Jack wasn’t surprised, knew legal would appear sooner or later. “The interview was over before you got here,” said Jack.
“It’s an outrage, Detective,” Schwartz complained, “not allowing a phone call from the precinct? He’s been denied due process.”
“The process isn’t perfect,” Jack said. “But I’ll tell you what’s due, Counselor. A judge is going to remand without bail. Your ‘motherfucker’ client here is a flight risk. Not only did he try to kill a cop, but he’s wanted for even more trouble than your fancy words can get him out of.”
Gaw frowned and mumbled curses under his breath.
“I’ll have him out in twenty-four hours,” said Schwartz.
“I don’t think so. Hong Kong’s got first dibs. Interpol’s tagged a Red Card on him, and Immigration’s been notified.”
Solomon just shook his head, uncertain if it was a bluff or if he’d been outplayed on the overnight by the Chinese detective.
“Here or at Rikers, it doesn’t really matter,” continued Jack. “I don’t think he’ll be staying long.”
“How’s that?” Solomon asked.
“Interview’s over,” Jack said with a smile. “Send Bossy my regards.” He left the room throwing a last look in Gaw’s direction. Gaw was still scowling, staying inside himself. Could he have another card to play? wondered Jack.
He left the Tombs, went past the guard booth. One of the overnight officers apologized. “Sorry about the lawyer,” he said. “Prisoner claimed he was sick, needed medication. Needed to call his doctor. So they let him make a call. He spoke Chinese with someone.”
“No problem,” said Jack, figuring, Gaw probably called Bossy, who called Schwartz.
WITH CAPTAIN MARINO’S help from the Fifth Precinct, Jack obtained two warrants-one for Gaw’s Town Car, the other for his Pell Street apartment. Jack borrowed Gaw’s keys from Property, headed for Rickshaw Garage first.
The manager recognized Jack and escorted him to the Lincoln. The five-year-old car still looked in mint condition. According to the ticket, the car was returned a few minutes before Jack first spotted Gaw walking into Pell Street. But where he’d been prior didn’t seem to matter much anymore. Jack waited until the manager left before sliding into the passenger side.
The interior of the car was pristine, a somber gray color, the same as the hundreds of other cars that the see gays drove to cemeteries, weddings, and proms. There was a box of tissues on the backseat. He checked under the seats, along the door panels, in the center console. All clear.
In the glove compartment he found some Hong Kong pop music tapes, a few transportation maps of the tri-state area, and tour brochures of Boston and Philadelphia Chinatowns. There were booklets from a car dealership, a pen from China Village restaurant, some auto wipes, and a plastic Ziploc bag with wah moy, chan pei moy, and hawthorn flakes, Chinese candies for the road. Otherwise, all clear.
He moved to the rear of the car and popped the trunk using Gaw’s key. There was a plastic milk crate that served as a road emergency kit: flares, jumper cables, flashlight, tow rope, a can of tire inflator. To one side a roll of paper towels; some plastic takeout bags; a gai mo so, feather duster; and a can of air freshener. A collapsible shovel, an ice scraper-brush-combination tool. A carton of cigarettes, Marlboros, with a few packs missing. And no New York State tax stamp.
He placed the carton of cigarettes carefully into one of the plastic bags before checking the spare-tire storage well. Finding nothing there, he closed the trunk, taking only the smokes.
He left Rickshaw and walked the block and a half to number 8 Pell. Slipping on the disposable latex gloves from the precinct, he keyed the street door, went up to the third floor. At apartment 3A he inserted the other key, twisted it, and entered. There was a wall switch just inside the door, and he flicked it, lighting the room from a fixture on the ceiling.
The walk-up wasn’t a typical Chinatown apartment; 3A was a railroad flat, three rooms back to back to back in a straight line. The first room was big, with a small bathroom in front of him to his right. An alley window and a table with chairs were to his left. Beyond that, at the far wall, was a kitchenette setup: range top, sink, small refrigerator.
The place looked like it’d had a face-lift over the last couple of decades.
He hung the bag with the carton of smokes on the front doorknob.
To his right was another narrow room, or corridor. He flicked another light switch. There was a closet on his left, a worn club chair in a nook facing a small television set with an ashtray and a pack of Marlboros on top of it.
He went into the last room, hit the switch. The bedroom was a small square with a full-size mattress bed, a small nightstand with a cheap table lamp to the right of the headboard. Along the wall to his left were a dresser with a mirror and a folding chair with folded laundry on it.
He took a settling breath and went back to the kitchenette.
He checked the refrigerator, then the cabinets. In the refrigerator freezer he found frozen dumplings and yu don fish balls, some red bean ice bars, and a bag of lotus seed baos. On the inside door there were bottles of soy sauce, oyster sauce, Sriracha. On the bottom shelf there was a brick of tofu, a package of lop cheung sausage, a box of salted eggs, and a can of lychees. A bottle of Absolut vodka to one side.
There was a shopping bag of plastic takeout bags on the floor next to a garbage bin. A six-pack of water bottles nearby.
In one cabinet he found bulk packs of assorted ramen and mei fun rice noodles. Stacks of plastic plates and cups, forks, and spoons that looked like restaurant supply. The second cabinet was emptier; it held just a small bag of rice, a box of tea bags from Ten Ren, and an assortment of sweets and candies, mango slices, and the kind of wah moy he’d kept in the car.
Beneath the cabinets was a sink, with a dish-drainer tray next to it. In the rack was one cup, one dish, one bowl, a pair of chopsticks, and a spoon. At the end of the counter there was a small electric rice cooker.
The range top held a wok, a teapot, and a soup pan.
So far everything indicated that Gaw’s apartment was a single bachelor’s setup. Jack grabbed some of the plastic takeout bags and continued.
At the wall edge of the table was a tin of Tea Time cookies, a bag of roasted Chinese peanuts. Almost covered by the bag of nuts was a can, which upon closer inspection turned out to be a can of abalone. “Abba-lone-nay,” Jack remembered Ruben saying in Spanish. Abalone. He dropped the can into one of the takeout bags, leaving it on the table for the time being.
He’d hoped to find a weapon, maybe contraband, and turned his attention to the bathroom.
The mirrored medicine cabinet held Tylenol and Band-Aids and an assortment of Chinese herbal treatments and liniments like mon gum yow and deet da jao.
He checked under the sink and toilet bowl. Clean.
There weren’t any weapons or drugs in the toilet tank.
He headed for the second room.
The middle room, with the little closet and the notch out, was the equivalent of a living room, a small area where you could sit down, watch the little TV, and have a drink or smoke a cigarette. A chill-out area before the last room, where you had sex or just went to bed.
Inside the closet was a lightbulb on a pull chain. Jack tugged on the chain and illuminated a line of clothing hanging off a rail. Shirts and jackets mostly. Nothing in the pockets. Above the rail was a shelf holding sheets and towels. He ran his latexed hands through the folds and along the shelf’s edges.