The gray Hong Kong silk suit jacket had fallen open. Jack fished out a wallet and a ring of keys. Turning his back to the elevator, he went through the wallet while pacing to the far wall. He ran his hand along the wall at eye level, then stepped back, reached lower and ran his hand along it again. He found a small hole. He took out his penknife and dug out a section of the sheetrock. The squashed slug was a small caliber. Twenty-two long, maybe a twenty-five automatic. Handgun, he thought, at close range. There were no shell casings in the elevator car.
From the wallet he pulled a driver's license, a credit card. Wah Yee lam, aged sixty. Had an address at Confucius Towers. Uncle Four, he suddenly realized.
There was a lawyer's business card showing an address in the building. Another card for a limo service. He made a mental log of the items.
The watchman came up. He said in halting Toishanese how he came upon the victim.
"I was making the rounds. The sing song gay, elevator, was stuck on the third floor and I went to check. The security camera out front was working, but the tape had already run out. It's the door custodian's responsibility, but he went to get takeout."
Jack showed him the lawyer's card. The man was hesitant, looked away and said, "That's his lawyer."
"You know them?" Jack squinted at him.
"Not personally, I mean. Just see them in the building."
"A lot?"
"Regular." He glanced at his watch, stared out the window, didn't say anything more. Jack felt the aura of death and bad luck around them.
"Leave your name and number with the officer," Jack cautioned him. "And get the elevator engineer to meet me in the basement."
The medical examiner arrived and Jack left him with the EMS, and the Crime Scene Unit, then hoofed it up the stairwell to the lawyer's office on Five.
The lawyer, C.K. LOO, JD, CPA, MBA, CFP, appeared to be in shock and was little help.
"I wasn't expecting him," he said vacantly, "but it's Double-Ten time. Maybe he came to extend salutations."
"Was that his habit?"
"During holidays, yes."
"Do you know of any reason why someone would want him killed?"
"None whatsoever. Everything's aboveboard."
"Is there a will?"
"Yes."
"Who benefits?"
C.K. Loo was monotone. "His wife, his daughter."
"Do you know if he carried life insurance?"
"Yes."
Jack stepped closer. "How much?"
"Two hundred thousand."
"The beneficiary?"
"His wife."
Jack scanned the man's desk, said softly, "How do you know all this?"
"My brother sold him the policies." He rubbed his forehead, adjusted his spectacles.
"What else?"
"Nothing." Loo shook his head.
Jack handed him a business card. "Hang around. I may have more questions."
C.K. sighed, shook his head some more. "A terrible thing," he said, "to die like that."
Jack left the stunned lawyer and went back to speak with the Medical Examiner. The paramedics had the body bagged and were rolling it out to the van on a gurney.
"I'll have an answer tonight," the M.E. said, packing his tools. He left and Jack watched the custodian mopping up the blood and the bad-luck superstition.
Afterward Jack went down to the basement, had the engineer bring the elevator halfway up. Jack borrowed his flashlight, checked the sides and the bottom of the elevator pit. No shell casings. Revolver, he thought, but no one heard anything. If a silencer was used, the weapon would have to have been an automatic, but he couldn't imagine a pro hitter stopping to pick up the shells. Unless it wasn't a pro. Unless the building workers did hear something but were just being Chinese, afraid to get involved with the law. Considering the contradictions, he returned to the lobby, felt the dead man's keys jangling in his jacket pocket. Six brass-colored keys on the ring. He saw that three keys had the word Kongstamped on them. The name of the locksmith, probably. The other three keys were newer, stamped Klein Hdw, a hardware-store set. He wondered what doors they would lead him to, and dropped them back into his pocket.
"Setup, "he said to himself, revenge or money, and headed for the Thirty Minute Photo Shop.
Rage
Golo crossed Hester Street, avoiding the uniform cops who were cordoning off the building's entrance with yellow crime-scene tape. The Hakkas followed a safe distance behind him, disappearing into the backstreets with their China White Number Four.
Back in his apartment, Golo took the Tokarev out from under his bed, loading it with an urgency that made his hand tremble when he inserted the clip. A scattering of images crossed his mind as he slid the pistol into the holster under his arm. Fifty thousand in Pandas and diamonds. He paced the apartment chainsmok- ing cigarettes, figuring it out. Mona, the whore. Had to be her. The old man must have blabbed about it. Forget it, bak gee seen-paper fan rank-was out of the question now. Lucky if they didn't kill him even ifeverythingwas recovered. The bitch, he thought, as he ran out of the apartment, was going today big when he caught up with her.
He waited on the street outside the China Plaza, nodded toward a sedan full of Dragons, before he fell in behind the Chinese mailman and entered the building.
Golo took the elevator to Mona's condo and crowbarred the lock, buckling the door frame as he forced it. He slipped out the nine-millimeter, stepped inside the large room. Empty. As he had feared, he was too late. The bed was made, nothing under it. He pushed back the accordion doors of the closet, saw belts, scarves, designer jackets and dresses with fancy labels. On the floor were more than a dozen shoeboxes, and a set of matching leather bags in different sizes. She left in a hurry. He holstered the gun, went through the lingerie and linens in the drawers. In the kitchenette cupboard, spices, chrysanthemum tea bags, plastic dishes, a set of tableware, were stacked neatly in place. A scattered mound of mahjong blocks was on the counter. The refrigerator was empty.
He found toothpaste, a bottle of astringent, in the bathroom.
Golo tossed the furniture quickly, found nothing. He went back down to the street, posted a Dragon at the entrance and sent one up to the apartment. He instructed the dailo, "Find me a black radio car with triple-eight-bot bot bot-license plates. It waits at a cab stand in front of Confucius Towers sometimes. Check out the garages along the backstreets. Bring in the driver." Golo's hard eyes narrowed. "For questioning."
Actress
Tam tai was the grieving widow draped in black, sobbing, hanky dabbing at her eyes, streaks of liner running. She was supported on the couch by Mak mui and Loo je. Jack smelled the heavy incense and saw the bot kwas facing out every window.
The only jewelry Tam tai wore was dark brown jade bracelets.
She spoke haltingly, with a slight Taiwanese accent. "He was a good man, I don't know who would want to kill him. The On Yees were his rivals, but everyone agrees there was peace this year."
Jack took a breath through his nose.
"Forgive me for mentioning, but there's the matter of the life insurance."
Tam tai didn't flinch, her gaze moving around the expanse of the living room.
"Take a look, detective," she said solemnly. "Take a good look around you." She paused for effect. "Do I look like a woman who needs money?"
Loo jeand Mak mui flashed indignant glances at him. Jack nodded respectfully as she smiled bravely.