to sight are the fully leaved tree branches that obscure the hood of what is unmistakably an airport limousine. A driver, in full chauffeur livery, gets out and pops the trunk. He deposits several pieces of matching luggage on the curb and then, adjusting his cap, opens the passenger door with something like a bow.
A petite woman slowly climbs out and stands teetering for a moment, as if struggling with her balance. The driver rushes to offer his big, strong arm. She takes it.
“Wow,” says Teddy.
“Double that,” says Jack.
The woman, slender and young and elegantly attired, is Asian. Chinese, in all probability. And beautiful, breathtakingly. I know because the males in the room are taking deep breaths, and Dane Porter gives forth with a little sigh of contented surprise, and because even a female of the heterosexual persuasion feels her heart do a little jump, confronted by such a vision of perfection.
She looks up, our mystery woman, and then vanishes from sight, passing under a veil of leaves on her way to the front door, tall heels clicking.
“Amazing,” says Jack in a soft, admiring voice. “How did she do it?”
He means Naomi, and because we’ve been firmly instructed to remain in the library, we’ll just have to wait for the answer to come up the stairs and find us.
Chapter Forty-Four
“My name is Michelle Chen, also known as Ming-Mei, and I have come for my son, Joey.”
I can’t speak for the others, but our mystery guest’s mastery of English shocks me almost as much as her ethereal, porcelain beauty. Clearly both the cat lady and Clare had got that part wrong, because while Ming-Mei’s very slight accent suggests that she’s foreign born, it also becomes abundantly clear as the evening progresses that she’s been speaking English for many years, if not for most of her life. This is no traditional Mandarin doll, and her perfectly tailored Western-style suit is linen, not silk.
“Miss Chen is eager to assist us in our efforts,” Naomi says carefully. “She has had a very long flight and must be exhausted, but I’m hoping she can give us some background before the jet lag kicks in.”
“No jet lag,” says Ming-Mei with a resolute shake of her head. “I slept on the plane. The Gulfstream was most comfortable. Tell me where my son is. Find him, then I will sleep.”
“As we discussed by phone, Miss Chen, we’re working on that.”
Ming-Mei turns to boss lady with something like fire in her big, gorgeous eyes. “You know who took him, right? Who keeps him?”
Naomi, who has yet to take a seat, nods her agreement and explains to those of us who are still a bit stunned by our guest’s arrival: “I shared the video clip with Miss Chen. She did not recognize Kathleen Mancero, but the Harvard Bridge area is very familiar to her.”
Ming-Mei says, “Joey and me, we walked along the river when he was an infant. He was in a sling, you know, that carries in front? And when he heard the water he would become very excited. It pleased him to listen to the river, even as a tiny baby. To him it was music. This woman who has him, does she know about the music? Does she know he will starve without his music?”
At this point Ming-Mei, who has been holding herself very erect, collapses into a puddle of tears, and begins to cry in that way that can make it hard to breathe, so strong are the convulsions of grief.
Jack, ever gallant, leaps up to console our beautiful young guest, but Naomi quickly dismisses the notion, as if she already knows what Ming-Mei will tolerate and what she won’t. Physical comforting from a male stranger is apparently out, and the most Jack is allowed to do is provide her with a clean white handkerchief. Ming-Mei covers her face with it, tips her head back, and gradually her chest stops heaving. She sighs deeply, removes the tear- soaked handkerchief and with a much less imperious voice says, “Twenty hours on the plane, I don’t cry, not once. Now I can’t stop. Because all the time I’m thinking, wouldn’t it be a nice surprise if Joey is waiting for me? In my dream you found him while I was en route. That was my hope.”
“I’m so sorry, Miss Chen. Had such a happy event occurred, you would have been informed immediately.”
“I know,” she says, weeping freely. “But still I hope.”
“Take your time, Miss Chen. If you’ll allow me, I’d like to give my people a more informed introduction. As far as they’re concerned, you’ve dropped out of the clear blue sky.”
This elicits a faint smile. “Oh, but I did.”
“I suppose you did at that,” Naomi says. She tilts her head slightly, in that certain way that signals she expects us to pay close attention. “I was able to locate Miss Chen with the help of an intermediary. This person, who shall remain nameless, contacted a certain staffer in the U.S. Embassy in Hong Kong, who in turn put me in touch with a local investigator familiar with the entertainment industry. As it turns out, the singer Ming-Mei is well- known on the club circuit. She was contacted through yet another intermediary. Miss Chen’s performance contract happens to be owned by one of the most powerful triads, so getting through to her was a delicate matter. As you may or may not know, the ancient triad societies of Hong Kong have gained power under the new regime by establishing relationships of mutual benefit with certain high-ranking Communist party members. This particular triad is heavily invested in the entertainment industry, and protects those investments with the usual strong-arm tactics, up to and including murder. Which meant that contacting Miss Chen presented certain difficulties.”
Ming-Mei says, “She means my old boyfriend, Sammy Lee. He’s a four eight nine, okay? Triads have numeric codes. That way names are not used, for protection in case of arrest. Four eight nine is the dragon head. He’s the big boss. You must do what the dragon head wants, no question. When I went with Sammy the first time, I was seventeen years old and more than anything I want to be a big Cantonese pop star like Gillian Chung, and sing songs on TV and be a movie star.” Ming-Mei laughs ruefully. “I was a very stupid girl.”
“You had ambition,” Naomi points out.
“Oh yes, ambition. But no brains. I thought, just let me succeed, let me have a hit song, I can separate myself from Sammy Lee, no problem. But that is impossible. It doesn’t work that way. Once a dragon has you in his claws, he holds on tight.”
“Tell us about Professor Keener,” Naomi suggests. “How it all started.”
Ming-Mei’s small, perfect chin thrusts out. “Four eight nine will kill me if he finds out, but I don’t care. He won’t help me find Joey, and you will, is that not so?”
Naomi says, very carefully, “If Joey can be found, we’ll find him.”
Ming-Mei registers the chilling subtext, but it does not deter her from continuing.
“Okay,” she says, hands folded primly in her lap. “Three years go by. I don’t have a hit song yet, I’m not a movie star, but I sing in Sammy Lee’s clubs five nights a week and he pays for acting lessons and provides me with a flash apartment and spending money, even a car and driver. The driver is there to keep an eye on me, of course. He’s a forty-nine, a triad soldier, and everything I do or say, he reports to the dragon head. It makes me feel very important because, like I say, I’m a stupid girl with only one thing on her mind, becoming famous like Gillian Chung. I have a good voice. Not good enough to sing opera, but good enough for Cantonese pop, which is more about the look of the singer, okay? And even more about the producer, what song they choose, the beat, how they arrange the sound. Without a good producer, there is no chance of success, and Sammy, he keeps promising he will find me a top-cat producer. That’s what he calls them, ‘top cats.’ But it’s all a lie because by then I am too old for Sammy Lee, he wants only girls seventeen and younger. When he stops coming to my apartment for sex I don’t complain. Why should I? He’s disgusting. But then when I try to find a producer on my own, Sammy sends his four two six, his enforcer, to make sure the producers all know who owns me. He threatens to take away my apartment and make me a prostitute if I don’t stay in his clubs and obey. The dragon head owns many prostitutes, so this is no idle threat. I want to run away but I don’t know where to go and I have no money. Stupid girl, what was I thinking?
“Then one day everything changes. The dragon head comes to my apartment, but this time not to threaten. Suddenly he’s acting very nice, very gentlemanly, and this is because he wants a big favor. He has important friends
