The Interior

4

HULAN WOKE BEFORE DAWN THINKING ABOUT MIAOSHAN. Last night she'd been distracted by her friendship with Suchee and hadn't used the investigative tools she usually employed when conducting an inquiry into a crime or interviewing a witness. Ordinarily she would have thought about motive. She would have tried to categorize the murder. Was it a contract killing? Was it murder motivated by an argument, personal or financial profit, sex, revenge, politics, or religion? Or was this simply a suicide? She would have focused her attentions much more clearly on Miaoshan herself. As Hulan had said last night, to catch a murderer, an investigator needed to understand the victim.

Hulan quietly dressed and went outside. Coming from Beijing, with its cars and trucks and millions of people, Hulan was accustomed to noise. Here there was noise of another sort. She heard birds enthralled in their morning song and the whirring of cicadas. Although it was Sunday, she heard the low reverberations from a piece of farm equipment somewhere in the distance. Beyond these sounds and hiding just below the surface quiet was the hum of the earth itself. As a girl she had thought of it as the roar of plants pushing up through the soil.

She slowly walked to the shed where Miaoshan had been found. If she'd been here on the day of the discovery of Miaoshan's body, Hulan would have kept everyone away from this area so that she could examine the fine dust that covered the hard-packed earth. But if there had been footprints, they were long gone now, so Hulan pushed opened the door and entered. Immediately her senses were assaulted with the sights and smells of long ago. In this small, enclosed, dark room, the aromas of burlap, dirt, insecticide, kerosene, and seed mingled into a muskiness at once intoxicating and repugnant, heady and earthy. She closed the door behind her. As she waited for her eyes to adjust, she forced herself to put away her girlhood memories and preconceptions.

She tried to visualize Miaoshan hanging from the beam, the ladder below her. She called to her mind the suicides she'd seen before: the young mother in Beijing who'd killed herself by drinking carbolic acid; the old woman from Hulan's own neighborhood who-for reasons that never became clear-had slipped some rocks into her pockets and walked into Shisha Lake; the man who'd taken his village's savings, invested it in the stock market, lost it all, then had leaped from his hotel window rather than go home and face the people of his village. Then she remembered her own father, seeing him put the muzzle of a gun to his head and pull the trigger.

Hulan let her body slip down into a sitting position with her back against the wall of the shed, and thought. Typically vanity-even at this most desperate moment-kept women from using guns to kill themselves. They preferred to take pills, swim out to sea, or even slit their wrists-options that would not alter the face and also allowed the possibility of a rescue. Death by hanging was also primarily a male act, involving as it did a certain level of mechanical expertise: securing a rope to a beam, tying a knot that would have the ability to slip, then hold, positioning an object on which to stand but could easily be knocked out of the way when the time came. Of course, a farm girl would have these abilities, but death by hanging did not result in a beautiful corpse. From everything Suchee had said about her daughter-that she was in the midst of transforming herself into a Western ideal of beauty-a broken neck, swollen tongue, and purple face didn't fit the pattern for this particular victim.

Something else bothered Hulan. While suicide stemmed from deep melancholy, very often victims used the act as a way of getting the last word, of inflicting permanent guilt on those left behind. As a result, suicides were often planned so that the people who discovered the body were the actual targets of the victim's rage or despair. The young woman in Beijing, for example, had taken her baby to a neighbor's house, come home, dressed in her wedding clothes, drunk the carbolic acid, and, despite her agonizing abdominal spasms, positioned herself so that her husband-who turned out to have had a series of affairs-would find her on their marriage bed.

Out here on the farm only one person could find Miaoshan. But so far Suchee had said nothing that would indicate that there had been any hard feelings between herself and Miaoshan. Twenty-five years was a long time, but could Suchee have changed so much that she could hide icr emotions and motives so cleverly that Hulan wouldn't be able to see jthrough them? If Suchee had felt guilt or remorse, would she have asked lulan to come out here at all? No, Hulan decided, the mother was convinced that something had happened to her daughter, and the longer lulan spent out here in this shed, the more convinced she became as ill.

Without obvious physical evidence Hulan knew that the only way to inderstand what had happened was to take steps back from the scene of le crime. With each step a clearer picture would emerge. Her first step vould be to interview Tsai Bing, since so often murders were committed by husbands or boyfriends. Nothing in what Suchee had said about Tsai Bing suggested any animosity between him and his fiancee, but mothers jcould be blind when it came to such personal matters.

Hulan stood, pushed open the door, and went back outside. She ^canned the fields and spotted Suchee. Hulan walked along a raised berm inning between a field of corn and a field of budding sunflowers until phe reached her friend, who was working the soil with a hoe.

"I've been thinking, Suchee," Hulan said. "It would be a mistake for ie to talk to people as an investigator for the Ministry of Public Security. They would be too scared."

Suchee frowned. "My daughter's murderer deserves to be scared."

"Yes, of course, but if you want him caught, then we can't frighten lim into hiding. Let him think he's gotten away with it. Let him think I'm merely a relative or friend who's come to visit. He'll let down his (lefenses. When he does, I'll be there."

"But who?"

"I don't know yet, but for me to flush him out, I must understand him. To understand him, I must understand Miaoshan. To understand her, I believe I must blend in."

"Not like that," Suchee said, nodding at Hulan's clothes. "You can wear Miaoshan's things, at least until that baby you're carrying gets bigger."

Back in the house, Suchee opened a low cabinet. On two shelves were neatly folded cotton clothes. "These were Miaoshan's. She was thin like you."

Many times in Hulan's life she'd been required to change personas. On some occasions these had been at the whim of politics, as when she'd been thrust out of her routine as a model child of privilege and sent to the countryside. Other times had been the result of geographical circumstance-from Chinese countryside girl to Connecticut boarding school student. Jobs and money had also affected her attire-as a law student, then as an associate at Phillips, MacKenzie amp; Stout. In recent years she'd changed her dress to meet the needs of a particular case. Hulan thought of this less as working undercover than simply blending into a landscape so she could hear people's real voices.

Hulan stripped off her dress, then pulled on a simple short-sleeve white blouse worn soft by years of wear and washings, and pants that came to just above her ankles. Suchee then handed her a pair of homemade shoes. Slipping these on, Hulan thought about the kind of life that a person wearing them would have out here in the countryside. She felt her body losing its attitude of self-possession and assuredness, to be replaced by a woman who had survived only at the caprice of nature. Within minutes, and aided by these few garments and a change in demeanor, Liu Hulan devolved from Red Princess to peasant.

"Can you tell me the way to the Bing farm?"

"They won't know anything," Suchee said.

"I'm going to see Tsai Bing," Hulan clarified, then added, "but if you want me to do this, then you'll have to let me do it my way. Please don't question me."

After a brief discussion, Suchee reluctantly agreed.

"One more thing," Hulan said as they left the house and headed out across the fields. "Please don't tell anyone who I am."

"What if someone remembers you?"

Hulan shook her head. "I was here long ago. You were one of the few local people who came to the Red Soil Farm to teach us. The others who were older are probably dead."

Suchee acknowledged that this was so.

"And the people who were our age, well, most of them went back to the city. Am I right? Besides, twenty-five years is a long time. Few of us look as we once did."

"Yes, but there may be people who will remember you for your name-Liu Hulan, martyr for the Revolution."

"Maybe, maybe not. It was a popular name once, so I am only one of many my age. What's important is that even if people do recognize my face for some reason…" She thought about the photographs from the newspapers, then strengthened herself and her voice. "No one can know I work for the ministry. No one. Do you understand?"

The two women stopped walking. Suchee contemplated Hulan. Would she have thought to write Hulan if she hadn't seen that photograph of her dancing in that tight dress in the nightclub pasted to the news wall in the village? At that time Suchee had heard no gossip and didn't mention that the decadent woman in the picture had once lived in the area. As Hulan said, that was a long time ago, and she had been only one soft city face among thousands of other soft city faces. Today, if someone saw Hulan in Miaoshan's clothes they would not think Beijing woman, let alone Ministry of Public Security inspector. She would be just another peasant. To Hulan's question, Suchee nodded solemnly. Hulan put a hand on her friend's arm. "And you're sure this is what you want? Because if you have any doubts, now is the time to stop me." "I'm sure."

"Okay, then, how much farther is it?" Suchee raised an arm and pointed out across a bean field. "Go one more li. You will see the house."

Hulan took a couple of steps, then looked back at her friend. "I may be gone for some time. Go back to work and don't worry about me." Then she turned and walked along the pathway.

It was still early, maybe only eight, but the sun beat down unrelieved by any breeze. Hot air undulated up off the earth, heavy with humidity.

Soon enough Hulan's body would become acclimated, but for now she endured the heat as best she could. She felt sweat running down the backs of her legs, but she kept her pace steady. To go more slowly would prolong her time under the direct sun; to hurry would only hasten dehydration.

Eventually the rows of beans changed back again into corn. The air was moderately cooler here with banks of corn coming up above Hulan's head on both sides of her, but in many ways she would have preferred the low-lying bean fields to the slashing leaves of the corn stalks that sometimes breached their orderly rows. Suddenly Hulan heard voices. She held still for a moment and decided that they were ahead of her. It was late enough now that the Tsais would already be out in the fields, but these were not the sounds of mother, father, and son working side by side. These were low murmurs punctuated by a young woman's giggle. With her homemade shoes, Hulan's footsteps were virtually silent as she passed along the earth, so she brushed her hands against the corn, causing the leaves to rustle so that whoever was out here would hear her approach. Abruptly the corn opened up to reveal a small area of about six by six feet where the corners of four different plots met. Where the pathways created a cross sat a young couple, face to face, with their legs draped over each side of the berm.

"M hao." The young man's greeting came out more as a question: Who are you and what are you doing here?

"Zenmeyyang," Hulan replied. This translated to something casual along the lines of "What's happening?" Without waiting for a response, she continued, "I am looking for the farm of the Tsai family. Am I close?"

The girl giggled. The boy said, "I am Tsai Bing. This is our family's land. Can I help you? Are you looking for my parents? They are in the field on the other side of the house."

Instead of answering his questions, Hulan asked, "May I sit down?"

The two young people looked at each other, then back at Hulan. Finally the boy motioned for her to sit.

"I am Liu Hulan, a friend of Ling Suchee."

"This is Tang Siang," the boy said, motioning to the young woman seated across from him. "She is the one-child daughter of our neighbor. The Tang lands are over there." He raised a dirty finger and pointed to his left. "They go for many li. For so many li that Tang Dan and his daughter are able to live in Da Shui Village."

In another culture Hulan might have taken this thorough introduction for nervous jabbering, but here in China it was not only common but expected that an introduction would include identification of place, status, and, most important, family position.

Hulan did not respond with similar information on herself. Instead she said, "I have come to visit Suchee. She is sad to lose her daughter." As she spoke, Hulan observed Tsai Bing. The boy's face had not yet developed into manhood, and he had an open look to his features. His eyes were bright. His smile was friendly. He was countryside thin, meaning that he was just bones and skin. His shorts-several sizes too large for him-were held up by a tightly cinched belt. His black hair was long and stuck out in unruly chunks. Whether this was from home cutting or from his time alone with the girl at his side Hulan couldn't say. "It must be hard for you too."

"Oh, yes," he said. He sounded sincere, but Hulan caught the quick look that passed between him and Siang.

Addressing the girl directly, she said, "You and Miaoshan must have been friends. Everyone knows everyone in the countryside."

"I have known Miaoshan since we were both in first school." The words sounded pleasant enough, but Siang wasn't sophisticated enough to hide the scorn in her voice, which practically shouted, She was poor. My father is a landowner. She lived here in these fields. I live in the town.

"I'm sure that Miaoshan's mother will be comforted to hear of your grief and that you have come to offer solace to her daughter's fiance."

Slang's cheeks reddened, but she said nothing.

Hulan let the silence stretch out. She was in no hurry, and the longer she kept quiet, the sooner these two would wish to fill the void. Siang noiselessly etched a groove into the dirt with the edge of her tennis shoe, Iwhile Tsai Bing looked around nervously. Finally he said, "I didn't see liaoshan so much anymore. She was always at work or in the dormitory. [am always here working in the fields. Different lives, different choices."

"But it was to be same lives, same choices, no?" Hulan commented. Marriage brings two people together. You must have talked about that her last night, making plans for your wedding-"

"I didn't see Miaoshan," he interrupted, genuinely surprised. "I hadn't seen her for a couple of weeks before she killed herself." "But the baby and your wedding?"

Now it was Tsai Bing's turn to blush. Again he glanced over at Siang, looking first embarrassed, then defiant. When he turned back to Hulan, he jutted his chin indifferently.

"Who's to say that Tsai Bing was the father?" Siang said suddenly. "Miaoshan was living away from home. Who knows what she did or where she did it?"

"That's right," Tsai Bing chimed in.

Tsai Bing and Siang had to be lovers. How else to explain Tsai Bing's odd indifference to losing his fiancee or Slang's callous remarks? But the young woman with the pretty face wasn't finished.

"Miaoshan was always showing off. With her new clothes and her painted face, she thought she was telling the whole village she was better than the rest of us. But everyone looked at her and thought she was acting like a sister of the cave, like a prostitute."

"I see," Hulan said, and she did see Slang's jealousy very clearly. "Everyone felt sorry for Tsai Bing," Siang continued. "He is a good man and a good peasant. He obeys family and public rules. The law says it's too early for him to marry without parental permission and a special exemption permit. Maybe one day he will marry. When he does, he will go through the proper channels and not through the back door."

Hulan had heard enough. She slowly stood and asked, "Tsai Bing, you're sure you didn't see Miaoshan that last night or in the morning? Her mother thought she was with you."

Instead of answering with words, the boy reached out and took Slang's hand. Hulan said good-bye and that she hoped they might meet again, but what she was thinking was that Tsai Bing, a sweet enough kid, was in over his head with Siang. If this obstinate woman had her way, he would become a husband sooner than later. When he did, he would quickly catch qi guanyan. The words meant "inflammation of the windpipe," but the pronunciation was similar to the words for "wife's tight control," creating the meaning of a henpecked husband. But Hulan's mind jumped beyond this superficial assessment. If she believed these two and they had been together on that last night, then where was Miaoshan? Perhaps, like Hulan today, she had gone to find her fiance and overheard him and Siang in the cornfield. There were many women- and men, for that matter-who killed themselves over broken hearts.

Hulan kept coming back to Tang Siang. She was obviously envious of Miaoshan. More than that, her comments had been unnecessarily cruel. They seemed less the observations of someone who was sure of her relationship with Tsai Bing than someone who was still trying to solidify her position or-if she was as clever as she thought herself-trying to distract Hulan from the truth, whatever that was. This, coupled with the blatant intimacy between Tsai Bing and Siang, caused Hulan to wonder: Could either Tang Siang or Tsai Bing have killed Miaoshan? Murders of passion were as old as the human heart.

It was still early in the morning, but late by countryside standards when Hulan left the fields and stepped onto the road for Da Shui. Peasants who had gone to the village to sell their produce or to do business were already heading back to their farms, so that Hulan had to thread her way through the oncoming traffic of people, pushcarts, bicycle carts, and bicycles. At first she kept to the far side of the road, nervous of the cars, trucks, and buses that drove past, but soon she fell into the rhythm of the road-the even strides, the occasional greeting, the beeping of the vehicles, the smells of exhaust, sweat, earth, and the greens that grew upon it.

An hour later, with the sun directly above her head, Hulan entered Da Shui. In many ways it still looked the same. The streets leading into the village were too narrow for cars to pass through. (She'd seen three cars parked on a vacant stretch of land just outside the village.) The unpainted gray-brick houses were small, mostly one or two rooms with a small courtyard holding a family pig. Tiled roofs inclined steeply. A few had upturned eaves, which showed their older age. In the center of the town was a square of sorts-a large, barren area of earth where a few chickens pecked. As in most of China, there was trash of every variety lying about-twisted pieces of iron, scraggly baskets, some old barrels.

But to Hulan's eyes Da Shui had changed dramatically. A few feet of cement sidewalk edged the north side of the square. Where once there had been one or two little shops with government-controlled prices, Hulan now saw store after store-all small establishments, all competing against each other to sell toiletries, rice, produce, crackers, and other dry goods. Painted on empty walls were advertisements for chewing gum, appliances, and face cream. She even saw a couple of billboards.

Twenty-five years ago the only decoration in the village had been larger-than-life posters and paintings of the Great Helmsman. Of course, there had been other embellishments in the form of revolutionary slogans promoting Mao's Cultural Revolution ("Universal Redness With No Exceptions" or "Fight With Words, Not With Weapons") and in dazibao, the big character posters that proclaimed the real and imagined crimes of this or that villager. In those days loudspeakers had blared Chairman Mao's quotations all day and long into the night.

Even today cone-shaped speakers wired to the eaves of buildings played a set routine of programs, beginning at six in the morning with news and commentary. At noon, those fortunate enough to have fields near the village would have lunch accompanied by news and maybe a little music. At dusk, when peasants from the surrounding area converged on the town for a cup of tea, a little conversation, and a game of cards, the programming would start up again with what had traditionally been political indoctrination. Right now an old-fashioned military march accompanied Hulan as she walked down the dusty street.

She went straight to the local Public Security Bureau. The linoleum floor was worn and dirty. An electric fan hung from the ceiling, flanked by two sets of fluorescent lights, but none of them was turned on. Hulan went to the counter. Two women sat at desks against the wall. One was eating from a bowl of food she'd brought from home; the other was doing nothing as far as Hulan could tell. Neither woman looked up. The police bureau was not part of what might be considered the service industry. Manners had no place here. There were no forbidden phrases or outlawed attitudes. To the contrary, people in law enforcement-even if they were simply office staff-were allowed to be rude. Hulan understood the routine, but that didn't make her like it any more.

Finally Hulan cleared her throat.

"What do you want?" the woman eating noodles asked.

"I was hoping to see whoever is in charge."

"Captain Woo is busy. He can't see you now."

"I can wait."

The two women exchanged glances. The woman eating noodles smirked as she said, "You can sit or you can go, we don't care."

What came to Hulan's mind as she stood there in the hot room was a centuries-old saying: To be an official for one lifetime means seven rebirths as a beggar. Wisely, she didn't say this and sat down instead. She picked up a newspaper, but there was little news in the province this week. A while later, she got up and walked to the bulletin board. Here were the usual posters promoting the one-child policy, a flyer for employment at the Knight factory, a chart showing farming quotas, and a government-sponsored list of slogans encouraging better work habits, personal hygiene, and good attitudes such as "Time Is Money, Efficiency Is Life" and "Persist in Reform and Open Policy."

At last a door behind the counter opened and a man came out. Seeing Hulan, he leaned down and spoke quietly to one of the secretaries, then straightened and addressed Hulan directly. "You may come in, but only for five minutes."

The sign on the door said Captain Woo. He motioned for Hulan to sit and asked, "What's your name?"

"Liu Hulan."

"An old-fashioned name. People don't use that name much anymore."

"This is so."

Captain Woo poured himself a cup of tea from a thermos but didn't offer any to the woman who sat before him. "You are not from Da Shui."

"I have come to visit a friend."

"And you find that you argue, that things aren't as they were? This happens sometimes. Friends grow apart."

"No, that isn't it-"

But the captain wasn't listening. "The bureau doesn't get involved in domestic disputes. That is something for the Neighborhood Committee or the manager of the work unit to handle, but"-he sighed deeply-"I have people like you coming to me more and more. Soon, I think, the government will need to come up with a directive on how to handle these problems, for neither I nor my colleagues are equipped to deal with petty arguments when we have so much more important work."

"Excuse me, Captain, but I am not here over a dispute with a friend." "If you have a problem with a husband running away to our village, then you must go to the village leader. Make a petition. He will listen."

Hulan's patience was wearing thin, but she couldn't interrupt him or stop him in her usual manner without giving herself away as an educated woman, a Beijinger, a Red Princess, or an inspector for the Ministry of Public Security. This last was most crucial. Local Public Security Bureaus had little respect for the more important Ministry of Public Security in Beijing. This attitude wasn't unique to China. Every country had its jurisdictional arguments between local police and national law enforcement, whether it be the FBI, KGB, or Scotland Yard. So, instead of putting Woo in his place, Hulan acted as a peasant, more than a little afraid of his power.

"Please, Captain," she said as meekly as was possible for her. He frowned at her impertinence, then nodded for her to go ahead. "I am here because my friend's daughter died. The mother is very sad. I am hoping you can tell me what happened so that I can help the mother with her grief."

Woo's eyes narrowed. "You must be speaking of Ling Miaoshan. She killed herself."

"How can this be?" Hulan asked. "She was young, beautiful, and she was to be married. Suicide isn't the act of a bride."

Hulan had hoped that Captain Woo would recognize the inconsistencies just as she had. Instead, he dropped his pseudo-polite demeanor and spoke in a tone designed to halt any more questions from this know-nothing woman.

"Ling Miaoshan had a bad character. The whole district knew she was a loose girl who opened her legs for any man with a beating heart. As for marriage? Well, no one ever saw an invitation to the wedding." "Are you saying that Tsai Bing never intended to marry Miaoshan?" "No, I'm saying I'm done with you. Go on your way before you get into trouble here." This time there was no mistaking the threat. Hulan stood, bowed her head in feigned gratitude, and left the office.

Later, as she walked along the road leading out of the village, she thought over Captain Woo's words. How could Miaoshan have had such a bad reputation? The answer was as old as womankind-she'd probably earned it. But again, this seemed at odds with Suchee's description of her daughter. Was this just a mother's blindness to her daughter's weakness? Or were the villagers intimidated enough in some way by Miaoshan to create a portrait that explained a disparity that they couldn't understand? Hulan knew how that worked. It had happened to Hulan her entire life. Even at work her colleagues recognized her differences and translated them into misjudgments such as that she held herself too high or dressed peculiarly, yes, even that she was a loose woman who had had unmarried sex-with a foreigner, no less.

SUNDAY MORNING DAWNED DAMP AND FOGGY. DAVID, dressed in boxers and an old T-shirt, padded down to the kitchen and started a large pot of coffee for himself and special agents George Baldwin and Eddie Wiley. Within hours of Keith's death, the agents had arrived back at the house. George and Eddie were pretty good guys, and during their last few months together on the Rising Phoenix case, they'd learned how to accommodate one another. Eddie, who'd spent years doing undercover work, was more of an athlete and accompanied David on his morning runs around Lake Hollywood. George, on the other hand, had come out of the bank robbery squad. He was accustomed to sitting all day in courtrooms and waiting in offices, so he had a great deal of patience with David's typical workday. During the previous months a kind of frat house atmosphere had prevailed. But circumstances had changed.

David had thought his life had been circumscribed the last time around, but after two full days with George and Eddie he felt as if he were in jail. After the shooting outside the Water Grill, the agents were taking everything much more seriously. David was never alone in his own home. Never alone when he ate. Never allowed to go outside and pick up the paper. Never alone when he walked or ran or went to work. Even now David could hear George on the phone setting up shifts, which meant there'd be new agents to get to know, more traffic all around the periphery of his life, and even less freedom.

Eddie entered the room, then in a swift series of motions slipped his hand to where he kept his weapon bolstered behind his back, opened the door, looked around, went outside, picked up the paper, brought it in, and dropped it on the kitchen counter. Then, without a word, he opened a cupboard and poured himself a bowl of Cheerios. He'd already showered, shaved, and dressed for the funeral in an outfit that wasn't much different from what he wore on every other day of the week-gray slacks perfectly pressed, a starched light blue shirt, sports jacket, and a tie with a blue and red pattern. He was in his thirties, and because of his undercover work kept his hair longer than most agents. Eddie had a girlfriend he talked to every night on his cellular phone. David had overheard more than one conversation between the two agents about how and when Eddie should propose.

David waited silently for the coffee to finish, poured himself a cup, grabbed the paper, and went back to his bedroom. He stood for a minute or two looking out at the view. Usually it gave him a sense of expansive-ness, but today he only felt the pressure of the four walls around him. His mood might have lifted if he could have spoken to Hulan, but she hadn't called since that day on the train and he couldn't reach her-not because she was out of satellite range but because she hadn't turned on her phone. Hulan had a 139 phone that allowed her to place and receive calls from anywhere in the world. Since phones were such a rarity in homes both in the countryside and in large cities like Beijing and Shanghai, most people who could afford cell phones-and they and their ancillary rates were outrageously high in China but minuscule compared to U.S. standards-had them. The government had facilitated this by making sure that satellites covered all but the most remote or difficult to reach areas such as the Three Gorges. With Hulan separated from him- by choice? The idea made him even more depressed-she didn't even know that Keith had died, or that David was responsible.

David still had two hours before the funeral, so he propped himself up in bed and opened the paper. There were the usual stories-trouble in the Middle East in the front section, a profile of one of the Dodgers in Sports, the second of a two-parter on infidelity in Life amp; Style, and, because it was an industry town, there was a piece about a film that had run over budget in Calendar. He was about halfway through the business section when he saw Knight International in bold type.

Despite troubles in the Asian markets, he read, Knight's stock had climbed another seventeen points in the last week. The reporter, a Pearl Jenner, had interviewed a couple of brokers who observed that the recent action was due to the fact that Knight's board and its minority shareholders had accepted a bid for purchase by media and manufacturing giant Tartan Incorporated. She also interviewed Henry Knight, the colorful chairman of the company, who said, "I've spent my life building this company. We've always done well. But in this last year our sales have skyrocketed thanks to Sam amp; His Friends. If there's a time to sell, this is it."

The reporter didn't see it that way. Why sell the company when the financial forecast looked so rosy, with Knight's new technologies guaranteed to expand profits geometrically in the next century? She went on to answer her question. Henry Knight wasn't as young as he once was. He'd been in and out of the hospital for heart problems during the last two years. Most important, several sources, who refused to be named, suggested that Henry didn't want to leave the company to his son, Douglas Knight. "The old man is a visionary, but he's a hard man," offered one observer. "He should have stepped down and turned the company over to Doug years ago, but he won't let go." When asked why, the unnamed source answered, "Henry's the kind of man who brought himself up by his bootstraps. If it was good enough for him, then it's good enough for his son." Pearl Jenner noted several examples of other family-owned businesses where the founders preferred to sell or hand the running of a company over to outsiders rather than give it to their less talented offspring. Ironically, however, Henry hadn't founded Knight, his father had. Perhaps a more logical explanation was that by selling now-when profits were at an all-time high-the company would get the best price. This had the added benefit of giving Henry the chance to help his son with estate taxes while he was still alive.

In the last paragraph David saw something that made him sit upright. "Family considerations aside, Mr. Knight's concerns may have lessened lately," Pearl Jenner wrote. "Just two days ago, Keith Baxter, an attorney at Phillips, MacKenzie amp; Stout, the law firm which represents Tartan Incorporated, was killed in a traffic accident. Baxter had been the target of a recent federal inquiry into alleged violations of the U.S.

Foreign Corrupt Practices Act, which occurred during the Knight sale negotiations. Until now Henry Knight has refused to comment on the inquiry, but speaking by phone yesterday, he said, T always believed that these allegations were unfounded. Now the government will have no choice but to drop their charges. I want to add that Keith Baxter was a fine young man and his death comes as a shock to my family and me. Our sympathies go out to the Baxters. To honor his memory we will continue to move ahead with the sale. I know Keith would have wanted that.'" The article ended with a summary of Knight International's annual gross revenues and net profits.

David put the newspaper down and closed his eyes. Bribery was practically a way of life in China, with roots that could be traced back thousands of years. Keith must have slipped a bribe or two to some official, hoping to work out a conflict or smooth over some mistake in the paperwork. The practice might be customary in China, but it was beyond stupid here. No wonder Keith had reacted so strangely to David's questions about what he was doing at the firm, suggesting that David had come as part of some federal investigation. If Keith had confided in him, David would have insisted that he go straight to the U.S. Attorney's Office. Considering Keith's background-a lawyer with no priors-he might have gotten away with probation and a fine.

The service was held at Westwood Village Mortuary. David signed the guest book and looked for a seat. Hoping to be as inconspicuous as possible, he and the two FBI agents who accompanied him slipped into pews toward the rear of the chapel. But really, how inconspicuous could they be? Even if the shooting hadn't been in the news, even if David hadn't been the real target of the murderer with Keith's death as the consequence, David's companions would have marked him for at least a few stares. It wasn't their fault: FBI agents looked like FBI agents.

Keith's coffin lay on a raised platform at the front of the chapel. A few bouquets-some daisies, some roses, even one of those carnation things on an easel-surrounded it. A man walked to the podium and introduced himself as Reverend Roland Graft from Westwood Presbyterian. He opened with a few perfunctory remarks on the nature of death and the tragedy of a life taken so young and violently. However, the Reverend Graft had obviously never met Keith and quickly turned the microphone over to Miles Stout.

The last time David had seen Miles was at the annual dinner for current and former assistant U.S. attorneys. He hadn't changed, he never did. His Scandinavian background was prominent in his features. He was tall, blond, blue-eyed, tan, athletic-looking despite his almost sixty years. It was said that he still played tennis every day before going in to the office. He spent his vacations skiing in Vail or white-water rafting down some river no one had ever heard of in some remote area of the globe.

At the podium Miles appeared to take a moment to gather his thoughts. Probably half the people in the chapel knew this was mere theatrics. Miles was brilliant on his feet whether in court or as an after-dinner speaker.

"What can I say about Keith?" Miles asked in the buttery-smooth tones that so captivated juries. "How do I sum up a life?" He let the questions hang in the air unanswered, then dropped his voice. "Keith came to the firm still wet behind the ears, but he was a quick study. I learned to trust his judgment and admire his insights."

It was classic Miles Stout: sincerity combined with hackneyed images, false regret, and just a slight bending of the facts. Miles, knowing his audience and recognizing that they would be seeing right through him, continued.

"But again, how do we remember a man? With platitudes? No. With empty sentiments? Never. Today I want to remember the good times. Sure, they all involve the firm, but that's the kind of man Keith was. Perhaps through my stories, you will remember some of your own."

He paused, let a gentle smile come to the corners of his mouth, then said, "Just last week Keith and I were working on the acquisition of Knight International by Tartan Incorporated. Our team had been up for two nights straight. We'd been eating pizza and Chinese takeout till we were all longing for a home-cooked meal. I called down to the office…" David allowed his mind to drift. He hadn't been at the firm for the Tartan-Knight negotiations, but he didn't need to be to know that Miles hadn't been working twenty-four hours a day and eating food brought in from the nearest fast-food restaurant. Miles said it himself. "I called down to the office." He was the billing partner. It didn't matter if he went out to dinner with Mary Elizabeth, his high school sweetheart and wife of thirty-five years, to dine on linguini with black truffles so long as he brought in the work. And he did, big-time.

Miles was a legend of sorts in the Los Angeles legal community. Like Keith, he'd been raised on a farm somewhere in the Midwest. He'd gotten a scholarship to Michigan, then had been accepted to Harvard Law School. Upon graduation he clerked for a judge, then went directly to the U.S. Attorney's Office. When he was ready to leave, Phillips amp; MacKenzie offered Miles a position as partner. Ten years later, after he threatened to leave and take his substantial client list with him, the partnership voted to add his name to the firm's, turning it into Phillips, MacKenzie amp; Stout. Despite his good fortune, Miles never forgot his roots, which was why he often had parties on days that the Wolverines played and probably why he mentored Keith, who'd come from such a similar background.

David tuned back in to the eulogy as he heard Miles's voice suddenly go mournful. "I want to end now with how I saw Keith on that last day. We were in the conference room. There were half-eaten sandwiches, Cokes, cold cups of coffee. Keith was taking me through the contract point by point. He was thorough. He didn't stumble over a number or a clause. At one point he opened a file cabinet and pulled out some papers. He saw the mistakes. He saw the problems. He didn't miss a thing. Because that's the kind of lawyer… No! That's the kind of man he was." Miles looked over at the coffin. "Keith, we're gonna miss you, buddy." He turned back to the audience, murmured a barely audible thank-you, and walked back toward the condolence room, crossing paths with Keith's sister, Anne Baxter Hooper, who said a few words. Then Reverend Graft thanked everyone for coming and invited the mourners to the Stouts' home for refreshments.

Twenty minutes later, David and the two agents turned north off Sunset and began climbing into the Brentwood hills, where grand mansions were hidden behind stone walls, wrought iron gates, or carefully trimmed hedges. A valet stand was set up at the entrance to the Stout property, but George flashed his credentials and the car was waved through.

The Stout estate had been built at the turn of the century by an East Coast robber baron who'd come out to California for the winter season and decided to stay. He brought with him traditional ideas of living, but for his new home he had also asked the architect to include the very best ideals of Southern California living. The house-built in the Spanish style with cream-colored walls, extensive terraces, and a tiled roof-was gracious, large, and perfect for entertaining. Over the years the property had passed through many hands. When the Stouts purchased it in 1980, they decided to bring the property back to its former glory, first restoring, then embellishing its fine bones. Nowhere was this more evident than in the gardens.

The landscaping had been designed on a semi-European scheme with "rooms" representing different countries and themes: a Japanese garden, a rose garden for viewing, a citrus orchard for Southern California, a tropical garden with bougainvillea, birds of paradise, and flowering silk floss and jacaranda trees. Colorful annuals bordered the driveway. Manicured lawns spread out lush and green. Hundred-year-old sycamores and California oaks provided shade. David remembered that somewhere on the property there was a greenhouse filled with orchids and another hidden garden for cut flowers. In this way Mary Elizabeth Stout was able to have fresh flowers in every room virtually all year.

Someone from the catering staff showed David and the agents through the living room and out onto the terrace. Heading down to the pool, David and the FBI agents were flanked by a series of terraces, each draped with flowers and vines. George and Eddie took up discreet positions at either end of the cabana, while David went straight for the bar. He ordered a beer and watched as the other guests came down the stairs. They were the predictable assortment of lawyers from different law firms and government entities, as well as a smattering of judges. David waved to Rob Butler from the U.S. Attorney's Office and said hello to Kate Seigel from Taylor amp; Steinberg.

No one seemed particularly upset. In fact, as they picked up drinks and mingled at the bar, they looked more like guests at a garden party than at a funeral. But what did David expect? If Keith had died a week ago, would he have reacted differently? Certainly he would have felt bad about a friend and colleague's death, but he would have compartmentalized it and, like most of these people, come more out of duty than friendship. How strange, David thought, the way people avoided grief, avoided any unpleasant emotions, as if that would protect them from tragedy or make them invisible to evil.

Phil Collingsworth, who'd been at the firm even longer than Miles Stout, clapped David on the back and said that the three of them should grab some time later to talk. David spoke with another partner, who, after Hulan left him years ago, had encouraged him to date, then marry Jean. The marriage had been a mistake, but when they'd divorced, Marjorie, like so many people and things, had gone into Jean's half of the communal property. But now here was Marjorie, giving David a hug, saying how nice it was to see him after such a long time, and asking if he wouldn't like to come over for dinner and see how big the kids had grown.

It felt good to be back among friends, but there was a shadow over most of his conversations. No one mentioned the accusations surrounding Keith or David's presence at Keith's death, but he felt these subjects intruding into all of his encounters. Soon enough small talk evaporated into awkward silence. The little grouping would disperse and another one would form.

At one point David found himself standing alone. He glanced around, caught a sympathetic nod from Agent Baldwin, and quickly looked away. His eyes came to rest on Keith's sister, sitting with an older couple. The three of them looked exhausted and definitely out of place in the party atmosphere. David passed through the little eddies of people, reached Keith's family, extended his hand, and introduced himself.

At the older woman's quick intake of breath, the man at her side put a protective arm around her shoulder. With his other hand he reached out and firmly gripped David's. "Matt Baxter. I'm-I was-Keith's dad. This is Keith's mother, Marie. And this is Anne." But these introductions seemed about all he could manage. David watched as Matt squeezed his wife's shoulder, this time to strengthen himself.

A moment passed before anyone spoke, then Anne, her eyes welling with tears, looked up at David. "You're the person who was with Keith when…"

"That's right," David finished for her. "May I sit down?"

"Of course," she said.

David dragged a lawn chair over to Anne and her folks. As soon as he sat down he smelled an overpowering and sickeningly sweet scent that reminded him of death.

"Can you tell us about Keith on that last night?" Anne asked.

David had been so wrapped up in his guilt that he hadn't considered that Keith's family would ask him this question if given the opportunity. What should he say? That Keith had drunk too much? That he'd been worried about work? These weren't words that would bring solace. Instead David answered in half-truths.

"We had a bottle of wine. We ate fish. He was in a good humor. He teased me about coming back to the firm," David said.

Keith's folks nodded and smiled sadly.

"But did he say anything?" Anne pressed.

Was she asking about Pearl Jenner's allegations in the Times! She couldn't be.

"At the time nothing seemed that important," he said, trying to keep the conversation light. "We were just friends catching up on what we'd been doing. He asked about some trials that I'd had. It was just lawyer talk…"

"I don't know how you could say that," Anne said, not bothering to disguise her sarcasm.

"Anne," Matt implored his daughter, but she ignored him.

"I talked to him that day too, you know." Her voice had shifted into something hard and edgy. Her eyes stayed steady on David as she waited for him to respond. How much did Anne know? Was she, like David, worried about her brother's reputation? All he knew was that he didn't want to talk about these things in front of Keith's parents.

"My brother was in anguish. His girlfriend had just died…" Anne began to cry.

His girlfriend? Keith hadn't mentioned anything about that. Could David have misread the evening? No, not if what the Times said was true.

"We haven't thanked you for calling that night," Keith's mother said. "It meant a lot to us that it was a friend and not the police. I don't think I could have taken that."

"If the situation had been reversed, I'm sure Keith would have done the same for me."

"Do you think so?" Anne asked.

"Of course I do."

"What I mean is, do you think the situation could have been reversed?"

"Anne," Matt Baxter gently pleaded with his daughter.

Anne took an angry swipe at her tears, then turned impatiently to her father. "What is it, Dad? Do you want me to forget that my brother died because of this man? Well, I'm not going to forget that. I don't think anyone here-except for maybe you and Mom-is going to forget that."

Hearing those words, David felt his gut tighten. Was this how people would think of him from now on?

"Excuse me."

They all looked up to see Special Agent Eddie Wiley, sounding extremely official. "Mr. Stark, I need for you to step this way."

David rose. He kept eye contact with Anne but spoke to her parents. "Again, I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am." He tipped his head, broke away from Anne's hard gaze, and followed Eddie into the cabana.

"Thanks," he said.

"No thanks required. You looked like you needed rescuing."

"Yeah, I guess I did."

"You're going to have to learn how to deal with shit like that." When David regarded him in puzzlement, Eddie explained, "With people asking questions that they really don't want the answers to."

"And?"

"Shine them on."

David frowned. "Could I do that? Could you?"

"It's part of the job."

"Maybe yours…"

Eddie didn't respond. He didn't have to. They both knew how many deaths the Rising Phoenix had brought to David's job. "Eddie, can you do something for me?"

"You know I can."

"I want to meet alone with Keith's sister."

"What? In the fucking greenhouse or something? I don't think so."

"I have to explain to her about that night."

"No, you don't."

"I want…" David took a step toward the cabana's French doors, but Eddie moved to block his way.

"Haven't you heard what I've been saying? You can't let guilt run you, man." Eddie lowered his voice. "Believe me, I know."

For the second time in about as many minutes David was in a standoff. And, for the second time, he was rescued by a familiar voice.

"Ah, David, there you are," Miles called out from the French doors. "I've been looking for you. Phil and I want you to take a walk with us." He cocked his head to Eddie. "Is that all right with you? We'll stay on the property. I'll tell you what. We'll even stay down here on the lower terrace. Just give me a few minutes of privacy with my former colleague."

Eddie stood his ground a moment longer, then stepped aside. David and Miles threaded their way through the crowd and walked out along the terrace.

"It's been a rough few days," Miles said. "How are you holding up?" David stared down into the canyon below him, where sumac and other scrub brush served as a counterpoint to the luxury and refinement of the Stout grounds.

Since David didn't seem willing to answer, Miles said, "It was a bad break. You need to know that none of us blames you." David snorted. "I think Keith's sister does."

"What does she know? She wasn't there." Miles closed his eyes and tilted his face up to the sun. "Why did you and Keith get together anyway?"

"It was nothing really, just dinner." Here again was another half-truth, but he just didn't want to cover this material again. "Did he talk about work, the firm?"

"I suppose." David shrugged. "We talked a little about Tartan and Knight."

"He was working with me on the acquisition. We've been working on the deal for a year. The firm's been consumed with it."

Miles loved to discuss business. David, relieved by the change in focus, accommodated him. "From what I've read, I'm surprised Knight would sell."

"It came as a surprise to me too when I got the call from Henry saying he wanted to sell and did I think Tartan would be interested. Of course, Randall Craig was interested and made an offer right away. That was a year ago."

"You must be slipping," David needled good-naturedly. "It wasn't me. It was that damn Henry Knight. He's one strange bird. He doesn't like to use attorneys, and he only hires accountants on an as-needed basis."

"Is he covering up something?"

"No, he's just eccentric. But look, eccentric or not, he built his company himself. He was already rich. Soon he'll be filthy rich."

David had a father who sounded a lot like Henry Knight, so he knew that eccentricity could be charming and irritating at the same time. David also knew from his experiences at the U.S. Attorney's Office that such men were not immune to the temptations of crime. Instead of committing a crime himself, had Keith found some problem in the Knight records? Was there a mistake in the deal? Is that what had so worried him? Or had he discovered some irregularities, something that might involve a federal investigation? If so, why not tell Miles? Or, if it was really bad, why not go straight to the U.S. Attorney's Office, the FBI, or the SEC himself?

"What was Keith working on exactly?" David inquired. "You know, doing the due diligence, gathering together the various representations and warranties for the SEC and FTC. It was just the usual antitrust and securities formalities."

David lowered his voice even though they were alone. "What about those accusations in the Times this morning?"

"All lies." Miles's eyes flashed angrily. "That reporter made that stuff up and has been able to get away with it for months by throwing in the word alleged here and there."

"For months? I didn't know it was going on at all." "It wasn't something the firm or Keith advertised. Fortunately Jenner's stories were always buried deep in the business section." "And Keith never came to you with any concerns?" "Oh, he was concerned, all right. Wouldn't you be? What that woman wrote was totally unfounded." Miles shook his head sadly. "When I think of how tortured Keith was… Certainly you must have noticed how upset he was."

"I did, as a matter of fact. I wish he'd explained-"

"He didn't like to talk about it. As unfounded as those articles were, they were deeply embarrassing to him."

"The death of his girlfriend couldn't have helped matters. Did you know her?"

"No, she didn't live here. Her death was a tough break for Keith. Well, there's no point dwelling on it now." He paused, then said, "Ah, here's Phil."

"Have you asked him yet?" Phil inquired.

"No," Miles answered. "I was waiting for you."

"Good," Phil said, smiling warmly at David, "because I want you to know that this proposal comes from all of us at the firm. Go ahead, Miles."

David waited, listening.

"We've all watched your progress at the U.S. Attorney's Office," Miles began. "You've done some amazing work in China and certainly with the triads. We're all proud of you for that."

"Thanks."

"I'm going to lay our cards on the table," Miles continued. "We'd like you to come back to the firm and open an office in China." He held up a hand to keep David from speaking. "We've got a lot of work over there even without the Tartan business. We're subbing it out to lawyers in Beijing. Remember Nixon Chen, who came over from China to train with us all those years ago?"

"Not only do I remember him, but I had lunch with him about three months ago."

"He does a lot of our China work, and he bills at rates almost as high as ours," Phil said. "We're giving him hundreds of thousands in legal fees each year. The firm's thinking is, why should we give Nixon all that work? We've been wanting to open a branch office in Beijing for quite some time, but we needed the right person to get it up and running."

"And you think I'm that person?"

Phil stared earnestly at David. "Look, you're a litigator, but a lot of your cases have involved big companies with complex financials, so you've become quite a good corporate lawyer too."

David hadn't thought of his career this way before, but it made perfect sense.

"But you bring something more to the equation," Miles picked up. "The Chinese care about guanxi-connections. Nixon's a Red Prince, so his connections are impeccable. But you also have some pretty interesting connections-with the Ministry of Public Security…"

"If you're thinking about Hulan, forget it. She's happy where she is."

"I didn't mention her name. You did. We haven't asked Hulan to open the office. We're asking you."

David shook his head. "Thanks, but I like what I do too."

"We're prepared to make a substantial offer," Miles said. "Just name your price."

"Money's never mattered to me."

"I know that, and if you want our offer to take that into consideration, I'm sure we can oblige." Seeing the look on David's face, Miles grinned triumphantly, as if he'd caught a witness in a lie. "I knew it," he said. "We never would have gotten this far in the conversation if you weren't just a little bit intrigued. So do us a favor. Think about it and come see us tomorrow."

"All right, but don't count on anything."

Miles smiled, gloated, convinced he'd achieved victory, then looked back toward his waiting guests. "I bet Mary Elizabeth's wondering where I am. You mind if we head back?"

As the three men slowly walked along the path leading to the pool, David said, "I'm not saying I'll do it, but what kind of time frame are we talking about?"

"The visa won't be a problem," Miles said. "The Chinese know you and you've been there before. We'd love to get you on a plane to Beijing by the end of the week."

"Jesus! What's the rush?"

Miles stopped. "Frankly I thought you'd be in a hurry. You'll be safe in China. And"-Miles allowed himself a small smile-"you could be reunited with Hulan."

"Actually," Phil interjected, "we've been thinking about this for a long time. We have a window of opportunity in China. We've thought about talking to other attorneys, but you know how long it takes to integrate a lateral hire into a firm like ours. You already know us, and we know you. Really the only way we can go ahead in a timely fashion is with someone we know. That's why you've always been our first choice, but you weren't going to leave the U.S. Attorney's Office in the middle of the Rising Phoenix cases. Those trials are done now, and let's face it, David, it's time for you to move on. So I say, if we're going to act, let's do it fast. All the work's been done on the Knight deal. All we need now are the signatures. So, let's get you in there in time to deal with the last-minute logistics and to meet all of Tartan's top players. That will smooth the transition and put you in prime position to continue handling Tartan's China business. But again, for that to work, we need to move quickly."

"Do you think the others will want me back after what happened with Keith?"

Phil momentarily dropped his friendly senior-statesman demeanor. "I mean no disrespect to the dead. What happened was bad luck. But let's face facts. Keith was a mediocre lawyer who barely got enough votes to make partner. You've got real talent. We've known that for a long time."

"Still-"

"Let me put it to you another way," Miles interrupted. "There's lots of money to be made in China. The lawyers of Phillips, MacKenzie amp; Stout might as well be the ones to make it." Registering David's shocked expression, Miles held his hands palms up. "For once in your life try to divorce yourself from your so-called good intentions. You've done your time, you've given back to the community and all that. Now you should think about what's best for you. And Hulan."

An hour later, the agents whisked David away from the gathering. Once he got home, he opened a beer and sat down ostensibly to watch the news, but his mind was on his conversation with Miles and Phil. Could David work with Miles again? They'd never gotten along all that well. David was born with all the things that Miles had worked hard to attain. David had lived in the city his entire life, had grown up surrounded by culture, had gone to the best schools, had fast-tracked into a partnership at the firm where-at least according to Miles-David had never quite been able to "get with the program." Of course, David saw it differently. Coming from a position of professional security, David had had little patience for either Miles's mannerisms or his compulsive desire to be respected and obeyed. Miles was as smart and savvy as anyone David had ever met, but in many ways he was still an insecure farm boy. He could truly be a friend and benefactor to someone like Keith who kowtowed to him, but David had never been able to do that. Then David had done something almost unfathomable to Miles. David had given it all up-meaning the six-, almost seven-figure salary-to go to the U.S. Attorney's Office, where he felt he could make a difference. But the door, so to speak, had obviously been left open. Miles might not have liked David, but he recognized that he was always among the top billers at the firm.

Phil especially had nailed the situation: it was time to move on. Coming back to Phillips, MacKenzie could benefit both David and the firm, and timing was everything in business. David had been further reassured when Phil had said, "The fees to our clients in China are covering the financial risk for us, so that in the unlikely event that this doesn't work out, the firm won't hold it against you and you can come back to the L.A. office. We want this to be a win-win for both parties right on down the line. We're partners."

All of this brought back to David that last dinner with Keith, who'd mentioned in passing that the partners had been talking about him. Somehow that knowledge-that link to Keith-made the offer all the more appealing. And then there was the deeper consideration: Hulan. The only way he could deal with her fears was if they were together. If he could hold her in his arms, he knew he could banish the inner demons that haunted her so.

Just then Eddie came in, sprawled out on the couch, and said, "You should do it, you know."

"What?"

"Do what they say. Get the hell out of here. Take them up on their offer."

"How did you know…?"

Eddie cocked an eyebrow. "Man, we're the FBI. You didn't think you could have a private conversation without us knowing about it, did you?"

He paused, then added, "Anyway, for what it's worth, you should go."

"How can I?"

"How can you not? Look at it this way, Stark, you've got a guy like me on your couch here and a woman waiting for you in China. That's a no-brainer from where I sit."