Ghost Hero (3 page)

“It involves sitting still,” Bill said, in explanation.

“Sad but true. So now instead of selling art, I corral it. Chase down the lost, stolen, or strayed. Bodyguard a vase on its way someplace. Check a bronze’s provenance. Make sure the dish that comes back from the restorer is the same one that was sent to be restored. Much more fun, and it keeps me out of trouble. And out of galleries. Still, galleries have their uses. That’s where I met your partner. At a Soho opening, last fall.”

I said to Bill, “You hate openings.”

“The gallery owner was a friend of mine. He’s helped me out over the years. I had to go.”

“And he’s a client of mine,” Jack said. “So, so did I.”

I looked from one to the other. “And you guys bonded over white wine, Chex Mix, and art?”

“For that show,” Jack said, “‘art’ is too strong a word. Installations made from rusty tools and broken dolls. Pretentious, ugly, and lethal.”

“See,” said Bill, “there’s that Chinese problem you have, where you won’t speak your mind. Same as Lydia.”

I knew he was expecting me to roll my eyes, so I just sat politely, listening to Jack.

“Pretty much everyone seemed to be impressed, though,” Jack said. “A lot of nodding and murmuring. ‘The juxtaposition is thrillingly unnerving.’ ‘He brings out the feminine side of steel.’ I was checking my watch to see if I could leave yet when I spotted a guy having as hard a time as I was keeping a straight face.”

“Not my fault,” Bill protested. “There was a critic waving his hands, going on about a piece made from doll heads and buzz-saw blades. Then he cut his thumb on it.”

“It was the start of a beautiful friendship. Cemented in the bar next door.”

“Though I warn you,” Bill said, “Jack drinks martinis.”

“Does that disqualify me from something?”

“Not by itself,” I said.

“So.” Jack crossed one long leg over the other. “Now that you have my CV, do you know why Bill brought you here? Besides the Chinese trade secret thing? Because if we get into that, of course we’ll have to throw him out.”

“Of course. Let’s save that for later, in case we need it. Tell me, is contemporary Chinese art on your CV?”

Jack glanced at Bill, then back to me. “Up to a point.”

“Ghost Hero Chau. Is he before or after that point?”

“Ghost Hero Chau.” Jack steepled his fingers in front of his chin. “He’s your case?”

“His paintings. Or, some new paintings that are supposed to be his.”

“Re-eally?” Jack drew the word out, giving me an odd look.

“I know, he’s dead. But that’s what my client says. New paintings.”

“Who’s your client? Okay, never mind,” he said in answer to my you-know-better smile. “But is he Chinese?”

“No. WASP, even more midwestern suburban than you are.”

“Ouch,” said Bill.

“But that’s why he came to me. He searched online for a Chinese investigator. He thinks it’ll help.”

“Hmm. Hmm, hmm hmm, hmm hmm,” Jack said. “What’s his angle? He’s been offered them and he wants you to prove the pedigree before he buys?”

“No. He hasn’t even seen them. He wants me to find them.”

“Re-eally.” Again, he drew the word out like taffy. “Why?”

“The thrill of the hunt. And, he’s the new kid in town and wants to make his collecting bones by getting his hands on them.” To the look on Jack’s face, I said, “No, we don’t buy it either. We think he just wants to corner the market and flip them during Asian Art Week. Obviously, he’s gambling they’re real, or the market’s not worth cornering.”

“And you came to me for what? Background?”

“Yes,” said Bill. “And Chinese trade secrets.”

“Which
you’ll
never hear, Kemosabe,” Jack retorted. I snickered as Jack looked from Bill to me. “Ghost Hero Chau. Do you guys know much about him? Why they call him that?”

“He was involved in the Tiananmen Square protests in 1989,” I said. “He was a big deal professor, but he stood with the students. He died when the army came in. After he died, according to my client, he was a ghost, but a hero.”

“That’s how he put it?”

“It’s wrong?”

“It’s incomplete. For months after Tiananmen, there were rumors Chau was still alive.”

I gave Bill a quick look. “Oh. So if the rumors are true, the paintings could actually be his.”

“It’s unlikely, though.” Jack rearranged himself again, throwing one leg over a chair arm. “The PRC government admits to two hundred and forty-one people dying by the time Tiananmen was over. Rioters and hooligans, every one of them, threats to the public order and enemies of the revolution. But about a thousand more were never heard from again. The government says they were more rioters and hooligans and they ran away. Their families say they were killed, but no one’s been able to prove it. Those people are the ‘ghosts.’ But Chau was one of the two hundred and forty-one. He’s on the official list, his body was identified, he’s buried in his hometown.”

“Then where did the rumors come from?”

“People claiming they’d seen him. In different parts of the country, over the next few months. Rumors were flying everywhere that summer. They had a news blackout; no one knew what was going on. For anyone looking for a symbol to rally around, Chau would’ve been perfect. The rumors were probably started by underground student leaders trying to keep the movement going. Eventually, though, they died out.”

“Were there paintings?” Bill asked.

Jack’s thin face had been wearing a brooding look, but now he broke into a grin. “Smith, two points! No. That’s one of the things that finally convinced people it wasn’t true. If Chau had been alive, he could’ve signaled that and rallied people by making new paintings. Even under another name, his work’s that distinctive. But there weren’t any.”

“Okay,” said Bill. “Now I have another question. How come you’re a walking encyclopedia about Tiananmen Square? Which happened when you were eight?”

“Nine.” Jack considered him. “If I told you we studied Tiananmen at art school because the Beijing art school was in a leadership role in the movement, would you believe me?”

Bill shook his head solemnly. Jack turned to me.

“I would have,” I said. “Except I never believe anybody who asks if I’d believe him if.”

Jack regarded me another moment, then ejected himself from his chair. He strode the length of the room, turned, covered the distance again. He stopped with his back to us and stared at the full moon glowing from the only thing hanging on the wall, a Japanese woodblock print. “Okay.” He spun around. “Weighing the demands of client confidentiality against the possibility of actually solving the client’s case, and against the
im
possibility of maintaining confidentiality when I bump into you guys every ten minutes in the course of this investigation, here’s the answer: I know all that because my client told me.”

“Client? What client?”

He grinned and folded his arms. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. I have the same case.”

3

For the rest of our discussion we repaired to the café on the next block because Bill and Jack both thought the situation called for caffeine. Bill also wanted a smoke. I, of course, was completely self-sufficient and needed nothing, but I went along for the ride. Jack ordered and waited at the counter while Bill and I colonized a table. “The truth,” I said, as I unwound my scarf. “Did you have any idea?”

“That Jack had a similar case?”

“The same case, he says.”

“No. And I’m not sure I like it.”

“Why? You have a problem with him you’re not telling me about?”

“Absolutely not. Jack’s a wild man, but he’s stand-up. He’s also really good at what he does.”

“Then why have you been holding out on me?”

“Holding out what?”

“Him.”

“It’s my job to make sure you know every Chinese person in New York?”

“Oh, forget it. What is it you’re not sure you like?”

“Two people with enough sudden interest in the same set of facts—no, rumors—to hire investigators.”

“Maybe his client’s interest isn’t sudden.”

“Or maybe it’s not two clients. Maybe it’s the same client, hedging his bets.”

I’d thought of that, too. “That would be a weird vote of no confidence. In both investigators.”

Jack came back to us, spread mugs around, and plopped onto a chair. “Okay,” he said. “Cards on the table?”

“What do you mean? Share information? You’re suggesting we work the cases together?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think we can go that far. This is the race to the pole! Scott and Amundsen. Mush! You guys can be Scott.”

“Who won?”

“Amundsen.”

“Not only that,” Bill said, “Scott died on the way back.”

I said, “I thought you liked this guy.”

“I thought I did.”

“No, listen.” Jack tested his two-shot macchiato. “There’s an obvious conflict if we work together. Whose client gets the gold from the mummy’s tomb when we find it?”

“Let me point out that, personally,” I said, “I haven’t been hired to deliver the mummy’s gold. Just to locate it.”

“Ooh, Talmudic,” Jack said with admiration. “But I still see a conflict. I mean, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I admitted.

“But what I said before is true—we’d be running into each other anyway. It would get embarrassing after a while. And if I blow you off, tell you I never heard of Ghost Hero Chau, who you gonna call?”

“Ghost Hero Busters?”

“My client. The minute you scratch the Chinese contemporary art surface, you’ll find him. He’s the go-to guy. Bernard Yang, at NYU.”

“Oh. I think his name came up when I Googled.”

“Told you. You’d show up in his office looking for background on Ghost Hero Chau. Next thing, he has a cow and calls me. Then I have to say I have no idea who you are but I’ll check it out, which is a lie and makes me look a step behind besides. Or I have to tell him I know all about you but no worries, which makes my judgment in not warning him suspect. Or, I do warn him, and tell him to pretend he’s out of town when you call. Then I have to pretend to you I didn’t do that, and—man, you guys are putting me in a bad position. Some friends you are.”

“We’ll make it up to you,” Bill said. “When this is all over I’ll buy you a drink.”

“Not good enough.”

“
I’ll
buy you a drink,” I said.

Jack brightened. “Now you’re talking.”

“Well,” I said to Bill. “At least they’re different clients.”

Jack said, “That’s why I asked before if yours was Chinese.”

“Is Yang Chinese-Chinese, or ABC?”

“Chinese-Chinese. From the mainland, here about twenty years.”

“From the mainland, Bernard?”

“No, Ji-tong, but he’s an American now. Hey, is your name Lydia?”

“No,” I admitted. “Chin Ling Wan-ju.”

“Ling Wan-ju? ‘Sparkling doll?’”

“More like the buzz-saw blades,” Bill put in.

Jack stuck out his hand to me. “Lee Yat-sen.”

We shook hands a second time. Maybe it was from his coffee mug, but now his grip seemed not just strong, but warm. “Named after Sun Yat-sen?”

“My mother’s a great admirer. What about you?” Jack asked Bill.

“Charlie Chan Smith. Your Professor Yang, what’s his interest?”

“Moral outrage.” Jack leaned forward, bony elbows sticking out. “Yang also taught at the Beijing Art Institute, back in the day. He wasn’t involved in the democracy movement—cautious kind of guy—but of course he knew Chau. They were friends, and he admired Chau’s work. He thinks these new paintings are fakes and all the mystery’s just a way to build them up.”

“For what purpose?”

“For some forger and some dealer to make a lot of money.”

“And that makes him so indignant he’s willing to pay an investigator to expose them? Before they’re even on the market?”

“They may never come on the market. Lots of art is traded privately. Yang says Chau died for his beliefs and he shouldn’t be resurrected to fill someone’s pockets.”

“So Yang’s doing what, salving his conscience for not marching shoulder to shoulder with Chau back then?” Bill asked. “He doesn’t have a horse in the race?”

“That’s the implication.”

“Okay.” I looked up from my spice tea. “The reason my client gave for hiring me sounded fishy and I told you what we think his real one is. Yours sounds fishy, too.”

Jack nodded. “It does.”

“And?”

“My completely theoretical, backed-up-by-nothing hypothesis?”

“You have another one?”

“No.”

“Then that one.”

“I think he’s got a closetful of Chaus from the Art Institute days. They’d lose value if there’s been a miracle, the guy’s alive, these new ones turn out to be real and more keep coming.”

I thought about that. “Is he a collector?”

“No. He has some nice pieces in his office, probably a few more at home. But he’s an academic. He advises collectors, but he can’t afford to collect in a major way. What that means, though, is that if he does have a stash of Chaus, they’re probably his whole retirement fund.”

“So if these new ones are frauds, he’ll want to expose them. If they’re real, he’ll want to know fast, so he can unload what he has.”

Bill said, “Then why not say that? Protecting his investment by exposing frauds wouldn’t be illegal, or even immoral. He might even be doing someone else a favor. Like Lydia’s client.”

“Who is who, by the way?” Jack asked. “I did show you mine.”

I raised an eyebrow but played it straight. “Jeff Dunbar. Freelance rich guy. Sez him.”

“You don’t think so?”

“He’s invisible in the databases. His cell phone’s a prepaid. And he doesn’t look all that rich.”

“Hmm. So what’s up?”

“I think being found sniffing out these paintings would get him in trouble with someone, and he doesn’t trust his PI’s discretion.”

“I hate that in a client. And I have another question. Don’t take this wrong, because I know you’re kick-ass and all. But why didn’t he come to me?”

“Nice guy, your friend,” I said to Bill. “Too bad he’s so insecure.”

“You say he chose you because you’re Chinese. I’m Chinese
and
I specialize in art—Chinese art, even. Any collector in this area looking for a PI, my name would pop up like the answer in a Magic 8-Ball.”