Blood Debt

significantly better than it looked. "But double it for me."
    "They have a couple of brands of Chinese beer, if you're interested."
    "I don't drink."
    "Isn't that unusual for a police officer? I'd always heard you were a hard drinking bunch."
    "Some of us are." The waiter set down a stainless-steel pot of green tea. "Some of us have other ways to take the edge off."
    He watched, mesmerized as her brows lifted, like the wings of a slender, black bird. "And your way, Detective?"
    "I fight with a friend."
    She blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
    "I have screaming fights with a friend."
    "Who screams back?"
    He grinned, beginning to relax. "Oh, yeah. It's very cathartic."
    Removing the paper sleeve from his chopsticks, he broke them apart.
    "It just occurred to me, you haven't told me your name."
    Her cheeks darkened. "Oh. I'm so sorry. Eve Seto."
    "No need to be embarrassed. After all, you only came to lunch with me because the old men in the clinic said you wouldn't."
    "Was it that obvious?"
    Celluci waited until the waiter set down the plate of spring rolls and a shallow dish of black bean sauce, then he shrugged. "I'm the only male in my generation and I have a ninety-three-year-old grandmother. Trust me. I know the power of age."
    Dr. Seto stared at him for a moment, then she covered her mouth with her hand and laughed.
    Spring roll halfway to the sauce, Celluci suddenly found it difficult to breathe. It wasn't a sexual response, exactly, it was more that her beauty elicited one hundred percent of his attention, leaving no room for such mundane concerns as inhaling and exhaling. After a moment, he forced himself to dunk, chew, and swallow, finding a certain equilibrium in the familiar food.
    As far as gathering information went, lunch was a total disaster. Dr.
    Seto seemed both surprised and relieved by the distinctly light tone of the conversation.
    Walking back to the clinic, out of inanities to discuss, Celluci turned gratefully as the doctor shaded her eyes with one hand, gestured across the street with the other, and murmured, "I wonder what's going on over there?"
    Over there, at the Chinese Cultural Center, a bright yellow cable van had pulled up onto the broad walkway and was in the process of disgorging piles of electrical equipment.
    "It's like watching clowns get out of that little car at the circus,"
    Celluci said as another stack of indistinguishable black boxes was balanced precariously on top of the pile. Dropping his armload of cables, a tall thin man with a ponytail straightened the stack at the last possible instant and began a spirited argument with someone still in the van—an argument that got cut off before it really began when Patricia Chou stormed out of the building.
    Seconds later, cables were once again being laid and equipment continued to be unloaded. Dr. Seto looked intrigued. "I wonder what she said."
    "You know Ms. Chou?" Something in her voice suggested she did.
    The doctor nodded. "She did a story on my clinic, two, maybe three, months ago. Overall, a favorable story but a little like being operated on without anesthetic." Her tone grew speculative as they moved away from the Center. "I'm surprised you know her, though. Didn't you tell me you've only been in Vancouver for a couple of days?"
    "I don't exactly know her. I did see her interview with Ronald Swanson…"
    "Would that be the Ronald Swanson who's in real estate?"
    All at once, Celluci remembered why he'd gone to the clinic in the first place. Why he'd invited Dr. Seto out for lunch. "That's the one.
    Do you know him?"
    "He's not a friend, if that's what you mean, but we've met. His company donated the computers we use in the clinic, and there're a number of volunteer organizations around the city that depend on his generosity. He works tirelessly for the transplant society."

    "So I gathered from the interview." Then, before she could change the subject, he added, "I find the whole thing amazing—that you could take an organ out of one person, sew it into another, and save a life."
    "It's not quite that easy, I'm afraid." She pressed the walk button and they waited while the light changed. Then they waited a moment longer as a mid-seventies orange truck ran the yellow.
    "Is it something you've done?" Celluci prodded, stepping off the curb.
    "Detective, think about it. If I were a transplant surgeon, would I be practicing street-front medicine?"
    "No. I suppose not."
    "You can be certain of it."
    "I'd heard that kidney