The Silent Girl

by Tess Gerritsen

  “Detective?” she asked.

  He said, reluctantly: “I’m guessing you know what’s being said about you. Because of the Wayne Graff trial and all.”

  Her mouth tightened. “I’m sure that none of it is flattering.”

  “It may be a thin blue line, but that line holds firm. It doesn’t take kindly to criticism.”

  “Even when it’s the truth,” she said bitterly.

  “That’s why I came to you. Because I know you do tell the truth.” His eyes met hers, direct and unflinching. The day they’d met in Chinatown, she had thought him unreadable, a man who might or might not like her. That same detached expression was now on his face, but it was merely a mask that she had not yet learned to penetrate. There was more to this man than she knew, and she wondered if he ever allowed anyone a glimpse behind that mask.

  “What are you hoping I’ll find in these reports?” she asked.

  “Contradictions, maybe. Things that don’t add up or don’t make sense.”

  “Why do you think there’d be any?”

  “Practically from the moment that Staines and Ingersoll walked onto the scene, it was called a murder-suicide. I read their report and they didn’t explore alternative theories. It was too easy to sign it off as a crazy Chinese immigrant shooting up a restaurant. And then himself.”

  “Do you think it wasn’t a murder-suicide?”

  “I don’t know. But nineteen years later, it’s giving off some strange echoes. Our Jane Doe on the roof had two addresses in her handheld GPS. One was Detective Ingersoll’s residence. The other was for Iris Fang, the widow of one of the massacre victims. This dead woman was obviously interested in the Red Phoenix case. We don’t know why.”

  They heard the dog whine, and Maura turned to see Rat standing in the doorway, his hair still damp from the shower. He was staring at the autopsy photo on her computer screen. Quickly she minimized the program, and the disturbing image shrank from sight.

  “Julian, this is Detective Tam,” she said. “And this is my houseguest, Julian Perkins. He’s been going to school up in Maine, and he’s down here for spring break.”

  “So you’re the owner of the scary dog,” Tam said.

  The boy kept staring at the monitor, as if he could still see the image displayed there. “Who was she?” he asked softly.

  “It’s just a case we’re talking about,” said Maura. “We’re almost through here. Why don’t you go watch TV?”

  Tam waited until they heard the television turn on in the living room, and he said: “I’m sorry he got a look at that. It’s not something you want a kid to see.”

  “I’ll review the files when I have the time. It may not be for a while. There’s no hurry, I assume?”

  “It would be nice to make some progress on Jane Doe.”

  “The Red Phoenix happened nineteen years ago,” she said and turned off her laptop. “I’m sure this can wait a little longer.”

  EVEN BEFORE I SEE HIM, I KNOW THAT HE HAS ENTERED MY STUDIO, his arrival heralded by the whoosh of damp night air as the door opens and closes. I do not interrupt my exercise to greet him, but continue to whirl and swing my blade. In the wide mirror I can see Detective Frost watching in fascination as I enact the chant of the saber. Today I feel strong, my arms and legs as limber as when I was young. Each of my moves, each turn, each slash, is dictated by a line from an ancient sonnet:

  Up the seven stars to ride the tiger.

  Soaring, turning, dodging as spirits soar,

  To become the white crane,

  Spreading its wings as it thrusts out a leg.

  The wind blows

  And the lotus flower trembles.

  All the moves are second nature to me, one blending into the next. I do not have to think about them, because my body remembers, as surely as it knows how to walk and how to breathe. My saber slices and whirls, but my thoughts are on the policeman, and what I will say to him.

  I reach the final and thirteenth line of the sonnet. The phoenix returns to its nest. I stand at attention, my weapon finally at rest, sweat cooling my face. Only then do I turn to face him.

  “That was beautiful, Mrs. Fang,” says Detective Frost, his eyes wide with admiration. “Like a dance.”

  “A beginner’s exercise. It brings a calming end to my day.”

  His gaze drops to the saber I’m holding. “Is that a real sword?”

  “Her name is Zheng Yi. She was passed down to me from my great-great-grandmother.”

  “So it must be really old.”

  “And battle-tested. It was meant for combat. If you never practice with a combat sword, you’ll never learn to work with its weight, to know how it feels in your grip.” I make two lightning slashes through the air and he flinches away, startled. With a smile, I extend the handle to him. “Take it. Feel its weight.”

  He hesitates, as if it might give him an electric shock. Cautiously he grasps the handle and gives the sword a clumsy swing through the air. “It doesn’t feel natural to me,” he said.

  “No?”

  “The balance seems strange.”

  “Because it’s not merely a ceremonial sword but a genuine dao. A true Chinese saber. This design is called a willow leaf. You see how it’s curved along the length of the blade? It was the standard sidearm for soldiers during the Ming dynasty.”

  “When was that?”

  “About six hundred years ago. Zheng Yi was crafted in Gansu province during a time of war.” I pause and add ruefully, “Unfortunately, war was too often a normal state in old China.”

  “So this sword saw actual combat?”

  “I know it did. When I hold her, I can feel old battles still singing in the blade.”

  He laughs. “If I’m ever attacked in a dark alley, Mrs. Fang, I want you by my side.”

  “You’re the one with the gun. Shouldn’t you protect me?”

  “I’m sure you do a good job of that all by yourself.” He hands the sword back to me. I can see it makes him nervous, just being in proximity to that razor-sharp edge. With a bow, I take back the sword and look straight at him. He flushes at my directness, a reaction I don’t expect from a policeman, and certainly not from a seasoned detective who investigates murders. But there is a surprising sweetness to this man, a vulnerability that suddenly reminds me of my husband. Detective Frost is about the same age as James was when he died, and in this man’s face I see James’s abashed smile, his innate eagerness to please.

  “You had more questions to ask me, Detective?”

  “Yes. Concerning a matter that we weren’t aware of when we spoke to you before.”

  “What would that be?”

  He seems reluctant to say what is on his mind. Already I can see the apology in his eyes. “It’s about your daughter. Laura.”

  The mention of Laura’s name is like a shocking blow to my chest. This I did not expect, and I sway from the impact.

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Fang,” he says, reaching out to steady me. “I know this has to be upsetting. Are you all right? Do you want to sit down?”

  “It’s just that …” I give a numb shake of my head. “I have not eaten since this morning.”

  “Maybe if you ate something now? Could I bring you somewhere?”

  “Perhaps we should talk another day.”

  “It would only be a few questions.” He pauses. Adds, quietly: “I haven’t had dinner, either.”

  For a moment his words hang in the air. It is a trial balloon. My hand tightens around the grip of my sword, an instinctive reaction to a situation fraught with uncertainties. In danger, there is opportunity. He is a policeman, but I see nothing about him to be wary of, only an attentive man with a kind face. And I want desperately to know why he is asking about Laura.

  I slide Zheng Yi into its scabbard. “There is a dumpling house on Beach Street.”

  He smiles, and the change in his face is startling. It makes him seem far younger. “I know the place.”

  “Let me get my rainc
oat, and we’ll walk.”

  Outside, we stroll together through a fine spring drizzle, but keep a discreet distance between us. I have brought along Zheng Yi because the sword is too valuable to leave behind at the studio. And because she has always been my protection, against all the threats I cannot see. Even on this wet evening, Chinatown is bustling, the streets crowded with dinner-hour patrons hungry for roast duck or ginger-steamed fish. As we walk, I try to stay focused on my surroundings, on every unfamiliar face that passes by. But Detective Frost, talkative and exuberant, is a continual distraction.

  “This is my favorite part of Boston,” he says, throwing his arms wide, as though to embrace Chinatown and everyone in it. “It has the best food, the best markets, the most interesting little side streets. I always love coming here.”

  “Even when you’re here to see a dead body?”

  “Well, no,” he says with a rueful laugh. “But there’s just something about this neighborhood. Sometimes I feel like I belong here. Like it’s an accident I wasn’t born Chinese.”

  “Ah. You think you’re reincarnated.”

  “Yeah. As the all-American kid from South Boston.” He looks at me, his face gleaming in the dampness. “You said you’re from Taiwan.”

  “Have you ever been there?”

  He gives a regretful shake of the head. “I haven’t traveled as much as I’d like. But I did go to France on my honeymoon.”

  “What does your wife do?”

  The pause makes me look at him, and I see his head has drooped. “She’s in law school,” he says quietly. It takes him a moment before he adds: “We separated. Last summer.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It hasn’t been a very good year, I’m afraid,” he says, then suddenly seems to remember who he’s talking to. The woman who has lost both her husband and her daughter. “I have nothing to complain about, really.”

  “Loneliness isn’t easy for anyone to live with. But I’m certain you will find someone else.”

  He looks at me, and I see pain in his eyes. “Yet you never remarried, Mrs. Fang.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “There must have been men who were interested.”

  “How can you replace the love of your life?” I say simply. “James is my husband. He will always be my husband.”

  He takes a moment to absorb that. Then he says: “That’s the way I always thought love should be.”

  “It is.”

  His eyes are unnaturally bright when he looks at me. “Only for some of us.”

  We reach the dumpling house, where the windows are fogged with steam. He steps forward quickly to open the door, a gentlemanly gesture that strikes me as ironic, since I am the one carrying a lethal sword. Inside, the cramped dining room is packed, and we are lucky to claim the last empty table, tucked into a corner near the window. I hang the scabbard over the back of my chair and pull off my raincoat. From the kitchen wafts the tempting scents of garlic and steamed buns, painfully savory reminders that I have not eaten since breakfast. Out those kitchen doors come platters of glistening dumplings stuffed with morsels of pork or shrimp or fish; at the next table chopsticks clack against bowls, and a family chatters in such noisy Cantonese that it sounds like an argument.

  Frost looks bewildered as he scans the long menu. “Maybe I should let you order for both of us.”

  “Are there any foods you won’t eat?”

  “I’ll eat everything.”

  “You may be sorry you said that. Because we Chinese really do eat everything.”

  He cheerfully accepts the challenge. “Surprise me.”

  When the waitress brings out an appetizer platter with cold jellyfish and chicken feet and pickled pig’s feet, his chopsticks hesitate over the unfamiliar selection, but then he bites into a translucent chunk of pork cartilage. I watch his eyes widen with a look of delight and revelation.

  “This is wonderful!”

  “You haven’t tried it before?”

  “I guess I haven’t been very adventurous,” he confesses as he dabs chili oil from his lips. “But I’m trying to change all that.”

  “Why?”

  He pauses to think about it, a strip of jellyfish dangling from his chopsticks. “I guess … I guess it’s about getting older, you know? Realizing how few things I’ve actually experienced. And how little time there is to do it all.”

  Older. At that I have to smile because I am almost two decades older than he is, so he must consider me ancient. Yet he does not look at me that way. I catch him studying my face, and when I return the gaze, his cheeks suddenly flush. Just as my husband’s did the first night we courted, on a spring evening heavy with mist, like this one. Oh James, I think you would like this young man. He reminds me so much of you.

  The dumplings come, soft little pillows plump with pork and shrimp. I watch in amusement as he struggles to pick up the slippery morsels and ends up chasing them around the plate with his chopsticks.

  “These were my husband’s favorites. He could eat a dozen of them.” I smile at the memory. “He offered to work here without pay for a month, if they would just give him their recipe.”

  “Was he also in the restaurant business in Taiwan?”

  His question makes me look straight at him. “My husband was a scholar of Chinese literature. He was descended from a long line of scholars. So no, he was not in the restaurant business. He worked as a waiter only to survive.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “It’s too easy to assume that the waiter you see here is just a waiter, and the grocery clerk is only a clerk. But in Chinatown, you can’t assume anything about people. Those shabby old men you see playing checkers under the lion gate? Some of them are millionaires. And that woman over there, behind the cash register? She comes from a family of imperial generals. People are not what they seem here, so you should never underestimate them. Not in Chinatown.”

  He gives a chastened nod. “I won’t. Not now. And I’m sorry, Mrs. Fang, if I in any way sounded disrespectful of your husband.” His apology sounds utterly sincere; it is yet another reason I find this man so surprising.

  I set down my chopsticks and regard him. Now that I have eaten, I finally feel able to address the subject that has been hanging over our meal. The noisy family at the next table rises to leave with a squeal of chair legs and a noisy chorus of Cantonese. When they walk out the door, the room suddenly seems silent in their absence.

  “You came to ask about my daughter. Why?”

  He takes a moment to answer, wiping his hands and neatly folding his napkin. “Have you ever heard the name Charlotte Dion?”

  I nod. “She was the daughter of Dina Mallory.”

  “Are you aware of what happened to Charlotte?”

  “Detective Frost,” I say, sighing, “I was forced to live through those events, so they are embedded here, forever.” I touch my head. “I know Mrs. Mallory was married before, to a man named Patrick Dion, and they had a daughter named Charlotte. A few weeks after the shooting, Charlotte disappeared. Yes, I know about all the victims and their families, because I’m one of them.” I look down at my empty plate, glistening with grease. “I’ve never met Mr. Dion, but after his daughter vanished, I wrote him a condolence card. I don’t know if he still cared about his ex-wife, or if he mourned her death. But I do know what it feels like to lose a child. I told him how sorry I was. I told him I understood his pain. He never wrote back.” I look up at Frost again. “So yes. I know why you’re asking about Charlotte. You’re wondering the same thing everyone else did. The same thing I’ve wondered. How is it possible for two families to be so cursed? First my Laura disappears, and then two years later, his Charlotte. Our families linked by both the Red Phoenix and the loss of our daughters. You wouldn’t be the first policeman to ask me about it.”

  “Detective Buckholz did, I assume.”

  I nod. “When Charlotte vanished, he came to see me. To ask if the two girls might have known each other. Charlot
te’s father is very wealthy, so of course she received a great deal of attention. Far more attention than my Laura ever received.”

  “In his report, Buckholz wrote that both Laura and Charlotte studied classical music.”

  “My daughter played the violin.”

  “And Charlotte played the viola in her school orchestra. Is there any chance they met? At a music workshop, maybe?”

  I shake my head. “I’ve already gone over this with the police, again and again. Except for music, the girls had nothing in common. Charlotte went to a private school. And we live here, in Chinatown.” My voice trails off and I focus on the next table, where a Chinese couple sits with their young children. In the high chair is a little girl, her hair done up in tiny pigtails that stick up like spiky devil horns. The way I used to arrange Laura’s hair when she was three years old.

  The waitress brings the check to our table. I reach for it, but Frost snatches it up first.

  “Please,” he says. “Let me.”

  “The elder should always pay for dinner.”

  “That is the last word I’d use to describe you, Mrs. Fang. Besides, I ate ninety percent of this meal.” He sets cash on the table. “Let me give you a ride home.”

  “I live only a few blocks from here, in Tai Tung Village. It’s easier for me to walk.”

  “Then I’ll walk with you. Just to be on the safe side.”

  “Is this for your protection, or for mine?” I ask as I reach for my sword, which has been hanging over the chair.

  He looks at Zheng Yi and laughs. “I forgot that you’re already armed and dangerous.”

  “So there’s no need to walk me home.”

  “Please. I’d feel better if I did.”

  It is still drizzling when we step outside, and after the steamy heat of the restaurant it’s a relief to breathe in the cool air. The mist sparkles in his hair and glazes his skin, and despite the chill I feel unexpected warmth in my cheeks. He has paid for dinner and now he insists on walking me home. It’s been a long time since a man has been so solicitous toward me, and I don’t know whether to feel flattered or irritated that he considers me so vulnerable.