On the way out of the office, I passed by the terrible Stacey. Without looking up from the computer, she said, “Done so soon?”
I wanted to be out of there, before my civil rights were threatened or my bank account seized or my manhood devoured, but I also had to attend to certain biological imperatives.
“Can you tell me where the bathroom is?”
Stacey turned. She smiled in a way that sent me back to age thirteen, quivery and unsure. Those nails flared again. “Around the corner. To your left.”
At least she didn’t offer to help me.
On my own, I found the gents’, all dark granite and sparkling white porcelain. I didn’t aim well and I didn’t flush.
40
“YES, YOU HAVE THE RIGHT Dr. Kim.” Somehow I’d managed to reach Kendall Kim—Chicago otolaryngologist, former husband of Dorothy Zhang, father to their son, Tim—on the first call. This was a feat and a miracle and a good omen, since the odds of reaching a busy doc in the middle of the day are only slightly better than hitting the winning Powerball numbers. “But I haven’t spoken with Dorothy in over six months.”
Or not such a good omen.
I stood outside the offices of Lane, Battle & Sim, fumbling with the phone and with the computer printout with Kendall Kim’s number on it.
“Do you know where she is?” I asked.
“Who are you again?”
“Nathaniel McCormick. CDC.”
“Why does CDC want to talk to Dorothy?”
“I really can’t get into that.”
“Whatever. No, I don’t know where she is. And I don’t really care where she is.”
I got the sense that I’d trod on the very sensitive turf of a very messy divorce. Nevertheless, I pressed on.
“She has custody of your son?”
“Yes, she has custody. And no, I haven’t seen Timothy.”
“When was—”
“Six months go. Last time I saw Dorothy.” Kendall Kim sighed. “Look, Dr. McCormick, if you want to keep talking about this, I’m going to ask you to set up a telephone appointment, fax over your credentials. Don’t mean to be rude, but I’m busy and this isn’t really a topic I like to discuss with anyone who’s not my lawyer. You understand.”
He hung up.
I did not understand, however. People don’t just disappear. And if people do just disappear, other people get concerned about them. They search for them, they raise a stink. I could understand Kendall Kim and his messy divorce. With a stretch I could even understand his not knowing where his son was—maybe he wasn’t meant to be a father, maybe he’d taken on a new family and didn’t care, maybe the lawyers had gotten into things and really messed them up. But that no one knew where Dorothy Zhang or her son was, and no one seemed to care, disturbed me to the core.
How do you just evaporate into nothing? How do you do that with a child in tow?
I cut my way through the Embarcadero Center, walked quickly up steps and down, took elevators up one floor, only to take them down again. My paranoia was in high gear. When I was finally satisfied no one was behind me, I walked east toward the bay, toward the actual Embarcadero and the Ferry Building. Before the Bay Bridge was built, the Embarcadero was the nexus for ferry routes across to Berkeley and Oakland; it had some of the highest foot traffic in the nation. People used to “embark” on their trips across the bay, I suppose. Or maybe the word was Spanish for wharf. In any case, a few ferries still left from the Ferry Building, and cafés there produced ten-dollar sandwiches. What they call progress.
I coughed up a Jackson and took my aged-prosciutto-provolone-avocado-sun-dried-tomato-organic-sprout concoction to a bench outside. Seagulls gathered, eyeballing me, bent on murder. Barring my asphyxiation on the twelve-grain bread I was eating, the bastards would have to go hungry. It’s gotta suck being a seagull.
The sandwich and drink had been financially devastating, and I found the nearest ATM. Plus, I was a guy on the run, right? Cash only from here on out. I took out two hundred dollars from the machine and saw that I had just under two thousand left. Not much, considering the security deposit for my nonexistent apartment was supposed to come out of that. I thought about the number of meetings with landlords I’d blown off since Murph died. Two? More?
Considering the events of the day, I decided the best way to find Dorothy Zhang would not be to go pawing around family and friends.
I called Bonita Sanchez.
“I hope you’re calling me to tell me something,” she said.
“Um, it’s a really nice day where I am.”
“And where exactly are you?”
“Are you going to arrest me?”
“If I can.”
“Okay, I’m in Phoenix. And I do actually have a question.” I heard her say something in the background. “If you’re tracing my call, I’m calling from my cell in San Francisco.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Have you heard of a woman named Dorothy Zhang?”
“Oh,” Sanchez said. “Oh, my, Dr. McCormick. And here I was, wondering how a little jump drive found its way onto my desk. All packed up in its little envelope. Where did you get it?”
I toyed with playing dumb, but I was already in enough trouble with her. “Murph—Paul Murphy—gave it to me.”
“Not mentioning it to me seems like a teeny-weeny oversight on your part, don’t you think?”
“Oversight or not, you have the drive now. The pictures are the same as what you got yesterday. And you saw my name in there, so you know it was intended for me.” I plowed ahead. “I just wanted to know about Dorothy Zhang,” I said, and then waved the olive branch. “And I wanted to let you know I found one of the sick people.”
“Where?”
“Milpitas. Public health is investigating.” I told her the woman was in the photos, that she was dead, that we knew nothing else. That Santa Clara and California State were chasing it down. “The woman’s name is Cynthia Yang.”
“And your contacts in the health department?” she wanted to know.
I gave her Brooke’s and Ravi’s phone numbers. “Now, can we please talk about Dorothy Zhang?”
Sanchez sighed. “She was a newscaster—”
“—who vanished. I know that. Was there ever a missing persons report filed on her?”
“No. We checked that out with San Francisco PD, which means, Doctor, she’s not technically missing. Or it means that the people who could file a missing persons report—family, close friends—haven’t done so.”
“So they know where she is.”
Sanchez sighed again. “Look, Dr. McCormick, I appreciate the information about the woman in Milpitas, I’ll follow up. As for the Zhang thing, I’ll follow up. But I have to tell you that manpower is limited.”
“Limited?” I wanted to know exactly what that meant for a quadruple homicide, but she’d already hung up the phone.
41
IT WAS SURPRISINGLY EASY TO find out where Daniel Zhang lived. A call to 411 produced nothing, but a call to Ravi Singh, with his easy access to big databases, produced a hit.
“Another one you owe me,” Dr. Singh reminded me before signing off, collecting these favors like interest on a bank account.
I pointed the mighty Corolla toward the far-flung, foggy districts of western San Francisco, where the skyscrapers and Victorians give way to block after block of two-and three-story residences and businesses. Suburbia spread like mortar between the city and the ocean.
I drove past the house at 2387 Irving. It was only three p.m. and I couldn’t imagine any firm lawyer home that early, so I continued out to the coast. The parking lot at Ocean Beach was a quarter full. Fog blocked the sun, and wind ripped at the sea grass on the dunes and at the low buildings. This part of San Francisco had the look of always being in the off-season. A handful of people moved along the sand like seabirds. A beach on the edge of a city, and somehow so desolate.
The wind and the fog made me cold, and I decided t
his was not a place I wanted to be. It was a place for lovers or misanthropes. I was no longer the former, and I wasn’t ready to admit to being the latter.
A last look at the steely, white-flecked Pacific, and I returned to the car. East then, to the Sunset district. I parked down the street from 2387 Irving and settled in.
The Sunset was a residential neighborhood with single-family dwellings that housed, it seemed, much of the Chinese community in the area. The name was odd, considering the area labored under one of the foggiest microclimates in the city, and actually seeing the sun set was the exception rather than the rule here. But it was family-oriented and cheap, at least compared to the rest of the city. Incidentally, most of the homes in the area were yawners—stucco things with paneled wooden doors and tiny, manicured lawns—but Danny Zhang’s place was modern, looking as though it were composed of big white cubes set haphazardly atop one another. The windows were dark.
I waited. Cars parked. Cars left. I fiddled with the radio and decided that stakeouts had to be one of the most boring ways to spend your time.
At around eight o’clock, I closed my eyes.
Next thing I knew, I was awakened by the sound of a car door slamming and an alarm system arming. A bright red Mercedes was now in the driveway, and Daniel Zhang was striding to the front steps of his home.
I got out of my car, then stopped.
Three men had rushed toward Zhang. One swung at the back of his legs with a baseball bat, bringing him to the ground. The bat fell again, kicks flew. I could hear the muffled grunts of effort and pain.
I dove back into the car, scrabbled under the seat. My fingers found the grip of the Smith & Wesson, closed around it. The thing felt heavy and unfamiliar. It felt very wrong.
What was I going to do? Blow the three guys away? Right.
“Shit,” I spat. “Shit.”
I dropped the gun on the seat and grabbed my cell, punched in 911. I stole a glance over the backseat—one of the guys was on top of Daniel Zhang, saying something in his ear, pressing his face into the grass.
It seemed like ten minutes until the dispatcher picked up. When he did, I barked the situation and the address into the phone.
The guy on top of Zhang rammed his face into the turf. Then he rammed again.
I couldn’t watch this anymore.
I dropped the cell in the car and walked quickly toward the melee, my hands raised in an “it’s-all-over-now” gesture. “Hey, hey,” I said.
Three heads swiveled; six eyes fixed on me. The attackers were Asian, dressed in good—if flashy—suits. One of the men had spiky blond hair; another, the one with the bat, sported a black baseball cap.
“The police are on the way!” I shouted. “Get off him!”
For a moment, no one moved. My eyes darted from one face to another. The man with the blond hair and the one with the baseball cap, I didn’t recognize. But the one whose knee was stuck into the middle of Daniel Zhang’s back, whose fingers were laced into Daniel Zhang’s hair…feline eyes, tattoo. My buddy from the Tetra parking lot.
He barked something I couldn’t understand. Suddenly, blondie and his friend with the bat grew animated, stepped toward me. I realized I was not prepared for this. I realized I’d thought the mention of police would cause everyone to scatter.
My legs went weak, and I began shuffling backward. The pace of the two men quickened. The bat in the ball cap’s hand lifted. He was fifteen feet from me.
“The police…” I stammered. All I could think of was the bat crashing into my skull.
I turned and ran to the car.
I ripped open the door and grabbed the Smith & Wesson. I didn’t feel its weight this time, and whirled around, pointing it toward the two men. Even though the end of the barrel quivered and shook, I thought the sight of the cannon would stop them.
It did. For about three seconds.
Ball cap dropped his bat and reached into his jacket. The blond reached into his. Next thing I knew, I was staring at the business end of two black automatic pistols.
The men began to advance slowly, tiny expert half-steps, as if they’d done this many times before. Thirteen feet, eleven, ten. My gun had begun to feel heavy again, and the shaking had gotten so bad I couldn’t be sure I’d hit a barn door from a yard.
“Just leave,” I begged. “The cops are coming.”
In the background, I caught a glimpse of tattooed man. He was standing now, watching us, towering over a limp Daniel Zhang like a hunter after the kill.
From up the street, I heard the sound of a car.
Light illuminated the faces of the two men, now seven feet in front of me. Shadows shifted and intensified as the vehicle approached. The blond cut a look to his comrade, then stepped to the middle of the street and pointed his gun. From the sounds—the brakes, the high-pitched reverse, the brief squeal of the tires—I figured the car got no closer than forty feet.
The blond turned to me, the gun following his gaze.
In the distance, a siren wailed.
The tattooed man shouted something. The words were terse, like a battlefield command. The blond and the ball cap stepped backward until they were fifteen feet from me, then they turned and holstered their weapons. The ball cap picked up his bat. They made their way toward a white Cadillac sedan parked behind me, thirty feet away.
The siren grew louder and the men picked up the pace.
“Next time,” the inked asshole said. He glanced down at Daniel Zhang, then turned on his heel and followed his henchmen.
The men reached the car: blondie to the driver’s side, ball cap to the back, tattoo to the passenger’s side. I felt myself begin to relax and let the gun drop to my side.
But it was too soon. As he reached for the door handle, the tattooed man wheeled around, tore a pistol from inside his jacket, and leveled it at me.
“Bang,” he said, grinning. Then he slipped into the Caddy, closed the door quietly, and rolled away.
42
AS THE SIRENS GREW LOUDER, I stepped to the hedges surrounding the house and dropped the gun behind them. Daniel Zhang pulled himself upright, sat slumped on the stoop, head hanging. He spit a drool of pink saliva between his legs.
“No gun,” I told him. “I didn’t have a gun.”
He looked up at me. The blood on his face was turning dark now, sludged in the creases of skin. “What is wrong with you?” he spat.
“What?” I asked, surprised. “I do not want to get into a discussion about where I got the—”
“This is so fucked up. So fucked up.”
I was a little irritated at the ingratitude. “I just saved you from getting the living crap beaten out of you.”
“You just killed me, you idiot. Fuck. Fuck.” He spat and put his head in his hands. “You just killed yourself.”
We spent an hour in the modernist house, filling the cops in on what happened, or at least on the new version of what happened. Descriptions of the men, details of the events. Zhang, to his credit, didn’t mention the pistol.
“You want I should call an ambulance?” asked the red-faced bull of a man whose nameplate read “Polaski.”
Daniel shook his head.
“You sure? You got quite a knock—”
“He’s fine. I checked him out already,” I lied. By that time, Polaski knew I was a doctor.
Polaski asked more questions and jotted more notes. I heard the name Wah Ching, Jackson Street Boys, Wo Hop To. The names didn’t mean anything to me, but they seemed to mean something to Daniel. He said “I don’t know” a few times, then snapped: “I am not in a gang. I have never been in a gang. I will never be in a gang. I have never been associated with a gang.”
Polaski decided to give up on helping those who didn’t want to be helped. He handed us both follow-up forms, pointing to two boxes that had been checked. One read, General Works; the other, Gang Task Force. Below each was a telephone number.
“You call one of these you remember anything,” Polaski said.
“What’s General Works?” I asked.
“Like it says.” Polaski was becoming less friendly with each sentence. “General things, assaults and the like.”
I didn’t need to ask what the Gang Task Force did.
Before leaving, Polaski delivered his parting shot. “You know, you guys are the ones who can prevent this from happening to someone else.” He looked suddenly tired, as if he’d seen this a thousand times before.
Once the front door closed, Daniel and I sat at the dining room table in his sleek, spare home. An enormous plasma screen TV was affixed to the wall in the living area, which was open to the dining area and kitchen. White walls, white carpet. Black, chrome, and glass furniture. Except for the TV, the place looked very hip for 1988.
“You should get to a hospital,” I said.
“I’m fine.”
“You feel nauseated?” I asked.
“No.”
“Vision okay?”
Daniel Zhang smiled dismissively.
“You might be bleeding into your head,” I explained. “You should get a CT just to be sure—”
“Look, a little bleeding in my head is the least of my worries.”
“Who were they?”
“Forget it, Doctor.”
He swept one of the cop’s follow-up forms into his hand, regarded it. “You couldn’t let this go,” he said. “You had to visit me at work. You had to come here.”
“I need to know where your sister is.”
“Well, I don’t, okay? I don’t know where she is and I don’t want to know where she is.” He crumpled the form and dropped it back to the glass table. “And now these bastards think I know.”
“Who bastards? Gangs?”
He shook his head.
“Did your sister tell you about sick people? People with disfigured faces, looks like growths under—”
Zhang’s eyes locked on mine.
“What?” I persisted. “She told you, didn’t she? What did she tell you?”
“She didn’t tell me anything.”
“Did she ever mention a man named Paul Murphy?”
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