Mandarin Yellow (Socrates Cheng mysteries)

by Steven M. Roth

  JADE AND SOCRATES decided they would go to their old standby, the Tastee Diner in Bethesda, Maryland, for a quiet, uncomplicated meal. Jade offered to drive to put some mileage on her car and so Socrates wouldn’t have to rent one.

  They drove north from the District through Rock Creek Park, then west along East-West Highway to Wisconsin Avenue. They turned north again on Wisconsin and immediately crossed into Maryland. They drove another half mile until they arrived at the diner on Woodmont Avenue.

  They settled into an authentic 1940s-era high-back wooden booth and faced one another across a Formica top table that was edged with shiny stainless steel trim, and bolted to the wall. Their seats were rock hard, highly lacquered wooden benches covered with red vinyl masquerading as leather.

  Socrates dug into his jeans pocket and pulled out a pile of quarters he’d brought with him specifically for this meal. They reviewed the familiar musical selections available on the tiny juke box mounted on the wall alongside their booth, then jointly selected ten Hit Parade songs from among the 1950s and 1960s-era 45 rpm records. That completed, they turned their attention to the tabloid-newspaper-size laminated menus sitting on the table between them.

  They passed a few silent minutes as they intensely read the familiar offerings listed on the menus. Then they dropped the menus back onto the table between them and ordered the same food they always ordered at Tastee, two cheeseburgers with extra pickles, tomato, mustard, and raw onions, with one side of hash browned potatoes covered with brown gravy to share.

  Jade reached across the table. She took Socrates’ hand, and said, “Are you all right, Darling? You seem miles away.”

  “Sorry,” Socrates said. “I’m fine. Just a little preoccupied with all that’s going on.”

  Jade looked puzzled. “What’s going on that I don’t know about?”

  Socrates walked Jade through the drink he’d had with his father and the state of his investigation so far for her father. He also told her about, but dismissed with a shrug and the flip of his hand, the second break-in at his condo. Then he described Eldest Brother’s late night visit to him with his final warning.

  Jade let out a soft whistle. “No wonder you’re preoccupied. And you’re upset, although you won’t admit it.”

  “Okay,” Socrates said. “I admit it. I’m a little upset.”

  Jade reached across the table and squeezed his hand. She lobbed a kiss across the table.

  After dinner, they went back to Jade’s condo.

  While Jade showered, Socrates sat in front of the TV in the living room and sipped a glass of mui kwe lu, a potent Chinese brandy made from rose petals, as he watched the local Channel 5 10:00 p.m. news. This was the nightly news show he and Jade generally referred to, partly tongue in cheek, but partly not, as the 10 p.m. Murder News because a good part of the broadcast usually was taken up with descriptions of that day’s homicides in Washington and the surrounding Maryland and Virginia suburbs.

  Approximately twenty minutes into the broadcast, Jade walked into the living room, furiously drying her hair with a big bath towel. Her white terry cloth bathrobe flowed behind her.

  “Can I get you anything, Dear?” she said.

  Socrates looked up and smiled. “I’m fine.” He held up his bubble snifter to show her he had a drink. “How about you, can I do anything. . . .”

  The buzzing of the intercom interrupted his question. They looked at each other, said nothing, then turned in tandem to face the intercom panel over by the entrance door.

  Jade glanced at her watch. “Who can that be this late?”

  Socrates shook his head. “Do you want me to see?”

  “Don’t bother,” Jade said. “I’ll take care of it, but come with me.” They walked together to the intercom. Jade pressed the talk button.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Little Sister, I must talk to you.”

  Jade frowned and looked at Socrates.

  Socrates said, “It’s okay. Let him come up.” He felt the hair on the back of his neck bristle.

  SOCRATES WAS TOO nervous to stand still while he waited for Eldest Brother to arrive. He paced the border of the living room, pausing each time he passed the archway to glance across the foyer at the front door.

  Jade, while she waited for her brother to arrive, turned away from the foyer and looked over at Socrates. She smiled and walked up behind him, catching up with him as he completed a second lap around the living room’s perimeter. She clucked her tongue, making sounds loud enough for Socrates to hear, and put one hand on his shoulder from behind, signaling him to stop pacing. She waited while Socrates turned to face her, then kissed his cheek. She wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled him in close.

  “Don’t lose sight of the fact I love you,” she said. “No matter what Eldest Brother says to you or me. We’ll get through this together.”

  Three heavy, fisted knocks on the door announced Eldest Brother’s arrival.

  “WHAT IS THE low faan doing here, Little Sister?” Bing-wu said, speaking Mandarin. He pointed at Socrates as he walked in. “I want to talk to you alone, not with this barbarian here.” He glared at Socrates. “Order him to leave.”

  Jade’s face reddened. “Speak English, Eldest Brother, for my guest. You are rude not to.”

  Eldest Brother frowned at Jade, but nodded.

  “Socrates is here because I invited him,” Jade said. “He is my guest. Have you forgotten your manners, Eldest Brother? You, too, are now a guest in my home, so act appropriately.” She paused and inhaled deeply, then let her breath out slowly while she bought time to consider her next words. “Your behavior brings disgrace to me, Eldest Brother.” She stepped closer to Socrates and took his hand. Her eyes never left Bing-wu’s eyes.

  Eldest Brother, moving his head slowly and with studied deliberation, looked over at Socrates, then turned back to Jade.

  “Little Sister,” he said in English, “I will not say to you what I should say, not in front of this person.” He gestured with his chin toward Socrates.

  “I will leave now,” Eldest Brother said, as he turned away. He hesitated, and turned back to face Jade. “Know your place, Bing-jade, and know your responsibilities in that place,” he said, speaking Mandarin again. “It is not proper or wise that you continue to defy our father’s commands. There are consequences for doing so.” He turned away and, without another word, left.

  Socrates walked over to the open door, closed and double latched it, and then joined Jade in the living room.

  Jade was sitting on the couch, staring at the wall on the other side of the room. She had crossed her arms over her chest, not in a defiant way, but in a self-protective manner, gripping each bicep with her opposite hand as if she was holding herself together.

  “I think you were just threatened,” Socrates said, as he walked into the room. “Sorry I brought that on you.”

  Jade shrugged. “He doesn’t mean anything by it,” she said. “At least not in terms of me, he doesn’t.”

  Socrates wondered if Jade really believed that or was just saying it for his benefit or to convince herself.

  “That’s just Bing-wu’s way. Besides,” she said, smiling now and dropping her hands to her lap, “if I know Eldest Brother as well as I think I do, that was his oblique way of threatening you, not me. I’m perfectly safe with him. You, on the other hand, are another matter.”

  THE NEXT MORNING, back home again, Socrates planned his day. He wanted to move the investigation along, to become more proactive than reactive, but his choices how to do this were restricted by his limited experience and by his unofficial status as an unlicensed private investigator.

  Because he lacked actual experience with crime, criminals, and crime investigations, Socrates couldn’t count on so-called cop’s hunch, that ineffable intuition that evolves from years of investigating crimes, and which points police officers in the direction of the criminal and the crime’s solution even when evidentiary signposts are absent along
the way or are not readily apparent.

  Because he wasn’t an official law enforcement officer, Socrates also lacked the coercive authority inherent in carrying a policeman’s badge. This meant that unlike MPDC detectives who could question witnesses and persons of interest using the implicit threat that the person’s failure to cooperate might indicate culpability and lead to arrest, Socrates had to approach such people obliquely, never head on.

  To compensate for the absence of these useful law enforcement tools, Socrates went forward as he usually did when confronted with something about which he knew little, but for which he needed to quickly develop some expertise. He immersed himself in books and ingested instant, vicarious experience and knowledge. He never reinvented the wheel if he could avoid doing so.

  Socrates left his condo and walked to the West End Branch library on 23rd Street and borrowed several more books dealing with criminal investigations. He also checked out two books pertaining to China’s history in the 20th century.

  Afterward, back home again, over the balance of the day and early evening, Socrates skimmed through The Private Investigator’s Handbook by Chambers, The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Private Investigating by Brown, and four similar books. He also read portions of Jonathan Spence’s scholarly The Search For Modern China and Reginald Hallard’s China Under the Republic [1912-1949].

  Two of the books indicated that the FBI’s favorite method of gathering information was to conduct a neighborhood canvass. The formula for this was simple: Pound the pavement and wear out shoe leather, knock on doors, and ask questions. The FBI’s neighborhood canvass approach was a tried and true federal law enforcement investigative tool. Socrates decided that if the process was good enough for the FBI, it was good enough for him.

  Having made this decision, now came the hard part: figuring out what questions to ask. Once again, the library books, although not geared to his specific problem, came to his aid. The books described some typical neighborhood canvassing scenarios for various categories of crimes. Socrates was confident he could extrapolate the requisite principles from the books’ scenarios and apply the principles to his own investigation. After all, he thought, that was basically what he’d done in his law practice every time he faced a new client or a new legal issue to resolve. He never discarded his prior experience and knowledge to seek out and apply entirely new methods and principles. Instead, he cherry-picked what he already knew and applied the harvested fruit to his new situation.

  That afternoon, Socrates set aside the books and hit the streets.

  SOCRATES SPENT THE first twenty minutes walking around the gallery’s neighborhood developing a general feel for the environment in which the crime occurred. After that, he began his systematic inspection of the area. He knocked on residential doors and talked to people who lived in the neighborhood. He visited stores and spoke with owners and employees.

  An hour and forty-five minutes later, Socrates sipped the coffee he’d picked up at a nearby Starbucks, and knocked on the door of an old brownstone located on 30th Street, at the corner of P.

  Silence. He knocked again and stepped closer, putting his ear to the door, listening for movement inside. He heard the footsteps of someone approaching. He stepped back and closed the screen door, being careful not to let it slam. Then more silence. He assumed he was being inspected through the door’s security peephole. He waited. After what seemed like many minutes, a woman spoke to him through the closed door.

  “What?” she said. Her voice was coarse from years of smoking.

  “Hello,” Socrates said. “I’m investigating a recent burglary at a neighborhood art gallery. I’d like to ask you some questions. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

  No response.

  “Please,” Socrates said to the closed door, “I can really use your help.”

  After half a minute of dead air time, he heard the rasping scrape of metal on metal as a heavy bolt pulled back. The inner door crept open a foot.

  A middle-aged woman looked at Socrates from behind the inner door. Only her face was visible. Socrates could barely make out her features through the thick wire mesh of the closed screen door. He soon was enveloped by the cloud of cigarette smoke that drifted through the screen door across the porch.

  “Thank you,” Socrates said. “I appreciate your time. I’ll be quick.”

  “I don’t know nothing to tell you. Only what I read in the paper.”

  “That’s okay,” Socrates said. “Maybe my questions will jog your memory. You might’ve seen or heard something without realizing its relation to the burglary.”

  “My memory’s good. It don’t need no joggin’. Besides, I don’t have much time,” she said. “My show’s on the TV and the commercials are almost over soon. I have to get back.”

  “May I open the screen door while we talk?” Socrates said. He gripped the door’s handle and slowly eased the screen door open.

  “No, don’t,” the woman answered, looking at the moving screen door. Her eyes widened. “Stop,” she said. She grabbed the inside handle and yanked the door from Socrates’ grip, jerking the screen door closed and, in the process, knocking it’s edge against Socrates’ cup of coffee, splashing him. Then she slammed the interior door and rammed the security bolt back into place.

  Over the course of the next three hours, Socrates interviewed several more home owners, a few store employees and the few neighborhood kids he came across as he walked around. Socrates especially sought out teenagers because they often saw more than adults did in the same situations or, if they saw the same things, saw them from a different perspective. Teenagers, he thought, could be a valuable resource and were not to be underestimated.

  But all in all, Socrates’ attempt to emulate the FBI’s canvassing methodology was a colossal flop. At the end of the day, all he had to show for his efforts were sore arches and fresh coffee stains on his suit jacket caused when the 30th Street woman slammed the screen door on him.

  Beyond that, one woman, when she answered the door and heard what Socrates wanted, turned up her eyeballs and showed him the whites of her eyes — a traditional, disdainful response the Chinese call giving someone white eyes. Although he didn’t think it was funny at the time, Socrates later smiled when he thought about this. He couldn’t wait to enjoy Jade’s laughter when he told her about being given white eyes by a woman who wasn’t Chinese. The absolute, the ultimate put-down, he decided.

  Socrates was frustrated by his lack of success during his neighborhood canvass. He didn’t yet know the fundamental lesson known to every seasoned police detective concerning witnesses: You cannot ignore them, but you also can’t count on them. Most witnesses are reluctant to come forward and must be coaxed or coerced. When they do come forward, either under duress or voluntarily, they either lie, exaggerate or are honestly mistaken with respect to what they think they saw. Socrates would have to learn this lesson in his own time.

  So much, he decided, for the FBI’s favorite way of investigating a crime.

  AT ABOUT THE same time Socrates was walking around the gallery’s neighborhood conducting his futile FBI-style canvass, Eldest Brother walked into the THREE PROSPERITIES CHINA ARTS GALLERY, just two blocks away from the house where Socrates had been given white eyes.

  Acting Director Fong looked up at the sound of the overhead bell. She frowned when she saw Eldest Brother. Then, with a merchant’s disciplined smile fixed firmly in place, she walked out to meet him.

  “Hello, Bing-wu. How is Eldest Brother today? I am very pleased to see you.”

  Bing-wu wasted no time engaging in small talk. He went right to the point of his visit. “You might be visited by a low faan, the one called Socrates Cheng. He will claim he is helping my honorable father.”

  He paused briefly and pointed his finger at Fong. “You will not cooperate with him. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, Eldest Brother, quite clear. But you should know that Little Sister also visited me with regard to this matter.”
She waited, but seeing no reaction from Eldest Brother, continued. “Bing-jade instructed me to cooperate with this Socrates Cheng.

  “I am caught between contrary instructions,” she said, “between counterpointing directives from an honorable sister and an honorable brother, both of whom I respect and wish to accommodate. I am at a loss to know how to proceed.”

  Fong demurely lowered her eyes, bowed her head and rested her interlaced fingers on her chest. Then she said, without raising her head, “Little Sister said she would have Youngest Brother speak to venerable Bing-fa on my behalf, to ask your honorable father to use his influence with the Embassy to help me become the replacement director for this esteemed gallery. May I assume you will do the same for me if I follow your wishes rather than those of Little Sister?”

  Eldest Brother stepped in close to the acting director, looming over her. He said, “You are not a member of our family, acting director. You will refer to my younger sister properly, as an outsider should. You will never again refer to her as Little Sister or as Bing-jade. She is Younger Sister to you. Do you understand?”

  Fong’s spine tightened. She nodded and said, “I meant no disrespect. Please forgive my fleeting lapse of judgment.”

  Eldest Brother yielded no ground to Fong’s accommodating statement. He continued to intrude on her physical zone of comfort and loom over her. “You will not cooperate with the low faan,” he said. “Must I repeat myself, acting director, or do you understand?”

  Linda Fong stared at her feet and said, “I understand, Honorable Bing-wu. Please forgive my unintentional impertinence.”

  “You will not mention this conversation to anyone, including Younger Sister.”

  “Yes, Bing-wu,” she said, still looking at her feet. “I understand perfectly. Thank you for your clarification.”

  SOCRATES HAD BEEN in a coma-like sleep when he was jolted awake by the banging on his condo door.