Trail of Blood (4 page)

His face paled. Staring at the photos, he felt behind him for his stool and sat heavily. “This is what he stole, that man?”

“Yes. Uncle, are you ill?”

“Where . . .” He trailed off. His assistant hurried over, but he waved her away. “I’m fine, Irene,” he said gruffly. “See to the customers.” The shop was empty, but she took the hint and went back to her post by the door.

I tapped Wong Pan’s picture. “You’ve seen this jewelry, this man?”

“No.” Mr. Chen mopped his brow with a handkerchief. “I would like . . . May I borrow these photographs?”

“They’re copies, you can have them, but you need to tell me why. Has someone offered to sell you these pieces?”

“No.”

“Then—”

“I have to make sure. I might be wrong. You will hear from me.” He stood, collecting all but one photo from his counter. He handled them as delicately as if they were jewels themselves.

“Uncle, you really need to tell me what you know about this.”

But Mr. Chen was through speaking to me. He carried the photos into his office and shut the door. I was left alone with the assistant and, smiling up from the counter, the black-and-white face of Wong Pan.

4

There’s no such thing as a quiet corner in Chinatown, but I found a sheltered doorway and called Joel.

“Hey, Chinsky! Hope you’re having better luck than I am.”

“I’m not sure. But a strange thing happened.” I told Joel about Mr. Chen. “He knows something, obviously.”

“Excellent deduction, Watson.”

“Give me a break. Are you going to call Alice?”

He paused, and I wondered if he was chewing his lip. “I don’t know.”

“Why not?”

“Why not? Because I don’t have anything to tell her, because you didn’t push him.”

“Push him? He’d have totally clammed up if I’d pushed him.”

“And if he’d clammed up, you’d have what less than you have now?”

“Nothing, but I might have less than I’m going to get when he calls.”

“Or you gave him a chance to think about it and he isn’t going to call and you’re going to get nothing. Which is what you have now.”

“Oh, Joel, come on! He’s an old Chinese man. There was no way—”

“And you’re a young Chinese woman and you were being polite. Dangerous in our business, Chinsky. Anyway, forget it. I’ll call the client, she’ll at least see we’re wearing out shoe leather.”

“I was—”
Drop it, Lydia,
I ordered myself.
While you’re at it, stop reminding yourself that Bill would never have suggested you’d mishandled an interview with an old Chinese man.
I gritted my teeth and asked, “Okay, so how did
you
do?”

“Zippo. Blank stares on Forty-seventh Street. Hey, good name for a science fiction movie. So, what else you been up to?”

Joel’s tone was conciliatory. Well, good. “I’ve read a couple more of Rosalie Gilder’s letters. From the Jewish Museum Web site.”

“You have? Why?”

“I’m not sure. I wanted to get to know her better, I guess.”

“Ah, Chinsky. You never change. Okay, talk to you later.”

After we hung up, I squinted down Canal. Just because Mr. Chen had nearly fallen over in a faint when he saw the photos, and just because I was irritated with Joel, didn’t mean other jewelers might not have seen these pieces. I’d need to keep going, but that would have to be tomorrow. All along Canal, Closed signs were going up in store windows.

Hungry, thirsty, and tired, I headed to Pho Viet Huang for a bowl of noodle soup. I was annoyed at Joel for getting on my case, annoyed at my mother for being right about me getting annoyed at Joel, and annoyed at myself for having the sneaking suspicion Joel might be right, too. Joel Pilarsky and my mother—now there was an unholy alliance.

The soup was full of mint, bean sprouts, and beef, and after it I felt much better. I went to the park, sat on a bench, and spent twenty-five minutes on a conference call with my brothers. Ted’s and Elliot’s wives, Ling-an and Li-jane, were in on the call; Andrew’s boyfriend, Tony, stayed out of it; and Tim’s girlfriend, Rita, was too new to get mired in Chin family business. The subject was my mother, her stay in Flushing, and how we could leverage the experience into an argument for a permanent move. The conclusion we came to, as usual when the five of us discussed anything, was none at all.

“She was adjusting, she just needs time,” was Ted’s mild assessment.

“She seemed fine,” came from Elliot, who’s an emergency room doctor and tends to see all emotional states less dramatic than hysteria as the same.

“She liked the garden,” said Andrew, who’d made the long trip to Flushing a couple of times during my mother’s month there.

“She hated the whole thing,” retorted Tim, who hadn’t gone but is the one my mother calls to complain about the rest of us.

“Lyd?” Andrew said. “How did she seem when you got home?”

“Like the only way to get her to move to Flushing would be to stuff her in a box and load her on a van. Look, guys, it’s good to have Ted’s apartment there, but I think it’ll be a while until we can talk her into it.”

“That okay with you?” That was also Andrew. Tim wouldn’t think to ask, and the others are afraid to, in case someday I might say,
No, I’ve had it with this
.

“Right now she seems intent on proving what an uninterested, privacy-cherishing housemate she is,” I said. “I can deal, for the time being.”

So we decided to do, say, and plan nothing. A classic Chin family outcome.

To stay on Sensei Chung’s good side, I went down to the dojo. When I got home, my mother was watching the news on Cantonese cable. She looked up. “Have you eaten?”

“I had some soup. Is that shrimp I see?”

“To cook with spring onion.” She added, “It was cheap.”

Uh-huh. I knew what shrimp, one of my favorite foods, was selling for. “I’ll chop the onion,” I offered. It no doubt took iron self-control, but she didn’t stop me.

Dinner conversation was mostly about my brothers, my niece and nephews, and, in expanding rings, various cousins whose exploits, troubles, or luck required discussion. After the dishes, jet lag suddenly clobbered me. I took an herb-laden bath. When I came out, barely able to keep my eyes open, I found my mother absorbed in a Hong Kong soap opera, one she’s been following since I was in first grade. It’s set in an apartment complex on Kowloon, and the cast must have changed ten times since it began. I kissed her; she kissed me back but kept an eye on a red door closing to ominous music.

5

In the morning I found my mother sewing on a blouse she was making for Ling-an.

“How did you sleep?” she asked as I put water on.

“Strange dreams. I think it’s the jet lag. What’s going on in Cloud Lake Mansion?”

“On television?” She seemed dumbfounded by the question.

“Is that girl marrying the rich guy her father wants her to? And what about that soldier, did he come back?”

“I didn’t know you followed that show.”

“Ma, it moves so slowly I only need to walk by once a month when you’re watching to catch up. Did the politician’s wife have the baby yet?”

She blinked. “No, but she’s in the hospital, she’s having problems. And that pretty girl is a fool. She’ll marry that old man to make her father happy, instead of waiting for her soldier.”

“She probably will, but I’m surprised you don’t approve. Isn’t she being properly filial, doing that?”

“Of course. But if her father were a proper father he would care more about her happiness than making a good business alliance.”

“I guess he would. Do you want tea?”

“Yes,” my mother said, and added, “Thank you, Ling Wan-ju.”

* * *

I hit Canal Street, heading for Bright Hopes to see if Mr. Chen was ready to talk to me, but before I got close, my cell phone rang. When I answered, that bellowing tenor blasted my ear:

“ ‘Pretty lady with the flower,
Won’t you give a lonely sailor
’Alf an hour?’

“Sondheim,
Pacific Overtures.
Chinsky! Come up here right away.”

“Now? But I was—”

“Whatever you’re doing, drop it. Something’s fishy, and I want to talk about it.”

“What is?”

“Come up here.”

“Just tell me—”

“Chinsky!
Now!
”

Then a click. I stood for a moment, fuming. Who the hell was Joel Pilarsky to give me an order and then hang up? I almost called him back just to say that.
Yes, well, chill, Lydia. Just go up there
.

We certainly did have to talk.

I got in gear and trotted to the N train, reaching the platform in time to see red taillights. Served me right for arguing with myself. Well, so Joel would have to wait. Served
him
right for pushing me around. When the train finally came, the ride was shorter than the wait had been.

Joel’s office was in midtown, in a 1930s building with complicated corridors and cranky steel windows. Its elevators grumbled and its terrazzo floors sagged. Joel claimed he didn’t move because the place was such a dump the landlord paid the tenants, but I knew the truth. From the day we met, I’d seen Joel’s impatient know-it-allness for what it was: a smoke screen for his secret identity as a hopeless romantic. Like most romantics, he was disappointed in little and big ways dozens of times a day, and like most, he kept trying. These rabbit-warren hallways, these glass-paneled doors with names in gold, creaking onto small rooms with vast Manhattan views—what could be a more romantic place for a private eye?
Joel Pilarsky,
I thought,
you don’t fool me
.

I got a nod from the lobby guard. My last case with Joel—the runaway wife and the noodle king—had been only a year ago, so maybe he recognized me. More likely he just hoped he did so he wouldn’t have to tear himself from the
Enquirer
’s coverage of a spaceship landing in Pittsburgh.

The elevator muttered all the way up as though I’d interrupted its lunch break. On Joel’s floor I walked the maze, left-right-right-left. I knocked and pushed his door open. There was an outer office, as though Joel had a secretary, but he didn’t, just a part-time bookkeeper to send out the bills. I walked through to the inner office, saying, “Pilarsky, this place is a mess. If you’re going to make me drop everything and run over here, the least you could do—”

I stopped. Joel was sitting in his office chair, but though his eyes were open he wasn’t looking at me.

Or at anything, anymore.

I tried. I ignored the oceans of blood soaking his shirt and felt his neck for a pulse, though I knew he wouldn’t have one. But it was the by-the-book thing, and Joel would have been disappointed in me if I hadn’t done it. I looked around, taking in the open drawers and file cabinets, but I didn’t touch anything. I used my cell phone to call the police and then I waited in the corridor, so no one else would make the mistake I had, of touching the doorknob, maybe screwing up the killer’s prints. And I left Joel’s eyes open, and his yarmulke on the floor where it had fallen, though I wasn’t sure that was okay, at all.

6

“Here, drink this.”

Mary held a takeout cup with a dangling Lipton’s label. I sipped, hoping tea would clear my fog. I felt as though I were seeing through the wrong end of a telescope and hearing through a closed door. And standing in sludge.

“Sit down,” Mary ordered.

“The forensics people—”

“Then in the hall.” She led me to the corridor and pointed at the floor.

Why hadn’t I thought of that? I sank down and leaned against the wall, closing my eyes.

“They’ll be through with you soon.” Mary’s voice came from beside me. “Then you can go.”

“I missed the train.”

“What?”

“Joel told me to get up here, and I was so mad at him for ordering me around that I didn’t hurry. If I’d caught the train that was pulling out, I’d have been here in time.”

“To get killed, too?”

I opened my eyes. “To stop the killer!”

“Maybe not.”

“I was talking to Joel on the phone!”

“And maybe the killer was right outside, waiting for him to hang up.”

“Still—”

“No ‘still.’ It’s not your fault. The point is now to catch the person who did this.”

I stared at this best friend, this cop. When, I wondered, had Mary stopped understanding me?

A small, sharp-featured man stepped out of Joel’s office. His gold shield was clipped to his pocket, and I knew someone had told me his name, but I had no idea what it was. He stopped when he caught sight of the badge hanging around Mary’s neck. “Who’re you?”

“Mary Kee. Fifth Precinct.”

“What’re you doing here?”

Mary pointed. “She’s a friend of mine.”

The uptown cop frowned. “Your name’s familiar. Do I know you?”

“We spoke on the phone. Your Asian John Doe from the hotel.”

“Right! You’re supposed to be ID-ing him.”

“I’m working on it.”

“Here? Now, I need the witness.”

“I’d like to stay.”

“I’d like you not to.”

“She’s a friend of mine. She’s upset.”

“And you’re off your turf. I’ll be nice.” He showed me a bunch of teeth, which was probably a smile.

Mary looked to me. I shrugged. She said, “When you’re ready to go, I’ll take you home,” and walked away down the hall.

The detective watched her, then turned back to me, notebook in hand. “You worked for Pilarsky?”

A preface would have been nice, I thought. Your name, how sorry you are. “Not exactly.” My voice sounded dull. Well, maybe I’d bore him, and he’d go away. “We’re both freelance. He called me in on a case. Before that I hadn’t seen him in a while.”

The detective had stopped writing, as if to let me finish babbling. “So, on
this
case, you worked for him.”

“I guess.”

“What’s the case?”

“Stolen jewelry.” I gave him a summary, finding it hard to stay focused. I kept seeing Joel standing outside the Waldorf, bursting into off-key song.

“Any way that could be related to this?” On “this” he nodded toward the office. I could read the skepticism in his lifted brows.

“I don’t know. When he called, he said something was fishy.”

“What was?”

“He didn’t tell me.”

Nodding as though he’d expect Joel not to tell me, he asked, “This jewelry—very valuable?”

“Not really, though it’s probably worth more than a Chinese civil servant could hope to see.”

“I thought everyone was getting rich over there, now that they took all our jobs. What’s ‘not really’?”

I stared at him. “Around twenty thousand, each piece.”

“Gee, sounds valuable to
me
. Must be nice to be you. What about Pilarsky? Why would someone shoot him over it? Did he have it?”

Mulgrew, I suddenly remembered, that was his name. Not that that made me feel any warmer toward him. “Detective Mulgrew? It’s
missing
. That’s why we were hired.”

“So maybe Pilarsky found it.”

“He told me something was fishy. That wouldn’t be fishy.”

“Fishy. Uh-huh.” He lifted his eyebrows again. “His wallet’s gone. And laptop and cell phone. And the place was turned over. You want to know, I make this for a robbery. How much cash did he keep in the office? A lot?”

“I don’t know. Just a robbery?”

“Some days, the bear gets you. We have three unsolved robberies in this neighborhood, last two months. Just like this. Daytime, high floor, vic alone. My theory? Messenger with a jones, just delivered whatever, now he’s in the building. Finds a one-man show, easy pickings.”

“Did anyone get killed in those others?”

“Maybe the vics didn’t put up a fuss. Would Pilarsky have? Instead of forking over?”

I gritted my teeth and nodded. “He could get—indignant.”

“Civilians.” Mulgrew shook his head.

“He was an ex–Port Authority cop.”

“Oh, really?” He spoke with the thick condescension the NYPD reserves for the lower cop orders. I wanted to slug him. “What about you? You ex-PA, too?”

“I’ve always been private.”

That got me an even more patronizing “I see.” Then: “Did Pilarsky go armed?”

“No. He shot someone on the job once and he didn’t like it.”

Mulgrew wrote that down, too, and flipped the notebook shut. So much for Joel. An ex-PA cop with a never-been-a-cop girl employee, unarmed because he was squeamish about shooting people, arguing with a stickup artist in his one-man office. What did he expect? Case closed.

“They have their own ambulances,” I said.

“What?”

“Orthodox Jews. There are special ways you have to handle the body.” Actually, I wasn’t sure Joel cared. He’d told me once about the ambulances, but I didn’t remember him saying to make certain he was carried away in one. But he had said I should get up here fast, and I hadn’t. In case the ambulance thing was important to him, I wanted to get it right.

Mulgrew hissed a sigh. “I think the Department can handle the protocol. Okay, go. Wait—what about you? You don’t carry, right?”

“I do sometimes, but not now.” I opened my jacket and showed him. Before he could ask, I opened my bag, too. He waved it closed as though I were trying to sell him something.

“So you do and Pilarsky didn’t?” Clearly for him that was backwards, just wrong.

“I shot someone once, too. I didn’t like it either. But I’d have liked it less if he shot me.”

Mulgrew smiled.

I still wanted to slug him.