A Barricade in Hell by Jaime Lee Moyer Page A

Fontaine.
    Instinct and unexplained feelings were a poor basis for prioritizing investigations. They still didn’t have any real evidence that Amanda Poe had come to harm or hadn’t left of her own accord. Pressure from Commissioner Lindsey aside, finding the person, or persons, responsible for three murders should come first.
    The stylized buildings on the edge of Chinatown, their sweeping, curved rooflines and bright colors designed to appeal to tourists, came into sight. Chinatown had burnt to the ground after the 1906 quake, leaving the residents homeless and impoverished, and on the verge of losing their place in the city. Some of the illustrious citizens of San Francisco had denied the Chinese survivors access to fresh water or food, content to let them die. Desperate times often brought out the worst in people, but he’d never understood that level of cruelty.
    Gabe had heard the stories of tong elders begging to keep their homes, and finally convincing San Francisco’s leaders that a rebuilt Chinatown would attract visitors from all over the world, enriching the city’s coffers. Greed turned the tide in favor of San Francisco’s Chinese residents, not compassion.
    As they approached Sutter and Grant, his tolerance for delays and snarled traffic evaporated. He slid open the window separating the front and back seats. “Pull over and park, Marshall. We’ll walk from here.”
    â€œYes, Captain.” Henderson pointed. “There’s a space right over there.”
    He climbed out and slammed the car door, waiting for Jack to come around and join him on the sidewalk. The Sung family tea shop was dead in the center of Grant Street, at the heart of Chinatown. In 1905, still rookies and new on the force, he and Jack spent four months walking a beat in Chinatown. They’d endlessly circled up Stockton and Grant and Pine, avoiding the small alleyways and side streets that were too dangerous for a pair of rookie cops. Staying away from places they didn’t belong kept them alive, and in the end, earned them a measure of respect.
    Tourists were scarce this early on January mornings, visits from the police even rarer. They were the only white faces on the crowded street and garnered just as many suspicious stares as they had while walking a beat. But the whole point of walking was to be seen, to let the tong and Mr. Sung’s family know they were coming. Surprising the family and their tong leader was a bad idea.
    Tension knotted between his shoulders as he looked up and down the street. They were being watched, openly, with no attempt to conceal the watchers. Permission from the Sung family tong aside, someone didn’t want them here. Gabe slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and worked at looking relaxed. “Stay with the car, Marshall. Keep your eyes and ears open. You have company.”
    â€œYes, sir. I see them.” Marshall Henderson pulled a battered nickel weekly out of his back pocket and leaned against the front fender. He spent so much time waiting with the car that he’d taken to carrying old copies of Pluck and Luck or Secret Service with him at all times. Other senior officers weren’t so lenient, but Gabe let him read.
    They set off walking and hadn’t gone more than a few yards when Jack broke his silence. “Tsk, tsk, Captain. What would the commissioner say? Boredom is supposed to be a part of a patrolman’s job.”
    â€œMy dad always said boredom makes you lose your edge. I’ll take his opinion over Lindsey any day. And we both know that Marshall never misses a thing.” He nodded to the gray-haired old woman and the little boy with wide, curious eyes watching them from a doorway. She scowled and hurried the child inside. “Maybe you should try reading, Lieutenant Fitzgerald. Henderson tells me detectives in the weeklies always solve the crime. You might learn something.”
    â€œI read.” Jack