Free A Drop of Chinese Blood by James Church Page B

breaking. “Please, come in. May I take your coat?”
    Underneath she had on a short-sleeve bright yellow sheath, with a small gold brooch pinned on the left. The hemline was slightly above her knees, which were pretty good for knees. I’m trained to observe, and I can’t help doing it even off duty at my front door, looking at a beautiful woman. Other than the brooch, I noticed, she wasn’t wearing jewelry—no earrings, no necklace, no bracelet, and no rings. She didn’t need anything flashy, and she knew it.
    “If you’ll follow me to the office,” I said.
    My uncle was complaining to himself when we appeared at the door. “I doubt they even know how to read on Hainan,” he said, staring at the bid tender. “No one in his right mind makes bookcases out of split bamboo. What the hell sort of book sits on a bamboo shelf?”
    I knocked twice. “This is…” It dawned on me that I didn’t have a name to go with the lips.
    “Du Hwa,” the woman said. “I take it you are Inspector O.” She stepped into the room, which instantly improved the color scheme.
    “Please sit.” My uncle smiled at her. In a heartbeat, I was worried. He never smiled at clients right away, especially not women. I was only moderately reassured when he fell back into his regular client face. He once told me he put on that face at the beginning of a client meeting in order to communicate total control of the situation, whatever the situation was. This time, though, I sensed something was missing. The look on his face wasn’t that of a veteran investigator. The effect was more one of resignation, like a sea bass on realizing it has landed on a large plate covered in Kunming black bean sauce and scallions.
    The woman sat in the chair indicated. From outside the window there was a shriek and a brief squeal.
    “Our neighbor.” My uncle smiled again.
    “Was that the wife?” Miss Du looked vaguely alarmed.
    “No, that was the piglets,” I said, hoping to put things back on track. “The wife has a lower register.”
    The woman looked around the cluttered shelves. Her gaze lingered for a moment on the dead flowers. “Let’s dispense with further pleasantries, shall we?” From her purse she took a white envelope. “Here is the fee that we agreed would start the soup simmering.”
    I took this as some quaint Yunnan saying. Either that or she was planning to stay for lunch.
    “Very well, my nephew will count it later.” My uncle flashed me a count-it-twice look. “Now, Miss Du, why don’t you tell me the nature of your problem? Start at the beginning. Just be yourself; don’t try to sound like a police report. We’ll fill in the details once we establish the overall picture.”
    The woman sat demurely in the chair. Her lips held a cherrylike look of satisfaction. I had the feeling she recognized an old sea bass when she saw one.
    2
    “My father is in pieces.”
    There followed a prolonged silence. My uncle gave no hint that he was prepared to speak. Miss Du looked as if she might shed a tear—two at the outside—for effect. I put the envelope with the fifteen thousand yuan on my desk and sat down.
    “He’s in pieces in my brother’s restaurant freezer.”
    Another silence, broken by a brief squeal from next door. This seemed to jar loose a thought from my uncle.
    “What sort of restaurant is it?”
    Miss Du stood up. “I’m sorry I came. If you think this is funny, I don’t.”
    “Funny? Why would I think that? I assume you want to know what happened and who is behind this. To find out, I’ll need to know a lot of things that will make you uncomfortable. I’ll need to know how long the process of your receiving the pieces, or whatever they were, continued.” My uncle sounded annoyed, which I recognized as merely an act to get the upper hand. “Sit down, Miss Du. We can’t talk with you standing there. First of all, I need to know who your father was.”
    “You’re assuming he is dead?”
    “Ah, good for you. You