Chinese detective. But you don’t speak Chinese?”
“You can’t be sure of that, can you?”
He laughed deeply. He was proud of himself.
“No accent. The way you walk. You look uncomfortable outside waiting at the door. Clothes…” He shook his head. “Armani?”
“Not this one,” I said. “Maybe you should be the detective.”
“I would be a good detective, Mr. Strand.” He looked around his small room, but he was pretending to see outside the walls. “This is one crazy house, you know?”
“Not yet.”
He laughed again, pounding his thigh. “Mr. Strand, private eye.” He laughed at what was apparent foolishness to him. It seemed good-natured nonetheless. I took no offense. “You want me to show you where I found the body?”
“Please.” The idea that I was looking at the scene of a murder was absolutely new and still unfathomable. I was a white-collar investigator, employed by CEO s and venture capitalists. I worked for anyone who wanted to invest in other people’s businesses and other people’s ideas. I did background checks in a process known as due diligence. My card did not say private investigator . It said consultant .
Even so, I did know a little about the crime. Mr. Lehr told me that a blow to the head had killed Ted Zheng, a tenant. The apartment manager had found the young man’s body in the cellar at 5:45 AM about two weeks ago.
The police investigated and determined that the death was gang related. Drugs had been found in Ted Zheng’s system. Police assumed he was a “player.” If they were right, finding the murderer would not be easy for the police. For me, it would be impossible. Yet the tenants were concerned.
This was to be a short assignment—drop in a few times, ask some questions. From my client’s point of view, it was public relations. As Ray and I went down the uneven stone steps into the darkness, the broad beam of his flashlight lit only the immediate space before us. I noticed his dusty boots and my comparatively dainty Italian loafers.
“These steps were here before the earthquake. All of Chinatown was on fire. Everything gone but these steps,” Ray exaggerated as we descended. “Nothing but rubble.”
“Why is there no light?”
“Electrician come to work. Spend two hours. Screw up, then say he will be back. That was a month ago.”
“Was the electricity out when Ted was killed?”
“Yes. Big problem. Wait long time. Elevator. Apartment? Ted was supposed to paint. He died. Problems.”
“Death is a pretty decent excuse,” I said.
“Cannot rent 3B until we find someone to finish the painting.”
“You don’t do that?”
“Not part of deal. Boss say I am not a painter. Touch up, maybe.”
We crossed a stone floor.
“You carry a gun?” he asked.
“No.”
There was silence for a moment. And I suddenly felt uneasy. I was in an absolutely foreign place within a foreign place. We were in total darkness. He controlled the only light. And why was he asking whether I had a gun?
The circle of golden light preceded us in sudden jerks of illumination. When the light splashed over a form in the corner, it went out as suddenly as the body appeared.
I must have made a sound.
Ray laughed.
“I put that there to show everyone where body was.”
He flashed on the light. The form was a pile of clothes, loosely formed to suggest a body. I was beginning not to like Ray.
“Don’t do that, Ray,” I said.
“Private eye. Dangerous job,” he said, still laughing. “Tough guy.”
“The way we came in…is there any other way in or out?”
“You know what we say in China?”
“Give me the flashlight,” I said, ignoring his question. What I wanted to do was bounce it off the top of his large laughing head. Instead, I slowly examined the walls and floor. No windows. No other way out.
Not much to examine. That was a good thing. I had no idea what I was looking for. In a far corner there were paint cans, a ladder, brushes and roller trays.
“You can’t be sure of that, can you?”
He laughed deeply. He was proud of himself.
“No accent. The way you walk. You look uncomfortable outside waiting at the door. Clothes…” He shook his head. “Armani?”
“Not this one,” I said. “Maybe you should be the detective.”
“I would be a good detective, Mr. Strand.” He looked around his small room, but he was pretending to see outside the walls. “This is one crazy house, you know?”
“Not yet.”
He laughed again, pounding his thigh. “Mr. Strand, private eye.” He laughed at what was apparent foolishness to him. It seemed good-natured nonetheless. I took no offense. “You want me to show you where I found the body?”
“Please.” The idea that I was looking at the scene of a murder was absolutely new and still unfathomable. I was a white-collar investigator, employed by CEO s and venture capitalists. I worked for anyone who wanted to invest in other people’s businesses and other people’s ideas. I did background checks in a process known as due diligence. My card did not say private investigator . It said consultant .
Even so, I did know a little about the crime. Mr. Lehr told me that a blow to the head had killed Ted Zheng, a tenant. The apartment manager had found the young man’s body in the cellar at 5:45 AM about two weeks ago.
The police investigated and determined that the death was gang related. Drugs had been found in Ted Zheng’s system. Police assumed he was a “player.” If they were right, finding the murderer would not be easy for the police. For me, it would be impossible. Yet the tenants were concerned.
This was to be a short assignment—drop in a few times, ask some questions. From my client’s point of view, it was public relations. As Ray and I went down the uneven stone steps into the darkness, the broad beam of his flashlight lit only the immediate space before us. I noticed his dusty boots and my comparatively dainty Italian loafers.
“These steps were here before the earthquake. All of Chinatown was on fire. Everything gone but these steps,” Ray exaggerated as we descended. “Nothing but rubble.”
“Why is there no light?”
“Electrician come to work. Spend two hours. Screw up, then say he will be back. That was a month ago.”
“Was the electricity out when Ted was killed?”
“Yes. Big problem. Wait long time. Elevator. Apartment? Ted was supposed to paint. He died. Problems.”
“Death is a pretty decent excuse,” I said.
“Cannot rent 3B until we find someone to finish the painting.”
“You don’t do that?”
“Not part of deal. Boss say I am not a painter. Touch up, maybe.”
We crossed a stone floor.
“You carry a gun?” he asked.
“No.”
There was silence for a moment. And I suddenly felt uneasy. I was in an absolutely foreign place within a foreign place. We were in total darkness. He controlled the only light. And why was he asking whether I had a gun?
The circle of golden light preceded us in sudden jerks of illumination. When the light splashed over a form in the corner, it went out as suddenly as the body appeared.
I must have made a sound.
Ray laughed.
“I put that there to show everyone where body was.”
He flashed on the light. The form was a pile of clothes, loosely formed to suggest a body. I was beginning not to like Ray.
“Don’t do that, Ray,” I said.
“Private eye. Dangerous job,” he said, still laughing. “Tough guy.”
“The way we came in…is there any other way in or out?”
“You know what we say in China?”
“Give me the flashlight,” I said, ignoring his question. What I wanted to do was bounce it off the top of his large laughing head. Instead, I slowly examined the walls and floor. No windows. No other way out.
Not much to examine. That was a good thing. I had no idea what I was looking for. In a far corner there were paint cans, a ladder, brushes and roller trays.
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