The Shanghai Moon (10 page)

“What happened to that open mind?”

“It’s still ajar. Right now I need to speak to Alice Fairchild. She doesn’t answer her phone at the Waldorf or her cell. How do I find her?”

“Mary, it’s midnight! Maybe she sleeps with earplugs. If you want her, go over there and bang on the door. That’s what Mulgrew would do. Speaking of Mulgrew, did you tell him about the Chinese cop? That’s his case, too, isn’t it?”

“Teed him off. He told me I should have figured it out sooner.”

“
You
should have?”

“And he’s still clinging to his messenger theory on Joel.”

“He thinks this can possibly be coincidence?”

“More like hopes. He did promise they’ll check the forensics at Joel’s office and the cop’s hotel room.”

“Well, I guess that’s all we can hope for. Mary? What was his name?”

“The Chinese cop?”

“Yes.”

“Sheng Yue. Why?”

“I don’t know. He’s dead. We should at least be calling him by his name.”

After we hung up I stared at the ceiling for a while. I thought about Joel, drinking coffee at the Waldorf; about Alice, remembering how I took my tea; about Rosalie and Kai-rong on the deck of an ocean liner. I thought about calling Bill, and while I was thinking, I suddenly found the room bright with sun. And though I hadn’t noticed myself sleeping, I’d woken with an inspiration. I groped for my phone and speed-dialed Mary. “The cop from Shanghai. Sheng Yue. His hotel room’s the one that was registered to Wu Ming? ‘Anonymous?’ ”

“Good morning to you, too. Yes, that’s right.”

“Why would a cop do that?”

“I wondered that. Probably, Wong Pan knew the Shanghai police were on his trail. Wong Pan’s a civil servant, he might even know Sheng Yue personally. So just in case.”

“Right,” I said. “Thanks.”

“Lydia! Do
not
hang up! It sounds lame to me, too. What are you thinking?”

“I’ll tell you if it works out.”

“No.”

“Then come with me.”

“It’s a quarter to seven!”

“So what? Your shift starts at eight. Think of it as overtime.”

Twenty minutes later we were at the Midtown Suites, Mary knew what I was thinking, she’d made this official business, and she was telling me I was lucky she was letting me tag along.

“It was my idea!”

“You’re lucky you have good ideas.”

At the desk, Mary showed the pudgy, bleary-eyed clerk her gold shield. “You had a homicide here a few days ago.”

He nodded. “Five twenty-five. A Chinese cop, I hear.” His look said he was savvy enough to know that’s why two more Chinese cops were in his face right now.

“Were you on duty when the man who took that room checked in?”

“Of course. This is my shift. Midnight to ten.”

“Is this him?”

He peered at the photo. “Of course. Why?”

Of course. The photo was Wong Pan’s.

Out on the sidewalk, Mary called Mulgrew and read him the riot act. I was impressed; my regret was that I couldn’t hear Mulgrew’s end. When Mary lowered the still-smoking phone, she told me, “He says Sheng Yue answered the description of the registered guest.”

“Meaning he was Chinese.”

“This desk clerk who checked him in lives out in Jersey and was off by the time they found the body. Mulgrew asked if anyone still on duty had seen the registered guest. A room service waiter brought him a burger the night before.”

“He made the ID?”

“Yes. But guess what? He’s a Mexican illegal himself. Mulgrew said don’t worry, they weren’t INS, just was this the guy with the burger or not?”

“He said it was?”

“Maybe he even thought it was. Mulgrew never should
have bought it without corroboration. An illegal ID-ing a bloody corpse in a roomful of cops? What kind of police work is that?” Mary’s face was flushed with both anger at, and embarrassment for, her department. “So you were right. The room was Wong Pan’s. Sheng Yue must have traced him to it. I’m going to need that photo.”

I handed her the envelope. “Mary, what about phone calls from the room? If it was Wong Pan’s, they may mean something.”

“They might have, but there weren’t any. Maybe he didn’t make any. Or maybe he has a cell.”

I thought about that. “What are the chances of a midlevel Shanghai bureaucrat on the lam having a cell that works in the U.S.?”

She looked at me. “You know, it’s a shame you picked such a sleazy profession. You wouldn’t have made a bad cop.” She called Mulgrew again. A few crisp sentences and she was off the phone.

“That was fast.”

“Right now he’s so afraid of how bad I can make him look that he’d run over and paint my apartment. I told him to check the records for all the pay phones two blocks in every direction. That’ll take a while, though. Do you want me to call you when I hear?”

“Why did that sound like a question?”

“I’m going to the Waldorf now, to talk to your client. No, you can’t come.”

She was all set for an argument, but I couldn’t see any point in explaining I no longer had a client. “Okay,” I said. “Let me know what happens.” I waved and walked off before
her curious brow-furrow turned into a suspicious frown.

In the absence of any brighter ideas, I headed back to Chinatown. I needed to think, so I decided to walk. While I was walking, I decided, the way I used to when I was thinking, to call Bill.

“Smith,” he mumbled, his voice raspy.

“Chin.”

“Hey! Like old times.”

“Yes, me up and in action early and you waking from a sound sleep only because the phone rang.”

“It’s a good thing we’re working together again. I almost had to buy an alarm clock.”

“You remember I told you Mary was working a homicide?”

“I thought if you found Mary she was going to
be
a homicide.”

“Get serious. Her victim’s a Chinese cop. From China. Sent over here to find Wong Pan.”

Bill was silent for a moment. “I’d guess he found him.”

“Better, or worse. The hotel room he was killed in? It was Wong Pan’s.” I gave Bill the story. “They’re checking the pay phones in the area. And I—hold on, a call’s coming in.” I switched lines and answered, in both languages. The caller replied in English.

“Good morning, Ms. Chin. This is Chen Lao-li speaking. From Bright Hopes Jewelry. If it is convenient, please come to my shop this morning.”

I stopped short.
Oh, Lydia!
I’d forgotten all about the jeweler, sweeping my photos off his counter. “Mr. Chen! Do you—”

“We open at ten. I look forward to our meeting.” He hung up.

I clicked back to the other line and was surprised to find Bill still there. “Why didn’t you hang up the way you always do when I put you on hold? I’d have called you back.”

“I’m trying to behave.”

“This is unnerving.”

“That call?”

“No, you. But the call, too. It was Mr. Chen.”

“Chen . . . The jeweler? Who knew the photos?”

“That’s the guy. I forgot about him. How stupid is that?”

“Right. After all, you had nothing on your mind yesterday.”

“Don’t try to talk me out of it. Anyway, he wants me to come there. He opens at ten.”

“It’s not ten yet?”

“It’s not even nine. And you’re up. Imagine that.”

“Well, in celebration of this miracle, want me to come with you?”

I considered. “I think not, thanks. Whatever he wants, he might be willing to open up to a nice Chinese girl, but it would probably be better if you weren’t there.”

“It usually is.”

Chances were I was right and Bill shouldn’t come along. And this was our SOP, to work separately when it seemed like the results would be better. And Bill was a four-letter word who hadn’t called me in months.

So it was surprising, the little pang of loneliness I felt after we said good-bye.

Somewhere on my walk downtown, the day slid from fresh promise into muggy fact. I wiped my forehead and put on my sunglasses. By the time I hit Canal, traffic was at full stampede, giving out with honks and rumbles the way a herd of cattle might bellow and stamp.

Even though I’d walked, I was early. I watched through the window at Bright Hopes as the young assistant flicked on lights and lit General Gung’s incense. At the stroke of ten she unlocked the door and smiled to find me at it.

“Lydia Chin. I was here yesterday? I’ve come to see Mr. Chen.”

“Yes, he’s expecting you. I’m Irene Ng, by the way. Please follow me.”

Irene Ng led me through the shop, lifting a gate in the back counter. She knocked on Mr. Chen’s door and then opened it for me. Mr. Chen and another man stood from low lacquered stools. On the table before them, along with my photos, sat a tray of sweets, tiny teacups, and a gourd-shaped pot. A flowery fragrance filled the air.

“Chin Ling Wan-ju, welcome.” Mr. Chen bowed, using my Chinese name but speaking in English as we had yesterday. “This is my cousin, Zhang Li.”

I bowed to Mr. Zhang as he did to me. Older and bigger than Mr. Chen, full-faced and balding, he had classic Han
Chinese features that made Mr. Chen’s rounded eyes and sharp nose more apparent. “An honor to meet you,” I said. Formally, with both hands, he handed me his card, so formally, I took it and did the same.

In some way I didn’t follow, this had become an occasion. Mr. Chen seemed to have recovered enough from yesterday’s vapors to regard me intently, almost hungrily. It wasn’t the guilty look of a man nervous about being caught with contraband goods. It might be, it occurred to me, the look of a man who’d already bought some and was interested in buying more.

I was intrigued. If I hadn’t had pressing things on my mind, like murder, I’d have played it their way, letting them spin it out until I saw what they wanted. Under the circumstances, though, that would be disingenuous to the point of fraud.

I sat, thanking Mr. Chen when he handed me tea. Courtesy dictated that I try it and comment on its deliciousness, allowing him to tut-tut and me to insist, but I skipped all that and went straight in. “Mr. Chen, I’m not sure why you called me, but since yesterday the situation has changed.”

“Situation?” His surprise may have been due to what I’d said, or to my rudeness in cutting so directly to the chase.

Mr. Zhang, the cousin, was giving me an odd, appraising look. Maybe he was having trouble with the language. “Should we continue in English?” I addressed them both. “Or in Cantonese?”

At that Mr. Zhang smiled. “Please, in English. Our Chinese is the Chinese of Shanghai. We learned English
there as boys, when learning came easily. In America, my cousin has been able to conquer your Cantonese dialect in a way that has eluded me. Of course, he is younger and his brain more agile.”

Mr. Chen waved that away. “Neither of us has been young for some time, cousin. But”—to me—“I have had this shop for many years. My customers provided my education. What do you mean, Ms. Chin, that the situation has changed?”

“Yesterday, when I brought you these photographs, I was working with an associate trying to find that jewelry. I’m sorry, but there’s no good way to say this. He’s been killed.”

Both men stared at me. Mr. Zhang recovered first. “Killed?”

“I’m afraid so. And another man, too: a police officer from China, following the thief.”

“They were killed because of this jewelry?”

“I don’t know. Once you tell me what you know about it, I’ll have a better idea.”

It seemed to me Mr. Chen’s hand trembled slightly as he set his teacup down. Mr. Zhang said, “Yes, of course. And please accept our condolences on the loss of your associate.”

“Thank you.”

“Before I speak about this jewelry,” he continued, “it is important that I understand the entire, as you say, situation. Perhaps you could tell us again why you are looking for it?”

No, you answer my question first!
I wanted to shout. But yesterday I’d insisted to Joel that pushing was no way to
handle an old Chinese man. “These pieces were in a box excavated in Shanghai recently. They’ve been stolen. My late associate and I were hired by a client who believes they’ve been brought here to be sold.”

“Who is your client, and why is he looking for this jewelry?” Mr. Zhang asked. “Is he from the Shanghai authorities?”

Oh ho,
I thought.
You do know something, and you don’t want to get in trouble.
“No. The client’s a woman, a Swiss attorney working for heirs of the original owner.”

Mr. Zhang exchanged a look with his cousin. “Who are these heirs?”

“I don’t know their names. The original owner was a Jewish woman from Salzburg, Elke Gilder. Her daughter, Rosalie, brought the jewelry to Shanghai. The heirs are Elke’s brother’s children.”

Mr. Chen started to speak but was stopped by a look from his cousin. Notwithstanding the fact that we were in Mr. Chen’s shop, Mr. Zhang was clearly in charge. “Do these photographs represent the entire contents of the box?” he asked.

“As far as I know.”

“Was anything else found?”

“Anything else.” I eyed the two men. “You mean the Shanghai Moon?”

Mr. Chen froze, as though any movement might break something. Mr. Zhang, though, just said mildly, “Yes. The Shanghai Moon.”

“I heard the story yesterday,” I told them. “That the Shanghai Moon might be in the company of these pieces.
I also heard that these pieces aren’t worth killing over, but the Shanghai Moon is.”

Mr. Zhang smiled. “You’ve cleverly sidestepped my question.”

“As you have mine.”

His smile grew delighted. “I’m unused to being clever, but I suppose I have. Ms. Chin—the Shanghai Moon? Was it there?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “If it was found, my client wasn’t told.”

Mr. Zhang inclined his head. “Thank you for indulging me.” Something passed between the two cousins then; I couldn’t read it, but they’d reached a decision. “I hope,” Mr. Zhang said, “we are able to answer your questions as fully as you have answered mine.” He sipped some tea, waiting.

“Well, to start with, let’s go back to this question: Have you seen these pieces?”

“Yes.”

I nearly jumped off my seat. “Wong Pan, the man who stole them, he’s been here?”

“No.”