The Shanghai Moon by S. J. Rozan Page B

here?”
    “You changed the rules?” He held the cigarette over the ashtray, prepared to stub it out.
    “No. But you’re lucky I still have that.”
    “The ashtray? Yeah, but you hid it. It wasn’t easy to find.”
    “You’re supposed to be a detective.” I dropped into my chair.
    “As such I have a question.”
    “Which is?”
    “When did you start using four-letter words?”
    “I haven’t, as a rule. But some situations demand extreme measures.”
    “Like me.”
    “Yes, I’d say you’re one of those situations.” I paused. “Bill?” I said, more gently. “How’s Gary?”
    Bill looked into his coffee. “Coping.”
    “Better than you?”
    He shrugged.
    As badly as things turned out in that case, they’d have turned out worse if Bill hadn’t been there, and people—including Gary—told him that, but it didn’t comfort him. I think the reason Bill disappeared after that was that he didn’t want to hear anymore how it wasn’t his fault.
    So I didn’t say it now.
    “If you talk to him,” I said instead, “give him my love.”
    Bill nodded.
    I got up and poured more tea, to give myself a chance to figure out some really smart, articulate words for what I wanted to say next, but I was lost, really. All I could come up with was exactly what I meant: “What do we do now?”
    “About what?”
    “Well, it was lots of fun cracking up with you, but we still haven’t gotten past the part where we haven’t spoken in months because you’re a four-letter-word. And Joel’s still dead.” I tried for matter-of-fact, but I felt my eyes mist.
    “How about,” Bill said, “we put the first item on hold and work on the second?”
    “Meaning what?”
    “Mary said you think Joel’s murder may be related to the case you’re working, but the homicide cop who caught it doesn’t.”
    “Speaking of Mary, wait until I get my hands on
her
.”
    “That’s between you two. What I’m proposing is, if you want, I’ll work with you on this. We can follow up whatever you think needs following. If you’re right maybe wecan light a fire under the cops, and if you’re wrong we’ll find that out.”
    “I’m right.”
    “You usually are.”
    “Boy, you must be seriously feeling guilty, to say something like that.”
    “You’re right about that, too. Deal?”
    “Is this why you called?”
    “Yes.”
    “Because you thought I needed help?”
    “No. Because I wanted to help you.”
    And that was like the “please” when he’d first called.
    Probably the sensible thing to do would be to let the cops handle Joel’s murder. I could focus on Rosalie Gilder’s jewelry, assuming Alice Fairchild still wanted that. Bill speaks a number of languages, but none of them is Yiddish or Chinese, so if I took that route I could throw him out and count myself lucky to be rid of a fuckup.
    But it was Joel who’d said we worked well together, Bill and I.

8
    I laid the situation out for Bill: Alice Fairchild and the Waldorf, Joel summoning me to his office because something was fishy, Detective Mulgrew’s unsolved robberies. I showed him the photos: the jewelry; Wong Pan, who stole it; Rosalie Gilder and her brother, Paul, smiling on a windy day. I gave him Rosalie’s first letter to read.
    “There are others,” I said. “At the Jewish Museum.”
    “Have you read them?”
    “Some.”
    “Do they help?”
    I felt an odd, unexpected comfort: the same feeling I’d had dropping my suitcase in my own apartment after a month away.
    “Not really, except to get to know her. It made me want to get her jewelry back even more, though.”
    “Can I have them? I’ll read them later.”
    “I’ll print you out a set.” I clicked on the computer and had just gotten to the Jewish Museum site when the phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, so I answered in both languages. “Lydia Chin, Chin Ling Wan-ju.”
    “Whatever,” a dismissive voice countered. “Where’s your client?”
    “Detective Mulgrew?”
    “Two