Mandarin Yellow (Socrates Cheng mysteries)

by Steven M. Roth

  Jade again stared at Youngest Brother. She leaned her head to the right slightly and cocked one eyebrow, seeking with her silent gestures his permission for her to cross the room and join him.

  She watched as Youngest Brother correctly interpreted her intent from her body language. He threw her a kiss, using only his pursed lips, and then almost imperceptivity shook his head, No. Then he looked off in another direction. Jade took a slow, deep breath and sighed it back out. She had her answer. It had been foolish for her to have hoped otherwise.

  Thwarted by her closest sibling, Jade again eyeballed the room. She saw her father staring at her.

  Bing-fa did not flinch or break off eye contact when Jade looked back at him. His gray eyes remained reptilian cold, his overall bearing that of a rigid and unapproachable Marine Corps drill sergeant. Bing-fa stood with his chin thrust forward, watching Jade.

  Jade reflexively took a half step back and bumped into the wall. Then she lowered her head briefly.

  Bing-fa turned away without acknowledging her.

  Jade took another deep breath and let it out as a slow, soft moan. Her exhalation was interrupted by a tap on her shoulder. She turned and found herself staring into the face of her hostess.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Fong,” Jade said, donning a wan smile.

  “Welcome to my reception, Bing-jade,” Fong said, speaking Mandarin. “You honor me with your presence.”

  Jade nodded and smiled. “I congratulate you on your recent promotion,” she said, speaking vernacular Chinese, not Mandarin. “You will make a fine acting director. May you have the good fortune to be elevated one day to the position of permanent director.”

  Fong smiled and lowered her eyes. “That also is my wish,” she said. “I hope your father will favor me with his assistance so I might achieve that worthy post. I trust his presence today is a favorable sign.”

  Jade shrugged slightly and remained deliberately inscrutable with her response. “My father’s intentions and thoughts remain unfathomable to everyone, as always. He will reveal his intent when he believes it is appropriate for him to do so, if ever.” She smiled through closed lips as if to say, Nice try.

  “Thank you, Bing-jade,” Fong said. “As always, your remarks have been most interesting.” She turned her head and briefly looked around the room, then looked back at Jade. “Now, if you will pardon me, I must greet my other guests.” She turned away and walked across the room.

  Jade again looked around the room.

  She saw Eldest Brother standing near the entrance talking to two women she did not recognize.

  Eldest Brother briefly fixed his gaze on Jade, looking at her over the shoulders of his two companions. He caught Jade’s eye, nodded once, then turned his back to her and reentered the conversation with the two women.

  SOCRATES FINISHED HIS meeting with Revenue Officer McCants and spent the balance of the morning again canvassing the gallery’s immediate neighborhood, knocking on the doors of homes of people he’d missed the first time around.

  He also kept his eyes open for people walking dogs. One of the library books had made the point that people with dogs tend to develop dog-walking patterns and, at least with respect to these walks, often were creatures of habit. Socrates hoped he might run into some dog walkers who had noticed something out of the ordinary during one of their habitual sojourns the night the burglars hit the gallery.

  Socrates interviewed three dog walkers as they stood on the sidewalk watching their dogs sniff the landscape. This achieved nothing for him. The entire trip back to the neighborhood achieved nothing for him.

  After lunch, Socrates stopped at Georgetown Tobacco on M Street near Wisconsin Avenue and treated himself to a Partagas cigar. He smoked cigars once every six or seven months, according to his mood and circumstances. He’d smoke this one tonight at home unless Jade planned to come over. She disliked the scent of cigars, even the fragrance of high quality cigars such as the Partagas.

  Socrates left the tobacco shop with two cigars in hand, walked home, and booted up his computer. He again performed a data search among the records of stolen objects. He continued to believe that the answer to the burglary and the clue to the path he must follow to recoup the genuine Mandarin Yellow and the other stolen objects would be found in some theme or pattern woven among the objects themselves.

  Socrates worked at this until almost 8:00 p.m., but, as before, no theme emerged from his efforts. He quit the computer for the night because he was starving.

  He left his condo and walked to the Sign of the Whale, a combination bar and restaurant on M Street,just around the corner from Starbucks on 19th. He was in the mood for a beer, a tossed salad, a juicy NY Strip steak, green beans and a baked potato. His weight was under control from jogging so he would allow himself to indulge tonight.

  Socrates ate a quiet meal, drank two Peroni beers, and finished up with a piece of apple pie. He was proud he’d had the willpower to turn down the waiter’s offer of a scoop of vanilla ice cream to go with the pie. It was a minor victory, perhaps, but a victory nonetheless.

  He felt good and looked forward to smoking his cigar when he returned home. Afterward, he would call Jade and talk for a while. He paid his check and left the Whale. The time was just after 9:30 p.m.

  He strolled north up 19th Street, walking past the closed Starbucks toward Dupont Circle. He would take the long way home, he decided, would walk directly through the park that comprised the Circle, then walk up Connecticut Avenue to Q Street, and then back over to 19th again, heading home. This would give him a chance to stop at KRAMERBOOKS & AFTERWORDS to browse through its books.

  Socrates bought two trade paperbacks at KRAMER BOOKS, one a noir — a recent reprint of David Goodis’ 1954 novel, The BLOND ON THEM STREET CORNER — and one hardboiled — a reprint of Paul Cain’s 1936 novel, FAST ONE.

  After he finished at Kramer’s, Socrates resumed his leisurely stroll home. He decided that when he arrived at his condo, before he forgot to do it or something else came up, he’d go online to Amazon and would download two eBooks he’d been meaning to read: Gerald Lane Summers’ new novel, MOBLEY’S LAW, and David Bishop’s latest novel, THE BEHOLDER. Between these two well-regarded books and the Goodis and Cain he just bought, his reading would be set for a month or so.

  HE WAS ALMOST home, still walking on 19th Street just west of the Circle, when he heard footsteps behind him, approaching fast in his direction. He moved off the pavement, out of the way so the runner could dash by him. As he turned to watch the runner go, something hard crashed into the side of his head.

  The pain was sharp and searing.

  Socrates swooned, then staggered a few feet forward like a drunken sailor.

  The last thing he remembered was thinking that the Saturday morning TV cartoons had gotten it right after all. You really do see flashes of colors and exploding stars. He thought about this just before everything went dark.

  SOCRATES SLOWLY SWAM back into consciousness. He was stretched out flat on his back. His head ached with migraine intensity.

  He kept his eyes closed and remained still, listening to his surroundings, trying to buy time before his assailant knew he was awake, straining to sense his attacker’s location so he could defend himself. He heard nothing that might offer him a clue. He had no idea if he was alone or in danger again. He had no sense how long he’d been laid out on the street, a few seconds or a few hours. The night air smelled antiseptic to him.

  After a few minutes like this, hearing nothing, not even usual street noises, Socrates cautiously opened his eyes. His vision was clouded as if he had suffered a concussion and was viewing the world filtered through a sheet of wax paper.

  Now he was confused. He had no idea where he was, but he could tell he was indoors, not on the 19th Street sidewalk. He cautiously lifted his head to look around. The movement made him dizzy and he let his head flop back down. A vice squeezed his skull. He moaned softly.

  He squinted, trying to bring his s
urroundings into focus, but he could only see his most proximate world. He raised his head again and the effort exacerbated the throbbing. Frustrated, he tried to sit up, and leaned on one elbow to support himself. He became dizzy again and let himself drop back down. He ground his teeth together in frustration.

  “I wouldn’t try that again if I were you,” a woman said. “Not yet, anyway. You had a nasty knock on your head. Took seven stitches to close you up.”

  Socrates jerked up his head and turned to face the source of the voice. He immediately regretted his abrupt movement.

  “Where am I? Who are you?” Socrates saw a woman dressed as a nurse standing about six feet away from him. She was out of focus. “What’s goingon?”

  “You’re at the George Washington University Hospital. I’m the Duty Nurse. The ER sent you up to us.”

  “What happened?”

  “What happened is,” the nurse said, “somebody smashed you on the side of your head. Somebody else found you on the street and called 911. The EMS unit brought you to the ER where you were sewed up and then sent to us for observation. We’ll monitor your brain activity for tonight. Maybe tomorrow, too.”

  “How long have I been here?”

  The nurse picked up Socrates’ chart from the foot of his bed and looked at it. “According to this, from the time you came in to the ER until now, is,” she looked at her watch, “I’d say, about ten hours.”

  Socrates groaned and started to ask the nurse another question when someone across the room said, “I need to talk to him now, nurse.” Socrates turned his head in the direction of the voice.

  Detective Harte nodded at Socrates as he walked over to the bed and gradually entered Socrates’ clouded field of vision.

  “That’s a nasty bump you got there, Cheng. Probably’ll hurt like a sonofabitch for a few days. How’d it happen?”

  “What are you doing here?” Socrates said. “How long have you been here?”

  “Long enough to know you got a major snoring problem and long enough therefore to be glad I’m not a woman dating you. What do you remember?”

  Socrates shook his head. “Ouch,” he said, “ I shouldn’t have done that . . . . I don’t remember much. Almost nothing.” He squinted as if trying to see what he couldn’t readily dredge up from his memory.

  “I was walking home after dinner. I’d been at Kramer’s and bought two books. I heard someone running toward me from behind.”

  He closed his eyes trying to recall the scene. “I turned to see where they were so I could get out of their way.... I think I was hit with something, but I’m not sure. Then I woke up here.” He closed his eyes trying to recall more, then said, “How’d you get here, Detective? How did you even know about this?”

  “The ER doc called me. Seems he found my business card in your wallet when they were looking to ID you. He called me because this little item here aroused his curiosity.”

  As he said this, Harte reached into a large manila envelope and pulled out a sheet of paper enclosed in a clear plastic evidence bag. He walked it over closer to Socrates.

  Socrates blanched when he saw what Harte held. “Where’d that come from?” he asked. “Jesus . . . .”

  “It was pinned to the front of your shirt when the EMS team found you,” Harte said. “Any idea who’d do that or why?”

  “It’s the . . . .”

  “I know what it is, Cheng.” Harte took a step closer. “That wasn’t my question.” He waited for Socrates’ answer, but Socrates remained quiet. “What I want to know from you is why someone played Pin the Tail on the Donkey, with you as the ass?”

  Socrates looked up at Harte and shook his head.

  “So you’re telling me you have no idea why somebody would rip the cover off an art exhibit catalog — for a show that never took place, at a gallery where a murder occurred — and then pin that cover to your shirt after splitting open your skull?” Harte shook his head. “That doesn’t sound right to me. Help me out here, Cheng. Help yourself out.”

  Socrates again shook his head. “I don’t know why, Detective. Honest.”

  “Funny thing,” Harte said. “That’s what I bet my partner a week’s worth of powdered donuts you’d say.” He looked across the room at Detective Thigpen, who grinned, nodded, and threw Socrates a two-fingered salute.

  THE HOSPITAL KEPT Socrates overnight and discharged him late the next afternoon. Once back home, he called Jade at her office, but, as usual, didn’t reach her. He left a voice mail message inviting her to come over that evening for dinner. He said that he had some interesting, but disturbing, even bizarre, events to tell her about.

  Jade called back a few minutes later.

  Socrates described the attack against him on 19th Street and walked her through his conversation at the hospital with Detective Harte.

  “Oh, Darling,” she said, “you should have called me sooner. I would have cancelled classes and come right to you.”

  “Thanks, but I didn’t see the point of ruining your work day. Anyway, I’m all right now, I guess.” He paused to sip ice tea. “How about coming over now. I’d love to see you. We can make dinner. I think I’m up to doing that much.”

  “I wish I could, but I can’t right now.” She paused a beat. “Oh . . . maybe I’ll just skip the play and come over . . . . Yes, that’s what I’ll do. You need me. Okay, it’s settled.”

  “Don’t skip anything on account of me,” Socrates said. He paused, hoping Jade would insist that she cancel her plans and come right to him notwithstanding his remonstration otherwise. When she said nothing, Socrates said, “Skip what play?”

  “At the New Playwrights’ Theater on Corcoran. It’s opening night and the Twins have the leads. I was going to see them perform.”

  Socrates hesitated, then said, “You should go. I’ll be fine. We can get together after,” he said. “But I’m surprised the Twins invited you. Won’t your father and other brothers be there?”

  “They didn’t invite me. Youngest Brother told me about it. I don’t plan on letting my father or brothers know I’m there, except maybe Youngest Brother.”

  WHEN THE PLAY ended several hours later, Jade skipped the opening night post-performance cocktail reception for the playwright, cast, crew and their guests, and arrived at Socrates’ condo a little past 11:30 p.m.

  The table was set for a late dinner for two. Socrates had prepared Fettuccini Alfredo and a tossed Italian salad for them. He opened a bottle of D’Abruzzi Amarone, vintage 1984, and for dessert had purchased a fresh fruit tart from Firehook Bakery on Q Street. After they finished eating, they settled on the couch in the living room.

  To the limited extent he could, since he did not yet know all the facts, Socrates described for Jade how he’d landed in the hospital. He also told her about the assailant’s bizarre act of pinning the catalog’s front cover to his shirt.

  “That’s really weird,” Jade said, “really weird. Were you robbed?”

  “I didn’t find anything missing. Anyway, a mugger wouldn’t have decorated me with the catalog’s cover. It wasn’t a robbery, it was a message. Probably from the same person who broke into my bedroom and left the catalog leaning up against my pillow. The same sick person who shoved the photocopy of the Northern Sung Edict down Brandon’s throat after killing him.”

  Jade frowned. “That’s sick,” she said. “What kind of message do you think it is?”

  Socrates paused, stared across the room for a moment, then looked back at Jade, and said, “I think I know, but I want to be sure before I say. If I’m right, I’ll tell you later.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Jade stiffened. Her whole demeanor reflected her felt rejection.

  “It means, be patient, Jade. Please. Give me some time to work out some things, then we’ll talk.”

  Before she could reply, Socrates said, “How was the play?”

  He watched Jade’s body language shift and her whole persona relax as she imbibed and then digested his question.
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  Jade smiled and patted the back of Socrates’ hand. “Okay, counselor, you win. Time to change the subject.” She sat up a little taller. “It was nice. Very nice, in fact. A good production with good acting all around. I’m glad I went. The boys are good actors, always have been.”

  “What was the play? You never told me.”

  “Romeo and Juliet,” she said.

  Socrates nodded. “Oh, I see,” he said. Then he frowned.

  “What’s going on, Socrates?” Jade stared hard at him. “All of a sudden you’re a million miles away.”

  “Nothing.” He shrugged and looked away. Then he looked back at her. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t give me that nothing. You should see the look on your face. I can see the wheels turning in your head.”

  Socrates looked at Jade, opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it. “I’ll tell you another time, Jade, I promise. Something you said made me think of something I need to do, is all. That’s what you were seeing, nothing else. I want to check out something. If I’m right, I’ll tell you all about it.”

  With that, Socrates stood, reached over and lightly squeezed Jade’s shoulder, then walked over to the bottle of Amarone. He poured them each another glass, emptying the bottle.

  The next night, following up his hunch, Socrates sat in the back row of the New Playwrights’ Theater and watched the Twins perform Shakespeare’s play, with one Twin as Romeo and the other as Juliet.

  THE NEXT MORNING, with the Twins’ stage play still very much on his mind, Socrates called Bing-fa. He reached him at home.

  “I want to come by and meet with the Twins today,” he said. “Alone though, without you or your other sons present.” Socrates counted the seconds before Bing-fa responded.

  “I will make my sons available at the Golden Dragon. No one will interrupt you.”

  “It’s also important they don’t know I’m coming to see them,” Socrates said. “I’ll be there in about an hour.”