The Blue Dragon (7 page)

A
month, perhaps more, passed before I realized I still had the key to apartment 3A. Maybe it was only an excuse to go to Chinatown. I’m not sure. Besides returning the key, I really had no other reason to go to that part of the city.

This time, my trip down the Saturn Street Steps was in the sunshine. Out in front of me was the blue sky. Absolutely clear. The jacaranda trees were in bloom with their royal-blue flowers. Below them, a bed of flowers also exploded with blue
blossoms. What a wondrous day! I thought. It was summer now.

The narrow street where the Blue Dragon lived was lit by the noon sun too. And there was Ray Leu, standing outside saying goodbye to an elderly Chinese couple.

Ray shook his head in disbelief. He laughed.

“Mr. Chan. Mr. Private Detective. You did good job, eh?”

“I have that key,” I said, fishing it out of my pocket. “For 3A.”

Ray nodded. “The Wens. Gone now.”

“Really.”

He shook his head. “Much change. You know Mr. Emmerich is gone. Sandy Ferris is gone. Mr. Chinn’s boyfriend…pfft. All white people gone.” He laughed.

I didn’t know whether the white people being gone was bad or good, but apparently it was notable.

“Wens move to Russian Hill somewhere.”

“The sisters?”

“Here. So are Cheng Ye Zheng and his wife and the little boy.”

“Good,” I said. “So you have lots of apartments to rent?”

“Yes, you want one?”

For a moment I tried to imagine myself living in Chinatown.

“That would be an adventure,” I said.

“Cheng Ye ask about you. You should go see him. He like you very much. He said you are ‘fine boy.’ ”

Ray patted me on the back.

Once out in the narrow street, I turned back. Mrs. Zheng was with the child. She looked down at him, saying something I couldn’t hear as they walked hand in hand.

I felt warm and sad.

A
special thanks to Guolin Tao. Thanks also to the usual suspects—brothers Richard and Ryan as well as Jovanne Reilly and David Anderson.

RONALD TIERNEY'S
The Stone Veil
introduced semi-retired private investigator “Deets” Shanahan. The book was nominated for the Private Eye Writers of America’s Shamus Award for Best First Novel. The most recent,
Killing Frost,
is the eleventh in the series
Booklist
said was “packed with new angles and delights.”

Before writing mysteries, Tierney was founding editor of
NUVO,
an Indianapolis alternative newspaper, and the editor of several other periodicals. The author lives in San Francisco, where he continues to write. For more information, visit
www.ronaldtierney.com
.

I
’m a little bit of a puzzle, I’m afraid. I look Chinese. That’s because I’m half Chinese and half Cherokee. Unfortunately, I never knew my parents, a story for later maybe. I was adopted by an elderly white couple from Phoenix. I speak English, no Chinese. But in keeping with the stereotype, I’m very good at math. I became an accountant, one who specializes in forensic accounting, which means I investigate criminals, people who try to cook the books. I also acquired a private investigator’s license when I moved to San Francisco.

I’ve never met Mr. Lehr, though he is my major client. I talk to him on the phone, or we converse by email. He is an important man in the city. He owns a lot of property, from which he earns a handsome living. I help him by looking
into his investments for signs of fraud, embezzlement or kickbacks— any criminal behavior tied to the handling of money.

My private investigator’s license allows me to look into the past behavior and associations of people with whom Mr. Lehr does or might do business.

“Strand, listen,” Lehr said in a gravelly whisper. “You know the Fog City Arts Center? I’m on their board. Some crazy shit is going on down here. The staff is ready to mutiny. I told the board you’d go down, look into things.”

“What things?”

“The crazy stuff. You need to see Madeline Creighton. She’s the executive director. So arrange things and straighten it out.”

A good walk clears the brain, I’ve found. As I was walking to the arts center the next morning, I mulled over the events of the evening before. I realized that aside from mad Madeline, Emelio had already introduced me at his party to the key players—the family-oriented
sales guy Craig Anglim, the attractive events overseer Vanessa Medder and down-to-earth architect Marguerite Woodson—the people I most wanted to interview. These three—five, including Madeline and Emelio—were in the best position to have access to substantial amounts of money.

The doors to the foundation were locked. The hours of operation painted on the glass doors told me I was fifteen minutes early.

I heard the water lapping at the pilings. I went to the edge and looked over. To my surprise there was a large turtle, a sea turtle. Its dark, shiny shell might have been five feet long. When our eyes met, it disappeared.

What a strange creature. A living being with its own mobile home. The moment it is observed, it hides— in the ocean or in its shell. We can see it, but only as much as it wants us to see. As is the case with all of us, it cannot completely ignore reality, but, more than most of us, it can withdraw from it.