“God. That’s awful.”

“It was a long time ago. But it makes me feel like, how dare this Wong Pan guy steal her mother’s jewelry? Like he stole it from her.”

“What happened to her and her brother?”

“Alice Fairchild says it’s not clear. I guess a lot of people can’t be traced from after the war. But I’m starting to feel… protective. As though I knew her.”

A young Chinatown-cool waiter-blond-streaked hair, tight black pants-appeared. We ordered tea eggs, chicken skewers, and lemongrass soup.

“Enough of the sad past.” I folded Rosalie’s letter and stuffed it into my bag. “Tell me about your case.”

“Nothing much to tell. Guy was found shot in a hotel room. Wallet was gone. Registered as Wu Ming.”

“ ‘Anonymous’? Oh, great, a joker. Okay, show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”

We traded pictures.

Our quarries looked alike, if by that you mean they were both middle-aged Chinese men. Hers was thinner and wore short hair; mine was pudgy and had short hair, too, but grayer.

“Yours is better-looking,” Mary said.

“Well, he’s alive.”

“I guess that’s an advantage in a man. Is he wanted for something? Here, I mean?”

“Not that I know of. In China, for running off with the cultural patrimony.”

“If he’s not wanted here, I can’t show his picture around for you, though. Sorry.”

“That’s okay. I’m not really looking for him anyway, just the jewelry.” Our soup arrived, and we put our work away. Mary gave me the past month in her life, filled me in on gossip my mother hadn’t gotten to, and asked about my family.

“My brothers are all thriving, in their own unique and bizarre ways,” I told her. “And I’ve been back less than twenty-four hours and my mother’s already driving me up the wall.”

Mary nodded her sympathy. “She told my mom yesterday that you’d taken a case with a guy who irritates you so you wouldn’t be thinking about Bill.”