Dragonfire

Fourteen

She took the business card I handed her through the opening, gave it a cursory glance, and then closed the door long enough to remove the chain. “Come in, please.”

I went in. She was about thirty, slender, finely boned, with glossy black hair parted in the middle and hanging curtainlike down the small of her back. Her face was a perfect oval, each feature symmetrical; the eyes dominated — olive-black, expressive, slanted only just a little. The only things that kept her from being beautiful were a tracery of lines around the eyes and a bitter curve to her mouth.

When she had the door closed she led me out of a narrow foyer into a Victorian-style living room: heavy old furniture, a couple of Tiffany lamps that may or may not have been genuine, a small Queen Anne fireplace with a marble mantelpiece. The walls were covered with blown-up photographs, most black-and-white, the rest sepia-toned; all of them were contemporary cityscapes, but they had an old-fashioned, almost brooding quality that somehow managed not to be oppressive in that dark room. In one corner, a stereo unit tucked into a cabinet played softly, something classical, with lots of stringed instruments. There was nothing Oriental in the room except her. Even the faces in the photographs were all either black or white.

She indicated a Victorian chaise and I sat down on it. She said, “Would you care for something to drink?”

“Thanks, no.”

“Well, I think I’ll have a Scotch. I just got home a few minutes ago and it’s been a long day.”

She went to a sideboard, opened it, took out a bottle and a glass, and poured herself a healthy slug, no ice, no mix. When she came back with it to where I was she caught me looking at the photographs. One in particular — a study of the De Young Museum, clouds piled up the background, people on the steps, that was both sensitive and oddly haunting.

“Do you like them?” she asked. “The photographs?”

“Yes. They’re quite good.”

“My work,” she said with some pride. “I’m a free-lance photojournalism”

“Ah.”

“Most of them have appeared in magazines. New West, San Francisco Magazine, a few others.”

“You must be very successful.”

She moved one shoulder in a small delicate shrug. “I make a living,” she said, and arranged herself on a ladder-back chair with a tufted seat the color of burgundy wine. She was wearing a white blouse and a long black skirt; the skirt made rustling noises when she crossed her legs. She took a sip of her drink and watched me over the rim of the glass, waiting.

I said, “Some of the questions I have to ask are personal. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. You said Carl has applied for a large policy with your company?”

“Yes. A life policy. Also a substantial policy on his home in Burlingame.”

“I’m sure he can afford it. I understand his company is flourishing these days.”

I nodded. “He seems to be solvent, at least as far as Mid-Pacific Electronics is concerned. But I’ve learned that he has a penchant for gambling.”

She smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach her eyes; they were steady, dark with some sort of contained emotion. “That’s true,” she said. “Gambling is his second favorite pastime.”

“His second favorite, did you say?”

“His favorite is women.” She said it matter-of-factly. Nothing changed in her expression, except that the curve of her mouth got even more bitter. “But you were asking me about his gambling. You want to know if he loses heavily, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

“Not very often, no. He’s very good at it.”

“Even professional gamblers suffer losses from time to time,” I said. “Would you know if he’s had any major setbacks in the past few months?”

“No. I haven’t seen Carl in close to three years, and we don’t communicate.”

“You’ve been divorced four years, is that right?”

“Yes. Four years.”

“I understand his favorite game is poker. When you were married did he have a regular place he liked to play? Here in the city, I mean. I know he goes to Las Vegas several times a year.”

“Not that I can remember. Carl and I didn’t communicate very well then, either.”

“Did he ever gamble in Chinatown?”

She took another sip of her Scotch, studying me. “Why do you ask that? Because I’m Chinese?”

“Well... yes.”

“Are you surprised that he was married to a Chinese woman? You seemed startled when you saw me.”

“I guess I was. The issue hadn’t come up before.”

“If you knew Carl, you wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Why is that?”

“He has a passion for the Chinese. My people, their way of life — all things Chinese.”

So that’s it, I thought. The case against Carl Emerson was solidifying, beginning to take shape. He was the man I wanted; I could feel it now, heavy and growing, like a tumor.

I said, “Does he have many friends in the Chinese community?”

“He has acquaintances. Carl has never had any friends.”

“Did he spend much time in Chinatown while you were married?”

“Yes. We lived in Menlo Park — I met him while I was an undergraduate at Stanford — but we used to come into the city two or three times a week for dinner.”

“Did he ever indicate to you that he gambled in Chinatown?”

“Yes. He mentioned it.”

“Any place in particular?”

“None that he spoke of.”

“Does the name Lee Chuck mean anything to you?”

She considered it. “I’m afraid not.”

“Hui Sip?”

“A tong,” she said. “Not a very benevolent one. What does Hui Sip have to do with Carl’s application for insurance?”

Back off a little, I thought. You’re making her suspicious. I said, “These are names that came up during the course of my investigation. I’ve been led to believe that Hui Sip controls gambling in Chinatown; naturally, if Mr. Emerson is involved with them we would consider him a less than satisfactory insurance risk.”

“I see.”

“Do you know if he’s ever had any dealings with Hui Sip?”

“No. But it wouldn’t surprise me.”

“Why not?”

“They control gambling, just as you said; they also control prostitution. Carl is a gambler and a fornicator and a Chinaphile. No, it wouldn’t surprise me.”

I frowned. “Do you mean he prefers Chinese women?”

“Exclusively. And obsessively. I doubt if he’s ever been to bed with a Caucasian woman.”

“But he doesn’t consort with prostitutes, does he?”

“Oh yes. Prostitutes, too.”

“I don’t understand. Why would he do that?”

“He can’t get enough of Chinese women,” she said. “I wasn’t enough for him; the women he meets in social situations and has affairs with aren’t enough. Besides, Carl’s sexual preferences are... exotic.”

Her voice was still matter-of-fact; if she felt any embarrassment at making such candid admissions to a stranger, she did not show it any way. I watched her finish her drink and set the glass on a glass-topped table. Things kept stirring around in the back of my mind, like shadows coalescing into recognizable forms. Things Eberhardt had said to me that Sunday afternoon, things I’d been told by others.

I asked her, “Do you know for a fact that he’s been with prostitutes?”

“Yes. A friend of mine saw him with one in a Grant Avenue bar one night.”

“This was while you were married?”

She nodded. “He admitted it when I confronted him.”

“Is that what brought about the divorce?”

“It was the direct cause of my leaving him, yes. I’d suspected for some time before that he was seeing other women.”

“Was he upset when you left him?”

“Very. He didn’t want to let me go; he never likes to part with any of his possessions. He slapped me around, called me names, threatened me.”

“What did you do then?”

“Moved out anyway and came back to the city to live with my sister.”

“Did he make any more trouble for you?”

“He tried,” she said. “I finally had to get a judge to issue a restraining order against him.”

“And he left you alone after that?”

“Yes. Image is important to him; I suppose he was afraid word would get around and harm his business activities.”

I was thinking that Emerson was a damned unpleasant son of a bitch, and I said so, but in more polite terms.

“Oh, he can be charming when he wants to be,” she said. “He takes in a lot of people with his charm; he fooled me completely at first. It’s only when you get to know him that he shows his true colors.”

“Had he hit you before the time you left him?”

“No. I can put up with a lot from a man — Chinese women are taught obedience to men from birth — but not that.”

“Then normally he’s not a violent man?”

“Most of the time he keeps himself under control. But he has a vile temper. There’s a lot of violence in Carl, just under the surface.”

“What sets him off?”

“Not getting his way. He’s an egotist and a borderline sociopath; as far as he’s concerned, the universe revolves around Carl Emerson, and everybody else is there for his own personal amusement.”

“Has he ever hurt anyone else? Physically, I mean.”

“Not that I’m aware of,” she said. “He’s hurt any number of people, but in more subtle ways.”

“Would that number include his business partners?”

“Yes.”

“In what way? Neither of them seems to care much for him.”

“I’m sure they hate him. He’s used them, used their talents; without them, there wouldn’t be any Mid-Pacific Electronics.”

“But I thought he designed the component Mid-Pacific manufactures.”

“No. The original design was Orin Tedescu’s. Carl made certain refinements, patented the component in his name; that was his only contribution other than arranging for the financing so they could get started.”

“Why did Tedescu go along with that?”

“Carl talked him into it. Orin has no business sense; Carl convinced him their chances of success were greater with his name on the patent, because of his contacts and cachet in the industry.”

“What about Bexley?”

“The same thing, more or less. Phil does have a business sense — he’s a marketing genius — but he’s also insecure. A follower, not a leader. By the time he and Orin realized what Carl had done to them, it was too late; the partnership agreement they’d signed giving Carl controlling interest was ironclad. Carl saw to that.”

“So Tedescu and Bexley do most of the work,” I said, “and Emerson reaps most of the profits.”

“Essentially, yes. About all he does, I’m sure, is give orders, entertain customers, and act as a general supervisor.”

“No wonder they’re so bitter.”

“No wonder we all are,” she said.

“Do you hate him, Ms. Emerson?”

“With a passion. That’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“Then why did you keep his name?”

The delicate shrug again. “When I divorced him I had a line of credit as Jeanne Emerson; it would have presented too many problems to start over again as Jeanne Ng. And it’s easier for a Chinese woman to get by professionally if she has a Caucasian name. There’s still a lot of prejudice in this world, you know.”

“Yes,” I said, “I know.”

“His name is one of the few useful things I got out of the marriage. I agreed to a very small settlement to avoid any more trouble with him; he would have taken me to court if I hadn’t, and I wasn’t in any frame of mind for that. I just wanted out.”

I thought I understood now why she lived here as she did, with no Oriental trappings of any kind. She had known too much unhappiness with Emerson, lived too long in the midst of an obsession; it was a kind of backlash effect that had led her to adopt a wholly Westernized life-style. There was no self-delusion in it, no rejection of her heritage; it was evident that she was still proud to be Chinese. The trappings themselves were all that she had rejected — her way of burying the past, moving ahead with a new life.

I let a few seconds of silence go by. Then I said, “Well, I think that’s about all the information I need. You’ve been very helpful, Ms. Emerson.”

“My pleasure, believe me.”

When I got to my feet I felt a small cut of pain in my shoulder; it made me wince. I adjusted the sling a little, and the pain went away.

She said from her chair, “Is your arm bothering you?”

“No, it’s okay.”

“Gunshot wounds must be very painful,” she said.

I was just starting to move away from the chaise; the words stopped me, brought me around. I gawked at her the way I had out in the hallway.

“Oh, yes,” she said in the same matter-of-fact voice, “I know who you really are. I recognized you right away. The photograph in the papers wasn’t a very good likeness, but photography is my profession. So is journalism, and you’ve been a major news topic in recent days.”

I sat down again, slowly. “Why did you keep up the pretense?”

“I wanted to find out why you’d come. And why you’re so interested in Carl. It seemed easier to follow your lead.”

“And now? What do you think?”

“I think Carl is involved in the shooting somehow. Or you believe he might be. That’s it, isn’t it? I can’t imagine any other reason why you’d be investigating him, asking questions about his Chinese connections.”

I stayed silent.

“If you’re worried about me telling him or anyone else,” she said, “you needn’t be. I wouldn’t do that.”

“No? You’re a journalist.”

“Not that kind. Why do you suppose I was so open with you about Carl?”

“Why were you?”

“Because if he is mixed up in the shooting, I’d like nothing better than to see him caught and put away. I don’t consider myself a vindictive person, but the idea excites me. After all I’ve told you, I’m sure you can understand that.”

“I guess I can,” I said. “But I don’t know that he is involved.”

“But you do believe he is?”

I hesitated. “Maybe.”

“In what way?”

“I’d rather not say. It’s only supposition at this point.”

“Are the police investigating him, too?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Okay, I won’t press you anymore. I’m sure you know what you’re doing. You’re a good detective; you’ve proven that. The police gave you a raw deal when they suspended your license and I don’t blame you for working independently of them. Just tell me this: Do you think it’ll be long before you know for certain if Carl is involved?”

“No,” I said, “it won’t be long.”

“Good. If there’s anything else I can do, just let me know.”

I nodded. “There is one other thing. I’ve never seen Emerson and I don’t know what he looks like. A description would help.”

“I can do better than that,” she said. “I can show you a photograph of him. I kept one, for my portfolio. Not because of any sentimental reason; only because I took it and it’s rather good.”

She got up and left the room for a couple of minutes. When she came back she handed me an 8x10 black-and-white glossy. It was a head-and-shoulders portrait of a tall blond man with aristocratic features, a heavy underlip, and eyes that were both shrewd and petulant. He was handsome, and he was smiling, but there were shadows on his face, an unmistakable sense of weakness and cruelty in his expression. I wondered if it had been a conscious effort on her part to capture his negative aspects. If so, she had succeeded — and maybe that was another reason why she’d kept the photograph.

“You can borrow it if you like,” she said. “But I would like it back.”

“No, that won’t be necessary. I’ll remember him. He’s got the kind of face you don’t forget.”

“Yes,” she said. “No matter how hard you might want to try.”

She went with me to the foyer, and when she opened the door she gave me her hand. Her eyes seemed to linger on my face. “I’d like to see you again when this is finished. And not just because of Carl.”

“Why?”

“You’re an interesting man. And you’re also a victim of the system. I think I’d like to do a piece on you for one of the magazines.”

“Are you serious?”

“Very serious. Would you be agreeable?”

“I don’t know. I’d have to think it over.”

“Do that. Meanwhile, good luck.”

“Thanks.”

“And good hunting,” she said.

Out in the hallway, I stood looking at the door for a few seconds after she closed it. I had never met a woman quite like Ms. Jeanne Emerson before, and she’d left me feeling a little nonplussed. She was some lady.

But I felt more grim than anything else. If I could believe everything she’d told me, and I thought I could, I had a stronger case than ever against Carl Emerson. I also had a pretty good hunch as to what lay behind this whole thing — the reason why he had bribed or tried to bribe Eberhardt, the reason why he’d hired Jimmy Quon to blow Eb away. And I did not like it worth a damn.

The hunch was a dead hooker named Polly Soon.