He turned and walked through the grand archway into the Central Plaza. He glanced around the deserted courtyard—the tiled roofs with their upturned corners, the goldenrod walls with scarlet trim, the English signs in kitschy Chinese lettering. This little neighborhood was purely for the tourists. He hadn’t been here for years, but little had changed that he could see. The wrought-iron benches—painted glossy crimson, like nail polish—were all empty, baking in the sun. No sightseer with any sense would be outside on a day like this. The once-red paper lanterns, strung along dipping wires that crisscrossed overhead, had long ago faded to pink. Their round shadows swept like stepping stones across the sizzling concrete. The wishing well was tucked behind a shop on the courtyard’s northwest corner. When it came into sight, the lieutenant was already there, waiting.

Keegan slowed. Moore watched him approach across the deserted quad. The man’s face was drawn and neutral. He stood in the full sun, leaning back against the wishing well’s iron railing. Even from a distance, he looked tired—as if, for once, he hadn’t gotten his eight hours. Despite the ruthless sun, Moore wasn’t wearing his Panama hat. No tie or jacket, either. He wore a plain white shirt, open at the collar, sleeves rolled up above his elbows. Maybe the other outfit was all for show, hung up in the closet when the cameras were packed away. Or maybe he just didn’t want to be recognized today, as the local celebrity he was—but then a tall black man wasn’t likely to go unnoticed in this neighborhood.

When Keegan neared him, Moore turned his back and faced the fountain. He gripped the iron rail with his broad brown hands and scowled down at the running waters.

Keegan took his place beside him, leaning his elbows on the warm iron railing.

Keegan’s feet ached, and the heat radiating up through the soles of his shoes was anything but soothing. His back had been thrumming with a dull pain since he’d climbed out of his car. His shirt clung across his shoulders now and heat prickled around the collar. Keegan yawned in the smothering warmth and looked down at the running waters, wishing he was close enough to feel their spray.

The wishing well wasn’t really a well, and it wasn’t a fountain. It was more an ivy-draped Himalayan mountainscape, dotted with fake trees and gold-painted Buddhas. Water ran in bright rivulets around stones and gathered in glimmering, coin-dotted pools. Here and there, a sign above a brimming tin bowl promised HAPPINESS or FORTUNE or PROSPERITY to those with loose change whose aim was true. The sun reflected hard off the glimmering water.