what, if anything, he was supposed to do, or feel, or think, or imagine.
Anlya was dead.
It had been only a couple of hours since they’d found out, but he didn’t feel anything like the same person he’d been up until they’d gotten the news, Sharla calling Juney in hysterics right in the middle of supper. He’d sat there, getting the gist from Juney’s side of the conversation, the meat loaf and gravy congealing on his plate, tears just flowing, then stopping, then flowing again, without any sound, with no passage of time. He didn’t know he was crying, or when he stopped, or when he started again.
He looked up. Juney had gone off somewhere. She knew him enough to let him be. Nothing she could say would make any difference, and she knew that, so said nothing.
After a block of empty time, he somehow made his way the few steps from the kitchen to his bedroom and closed the door behind him. Over on his desk, there was Anlya’s school picture in the frame he’d bought for it only a few weeks ago, she wearing that big heart-warming smile. Turning the picture facedown, he crossed back over the room, turned out the light, sat on his bed, and pulled the blankets up over his shoulders.
When the knock came, he was lying down, the comforter pulled up over him, so he must have gotten that way somehow, but he had no memory of it.
Another knock. “Max.” She turned the knob and let in a sliver of the hallway’s light.
He heard Greg’s voice, a whisper. “It’s all right, Juney. I’ll come back later.”
Max sat up. “No,” he said, “it’s all right. Just a second.” He stood up and walked out into the hall.
Greg stood in the doorway to the kitchen, arms at his sides, his face drawn and slack. His head moved back and forth almost imperceptibly. Like Juney, Greg knew enough not to try to say anything when there was nothing to be said.
Max walked up and put his arms around his advocate. In Greg’s tight embrace, for the first time since he’d gotten the news, he let a sob escape.
13
A T A LITTLE after ten A.M., Yamashiro and Waverly started where Bush Street met Grant Avenue, a couple of blocks from the murder scene, an intersection that, due to the ornate Gate of Chinatown archway over Grant, marked the more or less official southern boundary of Chinatown. At that time of the morning, business was getting into full swing, and most of the shop doors were open.
The inspectors had a picture of Anlya from her CPS file, and her school photo, which they’d gotten from Nellie Grange at the McAllister Street home. They had shown these to the workers in every place they walked into, and no one could say for sure whether the girl in the photographs, or any other black girl, had been in their shop on Wednesday night.
But when they got to the Imperial Palace, Fred Liu remembered the mixed-race couple perfectly. Fred was the maître d’ for the restaurant’s most busy time, which was the breakfast/brunch they were coming out of right now.
“Nights,” he said, “it’s just me and the chef, and I’m on tables. We’re all about the dim sum here, which is morning. Nights are cheap Chinese food for the tourists—Kung Pao shrimp, hot and sour soup, General Tso’s chicken, chop suey—and we are so slow, usually, it’s almost not worth keeping the place open. But we’re not open, we make no money at all, right?”
“You remember this couple?” Waverly asked.
“Hard to miss ’em,” Liu said. “They were about the only customers. Plus, especially at the end, they were squabbling something fierce.”
“Squabbling?” Yamashiro asked.
Liu nodded. “Fighting. Quietly, you know, intense. But you could tell.They were not happy. At the end, she was crying, then threw down her napkin and got up so fast she knocked her chair over and left it.”
The inspectors looked at each other. “You mean left the chair on the floor?” Waverly asked.
“Yes. I came and set it back up.”
“Did she come
Anlya was dead.
It had been only a couple of hours since they’d found out, but he didn’t feel anything like the same person he’d been up until they’d gotten the news, Sharla calling Juney in hysterics right in the middle of supper. He’d sat there, getting the gist from Juney’s side of the conversation, the meat loaf and gravy congealing on his plate, tears just flowing, then stopping, then flowing again, without any sound, with no passage of time. He didn’t know he was crying, or when he stopped, or when he started again.
He looked up. Juney had gone off somewhere. She knew him enough to let him be. Nothing she could say would make any difference, and she knew that, so said nothing.
After a block of empty time, he somehow made his way the few steps from the kitchen to his bedroom and closed the door behind him. Over on his desk, there was Anlya’s school picture in the frame he’d bought for it only a few weeks ago, she wearing that big heart-warming smile. Turning the picture facedown, he crossed back over the room, turned out the light, sat on his bed, and pulled the blankets up over his shoulders.
When the knock came, he was lying down, the comforter pulled up over him, so he must have gotten that way somehow, but he had no memory of it.
Another knock. “Max.” She turned the knob and let in a sliver of the hallway’s light.
He heard Greg’s voice, a whisper. “It’s all right, Juney. I’ll come back later.”
Max sat up. “No,” he said, “it’s all right. Just a second.” He stood up and walked out into the hall.
Greg stood in the doorway to the kitchen, arms at his sides, his face drawn and slack. His head moved back and forth almost imperceptibly. Like Juney, Greg knew enough not to try to say anything when there was nothing to be said.
Max walked up and put his arms around his advocate. In Greg’s tight embrace, for the first time since he’d gotten the news, he let a sob escape.
13
A T A LITTLE after ten A.M., Yamashiro and Waverly started where Bush Street met Grant Avenue, a couple of blocks from the murder scene, an intersection that, due to the ornate Gate of Chinatown archway over Grant, marked the more or less official southern boundary of Chinatown. At that time of the morning, business was getting into full swing, and most of the shop doors were open.
The inspectors had a picture of Anlya from her CPS file, and her school photo, which they’d gotten from Nellie Grange at the McAllister Street home. They had shown these to the workers in every place they walked into, and no one could say for sure whether the girl in the photographs, or any other black girl, had been in their shop on Wednesday night.
But when they got to the Imperial Palace, Fred Liu remembered the mixed-race couple perfectly. Fred was the maître d’ for the restaurant’s most busy time, which was the breakfast/brunch they were coming out of right now.
“Nights,” he said, “it’s just me and the chef, and I’m on tables. We’re all about the dim sum here, which is morning. Nights are cheap Chinese food for the tourists—Kung Pao shrimp, hot and sour soup, General Tso’s chicken, chop suey—and we are so slow, usually, it’s almost not worth keeping the place open. But we’re not open, we make no money at all, right?”
“You remember this couple?” Waverly asked.
“Hard to miss ’em,” Liu said. “They were about the only customers. Plus, especially at the end, they were squabbling something fierce.”
“Squabbling?” Yamashiro asked.
Liu nodded. “Fighting. Quietly, you know, intense. But you could tell.They were not happy. At the end, she was crying, then threw down her napkin and got up so fast she knocked her chair over and left it.”
The inspectors looked at each other. “You mean left the chair on the floor?” Waverly asked.
“Yes. I came and set it back up.”
“Did she come
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