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.