Jack sat by the open window in Pa's apartment, studied the magazine pictures and repeated Mona quietly, trying to figure her in his head, guessing. Mona, on the run, away from New York City, to somewhere else Chinese where she could disappear, come back in another guise. A major Chinatown, but away from Boston, Philadelphia, Washington. The picture was getting clearer. Los Angeles, San Francisco, Seattle. From Lor Saang she could flee into Mexico. San Francisco, Seattle, she runs north to Canada. He took a shot of the mao-tai.
Was she still in the country? He thought so, hoped so. Uncle Four would never have allowed her a passport, and the cheap seemistress-wouldn't have had the nerve to troll the underground for fake identification. She probably didn't speak English, so all the arrangements would have to be in Chinese.
He began to list her characteristics on a sheet of paper. l raveling by plane? They'd have to cover the airports, just in case. More likely she's in a car, something low key, a bus or train maybe. Or a boat? Heading east? Chinese in London, in Amsterdam. He doubted it, didn't figure her to head into bad weather.
Going west, he decided, adding details of Mona to the composite.
She's a Chinese woman, Cantonese, maybe traveling alone, probably traveling light. Thirtysomething, five-foot-two, short hair. Fashionably dressed. Might have booked passage to Mexico or Canada.
He buffed up the profile, made it bilingual, offered a reward, sent it by e-mail via the squadroom computer to the thirty-seven travel agencies in the Chinese Business Directory, to the ninety agencies in Lower Manhattan. Then he thought about covering the funeral, and cleaned his Detective Special while he tried to dope it all out.