The Flower Net by Lisa See Read Free Book Online Page A

victims.”
    “You’re damn right.”
    So Noel Gardner explained how the FBI would work in this situation. Given time, the local M.E. might be able to identify the compound of the poison and still not know what it came from. He would have the expertise to take dental impressions and fingerprints from the gloves, but he wouldn’t have the resources to make any matches.
    “As for the wallet,” Gardner continued, “it was in the water a long time. But it’s amazing what our guys in Washington can do. They may be able to pick up traces of ink or an official stamp.”
    “Good work, Gardner,” said Campbell.
    “Great work,” added David, “but how long will all this take?”
    “Who knows? Days? Weeks? Months?”
    “I keep coming back to his identity,” David reflected. “If he wasn’t one of the immigrants, who was he? A crewman? A gang member?”
    “Poison isn’t a typical modus operandi for Asian organized crime,” said Campbell. “If the victim is one of their own—say, someone who betrayed them—you’d expect to see his arms and legs cut off—”
    David’s phone rang. Lynn Patchett, an INS lawyer, was on the line.
             
    They met in a small conference room at Terminal Island. Lynn Patchett, who’d postponed her day’s calendar of hearings for
Peony
immigrants, paced along the length of one wall. She was dressed in a square-cut navy-blue suit, a white blouse buttoned to her neck, and blue flats. Jack Campbell paced against the adjacent wall. In the corner where they should have met in their nervous wandering sat a court reporter, who waited patiently for someone to speak so she might do her job. At David’s side, Noel Gardner scratched geometric designs on a yellow pad.
    Mabel Leung, a court interpreter who spoke Mandarin, Cantonese, and several other Chinese dialects, had pulled her chair a foot away from the table and industriously knitted on what looked to be a sleeve. So far no one had needed her linguistic skills. Milton Bird, a court-appointed immigration attorney, checked his notes. Next to him sat Zhao, his arms hanging limply at his sides. He wore a red jumpsuit with black numbers stenciled on the back and bright white tennis shoes—the official uniform of those incarcerated at Terminal Island.
    It was now late afternoon. They hadn’t broken for lunch, although Mabel had ducked out for a few minutes and come back with her arms full of diet Cokes and bags of potato chips bought from a vending machine. This strange repast combined with the stress had left them all jittery.
    So far the meeting had been an exercise in perseverance. Zhao wanted to buy his freedom; David desperately wanted information. Zhao reminded David that he had promised to help; David struggled with the definition of “help.” They had talked over terms: identification of the body in exchange for Zhao’s freedom. If the case ever came to trial, David expected Zhao to appear as a witness. The government wouldn’t pay Zhao any money, but the INS would agree to give him a green card. David could see that Zhao wanted to take the deal. At the same time, David could see that the immigrant was even more frightened now than he had been aboard the
Peony
.
    As the day wore on, David read through Zhao’s file a couple of times. According to his INS interview, Zhao Lingyuan—who, according to Chinese custom, placed his surname first—had once been a student at Beijing University, which explained his fluency in English. In 1967, during the Cultural Revolution, he’d been sent to the countryside. A decade later, when other students went home, Zhao stayed behind. All these years later, with the market economy sweeping China, Zhao had decided to come to the United States to start over.
    Campbell suddenly stopped his pacing and burst out, “Look, Zhao, we’re going to have to fish or cut bait. You know what that means? It means either you talk or forget it!”
    When Zhao didn’t move, Campbell growled in