And then she was off to Chinatown in the capable, loving hands of her friend Sue Yoy. Sue not only knew Washington’s Chinatown well, she demonstrated immense pride in sharing her knowledge with the dozen men and women on the tour. Of course, there wasn’t a great deal of ground to cover. The Chinatown section of D.C. was, in reality, only two blocks square. But there was something of historical significance every few steps.
Naturally, they stopped at the Surratt House, which figured in the plotting to assassinate President Lincoln. “Here is the nest where the egg of treason was hatched,” Sue said brightly. “That’s how it’s usually described. But remember, that was before this was Chinatown. None of my people, at least according to the history books, were involved. Thank goodness!”
They rounded a corner. “Actually, this wasn’t the original location of Chinatown,” Sue said. “It used to be a few blocks south. But back in 1935 the government started buying up property there, which meant the Chinese community had to look for someplace else to settle. They chose this location and started buying real estate, too.” She laughed. “The Chinese spirit of community is very strong. They just picked up and moved here.”
“What’s on the original site?” a member of the tour asked.
“Federal buildings, a federal courthouse,” Sue answered, motioning for them to follow. She continued her running commentary. “Like every other neighborhood,” she said, “Chinatown is changing. The Convention Center really put the pressure on the neighborhood and caused it to lose some of its original flavor. But not too much, as you can see.” She added, with her tinkling laugh, “No matter what goes on around them, the people of Chinatown never let their daily routine change too much.”
They walked through the new Grand Hyatt Hotel, its soaring atrium a chrome-and-steel alien amid the small, dusty shops of Chinatown, and came back around under the arch that spanned H Street. “This arch was built for a million dollars when the neighborhood was moved here,” said Sue. “It was a partnership between this city’s government and our sister city, Beijing. But there’s always been some objection to it. Some groups view it as being too friendly toward mainland China and want to build a second arch as a gesture of friendship with Taiwan. Can’t escape politics in Washington. I wonder what the dragons think about it.” Everyone looked up at the flame-snorting reptiles on the arch. Some laughed. “Looks like a bunch a’ congressmen,” a man wearing checkered Bermuda shorts and carrying an umbrella and weighty video camera said.
“Onward,” Sue said, and everyone fell in line again. Annabel lingered at the rear of the small group, falling behind on occasion as she stopped to breathe in the culinary cloud of fish cake, bok choy, chicken stock, and Chinese broccoli that drifted from open doorways.
“Sorry about this rain,” Sue said, bringing them to a halt in front of the Asia Cultural Society. “We’ll go in here and spend a few minutes. There’s lots of interesting things to see. Then you’re on your own for lunch. As you’ve seen, this tiny section of Washington probably has more restaurants per square foot than any other part of town. Well, maybe with the exception of Georgetown. But if you eat Georgetown food, you find that ten minutes later you’re hungry—for status.”
Sue and Annabel had previously agreed to lunch together, and Sue had chosen a restaurant across from the Surratt House on H Street. They entered through an ornate mini-arch, passed huge fish tanks that dominated the lobby walls, and went up a set of stairs to the main dining room, whose windows overlooked the street. Their timing was good; a window table was available.
“Fascinating,” Annabel said when they were seated. “I’m so glad I took the tour with you today.”
Sue, who’d been a model in New York before marrying a State Department official and moving to Washington, raised her delicate teacup in equally delicate hands and said, “You once gave me a fascinating tour of the pre-Columbian art world. Here’s to getting to know Chinatown.”
Annabel insisted that Sue order for them, which she did, commenting that while the menu promised Szechuan food, it really was more Taiwanese.
Annabel lost track of time during lunch. She enjoyed being with a friend whom she saw too little of, and basked in the relaxed ambience of the restaurant and its wonderful food. At the conclusion of lunch, they were served complimentary glasses of apricot cordial. Annabel looked at her watch. “Boy, time has flown by,” she said.
“We’ll go,” said Sue. “In a minute. Excuse me.” As Sue headed for the ladies’ room, Annabel looked down onto the street as she’d done frequently during the meal. The rain had stopped; there was heavy pedestrian traffic flow up and down the sidewalks. Then she leaned closer to the window, narrowed her eyes against her own reflection, and almost said aloud, “Wait a minute.” No doubt about it. Sun Ben Cheong was walking up the street at a brisk pace. He paused in front of a small take-out restaurant across the street, looked around, and entered.
Annabel thought of Mac’s message, that Cheong was laying low for a few days at home. Obviously, he’d changed his mind. She looked up H Street in the opposite direction. Another man was approaching the takeout place. Sun Ben Cheong? Had she lost a minute of time in which Cheong emerged from the place, went up the street, and was now returning? She shook her head. No time had been lost to her. Sun Ben had a twin. Or almost. The second man was slightly shorter than Cheong and not as stocky, but his face was a mirror image of the young man she knew. He, too, stopped in front of the restaurant, made the same scrutiny of his surroundings, and went inside.
Sue Yoy returned to the table.
“I wonder what they put in this food,” Annabel commented.
“Why do you say that?” Sue asked.
“I just saw someone that I know come up the street. And then, a few seconds later, I saw him again—or somebody who is his mirror image.”
Sue laughed. “Anyone I know?”
“Maybe. Sue Ben Cheong, Wendell Tierney’s adopted son.”
“Yes, I know him, but not well. A shame what happened to him, being arrested like that. I read about it.”
“Mac and I were shocked.”
“Do you think there’s any truth to it?”
Annabel shrugged. “Who knows? I suppose it will all come out through the legal process.” She looked out the window again, her face set in thought.
“Is something wrong, Annabel?”
Annabel smiled and shook her head. “No, nothing at all. It was just such a coincidence to see two people look so much alike when I hadn’t expected to see one. Well, my friend, I really should be going. This was a delightful experience. The tour was fascinating, the food excellent, and your company is always a pleasure.” Annabel insisted upon paying the check. When they were on the street, Sue looked up and said, “Good. The rain has stopped.”
“Still looks threatening,” Annabel said, observing the gray sky.
They shook hands and promised to be in touch again soon. Annabel walked in the direction of the Convention Center. When she was certain Sue would be out of sight, she retraced her steps and stood in front of the restaurant into which Cheong and his lookalike had disappeared. Next to the restaurant was the entrance to a two-story office building. The front door was open. Out of curiosity, she stepped into the tiny foyer and read from a list of business tenants. Many were in Chinese; a few had English translations below. One that had not been translated caught her eye. She leaned closer to it. Annabel had no knowledge of Chinese symbols, but this one was strangely familiar. Why that was, she had no idea. About to leave, she stopped, opened her purse, and removed the envelope of photographs Mac had given her. She pulled out the shots he’d taken with Tony Buffolino at Tierney’s dock. The symbols on the Cigarette racing boat were small, but the photographic print was sharp. Annabel studied it, then looked back at the tenant board. They seemed the same. She looked at the photograph again. MOR. Middle-of-the-Road, she thought, remembering Sally Frasier’s comment about music.
She crossed the street, entered the restaurant
where she and Sue had lunched, and went to the second floor. “My friend and I just had lunch here, and it was wonderful. I wonder if I might have a pot of tea. I have some time until my next appointment.” The host happily agreed and led her to the same table she’d shared with Sue Yoy. Once a waiter had poured a cup from a teapot and placed it in front of her, she settled back to observe the two doorways across the street. She wasn’t sure why she was doing this, why she was acting like a cop on a stakeout. If anyone she knew was observing her amateur exercise in observation, she would have been embarrassed. And Mac would tease her. She was spared any such reactions because she didn’t know that earlier Sun Ben Cheong had been closing the drapes in his private office when he looked down onto the street as Annabel approached the restaurant and office building. He’d waited, then watched her return to the restaurant across the street, enter it, and take a table at the window. While his brother, John, counted cash from the wall safe, Sun Ben took a final look at the redheaded woman named Annabel Reed-Smith, whose attention was riveted on a place about which people like her were not supposed to know. He quietly closed the drapes fully and sat behind his desk, his broad, otherwise impassive face staring now at nothing. He opened the top right-hand drawer of his desk. In it was a 7.65 by 17 caliber Type 67 pistol manufactured in the People’s Republic of China, which he’d purchased last year from an underground Chinatown arms dealer for self-protection—for use in an emergency. Until now, there hadn’t been one.
33
“I keep getting his damned machine,” an exasperated Suzanne Tierney said, slamming an extension phone down in Arthur Saul’s office.
Saul, who wore a lime-green tank top, jeans, and blue rubber thongs, continued tallying checks he’d received that day from his acting students.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” Suzanne said, flinging her hands into the air, then slapping them against her thighs. “Damn it!” She picked up the phone and again dialed Sun Ben Cheong’s number at his apartment in the Tierney complex. “I’m not here at the moment. At the tone…”
“Where the hell can he be? I spoke to Chip this morning. He said Sun Ben was going to be hibernating in his apartment for a few days. Daddy’s advice.”
Saul looked up and pushed his glasses low on his nose, saying over them, “Call your father. Maybe he’s with him.”
“I can’t call my father. I’ll just hear another harangue about why I’m not there in his time of need. What a screwed-up family.”
Saul returned to his financial chore as Suzanne paced the room, stopping every few seconds to try the call again. On her previous attempts to reach her adopted brother, she’d left only her name. This time, she pleaded with him to call her at Saul’s studio the minute he picked up the message. “Please, Sun Ben, this is extremely important to me.”
“Maybe you ought to say you’re sorry about his being arrested,” Saul said. “Hell, he’s got other things on his mind besides giving you money.”
“What are you, Arthur, against me, too? He promised me that money. I earned that money.”
Saul smiled and leaned back in his battered leather chair. “Earned it? How?”
“That’s my business,” she snapped.
“What the hell did you do, sleep with your brother?”
“You’re disgusting,” Suzanne said.
She sat on a small chair next to the table that held the extension phone. She was filled with churning emotions, the most pervasive of which was incredulity. She was so close to having the money to mount her one-woman show in New York. And now this. Her source of funds arrested. That didn’t mean he couldn’t still give her the money. Didn’t he know how important this was to her, what anguish she was suffering? But why should she be surprised? He was like the rest of the men in the family, self-centered, egotistical, greedy, thinking only of themselves. The women—her mother and her—were victims of the Tierney men, even Sun Ben, who didn’t share their blood. With him it was learned behavior.
Saul wrapped a rubber band around the batch of checks and placed them in a desk drawer. He said to Suzanne, “Look, baby, I have to know whether that money’s going to be available or not. I want to do your show, but I have other offers on the table. I can’t afford to lose them if your deal falls through.”
“What do want from me?” Suzanne asked. “I’m sure I’ll get the money. It’s just that this thing that happened might delay things a day or two.”
“A day or two?” Saul stood and twisted his torso, laced his fingers together, and fully extended his arms in front of him. “Why don’t you go back to Washington,” he suggested. “I can wait a couple of days. Go down there and talk to your brother. You’re not going to accomplish anything here.”
Suzanne knew the suggestion was sensible. She’d hoped that being in New York would allow her to placate Saul. But it was obvious the only thing that mattered to him was the money. And that money was in Washington.
She went into a cramped half-bath off the office and fluffed her hair, applied lipstick, then returned to the office and picked up the large duffel bag she’d brought with her. It was empty except for a change of underwear and a T-shirt. “I suppose you’re right, Arthur. I’ll catch the next shuttle. Call you tonight.”
“Won’t be here, baby. Call me tomorrow about noon.”
“All right,” she said. She started for the door when the phone rang. Saul slowly reached for it on his desk, but she was quicker getting to the extension phone. “Hello. Arthur Saul’s studio.”
“Suzanne?” Cheong’s voice asked.
“Sun Ben. Thank God you got my message. Where have you been?”
“You want the money?” he asked coldly.
“Yes. Of course I do.” Then, as an afterthought, “I heard what happened to you. I’m sorry.”
“Do another pickup. Two hours from now at the usual place. Bring it to me at the office. I’ll give you the money then.”
“Do you think it’s—?”
“Either do it, Suzanne, or forget your precious show.”
She glanced at Saul, who observed her with interest from behind his desk. She lowered her voice and said to her brother, “Two hours? All right. But you’re sure you’ll have the money when I get there?”
“Just do as I say, Suzanne.” His hang-up rang in her ear.
FBI Special Agent George Jenkins grinned as the conversation between Sun Ben Cheong and Suzanne Tierney came to an end. He was set up in a small apartment across H Street from the Chinatown office used by Cheong. White take-out containers of cold, half-eaten Chinese food littered a folding table. A small telescope on a tripod was by the curtained window. A ten-inch reel-to-reel tape machine behind Jenkins turned slowly as the wireless tap on Cheong’s phone sent the conversation with outstanding clarity to the receiver.
The listening post had been established a month ago once the Bureau, and other federal agencies, had concluded that Cheong was engaged in money laundering. From that point forward, every call made from the office was on tape.
Jenkins turned to the other special agent in the room, Max Johnson, a slender black man who’d heard the conversation through a speaker. “Nice guy, huh, Max? He’s got plenty of willing slimeballs to pick up the dirty money, and he recruits his own sister. Class act.”
“Family business,” Johnson said. “America was built on it.”
“Yeah. Well maybe they can get a family group rate at Leavenworth. You hungry? Want me to order up?”
“Sure. If you can find a Chinese soul-food restaurant that delivers. I’ve eaten my last spring roll.”
Off-Broadway drama was not confined to the Arthur Saul School in New York City. In Washington, Seymour Fletcher, director of the Potomac Players, was on the phone pleading with Carl Mayberry, the actor originally scheduled to play the role of Barton Key. Fletcher had received a call from Chip Tierney informing him that due to unfortunate personal circumstances, he would be unable to participate in Tri-S’s latest production.
“Carl, I kno
w I was hard on you,” Fletcher said. “But I’m a director. It’s my job to get the most from my actors and actresses. Frankly, I wouldn’t care so much if I didn’t think you were the most talented person in the cast.”
Mayberry, his brain fuzzy from drinking all night, said, “I know, Sy. But you have to respect my sensibilities. You can’t treat me like you treat the others, like some dog. Every actor needs to be handled differently. I don’t respond to your anger and yelling.”
“I know, I know, and I will be the first to admit that I misjudged how to bring out the best in you. Mea culpa. Can I do more than admit my inadequacies?”
“I respect that, Sy, but talent isn’t something I can turn on and off like a faucet. It needs to be nurtured.”
“Of course it does,” Fletcher said. “Look, do this thing tomorrow. This show needs you and your insight into the Key character. Don’t stick me with this rich, spoiled kid. But let me tell you something else. I may be directing the road company of a big Broadway show when it comes to Washington. I can’t say more, but there’s a role in that show that was written for you. I mean, like, the playwright knew you in another life when he wrote the part.”
“Seriously?”
“I couldn’t be more serious. Will you do it?”
“What time?”
34
Murder on the Potomac Page 21
