She Walks the Line

When she’d worked at the Hong Kong firm, a clerk had been approached to find a buyer for a rare ivory hairpin topped by an intricate solid-gold phoenix set with ruby eyes. Ling’s dedicated clerk had detained the man after she’d pressed a hidden buzzer connected directly to the local police department. They came at once and hauled the would-be seller off to jail.

Mei later found out the poor man legitimately owned the piece. Or rather, his great-grandmother did. The old woman had fallen ill and he, like a dutiful grandson, had been sent to secure money to pay for her care.

The woman died while authorities fought over whether the government had the right to confiscate her property without restitution of any sort because the item was deemed a national treasure. Mei and her clerk felt horrible, and so sorry for the family. Stephen, who’d been away at the time, said Mei had handled the man incorrectly. Her brother told her next time to buy the piece to put in his private collection. He bought estate pieces in China’s rural areas and insisted that if word of her actions got out, it’d cause good citizens to be angry at the government—and to feel leery of working with gallery buyers in the future.

But her dad had personally trained the clerk. Mei was positive he’d never approve of the way Stephen chose to ignore the rules. She hadn’t discussed the incident with her father, yet it remained an issue between her and Stephen.

A second question nagged her as she drove past the ramp that led to Risa’s. Since her father was also a kind, loyal man, could he—would he overlook a flaw in a friend or fellow dealer?

Until she had that answer, she wouldn’t seek advice from Risa or anyone else. Meaning Cullen Archer, as well. If he thought she’d automatically throw open the doors to Ling Limited and allow him to interrogate her dad, he needed to think again.

At home, she brewed sweet mint tea in a black earthenware pot of the kind preferred by Chinese all over the world. A methodical investigator, Mei pulled out a chair at her kitchen table and opened her notebook. She made two lists. One contained what she knew about the case thus far. The other was a series of questions. She stopped the question list at the end of page four. On the fact side, she had only three things. The priceless items in the photographs were missing from museums in China. Houston, Texas, was being canvassed for possible buyers. Two couriers had ended up in the morgue.

Dropping her face in her hands, Mei massaged throbbing temples with her thumbs. Not even her favorite nighttime tea soothed her unrest—unrest that stemmed from the first question on her list. Why Houston? Why her city? She knew about collectors who’d pay small fortunes for the privilege of including any of those rare items in their private hoards. Not one lived in Houston.

She took a slug of cold tea, made a face and rose to go dump the contents of the pot. At her feet, her dozing dog stirred. “Come on, mutt. It’s late. I don’t have any answers, so I may as well go to bed. I’ll need a good night’s sleep to cross swords with Archer tomorrow.”

The dog yawned and staggered to his feet. He trotted at her heels after she flipped off the light. Strangely, in spite of his short legs, he beat her to the bed. Laughing, Mei played hide-and-seek with him by rolling him up in her spread and letting him find his way out. Having spent too many years of her life in solitary pursuits, she couldn’t thank Abby Carlton enough for recommending that she get a pet after moving out on her own.

Suddenly lamenting the departure of her good-hearted friend, Mei flopped down on the bed and reached for her private directory and the phone. She assumed all members of her former circle had gotten a postcard last week with Abby’s new address and phone number. It wasn’t until Mei started to punch in the area code that she realized what time it was in Houston, and how much later that made it in North Carolina. Returning her phone book to the drawer, she jotted down a note, reminding her to try calling Abby tomorrow night.

Finally, as his mistress folded back the spread and gave every appearance of heading to bed herself, Foo took that as his cue playtime was over. He curled up in his usual spot at the foot of her bed. His dark, liquid eyes were closing as Mei shed her clothes and pulled a nightgown over her head.

Her nightly routine was simple. Clean her face, brush her hair and teeth. Adjust the window-mounted air conditioner and turn off the light. It took barely fifteen minutes. Then she lay in bed watching the play of a streetlight across her ceiling as her curtain fluttered in the breeze created by her window unit.

She remembered how Crista had poked fun at her over her man from Interpol. Rolling onto her stomach, Mei settled in, wishing she had time to do some investigative work on Archer. Although, Catherine said he came with excellent credentials…

Mmm. He came with a good physique, too, Mei mused. Cullen, who’d also changed clothes between their morning and evening encounters, had switched to snug black jeans, a black windbreaker and white sneakers. He looked as if he’d been called out to the murder site from a more relaxed activity. The sneakers had grass stains on the toes. Maybe he’d been playing tag with the twins in his massive yard. She sincerely doubted that his grass stains resulted from anything as plebeian as mowing his lawn. She drifted off to sleep smothering a laugh.

A STRIDENT AND IRRITATING ALARM brought Mei awake seven hours later. She rarely slept late enough for it to ring, and therefore had trouble finding the shut-off button. Yawning as she climbed out of bed, she couldn’t believe how well or deeply she’d slept. Generally, starting a new case left her sleepless.

Foo hadn’t budged all night either. At the alarm, his head had emerged from under his blanket, then he’d hidden again until the noise abated. Now he bounded out and zoomed straight for the door.

Mei drew on a robe and hurriedly unlocked the door leading from her bedroom to her minuscule back patio. The brick was chilly on her bare feet. She saw the day was going to be overcast, and decided to wear a pantsuit instead of a skirt.

What she liked best about Houston was that there were so few gloomy days. The fall storms that blew in from the gulf she considered more dramatic than depressing. Those storms brought thunder, lightning, and dumped a lot of rain, but blew through fast. Frequently the sun reappeared directly afterward. Today looked bleak, and matched her feelings about meeting Archer again.

“Foo, hurry up.” Mei spotted him sniffing around the bottom of the oak barrel that held a mimosa tree she’d bought the first month after moving in.

Mei could hear her neighbors on the other side of the solid wood fence. The Shigiharas were an elderly Japanese couple who spent a good part of every day puttering in their backyard. Mei loved going over there just to see what wonderful new things they’d done. They had a waterfall, a pond filled with koi, and lush bonsai trees displayed to perfection amid a plethora of bright flowers. To add to her gardening acumen, Mrs. Shigihara was a fabulous cook. The old couple liked having a police officer and her dog living next door, and Mitzi Shigihara was forever bringing over lovely wok concoctions or melt-in-your-mouth tempura dishes for Mei to try. In turn, Mei watered their yard and kept an eye on their duplex whenever they flew east to visit their son. She had to be careful not to rave about or even mention the Shigiharas to her folks. Well, not to her mother, anyway. Aun, like many from mainland China, had never forgiven the Japanese invasion. So Mei’s neighbors were another contentious issue.

Mei thought her Japanese neighbors’ culture as rich and interesting as her own. But she had to remind herself that she lived in a different era from that of her mother. Her dad, because he was American-born and because he’d traveled extensively, had more tolerance.

Later, as Mei sat in traffic on her way to Cullen’s, she wondered once again what might possess a cosmopolitan man like her dad to virtually buy a bride steeped in the old ways. An arranged marriage—an exchange facilitated by a Dingzhou matchmaker—meant, to Mei’s belief, anyway, that Michael Ling had bought himself a bride.

Why she chose to brood over it today, she didn’t know. Unless it had to do with Cullen’s insistence that they kick off the morning’s investigation by visiting her father. What did Cullen hope to accomplish?

Did he know her father’s history? Michael Ling’s parents had met in Washington, D.C. Her grandfather taught Asian dialects to American interpreters, and his future wife, an American-born Chinese woman, had been in his class.

Mei knew little else except that they’d split their time between the U.S. and Hong Kong until they’d perished in a typhoon. Stephen remembered them vaguely, he said. Mei had no recollection at all. To her they were faces in an album. When their only son, her dad, was in his teens, they’d opened Ling Limited in Hong Kong, adding branches over the years, which her dad inherited on their deaths. They’d had one, much younger daughter. She and Michael remained close.

Mei’s Aunt Tam had married a military pilot from Houston. The childless couple maintained a residence in the city, but mostly traveled. Mei had never asked, but now she supposed it was her aunt’s interest in Houston that had prompted her grandfather to open a gallery here.

As a child, she hadn’t questioned why so few Asian students attended her school. In the last few years their number had grown exponentially. New Asian businesses were springing up along Bellaire Boulevard, Mei reflected as she identified herself through the speakerphone at the gate hiding Cullen Archer’s home.

Freda answered. This time, though, when Mei entered the house, the toys were gone, the floors gleamed and the housekeeper looked less harried.

“I’m here for an early meeting with Mr. Archer.”

Freda cast a glance up the stairs. “Mr. Cullen’s already in his office. Please talk softly for a while. Then I might get some housework done before the cyclones wake up. It’s not like them to sleep late when they’re visiting their dad.”

“The children are visiting their father?”

“Well, I suppose visiting is the wrong word. Cullen and Jana have joint custody. The twins live with her in Austin during the school year. They spend summers here, and some holidays—and any time their mother flies to Dallas or Kansas City for shopping, or otherwise goes globe-trotting.” The woman uttered a disgusted snort. Then, as if she realized she’d overstepped her bounds, she rearranged her features and hurried down the hall toward Cullen’s office, leaving Mei to follow.

Freda thrust open Cullen’s office door and announced Mei Lu. Just as on the previous day, she then made herself scarce.

“You’re prompt,” Cullen said. “I like that in an associate.”

Mei unbuttoned the single button on her jacket and sat in the same chair she’d occupied yesterday. His casual use of the word associate didn’t escape her. She sincerely doubted it held the same meaning for him as it did for her, and decided to test the waters now. “I see you have a photocopy machine.” She avoided looking directly at him as she kept her gaze on the notebook she flipped open. “Since we’ll be splitting tasks, wouldn’t it be wise if we started with the same facts?”

Raising her eyes a little at a time, Mei added, “I’m sure you see the logic of giving me all the evidence you have up to this point.”

She’d quite clearly caught Cullen off guard. He said nothing, then coughed, then rapidly clicked his ballpoint pen—a habit Mei had noticed whenever he seemed deep in thought. As if on cue, Freda breezed into the office bearing a tray filled with steaming dishes. A pot of tea. A small carafe of coffee. On the tray, as well, was a variety of breakfast items. Fluffy scrambled eggs. Buttered homemade breads. Sausage patties and crispy bacon. And an assortment of cold fruit. Freda set the large tray in the center of Cullen’s desk. From an apron pocket she produced silverware wrapped in blue linen napkins.

“Scoot your chair right on up here, dear,” she told Mei Lu. “Eat while it’s hot. The plates are still warm. You’ll find two under the meat platter.” Beaming into Mei’s surprised face, the housekeeper, who seemed to do everything at a dead run, turned and vanished.

Cullen passed one plate and a silver service to Mei. “Correct me if I guessed wrong. But I’m reasonably sure that you haven’t had breakfast.”

Mei attempted to hide a telltale expression.

Cullen had sharp eyes. “That’s what I figured. Last night after I got home from the morgue and told Freda what time to expect you, she pointed out that you wouldn’t have time for breakfast.” He shrugged. “I mistakenly assumed you lived with your parents. I have no idea why I thought that. Thirty-something women rarely live at home. Dig in.” He motioned toward the eggs with his fork.

Mei complied, but hadn’t managed to halt one eyebrow from spiking toward her hairline.

“What? You think it’s rude of me to bring up a lady’s age?” Cullen filched a piece of bacon off the meat platter, grinning as he bit into it.

“I’m only questioning how you know my age. And why.”

“For the record, I’m thirty-six.” Cullen saved his scowl for the small amount Mei put on her plate. “Interpol assembles dossiers on everyone involved in one of their cases.”

“So, I can request your dossier? I mean, if we’re going to work together and you have mine. Isn’t turnabout fair play?”

He paused to sample his coffee. “I’ll request one for you. How’s the tea? I’ve heard tea-drinkers are fussier than coffee slobs. As a rule, we’re happy with anything that’s not total sludge.”

Mei peered into the pot, poured tea into her cup, then tasted it while Cullen watched. “Lapsang,” she announced, pleased. Lapsang didn’t usually come from a bag.

“I’m glad you like it. After you left yesterday, and before the call from Homicide, I discovered we were out of tea. I stopped at the market on my way home. I have to admit their selection boggled my mind.”

“Thank you for your consideration, but there’s no need to feed me at our meetings. I’m quite used to hitting the ground running. We’re not here to socialize, but to lay out a plan for finding the people trafficking in stolen treasures. Or worse. Although the dead couriers are Homicide’s problem.”

Cullen knew he’d been put in his place. “Normally I don’t work with a partner. Tracking lost or stolen art is usually a solitary pursuit. So forgive me if I’m unfamiliar with partnership protocol. I felt…hoped things would go more smoothly if we got along.”

Ah, they were finally getting somewhere. Mei set her plate back on the tray and poured herself more tea. She leaned back, studying him over the rim of the cup. “That’s where we differ, Mr. Archer. I always work with a team initially. But once all the team members understand the scope of the situation we’re investigating, we go our separate ways, touching base once a week to update the others on our progress.”

“I think we should start by using first names. Call me Cullen. Do you prefer Mei or Mei Lu?”

She waffled a bit, having had this same discussion with Captain Murdock yesterday. And the way her name sounded as it fell musically from this man’s lips took her mind off the matter at hand. “In any investigation undertaken by our department, staff would call me Lieutenant. Last night you didn’t tell me whether you have a rank at Interpol. If so, I think that would be the most professional approach. I admit I’m surprised to find an agent of theirs living in Houston.”

“I’m a civilian on a list of private insurance investigators that all insurance companies can access. They call someone on the list whenever an insured item is stolen or goes missing. If I’m tied up on another case or decline their offer, they go to the next name. As to living here—” he waved a hand airily “—that’s a result of my great-grandfather’s toil and a bit of luck. Matt Archer was a wildcatter who hit black gold. His wife, Sophia, sheltered their newly acquired fortune in land, cattle and fine art. His son, my grandfather, was something of an entrepreneur. My father, who was ambassador to Indonesia for many years, helped develop an art-exchange program. When Mom died, he married a woman from Djakarta. Never had a desire to come back here.” He paused.

Mei murmured for him to continue.

“I attended university in England. After graduation, you might say I fell into a job with a prominent gallery in Paris, as a broker of European art. I saw high-end paintings ship but fail to reach their destinations, and I wanted to know where such pieces went. It turns out I had a knack for getting them back. As a matter of course, I attracted the attention of our insurers, like Lloyd’s of London. I soon discovered they paid better for what I’d been doing for a pittance. At times my path crossed Interpol’s. Art recovery became an ongoing passion, one I was able to continue even after I moved home to manage my grandfather’s estate following his death. Now you have most of what’s in my dossier,” he said wryly.

Maybe most, but not all. Mei thought he’d neatly skirted the facts surrounding both his marriage and divorce. “You certainly have an interesting, eclectic background. You’re no doubt aware that the extent of my investigative experience is local, or in some cases tracking leads into bordering states. I look forward to learning how you hunt criminals and question potential witnesses in other countries.”

Cullen glanced over her head and made no comment, but waited for Freda to enter and collect the tray from his desk.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said. “I wanted to give you a heads-up about the children beginning to stir. It seems that no matter how hard I try to keep them from invading your office when you’re working, they manage to finagle their way around me.”

“That’s fine, Freda. Belinda, especially, needs to start her day with hugs.”

The woman asked if either of them needed anything else; when both Cullen and Mei said they were fine, Freda cleared the desk and left in a rattle of dishes.

“Your children are lucky you’re so easygoing,” Mei Lu remarked in the ensuing silence.

“Yes. Well, kids lose enough stability when parents part ways.”

“From the little I saw of them, they seem remarkably happy and well-adjusted.”

Cullen shifted in his chair, acting almost flustered by the compliment. Mei wondered if fatherhood was an area the coolly competent Mr. Archer had reservations about. If so, she’d find that hard to believe.

Cullen rearranged his features quickly. “Two of the homicide detectives last night were also present when the first courier was found. To date they’ve turned up no leads. Both men said trying to get information out of witnesses near the nightclub parking lot was like hitting a brick wall. Witnesses either don’t speak English or pretend they don’t. I hate to say this in front of another of Houston’s finest, but I felt solving these murders isn’t a high priority.”

Mei returned her teacup to its saucer. “Do you consider the officers derelict in duty, or have they truly exhausted every lead?”

“I wasn’t at the first site initially. I joined the case several days later. I can’t fault how the team swept the dock for clues last night. They were thorough. I saw one officer walk along the row of parked cars and take down the license numbers of two that still had warm engines. He planned to pay the owners visits this morning to see if they saw or heard anything significant.”

“It sounds to me as if they plan to work the case.”

Cullen let out a breath. “You’re right. I’m just a man who likes speedy results. It’s difficult to accept that if people saw a man killed before their eyes, they’d stonewall the cops.”

“Sometimes cops are the last ones witnesses want to speak with.”

“I know. But I’m sure you know that in the past our police department—or I should qualify and say some cops in the city have been as underhanded as the crooks.”

Mei stiffened automatically. It was an accusation of long standing, one she’d heard Catherine gripe about often enough. “On a force our size, there are bound to be a few bad apples.” Mei found herself quoting the chief. “Chief Tanner cleaned house after she came on board. She outright fired officers proven to be on the take. She reprimanded and demoted others.”

“Hey, I’m not accusing your chief. I occasionally run into the city manager at community events, and he says she’s tough. Yet murder is on the rise.”

“And Homicide is a division that’s spread thin. I have a good friend who works in the Chicano section. That’s another area of the city where witnesses clam up and suddenly become deaf and blind. I’ll be glad to ask Crista for some tips on how she interrogates. She has a high degree of success.”

Cullen opened his folder and turned to a new page in his notebook. “All right. That would be good. I’d like us to go around to the nightclub and talk to people who might’ve seen our first courier before he was killed. How many dialects are you conversant in?”

“I’m fluent in Mandarin and passable in Cantonese.”

“That’s great. I told you I spent some time trying to work a case in Guangdong province. I took a crash course in Cantonese. The taped kind, of course. I learned little and retained less. Luckily, I found that the Asians I came in contact with were very tolerant of my frequent goofs.”

Mei laughed. “Our language is one of the more difficult. So few foreigners make an effort, and they were probably pleased you did.” The knot in her stomach loosened a bit as they talked. She’d been so sure the first thing out of Cullen’s mouth would have to do with her father.

“They understood my pathetic attempts far more easily than I was able to decipher what they said. Maybe I have a bad ear, but many of the words sound alike to me.”

“It’s not you at all. Chinese is a tonal language. Words have different pitch patterns, but none of the emotional rise and fall you get in English or other European languages.” Changing the subject, she said, “I’ll be happy to go poke around the nightclub after it opens today. Just give me a list of people the homicide crew interviewed. If nothing else, the bartender may be able to provide some other leads. Is the bar open all day, or only nights? Where is it located?”

Cullen absently read off the address. “Doug Whitsell said they open at noon.” He glanced up and narrowed his eyes as he watched Mei jotting it down in her notebook. “Listen, I don’t want you going into that part of town alone. Not even in daylight. It’s too dangerous.”

At first Mei thought he was teasing. But the minute she stopped writing and looked up, she realized he was dead serious. “Cullen.” His name rolled easily off her tongue. Too easily. “The address you gave me is two blocks north of the market where I do my grocery shopping.”

“Impossible. I’ve been there, remember. This area is run down. According to the lead investigator, it’s a high-crime neighborhood.”

Mei pursed her lips. “Honestly! Now you sound exactly like my parents.”

He seemed taken aback by her vehemence. “Let’s forget the nightclub for a moment and discuss your parents. Your father, anyway.”

Mei tried to control her nerves. It was clear that Cullen intended to say more. But his office door banged open and two excited children came thundering in, shouting and trying to see who could gain their father’s attention first.

“Daddy, Daddy.” The twins ran past Mei’s chair. Instead of grappling a white rabbit as they had on her previous visit, they were now in a tug-of-war over a portable phone.

“It’s Mom!” Belinda screeched loudest, but her brother succeeded in wresting the instrument out of his sister’s hands.

“She’s calling from way far away,” Bobby declared importantly. “Freda said Bangkok.”

“Yes, and Freda said Mom wants to talk to you before Bobby and me get to say a word.” Cullen’s daughter slipped anxiously between the desk and her father’s chair and somehow managed to drape herself over his arm. “Hi, police lady!”