“Oh, yeah?” I went back to writing my letter, throwing in a few curse words to get my point across. “Watch me.”

I signed it with all the flair I could muster, then folded it into thirds, tried to stuff it in an envelope, pulled it back out and refolded to make the thirds more even, tried again, pulled it back out. “Oh, my god, how do you get a letter into a freaking—?”

“Would you like to hear my third point?”

I blew a lock of hair off my face and turned to her. “Sure.”

“Third, just who are you going to send that letter to, exactly?”

Damn. She had a point. But I was busy looking at Mr. Wong’s back. I saw something I’d never noticed before through the threadbare material of his shirt. Dropping the letter, I strolled over to him, stood on my tiptoes, and peeked down the collar of his gray shirt.

“Holy cow,” I said. His entire back was covered in tattoos. “I think Mr. Wong may have been triad.”

“Triad?” she asked, standing slowly. “Aren’t they kind of dangerous?”

“From what I hear, they are.” I reached around him and unbuttoned the top couple of buttons of his shirt. “I am so sorry, Mr. Wong. So, so, so, so sorry.”

After I’d unfastened enough to pull the shoulders down, I carefully peeled back the shirt and examined the artwork. It was stunning, but not what I’d seen in the movies that would link him to any underground organized crime syndicate, Chinese or otherwise. It was Chinese characters, beginning with a straight line across, then more characters falling from there and forming vertical lines of text. Only, I couldn’t read them.

I’d been born knowing every language ever spoken on Earth. Part of the gig, I guessed. Even though that didn’t include the ability to read and write said languages, I knew just enough Mandarin to be dangerous.

Cookie was standing back, watching me with nervous anxiety. “Well? Is he triad?”

“No. I mean, I don’t think so. I’m not sure what he is. It’s just words. Chinese characters. But I don’t recognize them. I can’t read it.” A thought hit me, and I turned to her. “Aren’t you supposed to be getting ready for your fake date?”

She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. “I’m not sure, Charley.”

“Cook,” I said, righting Mr. Wong’s shirt just in case he was triad and could put out a hit for my head to be brought to him in a plain, brown package, and stepped to her. “You have to snap out of this.” I took her shoulders and gave her a little shake. I didn’t slap her, though. That might be taking it a bit far. “You want this, remember? For reasons known only to you and God above, you have the hots for my uncle.”

She drew in a deep breath and nodded. “You’re right. It’s for his own good.”

“Damn straight, it is. And it’ll be funny to watch him squirm. I can’t wait to see the look on his face—”

“Charley!”

“But that’s not the only reason I’m doing this! I swear.”

“You are such a bad liar.”

I chuckled and led her to the door. “Go get ready for your fake date. Ubie should be here around six. Ish. You never know with him.”

She nodded again, handed me her cup, then headed across the hall to her own apartment. I said a quick prayer, asking for divine intervention in her fashion choice, then went back to Mr. Wong. Some of the lines of text went all the way down his back and disappeared into the top of his pants, but no way was I going there. I had to leave him at least an ounce of dignity.

I could try to draw the tats, as I had with Mr. A, but that would take me forever, and I just wasn’t that good. Time to kill two bad guys with one bullet. I summoned Angel, a thirteen-year-old departed gangbanger who’d wanted to see me na**d before he’d agree to become my investigator. I was happy to report he had yet to see me na**d and he was indeed my investigator. I’d blackmailed him. It was how I rolled.

“Hey, Charley,” he said, popping in behind me. Very close behind me.

I stepped away from him and gave him a good once-over. “You’re being very nice today,” I said, letting the suspicion I felt show. “What gives?”

“What?” he asked. He stepped to Sophie, my sofa, and fell back to land softly on her soft cushions. “I can’t say hey to my favorite grim reaper?”

Oh, wow. Something was definitely up. I strolled over to him, turned around, and plopped down on his stomach to incapacitate him. Then I proceeded to tickle him until he begged for mercy.

“Okay, okay,” he said, laughing like a schoolkid. It was nice. “I give up.”

“What’s up with the nice act?” When he hesitated, I went back in for the ribs.

“No! Okay, I’ll tell you. I’m just happy. My mom’s doing really well.”

“Yeah, thanks to the raise I gave you. So, she fell for the ‘dead uncle left her money’ thing?”

He wiped his eyes as I let him up. “Seems like it. She’s just happier now. Something has changed.”

“Angel, maybe she’s happy because she’s figured out you’re still around.”

His disposition went from light to dark in a flash. “No, she’s not. I told you, I don’t want her to know.”

“I know. Geez. I didn’t tell her anything. But she suspects. You know that, right?”

He sat back down and rubbed the peach fuzz on his chin. “I know. As long as she doesn’t know for certain, she’ll be fine.”