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leftover incense and hell money in the Fury. Bad luck. Better to stash them in his locker.
    Alone in the squad room, he felt abandoned somehow. It wasn't until he punched up the TV that he realized why there was the absence of uniformed officers. On screen was an overhead aerial helicopter view of protestors coming across the Brooklyn Bridge, the National Organization of Women, NOW, and a coalition of anti-war and anti-poverty protesters bearing the banners of gay and lesbian rights activists and workers' rights groups, were marching, more than a hundred thousand strong. Their route snaked past Chinatown to Seventh Avenue, then north to a rally at Madison Square Garden. The march siphoned off NYPD manpower from every precinct in Manhattan, leaving the 0-5 precinct understaffed. The TV commentator spoke of their "left liberal agenda" directed at the Bush Republican administration. They were, he said, united for peace and justice.
    Jack tossed the incense into his locker and was closing it when the desk phone jangled.
    It was Paddy, the desk sergeant, downstairs.
    "There's a man down here," he said, "who needs to speak to a Chinese."
    "Where's the translator?" Jack asked.
    "Chin's out on meal, and Wong took a personal day."
    "Coming down," Jack said as he hung up the phone.
    Sergeant Paddy, behind the desk, loomed over the man, who was watching Jack approach. He was Chinese, forty-something, dressed like he might be an office worker, shift manager, something like that.
    "How can I help you?" Jack asked, his Cantonese sharp.
    The man responded in Toishanese, the tongue of laundrymen and waiters.
    "I would like to report that there has been a rape," he said guardedly. "But there are conditions…"Jack's eyes narrowed-"that I need your help with."
    Jack waited, then said, "Okay, what do you need?"
    Paddy jerked his head toward the rear of the room. Jack walked the man slowly to the benches by the back stairs. After he was seated, the man said, "My niece was raped. She is ten years old. Her grandmother is beside herself-"
    "Slow down," Jack said quietly, his Toishanese all slang now.
    "Her father does not like the police. He does not want to report it. My sister, the mother, feels the shame of it will harm the girl further."
    Jack was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.
    "Not one of them will speak to a gwailo officer."
    Sex Crimes Unit, Jack was thinking.
    "I am hoping to convince them. To speak to you."
    Jack took a breath, through his nose the way a boxer does when he's under pressure. "Come upstairs," he said.
    In the empty room, Jack asked, "When did this happen?"
    "This morning. About five hours ago."
    There was a pause. Jack knew the victim should already have been examined, valuable time had been lost. He wasn't on the clock yet, but to see if this man's story was true, he was good to go.
    Normally, a call would have come into the precinct and they would have processed it. Ms. Chin, the translator, would get involved if needed. Get the basic information from the complainant. A uniformed officer would be dispatched to the scene and determine the facts, report back to the sergeant. They would notify EMS, get the victim to a hospital, administer a rape kit test. The detectives of the Sex Crimes Unit would be called to respond, the experts, to determine the who's and why's. Ask the victim to identify photographs. Check local and state files for pedophile predators of the type involved. Track and locate. Surveillance if necessary. Bring suspects in for questioning. Draw up timelines to trace the crime back and forth. Check the prison population based on the perpetrator's profile. Post composite sketches of the suspect. Seek help from the local population. The news media, TV, radio, and newspapers, could help.
    The uncle's eyes went distant as he continued. "The grandmother and the little girl. They had gone to the supermarket. It was around ten-thirty or eleven this morning. They were in the elevator, coming home."
    Jack