Free All in One Piece by Cecelia Tishy

Steven—
    Drop it. Drop the paper. I let it go. It falls to the floor, and I jump back and stand clear as if a whorl will suck me under.
     Please, God, give my balance back. I wait. Tight throat, tight chest, stinging eyes. The drowning scene, I’m there again.
     And crying, my cheeks wet with salty fat tears.
    But I don’t weep for Steven now. These tears are shed for me, for the vertigo and the visions that overtake and drive me to
     find out who killed him.

Chapter Thirteen
    W here did Steven go in the cabs? A month’s early morning fares from Barlow Square… maybe the cops can trace his whereabouts
     through the labyrinth of taxi companies, not me.
    I take Biscuit for a short walk to drop off my roll of film at One Hour Foto, then phone Harvard’s Department of East Asian
     Languages and Civilization. The receptionist coolly informs me that professors are busy with the new semester, but she will
     take my number and my request for a consultation in case any interested faculty or graduate students care to call me. Ditto
     the departments of Asian studies at Boston University, Boston College, MIT, Tufts, Northeastern, and Wellesley. None are really
     helpful. May they all nibble dim sum and sip tea at the Great Wall.
    What now? An hour’s work on my column. As ever, the deadline approaches, in the newspaper meaning of the word “dead.” Stark’s
     notion of tipping everybody in sight… I’m dubious. Aren’t employers responsible to pay decent wages? Won’t workers get
     overly dependent on dollars at the drive-thru window?
    Yet jobs aren’t what they were. A few of Molly’s friends are temping. One of Jack’s pals, a programmer, is clerking at Home
     Depot after several layoffs. Maybe Stark has a point. I’m drafting “Tip Jar Tactics” when the mail arrives, a reminder of
     my police errand. Imagine Maglia slipping me a dollar for every report on Steven’s mail: Reggie the McMail clerk.
    Sorting through, I make two piles. For me, a subscription renewal reminder and specials on cosmetics with a free tote bag.
     No card from the Middle East.
    For Steven Damelin, a menswear sale, Visa offer, Save the Children. And a blue postcard from something called the Apollo Club,
     with an image of classical Apollo, his marble abs cut sharp, a small fig leaf over ample endowment. “Entertainment, dancing,
     valet parking.” Penned at the bottom is, “Hey, Steve, hope to see you soon—Matt.”
    It’s definitely mail the police should know about. I start for the phone to call Maglia. Then I stop. Not so fast. Is this
     message personal or only personal
ized
? A rub of a thumb across the signature, and the ink blurs. Okay, it’s for real… but suppose Matt jotted a few hundred
     cards for a batch mailing? If I call Maglia about a promotional ad, he’ll demote me even further. Devaney will chortle. For
     now, the Apollo Club card goes into the junk mail envelope, which I’ll send to Maglia as promised. A deal’s a deal.
    With fingers crossed, I’m off to pick up my door photos, this time without Biscuit, because if they’re clear enough, I’m heading
     to Chinatown, a twenty-minute walk at a brisk pace. I pay the clerk, then riffle through the photos. Yes, the three blood
     mark snapshots are underexposed but clear. They look more than ever like Chinese characters.
    It’s nearly five when I get to Stuart Street, then over to Harrison and the side streets where Vietnamese, Thai, and Chinese
     groceries abound. The windows of golden Peking ducks, the bok choy in bushel baskets, and packets of five-star anise beckon
     for occasional cooking sprees. Now they’re for language drill.
    Inside the Lu Wan grocery, boisterous talk among a group in the back comes to a sudden halt when I enter, a Caucasian intruder.
     A wizened man in a fedora comes forward as if to guard his real clientele. This is definitely not Tsakis Brothers. I show
     the photos and ask, “Can you say what this means?” His eyes go blank. I