Missing In Rangoon

He told her how he

’d found the body after he’d left her bookshop. Whoever had killed Rob had made it appear as if the gunshot had been self-inflicted. They’d terrorized the old woman at reception into a story that Rob had checked into the room under a phony name, dropped acid, put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger.

Colonel Pratt asked, “Would Rob have killed himself?”

She leaned forward, looking at the lake and the first crack of light on the horizon.

“No way. He wouldn’t have had the courage.”

“Didn’t your cousin Yadanar promise nothing would happen to him?” asked Calvino.

She glanced at him, her eyes red as if on fire.

“I don’t think…”

“Think what? That he knew this would happen and let it?” asked Calvino. “This isn’t a dream, Mya. Rob’s brains were splattered against the wall of the room.”

“Easy, Vincent,” said Colonel Pratt. “Rob was a Thai. I’d like to talk with Yadanar, not as a saxophone player but—”

“As a cop,” she said, finishing his sentence.

“As a human being,” he said. “But not at the bar. It’s not the place.”

“Tonight Yadanar has a birthday party at his house.”

“He mentioned it,” said the Colonel.

“You don’t need an invitation. You can just show up.”

“He should be relaxed in his own house,” said Calvino. “We should go. I have the perfect gift for the birthday boy.”

He removed the Chekhov biography from his jacket pocket.

“It’s a real paper-and-ink book. You don’t see many of them anymore.”

She recognized the book that Calvino had bought earlier that night from her bookshop. The Black Cat rose from the bench.

“I’ve got to go,” she said, fishing a key out of her jeans. “You’ll need a place to stay. Here’s the key to the bookshop. There’s a cot in the back. My grandfather used to sleep in the shop.”

Calvino extended his hand and she dropped the key into his palm. She must have told Rob that he couldn’t stay there, Calvino thought. The Black Cat must have read his mind.

“Rob wanted to sleep upstairs in my room. I’m sorry I told him that was impossible. He might still be alive if I’d let him.”

“Or you might both be dead,” said Colonel Pratt.

A wave of grief swept across her face, and her shoulders slumped.

“I’ve got to go.”

Colonel Pratt looked at the Chekhov biography and the bookshop key sitting on top.

“Something’s not right, Vincent,” said Colonel Pratt, watching the Black Cat disappear toward Natmauk Road. “She’s just found out about Rob, and now she’s given you a key to where she lives and invited us to a birthday party.”

“She feels guilty,” said Calvino.

“She didn’t ask what will happen to Rob’s body. Some women can fake grief. It’s not that hard.”

“You think she was faking it?”