All in One Piece

  “Mr. Frequent Flier.”

  Let it go at that. We eat in silence, then I reach into my purse. “Mol, I want to ask you a favor. I got some snapshots developed. I need your opinion.”

  “Sure. What is it?”

  My strategic lie is ready as I hand over two photos. “This is kind of a forensic quiz, Mol. The door marks you see in the pictures were found upstairs on the door of the victim, Steven Damelin.” Molly holds them close to her face.

  “The police are trying to figure out whether the killer stained Steven’s upstairs door accidentally or whether the marks are deliberate. Before his door was cleaned, I took these. I thought you’d know whether they were intentional.”

  She holds the pictures near the candle. “No contest, Mom.” She bites her lip. “But maybe a sponge instead of a brush.”

  “But deliberate?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You’re sure? I mean, really sure?”

  “It’s deliberate application. Notice how that line swells at the middle, then tapers off?” I nod. “That’s a stroke. That’s on purpose.”

  My stomach is turning to ice.

  “So you tell that to the police,” she adds.

  I reach for my water, my insides now flash frozen. “I’ll tell them.”

  She holds on to the photos. “Of course, it’s calligraphy.”

  “Calligraphy, I thought so too. The police are looking for an Asian language specialist.”

  “Tell you what, Mom, the more I look at the mark, the more it looks like Chinese characters, but let me ask Tom Chou. He’s a sculptor. His family’s from Taiwan.” She looks up. “The murdered guy, he wasn’t Asian?”

  “No.”

  “Interesting, isn’t it?”

  “Fascinating.” My mouth is dry. No matter how much water I sip in these moments, bone-dry. Molly orders rice pudding. “Mol, your Aunt Jo never talked about a Chinese connection, did she?”

  “Chinese? Jo? No, not to me.” Molly throws me a suspicious glance. “This is from the dead guy’s door, right? Nothing to do with Jo—nothing to do with you?”

  “Nothing at all.”

  “Okay. Maybe Tom Chou can come and look. I’ll call his studio right after we finish.” But her phone battery’s low, so we head back to her apartment. There’s the futon, the chair draped with clothes, her sink full of dishes, an easel at the end of the room. I know not to look till invited. She makes the call.

  No answer from the Chinese sculptor. “Maybe Tom’s away for the weekend. I’ll try him tomorrow. Leave those snapshots here.”

  “I’ll leave you with one of them, Mol. Here, take this one. And you’ll contact Tom first thing in the morning, okay?”

  “Probably noon. Most artists I know are owls. You want to check out my new painting? Go ahead, have a look.”

  I sidestep a mound of books, sketch pads, a pizza box. I’m ready for anything, bugs, animal innards. No longer do I second-guess Molly Baynes. “Will I be shocked?”

  “Mom, you’ll like this one. It’s a little on the dark side, a little dreamy, sort of Ryderesque. You know Albert Pinkham Ryder? No? Well, you can probably figure it out.”

  It’s a moody water scene, somber, murky, even eerie. There’s some kind of driftwood. A canoe?

  The longer I stare, the more I feel… dazed. My gaze locks on this canvas, on the scene painted there. Molly speaks, names the things pictured on the canvas before me. “Water,” she says, and “log.”

  The spot on my scalp throbs, and I realize my daughter has painted the very scene I already know in every cell of my body.

  Chapter Eighteen

  My daughter’s painting is the clincher: the water-and-log vision must be reported to Frank Devaney, even though it has no relation to a man drilled to death and nailed like upholstery. Light traffic on I-95 gets me back to Boston in record time. Biscuit beats her tail on the rug like a tom-tom of welcome. I take her out, refresh her water, wash up, and get ready for bed. The morning can’t come soon enough. I sleep restlessly, and the dog and I are both up at dawn.

  Nine a.m., my phone rings, and it’s Maglia calling me to the precinct house for a talk.

  It throws me. “Will Frank Devaney be there?”

  “Your go-to guy?” His laugh sounds like a dry cough.

  But I’m shaken, guilty as charged for crossing the Massachusetts state line without Homicide’s permission. Maglia had me followed, or caught my license plate on a highway surveillance camera. I am clearly a “person of interest.”

  “Will ten-thirty this morning work for you, Ms. Cutter?”

  “I’ll be there, Detective Maglia.”

  Summoned or invited, I’m there on the dot. Maglia greets me amid a swirl of blue uniforms. “Appreciate you coming, Ms. Cutter. There’s someone we want to talk to you. It’s about the blood on your door. We have an expert in the Chinese language, and there are a few questions.”

  Maglia says a name, Hu Lee. That’s how I hear it. I’m weak with relief. It’s not about sneaking off to Providence but rather about translating the bloody calligraphy.

  We enter a side room with a small conference table and chairs with wine-colored cushions. A beefy man rises, about forty and well over six feet, his hair as golden as wheat, cheeks pink, eyes blue as the sky. In his starched white shirt, he looks like a football linebacker out of Norman Rockwell as he shakes my hand and says, “Hugh Lee.”

  Hugh. So it’s Hugh. He motions me to a seat at the head of the table, which wedges me between him and Maglia. He opens a briefcase, spreads eight-by-ten black-and-white glossies on the tabletop, and turns them my way. “You recognize these, Ms. Cutter?”

  “I believe they’re taken from the door of my home.”

  “Yes, they’re police photographs. I’ve agreed to review them. Detective Maglia and I know that you may find them disturbing. We don’t mean to upset you.”

  “I’m eager to know what the marks mean, Mr. Lee. And you’re a law enforcement official?”

  “A forensic linguist, Ms. Cutter. Tell me, have you studied East Asian languages?”

  “Never.”

  “Perhaps you have friends or acquaintances familiar with Japanese or Korean?”

  “I don’t think so, no.”

  “How about Chinese?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “No one at all who knows Chinese? Take your time. We’re in no hurry.”

  Seconds pass. I’m on the spot and draw a blank. “My former husband traveled to China and Japan on business. He brought a few gifts for our children. That’s the extent of it.”

  “Does anyone known to you dabble in calligraphy? Perhaps a hobbyist?”

  I wait a decent interval. “Nobody I can think of.”

  “I’m told that your daughter is an artist, Ms. Cutter.”

  “Molly? My Molly?” A cold stab. Was I in fact followed to Rhode Island? Have they probed my family background? Hugh Lee’s bright blue eyes don’t leave my face, as if he scans every feature, every muscle and reflex. “Molly is a painter,” I say. “Mostly she sculpts. Nothing that’s Asian. Surely you don’t think my daughter…”

  Lee gives me a waxy smile. “Ms. Cutter, we must consider every possibility. Let’s talk for a moment about the language itself. It’s fascinating. Chinese uses about four hundred sounds. Did you know that?”

  “No.”

  “The trick is in the pitch and tone. And context.”

  I look to Maglia for some sort of support. He studies his lacquered nails. “Mr. Lee, I told you, I never studied Chinese.”

  “Well, here’s a linguistic factoid for you: a simple word like ‘ma’ can have several meanings, such as horse or hemp or scold. Did you know that, Ed?”

  Maglia says no, he didn’t know.

  I’m numb and chilled. This diversion doesn’t fool me for a minute. Lee implies that my door was marked by someone I know. He drags Molly in, and so far says nothing about my door.

  His eyes seem fixed on my face, as if
he’s testing me. I say, “This is interesting, Mr. Lee, but I know no one who speaks or writes Chinese. Surely we’re here to discuss the written form, the calligraphy.”

  “You mean the characters, the ideographs.”

  “I do. And perhaps you could explain exactly what a forensic linguist does.” I point at the hideous photographs. “These blood marks on my door appeared after the murder of my upstairs tenant. I’m very worried. What do they mean? I need a translation.”

  “A fair request, Ms. Cutter. First, about my background as linguist, I come from generations of missionaries. We hail from Kansas and Idaho, but my great-great-grandfather was in China during the Boxer Rebellion. As for meaning, why do you think these marks mean anything?”

  “Because they’re deliberate.” He exchanges glances with Maglia, as if I’m underage. “Well, aren’t they?”

  Arms folded, he bends forward. “Ms. Cutter, you know about nonsense syllables?”

  “Of course.”

  “They can appear in any language. English has no monopoly on nonsense syllables. Which makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  Treated like a grade-schooler, I murmur, “Yes, it does.”

  “Or take jazz, the scat singing?”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with—”

  “It may quack like a Beijing duck, but in fact, it’s not. It’s nonsense.”

  “You’re saying these markings mean nothing?”

  “I’m saying that Detective Maglia is doing you a great big favor to seek to have these photographs properly examined. Yes, they seem to be Mandarin characters. But actually they’re caricatures. Your tenant’s death is terrible, but for your peace of mind, you can forget about these.” He gives the photos a dismissive wave. “Don’t give them another thought. They’re meaningless.”

  I don’t believe him for one minute. Whatever the door markings mean, he won’t tell me. It’s his and Maglia’s secret. I’m summoned here only to be looked over, to be given an ad hoc lie detector test with those sky-blue eyes. Between Hugh Lee and Maglia, I’m out in the cold as the days get short and winter looms.

  Well, I can play my game too. “Oh, Mr. Lee, I’m so relieved. For all I know, those marks could mean anything. Why, they could mean… I don’t know, vegetables or fruit, let’s say a pineapple. Do you know that the pineapple is a traditional symbol of welcome? Wouldn’t it be ironic if the Chinese character for welcome were written on my door in blood?”

  His eyes narrow just a little, and his corn-fed grin looks set in concrete. “Bore-le-war,” he says. “That’s Mandarin for pineapple, b-o-l-u-o. You might enjoy a language class, Ms. Cutter. It might turn a worry into a nice hobby. We thank you for your time this morning. May our paths cross again one day.”

  May they not. It takes everything to shake both men’s outstretched hands and exit the precinct house. There’s no sign of Devaney, but I can’t hang around like a groupie, so I call from the nearest corner and leave him a message. I also try my daughter, whose phone is off, though Tom Chou is more crucial now than ever. It’s 11:22 a.m. My next stop is a bookstore on Tremont where I buy a Chinese dictionary and a Spanish phrase book, then take the T to Copley and walk back to Barlow Square as the air stays in the low forties.

  As always, I scan the street and town house for a mental all clear, then head inside, grab a bite, and change into a sweater and jeans. Molly phones to say she hasn’t reached Chou. My Realtor friend, Meg Givens, says she has a few prospects for my upstairs sublet and wants to schedule showings. Good.

  It’s after 1:00 p.m., and I’m planning my call to Steven’s former employer, Corsair Financial. Access to the Vogler family might be a long shot, but Crystal’s tale raises huge questions. Am I cynical, or is the story of the kid plucked from poverty simply too good to be true? Kidnap or rescue, Steven’s story demands a closer look, especially since he worked for the family that “saved” his life before his murder. I pick up the phone. “Two computers that have been found in the late Steven Damelin’s apartment may in fact belong to Corsair Financial,” I say minutes later to a creamy-voiced Ms. Kline in Human Relations. Technically this is true.

  She replies that Corsair Financial believes it has all of the late Mr. Damelin’s computer records. She hastens to assure me the firm is cooperating fully with the investigation.

  As am I, I say. Here goes the lie. “But as Steven Damelin’s landlady, I’m nervous because the laptop and desktop computers I just discovered in his apartment were overlooked by the police. Also some disks.”

  Ms. Kline answers in a tone of forced neutrality that Corsair’s internal systems are state-of-the-art. Do I detect an undercurrent of alarm? Push it, Reggie.

  “Maybe I’m not being clear, Ms. Kline. You see, Steven Damelin’s apartment contains computers that the police missed in their search. My first impulse was to contact the detectives, but as an investor, I’m mindful of business priorities. I thought to myself, a firm’s business data is crucial. So I decided first to contact Corsair Financial.”

  Pause a moment to let this lie sink in. “Ms. Kline, I hope you understand the position this puts me in. If Corsair isn’t interested, then, of course, I’ll notify the police without delay. However, if Corsair is interested in retrieval of the equipment, I’ll need to speak with a high-ranking executive as soon as possible. I believe that would be Mr. Vogler.”

  She burbles about Mr. Vogler traveling and unavailable. I reply that my deadline is the close of the business day tomorrow. End of call. The timer is set. Cross my fingers.

  I then put my one snapshot and tissue paper tracing of the bloody door markings on the kitchen table beside the English-Chinese dictionary, which is opened to the page with the character for pineapple.

  The comparison ought to be simple: do they match—yes or no? Close-up, however, the images look alike, then different, then alike. They’re like piles of tiny matchsticks. If you think it’s simple, try it.

  I flip back to the word “murder” just to see. But actually “pineapple” looks rather like “murder.” In fact, of the twenty characters denoting murder, at least four look to me quite like “pineapple.” Could Hugh Lee be telling the truth that my door marks are meaningless? Or is the bottom line this: Hugh Lee reads Chinese. To Reggie Cutter, it could pass for cuneiform.

  It’s 1:45 p.m. when I get the Lava lamp from the basement and hit the Jamaicaway, goaded by the caustic voice of Matt Kitchel of the Apollo Club.

  No, I won’t directly confront the volatile Luis Diaz. Mainly this is afternoon surveillance. The lamp, however, might be useful. I tuck the Spanish phrase book in my purse like a passport.

  I’ll need it. Mozart Street, the address Rev. Gail Welch gave me, rings with the language I skipped in school. There’s a Baptist church, a basketball court, tot lot, and spray fountain closed for the winter though teeming with squealing kids. A travel agency sign reads “Viaje a Santo Domingo con Sierra Travel.” Luis’s block features duplexes and triple-deckers, all apartments. Nobody in his building goes in or out. In the car, I sit and wait. Mozart Street feels sleepy. Siesta time? The Lava lamp is in the trunk.

  “Hola. Me presento: me llamo Señorita Reggie Cutter.” This is my phonetic opening to a woman in flamingo pants, platforms, and a stretchy V-neck wrap top with pink hibiscus. She’s somewhere in her thirties. Minutes ago, I got out of my car, went to the front porch of the triple-decker, and called out, “Hola, hola.” She appeared at the doorway. Of the six mailboxes on the porch, not one says “Diaz.” My phrase book is ready. “Estoy buscando Luis Díaz.” Thick with mascara, her dark eyes show no sign of comprehension.

  Or is it no sign of a willingness to talk to me, Ms. Gringa? I fan the phrase book pages. “¿Conocer Luis Díaz? She looks blank. Could his name trigger the passivity of someone wanting to avoid trouble?

  Flip to another page. “¿Sabe donde puedo encontrar Luis Díaz en el bloque de apartamentos?” She shrugs, shakes her head no.

  “¿Habla inglés?”

 
“No.” A sloe-eyed no, but no it is.

  Mumbling gracias, I retreat as two voices deep in the stairwells of the triple-decker erupt in call-and-response Spanish. I’m almost at my car when down the sidewalk toward me come three Latino young men in black. Is Luis one of them? I step aside.

  Another threesome comes up from behind, as if cued, muscles like ropes. One wears a wife-beater T-shirt in the forty-degree weather. Behind dark glasses, they suck toothpicks and stare. One of them uses his cell phone. He’s bulkier than the other two. Is he Luis?

  Suppose they’re gang members. Crips, Bloods. Are all six closing in? There’s not a cop in sight. My car is just a half-block down. Forward in a fast, hard walk along the curb, I pass a TV cable van, the technician nowhere in sight. I walk faster. They do too. I clear the van just as one of them from behind taps my shoulder.

  “Hey.”

  Still no technician, but I’m almost to my VW.

  “Hey.”

  Tap again. If it’s robbery and assault, I’m about to be the gringa victim. Give up your purse, Reggie. Let them have it.

  “Hey, lady, this is yours?”

  He looms, a hulk holding a little book. A Spanish phrase book, it’s just like mine.

  It is mine.

  “You drop this, yes?”

  I reach. “Yes. Yes, thank you. Gracias.” He grunts. Breathless, embarrassed, I clutch the book. Is this Luis? Tongue-tied, I can’t ask. The Spanish is hopeless, and English a whiteout in my brain. Laughing, they wave me off. The moment is lost.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It’s after 2:00 p.m. Tuesday. It’s crunch time for “Ticked Off,” and I’m shuffling paragraphs when the phone rings, a familiar creamy voice that asks, “Regina Cutter? This is Cindy Kline of Corsair Financial. Hold, please, for Mr. Leonard Vogler.”

  The man himself. Bull’s-eye.

  “Vogler here.”

  The voice has the remote sound of a speakerphone in a large space, perhaps a hotel suite far from Boston. “Mr. Vogler, this is Regina Cutter. Many thanks for the call, especially at this dreadful time.” I’m using my Junior League voice. “Mr. Vogler, I only met Steven Damelin shortly before his death, but as his landlady, I’m disposing of property in his apartment. Some of it may belong to Corsair Financial. I trust Ms. Kline mentioned my particular discovery of computers that the police somehow overlooked.”