Alex turned and looped her arms over his shoulders, leaning into his body. Jack pulled her even closer, his hands sliding to her hips. They found themselves drifting to the slow grind of saxophone blues, and he assumed that the electricity dancing between their bodies came from the shuffling friction of their feet along the carpet.

He could see questions in her eyes, even in the dim shadowy light.

It started with a series of light, little kisses, with his lips lingering on hers, then pulling back slightly, savoring it. He was captivated by the scent of her skin, the warm licorice exhalation of her breath. More kisses were exchanged between searching looks, questions unanswered in the fleeting moments.

“Unzip me,” she said softly, and he tugged the zipper down smoothly to the small of her back. She shrugged her shoulders and twisted against him until the gold dress fell away to reveal skimpy gold satin lingerie.

He took a breath before kissing her hard on the fleshy part of her throat. She shuddered, and reached for his belt buckle just as his cell phone vibrated. A buzz kill.

His first thought was to ignore the call. Surely it could wait, damnit. But after the second vibration he wondered who might be calling at this hour, here in Seattle. He thought it might be Detective Nicoll, or SPD, something to do with Eddie Ng in custody. A quick update? His curiosity got the better of him and he shot Alex a sheepish look before backing away to take the call.

He never took his eyes off her until his cell-phone screen lit up the frown across his face. It was Captain Marino, transferring a trans–Atlantic call through bursts of static interference. Something to do with the northern lights.

The international call had been patched through via the 0-Five, vetted and approved, Jack guessed, by Captain Marino himself. The Royal Hong Kong Police was partnering with INTERPOL, he heard through the static.

Jack recalled different law enforcement agencies as he waited through the introduction. INTERPOL was shorthand for the International Criminal Police Organization, headquartered in Lyon, France. It consisted of more than a hundred member nations and dealt with international crime through local law enforcement. Its focus included watching for lost or stolen passports and locating fugitives from justice.

A Red Notice was INTERPOL’s highest level of alert, an arrest warrant that circulated worldwide.

The RHKP’s voice was typically Chinese-British, formal and to the point: “A fugitive who is a top member of an unlawful secret society may have arrived in the United States, at Seattle. His name is not important, as he travels under an alias anyway. He is sixty-three years old, a number 415 Paper Fan rank, in the second tier of command of the Hung Huen, Red Circle triad, a criminal organization.”

Jack quickly recalled what he knew about triads, their ranks, their history. He could hear the echo of Lucky’s words, rapping about the tongs. Triads were Chinese secret societies, benevolent brotherhoods that went back through the centuries. Mostly now they were criminal gangs operating out of Hong Kong and China, gangs that had fingers in everything from China White heroin to human trafficking. Everything from knockoff handbags to money fraud, not to mention gambling, gang protection and prostitution, muscle mayhem and murder.

As for how the ranks were set up, Jack knew it all started at the top with the Dragon Head, the loong tauh. Lucky had demonstrated some secret hand signals once. Beneath the Dragon were several officers: a planner, consigliere, called Paper Fan. An enforcer known as a Red Pole. Couriers, like liaisons, were Grass Sandals. Then there were other ranks Jack wasn’t sure of. Incense Master. Vanguard. The stuff of folklore and Chinese legends.

The sambuca was working against his mental clarity now. He felt the thirst for alcohol even though he knew hot tea would be better.

“Hocus-pocus,” Lucky had said, ho-cuss poke us. “Fuck dat, kid. Me and the boyz are blood-in by deed, understand? We ain’t lighting candles and reciting shit, and jumping through smoke. We ain’t pledging to nothing but the dollars. Kill the chicken, drink the blood? Get the fuck outta here. Each of my boyz came in and did the deed, you know it? This ain’t no fuckin Boy Scouts, okay? China White? Yeah, their H is hot, but we ain’t jumping through no hoops for it. Membership? We like the money maker, not the money taker. We don’t pay dues, we collect dues.”

Big statements from Lucky, thought Jack. Comatose at Downtown now.

There were three hundred thousand triad members in Hong Kong. Not counting the members across the waters, in China and Taiwan.

The RHKP’s voice continued after a quick breath. Jack wondered if he was being read a prepared statement.

“Paper Fan faces numerous warrants for currency and credit card fraud, money laundering, human trafficking, child pornography, prostitution, and copyright piracy.”

Jack listened patiently, feeling his lips going dry.

“Billions of dollars of theft. He is suspected of involvement in three homicides in three different countries. While he is highly insulated in Hong Kong, and well protected in Canada, he avoids Amsterdam, where he is vulnerable to drug charges. He travels infrequently but we believe he can be taken in the United States. Therefore the Red Notice to your headquarters. As always, we are grateful for your cooperation.”

Jack glanced at Alex, who had slipped on a robe, and was sipping sambuca again.

“Why Seattle?” Jack asked.

“The triad believes there’s a woman there who they want badly.”

A woman?

“A woman who stole something from them. A woman they believe killed someone in your precinct, in Chinatown New York.”

Mona, Jack knew immediately. Here in Seattle? How much “destiny” could he take?

“What do you have on her?” he asked.

“They believe she visited a temple.”

“Temple?”

“And we have an address. It’s on South King Street”

“What about Paper Fan?” Jack redirected.

“Find the woman, and you’ll find him.”

Thanks, thought Jack, another shot in the dark.

In the dim light he could see Alex giving him the look, asking, What’s up? They were losing the moment, had lost the moment, passion dissolved into the coffee and the background music.

“And she’s where?” Jack asked.

“She’s in south Seattle, somewhere in the five-mile area of Chinatown. We don’t know where exactly. Yet.”

Jack rubbed his temple, trying to clear his head.

“I will keep you posted,” the RHKP voice promised, “since we have a direct connection now.”

“Ten-four that,” Jack acknowledged, making a note of the address.

“The Red Notice covers everything.”

“Ten-four that,” Jack repeated, hanging up as Alex nuzzled into him. “I’m sorry,” he apologized to Alex, and briefly explained the new developments.

When she heard “human trafficking,” she said, “I’m going with you.”

He considered the situation as she changed into a sweater and jeans. Because the scent of Alex still lingered, and against his better judgment, he would allow her to come along. It may come to nothing, he thought.

It was past 1 AM as Jack passed the updated INTERPOL information into Detective Nicoll’s voice mail.

“We need to get to South King,” Jack said.

Alex borrowed a car from a member of the local ORCA chapter and they got directions from the hotel concierge. They drove toward the waterfront until they found the temple on South King at the edge of Chinatown. The street was deserted during the graveyard hours, but in the yellow light of streetlamps they could make out the signage above a storefront. The words PURE LIFE WORLD TEMPLE ran across the front, which bore a pagoda motif.