glimpse behind that mask.
“What are you hoping I’ll find in these reports?” she asked.
“Contradictions, maybe. Things that don’t add up or don’t make sense.”
“Why do you think there’d be any?”
“Practically from the moment that Staines and Ingersoll walkedonto the scene, it was called a murder-suicide. I read their report and they didn’t explore alternative theories. It was too easy to sign it off as a crazy Chinese immigrant shooting up a restaurant. And then himself.”
“Do you think it wasn’t a murder-suicide?”
“I don’t know. But nineteen years later, it’s giving off some strange echoes. Our Jane Doe on the roof had two addresses in her handheld GPS. One was Detective Ingersoll’s residence. The other was for Iris Fang, the widow of one of the massacre victims. This dead woman was obviously interested in the Red Phoenix case. We don’t know why.”
They heard the dog whine, and Maura turned to see Rat standing in the doorway, his hair still damp from the shower. He was staring at the autopsy photo on her computer screen. Quickly she minimized the program, and the disturbing image shrank from sight.
“Julian, this is Detective Tam,” she said. “And this is my houseguest, Julian Perkins. He’s been going to school up in Maine, and he’s down here for spring break.”
“So you’re the owner of the scary dog,” Tam said.
The boy kept staring at the monitor, as if he could still see the image displayed there. “Who was she?” he asked softly.
“It’s just a case we’re talking about,” said Maura. “We’re almost through here. Why don’t you go watch TV?”
Tam waited until they heard the television turn on in the living room, and he said: “I’m sorry he got a look at that. It’s not something you want a kid to see.”
“I’ll review the files when I have the time. It may not be for a while. There’s no hurry, I assume?”
“It would be nice to make some progress on Jane Doe.”
“The Red Phoenix happened nineteen years ago,” she said and turned off her laptop. “I’m sure this can wait a little longer.”
E VEN BEFORE I SEE HIM, I KNOW THAT HE HAS ENTERED MY STUDIO , his arrival heralded by the whoosh of damp night air as the door opens and closes. I do not interrupt my exercise to greet him, but continue to whirl and swing my blade. In the wide mirror I can see Detective Frost watching in fascination as I enact the chant of the saber. Today I feel strong, my arms and legs as limber as when I was young. Each of my moves, each turn, each slash, is dictated by a line from an ancient sonnet:
Up the seven stars to ride the tiger
.
Soaring, turning, dodging as spirits soar
,
To become the white crane
,
Spreading its wings as it thrusts out a leg
.
The wind blows
And the lotus flower trembles
.
All the moves are second nature to me, one blending into the next. I do not have to think about them, because my body remembers, as surely as it knows how to walk and how to breathe. My saberslices and whirls, but my thoughts are on the policeman, and what I will say to him.
I reach the final and thirteenth line of the sonnet.
The phoenix returns to its nest
. I stand at attention, my weapon finally at rest, sweat cooling my face. Only then do I turn to face him.
“That was beautiful, Mrs. Fang,” says Detective Frost, his eyes wide with admiration. “Like a dance.”
“A beginner’s exercise. It brings a calming end to my day.”
His gaze drops to the saber I’m holding. “Is that a real sword?”
“Her name is Zheng Yi. She was passed down to me from my great-great-grandmother.”
“So it must be really old.”
“And battle-tested. It was meant for combat. If you never practice with a combat sword, you’ll never learn to work with its weight, to know how it feels in your grip.” I make two lightning slashes through the air and he flinches away, startled. With a smile, I extend the handle to him. “Take it. Feel its
“What are you hoping I’ll find in these reports?” she asked.
“Contradictions, maybe. Things that don’t add up or don’t make sense.”
“Why do you think there’d be any?”
“Practically from the moment that Staines and Ingersoll walkedonto the scene, it was called a murder-suicide. I read their report and they didn’t explore alternative theories. It was too easy to sign it off as a crazy Chinese immigrant shooting up a restaurant. And then himself.”
“Do you think it wasn’t a murder-suicide?”
“I don’t know. But nineteen years later, it’s giving off some strange echoes. Our Jane Doe on the roof had two addresses in her handheld GPS. One was Detective Ingersoll’s residence. The other was for Iris Fang, the widow of one of the massacre victims. This dead woman was obviously interested in the Red Phoenix case. We don’t know why.”
They heard the dog whine, and Maura turned to see Rat standing in the doorway, his hair still damp from the shower. He was staring at the autopsy photo on her computer screen. Quickly she minimized the program, and the disturbing image shrank from sight.
“Julian, this is Detective Tam,” she said. “And this is my houseguest, Julian Perkins. He’s been going to school up in Maine, and he’s down here for spring break.”
“So you’re the owner of the scary dog,” Tam said.
The boy kept staring at the monitor, as if he could still see the image displayed there. “Who was she?” he asked softly.
“It’s just a case we’re talking about,” said Maura. “We’re almost through here. Why don’t you go watch TV?”
Tam waited until they heard the television turn on in the living room, and he said: “I’m sorry he got a look at that. It’s not something you want a kid to see.”
“I’ll review the files when I have the time. It may not be for a while. There’s no hurry, I assume?”
“It would be nice to make some progress on Jane Doe.”
“The Red Phoenix happened nineteen years ago,” she said and turned off her laptop. “I’m sure this can wait a little longer.”
E VEN BEFORE I SEE HIM, I KNOW THAT HE HAS ENTERED MY STUDIO , his arrival heralded by the whoosh of damp night air as the door opens and closes. I do not interrupt my exercise to greet him, but continue to whirl and swing my blade. In the wide mirror I can see Detective Frost watching in fascination as I enact the chant of the saber. Today I feel strong, my arms and legs as limber as when I was young. Each of my moves, each turn, each slash, is dictated by a line from an ancient sonnet:
Up the seven stars to ride the tiger
.
Soaring, turning, dodging as spirits soar
,
To become the white crane
,
Spreading its wings as it thrusts out a leg
.
The wind blows
And the lotus flower trembles
.
All the moves are second nature to me, one blending into the next. I do not have to think about them, because my body remembers, as surely as it knows how to walk and how to breathe. My saberslices and whirls, but my thoughts are on the policeman, and what I will say to him.
I reach the final and thirteenth line of the sonnet.
The phoenix returns to its nest
. I stand at attention, my weapon finally at rest, sweat cooling my face. Only then do I turn to face him.
“That was beautiful, Mrs. Fang,” says Detective Frost, his eyes wide with admiration. “Like a dance.”
“A beginner’s exercise. It brings a calming end to my day.”
His gaze drops to the saber I’m holding. “Is that a real sword?”
“Her name is Zheng Yi. She was passed down to me from my great-great-grandmother.”
“So it must be really old.”
“And battle-tested. It was meant for combat. If you never practice with a combat sword, you’ll never learn to work with its weight, to know how it feels in your grip.” I make two lightning slashes through the air and he flinches away, startled. With a smile, I extend the handle to him. “Take it. Feel its
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