The bemused girlfriend scurried back into the crowd and Siri and Daeng performed their own version of a high five. Of course, Civilai would haunt them all for eternity if there was no booze at the wake.

Across town the fireworks had begun, marking the last leg of the journalist’s visit and the end of the second biggest nothing. After an arduous ceremony at the stadium, seemingly endless speeches and an embarrassing display of military might, the guests would have been enjoying the last of the freebees. Those that could be bothered would have read the Xerox of Civilai’s posthumous speech Siri had delivered to their hotels that afternoon. At least there would be one small belt of honesty for them to consider on their journeys home.

The firework show was limp compared to what they had seen at the Olympics, but the timing was perfect. Civilai’s journey to Nirvana or heaven, whichever he best qualified for, was accompanied by whooshes and bangs and one or two “ooh” moments. As predicted, the whole thing was over in thirty minutes. Siri had brought a pack of sparklers and they caught the last flames of the pyre and waved them as Siri and Daeng sang Civilai’s bawdy Lao version of “La Marseillaise.” Siri had marshmallows and wooden skewers in his shoulder bag but decided at the last minute that only he and Civilai would see the funny side of that.

Daeng announced that everyone was invited back to the restaurant to drink a toast to their old friend. That afternoon, Madam Nong had driven to Daeng’s in Civilai’s yellow Citroën jam-packed with her husband’s leftover bottles, so there was plenty to drink that night. The temple was only four blocks from the restaurant so very few of the guests refused the invitation. One of those apologizing was Cindy. She approached Siri with a large brown envelope under her arm. Ugly sniffed at her leg. She was clearly one of the police department’s favorite suspects for the killings but Siri felt no fear. It was as if Civilai’s death had made him not invincible but indifferent to attempts on his life.

“Dr. Siri,” she said. Already she was slurring. “You asked me if I could find you information on the downed pilot. I was able to pull this file after the parade. It seems to me there are a lot of inquiries going on about the . . . I don’t know, about the accidents? The journalists and now Civilai. You know? Perhaps if you could confide in me what you’re looking for exactly, I could help. I have resources.”

“So it seems,” said Siri, holding up the envelope. “Perhaps after I’ve looked through this I’ll have requests. Are you not going to join us for the wake?”

“I’m obliged to attend the closing ceremony, however briefly,” she said. “Then I have to pack.”

“Where are you going?”