Eliot Pattison - Beautiful Ghosts

Shan returned Yao’s stare. He had been gone from Beijing five years but nothing had changed about how the assignments of senior investigators were chosen. Yao wasn’t involved because of the theft but because of the political embarrassment.

“The Qian Long had a special attachment to Tibet,” Shan recalled. “Tibetan lamas were members of his court. The emperor probably had Tibetan art in his cottage,” he ventured.

“He did. It was not touched.”

“So you’re in Tibet because they stole a European painting,” Shan goaded.

“The Chairman was furious. He considered the theft a personal affront. He sent very specific instructions to my office.”

“And to Director Ming?” Shan asked.

“Ming offered the full resources of his institution. He has much experience with such things, was already involved in the restoration of the cottage and planning of the new hall. He pointed out that the people we are dealing with are no amateurs.” Yao directed a sour expression toward Shan. “You have no right to ask questions. You are here to help us with the Tibetans, nothing more.”

But Yao had not explained why he thought Tibetans were involved, or why he was in Lhadrung. Shan turned his gaze to the American. “And no doubt the FBI just has an interest in preserving art?”

“You are not here to interrogate us,” Yao growled.

Corbett let the inspector step ahead of them then turned to Shan. “There’s a new FBI office in the embassy in Beijing. Everyone’s looking for opportunities for U.S.-Chinese cooperation in law enforcement. Mostly it’s work on investigations of terrorists.”

“You’re stationed in Beijing?”

“Seattle. In the American northwest. When that fresco was stolen in Beijing there was also a theft in Seattle. At the same time. From a man named Dolan, one of the wealthiest citizens in a city of wealthy citizens. One of those computer billionaires.” He reached into his pocket and produced half a dozen small photographs, handing them to Shan. They were all of display cases containing Tibetan artifacts: exquisite, very old pieces, jeweled gaus, an ornate silver butter lamp, ceremonial masks, an elaborate costume, and several delicate deity statues. “Reported to be the best private collection of Tibetan art in the world. Took Dolan fifteen years to collect. Over fifty pieces, the whole collection, was stolen. Insurance value of over ten million.” The last photograph was an aerial shot of a sprawling brick building with multiple levels that wandered across a hillside, above what appeared to be the ocean. “Came in the night. Broke through a state-of-the-art security system. Left without a trace. No fingerprints. Video surveillance disrupted. All they left was a dead girl.”

Shan paused. “A girl was killed?”

Corbett looked ahead of them, as if making sure Yao was out of earshot. “Twenty-three years old. One of three part-time governesses, an art student hired because she could give the children art lessons.” The American’s face clouded, though Shan could not be sure if it was because of the dead girl or because of the darkness looming ahead of them.

“Look,” Corbett said, stopping, touching Shan’s arm. “You need to know the rules. Finding the artifacts, and the girl’s killer, that’s why I’m here. This is an American investigation. We’re doing it American style. You understand?”

“No,” Shan admitted.

“I don’t pick suspects according to political favorites. I don’t devise a theory and select facts to fit it. I build facts by relying on science and sense. I believe only in facts. The evidence is everything. I have no motive but justice, and no one has ever been too big to get in my way.”

“Part George Washington, part Sherlock Holmes.”

The words clearly startled Corbett. “Who the hell are you, Shan?”

“Someone who also wants justice,” he said somberly.

“Fine. I have never not solved a case,” Corbett added.

“How many times have you given that speech?” Shan asked as the American continued down the tunnel.

Corbett glanced in Yao’s direction. “Just once before,” he said with a slow grin.

Yao had brought a duffle bag stuffed with a dozen electric lanterns borrowed from the army. He lit one and laid it at the base of the stairs, then as they reached him opened the bag for the American and Shan each to take a lantern. They soon had the corridor lit with lanterns placed every ten feet. Yao stepped into the room where he had discovered Shan on their prior visit.

As Corbett began to follow, Shan turned to the American. “What did you mean the crimes happened at the same time?”

“It was the middle of the night in Seattle, midday in Beijing. I think the thieves walked out with their artwork in Beijing and Seattle at the same hour.”

“Surely a coincidence.”

Corbett shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

“But you haven’t explained why you came here. To Lhadrung.”

“We searched. God how we searched. Dolan, he was furious. A founder of one of the big software companies. Major political supporter of the president. Head of one of the biggest foundations in America. We had a forensic team there for days. No real clues at the scene. We checked the whereabouts of known art thieves. We put photos of the artifacts at every airport security checkpoint in America, posted them on the Internet. We began checking stores in the region that handled that sort of thing, showed them the photos, asked about anything unusual coming in. After a week of dead ends, most of the team moved on to fresher crimes and I got the file. Because I am the chief investigator for art theft west of the Mississippi.”

“But why Lhadrung?”

“There was only me and the two junior agents assigned to me, my boys. We digested every report, studied all the interview notes. We found that four different antique art stores within fifty miles of Seattle reported recent inquiries by young women asking about the value of Tibetan beads. Some fellow had met each of them at a bar, bought each drinks, charmed them with his exotic style, and gave each a rare old bead to bring them good luck. On two different nights.” Corbett pulled a familiar-looking bead from his pocket, an inch and a half long, half an inch wide, tapered at the ends. “I bought one.” It was agate, in shades of red and green, etched with white stripes.

“It’s called a dzi bead,” Shan explained, “they are thought by Tibetans to attract protector deities.” He looked up from the bead. “He was at the bars the night of the theft?”

Corbett nodded. “And the night before.”

“We located two of the women, because they had left their beads on consignment for sale. They had never met him before. Spent a couple hours talking and dancing. Innocent fun, they said. Exotic accent, one said. Kind of British but not exactly. He was thirty, maybe thirty-five. Black hair, moustache, deep blue eyes. They loved his eyes. He traveled a lot, he said, so he couldn’t give them a home address, but he took theirs, like he would be back again, said he was leaving for Asia. They had met him at two different bars. Between the bars was a big hotel. We checked their guest records against flights the day after the theft. Twenty-seven men traveling to Asia close enough to the description to check further, six who stayed at the hotel. Took almost a week to get copies of the six passport photos. The two women identified his photo in an instant, no question. British citizen. William Lodi. Flew Seattle to Beijing, then caught the next flight to Lhasa. We called our Beijing office, which asked for assistance from Public Security. Public Security reported that on his landing card he gave his address as a hotel in Beijing, even paid in advance for one night there, but the hotel never saw him. So Public Security did a broader search of records. They discovered he had flown on to Lhasa, that he had an export license for shipments from a craft shop in a little town no one ever heard of. A part owner of the shop, in fact.”