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Chapter Text

The tent is hot.

Packed with spectators, it smells of sweat, tobacco, and baked canvas. The audience is excited and they create a thick thrum like the sound of a hundred bees. A hundred ill-dressed bees.

Kimball Cho shifts, picturing just that. The cheap folding chair squeaks loud enough to hear above the din. The noise—or maybe it’s just his movement—catches the attention of the gentlemen in the broad-striped suit across the aisle. The man curls his lip at Cho, a long moment of dislike. The man has been curling his lip ever since he first laid eyes on Cho.

“What is it?”

Cho takes off his hat and smooths back his hair. The man turns to face the front of the tent. “It’s nothing.”

“Are you certain?”

Cho looks down at his companion. Theresa Lisbon is leaning forward to peer around him, her keen gaze fixed on the back of the man’s head. She’s wearing a blue suit with a matching blue beret. The beret is topped by a red feather that trembles when she moves. With her thin face, narrowed eyes and that feather, she resembles a charming yet irritated bird. “I am, Miss.”

“Because I need to know if there’s anything wrong,” Lisbon says quietly. “This is my investigation. I’ve placed a lot of trust and faith and no small amount of cash on you.” She sits back. “And I told you not to call me ‘Miss.’ It’s Theresa or Lisbon, your choice.”

Cho doesn’t remind Lisbon that while it might be her investigation, he’s the client. Yes, she paid for the tickets from Sacramento to Barstow, but he paid for the food, the rooms at the Topper Roadside Motel, and the admission to the traveling show.

But, he should be grateful for any financial help—his bank account is dwindling rapidly, what with one thing and another. “I understand.”

“Then what was that about?”

Cho grudgingly concedes, “I’ve found it’s best to limit my time in small towns.”

Lisbon gives him a long look. “Do you find the same reaction in large towns, too?”

Cho raises a shoulder in acknowledgement. “Most Americans aren’t used to people like me.”

Lisbon frowns. “You’re an American.”

“I was born on American soil but that doesn’t make me an American. At least, not to men like that.” Cho jerks his head towards the man who is staring at him again.

“I suppose,” Lisbon murmurs as she gives the man a once-over. “I also suppose he wouldn’t think too highly of an unmarried woman who is traveling across the country with a complete stranger to investigate the kidnapping of a young woman. However, Depression or no Depression, anyone who willingly wears that suit is an idiot.”

As if hearing Lisbon, the man glares and turns back around. Cho smothers a smile. He’s only known Theresa Lisbon a total of five days and they have only spoken about the issues at hand but he likes her. She’s sharp and thorny and kind. Kindness, in his experience, is rare. “It’s not across the country and we don’t know if it’s a kidnapping. We don’t know anything yet. Lucy has done this before, remember?”

His tone must have been especially gloomy because Lisbon presses her shoulder against his. “If it’s either, we’ll find her. I prom—”

Lisbon’s vow is cut off as the crowd draws a collective breath. Then they begin babbling at a higher pitch because a young woman has slipped through a flap at the front of the tent. She waves to no one in particular, takes a seat at the piano and begins to play.

The girl is pretty in that buxom, fair-haired way that says mid-west United States, daughter of a someone respectable. Her print dress and hairdo, while a little frivolous, are the latest fashion.

“Isn’t that dress a little fancy for something like this?” Lisbon asks.

“It’s what they’re wearing in L.A.”

“How do you know?”

“Sisters,” Cho answers succinctly. Growing up with three sisters, he knows far more about women’s fashion than he would like to admit.

“Well,” Lisbon adds, “I hope the performance gets better than this.”

Cho agrees. The girl’s musical skills leave much to be desired. She keeps hitting the wrong keys, possibly because she keeps glancing over her shoulder. Every time she looks, her fingers stumble and fumble. “We’re not here for the show.”

“‘Professor Ruskin’s Traveling Miracles and Thaumaturgy,’” Lisbon mutters. “What have you gotten me into, Mr. Cho?”

“I—” The girl flounders, worse than before, and then stops altogether. She takes a big breath, flings out her arm and announces in an ever-heightening tone, “Ladies and gentlemen, the sick and the ill, I present Professor Patrick Ruskin!” With a dramatic flourish, she plays an awkward, one-handed intro.

The crowd cheers, the flaps at the back of the tent draw apart and a man strides through.

Professor Ruskin is tall. Five-nine or five-ten is Cho’s guess, even given the heeled boots, probably worn to make him seem taller.

“Well, isn’t he a looker?” Lisbon muses.

Cho doesn’t answer because yes, Ruskin is very good looking. On the pretty side of handsome, his features are even and his jaw is square. Like the girl, he has bright white teeth and fair hair. But where the girl’s hair is dull blond, Ruskin’s is gold. It’s slicked back, shining under the bare-glass electric bulbs. His suit is beautiful, too. It’s made of blue silk with wide lapels, complete with a polka-dotted tie. Compared to the dull colors and inexpensive clothing worn by the audience, he stands out like a sore thumb.

Ruskin doesn’t move for a moment, basking in the applause that is now dwindling. And then his smile brightens and he raises an arm in welcome. The crowd’s enthusiasm renews and he calls out, “Greetings and salutations, one an all. I am Professor Ruskin. Let’s get started!”

***

The performance, Cho decides later when he’s back home and has had time to collect his thoughts, was half carnival sideshow, half old-fashioned snake-oil theatrics.

Ruskin’s first a spiel is about discovering his abilities as a child after healing the family dog. From there, he confides, he graduated at age nineteen from the University of Missouri and decided his mission in life was to help the sick and dying. He’d begun his travels, first to Europe to visit the heads of state and then on to the Far East. It was there, while gathering spices and medicaments unbeknownst to Western man, he’d honed his skills as a mentalist and miracle-worker.

Lisbon snorts softly when Ruskin makes that claim. “‘Unbeknownst medicaments?’” she whispers as she elbows Cho’s arm. “‘Heads of state?’ Seriously?”

The woman in front of them twists around and puts her finger to her lips. “Shh,” she hisses in a stage whisper. “Professor Ruskin is a great man!”

“I’m sure he is, ma’am,” Lisbon whispers back.

The woman leans closer. “Then you’ll do best to listen.”

Cho is about to answer that the woman herself can’t be listening if she too is talking when Ruskin’s gaze falls on them. It’s just a light landing, like the flick of a butterfly’s wing. Ruskin doesn’t stop his patter but Cho feels a charge, an odd galvanic curl that warms his stomach. Given the depth and relative darkness of the rear of the tent, there is no possible way Ruskin can see them, but… “Miss?”

With her own quick glance at Ruskin, Lisbon gets the picture. She settles back, her eyes fixed primly on the stage. With an I-told-you-so hmph, the woman turns to face the front again.

“And it’s because of those mentors and preceptors,” Ruskin concludes, “that I can now offer what we all need: healing and hope.” He gives an elegant wave. “May I ask for a volunteer from the audience?”

Hands shoot up, voices cry out. Ruskin makes a show of picking someone at random, a man off to the left.

The man rises and—almost half bent over—hobbles to the stage.

“I see you’re in some pain, my good fellow.” Ruskin removes his suit coat and gives it to his assistant. “What is your name and what ails you?”

The man puts his hand on his lower back. “Royston. Royston Daniels is my name, and it’s my back. It hurts so much.”

Ruskin rolls up the sleeves of his very white shirt. “Ah, sciatica. Such a very common enemy of the human body, brought on by various causes, namely your height. I will now attempt a cure.” He pauses and smiles charmingly at the crowd. “Not his height, of course. That’s a gift from God and there’s nothing I can do about that.” The crowd titters. “No, I’m going to perform a treatment I learned in central Mongolia from the famous riders of the Steppes.”

He rubs his hands together and then gently places a palm on Daniels’ lower back. “The Mongols are great horsemen but they all suffer from back maladies. They taught me the healing art of mental energy focused in just the right location while using just the right psychic force…”

Ruskin puts his other hand on Daniels’ chest; his voice lowers to a carrying whisper, “All you have to do is…” He closes his eyes and then grimaces as if in great pain.

Silence fills the tent.

The assistant, motionless all the while, leans forward. The audience collectively leans forward, too, equally caught up in the moment.

All except for Lisbon. With a prescience he should in no way be feeling, Cho knows she’s about to comment on the patently false performance.

Sure enough, she draws a short breath but Cho is ready: he kicks her ankle.

Lisbon coughs softly, swallowing whatever she had been about to say.

Cho lets out the breath he’s holding and focuses on the rest of the show.

It’s over rather quickly. A few seconds later, Daniels exclaims. Ruskin opens his eyes and steps back. Daniels cautiously straightens, feeling his own back in wonderment; he rolls his shoulders and bends from side to side. “No pain,” he calls out to the audience. “No pain!”

The crowd cheers. Ruskin gets out a handkerchief and wipes his forehead as he’d just completed a monumental task.

“Oh, brother,” Lisbon mutters.

Cho hides a smile, because yes, Oh brother.

***

Three miracles later, Ruskin says he’s exhausted but doesn’t want to leave his guests empty-handed. For the low price of nineteen cents, he has created a specially made infusion that helps with all manner of ailments. He gestures to the girl who is waiting by the piano seat that is now covered with small blue bottles. Surprisingly, many spectators get up and leave. Cho had thought them all spellbound by Ruskin’s performance; at least spellbound enough to shell out nineteen cents.

Still, a dozen or so get up and head for the front of the tent, Lisbon included.

Cho touches her arm. “Miss?”

Lisbon pauses. “We need answers and what better time to get them than when the suspect is unaware, not to mention tired?”

She’s moving again before Cho can point out that Ruskin isn’t a suspect, per se. He sighs, gets up, and joins her in the line.

The man in the ugly suit is ahead of them. He’s quite aware of Cho and Lisbon—he glares over his shoulder every now and then.

As before, Cho meets the man’s glances with ready passivity. There’s no point in engaging with thugs; he learned that painful lesson in grade school.

“So,” Lisbon says, “how do you want to do this?”

The line moves forward. “Do what?”

“Find out what he knows?”

Ruskin greets a woman and her daughter. The woman pushes the daughter, almost forcing her to take Ruskin’s hand. “This is your investigation, remember?” Ruskin bows low and says something. The girl simpers and shakes her head. Ruskin’s assistant watches from the side; she doesn’t look happy.

“Yes, but I—” Lisbon darts a quick look at Cho. “I should have told you back in Sacramento that I…” She trails off.

“You should have told me that you’ve never handled a case and are merely Mr. Minelli’s secretary?”

Lisbon bristles, straightening up to her full, though short, height. “I wasn’t just his secretary. I helped with cases. I even interviewed a client once. It was the Huntsman affair—perhaps you heard of it?”

Of course Cho had heard about the Huntsman investigation. It was in all the papers. Lionel Huntsman had murdered his wife and tried to make it look like she had run off to Mexico with her lover, a young man of twenty-one. The boy’s parents had hired a private investigator by the name of Vincent Minelli to prove their son’s innocence. Minelli had indeed proved it, finding both the wife’s and boy’s body in a cabin in the Big Bear mountains after a two-month investigation. Huntsman was charged a day later and is now on death row.

So, yes, Cho is aware of the investigation, just as he’s aware that if Lisbon had played any part, it had been minor at best. But who is he to point fingers? His own career—if it could be called that—had been aborted early on due to the simple fact that the other officers in Koreatown had hated him and everything he stood for. He’d lasted all of three months. But he’s not about to open up that particular book of past failures, so he just asks rhetorically, “How will we do this? Just ask him the questions we know the answers to and see if he lies.”

Lisbon’s irritation dies and she nods slowly. “Minelli once told me that’s a good way to catch someone off guard. All right…” She nods again, this time with firm intent. “That’s what we’ll do. Do you want to grill him or should I?”

Ruskin is finished with the next two guests and the line moves once more. They are now within earshot; Cho can hear Ruskin’s voice, the gentle way he asks an old farmer what ails him. “You take the first round. It might throw him off his game even more.”

“Very well.”

Cho doesn’t reply. The man in the ugly suit is between them and Ruskin. This close, Cho can see that Ruskin’s outfit is as new as it had seemed. In fact, everything about the man says money, from his pomade to the slight gleam on his manicured nails. The only things out of place are his shoes. They are worn and scuffed, an odd contrast, and Cho is still thinking about that when he finds himself face-to-face with his quarry.

Lisbon was right. Ruskin is smiling but his eyes are shadowed and red-rimmed. According to the poster outside, Ruskin’s next venue is in two days all the way south in San Bernardino.

“My dear sir and madam,” Ruskin says, his smile brightening as he glances from Cho to Lisbon and then back again. “How can I assist you on this beautiful evening?”

Ruskin had spoken to Cho but it’s Lisbon who answers, “We’re looking into the disappearance of a young woman who was seen with you about three weeks ago.”

Lisbon’s words are bald and bold, and Cho almost flinches. There are good ways to get answers and there are bad ways.

Except Ruskin’s expression doesn’t alter, doesn’t change. It’s as if he was expecting the question. Either that or he has complete mastery over his facial expressions. A trait that is—in Cho’s albeit limited experience—almost impossible to achieve because no one is that good and everyone has a tell.

“I meet all kinds of people every day,” Ruskin replies as pleasantly as if he’d been asked about the weather. “Can you be a little more precise as to who and where and when?”

“Miss Lucy Cho, February twenty-first, McFarland, California.”

At that, Ruskin’s expression does change, just a slight flicker of his eyelids. “Lucy Cho. Yes, I remember her. She had some concerns about a young man and wanted me to tell her fortune.”

“And did you?” Lisbon asks.

“No. told her that I no longer provide such services.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I found that the people who want to know their future rarely do.”

“Or maybe they discover you’re a charlatan and ask for their money back?”

Ruskin smiles down at Lisbon. “My skills are genuine but not always appreciated. You, by the way, are delightful. Are you a female detective?”

“Yes,” Lisbon says without batting an eye. “And delightful or not, I’m going to get to the bottom of Miss Cho’s disappearance.”

“I’m sure you will, but I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

Lisbon, however, isn’t done. “After you told Lucy you couldn’t tell her fortune, did she leave?”

Ruskin sighs and rolls his shirtsleeves down. “Yes, but later on that afternoon, she waylaid me in the lobby of my hotel. As I had no other appointments, I invited her to tea. We had a lovely Earl Grey and chatted about her young man.” Ruskin unrolls the next sleeve, unfolding the fabric slowly. “She told me that her parents approved of him but her heart wasn’t engaged. There was another that had caught her eye.” Now for the cuff: he methodically, delicately, pushes the shell button through the bound opening.

“And who was that?” Lisbon asks, her gaze on Ruskin’s fingers.

“Oh, some gentleman of means of whom her parents most definitely would not approve.”

Cho frowns, trying to dredge up any memory of his parents mentioning anyone other than Bong Soo Chung. He can’t quite remember because he can’t quite think. The tent is so hot and so close; maybe the lack of oxygen is affecting his brain.

“‘Would not?’”

Ruskin nods as he begins on the second cuff. “I gathered they hadn’t met him just as I gathered he was already married. Why else would she be concerned? Most parents would jump at the chance to have a rich son-in-law.”

A dim warmth blooms deep in Cho’s chest. His parents are poor but they’re hardly money grubbers.

“And that was it?” Lisbon asks. “You had tea and talked about Miss Cho’s romantic entanglements?”

Ruskin is finished with his sleeves; he smiles. “Well, the hotel had a surprisingly wide variety of tea cakes for such a small town; we talked about that.” He tugs on his vest. “So, yes, I spent a very enjoyable afternoon with Lucy but that was all.”

Cho takes a step before he knows it, propelled by a sudden and not completely unexpected anger. Ruskin’s implication was so very clear… “Lucy is my sister.”

Ruskin looks Cho up and down and then murmurs slyly, “He speaks.”

‘Damn it,’ is Cho’s immediate thought because it had all been a ploy, another performance, meant to draw him out. Of course Ruskin realized that he was related or connected to Lucy in some way. But there is nothing he can do but play the hand that Ruskin and Lisbon had dealt and so he states, “Yes, I speak. I can walk and chew gum at the same time, too.”

Ruskin’s smile widens. “No accent. You’re an American.”

Though Ruskin’s response isn’t a complete surprise, Cho’s anger heats. “I’m from Elysian Heights, so yes, I’m an American.”

“And you went to an American grade school and an American high school and an American college?”

The man is still baiting him. Cho’s jaw almost aches with the effort not to answer the way Ruskin so clearly wants. “Yes.”

“I’m sure you could tell me more than a few stories about that, but in the meantime…” Ruskin glances once more between Cho and Lisbon. “You two aren’t lovers which means you’re working on the case together and you’re both detectives? Or…” He taps his chin and squints, as if in deep thought. “You, my friend…” He points at Cho. “…are the client and you…” Ruskin nods at Lisbon, “…are the assistant of some high-powered official and you foolishly convinced this gentleman that you could help him.”

Lisbon is too angry to respond. For himself, Cho manages to refrain from confirming Ruskin’s surprisingly accurate guess, saying only, “Who we are is none of your business. If you have any more information in regards to Lucy’s disappearance, I want it.”

Ruskin sighs and then strolls over to the piano to pick up his coat. “I’m afraid I have nothing more to add. Your sister asked for a reading. I said no. We then chatted about nothing much while we had tea.” He slips his jacket on. “She left around five.”

“Did you see which way she headed?”

“I’m afraid not,” Ruskin replies. And then he pauses and looks back at Cho, his expression now thoughtful. “No, that’s not right. I did watch her go. She turned left up Main.”

“Which means?”

“That she wasn’t going to the train station.”

“She has her own car.” The sedan had been a bone of contention between Lucy and their parents. She’d saved up for almost all of it, needing only another thirty-five dollars to make an offer. On a weekend trip to Los Angeles, she’d asked permission to pawn the set of celadon pottery to make up the difference. The pottery was a family heirloom, brought over from Korea. Cho’s parents had objected, only giving in when Lucy pointed out that she could drive Aunt Min-ja and Uncle Jin-kyu on errands because they were letting her stay rent-free in Sacramento. Cho hadn’t been too surprised when his parents changed their minds—his father had always had a soft spot for Lucy.

“And have you found it?”

“Have we found the car? I—” Cho shoots Lisbon a quick look.

“Yes,” Ruskin says as if talking to a child. “If the girl is missing, is her car missing, too?”

In all the rush to find and interrogate Ruskin, they hadn’t discussed how Lucy had gotten to McFarland. What a pair of fools. “No, we haven’t,” Cho says, feeling as if he’s admitting to something as heinous as murder.

“Then I would start there,” Ruskin advises.

Ruskin is about to add something, when his assistant, silent this whole time, touches his sleeve. “Professor?”

“Hm?”

“It’s almost five,” the girl says earnestly. “You promised Mrs. Woodhouse that you’d be there by five-thirty.”

“Oh yes.” Ruskin straightens his vest once more. “Duty calls. Or in this case, a grieving widow.” He starts to go but then looks back at Cho. “And I’m sorry about your sister.” His smile dies and his sunny expression reveals a sliver of something dark, something bleak. “I truly am.”

Lisbon opens her handbag. “If you think of anything…” She gives Ruskin a card. “That is my telephone number. Please call.”

Ruskin examines the card, flicks it with his thumbnail and then tucks it in his pocket. He bows his head and leaves without another word, his assistant trailing obediently.

***

“Well,” Lisbon says as they exit the tent.

“Well,” Cho agrees. He takes a deep breath. He’s sweating. No doubt because the tent had been so damnably hot. He squints at the falling sun.

Late March in Barstow is about the same as late March in Los Angeles. Meaning, hot and dry with a promise of spring. Cho has thought about moving to the cooler north for years. He could take his parents with him and find a small plot of land with a small house and a couple trees. They’d have to rent, but his mother could garden and his father could sit under the trees and read the newspaper.

“I’m sorry.”

Surprised, Cho looks over at Lisbon. She, too, is squinting at the sun though her expression is one of discontent. “Why?”

“I should have asked you about a car.”

“It’s all right. I should have told you that Lucy wouldn’t have taken a train or a bus”

“Well,” Lisbon says around a sigh. “We’ll think things through from now on.” She gets out a pair of tortoise-shell sunglasses and puts them on. “What make and model is it?”

“It’s a yellow Chrysler New Yorker.” Ruskin’s tent is sitting on the edge of a barren field. On the other side of the field is a massive house, more mansion than farm. Wondering if it’s the Woodhouse place, he adds, “I don’t know the plate number.”

“We can make a call. Your parents might know.”

“They don’t have a telephone.” Cho puts his hat on and adjusts the brim. “The neighbors do, though. Maybe we can call them.”

“All right. Let’s find someplace to eat so we can plan our next steps. There’s that restaurant near the motel. Do you care if it’s a greasy spoon?”

“As long as they’ll serve me, I don’t care if care if it’s a greasy fork.”

For an answer, Lisbon snorts gently and smiles.

***

The greasy spoon isn’t as bad as it could have been and no one harasses Cho when he follows Lisbon to a booth in the back. He orders the chicken soup. Lisbon chooses the turkey sandwich and a lime Jell-o salad. They eat in silence, Cho finishing first.

He’s facing the rear of the restaurant. Hanging on the wall are posters, photos, and a telephone. ‘Class of ‘37 presents Junior Prom’ one of the posters announces in faded red letters above an illustration of two teenagers with crowns on their heads. The illustrator hadn’t been very skilled and the kids look Asian, not American. But maybe they’re supposed to be; maybe this town has an Asian population or is more accepting than others.

A slight scraping sound draws Cho’s attention. Lisbon is pushing the last bit of salad from one side of the plate to the other. “What’s bothering you?”

Lisbon doesn’t look up. “You don’t know me well enough to know if something is bothering me or not.”

Cho waits and sure enough, after a bare two seconds, Lisbon looks up and says, “Sorry.” She sets her fork down. “I’m just wondering what I got myself—and you—into.”

“You didn’t get me into anything. You didn’t drag me off the street—I was the one that came to Minelli’s office. I was the one that agreed to your proposal when he turned me down.”

“I know.”

“And you were the one that suggested we search Lucy’s locker. If you hadn’t thought that, we wouldn’t have found Ruskin’s flyer.” The wrinkled sheet of colored paper had been tucked away in the pocket of Lucy’s work smock: ‘The Show of the Century! Professor Ruskin’s Traveling Miracles and Thaumaturgy! Professor Ruskin will Astound and Amaze. McFarland, February 21st-23rd. Mojave, March 1st-3rd. Barstow, March 25th Only! Everyone Welcome!’

“I know.”

“I’m not a babe in the woods. You aren’t coercing me into anything.”

At that, Lisbon looks up. “Are you sure about that?”

“Yes.” Cho gives it another beat. “But if you’re not, I can go on alone.”

“No,” Lisbon says as she relaxes back into the booth. “I’ve worked for Minelli for fifteen years. I know I can help you. Besides…” She reaches for the bill. “You’re my ticket back to Sacramento. Literally.”

Cho gets out his billfold. “How much do I owe you?”

“If we split it in half and include a gratuity, it’s fifty-eight cents.”

Cho gives Lisbon the coins. “What now?”

“Now we reassess.”

“And Lucy’s car?”

“I know a man at the BNE.” She glances at Cho. “The California Bureau of Narcotics Enforcement. He might have a way of finding it.”

“Might?”

Lisbon shrugs. “He’ll have to make written inquiries to see if the car has been involved in any accidents or if it’s been abandoned.”

“That will take time.” Maybe weeks or months. Cho is new to the private investigation field, but he’d assumed… “Isn’t there any other way?”

“Well, if we had a flying car like in that magazine you were reading,” Lisbon teases with a little grin, “then we could just zoom from city to city.”

Cho flushes. On the train, Lisbon had asked if he had anything to read and he’d told her no, he had only the one book. Later at the motel, she’d come by to get him and had spied his stack of Astounding Tales of Science! magazines on the bed. It had been stupid to lie; he couldn’t think why he had. “Since we don’t have access to that kind of technology,” he says blandly, “is that is our only option? To write letters and then sit back and wait?”

“I didn’t say that was our only option,” Lisbon reminds Cho. “I said we need to reassess.”

“And when shall we do that?”

Lisbon gathers her purse and sunglasses. “Let’s talk over breakfast. I think we both need a break.”

Cho presses his lips together and picks up his hat. When he gets to his feet, he’s taken aback to see that the man from Ruskin’s show is sitting in a booth near the front door. The man isn’t alone—he’s with three others; they’re packed in the booth like sardines.

“They must have come in while we were eating,” Lisbon says in a hushed tone.

The men are still wearing their overcoats and—if the bare tabletop is any indication—they aren’t here for the cuisine. They’re watching Cho and Lisbon, their collective gazes tracking Cho’s every movement. So much for not being harassed.

“What do we do?” Lisbon whispers.

“We pay the bill and go back to the motel,” Cho replies evenly. He’s not frightened, per se. He’s been in his share of fights. But he’s tired of being pushed around and the afternoon has left him edgy and out of sorts. A brawl almost sounds good.

However—he reminds himself sourly—he’s on a mission and can’t afford to get locked up. And then there’s Lisbon… She might get hurt and he can’t afford that, either. “It will be all right.”

Lisbon pays the bill. The waitress takes the money, her eyes darting from Cho to the men the whole time. She doesn’t say anything other than a muted, “Have a good evening,” after handing Lisbon the receipt.

Cho and Lisbon leave the diner.

He might as well have a bull’s-eye on his back, he decides as they stroll north. The sun is well behind the mountains now and the only illumination is a yellow street light and the pale glow from the Topper’s sign.

Used to the constant hum of Los Angles traffic, the night is strangely quiet. Cho can hear Lisbon’s heels on the cracked cement. He can hear his own footsteps. That’s all, but he doesn’t make the mistake of thinking they’re alone. He knows the goons are following just as he knows he’s going to have to do something about them.

Lisbon, apparently, knows as well, because they’re in sight of the motel’s drive when she breathes, “Well?”

“When we get there, you get inside. I’ll take care of our admirers.”

“You want me to leave you? That’s not gonna happen. Besides…” Lisbon pats her purse. “I have a gun.”

Cho almost stops walking. Lisbon’s mouth is pressed in a thin line and she’s glaring as if she wants to punch someone. “You do? Where did you get it?”

“It’s mine. Or rather, it was my father’s. I thought we might need it. I guess I was right.”

He wants to sigh. “Before you get us into real trouble, let me talk to them.” They’re on the motel’s grounds now, thirty-or-so odd feet from their side-by-side rooms.

“That creep didn’t seem like the talking kind.”

“Yeah.” When Cho and Lisbon had arrived that morning, the motel’s lot had been empty. Now, it’s crowded with automobiles. “They’re just bullies and I know how to handle bullies.” At the far end of the line of cars, a shadowy figure loiters. Cho can’t make out the man’s features or intent, but if he’s is a friend of the goons, that would make this a trap. That, in turn, means the quartet is a quintet and Cho should have expected it. That’s what he gets for being so single-minded; he hadn’t thought ahead. “Lisbon, you better get ready to—” He’s interrupted by a shouted, “You there!”

Cho turns to face the men who are striding up. Nothing for it now except to hope that serenity and rationality win the day. “Yes?”

The goons come to a stop. The man in the ugly suit glances at his three friends and then barks at Cho, “What are you doing here?”

“Here?” Cho gestures, taking in the motel, the town. “I’m going to the room I’ve rented where I’ll sleep until five. Then, I’m going to get up, eat breakfast, and leave.” Casually, making it seem as if he’s shifting his weight, he edges in front of Lisbon. If he has to, he can pick her up and toss her towards her door—they’re about six feet away and she’s small.

The bland, straightforward answer, however, seems to enrage the man. He takes a step forward. “You are, are you? You better skip all that other stuff and go now.” He hunches his shoulders as if preparing to charge. “We don’t want your kind here.”

“What kind would that be?” Cho intones, feeling as if his words are a ball bouncing off the black tension and the man’s anger. “A former soldier? A former police officer?”

The man sneers. “You think you’re funny, do you? Well, we don’t like that, either.”

“‘We?’” Cho jerks his head towards the other men. “You’re doing all the talking. What about them?”

“We’re with Carl,” the goon on the right says. “We’ve got a peaceful town here and don’t like outsiders.”

Not bothering to argue that peace and outsiders weren’t mutually exclusive, Cho gives it one last go, “We’re looking for my sister. She’s missing.”

The man—Carl—smiles. “Good. That’s one less one of you we have to worry about.”

Fury shakes Cho like a rough wind. ‘Oh well—I tried,’ he thinks as he takes a breath in preparation for the fight to come. And he would have gone through with it but just then, two things happen in quick succession:

Quiet the whole time, Lisbon steps around Cho and raises her arm. She’s holding the gun and her eyes are bright. She opens her mouth to speak when the second thing happens:

A voice, off to the left, oddly familiar, rings out, “What do we have here?”

Cho’s jaw almost drops. Out of the dark, strolling as if he were out for an after-dinner walk, comes Professor Ruskin.

Ruskin is wearing a different suit and no hat. His hands are in his pockets and he’s smiling.

“Just a meeting of friends?” Ruskin adds as he comes to a stop. His eyes flicker to Lisbon and her gun, to Cho, and then finally to Carl. “I wasn’t aware you knew each other.”

“This doesn’t concern you, Professor,” Carl says. “You best leave.”

Ruskin nods as if agreeing. “So, not friends, which is a shame because I like this town and plan on coming back.” He turns to Carl. “But I can’t come back, Mr. Elkins, if you have a habit of running strangers out on a rail. After all, none of you know me, therefore I’m a stranger, too.” He rocks on his heels. “Yes?”

The patter confuses Carl Elkins. “I don’t—”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do…” Ruskin takes his hands out of pockets. “I’ll grant your request, the service you asked for and of which I turned down in spite of your offer of a great deal of cash. After that, you and your companions will go home and think long and hard about your actions.”

Carl seems to shrink. He shoots a nervous, shamed look over his shoulder at his friends. “I—”

Once more, Ruskin rides over Carl’s stuttering words, “I know I said that contacting the spirits is difficult for me these days but I’m willing to give it a go.” He smiles again and angles his head towards Lisbon. “Madam, will you please put your weapon away? Guns make me nervous.”

Lisbon’s eyes widen, but she puts her gun back in her handbag.

Carl gets out his wallet. With another sheepish glance at his friends, he gives Ruskin a five-dollar bill. “What do I do?”

Ruskin tucks the bill in his vest pocket. “Other than to stand very still, you will do nothing. Your friends…” He eyes Carl’s friends one by one. “…must be quiet. Contacting the spirits is an unpredictable process and I don’t want anyone to get hurt.” One of the men takes a step backward and Ruskin raises his hand, adding in a low, slow voice, “No, it’s too late. They’ve seen you.”

A chill runs up Cho’s spine; the other man stops moving.

“It’s too late for many things,” Ruskin continues, his voice now slurred, as if he’s talking in his sleep. “Lost chances, lost time…” He closes his eyes halfway. “The farm that was supposed to be your children’s legacy and now lies fallow. The absences from the home, the regret…” Ruskin makes a gesture, like the brushing away of cobwebs. He opens his eyes. “She says she still loves you but is disappointed in you.”

The other men gasp.

“Who?” Carl Elkins croaks. He clears his throat. “Who said that? Is it Amelia?”

“She hasn’t named herself,” Ruskin replies. “She is just saying over and over that you’re breaking her heart.”

Carl’s mouth turns down.

“I take it you’ve given up the farming life?”

Carl nods, an unsteady movement of his head.

“And you’ve been spending too much time at a bar, at the 66?”

Carl nods again but this time he scrapes off his hat and bows his head.

“She says it’s not too late. She says you’re still living and breathing and you still have time.”

Carl looks up. His eyes are wet. “It’s not?”

“No, it’s… It’s…” Ruskin hesitates, frowns and then shakes his head. “It’s gone.” He draws a deep breath and rocks his head from side to side. “She’s gone. They’re gone.”

Carl crushes his hat. “Was it really Amelia?”

“Did your wife have long red hair that she liked to wear in a single braid?”

The men gasp again as Carl bobs his head up and down. “She did,” he says. “Every morning she braided it before making breakfast.”

“And she died…”

“Last year.”

“From an illness that was traced to your milk cows?”

This time the men don’t gasp but they still look frightened.

Carl’s fists squeeze. “They got into something and it made them sick. Amelia passed on days later.”

“I’m sorry,” Ruskin says. “Just as I’m sorry that her spirit is not at rest. You could help her with that, you know.”

“How?”

“Start going to church again. Start working your farm again. Stay home with your children and raise them as Amelia would have. If you do all that, she’ll be able to wait in peace.”

Carl’s nervous fingers still. “For me? She’s waiting for me?”

“All our loved ones wait just beyond the veil. It’s our reward for a good life. But for now…” Ruskin sighs and spreads his arms as if giving a benediction. “You need to go home.”

“And them?” Carl asks with a sideways glance towards Lisbon and Cho; his voice is meek, though, without heat.

“Ah, yes…” Ruskin goes to one of the motel’s doors. “Because I’m serious about wanting to come back here, I’ll just have to—” He raises an arm and draws what looks like a circle and a figure eight in the air before the door. “There.” He turns back to the men. “I’ve just cast an Egyptian protection spell over this woman’s door. If anything happens to her or her colleague before they leave in the morning, I’ll know about it.” Ruskin strolls back, this time stopping by Cho’s side. “More importantly, Amelia will know and she won’t be happy.”

The tension, there the whole time, suddenly evaporates. Like chastened school children, the men leave, shuffling towards the street.

Lisbon sighs.

Cho doesn’t sigh but he feels like it. “That’s not Miss Lisbon’s door,” he says.

“I was winging it.”

“That was quite a performance.”

“You should be thanking me,” Ruskin replies. “I saved your life.”

“I would have dealt with it.”

Ruskin tips his head. “I do believe you would have,” he muses, adding in a lower voice as if talking to himself, “What makes you so cool-headed, I wonder. Nature or experience?”

Cho doesn’t reply.

“But that,” Ruskin adds, “is a conversation for another time.”

“How did you find us?” Lisbon asks before Cho can comment on the ‘another time,’ remark.

“I found you because I followed you and I followed you because I overheard Mr. Elkins tell his companions that he was going to do something about you. Was your meal as horrible as it looked?”

Cho doesn’t reply because he doesn’t know what to say. Lisbon, however…

“It was delicious. Five dollars is a lot of money for two minutes of nothing.”

Ruskin smiles. “People will pay anything when they’re desperate for good news.”

“And Mrs. Woodhouse? How desperate was she?”

If Ruskin is surprised that Lisbon remembers the woman’s name, he doesn’t show it. “She’s fine. I’m sure she appreciates your concern.”

“Hmph,” Lisbon mutters before adding, “If you knew what was going to happen, why didn’t you warn us?”

“I wanted to see how it played out. After all, Elkins is a bully and bullies rarely follow through on their boasts and threats.”

“Do you have a lot of experience with bullies, Mr. Ruskin?” Lisbon’s voice is full of false sweetness.

“Yes. More then my share, actually.”

“I’m sure.”

Ruskin chuckles silently but he doesn’t seem angry at Lisbon’s quick retorts. On the contrary, he seems more amused than anything else. “And now that the danger is past, I’ll be off. I still need my supper.”

Ruskin turns to go but Cho steps forward before he could think about it. “Wait—”

Ruskin pauses.

“You’re right,” the words are like sand in Cho’s throat but it’s important he acknowledges Ruskin’s efforts—Elkins and the small mob had been angry enough to act and the night could have ended much differently. “Thank you. For your help.” He holds out his hand.

Ruskin doesn’t move for a long moment. And then he smiles and takes Cho’s hand.

“You are quite welcome,” Ruskin says, giving Cho a strong squeeze. “If I remember anything about my encounter with Lucy, how can I reach you?”

“You’ve got Lisbon’s card.” Cho tugs; Ruskin doesn’t let go. “We’re going back to Sacramento tomorrow.” He’s not sure why he adds that last comment.

“That’s a shame.”

“Yes.”

“Well…” Slowly, Ruskin releases Cho’s hand. He turns to Lisbon. “Madam,” he says with an abbreviated bow. “It was a pleasure.”

“I’m sure it was, Professor Ruskin.”

Ruskin laughs under his breath. He hasn’t gone far when he pauses and looks over his shoulder. “And one clarification, not that it matters at this point: My name isn’t Ruskin. It’s Jane. Mr. Patrick Jane. Like the girl.”

And then he’s gone with a flick of his fingers and a wink thrown at Cho.

***

After very brief ‘Good nights’ Cho and Lisbon go their separate ways.

Cho locks the door, then strips. Mind numb, he rinses away the day’s dust and sweat in the motel’s small shower. He dries off the same way, blankly, wondering dully if he should take the trouble to get out his razor. He hasn’t shaved in two days but—he feels his jaw—it can wait. His beard is never heavy, in any case, one of the few benefits of his race.

Unlike a childhood friend, Harry Caid, who started shaving when they were in grade school. At the time, Cho had been jealous. Now, he’s grateful because it’s one less step between him and bed.

He changes into a clean undershirt and shorts and turns off the lights. Hesitating, though he truly isn’t worried, he props the desk chair under the doorknob. Nudging it tight, he thinks about Lisbon alone in her room. He hopes she’s done the same thing and then remembers the handgun.

He huffs a soft laugh and slips into bed. What a shock that had been. She’s such a mix of surprises—brash and forthright candor with an undercurrent of a rather adorable naiveté.

Cho draws a slow breath, absorbing the quiet, the feel of the cool sheets against his naked legs. The motel is nothing much but right now it’s luxury beyond compare. He relaxes into the mattress and closes his eyes.

Instantly, as if they had been lying in wait, the memories of recent events spring to life, a jumbled circus of images and sounds.

The discussion earlier in the day with Lisbon about how best to approach Ruskin. Asking the waitress at Springer’s Cafe about the traveling show and hearing, ‘Oh, that’s in Old Lady Woodhouse’s field. You can’t miss it.’ Walking to the outskirts of town and seeing the tent for the first time, a white island in a sea of dusty brown. Lisbon muttering, ‘What have you gotten me into, Mr. Cho?’ Elkins, the rickety chairs, the girl who had played the piano so very badly…

Patrick Jane.

Suddenly too warm, Cho rolls to his side and kicks off the covers.

Jane is everything Cho had expected. He’d met the type before and they’re all the same. Slick, oozing confidence, able to trot out a stream of babble designed to confuse and bemuse. But—

But all the same, Jane isn’t anything like those other shysters. They’d been frauds, intent on scheming the innocent out of their hard-earned money, their methods sloppy and crude. Jane’s skill went beyond that. The way he’d handled the crowd and Elkins, the information he’d seemingly pulled out of thin air…

Cho doesn’t believe in magic.

At least, in broad daylight, he doesn’t believe in magic. In the dark with only himself and his thoughts for company, he’s not so sure. Could Jane be the real deal? Could he have somehow stepped into Elkins’ head and plucked out his memories, one by one?

No, Cho decides, rolling to his back again. Jane is like all the rest, out to make a buck no matter who he hurts. All the same and there’s no point losing sleep over it.

Decision made, Cho lets exhaustion take the wheel. His last muzzy thought as he slides into sleep is the memory of Jane’s eyes, turned silver in the half light of the motel’s sign, when he’d said, ‘Jane. Mr. Patrick Jane. Like the girl.’

***

Cho waves to Mr. Lee and pushes the gate open. It squeaks like it always does and he makes a mental note to ask his father if there’s any oil in the can.

“Going to be another hot one,” Mr. Lee shouts in Korean across the chain link fence that divides the two row houses.

Mr. Lee has been hard of hearing for as long as Cho can remember. Twenty-five years of being yelled at over the most inane things is something he’s used to and he just nods sedately. “Yes it is, sir.”

“Odd for April first, being so hot so early.” Mr. Lee angles his head to frown up at the sky.

“Yes, it is.”

“I heard you’re living in Echo Park now.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you’re still working in the city at that French restaurant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well…” Mr. Lee returns to his small patch of lawn. “Say hello to your parents for me.”

“I will, sir.” Cho hurries up the porch steps before Mr. Lee can ask about Lucy.

The house is dark and cool and smells of the lemon wax that his mother uses on everything but the refrigerator. “Ma? Pa?” he calls out in English. “You here?”

There’s no answer. He goes to the kitchen and puts the groceries on the countertop. The telephone he’d bought his parents sits in the very center of the table. Beside it is a note, written in English in his mother’s beautiful script: ‘Kimball, your father twisted his ankle. We’re going to Mrs. McDaniels’ to have her look at it. Don’t worry, your father is fine. Please put the groceries away.’

Underneath in scrunched letters is the addition: ‘Post Script: Your ‘friend,’ Miss Lisbon called. She has no news.’

Cho presses his lips together. Mrs. McDaniels isn’t a doctor or a nurse. All she does for her ‘patients’ is offer outdated advice and Phillips Milk of Magnesia, a penny per teaspoon. As for the ‘friend…’

He’d made the mistake of telling his mother that he’d hired a female investigator. She hadn’t said anything at the time but his father confided later that she had stewed about it for days. Since then, she’d made more than a few references to his ‘friend,’ always emphasizing the noun.

He can’t make his mother understand that he isn’t courting Lisbon, that she’s actually is an investigator. It’s a generational thing, probably. Though his parents had emigrated over thirty years ago, they will always be old world while he’ll always be new.

They’ll never change. After his stint in the military, after he’d announced he was getting his own apartment to be closer to the city, his parents had argued that his duty was to stay with them. That all his unmarried friends still lived with their families. Cho had waited his parents out, confident that after a few days they’d realize that with Constance still at home, the house was simply too small for four adults. They hadn’t, not really, and when he’d packed his possessions for the final time, his mother had refused to see him off.

Reminded of his sisters and one in particular, Cho picks up the phone and dials the exchange. He waits while the operator directs the call and then hears a light, questioning, “Hello?”

“So, no news,” Cho says, by way of a greeting.

“Who…” It takes Lisbon a second to recognize his voice. “No, unfortunately not. Where are you calling from?”

“My parent’s house.” Cho pulls out a chair and sits down. “What about your friend at the BNE?”

“So far nothing.” There’s a sound through the line, like the bang of a door closing in the distance. “He seems to think it’s a long shot.”

“I called the Sacramento police. They’ve heard nothing.”

“I did the same except they told me to stop bothering them.”

“Hm.”

“Yeah.”

“So…” Cho leans back. “What next?”

“What’s next is I re-interview the witnesses, the ones that saw Lucy with the soda jerk, Bradford Miller.”

“You said Miller wasn’t involved.”

“I said he most likely wasn’t involved, not that he wasn’t.”

“Okay.”

“I’d like to interview him one more time, just in case.”

It sounds as if Lisbon has run out of options and doesn’t want to tell him. “All right.”

“I told you that I’d knock on every door. I also told you that it might take time.”

“You did.”

“Was that all?”

Cho glances out the kitchen window. A bum is rummaging through his parent’s trash bin. “Do you need any help?”

“I… From you?”

“Yes.” The bum closes the can and ambles off.

“What about your employer?”

“They won’t mind.” It won’t matter if they do. The position at Taix is a stopgap until he can find something he’s truly interested in.

“What about your parents?”

“They won’t mind, either.” And it will give him a chance to get away for a week or so. Every day brings no news, and every day his parents’ moods grow more somber. They’re starting to lose hope.

Lisbon hesitates, then says, “Are you offering because you think I can’t do the job?”

Cho straightens up. “What? No.”

“Because I can. I can find your—”

“Miss Lisbon,” Cho interrupts. “I’m not doubting your skills. I’m just—” He breaks off, looking out the window again as if that will give him a clue as to why he’s so restless.

“You’re frustrated?” Lisbon asks. “And worried?”

“Yes to both,” Cho acknowledges, though ‘frustration’ and ‘worry’ aren’t quite it. “I’d just like to help.”

Another pause and then, “How soon can you get here?”

It’s Tuesday, so… “Thursday morning?”

“All right,” Lisbon says. “But there are a few rules you’ll have to follow.”

“Such as?”

“I’ll figure them out when you get here.”

Lisbon’s tone is wry and Cho quirks his lips. He really does like her. “Thursday, then.”

“You better go—this call must be costing your parents a fortune.”

It’s costing him a fortune because he’s the one paying the bill but all he says is, “Yes. Goodbye.” He hangs up.

Cho sits there, hand curved over the handset. His modest police training none withstanding, he’s not sure what he has to offer Lisbon. His presence will most likely hinder her efforts. Look what happened in Barstow.

On cue, his stomach warms, the same as it always does when he thinks of Barstow, when he thinks of that night outside the motel—

Cho gets to his feet so fast the chair squeals against the linoleum. If he’s going to Sacramento, he has things to do and staring into space in his parent’s kitchen isn’t one of them.

Cash from the bank, shirts from the cleaners, a call to Taix to let them know he needs a week off…

Mentally checking off all the items, Cho puts the groceries away, shoving aside all reminders of Barstow and Patrick Jane.

***

Lisbon is waiting for him at the station.

She’s wearing a cream-colored woolen jacket, matching trousers, and no hat. It’s a good thing that his mother isn’t around because she’d have a fit if she saw Lisbon’s outfit. Pants, she’s told her daughters over and over, are fine for the lower class but not for ladies, especially not out in public.

“I could have picked you up,” Cho says as he steps onto the platform.

“In what?” Lisbon replies.

She’s absolutely right. What would he have picked her up in? “I could have hired a car.”

“We’re not L.A. At best you could have hired a cab. Besides…” She signals, silently telling him to follow. “I just got my first good lead.”

Cho’s heart skips a beat. “And that is?”

“Remember when Ruskin told us about the man Lucy was interested in?”

And damn it, there goes his heart again, jumping now at the sound of Ruskin’s name. “His name is Jane. Patrick Jane.” Like the girl.

“I know.” Lisbon brushes away the reminder with a literal wave of her hand. “I got a call yesterday. It was Lucy’s girl friend.”

They’re in the station now. It’s smaller than L.A.’s but no less beautiful. And no less busy. “Felicia Marley?” Cho asks as he dodges a blond women and a fleet of porters. “The woman you couldn’t find back in March?”

“The same. She says she just got my messages and hadn’t had time to call.”

“You don’t believe her?”

“Let’s just say I find it difficult to believe that she missed the note I left for her at the telephone company and the note I slipped under her apartment door.”

“Why would she lie?”

“Many reasons. Namely, she was getting her story together.” Lisbon glances up at Cho. “She was very cagey when I asked about Lucy’s gentleman caller. I realize I’ve just spoken to her over the phone but there’s something about her. I’d like you to talk to her to see if you get the same feeling.”

Cho follows Lisbon out into the bright morning sun. “All right.”

“I’m over here.” Lisbon points to a row of cars and then puts on her sunglasses. “I arranged to meet her at McKinley Park at three.”

“Why not at her apartment?”

Lisbon stops by a dusty, maroon-colored Cadillac. “My thought exactly. When I said I was bringing an associate, she got even more evasive. She told me her building was being fumigated. I suggested we meet tomorrow; she said her building was women-only and you weren’t allowed.”

“That was a lie, too?”

“I didn’t tell her my associate was a man. Plus, I called the Clarendon as soon as I hung up. The landlord told me that he prefers families and single women, but will take men as long as they have a job.”

Cho thinks about that. “Lucy never told my aunt and uncle much about Miss Marley. I know they worked the same shift and that her parents took her to New York for her birthday.”

When he’d begun his own investigation after Lucy had gone missing, he’d been startled to find how little he knew about his sister. He’d known she worked for the Sacramento Telephone Company but didn’t know what she actually did. He’d known she’d had a suitor, Bong Soo Chung, but hadn’t known that— How had Patrick Jane put it? ‘…her heart hadn’t been engaged?’ “I don’t even know what she looks like.”

“Don’t worry about that.” Lisbon fishes a set of keys out of her trouser pocket. “The telephone company has a photo of her on their wall.” She unlocks the trunk and makes an, ‘in here’ gesture to Cho. “She was the employee of the month in January.”

Cho puts his suitcase into the trunk. “If everything you say about her is true, that doesn’t make sense.”

“A liar can be a good employee.”

“I suppose.” He looks at his watch; it’s just past eleven. “My aunt and uncle are putting me up. Do we have time to get there and back?”

“Yes, but I think we should sit down and plan our line of attack. There’s a diner is across the street. You can call your uncle from there.” She hesitates, then adds, “And, I want to get to the rendezvous point at least thirty minutes ahead of schedule.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to see if she gets there early. And I want to see her reaction when she sees you.”

“So, lunch and too many cups of coffee?”

Lisbon slams the trunk lid shut and dusts off her hands. “Bingo.”

***

After lunch and only one cup of coffee, Cho and Lisbon set out for McKinley Park.

It’s a pleasant day if a little cold. The other pedestrians walk briskly by, hurrying this way and that as if they’re all on a deadline. Cho hadn’t noticed much on his last—and only—trip to the city. But then, he’d been wrapped in his mission, intent on finding his wayward sister.

“Damn. There she is.”

Lisbon’s soft words bring Cho out of his reverie. So close to his own thoughts, it takes him a minute to understand, to see what Lisbon is talking about.

The park is across the street. It’s a sun-blanketed mix of rose gardens and paths. There are people wandering among the flowerbeds as well as a group of young boys playing kickball on the green. Close by, sitting in the shade near a broad walkway is a women. “That’s Felicia Marley? Her back is to us. Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“So much for the element of surprise.”

“She hasn’t seen us yet. Let’s go.”

Lisbon crosses the street. When she gets within speaking distance she calls out, “Miss Marley?”

The woman twists around, hand to her breast, clearly startled. “I—” Her gaze shoots to Cho. “You scared me.”

Felicia Marley is beautiful. She has a peaches-and-cream complexion and glossy brown hair. She’s wearing a blue wool coat over a print dress. Her lipstick, however, is too much, garish and bright. She probably thinks it makes her look sophisticated and elegant. To Cho’s eye it does the opposite, making her seem like a child that has gotten into her mother’s make-up drawer.

“My apologies,” Lisbon says as she rounds the bench. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. As I said on the telephone,” she continues, not giving Miss Marley a second to speak, “my name is Theresa Lisbon. I’m a private detective and I’m looking into Miss Lucy Cho’s disappearance.”

Miss Marley doesn’t ask who Cho is. She just smiles and says, “And as I told you, I didn’t even know she was missing.”

“I understand.” Lisbon points to the bench. “May I?”

Miss Marley makes room. She looks up at Cho; other than folding his hands together, he doesn’t move. After a moment, she asks, “What do you want to know?”

Lisbon gets out a small notebook and an equally small pen. She makes a show of flipping through the pages and then, her pen poised, says, “When did you last see Miss Cho?”

“Sometime in February.”

“Can you be more specific?”

Miss Marley shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe the twentieth or twenty-first? It was after my birthday.”

“And that is?”

“The nineteenth. I’m a Pisces, but only just.”

It’s such an obviously well practiced answer, Cho wants to roll his eyes. Where does Miss Marley think she is? A dance hall?

For her part, Lisbon flashes Miss Marley a vague acknowledgement before continuing, “And how was Miss Cho?”

“How do you mean?”

“Was she happy, sad, scared?”

Miss Marley looks down and smooths a glove. They’re brown kid leather and a tight fit. “I don’t know. Normal?”

“‘Normal’ as in happy?”

“Lucy was never what I would call happy,” Miss Marley says with another little shrug. “She never would go out with us, no matter how much I begged. She liked to stay home and read.”

“Who is ‘we’?”

“Pardon?”

Lisbon’s smile is just as false as Miss Marley’s. “You said Miss Cho would never go out with ‘us,’ and I’m asking who the ‘us’ is?”

“Oh, just some friends from work.”

“Other telephone operators? In other words, all women?”

Miss Marley tugs at the glove that is still tight. “Yes.”

“So no men?”

“No. No men.”

Motionless the whole time, Cho shifts from side to side. Felicia Marley’s prevarications are getting to him. If she were a man, he’d just grab her by the lapels and shake the truth out of her. But Lisbon is getting somewhere, deftly putting Miss Marley on the defensive, so he stays still and keeps his mouth shut.

“Do you know if Miss Cho was seeing someone?”

Miss Marley sits back, relaxing for the first time. “I knew she had a beau, someone her parents had picked out for her down in L.A. She wasn’t wild about him, though.”

“She told you this?”

“No, not exactly.”

“And that means?”

“Nothing. Other than she would clam up when we asked about him. I got the feeling that he was all wet.”

“‘All wet’?” Lisbon asks with a half smile.

“You know, all wet, an egghead, someone you’d be embarrassed to be seen with.”

Cho stifles a cough at Miss Marley’s description of Bong Soo Chung. It’s unfortunately accurate. Chung is a nice enough boy but he’s so earnest and placid… If he was ever replaced by a block of wood, no one would notice.

“And that’s all? She stayed home and read and had a boyfriend that she didn’t talk about?”

Miss Marley hesitates a bare fraction of a minute, then nods shortly. “Yes.”

Lisbon sighs. “Miss Marley, I have a feeling—”

“Oh,” Miss Marley interrupts, her face brightening, her attention drawn to something over Lisbon’s shoulder. “There he is. He wanted to meet you.”

Cho turns to look around as Lisbon says, “Miss Mar—”

But Felicia Marley isn’t listening. She’s gotten up and is trotting with tiny steps to a man walking along the boulevard.

“Is that who I think it is?” Lisbon breathes.

“Yes,” Cho says through a throat constricted by shock.

If Lisbon wanted to say anything else, she has no chance because Miss Marley has laced her arm through Patrick Janes’ and is pulling him over to the bench.

Jane pats her hand and allows himself to be tugged.

“Darling,” Miss Marley says as soon as they reach Cho and Lisbon. “These are the people you wanted to meet. They’re private investigators.”

“As a point of fact,” Lisbon says as she offers her hand, “I’m the investigator, Theresa Lisbon. Mr. Cho is my client.”

Miss Marley’s eyes narrow and she glances at Cho. She obviously hadn’t made the same connection that Jane had that first time. She says nothing, however; she just presses tight to Jane’s side, clinging to him like a limpet.

Jane, for whatever reason, plays along. He takes Lisbon’s hand, murmuring, “Patrick Ruskin,” and then extends a hand towards Cho.

Today, Jane is decked out in another beautiful suit, a wool fedora, and much nicer shoes. Somehow the sight of the expensive footwear transforms Cho’s shock to ire and he squeezes too hard.

Jane’s eyes crinkle. “You’ve got quite a grip there. Were you in the military?”

“No,” Cho lies.

“Ah, well,” Jane says as he slowly lets go. “My dear…” He looks down at Miss Marley. “Your lunch break is almost up. Why don’t you return to work and let me handle their inquiries. You shouldn’t be involved in any of this—it’s a man’s job.”

Cho can practically hear Lisbon’s ‘Give me a break,’ but Miss Marley just colors and nods. She unwinds herself from Jane and presents her cheek.

Dutifully, Jane kisses her. “I’ll pick you up at six. We’ll dine at the club.”

Miss Marley backs away and playfully shakes her finger at Jane. “Don’t be late again, you naughty boy, or I’ll have something to say about it.”

Jane raises his hands in mock surrender. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Lisbon waits until Miss Marley is well out of earshot before jumping up and accusing, “What are you doing here?” She doesn’t give Jane time to answer, “‘Darling?’ That was fast.”

Jane shrugs. “I’ve found it’s easier to get answers out of a person if their guard is down.”

Cho raises an eyebrow; that’s almost exactly what Lisbon had said that day in Barstow.

Lisbon starts to reply; then she takes a breath. “You know what, never mind. All I want to know is if you’re meddling in my case because if you—”

Jane interrupts by raising both hands again. “No. No meddling.” He lowers his arms. “I am, however, helping.”

“I don’t nee—”

“This would be much easier if we converse over an early supper,” Jane says. “There’s a restaurant on J Street. It’s much nicer than the hole-in-the-wall you ate at earlier.”

“Hey!” Lisbon objects. “I—”

This time it’s Cho that interrupts: “You’re tailing us? Again?”

“If by tailing means watching you take your time at that awful diner for two hours, then yes,” Jane acknowledges, “I’m tailing you.”

Cho’s outrage dies at Jane’s ready admittance and he can’t think of another protest. By the look on Lisbon’s face, neither can she.

With a smile, Jane glances at Cho and then Lisbon. “The restaurant is this way.” He starts walking, calling out over his shoulder, “Don’t dawdle!”

Cho is fairly certain that as she gets up, Lisbon whispers, “Jackass.”

***

The restaurant is indeed much nicer than the diner. The interior is dim and cool, decorated with red-flocked wallpaper, soft carpeting, and gleaming furniture. Jane nips Lisbon’s soft protest about cost in the bud as they are greeted with a cheerful: “Mr. Ruskin! You’ve returned to us.”

“How could I stay away?” Jane replies. “Your sole was superb.” He adds to Cho and Lisbon, as if confiding a great secret, “Edward is one of the finest maître d’s I’ve had the pleasure to meet. He’ll take good care of us.” Jane removes his hat. “Edward, my guests and I need a quiet spot.”

Cho waits for the man to object to his presence, but all he does is bow and say, “Of course.” He leads them to a booth in the back. Tall potted plants separate the area from the front of the restaurant and the back. “Voila,” he says, striking a match to light the candle.

“Thank you.” Jane hangs his hat up. “And don’t forget, a woman in red.”

“A woman in red,” Edward confirms before gesturing to a boy standing by the kitchen door. “My eyes are peeled.”

“Good man.”

With a last bow, Edward leaves, making way for the boy who is now carrying glasses of water and menus.

Cho hangs his hat beside Jane’s and then slides into the booth. Before Lisbon can move, Jane follows.

Lisbon raises an eyebrow, sharing a quick look with Cho, and takes the other side. She unbuttons her jacket. “A woman in red?”

Jane is already perusing the menu. “I told him his fortune. He’s going to meet a woman in red. She will make all his dreams come true.”

“I thought you didn’t do that anymore.”

“I relaxed my own rules.”

Jane is sitting too close; Cho inches to the left. “And he believed that? That he’s going to meet a woman in red?”

“Well…” Jane lowers the menu. “Red is a very popular color these days. This is a very expensive restaurant and has very rich clientele. It stands to reason he’ll meet a woman in red at some point. It made him happy and that, in turn, made me happy.” He returns to the menu. “Their filet of sole truly is exquisite and I didn’t have to shell out a penny.”

Lisbon shakes her head and opens her menu.

“What will you have, Mr. Cho?” Jane asks without looking over. “I hear the foie gras is good.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Of course you are. Your train trip alone was fifteen hours and that patty melt couldn’t have been very filling.”

Cho doesn’t respond that it had been a ham sandwich, instead growling, “How did you know I was coming and what are you doing here?”

“I’ll tell you the whole story as soon we order.” Jane closes the menu and waves. A young man with a pad scurries over. “Good afternoon, Robert. I’ll have the Baked Filet of Catalina and my friends will have…” He looks at Lisbon.

“The chef’s salad with French dressing,” she answers sourly.

Jane looks at Cho.

Cho would give anything to deny Jane the pleasure of surrendering this one small thing but he doesn’t want to make a scene. “I’ll have the consommé,” he says, plucking from memory his mother telling his father after they’d had an argument about what qualified as a good meal in America: ‘All good restaurants have consommé, Do-won, and if they do not, they are not any good.’

Jane smiles as if he heard Cho’s thoughts; he gathers up the menus. “And my friend Kimball will have the consommé and the filet mignon, medium rare.”

Cho takes a breath to object but Jane doesn’t give him time—he gives the menus to the boy with a confidential, “And if any of that very aromatic bread is ready, we’ll have it now.”

“Very good, sir,” Robert says. He starts to leave, and then pauses. “And sir? My friend came by, just as you promised.”

“See?” Jane says. “All you had to do was make a move.”

The boy ducks his head. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Jane acknowledges the boy’s thanks with a congenial wave.

“What’s the girl’s name?” Lisbon asks when the boy is gone.

“Robert isn’t interested in girls, Miss Lisbon,” Jane states as he unfolds his napkin. “His name is Freddy and apparently quite a dish.”

Lisbon’s mouth drops open. She gives Cho a side eye, then looks down.

Cho—cheeks burning in quick reaction to Jane’s unruffled announcement about Robert—is done. He twists to face Jane and demands, “All right, spill. How do you know my first name? Why are you really here? What are you up to?”

Jane smooths his napkin over his lap as if he had all the time in the world. “I know your name because Lucy told me about you.”

Cho draws back. “She did?”

“Yes.”

“What did she say?”

“Lucy said you’re clever but a know-it-all. You graduated from high school with honors even though you had to switch schools in 1921 because of an asinine law forcing you and your sisters to move to a Chinese school.” Jane picks up his glass. “You parlayed those honors into entrance to Los Angeles Junior College, a minor miracle as they weren’t supposed to take you. There, you excelled but had difficulties due to your ethnic origin.” Jane takes a sip of water. “Because of those difficulties, you left college two months before graduation whereupon you entered the military. You lasted ten months, quitting for roughly the same reasons. Still, you’re dogged and wanted to make a career for yourself, so you moved into the field of law enforcement.” He glances at Cho. “I gather your fellow officers accused you of a crime. They planted evidence?”

Feeling winded, as if Jane’s words were a physical force, Cho admits, “Yes.” Lisbon is watching with wide eyes—he hadn’t told her any of that.

Jane sets his glass down and then adds, his voice softening, “Lucy said it was a shame because it had been the first time you were happy since high school.”

Cho’s outrage is fading. “What else?” He wanted the question to be sarcastic but it comes out plaintive.

“Lucy said you’re a bookworm, preferring classic novels and science fiction. You love detective movies. You’re good at sports but excel at baseball. You’re favorite food is—”

“Stop,” Cho interrupts, unwilling to hear any more. He had no idea that Lucy knew him that well. He’d never mentioned his ‘difficulties’ over the years; it was just something he figured they all dealt with, being foreigners and outsiders.

But, hell, the last few months have proved that he hadn’t returned the favor because Lucy is a mystery. If someone asked him what Lucy’s favorite food or books are, he wouldn’t be able to answer. Now he wonders if he knows his other sisters, either. Or his parents, for that matter. He’s never asked the former how they’re doing just as he’d never asked the latter how they managed over the years.

It’s startling. It’s shameful.

Robert comes over just then with a basket of bread and flat dish of butter. The interruption gives Cho a moment to re-situate himself mentally and physically. When he’s facing Lisbon once more, he reaches for his glass but doesn’t drink. “And the other points?”

Jane doesn’t have to ask what Cho means. “I wasn’t lying when I said I was sorry about Lucy. She’s a bright, charming girl and I’m concerned about her disappearance. Moreover, you and Miss Lisbon piqued my curiosity and, as I make my own schedule, I cancelled my tour and came north to investigate.”

“When did you get here?”

“Eight days ago.”

Lisbon snorts softly. “You’ve been here a week and you’ve got Miss Marley eating out of your hand?”

Jane shrugs. “Felicia is a hungry girl and ridiculously easy to charm.”

“I’ll bet.”

“How did you find her?” Cho asks. “How did you find out about her?”

Jane busies himself with buttering a piece of bread. “Lucy mentioned working as a telephone operator. She also mentioned a friend who had been advising her to dump—as she put it—the man your parents had picked out for her.” He takes a bite of bread and hums under his breath. “Delicious. Now, there is only one telephone company in the greater Sacramento area and it stands to reason that Lucy works the night shift.” At Lisbon’s look of silent inquiry, Jane explains, “Night shifts tend to be reserved for new employees and those less—”

Jane searches for the polite term; Cho supplies it for him: “American?”

Jane shrugs again. “I’m afraid so.”

“And Miss Marley?”

“That was easy. I got to know the night shift supervisor and in turn found out about Felicia Marley, Lucy’s chum who works the swing shifts.”

“And then?” Lisbon asks.

“And then I did what I do, Miss Lisbon.”

“Which is lie, obfuscate, and befuddle?”

Jane grins. “A fairly accurate observation but it’s not all a lie. I’m not all a lie.”

It’s an interesting distinction and Cho is about to comment when the waiter returns with a large tray.

Jane watches with obvious pleasure. “Yum,” he says after Robert lays the plates down. “François has outdone himself.”

“Speaking of…” Robert replies with a sheepish expression.

“He would like a consultation.”

Robert nods. “Yes, sir. If you have the time, of course.”

“My afternoon and evening are booked, I’m afraid. What time does he leave?”

“At nine. The sous-chef takes over then.”

 “Tell him I’ll return at nine on the dot.” Jane touches Robert’s sleeve.

Even though the light is subdued, Cho can see Robert’s furious blush.

“I will, sir,” Robert says. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” Jane doesn’t watch Robert leave.

“You’re something else, aren’t you?” Lisbon asks.

“I’ll take that question as rhetorical.” Jane slices into the salmon. “And a compliment. Dig in before it gets cold, Mr. Cho. That filet looks delicious.”

Cho, in a daze because he’d been thinking exactly what Lisbon had accused, mutters, “I don’t like steak.”

“Of course you do,” Jane counters as he takes a bite of fish.

Cho exchanges another quick glance with Lisbon and then, helplessly because he can think of nothing else to do, he picks up his knife and fork and begins to eat.

***

The steak is delicious. Cho finishes it and then the consommé, telling himself it’s because he doesn’t like to waste food when really it’s just to prove to Jane that he really did want it. Done, he sits back and waits for the others.

Neither he nor Lisbon said much during the meal but Jane had. He’d blabbed on, first about the varieties of fish around the world before moving on to culinary differences he’d experienced in his travels.

While Cho listens—believing only a fraction of it—he counts down the minutes, glancing at his wristwatch, evaluating Lisbon’s various changes of expression. He’s running a silent bet, calculating the moment when she’s had enough. He’s off by a good minute.

“All right,” Lisbon says, cutting off Jane’s explanation as to why West coast audiences are different from those in the East. “Now that I know more about you than I ever wanted, will you please tell me exactly what you’re up to?”

Jane swallows, then wipes his mouth with his napkin. “That, my dear Miss Lisbon, is simple. I’m trying to find Lucy’s friend of the opposite sex.”

“The one my parents wouldn’t approve of?” Cho asks.

“The very same,” Jane says.

Lisbon folds her hands on the table. “Why him? There’s this kid, Bradford Miller. I think he—”

Jane waves away the mention of Miller. “He’s not involved in this shady affair.”

“You talked to him?”

“The night shift supervisor was very informative. She knew all the current gossip. Miller had a crush on Lucy but Lucy didn’t return his feelings. The boy has since turned his attentions elsewhere. No, our quarry is the mysterious suitor.”

“Did Miss Marley said anything about him?”

“She denies knowing him.”

“Does she deny knowing of him?”

Jane smiles. “Very shrewd of you and no, she did not. But she did lie to me about something and I don’t know why. She could be afraid of something.”

“Or someone?”

“Or someone,” Jane agrees. He pauses and looks around. The hour is still relatively early and few diners had come into the restaurant. As if satisfied he can’t be overheard, Jane reaches into his breast pocket and retrieves a slim envelope. “And that brings me to the heart of the matter.” From the envelope he removes a sheaf of papers and a photograph; he gives the papers to Lisbon. “Have either of you heard of the monster the police have nicknamed, ‘Red John’?”

Lisbon unfolds the papers—they’re news clippings. “I haven’t.”

“Neither have I,” Cho says, half-standing to see one of the articles, only just making out one headline: …Found in a Davis Hotel. “Who is he?”

“He’s the man that murdered my wife and child.”

Cho stills and then turns his head. Jane’s demeanor hasn’t changed. He’s not grimacing or frowning. He’s watching them placidly as if he’d just commented on the fineness of the weather. “You’re married?” Jane’s left hand is bare of jewelry.

“I was married,” Jane corrects.

Cho frowns. “When was this? When did they die?”

“It will be two years next month. May twelfth, to be exact.”

Cho sits back down. 1937. “I’m sorry.”

Jane’s smile fractures and then reforms. “Thank you.”

Lisbon clears her throat. “These articles are from up and down the coast.” She holds up a short clipping. “This one says a woman was strangled. How many women has he murdered?”

“Eleven is the official count.”

Lisbon draws a sharp breath and Cho’s eyes widen. He’d quit the police department almost eight years ago, but even so, it’s a surprise he hadn’t heard about Red John before this.

“Eleven,” Lisbon repeats as she gets out her notebook. “Why hasn’t he been caught?”

“Because he’s very smart. Although very arrogant.”

“How so?”

“He signs his work. Literally.”

“In what way?”

Jane slips one article free. “This gives the best description.”

Lisbon bends over the article, murmuring, “‘The villain isn’t shy about announcing his deeds. He has his brutal way with the victim and then paints blood on the girl’s—’” She swallows and hands the article to Cho.

He reads quickly, taking in the details as a chill runs up his back. The killer mutilates his female victims and then kills them. As if that’s not enough, he then decorates the room—using their own blood—with an image of a smiling face. Some authorities believe the image is an imitation of Felix the Cat while others say it’s simply a gruesome parody of a human smile. Horrific. He gives the paper back to Jane with a hand that is stiff from fear. “What makes you think Lucy is mixed up with this Red John?”

Jane retrieves the other clippings from Lisbon and re-folds them along their well-creased edges. He tucks them back in the envelope. “Because three of the women he murdered had hired me for readings. Gretchen Plaskett, Eleanor Artega, and Rebecca Anderson.” He puts the envelope next to the photo. “They were all single, all wanting to know if they were going to be married within the year.”

Lisbon points out, “Some of those articles you have don’t mention Red John.”

“No, they don’t because the police don’t believe that he’s responsible.”

“I don’t understand.”

Jane leans forward. “I believe that Red John deliberately changes his method to confuse law enforcement. I believe that his victims could number as many as twenty-four. I believe he satisfies himself with strangling many of the women only to return to his favorite method when the urge gets to be too much.”

Lisbon stares at Jane for a long moment. And then she shakes her head. “If any of this is true, this is a much bigger can of worms than I expected. We need to go to the police.”

“They won’t believe you.”

“And you know that how?”

“I contacted the Los Angeles Police Department in ‘35 when I first heard about Red John. At the time I had no idea who he might be, just that the details of his crimes seemed to follow a pattern. I gave the police a few ideas on how to capture him but never heard back. When my wife and daughter were murdered, I tried to convince the detectives that their murder was connected to the murders around the state. They told me it was a disturbed individual who was copying Red John.

“Since then, I’ve visited the police in Arbuckle where Gretchen Plaskett was murdered and Delano where Eleanor was killed. Last year, I contacted the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I wrote to Mr. Hoover, himself.” Jane shrugs wryly. “By way of a reply, I was detained by three G-men in cheap suits. They brought me to the local constabulary in Bakersfield and questioned me. I was there for two days. I thought they were going to charge me.”

“On what grounds?” Lisbon asks, back to writing down Jane’s story.

“On the grounds that I knew too much about the murders. That it was more likely I was either Red John himself or a wife-murderer who was trying to throw them off the scent.”

“How did you convince them that you were innocent?”

“I hypnotized them.”

Lisbon looks up. “You what?”

“I hypnotized them.” Jane shrugs. “And then I told them they had the wrong man, that I was innocent and they should let me go.”

“And did they?” She glances at Cho—he shrugs one shoulder to say that he’s taken aback, too.

“They did indeed. I even got a business card and an apology.”

“What about the report?” Cho asks.

Jane nods. “I suggested they burn the first one and start a new one. They did. The younger one, Agent Rigsby, used a rather beautiful fountain pen. I was out within thirty minutes.” He tips his head. “The agents were very nice, if quite susceptible.”

“Did you take the pen?” Cho isn’t sure what makes him ask the question but Jane grins as if he’d said the most clever thing. He gets a pen from his breast pocket and holds it up. It is beautiful.

“So that hypnotism thing really works?” Lisbon muses.

“On the right person, it does.” Jane puts the pen away. “And before either of you ask, no, neither of you would make good subjects.”

“How do you know?” Cho asks.

“Because I tried when I first met you. I thought I had you, but you managed to hold your own.”

This time the look Cho exchanges with Lisbon is one of consternation. He’d thought he’d felt odd that day in the tent…

Lisbon, though, just says, “We’ll discuss that later. For now, we need to get back on track: who do you think Red John is?”

“A man by the name of Timothy Carter.”

“You seem so sure. Do you know him?”

“Yes. He worked for me at one time.”

It’s another bombshell, the quiet comment.

“Why isn’t he in jail if you know his identity?” Lisbon finally asks.

“I can’t find him and as I’ve said, the law enforcement professionals I’ve talked to don’t believe me.”

“What did Timothy Carter do for you?”

“He was my assistant.”

“You mean as a shill,” Cho interjects. “He pretended to be sick and you pretended to cure him.”

Jane doesn’t bother to deny the assertion and doesn’t seem to be offended. “If you will. He came to me and said he’d been following the act. He wanted to work with me and I could pay him in experience. As I was low on funds and a free assistant was a gift, I agreed. He was with the show from ’33 to ’34.”

“I’m assuming that’s a picture of him.” Lisbon points to the photo. “Can I see it?”

Jane slides it across the table.

Lisbon examines it, then gives it to Cho.

It isn’t a good image. Taken at night and inside the tent, the photo is overexposed in some areas and underexposed in others. It shows a crowd and in the center, Jane at work. Jane’s hands are raised and he’s frowning as if in great pain. Next to him is a man wearing baggy pants and a baggy jacket. The man is half bent over; only part of his face is showing. “He looks like a tramp.”

“It was a ploy. Timothy was an insurance salesman before the Depression.”

Cho gives the photo to Jane. “What makes you think he’s Red John?”

Jane puts the photo back in the envelope. “In ‘34, I sacked him. I had received complaints from several women about him. Apparently, he was following them after the show and propositioning them. The women never made clear the details but I gather what Timothy had said to them was quite alarming. They were truly afraid.” Jane slips the envelope back in his pocket. “So, I fire Timothy in May of ’34 and the first woman is killed in Medford, Oregon just two months later.”

“And?” Lisbon asks.

“And Timothy is from Medford. His family still lives there.”

Lisbon jots that down. “It could be a coincidence.”

“That’s what I thought. And then the next two women were murdered.”

“Were they murdered in the style of Red John?”

“No. They were strangled.”

Lisbon sighs. “It all sounds so coincidental. I still don’t understand the connection between Carter and Red John.”

“I didn’t see it, either. Not at first.” Jane leans forward. “In ‘34, about six months after I sacked him, Timothy began writing me, letters sent to the post offices of the towns my show were to visit. He wrote about his new job as a porter on the Southern Pacific. He wrote about the people he met along the way. The letters were bland and rather pointless and I answered only the first few. But then…”

“But then?” Lisbon prompts when Jane stalls.

“It was odd, this feeling I got after the third or fourth letter,” Jane says. “I felt as if he was the farmer with a carrot and I was the stubborn mule. I got the sense that he was playing some prank and I wasn’t responding as I should. His letters became more descriptive and more pointed and I realized three things: One, that those pointed descriptions were all of women and two, that the tone of his letters had changed. He was never a happy-go-lucky fellow but he wasn’t a sourpuss. Now, he had become cruel. He would mock the women and make comments about their features and their imagined personal lives.”

“What was the third thing?”

“He mentioned the word ‘red’ in every letter.”

Lisbon’s gaze sharpens. “I’m not convinced. How many letters did he send you?”

“A dozen or so.” Jane glances sideways at Cho. “I received the last one on the twenty-third of February.”

Cho’s heart skips a beat; a lump forms in his belly. “Two days after Lucy was at your show.”

“Yes.”

“Did he mention her?”

“No. It was about a new red wine he’d purchased. I’m not sure if he was winding me up or not.”

The details of the murders bright in his mind, Cho asks the one thing he doesn’t want to ask: “If he has her, is she already dead?”

“I hope not. If it is Timothy and he is following a pattern, Lucy is safe for now.”

The lump dissolves but doesn’t quite go away. “How so?”

“Because the women were murdered within three months of showing up at my show.” Jane glances between Cho and Lisbon and then takes a breath. “I’m telling this all wrong. Let me try again: In August of ‘34, I met Gretchen Plaskett. She asked me to read her palm. I did. Three months later she was dead.

“In October of that same year, I met Eleanor Artega. What followed was almost a copy of my experience with Gretchen except she was murdered in January of ‘35.”

“And Rebecca Anderson?”

“I met her in February of ‘35. She was murdered in May.”

“And they were all strangled?”

“Yes.”

“You’re convinced they were murdered by Timothy Carter and that this Carter is also Red John, even though Red John has, in the past, killed women in an entirely different way?”

“Yes.”

Lisbon leans back. She looks tired. “Is that why you don’t tell fortunes anymore?”

Jane responds with a lift of his shoulder that somehow expresses regret and sorrow. “It is. Now I stick to safer methods. If the party does insist and has something interesting to trade, then I, in turn, insist on privacy.”

“Like a big mansion or a restaurant kitchen.”

“Exactly.”

Lisbon taps her pen on the table. “So your theory is that this Carter is following you and the women you meet. Then, he introduces himself and, what, woos them and then kills them?”

“Yes.”

Cho clears his throat. “That’s all well and good but I can’t see Lucy falling for the man in your picture.” The idea is almost repugnant.

“Make no mistake,” Jane says, “Timothy Carter can be very charming when he wants. After all, he charmed me.”

The comment conjures up a specific image and Cho’s face warms.

“So if any of that is true…” Lisbon sets her pen down. “…then Lucy might be safe until May.”

“I believe so.”

“You’ve given us the possible whys and hows—do you know the where? Do you know of any place Carter might take her?”

“Not at this time, no.”

“No other home, temporary or otherwise?”

“Not that I know of. I don’t even know if his assertion that he works for the Southern Pacific is true. I called the railroad’s office but was told they couldn’t help me.”

None of them speak for a moment and Cho realizes that in the time they have been conversing, the candle has gotten shorter and the restaurant has gotten crowded.

“Those letters you mentioned,” Lisbon finally says. “The ones from Carter—I’d like to read them.”

“Unfortunately, they’re in my trunk and that trunk is still in Barstow.”

“It would have been smart to bring them,” Lisbon says.

“I thought you’d brush me off like all the others,” Jane answered quietly. “I thought I’d have to get what I could from you and then continue the investigation on my own.”

And then Jane twists to face Cho. “You do believe me, don’t you?”

They’re a handspan apart. Jane’s knee is pressed against Cho’s thigh; he can smell Jane’s aftershave, dark and sweet. “Yes,” he says. “I believe you.”

Jane smiles. But it’s a different smile from all the rest; Cho wishes he could escape the fugitive touch and the soft smile but he’s frozen in place.

“Good,” Jane says. “Good.” He turns to face Lisbon again.

Released from the magnetism of Jane’s gaze, Cho has to keep from drawing a long, shaky breath. He looks at Lisbon. She’s watching with a confused frown.

Unsure what to say, feeling a sudden need to re-balance the something that has just tipped, Cho asks, “So, if you think Lucy is in the hands of Timothy Carter, why did you come back here? Wouldn’t he be down south near McFarland?”

“Not likely.”

“Why not?”

“Lucy was the only one that had traveled any distance to consult with me; all the women were murdered within a few miles of where they lived.”

“How did she know about you?” Cho murmurs, half to himself.

But Jane has the answer, of course. “She told me that a friend of hers had seen my show in Woodland back in November.”

“Who’s the friend?” Lisbon asks.

“That I do not know.”

“Would it be worth following up on that?”

“Maybe.”

“All right.” Lisbon closes her notebook. “So, now what?”

“You’re asking my advice, Miss Lisbon?”

“As much as it galls me to say so, yes, I am. If this man has Lucy, if he’s who you say he is, I’d like your thoughts.”

Jane starts to answer and then peers at his watch. He straightens up and wipes his mouth with his napkin. “I’m afraid my thoughts and your retrieval of them will have to wait. I need to meet the lovely Felicia in ten minutes.”

“You’ll never get there in time.” Lisbon puts away her notebook. “The telephone company is near the river.”

“I know.” Jane pats his pocket, as if confirming the envelope with all his evidence is still there. “I’ll just have to make it up to her in the best way I know how.”

Another image appears before Cho can stop it. He looks away because he has no business imagining Jane making love to Felicia Marley.

“I’ll be in touch in the a.m.” Jane gets up and reaches for his hat. “I have an idea as to how to draw Carter out into the open. And,” he leans over with an arch grin, “I would leave now, if I were you. The restaurant is getting busy and Edward probably has a limit on how free he is with the owner’s tables.”

After a shared look, Cho and Lisbon get up and follow Jane. Cho doesn’t know about Lisbon, but he feels as if he’s a child, trailing after a parent.

Outside, night has fallen and it’s a little chilly.

Lisbon gathers her lapels together and shivers. “You better run, Mr. Jane,” she says.

“I will,” Jane says. “And don’t forget: it’s ‘Ruskin’ for the next few days.”

“You’re a lot of work, you know that?”

Jane sticks his hands in his pockets. “Most people enjoy that work.” With a smart grin, he takes off, heading west on J Street.

Lisbon shakes her head. “I guess we’re on our own.”

“Yes.”

As one they turn to go back to the car.

“I need to sleep on this information,” Lisbon says. “I’ll call you in the morning after I’ve let it percolate.”

“Okay.”

They’re crossing McKinley Park when Lisbon speaks next: “I have a question for you.”

The park is dark and deserted; their footsteps sound abnormally loud. “Yes?”

“Were you lying back there when you said you trusted Jane?”

“No, and it’s ‘Ruskin,’ remember?”

Lisbon ignores the reminder. “He’s a professional liar. That’s what he does for a living. How can we trust him? For all we know, the FBI is right—he might be Red John.”

“That seems rhetorical.”

Lisbon thinks about that and then nods. “I guess it is. He’s not the killer.”

“Which means you trust him, too. At least in regards to the case.”

“I guess I do.”

“Why?” Cho’s question is honest. He’s still not sure why he does.

“I haven’t a clue.”

“That’s probably not a good thing.”

“No, it probably isn’t.”

***

Lisbon drops Cho off at his aunt and uncle’s home.

It’s just after seven; the house is dark, outside and in. That means his aunt and uncle are at bingo. His uncle is frugal and thinks that if there’s no one in the house, there’s no reason for any sort of light.

Cho curses that frugality as he makes his way around to the back porch. The paving stones are crooked and he trips twice.

He finds the spare key under the mat, lets himself in, and then sets the key on the kitchen table. For maybe two seconds he considers staying up until his aunt and uncle get home. It would be the polite thing to do. But exhaustion hits like a freight train and he puts away any idea of conversations and explanations. How would he even explain the turn of events, of Red John and Patrick Jane?

Cho goes upstairs. The stairs and floorboards creak and groan. He passes by his aunt’s gallery of family photos, slowing only a little to glance at his Great-grandparents, grandparents, aunts and uncles. Some had been taken in Seoul but most were from Hawaii, San Francisco, and Los Angeles.

The guest room that doubles as a storage area is at the end of the corridor. To make it easier on his aunt, he offered to stay in Lucy’s room but she’d said no. Lucy, she’d insisted, would be home soon and there was no sense in not using the space God had given them.

She’d actually said that, ‘God has given us,’ and Cho thinks about that as he puts his suitcase down and sits on the bed

He doesn’t believe in any kind of god. His parents are Protestants, having converted when they emigrated. For himself, God doesn’t make sense. God was supposed to be benevolent and protective. What kind of god would let a psychopath kidnap his little sister?

It hits him anew, sitting on the sagging mattress in the tiny dark room: Lucy might be in terrible danger and he doesn’t know where she is.

His chest hurts, his stomach aches. Cho presses his hand on his rib cage, as if that will make the dull pain go away. It doesn’t, of course, so he does the next best thing: he stretches out on the bed, fully clothed, and falls asleep.

***

The smell of coffee and bacon wake Cho before the sun does.

He turns over; someone has taken off his shoes and covered him with a quilt. Knowing who that someone has to be, he gets up.

As his trip north isn’t a holiday, he packed lightly. A spare shirt, two pair of socks, a change of underwear, pajamas and his shaving kit. He uses the last item first, his fingers slow and fumbling. He hadn’t slept enough. His night had been restless, full of abbreviated dreams involving Lucy and Jane and—for some reason—Robert, the waiter from the restaurant.

Cho goes downstairs, still thinking of the dreams.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Aunt Min says in English as soon as she sees Cho. She’s at the stove, lifting slices of bacon out of a pan.

“Good morning.” His aunt is the youngest of three sisters and two brothers. Her hair is as black as ever, cut short in a bob. She’s wearing a robe over a housedress. The robe is silky blue with yellow flowers and it shimmers as she moves.

“How did you sleep?”

“Fine,” Cho says. “Where’s Uncle Jin?”

“Out in the garden.”

“Does he need help?”

“Maybe later.” Min sets the plate and a cup of coffee on the table. “For now, eat and then tell me how you are and if you have any information.” She pats the back of what Cho thinks of as ‘his chair’ and sits across from him.

Under his aunt’s watchful gaze, Cho sits and mutters a short, ‘For what we are about to receive…’ prayer.

When he’s done, Min smiles with satisfaction and nods to the food.

He eats, wishing his aunt hadn’t gone to the trouble of a full breakfast. He rarely has more than a piece of toast and a cup of coffee these days. Plus, bacon costs a small fortune. He’ll have to find a way to repay her and Uncle Jin. It will have to be sneaky—offering a cash gift would offend them to high heaven.

“Now,” Min says as soon as Cho has finished, her fingers curved around her coffee cup. “How have you been? Your mother wrote that you got a promotion.”

“I did. They moved me to the day shift.”

Min’s eyes cloud. “It’s such a shame…” she murmurs before shaking off the grey mood. “No matter. You’ll find something you were born to do, Kim; I’m sure of it.”

Cho ignores that. He once thought he had a destiny in law enforcement, but life had proved him wrong. “I do have some news. The private detective I hired tracked down Lucy’s friend.”

Min’s eyes widen. “Miss Marley? The girl who is no better than she should be?”

Cho coughs and laughs at the same time. The words are so clearly his mother’s… “The one and the same. She says she doesn’t know anything but Miss Lisbon and I think she’s lying.”

“So exciting, working with a lady detective,” Min says. “If I were younger, I might join you on the case.”

And that’s the reason he loves his aunt so much. She’s almost fifty-five but she’s youthful and alive. She reads every day. She goes to the movies each Saturday, always alone because his uncle thinks films are a waste of money. She’s fluent in English, French, and Spanish and has a working knowledge of Latin, the latter because she thinks it’s important to understand the roots of the culture they live in. But she also keeps to family traditions because she says it’s just as important not to forget their roots. She dresses in the latest Western fashion, making her own clothes and his uncle’s. In many ways, she couldn’t be less like his mother and it’s still a surprise they grew up in the same household. “So far, it’s not very exciting. I mainly observe.”

“What was Miss Marley lying about?”

“She let it slip that she knows of Lucy’s friend.”

“The gentleman caller?” Min says thoughtfully. “I wish I had been more on the ball. I didn’t even know she was interested in anyone other than Bong Soo.”

Lips twisted at his aunt’s ‘on the ball’ slang, Cho reminds her, “She was never interested in him.”

Min concedes that with a small shrug. “I tried to tell your mother that they were a poor match but she—” She breaks off with a quick, apologetic look Cho’s way. “Never mind. What’s done is done.” Min takes a sip of coffee and then asks, “Did Miss Lisbon say anything else?”

“Very little,” Cho lies easily. Modern sensibilities or no, he’s not going to frighten his aunt with tales of Lucy in the clutches of a fiend. “She has an idea where Lucy might be, though.”

“And that she’s safe from harm?”

“I—” Cho says, only then remembering Jane’s worried expression and the, ‘I hope not.’

“Kim?”

“It’s nothing,” Cho hedges. A simple response is impossible. And for some reason he absolutely, positively does not want to tell her about Patrick Jane. “I was just going to say that Lisbon thinks Lucy is playing hooky in San Francisco with another friend from the telephone company.”

Min’s eyes narrow at the fascicle explanation and Cho ignores the resulting shame. His aunt deserves better than half-truths. Not to mention she always knows when he lies.

Rescue comes in the form of his uncle, cursing loud enough in Korean for them both to hear.

“I better see what is going on,” Min says as she starts to get up.

Cho gestures. “I will. I need to say hello, in any case.”

“All right.” His aunt sits back down. “Go upstairs and change first; you don’t want to get those beautiful trousers dirty. Your uncle’s old clothes are in the closet.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

***

Cho finds an ancient pair of dungarees and an equally ancient work shirt hanging the closet as if they’re as valuable as his good wool suit. He can’t find any shoes or boots, however, and he winces. His shoes are a week old, bought because he’d been told that he can’t be seen in the Taix dining room with his old footwear.

But going barefoot isn’t an option, so he sighs and goes back downstairs. His aunt isn’t in the kitchen; relieved he heads outside.

Jin is in what used to be a corncrib and is now a shed, sorting through his tools.

“Hello, Uncle Jin,” Cho says in Korean.

His uncle doesn’t turn around. “Have you seen my hack saw?”

Long used to his uncle’s abrupt ways, Cho replies, “No. What are you doing?”

“The slugs have gotten into the strawberries again. I’m building a raised bed.”

“Can I help?”

“If you can cut those…” His uncle jerks his thumb towards the wood propped up in the corner. “…with this…” He holds up a saw. “…then yes, you can.”

Cho gets the wood and the saw. “What size do you need them cut to?”

***

It’s simple but pleasant work. The weather is fine and his uncle doesn’t speak other than to give directions.

For all that he’d used to spend every weekend with his aunt and uncle before they had moved north, Cho doesn’t know much about his uncle. He knows that Jin is much older than Min and that he’d studied to be a doctor in Jeolla Provence. But then, unhappy with the growing political strength of China and Russian, he’d emigrated with his brother, first to Hawaii and then to the States.

The story goes that Jin had met the Park sisters at some church function and, after a proper amount of courting, had asked the youngest, Min, to marry him. What Cho had never understood was why had Min said yes? They’re so different in so many ways.

“You’ve done a good job.”

Cho taps the nail into the wood one more time for good measure. “Thank you, uncle.”

“Now for the dirt.”

Cho pushes to his feet and wipes his brow with the back of his hand. It’s warm; he’d taken off the work shirt a while back. “Where’s the shovel?”

“Where do you suppose?”

Sighing internally, Cho starts to cross the yard when movement draws his eye. It’s his aunt; she’s leading two people down the steps.

Surprise stops Cho in his tracks because it’s not just any two people—it’s Lisbon and Jane.

The trio is busy talking, their voices too low to make out any words. Jane says something that makes Min laugh and then he looks straight over Cho, the smile still on his face.

A tangle of emotions fight for dominance. Embarrassment at being caught doing such menial labor and for being half naked to boot. Chagrin and a surprisingly sharp anger because Lisbon should have known better. How dare she bring Jane here? Now he’ll have to explain Jane’s presence to his aunt and uncle. Now he’ll have to explain about Red John…

“Kim?” his aunt calls out. “Miss Lisbon is here with her associate.”

“Yes,” Jane says, coming forward with an outstretched hand. “We didn’t have the chance to meet yesterday. I’m Patrick Jane. I’m Miss Lisbon’s dogsbody.” He gives Cho a cursory squeeze and then turns to Cho’s uncle. “And you must be Mr. Park.”

Jin distrusts Americans in general, but even he can’t disregard Jane’s congeniality. With a scowl and a growled, “Is my nephew paying for you, too?” he shakes Jane’s hand.

Cho mutters, “Uncle,” even though Jin had spoken in Korean.

“Jin,” Min adds, “English, please.”

Jin’s scowl deepens and he says in stilted English, “What have you found?”

Jane gestures to the house. “Your wife offered us some iced tea. Why don’t we get out of the heat and Miss Lisbon can tell you of her progress.”

Jin doesn’t move. Min presses her lips together and jerks her head. Jin sighs and stomps towards the house with Min trailing after.

Cho waits for Jane and Lisbon to follow but Jane glances at Cho, a quick up and down, and then retrieves his shirt, hanging on a branch of the apple tree. With a graceful bow, he gives Cho the shirt.

It a peculiarly strange act, made more so because Jane’s gaze is opaque but intense, as if he’d just given Cho something much more than a piece of old clothing.

Cho frowns, hoping his glare is as black as his uncle’s, and nearly snatches the shirt from Jane. “You better go in. I need to clean up. I’m dirty.”

Jane takes a breath to answer; his gaze flickers towards Lisbon. He curbs whatever it is he’d been about to say and then nods.

“I’m sorry,” Lisbon says as soon as Jane is gone.

“You shouldn’t have brought him here.” Cho pulls the shirt on; the fabric drags against his damp skin.

“I know,” Lisbon admits, “but he insisted. He said he’d just follow me so I might as well.”

“You could have just said no.”

“I realize that.”

“Why is he using his real name?”

“I have no idea.”

“Now we’ll have to explain about Red John.”

“No we won’t.” Lisbon rubs the bridge of her nose. “That jackass has concocted the most ridiculous story but it will work. Your aunt and uncle won’t need to know the sordid details.”

“What about Miss Marley?”

“He has that covered, too.” Lisbon touches his arm; her fingertips are pleasantly cool. “Don’t worry,” she urges. “It will be okay.”

Cho’s not convinced and he says again, this time darkly, “You shouldn’t have brought him here.”

***

A fast trip up the back stairs to his temporary room and then a faster wash leaves Cho feeling less uncomfortable and not quite so angry.

When he gets back downstairs, he finds them in the sitting room. His aunt and uncle are in the wingback chairs; Lisbon and Jane are on the sofa.

“I told your aunt and uncle what’s going on,” Lisbon says before Cho can speak.

“Yes,” Jane adds, leaning back, legs crossed as casually as if he’s in his own house. “We found Lucy’s girlfriend. She gave us information that leads us to believe that Lucy is near San Francisco with another friend. Now that you’re dressed—if not pressed—we can drive to the city and be there by suppertime. It might take us a few days to locate Lucy, but once we do, we’ll notify your parents and you two…” Jane turns to Min. “…my dear Mrs. Park.”

Min smiles. If Cho didn’t know better, he’d call it a simper.

“All right,” he says, drawing Jane’s attention away from his aunt while wondering if it’s possible that Jane is psychic because how had he known that Cho had told Min almost the same thing?

“And don’t you worry about Lucy,” Jane continues. “All young women need to stretch their legs from time to time. She’s safe and sound.”

Cho doesn’t think it’s a good idea to give what might be false hope, but he just asks, “Whose car are we taking?”

“Mine, of course,” Lisbon puts her glass down. “Thank you for the tea.”

“I’ll get my suitcase,” Cho says.

“Lucky for us you didn’t unpack,” Jane says pleasantly.

Another dig at Cho’s wrinkled shirt; he responds with an equally pleasant one of his own, “Lucky for us that Miss Lisbon has a car.”

Jane isn’t fazed. He drinks the last of his tea and agrees, “Yes, lucky.”

***

There’s no fuss about seating arrangements—Jane gets in the back of the Cadillac without a fuss.

There’s also little conversation until they’re on US 50, heading towards the ocean.

“So,” Cho says, turning to speak to both Lisbon and Jane. “San Francisco? Are we really going that far?”

“We might have to,” Jane answers. “We’re starting in Napa, though. From there, who knows?”

“Who are we seeing in Napa?”

“It’s not a who so much as a what.”

“All right, what are we seeing in Napa?”

“A hotel room.”

It’s like that game, Twenty Questions. “And where is this hotel room? And,” he adds before Jane can give a smartass answer, “what is in it?”

“I’m assuming the usual: a bed, a dresser, a bathroom—”

“Jane,” Lisbon warns.

“All right,” Jane gives in. “I got Miss Marley tipsy and she revealed that Lucy met her mystery man last December and that she had plans to meet him again at his hotel in Napa. Lucy wouldn’t say who the man was nor would she say where she had met the man in the first pace. Lucy did tell her that he’s married and that he gave her a single red rose on their second encounter. Apparently, both women thought it was quite the romantic gesture. ‘To die for,’ were Felicia’s exact words.”

Cho winces at the horrible pun.

“Felicia also let slip,” Jane adds, “that she herself is having an affair with her supervisor. His name is Paul. He’s married with three children and has a large house, and a fancy new car. Paul’s affections seem to be wavering, however. Felicia isn’t too happy about that.”

Lisbon glances at Cho. “Maybe that’s why she was so cagey. She didn’t want us meeting her at the telephone company and making her supervisor suspicious enough to end their affair.”

“Maybe.”

“So no other clues as to the identity of Lucy’s admirer?” Lisbon asks Jane.

“Not a one.”

“Did Miss Marley say anything else?”

“Just that she doesn’t understand why Mr. Cho is so worried about Lucy, and that she doesn’t like her job or her parents and that she would love to have someone whisk her away from it all, too. Oh, and that,” Jane adds with a smile in his voice, “May is the best month for weddings.”

Lisbon glances at Cho. By the look on her face, she feels the same way. Poor Miss Marley.

“Sometimes one has to do difficult things to achieve results, Kim,” Jane says, as if hearing Cho’s unspoken rebuke. “And sometimes people get hurt in the process.”

“As long as we’re not talking about physical pain,” Lisbon says. “I’m not going to jail because of you.”

“It won’t come to that. I promise.”

Cho shares another long look with Lisbon and then turns to the window. He’s watching nothing when a dark thought creeps in. “Wait,” he says. “If Lucy met this man in December…” He twists to face Jane once more. “Doesn’t that mean your timeline is off?” He swallows. “Lucy doesn’t have until May, does she?”

Jane’s lips twist and his eyes are bleak. “If this man is Red John, then no, she doesn’t.”

Cho turns back to the window and stares at his own reflection.

***

They arrived in Napa just after two.

Cho has never been to this part of California before. The countryside is beautiful with row after row of grapevines. Napa itself is bigger and busier than he would have thought. Main Street is lined with red and tan buildings; tourists stroll up and down the sidewalks. One street over is the Napa River—he can smell the faint odor of stagnant water.

Lisbon drives slowly up Main. The street dead-ends at a dilapidated mill. Lisbon makes a U-turn and heads back, finally stopping in front of a bank. She puts the car in park. “I hope you have a better plan than just driving around looking for hotels.”

“My dear woman,” Jane says as he sits forward and peers through the windshield, “I always have a plan. Napa has three hotels and two motels. We just need to find the one that takes long-term guests and, voila, we go from there.”

“Wait a minute,” Lisbon says, twisting to look at Jane. “What makes you think he’s a long-term guest?”

Jane raises an eyebrow. “Felicia was drunk but not that drunk. ‘His hotel’ implies familiarity and longevity, don’t you think?”

“I think it implies ownership.”

Jane thinks about that but then shakes his head. “No. No matter if he’s Red John or just a casual acquaintance, he would never invite Lucy to his own apartment or home.” Jane holds up his own ringless hand. “He’s married, remember?”

 “And if they all take long-term guests?”

“It’s doubtful but if so, we’ll have to work for our supper. You are a investigator, are you not?”

“Jane—”

“And by the way, it’s back to Ruskin. Jane was for Kim’s relatives.” Jane opens the car door. “And speaking of supper, let’s see what the town has to offer.”

He’s out of the car before Cho can stop him, before he can say, ‘Stop calling me ‘Kim.’

“Come on,” Lisbon says with a sigh as she turns the engine off. “We better catch up with him in case he does something stupid and gets us run out of town.”

***

After a meal that Cho forgets as soon as he’s eaten it, they began their investigation. It’s short-lived because there is, indeed, only one hotel that takes long-term guests. By the time Jane has coaxed the bellhop out of the information, they have a name and room number of a Mr. Boatwright. Boatwright, according to the bellhop, is a chef at a vineyard up north and the only patron that has a permanent room. Sometimes when he works late, he stays at the hotel rather than go home; his wife is sickly and doesn’t sleep well.

Jane smiles at that last bit and nudges Cho’s arm with his elbow.

Cho frowns. Yes, the bellhop just confirmed that Boatright is married but that’s no reason to go around nudging other people’s arms. It’s indiscreet and over the top; he’s still chewing on that when they troop upstairs to room twenty-two.

Jane knocks on the door. There’s no answer. As far as Cho can hear, there’s no movement from inside.

“We can park across the street and wait,” Lisbon says.

“Why should we? Time might be of the essence. If Boatright has a regular job, then he can’t be our killer. But, we should find out what his room can tell us.” Jane gets out a slim piece of metal. Before Cho or Lisbon can object, he’s unlocked the door.

“Jane!” Lisbon hisses.

Jane ignores her and slips into the room.

“You better stay here,” Lisbon says to Cho. “I don’t want you mixed up with anything illegal.”

“I doubt I’ll be less at fault if I stand in the hallway. An accomplice is an accomplice.”

“Yes, but—”

“Excuse me?” Jane says in an exaggerated whisper. “We don’t have all day.”

Cho takes a deep breath and follows.

It’s a simple set of rooms. They’re much nicer and brighter than his efficiency apartment, but that wouldn’t be hard. There are few personal effects around save for a magazine on the table by the window. A faint odor hangs in the air; it takes Cho a moment to recognize the scent of bleach.

“You take the sitting room and the kitchenette,” Jane tells Lisbon. “We’ll take the bedroom.”

“What are we looking for?” Cho asks. The bedroom is the same as the sitting room—clean but plain to the point of being bare. There are no books on the nightstand, no slippers by the bed.

“The usual.” Jane opens the closet door.

“Which is?”

“You should know,” Jane says, his voice muffled.

“Anything out of place, anything that seems odd,” Cho mutters as he squats to look under the bed. Nothing. “Everything about this place seems odd. What are you doing?”

“Going through Boatwright’s pockets, and you’re right, it is spartan. Maybe he really is just sleeping here and not canoodling with sweet young things.”

“‘Canoodling?’” Cho asks with a reluctant grin. He goes to the nightstand.

“Would you like me to use another verb?”

“Please don’t.” He opens the nightstand drawer. “Huh.”

“What is it?”

“Just some maps.” Cho picks them up. They’re all California road maps, the kind given out by insurance companies. “There’s a lot of them.”

“Let me see.”

Cho splits the pile in half and gives one to Jane. He sits on the bed and unfolds the first map. It’s dated 1932, printed by the Sonoma County Insurance Group. Someone had marked a route in red pencil. The route goes from Roseland to Napa Valley.

Jane had sat, too. “This one is from Glenn County. Someone has highlighted the route from Willows to Napa.”

“Are there any from the towns where Red John  

Jane is sitting too close but Cho tamps down the urge to move away. Instead, he opens the Lake County map. It’s from 1935 and like the other, a route is marked from Middletown to Napa, this time in black pencil. “So Boatwright is planning trips for himself and his wife?”

“Or with his lady friends.” Jane taps his thumb on the edge of the map. “There’s something here an—”

“What did you find?” Lisbon interrupts, coming into the room with a bottle.

“Something odd,” Jane says before Cho can. “What have you got there?”

Lisbon holds the bottle up. “Bleach, and a lot of it. I found three full bottles under the sink and another empty one in the bin. Boatwright must be a fanatic when it comes to cleanliness.”

Jane gets up so fast the bedsprings bounce. He hurries out of the room, tossing the Glenn County map on the bed.

“What is it?” Lisbon says, trailing after. “Jane?”

Cho and Lisbon find Jane crouched in front of the sink doors.

“What is it?”

“Bleach is used for many things, including cleaning up blood.” Jane gets out his fountain pen—the one he’d pilfered from the FBI—and moves a bar of dish soap out of the way. “Ah, ha,” he murmurs.

Lisbon bends over. “Ah, ha, what?”

“I think that’s a smear of blood.”

Lisbon bends closer. “Are you sure?”

Jane makes way so Lisbon can look.

“All right,” she says, apparently deciding it is blood, “it’s time for us to go.”

Jane doesn’t move.

Lisbon grabs him by the shoulder and tugs. “Jane, if you don’t—”

“What’s going on here?”

They all jerk up, turning so fast they get tangled with each other.

There’s a man standing in the hall doorway. He’s about twenty years Cho’s senior, balding, with a handlebar mustache. He’s wearing a uniform: blue wool, a Sam Browne belt, and a silver badge. Behind him, still in the hall, is the bellhop. He peers anxiously over the officer’s shoulder.

“I—” Lisbon flounders only to be interrupted by Jane.

“We’re investigating a possible kidnapping,” Jane says smoothly. “My colleague, Miss Theresa Lisbon is a private detective and has been hired by this man…” Jane gestures to Cho. “To find his sister, Miss Lucy Cho.”

The officer steps into the room. “And you are?”

“Jane. Patrick Jane.”

McAllister looks Jane up and down. “Like the girl?”

“Exactly.”

“Well…” The officer scans the room as if searching for more strangers. “I was told you’re friends of Mr. Boatwright and now you say you’re investigating him.”

“We’re not sure Mr. Boatright is involved.”

“He’s a good man. I’ve known him a long time.”

Jane tips his head and gives the officer a disarming smile. “We just want to ask him some questions. That’s not illegal, is it?”

The officer’s jaw firms. “No, it’s not, but trespassing is.” He motions them over, his fancy gold signet ring flashing in the afternoon sun. “Come on. We’ll settle this at the station.”

Lisbon makes a soft sound under her breath; Cho doesn’t have to wonder what she’s thinking.

Jane’s expression, however, doesn’t change and Cho feels a slight tug of alarm. Jane better not run. After a pause no longer than a breath, Jane smiles again and closes the sink door with his shoe. “That’s a grand idea. Maybe you can help us with our investigation.”

“Maybe.”

Cho touches Lisbon’s arm, letting her proceed him. As they cross the short distance, Lisbon asks, “Can we get your name, sir?”

The officer holds the door open for them. “My name is McAllister. Sheriff Thomas McAllister.”

To be continued

Chapter Text

The sheriff’s office is too small to hold them all so Jane convinces McAllister to interview him first while Cho and Lisbon wait in the main room.

They sit off to the side on a short bench. Either the department doesn’t see a lot of action or everyone is out on patrol because there isn’t another person around save the young redheaded secretary. She’s supposed to be typing, but she keeps slowing down to peep at them.

“Have we turned green?” Lisbon whispers after the third or fourth glance.

“Probably not used to Chinamen.”

“You’re not Chinese; how many times do I have to tell you that?”

Cho’s lips quirk. “I’m used to people bundling us all together.” He glances sideways at Lisbon. “I’m not used to people like you.”

Her face scrunches up and she leans sideways. “I need to apologize once more. Lord knows what he’s saying in there.”

“It might be better in the long run. I have a feeling he’s one step ahead of us on this.”

“I got that feeling, too. The thing is…” She shifts again. “It’s not a bad thing.”

“You mean you trust him not to expose us?”

Lisbon nods, her features now expressing distance and thoughtfulness. “I should be angry that he’s taken over my investigation but I’m not. He seems to be seeing things I don’t. Or can’t.”

“Like Minelli?”

Lisbon thinks about that and then shakes her head. “No. In a lot of ways, Minelli isn’t as good at observation as me. And he sometimes make assumptions without waiting for all the facts.” She grins suddenly, a bright, happy smile that makes her blue eyes seem bluer. “I’m glad Jane and Minelli won’t ever meet—they would drive each other crazy.”

Cho nods, and then says, “Why do you think Jane gave McAllister his real name?”

“I suppose it’s because the sheriff heard me call him that?” Lisbon shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Cho is about to respond when the sheriff’s door opens. It’s Jane and McAllister. Jane is smiling like a cat that just caught a mouse.

“I’ll let your assistant know what I find, Mr. Jane,” McAllister says. “If it’s true, it would explain a lot. I know three families that are frantic with worry about their daughters.”

Jane shakes McAllister’s hand with more enthusiasm than necessary. “Glad to be of help, Sheriff. Now…” He lets go and pats his stomach with both hands. “Would you be so kind as to point out your best dining establishment? My associates and I haven’t eaten since morning.”

McAllister jerks a thumb towards the door. “Just go up Main until you get to the Empire Hotel. They have the best lamb in the county.”

Jane tips his non-existent hat. He then winks at the young women. She blushes and stops typing again.

***

Lisbon manages to wait until they’re a block away before saying, “We just ate. What was that all about?”

“Nothing other than me getting us off the hook for five murders.”

“Five?” Cho and Lisbon ask at the same time.

“There’s been a rash of young women missing in the nearby areas; three were found strangled. The sheriff hasn’t heard of Lucy, but apparently we found what might be clues that will help him in his investigations.”

“The maps?” Cho ventures. Three teenagers are coming their way. They’re making fools of themselves, jumping onto benches and howling at the passersby.

“And the bleach,” Jane says. “McAllister is going to wait for Boatwright’s next visit and question him then.”

“So Boatwright has been bringing his victims to the apartment and then killing them there? How did he hide the bodies?”

“Well, obviously they weren’t bodies when Boatwright convinced them to meet him here. My thought is that they snuck in the back. I think the sheriff will find that the bellboy has some hand in this.”

Lisbon stops in her tracks. “The bellboy might tip Boatwright off. We should go—”

Jane takes her arm. “I already thought of that and warned the sheriff. He’s bringing in the bellboy for questioning.”

“Are you—”

“Quite,” Jane answers before Lisbon can finish. “And I’m hungry even though, yes, we just ate.”

He tugs on Lisbon’s arm and they’re walking again, this time in silence.

They’re almost abreast of the young men when what Cho expects will happen, happens: The boys see Cho; their expressions change.

“Hey!” one shouts, loud enough to turn heads. “Shouldn’t you be out in the rice fields getting my dinner?”

Lisbon catches her breath but Cho says nothing; he’s heard variations on this theme all his life. Generally the insults are, well, more insulting.

“Yeah!” his friend chimes in, “Dinner, dinner, get my dinner!”

In a second they’re all chanting it, pressing close, surrounding Cho, Lisbon and Jane.

Cho’s can’t start a brawl. He doesn’t want to embarrass Lisbon and end up in jail. Plus, it’s so stupid—they’re just kids, after all.

Lisbon, however, has no such compunction.

With a speed that’s almost shocking, she aims and punches the ringleader square on the nose.

He lets out a yelp and stumbles back, his hands cupping his face. The other boys stare in shock.

“We just arrived from the sheriff’s office,” Lisbon says tightly. “Do you want us to go back and inform him that this is how you greet guests in your city?”

The leader makes an effort to re-assert his authority: “We know the sheriff an—”

“Quiet!” Lisbon interrupts and then points. “Get!”

Eyes wide, bumping into each other like a comedy troupe, the boys run off, across the street to disappear around a corner.

“Well,” Lisbon says with great satisfaction, brushing off her hands as if she’d just gotten them dirty. “Now I’m hungry.” She takes off too, marching up the street.

Cho and Jane watch her go. Jane finally says, “She’s a little spitfire, isn’t she?”

A quick glance around tells Cho that the altercation had been noticed but no one is sounding any kind of alarm. He starts walking. “I don’t know her very well, but yes, she’s fiery.”

Jane strolls beside Cho, silent for a moment. And then he asks, “Why didn’t you stand up for yourself?”

“Because I could have hurt them. They were just kids.”

“Yes, but—”

Cho stops and turns to face Jane. For once there’s not a trace of a smile on Jane’s lips. “You can’t fix everything, Mr. Jane or Ruskin or whoever you really are. You can’t fix everything and when you try, it generally comes back to bite you on the ass.”

Jane cocks his head. “Has life always been that difficult for you?”

“No,” Cho shoots back, stung for some reason. And then he admits with a slight shrug, “I guess. It’s difficult for anyone that’s different.”

Jane is still watching Cho with that appraising gaze, and then he shoves his hands in his pockets and nods. “I suppose it is. And…” He smiles. “Never mind the Misters and Ruskin—it’s just ‘Jane,’ to you.”

Cho stands there, rooted to the cement. The sun is setting and the light is long; Jane’s eyes are so clear and blue, bluer than Lisbon’s. He feels it, the moment, as deep as the permanent lines around Jane’s eyes and mouth, as intoxicating as the slight scent of Jane’s aftershave—

With great effort, feeling as if he’s tearing free of Jane’s presence, Cho turns his eyes to the sidewalk. “Lisbon’s waiting,” he mutters. “Let’s go.”

He marches off, not sure if Jane is coming or not.

***

The rest of the evening passes in a blur. While they eat, Jane recounts his conversation with the sheriff and the discovery that Boatwright might be a murderer, but not the one they were seeking.

They discuss the possibility that Boatwright could have met Lucy, but Jane says that the timelines don’t match. A girl from Dunnigan had been killed the same weekend that Lucy was supposedly visiting her mystery beau in Napa. Cho in turn suggests they are taking a lot for granted, namely that Felicia Marley had told the truth, or that Lucy had, for that matter. As much as he hates to say it, he has to be honest with them.

Jane insists that Felicia had been truthful, that he can always tell when someone is lying. Lisbon interrupts, pointing out that it is all well and good, but it’s clear their new discovery has nothing to do with Jane’s main suspect, Red John, and what are they going to do about that?

The conversation devolves as each of them try to out-convince the others until a nearby diner, a woman wearing a dark red dress, leans over and hisses, ‘Shh!’

They finish in silence and get out their billfolds. Even Jane chips in, laying a crisp one-dollar bill by his plate.

“So what now?” Lisbon says as soon as they’ve exited the restaurant. “Is there any reason for us to stay here tonight?”

Jane’s smile is absent. “I suppose not.” He looks around. “We could see if any of the hotels have any vacancies.”

“No,” Cho objects. He has two dollars that have to last him for the next three days, which means he can’t afford a room on his own. And he very much doesn’t want to share a room with Jane. “No,” he says again, this time with less force. “I told my aunt and uncle I’d be back home tonight.”

Jane gives him a long, searching look. “Very well. Sacramento, it is.”

***

Cho rouses, only then realizing he’d fallen asleep sometime between Vacaville and Sacramento. The lights from the new Tower Bridge must have woken him up. “Sorry,” he says, rubbing his face. “What did I miss?”

“Him, snoring,” Lisbon whispers, jerking her head towards the back seat.

Cho looks over his shoulder. Sure enough, Jane is asleep in the corner with his arms crossed over his chest. He isn’t, as far as Cho can hear, snoring. “Are we meeting tomorrow?”

“I don’t know. I’d really like to get a look at those letters, the ones that Carter wrote to Jane.”

“They’re in Barstow.”

“I know.”

“I’ll get them for you,” comes a sleepy voice from the back. “And I never snore.”

“Barstow is a long way away,” Lisbon cautions, her voice now her normal tone.

Jane shrugs. “It’s a train ride up and a train ride back. It will take a day and a half at the most.”

“If you’re sure,” Lisbon says.

“I’m sure.” Jane uncurls and then stretches. “Can I put it on your expense account?”

Lisbon opens her mouth, then glances at Cho.

“Yes,” he says, figuring, what the hell? Lisbon is charging a fraction of what Minelli had quoted. “But not first class and no meals.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Maybe, but I’ve seen the way you eat.” He waits for a reply and gets it by way of a thump on the back of his seat.

***

The fickle weather decides it isn’t spring after all and winter returns by way of ice-cold rain. The change is all right with Cho because he only half notices, existing in a kind of brooding haze over the five next days.

He has plenty to keep him busy: chores and tasks given to him by his uncle. Repairs, grocery shopping, gardening, even tackling the air compressor in his uncle’s old Model L sedan that’s been sitting idle in the garage since 1932—he gets to it all with a determination and gusto that is nonetheless fuzzy and indistinct.

Lisbon calls once, the day after the Napa trip. It’s a pointless, twenty-second conversation and when Cho hangs up, he thinks sourly, ‘Why bother calling if you have nothing to say?’

His uncle seems pleased by Cho’s new-found verve but his aunt has taken to frowning all the time, asking him, ‘Are you well?’ and, ‘Don’t work too hard,’ and, ‘Maybe you should go have some fun. There’s a new Marx Brothers movie opening at the Alhambra.’

Knowing his aunt is worried about Lucy and the lack of progress on the case, Cho replies with as much grace as possible: he thanks her and says he’s fine or, no, he’s not in the mood for a film. And then he goes out to the garage and finds something else to keep occupy his time.

He knows what invisible force is driving him so hard and as each morning stretches into another afternoon and then another evening, his worry and anxiety ratchet up. Kind of like a tether ball, winding tighter and tighter and…

Everything would be okay, Cho assures himself, lying in bed after the third day of waiting, if Jane would just pick up a phone. Just one little telephone call or even a telegram saying he’d found the letters and is on his way back. That he’s not done with the case, not returned to his itinerate life. That everything he’s said or implicitly promised hadn’t been a lie.

That Red John hasn’t found him and murdered him, too.

Cho knows he’s being ridiculous. Jane is an adult. Jane can take care of himself. And if Red John were at all interested in adding another Jane to his collection, he would have done it long before this.

But none of that matters because here he is, fretting over a man he barely knows and doesn’t really like. He tells himself that again and again but can’t seem to make himself listen…

Cho never finds how long his convoluted path of senseless anxiety could possibly last because on Saturday, without a word or notice, Jane comes back.

***

Cho shifts the groceries to his other hip and trudges up the porch steps.

The lights in the front parlor are on; so are the ones in the dining room. Wondering who rates because his uncle only leaves them on when a guest is visiting, Cho removes his wet raincoat and follows the sound of voices to the kitchen.

His aunt and uncle are sitting at the kitchen table. A casserole is on the stove and a suitcase is by the back door. On it is a neatly folded overcoat and a fedora. “Who’s here?” Cho asks in Korean.

“Mr. Jane,” Min replies in English. “He looked so exhausted, I gave him a snack and sent him upstairs to your room for a nap.”

“It’s not my room,” Cho states, his only response to the shock of Jane suddenly being here and not there.

“For now, it’s yours.” Min gets up and puts on her apron. “Your uncle and I invited him to supper. Will you wake him?”

Cho hesitates, and then sets the bags on the counter. “Of course.”

***

Cho half hopes that when he gets to his room, he’ll hear sounds of movement so he can just knock on the door, tell Jane dinner is ready, and then go back downstairs. But there are no sounds coming from the room; he opens the door cautiously, as if there’s a bomb inside.

Jane is facing the window, on top of the covers, curled up on one side of the small bed. His suit coat is hanging off the bedpost.

“Jane?” Cho says from the doorway.

There’s no response.

“Jane!” this time louder.

Again, no response even though the room is small and the bed is only ten or so feet away. Cho tiptoes to the side of the bed. He stares down. Jane is frowning and his lips are moving.

After Connie had graduated from grade school, she had nightmares for weeks. Though Cho’s parents had gone to school to talk to her teacher and friends, they found nothing that was upsetting her enough in the day that would make her cry in her sleep at night. Cho’s room was next to hers, though, and he’d heard it all. When Connie would cry out, he’d pad in, his feet cold from the cold floors. He hadn’t woken her, though, because Lucy and Melissa had both told him that if you woke a dreamer at the wrong time, it would kill them. So he would stand there, just touching her arm in the hopes that his presence would help her.

Cho learned much later that his sisters’ story was an old-wives tale but he remembers it now just as he remembers the fear—when he leans over and touches Jane’s shoulder, his fingers are feather-light. “Patrick?”

Jane makes a soft, breathy sound and his eyes open. He stares at Cho, no spark of recognition in his gaze.

“It’s me, Cho.”

Other than a slow blink, Jane doesn’t move.

“It’s Kimball Cho,” he tries again, adding, “I think you were dreaming.” Another heartbeat. “Were you dreaming?”

Jane blinks again; his blank expression flees. He smiles and rolls over, then sits up, pushing Cho out of the way. “I know it’s you,” he says. “What smells so good?”

“Chicken casserole.”

Jane rubs his face and then scratches his jaw. “That’s too bad. I was hoping to eat a traditional Korean dinner.”

Cho steps back as Jane pushes to his feet. “My aunt would never give you that. You’re a guest and an American, therefore you’ll want real American food.”

Jane goes to the mirror above the dresser and peers into it. “That’s interesting.”

There’s a cloth-covered ewer and a hand towel on the dresser that hadn’t been there that morning. Min must have brought both up after Jane had arrived.

Jane pours the water into the basin and then splashes his face. “What constitutes real American food, do you think?”

“Anything that comes out of a can.”

Jane had picked up the hand towel to dry off but at Cho’s remark, he bursts out laughing. He turns. “You do have a way about you, don’t you.”

Cho has to keep from backing up from that smile that is too engaging, too pretty.

“If I say something wrong or rude, will you tell me?” Jane has turned back to the mirror. “I don’t to offend your uncle.”

“My uncle would take offense if you wished him good morning.”

Jane laughs again. He folds the towel neatly and puts it back on the dresser. “One day you’re going to tell me what’s the deal between you two…” He gets his jacket and pulls it on. “But not tonight—tonight, I’m hungry.”

“What a surprise.”

***

Dinner is quiet.

They eat in the formal dining room, a small room that’s rarely used.

Jane is polite and subdued, never saying too much or too little. He asks all the right questions, drawing Min out with careful charm. By the time dinner is over, she’s head over heels. As if knowing it will be a lost cause, Jane makes no such overtures to Jin. He simply includes Jin in the conversation without directing any questions his way.

When the meal is over, Min serves tea. With it follows a dull, heavy silence. Cho searches for a way to break it, only coming up with, “How did you get here?”

“I walked.”

He glances out the window; the weather is still foul. He’s not dismayed that Jane walked over three miles in the drizzling cold just as he’s not wishing Jane had called him so he could have given him a ride. “Did you telephone Miss Lisbon?”

“Yes, as soon as I arrived. I’ll pay for the call, of course.”

“I’ll ask her to put in on the expense report.”

“Thank you.”

“Did she have anything to say?”

“Other than she’ll meet us here at ten on the dot tomorrow morning, no.”

“Have you heard anything from Miss Marley?”

“No.”

It’s like a play or a call and response, put on for their audience of two. Cho wants to review the letters to see if he can make anything of them. He wants to ask if McAllister has contacted Lisbon. He wants to ask why Jane took so long to get to Barstow and back and if he has any intention of seeing Felicia Marley again.

So many questions, some pertinent to the case, some not, but none he can ask right now except: “Where are you staying?”

It’s an innocent inquiry but his uncle glowers as his aunt answers readily, “He’s welcome to stay here.”

Jane raises an eyebrow. “I thin—”

“Nonsense,” Min says before Jane can finish. “You traveled all day and you’re obviously tired. It would be rude to make you go back to the city to find a hotel.” She sets her cup down, adding firmly, “You can use Lucy’s room.”

Jane glances at Cho.

Cho, long familiar with his aunt’s ways, just shrugs. His uncle, however, rises and holds out his hand. “I’ll move the car around. Did you get gas?”

Cho gives the car keys to his uncle. “Yes, sir.”

“How much?”

“Sixteen cents.”

Jin shakes his head mournfully. “Another penny higher. Soon it will be seventeen cents and then where will we be?”

It’s very much a rhetorical question, one so familiar that Cho easily ignores it.

Min does too, saying, “I’ll change the sheets on Lucy’s bed,” as Jin stomps out of the house.

“You don’t have to for me,” Jane answers. “I’m happy with anything.”

“Nonsense,” Min repeats. “Give me ten or fifteen minutes and then you can lay down.” She touches Jane’s shoulder and leaves the room.

“My aunt likes you,” Cho says as soon as they’re alone.

Jane shrugs. “A lot of women like me.”

A week ago, Cho would have bristled. Now…? Now, they’re just words and nothing more than the truth. “You found the letters?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“And nothing, I suppose.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’ve had time to think. It means I’m not so sure about Timothy anymore.”

“Why?”

“Because of this…” Jane gets something out of his jacket pocket. It’s a folded slip of paper and some photos. He gives the paper to Cho.

It was a timeline of sorts, a list of the whereabouts of Jane, Lucy, Timothy Carter, and Felicia Marley over the past five months. Cho traces the line connecting the names. “If this is accurate, then Carter was in Cantua Creek the week Lucy went missing.”

“Probably. There are ways of manipulating the mail, of course.”

“Such as?”

“He could have asked the postman to delay it. Or used an accomplice.”

“But you don’t think he did any of that?”

Jane shakes his head. “No, I don’t think he did. Timothy is an egomaniac. He always thought his way was the only way. He could have enticed someone else to help unwittingly, but that seems to be a stretch. Plus, all his letters make clear reference to his hotel or location. It’s as if he wanted me to know where he was.”

Cho hands the paper back. He takes the photos from Jane. They’re pictures of Jane’s act. Not of a performance itself, but taken before or after, showing the troupe relaxing in what seems to be a much smaller tent. Three of the images include Timothy Carter. Jane isn’t in any of them. “To throw you off the scent?”

“Perhaps.” Jane pockets the paper and then begins to turn his teacup in a circle. The porcelain-on-porcelain makes a dull grating sound. “But maybe not and now I’m not sure where to go from here.”

“Maybe Lisbon will have an idea.”

“Maybe.”

Cho peers at the last two photos—there’s something there… “Did you bring the letters?”

“I did but I really don’t see the point in reading them again—they’re useless.”

Cho presses his lips together, unable to pinpoint just what is bothering him; he gives the photos back to Jane. “Let’s just see what Lisbon has to say.”

“All right.”

It hits him, what he’s trying to do. And it’s absurd, this newfound need to erase the brooding expression from Jane’s face, to make him smile. What does he care if Jane is feeling blue because the case has turned an unexpected corner?

“By the by,” Jane says, gaze still focused on the cup. “Your aunt gave me a glass of lemonade today. It was the best I’ve ever had.”

“She uses a lime in each batch,” Cho confides. “But don’t tell her I told you so. It’s a great secret.”

“I won’t.” Jane looks up. And then he smiles. A tired but real smile, the kind that reaches his eyes. “I promise.”

As it had before, that day in Napa, the moment stills and crystalizes. Cho hears the clock’s soft tick-tick, the creak of the bedroom floor above where his aunt is making the bed for Jane. “I—” he tries, his lips suddenly bone dry, as dry as his throat.

Jane tips his head. “Yes?”

“I—” Cho says again, searching for the words, any words that will shear this moment in two, make it possible to retreat back into his own world where it’s just him alone and not him and Jane.

Uncle Jin breaks the moment, coming through the back door. “Cho Kimball,” Jin calls out in Korean, “didn’t your father ever teach you how to put on a windshield wiper? The one you replaced has already come off!”

Grateful for his uncle’s rudeness, Cho sits back. “I’m sorry, Uncle,” he replies. “I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”

Jin comes into the dining room. “You’ll take care of it now. I need to drive your aunt to the five and dime in the morning.”

“Yes, sir.” Cho gets up, saying to Jane in English, “I have to fix something on the car.”

Jane, now insouciantly lounging back in the chair, makes a gesture, a sarcastic wave as if saying, ‘I give you leave to go.’

Annoyed—wishing Jane wasn’t such an ass, wishing Uncle Jin wasn’t there to see Jane being such an ass, but mostly wishing they hadn’t been interrupted—Cho goes.

***

The wiper’s sleeve proves to be the problem and Cho ends up searching for a bigger screw to replace the smaller. By the time he’s done forcing the screw where it doesn’t want to go, he’s cold and frustrated and very wet.

When he returns to the house, the stovetop light is on but the rest of the house is dark; his aunt and uncle and their unexpected guest have gone to bed.

Cho locks the back door and turns off the stove light.

At the top of the stairs, he pauses. There are four bedrooms on the second floor. To the left is his aunt and uncle’s room and the bathroom. To the right is his aunt’s sewing room and the room he’s staying in. Straight ahead is Lucy’s room.

No lamplight shines under the door. Jane must already be asleep. No wonder, Cho thinks as he continues on to his room. Jane had looked like hell. Three miles, after all.

His own room is freezing and he washes quickly, using the same towel is aunt had left for Jane, shivering a little because it’s so damn cold.

He changes into his pajamas as quickly as he’d washed, puts his watch on the nightstand and then crawls into bed. The room may be cold but the blankets and the comforter are thick—he pulls them all up and burrows in.

***

Cho chases sleep but can’t find it.

He tries, doing the usual: He turns the lamp back on and reads a few pages of the book he’s started but can never seem to finish. He clears his mind of everything except the heaviness of his arms and legs. He turns to face the window, hoping the tap of the rain on the glass will drag sleep closer. He even tries counting sheep, something he’d done before with no success but what the hell? He gets to forty-three and then swears under his breath because it still doesn’t work and now he’s more awake than ever.

Frustrated, he flops over and then freezes.

At first he thinks the pale figure before him is a ghost. But no, it’s just Jane, standing in the open door with a pillow tucked under his arm.

“Can’t sleep?” Jane whispers.

Cho doesn’t answer. Jane is wearing striped pajamas and no slippers.

“Because I can’t, either. I should be able to. All I want to do is sleep but…” Jane grins and squeezes the pillow. Though it’s dark, Cho can tell the grin is more of a grimace.

Jane takes a step into the room. “You were right, earlier. I was dreaming.”

Cho’s mouth is dry again; he licks his lips, his heart heavy in his ears. “About?”

Jane lifts a shoulder. “About my wife. And my little girl.” He takes another shuffling step.

Jane is a couple yards away, now. Cho feels those seventy-two inches of space as if the air is a solid mass of pressure. “I’m sorry.”

Jane swallows. And then says, almost too low to hear, “Cho. I don’t want to dream tonight.”

A jumbled wash of emotions break over Cho, all too confused for identification, all fighting for dominance. The winners are a sharp, reluctant sympathy and an equally sharp stab of something akin to terror…

Because it’s been edging up towards the surface of his mind, this thing he can’t name. Every time it’s appeared, he’s almost winced, like he’s touching a fresh wound. Even now, it’s gathering strength, a dangerous curl under his breastbone, a flush that starts on the back of his neck. He shoves it away, allowing the only thing that can matter: this is his uncle’s house and by extension his uncle’s faith and morality. That’s all there is to it and Cho opens his mouth to say, ‘You should go back to Lucy’s room,’ completely surprised when he hears himself whisper, “All right.”

Jane exhales as if letting out his last breath. And then he goes back to the door and quietly closes it. Just as quietly, he props the desk chair under the knob.

Heart now beating furiously, limbs like wood, Cho moves to the far side of the bed. He feels disoriented and a little sick, like he might throw up. That would be the perfect capper on a miserable week, right? It would, however, have the benefit of sending Jane back to Lucy’s room. It’s funny and he smiles faintly as he folds back the covers.

Jane slides in. “Hmm,” he sighs as he pulls the covers up. He closes his eyes. “Lucy’s room is cold.”

“Jin only turns the furnace on from December to February.”

“Remind me never to visit in November.”

“I will.”

Jane turns his head. “Thank you.”

They’re so close; Cho can feel Jane’s warmth. “For what?”

“For not making a fuss.”

“You mean—” Cho gestures, indicating the bed, themselves.

Jane shakes his head. “No. For going along with the charade that I’m a detective.”

Cho’s heart is slowing down; he still feels it, though, the unreality, the danger. “It’s easier on my uncle. He doesn’t understand why anyone would hire a woman to do a man’s job.”

Jane rolls to his side. “Why did you? It seems an odd choice.”

Stung, Cho retorts, “She’s a good detective.”

“I didn’t say she wasn’t.”

Jane’s calm response soothes Cho’s hasty ire. “I hired her because no one else would take the job. I hired her because—”

“Because…?” Jane prompts when Cho doesn’t finish.

He shrugs. “I like her. And I got the feeling that she wasn’t happy doing menial work. We have that in common.”

Jane doesn’t have to ask what Cho means. “Square pegs in round holes?”

Cho nods. As much as the phrase hurts, it’s true.

“Well, that makes three of us.”

It’s outrageous—Jane has everything. Good looks, good clothes, the freedom to go where he pleases and, most important, the right skin color. “How do you not fit in?”

Jane tucks his hand under the pillow. “It may seem as if I have it all, but I live on what I make from each performance. No one invites me to their dinner table without expectation of something in return. Not to mention that when people see my face, they fall for that, not me.”

Cho gazes up at the ceiling and thinks about that. How would it feel to know that a friendship is conditional, based on the good news one will deliver or the glib half-life of beauty? “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

 “What was your wife’s name?” He immediately wants to take the question back, sure it will break whatever link is building between them. “I—”

“It’s all right,” Jane says, adding softly, “Angela. Her name was Angela. My daughter’s name was Charlotte.”

“Oh.”

“Mm.”

Not wanting to hear more about the dead but-beloved-family, Cho looks straight at Jane and asks the thing he’s wanted to ask for a while now: “Are you hypnotizing me?”

Jane smiles. “No, I told you: It’s doubtful I even could and besides, I would never do that without your permission.”

Cho gauges Jane’s words and then nods shortly. “All right.” He pulls the covers tighter. “I like to sleep on my side.”

“I’m not stopping you.”

Lips pressed tight at Jane’s smart answer but smiling just a little, Cho rolls over.

There’s a gap between them, a cool no-man’s-land. If Jane were nearer, they would fit together, kind of like spoons. And, okay, Cho finally gets it, the expression. Spooning. How weird.

And how weird is it that the nape of his neck actually feels Jane’s presence? He’s never going to be able to sleep because this is a mistake. It’s going to lead to problems and misunderstandings.

But soon—sooner than he would have thought—the feeling of expectation drifts away and he drifts with it.

***

A noise jerks Cho awake. The rain has stopped and it’s still dark, too dark to be anywhere near morning. He listens intently: Jane’s breath is soft and steady.

Cho sighs and—as if on cue—Jane murmurs and rolls closer. He’s pressed up now, arm against Cho’s back. It feels good and it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just because Jane is cold. It’s nothing more than that.

Cho sighs again and lets sleep take him once more.

***

Cho wakes to warmth on his face. He opens his eyes. It’s morning and by the angle of the sun in the cloudless sky, it’s also late. He fumbles for his watch. Eight-thirty five. He puts the watch back on the nightstand and then remembers. He rolls over.

He’s alone. Jane is gone and—Cho strokes the sheet—he’s been gone for some time.

Wondering if he’s glad or mad that Jane had been quiet enough not to disturb him, Cho decides on the former. For the first time in weeks, he actually slept well and it feels so good. As to the bed-sharing thing, well, it doesn’t have the same heavy import in the bright of day. It had just been one of those things and not significant in any way, shape, or form. Nothing had happened, after all, and that’s a good thing and probably what he wanted anyway.

Mind firmly avoiding the hazy images that the thought ‘nothing had happened’ conjures up, Cho springs out of bed, eager to start the day.

The bathroom is free and he showers and shaves, mind occupied with Jane’s news. The first thing he has to do after breakfast is to write up his own timeline. It’s a useful tool and something he should have done at the very beginning of the investigation. After that, he’ll show it to Lisbon so she can add her own notes.

He gets dressed and is still mapping out the day when he goes downstairs.

Min is at the kitchen sink, doing dishes. There is no one else around.

“Good morning,” Cho says.

Min turns. “Good morning. I was going to wake you in a few minutes.”

“Where are Uncle Jin and Mr. Jane?”

Min gets a plate out of the oven and sets it on the table. “Be careful,” she warns. “It’s hot.” She returns to the sink. “Your uncle is finishing up the strawberry bed and Mr. Jane left to send a telegram. He’s very excited about something—he says there might be a break in the case.”

Cho sits down. He can’t help himself—he touches the plate. Yes, it’s very hot. Shooting a quick, guilty glance Min’s way, he picks up a fork and begins to eat. “Did he say anything else?”

“No, just that he needs to talk to you when he returns.” His aunt puts the last dish in the strainer. “Are you all right?”

Cho pauses and looks up. “Yes. I’m fine. I just overslept.”

Min turns off the water and picks up the dishcloth. “If you’re feeling unwell, you’ll tell me, won’t you?”

“I’m fine,” Cho repeats, puzzled at his aunt’s insistence.

Min wrings out the dishcloth and when she speaks next, it’s about a completely different subject: “Do you think they’re seeing each other?”

“What?” Cho frowns. “Who?”

“Miss Lisbon and Mr. Jane.” Min wipes down the countertop. “I think they are.”

“He was married.”

“He’s widowed. He told me so, which means he can marry again.”

Cho eats the last of the egg and then puts his fork down. He’s not hungry anymore. “I don’t know if he’s interested in Miss Lisbon. I haven’t asked.”

“Hmm,” Min murmurs, still scrubbing, “I think they should if they’re not.”

“Why?”

“Well,” his aunt says, her movements slowing. “I suppose it’s because they’re both White and they’re both reasonably attractive. He more than she, of course.”

“Aunt Min,” Cho objects, smiling reluctantly.

“I’m just being honest, Kimmie.”

‘Kimmie.’ His aunt hasn’t called him that in years. She’d only ever used the diminutive when scolding him or when he’d been sick. What does it mean that she’s calling him that now?

He shrugs away the unease and gets up to wash his dishes, using the noise of the rushing water as an excuse not to talk.

***

Cho calls Lisbon. After getting no reply, he paces around the living room for a minute or so, then hurries upstairs to get his book and suit coat. If he has time to kill, he’ll kill it on the porch. It’s somewhat of a pre-emptive maneuver, of course. He wants to avoid his aunt as much as he wants to tell Lisbon and Jane about his aunt’s crazy idea, to warn them, as it were. It’s the polite thing to do. If their reaction means that his aunt is right, well, that’s that.

So he sits on the porch, enjoying the crisp morning sun and fresh air while trying to read. He manages three pages when a car pulls up in front. It’s the maroon Cadillac with Lisbon and Jane.

Before they can get out, Cho goes into the house, tosses his book on the hall table and shouts in Korean, “I’m going out. I’ll be back later!”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, and it’s funny—he feels like a kid sneaking away to see the friends his parents don’t like.

As soon as Cho slides into the back seat, Jane turns.

Cho examines Jane but there’s nothing to see—Jane seems as always. In fact, he’s suspiciously happy because he winks and says with a sunny and rather arch smile, “Feel like playing hooky?”

If Cho is in any way disappointed that the night hasn’t left a trace on Jane’s expression, he quashes it immediately. It’s what he wants, after all. “It’s hardly hooky if you’re not running away from something.”

Jane snorts softly as Lisbon pulls away from the curb.

“My aunt said you have news.”

“We do indeed,” Jane confirms. “But first, I’m famished.”

Cho and Lisbon groan at the same time.

“Is all you ever do is eat?” Lisbon asks. “It’s a wonder you’re not two hundred pounds.”

“I’ll have you know I didn’t have breakfast,” Jane states with a patently false tone of indignation. “I was too busy working the case.”

“I’d hardly call walking across town ‘working the case.’”

“At least a cup of coffee?”

“All right,” Lisbon says, adding a begrudging, “I didn’t have time for breakfast, either. Some jackass woke me up at six-thirty.”

“Cho?” Jane says, looking over his shoulder. “Feel like some eggs and ham?”

“Sure,” he lies. “I could eat.”

***

Whether it’s for expediency’s sake or a small act of retribution, Lisbon drives them to the diner that Jane had called a ‘hole in the wall.’

Cho waits for a smart comment or a barbed complaint but Jane only whistles softly under his breath as he gets out of the car.

They troop in. Lisbon leads them all the way to the booth in the back and takes a seat facing the restaurant. With little hesitation that Cho can see, Jane sits next to her. Cho sits opposite.

“Why do you always pick the back booth?” he asks, reaching for three menus. He gives one to Lisbon and one to Jane.

Already reviewing the options, Jane answers before Lisbon can: “Because she wants to see who leaves and who enters.”

Lisbon confirms, “It’s something Minelli taught me. Know the exits and always watch the front door.”

“I like this Minelli,” Jane murmurs. He lays the menu down and says brightly, “I’m having waffles. Who’s with me?”

***

By mutual, silent agreement, none of them speak of the case until the waitress takes their order and saunters off.

Jane watches her go, then mutters confidentially, “If this place is like every other diner in America, we’ll have at least thirty minutes before our overcooked food gets here so let me tell you what I discovered this morning.” He gets out the same paper and the photos he’d shown Cho the night before. “Lisbon agrees with us: it would be impossible for Timothy to be in two places at one time.”

“And the telegram?” Cho asks.

“To my friendly FBI agent, Wayne Rigsby.”

“What?” Cho and Lisbon exclaim, again in unison.

Jane shrugs. “After you visited me in Barstow, I contacted him and suggested he look for Lucy’s automobile.”

“And?” Cho asks.

“I haven’t been back to the telegraph office. I suppose,” Jane says ruefully, “I should have asked him to respond to my assistant.”

“Where are they, by the way?” Lisbon asks, adding for clarification when Jane raises an eyebrow her way, “Your people—are they still in Barstow?”

“No, I sent them on to Hesperia. We have a show in three days.”

Three days. The bright suns dims. Cho had assumed…

He’d assumed wrong and he picks up one of the photos, the close-up of Timothy Carter. What was it about this image?

The photo was taken from an angle and is blurry in places, as if someone had moved the camera at the last minute. Carter is in the foreground, laughing, head ducked and hand up. In the background is a group of out-of-focus people. They’re sitting around a table, possibly playing poker.

“What is it?” Jane asks.

“I don’t know,” Cho answers slowly because something is nudging him, on the edge of memory but vague and distant enough to be just that, on the edge. He props the photo against the empty coffee cup and frowns because he’s not sure what he’s looki—

Ah-ha. He bends closer.

“What is it?” Jane breathes, leaning over so his head almost touches Cho’s.

“That ring,” Cho explains. “He’s wearing it in this picture but he isn’t…” He points to one of the other images. “…in this one.”

“He was supposed to be a poor farmer,” Jane says absently. “It was too flashy for the show so I always made him take it off before he entered the tent.”

“The ring looks familiar, though. I’ve seen i—”

This time the interruption comes from Jane. He sits back with a thump and his eyes grow wide with excitement. “McAllister. Sheriff McAllister has a signet ring just like it. Gold with three lines across the top.”

Cho stares at Jane and Jane stares at Cho. He hadn’t been close enough to McAllister to see the details of the ring; apparently, Jane had. “Have you ever seen a ring like it, on anyone?”

“Never,” Jane says.

“Did Carter tell you where he got it?”

“As a matter of fact he did.” Jane’s expression turns inward. “He says he got it from an admirer. I’d assumed he meant a woman.”

There’s another heavy silence, broken by Lisbon: “What does it mean?” She glances from Cho to Jane. “Are you really saying that Carter and McAllister know each other?”

“Yes, my dear,” Jane says, “that’s exactly what I’m saying. McAllister gave Carter that gold ring or vice versa, so yes, they know each other.”

“They know each other,” Lisbon repeats before cocking her head and demanding, “How do they know each other and how can you be sure it’s not a coincidence?”

“As to the first part of your question, I have no idea. As to the second, coincidences are rarely that.”

“What do you mean and please don’t use your carney gibberish.”

For once, Jane seems actually offended. “My carney gibberish, as you call it, is the result of years of studying the human soul.”

It’s a pompous statement, but all Lisbon says is, “That doesn’t mean there’s any connection between McAllister and Carter.”

Jane shifts sideways so he’s facing Lisbon. “Theresa, do you know why I’m so successful at what I do?” He doesn’t give her time for an answer. “It’s because I notice things. Reactions, telltales—involuntary responses that let me know me what a person is really thinking under the mask of what they tell me they’re thinking. That’s all it is.” Jane flicks his fingers toward Cho. “Our friend noticed the ring on McAllister’s finger. At the time, concerned with other things, the observation was merely that. But when he saw the same ring on Carter’s finger, a connection was made in his mind.” Jane looks at Cho. “Does that seem like an accurate description?”

Cho nods. It’s more than accurate—it’s exactly what had happened. “But Lisbon’s right–it doesn’t mean they know each other.”

Jane waves that away. “Those rings are too exact. Besides which, life is rarely random. There was a reason Timothy Carter came to work for me. I see that now.”

“I had assumed it was because he lost his job during the Depression,” Lisbon answers drily. “You said he sold insurance.”

“Everyone lost their job during the Depression. It would have taken a year or two, but he would have found another. No…” Jane shakes his head slowly. “Timothy must have discovered another calling during his forced hiatus. Maybe he’d always had the urge. Maybe that’s when he ran into Sheriff McAllister. Maybe they found out they had something in common.”

“Wait,” Lisbon says with a look of disbelief. “Now you’re saying McAllister—a man who clearly has many years in the field of law enforcement or did you miss all those citations on his walls—is a killer?”

“No, I didn’t miss them and, yes, he’s a killer.” Then Jane shrugs. “Well, maybe.”

“How can you possibly know that?” Lisbon mutters, as if to herself.

“Carter told me he received the gift from an admirer.” Jane looks at Cho and then Lisbon as if compelling them to feel the weight of his words. “He told me that exact thing and he smiled when he said it.”

Cho remembers that first long conversation. “As if he were taunting you.”

“Exactly. It would have been fairly easy to follow me when I visited the various police departments. I never bothered to hide my tracks, therefore it would have been easy to ascertain my growing interest in Red John.”

“Jane?” Cho says, because he remembers something else. “Those maps in Boatwright’s room…” A chill is racing up his back, spreading to his arms, his legs.

“What about them?”

“There was one for Kern County.” He’s going to be sick.

Jane sits back. “And McFarland, the town where I first met Lucy, is in Kern County.”

“Do you think Boatwright is part of this?”

“It’s not beyond the realm of possibility.”

“And Lucy?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it? If McAllister is indeed involved in some way and he is the slightest bit suspicious, we might have tipped our hand.”

“In other words, Lucy is in danger. I mean, she’s in more danger.”

It’s not a question but Jane nods, his expression now grim. “I’m afraid so. We may have to work fast.”

Cho makes a gesture expressing his sudden sweep of helplessness and frustration. “Work fast at what? We have no leads or clues and McAllister probably isn’t—”

Jane reaches over and lays his hand over Cho’s. “We do have leads and we’ll all work together to find Lucy. We will.”

It’s somehow shocking, Jane’s simple touch and Cho can’t move.

“Agreed,” Lisbon says. “I’m sorry it’s taken so long.”

Cho wants to slide his hand from Jane’s. He really does, but Jane’s hand is so warm and the warmth feels so good. “It’s not your fault. It’s mine.”

Jane squeezes Cho’s self-recriminations away and then lets go. “Regrets are useless. Now we need to act.”

The back of Cho’s hand feels light and cool and bare. “All right.”

Jane smiles reassuringly. “You’ll see. The Three Musketeers will save the day.”

Lisbon rolls her eyes and Cho, still missing Jane’s touch, mutters, “As long as I’m not Porthos.”

***

Their breakfast—not overcooked in the least—arrives soon after and they eat, speaking of nothing much.

Cho isn’t sure what the others are thinking but he feels as if he’d been through a tsunami. Head spinning, thoughts whirling, both overshadowed by a gray, formless dread.

When breakfast is done and the bill paid, they go outside.

“What now?” Cho asks.

Lisbon squints up at the sky. “I want to go back to the office and see if I can track down Agent Rigsby. If he has any information about Lucy’s car, that could be very helpful. I also want to write don’t this new information.”

Jane claps his hands together. “Wonderful. I’ve always wanted to see where you work.”

“‘Always?’” Lisbon asks. “You’ve known me a total of five days.”

“And those five days have been magical.” Jane slips his arm through Lisbon’s and then signals to Cho. “It’s by the post office, no?”

***

Over the past few weeks, Cho has wondered about the deal Lisbon made with Minelli in regards to Lucy’s case. Is Minelli involved in any way? Is Lisbon keeping the profits or is she handing them over to her boss?

He doesn’t find out that day because, when they walk into Minelli’s suite of rooms, they can hear him. He’s in his office, talking to someone behind the closed door.

Lisbon puts her finger to her lips, then tiptoes over to her desk and sits down. She opens a folder and spreads out its contents.

Jane stuffs his hands in his pockets and examines the framed prints on the walls, one by one.

Already familiar with Minelli’s certifications and awards as he’d done the same thing, Cho takes the chair in front of Lisbon’s desk.

When he’d first arrived in Sacramento, he’d conferred with his aunt and uncle, then visited the Hall of Justice. The name was ironic, considering how disinterested the police were in helping him. The desk clerk—a grey-haired woman about Cho’s mother’s age—had been the only person to offer a speck of sympathy. With one eye on the sergeant’s door, she’d written down some names for him, a short list of the city’s private detectives.

The first four had rejected his request out of hand. Frustrated as well as hot from the unseasonably warm day, he’d arrived at Minelli’s office, a sedate set of rooms on the second floor of a red-stone building. He remembers walking into the room, his ire cooling because of the fresh air coming from the open window. He’d told the receptionist what he wanted. She got up and went into the office, coming back a short time after. She asked him to wait. Her boss, she’d said, would be with him soon.

Minelli had called him in twenty minutes later. The receptionist had picked up her notebook and followed. They both sat down and Cho began his tale.

Minelli had actually listened but, the same as the others, at the end he’d shrugged, saying there was nothing to go on, that Lucy had probably run away and that wasn’t illegal.

The secretary had spoken up then, saying quietly they could at least try. Minelli had shaken his head and said he was sorry, but he couldn’t help. Dejected and angry, Cho had thanked Minelli and left. He’d pounded down the stairs, his steps hard and quick, propelled by a rising fury.

He was halfway down the block, heading nowhere fast, when he was stopped by a shout.

It was the receptionist.

‘I can help you, Mr. Cho,’ she’d called out, breathless because she’d run to catch up. ‘I can help you find your sister!’

That had been the start and now, weeks later, Cho stares at Lisbon with something that feels like fondness. No, they haven’t found Lucy, but at least he’s not on his own. At least he has that.

He clears his throat.

Lisbon doesn’t look up, but Jane calls, “Any ideas?” from across the room.

He turns. Jane is standing in front of the bank of photos, the ones of Minelli and various city officials. “No,” Cho says. “Nothing that pertains to the case.”

Jane opens his mouth to answer but is interrupted as Mr. Virgil Minelli steps out of his office.

“I thought I heard voices,” Minelli says. “Theresa.” He gives Lisbon a beetle-eyed stare. “I know Mr. Cho, but who is our other guest?”

Lisbon had jumped up as soon as Minelli had opened the door. Now she says, “This is Mr. Patrick Jane. He’s assisting with the case.”

Minelli’s gaze turns to Jane; his eyes narrow. “I hope you’re not expecting remuneration, sir.”

Jane smiles sunnily and comes over, hand out. “Of course not. I knew the girl, you see, and I want to help.”

Still frowning with suspicion, Minelli shakes Jane’s hand.

They’re an interesting contrast. Minelli is maybe fifty or fifty-five and has the face of a bulldog. He’s wearing a somber suit and a somber tie—he looks like an undertaker. Jane, on the other hand—

“Help?” Minelli responds. “I’ve just been talking with someone about your ‘help.’” He steps back. Sitting in front of his desk is a young woman with red hair. “Miss Van Pelt has been telling me quite a story.”

Cho frowns. The woman has twisted around and he thinks he knows her, but can’t quite place her. He glances at Lisbon. By the look on her face, she can’t place Miss Van Pelt, either.

But Jane rocks on his heels, and says, “You’re far from home. Or did Sheriff McAllister give you the day off?”

Before Van Pelt can answer, Lisbon draws a sharp breath. “You’re the sheriff’s secretary.”

Minelli gestures to his office. “Theresa, why don’t you and Mr. Cho come in and tell me what’s going on and then I’ll tell you how to fix it. You…” He looks at Jane. “…will stay out here. Or better yet, why don’t you return to your medicine show. Yes,” he adds at Jane’s raised eyebrow. “I know who you are and I know you’re not to be trusted.”

No one moves. Lisbon’s color is high and Jane—

“Theresa.” Minelli beckons. “Come.”

Lisbon pushes her chair back.

“No.”

Everyone stills.

Minelli turns to Cho. “I beg your pardon.”

“No, you will not be taking over this investigation.” Cho’s words are slow but driven with the force of a runaway truck, driven by anger and a bone-deep weariness. He’s so tired of people telling him what to do, of treating him like a child or worse, an animal… “No, you will not be excluding the people I hired. No, you will not be ‘fixing’ things.” He emphasizes his point by making quotation marks in the air. “You had no interest in helping me before. What’s changed?”

“She did,” Jane says after a moment, staring at Minelli but indicating Miss Van Pelt. “Her story must have been something for you to take notice. What was it, I wonder, and how did she find us?”

Minelli shakes his head. “There is no ‘us,’ Mr. Jane. There is only Theresa and me and our client.”

“And as your client, the one who is paying your invoices,” Cho states, “I intend to keep on working with Mr. Jane. I believe he’s instrumental to finding my sister.”

“He’s a low-life carney,” Minelli shoots back. “You can’t trust someone who lies for a living.”

“I can.” The certainty Cho feels is like a firm hand on his back. “I trust him absolutely.”

There is a long pause and then Minelli says, a little less certain, “Be that as it may, this is my office and my—”

This is getting them nowhere. “If Miss Van Pelt has anything to offer, then as the client, I would like to hear it. But not here.” He glances at Lisbon. “Miss Lisbon—can we interview Miss Van Pelt outside?”

“Of course, Mr. Cho.” Lisbon scoops up the papers on her desk and then turns to Minelli.

They stare at each other for the longest time, Minelli as if he’s going to charge, and Lisbon, shoulders back, chin tilted.

And then Minelli sighs. “Stay here. I’m missing my tee time with the governor, in any case.” He gets his fedora and overcoat. “But I expect a full report tomorrow morning. Miss Van Pelt?” he adds, leaning into the office, “I’m leaving you in the very capable hands of my associate.” Minelli puts on his hat and then nods at Lisbon and Cho. He ignores Jane completely as he walks out the door.

The air changes as soon as Minelli is gone and Lisbon lets out a long breath. “We might as well meet in his office.” She gets out her notebook and pen and then mutters to herself, “‘Associate.’ That’s a new one.”

Minelli’s office is spartan, comprising of a wide desk, a bookcase, two chairs and a brown leather sofa.

Lisbon sits behind the desk, Jane stands by her side, and Cho takes the chair next to Miss Van Pelt.

Van Pelt is prettier than Cho remembers. Her hair is carefully curled and she’s wearing a wool green dress and hat. By her feet is a valise. She’s nervous. During the few minutes it takes for introductions, she clutches her purse several times.

Pencil poised, Lisbon asks, “Now, Miss Van Pelt, how can we help you?”

“It’s me that can help you.” She peers at Cho and then Jane. “I think. That is to say…” She shakes her head, as if chagrined by her own awkwardness. “After you left last week, Sheriff McAllister asked me to run to the general store to get sugar. I forgot my purse and had to go back to the jail. As I was getting my wallet, I overheard him talking to someone. He was saying something about cleaning up a mess. I didn’t think anything of it until a few days later. The sheriff had gone to dinner and I was tidying up for the evening. Sheriff McAllister tends to leave stacks of paper around. I was organizing his desk when I noticed several receipts under his blotter.”

Van Pelt casts a guilty look at Lisbon and Jane. “I’m not a snoop but I couldn’t help but read them.” She opens her purse, digs out a sheaf of papers, and gives them Lisbon.

Cho cranes his neck to see. The papers are a mishmash of receipts, pages from a ledger, and smaller pages from a notepad. “What are they?” he asks.

Lisbon is examining one of the ledger sheets. “It’s a record of expenditures for the Napa Valley Sheriff’s Department from ‘37. There doesn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary.”

Van Pelt reaches over Minelli’s nameplate and points to an entry.

“A payment of two dollars and ninety-nine cents to a M.B.” Lisbon looks up. “Who is ‘M.B.’?”

“Malcolm Boatwright,” Van Pelt says. “I think you met him. He works at Napa Valley Inn. He’s the—”

“Bellhop,” Jane breathes as he straightens up, his eyes wide. “That was Boatwright’s room we investigated. Those were his maps, his bleach. He led us to his own room.”

No one speaks and in the vacuum of silence, Cho hears a bark of laughter and a car’s horn through the open window. “Why would he do that?”

“Did he strike you as very intelligent?” Jane said with a raised eyebrow. “Perhaps he thought he was being clever. Miss Van Pelt, what do you know about Boatwright?”

“Malcolm’s cousin owns the hotel,” Van Pelt says, “otherwise he’d never be able to afford to stay there. He’s a bit…” She shrugs. “…odd.”

Lisbon sets the paper down and picks up another. “Is there any reason why the sheriff’s department would require a bellhop’s services?”

“None that I can think of. We had a Christmas party at the hotel once, but now it’s held at the new City Hall.”

“And the receipts?” Cho takes some of the sales tickets. “Bleach and rope,” he murmurs, “bought at Miller’s Hard Goods.” He looks up at Jane. “And another for items at Calhan’s Hardware.”

“That’s in Santa Barbara,” Jane says, his voice like glass. “What’s the date?”

“May tenth. Two years ago.” Cho doesn’t have to ask what Jane is thinking—it’s right there on his face: the grief, the anger.

“That’s what I don’t get—why would Malcolm go down to Santa Barbara to buy bleach for the sheriff?” Van Pelt says with a frown. “We have plenty of rope and we have the same bottle of bleach we’ve had for two years.”

“Mr. Jane’s wife and daughter were murdered in Santa Barbara soon after May tenth, Miss Van Pelt,” Lisbon says softly.

It takes a second for Van Pelt to understand Lisbon’s inference and then she gasps and puts her hand to her mouth. Her eyes tear up. “I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.”

Jane gets out his handkerchief and gives it to Van Pelt. “Let’s talk about the main reason for your visit. If you’re bringing us these documents, then I’m sure you understand the situation you’re in.”

“I didn’t. I think I do now.” Van Pelt swallows Cho realizes that she’s not just nervous—she’s terrified. “Sheriff McAllister told me why you came to Napa, that you were looking for someone named Carter. That this Carter might be a killer.”

“He is,” Jane confirms. “But he’s not the only one.”

Van Pelt actually blanches. “Because you think it’s Sheriff McAllister.”

Jane nods.

She leans forward and says urgently, “But I’ve known him for years. He buys me Christmas and birthday presents.”

It’s as if Van Pelt wants them to convince her of McAllister’s guilt. It’s a response that Cho has run into before, from wives who tried to persuade him—and themselves—that their wife-beater husbands would stop if they just gave them time.

But Jane, as always, is on a different track: “Presents? What kind?”

Caught by the change in subject, Van Pelt glances at Lisbon and then says, “A gold necklace and three bracelets.” She tries for a smile. “None of them seemed very expensive.”

“Do you have any of them with you?”

She hesitates again, this time shooting a quick look at all of them. And then she raises her arm and pushes her glove down. On her wrist is a silver bangle set with diamonds.

“Is it engraved?” Jane asks as he examines the bracelet.

“Yes,” Van Pelt answers doubtfully. She takes off the bracelet and turns it to the light.

Cho can barely see the faint ‘GP’ script.

“Gretchen Plasket,” Jane says with a sad finality. “She wore that the last time I saw her.”

Van Pelt gasps, “Is she …?”

“Sadly, yes, she’s dead.”

“Jane,” Lisbon says, “are you sure it’s the same bracelet?”

“I commented on it. She said her mother had given it to her on her eighteenth birthday.”

Van Pelt’s face crumples and she almost throws the bangle on the desk. “Take it. I don’t want it.”

Lisbon gets an envelope out of Minelli’s desk and slips the bracelet inside. “I’m sure Gretchen’s family will want it back.” She lays the envelope to the side and then says, “Miss Van Pelt, you’ve known the sheriff for years, yes?”

Van Pelt nods mutely.

“Do you think he could he kill someone?”

Van Pelt doesn’t answer for a moment, and then she swallows and says, “About three years ago, a travelling salesmen visited Napa. He was selling vacuum cleaners and stopped by the hotel. Somehow the sheriff found out about it and confronted the man. I was running an errand and saw the whole thing. McAllister told the salesman to leave. They argued and the sheriff said he was going to write the salesman a ticket. The salesman gave in and said all right. But then he muttered something under his breath and McAllister attacked him. He beat the salesman so badly, he was in the hospital for days. The sheriff has a temper but I’ve never seen him—” She blinks away new tears. “He was like an animal. It was awful.”

“Did he explain why he attacked the man?” Jane asks.

“He said it was important to keep out vagrants. And then he told me to get some ice for his hands. So yes, to answer your question…” She looks up at Lisbon. “I don’t doubt that Sheriff McAllister is capable of killing another human being.”

“In regards to his habits,” Jane says into the silence that follows Van Pelt’s admission, “does he make a habit of leaving for long days at a time?”

Van Pelt frowns. “He stays in San Francisco every month. He meets with colleagues to discuss police procedures. He leaves on Thursdays and gets back on Mondays.”

“Every month?” Cho asks.

Jane turns to Cho. “Is that unusual?”

Cho shrugs. “Why would a sheriff for a town as small as Napa need to attend so many meetings? Do you have a high crime rate?” he asks Van Pelt.

“No,” she says. “We mostly get drunk drivers and noisy visitors.”

“We could follow up with the authorities in San Francisco,” Lisbon says thoughtfully. “Do you know where McAllister stayed and where the meetings were held?”

“No,” Van Pelt replies with chagrin. “He always made the arrangements.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jane states. “We know it’s a smoke screen. We know what he was doing all those weekends.”

“I didn’t,” Van Pelt answers, teary once more. “I had no idea.”

Lisbon glances at Van Pelt before answering Jane, “Regardless, we have to follow up on every clue. We can’t assume we’re right.”

“Of course we can,” Jane says. “Following up on every clue will take time and we don’t have a surplus of that.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“We go with what we know.” Jane turns to Van Pelt. “Have you ever seen Michael Boatwright wear a ring? A gold signet ring with three lines on the top?”

Van Pelt thinks about that and then nods. “The sheriff gave him a ring like that as a thank you gift. It was because Malcolm saved a girl from drowning in the Napa River when he was fishing up north. It made the newspaper.” She glances from Jane to Lisbon. “He never wears it, though. At least, not very often.”

“Do you remember the girl’s name? The one he saved?” Jane asks.

“No, I’m sorry.”

Again, a moment of silence and then Lisbon looks at Jane. He’s standing there, deep in thought. “Boatwright saved a girl from drowning?” she asks Jane.

It’s Cho that answers, “No. They were caught and passed it off as a rescue.”

Jane nods without looking up. “I’m sure you’re right, just as I’m sure we’re right about everything else: McAllister and Boatwright have been working together to accomplish their heinous tasks. And what’s more, they’ve been billing the city for the items that helped them in those tasks.” Jane looks up. “What we need now is the thread that holds it all together. How does Timothy Carter fit in? Who are the puppets and who is the puppet master? My gut says it’s McAllister, but…” He shifts his shoulders, as if shaking off a weight. “Miss Van Pelt, is there anything else you can tell us?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“You’re in great danger. If the sheriff finds out you took those documents, he will kill you.”

“I know,” Van Pelt says evenly, though she looks as if she might burst into tears. “I told him I was visiting my mother in Petaluma for the weekend. I packed a few things. I can find a hotel here in the city an—”

“Nonsense.” Jane waves that away. “Lisbon will put you up for a few days. She’s always wanted a roommate.”

Lisbon sighs but doesn’t object. “Of course you’re welcome to stay with me.”

“Are you sure?”

Lisbon nods, already organizing Van Pelt’s documents in a neat pile. “We do need to confer alone, though. Would it be all right, Miss Van Pelt, if I dropped you off at my apartment?”

“You can call me ‘Grace,’ and I’d rather…” Van Pelt trails off and shrugs helplessly.

“That’s fine,” Lisbon says. “You can stay with us and no…” Lisbon turns to look up at Jane. “We are not going to hash this out over a meal. We’re staying right here. We can, however,” she adds begrudgingly, “order lunch in.”

Jane smiles and strolls over to the couch. “I have no intention of going anywhere.” He plops down and stretches, crossing one long leg over the other. “I’m going to stay here and puzzle this out.”

“I assume we can puzzle with you?” Lisbon asks drily.

Jane flutters his fingers. “Have at it.”

Lisbon pushes away from the desk. “Grace, the sofa in the waiting room is very comfortable.”

Grace picks her suitcase up. “Is there a lady’s nearby?”

“I’ll show you the way.”

They’re almost out the door when Cho says, “Excuse me?”

Van Pelt turns. “Yes?”

“Did the sheriff ever mention my sister, Lucy Cho?”

Grace shakes her head. “No, not that I can recall. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

The women leave.

Cho gets up and goes to the window. Minelli’s office has a wonderful view. Across the street is a small park with a fountain. There are people going about their day and children playing. All blind to the fact that a vicious killer has been on the prowl for months now. He had been one of those people just a short time ago.

He touches his chest, wondering what he’s feeling. He’s not sure if he’s envious at their obliviousness or angry that he’d been so naive.

“How are you?”

Startled, Cho looks over his shoulder. Jane is watching him, one arm behind his head. “I’m sorry?”

“I asked how you were.”

“I’m fine.”

Jane stares at Cho for a long minute and then holds out his hand.

And just like that the world falls away and Cho is confronted with the thing he’d been trying to forget. He has choices, of course. He can ignore Jane or pretend ignorance. He can even stride out that door. Or he can just—

Cautiously, as if he has to get each step right, Cho goes to Jane. He stops a hand span away and doesn’t take Jane’s hand.

“I’m sorry about this morning,” Jane says, his hand dropping to his stomach. “I would have stayed to say thank you but your uncle was up. I didn’t want to take the chance that he might come to your room.”

“It’s okay,” Cho lies. His cheeks warm and his heart, his traitorous heart, is beating too fast again. One of these days he’s just going to have a heart attack and that will be that.

“Sit with me.”

“No.”

“Please?”

It’s the ‘please’ that does it. That and the fact that the sofa is against the wall and the door opens from the right—if anyone approaches the office, he’ll have a moment to get up and get away. He sits, his hip against Jane’s.

“Thank you.”

Somehow Jane’s hand is on his own. “For what?”

“That was the best night’s sleep I had in a while.”

“Oh. You’re welcome.”

“But that house is so cold.”

“It is.”

“I’m afraid your aunt knows.”

Jane’s casual comment is a shivery shock, one that takes a moment to settle in and then grow and grow… “What?”

“She saw me as I was sneaking back to Lucy’s room.”

If Cho’s face was hot before, it’s burning now and he starts to get up. With surprising strength, Jane holds him down.

“Don’t,” Jane says, adding in a lower, slower voice, “We did nothing wrong and even if we did, it’s nobody’s business but our own.”

Cho can’t speak the words that are scorching his throat: ‘You don’t know them,’ and, ‘You don’t know my mother. If she ever finds out—even though there’s nothing to find out—she’ll never speak to me again,’ and, ‘You were married. I don’t understand…’ and most damnable of all, ‘No, but I wanted to…’

And there it is. ‘No, but I wanted to.’ If Jane had touched him like he is now, Cho wouldn’t have been able to help himself. He would have rolled over in that small bed and done the one thing he’d been wanting to do for weeks and weeks and…

…And it doesn’t matter. It can’t matter because his one job is to find Lucy and bring her home. Once that’s done, he’ll go back to his own life and Jane will go back to his. It’s the natural order of things.

The hard logic calms him down and the fist around his heart uncurls. Only a few seconds later, he’s able to say with almost perfect equanimity, “I’ll speak to my aunt. I’ll explain.”

Jane smiles into Cho’s eyes and strokes the back of his hand. “You do that.”

Lips tight, Cho jerks free, extracting himself from Jane’s physical and non-physical hold. He retreats to the chair and gets Van Pelt’s documents. “I’m going to work,” he announces to the sheets of paper.

Jane repeats, “You do that.”

At the sound of Jane’s silky response, Cho’s resolution falters and it’s minutes before he can concentrate enough to actually read what he’s reading.

***

“So it’s proposed that based on Carter’s letters and McAllister’s ledger, that McAllister, Carter, and Boatwright are working together and that they’ve been working together for at least five years?” Lisbon asks, glancing down at her notebook.

Cho swallows a bite of sandwich before replying, “Yes.” It’s not a very good sandwich but it’s food.

“And the marked locations on the maps match most of the towns that Jane’s company has visited.”

“They do,” Jane confirms. He’d returned to the couch as soon as he’d finished his lunch.

“Then…” Lisbon leans back and sets her pen on the map she’d gotten from the Cook’s Agency down the street. “We need to figure out where they have Lucy because all this is pointless without that.”

It was going on four and the pale sun is now a vivid gold, sending streams of yellow through the windows. It gilds the desk, the lamp, and Lisbon’s cheek.

“Agreed,” Jane says. “But this state is big. Grace said that McAllister left for long weekends. That would hardly give him enough time to travel anywhere but close by. Besides which, if he’s Lucy’s mystery lover, then he wouldn’t go far because she comes to him.”

Cho twists, hooking his arm over the back of the chair. Jane has removed his jacket and is staring up at the ceiling, his arms crossed behind his head. In the luminous light, his vest gleams. “He could drive to L.A. in a day.”

Jane nods. “Yes, but for what these savages do, they need time.”

“How much?” Cho asks.

“I would imagine two or three days would be necessary for them to accomplish their fiendish tasks.”

Lisbon clears her throat. Cho glances at her. It seems she’s as disturbed as he over the thought of the ‘fiendish tasks.’ “And Lucy?”

Jane sits up, claps his hands on his thighs and then rolls to his feet. “I’ve been thinking about that.” He takes the chair next to Cho. “Things are coming to a boil but we might have a few more days.”

“Why?” Lisbon asks.

“Because it’s Friday, and if McAllister thinks that Grace is visiting her mother, then he won’t know until late Monday morning that something’s up.”

“We should confirm that with Miss Van Pelt.”

“I can wake her.” Jane makes as if to get back up, but Lisbon shakes her head.

“No, let her sleep. We have most of what we need, namely, that McAllister knows we’re on to him.”

“Oh, he knows which makes him that much more dangerous.”

“So we have maybe two days to figure out how they do what they do?” Lisbon’s voice is as dry as a desert. “How? As you pointed out, this state is big—we can’t just drive from location to location.”

“I never said we should or could,” Jane’s voice is as mild as Lisbon’s was dry.

“So what do we—”

“If you two are going to argue all afternoon,” Cho breaks in, “I’m going to go for a walk to clear my head.” Jane and Lisbon have been sniping at each other all afternoon and it’s driving him nuts.

“We’re not arguing,” Lisbon says with a guilty glance at Jane. “We know that Red John woos his victims for months and then kills them. But if Sheriff McAllister is involved, if he is Red John, how did he manage to travel all the way to Oregon, for example, and then get back to Napa within two or three days?” She tossed her pen down. “He would have had to find— Who did he kill in Arbuckle?”

“Gretchen Plaskett,” Jane says, pulling the map towards him. “And I think we’ve already established that he woos them beforehand so he wouldn’t have to ‘find’ them.”

Lisbon ignores Jane’s comment. “So, he drives up to Arbuckle and kills Miss Plaskett, then drives back down here?” She squints as if imagining the trip. “It seems improbable not to mention impossible.”

“He could have taken the train,” Cho points out. He wouldn’t have thought it possible but he’s more confused than ever. It doesn’t help that he’s distracted by Jane’s proximity and the scent of his aftershave.

“That would be even more difficult,” she says. “As far as I know, there’s no straight route from Napa to Arbuckle. He’d have to go to San Francisco or Sacramento first, then take the train north. That would add at least eight hours at the beginning and end.”

“Oh,” Jane murmurs, leaning closer to the map.

Cho leans, too. “What?”

“We—and by ‘we’ I mean ‘I’—have been assuming that all the women were killed by Red John, a single man. What if they’re all in on it?”

“And by that you mean…?”

“That they take turns.”

Cho leans back as the muddy picture clears. It’s repugnant but it makes sense. “They find their victims, then, what, share the details?”

“It explains almost everything,” Jane says. “I’ve been so focused on Red John that I never thought ‘him’ could be a ‘them.’ It would also explain why the police haven’t made any headway.”

“Because they’re given different descriptions of different men,” Lisbon agrees slowly. “It also explains the receipts.”

It’s Jane that asks, “How so?”

“If I had accomplices, I’d want blackmail material, just in case.”

Jane nods. “Or proof in case one gets caught.”

“A double-cross,” Cho adds.

“But,” Lisbon sighs, “that still doesn’t solve the big problem: where is Lucy Cho?”

“And which one of them has her?”

“Excuse me?”

They all turn.

Van Pelt is standing in the door. “I heard you.” She comes into the room. “You think Sheriff McAllister is the murderer Red John?”

“Do you know about him?” Jane asks.

Van Pelt nods. “The sheriff got a telegram from the FBI back in ‘37 about a man that called himself Red John. We were told he was operating in Southern California, though.”

“I believe his—or their—hunting grounds are more widespread than that.”

Reluctance in her every step, Van Pelt comes to the desk and leans over the map. “Are these the locations of the murders?”

“They’re the locations of where some of the women were found,” Jane corrects.

“But you’re looking for a place where McAllister might take the girls when it’s his—” She swallows. “Someplace quiet and solitary?”

“Yes. If he does indeed spend time with them, it needs to be somewhere within a half day’s drive from Napa.”

“Sheriff McAllister’s family has a house in Soda Springs. When his parents died, he inherited the property. I went to a New Year’s Eve party there.”

There was a collective hush and then—in an explosion of unity—everyone jumps up and huddles around the map.

“Show me,” Lisbon orders.

Van Pelt points to an area northeast of Napa.

Lisbon marks the map and then folds it up. Cho collects the remainder of his lunch and throws it away. Jane gets his jacket.

“What’s going on?” Van Pelt asks with a wide-eyed look of confusion.

“We’re going to Napa,” Lisbon is gathering and sorting the papers she’d spread out on Minelli’s desk.

“Now?”

“Yes, now. Cho?” Lisbon points to the safe. “It’s not locked. There’s an extra revolver and bullets; we’ll need at least one box. Jane? There’s a flashlight in my desk; get it, please.”

Van Pelt takes a breath. “But—”

Lisbon stops her organizing. “Miss Van Pelt, you just handed us what could be the key to a young girl’s survival. You can stay here and hide, or you can come and help save her.”

Grace’s chin firms; she nods. “What do you need me to do?”

***

They’re out the door in five minutes. As they’re leaving, Cho slows, letting Lisbon and Van Pelt take the lead. They’d reached the first-floor landing when he touches Jane’s arm. “Hey?”

“Yes?”

“I need to ask you something.”

“I’m all ears.”

Cho makes sure Lisbon and Van Pelt are out of earshot, then whispers, “What if she’s in on it?”

If Jane is surprised by the question, he doesn’t show it. “What if Miss Van Pelt is in league with Red John?”

Cho nods. He doesn’t like to admit where his thoughts have led, but he’d been stupid before; it’s important not to be stupid again.

But Jane just smiles. “I’d considered that but her tears were real and so is her fear.”

“So you’re not worried?”

Jane’s smile fades. “Oh, I’m worried, but not about Grace. Come on…”

Jane hurries down the stairs and Cho follows, wondering what Jane is worried about.

***

Within a half hour, they’ve filled up the car’s tank and are on the road, chasing the falling sun.

Lisbon makes Jane sit in the back with Cho. She needs Van Pelt up in front, she says, to show her the way.

Cho doesn’t mind. Not that he’s about to tell anyone that.

It’s an odd, other-worldly trip. There are only a few motorists on the road and the isolation gives Cho a sense of lonely motionless, as if they’re all in a dark boat, sailing on a still sea. It’s not a comfortable feeling.

It doesn’t help that the back of the Cadillac isn’t roomy with two people. Jane’s knee keeps grazing his own, almost as if it’s not an accident.

Cho can’t retreat because there’s no place to retreat to, so he crosses his arms and pretends that Jane—and all he represents—doesn’t exist.

***

“Turn here,” comes Van Pelt’s soft instruction.

West on the Lincoln Highway and then north on the Silverado Trail and now onto Soda Springs Canyon Road. They’re all so quiet, Cho is sure he’d hear a pin drop if someone dropped one.

“There’s a resort up here?” Jane says as he peers out the window.

“Not anymore. During the turn of the century, it was all the rage,” Van Pelt replies. “Now it’s just a bottling plant.”

“All the rage,” Jane murmurs doubtfully.

Cho understands. The last street light had been some time ago and he can only see what the headlamps pick out: dry hills, a few trees, and a very narrow dirt road.

“When I was little, they held rallies up here,” Grace went on. “A driver was killed when he took a curve too fast.”

“Lisbon,” Jane says. “Don’t take this curve too fast.”

Lisbon, in the middle of negotiating the tricky angle, mutters something under her breath. It sounds like, ‘Jackass.’

“We’re getting close,” Van Pelt breathes.

Jane sits forward. “How close? Within a mile or two?”

“Maybe a mile?” Van Pelt guesses. “I’m not sure. I just know there’s another road on the left not far from here. The house is at the end of that road.”

“Lisbon,” Jane says, “when you get to, pull off to the side.”

Lisbon glances at Jane in the mirror. “You think they know we’re coming?”

“I think the night is quiet. I think your car sounds like a locomotive.”

“All right,” Lisbon says after a moment. “But if we end up walking more than a mile, you’re buying me a new pair of shoes.”

Jane doesn’t have time to respond because Van Pelt says, “There’s the turn-off.”

Lisbon slows down.

“Keep driving,” Jane instructs. “Park under those trees.” He reaches over the seat and points. “See it?”

“I see it.” Lisbon says, adding. “Cho? Slap his hand for me.”

Jane snorts but he sits back.

“What’s the plan?” Cho asks once Lisbon has parked under the stand of cottonwoods.

“The plan is simple,” Jane answers. “We go up there as quietly as we can and see what’s going on.”

Lisbon turns off the engine. Without the pale benefit of the headlamps, the darkness is like a suffocating cloak. “What if nothing’s going on? What if Lucy’s not there?”

“Then we return to Sacramento and reassess. But…” Through the black, Jane finds Cho’s arm. “I think our problem will be what to do if something is going on.” Jane squeezes. “I think he’s up there. I think he has to be. Our only ace in the hole is that he doesn’t know Grace has joined our merry band. That will give us an edge. We need to be prepared to use it.”

“Don’t worry,” Lisbon says, busy with something up in the front seat. “We are.” She turns and raises her hand—she’s holding a revolver. She gives it to Cho. “That’s Minelli’s.” She twists to face Cho and Jane. “I’ll take the lead. Cho’s with me. Jane, you and Van Pelt will bring up the rear. If you open your yap on the way to the house, I’ll shoot you.”

Lisbon gets out of the car and Van Pelt, mouth open in shock, asks, “Was she serious?”

“Yes,” Cho and Jane answer in unison.

***

The walk up the hill is more of a climb because the road is very steep and hasn’t been graded. Cho’s eyes adjust minutes after starting out but that doesn’t help much—the moon is behind a bank of heavy clouds and there are no streetlights of any kind.

Van Pelt has the worst of it, though. Jane is escorting her, one arm behind her back, but she keeps slipping and stumbling in her high-heeled Oxfords. After the first time, though—followed by a glare and a sharp gesture from Lisbon—she manages not to exclaim when she slips.

The hill eventually levels off and the going is easier. It feels as if they’re heading south, not north, and Cho wonders how much further when two things happen: the clouds dissipate and Lisbon stops abruptly. She holds up her hand; Cho stops in his tracks.

It’s a wonder they didn’t just walk up to the doorstep because there it is, beyond a hedge. With a deep porch, tall columns made of marble that catch the moonlight, and many dark windows, it’s more of a mansion than a house. There are no other residences nearby. Why would anyone build such a fancy home in such an inhospitable place?

“Hm,” Jane murmurs under his breath as he and Van Pelt join them.

“There,” Van Pelt breathes and points.

Off to the side of the oval-shaped drive are three automobiles.

Cho’s heart stills in his chest. “Lisbon?”

“What?”

He nods to the car furthest on the right. “I think that’s Lucy’s.”

Lisbon says nothing for a bare second, and then she whispers, “All right. Good.”

“And that’s the sheriff’s,” Van Pelt adds as she points to the roadster on the left.

“Okay.” Lisbon gets the pistol out of her pocket, then gestures, telling Jane and Van Pelt to stay put. She nods to Cho; they creep across the road and up the drive.

Later, Cho was to wonder at their luck. So many things could have gone wrong. McAllister could have kept dogs or he could have rigged some kind of alarm.

But McAllister has done none of those things and they make it to the house unmolested. Cho peers through the windows that bracket the double doors. No one and nothing. He grips the knob. It turns without a sound. ‘Here we go,’ he tells Lisbon silently. He opens the door and steps in.

As it should, the interior matches the exterior. Ahead is a broad, carpet-covered staircase that splits at the landing. To the right is a parlor; to the left is what looks like a study. Cho can’t see a kitchen or dining room.

There isn’t a single light on. Nor are there any sounds. He glances at Lisbon. She shrugs and points to the stairs. He starts towards them only to be stopped by a muffled tap. He turns. It’s Jane, rapping a knuckle on the door.

Jane jerks his thumb towards the side of the house and then down.

The basement. Of course there’d be a basement and that should have been the first thing Cho thought of because what kind of murderer would torture someone in an upstairs bedroom?

Cho nods and then signals; ‘Go back to Van Pelt; we’ll take it from here,’ and then another to Lisbon, meaning ‘This way.’ He heads toward the parlor with Lisbon close behind.

The parlor leads to the dining room and then the kitchen. Cho treads as if he’s walking on eggshells, afraid one wrong step will sound the alarm.

The kitchen is old-fashioned and big—the appliances and furniture are, too. The stove and ice box take up almost one whole wall and the table is so long it looks like it could seat twenty.

Lisbon touches Cho’s arm, then gestures to the back door on the far side of the room. She starts to edge around Cho when the heavy silence is broken by a blood-curdling shriek. The noise ends as quickly as it had come, leaving an echoing imprint.

Adrenaline racing, forgoing all caution, Cho races around the table because the cry didn’t come from beyond the back door—it came from the right.

He finds his goal, a narrow wooden door on the other side of the pantry shelves. The door is open, but just. Cho pulls it open with his fingertips. Before him is a long, stone-stepped staircase, lit by a weak glass bulb.

“Cho!”

Cho ignores Lisbon’s hand on his arm and her frantic whisper; he descends.

The steps are worn by time and he hurries as fast as he dares. When he nears the bottom, he slows to a creep. He stops on the last step; a corridor is before him. The light reaches part way, leaving the end of the corridor in black. On either side are rooms, newly built by the look of the wooden doors and modern locks.

Cho goes to the first and is reaching for the doorknob when the cry comes again, much louder, much longer, much higher. It’s followed by a voice, muffled and deep.

Cho grips the gun and pads down the hall towards the shadows at the end.

Entering the dark is like entering nothingness and he moves blindly, weapon raised, hoping like hell his luck holds.

It doesn’t.

Cho is inching along, trying furiously to see, when his gun hits a metal obstruction. The noise is like a gong, a reverberating clang and he thinks, ‘Damn it.’

Immediately, a rectangle of bright light blinds him. He squints and aims but it’s too late. Someone lunges at him and hits him on the side of the head. He staggers and fights to no avail. The someone hits him again and this time he falls to the ground, dropping the gun. He tries to push to his feet but he’s hit for the third time; the world explodes in a burst of color and a sharp, sharp pain.

***

“And if you had listened to me, we wouldn’t be in this mess!”

“Sir, I did exactly as you said. I met the girl and I brought her here. Those were your exact instructions!”

“I said to escort her to Napa, Boatwright. You’re such an imbecile!”

A thick noise, like the sound of a handclap, clears away the confusion—Cho catalogs his circumstances in stages as he comes to: He’s cold. His neck hurts. The back of his head hurts. He’s gagged and sitting in a chair with his hands and feet bound.

He opens his eyes and raises his head.

The pain intensifies and he waits it out until it dulls to a low throbbing ache. He looks around. He’s alone and sitting in a small room lit by another bare light bulb. There’s no one with him. The voices he’d heard are coming through an open door.

Unlike the other part of the basement, this area hasn’t been improved. The exterior stone walls are covered with cobwebs and dirt and the air smells of decay. On the right is a worktable; on it are tools, an old clock, and a pile of sheets. Cho cranes his neck, trying to see beyond the table, looking for another door or possibly a window. There’s nothing, just the corner of the room and a tall tower of bushel baskets.

A noise jerks Cho around. He winces and then frowns because he’s not alone. Behind him, in a chair of her own, is a girl. She’s also trussed up, also bent over, her face hidden behind her hair. She’s wearing a torn dress and no shoes. Poor thing. She looks like a rag doll that a child had thrown away.

The girl moans, a soft sigh and—

And Cho grunts because he realizes who the girl is. He flexes his hands and muscles, twisting in an effort to get free.

“Well, look who decided to join us. The brother.”

Cho stills and then turns back around. Three men are coming through the door. The first is McAllister, the second is the bellhop, and the third…

The third man is familiar though Cho has only seen his likeness in grainy photos and not, as they say, in the flesh.

In those grainy photographs, Carter had seemed tall and robust. The man before him is short and thin; if Cho could use any word to describe him it would be ‘seedy,’ given Carter’s dirty linen suit, loose tie, and unkempt hair.

“We won’t waste time on the pleasantries,” McAllister continues, coming over to yank Cho’s gag down. “Where’s the lady detective?”

Cho licks his lips. There’s no point in lying but he needs to give Lisbon time… “I have no idea.”

Without pause or ceremony, McAllister hits Cho across the face with the back of his hand.

Cho’s vision darkens again and his ears ring. ‘He was like an animal. It was terrifying,’ he reminds himself. McAllister isn’t wearing his service revolver but he doesn’t need it. There are plenty of tools on the bench. Cho moistens his lip again, this time to lick away the blood. When his vision clears, he straightens up and asks flatly, “Are you the murderer called Red John?”

McAllister smiles. “So you figured it out.”

“It wasn’t hard.” A cool puff of air slides over the back of Cho’s neck. Either there’s a window somewhere behind him or he’s truly afraid. “You weren’t exactly subtle. Or clever.”

Boatwright opens his mouth but McAllister raises his hand. Boatwright shuts his mouth with a snap.

“I managed to fool the authorities for eight years,” McAllister says. “I’d say that took a certain amount of cleverness.”

Cho lifts one sore shoulder. “Maybe at the first, but now…?” He shrugs again; it still hurts. “You got sloppy.”

“I suppose this is your way of stalling so the girl can ride to your rescue,” McAllister says. “I looked. She’s not out there.”

“That’s not surprising considering I came alone.”

McAllister’s confident expression falters. “So if I ask you again—”

“I’ll say the same thing,” Cho responds with as much of a, ‘Can we get this over already?’ tone as he’s able. “If you’re going to kill me, you might as well get on with it. I called the FBI before I left Sacramento.” It’s a flash of inspiration, partly as another stall, partly to see McAllister’s reaction.

He gets a reaction all right. McAllister’s eyes narrow and his mouth twists. “Those fools. I got a visit from them a few months ago. Were they thanks to you?”

Cho doesn’t answer, not because of any genius plan, but because the shadows beyond the door just stirred. Someone is there, hiding, and he’s pretty sure he knows who it is.

“Well?”

“Yes. I wrote to them in February.”

“You’re lying,” McAllister says. “It was her, the girl detective.”

“It was me and she’s not here.”

McAllister stares at Cho. Finally, he says, “So if she didn’t bring you, how did you find the place? Was it Patrick Jane?”

“I figured it out on my own.”

“So Jane’s not here.”

It’s not a question, but Cho still answers: “I don’t know where he is.”

He thought that would make them happy; he was wrong. McAllister exchanges a dark look with Carter but it’s Carter that speaks, stepping forward to say, “Liar. You’re working with him. I saw you and that lady in Barstow.”

So Jane had been right—Carter had been following the act. “Yes, I was in Barstow, but we’re not working together.”

“He’s a liar,” Carter mutters, pacing restlessly, straying into the light. “What more do you need?”

Cho swallows, his throat thick with anger and fear because the light has shown him what the shadows hadn’t: Carter’s linen suit isn’t dirty, it’s stained with blood. Blood that has to be from Lucy. The anger swells to rage.

He tamps it down, using all the willpower he’d learned over the years. He’d give anything to attack Carter in any way he could, but he has to be smart, he has to give Lisbon time although why she hasn’t made her move…

“You’re right,” he says, grasping for straws. “I was lying. Jane is working for me. I hired him. He doesn’t think much of you, by the way. He said you were the laziest employee he’s ever had. He said you stole thousan—”

Carter lunges and hits Cho so hard his vision darkens once more. But Carter’s recklessness has revealed something else: there’s a bloody bite mark on his wrist. Cho uses the new knowledge without thinking about the consequences, “It was you I heard scream earlier, wasn’t it? Was it Lucy? Good. I’m gl—”

This time Carter doesn’t lunge, he leaps, landing astride Cho’s lap, fingers tight around Cho’s neck. He bends his lips in a parody of a smile and snarls, “Patrick Jane is a buffoon. I jumped through his hoops for years and every time, I wanted to strangle him just like this…”

It’s almost funny. Cho would love to respond that he understood the urge but he can barely breath and why wasn’t Lisbon coming to the rescue?

“To be fair,” comes a lazy voice from the dark door, “I have a lot of hoops. To which are you referring?”

Carter freezes. And then is off Cho so fast the chair tips before righting itself.

Cho draws a long breath of relief. He should have had more faith because there Jane is, leaning against the door jamb, arms crossed, still holding the flashlight, smiling as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.

“And you have to admit,” Jane adds, speaking only to Carter, “you weren’t the best employee. Always late, always stealing. And then there were the women… Four came to me because you scared them and if there were four, no doubt there were more.” He tips his head. “How many were there, you sick bastard?”

Carter starts forward only to be stopped by McAllister.

“Mr. Jane,” McAllister says. “I’m glad we finally get to meet, real face to real face.”

Jane shrugs. “It may be a thrill for you. For myself, I’m less than impressed.”

McAllister is standing at an angle but even so, Cho sees the barb hit.

“I know you’re heckling me into doing something rash,” McAllister says. “It won’t work.”

“But you can’t resist. Don’t worry, I’ll make it easy on you.” Jane straightens up. “Why am I disappointed? One, the breadcrumbs your associate left me were less than sophisticated, so obvious as to be immediately suspect.”

McAllister turns his head to glare at Carter but just asks, “Such as?”

“The ‘new wine from Napa’ that he’d just purchased?” Jane answers with a grin. “Please.”

Carter curls his lip.

“And then there are the rings.”

Boatwright, silent this whole time, bleats like a goat and then darts a guilty glance McAllister’s way.

“All right,” McAllister says after shooting Boatwright a scathing glare. “I’ll give you that. It was less than subtle, but I appreciate good work and wanted to give my—” He searches for the word but Jane gets there first:

“Acolytes?” Jane suggests sweetly. “Sycophants? Lackeys?”

McAllister just chuckles. “Your attempts to get me to come over there are pointless, Mr. Jane. I know the lady detective is behind you just as I know she has some sort of weapon.”

Jane raises an eyebrow. “Lisbon’s not behind me.” And then he smiles, a Cheshire-cat grin. “She’s behind you.”

The very air stills and then the three men pivot. Cho twists as a slim form materializes from behind the bushel baskets.

So, not a corner and not a window—a coal chute that is still in use. Lisbon is covered in soot, from head to toe; the black melds perfectly with the black revolver she’s pointing at McAllister.

“You were so busy with your toy,” Jane says conversationally, “that you forgot about the coal chute that’s in the coal room. And now…” He sets the flashlight down on the bench and reaches under his jacket. He brings out a gun. It’s Minelli’s, the one Cho had dropped. “This is where your sad little adventure ends.”

Boatwright had raised his hands the moment Lisbon had stepped forward. But McAllister and Carter, they aren’t so cowed.

“I have a lot of friends, Mr. Jane,” McAllister says, retreating a step towards the work bench. “No one will believe you.”

“I won’t have to make people believe me,” Jane responds. “The evidence I’ve collected from your secretary will do the talking for me. And then there are your associates…” He nods to Carter and Boatwright. “If you think they’ll take the fall for you, you’ve got another thing coming. They’ll sing long before the bars lock tight behind them.”

At the mention of Grace Van Pelt’s name, McAllister’s expression had gone cold and then mean. He’s clearly weighing his options, clearly searching for a way out. He sighs and nods. “You’re right.”

And then, as calmly as if he’s shooting ducks at an arcade, he picks up a gun from the table and shoots Boatwright and then Carter. He spins and trains the gun on Cho.

Three things happen at once: the lights go out, a shot rings out, and Lisbon shouts, “Jane!”

Someone runs into Cho’s chair as Lisbon’s cry is still reverberating in the air; the chair tips over.

Hitting the floor wouldn’t have been so bad but Cho hits his head, too. He lays there dazed, listening to the sounds of scuffling and grunting and a crash of metal. And then two more shots, one after the other, and another thud as something heavy lands on the floor—

“Jane?” Lisbon calls out.

Jane replies, his voice muffled, “I’m unhurt.”

“Can you turn the light back on?”

There’s a noise, a soft curse from Jane; the light springs to life.

On his side, Cho squints. McAllister is about a foot away, dead as the proverbial doornail from a bullet in his temple. His face is covered in soot—Lisbon must have tackled him.

“Here…” Jane hauls Cho’s chair up. “Wait…” He starts to untie him.

“Get Lucy,” Cho says.

“I am on it,” Lisbon replies.

The evidence of the fight is everywhere; the clock on the table is on the ground along with most of the tools, the baskets are tipped over. “Where’s Miss Van Pelt?”

“Hiding in the car,” Lisbon says. “I told her to leave if we didn’t come back in twenty minutes.”

“Why twenty minutes?”

“How do I know? It seemed like a good number.”

Jane has freed Cho’s legs and starts on his arms. His legs are surprisingly stiff considering he’d been tied up for a relatively short time. “How are we going to explain all this?”

It’s Jane that answers: “Don’t worry about that. Now we just have to…” His voice trails away to a soft, “This might hurt.”

Cho’s arms swing free. “Ow.”

“I said it might hurt.” Jane’s tone was mild, reproachful.

“Sorry.”

Still crouching, Jane scoots around, his hand on Cho’s thigh. He reaches up and touches Cho’s forehead with his thumb. “We should get you to a doctor.”

“I’m fine,” Cho says, reluctantly break from Jane’s light touch to see… He leans back. Lisbon has freed Lucy and is holding her upright.

“She won’t wake up.” Lisbon says. “I’m afraid–”

“No,” Cho protests because he can’t bear it, not after all this. “We need to get her to a hospital.”

Lisbon glances at Jane before nodding. “All right, but can you walk?”

Holding onto Jane’s shoulder, Cho pushes to his feet. The room tilts and twists but then rights itself. Jane straightens up, too. “I’m okay,” Cho says even though he isn’t really.

Lisbon presses her lips together but all she says is, “Get McAllister’s weapon. Jane, a little help?”

With a worried smile, Jane lets go of Cho.

Legs unsteady, Cho finds the gun next to Carter’s body. He pockets it and hurries after Lisbon, Jane, and his unconscious sister.

***

The way up through the house and outside is difficult, made more so because Jane drops Lisbon’s flashlight while they’re in the foyer. It won’t turn back on and Lisbon lays into him, telling him it’s an expensive piece of equipment and he’s going to buy her a new one if she can’t fix it.

They argue the whole way down to the car. Cho doesn’t interfere. He’s entered a new phase of consciousness. He knows he’s awake because he knows he’s walking. Walking behind Jane and Lisbon, who are walking, too. And if they are walking and he’s walking, then he’s conscious. It’s a circular fragment of logic that only winds deeper into confusion the more he thinks about it.

His gray fog breaks as a sharp cry shatters the gloom. It’s Van Pelt. They’re at the car and Van Pelt is hurrying towards them.

“What happened?” she asks, reaching out to help carry Lucy.

“We don’t know,” Lisbon replies. “McAllister and his goons are dead. Where’s the nearest hospital?”

“In Sacramento?” Van Pelt says, adding, “We just have the asylum here in Napa.”

“What about a doctor?”

“There are two but I’m not sure we can trust them. They’re friends of Sheriff McAllister.”

“Ladies,” Jane interrupts. “Let’s get Lucy off her feet and then we can discuss it.”

Cho thinks Lisbon answers but the fog sweeps over again. He leans against the car and is still leaning there when someone takes his arm. “I’m fine.” It’s Jane, dragging him upright.

“I’m sure you are.”

One arm behind Cho’s back, Jane leads Cho forward. “What’s happening?”

“We’re getting you in…” Jane guides Cho into the back seat. “…so we can be off.”

“Where’s Lucy?”

Jane pushes Cho, urging him to the left. “She’s next to you.”

Cho turns his head. Or tries to and it shouldn’t take such effort, should it? A simple act that he’s simply unable to do, so he glances sideways. Lucy is crumpled against the car door; in the colorless night she looks dead. He’s afraid to touch her, afraid to make whatever is wrong with her worse, but he can’t stand not to. Very gently, he draws her close. She doesn’t stir and her skin is cool.

“Cho?”

It’s Lisbon. She’s in the open door, holding out a blanket.

“I’m not cold.”

“It’s for your sister,” she answers. She starts to say something else but Jane takes the blanket and switches places with her, climbing into the back to sit next to Cho.

“We need to go,” Jane calls out, leaning around Cho to tuck the blanket around Lucy.

A flap of blanket has covered Cho’s thighs but he doesn’t move it—the warmth feels good. “Thank you,” he says, unsure if he’s thanking Jane for taking care of Lucy or something else that he can’t quite— “My head hurts.”

“It should,” Jane answers, settling back. “They bashed you a couple times.”

With a cough and a jerk, the car growls to life. Cho closes his eyes. The engine’s roar is awful. He’s going to be sick.

“If you’re going to throw up, let me know in advance.”

Jane’s tone is quiet but holds an edge of humor. Cho takes a deep breath; the sickness subsides. “Don’t tease.”

“Sorry,” Jane says. He touches Cho’s arm. “I think you should just…” And then he slips an arm around Cho’s back. He tugs.

Later, Cho tells himself that he didn’t fall into Jane’s arms but that’s essentially what happens. One minute he’s upright, holding Lucy, and the next, he’s tipped back, still holding Lucy, but also resting against Jane’s chest.

Tipped, he thinks again. Like the chair. Like him in the chair. Tipped over, landing hard enough to see stars and Jane’s… “Why do you wear those?”

Jane rearranges the blanket and pulls it over Cho’s legs. “Why do I wear what?”

“Those shoes. Your clothes are expensive. Why do you wear those old shoes?”

“Because my wife gave them to me.”

“Oh.”

“And because they’re comfortable.”

“But really because she gave them to you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you miss her?”

“All the time.”

“Oh.” Cho frowns. There’s something wrong here, some thing he’s doing that he shouldn’t be doing but he can’t put a name to it. All he knows is that he feels goods. He’s got his sister and Jane’s arm is around him. Under the blanket like they’re in a dark cocoon. Like they’re caterpillars. Which means they’ll be butterflies one day.

Cho’s breath catches in his chest because it’s funny, the idea of Jane as a butterfly.

“What is it?”

Jane’s voice is so low and soothing; Cho could listen to him forever. “Nothing.”

“All right.”

Jane begins to stroke Cho’s arm, a slow up and down that feels as good as Jane’s voice sounds. He thinks of telling Jane that, that his touch feels so good and he should never stop, but just as he’s gathering strength to speak, the car hits a bump. The jolt and the immediate pain scatters Cho’s thoughts and he’s trying to catch his breath when his self scatters, too.

***

“Mister.”

“Mister?”

Cho opens his eyes. The bright light sends a sharp pang through is skull; he squeezes his eyes shut.

“Mister!”

Someone cuffs his arm; he opens his eyes again. There’s a child standing next to him. She has curly red hair, a bandage around her neck, and is carrying a stuffed rabbit. She’s wearing a hospital gown. Cho glances down. He’s wearing a hospital gown, too, which means…

He sits up, then grabs his head and groans as the room blackens. He drops back down. “Where am I?”

“I don’t know.”

“What day is it?”

“I don’t know. Why’re you here?”

“I have no idea,” he answers, gingerly craning his head to see. He’s in a hospital bed, in a hospital ward. Some distance away, there are two other men in two other beds; one is hooked up to some kind of machine. Both are asleep. The other beds are empty and the nurse’s station is without a nurse. Wheelchairs huddle together on the far side of the room. There’s no calendar but the big clock on the wall says it’s just past noon.

“I’m here because a dog bit me.”

Cho gives the girl a sideways glance. Her announcement had held a hint of pride, as if she’s very happy that a dog… “A dog bit you? On the neck?” He takes a closer look. There’s bruise on the girl’s temple and what appears to be a fading black eye. “Seriously?”

The girl’s happy expression fades. “That’s what Mommy said. She said I was playing and I fell down and a dog bit me.”

It makes no sense but it also doesn’t matter. He needs to leave and the girl— “You have to go.”

The girl cocks her head. “Why?”

“Because I need to go and in order to do that, I have to get dressed.”

“Why?”

Cho draws a slow, frustrated breath but before he can explain why, two women come into the ward. It’s Theresa Lisbon and Grace Van Pelt. Lisbon is carrying a lunch bag.

“Charming the ladies, are we?” Lisbon says as she stops by the side of the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a truck.” Other than the messy hair and the dark circles under her eyes, Van Pelt seems fine. Lisbon, on the other hand… “How are you?” Lisbon’s trousers are torn and her face is bruised.

“I’m okay,” Lisbon says with a dismissive shrug; she puts the bag on the bedside table.

“You got hit by a truck?” the girl asks, her gaze darting from Cho to Lisbon.

“No, honey,” Van Pelt says, reaching down to pick up the girl. “That’s just a figure of speech. Your mommy is looking for you. You shouldn’t wander off.”

“I didn’t wander, I walked.”

Van Pelt and Lisbon smile at the girl’s response.

Van Pelt shifts the girl to her hip. “I’m going to take her back to her room,” she says, adding to Cho, “I’m glad you’re okay.” She leaves, the little girl querulously asking about figures and trucks.

“Well,” Lisbon says with a lingering smile. “How are you really?” She looks around, spies a chair, and drags it next to the bed.

“Like I got hit by a truck,” Cho grumbles only to relent, “No, I’m fine but I need to get out of here.”

“You need to stay where you are. You have a concussion.”

Cho shakes his head. It doesn’t hurt and the room doesn’t tilt. “I have to leave.”

“Cho—”

“Theresa,” Cho interrupts, looking everywhere but at Lisbon. “I can’t afford this.” It’s so humiliating, having to explain it.

Lisbon touches Cho’s hand. “You’re staying. Minelli is paying for your expenses. Lucy’s too.”

Cho frowns. “You can’t. He can’t.”

“Of course he can.” She sits back and crosses her legs. “After all, you’re famous. You helped capture the notorious Red John Lady Killer and his henchmen.”

“What are you—” Cho touches his temple, only then remembering something he should have remembered the minute he opened his eyes. “Lucy. Is she…?”

“She’s fine. She hasn’t woken up but the doctor says it’s because of the trauma.”

“Did those men—?” He can’t say it, the awful word.

Lisbon, though, seems to understand. She glances down at the floor as she answers: “They hit her a few times and terrorized her but that seems to be it.”

Cho feels a cool wash of relief. “Where is she?”

“In the ladies ward.”

“Where are we?”

“Sacramento. It was the only place we could think of.”

‘We.’ ‘We’ meant Lisbon and Van Pelt and Jane; Cho wants to ask where Jane is but somehow can’t, so he settles for: “I need to call my aunt and uncle. And my parents.”

“I went to see your aunt and uncle this morning. They were very upset. Your uncle said something in Korean and stormed out. Your aunt wanted to see you and Lucy but I convinced her to stay home so she could call your parents.”

Cho digests that and then says, “I want to see Lucy.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“I’m serious. I want to see my sister.”

“The doctor said you shouldn’t get up.”

“I’ll use a wheelchair. You can push me.”

“Cho—”

He gives her a long look. “Lisbon.”

Lisbon meets Cho’s gaze and then nods. “All right, but if we do this, we’re only staying a few minutes.”

“Understood.” Cautiously, Cho sits up. Again, there’s no reaction except for a minor throbbing in his temple. “I need a robe.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you with that.” Lisbon gets the blanket off the bed next to them. “Will this do?”

“Yes.” Cho wraps it around his shoulders like a cloak and waits while Lisbon retrieves one of the wheelchairs.

Cho makes the transfer from bed to chair in one graceless motion.

“Any dizziness?”

“No,” he lies—the room is rocking, a slow wave that turns his stomach.

“Hmph.” Lisbon pushes Cho to the door, then on through. “It looks like the coast is clear.”

There’s no one nearby. Down towards the end of the hall, Minelli and Grace Van Pelt are talking to a tall man in a trench coat.

“Who is that?” Cho asks as Lisbon wheels the chair to the left.

“That is Jane’s friend from the FBI.”

“The one with the pen?”

“The very same.”

“Why is he here? How is he here?”

“I sent a telegram last night. He and his partner arrived this morning.”

“What did they say when you told them you caught Red John?”

“They didn’t believe me at first. Grace filled them in.”

“It looks like she’s still filling him in.”

This time Lisbon’s ‘hmph’ is full of humor. “Agent Rigsby is smitten. He was supposed to return to his office an hour ago.” Lisbon pauses in front of a door; above the door is a sign that reads, ‘Ladies Ward B’. “Here we are. Remember, just a few minutes.”

“Understood.”

Turning the chair, Lisbon enters backwards.

The woman’s ward is much the same as the men’s. A long room with beige walls, lined with beds. The only difference is that the beds are curtained.

Lisbon wheels Cho to the right and pushes him between the white curtains.

“I’ll keep watch by the door,” Lisbon murmurs.

Cho nods, all his attention on the still form in the bed.

Lucy is the smallest of his three sisters. Covered by the thick blankets, she seems barely there. Her thick black hair is matted, her skin unusually pale. The marks left by McAllister and Carter seem more like stains—varied colored bruises on her throat and temples and cheeks. There’s a cut on her cheek only partially covered by a bandage.

He last saw her in L.A., right after the western New Year. She’d come for a visit, a quick weekend to see their parents. With a new bob and a smart tweed outfit, she’d never looked more American. His parents had been angry at the changes, but their reaction hadn’t dimmed Lucy’s enthusiasm. The new job, she’d said, was perfect; she’d already made a friend and soon she’d be sending money home that they could use it to visit Sacramento. She’d been so excited…

Cho pushes the chair closer and then stretches out a hand. His fingers are shaking. He takes a deep breath and then whispers, “Lucy?”

There’s no response and he tries again, “Luce?”

Still the same; Cho drops his hand. So stupid. As if his mere presence would wake her up, like something from a fairy tale.

But this isn’t a fairy tale. This is real life where people hurt each other in small and large ways.

If Lucy never wakes up, what will he do? How will he live with himself? Never mind that—how will he tell his parents? His father will never forgive him for not acting immediately. Why hadn’t he—

“Ready to go?”

Cho jerks but doesn’t turn at the sound of Lisbon’s voice. Hoping she doesn’t notice, he rubs the damp from his eyes. “Yes.”

If Lisbon sees the tears, she doesn’t say anything as she pushes him back to the men’s ward.

After he’s back in bed—a feat as awkward getting in as it was getting out—he drops back, exhausted. It will be good to sleep for a while. If he can manage to clear his mind of the sight of Lucy’s bruised face, that is.

Expecting Lisbon to say goodbye and leave, he’s surprised when she sits in the wheelchair and nods to the paper bag, “Your aunt made you an egg sandwich. She said she used to give them to you when you were sick.”

“I’m not sick.”

Lisbon smiles. “My very words.”

He can’t explain, can’t tell Lisbon his suspicion as to why Min is treating him as if he’s ill—he can barely stand to think of the reason, in any case. “Where are my clothes?”

“Your suit was ruined. Minelli ordered a new one from his tailor, and before you object…” Lisbon raises her hand. “He said it was because you need to look presentable when you speak to the authorities which will be…” She looks at her wristwatch. “About three hours from now.”

“And in the meantime, we need to get our story straight?”

Lisbon smiles again only this time her grin is followed by a wince; she touches her cheek. “McAllister has a mean right hook. At least, I think it was him.”

Cho turns on his side. “Tell me what happened.”

Lisbon’s smile fades and she hesitates, as if gathering her thoughts. “There’s not a lot to tell, really. You didn’t listen to me and charged down the stairs. I was following when Jane appeared at the kitchen door. He told me that he’d found the coal chute door at the far end of the mansion and convinced me to go around to that entrance. He called it the classic pincer strategy.”

“Probably something he made up.”

“Probably. Anyway…” Lisbon shrugs. “It took me a while to find the door and make my way down. I wasn’t very quiet. I can’t believe McAllister didn’t hear.”

“He was a busy with me.”

“Right. When Jane turned off the lights, I tried to get to McAllister but forgot about Boatwright’s body. I tripped and pushed you over. As I was getting up, I heard four shots.”

“There were two.”

Lisbon shakes her head. “There were four. McAllister shot twice and so did Jane.”

Cho thinks about that. “Jane shot McAllister?”

“He did but Minelli is telling the authorities that it was me. We’re keeping Jane out of it—it’s easier that way.”

“I thought Minelli doesn’t like Jane.”

“He doesn’t, but I think he’s coming around.”

As everyone seemed to. Everyone except McAllister and Carter. “So it’s over.”

“As far as I’m concerned. Lucy is safe and the killer is dead.” Lisbon’s gaze grows thoughtful again. “I still don’t understand the relationship between McAllister, Carter and Boatwright. Did Carter write those letters of his own free will? Why did McAllister hate Jane so much? I can see irritation, but hate…?”

“Maybe he went to Jane’s show? Maybe Jane humiliated him?”

“Maybe.”

“Lisbon,” Cho says after a moment of silence. “Do you think Jane wanted to get there first so he could shoot McAllister himself?”

“I hope not.”

“Because it would be premeditated murder?”

Lisbon nods.

Cho smooths out the sheet. There’s no point asking Jane flat out—he’d just lie. And what does it matter, in any case? McAllister had it coming. So did Carter.

Still, the idea is like a stone in Cho’s stomach but he ignores the weight, shifting the subject, “And Van Pelt?”

“She’s so grateful that McAllister is gone that she was more than willing to keep Jane’s name out of the official record.”

“And the FBI?”

“That’s a different story but I don’t think they’ll push too hard. We did, after all, catch the notorious Red John Lady Killer.”

“About that—what did you mean about being famous?”

“The press got wind of the story. They’re camped out in the lobby. Minelli gave them a statement this morning but they want to talk to you, too.”

“It wasn’t his case,” Cho reminds her.

Lisbon shrugs. “I’m happy to let him talk to the reporters. He’s better at it.”

“Is that wise? What if he lets something slip?”

“He’s very discreet and a little publicity won’t hurt.”

Cho frowns. Two months ago he couldn’t get anyone to even pretend an interest in Lucy’s disappearance. Now, thanks to one vicious murderer, people were standing in line.

“It’s frustrating, isn’t it,” Lisbon says.

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“Think of this way: we can use them as advertising while they use us to sell papers.”

“How do you mean?”

“Minelli has agreed that I’m better in front of a desk than behind.”

Lisbon’s eyes sparkle with a muted happiness; Cho can only smile back. “He’s actually letting you investigate? Congratulations.”

Lisbon bows her head. “It’s thanks to you. No one else would have given me the chance. I…” She shakes her head and glances down at her hands before clearing her throat. “In any case, yes, I’m going to be handling cases but I’ll need help.” She looks up. “Minelli wants to talk to you.”

“Why?”

“He wants to hire you. On a case-by-case basis, but…” Her grin is now broad and delighted. “I told him about your background and then I told him how much you helped me. He says we could use someone like you.”

“As muscle?”

Maybe at first but after a few months, who knows…?”

“How much?”

“I don’t know, but it has to be more than your job at the restaurant.”

He’s offended Lisbon and he softens his tone, “I’ll think about it.”

“Don’t think too long. We already have five new cases.”

Cho raises an eyebrow. “Five in less than ten hours?”

“Actually, it’s five in a little over three hours. The first one has to do child mistreatment.”

“Don’t tell me,” Cho says slowly. “The little girl with the red hair.”

Lisbon opens her purse and gets out her notebook. “Marjorie Prentiss.” Lisbon thumbs through the little book, finally finding the right page. “Her grandparents approached me this morning. Apparently, the mother has brought the child in for various injuries three times in the last year. Two sprained arms and one broken finger.”

“Children get hurt all the time.”

“Yes, but the grandparents are worried. They want us to investigate the mother’s new husband. They think he’s involved.” Lisbon peers up at Cho. “All the cases can’t be murderers.”

“I didn’t mean that.” And he hadn’t—he was thinking that the little girl was so small and needed protection; he was thinking that anyone who could hurt someone so fragile needed to be stopped. “Why?”

Lisbon doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Because I like you. You’re smart and you’re observant.” She closes her notebook. “Plus it helps that you know how to get answers from people without being a brute. I was impressed by the way you handled McAllister.”

“And you don’t think who I am will be a detriment?”

Again, Lisbon understands perfectly. “No more than who I am.” She leans forward and twists her lips in a wry grimace. “I know what people think when they meet me. I know they think I’m either silly or weak and maybe both. Most of the time I’m fine with that but it would be nice…” She raises a shoulder as if that says it all.

“All right,” Cho because he’d heard Lisbon’s unspoken declaration, her own, unspoken version of Jane’s, ‘a square peg in a round hole.’ “I accept.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I need to quit my job and pack.” And tell his parents that he’s moving north, a conversation impossible to avoid. He can, however, soften the coming blow by pointing out his presence will help Lucy recover, an excuse that won’t be quite a lie.

“Will you stay here a few days? I’d like to visit the girl’s grandparents to get their statement.”

“I can. I need to find a place to live, in any case.”

“There’s a men’s boarding house two blocks from my apartment.” Lisbon puts her notebook back in her purse and then stands up. “While you’re in Los Angeles, I’ll do some follow-up inquiries into the Prentiss’s new son-in-law. With any luck we’ll have some idea as to what’s going on sooner rather than later.”

“If the little girl is being mistreated, it should be sooner.”

“Agreed. Your suit should be here by two. I’ll meet you at the office at four.” Lisbon gestures to her torn clothes. “I need to change.” She hooks her purse strap over her shoulder. “I’ll see you then.”

Cho doesn’t answer, already thinking of the questions he wants to ask the little girl’s mother and grandparents. Lisbon will interview the girl because she’s less threatening. And Jane… “Lisbon?” he calls out to Lisbon who’s already at the door. “What about Jane?”

“Oh,” she says with an absent wave. “He left town this morning. It’s too bad, really. Minelli wanted to hire him as well.” She’s gone before Cho can say anything else.

Jane left this morning.

Well—Cho kicks at sheets that are suddenly too constricting—it’s to be expected. Now that Red John is dead, Jane has no reason to stay. He’d never said otherwise and it’s just one of those things.

But what was it all for? Without any kind of explanation, Jane had led him down the garden path. All it had taken was that first long glance, a warm smile and a few touches and Cho had melted like a candle in the noon sun.

And he’d known it, too. Without ever once really admitting what was happening, he’d known it since that first time he’d laid eyes on Jane in that canvas tent. He’d wanted to grab Jane and pull him close. He’d wanted to unbutton Jane’s vest and shirt, and slip his hands underneath to see if Jane’s skin was as warm as his smile. He’d wanted to—

Cho kicks the sheets again, this time freeing one corner. It’s shameful, the whole thing. Shameful, abnormal, and very illegal.

Not that any of that matters because all Jane would have to do is walk through those doors and Cho would welcome him with figuratively open arms. Something had happened on that hot afternoon in Barstow and he’s not the same man as before. He knows that, too.

“It’s going to rain.”

Cho turns his head. “Pardon me?”

The man in the nearby bed is awake; he gestures towards the window. “It’s going to rain.”

Cho glances dutifully at the darkening sky. “Yes, it is.”

Chapter Text

“Your father says you’re moving north.”

Crouched before his parent’s front gate, Cho swivels on his heels to look around. Mr. Lee is dragging a hose down the sidewalk, probably to water his red roses. “Yes, sir,” he says, rising to his feet. “I’ve got a job in Sacramento.”

“I see,” Mr. Lee answers sourly. “I told him that he should make you stay. It’s your job to take care of your parents and sisters.”

“Yes, sir.”

Cho’s laconic answer has the intended result; Mr. Lee snorts and turns on the hose, effectively ending the conversation. Hiding a smile, Cho tests the gate, listening for any squeaks or groans. Nothing. Satisfied that he’d checked off one more item on his mother’s to-do list, he brushes his oily fingers on his dungarees and picks up the oil can.

When he goes inside, he finds his mother in the kitchen with a cup of cooling coffee and the morning newspaper. She always reads the paper after breakfast. She says it’s to look for coupons and sales, but it’s really to read the latest columns from Walter Winchell and Hetta Hopper.

“A girl has gone missing,” she says in English without looking up. “‘Little Dorothy West, age four, taken from her front yard in Montecito. Dorothy is six years old and was wearing a Shirley Temple polka-dotted dress and black patent leather shoes…’” His mother lowers the paper and says in Korean, “Perhaps you should ask Mr. Minelli if you can take the case?”

“I doubt he’ll be interested, Ma. That’s so far south. Besides…” Cho opens the refrigerator and gets the pitcher of water. “We already have as many cases as we can handle.”

“Because of Lucy.”

“Yes.”

His mother makes a sound much like Mr. Lee and returns to her paper. “Did you fix the gate?”

“Yes. And I cut the grass.”

“What about the incinerator?”

“I cleaned it out this morning. And,” he adds before she can ask, “I’ll fix the clothesline after I go to the hardware store. I need more wire.” He pours a glass of water, leaving enough for his father.

His mother shakes the paper, straightening its already straight pages and then says, “Constance is bringing her young man to dinner at five-thirty. We’ll eat at six. I’d like you here.”

“All right.”

“Wear a suit, please.” His mother peers over the top of the paper. “And take a bath.”

Cho downs the water in a single gulp. “I will.” He washes the glass and dries it. “Can you tell Pa that I sharpened the mower blades?”

“Can I…?” His mother prompts.

Cho sighs. His mother teaches English to other immigrants in the basement of Our Lady of Sorrows Church. “Will you tell Pa that I sharpened the mower blades?”

“Of course.” His mother raises the paper again. “When is your train tomorrow?”

“At eleven-thirty.”

“How are you getting to the station?”

“The bus.”

“Hm.”

Leaning against the countertop, Cho examines the side of his mother’s face. The sun is touching her bent head. Her hair is going gray. Not a lot but enough to notice and he feels a stab of sentimentality that might be grief. His mother and father are getting old and he’s leaving them. He’ll come home for the holidays because his parents have adopted the traditions of their adopted country, but other than that, he won’t be back any time soon. His mother is angry that he’s leaving. His father, or so he says, understands. The tension between them all has made his last days in LA uncomfortable to say the least.

It doesn’t help that Min had called his mother the day he’d gotten back. Cho doesn’t know what they’d talked about but he’s caught his mother watching him from time to time. He’s trying not to panic about the telephone conversation, assuring himself that his mother isn’t shy about confrontation—if Min had told her anything about Jane, she would just ask.

“It’s not polite to stare, Kimball.”

Cho cracks a smile at his mother’s stern but soft tone. “Yes, ma’am.” He drapes the dish towel over the sink faucet and puts the glass in the cabinet. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

***

The quick trip to the hardware store turns out to be a long perusal of the aisles. He has no idea what the Lisbon’s cases will require, but his recent brush with murderers and goons has taught him that he should be prepared for anything. He ends up buying an assortment of odds and ends including a ball of cord, a flashlight, and a five-inch bone-handled hunting knife.

The store clerk gives him a speculative look but says nothing other than to ask if he wants the items wrapped or put in a bag.

***

The afternoon bus is late which makes Cho late. By the time he arrives at his building, it’s almost five.

He nods to Mrs. Enright as he passes the glass-fronted office. Typical of the woman, he doesn’t get a reply. The only time Mrs. Enright ever acknowledges Cho’s existence is at the first of every month. It’s fine, though. Mrs. Enright doesn’t want to talk to him and he doesn’t want to talk to her. She’s a petty, mean-spirited woman, the complete contrast of her verbose, friendly husband.

The light on his floor is still out. Cho had mentioned it to Mr. Enright that morning, even going so far as offering to get a new bulb from storage. The super had thanked him with a smile but waved his offer away, saying he’d do it. He’s probably in the basement right now, getting soused.

Wondering again at what keeps those two together, Cho lets himself into his apartment.

He turns the floor lamp on. A moth has gotten stuck inside the room and it flutters over to the light. He opens the only window but the moth, now resting on the lamp’s shade, doesn’t move. Cho lets it be—someone might as well enjoy themselves in this one-room flat. He sure hasn’t—the place always seems to smell of cooked pasta and his upstairs neighbor likes to dance at the oddest hours. As if on cue, a melody starts up: When Did You Leave Heaven?

Cho shakes his head. He’s not in the mood for schmaltz so it’s just as well he needs to leave soon. He gathers up his shaving kit and towel, hoping the bathroom is unoccupied. He strolls down the hall, singing under his breath, “…if I kissed you would it be a sin? I am only human but you are so divine…”

***

Sung-hoo Yang is a slick, fulsome man in his late forties. He works in the accounting department for the Los Angeles Soap Company and is doing so well, he’s being considered for the new CFO position at the plant. He has a new car, a new refrigerator with a freezer, and is putting an addition on his house in Victor Heights. Yang tells the family all this over dinner and dessert—even mentioning in the most veiled way possible—his salary and savings.

Cho dislikes him on sight.

His parents, however, do not, and they hang on Yang’s every flowery word. At one point, needing a break, Cho gets up to re-fill the water pitcher. Constance follows him and asks him in a harsh whisper, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he says, training his eyes on the flow of water.

Constance stands there a moment, tapping her heel. Then she says, “If you can’t be happy for me, can you at least make a better effort at pretending? He’s a good man.”

Frowning because he had been making an effort, Cho says, “I am happy for you.” He turns off the tap. “Truly.”

But Constance isn’t listening. “I finally convinced Ma and Pa to come with me to see Lucy. I’m bringing Sung. If you’re not in a better mood, we’re not going to visit you.” And then she sighs and mutters, “You just got the job of your dreams. You’re moving away from LA and I know you’ve always wanted that. You’ve been moping around ever since you got back. What’s wrong with you?”

“I have no idea.”

“Kim—”

Cho shrugs off Constance’s touch and goes back to the dining room.

For the rest of the meal, Cho tries his best to hide his dislike. When Connie suggests the three of them go to the Pleasure Pier for ice cream, he sighs silently and then nods.

***

Cho hasn’t been to Santa Monica in years. There are more cars and trucks in the pier’s dirt parking lot than he would have expected. There are also more amusements—he thought the city had removed them all after the world had changed in ‘29. But a scattering of vendors line the boardwalk, hawking games of chance, and selling food and drink.

Third wheel, Cho watches as Yang buys Constance a cone, watches as she giggles when a ribbon of ice cream slides down her fingers.

“Are you sure you don’t want some, Kim?” she asks.

“I’m sure.”

“It’s no trouble,” Yang adds. “I can afford it.”

‘You don’t think I have five cents?’ Cho wants to growl because it’s ridiculous, tagging along after his sister. The only reason Connie asked is because she would never have been allowed to go alone with Yang. “I don’t like sweets.”

Constance flashes him withering scowl but her tone is placating when she says, “We’re going to the ballroom. Come with us.”

“Yeah, Cho,” Yang chimes in. “I’m sure we can find someone for you.”

This time, anger mixes with an odd, embarrassed indignation. Who does Sung-hoo Yang think he is? And what has Constance told him? That her little brother can’t get a date to save his life? Or has it something to do with Min’s call? A shiver cools the nape of Cho’s neck and he mutters through gritted teeth, “It’s late. I worked all day. I don’t feel like dancing. I’ll meet you at the car at ten-thirty.”

And then—knowing the childish act for what it is—he turns on his heel and strides off to the shadowy side of the pier, away from Constance and Yang and all the other happy people.

The quiet and solitude is an instant relief; Cho leans against the rail and loosens his tie and the top button of his shirt. The breeze off the dark sea soothes his anger. What a mess. Constance will marry Yang if he asks her. Their parents had been throwing men at her for years, but she’s picky—according to their mother—and had turned them all down. If she marries Sung-hoo, Cho will just have to live with it. Having a brother-in-law that he despises won’t be the end of the world. And he won’t have to see them often because they’ll be in L.A. and he’ll be in Sacramento. Christmas and the Fourth of July and maybe Thanksgiving. It will be okay.

And it is, sort of, his spirits lifting at the reminder that in twenty-four hours, he’ll be treading a new path with his new friend, doing interesting things that might help people.

Anger salved but sadness remaining, Cho glances at his watch. Eight-twenty, so a couple hours to kill. And no sense in passing the time on the pier—he’ll find some place more comfortable.

So, he shoves his hands in his pockets and heads towards the staircase that leads to the beach.

***

The tide is out. Cho follows the ragged line of damp and dry until the noise from the carnival fades away. Other than a few beachcombers, he’s the only one around. He picks a spot that’s far enough but not too, and slogs up the soft slope. He sits with a thump. It’s nice. Being here is nice. When he was a kid, he came would to the pier with friends during summer vacation. They’d take the trolley and spend the day fooling around. When he got home, his mother would make him wash off with the garden hose because she hated sand in the house.

Cho curls his arms around his knees. Freddy Stillson and Ned Armstrong. He hadn’t thought about them in a long time. Fred Stillson is an accountant at a law firm in San Diego and—according to Constance who is still in touch with Fred’s sister—has a wife and two adorable children. Ned is long gone; his family had moved to the east coast during the Depression. Cho had never cared much for Ned but he’d really liked Freddy.

As fair-skinned as Cho was dark, Freddy had been funny and clever and had never made fun when Cho’s father spoke Korean. He’d actually listened when Cho had talked about things like the army and space and life. And Cho had listened in return when Freddy had shared secrets of his own, the main one being that his father couldn’t hold down a job and wanted Freddy to quit school in order to work full-time at Johnson’s Grocers.

It hadn’t happened, though. Mr. Stillson had gotten a job from a company in Oxnard and had moved the family the day after school was out for the summer. Freddy had come over the night before to give Cho his copy of Tom Swift and His Air Scout. They’d sat on the stoop and talked about Oxnard and whether or not man would ever land on the moon. After deciding that, no, it would never happen, Freddy had left and Cho had gone into the house.

That was the year Aunt Min and Uncle Jin had moved north.

Cho rubs his chin on his sleeve, the memories of that summer rushing back like the tide. Sadness and grief at the loss of his friend and his aunt, twin heartaches that had somehow been too strong and too private to share. He’d spent most of the summer in his room, reading anything he could get his hands on. When school had started, he was actually happy to go.

It’s odd, thinking about those days. Back then, Cho had never questioned his friendship with Freddy. Now the thought slides in, fully formed, that he was probably in love with Freddy. Or at least attracted to him because all he has to do is remember Freddy tackling him on the beach, remember the feel of Freddy’s hot, sandy skin, and his stomach hurts. Just like it did with Jane, every damn time.

Feeling that old ache, Cho raises his head, only then realizing that he’s not alone. He squints. A man is standing at the water’s mark, a stone’s throw away.

Lit by the distant light of the pier and the oil derricks at Venice Beach, Cho can’t make out details, only that the man has one hand in his pocket and—the man turns—is eating an ice cream cone.

Across the distance and through the dark, the stranger looks straight at Cho. The man lifts the cone in a salute and just like that Cho’s heart jerks and begins to pound in deep, almost sickening thuds…

Thump. Thump. Thump…

…he feels those beats through a clutter of conflicting emotions but he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, as Jane makes his way up the slope.

In silence, Jane sits next to Cho. In silence, he finishes the cone. When he’s done, he gets out his handkerchief and wipes his lips and his hands. He puts the handkerchief away and turns. “Hello.”

Cho can’t help it—he laughs softly at the oddness of it all, the shock of it all. “Hello.” Jane is wearing one of his three-piece suits but his hair, for once, isn’t slicked back—it falls in natural curls that stirs with the breeze.

“I suppose you’re wondering what I’m doing here?”

“You suppose right.”

“I suppose I should have called you.”

Cho doesn’t have a telephone at his SRO, but still… “You suppose right.”

Jane sighs and then copies Cho’s pose, wrapping his arms around his knees. “I know I have some explaining to do,” he says, looking out at the ocean. “But where to start?”

“At the beginning.” Cho’s heart is easing its pace and he feels a crazy sense that the world just got brighter. “That’s as good a place as any.”

Jane hesitates for a short moment and then nods. “The beginning. All right.” He clears his throat. “It’s fairly simple, really. We had different childhoods, you and I. You had a family that loved you. I had a family that never cared if I came or went. You went to school and college. I never did.” Jane shifts, his expression going distant. “My family was very poor. My mother died when I was five. My father joined a local carnival the next year. I grew up on the sideshow, quite literally.” He shrugs. “It wasn’t a bad life but it wasn’t good, either. I ran off when I was seventeen.”

When Cho was seventeen, he was in high school, reading his stories and dreaming of a career in the military.

“So, I left and ended up in another sideshow: Ruskin’s Traveling Fair.” Jane’s voice grows soft. “The Ruskins took me in and my life changed. I learned new skills. I learned to trust and love.”

“Ruskin was …?”

“My wife’s maiden name. She worked the ticket booth. I fell for her the minute I met her. When her father retired, I took on the name.”

“Why?”

Jane picks a piece of lint off his trousers. “The fair was a going concern so it seemed prudent. But it also helped me get away from my past. I wanted nothing to do with my own family at the time.”

“Oh.”

“Hm, mm. We traveled across the country, eventually ending up in California. When Angela got pregnant, we decided to set up shop permanently here in Los Angeles. The country was still struggling from the Depression so I was able to buy a plot of land in Santa Barbara for a song. We built a house, Charlotte was born, and life changed again.”

Afraid even the tiniest of wrong words would stop the flow of information, Cho asks, “Were you happy?”

Jane smiles faintly. “Very. I still traveled. I made money. Angela and Charlotte lived in Santa Barbara. It was—” He breaks off, his smile wavering, bleeding until it’s a bittersweet quirk of lips. “And then I came home and found my wife and child murdered. After that, nothing much mattered. I closed the house and went back on the road. I found that people were desperate for good news, so Professor Ruskin’s Traveling Miracles and Thaumaturgy was born.”

“And then Timothy Carter joined your troupe.”

Jane nods. “And then he did.”

Cho thinks about that for a moment, then says, “Why did McAllister hate you so much? Why did he kill your family?”

Jane rests his chin on his knees. “That’s a good question, one I’ve been asking myself. My only answer is I wasn’t very discreet in regards to my contempt and interest in the fiend. After the first murder, I told Timothy Carter that only a moral degenerate would commit such a cowardly act. I also said it would be interesting to investigate such a malevolent individual. Timothy must have passed my comments on to McAllister and McAllister repaid me in kind.”

“And that night?” Cho says, wishing he doesn’t have to ask. “Were you planning on killing him?”

Jane slants a knowing glance at Cho. “Do you mean was it pre-meditated murder?”

Cho can only nod, wondering if he’s gone too far, even for Jane.

But Jane isn’t offended. “I wanted to bring him in and show him to the world, but he took that away from me.” At Cho’s look of confusion, Jane adds, “He shot himself.”

Cho blinks. “He did?”

Jane nods. “Right in the temple. I thought you knew.”

“No,” Cho says slowly. “Lisbon doesn’t, either.”

“She does now. We talked about it this morning.”

“You talked to her?” Cho asks, really wanting to say, ‘You talked to her before you came to see me?’

“I did and my news wasn’t a surprise, if her expression was anything to go by. I’m assuming she had a firearm’s expert tell her the same thing.”

“Huh,” Cho says absently. Just as absently, he scoops up a handful of sand. “Jane?”

“Yes?”

The question he’s about to ask is another thing he wishes he could ignore but he has to know: “Why did you leave without saying goodbye?”

Jane hesitates, then says, “Because I hate goodbyes. I figured you did, too.”

It’s true. Cho dislikes them, but… “That’s not good enough.”

Jane sighs and then stretches out on his side, elbow in the sand. “You’re right, it’s not and I made a promise to myself yesterday that I’m going to be honest from now on.” He breathes a laugh. “Well, as honest as I can be.”

Jane is closer now, less than an arm’s length away. “Meaning?”

“Meaning, that when I left two weeks ago, I did so with what I thought were good intentions—get the show back on the road, begin again. But I quickly realized I was running away.”

“From what?”

Jane’s expression is so still and so very serious. “I think you should be asking, ‘from who?’”

Cho’s fingers squeeze, his palm closing in on the dry sand. Feeling every little movement, the tick-tick of intention, he asks, “All right: From whom?”

“From you,” Jane answers. “I left because of you. I came back for the same reason.”

He’s sweating even though it’s not hot. “Why?”

Jane’s smile is faint. “When I first met you, I was so intrigued. I’d never met anyone like you. So reserved and controlled. I can’t count the times I thought you’d deck me after I’d pushed you too hard. But you never let go long enough to actually hit me.”

“So it was all…” Cho squeezes once more and drops the packed sand. It hits the ground and disintegrates; he watches it blindly, thinking, ‘All the touches, the long looks, the innuendo…’ “All that was just to get my goat?”

“At first, yes, but later—” Jane makes a gesture. “I like you. I thought it was mostly just that until the day at Minelli’s office.”

Cho frowns, trying to remember. They’d arrived at Minelli’s suite, needing a place to gather their thoughts and figure out what to do about McAllister. And then Minelli came out of his office and— “Oh.”

Jane nods. “I’ve never had anyone stick up for me like that. Condescension and suspicion, yes, but rarely anything else. Certainly not trust and faith.”

“What about your people?”

“They’re with me because I give them work. They’d leave me tomorrow if I didn’t provide that.”

“And Lisbon? She trusts you.”

Jane’s grin is wry and knowing. “She tolerates me. That’s not the same thing. No,” He shakes his head and looks out at the ocean, watching it as if it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. “Trust is a much rarer emotion, hard to come by, easy to lose. My wife had given me that.” He looks up at Cho. “And now, so have you.”

“Oh.”

“I didn’t realize any of that, at first. I was in the middle of a performance in Redlands when it hit me, how much I missed you. It was like an ache that wouldn’t go away.” He adds quietly, “Does that make sense?”

Cho doesn’t reply because he can’t. The flawless misery he’d lived with over the past thirteen days hadn’t been anything like an ache. It had been a physical pain that he’d ignored but absorbed, burying it under work and duty, lashing out at anyone who made the wrong comment, asked the wrong question. He’d been filled with such anger and sadness and disappointment. ‘I thought you’d played me for a fool. I thought you’d forgotten me—'

“Cho?”

“Yes. It makes sense.”

Jane doesn’t answer for the longest time, and then he sighs, a deep inhalation and exhalation as if he’s taking in and releasing all the confusion that Cho had felt. “So, to finish my story, I telephoned Lisbon. She gave me your address and I hopped in my car.”

“You hopped in what?”

Jane shrugs. “I exaggerated, somewhat, my financial situation. I have a vehicle. I prefer to travel by train but I keep the car for emergencies.”

Cho can’t be mad at Jane’s deception because, as it turns out, he’s the emergency. “How did you find me?”

“I waited outside your building. When you left, I followed your bus.”

“To my parents’ house?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you come in?”

“Because it made you angry, the first time I visited one of your relatives unannounced.”

“Huh,” Cho says, a little surprised at Jane’s thoughtfulness and his own obliviousness. He had no clue anyone was tailing them. So much for his new path as a private eye. “So, you followed us here?”

“I did. I overheard your conversation with your sister. You were unhappy.”

“Yes.”

“I debated whether or not to approach you tonight, but…”

“But…?” Cho prompts when Jane hesitates for too long.

“But I realized I was prevaricating again.”

“Oh,” Cho murmurs again. It’s almost shocking, that Jane could be unsure of anything or anyone. “Jane?”

“Yes?”

“Why?”

“I suppose that’s the only question that really matters, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

Jane sits up. “I loved my wife but my tastes have always been…” He lifts a shoulder. “…eclectic. Growing up the way I did, I learned to appreciate variety. And then there were Lucy’s stories of you—she made you out to be half knight in shining armor, half vengeful angel,” Jane’s voice grows soft. “But all that is icing on the cake because I suppose the only real answer is that I find you very attractive.”

Cho laces his fingers together in an effort not to reach out.

“And I got the idea that you felt the same about me.” Jane looks up. “Was I right?”

Jane’s eyes shine silver in the low light and Cho shivers with a kind of helpless lust. “Yes.”

Jane’s eyelids lower. “So, if I told you that I want nothing more than to lean over and kiss the hollow of your throat, would you contact the authorities?”

Cho swallows; his temples are damp. “No. I wouldn’t.”

Jane’s fingers move in an almost convulsive twitch. “And it wouldn’t upset you if I told you I want to push you into the sand and roll over on you and kiss you unt—”

“Stop.” Cho clenches his jaw and his fists and it hurts, the grip he has on his own fingers. His heart is beating like a drum again, drowning out even the sound of the waves. He tips his head back and looks first at the black sky and then over at Jane. “Just stop.”

Jane nods and then rolls to his feet. He reaches down. “Come on.”

Cho lets himself be pulled up; he lets himself stand too close. It would be so easy to bridge the gap, to tip his head. Jane’s lips are parted and it would be so very…

But it’s a public beach and they could get arrested, so Cho gestures. They walk back towards the pier, Cho a step behind.

***

Cho remembers only bits and pieces of the first part of the drive.

One minute he’s in a parking lot, walking towards a fancy BMW convertible, dazed by trepidation and a curling, craving lust, the next he’s sitting in the car with the soft breeze on his cheek …

He’s nervous. Yes, he’s been with women before, but only three times—twice on leave, once while he was with the police department. Those had been quick events that he’d regretted as soon as they were over. He doesn’t want that to happen tonight. Tonight matters in a way those other encounters never could, so, hell yes, he’s nervous.

Jane, on the other hand, seems perfectly calm as he steers them up through a winding canyon, over paved and dirt roads. It’s almost as if he doesn’t have a care in the world and maybe he doesn’t? Maybe he drives lovers up into the hills all the time. And if so, maybe this isn’t such a great id—

“What about this?”

Jane’s soft questions startles Cho; he looks around. They’re in clearing with foliage on either side. Before them is the city in all its brightly lit splendor. “Are there any houses around here?”

“Not that I can see.”

“Then it’s fine.”

Jane turns off the engine.

Just that, a simple push of a button, and the haze lifts. Cho hears the rasping creaks of the tree above; he smells the scent of the salty ocean and the aftershave of the man beside him…

He turns to ask if Jane if he’s sure it’s safe, if this is wise and maybe they should just not. The words stick in his throat. Jane is watching him with an expression that is at once grim and blank, and Cho thinks: ‘…would you contact the authorities?’

So, no, Jane isn’t calm, he isn’t uncaring. He has as much to lose, after all.

Everything is suddenly much easier because it’s not just him—it’s them. Feeling every movement and moment in crystal-sharp relief, Cho leans over and slides his hand around Jane’s waist. He kisses the corner of Jane’s mouth, just that.

Jane makes a sound, a low groan

A shock races up Cho’s spine; he angles his head and does it again.

In the smallest corner of his mind, he’s already laid the roadmap of how it will be, making love to Jane. It will be wonderful and overwhelming, filled with light and laughter and a delicate kind of beauty.

There is nothing delicate about Jane’s response. Not in any way, shape, or form.

With a muttered, unintelligible curse, Jane twists and presses his mouth to Cho’s, hard and insistent.

The soft breeze is now a wind, rushing in Cho’s ears, drowning out everything but the small sounds that Jane is making.

They kiss and then kiss again.

Jane pushes; Cho goes willingly hitting his head on the door frame. “Damn it.”

Jane laughs against Cho’s skin. Cho moans and tips his head back, he’s urging Jane down to his neck and oh, damn…

Cho gasps and grasps at Jane’s body under all those clothes. He gains nothing but fabric and muscle and it’s not enough so he fumbles for buttons. First the herringbone vest and then the cotton shirt, acting on instinct, centered on speed and not dexterity or gentleness. And he doesn’t bother with all the tiny buttons, either, just the—

“Ah…” Jane arches forward when Cho spreads his shirt open. “That feels good. You feel so good. Here, wait…” Jane drags Cho’s jacket off his shoulders and then his own.

They unbutton Cho’s shirt together, each getting in the way of the other, Jane’s beautiful smile showing up at last. Cho wishes he could say how much he’s missed that smile, how much he’s missed Jane. Like a hole in his heart, it had been that bad, that deep. But he doesn’t even try to speak because now’s not the time for words, now’s the time for proof… He leans up and bites the curve of Jane’s collarbone, and then licks the same place. Jane hums and shivers and presses close.

It’s heady, Jane’s reaction, and it echoes in Cho’s chest and belly, a spur to his own desire. Mouth no longer dry, he slides his hand under Jane’s trousers and around to the small of his back. Muscles flex under his grasping fingers. He digs in and then spreads his legs.

Jane answers Cho’s silent invitation by settling on him, almost sideways, hand searching across Cho’s stomach and under his belt.

Cho closes his eyes, and mirrors Jane, slipping his hand around until he finds Jane, warm and damp.

Jane breathes another gasp and squeezes.

That’s all they do, what’s crudely called a handjob by people who don’t know any better.

When they’re done and Cho is lying there, senses thrown to the dark sky, he decides that he was wrong because, yes, this first time with Jane was the culmination of all his hopes and desires, after all.

***

“Are you cold?”

“No. Are you?”

“No.”

Cho strokes Jane’s back. “We can’t stay.”

“I know.” Jane rubs his cheek on Cho’s chest. “But not yet.”

The faint stubble on Jane’s chin feels strange and good. “Okay.”

“Are you comfortable?”

Cho is lying across both seats and his legs are awkwardly angled on the steering wheel and the seat. He can’t quite remember how he got in that position. “Not really.”

Jane smiles. “Honest to a fault.” He kisses Cho’s skin. “Next time we’ll find a proper bed.”

Next time. Cho wants to smile; he settles for a tug on Jane’s hair. “Okay.”

There’s a long but very light silence and then Jane says, “Are you hungry?”

Cho sighs. “Really?”

Jane laughs—his breath on Cho’s skin feels strange and good, too. “Really.”

Cho wants to grumble but doesn’t—it’s endearing, Jane’s constant hunger. Endearing and odd. Maybe it comes from living an itinerate life, never knowing when one will reach the next town?

But, no—and Cho cautiously combs his fingers through Jane’s hair—it’s probably because Jane grew up without caring parents. Because Jane’s father hadn’t loved him, hadn’t appreciated his brilliance and spirit. Someone should have been there for him; someone should have protected him.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

Jane looks up. “Sure?”

Cho nods. “Sure.”

“In that case…” Jane pushes up and back. “Where’s my jacket?”

Without Jane, Cho’s chest and belly are cold. “You threw it on the ground.”

“Oh.”

Jane disappears; there are sounds of the door opening and stumbling about in the dark. “Did you find it?”

“Yes. Yours is here, too. It’s dirty.”

Cho shrugs absently. “I needed to get it cleaned, anyway.”

“Here.”

He cranes his neck, looking up backwards. Jane is holding his coat. “Thanks.”

Jane gives him the coat and a folded handkerchief. He leans over and kisses Cho upside down. “You are quite welcome.” One more kiss. “And you better button up or I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

Cho snorts and sits up. He puts himself to rights, cleaning his hands, buttoning the buttons that need it, leaving off the ones that don’t. “What are you doing back there?” Cho asks because Jane has opened the trunk and is rummaging around.

“Cleaning up.”

Cho gets out of the car and walks to the overlook. The stars are a field of light, thick and beautiful. He touches his chest. His legs are weak and he’s tired, but he feels wonderful. After those three times with those three women, he’d felt off and miserable. He’d hurried back to his place, desperate to shower off the scent of perfume and powder. There’s none of that now, just an appreciation of what he has right now: Jane behind him, the stars above, and the city below looking like a jewel-box or a carni— “Damn.”

“What is it?” Jane asks.

“Constance. I was going to meet her at the car at ten-thirty.”

“I’m pretty sure you missed your ride.”

Cho tips his watch to what light there is—eleven-fifteen. “I did.”

“Will she be worried?”

“No. She’ll just think I took the bus home.”

“I’ll take you.”

“Where are you staying?”

“The Normandie.”

Cho looks over his shoulder. “That’s three blocks from my place.”

“I know. Why do you think I picked it?” Jane is now putting something on the ground.

“What are you doing?” Cho asks again instead of inquiring how Jane can possibly afford a hotel that’s got to be at least six or seven dollars a night.

“Come see.” Jane shakes out a fold of fabric and spreads it on the ground. It’s a blanket. Jane puts a basket and a bottle on the ground and then plops down. He pats the blanket.

Slowly, Cho walks over. “Is that a picnic basket?”

“Tonight, it is.” Jane begins rifling through the basket. “I usually keep my props in it.”

“You want to have a picnic here?” Cho gestures to the road, the trees.

Jane pulls two plates out of the basket. “Do you have a better place in mind?”

“People will see.”

Jane snorts. “What people? I told you, there are no houses up here. Well,” he adds with a shrug, “not until a mile or so up the road.”

“You’ve been here before?” Cho asks, suspicion sharpening his voice. “Have you brought other people up here?” And he pictures it, Jane, up here, making love to a woman or worse, another man.

Jane actually laughs. “Don’t be silly.” Before Cho can speak, Jane reaches up and grabs his hand. He pulls Cho down and then goes back to the basket, taking out a bottle, glasses, and a foil-wrapped lump. “I was up here several years ago. I was hired to perform a séance at the old Strauss mansion.”

“I’ve never heard of it,” Cho says begrudgingly. The ground is hard and he’s sitting on a rock. He moves over.

“Well, if you had, you’d know that Mrs. Herman Strauss was a great believer of ghosts. She tried for years to contact the spirit of her dead husband.”

“And did she?”

Briefly, Jane looks up. “There are no such things as ghosts, Cho.”

“So you just took advantage of her?”

“Eh…” Now Jane is uncorking the bottle. “I think of it as easing her mind about her beloved Herman. When she passed on, her lawyer contacted me to say that she’d died with a smile on her face, so what was the harm?”

Cho is readying his next question when Jane pops the champagne bottle. He smiles, sunny bright, as if to say, ‘Isn’t this fun?’ and Cho’s irritation fades. Who is he to criticize? Jane had made the old woman happy and it was her money to spend… “Did she leave you anything?”

Jane pours a glass of champagne and gives it to Cho. “Twenty dollars and a beautiful watch.” He pours a glass for himself and raises it.

Cho, however, doesn’t raise his in return because he has one more question: “Do you always drive around with champagne in your trunk?”

Jane tips his head. “I think you mean, am I always prepared for a post-lovemaking repast because I’m juggling a handful of lovers?”

That’s bolder and more explicit than Cho would have put it. His cheeks warm and he nods shortly.

“No,” Jane says. “I thought if I was lucky enough to find you and lucky enough to kiss you, then I’d celebrate with my favorite champagne and foie gras.” His smile dies, his voice softens. “And if I was lucky enough to get more, I’d want you all to myself afterwards, even if it was just for a few hours.”

What can Cho say to that? He raises his glass.

Jane grins and touches Cho’s glass with his own. “To us and our new adventure.”

Cho brings the glass to his lips and then pauses. “What new adventure? Do you mean…” He gestures to the car.

Jane smiles. “As lovely as that was, no I mean the adventure to come.” He clears his throat. “Lisbon, you see, has made me a curious offer and I’m going to Sacramento tomorrow to hash out the details. It’s why I’m here—because I wanted to discuss it with you first.”

“And that offer is?”

“The Minelli Detective Agency has been asked—very politely, mind you—to assist the FBI in investigating McAllister, Carter, and Boatwright.”

Cho frowns. “Why? They’re all dead.”

“Yes, but…” Jane’s smile is now gone. “Did you wonder what was in those rooms in McAllister’s basement?”

Cho feels a chill that has nothing to do with the breeze or the lateness of the hour. “I forgot about them.”

“I looked in one. It contained a bed, a chain, a bucket and a whole lot of bloodstains.”

Cho gives it a minute, needing to take it all in.

“It’s clear there were more people killed in that mansion. The FBI would like Lisbon’s help in identifying the victims.”

“There won’t be much to go on,” Cho says doubtfully. Possibly fingerprints but not much else.

“Lisbon agrees. She thinks it will take a lot of legwork which means more manpower. To that end, she talked Minelli into hiring two more investigators.”

Cho raises an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Jane says, “she’s going to ask you to work full-time and I’ll…” Jane cocks his head. “And I’ll be working for her, too.”

Cho’s heart jerks, just as it had when he’d seen Jane on the beach. “What?”

“Minelli is hiring me on a trial basis. I don’t want to give up the show, not yet. And who knows…” Jane smiles. “I might not like the private detective business.” Jane lowers his glass and his gaze. “The thing is, I missed you and I enjoyed working with Lisbon. Why not take the chance on you both?”

Again, Cho can’t think of a thing to say. He wants desperately to kiss Jane but he won’t do that in this space that’s not public but public all the same. So, he just leans forward, taps Jane’s glass with his own and says, “All right—to us and our new adventure.”

***

The ride back to the city is as silent as the ride up though it’s a different kind of quiet. Neither of them say much until Jane pulls up to the curb, a block away from the Hotel Normandie.

“Are you sure I can’t drop you off at your place?” Jane asks.

“It’s not far,” Cho says. “Besides, I want to stretch my legs.”

“If you say so.” Jane fiddles with the wiper blade knob. “I’m sorry about the foie gras.”

“That’s okay.”

“If I’d known…” Jane shrugs.

“It’s okay,” Cho assures Jane. “I didn’t know what it tasted like. It’s good to try new things, even if they’re disgusting.”

“That’s not an allusion to earlier this evening, is it?”

“You deserve a ‘yes’ to that.”

Jane’s lips twitch. “At least the champagne was good.”

“It was.”

“Well…” Jane touches the starter button. “I suppose…”

Cho nods because he recognizes Jane’s hesitation—he doesn’t want to say goodnight, either. But it’s been a long day and he needs to sleep and he can’t invite Jane to his flat. He gets out of the car and gently closes the door—it’s after one and people are sleeping.

Jane stretches his arm on the passenger seat. “I’ll see you in the morning?”

“Seven o’clock sharp.”

“Okay. ’Night.”

“Goodnight.” Cho backs away before he can do something stupid like lean over and touch Jane’s face. He walks away without looking back, wondering if Jane is watching him go.

He turns the corner of Alexandria and looks up. He can’t see the stars but he knows they’re there, bright and beautiful. Just like Jane; he smiles.

He’s content, he realizes. Content and at peace, and isn’t that a kick in the pants?

For so long it felt as if he existed on the edge of civilization, watching the people around him get what they want or at least move forward with their lives. Almost as if life were a train, stopping for everyone but him. And now, just like that and with Jane’s help, he leaped and is now moving towards his future.

He wants it so very much. Working with Lisbon, helping people, being with Jane in whatever way possible—he wants every minute of it. It will be dangerous and they will have to be so very careful…

Cho draws in a deep breath, because yes, however it will work, no matter if prison is the result, he wants it all.

The firm realization loosens a small knot deep inside and he feels it again, that odd tinge of grief.

But it’s not because he’s leaving his family and all he’s ever known. It’s because he’s saying goodbye to the person he’d tried to be, the person his parents had wanted him to be. And that’s okay—being someone new is going to be okay.

Cho stuffs his hands in his pockets and begins to whistle.

__________________

Coda

The tent is hot.

Packed with spectators, it smells of sweat, tobacco, and baked canvas. The audience’s murmurs create a thick thrum like the sound of a hundred bees. A hundred ill-dressed bees.

Kimball Cho shifts, hiding a smile in the movement. The cheap folding chair squeaks, loud enough to hear above the din. The noise—or maybe it’s just his movement—catches the eye of the lady in the floral day dress across the aisle. The woman curls her lip at Cho, a short moment of dislike.

“What’s wrong?”

Cho takes off his hat and smooths back his hair. The woman turns to face the front of the tent. “It’s nothing.”

“Are you certain?”

Cho looks down at his companion.

Lucy is gazing up at him, her delicate eyebrows drawn with worry.

He draws her arm through his and pats her hand. “I’m fine. Truly.”

Lucy gives him one more look and then sighs. She leans her head against his shoulder. “Thank you for bringing me.”

“You’ve thanked me enough.”

“Yes, but I couldn’t have come on my own and it’s time I thank him in person.”

“I understand.”

Lucy hasn’t quite gotten over the events of the spring. She’s so thin because she has a hard time eating; she startles easily and panics if left alone too long. She’s back at work but Cho isn’t sure if she’ll stay. She has no friends there; Felicia Marley spread poisonous lies about what happened in March. Jane says it’s because Felicia is worried about being implicated in Lucy’s abduction. Cho thinks it’s just because Felicia is, at her center, a selfish girl who’s deeply unhappy with her own life.

He doesn’t talk about any of that with Lucy, of course. He gleans what he can from the bits and pieces she does dole out. He knows that it was McAllister that had been her suitor, that he had promised her marriage, wealth, and a house of her own. It was McAllister that had asked her to come to Napa that fateful day.

If McAllister weren’t already dead, Cho would find a way to kill him again; he hates him that much. He’d said that very thing to Jane the other day. Jane hadn’t expressed any shock—he’d just said, ‘Me, too.” And then he removed his straw boater and kissed Cho quickly, using the hat as a shield.

They’d been at a beach near Windsor, hidden from view by the high tide and a curve of coastline and a stand of rocks that—according to Jane—resembled the Arc d’Triumph.

Cho shifts, the memory of Jane’s kiss making him sweat. He needs to get lighter suit coat. Wool is fine for interviewing clients and their loved ones, but too warm for an enclosed space with a lot of other people.

But he doesn’t take off his jacket because the noise is reaching a crescendo that says the performance will start soon. He knows the routine by now, even though he’s only been to three other shows. As much as he would like to see every act, he can’t. It’s a delicate edge they’re treading and any misstep will—

“Kim?”

“Yes?”

“Aunt Min was asking about you the other day.”

Damn. “What did she say?”

“She wants to know why you don’t visit anymore.”

Cho’s shrug is full of feigned regret. He can’t tell Lucy the reason why he’s been avoiding his aunt for months, why he’s been using work as an excuse for his absence. He’s been a coward and it’s time that stopped. He’ll have to lie about many things, though that has become a non-issue as he only recently realized that he made peace with deception the moment Jane sat down beside him on that beach in Santa Monica. “I’ve been busy,” he temporizes. “I’ll go over there next week.”

Lucy draws a breath to answer, but just then, a young woman enters the tent. She’s the new girl, brought on when the other girl, Melody Somethingorother, had quit. Melody had met a man one day and married him the next. Jane said it was just as well because the new girl is better at stagecraft and presentation.

Cho can’t see any stagecraft as the new girl strikes a pose and draws all eyes to her. She seems rather awkward, even gawky.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she calls out, “the ill of body and the unwell of spirit, I present to you, Professor Patrick Ruskin!”

Clapping ensues and the girl sweeps her arm up. The flap opens again and Jane bounds in. He strides to the middle of the stage and announces, “Welcome, Orangevale citizens! Welcome one and all!” And then his gaze pivots, landing with unerring accuracy, on Cho. The forty feet of bodies and space between them shrinks to nothing.

Jane’s hair is newly cut and is slicked back, shining dully in the bright light. He’s wearing a new pale gray suit and his old lavender-colored shirt with the high collar.

Cho crosses his legs and wonders if that high collar is to hide the love bite he’d given Jane, not five days ago. That had been a passionate afternoon, made more so because of that same five-day absence. And yes, it’s true, the adage that absence makes the heart grow fonder, although ‘fonder’ is a weak word for the ache Cho feels when Jane’s not around.

As if hearing Cho’s thoughts, Jane smiles brilliantly and then turns his attention to the audience. He raises his arm and announces, “Let’s get started!”

The house lights dim and Jane begins his prattle. Cho relaxes and lets the dark and the familiar routine enfold him.

When the show is over, he’ll take Lucy to Jane’s tent. They’ll have tea and Lucy can thank Jane for saving her life. Then they’ll get down to work because Minelli’s new case is a doozy and they’ll need—according to Lisbon—all hands-on deck. But once the work talk is done, once they drive Lucy back to Sacramento, they’ll head out to the little house on the other side of the river that Jane rented in July and then they’ll—

“Kim?” Lucy touches Cho’s sleeve.

“Yes?”

She leans on his arm again. “He’s very good, isn’t he?”

Cho doesn’t smile. He just puts his hand over Lucy’s and pats it. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, he is.”

fin