When Chan awoke, he found Kathy already gone. After a simple breakfast of a soft-boiled egg on toast, he sat down in a rocker facing a window view of the front yard and the walkway leading from the street to his front door. The mailbox sat on the wall at the beginning of the walkway.
Always at work, Chan had to shake his head over not knowing what time the mailman would come. Well, if it took all day, he was determined to watch for him. And if there was nothing for David Han today, he had tomorrow and every day off until Harvey Wong was apprehended. But wouldn’t Mrs Watson – if she did such a thing – check his box no matter what? She’d have no idea if there were anything for Han.
Chan sipped his coffee. For a brief while he entertained the thought of going over to Mrs. Watson’s house and simply asking her what was up. But what if nothing was up?
He’d told Kathy that if the elderly woman were taking the letters—all of them MasterCard charge card offers – and then passing them on to him, the only thing he could think of was that she was screening his mail for those Han letters.
“To do what with?” Kathy had asked. “It’s not like she had to see you every time. She leaves some on your front doorstep, and she’s perfectly willing to give them to me. So what’s sh do it for?”
“Let’s say she knows something about this David Han and she steams the letters open to see if what’s being sent to him is of some significance?”
Kathy laughed. “Like maybe she’s a spy, huh?”
Chan shook his head and gave her a slightly annoyed grimace. “Whatever.”
That brilliant capper comment had closed the conversation.
Now, as Chan sipped his coffee while still not seeing the postman, it suddenly dawned on him that he’d overlooked an idea he should have had a lot sooner. He went over, grabbed the phone book, and then returned to the rocker.
There it was. David Han not only existed, but he lived at the same address, but on Pacific Heights Lane, not Pacific Heights Road. Pacific Heights Lane was a very steep dead-end street that branched off Pacific Heights Road a half mile below Chan’s place. Chan had never bothered to go down there. Many of the houses were expensive. Dead ends meant privacy, and together with their spectacular views of the city, those owners gladly paid the premium for that privilege.
For a moment Chan was torn between driving down to Pacific Heights Lane or remaining on watch for the mail. If he missed the mailman, then Mrs. Watson might be in his box before he returned. What to do?
As a second choice, Chan dialed Han’s number. After a half dozen rings, he was about to hang up, but then a man answered. “Pacific Casualty and Life.”
“Oh, ah, hello. Is this Mr. Han?”
There was a brief pause.
“I’m sorry, but, um, Mr. Han hasn’t come in yet.”
This seemed absurd. There were no offices anywhere on Pacific Heights. A home office, perhaps. But to say that Han hadn’t come in yet? What? Did the guy mean that Han hadn’t come home yet?
“What time do expect him to come in?” asked Chan.
There was another considerable pause.
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Yes, this is David Chan. I’m with HPD. I need to talk to Mr. Han about a case I’m working on.”
He wasn’t lying. All of a sudden this was a very peculiar case of great interest.
“I’ll give him a message. Can you spell that name for me, Sir?”
“It’s Chan, like Han with a C in front of it.”
The line clicked dead. Not even a thank you or a goodbye. This intrigued him.
As Chan sat there wondering if he should go knock on Mr. Han’s door, the mailman arrived. It was 10:30. Chan watched him put several letters in his box.
For the moment, then, he’d have to sit tight. He’d wait as long as it took to see if Mrs. Watson checked his mailbox.
Lanning Lee 