Socrates walked over to another wall. He examined, with some amusement, the photographs of the Twins. These boys puzzled him. He barely knew them except for what he’d learned years ago from Jade when they were students at Penn State, and what he occasionally now gleaned from comments she sometimes dropped about them.
Socrates counted twelve photos of the Twins on this wall. The boys always appeared together, even in photos taken of them with their father, their stepmother, or with Jade or with their other male siblings. It was as if, like many Twins, Bing-hao and Bing-luc had no separate identities, one from the other.
Socrates eyeballed the Twins’ photographs. Among the twelve was a large black and white image which portrayed the boys when they were seven or eight years old and, according to the caption, had been costumed for a school play. In this photo, young Bing-hao wore a tuxedo with tails, a top hat, a fake handlebar mustache, and a pince-nez. He held a long black Franklin Delano Roosevelt-type cigarette holder in his left hand and stood posed in the lackadaisical manner of a Kurt Weill noir character in a post-World War I Berlin operetta, with one hand on his hip and the other balancing the cigarette holder at his lips. His twin, Bing-luc, was costumed in this same photograph as a young woman, replete with a pillbox hat, a mesh veil that covered his eyes and nose, and an ankle-length ostrich feather boa draped around his neck and over his shoulders.
Socrates looked at his watch again, shook his head and smiled, then walked into the dining room where Jade had set aside a corner table and two converging walls to display photographs and other memorabilia relating to Soong Mai-ling, aka Madam Chiang Kai-shek.
The walls’ array of Madam Chiang photographs consisted of three framed black and white portraits of her: one as a young student at Wellesley College; another of her as a middle aged woman; and, a third as a dowager living near Gracie Square in New York City just before her death in 2003. There also was an 11" x 14" color portrait which Madam Chiang had autographed and given to Jade when Madam Chiang delivered the keynote speech at a Wellesley College Alumni weekend Jade had specifically attended in anticipation of Madam Chiang’s presence. The last photograph in the arrangement consisted of Soong Mai-ling’s wedding portrait taken with her groom, Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek. This photograph had captured Socrates’ imagination when he first saw it in Jade’s dorm room because Jade, using scissors, had carefully cut away Chiang Kai-shek’s image, leaving only his young bride in the slimmed-down, expurgated wedding portrait.
In addition to photos, Jade’s corner display consisted of several framed mementos set up on a small, three-sided boxwood corner table. These consisted of laminated copies of Madam Chiang’s speech to the United States Congress in February 1943, her speech that same week to the students and faculty at Wellesley College, and her speech years later at Wellesley during the Alumni Weekend Jade had attended. Jade also had placed on this table a framed laminated copy of the New York Times obituary published when Madam Chiang died in Manhattan at the age of 105 or 106.
Socrates looked at his watch once more, then looked wistfully at the hall leading to Jade’s bedroom as if his glance over there could draw her out to him. He shrugged and moved on to the last group of photographs, those hanging in the living room.
These pictures depicted Jade with her brothers, others with her father, one with her stepmother, one of Jade alone wearing her cap and gown at Wellesley as she accepted her Master’s degree, and another at Wellesley of Jade accepting her Doctorate degree.
Interesting wall, Socrates thought. I wonder if . . . .
Jade interrupted Socrates’ thoughts by quietly coming up behind him, putting her hands on his hips, and slowly rotating him until he faced her. Then she moved in close and kissed him, running her tongue around the inner border of his lips, holding the kiss as they slowly melded their bodies.
“Ummm,” she said, when they finally broke contact. “How nice that is! You’re definitely a keeper, Socrates Cheng. Let’s put off dinner a while.” She smiled, winked, and led Socrates by his hand to her bedroom.
ACROSS CONNECTICUT AVENUE, squatting on his haunches deep in the shadows of the entryway to Cathedral Park Dry Cleaner, Youngest Brother stared up at the bank of Jade’s five living room windows until, almost one hour later, Jade and Socrates emerged from the building holding hands. They walked south along Connecticut Avenue to Calvert Street, then headed east to Adams’ Morgan, a popular ethnic neighborhood in Washington.
Youngest Brother followed them to Julia’s Empanadas, a Latin American cafe, and again waited in hiding across the street from the restaurant. Two hours later, Youngest Brother followed Jade and Socrates back to Jade’s condo. He again squatted across Connecticut Avenue, shielded now by the cover of night.
Youngest Brother stared up at Jade’s lighted windows for forty-five minutes until the windows went dark. Then he muttered something unintelligible and left.
THE NEXT MORNING on his way home from Jade’s condo Socrates stopped at Trader Joe’s on 25th Street and picked up his week’s groceries. Thirty minutes later he stood by his front door and sorted through his key ring looking for the key to the condo’s standard-issue door lock the apartment had come equipped with and for the other key that opened the heavy duty, pick-proof STRASBURG lock he’d had installed when he moved in.
Socrates unlocked the door and turned the knob with his free hand, nudged the door open with his knee, and headed directly to the kitchen to put away his groceries. When he finished, he walked to his bedroom to undress and shower, unbuttoning his shirt as he moved toward his bedroom.
Socrates stepped into his bedroom, but pulled up short, unwilling to move any farther into the room. He slowly turned his head to confirm what he’d sighted from the corner of his eye.
He found himself staring at a sheet of white letter-size paper that was propped up against the pillows at the base of his bed’s headboard.
He began to sweat. He caught his breath, then began to breathe quickly, too quickly. He was almost panting.
Someone had made it past the doorman downstairs, past his STRASBURG security lock, and into his home.
SOCRATES WAS SHAKEN and angry.
He rushed over to his bed and picked up the paper, but could not read it at first because his hand shook so violently. He inhaled deeply, held his breath briefly, then slowly hissed it out, centering himself.
When he’d calmed, Socrates grasped the note in both hands to steady it, and read the message:
Socrates crumbled the note into a tight ball and squeezed his fist around it. He was furious. He’d been defiled in his own home, rendered vulnerable by the intruder’s entry into his bedroom, by someone who profaned his peace of mind. Socrates again took shallow, but now uncontrolled breaths, rendering him light-headed.
He forced himself to breathe slowly, to pull himself together.
He uncrumbled the note, placed it on his dresser, and ran his palm over its wrinkles, smoothing out the page. He would hold onto the note for now, not toss it into the wastebasket as he almost had.
Whoever had left the note had either bypassed the doorman and electronic security system downstairs or had made it past the entrance door by following an occupant into the building by tailgating.
Socrates hurried downstairs to the building’s front entrance, bypassing the slow-paced elevator by taking the interior fire stairs two steps at a time. He quick-stepped over to the doorman, and said, “George, did you let anyone in this morning or yesterday who might have gone up to my apartment while I was out?”
“No, Sir, no one. Not me. I wouldn’t do that, not without checking with you first.”
“Well somebody got in the building and broke into my apartment,” Socrates said. He could feel his neck growing warm with impatience. He’d never liked this doorman with his pretentious attitude.
“I’d remember if anybody went up to your place, Mr. Cheng. That’s my job. No people from outside gets by here without me knowing who they are and what’s their business.”
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“So you say, George, but someone got by you and I need to know who.” He waited for some response, then said, “It’s important, George.”
“I’m sure it is, Mr. Cheng, to you, Sir.” He touched the bill of his cap with two fingers in a mock salute. “I don’t know nothing else to tell you.” He turned away and headed for the front door.
“Wait a minute, you. Come back here,” Socrates said. “I haven’t finished.”
The doorman turned back toward Socrates and shrugged. “Yes, Sir, Mr. Cheng. Anything you say. No disrespect intended.” He reached into his uniform’s jacket pocket, pulled out a toothpick, and slipped it into the corner of his mouth. He stared hard into Socrates’ eyes.
“I want to see your sign-in log and yesterday’s and today’s security videos for both entrances,” Socrates said. He pointed to the camera mounted above the entrance.
“You’ll have to take the videos up with the management people. I don’t have no authority to give the tapes to nobody, not even condo owners.” He smiled. “You can look at my log book if you want, it’s at the desk.” He smiled again. “Now, Sir, if there’s nothing else, I have doors to hold open.”
SOCRATES SPENT THE next twenty-five minutes on the telephone with the management company, imploring the building’s agent to release the security videos to him in return for his goodwill. When this appeal fell flat, he threatened to call in the police. This carried sufficient inducement. The building’s management agent authorized the doorman to turn over the security tapes.
Socrates called Jade and read the note to her. He described how jolted he’d been when he first noticed it in his bedroom and then again when he actually read it. He invited her over to watch the security tapes with him.
JADE ARRIVED AS Socrates was inserting the first cassette into the VCR. He showed her the note. They went into the bedroom so Jade could see the pillow and bed she already knew so well. She also inspected the condo’s windows, all of which were locked from the inside. They returned to the VCR.
“I called Youngest Brother before I came here,” Jade said, “even though I knew what answer to expect to my question. Bing-enlai was upset that I was so bold in my direct approach to him, afraid our father might find out we were in contact.
“I wanted to know where my brothers were yesterday and this morning, if they were where I expected them to be. I didn’t say anything to him about you.”
Socrates remained silent, but nodded.
“As I anticipated, my brothers were with our father at the Golden Dragon, all day and evening, both days,” she said. “They were occupied with our family’s annual homage to our deceased mother on the anniversary week of her death.”
Socrates listened and held his skepticism in check.
“We conduct Taoist ceremonies all week long every year, and stay together for the week.” Jade looked away briefly, then turned back to face Socrates. “I should have been there, too,” she said. “None of my brothers invaded your home and left the message on your bed, in case you thought that.”
Socrates wasn’t quite as confident as Jade concerning the innocence of her brothers in this matter, but he said nothing. As always, he allowed Jade leeway with her family. He’d get to the bottom of this in his own time and in his own way. Either Jade’s brothers were responsible or they weren’t. In the meantime, he’d assume they were involved.
Socrates and Jade sat in silence and watched the two videos documenting the comings and goings of people at the building’s two entrances. After much fast-forwarding, Socrates rewound the second cassette, ejected it, and turned off the VCR.
“That was a total bust,” he said. “Any one of the three pizza delivery men, the STAPLES office supply guy, the florist’s delivery woman, or the four dry cleaners’ delivery people could have been the intruder. There’s no way to tell from these tapes.”
Jade leaned over and put her arms around him. She pulled him in close, hugged him tightly, then kissed him on his cheek.
“You don’t have to do this, you know. If you pull out now we won’t be any worse off with my father than before you became involved. We’ll still have each other.”
Socrates shook his head. “It’s too late for that. I might be worse off with your father if I pull out after telling him I’d go forward. Besides. I want to know who broke in to my home and is threatening me and the people I care about — meaning my parents and you. I can’t just ignore that.”
Socrates paused and let his eyes stray across the room. Then he looked back at Jade. He dipped the tip of his finger into his glass of iced tea and slowly swirled the cubes.
“The problem is,” he said, “I don’t know if I’m being warned to stop helping your father with the recovery of the Mandarin Yellow and other stolen objects or to stop seeing you.”
Jade shrugged. “Probably both,” she said.
AFTER JADE LEFT him to go back to the university and Socrates had redelivered the security tapes to the doorman, he returned to his apartment and reread the intruder’s note. He was convinced that Jade had been correct and that the note’s subtext carried a threat against his parents and Jade if he went forward with the investigation as well as a warning to stop dating Jade. After all, if the message was only for him to stop seeing Jade, he should have received this note months ago.
He considered telling Bing-fa he’d changed his mind and would not help him, but it wasn’t that easy and clear cut. He had to consider what Jade wanted him to do. He was sure that Jade’s unstated desire was to use Socrates’ assistance to her father to generate enough goodwill that Bing-fa would not only repatriate Jade with respect to her family, but would also accept Socrates as her lover. Since Socrates wanted these things, too, there was no reason for him not to help Bing-fa, at least as long as there was no immediate clear danger to his parents or Jade.
Socrates left his condo and walked the half mile into Georgetown to the THREE PROSPERITIES CHINA ARTS GALLERY. He paused just inside the entrance door and studied the large rectangular exhibit room.
The exhibit room was typical of other exhibit areas in other galleries he’d visited over the years — open and airy with soft, indirect lighting whose illumination evenly overspread the room. The gallery’s oak floors were bleached blond; its ample display walls were painted oyster shell white.
Socrates’ observations were cut short by Assistant Director Fong’s arrival directly in front of him.
“May I help you, Sir?” she said. Fong barely looked at Socrates as she spoke. Instead, she fixed her eyes on her eyeglasses which she held in one hand and vigorously polished.
Before Socrates could respond, Fong explained that the paintings currently on exhibit had been hastily assembled because of the recent burglary at the gallery.
“This show,” she said, waving her arm at the walls, “is a short-term display of present-day Celestials’ art available in inventory. We expect to open the postponed cultural exhibit in two or three weeks.”
Fong offered to assist Socrates and to answer his questions about the works on display or about the artists. “Everything up on the walls,” she said, gesturing again with her hand at a group of paintings, “is for sale.”
There’s a shock, Socrates thought.
Socrates strolled around the gallery, stopping occasionally to examine a painting, slowly walking his way through his charade, pretending to be interested in the substitute exhibit. After fifteen minutes of this, he yielded to boredom and dropped all pretence of being interested in the display. He walked over to the alcove where Ms. Fong sat at a desk. She got up out of her seat and smiled warmly as he approached.
“Did you see something that interested you, Honorable Sir?” she said. “I can consult with my superior to offer you reasonable payment terms.”
Socrates shook his head. “I don’t think I’ll make a purchase today.” He thanked Fong and assured her the gallery would be in his thoughts.
WHEN SOCRATES LEFT the gallery, he headed to the Second District police st
ation (known among precinct cops and local newspaper reporters who covered the police beat as the 2D) to look at the official burglary crime file compiled by the investigating officers and by the police laboratory. He walked the mile and one half to the 2D from Georgetown, walking north along Wisconsin Avenue to the outer border of the Second District at Idaho.
The 2D station house was a two story, bland, oatmeal-colored brick cereal box resting on one long side. The front lawn that bracketed the entrance had lost most of its vegetation and now resembled a Hollywood version of the Moon. Most of the windows visible to Socrates from the front sidewalk were covered over and dark. The building had been constructed in the late 1960s or early 1970s, and would have been totally nondescript and fully forgettable if it weren’t so ordinary and homely and, therefore, conspicuous in this otherwise attractive, mixed-use commercial and residential neighborhood. The building was, Socrates thought, a great argument against reflexive historic preservation. He fully expected that someday someone would argue that the 2D structure should be preserved, not demolished and replaced, as the singular historic example in Washington of its type of ugly municipal building.
SOCRATES ENTERED THE 2D, walked up five steps into a small, dimly lighted vestibule, and passed through a metal detector under the watchful eyes of an elderly man who wore a policeman’s uniform. He found himself facing a raised counter enclosed in thick, yellowed Plexiglas. A police sergeant sat behind the protective shield. He looked up as Socrates approached and eyeballed him from head to toe as if taking the measure of any threat this visitor might present.
“May I help you, Sir?” The officer spoke through an amplification system that caused his voice to seem computer generated, but which permitted him to keep the bullet-proof shield closed.
It seemed to Socrates, based on the sergeant’s furrowed forehead and barely visible scowl, that he was neither happy to see Socrates nor really interested in helping him.
Mandarin Yellow (Socrates Cheng mysteries) Page 7