The Stone Monkey

alibi or explanation. The judge would then tear apart the man’s story until the suspect delivered the all-important goal of criminal investigation in China: not a jury verdict, but a confession, followed by the equally important vow of contrition. Anything that could elicit a confession was fair—even torture (though in Judge Dee’s day if you tortured a suspect and it later turned out that he was innocent the judge himself would be tortured and put to death).
    Sonny Li was the namesake of a great American gangster, Sonny Corleone, son of the Godfather Vito Corleone. He was a senior officer and detective in the First Prefecture, People’s Public Security Bureau, Liu Guoyuan, Fujian Province, a world traveler and the friend of loaban Lincoln Rhyme. Li would extract the Ghost’s other addresses from the feng shui expert no matter what it took.
    He continued along the street, past the bustling crowds, the fish markets in front of which were baskets of scrabbling blue crabs and bins of ice containing clams and fish—some of them sliced open, their tiny black hearts still beating.
    He came to the Lucky Hope Shop, a small place but packed with merchandise: jars of twisted ginseng root, packs of dried cuttlefish, Hello Kitty toys and candies for children, noodles and spices, dusty bags of rice, bins of melon seeds, star noodles, tea for the liver and kidney, dried croaker, oyster sauce, lotus, jelly and gums, frozen tea buns and packs of tripe.
    In the back he found a man sitting at a desk, smoking, reading a Chinese-language newspaper. The office was, as Sonny Li had expected, perfectly arranged: convex mirrors to trap the bad energy, a large translucent jade dragon (better than wood or ceramic) and—important for successful business—a small aquarium against what would be the north wall. In it swam black fish.
    “You are Zhou?”
    “Yes, that’s right.”
    Li said, “I’m honored to meet you, sir. I was at the apartment of a friend at 508 Patrick Henry Street. I believe you arranged it.”
    Zhou’s eyes narrowed a millimeter then he nodded cautiously. “A friend.”
    “That’s right, sir. Unfortunately, I need to get in touch with him and he is no longer at that apartment. I was hoping you could tell me where he might be. His name is Kwan Ang.”
    Another faint, faint contraction of the man’s brows.
    “I am sorry, sir. I don’t know anyone of that name.”
    “That’s unfortunate, Mr. Zhou. Because if you did know him and you were to direct me to any other places he might be found, there would be a lot of money in it for you. It’s important that I find him.”
    “I can’t help you.”
    “You know that Kwan Ang is a snakehead and a murderer. I suspect you do know that. I can see it in your eyes.” Sonny Li could read faces the way Loaban could read evidence.
    “No, you are mistaken.” Mr. Zhou began to sweat. Beads appeared on his scalp.
    “So,” Li continued, “any money he has paid you has blood on it. The blood of innocent women and children. Does that not trouble you?”
    “I cannot help you.” Zhou gazed down at a sheaf of papers on his desk. “Now I must get back to work.”
    Tap, tap . . .
    Li was gently striking the desktop with his pistol. Zhou stared at it fearfully. “So you must be considered a confederate of his. Perhaps you are his partner. You are a snake-head too. I think that is so.”
    “No, no. I honestly don’t know who you mean. I am simply a practitioner of feng—”
    “Ah,” Li sneered. “I’m tired of this. I’ll call the INS and let them take over from here. They can deal with you and your family.” He nodded toward a cluster of family pictures on the wall. Then he turned toward the door.
    “There’s no need for that!” Zhou said quickly. “Sir . . . . You mentioned money before?”
    “Five thousand one-color.”
    “If he—”
    “Kwan will never learn about you. You’ll be paid in cash by the police.”
    Zhou wiped his face with his shirtsleeve. His eyes swept the desktop as he debated.
    Tap . . .tap . . . tap . . .
    Finally Zhou blurted, “I am not sure of the address. He and his associate picked me up here and drove me to the apartment through alleyways. But if you want him, I will tell you this—he was here not five minutes ago. He left just before you walked in.”
    “What? Kwan Ang himself?”
    “Yes.”
    “Which way did he go?”
    “Outside the store I saw him turn left. If you hurry you can find him. He’s