FaceOff (12 page)

AFTER THE BOSTON DETECTIVE DEPARTED,
Malachai returned to his office where he poured himself an inch of forty-year-old Macallan. Lifting the heavy crystal tumbler he took a sip. Savored it. Then, drink in hand, he sat down heavily in the chair at his desk. Opening his top drawer he withdrew his Symthson notebook.

This was a private journal that he kept to record his musings on “The Search,” as he had been referring to it for the last thirty-five years, ever since he’d opened a nineteenth-century book on mesmerism that he’d come across in the library and a scrap of old, yellowed paper had fallen out. The handwriting had been spidery and appeared to have been written with a pen dipped in ink, which, along with what it said, helped Malachai date the note to the mid-to-late 1800s.

Meeting with Mr. T at two
PM
regarding place to secure the papers. Wednesday, at his establishment, 259 Broadway.

According to family legend, Malachai’s ancestor, Davenport Talmage, had been in possession of papers that detailed all the amulets, ornaments, and stones that made up the lost cache of Memory Tools. Smuggled out of India and brought into Egypt before 1500
BC,
these items were said to be able to stimulate past-life memories.

Had Davenport written the note? Did it refer to the list of lost tools?

Without too much trouble, by matching the handwriting to letters in the archives, Malachai had been able to ascertain the note had been written by Davenport Talmage, one of the original founders of the Phoenix Club. Knowing who’d written it had enabled Malachai to further narrow the note’s provenance to sometime between 1884 and 1901. No earlier than 1884 as that was when Davenport had inherited his brother’s estate and taken over running the club. And no later than 1901 as that had been the year Davenport had died.

The address, 259 Broadway, was where the jewelry, stationery, and design firm of Tiffany & Company had been located during that era.

Was “Mr. T” Tiffany himself? Probably. Davenport had been immensely wealthy. What objet d’art had Tiffany made at Davenport’s request in order to hide the papers? Had the item been sold? Or did it still exist here in the mansion, where nearly every room boasted numerous Tiffany lamps and windows? Not to mention all the mansion’s fireplaces, which were fronted with iridescent tiles fashioned by the famous glassmaker and jeweler. Meaning the papers could very well be hidden in plain sight. An aggravating idea, that they could be so close and yet remain invisible to him.

Now Malachai turned the pages to his notes from the last few weeks. The section where he’d recorded his sessions with Mr. John Wen.

There had been eight sessions in all. Each one going over and over the same territory. An antiques dealer, Wen had come to Malachai for help in understanding why he was drawn to certain objects and places. He was haunted by them. Obsessed. For years he’d been trying to get clarity on the feelings that gripped him upon seeing certain items. Twice he’d almost gone bankrupt buying up estates that were not worth what he paid, just to ensure that he could get a certain piece. Desperate, he’d finally allowed for the possibility that past-life memories were driving him. In searching for someone to help him, he’d heard about Dr. Samuels and claimed that somehow he felt the same way about coming here that he did about the antiques. He just knew the Phoenix Foundation was the place he’d find help.

But what Wen didn’t know, at least not consciously, but that he’d revealed to Malachai under hypnosis, was that in the past—over a hundred and thirty years ago—he’d been one of the Talmage brothers who’d founded this very institution.

And if he was the incarnation of Davenport or Trevor, then maybe, Malachai had theorized, Wen could lead him to the fabled papers.

To anyone else it would have been a story to scoff at. But Malachai had worked with thousands of children whose past-life memories he and his aunt had verified. Malachai had seen his patients make connections that defied logic and what others called reason. Malachai had never had a past-life memory of his own. No amount of hypnosis or meditation worked for him. But he’d seen his patients cured of their fears, phobias, and neuroses once they were able to identify them and understand they belonged to previous incarnations. He’d witnessed the healing power of regained memories. The astounding relief his patients felt once freed from their karmic nightmares.

All Malachai wanted was to know his own past lives. But to do that he needed a functioning Memory Tool, and in order to find one of the few fabled tools he needed to know which item he was searching for. Davenport’s papers would be his map, a complete list of all the known Memory Tools. And he’d thought that perhaps John Wen, a Chinese art and antiques dealer from Boston, had possessed the clue to finally unearthing Davenport’s long-lost papers.

Which meant John Wen’s murder wasn’t just a shame.

It was downright inconvenient.

DR. MALACHAI SAMUELS HAD BESTED
her.

There was no way around it.

In the three days following her day trip to New York, back in Boston, D.D. had turned the conversation around and around in her mind. She shared the discussion—or rather, the lack of it—with her squadmates Phil and Neil. She even called and reported her lack of interviewing prowess to Special Agent Lucian Glass.

She’d gone up against a person of interest in four potential murders, and she’d gleaned . . . nothing. Not a single shred of information or insinuation. Just the rather prosaic observation that antiques dealers identified with the past. Which clearly explained her current need for dim sum. When dealing with an extremely troubling murder in Chinatown, dim sum was the way to go.

But if John Wen imported antiques because he identified with the past, what did his killer care about? All of those priceless items in the shop, and the murderer had taken just one thing: a jade Buddha.

Why that?

D.D. spotted the proprietor of the popular restaurant waiting patiently next to the door. An older Asian gentleman in an impeccably
cut suit, he’d already greeted most of his customers by name. It occurred to her he might be able to help her out.

She raised a hand to catch his attention, and he promptly walked over.

“Excuse me,” she said, “could you tell me where the closest Buddhist temple is in Chinatown?”

“There are several, Detective. Which one are you looking for?”

“How’d you know I was a detective?”

“You are investigating the murder of John Wen. We all know.”

“Did you know Mr. Wen?”

“Yes, a very fine man. He helped me find the four silk screens hanging in the banquet room. In fact, if you are interested in Buddhist temples, may I suggest you consult Mr. Wen’s assistant, Miss Chan?”

D.D. regarded him blankly. “Why Judy Chan?”

The proprietor’s turn to appear flustered. “Because of her pendant, of course. The small jade Buddha she always wears around her neck. A symbol of her own religious calling, I would assume.”

D.D. thanked the man for his time. Then she paid her bill and got on the phone to her partner Phil. Because they’d interviewed Judy several times and on none of those occasions was Mr. Wen’s beautiful assistant wearing a jade Buddha pendant.

Which made her wonder what else Judy Chan had to hide.

·  ·  ·

According to Phil, Judy Chan’s home address was a fourth-floor walk-up just around the corner from the restaurant in Chinatown. D.D. found the brick building easily enough. Unfortunately, no one answered Judy’s buzzer. A quick ring of the second-floor unit, however, earned her an elderly Chinese woman in a pink floral housecoat.

D.D. flashed her shield, providing a quick impression of official public servant.

“Fire department,” D.D. announced. One of the first things she’d learned in community policing: most inner-city populations didn’t trust cops. Firemen, on the other hand, who could save their homes and businesses from burning down, were treated with respect.

The old woman studied her critically.

“I need to conduct a test of the fire escapes. Just making sure everything is in working order.”

A frown. Growing uncertainty. The older woman’s natural suspicion of such an odd request warring with her desire to feel her apartment building was fire safe.

D.D. pressed ahead. “Just need quick access so I can take a walk up and a walk down. I’ll be in and out in five minutes, and your building will be cleared for another five years. Otherwise, I gotta bring the fire marshal down, maybe a whole inspection crew . . .”

The promise—threat?—of more city officials got the job done. The aging tenant gestured for D.D. to follow her into her apartment, and three minutes later, D.D. was climbing up the fire escape to Judy’s fourth-floor unit.

She didn’t have probable cause to enter the unit, of course. Just a growing suspicion that Judy Chan hadn’t been fully forthcoming. But a quick glimpse of the woman’s living space wouldn’t hurt. And if D.D. happened to spy something such as an eight-inch-tall stolen jade Buddha statue or even better, a smoking gun, then voila, D.D. would be within her rights to access the woman’s apartment and maybe even close a murder case.

With a bit of effort, D.D. heaved herself onto the fourth-floor platform, staggering to her feet. Her hands hurt from gripping the
rusty metal fire escape, not to mention her heart was pounding painfully in her chest.

Then she looked up.

“Holy crap!”

Buddhas. Everywhere. Judy Chan’s fourth-floor unit was covered in images of the Laughing Buddha. Buddha paintings, Buddha statues, Buddha-embroidered pillows, even tiny gold and jade and silver Buddha figurines. Everywhere D.D. looked, for as far as the eye could see, was yet another image of the Buddha.

Then, as she stood there still openmouthed, the front door of Chan’s apartment opened. John Wen’s former assistant entered her home.

Accompanied by Dr. Malachai Samuels.

MALACHAI FELT GOOD ABOUT HIS
day.

Indeed, after learning that Mr. John Wen had been killed, taking with him any clues the man might have possessed regarding the location of the legendary list of lost Memory Tools, Malachai had been forced to reconsider his strategy.

The police, including that blond Boston detective D.D. Warren, would be watching him, which ruled out any overt acts, such as searching Wen’s antiquities shop or personal residence. Then it had occurred to Malachai that he didn’t need to engage in such base acts, when a simple gesture of courtesy would suffice.

He had called Wen’s assistant, a beautiful woman he’d met once when she’d accompanied Wen to the Phoenix Foundation in New York, and extended his deepest condolences. If there was anything he could do to help Miss Chan during this time of sadness, he was available. In fact, he’d be in Boston by the end of the week.
Perhaps they could meet for a cup of tea, share reminiscences of a man they had both respected and admired.

Malachai’s father had long ago taught him the value of a well-cut suit, impeccable social standing, and a cultured voice. Miss Judy Chan had agreed nearly immediately. The morning tea progressed to a casual stroll around Boston’s Chinatown—an amazing cultural center, third largest in the country—and then, finally, to Malachai’s delicate request to visit Wen’s store one last time.

Miss Chan had been happy to comply. If they could simply stop by her apartment first, in order to retrieve the key . . .

Malachai had followed her up the four flights of stairs without complaining despite the discomfort in his leg. An incident in Vienna years before had left a permanent disability that he did his best to ignore. Standing beside her, he waited as the young woman opened the door to her residence. And then he received his first shock of the day. Buddhas. Figurines, carvings, paintings, embroideries, silk washings. Images of a kind, benevolent Buddha everywhere one looked.

Miss Chan, her tailored knee-length camel-colored coat still buttoned to her chin, paused, glanced at him self-consciously.

“I am a collector,” she said.

“Indeed.” Malachai raised his hands to assist the lady with her coat. Suddenly, he was not in a hurry to continue on to Wen’s shop. The truth, he realized, the key to the secret he had sought for so long, was here. One modern-day woman’s obsession. A trained therapist’s insight into a reincarnated soul.