Roz Fox - She Walks the Line

“Foo, hurry up.” Mei spotted him sniffing around the bottom of the oak barrel that held a mimosa tree she’d bought the first month after moving in.

Mei could hear her neighbors on the other side of the solid wood fence. The Shigiharas were an elderly Japanese couple who spent a good part of every day puttering in their backyard. Mei loved going over there just to see what wonderful new things they’d done. They had a waterfall, a pond filled with koi, and lush bonsai trees displayed to perfection amid a plethora of bright flowers. To add to her gardening acumen, Mrs. Shigihara was a fabulous cook. The old couple liked having a police officer and her dog living next door, and Mitzi Shigihara was forever bringing over lovely wok concoctions or melt-in-your-mouth tempura dishes for Mei to try. In turn, Mei watered their yard and kept an eye on their duplex whenever they flew east to visit their son. She had to be careful not to rave about or even mention the Shigiharas to her folks. Well, not to her mother, anyway. Aun, like many from mainland China, had never forgiven the Japanese invasion. So Mei’s neighbors were another contentious issue.

Mei thought her Japanese neighbors’ culture as rich and interesting as her own. But she had to remind herself that she lived in a different era from that of her mother. Her dad, because he was American-born and because he’d traveled extensively, had more tolerance.

Later, as Mei sat in traffic on her way to Cullen’s, she wondered once again what might possess a cosmopolitan man like her dad to virtually buy a bride steeped in the old ways. An arranged marriage—an exchange facilitated by a Dingzhou matchmaker—meant, to Mei’s belief, anyway, that Michael Ling had bought himself a bride.

Why she chose to brood over it today, she didn’t know. Unless it had to do with Cullen’s insistence that they kick off the morning’s investigation by visiting her father. What did Cullen hope to accomplish?

Did he know her father’s history? Michael Ling’s parents had met in Washington, D.C. Her grandfather taught Asian dialects to American interpreters, and his future wife, an American-born Chinese woman, had been in his class.

Mei knew little else except that they’d split their time between the U.S. and Hong Kong until they’d perished in a typhoon. Stephen remembered them vaguely, he said. Mei had no recollection at all. To her they were faces in an album. When their only son, her dad, was in his teens, they’d opened Ling Limited in Hong Kong, adding branches over the years, which her dad inherited on their deaths. They’d had one, much younger daughter. She and Michael remained close.

Mei’s Aunt Tam had married a military pilot from Houston. The childless couple maintained a residence in the city, but mostly traveled. Mei had never asked, but now she supposed it was her aunt’s interest in Houston that had prompted her grandfather to open a gallery here.

As a child, she hadn’t questioned why so few Asian students attended her school. In the last few years their number had grown exponentially. New Asian businesses were springing up along Bellaire Boulevard, Mei reflected as she identified herself through the speakerphone at the gate hiding Cullen Archer’s home.

Freda answered. This time, though, when Mei entered the house, the toys were gone, the floors gleamed and the housekeeper looked less harried.

“I’m here for an early meeting with Mr. Archer.”

Freda cast a glance up the stairs. “Mr. Cullen’s already in his office. Please talk softly for a while. Then I might get some housework done before the cyclones wake up. It’s not like them to sleep late when they’re visiting their dad.”

“The children are visiting their father?”

“Well, I suppose visiting is the wrong word. Cullen and Jana have joint custody. The twins live with her in Austin during the school year. They spend summers here, and some holidays—and any time their mother flies to Dallas or Kansas City for shopping, or otherwise goes globe-trotting.” The woman uttered a disgusted snort. Then, as if she realized she’d overstepped her bounds, she rearranged her features and hurried down the hall toward Cullen’s office, leaving Mei to follow.

Freda thrust open Cullen’s office door and announced Mei Lu. Just as on the previous day, she then made herself scarce.

“You’re prompt,” Cullen said. “I like that in an associate.”

Mei unbuttoned the single button on her jacket and sat in the same chair she’d occupied yesterday. His casual use of the word associate didn’t escape her. She sincerely doubted it held the same meaning for him as it did for her, and decided to test the waters now. “I see you have a photocopy machine.” She avoided looking directly at him as she kept her gaze on the notebook she flipped open. “Since we’ll be splitting tasks, wouldn’t it be wise if we started with the same facts?”

Raising her eyes a little at a time, Mei added, “I’m sure you see the logic of giving me all the evidence you have up to this point.”

She’d quite clearly caught Cullen off guard. He said nothing, then coughed, then rapidly clicked his ballpoint pen—a habit Mei had noticed whenever he seemed deep in thought. As if on cue, Freda breezed into the office bearing a tray filled with steaming dishes. A pot of tea. A small carafe of coffee. On the tray, as well, was a variety of breakfast items. Fluffy scrambled eggs. Buttered homemade breads. Sausage patties and crispy bacon. And an assortment of cold fruit. Freda set the large tray in the center of Cullen’s desk. From an apron pocket she produced silverware wrapped in blue linen napkins.

“Scoot your chair right on up here, dear,” she told Mei Lu. “Eat while it’s hot. The plates are still warm. You’ll find two under the meat platter.” Beaming into Mei’s surprised face, the housekeeper, who seemed to do everything at a dead run, turned and vanished.

Cullen passed one plate and a silver service to Mei. “Correct me if I guessed wrong. But I’m reasonably sure that you haven’t had breakfast.”

Mei attempted to hide a telltale expression.

Cullen had sharp eyes. “That’s what I figured. Last night after I got home from the morgue and told Freda what time to expect you, she pointed out that you wouldn’t have time for breakfast.” He shrugged. “I mistakenly assumed you lived with your parents. I have no idea why I thought that. Thirty-something women rarely live at home. Dig in.” He motioned toward the eggs with his fork.

Mei complied, but hadn’t managed to halt one eyebrow from spiking toward her hairline.

“What? You think it’s rude of me to bring up a lady’s age?” Cullen filched a piece of bacon off the meat platter, grinning as he bit into it.

“I’m only questioning how you know my age. And why.”

“For the record, I’m thirty-six.” Cullen saved his scowl for the small amount Mei put on her plate. “Interpol assembles dossiers on everyone involved in one of their cases.”

“So, I can request your dossier? I mean, if we’re going to work together and you have mine. Isn’t turnabout fair play?”

He paused to sample his coffee. “I’ll request one for you. How’s the tea? I’ve heard tea-drinkers are fussier than coffee slobs. As a rule, we’re happy with anything that’s not total sludge.”

Mei peered into the pot, poured tea into her cup, then tasted it while Cullen watched. “Lapsang,” she announced, pleased. Lapsang didn’t usually come from a bag.

“I’m glad you like it. After you left yesterday, and before the call from Homicide, I discovered we were out of tea. I stopped at the market on my way home. I have to admit their selection boggled my mind.”

“Thank you for your consideration, but there’s no need to feed me at our meetings. I’m quite used to hitting the ground running. We’re not here to socialize, but to lay out a plan for finding the people trafficking in stolen treasures. Or worse. Although the dead couriers are Homicide’s problem.”