S Rozan - Trail of Blood

“Maybe I’ll make myself scarce.” Bill rose from his perch.

“You’d deprive yourself of the pleasure of meeting Mulgrew?” I asked. “And the pleasure of more of the Waldorf’s coffee?”

“Good as the coffee is, from what I hear the one doesn’t begin to make up for the other. And the NYPD doesn’t like crowds.”

That was true. Also, certain elements in the NYPD don’t like Bill. Mulgrew seemed to be the type who’d check around and find some way to get on my case later about the company I keep.

Under Mulgrew’s hand even the door knocker sounded scornful. If Mulgrew was enchanted to see me, he hid it well, but he didn’t boot me out. He even tossed the occasional question at me, though the ones he asked Alice sounded less sharp in tone, less accusatory in content. Maybe that was because she poured him coffee as soon as he sat down, and put two chocolate cookies on the saucer.

Not that he had many questions. The pro forma nature of this interview couldn’t have been more obvious. What did you hire the deceased to do, did he give you any indication he was worried about anything, what did you talk about this morning, can you think of anyone who’d want to hurt him?

“Well, only Wong Pan. If Joel had found him.”

“The Shanghai guy? What about it, had Pilarsky found him?”

“He didn’t say he had,” Alice admitted, “but maybe after I spoke to him-”

“He didn’t get any calls or e-mails. He made three calls: his college roommate, you, and you.” Mulgrew turned to me. “Did he say anything about finding this guy?”

“I’d have told you before if he had, Detective.”

“I’m sure.” Back to Alice: “Any idea where I can find this Wong Pan?”

“If I had,” Alice said with a small smile, “I wouldn’t have hired Joel and Lydia. You do have his photo?” She started for her briefcase, but Mulgrew waved her back to her chair.

“Yeah, she gave it to me,” he said. I sincerely hate being referred to as “she” when I’m sitting right there. “But unless he also pulled the other three jobs in that neighborhood, my money’s not on him.”

“You will look for him, though?”

“Sure.” Mulgrew reached for a lemon bar, devouring it, as he had the other cookies, in a single bite. This was not a detail man. “Thanks for your time.” He stood. “Call me if you think of anything else.” He started toward the door.

“The Shanghai Moon,” I said.

“What?”

“A legendary lost gem. It belonged to the same woman the rest of this jewelry belonged to.”

He stared at me. “A legendary lost gem.”

“It’s famous.”

“Oh, a famous legendary lost gem. And it was part of this find?”

“No.” I was already regretting opening my mouth. But he irked me, his dismissiveness, his put-upon air. “Or, maybe. We don’t know.”

“You don’t know. So why are you bringing it up?”

“Someone may have thought it was.”

“And the connection between that thought and Pilarsky’s murder would be?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did Pilarsky have it? Or know where it was?”

“I don’t know.”

A pause. “All right, I’ll check it out.”

Hah. I could just bet what that meant. Mulgrew barking across the squad room: Hey, any of you ever heard of some jewel called the Shanghai Moon? What about this mutt Wong Pan, from China, where they stole all our jobs?

Alice walked to the door and opened it for him. “Thank you for being willing to come to the hotel, Detective.”

“My pleasure, ma’am. Not often I get to see how the other half lives.”

When we were alone again, I said, “Well, you won his heart.”

“He’s not so bad.”

“Yes, he is.”

“Just overworked, I think. Most policemen are overworked. Not that you seem exactly fresh as a daisy, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“I’m exhausted.”

“You’ve had a terrible day. Why don’t you go home? Take a long hot bath. Something relaxing, maybe lavender. It’ll do you a world of good.”

“You know, that sounds great.” I stood. “We can talk in the morning.”

“Yes, but I think not professionally.”

“What do you mean?”

“Until they catch whoever killed Joel, or until we can be sure his death had nothing to do with Rosalie Gilder’s jewelry, I can’t think of letting you go on.”

My jaw dropped. “You can’t think of stopping me! Joel would hate that, giving up!”

“I’m not talking about giving up, but until we know it’s safe, we have to let the police take over. I’ll call my clients. I’m sure they’ll agree.”

“But that’s just wrong! Mulgrew’s not really looking for Wong Pan, and he didn’t care at all about the Shanghai Moon!”

“He may be right.”

“He’s not right.”

“All the more reason to back off, then, and let his investigation lead him to that conclusion. Really, Lydia, I can’t allow to you endanger yourself. Recovering this jewelry isn’t worth that. I’m sorry, but it’s my decision.”

“But to just give up-”

“Oh, Lydia, please don’t make me say it.”

“Say what?”

Her sympathetic look didn’t alter her unambiguous words. “You’re fired.”

I called Bill the the second I disembarked from the Waldorf. “We’re fired!”

“What you mean ‘we,’ Chinese woman?”

“Be serious! This is bad!” I told him about the interview with Mulgrew, and its aftermath.

He asked, “What are you going to do?”

“Are you kidding? If you think there’s any possible way I’m going to forget it and let Mulgrew just go through the motions, you’re every bit as-”

“I didn’t say, ‘Are you going to forget it?’ ” he broke in. “I said, ‘What are you going to do?’ ”

“Oh. Well, when you put it that way.” I rubbed my eyes. “I apologize. I shouldn’t be taking it out on you.”

“That’s what I’m here for. Though I’d be curious to know what I’m every bit as.”

“I’ll never tell. But I’m curious to know something, too. Why did you do that thing you do, sitting off to the side so you can observe someone?”

“I do that?”

“You know, when I play innocent with you, it’s silly. When you do it with me, it’s absurd. Yes, you do that. When you don’t trust someone. Do you have a problem with Alice?”

For a moment he was silent. “There’s something peculiar about her. Joel said so, too.”

“ ‘Off’ is the word he used, and that was because she does this work and she’s not Jewish.”

“And she explained that. But there’s still something.”

“Any idea what?”

“No.”

“Have you eaten yet?” my mother called from the living room as I slipped off my shoes in the vestibule. It’s a standard Chinese greeting, the hospitable inquiry of a famine-prone land. It’s no more looking for a real answer than “How are you?” is in English. But the thought of food right now was enough to curdle my stomach.

“I’m not hungry. Ma, I need to tell you something.” I sat on the couch next to her.

“Ling Wan-ju? What’s wrong?” She shut her Hong Kong fashion magazine, which she studies for ideas for outfits for my sisters-in-law and me.

“It’s Joel, Ma.”

“The one who sings.”

“Ma, he’s dead.”

Her lips compressed into a thin line. She patted my hand. Then, hands back in her own lap, she asked, “What happened to him?”

“Someone shot him.”

“Who did that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was it because of your case?”

Nothing like the head-on approach.

“I don’t know that either. The police don’t think so.” She nodded and minutely relaxed. I could have left it at that, but I didn’t want to lie to her. “I do, though.”