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.”
He gives a chastened nod. “I won’t. Not now. And I’m sorry, Mrs. Fang, if I in any way sounded disrespectful of your husband.” His apology sounds utterly sincere; it is yet another reason I find this man so surprising.
I set down my chopsticks and regard him. Now that I have eaten, I finally feel able to address the subject that has been hanging over our meal. The noisy family at the next table rises to leave with a squeal of chair legs and a noisy chorus of Cantonese. When they walk out the door, the room suddenly seems silent in their absence.
“You came to ask about my daughter. Why?”
He takes a moment to answer, wiping his hands and neatly folding his napkin. “Have you ever heard the name Charlotte Dion?”
I nod. “She was the daughter of Dina Mallory.”
“Are you aware of what happened to Charlotte?”
“Detective Frost,” I say, sighing, “I was forced to live through those events, so they are embedded here, forever.” I touch my head. “I know Mrs. Mallory was married before, to a man named Patrick Dion, and they had a daughter named Charlotte. A few weeks after the shooting, Charlotte disappeared. Yes, I know about all the victims and their families, because I’m one of them.” I look down at my empty plate, glistening with grease. “I’ve never met Mr. Dion, but after his daughter vanished, I wrote him a condolence card. I don’t know if he still cared about his ex-wife, or if he mourned her death. But I do know what it feels like to lose a child. I told him how sorry I was. I told him I understood his pain. He never wrote back.” I look up at Frost again. “So yes. I know why you’re asking about Charlotte. You’re wondering the same thing everyone else did. The same thing I’ve wondered. How is it possible for two families to be so cursed? First my Laura disappears, and then two years later, his Charlotte. Our families linked by both the Red Phoenix and the loss of our daughters. You wouldn’t be the first policeman to ask me about it.”
“Detective Buckholz did, I assume.”
I nod. “When Charlotte vanished, he came to see me. To ask if the two girls might have known each other. Charlotte’s father is very wealthy, so of course she received a great deal of attention. Far more attention than my Laura ever received.”
“In his report, Buckholz wrote that both Laura and Charlotte studied classical music.”
“My daughter played the violin.”
“And Charlotte played the viola in her school orchestra. Is there any chance they met? At a music workshop, maybe?”
I shake my head. “I’ve already gone over this with the police, again and again. Except for music, the girls had nothing in common. Charlotte went to a private school. And we live here, in Chinatown.” My voice trails off and I focus on the next table, where a Chinese couple sits with their young children. In the high chair is a little girl, her hair done up in tiny pigtails that stick up like spiky devil horns. The way I used to arrange Laura’s hair when she was three years old.
The waitress brings the check to our table. I reach for it, but Frost snatches it up first.
“Please,” he says. “Let me.”
“The elder should always pay for dinner.”
“That is the last word I’d use to describe you, Mrs. Fang. Besides, I ate ninety percent of this meal.” He sets cash on the table. “Let me give you a ride home.”
“I live only a few blocks from here, in Tai Tung Village. It’s easier for me to walk.”
“Then I’ll walk with you. Just to be on the safe side.”
“Is this for your protection, or for mine?” I ask as I reach for my sword, which has been hanging over the chair.
He looks at Zheng Yi and laughs. “I forgot that you’re already armed and dangerous.”
“So there’s no need to walk me home.”
“Please. I’d feel better if I did.”
It is still drizzling when we step outside, and after the steamy heat of the restaurant it’s a relief to breathe in the cool air. The mist sparkles in his hair and glazes his skin, and despite the chill I feel unexpected warmth in my cheeks. He has paid for dinner and now he insists on walking me home. It’s been a long time since a man has been so solicitous toward me, and I don’t know whether to feel flattered or irritated that he considers me so vulnerable.
We walk south on Tyler Street, toward the old enclave of Tai Tung Village, moving into a part of Chinatown that is quieter, emptier. Here there are no tourists, just tired buildings that house dusty shops on the ground floors, all barricaded at this hour behind locked gates. While in the brightly lit restaurant, I could let down my guard. Now I feel exposed, even though an armed detective is at my side. The lights fade behind us and the shadows thicken. I am aware of my own heartbeat and the sigh of air flowing in and out of my lungs. The chant of the saber flows through my mind, words that both calm me and prepare me for whatever may come.
Green dragon emerges from the water.
The wind blows the flowers.
White clouds move overhead.
Black tiger searches the mountain.
My hand moves to the pommel of my sword, where it rests in readiness. We pass through darkness and light and darkness again, and as my senses sharpen, the night itself seems to tremble.
Beat the grass to search for the snake on the left.
Beat the grass to search for the snake on the right.
The darkness comes alive. Everywhere there is movement. A rat skittering in the alley. The drip of water trickling from a rain gutter. I see it all, hear it all. The man beside me is oblivious, believing that it is his presence that keeps me safe. Never imagining that perhaps it is the other way around.
We turn onto Hudson Street and arrive at my modest row house, which has its own ground-floor entrance. As I pull out my keys, he lingers beneath the yellow glow of the porch light where insects buzz and tick against the bulb. He is a gentleman to the end, waiting until I am safely inside.
“Thank you for dinner and the armed escort,” I say with a smile.
“We don’t really know what’s going on yet. So do be careful.”
“Good night.” I insert my key into the lock and suddenly go very still. It’s my sharp intake of breath that alerts him.
“What is it?”
“It isn’t locked,” I whisper. The door hangs ajar. Already Zheng Yi is out of the scabbard and in my hand; I do not even remember pulling her free. My heart is thumping as I give the door a shove with my foot. It swings all the way open and I see only darkness bey
ond. I step forward, but Detective Frost pulls me back.
“Wait here,” he orders. Weapon drawn, he steps inside and flips on the light switch.
From the doorway I watch as he moves through my modest home, past the brown sofa, the striped armchair that James and I bought so many years ago when we first arrived from Taiwan. Furniture that I could never bear to replace, because my husband and my daughter once sat in them. Even in furniture, beloved spirits still linger. As Frost heads to the kitchen, I walk into the middle of the living room and stand very still, inhaling the air, scanning the room. My gaze halts on the bookcase. On the empty picture frame. I feel a thrill of fear.
Someone has been here.
From the kitchen, Frost says: “Does it look okay to you?”
I don’t answer but move toward the stairs.
“Iris, wait,” he says.
Already I’m darting up the steps, moving silently. It’s my heartbeat that thunders. It sends blood rushing to limbs, to muscles. I grip my sword with both hands as I step toward my bedroom door.
Scatter the clouds and see the sun.
I sniff and know at once that the intruder has been in this room, has left his scent of aggression. The air is foul with the smell, and for a few heartbeats I cannot bring myself to advance and meet the enemy. I hear Detective Frost come running up the stairs. He defends my back, but it’s what waits ahead that terrifies me.
Use the seven stars to ride the tiger.
I step across the threshold just as Frost turns on the light. The room comes into sudden, shocking focus. The missing photograph is on my pillow, fixed there by a knife blade. Only when I hear Frost punching numbers into his cell phone do I turn to look at him.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Calling my partner. She needs to know about this.”
“Don’t call her. Please. You don’t know anything about this.”
He looks up at me, his gaze suddenly focused with an intensity that makes me realize I have underestimated him. “Do you?”
FOURTEEN
Jane stood in Iris Fang’s bedroom, staring at the photograph that had been stabbed through by a butcher knife. It was a picture of a much younger Iris, her face aglow and smiling as she held an infant in her arms.
“She says the knife is from her own kitchen,” said Frost. “And the baby is her daughter, Laura. That photo is supposed to be in a frame downstairs, on the bookcase. Whoever broke in deliberately took it out of the frame and brought it upstairs, where she certainly couldn’t miss seeing it.”
“Or the message. Stabbing a knife in her pillow sure as hell isn’t wishing her sweet dreams. What is this all about?”
“She doesn’t know.” He dropped his voice so Iris couldn’t hear him from downstairs. “At least, that’s what she says.”
“You think she’s not being straight with us?”
“I don’t know. The thing is …”
“What?”
His voice dropped even lower. “She didn’t want me to call you. In fact, she asked me to forget the whole thing. That doesn’t make sense to me.”
Or me either, thought Jane, frowning at the knife, which had been plunged hilt-deep, crushing the picture against the linen. It was an act of sheer rage, meant to terrify. “Anyone else would be screaming for police protection.”
“She insists she doesn’t need it. Says she’s not afraid.”
“Are we sure someone else was actually in here?”
“What are you implying?”
“She could have done this herself. Taken a knife from her own kitchen.”
“Why would she?”
“It would explain why she’s not scared.”
“That’s not how it happened.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I was right here when she found it.”
Jane turned to him. “You came up to her bedroom?”
“Don’t look at me like that. I walked her home, that’s all. We noticed her front door was open, so I came in to check the place.”
“Okay.”
“That’s all it was!”
Then why do you look so guilty? She stared down at the mutilated photo. “If I came home and found something like this, it would scare the hell out of me. So why doesn’t she want us to look into it?”
“It could be just a cultural thing about the police. Tam says that folks in Chinatown are leery of us.”
“I’d be a lot more leery of whoever did this.” Jane turned to the door. “Let’s have a talk with Mrs. Fang.”
Downstairs she found Iris seated on the faded brown sofa, looking far too calm for a woman whose home had just been violated. Detective Tam was pacing nearby, cell phone pressed to his ear. He glanced up at Jane with a look of I don’t know what’s going on here, either.
Jane sat down across from Iris and just studied her for a moment without saying a word. The woman stared straight back at her, as though understanding that this was a test, and she had already girded herself for the challenge. It was not the gaze of a victim.
“What do you think is going on, Mrs. Fang?” Jane said.
“I don’t know.”
“Has your home been broken into before?”
“No.”
“How long have you lived in this building?”
“Almost thirty-five years. Since my husband and I immigrated to this country.”
“Is there anyone you know who’d do this? Maybe some man you’ve been dating, someone who’s angry that you rejected him?”
“No.” She hadn’t paused to even think about it. As if that answer was the only one she was prepared to give. “There is no man. And there’s no need for the police to be involved.”
“Someone breaks into your home. Someone stabs a butcher knife through your photo and leaves it on your pillow. The message couldn’t be clearer. Who’s threatening you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yet you don’t want us to look into it.”
The woman stared back, displaying no fear. It was like looking into pools of black water, revealing nothing at all. Jane leaned back and let a moment pass. She saw Tam and Frost standing on the periphery, intently following their conversation. Three sets of eyes were focused on Iris, and the silence stretched on, yet the woman’s composure did not crack.
Time for a new approach.
“I had an interesting conversation today,” said Jane. “With Patrick Dion, the ex-husband of one of the Red Phoenix victims. He tells me that every year in March, you’ve mailed notes to him and the other families.”
“I’ve sent no one any notes.”
“For the past seven years, they’ve been getting them. Always on the anniversary of the Red Phoenix massacre. The families believe you’re doing it. Sending them copies of their loved ones’ obituaries. Trying to bring back the bad memories.”
“Bring back the memories?” Iris stiffened. “What kind of families are these, needing to be reminded?” For the first time, agitation shook her voice, made her hands tremble. “I live with my memories. They never leave me, not even when I sleep.”
“Have you received any notes?”
“No. But then, no one needs to remind me. Of all the families, it seems I’m the only one who’s asked questions. Demanded answers.”
“If you aren’t sending them, do you know who might be?”
“Maybe it’s someone who believes the truth has been suppressed.”
“Like you.”
“But I’m not afraid to say it.”
“And in a very public way. We know you placed the ad in the Globe last month.”
“If your husband were murdered, and you knew the killer was never punished, would you do any less? No matter how many years went by?”
A moment passed, the two women staring at each other. Jane imagined herself waking up every morning in this shabby home, imagined living with unspeakable grief, obsessing over happiness lost. Searching for reasons, for any explanation for her ruined life. Sittin
g in this room, on this threadbare armchair, she felt despair settle on her shoulders, dragging her down, smothering all joy. This is not even my world, she thought. I can go home and kiss my husband. I can hug my daughter and tuck her into bed. But Iris will still be trapped here.
“It’s been nineteen years, Mrs. Fang,” said Jane. “I understand it’s not easy to move on. But the other families want to. Patrick Dion, Mark Mallory—they have no doubt that Wu Weimin was the killer. Maybe it’s time for you to accept what they accepted long ago.”
Iris’s chin lifted and her eyes were hard as flint. “I won’t accept anything less than the truth.”
“How do you know it’s not true? According to the police report, the evidence against Wu Weimin was overwhelming.”
“The police did not know him.”
“Can you be sure you did?”
“Yes, completely. And this is my final chance to make things right.”
Jane frowned at her. “What do you mean, your final chance?”
Iris drew a breath and lifted her head. The look she gave Jane was both dignified and calm. “I am sick.”
The room went silent. That simple statement had stunned them all. Iris sat perfectly composed, staring back at Jane as if daring her to offer any pity.
“I have a chronic form of leukemia,” said Iris. “The doctor tells me I could live another ten years. Or perhaps even twenty years. Some days I feel perfectly well. Other days, I’m so tired I can scarcely lift my head off the pillow. One day, this illness will probably kill me, but I’m not afraid. I merely refuse to die without knowing the truth. Without seeing justice done.” She paused, and the first note of fear slipped into her voice. “I feel time running through my fingers.”
Frost moved behind Iris and placed his hand on her shoulder. It was simply a gesture of sympathy, something anyone might do, but Jane was troubled by that touch, and by the stricken look she saw in his eyes.
“She can’t stay here alone tonight,” Frost said. “It’s not safe.”
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