A Barricade in Hell (11 page)

Gabe smiled, grateful Jack was talking again. The car ride from the station house had been much too quiet. “Henderson is still new at this. Give him five years, and you won't be able to pay him enough to read detective stories.”

Chinatown's streets were always busy, even at 10
A.M.
on a Tuesday. Early-morning delivery vans lined the curbs, unloading crates of live ducks, chickens, and tubs of iced fish outside restaurants and markets. Sacks of rice, weighing fifty pounds or more, were handed down from truck beds and carried inside. Men on bicycles wove around motorcars, and women weighed down by shopping bags or small children darted across traffic.

The scent of incense wafted from open windows, mingling with the clouds of tobacco smoke that formed around the heads of old men standing on street corners. Other scents filled the air as well, a sweet, sickly odor seeping out of alleyways and drifting up from boarded-over basement windows.

Gabe stopped, staring down an alley and aware of the hostile glares from a group of young men near the opening. Memories of a nighttime raid in Chinatown when he and Jack were rookies flooded back. More than half the men they'd pulled out of that reeking maze of narrow hallways and closet-sized rooms were so deep into opium dreams, they didn't know they'd been arrested. He hadn't been able to get the smell out of his uniform.

That he'd forgotten, even for a little while, baffled him. He'd had nightmares about the stench in those rooms for weeks afterwards. “Jack … do you smell that? I couldn't place it before, but now I'm positive Archie Baldwin's clothes stank of opium.”

“Christ Almighty. That new guy over in vice, Haskell, claims all the dens were shut down.” Jack paled, his always-fair skin suddenly bleached of all color. He took a step into the alley. “Archie was gone for three days. No wonder he can't remember what happened to Amanda or where he was. He's damn lucky to be alive. Christ!”

More young men, all of them well muscled and rough, moved away from sheltered doorways and niches along the alley and toward Jack. The group near the mouth of the alley moved closer as well. Gabe took his partner's arm and hustled him down the street.

“It's one more thing to question Baldwin about. Assuming he ever regains his memory.” One more piece of evidence that might damn Archie Baldwin as a murderer. Gabe looked over his shoulder. The young men from the alley clustered around the mouth, watching, but showed no interest in following them.

Certain things had changed since the 1906 fire destroyed Chinatown. Tongs no longer waged open warfare and the days of the highbinders were over, but there were still places Gabe wasn't willing to venture and risks he wasn't willing to take. Captain Haskell could claim to have Chinatown under control all he wanted. That didn't make it so. The men he'd spotted watching him and Jack made him doubly cautious. Two outsiders—two cops—could still disappear without a trace.

For that matter, so could an heiress. Chinatown might hold more secrets they needed to unearth beyond how Mr. Sung and his granddaughter died. That thought disturbed him, as did the prospect of needing to search for Amanda Poe in hidden rooms and basements along the maze of side streets and alleys in Chinatown. He wouldn't wager much on their chances of finding her alive.

Gabe took note of the shops on either side of Grant and the names of the side streets near the alley. He'd bring the entire squad if he and Jack were forced to come back.

Two blocks later, they found the Sung's teashop. A cheap plate glass window, full of ripples and imperfections that distorted Gabe's reflection, took up the entire front of the shop. The name,
BLUE TIGER TEAS,
was rendered in both English and Chinese in a garish, gold script meant to catch the eye of tourists. Wooden latticework, painted a dull and faded red, framed the window.

The shop was empty this early in the day. Chairs sat upended atop the tables, the shade half-drawn on the front door. Long shelves along the back wall held rows of painted teacups, jars of loose tea, and small figurines for the tourists: good-luck cats, tigers, and dragons. A light shone behind a bead curtain over a doorway into the back room. Someone was in there.

“Do we knock or just walk in?” Jack nodded toward the silent crowd gathering across the street, acknowledging they were being watched. Two white-haired men standing at the front bowed respectfully. A third man, his short, dark hair liberally streaked with gray and a strip of black cloth tied around his shirtsleeve, started toward them. “Something tells me the family knows we're here.”

“They've known since we parked the car.” Gabe removed his fedora, letting it dangle from his hand. “Take off your hat, Jack. My guess is that this is Mr. Sung's son.”

“Captain Ryan? My name is Sung Zao.” Zao bowed his head, but didn't smile or offer his hand. He was tall and thin, his trousers and shirt hanging loosely on his frame. “My uncle Wing is head of our family now. He sent me to ask if you would meet with him about my father's death.”

“Certainly.” Gabe gestured toward the tea shop door. That Zao hadn't mentioned his daughter's death struck him as odd, but maybe the loss was still too raw. He'd wait and bring the girl up with the uncle. “Is your uncle inside?”

“No, Captain. This is my shop, my wife and children's home.” Zao frowned. “My uncle wishes to meet you at the herb shop he ran with my father. I can take you there if you like.”

Gabe exchanged looks with Jack. Neither of them had expected an invitation to the crime scene. “I'd appreciate that, Mr. Sung. Thank you.”

Zao nodded and led the way farther down Grant. People stepped out of the way to let them pass, moving back to block the sidewalk once they'd gone by. Gabe glanced over his shoulder, both curious about why their visit had attracted such a crowd and wondering if he should worry. The faces looking back at him appeared just as curious about what he and Jack were up to with Zao. He stopped worrying.

He cleared his throat, gaining Zao's attention. “I wondered if you could answer a question for me, Mr. Sung. Why did your uncle choose the herb shop as a meeting place? I assumed the family—”

“Would still be mourning? We are, Captain.” Grief overshadowed Zao's face, there and gone in an instant. He turned onto a small side street and then down an alley lined with a mixture of clothing shops, gambling parlors, and what Gabe guessed to be brothels. Doors slammed at their approach, and any curious faces hid behind the curtains on second- and third-story windows. This was a part of Chinatown the tourists never saw.

The alley was a dead end, terminating in a brick wall marred by streaks of black paint and scraps of faded handbills in Chinese, chips and deep gouges. Tall, burly men lounged against the bricks and sat on upturned boxes, smoking and eyeing the two cops coming down the alley. A few of the younger men studied Jack and Gabe, openly curious. The older men didn't try to hide their hostility.

Zao stopped in front of an unmarked door, the last on that side of the alley and only a few yards from the brick wall. White paper covered the front window, hiding what was inside. “My uncle is a powerful man, Captain, and well respected in our community. The only reason you're here is that he believes you and Lieutenant Fitzgerald will be of help to our family.”

Water dripped from an awning above the door. A drop of cold water found its way down Gabe's collar, making him shiver. “The department will do everything we can to catch whoever killed your father and daughter, Mr. Sung. You have my word on that.”

“You misunderstand me, Captain Ryan.” Zao opened the door and bowed them inside. “Uncle Wing wants your help in finding my father's ghost.”

That brought him up short. “Your father's ghost?”

“My uncle will explain.” Zao gestured toward the rear of the darkened shop. “Please, Captain. He doesn't like to be kept waiting.”

“I told you we should have brought Dora.” Jack clapped him on the shoulder and strolled inside, pretending a nonchalance Gabe didn't believe. “You owe me lunch for a week.”

Zao waited patiently until Gabe followed his partner in before shutting the door. The bell over the entrance jangled and fell silent. Electric lamps hanging from the tall ceiling and in fixtures on the walls shone brightly, filling the interior of the shop with light. He turned in a circle, looking for Mr. Sung. By all appearances, he and Jack were alone.

Jack kept his hands stuffed in his pockets as he surveyed the inside of the shop. He rocked back and forth on his heels, and whistled softly. “Does this remind you of anything?”

“Wells's shop.” Labels on the few crocks and jars still on the shelves were written in Chinese characters, but discolored rings on the painted wood showed where many more missing containers once sat. The resemblance to the store where Bradley Wells had been killed was undeniable. Gabe nudged a half-hidden shard of pottery with his shoe, sliding it out from under the edge of a display case. “Someone made an attempt to clean up.”

Jack wiped a finger over a shelf and sniffed the power sticking to his skin. He made a face. “They didn't do a very good job.”

“No, Lieutenant. My neighbors didn't do a good job at cleaning. I stopped them before they could finish.” An older Chinese man stood in a doorway at the back of the shop, a tray of steaming teacups balanced on his hands. A silk wall hanging swayed back into place as Sung Wing moved into the room, hiding the entrance once again. “They meant to spare me the pain of seeing my shop in ruins, but I needed things left as they were. Now, come, sit and share tea with me. Then we can talk.”

A latticework folding screen sat near a display case to the right. Wing put the tray on top of the case and pulled back the screen to reveal a round table and four chairs under a small window. Gabe took the chair near the window. A small flower garden, no bigger than a closet and with most of the plants winter brown, grew just outside.

“That garden gave my brother great joy. Given a choice, Liang would have been very happy as a cabbage farmer in Sacramento.” Mr. Sung poured pale green tea into cups and offered one to each of them. “But our family and business are here in San Francisco, so he stayed. Now I wish I'd let him buy the farm he wanted so badly.”

Gabe took a sip of the sour-tasting tea and put the cup aside, politeness satisfied. Status and rank meant more in Chinatown than skill at questioning a witness, so he took the lead while Jack took notes. “Mr. Sung, I'm very sorry about your brother and your great-niece, but I need to ask you some questions about how they died. Lieutenant Fitzgerald and I believe that their deaths may be related to another murder case we're working on. Any information you give us may help bring this killer to justice.”

Most Chinese men wore their hair cut short and Western-style clothing, but Sung Wing's ash-gray hair was braided into a queue that hung below his waist, and he wore traditional loose trousers and a tunic. Gabe had met a few other Chinese men who clung to tradition and the old ways, but not many. The ones who stood out in his memory were the ones who stubbornly refused to involve the police in anything, no matter what the cost.

But Sung had asked them to come. That gave Gabe a modicum of hope he might get some answers.

“Captain, I will tell you what I can.” Sung Wing put down his cup and sat up, straight and unbending. “Ask your questions. Both of us need answers.”

Jack shifted in his chair, drawing Mr. Sung's attention. Gabe let his partner ask the questions. “Forgive me, sir, but this won't take long. Our other victim, Bradley Wells, was found murdered in the back room of his father's drugstore. The shop had been vandalized and all the medicines in the back room stolen. Something similar happened here. What did the murderers steal?”

“Powdered seeds and herbs.” Anger sparked in Mr. Sung's eyes. “They left my brother's gold and jade. Liang and the girl died for sleeping potions.”

“And none of your neighbors saw anything unusual?” Jack glanced up from scribbling in his notebook. “Any strangers?”

“Nothing.” Mr. Sung frowned. “Before I'd have said no one could reach my door unseen, friend or stranger. These men must be made of shadow.”

“One last question, Mr. Sung, and we'll leave you in peace. Your family waited until after the funeral to go to the police.” Gabe cleared his throat and looked the old man in the eye. “Why is that? How did your brother and his granddaughter die?”

For an instant, Sung Wing held his gaze, proud and defiant, and Gabe was certain he wouldn't answer. But Sung turned away, staring out the window at his brother's garden. Despair and grief settled over his face, aging him. “My niece did not die quickly. They beat her and cut her face. I had her cremated to spare her mother and father the sight of what had been done to their child. Her mother named her Lan, orchid, and I wanted them to remember her as beautiful. But Sung Lan's spirit was still here and whole. I was able to send her ghost to be with our ancestors.”

He'd heard almost the same words spoken by Delia, by Isadora, countless times. Zao had said his uncle was a powerful man. The way Gabe thought of Mr. Sung changed, twisted into a different definition of power. “And Sung Liang? How did he die?”

“His throat was cut. Then the men who murdered my brother bled him like a suckling pig and stole his ghost.” Mr. Sung shuddered and gripped the edge of the table. “In China they still tell stories from long ago of sorcerers who stole souls. But China is an old land, with a long memory. I didn't think such things could happen here.”

The roiling in Gabe's stomach was more than instinct, more than a hunch panning out. He didn't need to see the bodies of the old man and his granddaughter, or if they'd been laid out the same way, or the wound gaping in Sung Liang's throat. He
knew
Bradley Wells had been killed by the same people, for the same twisted reason.