An Intangible Affair

An Intangible Affair

Copy right 2017 by G.X. Chen

Smashwords Edition

G.X. Chen

An Intangible Affair

Copy right © 2017 by G.X. Chen. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, descriptions, entities, and incidents included in the story are products of author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, and entities is entirely coincidental.

Published in the United States of America

ISBN-13: 978-1539771845

To Andrew and Jessie

Prologue

Under an ultramodern floor lamp—three cascading slim and glossy stainless-steel rods holding halogen light bulbs—Jamie Chou opened the letter that had just been delivered by FedEx. It was from Jim Ting, her lover for the past two decades. Impatient to find out what was in it, as Jim had never communicated with her in such a manner, she had ripped open the thick envelope before taking off her suit jacket. Her handbag slid off her shoulder as she fixed her gaze on the piece of paper inside, which had been torn from a notebook.

The muscles of her hands locked up in spasms the instant she read the first sentence, and a further glance sucked the air out of her lungs. Instead of screaming, she only managed to produce a stifled groan before losing consciousness. When she finally came to, she was on the floor, still in her business attire—a white linen jacket over a floral silk blouse atop a black pencil skirt—and her handbag was under her feet. Trembling violently like a leaf in the headwind, she picked herself up, eyes fixed on the piece of paper that had trailed after her down to the floor.

It was two weeks after Dory, Jim’s wife, had died but only a few days after the local media had leaked the cause of her death. The newspaper reported that the autopsy results had revealed a trace of a highly poisonous toxin in Dory’s bloodstream, most likely the venom of an exotic snake. Even though there wasn’t much venom detected, they had found two suspicious entry wounds on one of her ankles just above the heel that matched the bite of a snake. As puzzling and unbelievable as it sounded, Dory could have been bitten by a Naja naja, a species normally found only in tropical environments. How such an exotic snake could survive in Northern California was anyone’s guess, but other nonnative species that had been introduced had thrived and even become invasive, overrunning the waterways and choking the native plants and trees. Just the other day, Jamie had read something in the newspaper about the vicious Chinese beetles that had been threatening the health of the forests in the southern states.

As it was stated, Dory was found dead in the living room by one of her children, and the front door was properly locked. Jim Ting, her husband, was fifty miles away in his lab, as witnessed by dozens of his fellow researchers. It was quite inconceivable that he would kill himself.

Badly shaken, Jamie picked up the letter and took her cell phone from her handbag. The calls to Jim’s office and cell phone were both unanswered. He had either turned off the phones or died, as he had indicated in his letter.

Why, why? Jamie moaned bitterly as she dropped into the chair next to the windows. Only two weeks ago, she was on cloud nine when she received the news that her archrival had passed away. She had screamed in ecstasy, dancing around for more than ten minutes before placing the call to Jim, who had confirmed that his wife’s heart had given up after several years of a courageous fight with cancer. After the call, Jamie had gone online to check the availability of resorts on the Caribbean island that she had wanted to visit for their honeymoon. It was a mutual understanding that Jim would marry her as soon as he was able.

She had never expected that the joy would be so short-lived, destroyed not by outer forces but by her lover, who had single-handedly robbed her of her only chance for happiness with his stupid act of suicide. In the past two decades, while waiting impatiently, there was always hope. A light, however dim, was at the end of the tunnel. Now there was no hope, nothing she could look forward to but a total darkness; the guiding light had been cruelly exterminated by the hand she would love to hold. Grief-stricken, she sank deeply into the chair and cried.

Having been brutally dumped from the heaven to the pit of hell, Jamie had lost all her wits and mobility as her soul was shattered into miserable pieces. Like a marble statue, she sat in the same chair as the night wore on. When the dawn broke, she left for work with red, vacant eyes and pale, shrunken cheeks.

She had no recollection of how she had arrived at work wearing the same outfit she had worn the day before. Like a phantom, she floated around the office without noticing anyone or anything. The reports were dispatched mechanically but precisely as if issued by a robot. For the first time, she was glad that her office had no view so that she could grieve in private. When her concerned assistant asked if anything was the matter, she looked up from behind her desk impassively without uttering one syllable.

How heartless and ghastly! He had actually killed himself. What was he thinking? Did he think of her or his wife before he closed his eyes for the last time? The worst part of his suicide was the fact that he had assumed she could go on without him. How? Jamie wanted to know. She would rather die if death was what he wanted. On the eve of his suicide, she had called him to say that she would stand by him no matter what.

We’ll see it through together, she had said. Without his knowledge, Jamie had contacted and hired a team of high-caliber defense lawyers in case he would be accused of wrongdoing because it was expected that the police would point the finger at the husband when his wife had died mysteriously. Having been employed since graduate school, first as a financial analyst, then a manager and the director of finance, Jamie had made and saved enough to afford anything that could secure her life with Jim, the love of her life.

He said nothing. It seemed he had withdrawn into someplace that nobody could reach.

Did you hear what I said? She was so concerned that she had raised her voice. Instead of answering her, however, Jim broke down and cried.

It’s my fault, he said quietly in a choked voice.

It’s not your fault, she replied firmly. You’ve done nothing wrong. You were at work when Dory died. The police have nothing on you. Nothing said in the newspaper makes sense. It’s all a guessing game. Dory could’ve killed herself if she couldn’t stand the pain of her recurring cancer or, worse, if she had found out her husband had been cheating on her for all those years, Jamie thought.

There was no reply but continuous sobs, which finally got on her nerves. She hung up the phone without saying good-bye, the last straw that could have pushed him over the edge.

***

You won’t believe it, but I’m speechless, Fang Chen burst out as soon as he opened the door and saw Ann Lee, his best friend and crime-solving partner. A biologist by training, Ann had become an amateur detective a decade ago, along with Fang Chen, when their friend Shao Mei was murdered. A petite woman, barely five-foot-two, she was dressed simply in a white T-shirt and a pair of blue jeans. Her shoulder-length hair was black and frizzy, and her almond-shaped eyes were bright and animated, revealing her intelligence and inquisitiveness. She was greeted warmly by Jane, Fang Chen’s wife, and their dog, Alex; Ann was Alex’s dog-sitter whenever Jane and Fang Chen were traveling.

What’s the matter? Ann asked, looking up at Fang Chen curiously. A chemist and a tenured professor, Fang Chen was an old-fashioned Renaissance man, mild-tempered, bookish, quiet, and somewhat awkward. He wore his hair long, combed over to cover a bald patch on the top of his head. Even at home, he wore his signature uniform: a collared shirt and a pair of dress pants.

Jim, one of my housemates at BU, has committed suicide, he replied in a thin and edgy voice while leading Ann into his new home, a penthouse in one of the Ritz towers in Boston. He and Jane had bought the unit as soon as they found out she was expecting. Three months before the baby was due, they had closed the deal and moved into their permanent home, a beautifully designed corner unit that had floor-to-ceiling glass walls overlooking Boston Common, the State House, and the Charles River.

He’s been in such a state since I woke up this morning, Jane told Ann while rolling her eyes. Jane Tian, Ann’s roommate for two years, was a cheerful young woman with a ready smile. Slim and tall, she had a straight, delicate nose and a pair of big expressive eyes on a heart-shaped face. Her chin was a bit short and weak, but her lips were full. When she smiled, her face bloomed into a spring flower, sweet and radiant. More than thirty weeks into her first pregnancy, she had some difficulty as she bent down and picked up the dog, putting him on the couch.

Because he wasn’t the type, Fang Chen explained. He waited until the dog was comfortable before sitting down next to him. Alex was getting so old that he was no longer able to jump up to the couch or get down without help. He was an accomplished scientist, clear minded and rational. It’s almost impossible that he’d commit suicide. In fact, Fang Chen was so stunned that he had thought the e-mail was a joke. It’s totally out of his character.

How do you know that he committed suicide? Ann asked.

He e-mailed me before killing himself, Fang Chen said, bewildered.

Ann was surprised. Did he tell you why he had to commit suicide?

No. Fang Chen shook his head, a bit hesitantly. In his farewell e-mail, Jim had revealed nothing but said he was sorry that he had to do what he had to do. Shocked and confused, Fang Chen had tried fanatically to reach him but failed. Soon, the news from California confirmed the unthinkable—Jim was dead, hung in a closet with a belt and found by one of his children. Fang Chen was notified by the youngest of the three and his godson, Tim.

Do I know him? Ann asked while looking inquisitively at the man who had been her friend and partner since they had met at BU when she was a college student and he a Ph.D. candidate before Yi-yun Lin, his first wife and Ann’s best friend, had died. They had formed a joint venture, the Back Bay Investigation Agency, after a successful run at Shao Mei’s murder case, the first mystery they helped to crack as a team. While working on the curious case of Coco and Mrs. Donavan, Fang Chen met Jane, Ann’s roommate, and fell in love.

No. He’s several years older than I am, Fang Chen told her. He was in his mid-forties, whereas Ann and Jane were in their mid-thirties. He’d already left BU when you enrolled.

The living room of his new home was tastefully furnished. In addition to a big sectional couch and two matching leather chairs, there was a classic blue Chinese vase atop a beautifully carved wooden coffee table with a few fashion magazines on top of it.

Ann was sitting in one of the chairs facing the best view of the city—the golden dome of the State House peeking out from the buildings and the trees behind Boston Common, the oldest public city park in the US. Jane had gone to the kitchen after putting the dog on his blanket.

Jim was in his last year at BU when I came to Boston, Fang Chen continued. Smart and fun-loving, he was like a big brother to me, helping me get my first car and first apartment. He broke out in a smile when he remembered how Jim had tried to persuade him to buy the five-hundred-dollar car, which had multiple paint jobs, from a graduating college student because it was too cheap to pass up. Fang Chen had to tell him repeatedly that his old man was footing the bill before Jim agreed to take him to a legitimate car dealership for a solid used car. Fang Chen didn’t mind saving his father some money—he knew that a brand-new car would normally lose a third of its value after a year or so—but he definitely didn’t want to get one simply because it was cheap.

Why would he commit suicide if he’s fun-loving? Ann asked with a frown. It didn’t make sense.

Beats me, Fang Chen said with a shrug. It was maddening.

Something drastic must’ve happened, Ann said, making him believe suicide was the only way out. As far as she knew, people who were sociable and fun-loving didn’t have the same mentality as the chronically depressed, whose mental impairment could drive them to despair.

That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking. Fang Chen’s eyebrows had been knitted behind his thick glasses since he had read the e-mail. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t connect the dots between the friend he knew and the action Jim had taken.

There has to be a trigger somewhere, Ann continued, thinking aloud.

The news in recent days seems to indicate that his wife’s death was suspicious, Fang Chen offered.

Ann’s interest was immediately incited. Was Jim accused? she asked.

No, Fang Chen said with a shake of his head.

Did they hint that he might be responsible in some way? Ann insisted.

No. Fang Chen said firmly. Jim was a gentleman who’d never kill his wife; even the local police didn’t think he was a suspect.

Tell me about the death of his wife, Ann said after a few moments. Under what circumstances did she die?

According to the newspaper, Dory was bitten by a poisonous snake, probably a black widow.

I thought black widow is only associated with poisonous spiders.

It’s known as an Asian cobra in the US, Fang Chen explained. But in Southeast Asia, it’s commonly called the black widow because it has black markings and its bite would kill a man instantly. Jim and his wife were living in Northern California, so it’s quite strange for her to have been bitten by such an exotic snake.

Ann nodded. Where was he when it happened?

He was in his lab fifty miles away, witnessed by dozens of his coworkers.

How was she found?

In a chair at home, Fang Chen replied. There was no sign of forced entry and no murder weapon, if a snake was the weapon. The police searched every room in the house, from the basement to the attic, out of concern for his children—at least one of them is still living at home.

How would a tropical snake end up in California? Ann was puzzled. It’s relatively warm but much drier than Southeast Asia, where hot and humid is the norm. Her voice trailed off as she became lost in thoughts. Was the cause of her death authentic? she asked after a few moments. Could she have been killed by other means?

Fang Chen grimaced as he remembered what Jim had said in his e-mail, I have to do what I have to do—it’s the price I have to pay. What did he mean by that? Fang Chen wondered. I don’t believe Jim was capable of killing, he said hesitantly.