She Walks the Line
Auteur
Roz Denny Fox
Lezers
15,7K
Hoofdstukken
15
CHAPTER ONE
MEI LU LING SHRUGGED into her shoulder holster and slid it into place. She took a moment to reflect on last Friday’s ceremony, which allowed her to walk into Houston PD headquarters a full-fledged lieutenant. Only two of her four best friends from the academy, a twenty-six-week class that now seemed a distant memory, had attended her ceremony, even though Mei had invited them all.
She’d noticed Crista Santiago at the back of the room, and Risa Taylor had popped in long enough to see Catherine Tanner, the chief, do the honors. Mei was happy her new department captain had had a court commitment, and that Catherine had volunteered to replace him. It also pleased her that two of her friends had been able to slip away from their duties. Especially Risa, considering everything she’d undergone not long ago at the hands of the internal review board. Risa and Crista were the only members of their once close-knit group who knew what it was like to struggle up the department ladder without family support. And none of Mei’s family would have put in an appearance if their lives depended on it.
But, at thirty-one, after more than six years as a cop, Mei had no regrets. She was content with her life and a career solving white-collar crime in the city where she was born and raised.
Stepping back to scrutinize her full image in the bedroom mirror, Mei rechecked her dark hair, twisted into a knot at the nape of her neck. When she’d entered the academy she’d been advised to cut her waist-length hair, and she had. She’d worn a pixie cut until after leaving street patrol, because the dregs of society fought dirty, and a woman couldn’t afford to have hair a perpetrator could grab. Now, though, she worked more with “civilized” crooks.
The thought of any crook being civilized prompted an involuntary smile as she donned her trim navy jacket. Satisfied that she looked okay Mei detoured through the kitchen on her way out in order to bid her dog goodbye. He was a mixed-breed shelter rescue she’d named Foo Manchu—mostly to irritate her mother. Aun Ling disliked anything that poked fun at things Chinese. She detested her son, Stephen’s, Foo Fighter tapes. Aun collected jade and porcelain figurines of Chinese Fu dogs. Mei had always loved the collection, and as a kid had spent hours dusting it. Perhaps another reason she’d chosen the name Foo.
She checked his automatic pet feeder to make sure there was enough kibble in case her day ran late, then headed outside into a beautiful March morning. At the curb, she unlocked and climbed into an aging subcompact, a sorry-looking vehicle Mei Lu prayed would last until she could find time to test-drive and buy a new model.
Her home—half of a duplex that sat two blocks off Bellaire Boulevard in a slightly seedy part of town—and her automobile were major blights on her life, as far as her affluent parents were concerned. They lived in an upscale area known for rambling homes built on huge lots. Mei preferred her eclectic neighborhood, insisting that her street was as safe as any in the city.
A fifty-minute battle through heavy traffic brought her to the police department parking garage downtown. She walked into the office early, out of habit. Few of her colleagues in her new unit were at their desks yet. Propped in the middle of hers sat a message from Chief Tanner, requesting Mei’s presence upstairs.
Mei let her mind run through cases she’d closed or passed on before leaving her old group, but she couldn’t think of one that would necessitate an urgent audience with the chief. She remained apprehensive, however, as she folded the note and hurried from the room.
It was well-known that women on the force had to take extra care to dot every i and cross every t. More so than a man working a similar case. Police departments had long been bastions of good-old-boy philosophies, so it helped that Mei and the four other women had entered the academy at a time when Catherine Tanner served as an instructor. She’d helped them avoid the pitfalls she’d had to navigate herself. Nevertheless, Mei was again reminded of Risa’s recent problems with Internal Affairs. She’d been accused of shooting her partner, which had sparked a messy investigation that had affected all their jobs. As a result, their trust in one another had shattered. Mei, Crista, Lucy Montalvo and Abby Carlton had temporarily stopped meeting for any reason. Heck, who was she kidding? The friends were still wary and scattered. Risa’s problem had caused seemingly irreparable damage to their friendship. They’d all become a lot more hesitant about confiding in peers. As well, Risa’s ordeal had left Mei Lu feeling extra worried about a summons of the type that crinkled in her pocket as she was shown into the chief’s office by Annette Hayworth, Catherine’s personal assistant.
Mei’s qualms tripled when Catherine, lacking her normal smile, rose from her desk and shut the door. Lately, everyone had sensed a greater-than-usual tension in their chief. Since Catherine made such a point of closing the door, Mei assumed this call was personal and, therefore, serious.
More uncertain than she’d ever been around the woman she considered friend and mentor, Mei hovered at the entrance. Rather than take a seat automatically, she blurted, “Has someone lodged a complaint against my promotion already?”
“What? No. Nothing of the sort.” The chief returned to her desk and motioned Mei into a chair opposite. The diamond chips in Catherine’s wedding band sparkled in the morning sun streaming through a side window. Although she’d been widowed for almost a year, the ring was one of Chief Tanner’s few feminine accessories. She was broad-shouldered but slender and her six-foot height in regulation pumps intimidated many people. Although not as a rule Mei Lu…
Mei sank into the straight-backed chair, only slightly reassured by the denial.
“I called you here to discuss a new case that’s come to my attention,” Catherine said. She picked up a yellow legal pad and thumbed back two or three pages.
“Ah. Another pillar in our community suspected of corporate crime?” Mei finally smiled. She loved digging into puzzles that, when all was said and done, amounted to fraud, embezzlement or elaborate con games. A degree in Business Administration, plus having served three years in her father’s Hong Kong office, gave her an advantage over others in her department. Mei’s background allowed her to navigate elite cocktail parties where careful listening sometimes exposed corporate wrongdoing. Many of her male colleagues stood out like sore thumbs at such events.
“This case is unusual,” Catherine continued. “It appears we have a new ring of smugglers here. Asian artifacts,” she said. “Rare pieces, I’m told.”
Mei’s stomach tightened. Her father, Michael Ling, and her brother, Stephen, bought and sold high-end Asian art. Ling Limited dealt in expensive, often one-of-a-kind, authentic Chinese works, many of them antique. Surely Catherine didn’t suspect Mei’s family of anything unethical?
“I received a call from a Brett Davis at Interpol. Cullen Archer, a patron in the Houston art world, is their local contact. Actually Archer is a notable private insurance investigator. I’m told he’s scrupulous and has a history of producing results for our foreign counterparts when it comes to tracking stolen paintings and such.”
“I’m happy to serve in any way I can,” Mei said, bowing her head. “But if Mr. Archer is so effective, how can I possibly augment his work?”
“I’m assigning you for several reasons, not the least of which is your dedication to the investigative process. I trust you implicitly and this case is classified, Mei Lu. The missing pieces are from Beijing museums. High-ranking officials stand to lose their jobs if the items aren’t located.” Catherine tore off a sheet of paper and wrote in bold, broad strokes. “This is Mr. Archer’s home address. He’s expecting you within the hour.”
“Is this more than a one-time consultation?” Rising, Mei Lu accepted the address. She felt marginally better for having heard the chief’s glowing words of praise.
“All I really know is that Archer needs a note deciphered. It’s written in Chinese. I’ll let your captain know I have you on special assignment. We’ll leave the length of time open-ended until I hear back from you or Archer.”
With her composure restored, Mei pocketed the paper and strode briskly from the office. Her last stop before leaving the station was to sign out one of the new stun guns she’d qualified on last week.
In her car, she consulted a map. The address lay within what locals called the Memorial area—elegant, older estates that screamed inherited wealth. Mei didn’t know why that surprised her. Private insurance investigators were well paid—usually ten percent of the insured value. On an item insured for a million, his cut would be a hundred grand so it stood to reason that he’d be an art patron. She hadn’t expected Mr. Archer to live this close to where she’d grown up, though. Her parents’ home was in a newer gated community. Mei Lu envisioned having to jump through all manner of security hoops to gain entry to Archer’s house.
When she found the proper coordinates and turned down a tree-lined drive, she discovered the majority of estates boasted perimeter wrought-iron fences equipped with electronic surveillance devices that allowed visitors to address someone inside via a speakerphone.
Mei pulled up to Archer’s gate and pressed the bell. A woman identifying herself as Freda answered. “Is this the home of Mr. Cullen Archer? If so, he’s expecting Lieutenant Ling.”
The woman’s response was raspy and garbled. What she repeated sounded like Lieutenant Lu. Mei assumed the woman had confused her middle and surnames which was common enough. Rather than correct her, Mei shouted, “Yes.” Like magic, the big gates swung inward on well-oiled hinges.
The house, partially hidden from the street, came into view as Mei rounded a gentle curve. She liked it immediately. It was a two-story rambling structure, the upper floors supported by stucco arches—not pillars, but wide arches forming a covered walkway that in a few months would offer shelter from the hot summer sun. The arches were repeated on a building connected to the main home by a breezeway dripping with vines. As Mei drove past a colorful bed of spring annuals, she saw a six-car garage. A similar extension directly opposite the garage was probably quarters for a housekeeper, or house manager, as many were now called.
The parklike grounds were immaculate, she noticed, worrying what the owners would think if they glanced out the tall windows and saw the wreck driven by one of Houston’s finest. Her Toyota clearly needed washing—as well as some body work, courtesy of a recent hit-and-run on her street.
Mei didn’t know if it was the opulence facing her, but something made her flip down her sunshade and check her makeup in the mirror. She wore only a smudge of shadow to accent her dark eyes, but now extracted a tube of peach gloss and swept it lightly across her lips before gathering her notebook and small square purse, which thankfully matched her tan pumps. Mei loved suits and had been happy to leave uniforms behind after her rotation on street patrol. The March weather was still pleasant enough for suits.
Vowing not to let the Archers intimidate her, no matter how old their money, Mei slid from her car. Even at that, she dragged in a deep breath as she approached the imposing nine-foot-tall, carved wooden doors.
The bell she pressed sounded muffled by distance. No surprise there. What she didn’t expect was to have the door yanked open by a freckle-faced, red-haired woman probably in her mid-fifties. Racing back and forth behind the harried-looking woman was a gap-toothed boy in bathing trunks, dripping water all over the marble entry. A second child, this one a pigtailed girl, also in swim wear, screeched in a high-pitched voice, “Freda, shut the door! Mopsy’s gonna escape!”
The woman grabbed Mei’s elbow and jerked her inside just as the boy chortled triumphantly and dropped a brightly colored bathing towel over a huge white rabbit. The girl fell to her knees and scooped up the squirming bundle, forcing Mei to leap aside once again. The children looked almost alike, except that the boy had short-cropped hair and the girl had soaking wet braids that stuck out at odd angles.
“Phew!” The adult—the housekeeper from what Mei could deduce—scraped wisps of hair off a perspiring forehead. “I’m not even going to ask which of you rascals opened that rabbit’s cage this time. You have ten seconds to put her back before I have a chat with you-know-who.” The woman rolled her eyes elaborately to the left, and the children, faces decidedly guilty, ran up a wide curving staircase amid protests and giggles.
Mei watched their progress. She saw first one, then two long white ears and a twitching pink nose peek out from under the towel both children fought to carry.
“Excuse our chaos,” Freda murmured. “Follow me please, Lieutenant. I’ll take you to Mr. Archer. He’s in his office and said to show you right in.”
The woman dashed off, deftly avoiding a pile of little olive-green men Mei identified as toy soldiers. As she walked, Freda pushed aside a doll carriage and then a big red fire engine. Mei picked her way through various rooms and hallways, noting as she did how incongruous the toys were among well-lit, clearly locked cases containing Samurai swords. On a wall, she spied at least two Renoirs. Scattered among overturned toys were pedestals on which stood Chinese vases that appeared to be the real thing.
In Mei’s childhood home, as she and her brother were growing up, neither would’ve been allowed to leave toys within sight of guests. She and Stephen had had a room designated for play. Even there, her mother expected order at all times.
Because the man she’d come to see was on the phone when Freda opened his office door, Mei had a chance to assess him.
Cullen Archer glanced up and rose politely while attempting to end his call. “Cloris, I’ll fax you a list of the people we invited to the Villareal showing last year, okay?”
Freda’s gesture toward Mei Lu appeared to suffice as an introduction. Archer acknowledged her presence with a nod. But then Mei Lu felt abandoned by the housekeeper, who left her standing awkwardly in front of a total stranger.
And when she took a second look at Cullen Archer, Mei suffered a little punch to her stomach. Not easily rocked by a man’s looks, she found it odd that her heart beat noticeably harder. Granted, he was tall, rangy and casually but expensively dressed. An abundance of black hair glinted silver at his temples.
He was distinguished, yes. But Mei had expected a much older man. Even after seeing the children, she’d presumed her host had grandchildren visiting. These homes typically belonged to Houston’s long-established residents.
Clearly, the western-cut shirt Archer wore didn’t come off any rack. Nor did his gray slacks, one leg of which had caught on the upper edge of rich-looking, hand-tooled cowboy boots. It wasn’t until he stepped around his desk and pulled out a chair he obviously intended for her that Mei drew near enough to glimpse his eyes. They were indecently long-lashed and a shade lighter than his slacks. She felt pierced through as his gaze ran the length of her body, and in a more leisurely manner cruised up to her lips, where his incredible eyes lingered.
Mei flushed, wondering if in her haste she hadn’t put her lip gloss on straight. Reluctantly, she dropped into the chair, discreetly tugging down the navy skirt that slid up to mid-thigh. Clutching her purse atop her notebook, she sat statue-straight instead of letting her shoulders touch the brown leather chair back.
ONCE HIS GUEST had taken a seat, Cullen circled behind his desk again, all the while attempting to wind down his call. “Listen, Cloris, I know you’ve had a hard time corralling the committee members for a meeting. I’ll find an hour to discuss the glitch in the program this week. Right now I have a scheduled appointment.”
Cullen turned then and stared squarely at said appointment. Heat crawled up his spine. He didn’t know what he’d thought a Houston police lieutenant would look like. Not, he decided, like the woman seated across from him as still and regal as a princess. For a fleeting moment, he wondered what it had taken her to reach a lieutenant’s rank.
He’d expected from the name Mei Lu that she’d be Asian. The police chief, whom he’d never personally met, had assured him the lieutenant fluently spoke and read Chinese. Cullen had just never imagined his interpreter would be so slender, so tall or so attractive. Standing, she’d barely had to look up to meet his eyes, and he was a solid six feet. Her sleek hair was imprisoned in a knot a millimeter or so above a starched shirt collar; Cullen’s fingers itched to loosen the bonds holding the shiny black mass. Or maybe it was her blouse with its severe front tucks and pointy collar that made him feel an uncharacteristic desire to muss her up a little. More than a little, he realized, then deliberately turned and paced as far from her as the phone cord allowed. It’d been a long time since he’d been attacked by such immediate lust.
Stretched to the end of his tether, Cullen wheeled again and noticed that the woman—the lieutenant—had beautiful skin. A pale saffron. As she’d taken the chair he pulled out, Cullen had detected a faint hint of sandalwood mixed with something sweet. He found the scent a pleasing combination. Too pleasing.
“Cloris. I have to go. I’m keeping my guest waiting. Yes, I’ll call Robert and Caroline. We’ll coordinate for Tuesday, I promise.”
Absently dropping the receiver in its cradle, Cullen drew a hand through his thick hair. “Sorry about the wait. May I offer you a beverage before we begin? I believe we have coffee, tea, or bottled water in various flavors.”
“Thank you, but no.” Mei wanted to get down to business. The intense way this man studied her left her feeling at a disadvantage.
“I hope you don’t mind if I pour myself a cup of coffee. That was this year’s chairwoman of an art showing we’re trying to put together. Cloris Gaston has a way of talking on and on without taking a breath. I find I need some caffeine.”
Mei relaxed a little. “In that case, I’ll have a cup of tea.”
Cullen rounded the desk and strode toward a corner of the room Mei now saw held a coffeepot, microwave and minibar. He’d just set two cups on a tray when one of the children Mei had seen earlier, the girl, tore into the room, sobbing loudly. Cullen stepped out from behind the counter and swung the child up in a tangle of bare arms and legs.
Mei noticed that the child’s bathing suit was wetter now than it had been before. A damp stain spread across the front of Cullen’s shirt and dripped down his gray slacks when he abruptly sat, placing the girl on his lap.
Mei tensed, expecting a severe reprisal.
“These look like real tears,” Cullen said after a cursory assessment. Taking out a snowy handkerchief, he dabbed the girl’s tear-streaked cheeks.
Nodding, the child managed to sob out, “Bobby punched a hole in my sea horse float. He was playing monster, but I told him I didn’t wanna play. He wouldn’t quit even when Freda told him to stop, Daddy. Bobby knows I hate it when he makes monster noises. I slipped on the pool steps and fell and cut my knee.”
Mei watched Cullen inspect the injury. The tender manner in which the big man ministered to his child impressed her. If she or Stephen had ever interrupted her father when he was holding a meeting, they’d have spent a full day in their rooms contemplating their grievous infraction of the house rules. It wasn’t that she and Stephen weren’t loved; it was more that all things in the Ling home had an order. The adults’ privacy held the highest priority.
Mei listened as the girl Archer introduced as his daughter, Belinda, begged her father to punish the offensive Bobby. Cullen didn’t barter, which also impressed Mei. He washed her cut at a sink behind the bar, dressed her knee and gave his daughter a hug. After which, he advised her to go back and settle her differences with her brother.
“Belinda and Bobby are twins,” Cullen remarked to Mei. He filled a tea ball, which he placed in a flowered cup, then poured hot water into a small metal teapot. He set the cup and pot on his desk. “By and large they’re great kids for eight-year-olds,” he said, returning for his pottery mug. “Belinda, though, is the original drama queen. I suspect sometimes she only wants to check out my guests. If she’d really come to complain about her brother, he’d have flown in right behind her to defend himself.” Grinning, Cullen sat down again opposite his guest. “Do you have children?” he inquired suddenly.
She shook her head, but her hand quivered pouring her water. “I’m not married,” she murmured, casting her eyes down as she dunked the infusion ball. The aroma of jasmine enveloped her, instantly settling her jumpy stomach. She managed to gain a firm grip on the cup’s handle.
“I didn’t mean to embarrass you by getting personal. I’m divorced with kids, and I’ve found that having children in common is often an icebreaker.” Cullen had seen the tinge of red creep up her neck. “I…uh, I’ve wasted enough of your time, not to mention taxpayer money. Shall we get straight to it?”
Mei nodded, replacing her cup without ever tasting the fragrant tea. She was afraid her unsteady hands would make her appear too flighty for a law officer. Normally, she wasn’t giddy around men, a fact her friends teased her about unmercifully. One by one, Mei had watched those same women fall in love. Risa, Lucy, Crista, and the latest, Abby, who’d twice given up her career to follow Thomas Riley. This time to North Carolina. The women had spoken over the weekend, Abby had sounded happy with her move, and Mei hoped she was.
Mei didn’t exactly envy Abby or the others. Rather, she was confused by the changes that had come over all her friends with the entry of lovers into their lives. Lately, she’d felt less connected to them. Mei tried, but she didn’t understand how the women all juggled love and their police careers. Because of that, she sometimes felt as if she stood outside their old circle, looking in.
Cullen regained Mei Lu’s wandering attention by pulling a manila file folder from his drawer and flipping it open. “I assume your chief briefed you.”
“Not really. She said you needed me to translate…something. Some document having to do with artifacts smuggled out of Beijing?”
Separating a glossy eight-by-ten photograph from papers in the file, Archer slid it silently across the desk.
Mei leaned forward to see better, and also to avoid a glare from the window. When a picture of a glazed earthenware warrior painted in exquisite detail came into focus, an involuntary gasp escaped her lips. “The Heavenly King,” she breathed, running a fingertip over the colorful statue. “Tang Dynasty, 709. Excavated in 1981 from the tomb of An Pu in Henan province.”
“Right on all counts.” Cullen was admittedly floored by the woman’s knowledge. “A member of the Houston Art Buyers’ Guild received this photo in the mail, accompanied by a typed memo—in English—asking if he might know of a buyer for the piece. The memo also said he’d be contacted within the week by a courier who would supposedly bring him the statue to authenticate. No courier came, so the dealer, suspicious anyway, sent the packet to Interpol. To an agent who, with my help, had recovered a stolen carving for him last year.”
“Then no one’s seen this statue?” Mei dropped the photo on the desk.
“No. But a second, smaller print turned up, along with this note, in a belly band worn by a man dressed in old-style Chinese garb. His body’s gone unclaimed in the morgue. Interpol was combing U.S. newspapers and chanced on a small article from Houston. It described how police, stopping to investigate a disturbance in the parking lot of an Asian nightclub, scattered a group of men. Someone in that group apparently shot our guy. I’ve viewed the body and the evidence. I think he’s probably the courier.”
“May I see the note? I assume it’s what needs translating?”
Cullen hesitated, although he wasn’t sure why. “I spent time in Guangzhou last year, tracking a forged silk tapestry. I had to work from police notes jotted in Chinese. I’m moderately familiar with what’s called grass Chinese. Very informal scribbling. Shorthand, if you will. This appears to be a formal letter, Lieutenant Lu.”
Mei’s head shot up. “Lieutenant Ling. Lu is my middle name. My surname is Ling.”
Cullen held tight to the letter. “You wouldn’t be related to Michael?” Even as he asked, Cullen wanted her to deny the connection. But then, he hadn’t expected a police translator to be so familiar with Chinese art.
Mei deliberately took her first sip of tea. “Michael Ling is my father,” she said eventually. “Stephen, my brother, also works in the family business. For a time, I headed our Hong Kong office.” Setting her cup back in its saucer, she pried the note out from under Archer’s hand.
He wanted to snatch the page back, but realized too late that she’d begun to explain what the note said. And he needed to focus on her soft voice.
“It’s a simple introduction of the bearer, named Wang Xi, to an unnamed cousin of the person who wrote this. The cousin is being asked to see to Wang Xi’s comfort during his brief stay in Houston. He’s asked to…to…help Wang Xi knock on the right doors. Complying will remove one debt from the cousin’s book.” Chewing her lower lip, Mei sat back to mull over what she’d read.
Across the desk, Cullen steepled his fingers. “What book?” he asked abruptly.
Mei shrugged. Even if she’d been inclined to fill Cullen Archer in about the book the writer referred to, she doubted he’d understand. Such books weren’t real, but figurative. In traditional and extended Asian families—including aunts, uncles, cousins and dear friends—it wasn’t uncommon for heads of households to keep unwritten lists of debts, which weren’t always paid monetarily. Favors often sufficed as payment. But that was difficult to explain to non-Chinese.
“Who do you think has the Heavenly King now?” she asked. “Are you quite sure your art-dealer friend didn’t end up with the statue?”
“Why would he notify Interpol?” Cullen asked curtly.
“To make himself appear innocent? To turn questions elsewhere after the courier—if that’s who Wang Xi was—ended up dead in a parking lot.”
“That might fly, except that a month ago, after undergoing a quadruple heart bypass, this particular dealer liquidated his business.”
Mei picked up her cup and, while she and Cullen Archer studied each other across his broad desk, drained it.
Archer drummed his fingers on the folder of notes pertaining to the case. “Why Houston? Why not San Francisco or New York City, which certainly have far greater numbers of serious Asian art collectors.”
“I’m afraid I have no theory about that, Mr. Archer.” He’d begun probing her once she’d revealed her connection to Ling Limited, and she didn’t like it one bit. Her father’s behavior was always ethical, business or life. In fact, Michael Ling was honest to a fault. Mei Lu had seen him draw up a check for fifty cents for a mail-order customer who’d miscalculated the state tax.
She kept her eyes trained on tea leaves that had filtered from the ball to settle in the bottom of her cup. Her mother made a practice of reading the leaves.
Just when Mei was sure the man who faced her with a scowl would finally tell her what was on his mind, his twins burst into the room. They were freshly scrubbed and now dressed in shorts and bright colored T-shirts. Belinda wore pink, her shining curls swept up into a ponytail held in place by a pink flowered scrunchie. Bobby’s clothes were more sedate—dark-brown shorts and a plain olive shirt. Both children wore sandals. Each dashed shy glances at Mei Lu even as they pounced on their father.
“Freda says come to lunch. She sent us to ask if the lady police person is going to eat with us.” Bobby’s voice rose above his sister’s. It was he, not Belinda, who turned to Mei, demanding bluntly, “If you’re a cop, where’s your uniform and badge? And where’s your cop car?”
Mei smiled. “I used to wear a uniform, Bobby. I drove a patrol car, too. Now I work in a different department. I’m sorry if you’re disappointed.”
Bobby didn’t look so much crestfallen as suspicious. “All the policemen I’ve ever seen carry guns.”
His sister wiggled her way to the foreground, managing to put herself center stage. “I told Bobby policewomen are diff’rent from policemen. I bet you take bad guys out with kicks and stuff like Charlie’s Angels in a movie Mom let us rent.”
Mei honestly didn’t know how to answer the child. And she certainly didn’t want to admit she carried a Taser.
Fortunately, the children’s father came to her rescue and exclaimed, “Enough. Quit bugging Lieutenant Ling. Go tell Freda we’re almost finished here. Tell her to give me five minutes, then I’ll join you kids for lunch on the terrace.”
The children thundered out with a chorus of yippees and yays. Mei saw that Cullen’s eyes followed both of them indulgently and lovingly.
Turning again to his guest, he said, “I apologize for my children’s interruption. I’ve noted your translation. Thank you for your assistance. I believe that concludes our business, Lieutenant.” He stood, clearly dismissing her.
Despite her curiosity, Mei rose as well. She’d love to know what was contained in the other pages stacked in the folder Archer had shut. She also wondered vaguely about the whereabouts of the twins’ mother. Did Cullen have his kids all the time? It didn’t matter—although, he’d begun to ask about her life. Regardless, Mei sensed that her host had clammed up as soon as he’d learned about her relationship to Michael Ling and Ling Limited.
She extended her right hand, shifting the almost-empty cup she still held. Fumbling, Archer barely brushed her knuckles with his fingers.
“I understand your children are waiting for you,” she said. “In a way, I’m sorry we don’t have longer to discuss this case. Puzzles of this nature intrigue me.”
“I appreciate your willingness to drop your work and interpret for me. However, I haven’t got time to fill you in on the mostly boring details I’ve gathered to date.”
Mei Lu pasted on a false smile, and reached beneath his arm to set her cup solidly back in its saucer. “There’s a Chinese proverb my father’s fond of. ‘Never talk business before the third cup of tea.’ I’m generally too impatient to practice it, myself.”
“I’m afraid you’ve lost me.” Cullen wore a similar forced smile.
“Loosely translated it means, accept the first cup of tea in friendship when it’s offered. But if you aren’t offered another, it’s time to leave.”
Mei Lu turned then and left the room. She avoided various toys still scattered in the hallway, thinking what a waste this was of her first morning as a lieutenant. At the entry, she found herself glancing back at Archer’s office and again caught her breath as she looked at the man who’d stepped into the hall. Presumably he wanted to ensure she did leave his home—without filching one of his expensive vases. Mei was overwhelmed by the feeling that it was just as well she wasn’t going to be faced with seeing this jarringly handsome but patently distrustful man a second time. Still, Cullen Archer caused butterflies in her stomach.
His twins dashed out from where they’d been playing under the curved stairs. “Bye, policewoman,” Belinda called, waving madly. “Come again when you can stay and have lunch with us.”
“I’ll shut the door so I can make sure Mopsy doesn’t sneak out,” Bobby Archer declared, sounding adult and clearly not echoing his sister’s generous sentiment.
Mei Lu recognized in the boy’s eyes a coolness very similar to what she’d seen in his dad’s. Maybe Bobby resented the divorce and felt the need to protect his mother’s interests. She hurried out, wondering if the boy had perceived her fleeting attention. But that was impossible—wasn’t it?
She sensed movement at Archer’s office window and knew he’d gone back to monitor her departure. To Mei Lu’s relief her car started without a hitch. The last thing she needed now was the humiliation of being stuck in his driveway.
