Stratton imagined himself back in Tiananmen Square, where the order and propriety that ruled Chinese history seemed also to govern those who came to celebrate it. Here in Washington, among the functional granite monuments to democracy, there was a holiday festiveness; in China, among the wildly extravagant temples, sobriety.
To Stratton's eye, it was not merely a culture gap, but a canyon. Chinese tourists traveled thousands of miles just to stand where the emperor's scholars had once gathered in the Hall of Supreme Harmony. In Washington, people lined up for blocks to watch the Treasury print money. Talk about awe.
If Americans seemed transparent, the Chinese mind was opaque. For Stratton this had become tragically obvious, first at Man-ling-a fatal grant of trust to a young boy-and now, with humiliating emphasis, at Arlington.
Stratton would never forget Wang Bin's face as Stratton had aimed the gun. Such magnificent defiance. Stratton would have liked him to have begged for his life, but he would have settled for one tear from the steely bastard. A tear for his own brother.
Yet all that had shone in the deputy minister's eyes had been an iron, immutable spirit. Stratton despised it.
He sat on the bench, watching a group of young girls from a parochial school chase a runaway kite, their plaid skirts beating together as they ran. Their laughter trailed off after the kite string.
Stratton opened the Post. The front section was clotted with the usual turgid political news. Stratton dismissed it and turned to the local pages to see if there was any mention of the grave robbery. There, on 10-C, a headline midway down the page grabbed his attention: ART BROKER FOUND DEAD IN BURNING AUTO.
The article was an Associated Press report from Grafton, West Virginia:
Two persons were found dead Monday at the scene of a single-car traffic accident on Shelby Road, two miles south of Grafton.
Police said the victims were discovered in a burning automobile after the car apparently had run off the highway and crashed. Grafton Police Sgt. Gilbert Beckley said that rescue workers who reached the scene were forced to wait for the fire to subside before approaching the car.
Authorities have identified one of the victims as Harold G. Brown, an art dealer from New York. Police said Broom carried business cards listing him as an associate of the Parthenon Gallery and the Belle Meade Exhibition Center in Manhattan.
The second victim found in the car carried no personal belongings and has not yet been identified, police said. The accident was reported by a Greyhound bus driver who passed the scene but did not stop.
Tom Stratton stuffed the newspaper into a trash basket, bought himself a lemon ice, and jogged exultantly back to his hotel.
Gil Beckley was not what Stratton had expected. He was not a middle-aged hillbilly with hemorrhoids, but an athletic young cop with a Jersey accent and two junior college diplomas on the wall. If Beckley felt it was beneath him to work traffic accidents, he hid the resentment well. In fact, he seemed pleased to meet this angular, quiet man who had arrived with information about the Shelby Road fatalities.
Stratton introduced himself and said, "I read about the accident this morning in the Post."
"That was the official version," Beckley said.
"What do you mean?"
"The two people in that car didn't die in any wreck. They were shot. Classic murder-suicide, I'd say."
Stratton was dazed.
"When you called, you said you knew something about the passengers," Beckley prodded. "Can you help us out?"
Mentally Stratton dusted off his story.
"Harold Broom was doing business with a good friend of mine. They'd been traveling together for the last week or so."
"Had you seen them recently?"
"Yes," Stratton said. "Day before yesterday. In Washington. They rented a car."
"So you think the other victim could be your friend?"
"I'm afraid so," Stratton said. "That's why I drove straight over here after I saw the story in the paper."
"We appreciate it," Beckley said. From a bottom drawer in the gray metal desk the policeman withdrew a stiff brown envelope. "How's your stomach, Mr.
Stratton?"
Stratton took the envelope. His hands trembled. He scratched at the gummed flap.
He wasn't acting anymore.
"What was your friend's name?" Beckley inquired.
Stratton pretended not to hear. Be there, he said silently.
He slipped the photographs from the envelope. They were black-and-whites, the usual eight-by-tens. The top picture captured what was left of Harold Broom after he had been dragged from the smoldering car. His clothes dangled like charred tinsel. His chest and face were scorched; the flesh on the upper torso was scabrous. The face was raw, frozen in a death scream. The eyelids had burned away completely, leaving only a viscous white jelly in the sockets. Broom's out-reached arms had constricted into the common rigor mortis of burn victims-elbows sharply bent, fists clenched in front of the face, as if raising a pair of binoculars.
Tom Stratton took a deep breath. He felt clammy.
The next two pictures, taken from different angles, were also of Broom.
"The next one," Beckley said, watching closely. "That's the one you're interested in."
Stratton looked at the photograph and nearly gagged. Through the din of his own heart pounding he barely heard Beckley shouting for someone to bring a glass of water.
The pictures slipped from Stratton's hand and drifted to the floor… Broom lying by the road, Broom face-front, Broom from the waist up…
And Linda Greer.
Stratton covered his eyes and moaned. His face burned.
Beckley stood at Stratton's side, a hand on his shoulder. "I'm very sorry," the cop said. "Have some water. You'll feel better."
Stratton scooped the photographs from the floor and, without looking, handed them to Beckley.
"Mr. Stratton, can I ask your friend's name?"
"That wasn't him," Stratton croaked.
"Him?" Beckley was bewildered. "But just now-"
"My friend is a Chinese man. Wang is his name."
"Judging by your reaction to that photo, I thought for sure that the girl was the one-"
"No. And I'm sorry I frightened you."
"Well, it was a pretty goddamn frightening picture," Beckley said. "I'm sorry you had to see it. Still, it's better to know one way or another. Did you recognize the girl?"
"Never saw her before." Stratton drank some water. "You say it was murder?"
"Lover's quarrel, the way I figure it. The girl was a one-nighter, a fiancee, a hooker-we'll nail it down eventually. She got it first, back of the skull, two rounds. Then Broom aced himself, once in the right temple. The gun was a cheap thirty-eight. We found it on the front seat between them."
Beckley reached into the same drawer that held the photographs. He slid a piece of notebook paper across the desk toward Stratton. "We found this in a briefcase that was tossed in some bushes near the car."
The suicide note had been written meticulously in black ink, each letter capitalized:
"DARLING I AM SORRY, I COULD NOT ALLOW YOU TO LEAVE ME. THIS WAY IS BEST."
One glance and Stratton knew who had written it. I could not allow you to leave me. Much too clumsy for a fop like Harold Broom.
"What about the fire?" Stratton asked.
"An accident. Here's what I figure: Broom pulls off the highway in a passion.
Takes out his gun, plugs the girl, writes his farewell note, then checks himself out. Bang. Leaves the engine running and the goddamn catalytic converter overheats. Catches fire. The whole thing goes up in blazes. That's Detroit for you."
Stratton said, "I'd better go now."
"You knew this Broom character?"
"I met him only once or twice."
"A real asshole, right?"
Stratton shrugged. "I couldn't say." Suddenly he was in the line of Beckley's fire: time to go.
"What about your friend, the Chinaman?"
"I… I guess he's all right."