The 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 any theories about what kind of weapon it was?”
There was a long pause. No doubt the inspector was deliberating—how much should he tell?
“Actually could’ve been anything. Baseball bat. Pipe.”
“Something hard and round?”
“Right.”
“No witnesses.”
“A couple of rats maybe.”
“Mr. Lehr said you thought it was gang related?”
“He had drugs in his system. Meth. Drug deal gone south looks to be a good possibility.”
“You don’t think the drugs could have been recreational?”
“Aren’t they all? Listen, we can’t be sure. But Zheng was a player. Strictly minor league. Gambling, mostly. Wasn’t a violent guy. No felonies. But he played around the edges, and he knew a lot of questionable types, if you know what I mean. Beyond that things get hazy. Pure speculation.”
“Anyone closer to home?”
“Who? We checked out the girlfriend. Belongs on a Wheaties box. Family is decent, trying to make a living. They loved the kid. Nobody else would have a motive. He was a likable guy is what I hear. Charm. Wasn’t coming down on anybody who lived in the building as far as I could tell.”
“Any leads?”
“No. If it’s gang related, it might come out in the wash tomorrow or years from now. Who knows? We’ve asked around. If anybody saw anything, nobody’s talking.”
“So you don’t mind me meddling a little bit?”
“You find something, let me know. And Mr. Strand, if you get a chance, try to get this character Wallace Emmerich off my butt.”
I recognized the name. Emmerich had been complaining to Mr. Lehr as well. Emmerich, Lehr told me, had owned the building before he did. Lehr had told me a few other things as well. One of those things was that Emmerich just loved to complain.