The Blue Dragon (2 page)

A
fter talking with the police, I retrieved the list Ray had made for me and began calling tenants. I started with the victim’s parents.

The greeting was in Chinese.

I spoke English slowly. “Mrs. Zheng, my name is Peter Strand.”

A flow of Chinese words. I couldn’t be sure, of course, but there seemed to be anger or frustration in the tone.

“My name is Peter Strand,” I said even more slowly and caught myself speaking louder. I knew better.

This time there was a short burst of Chinese, and then she hung up.

The next logical call went to the girlfriend, Sandy Ferris. An answering machine picked up. The message wasn’t personalized. It was the factory-made voice asking me to leave a message. I did.

Next on the list was the prime troublemaker, Wallace Emmerich.

He answered.

“My name is Peter Strand.”

“Yes, yes. I found the piece of paper under my door,” he said with obvious disgust.

“Mr. Lehr has asked me to look into the death of Ted Zheng.”

“Three weeks after it happened.”

“This is an active investigation. The police are still working on it, Mr. Emmerich.”

“So they say.”

“I wondered if I might set up a time to talk with you.”

“I doubt if that would be of much help. I do not know anything about the life of young Mr. Zheng. I did not see or hear anything the night of the murder. So a visit would not prove productive for either one of us.”

“It was my impression from the police and from Mr. Lehr that you are concerned about what happened.”

“Concern about and knowledge of the event are two very different things.”

“Perhaps you know more than you think you do, Mr. Emmerich, and I would—”

“I am aware of the extent of my knowledge—”

“Do you realize that everyone in the building is a suspect in the unfortunate death of Ted Zheng. And that includes you.”

There was a moment of silence. Then laughter.

“I can see you today if you would like.”

We set up a time.

I called all the others with minimal success. I left word on a number of answering machines. Calling during the day in the middle of the week was not necessarily a good idea. I caught a sleepy Steven Broder who wanted to call me back. His roommate, Norman Chinn, was at the university and would be back late afternoon.

I also talked to Barbara Siu, whose English was good enough to say that she would prefer I talk to her sister, who wouldn’t be home until evening.

Wallace Emmerich was not what I expected. I’d imagined a large, robust pompous man. Instead, I found a small, frail pompous man. He sat in a large blue chair. He wore a black crushed-velvet jacket.

The door had been left ajar. Wallace Emmerich had answered my knock with a sharp command to enter.

“Mr. Emmerich, I’m Peter Strand.”

“I know who you are.”

“I have a few questions,” I said.

The room was odd, memorabilia mixed with emptiness. There was a large photograph of Emmerich on a boat with an Asian woman. They were waving. There was another of Emmerich standing in an office with several men in suits. There were framed certificates of appreciation and commendation. There was a framed authentication of his degree in engineering. On one wall were floor-to-ceiling bookcases with books on commerce, international trade, shipping rates.

The dark, worn sofa and chairs were covered with leopard- and tiger-skin pillows. A heavy crystal-laden chandelier hung dustily but grandly from the center of the ceiling. There were large candelabra on the mantle and two marble lion dogs on either side of the fireplace. The fireplace contained ashes of probably a dozen fires.

Even so, the place seemed sparse. On the walls I could see rectangles of brighter wallpaper where paintings or mirrors had once hung. There was a glassed-in cabinet with nothing on its shelves. And a carpet remnant with ragged edges was in the hall that led to the bedroom and bath. It seemed completely out of place.

“You’ve expressed a great deal of concern to Mr. Lehr and the police about the death of Ted Zheng…”

“Yes, we’ve discussed that on the telephone, haven’t we, Mr. Strand?”

“Yes. Are you aware of any difficulties Ted may have had with other tenants?”

“Ted had difficulties with all of the tenants at one time or another.”

“I was under the impression that he was a likable young man.”

“Oh yes,” Emmerich said with some disdain, “he could charm the birds out of the trees.”

“But not you?”

“I have associated with many and varied people in my life. I headed up Far Eastern Operations for a rather large multi-national corporation in Hong Kong. And later in Mainland China. I’m not easily flattered into acquiescence.”

“What kind of things did Ted Zheng try to get you to go along with?”

“He’d simply try to sell me used items of one sort or another.”

“What kind of items?”

“Antiques, Mr. Strand.”

“He wanted you to buy antiques from him?”

“Yes. I didn’t realize my comments had been ambiguous.”

“Your wife?” I asked, nodding to a photograph of an Asian woman just behind him on a shelf.

“Yes.” He didn’t need to look. “We were married for twenty-five years.” His brief
smile turned quickly to a frown. “She died not quite ten years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You knew her, did you?” he asked, fully aware that I did not.

“No. An expression.”

“An empty one.”

I wanted to say that she probably died to escape him, but I didn’t. He continued on his own, more or less talking to himself.

“She was a little older than I. She looked younger,” he said softly. Then, as if suddenly aware that I was in the room, he continued loudly, “But age was not kind to her mind.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Fifteen years,” he said. “When I retired.”

“You were young,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean to have retired. You were very young. Still young,” I added to avoid offending him.

“I’m sixty-five,” he said.

Actually, he was much younger than I’d thought. I had guessed him to be in his mid to late seventies. He seemed older than my stepfather, who was in his eighties.

“You’ve seen a lot of people come and go here?” I suggested, trying to get him to talk more about the building and the people in it.

“Surprisingly, most of the people who come here stay here. The Siu sisters were here before me. And the Zhengs. Mr. Chinn has been here twenty years or so. His friend is more recent,” Emmerich said with derision. “On the floor below, there is a young Chinese couple who have been here for five years. I’ve heard they want to move to Pacific Heights or something.”

“That leaves the empty apartment and Sandy Ferris.”

“Sandy, is it? Well, I didn’t even know her name. She lived with Ted. He’s had
others. Hard to keep track. Ted got that apartment through his father.”

“And the empty apartment?”

“That’s been empty for months. I don’t think they’re trying especially hard to rent it. You might mention to your Mr. Lehr that he’s let this building go to seed. The elevator is in disrepair.”

“Who lived there?”

“The elevator?” Mr. Emmerich said, straight-faced and more than willing to point out my conversational leap in logic.

“If you wish,” I said.

He overlooked my impudent reply and seemed quite content with showing his superior mind.

“For years it was the Ongs. A sweet older couple. She died. Then Mr. Ong nearly burned the place down. The children came to get him. Then Mrs. Ho lived there. She was quite old and quite ill. She died there.”

“I understand you once owned the building.”

“Yes. The building became merely a number of petty annoyances. So I sold it to Mr. Lehr. Unfortunately, he hasn’t the sense of responsibility I’d hoped for. And Ray would rather spy on the tenants than take care of the maintenance. You can tell them both what I’ve said, if you like.”

“Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Emmerich. I hope you don’t mind if I get back in touch with you if I have more questions.”

“It’s quite all right, Mr. Strand. By the way, do you speak Mandarin or Cantonese?”

“Neither,” I said. “I don’t speak Chinese.”

“Truly?” he asked. “I speak both.”

On the main floor I ran into Ray. He came out of his apartment as I stood in the entry trying to figure out the layout of the building.

“Two apartments on each floor?” I asked Ray.

“Yes. On main floor they are studios. Mine and Ted’s.”

It figured. The first floor was set in a bit. There was the entry area, the elevator, which had a sign saying OUT OF ORDER, and the stairway. Again I noted how Ray’s door faced the entry. If he looked through his little peephole, he could easily see who came and went—as he had no doubt seen me now.

The front door opened. A man came in carrying a briefcase. He seemed hurried.

“Mr. Chinn,” Ray yelled out.

The greeting seemed to surprise Chinn. He stopped suddenly on the stair up to the second floor

“This is Peter Strand,” Ray said in an uncharacteristically formal manner. “And this is Norman Chinn.”

Chinn eyed me for a moment, then seemed to shake off whatever had preoccupied him.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Strand. I received Ray’s note.”

“You’re in a hurry?” I asked, hoping I could get more than one interview out of my trip to Chinatown.

“Well…I guess not in that much of a hurry. I mean, if we need to talk, then I guess we might as well.”

He looked around. My guess was he was trying to find a place to hold the conversation without inviting me up to his apartment. In the end, it was obvious there was no convenient place.

“I’m on two,” he said.

I followed him up the narrow stairway.

“I have a few minutes,” he said as we reached the top. “That’s probably all you’ll need. I really know nothing about this whole affair.”

The layout of Norman Chinn’s apartment was identical to Wallace Emmerich’s. Outside of the placement of the walls, though, nothing else was the same.

The space was airy. The colors in the room were various shades of muted citrus. Walls and furniture and art were tied together by various shades of orange and lime and lemon. The living room was uncluttered and immaculate.

“You have a very nice place,” I said.

“Steven and I have put so much into it—we’ve tiled the bath, completely redone the kitchen—that we really can’t afford to leave.”

He dropped his briefcase at one end of the sofa. “Please have a seat,” he said, heading toward another door. “May I get you something to drink? Scotch, juice, a cola, water?”

“No, thank you,” I said.

He came back in with a small plastic bottle of water. He set it down briefly while
he removed his suit coat and loosened his tie.

“I was very sorry about Ted,” Chinn said.

“You knew him?”

“Yes, Steven and I had him paint the apartment just…mmmn…two months ago.”

“He did good work,” I said.

“All right, I think. Jack-of-all-trades.”

“Ted didn’t talk to you about anything that troubled him?”

“No. Ted never had any troubles—or so it would seem. Positive, optimistic, always on the go. Always had a deal going that promised to make him a million.”

“A slightly criminal edge to his deal making maybe?” I suggested.

“I have the impression that he appreciated shortcuts. Ted didn’t go into detail. But he wasn’t the type to be tied down to a nine-to-five kind of job. He lived by his wits.” For a moment, Chinn seemed lost in his thoughts. “Perhaps he died by his wits.
Murder.” He shook his head. “Such a horrible thing for the Zhengs.”

“And for Sandy Ferris.”

“I’m sure,” Chinn said distantly.

“You’ve lived here quite a while,” I said.

“I’ve been here twenty years, and Steven for fourteen. I was ready to move out, get a bigger place. Steven wanted to stay. He wanted to live in Chinatown.” Norman Chinn smiled. “What else can I tell you, Mr. Strand?”

“I’m trying to get an honest picture of Ted,” I said. “The police believe he was involved in a drug deal and that he was involved in gang activity. That doesn’t seem consistent with your assessment.”

“No, it doesn’t. But then…today, who knows?”

“You’re a professor?”

“I teach linguistics and deal with the problems of language for immigrants.”

“I ran into that very problem with Mrs. Zheng.”

The professor nodded. “Yes, it is hard for older people to learn new languages. You speak excellent English. I’d say second-or third-generation Chinese.”

“Second. But I didn’t know my parents. And I’m afraid I don’t know Chinese at all. When was the last time you saw Ted?” I wanted to change the subject.

“I don’t know exactly,” he said after a few moments. “Probably a day or two before it happened. In the hall somewhere or on the stairway.”

“What would Ted be doing on the stairway?” I asked, knowing that the young man lived on the first floor.

“He got around, that boy,” Chinn said. “Running errands for Emmerich. Seeing his son.”

“What?”

“His son. His mother, Mrs. Zheng, takes care of the child most of the time.”

“Sandy’s child?”

“Oh no. Before Sandy. About four years old, I’d guess. An all-Asian child. No doubt about it. ”

I’m sure a seasoned homicide investigator would have asked much more. But I was out of questions. The fact that Ted had a child had stopped me short but hardly shed any new light on the death. I wouldn’t be adding the four-year-old to the list of suspects.

R
ay was in the entry, pushing a dust mop over the dull gray-tile floor, when I reached ground level. I doubted Ray was normally so industrious. He was waiting for me. Waiting to give and receive information. Gossip.

“When was the last time you saw Ted Zheng?”

“You mean alive?”

“Yes.”

“That evening. Maybe eleven or eleven thirty,” Ray said.

“He was the last one to come home?”

“I didn’t say he went out.”

“He was last person you saw?”

“The last one.” He nodded. “No more come in.”

“You’re sure about that?” I asked.

“Very sure.”

“How can you know that for certain?”

“I know,” he said. “I hear.”

“You can’t hear everything.” It irritated me that he should be so sure about something he couldn’t be sure about. “You could have been out on an errand or eating dinner or something.”

“I am here. I don’t go out.”

“You could have been in the shower or watching television or on the phone and missed it.”

Ray shook his head.

“You can’t have your eye glued to the little hole in the door twenty-four hours a day.”

Ray shook his head. “You tell no one,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. He nodded
for me to follow him. He led me to the front door and the iron gate. He showed me the wire that ran from the gate, up the wall, around the ceiling and down the wall to the doorway of his apartment. I followed him inside his small room. There was a switch.

“If front door opens. Light and buzz. Every night,” Ray said, “I turn this on at 8:00
PM
. I know who comes and who goes.”

“You watch everyone who comes and goes?”

Ray shrugs. “My job.”

“What if they come in the back door?”

“Sets off a fire alarm. Much louder. Everyone hears.”

“And the fire escape?”

“Same thing.”

“You do this wiring yourself ?”

“Yes. Easy.”

“Anyone come in that night who didn’t live here?”

“No one.”

“Who came in late?”

“David Wen from 3A. Mr. Broder in 2B came in very late.”

“Is that unusual for Mr. Broder?”

“No. Unusual for Mr. Wen. He come home maybe ten o’clock, maybe even eleven. I think maybe he come back from a trip. He carry suitcases.”

Certainly I’d have to reassess a few things. One was Ray. Perhaps he was a good deal brighter than his clown act suggested. I also wondered what other kind of snooping he did.

One of my thoughts had been that the murderer was a late-night visitor whose connection to the victim was known only by the victim. That was the police theory as well. But Ted Zheng died sometime after 10:30
PM
and before 6:00
AM
the next morning, and no strangers had entered the apartment building, if Ray was to be believed. Also, by midnight everyone who
was going to be home
was
home, and no one had left prior to the discovery of the body.

I asked to see the rooftop. The door to the roof was on the inside, and it
was
locked, Ray said, when the police arrived and did their investigation.

There was a relatively small rooftop garden. Ray told me Mr. Emmerich took care of it. That he grew his own vegetables despite the less-than-pricey abundance available at nearby stores. There was nothing unusual up there.

I put Ray outside the circle of suspects. If he was the killer, he would not have narrowed the suspects to those who lived in the building. It would be easier to suggest the police were right—that some thug from Ted’s supposedly shadowy world was the culprit.

Thanks to Ray, I knew the name and location of Mr. Zheng’s shop. It was only a
few blocks away—on Grant. There was a handmade sign in English—YOUR NAME IN CHINESE—just inside the doorway. Otherwise there was little else that might please the average family from Cleveland. No fake jade dragons, no ceramic tortoises, no brass Buddhas, no cotton T-shirts or wooden back scratchers. This was a stationery store. And there were papers of various kinds and cards with various Chinese symbols printed on them.

There was a young woman and an older man. Determining which was Mr. Zheng was not difficult. He was a handsome man with silver hair. He wore black pants and a white starched shirt.

“I’m Peter Strand. Mr. Lehr has asked me to look into the death of your son. I’m terribly sorry about your loss,” I blurted, running the words together quickly. I felt awkward. It was if the meaning of Ted’s death had quite abruptly hit me. This was
the victim’s father. Who was it that said,
At least a shallow man knows his depths
?

Mr. Zheng nodded.

“If you are too busy, we could set up a time to talk.” I was hoping he’d say he was too busy. And I would escape. And I would not drag this man or his family into my little hustle. And that’s exactly what this was beginning to feel like. What had I done with my principles? I had little else. In my quiet little anal-retentive life, I had nothing but my work and my…honor.

Mr. Zheng looked around. He said something in Chinese to the young woman and came from behind the counter. He put his hand in the small of my back and guided me gently and warmly toward the door.

“We can go somewhere,” he said, “where it is more comfortable. Have you eaten?”

It was nearly three o’clock, somewhere between lunch and dinner. I wasn’t hungry, though I should have been. We went to the
Orient Cafe. It was like a movie set. Huge, heavy, dark chandeliers hung over the worn black-and-white-checked floor. The walls, a smoky rose, were in need of a couple of coats of paint.

We went down past the bar, where a few Caucasians in short-sleeved shirts and Bermuda shorts sat talking, maps out. There were two white women at one of the round tables we passed on our way to a row of small enclosed rooms. Mr. Zheng and I went into room 23.

A man in a white apron brought menus and plates with napkins on them. He and Mr. Zheng spoke briefly. There were probably two dozen rooms like this, affording diners the ultimate in privacy. What secrets had passed within these dark wooden enclosures? What whispers of love? What conspiracies were discussed? What sinister plans were set down?

“I called your number, and I think your wife answered. I don’t speak Chinese, so we didn’t get very far,” I told him. “I may have upset her.”

Mr. Zheng smiled and shook his head.

“She is very angry. Angry at Ted.”

“Why?”

“Because he left her.”

I thought I understood the oddness of his reply, but I didn’t get it all.

“With the child?”

“That’s what she says, but it is because he left. She believes he made certain choices, that in some way he chose to die. She is difficult. If it weren’t for the child, she would have nothing.”

Just then an older, very stern-looking Chinese man in a black suit and tie came in. He smelled of tobacco.

Mr. Zheng and the man talked. Soon the two of them were laughing.

I ordered some fried rice. Mr. Zheng, I came to understand when the order arrived, wanted only a beer.

“I can’t drink at home,” he said. “What would the child think?” He shook his head. “My wife, she is very difficult. She is old China. That was the problem, Mr. Strand. Ted was young America.” Mr. Zheng was silent for a moment. “Entrepreneur,” he said.

“You have any ideas about what may have happened?”

“No, I don’t. One minute he was going to make a fortune with a nightclub. The next he was going to get a fleet of limousines. What a boy!” Mr. Zheng said that with a mix of exasperation and admiration. “Ted was so smart, so quick, so charming. But he bounced from one idea to another. From one person to another. No one could keep track of him.”

“I hate to bring this up, but he police suggest that maybe he was dealing drugs.”

“No,” Mr. Zheng said clearly. “Nothing to hurt anyone else. Maybe himself. But he wouldn’t get into drugs or prostitution. I know him. I knew him.”

“Gambling?”

“Maybe. But nothing serious. A little mahjong maybe.”

“And his girlfriend, Sandy?”

“What about her?”

“Do you and your wife like her, accept her?”

“My wife, no. Me? I accepted it as part of Ted’s curiosity. He had a Chinese wife before. He wanted something different.”

“Not serious?”

“Not serious, I’m sure.”

“The people who live in the apartment building. Was Ted close to any of them, or did he have business with them?”

“All of them, one way or another. Ted was the kind of person who loved an audience. And people liked him. He was a charmer.”

Mr. Zheng slipped into his own world but was brought out of it again when the waiter reappeared with another bottle of beer. The two talked more. My guess was that Mr. Zheng frequently came here for a few illicit beers.

“Come with me,” Mr. Zheng said after we’d finished. “We’ll talk with Gong Li. My wife.”

We walked over to Stockton Street. Here the fruit and vegetables spilled from the markets out onto the narrow sidewalks, which were already too narrow to convey the massive river of people without creating bottlenecks.

There is in Chinatown, like in other neighborhoods, a recognizable, telltale scent. I think perhaps it is some strange mixture of the sweet cookie dough and the open fish markets.

My upbringing in Phoenix hadn’t prepared me for the live fish sold from
barrels and buckets. My upbringing in waspish, cellophane-wrapped America had done little to prepare me for this vaster marketplace. There were kicking frogs under netting, turtles waddling over each other in shallow water and eels in deeper tin pans.

As we approached the door of the apartment building and Mr. Zheng fiddled with keys, I noticed the doormat for the first time. BLUE DRAGON, it said, the letters nearly obliterated by countless entrances and departures.

“Blue Dragon?” I asked.

“Oh, that. Yes, that has been here for a long time. I don’t remember now who did it. I guess someone just decided to name the building Blue Dragon. We are now entering the mouth, I suppose,” he said with a laugh.

Ray was nowhere to be seen. I wondered if he was peeping from behind his door.

We went up the steps to the second floor.

“You know the other tenants very well?”

“Not very well. We say hello and that’s about all,” Mr. Zheng said, fishing a breath mint out of his pocket. He gave me a smile that insinuated we were partners in crime.

The Zhengs’ apartment was immaculate. Mrs. Zheng was standing when we came in. She was a small woman with fierce eyes. In tow was the child, in blue shorts and a starched white shirt. He looked up curiously. On the sofa was an elderly man. He smoked a cigarette, holding it in long bony fingers that were yellowed from nicotine.

There was the obvious introduction. I smiled and nodded. Mrs. Zheng remained standing, brittle against the outsider.

I dropped down on my haunches and extended a hand to the child.

“Hello, I’m glad to meet you. What is your name?”

The child continued to stare, an undecipherable look on his fresh face.

It seemed odd. I was his age when I last saw my parents. Now his too are gone, I thought. That was an assumption. I hadn’t asked about the boy’s mother, Ted Zheng’s wife. That should have been too obvious to miss.