“Yes,” Mr. Zhang said sadly. “And the one thing he’s asked, a brother’s love, I’ve been unable to give.”

“Maybe now,” I told him, “you can.”

Of course, I wasn’t there to see it. Bill and I had to content ourselves with Mary’s report. She was there because C. D. Zhang had requested “that Chinese detective,” just as his brother had instructed. For all Mary knew, we had no idea what was even going on.

Right.

“You made this happen.” She hadn’t sat down at our Taiwanese tea place before the words were out of her mouth.

“I got ginger black with condensed milk.” I lifted the teapot.

“Never mind that.” She held out a cup anyway because ginger’s her favorite. I poured for her and for Inspector Wei, who gave the tea a skeptical sniff. “C. D. Zhang’s confession,” Mary said. “You guys’ pawprints are all over it.”

Bill held up innocent hands.

I shrugged. “I owed you, girlfriend.”

“So, what, you manufactured a confession and found someone to deliver it?”

“I just suggested to C. D. Zhang that he admit he did his brother dirt.” And if the crime he confessed to wasn’t the one he committed, was that so terrible?

“Of those three, C. D. was my least likely suspect.”

“Sometimes that’s who did it.”

“And sometimes”-Mary put her cup down-“a guy admits to stealing his brother’s million dollars, his brother declines to press charges, and we have no one to prosecute.”

“For that. But Alice rolled on the White Eagles. You have your conspiracy.”

“True. So it just so happens we no longer need Wong Pan. So when he slips Midtown’s clutches and gets shipped back to Shanghai with the DA’s blessing, everyone will be happy.”

At that, Inspector Wei lifted her cup. We all clinked. “This tea,” she said. “Well made. But condensed milk, so sweet, terrible.”

“Sorry.”

“Oh!” Mary said, as though something had just hit her. “Except there’s one guy who’ll be left with nothing, so he won’t be happy. And just by coincidence, it’s Mulgrew.”

“Well,” I said, “some days the bear gets you.”

“You know Mr. Chen will never forgive C. D. for endangering his chance at the Shanghai Moon, even though it wasn’t a real chance.”

“I’m afraid that’s true. But Mr. Zhang will. He already has. That’s why he’s not pressing charges.”

“In fact, he turns out to be quite a humanitarian. I hear he’s offered to help pay for home health care for Alice’s sister. Oh, didn’t you know she has a sister? In Boston.”

“Yes, Alice mentioned her when she was, you know, holding up the jewelry store. That’s very kind of Mr. Zhang.”

Mary narrowed her eyes. “Lydia. Something else is going on here, isn’t it?”

“Probably. Families are complicated things.”

That was the truest thing I’d said since Mary sat down.

What C. D. Zhang was getting in return for his “confession” wasn’t his brother’s forgiveness, since what he’d done sixty years ago he wasn’t admitting, and what he was admitting he hadn’t done. What he was getting was much more. Gratitude. Appreciation. A secret shared with his brother. A bond between them.

What Zhang Li was getting was a solution to the million-dollar mystery that Mr. Chen would buy.

What Joan Conrad was getting was the ability to go on living in her own house.

What I was getting was a dubious look from my best and oldest friend.

But rumor had it what she was getting was a commendation. So I didn’t think she’d be upset for long.

I poured more tea, and as I turned the lid upside down so they’d know to bring us another pot, my phone rang. It was my brother Ted’s number in Flushing, but when I answered it, it was my mother. I excused myself and skipped outside. “Hi, Ma.”

“Ling Wan-ju! Are you all right?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Now you surely will be. Kwan Shan tells me the gang boys are all in jail.”

“Did she tell you what a hero Clifford was?”

“Oh, so much big talk from her! She said Clifford saved your life. I told her that was ridiculous.”

“It’s pretty close to true. Anyhow, the White Eagles are off the streets, so I’ll come out and bring you home whenever you want.”

“That’s why I’m calling. I’ve decided to stay here some days longer.”

“You have?”

“Now that the apartment is painted white, it’s not so dark. And your brother’s children want me to teach their mother to make har gow.”

“Oh,” I said. “Oh. Okay, Ma. Just let me know when you want to come home.”

I lowered the phone and stood in the churning river of Chinatown’s streets. A vendor’s flying fingers folded a paper dragon. Shoppers flowed around him without a break in stride. A girl guided her grandmother, bent and leaning on a stick. The grandmother scolded; the girl ignored her words but took great care to steady her.

I went back inside. “Oh, here is,” Inspector Wei said, raising her cup. “This time, drinking jasmine tea. Much better.” She waited for Mary to pour me some. “Investigator Chin. Investigator Smith. Shanghai Police Bureau asks me, give you official gratitude. Anytime you coming to China, please accept hospitality of Shanghai Police Bureau.”

“Thanks,” Bill said. “Can’t wait.”

“Me, too.” I raised my cup in return. “To Inspector Wei De-xu and the Shanghai Police.”

Wei, with her sharp smile, said, “To Investigator Chin.”

I turned to my left. “To Detective Mary Kee and the NYPD.”

Mary tried to keep the suspicious look going but gave up and grinned. “To Lydia.”

I turned to my right. I hesitated; then in my head I heard, Chinsky! Come on, just say it! So, because Joel always gave good advice, even though, as usual, I hadn’t asked, I said, “And to my partner.”

Bill’s smile was small and his words were quiet, but I loved them. “And to mine.”

I ambled to my office through the bright sticky heat. At Golden Adventure’s door, Andi waved me in. “Hi, Lydia! Package for you. FedEx man wants to know, you that Lydia Chin?” Notoriety has its uses. The travel ladies had been dining out for days on my part in the Canal Street shootout and their own close call when the White Eagles came to their office. I figured that meant my lease was safe for a while.

The return address on the box was Teaneck: Anita Horowitz, Paul Gilder’s granddaughter. I thanked Andi and took the box to my office. Small, dim, messy; but mine. I opened the box and slid out a padded envelope with a note attached.

Zayde’s been asking if Mei-lin is coming back, and he insists Mei-lin should have this. Rosalie had it taken to send to Elke before they knew she’d been arrested. Zayde keeps it by his bed. I know it’s a big favor to ask, but he seems so happy when he talks about seeing Mei-lin again. Would you mind coming out here, if you have the time? You wouldn’t have to stay long.

Would I mind? To hear the stories Paul Gilder could tell, about Rosalie, about Kai-rong, about Shanghai in their time?

I had a copy made, and I’m sending it to you so if you do come back and he asks about it you’ll know what he means. Hoping to see you again, Anita.

Inside the envelope was a black-and-white photo. In a garden under a blossoming acacia tree, five people smiled from thin-armed rosewood chairs. Two I recognized; three I’d never seen, but I knew them.

On the left, Rosalie, her hair stirring in the breeze. Beside her, a handsome Chinese man in a European suit and tie. The older man in the center wore a traditional silk scholar’s robe, and the young woman next to him a qi pao-and, I was delighted to see, high heels. On the right, Paul, leaning forward, ready to jump up as soon as the shutter clicked.

Peering closer, I could see the tangle in the grass beside the tea table was really lines of handwriting, faint, but neat and familiar. I called Bill.

“Could you translate some German?” I read the words to him. “I can tell ‘Kai-rong’ and ‘Mama,’ but besides that I’m lost.”