Had Davenport written the note? Did it refer to the list of lost tools?
Without too much trouble, by matching the handwriting to letters in the archives, Malachai had been able to ascertain the note had been written by Davenport Talmage, one of the original founders of the Phoenix Club. Knowing who’d written it had enabled Malachai to further narrow the note’s provenance to sometime between 1884 and 1901. No earlier than 1884 as that was when Davenport had inherited his brother’s estate and taken over running the club. And no later than 1901 as that had been the year Davenport had died.
The address, 259 Broadway, was where the jewelry, stationery, and design firm of Tiffany & Company had been located during that era.
Was “Mr. T” Tiffany himself? Probably. Davenport had been immensely wealthy. What objet d’art had Tiffany made at Davenport’s request in order to hide the papers? Had the item been sold? Or did it still exist here in the mansion, where nearly every room boasted numerous Tiffany lamps and windows? Not to mention all the mansion’s fireplaces, which were fronted with iridescent tiles fashioned by the famous glassmaker and jeweler. Meaning the papers could very well be hidden in plain sight. An aggravating idea, that they could be so close and yet remain invisible to him.
Now Malachai turned the pages to his notes from the last few weeks. The section where he’d recorded his sessions with Mr. John Wen.
There had been eight sessions in all. Each one going over and over the same territory. An antiques dealer, Wen had come to Malachai for help in understanding why he was drawn to certain objects and places. He was haunted by them. Obsessed. For years he’d been trying to get clarity on the feelings that gripped him upon seeing certain items. Twice he’d almost gone bankrupt buying up estates that were not worth what he paid, just to ensure that he could get a certain piece. Desperate, he’d finally allowed for the possibility that past-life memories were driving him. In searching for someone to help him, he’d heard about Dr. Samuels and claimed that somehow he felt the same way about coming here that he did about the antiques. He just knew the Phoenix Foundation was the place he’d find help.
But what Wen didn’t know, at least not consciously, but that he’d revealed to Malachai under hypnosis, was that in the past — over a hundred and thirty years ago — he’d been one of the Talmage brothers who’d founded this very institution.
And if he was the incarnation of Davenport or Trevor, then maybe, Malachai had theorized, Wen could lead him to the fabled papers.
To anyone else it would have been a story to scoff at. But Malachai had worked with thousands of children whose past-life memories he and his aunt had verified. Malachai had seen his patients make connections that defied logic and what others called reason. Malachai had never had a past-life memory of his own. No amount of hypnosis or meditation worked for him. But he’d seen his patients cured of their fears, phobias, and neuroses once they were able to identify them and understand they belonged to previous incarnations. He’d witnessed the healing power of regained memories. The astounding relief his patients felt once freed from their karmic nightmares.
All Malachai wanted was to know his own past lives. But to do that he needed a functioning Memory Tool, and in order to find one of the few fabled tools he needed to know which item he was searching for. Davenport’s papers would be his map, a complete list of all the known Memory Tools. And he’d thought that perhaps John Wen, a Chinese art and antiques dealer from Boston, had possessed the clue to finally unearthing Davenport’s long-lost papers.
Which meant John Wen’s murder wasn’t just a shame.
It was downright inconvenient.
Dr. Malachai Samuels had bested her.
There was no way around it.
In the three days following her day trip to New York, back in Boston, D.D. had turned the conversation around and around in her mind. She shared the discussion — or rather, the lack of it — with her squadmates Phil and Neil. She even called and reported her lack of interviewing prowess to Special Agent Lucian Glass.
She’d gone up against a person of interest in four potential murders, and she’d gleaned… nothing. Not a single shred of information or insinuation. Just the rather prosaic observation that antiques dealers identified with the past. Which clearly explained her current need for dim sum. When dealing with an extremely troubling murder in Chinatown, dim sum was the way to go.
But if John Wen imported antiques because he identified with the past, what did his killer care about? All of those priceless items in the shop, and the murderer had taken just one thing: a jade Buddha.
Why that?
D.D. spotted the proprietor of the popular restaurant waiting patiently next to the door. An older Asian gentleman in an impeccably cut suit, he’d already greeted most of his customers by name. It occurred to her he might be able to help her out.
She raised a hand to catch his attention, and he promptly walked over.
“Excuse me,” she said, “could you tell me where the closest Buddhist temple is in Chinatown?”
“There are several, Detective. Which one are you looking for?”
“How’d you know I was a detective?”
“You are investigating the murder of John Wen. We all know.”
“Did you know Mr. Wen?”
“Yes, a very fine man. He helped me find the four silk screens hanging in the banquet room. In fact, if you are interested in Buddhist temples, may I suggest you consult Mr. Wen’s assistant, Miss Chan?”
D.D. regarded him blankly. “Why Judy Chan?”
The proprietor’s turn to appear flustered. “Because of her pendant, of course. The small jade Buddha she always wears around her neck. A symbol of her own religious calling, I would assume.”
D.D. thanked the man for his time. Then she paid her bill and got on the phone to her partner Phil. Because they’d interviewed Judy several times and on none of those occasions was Mr. Wen’s beautiful assistant wearing a jade Buddha pendant.
Which made her wonder what else Judy Chan had to hide.
According to Phil, Judy Chan’s home address was a fourth-floor walk-up just around the corner from the restaurant in Chinatown. D.D. found the brick building easily enough. Unfortunately, no one answered Judy’s buzzer. A quick ring of the second-floor unit, however, earned her an elderly Chinese woman in a pink floral housecoat.
D.D. flashed her shield, providing a quick impression of official public servant.
“Fire department,” D.D. announced. One of the first things she’d learned in community policing: most inner-city populations didn’t trust cops. Firemen, on the other hand, who could save their homes and businesses from burning down, were treated with respect.
The old woman studied her critically.
“I need to conduct a test of the fire escapes. Just making sure everything is in working order.”
A frown. Growing uncertainty. The older woman’s natural suspicion of such an odd request warring with her desire to feel her apartment building was fire safe.
D.D. pressed ahead. “Just need quick access so I can take a walk up and a walk down. I’ll be in and out in five minutes, and your building will be cleared for another five years. Otherwise, I gotta bring the fire marshal down, maybe a whole inspection crew…”
The promise — threat? — of more city officials got the job done. The aging tenant gestured for D.D. to follow her into her apartment, and three minutes later, D.D. was climbing up the fire escape to Judy’s fourth-floor unit.
She didn’t have probable cause to enter the unit, of course. Just a growing suspicion that Judy Chan hadn’t been fully forthcoming. But a quick glimpse of the woman’s living space wouldn’t hurt. And if D.D. happened to spy something such as an eight-inch-tall stolen jade Buddha statue or even better, a smoking gun, then voila, D.D. would be within her rights to access the woman’s apartment and maybe even close a murder case.