A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [94]
“Ohio. Pittsville. My flight doesn’t leave until tomorrow. I can search for the reciepts this evening …”
“That won’t be necessary,” Dooley said. “How long were you in China?”
“Three weeks, approximately. Eighteen days, I think.”
“Have a good trip home, Dr. Wang. Next, please.”
Later, on his lunch break, Dooley sat down at a video display terminal in a small gray office and typed the name and passport number of David Wang into a U.S. government computer. He also typed the port of entry, the date of entry and his own identification number. On the single line allotted for general remarks, Dooley typed: “Queried China pottery/blue-and-white vases (2).”
Dooley pressed the “store” button, and turned his attention—and the remainder of his lunch hour—to the mountain of paperwork generated by the capture of the Malaysian scag mule.
DANNY BODINE stuffed his hands in his pockets as he stood in the doorway of the Dong Fang Hotel. Outside a hard gray rain pelted the city of Canton. Things could be worse, he told himself. It was the typhoon season. Traffic crawled on the slick streets and bicycle riders pedaled at double speed, their heads wrapped in newspaper or crinkly plastic rain hats. Everywhere people clustered in doorways, waiting for a break in the downpour.
Maureen and Pam had scheduled an excursion to White Cloud Mountain. Danny had hired a cab for the trip—but there would be no sightseeing today.
A cargo ship docking on the Pearl River sounded its horn, piercing the shroud of rain. Danny was afraid his wife was about to suggest a trip to another museum.
“Let’s go to a teahouse,” he said, a preemptory strike.
“For lunch? I’m hungry, Danny.”
“Me, too.” It was Pam, Maureen’s sister, fresh from her morning makeup marathon. She looked pretty damn good, Danny had to admit.
From somewhere out in the rain, a bedraggled American came bounding up the steps of the Dong Fang. He excused himself as he passed Danny, Maureen and Pam in the doorway. Pam watched him in the lobby, his blond hair matted and dripping. He wore thin, ill-fitting cotton clothes.
“Wonder where he’s been,” she said.
“One of those swell tailor shops near the river,” Danny said.
“Be nice,” said Maureen. “Maybe he’s with a church group.”
As Danny had feared, the three of them wound up at the Guangdong Provincial Museum.
When they returned to the Dong Fang three hours later, the American stranger was still in the lobby. Danny and Maureen paid no attention and went up to the room, but Pam sat down next to him in a high-backed leather chair. “What are you reading?”
“Oh, just travel brochures,” said Tom Stratton, smiling. “It’s all I could find.”
“Are you tourist, too?”
“Sort of.”
“We came from Denver—me, my sister and her husband. He works for an oil company that’s got an office in Hong Kong. He’ll be there a couple of months, I guess. Maureen and I are going back to the States day after tomorrow.”
“Oh? I am too,” Stratton said. “Are you at this hotel?”
Pam nodded. She liked his smile, but he looked—well, like he’d come off a three-day bender. In Denver she’d never approach a man who looked quite so worn out, but this wasn’t Denver.
“I’m on the eighth floor,” Stratton lied. “Eight twelve.”
“We’re in seven eighteen,” Pam said, then added, for clarification, “It’s quite a big suite.”
Stratton told her that he taught art history. Predictably, she had never heard of the college. “It’s a small place,” Stratton explained, “but very peaceful.”
“It sounds nice,” Pam said. She was thinking about the flight home; maybe they could sit together, she and her new friend, if Maureen wouldn’t mind.
“What oil company does your brother-in-law work for?”
“Rocky Mountain Energy Corporation,” Pam said. “Danny’s a vice president. I don’t think he’s too crazy about Asia, though. He’s heavy into domestic shale.”
“Oh.”
“What are you doing for dinner?”
Stratton shrugged. “Nothing special.”
“Why don’t you join us, Tom? We’re all going to the Ban Xi. Have you ever tried quail eggs?”
Stratton shook his head.
“It’s supposed to be a beautiful restaurant. You