The news program followed with a special presentation about new-age pot growers in the Emerald Triangle of the Northwest. He turned off the TV.

He took out the evidence from the 0-Five and spread the array of data along the edge of his bed. Eddie’s juvenile poster and gang information. The little gray .22-caliber slug. There was a photo, and a note listing the serial numbers of the Rado and Movado wristwatches taken from the victims.

The story the Boston Chinese kid caught in the traffic stop had told him echoed in his ears. Was the Seattle connection just pure bullshit?

Jack considered visiting the local Chinese associations, but decided not to blow his cover yet. He didn’t want to warn them off by broadcasting his investigation. Check the streets, Billy had advised; street guys always wind up back on the street.

He felt thirsty and drained one of the little bottles of vodka from the minibar. He opened the White Pages and spread the maps on the carpet. He resisted a second bottle as he drew a big circle around the International District and West Seattle. As he started plotting the businesses and addresses he wondered how much of a Chinaman’s chance his investigation really had.

Hoping for a call from Seattle PD, he fell asleep thinking about red balls and yellow killers.

Cleansing

The Spa Garden, with its mix of fake and real greenery, its soft wood tones, and its cheery check-in counter, had seemed more like a yoga or fitness club than the glorified massage parlor that it was.

Mona had estimated that the spa was roughly a half-mile walk from her basement place on James Street, a trek that brought her to Union Place just under the freeway. She considered the walk as exercise, the air clean and revitalizing, a way to energize her legs and lungs. The walk would be followed by a two-hour session at the spa that consisted of thirty minutes reflexology, thirty minutes deep massage (neck and shoulders), ten minutes hot whirlpool, thirty minutes sauna/steamroom/shower, capped off with a healthy chirashi salad and Relaxation green tea from the on-site commissary.

The spa was the one indulgence she allowed herself, a ritual she brought from New York, the need to cleanse her body and also dissolve the toxins in her spiritual heart.

She kept a fresh change of clothes, and $666 in cash in her locker.

She’d jog the half mile back, then visit Chinatown to replenish her provisions.

The Spa Garden, as Mona quickly discovered, was Taiwanese-owned and operated. The facility provided a range of services, from facials to manicures and pedicures, from massage to waxing, and could readily manage eight clients during peak times. There were two large steam-room units and three hot tubs, and the manager, a fortyish Taiwanese woman, spoke enough Cantonese in response to Mona’s clipped Mandarin that they’d been able to set up a membership plan.

Mona planned to dedicate two hours a week to the spa but was unsure about how many months she’d use the services. She signed up for a monthly membership instead of an annual plan. Cash, of course.

Many of the clients were Caucasian women, which conveniently allowed Mona to keep her distance, playing up her inability to speak English. “No speakee Englee,” she’d learned to say.

The Garden also featured a backyard sundeck that opened onto a view of a waterfront park. The deck included three round tables under large red beach umbrellas, a vantage point that looked out over Elliott Bay.

Water Becomes Water

She caressed the charm even as the masseuse’s strong fingers worked the soles of her feet, pressed into her neck and back, even as hot water and steam drew her blood to the skin’s surface. The heated red jade bangle seemed to glow in the hot mist.

It was the deep massage that cleared the tension and the bad chi from her muscles, that broke up the knots across her shoulders, but it was the steam that drove the demons from her soul.

Water over water, whispered the charm. Have faith, journey forth through sacrifice.

As if the steam, the bubbling whirlpool, could purge the poisons inside her, poisons more spiritual than physical, as if heat could melt away her painful memories.

The spa was a form of exorcism and Buddhist salvation, the steamy rise of mercy and goodness from the depths inside her. Forgiveness releasing the anger, hate, bitterness. Like a devotee she rubbed steam off the hot charm of her mother’s soul, dangling from her bracelet, dripping its secrets.

Water over Mountain. She took a shallow swallow of steam.

Beware troubles from the Northeast.

It came as no surprise, but she hadn’t expected the warning so soon.

Time, she believed, was still on her side.

Prayers

As Mona became more familiar with King Street, Wong Daai gaai, on her trips through Chinatown, she discovered a Buddhist temple, a humble storefront location that was unlike the grand temples and monasteries she’d visited in Hong Kong but which attracted a faithful following nonetheless.

The Lantern Festival, Yuen Siu, had already passed, but the temple had posted an announcement of ceremonies for the Spring Blessing Festival, and upcoming celebrations of Kwoon Yum’s birthday, the coming of the Goddess of Mercy.

Inside, the monks and sisters wore burgundy-colored robes, led by a sifu, master, who wore a colorful dragon vest over the robe. The big room was hazy from the burning sticks of incense, and crowded, with a chanting drone that filled the air.

At the altar, Mona placed offerings of gladioli and fruits she’d bought in Chinatown, then touched fire to incense, which she stuck into an urn of packed ashes. She got on her knees before the large Buddha figurines and bowed her head into the cushions on the floor, picturing her deceased mother behind closed eyes. She mouthed a series of silent prayers in her mother’s memory.

Afterward, as a further expression of love, she gave a generous donation to the monk sister, who appeared mildly surprised.

“Please remember my mother in your prayers,” Mona requested.

“What is her name?” asked the sister. “We can post it at the altar.”

“Please just pray for all mothers,” Mona said, “during ching ming, memorial observances, and on Mother’s Day.”

The monk sister nodded acknowledgement, placed her hands together pointed toward Heaven, and bowed.

Mona returned the bow, then left the temple, with a heart less burdened by the weight of everlasting sorrow, with the droning nom mor nom mor nom mor or may tor fut trailing behind her.

Peace.

Siu Lam Sandal

Of average height and slight build, Tsai had been a student of Shaolin Hung–style boxing, and had honed his knife-combat skills. From his appearance, no one could suspect he was an experienced fighter, better at hand-to-hand than most of the number 49-rank thugs, but the martial arts above all had taught him the lesson of patience.

For three months now he had fielded reports from the ranks of fellow Grass Sandals in other American Chinatowns where the Red Circle had members or triad affiliates. Their leads had not panned out in Washington, Boston, Philadelphia, Miami, Chicago, Detroit, or Columbus. He hadn’t expected much from those communities but had been hopeful that something would turn up in Houston, Dallas, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Seattle, Sacramento, Fremont, or Monterey Park. Even Anchorage, or Honolulu.

Tsai knew that Paper Fan would not be pleased, but the bok ji sin was a patient man as well, and had faith in his many subordinates. Time, the 415 leader knew, was a continuum that governed all things, and patience was part of that balance.

None of the discreet inquiries at Chinese jewelry stores had proven fruitful, yet he was sure the stolen items would turn up. No luck during the Lantern Festivals, either. Tsai knew that most of the Buddhist temples would have an established membership of true believers who worshipped regularly, but the monks would welcome visitors and new members, recording their donations in a sign-in log. Greeting visitors with shaved heads bowed, the monks would thank new worshippers for their offerings, and include them in their evening prayers. The monks also taught that patience was a virtue, and that justice, like vengeance, traveled in a circle. What goes around, mused Tsai, comes around.