I pulled the Mickey phone close and called Joe.
I said, “The man who got off the jet is named Chow Wan Li. He runs the Crystal Future Hospitality Group. His job title is ‘leader.’？”
Pike said, “Zongtong.”
I said, “Okay. I give.”
“It’s the word for president in Standard Chinese.”
“You don’t speak Chinese.”
“Jon Stone.”
Of course. Stone was multilingual. He was fluent in Spanish, Korean, Arabic, Russian, and now, apparently, Chinese. And these were only the languages I had personally heard him speak. Some guys were born annoying.
“What did Jon learn from the bugs?”
“They’re of Chinese origin, but the PRC tech he’s seen is usually cloned from our stuff or EU gear. These aren’t. He’s checking with people who know.”
“More spooks.”
“If they know, they know.”
“Are you still watching the bungalow?”
“Yes.”
“No gardeners?”
“No.”
“Has Jon learned anything about the Schumachers?”
“No.”
“Heard any good jokes lately?”
Pike hung up. Mr. Conversation.
I leaned back and reread my list. Then I opened my email account, wrote a note to Eddie Ditko, attached the list and folder of articles to the email, and sent it.
Eddie was a reporter for most of his eighty-plus years. He’d covered the city beat for every major news organization in town and had been hired and fired a hundred times. When the newspaper business shriveled at the cold hand of the internet, Eddie jumped online and cranked out more copy than ever. He also smoked three packs a day and didn’t care who liked it or not.
I was looking up his number to call, but Eddie beat me to it.
“Why’d you send this email? What is this?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Hang on.”
Eddie made a long hacking cough, then gurgled and hawked again.
I said, “You okay?”
“That one damn near got me.”
“Anyway, I’m not sure. They’re all tied in with downtown development.”
“Sure. Sanford ‘the Sandman’ Richter. You know why they call him the Sandman?”
I didn’t know they called him anything.
“He puts people to sleep?”
“What the hell? I thought you didn’t know.”
“Lucky guess.”
“Ya got Wilson Torres, ya got Zelman from Planning, fucking Robbie Early, man, talk about a douche.”
Eddie was going through the list.
“Know anything about Grady Locke?”
“I know everything about everyone. Best you remember.”
Eddie suddenly snorted, coughed, and spit.
He said, “Allergies. The crap they sell over the counter is bullshit.”
“Grady Locke.”
“Is this blood?”
“Eddie?”
“Hang on.”
He blew his nose.
“Locke. Yeah, bright kid. Richter’s chief of staff. Started in communications for ol’ Liz Meretta, the one had the stroke. Constituent services for Able Dean, economic development for that nutcase Willamena Lemley, thank God that bitch cancered out, then Richter. Been around, well liked.”
Maybe Eddie did know everything about everyone.
“How about Chow Wan Li?”
Eddie thought about it.
“How ya spell it, c-h-o-w or c-h-o-u?”
I tried to remember how the translator spelled it.
“I don’t know. C-h-o-w.”
Eddie said, “Mm. Anyway, no. Who is he?”
“Owns the Crystal Emperor Hotel.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure. Downtown. The new place.”
“Runs a firm in Shanghai called the Crystal Future Hospitality Group. It’s on the list.”
“I see it.”
“See LWL Development Inc.?”
“Yeah. Them, I’ve heard of.”
“Crystal Future partnered up with LWL to build the Crystal Emperor.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s possible—and this is what I need to know—at least some of the people and companies on the list are into something.”
“Something rotten?”
“Yeah.”
“They’re developers and politicians. Everything they do is rotten.”
“Criminally rotten.”
“Believe it or not, I understood you.”
“Whatever it is, Crystal Future is scared. They’re hiding something and they’re trying hard to contain it.”