S Rozan - Trail of Blood

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.”

“Are you-What was that thing Fishface had against my head if they had no guns? What about all the guns all over the street?”

“Every one we found had been filed rough. Not a usable print anywhere.”

“But-”

“Lydia! It’s not what it was, it’s how a lawyer can make it look. At the very least they’ll make bail. Then they’ll disappear.”

I let out a disgusted breath. “All right, I get it. I can’t believe it, but I get it.”

“Good. Now get this, too: Captain Mentzinger is very, very reluctant, under the circumstances, to let these guys walk.”