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office.
    “It’s disabled,” he said, stubbing out his cigarette in what I guessed was an ashtray, although my view was blocked by a stack of books. With a quick jerk of his head, he motioned for me to sit in the folding chair. “How can I help you...?”
    “Jaya Jones,” I said.
    I caught him subtly glance down toward my unadorned ring finger as I unfolded the chair. He was smoother than most, and the obfuscation was aided by his hair and glasses. I still noticed the action. It’s a common one after hearing my surname. At least he didn’t ask me outright. I think that’s why I answered the unspoken question.
    “It’s not a married name,” I said. “Only my mother was Indian. My dad is American. Blonder than you are.”
    My short stature and dark hair and eyes come from my mother, but my features are more like my father’s. Especially my large eyes and full mouth, both of which I’ve always thought were slightly oversized for my face. My brother is over a foot taller than me at a full six feet, with delicate green eyes, black hair naturally flecked with copper highlights, and skin several shades darker than mine. In one sense we’re exact opposites, yet next to each other you can tell we’re related.
    Lane acknowledged my answer with only a flicker of his eyes. I felt a minor lurch in my stomach. I was probably hungry. I’d eaten breakfast early, after all. Plus I was nervous about the situation. That was all.
    “How can I help you?” he asked, picking up a pencil and twirling it between his fingers absentmindedly. His deep voice was polite but reserved.
    I took the photo out of my bag and set it down on the desk.
    “I’m trying to identify this piece of jewelry,” I began. But he wasn’t listening to me. He was staring at the photograph.
    His lips parted. The pencil dropped out of his hand and rolled across the desk until a book stopped it from dropping onto the floor. He didn’t seem to notice. He ran his fingers through his hair, pulling it away from his face. I hoped he was as preoccupied as he appeared to be so that he didn’t hear my involuntary intake of breath.
    I could see his whole face clearly now. The chameleon shade of his hazel eyes seemed to change in the light as I watched him. Prominent cheek bones rested under his glasses. Their striking structure was diminished by the thick frames, but they were noticeable nonetheless. He had a face of elegant angles, and it was impossible not to see how handsome he was.
    It was a few moments before he recovered himself enough to speak. I can’t say I minded the time he took.
    “Where did you get this?” he asked, releasing his hair so it fell back over the sides of his face. He folded his hands in a forced effort to appear composed.
    “Does it matter?” I asked. “You obviously recognized the anklet.”
    “It’s a bracelet.”
    “What?”
    “It’s a bracelet. Maybe an armlet. But not an anklet.”
    “But the size—”
    “You can tell because it’s made of gold,” he said, pointing at the photograph. “It’s Indian. In India gold is considered pure, while the foot is impure. People wear silver on their feet instead.”
    I should have realized that myself. The Indian notion of the impurity of feet applies elsewhere. With the tabla, you need to make sure your feet don’t touch the instrument when you sit down cross-legged with the pair of drums.
    “You can identify the bracelet , then.”
    He didn’t respond immediately.
    “I could see that you recognized it,” I said, trying not to lose my patience.
    “Well....”
    “You clearly recognized something about it.”
    “It’s not that simple.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because,” he said, “the piece in your photograph isn’t supposed to exist.”

     

Chapter 5

     
    A few minutes later the center of Lane’s desk was cleared off except for the photo, and we were drinking stale coffee he had retrieved from the department lounge. Or at least I was drinking it. Lane was so