Chinatown, Boston – Present Day

The book didn’t save him in the end.

The old volume, leather bound with faded gold embossing and frayed edges, remained partially grasped in the dead man’s right hand where he’d collapsed onto the floor behind his massive desk, felled by a single gunshot wound to the chest. Now, Boston sergeant detective D. D. Warren stood within an inch of the victim’s well‑dressed body, one of the only spaces available in the cluttered office, and did her best to interpret the scene.

“He held it up,” she mused out loud, to her partners, Neil and Phil. She gestured to the fallen tome. “Saw the gun, responded instinctively to block the shot.”

Neil, the youngest member of their squad and a former EMT, immediately shook his head. “Nah. No sign of gunpowder, no damage from a slug. Victim grabbed the book on the way down.” Neil pointed to a fanned‑out pile of papers that teetered dangerously close to the edge of the marble‑topped desk. “Bet the book was on top. Impact of the bullet spun the victim to his left, he reached for the desk, but caught the book instead. Took it with him to the floor.”

“Book would’ve been knocked to the side,” D.D. countered. This kind of crime scene back‑and‑forth was one of her favorite games. As far as she was concerned, dead men did tell tales. “Collateral damage. Whereas our guy has the novel halfway in his hand.”

“You want to know how many miscellaneous objects I’ve had to pry from dead men’s hands?” Neil shrugged. “People see the end coming, and reflexively hold tight. I don’t know. Maybe they think if they cling hard enough to this world, they won’t have to pass to the next.”

“No way to prove it,” Phil muttered from the doorway. The senior member of their squad, he was mid‑fifties with a devoted wife, four kids, and rapidly thinning hair. Being a family man didn’t mean he was too squeamish to view the victim up close and personal. Two hulking Fu Lions, however, carved from solid stone and standing five feet high, currently kept him in place. Or maybe it was the brightly painted ceramic dragon that roared across the front edge of the marble desk. Or the plethora of jade statuary that sprouted like oversized leaves from cluttered rows of shelves, crammed with more leather‑bound novels.

Phil held a mask up to his mouth. Not for the smell, but because sneezing would absolutely, positively ruin their crime scene and in a space this cramped and dusty it was almost impossible not to.

D.D. straightened, pinching the bridge of her nose as she worked to avert her own reaction to the musty air.

“All right. Let’s start with victimology. What do we got?”

Phil did the honors. “Victim is Mr. John Wen. Fifty‑eight, widowed, no record, no outstanding warrants. According to his shop clerk, Judy Chan, who found the body first thing this morning, Mr. Wen was a quiet soul, devoted to his work, which, as you can probably guess by looking around, involved importing ancient Chinese artifacts. And not the cheap kind. He was the real deal. Background in antiquities, elite roster of clients, handled custom orders, that kind of thing. He liked the hunt and authenticating the pieces. Her job was to deal with the public.”

D.D. nodded. It would explain the location of Wen’s shop, tucked away from the hustle and bustle of Beach Street, which formed the brightly decorated main artery running through the heart of Chinatown. Also, in contrast to Wen’s neighbors, whose store windows offered colorful arrays of silk dresses, or specialty foods, or a chaotic jumble of cheap imports, Wen’s storefront showcased only a trio of intricately carved dark wood panelings. Once inside, a discreet bronze plate identified the panelings as belonging to such‑and‑such a dynasty, but they could now be yours for a mere $150,000. Come to think of it, such price points also explained the fine cut of Mr. Wen’s elegant navy‑blue suit. A man who moved in elite circles and carried himself accordingly. Interesting.

“So businessman,” D.D. filled in. “Educated, obviously. Respected? Trusted?”

Phil nodded.

“Probably not about theft,” she continued, eyeing the small fortune in jade left around the tiny office. “But maybe a business deal gone bad? Mr. Wen identified the piece as Third Dynasty, when really it was built last week in the finest factory in Hong Kong then aged by six‑year‑olds beating it with heavy chains.”

“Not possible.” A new voice spoke up from behind Phil.

He made way as best he could in the cramped doorway, and a beautiful, if solemn, Asian woman appeared.

“You are?” D.D. prompted.

“Judy Chan. I have worked with Mr. Wen for five years now. He was a good man. He wouldn’t cheat. And he didn’t make mistakes.”

“How’d you meet Mr. Wen?”

“He ran an ad in the paper, looking for a store clerk. I answered.”

D.D. eyed the assistant, taking in the girl’s petite frame, elegantly sculpted cheekbones, glossy waterfall of jet‑black hair. She asked the next logical question: “Please describe your relationship.”

The assistant gave her an exasperated look. “I worked with Mr. Wen, Wednesdays through Sundays, nine to five. Occasionally, I would come in off hours to help him prepare for meetings with some of his more special clients. You know, the kind of people who want a three‑thousand‑year‑old armoire as a signature piece in their foyer, and are willing to pay for it.”

“Got a list of said clients?”

“Yes.”

“And his calendar. We’ll want to see that.”

“I understand.”

“Was he meeting with someone last night?”

“Not that I knew of.”

“Would he tell you?”

“Most of the time. His projects were not secret. More and more, he would even ask for my help. He appreciated my computer skills.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Yesterday, five PM, when I locked up the store.”

“Where was he?”

“Back here, in his office. He generally stayed after the store was closed, catching up on paperwork, researching pieces. He didn’t have a family. This,” Judy gestured around the cramped office, “this was his life.”

“Was he working on anything special?” Phil asked from beside her.

“Not that he had mentioned.”

“Missing anything special?” He gestured to the crowded space.

For the first time, the girl hesitated. “I don’t… know.” All three Boston detectives studied her. “His office,” she said at last, “he kept it busy.”

D.D. raised a brow, considering that the understatement of the month.

“Mr. Wen always said he thought better when surrounded by the past. Most of the items in this room were things he’d collected along the way, gifts from colleagues, clients, friends. And the books… he loved them. Called them his children. I used to beg him to let me at least dust, attempt to tidy up. But he would never let me. He liked things just this way, even the piles of paper covering his desk. The horizontal filing system, he called it. It never failed him.”

The girl’s voice faded out. She wasn’t looking at them, but staring at the desk intently. “It’s wrong,” she said flatly. “I can’t tell you how exactly. But it’s wrong.”

D.D. obediently turned her attention to the desk. She noted mounds of paper, a scatter of miscellaneous notebooks, a rounded wooden bowl filled with yet more office detritus, then beside it a heavily gilded female figurine whose curves were definitely more robust than D.D.’s own, not to mention multiple haphazard piles of obviously old and dusty books.

“I don’t see a computer,” she ventured at last.

“He worked by hand. Thought best that way. When he needed to look something up, he used the computer in the front of the store.”

D.D. went about this another way. “Was the store locked this morning?”

“Yes.”

“Security system?”

“No. We had been talking about one, but Mr. Wen always argued, what kind of thieves stole antique furniture? The truly valuable pieces here… they are large and heavy, as you can see.”

“But all the jade figurines–”

“His private collection. Not for sale.”

Phil picked up the thought. “But the door was locked. So whoever entered, Mr. Wen let him or her in.”

“I would assume.”

“Would he meet people in his office?” D.D. asked, gesturing to a space that was clearly standing room only.

“No,” the assistant filled in. “Generally, he met with them in the showroom. Sitting at one of the tables, that sort of thing. He believed in the power of history not just to survive, but to retain its usefulness. Don’t just buy an antique, he liked to say. Live with it.”

D.D.’s gaze zeroed in once more on the book still resting on Mr. Wen’s open hand. “Did he have books in the showroom?”

“No, his–”

“Personal collection. I get it. So, if he was meeting someone who was interested in a volume, per se–”

D.D. knelt back down, trying to get a better look at the leather‑bound novel. The gilded titling was faded, hard to read. Then she realized it wasn’t even in English, but in a language she couldn’t recognize.

“The Buddha,” Judy suddenly gasped.

“What?”

“The Buddha. That’s what’s missing. Here, the left corner of Mr. Wen’s desk. He had a solid‑jade Buddha. From the eighth‑century Tang Dynasty. The Buddha always sat here. Mr. Wen got the piece just after his wife died. It was very special to him.”

“Size?” Phil already had his notebook out.

“Ummm, the Buddha himself eight inches tall. Very round, solid, the sitting Buddha, you know, with his round belly and laughing face. The statue was placed on a square wooden base with gold seams and inlaid abalone. A substantial piece.”

“Value?” D.D. asked.

“I’m not sure. I would need to do more research. But given that ounce for ounce, fine jade is currently more valuable than gold, a piece of that size… yes, it is valuable.”

D.D. pursed her lips, liking the idea of the theft gone awry for their murder motive except, of course, for the number of remaining jade pieces that still littered the victim’s bookshelves.

“Why the Buddha statue?” she murmured out loud, more to herself than anyone.

Judy, the beautiful assistant, shook her head, clearly at a loss for an explanation.

“One piece. That’s all you think is gone?”

“I will keep looking, but for now, yes, that one piece.”

“So Buddha, something about Buddha.”

D.D. was still thinking, as Neil said, “Hello. Got something.”

He had lifted the book from Mr. Wen’s outstretched fingers. Now, they all watched as something fluttered to the floor. Obviously not old, but a recent addition to the office. Something worth clutching in a dead man’s hand?

“What is it?” D.D. asked.

“Business card.” Neil flipped it over. “From the Phoenix Foundation. For one Malachai Samuels.”

* * *

D.D. parked her rental car on New York’s Upper West Side, then turned her attention to the mansion across the street. She wasn’t a huge architecture buff but had lived in a historic city long enough to recognize the Queen Anne style of the villa, including the glass sunburst below the curved‑top window. Personally, she liked the gargoyles peeking out from under the eaves.

Of course, she wasn’t here for the architecture. She was here about a murder. She made her way up the front walk, pausing long enough to inspect the bas‑relief coat of arms that decorated the mansion’s front door. Took her a second, then she got it – the image was the mystical phoenix that granted the office its name.

Buzzz.

The front door finally opened, and D.D. entered the Phoenix Foundation.

She presented her credentials to the waiting receptionist. The front desk, D.D. noticed, was very old and most likely very valuable. It also held hints of Chinese design. The kind of desk John Wen might have imported into his shop and sold to a client, such as Malachai Samuels.

“Sergeant Detective D.D. Warren,” she introduced herself. “I’m here to see Dr. Samuels.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but I think he’ll see me.”

The young woman looked down at D.D.’s detective shields, then pursed her lips and made a phone call.

“If you’ll have a seat, the doctor is with a patient but he’ll be free in fifteen minutes.”

Fair enough. D. D. retreated to the camel‑back sofa provided for visitors. She’d been warned this interview would not be easy. Dr. Samuels was not without some experience when it came to answering questions involving homicide.

For now, she occupied her time on her laptop, reading more of the articles she’d pulled about the esteemed therapist.

Malachai Samuels was a Jungian therapist who’d devoted his life to working with children with past‑life issues. He and his aunt, who was the codirector of the foundation, had documented over three thousand children’s journeys and presented remarkable proof of the lives they’d discovered in their regressions. So fastidious was their research and methodology, they were actually accepted by the scientific community and often spoke at psychiatric conventions.

In the last seven years, however, Malachai had been named a “person of interest” in several different criminal cases involving stolen artifacts, resulting in the deaths of at least four people. The reincarnationist had never been charged with any wrongdoing. But the FBI special crimes detective D.D. had contacted, Lucian Glass, was disturbed when he heard Malachai’s name was connected to yet another murder.

Glass still believed Malachai was complicit in several of the cases and that he should be in prison. “But we’ve never been able to find any actual evidence of his participation. I hope you do, Detective Warren. I hope you do.”

“Detective Warren?” A rich, mellifluous voice cut through her thoughts. D.D. looked up to find the man in question now standing directly before her.

“Dr. Malachai Samuels. How may I be of assistance?”

Samuels was wearing a well‑cut navy suit, carefully knotted silk tie, and a crisp white shirt with a monogram on the right cuff. Everything about him, from his clothing to his manner of speaking, suggested a gentleman of an earlier time. Which already got D.D. to thinking. Was the good doctor merely collecting valuable old artifacts, or did he include himself among them?

“I’m here about an incident in Boston,” she said. “Could we talk someplace more private?”

“Of course, this way.”

He led her down a hallway lit by stained‑glass sconces and lined with turn‑of‑the‑century wallpaper. Silk would be her guess. With a faded floral pattern and hints of what was probably real gold.

“Would you like any coffee or tea? Perhaps bottled water?” he asked as he opened the door to what D.D. surmised was his personal office. In keeping with the theme of the rest of the place, the space was lined with old books and lushly appointed with a fine Persian rug, an antique desk, and a comfortable leather couch and chairs. It faced an inner courtyard planted with trees and flowers, as befitting someone with a doctor’s fine sensibilities.

D.D. said she’d like some water, then took a seat, still cataloguing the plethora of antiques and works of art scattered about. A tingle of excitement shot up her spine when she noticed a Chinese jade horse on Samuels’s desk.

Malachai handed D.D. a crystal glass filled with ice water. He took a seat opposite her on the other side of the glass coffee table.

“Now, how can I help you?”

“We found your business card at the scene of a murder.”

“That’s terrible. Who was killed?”

“Mr. John Wen.”

Malachai’s face showed no emotion. In fact, he remained so unruffled that D.D. was instantly suspicious.

“Did you know him, Doctor?”

“I’m a therapist, Detective. Even if I did I couldn’t tell you. Everything that goes on in my office is confidential. Surely you understand that.”

“The man is dead, Dr. Samuels. His confidentiality is on the floor in a pool of blood.”

Malachai remained silent.

“Surely you understand that by not talking to me you are as good as admitting he was a patient.”

“If that’s the conclusion you want to draw, so be it. But I’m neither saying he was or wasn’t. I’m not at liberty to discuss your case with you.”

“Your business card was there when he died.”

“How unfortunate, then, for us both.”

D.D. frowned, feeling the first tinge of annoyance. Samuels was within his rights but it was going to make the case more complicated if she had to wait to get a court order.

“Last time you saw him alive?” she fished.

“Who said I ever saw him?”

Special Agent Lucian Glass had been right: Samuels was good.

D.D. went about it another way. “Hypothetically speaking, if you were a detective investigating the homicide of man who imported ancient Chinese artifacts, who would you question?”

Samuels merely arched a brow. Then, almost imperceptibly, he tilted his head in the direction of the decorative mirror hanging over his left shoulder.

A Freudian slip, D.D. thought, or just the incredible arrogance of a well‑respected gentleman who may or may not have gotten away with murder?

“I am sorry, Detective,” Dr. Samuels informed her, “but I cannot assist you in this matter. Now, if you don’t mind, I have another patient waiting.”

He stood up, and she had no choice but to follow. Show over, meeting adjourned. D.D. had wasted an entire day, not to mention a decent portion of her department’s budget, on a trip to New York that had yielded her absolutely nothing.

“Nice horse,” she said, pointing at the jade piece as she rose to stand.

“Thank you.”

“Where’d you buy it?”

“I didn’t; like many objects in this building, I inherited it. I moved it into my office, however, because I find it particularly compelling. Do you know why people collect antiques, Detective Warren?”

Aha, finally a little conversation. “They like old things?”

“Perhaps. More accurately, they identify with old things.”

D.D. couldn’t help herself. She gazed around his clearly nineteenth‑century office. The good doctor didn’t appear offended, more like amused by her unspoken point.

“Mr. John Wen,” she tried one last time, “didn’t just collect antiques. By all accounts, he believed people should live with them. Such as you do.”

“Exactly.”

“What does that mean?”

“That means you’re spending too much time in the present, Detective Warren, given that you are investigating a man who was all about the past.”

Dr. Samuels granted her one last, knowing smile. Then graciously but firmly, he escorted her out the door.

* * *

After the Boston detective departed, Malachai returned to his office where he poured himself an inch of forty‑year‑old Macallan. Lifting the heavy crystal tumbler he took a sip. Savored it. Then, drink in hand, he sat down heavily in the chair at his desk. Opening his top drawer he withdrew his Symthson notebook.

This was a private journal that he kept to record his musings on “The Search,” as he had been referring to it for the last thirty‑five years, ever since he’d opened a nineteenth‑century book on mesmerism that he’d come across in the library and a scrap of old, yellowed paper had fallen out. The handwriting had been spidery and appeared to have been written with a pen dipped in ink, which, along with what it said, helped Malachai date the note to the mid‑to‑late 1800s.

Meeting with Mr. T at two PM regarding place to secure the papers. Wednesday, at his establishment, 259 Broadway.

According to family legend, Malachai’s ancestor, Davenport Talmage, had been in possession of papers that detailed all the amulets, ornaments, and stones that made up the lost cache of Memory Tools. Smuggled out of India and brought into Egypt before 1500 BC, these items were said to be able to stimulate past‑life memories.

Had Davenport written the note? Did it refer to the list of lost tools?

Without too much trouble, by matching the handwriting to letters in the archives, Malachai had been able to ascertain the note had been written by Davenport Talmage, one of the original founders of the Phoenix Club. Knowing who’d written it had enabled Malachai to further narrow the note’s provenance to sometime between 1884 and 1901. No earlier than 1884 as that was when Davenport had inherited his brother’s estate and taken over running the club. And no later than 1901 as that had been the year Davenport had died.

The address, 259 Broadway, was where the jewelry, stationery, and design firm of Tiffany & Company had been located during that era.

Was “Mr. T” Tiffany himself? Probably. Davenport had been immensely wealthy. What objet d’art had Tiffany made at Davenport’s request in order to hide the papers? Had the item been sold? Or did it still exist here in the mansion, where nearly every room boasted numerous Tiffany lamps and windows? Not to mention all the mansion’s fireplaces, which were fronted with iridescent tiles fashioned by the famous glassmaker and jeweler. Meaning the papers could very well be hidden in plain sight. An aggravating idea, that they could be so close and yet remain invisible to him.

Now Malachai turned the pages to his notes from the last few weeks. The section where he’d recorded his sessions with Mr. John Wen.

There had been eight sessions in all. Each one going over and over the same territory. An antiques dealer, Wen had come to Malachai for help in understanding why he was drawn to certain objects and places. He was haunted by them. Obsessed. For years he’d been trying to get clarity on the feelings that gripped him upon seeing certain items. Twice he’d almost gone bankrupt buying up estates that were not worth what he paid, just to ensure that he could get a certain piece. Desperate, he’d finally allowed for the possibility that past‑life memories were driving him. In searching for someone to help him, he’d heard about Dr. Samuels and claimed that somehow he felt the same way about coming here that he did about the antiques. He just knew the Phoenix Foundation was the place he’d find help.

But what Wen didn’t know, at least not consciously, but that he’d revealed to Malachai under hypnosis, was that in the past – over a hundred and thirty years ago – he’d been one of the Talmage brothers who’d founded this very institution.

And if he was the incarnation of Davenport or Trevor, then maybe, Malachai had theorized, Wen could lead him to the fabled papers.

To anyone else it would have been a story to scoff at. But Malachai had worked with thousands of children whose past‑life memories he and his aunt had verified. Malachai had seen his patients make connections that defied logic and what others called reason. Malachai had never had a past‑life memory of his own. No amount of hypnosis or meditation worked for him. But he’d seen his patients cured of their fears, phobias, and neuroses once they were able to identify them and understand they belonged to previous incarnations. He’d witnessed the healing power of regained memories. The astounding relief his patients felt once freed from their karmic nightmares.

All Malachai wanted was to know his own past lives. But to do that he needed a functioning Memory Tool, and in order to find one of the few fabled tools he needed to know which item he was searching for. Davenport’s papers would be his map, a complete list of all the known Memory Tools. And he’d thought that perhaps John Wen, a Chinese art and antiques dealer from Boston, had possessed the clue to finally unearthing Davenport’s long‑lost papers.

Which meant John Wen’s murder wasn’t just a shame.

It was downright inconvenient.

* * *

Dr. Malachai Samuels had bested her.

There was no way around it.

In the three days following her day trip to New York, back in Boston, D.D. had turned the conversation around and around in her mind. She shared the discussion – or rather, the lack of it – with her squadmates Phil and Neil. She even called and reported her lack of interviewing prowess to Special Agent Lucian Glass.

She’d gone up against a person of interest in four potential murders, and she’d gleaned… nothing. Not a single shred of information or insinuation. Just the rather prosaic observation that antiques dealers identified with the past. Which clearly explained her current need for dim sum. When dealing with an extremely troubling murder in Chinatown, dim sum was the way to go.

But if John Wen imported antiques because he identified with the past, what did his killer care about? All of those priceless items in the shop, and the murderer had taken just one thing: a jade Buddha.

Why that?

D.D. spotted the proprietor of the popular restaurant waiting patiently next to the door. An older Asian gentleman in an impeccably cut suit, he’d already greeted most of his customers by name. It occurred to her he might be able to help her out.

She raised a hand to catch his attention, and he promptly walked over.

“Excuse me,” she said, “could you tell me where the closest Buddhist temple is in Chinatown?”

“There are several, Detective. Which one are you looking for?”

“How’d you know I was a detective?”

“You are investigating the murder of John Wen. We all know.”

“Did you know Mr. Wen?”

“Yes, a very fine man. He helped me find the four silk screens hanging in the banquet room. In fact, if you are interested in Buddhist temples, may I suggest you consult Mr. Wen’s assistant, Miss Chan?”

D.D. regarded him blankly. “Why Judy Chan?”

The proprietor’s turn to appear flustered. “Because of her pendant, of course. The small jade Buddha she always wears around her neck. A symbol of her own religious calling, I would assume.”

D.D. thanked the man for his time. Then she paid her bill and got on the phone to her partner Phil. Because they’d interviewed Judy several times and on none of those occasions was Mr. Wen’s beautiful assistant wearing a jade Buddha pendant.

Which made her wonder what else Judy Chan had to hide.

* * *

According to Phil, Judy Chan’s home address was a fourth‑floor walk‑up just around the corner from the restaurant in Chinatown. D.D. found the brick building easily enough. Unfortunately, no one answered Judy’s buzzer. A quick ring of the second‑floor unit, however, earned her an elderly Chinese woman in a pink floral housecoat.

D.D. flashed her shield, providing a quick impression of official public servant.

“Fire department,” D.D. announced. One of the first things she’d learned in community policing: most inner‑city populations didn’t trust cops. Firemen, on the other hand, who could save their homes and businesses from burning down, were treated with respect.

The old woman studied her critically.

“I need to conduct a test of the fire escapes. Just making sure everything is in working order.”

A frown. Growing uncertainty. The older woman’s natural suspicion of such an odd request warring with her desire to feel her apartment building was fire safe.

D.D. pressed ahead. “Just need quick access so I can take a walk up and a walk down. I’ll be in and out in five minutes, and your building will be cleared for another five years. Otherwise, I gotta bring the fire marshal down, maybe a whole inspection crew…”

The promise – threat? – of more city officials got the job done. The aging tenant gestured for D.D. to follow her into her apartment, and three minutes later, D.D. was climbing up the fire escape to Judy’s fourth‑floor unit.

She didn’t have probable cause to enter the unit, of course. Just a growing suspicion that Judy Chan hadn’t been fully forthcoming. But a quick glimpse of the woman’s living space wouldn’t hurt. And if D.D. happened to spy something such as an eight‑inch‑tall stolen jade Buddha statue or even better, a smoking gun, then voila, D.D. would be within her rights to access the woman’s apartment and maybe even close a murder case.

With a bit of effort, D.D. heaved herself onto the fourth‑floor platform, staggering to her feet. Her hands hurt from gripping the rusty metal fire escape, not to mention her heart was pounding painfully in her chest.

Then she looked up.

“Holy crap!”

Buddhas. Everywhere. Judy Chan’s fourth‑floor unit was covered in images of the Laughing Buddha. Buddha paintings, Buddha statues, Buddha‑embroidered pillows, even tiny gold and jade and silver Buddha figurines. Everywhere D.D. looked, for as far as the eye could see, was yet another image of the Buddha.

Then, as she stood there still openmouthed, the front door of Chan’s apartment opened. John Wen’s former assistant entered her home.

Accompanied by Dr. Malachai Samuels.

* * *

Malachai felt good about his day.

Indeed, after learning that Mr. John Wen had been killed, taking with him any clues the man might have possessed regarding the location of the legendary list of lost Memory Tools, Malachai had been forced to reconsider his strategy.

The police, including that blond Boston detective D.D. Warren, would be watching him, which ruled out any overt acts, such as searching Wen’s antiquities shop or personal residence. Then it had occurred to Malachai that he didn’t need to engage in such base acts, when a simple gesture of courtesy would suffice.

He had called Wen’s assistant, a beautiful woman he’d met once when she’d accompanied Wen to the Phoenix Foundation in New York, and extended his deepest condolences. If there was anything he could do to help Miss Chan during this time of sadness, he was available. In fact, he’d be in Boston by the end of the week. Perhaps they could meet for a cup of tea, share reminiscences of a man they had both respected and admired.

Malachai’s father had long ago taught him the value of a well‑cut suit, impeccable social standing, and a cultured voice. Miss Judy Chan had agreed nearly immediately. The morning tea progressed to a casual stroll around Boston’s Chinatown – an amazing cultural center, third largest in the country – and then, finally, to Malachai’s delicate request to visit Wen’s store one last time.

Miss Chan had been happy to comply. If they could simply stop by her apartment first, in order to retrieve the key…

Malachai had followed her up the four flights of stairs without complaining despite the discomfort in his leg. An incident in Vienna years before had left a permanent disability that he did his best to ignore. Standing beside her, he waited as the young woman opened the door to her residence. And then he received his first shock of the day. Buddhas. Figurines, carvings, paintings, embroideries, silk washings. Images of a kind, benevolent Buddha everywhere one looked.

Miss Chan, her tailored knee‑length camel‑colored coat still buttoned to her chin, paused, glanced at him self‑consciously.

“I am a collector,” she said.

“Indeed.” Malachai raised his hands to assist the lady with her coat. Suddenly, he was not in a hurry to continue on to Wen’s shop. The truth, he realized, the key to the secret he had sought for so long, was here. One modern‑day woman’s obsession. A trained therapist’s insight into a reincarnated soul.

“Could I trouble you for a glass of water?” he suggested now. “I’m afraid the walk up the stairs has left me parched.”

“Of course.” Freed of her coat, Judy headed smartly toward the modest galley kitchen. Alone in the room, Malachai started in on the buttons of his own immense black wool greatcoat, while taking a quick inventory of the room.

Was it his imagination, or did he just see a shadow flash behind the window? No matter. He could already feel his blood quicken, a familiar thrumming in his veins.

All these years later, the Buddha, with his enigmatic smile and numerous teachings on karma and reincarnation, held the key.

“When did you first start collecting Buddhas?” he asked, as Judy reentered the room. She handed him a tumbler of water, and he could detect a faint tremor in her fingers as the glass passed from her to him.

“I’m not really sure. All my life, I suppose.”

“Did Mr. Wen know?”

“Of course.” She flushed, her hand resting self‑consciously on her chest. “He even gifted me with a jade Buddha medallion. A talisman of sorts.”

“Did Mr. Wen ever speak of his sessions with me?”

“I know he was seeing you about his own… collecting issues. His terrible need at times to acquire items whether they made sound business sense or not. He said you believed he was a reincarnated soul, still looking for something he had lost many lives ago.”

“And you?”

The young woman stilled, then twisted her head slightly to take in the full surroundings of her apartment. Her hair moved with her, a black silk curtain that obscured her face from him. “I do not know why I do what I do,” she whispered finally. “A born‑again soul, still searching to right a wrong? It makes as much sense to me as anything.”

“Might I suggest a short hypnosis session?” Malachai offered quietly. “It won’t take more than thirty, forty minutes of your time, and might very well provide you with some of the answers you seek. In fact, I could do it right here, in the comfort of your home.”

She didn’t answer him, so much as she moved closer to the couch, then, after another moment of hesitation, took a seat.

Malachai didn’t wait for a second invitation. He slipped off his coat, eased into a dainty bamboo‑framed chair across from her, and incredibly aware of the Buddhas’ watching eyes, he began, by using a simple backward‑counting technique, to slowly lead his patient through the curling ribbons of time.

“Where are you?” he asked five minutes later.

Judy described a mansion, partially hidden behind linden trees.

What? Malachai leaned forward, not sure he could yet make the assumption he was yearning to make.

“Tell me, what do you see? What do you hear?”

“A carriage driving by. Horses’ hooves. It’s twilight and people are arriving home from their day’s work. I hear strains of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. ”

“Do you know the street where this mansion is?”

“Of course. Eighty‑third Street off of Central Park West.”

She was describing his ancestral home, Malachai realized, his excitement growing as he sought to maintain an even composure, a soothing, rhythmic voice. Judy Chan had returned to what was now the Phoenix Foundation, in New York City, sometime in the late nineteenth century.

This was truly fascinating because the first time he’d put John Wen under, the antiques dealer had returned to the exact same place and time. To anyone else it would have been a coincidence but not to Malachai. There were no coincidences when you were dealing with reincarnation. Every act had repercussions, every encounter a purpose. We return to be with the same people in similar circumstances to complete the karmic circle, to right our wrongs, to be given another chance. Souls whose fates were forever intertwined, finding each other, again and again and again. Following a repeating pattern of doom.

Every time Malachai witnessed a patient travel he felt privileged to be part of the journey. But this time he also felt ebullient. His own family history – complicated and mysterious – might finally be resolved.

John Wen had been shot and killed by an intruder in his study, just as Malachai’s ancestor Trevor Talmage had been shot and killed over one hundred years ago. Murdered in his own study by an intruder, according to family lore.

Or had he been?

Upon Trevor’s death, his brother Davenport had inherited the house and everything in it, including Malachai’s longed‑for treasure, the list of lost Memory Tools.

And now, as Malachai listened to Judy Chan describe every detail of a study she couldn’t know in a time period she shouldn’t be able to recall, Malachai felt another piece of the puzzle slide into place.

“What are you doing there?” Malachai asked.

“My brother is wrong,” Judy Chan said, answering a different question, her voice stronger than it had been a moment ago. She was sitting up straighter, too, Malachai noticed, her demeanor becoming more agitated.

“What is your name?” Malachai asked.

She didn’t answer his question. Instead, she continued arguing with a ghost Malachai couldn’t see or hear.

“The decision to publish is not your choice.”

“Publish what?” Malachai asked. “Who are you talking to?”

“My brother,” Judy Chan hissed. “He is wrong.”

And then Malachai knew. Trevor had not been shot by a stranger. His brother, Davenport, had done the deed.

“Do you know Mr. Tiffany?” Malachai asked, breaking one of the rules of hypnosis and interrupting the moment to interject a question that might bring the patient out of the episode.

But his hunch was correct.

“Yes,” Judy said. “He designed the lamps in the house. The tile work. Jewels for the family.”

Malachai pictured the note he had found, written in Davenport’s hand about the visit to Tiffany’s studio so soon after Trevor’s death. Had Davenport killed his own brother in order to seize the ancient text describing each lost Memory Tool? He must have. Then, he’d sought to hide the evidence of his crime in a treasure chest created by Tiffany. To keep secret that which he never meant to share. Not in that life, or beyond.

And now Judy, in the present, had shot her boss, John Wen, in order to steal the papers back once again.

Instantly, Malachai realized the answer to everything he’d been looking for wasn’t in the past. It was in this room, staring him right in the face.

The Laughing Buddhas.

“Judy,” Malachai said, his voice urgent. “You can hear me now. You need to leave the house in New York. You need to come forward. To the present.”

Judy remained in her seat, returning slowly.

“You are in John Wen’s office,” he informed her, his rich voice deep and compelling. “It is five days ago, you have come to see your boss. Then, you see a Buddha. Tell me about the Buddha.”

“It is an eight‑inch, solid‑jade Buddha,” she whispered. “Sitting on a square wooden base with gold‑seamed corners and inlaid abalone. Mr. Wen has had it for months now. Months when I have implored him to give it to me.”

“He won’t listen to you.”

“The Buddha must be shared, I begged him. It is wrong to keep it secret, hidden from the world. True power is sharing knowledge in order to help others, not hoarding it for yourself.”

Malachai blinked, puzzled. “So you decided to take back what belonged to you. You shot Mr. Wen. You removed the Buddha from his office. Where is the Buddha now, Miss Chan? Tell me, and I will help you share it with the world.”

The woman’s dark, slitted eyes held a strange, spectral gleam. She was not yet in this existence, Malachai realized. But nor was she in the other.

“Violence,” she murmured. “It always ends in violence. Brother against brother, spouse against spouse, friend betraying friend. I loved him and I have felt his bullet. I loved him and I struck the mortal blow. Is there truly no other way?”

Malachai realized belatedly that Miss Chan was holding a gun, a small antique pistol she’d pulled from the folds of her dress and now had pointed directly at his sternum.

He had made a mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake.

“You are not Davenport,” he whispered. No, of course not. John Wen had been Davenport, a man who’d shot his own brother in order to keep the legendary text a secret. “You are Trevor,” Malachai continued to Judy Chan. She was the reincarnation of the brother who’d wanted to share the list of lost Memory Tools with the world, and paid with his life.

One hundred and thirty years ago, Trevor had been the victim. This time around, to judge by the pistol held so steadily in Judy Chan’s hand, that would not be the case.

The secret of the Laughing Buddha had to be shared. And Trevor/Judy was willing to do it, no matter the price.

“I can help you,” Malachai heard himself whisper, his voice hoarse with uncommon desperation. “Show me the Buddha. I think I know its secret. I’ll show you and we can share it with the world.”

But Judy’s finger was already tightening on the trigger.

Lives tumbling over lives. An endless procession of old injustices and fresh pains. Lessons still unlearned, cycles yet unbroken.

The list of lost Memory Tools forever out of his reach.

Malachai lunged forward.

The antique pistol exploded to life once again.

* * *

The moment D.D. saw Judy Chan sit down on her sofa, the detective had known the woman was in trouble. The glazed look that had come over her eyes, the sudden slackness of her features.

Malachai was doing something to her. Drugging her, tampering with a witness, interfering with a murder investigation. It all sounded like probable cause to D.D. She started backpedaling as quietly as one could down a rusty fire escape, then dropped to the ground and picked up her cell.

She requested uniformed officers, division detectives, and her squadmates and she wanted them now.

She buzzed the second‑story apartment again, frantically seeking entrance. This time, the elderly woman didn’t come down, but stuck her graying head out the window above.

D.D. didn’t bother with pretenses anymore. “I’m a cop, and the tenant on the fourth floor is in trouble. Open up! Quick!”

The woman appeared to consider the matter. Then slowly, but surely, the front door opened and D.D. sprang ahead.

Four flights of stairs. Minute this case was done, she was booking more time with the StairMaster. But for now, around, around, around.

She burst onto the fourth‑floor landing just in time to hear a gunshot. Crap. She threw herself at the door, and it flew open, apparently unlocked.

Her own firearm drawn, she dropped to the floor and scrambled into the unit, gaze already seeking an injured, possibly even murdered, Judy Chan.

Instead, she discovered the woman in question standing quietly before her, smoke still pouring from some ancient‑looking derringer.

“He lied. He would’ve kept the Buddha for himself,” Judy said calmly. “The Buddha is meant to be shared.”

Then she handed the strange little pistol to D.D., just as Malachai moaned from behind the sofa, “If you could be of some assistance, Detective. I believe I have just been shot.”

* * *

Malachai shifted in his chair with some discomfort. Being shot in the leg that had been hurt in the stampede in Vienna years before had been an unlucky break. This time around, however, at least he’d fared better. It turned out Judy Chan wasn’t a very good shot when partially hypnotized. While she’d murdered her boss with a single bullet to the heart, her woozy state – the very state Malachai had put her in – had saved his life.

Eight months had passed and now she was in prison having been found guilty despite an aggressive effort on her attorney’s part to prove that she was criminally insane, deluded by visions from a so‑called past life.

Malachai had sat in the back of the courthouse every day. If Miss Chan’s attorney proved that believing what you remembered from a past life meant you were insane, Malachai’s own life’s work would have been held in question, his passion turned into a joke used against him. But the prosecutor had won. With over 25 percent of the country believing in reincarnation and several world religions based on its precepts, the defendant’s case didn’t pass muster. The jury hadn’t accepted the murder was Chan’s attempt to right a centuries‑long feud. But they did convict her on a charge of second‑degree murder stemming from armed robbery.

Reincarnation had not lost that day, Judy Chan had.

“And now we have Lot 121,” the auctioneer called out in his singsong voice.

Malachai watched as the jade turtle that belonged to the estate of John Wen soared past its estimate of $10,000. The antiques dealer had indeed amassed a very valuable collection of fine antique Chinese treasures. It was a shame he’d had to die protecting one of them.

The turtle was removed by a young man in a dark‑brown uniform and a similarly dressed man brought out the next item for sale and placed it on the podium.

“And now,” said the auctioneer in his Boston accent, “we have the Laughing Buddha. Lot 122. A fine example of eighth‑century Tang Dynasty carving.”

The wait for the estate to come to auction had seemed interminable to Malachai, but the police wouldn’t release the items in Wen’s office until after Chan’s trial and arraignment were complete.

“Do I hear ten thousand?” the auctioneer called.

Malachai had needed to be careful when he’d come to Skinner’s to inspect the Buddha before this sale. If he’d shown too much interest in it someone might have noticed and wondered why. The private viewing room in the auction house where he’d looked it over had a camera in plain sight. Malachai hadn’t dared risk trying to take the statue apart to determine if the base might actually be the secret receptacle used by Davenport to hide the list of lost Memory Tools. But closer examination had revealed such a thing might be possible. The approximate size and shape of the wooden base. The classic Tiffany artistry showcased by the gold‑seamed corners and intricately inlaid abalone. In Malachai’s mind, the statue’s base could very well be the piece commissioned by Davenport from Tiffany himself after that first murder, over a century ago.

“Fifteen thousand on my right. Do I hear – yes, twenty to the gentleman in the back. Do I hear twenty‑five? Twenty‑five thousand, thank you, ma’am.”

For the next few moments Malachai waited for a lull in the bidding. He didn’t want to help drive up the price. Expecting a slowing in bidding to come at $50,000, he was unhappy when it didn’t arrive till the price hit $75,000.

But what difference did money make now, with his quest nearly over, the list of lost Memory Tools about to be his? He had been waiting for decades.

“I have seventy‑five thousand from the gentleman in the back. Going once. Twice.”

Malachai raised his paddle.

“Thank you, sir,” the auctioneer said, acknowledging the new bidder. “I have eighty thousand in the front… and… eighty‑five in the rear. Now to you, sir, ninety thousand in the front.”

Finally, after another five minutes, the bid was again with Malachai at one hundred fifty and there it stopped. Malachai’s head was spinning. Was it his?

“Going once. Twice.” The bang of the gavel. “Thank you, sir. One hundred and fifty thousand in the front.”

Malachai had won his prize.

After paying for the jade statue, Malachai took the objet d’art back to his hotel room at the Ritz Carlton where he’d booked a suite.

Carefully and with ceremony, he unwrapped the carved sculpture that rested on a fine base with hammered gold‑seamed corners inlaid with abalone. The Tiffany signature had been verified by the auction house. The catalogue gave the base alone an estimated value of $10,000.

But that did not even come close to what it was worth.

Malachai enjoyed pomp and appreciated ritual. He believed in savoring the moments that mark one’s life. This was such a pinnacle. He’d reached the end of a long, long road today.

Leaving the Buddha sitting regally on the table by the window, Malachai removed the bottle of Cristal champagne he’d put on ice before leaving for the auction house. Opening it with a pop, he poured himself a flute of the pale yellow ambrosia.

Raising his glass, he toasted the silent statue and then took a sip. Thinking, as he did, of John Wen who had died for this moment. Of Judy Chan, who was going to rot in prison for her efforts to prevent it.

“The time has come, my friend,” Malachai said as he walked to the table. He’d done his research. He wouldn’t have to remove the jade piece from the pedestal. All he had to do was manipulate the seams on the underside of the base. By pressing them in a certain way, he would, the experts had assured him, reveal a carefully concealed cleft.

It was easier than he’d imagined. And as promising as he’d dreamed. The base gave way, a fine sprinkling of dust falling onto the table, indicating it had not been opened in many years. As he’d hoped, no one at Skinner’s had discovered this compartment.

* * *

Malachai didn’t look into the hidden compartment. Not yet. The anticipation after so very long was too delicious.

He took a long, slow sip of the cold bubbly.

This was his moment. After almost 150 years, the past and the present had come full circle. Malachai reached into the narrow enclosure. His fingertips felt… smooth wood… and… more smooth wood… satiny.

He tipped the piece over. Stared into the narrow coffinlike space where he was certain the treasure he sought had once been stashed. Where now there was nothing.

Malachai Samuels held the statue in his hands and stared into the abyss. For a moment, even though it was nigh on impossible, he thought he heard the Buddha laughing. Or maybe it was merely Davenport Talmage, still hoarding his list of lost Memory Tools from beyond the grave. Forever his to hide, and Malachai’s to seek.