Trail of Blood (29 page)

35

“Wong Pan?” Bill asked. “You’re sure?”

“If it’s not, then whoever it is needs to be arrested for looking too much like Wong Pan. That’s got to be a crime.” I was speed-dialing Mary as I spoke. Her phone rang as Wong Pan or his evil twin passed C. D. Zhang’s building. As he ducked into a greasy chopstick a few doors up, her voice mail came on. “Oh,
no
!” I said. “Girlfriend! Pick up! Wong Pan’s on the west end of Canal, at New Day Noodle, north side near Church. I’ll—” I stopped as Bill touched my arm and nodded across the street. C. D. Zhang was coming out of his door, briefcase in hand. We watched him walk up the block, and sure enough, he was interested in noodles, too.

“Mary’s voice mail,” I told Bill. I dialed 911 and reported the location of a dangerous fugitive. Then I snapped the phone shut. I had my arguments all in a row about why we absolutely had to go over there, but I didn’t need them: Bill was off the curb, searching for a break in the traffic.

“If Wong Pan’s killed two people—” he said over his shoulder.

“My thought exactly.” Our chance came, and we dashed across in a storm of honks and curses. “Do you think C.D. Zhang knows who he’s meeting?”

“Damn right he does. I think we’ve been conned. Chen and Zhang know the cops are onto them. They’re decoys. C. D.’s making the exchange.”

“He was at Bright Hopes picking up the money?”

“I’d bet on it.”

In the garlicky shop, a dozen customers were ordering noodles, slurping up noodles, or picking noodle remains from their teeth. None of them was Wong Pan or C. D. Zhang. Bill and I made it through the dining room to the kitchen and through that to a door in the back wall before anyone stirred.

“Hey, you can’t go there!” the manager shouted in Cantonese.

“So call the cops!” I yelled, hoping he would.

When we burst into the back room, two men looked up from a banquet table. The question of who’d have a banquet in a noodle-shop back room cramped by twined-up linens and sagging cardboard boxes, near a rear door bubbly with rust, was an interesting one, but I had no time to ponder it.

“Ms. Chin.” C. D. Zhang’s leathery face registered both surprise and displeasure. “And Mr. Smith. What—”

“Do you know who this is?” I pointed at the round countenance of Wong Pan, which, after momentary alarm, had settled into an odd superior smile.

“This gentleman is a valued customer. And forgive me, but this is private business.”

“This business is you buying the Shanghai Moon from Wong Pan. And his business was killing two people to get it this far.”

“And you, no business here,” said Wong Pan. “You go away.”

“The police are coming.” Assuming Mary picked up her voice mail. Or 911 didn’t think I was just another nut and actually followed up my tip. Or the noodle shop manager was incensed enough at the intrusion that it trumped his distaste for cops; though since nobody had even cracked the door to see what was going on in here, that one seemed unlikely. “You’re the one who’s going away.”

Fear flashed in Wong Pan’s eyes, but after consideration he shook his head. “Police coming, would be already here.” He began to reach into his jacket.

“Easy!” Bill said. All movement stopped as Wong Pan and C. D. Zhang registered Bill’s snub-nosed Colt, unholstered as we passed through the kitchen but until now discreetly palmed.

Wong Pan snickered, theatrically lifted one hand in the air, and with the other drew out a small cardboard box. “We have business. You go away.”

“Both hands on the table,” Bill told Wong Pan.

Wong Pan, looking amused, did as Bill said. I glanced to C. D. Zhang. He stared at the box under Wong Pan’s hand with the eyes of a parched man seeing an oasis. He reached; Wong Pan, eyebrows raised, pulled the box back. Bill sent me a look. I nodded: Let them finish. Let C. D. Zhang hold it in his hand before it becomes evidence, before it becomes Chinese cultural patrimony, before it’s lost to him and his family forever. C. D. Zhang picked up his briefcase and placed it on the table.

At which exact moment the kitchen door opened.

The manager had actually called the police?

Absolutely not. White Eagles filled the doorway. And they had more guns than we had.

They stared. We stared. The gang sea parted, and Fishface Deng strolled in. His own gun, still in his belt, telegraphed through his untucked shirt. Behind him the White Eagles fanned out. Six guns: one on each of us, with two for extras. Seven White Eagles, including Deng and his two top lieutenants. And notably not including Armpit. Or Warren Li, or any of the losers up on the east end of Canal.

Lydia! You are a MORON!
I silently screamed at myself. Mr. Chen and Mr. Zhang weren’t the only decoys. Two stakeouts; two sets of decoys. I stared at Fishface Deng’s bulging eyes and sharp little overbite mouth. “You knew.”

“What, that the cops were watching us?” He gave a shrug of modest pride. “Your cousin’s a good kid. Dumb as a box of rocks, but loyal. He said you were onto us. He said there was no way to scare you off or buy you off, but he asked me not to kill you.” He shook his head. “I tried to help the guy out, dammit. Didn’t I?” He looked to one of his lieutenants, who nodded seriously, backing up the boss’s story. “But you had to show up here. Now I gotta do what I gotta do. Well, he’s a good kid. He’ll understand.” Fishface turned to Bill. With no change of tone, he said, “If you don’t put down that fucking piece, these guys will blow you away, and her, too.”

Wordlessly, Bill laid his Colt on the table. In view of Fishface having said he was gonna do what he hadda do, there might not have been much point in Bill’s relinquishing the gun. Except that as far as getting blown away, later was better than sooner. Every moment you were intact was a moment you could be thinking your way out of your situation, which Bill was obviously already doing and I was going to start doing as soon as I got my adrenaline tsunami under control.

“Lydia?” Fishface said almost solicitously. “Are you carrying, too?”

I lifted my shirt to show him the .25 clipped to my waistband. He relieved me of the gun and its holster, too. I couldn’t blame him; the gun would probably sell for more on the street with a nice leather rig.

The
dai lo
turned his attention to the men at the table. They were taking this hijacking in different ways. C. D. Zhang wore a stricken look. Fishface offered him a smile of recognition, and I guessed I knew now who got C. D. Zhang’s red envelopes at New Year’s. Wong Pan still smirked. I wondered if that was shock, or if he thought he could tell all these guns to go away, too.

Just sit there,
I thought at them both.
Don’t make a move until us professionals come up with something
.

I glanced at Bill. His nerves might have been riding as high as mine, but he stood completely still, except for his eyes. They methodically searched the room and the people in it, looking for our opening, our chance.

And suddenly, as a solemn White Eagle was reaching for Bill’s gun, as Fishface was pocketing the cardboard box and leaning toward the briefcase, leaving stone-faced Wong Pan and pale C. D. Zhang with nothing, nothing, nothing at all, a bullhorn blared.

“Wong Pan! C. D. Zhang! White Eagles!” It was Mary, a commanding cop thunder. “This is the police! Come out slowly! One by one, hands up and empty. You’re surrounded.”

Fishface’s bulging eyes flew to the rusty back door. He nodded. One of his boys edged it open enough to peek into the alley and then slammed it shut. “Fuck!”

Now Fishface pulled out his gun, too, a big Glock. “You bitch! You called the cops!” He said this as though he couldn’t believe it, as though he’d caught me cheating at a friendly game of cards.

“Not on you,” I pointed out. “On those two.”

The distinction didn’t impress him. He looked from the back door to the kitchen one. “Well, so, a change of plans. Take them.” He waved the Glock at Wong Pan, C. D. Zhang, and Bill. He grabbed my elbow, to escort me personally.

“What are you talk about, Deng
dai lo
?” Wong Pan sputtered. “I don’t going!”

“Oh, you do so going, old man.” Fishface changed his grip on me to a choke hold and pressed the gun to my temple. I heard chairs scrape and had to assume similar things were going on behind me. As he steered me to the kitchen door, my brain juggled three thoughts.

I hope the NYPD has better control of its adrenaline than I do
.

Old man? Fishface, you punk, Wong Pan’s not even sixty
.

And
How does Wong Pan, fugitive from Shanghai, know a Chinatown gangbanger’s title and name
?

I had to stop thinking for a minute as Fishface barked in my ear, “Open the door.”

In the vacated kitchen a cauldron steamed and greens sat in a wok getting soggy. Congealing
chow fun,
scattered chopsticks, and pots of tea dotted the empty dining room tables. New Day Noodle looked like a restaurant that had just sailed into the Bermuda Triangle.

Outside, things were different. Red and white lights flashed. Traffic on Canal was blocked by cop cars parked at all kinds of angles. Behind the cars, cops in blue and cops in streetclothes wore Kevlar, held guns, shouldered rifles. I thought about the overtime and almost laughed. Through the window I spotted Inspector Wei, wearing an NYPD vest and the rapt glow of a runner at the starting line. Next to her crouched the Fifth’s big, mustached captain, Dick Mentzinger. Beside him I saw Mary, and caught the dismay in her eyes when the first person to lurch out of the restaurant, with Fishface Deng’s arm wrapped around my neck, was me.

“We’re leaving,” Fishface shouted. “We have four people. Let us through or we’ll shoot them right here.”

Mentzinger took the bullhorn. “I can’t do that.”

“Do it!”

“If this ends here it’s not so bad. No one’s hurt. You and your boys can—”

“Shut the fuck up! I don’t want to hear any bullshit cop promises.”
Or more likely,
I thought,
you don’t want your boys to hear them
. He squashed the muzzle harder against my head. “Put down your fucking guns!”

Mentzinger, after a moment, gestured to his cops. Rifles lowered slowly.

“Now back off. Back off! First shot we hear, or if anyone follows us, we’re gonna make a bloody mess of all these people. This cute one first.”

Mary took the horn. “You have no place to go, Deng
dai lo
,” she said in Cantonese.

Fishface laughed. In English he answered, “Lady, in case you haven’t heard, there’s Chinese people in every country on the fucking earth! An hour from now you’ll never find me.” He tightened his arm against my windpipe.
It’s getting near time to do something,
my pounding heart suggested to my brain. It would be good to make a move before these gangsters started hustling us through Chinatown and realized what trouble we were to hold on to, and how we’d messed up their lives.

So a few steps down the sidewalk, between the empty storefronts and abandoned vendor’s trays, I stumbled. Fishface yanked me up with the arm around my neck. Expecting that, I went with it, throwing my weight back into him. After an eternal thrashing moment he thudded heavily down, extra heavily because I landed on top of him. I dove for the gun. We writhed, scraping flesh on concrete. He punched me in the head. I saw blinding colors but by then I had hold of the pinkie on his gun hand. His adrenaline might be high enough to mask the pain but he couldn’t pull the trigger with his finger bent to his wrist. He yanked at my shirt, my hair. When I felt his finger snap, I almost lost my grip. He yowled. I yanked at the gun; it skidded along the sidewalk. I rolled, grabbed it, and heard the roar of a gunshot. More roars, and the whine of bullets. I flattened and looked around. And was once again reminded I wasn’t the center of the universe.

The sidewalk churned with cops, White Eagles, guns, and silver handcuffs. Two uniforms had slammed onto Fishface as soon as I’d rolled away. Shouts and grunts punctuated the honking of traffic probably backed up to New Jersey. A White Eagle made a break, dashing halfway across Canal before he was downed by a flying tackle so long and accurate it would be cop legend before the cop who made it got back to the precinct. Two more White Eagles lay on the sidewalk, hands on their heads, faces pressed into a glittering scatter of Rolex knockoffs. Straddling a third, yanking his hands behind to snap on cuffs, was a flushed and glowing Inspector Wei. Just beyond her, Mary had Wong Pan bent over the hood of a car. I hoped it had been parked in the sun all day and was damn hot.

I scanned the ruckus, looking for Bill. My heart lurched when I saw him doubled over in a doorway, but then he started to stand. Before I reached him he was on his feet, breathing heavily above Fishface’s lieutenant. “You okay?” I asked. He grinned and flexed his hand like a man who’d just punched a White Eagle’s lights out.

I heard more sirens, wondered why, since the action was pretty much over, and then, looking around, realized it wasn’t more cops, it was ambulances.

C. D. Zhang lay on the sidewalk, a red hole in his chest.

36

Interview One, my home away from home.

I’d been here for an hour. Bill, last I’d heard, was in Two. In widely separated nooks and crannies, handcuffed White Eagles waited their turns to rotate through Three and Four. I didn’t know where Wong Pan was, and it clearly wasn’t on anyone’s to-do list to tell me.

Leaving a suspect alone to sweat is standard NYPD procedure, and though I didn’t get the idea anybody actually considered me a suspect in the day’s proceedings, Mary was probably mad enough to let me sit here until I grew moss.

I could, of course, make a stink, demand to be charged or released. But that would make my best and oldest friend even more furious. And completely blow my chances of finding out, from anyone’s point of view but my own, what had gone on since we’d all been piled into cop cars outside New Day Noodle.

Besides, I had hope: the backup of White Eagles. The NYPD couldn’t keep me here forever; they needed the room.

After another ten minutes my hope panned out. The door opened and Mary came in, her face one big, dark scowl. Following her was Wei De-xu. Behind Mary’s back the Shanghai inspector gave me a quick grin, then went pokerfaced again as they rattled out chairs.

“How’s C. D. Zhang?” I asked before Mary had a chance to yell at me.

“Luckily for you,” she said icily, “not too bad. A clean through-and-through. Chen and Zhang are at St. Vincent’s with him. He’s sewn up and conscious and not talking.”

“Why would he? He was buying stolen jewelry.”

Mary exchanged a look with Inspector Wei.

“What?” I said. “Are you charging him?”

“Not right now.” She added, unnecessarily, I thought, “He’s an old man.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I doubt it.”

“No, I—”

“Lydia!” She cut me off. “Can you just
tell
me what you idiots thought you were doing?”

“I called you!” I protested. “And I called nine-one-one. But Wong Pan was dangerous, and we didn’t know if C.D. Zhang knew who he was. We couldn’t just leave him in there with him. And we didn’t know the White Eagles were coming!”

“Bill says you were pretty sure C. D. Zhang knew exactly who Wong Pan was.”

“You talked to Bill already?”

“And every White Eagle we took up. And some of the witnesses. And I tried Chen and Zhang at the hospital, even though I got nowhere. Captain Mentzinger finally said if I didn’t come in here and interview you I’d have to cut you loose. Which I don’t want to do. What I want is to throw you and your idiot partner into a cell way out at the end of Brooklyn for a few months. For being hopelessly stupid.”

Inspector Wei looked up with interest. “Can do here?”

“No,” Mary answered, still glaring at me.

Wei shook her head ruefully. “In China, can’t do also.”

“But as it happens, Lydia,” Mary went on, “Captain Mentzinger is more laid back about your part in this than I am, maybe because if you get killed he’s not the one who’ll have to explain it to your mother. And you have to thank Inspector Wei, too. She pointed out to the captain that, though we had a firefight on Canal Street that resulted in costly property damage and a citizen injured, said citizen was attempting to procure stolen goods at the time of the incident, which, not your presence, was the precipitating factor. Also that we’ve apprehended an internationally sought homicide suspect.”

“Plus suspect in theft from Chinese people,” Inspector Wei added. “So NYPD has gratitude of Shanghai Police Bureau, also government of People’s Republic.”

“And,” Mary finished, “we also took up seven armed gangbangers as a result of your information.”

I was impressed that Mary could produce such an abundance of cop jargon, but this wasn’t the time to mention it.

“Also, Captain Mentzinger wants something from you. So he’d rather I didn’t keep you on ice for the rest of your life.”

“What does he want?”

“We’ll get to that. First, I’m going to ask questions, and you’re going to answer as though you were a good, cooperative PI.” I sat in cooperative PI silence. “One: You did think C. D. Zhang knew who Wong Pan was when you went charging in there, right? The way Bill says?”

“Bill did. I thought maybe.” I didn’t like this shift that made Bill the good guy and me the bad guy in Mary’s eyes.

“And it had occurred to you the White Eagles might be after the Shanghai Moon.”

“Maybe. Possibly. But I thought that’s why they were all gathering near Bright Hopes. I had no idea Fishface Deng knew about the noodle shop! I mean, how did he?” I asked that even though a theory on it was one of the things I’d come up with sitting here in silent meditation.

But if I thought I was going to slip in a question and get Mary to answer it, I was mistaken. A glare, and she said, “It didn’t occur to you just to keep an eye on the place and wait for us? Never mind, that would be only if you’d wanted to help us take up Wong Pan. But that wasn’t it. You wanted to see what was going on. Right?”

“Oh, Mary, of course I did! All right, that was bad judgment. But after all this, to actually see the Shanghai Moon—”

I stopped as Mary reached into her pocket and pulled out a Ziploc holding a cardboard box. “Go ahead. This is what it was all about? Open it.” She tossed it over.

The box was the worse for wear, probably from things like when I landed on Fishface, and it was dusty with fingerprint powder. Despite my new theory, my heart pounded as I lifted the top and pulled off cotton batting. On more batting, stuffed in tight so it wouldn’t roll around, lay a big green cat’s-eye marble.

I sat back heavily against my chair. “Damn.”

“Damn? That’s all you have to say?”

“It’s a marble.”

“That’s right. Not some romantic mysterious lost gem. A piece of glass.”

“Wong Pan never had the Shanghai Moon.”

Mary looked to Inspector Wei, who shook her head. “After you tell story from Attorney Fairchild, Shanghai Police Bureau investigates carved box. Have two expert try. Take to hospital so can make X-ray. Box doesn’t has secret compartment.”

A tide of futility and failure washed over me.
Oh, Rosalie, Kai-rong! I’m so sorry!

“Lydia?” Mary’s tone gave me a chill. “You know, you don’t seem surprised. What are you holding back? Girlfriend, I swear—”

“I only just figured it out,” I said wearily. “While you kept me sitting here for an hour. Girlfriend.” I looked from one cop to the other. “Did you find out how the White Eagles knew about the meeting in the noodle shop? Or how Wong Pan knew who Fishface was? No, stop, don’t tell me you’re the one who asks the questions. This”—I pointed at the marble—“confirms what I was thinking. The whole thing was a sting.”

“Go back,” Mary ordered. “Wong Pan knew Fishface?”

“He called him ‘Deng
dai lo
.’ Not just his name, his title. How would anyone from outside Chinatown know that, let alone some guy from Shanghai? Unless they’d met. And a marble? Wong Pan can’t have expected C. D. Zhang not to look in the box. He didn’t care. The box was showmanship. It wasn’t supposed to be opened. Wong Pan hired the White Eagles to knock the meeting over.”

Neither cop said anything. That made me suddenly crabby. My best friend keeps me on ice for an hour and then doesn’t buy my theory? “This was the big score. Not some jewelry store stickup. This was the gig that was going to launch their soldier-of-fortune careers. The big score had a
client
. Wong Pan was the client. Ask him. Or ask Fishface.”

Mary said, “I talked to Fishface. He says any story about clients is bogus. Everything the White Eagles have ever done was his own idea. Not that they’ve ever done anything, a friendly little social club like them. But if they ever
had
done anything, it would have been his idea.”

“What does he say his social club was doing in New Day Noodle waving guns around?”

“Funny, I asked him that. He said they smelled smoke and went in to help, and what guns?”

“What do you mean, what guns? They were all carrying, every one of them.”

“That’s what you say. As soon as they saw how trapped they were, it was raining guns on Canal Street. Not one White Eagle was found with a weapon.”

“But—! Oh, never mind. This was a sting. And Wong Pan was the client.”

“You really think so?”

“Fishface didn’t think this up. It’s way above his pay grade. There has to be a client.”

“Agreed. I mean, you think it was Wong Pan?”

“As opposed to who? Whom? What?”

“Wait here.” As though I had a choice. Mary got up and left. Inspector Wei went with her, and I thought I might be in for another meditation session, but she came back a minute later with two mugs. “Terrible.” She handed me one. “Worse than Shanghai police station. How is possible make such bad tea?”

“They say the coffee’s worse.”

Wei nodded, considering that. “In China, not many private investigators. Only study mens for wives, for divorcing. Not useful to police, like you, like Investigator Smith.”

“Useful? Are you kidding? Do you see how furious Mary is?”

“Detective Kee your friend, wants you not get hurt, Investigator Smith also. But your informations, valuable to her, for case, for career.”

“You think?”

“Behind furiousness, eyes full of pride, having smart, brave friend like you. You can’t see?”

I sure couldn’t. While I was wondering whether there was any truth in that or if it was just a case of cultural misinterpretation, Mary came back. She held a briefcase I recognized, having watched it swing from C. D. Zhang’s hand down the length of Canal. Dropping it on the table, she repeated herself. “Go ahead. Open it.”

I did. It was stuffed tight with a month’s worth of
Tsingtao Daily.
“Wow. What?” I looked up. “I don’t get it.”

I could see the cop and the friend warring in Mary. Actually, not: Both obviously wanted to tell me “Hah!” and send me away not getting it. But the cop, who had a case to crack, grabbed the lead. “Right now we’re thinking C.D. Zhang stole the cash. Not that anyone’s admitting there was any cash, so we don’t know how much, but Bill says the Shanghai Moon would be worth at least a million.”

“That’s what we were told. But C. D. Zhang, stealing it? That’s nuts.”

“That doesn’t make it wrong. People have ripped off relatives for a lot less.”

I thought of C. D. Zhang’s eyes glittering as he warned me,
The Shanghai Moon’s a quicksand, tread carefully.
And something else: Fishface Deng smiling at C. D. over the back-room table. I’d thought that was a red-envelope familiarity, but it could, I supposed, have meant something else. “You’re saying C. D. Zhang steals the money, then fakes getting robbed by the White Eagles? But what about the newspaper? Why substitute if he wasn’t really being robbed?”

“Showmanship, like the marble. Make the weight of the briefcase look right.”

“But the marble . . . If C.D. hired the White Eagles—”

“I think they both did. Wong Pan and C. D. Zhang. That’s why the meeting was in a public place. So the world would know they’d been robbed. The whole thing was a sting on Chen and Zhang.”

I didn’t like that, not at all. But there was the briefcase in front of me, full of no cash. “Wong Pan and C. D. Zhang were both the client? What do they say?”

“I told you! C. D. Zhang isn’t talking, and I can’t lean on him unless we charge him. My captain doesn’t want to do that right now, to avoid, you know, another stupid mistake.”

Brought about by your best friend, okay, I get it
. “And Wong Pan?”

“Wong Pan. Now, Wong Pan is exactly the problem.”

Both cops regarded me evenly, as though Mary had said something I was supposed to do something about.

“What?” I demanded. “He killed Joel. And Sheng Yue, too, whatever he says.”

“Oh, he killed them both. He’s all but admitted it.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“Well, for one thing, we didn’t exactly take him up neat and clean. We had guns, bullets, SWAT guys. Streets closed, tourists diving for cover. A wildly expensive operation and a public relations nightmare. Captain Mentzinger’s fielding hysterical calls from every civic group in Chinatown. And he’s expected at One PP in an hour to explain himself.” One Police Plaza, NYPD headquarters, where precinct commanders go to be chewed out by brass. Mary leaned forward. “For another thing, Wong Pan, on the verge of signing off on both homicides, has suddenly clammed up.”

“Why?”

She gave me a drama-department pregnant pause. Then she turned to Inspector Wei and cued her with a nod.

“Shanghai Police Bureau sends me here, bring back killer of Inspector Sheng Yue.” Wei spoke evenly, but her resolve was unmistakable. “Wong Pan doesn’t want coming back.”

I ventured, “I don’t blame him.”

“The State Department is pressuring the DA to send him back, though,” Mary said. “Closing two homicides means less to them than our relationship with a friendly foreign power. But the DA doesn’t want to, and Captain Mentzinger sure doesn’t, either. China gets the prize and we’re left empty-handed with a mess to clean up?” She gave me a look to remind me who made the mess. “And this is where you come in.”

“In the middle of a tug-of-war between the DA and the State Department?”

“I know, amazing, right? For someone who should be locked up in Brooklyn.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“I would if I thought it would work. Anyway, keeping
you
locked up isn’t my problem. It’s the seven White Eagles we might have to cut loose.”

“Why would you?”

“What can we charge them on?”

“Attempted robbery?”

“What robbery? Grand theft marble? Receiving stolen newspaper?”

“Breaking and entering?”

“A public noodle shop?”

“Oh, come
on
! Kidnapping?”

“Their lawyers already told the press these misunderstood Samaritans got scared when they saw all the firepower outside, since they’ve been harassed by cops all their lives, and you and Bill had guns, and they didn’t have any guns, so they panicked and used you as shields to escape the police brutality they’d come to expect, which was bad judgment and they’re very sorry, and of course they were planning to let you go.”