He made way as best he could in the cramped doorway, and a beautiful, if solemn, Asian woman appeared.
“You are?” D.D. prompted.
“Judy Chan. I have worked with Mr. Wen for five years now. He was a good man. He wouldn’t cheat. And he didn’t make mistakes.”
“How’d you meet Mr. Wen?”
“He ran an ad in the paper, looking for a store clerk. I answered.”
D.D. eyed the assistant, taking in the girl’s petite frame, elegantly sculpted cheekbones, glossy waterfall of jet-black hair. She asked the next logical question: “Please describe your relationship.”
The assistant gave her an exasperated look. “I worked with Mr. Wen, Wednesdays through Sundays, nine to five. Occasionally, I would come in off hours to help him prepare for meetings with some of his more special clients. You know, the kind of people who want a three-thousand-year-old armoire as a signature piece in their foyer, and are willing to pay for it.”
“Got a list of said clients?”
“Yes.”
“And his calendar. We’ll want to see that.”
“I understand.”
“Was he meeting with someone last night?”
“Not that I knew of.”
“Would he tell you?”
“Most of the time. His projects were not secret. More and more, he would even ask for my help. He appreciated my computer skills.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Yesterday, five PM, when I locked up the store.”
“Where was he?”
“Back here, in his office. He generally stayed after the store was closed, catching up on paperwork, researching pieces. He didn’t have a family. This,” Judy gestured around the cramped office, “this was his life.”
“Was he working on anything special?” Phil asked from beside her.
“Not that he had mentioned.”
“Missing anything special?” He gestured to the crowded space.
For the first time, the girl hesitated. “I don’t… know.” All three Boston detectives studied her. “His office,” she said at last, “he kept it busy.”
D.D. raised a brow, considering that the understatement of the month.
“Mr. Wen always said he thought better when surrounded by the past. Most of the items in this room were things he’d collected along the way, gifts from colleagues, clients, friends. And the books… he loved them. Called them his children. I used to beg him to let me at least dust, attempt to tidy up. But he would never let me. He liked things just this way, even the piles of paper covering his desk. The horizontal filing system, he called it. It never failed him.”
The girl’s voice faded out. She wasn’t looking at them, but staring at the desk intently. “It’s wrong,” she said flatly. “I can’t tell you how exactly. But it’s wrong.”
D.D. obediently turned her attention to the desk. She noted mounds of paper, a scatter of miscellaneous notebooks, a rounded wooden bowl filled with yet more office detritus, then beside it a heavily gilded female figurine whose curves were definitely more robust than D.D.’s own, not to mention multiple haphazard piles of obviously old and dusty books.
“I don’t see a computer,” she ventured at last.
“He worked by hand. Thought best that way. When he needed to look something up, he used the computer in the front of the store.”
D.D. went about this another way. “Was the store locked this morning?”
“Yes.”
“Security system?”
“No. We had been talking about one, but Mr. Wen always argued, what kind of thieves stole antique furniture? The truly valuable pieces here… they are large and heavy, as you can see.”
“But all the jade figurines—”
“His private collection. Not for sale.”
Phil picked up the thought. “But the door was locked. So whoever entered, Mr. Wen let him or her in.”
“I would assume.”
“Would he meet people in his office?” D.D. asked, gesturing to a space that was clearly standing room only.
“No,” the assistant filled in. “Generally, he met with them in the showroom. Sitting at one of the tables, that sort of thing. He believed in the power of history not just to survive, but to retain its usefulness. Don’t just buy an antique, he liked to say. Live with it.”
D.D.’s gaze zeroed in once more on the book still resting on Mr. Wen’s open hand. “Did he have books in the showroom?”
“No, his—”
“Personal collection. I get it. So, if he was meeting someone who was interested in a volume, per se—”
D.D. knelt back down, trying to get a better look at the leather-bound novel. The gilded titling was faded, hard to read. Then she realized it wasn’t even in English, but in a language she couldn’t recognize.
“The Buddha,” Judy suddenly gasped.
“What?”
“The Buddha. That’s what’s missing. Here, the left corner of Mr. Wen’s desk. He had a solid-jade Buddha. From the eighth-century Tang Dynasty. The Buddha always sat here. Mr. Wen got the piece just after his wife died. It was very special to him.”
“Size?” Phil already had his notebook out.
“Ummm, the Buddha himself eight inches tall. Very round, solid, the sitting Buddha, you know, with his round belly and laughing face. The statue was placed on a square wooden base with gold seams and inlaid abalone. A substantial piece.”
“Value?” D.D. asked.
“I’m not sure. I would need to do more research. But given that ounce for ounce, fine jade is currently more valuable than gold, a piece of that size… yes, it is valuable.”
D.D. pursed her lips, liking the idea of the theft gone awry for their murder motive except, of course, for the number of remaining jade pieces that still littered the victim’s bookshelves.
“Why the Buddha statue?” she murmured out loud, more to herself than anyone.
Judy, the beautiful assistant, shook her head, clearly at a loss for an explanation.
“One piece. That’s all you think is gone?”
“I will keep looking, but for now, yes, that one piece.”
“So Buddha, something about Buddha.”
D.D. was still thinking, as Neil said, “Hello. Got something.”
He had lifted the book from Mr. Wen’s outstretched fingers. Now, they all watched as something fluttered to the floor. Obviously not old, but a recent addition to the office. Something worth clutching in a dead man’s hand?
“What is it?” D.D. asked.
“Business card.” Neil flipped it over. “From the Phoenix Foundation. For one Malachai Samuels.”
D.D. parked her rental car on New York’s Upper West Side, then turned her attention to the mansion across the street. She wasn’t a huge architecture buff but had lived in a historic city long enough to recognize the Queen Anne style of the villa, including the glass sunburst below the curved-top window. Personally, she liked the gargoyles peeking out from under the eaves.
Of course, she wasn’t here for the architecture. She was here about a murder. She made her way up the front walk, pausing long enough to inspect the bas-relief coat of arms that decorated the mansion’s front door. Took her a second, then she got it — the image was the mystical phoenix that granted the office its name.
Buzzz.
The front door finally opened, and D.D. entered the Phoenix Foundation.
She presented her credentials to the waiting receptionist. The front desk, D.D. noticed, was very old and most likely very valuable. It also held hints of Chinese design. The kind of desk John Wen might have imported into his shop and sold to a client, such as Malachai Samuels.
“Sergeant Detective D.D. Warren,” she introduced herself. “I’m here to see Dr. Samuels.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but I think he’ll see me.”