The Chinese Tiger Ying Read online

  THE CHINESE TIGER YING

  THE CHINESE TIGER YING

  A T.J. O'Sullivan Novel

  by

  Larry Darter

  Fedora Press

  Copyright © 2019 by Larry Darter

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Larry Darter asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

  This title also available in print.

  For Vanda Symon, my favourite Kiwi crime fiction author, and a model of inspiration.

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Epilogue

  If You Like This Book

  About the Author

  Also by Larry Darter

  One

  Antiques crowded the stuffy little shop, an inglorious mélange of historical, cultural relics and curios from ancient China to colonial America, and from the look of the place about everywhere in between. A small brass bell someone had installed above the front door tinkled when I opened it, announcing my arrival. There were fine English porcelain teapots, cups, and saucers and Russian matryoshka dolls. The shop aisles were crowded with ornate furniture pieces made of walnut from the French provincial period to eighteenth-century Chippendale. A fine layer of dust covered everything. I wasn’t impressed. I like a tidy place. Besides, antiques bore me witless.

  At the glass counter past the shelves of the vintage merchandise stood a diminutive woman who looked to be mid-forties. The till beside her on the counter was an antique too with the clunky round keys like those found on ancient typewriters. As I approached, she dropped her chin and beamed at me like I was a long-lost relative over a pair of half-rimmed reading glasses with mottled yellow, honey, and brown tortoiseshell frames.

  “Brandi Camargo?” I said.

  “Yes, you must be Ms. O’Sullivan.”

  “Right,” I said. “T. J. O’Sullivan.”

  “I was sure I had detected an accent when we spoke on the phone earlier,” Camargo said.

  “Yes, I’m from New Zealand, actually,” I said. “I moved to Honolulu from Los Angeles a bit over a year ago. I worked for Bright Investigations there for about four years before opening my own agency here.”

  “I see,” she said.

  Brandi Camargo was the proprietor of the business, Makana Antiques and Treasures, an upscale antiques and curiosities shop on Queen Street in Honolulu. She was a small woman, a good twelve inches shorter than my own height of six feet, using the antiquated imperial system Americans continue to cling to. Even with her looking up at me, I had to drop my chin as if assuming an attitude of prayer to meet her gaze. Her features, olive-brown skin, straight dark hair flecked with gray and dark eyes suggested she was a native Hawaiian. But I was quite certain that her surname was of Spanish origin. Perhaps Camargo was her married name, or maybe her father wasn’t Hawaiian.

  Despite the bit of gray in her hair, Camargo was an attractive woman. She had phoned me earlier at my new office on North King Street and asked me to come to her shop to speak with her about a matter of grave importance.

  “Let me lock the front door, and then we can go to my office where we won’t be disturbed,” Camargo said.

  I nodded. She scurried to the door, twisted the thumb lock, and turned the sign hanging in the glass from “We’re open” to “Please call again.” Then she escorted me to the back past a curtained doorway to a small office as cluttered as the sales floor out front.

  Camargo invited me to sit, gesturing to a straight back wooden chair in front of an ancient, battered desk piled high with heaps of paperwork and catalogs. “Would you care for tea?” she said.

  “A cuppa would be nice,” I said.

  Camargo went to a table against the wall and plugged in an electric jug to heat the water. She took two fine china cups with matching saucers from a cupboard above the table. Opening a tin, she dropped a tea packet into each cup. I sat in silence while Camargo busied herself preparing the tea. There was an audible click when the jug shutoff. Camargo poured the boiling water into each cup. When she offered cream and sugar, I asked for two lumps, but declined the cream. She pushed a stack of catalogs aside and set a cup and saucer on the edge of the desk in front of me. Then she returned for the other. Setting her tea on the desk, she sat down in the ancient wooden desk chair on casters behind it.

  I sipped a little tea. “The tea is lovely, thanks,” I said. “Earl Grey isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Camargo said. “I’ll drink flavored teas sometimes, but Earl Grey is my favorite.”

  “What’s going on?” I said.

  Camargo set her cup and saucer on the desk and swiveled her chair around to look at me directly. “This is a matter of utmost delicacy, Ms. O’Sullivan,” she said. “I will require a high degree of professionalism and circumspection. I don’t know the kind of people who usually employ you, but—”

  I interrupted her. “I’ve been a private investigator for five years. If a clue comes my way, I usually recognize it. I’m quite reliable. One expectation of people who hire me is that I’ll keep their private business private. I get that, so no worries. If I violate a client’s expectation of privacy, I am not likely to flourish in my business. Is there something you would like me to detect?”

  Camargo inhaled deeply and exhaled through her nose. “Yesterday someone stole a rare and valuable three-thousand-year-old Chinese artifact from my store.”

  “Bugger, three thousand years old?” I said.

  Camargo nodded sagely. “That’s right, the piece dates back to the Western Zhou dynasty that existed from 1047 to 772 BC,” she said. “The artifact is a bronze water vessel known as Tiger Ying because of its tiger decorations. Chinese art experts believe it to be one of only seven similar archaic vessels remaining in existence. Five of them are housed in museum collections. An unidentified private collector of antiquities owns another. I had already received a great deal of interest from potential buyers.”

  “Can the thing be fenced?” I said.

  �
��No, it isn’t something a person would take to the local pawnshop,” Camargo said. “To get anything close to the value of the artifact, I’d expect the thief would try to sell it to an interested private collector. The only other market would be a museum. But a museum would recognize it at once.”

  “How much is the artifact worth?” I said.

  “Like all ancient cultural artifacts, the value of Tiger Ying would be what a ready buyer would be willing to pay,” Camargo said. “But, to give you an idea the last of the seven similar vessels recently sold at auction to the unidentified private collector for over five-hundred-eighty-thousand dollars.”

  “Bloody hell,” I said. “That’s quite a lot of money for a hunk of Chinese bronze.”

  “Yes, but it is a very rare, ancient, and very well-preserved hunk of bronze to use your words,” Camargo said.

  “Was the piece insured?” I said.

  “Yes, but for far less than its value,” she said. “That’s another problem. I took the piece along with some others on consignment from Mr. Austin Bryce, a private collector, and a valuable client. Tiger Ying and the other pieces were to be auctioned in an Asian antiquities private sale I’m hosting in two weeks. My business policy doesn’t cover consignment pieces. Mr. Bryce had the piece insured, but only for the amount he paid for it many years ago. We expected to get double that amount for the piece at auction.”

  “And that’s a big deal how?” I said. “Believing the piece would bring double what your client paid for it is only speculation. You said only minutes ago, its value was what a buyer would pay. You can’t know a buyer exists who will pay twice what your client invested.”

  “Still, my client will expect me to stand good for the difference,” Camargo said. “He can be a difficult man. He will hold me responsible for allowing someone to steal Tiger Ying while it was in my care. Business has been slow this year. I simply can’t afford to stand a loss like that at the present time. I’d be ruined financially. Not to mention, I stand to lose my most valuable client along with my reputation in the antiques and collectibles community.”

  “So, your client isn't on to the theft yet?” I said.

  “No, but unless Tiger Ying is recovered in time for the auction, I must tell him.”

  I nodded. “Right.”

  “Can I count on you, Ms. O’Sullivan?” Camargo said. “Can you get it back?”

  “If you pay me, I’ll do my best to get it back,” I said. “But I need a place to start looking. I have several questions I need you to answer.”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “Let’s start with the details of the theft,” I said. “Tell me what happened.”

  “Tiger Ying was here the day before yesterday when I closed the shop,” Camargo said. “When I arrived to open the shop yesterday morning, it was gone.”

  “Burglary?” I said.

  “No. A burglar alarm activation occurred here during the early morning hours yesterday. Around two, I believe. Both the Honolulu police and the private security firm I use responded. They found no evidence of a break-in. They found the shop locked and secure. The alarm company later informed me it appeared to have been a false alarm.”

  “Was the Tiger Ying out on the sales floor when it was taken?” I said.

  “No, I had already segregated the pieces that were to be included in the auction,” Camargo said. She got up and went to a bookcase against the wall. After removing two books, she reached a hand into the vacant space. I heard an audible click then Camargo grabbed hold of the edge of the bookcase and pulled. It swung out away from the wall revealing a gray steel door. “I keep valuable pieces here in this small secret room,” she said. “This is where I last saw Tiger Ying.”

  “Was the door tampered with?” I said.

  “No. See for yourself. There is no sign of damage. It was locked when I arrived at the shop yesterday morning. But, when I opened the door and went inside, the piece was missing.”

  I stood up and went over to inspect the door. There wasn’t any discernable damage or any of the tell-tale scratches around the lock you would expect that are nearly unavoidable when someone picks a door lock. While not offering the security of a vault the steel door and frame appeared secure.

  “You’re certain you locked the door before leaving the night before?” I said.

  “Yes,” Camargo said. “I double-check every single time before leaving the shop.”

  “Someone must have used a key,” I said. “Do you have employees? The thief must be an insider, or someone acquainted with an insider to know about the room and to gain access to a key.”

  “I have a college student who works for me part-time,” Camargo said. “She comes in during the afternoons on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday each week. But Chloe doesn’t have a key to the shop or to this door.”

  “Does Chloe know about the secret room?” I said.

  “Yes, she has helped put things inside and take things out occasionally,” Camargo said. “Only after I’ve unlocked and opened the door.”

  “Any chance she might have sourced a key?” I said.

  “No. I have the only two keys to the door. One I keep on my person at all times when I’m here at the store, and a spare I keep at home.”

  “If we discount Chloe, is there anyone you have reason to suspect of the theft?” I said. “Is there anyone else who knows about the room? Does anyone else have a key to the shop door?”

  Camargo ran a hand through her hair. “I hate to point fingers, but there is someone I suspect only because the person has access to a key to the shop.”

  “And, that person is?” I said.

  “The private security officer who responded to the burglar alarm,” Camargo said. “The company, Kahu Security and Patrol has a key to the front door. The officers working for the company know about the secret room. When the burglar alarm here activates, the company dispatcher calls the shop. If they don’t get an answer, they call me at home to make certain I didn’t have an accidental trip while entering or leaving the shop. If the alarm seems genuine, they send a security patrol officer here with a key to open the shop for the police. Once the police have checked the interior, the security officer rearms the alarm and locks up.”

  “So, you feel the security officer who responded the other morning might have taken the piece after the police left, and then locked up?” I said.

  “That is the only explanation I can imagine,” Camargo said. “No one else has a key. If it had been a burglar, there would have been some indication of forced entry. A burglar wouldn’t have locked the shop door or re-locked this door which is how I found them both when I arrived later that morning to open up.”

  “Have you spoken with anyone at the security company?”

  “No, I have no proof the security officer is responsible for the theft,” Camargo said. “So, I haven’t spoken to anyone at the company yet.”

  I nodded. “Have you reported the theft to the police?”

  “No. If I reported it, Austin Bryce would learn Tiger Ying has been stolen. As the legal owner, I’m sure the police would have to talk to him. That’s why I called you. I hope you can recover the artifact in time for the auction.”

  I nodded. “Do you have a husband or partner at home,” I said.

  “I’m single at the moment,” Camargo said. “My most recent romantic partner was Salina Clark, a woman my age. She broke it off because she believed I was having a relationship behind her back. She accused me of sleeping with my scuba diving instructor at Moana Dive Shop, Justin Wood. But, I wasn’t. At least I wasn’t at the time Salina accused me of it. Justin and I have dated since Salina broke off our relationship. And, yes if you’re curious, I’m bisexual.”

  “To each her own,” I said. “I have no problem with anyone’s choice of a romantic partner. Did you and Salina live together?”

  “Yes, until the relationship ended, we lived together at my place. Then Salina moved out and got a place of her own.”

  “So, sh
e could have accessed your keys at home?” I said.

  “I don't think so. Neither key is missing.”

  “She could have taken a key, had it copied, and then returned it,” I said.

  “Salina wouldn’t steal from me,” Camargo said. “I’m sure of it. Not to mention, she wouldn’t have known where to find either of the keys. There doesn't seem any way she could have copied one.”

  “What does Salina do for a living?” I said.

  “She is a sales account manager at Kahu Security and Patrol,” Camargo said. “We became acquainted when I first contracted for the security service.”

  “In that case, I expect she knew of the secret room and could have accessed the shop door key kept at the security company,” I said.

  “That seems unlikely,” Camargo said. “Salina is in sales, not involved in the operations end of the security service.”

  “How about Justin? Does he live with you?”

  “No, we have only been seeing each other a short while,” Camargo said. “I’ve spent the night a few times at his apartment, but he has never stayed overnight at my place. Justin is a good many years younger than I. We enjoy spending time together, but it isn’t a relationship. We are more of a friends with benefits arrangement.”

  “I must tell you that besides speaking with a representative of the security company, I also must speak with Chloe, Salina, and Justin,” I said.

  “I wish you wouldn’t,” Camargo said. “I don’t see how it could have been anyone else but the security officer.”

  “In my line of work, it pays to be thorough,” I said, “especially when we’re up against a timeline like the date of the pending auction.”

  “All right, if you must. But, please don’t be accusatory. I’ll be so embarrassed.”

  “No worries, Ms. Camargo,” I said. “I will be tactful when I speak with them.”

  “Will you begin right away?” she said.

  “I have to meet with another client this afternoon, to give him a report on his case,” I said. “But, I’ll get straight on to it tomorrow morning.”