She Walks the Line

“Belinda and Bobby are twins,” Cullen remarked to Mei. He filled a tea ball, which he placed in a flowered cup, then poured hot water into a small metal teapot. He set the cup and pot on his desk. “By and large they’re great kids for eight-year-olds,” he said, returning for his pottery mug. “Belinda, though, is the original drama queen. I suspect sometimes she only wants to check out my guests. If she’d really come to complain about her brother, he’d have flown in right behind her to defend himself.” Grinning, Cullen sat down again opposite his guest. “Do you have children?” he inquired suddenly.

She shook her head, but her hand quivered pouring her water. “I’m not married,” she murmured, casting her eyes down as she dunked the infusion ball. The aroma of jasmine enveloped her, instantly settling her jumpy stomach. She managed to gain a firm grip on the cup’s handle.

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you by getting personal. I’m divorced with kids, and I’ve found that having children in common is often an icebreaker.” Cullen had seen the tinge of red creep up her neck. “I…uh, I’ve wasted enough of your time, not to mention taxpayer money. Shall we get straight to it?”

Mei nodded, replacing her cup without ever tasting the fragrant tea. She was afraid her unsteady hands would make her appear too flighty for a law officer. Normally, she wasn’t giddy around men, a fact her friends teased her about unmercifully. One by one, Mei had watched those same women fall in love. Risa, Lucy, Crista, and the latest, Abby, who’d twice given up her career to follow Thomas Riley. This time to North Carolina. The women had spoken over the weekend, Abby had sounded happy with her move, and Mei hoped she was.

Mei didn’t exactly envy Abby or the others. Rather, she was confused by the changes that had come over all her friends with the entry of lovers into their lives. Lately, she’d felt less connected to them. Mei tried, but she didn’t understand how the women all juggled love and their police careers. Because of that, she sometimes felt as if she stood outside their old circle, looking in.

Cullen regained Mei Lu’s wandering attention by pulling a manila file folder from his drawer and flipping it open. “I assume your chief briefed you.”

“Not really. She said you needed me to translate…something. Some document having to do with artifacts smuggled out of Beijing?”

Separating a glossy eight-by-ten photograph from papers in the file, Archer slid it silently across the desk.

Mei leaned forward to see better, and also to avoid a glare from the window. When a picture of a glazed earthenware warrior painted in exquisite detail came into focus, an involuntary gasp escaped her lips. “The Heavenly King,” she breathed, running a fingertip over the colorful statue. “Tang Dynasty, 709. Excavated in 1981 from the tomb of An Pu in Henan province.”

“Right on all counts.” Cullen was admittedly floored by the woman’s knowledge. “A member of the Houston Art Buyers’ Guild received this photo in the mail, accompanied by a typed memo—in English—asking if he might know of a buyer for the piece. The memo also said he’d be contacted within the week by a courier who would supposedly bring him the statue to authenticate. No courier came, so the dealer, suspicious anyway, sent the packet to Interpol. To an agent who, with my help, had recovered a stolen carving for him last year.”

“Then no one’s seen this statue?” Mei dropped the photo on the desk.

“No. But a second, smaller print turned up, along with this note, in a belly band worn by a man dressed in old-style Chinese garb. His body’s gone unclaimed in the morgue. Interpol was combing U.S. newspapers and chanced on a small article from Houston. It described how police, stopping to investigate a disturbance in the parking lot of an Asian nightclub, scattered a group of men. Someone in that group apparently shot our guy. I’ve viewed the body and the evidence. I think he’s probably the courier.”

“May I see the note? I assume it’s what needs translating?”

Cullen hesitated, although he wasn’t sure why. “I spent time in Guangzhou last year, tracking a forged silk tapestry. I had to work from police notes jotted in Chinese. I’m moderately familiar with what’s called grass Chinese. Very informal scribbling. Shorthand, if you will. This appears to be a formal letter, Lieutenant Lu.”

Mei’s head shot up. “Lieutenant Ling. Lu is my middle name. My surname is Ling.”

Cullen held tight to the letter. “You wouldn’t be related to Michael?” Even as he asked, Cullen wanted her to deny the connection. But then, he hadn’t expected a police translator to be so familiar with Chinese art.

Mei deliberately took her first sip of tea. “Michael Ling is my father,” she said eventually. “Stephen, my brother, also works in the family business. For a time, I headed our Hong Kong office.” Setting her cup back in its saucer, she pried the note out from under Archer’s hand.

He wanted to snatch the page back, but realized too late that she’d begun to explain what the note said. And he needed to focus on her soft voice.

“It’s a simple introduction of the bearer, named Wang Xi, to an unnamed cousin of the person who wrote this. The cousin is being asked to see to Wang Xi’s comfort during his brief stay in Houston. He’s asked to…to…help Wang Xi knock on the right doors. Complying will remove one debt from the cousin’s book.” Chewing her lower lip, Mei sat back to mull over what she’d read.

Across the desk, Cullen steepled his fingers. “What book?” he asked abruptly.

Mei shrugged. Even if she’d been inclined to fill Cullen Archer in about the book the writer referred to, she doubted he’d understand. Such books weren’t real, but figurative. In traditional and extended Asian families—including aunts, uncles, cousins and dear friends—it wasn’t uncommon for heads of households to keep unwritten lists of debts, which weren’t always paid monetarily. Favors often sufficed as payment. But that was difficult to explain to non-Chinese.

“Who do you think has the Heavenly King now?” she asked. “Are you quite sure your art-dealer friend didn’t end up with the statue?”

“Why would he notify Interpol?” Cullen asked curtly.

“To make himself appear innocent? To turn questions elsewhere after the courier—if that’s who Wang Xi was—ended up dead in a parking lot.”

“That might fly, except that a month ago, after undergoing a quadruple heart bypass, this particular dealer liquidated his business.”

Mei picked up her cup and, while she and Cullen Archer studied each other across his broad desk, drained it.

Archer drummed his fingers on the folder of notes pertaining to the case. “Why Houston? Why not San Francisco or New York City, which certainly have far greater numbers of serious Asian art collectors.”

“I’m afraid I have no theory about that, Mr. Archer.” He’d begun probing her once she’d revealed her connection to Ling Limited, and she didn’t like it one bit. Her father’s behavior was always ethical, business or life. In fact, Michael Ling was honest to a fault. Mei Lu had seen him draw up a check for fifty cents for a mail-order customer who’d miscalculated the state tax.

She kept her eyes trained on tea leaves that had filtered from the ball to settle in the bottom of her cup. Her mother made a practice of reading the leaves.

Just when Mei was sure the man who faced her with a scowl would finally tell her what was on his mind, his twins burst into the room. They were freshly scrubbed and now dressed in shorts and bright colored T-shirts. Belinda wore pink, her shining curls swept up into a ponytail held in place by a pink flowered scrunchie. Bobby’s clothes were more sedate—dark-brown shorts and a plain olive shirt. Both children wore sandals. Each dashed shy glances at Mei Lu even as they pounced on their father.

“Freda says come to lunch. She sent us to ask if the lady police person is going to eat with us.” Bobby’s voice rose above his sister’s. It was he, not Belinda, who turned to Mei, demanding bluntly, “If you’re a cop, where’s your uniform and badge? And where’s your cop car?”

Mei smiled. “I used to wear a uniform, Bobby. I drove a patrol car, too. Now I work in a different department. I’m sorry if you’re disappointed.”

Bobby didn’t look so much crestfallen as suspicious. “All the policemen I’ve ever seen carry guns.”

His sister wiggled her way to the foreground, managing to put herself center stage. “I told Bobby policewomen are diff’rent from policemen. I bet you take bad guys out with kicks and stuff like Charlie’s Angels in a movie Mom let us rent.”

Mei honestly didn’t know how to answer the child. And she certainly didn’t want to admit she carried a Taser.

Fortunately, the children’s father came to her rescue and exclaimed, “Enough. Quit bugging Lieutenant Ling. Go tell Freda we’re almost finished here. Tell her to give me five minutes, then I’ll join you kids for lunch on the terrace.”

The children thundered out with a chorus of yippees and yays. Mei saw that Cullen’s eyes followed both of them indulgently and lovingly.

Turning again to his guest, he said, “I apologize for my children’s interruption. I’ve noted your translation. Thank you for your assistance. I believe that concludes our business, Lieutenant.” He stood, clearly dismissing her.

Despite her curiosity, Mei rose as well. She’d love to know what was contained in the other pages stacked in the folder Archer had shut. She also wondered vaguely about the whereabouts of the twins’ mother. Did Cullen have his kids all the time? It didn’t matter—although, he’d begun to ask about her life. Regardless, Mei sensed that her host had clammed up as soon as he’d learned about her relationship to Michael Ling and Ling Limited.

She extended her right hand, shifting the almost-empty cup she still held. Fumbling, Archer barely brushed her knuckles with his fingers.

“I understand your children are waiting for you,” she said. “In a way, I’m sorry we don’t have longer to discuss this case. Puzzles of this nature intrigue me.”

“I appreciate your willingness to drop your work and interpret for me. However, I haven’t got time to fill you in on the mostly boring details I’ve gathered to date.”

Mei Lu pasted on a false smile, and reached beneath his arm to set her cup solidly back in its saucer. “There’s a Chinese proverb my father’s fond of. ‘Never talk business before the third cup of tea.’ I’m generally too impatient to practice it, myself.”

“I’m afraid you’ve lost me.” Cullen wore a similar forced smile.

“Loosely translated it means, accept the first cup of tea in friendship when it’s offered. But if you aren’t offered another, it’s time to leave.”

Mei Lu turned then and left the room. She avoided various toys still scattered in the hallway, thinking what a waste this was of her first morning as a lieutenant. At the entry, she found herself glancing back at Archer’s office and again caught her breath as she looked at the man who’d stepped into the hall. Presumably he wanted to ensure she did leave his home—without filching one of his expensive vases. Mei was overwhelmed by the feeling that it was just as well she wasn’t going to be faced with seeing this jarringly handsome but patently distrustful man a second time. Still, Cullen Archer caused butterflies in her stomach.

His twins dashed out from where they’d been playing under the curved stairs. “Bye, policewoman,” Belinda called, waving madly. “Come again when you can stay and have lunch with us.”

“I’ll shut the door so I can make sure Mopsy doesn’t sneak out,” Bobby Archer declared, sounding adult and clearly not echoing his sister’s generous sentiment.

Mei Lu recognized in the boy’s eyes a coolness very similar to what she’d seen in his dad’s. Maybe Bobby resented the divorce and felt the need to protect his mother’s interests. She hurried out, wondering if the boy had perceived her fleeting attention. But that was impossible—wasn’t it?

She sensed movement at Archer’s office window and knew he’d gone back to monitor her departure. To Mei Lu’s relief her car started without a hitch. The last thing she needed now was the humiliation of being stuck in his driveway.

CHAPTER TWO

AFTER RETURNING TO THE PRECINCT, Mei plunged straight into writing an official report on her meeting. Chewing thoughtfully on the end of her pen, she tore up her first draft, and began again in her small, neat penmanship. What had she learned about the smuggling ring? Nothing useful. But Catherine was a stickler for reports. Comprehensive ones. Mei decided she should also include a few personal impressions such as the fact that Cullen Archer apparently liked playing the lone cowboy.

Most cops hated filing reports more than any other part of their job. Especially the men. Mei didn’t understand their objections, or their propensity for delay. She felt that writing a report while the information was still fresh—instead of bitching about it—would make their lives less stressful. But then, some cops thrived on stress.

Coffee, doughnuts and stress. And, in some cases, cigarettes.

“Well, well. I thought the chief said we wouldn’t have the pleasure of the China doll’s company today.”

Mei gnashed her teeth before looking up, knowing she’d find Captain Sheldon Murdock behind that booming observation. And talk about cigarette odor—his suits always reeked. Even now the smell preceded him into her cubicle. Still, that might be the least offensive thing about the captain, who was the only negative aspect of her promotion. Her former commander had been decent and respectful of his staff.

“Good day, Captain. As you see, I’m definitely here now.” Discreetly, Mei Lu slid a blank sheet of paper over what she’d written. Shel Murdock was a blabbermouth. It was widely known that he expended a lot of effort attempting to pick up information from underlings—information he fed to higher-ups as his own. This was a practice the previous chief had encouraged, but Mei knew Catherine deplored it, as did most younger cops. Filched evidence often contained half-truths and gave rise to rumors, which fueled distrust among peers, who should be able to rely on one another without hesitation.

“What’s that you’re hiding, sweet thang?” Murdock drawled, propping his wide butt on Mei Lu’s desk. He leaned closer, actually trying to tug away the sheet covering her report.

Mei anchored it with her elbow. She stared coolly up into Murdock’s eyes. “Sir, please call me Lieutenant Ling or just plain Lieutenant. I’ve worked hard to achieve my rank.”

“Oooh, guys, listen to her. Chilly Lilly!” The captain slid off Mei’s desk and made a mocking gesture with his hand.

“Better back off, Cap’n,” muttered the sergeant. “She’s one of the chief’s special chicks. Call her anything you want at O’Malley’s when we’re having a beer after work. In-house or at official sites she’s Lieutenant Ling. Remember how fast Jake Haslett got busted back to patrol for a little teasing he did.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Murdock hitched up his pants. “So, Lew…tenant,” he said, drawing it out. “Since you’re here, does that mean I can assign you cases in our regular rotation?”

“After I finish this report and deliver it upstairs to the chief as she requested. Then I’ll be ready to take the next case that comes in.” She emphasized next to let Captain Murdock know she didn’t want him shoving all the crappy, already-worked-to-death cases off on her like someone across the hall had tried when she first joined the white-collar crimes division. Mei was wiser now.

“Cap’n, you’d better ask old Iron Pants, er…Chief Tanner, before you assign the lieutenant. I took her call this morning. The chief said to consider Ling on special assignment until further notice.” Sergeant Chuck Marshall stood and handed Murdock a sheaf of messages. He indicated one, presumably Catherine’s.

Silence fell over the office. Only the department clerk kept typing. Her earphones were in place.

“Look, guys,” Mei said, rapping her pen sharply on her desk. She resented that this byplay was still happening at this stage of her career. She especially resented what wasn’t a slip of Marshall’s tongue. Usually she fired back at anyone who tacked rude monikers on Catherine. Today, though, Mei simply wanted to get on with her task. “I’ve worked with most of you in the past,” she said evenly. “Nothing’s changed except that I’ve received a promotion. I didn’t stand on that dais alone on Friday. Yet I don’t hear you giving Lieutenant Herrera a hard time.”

A few people, those who were good cops, returned to work. Others didn’t hide their animosity. Murdock hesitated a fraction longer, then stomped into his office and slammed the door.

Ignoring the men who continued to glare, Mei calmly gathered up her notes. It was time to find a more secure corner in which to finish her report. Mei didn’t consider her leaving a retreat by any means; she was just being practical, since Catherine had stressed the importance of the case.

The truth in this department was that no matter how progressive a spin public relations put on hiring practices, subtle harassment of females still existed, and tended to flare up following a transfer or a promotion.

Catherine worked hard to crack down on gender or racial bias. But she couldn’t cover all bases, and even she had her hands full. Some city official or other was constantly running to local reporters with allegations of internal police corruption.

An investigator from Mei’s previous unit looked up as she passed his door. He jumped up, calling her. “Mei Lu. Do you have a minute? I just received notice that Judge Burkholder authorized an appeal in David St. John’s case. Since you presented our evidence at the original trial and phase two will probably fall to me, I’d like to pick your brain if I may.”

Mei skidded to a halt. “You’re kidding! Someone granted St. John’s appeal? He’s guilty as sin. He bilked more than thirty senior citizens out of their life savings. What are the grounds for granting him another hearing?”

Her fellow investigator stood aside, then followed her to his desk where the St. John file lay open. “Same old stupid technicality, Mei. David engaged a new attorney, who claims the arresting officer brought him in, booked him and stood him in a lineup, all before giving St. John access to counsel.”

“The officer nabbed him coming out of the victim’s bank. He had her cash on him. Three former victims, and Mrs. Baxter, picked him out of that lineup.” Mei sat down and thumbed through the folder. “Don’t tell me we’re going to have to let that creep walk on this one, Patrick. I couldn’t prove it but I strongly suspect he’s pulled his scam in other cities. This problem is spreading nationwide.”

Pat Wilkinson spun a second chair around and sat beside Mei. “I’ve got no doubt that you’re right. Even though St. John only drew an eighteen-month sentence, I want the bastard to serve every second. Guys who prey on old folks or kids are at the bottom of the food chain. My grandpa lost his savings in a similar scheme last year in L.A.” He shook his head. “I never thought Gramps would trust a stranger with his bank information. I guess the elderly are prime targets for fast-talking con men and women.”

“Sure. They see their savings dwindling. The con artists are often normal-looking people who come across as trustworthy. They all promise to double or triple whatever money the victim has put away. Of course, the victims want to leave something for their children.”

“According to your notes, you recommended not putting any of these victims on the stand unless absolutely necessary.”

“Right. Because in general they can be easily rattled by slick opposing counsel. Defense attorneys tend to question their failing eyesight or faulty hearing. Last year I did months of legwork and had a female con dead to rights. Her lawyer shredded our case. Her transactions were all verbal. She claimed she never said what the victims claimed they heard. But with this St. John guy—Mrs. Baxter might make a good witness.”

Mei and Patrick retraced her early work through every twist and turn. It was quitting time before he seemed satisfied that he’d gleaned enough information about the case to let her go.

She ended up dashing off a passable report on the artifact smuggling, and ran it upstairs moments before Catherine’s assistant left for the day. The chief’s office was closed and dark. “I’m glad I caught you, Annette,” Mei said breathlessly. “Can you put this report envelope on Chief Tanner’s desk? I wouldn’t ask, but she impressed on me earlier that she wants to keep this information confidential.”

“Oh, Lieutenant Ling. Chief Tanner tried to reach you before she left. No one in your department knew where you were.”

“Sorry, I should’ve told Captain Murdock I was next door consulting with Pat Wilkinson on an old case. Did the chief need something specific? Should I bother her at home or try her cell?”

“No. She’s attending a city council meeting tonight. She only wants to be called in extreme emergencies,” Annette said.

“I’d never contact her after hours without authorization,” Mei stated firmly. People at the precinct already thought she, Risa, Crista and Lucy had undue access to Catherine. The last thing Mei wanted was for another rumor to start. Not that Annette would talk out of turn… “I won’t be going straight home, either,” she added. “I plan to work out for a while at the Shao-Lin Martial Arts Studio. Chief Tanner has the number. Could you add that information to your note? In case she comes back after her meeting and wants to reach me after reading this report.”

Annette nodded. Mei waited to make sure the woman did place the envelope on Catherine’s desk. Call her paranoid, but early in her career she’d had an important report inexplicably disappear. She swore she’d turned it in, and the man responsible for handing it over to a superior was just as insistent that she’d done nothing of the sort. Since then Mei had tracked the progress of her reports.

Forty-five minutes later, having donned a loose-fitting shirt and pants to work out in, Mei was in the process of closing her locker when Crista Santiago bounded into the dressing room. Crista always did everything with a limitless energy that Mei envied. Mei was tired of avoiding her old friends. Words had flown and meanings were misconstrued after Risa was wrongly accused of shooting and killing her partner. Some of the once-close group of women had felt a need to pull back for the sake of their own fledgling careers, and hard feelings still existed. So many times she and Crista had talked about working out together again. Thinking tonight was as good a chance as any, Mei Lu shot her friend a welcoming smile.

“Qué pasa?” Crista said, unable to sidestep Mei Lu.

Mei shrugged. “Nothing’s happening in my life—how about yours? Are you upset, Crista? Or annoyed? Those are the only times I’ve heard you revert to Spanish.”

“Could be Alex’s influence,” she said, referring to her fiancé, a man she’d met when she’d investigated the drive-by shooting of his daughter. “Or it could be the fact that I had a double homicide last night on the east side, and I’m beat. Two teens vying for top spot in their gang. So senseless,” the dark-eyed woman said as she pulled on a T-shirt and sweatpants. “But I think you’re holding back, Mei. Right before I left the station I heard whispers that you tangled with Captain Murdock.” Crista lowered her voice. “Can you talk about it?”

Mei lifted an eyebrow. “Wow, news does travel at the speed of light. I wouldn’t say we tangled, exactly. You know Murdock and his cutesy names. I merely informed him I’d rather he called me Lieutenant or Lieutenant Ling.”

Crista whistled through her teeth. “Just watch your back, okay? I hear Murdock blocked another woman’s request to join his staff. It’s no secret that he favors the likes of Eddie Fontanero. I avoid Sergeant Creepo at all costs.”

“I’ve heard the rumors. But those incidents were a few years ago. Before Catherine was made chief.”

“Yeah, I know. Still…” Crista let the word trail off as she tugged on wristbands and started warming up. “Hey, does Catherine seem on edge to you?”