Roz Fox - She Walks the Line

She shook her head, but her hand quivered pouring her water. “I’m not married,” she murmured, casting her eyes down as she dunked the infusion ball. The aroma of jasmine enveloped her, instantly settling her jumpy stomach. She managed to gain a firm grip on the cup’s handle.

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you by getting personal. I’m divorced with kids, and I’ve found that having children in common is often an icebreaker.” Cullen had seen the tinge of red creep up her neck. “I…uh, I’ve wasted enough of your time, not to mention taxpayer money. Shall we get straight to it?”

Mei nodded, replacing her cup without ever tasting the fragrant tea. She was afraid her unsteady hands would make her appear too flighty for a law officer. Normally, she wasn’t giddy around men, a fact her friends teased her about unmercifully. One by one, Mei had watched those same women fall in love. Risa, Lucy, Crista, and the latest, Abby, who’d twice given up her career to follow Thomas Riley. This time to North Carolina. The women had spoken over the weekend, Abby had sounded happy with her move, and Mei hoped she was.

Mei didn’t exactly envy Abby or the others. Rather, she was confused by the changes that had come over all her friends with the entry of lovers into their lives. Lately, she’d felt less connected to them. Mei tried, but she didn’t understand how the women all juggled love and their police careers. Because of that, she sometimes felt as if she stood outside their old circle, looking in.

Cullen regained Mei Lu’s wandering attention by pulling a manila file folder from his drawer and flipping it open. “I assume your chief briefed you.”

“Not really. She said you needed me to translate…something. Some document having to do with artifacts smuggled out of Beijing?”

Separating a glossy eight-by-ten photograph from papers in the file, Archer slid it silently across the desk.

Mei leaned forward to see better, and also to avoid a glare from the window. When a picture of a glazed earthenware warrior painted in exquisite detail came into focus, an involuntary gasp escaped her lips. “The Heavenly King,” she breathed, running a fingertip over the colorful statue. “Tang Dynasty, 709. Excavated in 1981 from the tomb of An Pu in Henan province.”

“Right on all counts.” Cullen was admittedly floored by the woman’s knowledge. “A member of the Houston Art Buyers’ Guild received this photo in the mail, accompanied by a typed memo—in English—asking if he might know of a buyer for the piece. The memo also said he’d be contacted within the week by a courier who would supposedly bring him the statue to authenticate. No courier came, so the dealer, suspicious anyway, sent the packet to Interpol. To an agent who, with my help, had recovered a stolen carving for him last year.”

“Then no one’s seen this statue?” Mei dropped the photo on the desk.

“No. But a second, smaller print turned up, along with this note, in a belly band worn by a man dressed in old-style Chinese garb. His body’s gone unclaimed in the morgue. Interpol was combing U.S. newspapers and chanced on a small article from Houston. It described how police, stopping to investigate a disturbance in the parking lot of an Asian nightclub, scattered a group of men. Someone in that group apparently shot our guy. I’ve viewed the body and the evidence. I think he’s probably the courier.”

“May I see the note? I assume it’s what needs translating?”

Cullen hesitated, although he wasn’t sure why. “I spent time in Guangzhou last year, tracking a forged silk tapestry. I had to work from police notes jotted in Chinese. I’m moderately familiar with what’s called grass Chinese. Very informal scribbling. Shorthand, if you will. This appears to be a formal letter, Lieutenant Lu.”

Mei’s head shot up. “Lieutenant Ling. Lu is my middle name. My surname is Ling.”

Cullen held tight to the letter. “You wouldn’t be related to Michael?” Even as he asked, Cullen wanted her to deny the connection. But then, he hadn’t expected a police translator to be so familiar with Chinese art.

Mei deliberately took her first sip of tea. “Michael Ling is my father,” she said eventually. “Stephen, my brother, also works in the family business. For a time, I headed our Hong Kong office.” Setting her cup back in its saucer, she pried the note out from under Archer’s hand.

He wanted to snatch the page back, but realized too late that she’d begun to explain what the note said. And he needed to focus on her soft voice.

“It’s a simple introduction of the bearer, named Wang Xi, to an unnamed cousin of the person who wrote this. The cousin is being asked to see to Wang Xi’s comfort during his brief stay in Houston. He’s asked to…to…help Wang Xi knock on the right doors. Complying will remove one debt from the cousin’s book.” Chewing her lower lip, Mei sat back to mull over what she’d read.

Across the desk, Cullen steepled his fingers. “What book?” he asked abruptly.

Mei shrugged. Even if she’d been inclined to fill Cullen Archer in about the book the writer referred to, she doubted he’d understand. Such books weren’t real, but figurative. In traditional and extended Asian families—including aunts, uncles, cousins and dear friends—it wasn’t uncommon for heads of households to keep unwritten lists of debts, which weren’t always paid monetarily. Favors often sufficed as payment. But that was difficult to explain to non-Chinese.

“Who do you think has the Heavenly King now?” she asked. “Are you quite sure your art-dealer friend didn’t end up with the statue?”

“Why would he notify Interpol?” Cullen asked curtly.

“To make himself appear innocent? To turn questions elsewhere after the courier—if that’s who Wang Xi was—ended up dead in a parking lot.”

“That might fly, except that a month ago, after undergoing a quadruple heart bypass, this particular dealer liquidated his business.”

Mei picked up her cup and, while she and Cullen Archer studied each other across his broad desk, drained it.

Archer drummed his fingers on the folder of notes pertaining to the case. “Why Houston? Why not San Francisco or New York City, which certainly have far greater numbers of serious Asian art collectors.”

“I’m afraid I have no theory about that, Mr. Archer.” He’d begun probing her once she’d revealed her connection to Ling Limited, and she didn’t like it one bit. Her father’s behavior was always ethical, business or life. In fact, Michael Ling was honest to a fault. Mei Lu had seen him draw up a check for fifty cents for a mail-order customer who’d miscalculated the state tax.

She kept her eyes trained on tea leaves that had filtered from the ball to settle in the bottom of her cup. Her mother made a practice of reading the leaves.

Just when Mei was sure the man who faced her with a scowl would finally tell her what was on his mind, his twins burst into the room. They were freshly scrubbed and now dressed in shorts and bright colored T-shirts. Belinda wore pink, her shining curls swept up into a ponytail held in place by a pink flowered scrunchie. Bobby’s clothes were more sedate—dark-brown shorts and a plain olive shirt. Both children wore sandals. Each dashed shy glances at Mei Lu even as they pounced on their father.

“Freda says come to lunch. She sent us to ask if the lady police person is going to eat with us.” Bobby’s voice rose above his sister’s. It was he, not Belinda, who turned to Mei, demanding bluntly, “If you’re a cop, where’s your uniform and badge? And where’s your cop car?”

Mei smiled. “I used to wear a uniform, Bobby. I drove a patrol car, too. Now I work in a different department. I’m sorry if you’re disappointed.”