She moved on, Striker did not. He stood at the entranceway to the kitchen, which was covered by nothing but a red hanging sash, and breathed in the smell of lemon and chicken and garlic and green onions. It smelled good. Made his stomach rumble. He realised how long it had been since they’d eaten.
‘Over here is office,’ Annie Ting said. ‘This way, this way here.’
But Striker still did not move. He was looking at an unmarked door that sat just between the kitchen and pantry. It was painted black and had scuff marks in the bottom.
‘What’s in there?’
‘Pantry. Office this way, this way here.’
‘I thought that was the pantry,’ Striker said, and pointed to the other side of the kitchen.
‘Have two. Need much. Very busy restaurant. Office this way.’
Striker paid her no heed. He glanced at Felicia, and when she gave him a nod, he stepped up to the door and turned the knob. It was locked, didn’t budge. He listened, and could hear clatter on the other side. He turned back to Annie Ting, saw the hardness of her stare, and knew they had found something.
‘Always lock the pantry?’
‘Door is broken, we never use.’
‘Well, you can either fix the broken door and let us in there, or we can use other methods.’
‘Door broken,’ she said again.
Striker stepped forward and landed one hard kick alongside the door knob. The door burst inwards, taking a chunk of frame with it and filling the kitchen with the sound of snapping wood. On the other side of the door was a short hallway, leading back to another series of rooms.
‘Stop, stop!’ the hostess said.
‘Big pantry.’
‘You need warrant!’
Striker heard Felicia tell the woman to shut up as they walked down the hall. They’d barely gotten ten feet when the air thickened with smoke, and the smell of whisky and other liquor filled the air. At the end of the hallway was another sash. When Striker neared it, he could hear chatter and a clattering noise, like pebbles being dropped on hardwood. He knew what it was immediately.
Pai Gow tiles.
They’d walked into a backdoor gambling ring. Nothing out of the ordinary for Chinatown.
He pushed through the red sash and stepped into a large room with many tables full of gamblers. Some were older, most were middle-aged, but all were Asian. Looked fresh off the boat. Cantonese filled the air, loud and excited tones. Serving boys scurried from table to table, and a few older gentlemen in tuxedos served whiskys and cognacs. At the far end, two large men in golden suits eyed him warily but did not approach.
Striker turned to Felicia. ‘Those suits look familiar?’ he asked.
‘Same as the men in the back of the van.’
He nodded. ‘Keep an eye on them and the dragon lady while I look around.’
The hostess, Annie Ting, narrowed her eyes at the comment.
‘You need warrant!’ she said again.
Striker ignored her. He walked in between the tables, and some of the guests stopped gambling and looked at him suspiciously, as if they had just realised that a white guy had invaded their Chinese gambling den. Others gave him indifferent glances and made more bets.
At the right end of the room, a narrow stairway descended. Striker approached it, stared down. At the bottom was a closed door. He motioned to Felicia that he was going to check it out.
The stairs were wood and they creaked under the weight of his boots. When he reached the alcove, it was dark, the only light bulb in the hall being burned out. The sign on the door was readable and in English.
KEEP OUT.
Simple, but effective — for those who weren’t police.
Striker opened the door, stepped inside the room, and was bathed by fluorescent light. The room was long and rectangular. It might have once been an office, or a meeting room. It was difficult to tell because it had been completely gutted, and recently. The carpet was torn up, and the walls were painted, though not with paint but grey primer. Striker rubbed his hand across the wall and felt a few rough areas where the filler had not been properly sanded.
A rush remodelling job. There had to be a reason.
He walked through the room, studying the floors and walls, and finding nothing of interest. When he turned back to the doorway and was about to exit, something caught his eye.
He looked up at the hard-foam ceiling tiles. Each square was a perfect twelve-by-twelve inches and mottled with black specks. The nearest tile had a small hole in it, at the far edge, near the doorframe. At first glance it looked to be part of the design, but this hole was larger than the others, and it went in at an angle.
Striker pulled over a pair of paint cans, stood on them, took a better look, and knew what he had found. It was a bullet-hole. And given the connection of the dead men in the van and the information he’d gotten from Chinese Tony, there was little doubt what this place had been.
A murder room.
Sixty-Six
Over an hour later, at just past one o’clock, Striker and Felicia dropped by Forensic Audio, obtained a hard-disc copy of the audio feed from Ich, and headed for Worldwide Translation Services. Translating the feed was their next best bet because things at the Fortune Happy Restaurant weren’t going so well.
Annie Ting wasn’t saying anything, and neither were any of the people who worked there. Striker had expected as much. He lodged everyone in jail while Ident processed the scene.
It was the best strategy possible. Sometimes a few hours in jail made people talk. And when it didn’t, some hard forensic evidence often did the trick. Regardless, they were stuck in another waiting game, and that was a game Striker didn’t want to play.
They reached the corner of Grant and Commercial, where Worldwide Translation Services was located. It was a place Striker was familiar with, having been here a dozen or so times over the years, when the clumsy and inadequate translation people of the police departments failed them — which was too damn often.
Striker sat in the waiting room, the latest disturbing events circulating in his head. He turned to Felicia. ‘You call the hospital again?’
She nodded. ‘Yeah, no change with Patricia Kwan. Dr Aussie’s gonna call us back when he has any information.’ She pulled a Caramilk bar from her jacket pocket.
Striker stared at the chocolate bar. ‘Jesus, do you eat anything else?’
‘Yeah, Snickers.’ She broke off a piece and dropped it in his hand. ‘Have some. If things keep going the way they are now, it might be the only nourishment you’re going to get today. Besides,’ she smiled wryly. ‘I’ve kept it close to my heart for you.’
Striker smiled back at the comment, and popped a Caramilk square into his mouth. He wasn’t the chocolate fiend Felicia was, but it was the only thing he’d eaten today since whatever it was he’d had for breakfast. He let the chocolate melt in his mouth and scratched at his face. He hadn’t shaved for two days now and the growth was bugging him. He let out a frustrated sound and muttered, ‘Any news on the Amber Alert?’
‘No, the Kwan girl is still missing. But we’ve called every relative she’s got, and have every jurisdiction looking for her.’
‘We find a cell number for her?’
Felicia made a face. ‘She’s on a prepaid and it’s run out. Found the phone in her bedroom.’
Striker said nothing, just groaned.
‘Relax, Jacob. This is what kills you — stressing about what you can’t control. We’re here to translate the disc. Focus on that until we can do better.’ She offered him another piece of chocolate. When he declined, she grinned. ‘It’s a substitute for sex, you know.’
‘If I used it for that, I’d be three hundred pounds.’
Magui Yagata opened the office door and entered the waiting room. Striker looked her over: she was in her late fifties, and the lines around her eyes and lips showed it. She was a hard-looking woman, and her mannerisms were no different. Before Striker could even say hi, she reached out and grabbed the disc from his hands.