He called it the moon

As a kid, I thought Uncle Wen knew everything. He used to tell Kai and me stories on the tiny patio behind his flat. Of course, as we got older, we thought that was all kid’s stuff. We wanted to be mature and sophisticated, so we stopped listening to an old man’s fairy tales.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Looking back, story times in his shop were some of the happiest moments of my life. I guess everyone takes that kind of thing for granted at that age. Idiot.

The last story he told us was right before we got our tattoos. We’d just turned seventeen and we’d planned the trip in secret. He found out and made us sit and listen to the story of how Dragon, the water spirit, and Phoenix, the fire spirit, met and fell in love. He told us how they became so enraptured with each other that they abandoned all their responsibilities and sought only to be in each other’s company. But without Dragon, the waters did not run and the rain did not fall. And without Phoenix, the universe was cold and heavens did not turn. The rivers dried and the earth was covered in frost and the people became hungry. They begged the pair to resume their duties.

Fearing they would be separated, the two lovers fled to the Western Paradise where no mortal could follow, and so the people called out to Pan-ku, the first man, born of the cosmic egg, protector of tradition, and pleaded for help. Pan-ku saw the suffering that had befallen the world and was angry. He turned his high gaze over the earth and soon found where Dragon and Phoenix were hiding. With a single step, he reached the Western Paradise and hid behind the great bamboo grove at its eastern border. There, he drew the character for yin on one hand and yang on the other. And he waited.

The next morning, Dragon woke and, turning to face his beloved, was so enthralled by her beauty that he was overcome and vowed to find her a gift every bit as brazen as she so that she would always know his love. When Phoenix awoke and found her beloved had gone, she too scoured the Western Paradise for a gift every bit as handsome and lustrous as he so that he would always know her love. As soon as the lovers parted, Pan-ku opened his hands. Seeing the character for yin and thinking it was his beloved, Dragon rushed to show her the blazing gift he had found burning at the top of the cliff, and he was captured. Seeing the character for yang and thinking it was her beloved, Phoenix rushed to show him the shimmering stone she had found shining in the still pond, and she was captured.

Holding the pair in his hands, Pan-ku decreed that if fire and water should ever be brought together, they would each extinguish the other. Then he released the heartbroken lovers to their heavenly duties. Pan-ku took Dragon’s gift and put it over the day and called it the sun. Then he took Phoenix’s gift and put it over the night and called it the moon. Then he pressed his hands together and made the shape of the yin-yang as a sign to all creation that the universe is in harmony only when opposites are balanced, when we are neither stingy nor wasteful, neither foolish nor foolhardy, and when we are respectful of tradition and of each other.

That was what I was thinking about as I was falling to my death — an old man’s myth.

Only I didn’t die.

I landed in a bin of debris from inside the theater, including a bunch of old seat cushion foam. It was not a pleasant experience by any means, and I walked away with three cuts, two of which were rather deep, several new bruises, and a sprained neck. But I lived.

The funny part is that I remember glancing down when Fish’s guy leaned me over the edge. It’s instinctive. You look to see what you’ll land on. I remember seeing brick and concrete, not a giant bin of theater rubbish conjured out of nowhere. But it’s not like I was going to go back up and ask Fish for a do over. Besides, my luck ran out almost immediately. I had some trouble climbing out of the bin — after I laid there for awhile and let my heart calm down — and when my feet finally touched the street, a couple uniforms were waiting to nab me, like I was a fleeing junkie or something. As they put the cuffs on, I swore there was a man at the other end, standing behind the plume of smoke that erupted from an alley door. A bald man with his hands in a coat. But I blinked and he was gone.

I was at the station before I realized I didn’t have my purse, which is exactly why I don’t carry one. Not only that, I had no idea where I’d lost it. That meant no phone and no wallet. No phone meant no Kell. No wallet meant no money. My one satisfaction was in the thought that whoever found it would be left with less than fifty bucks and a couple maxed out credit cards.

I slept in the back of the squad car while they rounded up everyone they could. Eventually a van came for us. I slept there, too. The chick next to me told everyone very loudly that I smelled like vomit. I slept again on the floor of a bench-lined hall that was standing-room only. I think we were all locked in there, but I honestly can’t remember. At some point, I was shown to a bathroom and allowed to pee and clean myself up. I could see sunlight through the narrow opaque window near the ceiling. I thought I was going back to the big room, but instead, I was taken separately to a squad car and driven to a different station where there was even more waiting. I was slumped sideways in a chair, legs pressed to my chest, sleeping soundly, when a lady officer woke me and told me I might want to wipe the drool from the side of my face. She handed me a tissue. Then she handed me the box.

I was asked to sign something, and after another short wait, I was taken to the second floor. The carpet was thin and navy blue. A woman in a uniform took me down a hall to a room marked Interview B. She knocked and a detective opened the door, a black guy in a tousled suit, sans coat, who introduced himself as Detective Rigdon. There was another detective, a white guy with broad shoulders and slightly more hair, standing near the mirror. He said his name was Hammond. He had a kind of rounded block head that I thought it might be nice to sculpt.

There was an empty chair on the far side of a faux wood table.

“Am I under arrest?” I asked.

“For?” Detective Rigdon asked.

I thought that must be a trick, sort of like “When did you stop beating your wife?” where any answer I gave might be an indirect suggestion of guilt.

I walked around and took a seat. “Does that mean I can go?”

Detective Rigdon sat down opposite me, in front of the two-way mirror, and placed a notepad and a couple pens on the table next to a manila file folder. Detective Hammond with the broad shoulders and the block head leaned against the closed door. Not menacingly or anything. More like he just didn’t feel like sitting, like maybe he expected this was going to be over quick.

“We like you to answer some questions,” Rigdon said.

I shrugged like “whatever.”

“Just make it quick, huh guys? I’m playing golf with the Mayor this afternoon.”

“Lyman Raimi was found dead yesterday,” Detective Hammond said from the back. “Along with his driver,” he added.

Cue long silence.

I looked to the detectives. They were so serious.

Detective Rigdon looked to me. “How did you know Mr. Raimi?”

I shrugged. They definitely had me on the defensive then.

“I met him once. A couple days ago. Shit. Wait. How did this happen?”

Rigdon thought for a second like he was deciding whether or not I was allowed to know.

“He appears to have fallen from the upper floors of one of his properties, a place called Watchtower. Out in Brooklyn Heights. You know it?”

“Fallen? As in jumped or pushed?”

Detective Rigdon pulled some photos from his file. “It’s a construction site. Gonna be condos or something.”

I saw Lyman’s body impaled on a row of ridged rebar poking from a recently poured concrete slab. One of the bars had pierced his ear and twisted his head into an odd shape. The other looked wet and sticky, and there was a pool of dark red blood on the concrete. His wheelchair rested on its side near him, as if it had followed him to its end like a faithful dog.

I covered my mouth as Rigdon slapped another photo on top of the first.

“He appears to have been taken from his home by force.”

A headless body was slumped against the wall near the waterfall on the fourth floor of the Raimi mansion. It was William bouncer-man. I recognized the turtleneck. There was a splatter of blood on the wall over him, smeared down, as if he’d been cleanly decapitated while standing.

“We still haven’t found the head,” Hammond explained dryly from the back.

Rigdon scooped up the photos and put them away.

“Mr. Raimi’s day planner indicated he had a meeting with you recently.”

I nodded. I’m sure my name stood out, sitting there next to his business contacts and wealthy associates.

“Care to tell us what that was about?”

“He was looking for someone. A friend of mine.”

“Would that be Kelly Ann Sobricki?”

I nodded.

“After his meeting with you,” Hammond spoke again from the door, “he had his accountant begin converting some rather large investments into cash, and there’s evidence he planned to leave the country.”

“From what I understand, he was always leaving the country,” I said. “For work.”

“What work is that?” Hammond asked.

I shrugged. “I told you. I just met him.”

“Then how do you know he was always leaving for work?”

“Kell must have mentioned it.”

“What was your relationship with Mr. Raimi?”

“Relationship? Dude, are you deaf? I keep saying, I met him one time.”

“So he didn’t stop by your apartment the other day?”

I shrugged again.

Detective Rigdon fiddled with the pen in his hand. “Where were you between the hours of eleven and two a.m. last night?”

“I’m pretty sure you guys already know the answer to that question.”

“Can anyone confirm you were there the whole time?”

I looked between them. They both looked back. Emotionless. They waited for me to answer. The longer I didn’t, the more tense it became.

I pressed my hands together under the table. “Bastien.”

“What’s Bastien’s last name?”

“Rops,” I said. “But that’s not his real name. I don’t think.”

“It’s not?”

Now the two men were definitely all ears.

I shook my head. “Pretty sure it’s a reference to Felicien Rops.”

“And who’s that?”

“French artist. Or Belgian maybe. From the 19th century. Painted all kinds of decadent and transgressive stuff. Black masses and stuff.”

“Is that important?” Hammond asked.

I moved my head like I had no idea.

“So what’s Bastien’s real name?” Rigdon asked.

I shook my head again.

“You’re dating a boy and you don’t know his real name?”

“We’re not dating.” It was like trying to explain modern art to my dad. I kept my head down and tried not to say anything that would get me in more trouble.

“Bastien have a phone?” Rigdon asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“What about Ms. Sobricki?” Hammond said.

“What about her?” I asked.

“Her phone seems to have been disconnected. Any idea where we might find her?”

“It’s in my apartment, actually. You’re welcome to it. And no, not at the moment.” I paused. “We had an argument.”

“Mr. Raimi’s housekeeper indicated she’d been living in a guest room for the past several months, but that she left in a hurry.”

I nodded. “She told me he kicked her out.”

“She say why?”

“No.”

Rigdon scratched notes. “Did you ever get the sense your friend wanted to hurt Mr. Raimi?”

“She’s not a murderer, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“I’m not suggesting anything, Ms. Song. I’m just trying to understand everyone’s role in this man’s life. What did you think of Mr. Raimi?”

“I didn’t. I told you. He was Kell’s thing.”

“So you two were never romantically involved?” Hammond asked.

“Involved? No. God.” I made a face. “No way.”

“Why ‘no way?’ He was a sophisticated guy. Rich. Traveled all over the world buying art and attending fancy galas and all that. I’d be impressed.”

“Then you should’ve dated him.”

Rigdon wrote a few more things down. Or maybe he was catching up.

“What about your eye?” he asked.

“What about it?”

“It’s quite a bruise. How’d it happen?”

“I passed out at the club. Hit my head.”

Rigdon wrote more. It seemed to take awhile, like maybe he’d thought of something and wanted to make sure he didn’t forget.

“How did Ms. Sobricki and Mr. Raimi meet?”

I told the two of them the whole thing, or most of it anyway — Bastien, Rey’s suicide, the gala at The Met, all of it. Rigdon jotted down more notes.

“We found a large stock of pregnancy tests at the Raimi house. What can you tell us about that?”

“Come on. I know you guys are only policemen, but give yourselves a little credit. I bet even you can do the math.”

They didn’t react.

“Did she tell you the name of the father?” Hammond asked.

“She said it was Lyman.”

“Did the two of you talk at all about what she planned to do?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

He didn’t flinch. He never flinched.

“Did she plan on asking Mr. Raimi for support?”

“What? Like a paternity suit or something?” I made a face again. “No.”

“What is Ms. Sobricki’s occupation?” Rigdon asked.

“She was working retail.”

“And now?”

I shrugged. I bit my lip.

“And you?” he asked. “What do you do?”

“I work at the Halal market. Under my flat.”

“And they can confirm that?”

“Of course.”

He took more notes.

On and on it went like that. They asked me the same question more than once, but in a different way, like they were trying to trip me up. Then Rigdon said, completely casually, “We’d like to get access to your phone records if that’s okay.” Like it was no big deal. Like he was a checkout girl asking if I wanted to apply for a store card and get a 15% discount. Like it was just something he had to do and didn’t care whether I said yes or no. He didn’t mention I had the right to say no, and that if I did, they’d have to get a warrant.

An innocent omission, I’m sure.

“Yeah, sure,” I said. “You know. Whatever.”

Hammond stood straight finally. “Just one more thing, Ms. Song. You have plans on visiting family any time soon?”

I raised my eyebrows. “In Hong Kong? Ha. No. I can’t even afford to pay my cell phone bill.”

“All the same, We’re gonna have to ask you to let us know if you plan on leaving town.” He reached over and handed me his card while his partner finished writing on a piece of paper folded over at the top so I couldn’t see.

I took it. “You think I had something to do with it?”

He shrugged. “A man is dead. We’re just trying to understand why.”

And with that he opened the door and I shuffled out. Three minutes later, I was standing in shock on the sidewalk.

“Shit!” I screamed. Only not in English. “Shit shit shit! Ce-ze-lei, you fucking idiot.” I stomped my foot.

People coming out of the building looked at me. They stepped wide as they passed. That’s when I noticed Detectives Hammond and Rigdon in the second floor window. Watching. They totally didn’t care I saw them. They didn’t flinch. They never flinched.

I don’t think they believed anything I said.

 

I’m posting the chapters of my forthcoming urban paranormal mystery in order until the book is released in early 2018. You can start here: I saw my first dead body the summer we moved to Atlanta.

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cover image by Erte

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