The Silent Girl

“You mentioned your husband. Does Mr. Fang also work here?”

The woman blinked a few times and looked away. “My husband is dead,” she said softly. “James has been gone for nineteen years.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs. Fang,” Frost said quietly, and it was apparent that he actually meant it.

A moment passed, silent except for the noisy clack of wooden practice swords in the next room, where the class was sparring.

“I am the sole owner of this school,” said Iris. “So if you have questions, I am the one to ask.” She straightened. Her composure had returned, and her gaze settled on Jane, as if she understood who was most likely to challenge her. “Why did you think I might know this dead woman?”

They could not avoid the question any longer. Jane said, “We found the victim’s car this morning, parked in a Chinatown garage. It had a GPS unit in it, and one of the addresses in the memory was yours.”

Iris frowned. “Here? My studio?”

“This was the victim’s destination. Do you know why?”

“No.” The answer was immediate.

“May I ask where you were Wednesday night, Mrs. Fang?”

Iris paused, eyes narrowing as she stared at Jane. “I taught an evening class. Then I walked home.”

“What time did you leave here?”

“Around ten. I was home by ten fifteen. It is only a short walk, to Tai Tung Village. I live on Hudson Street, just at the edge of Chinatown.”

“Did anyone walk with you?”

“I was alone.”

“And do you live alone?”

“I have no family, Detective. My husband is gone, and my daughter…” She paused. “Yes, I live alone,” she said, and her chin lifted, as though to ward off any pity her answer might inspire. But there was a flash of brightness in her eyes, tears that, with a few blinks, were quickly banished. Invincible though she tried to appear, this was a woman still wounded by loss.

In the next room, the class had ended, and they could hear shoes thudding down the stairs. Iris looked up at the clock on the wall and said, “My next student will be arriving soon. Are we finished?”

“Not quite,” said Jane. “I have one more question. There was another address in the victim’s GPS. It was a private residence, here in Boston. Are you acquainted with a retired Boston PD detective named Louis Ingersoll?”

In an instant, all color drained from the woman’s cheeks. She sat frozen, her face as rigid as stone.

“Mrs. Fang, are you all right?” said Frost. He touched her on the shoulder, and she flinched as though seared by the contact.

Jane said, quietly: “So you do know that name.”

Iris swallowed. “I met Detective Ingersoll nineteen years ago. When my husband died. When he…” Her voice faded.

Jane and Frost glanced at each other. Ingersoll worked homicide.

“Mrs. Fang,” said Frost. This time, when he touched her, she didn’t flinch but let him rest his hand on her shoulder. “What happened to your husband?”

Iris lowered her head, and her answer was barely a whisper. “He was shot to death. In the Red Phoenix restaurant.”

EIGHT

FROM MY STUDIO WINDOW, I CAN SEE THE TWO DETECTIVES WALK out of my building and pause on the street below. They glance up, and although every instinct tells me to back away, I stubbornly remain in full view, knowing that they’re watching me watching them. I refuse to hide from either friends or enemies, so I face them through the glass, my gaze focused on the woman. DETECTIVE JANE RIZZOLI, it says on the business card that she left me. At first glance, she seemed an unlikely combatant, just another hardworking woman in a gray pantsuit and practical shoes, her hair a wiry tangle of dark curls. But her eyes reveal much more. They search and observe and assess. She has the eyes of a hunter, and she’s trying to decide if I’m her prey.

I stand unafraid in open view, where she, and the rest of the world, can see me. They may study me as long as they wish, but all they’ll see is a quiet and unassuming woman, my hair streaked with the first light snow of the passing years. Old age is still many years away, to be sure, but today I feel its relentless approach. I know that I am running out of time to finish what I’ve started. And with this visit by the two detectives, the journey has just taken a disturbing detour that I had not anticipated.

On the street below, the two detectives finally depart. Back to the hunt, wherever it takes them.

“Sifu, is there a problem?”

“I don’t know.” I turn to look at Bella, and once again marvel at how flawless and young her skin is, even in the harsh light through the window. The only imperfection is the scar on her chin, the consequence of an instant’s inattention during sparring practice. It was a mistake that she has never repeated. She stands straight and unafraid and confident. Perhaps too confident; on the battlefield, arrogance can prove fatal.

“Why did they come here?” she asks.

“They’re detectives. It’s their job to ask questions.”

“Did you learn anything else about the woman? Who she was, who sent her?”

“No.” I look out the window again, at passersby walking down Harrison Avenue. “But whoever she was, she knew how to find me.”

“She won’t be the last,” says Bella darkly.

She does not need to warn me; we both know the match has been struck and the fuse is lit.

In my office, I sink into my chair and stare at the framed photo that sits on my desk. It is a photo that I do not even need to look at, the image is so thoroughly burned into my memory. I pick it up and smile at the faces. I know the exact date the picture was taken, because it was my daughter’s birthday. Mothers may forget many things, but we always remember the day our children were born. In the picture, Laura is fourteen. She and I stand together in front of the Boston Symphony Hall, where we went to hear Joshua Bell perform. For a month before that concert, all Laura talked about was Joshua Bell this, Joshua Bell that. Isn’t he handsome, Mommy? Doesn’t his violin practically sing? In the photo, Laura is still aglow from watching her idol’s performance. My husband, James, was also with us that evening, but he is not in the photo; he does not appear in any of our photos because he was always the one holding the camera. How I wish I had thought, just once, to take that camera from his hands and snap a picture of his sweet, owlish face. But it never occurred to me that the opportunity, so precious, would suddenly vanish. That his smile would survive only in my memory, his image frozen at age thirty- seven. Forever, my young husband. A tear plops onto the frame, and I set the photo back on the desk.

They are both gone now. First my daughter, then my husband, ripped from my arms. How do you go on living when your heart has been cut out not just once, but twice? Yet here I am, still alive, still breathing.

For the moment.

NINE

I REMEMBER THE RED PHOENIX MASSACRE VERY WELL. IT WAS A CLASSIC case of amok.” Criminal psychologist Dr. Lawrence Zucker leaned back in his chair, looking across his desk at Jane and Frost with the penetrating stare that had always made Jane feel uneasy. Although Frost sat