3

3

I meet Sgt. Joe Navarro at our favorite watering hole later that night. Joe and I served together in Panama. We were thick as thieves with two other grunts in our battalion: Steve Griebling and Larry Yang. Operation Just Cause. General Powell loved the name because even our worst critics would have to say the words. Of course, it didn’t take long for those of us who’d been there to put a different spin on it. Why did we invade Panama? Just ‘cause we fuckin felt like it. Steve was among the twenty-three who didn’t come home. Larry and I opened the agency in Chinatown together, and Joe became a cop in the Fifth Precinct.

The place is quiet, like usual. That’s what Joe likes about it—he never has to break up a pair of assholes trying to tango while he’s off duty. Two guys and a girl are shooting pool on red felt and a couple of regulars are watching the Rangers on TV when I pull up next to Joe at the bar. I order a couple of beers and shots even though he’s hardly touched the beer in front of him.

I squeeze his shoulder and ask after his wife and boy.

“They’re good, they’re good. How about you?”

“Hangin’ in there.” Joe was there for me when Tracy died. I don’t lie to him that things ever got better again after that, but it’s been a while now and I don’t harp on it.

He looks me over. “You should get something to eat, man. You’re a bag of bones. You need a girlfriend, so’s somebody thinks of feeding you once in a while.”

Somebody to water me like a plant. I let it slide, knowing he means well. After all, it’s been over a year since the accident.

I set my hat down on the bar and he looks at it with a wistful grin. It belonged to Larry, who liked old movies and wanted Insight Detective Agency to have some of that old school style. Larry could wear that hat in earnest. I wear it ironically, but I’ve made enough of a habit out of it that I sometimes forget it’s on my head. I should’ve left it at the office.

“Long time no see,” Joe says. I don’t know if he’s talking about me or Larry, who shocked us all by eating his gun six months ago.

“You ever run into Amy anymore?” he asks, still looking at the hat.

I scratch the back of my head. “Yeah, I stopped in for eggnog on Christmas Eve. I try to bring her a check now and then if I can slip it into a holiday card.”

“Really?You do that?”

“Well it was him that came up with the name and the logo. Got us up and running with a loan from his old man.”

Joe squints at me. “No, I mean . . . I’m sure you’re good at what you do, Miles, but you can afford that?”

I scoff. “No.”

He laughs and we toss back our shots. On to the business at hand.

“So what’d you want to ask me about?”

“The Chinatown Monster.”

Joe winces, and not at the bourbon. “Who’s your client, the Daily News?”

“Hey, now. Would I do that to you?”

“Well then who?”

I shift in my seat and drink my beer. “I’m still getting a feel for this case. It’s in that delicate state where I should keep the client’s confidence. You cool with that?”

Joe is looking at me differently. I see now that, in spite of the backslapping joviality, he’s still a cop first, and all has not been forgiven. “Time will tell,” he says. “If a third murder happens and I find out you knew something that could’ve helped solve the case . . . ”

“Nah, it ain’t like that. These guys . . . no. They don’t know shit. You could almost call my client’s interest academic.”

Joe’s eyebrow jumps and I hurry to add, “Not in a public way. Nobody’s writing a book.”

“I’ll play along for now,” he says, “but I’m trusting you, Miles.”

I nod and trace a circle in the air over our empty shot glasses for the bartender.

“What do you want to know?”

“For starters, your honest opinion: Do you believe the killer is a gangbanger?”

“The first victim was a known member of the Ghost Shadows.” It doesn’t get past me that that’s not a direct answer.

“But the second wasn’t.”

Joe continues like I haven’t interrupted, “—and whoever killed him wanted to make an impression. And don’t assume the same killer did both murders just because the M.O. matches. You watch TV; you know that could make the second one a copycat.”

“Do you think the second one is a copycat?”

Joe sips his beer. “Probably not. But that doesn’t mean it’s not another gang hit.”

“On an old street vendor? An ABC? Seems like a stretch.” Gang violence is more prevalent among the younger generation, what we call FOBs or Fresh Off the Boat. American Born Chinese tend to steer clear of it. “I know gangsters pressure shop owners for protection money, but a street vendor? Even if the old guy defaulted on a loan, why rub him out in such spectacular fashion? Dead is example enough. They don’t need the community hating them, right? This was savage butchery. Ain’t like the vendor was a rival gang leader. So what’s your theory?”

“Who says I have one? Look, everybody in your neighborhood has some connection to gang members. Somebody cared about the old man. That somebody crossed somebody. That’s all it takes.”

I make a non-committal grunt. “You’ve ruled out a serial killer?”

“I haven’t ruled out anything. Trust me, there’s a gang connection. We just haven’t found it yet. And if you start talking about serial killers to the press, your sleuthing days in this city are over.”

“I told you I’m not working for a reporter. And I get it: If it’s a gang thing, it’s a Chinatown problem. No mass hysteria.”

“That’s right. My uncle worked Son of Sam. I don’t need that kinda circus. That word you used, academic, smells like newsprint.”

“If it eases your mind, it’s a missing persons case, probably unrelated. I’m basically humoring a guy for a couple of legwork payments. Anyway, I get the feeling I’m looking for someone who doesn’t exist. Feel better?”

“A little.”

“What can you tell me about method?”

Joe flexes his shoulder blades, pops his bad back. “The papers called them mutilations, right? Cops and reporters both like that word. It’s vague but provocative. Fact is they were dismemberments.”

“Anything ritualistic about the crime scenes?”

“Jesus. You do know more than you’re telling me.”

I stare at him.

Joe sighs, rubs his temple. “This better be a two-way street, Miles.”

Now it’s my turn to squirm a little. I’ve been making an effort to sand the rough edges off of my life by sticking to insurance fraud and divorce cases. But Joe is up against a drug epidemic and more than half of the crack and heroin in America passes through my neighborhood. China Cat—Mott Street’s hot summer flavor—is so pure the paramedics can’t keep up. Joe knows who to call when he needs to employ some non-regulation persuasion, or when a brother cop needs to dispose of a pop-and-drop handgun that may have been used to cut some of the red tape out of the judicial process. I trace a drop of water in a circle on the polished bar. “You know it is,” I say.

“There was some foreign matter left in the wounds. Ash that the crime lab says is from incense, and some mineral fragments.”

“Mineral fragments?”

“Quartz crystal shards.”

“What kind of weapon was used?”

“That we don’t know. Blades are hard to pin down. Much harder than bullets. But the crystal shards make us think more than one blade was used. One might have been a sharpened piece of quartz, but the whole job couldn’t have been done with a knife like that.”

“Why not?”

“Dismembered, remember? You’d need a good strong piece of steel for that. I think we’re looking for a professional butcher with gang ties. That’s my theory. Between you and me.”

“But what about the incense?”

“Read up on your Chinese triads. They have initiation rituals. They drink blood mixed with wine and swear oaths from calligraphy scrolls. Gangs and cults have a lot in common.”

“Fair enough. You have any witnesses?”

Joe shakes his head and tosses back a handful of bar peanuts, washes them down with beer. I can tell I got all I’m gonna get out of him. “How’s anger management going?” he asks.

“Two sessions to go and I haven’t slugged the counselor. Yet.”

I’ve used up all my favors with Sgt. Navarro and he’s reminding me of it with a nod to the assault charge he vouched for me on back in November, sparing me jail time and the loss of my PI license. Joe lets me chew on that for a minute, then motions for me to pass my flip pad and pen over to him while he downs a shot. He scribbles something and slides the pad back to me: A barely legible name and a pair of streets.

“Who’s Sammy Fong?”

“We don’t know if that’s his real name. He’s a FOB, no legal ID. But what’s the diff? Everybody changes their name when they get here, anyway. On the books, he’s a dish dog at Mappow’s, but he’s not pulling enough shifts there to support himself. Just enough to make connections with bangers who drop in for tiger meals.” He’s referring to the free meals gangsters pick up at local restaurants when they aren’t delivering a mandarin tree in return for a heavy cash donation. “We’ve tailed him and confirmed that his real income is stitched together from a variety of Ghost Shadows activities. Not sure if he’s been initiated yet or if he’s still trying to prove himself. Anyway, he flagged down a cruiser when he found the first victim, a confirmed dai lo.”

“David Yu.”

“Right. Sammy comes stumbling out of the alley where the body is and sees a police car. Nearly shits himself, but has enough sense to know what running would look like. And this was before he realized how many pieces Yu was in.”

“Nobody thinks he did it?”

Joe smiles like he’s bitten into something sour. “We didn’t rule him out right away, not until he had a tight alibi for the second homicide, but we didn’t like him for it, either. He didn’t have enough blood on him and he definitely didn’t have the level of psychotic cool you would need for the job.”

“What’s the intersection? His address?”

“It’s the street corner where he hangs out the most. Or you might find him at the restaurant. I’m not sure if he still works there. I’m only giving him to you because we’ve already squeezed him dry. I doubt you’ll get anything new, but you will let me know if you do.”

I nod. “Besides the body, he didn’t see anything?”

“It’s Chinatown.” Joe touches his big, thick-fingered hands to his eyes, ears, and lips, like the three monkeys.