“Oh, for Pete’s sake! Why does she do that? You’d think she’d be happy.”

“She’s your mother. You’re not happy, she’s not happy, even if what makes you happy makes her unhappy. Why don’t you call him?”

“He doesn’t want me to.”

“So?”

“Listen, I’d love to sit and chat about my twisted professional and personal life, but I have jewelry to track down. And aren’t you on duty?”

“Oh, nice sidestep. Well, whenever you want to talk about it, I’m here.”

We gathered up our things and went out to show Chinatown photographs of men we didn’t know.

The day got old and so did my search. Yang Nuan-yi, as it turned out, had learned her husband’s Shanghainese dialect, but the only person she’d spoken it to lately was her husband. Old Wong at Harmony Jewelers recalled having a long conversation with a Fujianese yesterday, and just this morning threw two wealthy punks with that terrible Macao accent out of the shop for making a pass at his daughter, but all his other recent customers were Cantonese, or lo faan with no Chinese at all. White-haired Mr. Chen at Bright Hopes had a sharper nose than mine, and rounder eyes of a lighter shade of brown; he might be Eurasian, I thought, or from the western provinces. But he’d had no Shanghainese-or Mandarin-speaking customers in weeks, and I was beginning to think my smart idea wasn’t so smart after all, when I slipped the jewelry photos out of the envelope to show him anyway.

His face paled. Staring at the photos, he felt behind him for his stool and sat heavily. “This is what he stole, that man?”

“Yes. Uncle, are you ill?”

“Where…” He trailed off. His assistant hurried over, but he waved her away. “I’m fine, Irene,” he said gruffly. “See to the customers.” The shop was empty, but she took the hint and went back to her post by the door.

I tapped Wong Pan’s picture. “You’ve seen this jewelry, this man?”

“No.” Mr. Chen mopped his brow with a handkerchief. “I would like… May I borrow these photographs?”