Jack finished his beer, ordered another. You can look that shit up on the Internet, Billy had said when they were talking about Ngs in Seattle. Jack wasn’t a cop historian, but he pressed his trigger fingers against his temples, rolling little circles as he closed his eyes, coaxing out what he remembered.

The Seattle Police Department had a checkered past. It had made headline news back in the fifties and sixties, a violent period in the American Northwest. Grand-jury investigative hearings, much like the Knapp Commission hearings in New York City, exposed corruption in the Seattle PD. Abetted by crooked politicians, the Seattle PD’s operations included gambling and police payoff scandals. Police took money, turned a blind eye. It was nothing new in the world of cops.

The gambling problem, of course, reared its ugly head in Chinatown, and law-enforcement departments nationwide remembered the 1983 Wah Mee massacre. The Wah Mee had been a Seattle Chinatown gambling and bottle club, one of many, which was allowed to flourish because of the police payola. The Wah Mee had operated high-stakes Chinese gambling games, and on an early February morning a decade earlier, three Chinatown misfits from Hong Kong, desperate and misguided, executed a plan to commit robbery and murder there. The result was thirteen deaths, one survivor, the baring of police payola, and the castigation of the Chinese community by mainstream media. They’d tried to make it seem like it was some sort of tong war incident, hatchetmen stuff, rather than the immigrant aberration that it was. All of it reinforced the idea that the police weren’t worthy of trust.

Jack continued rolling up the images with his trigger digits, and abruptly, Keung “Eddie” Ng, “Shorty,” came to mind. Seattle Chinatown? Jack didn’t mind playing long shots, so long as it was convenient to do.

Someone slid softly into the booth, nudging him over, breaking his flow of thoughts.

“Seattle, huh?” Alex grinned. “You’re kidding me.” She seemed happy about the prospect and ordered a Cosmo.

His steak arrived with the martini, and he cut her a slice. She devoured a piece before chasing it down with the drink.

“It’s only a week away,” she said. “The Westin’s sold out. I’m sharing a double with Joann Lee from Legal Aid because they overbooked.”

“No problem,” Jack answered, cutting her another slice. “I’m making other arrangements anyway.”

“Found a room?” Alex said, raising an eyebrow.

“Soon.”

“I hope it’s near the Westin,” she said over the martini glass. “Most of the events are there.”

“No problem,” Jack repeated. He didn’t want to say he’d be out by the airport, the Sea-Tac Courtyard. Half the price, and a jackrabbit getaway for the return flight. He was going to check out Seattle, not just hang with Alex, and seventy-two hours was not enough time to get it done. Besides, he figured, Alex was going to be plenty busy anyway.

Watching her as she sipped her Cosmo, Jack asked, “What kind of town is Seattle? Does ORCA have issues there?”

Alex set her drink down, answering bluntly, “Do you want to start with glass-ceiling discrimination at Boeing Industries? Or racism at Abercrombie and Fitch? Or do you want to go down memory lane, when they burned down Chinatown and drove the Chinese out of Seattle and Tacoma in 1885?”

“Okay, I get it.” Jack chuckled. “A few issues there.” He always marveled at how she was able to toss out facts and incidents, like neat little Molotov cocktails, from somewhere not of this time or her own experience. It was if she was speaking for ghosts, giving voice to long-lost souls. “But I meant, more like cop stuff.”

“Oh, that.” Alex lifted her glass, took another sip. “Well, last year Seattle PD was accused of racial profiling. A couple of officers harassed and humiliated an APA youth group who were out on a day trip.”

“No shit,” Jack said, knowing that APA stood for Asian Pacific American, an expanded and more inclusive identity than Chinese or Other. He ordered up a plate of clams casino.

“No shit.” Alex smirked. “Threw the teenagers up against a wall, screaming insults at them. Held them for an hour. Interrogated them like they were foreign criminals instead of American citizens.”

“Were they charged?” Jack asked, disbelief in his tone.

“They were cited for jaywalking.”

“Jaywalking?” Jack snapped, rolling his eyes. “You mean ‘crossing while Chinese’?”

Alex, with a sardonic grin, ordered another Cosmo, lit up a cigarette. “So,” she concluded through smoky exhalation, words dripping sarcasm, “other than those minor drawbacks, it’s a top-ten city of a destination. High-tech jobs, great schools, excellent outdoors, wonderful place to raise a family, etcetera etcetera.” She took another puff of the cigarette. “Lots of rain, though.”

Rain, thought Jack, remembering Ah Por’s words, her clues. Had she whispered “rain” to Eddie Ng’s juvenile photo? Or to the Hong Kong magazine likeness of Mona?

Alex’s second Cosmo arrived with the clams casino as Jack shared the last of his steak with her.

“I’ve got two award ceremonies to attend, one panel discussion, a silent auction, two cocktail parties. And the grand gala dinner-dance for one thousand.”

“Can I crash?” teased Jack.

“I’ve got connections,” she mock-boasted. “I can get you in. But you sound like you’re going to be busy.”

“So do you,” he said quietly. “But we’ll work it out.”

Alex knew better than to probe cop stuff, knew Jack would just talk his way around things, being professional. A real cop’s cop, but with an old-timer’s sense of honor. Jack was a Chinese-American anachronism, but she liked him because he had a good heart. And he was brutally honest.

They’d become drinking buddies. Friends. And that was where things stood.

They toasted, then went after the clams casino.

Outside Grampa’s, the cold night air braced them. The chill was invigorating during the short walk to her condo at Confucius Towers. She held on to Jack’s arm, the bulk and weight of him steadying her. She was light-headed after two cocktails.

“You know,” she said, “I don’t have to attend all the events.”

Jack smiled, but said nothing; he didn’t want to make promises he couldn’t keep if he picked up a lead.

The wind gusted, and he pulled her closer as they walked.

“I feel like a hot cup of Colombian brew.” Alex shivered. “I have this coffee machine, Italian. You feel like having a wake-me-up with sambuca?”

Jack wanted to say yes but was thinking about Lucky, about the lateness of the hour, and the walking distance to Downtown Medical Hospital. And then the trek back to Brooklyn. All that stacked against a beautiful woman and a cup of coffee that probably wouldn’t lead anywhere except to disappointment and misunderstanding.

“I’d like that,” he said finally, “but there’s something I need to check out that can’t wait.”

“Cop stuff, huh?” Alex sighed, shaking her head.

“Yeah, but how about a rain check?” suggested Jack.

“Again?” she teased. “Maybe those checks will pan out in Seattle, ha? Rain, right? And they’re known for coffee.”

“Yeah, right as rain,” Jack heard himself saying as they entered the Towers complex.

They exchanged hugs and Alex walked past the doorman in the lobby. He watched her as she waited by the elevators, tossing a smile his way. He watched until the elevator swallowed her up.

Jack could see the bright lights of City Hall, not too far from Downtown Medical. He thought about Tat “Lucky” Louie, hooked up to continuing life support. As he quick-stepped his way through the frozen half-mile of night, he wondered how it had all come to this. He knew Eddie Ng, the malo monkey, could answer some of those questions.

Downtown Medical was quiet this time of night, already past visiting hours, but the nurse let Jack have his time with Lucky. It wasn’t like the patient was going anywhere. The room was monitored and she’d seen Jack the previous times he’d visited.