“Go ahead. This is what it was all about? Open it.” She tossed it over.
The box was the worse for wear, probably from things like when I landed on Fishface, and it was dusty with fingerprint powder. Despite my new theory, my heart pounded as I lifted the top and pulled off cotton batting. On more batting, stuffed in tight so it wouldn’t roll around, lay a big green cat’s-eye marble.
I sat back heavily against my chair. “Damn.”
“Damn? That’s all you have to say?”
“It’s a marble.”
“That’s right. Not some romantic mysterious lost gem. A piece of glass.”
“Wong Pan never had the Shanghai Moon.”
Mary looked to Inspector Wei, who shook her head. “After you tell story from Attorney Fairchild, Shanghai Police Bureau investigates carved box. Have two expert try. Take to hospital so can make X-ray. Box doesn’t has secret compartment.”
A tide of futility and failure washed over me. Oh, Rosalie, Kai-rong! I’m so sorry!
“Lydia?” Mary’s tone gave me a chill. “You know, you don’t seem surprised. What are you holding back? Girlfriend, I swear—”
“I only just figured it out,” I said wearily. “While you kept me sitting here for an hour. Girlfriend.” I looked from one cop to the other. “Did you find out how the White Eagles knew about the meeting in the noodle shop? Or how Wong Pan knew who Fishface was? No, stop, don’t tell me you’re the one who asks the questions. This”—I pointed at the marble—“confirms what I was thinking. The whole thing was a sting.”
“Go back,” Mary ordered. “Wong Pan knew Fishface?”
“He called him ‘Deng dai lo.’ Not just his name, his title. How would anyone from outside Chinatown know that, let alone some guy from Shanghai? Unless they’d met. And a marble? Wong Pan can’t have expected C. D. Zhang not to look in the box. He didn’t care. The box was showmanship. It wasn’t supposed to be opened. Wong Pan hired the White Eagles to knock the meeting over.”
Neither cop said anything. That made me suddenly crabby. My best friend keeps me on ice for an hour and then doesn’t buy my theory? “This was the big score. Not some jewelry store stickup. This was the gig that was going to launch their soldier-of-fortune careers. The big score had a client. Wong Pan was the client. Ask him. Or ask Fishface.”
Mary said, “I talked to Fishface. He says any story about clients is bogus. Everything the White Eagles have ever done was his own idea. Not that they’ve ever done anything, a friendly little social club like them. But if they ever had done anything, it would have been his idea.”
“What does he say his social club was doing in New Day Noodle waving guns around?”
“Funny, I asked him that. He said they smelled smoke and went in to help, and what guns?”
“What do you mean, what guns? They were all carrying, every one of them.”
“That’s what you say. As soon as they saw how trapped they were, it was raining guns on Canal Street. Not one White Eagle was found with a weapon.”
“But—! Oh, never mind. This was a sting. And Wong Pan was the client.”
“You really think so?”
“Fishface didn’t think this up. It’s way above his pay grade. There has to be a client.”
“Agreed. I mean, you think it was Wong Pan?”
“As opposed to who? Whom? What?”
“Wait here.” As though I had a choice. Mary got up and left. Inspector Wei went with her, and I thought I might be in for another meditation session, but she came back a minute later with two mugs. “Terrible.” She handed me one. “Worse than Shanghai police station. How is possible make such bad tea?”
“They say the coffee’s worse.”
Wei nodded, considering that. “In China, not many private investigators. Only study mens for wives, for divorcing. Not useful to police, like you, like Investigator Smith.”
“Useful? Are you kidding? Do you see how furious Mary is?”
“Detective Kee your friend, wants you not get hurt, Investigator Smith also. But your informations, valuable to her, for case, for career.”
“You think?”
“Behind furiousness, eyes full of pride, having smart, brave friend like you. You can’t see?”
I sure couldn’t. While I was wondering whether there was any truth in that or if it was just a case of cultural misinterpretation, Mary came back. She held a briefcase I recognized, having watched it swing from C. D. Zhang’s hand down the length of Canal. Dropping it on the table, she repeated herself. “Go ahead. Open it.”
I did. It was stuffed tight