“I see. And this . . . rapport led him to ask you a few months ago to investigate his whore’s death?”

Brazuca keeps his expression neutral. “Yes.”

“Am I correct in assuming this someone you were searching for is in connection to this?”

“Yes.”

“Who is this person?”

“His name is David Tao, but most people know him from a single name he went by: Dao,” I say. “He once worked for Ray Zhang’s family. Now he works for Michael Acosta. Acosta’s company has a mine on Lombok, and Dao was head of security there.”

“Why did Bernard want to find him?”

Brazuca interrupts before I can speak. “He thought Dao knew something about the criminal organization involved in Clementine’s death. That’s the woman who died.”

Maybe Edison Lam wants to call her a whore again, but he doesn’t. He’s excellent at reading the room. His first use of the vulgarity was to shock us, get us to reveal something. To use it again would potentially alienate us. My respect for him grows. I can see why his son hated him so much. What would it be like to grow up with a billionaire father who outshone you in every way?

There are a series of three short barks from Whisper, still locked in the bathroom. If she’s unhappy with this situation, she should join the club. Nobody in this room wants to be here, with the exception of Mr. Lam.

“I’d like to let the dog out,” I say.

The bodyguard, a tougher version of Ivan, with deep blue eyes, moves to block the bathroom door. “Not right now.” I can’t quite figure out his accent, but it intrigues me.

With a slight shake of his head Brazuca tells me to let it go. “Is there anything else you need to know?” Brazuca asks.

It takes a long time for Mr. Lam to respond. “Did Bernard find what he was looking for? Did this David Tao give him the information he wanted so badly?”

“We don’t know,” Brazuca says.

“Baby, Bernard is dead and his dad is just trying to get some closure. I think you can bend confidentiality this once,” I say to Brazuca, who looks shocked at being called a term of endearment. I turn to Mr. Lam. “Dao was at the hotel the day your son died, but they met privately. Jon wasn’t allowed to go to the meeting.”

“Where were you instead?” he says to Brazuca.

“Nearby. Waiting to be called in, just in case.”

Mr. Lam looks at me. “And you?”

“I went for an early-morning ride, before it got too hot.”

“Do you have any reason to believe that Dao had a hand in my son’s death?” asks Bernard Lam’s father.

“He would be a fool to cross someone as powerful as Bernard and, by extension, you.”