“Not that I ever doubted it,” said Jane.
Maura next focused on the neck X-rays, on the gap in the soft tissues where the flesh had been so cleanly divided. Her gaze instantly fixed on a bright sliver in the cervical vertebra. “Did you do a lateral on this C-spine?” she asked.
Yoshima had clearly anticipated her request, because he immediately pulled down the hand and wrist films and clipped up a new radiograph, this one a side view of the neck. “I saw that thing earlier. Thought you’d want to see more detail on it.”
Maura stared at the lateral view of the fifth cervical vertebra. The object, razor-thin, was visible on this X-ray as well.
“What is that?” asked Jane, moving close beside her.
“It’s something metallic, and it’s embedded in the anterior fifth vertebra.” She turned to the autopsy table. “I think part of the blade sheared off when the killer made his cut, and a chip is lodged in her neck bone.”
“Which means we might be able to analyze the metal,” said Jane. “Identify who manufactured the knife.”
“I don’t think it was a knife,” said Maura.
“An ax?”
“An ax would leave a cleft, and we’d see crush changes on the soft tissues. She has neither. This incision is fine and linear. It was made by a blade that’s razor-sharp, and long enough to practically transect the neck with one sweep.”
“Like a machete?” asked Jane.
“Or a sword.”
Jane looked at Tam. “We’re looking for Zorro.” Her laugh was interrupted by the sound of her ringing cell phone. She stripped off her gloves and reached for the phone clipped to her belt. “Rizzoli.”
“Have you seen any sword injuries before, Dr. Isles?” Tam asked, still studying the X-ray.
“One, in San Francisco. A man hacked his girlfriend to death with a samurai sword.”
“Would metal analysis tell you if this was a samurai sword?”
“They’re mass-produced these days, so it probably wouldn’t help us unless we could find the weapon itself. Still, you never know when trace evidence like this ends up being just the puzzle piece needed to convict.” She looked at Tam, whose face was bathed in the glow from the viewing box. Even though a bouffant paper cap covered his hair, she was once again struck by his intensity. And lack of humor. “You ask good questions,” she said.
“Just trying to learn.”
“Rizzoli’s a smart cop. Keep up with her, and you’ll do fine.”
“Tam,” said Jane, hanging up her phone. “You stay and finish up here. I have to go.”
“What’s happened?”
“That was Frost. We found the victim’s car.”
THE FOURTH FLOOR of the Tyler Street parking garage was nearly empty, but the blue Honda Civic sat all by itself in a remote corner space. It was a dim and isolated spot, the sort of place you would choose if you did not want anyone to see you walking to your car. As Jane and Frost inspected the vehicle, their only audience was a lone garage employee and the two Boston PD officers who’d spotted the car earlier that morning.
“The entry ticket on the dashboard has a time stamp of eight fifteen PM Wednesday,” said Frost. “I checked the security tape, and it shows the Honda driving in at that time. Five minutes later, a woman walks out of the garage. Her hoodie’s up, so you can’t see her face on the camera, but it looks like her. Car hasn’t left the garage since.”
As Frost spoke, Jane did a slow walk-around of the Honda. It was a three-year-old model with no major dings or scratches. The tires were in good condition. The trunk was open, the hatch lifted for her to inspect the interior.
“License plates were reported stolen five days ago in Springfield,” said Frost. “Vehicle was stolen a week ago, also in Springfield.”
Jane frowned into the trunk, which was empty except for the spare tire. “Geez, it’s a lot cleaner than mine.”
Frost laughed. “You could say that about a lot of cars.”
“Says the guy with OCD.”
“Looks like it’s been recently detailed. Glove compartment’s got the real owner’s registration and insurance card. And you’re gonna love what was left on the front seat.” He pulled on gloves and opened the driver’s door. “Handheld GPS.”
“Why do you always get to find the fun stuff?”
“I’m guessing it’s a brand-new unit, because she’d plugged in only two addresses. Both in Boston.”
“Where?”
“The first is a private residence in Roxbury Crossing, owned by a Louis Ingersoll.”
Jane glanced at him in surprise. “Would that be Detective Lou Ingersoll?”
“One and the same. It’s the address Boston PD has listed for him.”
“He retired from homicide, what? Sixteen, seventeen years ago?”
“Sixteen. Can’t get hold of him right now. I called his daughter, and she says Lou took off up north to go fishing for the week. There may not be cell coverage wherever he is. Or he turned off his phone and doesn’t want to be bothered.”
“What about the second address on the GPS?”
“It’s a business, right here in Chinatown. Someplace called the Dragon and Stars Martial Arts Academy. Their answering machine said they open at noon.” Frost glanced at his watch. “Which would be ten minutes ago.”
THE DRAGON AND STARS ACADEMY OF MARTIAL ARTS WAS LOCATED on the second floor of a tired brick building on Harrison Avenue, and as Jane and Frost climbed the narrow stairway, they could hear chants and grunts and thumping feet, and could already smell the sweaty locker-room odor. Inside the studio, a dozen students garbed in black pajama-like costumes moved with such total focus that not a single one seemed to notice the two detectives’ entrance. Except for a faded martial arts poster, it was a starkly empty room with bare walls and a scuffed wood floor. For a moment Jane and Frost stood ignored near the door, watching the class leap and kick.
Suddenly a young Asian woman stepped out of formation and ordered: “Complete the exercise!” Then she crossed the room to meet the two visitors. She was slender as a dancer, her skin aglow with sweat, but despite her exertions she did not seem at all out of breath. “May I help you?” she asked.
“We’re from Boston PD. I’m Detective Jane Rizzoli, and this is Detective Frost. We’d like to speak to the owner of this studio.”
“May I see identification?” The request was brusque and not at all what Jane expected from someone who looked like she was barely out of high school. As the girl studied Jane’s ID, Jane studied the girl. Maybe not as young as she appeared, Jane decided. Early twenties and American Chinese, by the sound of her voice, with a tattoo of a tiger on her left forearm. With her short, spiky hair and her sullen gaze, she looked like an Asian version of a Goth girl, small but dangerous.
The girl handed back the ID. “I see you’re with homicide. Why are you here?”
“First, may I ask your name?” said Jane, pulling out a notebook.
“Bella Li. I teach the beginning and intermediate classes.”
“Your students are amazing,” Frost marveled, still watching the class as they leaped and whirled.
“This is the intermediate class. They’re rehearsing for a martial arts demonstration next month in New York. They’re now practicing the leopard moves.”
“Leopard?”
“It’s one of the ancient animal techniques from northern China. The leopard relies on speed and aggression, which is what you see in this exercise. Each animal technique is a reflection of that animal’s nature. The snake is sly and sleek. The stork excels in balance and evasion. The monkey is quick and clever. Students choose which animal best suits their own personality, and that’s the form they master.”
Frost laughed. “It’s like what you see in kung fu movies.”
His remark was met with an icy stare. “The proper name for this art is wushu, and it was invented thousands of years ago. What you see in those movies is fake Hollywood crap.” She paused as her class ended its exercise an
d stood watching her, waiting for further instructions. “Get the swords. Sparring practice,” she ordered, and the students headed for a weapons rack where they collected wooden practice swords.
“May we speak to the owner?” asked Jane.
“Sifu Fang is in the back room, teaching a private student.”
“How do you spell that name? You said it was She—”
“Sifu isn’t a name,” Bella retorted. “It’s the Chinese word for ‘master’ or ‘teacher.’ A term of respect.”
“Then may we speak to the master?” Jane snapped, irritated by the girl’s attitude. “This isn’t a social call, Ms. Li. It’s official business.”
Bella weighed her request. The students began sparring practice, and the room echoed with the clacks of wooden swords. “A minute,” she finally said. She knocked at a door, waited a respectful moment before opening it, and announced: “Sifu, there are two policemen here to see you.”
“Send them in,” said a voice. A woman.
Unlike lithe young Bella Li, the Chinese woman who rose from her chair to greet them moved slowly, as if struggling with aching joints, although she appeared to be only in her fifties. Middle age was barely etched in her face, and her long black hair was streaked with only a few strands of silver. She faced them with the confidence of an empress. Although she was Jane’s height, her regal posture made her seem far taller. Beside her stood a small blond boy of about six, dressed in a martial arts uniform and clutching a wooden staff almost as large as he was.
“I am Iris Fang,” the woman said. “How can I help you?” Both her formality and her accent told Jane the woman was foreign-born.
“Detective Rizzoli and Detective Frost,” said Jane. She glanced at the little boy, who looked back at her, pugnaciously unafraid. “Could your student step out? We need to speak in private, ma’am.”
Iris nodded. “Bella, take Adam into the other room to wait for his mother.”
“But Sifu,” the boy protested. “I want to show you how I practiced with the monkey pole!”
Iris smiled down at him. “You will show me next week, Adam,” she said, affectionately brushing her fingers through his hair. “Monkeys must also learn patience. Now go.” The smile remained on her lips as Bella led the boy out of the room.
“That little guy’s a martial arts student?” said Frost.
“He has both talent and passion. I do not waste my effort on just anyone.” The smile was gone from Iris’s face as she regarded her visitors with cool appraisal. Her gaze fixed on Jane, as if she understood in which visitor the authority lay. “Why have the police come to my studio?”
“We’re from the homicide unit, Boston PD,” said Jane. “We need to ask you a few questions about something that happened in Chinatown last night.”
“I assume this is about the dead woman on the roof?”
“Then you already know about it.”
“Everyone is talking about it. This is a small neighborhood, and like any Chinese village, it has its gossips and its busybodies. They say her throat was cut, and her hand was thrown off the rooftop. And they say she had a gun.”
Whoever they were, they knew too damn much, thought Jane.
“Are these stories true?” asked Iris.
“We can’t really talk about it,” said Jane.
“But that is why you’re here, isn’t it? To talk about it?” Iris said placidly.
They regarded each other for a moment, and Jane suddenly realized: I am not the only one seeking out information. “We have a photo we’d like to show you,” she said.
“Is there a reason you’re asking me?” Iris asked.
“We’re talking to a number of people in the neighborhood.”
“But this is the first I’ve heard about any photo. And I think I would have heard about it.”
“First, we need to show you a picture. Then we’ll talk about why.” Jane looked at Frost.
“I’m sorry you have to see this, ma’am,” he said. “This might be a little upsetting for you. Maybe you’d like to sit down first?”
His quietly respectful tone seemed to melt some of the ice from the woman’s eyes, and she nodded. “I am feeling weary today. Perhaps I will sit down, thank you.”
Frost quickly scooted a chair closer, and Iris sank down with a sigh of relief that told them how much she welcomed his gesture. Only then did Frost reveal the digital image that Maura had emailed from the morgue. Although the victim’s wound was discreetly covered by a drape, the facial pallor, the slack jaw and half-open eyes, left no doubt that this was a photo of a dead woman.
In silence, Iris stared at the image for a solid minute, her expression unchanging.
“Ma’am?” said Frost. “Do you recognize her?”
“She is beautiful, isn’t she?” Iris said, and looked up. “But I don’t know her.”
“You’re sure you’ve never seen her?”
“I have lived in Chinatown for thirty-five years, ever since my husband and I emigrated from Taiwan. If this woman came from my neighborhood, I would know.” She looked at Jane. “Is this all you came to ask me?”
Jane didn’t immediately answer, because she’d noticed the fire escape, which snaked right past the window. From this room, she thought, you could access the roof. Which meant you’d have access to all the rooftops on this block, including the building where the victim died. She turned to Iris. “How many employees work here?”
“I am the primary instructor.”
“What about that young woman who just showed us in?” Jane glanced at the name in her notebook. “Bella Li.”
“Bella has been with me for almost a year. She teaches some of the classes, and collects tuition from her own students.”
“You mentioned your husband. Does Mr. Fang also work here?”
The woman blinked a few times and looked away. “My husband is dead,” she said softly. “James has been gone for nineteen years.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs. Fang,” Frost said quietly, and it was apparent that he actually meant it.
A moment passed, silent except for the noisy clack of wooden practice swords in the next room, where the class was sparring.
“I am the sole owner of this school,” said Iris. “So if you have questions, I am the one to ask.” She straightened. Her composure had returned, and her gaze settled on Jane, as if she understood who was most likely to challenge her. “Why did you think I might know this dead woman?”
They could not avoid the question any longer. Jane said, “We found the victim’s car this morning, parked in a Chinatown garage. It had a GPS unit in it, and one of the addresses in the memory was yours.”
Iris frowned. “Here? My studio?”
“This was the victim’s destination. Do you know why?”
“No.” The answer was immediate.
“May I ask where you were Wednesday night, Mrs. Fang?”
Iris paused, eyes narrowing as she stared at Jane. “I taught an evening class. Then I walked home.”
“What time did you leave here?”
“Around ten. I was home by ten fifteen. It is only a short walk, to Tai Tung Village. I live on Hudson Street, just at the edge of Chinatown.”
“Did anyone walk with you?”
“I was alone.”
“And do you live alone?”
“I have no family, Detective. My husband is gone, and my daughter …” She paused. “Yes, I live alone,” she said, and her chin lifted, as though to ward off any pity her answer might inspire. But there was a flash of brightness in her eyes, tears that, with a few blinks, were quickly banished. Invincible though she tried to appear, this was a woman still wounded by loss.
In the next room, the class had ended, and they could hear shoes thudding down the stairs. Iris looked up at the clock on the wall and said, “My next student will be arriving soon. Are we finished?”
“Not quite,” said Jane. “I have one more question. There was another address in the victim’s GPS. It was a
private residence, here in Boston. Are you acquainted with a retired Boston PD detective named Louis Ingersoll?”
In an instant, all color drained from the woman’s cheeks. She sat frozen, her face as rigid as stone.
“Mrs. Fang, are you all right?” said Frost. He touched her on the shoulder, and she flinched as though seared by the contact.
Jane said, quietly: “So you do know that name.”
Iris swallowed. “I met Detective Ingersoll nineteen years ago. When my husband died. When he …” Her voice faded.
Jane and Frost glanced at each other. Ingersoll worked homicide.
“Mrs. Fang,” said Frost. This time, when he touched her, she didn’t flinch but let him rest his hand on her shoulder. “What happened to your husband?”
Iris lowered her head, and her answer was barely a whisper. “He was shot to death. In the Red Phoenix restaurant.”
FROM MY STUDIO WINDOW, I CAN SEE THE TWO DETECTIVES WALK out of my building and pause on the street below. They glance up, and although every instinct tells me to back away, I stubbornly remain in full view, knowing that they’re watching me watching them. I refuse to hide from either friends or enemies, so I face them through the glass, my gaze focused on the woman. DETECTIVE JANE RIZZOLI, it says on the business card that she left me. At first glance, she seemed an unlikely combatant, just another hardworking woman in a gray pantsuit and practical shoes, her hair a wiry tangle of dark curls. But her eyes reveal much more. They search and observe and assess. She has the eyes of a hunter, and she’s trying to decide if I’m her prey.
I stand unafraid in open view, where she, and the rest of the world, can see me. They may study me as long as they wish, but all they’ll see is a quiet and unassuming woman, my hair streaked with the first light snow of the passing years. Old age is still many years away, to be sure, but today I feel its relentless approach. I know that I am running out of time to finish what I’ve started. And with this visit by the two detectives, the journey has just taken a disturbing detour that I had not anticipated.
On the street below, the two detectives finally depart. Back to the hunt, wherever it takes them.