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her.
    At 2:14 a tall man with short grey hair walked down the centre of the hall. Wearing a blue business suit and a tan raincoat, he pulled a red suitcase behind him. He looked around, stopped beside the ninth seat on the right-hand side, and sat down. Two minutes later, he stood up and casually walked away without the suitcase. A minute after that, Zena appeared. Without stopping, she took the suitcase... and the $600,000 in it. Pulling the suitcase behind her, Zena walked away, down the hall. She gave me a look—and one little smile.
    Was it a trap? Were the police going to jump out and arrest her? Victor said no—because we still had the paintings. Zena was now out of my sight, but I knew where she was going. She would head through the station to the Metro Rail platform. She’d board a Gold Line train and ride to the next stop on the line, Chinatown. There, she’d get off and walk to the Thien Hau Temple. The temple was one of the importantsights in Chinatown. Crowds of tourists would be all around it, snapping pictures.
    Victor had arranged for a taxi to pick Zena up at the temple and take her to a fancy hotel, the Beverly Hills. After all this, if Zena was sure she hadn’t been followed, she was to telephone me. Then I would put my suitcase, holding the paintings, on a train to San Diego. Someone from the insurance company would pick up my suitcase there.
    Complicated? Sure. But the train to San Diego takes two and a half hours. Even if the company called the police after they got the suitcase, we’d have lots of time to get away.
    That’s what we were supposed to do. Except it was all a game, a scam—Victor’s scam. And I’d decided to stop playing along.
    As soon as Zena disappeared, I arose from my comfortable chair. Carrying my suitcase, I walked over to the information counter.
    “I’d like to page someone,” I said.
    “What name, sir?”
    “T. Crowder.”
    “ T . Crowder?”
    “I don’t know his first name.”
    “Okay, anything you say.”
    A moment later, the public address system came on with a crackle. “T. Crowder... T. Crowder... would T. Crowder meet his party at the information counter.”
    I stepped back from the counter.
    Two minutes later, a man hurried up. He was dressed in a tan raincoat and a blue business suit; his hair was grey and cut very short. It was the man who’d been pulling the suitcase, no doubt about it. Now, he looked very worried.
    “Mr. Crowder?” I said.
    For a second, he wasn’t sure he wanted to admit it. Then he frowned and said, “Yes, I’m Thomas Crowder.”
    “It’s okay, Mr. Crowder, I’m not a policeman.”
    His expression grew even more worried. “A policeman?”
    “That’s right. I’m not a policeman... just like you’re not from an insurance company. Of course,” I added, “it is a crime, receiving art works and knowing them to be stolen.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “Wasn’t that you, pulling the suitcase? The red one? With $600,000 in it?”
    His eyes narrowed. “What’s your game?” he said.
    “No, no. You’re playing the game. Maybe we should go over here and talk about it.”
    Thomas Crowder was frightened. For a moment, he thought of running away—I could see it in his eyes. But I held up the suitcase with the paintings in it, and he followed me.
    When we were back in the waiting room—sitting in those comfortable, padded chairs—I set the suitcase on my lap, across my knees. I fiddled with the combination lock and said, “I only want to get a few things straight. In your pocket, you have a ticket to San Diego.”
    “Perhaps I do.”
    “When you got off the train, you were going to pick up this suitcase. And of course you know the combination to the lock.”
    He licked his lips nervously. “You seem to know everything.”
    “Not quite everything,” I said. “That’s why I want you to open the suitcase.”
    “What if I refuse?”
    “I won’t give it to you.” I sat back. “Mr. Crowder,