The Chinese place was called Lucky Dragon, according to the faded red lettering on the window. A paper sign taped to the glass announced LUNCH SPECIAL $6.99 in handwritten marker, and through the smudged window I could see someone moving around inside, getting ready for the day.
Jack held the door for me, and the smell hit us both at the same time—hot oil, garlic, ginger, and something sweeter underneath. Soy sauce, maybe. Or the syrupy glaze they put on the orange chicken.
The interior was small and cramped, the kind of place where efficiency trumped atmosphere. Plastic tables with mismatched chairs crammed against the walls. A counter separating the ordering area from the kitchen, where steam rose from industrial-sized woks. Laminated menus with photographs of food that probably looked nothing like what actually came out of that kitchen. A television mounted in the corner playing a Chinese soap opera with the volume turned low.
“Too bad I just spent the morning smelling dumpster and dead body,” I said. “Otherwise I’d say let’s pick up lunch while we’re here.”
A man emerged from the back, wiping his hands on a stained apron. Mid-fifties, wiry, with gray threading through black hair and a weathered face that came from decades of long hours and hard work. His eyes went straight to Jack’s badge, then to my lanyard, and his expression shifted—not fear, exactly, but wariness. The automatic caution of someone who’d learned that authority figures rarely brought good news.
“Not open yet,” he said. His accent was faint, worn smooth by years of speaking English, but still present in the way he clipped certain syllables. “Lunch at eleven.”
“We’re not here for food.” Jack’s voice was easy, unthreatening—the tone he used when he wanted people to feel comfortable, not cornered. “I’m Sheriff Lawson. This is Dr. Graves, the county coroner. We’re investigating an incident that occurred behind the building.”
The man’s brow furrowed. “Incident?”
“A body was found in the dumpster early this morning.”
“Aiya.” He pressed a hand to his chest, and the wariness gave way to genuine shock. “Dead body? Here? Behind my restaurant?”
“Behind the old auto shop. But close enough that we’re hoping someone might have seen something. Mind if we ask you a few questions?”
The man hesitated, that internal calculation playing out across his face. Talk to the cops or keep his head down. Get involved or stay out of it. Finally, he gave a short nod and gestured toward one of the plastic tables near the window.
“I don’t know nothing about dead bodies,” he said as we sat. “But I answer your questions.”
“We appreciate that. Can we start with your name?”
“Henry Liu. I own this place. Fifteen years now.” A hint of pride crept into his voice despite the circumstances. “Before that, my wife and I had a restaurant in DC. Chinatown. But the rent got too high, so we came out here. Quieter. Cheaper.” He shrugged. “Less business, but less headache too.”
“You work here every day?”
“Every day. Seven days a week.” The shrug again, more resigned this time. “My wife, she help when she can, but her knees are bad now. Mostly it’s just me and my nephew. He do deliveries, wash dishes. I do everything else.”
“Were you here last night? Around closing time?”
“Until maybe ten thirty. I close up at ten, but there’s always more to do. Count the register, mop the floors, prep for tomorrow.” He gestured toward the kitchen. “I was doing the vegetables for today when you come in.”
“Did you notice anything unusual last night? Any cars you didn’t recognize, anyone hanging around the parking lot?”
Liu’s brow furrowed as he thought. “Parking lot always has cars. People come and go—the college kids, the military boys from the base. I don’t pay much attention anymore.” He paused. “But now that you ask…there was a truck. Dark color, maybe blue or black. It was parked behind the old auto place when I took out the garbage. Maybe nine o’clock, nine thirty.”
Jack leaned forward slightly. “Did you see anyone with the truck? Anyone getting in or out?”
“No. I just notice because nobody parks back there. The auto shop, it’s been closed for years. No reason for anybody to be there.” Liu’s eyes narrowed. “I thought maybe kids. You know, teenagers looking for a place to drink or smoke or…” He waved his hand vaguely. “Whatever kids do these days.”
“But you didn’t see anyone.”
“No. Just the truck. And when I came back from dumping the garbage, maybe five minutes later, it was gone.” He spread his hands. “I didn’t think nothing of it. People park, people leave. It happens.”
Jack made a note. “Let me describe the victim for you, see if it rings any bells. Young Black man, mid-twenties. Tall—over six feet. Muscular build, shaved head. Probably weighed around two-twenty. Would have been hard to miss.”
Recognition flickered across Liu’s face. Or the edge of it.
“Big guy like that,” Jack continued, his tone still casual, still conversational. “Would have stood out. He ever come in here? Buy some food?”
The silence stretched a beat too long. Liu’s fingers found the edge of his apron, worrying the fabric between them.
“Maybe,” he said finally. “Maybe I see him before. Hard to say. Many customers. But maybe. Big guy, shaved head. Yeah.” Liu’s eyes slid away from Jack’s, fixing on something in the distance. “He come in sometimes late. After nine. Order the kung pao chicken, extra spicy. Always pay cash.”
