“This is Detective Tam. I’m really sorry to be calling you on the weekend.”
“Not a problem, Detective. How can I help you?”
“I wondered if I could ask your opinion on an old homicide. It happened nineteen years ago, a shooting in a Chinatown restaurant. There were five victims. At the time, they called it a murder-suicide.”
“Why are you pursuing something that happened nineteen years ago?”
“It could be connected to our Jane Doe on the rooftop. It may be the reason she came to Chinatown. It seems she was seeking out people who knew about that restaurant shooting.”
“What do you want me to do, exactly?”
“Review the autopsy reports on those five people, particularly the shooter’s. Tell us if you agree with the conclusions. The pathologist who performed them is no longer with the ME’s office, so I can’t ask him.”
From the kitchen window, she saw Rat and the dog were outside and circling the yard, as though hunting for a way out, an escape into the wider world. He was a boy meant for the wilderness.
“I’m busy this week,” she said. “You might try asking Dr. Bristol instead.”
“But I was really hoping …”
“Yes?”
“I’d rather have your opinion, Dr. Isles. I know you always tell it like it is, no matter what. I trust your judgment.”
That startled her, because it was not an opinion shared among Boston PD’s rank and file these days. She thought of the stares and cold silence she’d endured from police officers during the past week. Thought of all the different ways they had made her feel like the enemy.
“I’ll be home this evening,” she said. “You can drop off the files anytime.”
It was after nine PM when Bear began barking at the front door. Maura opened it to find Detective Tam standing on her porch. He and the dog warily regarded each other for a moment, but after a few exploratory sniffs, Bear signaled his approval by trotting back into the house, allowing the visitor to enter. Tam moved with the same coiled energy that she’d noticed when they’d met in Chinatown, and he paused in her foyer, head alertly swiveling toward the sound of the running shower. He didn’t ask the question, but she could read it in his eyes.
“I have a houseguest staying with me this week,” she said.
“I’m sorry about intruding on your weekend.” He handed her a bundle of photocopied pages. “That’s all five autopsy reports, plus the Boston PD report filed by Detectives Ingersoll and Staines.”
“Wow. It looks like you put a lot of effort into this.”
“This is my first homicide case. Freshman effort, you know?” He pulled a flash drive out of his pocket. “They wouldn’t let me take any originals out of the ME’s office, so I scanned the photos and X-rays for you. I realize it’s an overwhelming amount of work, and I’m sorry about dumping this on you.” As he pressed the flash drive into her hand, he looked straight at her, as though to emphasize how important this was to him, and that he was placing all his confidence in her.
Flushing at his touch, she looked down at the flash drive. “Before you leave, let me make sure these files load up on my computer,” she said. They went into her office and as she booted up her laptop, Tam eyed the dog, who had followed them and now sat at Tam’s feet, watching this new visitor.
“What kind of dog is this?” Tam asked.
“I have no idea. Probably shepherd, plus some wolf or husky. He belongs to my houseguest.”
“You’re a very nice hostess, letting your guest bring a dog.”
“I owe my life to that dog. As far as I’m concerned, he can stay anywhere he wants.” She inserted the flash drive, and after a moment a series of thumbnail photos appeared on the monitor. She clicked on the first, revealing a grisly view of a woman’s nude body on the autopsy table. “Looks like this loads up fine. I can’t promise when I’ll review them, but I can tell you it won’t be until next week.”
“I really appreciate this, Dr. Isles.”
She straightened and looked at him. “Drs. Bristol and Costas are both very good pathologists. You can trust their judgment as well. Is there a reason you didn’t go to them?”
He paused, turning toward the sound of the shower shutting off. Bear’s ears pricked up, and he trotted out of the office.
“Detective?” she asked.
He said, reluctantly: “I’m guessing you know what’s being said about you. Because of the Wayne Graff trial and all.”
Her mouth tightened. “I’m sure that none of it is flattering.”
“It may be a thin blue line, but that line holds firm. It doesn’t take kindly to criticism.”
“Even when it’s the truth,” she said bitterly.
“That’s why I came to you. Because I know you do tell the truth.” His eyes met hers, direct and unflinching. The day they’d met in Chinatown, she had thought him unreadable, a man who might or might not like her. That same detached expression was now on his face, but it was merely a mask that she had not yet learned to penetrate. There was more to this man than she knew, and she wondered if he ever allowed anyone a glimpse behind that mask.
“What are you hoping I’ll find in these reports?” she asked.
“Contradictions, maybe. Things that don’t add up or don’t make sense.”
“Why do you think there’d be any?”
“Practically from the moment that Staines and Ingersoll walked onto the scene, it was called a murder-suicide. I read their report and they didn’t explore alternative theories. It was too easy to sign it off as a crazy Chinese immigrant shooting up a restaurant. And then himself.”
“Do you think it wasn’t a murder-suicide?”
“I don’t know. But nineteen years later, it’s giving off some strange echoes. Our Jane Doe on the roof had two addresses in her handheld GPS. One was Detective Ingersoll’s residence. The other was for Iris Fang, the widow of one of the massacre victims. This dead woman was obviously interested in the Red Phoenix case. We don’t know why.”
They heard the dog whine, and Maura turned to see Rat standing in the doorway, his hair still damp from the shower. He was staring at the autopsy photo on her computer screen. Quickly she minimized the program, and the disturbing image shrank from sight.
“Julian, this is Detective Tam,” she said. “And this is my houseguest, Julian Perkins. He’s been going to school up in Maine, and he’s down here for spring break.”
“So you’re the owner of the scary dog,” Tam said.
The boy kept staring at the monitor, as if he could still see the image displayed there. “Who was she?” he asked softly.
“It’s just a case we’re talking about,” said Maura. “We’re almost through here. Why don’t you go watch TV?”
Tam waited until they heard the television turn on in the living room, and he said: “I’m sorry he got a look at that. It’s not something you want a kid to see.”
“I’ll review the files when I have the time. It may not be for a while. There’s no hurry, I assume?”
“It would be nice to make some progress on Jane Doe.”
“The Red Phoenix happened nineteen years ago,” she said and turned off her laptop. “I’m sure this can wait a little longer.”
Even before I see him, I know that he has entered my studio, his arrival heralded by the whoosh of damp night air as the door opens and closes. I do not interrupt my exercise to greet him, but continue to whirl and swing my blade. In the wide mirror I can see Detective Frost watching in fascination as I enact the chant of the saber. Today I feel strong, my arms and legs as limber as when I was young. Each of my moves, each turn, each slash, is dictated by a line from an ancient sonnet:
Up the seven stars to ride the tiger.
Soaring, turning, dodging as spirits soar,
To become the white crane,
Spreading its wings as it thrusts out a leg.
The wind blows
And the lotus flower trembles.
All the moves a
re second nature to me, one blending into the next. I do not have to think about them, because my body remembers, as surely as it knows how to walk and how to breathe. My saber slices and whirls, but my thoughts are on the policeman, and what I will say to him.
I reach the final and thirteenth line of the sonnet. The phoenix returns to its nest. I stand at attention, my weapon finally at rest, sweat cooling my face. Only then do I turn to face him.
“That was beautiful, Mrs. Fang,” says Detective Frost, his eyes wide with admiration. “Like a dance.”
“A beginner’s exercise. It brings a calming end to my day.”
His gaze drops to the saber I’m holding. “Is that a real sword?”
“Her name is Zheng Yi. She was passed down to me from my great-great-grandmother.”
“So it must be really old.”
“And battle-tested. It was meant for combat. If you never practice with a combat sword, you’ll never learn to work with its weight, to know how it feels in your grip.” I make two lightning slashes through the air and he flinches away, startled. With a smile, I extend the handle to him. “Take it. Feel its weight.”
He hesitates, as if it might give him an electric shock. Cautiously he grasps the handle and gives the sword a clumsy swing through the air. “It doesn’t feel natural to me,” he said.
“No?”
“The balance seems strange.”
“Because it’s not merely a ceremonial sword but a genuine dao. A true Chinese saber. This design is called a willow leaf. You see how it’s curved along the length of the blade? It was the standard sidearm for soldiers during the Ming dynasty.”
“When was that?”
“About six hundred years ago. Zheng Yi was crafted in Gansu province during a time of war.” I pause and add ruefully, “Unfortunately, war was too often a normal state in old China.”
“So this sword saw actual combat?”
“I know it did. When I hold her, I can feel old battles still singing in the blade.”
He laughs. “If I’m ever attacked in a dark alley, Mrs. Fang, I want you by my side.”
“You’re the one with the gun. Shouldn’t you protect me?”
“I’m sure you do a good job of that all by yourself.” He hands the sword back to me. I can see it makes him nervous, just being in proximity to that razor-sharp edge. With a bow, I take back the sword and look straight at him. He flushes at my directness, a reaction I don’t expect from a policeman, and certainly not from a seasoned detective who investigates murders. But there is a surprising sweetness to this man, a vulnerability that suddenly reminds me of my husband. Detective Frost is about the same age as James was when he died, and in this man’s face I see James’s abashed smile, his innate eagerness to please.
“You had more questions to ask me, Detective?”
“Yes. Concerning a matter that we weren’t aware of when we spoke to you before.”
“What would that be?”
He seems reluctant to say what is on his mind. Already I can see the apology in his eyes. “It’s about your daughter. Laura.”
The mention of Laura’s name is like a shocking blow to my chest. This I did not expect, and I sway from the impact.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Fang,” he says, reaching out to steady me. “I know this has to be upsetting. Are you all right? Do you want to sit down?”
“It’s just that …” I give a numb shake of my head. “I have not eaten since this morning.”
“Maybe if you ate something now? Could I bring you somewhere?”
“Perhaps we should talk another day.”
“It would only be a few questions.” He pauses. Adds, quietly: “I haven’t had dinner, either.”
For a moment his words hang in the air. It is a trial balloon. My hand tightens around the grip of my sword, an instinctive reaction to a situation fraught with uncertainties. In danger, there is opportunity. He is a policeman, but I see nothing about him to be wary of, only an attentive man with a kind face. And I want desperately to know why he is asking about Laura.
I slide Zheng Yi into its scabbard. “There is a dumpling house on Beach Street.”
He smiles, and the change in his face is startling. It makes him seem far younger. “I know the place.”
“Let me get my raincoat, and we’ll walk.”
Outside, we stroll together through a fine spring drizzle, but keep a discreet distance between us. I have brought along Zheng Yi because the sword is too valuable to leave behind at the studio. And because she has always been my protection, against all the threats I cannot see. Even on this wet evening, Chinatown is bustling, the streets crowded with dinner-hour patrons hungry for roast duck or ginger-steamed fish. As we walk, I try to stay focused on my surroundings, on every unfamiliar face that passes by. But Detective Frost, talkative and exuberant, is a continual distraction.
“This is my favorite part of Boston,” he says, throwing his arms wide, as though to embrace Chinatown and everyone in it. “It has the best food, the best markets, the most interesting little side streets. I always love coming here.”
“Even when you’re here to see a dead body?”
“Well, no,” he says with a rueful laugh. “But there’s just something about this neighborhood. Sometimes I feel like I belong here. Like it’s an accident I wasn’t born Chinese.”
“Ah. You think you’re reincarnated.”
“Yeah. As the all-American kid from South Boston.” He looks at me, his face gleaming in the dampness. “You said you’re from Taiwan.”
“Have you ever been there?”
He gives a regretful shake of the head. “I haven’t traveled as much as I’d like. But I did go to France on my honeymoon.”
“What does your wife do?”
The pause makes me look at him, and I see his head has drooped. “She’s in law school,” he says quietly. It takes him a moment before he adds: “We separated. Last summer.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It hasn’t been a very good year, I’m afraid,” he says, then suddenly seems to remember who he’s talking to. The woman who has lost both her husband and her daughter. “I have nothing to complain about, really.”
“Loneliness isn’t easy for anyone to live with. But I’m certain you will find someone else.”
He looks at me, and I see pain in his eyes. “Yet you never remarried, Mrs. Fang.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“There must have been men who were interested.”
“How can you replace the love of your life?” I say simply. “James is my husband. He will always be my husband.”
He takes a moment to absorb that. Then he says: “That’s the way I always thought love should be.”
“It is.”
His eyes are unnaturally bright when he looks at me. “Only for some of us.”
We reach the dumpling house, where the windows are fogged with steam. He steps forward quickly to open the door, a gentlemanly gesture that strikes me as ironic, since I am the one carrying a lethal sword. Inside, the cramped dining room is packed, and we are lucky to claim the last empty table, tucked into a corner near the window. I hang the scabbard over the back of my chair and pull off my raincoat. From the kitchen wafts the tempting scents of garlic and steamed buns, painfully savory reminders that I have not eaten since breakfast. Out those kitchen doors come platters of glistening dumplings stuffed with morsels of pork or shrimp or fish; at the next table chopsticks clack against bowls, and a family chatters in such noisy Cantonese that it sounds like an argument.
Frost looks bewildered as he scans the long menu. “Maybe I should let you order for both of us.”
“Are there any foods you won’t eat?”
“I’ll eat everything.”
“You may be sorry you said that. Because we Chinese really do eat everything.”
He cheerfully accepts the challenge. “Surprise me.”
When the waitress brings out an appetizer platter with cold jellyfish and chicken
feet and pickled pig’s feet, his chopsticks hesitate over the unfamiliar selection, but then he bites into a translucent chunk of pork cartilage. I watch his eyes widen with a look of delight and revelation.
“This is wonderful!”
“You haven’t tried it before?”
“I guess I haven’t been very adventurous,” he confesses as he dabs chili oil from his lips. “But I’m trying to change all that.”
“Why?”
He pauses to think about it, a strip of jellyfish dangling from his chopsticks. “I guess … I guess it’s about getting older, you know? Realizing how few things I’ve actually experienced. And how little time there is to do it all.”
Older. At that I have to smile because I am almost two decades older than he is, so he must consider me ancient. Yet he does not look at me that way. I catch him studying my face, and when I return the gaze, his cheeks suddenly flush. Just as my husband’s did the first night we courted, on a spring evening heavy with mist, like this one. Oh James, I think you would like this young man. He reminds me so much of you.
The dumplings come, soft little pillows plump with pork and shrimp. I watch in amusement as he struggles to pick up the slippery morsels and ends up chasing them around the plate with his chopsticks.
“These were my husband’s favorites. He could eat a dozen of them.” I smile at the memory. “He offered to work here without pay for a month, if they would just give him their recipe.”
“Was he also in the restaurant business in Taiwan?”
His question makes me look straight at him. “My husband was a scholar of Chinese literature. He was descended from a long line of scholars. So no, he was not in the restaurant business. He worked as a waiter only to survive.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“It’s too easy to assume that the waiter you see here is just a waiter, and the grocery clerk is only a clerk. But in Chinatown, you can’t assume anything about people. Those shabby old men you see playing checkers under the lion gate? Some of them are millionaires. And that woman over there, behind the cash register? She comes from a family of imperial generals. People are not what they seem here, so you should never underestimate them. Not in Chinatown.”
The Rizzoli & Isles Series 10-Book Bundle Page 254