The Mia Quinn Collection

by Lis Wiehl

  Kwong took a notebook and a ballpoint pen from her purse.

  “Why do you have those?” Mia asked. “I don’t really want you taking notes about what we say here today.” As she spoke, Jiao’s eyes went back and forth between them.

  “It’s just for me. If her sentence is complicated it helps me remember parts of it so I can translate it the right way in English.”

  “Okay,” Mia said. “You just have to destroy whatever you write before you leave this room.” Then she turned to Jiao and focused solely on her. Over the years, she had learned the best way to work with interpreters. You looked at the person you were questioning, not the interpreter who provided the English words. That way you did not turn them into someone being talked about rather than someone being talked to. Just because they weren’t able to speak much English did not mean they didn’t understand some. Facing Jiao also meant that she and the girl were less likely to miss any nonverbal communication—expressions, tone of voice, or body language.

  “How did you come to be here in the United States?” she asked and kept looking at Jiao even when it was Kwong who answered.

  “On a plane. The snakehead gave me a fake Thai passport and told me to pretend to be a Thai citizen. Only I don’t even speak Thai. No information in it matched with me, except the photo only. When the plane landed, I called a phone number I had written on the inside band of my bra.” Jiao’s eyes welled with tears as Kwong spoke for her. “If I had known what would happen next, I would never have called that number.”

  “And what happened?” Mia prompted.

  Jiao’s tone was halting, while the interpreter kept speaking at a steady pace.

  “A man picked me up. I was very excited. I was looking at all the cars and the houses and thinking that soon I would have those things for myself. He took me to a business. A massage parlor, only it was not really for massages. Do you understand?” A fine tremble washed over the girl.

  Mia nodded.

  Jiao’s words began to stumble and hesitate, but Kwong continued to speak evenly in a near monotone. “He took me in the back and he raped me. And then he threw a towel at me and told me to clean myself up. He said that this was to be my life now. That I owed them money, and I had to earn it back by letting men have sex with me.”

  The trembling increased as Jiao slowly shook her head. “At first I said no. I said I would not do it. I was stupid”—Kwong corrected her own interpretation—“no, naive, naive to think that I had a choice. Because there was no choice. I had to do what the man said. Sooner or later. Now I wish I had done what he said sooner.”

  Jiao held out her empty hands, and it took a second for Mia to see past the shaking fingers, to focus on the scars circling her wrists. “They handcuffed me and put me in a closet for six days. Finally I agreed.”

  The girl’s next words were so low that Kwong had to lean forward to hear them. “Besides, where was I going to run to? I had no money, no papers. No English.” Mia heard the girl say the word English a half beat before Kwong. She thought of Lihong, desperately seeking her with only his handful of words.

  Jiao hugged herself, but it didn’t stop her shivering. “I am in America, but all I’ve seen are a bunch of ugly white rooms. When we didn’t have customers, we slept on the massage tables. And sometimes the customers did not come there for us but to buy other things.”

  “What things?” Charlie asked.

  “Drugs.”

  Charlie leaned forward. “What kind of drugs?”

  The interpreter conferred with Jiao, making a few Chinese characters on the paper and pointing at them, then turned to Charlie. “Pills to make men able to have sex. It sounds like Viagra. And some kind of drug to make men strong. Not sexually. To give them muscles.”

  “Steroids?” Charlie asked.

  “I think so.” Kwong nodded.

  Mia froze. Charlie had said that Gabe had gotten his steroids from someone he met at a restaurant. He couldn’t have really gone to a massage parlor to get them—could he? The palms of her hands were suddenly slick, and she rubbed them over her skirt.

  “The men who come to those kind of places probably are looking for ways to feel more manly,” Eli said. “Viagra, steroids, prostitutes—it all makes a kind of sense.”

  “How many times can you sell a pill?” Charlie answered his own question. “Once. But a human being? You can sell them over and over again.”

  Mia imagined the head of this operation as a spider sitting in a web. Profiting from every base instinct. He had most of the seven deadly sins covered: lust, sloth, greed, anger, gluttony, envy, and even pride. He had found a way to make an enormous amount of money.

  “What about Dandan Yee? How long did you know her?” Mia asked as Kwong translated. The girl’s story of how she had come here and what she had been forced to do would probably differ from Dandan’s in only a few details.

  Jiao’s mouth drew down and she blinked away tears. “You are moved around. Every couple of months you are someplace new with new girls. I think it’s so you don’t make any friends. I’ve been in eleven or twelve different places. But I was working with Dandan the night she died. She was new. She was still in shock. She cried a lot. She said her mother lived in Seattle, had come to America years ago. But she was too ashamed to try to get word to her. Besides, she owed so much money she figured there was no way her mother would be able to buy her freedom.” Jiao paused, her hands twisting in her lap. Her eyes darted around the room.

  “I know this is hard,” Mia said, “but by telling us what happened that night you can help us make sure this never happens again. And of course we will explain to ICE how helpful you have been to us.”

  “It was early in the evening when the man came in. I recognized him, but I didn’t know his name until later.” Jiao then said the name, giving each syllable equal weight. “Da-vid Leach-am.” She put her own hands to her neck as the interpreter said, “Once he tied me up and put his hands around my throat until the world got dark. I thought I would die. When I woke up, he was smiling at me.”

  To demonstrate, the girl pasted a dead grin on her face, and Mia shivered inwardly.

  “So when I saw him come in that night I was just hoping he would not pick me. I think he liked girls who were sad. Who were afraid. Maybe that was why he picked Dandan. I do not know. I was just glad he did not choose me.” Jiao’s trembling was becoming more pronounced.

  “The other girl and I, we were still waiting for customers. About fifteen minutes later, we heard Dandan shouting, ‘Help me! Help me!’ and then we heard a fight.

  “The woman who was our boss ran in. The man was yelling that it was not his fault, that she shouldn’t have moved. That he hadn’t really planned to hurt her. The other girl there that night was too scared to look, but I looked. Dandan was still alive, or sort of alive. She was moving a little and making these bubbling sounds.” Jiao pressed her hands to her mouth, as if she were seeing it again and had to stop her own screams.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Mia saw Eli wince. “What happened then?” she asked gently.

  “The madam pulled the knife from her chest and wiped the handle clean on a towel, then wrapped Dandan’s hand around it before letting it fall on the floor.”

  Mia didn’t let her expression reflect the elation she was feeling. David Leacham would certainly be going back on trial now, and this time she was sure he would be going to prison.

  “What was David Leacham doing while she did this?”

  “He ran outside. We could hear his car racing out of the parking lot.”

  “What happened after that?”

  “We had to gather up our things and leave in a hurry. All of us. We just left her there.” Jiao’s face was a mask of sadness and fear. “Then they put the other girl and me in different places. Told us if we ever talked about what had happened they would kill us. Because . . .”

  Kwong stopped even though Jiao was still speaking. And in the welter of words, Mia thought she heard two she knew
.

  Kwong seemed to be asking the girl a question. Or maybe she was telling her something. All Mia knew was that there was now a torrent of words from both sides, so fast that Mia couldn’t pick out a syllable.

  Moaning and whimpering, Jiao pressed her fists to the sides of her head.

  “What’s the matter?” Mia asked, while Eli said, “What’s wrong?”

  Suddenly one of Jiao’s hands shot out and grabbed the pen from Kwong’s hand. She threw her head back and without hesitation drove the pen into her own throat. Everyone was on their feet, yelling. Except for Jiao, who lay sprawled back in her chair, the pen buried deep in her neck as her body began to convulse.

  “Don’t pull it out,” Charlie yelled.

  Just as Kwong did.

  CHAPTER 44

  Yesterday, as she had careened down the sidewalk, peddling with bare feet, one knee throbbing from banging into the lobby wall after she bounced down the apartment stairs, Bo had frantically thought about where she could go. Who she could trust. After all their promises, the police and the prosecutor had let her daughter’s killer walk free. She was not confident that the police would do any better job of protecting her now.

  If she went to friends from work or church, she would just be putting them in danger. And her purse with her money and her ID was still back at her apartment, so she couldn’t hide out in a hotel, even one that took cash and didn’t ask questions.

  So she went to the last place they would look for her.

  Outside the building, Bo’s hands were shaking so badly she barely managed to wedge her bike into a corral, and she completely forgot about the lock. All she could think about was whether people were driving down this street right now, looking for her, hoping to finish her off.

  Inside, she took the stairs with legs almost too weak to hold her. One of her feet felt oddly wet. When she looked back down the stairs, she saw a red smear of blood on every other step. She must have cut her foot when she stepped on her spy glasses.

  On the second floor, she pounded on the third door.

  No answer.

  Her heart was beating nearly as loudly as her fist. She tried again. What if there was no one there? Where would she go? Where could she be safe?

  And this time Warren answered, mouth half open in a yawn. His eyes widened when he realized it was her and he started to smile. Then he took in her tearstained face, wild hair, and bare feet.

  “What’s the matter, Song?” Warren put his hands on her shoulders.

  His touch tore a sob from her chest. And then another. He tried to pull her toward him, but instead she doubled over. Reliving those terrible moments when she had been unable to think. Unable to breathe. Unable to do anything except realize that she was dying.

  Warren put his arm under her elbow and steered her inside. The bolt thunked when he shot it home.

  “What happened?” He began to stroke her hair. She was still bent over, her elbows braced on her knees, one hand on her hot, wet cheek, the other stroking her poor neck. “What’s wrong? Song, talk to me.” He tried to pull her upright, but she wouldn’t straighten up, wouldn’t take her hands away.

  Finally she managed to choke out a few words. “When I walked into my apartment, a man was waiting for me. He tried to strangle me.”

  “What?” Warren’s voice cracked. “Are you all right?” When she didn’t answer, couldn’t answer, he put his hand under her chin. This time she let him raise her head. “Let me see.” He sucked in his breath. A fingertip lightly brushed her throat’s skin right above the line that still throbbed. “That almost looks like a cut. That can’t have come from his hands.”

  “He used a scarf. A silk scarf.” She made a sound like a laugh. “My silk scarf.”

  He sucked in air with a hiss. “It looks deep. We need to get you to the hospital and get an X-ray or something. See if your throat is damaged.”

  “No.” Bo shook her head. Now that she was in Warren’s apartment, she didn’t want to leave. The man who had tried to kill her could be anywhere. Anywhere but here.

  “Then we have to call the police.” He started to pull his cell phone from his pocket.

  She grabbed his wrist. “No. Don’t call. I don’t trust them. I don’t trust anyone. The only one I trust is you.”

  “But Song, he needs to be arrested. He could have killed you.”

  On legs that suddenly wouldn’t hold her, she stumbled over to his couch and nearly fell on it. “That was what he wanted. He wanted me to die. And he won’t stop until I do.”

  Warren followed her to the couch, but he sat a half cushion away, as if giving her the space to collect herself. “Who? Who did this to you, Song?”

  “I don’t know who he was. But he knew me. And I know he’ll hunt me down. He won’t rest until I’m really dead.”

  “Song, you’re not making any sense.” Warren scrubbed his face with open hands. “If you don’t know this guy, then why will he hunt you down? If he’s like some serial killer or whatever, can’t he go out and find some other girl to kill? Some girl who will be easier? I mean, why would he come back for you?”

  “Because he’s not a serial killer. And I’m not really Song.”

  His brows drew together. “What do you mean?”

  “Song’s not my real name.”

  “Not your name?” His face cleared. “Do you mean that’s not your Chinese name?”

  “No. My real name is Bo Yee. Do you understand? My name is Bo Yee.”

  “Yee,” he repeated, leaning away from her and crossing his arms. “That’s the same name as the girl who was killed.”

  “I am her mother.”

  “That’s not possible.” He exhaled sharply. “You’re a student.”

  “I lied. I’m not a student. I am her mother. I am Dandan’s mother.” She thumped a hand over her heart. Saying the words made her back straighten. Gave her strength.

  “I heard that Dandan’s mother was the one who was always sitting right behind the prosecutor. She had long hair and she wore long dresses. She was a lot older than you.”

  “Hair can be cut. Clothes can be changed.” Bo took a deep breath. “But I will always be my daughter’s mother. And I will do whatever I can to help her. It doesn’t matter that she’s dead.”

  Warren’s expression changed, and she could tell he was starting to believe her. “How old are you, anyway?”

  “Thirty-seven.”

  “And is this about the money? Is that why you went out with me?”

  “It has to do with David Leacham. I want him to pay for killing my daughter. I needed to get proof of what happened with the jury. How you voted not to convict him.”

  He bit his lip. “And did you get that proof?”

  She nodded. “You told me. And I recorded it.”

  “Then why are you here now? Why did you come back now, knowing I was bribed to hang the jury?”

  “Because this is the only place they won’t look. And what you did was bad, but you’re not evil. And David Leacham is. He is pure evil.” She took a shaky breath. “And I knew that you liked me. Really liked me.”

  “I liked Song,” Warren said plaintively. “I don’t even know you.”

  And that night, Warren insisted on sleeping on the couch, while Bo took the bed.

  The next day they moved around each other like polite strangers. He told her when he needed to go out, what he needed to do, and how long he would be gone. He went to the grocery store, and when he came home, he found her in tears. She showed him the news story she had found online, about her friend Abigail.

  “I asked her to play the piano in my place. And instead she was killed. They must have realized they made a mistake. And then they tried to fix it.” Wincing, she rubbed the line on her neck.

  “You can’t hide here forever,” Warren said.

  Bo knew he was only speaking the truth. But she didn’t know what else to do.

  CHAPTER 45

  If you wanted to learn how to do pretty much anything, G
abe knew what the first step was. Go to YouTube. There you could count on finding a video showing you exactly what to do, step by step.

  How to do a kickflip on a skateboard.

  How to fix a leaky faucet when it turned out your mom didn’t know how and your stupid dad had gotten himself killed before he could ever teach you.

  How to videotape someone without their knowing.

  How to secretly gather evidence for the police so they could bust a steroids ring.

  Okay, so maybe there wasn’t a video about that, but Gabe figured the YouTube videos on making secret recordings he had watched last night fit the bill.

  One of the ways involved putting your phone in a shirt pocket with the top edge, the part that held the tiny camera aperture, just peeking out.

  Gabe didn’t actually own a shirt with a breast pocket, but his dad had had a bunch of them. Once he got home from school, he tiptoed down the upstairs hall as if someone might hear him, even though the house was empty. His mom was still at work and would be for hours. Normally Gabe would have already picked up Brooke from preschool, but today he had called and said he wouldn’t be there until late, maybe not until just before they closed at six.

  Kali had a doctor’s appointment and Eldon had gone with her. Gabe hoped whatever the doctor had to tell them was good. Or at least not terrible.

  He opened the door to his mom’s room, which he still thought of as his parents’ room. The covers were pulled up but still a little messy on his mom’s side. On the side where his dad had slept, the blue-and-white quilt was taut and smooth. His mom tried to pretend like she was over his dad’s death, but Gabe still saw a million clues that she wasn’t. Like always keeping to her side of the bed.

  And, Gabe thought, as he pulled open their closet door, she still hadn’t gotten rid of his dad’s clothes. As he flipped through the shirts, a faint smell teased his nose. A shiver traced his spine. It almost felt like he would turn around and his dad would be standing there, maybe holding a towel around his waist, his hair still damp from the shower. Maybe this was why his mom held on to the clothes, so she could pretend.