She Walks the Line

At a young age, Mei did attend wushu–kung fu classes with Stephen. She soon fell behind her more dedicated sibling, and Grand Master Chin had advised Mei to seek a new pursuit. By her third day at the academy, she wished she’d applied herself more back then. Mei would be eternally grateful to Crista for taking her under her wing. Committed to her sport, and good at it, Crista offered Mei after-hours sessions that paid off. She’d improved, and had actually moved on to intermediate level, a matter of pride for both women. Mei would settle for solid competence. Crista had her sights set on attaining her master’s level.

This afternoon, Crista landed a punch Mei should have easily blocked. After the third time Crista had to help Mei off the floor, it became apparent that Mei’s attention kept wandering to a children’s class going on in another part of the vast gym.

“Something’s up with you. Even at your worst, you never just handed me a match.” Bending, Crista picked up and uncapped a bottle of water. “You know one of those kids over there?”

“Huh? Oh, no.” Flushing, Mei grabbed a small towel and blotted sweat from her neck. “Sorry, I can’t seem to concentrate.”

“That’s evident.” Crista recapped her bottle. “Are you leveling with me about El Capitan Weasel?”

Mei Lu grinned. “I wouldn’t assign Murdock that much importance.” She reached for her own water and splashed some on her face. “My mind must be stalled on a new case I went out on today. There were these really cute, precocious kids.”

“Corporate criminals getting younger every day, are they?” Crista teased.

“The twins have nothing to do with the case. Their father is connected to…to…Interpol.”

Crista snorted. “Lucky you. At least, in your work, nobody dies.”

“Someone did, though,” Mei blurted out. Then she winced. “I shouldn’t have said that, Crista. The case is classified. I should just put it out of my mind. As far as I know, my part in the matter began and ended today after I translated a letter.”

“Oh.” Crista’s eyebrows became a slash over the bridge of her nose. “Hey, what’s this? A chink in Mei Lu’s armor? Am I hearing personal interest in…a man? ‘The man from Interpol,’” she singsonged.

Mei dropped her water bottle and hurriedly grabbed it before too much could puddle on the mat. Her heart raced again at the indirect mention of Cullen Archer. And that disturbed Mei. “Honestly, Crista. Ever since you fell in love, you see romance around every corner. I said a man died.”

“Okay, okay. You’re so touchy. Dead guys are right up my alley. You want to skip this session and talk about your case?”

Mei gathered her few belongings. “I’m really no match for you tonight. And I honestly can’t discuss the case. Catherine assigned it a high level of confidentiality. I think I’ll go on home and let you maim Sergeant Denholm. I see him looking around the room, spoiling for blood. He reminds me of that guy at the academy you had to shut up. What was his name?”

“Schwartz. Bernie Schwartz. I’m in no mood to take on Denholm. Sure you wouldn’t rather go for coffee—or tea? Sometimes it helps to unload on an impartial listener. I hope you know I’d never repeat anything you tell me off the record.”

“I know, Crista. But this really isn’t my case to talk about. Can I have a rain check on the tea and call you for a rematch?”

Crista grinned cheekily. “Sure. Although, I don’t want you going soft in your cushy new job.”

“Next week, then? Same time?” Mei said as they both headed back to the dressing room, passing Sergeant Denholm, a man more than a little flabby around the middle.

“Hey, Ling. I saw how you let Santiago whip your butt. I’ll gladly show you how a man cuts that hot tamale down to size.”

“You know, Denholm, I was on my way out,” Crista said. “But you’ve been pushing for a slaughter.”

Spinning, Mei turned back, too. “I’ll referee, just to keep you honest, Sarge.”

His grin faltered, and he tried to backpedal. The women closed ranks and, because others had heard his bragging, he ended up going along.

It did Mei’s heart good to see Crista flatten the big-mouth in three out of three tries. “You know what?” she said, calling to her friend who’d barely broken a sweat. “I changed my mind about having tea. Come on, Crista. My treat.”

“I probably shouldn’t have been so rough on him,” Crista lamented later as the friends trudged down the street toward a coffeehouse in the next block.

“Why not? He’s been asking for it. Now maybe he’ll shut the heck up.”

“If only. More like now every macho jerk in Denholm’s squad will want a piece of me, when we both know the number one rule in Wing Chun is to not let an attacker provoke you.”

Mei pulled open the door to the coffeehouse. “Quit beating up on yourself. Denholm claims he wants to learn the Wing Chun system of kung fu. Tonight was another step in his training. At least, that’s what you told me all those times you bounced me off the carpet.”

“That’s different. I like you, Mei Lu.”

Mei, who got into line first, glanced around and pulled a face at Crista. “Thanks—I think.” The women burst out laughing and jostled each other, still smothering giggles as they placed their orders. The revelry broke whatever tension had gripped them earlier. By the time they picked up their orders and found a table in the corner, Denholm’s plight and Mei’s case were taboo subjects. The two old friends chatted about inconsequential things. Harmless gossip. Half an hour later, they parted, still in high spirits.

On the drive home, Mei reflected on how much she missed the nights the five, or sometimes six, would meet for coffee, drinks or dinner. The first crack in their bond occurred when Catherine became chief. They all understood that her job brought with it weighty new responsibilities. Nevertheless, she’d been the first to pull back. Relaxed as she felt now, Mei hated recalling the next fracture that occurred, after Risa had been accused of killing her partner. Mei shuddered, and the warmth of the evening fled. The whole mess rushed to the forefront of her mind.

Maybe the situation would’ve gone differently if the friends had been more experienced in their individual fields. Instead, after working the required street patrol, they’d barely been settled into their new jobs—Mei in Corporate Crime Investigation, Risa in Sex Crimes, Lucy in Missing Persons. Crista was in Homicide, but with a different unit. Abby had worked part-time with the crisis intervention team.

At the first catastrophes their friendship had collapsed. Mei hadn’t known what to do—hadn’t known what to say—to comfort Risa. She recalled a phone conversation that had ended badly. Even after IA cleared Risa, one thing led to another and it was as if their earlier friendship ceased to exist. Some blamed it on falling in love. Grady Wilson had backed Risa, and their relationship had deepened. Jackson Davis had come into Lucy’s life at the very point when everything was so confused. Mei felt both men were exactly what her friends needed.

Mei hadn’t been as willing to admit that Alex Del Rio was good for Crista. Of course, she’d always felt more like a sister than friend to Crista. Abby, who’d already been in and out of love, suggested Mei might be jealous of Crista’s happiness. Mei Lu had given it serious thought, but honestly believed jealousy wasn’t part of her reaction. Truly, Mei had never met such a dark and brooding man as Alex. She’d been concerned for Crista. Alex was…intense. And he’d been married before, but his wife died of a brain aneurism a couple of years ago.

Looking back, Mei had no idea why his having been married was a sticking point. After all, they were of an age where many of their contemporaries were divorced and some had children. She was probably the oddball.

But boy, talk about intense. Thomas Riley, the former Delta Force officer Abby Carlton had fallen for, could be another poster boy for intensity. Still, as Catherine once said, every one of the men was sinfully good-looking. “Hot” was how she’d put it.

As Mei parked in front of her duplex just after six, she actually paused to wonder if Catherine would attach that label to Cullen Archer. Hot. In Mei’s opinion, it certainly fit. Flustered, she grabbed her purse, notebook and keys, and flew into the house. Thankfully Foo’s effusive greeting steered her priorities in another direction.

“Yes, I’m glad to see you, too, mutt.” Shedding her suit coat, Mei locked up her weapon, then hung her jacket in the closet. The next thing she did was find one of Foo’s squeaky toys to toss across the room. It was a nightly ritual. His ambling gait on stubby legs too short for his big feet never failed to make Mei laugh. The shelter had said no one there wanted to venture a guess as to the breeds in his background. Built low to the ground like a basset, his soft fur, perky terrier ears and pug-like face expelled him from that breed. To say nothing of his waving plume of a tail. But he almost smiled, and Mei had loved that about him from the minute she set eyes on him. Life held enough sorrow; she liked surrounding herself with bright colors and silly offbeat objects that always lifted her spirits.

She changed into jeans and a T-shirt, and took Foo out into her compact backyard so he could chase a ball around. She supposed her propensity for lots of color and things her parents would call junk came from having lived amid such order all her life. The Ling home could grace the pages of Architectural Digest or House Beautiful. On the high-ceilinged, ice-toned walls hung rich brocade tapestries that provided splashes of color. However, her mother rarely spoke of their beauty; rather, she added up their monetary value. Mei and Stephen had grown up in a veritable museum. Stephen, Mei’s elder by two years, had slipped easily into the family habit of collecting for the sake of owning. Once close, the siblings had a clash of principles the last year Mei spent in Hong Kong at the family business. Leaving the firm had been heart-wrenching, one of the hardest decisions she’d ever made. But it’d been for the best. She’d found her true niche in police work.

She heard her phone ring. Aware that Catherine’s meeting might let out around seven o’clock, Mei raced inside to scoop up the receiver before her answering machine kicked in. “Hello,” she said, still out of breath.

“Lieutenant?” a male voice inquired. A vaguely familiar one, too, but Mei couldn’t quite place it.

“Yes,” she said more hesitantly. Her home phone number was unlisted, as were most officers’.

“You sound like I caught you running a marathon or something. This is Cullen Archer.”

“Mr. Archer?” Mei found it even harder to breathe normally. “I haven’t been home long. You caught me playing with my dog.”

“Ah. Well, I’m down at the Port of Houston.” He rattled off a dock number, and Mei automatically stored the information. “We have a second corpse. A second dead courier, I’m betting.”

Mei’s thundering heart nearly stopped beating. “Oh, no! How? Why? Did you call Homicide?”

“They contacted me,” he said. “There’s a second photograph and another note in Chinese. If I might interrupt your play, I’d like you to come and have a look. I’ll see that security lets you drive straight in.”

Mei bit her lower lip.

“Well?” he demanded impatiently.

“Of course. I already turned my report in to the chief, though. I’d assumed you wouldn’t require my services again.”

“You thought wrong. Do I need to call your chief first?”