by S. J. Rozan
“It wasn’t the thrill of the chase that drove Alice Fairchild,” I said.
Heavily, Mr. Zhang stood. He walked to the window and looked out over Chinatown. “No. And now two men are dead. My brother is hurt and my cousin very ill. Lives have been disrupted, and more heartbreak lies ahead. Because of me. Because instead of reality, I fostered illusion. Instead of truth, I encouraged dreams.” He turned to us. “Do you see? This is what was spoken by Uncle Kai-rong and Uncle Paul. This is the curse of the Shanghai Moon.”
43
A weary Mr. Zhang busied himself with kettle, tea canister, and little cups. Bill lit a cigarette and went to the window. I watched the Shanghai Moon sparkle against my fingertips.
It didn’t look cursed. On the contrary: The tiny diamonds’ sparkle and the green marbling of the jade made me hopeful, comforted me. As though, through everything, Rosalie and Kai-rong’s love still glowed.
But Mr. Zhang must be right. Look at all that had happened because of it. It must, in fact, be cursed.
Ah, what do you know, Chinsky? What was the last cursed thing you saw? I jumped at the voice in my head.
What, Pilarsky, you think this is funny? I silently demanded.
Hey, I’m one of the guys the thing took out, why would I laugh? I must’ve been losing it anyway, falling for Alice like that. But listen: That’s not the problem anymore.
What’s not?
In the first place, you can’t be serious, blaming that chatchke for all this tsuris. People made the mess, like always. Second, the bad guys are in jail. We’re square, you and me. Thanks, by the way.
Thanks? But I—
I said thanks, that’s it, no more, the end. Stick to business: You’ve got a bunch of old Chinese men here who still have troubles.
And? What am I supposed to do about it?
I should know? But you always said the old Chinese men, they were your problem.
“Ms. Chin? Are you all right?”
I looked up to see Mr. Zhang holding out a cup of tea. How long he’d been standing there, I couldn’t tell, but he seemed concerned. “Yes. Thank you. I’m fine.”
Bill had a teacup by his side at the windowsill. He was looking at me, too, quizzically but without worry. As though, whatever was going on, he knew I could handle it.
And of course, I could.
After all, I was Lydia Chinsky.
Mr. Zhang sat down and leaned toward me. “Do you understand, now, why this investigation must stop? If my cousin were to learn I never intended to buy the Shanghai Moon, and why . . . He’s just had a heart attack. Another might end his life.”
I sipped my tea. An idea began to glow in my mind, just a tiny pinprick at first, then brighter. Go, Chinsky! I had some more tea, to stall. Was I really about to do this? “Your brother,” I heard myself say to Mr. Zhang. “You know he would do anything you ask?”
“Yes,” Mr. Zhang said sadly. “And the one thing he’s asked, a brother’s love, I’ve been unable to give.”
“Maybe now,” I told him, “you can.”
Of course, I wasn’t there to see it. Bill and I had to content ourselves with Mary’s report. She was there because C. D. Zhang had requested “that Chinese detective,” just as his brother had instructed. For all Mary knew, we had no idea what was even going on.
Right.
“You made this happen.” She hadn’t sat down at our Taiwanese tea place before the words were out of her mouth.
“I got ginger black with condensed milk.” I lifted the teapot.
“Never mind that.” She held out a cup anyway because ginger’s her favorite. I poured for her and for Inspector Wei, who gave the tea a skeptical sniff. “C. D. Zhang’s confession,” Mary said. “You guys’ pawprints are all over it.”
Bill held up innocent hands.
I shrugged. “I owed you, girlfriend.”
“So, what, you manufactured a confession and found someone to deliver it?”
“I just suggested to C. D. Zhang that he admit he did his brother dirt.” And if the crime he confessed to wasn’t the one he committed, was that so terrible?
“Of those three, C. D. was my least likely suspect.”
“Sometimes that’s who did it.”
“And sometimes”—Mary put her cup down—“a guy admits to stealing his brother’s million dollars, his brother declines to press charges, and we have no one to prosecute.”
“For that. But Alice rolled on the White Eagles. You have your conspiracy.”
“True. So it just so happens we no longer need Wong Pan. So when he slips Midtown’s clutches and gets shipped back to Shanghai with the DA’s blessing, everyone will be happy.”
At that, Inspector Wei lifted her cup. We all clinked. “This tea,” she said. “Well made. But condensed milk, so sweet, terrible.”
“Sorry.”
“Oh!” Mary said, as though something had just hit her. “Except there’s one guy who’ll be left with nothing, so he won’t be happy. And just by coincidence, it’s Mulgrew.”
“Well,” I said, “some days the bear gets you.”
“You know Mr. Chen will never forgive C. D. for endangering his chance at the Shanghai Moon, even though it wasn’t a real chance.”
“I’m afraid that’s true. But Mr. Zhang will. He already has. That’s why he’s not pressing charges.”
“In fact, he turns out to be quite a humanitarian. I hear he’s offered to help pay for home health care for Alice’s sister. Oh, didn’t you know she has a sister? In Boston.”
“Yes, Alice mentioned her when she was, you know, holding up the jewelry store. That’s very kind of Mr. Zhang.”
Mary narrowed her eyes. “Lydia. Something else is going on here, isn’t it?”
“Probably. Families are complicated things.”
That was the truest thing I’d said since Mary sat down.
What C. D. Zhang was getting in return for his “confession” wasn’t his brother’s forgiveness, since what he’d done sixty years ago he wasn’t admitting, and what he was admitting he hadn’t done. What he was getting was much more. Gratitude. Appreciation. A secret shared with his brother. A bond between them.
What Zhang Li was getting was a solution to the million-dollar mystery that Mr. Chen would buy.
What Joan Conrad was getting was the ability to go on living in her own house.
What I was getting was a dubious look from my best and oldest friend.
But rumor had it what she was getting was a commendation. So I didn’t think she’d be upset for long.
I poured more tea, and as I turned the lid upside down so they’d know to bring us another pot, my phone rang. It was my brother Ted’s number in Flushing, but when I answered it, it was my mother. I excused myself and skipped outside. “Hi, Ma.”
“Ling Wan-ju! Are you all right?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Now you surely will be. Kwan Shan tells me the gang boys are all in jail.”
“Did she tell you what a hero Clifford was?”
“Oh, so much big talk from her! She said Clifford saved your life. I told her that was ridiculous.”
“It’s pretty close to true. Anyhow, the White Eagles are off the streets, so I’ll come out and bring you home whenever you want.”
“That’s why I’m calling. I’ve decided to stay here some days longer.”
“You have?”
“Now that the apartment is painted white, it’s not so dark. And your brother’s children want me to teach their mother to make har gow.”
“Oh,” I said. “Oh. Okay, Ma. Just let me know when you want to come home.”
I lowered the phone and stood in the churning river of Chinatown’s streets. A vendor’s flying fingers folded a paper dragon. Shoppers flowed around him without a break in stride. A girl guided her grandmother, bent and leaning on a stick. The grandmother scolded; the girl ignored her words but took great care to steady her.
I went back inside. “Oh, here
is,” Inspector Wei said, raising her cup. “This time, drinking jasmine tea. Much better.” She waited for Mary to pour me some. “Investigator Chin. Investigator Smith. Shanghai Police Bureau asks me, give you official gratitude. Anytime you coming to China, please accept hospitality of Shanghai Police Bureau.”
“Thanks,” Bill said. “Can’t wait.”
“Me, too.” I raised my cup in return. “To Inspector Wei De-xu and the Shanghai Police.”
Wei, with her sharp smile, said, “To Investigator Chin.”
I turned to my left. “To Detective Mary Kee and the NYPD.”
Mary tried to keep the suspicious look going but gave up and grinned. “To Lydia.”
I turned to my right. I hesitated; then in my head I heard, Chinsky! Come on, just say it! So, because Joel always gave good advice, even though, as usual, I hadn’t asked, I said, “And to my partner.”
Bill’s smile was small and his words were quiet, but I loved them. “And to mine.”
I ambled to my office through the bright sticky heat. At Golden Adventure’s door, Andi waved me in. “Hi, Lydia! Package for you. FedEx man wants to know, you that Lydia Chin?” Notoriety has its uses. The travel ladies had been dining out for days on my part in the Canal Street shootout and their own close call when the White Eagles came to their office. I figured that meant my lease was safe for a while.
The return address on the box was Teaneck: Anita Horowitz, Paul Gilder’s granddaughter. I thanked Andi and took the box to my office. Small, dim, messy; but mine. I opened the box and slid out a padded envelope with a note attached.
Zayde’s been asking if Mei-lin is coming back, and he insists Mei-lin should have this. Rosalie had it taken to send to Elke before they knew she’d been arrested. Zayde keeps it by his bed. I know it’s a big favor to ask, but he seems so happy when he talks about seeing Mei-lin again. Would you mind coming out here, if you have the time? You wouldn’t have to stay long.
Would I mind? To hear the stories Paul Gilder could tell, about Rosalie, about Kai-rong, about Shanghai in their time?
I had a copy made, and I’m sending it to you so if you do come back and he asks about it you’ll know what he means. Hoping to see you again, Anita.
Inside the envelope was a black-and-white photo. In a garden under a blossoming acacia tree, five people smiled from thin-armed rosewood chairs. Two I recognized; three I’d never seen, but I knew them.
On the left, Rosalie, her hair stirring in the breeze. Beside her, a handsome Chinese man in a European suit and tie. The older man in the center wore a traditional silk scholar’s robe, and the young woman next to him a qi pao—and, I was delighted to see, high heels. On the right, Paul, leaning forward, ready to jump up as soon as the shutter clicked.
Peering closer, I could see the tangle in the grass beside the tea table was really lines of handwriting, faint, but neat and familiar. I called Bill.
“Could you translate some German?” I read the words to him. “I can tell ‘Kai-rong’ and ‘Mama,’ but besides that I’m lost.”
“Give it to me again, slowly.”
I read it again.
“Okay, loosely, ‘Here are Kai-rong and his father and sister. Our new friends! People to care about, and who care about us—what treasure, not to be taken lightly in these times. I’m so anxious for the day when you meet them yourself. Until then, all my love, Mama. Your Rosalie.’ ”
Lost in the photo, I almost didn’t hear Bill ask, “What was that from?”
People to care about, and who care about us. What treasure, not to be taken lightly.
“Come to my office,” I said. “Bring a cup of coffee. I’d like to show you.”
Ebury Press Fiction Footnotes
An interview with S. J. Rozan
What was the inspiration for Trail of Blood?
I was fascinated with the concept of a settlement of European Jewish refugees in Shanghai during World War II. It seemed right up Lydia Chin’s alley.
Trail of Blood has a wonderfully complex plot with lots of unexpected twists, did you know how it would all end when you started out? Did you have to do a lot of historical research?
I had no idea how it would end when I started, because I didn’t know about all those unexpected twists – they were as unexpected to me as they are, I hope, to readers. What I did know was the truth about the Shanghai Moon itself, which led me to a suspicion - not sure knowledge, but a suspicion – about where it had been for 60 years.
I did a tremendous amount of historical research. That was the most exciting part of this project. That time and place was abundantly rich in people and incident. I’d like to return to it for another book sometime.
While it stands on its own, Trail of Blood is obviously part of your ongoing Bill Smith/Lydia Chin series, since you alternate the stories between Bill and Lydia, we have to ask – who is your favourite to write?
The truth is, as I’m finishing up a book in either voice, I can’t wait to get to the other. She drives me crazy because she’s so chipper all the time; but he drives me equally crazy because he’s so depressed.
Who are your favourite crime novelists?
I never answer this question as it regards living writers because I always leave people out and then I feel bad. As far as my predecessors, Dorothy Sayers (especially for plot), Agatha Christie (for motive) and Raymond Chandler (for gorgeous prose).
Which classic novel have you always meant to read and never got round to it?
War and Peace. Isn’t that disgraceful?
What are your top five books of all time?
I’m not sure what “top five” means. These may not be the greatest books ever written, but they knocked my socks off:
The Blind Assassin (Margaret Atwood)
Yiddish Policeman’s Union (Michael Chabon)
Idoru (William Gibson)
A Perfect Spy (John LeCarre)
Snow Flower and the Secret Fan (Lisa See)
What book are you currently reading?
Genghis Khan and the Making of the Modern World (Jack Weatherford). I’m a geek.
Do you have a favourite time of day to write? A favourite place?
Morning, about 8-12. In my apartment at my desk, but I’m flexible.
Which fictional character would you most like to meet?
Oh, boy. This could change every five minutes, but I’d have to say Aragorn, from Lord of the Rings.
Who, in your opinion, is the greatest writer of all time?
No way I can answer this. William Shakespeare? Tang dynasty poet Wang Wei? The stunningly poetic translator of the King James Bible? I don’t think, at that level, there’s a pinnacle. Just a wide, rarefied mesa.
What are you working on at the moment?
I just finished a new Bill Smith, a thriller in form (something new for me) and am about to start a new Lydia Chin about the Chinese art market.
And finally, what does S.J. stand for…?
Shira Judith. But I don’t use them. Everyone calls me S.J.
Coming soon from S.J. Rozan:
BLOOD TIES
Some crimes strike too close to home…
Private detective Bill Smith is hurtled headlong into the most provocative – and personal – case of his career when he receives a chilling late night telephone call from the NYPD. They’re holding his fifteen-year-old nephew Gary. But before he can find out what’s going on, Gary escapes Bill’s custody and disappears into the dark and unfamiliar streets . . .
With his partner, Lydia Chin, Bill tries to find the missing teen and uncover what it is that has led him so far from home. Their search takes them to Gary’s family in a small town in New Jersey, where they discover that one of Gary’s classmates was murdered. Bill and Lydia delve into the crime – only to find it eerily similar to a decades-old murder-suicide . . .
The situation is not helped by Bill’s long term estrangement from his sister. But now, with his nephew’s future at stake, Bill must unravel a long-buried crime and conf
ront the darkness of his own past . . .
Praise for this series:
‘One of my favourite writers’ Dennis Lehane
‘Wonderful’ Robert Crais
‘Chilling’ Linda Fairstein
‘Terrific’ Washington Post
Turn the page for an exclusive extract . . .
one
When the phone rang I was asleep, and I was dreaming.
Alone in the shadowed corridors of an unfamiliar place, I heard, ahead, boisterous shouts, cheering. In the light, in the distance, figures moved with a fluid, purposeful grace. Cold fear followed me, something from the dark. I tried to call to the crowd ahead: my voice was weak, almost silent, but they stopped at the sound of it. Then, because the language I was speaking wasn’t theirs, they turned their backs, took up their game again. The floor began to slant uphill, and my legs were leaden. I struggled to reach the others, called again, this time with no sound at all. A door swung shut in front of me, and I was trapped, longing before, fear behind, in the dark, alone.
The ringing tore through the dream; it went on awhile and I grabbed up the phone before I was fully awake. “Smith,” I said, and my heart pounded because my voice was weak and I thought they couldn’t hear me.
But there was an answer. “Bill Smith? Private investigator, Forty-seven Laight Street?”
I rubbed my eyes, looked at the clock. Nearly two-thirty. I coughed, said, “Yeah. Who the hell are you?” I groped by the bed for my cigarettes.
“Sorry about the hour. Detective Bert Hagstrom, Midtown South. You awake?”
I got a match to a cigarette, took in smoke, coughed again. My head cleared. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. What’s up?”
“I got a kid here. Fourteen, maybe fifteen. Says he knows you.”
“Who is he?”
“Won’t say. No ID. Rolled a drunk on Thirty-third Street just up the block from two uniformed officers in a patrol car.”
“Sounds pretty stupid.”
“Green, I’d say. Young and big. I told him what happens to kids like him if we send them to Rikers.”