The rhythmic jingle of my office phone cut through the distant roar of the Chinese New Year parade, a sound like thunder in the desert. I hurried up the final steps of the three-story walk-up, confetti still clinging to my shoes and shoulders from the street below.

My shoes squeaked on the grimy tile floor of the dimly lit corridor, illuminated only by the sour-milk skylight. "Insight Detective Agency—Miles Landry, PI," read the stenciled gold letters on my frosted glass door. The phone was still ringing, a furious trill that threatened to make it hop off my desk.

I fumbled with the key, pushing the door open, only to be met with a swift, brutal kick that sent me sprawling face-first onto the red oriental carpet. My valise cushioned the fall, but before I could disentangle myself, another kick narrowly missed my jaw. Blinking through the stinging pain, I made out a female form, settling gracefully into a ready stance.

Sophie Cheung. Third-degree black belt. And she looked a lot taller from down here. The phone, incredibly, was still ringing.