For the last two hours Li had been locked in conference with the detectives working on the three murders. A pall of depression and cigarette smoke hung over the meeting. From all the interviews, statements, witness accounts, not a single shred of evidence had emerged to shed any light whatsoever on any of the murders. Detectives had been circulating in Ritan Park since six that morning, talking to everyone who came through the gates, trying to jog memories, elicit some—any—piece of information, no matter how small. Still nothing. They knew who all three victims were, but had established no motives for their killings, and no link between them, except for a very tenuous drugs connection between Chao Heng and Mao Mao. But, as yet, they had been unable to determine that the two men even knew one another.

Detective Wu suggested they pull in The Needle for questioning. He knew that Li was interested in The Needle and had asked for the file. But he was not expecting the laughter that came from around the table, and was embarrassed by it. “What the hell’s funny about that?” he demanded.

“The Needle’s not going to tell us anything,” Detective Zhao said, indignation overcoming his group shyness. “Because if he confessed to knowing anything about Chao Heng’s habit or Mao Mao’s drugs connection, he’d be implicating himself in the drugs scene.”

“And since we’ve been unable to do that in the last five years,” Detective Qian added, “he’s not likely to hand it to us on a plate now, is he?”

“Especially when we’ve got nothing on him,” said Zhao. “No leverage.”

Wu looked at Li, chastened by the derision of his colleagues. Fighting to recover face, he said, “I just thought, since the boss had asked for the file . . .” He waited for Li to bail him out.

“I agree with the consensus,” Li said. “There would be little point in bringing The Needle here. But if Mohammed won’t go to the mountain . . .” He smiled at the consternation around the table. Muslim mythology had not been on the school curriculum, and none of them had Old Yifu for an uncle. “I understand he hangs out at the Hard Rock Café during the day, that it’s his . . . unofficial office.”

“You’re going to see him?” Qian asked, surprised.

Li nodded. “If he could be persuaded to talk to us—off the record . . . it could save us a lot of time and effort.”

“Why would he talk to us off the record?” Wu asked.

“Because I ask him to,” Li said evenly.