Something was hurting her eyes.

She tried to move, to block it out. And now someone was shaking her.

Miranda woke to a blurry light, a bright room.

Her room. Her bedroom.

The blurred vision gradually sharpened. Rick was sitting next to her, his hand on her shoulder. She felt her face, her chest. No hat. In a nightgown. Another man was standing at the foot of the bed, mid-fifties, beard, gray hair, narrow face. White coat.

Her tongue was furry, thick, the hand she lifted to her cheek like someone else’s.

“Dr. Nielsen? Who called Dr. Nielsen?”

The bearded man smiled beneficently. “Your friend here, Miss Corbie. Seems he found my number in your files, deduced that we’ve seen each other before, and asked me to come by to look at you. That was last night. I undressed you, cleaned you a bit, and gave you something to help you sleep.”

“What time is it?”

Rick answered. “About four o’clock, Miranda.”

She tried to sit up, winced at the effort. “Why the hell—why do I hurt so much?”

Nielsen moved around to the other side, placed a dry hand on her forehead. Frowned. “Because you’re exhausted. You’ve also been through a shock.”

She tried to shake her head, stopped when it hurt.

“Let me up. I’m fine.”

“Miranda, you were almost run over the other night. You’ve been getting by on no sleep, coffee, bourbon, and cigarettes.”

This time, she managed to raise herself up, and glared at them both. Turned to Rick. “And you don’t? Just give me some aspirin, for God’s sake. I’ll be OK.”

Nielsen shook his head. His voice that grave tone you heard on radio soap operas. “Miss Corbie—I don’t see you as much as I should, undoubtedly. But I believe you trust my opinion. It’s been of service to you before.”

She looked up at him, her mouth tight.

“Yeah, Doctor. Spit it out.”

“You need to rest as much as possible. For at least a week. Give your body—and your mind—time to process what you’ve been through. If you give me your word that you will rest, perhaps walking a bit every day as you feel stronger—and that you will not drink alcohol, and only one or two cups of coffee—I’ll let you recover at home. Otherwise, you give me no choice but to commit you to a hospital.”

She could feel the chains snake around from under the bed, manacles closing on her arms and legs. Reminded herself to find another doctor. Rick nodded, looking like Charlie McCarthy with Nielsen taking the Bergen part. Goddamn it, they always thought they knew best …

Miranda mustered a trustworthy expression and a small smile. “If that’s what you think I need, Doctor.”

He nodded, picked up his bag from the foot of the bed.

“At least a week. You should make a full recovery, feel like yourself again.”

Miranda thought: “Like the smug bastard would know the difference.” She said: “Thank you, Doctor.”

He looked at Rick, man-to-man, guardian-to-guardian of that fragile thing called woman.

“Sanders—I rely on you to let me know how Miss Corbie progresses. I’ll be by in three days to check on her.”

“Certainly, sir.”

They walked out of the bedroom together, making lists between them of what she should do and not do. Fuck that. Miranda hadn’t lived thirty-three years and survived the last week so that old Dr. Kildare and his assistant could tell her what to do with her life.

She waited until she heard the door shut, and then tried to get her legs to the side of the bed. Groaned, couldn’t help it. If only she didn’t hurt so goddamn much …

“Miranda, what the hell do you think—”

Brown, baleful eyes focused on Rick. “Lay off, Sanders. I appreciate the help, and I heard what that old quack said. I’ve got his card because he’s a friend of my father’s—alcohol treatments.”

“Then why don’t you listen to him, goddamn it?”

She’d manage to drape her legs off the bed, and was trying to prop herself up into a sitting position. Rick watched for a moment, then came over to help her, cursing under his breath.

“You never fucking listen, do you? Gonna kill yourself one of these days, and I won’t be around to stop you.”

He was sitting beside her. Miranda leaned on him, fighting the nausea. She raised her left hand and touched his cheek, stroked it with the back of her fingers. Her voice was soft.

“Thanks, Sanders. I’ll rest. I promise. Right now I need you to help me get down to the Hall of Justice. Gotta make that statement. You call Meyer for me?”

His eyes searched hers. She dropped her hand. He picked it up, held it, rubbing the lines in her palm with his thumb. Stared at it while he spoke.

“I’ll call him. And I’ll get you there. But for God’s sake, Miranda—take care of yourself.”

Gonzales had just come on duty. The bags under his eyes made him look older, more like a cop than a matinee idol. His temper was frayed around the edges, and the conversation was kept to a minimum. Still no sign of Phil, though Miranda caught sight of Johnson on the phone pulling overtime, Regan going off duty, Grogan coming on. No one said anything to her except a uniform who came to give Gonzales papers.

“Some prices on those toe tags, lady. You want the reward money?” Meyer looked at her, Gonzales looked at her. Puff on the cigarette, stamp it out, light another one. “Give it all to Bennie’s wife, Mary.” She’d made her a widow, after all.

Rick prowled around outside, trying to pick up crumbs for the News. Meyer sat next to her, making sure Gonzales’s questions were phrased in the right way.

No, she hadn’t walked in, broken in, tried to get in. She’d been kidnapped; check Gladys Hillerman’s statement.

No, she hadn’t shot Malone or Bennie. She knew Bennie was ready to pop; she popped him, he popped the rest. End of story.

Well, not quite. .25 bullet lodged in the wall outside, matching shot in Coppa’s skull. Yes, that was her gun. Yes, he was dead. Client was in a state of shock, Inspector, didn’t realize she was committing a crime. And technically, as he wasn’t interred—quiet, Miranda—yes, she understands. Continue.

Shot Capella. Tried to shoot her, thought her gun was a joke. Type of pistol not sold in America. License to carry conceal? Check. License for that gun? Nix.

But Inspector, that gun saved her life. A woman in her position must protect herself.

What about Noldano?

Yes, she’d shot Noldano in the arm. Client was threatened with bodily harm, Inspector, feared for her life. Thought he had a loaded gun. And still, she didn’t fire to kill. Isn’t that right, Miranda? Isn’t that right?

Whatever you say, Meyer.

Why didn’t she go for help? Tried to, ran out of time. Heard them coming in. We’ve been through this before.

How many times will you ask the same questions, Inspector? Has my client been charged—

Yes, she hid in the bathroom. Martini came in. Pulled a .45. Called the other two down from upstairs.

Threaten her?

You might say that. They were planning to rape her. That’s r-a-p-e, Inspector, same thing Coppa did to Betty Chow, same thing Martini did to Phyllis Winters.

Silence. Pen scratching. She shoot him then?

No, she shot him after you arrived, Inspector. Tried to use her as a shield. You heard the gunshot, found her covered in Martini’s brains, you make a statement.

Make a statement. Make a statement. Make a statement.

Meyer touched Miranda’s arm, while Gonzales kept writing.

It was over. Rick drove her back home.

She crossed the days off on the calendar. Felt stupid, felt indulgent, lounging around in silk pajamas and a bathrobe, working on the crossword puzzle, listening to One Man’s Family. Slept for hours, sleeping with the sun.

Rick came in every day or evening, every chance he got. She gave him an extra key, sometimes would find him sitting beside her, writing up notes in a tablet. He’d give her the news for the next morning, tell her what the Germans and Russians and Japanese were doing, whether Louis won his latest fight, whether Seabiscuit was going to race again.

Joe Merello sent a huge bouquet of tulips on a rhinestone horseshoe, the ribbon signed by the Moderne staff. Bente came by, sat with her a couple of hours, talked about Spain and the Wobblies and how everything was going to hell and made fun of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, but life was still good and she’d better damn well pay attention to it.

Edith mailed a get-well card, said she’d read about her in the paper, hoped she was feeling better. Gladys stopped by with two cartons of Chesterfields, personal delivery. Miranda hugged her. Didn’t quite have the words, not yet.

Allen stopped by twice during the week, brought her a pint of Old Taylor.

Even Leland Cutler, president of the World’s Fair board, sent a telegram, wishing her well. She heard from a few other staff, too, including her federal contacts. Seems the Martini case—and the woman who broke it and was almost broken herself—had been fodder for more newspapers than Rick’s.

No word on what would happen to the Chinese women smuggled in. The government had quotas. Mustn’t upset the numbers.

As soon as she was well …

Nielsen came by to check on her. He seemed gratified. She clenched her teeth in a smile, and reminded herself—again—to find another doctor.

She tried to read All This and Heaven, Too, and threw it across the room after thirty pages. Burns and Allen made her laugh occasionally. She walked a little more every day, the weather improving with her stamina, and caught His Girl Friday at the Orpheum with a Shadow serial. The salty popcorn tasted as good as anything she could remember. The movie was as good as anything she could remember, even if Rosalind Russell’s hats were a little extreme.

She managed to sneak into the office twice. Helen Winters had sent her a check, as predicted, along with a note thanking her profusely for saving Phyllis and stopping the “scourge” of crime that was so endangering the youth of our fair city.

Miranda heard the Supervisor dictating the letter, deposited the Supervisor’s money in the bank. Innocence could be traded like any stock—as long as you had the money to play the market. The evidence Betty left at the Pickwick would make Lester a hero, whatever he’d been doing with Filipino Charlie and Wong before Martini entered the picture. Helen’s country-club membership was secure.

She walked to Union Square on a day when the sun came out, smelling the pancakes from Sears, smiling at the doormen at the St. Francis and Sir Francis. She admired the saint and preferred to drink with the rogue. She admired the hamburgers at Original Joe’s on Taylor Street even more.

City of Paris was offering a hat like Hildy Johnson’s from His Girl Friday, not quite as extreme. Nice shade of green, went well with auburn hair. Shall I send it to Mademoiselle? No, Mademoiselle will wear it out, thank you. $17.95, in cash. Extravagant, but what the hell. She’d be working again soon.

Almost a week. Rick kidded her that he’d run her at Tanforan, even odds. She smelled salt water on the breeze through the window, and took a walk or three to Chinatown.

The red pagoda architecture curved upward in a smile, warmed by the sun, who’d been making regular appearances. Laundry hanging from the windows of the Chinese newspaper office, the smells from the Far Eastern Bakery, rice and fish and exotic lychee fruit, the small streets humming with people, the ache of the Chinese violin on a street corner. She missed Chinatown.

Quick hike up the hill at Sacramento, no wind, breathing fine. The herb shop shut up and boarded, sign in Chinese. The English below said CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. She wondered what they’d nailed him on. She’d been out of it for too long. Time to call Gonzales.

The Chinese playground was full of black-haired children playing jump rope and hopscotch, boys yelling, girls screaming. Benny Goodman blaring from open doors, the seedy hotels still looking like they were leftovers from the ’06 cleanup, but somehow not as seedy as they’d been a couple of weeks before.

Everywhere Miranda went, people smiled at her. Men tipped their hats, women nodded. No-Legs handed her a flower one day, then shoved off on his dirty plywood board. Fong Fong for a quick dessert, on the house for you, Miss, compliments of the management.

The Twin Dragon found her a private booth when she wanted one, served up ten-cent martinis to her and Rick when she convinced him to take her out that night. Sun or moonlight, Chinatown recognized her. And thanked her.

She was nearly well. Memories faded to patterns, chintz or calico. Sometimes red on white, sometimes in her dreams, when she woke up in a sweat, and told herself it was over, over again, except the record was stuck and she couldn’t move it forward. Clack. Clack clack.

Miranda Corbie, Private Investigator, had offers of employment waiting for her at her office, had money in the bank, her cheek firm and sculpted again, her health restored. It was over.

Except it wasn’t.

There was still Emily Takahashi.

22nd of February. Nielsen was as happy as he could be. Miranda was off the leash as of tomorrow. Decided to stretch her legs a little early.

She took the Sutter Street White Front down to Little Osaka, and walked into Matsumara’s shoe store to pick up the sunburst pumps.

A young man was at the counter. Mr. Matsumara would be right with her. He disappeared into the back.

She looked around and waited. A few new pairs of pumps, some men’s patched work boots. Matsumura, wiping his hands on a leather apron, his broad face beaming at her.

“Miss Corbie—so good to see you! Back for your pumps, are you?”

“Best deal in San Francisco.”

His grin grew broader, and he bent down to the shelves inside the counter, pulling out a box with her shoes. “I’ll throw in Matsumara’s free detection kit. The Japanese Sherlock Holmes.”

She laughed. “You been busy?”

“Not so busy as you. I’ve read about you, young lady. Aren’t you supposed to be recuperating up in Calistoga?”

“Is that what they’re saying?”

He opened a paper bag with a snap, and laid the box inside. “They say you foiled a human smuggling racket. Not much on the details, though.”

She lowered her voice. “You know more than most. What’s happened with the Takahashis?”

He shook his head sadly. “They searched the store, closed it down, and now, I think, Hiro is selling it. Or rather, his wife or his sister is selling it. He’s in a home. They can’t care for him anymore.” He looked down at the counter, pretending to examine a pair of shoes, and kept his voice to a whisper. “Or maybe won’t care for him. They need money. The milkman tells me they’re at each other’s throats.”

Miranda thought it over, turned it around, trying to get a fresh angle. “Still no word about Emily?”

Small pause while he fiddled with the leather. “Not a thing. Rose has been beside herself, especially when she read the papers, saw a little of what you were involved in. But not even a murmur, Miss Corbie. It’s like the girl has vanished.”

She frowned. “Eddie gave his sister a lot of money, Mr. Matsumara. Money that no one’s found yet. Don’t you think if the Takahashis knew where she was, they’d take that money and use it? Especially now?”

He thought it over, his fingers absentmindedly polishing the uppers of the green pumps in front of him.

“It would seem so, Miss Corbie. Japanese people have a great deal of pride. We keep things in the family, and we protect the family. So it would depend … if using that money put Emily in jeopardy, then Mrs. Takahashi would never do it. Whatever she knew of Eddie’s involvement, whatever other guilt she may have … she wouldn’t put her daughter in danger.”

“But surely—she’ll know Emily is safe now?”

He shrugged again, and turned the green shoes over to look at the heels.

“She might not think so. Are all the criminals involved caught? Are they all in prison? Of course not. How safe do you think Emily will be?”

“At this point I think she’s safer coming forward. There’s risk in hiding, too. Easier to erase someone who won’t be missed.”

“Maybe. You know they have relatives in Burlingame.”

“Rose mentioned that to me. Think that’s a good place to start?”

He stared at Miranda for a moment. “You’re determined to find her, are you?”

She stared back. “Yes, Mr. Matsumara. I am.”

He turned his attention back to the pumps. “Then I think Burlingame would be an excellent place to start.”

She nodded. “Thanks. And thanks for the shoes.”

He looked up, grinning at her. “Saver of souls and heels, that’s what I am, Miss Corbie.” He winked, and she smiled. Another woman was walking in the shop holding a pair of rain boots.

Miranda took the bag, threw him a wave, and walked out the door. Past the closed and boarded Takahashi Tailors. Closed and boarded. Just like Ming Chen’s.

She stood in front of it, lighting a Chesterfield, inhaled it slowly, savoring the taste.

And wondered how Matsumara knew where Emily Takahashi was, and why he was lying about it.