S.J. Rozan was born and raised in the Bronx and is a long-time Manhattan resident. An architect for many years, she is now a full-time writer. Her critically acclaimed, award-winning novels and stories have won most of crime fiction’s greatest honours, including the Edgar, Anthony, Shamus, Macavity and the Nero Award.
Praise for S.J. Rozan and the Bill Smith/Lydia Chin series:
‘To read S.J. Rozan is to experience the kind of pure pleasure that only a master can deliver’ Dennis Lehane
‘She has created a story in which the tension and intrigue never lets up. She constantly has you looking over your shoulder into the dark’ Michael Connelly
‘Rozan’s soaring imagination is breathtaking’ Jeffery Deaver
‘Two of my favourite characters in crime fiction…one of America’s finest crime writers’ Linda Fairstein
‘It’s an exquisite novel full of heart, soul, passion and intelligence…’ Lee Child
‘Combines the sure, controlled prose of Ross MacDonald with the fury of early Hammet. Now is the time to discover what Rozan’s loyal readership has known all along’ George Pelecanos
‘A real novel, full of soul, that soars far above the average mystery’ Martin Cruz Smith
‘A savvy series’ The New York Times
Acknowledgements
As always, I’m grateful for so much, including help and support from:
Steve Axelrod, my agent
Keith Kahla, my editor
The Atlantic Center for the Arts
Art Workshop International
Steven Blier, Hillary Brown, Belmont Freeman, Eve Rudin, Max Rudin, Noah Rudin, James Russell, Amy Schatz
Betsy Harding, Royal Huber, Tom Savage, Jamie Scott
Susanna Bergtold, Nancy Ennis, Josh Paynter, Sui Ling Tsang, Joseph Wallace
Peter Blauner, for advice he probably doesn’t remember giving
Ruth Gruber, for knowledge
Lee Hyla, for the right music and a lot of birds
Guillermo Kuitca, for understanding
B. G. Ritts, for priceless research
1
“I’m back.”
I dropped my suitcase, slipped off my shoes, and listened to familiar Chinatown sounds spill in the windows. Horns honked, delivery vans rumbled. Mr. Hu’s songbird trilled from the roof next door. I heard a child squeal with laughter and her grandmother scold in Cantonese: Hold my hand, you bad girl, or that fish truck will squash you flat.
And speaking of scolding in Cantonese, here came my mother.
“Who are you?” She shuffled from the kitchen and peered at me. “You look like my daughter, Ling Wan-ju, but I haven’t seen her in a long time. She went to California. She said she’d be back soon, but she stayed. I’m happy she’s having fun.”
My mother’s sarcasm could cut diamonds.
“Two extra weeks, Ma. And they’re your cousins.” I kissed her papery cheek, which she grudgingly allowed. “Have a good time while I was gone?”
“Your brother’s children are very noisy.” I have four brothers, but my mother rarely uses their names when she talks to me; I’m supposed to know which one she means. This time I did: Ted, the oldest. She’d stayed at his place in Queens while I was away.
“But you had the downstairs apartment to yourself, right?”
“I was fortunate it was empty. It’s so dark, no wonder no one will rent it.”
“I think Ted and Ling-an did a nice job on it.”
“Too many rooms for one person. With such a big kitchen! Hard to find all the pots and pans.”
“Did you cook?”
“Your brother and his wife both work so hard, come home late. They order from restaurants. So expensive! I made har gow, and long-life noodles.”
“I’ll bet the kids liked that.”
“And so much lawn, so many useless flowers! I planted melons.”
“You did?”
“Your nephew helped.”
I could see that scene: my mother in a straw hat, plants dangling from each hand while ten-year-old Barry dug and mulched. Luckily, both Ted’s kids adore her. They know her frowning and finger-wagging are scams to hoodwink malicious spirits into thinking her useless, disobedient grandchildren aren’t worth stealing.
“Flushing. Pah!” my mother finished. “Too far away.”
I sighed. She’d seen right through us. That apartment, far from being “fortunately” empty, had been built for her. My brothers and I think this fourth-floor walk-up we grew up in is getting hard for her to manage. But her refusal to leave Chinatown begins with a refusal to acknowledge she has anywhere to go.
Jet-lagged, I didn’t have energy for this argument. “I’m going to unpack, Ma. Then I’ll tell you all about the wedding.”
“You could have gotten married yourself, you were there so long. Have you eaten?”
“Not yet.”
“I made congee. There may be enough for two.”
Detouring into the kitchen, I waved at old Chow Lun, leaning over the street from his usual windowsill. I lifted the lid from a steaming pot and found enough congee for an army. The table held bowls of chopped spring onions, pickles, and dried fish.
My