Dim Sum Dead (23 page)

Lee Chen, my old teacher. The woman whom I had long admired. So much like me, I’d imagined—a chef, a businesswoman, a kind soul. What to do with the knowledge that she had let her past mistakes well up and drown her reason.

What to do about her admission of murder? The woman was now so old and ill. Likely, her illness would take her swiftly. Should justice be left to God? I thought about the lack of real proof, when it came down to it. Lee had purposely pushed Quita McBride to her death, but it could never be proved unless she confessed. Would she ever admit to another soul what she had admitted to me? It seemed to me—running over and over the possible outcomes in the middle of the night—that I might merely choose to do nothing. Unlike the police, I had that option.

I spent the hours before morning turning it over in my mind. Who else had to know what had really happened on that quiet night in Whitley Heights? I tried to convince myself no one would be hurt, but the truth, painful as a toothache, would not allow such an easy resolution. There were two women to whom I was obligated in this matter. One I had cared for, one I had not, but was either of their lives more or less important? If I chose to protect Lee Chen’s secret, how would I live with myself as I betrayed Quita McBride once again?

In the end, the hours spent weighing and judging and agonizing were all a waste. As dawn came and my bedroom window began to brighten, I had come up with no plan that would make everything all right. I drifted off to sleep.

When I awoke an hour later, I recognized my own truth. I was powerless to right a situation that was so wrong. Lee Chen had admitted to pushing a woman to her death. Fated or not to the lives we live in this world, I still believe we must make our own choices. It was as simple as that. This was true for Lee Chen, and also for me.

Calling Honnett was like calling the doctor when you have spent the night denying you felt a lump—that kind of anguish. There was little relief in coming forward with such devastating news.

During that phone call, Honnett remained quiet as I told him everything that I had learned, everything that Lee Chen had revealed to me the night before. We agreed to meet at eleven. I selected the location.

A succession of servers pushing steaming carts stopped at our table and left off a selection of treats. And now the table before us was covered in little metal bowls filled with four tiny Dim Sum treats each, from spicy pork Shu Mei to succulent pink shrimp Har Gow to Ho Yip Fan, fried rice wrapped in lotus leaves. There were also soup dumplings, a marvel of culinary engineering in which a portion of soup is magically sealed inside a gossamer rice-flour skin and steamed without a drop of leakage, and Chien Chang Go, “thousand-layer cake with egg topping,” each small pastry
tart a piece of flaky sweetness.

“You ready to hear this, or should we wait until after lunch?” Honnett asked, his big callused hand holding mine tight.

“Okay. Tell me.” I sat there, feeling myself shrink.

“I called Mrs. Chen right after I talked to you. She didn’t answer her phone.”

I knew Honnett had planned to talk to Lee. He told me he was going to interview her. He felt she might want to make a statement, get it all off her chest. And he was pretty confident he could break her down. I wasn’t so sure, but what do I know about the psychology of police interrogation? All morning, I couldn’t get that picture out of my head. The humiliation of Lee Chen.

My stomach began to turn. “You know what? Can I change my mind?” I looked at Chuck Honnett, his face strong, his eyes kinder than I remembered them. “Can we discuss this at the end of the meal?”

“Sure we can,” Honnett said. “Tell me about all this stuff I’m eating.”

And so I did.

We also discussed a few other matters. Some police business.

“Say, you know that guy Trey Forsythe? He’s one of your buddies, isn’t he?” Honnett asked, oblivious to my visit with Trey.

“Not quite,” I said. “What about him?”

“He was beat up pretty bad last night. I saw the report he filed.”

“He’s okay?” I asked, startled. Those Chinese gamblers had come to collect, and Trey must have told them he didn’t have their twenty grand. “Was it the tongs?”

“Nope,” Honnett said. “He claims it was a former girlfriend that beat him up. You know Verushka Mars? That’s the one. She attacked him with a stick or something.”

Oh, man.

“All you hear about all day is about everybody’s worst moments in hell. You have such a lousy job,” I said, but this
time, more in commiseration than in criticism, the way I have said it in the past. “Say,” I said, “I got a call from Catherine Hill. How about that?”

“Movie stars are calling you. That’s perfect,” Honnett said, grinning.

“The maj ‘girls’ wanted to invite me to their next mah-jongg party. Next Friday.”

“Really?” Honnett looked up, a dumpling poised between chopsticks, and asked, innocently, “To play or to cook?”

I had to smile at that. “To play. They want to teach me. I think I remind them of themselves as young women. Which is pretty scary, Honnett.”

“You can teach them a thing or two,” he said.

“Oh, and Wesley has a weird thing,” I said. “You know that house he’s been fixing up. He’s already replaced the roof, floors, plaster, almost everything. And then guess what? He got a call from a broker who has a buyer with cash. They are making an offer.”

“I thought you told me the house isn’t finished,” Honnett said.

“Right. But most of the major work is done. Wesley has poured a ton of money into it already. But here’s the catch. The new buyer wants to tear the entire house down and start over. They’re going to put up a new one from scratch.”

“Ouch,” Honnett said, getting the irony. “Are they offering a lot?”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Wes will make a fortune. But he’ll lose the Wetherbee house.”

“Tough call,” Honnett said. “Someone wants to destroy all his work.”

I smiled at Honnett, feeling better than I had in days. This felt like a relationship. This felt good.

“Will he sell it?” Honnett asked, sampling the pork Shu Mei.

“Oh, yeah,” I said, smiling. “It’s a lot of money. He is really aggravated and worried about it, but he can’t stop the world from changing.”

“I had no idea Wes had such a tough business head,” Honnett said. “Guess he’s not the emotional jerk I would be in that case. I’d never sell.”

“You wouldn’t?” What a delightful thought. Was Honnett admitting to an emotional side I had never suspected? “You’re an emotional jerk? Tell me about this.”

“I mean about stuff I fix up,” Honnett said, coloring. “My cars. Did you know I fix up old Mustangs? I’d never sell one of those babies to a chop shop, Maddie. I can feel Wesley’s pain.”

Throughout our meal, I got a charge out of watching Honnett try each new Dim Sum dish. He was wildly open and adventurous in his eating. I loved that.

We carefully avoided bringing up the subject of Lee Chen, and as the meal wound down we had both relaxed. Perhaps this strange occasion had given birth to one of our first real conversations. I was telling him about some of my friends, people he had yet to meet.

“I got a message from my friend Sophie,” I said. “She is leaving tonight. Her adoption paperwork has finally been completed. She’s going to China to get her new baby girl.”

“Wow.”

“Do you think there’s something wrong,” I asked, “for a single woman of forty-two to decide to adopt?”

“These Chinese babies are abandoned, aren’t they?” he asked. “My sister adopted a little girl from China.”

“I didn’t know that.” I didn’t know much about Honnett.

“It’s tragic, these Chinese orphans,” Honnett said. “These baby girls, they’re born in unbelievable poverty in a culture where girls are not of value. They are the least wanted human souls on the planet one minute. And the next minute, whoosh! They are sent home with these nice, loving families who are damn thrilled to have the privilege of raising these babies and making a home for them here. Why shouldn’t we think that is a heroic thing to do? Whether your friend is married or not, she can learn to be a good mother. That’s what’s important.”

“I know. I agree.” I sipped my cup of tea. Well, well.

Our waiter, Sung, came over. He quickly added up our total, counting the ink marks left by each Dim Sum waitress throughout the meal as she served the little metal trays we selected from her cart. There were a dozen or more marks representing Honnett’s healthy appetite for a cuisine that was new to him. The bill came to a little over twenty dollars. Honnett paid, and we walked out the door.

Another group had gathered on the sidewalk. A new set of lion dancers was performing their traditional swooping acrobatics to the sound of Chinese drums. We walked through the crowd, moving away from the entertainment.

Neither of us brought up the subject of Lee Chen. Honnett was waiting for me to tell him it was time, but I still craved our brief vacation from the real world. In a small crowded shop on a side street, we looked at many imported items, incense holders, cheap dishes, and lacquer bowls in red and black. When Honnett wasn’t paying attention, I bought him a Chinese New Year gift. I tucked some cash into the little red
Hongbao
envelope, paying attention to keep it an even denomination like $8 or $12 for luck.

When we were back out on the street, I presented him with the traditional gift.

“What’s this?” he asked, sounding delighted, pulling out the ten singles. “I thought these money envelopes were gifts for kids.”

“All unmarried children are eligible to receive
Hongbao,
” I informed him. “It’s for the child inside. Find him and pay him.”

“And this is for you.” Honnett handed me a bag. He had also found something in the little shop.

It was a large ceramic pot.

“The guy told me red is the right color for Chinese New Year. He said red means good luck.”

I couldn’t believe that Honnett had selected for me an Empty Pot. Life could be weird. Truly, indisputably weird.

We walked to the corner and then I knew it was time. How long could I prolong hearing about my old teacher and her interrogation?

“Tell me.”

“Okay,” Honnett said. “It’s pretty bad.”

“You said she didn’t answer the phone, so what happened? Did you go out to her house?”

Honnett nodded. “She didn’t come to the door. I went out there with another officer. He went around back, looking into the windows. That’s typical when a suspect is not cooperating.”

Suspect.

“He called me to the side yard. There was a small frosted window. It was open to a downstairs bathroom.”

“Had she escaped?” I was shocked. Why would Lee Chen climb out of a small window?

“No, Maddie. She was dead.”

“What?”

“In her bathtub. We saw her from the open window.”

“In her bathtub?” What?

“She cut her wrists. I’m sorry. I wish I didn’t have to tell you about it. She killed herself.”

I pulled away from him. I heard a loud crash. At my feet, shards of red glazed pottery.

“No.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” he said, soothing me, pulling me back, holding onto me. “What could you hope for, Maddie? I know this is tough. I know.” He held on to me, and I didn’t fight it.

How had it all come to this? A mysterious red book. A theft. Old secrets. Deception. A sad love affair. Betrayals. And four days later, two women who had both loved an actor named McBride were dead. It would take more time, I knew, to sort it all out.

But for me, it had all started with an old mah-jongg set.

I hate surprises.

“Delightful!”

Edgar Award-winning author Harlen Coben

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