“I asked him and he denied it. Chet hates Gumboc.” I took a sip of the whiskey, considering. “Maybe Chet’s in with Basilang and Basilang is up to something. José Martin has yet to connect the dots.”

“Shady business deal? A resort?”

“That’s what I said. And José Martin says no. There are no building permits and there’s no money to track.”

“Maybe it’s Chinese money.”

Which would have made sense. Gumboc had a lot of deals going with the Chinese, who had cash to spare and apparent generosity, but of course China would get it all and more in the end with concessions on territory in the South China Sea. Chinese investment was a short-term solution to problems, but a lot of these short-term solutions made great sums of money for Filipinos who happened to be connected to the projects. There was still a lot of rebuilding that needed to be done in Baguio but also fear that all the construction would be quickly erased as soon as another earthquake occurred. “Wouldn’t José Martin have figured that out by now, if that were the case? He thinks it’s something more interesting.”

“And it has to do with Baguio?” Inchoy pursed his mouth, a sign of real thought. “What is there in Baguio? Igorots? Strawberry jam? Peanut brittle? Horseback riding?”

“You forgot walis.”

“And ube jam.” Inchoy poured himself another finger of whiskey. He gave me an appraising look. “You don’t think they’re going after Yamashita’s gold?” General Yamashita was believed to have buried treasure around Baguio in the final days of World War II.

“I don’t think it’s the gold,” I said. “That doesn’t sound like Chet. Or Gumboc.” But I had lost Inchoy to his thoughts. His face had grown still and he was swirling his whiskey with a disquieting intensity. “Inchoy,” I said. “We promised to stay cheerful. We promised to do that for Bibo.”

“For Bibo? Yes, of course, stay cheerful for Bibo. Easier for you. You didn’t kill her.”

“What, and you did?”

“Oh, no. I didn’t kill Bibo.” Inchoy chuckled sarcastically. “That was Gumboc and his drug policy.” He strung out drug policy with chilling sarcasm.

“Inchoy, it was an EJK. No one is disputing that.”

He shook his head. “Do you know what Bibo wanted?” Inchoy raised his eyes to me. “She wanted to be my wife, to live with me all the time. To be recognized. She wanted to clean house and cook and be there to make my pipe in the evening. It wasn’t much to want, but I didn’t give it to her. And you know why?”

“Your mother.”