Silent Screams - C. E. Lawrence [81]
“Oh, I can eat like a horse sometimes,” he said. “Don’t you worry.”
“You know better than to tell a woman you can eat a lot without gaining weight, right?”
“Yes, I think I know that much,” he said, laughing. He felt grateful for her presence—it lightened him and made his heart quicken.
Lee looked around the restaurant. The other customers had long since left, and the staff sat around one of the round tables, rolling wontons. He thought they were trying hard not to glance at him and Kathy.
“Well,” he said, “we’re keeping these poor folks up. We should pay and get out of here.”
He began to take out his wallet, but Kathy laid a hand on his wrist. “This one is on me.”
When her fingers touched his skin, he felt the heat exchange between them, and wondered if she felt it too. If she did, she gave no sign, pulling her own wallet out of a small black knapsack. She selected a credit card and waved it at the waitress, who nodded and returned with the bill.
“Thanks,” Lee said as they walked up the crooked narrow steps and into the nearly deserted street. Since September eleventh Chinatown had suffered. The formerly robust flow of tourist dollars slowed to a thin, anemic trickle. The mayor himself was making frequent pleas to people to go down to the struggling community and spend whatever they could afford.
They stepped out into a misty evening. The temperature had soared twenty degrees in the past twelve hours, bringing with it a soft dusting of rain. The droplets hung suspended in the air, as if not quite heavy enough to fall to the ground. The yellow neon lights of a teahouse across the street were surrounded by halos, round rings of layered light shimmering like ripples on a pond.
“It’s really so beautiful that it’s painful, isn’t it?” she said.
Oh, yes, he wanted to say. From where I’m standing, at least. But he just said, “Yes, it is.”
They strolled in the direction of the subway. Parts of Chinatown still had the grim, gray look of a war zone. Shopkeepers were still dusting soot off their stacks of rice dishes, mahogany Buddhas, carved jade bulls, and brightly colored paper birds.
“I felt guilty, you know, not being here when it happened.”
“What could you have done?”
“As it turns out, nothing. My work is only just starting. I’m part of the body identification team.” Her sigh was a deep, ragged sound. “Complete remains are almost unheard of—mostly it’s bits and pieces. Most people just disintegrated.”
They both stared at the traffic on Canal Street for a moment. Lee glanced at his watch, surprised to see how late it was.
“Are you returning to Philly tonight?”
“Yeah. I’m seeing my dad tomorrow. He’s preparing a presentation for the Vidocq Society, and he wants my help.”
“Wow,” Lee said. “Your father is a member?”
“Yeah. Going on ten years now.”
The Vidocq Society, based in Philadelphia, was named after François Vidocq, the brilliant eighteenth century French criminal who became a detective later in his life. The society was devoted to solving cold cases that people from all over the world brought to them. Membership was by invitation only, and Lee thought there wasn’t a forensic professional alive who wouldn’t consider it an honor to join the group. All the members were prominent in their respective fields.
“How often do they meet?” Lee said.
“Once a month, in the Public Ledger Building. It’s an interesting place, very old-world, with thick Oriental rugs and big, heavy drapes—sort of Edwardian, really. The kind of place Sherlock Holmes’s brother Mycroft would have liked. When I first saw it, I imagined that’s what Mycroft’s club would look like.”
“You’re a Conan Doyle fan?”
She gave a lopsided little smile. “Isn’t everyone?”
“So your father’s a member of Vidocq—that’s impressive. Is he an anthropologist too?”
“He’s a forensic toxicologist.”
“Is that what got you interested in forensics?”
“Sort of.”
“I’m sure he’s proud of you.”
“I guess. You know how fathers are, though.”
No, Lee thought, I don’t, but he said nothing.
He walked her down the subway stairs and stood with her by the turnstiles