He looked at me, this time waiting for me to say something.
“I would think that you might understand what I’m saying,” he said to my silence.
“I am following you,” I said, giving nothing but what I had to give so he would continue.
“You’d think that at my age whatever was set in my psyche would be, in fact, set. That my libido was by now hardwired. Not totally, it appears. Ted triggered something. I felt giddy around him. Like a schoolboy recognizing beauty, sexual attraction, whatever, in my own race for the first time. And it was the first time I thought it was possible to find beauty in someone like me. In a Chinese boy.”
“You hired him to paint your apartment,” I said, not wanting to engage in this kind of conversation.
It was as if I had struck him. He sat back, disappointed. When he spoke again, it was dispassionately.
“As luck would or would not have it, yes. I told Ray I was looking for someone who could paint our apartment and he recommended Ted.”
Again there was a moment of silence.
“I should have resisted, I suppose. For domestic bliss. It was warm, and he was an eager exhibitionist. He worked without his shirt. It didn’t take long for such a foolish old man to do something stupid. Ted played me, but I wanted to be played, make no mistake about that.”
“There is more,” I said.
“Well…we didn’t do anything. I mean, he and I didn’t…ever. But there was conversation and teasing, and he agreed, for a small fee, to pose for me.”
“You photographed in 3B? The empty apartment?”
“Yes.”
“But there is yellow paint on the photograph.”
“He wanted one photo, and I promised. I didn’t get them back until after he was done with this room. But then I needed him to come back here. After Steven and I got all the furniture in position and the paintings rehung, there were some places that needed to be touched up. That’s when I gave him the photograph you have.”
I waited.
He waited.
“So which of you killed him?” I asked.
“No, Mr. Strand. Neither of us. Your leap in logic is Olympian. It is not in my soul to destroy beauty.”
“Blackmail.”
“Me? We live in San Francisco, Mr. Strand, not Little Rock. No one cares about my sex life here.”
“The police might suggest that you made unwanted advances and he reacted. There was a fight and—”
“Never.”
“Steven.”
“No.”
“He knew about the photographs?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe he and Ted argued.”
“Steven was in Florida when Ted died.”
“Why was he in Florida?”
“Looking for work.” Norman looked at me and knew a question would come. He decided to answer it. “Despite my protestations, Steven didn’t like my sudden appreciation of Asian beauty.”
“I’m sorry. How does it stand?”
“Feebly here, it seems. With me, I mean. I’m not sure what’s going through Steven’s head. We aren’t talking to each other about anything more serious than laundry detergent.”
Norman Chinn looked drawn. If he was so concerned about the relationship, though, why was he out on the prowl last night? I didn’t ask. As I started toward the door, he got up and came toward me.
“Could I have the photograph?” When I turned, he smiled. “Unless you like to look at naked Asian men.”
“I can do that every time I shower. For now, that seems to be more than enough. I’ll get this back to you when things are settled.”
“You truly think someone in this building could have done it?”
“Yes.”
“And are we high up on your list of suspects?”
“A little early for a rating.”
As I exited, I ran into Steven on the stairway.
“Visiting Norman again?” he asked, eyebrow raised in an arched stereotype, voice carrying the dramatic innuendo.
“Just trying to figure out who did what to whom,” I said.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to do.”
“I understand you were out of town at the time of Ted’s death.”
“I can supply you with a list of witnesses. Fortunately, I hate being alone. Apparently so does Norman.”
“Very fortunate for you—I mean, to have witnesses.”
“Blessed are the socially desperate,” he said.
“Norman wasn’t out of town, though, was he?”
“Norman just couldn’t have, really. I’d like to hang him from the ceiling with tit clamps for his little obsessions. An old queer’s dying search for perfect beauty, but that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?”
I went for a walk, eventually, to the charming streets near Jackson Square and then back to Mr. Zheng’s Chinatown store. He seemed happy to see me.
“I’m sorry to keep barging in on you and bringing up painful subjects.”
He put his hand on my shoulder. “No, no, you are a light in the darkness. I am glad to talk to you.”
“I have a few questions,” I said.
“Let’s go grab a beer and talk.”
He said something in Chinese to the young girl in the store. She smiled and waved.
“It is a double tragedy,” Mr. Zheng said. “It is a tragedy for his mother and me. It is out of order. A break in the cycle. Children are not supposed to die before their parents. And then you think of it with the child in mind. Parents are supposed to be around to teach them about the world. It is the way. Yet it isn’t.”
I had nothing to say.
“But every human experiences tragedy, isn’t that right, Peter?”
I nodded.
“We must get through it,” he said, his hand on my shoulder. We walked to the same restaurant as before. We didn’t bother with the separate little room, instead taking seats at the empty bar. The bartender and Mr. Zheng talked in Chinese. We were brought Budweisers.
“Ted owed you quite a bit of money,” I said after we’d downed two good sips of beer each.
He shook his head.
“A son does not owe money to his father. It’s all family. All the same thing. He was…irresponsible. It was difficult at times financially. His mother was so concerned about our old age. About the grandchild. My wife worries so much about such things. She is very pragmatic. She is very good with the inventory, very good with the accounts. I miss her at the shop. Except that she drove off other workers and some customers.”
Mr. Zheng smiled and continued.
“Ted was a very happy boy. I wish he had inherited some of her common sense, her concentration. I wish she could have shared a little of his joy and his childish awe at the world and what it had to offer. Poor Gong Li. She has never left China.”
“Don’t you or your wife wonder who killed your son?”
“My wife knows. America. That was her last word on it.”
He took a sip of beer, then angled his body toward me. “Now you, Peter Strand. Just who are you?”
TEN
I left Cheng Ye Zheng at the restaurant just past six. It was a short walk back to the Blue Dragon. I went around the block once to shake off the effects of the conversation. It had taken a few personal turns that I had hoped to avoid, but Mr. Zheng was convincing and forceful in his gentle way. I felt as if I’d said too much to him.
I was steady emotionally by the time I reached the apartment building and thought I was ready for May Wen. I was ready until she opened the door wearing a black slip and looking like a comic-book villainess—a very sexy comic-book villainess. I went weak again quickly.
May gave me a face full of sensuous, dramatic boredom.
“A few more words, if you don’t mind,” I said without the nonchalance I had intended.
She stepped out of the way and shut the door behind me.
“No, leave it open,” I said.
She shrugged and put the door ajar.
>
I took one of the keys, the larger one, out of my pocket and slipped it into the first of the two locks. The thick brassy deadbolt emerged from the door like an eager lover.
She looked at me silently.
I held the key up for her to see.
“So?”
“Came from Ted Zheng’s secret box.”
“A little pervert, huh?” She was unfazed.
I shut the door. “I don’t know. Was he?”
“Maybe just a thief,” she said, a teasing smile dancing on her face.
“Anything missing?”
“You tell me. You’re the one nosing around,” she said. She went into the room, picked up her cigarette case from the coffee table, pulled one out and lit it. Waited.
“Who was he visiting? You or your husband?”
“Why would he visit David?”
“Why would he visit you?”
“Are you slow on the uptake or trying to put me in my place?”
“You pick.” I was getting stronger.
“Look, you are nobody I have to talk to,” she said. “And I just got off work, and I don’t feel like answering all your questions. All right?”
“Fine. Maybe your husband will answer them.”
“He’s out of town.”
“I can find him.”
Her eyes lowered briefly. “You a critic?”
“What was it? Drugs or sex? Or both?” I asked.
“People make much too big a deal out of both of them.”
“How about murder? Are we making too much of it?”
She did her best to give me an ironic grin. “We had a little thing. It was completely harmless.”
“Your husband know?”
“He knew I got some party favors from Ted.”
“Party favors?”
She gave me the look. “How could you be so stupid?”
“Drugs.”
“You make it sound so serious. A little something to enhance the music.”
“And you and Ted…”
“Yes. A little tit for tat. How detailed do you want me to get?”
“Tell me just what you told your husband about it.”
“You are a pain, Mr. Strand. He didn’t know. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t have to know. You are going down the wrong street altogether. Nobody around here would kill Teddy. Even if my husband knew, he’d be mad at me, not Teddy. I’ve done it before, Mr. Strand. David takes the guy’s side. Then he pouts for a day or two. Then we make passionate love and he starts thinking about his clients and…and…well…” She shrugged. “Listen, Teddy played around with drug dealers. Maybe he played a little harder than you think.”
“Maybe.”
“And me? Why would I do it? He was my source, and I enjoyed making payment.”
When I returned home, I did something rare. I poured myself a gin and tonic. May Wen’s sexiness and nastiness had me twisted around. I paced awhile before remembering I still had the photograph of a naked man in my pocket. I took it out, and as I slid it back into the envelope for safekeeping, I discovered the check. It was nestled inside, against the back of the envelope. I’d missed it earlier.
The check was from the account of Mrs. Kein Ho and Miss Barbara Siu.
The address specified 3B, the vacant apartment. Mrs. Ho’s.
It was a canceled check, number 1221, made out to FastMail. The check had been signed by Barbara Siu.
I found the number for Barbara and her sister. I went to the phone and dialed immediately, pacing and growing more impatient with each unanswered ring.
How could I have missed it? I thought. I was angry with myself, and I passed on a bit of that negative energy to Linda Siu when she answered.
“I’d like to speak with your sister,” I said when she identified herself.
“That might be difficult. She’s not here,” said Linda, not intimidated by my unintentional cold tone.
“I’m sorry. I need to talk with her.”
“There’s something going on at the temple. I expect her back before ten. Is there something I can help you with?”
I considered telling her. I decided not to. I didn’t want to give the two of them time to cook something up if something needed cooking.
“You mind if I come over then?”
There was a long pause. Finally a hesitant no. Then she added, “Are you sure you can’t tell me what this is about?”
“I’d rather address it with the two of you,” I said, but I wasn’t altogether sure that was true. I’d just as soon not have Linda around when I brought up the subject.
Barbara Siu was exceptionally flighty. Linda Siu seemed to counter by being exceptionally tough and abrasive.
I politely refused the offer of tea, claiming it was too late. However, my reticence came from the manner in which Mrs. Ho might have met her death. Daily tea containing doses of any one of a number of poisons could drive a woman crazy. Crazy enough to venture into an empty elevator shaft. Crazy enough to be easily guided to an empty elevator shaft. Such a frail body could easily have thrown off its mortal coil with the help of the tiniest of shoves.
“What is it that you want of us?” Linda asked.
“I want to find out a little more about your relationship with Mrs. Ho.”
“Mrs. Ho?” Linda said, surprised, then indignant. “I thought you were investigating the death of the young man.”
Barbara seemed to cower from the increased volume of her sister’s thought.
Demurely, Barbara stepped closer and spoke in halting English. “In afternoon I take tea to her.”
“My sister cared for Mrs. Ho,” Linda said. “Helped her. Did her shopping. Cleaned her apartment. Gave her baths when it became necessary. Why are you questioning us?”
“Just trying to find out about Mrs. Ho and Ted Zheng.”
“You’ve talked to us once. We told you what we knew. That should be enough,” Linda said.
“I’m really sorry. But I wasn’t aware of the death of Mrs. Ho at the time.”
“Mrs. Ho’s death was an accident. What are you trying to do, Mr. Strand? Mr. Lehr pays you by the hour and you have to dredge up something more to keep busy?”
Linda wasn’t just impatient—she was angry.
“I found this check.” I showed it to both of them.
“So?”
“I found it in Ted’s belongings.”
“I don’t know why he had it, but I certainly don’t know what it has to do with anything.”
“He had it in a secret place where it would be away from prying eyes.”
“I don’t understand…”
Barbara said something in Chinese, then turned to me. “Mrs. Ho and I went to bank. She set up account so I can buy things for her.”
With that Barbara left the room, leaving me with a seething Linda Siu.
“Barbara is the most wonderful person in the world. She is also very easily upset. So help me, Mr. Strand, if…”
Barbara returned carrying a cardboard shoe box.
“You see,” Barbara said. “Everything in here.” She lifted the lid. There were checks in short stacks secured with rubber bands. There were two dozen or so envelopes containing what looked like bank statements. There was the checkbook. “You look carefully. I do not cheat Mrs. Ho.”
I felt ashamed, though I had done nothing other than ask what I thought were reasonable questions.
But Barbara’s eyes were pleading for me to believe her.
“May I take these with me?” I asked Barbara.
Barbara nodded.
I left feeling troubled. It is always troubling to see a relationship when one person seems so dominant, so forceful, and the other so submissive, so weak. Was Linda a wonderful older sister protecting an innocent and shy person from the evils of the world? Or had she created it, denying the full expression of life from someone who could be dominated?
I turned back as I was leaving to see the tough sister comforting the other. If it was love…
; ELEVEN
A bottle of Caymus Conundrum, uncorked. Music, soft but unobtrusive. Music to do accounting by. I had the checking-account statements and returned checks in front of me. Drinking and accounting might not normally be compatible activities, but this was far from high finance.
Some of the payees were impossible to make out. But by and large the names were evident in the endorsements—grocers, pharmacies and the like. The only major expense was the rent, which was paid on the last day of the month.
There was never enough money in the account to do any real damage—rarely much more than enough to cover the month’s expenses. Periodically there was a deposit. A standard amount at a regular frequency. Obviously, money came from somewhere else. A savings account, an investment portfolio or a trust. Whatever. But as far as I knew, these other funds were not accessible by Barbara Siu.
It didn’t take long. When the account was balanced, there was still half a bottle of wine left.
I went to the garden and looked out into the twinkling night. Something was changing. This whole thing, this investigation, had been more than what it appeared. I wasn’t just investigating other people. What I’d told Cheng Ye Zheng that afternoon in the bar…these were things I’d never told anyone. I’d told him about being four years old and standing outside the wrecked car and seeing my parents. Remembering them not as humans but simply as masks. As pretend.
At first he’d said nothing. He just put his arm around me. Finally he said, “They were dead. The spirits were gone. They really were masks. But you will know them again one day. They are you, you know.”
He took his hand away, took another sip of his beer. “Poor Gong Li,” he said. “She sees Ted in the boy. She is determined to get it right this time. It is not so easy, I tell her. Love is not like a business.” He laughed.
He took a last sip, threw some bills on the counter and pulled me off the high seat. “Ah,” he said, “it all depends on how you look at things. Sometimes you are looking at the right thing but in the wrong place.”
I’d walked him back to his shop then, seeing all those faces, all those people, more directly connected to their pasts. Ancestors. Families.
The Blue Dragon Page 6