Tom Stratton took a deep breath. He felt clammy.

The next two pictures, taken from different angles, were also of Broom.

"The next one," Beckley said, watching closely. "That's the one you're interested in."

Stratton looked at the photograph and nearly gagged. Through the din of his own heart pounding he barely heard Beckley shouting for someone to bring a glass of water.

The pictures slipped from Stratton's hand and drifted to the floor… Broom lying by the road, Broom face-front, Broom from the waist up…

And Linda Greer.

Stratton covered his eyes and moaned. His face burned.

Beckley stood at Stratton's side, a hand on his shoulder. "I'm very sorry," the cop said. "Have some water. You'll feel better."

Stratton scooped the photographs from the floor and, without looking, handed them to Beckley.

"Mr. Stratton, can I ask your friend's name?"

"That wasn't him," Stratton croaked.

"Him?" Beckley was bewildered. "But just now-"

"My friend is a Chinese man. Wang is his name."

"Judging by your reaction to that photo, I thought for sure that the girl was the one-"

"No. And I'm sorry I frightened you."

"Well, it was a pretty goddamn frightening picture," Beckley said. "I'm sorry you had to see it. Still, it's better to know one way or another. Did you recognize the girl?"

"Never saw her before." Stratton drank some water. "You say it was murder?"

"Lover's quarrel, the way I figure it. The girl was a one-nighter, a fiancee, a hooker-we'll nail it down eventually. She got it first, back of the skull, two rounds. Then Broom aced himself, once in the right temple. The gun was a cheap thirty-eight. We found it on the front seat between them."

Beckley reached into the same drawer that held the photographs. He slid a piece of notebook paper across the desk toward Stratton. "We found this in a briefcase that was tossed in some bushes near the car."

The suicide note had been written meticulously in black ink, each letter capitalized:

"DARLING I AM SORRY, I COULD NOT ALLOW YOU TO LEAVE ME. THIS WAY IS BEST."

One glance and Stratton knew who had written it. I could not allow you to leave me. Much too clumsy for a fop like Harold Broom.

"What about the fire?" Stratton asked.

"An accident. Here's what I figure: Broom pulls off the highway in a passion.

Takes out his gun, plugs the girl, writes his farewell note, then checks himself out. Bang. Leaves the engine running and the goddamn catalytic converter overheats. Catches fire. The whole thing goes up in blazes. That's Detroit for you."

Stratton said, "I'd better go now."

"You knew this Broom character?"

"I met him only once or twice."

"A real asshole, right?"

Stratton shrugged. "I couldn't say." Suddenly he was in the line of Beckley's fire: time to go.

"What about your friend, the Chinaman?"

"I… I guess he's all right."

"I'd really like to talk to him," Beckley said, "your friend, the Chinaman. I'd like to keep it nice and friendly, too. Subpoenas are such a pain in the ass."

"I understand," Stratton said. "When I talk to him, I'll be sure to have him call you."

"Right away." Beckley tugged at his chin. "And you've got no idea about the dead girl?"

"No," Stratton replied. "I'm sorry."

I am sorry.

Beckley led him back through a maze of dingy halls in the police station. As he reached the front desk, Beckley realized he was walking alone. He backtracked and found Stratton at the door to the property room. Staring.

"It was in the car," Beckley explained. "Wrapped up in the trunk. Didn't even get singed."

Rigidly Stratton approached the Chinese soldier who stood noble and poised, an unlikely centerpiece amid the flotsam of crime-pistols, blackjacks, bags of grass and pills, helmets, stereo speakers, radios, jewelry, shotguns, crowbars.

Each item, Stratton noted, was carefully marked.

The ancient Chinese warrior, too, wore a blue tag around its neck, an incongruous paper medallion.

"What do you think?" Beckley said.

Stratton was overwhelmed. He couldn't take his eyes off the imperial soldier.

"Well, I'll tell you what I think," the cop said after a few moments. "I think it's the damnedest-looking lawn jockey I ever saw."

CHAPTER 26

Stratton spent the night in Wheeling. He slept turbulently, racked by old dreams and new grief.

First David, and now Linda.

He tried to convince himself that it wasn't his fault. They had argued under the oaks at Arlington: Stratton for vengeance, Linda for patience. Wang Bin was worth more alive than dead, she had said. "He's an encyclopedia, Tom. Do you know what he could do for us?"

"Do you know," Stratton had countered, "what he's already done?"

But she had been determined, and Stratton had underestimated her.

Now she was dead, and Wang Bin was dust in the wind, a clever phantom. Stratton was sure he'd already grabbed the money, and with the money came boundless freedom-comfort, respectability, anonymity. That's the way it worked in America.

That's what the deputy minister had counted on. In his mind's eye, Stratton pictured the cagey old fellow in his new life-where? San Francisco, maybe, or even New York; an investor, perhaps, or the owner of a small neighborhood business. Maybe something more ambitious: his own museum.

Stratton was desolate in his failure. Without clues, without even a scent of the trail, he had nowhere to go.

Nowhere but home, back to doing what he should have been doing all along. And before that, a detour. A couple of hours was all he needed, a moment really. A chance to say goodbye to the man who had meant so much to him, and whose murder he had been unable to prevent. A taste of better times, something enduring and warm for a lifetime of cold dreams.

Stratton got an early start and reached Pittsville by noon. The moment he passed the city limit sign he pulled his foot from the accelerator, a vestigial reflex from his days as a student. Speed trap or not, the town was still gorgeous.

It was green and cool and hilly, a sleepy old friend. Stratton wished he had never left.

He stopped for lunch at the village sundry, not far from St. Edward's campus.

The counter lady, a grand old bird with snowy hair and antique glasses, remembered him instantly and lectured him on his lousy eating habits. Stratton cheered up.

The campus had changed little, and why should it have? The enrollment stayed constant, the endowments generous but not extravagant. Ivy still climbed the red-brick bell tower, and the bells still rang off key. The narrow roads were as pocked as ever, and the college gymnasium-now called an Amphidome-still looked like a B-52 hangar.

Stratton discovered he was in no hurry. He was home. He allowed himself to be led by sights and sounds. On the steps of the cafeteria, a shaggy folksinger strummed a twelve-string and sang-Stratton couldn't believe it-Dylan. Stratton dropped a dollar into the kid's guitar case and strolled to the post office to read the campus bulletin board. It was another St. Edward's tradition.

"Roommate wanted: Any sex, any size. Must have money."

"Need Melville term paper within ten days. Will pay big bucks, plus bonus for bibliography. Reply confidential."

"I want my Yamaha handlebars back. $200 firm. No questions."

Stratton shook his head. Nothing had changed.

"You lookin' for work, young man?" came a gruff voice from behind. " 'Cause we sure don't need any more liberal agitators on this campus!"