He goes to his desk, unlocks a drawer, comes back with a ball of newspaper. As he unravels the ball I notice the newspaper is in a foreign script. Not Thai and not English. Under the newspaper, a brown and black piece of rock roughly the shape of a pyramid about six inches high. I peer at the rock, then use a piece of the newspaper to hold it up and turn it over. Most of the rock is covered in mud, lichen and jungle scum, but there are some scrape marks on the bottom of it, exposing a greenish tint of core.

“Jade. The scrape marks are from potential buyers testing the hardness.” I examine the newspaper. “Laotian script, very close to Thai but not the same.”

“Can you read the date?”

“No.”

“Okay, we’ll make a copy and e-mail it to Quantico. We should have an answer in a couple of days.”

“May I also have a copy?”

Nape takes the newspaper and goes off to get copies. Rosen and I look at each other. I say: “Did Bradley have an apartment in the city?”

Rosen rubs the back of his ear with his thumb. “Long-termers generally rent a room or even an apartment, usually for R and R purposes, even though officially they live at the embassy. The only condition is that they tell us where it is. Bradley filed an address on Soi 21 off Sukhumvit, but when we checked a couple of hours ago, we discovered he hadn’t been there for four years.” I digest this in silence. “So I guess we don’t know where he lived.” I nod while Rosen looks away, toward the football on the filing cabinet. “If I received hints that Washington doesn’t really want too deep an investigation…”

I shrug. “Detective Pichai Apiradee was my soul brother.” This information apparently does not answer Rosen’s question. I try again. “I’m going to kill whoever did it. There won’t be a trial.”

Fortunately, at that moment Nape returns with the photocopies, one of which he hands to me, the other to Rosen, whose mouth is hanging open. I stand up and force a smile. “How about a wager, gentlemen? A thousand baht says that I will find out the date of the newspaper before you do.”

Nape grins and shakes his head. “Not me. I know you’ll win.”

Rosen looks at him as if he has committed treason. “Bullshit. I’ll tell them it’s urgent. We’ll have an answer by five tonight, Thai time.”

At least I’ve found a way of closing the interview with reasonable elegance. Nape accompanies me to the gate of the embassy and returns me safely to Thailand. The big smile has gone from his face. He looks older in the cloying heat, less pure. As we stand on either side of the turnstile, he licks his lips and says: “You’re gonna snuff ’em, aren’t you?” I stare at him for a moment, then turn to look for a motorbike taxi. It is two minutes before 3 p.m.

Monsieur Truffaut was probably my favorite. We were unable to love him because he was so old, but with hindsight it is clear that of all of them, he alone gave more than he took. He gave us Paris, after all, and a smattering of French.

I told the kid on the bike to take me to Nana Entertainment Plaza, a short ride away. It was eleven minutes past 3 p.m. when we arrived, and the plaza was still sleeping off the night before.

Pichai would always make fun of the way I could not stand to work Vice. I guess his background didn’t affect him the way it affected me, but just now, with the courtyard mostly empty and the three tiers of bars, short-time hotels and brothels quiet in the hot afternoon, I appreciated the feeling of familiarity that came over me. I may not like it, as someone may not like the street where they were brought up, but there’s no denying the depth of understanding, the knowledge, the intimacy. Maybe on such a black day this was the one place that might bring some relief?

A few girls were already hanging out at the street-level bars, chatting about the night before, comparing stories of the men who paid their bar fines and took them back to their rooms, moaning about the ones who just flirted and groped, then disappeared without buying them a drink. I knew how they liked to talk about the quirks of farangs whose preferences can be so different from our own. Great macho men who only want to suck big toes, or even be whipped. Men who cry and talk about their wives. Men who, fully clothed, look like the very best the West has to offer, yet somehow collapse at the sight of a naked brown girl waiting on a hotel bed. I knew every story, every nuance, every trick of the trade in which I have never partaken, not once, not even when Pichai went through his whoring phase. I paused to watch the girls coming to work, each of whom raised her hands in prayer to her forehead in order to mindfully wai the Buddha shrine which stands festooned with marigolds and orchids in the north corner of the courtyard, and I could not help thinking of my mother; then I climbed the stairs to the second tier.

I was looking for one of the larger bars which had already opened their doors and found Hollywood 2, one of its double doors propped open with a wastebin, houselights bright inside while women in overalls wiped the tables and mopped the floors. The aroma of pine cleaning fluid blended with stale beer, cigarettes and cheap perfume. There was a big two-level turntable with stainless steel uprights for the girls to cavort around while it turned, but it was empty and motionless at that time. I walked in and knew that the woman who was replenishing the beers on the shelves behind one of the bars was the mamasan who organizes the girls, advises them on every aspect of the trade, even the most intimate, who listens to their problems, helps them when they fall pregnant or contemplate suicide. She would tell the girls to walk out if the client refused to use a condom, and to demand extra for unusual services-or decline (Italians, French and Americans especially are known for their sodomizing ways). A good mamasan looks ahead to when the girls will have to retire in their mid-thirties, if not before; some of them even teach the girls English and pay for secretarial courses, although such enlightenment is rare. It was not enlightenment which shone from this woman’s eyes: broad, tough, about fifty with a nut-brown face and a permanent scowl.

“We shut. Come back sik o’clock.”

She had taken me for a farang. “I’m a cop,” I said in Thai, flashing my ID. A change of attitude, but not much.

“What you want, Khun Cop? The boss pays protection, you can’t hassle me.”

“This isn’t a bust.”

She looked around for more cops. Finding none, she sneered. “The girls aren’t ready yet. The ones upstairs are still asleep and the others haven’t arrived. Why have you come so early? You want a free fuck, just because you’re a cop? What if my boss tells his protector?”

“I just want a favor.”

“Sure. Every man wants a favor.”

“I want a Lao girl.”

She smirked. “Lao girl? We got thirty percent Lao girl. What kind you want? Tall, short, big tits, small tits-no blondes, though.” She cackled at her own joke. “No blond Laos here. If you want blonde you got to have Russian.”

“I want one who can read and write. Actually, read is good enough.”

“You mean not a tribeswoman straight out of the jungle-we have a few of those, like all the bars do.” She frowned. “What you up to, Khun Cop?”

“Can you help, yes or no?”

The mamasan shrugged and yelled out the name of a girl. Someone yelled back, and a young woman appeared dressed in a white towel tucked under her arms, her long brown legs ending in bare feet. “Get Dou, she’s in room three,” the mamasan told her.

Ten minutes later Dou appeared in a cotton frock, a pleasant-faced young woman about twenty years old, with a broad, friendly smile and a thick Laotian accent. She was excited, thinking me an early customer. I smiled back, showed her a hundred-baht note and the photocopy Nape gave me. She scanned it quizzically. “I only want to know the date on it.”