A Barricade in Hell (33 page)

“I've no idea, Dee. At a guess, I'd say Gabe wants to speak to Sung Wing about the investigation into his brother's murder.” She frowned and stared out the window into the dark, one long nail tapping against the door handle. “Gabe was searching for a connection between the Chinatown murders and his other cases. I know he was hoping to implicate Fontaine.”

I shivered. Clear, late January nights were always icy, and the cold air twining round my ankles was just that, an ordinary winter draft. Or so I told myself. “Perhaps he found what he was looking for.”

“Perhaps.” Dora flipped up her collar and hunkered deeper into her coat. “I just hope Gabriel took my warnings seriously. The less Sung Wing knows about Effie Fontaine, the better.”

 

CHAPTER 20

Gabe

The brightly lit streets of Chinatown were filled with people, far more than normally went out after dark. Mothers and fathers strolled down the block with their youngest children in hand, the entire family dressed in their finest clothes. White-haired men and women sat in chairs on the sidewalk, watching the parade of their neighbors and handing out red envelopes to young members of their families. Gangs of older children ran and dodged around groups of adults, pretending to be lion dancers or tossing firecrackers to scare away evil spirits.

Few people paid heed to the patrol car slowly driving down the street or the police captain brooding in the backseat.

Back in his foot patrol days, Gabe would have known exactly when Chinatown celebrated the New Year, but he'd been gone too long. Now the crowds were a forcible reminder, one that made him briefly consider postponing his visit to Mr. Sung for another day. He dismissed the idea again almost immediately. This couldn't wait.

“Bradford, park somewhere along here.” He tugged his hat down tight. “I'll walk the last block or two.”

Officer Bradford came round the car to open Gabe's door. He stood next to the car, looking around. The scent of gunpowder and pork dumplings brought back memories. Red paper lanterns hung above every shop door and on ropes strung between streetlamps, adding a rosy cast to faces and the front of buildings. Good-luck pictures and symbols hung in windows. Drums sounded in the distance, a sure sign that a lion dance troupe was performing on another street.

A group of giggling young boys no more than eight or nine years old tossed a string of lit firecrackers and ran. The firecrackers landed on Patrolman Bradford's shoe as they went off, causing him to jump back. Bradford swore and lunged for the smallest boy, catching him by the arm before the child could get away.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” Bradford shook the child hard, jerking him off his feet and making him cry. “I'll teach you some respect for your betters, you slanty-eyed little bastard.”

“Bradford!” Gabe forced the patrolman back against the side of the car and twisted his fist in Bradford's jacket. “He's a little boy, not a thug. Let him go. Now.”

The adults within sight of the patrol car had stopped talking, good cheer and smiles rapidly changing to anger. Several of the scowling younger men watching moved closer.

Bradford looked between Gabe and the weeping little boy dangling from his hand. “Captain, you saw what he did—”

“It's a game boys play at New Year's. Now, I gave you an order, Patrolman.” Gabe leaned close, his voice a low growl. “Let the boy go.”

The ruddy-faced cop finally loosened his grip on the child's arm, face screwed up in disgust. Gabe walked the boy a few steps away and got down on one knee, straightening the boy's hat and wiping tears away with his handkerchief. “I'm sorry he scared you. Do you speak English?”

Big-eyed with fright, the boy remained mute and stared into Gabe's face. Few of the younger children in Chinatown spoke English, but he'd had to try. If nothing else, taking care of the boy kept him from giving in to the impulse to shake Bradford until his teeth rattled.

A woman stepped out of the crowd, hesitating until Gabe waved her forward. “Your son?” She nodded, but didn't speak, likely thinking the boy was in trouble. He took a silver dollar out of his pocket and pressed the coin into the boy's hand. “Some luck money for him. Please apologize and tell him I'm sorry my man behaved so badly. Tell your son I'll make sure it never happens again.”

She put an arm around the boy's shoulders and led him away, leaning close and speaking rapidly. The boy looked back at Gabe before they disappeared into the crowd. Fear had been replaced by confusion.

He stood, brushing dust off his knee. The boy had every right to be confused. “We'll discuss your actions later, Bradford. Consider yourself under disciplinary review from this moment on. I want you to get in the car and stay there until I come back. Don't talk to anyone. I'd suggest not looking at anyone either.” Gabe nodded toward the knot of scowling men a few yards away. “If you're lucky, they'll just let you sit here.”

“Captain, you can't be serious.” Bradford's flushed face was a rusty brick color in the paper-lantern light. He lifted a hand and let it drop again, not even trying to hide his frustration and anger. “You saw what happened. The little brat deserved a lot more than I gave him. If you don't teach these chinks a lesson when they're pups, they never show any respect.”

Gabe looked away for an instant, striving for calm. Bradford was far from the only cop on the force who thought that way. He couldn't control everything they said or did while out of his sight, but he wouldn't tolerate one of his men mistreating a child right in front of him. “Get in the car, Officer. I'm finished here.”

He shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets and started down the block toward the Sung family tea shop. That was the most likely place he'd find Sung Wing, passing out red envelopes to children and giving New Year's wishes to members of his tong.

Word of his arrival and the incident with Bradford had raced ahead, but he'd known it would. Gabe ignored the stares, grateful so few were hostile. A small number of the oldest men even smiled and nodded to him, smiles he returned.

Sung Wing was holding court in front of the family tea shop, sitting in an elaborately carved high-backed chair that would have served well as a throne. Dragons and tigers with gilt eyes, snakes and monkeys curved around the back behind his head, and the arms were openmouthed, roaring lions. A black velvet throw covered Mr. Sung's lap, holding a pile of red envelopes he handed out to the long line of children waiting their turn.

Two young men, guards, stood behind the chair to either side, each holding a carved ivory basin containing more red envelopes. Wing's nephew, Sung Zao, stood at the tea shop door, exchanging greetings with the people passing behind his uncle or going into the shop.

Gabe stood to the side, knowing he'd been seen and waiting to be acknowledged. Any doubts he'd had about Sung Wing's position in Chinatown vanished. The old man smiling at youngsters and saying a word or two to each one was far more than head of the Sung family. Everything Isadora had told him came back with a rush.

“Have you come to collect your luck money, Captain Ryan?” Mr. Sung smiled at the tiny girl in front of him and touched her head, but the amusement in his voice was all for Gabe. “Or are you here to scold me over gifting your wife with a kitten?”

Sung Wing's unprompted admission was surprising. Gabe couldn't begin to guess what game the tong leader thought they were playing. He smiled and let the remark pass.

“The cat makes Delia happy. Even if I do question your motives, I can't argue with that. I came to see you on police business.” He glanced at the two stony-faced young guards and leaned close to speak quietly in Mr. Sung's ear. “I'd like to ask a few questions about someone your brother might have known or had business dealings with.”

Sung Wing's shoulders stiffened for an instant, but he continued speaking to the children and passing out luck money. He gave Gabe an apologetic smile. “Forgive me, Captain, but I need to ask your patience. I must do my duty to the living for a little while longer.”

“I understand. Take your time.” Gabe stepped back into the overhang that sheltered the tea shop window, still close but out of the way. He kept an eye on the street, noting who made a point of watching him and Mr. Sung in the midst of the celebration, or who passed by without paying attention to either of them. Most of all, he looked for faces that seemed out of place. Faces like his own.

Thinking like a suspicious cop was a bad habit, but Effie Fontaine and her crew made Gabe nervous. He didn't know what to expect from her or what was outside the realm of possibility. Dora didn't know either, which doubled his need to be cautious. Jumping at shadows wasn't unreasonable if the shadows concealed a monster.

The tide of children waned. Mr. Sung waved his nephew Zao over to take his place in the chair.

“Come with me, Captain.” Mr. Sung motioned Gabe inside the crowded tea shop. “We can talk in my nephew's office. No one will disturb us.”

Conversations ground to a halt as Gabe followed Mr. Sung between tables and behind the counter. A glass bead curtain swayed and clattered as the two men passed through and into the narrow hall leading to the back.

Zao's office was bigger than Gabe expected, with a large, polished mahogany desk, glass-fronted curio cabinets full of porcelain figurines, and a window overlooking a walled courtyard behind the shop. Photographs hung on the walls, scenes from a mountain village in China and pictures of the family. One photo showed Zao as a younger man sitting with his wife and son, and a gray-haired man who had likely been Liang. A tiny, bright-eyed little girl leaned against Zao's knee, her small hand held securely in his.

The lacquered oval frame was draped in mourning crepe. Gabe looked away quickly, an unwitting intruder on Zao's private grief.

Mr. Sung shut the door and took a seat in the swivel chair behind the desk. Gabe settled into the smaller chair opposite him, taking off his hat and holding it on his lap. Sung Wing eyed him, hands folded on the desktop and lips pulled into a tight line. “Ask your questions, Captain Ryan. I will do what I can to help catch my brother's killers.”

“I want you to understand from the beginning that I'm not certain about any of this. I need to be certain before I make an arrest.” Gabe shifted his weight, causing the chair to creak alarmingly. “Another man, Bradley Wells, was murdered not long after your brother and niece. Mr. Wells was the police commissioner's son-in-law.”

“This is why you came to see me.” Mr. Sung leaned forward, his frown deepening. “You think there is some connection between the people who killed Mr. Wells and Liang.”

“Right now it's only a theory. The two cases have similarities.” He fiddled with the crown of his fedora. Planting certainty in Mr. Sung's mind was the last thing he wanted to do. Not until he had proof that would stand up in court. “Mr. Wells was murdered in the back room of his father's druggist shop. The men who killed him left all the money in the till, but took all the medications stored in the back room. We're still not certain what they took. The senior Mr. Wells didn't have a list.”

Mr. Sung muttered under his breath, swearing in Chinese as near as Gabe could guess. “There are things I should have told the police from the start, Captain. Forgive me. The men who killed Liang and my niece stole herbs and medications from his shop, yet left all his money and jade behind. Zao has a list, but most of what they stole was dried jimsonweed, poppy juice, and opium.”

“Poppy juice and opium?” Gabe's eyes widened. Archie Baldwin's clothing had reeked of opium when he first arrived at the station looking for Jack. “Was it normal for your brother to have those in his shop?”

Sung waved Gabe's comment away. “My brother mixed medicines, Captain. A drop of opium takes pain from the old, the sick and dying. Poppy juice helps them sleep. If you ask Mr. Wells's father, I'm sure he'll tell you he had poppy juice and opium in his back room.”

He'd been too focused on the men who'd been murdered and lost sight of their surroundings. Where someone died could be as important as who they were. Both an herbalist and a druggist would have need for basic ingredients to mix medicines. It made sense that they'd have those items stored in their back rooms.

Gabe thought about that now, thought hard. The string of burglaries involving small druggist shops before Wells's murder made more sense now. He added robbery to Effie Fontaine's list of crimes. What still puzzled him was what use she had for opium and poppy juice.

Memories of Bradley Wells's serene expression brought an answer, or at least the start of one. That Wells hadn't struggled when he was killed made sense if he'd been drugged, likely with poppy juice from his own back room. Gabe would be willing to wager that all Fontaine's victims were drugged before being killed.

That didn't explain the cruelty the killers had shown toward Sung Zao's daughter, Lan, before they murdered her. He'd probably never know why she'd been singled out for punishment. Not all his questions had answers.

“Captain Ryan?”

Mr. Sung's voice pulled him up short. Sheepish at being caught woolgathering, Gabe cleared his throat. “Yes, sorry. What did you say?”

The tong leader folded his hands on the desktop, his expression tense. Expectant. “I asked how Bradley Wells died.”

Sung Wing knew already; Gabe saw the knowledge stark in the old man's eyes. But that made looking Mr. Sung in the eye and telling him the truth more difficult, not less. “They cut his throat and bled him. Miss Bobet—Isadora says his spirit is missing as well.”

“Ah. Now I understand why you came to me.” Mr. Sung turned his chair toward the window. Fireworks went off outside, bathing the room in bursts of red, gold, and silver light. The sounds of children laughing and chattering to their parents, and the whistle of skyrockets came in from outside. “This person my brother may have known or done business with, what is his name?”