Interference

by Danielle Girard

  “You are tired, Mei Ling,” she went on. “They are working you too hard. Are you still at work?”

  “No,” Mei said. “I’m almost at the house now.”

  “Good. Get some rest and give it time. This will be better.”

  “Okay,” Mei told her mother, unsure what else to say.

  “Also, don’t speak to your a bàh about this. He will not understand and it will upset him.”

  “I won’t.” As Mei ended the call with her mother, she thought about her father. If hearing she wasn’t happy in her marriage would upset him, she didn’t want to consider how he would feel about the truth.

  At Ayi’s, Mei set her bag down and tucked the flowers on the floor behind the bag, out of view. She could hear Ayi in the kitchen, but rather than go in, Mei used the small half bath to wash up first. “Néih hóu ma?” Mei asked Ayi. How are you?

  Ayi searched her face carefully. “How are you?”

  “Why do you say that?” Mei asked, confident she was walking into a trap.

  “You are tired.”

  Mei frowned at her aunt’s choice of words. The same words her mother had used. “You talked to my mom.”

  “Of course. She is my sister,” she added as though that explained it. Mei tried to remember the last time she had spoken to Man Yee or Lai.

  “Come. Dinner is nearly ready.” Ayi waved her hand and turned back to her Ma Po Tofu, which smelled amazing. Ayi’s was the best Mei had ever tasted. Tofu with ground beef and green onion and a special Chinese pepper powder, Ma Po Tofu was one of Mei’s favorite dishes.

  Mei set the dining table and joined Ayi in the kitchen. “That smells amazing.”

  Ayi added pepper and tasted it, making a little sound of approval. Mei wondered if her mother had told Ayi what Mei had said about Andy. Could the two of them have had that conversation in the ten minutes after Mei hung up with her mother? Mei doubted it, but maybe she didn’t know how close her mother and Ayi were. If Ayi knew, maybe Mei could talk to her. After all, Ayi had never married.

  “Ready,” Ayi announced. “You bring the rice.”

  Mei carried the covered pot of steamed rice to the table. She pulled her chair out to sit as Ayi came into the room with enough Ma Po Tofu to feed six.

  As Ayi placed the ornate porcelain platter on the table, the huge expanse of the front plate glass window exploded.

  Chapter 17

  Mei dove for her aunt, hitting her just above the knees. The two of them went down. Ma Po Tofu was strewn across the carpet. A car engine revved on the street. Ayi screamed as another spray of bullets struck the wall above the table. The bullets ripped a line of holes in Ayi’s gongbi print.

  “Don’t move,” Mei commanded. The old woman looked like a small child as she pressed her face to the rug, gripping her fingers into the tight weave.

  Mei’s purse with her cell phone, the couch, even the flowers from Sophie were covered in shattered glass. She lifted Ayi’s coffee table book on the Ming Dynasty and turned it upside down on the carpet. She put her hands on the book and pushed it through the broken glass, upended her purse and grabbed her phone.

  Mei pointed to the kitchen. “Go. Hurry!”

  One of Ayi’s brocade shoes had fallen off, and from the back, she was as small as a frightened child. Mei followed close behind, prepared to cover her aunt if the gunfire started up again. When they reached the kitchen, Ayi moved to the far corner and curled into a ball against the oven door. Mei sat beside her, closer to the door, and dialed 9-1-1.

  “This is Officer Mei Ling. I want to report gunfire at my home.”

  Ayi began chattering in Mandarin, which Mei didn’t speak, as Mei gave dispatch the details and her address. Mei moved to the retrieve the home phone off the kitchen counter and handed it to Ayi. “Do you know Hui’s number?”

  Her aunt took the phone and stared at it blankly.

  “Call Hui,” Mei pressed.

  Ayi’s small, bony fingers trembled as she pushed the buttons and handed the phone to Mei. Hui was a widow with two grown boys, who lived three doors down. About Ayi’s age, the two traveled together and had a standing date for shopping Saturday mornings. Hui answered on the second ring. Speaking English because Hui’s native language was Mandarin, Mei explained what had happened.

  “I’m coming now,” Hui said and Mei thought she might have hung up.

  “No. Wait,” Mei said quickly. “Wait until you see police cars. We don’t know if he’s still down there.” A beat passed. “Hui?”

  “I’ll wait,” the woman said softly. Mei hung up the phone and put her arm around her tiny, trembling aunt. “It will be okay, Ayi. The police are coming.” She rocked the old woman slowly until the police arrived at her door.

  When Mei let them in, Hui was right behind. Mei pointed to the kitchen. A moment later, Ayi began to cry. The officers cleared the house then worked to check the yard and canvass the neighborhood.

  After some time, Hui lured Ayi into the dining room, sat her on a chair far from the broken glass, and hovered over her like a Chinese bulldog. “She shouldn’t be here. She can stay with me,” Hui said more than once.

  “The police will need to ask her what she saw,” Mei said. “Then, Ayi, you should stay with Hui for a few days.”

  The two of them looked at Mei as though surprised the situation warranted Ayi’s moving out.

  “Yes,” Hui said quickly. “Of course. She will stay with me.”

  Ayi, too, nodded a little hesitantly.

  “I’ll make tea,” Hui said and moved quickly into the kitchen. Ayi continued to cry softly, staring down into her hands. Mei tried to sit beside her but was too restless. “I’m so sorry, Ayi,” she said and stood to check on the police progress.

  The patrol officers roped off the front of the house and the street before coming inside for statements. They were both young men, one Hispanic, one Korean, polite, to the point. Neither was familiar, not surprising, considering there were over two thousand officers in the San Francisco Police Department. They addressed Mei as Inspector Ling, so someone had told them who she was. Still, even the deference couldn’t be confused with control. They could address her with whatever platitudes were deemed appropriate; she was the victim here.

  The two men went through the same rundown Mei had heard on the TV shows she always thought were so unrealistic. They were sorry to have to do this. They knew this was a difficult time, but it was important that they try to obtain as much information as possible while the incident was still fresh. Any little thing might be helpful. Hui returned with tea for Ayi and sat beside her, urging her to drink, before asking Mei if she wanted anything. Mei declined. She should have been starving, but even the thought of Ayi’s Ma Po Tofu turned her stomach.

  “Is there anyone who would want to harm you?” Officer Alvidrez asked.

  Mei watched Ayi and Hui both turn to her. She realized the officers were both looking at her as well. “Nothing obvious,” she responded. “I’m not working any high profile cases or due to testify.”

  “I’m sure the Inspector assigned to the case will want to circle back with you.”

  Mei nodded.

  Officer Kil turned to Ayi. “And I assume no one would want to harm you?”

  Hui frowned. “Of course not. She’s just an old lady.”

  “Not that old,” Ayi said, the crying halted.

  The officers continued through the list. Ayi and Mei answered while Hui pestered Ayi to drink her tea and occasionally asked how much longer this would take. When the police were done with Ayi, Hui helped her pack a bag, and one of the patrol officers escorted them down the block.

  Mei was relieved to see them go. She had never witnessed either of her parents cry. They had both lost their parents and her father had buried his sister, but Mei had never witnessed a tear. The sound of Ayi’s crying was deeply disturbing. A
s was the certainty that the gunshots were not meant for Ayi. Somehow, this was Mei’s doing. She was the target.

  Shortly after Ayi left, Sydney Blanchard arrived along with three techs. She looked like she always did. Freckled, without makeup, wearing a navy SFPD windbreaker over her uniform. Mei was short, but Sydney was smaller. Maybe five-three with narrow hips and shoulders but solidly built. Only the small lines around her eyes and mouth and a sprinkling of gray hairs almost invisible in the reddish mane suggested Sydney wasn’t a teenager.

  “You okay?”

  Mei sighed without responding.

  “Sorry. Dumb question.”

  Mei said nothing.

  “Any ideas?”

  “None,” Mei said.

  “Ryaan’s on her way.”

  “Sorry to get everyone up,” Mei said.

  Sydney laughed. “We were up at my house. The baby has an ear infection.”

  Mei glanced at the clock on Ayi’s wall.

  Sydney picked up her evidence case. “We’ll get to work. Where did the slugs hit the wall?”

  Mei pointed where the bullets had torn through Ayi’s gongbi of the mountain covered in snow.

  “Ah. Bummer. How about where you were standing when the shots went off?”

  Mei walked to the area where the Ma Po Tofu covered the floor. She’d been closer to the front door. “Maybe here.”

  Sydney looked back at the street. Mei followed her gaze. She could only see a thin section of the street and the far sidewalk. Had the gunman had her in his sights? Or was this more of a warning shot?

  Sydney knelt down and put an orange marker at Mei’s feet just as the front door opened. Ryaan stepped in. Unlike Sydney, Ryaan looked like she’d been asleep. As she crossed the room, Mei’s guard began to slip.

  “You okay?” Ryaan asked, taking hold of her arm.

  Mei let out a little shake of her head.

  “You see anything?”

  “Nothing.”

  “He left the gun,” Ryaan said.

  “Left it?” Mei edged toward the window and looked down to where numbered orange stands marked evidence. The gun was marked with the number one. A patrol officer stood guard over it while a photographer documented its position.

  Ryaan nodded.

  “Is that unusual?”

  Ryaan shrugged. “Happens sometimes if it’s dirty, if the police can trace it to a recent homicide.”

  “What about ballistics?” asked Mei.

  “We don’t have any ballistics out for one like that in this county,” Ryaan said. “Sydney’s tech just checked. We’ll expand the search beyond San Francisco and see what we find.” Ryaan paused a beat and said, “It might be one from Oyster Point.”

  Mei crossed her arms. “Why do you say that?”

  “I’ve got one like it on my list. I have to check the serial numbers.”

  “If it’s from Oyster Point, then this was not a random attack,” Mei said.

  Ryaan held her gaze. “It seems unlikely.”

  Mei looked over at the line of bullets along the wall, glad Ayi hadn’t heard that.

  “We’ll get someone over here to board up that window. Someone will be posted here tonight, too,” Ryaan added.

  Mei looked at the front window. She hadn’t even thought about that. She imagined trying to sleep.

  “Not for you,” Ryaan said as though reading her mind. “You’re coming home with me.”

  Mei looked at Ryaan, saw the resolve in her face. She wasn’t going to argue. She didn’t love staying in Ayi’s house most nights but she hated the idea tonight.

  Chapter 18

  Dwayne was not sleeping well. Not since the incident with the gun. He never should have touched it. He was smarter than that. He wanted out of the old life. Dwayne had the day off, so he and Tamara had gone over to City College and walked around. Tamara had seen a couple people she knew, including one real book-smart-looking guy who had given Dwayne a look like he was on the way out. Dwayne knew better than to talk to Tamara about it. She hated when he was jealous. She wasn’t something to be owned or fought over. He’d learned that.

  Just the fact that she would consider moving in together was monumental. She had gotten him the application forms for the college, helped him fill them out, and now he was a student. The two of them spent date nights studying in one of the libraries on campus, drinking coffees. Dwayne felt out of place in his low-rider jeans and T-shirt. While he pretended to study statistics, he took note of what other guys were wearing. Jeans like his but not so low and shirts with collars. People in his neighborhood would have made fun of them, calling them whitewash. These people weren’t whitewash. They were well-dressed black folks and Dwayne thought they looked all right. He wondered what Tamara would say if he showed up in a collared shirt.

  Dwayne looked up from his book and rubbed his eyes like he’d been focused on the problems in front of him. Math was always his best subject, but he was struggling tonight.

  Tamara stretched her arms above her head. “I’m hungry.”

  He looked up from the book. “Let’s go get something to eat.”

  “Finish your practice test first,” she said, pointing back to his book.

  “Sure, baby.” Dwayne pulled the book toward him and read the word problem again. A fair, six-sided die is tossed. What is the probability the first 3 occurs on the fourth roll? Dwayne couldn’t see how this would ever be something he’d need to know. He wasn’t going to Vegas. Still, he could do this. He wrote down, “Fourth roll = 3.” Okay, so what about those first three. Six sides on a dice. He could get anything but a 3, so that was 5 other numbers out of 6. So 5/6 x 5/6 x 5/6 for the first three rolls, and the three on the last roll was a one in six chance. He wrote out the problem: 5/6 x 5/6 x 5/6 x 1/6.

  He felt her eyes on him. A few years ago, he would have gotten in a girl’s face about staring at a guy doing math. Even now, he felt the heat in his neck. But Tamara was looking out for him, so he glanced up and smiled instead.

  “Sorry. I like watching you work,” Tamara told him.

  “You make me nervous,” he admitted, surprising himself.

  “I’ll read.”

  She looked down at her book. Something thick by a Russian author. Nothing he would ever read. He entered the equation into his calculator and came up with probability of .09645. He looked back at the book. Round to three decimals. He looked down at the answer choices and found .096, circled C, and moved onto the next question. It took another ten minutes to finish and he was pretty sure he’d gotten them right. He closed the book.

  Tamara looked up, startled.

  “You ready to eat?”

  She smiled and stood from the table, leaning over to kiss him. “Starving.”

  Dwayne laughed.

  Tamara packed up her book bag and slung it over her shoulder.

  “Why don’t you let me carry that?” Dwayne said, and she was grinning as she handed it over.

  “Why thank you, sir.”

  As they walked across the campus, Tamara linked her arm in his. They passed a few more people Tamara knew but the guys didn’t give Dwayne anything more than a nod of respect. It was clear to them that Tamara was with him. He felt good. He made a mistake with the gun, but he made it right. He was moving on. Tomorrow, he would meet with his P.O., and he had nothing but good things to report.

  Chapter 19

  Ryaan’s mother was up when Mei and Ryaan arrived. The house was single-story, built in the ‘50s. Ryaan told Mei that the house was in an area of Palo Alto called Crescent Park, one of the few areas that hadn’t been leveled and rebuilt with dot-com money. Ryaan’s mother helped settle Mei into a yellow guest room with toile wallpaper and gingham sheets. She laid out towels and a blanket in case Mei was cold. All yellow. Convinced that Mei had everything she needed, Ryaan’s mother excused her
self.

  Mei and Ryaan settled into the living room. On the sideboard was a picture of Ryaan as a little girl. She had been mostly legs; her hair formed a halo around her face and the dust was highlighted against her dark skin. Another of Ryaan with two boys. All three shared their mother’s high, strong cheekbones. “Bourbon?” Ryaan asked.

  “A short one would be great.”

  Ryaan poured two bourbons, neat, and handed one to Mei before settling into the chair across from her. The two were quiet. “It’s a nice house,” Mei said for conversation.

  “It’s an old woman’s house,” Ryaan joked. “That’s what I get for living with my mother.”

  “I’m not one to talk,” Mei responded.

  “I used to think a lot about moving,” Ryaan admitted. “To be closer to the city at least. But then I realized living this far away is probably the one thing that stops me from working more than I do.”

  “I’m sure you’re mom is happy to have you.”

  Ryaan nodded. “It’s just the two of us.”

  Mei wondered if Ryaan’s father had passed away, if it was recent. Here was the chance for Mei to tell Ryaan about Andy, about how she came to live with Ayi. She might even confess her real reasons for leaving Chicago.

  For several minutes, the two women drank their bourbons in silence. Only the sounds of Ryaan’s mother in the kitchen filled the room. Mei tried to find a way to open up, but she could only think about the exploding glass, see the fragile form of her aunt as she knocked her to the ground.

  “How many guns went missing?”

  Ryaan nodded. “I keep coming back to that, too. Seventy-two.”

  “But six of them were involved in the shootings so far, right? So we’re down to sixty-six?”

  Ryaan watched Mei. “Sixty-five now.”

  “You really think that gun was from the warehouse?”

  “Sydney confirmed the serial number is from the warehouse list.”

  Mei set her drink down. “How could someone have linked me to the investigation? Teddy signed in the jammer, and I’m pretty sure Amy signed in the computer. There’s not even any paperwork with my name on it.”