Mandarin Yellow (Socrates Cheng mysteries)

by Steven M. Roth

  Socrates smiled. He’d have to explain giving white eyes to Brandon sometime, but not right now.

  “Thanks for trying. The question now is, how will I deal with her from now on, given what happened?”

  Brandon ignored Socrates’ rhetorical question, and said, “I’m at The Guards drinking. Come over and join me. We can hoist a few beers in honor of the assistant director and her resolute pig-headedness.”

  “Not tonight,” Socrates said. “I’m beat. I’m sacking out soon, then hitting the pavements tomorrow morning. I’ll go visit our friend, Fong, and see if I can somehow get her attention for a few minutes.”

  SOCRATES WAS DEEP within a dream and deeply irritated by the dream’s storyline because in his dream someone was relentlessly banging on his condo’s door.

  He opened his eyes to escape, but the pounding continued. It gradually penetrated Socrates’ groggy consciousness that this was not a dream at all. Someone was pounding on his door.

  Still in the grip of sleep, Socrates cautiously stood up. After a few seconds, he grabbed his robe and lurched toward the foyer and front door.

  “Dial it down,” he yelled. “I’m coming.”

  He jerked open the door and started to say, ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing in the middle of the night,’ but swallowed his words and caught his breath.

  “Oh!” he said, and instinctively took a step back. He suddenly was fully awake.

  Detectives Harte and Thigpen stood in the hallway facing him.

  Thigpen put out his arm and blocked the door from closing in case that was what Socrates had in mind as his next move.

  “Now what?” Socrates said. “Haven’t we already been through this? Do I need to call my lawyer again?”

  “Remember us, Mr. Cheng?” Harte said. He held up his gold shield as if Socrates had never seen it.

  “I told you everything I know about the director’s murder. I have nothing else to say. Why are you harassing me?”

  “Sorry you think that,” Harte said. “That’s not why we’re here. Something else has come up. May we come in?”

  Something in Harte’s body language and tone of voice resonated with Socrates and caused him to cast aside his anger and caution. He stepped away from the door and motioned the detectives into his apartment. As before, he followed them into the living room.

  “You look like something the cat dragged in,” Thigpen said. “Been out playing tonight?”

  Socrates glared at the detective, but didn’t take the bait and respond to him.

  “A body’s been found in Georgetown,” Harte said.

  “What’s that have to do with me?” Socrates said.

  “Maybe nothing. You tell us.”

  Socrates was confused. “I don’t get it. Why are you telling me this?”

  “We think you might know the vic,” Harte said. “Your name was in his BlackBerry. He called you earlier tonight. And your name was the only one we recognized in his contacts.”

  Socrates frowned, confused. Slowly, the significance of what Harte had said took hold. He gasped. Socrates felt his stomach twist into a knot.

  “The vic’s throat was cut, he was stabbed, and the perp left him in an alley,” Thigpen said. “He’d been hitting the bars and smelled like a leftover glass of scotch the morning after, when you go to clean up the mess. But you probably already know that, don’t you.”

  Socrates cut Thigpen a withering look, but said nothing. His stomach churned as his recognition of the situation gradually fell into place.

  “It wasn’t a mugging,” Harte added. “The vic still had his money, wallet and watch on him.”

  “Detective . . . .” Socrates said tentatively.

  “There’s something else,” Harte said. He reached into his sports jacket’s inside pocket and pulled out an evidence bag. It held a piece of paper.

  “This was rolled like a scroll and shoved in the vic’s mouth, halfway down his throat. Do you know what it is?” Harte said. He held out the evidence bag so Socrates could look at it.

  “Oh, shit,” Socrates said. “I know what it is.” Socrates sank down onto the sofa. The paper was a photocopy of the Northern Sung Edict.

  Thigpen took a step closer to Socrates. “Talk to us, Cheng,” he said. “Tell us why you killed him.”

  Socrates ignored Thigpen and explained the significance of the Edict and that the photocopy connected the killing to the burglary at the gallery.

  Harte glanced over at Thigpen who raised an eyebrow and smiled.

  “It might be my friend,” Socrates said. “It sounds like it’s Brandon. How could this happen?” He dropped his face into his palms and convulsively shivered once.

  “Where were you last night,” Harte said, “after Midnight?”

  “Here. Sleeping. Alone. And, no, you don’t have to ask: No one can vouch for me.”

  Harte nodded. “The vic’s a Caucasian male about your age. It could be your friend. We’d like you to come with us to the ME’s office, see if you can ID him.”

  FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, Socrates stood in front of the glass window at the District of Columbia Medical Examiner’s office staring at a fully covered body lying on a waist-high gurney on the other side of the window pane.

  Detective Harte looked at Socrates and raised his eyebrows. “Ready?”

  Socrates closed his hands into fists and said, “No, I’m not ready, but do it anyway.” He took a deep breath.

  Harte signaled the ME. She pulled back the white sheet as far as the tip of the victim’s chin, revealing Brandon’s gray, waxen face.

  “Take your time,” Harte said.

  “Oh, fuck,” Socrates said. “No . . . no.” He closed his eyes and leaned his weight into his arms, bracing himself against the windowsill. He breathed quickly, soon veering toward hyperventilation.

  Harte put his hand on Socrates’ shoulder. “Are you all right?” he said.

  Socrates raised his head and straightened up. “No, I’m not all right. Why would I be?”

  Harte spoke formally now. “Mr. Cheng, can you identify the body?”

  Socrates nodded. He took a deep breath and paused. “It’s . . . It’s Brandon, my best friend, Brandon Hill.” He wiped his eye with his sleeve.

  Harte made a circular motion with his hand, signaling the ME to cover the body. He led Socrates away from the viewing area, out into the corridor. “We’ll need your signature on the form indicating you’ve ID’d Mr. Hill,” Harte said.

  “I don’t understand,” Socrates said. “How’d this happen to him?”

  “Stabbed. Thirteen times,” Thigpen said. “I guess thirteen wasn’t his lucky number.” He grinned, then added, “And his throat got slashed from one ear to the other. Looked like a big smile.” He glanced over at Harte, then back at Socrates. “What he do to get you so pissed at him?”

  Harte frowned at Thigpen, shook his head once, but said nothing.

  Socrates turned away from Thigpen and faced Harte. “This happened because of the burglary at the THREE PROSPERITIES CHINA ARTS GALLERY, because of my investigation. That paper in his mouth shows the connection.”

  Socrates moaned softly and slowly drew in a deep breath. “It should’ve been me dead, not Brandon,” he said. “He went to the gallery in my place . . . for me. That was the extent of his involvement. Brandon had nothing to do with any of this except for the visit last night.”

  “What are you saying, Cheng,” Harte asked.

  “Don’t you get it?” Socrates said. “The document shoved down Brandon’s throat was a photocopy of one stolen in the burglary at the gallery, the crime I’m investigating.” He slowly wagged his head. “Brandon wasn’t the target at all. I was. Indirectly. Brandon was killed as a warning to me to back off.”

  SOCRATES SPENT THE next two hours at the 2D with Detectives Harte and Thigpen retelling his version of events from the day before and answering the detectives’ questions, including questions about Brandon’s background and habits. He indentified Brenda
n’s parents for them, gave the police their home telephone number, but said he believed Mr. and Mrs. Hill were not currently at home in Philadelphia, that Brandon had said they were vacationing in the south of France.

  When the detectives finished taking his statement and he’d reviewed and signed it, Socrates left the building in a daze. He felt emotionally battered.

  He headed toward Georgetown. He walked very slowly, shuffling along more than walking, looking at the pavement in front of his feet as he meandered west.

  He pulled out his cell phone as he walked and called Jade, trying her landlines first at her office and then at home, then trying her cell. He left the same message all three times: Call me as soon as you get this. I need to talk to you. I just learned the worst possible news you can imagine.

  Socrates thought about what he would do with himself until he and Jade connected. He didn’t want to be alone at his store or alone at his condo. He also didn’t want to be with his parents. Not right now, maybe later tonight. They would mean well, and would be concerned for him and solicitous of his feelings, but they also would ask too many questions about his obvious withdrawal, and that would drive him crazy. He wasn’t ready yet to tell them what had happened and to explain the context in which Brandon’s murder had occurred. He still had to get used to it himself before he’d be ready to do that for his parents.

  SOCRATES WALKED TO The Guards, the bar/restaurant Brandon had called him from the night before. The Guards had been a fixture in Georgetown since the early 1970s, popular among Washington’s upscale business and professional drinking crowds. The combination bar and New York City-style steakhouse was located between 28th and 29th on M.

  Socrates hadn’t been to The Guards since he resumed dating Jade because Jade, unlike Socrates who found the atmosphere of dimly lighted bars relaxing, did not enjoy immersing herself in bar ambiance. But today, Socrates decided, he needed this hideaway. The twilight-like aura of The Guards would be the perfect place for him to hole up alone while he struggled to bring his emotions under control and tried to come to grips with the reality of Brandon’s death.

  He entered The Guards slowly, paused just inside the entry doors, and looked around. The bar area, located two steps down and to the left of the double doors as you entered, was just as wholesome and inviting as he remembered. The long mahogany wooden bar and the rich, matching dark stained walls softly glowed in the warm amber light cast by lamps strategically placed around the room.

  Two customers sat at the bar, both seated up front near the entrance, spaced five or six stools apart from one another. None of the nearby tables was occupied. Socrates settled onto a bar stool at the far end of the room, facing the entrance, as far away as he could be from the two men drinking alone.

  The tender appeared in front of Socrates almost as soon as he settled himself onto the stool.

  “Hey, Socrates, my man, longtime no see. How’re you doing?” He dropped a wafer-like paper coaster onto the lacquered bar surface in front of Socrates.

  Without giving Socrates a chance to answer, he continued his patter. “What’ll it be? The usual?”

  “Not today. Give me something stronger than beer, much stronger. A single malt, a McCallum, double over ice.” Socrates smiled feebly, then added, “It’s been a while, Boxer, hasn’t it? See you shaved your beard.”

  The tender had already walked away and was pouring Socrates’ drink before Socrates’ had finished his question.

  Socrates stared down at the paper coaster. He looked up again when his drink arrived.

  “You okay? You look bad,” Boxer said.

  “Remember Brandon, my friend from school? Tall, good looking, preppie type with blond hair. My college roommate. Used to come in here sometimes with me.” He paused and sipped his drink. “Somebody cut his throat and stabbed him last night. I just found out.”

  “Holy Jesus, Man, that’s terrible. I’m sorry. Can I do anything for you?”

  Socrates shook his head. “I’ll have this drink,” he said, tilting his head at the McCallum, “then go home. I feel like crap.” He dropped his forehead into his palms and rested his elbows on the bar.

  “YO! BOXER, OVER here. Bring another one,” Socrates said. He held up his empty glass as if offering a toast.

  The tender walked over to Socrates, leaned across the bar and said softly, “Socrates, my pal, don’t you think you’ve had enough for tonight? I know you’re upset, but you’ve been hitting it now like a couple of hours. Why don’t you go home and sleep it off? I’ll buy you a cab on me.”

  Socrates stiffened and pulled away. He straightened up on his stool, threw back his shoulders and assumed a drunk’s affectation of dimly remembered sober gravitas.

  “Who the fuck you think you’re talkin’ to?” Socrates said. “Don’t tell me how to take care of myself, damn it. I’m the customer, you’re the bartender. If I want another God damn drink, you’ll get me another drink! Understand?”

  SOCRATES WOKE SEVERAL hours later. He ran his scaly tongue across his top row of teeth and winced as he scraped off some unidentifiable scum. His mouth felt as if it was stuffed with sour tasting cotton balls.

  He no longer was at The Guards. He was behind bars, lying on his back on a rock-hard bench in a jail cell at DC’s Central Cellblock at 300 Indiana Avenue. The police had arrested him at The Guards and charged him with unlawful entry — Washington’s name for criminal trespass — because he refused to leave the bar when Boxer ordered him out after Socrates scuffled with another customer.

  Socrates, too embarrassed by his behavior to call his former law partner, Bos Smyth, decided to quietly accept the consequences of his behavior. He agreed to the informal court procedure called Elect to Forfeit, a process tantamount to pleading guilty which avoided the publicity and expense of a full blown trial. The court fined Socrates $350, the maximum fine for unlawful entry. The judge, who sternly lectured Socrates about his responsibility as a member of the Bar, graciously spared him the opportunity to serve up to six months in jail, another possible consequence of the Elect to Forfeit plea. The court was influenced in its decision, the judge told Socrates, because this was his first offense, because of the extenuating circumstances of his best friend’s murder, and because Socrates seemed fittingly contrite.

  Unfortunately, Socrates did not have either $350 in cash or a check with him. He called Jade and, eventually reaching her, asked her to bring the cash to Central Cellblock. He said he would explain everything later.

  “DID YOU CALL my parents and tell them?” Socrates said.

  “Of course not,” Jade said. “I thought you should be the one to tell them, not me.”

  Socrates wheezed a sigh of relief.

  “Good. I’ll do it later when the time’s right. I still have to get used to this myself. It hasn’t really sunk in yet.”

  When they left Central Cellblock, Jade, who had cancelled classes for the day after receiving his call, insisted that she and Socrates go back to her condo. Socrates readily agreed. Once there, he shaved, showered, and dressed in fresh clothes he kept in Jade’s spare closet for nights he stayed over.

  After he finished cleaning himself up, Socrates walked out to the kitchen. Jade was setting the table. She looked up and smiled as he entered.

  “Now, that’s the handsome, clean cut, non-violent Socrates Cheng I remember and love. You almost look human again, except for your hangdog face.”

  Socrates held up his palm. “Not so loud, just whisper. My head’s killing me.”

  Jade smiled and nodded, then continued, sotto voce, “Are you all right? I’m sorry I teased you. You had quite an afternoon and night.”

  “I guess so. I don’t really remember much.” He buried his face in his palms, waited a few seconds, then looked up again. “No, I’m not all right. Brandon’s dead. I feel like crap. I guess I had too much to drink.”

  “Good guess, Darling,” Jade said. “I called The Guards while you were in the shower and paid your bar bill with my AMEX card
. It was a whopper of a bill. You owe me big time, my friend. You might have to take out a second mortgage on your condo just to reimburse me for your bar tab.”

  “What happened, anyway? The last thing I remember was holding up my glass to order another drink.”

  “Apparently, you did that several times. You also got into a shouting match with some guy when he stepped up to the bar and nudged you aside. Then you wouldn’t leave when the bartender told you to go.” She waited a beat. “There’s more. You threatened to punch the bartender when he insisted you leave.” She waited for Socrates to say something, but he just slowly shook his head, groaned, and closed his eyes.

  “Oh, sweet Jesus,” he said. “I don’t believe I was such an ass.”

  “Oh, you were, my love. Heard enough or do you want the rest?” Jade continued to smile.

  “I don’t know,” Socrates said warily. “Is there more?” He paused and took several breaths. “What the Hell. Go on, tell me everything. Get it over with so I don’t have to hear it later when I’m not hung over and will be even more embarrassed.”

  Jade nodded and chuckled.

  “The police came and ordered you to leave. You refused. That’s when they arrested you.” She paused, then said, “There’s still more. Sure you want to hear it?”

  Socrates nodded.

  “When I called and paid your bill, there was a note from the bartender stapled to your check.”

  Socrates shook his head. “Oh, no,” he said. He blew out a stream of air.

  “The bookkeeper read it to me,” Jade said. “I wrote it down. Do you want to know what it said?”

  “I don’t know if I do. You tell me if I should want to know it or not.”

  Jade grinned and shrugged.

  “Never mind,” Socrates said, “tell me. Get it all over with at once.”