He placed the carton of cigarettes carefully into one of the plastic bags before checking the spare-tire storage well. Finding nothing there, he closed the trunk, taking only the smokes.

He left Rickshaw and walked the block and a half to number 8 Pell. Slipping on the disposable latex gloves from the precinct, he keyed the street door, went up to the third floor. At apartment 3A he inserted the other key, twisted it, and entered. There was a wall switch just inside the door, and he flicked it, lighting the room from a fixture on the ceiling.

The walk-up wasn’t a typical Chinatown apartment; 3A was a railroad flat, three rooms back to back to back in a straight line. The first room was big, with a small bathroom in front of him to his right. An alley window and a table with chairs were to his left. Beyond that, at the far wall, was a kitchenette setup: range top, sink, small refrigerator.

The place looked like it’d had a face-lift over the last couple of decades.

He hung the bag with the carton of smokes on the front doorknob.

To his right was another narrow room, or corridor. He flicked another light switch. There was a closet on his left, a worn club chair in a nook facing a small television set with an ashtray and a pack of Marlboros on top of it.

He went into the last room, hit the switch. The bedroom was a small square with a full-size mattress bed, a small nightstand with a cheap table lamp to the right of the headboard. Along the wall to his left were a dresser with a mirror and a folding chair with folded laundry on it.

He took a settling breath and went back to the kitchenette.

He checked the refrigerator, then the cabinets. In the refrigerator freezer he found frozen dumplings and yu don fish balls, some red bean ice bars, and a bag of lotus seed baos. On the inside door there were bottles of soy sauce, oyster sauce, Sriracha. On the bottom shelf there was a brick of tofu, a package of lop cheung sausage, a box of salted eggs, and a can of lychees. A bottle of Absolut vodka to one side.

There was a shopping bag of plastic takeout bags on the floor next to a garbage bin. A six-pack of water bottles nearby.

In one cabinet he found bulk packs of assorted ramen and mei fun rice noodles. Stacks of plastic plates and cups, forks, and spoons that looked like restaurant supply. The second cabinet was emptier; it held just a small bag of rice, a box of tea bags from Ten Ren, and an assortment of sweets and candies, mango slices, and the kind of wah moy he’d kept in the car.

Beneath the cabinets was a sink, with a dish-drainer tray next to it. In the rack was one cup, one dish, one bowl, a pair of chopsticks, and a spoon. At the end of the counter there was a small electric rice cooker.

The range top held a wok, a teapot, and a soup pan.

So far everything indicated that Gaw’s apartment was a single bachelor’s setup. Jack grabbed some of the plastic takeout bags and continued.

At the wall edge of the table was a tin of Tea Time cookies, a bag of roasted Chinese peanuts. Almost covered by the bag of nuts was a can, which upon closer inspection turned out to be a can of abalone. “Abba-lone-nay,” Jack remembered Ruben saying in Spanish. Abalone. He dropped the can into one of the takeout bags, leaving it on the table for the time being.

He’d hoped to find a weapon, maybe contraband, and turned his attention to the bathroom.

The mirrored medicine cabinet held Tylenol and Band-Aids and an assortment of Chinese herbal treatments and liniments like mon gum yow and deet da jao.

He checked under the sink and toilet bowl. Clean.

There weren’t any weapons or drugs in the toilet tank.

He headed for the second room.

The middle room, with the little closet and the notch out, was the equivalent of a living room, a small area where you could sit down, watch the little TV, and have a drink or smoke a cigarette. A chill-out area before the last room, where you had sex or just went to bed.

Inside the closet was a lightbulb on a pull chain. Jack tugged on the chain and illuminated a line of clothing hanging off a rail. Shirts and jackets mostly. Nothing in the pockets. Above the rail was a shelf holding sheets and towels. He ran his latexed hands through the folds and along the shelf’s edges.

At knee level there was an empty piece of rollaway luggage. On the floor next to it was a stack of magazines. Some Hong Kong periodicals and mail-order catalogs. The periodicals had dog-eared pages featuring recent Triad violence; he couldn’t read most of the Chinese words, but the graphic news photos told the bloody stories clearly enough.

The mail-order catalogs, addressed to Gaw, had Golden Mountain Realty, Bossy’s office, as the mailing address. They also had dog-eared pages. The first one was a BadZ catalog of On the Edge knives, featuring all kinds of exotic, themed, and commercialized blades from tantos to tomahawks. He thumbed through the dog-eared pages, looking for a dagger or dirk that might fit the murder weapon. He found several: the Scorpion Dagger was a four-inch blade that was compact, flat, and easily concealed. A second knife was also a dagger, a 4.33-inch stainless-steel blade with a black rubber, water-resistant handle. Easily concealed nylon shoulder harness with sheath. $29.95.

There was a tactical knife with plastic handles. It had a long blade, six inches, and the pierced handle allowed for a lanyard.

They were all cheap knives, thought Jack, probably made in China, so the steel wasn’t trustworthy. He picked up the next catalog, a thicker one with a slick cover that was headlined Sporting Knives Annual. Featured on the cover were high-end knives, collectors’ and enthusiasts’ blades from mostly American and European manufacturers.

Several selections had been dog-eared.

Böker USA offered a combat knife, a Colonel Rex Applegate model. The sheath system allowed for nine carry positions including boot, waist, neck, hip, pocket, and jacket-pocket carry. It had a fiberglass-reinforced Delrin handle with a forward-bending crossguard and a stainless-steel, drop-point blade. Indentations in the handle provide a nonslip, firm grip. An ideal knife that weighs only 2.3 ounces.

Murder weapon? wondered Jack. On order at $99.95.

The second dog-eared choice was a cousin of the combat knife. The Buck Diamondback claimed the same quality steel on a shorter blade. Tactile-patterned handle with quickdraw sheath.

The last choice in the catalog was a Gerber knife. The Expedition IB offered a black-finished, 3.25-inch, highcarbon steel blade inside a glass-reinforced nylon handle. Includes plastic, multidraw sheath. Available as double-edged or with stainless-steel finish. At $75.

He bagged the catalogs and folded them into his jacket.

Turning to the club chair, he pulled it out and tipped it over. Nothing underneath. He bagged the pack of smuggled Marlboros on top of the television. The television itself was connected to a long extension cord so that it could be placed on top of the dresser. Watch TV in bed if desired. He ran his fingers under the TV stand. Clear.

He repositioned the club chair and went into the bedroom.

He flicked the wall switch, though the ceiling light was unnecessary. The bedroom, or front room, since it had windows overlooking Pell Street, was clearly lit and sparse, no clutter, the room of an orderly, calculating person. Jack conducted a sweep of the bed, behind the headboard, under the mattress, the box spring. Nothing there.

The nightstand was empty, top and bottom.

The dresser, with its fake-wood finish, had three wide drawers. The top drawer held mostly shirts and knits, a couple of sweaters, winter fashions. Blacks and grays mostly, with a few red-colored items for Chinese New Year.