Coit Tower (Abby Kane FBI Thriller - Chasing Chinatown Trilogy Book 3)

by Ty Hutchinson

  Through my rearview mirror, I watched Kang park his navy blue Crown Vic behind me. As he walked over to my vehicle, I rolled my window down. “I don’t see any movement in any of the windows. I wonder if anybody is home.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I have a ‘sneak and peek’ warrant. Nobody needs to be home.”

  Kang and I hurried over to the tong. “What made you think to do that?” I asked.

  “I swung by yesterday and sat out front for a few hours. No one came or went. In fact, the tong looked how it looks now: vacant.”

  When we reached the entrance, Kang removed a small leather case from the pocket inside of his suit jacket.

  “Your own set of tools. I’m impressed,” I said.

  Kang flashed me a smile before he went to work. The lock on the front door was a single-cylinder deadbolt, not the most effective at keeping people out. Kang had the door unlocked in under a minute.

  Once inside, we could easily see that the reception area and the small informational library were both empty. The lights were off, but enough sunlight shone through the windows that we didn’t need to turn them on. We listened for a minute or so and heard nothing suggesting anybody was there. Still, we drew our weapons and climbed up the stairs.

  On the second floor, we stared at an empty recreation room. The lights were off, but again the area was sunlit. The pillows on the three sofas were neatly in place. The magazines on the coffee table in the center were still in the fanned-out position I had remembered seeing them in a few days ago.

  Off to the side were two teak tables with green felt tops—typical for mahjong games. I didn’t see any game pieces lying around, though. We searched the kitchen. No dirty dishes in the sink. I turned the faucet on, and water spurted before settling into a stream. A sign it had not been used in a while. Strange.

  Of the two offices on the floor, one was outfitted with everything an office would need: a desk with an executive leather chair, a filing cabinet, and a bookshelf lined with various Chinese-language books. I checked the filing cabinet. It was empty. So were the desk drawers. Aside from a yellow pad with a pen lying on top of it, I saw nothing else to indicate any sort of administrative work had taken place there. The other office was furnished with a table and a few chairs; maybe it served as a meeting room.

  “Kyle, you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Yup. This tong might have turned over a new leaf, but it’s still rotten.”

  Our discovery had me gripping the handle of my Glock a bit tighter and wishing I had my bulletproof vest strapped on.

  We approached the roped-off stairwell and listened once more before heading up. Kang unhooked the rope and led the way, hugging the wall. Before reaching the landing, we saw that the third floor was darker than the others. Kang peered over the top step. “It looks empty,” he whispered.

  It was.

  A large, empty space made up the third floor. There was a closed door to the left. I covered the stairs while Kang moved ahead. Our priority had switched from searching the building to clearing it. We had to be sure we were the only ones there. After a quick check, he whispered back to me, “It’s an empty closet.”

  There were a couple of drape-covered windows facing the street. Kang moved the drapes to the side to let in the sunlight. It made all the difference.

  I led the way to the next floor, hugging the wall of the narrow stairwell. The steps were wooden but surprisingly quiet. I expected creaking on every step but heard none. The fourth floor was also dark, but I could see a scattering of mismatched furniture and a few banker boxes stacked against the far wall. Kang covered the stairs as I cleared the area.

  We continued up to the top floor. I stuck with the lead. Right away I noticed a difference. First, it was smaller—more like an attic space. Second, it wasn’t dark like the two other floors. Third, someone lived there.

  Chapter 8

  “Kyle.”

  “I see it.” Kang moved up next to me.

  The open space had a slanted ceiling, the highest point being in the middle, maybe a fifteen-foot clearance. A single window with no drapes was positioned directly opposite the stairs. The walls were bare, as was most of the space. Pushed against the left wall we saw a single-mattress bed with a thin white comforter draped over it. There was a nightstand with a small bed lamp. A ceramic teacup and teapot sat on the linoleum floor next to it.

  I walked over to the bed, and my nose picked up a faint but familiar scent of jasmine. Tea was my first thought—maybe incense—but I didn’t see any ashes or stick remains lying around.

  “I wonder if the caretaker of the tong lives here,” Kang mused. “It’s not much.”

  Aside from the teapot, cup, and a few empty food packages, there were no other personal items that I could see. The place looked more like a crash pad than a home. We both holstered our weapons.

  On the other side of the room, tucked in a corner, was a small washbasin with a mirror hanging on the wall above it. A half-filled bottle of water sat on the counter. There was a door next to the basin. I pushed it open and saw a single toilet with a roll of toilet paper on the rung. Someone’s using it.

  I turned around and saw Kang fiddling with the small drawer on the nightstand. “Anything in there?”

  He shook his head. “Just an old gum wrapper.” He walked over to the single window and pushed it open. “That’s interesting. It was partly open. Every other window in this place had been sealed shut.”

  “Maybe that’s how whoever lives here comes and goes.” I chuckled.

  Kang placed a hand on either side of the windowsill and braced himself before leaning out. “Well, the fire escape is below, so it’s plausible.” He pulled himself back in and brushed off his hands. “I still think the front door and stairs are a better way up here.”

  We didn’t discover the silver bullet I had hoped we would find, but we had a new lead. “We need to talk to the person calling this place home.”

  “I agree.” Kang raised his arm and wiggled it so his jacket sleeve fell back and revealed a silver watch. “It’s a little after nine thirty. It’s strange that no one is here.”

  “Do tongs keep normal business hours?”

  “Sure. It’s here for their members, but maybe there’s business happening off-site. Though this living space doesn’t surprise me.” He glanced around the room. “Could be one of the members crashes here if it’s late and they’re too tired to go home.”

  Little by little, I felt as though we were ruling out the tong altogether.

  “But this is interesting.” Kang reached down and picked up the porcelain pot with a blue hand-painted design. “You see this pattern? It may look like your typical blue-and-white ware, but if I’m not mistaken…” He turned the pot around and looked at the bottom. “Ah.”

  “What?” I asked, stepping closer for a better look.

  “You see these four Chinese characters? They are the marking of Kangxi, an emperor who ruled during the seventeenth century. Since the porcelain still retains a remarkable whiteness and the cobalt hasn’t lost much of its blue hue, it could be real. If so, it would be worth a lot.” He lifted the top open, stuck his nose inside, and then shrugged.

  “It looks old to me.”

  Kang laughed. “The Chinese are masters at forgery. Sometimes all it takes to age a piece is rubbing animal urine over it to dull the shine. I’ll have Ethel take a look at it. She’s much more knowledgeable on Qing Dynasty pottery than I am.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  Kang chuckled at my joke, but his depth of knowledge on Chinese culture and history was staggering.

  “What’s that mean to the investigation?”

  He shrugged. “Not sure, but I want to study the design. I’ve never seen anything like it before. Usually pottery depicts the countryside—you know, mountains, rivers, temples, the occasional crane. But this one, it shows a person moving along the rooftops of what looks like a village. It may be nothing, but I want to look into it.” He rem
oved his phone and started snapping pictures before deciding he would just temporarily borrow the pot. “I’ll return it later.”

  We swept each floor on the way back down but found nothing that could tell us more about the mastermind or pinpoint his whereabouts.

  As we exited the tong, Kang used his tools to relock the deadbolt. “We were never here.”

  I looked up and down the quiet lane, wondering if anyone might have seen us enter or exit the tong. “Maybe you should ask Ethel if she can put us in touch with the person who manages this place. I’d like to officially question them. There might be more to that room on the top floor.”

  “Good idea.”

  I watched Kang drive off before I got into my car. I sat still for a moment eyeing the tong once more. Did a connection exist, or had I simply fabricated one? As I turned the key in the ignition, movement to my left caught my attention. An elderly man with a toothy smile stood next to my vehicle. He was hunched over, not so that he could look inside but because he had a hunchback. A white cane supported his weight. I hit the passenger window button. “Can I help you?”

  His smile disappeared. He backed away, shaking his head, and hobbled off. “Wait, I want to talk to you.” I shut the vehicle off and quickly caught up with him in a few steps. “What do you know about the people in that tong?”

  “I know nothing.” He avoided making eye contact and kept walking.

  I followed him. “You sure? Seems like you might see a lot of things around here. What do you know about the Hop Sing Tong? Seen anything strange happening over there?”

  “Not see anything,” he said before disappearing through the entranceway to an apartment building almost directly across from the tong. If he had a street-side apartment, he would have a direct view of the goings-on of the tong all day and night. Just as I gripped the doorknob to go after him, Reilly rang my cell.

  “Abby, did the search turn up anything?”

  “Nothing concrete.”

  “My contact at the CIA has information on your girl. Get here and I’ll brief you.”

  I wavered for a moment, but prodding the old guy for information would have to wait. I spun around and headed back to my vehicle.

  Chapter 9

  Kang couldn’t believe his luck—an open parking spot right outside the CCBA. Heck, a parking space anywhere on Stockton Street was a rarity.

  He parked his vehicle on the busy street that bordered the western end of Chinatown and fished out three quarters from the ashtray. That should be more than enough for the meter, he thought as he grabbed the paper bag holding the teapot he had taken from the tong.

  The façade of the CCBA was typical Chinatown architecture; red tiles populated the gabled rooftop with sweeping corners and continued onto the balcony walls and the overhang at the entrance. Two large stone lions sandwiched each side of the granite steps leading to the entrance, and four gold, squared columns with Chinese lettering engraved on them stood evenly spaced at the top of the steps.

  Kang waved at the elderly woman who sat behind the reception desk. “Hi, Grace. Is Ethel around?” Gold-framed reading glasses sat at the edge of her nose, and she wore the same short, permed hairdo he remembered seeing the first day they had met.

  “She’s in her office,” she said with a smile and a tilt of her head.

  “Thanks.” Kang was a familiar sight at the CCBA and, unlike most visitors, didn’t need to be escorted or announced. He continued past Grace without slowing and made his way down the short hall to the last office, stopping at the entrance.

  Ethel Wu sat behind a large, glass-topped desk wearing her signature pair of black cat-eye glasses. She was on the phone but peered over the rims at Kang, motioning for him to take a seat in one of the two brown leather guest chairs.

  Kang tried to ignore the conversation, but Ethel had a voice that cut through most anything. Though he could only hear one side of the discussion, he gathered it had something to do with the upcoming elections.

  Ethel was a common fixture among the city officials who represented the district that included Chinatown. It was a known fact that those politicians relied heavily on her support. Almost all of Chinatown voted in step with her. Kang often teased her about running for a city council seat. She replied that she was perfectly happy at the CCBA and had no political aspirations.

  Kang busied himself by admiring the large landscape mural on the left wall of her office. It was the Li River twisting its way around pointy karst peaks poking through early morning fog. A local artist had painted the mural more than ten years ago.

  “You never tire of looking at it, do you?” Ethel said, dropping the phone receiver into its cradle. She removed her glasses and held them in her hand.

  “It’s beautiful. One of these days, I’ll get over to that part of the country.”

  “Better hurry before you’re dead.” Ethel bounced in her seat with laughter. “So what brings you here today?”

  Kang removed the teapot from the bag and placed it on Ethel’s desk. “What can you tell me about this?”

  Ethel’s head leaned forward. Her eyes narrowed into slivers as she placed her glasses back on her nose. Her gaze shot up at Kang for a brief second before settling back on the teapot. “May I?” she asked, motioning to the pot with her hands.

  “Sure.”

  Ethel picked up the piece and slowly turned it around, taking in every detail of the design. While looking at it, she made tiny acknowledgements and nodded. Eventually she held the lid down and turned the pot over to its side, revealing the painted characters on the bottom. No sooner had she seen them than she took a deep breath. “Do you know what this is?”

  “I’m guessing it’s from the Qing Dynasty.”

  Ethel peered once more over the rim of her glasses. “That’s right.” She gently placed the pot back on the table. “I’m pretty sure this isn’t a fake. Of course, the only way to truly know is by drilling a small sample of powder from the piece and heating it. The more it glows, the older it is. On the low end, it could be worth three hundred bucks, but it looks to be in decent condition. High end might be about a grand.”

  “Determining its authenticity and value isn’t the only reason why I brought it to you.” Kang pointed at the pot. “I’ve never seen a design like that before. It’s atypical.”

  Ethel nodded. “It is, isn’t it?” She leaned back and placed her hands on her lap. “Where did you say you got this from?”

  “I didn’t. The owner is a friend,” Kang lied. “He found it in his mother’s attic, buried inside an old footlocker, and was curious to know its worth.”

  “I can only guesstimate its value at this stage, but this design—I’ve seen it once before.”

  Kang’s eyes widened. “Where?”

  “When I was young, just a small girl, I used to rummage through my father’s personal items. Tucked away in his desk were a couple of paintings on parchment. I remember one of them had a similar picture.”

  “Did you ever find out more about it?”

  “Not really. All I know is that his father gave the paintings to him; he’d gotten them from his father.”

  “Family heirlooms?”

  “You could say that.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have those paintings, would you?”

  Ethel shook her head. “I have no idea what happened to them. I’m sorry I can’t be of any more help.”

  “Maybe there’s no special reason behind the design; it’s just a man walking on rooftops and nothing more.” Kang picked up the teapot and placed it back into the bag. “Thanks for your time. Always appreciated.” Kang stood and walked around the desk to give Ethel a hug.

  “If you find out anything else about the pot, let me know,” Ethel said.

  “Will do.”

  Kang sat quietly in the driver’s seat of his car as he examined the teapot. His hope that it would provide a much-needed boost to the investigation had died back in Ethel’s office. Maybe I’m the one that’s making this more
than what it really is. Kang placed the teapot on the passenger seat and started his car. He couldn’t help but feel hopeless at that moment. His partner and friend was in danger. Short of sticking by her side twenty-four hours a day, Kang wasn’t sure if his actions were doing much to help.

  Chapter 10

  After twenty minutes of stop-and-go traffic, I arrived at the Phillip Burton Federal Building. I had the elevator to myself and counted along with the numbers to the thirteenth floor. Before heading into Reilly’s office, I made a detour to the break room. Even though I was eager to hear the information he had, I wanted to be prepared for what I expected to be an in-depth briefing. That meant having my hands wrapped around a warm mug of my favorite tea.

  I found Reilly sitting in his leather executive chair and jotting notes in a spiral notebook. Stacks of yellow manila folders covered his desk. The metal blinds on his window were slanted down, obscuring the northern view of the city. I cleared my throat, causing him to jump a little.

  “Abby,” he said as he looked up and closed the notebook. “Thanks for your promptness. Take a seat.”

  “I thought the CIA didn’t share information.” I made myself comfortable in the chair opposite his oak desk.

  “Our friendship goes way back.” Reilly handed me a yellow Post-It note that had a phone number written on it.

  “I thought you had information.”

  “I do unofficially. He’s an operations officer in the Special Activities Division. Spent the last five years conducting top-level operations in Asia.”

  The job title conjured up images of the spy activity that Hollywood loved to perpetuate. I imagined Reilly’s contact was one of those agents that the U.S. government would deny having any knowledge of should any crap hit any fan. Could explain why he only gave me a phone number.