Henry Chang - Red Jade

The old man willed himself onward, stumbling into the grasp of the thug in the boat. The thug then leapt onto the pier, going for Mona. She was already backed up to the edge, breathless, trying to shake off her dizziness from the blows that had pounded her head.

Flashing lights rolled across the boardwalk entrance. People, and running uniforms, yelling things in English.

The thug took several steps in her direction.

Save me, kwoon yum , Goddess of Mercy! She took three deep breaths before stepping off the pier, letting herself fall.

At the access road, a squad of SPD uniforms had bagged the two Chinese from the minivan. There was no one in sight down the long length of the pier. When Jack and Alex got to the end, there was only the sound of waves and the distant churning of motor boats across the bay.

“Gone,” Alex said in disbelief. “All gone.”

“A woman went into the water,” Jack informed Nicoll. “And maybe a man, as well.” They stared into the dark water beneath the pier as Alex gave Jack a napkin to sop up the blood clogging his ear.

“Harbor Patrol will pick up anyone in the water,” Nicoll offered.

“Was a boat here?” Jack asked aloud.

“Coast Guard can check that out, too,” advised Nicoll.

The three of them scanned the surface of the bay, looking for a body, clothing, something . All they saw were a couple of dead birds and the usual debris, shards of driftwood, a plastic soda jug.

The Seattle cops were out in force now, cordoning off the place where Jack had left two men dead.

“Did she witness any of that?” Nicoll nodded toward Alex.

“Unfortunately,” Jack answered hesitantly.

“We’ll need a statement from her,” indicated Nicoll. He escorted Alex back along the pier toward the uniforms securing the scene.

Looking south down the waterways, Jack saw Harbor Island, and Duwamish beyond that. Northward lay an endless waterfront of piers, green parks, and commercial landings. Directly before him was the wide expanse of Elliott Bay, with freighters and ferries and assorted pleasure craft plying the frigid waters in every direction.

But no woman, and no man. No Paper Fan.

Jack checked the edges of the pier and saw a small dark stain on the wet planking. Upon closer inspection he saw it was dark red: a smear of blood. He stepped carefully, seeing several more tiny droplets that led to a pair of bollards.

Beside the bollards he saw what appeared to be a human hand attached to some kind of elastic strap. A man’s hand, he thought, smeared with blood. The fingers were clenched around something red. Jack could see a curved fragment of a red bangle caught in its grasp. Examining the broken piece, he wondered if the unusual color was the result of its being covered in blood. In the rain, it felt slick. The bangle had broken clean through but the blood-red color held fast when he rubbed it.

He took out his plastic camera and snapped a few shots of the hand and the broken bangle. The hand felt heavier than he thought a prosthetic hand should, and he wondered if there were metal joints within.

He put it back near the bollard before advising the crime scene techs to bag it.

When he got to the turnoff, he saw that one of the SPD uniforms had found the knife more than twenty yards from where Alex had flung it. It had bounced and skidded along the concrete until it stopped beside the driver’s door of a parked car. It was a tantō -style Japanese blade but with a serrated edge.

Watching them bag it as evidence, Jack felt chills thinking that the eight-inch razor-sharp blade was meant for his neck.

Alex leaned on the Dumpster with her fist against her chin, looking toward the bay. It had taken her a half hour to tell, and retell, her story. Jack could see the fatigue in her eyes, could hear the drag in her voice when she said, “I’m sorry, Jack. I’ve got to get back to the hotel, to catch an evening flight back.”

“Can I get one of the uniforms to drive you?” Jack asked.

“No, it’s all right,” she declined. “I’ve got to return the car anyway.”

“Sorry for the craziness,” he said, giving her a big hug. She responded with a gentle kiss to his cheek, and he felt awkward, knowing she had to have the missing woman on her mind.

“Call me when you get back,” she said.

“Sure,” he answered.

“Promise,” she insisted, knowing his police work always came first.

“Okay, promise ,” he repeated, watching her go as Nicoll took possession of the bags of evidence.

“These two are done,” Nicoll said as CSU finished photographing the bodies.

Jack recounted events to Detective Nicoll, explaining how he’d tailed the men in the two vehicles, and how they tried to stop him from getting to the woman.

Dead on the wet concrete pavement was the big nunchakuwielding man, with wounds to the upper chest and shoulder, and two closely spaced gut shots, courtesy of Jack, for trying to stab him in the back. He had a driver’s license in his pocket that identified him as Shi Man Chun, from San Francisco. Jack could still feel the welts on his shoulder.

The other dead man was the big guy’s partner, who’d fancied himself a ninja assassin. Jack had drilled two hollow points into his chest that ripped out his back and shredded his rain jacket. One shot had missed, but the last one tore through his eye and blew out the back of his head. A puddle of blood was spreading in the rain.

He definitely wasn’t assassinating anyone anymore.

Fuck him, Jack thought. He tried to kill me but I beat him to the punch. Deal. Next.

In his pockets they found keys, a small sum of cash, and an international telephone calling card. There was a New York driver’s license that identified him as Tsai Ming Hui, rubber-banded together with several business cards. One of the cards was from a Hong Kong law firm, Wo Sun Partners, with a Tsim Sha Tsui address. Another card represented a New York firm, Chi and Chong, Esq., located on East Broadway. The last card was from a Mong Kok Jewelers Association. What surprised Jack was the name scrawled across the back of the New York lawyer’s card: SHELDON LITTMAN. Next to it was the Chinese word TONG. It made clear who was paying Shelly high legal fees.

The techs bagged the bodies for the morgue wagon as Nicoll interrupted Jack’s discovery.

“Congratulations, by the way,” he said. “I heard you got your shorty, Eddie Ng.”

“Patrol did a great job,” Jack answered evenly.

“So you did good up here, Jack.” Nicoll smiled under his mustache. “Killing two bad guys, taking a cold-blooded murderer home. Not bad for a few days in Seattle, huh?”

“Yeah,” Jack agreed reluctantly, flashing back on the dead men’s faces.

“And if anything new develops here, I’ll update you.”

“Thanks.” Jack forced a smile. “I’d appreciate that.” He felt the shock of the day slowly seeping into him.

“If there’s a woman, we’ll find her. And if anyone calls looking for a fake hand …”

Jack nodded, watching them load the body bags. Nicoll got into his unmarked car and followed the meat wagon to pick up the paperwork. Out by the access ramp the cops were hauling away the two remaining goons, and the terminal was quiet again.

Jack went back to the end of the pier and stood there looking out over the water for any signs from the Harbor Patrol or the Coast Guard. The harbor cops had responded to a boating accident off West Seattle, and Jack finally spotted them coming around the point. The Coast Guard had come through Puget Sound, a twenty-five-minute trip. Neither service had reported any sightings over the police band.

Jack waited on the pier until the last of the light, still hoping something would float up. In his mind, he reviewed the two times that he’d seen the missing woman, Mona. Once on a San Francisco rooftop, and now, on a Seattle pier. Based on the running glimpses he’d had, he couldn’t say for certain that it was the same woman. Same general height and weight, sure, but between the short hair and the long hair, the sunglasses, and makeup or lack of it, he couldn’t swear to it.