by Joanne Pence
Burlington grimaced. “I’m sure you know Audrey Poole has been murdered.”
“I know,” Richie said.
Burlington pushed back a little way from the table. “It’s a damned shame. Poor Audrey. But the timing really sucks! Goddamn it, Richie. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
Richie’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
The waitress brought his drink and Burlington took a long sip. “Crap!” He rubbed his temples a moment. “Her buyers still want that property, wouldn’t you say?”
“I have no idea.”
“The fact that she’s dead shouldn’t change that,” Burlington sounded as if he was trying to convince himself more than Richie.
“I thought you don’t know who the buyers are, right?” Richie asked. “The way I understand it, the deal would have gone through Poole, and those offshore holding companies are set up so that the buyers’ identities are kept secret. All legal documents are in the possession of the trust and its accountant. With Audrey Poole gone, you don’t know who is going to finish setting up the sale for the trust.”
“She should have had a partner, dammit, someone to work with in case something like this happened!”
Richie was disgusted. “I doubt finding someone to finish her case work if she was ever murdered was high on her list of priorities.”
“A deal’s a deal,” Burlington said fiercely. “I’m not going to get a better deal than the one we worked out. All I need is to find out who wants my building and then I can negotiate directly with the buyers.”
“Take it easy,” Richie said.
“I need your help,” Burlington said.
“I don’t deal with this stuff.”
“I’m talking a ten million dollar price tag! Audrey Poole would have gotten a ten percent commission. I’ll pay you what I would have paid her if you make this happen. You’ve been involved in real estate before. You can do it.”
Richie had to take a moment, more than one in fact, to digest what he’d just heard.
“A million dollars? Are you kidding me?”
“I’m serious as a heart attack.”
Richie hated that expression. Leave it to Burlington to use it. “Okay. Let me look into it. Right now, I have no idea if it’ll be possible. We’ll need to wait and see who takes over Bay-to-Breakers and the deals Audrey had going, if anyone. In the meantime, don’t go spending your money, or even making obligations for it, until we get this sorted out. You hear me?”
“But that’s the problem, damn it! I’ve got debts. People to pay.”
“They’re going to have to wait.”
“They won’t. You’ve got to help me, Richie. This isn’t my fault. But the guys I owe money to won’t see it that way. I made a commitment and they’ll expect me to meet it.”
Richie shook his head. Burlington had money, a lot of money. He had no business getting himself in such a bind. But for the possibility of making a million dollars, Richie would certainly try to sort everything out for him. “I’ll see what I can do.”
His phone rang. It was Shay with news about his findings on Audrey Poole’s phone.
And Shay was just the person he needed to talk to.
o0o
Richie knew he’d have to contact Rebecca soon about the contents of Audrey’s phone. But he also knew there was one major contact that Rebecca and the entire SFPD would have little success talking to.
He headed for Chinatown.
Richie had grown up on the edge of Chinatown, so while many of his friends were of Italian descent from North Beach, a large number were Chinese. He’d spent nearly as much time in Chinatown as he had in the Italian and “American” parts of the city, and was equally fascinated with the history of the area.
He also learned a lot about hard work, making money, and familial loyalty from his Chinese friends. Now, he turned into Ross Alley and parked. It didn’t look like anything much, but it had once been a favorite spot for the so-called “hatchet men” of San Francisco lore to hold their tong wars. Opposing tongs would line the walls of the alley facing each other. Then, all at once, both sets of fighters would run together wielding hatchets, knives, and sometimes guns. The battle would continue for only a matter of minutes, and end as quickly as it began. Bodies—dead, mutilated, or merely maimed—covered an alley awash in blood as those fighters still able to move fled the scene.
Now, the headquarters of Chinatown’s influential Five Family Association was situated in one of the old brick-covered buildings in the alley. Richie knew that the word “tong” meant “association,” and in Chinese had no negative connotation. Also, the old-style fighting tongs had been wiped out of the city in the 1920’s.
Beginning in the 1970’s, however, a new kind of gang had moved into the area, creating a sinister underworld beneath the strings of red paper lanterns, restaurants, joss temples, and narrow alleyways that attracted tourists to the nation's oldest Chinatown. As a new flood of immigrants from Hong Kong and mainland China moved into the city, many of them knew no English, and had no knowledge of how to make their way in the new culture in which they found themselves. They were drawn to methods used for centuries in their homeland, which meant going to an “association” to seek safety, money, and other aid.
Soon, several of these “associations” devolved into secret societies known as triads. Their goal was to obtain money and power by whatever means possible. Once they had that money and power, they would do whatever it took to keep it, which mostly involved fighting with other triads.
Growing up, Richie had heard a lot about the Wah Ching, Hop Sing, and Joe’s Boys triads. The most well-known incident, a shootout in a restaurant filled with tourists, happened in 1977. But there had been other much less known gunfights in which no tourists were involved. Chinese were, however. Eventually, the Wah Ching moved to Los Angeles, and the Wo Hop To gained power in the city. The Jackson Street Boyz, which included Vietnamese immigrants, were at the top of the power structure at the moment. The whole thing was something Richie knew better than to mess with. Triad members not only dealt with street crimes like stealing cars or drug-dealing, but also sophisticated money-making schemes such as credit-card fraud, racketeering, illegal gambling.
He couldn’t help but wonder if the kind of deals Audrey was involved in hadn’t also caught their interest. The tentacles of these triads had spread throughout California, including politics. When an FBI sting caught a state senator with ties to Chinatown a few years back for accepting money and campaign donations in exchange for providing official favors as well as helping broker an arms deal, it cast a harsh light on Chinatown's tight-knit network of tongs and triads.
That was why, when Shay found a number of phone calls between Audrey Poole and the head of the Five Families Association, Richie became immediately worried about Rebecca. It was a hornet’s nest she didn’t want to overturn.
He went into the association building and asked to speak to Milton Jang.
Richie was quickly shown into Jang’s office. He had been there before, but the lavish decor still took his breath away. It was filled with beautiful antique Chinese vases, porcelains, and paintings from long ago dynasties. The furniture Jang used, however, had been hand carved in San Francisco as a means of continuing the creative tradition in younger generations. The gold that adorned many pieces, Richie had been told, stemmed from the days of the Forty-Niner California gold rush, which first brought thousands of Chinese men to “Gold Mountain” to seek their fortunes.
Jang put down his cigarette and then stood with his hand outstretched. “It’s been a long time, Richie.”
Richie clasped it. “Too long, my friend.”
Jang smiled broadly as the two shook hands. He was a withered little man who dyed his hair to keep it jet black instead of gray, and who enjoyed Armani suits and silk shirts. His teeth were stained grayish yellow and black rimmed from too many harsh, filterless cigarettes from the Chinese mainland. And, Richie figured, a culture that not
long ago believed that women blackening their teeth was a sign of beauty, probably saw nothing wrong with Jang’s mouth. “Have a seat. Tell me what brings you here when you should be out with that lovely homicide detective I hear you are seeing.”
Richie grinned. “It seems your spies are as busy as always.”
“They have to work hard to keep up with yours,” Jang said eying him sharply.
A young woman came in with a tray of hot tea and Chinese-style almond cookies. Her teeth, Richie noticed at the same time as he noticed how drop-dead gorgeous she was, were sparkling white.
He gladly took the tea, passing on the cookies she offered.
Soon, she bowed and left the room. Jang cocked his head slightly, as if waiting to hear what Richie had to say.
As Jang finished his cigarette, Richie told him about the Union Street building that Audrey Poole wanted to sell, and the overseas Chinese buyers she had lined up. He explained that the building’s tenant had a lease she refused to give up, but she had been badly beaten and her employee murdered. And now, Audrey Poole had been stabbed to death.
“Audrey Poole said she had no idea who was behind the purchase she wanted to make,” Richie added. “She said it was all done electronically, and that her buyers were in China. I’m wondering if you know anything about this kind of set up.”
Jang sipped his tea and didn’t speak for a long time as he pondered Richie’s story. Soon, he took out a pack of cigarettes covered with Chinese writing and offered Richie one. Richie quickly shook his head. He’d given up the habit years ago. Usually, the smell of a cigarette under his nose still tempted him. Not this time. The scent was somewhere between dung and heap.
Jang smirked at him, and put one between his lips and lit it. “Audrey Poole lied to you.”
“Did she?” Richie asked.
“She worked with someone right here in this city. You know him as Timothy Yan, but we call him Yan Jing Sheh which means ‘The Cobra’ because he strikes as fast and is as deadly. He was a lieutenant for ‘Shrimp Boy,’ but now that ‘Shrimp Boy’ is back in prison, Yan is on his own. Unfortunately, he is every bit as dangerous. Stay out of his way. If he wants someone’s property, they should think a long time before saying no. Do you know why he wants the property?”
Richie didn’t like hearing any of this. Stephen Chow, known as “Shrimp Boy” because that was his grandmother’s pet name for him due to his small stature, was a tong member involved in the infamous 1977 restaurant massacre. After surviving that, he became head of the Wo Hop To Triad. Shrimp Boy might be in prison, but anyone associated with him, like this “Cobra,” was no one to mess with.
“I understand Audrey Poole’s buyers want two parcels on Union,” Richie said. “The plan was to tear both down and build apartments.”
Jang nodded. “Ah, in that case, they plan to make much money. People in China are becoming wealthy, but they know the country can change its laws in an instant. Because of that, rich Chinese will pay a lot of money to have a child born in America. I suspect the apartments will be for wealthy wives to live in comfort while they await the birth of their new US citizens. Once the child is born here, everything changes as far as the family members being allowed to enter and stay in this country. More and more people want to have children with this dual-citizenship. It may be a matter of life or death, wealth or poverty, for an entire family in the future. People are willing to pay a lot for such security.”
“Fascinating,” Richie said. “So one spa owner tried to stand in the way of all that.”
“You say, she survived?” Jang asked, one eyebrow cocked.
“Yes.”
“She’s very lucky. Or, she was not a victim of the Cobra. If she was, she wouldn’t still be breathing.”
Richie feared that was true.
“Also,” Jang continued, “these people don’t care who gets in their way, including the police.”
Richie’s eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”
“If your friend gets caught up in these real estate dealings while trying to find a murderer, it could be very bad for her. Right now, I don’t believe the Cobra or his people are involved in any of this, but tomorrow, who knows? You should talk to her, convince her to drop this line of pursuit. Perhaps, if she’s willing to look the other way, maybe for some money …”
“No way.”
Jang heaved a sigh. “I’m afraid, my friend, if she digs too far and makes people nervous, her fortune will not be a happy one.”
Richie’s jaw clamped tight, then he gave a slight nod of the head. “I understand.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Hinkle’s phone vibrated. He had received a text message. He opened it.
—That nightclub owner is talking to important people in Chinatown. This will not be tolerated. You must act. Now!
Hinkle dropped to his knees. He knew the consequence if he didn’t act.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Rebecca was glad to leave Homicide at six p.m., rush home to change clothes, and to make herself look good for a Friday night date. Well, not exactly a date … but close.
Brandon Seymour would be picking her up at seven-thirty. He had called with a simple question about SFPD procedures, which he could have easily found an answer to anywhere. She asked him about foreign money coming into the country via real estate deals. He suggested dinner to discuss the complex subject properly.
She agreed.
She even decided to wear a dress, a form-fitting dress in rose pink with modest elbow-length sleeves offset by a rather daring V-neck bodice.
She had unlocked the door to the breezeway, and told him to go through it to her front door and knock.
When she opened the door and he looked at her, his eyebrows rose and a pleased smile covered his face. “Hello.”
That was the reaction she’d hoped for as she decided to wear a dress and high heels. She had to admit that he looked quite nice in a light blue sweater that matched the color of his eyes over a blue-and-white striped shirt and gray dress slacks. With his short-clipped blond hair and stern, muscular build, he could have been a prototypical model for a “G-man.”
She grabbed her coat and handbag and they walked the couple of blocks to a German restaurant.
As Rebecca eyed a number of intriguing appetizers on the menu, foods she’d never had but was willing to try, Brandon said, “I don’t think we need to bother with appetizers. Their entrees are huge.”
She ordered sauerbraten with spätzle and a “pancake soup,” and, to her surprise, Brandon chose a steak.
“No German food?” she asked.
“I don’t care for spicy food,” he said.
Spicy? German? “You should have said so before we came here,” she said.
“It’s okay. As long as a place serves steak or burgers, I’m fine.”
“Great,” she murmured, then smiled.
The conversation quickly turned to off-shore holding companies. Brandon knew a lot about them, including oversight by a Federal agency she had never heard of, the Financial Crimes Enforcement Network section of the Treasury. He gave her a lot of details about how they’re set up. She tried to keep her mind focused on what he was saying, but he did have a tendency to drone.
She kept a smile on her face, however. He was pleasant fellow in a stiff and polished way, and extremely thoughtful. A good date—if this were a date, which it was not.
She realized her smile was sagging woefully as he prattled about legal ramifications of international banking laws on offshore holding companies.
She gulped down some beer. He didn’t know much about wines, which was fine. Neither did she. He had ordered a Miller Lite to go with his steak. She asked the waitress for a German beer, and had been given a hoppy ale. As she watched him eat, she realized it was probably a good thing he didn’t know wines since he ate the steak and downed his beer so quickly she didn’t see how he even knew what he was ingesting. He had, rather annoyingly, finished his meal before she was even half-w
ay through hers. The waitress then cleared his dishes, making her feel as if she were holding up progress.
“Enough about all that,” he said.
She jarred herself back. “Yes. It’s all interesting.”
“I can’t tell you how nice it is to go out with someone like you who understands and appreciates the work I do.”
“Of course, I do. I admire it.”
“It’s great to hear, Rebecca. You know, I was married once. My wife didn’t understand …”
She tuned out again. Nothing like the old “my wife didn’t understand my job and it destroyed my marriage” routine—the bane of too many in law enforcement. Tell me a new one, Brandon.
But he didn’t. Eventually, he asked if she’d like some dessert.
“No, thanks. I’m fine,” she said. Let me out of here!
“How about we try a sports bar? There are plenty around. Or, if you like to dance, we can take in a night spot with live music.”
“I’m so sorry, I don’t think so. I should head back home.”
He looked disappointed, but paid the bill and they quickly walked up the hills to her building in Mulford Alley.
As he stood on the sidewalk, she unlocked the door to the breezeway. He put his hand on it as if to give it a push as soon as she turned the knob, clearly expecting to walk inside with her.
She faced him. “I’d invite you in, but I’m on-call tonight,” she said, forcing that same big smile once again. “I should try to get a little sleep before the late night calls start to come in. That’s when most murders happen in this city, as I’m sure you know.”
“On call? I didn’t realize that,” he said.
“Yes. It happens quite often,” she said, still smiling.
He grinned. “I’m very good at warming a cup of milk. It helps a person sleep, you know. So does a little neck and shoulder massage.” He held up his hands. “These hands can work magic. Trust me.”
She laughed. “I’m sure they can. But not tonight.”