The Shanghai Moon (6 page)

Joel’s office was in midtown, in a 1930s building with complicated corridors and cranky steel windows. Its
elevators grumbled and its terrazzo floors sagged. Joel claimed he didn’t move because the place was such a dump the landlord paid the tenants, but I knew the truth. From the day we met, I’d seen Joel’s impatient know-it-allness for what it was: a smoke screen for his secret identity as a hopeless romantic. Like most romantics, he was disappointed in little and big ways dozens of times a day, and like most, he kept trying. These rabbit-warren hallways, these glass-paneled doors with names in gold, creaking onto small rooms with vast Manhattan views—what could be a more romantic place for a private eye?
Joel Pilarsky,
I thought,
you don’t fool me
.

I got a nod from the lobby guard. My last case with Joel—the runaway wife and the noodle king—had been only a year ago, so maybe he recognized me. More likely he just hoped he did so he wouldn’t have to tear himself from the
Enquirer
’s coverage of a spaceship landing in Pittsburgh.

The elevator muttered all the way up as though I’d interrupted its lunch break. On Joel’s floor I walked the maze, left-right-right-left. I knocked and pushed his door open. There was an outer office, as though Joel had a secretary, but he didn’t, just a part-time bookkeeper to send out the bills. I walked through to the inner office, saying, “Pilarsky, this place is a mess. If you’re going to make me drop everything and run over here, the least you could do—”

I stopped. Joel was sitting in his office chair, but though his eyes were open he wasn’t looking at me.

Or at anything, anymore.

I tried. I ignored the oceans of blood soaking his shirt and felt his neck for a pulse, though I knew he wouldn’t have one. But it was the by-the-book thing, and Joel would have been disappointed in me if I hadn’t done it. I looked around, taking in the open drawers and file cabinets, but I didn’t touch anything. I used my cell phone to call the police and then I waited in the corridor, so no one else would make the mistake I had, of touching the doorknob, maybe screwing up the killer’s prints. And I left Joel’s eyes open, and his yarmulke on the floor where it had fallen, though I wasn’t sure that was okay, at all.

“Here, drink this.”

Mary held a takeout cup with a dangling Lipton’s label. I sipped, hoping tea would clear my fog. I felt as though I were seeing through the wrong end of a telescope and hearing through a closed door. And standing in sludge.

“Sit down,” Mary ordered.

“The forensics people—”

“Then in the hall.” She led me to the corridor and pointed at the floor.

Why hadn’t I thought of that? I sank down and leaned against the wall, closing my eyes.

“They’ll be through with you soon.” Mary’s voice came from beside me. “Then you can go.”

“I missed the train.”

“What?”

“Joel told me to get up here, and I was so mad at him for ordering me around that I didn’t hurry. If I’d caught the train that was pulling out, I’d have been here in time.”

“To get killed, too?”

I opened my eyes. “To stop the killer!”

“Maybe not.”

“I was talking to Joel on the phone!”

“And maybe the killer was right outside, waiting for him to hang up.”

“Still—”

“No ‘still.’ It’s not your fault. The point is now to catch the person who did this.”

I stared at this best friend, this cop. When, I wondered, had Mary stopped understanding me?

A small, sharp-featured man stepped out of Joel’s office. His gold shield was clipped to his pocket, and I knew someone had told me his name, but I had no idea what it was. He stopped when he caught sight of the badge hanging around Mary’s neck. “Who’re you?”

“Mary Kee. Fifth Precinct.”

“What’re you doing here?”

Mary pointed. “She’s a friend of mine.”

The uptown cop frowned. “Your name’s familiar. Do I know you?”

“We spoke on the phone. Your Asian John Doe from the hotel.”

“Right! You’re supposed to be ID-ing him.”

“I’m working on it.”

“Here? Now, I need the witness.”

“I’d like to stay.”

“I’d like you not to.”

“She’s a friend of mine. She’s upset.”

“And you’re off your turf. I’ll be nice.” He showed me a bunch of teeth, which was probably a smile.

Mary looked to me. I shrugged. She said, “When you’re ready to go, I’ll take you home,” and walked away down the hall.

The detective watched her, then turned back to me, notebook in hand. “You worked for Pilarsky?”

A preface would have been nice, I thought. Your name, how sorry you are. “Not exactly.” My voice sounded dull. Well, maybe I’d bore him, and he’d go away. “We’re both freelance. He called me in on a case. Before that I hadn’t seen him in a while.”

The detective had stopped writing, as if to let me finish babbling. “So, on
this
case, you worked for him.”

“I guess.”

“What’s the case?”

“Stolen jewelry.” I gave him a summary, finding it hard to stay focused. I kept seeing Joel standing outside the Waldorf, bursting into off-key song.

“Any way that could be related to this?” On “this” he nodded toward the office. I could read the skepticism in his lifted brows.

“I don’t know. When he called, he said something was fishy.”

“What was?”

“He didn’t tell me.”

Nodding as though he’d expect Joel not to tell me, he asked, “This jewelry—very valuable?”

“Not really, though it’s probably worth more than a Chinese civil servant could hope to see.”

“I thought everyone was getting rich over there, now that they took all our jobs. What’s ‘not really’?”

I stared at him. “Around twenty thousand, each piece.”

“Gee, sounds valuable to
me
. Must be nice to be you. What about Pilarsky? Why would someone shoot him over it? Did he have it?”

Mulgrew, I suddenly remembered, that was his name.
Not that that made me feel any warmer toward him. “Detective Mulgrew? It’s
missing
. That’s why we were hired.”

“So maybe Pilarsky found it.”

“He told me something was fishy. That wouldn’t be fishy.”

“Fishy. Uh-huh.” He lifted his eyebrows again. “His wallet’s gone. And laptop and cell phone. And the place was turned over. You want to know, I make this for a robbery. How much cash did he keep in the office? A lot?”

“I don’t know. Just a robbery?”

“Some days, the bear gets you. We have three unsolved robberies in this neighborhood, last two months. Just like this. Daytime, high floor, vic alone. My theory? Messenger with a jones, just delivered whatever, now he’s in the building. Finds a one-man show, easy pickings.”

“Did anyone get killed in those others?”

“Maybe the vics didn’t put up a fuss. Would Pilarsky have? Instead of forking over?”

I gritted my teeth and nodded. “He could get—indignant.”

“Civilians.” Mulgrew shook his head.

“He was an ex–Port Authority cop.”

“Oh, really?” He spoke with the thick condescension the NYPD reserves for the lower cop orders. I wanted to slug him. “What about you? You ex-PA, too?”

“I’ve always been private.”

That got me an even more patronizing “I see.” Then: “Did Pilarsky go armed?”

“No. He shot someone on the job once and he didn’t like it.”

Mulgrew wrote that down, too, and flipped the notebook shut. So much for Joel. An ex-PA cop with a never-been-a-cop girl employee, unarmed because he was squeamish about shooting people, arguing with a stickup artist in his one-man office. What did he expect? Case closed.

“They have their own ambulances,” I said.

“What?”

“Orthodox Jews. There are special ways you have to handle the body.” Actually, I wasn’t sure Joel cared. He’d told me once about the ambulances, but I didn’t remember him saying to make certain he was carried away in one. But he had said I should get up here fast, and I hadn’t. In case the ambulance thing was important to him, I wanted to get it right.

Mulgrew hissed a sigh. “I think the Department can handle the protocol. Okay, go. Wait—what about you? You don’t carry, right?”

“I do sometimes, but not now.” I opened my jacket and showed him. Before he could ask, I opened my bag, too. He waved it closed as though I were trying to sell him something.

“So you do and Pilarsky didn’t?” Clearly for him that was backwards, just wrong.

“I shot someone once, too. I didn’t like it either. But I’d have liked it less if he shot me.”

Mulgrew smiled.

I still wanted to slug him.

Mary drove me back to Chinatown. Somewhere past Fourteenth Street I roused myself to ask, “Can I call Alice?”

“The client?”

“I assume that charming Mulgrew will follow up with her?”

“He thinks there’s probably no connection. He’s hoping for the messenger with the jones who can close this and the three open robberies at the same time. But he’ll go through the motions.”

“Then I’d like her to hear it from me. He doesn’t have the greatest bedside manner. Or any kind of manner. The bear gets you. Jerk.”

“I guess it’s okay.” Mary’s tone said that as a friend she agreed and as a cop she’d rather I didn’t call. I ignored the cop.

As it turned out, though, it didn’t matter. “No answer.” I pocketed my phone. “I left a message on the room phone and her cell, just to call me.”

Mary nodded. The cop was probably relieved. “You want to go home?”

“No, thanks, to my office.” I couldn’t face telling my mother about this, not yet.

Mary dropped me on the west end of Canal. “Should I come in?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“You forget I’ve seen you when you’re fine. But okay. Call me if you need me?”

“You know I will.”

She went back to work and I went in the street door that bore a nameplate for Golden Adventure Travel, but not my name. My office was the second one inside. As long as my clients came out with brochures about cruises through the Guilin mountains, who was to say where they’d really been?

I waved at the travel ladies as though this were a normal day. “Welcome back!” Andi Gee called, looking perplexed when I didn’t stop to chat after a month away. I’d have to mend that fence later, but right now I needed to be alone.

Unlocking my door, I stepped into the dusty stillness of a room long unused. I opened the window and put the kettle on. After I splashed cold water all over my face, I stared into the mirror, but the eyes looking back were hard to take.

A random robbery?
I dropped into my chair. Would that be better, or worse? Worse, I decided. The good news would be, it wasn’t something I should have seen coming. The bad news was, I still should have gotten up there right away. And if it didn’t have to do with our case, then I wouldn’t be able to have a hand in catching the son of a bitch.

When my desk phone rang, I almost jumped out of my chair.

“Lydia Chin. Chin Ling Wan-ju,” I told it in English and Chinese.

“It’s Bill.”

Months,
I marveled.
For months I’ve been checking the readout to see who was calling; this is the first time I didn’t
.

“I’m sorry about Joel,” he said.

“How do you—”

“Mary called me.”

“Mary did?” My best and oldest friend? Sandbagged me like that?

“Can I buy you a cup of tea?”

“I . . . I don’t think—”

“Please.”

Just that, just “please.” Anything else—any long explanation, any attempt at apology, especially any excuses—and I’d have hung up. But there was just that one “please,” and silence.

“Come to my office,” I said. “I have tea here.”

Some things surprise you, but some don’t. Bill showed up carrying a large black coffee. The offer of tea had been an olive branch, but that didn’t mean whatever peace terms he was proposing would include him drinking any.

“Long time,” I said, shutting the door behind him.

He sat in the chair across the desk. Were there really more lines on his face than last time I saw him?

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“About Joel? Or about the long time?”

“Both.”

“Who the hell asked you?”

A pause. “If I shouldn’t have come—”

“Oh, shut up.”

He did.

I sipped my tea. Jasmine, what my mother used to give us when we didn’t feel well. “It’s just, I don’t think it’s okay that you get to make that decision unilaterally.”

“What decision?”

“About who isn’t good for who and who could do better without who and who should stay away from who and who gets back in touch with who. And don’t tell me some of those ‘whos’ should be ‘whoms.’ ”

“They should, though.”

“I know!”

He drank his coffee. “Listen: I fucked up big. I needed time to think about that. If I—”

“When did I ever not give you time? Did I ever crowd you? Why couldn’t you have called and said, ‘I need time. I’m going to the cabin, I’m locking myself in my apartment, I’m shooting myself into space?’ Just to call and acknowledge I still existed. Why couldn’t you do that? Before you went off to meditate on what a fuckup you are?”

“Because I’m a fuckup.” He raised his gaze; I met it silently. Without a word, long and steadily, we held each other’s eyes.

Then, because I know that face so well, I saw him fighting a smile.
Dammit,
I wanted to yell,
this isn’t funny
! And it wasn’t. But what was, was how hard he was working to stifle it.
Bet you can’t,
I thought, and felt my own mouth twitching.

And suddenly there we both were, cracking up. Howling,
gasping for breath, astonishing a month’s worth of dust and gloom. I laughed so hard tea slopped out of the mug I held. Until in an instant I felt a change, a spin-around: Now I wasn’t laughing, I was sobbing.

Bill jumped from his chair, came around the desk, and held me, an awkward manuever since I was sitting down. The clumsiness of it struck me as hilarious, and I was laughing again, and then crying, and both, until I didn’t know anymore what kind of shudders were convulsing me.

Finally, the storm let up. I pushed Bill away, stood, and made for the bathroom. I went through the cold water routine again, this time spending longer for less result. When I came out, Bill was back in his chair, halfway through a cigarette.