Earl Wallace headed back to the station with his partner. He sighed the sigh of a big man with a bad back and bad eating habits. Stakeouts were for cases with evidence. Cases with strong leads. Right now, the case against the large Chinese guy in the picture didn’t even qualify as a case. But his gut told him it was worth sitting in a car for a night. Agitating his hemorrhoids, spilling fast food all over himself, farting enough to make himself sick —with no one to share in the fun. ***
The old man in the hotel watched the detectives from the living room lobby of the old brick building. His favorite tenant, his newfound drinking buddy, and the temporary replacement for his long-lost son was being sought by the police. There had to be a mix up. Something easily explained. Chow Ying helped carry in the groceries, watched TV with him and his wife, had played card games with his grandchildren when they stopped by over the weekend. The old man refused to believe that Chow Ying was justly wanted for any crime. Chow Ying was an angel. He was polite, jovial, and kind.
Right up until it was time to kill.
One characteristic did not preclude the other. They were all traits of the same man. It is a misconception by people that somehow inconsistency of character is dishonest. A chameleon is a chameleon and the only consistency is its ability to change colors. People with similar traits are considered liars and deceitful. Chow Ying was honest with himself, and that was more than most people could say.
The old man kept an eye out front and waited patiently in the lobby, sipping tea, watering and pruning his plants, and reading the local Chinese paper. His favorite tenant limped down the stairs from an afternoon slumber, ready for another attempt to track down Peter Winthrop. After a dozen unsuccessful mornings, Chow Ying was changing his schedule for the singular purpose of accommodating the kill. Lions in the safari don’t count on gazelles wandering by their den at lunchtime, and neither would he. A little after-hours hunt was the order of the day.
“Do you need anything while I am out?” Chow Ying asked his new family in the making.
“No, we’re fine. Thank you for asking. Will you be late tonight?”
“No, I shouldn’t be too late,” Chow Ying said. “Unless I get lucky,” he finished, with a slap on the old man’s shoulder.
The old man thought his favorite guest was talking about women. Chow Ying was thinking far more sinister thoughts. The old man watched in slow motion as Chow Ying shuffled on his sore ankle toward the front door, steps from the outside world and the watchful eyes of the detective now parked four doors down. Chow Ying put his hand on the doorknob, turned it, and yanked the door open. The inward momentum of the door abruptly halted and the door slammed shut. Startled, Chow Ying looked down at the old crooked digits protruding from the toe-less shoe wedged securely against the base of the door and the floor.
“Maybe you should start using the back door. It seems you have a few complications with your stateside visit,” the old man said, before whispering the Chinese word for “police” and tilting his head in the direction of the outside.
Chow Ying looked at the old man and nodded in appreciation. “Thank you, I’ll only be here a couple of more days, and then I will be gone. I won’t cause you any trouble.”
The owner’s apartment in the back of the hotel was dark, the sun blocked by buildings and heavy venetian blinds. The old man moved slowly, Chow Ying following as he limped through the dimly-lit room—the evening drinking parlor and gambling den. In the last two nights, the old man had taken over three hundred dollars of Chow Ying’s cash, a few lucky aces and the well-timed mahjong tile the coupe de grace. But the Mountain of Shanghai didn’t protest too loudly. It was C.F. Chang’s money anyway.
The door to the furnace closet at the end of the hall opened with a screech. The old water heater kept the room next to the kitchen warm in the winter, unbearable in the summer. Cockroach hotels lined the edge of the floor. A mousetrap was baited and waiting for one of Mickey’s relatives. A conglomeration of mops, brooms, and cleaning equipment stood in the corner. As Chow Ying peered over the old man’s head, the hotel owner reached into a mass of cobwebs and pulled out a key ring with a single key. The edge of a rifle stock peaked from the side of a broken piece of mirror, its barrel nuzzled against an old ironing board.
The old man blew at the dust clinging to the key, wiped it once against the side of his shorts, and handed it to Chow Ying. “This opens the back door. Take the alley to the right.”
“Thank you,” Chow Ying said again.
Even cold-blooded killers needed a little love. ***
It was three a.m. when Nguyen knocked on the driver’s side window of the unmarked car. It wasn’t until he tapped on the glass with his sizeable ring that Detective Wallace, sound asleep, jerked awake in the front bench seat. Nguyen laughed as Wallace thrashed his arms, hit the horn, and flailed even more. Cursing, Wallace rubbed his eyes. He pointed for Nguyen to get into the passenger seat.
“Son of a bitch.”
“You really ought to get that looked at.”
“What?”
“Sleeping on the job. Second time this week.”
“Sleeping on the job my ass,” Wallace answered, insulted.
“Okay, Sarge. Whatever you say. Any luck?”
“None. Not a single person has entered or exited that door this evening. Not one.”
“While you were watching, anyway?” Nguyen said, smirking. “How many hotels in D.C. don’t have patrons in the summer?”
“At least one.”
“Looks like someone is still awake in a room on the third floor,” Nguyen said looking up.
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“Uh-hmm,” Nguyen said, looking up through the windshield. “Could be our Asian guy is up there right now.”
“Or it could be a hotel guest watching porn.”
“With the lights on?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Wallace, no one is going to be up at three in the morning, watching porn, with the lights on.”
“How long you been working in this city?”
“Four-and-a-half years. But I have only been a detective for a year.”
“Well, I’ll tell you from firsthand experience that there are people in this city who would watch porn at three in the morning with the lights on. And whether you want to believe it or not, there are people who would watch porn and pleasure themselves in DuPont Circle in the middle of a sunny Saturday afternoon.”
“Nice image. Are you ready to go home and get a few hours sleep?” Nguyen asked. “I’ll keep an eye on things.”
“We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”
“Why’s that?”
“We’re going to the Capitol. Time to rub elbows with the bigwigs.”
Chapter 35
“You have a stack of mail on your desk, and I have a list of people who called while you were gone.”
“Give me twenty minutes,” Peter said to Marilyn’s replacement as he passed by without stopping.
The master of his domain missed his former secretary. His emotions went beyond their personal history, their years of working together. Peter loved Marilyn for one reason above all others—she was the only person he had ever met who was as anal as he was. She would have never left a pile of mail on his desk. The mail would have been filtered, sorted, labeled, and stacked in order of importance. Peter realized it was going to take years of training before he had another Marilyn. And if he was going to have to train one, they might as well be young and beautiful. The clock was ticking on Shelly, the replacement executive assistant.
Peter found his chair and leaned back, the comfortable crinkle of handcrafted leather coinciding with a morning yawn. He listened to his voicemail, took some notes, and checked the calendar in his Euro-style day planner.
