We walk south on Tyler Street, toward the old enclave of Tai Tung Village, moving into a part of Chinatown that is quieter, emptier. Here there are no tourists, just tired buildings that house dusty shops on the ground floors, all barricaded at this hour behind locked gates. While in the brightly lit restaurant, I could let down my guard. Now I feel exposed, even though an armed detective is at my side. The lights fade behind us and the shadows thicken. I am aware of my own heartbeat and the sigh of air flowing in and out of my lungs. The chant of the saber flows through my mind, words that both calm me and prepare me for whatever may come.
Green dragon emerges from the water.
The wind blows the flowers.
White clouds move overhead.
Black tiger searches the mountain.
My hand moves to the pommel of my sword, where it rests in readiness. We pass through darkness and light and darkness again, and as my senses sharpen, the night itself seems to tremble.
Beat the grass to search for the snake on the left.
Beat the grass to search for the snake on the right.
The darkness comes alive. Everywhere there is movement. A rat skittering in the alley. The drip of water trickling from a rain gutter. I see it all, hear it all. The man beside me is oblivious, believing that it is his presence that keeps me safe. Never imagining that perhaps it is the other way around.
We turn onto Hudson Street and arrive at my modest row house, which has its own ground-floor entrance. As I pull out my keys, he lingers beneath the yellow glow of the porch light where insects buzz and tick against the bulb. He is a gentleman to the end, waiting until I am safely inside.
“Thank you for dinner and the armed escort,” I say with a smile.
“We don’t really know what’s going on yet. So do be careful.”
“Good night.” I insert my key into the lock and suddenly go very still. It’s my sharp intake of breath that alerts him.
“What is it?”
“It isn’t locked,” I whisper. The door hangs ajar. Already Zheng Yi is out of the scabbard and in my hand; I do not even remember pulling her free. My heart is thumping as I give the door a shove with my foot. It swings all the way open and I see only darkness beyond. I step forward, but Detective Frost pulls me back.
“Wait here,” he orders. Weapon drawn, he steps inside and flips on the light switch.
From the doorway I watch as he moves through my modest home, past the brown sofa, the striped armchair that James and I bought so many years ago when we first arrived from Taiwan. Furniture that I could never bear to replace, because my husband and my daughter once sat in them. Even in furniture, beloved spirits still linger. As Frost heads to the kitchen, I walk into the middle of the living room and stand very still, inhaling the air, scanning the room. My gaze halts on the bookcase. On the empty picture frame. I feel a thrill of fear.
Someone has been here.
From the kitchen, Frost says: “Does it look okay to you?”
I don’t answer but move toward the stairs.
“Iris, wait,” he says.
Already I’m darting up the steps, moving silently. It’s my heartbeat that thunders. It sends blood rushing to limbs, to muscles. I grip my sword with both hands as I step toward my bedroom door.
Scatter the clouds and see the sun.
I sniff and know at once that the intruder has been in this room, has left his scent of aggression. The air is foul with the smell, and for a few heartbeats I cannot bring myself to advance and meet the enemy. I hear Detective Frost come running up the stairs. He defends my back, but it’s what waits ahead that terrifies me.
Use the seven stars to ride the tiger.
I step across the threshold just as Frost turns on the light. The room comes into sudden, shocking focus. The missing photograph is on my pillow, fixed there by a knife blade. Only when I hear Frost punching numbers into his cell phone do I turn to look at him.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Calling my partner. She needs to know about this.”
“Don’t call her. Please. You don’t know anything about this.”
He looks up at me, his gaze suddenly focused with an intensity that makes me realize I have underestimated him. “Do you?”
JANE STOOD IN IRIS FANG’S BEDROOM, STARING AT THE PHOTOGRAPH that had been stabbed through by a butcher knife. It was a picture of a much younger Iris, her face aglow and smiling as she held an infant in her arms.
“She says the knife is from her own kitchen,” said Frost. “And the baby is her daughter, Laura. That photo is supposed to be in a frame downstairs, on the bookcase. Whoever broke in deliberately took it out of the frame and brought it upstairs, where she certainly couldn’t miss seeing it.”
“Or the message. Stabbing a knife in her pillow sure as hell isn’t wishing her sweet dreams. What is this all about?”
“She doesn’t know.” He dropped his voice so Iris couldn’t hear him from downstairs. “At least, that’s what she says.”
“You think she’s not being straight with us?”
“I don’t know. The thing is …”
“What?”
His voice dropped even lower. “She didn’t want me to call you. In fact, she asked me to forget the whole thing. That doesn’t make sense to me.”
Or me either, thought Jane, frowning at the knife, which had been plunged hilt-deep, crushing the picture against the linen. It was an act of sheer rage, meant to terrify. “Anyone else would be screaming for police protection.”
“She insists she doesn’t need it. Says she’s not afraid.”
“Are we sure someone else was actually in here?”
“What are you implying?”
“She could have done this herself. Taken a knife from her own kitchen.”
“Why would she?”
“It would explain why she’s not scared.”
“That’s not how it happened.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I was right here when she found it.”
Jane turned to him. “You came up to her bedroom?”
“Don’t look at me like that. I walked her home, that’s all. We noticed her front door was open, so I came in to check the place.”
“Okay.”
“That’s all it was!”
Then why do you look so guilty? She stared down at the mutilated photo. “If I came home and found something like this, it would scare the hell out of me. So why doesn’t she want us to look into it?”
“It could be just a cultural thing about the police. Tam says that folks in Chinatown are leery of us.”
“I’d be a lot more leery of whoever did this.” Jane turned to the door. “Let’s have a talk with Mrs. Fang.”
Downstairs she found Iris seated on the faded brown sofa, looking far too calm for a woman whose home had just been violated. Detective Tam was pacing nearby, cell phone pressed to his ear. He glanced up at Jane with a look of I don’t know what’s going on here, either.
Jane sat down across from Iris and just studied her for a moment without saying a word. The woman stared straight back at her, as though understanding that this was a test, and she had already girded herself for the challenge. It was not the gaze of a victim.
“What do you think is going on, Mrs. Fang?” Jane said.
“I don’t know.”
“Has your home been broken into before?”
“No.”
“How long have you lived in this building?”
“Almost thirty-five years. Since my husband and I immigrated to this country.”
“Is there anyone you know who’d do this? Maybe some man you’ve been dating, someone who’s angry that you rejected him?”
“No.” She hadn’t paused to even think about it. As if that answer was the only one she was prepared to give. “There is no man. And there’s no need for the police to be involved.”
“Someone breaks into your home. Someone stabs a butcher knife through your photo and
leaves it on your pillow. The message couldn’t be clearer. Who’s threatening you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yet you don’t want us to look into it.”
The woman stared back, displaying no fear. It was like looking into pools of black water, revealing nothing at all. Jane leaned back and let a moment pass. She saw Tam and Frost standing on the periphery, intently following their conversation. Three sets of eyes were focused on Iris, and the silence stretched on, yet the woman’s composure did not crack.
Time for a new approach.
“I had an interesting conversation today,” said Jane. “With Patrick Dion, the ex-husband of one of the Red Phoenix victims. He tells me that every year in March, you’ve mailed notes to him and the other families.”
“I’ve sent no one any notes.”
“For the past seven years, they’ve been getting them. Always on the anniversary of the Red Phoenix massacre. The families believe you’re doing it. Sending them copies of their loved ones’ obituaries. Trying to bring back the bad memories.”
“Bring back the memories?” Iris stiffened. “What kind of families are these, needing to be reminded?” For the first time, agitation shook her voice, made her hands tremble. “I live with my memories. They never leave me, not even when I sleep.”
“Have you received any notes?”
“No. But then, no one needs to remind me. Of all the families, it seems I’m the only one who’s asked questions. Demanded answers.”
“If you aren’t sending them, do you know who might be?”
“Maybe it’s someone who believes the truth has been suppressed.”
“Like you.”
“But I’m not afraid to say it.”
“And in a very public way. We know you placed the ad in the Globe last month.”
“If your husband were murdered, and you knew the killer was never punished, would you do any less? No matter how many years went by?”
A moment passed, the two women staring at each other. Jane imagined herself waking up every morning in this shabby home, imagined living with unspeakable grief, obsessing over happiness lost. Searching for reasons, for any explanation for her ruined life. Sitting in this room, on this threadbare armchair, she felt despair settle on her shoulders, dragging her down, smothering all joy. This is not even my world, she thought. I can go home and kiss my husband. I can hug my daughter and tuck her into bed. But Iris will still be trapped here.
“It’s been nineteen years, Mrs. Fang,” said Jane. “I understand it’s not easy to move on. But the other families want to. Patrick Dion, Mark Mallory—they have no doubt that Wu Weimin was the killer. Maybe it’s time for you to accept what they accepted long ago.”
Iris’s chin lifted and her eyes were hard as flint. “I won’t accept anything less than the truth.”
“How do you know it’s not true? According to the police report, the evidence against Wu Weimin was overwhelming.”
“The police did not know him.”
“Can you be sure you did?”
“Yes, completely. And this is my final chance to make things right.”
Jane frowned at her. “What do you mean, your final chance?”
Iris drew a breath and lifted her head. The look she gave Jane was both dignified and calm. “I am sick.”
The room went silent. That simple statement had stunned them all. Iris sat perfectly composed, staring back at Jane as if daring her to offer any pity.
“I have a chronic form of leukemia,” said Iris. “The doctor tells me I could live another ten years. Or perhaps even twenty years. Some days I feel perfectly well. Other days, I’m so tired I can scarcely lift my head off the pillow. One day, this illness will probably kill me, but I’m not afraid. I merely refuse to die without knowing the truth. Without seeing justice done.” She paused, and the first note of fear slipped into her voice. “I feel time running through my fingers.”
Frost moved behind Iris and placed his hand on her shoulder. It was simply a gesture of sympathy, something anyone might do, but Jane was troubled by that touch, and by the stricken look she saw in his eyes.
“She can’t stay here alone tonight,” Frost said. “It’s not safe.”
Tam said, “I just got off the phone with Bella Li. Mrs. Fang can spend the night with her while CSU processes the scene.”
Frost said, “I’ll drive her there.”
“No,” Jane said. “Tam will take her. Mrs. Fang, why don’t you pack a bag?” She rose from the chair. “Detective Frost, can you step outside with me? We need to check the perimeter.”
“But—”
“Frost.”
He glanced back and forth between Iris and Jane, and finally followed Jane out the front door, into a night that was filmy with mist.
The instant the door swung shut, she said: “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”
“I wish I could. Obviously someone’s trying to scare her. Trying to stop her from asking questions.”
“No, I’m talking about you. How you ended up taking her to dinner. Turning into her white knight.”
“I came to ask about what happened to her daughter. You know that.”
“How did an interview turn into dinner?”
“We were hungry. It just happened.”
“Accidents just happen. But going out to dinner with a subject you’re questioning? That’s something else entirely.”
“She’s not a suspect.”
“We don’t know that.”
“For God’s sake, Rizzoli, she’s a victim. She lost her husband in a shooting and now all she wants is justice.”
“We don’t know what she really wants. Frankly, I can’t figure out what you want, either.”
The glow of the yellow porch light, diffused by mist, framed his head like a spectral halo. Saint Barry, the Boy Scout, she thought. The cop you could always count on to do the right thing. Now he stood before her, avoiding her gaze, looking as guilty as a man could look.
“I feel sorry for her,” he said.
“Is that all you feel?”
“And I just wish …” He sighed. “It’s been nineteen years since her husband died, and she still loves him. She still carries a torch for him. Alice couldn’t even make it ten years before she walked out on me. I look at Iris and I think, Why the hell didn’t I marry someone like her?”
“The woman’s almost old enough to be your mother.”
“That’s not what I’m saying. I’m not talking about going out with her! And what does age have to do with anything? This is about loyalty. About loving someone your whole life, no matter what happens.” He turned away and said softly: “I’m never going to know what that’s like.”
The front door opened and they both turned as Tam escorted Iris out of the building. She gave a nod to Frost, a tired smile, then she climbed into Tam’s car. Even as the taillights faded into the mist, Frost was still staring after her.
“I have to admit,” said Jane thoughtfully, “she’s got me wondering now.”
He turned to her. “About what?”
“You’re right about one thing. She’s obviously rattled someone. Someone who’s angry enough or feels threatened enough to break into her house. To stab a knife in her pillow.”
“What if she’s right about the massacre? And the cook didn’t do it?”
Jane nodded. “I think it’s time to take a closer look at the Red Phoenix.”
HIDDEN BEHIND TALL HEDGES, PATRICK DION’S BROOKLINE PROPERTY was a private Eden of woods and lawn where footpaths meandered from intimate shade to sunlit flower beds. The wrought-iron gate at the entrance hung open, and as Jane and Frost drove through, they glimpsed the residence through a stand of ghostly white birches. It was a massive Colonial set on a knoll, commanding a view of Dion’s expansive estate.
“What the heck is a venture capitalist, anyway?” said Frost as they passed a tennis court tucked into a shady grove. “I hear that term used all the time.”
??
?I think they use money to make money,” Jane said.
“But how do you get the money to start with?”
“From friends who have it.”
“I gotta get me some new friends.”
She pulled to a stop in the driveway, where two cars were parked, and stared up at the mansion. “But think about it. You have all this money, this nice house. Then your wife leaves you for another man. And your daughter gets snatched off the street. Me, I’d rather be poor.” She looked at him. “Okay, now we’ve got to do some damage control in there. From what Mr. Dion said, Tam didn’t exactly charm them.”
Frost shook his head. “We gotta get that boy to cool his jets. He goes at everything full-throttle. It’s like he’s stuck on overdrive.”
“But you know who Tam reminds me of?”
“Who?”
“Me. He says he wants to make homicide before he’s thirty.” She pushed open her door. “He might just do it.”
They climbed granite steps to the front door, but before Jane could ring the bell, the door swung open and a silver-haired man stood before them. Though in his late sixties, he was still fit and handsome, but there was a gauntness to his face, and the baggy trousers told Jane that he had recently lost weight.
“I saw your car coming up the driveway,” he said. “I’m Patrick Dion.”
“Detective Rizzoli,” she said. “And this is my partner, Detective Frost.” They shook hands and Patrick’s grip was firm, his gaze steady.
“Come in, please. We’re all in the parlor.”
“Mr. Mallory’s here?”
“Yes. And I invited Mary Gilmore to join us as well. A united front, because we’re all upset about this, and we want to know how to put an end to it.”
As they entered the house, Jane saw polished wood floors and a graceful banister that curved up toward a soaring second-floor gallery. It was far too brief a look; Patrick led them straight into the front parlor, where the other two visitors were already waiting.
Mark Mallory rose with athletic grace from the sofa. He was in his mid-thirties, fit and tan, with not even a hint of gray in his dark hair. Jane surveyed his alligator belt, his Sperry Top-Siders, and his Breitling watch, all the little clues that sneered: I have more money than you ever will. His handshake was perfunctory, a clue that he was impatient to get on with the business at hand.