“Hold on,” Pike said to Cao, and swallowed what was left in his glass. Shan could smell the strong liquor from several feet away, an acrid Japanese whiskey. “Inspector Shan isn’t here to arrest anyone. He wants justice for the professor just like you do,” he added, then turned to Shan. “I wasn’t exactly shocked when Cao led me back here,” the American said, and reached into a pocket to extract a photo. It showed a blond woman wearing a broad smile as she listened to an older Chinese man who was pointing to a statue of diety on the steps of the Potala. “The professor and my daughter,” Pike explained. “I had been wondering who the photographer was until I met Cao.” He nodded at the Chinese student “There’s still a lot he hasn’t told us, but we are making progress,” he said, then poured another glass and saluted Cao with it.

Tink, gazing at Pike with a worried expression, turned to Shan. “We had the same idea. Cao knew the car well,” she said as she lifted a steaming kettle from the stove and filled a teapot.

Shan accepted a cup of the green tea and sat across from Pike, whose dark expression was beginning to worry him as well.

“There’s a big police lot south of the city,” Tink continued, “an impoundment lot where they take cars that are towed. I convinced a friend to park her car illegally. We waited a couple hours after the tow truck came and went to claim it. I waited on the street while she and Cao went in.”

Cao sat at the table with his steaming cup. “I drove the professor in it many times,” he said in a tight voice. “I would know it anywhere. It had a scrape on the right side where I drove too close to a boulder two months ago. In the back seat were two of our hard hats with the university emblem. The only damage was a dented fender where it had been rammed. Black paint had rubbed onto the fender.”

“Black,” Tink said, “like the color of knob cars. They did it, just to show it was damaged.”

Cao spoke in a forlorn whisper now. “It didn’t tumble down a mountain slope. It didn’t explode in flames. They lied. They all lied.”

Pike was looking at Shan now. He showed no effects of the alcohol. His eyes no longer burned with rage. They were more like the cold, calculating eyes of a predator beginning a hunt. Until now he had only suspicions of foul play—even the shipment of animal ashes might have been a mistake, however unlikely—but now he had proof.

“Give me some time,” Shan said to the American. “These are things of my world, not yours.”

“Things of your world,” Pike repeated, making it sound like an accusation.