Mandarin Yellow (Socrates Cheng mysteries)

by Steven M. Roth

  “Stop banging on the door, damn it,” Socrates yelled from his bedroom. He bolted upright, wrenched from deep sleep. He leaned over to the nightstand and looked at the clock radio. “Holy sweet mother.” It was just after 2:30 a.m.

  Socrates staggered into the bathroom, rubbing his eyes as he walked, slipped into his bathrobe, then hurried across the living room to the front door.

  “Give it a rest, will you. I’m coming.” He ignored the noise now and put his eye to the door’s spy hole.

  “Hold on a minute for Christ sake. You’ll wake the dead,” he said. “I’m here.” Socrates tightened the belt around his robe, fumbled with the security lock, and opened the front door. “Do you have any idea what time it is? What the hell do you want so late in the night?”

  “Socrates Cheng,” Detective Harte said, “please step out into the hallway.”

  Socrates looked from Harte to Detective Thigpen. Thigpen looked back at Socrates and launched a feral grin.

  “I repeat, Sir,” Harte said. “Please step out into the hall.”

  “It’s the middle of the night. Why should I?”

  “May we come in?” Harte said.

  Socrates, in a flash of recollection and self-preservation, recalled Bar Association legal practice bulletins he periodically received in the mail as a member of the DC Bar. These pragmatic discussions of criminal law practice were sent to all Bar members, but were specifically intended for the benefit of those lawyers who did not engage in a criminal law defense practice. The bulletins were intended as primers, and described what an attorney’s client should and should not do if confronted with a situation such as the one Socrates now faced.

  The Bar Association’s bulletins’ advice was simple: Be polite, don’t make any threatening moves, and do not mouth off at the authorities. In fact, tell the client not to say anything at all. If the client is asked to leave his home and step outside, he should politely refuse. Otherwise he might be taken into custody as soon as he steps out. Above all else, the bulletins urged, the client must not let the police into his home unless they have a search warrant that, at the very least, seems valid to the client on its face. Not under any circumstances, not ever, the bulletins urged.

  Fully cognizant of this advice, Socrates — the former corporate and real estate lawyer who had never set foot in a courtroom except once as an eye witness to a bar fight, this same Socrates who as the duteous son of a practicing Confucian had been taught to respect all authority — thought about the bulletins’ advice as he stood at his front door facing two late night authority figures. Confronted at 2:30 a.m. by the reality of his situation, Socrates responded to Detective Harte’s request by casting aside the Bar’s advice and all caution, and stepping away from the entrance, permitting the detectives to walk into his home. Socrates tightened his robe’s belt and followed them into the living room.

  Detective Thigpen, as before, moved behind Socrates, and faced his back. Detective Harte stood in front of Socrates, looking directly at him. He handed Socrates a document.

  Socrates eyes opened owl wide as he looked, first at the document in his hands, then at Detective Harte, then back again at the search warrant.

  “What’s this for?”

  Without waiting for Harte’s answer, Socrates read the beginning of the search warrant: “. . . search for and recover . . . a knife or other bladed instrument used in connection with the murder of one, Iris Hua, on or about . . . .”

  Socrates looked back up and said, “Are you guys serious? I didn’t—” He caught himself and abruptly paused. Shut up, Cheng, he thought.

  “Wait a minute,” Socrates said. “I have the right to read the entire warrant before you execute on it. I know that much from law school.”

  “Go for it, hotshot,” Detective Thigpen said. “Take all the time you need. Our dance card’s empty tonight.”

  Socrates read the warrant. As far as he could tell, it was in perfect legal order. “Am I under arrest?” he asked.

  “Not yet, but be patient,” Thigpen said, “the night’s still young.” He chuckled at his own joke.

  Socrates looked at Detective Harte for some solace. He found none there.

  “Socrates Cheng,” Harte said, “turn around and extend your arms horizontally.”

  Socrates assumed the requisite posture and Harte patted him down.

  “Are there any weapons on the premises?” Harte said.

  “Only knives in the drawer out in the kitchen,” Socrates said, and immediately regretted his statement, recalling the director’s sliced throat.

  “Stay out of the kitchen,” Harte said. “Stay right here.”

  Harte nodded at Detective Thigpen who, with the snap of his wrist, unfurled an evidence bag and headed for the kitchen.

  Harte said, “Sit on the couch while we conduct the search. Don’t leave this room.”

  Socrates lowered himself onto the sofa, then said, “I want to call my lawyer. I want him here.” He wasn’t sure who he’d call.

  “I thought you was a lawyer,” Thigpen said, calling out from the kitchen. “Aren’t you good enough to handle your own case?”

  “Make the call,” Harte said before Socrates could respond to Thigpen. He tilted his head toward the telephone sitting on the foyer table. “Face me while you call and keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Socrates swallowed his pride and called his former law partner, criminal law defense specialist, Boswell Smyth III. Smyth arrived at Socrates’ home a little after 3:45 a.m.

  Smyth first conferred privately with Socrates, then he read the search warrant. Next, he spoke with Harte.

  “Are you arresting my client?” Smyth asked. “Charging him with . . . .” He paused and frowned. “With what, I must ask?”

  “With nothing. Not yet,” Harte said. “For now, we’re just conducting the search.”

  “Did you read him his rights?”

  “Not necessary, counselor, as you know. He’s not a person of interest or target. He’s not in custody either. Not yet.”

  “Of course,” Smyth said. “Silly of me to ask.”

  He looked over at Socrates and raised his eyebrows.

  Socrates shook his head.

  Five hours later, Thigpen walked back into the living room, caught Harte’s eye, and cast an infinitesimal shrug at him. He wagged his head once.

  Harte nodded back, almost imperceptivity.

  “I take it you found nothing, that you’re done here,” Smyth said, turning to face Thigpen.

  “For now,” Thigpen said. “We’ll just take these with us for the lab.” He held up several clear evidence bags containing Socrates’ kitchen knives.

  “In that case,” Smyth said, “if you’ll itemize what you’re taking and then close the door on your way out, I have things to talk to my client about.” He looked hard at Harte and Thigpen. “Now, detectives. Leave the receipt and take off unless you’re going to make an arrest.”

  FOUR HOURS AFTER Bos Smyth left him, Socrates, still infused with pumping adrenalin and unable to fall asleep even though he’d been awake since 2:30 a.m., pushed open the door of the THREE PROSPERITIES CHINA ARTS GALLERY and walked in. He was determined the acting director would not brush him aside this time with her stew of belligerence and studied indifference.

  He saw Linda Fong standing in the alcove across the exhibit room. She had her back to him, and likely had not heard him enter since she did not turn around at the sound of the door’s overhead bell. Socrates stood by the entrance door and waited.

  Fong hunched forward and cradled a rotary dial telephone receiver between her right cheek and shoulder. Her left hand sliced the air with staccato rhythm as she emphasized her point to the person on the other end of the call. Her voice was pitched high. She spoke loudly enough for Socrates to unavoidably eavesdrop on her conversation.

  “I don’t care,” she said, speaking in Mandarin. “He was here yesterday morning. Of course it was a threat. I just told you.” She paused to listen. “
It was not my imagination.” She shook her head. “I’m telling you he threatened me. I heard his words. You did not. What I want to know from you is, what are you going to do about it?”

  Socrates remained by the door and continued listening.

  “No,” Fong said, “you pay attention to me. I am doing everything I am supposed to. Now you must live up to your end and do what you agreed to do.”

  She ended the call and slowly turned toward the exhibit room. Her face pinched when she saw Socrates standing by the entrance. Then, almost imperceptivity, Fong shifted into her sales persona, smoothed her A-line skirt by running a palm over each hip, and straightened herself up so she stood slightly taller. She headed across the room to Socrates, taking quick mincing steps.

  “What is it now, Mr. Cheng?” She addressed Socrates in a soft voice, betraying no animosity. “I thought I made myself clear. I have nothing to say to you.”

  “You were clear all right, Ms. Fong, with me and with the police.” He waited a beat, then said, “Give me a few minutes of your time, then I’ll go. Just five minutes, is all.”

  She shrugged. “Say what you want for five minutes. It will remain a monologue. Then leave.”

  “As I see it,” Socrates said, “you had plenty of reason to ruin the exhibit, discredit the director by doing so, then maneuver to take her place. That sounds like a good motive to me to get rid of her.”

  “What is it you are accusing me of, Mr. Cheng? Causing the director to lose face? Killing the director? If you are . . . .”

  “Maybe the director didn’t take enough heat after the burglary to satisfy you. Maybe her loss of face and inevitable downfall were uncertain or moving too slow to satiate you.”

  Fong’s nostrils flared and she stomped her foot. “You dare come into my gallery and insult me! . . . You must leave,” she said, pointing to the door. Her voice grew louder as she spoke. “You go now or I will call the police. You have no right—”

  “I don’t think you want to do that,” Socrates said, intentionally speaking softly and slowly. “You don’t want to bring in the cops and call attention to yourself.”

  “Go now, Mr. Cheng. I have nothing to say to you. You now are a trespasser here.”

  Socrates ignored Fong’s implied threats and protestations. “You had the best reason of anyone to want the director out of the way,” Socrates said. He made no move to leave. He waited for some response from Fong, a subtle tell in her facial expression or some other clue in her body language that would tip him he was onto something. But Fong offered him nothing to work with. She merely stared back at him, standing tall and facing Socrates like a cobra eyeing its prey just before its strike.

  Socrates shrugged. “If I figured this out, so will the cops. Once they decide it was you, they’ll never let go. I’m your best hope for avoiding that if you’re innocent.”

  Fong said nothing. She turned away and walked back across the exhibit room to the alcove. She headed over to her desk, opened a drawer, and reached into it. As she started to extract something, she turned toward Socrates and looked him over, slowly, very conspicuously, up and down. Then she straightened up and put a cigarette into the corner of her mouth, slammed the drawer closed, and walked back across the room to Socrates. She handed him a plastic Bic lighter.

  “Please,” she said, leaning in toward his hand.

  Socrates fired up Fong’s cigarette and handed the lighter back to her.

  Fong stepped away from Socrates, paused briefly to inhale, then streamed smoke from her nostrils, aiming her chin at the ceiling.

  Socrates watched the smoke collide with the acoustic ceiling tiles and scurry away in all directions.

  “The director never permitted me to smoke here,” Fong said. “It supposedly damages the art. But now, I am in charge.” She placed one hand on her hip and held the cigarette chest high in the first two fingers of her other hand.

  “Listen carefully, Mr. Cheng, I am struggling to have this gallery operating again after the disruptions caused by the crimes committed here. I am under great pressure to open the exhibit in less than two weeks, with or without the stolen objects as part of it. I do not have time to waste with you.” She paused to let Socrates take in and register her subtext: Even if I had the time, low faan, I wouldn’t help you.

  Socrates resisted the urge to comment on what he intuitively knew she was saying to him.

  “If you must persist in being a nuisance,” she continued, “come back tomorrow night. I work late every evening to prepare for the opening. I will permit you fifteen minutes of my time at 9:00 p.m. That is all. I likely will not answer your questions in any event.” She paused and looked Socrates in his eyes. “You can take it or leave it. It is of no concern to me what you decide. But, that is it. After that, we are through.”

  SOCRATES ACCEPTED FONG’S offer, such as it was. He said he’d be back at 9:00. The offer to meet after hours didn’t surprise him. He’d had similar experiences over the years when he tried to sell historic documents to galleries. He often was told to bring the documents back after hours so the gallery’s operator could examine them when no customers were around.

  Socrates left the gallery and walked the two miles to the Embassy of the People’s Republic of China located in the Kalorama section of Washington, not far from the National Zoo and not far from Jade’s condo. If matters at the Embassy went as he hoped, he would learn the Embassy’s official position concerning the burglary. He also might gain some insight into why the Embassy thought the nineteen stolen objects were targeted and the other two hundred and fifty-six on display were left behind.

  Socrates pushed the button located adjacent to the front entrance and watched a small security camera installed above the entrance silently rotate and zoom in on him. He nodded at the lens. A squeaky female voice, coming from a pocket-size speaker box located above the doorway, asked him in barely serviceable English to identify himself and state his business at the Embassy. Socrates looked up at the speaker box, smiled for the camera, and explained his mission in general terms.

  After a few minutes, a woman in her early twenties, dressed in a navy blue American-style two piece business suit, opened the door and admitted him into a wood paneled anteroom. The woman politely, but coldly, asked Socrates to wait where he stood until she returned. She bowed, then left him standing just inside the entrance door, keeping company with an armed guard who seemed to ignore him. In less than a minute, the woman returned and handed Socrates a printed questionnaire to complete and return to her.

  Socrates took a seat behind a small desk and completed the form. Then, as he had been instructed, he pushed a desktop button to indicate he was finished. The woman reentered the room immediately, as if she had been standing on the other side of the closed door waiting for his signal, and took Socrates’ questionnaire and driver’s license from him. She left the anteroom, but promptly returned and handed Socrates his driver’s license. She departed again without saying anything to him, leaving Socrates and the guard staring together at the same blank wall across the room.

  A few minutes later another door opened and a different woman walked into the anteroom. She was in her early to middle thirties and dressed in a solid bright green, traditional silk dress that covered her from just below her chin to her ankles. She bowed briefly from her waist, did not smile, and asked Socrates if he would expand upon the answer he’d written on the questionnaire, specifically, if he would describe in more detail his purpose for coming to the Embassy.

  Socrates was curious about her frosty demeanor, which seemed to be imbued with hostility rather than mere formality, but he quickly shrugged it off as unimportant in the scheme of things. He explained his written answer, this time giving more particulars. He even went so far as to mention Bing-fa’s name in this account of his mission.

  Socrates thought the woman’s reserve increased ever so slightly as he elaborated on his reason for being there. Her forehead wrinkled as she listened to him.

  When Socra
tes finished, the woman said, “Unfortunately, we cannot help you. Thank you very much. Please have a nice day.” She paused as if waiting for Socrates to respond affirmatively to her dismissal, thank her, and then leave with a smile on his face.

  Socrates frowned, but didn’t say or do anything. He made no move to leave.

  The woman seemed puzzled by his lack of response. She tilted her head slightly, then offered an explanation for her statement. “The reasons for the selections of the objects in the exhibit were known only to our cultural attaché and to the honorable Li Bing-fa. They made the choices together. No one here has the information you seek. Thank you and good day.”

  She again paused as if waiting for Socrates to depart. Once again he stood firm. After a few seconds of shared silence, the woman resumed her explication, describing in very broad terms the role of the cultural attaché in selecting the objects and photos to be exhibited and included in the catalog. She concluded with a statement referring to the murder of the cultural attaché on the streets of Chinatown as she walked back to the Embassy after having dinner at a restaurant. She added, flashing a condescending smile at Socrates, that such violent crime is unknown on the streets of Beijing.

  Socrates vaguely remembered reading the story of the murder in the Washington Post, but he hadn’t focused on it at the time or later connected it with the THREE PROSPERITIES CHINA ARTS GALLERY and the proposed cultural exhibit.

  So, Socrates thought, the cultural attaché could not help him.

  He had hit another dead end.

  AS SOON AS he returned home from the Embassy, Socrates grabbed Reginald Hallard’s book he’d borrowed from the library and for the next two hours immersed himself in a survey study of China’s early 20th Century history. He read with a specific question in mind.

  The buzzing of the intercom interrupted his research.

  Socrates walked over to the intercom panel on the wall. “Who’s there?” The filtered, crackling response brought him fully alert.