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Authors: Domenic Stansberry
Tags: Mystery
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gangbangers or someone else, he didn’t know. It had happened when he was still with SI, investigating the disappearance of Ru Shen.
Today, his grandmother was not in the front room, but no doubt she had already sensed his presence. Grandmother Ying could see very little and hear even less, or so the doctor said; but it rarely happened that Ying took her by surprise. She was attuned to the subtle vibrations of the house and sensed in advance, it seemed, his key turning in the front lock. By the time he reached the little kitchen, she had already turned in her chair. As he stepped toward her, she offered him her cheek. Since he was a boy, it had been their greeting; he pressed his cheek against hers and whispered her name.
Ying did not know the old woman’s exact age. Grandmother Ying had been smuggled into the country decades ago, back when the exclusion laws still prohibited Chinese women. Ying’s grandfather had been a successful tradesman, so he’d made arrangements through a Shanghai broker who specialized in young women. She had outlived her husband and a number of her children and several of her grandchildren as well. At some point along the way, Ying was not sure exactly when, she had passed into this blind silence.
Now the old woman got up to make tea. She negotiated the little kitchen without hesitation. This was all part of their ritual, the boiling of the water and the steeping of the tea. Then they would go sit together in the front room, which was really nothing more than a parlor. Grandmother Ying had raised five children in these tiny rooms, though that seemed hardly possible now.
The front room was spare. She was quiet and he was quiet and the only thing in the room was the smell of the orchid in the vase on the rattan table in front of them.
It was beautiful, that orchid. Ying lingered in the silence of the old woman’s house and found it hard to pull himself away. He often came here. They sipped their tea together, and he closed his eyes, dwelling in the old woman’s quietude. He thought about his wife, Lei. Even though she was only just across the bay—and he could be on his way home to her any minute—he closed his eyes and for a moment yearned for her in the way the Chinese bachelors must have yearned for wives of their own, dreaming of the day when they would have enough money to smuggle a woman into the country. Most of them never did.
Then his cell rang. It was Maxine Hong, the desk sergeant at the Night Division.
“Are you in the city?” asked Hong.
Ying said nothing. He could guess what was coming. The Night Division was perpetually shorthanded.
“Where are you?”
The tunnel, Ying wanted to say. I am in the tunnel, in the train, deep under the bay. On my way home. And in another moment the tunnel will emerge into the light and I will step onto the platform and . . .
“I’m here,” he said. “In The Beach.”
“There’s been a homicide up on Union. Toliveri’s on the scene—but Angelo says it’s yours to head up. If you want it.”
Ying got the implication. Ever since he’d left SI the implication was the same. He’d gone soft.
By the time Ying got to the scene, the patrol car had cordoned off the house and the gawkers were starting to gather. The ME was on the steps with the photographer, but Toliveri was holding Forensics out of the house until Ying had a chance to walk the scene.
“We’ve got the wife and the son sequestered in the den.” Toliveri jabbed a thumb over his shoulders. “Do you want to talk to them?”
“Let me take a look around first.”
There were blood smears on the carpet, and Ying followed the tracks though the kitchen and up the stairs. The stains got darker as he went up, and darker still on the hall carpet—until he turned the corner and saw the old man lying on the hardwood, then the prints got muddled with the blood on the floor. Ying glanced at the corpse and could see at once that lividity had set in. Dead maybe six, seven
Today, his grandmother was not in the front room, but no doubt she had already sensed his presence. Grandmother Ying could see very little and hear even less, or so the doctor said; but it rarely happened that Ying took her by surprise. She was attuned to the subtle vibrations of the house and sensed in advance, it seemed, his key turning in the front lock. By the time he reached the little kitchen, she had already turned in her chair. As he stepped toward her, she offered him her cheek. Since he was a boy, it had been their greeting; he pressed his cheek against hers and whispered her name.
Ying did not know the old woman’s exact age. Grandmother Ying had been smuggled into the country decades ago, back when the exclusion laws still prohibited Chinese women. Ying’s grandfather had been a successful tradesman, so he’d made arrangements through a Shanghai broker who specialized in young women. She had outlived her husband and a number of her children and several of her grandchildren as well. At some point along the way, Ying was not sure exactly when, she had passed into this blind silence.
Now the old woman got up to make tea. She negotiated the little kitchen without hesitation. This was all part of their ritual, the boiling of the water and the steeping of the tea. Then they would go sit together in the front room, which was really nothing more than a parlor. Grandmother Ying had raised five children in these tiny rooms, though that seemed hardly possible now.
The front room was spare. She was quiet and he was quiet and the only thing in the room was the smell of the orchid in the vase on the rattan table in front of them.
It was beautiful, that orchid. Ying lingered in the silence of the old woman’s house and found it hard to pull himself away. He often came here. They sipped their tea together, and he closed his eyes, dwelling in the old woman’s quietude. He thought about his wife, Lei. Even though she was only just across the bay—and he could be on his way home to her any minute—he closed his eyes and for a moment yearned for her in the way the Chinese bachelors must have yearned for wives of their own, dreaming of the day when they would have enough money to smuggle a woman into the country. Most of them never did.
Then his cell rang. It was Maxine Hong, the desk sergeant at the Night Division.
“Are you in the city?” asked Hong.
Ying said nothing. He could guess what was coming. The Night Division was perpetually shorthanded.
“Where are you?”
The tunnel, Ying wanted to say. I am in the tunnel, in the train, deep under the bay. On my way home. And in another moment the tunnel will emerge into the light and I will step onto the platform and . . .
“I’m here,” he said. “In The Beach.”
“There’s been a homicide up on Union. Toliveri’s on the scene—but Angelo says it’s yours to head up. If you want it.”
Ying got the implication. Ever since he’d left SI the implication was the same. He’d gone soft.
By the time Ying got to the scene, the patrol car had cordoned off the house and the gawkers were starting to gather. The ME was on the steps with the photographer, but Toliveri was holding Forensics out of the house until Ying had a chance to walk the scene.
“We’ve got the wife and the son sequestered in the den.” Toliveri jabbed a thumb over his shoulders. “Do you want to talk to them?”
“Let me take a look around first.”
There were blood smears on the carpet, and Ying followed the tracks though the kitchen and up the stairs. The stains got darker as he went up, and darker still on the hall carpet—until he turned the corner and saw the old man lying on the hardwood, then the prints got muddled with the blood on the floor. Ying glanced at the corpse and could see at once that lividity had set in. Dead maybe six, seven
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