by James Tucker
Silva shrugged. “Impossible to know. An hour? Two? I’d say not more than three. More than three, and there wouldn’t be much left.”
Buddy winced at the image of fish and sharks eating human flesh.
Either this image didn’t occur to Silva, or it didn’t bother him. Silva said, “So we have Jane Doe and John Doe. Might be related. Might not be. In a few weeks we’ll have results from the tox scan. Which might show something or might not.” Silva paused for a long moment, studying the bodies.
Buddy said, “What about the bruising?”
Silva said, “I haven’t started the postmortems.”
“Got it,” Buddy said. “But what do you think? What can you guess?”
Silva’s face reddened. “I don’t guess.”
Buddy waited. He’d worked with Silva for more than a decade. Wouldn’t his friend give him something?
“But,” Silva continued at last, “most or all of the bruises appear to be from impact.”
Buddy leaned forward. “Beaten to death?”
Silva’s face remained impassive. He said, “Jane Doe and John Doe suffered impact to the entire body. They might have been beaten with something dull and hard. Nothing sharp. See, there are no cuts.”
Buddy scanned the woman’s body in front of him, saw that the skin was unmarked by cuts or gouges. He said, “So we have two people beaten using an unusual weapon.”
Silva widened his eyes. “Yes, possibly. Or possibly an ordinary weapon, such as a telephone book wrapped in cloth. Or not.”
“Not?” echoed Buddy, watching Silva carefully.
Silva said, “Jane Doe and John Doe have injuries consistent with another fate.” Here Silva paused, looked meaningfully at Buddy, as if Buddy should pick up on the hint.
Yet Buddy had no idea. “What fate?”
Silva said, “They jumped off a bridge. Or they were pushed.”
29
A half hour later, Buddy parked on Mott Street, between Canal and Bayard Streets, in the heart of Chinatown.
He switched off the ignition and the radio and sat quietly. He checked his left front trouser pocket and felt the medallion.
For a good two minutes, he scanned the street, the cars, the pedestrians on the sidewalks. He studied the scene in front of the Dodge Charger through its windshield and in the side and rearview mirrors. The Fifth Precinct was a block away, on Elizabeth Street, but he’d avoid that building and anyone who worked there.
Observing nothing worrisome, he unlocked the car, climbed out, and stepped onto the sidewalk on the west side of Mott, which was a one-way going south. He’d been in Chinatown many times before. Only yesterday, he’d walked north on Lafayette, which bordered the western edge of the neighborhood, past Cleveland Place, and to the Spring Street subway station. But today, by parking on Mott Street, he’d gone from the edge to the heart of the historic district.
Immediately he noticed the narrow street lined by a pleasant mixture of buildings of different materials and heights. Most were four to six stories high, in red, white, or tan brick. Fire escapes, many painted green, red, or black, cluttered the sides of the buildings in a way that showed the neighborhood’s vintage. Below the fire escapes, signs and awnings in bright colors: royal blue, yellow, bright green, maroon. Lettering on the signs and awnings in different colors. Red rice-paper lanterns and other merchandise hanging from corrugated metal hangers. Even in winter, inventory was set on the inside edge of the sidewalks: shirts, sweaters, sunglasses, stickers, tea, ice cream, dresses, bags, leather goods, and books and magazines written in Chinese. The doors of some of these shops were open despite the cold, with the proprietor sitting or standing by an electric heater. Food markets specialized in fish and vegetables—ginger, cabbage, bok choy, white radishes—not found in most supermarkets Buddy had visited. A feast for his eyes and his memory. He and Mei had walked through Chinatown many times, and she knew the better restaurants. Mei, he thought.
Picturing her safe in a house far out of the city, he felt twinges of regret and desire. Great motivation for finding and stopping his—their—pursuers.
As if I need it.
He walked south along the sidewalk on the western side of Mott, looking for a particular kind of store. Thirty yards farther, he saw necklaces, bracelets, and watches displayed behind a plate-glass window.
Pushing open the door to the jewelry store, he heard a buzzer and encountered two Chinese men behind the counter, one about seventy, the other, who resembled the older man, in his forties.
Father and son, Buddy thought. The family business.
They greeted him but didn’t smile.
He took out his badge wallet, opened it, and held it up. “I’m Detective Lock, with the NYPD. I’m hoping you can help me.”
The men didn’t comment, only waited patiently.
Buddy unbuttoned his overcoat, reached for the medallion with the symbol, and set it on the glass counter in front of the men. He said, “Can you tell me what the symbol is? What it means?”
The younger man bent over, squinting at it.
The older man took a gold-colored jeweler’s loupe, placed it in his eye socket, and did the same. He muttered something Buddy didn’t understand.
At the same time, both men shook their heads.
The younger man said, “I’m sorry, Detective. The writing at the bottom of the stone can be translated as ‘sacrifice.’ But we’re unsure of the symbol. It may be a flower, but it seems to be old and worn. Some of the clarity has been lost.”
Buddy felt disappointment, but this was only the first shop he’d tried. He said, “Is it close to anything else you know?”
The younger man looked to the older man, who said, “No, it’s not close to anything—anything familiar to me.”
“What’s it made out of? The black stone?”
The older man’s voice was low. He said, “Onyx.”
Buddy thanked them, picked up the medallion, and left the store. He continued along the block until he came to a store that sold Asian antiques and décor. He went inside.
And came out minutes later. No luck.
He worked his way down the street, stopping in every shop regardless of whether it sold jewelry or not. When he reached Bayard, he turned around and canvassed the shops on the east side of Mott. He spoke with the owners or workers in more than a dozen shops, but nobody could tell him about the medallion’s symbol.
At the corner of Mott and Hester, he noticed a restaurant. Or at least that’s what he thought it was. The signs were in Chinese characters. He looked to the right of the door and saw a clear Plexiglas box. Inside the box was a menu. Peering closely, he read the English translation of the dishes offered. Then he checked his watch. It was 10:34 a.m. Too early for lunch, but he tried the door anyway. It was unlocked, so he went inside.
The lights were on, but he saw there were no customers. He heard sounds of metal and skillets from the kitchen hidden behind a wall. On the wall hung pictures of traditional Chinese nature scenes: finely drawn temples on the sides of mountains, thick groves of bamboo and other trees, and below, a black bridge over a curving stream. He stood unmoving and looked around. The tables had been set with place mats, napkins, utensils, and teacups. Lazy Susans on the larger tables held extra napkins, soy sauce, sugar and sweeteners for tea and coffee, and creamer.
He saw movement from the doorway to the kitchen. Unconsciously, his right hand moved toward the Glock.
It was a Chinese man with carefully trimmed white hair, large dark eyes. Hunched over as he walked, the man wore pressed black pants and a wine-colored shirt. Buddy estimated the man was in his early eighties. He lowered his right hand and relaxed.
The older man saw him, seemed about to tell him the restaurant was closed, and hesitated.
Buddy knew he had cop written all over him. So he took a couple of steps forward and badged the guy. “Detective Buddy Lock, NYPD.”
The man didn’t react or study the badge or the photo.
Bud
dy thought he was wasting his time. But now that he was here, he might as well ask. He took the medallion from his pocket, placed it in his palm, and extended his hand toward the older man. He said, “Know what this symbol is?”
The man dropped his impassive gaze from Buddy’s face to Buddy’s hand and the medallion. The man began to shake his head, and Buddy took back the medallion.
“Again,” the man said, motioning him to show him the medallion a second time.
Buddy again held it out on his palm.
The man peered at it for a moment, then looked up at Buddy and nodded.
30
The older man showed Buddy to a table along the north wall. Buddy took the seat facing the door.
The man sat down in the other chair and faced Buddy. A waiter emerged from the kitchen with a silver-colored teapot and two cups and set them on the table. He poured steaming tea into both cups and retreated.
Buddy said, “May I ask your name?”
The man’s eyes lit up, and he nearly smiled. He seemed less glum as he said, “Henry Lee.”
Buddy looked around. “This your restaurant?”
Henry Lee nodded. “For forty-three years.”
“A long time,” Buddy said.
“Very long.”
“Do you own the building?”
The man’s half smile vanished. He shook his head. “I own this space where I have my restaurant. Others own the rest of the building.”
Buddy nodded, not really interested in who owned which restaurants in Chinatown. He set the medallion on the table between them and said, “Would you tell me about the symbol?”
Henry Lee put his large hands together, his eyes focusing on Buddy’s. He said, “This is very old, this pendant. Etched on it is a symbol not used by younger generations. They don’t know about it, or, if they do, they would not wear it as jewelry.”
“Why?” Buddy said.
Henry Lee pressed his lips together, knit his brow. “Some would consider it shameful, even dishonorable, to wear. You see, Detective, the writing means ‘sacrifice.’ But it has two meanings. The second meaning is related to Chiang Kai-shek, who fought Mao in the Chinese civil war in the late 1940s. General Chiang and his army lost the war and escaped to what today we call Taiwan. The image on this medallion is a white orchid, white with some yellow in the middle. The white orchid was the symbol of Chiang Kai-shek’s elite fighting force that had the name Sacrifice. They sacrificed in great numbers but killed even greater numbers of soldiers in Mao’s army. In turn, Mao swore that all members of the Sacrifice Brigade and their children would be executed.”
Buddy considered this information. He wasn’t sure how it applied to the case, if at all. He asked, “So the wearer of this medallion might be anti-communist, anti-Mao?”
“Maybe. But it might be a family heirloom. Perhaps the wearer of the medallion had a father or grandfather who fought with Chiang’s army.”
Buddy thought about revenge against family members, something he and Ben knew all too well. He asked, “Did Mao try to kill everyone who’d been in the Sacrifice Brigade and their children like he promised?”
Henry Lee nodded. After a moment he added, “But Mao has been dead a long time. I’d be surprised if China’s current leadership has the same priority.”
Buddy didn’t understand the connection to the bodies found off Long Island, if there was one. “Do you know anything else about the symbol?”
Slowly, Henry Lee shook his head.
Buddy took the medallion off the table and pushed it into his left front trouser pocket. He was glad to have learned the meaning of the symbol on the medallion. But although Chinatown encompassed only about two square miles, its population was more than one hundred fifty thousand. He knew that without more information, determining the identity of the medallion’s owner would be next to impossible.
The calm ended as the tables, the empty chairs, the restaurant itself began to shake and rumble. The metallic noise—it sounded like a military tank—grew louder and sharper. Buddy thought there was an earthquake or the building was about to collapse. He looked up at the ceiling to be sure it wasn’t about to fall on him, and then down to Henry Lee, who was grinning at him.
The noise ebbed and a few moments later, disappeared.
Buddy said, “What the hell was that?”
Henry Lee said, “A construction truck on Hester Street. It’s going to the building behind this one.”
“Jesus. Must be one hell of a renovation.”
Lee shook his head. “They’re tearing it down, for a new condominium tower. These gigantic buildings are bad for Chinatown, Detective. At first, they bring new customers. But in a year or two, someone will put up a tower right here. The developers get exceptions to the zoning code. And then I’ll have to close my restaurant.”
Buddy thought about Henry Lee’s restaurant and the new developments in Chinatown. And not just Chinatown, everywhere in the city, it seemed. He said, “Who’s buying the old buildings?”
Henry Lee’s eyes narrowed. “Developers.”
“Any in particular?”
“Big developers. Cromwell is doing the one around the corner, behind us. With the city.”
“The city?”
“Yes, Detective. Part of the city. The EDA.”
“The what?”
“The Economic Development Agency. Look at the names on the construction sign around the corner. You’ll see it. The EDA.”
Buddy drank his tea. He didn’t know much about real estate and had no interest in it, since he’d never been able to buy any. Not here in Manhattan. Not anywhere he liked in the city’s other boroughs. He’d always rented until he moved in with Mei the year before. He drank more of his tea, thinking he should thank Henry Lee and get back to work. But he wanted to keep the conversation going until he’d finished. He said, “Never heard of the EDA.”
Henry Lee explained, “In the case of the old buildings, the developers have to buy everybody out. They go from unit to unit, trying to get the owners to sell. It doesn’t always work. People hold out. Money doesn’t motivate everyone.”
Buddy disagreed silently. It was his experience that money motivated everyone, with the only difference being the amount. He said, “But the longer you can hold out in the Manhattan real estate market, the richer you’ll get.”
Henry Lee nodded. “But if people become greedy or just refuse, and the developer isn’t successful, the EDA threatens to force the holdouts from the property.”
Buddy didn’t follow. He said, “How do they force them out?”
“Eminent domain. You see, the EDA has the power to take people’s property for a public purpose, as long as it pays just compensation. The people at the EDA can get a court order and just force people out.”
Buddy thought he understood, but he asked, “What’s a ‘public purpose’? What’s ‘just compensation’?”
Henry Lee pushed aside his teacup. “Whatever the courts say they are.”
Buddy thought about the courts and who paid for political campaigns. And the amount of money involved in a city where the average one-bedroom condo ran in excess of a million dollars. He said, “Are all the holdouts Chinese?”
Henry Lee shook his head. “Many who take the money right away have been here a long time. They move to a warmer climate or move in with their children. Many of the holdouts have bought more recently. They’re like you.”
“White?” Buddy asked.
“Yes. Or black. Or Indian. Or Middle Eastern. They bought recently and think they have the right to stay, but in the end they all leave. All kinds of people. From everywhere.”
Buddy said, “How long has this been going on?”
“A long time. It started about fifteen years ago on the edges of Chinatown, over on Church Street and on the west side of Broadway. But in the last four or five years, it’s come into our neighborhood.”
“Nobody fights it?” Buddy asked. “The EDA never has to force people out?”
&
nbsp; “Not that I’ve heard.”
“I don’t understand.”
Henry Lee’s face darkened. He studied Buddy for a moment, as if determining whether or not he could trust him. Even in the empty restaurant, Lee lowered his voice. “About five years ago, a few people refused to sell. After a while, they changed their minds and signed the papers.”
Buddy asked, “Did the EDA agree to pay more?”
“No.”
“So why did they sell?”
Henry Lee bent closer to Buddy. He said, “We never found out. The holdouts . . . disappeared.”
31
Henry Lee took the silver teapot and poured more tea into Buddy’s cup and then his own. Setting it on the wooden table, he said, “I mean, one day they were here, and the next they were gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Nobody knows.”
“Dead?”
Henry Lee shrugged. “You’re the detective.”
Buddy sat back in his chair. He was here to investigate bodies found in the sea off Long Island, but this was something weird. He didn’t know what to think about it, but he felt the old curiosity about the break in another pattern. His chest tightened as it always did when he was close to discovering something hidden.
The restaurant door opened.
Buddy looked up. Henry Lee swiveled in his chair.
Two white men entered the restaurant and stood just inside the door. One of them, maybe five foot eight but wide as a bulldozer, had long brown hair worn in a ponytail. He stared at Buddy and at Henry Lee and took a table near the window, facing them, his expression cold. Buddy stared right back, trying to memorize Ponytail’s face.
The second man was taller—maybe six foot three—with black hair combed back and shiny with pomade. His narrow face had a long nose that was broken halfway down and angled sharply to the left. His small, ratlike eyes were set deep in his skull, and they shone with menace as he stared at Buddy. Eventually he turned and sat opposite the shorter man, his back to Buddy and Henry Lee. Yet Buddy wouldn’t forget Rat Eyes’s face, or the outline of a handgun under his jacket.
