The Silent Girl (14 page)

“It could be just a cultural thing about the police. Tam says that folks in Chinatown are leery of us.”

“I’d be a lot more leery of whoever did this.” Jane turned to the door. “Let’s have a talk with Mrs. Fang.”

Downstairs she found Iris seated on the faded brown sofa, looking far too calm for a woman whose home had just been violated. Detective Tam was pacing nearby, cell phone pressed to his ear. He glanced up at Jane with a look of
I don’t know what’s going on here, either
.

Jane sat down across from Iris and just studied her for a moment without saying a word. The woman stared straight back at her, as though understanding that this was a test, and she had already girded herself for the challenge. It was not the gaze of a victim.

“What do you think is going on, Mrs. Fang?” Jane said.

“I don’t know.”

“Has your home been broken into before?”

“No.”

“How long have you lived in this building?”

“Almost thirty-five years. Since my husband and I immigrated to this country.”

“Is there anyone you know who’d do this? Maybe some man you’ve been dating, someone who’s angry that you rejected him?”

“No.” She hadn’t paused to even think about it. As if that answer was the only one she was prepared to give. “There is no man. And there’s no need for the police to be involved.”

“Someone breaks into your home. Someone stabs a butcher knife through your photo and leaves it on your pillow. The message couldn’t be clearer. Who’s threatening you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yet you don’t want us to look into it.”

The woman stared back, displaying no fear. It was like looking into pools of black water, revealing nothing at all. Jane leaned back and let a moment pass. She saw Tam and Frost standing on the periphery, intently following their conversation. Three sets of eyes were focused on Iris, and the silence stretched on, yet the woman’s composure did not crack.

Time for a new approach.

“I had an interesting conversation today,” said Jane. “With Patrick Dion, the ex-husband of one of the Red Phoenix victims. He tells me that every year in March, you’ve mailed notes to him and the other families.”

“I’ve sent no one any notes.”

“For the past seven years, they’ve been getting them. Always on the anniversary of the Red Phoenix massacre. The families believe you’re doing it. Sending them copies of their loved ones’ obituaries. Trying to bring back the bad memories.”

“Bring
back
the memories?” Iris stiffened. “What kind of families
are these, needing to be
reminded
?” For the first time, agitation shook her voice, made her hands tremble. “I live with my memories. They never leave me, not even when I sleep.”

“Have you received any notes?”

“No. But then, no one needs to remind
me
. Of all the families, it seems I’m the only one who’s asked questions. Demanded answers.”

“If you aren’t sending them, do you know who might be?”

“Maybe it’s someone who believes the truth has been suppressed.”

“Like you.”

“But I’m not afraid to say it.”

“And in a very public way. We know you placed the ad in the
Globe
last month.”

“If your husband were murdered, and you knew the killer was never punished, would you do any less? No matter how many years went by?”

A moment passed, the two women staring at each other. Jane imagined herself waking up every morning in this shabby home, imagined living with unspeakable grief, obsessing over happiness lost. Searching for reasons, for any explanation for her ruined life. Sitting in this room, on this threadbare armchair, she felt despair settle on her shoulders, dragging her down, smothering all joy. This is not even my world, she thought. I can go home and kiss my husband. I can hug my daughter and tuck her into bed. But Iris will still be trapped here.

“It’s been nineteen years, Mrs. Fang,” said Jane. “I understand it’s not easy to move on. But the other families want to. Patrick Dion, Mark Mallory—they have no doubt that Wu Weimin was the killer. Maybe it’s time for you to accept what they accepted long ago.”

Iris’s chin lifted and her eyes were hard as flint. “I won’t accept anything less than the truth.”

“How do you know it’s
not
true? According to the police report, the evidence against Wu Weimin was overwhelming.”

“The police did not know him.”

“Can you be sure you did?”

“Yes, completely. And this is my final chance to make things right.”

Jane frowned at her. “What do you mean, your final chance?”

Iris drew a breath and lifted her head. The look she gave Jane was both dignified and calm. “I am sick.”

The room went silent. That simple statement had stunned them all. Iris sat perfectly composed, staring back at Jane as if daring her to offer any pity.

“I have a chronic form of leukemia,” said Iris. “The doctor tells me I could live another ten years. Or perhaps even twenty years. Some days I feel perfectly well. Other days, I’m so tired I can scarcely lift my head off the pillow. One day, this illness will probably kill me, but I’m not afraid. I merely refuse to die without knowing the truth. Without seeing justice done.” She paused, and the first note of fear slipped into her voice. “I feel time running through my fingers.”

Frost moved behind Iris and placed his hand on her shoulder. It was simply a gesture of sympathy, something anyone might do, but Jane was troubled by that touch, and by the stricken look she saw in his eyes.

“She can’t stay here alone tonight,” Frost said. “It’s not safe.”

Tam said, “I just got off the phone with Bella Li. Mrs. Fang can spend the night with her while CSU processes the scene.”

Frost said, “I’ll drive her there.”

“No,” Jane said. “Tam will take her. Mrs. Fang, why don’t you pack a bag?” She rose from the chair. “Detective Frost, can you step outside with me? We need to check the perimeter.”

“But—”

“Frost.”

He glanced back and forth between Iris and Jane, and finally followed Jane out the front door, into a night that was filmy with mist.

The instant the door swung shut, she said: “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

“I wish I could. Obviously someone’s trying to scare her. Trying to stop her from asking questions.”

“No, I’m talking about
you
. How you ended up taking her to dinner. Turning into her white knight.”

“I came to ask about what happened to her daughter. You know that.”

“How did an interview turn into dinner?”

“We were hungry. It just happened.”

“Accidents just happen. But going out to dinner with a subject you’re questioning? That’s something else entirely.”

“She’s not a suspect.”

“We don’t know that.”

“For God’s sake, Rizzoli, she’s a victim. She lost her husband in a shooting and now all she wants is justice.”

“We don’t know what she really wants. Frankly, I can’t figure out what you want, either.”

The glow of the yellow porch light, diffused by mist, framed his head like a spectral halo. Saint Barry, the Boy Scout, she thought. The cop you could always count on to do the right thing. Now he stood before her, avoiding her gaze, looking as guilty as a man could look.

“I feel sorry for her,” he said.

“Is that all you feel?”

“And I just wish …” He sighed. “It’s been nineteen years since her husband died, and she still loves him. She still carries a torch for him. Alice couldn’t even make it ten years before she walked out on me. I look at Iris and I think, Why the hell didn’t I marry someone like her?”

“The woman’s almost old enough to be your mother.”

“That’s
not
what I’m saying. I’m not talking about going out with her! And what does age have to do with anything? This is about loyalty. About loving someone your whole life, no matter what happens.” He turned away and said softly: “I’m never going to know what that’s like.”

The front door opened and they both turned as Tam escorted Iris out of the building. She gave a nod to Frost, a tired smile, then
she climbed into Tam’s car. Even as the taillights faded into the mist, Frost was still staring after her.

“I have to admit,” said Jane thoughtfully, “she’s got me wondering now.”

He turned to her. “About what?”

“You’re right about one thing. She’s obviously rattled someone. Someone who’s angry enough or feels threatened enough to break into her house. To stab a knife in her pillow.”

“What if she’s right about the massacre? And the cook didn’t do it?”

Jane nodded. “I think it’s time to take a closer look at the Red Phoenix.”

H
IDDEN BEHIND TALL HEDGES, PATRICK DION’S BROOKLINE PROPERTY
was a private Eden of woods and lawn where footpaths meandered from intimate shade to sunlit flower beds. The wrought-iron gate at the entrance hung open, and as Jane and Frost drove through, they glimpsed the residence through a stand of ghostly white birches. It was a massive Colonial set on a knoll, commanding a view of Dion’s expansive estate.

“What the heck is a venture capitalist, anyway?” said Frost as they passed a tennis court tucked into a shady grove. “I hear that term used all the time.”

“I think they use money to make money,” Jane said.

“But how do you get the money to start with?”

“From friends who have it.”

“I gotta get me some new friends.”

She pulled to a stop in the driveway, where two cars were parked, and stared up at the mansion. “But think about it. You have all this money, this nice house. Then your wife leaves you for another man. And your daughter gets snatched off the street. Me, I’d rather be poor.” She looked at him. “Okay, now we’ve got to do some damage
control in there. From what Mr. Dion said, Tam didn’t exactly charm them.”

Frost shook his head. “We gotta get that boy to cool his jets. He goes at everything full-throttle. It’s like he’s stuck on overdrive.”

“But you know who Tam reminds me of?”

“Who?”

“Me. He says he wants to make homicide before he’s thirty.” She pushed open her door. “He might just do it.”

They climbed granite steps to the front door, but before Jane could ring the bell, the door swung open and a silver-haired man stood before them. Though in his late sixties, he was still fit and handsome, but there was a gauntness to his face, and the baggy trousers told Jane that he had recently lost weight.

“I saw your car coming up the driveway,” he said. “I’m Patrick Dion.”

“Detective Rizzoli,” she said. “And this is my partner, Detective Frost.” They shook hands and Patrick’s grip was firm, his gaze steady.

“Come in, please. We’re all in the parlor.”

“Mr. Mallory’s here?”

“Yes. And I invited Mary Gilmore to join us as well. A united front, because we’re all upset about this, and we want to know how to put an end to it.”

As they entered the house, Jane saw polished wood floors and a graceful banister that curved up toward a soaring second-floor gallery. It was far too brief a look; Patrick led them straight into the front parlor, where the other two visitors were already waiting.

Mark Mallory rose with athletic grace from the sofa. He was in his mid-thirties, fit and tan, with not even a hint of gray in his dark hair. Jane surveyed his alligator belt, his Sperry Top-Siders, and his Breitling watch, all the little clues that sneered:
I have more money than you ever will
. His handshake was perfunctory, a clue that he was impatient to get on with the business at hand.

The third person in the room would have been easy to overlook, had Jane not already been alerted she was there. Mary Gilmore was
about Patrick’s age, but so tiny and hunched over that she was almost invisible, swallowed up in a huge armchair by the window. As the woman struggled to stand, Frost quickly moved to her side.

“Please don’t bother, Mrs. Gilmore. You just sit right back down, okay?” Frost urged and helped her settle back into the chair. Watching the woman beam up at him, Jane thought: What is it about Frost and older ladies? He loves them, and they all love him.

“My daughter wanted to be here, too,” said Mrs. Gilmore. “But she couldn’t get off work, so I brought the note she got.” She pointed an arthritic hand at the coffee table. “It came in the mail the same day mine did. Every year they arrive on March thirtieth, the day my Joey died. It’s just like she’s stalking us. It’s emotional harassment. Can’t the police do something to stop her?”

On the coffee table were three envelopes. Before touching them, Jane reached into her pocket and took out a pair of gloves.

“There’s no point with gloves,” said Mark. “There are never any fingerprints on the letters or the envelopes.”

Jane frowned at him. “How do you know there aren’t any prints?”

“Detective Ingersoll had them analyzed in the crime lab.”

“He knows about these?”

“He gets them, too. So does anyone connected with the victims, even my father’s business associates. It’s up to a dozen people that we know about. It’s been going on for years, and the crime lab never finds anything on the envelopes or the mailings. She must wear gloves when she sends them.”