Red Jade (9 page)

Cops

Jack presented his NYPD identification and detective’s gold shield to the cop at the desk. They perused one another’s badges momentarily. Jack noticed the Seattle badge had a spread eagle perched on top of the shield with a star in the middle. Not as round as Jack’s badge, more pointed.

The young cop at the duty desk had a fresh face and wore a light blue regulation uniform and had a military haircut. The three hash marks on his shirtsleeve meant he had at least three years on the job.

“I’m looking for a person of interest,” explained Jack.

“The detectives are out right now,” the duty cop replied, snapping shut Jack’s badge wallet and handing it back.

“I’m reaching out to them any way I can. I’m only here in Seattle over the weekend.”

A moment of sympathy crossed the young cop’s face, after which he replied, “All the detectives are out chasing a red ball. They’re after POIs, too, but there’s
fresh
blood here.”

“You’re referring to Madrona Park?” Jack asked, knowing that “red ball” meant an all-out manic manhunt for perps.

“Correct,” the cop replied hesitantly, surprised at Jack’s knowledge. “But you can leave a voice mail. Or a note. Or you can wait if you like.” He gestured toward a wooden bench.

No time to wait, thought Jack, offering his PBA card. “I’d appreciate if someone could call me.
Anytime.
”

“No disrespect,” the young cop offered, “but honestly, I don’t know when any of the detectives will be back. This could go on all night, maybe all tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Jack said. “I’m staying at the airport motel, the Courtyard.”

“Ten-four,” the cop acknowledged. Jack wondered if he’d ever seen a Chinese cop before.

Jack left headquarters and walked through the misting night. Figuring that Alex would be at her dinner deal, he decided to call her later. Chinatown was nearby and he headed in that direction. He knew he couldn’t cover all the Chinese restaurants in Seattle, but he wanted to check out the locals, maybe have dinner in one of them.

Walking the small grid of streets, he realized that the names of the restaurants were just like those in New York and in other Chinatowns he’d visited: Canton House; Golden Phoenix; China Dragon; Hong Kong Harbor; May Lay Satay; Hunan Palace; King Mandarin; Kau Kau.

He decided not to flash his badge; he didn’t want to scare up local talk that could warn or spook Eddie. In his quiet Cantonese, he informed the waiter that he was awaiting a party of two, and asked if he could use the washroom.

“Of course,” answered the waiter, pointing the way. To and from the washroom, Jack was able view the kitchen help, peeping at them in case one was a Chinese shorty. Jack repeated this in six different restaurants, finding nothing, before he felt hungry enough to have dinner. It was already after 8
PM
when he chose May Lay Satay, ordering Singapore rice noodles with a side of
roti canai
, keeping his eyes on the kitchen area.

Maybe Patrol would pick up something down the line, he thought, after the red ball.

The food was good but he didn’t see anyone remotely resembling Little Eddie.

He remembered that he needed a map and the White Pages, so he requested them from the Courtyard concierge. It was after 9
PM
and he called Alex in her hotel room.

“Hey,” she said, fatigue edging her voice.

“Done already?” Jack asked.

“They went drinking,” she said, annoyed. “Macho stuff, when we have an early morning tomorrow. I’m presenting at the youth awards breakfast.”

“Don’t feel like drinking?” teased Jack.

“I had drinks at dinner.” Alex yawned. “And I’ve been up since dawn.”

He’d thought she’d be ready for a nightcap but said, “Okay, I get it. You’re
beat.
”

“Right, I’m tired and I don’t need to go drinking.”

He wasn’t sure if she was referring to the CADS or dropping him a hint.

“You’re right,” he said, “Get some rest. Tomorrow’s another day.”

“I’m free around mid-afternoon,” she offered, some cheer in her voice. “We can make up for that rain check, maybe.”

Mid-afternoon, thought Jack, replying, “Sure, let’s see what happens.” Play it by ear.

“Okay then, call me,” she said. “Or leave me a message.”

“Sure thing, ten-four,” he kidded. “And good night.” He heard the
click
at her end as she hung up.

Jack considered snooping at a few more restaurants but it was already nine thirty, and the dinner crowd would be a wrap. He peered into the alleys of the restaurants he passed along the way, watching out for any short
da jop
, kitchen help, bringing out the black plastic bags of restaurant garbage.

He’d have to get back to his room, a half-hour ride to the motel. He purchased a tour map at a Jackson Street gift shop, noting the areas around the International District, assessing the ground he’d have to cover in the sixty hours he had left.

After Jack got back to the Courtyard, the concierge sent up a White Pages and a general street map of the city as requested. Plotting out his strategy, Jack knew he’d have to get an early start. It would be a busy Saturday morning and he had a hunch he wanted to follow up on.

But what if his hunch was all wrong? Eddie
would
have to find work but if he was an American-born Chinese, ABC, or
jook sing
, then he wouldn’t be limited to Chinese-language-only businesses.

Maybe he didn’t need to work and was just hanging out, enjoying his freedom. But where would he hang out?

Jack considered Chinese videotape shops where Eddie might rent kung fu movies, or porno flicks. He wondered if Eddie visited Asian massage parlors. In the morning, Jack knew, he’d have to check the Seattle Chinese directories.

For local traffic and news he powered on the television and caught an update on the Madrona Park shootings: three juvenile gangbangers had robbed and shot up an indoor hydroponic marijuana farm not far from the golf course. Two dead. Two wounded, critically. And the report confirmed that one of the dead had indeed been the son of a city councilman.

The news program followed with a special presentation about new-age pot growers in the Emerald Triangle of the Northwest. He turned off the TV.

He took out the evidence from the 0-Five and spread the array of data along the edge of his bed. Eddie’s juvenile poster and gang information. The little gray .22-caliber slug. There was a photo, and a note listing the serial numbers of the Rado and Movado wristwatches taken from the victims.

The story the Boston Chinese kid caught in the traffic stop had told him echoed in his ears. Was the Seattle connection just pure bullshit?

Jack considered visiting the local Chinese associations, but decided not to blow his cover yet. He didn’t want to warn them off by broadcasting his investigation. Check the streets, Billy had advised; street guys always wind up back on the street.

He felt thirsty and drained one of the little bottles of vodka from the minibar. He opened the White Pages and spread the maps on the carpet. He resisted a second bottle as he drew a big circle around the International District and West Seattle. As he started plotting the businesses and addresses he wondered how much of a Chinaman’s chance his investigation really had.

Hoping for a call from Seattle PD, he fell asleep thinking about red balls and yellow killers.

Cleansing

The Spa Garden, with its mix of fake and real greenery, its soft wood tones, and its cheery check-in counter, had seemed more like a yoga or fitness club than the glorified massage parlor that it was.

Mona had estimated that the spa was roughly a half-mile walk from her basement place on James Street, a trek that brought her to Union Place just under the freeway. She considered the walk as exercise, the air clean and revitalizing, a way to energize her legs and lungs. The walk would be followed by a two-hour session at the spa that consisted of thirty minutes reflexology, thirty minutes deep massage (neck and shoulders), ten minutes hot whirlpool, thirty minutes sauna/steamroom/shower, capped off with a healthy chirashi salad and Relaxation green tea from the on-site commissary.

The spa was the one indulgence she allowed herself, a ritual she brought from New York, the need to cleanse her body and also dissolve the toxins in her spiritual heart.

She kept a fresh change of clothes, and $666 in cash in her locker.

She’d jog the half mile back, then visit Chinatown to replenish her provisions.

The Spa Garden, as Mona quickly discovered, was Taiwanese-owned and operated. The facility provided a range of services, from facials to manicures and pedicures, from massage to waxing, and could readily manage eight clients during peak times. There were two large steam-room units and three hot tubs, and the manager, a fortyish Taiwanese woman, spoke enough Cantonese in response to Mona’s clipped Mandarin that they’d been able to set up a membership plan.

Mona planned to dedicate two hours a week to the spa but was unsure about how many months she’d use the services. She signed up for a monthly membership instead of an annual plan. Cash, of course.

Many of the clients were Caucasian women, which conveniently allowed Mona to keep her distance, playing up her inability to speak English. “No speakee Englee,” she’d learned to say.

The Garden also featured a backyard sundeck that opened onto a view of a waterfront park. The deck included three round tables under large red beach umbrellas, a vantage point that looked out over Elliott Bay.

Water Becomes Water

She caressed the charm even as the masseuse’s strong fingers worked the soles of her feet, pressed into her neck and back, even as hot water and steam drew her blood to the skin’s surface. The heated red jade bangle seemed to glow in the hot mist.

It was the deep massage that cleared the tension and the bad
chi
from her muscles, that broke up the knots across her shoulders, but it was the steam that drove the demons from her soul.

Water over water
, whispered the charm. Have faith, journey forth through sacrifice.

As if the steam, the bubbling whirlpool, could purge the poisons inside her, poisons more spiritual than physical, as if heat could melt away her painful memories.

The spa was a form of exorcism and Buddhist salvation, the steamy rise of mercy and goodness from the depths inside her.
Forgiveness
releasing the anger, hate, bitterness. Like a devotee she rubbed steam off the hot charm of her mother’s soul, dangling from her bracelet, dripping its secrets.

Water over Mountain
. She took a shallow swallow of steam.

Beware troubles from the Northeast.

It came as no surprise, but she hadn’t expected the warning so soon.

Time, she believed, was still on her side.

Prayers

As Mona became more familiar with King Street,
Wong Daai
gaai
, on her trips through Chinatown, she discovered a Buddhist temple, a humble storefront location that was unlike the grand temples and monasteries she’d visited in Hong Kong but which attracted a faithful following nonetheless.

The Lantern Festival,
Yuen Siu
, had already passed, but the temple had posted an announcement of ceremonies for the Spring Blessing Festival, and upcoming celebrations of Kwoon Yum’s birthday, the coming of the Goddess of Mercy.

Inside, the monks and sisters wore burgundy-colored robes, led by a
sifu
, master, who wore a colorful dragon vest over the robe. The big room was hazy from the burning sticks of incense, and crowded, with a chanting drone that filled the air.

At the altar, Mona placed offerings of gladioli and fruits she’d bought in Chinatown, then touched fire to incense, which she stuck into an urn of packed ashes. She got on her knees before the large Buddha figurines and bowed her head into the cushions on the floor, picturing her deceased mother behind closed eyes. She mouthed a series of silent prayers in her mother’s memory.

Afterward, as a further expression of love, she gave a generous donation to the monk sister, who appeared mildly surprised.

“Please remember my mother in your prayers,” Mona requested.

“What is her name?” asked the sister. “We can post it at the altar.”

“Please just pray for
all
mothers,” Mona said, “during
ching ming
, memorial observances, and on Mother’s Day.”

The monk sister nodded acknowledgement, placed her hands together pointed toward Heaven, and bowed.

Mona returned the bow, then left the temple, with a heart less burdened by the weight of everlasting sorrow, with the droning
nom mor nom mor nom mor or may tor fut
trailing behind her.

Peace.

Siu Lam Sandal

Of average height and slight build, Tsai had been a student of
Shaolin Hung
–style boxing, and had honed his knife-combat skills. From his appearance, no one could suspect he was an experienced fighter, better at hand-to-hand than most of the number 49-rank thugs, but the martial arts above all had taught him the lesson of patience.

For three months now he had fielded reports from the ranks of fellow Grass Sandals in other American Chinatowns where the Red Circle had members or triad affiliates. Their leads had not panned out in Washington, Boston, Philadelphia, Miami, Chicago, Detroit, or Columbus. He hadn’t expected much from those communities but had been hopeful that something would turn up in Houston, Dallas, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Seattle, Sacramento, Fremont, or Monterey Park. Even Anchorage, or Honolulu.

Tsai knew that Paper Fan would not be pleased, but the
bok ji sin
was a patient man as well, and had faith in his many subordinates. Time, the 415 leader knew, was a continuum that governed all things, and patience was part of that balance.

None of the discreet inquiries at Chinese jewelry stores had proven fruitful, yet he was sure the stolen items would turn up. No luck during the Lantern Festivals, either. Tsai knew that most of the Buddhist temples would have an established membership of true believers who worshipped regularly, but the monks would welcome visitors and new members, recording their donations in a sign-in log. Greeting visitors with shaved heads bowed, the monks would thank new worshippers for their offerings, and include them in their evening prayers. The monks also taught that patience was a virtue, and that justice, like vengeance, traveled in a circle. What goes around, mused Tsai, comes around.

He continued to advise vigilance, maintaining focus on the diamonds, or the gold, but not forgetting religion, or the myriad Chinatowns.

As per Paper Fan, of course.