brick strip. Front door locked. I
saw postal boxes through the glass pane and glanced down at Aaz. He flashed me
a grin and faded into the shadows. A moment later, the front door opened from
the inside. I walked in, Dek and Mal still humming “Is This Love” in my ears.
I did
not encounter anyone on the stairs, and except for the sounds of the restaurant
next door, heard faintly through the walls, the building seemed quiet, empty. I
passed a small law office on the first floor, and on the second found two doors
advertising a MR. CHEN, ACCOUNTANT and a MABEL LEE, HERBAL MEDICINE. At the end
of the hall, farthest from the stairs, was a battered wooden door and a placard
that read, BRIAN BADELT, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR.
I
hesitated, still listening, and checked the corners of the dimly lit hall and
ceiling for cameras. Seemed safe enough. The largest shadow was the one my own
body cast, and the boys used it as a conduit to pour free into the hall,
gathering around me like wolves. Only Aaz was missing—until Badelt’s door
opened, and Aaz peered out with a sharp grin.
The
office was small. One room, one window. No space for a secretary. The air smelled
like cigarettes. No plants, no pictures on the walls. Just one filing cabinet,
a desk, three chairs—two in front of the desk, one behind—and a phone and fax
machine. Simple. Man of action, not frivolity. Maybe no money for frills,
though I remembered his picture—thought hard-ass —and decided this was
just his personality.
“Coppers
been here,” Zee said, sniffing the floor. “Been all over.”
I
figured as much. Man dies from gunshot wounds, you check his work and home. That,
and Badelt’s desk looked messy, paperwork scattered. He seemed like the neat
type, too fussy to tolerate disorder. I walked around the desk and sat in his
chair, listening to the boys prowl. Tried to imagine myself as Badelt, sitting
here, gazing over my domain. Looking at my name.
“Zee,”
I said. “Check out the filing cabinet.”
He
snapped his claws at Raw, and the two of them started pulling drawers. I slid
on my gloves, leaned forward, and checked the desk. In the first drawer, I
found an unlocked metal box. I opened it and looked down at a box of bullets.
No gun.
The
drawer beneath held a framed picture of Badelt. He stood beside a small
middle-aged Chinese woman who had her arm draped around his waist and a smile
on her face that was so big and happy it could have melted stone. She was
strikingly beautiful, unusually so. Most women who looked like her lived only
in the movies, or on magazine pages. Badelt seemed just as happy. No big smile,
but his eyes were crinkled with warmth. A good look on him. Better than death,
that was for sure. I wondered if the woman had been his wife, but if she was,
his keeping their picture in the drawer of his desk was probably not a good
sign.
I
heard the boys muttering at each other from the filing cabinet, and placed the
couple’s picture back in the drawer. Nothing else was in there. I started
pushing papers around the top of his desk. Toward the bottom, something caught
my eye. A newspaper, date from yesterday. I hesitated, then unfolded the paper,
scanning the pages. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling against the window at
my back. Dek and Mal stopped singing.
I
turned, looked out, but saw nothing unordinary. Zee and the others were still
messing with the filing cabinet. I focused on the newspaper.
It
was, as Suwanai had said, a local Chinatown rag. I saw them all the time,
especially when Grant and I came to the area for lunch or dinner. There was an
edition published exclusively in Chinese, but this was the English version, a
slim paper that dealt with local news, politics, and announcements, most of it
related to the Asian community.
Made
sense that Badelt would have found it an interesting read. His office was in
Chinatown. Stood to reason most of his work might be community-based, as well.
I
almost missed it. I was flipping
saw postal boxes through the glass pane and glanced down at Aaz. He flashed me
a grin and faded into the shadows. A moment later, the front door opened from
the inside. I walked in, Dek and Mal still humming “Is This Love” in my ears.
I did
not encounter anyone on the stairs, and except for the sounds of the restaurant
next door, heard faintly through the walls, the building seemed quiet, empty. I
passed a small law office on the first floor, and on the second found two doors
advertising a MR. CHEN, ACCOUNTANT and a MABEL LEE, HERBAL MEDICINE. At the end
of the hall, farthest from the stairs, was a battered wooden door and a placard
that read, BRIAN BADELT, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR.
I
hesitated, still listening, and checked the corners of the dimly lit hall and
ceiling for cameras. Seemed safe enough. The largest shadow was the one my own
body cast, and the boys used it as a conduit to pour free into the hall,
gathering around me like wolves. Only Aaz was missing—until Badelt’s door
opened, and Aaz peered out with a sharp grin.
The
office was small. One room, one window. No space for a secretary. The air smelled
like cigarettes. No plants, no pictures on the walls. Just one filing cabinet,
a desk, three chairs—two in front of the desk, one behind—and a phone and fax
machine. Simple. Man of action, not frivolity. Maybe no money for frills,
though I remembered his picture—thought hard-ass —and decided this was
just his personality.
“Coppers
been here,” Zee said, sniffing the floor. “Been all over.”
I
figured as much. Man dies from gunshot wounds, you check his work and home. That,
and Badelt’s desk looked messy, paperwork scattered. He seemed like the neat
type, too fussy to tolerate disorder. I walked around the desk and sat in his
chair, listening to the boys prowl. Tried to imagine myself as Badelt, sitting
here, gazing over my domain. Looking at my name.
“Zee,”
I said. “Check out the filing cabinet.”
He
snapped his claws at Raw, and the two of them started pulling drawers. I slid
on my gloves, leaned forward, and checked the desk. In the first drawer, I
found an unlocked metal box. I opened it and looked down at a box of bullets.
No gun.
The
drawer beneath held a framed picture of Badelt. He stood beside a small
middle-aged Chinese woman who had her arm draped around his waist and a smile
on her face that was so big and happy it could have melted stone. She was
strikingly beautiful, unusually so. Most women who looked like her lived only
in the movies, or on magazine pages. Badelt seemed just as happy. No big smile,
but his eyes were crinkled with warmth. A good look on him. Better than death,
that was for sure. I wondered if the woman had been his wife, but if she was,
his keeping their picture in the drawer of his desk was probably not a good
sign.
I
heard the boys muttering at each other from the filing cabinet, and placed the
couple’s picture back in the drawer. Nothing else was in there. I started
pushing papers around the top of his desk. Toward the bottom, something caught
my eye. A newspaper, date from yesterday. I hesitated, then unfolded the paper,
scanning the pages. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling against the window at
my back. Dek and Mal stopped singing.
I
turned, looked out, but saw nothing unordinary. Zee and the others were still
messing with the filing cabinet. I focused on the newspaper.
It
was, as Suwanai had said, a local Chinatown rag. I saw them all the time,
especially when Grant and I came to the area for lunch or dinner. There was an
edition published exclusively in Chinese, but this was the English version, a
slim paper that dealt with local news, politics, and announcements, most of it
related to the Asian community.
Made
sense that Badelt would have found it an interesting read. His office was in
Chinatown. Stood to reason most of his work might be community-based, as well.
I
almost missed it. I was flipping
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