The Silent Girl

the spot where Joey Gilmore died
.
    She looked across the cashier counter, and the memory of another crime scene photo superimposed itself on that patch of floor: the body of James Fang, his glasses askew, dressed in his trim waiter’s vest and black pants. He had crumpled into the nook behind the register, dollar bills scattered around him.
    She turned. Stared at the corner where a four-top table had once been. She imagined Dina and Arthur Mallory sitting at that table, sipping tea, warming themselves after the chill of a March night. That image suddenly vanished, replaced by the police photos taken hours later. Arthur Mallory, still in his chair, slumped forward over the spilled teacups. And a few feet away his wife, Dina, lying facedown on the floor, her chair tipped over in her panic to escape. Standing in this vacant room, Jane could hear the echo of gunshots, the clatter of breaking china.
    She turned toward the kitchen, where the cook had died. Suddenly she did not want to step through that doorway. It was Frost who walked in first, who flipped the light switch. Again, only a single bulb came on. She followed him, and in the dim glow she saw the blackened cookstove, a refrigerator, and stainless-steel countertops. The concrete floor was pockmarked with wear.
    She moved to the cellar door. Here, with his body blocking that door, was where Wu Weimin, the cook, had drawn his final breath. Staring down, she almost imagined that the floor was darker here, the concrete still stained with old blood. She remembered how eerily intact his face had been, except for the lone bullet hole punched into his temple. That bullet had ricocheted within his skull, shredding gray matter, but it had not immediately killed him. They knew this because of how copiously he had bled during his final moments while his heart continued to pump and his wound spilled a waterfall that poured down the cellar steps.
    She opened the door and peered down a wooden stairway that descended into darkness. A light cord dangled overhead. She gave it a tug, but nothing happened; this bulb had burned out.
    Frost crossed the kitchen to another door. “Does this lead outside?”
    “Goes to back of building,” said Mr. Kwan. “Parking.”
    Frost opened the door and saw another locked gate. “The alley’s here. Report said this is how the cook’s wife walked in. She heard a gunshot, came down to check on her husband, and found him dead in the kitchen.”
    “So theoretically, if that door was unlocked, any intruder could have come in that way,” said Jane.
    Kwan looked back and forth at the two detectives, and he seemed confused. “What intruder? Cook, he kill himself.”
    “We’re reexamining the incident, Mr. Kwan,” said Frost. “Just to be certain nothing was missed.”
    The realtor shook his head in dismay. “That was very bad thing for Chinatown,” he muttered, no doubt surrendering all hope of unloading this cursed building. “Better to forget about it.” He squinted at his watch. “If you finished now, we leave, okay? I lock up.”
    Jane glanced up toward the second floor. “Wu Weimin and his family lived on the second floor. Could you take us up to their apartment?”
    “Nothing to see,” said Kwan.
    “Nevertheless, we need to look at it.”
    He sighed deeply, as though they were asking him for a favor beyond all human measure. Once again he took out his heavy key ring and went through the painstaking process of locating the right key. Judging by how many were jangling on that enormous ring, this man controlled half the properties in Chinatown. At last, he found the right one and led them out the kitchen exit, into the back alley.
    Like the front entrance to the Red Phoenix restaurant, the door to the upstairs apartments was secured behind a steel gate. The shadows had deepened to night, and Frost had to shine his flashlight on the lock so Kwan could insert the key. Rusty hinges squealed as he swung open the gate, and yet another key had to be inserted into another lock before he could open the inner door.
    Inside was blackness. The stairwell light had burned out, so Jane turned on her flashlight and saw steps leading upward, the railingrubbed smooth by the oils of countless hands sliding over wood. The darkness seemed to magnify the sound of their shoes creaking on the steps, and she heard Mr. Kwan’s labored breathing behind them as he struggled to climb the stairs.
    At the top of the flight, she paused outside the door to