drawer held mostly T-shirts, underwear, and socks in a mash-up. He ran his fingers around the edges and under the drawer.

The bottom drawer held a few pairs of shorts—watersports prints, denims—and polo shirts and poolside flip-flops. Two pairs of D&G knockoff sunglasses. Jack didn’t know why, but he bagged one pair, putting it into his jacket. He thought he’d show it to Ah Por later.

He felt around the edges, the bottom of the drawer, fingering through the denim shorts, under the polo shirts next to the flip-flop sandals. He suddenly felt something hard, a lead sap, he wanted to believe, but it wasn’t any bigger than a matchbook, though thicker. Folding knife? He gently spread back the shirts.

Lifting away the sandals, he saw that it was tarnished steel, a metal rectangle the size of a belt buckle. A cigarette lighter.

A cigarette lighter. An old one, not the modern, butane-injected kind.

He carefully took it out, stood it up on top of the dresser. It was an old Vietnam War–era Zippo lighter, the kind you could find in army-navy surplus stores on Canal Street or anywhere in the city. On one side was a grinning skull with wings. A screaming eagle decorated the other side, along with the engraved words DEATH FROM ABOVE.

Has to be Singarette’s lighter, thought Jack, sucking in a breath while remembering the words of the China Village deliveryman: Had a war eagle on it. And cherry lady Huong, with a say yun touh, a smiling skull, on it.

Maybe Gaw had taken the lighter as a souvenir, a scalp, whatever. Proof, perhaps, for whoever put him up to killing Sing.

Jack remembered the Zippo lighters. They were still popular in the military during his short stint in the army. They routinely required a few squirts of lighter fluid into a fuel-sponging insert you pulled out of the casing. A refill could last a week or two. Gaw had apparently abandoned it anyway, maybe after the insert had dried out. There’d probably be fingerprints, thumb and index prints, probably Sing’s, on the insert. Hopefully Gaw’s and Sing’s fingerprints would turn up on the outside metal casing of the Zippo. He made a mental note to advise the lab techs about the insert.

There was nothing else in the room, but he felt sure he had enough evidence to tie Gaw to Sing’s murder. Circumstantial, perhaps, but evidence nonetheless.

He bagged the Zippo and took it, along with the bagged pack of cigarettes off the TV, as he switched off lights leaving the two rooms.

In the kitchen, he grabbed the takeout bag with the can of abalone inside, the carton of Marlboros off the doorknob. He clutched all the plastic bags together as he switched off the lights and left the apartment.

He knew he needed to get the evidence to the lab, where forensics could work it over. Since he was, so far, the lone link in the chain of custody, he decided to expedite matters by dropping the evidence off with forensics himself.

He ignored the fact that the stitches in his arm were throbbing again.

Flow

IT WAS MIDAFTERNOON by the time Jack got back to Chinatown. He was hoping that forensics would have some results on the overnight if they weren’t too backed up.

He finished and submitted a report at the Fifth Precinct, describing Gaw’s attack on him on the Pell Street rooftop. Trying to kill a cop. That charge alone would keep Gaw on ice for a while.

Singarette’s case file was still open, though new evidence was surfacing. He called the mail-order-catalog companies, identifying the police investigation, and referred to the account numbers on the mailing label. He felt lucky that the supervisor was cooperative: customer 2288 (Gaw) had ordered from Sporting Knives—an Applegate combat knife and the Gerber Expedition. Both shipped to Golden Mountain Realty.

From the BadZ catalog he’d ordered a “Knockout” flat sap, with five ounces of molded lead sewn into a leather shank.

An old-school weapon, thought Jack, also illegal to carry in the city.

The mailing address loosely linked Bossy to the killing deal. Gaw had had weapons delivered to the office. But proving Bossy knew anything about it was another matter.

At least he had Gaw on ice at the Tombs.

He tucked the catalogs back into his jacket, left the station house, and headed for the Senior Citizens’ Center, two blocks away on Bayard Street. He’d missed Ah Por the last time and wondered if she was around to apply her special touch.

Senior Secrets

HE FOUND HER right away, with a Styrofoam cup of ha gwoo cho tea by the side door. Free afternoon tea, enjoyed by all the seniors, sometimes included cookies that were near-expiration stock, donated by the local Chinese supermarkets.

He quickly slipped Ah Por the folded five-dollar bill, followed by the knockoff sunglasses from Gaw’s dresser. It took a moment as she touched them and said, “Canal Street.” Sure, that sounds familiar, thought Jack.

“Som luk bot,” she added. Three-six-eight.

Is she just regurgitating past answers now? wondered Jack. It was the same number clue from the Yonkers racetrack program.

He slipped her another five, passed her the Golden Mountain Realty brochure. She looked at him thoughtfully and took a gulp of the ha gwoo cho before running her fingers over Bossy’s smiling, thumbprint-sized brochure photo.

“He will never see the rat,” she said so quietly he was unsure of what he’d heard. What? frowned Jack. Does she mean Bossy’s going to hang Gaw out to dry?

“What?” he muttered aloud. He took a calming breath.

“His money,” Ah Por said with a sigh, “is death money.”

She means Bossy has money to burn? he wondered.

Ah Por’s attention drifted, her eyes seemingly searching for someone in the crowd.

He couldn’t follow her words about Bossy, the rat and the money, but any clue that Ah Por repeated, three-six-eight, Canal Street, demanded attention.

He patted her on the shoulder of her meen ngaap jacket, smiled and nodded, and left the Seniors’ Center.

He headed for Canal Street on Baxter Way, imagining a gift shop or army-surplus store.

CANAL STREET WAS a slog, with the throngs of tourists dealing with the knockoff vendors: the Fukienese designer handbag ladies, the Nigerian briefcase or sunglasses posse, the Pakistanis with the fake perfumes, cubana jewelry store, the Vietnamese moving everything under the sun.

He went past the Burger King and Mickey D’s, tourist havens, past the electronics and odd-lot discount shops and surplus stores, almost to Church Street.

He was surprised.

Number 368 Canal Street was a newer Bank of America branch, a half-mile from the bank-crowded heart of Chinatown but very clear about its identity. A semicircular glass façade faced the street, like a moon gate. Inside, there were bright colors, Asian-friendly tones over a bamboo forest motif.

A flight of stairs led up to a wall of six teller stations, smiling Chinese girls behind bulletproof Plexiglas. A seating area, clean and mellow. A flight of stairs down to the safe-deposit vault. The assistant manager sat behind a desk and looked like a younger version of Bossy.

There weren’t any customers around.

Jack badged him, showed him Sing’s key, and asked, “Do you list Jun Wah Zhang as an account? This is a murder investigation.”

The assistant manager seemed unimpressed and spoke Cantonese with a Shanghainese accent. “Don’t you need a warrant or something for that?” he challenged.

“Sure, I can do that,” Jack said with a smile, “but that could take all night. In the meantime I’d have to post a uniformed officer here to make sure no one goes into any of the boxes. You’ll have to turn customers away. Tomorrow, too, if necessary.”

The man’s Adam’s apple bounced a couple of times.

“Think that’ll ruin your manager’s dinner, his whole evening?” Jack pressed.

The assistant manager wavered, swallowed hard. He reluctantly tapped up some names from his computer keyboard, frowned, and escorted Jack to a box in a wall of small slotted boxes. He matched Sing’s key to his master and opened the little cast-metal door. He slid the thin, metal safe-deposit box out and flipped open the lid.

Jack saw there were two photographs: an old snapshot of a family of three, in the faded colors of the 1970s, of young parents and an infant son, in a rural Chinese setting. The mother, in village dress, cradled the child in her arms, precious, smiling. The father, smiling cautiously, held a miner’s helmet in one hand, resting the other on his wife’s shoulder. The simple Chinese notations on the back read “Ma and Ba, 1971.” The other photo was more recent, a tourist snapshot at the Statue of Liberty. Singarette, with Lady Liberty looming in the background, beaming a jubilant smile at the camera. So happy to be in America! The photo looked like it had been taken in the fall, November maybe, judging by the clothes worn by park rangers in the background of the picture. A posed-tourist Polaroid in a cardboard frame.

There was a China passport and student visa banded together, which he’d purchased from the real Jun Wah back in Poon Yew village.

These were the items Sing had considered most valuable, enough to keep them safe: a photo of his real family and, ironically, the passport visa he’d bought for a new future in America.

Ah Por’s yellow witchery had paid off again.

Jack signed for the items, slipped them inside his jacket, and on the way out wondered if the victim’s file was the right place for what was left of Sing’s life. On Canal Street, the offices and commercial businesses had begun to shut down, workers anticipating the rush hour home.

Looking east, he decided to make one more visit before leaving Chinatown.