{"product_id":"red-jade-isbn-9781569479971","title":"Red Jade","description":"\u003cb\u003eWhile investigating two bodies found in Chinatown's historic Tong battleground, NYPD Detective Jack Yu's pursuit takes him from New York's Chinatown to Seattle's Chinatown, tracking a cold-blooded Chinese-American gangster and a mysterious Hong Kong femme fatale\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe bodies of a young man and woman are discovered at an address on the Bloody Angle, Chinatown’s historic Tong battleground. NYPD Detective Jack Yu had thought he was done working in Chinatown, but old allegiances pull him back in. Is it a simple murder-suicide? The grieving families want him to keep a lid on any stories that might further tarnish their family names—but the Golden Galaxy club, where the young woman worked, is made for scandal. Drugs, snakeheads, smuggled prostitutes: “Girls don’t last long before getting dirty.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs a puzzling web of links between the murders and the criminal underworld reveals itself, Yu’s investigation takes him across the country to another Chinatown, this one in Seattle. In the new city, stymied by the uncooperative local cops, he tracks a cold-blooded Chinese American gangster and a mysterious Hong Kong femme fatale.\u003cu\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eRed Jade\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An action-packed plot and a carefully detailed mystery make this a feast for readers who crave insight into the cultural melting pot that is the United States.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e, Starred Review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Chang depicts the intricacies of life in Chinatowns where ancient customs crash against the contemporary world. But Chang doesn't just show these colorful neighborhoods. He delves into the reality of the Chinatowns, portraying long-time residents dismayed at the change going around them, gangsters trying to maintain their control and tight-knit neighbors united in their beliefs, customs and desire to keep crime from ebbing further. Chang captures the sights, sounds and smells of the various Chinatowns, showing the common threads and uniqueness of each as well as their histories. Chang also depicts how the cultures of various Asian countries make the Chinatowns diverse areas. \u003ci\u003eRed Jade\u003c\/i\u003e also delves into the racism that Asian cops often encounter both among their fellow officers and on the streets of Chinatown. But even cynical Jack can be surprised when a seemingly racist cop is anything but. \u003ci\u003eRed Jade\u003c\/i\u003e is a gripping police procedural full of surprising twists.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eKansas City Star\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“In his third entry in the Jack Yu series, Chang continues to provide insight into the Chinese American community and its culture. Series fans will also be pleased to see that the much-interrupted relationship of Jack and district attorney Alexandra Lee-Chow moves to a new level. A fast-moving police procedural with added sociological depth.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“A sharp mix of action, post-\u003ci\u003eWire\u003c\/i\u003e procedural and cultural commentary aimed squarely at readers who aren’t overly attached to happy, or even conclusive, endings.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cu\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for the Jack Yu series\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A vivid, street-level portrait . . . evokes the spirit, sights, smells  and language of his setting in compelling and original fashion.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Destiny could find no better assistant than the decent, determined Det. Jack Yu.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—The Wall Street Journal\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"[Chang] paints, in miniature, a harsh world of neon and shadows but doesn't slight the Big Questions . . . [He takes] genre fiction to a deeper level, focusing on the mysteries of the human mind that a murder brings to light in those with some connection to the deceased. Mysteries, quirks, that might otherwise lie buried, but that subtly define who we are.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Ron Rosenbaum, Slate \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"This is a dense, moody, and intelligent glimpse at Chinese life in New York as seen through the world-weary eyes of a young man with a foot firmly planted in two cultures.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Chinatown is the hero here. Better say antihero, because while the  picture is vivid and often compelling, it's anything but pretty.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003eHenry Chang was born and raised in New York City’s Chinatown, where he now lives. He is a graduate of the Pratt Institute and The City College of New York and is currently a security director in Manhattan. He is the author of four other novels in the Detective Jack Yu series, \u003ci\u003eChinatown Beat\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eYear of the Dog\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eDeath Money\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cp\u003eDark Before Dawn\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Rise up! Yu! Yuh got bodies!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was the overnight sarge calling from the 0-Nine, the\u003cbr\u003e Ninth Precinct, growling something about Manhattan South\u003cbr\u003e detectives into his ear, barking out a location with two bodies\u003cbr\u003e attached to it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As soon as Jack Yu caught the address, he knew: \u003ci\u003eChinatown\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eagain\u003c\/i\u003e. He was going back to the place he’d left behind\u003cbr\u003e when he moved to Brooklyn’s Sunset Park, just across the\u003cbr\u003e river but a world away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It always started with the rude awakening, the alarms\u003cbr\u003e going off in his head, the angry clamor, and then the Chinatown\u003cbr\u003e darkness snatching him off again, back into the\u003cbr\u003e Fifth Precinct, back to unfinished business. . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He’d been dead asleep, dreaming he was still partying at\u003cbr\u003e the After–Chinese New Year’s party that Billy Bow had\u003cbr\u003e pulled together at Grampa’s, aka the Golden Star Bar and\u003cbr\u003e Grill, a favorite Chinatown haunt. In this dream, Jack was\u003cbr\u003e picturing himself feeding quarters into the big jukebox\u003cbr\u003e setup, a rock tune with a deep bass pounding out, \u003ci\u003eHey son\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003ewhere ya going with dat gun in ya hand? \u003c\/i\u003eHe’s gulping back a\u003cbr\u003e beer, scoping out the revelers. \u003ci\u003eGonna shoot ma lady, she\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003echeat’in wit annuda man.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jack spots Alexandra. \u003ci\u003eAlex. \u003c\/i\u003eFriend and confidante, wearing\u003cbr\u003e a bright red Chinese jacket, the color of luck, glowing in\u003cbr\u003e the darkness of the bar. She nods at him and jiggles her\u003cbr\u003e smile to the backbeat, her long black hair shimmering in\u003cbr\u003e the dim blue light. \u003ci\u003eGonna shoot her down, down to the ground\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003cbr\u003e wailing from the jukebox. He wants to pull Alex close, to\u003cbr\u003e bring her heart to heart, to kiss her eyes lightly and find out\u003cbr\u003e what she’s thinking. But suddenly there’s this clamor, from\u003cbr\u003e the back of his head, accelerating to his frontal lobe, like a\u003cbr\u003e thundering lion drum starting up, following the raucous\u003cbr\u003e clash of brass cymbals and iron gongs, exploding suddenly\u003cbr\u003e into jarring, blinding consciousness.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He reached toward the frantic pleas of the noise, the cell\u003cbr\u003e phone’s cry, the alarm clock’s clang. The clock radio banged\u003cbr\u003e out a steady beat. Jack looped the beaded chain over his\u003cbr\u003e head; the gold detective’s badge tumbled, then its weight\u003cbr\u003e held the chain taut. He’d moved to Brooklyn and changed\u003cbr\u003e precincts after Pa’s death, but still he hadn’t escaped the old\u003cbr\u003e neighborhood. He rolled his neck, popped the ligaments,\u003cbr\u003e pulled on his clothes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He patted down his thermal jacket for the plastic disposable\u003cbr\u003e camera, and dropped his Colt Detective Special into a\u003cbr\u003e pocket.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He took the stairs down and stepped into the freezing\u003cbr\u003e wind, letting the cold rain pelt his face, pumping up his\u003cbr\u003e adrenaline. He jogged down to Eighth Avenue in the desolate\u003cbr\u003e darkness, and jumped into one of the Chinese \u003ci\u003esee gay,\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e car service lined up along the street of all-night fast-food\u003cbr\u003e soup shacks. He badged the driver, giving the address in\u003cbr\u003e Cantonese while slipping him a folded ten-spot.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Go,” Jack said, “\u003ci\u003eFaai di, \u003c\/i\u003equick. I’m in a hurry.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The driver made all the green lights and the short-cut\u003cbr\u003e turns. He blazed the black car across the empty Brooklyn\u003cbr\u003e Bridge and dropped Jack off at Doyers Street, off the Bowery\u003cbr\u003e in the original heart of Chinatown.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The trip had taken twelve screeching minutes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Seven Doyers was a four-story walk-up right on the bend\u003cbr\u003e of the old Bloody Angle, where the tong hatchetmen of the\u003cbr\u003e past battled and bled over turf and women, butcher-sharp\u003cbr\u003e cleavers hidden under their quilted Chinese jackets.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jack knew the street well; it was around the corner from\u003cbr\u003e where he’d grown up, where his pa had passed away recently.\u003cbr\u003e And around the corner from where his former blood\u003cbr\u003e brother Tat “Lucky” Louie had met his fate: shot in the\u003cbr\u003e head, he was now comatose at Downtown Hospital.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The Bloody Angle was a serpentine, twisting street that\u003cbr\u003e was anchored on the Bowery end by a Chinese deli, two\u003cbr\u003e small restaurants, and a post office branch. Where the street\u003cbr\u003e cut to the right and dipped down, there was a stretch of\u003cbr\u003e Chinese barbershops and beauty salons on both sides.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Doyers was a Ghost street and everyone knew it. The\u003cbr\u003e Ghost Legion was the dominant local gang that terrorized\u003cbr\u003e Chinatown, and Lucky had been their \u003ci\u003edailo, \u003c\/i\u003etheir leader.\u003cbr\u003e Normally, Lucky would have been Jack’s source for information\u003cbr\u003e about gangland politics, but his condition had ended\u003cbr\u003e such cooperation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Seven Doyers stood above a Vietnamese restaurant and\u003cbr\u003e the Nom Hoy Tea Parlor on an empty street lined with the\u003cbr\u003e closed, roll-down gates used overnight. The uniformed officer\u003cbr\u003e standing outside was a solitary figure beneath the yellow\u003cbr\u003e glow of the old pagoda-style streetlamp; a tall, baby-faced\u003cbr\u003e Irish kid, a rookie. Jack wondered how he’d pulled the\u003cbr\u003e overnight shift. Had he been desperate for overtime or had\u003cbr\u003e he fucked up somehow; was this a reward or punishment?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jack, letting his gold badge dangle, asked, “So who called\u003cbr\u003e it in?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Dunno,” the rookie answered with a shrug, “Sarge just\u003cbr\u003e told me to stay here and secure the scene. Wait for \u003ci\u003eyou. \u003c\/i\u003eYu?”\u003cbr\u003e The kid grinned.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Where’s the sarge at?” Jack asked, looking at the entrance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Dunno,” the rookie repeated. “He got a call from the\u003cbr\u003e captain and he left.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jack didn’t see a squad car anywhere. His watch read 5:45\u003cbr\u003e am. “Who was here when you arrived?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “An old \u003ci\u003eChinaman\u003c\/i\u003e,” he answered, pausing, allowing for a\u003cbr\u003e reaction from Jack, who didn’t rise to the bait. Jack offered\u003cbr\u003e instead the \u003ci\u003einscrutable \u003c\/i\u003eyellow face.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “He said he was the father,” the rookie continued. “And\u003cbr\u003e that there were two dead bodies inside.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “So where’s he now?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Dunno. He left after the sarge left.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Did he say anything?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Who?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “The old \u003ci\u003eChinese-American,\u003c\/i\u003e” Jack said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Oh. Said he had to make a phone call. Or something.\u003cbr\u003e Hard to understand his funky English.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jack shook his head disdainfully, scanning the empty\u003cbr\u003e street. “Keep an eye out,” he advised.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Ten-four\u003ci\u003e,\u003c\/i\u003e” the rookie responded, straightening up as\u003cbr\u003e Jack entered the building.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Death Before Dishonor\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The door at the top of the first flight of rickety stairs was\u003cbr\u003e slightly ajar. Yellow Crime Scene tape crossed its frame.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jack pulled the tape back and took a breath. He pushed\u003cbr\u003e the door gently, stepping into the space illuminated by dim\u003cbr\u003e fluorescent light. The old apartment was a typical Chinatown\u003cbr\u003e walk-up: a big rectangular room, sparsely furnished,\u003cbr\u003e with a kitchenette and a small bathroom against a long wall.\u003cbr\u003e Worn linoleum covered the floor. The rest of the space was\u003cbr\u003e open. A little table nestled in the corner to his left, a puffy\u003cbr\u003e jacket draped over a chair.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The place looked neat; there were no signs of a struggle.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Even in the half-light, Jack saw them right away: two bodies,\u003cbr\u003e holding hands but sprawled apart, on their backs, across\u003cbr\u003e the width of a bed in the far corner. Their legs dangled off\u003cbr\u003e the side of the bed. One man, one woman, Chinese, as far\u003cbr\u003e as he could make out in the shadowy distance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The woman still had her quilted coat on.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There was a lady’s handbag placed neatly against the foot\u003cbr\u003e of the bed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e On the linoleum at the headboard end was a small clock\u003cbr\u003e radio, crash-tilted at an angle to the floor, its digital display\u003cbr\u003e frozen at 4:44 am.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As he stepped closer, he figured the dead couple to be in\u003cbr\u003e their mid-thirties. He couldn’t find a pulse, but the bodies\u003cbr\u003e were still warm to the touch. Rigor had not set in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Dead less than two hours, Jack thought.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He pulled the plastic disposable camera from his jacket.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The man still had two fingers of his right hand on the butt\u003cbr\u003e of a gun, a small black revolver, just at the end of his grasp,\u003cbr\u003e dangling askew off the duvet cover. He was grimacing; dark\u003cbr\u003e blood spread from the back of his head. In the firm grip of\u003cbr\u003e his left fist was the woman’s right hand, their fingers laced, as\u003cbr\u003e if he was taking her with him somewhere. There was blood on\u003cbr\u003e the back of her right hand, blood on the comforter that had\u003cbr\u003e come from inside her palm, and a small red hole in the center\u003cbr\u003e of her forehead. Beneath that, a dark puddle had formed\u003cbr\u003e in the turned-up collar of her coat. Her eyes were open, and\u003cbr\u003e her lips slightly parted; she wore a look of disbelief.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In the space between the two bodies was a crumpled business\u003cbr\u003e card. Protruding from the man’s shirt pocket was a\u003cbr\u003e folded piece of notepaper.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jack stepped back and snapped photographs from different\u003cbr\u003e angles and distances, wide shots and close-ups fixing the\u003cbr\u003e images in his mind before Crime Scene arrived.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e At 4:44 am, the woman wasn’t going out, Jack thought\u003ci\u003e.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She’d just come home. And he was waiting for her, his jacket\u003cbr\u003e draped over the chair. No sign of forced entry. He’d had a\u003cbr\u003e key. Or she’d let him in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The layout of the bodies made it look like she’d sat down\u003cbr\u003e at the edge of the bed, placed her handbag on the floor,\u003cbr\u003e and then he’d shot her. She’d fallen straight back, nestled\u003cbr\u003e neatly into the comforter. Dead on impact, a bullet in her\u003cbr\u003e brain, the back of her head bleeding out, he concluded.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Sometime after, the man had seated himself, taken her\u003cbr\u003e hand in his, and then eaten the gun.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jack imagined it with a cold clarity—the gun jerking out\u003cbr\u003e of the man’s mouth, the wild swing of his arm smashing into\u003cbr\u003e the clock radio, sending it to the floor. The revolver bouncing,\u003cbr\u003e sliding onto the comforter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The crashed clock radio on the floor was blinking 4:44\u003cbr\u003e am, offering the three worst numbers a Chinese could get:\u003cbr\u003e the number four in Cantonese sounded like death\u003ci\u003e. Triple\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e death.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The man had drop-twisted to his right, as if he were dragging\u003cbr\u003e her into the next life—holding hands—toward oneness\u003cbr\u003e with the universe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The gun was an older model H\u0026amp;R 622, a .22-caliber\u003cbr\u003e revolver that fit the Saturday Night Special profile. Someone\u003cbr\u003e had filed off the serial numbers. Only two shots had\u003cbr\u003e been fired. With such a cheap revolver, he’d had to have\u003cbr\u003e shot her at close range, almost point-blank. There’d probably\u003cbr\u003e be some gunshot residue on her face and hand as\u003cbr\u003e well. Jack made a mental note to advise Crime Scene, and\u003cbr\u003e the ME, then carefully spread open the crumpled-up business\u003cbr\u003e card. It was from the Golden Galaxy Karaoke Bar, with\u003cbr\u003e a handwritten telephone number scrawled across the back.\u003cbr\u003e Jack snapped photos front and back, checked his watch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 6:06 am.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There was nothing in the man’s jacket draped on the chair.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jack took the note from the man’s shirt pocket, and\u003cbr\u003e opened it up on the table. The word characters were written\u003cbr\u003e out in broken lines, like a Chinese poem, in a Three-\u003cbr\u003e Kingdoms-period style. Jack mouthed the words silently,\u003cbr\u003e reading through the series of vertical sentences, using his\u003cbr\u003e schoolboy Cantonese.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eBlack Clouds\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003ehave covered the sky\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003elike ink.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eThe whirlwind\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003esweeps in\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003efrom the rivers.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eEven the air itself\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eIs frozen.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eInside,\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eA growing sorrow\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eI cannot bear.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eThere is no one\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eto turn to,\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003enot even a reflection\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003ein the mirror.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eI cannot Face\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eanyone.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eA man\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003ewithout a face,\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eI am ready\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eto do\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eWhat I must do . . .\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The man had lost face, \u003ci\u003emo sai meen\u003c\/i\u003e, and had become\u003cbr\u003e despondent. A hopeless predicament, according to the\u003cbr\u003e poem. Overwhelmed, he’d given in to despair.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jack pushed back from the table, turned toward the bed.\u003cbr\u003e The scene looked like a textbook open-and-shut murder-suicide,\u003cbr\u003e one that \u003ci\u003eany \u003c\/i\u003eof the murder squad cops could have\u003cbr\u003e stepped up to, way before he’d gotten the call. Even a sergeant\u003cbr\u003e and a couple of uniforms could have managed it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e So why me? Jack had to ask himself. Because I’m Chinese?\u003cbr\u003e Not that he was complaining. Murder was murder,\u003cbr\u003e any way you colored it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Still.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He went back down the stairs to where the uniformed\u003cbr\u003e rookie was leaning against the wall of the little vestibule,\u003cbr\u003e half-nodding his way toward the end of the overnight shift.\u003cbr\u003e The cold draft of air at the door invigorated Jack.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “What’s the deal with Crime Scene?” he asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Sarge said they were en route.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “What about the ME?” Jack frowned. “I need a wagon\u003cbr\u003e here.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I’ll notify the sarge \u003ci\u003eagain.\u003c\/i\u003e”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jack took a deep gulp of the cold air before quickstepping\u003cbr\u003e back upstairs. Inside the apartment, he emptied\u003cbr\u003e the woman’s handbag onto the linoleum floor. There was\u003cbr\u003e nothing unusual: cell phone, makeup, change purse, pen,\u003cbr\u003e eyeglasses. A wallet, containing a photo of herself with a\u003cbr\u003e karaoke microphone in her hand, smiling; various credit\u003cbr\u003e cards, and a non-driver’s license that identified her as May\u003cbr\u003e Lon Fong, thirty-one years old. Another photo of her with\u003cbr\u003e two infants; scrawled across the back of the photo, the Chinese\u003cbr\u003e words \u003ci\u003ema\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003ejai neui\u003c\/i\u003e, mother and children.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The refrigerator was stocked for a single person: two\u003cbr\u003e bricks of tofu, some \u003ci\u003egai choy, \u003c\/i\u003evegetables, and a gallon jug of\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003edao jeung, \u003c\/i\u003ebean milk. There were leftover salad greens, a\u003cbr\u003e half-dozen eggs, a piece of flank steak, dumplings, and noodles\u003cbr\u003e in the freezer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jack sat down at the little table and waited for the coroner’s\u003cbr\u003e wagon. Crime Scene would arrive soon enough.\u003cbr\u003e Nobody here was going anywhere. The waiting made him\u003cbr\u003e wonder again why he’d caught the case, and reminded\u003cbr\u003e him of all the Chinatown events that had led up to his\u003cbr\u003e recent transfer from the Fifth Precinct. The adrenaline\u003cbr\u003e had begun to ebb from his body. Fatigue slowly crept\u003cbr\u003e back in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He remembered how, seven months earlier, he’d gotten\u003cbr\u003e a hardship transfer out of Anti-Crime, to be closer to Pa in\u003cbr\u003e Chinatown, who’d been terminally ill. The transfer had\u003cbr\u003e brought Jack back to the 0-Five, back to the old neighborhood,\u003cbr\u003e where he’d grown up, where he’d lost boyhood\u003cbr\u003e friends and his innocence, and from which he’d thought\u003cbr\u003e he’d finally escaped.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The old man had died recently, and Jack’s grief and guilt\u003cbr\u003e were still fresh in his heart. He’d moved out on Pa, but only\u003cbr\u003e because Chinatown was no longer the same place for him as\u003cbr\u003e it was for his father. Jack’s Chinatown was colored by violence,\u003cbr\u003e death, and a feeling of helplessness that he hated.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He’d become a cop, thinking he’d make a difference.\u003cbr\u003e The difference was he’d become as cynical and hard as the\u003cbr\u003e gangboys he’d left behind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He was on the job, working Canal Street with the Anti-\u003cbr\u003e Crime plainclothes squad, when Pa passed away. Jack had\u003cbr\u003e found him, after stopping to pick up \u003ci\u003ejook\u003c\/i\u003e, congee, for the\u003cbr\u003e old man, after the day shift. He’d missed the chance to say\u003cbr\u003e good-bye, to try and apologize for the clashes they’d had.\u003cbr\u003e And now Jack was the last man standing in the Yu bloodline.\u003cbr\u003e Two hundred years of family history on the edge, in \u003ci\u003eMei\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eKwok\u003c\/i\u003e, America.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Not long after the burial, a Chinatown tong big shot had\u003cbr\u003e gotten himself murdered. Jack was given the case. Uncle\u003cbr\u003e Four, leader of the Hip Chings, had been shot coming out\u003cbr\u003e of an elevator at 444 Hester Street. One man was in custody,\u003cbr\u003e awaiting trial. Another suspect had vanished.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e During the investigation, Jack had been suspended by\u003cbr\u003e Internal Affairs, but still managed to bring back from San\u003cbr\u003e Francisco’s Chinatown a New York limousine driver whose\u003cbr\u003e name was Johnny \u003ci\u003e“Wong Jai” \u003c\/i\u003eWong. A person of interest, a\u003cbr\u003e Hong Kong Chinese woman, was still at large. They knew\u003cbr\u003e her only as Mona.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The case was pending trial.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Johnny Wong’s name brought back memories: a short\u003cbr\u003e heavyset body lying on the floor, halfway out of a small elevator,\u003cbr\u003e the doors bumping up against his ample waist. The\u003cbr\u003e vic was Uncle Four. Someone had popped a couple of\u003cbr\u003e .25-caliber hi-vels into the back of his head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jack had followed Mona’s words, her phone tips to him,\u003cbr\u003e to California. But when he arrested Johnny Wong for the\u003cbr\u003e murder, Johnny, in turn, had pointed the finger at Mona,\u003cbr\u003e Fat Uncle’s mistress.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Now Johnny was in a cell in Rikers, still claiming he had\u003cbr\u003e been framed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jack remembered chasing a woman, thirty yards distant,\u003cbr\u003e a gun in her hand, desperately pulling a rolling carry-all\u003cbr\u003e behind her. She’d escaped from that San Francisco rooftop\u003cbr\u003e and disappeared.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jack knew he’d have to testify to that. So far, none of the\u003cbr\u003e Wanteds they’d put out on her had come back, but they had\u003cbr\u003e Johnny and the murder weapon, with his prints on it. Sooner\u003cbr\u003e or later, the case was going to have its day in court.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jack recalled the picture of Hong Kong songstress Shirley\u003cbr\u003e Yip, torn from \u003ci\u003eStar! Entertainment, \u003c\/i\u003ea Chinese magazine. It\u003cbr\u003e was the closest likeness they had of Mona; according to\u003cbr\u003e Lucky she was a dead ringer for the celebrity.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Toward the end of his tour in the Fifth, Jack had bumped\u003cbr\u003e up against his boyhood friend Tat “Lucky” Louie\u003ci\u003e, \u003c\/i\u003ewho’d\u003cbr\u003e tried to recruit him into the ranks of dirty cops on the On\u003cbr\u003e Yee tong’s payroll. Lucky would have known about the\u003cbr\u003e Golden Galaxy, a karaoke dive that was operating on his\u003cbr\u003e turf. But Lucky was only being kept alive now by a respirator\u003cbr\u003e at Downtown CCU; he’d been caught in a gangland shootout\u003cbr\u003e between disgruntled Ghost Legion factions. The shootout\u003cbr\u003e had left seven bodies outside Chinatown OTB, and a\u003cbr\u003e possible shooter in flight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Lucky’s luck had run out.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Then there was Alex. Alexandra Lee-Chow, Chinatown\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eactivista \u003c\/i\u003elawyer. Pretty and hard-nosed, but with a soft\u003cbr\u003e heart. She was going through a bitter yuppie divorce. And\u003cbr\u003e she was drifting in and out of alcoholic self-medication,\u003cbr\u003e just like he was.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Since they’d known one another, Jack had steered her\u003cbr\u003e past a drunk and disorderly charge, and she’d helped him\u003cbr\u003e with his Chinatown cases. During bouts of grief and misery,\u003cbr\u003e they’d commiserated and become drinking buddies.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Two budding alcoholics working their way up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jack noted that he could use Alex’s connections in the\u003cbr\u003e Administration for Children’s Services for the newly\u003cbr\u003e orphaned children, as well as Victim’s Services. In addition,\u003cbr\u003e there was faith-based support for young victims left parentless.\u003cbr\u003e The man and his wife were dead, but their children had\u003cbr\u003e to be cared for.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The karaoke photo of the woman reminded him vaguely of\u003cbr\u003e Mona. She was like a chameleon. From the little popgun\u003cbr\u003e she’d squeezed off firecracker shots at him as he chased her\u003cbr\u003e across that rooftop.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Then she was gone. “In the wind.” He wondered how far\u003cbr\u003e she had flown.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The trilling of his cell phone broke his reverie. The number\u003cbr\u003e on the readout was one he didn’t recognize.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Detective Yu?” The voice spoke Toishanese, the old Chinatown\u003cbr\u003e dialect.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Yes, who’s this?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I am the father.” The words froze Jack. “Of the dead man.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “You were here earlier,” said Jack.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Yes, I found the”—a hesitation—“\u003ci\u003eSay see\u003c\/i\u003e, the bodies . . .”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Sir, I need to speak with you,” Jack said in dialect.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “We can meet with you. About half an hour.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “We?” Jack asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Myself,” the voice answered, “and the father of the dead\u003cbr\u003e woman.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jack checked his watch. It was 6:18 am, dark still, but\u003cbr\u003e dawn around the edges. He heard the sounds of Crime\u003cbr\u003e Scene arriving outside on the quiet street, the voice of the\u003cbr\u003e rookie uniformed cop.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Where?” Jack asked, rechecking his watch.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He left CSU to their work and canvassed the adjacent apartments.\u003cbr\u003e The neighbors had heard nothing. No arguments,\u003cbr\u003e yelling, sounds of struggle. In the middle of the night, \u003ci\u003esom\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003egong boon yeh, \u003c\/i\u003ethey’d been dead asleep.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e An old couple in the apartment above heard a bang, but\u003cbr\u003e couldn’t agree whether there had been one or two. They’d\u003cbr\u003e thought it was the street door slamming or the noise of the\u003cbr\u003e overnight garbage trucks. Or maybe some \u003ci\u003elon jaai, \u003c\/i\u003eprankster\u003cbr\u003e kids, blasting firecrackers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He left the building as dawn broke over Chinatown, made\u003cbr\u003e a left on Bowery, and headed north toward Canal.\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Soho Crime","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300073820389,"sku":"NP9781569479971","price":16.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781569479971.jpg?v=1767735544","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/red-jade-isbn-9781569479971","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}