FaceOff (11 page)

The assistant gave her an exasperated look. “I
worked
with Mr. Wen, Wednesdays through Sundays, nine to five. Occasionally, I would come in off hours to help him prepare for meetings with
some of his more special clients. You know, the kind of people who want a three-thousand-year-old armoire as a signature piece in their foyer, and are willing to pay for it.”

“Got a list of said clients?”

“Yes.”

“And his calendar. We’ll want to see that.”

“I understand.”

“Was he meeting with someone last night?”

“Not that I knew of.”

“Would he tell you?”

“Most of the time. His projects were not secret. More and more, he would even ask for my help. He appreciated my computer skills.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Yesterday, five
PM
, when I locked up the store.”

“Where was he?”

“Back here, in his office. He generally stayed after the store was closed, catching up on paperwork, researching pieces. He didn’t have a family. This,” Judy gestured around the cramped office, “this was his life.”

“Was he working on anything special?” Phil asked from beside her.

“Not that he had mentioned.”

“Missing anything special?” He gestured to the crowded space.

For the first time, the girl hesitated. “I don’t . . . know.” All three Boston detectives studied her. “His office,” she said at last, “he kept it busy.”

D.D. raised a brow, considering that the understatement of the month.

“Mr. Wen always said he thought better when surrounded by the past. Most of the items in this room were things he’d collected
along the way, gifts from colleagues, clients, friends. And the books . . . he loved them. Called them his children. I used to beg him to let me at least dust, attempt to tidy up. But he would never let me. He liked things just this way, even the piles of paper covering his desk. The horizontal filing system, he called it. It never failed him.”

The girl’s voice faded out. She wasn’t looking at them, but staring at the desk intently. “It’s wrong,” she said flatly. “I can’t tell you how exactly. But it’s wrong.”

D.D. obediently turned her attention to the desk. She noted mounds of paper, a scatter of miscellaneous notebooks, a rounded wooden bowl filled with yet more office detritus, then beside it a heavily gilded female figurine whose curves were definitely more robust than D.D.’s own, not to mention multiple haphazard piles of obviously old and dusty books.

“I don’t see a computer,” she ventured at last.

“He worked by hand. Thought best that way. When he needed to look something up, he used the computer in the front of the store.”

D.D. went about this another way. “Was the store locked this morning?”

“Yes.”

“Security system?”

“No. We had been talking about one, but Mr. Wen always argued, what kind of thieves stole antique furniture? The truly valuable pieces here . . . they are large and heavy, as you can see.”

“But all the jade figurines—”

“His private collection. Not for sale.”

Phil picked up the thought. “But the door was locked. So whoever entered, Mr. Wen let him or her in.”

“I would assume.”

“Would he meet people in his office?” D.D. asked, gesturing to a space that was clearly standing room only.

“No,” the assistant filled in. “Generally, he met with them in the showroom. Sitting at one of the tables, that sort of thing. He believed in the power of history not just to survive, but to retain its usefulness. Don’t just buy an antique, he liked to say. Live with it.”

D.D.’s gaze zeroed in once more on the book still resting on Mr. Wen’s open hand. “Did he have books in the showroom?”

“No, his—”

“Personal collection. I get it. So, if he was meeting someone who was interested in a volume, per se—”

D.D. knelt back down, trying to get a better look at the leather-bound novel. The gilded titling was faded, hard to read. Then she realized it wasn’t even in English, but in a language she couldn’t recognize.

“The Buddha,” Judy suddenly gasped.

“What?”

“The Buddha. That’s what’s missing. Here, the left corner of Mr. Wen’s desk. He had a solid-jade Buddha. From the eighth-century Tang Dynasty. The Buddha always sat here. Mr. Wen got the piece just after his wife died. It was very special to him.”

“Size?” Phil already had his notebook out.

“Ummm, the Buddha himself eight inches tall. Very round, solid, the sitting Buddha, you know, with his round belly and laughing face. The statue was placed on a square wooden base with gold seams and inlaid abalone. A substantial piece.”

“Value?” D.D. asked.

“I’m not sure. I would need to do more research. But given that ounce for ounce, fine jade is currently more valuable than gold, a piece of that size . . . yes, it is valuable.”

D.D. pursed her lips, liking the idea of the theft gone awry for
their murder motive except, of course, for the number of remaining jade pieces that still littered the victim’s bookshelves.

“Why the Buddha statue?” she murmured out loud, more to herself than anyone.

Judy, the beautiful assistant, shook her head, clearly at a loss for an explanation.

“One piece. That’s all you think is gone?”

“I will keep looking, but for now, yes, that one piece.”

“So Buddha, something about Buddha.”

D.D. was still thinking, as Neil said, “Hello. Got something.”

He had lifted the book from Mr. Wen’s outstretched fingers. Now, they all watched as something fluttered to the floor. Obviously not old, but a recent addition to the office. Something worth clutching in a dead man’s hand?

“What is it?” D.D. asked.

“Business card.” Neil flipped it over. “From the Phoenix Foundation. For one Malachai Samuels.”

·  ·  ·

D.D. parked her rental car on New York’s Upper West Side, then turned her attention to the mansion across the street. She wasn’t a huge architecture buff but had lived in a historic city long enough to recognize the Queen Anne style of the villa, including the glass sunburst below the curved-top window. Personally, she liked the gargoyles peeking out from under the eaves.

Of course, she wasn’t here for the architecture. She was here about a murder. She made her way up the front walk, pausing long enough to inspect the bas-relief coat of arms that decorated the mansion’s front door. Took her a second, then she got it—the image was the mystical phoenix that granted the office its name.

Buzzz.

The front door finally opened, and D.D. entered the Phoenix Foundation.

She presented her credentials to the waiting receptionist. The front desk, D.D. noticed, was very old and most likely very valuable. It also held hints of Chinese design. The kind of desk John Wen might have imported into his shop and sold to a client, such as Malachai Samuels.

“Sergeant Detective D.D. Warren,” she introduced herself. “I’m here to see Dr. Samuels.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but I think he’ll see me.”

The young woman looked down at D.D.’s detective shields, then pursed her lips and made a phone call.

“If you’ll have a seat, the doctor is with a patient but he’ll be free in fifteen minutes.”

Fair enough. D. D. retreated to the camel-back sofa provided for visitors. She’d been warned this interview would not be easy. Dr. Samuels was not without some experience when it came to answering questions involving homicide.

For now, she occupied her time on her laptop, reading more of the articles she’d pulled about the esteemed therapist.

Malachai Samuels was a Jungian therapist who’d devoted his life to working with children with past-life issues. He and his aunt, who was the codirector of the foundation, had documented over three thousand children’s journeys and presented remarkable proof of the lives they’d discovered in their regressions. So fastidious was their research and methodology, they were actually accepted by the scientific community and often spoke at psychiatric conventions.

In the last seven years, however, Malachai had been named a
“person of interest” in several different criminal cases involving stolen artifacts, resulting in the deaths of at least four people. The reincarnationist had never been charged with any wrongdoing. But the FBI special crimes detective D.D. had contacted, Lucian Glass, was disturbed when he heard Malachai’s name was connected to yet another murder.

Glass still believed Malachai was complicit in several of the cases and that he should be in prison. “But we’ve never been able to find any actual evidence of his participation. I hope you do, Detective Warren. I hope you do.”

“Detective Warren?” A rich, mellifluous voice cut through her thoughts. D.D. looked up to find the man in question now standing directly before her.

“Dr. Malachai Samuels. How may I be of assistance?”

Samuels was wearing a well-cut navy suit, carefully knotted silk tie, and a crisp white shirt with a monogram on the right cuff. Everything about him, from his clothing to his manner of speaking, suggested a gentleman of an earlier time. Which already got D.D. to thinking. Was the good doctor merely collecting valuable old artifacts, or did he include himself among them?

“I’m here about an incident in Boston,” she said. “Could we talk someplace more private?”

“Of course, this way.”

He led her down a hallway lit by stained-glass sconces and lined with turn-of-the-century wallpaper. Silk would be her guess. With a faded floral pattern and hints of what was probably real gold.

“Would you like any coffee or tea? Perhaps bottled water?” he asked as he opened the door to what D.D. surmised was his personal office. In keeping with the theme of the rest of the place, the space was lined with old books and lushly appointed with a fine Persian rug, an antique desk, and a comfortable leather couch and
chairs. It faced an inner courtyard planted with trees and flowers, as befitting someone with a doctor’s fine sensibilities.

D.D. said she’d like some water, then took a seat, still cataloguing the plethora of antiques and works of art scattered about. A tingle of excitement shot up her spine when she noticed a Chinese jade horse on Samuels’s desk.

Malachai handed D.D. a crystal glass filled with ice water. He took a seat opposite her on the other side of the glass coffee table.

“Now, how can I help you?”

“We found your business card at the scene of a murder.”

“That’s terrible. Who was killed?”

“Mr. John Wen.”

Malachai’s face showed no emotion. In fact, he remained so unruffled that D.D. was instantly suspicious.

“Did you know him, Doctor?”

“I’m a therapist, Detective. Even if I did I couldn’t tell you. Everything that goes on in my office is confidential. Surely you understand that.”

“The man is dead, Dr. Samuels. His confidentiality is on the floor in a pool of blood.”

Malachai remained silent.

“Surely you understand that by not talking to me you are as good as admitting he was a patient.”

“If that’s the conclusion you want to draw, so be it. But I’m neither saying he was or wasn’t. I’m not at liberty to discuss your case with you.”

“Your business card was there when he died.”

“How unfortunate, then, for us both.”

D.D. frowned, feeling the first tinge of annoyance. Samuels was within his rights but it was going to make the case more complicated if she had to wait to get a court order.

“Last time you saw him alive?” she fished.

“Who said I ever saw him?”

Special Agent Lucian Glass had been right: Samuels was good.

D.D. went about it another way. “Hypothetically speaking, if you were a detective investigating the homicide of man who imported ancient Chinese artifacts, who would you question?”

Samuels merely arched a brow. Then, almost imperceptibly, he tilted his head in the direction of the decorative mirror hanging over his left shoulder.

A Freudian slip, D.D. thought, or just the incredible arrogance of a well-respected gentleman who may or may not have gotten away with murder?

“I am sorry, Detective,” Dr. Samuels informed her, “but I cannot assist you in this matter. Now, if you don’t mind, I have another patient waiting.”

He stood up, and she had no choice but to follow. Show over, meeting adjourned. D.D. had wasted an entire day, not to mention a decent portion of her department’s budget, on a trip to New York that had yielded her absolutely nothing.

“Nice horse,” she said, pointing at the jade piece as she rose to stand.

“Thank you.”

“Where’d you buy it?”

“I didn’t; like many objects in this building, I inherited it. I moved it into my office, however, because I find it particularly compelling. Do you know why people collect antiques, Detective Warren?”

Aha, finally a little conversation. “They like old things?”

“Perhaps. More accurately, they identify with old things.”

D.D. couldn’t help herself. She gazed around his clearly
nineteenth-century office. The good doctor didn’t appear offended, more like amused by her unspoken point.

“Mr. John Wen,” she tried one last time, “didn’t just collect antiques. By all accounts, he believed people should live with them. Such as you do.”

“Exactly.”

“What does that mean?”

“That means you’re spending too much time in the present, Detective Warren, given that you are investigating a man who was all about the past.”

Dr. Samuels granted her one last, knowing smile. Then graciously but firmly, he escorted her out the door.