She looked right to left, slowly panning Mulberry Street.

"Don't strain yourself trying to pick out the surveillance cameras," I said. "This is gang territory. Whatever may have been here was probably vandalized long ago."

"Then maybe we'll have to rely on human surveillance," she said, pointing to the other side of the street.

Directly across from the gang's headquarters was Columbus Park. It's the only park in Chinatown, so of course the city named it after an Italian explorer. Even so, it's the CP in CP Emperors.

"The park is jumping," Kylie said. "The same people probably come here every day to read the paper, walk the dog, roller-skate. At the risk of repeating myself-somebody had to see something."

"Somebody did," I said. "The problem is going to be getting them to talk about it."

We crossed the street to the park entrance, where a dozen Chinese men from twenty-something to eighty-something were grouped in a semicircle, chain-smoking and watching two men hunched over a makeshift table. They were playing Go, the two-thousand-year-old Chinese board game.

I'm a gamer. My father got me started on backgammon when I was six. Then chess, and along the way, I got hooked on Go. The rules are so simple that anyone can learn the game in ten minutes, but the strategies are so infinitely complex that few can master it in a lifetime. And it's totally addictive, not only to play, but to watch.

I studied the two players-one in his sixties, the other a decade or more older than that. These were not men who could afford the traditional board made of seasoned wood cut from the kaya tree. They were playing on a piece of rough-cut plywood with hand-drawn squares. And instead of using the cla.s.sic stones made of highly polished j.a.panese slate and clamsh.e.l.l, their black and white game pieces were a few bucks' worth of genuine Chinese plastic.

But the pa.s.sion, the concentration, and, of course, the compet.i.tive spirit were genuine and authentic. One of the things that makes Go such a fascinating spectator sport is the wagering, and there were two ten-dollar bills on the table. I looked over the board, and clearly the older man had the edge. Within five minutes, he won the game and scooped up the money.

"You're good," I called out to the old man.

He bowed his head.

"I'm better," I said.

The crowd, who had not spoken a word of English, obviously understood enough of it to laugh out loud.

"You have money?" the old man asked. "Or you just have mouth?"

He put a ten-dollar bill on the table.

I opened up my wallet, pulled out a hundred-dollar bill, and laid it next to his ten. The crowd let out a collective guttural sound-the male Chinese version of oooh.

"You have money?" I said. "Or you just have mouth?"

The old man reflected for a few seconds, then dug into his pants pocket and came up with a bunch of tens, fives, and ones. Not enough. He stuffed it back in his pocket and opened an ancient wallet with an equally ancient hundred-dollar bill inside. He unfolded the bill and placed it next to mine.

I sat down.

I was black and went first. There's an ancient Go proverb: Play fast, lose fast. And to his credit, the old man treated me with respect from the start. He played thoughtfully-not as if I were some loudmouthed white guy ready to be relieved of a hundred bucks, but as if I were truly a worthy opponent. After five minutes, he realized that I was.

The game lasted almost an hour. Neither of us dominated, and the highly partisan crowd went silent as we approached the endgame.

And then I made one bad move. Not just bad. Dumb. Really dumb. I knew it, the old man knew it, and he knew I knew it. His fingertips tugged at a few wispy gray hairs on his chin, and he stared at me, puzzled at first, and then it came to him.

I was throwing the game.

He snapped a white stone down on the board, and the crowd erupted with laughter, applause, and home team pride.

He won.

I stood up and turned to the platoon of smokers that had tripled in size since I'd set down the first stone.

"I am good," I told them. "He is better."

They clapped and hooted, and once again I bowed to the victor. "This game has left me very hungry," I said. "Where would I go to get the best dim sum?"

The old man smiled. "Best dim sum? My mother's house. Guangdong Province. But I think I take all your carfare."

The group yucked it up again at my expense.

The old man reveled in it. "But if you willing to settle for not-so-bad dim sum, go to New Wonton Garden across street."

I bowed again, nodded to Kylie, and we headed toward the restaurant.

Like I said, I'm a gamer, and I had just invested a hundred bucks and an hour of Kylie's time and mine playing a mind game with an old man I'd never seen before.

Now I had to sit patiently in the New Wonton Garden, sipping tea, eating not-so-bad dim sum, and waiting to find out which one of us had won the game.

Chapter 37.

Teresa Salvi took off her robe and looked at herself in the full-length mirror. "Sixty-three years old and still a size four," she said. "Not bad."

Her closet was as big as a master bedroom, and there was a second one just like it. This closet was for daytime wear. She walked through the racks of dresses and pulled out a Dolce & Gabbana midi-charcoal gray. She had stopped wearing black years ago, but she was going to see Father Spinelli, and the dark gray would make the right statement-still in mourning, but moving on with her life.

The shoes and the bag were Prada, and when she finished dressing, she took another look in the mirror. Joe would approve. He wanted her to dress cla.s.sy-not like those rich bimbo housewives on the reality shows.

She made sure her checkbook was in her purse. Father Spinelli had asked her to join him for tea in his study, and that could mean only one thing. The church needed money.

"No more than ten grand," Joe told her as she was leaving the house. "It's October, and you know he's going to hit us up again at Christmas."

Teresa already had a higher number in her mind, so she just kissed her husband and said, "Don't worry. Whatever I give will be for a good cause."

Two good causes, she thought as she drove her beige Buick Regal the mile and a half to St. Agnes. Joe sometimes forgot the respectability factor. The newspapers always painted her husband like some kind of monster. But every time he donated to the church, Father Spinelli was out there spreading the word to the congregation about how generous the Salvi family was. It helped balance things out.

She parked in one of the visitor s.p.a.ces, turned off the engine, and took the black rosary beads from her purse.

She loved this church, but sometimes she couldn't face going back. This was where Enzo was christened. And eighteen years later, this was where she'd last set eyes on his sweet face before returning him home to Jesus.

She prayed for Enzo's soul, then checked her hair and makeup in the mirror, locked the car, and walked toward the rectory.

The secretary escorted her to Father Spinelli's study, and he stood up as soon as she entered the room. He had been a strikingly handsome man when he'd joined the parish at the age of twenty-eight-too good-looking to be celibate, some women said. But now, having just turned fifty, he had evolved into the heart and soul of St. Agnes. People turned to him, respected him, loved him-none more than Teresa Salvi.

"Teresa," Father Spinelli said, giving her a warm, priestly hug. "I hope all is well with you and Joe."

The room was small, and the walnut-paneled walls, the heavy furniture, and the dim lighting made it feel even smaller-but intimate, not confining. Teresa took her usual seat on the well-worn leather chair on the other side of his desk.

"Joe and I are doing fine. And how are things here at St. Agnes?" She clutched her purse, ready to take out her checkbook.

"Everything is going remarkably well," he said, pouring her a cup of tea. "The plumbing, the heating, the electrical-all working, all up to code. It confirms my belief in miracles."

She put her purse on the floor. "Then why did you...why did you ask me to stop by?"

"Have I been that transparent? Only inviting you for tea when we are in need of a benefactor? Forgive me."

"Father, you never have to apologize for reaching out to my family on behalf of the church. How can we help?"

He poured half a cup of tea for himself. "Teresa, I didn't invite you here to ask for your help. It's my turn to help you."

She was confused. "With what?"

"I have something I need to give you. Something precious, something personal." He paused and took a sip of tea. "I know it will open up old wounds, but you're a strong woman, Teresa. I've seen it time and again, and I know your faith will see you through."

"See me through what?"

He opened his desk drawer and took out a brown manila envelope.

"This belonged to your late son, Enzo, G.o.d rest his soul," he said, pa.s.sing the envelope across the desk.

Her hand trembled, and her heart raced as she took the envelope.

"Go ahead," he said softly. "Open it."

She tore the top off the envelope and removed the contents.

"It's Enzo's diary," she said, tears welling in her eyes. She ran her fingers gently over the dark red Moroccan leather journal bordered in gold filigree. "I gave it to him when he was thirteen. He carried it all the time. Where did you get this?"

"One of our parishioners brought it to me. She was cleaning house and found it among her son's things. I knew as painful as it might be for you to have this, it must be G.o.d's will that it turned up after all these years, and I hope you will find some comfort in having this little piece of your son returned to you."

What parishioner? Where did she find it? Teresa had a million questions. But she was well schooled in the family business. She knew not to ask a single one of them.

Run home. Talk to Joe. He'll know how to handle this.

Chapter 38.

The dim sum at the New Wonton Garden may not have been the best I'd ever eaten, but it was several notches up from the old man's description of "not so bad." Of course, I'd never been to Guangdong Province, so when it comes to Chinese cuisine, my Go buddy and I have two completely different sets of standards.

"There's one left," I said to Kylie, who had spent most of the meal sitting across from me, watching me eat.

"You finish it," she said. "I'm pretty full."

"Yeah. Three pot stickers can fill a girl right up," I said, and bit into the last shrimp dumpling.

"I'm not that hungry," she said, rubbing her thumb across the face of her iPhone.

"Do you want to call him?" I said.

"Who?"

"Kylie, I'm not trying to b.u.t.t into your life, but yesterday Spence wound up in the ER because he was getting high on pills, and this morning you left before you saw him, so when I say 'Do you want to call him?' I'm talking about your husband, who you seem to be very concerned about. So, I repeat-do you want to call him?"

"No. My focus is on this case."

It was not a conversation I wanted to go any further, and as good fortune had it, the front door of the restaurant opened and the old man entered.

Kylie grinned. "You were right. He's here."

He walked to our table and sat down. "You crooked cop," he said.

"How do you know I'm a cop?" I asked.

The old man laughed. "How you know I am Chinese? You look at my eyes. I look in your eyes, and I know you a cop. A crooked cop. You cheat. Let me win."

With that he put my hundred-dollar bill on the table. Then he took his hundred and put it next to mine.

"I am happy to save face. But I can't take money I don't earn." He pushed the two bills toward me.

I stared at them for a few seconds, then slid them back across the table. "Then maybe you can earn it. Did you see Alex Kang the day he disappeared?"

The old man didn't hesitate for a second. He had done all his deliberating before he walked through the door. He knew what this was about, and he'd showed up to finish playing the game.

"Kang no good," he said. "He come out of clubhouse, two men in car waiting. One get out of car, talk to Kang. Kang get in car. Last time anyone in Chinatown see him alive."

A witness. We had scored a witness. I stole a look at Kylie. She was stone-faced. She knew better than to utter a word. The old man would not be comfortable talking to a woman.

"Can you describe the men?" I asked.

"I only see one. White...big like you. Too far away to see his face."

"How about the car?"

"It was truck-car."