The Face of the Seal

by Jennifer Cumiskey

  It was surprising the chief wasn’t cursing like he normally did when he felt the FBI was meddling. Ive heard relief rather than frustration in his voice. “Does Ryan know?”

  “I called him and left a message. I guess he’s still on his way back from Paris.”

  “But, sir . . .”

  “Detective Ricca, trust me, it’s better to leave this case to the FBI. Sorry—incoming call.” The phone went dead.

  Ive stared at the screen until it went black. She dropped it back on the desk. She knew what the chief was trying to do. It was a high-profile case and he’d been putting pressure on Ryan and her to solve it quickly. Now he was probably glad to get out of it and let the FBI worry about the potential damage to the time-honored relationship between the U.S. and Her Majesty’s Government.

  Blackwell’s death may look like it had something to do with illicit drugs, but Ive suspected there was more to it. The woman in the security camera recording just added another link to the dots she’d been trying to connect, though her efforts had not yielded any convincing theories yet. Somehow, they all had something to do with the Empress Seal. The recent media hoopla about the seal’s return to China, the fact that Blackwell had dropped a small fortune to have a replica made by a French artist then went to China with her, the disappearance of the replicated seal on the night of Blackwell’s murder. Now this mystery woman who’d visited Blackwell hours before the murder . . .”

  The Empress Seal—fake or real—held some clue to Blackwell’s death.

  Ryan was supposed to have been back the night before and it was almost noon. She’d give him a call. Before she could hit Ryan’s number on the speed dial, a faint ding came from across the room, somewhere in the hallway.

  It was the elevator door opening. Who could that be? She knew the building was secured and guarded at any given time, but she was alone, deep in a labyrinth of cubicles and partitions. The set up was a bit unnerving. She found herself holding her breath, ears straining for sound other than the humming of the ventilation system.

  A faint clank, indicating the elevator doors had closed. A moment of quiet was followed by muted thud of footsteps. Peering over the top of her cubicle partition, she saw the top of the glass door on the other end of the floor swivel open, footfalls sounding her way.

  With a swift side step, she bolted out of the cubicle.

  “Who’s there?” she shouted, one hand reaching for the 9mm Glock secured at the small of her back.

  “Jesus, Ive, take it easy.”

  A few feet away Ryan came to a standstill, arms half-raised, a canvas gym bag dangling from one hand.

  Ive let out a sigh of relief. “Sorry, I was just going to call you.”

  “I am glad you didn’t kill me first. What’s the matter, too much of your designer coffee?”

  Ive wasn’t in the mood to fire back against Ryan’s insult. She knew her Starbuck’s foamy latte was a splurge, but it was a splurge she could afford. “Found anything interesting in Paris? I got the word just now that the FBI is taking over the Blackwell case.”

  “I know, the chief left me a message when I was in the air. I just called him back on my way here.”

  That’s why the chief hung up on me mid-sentence.

  “It seems the FBI is treating Blackwell’s murder as drug-related, which is of course partly true. But they seem to have ignored the fact that he was incapacitated by the 489 drug, then strangled to death.” Ryan was stating the obvious.

  “So?”

  “Well what’s interesting is how the 489 drugs are distributed and to whom. They said this particular drug has been circulating in many big cities for a while, and most people who were busted for using it or who OD’d were quite well-to-do, some of them rich.”

  “So, the number 489 could mean the highest rank of a Chinese triad or the highest grade of drug now being sold to people on the highest rung of the economic ladder,” Ive said, coming up with the idea as she spoke.

  “Interesting way to look at it. And apparently the FBI has developed a theory about those cross-shaped cuts on Blackwell’s body. They could mean the Chinese number ten.”

  “Yeah, I remembered I counted them, all together one hundred.”

  “Exactly. The FBI believes each cross is ten, ten times one hundred . . .”

  “Is one thousand,” Ive gasped. “Death by one thousand cuts. That’s an ancient Chinese punishment.”

  “I see you’ve done quite a lot of research.”

  “Let’s say the FBI is right, Blackwell somehow was involved with a Chinese drug ring, did something that made some members consider him a threat, so they killed him. But there still leaves us the matter of the fake seal that disappeared from Blackwell’s penthouse. I think that also had something to do with his death.”

  Ryan smiled. “I mentioned that to the chief, but he said it’s petty theft and the FBI is focusing on drug dealing and murder. But I agree with you. And wait until you hear what the creator of the stolen seal said.”

  “I’m all ears. What’s she like, besides being elegantly beautiful? Did she thumb her nose at you? I heard Parisians are famous for that.”

  “She’s pretty and elegant, but to say she thumbed her nose at me is to put it lightly.” Ryan could still feel the sting of Gerel’s stare when she opened the door to him.

  “You mean she almost threw you out?”

  “She almost didn’t let me in.”

  “What do you expect? A foreign cop showing up on her doorstep unannounced, she’s not going to open her arms and welcome you.”

  Ryan chuckled and shook his head. “I know, I know. But at least I can say for now she’s not the killer, I think.”

  “That’s because?”

  “She appeared to be nervous, that’s understandable. She’s not telling me everything she knows, but it’s not the act of murder itself. She certainly loves what she does, I mean as a jewelry designer. I thought people like her were just selling expensive illusions. But when she talked about the history of the jewels and treasures she’d seen in the Forbidden City, she got all fiery and passionate. It’s personal to her. But what’s most interesting is she thinks whoever stole the fake seal might’ve thought it was worth far more than it really is.”

  “Why would she think that?”

  “I wondered about that, too. But on the ride home being caged in a middle seat with almost no legroom for nine hours did something to my brain. It went into overdrive. I think it’s possible that the face of the original Empress Seal, the ruby they called pigeon’s blood, has been switched.”

  “Holy shit!” Ive gasped. “But don’t you think the Chinese would find out sooner or later? They must have experts who can determine if the seal that’s been returned to them is truly the original.”

  “That depends whether the Chinese have kept a detailed record of the seal to begin with. I’ve Googled the enamel technology. It’s relatively easy to determine the authenticity of the seal’s body because of the special technique the Chinese used to fuse gold and precious stones onto metal in the nineteenth century. But for the face, if they don’t have the record specifically indicating what kind of stone was used then it’s much harder to say whether it should be a ruby or some other gemstone. Just think, Blackwell was supposed to pay over three million euros for the copy if the face was a ruby. But at the last minute he changed his mind and opted for an inexpensive garnet, which brought the total payment down to a mere three hundred thousand euros.”

  “So, you’re saying it’s possible that Blackwell intended to return the original Empress Seal to China, but only the body, not the face.”

  “Exactly. And what’s more, it was Wesley Walters who committed to the three-million-dollar price tag on Blackwell’s behalf. According to Garnier, Walters was very upset when he found out that Blackwell had decided to use a cheaper stone for the face of the copy seal.”

  “Why would Walters care how much money Blackwell spent on the copy seal?”

  “Garnier seemed
to believe Walters wanted to use the copy seal to promote his gallery, to brag to the art world that an authentic copy of the now-famous nineteenth century Empress Seal would be a permanent exhibit at the W Gallery.”

  “But he wanted his rich friend to foot the bill. I think that Walters is quite a starfucker. I bet he’s been using Blackwell to bankroll his froufrou gallery for quite a while now,” I’ve sneered.

  “Most likely.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  Ryan gave her a wicked smile. “Well, the chief said we should leave it to the FBI to take down the drug ring, but he didn’t say we shouldn’t investigate the theft. Three hundred thousand euros may not be much to someone like Blackwell, but it’s enough to warrant a police investigation. We should do something about it, shouldn’t we?”

  Ivo’s eyes sparked with excitement. “I’ve been thinking—before you came in and scared the shit out of me—that the Empress Seal, real or fake, is the key to the Blackwell murder.”

  “I wouldn’t have agreed with you earlier, but after talking to Garnier, I think you’re onto something.”

  “I think the Blackwell case is more like time travel intrigue than a modern-day murder.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well,” I’ve replied hesitantly, “this might sound like a bad conspiracy theory, but think about all the elements surrounding Blackwell’s death. I’m afraid they are not just pure coincidence—the 489 drug, the symbolic one thousand cuts, the Empress Seal, there’s a theme developing here . . .” She peered at Ryan to gauge his reaction.

  “Go on.”

  “His-to-rye,” I’ve said, syllable by syllable.

  “Humm.”

  Ive knew she’d made a good point. So she pushed on. “Maybe we need to stop thinking like modern-day NYPD detectives and put on the thinking caps of the greatest detective in nineteenth century England Sherlock Holmes, and his assistant—what’s his name?”

  “Dr. Watson,” Ryan chuckled. “This Blackwell case has made you a good student of the country of Shakespeare.”

  “Your literary talent has been rubbing off on me, I guess,” Ive said smugly.

  “I think you made a good point. This case does seem to have a lot to do with history.” Ryan turned serious. “Have you received the security camera recording from the Crystal Palace yet?”

  “Right here, I went through half of it this morning.” Ive clicked open the file. “The only plausible lead is the woman who entered the Crystal Palace lobby the evening before the murder, but the damn hat she’s wearing completely obscured her face. No idea what she looks like.”

  “Do we know when she left the Crystal Palace Residence that evening?”

  “No. I’ve looked at the entire footage. She could have used the corridor on the second floor that connects the residence to the hotel and exited from the hotel lobby. I have the hotel lobby camera recording here, we can take a look at it.”

  “Show me she and Blackwell entering the Crystal Palace Residence first.”

  Ive pulled up the file and zeroed in on the thirty-second recordings of the mystery woman passing through the lobby.

  “Freeze right there,” Ryan said. “Blow it up.”

  The woman’s hat and obscured face filled the entire screen. The infrared surveillance camera captured her left profile at about a forty-five-degree angle from above. The recording was of exceptional quality. The lighting in the lobby allowed the camera to record in color, showing the woman’s pointed chin and red lips. Underneath the brim of the hat, strands of espresso hair hugged her neck.

  “Shall we switch to the hotel camera recording?” Ive asked. “Maybe we’ll find the face we’re looking for.”

  “Let’s take a look,” Ryan agreed.

  The surveillance recordings of the hotel lobby began at six p.m., around the time Blackwell and his female companion were captured on camera in the residence lobby next door. Still, Ive and Ryan agreed to start from the beginning of the surveillance footage just in case. Less than five minutes into the recording, something unexpected popped up. Blackwell appeared from the left side of the screen, the mystery woman in tow. A few more steps, they turned toward the back of the lobby, a long bar stretching on their left side. At the bar, Blackwell pulled out a tall chair for the woman and waited attentively until she was comfortably seated. He then took off his coat, hung it around the back of the chair next to hers and eased himself into it. Blackwell’s profile largely blocked the view of the woman next to him. Even if she wasn’t wearing a hat, it would have been difficult for Ryan and Ive to see her face.

  For a second, Ive and Ryan looked at each other, scowling. They knew what was going on in the other’s mind. Damn, damn, damn.

  Moments later, the bartender brought their drinks in two martini glasses. For the next ten minutes, Blackwell could be seen sipping his drink, turning constantly to the woman next to him, engaging in quite a lively conversation.

  “What the hell?” Ive muttered. “Why would they enter from the condo lobby, take the elevator to the second floor, walk all the way across the corridor, so they could come down again to the bar next door to have a drink. Wouldn’t it have been simpler to just use the hotel entrance?”

  “Who knows, everything seems to be a mystery in this case.” Ryan shook his head.

  On the screen, Blackwell had left the bar and was walking across the lobby, most likely to use the restroom on the other side. Ryan and Ive shot their eyes at the woman with the hat. If only she would just turn her head slightly left, they might be able to get a glance of her face. No luck. Another couple soon arrived and settled themselves in the chairs next to Blackwell’s empty seat.

  “Damn,” Ive cursed.

  Minutes later, Blackwell was back. They finished their drinks and took their leave. They were walking toward the camera again Blackwell leading the way, the woman a few steps behind him.

  “What the fuck, it’s uncanny, like she knew where the camera was and how to avoid it.” Ive was running out of patience.

  Then it happened. Blackwell made a right turn. They were going to take the elevator back to the second-floor corridor leading to the residence next door.

  “Here we go,” Ryan murmured.

  Sure enough, the woman turned right, too. The camera picked up her left profile for a few seconds. Her hat wasn’t pulled as low as it appeared on the other recording. Ryan could see the tip of her nose. “Freeze the last few frames and blow them up as much as you can.”

  Ive was already doing just that.

  Staring at the half-face on the full screen, Ive grunted. “So, we can see part of her nose, but still no face.”

  “What’s that?” Ryan’s index finger touched the screen on the spot next to the left corner of the woman’s mouth.

  “I don’t see anything,” said Ive. Then she noticed a speck, which she’d thought a dust particle on the screen. She wiped the screen with her hand, but it didn’t come off. “It’s a beauty mark.”

  “We may not see the whole face, but the woman is a mystery no longer.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Gerel, Gerel Garnier. She has the exact same beauty mark.”

  “What?”

  “I know she was supposed to go back to Paris directly from Beijing. We need to check with customs immediately to see the exact times she arrived and left. Also, we need to dig deep into the past, come up with as much information about Blackwell and his famous family, as well as anything we can find about Gerel Garnier. Anything.”

  “Right away, sir.” Ive mocked a military salute.

  “I think you’re onto something, Ive.”

  “What?”

  “The past.”

  “Plus a woman.”

  Chapter 10

  Beijing, one week before the murder

  For Gerel, the celebration of the Empress Seal’s homecoming in Beijing had been an exhausting chore, a marathon of ceremonies, speeches, and banquets with whirlwind sightseeing tours in between.

>   At least she’d gotten quite a few glimpses of the real Empress Seal in the tamper-proof exhibit case at the Tate in London, then again in the banquet hall of the glitzy Four Seasons Hotel here in Beijing. But the experience was hardly civilized, standing among a throng of champagne guzzlers with reporters sticking mics in her face while camera lights flashed violently.

  Finally, the frenzy was over. Next on her itinerary—back to Paris, her cell phone had reminded her the previous evening. Now she should be up in the sky, flying back home. Instead, she was doing something unplanned, impulsive. She’d decided to visit the Palace Museum inside the Forbidden City a second time, to see the Empress Seal again in its new and old home.

  Gerel asked the taxi driver to drop her a good hundred meters away from the Meridian Gate of the Forbidden City. A few days ago, she’d zipped through the gate like a VIP in a chauffeured black Audi with Blackwell and several Chinese government officials. An hour later they zipped out the same way they had gone in. The visit to the Palace Museum, an ancient civilization in and of itself, had been a mere blur.

  Gerel gazed up at the red Meridian Gate that rose up over one hundred feet—five towers loomed high, their double-decked roofs swathed in golden tiles. The taxi driver was right, the layout of the towers did make them look like a flock of flying phoenixes.

  Gerel took a deep breath and entered the arched gated of the　故宫博物院, the Palace Museum. She could spend the whole day there, absorbing the one million glorious rare works of art on display.

  Following the map in the Palace Museum pamphlet, she walked across five marble bridges over the Inner Golden River, which was an extension of the moat that surrounded the entire Forbidden City. Once she reached the inner palace, she headed straight to the hall that displayed what she wanted to see first.

  Winding through the maze of display halls at ten a.m. on a weekday morning, Gerel noticed many of them were without visitors. It was the end of February in the dead of winter. Not too many tourists wanted to brave the choking dust as desert storms swept in from Mongolia. Once she thought she was getting close to the Hall of Enamel Art, she paused to study the map again.