“Yeah, well, that’s all he has. Because the autopsy photos are pretty damn convincing.” Aguilar looked hard at her. “Is there anything else I should know about you, Dr. Isles?”
“Other than the fact my mother’s a convicted murderer and I torture kittens for fun?”
“I’m not laughing.”
“You said it earlier. I’m not the one on trial.”
“No, but they’ll try to make it about you. Whether you hate cops. Whether you have a hidden agenda. We could lose this case if that jury thinks you’re not on the level. So tell me if there’s anything else they might bring up. Any secrets that you haven’t mentioned to me.”
Maura considered the private embarrassments that she guarded. The illicit affair that she’d just ended. Her family’s history of violence. “Everyone has secrets,” she said. “Mine aren’t relevant.”
“Let’s hope not,” said Aguilar.
THREE
Wherever you looked in Boston’s Chinatown, there were ghosts. They haunted quiet Tai Tung Village as well as garish Beach Street, hovered along Ping On Alley and flitted down the dark lane behind Oxford Place. Ghosts were everywhere on these streets. That, at least, was tour guide Billy Foo’s story, and he was sticking to it. Whether he himself believed in ghosts hardly mattered; his job was to convince the tourists that these streets were haunted by spirits. People wanted to believe in ghosts; that’s why so many of them were willing to pony up fifteen bucks apiece to stand shivering on the corner of Beach and Oxford and listen to Billy’s gory tales of murder. Tonight, an auspicious thirteen of them had signed up for the late-night Chinatown Ghost Tour, including a pair of bratty ten-year-old twins who should have been put to bed three hours ago. But when you need the money, you don’t turn away paying guests, even bratty little boys. Billy was a theater major with no job prospects on the horizon, and tonight’s haul was a cool $195, plus tips. Not a bad payday for two hours of telling tall tales, even if it came with the humiliation of wearing a satin mandarin robe and a fake pigtail.
Billy cleared his throat and held up his arms, drawing on skills he’d learned from six semesters of theater classes to get their attention. “The year is 1907! August second, a warm Friday evening.” His voice, deep and ominous, rose above the distracting sound of traffic. Like Death singling out his next victim, Billy pointed across the street. “There, in the square known as Oxford Place, beats the heart of Boston’s Chinese quarter. Walk with me now, as we step back into an era when these streets teemed with immigrants. When the steamy night smelled of sweating bodies and strange spices. Come back to a night when murder was in the air!” With a dramatic wave, he beckoned the group to follow him to Oxford Place, where they all moved in closer to listen. Gazing at their attentive faces, he thought: Now it’s time to enchant them, time to weave a spell as only a fine actor can. He spread his arms, and the sleeves of his mandarin robe flapped like satin wings as he took in a breath to speak.
“Mahhhh-mee!” one of the brats whined. “He’s kicking me!”
“Stop it, Michael,” the mother snapped. “You stop it right this minute.”
“I didn’t do anything!”
“You’re annoying your brother.”
“Well, he’s annoying me.”
“Do you boys want to go back to the hotel? Do you?”
Oh Lord, please go back to your hotel, thought Billy. But the two brothers just stood glowering at each other, arms crossed, refusing to be entertained.
“As I was saying,” continued Billy. But the interruption had ruined his concentration, and he could almost hear the pffft! of the dramatic tension leaking away like air from a balloon with a hole in it. Gritting his teeth, he continued.
“It was a steamy night in August. In this square, after a long day’s work in their laundries and grocery stores, a crowd of Chinamen sat resting.” He hated that word Chinamen, but forced himself to say it anyway, to evoke an era when newspapers regularly referred to furtive and sinister Orientals. When even Time magazine had seen fit to describe malice palely half-smiling from faces as yellow as telegraph blanks. An era when Billy Foo, a Chinese American, would have found no jobs open to him except as laundryman or cook or laborer.
“Here in this square, a battle is about to erupt,” said Billy. “A battle between two rival Chinese clans, the On Leongs and the Hip Sings. A battle that will leave this square awash in blood …
“Someone lights a firecracker. Suddenly the night explodes with gunfire! Scores of Chinamen flee in terror! But some do not run fast enough, and when the bullets fall silent, five men lie dead or dying. They are just the latest casualties in the bloody and infamous tong wars …”
“Mommy, can we go now?”
“Shhhh. Listen to the man’s story.”
“But he’s borrrring.”
Billy paused, hands twitching to grab the little brat around the throat. He shot the boy a poison glance. The unimpressed kid just shrugged.
“On foggy nights like this one,” Billy said through clenched teeth, “you can sometimes hear the distant sound of those firecrackers. You can see shadowy figures flit past in mortal terror, forever desperate to escape the bullets that flew that night!” Billy turned, waving an arm. “Now follow me across Beach Street. To another place where ghosts dwell.”
“Mommy. Mommy!”
Billy ignored the little turd and led the group across the street. Keep smiling, keep up the patter. It’s all about the tips. He had to maintain the energy for only another hour. First they’d head to Knapp Street for the next stop. Then it was on to Tyler Street and the gambling parlor where five men were massacred in ’91. In Chinatown, there were murder sites galore.
He led the group down Knapp Street. It was scarcely more than an alley, poorly lit and little traveled. As they left behind the lights and traffic of Beach Street, the temperature suddenly seemed to plummet. Shivering, Billy wrapped his mandarin robe tighter. He had noticed this disturbing phenomenon before, whenever he ventured down this section of Knapp. Even on warm summer nights, he always felt cold here, as if a chill had long ago settled into the alley, never to dissipate. His tour group seemed to notice it as well and he heard jackets zip up, saw gloves emerge from pockets. They fell silent, their footsteps echoing off the buildings that loomed on either side. Even the two brats were quiet, as if they sensed that the air was different. That something lingered here, something that devoured all laughter and joy.
Billy came to a halt outside the abandoned building, where a locked gate covered the door and steel bars secured the ground-floor windows. A rusting fire escape clambered up to the third and fourth floors, where every window was boarded up tight, as if to hold prisoner something that lurked inside. His group huddled closer together, seeking escape from the chill. Or was it something else they sensed in this alley, something that made them draw into a tight circle as if for protection?
“Welcome to the setting of one of Chinatown’s most grisly crimes,” said Billy. “The sign on the building is now gone, but nineteen years ago, behind these barred windows, was a little Chinese seafood restaurant called the Red Phoenix. It was a modest establishment, just eight tables inside, but known for its fresh shellfish. It was late on March thirtieth, a damp and cold night. A night like this one, when the normally bustling streets of Chinatown were strangely quiet. Inside the Red Phoenix, only two employees were at work: the waiter, Jimmy Fang. And the cook, an illegal immigrant from China named Wu Weimin. Three customers came to eat that night—a night that would be their last. Because in the kitchen, something was very wrong. We’ll never know what made the cook snap and go berserk. Maybe it was the long, hard hours he worked. Or the heartbreak of living as a stranger in a strange land.”
Billy paused. His voice dropped to a chilling whisper. “Or maybe it was some alien force that took hold of him, some evil that possessed him. An evil that made him pull out a gun. Made him storm into the dining room. An evil that still lingers here, on this dark street. All we know is that
he pointed his gun and he …” Billy stopped.
“And he what?” someone prompted anxiously.
But Billy’s attention was fixed overhead, his gaze riveted to the roof, where he swore something had just moved. It was merely a flutter of black on black, like the wing of a giant bird flapping against the sky. He strained to catch another glimpse of it, but all he saw now was the skeletal outline of the fire escape hugging the wall.
“Then what happened?” one of the brats demanded.
Billy looked at the thirteen faces staring at him expectantly and tried to remember where he’d left off. But he was still rattled by whatever had flitted against the sky. All at once, he was desperate to get out of that dark alley and flee this building. So desperate that it took every ounce of willpower not to run back toward Beach Street. Toward the lights. He took a deep breath and blurted: “The cook shot them. He shot them all. And then he killed himself.”
With that, Billy turned and quickly waved them on, leading them away from that blighted building with its ghosts and its echoes of horror. Harrison Avenue was a block ahead, its lights and traffic beckoning warmly. A place for the living, not the dead. He was walking so quickly that his group fell behind, but he could not shake off the sense of menace that seemed to coil ever tighter around them. A sense that something was watching them. Watching him.
A woman’s loud shriek made him spin around, heart hammering. Then the group suddenly erupted in noisy laughter, and one of the men said, “Hey, nice prop! Do you use it on all your tours?”
“What?” said Billy.
“Scared the crap out of us! Looks pretty damn realistic.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Billy.
The man pointed at what he assumed was part of the performance. “Hey, kid, show him what you found.”
“I found it over there, by the trash bin,” said one of the brats, holding up his discovery. “Ewww. It even feels real. Gross!”
Billy took a few steps closer and suddenly found he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. He froze, staring at the object the boy was holding. He saw inky droplets trickle down and spatter the boy’s jacket, but the boy didn’t seem to notice it.
It was the boy’s mother who started screaming first. Then the others joined in, shrieking, backing away. The baffled boy just stood there holding up his prize as blood dripped, dripped onto his sleeve.
FOUR
“I had dinner there just last Saturday,” said Detective Barry Frost as they drove toward Chinatown. “I took Liz to see the ballet at the Wang Theater. She loves ballet, but man, I just don’t get it. I fell asleep halfway through. Afterward, we walked over to the Ocean City restaurant for dinner.”
It was two AM, way too early in the morning for anyone to be so damn chatty, but Detective Jane Rizzoli let her partner babble on about his latest date as she focused on driving. To her tired eyes, every streetlamp seemed too bright, every passing headlight an assault on her retinas. An hour ago, she’d been warmly cocooned in bed with her husband; now she was trying to shake herself awake as she navigated traffic that had inexplicably slowed to a stall and crawl at an hour when sane citizens should be home sleeping.
“You ever eat there?” Frost asked.
“What?”
“Ocean City restaurant. Liz ordered these great clams with garlic and black bean sauce. It’s making me hungry just thinking about it. I can’t wait to go back for more.”
“Who’s Liz?” said Jane.
“I told you about her last week. We met at the health club.”
“I thought you were seeing someone named Muffy.”
“Maggie.” He shrugged. “That didn’t work out.”
“Neither did the one before her. Whatever her name was.”
“Hey, I’m still trying to figure out what I want in a woman, you know? It’s been, like, forever since I was on the market. Man, I had no idea there were so many single girls around.”
“Women.”
He sighed. “Yeah, yeah. Alice used to pound that into my head. You’re supposed to say women now.”
Jane braked at a red light and glanced at him. “You and Alice talk very much these days?”
“What’s there to talk about?”
“Ten years of marriage, maybe?”
He looked out the window at nothing in particular. “There’s nothing else to say. She’s moved on.”
But Frost hasn’t, thought Jane. Eight months ago, his wife, Alice, had moved out of their home. Ever since, Jane had been subjected to a chronicle of Frost’s frantic but joyless adventures with women. There’d been the buxom blonde who told him she was wearing no underwear. The frighteningly athletic librarian with the well-thumbed copy of the Kama Sutra. The fresh-faced Quaker who drank him under the table. He related all these tales with a mingling of bewilderment and wonder, but it was sadness, more than anything else, that she saw in his eyes these days. By no means was he a bad catch. He was lean and fit and good-looking in a bland sort of way, so dating should be easier for him than it had been.
But he still misses Alice.
They turned onto Beach Street, driving into the heart of Chinatown, and were nearly blinded by the flashing rack lights of a Boston PD cruiser. She pulled up behind the cruiser and they stepped out, into the bone-chilling dampness of a spring night. Despite the ungodly hour, there were several onlookers gathered on the sidewalk, and Jane heard murmurs in both Chinese and English, everyone no doubt posing the universal question: Does anyone know what’s going on?
She and Frost walked down Knapp Street and ducked under the strand of police tape, where a patrolman stood guard. “Detectives Rizzoli and Frost, homicide,” she announced.
“It’s over there” was the cop’s terse response. He pointed down the alley at a dumpster, where another cop stood guard.
As Jane and Frost approached, she realized that it wasn’t the dumpster the cop was guarding, but something lying on the pavement. She halted, staring down at a severed right hand.
“Whoa,” said Frost.
The cop laughed. “That was my reaction exactly.”
“Who found it?”
“Folks on the Chinatown Ghost Tour. Some kid in the group picked it up thinking it was fake. It was fresh enough to still be dripping blood. Soon as he realized it was real, he dropped it right where it is now. Guess they never expected that on the tour.”
“Where are these tourists now?”
“They were pretty freaked out. They all insisted on going back to their hotels, but I got names and contact info. The tour guide’s some local Chinese kid, says he’s happy to talk to you whenever you want. No one saw anything except the hand. They called nine one one, and dispatch thought it was a practical joke. It took us a while to respond ’cause we got held up dealing with some rowdies over in Charlestown.”
Jane crouched down and shone her flashlight on the hand. It was a startlingly clean amputation, the severed end crusted over with dried blood. The hand appeared to be a woman’s, with pale and slender fingers and a disconcertingly elegant manicure. No ring, no watch. “It was just lying here on the ground?”
“Yeah. Fresh meat like that, rats’d be at it pretty quick.”
“No nibbles that I can see. Hasn’t been here long.”
“Oh, I spotted something else.” The cop aimed his flashlight and the beam landed on a dull gray object lying a few yards away.
Frost moved in for a closer inspection. “This is a Heckler and Koch. Expensive,” he said. He glanced at Jane. “It’s got a suppressor.”
“Did any of the tourists touch the gun?” asked Jane.
“No one touched the gun,” the cop said. “They never saw it.”
“So we’ve got a silenced automatic and a freshly severed right hand,” said Jane. “Who wants to bet they go together?”
“This is a really nice piece,” said Frost, still admiring the weapon. “Can’t imagine anyone tossing something like this.”
Jane rose to her feet a
nd looked at the dumpster. “Have you checked in there for the rest of the body?”
“No, ma’am. I figured a severed hand was more than enough to call you folks straight in. Didn’t want to contaminate anything before you got here.”
She pulled a pair of gloves out of her pocket. As she snapped them on, she felt her heart starting to thump hard, in anticipation of what she’d find. Together she and Frost lifted the lid, and the stench of rotting seafood rose up and smacked them in the face. Battling nausea, she stared down at crushed cardboard boxes and a bulging black garbage bag. She and Frost looked at each other.
“You wanna do the honors?” he asked.
She reached in, tugged on the bag, and immediately knew that it didn’t contain a corpse. It wasn’t heavy enough. Grimacing at the smell, she untied the bag and looked inside. Saw shrimp and crab shells.
They both backed away, and the dumpster lid swung shut with a thunderous clang.
“No one at home?” the cop asked.
“Not in there.” Jane looked down at the severed hand. “So where’s the rest of her?”
“Maybe someone’s scattering parts all over town,” said Frost.
The cop laughed. “Or maybe one of these Chinese restaurants cooked her up and served her in a nice stew.”
Jane looked at Frost. “Good thing you ordered the clams.”
“We did a walk-around already,” the patrolman said. “Didn’t find anything.”
“Still, I think we’ll take a stroll around the block ourselves,” said Jane.
Together, she and Frost moved slowly along Knapp Street, their flashlights cutting through the shadows. They saw shards from broken bottles, scraps of paper, cigarette butts. No body parts. The buildings rising on either side had dark windows, but she wondered if eyes were watching from those unlit rooms above, tracking their progress down the silent passage. They would have to make this same inspection again by daylight, but she did not want to miss any time-sensitive clues. So she and Frost inched their way up the alley to another strand of police tape blocking off access from Harrison Avenue. Here were sidewalks and streetlights and traffic. Yet Jane and Frost continued their painstaking circle around the block, from Harrison to Beach Street, gazes sweeping the ground. By the time they’d finished their circuit and were back at the dumpster, the crime scene unit had arrived.
The Rizzoli & Isles Series 11-Book Bundle Page 248