Detective Rizzoli assumes command of the conversation. Of course she would; she wears her authority like a coat of armor. “We understand you’re in possession of an antique sword, Mrs. Fang,” she says. “We ask you to surrender it to us now.”
I look at Detective Frost. It is a cold stare of accusation, and shame darkens his eyes. On the night we shared dinner, the night that a friendship warmed between us, I allowed him to hold Zheng Yi and I shared the sword’s history with him. That night, I saw kindness in his face. Now that face tightens into a mask that closes off any hint of our earlier connection. It is clear that he is a policeman above all, which poisons any possibility of friendship between us.
“If you choose not to hand over the weapon,” says Detective Rizzoli, “we have a search warrant.”
“And if I give you my sword, what will you do with it?” I ask.
“Examine it.”
“Why?”
“To determine if it was used in the commission of a crime.”
“Will it be returned to me undamaged?”
“Mrs. Fang, we’re not here to negotiate. Where is the sword?”
Bella steps forward, fury radiating off her like the hum of a high-voltage wire. “You can’t just confiscate it!”
“The law says I can.”
“Zheng Yi has been in my family for generations,” I say. “It has never left my possession.”
Detective Rizzoli frowns at me. “What is Zheng Yi?”
“The name it was given when it was forged. It means ‘justice.’ ”
“The sword has a name?”
“Why are you surprised? Don’t you have a legend in Western culture, about a sword named Excalibur?”
“Madam Fang,” says the black man, his voice quietly respectful. “Believe me, I don’t want the sword damaged in any way. I understand its value, and I promise I’ll treat it with care.”
“And why should I believe you?” I ask.
“Because it’s my job to protect and preserve such weapons. I’m Dr. Calvin Cherry from the Arthur Sackler Museum, and I’ve examined many ancient swords. I know their history. I know the battles they’ve fought.” He dips his head, a gesture of regard that impresses me. “I would be honored if you’d allow me to see Zheng Yi,” he says quietly.
I look into his soft brown eyes and see a sincerity that I did not expect. This man pronounces the name with a perfect accent, so I know he speaks Mandarin. Even more important, he understands that a fine weapon is to be revered for the skill of its craftsman, and for the centuries it has survived.
“Come with me,” I say. “Bella, please take charge of the class.”
I lead the visitors into the back room and shut the door. From my pocket I take out a key and unlock the closet to reveal the silk-wrapped bundle that lies on the shelf. With both hands, I present it to Dr. Cherry.
He receives it with a bow and carefully sets it on my desk. Detectives Rizzoli and Frost watch as he peels back the layers of red silk, exposing the sheathed weapon. He pauses for a moment to examine the scabbard, which is made of lacquered wood with bronze fittings. The handle, too, is lacquered wood, but covered with stingray skin that has been stained green. When he pulls out the sword, the blade makes a musical whine that sends a thrill across my skin.
“Liuye dao,” he says softly.
I nod. “A willow leaf saber.”
“And you say this comes from your family?”
“It was my mother’s. And before that, her mother’s.”
“How many generations does it go back?”
“All the way to General Washi.”
He looks up, clearly startled. “Truly?”
“It is our family bloodline.”
Detective Rizzoli asks, “Who was he, this general?”
“You’d appreciate this bit of history, Detective,” says Dr. Cherry. “General Washi was a woman, and the most famous of the double dao masters. A warrior who fought with two swords, one in each hand. She commanded thousands of soldiers during the Ming dynasty, leading them in charges against those Japanese pirates I told you about.” He looks at me in wonder. “And you’re her descendant.”
Smiling back at him, I nod. “I’m pleased you know of her.”
“But this is astonishing! To think—”
“Dr. Cherry,” cuts in Detective Rizzoli. “What about the sword?”
“Oh yes. Of course.” He pulls out his glasses and slips them on his nose. Behind the lenses, his brown eyes squint in concentration. “This has the typical curve of a willow leaf dao. It’s a very old design,” he explains to the two detectives. “This one is somewhat shorter than usual, but I guess you’d expect it if this weapon was designed specifically for a woman’s hand. These blood grooves here are also typical, meant to make the blade a little lighter. Look at these etchings in the steel! I’m amazed how deep they still are! And this grip, you’d almost think it was original, if you didn’t know it has to be at least five hundred …” He pauses. Above his spectacles, I can see his frown deepen. For the next few moments he says nothing at all. He brings the dao close to his glasses, minutely studying the cutting edge of the blade. He tests the flexibility. Finally, he reaches into his pocket for a magnifier, through which he examines the etched panels.
At last he straightens, and when he looks at me, I see a strange sadness in his eyes. A look that is almost regretful. Quietly, he slides the dao back into the scabbard and holds it out to me. “Madam Fang,” he says. “Thank you for allowing me to see Zheng Yi.”
“Then you are finished with her?” I ask.
“There’s no need for us to take it after all.”
Detective Rizzoli protests, “Dr. Cherry, the crime lab needs to examine it.”
“Trust me, this is not the weapon you’re looking for.”
Rizzoli turns to Detective Frost. “Is it the same sword you saw?”
Frost looks confused. His gaze flicks up and down, between my face and the sheathed sword that I am holding. His face deepens to scarlet as he realizes he may have made a mistake.
“Well, is it?” she asks again.
Frost shakes his head. “I’m not sure. I mean, I only saw the sword for a moment.”
“Detective Frost,” I say coldly, “the next time you visit, I hope you’ll be courteous enough to tell me what it is you really want from me.”
My barb finds its mark, and he flinches as though stung.
Detective Rizzoli sighs. “Mrs. Fang, regardless of what Dr. Cherry says, we still need to take the sword for further study.” She holds out her hands, waiting for me to surrender the prize.
After a pause, I place it in her hands. “I expect it returned to me undamaged.”
As the visitors leave, I see Detective Frost cast a regretful look back, but I wear my disdain like a shield, deflecting any apology. His shoulders are drooping as he walks out the door.
“Sifu?” Bella says softly, stepping into my office.
In the next room, the students continue sparring and kicking, grunting and sweating. She closes the door so they cannot see the look of satisfaction that passes between us.
Move, countermove. The chess game continues, and the police are still one step behind us.
JANE WAITED UNTIL THEY WERE HALFWAY DOWN THE BLOCK, WHERE their cars were parked, before she confronted Dr. Cherry. “How can you be so sure this isn’t the weapon?”
“Take it to the crime lab. Let them examine it if you don’t believe me,” he said.
“We’re looking for an ancient Chinese sword, and she just happens to have one.”
“That sword you took from her isn’t the one you’re looking for. Yes, the blade’s edge has nicks and scars from use, but the etchings and blood grooves are too distinct. Also, the handle appears to be original to that weapon. A wooden handle crafted in the Ming dynasty wouldn’t have survived all these centuries in such good condition.”
“So this sword isn’t old?”
“It’s certainly well made, and it has t
he proper heft and balance of a Ming dynasty saber. But that sword is just a very good reproduction. At most, it’s maybe fifty, seventy-five years old.”
“Why didn’t you say any of this while we were there?”
“Because it’s clear that she believes it’s real. She believes it was passed down from her ancestors. I didn’t have the heart to disillusion her, not when it means so much to her.” He looked toward the paifang gate. It was now late afternoon, and dinnertime visitors were descending on Chinatown, roaming its narrow streets, staring at menus in windows. Dr. Cherry surveyed the crowd with a look of sadness. “At the museum where I work,” he said, “I’m often asked to evaluate family heirlooms. People bring in all sorts of junk from their attics. Vases and paintings and musical instruments. Things that come with all sorts of mythology attached to them. Almost always, my verdict is disappointing for them because what they bring aren’t treasures, but worthless reproductions. It forces people to question everything they were ever told as children. It destroys their personal mythologies, and I hate having to do it. People want to believe they’re exceptional. They want to believe their family has a unique story to tell, and for proof they point to Grandma’s antique ring, or Grandpa’s old fiddle. Why force them to hear the brutal truth, which is that most of us are utterly ordinary? And the hand-me-down relics we cherish are almost always fakes.”
“Mrs. Fang believes she’s descended from warrior women,” said Frost. “Do you think that’s just another family fantasy?”
“I think it’s something that her parents told her. And they gave her that sword to prove it.”
“So it’s not true. About General Washi.”
“Anything’s possible, Detective Frost. You could be descended from King Arthur or William the Conqueror. If that’s important to you, if it helps you get through your day-to-day life, then go on believing that. Because family mythology has far more meaning to us than the truth. It helps us cope with the sheer insignificance of our own lives.”
Jane snorted. “My family mythology was all about how much beer Uncle Lou could chug at one sitting.”
“I doubt that’s the only lore you heard,” said Dr. Cherry.
“I also heard that my great-grandma gave a whole wedding party food poisoning.”
Dr. Cherry smiled. “I’m talking about heroes. There must be at least one of those in your family. Think about it, Detective. Think about how important those heroes are to the way you view yourself.”
Jane did think about it as she drove home, but the first personalities that came to mind were the roguish and the ridiculous. The Rizzoli cousin who tried to prove Santa Claus really could make a traditional entrance, resulting in the emergency dismantling of his mother’s chimney. Or the uncle who livened up a New Year’s party with homemade fireworks and left the hospital minus three fingers.
But there were also stories of quiet dignity, told about a great-aunt who was a nun in Africa. Another great-aunt who struggled to feed eight children in Italy during the war. They could be called heroes, too, but of a quieter kind. Real women who endured, nothing like Iris Fang’s legendary ancestor who fought with two sabers and led soldiers into battle. A fable was what that sounded like, no more real than Sun Wukong the Monkey King, who protected the innocent and battled demons and river monsters. Iris was living in just such a fairy-tale world, where a lonely widow could believe herself a swordmaster with the blood of ancient warriors in her veins. And who could blame her for retreating into such a fantasy? Iris was dying of leukemia. Her husband and daughter were gone. Alone in her sad home, with that sad furniture, did she dream of battlefields and glory? Wouldn’t I?
As she braked at a stoplight, her cell phone rang. Without looking at the caller’s number she answered it, and was treated to an angry voice blasting in her ear.
“What the hell, Jane? Why didn’t you tell me?” said her brother Frankie. “We can’t let her do it.”
She sighed. “I take it this is about Mom’s engagement?”
“I had to hear the news from Mike.”
“I was going to call you, but I’ve been kind of busy.”
“She can’t marry that guy. You gotta stop her.”
“You wanna tell me how I should go about that?”
“She’s still married, for Chrissakes!”
“Yeah. To a man who left her for a bimbo.”
“Don’t talk about Dad like that.”
“Well, he did.”
“That’s not gonna last. Dad’ll come home, you’ll see. He just needs to get out his ya-yas first.”
“Tell that to Mom. See what she says about it.”
“Fuck’s sake, Jane, I can’t believe you’re letting this happen. This is the Rizzoli family. Families oughta stick together. And what do we really know about this Korsak guy, anyway?”
“Come on. We both know he’s okay.”
“What does that mean, he’s okay?”
“He’s a decent human being. And he’s a good cop.” She paused, struck by the fact that she was defending the same man whom she had not particularly relished as a stepfather. But everything she’d said about Korsak was true. He was a decent human being. He was a man you could count on. A woman could do much worse.
“And it’s fine with you that he’s boinking Ma?” said Frankie.
“You have no problem with Dad boinking the Bimbo.”
“That’s different. He’s a guy.”
Now, that pissed her off. “And Mom’s not allowed to boink?” Jane shot back.
“She’s our mother.”
The light turned green. As she drove through the intersection, she said, “Mom’s not dead yet, Frankie. She’s good-looking and fun and she deserves another chance at love. Instead of harassing her about this, you go talk to Dad. He’s the reason she went out with Korsak in the first place.”
“Yeah, I will talk to him. Maybe it’s time he took control of this situation.” Frankie hung up.
Control? It was Dad’s lack of control that got us here.
She tossed the phone on the seat, fretting over how her dad was going to react to the news. Angry that this was yet one more thing to worry about, one more ball to juggle when she already had a dozen whirling in midair.
The phone rang again.
Abruptly she pulled over to the curb to answer it. “I don’t have time for this, Frankie,” she snapped.
“Who the fuck’s Frankie?” came an equally irritated retort. “Listen, Rizzoli, I’ve had enough of this Red Phoenix crap and I want you to make it stop.” There was no mistaking Kevin Donohue’s gravelly voice. Or his delightful vocabulary.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Donohue,” she said.
“I got another one this afternoon. This time they shoved it under my windshield wiper. Can you believe they had the nerve to touch my fucking car?”
“You got another what?”
“Another copy of Joey’s obituary. Enjoyed basketball and target shooting, survived by his loving mother and sister, blah blah blah. And there’s a message on the back.”
“What does it say?”
“It’s coming for you.”
“And you think it’s worth taking seriously?”
“Two people have been chopped up by some freak monkey creature, and you think I shouldn’t take this seriously?”
She said, evenly: “What monkey creature are you talking about?”
“What, I’m not supposed to know about that?”
“That information isn’t public.”
“I ain’t the public, okay? I’m a taxpaying citizen whose life is being threatened.”
He has a channel into our investigation, she thought. He’s found a way into Boston PD. It shouldn’t surprise her. A man as powerful as Donohue could buy eyes and ears everywhere, including City Hall and Schroeder Plaza.
“Do your job, Detective,” said Donohue. “You’re supposed to serve and protect, remember?”
Too bad that includes protecting garbage lik
e you. She took a breath and managed to sound civil. “I’ll need to examine the latest note. Where are you right now?”
“I’m at my warehouse on Jeffries Point. I’m not gonna wait around long, so get here soon.”
DARKNESS HAD FALLEN WHEN JANE DROVE THROUGH THE OPEN gate of Donohue Wholesale Meats and parked between a BMW and a silver Mercedes. Mobsters did seem to like their flashy imports. As she climbed out, she heard the roar of a jet taking off from nearby Logan Airport; she looked up to watch as it banked and headed south. She thought of Florida beaches and rum punches and palm trees. How nice it would be to take a sunny vacation from murder.
“Detective Rizzoli.”
Turning, she recognized one of the burly bodyguards she’d met at Donohue’s residence a few days ago. Sean was his name.
“He’s waiting inside,” Sean said, and eyed her holstered weapon. “First, you’re gonna have to hand that over.”
“Mr. Donohue didn’t mind me carrying the other day.”
“Yeah, well, he’s a lot more nervous now. On account of that message on his windshield.” He held out his hand.
“I don’t surrender my weapon to anyone. So you tell Mr. Donohue he can come see me at police headquarters. I’ll be happy to talk to him there.” She turned toward her car.
“Okay, okay,” the man relented. “But just so you know, I’ll be watching you like a hawk.”
“Yeah. Whatever.”
She followed him into the warehouse, and as the insulated door thudded shut behind her, she suddenly wished she’d brought a heavier jacket. It was freezing inside, a windowless cavern that was so cold she could see her own breath swirl. Sean led her through a curtain of slitted plastic, into the refrigerated area beyond. From ceiling hooks hung enormous sides of beef, row upon row of them, a forest of suspended corpses. The chill mist stank of blood and slaughtered flesh, a smell she feared would cling to her hair and clothes long after she left this place. They walked through that forest of hanging meat to an office at the rear of the building, and her escort knocked on the door.
It swung open and she recognized the second bodyguard, who waved her in. Jane walked into the windowless room, and the door gave a solid thud as it closed behind her. She was trapped in a fortress within a meat locker, guarded by armed thugs, yet she felt less nervous about the situation than her host appeared to be. This was what it meant to be a prince of the Irish mob, permanently afflicted by paranoia and fear. Wielding power meant always dreading the moment when you’d lose it.
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