Black Dove by Steve Hockensmith Page A

like old dishrags—swayed slightly in the listless breeze that blew in through an open window.
    When Mahoney was done, Old Red drifted over to the birdcage and peeked inside. Then he moved on to the little stagelike affair on the floor in the opposite corner. It was painted light red, with large Chinese letters running down the back in gold. Resting atop it were bundles of paper that looked like play money, a plate with an orange on it, and a cup filled with dark, thin twig-looking things.
    “So you think it’s obvious, huh?” Gustav squatted and picked up one of the brownish-black sticks. “Well, let me tell you something, Sarge . . .” And he launched into a line from “The Boscombe Valley Mystery”: “ ‘There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact.’ ”
    Mahoney wrinkled his nose as if my brother’s words had just doubled the room’s already impressive stench. “That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard.”
    Old Red gave the little stick in his fingers a whiff, too distracted to take offense.
    “You’ve found a clue,” Diana said, sounding both excited and strangely amused.
    “I don’t know if you could go so far as to call it that. But it shoots any notion of suicide clean out of the saddle as far as
I’m
concerned.” Mybrother held up the stick and looked over his shoulder at Woon. “What are these things, anyhow?”
    “Joss sticks. Incense. That’s an altar,” Mahoney said before the Chinaman could so much as part his lips. “Now what are you talking about? Why couldn’t Chan have committed suicide?”
    “An altar, huh?” Gustav dropped the “joss stick” back into its cup. “Well, looks like somebody nicked whatever god it is Doc Chan used to pray to.”
    “What do you mean?” Diana asked.
    “Well, it’s plain enough this thing used to sit in the sunshine—you can see by the way the paint’s faded here and there.” Old Red pointed at a spot in the center of the altar. “But not there.”
    The rest of us leaned in closer, like puppets pulled by the same invisible strings.
    My brother was right. There was an oval-ish spot where the paint was noticeably darker—rich red as opposed to sun-bleached pink.
    Mahoney straightened up first.
    “That’s your proof Chan didn’t kill himself?”
    “Nope. That’s just extry data.” Gustav rose up and walked to Chan’s bed—and body. “Ain’t the real nub of it at all.”
    Then he stopped and stood silently before the bed like a mourner paying his last respects.
    “Yeah?” Mahoney prodded him. “And the ‘nub’ is . . . ?”
    “There’s a dead canary in that birdcage yonder,” Old Red said.
    And he reached down, whipped off the sheet, and rolled Chan over.
    “Hey!” Mahoney squawked. “Get your paws off that body!”
    Gustav ignored him, going down on one knee and brushing his fingers gently over the back of Chan’s head.
    “Don’t look like any of you supposed professionals even bothered to . . . hel-lo.”
    He tugged at Chan’s pants and took a peep at the dead man’s keister. That, at last, was too much for Mahoney. He charged forward and grabbed Old Red by the collar.
    Before he could yank my brother to his feet, though, the cop felt hands on
his
collar. Mine.
    “
Don’t”
I said. “He knows what he’s doin’.”
    Even if I don’t
, I chose not to add.
    Mahoney let go of Gustav and twisted free of my grip.
    “Let me give you yokels some advice,” he snapped, jabbing a finger into my chest like I was a balloon he was trying to pop with a pin. “This isn’t some pissant cow town. It’s San Francisco. And around here, men who lay hands on a cop get their heads busted no matter who they work for.”
    “Sergeant, I’m sorry—but just hear Mr. Amlingmeyer out,” Diana pleaded. “There’s method to his madness, I promise you.”
    “Ain’t madness at all. Just method,” Old Red said. Despite the jostling he’d received, he was still hunched over Chan’s body, his hands now snaking into