Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The tent is hot.

Packed with spectators, it smells of sweat, tobacco, and baked canvas. The audience is excited and they create a thick thrum like the sound of a hundred bees. A hundred ill-dressed bees.

Kimball Cho shifts, picturing just that. The cheap folding chair squeaks loud enough to hear above the din. The noise—or maybe it’s just his movement—catches the attention of the gentlemen in the broad-striped suit across the aisle. The man curls his lip at Cho, a long moment of dislike. The man has been curling his lip ever since he first laid eyes on Cho.

“What is it?”

Cho takes off his hat and smooths back his hair. The man turns to face the front of the tent. “It’s nothing.”

“Are you certain?”

Cho looks down at his companion. Theresa Lisbon is leaning forward to peer around him, her keen gaze fixed on the back of the man’s head. She’s wearing a blue suit with a matching blue beret. The beret is topped by a red feather that trembles when she moves. With her thin face, narrowed eyes and that feather, she resembles a charming yet irritated bird. “I am, Miss.”

“Because I need to know if there’s anything wrong,” Lisbon says quietly. “This is my investigation. I’ve placed a lot of trust and faith and no small amount of cash on you.” She sits back. “And I told you not to call me ‘Miss.’ It’s Theresa or Lisbon, your choice.”

Cho doesn’t remind Lisbon that while it might be her investigation, he’s the client. Yes, she paid for the tickets from Sacramento to Barstow, but he paid for the food, the rooms at the Topper Roadside Motel, and the admission to the traveling show.

But, he should be grateful for any financial help—his bank account is dwindling rapidly, what with one thing and another. “I understand.”

“Then what was that about?”

Cho grudgingly concedes, “I’ve found it’s best to limit my time in small towns.”

Lisbon gives him a long look. “Do you find the same reaction in large towns, too?”

Cho raises a shoulder in acknowledgement. “Most Americans aren’t used to people like me.”

Lisbon frowns. “You’re an American.”

“I was born on American soil but that doesn’t make me an American. At least, not to men like that.” Cho jerks his head towards the man who is staring at him again.

“I suppose,” Lisbon murmurs as she gives the man a once-over. “I also suppose he wouldn’t think too highly of an unmarried woman who is traveling across the country with a complete stranger to investigate the kidnapping of a young woman. However, Depression or no Depression, anyone who willingly wears that suit is an idiot.”

As if hearing Lisbon, the man glares and turns back around. Cho smothers a smile. He’s only known Theresa Lisbon a total of five days and they have only spoken about the issues at hand but he likes her. She’s sharp and thorny and kind. Kindness, in his experience, is rare. “It’s not across the country and we don’t know if it’s a kidnapping. We don’t know anything yet. Lucy has done this before, remember?”

His tone must have been especially gloomy because Lisbon presses her shoulder against his. “If it’s either, we’ll find her. I prom—”

Lisbon’s vow is cut off as the crowd draws a collective breath. Then they begin babbling at a higher pitch because a young woman has slipped through a flap at the front of the tent. She waves to no one in particular, takes a seat at the piano and begins to play.

The girl is pretty in that buxom, fair-haired way that says mid-west United States, daughter of a someone respectable. Her print dress and hairdo, while a little frivolous, are the latest fashion.

“Isn’t that dress a little fancy for something like this?” Lisbon asks.

“It’s what they’re wearing in L.A.”

“How do you know?”

“Sisters,” Cho answers succinctly. Growing up with three sisters, he knows far more about women’s fashion than he would like to admit.

“Well,” Lisbon adds, “I hope the performance gets better than this.”

Cho agrees. The girl’s musical skills leave much to be desired. She keeps hitting the wrong keys, possibly because she keeps glancing over her shoulder. Every time she looks, her fingers stumble and fumble. “We’re not here for the show.”

“‘Professor Ruskin’s Traveling Miracles and Thaumaturgy,’” Lisbon mutters. “What have you gotten me into, Mr. Cho?”

“I—” The girl flounders, worse than before, and then stops altogether. She takes a big breath, flings out her arm and announces in an ever-heightening tone, “Ladies and gentlemen, the sick and the ill, I present Professor Patrick Ruskin!” With a dramatic flourish, she plays an awkward, one-handed intro.

The crowd cheers, the flaps at the back of the tent draw apart and a man strides through.

Professor Ruskin is tall. Five-nine or five-ten is Cho’s guess, even given the heeled boots, probably worn to make him seem taller.

“Well, isn’t he a looker?” Lisbon muses.

Cho doesn’t answer because yes, Ruskin is very good looking. On the pretty side of handsome, his features are even and his jaw is square. Like the girl, he has bright white teeth and fair hair. But where the girl’s hair is dull blond, Ruskin’s is gold. It’s slicked back, shining under the bare-glass electric bulbs. His suit is beautiful, too. It’s made of blue silk with wide lapels, complete with a polka-dotted tie. Compared to the dull colors and inexpensive clothing worn by the audience, he stands out like a sore thumb.

Ruskin doesn’t move for a moment, basking in the applause that is now dwindling. And then his smile brightens and he raises an arm in welcome. The crowd’s enthusiasm renews and he calls out, “Greetings and salutations, one an all. I am Professor Ruskin. Let’s get started!”

***

The performance, Cho decides later when he’s back home and has had time to collect his thoughts, was half carnival sideshow, half old-fashioned snake-oil theatrics.

Ruskin’s first a spiel is about discovering his abilities as a child after healing the family dog. From there, he confides, he graduated at age nineteen from the University of Missouri and decided his mission in life was to help the sick and dying. He’d begun his travels, first to Europe to visit the heads of state and then on to the Far East. It was there, while gathering spices and medicaments unbeknownst to Western man, he’d honed his skills as a mentalist and miracle-worker.

Lisbon snorts softly when Ruskin makes that claim. “‘Unbeknownst medicaments?’” she whispers as she elbows Cho’s arm. “‘Heads of state?’ Seriously?”

The woman in front of them twists around and puts her finger to her lips. “Shh,” she hisses in a stage whisper. “Professor Ruskin is a great man!”

“I’m sure he is, ma’am,” Lisbon whispers back.

The woman leans closer. “Then you’ll do best to listen.”

Cho is about to answer that the woman herself can’t be listening if she too is talking when Ruskin’s gaze falls on them. It’s just a light landing, like the flick of a butterfly’s wing. Ruskin doesn’t stop his patter but Cho feels a charge, an odd galvanic curl that warms his stomach. Given the depth and relative darkness of the rear of the tent, there is no possible way Ruskin can see them, but… “Miss?”

With her own quick glance at Ruskin, Lisbon gets the picture. She settles back, her eyes fixed primly on the stage. With an I-told-you-so hmph, the woman turns to face the front again.

“And it’s because of those mentors and preceptors,” Ruskin concludes, “that I can now offer what we all need: healing and hope.” He gives an elegant wave. “May I ask for a volunteer from the audience?”

Hands shoot up, voices cry out. Ruskin makes a show of picking someone at random, a man off to the left.

The man rises and—almost half bent over—hobbles to the stage.

“I see you’re in some pain, my good fellow.” Ruskin removes his suit coat and gives it to his assistant. “What is your name and what ails you?”

The man puts his hand on his lower back. “Royston. Royston Daniels is my name, and it’s my back. It hurts so much.”

Ruskin rolls up the sleeves of his very white shirt. “Ah, sciatica. Such a very common enemy of the human body, brought on by various causes, namely your height. I will now attempt a cure.” He pauses and smiles charmingly at the crowd. “Not his height, of course. That’s a gift from God and there’s nothing I can do about that.” The crowd titters. “No, I’m going to perform a treatment I learned in central Mongolia from the famous riders of the Steppes.”

He rubs his hands together and then gently places a palm on Daniels’ lower back. “The Mongols are great horsemen but they all suffer from back maladies. They taught me the healing art of mental energy focused in just the right location while using just the right psychic force…”

Ruskin puts his other hand on Daniels’ chest; his voice lowers to a carrying whisper, “All you have to do is…” He closes his eyes and then grimaces as if in great pain.

Silence fills the tent.

The assistant, motionless all the while, leans forward. The audience collectively leans forward, too, equally caught up in the moment.

All except for Lisbon. With a prescience he should in no way be feeling, Cho knows she’s about to comment on the patently false performance.

Sure enough, she draws a short breath but Cho is ready: he kicks her ankle.

Lisbon coughs softly, swallowing whatever she had been about to say.

Cho lets out the breath he’s holding and focuses on the rest of the show.

It’s over rather quickly. A few seconds later, Daniels exclaims. Ruskin opens his eyes and steps back. Daniels cautiously straightens, feeling his own back in wonderment; he rolls his shoulders and bends from side to side. “No pain,” he calls out to the audience. “No pain!”

The crowd cheers. Ruskin gets out a handkerchief and wipes his forehead as he’d just completed a monumental task.

“Oh, brother,” Lisbon mutters.

Cho hides a smile, because yes, Oh brother.

***

Three miracles later, Ruskin says he’s exhausted but doesn’t want to leave his guests empty-handed. For the low price of nineteen cents, he has created a specially made infusion that helps with all manner of ailments. He gestures to the girl who is waiting by the piano seat that is now covered with small blue bottles. Surprisingly, many spectators get up and leave. Cho had thought them all spellbound by Ruskin’s performance; at least spellbound enough to shell out nineteen cents.

Still, a dozen or so get up and head for the front of the tent, Lisbon included.

Cho touches her arm. “Miss?”

Lisbon pauses. “We need answers and what better time to get them than when the suspect is unaware, not to mention tired?”

She’s moving again before Cho can point out that Ruskin isn’t a suspect, per se. He sighs, gets up, and joins her in the line.

The man in the ugly suit is ahead of them. He’s quite aware of Cho and Lisbon—he glares over his shoulder every now and then.

As before, Cho meets the man’s glances with ready passivity. There’s no point in engaging with thugs; he learned that painful lesson in grade school.

“So,” Lisbon says, “how do you want to do this?”

The line moves forward. “Do what?”

“Find out what he knows?”

Ruskin greets a woman and her daughter. The woman pushes the daughter, almost forcing her to take Ruskin’s hand. “This is your investigation, remember?” Ruskin bows low and says something. The girl simpers and shakes her head. Ruskin’s assistant watches from the side; she doesn’t look happy.

“Yes, but I—” Lisbon darts a quick look at Cho. “I should have told you back in Sacramento that I…” She trails off.

“You should have told me that you’ve never handled a case and are merely Mr. Minelli’s secretary?”

Lisbon bristles, straightening up to her full, though short, height. “I wasn’t just his secretary. I helped with cases. I even interviewed a client once. It was the Huntsman affair—perhaps you heard of it?”

Of course Cho had heard about the Huntsman investigation. It was in all the papers. Lionel Huntsman had murdered his wife and tried to make it look like she had run off to Mexico with her lover, a young man of twenty-one. The boy’s parents had hired a private investigator by the name of Vincent Minelli to prove their son’s innocence. Minelli had indeed proved it, finding both the wife’s and boy’s body in a cabin in the Big Bear mountains after a two-month investigation. Huntsman was charged a day later and is now on death row.

So, yes, Cho is aware of the investigation, just as he’s aware that if Lisbon had played any part, it had been minor at best. But who is he to point fingers? His own career—if it could be called that—had been aborted early on due to the simple fact that the other officers in Koreatown had hated him and everything he stood for. He’d lasted all of three months. But he’s not about to open up that particular book of past failures, so he just asks rhetorically, “How will we do this? Just ask him the questions we know the answers to and see if he lies.”

Lisbon’s irritation dies and she nods slowly. “Minelli once told me that’s a good way to catch someone off guard. All right…” She nods again, this time with firm intent. “That’s what we’ll do. Do you want to grill him or should I?”

Ruskin is finished with the next two guests and the line moves once more. They are now within earshot; Cho can hear Ruskin’s voice, the gentle way he asks an old farmer what ails him. “You take the first round. It might throw him off his game even more.”

“Very well.”

Cho doesn’t reply. The man in the ugly suit is between them and Ruskin. This close, Cho can see that Ruskin’s outfit is as new as it had seemed. In fact, everything about the man says money, from his pomade to the slight gleam on his manicured nails. The only things out of place are his shoes. They are worn and scuffed, an odd contrast, and Cho is still thinking about that when he finds himself face-to-face with his quarry.

Lisbon was right. Ruskin is smiling but his eyes are shadowed and red-rimmed. According to the poster outside, Ruskin’s next venue is in two days all the way south in San Bernardino.

“My dear sir and madam,” Ruskin says, his smile brightening as he glances from Cho to Lisbon and then back again. “How can I assist you on this beautiful evening?”

Ruskin had spoken to Cho but it’s Lisbon who answers, “We’re looking into the disappearance of a young woman who was seen with you about three weeks ago.”

Lisbon’s words are bald and bold, and Cho almost flinches. There are good ways to get answers and there are bad ways.

Except Ruskin’s expression doesn’t alter, doesn’t change. It’s as if he was expecting the question. Either that or he has complete mastery over his facial expressions. A trait that is—in Cho’s albeit limited experience—almost impossible to achieve because no one is that good and everyone has a tell.

“I meet all kinds of people every day,” Ruskin replies as pleasantly as if he’d been asked about the weather. “Can you be a little more precise as to who and where and when?”

“Miss Lucy Cho, February twenty-first, McFarland, California.”

At that, Ruskin’s expression does change, just a slight flicker of his eyelids. “Lucy Cho. Yes, I remember her. She had some concerns about a young man and wanted me to tell her fortune.”

“And did you?” Lisbon asks.

“No. told her that I no longer provide such services.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I found that the people who want to know their future rarely do.”

“Or maybe they discover you’re a charlatan and ask for their money back?”

Ruskin smiles down at Lisbon. “My skills are genuine but not always appreciated. You, by the way, are delightful. Are you a female detective?”

“Yes,” Lisbon says without batting an eye. “And delightful or not, I’m going to get to the bottom of Miss Cho’s disappearance.”

“I’m sure you will, but I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

Lisbon, however, isn’t done. “After you told Lucy you couldn’t tell her fortune, did she leave?”

Ruskin sighs and rolls his shirtsleeves down. “Yes, but later on that afternoon, she waylaid me in the lobby of my hotel. As I had no other appointments, I invited her to tea. We had a lovely Earl Grey and chatted about her young man.” Ruskin unrolls the next sleeve, unfolding the fabric slowly. “She told me that her parents approved of him but her heart wasn’t engaged. There was another that had caught her eye.” Now for the cuff: he methodically, delicately, pushes the shell button through the bound opening.

“And who was that?” Lisbon asks, her gaze on Ruskin’s fingers.

“Oh, some gentleman of means of whom her parents most definitely would not approve.”

Cho frowns, trying to dredge up any memory of his parents mentioning anyone other than Bong Soo Chung. He can’t quite remember because he can’t quite think. The tent is so hot and so close; maybe the lack of oxygen is affecting his brain.

“‘Would not?’”

Ruskin nods as he begins on the second cuff. “I gathered they hadn’t met him just as I gathered he was already married. Why else would she be concerned? Most parents would jump at the chance to have a rich son-in-law.”

A dim warmth blooms deep in Cho’s chest. His parents are poor but they’re hardly money grubbers.

“And that was it?” Lisbon asks. “You had tea and talked about Miss Cho’s romantic entanglements?”

Ruskin is finished with his sleeves; he smiles. “Well, the hotel had a surprisingly wide variety of tea cakes for such a small town; we talked about that.” He tugs on his vest. “So, yes, I spent a very enjoyable afternoon with Lucy but that was all.”

Cho takes a step before he knows it, propelled by a sudden and not completely unexpected anger. Ruskin’s implication was so very clear… “Lucy is my sister.”

Ruskin looks Cho up and down and then murmurs slyly, “He speaks.”

‘Damn it,’ is Cho’s immediate thought because it had all been a ploy, another performance, meant to draw him out. Of course Ruskin realized that he was related or connected to Lucy in some way. But there is nothing he can do but play the hand that Ruskin and Lisbon had dealt and so he states, “Yes, I speak. I can walk and chew gum at the same time, too.”

Ruskin’s smile widens. “No accent. You’re an American.”

Though Ruskin’s response isn’t a complete surprise, Cho’s anger heats. “I’m from Elysian Heights, so yes, I’m an American.”

“And you went to an American grade school and an American high school and an American college?”

The man is still baiting him. Cho’s jaw almost aches with the effort not to answer the way Ruskin so clearly wants. “Yes.”

“I’m sure you could tell me more than a few stories about that, but in the meantime…” Ruskin glances once more between Cho and Lisbon. “You two aren’t lovers which means you’re working on the case together and you’re both detectives? Or…” He taps his chin and squints, as if in deep thought. “You, my friend…” He points at Cho. “…are the client and you…” Ruskin nods at Lisbon, “…are the assistant of some high-powered official and you foolishly convinced this gentleman that you could help him.”

Lisbon is too angry to respond. For himself, Cho manages to refrain from confirming Ruskin’s surprisingly accurate guess, saying only, “Who we are is none of your business. If you have any more information in regards to Lucy’s disappearance, I want it.”

Ruskin sighs and then strolls over to the piano to pick up his coat. “I’m afraid I have nothing more to add. Your sister asked for a reading. I said no. We then chatted about nothing much while we had tea.” He slips his jacket on. “She left around five.”

“Did you see which way she headed?”

“I’m afraid not,” Ruskin replies. And then he pauses and looks back at Cho, his expression now thoughtful. “No, that’s not right. I did watch her go. She turned left up Main.”

“Which means?”

“That she wasn’t going to the train station.”

“She has her own car.” The sedan had been a bone of contention between Lucy and their parents. She’d saved up for almost all of it, needing only another thirty-five dollars to make an offer. On a weekend trip to Los Angeles, she’d asked permission to pawn the set of celadon pottery to make up the difference. The pottery was a family heirloom, brought over from Korea. Cho’s parents had objected, only giving in when Lucy pointed out that she could drive Aunt Min-ja and Uncle Jin-kyu on errands because they were letting her stay rent-free in Sacramento. Cho hadn’t been too surprised when his parents changed their minds—his father had always had a soft spot for Lucy.

“And have you found it?”

“Have we found the car? I—” Cho shoots Lisbon a quick look.

“Yes,” Ruskin says as if talking to a child. “If the girl is missing, is her car missing, too?”

In all the rush to find and interrogate Ruskin, they hadn’t discussed how Lucy had gotten to McFarland. What a pair of fools. “No, we haven’t,” Cho says, feeling as if he’s admitting to something as heinous as murder.

“Then I would start there,” Ruskin advises.

Ruskin is about to add something, when his assistant, silent this whole time, touches his sleeve. “Professor?”

“Hm?”

“It’s almost five,” the girl says earnestly. “You promised Mrs. Woodhouse that you’d be there by five-thirty.”

“Oh yes.” Ruskin straightens his vest once more. “Duty calls. Or in this case, a grieving widow.” He starts to go but then looks back at Cho. “And I’m sorry about your sister.” His smile dies and his sunny expression reveals a sliver of something dark, something bleak. “I truly am.”

Lisbon opens her handbag. “If you think of anything…” She gives Ruskin a card. “That is my telephone number. Please call.”

Ruskin examines the card, flicks it with his thumbnail and then tucks it in his pocket. He bows his head and leaves without another word, his assistant trailing obediently.

***

“Well,” Lisbon says as they exit the tent.

“Well,” Cho agrees. He takes a deep breath. He’s sweating. No doubt because the tent had been so damnably hot. He squints at the falling sun.

Late March in Barstow is about the same as late March in Los Angeles. Meaning, hot and dry with a promise of spring. Cho has thought about moving to the cooler north for years. He could take his parents with him and find a small plot of land with a small house and a couple trees. They’d have to rent, but his mother could garden and his father could sit under the trees and read the newspaper.

“I’m sorry.”

Surprised, Cho looks over at Lisbon. She, too, is squinting at the sun though her expression is one of discontent. “Why?”

“I should have asked you about a car.”

“It’s all right. I should have told you that Lucy wouldn’t have taken a train or a bus”

“Well,” Lisbon says around a sigh. “We’ll think things through from now on.” She gets out a pair of tortoise-shell sunglasses and puts them on. “What make and model is it?”

“It’s a yellow Chrysler New Yorker.” Ruskin’s tent is sitting on the edge of a barren field. On the other side of the field is a massive house, more mansion than farm. Wondering if it’s the Woodhouse place, he adds, “I don’t know the plate number.”

“We can make a call. Your parents might know.”

“They don’t have a telephone.” Cho puts his hat on and adjusts the brim. “The neighbors do, though. Maybe we can call them.”

“All right. Let’s find someplace to eat so we can plan our next steps. There’s that restaurant near the motel. Do you care if it’s a greasy spoon?”

“As long as they’ll serve me, I don’t care if care if it’s a greasy fork.”

For an answer, Lisbon snorts gently and smiles.

***

The greasy spoon isn’t as bad as it could have been and no one harasses Cho when he follows Lisbon to a booth in the back. He orders the chicken soup. Lisbon chooses the turkey sandwich and a lime Jell-o salad. They eat in silence, Cho finishing first.

He’s facing the rear of the restaurant. Hanging on the wall are posters, photos, and a telephone. ‘Class of ‘37 presents Junior Prom’ one of the posters announces in faded red letters above an illustration of two teenagers with crowns on their heads. The illustrator hadn’t been very skilled and the kids look Asian, not American. But maybe they’re supposed to be; maybe this town has an Asian population or is more accepting than others.

A slight scraping sound draws Cho’s attention. Lisbon is pushing the last bit of salad from one side of the plate to the other. “What’s bothering you?”

Lisbon doesn’t look up. “You don’t know me well enough to know if something is bothering me or not.”

Cho waits and sure enough, after a bare two seconds, Lisbon looks up and says, “Sorry.” She sets her fork down. “I’m just wondering what I got myself—and you—into.”

“You didn’t get me into anything. You didn’t drag me off the street—I was the one that came to Minelli’s office. I was the one that agreed to your proposal when he turned me down.”

“I know.”

“And you were the one that suggested we search Lucy’s locker. If you hadn’t thought that, we wouldn’t have found Ruskin’s flyer.” The wrinkled sheet of colored paper had been tucked away in the pocket of Lucy’s work smock: ‘The Show of the Century! Professor Ruskin’s Traveling Miracles and Thaumaturgy! Professor Ruskin will Astound and Amaze. McFarland, February 21st-23rd. Mojave, March 1st-3rd. Barstow, March 25th Only! Everyone Welcome!’

“I know.”

“I’m not a babe in the woods. You aren’t coercing me into anything.”

At that, Lisbon looks up. “Are you sure about that?”

“Yes.” Cho gives it another beat. “But if you’re not, I can go on alone.”

“No,” Lisbon says as she relaxes back into the booth. “I’ve worked for Minelli for fifteen years. I know I can help you. Besides…” She reaches for the bill. “You’re my ticket back to Sacramento. Literally.”

Cho gets out his billfold. “How much do I owe you?”

“If we split it in half and include a gratuity, it’s fifty-eight cents.”

Cho gives Lisbon the coins. “What now?”

“Now we reassess.”

“And Lucy’s car?”

“I know a man at the BNE.” She glances at Cho. “The California Bureau of Narcotics Enforcement. He might have a way of finding it.”

“Might?”

Lisbon shrugs. “He’ll have to make written inquiries to see if the car has been involved in any accidents or if it’s been abandoned.”

“That will take time.” Maybe weeks or months. Cho is new to the private investigation field, but he’d assumed… “Isn’t there any other way?”

“Well, if we had a flying car like in that magazine you were reading,” Lisbon teases with a little grin, “then we could just zoom from city to city.”

Cho flushes. On the train, Lisbon had asked if he had anything to read and he’d told her no, he had only the one book. Later at the motel, she’d come by to get him and had spied his stack of Astounding Tales of Science! magazines on the bed. It had been stupid to lie; he couldn’t think why he had. “Since we don’t have access to that kind of technology,” he says blandly, “is that is our only option? To write letters and then sit back and wait?”

“I didn’t say that was our only option,” Lisbon reminds Cho. “I said we need to reassess.”

“And when shall we do that?”

Lisbon gathers her purse and sunglasses. “Let’s talk over breakfast. I think we both need a break.”

Cho presses his lips together and picks up his hat. When he gets to his feet, he’s taken aback to see that the man from Ruskin’s show is sitting in a booth near the front door. The man isn’t alone—he’s with three others; they’re packed in the booth like sardines.

“They must have come in while we were eating,” Lisbon says in a hushed tone.

The men are still wearing their overcoats and—if the bare tabletop is any indication—they aren’t here for the cuisine. They’re watching Cho and Lisbon, their collective gazes tracking Cho’s every movement. So much for not being harassed.

“What do we do?” Lisbon whispers.

“We pay the bill and go back to the motel,” Cho replies evenly. He’s not frightened, per se. He’s been in his share of fights. But he’s tired of being pushed around and the afternoon has left him edgy and out of sorts. A brawl almost sounds good.

However—he reminds himself sourly—he’s on a mission and can’t afford to get locked up. And then there’s Lisbon… She might get hurt and he can’t afford that, either. “It will be all right.”

Lisbon pays the bill. The waitress takes the money, her eyes darting from Cho to the men the whole time. She doesn’t say anything other than a muted, “Have a good evening,” after handing Lisbon the receipt.

Cho and Lisbon leave the diner.

He might as well have a bull’s-eye on his back, he decides as they stroll north. The sun is well behind the mountains now and the only illumination is a yellow street light and the pale glow from the Topper’s sign.

Used to the constant hum of Los Angles traffic, the night is strangely quiet. Cho can hear Lisbon’s heels on the cracked cement. He can hear his own footsteps. That’s all, but he doesn’t make the mistake of thinking they’re alone. He knows the goons are following just as he knows he’s going to have to do something about them.

Lisbon, apparently, knows as well, because they’re in sight of the motel’s drive when she breathes, “Well?”

“When we get there, you get inside. I’ll take care of our admirers.”

“You want me to leave you? That’s not gonna happen. Besides…” Lisbon pats her purse. “I have a gun.”

Cho almost stops walking. Lisbon’s mouth is pressed in a thin line and she’s glaring as if she wants to punch someone. “You do? Where did you get it?”

“It’s mine. Or rather, it was my father’s. I thought we might need it. I guess I was right.”

He wants to sigh. “Before you get us into real trouble, let me talk to them.” They’re on the motel’s grounds now, thirty-or-so odd feet from their side-by-side rooms.

“That creep didn’t seem like the talking kind.”

“Yeah.” When Cho and Lisbon had arrived that morning, the motel’s lot had been empty. Now, it’s crowded with automobiles. “They’re just bullies and I know how to handle bullies.” At the far end of the line of cars, a shadowy figure loiters. Cho can’t make out the man’s features or intent, but if he’s is a friend of the goons, that would make this a trap. That, in turn, means the quartet is a quintet and Cho should have expected it. That’s what he gets for being so single-minded; he hadn’t thought ahead. “Lisbon, you better get ready to—” He’s interrupted by a shouted, “You there!”

Cho turns to face the men who are striding up. Nothing for it now except to hope that serenity and rationality win the day. “Yes?”

The goons come to a stop. The man in the ugly suit glances at his three friends and then barks at Cho, “What are you doing here?”

“Here?” Cho gestures, taking in the motel, the town. “I’m going to the room I’ve rented where I’ll sleep until five. Then, I’m going to get up, eat breakfast, and leave.” Casually, making it seem as if he’s shifting his weight, he edges in front of Lisbon. If he has to, he can pick her up and toss her towards her door—they’re about six feet away and she’s small.

The bland, straightforward answer, however, seems to enrage the man. He takes a step forward. “You are, are you? You better skip all that other stuff and go now.” He hunches his shoulders as if preparing to charge. “We don’t want your kind here.”

“What kind would that be?” Cho intones, feeling as if his words are a ball bouncing off the black tension and the man’s anger. “A former soldier? A former police officer?”

The man sneers. “You think you’re funny, do you? Well, we don’t like that, either.”

“‘We?’” Cho jerks his head towards the other men. “You’re doing all the talking. What about them?”

“We’re with Carl,” the goon on the right says. “We’ve got a peaceful town here and don’t like outsiders.”

Not bothering to argue that peace and outsiders weren’t mutually exclusive, Cho gives it one last go, “We’re looking for my sister. She’s missing.”

The man—Carl—smiles. “Good. That’s one less one of you we have to worry about.”

Fury shakes Cho like a rough wind. ‘Oh well—I tried,’ he thinks as he takes a breath in preparation for the fight to come. And he would have gone through with it but just then, two things happen in quick succession:

Quiet the whole time, Lisbon steps around Cho and raises her arm. She’s holding the gun and her eyes are bright. She opens her mouth to speak when the second thing happens:

A voice, off to the left, oddly familiar, rings out, “What do we have here?”

Cho’s jaw almost drops. Out of the dark, strolling as if he were out for an after-dinner walk, comes Professor Ruskin.

Ruskin is wearing a different suit and no hat. His hands are in his pockets and he’s smiling.

“Just a meeting of friends?” Ruskin adds as he comes to a stop. His eyes flicker to Lisbon and her gun, to Cho, and then finally to Carl. “I wasn’t aware you knew each other.”

“This doesn’t concern you, Professor,” Carl says. “You best leave.”

Ruskin nods as if agreeing. “So, not friends, which is a shame because I like this town and plan on coming back.” He turns to Carl. “But I can’t come back, Mr. Elkins, if you have a habit of running strangers out on a rail. After all, none of you know me, therefore I’m a stranger, too.” He rocks on his heels. “Yes?”

The patter confuses Carl Elkins. “I don’t—”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do…” Ruskin takes his hands out of pockets. “I’ll grant your request, the service you asked for and of which I turned down in spite of your offer of a great deal of cash. After that, you and your companions will go home and think long and hard about your actions.”

Carl seems to shrink. He shoots a nervous, shamed look over his shoulder at his friends. “I—”

Once more, Ruskin rides over Carl’s stuttering words, “I know I said that contacting the spirits is difficult for me these days but I’m willing to give it a go.” He smiles again and angles his head towards Lisbon. “Madam, will you please put your weapon away? Guns make me nervous.”

Lisbon’s eyes widen, but she puts her gun back in her handbag.

Carl gets out his wallet. With another sheepish glance at his friends, he gives Ruskin a five-dollar bill. “What do I do?”

Ruskin tucks the bill in his vest pocket. “Other than to stand very still, you will do nothing. Your friends…” He eyes Carl’s friends one by one. “…must be quiet. Contacting the spirits is an unpredictable process and I don’t want anyone to get hurt.” One of the men takes a step backward and Ruskin raises his hand, adding in a low, slow voice, “No, it’s too late. They’ve seen you.”

A chill runs up Cho’s spine; the other man stops moving.

“It’s too late for many things,” Ruskin continues, his voice now slurred, as if he’s talking in his sleep. “Lost chances, lost time…” He closes his eyes halfway. “The farm that was supposed to be your children’s legacy and now lies fallow. The absences from the home, the regret…” Ruskin makes a gesture, like the brushing away of cobwebs. He opens his eyes. “She says she still loves you but is disappointed in you.”

The other men gasp.

“Who?” Carl Elkins croaks. He clears his throat. “Who said that? Is it Amelia?”

“She hasn’t named herself,” Ruskin replies. “She is just saying over and over that you’re breaking her heart.”

Carl’s mouth turns down.

“I take it you’ve given up the farming life?”

Carl nods, an unsteady movement of his head.

“And you’ve been spending too much time at a bar, at the 66?”

Carl nods again but this time he scrapes off his hat and bows his head.

“She says it’s not too late. She says you’re still living and breathing and you still have time.”

Carl looks up. His eyes are wet. “It’s not?”

“No, it’s… It’s…” Ruskin hesitates, frowns and then shakes his head. “It’s gone.” He draws a deep breath and rocks his head from side to side. “She’s gone. They’re gone.”

Carl crushes his hat. “Was it really Amelia?”

“Did your wife have long red hair that she liked to wear in a single braid?”

The men gasp again as Carl bobs his head up and down. “She did,” he says. “Every morning she braided it before making breakfast.”

“And she died…”

“Last year.”

“From an illness that was traced to your milk cows?”

This time the men don’t gasp but they still look frightened.

Carl’s fists squeeze. “They got into something and it made them sick. Amelia passed on days later.”

“I’m sorry,” Ruskin says. “Just as I’m sorry that her spirit is not at rest. You could help her with that, you know.”

“How?”

“Start going to church again. Start working your farm again. Stay home with your children and raise them as Amelia would have. If you do all that, she’ll be able to wait in peace.”

Carl’s nervous fingers still. “For me? She’s waiting for me?”

“All our loved ones wait just beyond the veil. It’s our reward for a good life. But for now…” Ruskin sighs and spreads his arms as if giving a benediction. “You need to go home.”

“And them?” Carl asks with a sideways glance towards Lisbon and Cho; his voice is meek, though, without heat.

“Ah, yes…” Ruskin goes to one of the motel’s doors. “Because I’m serious about wanting to come back here, I’ll just have to—” He raises an arm and draws what looks like a circle and a figure eight in the air before the door. “There.” He turns back to the men. “I’ve just cast an Egyptian protection spell over this woman’s door. If anything happens to her or her colleague before they leave in the morning, I’ll know about it.” Ruskin strolls back, this time stopping by Cho’s side. “More importantly, Amelia will know and she won’t be happy.”

The tension, there the whole time, suddenly evaporates. Like chastened school children, the men leave, shuffling towards the street.

Lisbon sighs.

Cho doesn’t sigh but he feels like it. “That’s not Miss Lisbon’s door,” he says.

“I was winging it.”

“That was quite a performance.”

“You should be thanking me,” Ruskin replies. “I saved your life.”

“I would have dealt with it.”

Ruskin tips his head. “I do believe you would have,” he muses, adding in a lower voice as if talking to himself, “What makes you so cool-headed, I wonder. Nature or experience?”

Cho doesn’t reply.

“But that,” Ruskin adds, “is a conversation for another time.”

“How did you find us?” Lisbon asks before Cho can comment on the ‘another time,’ remark.

“I found you because I followed you and I followed you because I overheard Mr. Elkins tell his companions that he was going to do something about you. Was your meal as horrible as it looked?”

Cho doesn’t reply because he doesn’t know what to say. Lisbon, however…

“It was delicious. Five dollars is a lot of money for two minutes of nothing.”

Ruskin smiles. “People will pay anything when they’re desperate for good news.”

“And Mrs. Woodhouse? How desperate was she?”

If Ruskin is surprised that Lisbon remembers the woman’s name, he doesn’t show it. “She’s fine. I’m sure she appreciates your concern.”

“Hmph,” Lisbon mutters before adding, “If you knew what was going to happen, why didn’t you warn us?”

“I wanted to see how it played out. After all, Elkins is a bully and bullies rarely follow through on their boasts and threats.”

“Do you have a lot of experience with bullies, Mr. Ruskin?” Lisbon’s voice is full of false sweetness.

“Yes. More then my share, actually.”

“I’m sure.”

Ruskin chuckles silently but he doesn’t seem angry at Lisbon’s quick retorts. On the contrary, he seems more amused than anything else. “And now that the danger is past, I’ll be off. I still need my supper.”

Ruskin turns to go but Cho steps forward before he could think about it. “Wait—”

Ruskin pauses.

“You’re right,” the words are like sand in Cho’s throat but it’s important he acknowledges Ruskin’s efforts—Elkins and the small mob had been angry enough to act and the night could have ended much differently. “Thank you. For your help.” He holds out his hand.

Ruskin doesn’t move for a long moment. And then he smiles and takes Cho’s hand.

“You are quite welcome,” Ruskin says, giving Cho a strong squeeze. “If I remember anything about my encounter with Lucy, how can I reach you?”

“You’ve got Lisbon’s card.” Cho tugs; Ruskin doesn’t let go. “We’re going back to Sacramento tomorrow.” He’s not sure why he adds that last comment.

“That’s a shame.”

“Yes.”

“Well…” Slowly, Ruskin releases Cho’s hand. He turns to Lisbon. “Madam,” he says with an abbreviated bow. “It was a pleasure.”

“I’m sure it was, Professor Ruskin.”

Ruskin laughs under his breath. He hasn’t gone far when he pauses and looks over his shoulder. “And one clarification, not that it matters at this point: My name isn’t Ruskin. It’s Jane. Mr. Patrick Jane. Like the girl.”

And then he’s gone with a flick of his fingers and a wink thrown at Cho.

***

After very brief ‘Good nights’ Cho and Lisbon go their separate ways.

Cho locks the door, then strips. Mind numb, he rinses away the day’s dust and sweat in the motel’s small shower. He dries off the same way, blankly, wondering dully if he should take the trouble to get out his razor. He hasn’t shaved in two days but—he feels his jaw—it can wait. His beard is never heavy, in any case, one of the few benefits of his race.

Unlike a childhood friend, Harry Caid, who started shaving when they were in grade school. At the time, Cho had been jealous. Now, he’s grateful because it’s one less step between him and bed.

He changes into a clean undershirt and shorts and turns off the lights. Hesitating, though he truly isn’t worried, he props the desk chair under the doorknob. Nudging it tight, he thinks about Lisbon alone in her room. He hopes she’s done the same thing and then remembers the handgun.

He huffs a soft laugh and slips into bed. What a shock that had been. She’s such a mix of surprises—brash and forthright candor with an undercurrent of a rather adorable naiveté.

Cho draws a slow breath, absorbing the quiet, the feel of the cool sheets against his naked legs. The motel is nothing much but right now it’s luxury beyond compare. He relaxes into the mattress and closes his eyes.

Instantly, as if they had been lying in wait, the memories of recent events spring to life, a jumbled circus of images and sounds.

The discussion earlier in the day with Lisbon about how best to approach Ruskin. Asking the waitress at Springer’s Cafe about the traveling show and hearing, ‘Oh, that’s in Old Lady Woodhouse’s field. You can’t miss it.’ Walking to the outskirts of town and seeing the tent for the first time, a white island in a sea of dusty brown. Lisbon muttering, ‘What have you gotten me into, Mr. Cho?’ Elkins, the rickety chairs, the girl who had played the piano so very badly…

Patrick Jane.

Suddenly too warm, Cho rolls to his side and kicks off the covers.

Jane is everything Cho had expected. He’d met the type before and they’re all the same. Slick, oozing confidence, able to trot out a stream of babble designed to confuse and bemuse. But—

But all the same, Jane isn’t anything like those other shysters. They’d been frauds, intent on scheming the innocent out of their hard-earned money, their methods sloppy and crude. Jane’s skill went beyond that. The way he’d handled the crowd and Elkins, the information he’d seemingly pulled out of thin air…

Cho doesn’t believe in magic.

At least, in broad daylight, he doesn’t believe in magic. In the dark with only himself and his thoughts for company, he’s not so sure. Could Jane be the real deal? Could he have somehow stepped into Elkins’ head and plucked out his memories, one by one?

No, Cho decides, rolling to his back again. Jane is like all the rest, out to make a buck no matter who he hurts. All the same and there’s no point losing sleep over it.

Decision made, Cho lets exhaustion take the wheel. His last muzzy thought as he slides into sleep is the memory of Jane’s eyes, turned silver in the half light of the motel’s sign, when he’d said, ‘Jane. Mr. Patrick Jane. Like the girl.’

***

Cho waves to Mr. Lee and pushes the gate open. It squeaks like it always does and he makes a mental note to ask his father if there’s any oil in the can.

“Going to be another hot one,” Mr. Lee shouts in Korean across the chain link fence that divides the two row houses.

Mr. Lee has been hard of hearing for as long as Cho can remember. Twenty-five years of being yelled at over the most inane things is something he’s used to and he just nods sedately. “Yes it is, sir.”

“Odd for April first, being so hot so early.” Mr. Lee angles his head to frown up at the sky.

“Yes, it is.”

“I heard you’re living in Echo Park now.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you’re still working in the city at that French restaurant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well…” Mr. Lee returns to his small patch of lawn. “Say hello to your parents for me.”

“I will, sir.” Cho hurries up the porch steps before Mr. Lee can ask about Lucy.

The house is dark and cool and smells of the lemon wax that his mother uses on everything but the refrigerator. “Ma? Pa?” he calls out in English. “You here?”

There’s no answer. He goes to the kitchen and puts the groceries on the countertop. The telephone he’d bought his parents sits in the very center of the table. Beside it is a note, written in English in his mother’s beautiful script: ‘Kimball, your father twisted his ankle. We’re going to Mrs. McDaniels’ to have her look at it. Don’t worry, your father is fine. Please put the groceries away.’

Underneath in scrunched letters is the addition: ‘Post Script: Your ‘friend,’ Miss Lisbon called. She has no news.’

Cho presses his lips together. Mrs. McDaniels isn’t a doctor or a nurse. All she does for her ‘patients’ is offer outdated advice and Phillips Milk of Magnesia, a penny per teaspoon. As for the ‘friend…’

He’d made the mistake of telling his mother that he’d hired a female investigator. She hadn’t said anything at the time but his father confided later that she had stewed about it for days. Since then, she’d made more than a few references to his ‘friend,’ always emphasizing the noun.

He can’t make his mother understand that he isn’t courting Lisbon, that she’s actually is an investigator. It’s a generational thing, probably. Though his parents had emigrated over thirty years ago, they will always be old world while he’ll always be new.

They’ll never change. After his stint in the military, after he’d announced he was getting his own apartment to be closer to the city, his parents had argued that his duty was to stay with them. That all his unmarried friends still lived with their families. Cho had waited his parents out, confident that after a few days they’d realize that with Constance still at home, the house was simply too small for four adults. They hadn’t, not really, and when he’d packed his possessions for the final time, his mother had refused to see him off.

Reminded of his sisters and one in particular, Cho picks up the phone and dials the exchange. He waits while the operator directs the call and then hears a light, questioning, “Hello?”

“So, no news,” Cho says, by way of a greeting.

“Who…” It takes Lisbon a second to recognize his voice. “No, unfortunately not. Where are you calling from?”

“My parent’s house.” Cho pulls out a chair and sits down. “What about your friend at the BNE?”

“So far nothing.” There’s a sound through the line, like the bang of a door closing in the distance. “He seems to think it’s a long shot.”

“I called the Sacramento police. They’ve heard nothing.”

“I did the same except they told me to stop bothering them.”

“Hm.”

“Yeah.”

“So…” Cho leans back. “What next?”

“What’s next is I re-interview the witnesses, the ones that saw Lucy with the soda jerk, Bradford Miller.”

“You said Miller wasn’t involved.”

“I said he most likely wasn’t involved, not that he wasn’t.”

“Okay.”

“I’d like to interview him one more time, just in case.”

It sounds as if Lisbon has run out of options and doesn’t want to tell him. “All right.”

“I told you that I’d knock on every door. I also told you that it might take time.”

“You did.”

“Was that all?”

Cho glances out the kitchen window. A bum is rummaging through his parent’s trash bin. “Do you need any help?”

“I… From you?”

“Yes.” The bum closes the can and ambles off.

“What about your employer?”

“They won’t mind.” It won’t matter if they do. The position at Taix is a stopgap until he can find something he’s truly interested in.

“What about your parents?”

“They won’t mind, either.” And it will give him a chance to get away for a week or so. Every day brings no news, and every day his parents’ moods grow more somber. They’re starting to lose hope.

Lisbon hesitates, then says, “Are you offering because you think I can’t do the job?”

Cho straightens up. “What? No.”

“Because I can. I can find your—”

“Miss Lisbon,” Cho interrupts. “I’m not doubting your skills. I’m just—” He breaks off, looking out the window again as if that will give him a clue as to why he’s so restless.

“You’re frustrated?” Lisbon asks. “And worried?”

“Yes to both,” Cho acknowledges, though ‘frustration’ and ‘worry’ aren’t quite it. “I’d just like to help.”

Another pause and then, “How soon can you get here?”

It’s Tuesday, so… “Thursday morning?”

“All right,” Lisbon says. “But there are a few rules you’ll have to follow.”

“Such as?”

“I’ll figure them out when you get here.”

Lisbon’s tone is wry and Cho quirks his lips. He really does like her. “Thursday, then.”

“You better go—this call must be costing your parents a fortune.”

It’s costing him a fortune because he’s the one paying the bill but all he says is, “Yes. Goodbye.” He hangs up.

Cho sits there, hand curved over the handset. His modest police training none withstanding, he’s not sure what he has to offer Lisbon. His presence will most likely hinder her efforts. Look what happened in Barstow.

On cue, his stomach warms, the same as it always does when he thinks of Barstow, when he thinks of that night outside the motel—

Cho gets to his feet so fast the chair squeals against the linoleum. If he’s going to Sacramento, he has things to do and staring into space in his parent’s kitchen isn’t one of them.

Cash from the bank, shirts from the cleaners, a call to Taix to let them know he needs a week off…

Mentally checking off all the items, Cho puts the groceries away, shoving aside all reminders of Barstow and Patrick Jane.

***

Lisbon is waiting for him at the station.

She’s wearing a cream-colored woolen jacket, matching trousers, and no hat. It’s a good thing that his mother isn’t around because she’d have a fit if she saw Lisbon’s outfit. Pants, she’s told her daughters over and over, are fine for the lower class but not for ladies, especially not out in public.

“I could have picked you up,” Cho says as he steps onto the platform.

“In what?” Lisbon replies.

She’s absolutely right. What would he have picked her up in? “I could have hired a car.”

“We’re not L.A. At best you could have hired a cab. Besides…” She signals, silently telling him to follow. “I just got my first good lead.”

Cho’s heart skips a beat. “And that is?”

“Remember when Ruskin told us about the man Lucy was interested in?”

And damn it, there goes his heart again, jumping now at the sound of Ruskin’s name. “His name is Jane. Patrick Jane.” Like the girl.

“I know.” Lisbon brushes away the reminder with a literal wave of her hand. “I got a call yesterday. It was Lucy’s girl friend.”

They’re in the station now. It’s smaller than L.A.’s but no less beautiful. And no less busy. “Felicia Marley?” Cho asks as he dodges a blond women and a fleet of porters. “The woman you couldn’t find back in March?”

“The same. She says she just got my messages and hadn’t had time to call.”

“You don’t believe her?”

“Let’s just say I find it difficult to believe that she missed the note I left for her at the telephone company and the note I slipped under her apartment door.”

“Why would she lie?”

“Many reasons. Namely, she was getting her story together.” Lisbon glances up at Cho. “She was very cagey when I asked about Lucy’s gentleman caller. I realize I’ve just spoken to her over the phone but there’s something about her. I’d like you to talk to her to see if you get the same feeling.”

Cho follows Lisbon out into the bright morning sun. “All right.”

“I’m over here.” Lisbon points to a row of cars and then puts on her sunglasses. “I arranged to meet her at McKinley Park at three.”

“Why not at her apartment?”

Lisbon stops by a dusty, maroon-colored Cadillac. “My thought exactly. When I said I was bringing an associate, she got even more evasive. She told me her building was being fumigated. I suggested we meet tomorrow; she said her building was women-only and you weren’t allowed.”

“That was a lie, too?”

“I didn’t tell her my associate was a man. Plus, I called the Clarendon as soon as I hung up. The landlord told me that he prefers families and single women, but will take men as long as they have a job.”

Cho thinks about that. “Lucy never told my aunt and uncle much about Miss Marley. I know they worked the same shift and that her parents took her to New York for her birthday.”

When he’d begun his own investigation after Lucy had gone missing, he’d been startled to find how little he knew about his sister. He’d known she worked for the Sacramento Telephone Company but didn’t know what she actually did. He’d known she’d had a suitor, Bong Soo Chung, but hadn’t known that— How had Patrick Jane put it? ‘…her heart hadn’t been engaged?’ “I don’t even know what she looks like.”

“Don’t worry about that.” Lisbon fishes a set of keys out of her trouser pocket. “The telephone company has a photo of her on their wall.” She unlocks the trunk and makes an, ‘in here’ gesture to Cho. “She was the employee of the month in January.”

Cho puts his suitcase into the trunk. “If everything you say about her is true, that doesn’t make sense.”

“A liar can be a good employee.”

“I suppose.” He looks at his watch; it’s just past eleven. “My aunt and uncle are putting me up. Do we have time to get there and back?”

“Yes, but I think we should sit down and plan our line of attack. There’s a diner is across the street. You can call your uncle from there.” She hesitates, then adds, “And, I want to get to the rendezvous point at least thirty minutes ahead of schedule.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to see if she gets there early. And I want to see her reaction when she sees you.”

“So, lunch and too many cups of coffee?”

Lisbon slams the trunk lid shut and dusts off her hands. “Bingo.”

***

After lunch and only one cup of coffee, Cho and Lisbon set out for McKinley Park.

It’s a pleasant day if a little cold. The other pedestrians walk briskly by, hurrying this way and that as if they’re all on a deadline. Cho hadn’t noticed much on his last—and only—trip to the city. But then, he’d been wrapped in his mission, intent on finding his wayward sister.

“Damn. There she is.”

Lisbon’s soft words bring Cho out of his reverie. So close to his own thoughts, it takes him a minute to understand, to see what Lisbon is talking about.

The park is across the street. It’s a sun-blanketed mix of rose gardens and paths. There are people wandering among the flowerbeds as well as a group of young boys playing kickball on the green. Close by, sitting in the shade near a broad walkway is a women. “That’s Felicia Marley? Her back is to us. Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“So much for the element of surprise.”

“She hasn’t seen us yet. Let’s go.”

Lisbon crosses the street. When she gets within speaking distance she calls out, “Miss Marley?”

The woman twists around, hand to her breast, clearly startled. “I—” Her gaze shoots to Cho. “You scared me.”

Felicia Marley is beautiful. She has a peaches-and-cream complexion and glossy brown hair. She’s wearing a blue wool coat over a print dress. Her lipstick, however, is too much, garish and bright. She probably thinks it makes her look sophisticated and elegant. To Cho’s eye it does the opposite, making her seem like a child that has gotten into her mother’s make-up drawer.

“My apologies,” Lisbon says as she rounds the bench. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. As I said on the telephone,” she continues, not giving Miss Marley a second to speak, “my name is Theresa Lisbon. I’m a private detective and I’m looking into Miss Lucy Cho’s disappearance.”

Miss Marley doesn’t ask who Cho is. She just smiles and says, “And as I told you, I didn’t even know she was missing.”

“I understand.” Lisbon points to the bench. “May I?”

Miss Marley makes room. She looks up at Cho; other than folding his hands together, he doesn’t move. After a moment, she asks, “What do you want to know?”

Lisbon gets out a small notebook and an equally small pen. She makes a show of flipping through the pages and then, her pen poised, says, “When did you last see Miss Cho?”

“Sometime in February.”

“Can you be more specific?”

Miss Marley shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe the twentieth or twenty-first? It was after my birthday.”

“And that is?”

“The nineteenth. I’m a Pisces, but only just.”

It’s such an obviously well practiced answer, Cho wants to roll his eyes. Where does Miss Marley think she is? A dance hall?

For her part, Lisbon flashes Miss Marley a vague acknowledgement before continuing, “And how was Miss Cho?”

“How do you mean?”

“Was she happy, sad, scared?”

Miss Marley looks down and smooths a glove. They’re brown kid leather and a tight fit. “I don’t know. Normal?”

“‘Normal’ as in happy?”

“Lucy was never what I would call happy,” Miss Marley says with another little shrug. “She never would go out with us, no matter how much I begged. She liked to stay home and read.”

“Who is ‘we’?”

“Pardon?”

Lisbon’s smile is just as false as Miss Marley’s. “You said Miss Cho would never go out with ‘us,’ and I’m asking who the ‘us’ is?”

“Oh, just some friends from work.”

“Other telephone operators? In other words, all women?”

Miss Marley tugs at the glove that is still tight. “Yes.”

“So no men?”

“No. No men.”

Motionless the whole time, Cho shifts from side to side. Felicia Marley’s prevarications are getting to him. If she were a man, he’d just grab her by the lapels and shake the truth out of her. But Lisbon is getting somewhere, deftly putting Miss Marley on the defensive, so he stays still and keeps his mouth shut.

“Do you know if Miss Cho was seeing someone?”

Miss Marley sits back, relaxing for the first time. “I knew she had a beau, someone her parents had picked out for her down in L.A. She wasn’t wild about him, though.”

“She told you this?”

“No, not exactly.”

“And that means?”

“Nothing. Other than she would clam up when we asked about him. I got the feeling that he was all wet.”

“‘All wet’?” Lisbon asks with a half smile.

“You know, all wet, an egghead, someone you’d be embarrassed to be seen with.”

Cho stifles a cough at Miss Marley’s description of Bong Soo Chung. It’s unfortunately accurate. Chung is a nice enough boy but he’s so earnest and placid… If he was ever replaced by a block of wood, no one would notice.

“And that’s all? She stayed home and read and had a boyfriend that she didn’t talk about?”

Miss Marley hesitates a bare fraction of a minute, then nods shortly. “Yes.”

Lisbon sighs. “Miss Marley, I have a feeling—”

“Oh,” Miss Marley interrupts, her face brightening, her attention drawn to something over Lisbon’s shoulder. “There he is. He wanted to meet you.”

Cho turns to look around as Lisbon says, “Miss Mar—”

But Felicia Marley isn’t listening. She’s gotten up and is trotting with tiny steps to a man walking along the boulevard.

“Is that who I think it is?” Lisbon breathes.

“Yes,” Cho says through a throat constricted by shock.

If Lisbon wanted to say anything else, she has no chance because Miss Marley has laced her arm through Patrick Janes’ and is pulling him over to the bench.

Jane pats her hand and allows himself to be tugged.

“Darling,” Miss Marley says as soon as they reach Cho and Lisbon. “These are the people you wanted to meet. They’re private investigators.”

“As a point of fact,” Lisbon says as she offers her hand, “I’m the investigator, Theresa Lisbon. Mr. Cho is my client.”

Miss Marley’s eyes narrow and she glances at Cho. She obviously hadn’t made the same connection that Jane had that first time. She says nothing, however; she just presses tight to Jane’s side, clinging to him like a limpet.

Jane, for whatever reason, plays along. He takes Lisbon’s hand, murmuring, “Patrick Ruskin,” and then extends a hand towards Cho.

Today, Jane is decked out in another beautiful suit, a wool fedora, and much nicer shoes. Somehow the sight of the expensive footwear transforms Cho’s shock to ire and he squeezes too hard.

Jane’s eyes crinkle. “You’ve got quite a grip there. Were you in the military?”

“No,” Cho lies.

“Ah, well,” Jane says as he slowly lets go. “My dear…” He looks down at Miss Marley. “Your lunch break is almost up. Why don’t you return to work and let me handle their inquiries. You shouldn’t be involved in any of this—it’s a man’s job.”

Cho can practically hear Lisbon’s ‘Give me a break,’ but Miss Marley just colors and nods. She unwinds herself from Jane and presents her cheek.

Dutifully, Jane kisses her. “I’ll pick you up at six. We’ll dine at the club.”

Miss Marley backs away and playfully shakes her finger at Jane. “Don’t be late again, you naughty boy, or I’ll have something to say about it.”

Jane raises his hands in mock surrender. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Lisbon waits until Miss Marley is well out of earshot before jumping up and accusing, “What are you doing here?” She doesn’t give Jane time to answer, “‘Darling?’ That was fast.”

Jane shrugs. “I’ve found it’s easier to get answers out of a person if their guard is down.”

Cho raises an eyebrow; that’s almost exactly what Lisbon had said that day in Barstow.

Lisbon starts to reply; then she takes a breath. “You know what, never mind. All I want to know is if you’re meddling in my case because if you—”

Jane interrupts by raising both hands again. “No. No meddling.” He lowers his arms. “I am, however, helping.”

“I don’t nee—”

“This would be much easier if we converse over an early supper,” Jane says. “There’s a restaurant on J Street. It’s much nicer than the hole-in-the-wall you ate at earlier.”

“Hey!” Lisbon objects. “I—”

This time it’s Cho that interrupts: “You’re tailing us? Again?”

“If by tailing means watching you take your time at that awful diner for two hours, then yes,” Jane acknowledges, “I’m tailing you.”

Cho’s outrage dies at Jane’s ready admittance and he can’t think of another protest. By the look on Lisbon’s face, neither can she.

With a smile, Jane glances at Cho and then Lisbon. “The restaurant is this way.” He starts walking, calling out over his shoulder, “Don’t dawdle!”

Cho is fairly certain that as she gets up, Lisbon whispers, “Jackass.”

***

The restaurant is indeed much nicer than the diner. The interior is dim and cool, decorated with red-flocked wallpaper, soft carpeting, and gleaming furniture. Jane nips Lisbon’s soft protest about cost in the bud as they are greeted with a cheerful: “Mr. Ruskin! You’ve returned to us.”

“How could I stay away?” Jane replies. “Your sole was superb.” He adds to Cho and Lisbon, as if confiding a great secret, “Edward is one of the finest maître d’s I’ve had the pleasure to meet. He’ll take good care of us.” Jane removes his hat. “Edward, my guests and I need a quiet spot.”

Cho waits for the man to object to his presence, but all he does is bow and say, “Of course.” He leads them to a booth in the back. Tall potted plants separate the area from the front of the restaurant and the back. “Voila,” he says, striking a match to light the candle.

“Thank you.” Jane hangs his hat up. “And don’t forget, a woman in red.”

“A woman in red,” Edward confirms before gesturing to a boy standing by the kitchen door. “My eyes are peeled.”

“Good man.”

With a last bow, Edward leaves, making way for the boy who is now carrying glasses of water and menus.

Cho hangs his hat beside Jane’s and then slides into the booth. Before Lisbon can move, Jane follows.

Lisbon raises an eyebrow, sharing a quick look with Cho, and takes the other side. She unbuttons her jacket. “A woman in red?”

Jane is already perusing the menu. “I told him his fortune. He’s going to meet a woman in red. She will make all his dreams come true.”

“I thought you didn’t do that anymore.”

“I relaxed my own rules.”

Jane is sitting too close; Cho inches to the left. “And he believed that? That he’s going to meet a woman in red?”

“Well…” Jane lowers the menu. “Red is a very popular color these days. This is a very expensive restaurant and has very rich clientele. It stands to reason he’ll meet a woman in red at some point. It made him happy and that, in turn, made me happy.” He returns to the menu. “Their filet of sole truly is exquisite and I didn’t have to shell out a penny.”

Lisbon shakes her head and opens her menu.

“What will you have, Mr. Cho?” Jane asks without looking over. “I hear the foie gras is good.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Of course you are. Your train trip alone was fifteen hours and that patty melt couldn’t have been very filling.”

Cho doesn’t respond that it had been a ham sandwich, instead growling, “How did you know I was coming and what are you doing here?”

“I’ll tell you the whole story as soon we order.” Jane closes the menu and waves. A young man with a pad scurries over. “Good afternoon, Robert. I’ll have the Baked Filet of Catalina and my friends will have…” He looks at Lisbon.

“The chef’s salad with French dressing,” she answers sourly.

Jane looks at Cho.

Cho would give anything to deny Jane the pleasure of surrendering this one small thing but he doesn’t want to make a scene. “I’ll have the consommé,” he says, plucking from memory his mother telling his father after they’d had an argument about what qualified as a good meal in America: ‘All good restaurants have consommé, Do-won, and if they do not, they are not any good.’

Jane smiles as if he heard Cho’s thoughts; he gathers up the menus. “And my friend Kimball will have the consommé and the filet mignon, medium rare.”

Cho takes a breath to object but Jane doesn’t give him time—he gives the menus to the boy with a confidential, “And if any of that very aromatic bread is ready, we’ll have it now.”

“Very good, sir,” Robert says. He starts to leave, and then pauses. “And sir? My friend came by, just as you promised.”

“See?” Jane says. “All you had to do was make a move.”

The boy ducks his head. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Jane acknowledges the boy’s thanks with a congenial wave.

“What’s the girl’s name?” Lisbon asks when the boy is gone.

“Robert isn’t interested in girls, Miss Lisbon,” Jane states as he unfolds his napkin. “His name is Freddy and apparently quite a dish.”

Lisbon’s mouth drops open. She gives Cho a side eye, then looks down.

Cho—cheeks burning in quick reaction to Jane’s unruffled announcement about Robert—is done. He twists to face Jane and demands, “All right, spill. How do you know my first name? Why are you really here? What are you up to?”

Jane smooths his napkin over his lap as if he had all the time in the world. “I know your name because Lucy told me about you.”

Cho draws back. “She did?”

“Yes.”

“What did she say?”

“Lucy said you’re clever but a know-it-all. You graduated from high school with honors even though you had to switch schools in 1921 because of an asinine law forcing you and your sisters to move to a Chinese school.” Jane picks up his glass. “You parlayed those honors into entrance to Los Angeles Junior College, a minor miracle as they weren’t supposed to take you. There, you excelled but had difficulties due to your ethnic origin.” Jane takes a sip of water. “Because of those difficulties, you left college two months before graduation whereupon you entered the military. You lasted ten months, quitting for roughly the same reasons. Still, you’re dogged and wanted to make a career for yourself, so you moved into the field of law enforcement.” He glances at Cho. “I gather your fellow officers accused you of a crime. They planted evidence?”

Feeling winded, as if Jane’s words were a physical force, Cho admits, “Yes.” Lisbon is watching with wide eyes—he hadn’t told her any of that.

Jane sets his glass down and then adds, his voice softening, “Lucy said it was a shame because it had been the first time you were happy since high school.”

Cho’s outrage is fading. “What else?” He wanted the question to be sarcastic but it comes out plaintive.

“Lucy said you’re a bookworm, preferring classic novels and science fiction. You love detective movies. You’re good at sports but excel at baseball. You’re favorite food is—”

“Stop,” Cho interrupts, unwilling to hear any more. He had no idea that Lucy knew him that well. He’d never mentioned his ‘difficulties’ over the years; it was just something he figured they all dealt with, being foreigners and outsiders.

But, hell, the last few months have proved that he hadn’t returned the favor because Lucy is a mystery. If someone asked him what Lucy’s favorite food or books are, he wouldn’t be able to answer. Now he wonders if he knows his other sisters, either. Or his parents, for that matter. He’s never asked the former how they’re doing just as he’d never asked the latter how they managed over the years.

It’s startling. It’s shameful.

Robert comes over just then with a basket of bread and flat dish of butter. The interruption gives Cho a moment to re-situate himself mentally and physically. When he’s facing Lisbon once more, he reaches for his glass but doesn’t drink. “And the other points?”

Jane doesn’t have to ask what Cho means. “I wasn’t lying when I said I was sorry about Lucy. She’s a bright, charming girl and I’m concerned about her disappearance. Moreover, you and Miss Lisbon piqued my curiosity and, as I make my own schedule, I cancelled my tour and came north to investigate.”

“When did you get here?”

“Eight days ago.”

Lisbon snorts softly. “You’ve been here a week and you’ve got Miss Marley eating out of your hand?”

Jane shrugs. “Felicia is a hungry girl and ridiculously easy to charm.”

“I’ll bet.”

“How did you find her?” Cho asks. “How did you find out about her?”

Jane busies himself with buttering a piece of bread. “Lucy mentioned working as a telephone operator. She also mentioned a friend who had been advising her to dump—as she put it—the man your parents had picked out for her.” He takes a bite of bread and hums under his breath. “Delicious. Now, there is only one telephone company in the greater Sacramento area and it stands to reason that Lucy works the night shift.” At Lisbon’s look of silent inquiry, Jane explains, “Night shifts tend to be reserved for new employees and those less—”

Jane searches for the polite term; Cho supplies it for him: “American?”

Jane shrugs again. “I’m afraid so.”

“And Miss Marley?”

“That was easy. I got to know the night shift supervisor and in turn found out about Felicia Marley, Lucy’s chum who works the swing shifts.”

“And then?” Lisbon asks.

“And then I did what I do, Miss Lisbon.”

“Which is lie, obfuscate, and befuddle?”

Jane grins. “A fairly accurate observation but it’s not all a lie. I’m not all a lie.”

It’s an interesting distinction and Cho is about to comment when the waiter returns with a large tray.

Jane watches with obvious pleasure. “Yum,” he says after Robert lays the plates down. “François has outdone himself.”

“Speaking of…” Robert replies with a sheepish expression.

“He would like a consultation.”

Robert nods. “Yes, sir. If you have the time, of course.”

“My afternoon and evening are booked, I’m afraid. What time does he leave?”

“At nine. The sous-chef takes over then.”

 “Tell him I’ll return at nine on the dot.” Jane touches Robert’s sleeve.

Even though the light is subdued, Cho can see Robert’s furious blush.

“I will, sir,” Robert says. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” Jane doesn’t watch Robert leave.

“You’re something else, aren’t you?” Lisbon asks.

“I’ll take that question as rhetorical.” Jane slices into the salmon. “And a compliment. Dig in before it gets cold, Mr. Cho. That filet looks delicious.”

Cho, in a daze because he’d been thinking exactly what Lisbon had accused, mutters, “I don’t like steak.”

“Of course you do,” Jane counters as he takes a bite of fish.

Cho exchanges another quick glance with Lisbon and then, helplessly because he can think of nothing else to do, he picks up his knife and fork and begins to eat.

***

The steak is delicious. Cho finishes it and then the consommé, telling himself it’s because he doesn’t like to waste food when really it’s just to prove to Jane that he really did want it. Done, he sits back and waits for the others.

Neither he nor Lisbon said much during the meal but Jane had. He’d blabbed on, first about the varieties of fish around the world before moving on to culinary differences he’d experienced in his travels.

While Cho listens—believing only a fraction of it—he counts down the minutes, glancing at his wristwatch, evaluating Lisbon’s various changes of expression. He’s running a silent bet, calculating the moment when she’s had enough. He’s off by a good minute.

“All right,” Lisbon says, cutting off Jane’s explanation as to why West coast audiences are different from those in the East. “Now that I know more about you than I ever wanted, will you please tell me exactly what you’re up to?”

Jane swallows, then wipes his mouth with his napkin. “That, my dear Miss Lisbon, is simple. I’m trying to find Lucy’s friend of the opposite sex.”

“The one my parents wouldn’t approve of?” Cho asks.

“The very same,” Jane says.

Lisbon folds her hands on the table. “Why him? There’s this kid, Bradford Miller. I think he—”

Jane waves away the mention of Miller. “He’s not involved in this shady affair.”

“You talked to him?”

“The night shift supervisor was very informative. She knew all the current gossip. Miller had a crush on Lucy but Lucy didn’t return his feelings. The boy has since turned his attentions elsewhere. No, our quarry is the mysterious suitor.”

“Did Miss Marley said anything about him?”

“She denies knowing him.”

“Does she deny knowing of him?”

Jane smiles. “Very shrewd of you and no, she did not. But she did lie to me about something and I don’t know why. She could be afraid of something.”

“Or someone?”

“Or someone,” Jane agrees. He pauses and looks around. The hour is still relatively early and few diners had come into the restaurant. As if satisfied he can’t be overheard, Jane reaches into his breast pocket and retrieves a slim envelope. “And that brings me to the heart of the matter.” From the envelope he removes a sheaf of papers and a photograph; he gives the papers to Lisbon. “Have either of you heard of the monster the police have nicknamed, ‘Red John’?”

Lisbon unfolds the papers—they’re news clippings. “I haven’t.”

“Neither have I,” Cho says, half-standing to see one of the articles, only just making out one headline: …Found in a Davis Hotel. “Who is he?”

“He’s the man that murdered my wife and child.”

Cho stills and then turns his head. Jane’s demeanor hasn’t changed. He’s not grimacing or frowning. He’s watching them placidly as if he’d just commented on the fineness of the weather. “You’re married?” Jane’s left hand is bare of jewelry.

“I was married,” Jane corrects.

Cho frowns. “When was this? When did they die?”

“It will be two years next month. May twelfth, to be exact.”

Cho sits back down. 1937. “I’m sorry.”

Jane’s smile fractures and then reforms. “Thank you.”

Lisbon clears her throat. “These articles are from up and down the coast.” She holds up a short clipping. “This one says a woman was strangled. How many women has he murdered?”

“Eleven is the official count.”

Lisbon draws a sharp breath and Cho’s eyes widen. He’d quit the police department almost eight years ago, but even so, it’s a surprise he hadn’t heard about Red John before this.

“Eleven,” Lisbon repeats as she gets out her notebook. “Why hasn’t he been caught?”

“Because he’s very smart. Although very arrogant.”

“How so?”

“He signs his work. Literally.”

“In what way?”

Jane slips one article free. “This gives the best description.”

Lisbon bends over the article, murmuring, “‘The villain isn’t shy about announcing his deeds. He has his brutal way with the victim and then paints blood on the girl’s—’” She swallows and hands the article to Cho.

He reads quickly, taking in the details as a chill runs up his back. The killer mutilates his female victims and then kills them. As if that’s not enough, he then decorates the room—using their own blood—with an image of a smiling face. Some authorities believe the image is an imitation of Felix the Cat while others say it’s simply a gruesome parody of a human smile. Horrific. He gives the paper back to Jane with a hand that is stiff from fear. “What makes you think Lucy is mixed up with this Red John?”

Jane retrieves the other clippings from Lisbon and re-folds them along their well-creased edges. He tucks them back in the envelope. “Because three of the women he murdered had hired me for readings. Gretchen Plaskett, Eleanor Artega, and Rebecca Anderson.” He puts the envelope next to the photo. “They were all single, all wanting to know if they were going to be married within the year.”

Lisbon points out, “Some of those articles you have don’t mention Red John.”

“No, they don’t because the police don’t believe that he’s responsible.”

“I don’t understand.”

Jane leans forward. “I believe that Red John deliberately changes his method to confuse law enforcement. I believe that his victims could number as many as twenty-four. I believe he satisfies himself with strangling many of the women only to return to his favorite method when the urge gets to be too much.”

Lisbon stares at Jane for a long moment. And then she shakes her head. “If any of this is true, this is a much bigger can of worms than I expected. We need to go to the police.”

“They won’t believe you.”

“And you know that how?”

“I contacted the Los Angeles Police Department in ‘35 when I first heard about Red John. At the time I had no idea who he might be, just that the details of his crimes seemed to follow a pattern. I gave the police a few ideas on how to capture him but never heard back. When my wife and daughter were murdered, I tried to convince the detectives that their murder was connected to the murders around the state. They told me it was a disturbed individual who was copying Red John.

“Since then, I’ve visited the police in Arbuckle where Gretchen Plaskett was murdered and Delano where Eleanor was killed. Last year, I contacted the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I wrote to Mr. Hoover, himself.” Jane shrugs wryly. “By way of a reply, I was detained by three G-men in cheap suits. They brought me to the local constabulary in Bakersfield and questioned me. I was there for two days. I thought they were going to charge me.”

“On what grounds?” Lisbon asks, back to writing down Jane’s story.

“On the grounds that I knew too much about the murders. That it was more likely I was either Red John himself or a wife-murderer who was trying to throw them off the scent.”

“How did you convince them that you were innocent?”

“I hypnotized them.”

Lisbon looks up. “You what?”

“I hypnotized them.” Jane shrugs. “And then I told them they had the wrong man, that I was innocent and they should let me go.”

“And did they?” She glances at Cho—he shrugs one shoulder to say that he’s taken aback, too.

“They did indeed. I even got a business card and an apology.”

“What about the report?” Cho asks.

Jane nods. “I suggested they burn the first one and start a new one. They did. The younger one, Agent Rigsby, used a rather beautiful fountain pen. I was out within thirty minutes.” He tips his head. “The agents were very nice, if quite susceptible.”

“Did you take the pen?” Cho isn’t sure what makes him ask the question but Jane grins as if he’d said the most clever thing. He gets a pen from his breast pocket and holds it up. It is beautiful.

“So that hypnotism thing really works?” Lisbon muses.

“On the right person, it does.” Jane puts the pen away. “And before either of you ask, no, neither of you would make good subjects.”

“How do you know?” Cho asks.

“Because I tried when I first met you. I thought I had you, but you managed to hold your own.”

This time the look Cho exchanges with Lisbon is one of consternation. He’d thought he’d felt odd that day in the tent…

Lisbon, though, just says, “We’ll discuss that later. For now, we need to get back on track: who do you think Red John is?”

“A man by the name of Timothy Carter.”

“You seem so sure. Do you know him?”

“Yes. He worked for me at one time.”

It’s another bombshell, the quiet comment.

“Why isn’t he in jail if you know his identity?” Lisbon finally asks.

“I can’t find him and as I’ve said, the law enforcement professionals I’ve talked to don’t believe me.”

“What did Timothy Carter do for you?”

“He was my assistant.”

“You mean as a shill,” Cho interjects. “He pretended to be sick and you pretended to cure him.”

Jane doesn’t bother to deny the assertion and doesn’t seem to be offended. “If you will. He came to me and said he’d been following the act. He wanted to work with me and I could pay him in experience. As I was low on funds and a free assistant was a gift, I agreed. He was with the show from ’33 to ’34.”

“I’m assuming that’s a picture of him.” Lisbon points to the photo. “Can I see it?”

Jane slides it across the table.

Lisbon examines it, then gives it to Cho.

It isn’t a good image. Taken at night and inside the tent, the photo is overexposed in some areas and underexposed in others. It shows a crowd and in the center, Jane at work. Jane’s hands are raised and he’s frowning as if in great pain. Next to him is a man wearing baggy pants and a baggy jacket. The man is half bent over; only part of his face is showing. “He looks like a tramp.”

“It was a ploy. Timothy was an insurance salesman before the Depression.”

Cho gives the photo to Jane. “What makes you think he’s Red John?”

Jane puts the photo back in the envelope. “In ‘34, I sacked him. I had received complaints from several women about him. Apparently, he was following them after the show and propositioning them. The women never made clear the details but I gather what Timothy had said to them was quite alarming. They were truly afraid.” Jane slips the envelope back in his pocket. “So, I fire Timothy in May of ’34 and the first woman is killed in Medford, Oregon just two months later.”

“And?” Lisbon asks.

“And Timothy is from Medford. His family still lives there.”

Lisbon jots that down. “It could be a coincidence.”

“That’s what I thought. And then the next two women were murdered.”

“Were they murdered in the style of Red John?”

“No. They were strangled.”

Lisbon sighs. “It all sounds so coincidental. I still don’t understand the connection between Carter and Red John.”

“I didn’t see it, either. Not at first.” Jane leans forward. “In ‘34, about six months after I sacked him, Timothy began writing me, letters sent to the post offices of the towns my show were to visit. He wrote about his new job as a porter on the Southern Pacific. He wrote about the people he met along the way. The letters were bland and rather pointless and I answered only the first few. But then…”

“But then?” Lisbon prompts when Jane stalls.

“It was odd, this feeling I got after the third or fourth letter,” Jane says. “I felt as if he was the farmer with a carrot and I was the stubborn mule. I got the sense that he was playing some prank and I wasn’t responding as I should. His letters became more descriptive and more pointed and I realized three things: One, that those pointed descriptions were all of women and two, that the tone of his letters had changed. He was never a happy-go-lucky fellow but he wasn’t a sourpuss. Now, he had become cruel. He would mock the women and make comments about their features and their imagined personal lives.”

“What was the third thing?”

“He mentioned the word ‘red’ in every letter.”

Lisbon’s gaze sharpens. “I’m not convinced. How many letters did he send you?”

“A dozen or so.” Jane glances sideways at Cho. “I received the last one on the twenty-third of February.”

Cho’s heart skips a beat; a lump forms in his belly. “Two days after Lucy was at your show.”

“Yes.”

“Did he mention her?”

“No. It was about a new red wine he’d purchased. I’m not sure if he was winding me up or not.”

The details of the murders bright in his mind, Cho asks the one thing he doesn’t want to ask: “If he has her, is she already dead?”

“I hope not. If it is Timothy and he is following a pattern, Lucy is safe for now.”

The lump dissolves but doesn’t quite go away. “How so?”

“Because the women were murdered within three months of showing up at my show.” Jane glances between Cho and Lisbon and then takes a breath. “I’m telling this all wrong. Let me try again: In August of ‘34, I met Gretchen Plaskett. She asked me to read her palm. I did. Three months later she was dead.

“In October of that same year, I met Eleanor Artega. What followed was almost a copy of my experience with Gretchen except she was murdered in January of ‘35.”

“And Rebecca Anderson?”

“I met her in February of ‘35. She was murdered in May.”

“And they were all strangled?”

“Yes.”

“You’re convinced they were murdered by Timothy Carter and that this Carter is also Red John, even though Red John has, in the past, killed women in an entirely different way?”

“Yes.”

Lisbon leans back. She looks tired. “Is that why you don’t tell fortunes anymore?”

Jane responds with a lift of his shoulder that somehow expresses regret and sorrow. “It is. Now I stick to safer methods. If the party does insist and has something interesting to trade, then I, in turn, insist on privacy.”

“Like a big mansion or a restaurant kitchen.”

“Exactly.”

Lisbon taps her pen on the table. “So your theory is that this Carter is following you and the women you meet. Then, he introduces himself and, what, woos them and then kills them?”

“Yes.”

Cho clears his throat. “That’s all well and good but I can’t see Lucy falling for the man in your picture.” The idea is almost repugnant.

“Make no mistake,” Jane says, “Timothy Carter can be very charming when he wants. After all, he charmed me.”

The comment conjures up a specific image and Cho’s face warms.

“So if any of that is true…” Lisbon sets her pen down. “…then Lucy might be safe until May.”

“I believe so.”

“You’ve given us the possible whys and hows—do you know the where? Do you know of any place Carter might take her?”

“Not at this time, no.”

“No other home, temporary or otherwise?”

“Not that I know of. I don’t even know if his assertion that he works for the Southern Pacific is true. I called the railroad’s office but was told they couldn’t help me.”

None of them speak for a moment and Cho realizes that in the time they have been conversing, the candle has gotten shorter and the restaurant has gotten crowded.

“Those letters you mentioned,” Lisbon finally says. “The ones from Carter—I’d like to read them.”

“Unfortunately, they’re in my trunk and that trunk is still in Barstow.”

“It would have been smart to bring them,” Lisbon says.

“I thought you’d brush me off like all the others,” Jane answered quietly. “I thought I’d have to get what I could from you and then continue the investigation on my own.”

And then Jane twists to face Cho. “You do believe me, don’t you?”

They’re a handspan apart. Jane’s knee is pressed against Cho’s thigh; he can smell Jane’s aftershave, dark and sweet. “Yes,” he says. “I believe you.”

Jane smiles. But it’s a different smile from all the rest; Cho wishes he could escape the fugitive touch and the soft smile but he’s frozen in place.

“Good,” Jane says. “Good.” He turns to face Lisbon again.

Released from the magnetism of Jane’s gaze, Cho has to keep from drawing a long, shaky breath. He looks at Lisbon. She’s watching with a confused frown.

Unsure what to say, feeling a sudden need to re-balance the something that has just tipped, Cho asks, “So, if you think Lucy is in the hands of Timothy Carter, why did you come back here? Wouldn’t he be down south near McFarland?”

“Not likely.”

“Why not?”

“Lucy was the only one that had traveled any distance to consult with me; all the women were murdered within a few miles of where they lived.”

“How did she know about you?” Cho murmurs, half to himself.

But Jane has the answer, of course. “She told me that a friend of hers had seen my show in Woodland back in November.”

“Who’s the friend?” Lisbon asks.

“That I do not know.”

“Would it be worth following up on that?”

“Maybe.”

“All right.” Lisbon closes her notebook. “So, now what?”

“You’re asking my advice, Miss Lisbon?”

“As much as it galls me to say so, yes, I am. If this man has Lucy, if he’s who you say he is, I’d like your thoughts.”

Jane starts to answer and then peers at his watch. He straightens up and wipes his mouth with his napkin. “I’m afraid my thoughts and your retrieval of them will have to wait. I need to meet the lovely Felicia in ten minutes.”

“You’ll never get there in time.” Lisbon puts away her notebook. “The telephone company is near the river.”

“I know.” Jane pats his pocket, as if confirming the envelope with all his evidence is still there. “I’ll just have to make it up to her in the best way I know how.”

Another image appears before Cho can stop it. He looks away because he has no business imagining Jane making love to Felicia Marley.

“I’ll be in touch in the a.m.” Jane gets up and reaches for his hat. “I have an idea as to how to draw Carter out into the open. And,” he leans over with an arch grin, “I would leave now, if I were you. The restaurant is getting busy and Edward probably has a limit on how free he is with the owner’s tables.”

After a shared look, Cho and Lisbon get up and follow Jane. Cho doesn’t know about Lisbon, but he feels as if he’s a child, trailing after a parent.

Outside, night has fallen and it’s a little chilly.

Lisbon gathers her lapels together and shivers. “You better run, Mr. Jane,” she says.

“I will,” Jane says. “And don’t forget: it’s ‘Ruskin’ for the next few days.”

“You’re a lot of work, you know that?”

Jane sticks his hands in his pockets. “Most people enjoy that work.” With a smart grin, he takes off, heading west on J Street.

Lisbon shakes her head. “I guess we’re on our own.”

“Yes.”

As one they turn to go back to the car.

“I need to sleep on this information,” Lisbon says. “I’ll call you in the morning after I’ve let it percolate.”

“Okay.”

They’re crossing McKinley Park when Lisbon speaks next: “I have a question for you.”

The park is dark and deserted; their footsteps sound abnormally loud. “Yes?”

“Were you lying back there when you said you trusted Jane?”

“No, and it’s ‘Ruskin,’ remember?”

Lisbon ignores the reminder. “He’s a professional liar. That’s what he does for a living. How can we trust him? For all we know, the FBI is right—he might be Red John.”

“That seems rhetorical.”

Lisbon thinks about that and then nods. “I guess it is. He’s not the killer.”

“Which means you trust him, too. At least in regards to the case.”

“I guess I do.”

“Why?” Cho’s question is honest. He’s still not sure why he does.

“I haven’t a clue.”

“That’s probably not a good thing.”

“No, it probably isn’t.”

***

Lisbon drops Cho off at his aunt and uncle’s home.

It’s just after seven; the house is dark, outside and in. That means his aunt and uncle are at bingo. His uncle is frugal and thinks that if there’s no one in the house, there’s no reason for any sort of light.

Cho curses that frugality as he makes his way around to the back porch. The paving stones are crooked and he trips twice.

He finds the spare key under the mat, lets himself in, and then sets the key on the kitchen table. For maybe two seconds he considers staying up until his aunt and uncle get home. It would be the polite thing to do. But exhaustion hits like a freight train and he puts away any idea of conversations and explanations. How would he even explain the turn of events, of Red John and Patrick Jane?

Cho goes upstairs. The stairs and floorboards creak and groan. He passes by his aunt’s gallery of family photos, slowing only a little to glance at his Great-grandparents, grandparents, aunts and uncles. Some had been taken in Seoul but most were from Hawaii, San Francisco, and Los Angeles.

The guest room that doubles as a storage area is at the end of the corridor. To make it easier on his aunt, he offered to stay in Lucy’s room but she’d said no. Lucy, she’d insisted, would be home soon and there was no sense in not using the space God had given them.

She’d actually said that, ‘God has given us,’ and Cho thinks about that as he puts his suitcase down and sits on the bed

He doesn’t believe in any kind of god. His parents are Protestants, having converted when they emigrated. For himself, God doesn’t make sense. God was supposed to be benevolent and protective. What kind of god would let a psychopath kidnap his little sister?

It hits him anew, sitting on the sagging mattress in the tiny dark room: Lucy might be in terrible danger and he doesn’t know where she is.

His chest hurts, his stomach aches. Cho presses his hand on his rib cage, as if that will make the dull pain go away. It doesn’t, of course, so he does the next best thing: he stretches out on the bed, fully clothed, and falls asleep.

***

The smell of coffee and bacon wake Cho before the sun does.

He turns over; someone has taken off his shoes and covered him with a quilt. Knowing who that someone has to be, he gets up.

As his trip north isn’t a holiday, he packed lightly. A spare shirt, two pair of socks, a change of underwear, pajamas and his shaving kit. He uses the last item first, his fingers slow and fumbling. He hadn’t slept enough. His night had been restless, full of abbreviated dreams involving Lucy and Jane and—for some reason—Robert, the waiter from the restaurant.

Cho goes downstairs, still thinking of the dreams.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Aunt Min says in English as soon as she sees Cho. She’s at the stove, lifting slices of bacon out of a pan.

“Good morning.” His aunt is the youngest of three sisters and two brothers. Her hair is as black as ever, cut short in a bob. She’s wearing a robe over a housedress. The robe is silky blue with yellow flowers and it shimmers as she moves.

“How did you sleep?”

“Fine,” Cho says. “Where’s Uncle Jin?”

“Out in the garden.”

“Does he need help?”

“Maybe later.” Min sets the plate and a cup of coffee on the table. “For now, eat and then tell me how you are and if you have any information.” She pats the back of what Cho thinks of as ‘his chair’ and sits across from him.

Under his aunt’s watchful gaze, Cho sits and mutters a short, ‘For what we are about to receive…’ prayer.

When he’s done, Min smiles with satisfaction and nods to the food.

He eats, wishing his aunt hadn’t gone to the trouble of a full breakfast. He rarely has more than a piece of toast and a cup of coffee these days. Plus, bacon costs a small fortune. He’ll have to find a way to repay her and Uncle Jin. It will have to be sneaky—offering a cash gift would offend them to high heaven.

“Now,” Min says as soon as Cho has finished, her fingers curved around her coffee cup. “How have you been? Your mother wrote that you got a promotion.”

“I did. They moved me to the day shift.”

Min’s eyes cloud. “It’s such a shame…” she murmurs before shaking off the grey mood. “No matter. You’ll find something you were born to do, Kim; I’m sure of it.”

Cho ignores that. He once thought he had a destiny in law enforcement, but life had proved him wrong. “I do have some news. The private detective I hired tracked down Lucy’s friend.”

Min’s eyes widen. “Miss Marley? The girl who is no better than she should be?”

Cho coughs and laughs at the same time. The words are so clearly his mother’s… “The one and the same. She says she doesn’t know anything but Miss Lisbon and I think she’s lying.”

“So exciting, working with a lady detective,” Min says. “If I were younger, I might join you on the case.”

And that’s the reason he loves his aunt so much. She’s almost fifty-five but she’s youthful and alive. She reads every day. She goes to the movies each Saturday, always alone because his uncle thinks films are a waste of money. She’s fluent in English, French, and Spanish and has a working knowledge of Latin, the latter because she thinks it’s important to understand the roots of the culture they live in. But she also keeps to family traditions because she says it’s just as important not to forget their roots. She dresses in the latest Western fashion, making her own clothes and his uncle’s. In many ways, she couldn’t be less like his mother and it’s still a surprise they grew up in the same household. “So far, it’s not very exciting. I mainly observe.”

“What was Miss Marley lying about?”

“She let it slip that she knows of Lucy’s friend.”

“The gentleman caller?” Min says thoughtfully. “I wish I had been more on the ball. I didn’t even know she was interested in anyone other than Bong Soo.”

Lips twisted at his aunt’s ‘on the ball’ slang, Cho reminds her, “She was never interested in him.”

Min concedes that with a small shrug. “I tried to tell your mother that they were a poor match but she—” She breaks off with a quick, apologetic look Cho’s way. “Never mind. What’s done is done.” Min takes a sip of coffee and then asks, “Did Miss Lisbon say anything else?”

“Very little,” Cho lies easily. Modern sensibilities or no, he’s not going to frighten his aunt with tales of Lucy in the clutches of a fiend. “She has an idea where Lucy might be, though.”

“And that she’s safe from harm?”

“I—” Cho says, only then remembering Jane’s worried expression and the, ‘I hope not.’

“Kim?”

“It’s nothing,” Cho hedges. A simple response is impossible. And for some reason he absolutely, positively does not want to tell her about Patrick Jane. “I was just going to say that Lisbon thinks Lucy is playing hooky in San Francisco with another friend from the telephone company.”

Min’s eyes narrow at the fascicle explanation and Cho ignores the resulting shame. His aunt deserves better than half-truths. Not to mention she always knows when he lies.

Rescue comes in the form of his uncle, cursing loud enough in Korean for them both to hear.

“I better see what is going on,” Min says as she starts to get up.

Cho gestures. “I will. I need to say hello, in any case.”

“All right.” His aunt sits back down. “Go upstairs and change first; you don’t want to get those beautiful trousers dirty. Your uncle’s old clothes are in the closet.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

***

Cho finds an ancient pair of dungarees and an equally ancient work shirt hanging the closet as if they’re as valuable as his good wool suit. He can’t find any shoes or boots, however, and he winces. His shoes are a week old, bought because he’d been told that he can’t be seen in the Taix dining room with his old footwear.

But going barefoot isn’t an option, so he sighs and goes back downstairs. His aunt isn’t in the kitchen; relieved he heads outside.

Jin is in what used to be a corncrib and is now a shed, sorting through his tools.

“Hello, Uncle Jin,” Cho says in Korean.

His uncle doesn’t turn around. “Have you seen my hack saw?”

Long used to his uncle’s abrupt ways, Cho replies, “No. What are you doing?”

“The slugs have gotten into the strawberries again. I’m building a raised bed.”

“Can I help?”

“If you can cut those…” His uncle jerks his thumb towards the wood propped up in the corner. “…with this…” He holds up a saw. “…then yes, you can.”

Cho gets the wood and the saw. “What size do you need them cut to?”

***

It’s simple but pleasant work. The weather is fine and his uncle doesn’t speak other than to give directions.

For all that he’d used to spend every weekend with his aunt and uncle before they had moved north, Cho doesn’t know much about his uncle. He knows that Jin is much older than Min and that he’d studied to be a doctor in Jeolla Provence. But then, unhappy with the growing political strength of China and Russian, he’d emigrated with his brother, first to Hawaii and then to the States.

The story goes that Jin had met the Park sisters at some church function and, after a proper amount of courting, had asked the youngest, Min, to marry him. What Cho had never understood was why had Min said yes? They’re so different in so many ways.

“You’ve done a good job.”

Cho taps the nail into the wood one more time for good measure. “Thank you, uncle.”

“Now for the dirt.”

Cho pushes to his feet and wipes his brow with the back of his hand. It’s warm; he’d taken off the work shirt a while back. “Where’s the shovel?”

“Where do you suppose?”

Sighing internally, Cho starts to cross the yard when movement draws his eye. It’s his aunt; she’s leading two people down the steps.

Surprise stops Cho in his tracks because it’s not just any two people—it’s Lisbon and Jane.

The trio is busy talking, their voices too low to make out any words. Jane says something that makes Min laugh and then he looks straight over Cho, the smile still on his face.

A tangle of emotions fight for dominance. Embarrassment at being caught doing such menial labor and for being half naked to boot. Chagrin and a surprisingly sharp anger because Lisbon should have known better. How dare she bring Jane here? Now he’ll have to explain Jane’s presence to his aunt and uncle. Now he’ll have to explain about Red John…

“Kim?” his aunt calls out. “Miss Lisbon is here with her associate.”

“Yes,” Jane says, coming forward with an outstretched hand. “We didn’t have the chance to meet yesterday. I’m Patrick Jane. I’m Miss Lisbon’s dogsbody.” He gives Cho a cursory squeeze and then turns to Cho’s uncle. “And you must be Mr. Park.”

Jin distrusts Americans in general, but even he can’t disregard Jane’s congeniality. With a scowl and a growled, “Is my nephew paying for you, too?” he shakes Jane’s hand.

Cho mutters, “Uncle,” even though Jin had spoken in Korean.

“Jin,” Min adds, “English, please.”

Jin’s scowl deepens and he says in stilted English, “What have you found?”

Jane gestures to the house. “Your wife offered us some iced tea. Why don’t we get out of the heat and Miss Lisbon can tell you of her progress.”

Jin doesn’t move. Min presses her lips together and jerks her head. Jin sighs and stomps towards the house with Min trailing after.

Cho waits for Jane and Lisbon to follow but Jane glances at Cho, a quick up and down, and then retrieves his shirt, hanging on a branch of the apple tree. With a graceful bow, he gives Cho the shirt.

It a peculiarly strange act, made more so because Jane’s gaze is opaque but intense, as if he’d just given Cho something much more than a piece of old clothing.

Cho frowns, hoping his glare is as black as his uncle’s, and nearly snatches the shirt from Jane. “You better go in. I need to clean up. I’m dirty.”

Jane takes a breath to answer; his gaze flickers towards Lisbon. He curbs whatever it is he’d been about to say and then nods.

“I’m sorry,” Lisbon says as soon as Jane is gone.

“You shouldn’t have brought him here.” Cho pulls the shirt on; the fabric drags against his damp skin.

“I know,” Lisbon admits, “but he insisted. He said he’d just follow me so I might as well.”

“You could have just said no.”

“I realize that.”

“Why is he using his real name?”

“I have no idea.”

“Now we’ll have to explain about Red John.”

“No we won’t.” Lisbon rubs the bridge of her nose. “That jackass has concocted the most ridiculous story but it will work. Your aunt and uncle won’t need to know the sordid details.”

“What about Miss Marley?”

“He has that covered, too.” Lisbon touches his arm; her fingertips are pleasantly cool. “Don’t worry,” she urges. “It will be okay.”

Cho’s not convinced and he says again, this time darkly, “You shouldn’t have brought him here.”

***

A fast trip up the back stairs to his temporary room and then a faster wash leaves Cho feeling less uncomfortable and not quite so angry.

When he gets back downstairs, he finds them in the sitting room. His aunt and uncle are in the wingback chairs; Lisbon and Jane are on the sofa.

“I told your aunt and uncle what’s going on,” Lisbon says before Cho can speak.

“Yes,” Jane adds, leaning back, legs crossed as casually as if he’s in his own house. “We found Lucy’s girlfriend. She gave us information that leads us to believe that Lucy is near San Francisco with another friend. Now that you’re dressed—if not pressed—we can drive to the city and be there by suppertime. It might take us a few days to locate Lucy, but once we do, we’ll notify your parents and you two…” Jane turns to Min. “…my dear Mrs. Park.”

Min smiles. If Cho didn’t know better, he’d call it a simper.

“All right,” he says, drawing Jane’s attention away from his aunt while wondering if it’s possible that Jane is psychic because how had he known that Cho had told Min almost the same thing?

“And don’t you worry about Lucy,” Jane continues. “All young women need to stretch their legs from time to time. She’s safe and sound.”

Cho doesn’t think it’s a good idea to give what might be false hope, but he just asks, “Whose car are we taking?”

“Mine, of course,” Lisbon puts her glass down. “Thank you for the tea.”

“I’ll get my suitcase,” Cho says.

“Lucky for us you didn’t unpack,” Jane says pleasantly.

Another dig at Cho’s wrinkled shirt; he responds with an equally pleasant one of his own, “Lucky for us that Miss Lisbon has a car.”

Jane isn’t fazed. He drinks the last of his tea and agrees, “Yes, lucky.”

***

There’s no fuss about seating arrangements—Jane gets in the back of the Cadillac without a fuss.

There’s also little conversation until they’re on US 50, heading towards the ocean.

“So,” Cho says, turning to speak to both Lisbon and Jane. “San Francisco? Are we really going that far?”

“We might have to,” Jane answers. “We’re starting in Napa, though. From there, who knows?”

“Who are we seeing in Napa?”

“It’s not a who so much as a what.”

“All right, what are we seeing in Napa?”

“A hotel room.”

It’s like that game, Twenty Questions. “And where is this hotel room? And,” he adds before Jane can give a smartass answer, “what is in it?”

“I’m assuming the usual: a bed, a dresser, a bathroom—”

“Jane,” Lisbon warns.

“All right,” Jane gives in. “I got Miss Marley tipsy and she revealed that Lucy met her mystery man last December and that she had plans to meet him again at his hotel in Napa. Lucy wouldn’t say who the man was nor would she say where she had met the man in the first pace. Lucy did tell her that he’s married and that he gave her a single red rose on their second encounter. Apparently, both women thought it was quite the romantic gesture. ‘To die for,’ were Felicia’s exact words.”

Cho winces at the horrible pun.

“Felicia also let slip,” Jane adds, “that she herself is having an affair with her supervisor. His name is Paul. He’s married with three children and has a large house, and a fancy new car. Paul’s affections seem to be wavering, however. Felicia isn’t too happy about that.”

Lisbon glances at Cho. “Maybe that’s why she was so cagey. She didn’t want us meeting her at the telephone company and making her supervisor suspicious enough to end their affair.”

“Maybe.”

“So no other clues as to the identity of Lucy’s admirer?” Lisbon asks Jane.

“Not a one.”

“Did Miss Marley say anything else?”

“Just that she doesn’t understand why Mr. Cho is so worried about Lucy, and that she doesn’t like her job or her parents and that she would love to have someone whisk her away from it all, too. Oh, and that,” Jane adds with a smile in his voice, “May is the best month for weddings.”

Lisbon glances at Cho. By the look on her face, she feels the same way. Poor Miss Marley.

“Sometimes one has to do difficult things to achieve results, Kim,” Jane says, as if hearing Cho’s unspoken rebuke. “And sometimes people get hurt in the process.”

“As long as we’re not talking about physical pain,” Lisbon says. “I’m not going to jail because of you.”

“It won’t come to that. I promise.”

Cho shares another long look with Lisbon and then turns to the window. He’s watching nothing when a dark thought creeps in. “Wait,” he says. “If Lucy met this man in December…” He twists to face Jane once more. “Doesn’t that mean your timeline is off?” He swallows. “Lucy doesn’t have until May, does she?”

Jane’s lips twist and his eyes are bleak. “If this man is Red John, then no, she doesn’t.”

Cho turns back to the window and stares at his own reflection.

***

They arrived in Napa just after two.

Cho has never been to this part of California before. The countryside is beautiful with row after row of grapevines. Napa itself is bigger and busier than he would have thought. Main Street is lined with red and tan buildings; tourists stroll up and down the sidewalks. One street over is the Napa River—he can smell the faint odor of stagnant water.

Lisbon drives slowly up Main. The street dead-ends at a dilapidated mill. Lisbon makes a U-turn and heads back, finally stopping in front of a bank. She puts the car in park. “I hope you have a better plan than just driving around looking for hotels.”

“My dear woman,” Jane says as he sits forward and peers through the windshield, “I always have a plan. Napa has three hotels and two motels. We just need to find the one that takes long-term guests and, voila, we go from there.”

“Wait a minute,” Lisbon says, twisting to look at Jane. “What makes you think he’s a long-term guest?”

Jane raises an eyebrow. “Felicia was drunk but not that drunk. ‘His hotel’ implies familiarity and longevity, don’t you think?”

“I think it implies ownership.”

Jane thinks about that but then shakes his head. “No. No matter if he’s Red John or just a casual acquaintance, he would never invite Lucy to his own apartment or home.” Jane holds up his own ringless hand. “He’s married, remember?”

 “And if they all take long-term guests?”

“It’s doubtful but if so, we’ll have to work for our supper. You are a investigator, are you not?”

“Jane—”

“And by the way, it’s back to Ruskin. Jane was for Kim’s relatives.” Jane opens the car door. “And speaking of supper, let’s see what the town has to offer.”

He’s out of the car before Cho can stop him, before he can say, ‘Stop calling me ‘Kim.’

“Come on,” Lisbon says with a sigh as she turns the engine off. “We better catch up with him in case he does something stupid and gets us run out of town.”

***

After a meal that Cho forgets as soon as he’s eaten it, they began their investigation. It’s short-lived because there is, indeed, only one hotel that takes long-term guests. By the time Jane has coaxed the bellhop out of the information, they have a name and room number of a Mr. Boatwright. Boatwright, according to the bellhop, is a chef at a vineyard up north and the only patron that has a permanent room. Sometimes when he works late, he stays at the hotel rather than go home; his wife is sickly and doesn’t sleep well.

Jane smiles at that last bit and nudges Cho’s arm with his elbow.

Cho frowns. Yes, the bellhop just confirmed that Boatright is married but that’s no reason to go around nudging other people’s arms. It’s indiscreet and over the top; he’s still chewing on that when they troop upstairs to room twenty-two.

Jane knocks on the door. There’s no answer. As far as Cho can hear, there’s no movement from inside.

“We can park across the street and wait,” Lisbon says.

“Why should we? Time might be of the essence. If Boatright has a regular job, then he can’t be our killer. But, we should find out what his room can tell us.” Jane gets out a slim piece of metal. Before Cho or Lisbon can object, he’s unlocked the door.

“Jane!” Lisbon hisses.

Jane ignores her and slips into the room.

“You better stay here,” Lisbon says to Cho. “I don’t want you mixed up with anything illegal.”

“I doubt I’ll be less at fault if I stand in the hallway. An accomplice is an accomplice.”

“Yes, but—”

“Excuse me?” Jane says in an exaggerated whisper. “We don’t have all day.”

Cho takes a deep breath and follows.

It’s a simple set of rooms. They’re much nicer and brighter than his efficiency apartment, but that wouldn’t be hard. There are few personal effects around save for a magazine on the table by the window. A faint odor hangs in the air; it takes Cho a moment to recognize the scent of bleach.

“You take the sitting room and the kitchenette,” Jane tells Lisbon. “We’ll take the bedroom.”

“What are we looking for?” Cho asks. The bedroom is the same as the sitting room—clean but plain to the point of being bare. There are no books on the nightstand, no slippers by the bed.

“The usual.” Jane opens the closet door.

“Which is?”

“You should know,” Jane says, his voice muffled.

“Anything out of place, anything that seems odd,” Cho mutters as he squats to look under the bed. Nothing. “Everything about this place seems odd. What are you doing?”

“Going through Boatwright’s pockets, and you’re right, it is spartan. Maybe he really is just sleeping here and not canoodling with sweet young things.”

“‘Canoodling?’” Cho asks with a reluctant grin. He goes to the nightstand.

“Would you like me to use another verb?”

“Please don’t.” He opens the nightstand drawer. “Huh.”

“What is it?”

“Just some maps.” Cho picks them up. They’re all California road maps, the kind given out by insurance companies. “There’s a lot of them.”

“Let me see.”

Cho splits the pile in half and gives one to Jane. He sits on the bed and unfolds the first map. It’s dated 1932, printed by the Sonoma County Insurance Group. Someone had marked a route in red pencil. The route goes from Roseland to Napa Valley.

Jane had sat, too. “This one is from Glenn County. Someone has highlighted the route from Willows to Napa.”

“Are there any from the towns where Red John  

Jane is sitting too close but Cho tamps down the urge to move away. Instead, he opens the Lake County map. It’s from 1935 and like the other, a route is marked from Middletown to Napa, this time in black pencil. “So Boatwright is planning trips for himself and his wife?”

“Or with his lady friends.” Jane taps his thumb on the edge of the map. “There’s something here an—”

“What did you find?” Lisbon interrupts, coming into the room with a bottle.

“Something odd,” Jane says before Cho can. “What have you got there?”

Lisbon holds the bottle up. “Bleach, and a lot of it. I found three full bottles under the sink and another empty one in the bin. Boatwright must be a fanatic when it comes to cleanliness.”

Jane gets up so fast the bedsprings bounce. He hurries out of the room, tossing the Glenn County map on the bed.

“What is it?” Lisbon says, trailing after. “Jane?”

Cho and Lisbon find Jane crouched in front of the sink doors.

“What is it?”

“Bleach is used for many things, including cleaning up blood.” Jane gets out his fountain pen—the one he’d pilfered from the FBI—and moves a bar of dish soap out of the way. “Ah, ha,” he murmurs.

Lisbon bends over. “Ah, ha, what?”

“I think that’s a smear of blood.”

Lisbon bends closer. “Are you sure?”

Jane makes way so Lisbon can look.

“All right,” she says, apparently deciding it is blood, “it’s time for us to go.”

Jane doesn’t move.

Lisbon grabs him by the shoulder and tugs. “Jane, if you don’t—”

“What’s going on here?”

They all jerk up, turning so fast they get tangled with each other.

There’s a man standing in the hall doorway. He’s about twenty years Cho’s senior, balding, with a handlebar mustache. He’s wearing a uniform: blue wool, a Sam Browne belt, and a silver badge. Behind him, still in the hall, is the bellhop. He peers anxiously over the officer’s shoulder.

“I—” Lisbon flounders only to be interrupted by Jane.

“We’re investigating a possible kidnapping,” Jane says smoothly. “My colleague, Miss Theresa Lisbon is a private detective and has been hired by this man…” Jane gestures to Cho. “To find his sister, Miss Lucy Cho.”

The officer steps into the room. “And you are?”

“Jane. Patrick Jane.”

McAllister looks Jane up and down. “Like the girl?”

“Exactly.”

“Well…” The officer scans the room as if searching for more strangers. “I was told you’re friends of Mr. Boatwright and now you say you’re investigating him.”

“We’re not sure Mr. Boatright is involved.”

“He’s a good man. I’ve known him a long time.”

Jane tips his head and gives the officer a disarming smile. “We just want to ask him some questions. That’s not illegal, is it?”

The officer’s jaw firms. “No, it’s not, but trespassing is.” He motions them over, his fancy gold signet ring flashing in the afternoon sun. “Come on. We’ll settle this at the station.”

Lisbon makes a soft sound under her breath; Cho doesn’t have to wonder what she’s thinking.

Jane’s expression, however, doesn’t change and Cho feels a slight tug of alarm. Jane better not run. After a pause no longer than a breath, Jane smiles again and closes the sink door with his shoe. “That’s a grand idea. Maybe you can help us with our investigation.”

“Maybe.”

Cho touches Lisbon’s arm, letting her proceed him. As they cross the short distance, Lisbon asks, “Can we get your name, sir?”

The officer holds the door open for them. “My name is McAllister. Sheriff Thomas McAllister.”

To be continued