else went on in there besides what he told us.”
Bill looked at me. “I guess it’s possible. I don’t think so, though. That wouldn’t be like him.”
“You haven’t known him that long, have you? Just a couple of months?”
“No, that’s true. But, for example, I knew you were on the level from the minute I met you.”
“Proving my point: You’re a rotten judge of character.”
“You may be right,” he said. “Because I’m actually looking forward to my date with Shayna.”
8
Bill and I split up at the subway entrance, promising to call each other later. I caught the N and stood the few rattling stops to Chinatown, meditating on my client. I didn’t think Jeff Dunbar had given me his real name, or any reason to trust him, but I’d taken his money. Maybe he had a right to know someone else was on the trail of the paintings and I was working with that someone else’s PI. Or maybe that was just an excuse to call him, because there were some things I wanted to know, too.
I got off at Canal, called, got voice mail, left a message. I wondered if Dunbar was in his office, doing whatever he didn’t want me to know he did, and whether he’d have to slip away to call so the people he did it for wouldn’t find out about me, either. A lot of people in this case, I reflected, not supposed to know about each other. I was putting the phone away when it chimed. That meant that while I was underground someone left a message the phone had just found.
“Ms. Chin? This is Samuel Wing. I’d very much like to speak with you. Would you give me a call at your earliest convenience?” I had no idea who Samuel Wing was, but he had a nice voice, a Mandarin accent, a desire to talk to me, and a phone number. So I called it.
“Ah, Ms. Chin, good to hear from you. I’d appreciate a few moments of your time.”
“Can I know what this is about, Mr. Wing?”
“Certain paintings. I don’t want to say anything more over the phone, but I’m fairly sure you’ll be interested.”
Unless the guy was going to try to sell me a hot Picasso, I was fairly sure he was right.
“I’ll be happy to come to your office,” he said. “Canal Street near Broadway, is that correct?”
He’d done his homework, the well-spoken Mr. Wing. “Yes. six-nine-three Canal, buzzer number two.”
“Fifteen minutes? Is that convenient?”
For me, very. For him, that either meant his base was downtown—office or home—or he was already in Chinatown, hanging at the noodle shop or the tea house, waiting for me to stroll by. I checked the faces of the noodle-eaters and tea-drinkers on my way up the block, so if one of them appeared in my office attached to Samuel Wing I’d know I’d been, if not quite ambushed, at least waited for a little hard.
I pushed through the street door at 693, checked my mailbox, and waved to the ladies at Golden Adventure Travel. This is really their space, this whole ground floor, and their name is on the door. I’m their subtenant and buzzer number two has no name on it at all. That way, if anyone should chance to see a client of mine come in here, he can always claim he was looking into a package tour to the casinos of Macao.
In the office I put on the kettle and closed the barred airshaft window. Mr. Wing might not enjoy the Hong Kong back alley atmosphere: Beijing opera CD’s; crying babies; spring onions and pork stir-frying in sesame oil. I switched the computer on and checked the phone. Interesting: no calls. My landline message gives my cell phone number, which is where I’d assumed Samuel Wing had gotten it. Evidently I’d been wrong. Putting that away for further thought, I speed-dialed Golden Adventure.
Andi Gee answered. “Hi, Lydia! What’s up?”
“I have a guy coming in I don’t know. Can I check the panic button?”
“Sure. Hey, girls, Lydia’s checking the panic button. Don’t panic!” I pressed my foot down on the button Bill wired under the desk the last time I had a little
Bill looked at me. “I guess it’s possible. I don’t think so, though. That wouldn’t be like him.”
“You haven’t known him that long, have you? Just a couple of months?”
“No, that’s true. But, for example, I knew you were on the level from the minute I met you.”
“Proving my point: You’re a rotten judge of character.”
“You may be right,” he said. “Because I’m actually looking forward to my date with Shayna.”
8
Bill and I split up at the subway entrance, promising to call each other later. I caught the N and stood the few rattling stops to Chinatown, meditating on my client. I didn’t think Jeff Dunbar had given me his real name, or any reason to trust him, but I’d taken his money. Maybe he had a right to know someone else was on the trail of the paintings and I was working with that someone else’s PI. Or maybe that was just an excuse to call him, because there were some things I wanted to know, too.
I got off at Canal, called, got voice mail, left a message. I wondered if Dunbar was in his office, doing whatever he didn’t want me to know he did, and whether he’d have to slip away to call so the people he did it for wouldn’t find out about me, either. A lot of people in this case, I reflected, not supposed to know about each other. I was putting the phone away when it chimed. That meant that while I was underground someone left a message the phone had just found.
“Ms. Chin? This is Samuel Wing. I’d very much like to speak with you. Would you give me a call at your earliest convenience?” I had no idea who Samuel Wing was, but he had a nice voice, a Mandarin accent, a desire to talk to me, and a phone number. So I called it.
“Ah, Ms. Chin, good to hear from you. I’d appreciate a few moments of your time.”
“Can I know what this is about, Mr. Wing?”
“Certain paintings. I don’t want to say anything more over the phone, but I’m fairly sure you’ll be interested.”
Unless the guy was going to try to sell me a hot Picasso, I was fairly sure he was right.
“I’ll be happy to come to your office,” he said. “Canal Street near Broadway, is that correct?”
He’d done his homework, the well-spoken Mr. Wing. “Yes. six-nine-three Canal, buzzer number two.”
“Fifteen minutes? Is that convenient?”
For me, very. For him, that either meant his base was downtown—office or home—or he was already in Chinatown, hanging at the noodle shop or the tea house, waiting for me to stroll by. I checked the faces of the noodle-eaters and tea-drinkers on my way up the block, so if one of them appeared in my office attached to Samuel Wing I’d know I’d been, if not quite ambushed, at least waited for a little hard.
I pushed through the street door at 693, checked my mailbox, and waved to the ladies at Golden Adventure Travel. This is really their space, this whole ground floor, and their name is on the door. I’m their subtenant and buzzer number two has no name on it at all. That way, if anyone should chance to see a client of mine come in here, he can always claim he was looking into a package tour to the casinos of Macao.
In the office I put on the kettle and closed the barred airshaft window. Mr. Wing might not enjoy the Hong Kong back alley atmosphere: Beijing opera CD’s; crying babies; spring onions and pork stir-frying in sesame oil. I switched the computer on and checked the phone. Interesting: no calls. My landline message gives my cell phone number, which is where I’d assumed Samuel Wing had gotten it. Evidently I’d been wrong. Putting that away for further thought, I speed-dialed Golden Adventure.
Andi Gee answered. “Hi, Lydia! What’s up?”
“I have a guy coming in I don’t know. Can I check the panic button?”
“Sure. Hey, girls, Lydia’s checking the panic button. Don’t panic!” I pressed my foot down on the button Bill wired under the desk the last time I had a little
Similar Books
