“Since then he has not intruded into our sphere,” Han went on. “The lost soul is Fong Chee Wei. Overtures were made but rejected some time ago. His family owns a restaurant in Chinatown. He is their only son.”
Their only son. Lin closed his eyes, focusing on that phrase. He drew air deep into his lungs, held it for a count of five, then released in a slow sigh. His tension levels dropped; his sadness at Lin Jong’s death remained. Lin Dan’s older and infinitely more capable brother had been gone a month now but every day Lin still expected him to call from Shanghai to discuss business matters, or even to walk in the door, paying his father a surprise visit.
Lin focused on the present. The past was too painful to contemplate. “I will see them in the conservatory,” he said. Han nodded and left the study. Lin tapped his fingernails on his desk, a calming rhythm. What did the S.F.P.D. want? Impossible that their visit could be in any way connected with Shanghai and Lin Jong. He closed his eyes again and prayed to the gods who watched over his ancestors that Lin Dan had not once again shamed himself with some white whore eager to prove her utter worthlessness by allowing strangers to fill her mouth, cunt and anus with their semen, and her veins with drugs.
He left his study and made his way to the conservatory, a place of peace, filled with exotic plants including the rare orchids whose cultivation were his private pleasure. There he checked temperature and humidity levels, and adjusted both fractionally even though he knew automatic sensors would have done the same in a short while, compensating for the ever-changing external daytime temperature.
Han stepped through the door that connected to the entrance via a short hallway that acted as an airlock to protect the precious flora. Two men followed him inside, the tall gweizi, Ryker, and the Chinese policeman, Fong, young and quick-witted, his clever eyes taking everything in. Han closed the door behind them and led the visitors into the middle of the room. They stood there for a moment, looking uncertain, until Lin stepped out from behind the curtain of fronds that had concealed him from their gaze. He enjoyed seeing their surprise.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “I am James Lin. You told my manservant you wished to speak with me personally.”
The gweizi said, “Mr. Lin, I’m-” But Lin held up his hand, stopping him.
“I know who you are. Let’s stop wasting time. State your business, Detective Sergeant Ryker, and then leave. You are not welcome here.”
Ryker’s spark of anger, clumsily hidden, did not escape Lin’s notice. He stared at the American’s soft face, disliking it intensely. The eyes were all wrong, the nose too big and protruding. The corners of his lips bore deep creases as if damaged from being frozen in a cynical smile too long. Lin estimated his physical age to be in the late-thirties although he could easily pass for someone much older. Ryker said, “All right. Have it your own way. Has anyone spoken to you about events that took place last night at the Mandarin Oriental?”
Mention of the hotel made Lin think immediately of Lin Dan who thought nothing of hiring an entire suite to impress his “lady friends.” Once and only once Lin Dan had paid the bill using his corporate charge account. Lin had punished that outrageous impertinence by sending Lin Dan to India for three months to nominally assist in setting up an international call center for end customer technical support. To add insult to injury he made Lin Dan report his daily progress via the Indian general manager, which had resulted in enormous loss of face. The mistake had not been repeated.
But now Lin felt the first stirrings of uneasiness in his stomach. What was this gweizi trying to say? Han’s expression remained impassive but his eyes radiated concern. Lost Soul Fong made an art out of studying the surrounding flora. Lin might have expected Ryker, a Westerner and an American at that, to maintain embarrassing eye contact but he, too, seemed to find many things to interest him in the conservatory, allowing Lin a moment to deal with his fluttering emotions. He reined them in, brought them under tight control, and said, “What has happened to my son? Tell me.”
Ryker said, “Mr. Lin, your son, Lin Dan, was murdered last night.”
Perhaps it was because he’d recently had practice at receiving such news, but it didn’t seem to hurt as much. Or perhaps it was because Lin Dan had never been his favorite, which fact wounded Lin more grievously than his actual death. Both my sons are dead. Lin focused on this incredible thought and examined it from every possible angle. Of course, that was why Lin Dan’s wife had been trying to talk to him. The police must have gone to her first. That brought into question the matter of timing. If Ryker and Fong had visited his daughter-in-law to convey the news and, obviously, to study its effect upon her, and then came here directly, why had it taken her so long to call? Because she had entrusted them to break the news to Lin rather than undertake this arduous task herself. He knew he should view this as a weakness of character but he took into account the fact she had revised her position and found the strength to call him, for which he was grateful, even if he had made the mistake of not picking up the phone.
Both my sons are dead.
“Murdered, how?” he said, surprised his voice still worked. “And by whom?”
Ryker’s gaze held steady but his stance, his passive body language, suggested he was trying to be as compassionate and understanding as possible. Lin wanted to slap him. He neither wanted nor needed any sympathy from a gweizi and certainly not from a policeman. To Lin’s surprise Ryker’s eyes widened a fraction. So, the gweizi had sensed his mounting aggression. Perhaps he was more intelligent than he looked.
“Mr. Lin, maybe you should sit down. Is there anywhere we can-?”
“Tell me what I wish to know, detective sergeant, or I will pick up the phone and make a single call that will ruin your career.”
Ryker flinched. His compassion drained, to be replaced by cold anger; Lin could deal with that. “Your son was stabbed through the heart,” he said. “Before this, he was ritually dismembered. We believe he would probably have bled to death if not for the fatal stab wound.”
Lin forced his tongue, teeth and lips to form the word: “Dismembered?”
“We believe that the same person who stabbed your son through the heart also severed his penis.”
“What have you done to apprehend the person responsible for Lin Dan’s death?” Han said, causing them to look at him and thus giving Lin a precious moment in which to think. He centered his chi by breathing deeply while he assimilated this unexpected and staggering news. The Shanghai police were still investigating Lin Jong’s murder but were no closer to defining a suspect let alone making an arrest. The method of Lin Jong’s death had baffled them, and Lin too. He had jealous rivals and enemies aplenty but none, in his opinion, was responsible for Lin Jong’s bizarre execution. What message was it supposed to send? Lin knew all the traditional ways-had employed them himself on many occasions during his long and bloody climb to his present exalted position. Sometimes an entire conversation might be conveyed by the way a man died, and by how long it took him to die. Such dramas often forced both sides to stop and rethink their positions, and might lead to truce and peaceful settlement of differences or renegotiation of territory, rather than a long and costly war. But he’d encountered nothing quite like this before, not in the business sense. Which suggested the arrival of a new enemy, unfamiliar with the old ways but wishing to make a statement. Or so Lin had assumed until this pivotal moment, when layers of fog evaporated to reveal the truth. This was not some play for power on the streets of Shanghai, or punishment meted to Lin Jong for some offense he’d committed against a rival, knowingly or unknowingly. This was personal. This was aimed at James Lin, chairman of Lin Industries and head of the Lin clan.