“That’s good. I’ll wait here for you,” he said, looking across the street at a restaurant on the corner near Ninghai Road. “I’ll be at the Four Seas Cross-Bridge Rice Noodles.”
Chen left the Internet café and walked over to the noodle restaurant. To his surprise, it wasn’t crowded. He sat down at a corner table. He had hardly finished looking through the menu when Melong stepped in with a large envelope in his hand.
“This is one of the few places around here that hasn’t really changed,” Melong said, sitting down opposite. “An excellent choice.”
But even this noodle place had changed some, the service fancier and the menu more varied than Chen remembered. The waiter put down on the table more than a dozen tiny saucers of fresh toppings, including thin-sliced pork, beef, lamb, fish, shrimp, and vegetables, before bringing over two large bowls of noodles immersed in steaming hot soup covered with a thin layer of oil. They were supposed to immerse the toppings in the soup, then wait for a minute or two before eating. They were the same cross-bridge noodles Zhou had had for his last meal.
The moment the waiter stepped away Melong pushed the envelope across the table to Chen.
It contained a bunch of pictures of Zhou and Fang in the office, the two touching and kissing each other there. One picture showed Zhou sitting on the desk with his trousers half removed, and her kneeling in front of him on the carpet, naked to her waist, her hair cascading down over her bare back. Then there were several more explicit ones showing the two of them in bed, totally naked, engaged in the entangling ecstasy of rolling cloud and rain. The pictures were of low quality, and most of them were rather blurry.
“Where did you get these?”
“You know a thing or two about my work, don’t you? These photos were found on Dang’s computer.”
“Dang’s computer-how?”
But Chen didn’t have to wait for the answer. One of the angles he’d discussed with Detective Wei was who would benefit from Zhou’s murder, an approach he had mentioned when talking with Melong. While the relationship between Zhou and Fang was not unanticipated, the source of the pictures put Dang in a new light. Figuring out why Dang had taken them was a no-brainer. They were evidence he could use against Zhou, having secretly installed a video camera in Zhou’s office.
The pictures would have been enough to bring down Zhou and for Dang, the second in command, to succeed to Zhou’s position. Dang might have simply been biding his time until the 95 Supreme Majesty scandal broke out, making it no longer necessary for him to release those photos.
Alternatively, he could have been blackmailing Zhou with these pictures.
“The other day you mentioned that people in Zhou’s office were on your radar,” Melong said. “I checked into each of them, and this is what has come up so far.”
He didn’t have to explain further. Chen nodded.
But that led Chen back to a question that had occurred to him earlier in the day.
He wasn’t interested so much in Fang’s appearance in these pictures as he was in Jiang’s panic about her sudden disappearance. A clandestine relationship between a boss and his little secretary wasn’t really surprising in China. Jiang must have known something about it before Fang disappeared: but was he now worried about these graphic photos coming to light? Was Jiang just irrationally panicky?
Or was it something else?
When Chen pulled himself back into the present moment after being so lost in thought, he realized that Melong was looking at him with a wry smile.
“What is it?”
“The noodles are now cold and taste like glue with all the soup soaked in.”
“I’m sorry. It’s my fault entirely.”
“No, it’s my fault. I should have shown you the pictures after we’d finished eating.”
“Let’s order something else.”
“No thanks. I’m not really hungry.”
“I owe you one, Melong. I’ll treat you to a better meal another day.” He added belatedly, “How is your mother?”
“She’s already in the hospital. The doctor is taking special care of her. I should go over there now. The hospital won’t admit visitors after eight.”
Watching Melong get into a taxi, Chen felt a twinge of guilt about not visiting his mother. In a somber mood, he pursued his plan to have some cooked food delivered to her. He walked over to Little Shaoxing Chicken Restaurant and settled on the Shanghai-style smoked carp and half a three-yellow chicken.
Even though it was getting late, Chen contemplated, perhaps it wasn’t too late for him to go and interview Fang’s parents.
So he walked back over to the Internet café. The attendant recognized him and led him to a computer without asking to see his ID again. He logged on and retrieved the file Jiang sent, then copied Fang’s address.
He couldn’t shake the feeling, however, that there was something else, something dancing just on the edge of his thoughts. Was it in Lianping’s call about the festival in Shaoxing, something possibly connected to the investigation, that slipped away when he was distracted by Melong’s call?
Then he got an idea.
He took a folder out of his briefcase and looked through it. It turned out to be just as he remembered.
Last year, Zhou had made two trips to Shaoxing. Born and raised there until he was seven, he left for Shanghai when his father’s job was transferred. Zhou hadn’t been back there even once until last year. The information gathered by Detective Wei was quite detailed, including all of the trips Zhou had taken in the last several years and their purpose, as well as the people, especially the local officials, he met with. But that wasn’t the case with his trips to Shaoxing. Wei had no details on them. So Zhou had gone to Shaoxing for some unrevealed personal reason.
There was a note in the folder stating that Zhou had no property under his own name in Shaoxing. Wei had done a thorough job, taking into consideration Zhou’s position and connections.
Of course, a man could suddenly be so nostalgic as to decide to visit his old home, even going there twice in one year. But that wasn’t likely, particularly not for a busy official like Zhou.
Chen took out his phone and made a call to Party Secretary Li, saying that he might have to make a speech at a literary festival outside of Shanghai but that he’d be back in a day.
“Of course you need to go, Chief Inspector Chen.”
Li didn’t even ask where the festival was, or about the ongoing investigation.
“If there’s anything urgent, just call me, and I can be back in an hour or two.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just go. After all, you’re a celebrated poet.”
After hanging up, Chen checked the Shanghai-Shaoxing train schedule online. There were several fast trains going there the next morning. He’d take one, even though this trip was nothing more than a long shot.
He stood up and left the Internet café.
Outside, there was a lone black bat flittering about in the evening that was spread out against the somber sky.
EIGHTEEN
The next morning, Chen took the new fast train to Shaoxing station.
Once on the train, Chen called Detective Tang, one of his connections in the local police bureau. A few years ago he’d helped Tang break a tough case, one which, if Chen hadn’t intervened, would have taken months longer before it got any official attention from the city of Shanghai.
“What good wind brings you to Shaoxing today, Chief Inspector Chen?”
“Well, somebody told me there was a literature festival here, and I just happened to have something else to do in town.”
“What can I do for the Shanghai Police Bureau?” Tang said, coming directly to the point.
“No, I’m not here in an official capacity, so I didn’t make contact through official channels. However, I do need to ask a favor.”
“I’m glad you thought of me. Of course I’ll do whatever I can to help. I could never forget your assistance back in Shanghai when that pig-headed Party Secretary Li-”
“Let’s not talk about him right now. You might have heard of the Zhou case-the pack of 95 Supreme Majesty and all that. It’s not exactly my case, but it’s a case that’s special to the bureau, and one of my colleagues died in an incident possibly connected to the investigation.”
“One of your colleagues died. I’m sorry to hear that. So now the investigation is on your radar.”
“Yes. I’ve learned that Zhou was born in Shaoxing, but he left for Shanghai when he was six or seven years old. He hadn’t returned to Shaoxing until about a year ago. And he came back more than once. It would be a great help if you could assemble any information about Zhou’s two visits to Shaoxing and about any relatives he might have contacted here-perhaps you could bring the information to the train station? Let me give you my cell phone number,” Chen said, rattling off the number of a cell phone he’d just purchased. “Of course, please, not a single word about my visit to your colleagues.”
Two hours later, as he walked out of the Shaoxing railway station, Chen was surprised to find himself facing a large modern square thronged with people and beyond it, an impressive six-lane thoroughfare filled with noisy traffic. There was also a line of taxis waiting along the curb.
Chen’s assumptions about Shaoxing had come mainly from the writings of Lu Xun, a “revolutionary writer” endorsed by Mao and the Party authorities during the Cultural Revolution. Lu Xun’s books were the only literature he could read during those years without having to disguise them by wrapping them in the red plastic covers of
Quotations from Chairman Mao
. In his stories, Shaoxing was more a rustic town than a city, with villagers, boats, a market fair, farmers like Ah Q, and country kids like Runtu. But Shaoxing, like anywhere else in China, had changed dramatically.
He caught sight of Tang pushing his way through the crowd, carrying a map in one hand, looking like one of the tourists. A stoutly built man in his late forties, Tang had deeply set eyes and a square jawline, an interesting mixture of supposedly southern and northern characteristics. He was wearing a light gray jacket, a blue shirt, and jeans.
Instead of asking any questions, Tang simply shook hands with Chen and handed over the map of Shaoxing. “Sorry, I can’t park here. It’s just across the street. I’ll be back to pick you up in one minute.”
Chen watched him as he pulled up in a shiny black Buick. It wasn’t a bureau car, as Tang had promised not to tell his colleagues.
After Chen got into the car, Tang handed him a large manila envelope.
“Zhou’s visits here weren’t about official business. He contacted only some of his relatives and friends. I put together a list of them-names, addresses, and numbers. That’s about all I could come up with on such short notice.”
“You’ve done an extraordinary job. So where are we going?”
“His cousin’s place. They saw each other last year.”
The car was already turning into a quiet residential area, with narrower streets and shabbier lanes, where some of the old houses were in disrepair.
“I’ve also included some information about his counterparts in Shaoxing,” Tang said with an apologetic smile. “But I have a meeting I have to attend.”
“Don’t worry about me. You’ve already done so much.”
“When the meeting is over, I’ll see what else I can dig up, and I’ll contact you as soon as I have anything. In the meantime, after going through this list, you might as well do some sightseeing here, or participate in the festival if you prefer. By the way, where is the festival?”
“Lu Xun’s old home.”
“A good choice.”
“A politically correct choice. But I may go to Lanting Park instead.”
“As you like, but let me buy you a Shaoxing dinner at the end of the day. It’s nothing fancy when compared to the food of Shanghai, but I guarantee the flavor is authentic.”
“Thank you, I’d like that. Did you find any property listed under Zhou’s name here?”
“No, but I’ll check into that too.”
The car pulled up near an old apartment complex, which looked pretty much the same as those built in the late seventies in Shanghai. Most of them were four-story concrete buildings that had become discolored with the passage of time. Chen guessed that they weren’t too far from the center of the city.
“Here we are, Zhou’s cousin’s home. Her name is Mingxia.”
“Thanks, Tang. Call me if you learn anything new.”
“I’ll do that,” Tang said, and then pulled away.
Chen walked over to a relatively new building and knocked on a door decorated with a red paper-cut character for happiness that was posted upside down in accordance with the superstition, as “upside down” is pronounced in Chinese exactly the same as “arrival.”
The woman who answered the door was plump, in her midfifties with streaks of gray in her hair, deep lines on her forehead, and a single shining gold tooth. She was dressed in a baggy, dark blue short-sleeve blouse and pants.
“Are you Mingxia?”
After examining the ID he held out, she nodded and let Chen in without saying another word. It was a one-room efficiency apartment packed with old furniture and other mysterious stuff. She pulled over a shaky rattan chair, from which she removed a pile of old magazines, and motioned for him to sit.
Chen wasted no time in explaining the purpose of his visit.
“Zhou left Shaoxing when he was still a kid,” she said. “For years, he didn’t come back to visit. At least, not that I was aware of. But he finally did return last year and treated us to a meal at a hotel restaurant, a five-star one. Then he did it again, a couple of months later, in a new restaurant named after a character in a Lu Xun story.”
“Did he tell you why he came back?”
“No, not exactly. I assumed that, as in the old proverb, it’s important for a successful man to return to his old home wrapped in glory. A generous treat for us folks who live here is naturally a part of that.”
“Do you remember anything unusual that he said or did during his visits?”
“No, I spoke only two or three words to him each time. We were seated at a big banquet table, more than ten of us, each of us thanking and toasting him across the table. I wondered whether he even noticed me.”