Harlan Coben

by The Best American Mystery Stories 2011

  Denny turned to his workers. “Vamoose! Get the other van ready to go!”

  They made their way to the roof door and left.

  I picked up the bag and held it open. Denny retrieved the red, satiny-papered box from within. He held it in his hands. He ripped the paper off and let it drop. I shot my foot out to it, saving it from the wind. I lit a cigarette up as he gingerly opened the lid. I peeked over his shoulder, still somewhat marveled by its contents. Inside, one of those red balloon hearts sat, still completely inflated, and Scotch-taped three times around its center was a small swath of flayed skin with a woman’s name on it. He took a step away from me.

  “Denny.”

  He turned, looked at me. I kicked the wrapping paper his way.

  “Litter.”

  Denny picked it up, hands compressing, crushing it into the reddest, bloodiest of balls, while all signs of blood drained from his face. He slowly made his way over to the chimney, put his back against it, and slid down to the asphalt-covered roof. He held on to the box with his right hand, its lid still open, keeping it in his lap, and his other hand went to the guy wires secured to the chimney. He closed his eyes. On the street below, Sinatra was singing on a car radio about making it here and therefore anywhere. I felt a warm sensation.

  I crouched down in front of Denny. He refused to look at me, eyes still closed; he seemed to be growing smaller and smaller.

  I whispered, “And Sucrete—foe told me she’s got a birthday coming up too, doesn’t she? I’m sorry, did I say this was a final gift?”

  I removed the lit cigarette from my mouth and pressed its red hot tip against the balloon. When it burst, he shuddered, his eyes popped open, and they found me only—and I felt sorry for him. We had been friends once, maybe that was why. Or maybe being Christ for a night had made me soft. Softer.

  So I provided for my old friend. Everybody always does for Denny.

  “Hey? That bartender? She wears her ring around her neck. On a chain. FYI.”

  Chin Yong-Yun Takes a Case

  S. J. Rozan

  FROM Damn Near Dead 2

  MY DAUGHTER IS a private eye.

  You see? It even sounds ridiculous. She follows people. She asks the computer about them as though it were a temple fortuneteller. She pulls out their secrets like dirt-covered roots to hand to the people who hire her. What is private about that? And always involved with criminals, with police! My only good luck, she is not a real police officer, like her best friend Kee Miao-Li. Whenever I see Miao-Li’s mother, we give each other sympathy, though I give her the greater amount because her daughter’s choice of profession is even more unacceptable than mine.

  Although her daughter, at least, is engaged to be married, to a boy of good family, in Chinatown for three generations.

  Mine is not.

  Not that I believe marriage is the answer to all a woman’s problems. I am not a fool, no matter what my daughter thinks. Marriage, if handled badly, can be a source of great distress. This has been the case for Tan Li-Li, a mahjong player of my own age—a fact she tries to hide behind black hair dye and crimson lipstick. I would not call Tan Li-Li “friend,” although she is among the women I regularly meet with under the trees in the park or at the folding tables of the senior center. It is not easy to be the friend of a woman who eats so much bitterness. Difficulties make many people more kind than formerly; but some are like Tan Li-Li, thinking they can rid themselves of troubles by giving them to others. Tan Li-Li’s gloom stems from marriage, though not her own. She is a widow, and as she will be the first to tell you, a widow’s lot is sad, to be always alone. I am also a widow, and although I miss my husband, gone these many years, I do not find myself alone. Perhaps that is because I have five children and five grandchildren, all nearby. My daughter, in fact, though her profession is a disgrace, is filial in this: she still lives with me in the family apartment. But Tan Li-Li has only one son, and one grandson, and the marriage that is so bitter for her is her son’s.

  My daughter, who follows American ways, knows Tan Li-Li and how difficult she can be. She asks me, “Why do you play with her, Ma? When she’s there, why don’t you sit at another table or something?” If she had a true Chinese understanding, of course she would never say such things. Tan Li-Li was brought into our mahjong group by Feng Guo-Ha, with whom she shared a village childhood in China. Even a poor village has its social order. The poorest can be the worst: the smaller the treasure at the top of the staircase, the more fierce the battle on the steps. The Tans were a merchant family, while the Fengs labored in the fields. Feng Guo-Ha, a small, shy woman, tells us that Tan Li-Li was sour even as a child: and Tan Li-Li treats Feng Guo-Ha imperiously to this day. One thing that galls Tan Li-Li is the contrast between their sons. Feng Guo-Ha’s son, like his mother, is friendly and eager to please. He treats his mother well, living nearby, taking her shopping and to the doctor. Often she looks after her granddaughter while her son and his wife are at work. Tan Li-Li’s son, in contrast, has for four years (“Such an unlucky number!” Tan Li-Li sighs) been living on the other side of the world, in Beijing, and raising her grandson there.

  Feng Guo-Ha cannot enjoy being criticized and given orders by Tan Li-Li: nevertheless, loyalty to childhood friends is never wrong, no matter their behavior, and she remains loyal. Loyalty to friends from adulthood is also virtuous. Feng Guo-Ha and I sewed together in the garment factory for many years, when our children were young. She’s my friend, and I won’t abandon her to Tan Li-Li’s sneering voice.

  You can understand, however, what a surprise it was for me when that voice, which I rarely hear beyond the mahjong table, issued from the red telephone in my own kitchen.

  “Chin Yong-Yun,” Tan Li-Li said decisively, as though my name were something I didn’t know and would be grateful to be told. “I hope you are well. I am looking for your daughter.”

  I recovered myself and answered calmly, “Quite well, thank you, Tan Li-Li.” Politeness suggested I inquire after her health also before reaching the substance of our conversation, but she had not allowed me that courtesy. “I’m sorry, but my daughter is not at home.”

  “She is not in her office either. How can I speak to her?”

  “If you’ve left a message, as I’m sure you have, she will no doubt call you as soon as she is able.” Unless I spoke to her first myself. Perhaps I could discourage her from plunging into the cloud of bitterness that surrounds Tan Li-Li.

  “That is not soon enough. Our matter is urgent.”

  “Our matter?”

  “It concerns my son. As you know, he is visiting me here.”

  I could not help but know. As if it were not enough to see Tan Li-Li daily parading her three-year-old grandson in the park—grasping the child’s hand so firmly I feared it would grow misshapen—she also had spoken of nothing but this impending visit for weeks before Tan Xiao-Du and his son arrived from Beijing. I had expected the visit to lighten her humor, especially since her daughter-in-law had remained in China, but her sourness did not abate. Probably I had been foolish. I had expected pleasure and pride to mark her reactions to many events involving her son: his posting to an important position in China with his American firm, his marriage to a kind and beautiful Beijinger, the birth of their son. Each time, however, Tan Li-Li’s reaction had been only darkness. Of his return to the homeland: “How can he leave me here to grow old alone?” Of his marriage: “Now he will never come home!” Of his child: “My only grandson, growing up so far from me!” Xiao-Du had offered to bring his mother to Beijing as often as she wanted, even to settle her there for as long as he stayed. But still, around the mahjong table we heard only complaint and recrimination.

  “I’m sorry, Tan Li-Li,” I said. “I cannot—”

  “There, you see?” Tan Li-Li interrupted with a voice of vinegared triumph. I started to ask, “See what?” but she wasn’t speaking to me. “I told you, Xiao-Du, that calling Chin Yong-Yun was useless.”

  I did not want my daughte
r involved with Tan Li-Li’s endless problems, but this insult was unacceptable. Before I could properly respond, however, a man’s voice came into my ear.

  “Chin Yong-Yun, I hope you and your family are well. This is Tan Xiao-Du.”

  “Tan Xiao-Du, I and my family are quite well, thank you. I hope your family is also.” The son, teaching the mother courtesy. His Cantonese was good, also. I’m sure his skill didn’t make his mother grateful for her luck, although it should have. Many American-born children are poor in Cantonese. My children all speak well, of course. They are talented in languages. I’m sure my choice not to learn English, which made it necessary for them to speak Cantonese at home, played only a very small part.

  “I’m sorry my daughter is not available,” I told Tan Xiao-Du, “but her services are much in demand, you understand.”

  “Yes, of course. But this is a very important matter. Isn’t there any way we can contact her?” I was reluctant to share my daughter’s cell phone number with the Tans, but I couldn’t help hearing Xiao-Du’s strained tones of distress. Especially when he announced, “It’s my son. My son has been kidnapped.”

  I was briefly speechless, hearing this news. The despair in Xiao-Du’s voice, and the situation’s dire nature, changed my thinking. It did not, however, change the humor of his mother. “Never mind,” I heard her sneer behind him. “I told you, there is only one solution. You will give them whatever they want and all will be well. Do as I say!”

  “No!” Xiao-Du responded desperately. “Mother, I can’t!”

  “Foolish boy! You will not—”

  “There must—”

  “You are—”

  “Come speak to me,” I said loudly, into his ear.

  “What? I’m sorry, Chin Yong-Yun, what did you say?” I could hear the son shushing the mother as he waited for my response.

  “I often work with my daughter on her cases.” I am not the sort of person to be unscrupulous with the truth, but circumstances were pressing. “I will collect your evidence, and brief it to her when she is available.” My daughter thinks I never listen when she talks about her work. If that were so, would I know the words of her profession?

  “Chin Yong-Yun—I don’t think—”

  “Come, you must hurry if your child is in danger.” I hung up the phone. I find this often helps people make decisions.

  Ten minutes had not passed before mother and son were at my door. Of course I had put the kettle on the stove and set out teacups. I might have expected a small gift of almond cookies or bean cakes, as is customary when visiting, but the Tans arrived empty-handed. Making allowances for the son’s distraction and the mother’s customary lack of civility, without comment I added a plate of macaroons to the table. As the tea steeped I seated myself in my armchair, instructed them to sit also, and requested that they tell their story.

  “I blame myself,” Tan Li-Li began, but her son interrupted.

  “No, Mother. It is not your fault, and this is the time for action, not for blame.”

  “Nevertheless, I—”

  “Please,” I said to stop this tiresome argument. “We never involve ourselves in the personal lives of our clients.”

  “We?” Tan Li-Li’s plucked eyebrows arched.

  “My daughter and myself. In our investigations. Xiao-Du, just tell me what has happened.”

  I asked to hear the story from the son, but I had little hope. I poured the tea—first for mother, then for son, and last for myself—and discovered that my assessment had been correct.

  “It is, as I said, my fault.” Tan Li-Li’s shake of the head might have expressed self-disgust, or at least disbelief. However, it was more likely a denial of her son’s request not to blame herself, as well as of mine to remain uninvolved in her personal life. “I was in the park with little Bin-Bin while Xiao-Du attended to business for his firm. His position requires him to be available to give instructions to his subordinates at all times. Even when he is overseas with his family.” She gave Xiao-Du a look full of maternal suffering and accusation.

  “In the park,” I repeated firmly. “With Bin-Bin. When was this?”

  She turned back to me with narrowed eyes. “Forty minutes ago.” She paused before resuming her tale. “Bin-Bin was playing with other boys, and I turned away for a moment to buy roasted peanuts for him, for a treat. No more than a moment! When I looked up, he was gone.”

  She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.

  “What makes you think he was kidnapped?” I asked. “Isn’t it more likely he wandered away? Maybe some other grandmother found him. He’s a small child who’s lived his whole life in Beijing. He doesn’t speak Cantonese, or English, does he? He could be at the police station right now, unable to tell the officers even his name.”

  That was clever of me, to think of that, and I might have expected their eyes to light up and one or the other to call the Fifth Precinct immediately. But the mother looked exasperated, and the son merely sad.

  “I got a phone call,” he said. “A ransom demand.”

  I blinked. “Oh.”

  He waited. “Aren’t you going to ask me what they said?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course,” I said with impatience. “I’m waiting for you to tell me.” I added, “It’s best to allow people to tell their stories in their own way, without prompting.” My daughter has said this, though she thinks, just because I don’t stop chopping vegetables when she speaks, that I haven’t heard her.

  “They said not to go to the police. They said if I do what they ask, my son will be returned unharmed.”

  “What do they ask?”

  He breathed deeply. “My firm develops computer software for foreign markets. Since going to China I’ve been working on a major project, to enhance the ability of scanners to recognize and read character-based languages—” For some reason, looking at my face, he stopped. “I’m sorry,” he said respectfully. “That’s technical talk and it doesn’t matter. The point is, we’re not the only firm working in the area. A successful product, because it will greatly increase computer speed, will be worth many, many millions to the company that develops it. We are the closest.”

  “Because of Xiao-Du’s leadership,” the mother put in.

  The son just looked at her, then said to me, ” That was the demand. To get my son back, they want our code.”

  “And I say, give it to them!” The mother’s face went red with indignation, as though her son’s intransigence were willful and unreasonable.

  “Your code?” I said. “That is, your solution to your project?”

  “Yes. But I can’t give it away! I’d be betraying my entire team! Everyone who works for me, trusts me—and my employer, the faith they’ve shown—”

  “You’ve given them everything they could have asked for!” the mother countered. “You left your home to live on the other side of the world! You work long hours and days, you’re exhausted, no time for anyone! Now you must give them your son also?”

  “Of course not, never! But there must be another way. That’s why I wanted to come to Lydia—to Ling Wan-Ju.” He looked at me desperately. “Can you help us? Can your daughter help us?”

  “Possibly,” I said. “But first you must both answer some questions for me.”

  “Anything!” said the son. The mother only sniffed and sipped her tea.

  “Xiao-Du. First: were you given a deadline for your compliance?”

  “Yes, five this afternoon.”

  “Over two hours from now. Good, we have some time.” The mother frowned at that, but I paid her no attention. I asked the son, “Who was it who called you?”

  “I don’t know. Obviously he represents one of our competitors, but there are a number of them.”

  “But it was a man?”

  “Yes, though he disguised his voice.”

  “Really? How?”

  “He made it low and growling.”

  “I see. Now tell me, if you do as they ask, what will be the result?”
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  “Little Bin-Bin will be returned!” The mother could not contain herself.

  “My question concerned a different result,” I said in a neutral and professional manner. “For you, Xiao-Du. In relation to your employer. What I mean is, why do you not just do as the kidnappers ask, and then explain the dire nature of the situation to your employer?”

  The son swallowed. I poured him more tea, in case his throat was dry. “I’d be betraying my firm and my team,” he said. “Three years of work, lost. Worse, given away. Even if they understand, they’ll have to fire me to save face.”

  “They will not fire you!” the mother exploded. “Never mind their face. You will resign without explaining anything. With your talents you’ll easily find another position, and your firm will continue their work in ignorance. When the competitor brings their product to market, your firm will realize they’ve lost the race, and consider themselves unlucky. That will be all.”

  “Even if I could do that,” the son said, “lie like that to people who’ve been so good to me, when the rival system comes on the market, they’ll analyze it and then they’ll know.”

  “What of it? It will never be more than suspicion. By then you’ll have an important position elsewhere, and no one will speak against you.”

  “Not in China. In China I’ll be finfshed. Even if it’s just suspicion, no one will trust me enough keep me on.”

  “So, you will leave China! For your son, is that too big a sacrifice to make?”

  Xiao-Du slumped miserably in his chair.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Tan Li-Li, now I have questions for you.”

  “This is ridiculous.”

  “Please, Mother,” the son begged.

  The mother rolled her eyes but turned to me with pursed lips, awaiting interrogation.

  “You say you took your eyes off little Bin-Bin for a moment, when you were buying peanuts.”

  “Just for a moment!”

  “I find it hard to believe, Tan Li-Li, that you took your eyes from him at all. I have seen you together in the park. You are the most assiduous of guardians.” Tan Li-Li gave me a tight, smug smile. “A bag of peanuts could hardly divert you from your duty to your son and grandson,” I continued. “Surely there must have been something else.”