All in One Piece (13 page)

“No.”

“The trick is in the pitch and tone. And context.”

I look to Maglia for some sort of support. He studies his lacquered nails. “Mr. Lee, I told you, I never studied Chinese.”

“Well, here’s a linguistic factoid for you: a simple word like ‘ma’ can have several meanings, such as horse or hemp or scold.
Did you know that, Ed?”

Maglia says no, he didn’t know.

I’m numb and chilled. This diversion doesn’t fool me for a minute. Lee implies that my door was marked by someone I know.
He drags Molly in, and so far says nothing about my door.

His eyes seem fixed on my face, as if he’s testing me. I say, “This is interesting, Mr. Lee, but I know no one who speaks
or writes Chinese. Surely we’re here to discuss the written form, the calligraphy.”

“You mean the characters, the ideographs.”

“I do. And perhaps you could explain exactly what a forensic linguist does.” I point at the hideous photographs. “These blood
marks on my door appeared after the murder of my upstairs tenant. I’m very worried. What do they mean? I need a translation.”

“A fair request, Ms. Cutter. First, about my background as linguist, I come from generations of missionaries. We hail from
Kansas and Idaho, but my great-great-grandfather was in China during the Boxer Rebellion. As for meaning, why do you think
these marks
mean
anything?”

“Because they’re deliberate.” He exchanges glances with Maglia, as if I’m underage. “Well, aren’t they?”

Arms folded, he bends forward. “Ms. Cutter, you know about nonsense syllables?”

“Of course.”

“They can appear in any language. English has no monopoly on nonsense syllables. Which makes sense, doesn’t it?”

Treated like a grade-schooler, I murmur, “Yes, it does.”

“Or take jazz, the scat singing?”

“I don’t see what that has to do with—”

“It may quack like a Beijing duck, but in fact, it’s not. It’s nonsense.”

“You’re saying these markings mean nothing?”

“I’m saying that Detective Maglia is doing you a great big favor to seek to have these photographs properly examined. Yes,
they seem to be Mandarin characters. But actually they’re caricatures. Your tenant’s death is terrible, but for your peace
of mind, you can forget about these.” He gives the photos a dismissive wave. “Don’t give them another thought. They’re meaningless.”

I don’t believe him for one minute. Whatever the door markings mean, he won’t tell me. It’s his and Maglia’s secret. I’m summoned
here only to be looked over, to be given an ad hoc lie detector test with those sky-blue eyes. Between Hugh Lee and Maglia,
I’m out in the cold as the days get short and winter looms.

Well, I can play my game too. “Oh, Mr. Lee, I’m so relieved. For all I know, those marks could mean anything. Why, they could
mean… I don’t know, vegetables or fruit, let’s say a pineapple. Do you know that the pineapple is a traditional symbol
of welcome? Wouldn’t it be ironic if the Chinese character for welcome were written on my door in blood?”

His eyes narrow just a little, and his corn-fed grin looks set in concrete.
“Bore-le-war,”
he says. “That’s Mandarin for pineapple,
b-o-l-u-o
. You might enjoy a language class, Ms. Cutter. It might turn a worry into a nice hobby. We thank you for your time this morning.
May our paths cross again one day.”

May they not. It takes everything to shake both men’s outstretched hands and exit the precinct house. There’s no sign of Devaney,
but I can’t hang around like a groupie, so I call from the nearest corner and leave him a message. I also try my daughter,
whose phone is off, though Tom Chou is more crucial now than ever. It’s 11:22 a.m. My next stop is a bookstore on Tremont
where I buy a Chinese dictionary and a Spanish phrase book, then take the T to Copley and walk back to Barlow Square as the
air stays in the low forties.

As always, I scan the street and town house for a mental all clear, then head inside, grab a bite, and change into a sweater
and jeans. Molly phones to say she hasn’t reached Chou. My Realtor friend, Meg Givens, says she has a few prospects for my
upstairs sublet and wants to schedule showings. Good.

It’s after 1:00 p.m., and I’m planning my call to Steven’s former employer, Corsair Financial. Access to the Vogler family
might be a long shot, but Crystal’s tale raises huge questions. Am I cynical, or is the story of the kid plucked from poverty
simply too good to be true? Kidnap or rescue, Steven’s story demands a closer look, especially since he worked for the family
that “saved” his life before his murder. I pick up the phone. “Two computers that have been found in the late Steven Damelin’s
apartment may in fact belong to Corsair Financial,” I say minutes later to a creamy-voiced Ms. Kline in Human Relations. Technically
this is true.

She replies that Corsair Financial believes it has all of the late Mr. Damelin’s computer records. She hastens to assure me
the firm is cooperating fully with the investigation.

As am I, I say. Here goes the lie. “But as Steven Damelin’s landlady, I’m nervous because the laptop and desktop computers
I just discovered in his apartment were overlooked by the police. Also some disks.”

Ms. Kline answers in a tone of forced neutrality that Corsair’s internal systems are state-of-the-art. Do I detect an undercurrent
of alarm? Push it, Reggie.

“Maybe I’m not being clear, Ms. Kline. You see, Steven Damelin’s apartment contains computers that the police missed in their
search. My first impulse was to contact the detectives, but as an investor, I’m mindful of business priorities. I thought
to myself, a firm’s business data is crucial. So I decided first to contact Corsair Financial.”

Pause a moment to let this lie sink in. “Ms. Kline, I hope you understand the position this puts me in. If Corsair isn’t interested,
then, of course, I’ll notify the police without delay. However, if Corsair is interested in retrieval of the equipment, I’ll
need to speak with a high-ranking executive as soon as possible. I believe that would be Mr. Vogler.”

She burbles about Mr. Vogler traveling and unavailable. I reply that my deadline is the close of the business day tomorrow.
End of call. The timer is set. Cross my fingers.

I then put my one snapshot and tissue paper tracing of the bloody door markings on the kitchen table beside the English-Chinese
dictionary, which is opened to the page with the character for pineapple.

The comparison ought to be simple: do they match—yes or no? Close-up, however, the images look alike, then different, then
alike. They’re like piles of tiny matchsticks. If you think it’s simple, try it.

I flip back to the word “murder” just to see. But actually “pineapple” looks rather like “murder.” In fact, of the twenty
characters denoting murder, at least four look to me quite like “pineapple.” Could Hugh Lee be telling the truth that my door
marks are meaningless? Or is the bottom line this: Hugh Lee reads Chinese. To Reggie Cutter, it could pass for cuneiform.

It’s 1:45 p.m. when I get the Lava lamp from the basement and hit the Jamaicaway, goaded by the caustic voice of Matt Kitchel
of the Apollo Club.

No, I won’t directly confront the volatile Luis Diaz. Mainly this is afternoon surveillance. The lamp, however, might be useful.
I tuck the Spanish phrase book in my purse like a passport.

I’ll need it. Mozart Street, the address Rev. Gail Welch gave me, rings with the language I skipped in school. There’s a Baptist
church, a basketball court, tot lot, and spray fountain closed for the winter though teeming with squealing kids. A travel
agency sign reads “Viaje a Santo Domingo con Sierra Travel.” Luis’s block features duplexes and triple-deckers, all apartments.
Nobody in his building goes in or out. In the car, I sit and wait. Mozart Street feels sleepy. Siesta time? The Lava lamp
is in the trunk.

“Hola. Me presento: me llamo Señorita Reggie Cutter.” This is my phonetic opening to a woman in flamingo pants, platforms,
and a stretchy V-neck wrap top with pink hibiscus. She’s somewhere in her thirties. Minutes ago, I got out of my car, went
to the front porch of the triple-decker, and called out, “Hola, hola.” She appeared at the doorway. Of the six mailboxes on
the porch, not one says “Diaz.” My phrase book is ready. “Estoy buscando Luis Díaz.” Thick with mascara, her dark eyes show
no sign of comprehension.

Or is it no sign of a willingness to talk to me, Ms. Gringa? I fan the phrase book pages. “¿Conocer Luis Díaz? She looks blank.
Could his name trigger the passivity of someone wanting to avoid trouble?

Flip to another page. “¿Sabe donde puedo encontrar Luis Díaz en el bloque de apartamentos?” She shrugs, shakes her head no.

“¿Habla inglés?”

“No.” A sloe-eyed no, but no it is.

Mumbling
gracias,
I retreat as two voices deep in the stairwells of the triple-decker erupt in call-and-response Spanish. I’m almost at my
car when down the sidewalk toward me come three Latino young men in black. Is Luis one of them? I step aside.

Another threesome comes up from behind, as if cued, muscles like ropes. One wears a wife-beater T-shirt in the forty-degree
weather. Behind dark glasses, they suck toothpicks and stare. One of them uses his cell phone. He’s bulkier than the other
two. Is he Luis?

Suppose they’re gang members. Crips, Bloods. Are all six closing in? There’s not a cop in sight. My car is just a half-block
down. Forward in a fast, hard walk along the curb, I pass a TV cable van, the technician nowhere in sight. I walk faster.
They do too. I clear the van just as one of them from behind taps my shoulder.

“Hey.”

Still no technician, but I’m almost to my VW.

“Hey.”

Tap again. If it’s robbery and assault, I’m about to be the gringa victim. Give up your purse, Reggie. Let them have it.

“Hey, lady, this is yours?”

He looms, a hulk holding a little book. A Spanish phrase book, it’s just like mine.

It
is
mine.

“You drop this, yes?”

I reach. “Yes. Yes, thank you.
Gracias
.” He grunts. Breathless, embarrassed, I clutch the book. Is this Luis? Tongue-tied, I can’t ask. The Spanish is hopeless,
and English a whiteout in my brain. Laughing, they wave me off. The moment is lost.

I
t’s after 2:00 p.m. Tuesday. It’s crunch time for “Ticked Off,” and I’m shuffling paragraphs when the phone rings, a familiar
creamy voice that asks, “Regina Cutter? This is Cindy Kline of Corsair Financial. Hold, please, for Mr. Leonard Vogler.”

The man himself. Bull’s-eye.

“Vogler here.”

The voice has the remote sound of a speakerphone in a large space, perhaps a hotel suite far from Boston. “Mr. Vogler, this
is Regina Cutter. Many thanks for the call, especially at this dreadful time.” I’m using my Junior League voice. “Mr. Vogler,
I only met Steven Damelin shortly before his death, but as his landlady, I’m disposing of property in his apartment. Some
of it may belong to Corsair Financial. I trust Ms. Kline mentioned my particular discovery of computers that the police somehow
overlooked.”

“Miss Cutter, we use SPARC workstations, which serve the financial services industry. A home computer could be donated to
charity. Perhaps a school. We can handle that. We’ll send someone immediately to take the equipment off your hands.”

“There are personal things too, Mr. Vogler, perhaps keepsakes for Steven’s coworkers. I could make a selection.”

“We have a good many personal effects, Ms. Cutter.”

One last try, though if I fail, a Corsair courier will come for the computers, and that will be that. So here goes. “Mr. Vogler,
if you have just one moment… I have spoken to Rev. Gail Welch of All Souls Church here in Boston’s South End. Steven
Damelin was involved in a mentoring program through the church, a program to help disadvantaged children. Such an important
program, really inspiring to us all. I’ve agreed to help Rev. Welch plan a memorial service. Though I barely knew Steven,
he was quite close to my late aunt, who knew him well.” Here goes the family pitch. “My aunt was devoted to Steven. He was
like a… a grandson to her.”

“And a son to me, Miss Cutter. A son and brother to the Vogler family.” The voice swells, Shakespearean. “We ourselves have
begun to discuss a memorial service.”

“I’d be so willing to help, in homage to my aunt’s affection for Steven. Perhaps to coordinate. The mentoring of young children,
what could be more important? Why, you yourself understand firsthand.”

A pause, then a snuffling. “Actually, Ms. Cutter—” He clears his throat. “Ms. Cutter, it’s possible my wife would be interested
in talking with you.”

Talk to the Voglers? Son Andrew too? In a Corsair Financial conference room, perfect.

“In fact, if she agrees, perhaps you’d be free to pay a call at my home. We live on the North Shore.”

The shore—here’s a water connection. Play this, Reggie.

“My wife is not well. She is confined to our home and might welcome the opportunity. Arrangements… well, my wife would
be grateful.”

“Mr. Vogler, whatever I can do to help. In any capacity whatsoever.” He promises to be in touch very soon, within a few days.
I agree to give a Corsair messenger the computers this very afternoon. A true CEO, he puts his assistant on to handle specifics.

Motorcycle school requires long sleeves, trousers, leather gloves, and boots. Stark has forced me into this. The school provides
the bikes gratis from local dealers. It’s Saturday, and I’m in denims and red cowboy boots, which Nicole scrounged from a
closet at StyleSmart. They’re a size too small, and my toes tingle, though circulation in my feet is the least of things.
My daughter has checked in to say that Tom Chou needs somebody else’s help to decipher the Chinese characters in the snapshot.
I don’t know why; neither does she. Devaney seemed bored by the log and water of my psychic vision. He refused comment on
Luis Diaz except to say that surveillance is a waiting game, that an afternoon stakeout is nothing. When I asked about the
credentials of Hugh Lee, he replied that Homicide sometimes hires a freelancer or borrows a federal agent. He wouldn’t specify
FBI or ATF or Homeland Security. I ran out of agency names.