over the mannequin’s shoulder. To the left.” She took Wallace by the arm and steered him to where she had stood, changing places with the detective with a quick little step.
Detective Nguyen looked at Detective Wallace and read his mind. “May I?”
“Please.”
Nguyen went outside and peered into the window. From the inside of the store, Detective Wallace and the old woman gave directions.
Nguyen stood on his tiptoes and pushed himself as high as he could, leaving handprints on the glass. Wallace watched the old woman as she smiled at Nguyen’s antics in the storefront window. With Nguyen’s face just over the mannequin’s shoulder, the old woman held up the picture of Chow Ying.
“Perfect. Just like that,” she announced confidently.
“Thank you,” Detective Wallace said removing a card from his pocket. “If you see him around, will you give me a call?”
“Is he dangerous?”
“No, we just want to talk to him,” Wallace said. There was no sense in spooking the woman with a sudden urge to tell the truth. He had no idea if the man was dangerous or not. Detective Wallace exited the store as Nguyen was coming back in.
“Nice work, Stretch. How tall are you?”
“Five ten on a good day.”
“How tall on your toes?”
“Six-two, maybe six-three.”
“Give the guy that the woman saw another inch and we are looking at someone who could be our guy.”
“She’s awfully old to be a witness.”
“Now why are you trying to ruin the only good lead we have had on this guy?”
“’Good’, in this case, is a pretty subjective word, Sarge.” ***
The three concentric circles they did around Chinatown led them to the Peking Palace, between Sixth and Fifth Streets. It was a transitional block where the Asian elements approached the long-standing housing projects, a quarter mile from a new loft apartment building whose owner was rolling the dice on finding younger, wealthier tenants.
“Let’s check this place out,” Nguyen said, pointing to the large brick building that had once been residence to a dozen tenants.
“What is it?” Wallace asked.
Nguyen pointed to the Chinese characters in the window of the old building now known as the Peking Palace. “I think it says hotel,” Nguyen said, squinting at the sign as if that would translate the mix of vertical and horizontal brush strokes into a more palatable form of written communication. “Then again, my reading is rusty and it may actually say ‘baby pandas for sale.’”
“You read Chinese?”
“Vietnam used Chinese characters right through the twentieth century. They stopped using them officially in 1918. But I picked up a few characters here and there. My grandfather was a professor. He used to bribe me to study. I guess it is a good thing for us that I liked candy.”
“Someday, someone needs to explain to me how twenty-six letters in an alphabet isn’t enough.”
“After you, detective,” Nguyen said, opening the door.
Stepping into the Peking Palace was like stepping into 1950 colonial Asia. There was no air conditioning on the first floor and the humidity made the mid-nineties outside seem refreshing by comparison. The air was thick, stirred slightly by the underpowered ceiling fan. Wallace walked to the old counter and smacked his hand on the silver bell.
“You don’t see those bells too often,” Nguyen said.
“You don’t see places like this hotel at all. Everything is sixty years old, including the dust.” Wallace tugged at his collar and his tie. “And could it be any hotter in here?”
The door opened in the back of the housing complex turned hotel, and the old man walked forward at his normal glacial pace. The Asian senior citizen stepped behind a portable screen wall, weaved behind the counter, and approached the detectives from the front.
“You do the talking,” Wallace whispered as the man stepped forward.
“How can I help you?” the owner asked.
“We are with the D.C. Metropolitan Police. We want to ask a few questions,” Nguyen said, following orders and taking the lead on the questioning.
“The police?”
“Yes.”
“We don’t see many police around here.”
“That’s a good thing,” Nguyen answered.
“Yes, I guess it is.”
Detective Nguyen, face-to-face with an equally sweaty old man in white boxers and a tank top, cut to the chase. He pulled the photo from his hand beneath the counter and showed it to the hotel owner. Detective Wallace, a step back and to the left, concentrated on the reaction that flashed across the old man’s face.
“Have you seen this man?” Nguyen asked.
The old man took one brief look and dug around under the counter for his glasses. He put the black-frame reading specials on his nose and gave the photo a long thoughtful stare. He raised his eyes upward slowly until they met Nguyen’s. “No, officer, I have never seen him before.”
“Are you sure? Take a good look. The ponytail, the defined face. He is big.”
The old man played along, and looked harder at the picture, pinching his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger. “No, he doesn’t look familiar to me, but I’m getting old, my memory isn’t what it used to be.”
“Okay. Thank you for your time,” Detective Wallace interrupted. “If you see him around, please give us a call.”
The abrupt end to the conversation caught Nguyen off guard. He was still pulling his business card out of his shirt pocket when the door shut behind Wallace as he exited the hotel. Nguyen fumbled with his card, dropped it on the counter, and followed Wallace’s lead out the door.
Earl Wallace pulled out a cigarette as Nguyen came down the stairs from the front of the hotel. “That was a bit rushed,” Nguyen said. “The old man….”
“The old man knows more than he is letting on,” Wallace said confidently. “But we got all the information we are going to get from him.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Gut reaction. Always trust your gut. Here on the street it may be the only friend you have,” Wallace said, enjoying the role of teacher. There was something about being a mentor. It was more fun than actually having a partner.
“Why didn’t we put his feet to the fire a little?” Nguyen asked.
“Didn’t want to spook him.”
“But you wanted to spook Peter Winthrop by leaving him with a copy of the photo?”
“Different fish, different bait.”
“I guess.”
“Well, I guess this means a stakeout. I’ll betcha fifty bucks the big guy shows up here tonight.”
“I’d love to keep you company, but I have a date tonight, Sergeant. Been planned for a month. It’s my last chance with this girl.”
“You young guys have no loyalty to the job.”
“I’ll stop by later and see how you’re doing.”
“Bring your date along. She’ll be impressed. Nothing turns a girl on faster than a policeman at work. The consummate professional on a stakeout—belt undone, shoes off, zipper cracked.”
“Better yet, call your wife and we’ll double date,” Nguyen answered, getting better at his comebacks.
“Fine. I’ll drop you off at the station, get some coffee, and find a spot to look inconspicuous. As inconspicuous as an overweight black man can look in Chinatown.”
