Clarity
Jack sank into his chair in the squad room, sliding the backs of his fingers across the hard stubble of his chin while contemplating the photographs from the Thirty Minute Photo. He'd started a new file under the heading WAH YEE TAM/Uncle Four, and was attaching the pictures when the phone rang.
"Fifth Squad," he answered. "Detective Yu."
It was the Medical Examiner.
"Small caliber," the M.E. said, "probably a twenty-five. From one to two feet, we got powder marks. The slug entered left back of the head, went through bones in the cranium. There's a piece in the frontal lobe just inside the forehead. That's the one that killed him. There's another entry wound further toward the center of the head that exited the top of the skull. Shot as he was falling forward."
There was a pause before he continued.
"The killer's probably right-handed, short, and the victim was dead before he hit the ground. I call it about eleven fifty-five a.m."
Not your average hitman's caliber of choice, thought Jack. Threeeighty, nine-millimeter, he could see. The twenty-two, the twentyfive, was a lady's round, made for those little pistols that looked like cigarette lighters, the ones with plastic pearl handles, toylike, plated gold or chrome.
The M.E. hung up andJack made the entries in the file, think ing, A big shot got whacked just before noon on a working holiday, a Saturday in Chinatown. Offices in the building open but nobody heard anything. Were they just being Chinese? Or did the shooter have a silencer? Empty elevator. No witnesses.
The setup was too good, Jack decided. Someone had gotten real close, someone the victim knew.
Payback
The item appeared in the late edition of the Daily News, a two-inch column in the Metro Section, sandwiched between a photo of an auto accident and a piece on condoms in schools. The headline ran "Man Shot in Chinatown" under which it read:
A man believed to be the undersecretary of the Hip Ching Benevolent and Labor Association, a Chinatown tong, was fatally shot near his lawyer's office yesterday, police said. Wah Yee Tam, 60, was found shot in the head execution style en route to his lawyer's office at 444 Hester Street at about noon. Police have no suspects and could not comment on motive, but they voiced the fear that the shooting signals a resumption of local gang warfare. Anyone with information is urged to call (212) 334-0711. All calls will be kept confidential.
In The Wind
The Yellow Cab had jerked to a stop.
Mona kicked out of the side door onto the curb, hurried toward the rush of commuters. She was a shapeless form, her head wrapped by the Hermes scarf, eyes hidden behind the Vuarnets, a black garment bag slung over her shoulder, as she stepped onto the escalator, plunging her down into the sea of heads. Inside, Penn Station was a blur of video digital displays, flashing yellow lights, red uniforms hunkered down in glass bunkers designated TICKETS, RESERVATIONS, DEPARTURES.
She left the baggy brown Chinese jacket she'd worn in the ladies' room, emerged in a black leather blazer, the scarf tied around her neck. All in black now.
The rental locker opened with a snap of the key, and she pulled out a hard-molded Samsonite Rollmaster, black with steel hardware, pulling it behind her as she drifted into the surging merging crowds, moved along by the blaring loudspeakers. She checked her watch as she went, weaving through the other travelers onto the platform, beneath the cool fluorescent lights, past the silvery metallic trains, past the throbbing engines.
Her private accommodations were on a sleek SuperLiner, the Broadway Limited, in a deluxe bedroom sleeper compartment that had its own shower and toilet, and an extra bed folded into the wall.
The trainman took her ticket, punched it, noticed her cherry lipstick and fingernails. He smiled, nodded, went his way down the platform. She stepped up into the Slumber Coach room, hung the garment bag and took the Vuarnets off. Closing her eyes a moment, she took a deep breath. Then again.
She locked the door, sat on the fold-down bed and removed a bottle of XO from the Rollmaster. She took a swallow to calm herself, lit up a Slims, opened the window.
The Broadway Limited pulled out of Penn Station and went west under the Hudson, emerging in the New Jersey Palisades. The cigarette burned down as she watched the New York City skyline blend into the overcast afternoon, into the rush of mountain scenery. She leaned back, blew smoke, and contemplated what she had done.
Killshot
The old bastard never recognized her. She'd worn a shoulder-length shag-cut wig, black with chestnut highlights, and streaked with amber. A deep red on her lips. With the French sunglasses that made her appear twentysomething, she'd looked like someone else entirely. He never saw it coming. A black garment bag draped horizontally along her left arm, the little gun folded inside the bag's zip-pocket. No one else around.
There was a scarf wrapped inside her black leather blazer, all of it covered by an oversized strident jacket that looked like cheap Chinese polyester. He was there, with the plastic bag, momentarily surprised to see her, a sin jeer, a young street girl. The elevator door opened, they stepped in. He smiled, looked away. She pressed three, stepped back as the doors closed. Behind him now, she raised the garment bag. There was no turning back. Time to say goodbye. The doors opened and she squeezed the trigger once, twice, into the back of his head, the little shells ejecting inside the garment bag. She grabbed the plastic takeout sack as he fell forward, stepped over his body, heard a gurgling noise, and hurried down the back stairwell.
Out onto the street. A block away, she shed the wig, slipped the scarf up over her head like a cowl, going quickly down to where Center Street became Lafayette and the traffic ran north.
She hid behind the French sunglasses and waved her arm at the oncoming traffic.
The streets flashed past through the cab window. She shifted the gun back into the fold of the zip-pocket, dared enough to glimpse gold coins and cash inside the takeout bag, and knew there had to be diamonds. Time rushed by under the traffic lights, and she started up a cigarette, imagining the urgent wail of police sirens, ambulances. The cab turned west, rolled through a green light and continued north on Eight Avenue.
She smoked the cigarette down to the filter, snuffed it in the side ashtray. Wiped her lipstick, checked her watch. Twelve fifteen. Twenty-eighth Street, Thirtieth. She got a ten ready, didn't want to look back when she left the cab. The streets ran by until Penn Plaza loomed up.
Wisdom
Jack had dinner alone, a plate of onion-smothered grilled steak at the back table of the Golden Star. Chased it with a beer, waited while surfing TV news channels. President Clinton setting Upjapan for the biggest bash of all. North Korea, nuclear rogue of Asia. China, remember Tiananmen Square, the Most Favored Nation.
When Alexandra arrived they took a back booth and sat opposite each other in the shadowy blue light. He ordered another beer and she started with a Kamikaze.
"Thanks for coming," he said.
The mood was conciliatory. Jack lit both their cigarettes as she said, "You did me a favor. I owe you."
"You don't owe me anything," he replied. "I know you're trying to do something positive, trying to make a difference. I didn't want to see that going down the drain."
Alexandra blew smoke sideways, assessed him with her eyes. "Well," she began, "you'll be happy to know, Immigration's got them."