The Weeping Buddha

by Heather Dune Macadam

  “I’d probably be the one who was dead now. On a more practical note, I don’t think murder was the purpose of the visit.”

  “Why would someone want to take just one suit?”

  “Maybe the murderer left it here,” he suggested.

  “That would be stupid, unless the murderer was trying to frame Beka for both murders and realized after the fact that trace evidence on the suit would prove Beka’s innocence instead.”

  Spontaneously, he kissed her on the cheek. “Very plausible. I’d better call Gary. I want the rest of those suits at the barn checked.” Even as he said it, though, he knew the murderer had probably goofed once, but not twice.

  They were halfway up the second flight of stairs when she stopped. “Loch, what if someone wore a Tyvek suit, booties, gloves, and hair-net to commit a double murder?”

  “Hypothetically?”

  “What kind of scene would we have?”

  He instantly saw where she was heading. “We’d have a scene with no trace or fiber evidence, no footprints, and no fingerprints.”

  “Unless prints were planted specifically to confuse us.”

  He spoke without thinking and immediately regretted opening his mouth. “But who would let anyone into their home dressed in head-to-toe Crime Scene gear?”

  Her face paled. Her hands began to tremble and then shake uncontrollably. “Oh my god!” She sank to the stairs. “Oh my god …” Loch turned around and stared at her. “Beka thought it was me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Those who hear not the music think the dancer’s mad.

  —HALLMARK CARD

  Fortunately, scent rises like smoke, so the smell had not fallen to the lower floors. And except for the fact that the third floor had been searched and processed for evidence, Devon and Loch could spend the night without too much unpleasantness. They stood in the doorway for a moment perusing the scene. It was not in total disarray, but everything seemed to be covered with a thin film of gray dust. The dishes in the sink had been fingerprinted; the coffee-table book, too.For the first time in Devon’s life she had an inkling of how it felt to live in a home where a crime had been committed, and was shocked at how violated she felt. It had never occurred to her that the police perpetrated their own presence upon victims’ privacy. She looked around the room she knew so well—this was how others felt when she and Frank left a scene after doing their job, not more secure and safe, but abandoned and unprotected.

  Loch poured Devon a glass of red wine and undid the laces on her shoes. “You need some rest,” he said, gently massaging her toes, the arch of her foot. She lay back on the overstuffed sofa and nestled into the pillows.

  “So much death all around,” she whispered.

  “It isn’t your fault.”

  She did not respond.

  “We’re going to get to the bottom of this, Dev. Just hang in there.”

  She nodded and shut her eyes, letting his hands work the tension out of her feet and up the calves of her legs. “Last night you had more to tell me,” Loch reminded her.

  “I did?”

  “Why did you two fight about me?” He wasn’t a detective asking the question, but a lover.

  Devon didn’t know if she should tell him the truth or not, but she didn’t have the energy to keep the secret any longer, and maybe it was time to bring up the topic of their relationship. “She didn’t think you were good enough for me,” she said.

  “I’m not.”

  She reached up to muss his hair, but stroked his cheek instead.“She thought I deserved someone who isn’t already married.”

  “You do.” He was afraid to go further, but how else could he get to the truth? He didn’t want to ask her but he had to know, for himself, not the investigation. “So what did you tell her?”

  “I told her I loved you, Loch.”

  He stopped massaging her feet and ankles.

  She waited but said nothing as the emptiness inside her yawned, ready to swallow her whole. “I feel like I’m floating away from you.”

  “I won’t let you go.” He wrapped his arms around her, cradling her against his chest, weighing her back to earth. She kissed him desperately, then deeply, then urgently, her desire commingled with her grief. He returned her questioning lips with tender assurance.

  They made love slowly, cherishing their bodies, their togetherness, the life flowing between them. When she came, it wasn’t with screams of ecstasy, but tears. She wept in his arms and buried her head into his shoulder until his kisses on her hair and forehead drew her out of her sorrow, drew her back to him.

  “Don’t ever leave me,” she whispered.

  “I’ll never leave you,” he answered. He fell asleep nestled in the turbulence of her dark blond hair and she followed him into her own world of dreams, where there were no murders or murderers, no lost boys or death. It was a pleasant world—a dream world.

  She awoke two hours later with Loch snoring in her ear.

  Extricating herself from his limbs, she walked softly over to her jacket pocket where she’d put the sketch of the marks on Edilio’s chest. Somewhere, she knew, Gabe had a Japanese ink brush set. She looked through the drawers of his desk and found extra paper and an ink block; the brush was in the pencil jar on the top left corner. She filled a raku cup with water, dipped the squirrel-hair brush twice, then swirled it around the ink block until there was a black cloud of water at the tip. It took her a few sheets of paper to get the strokes right, but finally, when she felt she had a sense of the line, she was able to copy the scratches in Edilio’s chest, line for line. When she was done, she was certain she had something. But what? She reached for the phone. It was six a.m.

  He answered on the first ring.

  “Hans? It’s Devon.”

  “Ah, I’ve been waiting for your call. Someone wrote your name on the prayer roster.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “I don’t know. I am afraid for you.”

  “When did you find my name?”

  “Yesterday morning’s service. I am the only one who adds names to the list and I didn’t write yours.”

  “Maybe someone thought I needed your prayers.”

  “But no one admitted to writing your name.”

  “I’m in the city right now; I’ll come take a look as soon as I’m back out there. I called because I need to know if you can you read Kanji.”

  “No.”

  “Do you know anyone who can?”

  “Isshu can. He used to sit with us.”

  “Does he have a fax?”

  “I believe so.”

  “I’m sorry to make this so urgent, but I need someone who can read Kanji right away.”

  “Let me call him and get the fax number for you.”

  “Thanks, Hans.” She gave him their number in the city, then sat back and waited for three full minutes before the phone rang. This time she was the one to pick it up on the first ring.

  “He’s home and waiting for your fax.”

  “That’s great, what’s the number?”

  “011-813-3282-0201.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Kyoto. He’s there now.”

  “You called Japan?”

  “Sure. You coming to the sit this afternoon?”

  “I don’t know. What day is it, Hans?”

  “Tuesday. Are you okay?”

  “Just a little discombobulated.” She could not believe it was Tuesday already; she was still stuck somewhere between New Year’s Eve, Monday, 1984, and this year, which one was it?

  “We sit at five o’clock. You could look at the list.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Take care of yourself, Devon. You’ll think more clearly if you can take the time to focus on the present.” It was as if he had read her mind again. She hung up and turned to the fax machine. It only took a few minutes for the fax to decipher the lines and spit them out across the international dateline to Kyoto. Devon went to the kitchen to make a pot of co
ffee.

  Forty-five minutes later, as a hint of gray was cracking over the dismal edge of lower Manhattan’s empty skyline, the fax returned an answer to her question. She stood by the window reading what it said and staring out at the empty sidewalks of Mercer Street. Someone had been here last night and she knew now that that someone was Gabe’s murderer as well.

  Loch thrashed and moaned on the couch, his breathing quickening until he sounded as if he were hyperventilating. She had grown used to his night terrors and watched calmly as his subconscious wrestled with unknown demons. Most people thought Brennen had this supernatural ability to stay up all night, working twentyfour hours a day with only a few hours of sleep sprinkled here and there. She knew better—sleep took more effort than staying awake.She waited for the dream that tortured him to end; she had only awakened him once during an episode and would never repeat that mistake. She watched his tormented face, the mouth gaping open as saliva gathered at the corner. The scream, a little boy’s scream, erupted from inside his chest and escaped through his throat. “Ahhh!” He sat upright, staring about the room in confusion.

  “You’re in Soho, at Gabe and Beka’s loft,” she said softly.

  He nodded in response, but his eyes were glazed over as his brain tried to figure out the particulars of what she’d just said. He sighed deeply, like a modern day Jacob—worn out from wrestling with his angel, or was it his devil? “It’s been a while since I had one of those.

  Don’t you ever get tired of me waking you up like that?”

  “You didn’t wake me up. I’ve been pulling a Brennen—working on the case while you catch a few Zs.”

  He folded his hands behind his head and looked at her almost proudly. “See, that’s why I love you. Where else could I find a woman who can process a corpse without getting queasy, make love like nobody else on earth, and solve a case while I’m napping?”

  “I didn’t say I solved anything, but I did find out something. We need to get those photos from the other scene back today.” She held out the fax from Japan, then stopped. “Did you say love?”

  “You heard what I said.” He tried to snatch the fax out of her hand but she held it higher over his head. “What’s it say?”

  “I’ll tell you just as soon as you repeat what you just said, so I can hear it!” She straddled his hips and sat down on top of him to make sure he was pinned to the couch. He looked at her, then at the fax. It was a toss-up, so she kicked him to help him decide.

  “Love you,” he mumbled teasingly. “So, what’s it mean?”

  “Lochwood Brennen, you cad!”

  “I know.” He grabbed her and pulled her on top of him. “Now, it means …” he began the sentence for her.

  She bit his ear and faked a German accent. “Ve are returning to zis line of questioning, detective. Ve have ways of extracting information from ze likes of you.”

  He squeezed her tightly and gave her a deep and longing kiss.

  He had won.

  “It’s a Zen koan.” She snuggled into the crook of his arm contentedly.

  “What the hell is a Zen koan?”

  “Shi moshi hito kentetsu sureba. Shin no, dai joba, to nazuka,” she said in very bad Japanese.

  He grabbed the fax from her to read what it said for himself.

  “Death. She whose insight penetrates here is a truly great woman, He whose insight penetrates here is a truly great man.” This is a famous ink drawing done by Master Hakuin Ekaku, who lived in the sixteenth century and is revered as the organizer of koan practice in Rinzai Zen. It is strange someone not Buddhist should be so familiar with our practice.

  —Issbu

  Loch reread what the Zen master in Japan had written, then looked down at Devon’s head.

  “Hans is Rinzai?” She nodded in answer. “Okay, then whose insight? Beka’s?” He started to sit up.

  “It’s a koan. It’s not supposed to be clear.”

  He ignored her Zen instructions. “If Beka killed Edilio, the woman is you. This is a message for you.”

  “If the murderer was Beka,” she reminded him.

  “Or if the murderer is not Beka, the murderer knows you.” He had just negated yet another theory and could hear his partner chiding him; it was one of his talents—blowing holes in others’ theories.Lochwood was not convinced that this was anything more than a trick that could have been left by Beka after she cut her hair and left it at the Buddha. He let the events of the past few days play through his mind. What if someone was still out there who had killed Beka, Gabe, and Edilio? What if Devon was right?

  “You’re being too linear. Koans are never that linear.” She brought two cups of coffee over to the couch and put them down on the table.

  “I don’t even know what the hell a koan is! I’m a recovering Catholic!”

  “The Virgin Mary giving birth to Jesus is a koan in a way—how is it possible for a woman to give birth and remain a virgin?”

  “God works in mysterious ways?” Loch laughed.

  “So does Buddha. A koan doesn’t make sense until you reach enlightenment, when for some reason it then makes sense.”

  “Why’s it make sense?”

  “When and if I ever reach enlightenment, I’ll tell you.”

  “Please do.” He looked down at the fax. “So this koan could be about you, meant for you, or have nothing to do with you?”

  “Exactly.” She sighed and let her chin dip toward her breastbone.He took her face in his hands and kissed her tears before they could fall. She had been debating whether to tell him about her name being on the prayer rolls at the zendo, but now decided it was absolutely necessary.

  “Someone thinks we’re playing a game here.”

  “A game? It’s too insane for a game. None of it makes any sense.”

  “Just like a koan.” His eyes lit up as he laughed. “The game’s afoot, Watson!”

  She stared at him. “That reminds me, have you seen my beeper?”

  “How does that remind you of your beeper?”

  “Have you?”

  “Nada.”

  “I don’t know what happened to it. Oh well, I’m going back to look through Freesia’s files.”

  “Good idea. Whoever planned this obviously knows about Todd.”

  “Whoever? You didn’t say Beka.”

  “She’s still number one on my list.”

  “At least now there’s a list.” She kissed him good-bye. “Call my cell if you need me. It’s working now.” She handed him his cup of coffee.“And don’t get into too much trouble while I’m gone.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Three men testified about the tortoise, so that makes it a turtle.

  —ZEN PHRASE

  Devon had only just left and Loch was already bored. He poured himself another cup of coffee and headed downstairs. He wanted to peruse the building without any interruptions from Marders’s people, and he knew they’d be back. He carried his cellphone with him and sipped his coffee, walking through each floor slowly and deliberately, but nothing untoward leapt out at him. He looked through the Tyvek suits and poked through the rubble of Beka’s bust, then walked across the art gallery, not bothering to look at any of the art. He stopped at the fourth floor and winced as the putrid fragrance of Edilio’s body assaulted his still waking nose.

  His cellphone rang. “Brennen here.”

  “What’s up, partner?”

  “We had some interesting developments last night, among them a new corpse.” Loch looked out the top-floor window and down at Howard and Mercer Streets.

  “Sorry I missed the excitement.”

  “It was Edilio Ferraro.”

  “No shit!”

  “He’s carved up like Montebello,” he told his partner.

  “You think we got a serial?”

  Loch did not answer. “Imamura was still alive when Ferraro was killed, but this is way over the top. Oh, Edilio was gay.”

  “We were just wrong all over the place. You think he wa
s doing Gabe?”

  “Evidently.”

  “Did Gabe kill him?”

  “And then get killed the same way? I don’t think so.”

  “What if Gabe killed Edilio and Beka killed Gabe in exactly the same way? Maybe she found Edilio, figured out what happened, and decided to get back at Gabe.”

  “Why? With Gabe prosecuted for murder she’d be one rich lady.And it’s not like she didn’t know people on the force. You can’t do better than that?”

  “Maybe she was afraid for her life,” Gary suggested.

  “Anybody who can commit these kinds of murders can’t be too scared.”

  “So, what do ya want me to do on this end?”

  That’s the offer Lochwood had been waiting for. “I need Houck to call Homicide here and make sure we get included on the autopsy this morning. Second, I want you to fax me the pictures of Montebello’s chest wound as soon as you get them. Devon hit on something this morning.”

  “It’s seven, Loch. It is morning.”

  “She’s been up since five.”

  “God help us, she’s getting like you.”

  “The lines on Ferraro’s chest are Japanese for whatever you call how they write.”

  “Hey, remember how I said it looks like Sanskirt or something?” Gary was obviously impressed with his own powers of observation.

  “That’s Sanskrit and yeah, you’re a regular Detective Morse.”

  “Hey, he screws up a lot!” Gary protested.

  “My point exactly.”

  “You sure are feeling your oats this morning. What’d you do, get lucky last night?”

  “Get to the damn photo lab!” Loch countered. “And call me as soon as Frank gets that mold glued together.”

  “You did get lucky! Am I good or what?” Gary laughed into the receiver.

  “Or what. Oh, and put us in for more overtime.”

  “I’m on it.”

  Loch hung up and started pacing the floor. He wanted to figure it all out now; he didn’t want to wait for the pictures or for Devon to return from Missing Persons, and the autopsy was going to waste hours of valuable time. He wanted it all to happen immediately, and since there was nothing else he could do, he decided to do what he could to speed things up. He picked up the phone again and called the number Detective Marders had given him.