Dark Rivers of the Heart

attracted-or being an object of desire-to a man with round cheeks, a soft chin, and ten extra pounds on his waist. He had met with that prejudice before: looksism. Many women, brainwashed by a consumer culture that sold the wrong values, were interested only in men like those who appeared in advertisements for Marlboro or Calvin Klein. They could not understand that a man with the merry face of a favorite uncle might be kinder, wiser, more compassionate, and a better lover than a hunk who spent too much time at the gym. How sad to think that Melissa might be that shallow.
        How very sad.
        "Can I help you with anything else?" she asked.
        "No, this is fine. This is a lot. We'll nail him with this."
        She nodded.
        "I have to get down to the print lab, see if they got anything off that flashlight or bathroom window."
        "Yes, of course," she said awkwardly.
        He indulged in one last look at her perfect mouth, sighed, and said,
        "See you later."
        After he had stepped out of her office, closed the door behind him, and crossed two-thirds of the long computer lab, he looked back, half hoping that she would be staring wistfully after him. Instead, she was sitting at her desk again, holding a compact in one hand, examining her mouth in that small mirror.
        China Dream was a West Hollywood restaurant in a quaint three-story brick building, in an area of trendy shops. Spencer parked a block away, left Rocky in the truck again, and walked back.
        The air was pleasantly warm. The breeze was refreshing. It was one of those days when the struggles of life seemed worth waging.
        The restaurant was not yet open for lunch. Nevertheless, the door was unlocked, and he went inside.
        The China Dream indulged in none of the decor common to many Chinese restaurants: no dragons or loo dogs, no brass ideograms on the walls. It was starkly modern, pearl gray and black, with white linen on the thirty to forty tables. The only Chinese art object was a life-size, carvedwood statue of a gentle-faced, robed woman holding what appeared to be an inverted bottle or a gourd; it was standing just inside the door.

    Two Asian men in their twenties were arranging flatware and wine glasses. A third man, Asian but a decade older than his coworkers, was rapidly folding white cloth napkins into fanciful, peaked shapes.
        His hands were as dexterous as those of a magician. All three men wore black shoes, black slacks, white shirts, and black ties.
        Smiling, the oldest approached Spencer. "Sorry, sir. We don't open for lunch until eleven-thirty."
        He had a mellow voice and only a faint accent.
        "I'm here to see Louis Lee, if I may," Spencer said.
        "Do you have an appointment, sir?"
        "No, I'm afraid not."
        "Can you please tell me what you wish to discuss with him?"
        "A tenant who lives in one of his rental properties."
        The man nodded. "May I assume this would be His. Valerie Keene?"
        The soft voice, smile, and unfailing politeness combined to project an image of humility, which was like a veil that made it more difficult to see, until now, that the napkin folder was also quite intelligent and observant.
        "Yes," Spencer said. "My name's Spencer Grant. I'm a… I'm a friend of Valerie's. I'm worried about her."
        From a pocket of his trousers, the man withdrew an object about the size-but less than the thickness-of a deck of cards. It was hinged at one end; unfolded, it proved to be the smallest cellular telephone that Spencer had ever seen.
        Aware of Spencer's interest, the man said, "Made in Korea."
        "Very james Bond."
        "Mr. Lee has just begun to import them."
        "I thought he was a restaurateur."
        "Yes, sir. But he is many things." The napkin folder pushed a single button, waited while the seven-digit programmed number was transmitted, and then surprised Spencer again by speaking in neither English nor Chinese, but in French, to the person on the other end.
        Collapsing the phone and tucking it into his pocket, the napkin folder said, "Mr. Lee will see you, sir. This way, please."
        Spencer followed him among the tables, to the right rear corner of the front room, through a swinging door with a round window in the center, into clouds of appetizing aromas: garlic, onions, ginger, hot peanut oil, mushroom soup, roasting