by S. J. Rozan
“I’m having a lovely time,” my mother said. “I would like you to come out here.”
“I’m glad you’re happy. I’d love to visit with Ted’s family, but I’m working.”
“You’re working on the case about Developer Ting, I know. I am also. That’s why I want you to come here.”
“Um, what?”
“I’ve found someone who knows something about him. A retired nurse from a hospital. After your brother’s family all left this morning I shopped, then I went to play mah-jongg at the senior center. I investigated there, telling the ladies my daughter was dating Developer Jackson Ting, so I was hoping to learn things about him. They were eager to help, though most of them had nothing to say that was useful. One of the ladies, named Fan Mei, thought that her friend, Nurse Dolores Reyes, had a very interesting story about Developer Ting. Fan Mei couldn’t remember what it was, as her memory has faded. Although she’s still quite a good mah-jongg player. I called Nurse Reyes, but I could not learn the story. She was reluctant to tell it to me, also she comes from the Philippines. Her English is not very good. I had trouble understanding her.”
Luckily my mother couldn’t see me roll my eyes. A US hospital nurse, no matter what her first language is, can be counted on to speak fine English. My mother, on the other hand, is a little more impressed with her own language skills than maybe they deserve.
“Here is her address,” my mother said, rattling off a set of numbers.
“Ma? What does that mean, a very interesting story?”
“Ling Wan-Ju, please pay attention. If I knew what it meant, why would I be sending you to see her? You must ask her yourself. She’s at home making dinner for her husband. He won’t return until seven o’clock, so you’ll have time to talk to her alone if you hurry.”
“Is she expecting me?”
“Of course not. Come to your brother’s house for dinner after you’ve spoken to her. Goodbye.”
I lowered the phone and typed in the numbers before they faded from my memory.
“What?” said Bill.
“My mother,” I told him, “has found a witness. I knew when she went out to Flushing she was up to something.”
“A witness to what?”
“I have no idea. She told the mah-jongg ladies that I was dating Ting and she was checking up on him. I gather they jumped at the chance to help her snoop. She wants me to go out there and talk to someone who, and I quote, ‘knows something’ about Jackson Ting.”
Bill broke into a wide grin. “So she really has been working the case.”
“Hey. This is not a good thing.”
“Oh, I don’t know. With so many clients, maybe you ought to consider taking on another partner.”
I stared. “Maybe so, since the one I have seems to have lost his mind.”
“Seriously, since she’s gotten this far, don’t you suppose we ought to go?”
“You don’t mean that. It’s likely to be a big giant wild goose chase.”
“I give her instincts more credit than that.”
“You didn’t grow up with her.”
“You wrote down the address.”
“Automatic reaction to hearing a bunch of numbers.”
“I notice we’re walking toward the subway.”
“We have to walk in some direction. Okay, okay, we’ll go. If we can go to my brother’s afterwards. My mother invited us for dinner.”
“Us?”
“If she’s going to insist on being part of this firm,” I said, “she’s going to have to get used to the management.”
31
The subway ride to Flushing involved a change of trains, but it was still quick. Coming up out of the station onto Flushing Main Street is always one of my favorite moments, and this afternoon of swirling cacophony was no different.
The street was lined with signs large and small in Chinese and English, with the occasional Sanskrit or Korean. Made of blinking neon, lit plastic, painted metal, or characters scrawled in black or red Magic Marker on paper, they hung on the faces of buildings, stuck out over the sidewalk, or clung to window glass. The aromas from restaurants and bakeries competed for space in my nose with the smells from street vendors’ stalls. Honking horns, growling traffic, conversation in various languages were all overlaid now and then by the roar of a plane going to or from La Guardia. The sidewalks, crowded with shoppers, sellers, high-spirited high schoolers, and mothers with strollers, couldn’t be navigated in a straight line. The late afternoon sun shone over it all, and I just stood for a moment, enjoying it.
Then I took out my phone, put Dolores Reyes’s address into my GPS, and Bill and I started threading our way along Main Street. We’d had lunch, of course, but still the aroma of turnip cakes frying at a street vendor’s stall drew us right in. We bought one each, squirted them with oyster sauce, and went on our way.
Once we passed the Flushing Library the neighborhood’s exuberance began to calm. We made our lefts and rights until we stood in front of a group of six-story 1930s brick buildings surrounding a central garden. We’d reached tree-lined tranquil residential Flushing, a world, but only a half a mile, from Main Street. A wrought-iron archway led into the complex. Reyes’s building was the third one in. I pressed her buzzer.
I introduced myself to the inquiring voice that came out of the speaker. “I’d very much like to speak with you,” I said. “About something you once told Fan Mei? It won’t take long.” I got no answer, so I added, “I’m not selling anything, I promise. I’d just appreciate a few moments of your time for something I’m working on. It would really be a help.”
Most people, if given a chance, actually like to help. Nurses, besides, are trained to. After a moment of silence, Dolores Reyes suggested we come in, and the buzzer buzzed. We rode the elevator to the third floor, where a quizzically smiling brown-skinned woman waited at an open door.
“Thank you for seeing us, Mrs. Reyes,” I said. “I’m Lydia Chin, and this is my partner, Bill Smith. We’ll try not to take too much of your time.”
“You’re friends of Fan Mei’s?”
“No. My mother knows her. She called you earlier, my mother?”
“Oh, yes. The Chinese lady. I wasn’t sure what she wanted, though. Her English…”
“Yes, I know. I can explain.”
Reyes’s own English, while slightly accented, was, as I had predicted, perfect. She looked me over and said, “Ah. You must be the young woman who’s dating Jackson Ting. I understood that much from your mother. Although”—Reyes paused—“everything Jackson Ting does makes the news, and I never heard that his marriage has broken up.”
“No.” I smiled. “It hasn’t. We’re not dating. That was my mother’s story.”
Now, a frown. “Why did your mother tell me a story?”
“Mrs. Reyes, Bill and I are private investigators.” I gave her a card. “A case we’re working on involves Jackson Ting. My mother decided to… help.”
Reyes’s face brightened in a knowing smile. “Ah. I see. A mother helping her daughter. Although I think you didn’t ask her to, am I correct?”
“I certainly didn’t, and I didn’t ask her to call you. I’m sorry if she bothered you. But if you really do have a story worth hearing about Jackson Ting, I’d love to listen.”
In her hesitation, Bill spoke. “Mrs. Reyes, I know we’re here for work, but I lived in Manila as a kid, and whatever you’re cooking is bringing back my entire childhood. I’d bet a dollar you’re making pork adobo.”
Reyes laughed. “You’d win. All right, you’d better come in.” The living room she showed us into was filled with plants and bright pillows on pudgy furniture. A rich, meaty aroma swirled in the air. “Please, sit,” she said, and disappeared into the kitchen.
“You didn’t have a happy childhood,” I whispered to Bill as we settled on the sofa. “Even when you were in the Philippines.”
“No, but the food there was great.”
Reyes returned with a plate o
f purple cookies. Bill’s eyes lit.
“Ube?”
“Yes. You know ube?”
“I love it.”
Reyes passed us napkins and we each took a cookie. I bit into mine, found a sweet, nutty taste in a crumbly texture. Reyes, smiling, watched us both.
“Mmm,” said Bill. “Better than my mother ever made.”
From everything Bill’s told me, that was kind of a low bar, but his appreciation of Reyes’s cookies was sincere, and as far as I could taste, warranted.
“I never had these before,” I said. “They’re terrific.”
Reyes beamed. She sat in one of the chairs opposite the sofa. Smoothing her skirt, she said, “Please understand, I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.”
“Of course. Neither do we,” I said, which might be true depending on your definition of “anyone.” Or “want.” “We’re just trying to unravel some things. It could be that whatever your story is, it’s not relevant at all. But my mother sent me here, and we’re seeing her for dinner.” A little shameless, maybe, to use my mother like that, but my mother started it. “I won’t share the story with her if you don’t want me to. Just knowing you told me will make her happy.”
From her smile I could tell Reyes knew just what I was doing. But she began. “I used to work at Flushing Hospital. On the Neonatal Unit. I retired six years ago, but I still have friends from my nursing days. Fan Mei is one of them. I understand she met your mother at the Chinese senior center?”
“Playing mah-jongg,” I said. “My mother says she plays well.”
Reyes took a few moments before she went on. “I told Fan Mei about this when it happened, because it was so strange. And of course I told my husband. They both thought I should say nothing. I wasn’t sure there was anything illegal about it, and no one seemed unhappy with the situation. So I didn’t mention it again. As I said, I didn’t want to get anyone in trouble. And though it was… irregular for the US, I’d seen this kind of thing back home.”
Bill, biting into his second purple cookie, said, “God, these take me right back to Manila. Mrs. Reyes, really, we’re hoping to avoid trouble, too. Anything you know about Jackson Ting might help us.”
Reyes paused again, then launched into it. “Jackson Ting was born in Flushing Hospital. He was a bit early, and he was underweight and jaundiced. It wasn’t dangerous, but we kept him in an incubator for a few days. His mother went home the second day after the birth and came a number of times a day while he was on the unit so she could nurse him. Sometimes the father came, too, but more often a friend came with the mother. They all seemed so happy with the baby, taking turns holding him and speaking to him. The friend sang lullabies, though the mother didn’t seem to know any. The baby gained weight, and after five days, he could go home.
“A month later he was brought back for his well-baby check. I saw he was scheduled, and I wanted to see how he was doing, so I dropped into the pediatrician’s office. The baby was fine, but it was the friend, not the mother, who’d brought him. That worried me, so I asked if the mother was well. The woman told me she was the baby’s mother.
“I started to speak up, but I saw a question in the doctor’s eyes and worry in hers. I said I must have been mistaken and that I was happy to see the baby so well. I checked later in the hospital’s records. The name and address the mother had given when she arrived in labor—Maria Ting—were the same as the woman who’d brought him in for his checkup. But it wasn’t the same woman.”
She paused. Neither Bill nor I spoke, giving her room to go on.
“As I said, this sort of thing happens at home. A family with too many children to feed, or a woman with children whose sister has none… I thought perhaps the actual mother was undocumented. Or running from the baby’s father. Prostitutes often give up their children, too. I didn’t know what these women’s circumstances were. They both seemed happy when the baby was born, and he seemed well taken care of. Fan Mei and my husband both told me to leave it alone. My husband said if everyone was happy, but it wasn’t an official adoption, a legal one, anything I said would only make everyone unhappy.”
“Could it have been a legal adoption?” I asked.
“I searched, but I couldn’t find any record. I felt responsible, you see. He was one of my babies.” She smiled. “For the same reason, I kept an eye on Jackson as he grew. He was strong and healthy. The parents seemed to adore him—in fact, they spoiled him a bit, I thought. They sent him to private school, to college. I saw the birth mother sometimes, with him and his parents, until he was about three. After that I saw her occasionally, but alone. It’s been many years now since I’ve seen her at all.”
“Mrs. Reyes, can you tell us anything about her? What she looked like, the name the friend might have called her?”
“I’m sorry, I really don’t remember. It was all so long ago.” Dolores Reyes smoothed her skirt again, though it didn’t need it. “I hope I haven’t done anything wrong by telling you this. The parents have both passed on now, but Jackson’s become a wealthy young man, partly based on what his father built. If it came out that he wasn’t really the father…”
“It wouldn’t matter,” Bill said, with more confidence than I felt. “After all these years, and after all Jackson Ting’s built for himself, I’m sure there’s no damage that could be done. And,” he added thoughtfully, “even if the mother wasn’t the mother, the father could have been the father. Some kind of surrogate arrangement.”
“Also,” I said, “we won’t be spreading this story. It might help us fill in some gaps, but right now I can’t see that there’s anyone who needs to know any of this.”
“Not even your mother?” Reyes said with a twinkle in her eye.
“Especially not my mother. All I need to tell her is that we came here and you gave us some interesting background information, and she’ll puff up like a rooster. Thank you so much for sharing this story with us, Mrs. Reyes. We’ll let you get back to your cooking now.” I stood and Bill followed my lead.
“Wait,” Reyes said. She went into the kitchen again and came out a few moments later with a square plastic container, which she held out to Bill. “A box of ube cookies. To remember your childhood.” She smiled and showed us to the door.
32
Dinner at Ted’s was the usual chaotic fun. My mother seemed only mildly disgruntled by Bill’s presence. With her at the stove cooking, talking, and scolding the kids to behave, the kids laughing, eating, teasing my mother, and vying for Bill’s and my attention, and Ted and Ling-An focused on eating my mother’s cooking and talking with me and Bill, it was a lively evening.
When Ted asked, half joking, “So, Lyd, did Ma actually help with your case?” I said Mrs. Reyes had had an interesting story to tell that might fill out the picture some. That seemed to make Ma happy. She pushed a little to find out what the intel was, but Bill and I both played deflecting “Look over here!” games, and with so many people around, that pretty much worked.
When it was time to go I asked my mother if she wanted to come back to the city with us. Of course the kids besieged her with hugs and cries of “No! Stay here!” which I’d suspected would happen. She relented and told them she’d spend another night. We were gathering ourselves and starting our goodbyes at the door when my phone rang out Run-DMC doing “You Talk Too Much.” That meant Tim. I’d have let him go to voicemail, except I was feeling warm and familial, so I thought I’d get nice points and invite him in on the family evening.
“Hey, bro,” I answered. “I’m at Ted’s. We just finished dinner. Ma’s here too. Want to talk to her, or to Ted?”
“No!” he barked. “I want to talk to you! What the hell did you do?” Nothing warm about that, but recognizably familial.
“Um—what?”
“For God’s sake, Lydia, someone just tried to shoot me!”
33
Are you all right?” I demanded of my brother Tim.
“Of course I’m all right,” he snapped. �
�I said they tried to shoot me. They missed.”
“Okay then, I’ll call you back in a sec. I’m going to say goodbye here and talk to you outside.” Luckily in the general bedlam no one seemed to have noticed who my call was from. Sticking the phone in my pocket, I kissed the kids, Ma, Ted, and Ling-An. Bill shook hands with them all, including the kids, who pumped his hand up and down with great enthusiasm. My mother, I noticed, permitted him to shake her hand but looked away while he did it. Baby steps, baby steps.
The kids wanted to wave goodbye at the door until we were out of sight so I walked, waved, and while looking over my shoulder at them I whispered to Bill what Tim had told me. When we hit the corner I swerved around it and pulled out my phone.
“Took you long enough!” was Tim’s greeting. “Did you tell Ma?”
“That someone tried to shoot you? Are you crazy? Of course I didn’t. For one thing, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Good. I was afraid you’d worry her. And here’s what I’m talking about. Someone tried to shoot me!”
“That doesn’t really tell me much more. Where? When? Who?”
“How do I know who? You think I said, ‘Excuse me, but if you’re going to try to shoot me, it would be polite to introduce yourself first’?”
I didn’t tell him that actually sounded just like him. “Okay, so let’s move on to where and when.”
“You sound like this is normal everyday life for you. ‘Let’s just run through this questionnaire I have for people who get shot at.’ ”
“Oh, knock it off. I’m trying to help. Where were you?”
“Outside the office. I’d just left.”
“Did you see the shooter?”
“No, but the shot came from across the street, or maybe a car.”
“Or a motorcycle?”
He stopped for a second. “Could’ve been. I heard one. They chipped the stone on the building!”
