“Stop what?”

“Lydia! Stop working on this case! Tell Detective Mulgrew, tell your detective friend, and then leave it alone. If Wong Pan killed someone, if my clients are lying to me-whatever this means, one thing that’s clear, the situation is dangerous. It sounds likely now that Joel’s murder may well be part of this case. And I want you out of it! I won’t be responsible for you getting hurt.”

“Alice, this is my choice. You’re not responsible, but I can’t just-”

“Lydia, I fired you to keep you safe. You must stop.”

“I don’t feel like I can.”

“What do you want me to do, get a restraining order?”

I came to a screeching halt. “What?”

“This is my business. I hired you, I fired you, and now you won’t leave it alone. If it’s the only way I can keep you out of danger, I’ll do it. Please, Lydia. I just don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“You can’t do that,” I said, wondering if she could.

“Lydia, please. Leave it alone until I get back tomorrow. We’ll decide how best to move forward from there.”

I sighed and rubbed my eyes. “Will you call me as soon as you’re back in New York?”

“Yes.”

“All right. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

I clicked off. It was possible my voice sounded a little more resigned, a little less resolute, than I felt. Alice could interpret that however she wanted. I never actually said I’d give up the case, though, and she couldn’t quote me as saying I had. Because, in fact, she was wrong on one particular.

She hadn’t hired me. Joel had.

I called Bill, got voice mail, told him we were fired again and to call me. Then I gathered up my things and started to move.

In five minutes I was back on the other end of Canal. Outside Bright Hopes I paused, letting my gaze sweep the rings, the necklaces, and the ridiculously adorable gold zodiac animals on a Plexiglas Milky Way. This was the bridge between earth and heaven, where the Weaver Maid and the Shepherd meet once a year for all eternity, brought together by their steadfast love.

Behind the jewels and silly animals, Irene Ng’s smiling face appeared. She came around and opened the door. “Did you want something? Mr. Chen’s not here, but I’d be happy to help you.”

“I wanted Mr. Chen, so I guess I’m out of luck. Is there somewhere I can reach him?”

“He didn’t say. I’ll tell him you were looking for him.”

“What about his cousin? Zhang Li?”

“Oh, I have no idea. He comes here a lot, but his business is on Mott Street. Do you want me to call him for you?”

That sounded like a good idea. Zhang Li might be in to Irene Ng even if he wasn’t in to me.

But no. Smiling apologetically, she put the phone down. “Fay doesn’t know where he is or when he’ll be back.”

Well, at least Fay’s story was consistent. “Thanks.” I peered into a case of rings. “I’ll bet you enjoy your work. Around these beautiful things all day.”

“Oh, yes! I’m just learning, but I love it. Mr. Chen knows everything about stones and settings. And he’s nice, very patient even when I’m being hopeless. Mr. Zhang says Mr. Chen’s mother was just like that.”

“They seem very close, Mr. Zhang and Mr. Chen.”

“Yes. Like brothers.”

I had to smile. “I have four brothers. Do you suppose when we’re all old we’ll get along that well?”

“I’m not sure age helps.” She cocked a dubious head. “From what I hear, Mr. Chen and Mr. Zhang were always much closer than Mr. Zhang and his actual brother.”

“Mr. Zhang had a brother?”

“Has. A half brother, about ten years older. The same father, different mothers.” To my surprised silence she said, “C. D. Zhang. You don’t know about him?”

“I certainly don’t. Tell me.”

“Oh, there’s nothing special to tell. He imports jewelry. His business is a few blocks down Canal Street.”

“He’s here?”

“He’s been here much longer than Mr. Chen and Mr. Zhang. He actually sponsored them to come. He was so happy when they asked him to help, he told me once. But I don’t think it’s worked out the way he wanted.”

“Why not?”

“I think he thought they’d all be, you know, family. Hang out together. Mr. Chen and Mr. Zhang, they do that, kids and grandkids, that kind of thing. At Thanksgiving and Chinese New Year they include C. D. Zhang, but otherwise, they just aren’t that close with him.”

I left Irene Ng dusting jade bracelets and hurtled down Canal. Mr. Chen and Mr. Zhang might not be close with C. D. Zhang, but close to was a different matter. My phone call barely got to C. D. Zhang before I did. On the second floor of a wide-windowed building not far from my office, a secretary with a frizzy Chinatown perm ushered me through the boss’s door. “Lydia Chin,” she announced in English.

“The private detective!” A tall, spry old man jumped from behind a flat monitor remarkably at home on an antique scholar’s desk. “So intriguing! Please, come in.”

Bony and quick, with broad shoulders and a lined and leathery face, C. D. Zhang was clearly older than both his half brother, Zhang Li, and his cousin, Chen Lao-li. He gestured me to a thin-armed rosewood chair of the kind I’d seen in museums and always wondered whether they were comfortable.

“I appreciate your seeing me, Mr. Zhang.” He’d greeted me in English, so I guessed it was the language of choice.

“How could I resist? The Maltese Falcon! Farewell, My Lovely! When I was young, schoolboys in Shanghai were weighed down with dull books for our English lessons, but among ourselves we put those lessons to better use. Oh, the intrigue! The romance!” His black eyes sparkled. “Of course, in those days detectives were tough-talking, two-fisted men.”

“Some still are.” I sat; the chair creaked but fit me pretty well. The door opened, and the secretary brought in a tea tray. While he poured from a sleek white pot into sleek white cups-the Western kind with saucers and handles-I looked around.

The rosewood chairs and the scholar’s desk were the only things in the room older than I was. Everything else-lamps, desk chair, credenza-was relentlessly minimalist-modern. Bookshelves lined two walls, interrupted by certificates of membership in importers’ and appraisers’ associations. The roar of traffic charged through steel-framed windows along with the midday sun. On my right hung the only other evidence of the past: a colossal black-and-white photo of prewar Shanghai. A full moon gleamed over the neon of the Cathay Hotel and laid a broken path along the sampan-clogged river. Its round glow was dittoed down the Bund in the headlights of boxy cars. A black ocean liner rode the horizon. I found myself listening for the lap of waves, wondering whether the passengers found the harbor’s complicated scents exciting or disturbing.

“That was a long time ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Startled back to Canal Street, I said, “I’ve never been to Shanghai. It seems so fascinating.”

“Oh, it was!” C. D. Zhang held out my tea, smoky and strong. “Wild. Intoxicating. As a boy I was in love with the streets of Shanghai. Endlessly I pestered my amah to take me outside our villa walls. I didn’t understand half of what I saw or heard, but what chaos! What cacophony! She’d buy me an ice or a bit of fried eel. Women in silks would smile from rickshaws. I can still see it: Coolies with carrying poles darting between limousines. Dazzling bar girls, Sihks with turbans, English bankers sweating in tweeds. Ships and cargo! Temples and gongs! Shops, soldiers, crowds. Banners and neon in the hot damp air.”

“That’s very poetic, Mr. Zhang. I feel like I’m there.”

“No, you’re too kind. It’s just the truth. If it sounds like poetry, credit the Shanghai of my youth, not myself.” His smile turned wry. “Now the Cathay is the Peace Hotel. Our villa houses the Bureau of Water Resources. I hear they park in the side garden, where my father’s banquet tent stood.”