David ed. - Face Off (2014) Anthology

She requested uniformed officers, division detectives, and her squadmates and she wanted them now.

She buzzed the second-story apartment again, frantically seeking entrance. This time, the elderly woman didn’t come down, but stuck her graying head out the window above.

D.D. didn’t bother with pretenses anymore. “I’m a cop, and the tenant on the fourth floor is in trouble. Open up! Quick!”

The woman appeared to consider the matter. Then slowly, but surely, the front door opened and D.D. sprang ahead.

Four flights of stairs. Minute this case was done, she was booking more time with the StairMaster. But for now, around, around, around.

She burst onto the fourth-floor landing just in time to hear a gunshot. Crap. She threw herself at the door, and it flew open, apparently unlocked.

Her own firearm drawn, she dropped to the floor and scrambled into the unit, gaze already seeking an injured, possibly even murdered, Judy Chan.

Instead, she discovered the woman in question standing quietly before her, smoke still pouring from some ancient-looking derringer.

“He lied. He would’ve kept the Buddha for himself,” Judy said calmly. “The Buddha is meant to be shared.”

Then she handed the strange little pistol to D.D., just as Malachai moaned from behind the sofa, “If you could be of some assistance, Detective. I believe I have just been shot.”

MALACHAI SHIFTED IN HIS CHAIR with some discomfort. Being shot in the leg that had been hurt in the stampede in Vienna years before had been an unlucky break. This time around, however, at least he’d fared better. It turned out Judy Chan wasn’t a very good shot when partially hypnotized. While she’d murdered her boss with a single bullet to the heart, her woozy state—the very state Malachai had put her in—had saved his life.

Eight months had passed and now she was in prison having been found guilty despite an aggressive effort on her attorney’s part to prove that she was criminally insane, deluded by visions from a so-called past life.

Malachai had sat in the back of the courthouse every day. If Miss Chan’s attorney proved that believing what you remembered from a past life meant you were insane, Malachai’s own life’s work would have been held in question, his passion turned into a joke used against him. But the prosecutor had won. With over 25 percent of the country believing in reincarnation and several world religions based on its precepts, the defendant’s case didn’t pass muster. The jury hadn’t accepted the murder was Chan’s attempt to right a centuries-long feud. But they did convict her on a charge of second-degree murder stemming from armed robbery.

Reincarnation had not lost that day, Judy Chan had.

“And now we have Lot 121,” the auctioneer called out in his singsong voice.

Malachai watched as the jade turtle that belonged to the estate of John Wen soared past its estimate of $10,000. The antiques dealer had indeed amassed a very valuable collection of fine antique Chinese treasures. It was a shame he’d had to die protecting one of them.

The turtle was removed by a young man in a dark-brown uniform and a similarly dressed man brought out the next item for sale and placed it on the podium.

“And now,” said the auctioneer in his Boston accent, “we have the Laughing Buddha. Lot 122. A fine example of eighth-century Tang Dynasty carving.”

The wait for the estate to come to auction had seemed interminable to Malachai, but the police wouldn’t release the items in Wen’s office until after Chan’s trial and arraignment were complete.

“Do I hear ten thousand?” the auctioneer called.

Malachai had needed to be careful when he’d come to Skinner’s to inspect the Buddha before this sale. If he’d shown too much interest in it someone might have noticed and wondered why. The private viewing room in the auction house where he’d looked it over had a camera in plain sight. Malachai hadn’t dared risk trying to take the statue apart to determine if the base might actually be the secret receptacle used by Davenport to hide the list of lost Memory Tools. But closer examination had revealed such a thing might be possible. The approximate size and shape of the wooden base. The classic Tiffany artistry showcased by the gold-seamed corners and intricately inlaid abalone. In Malachai’s mind, the statue’s base could very well be the piece commissioned by Davenport from Tiffany himself after that first murder, over a century ago.

“Fifteen thousand on my right. Do I hear—yes, twenty to the gentleman in the back. Do I hear twenty-five? Twenty-five thousand, thank you, ma’am.”

For the next few moments Malachai waited for a lull in the bidding. He didn’t want to help drive up the price. Expecting a slowing in bidding to come at $50,000, he was unhappy when it didn’t arrive till the price hit $75,000.

But what difference did money make now, with his quest nearly over, the list of lost Memory Tools about to be his? He had been waiting for decades.

“I have seventy-five thousand from the gentleman in the back. Going once. Twice.”

Malachai raised his paddle.

“Thank you, sir,” the auctioneer said, acknowledging the new bidder. “I have eighty thousand in the front . . . and . . . eighty-five in the rear. Now to you, sir, ninety thousand in the front.”

Finally, after another five minutes, the bid was again with Malachai at one hundred fifty and there it stopped. Malachai’s head was spinning. Was it his?

“Going once. Twice.” The bang of the gavel. “Thank you, sir. One hundred and fifty thousand in the front.”

Malachai had won his prize.

After paying for the jade statue, Malachai took the objet d’art back to his hotel room at the Ritz Carlton where he’d booked a suite.

Carefully and with ceremony, he unwrapped the carved sculpture that rested on a fine base with hammered gold-seamed corners inlaid with abalone. The Tiffany signature had been verified by the auction house. The catalogue gave the base alone an estimated value of $10,000.

But that did not even come close to what it was worth.

Malachai enjoyed pomp and appreciated ritual. He believed in savoring the moments that mark one’s life. This was such a pinnacle. He’d reached the end of a long, long road today.

Leaving the Buddha sitting regally on the table by the window, Malachai removed the bottle of Cristal champagne he’d put on ice before leaving for the auction house. Opening it with a pop, he poured himself a flute of the pale yellow ambrosia.

Raising his glass, he toasted the silent statue and then took a sip. Thinking, as he did, of John Wen who had died for this moment. Of Judy Chan, who was going to rot in prison for her efforts to prevent it.

“The time has come, my friend,” Malachai said as he walked to the table. He’d done his research. He wouldn’t have to remove the jade piece from the pedestal. All he had to do was manipulate the seams on the underside of the base. By pressing them in a certain way, he would, the experts had assured him, reveal a carefully concealed cleft.

It was easier than he’d imagined. And as promising as he’d dreamed. The base gave way, a fine sprinkling of dust falling onto the table, indicating it had not been opened in many years. As he’d hoped, no one at Skinner’s had discovered this compartment.

· · ·

Malachai didn’t look into the hidden compartment. Not yet. The anticipation after so very long was too delicious.

He took a long, slow sip of the cold bubbly.

This was his moment. After almost 150 years, the past and the present had come full circle. Malachai reached into the narrow enclosure. His fingertips felt . . . smooth wood . . . and . . . more smooth wood . . . satiny.