Kiss of the Blue Dragon (14 page)

A Hill of Beans

B
y the time I stepped outside, a WFYY satellite cruiser was camped across from the shelter. Soji had already cornered Marco. The handheld digicam her photographer aimed at Marco’s face put out a blinding light. Marco strained not to blink as he smoothly answered her questions about the murders. Cruisers from two more television stations pulled up and reporters jumped out with e-pads, clearly frustrated to see Soji scooping them on the first interview.

“Damn it,” I muttered as the zoo got bigger. I spotted Hank, acting as field producer, standing behind Soji’s photog, and headed his way with steam
coming out of my ears. I pulled him aside. “Hank, how could you do this?” I hissed.

“Soji—”

“I don’t care what kind of a shark reporter she is. Does she chew everybody up and spit them out? Even your family?”

“Calm down,” he said, grabbing my shoulders and roughly spinning me around. “Get back in Marco’s vehicle.”

The reporters ran past me. “Hold it,” Hank said, stepping in their paths. “Soji has an exclusive with Detective Marco. You’ll have to call down to HQ to get somebody else to talk to you on camera.”

The reporters and their cameramen grumbled, but there was no serious mutiny. Nobody wanted to mess with Sojourner Wilson. She was known for her uncanny ability to get payback against competitors who tried to steal an exclusive from her. Hank deftly moved me out of their line of sight and took me across the street, bringing me around to the relative privacy of the far side of Marco’s SUV. I crossed my arms, leaned against the vehicle and waited with a truculent frown.

“Soji and I talked about this with Detective Marco while you were inside. On our way over here, our assignment editor called us in the Humvee after hearing about Drummond on the police scanners. The station would have sent a reporter out here anyway. Soji offered to cover the story so she could put her own spin on it.”

“I thought reporters were supposed to be unbiased,” I fumed.

“Come on, sis,” he said. “Lucky for you that’s not always the case. Soji’s going to keep your name out of the story, and she can justify her decision by following the basic guidelines of what constitutes news. You have a signed contract with the shelter, not the victim, so there’s no need to even bring in the fact that a CRS was involved. You weren’t here when it happened. You didn’t have a Gibson Warrant.”

I winced.

“What is it?” He frowned. “Did you have a Gibson Warrant on this guy?”

I shook my head and swallowed hard, saying weakly, “No. No, I didn’t. She couldn’t afford to take it back to court.”

“Okay, then. No Gibson Warrant, no news. Basically, you’re not newsworthy.”

“Gee, thanks, my self-esteem rises by the minute.”

“There was a P.I.,” he continued, ignoring my barb, “and he was keeping an eye out for Drummond. He called the police as soon as the shit hit the fan. The cops responded promptly, but not soon enough. It was an unavoidable tragedy.”

Was it? I was drowning in a black sea of doubt.

“End of story,” Hank said with finality. “Marco agrees it’s best to keep you out of this.”

“Only because he’s ashamed to be seen with a lowlife retribution specialist.”

Hank’s eyes narrowed knowingly. “Ah, so that’s what this is all about. I wondered what happened between you and Marco at the party.”

“Look, little brother, the man is a fascist. He thinks he’s the incarnation of Elliot Ness and he’s going to clean up not only all the criminals in this town, but the renegade vigilantes, as well. That’s what he thinks I am.”

Hank crossed his arms, not immediately protesting the characterization.

“But regardless of what I think of Marco, you put him in a terrible position. He only came here to help me. This isn’t even his case.”

Hank looked over at Marco and Soji. “It is now. But don’t feel sorry for the guy. He was in psy-ops, for God’s sake. Look at him. He has a body like a movie star—he’s smart, a smooth talker. He knows how to handle the media.”

I wondered if there was anything or anyone Marco didn’t know how to handle.

“Marco agreed to give WFYY an exclusive on the story,” Hank added. “That means the other stations will only be able to rehash and confirm whatever information Soji gets. It was the best we could do for you under the circumstances.”

I unfurled my arms and looped them around his torso, then kissed his cheek. “I know I don’t act like it, Hank, but I’m grateful for your support.”

He gave me a bear hug. “Hang in there, kiddo. This is all smoke and mirrors. It will evaporate by morning.”

He hurried back across the street to make sure none of the other reporters snagged Marco when Soji’s interview was over.

I saw Mel standing by a tree, talking to a man
who looked just like him. They were both in their fifties, both short and stocky, both wore argyle socks that didn’t quite reach the hem of their flood pants, and both had a permanent and charmingly surly curl on the left side of the mouth. They had to be brothers. Maybe twins. Now that was a scary thought.

I headed their way. Mel was recapping the night’s horrors to his look-alike. The reporters hadn’t discovered them yet, but it wouldn’t be long.

“Hi, Mel,” I said.

“There she is now! Hey, Angel, meet my partner. He’s my brother, too. Marvin Goldman. He was the one who was watching this place when I slept. I’ve told him all about you.”

“Hello, Marvin.” I shook hands with the man who was obviously Mel’s identical twin. I was surprised. Mel had never mentioned that. The only thing that set them apart was hair. Mel had virtually none and Marvin had a full gray mane. Correction upon closer inspection: Marvin had a halfway decent rug. “You fellas may want to make yourselves scarce. Those reporters are going to be combing the neighborhood soon, looking for somebody to go on camera.”

“I been on TV before. I can handle it.” his voice even sounded like Mel’s, except he was clearly the more confident of the two. Must be the rug.

“No,” Mel said, clearly the smarter of the pair. “No interviews. We’re going now, Angel, but I wanted to have a word with you.”

“Me, too, Mel.” When he pulled me aside, I said, “I’m sorry about this. I don’t want you to think any of it was your fault.”

“It’s not your fault,” he said at the same time. We stopped and smiled at each other. “We’ve been workin’ together, Angel, what now…three years?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“Nothin’ like this ever happened before and never will again.”

“I was wrong, Mel. So wrong.”

“Nah.”

“I made a terrible error of judgment and I’m sorry I made you witness this.”

“Nah, Angel, you did nothin’ of the sort. That pig Drummond did it all, the crazy, greedy bastard.”

I nodded, tears burning the backs of my eyes. Why was it that older people were always so much quicker to forgive than the young?

“Look, hon,” he said, taking my hands in his. “Uncle Mel’s gonna tell you somethin’ you don’t never wanna forget.”

I raised my eyebrows in feigned anticipation.

“Nothin’ you do,” he said slowly and tapped my breastbone, “that comes from the heart is wrong.
Nothin
’. Things may not always turn out right, but that’s not the same thing as being wrong. And don’t you never let nobody tell you different.” He emphasized his point by winking.

I could have broken down and cried right then and there, but there was no time. The pack of reporters had spotted us and were heading our way.

“Thanks, Mel. I’ll call you tomorrow.” While he and Marvin hurried to their car, I jumped into Marco’s SUV. His interview had ended and he headed my way, climbing into the passenger’s seat.

He placed his palm on the start pad, which read his fingerprints, and the engine roared to life. I threw the vehicle into Drive and floored it. The force of acceleration slammed him against the seat.

“Whoa!” he said as we careered around the corner without slowing. “You do have insurance, don’t you?”

“No,” I said with dark glee. “I don’t even have a driver’s license.”

He didn’t say another word for the rest of the white-knuckled trip. I’d finally found a way to get in the last word with Detective Riccuccio Marco.

I brought the car to a screeching stop in front of my two-flat. When we stopped rocking back and forth, Marco let out a breath I think he’d been holding since we’d left the shelter.

I looked at him in the shadows of the early morning darkness and said, “I let my license expire because public transportation is more convenient in the city. But when I was in college I placed third in the National Championship Road Race competition. Land vehicle class.”

He whistled low. “What else haven’t you told me about yourself, Baker?”

“Everything,” I said, going monotone. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you’re feeling guilty about Janet Drummond’s murder.”

“Don’t psychoanalyze me, Marco.” In a whisper, I added, “Please.”

He smiled sadly and reached across the seat to
clasp my hand. I let him, then said impulsively, “Marco, you and I were not meant to be…involved. But thanks for the…for the possibility. It was fun.”

He frowned. “You sound like you’re going away.”

I am
, I almost answered.
I’m going to that deep, dark place where Lin Drummond lives. That sterile, safe place where no one else can visit
.

Instead of pulling himself up with wounded pride, he leaned forward and pressed my hand harder. The damn fool wasn’t going to give up.

“Baker, don’t make any rash decisions. You’ve been through a lot tonight. Get some sleep and we’ll talk in the morning.”

I saw a flash of light in the shadows a few feet away. A blue and yellow match flame revealed a craggy, noble face shadowed by a slick fedora. I’ll be damned. My deus x machina had arrived. Humphrey Bogart, aka Rick Blaine, sauntered into the yellow pool of the streetlight. He dragged hard on his cigarette and blew out the match with a smoky breath.

“My date is here,” I said.

Marco looked out the windshield, then leaned back. “Don’t do this, Baker,” he said in a tight voice.

“You’re going to have to go. Just remember this moment so you never think about touching me again.”

I climbed out of the car. I was so tired I felt like a zombie but forced myself to step lively. He had to think I couldn’t wait to climb into bed with Bogie. I knew how much that would appall a straightlaced guy like Marco. I had to convince him that my judg
ment was as terrible in my personal life as it had been recently on the job.

“Hello, Angel,” Bogie said. His voice was a balm to my ears. He was safe and predictable.

“Hello, Rick.” I took his hand and led him to my door, watching Marco’s reaction from the corner of my eye. He moved to the driver’s seat and watched us until I opened the door. Then he drove off, leaving a peal of rubber on the pavement as a memento.

Finally the curtain had fallen, signaling the end of the show. I slumped in the foyer, then sat on the bottom step, dropping my head in my hands.

“What is it, Angel?” Bogie asked, clearly befuddled. We had our routine and this wasn’t part of it.

I couldn’t answer. Overwhelmed, I burst into tears, something I hadn’t done in a long, long time. After a while, I wiped my eyes and found Bogie still staring at me. I almost felt sorry for him. He didn’t have much of a repertoire in terms of reactions. He was waiting for some cue that seemed familiar.

“I’m sorry, Rick,” I said and stood. I unfastened his trench coat and slipped my hands up under his suit coat, caressing his back.

“Now that’s more like it,” he said with a relieved chuckle. Too late, he realized what I was doing.

I grabbed his dress shirt and pulled it up so I could touch the small of his back. I felt for his program chip and pulled it out. He was just about to say “No!” when his system shut down. He went into synthesleep mode—arms down at his sides, posture erect, eyes closed.

“I’m sorry, Rick,” I whispered in his ear, just in
case the synapses in his digital brain were still clicking from that final surge of shutdown power. “But the world doesn’t care a hill of beans about the problems of two little people like you and me.”

He hummed momentarily to life. His eyes flashed open and focused on me with fond recognition and, I thought, perhaps even sadness, then they closed again. He was, for all intents and purposes, dead to me.

I flipped on the foyer light and punched up the program in his portable chip. I tapped new coordinates into the palm-size disk and permanently reprogrammed our relationship. I’d only done this once before, the first time AutoMates, Inc. sent Bogie over so I could activate our relationship program, so I hoped I was doing it right. I returned the chip to the small of his back and stepped away.

His eyes opened and he gazed at me wistfully. “Goodbye, Angel. Remember—we’ll always have Paris.”

I felt a surge of affection that wasn’t quite love but was frighteningly close. Then I kissed him on the mouth one last time. “Yes, Rick, we’ll always have Paris.”

He turned and opened the door, looking back at me just once from beneath his suave fedora. “Here’s looking at you, kid.”

Then he walked out of my life for good.

Stop the Mandala, I Want to Get Off

I
woke to the scents and sounds of my early childhood: sizzling bacon, frying eggs and burnt toast. Lola sang as she cooked in the kitchen. I hadn’t had bacon and eggs in years, so I assumed she’d bought them at the corner store.

“Angel,” she said in the doorway. “Wake up, honey. It’s ten o’clock. Time to eat.”

Actually, I usually ate at seven after an hour-long workout with Mike, but I didn’t want to say that or Lola would consider it an invitation to conversation. I didn’t want to talk about what happened last night, so I tried to go back to sleep. About a half hour later, I heard Mike’s precise footsteps in the door
way and inhaled the scent of coffee. Now here was temptation.

I peeked out from under the covers and found him standing by my bed with a steaming mug in hand. Wow. He really had to be worried about me to willingly offer me coffee.

I grudgingly sat up and leaned against the headboard, taking the mug without looking him in the eye.

“Hank called this morning,” Mike said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “He tells me what happened with Drummond and wonders if you are okay. I say yes, but now I wonder.”

I took a sip from the mug, then rested it on the flat plane of my abdomen. “I can’t do this anymore, Mike.”

“Do what?”

“Try to bring justice to the victims of the world. There are too many of them. And I’m not very good at it.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not God.” I gave him a pained look. “I can think I know what’s right, but I can also be wrong. And when I am wrong, the consequences are unbearable. I’d be better off doing nothing at all.”

“Do not be so full of yourself that you think you cause what happens last night.”

I took another sip and looked into his eyes.

“Janet Drummond dies not because of what you do, but because of what she does. Maybe not in this life, but in past life.”

“Karma,” I whispered.

“Yes. Only a buddha—one who achieves enlightenment—can see the big circle of one’s life, can know how many reincarnations a person must endure before his karma is cleared. Not you, Baker. You are a smart girl, but not enlightened. Not yet.”

I cradled the warm mug in my palms. “I cannot believe Janet did anything in this life or any other to earn a death like that.”

“It is not for you to say or know how or when someone dies. You only can know about your own karma. When you lie about the Gibson Warrant, Baker, you start a cycle of bad karma. But that karma comes back to you, not Janet Drummond.”

“I thought I had chosen the lesser of two evils. I didn’t want to kill Drummond, even if I could have gotten a real Gibson Warrant. But I needed more leverage than I had without one. That’s why I lied.”

“A lie to Drummond is better than to murder him. Still, everything has cause and effect. But you and I know that.” He smiled deeply. “I was a terrible monk. That is why I quit. You are a terrible angel.”

I smiled. “That name is on my birth certificate. It has no symbolic or hidden meaning.”

Mike looked off in the distance. “We both know we must try to make a better world. We have special talents.” He turned his remarkable focus to me. I unconsciously straightened. “You see with the inner eye. And I know the way of Shaolin. Okay, the Buddha says we should live in a cave and ignore the world. But we can’t—you and I. So we do our best and pay for our mistakes in this or the next life. Small price if we make this world a little bet
ter for others. Even if we make it better for just one person.”

I nodded. Hopefully, I was about to do that for Lin. But could I have done more for Janet? “If I’m such a talented psychic, why didn’t I see Janet’s murder coming?”

“You have been a sleeping dragon, Angel. But now you wake. Like a dragon, you will ride the wind to your destiny. Use what is around you to borrow the strength you need. Become the dragon before the eagle comes to claim you.”

For the second time Mike had made an ominous reference to the eagle. That had to be Vladimir Gorky. If the Russian eagle was coming for Lola and me, that meant Gorky was no longer distracted by the kidnapped girls.

“Oh…my…God.” I looked at Mike slowly. “Now is the perfect time to rescue those girls.

“What?” he pressed.

“If Gorky is coming after me, then all I have to do is an end run around him to snatch the kids out of his own nest when his guard is down.”

“What girls?”

“The pure-blooded Chinese girls that Gorky stole from Corleone Capone, head of the Mongolian Mob. The same girls that Lola saw at Gorky’s mansion!”

Mike waited expectantly for the other shoe to drop. “What does this mean, Baker? What do we have to do?”

“It means,” I said, standing up abruptly, “that it’s not enough to save just one orphaned girl. No, Mike,
not when you have skills like we do. We have to save all of them.”

“Save who?”

“The Chinese orphans. We have to find them now!”

I put in a few calls to Hank, Mel and others who might help me in my rescue attempt. I struck out with almost every call and had to leave messages. I ate a quick bite and was surprised when the doorbell rang moments later. I wasn’t expecting anyone and had no appointments.

When I opened the door, I was stunned to see Lin Drummond in four feet of thin grace and long black hair, clinging to a pathetically small bag of clothes and toys.

“Oh!” I pressed a hand to my chest. “Lin. I wasn’t expecting you. But…but that’s okay, that’s…great!”

She didn’t look me in the eye, but stared somewhere just above my right shoulder; her feelings of disdain for me couldn’t have been clearer.

I finally noticed a pretty, middle-aged black woman standing behind Lin. “You must be the social worker,” I said and invited her in for tea.

She introduced herself as Harriet Gross and accepted my offer, adding, “But I can’t stay long. I’ll have to leave you two alone sooner than I’d like, but I’m sure you’ll be just fine.”

God, was she really going to entrust this sullen, hurting child to my care? Had I really offered to take on this responsibility? Was I
nuts?
I didn’t know
how to be a mother, and I certainly didn’t want to make the same mistakes Lola had. I didn’t even know how to be a daughter, for God’s sake.

“Can’t stay long?” I said like a doll who has just had her string pulled. “No problem! Come in. Come in.”

Ten minutes later we were sipping iced tea on the patio under the porch. Harriet offered a dozen papers for me to sign as a temporary foster parent. The pulse in my temple throbbed more loudly with each signature. I hadn’t been this nervous since I’d closed on the mortgage for my house. Commitment always affected me that way. If I ever walked down the aisle, I’d probably keel over from an embolism before I made it to the altar. Damned good deterrent.

“Myrtle said you would be the best possible place to put Lin, and I agree,” Harriet said. “This will only be for a week or two, until we sort out her case and find a long-term foster family for her.”

I nodded. Unfortunately, Lin and I would just have broken the ice about the time she would have to leave and start all over with someone new. “I understand. I was a foster child myself, Mrs. Gross.”

She nodded sympathetically, then looked at Lin. “She shouldn’t be too much trouble. Myrtle says Lin keeps to herself.”

We chatted awhile about the mundane but important details of temporary parenthood, like emergency contact numbers and follow-up visits from the Department of Children and Family Services. Then, all too soon, Harriet Gross stood to leave.

I looked at Lin, who still gazed out at nothing in
particular, and felt a moment of genuine panic for the first time in years. Volunteering to be a foster mother had been a bad idea, a cosmically bad idea. But I had to remember the big picture here. I could keep Lin safe and she might even be able to help me find the other girls.

I assured Harriet Gross that everything would be fine, escorted her to the front door, then returned to the garden. I paused before stepping out onto the patio. Lin still sat at the edge of the garden chair, the little duffel bag on her lap. Her spindly little legs extended below the seat like matchsticks. She still held her shoulders back with determined dignity, but now her head tilted forward and her eyes blinked sorrowfully beneath her straight onyx bangs.

When I cleared my throat to announce my return, her head snapped up and she stiffened. God only knew what she’d experienced in the Drummond household to warrant such wariness. I could hardly blame her for being on her guard around adults who pretended to care but could give no meaningful comfort. I understood. I’d been there myself. It seemed like just yesterday.

And that had prepared me better than most for foster motherhood. Enough of this hanging back and letting a pouting child intimidate me. I could do this. And I knew from experience that being direct was the best approach.

I walked forward with a brave smile and sat in the plastic lawn chair next to hers. “So, Lin,” I said, even though she couldn’t speak English, “what do you think of your new surroundings?”

Her head turned my way with astonishing precision. “I
hate
it. I hate
you
.” Then she slowly, almost regally returned her head to its stiff, forward position.

I leaned back from the blow. Round One went to Lin the Invincible. I guess I was wrong about taking the direct approach. Then it hit me. “Wait a minute, you spoke English.”

Just then Mike came out of his coach house and joined us.

“Boy, am I glad to see you,” I said. He kept a respectful eight feet or so of distance from Lin. She eyed him warily. He studied her quietly as I went to his side. “This is the girl I told you about. Her name is Lin. She’s going to be staying with us for a couple of weeks.”

“Ni hao
,” he said, which was hello in Cantonese.

“Ni hao
,” she whispered, looking away from him.

“Ask her how she’s doing,” I whispered to him. “I think she speaks English but she won’t talk to me.”

He spoke rapidly in Chinese, which to me was always a mystical and incomprehensible language of strange sounds and staccato delivery. As soon as he was done speaking, she turned to face him fully and spat back her response in an impassioned diatribe of indignation that had her pounding the cushion and left tears brimming in her eyes. If I had to guess, I’d say she’d just cursed his ancestors from now until kingdom come.

Just as quickly as she had launched into her attack, she fell silent. She wiped at a tear that had
spilled down one perfect, porcelain cheek and went back to her Sphinx pose.

I pulled Mike aside. “What did she say?”

He gave me a pat smile. “She says she is very grateful for your hospitality and she is sure she will be very happy here.”

My lips thinned with cynicism. “Nice try, Mike. What did she really say?”

“She say she hopes you bring shame to your family and that you come back in next life as an ant.”

I nodded approvingly. “That’s a good start. What else did she say? She shouted at you for a full two minutes. There had to be more than that.”

“She say more than that, but it all comes out to same thing. She does not want to be here.”

“Tell her she has no choice.”

“She knows that,” Mike said.

“She spoke English a moment ago. See if you can determine how much she knows and where she came from. I want to find out exactly how she got to the Drummonds’ before D.C.F.S. does. I have a feeling this is no ordinary adoption gone wrong. We need to find if at any point she was with that group of kidnapped orphans.”

“Yes, Empress Cixi.” He always called me that when I got bossy. Empress Cixi was the last dowager empress in the court of the last emperor of China. She was nicknamed the Dragon Lady and was so vindictive she once was said to have dismembered a concubine who angered her, then kept the girl alive in a big vase with only her head sticking out of the top.

“Hey, whatever it takes to find those girls.” And maybe make something good out of the Drummond nightmare. Even if this time I paid the ultimate price to finally find some peace of mind.