by Lee Child
“That document was found at an excavation by a man who was paid with our father’s money. I won’t let you do this.”
“You won’t let me do this? You can’t stop me.” Trevor laughed derisively. “Don’t you understand how meaningful this is? How spiritually significant? It’s not a cache of gold and silver coins we’re arguing over, this could be the key to finding proof that we return in new incarnations. We can’t own information like this, it has to be available to everyone, how else will the actual Memory Tools be found? This discussion is closed.”
“The decision to publish is not yours alone,” Davenport said.
“I can say that same sentence back to you,” Trevor retorted.
“Damn you!”
Davenport slammed down his glass of brandy so hard that it shattered, spilled liquor quickly threatening to ruin the papers.
Annoyed with his brother—no, with himself, for letting Davenport get to him, Trevor cursed as he scooped up the ancient text and placed it out of harm’s way on top of the books on a shelf behind him. But there were still his notes to salvage. As fast as he could he grabbed pile after pile of his papers and put them on top of other books on other shelves.
He was turned away from his brother so he didn’t see him draw the small silver revolver from his jacket pocket or see the competitive grimace on his brother’s face, as if they were children playing a game that Davenport was determined to win.
The force of the bullet slammed Trevor forward into the shelves, the impact of his body pushing one pile of his notes behind a row of books. He reached out to steady himself, grabbed hold of a leather volume that ironically turned out to be the Tibetan Book of the Dead.
It fell with him onto the floor.
Blood spilling out of him as quickly as the brandy spilled out of the broken glass, Trevor lay dying, watching his brother steal out of the library, pistol back in his pocket, spoils under his arm, fearing—until he stopped thinking completely—what would become of the precious knowledge he tried but failed so miserably to protect.
Chinatown, Boston—Present Day
THE BOOK DIDN’T SAVE HIM in the end.
The old volume, leather bound with faded gold embossing and frayed edges, remained partially grasped in the dead man’s right hand where he’d collapsed onto the floor behind his massive desk, felled by a single gunshot wound to the chest. Now, Boston sergeant detective D. D. Warren stood within an inch of the victim’s well-dressed body, one of the only spaces available in the cluttered office, and did her best to interpret the scene.
“He held it up,” she mused out loud, to her partners, Neil and Phil. She gestured to the fallen tome. “Saw the gun, responded instinctively to block the shot.”
Neil, the youngest member of their squad and a former EMT, immediately shook his head. “Nah. No sign of gunpowder, no damage from a slug. Victim grabbed the book on the way down.” Neil pointed to a fanned-out pile of papers that teetered dangerously close to the edge of the marble-topped desk. “Bet the book was on top. Impact of the bullet spun the victim to his left, he reached for the desk, but caught the book instead. Took it with him to the floor.”
“Book would’ve been knocked to the side,” D.D. countered. This kind of crime scene back-and-forth was one of her favorite games. As far as she was concerned, dead men did tell tales. “Collateral damage. Whereas our guy has the novel halfway in his hand.”
“You want to know how many miscellaneous objects I’ve had to pry from dead men’s hands?” Neil shrugged. “People see the end coming, and reflexively hold tight. I don’t know. Maybe they think if they cling hard enough to this world, they won’t have to pass to the next.”
“No way to prove it,” Phil muttered from the doorway. The senior member of their squad, he was mid-fifties with a devoted wife, four kids, and rapidly thinning hair. Being a family man didn’t mean he was too squeamish to view the victim up close and personal. Two hulking Fu Lions, however, carved from solid stone and standing five feet high, currently kept him in place. Or maybe it was the brightly painted ceramic dragon that roared across the front edge of the marble desk. Or the plethora of jade statuary that sprouted like oversized leaves from cluttered rows of shelves, crammed with more leather-bound novels.
Phil held a mask up to his mouth. Not for the smell, but because sneezing would absolutely, positively ruin their crime scene and in a space this cramped and dusty it was almost impossible not to.
D.D. straightened, pinching the bridge of her nose as she worked to avert her own reaction to the musty air.
“All right. Let’s start with victimology. What do we got?”
Phil did the honors. “Victim is Mr. John Wen. Fifty-eight, widowed, no record, no outstanding warrants. According to his shop clerk, Judy Chan, who found the body first thing this morning, Mr. Wen was a quiet soul, devoted to his work, which, as you can probably guess by looking around, involved importing ancient Chinese artifacts. And not the cheap kind. He was the real deal. Background in antiquities, elite roster of clients, handled custom orders, that kind of thing. He liked the hunt and authenticating the pieces. Her job was to deal with the public.”
D.D. nodded. It would explain the location of Wen’s shop, tucked away from the hustle and bustle of Beach Street, which formed the brightly decorated main artery running through the heart of Chinatown. Also, in contrast to Wen’s neighbors, whose store windows offered colorful arrays of silk dresses, or specialty foods, or a chaotic jumble of cheap imports, Wen’s storefront showcased only a trio of intricately carved dark wood panelings. Once inside, a discreet bronze plate identified the panelings as belonging to such-and-such a dynasty, but they could now be yours for a mere $150,000. Come to think of it, such price points also explained the fine cut of Mr. Wen’s elegant navy-blue suit. A man who moved in elite circles and carried himself accordingly. Interesting.
“So businessman,” D.D. filled in. “Educated, obviously. Respected? Trusted?”
Phil nodded.
“Probably not about theft,” she continued, eyeing the small fortune in jade left around the tiny office. “But maybe a business deal gone bad? Mr. Wen identified the piece as Third Dynasty, when really it was built last week in the finest factory in Hong Kong then aged by six-year-olds beating it with heavy chains.”
“Not possible.” A new voice spoke up from behind Phil.
He made way as best he could in the cramped doorway, and a beautiful, if solemn, Asian woman appeared.
“You are?” D.D. prompted.
“Judy Chan. I have worked with Mr. Wen for five years now. He was a good man. He wouldn’t cheat. And he didn’t make mistakes.”
“How’d you meet Mr. Wen?”
“He ran an ad in the paper, looking for a store clerk. I answered.”
D.D. eyed the assistant, taking in the girl’s petite frame, elegantly sculpted cheekbones, glossy waterfall of jet-black hair. She asked the next logical question: “Please describe your relationship.”
The assistant gave her an exasperated look. “I worked with Mr. Wen, Wednesdays through Sundays, nine to five. Occasionally, I would come in off hours to help him prepare for meetings with some of his more special clients. You know, the kind of people who want a three-thousand-year-old armoire as a signature piece in their foyer, and are willing to pay for it.”
“Got a list of said clients?”
“Yes.”
“And his calendar. We’ll want to see that.”
“I understand.”
“Was he meeting with someone last night?”
“Not that I knew of.”
“Would he tell you?”
“Most of the time. His projects were not secret. More and more, he would even ask for my help. He appreciated my computer skills.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Yesterday, five PM, when I locked up the store.”
“Where was he?”
“Back here, in his office. He generally stayed after the store was closed, catch
ing up on paperwork, researching pieces. He didn’t have a family. This,” Judy gestured around the cramped office, “this was his life.”
“Was he working on anything special?” Phil asked from beside her.
“Not that he had mentioned.”
“Missing anything special?” He gestured to the crowded space.
For the first time, the girl hesitated. “I don’t . . . know.” All three Boston detectives studied her. “His office,” she said at last, “he kept it busy.”
D.D. raised a brow, considering that the understatement of the month.
“Mr. Wen always said he thought better when surrounded by the past. Most of the items in this room were things he’d collected along the way, gifts from colleagues, clients, friends. And the books . . . he loved them. Called them his children. I used to beg him to let me at least dust, attempt to tidy up. But he would never let me. He liked things just this way, even the piles of paper covering his desk. The horizontal filing system, he called it. It never failed him.”
The girl’s voice faded out. She wasn’t looking at them, but staring at the desk intently. “It’s wrong,” she said flatly. “I can’t tell you how exactly. But it’s wrong.”
D.D. obediently turned her attention to the desk. She noted mounds of paper, a scatter of miscellaneous notebooks, a rounded wooden bowl filled with yet more office detritus, then beside it a heavily gilded female figurine whose curves were definitely more robust than D.D.’s own, not to mention multiple haphazard piles of obviously old and dusty books.
“I don’t see a computer,” she ventured at last.
“He worked by hand. Thought best that way. When he needed to look something up, he used the computer in the front of the store.”
D.D. went about this another way. “Was the store locked this morning?”
“Yes.”
“Security system?”
“No. We had been talking about one, but Mr. Wen always argued, what kind of thieves stole antique furniture? The truly valuable pieces here . . . they are large and heavy, as you can see.”
“But all the jade figurines—”
“His private collection. Not for sale.”
Phil picked up the thought. “But the door was locked. So whoever entered, Mr. Wen let him or her in.”
“I would assume.”
“Would he meet people in his office?” D.D. asked, gesturing to a space that was clearly standing room only.
“No,” the assistant filled in. “Generally, he met with them in the showroom. Sitting at one of the tables, that sort of thing. He believed in the power of history not just to survive, but to retain its usefulness. Don’t just buy an antique, he liked to say. Live with it.”
D.D.’s gaze zeroed in once more on the book still resting on Mr. Wen’s open hand. “Did he have books in the showroom?”
“No, his—”
“Personal collection. I get it. So, if he was meeting someone who was interested in a volume, per se—”
D.D. knelt back down, trying to get a better look at the leather-bound novel. The gilded titling was faded, hard to read. Then she realized it wasn’t even in English, but in a language she couldn’t recognize.
“The Buddha,” Judy suddenly gasped.
“What?”
“The Buddha. That’s what’s missing. Here, the left corner of Mr. Wen’s desk. He had a solid-jade Buddha. From the eighth-century Tang Dynasty. The Buddha always sat here. Mr. Wen got the piece just after his wife died. It was very special to him.”
“Size?” Phil already had his notebook out.
“Ummm, the Buddha himself eight inches tall. Very round, solid, the sitting Buddha, you know, with his round belly and laughing face. The statue was placed on a square wooden base with gold seams and inlaid abalone. A substantial piece.”
“Value?” D.D. asked.
“I’m not sure. I would need to do more research. But given that ounce for ounce, fine jade is currently more valuable than gold, a piece of that size . . . yes, it is valuable.”
D.D. pursed her lips, liking the idea of the theft gone awry for their murder motive except, of course, for the number of remaining jade pieces that still littered the victim’s bookshelves.
“Why the Buddha statue?” she murmured out loud, more to herself than anyone.
Judy, the beautiful assistant, shook her head, clearly at a loss for an explanation.
“One piece. That’s all you think is gone?”
“I will keep looking, but for now, yes, that one piece.”
“So Buddha, something about Buddha.”
D.D. was still thinking, as Neil said, “Hello. Got something.”
He had lifted the book from Mr. Wen’s outstretched fingers. Now, they all watched as something fluttered to the floor. Obviously not old, but a recent addition to the office. Something worth clutching in a dead man’s hand?
“What is it?” D.D. asked.
“Business card.” Neil flipped it over. “From the Phoenix Foundation. For one Malachai Samuels.”
· · ·
D.D. parked her rental car on New York’s Upper West Side, then turned her attention to the mansion across the street. She wasn’t a huge architecture buff but had lived in a historic city long enough to recognize the Queen Anne style of the villa, including the glass sunburst below the curved-top window. Personally, she liked the gargoyles peeking out from under the eaves.
Of course, she wasn’t here for the architecture. She was here about a murder. She made her way up the front walk, pausing long enough to inspect the bas-relief coat of arms that decorated the mansion’s front door. Took her a second, then she got it—the image was the mystical phoenix that granted the office its name.
Buzzz.
The front door finally opened, and D.D. entered the Phoenix Foundation.
She presented her credentials to the waiting receptionist. The front desk, D.D. noticed, was very old and most likely very valuable. It also held hints of Chinese design. The kind of desk John Wen might have imported into his shop and sold to a client, such as Malachai Samuels.
“Sergeant Detective D.D. Warren,” she introduced herself. “I’m here to see Dr. Samuels.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but I think he’ll see me.”
The young woman looked down at D.D.’s detective shields, then pursed her lips and made a phone call.
“If you’ll have a seat, the doctor is with a patient but he’ll be free in fifteen minutes.”
Fair enough. D. D. retreated to the camel-back sofa provided for visitors. She’d been warned this interview would not be easy. Dr. Samuels was not without some experience when it came to answering questions involving homicide.
For now, she occupied her time on her laptop, reading more of the articles she’d pulled about the esteemed therapist.
Malachai Samuels was a Jungian therapist who’d devoted his life to working with children with past-life issues. He and his aunt, who was the codirector of the foundation, had documented over three thousand children’s journeys and presented remarkable proof of the lives they’d discovered in their regressions. So fastidious was their research and methodology, they were actually accepted by the scientific community and often spoke at psychiatric conventions.
In the last seven years, however, Malachai had been named a “person of interest” in several different criminal cases involving stolen artifacts, resulting in the deaths of at least four people. The reincarnationist had never been charged with any wrongdoing. But the FBI special crimes detective D.D. had contacted, Lucian Glass, was disturbed when he heard Malachai’s name was connected to yet another murder.
Glass still believed Malachai was complicit in several of the cases and that he should be in prison. “But we’ve never been able to find any actual evidence of his participation. I hope you do, Detective Warren. I hope you do.”
“Detective Warren?” A rich, mellifluous voice cut through her thoughts. D.D. looked up to find the man in que
stion now standing directly before her.
“Dr. Malachai Samuels. How may I be of assistance?”
Samuels was wearing a well-cut navy suit, carefully knotted silk tie, and a crisp white shirt with a monogram on the right cuff. Everything about him, from his clothing to his manner of speaking, suggested a gentleman of an earlier time. Which already got D.D. to thinking. Was the good doctor merely collecting valuable old artifacts, or did he include himself among them?
“I’m here about an incident in Boston,” she said. “Could we talk someplace more private?”
“Of course, this way.”
He led her down a hallway lit by stained-glass sconces and lined with turn-of-the-century wallpaper. Silk would be her guess. With a faded floral pattern and hints of what was probably real gold.
“Would you like any coffee or tea? Perhaps bottled water?” he asked as he opened the door to what D.D. surmised was his personal office. In keeping with the theme of the rest of the place, the space was lined with old books and lushly appointed with a fine Persian rug, an antique desk, and a comfortable leather couch and chairs. It faced an inner courtyard planted with trees and flowers, as befitting someone with a doctor’s fine sensibilities.
D.D. said she’d like some water, then took a seat, still cataloguing the plethora of antiques and works of art scattered about. A tingle of excitement shot up her spine when she noticed a Chinese jade horse on Samuels’s desk.
Malachai handed D.D. a crystal glass filled with ice water. He took a seat opposite her on the other side of the glass coffee table.
“Now, how can I help you?”
“We found your business card at the scene of a murder.”
“That’s terrible. Who was killed?”
“Mr. John Wen.”
Malachai’s face showed no emotion. In fact, he remained so unruffled that D.D. was instantly suspicious.
“Did you know him, Doctor?”
“I’m a therapist, Detective. Even if I did I couldn’t tell you. Everything that goes on in my office is confidential. Surely you understand that.”
“The man is dead, Dr. Samuels. His confidentiality is on the floor in a pool of blood.”
Malachai remained silent.