There were old doors and a ladder stacked against one wall, some pieces of molding, a dusty commode and some plumbing pipe. There was a table. Nothing was on it. A beat-up chair was near but facing away from the table. The tabletop was dusty. The seat of the chair wasn’t.
“Anyone clean up after the murder?”
“Police, medical examiner, some guy with camera. But they didn’t take anything. Body only.”
“No blood?” I kept the flashlight and started back up the stairway.
“No.” He followed me quietly. When we were at the top of the stairs, he paused in the entryway. “Very sad. I don’t like to think about it. I try to make it funny, you know?”
TWO
T he sun had fallen by the time I left Ray and his practical jokes. Darkness prevailed in the dimly lit alley. The plastic clicking sound of mahjong tiles still spilled out of upstairs windows. I walked over to and then up Grant Street toward Broadway. I’d have a bite to eat at Enrico’s.
While I had a glass of Cabernet and some pasta, I glanced at the list Ray had drawn up for me—tenants and their phone numbers. Ray and I had drafted a note he’d slide under their doors in the morning, a short note saying that I had been sent to investigate the death of Ted Zheng and that I would call them to set up a time to discuss the tragedy.
I glanced through the list before I left. Most were Chinese names, but simple enough that I wouldn’t stumble on their pronunciation. It was then that I noticed the name Cheng Ye Zheng, listed for 2A, and remembered that the victim’s parents lived in the building. The victim, Ted Zheng, had lived in 1B. So did his lover, a Sandy Ferris.
During the first few sips of wine and while I waited for my dinner, I unfolded Ray’s list and looked at the names again.
I added Ray’s name. It read like this:
1A—Ray Leu. Apartment manager.
1B—Sandy Ferris. Social worker. Ted’s girlfriend.
2A—Mr. and Mrs. Cheng Ye Zheng. Store owners. Ted’s parents.
2B—Norman Chinn. Professor. And Steven Broder. Caterer.
3A—David Wen. Investment counselor. And wife May Wen. Retail.
3B—Unoccupied.
4A—Barbara Siu. Unemployed. Linda Siu. Attorney. Sisters.
4B—Wallace Emmerich. Retired.
Wine usually gave me a pleasant buzz. This time it didn’t. Ray’s clown act, his tiny, windowless apartment and the bizarre practical joke didn’t sit well with me. Maybe it was deeper. Maybe the idea that life was so disposable. Someone had bludgeoned all the life from Ted Zheng and left his carcass crumpled in a dark corner of a cellar like a broken commode.
I thought there were other factors at work as well. Things having to do with Chinatown. About being Chinese. I didn’t want to go there.
The next morning I slept late. The heavy food. The wine. I dreamed, but whatever ephemeral reality I visited in my sleep was lost as I stepped into the light streaming through the kitchen window.
First things first. After my first sip of coffee I picked up the telephone. I found the number in the notebook. I dialed. A voice identified the homicide department.
“Inspector O’Farrell?”
“Speaking.”
“I’m Peter Strand. My client, Mr. Lehr—”
“Yes. He said you’d call. About Ted Zheng?”
“Yes. I just want you to know that I’ll be talking to some people about the death—I wanted to let you know before you heard it from someone else.”
“Glad you called.” There was a practiced civility in the gravelly voice. It wasn’t exactly warm or friendly. “You know it’s an open case, Mr. Strand. So if you decide to go wider than the apartment building, I would appreciate it if you check in with me.”
“I will. You mind if I ask a couple of questions?” I wanted to be as knowledgeable as I could before interviewing the tenants.
“Fire away,” O’Farrell said.
“It is my understanding that he was killed by a blow to the head?”
“Compound fracture, hematoma.”
“Was the weapon found?”
“No.”
“Do you have
“Anyone clean up after the murder?”
“Police, medical examiner, some guy with camera. But they didn’t take anything. Body only.”
“No blood?” I kept the flashlight and started back up the stairway.
“No.” He followed me quietly. When we were at the top of the stairs, he paused in the entryway. “Very sad. I don’t like to think about it. I try to make it funny, you know?”
TWO
T he sun had fallen by the time I left Ray and his practical jokes. Darkness prevailed in the dimly lit alley. The plastic clicking sound of mahjong tiles still spilled out of upstairs windows. I walked over to and then up Grant Street toward Broadway. I’d have a bite to eat at Enrico’s.
While I had a glass of Cabernet and some pasta, I glanced at the list Ray had drawn up for me—tenants and their phone numbers. Ray and I had drafted a note he’d slide under their doors in the morning, a short note saying that I had been sent to investigate the death of Ted Zheng and that I would call them to set up a time to discuss the tragedy.
I glanced through the list before I left. Most were Chinese names, but simple enough that I wouldn’t stumble on their pronunciation. It was then that I noticed the name Cheng Ye Zheng, listed for 2A, and remembered that the victim’s parents lived in the building. The victim, Ted Zheng, had lived in 1B. So did his lover, a Sandy Ferris.
During the first few sips of wine and while I waited for my dinner, I unfolded Ray’s list and looked at the names again.
I added Ray’s name. It read like this:
1A—Ray Leu. Apartment manager.
1B—Sandy Ferris. Social worker. Ted’s girlfriend.
2A—Mr. and Mrs. Cheng Ye Zheng. Store owners. Ted’s parents.
2B—Norman Chinn. Professor. And Steven Broder. Caterer.
3A—David Wen. Investment counselor. And wife May Wen. Retail.
3B—Unoccupied.
4A—Barbara Siu. Unemployed. Linda Siu. Attorney. Sisters.
4B—Wallace Emmerich. Retired.
Wine usually gave me a pleasant buzz. This time it didn’t. Ray’s clown act, his tiny, windowless apartment and the bizarre practical joke didn’t sit well with me. Maybe it was deeper. Maybe the idea that life was so disposable. Someone had bludgeoned all the life from Ted Zheng and left his carcass crumpled in a dark corner of a cellar like a broken commode.
I thought there were other factors at work as well. Things having to do with Chinatown. About being Chinese. I didn’t want to go there.
The next morning I slept late. The heavy food. The wine. I dreamed, but whatever ephemeral reality I visited in my sleep was lost as I stepped into the light streaming through the kitchen window.
First things first. After my first sip of coffee I picked up the telephone. I found the number in the notebook. I dialed. A voice identified the homicide department.
“Inspector O’Farrell?”
“Speaking.”
“I’m Peter Strand. My client, Mr. Lehr—”
“Yes. He said you’d call. About Ted Zheng?”
“Yes. I just want you to know that I’ll be talking to some people about the death—I wanted to let you know before you heard it from someone else.”
“Glad you called.” There was a practiced civility in the gravelly voice. It wasn’t exactly warm or friendly. “You know it’s an open case, Mr. Strand. So if you decide to go wider than the apartment building, I would appreciate it if you check in with me.”
“I will. You mind if I ask a couple of questions?” I wanted to be as knowledgeable as I could before interviewing the tenants.
“Fire away,” O’Farrell said.
“It is my understanding that he was killed by a blow to the head?”
“Compound fracture, hematoma.”
“Was the weapon found?”
“No.”
“Do you have
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