Enigma of China Page 6

  WEI: Now tell me what happened Monday night.

  JUN: Well, around six fifteen I delivered dinner to room 302. It was fried Yangzhou rice and the soup of the day.

  WEI: Did you go into the room?

  JUN: No, not exactly. I knocked on the door; he opened it and took the tray from me.

  WEI: Did you notice anything unusual about him?

  JUN: No, I wasn’t aware of anything. After that, I went to the other two rooms to turn down the beds. Both of them were in, and both of them told me not to bother. So I returned to my room.

  WEI: Then?

  JUN: Around ten twenty that evening, I was told to bring a bowl of cross-bridge noodles and a bottle of Budweiser to the guest in room 302.

  WEI: Hold on, did you know that it was Zhou who was in room 302?

  JUN: No, at the time I had no idea who he was. But guests at the hotel aren’t ordinary people, and we know better than to ask around.

  WEI: At the time, had you heard anything about Zhou?

  JUN: No. Nothing before that night.

  WEI: When you delivered the noodles, did you notice anything unusual about him?

  JUN: He looked all right to me. He was smiling, and he didn’t forget to give me a five-yuan tip. According to the hotel regulations, we’re not allowed to accept tips, but if a customer insists, we don’t refuse.

  WEI: Did you take the noodles into the room or just to the door?

  JUN: I went into the room because it was a bowl of special cross-bridge noodles. We usually spread out all the tiny dishes and sauces on the table and then tell the guest how to add the toppings, though it may not be necessary if the guest has had cross-bridge noodles before.

  WEI: So was he alone in the room?

  JUN: Yes, I’m positive.

  WEI: Did you say anything to him?

  JUN: I asked whether he wanted me to open the beer for him, and he nodded.

  WEI: Nothing else?

  JUN: Nothing—oh, he did pick up a slice of Jinhua ham as soon as I placed the dishes on the table. He said that it was his favorite, and that he would like some more in the next day or two. It’s genuine Jinhua ham that the hotel gets through a special supply channel. A lot of our guests really like it.

  WEI: A different question, Jun. You went from picking up the noodles from the kitchen directly to his room?

  JUN: Yes, directly to his room. The soup had to be served hot.

  WEI: Anything else? Anything that struck you as unusual?

  JUN: Nothing I can recall. Once he started to put the toppings into the soup, I left the room. Sorry, but that’s about all I can tell you.

  “Not much,” Wei said and pressed the stop button. “Jiang must have talked to the hotel people earlier, but he doesn’t want me to approach any of them without his prior approval. As a result, I had to talk to Jun in a small teahouse on a side street not far from the hotel. At the same time, Jiang keeps asking me to update him on our progress.”

  “It’s a game two can play, Wei.” Chen said, “From now on, you don’t have to tell Jiang anything unless he is cooperative. Jiang and Liu were in charge of shuanggui, and we are in charge of the investigation into Zhou’s death. So it’s up to them to tell us what they know about Zhou.”

  “Liu has hardly been to the hotel in the last two days. But Jiang is the representative of the city government.”

  “If Jiang makes things difficult for you, you may say I told you to report only to me. Tell him it was my special instruction.”

  “Thank you, Chief,” Wei said, looking him in the eye. “When you were first promoted, some of us believed that it was because of your educational background, that it was simply a lucky break coinciding with the Party’s new cadre promotion policy. Some also said it was because of that article in Wenhui Daily written by your journalist friend—”

  Chen gestured to stop Wei from going on. It was true that he had been promoted for a number of reasons not relevant to police work, such as his education and the image he presented to the public, both of which happened to serve the propaganda needs of the Party.

  “Lots of things could have been said about me, and some of them were true. For instance, my degree in English had nothing to do with my job with the police bureau. Even today, I still can’t help wondering if I should have pursued a different career. I know it might not be fair for others in the bureau.”

  “All I want to say is that I’m glad to work under you, Chief. I’ll consult you about every move I make.”

  “Remember,” Chen said, “you’re in charge of the investigation, not I. Whatever move you decide to make, you don’t have to consult me first. You know that proverb; ‘A general fighting at the borders doesn’t have to listen to the emperor sitting far, far away in the capital.’”

  “So you mean—”

  “You have a free hand. If anything happens, I’ll take responsibility—”

  Chen was interrupted by his ringing cell phone.

  “Hi, Chief Inspector Chen. It’s Lianping, the journalist from Wenhui Daily. Do you remember me? I’ve just read something about you.”

  “Of course I remember you. What’s the news, Lianping?”

  “Let me read it to you. ‘According to Chief Inspector Chen, so far there’s no evidence whatsoever to suggest that Zhou’s death could be anything other than suicide.’”

  “That’s absurd,” he said. “Who gave that irresponsible statement to Wenhui Daily?”

  “Jiang, of the city government.”

  “The investigation hasn’t been concluded. That’s all I can say to you today.”

  “Jiang’s statement is vague about that, but it reads as if you have already concluded your investigation.”

  “That’s wrong, but thank you so much for calling me, Lianping. We’re still following possible leads. I’ll let you know as soon as we do conclude our investigation.”

  “Thank you so much, Chief Inspector Chen. Please don’t forget the poems you promised me for our newspaper. I’m a huge fan of your work.”

  The statement released by Jiang wasn’t exactly a surprise to Chen. On the contrary, it was more or less what he had anticipated.

  Next to him, Detective Wei was standing up, a grin on his face. “I have to go back to work, Chief Inspector Chen,” Wei said.

  Chen was known among his colleagues as a romantic poet and for having had an affair with a Wenhui journalist. Wei might have overheard that the caller was from Wenhui and guessed it was that female journalist calling.

  But Chen had said what he wanted to say to the journalist. He began thinking about their conversation at the Writers’ Association, and what lines she reminded him of that day, as she came tripping over from the garden path, a blue jay’s wing flashing in the light.

  EIGHT

  AFTER WEI LEFT, CHEN stayed at the café. The chief inspector had to sort through all the bits and pieces of information he had just learned.

  He ordered another cup of coffee, which tasted better than expected. The soft sofa seat was comfortable, its tall back providing a sense of privacy, and the window commanded an ever-changing view of the pedestrians out on the street.

  Chen sat and stirred the coffee with a small spoon.

  Something in the interview of the hotel attendant fluttered across his mind, but the hunch was an elusive one. It was gone like a rice paddy eel before he could grasp it. He knew that Detective Wei might not have told him everything—not directly, at least. If so, it was understandable. High-ranking officials could be involved, lurking in the background, and that would be too much for an ordinary cop like Wei. Especially since he didn’t have any solid evidence or leads at present. But Chen thought he understood what Wei was driving at.

  Chen took a small, measured sip of the coffee and mentally reviewed some of the details Wei had mentioned. For one, if a man talked about eating Jinhua ham again in a couple of days, it was hard to conceive of his committing suicide an hour or two later.

  The photo that started it all was ano
ther puzzle. Could Zhou have taken it himself? If so, he was truly hoist with his own petard.

  Detective Wei was determined to move the investigation in a direction that Jiang wouldn’t like. Of that, Chen had no doubts. As Wei’s colleague and consultant to the investigation, Chen was supposed to back him up.

  Still, he was in no hurry to confront Jiang.

  If the authorities were really anxious to close the case, they could do so with or without Chen’s “endorsement,” let alone Wei’s opinion of their conclusions. A Party member must, first and foremost, act in the interests of the Party, and Chen had to speak or shut up accordingly. But in spite of the statement that had been given to the media, Jiang was still staying at the hotel, allowing the cops to continue investigating, and constantly checking in with them. There was no point in going to the hotel, Chen concluded. If anything, it would be better to try and maneuver around it.

  On his way out of the café, Chen bought a hundred-yuan gift card, which he thought he would give Detective Wei for his son.

  Near He’nan Road, Chen slowed down at the sight of a towering building still partially covered in scaffolding. Already, several top brands had their logos displayed proudly at the construction site, with a billboard declaring, “Open for business soon.” It was going to be another high-end department store.

  For some reason, there weren’t any workers there that afternoon, nor were there machines hustling and bustling around.

  Standing by the construction site, Chen pulled out his phone and called Mr. Gu, the chairman of the New World Group. It wasn’t a long talk, but it was long enough to confirm what Wei had told him regarding Teng Jialiang, chairman of the Green Earth Group.

  At the end of the conversation, Chen accidentally pressed the wrong button on the phone, which brought up the message function. He thought about writing a text—to himself—detailing the possible clues before he forgot them, but it was awkward to walk and write at the same time. So he looked up and walked over to the Eastern Sea Café, which was a little farther east. In his experience, writing down the random thoughts that passed through his mind sometimes helped him straighten out his thinking.

  Eastern Sea Café, a survivor from the days of the Cultural Revolution, looked shabby, overshadowed by the new buildings that surrounded it. There he sat down and had his third cup of coffee of the afternoon while he composed a text to himself.

  Teng had reason to hate Zhou, possibly enough reason for Teng to retaliate. While Teng might not have been at the meeting, people from his company were there and could have seen the pack of cigarettes. So the Internet frenzy started by the photo of the pack of 95 Supreme Majesty could well have been Teng’s revenge.

  But what about after the downfall of Zhou?

  The chief inspector didn’t think that after Zhou was disgraced, there was any motive—or, at least, not enough for Teng to murder Zhou at the well-guarded hotel. It was technically possible, since Teng was connected to the triads. If Teng really wanted to get rid of Zhou, however, it would’ve been easier before Zhou was shuangguied.

  Chen saved the text, finished the coffee, and dialed the number for Jiang as he walked out of the café.

  Chen managed to convey the simple message that it was too early to draw any conclusions regarding Zhou’s death. He didn’t say anything specific about the news in Wenhui Daily and Jiang knew better than to talk about it. Chen did not say much else, except to make sure that Jiang would remain at the hotel for the day.

  Chen cut across to Jiujiang Road, where he hailed a taxi at the back of the Amanda Hotel. About five minutes later, he arrived at the office of the Housing Development Committee, which was in the Shanghai City Government Building near People’s Square. He didn’t have to take a cab for such a short distance, but a man walking up to the City Government Building might be taken by the security guards as another troublesome “complainer.”

  He got past security and headed straight to the office of Deputy Director Dang of the Housing Development Committee.

  On Detective Wei’s list of possible benefiters, Dang was at the top. Dang was also at the fateful meeting, seated next to Zhou at the rostrum, capable of seeing the cigarettes at close range. It was a common scenario in Party power struggles: the number two succeeded the number one after the latter fell from grace.

  So Dang had motive, but he also had an alibi: Dang had been at a hotel in the county of Qingpu for a business meeting, where he then spent the night, at least according to the hotel register. Still, Qingpu was not far—he could have sneaked out after dark, if he’d known which hotel Zhou was in, or he could have hired a professional.

  Passing Zhou’s office, which was still locked with an official seal, Chen came to Dang’s, which was right next door.

  Dang was a tall, robust man in his early forties with beady eyes, bushy brows, and a ruddy complexion. He greeted Chen affably, then, after an exchange of a few polite words, came to the point.

  “You’re not an outsider, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen, so I won’t give you the official response. Zhou meant well. It’s easy for people to complain about the housing bubble, but once the bubble bursts, the economy will collapse. So when Zhou saw signs of instability in the market, he tried to forestall them. Unfortunately, he underestimated the pent-up frustrations of those who couldn’t afford housing. In a pack of cigarettes, they found a convenient outlet for their anger. We certainly can’t rule out the possibility that some people used this as an opportunity to smear our Party’s image.”

  “Yes, we are looking into all the possibilities,” Chen responded, almost mechanically.

  “I don’t know about Zhou’s other problems under shuanggui investigation. If all that was exposed on the Internet was real, then it served him right. In the office, Zhou alone had the final say, making most decisions without discussing them with any of us,” Dang said casually, picking up Chen’s card. “Oh, you’re deputy Party secretary. Then you know how things can be. A lot happens in the office without my knowledge. As far as the pack of 95 Supreme Majesty is concerned, however, that was just Zhou’s luck. You’ll have to find the root of the trouble, Chief Inspector Chen. It wasn’t anything directed against Zhou personally, but against the Party instead. We can’t allow those people on the Internet to go rampaging like that anymore.”

  Chen nodded. Such a demand from Dang made sense. The Internet couldn’t go on uncontrolled like that: the next target could be Dang.

  “Now, I have a question about the actual photo, Dang. Do you have any idea who took it?”

  “Jiang asked me the same question,” Dang responded with a sigh. “During the meeting, several of us were sitting with Zhou next to the podium. It would have been out of the question for any one of us to disturb the meeting by taking pictures. There were many other people sitting in the conference hall who could have taken photos, though. So the short answer is that we don’t know. We do know, however, that Zhou himself e-mailed the picture to his secretary, Fang, who wrote the press release and sent it with the picture. It’s possible that Zhou had someone taking the pictures with his own camera, and then downloaded them onto his own computer. If it had been e-mailed to Zhou from somebody else, Jiang would have discovered the sender when they searched his computer.”

  Chen nodded, noting the subtle subject change from “I” to “we” in Dang’s explanation, without making any comment. Still, Dang had basically confirmed Wei’s account.

  “Needless to say, none of us here had access to his computer before the scandal broke,” Dang went on. “Then Jiang’s team took it away, along with all the CDs and disks in his office.”

  “Is it possible that Zhou had several e-mail accounts, some of them unknown? Or perhaps he deleted some e-mails or files?”

  “That’s possible, but I don’t see how. Jiang’s people wouldn’t have discovered that. They are computer experts. If Zhou had received the picture from somebody else, they would have ferreted that out one way or another.”

  “So his secreta
ry sent the text out to the media along with the picture per his instruction.”

  “That’s correct,” Dang said, then added, “as far as I know.”

  “Is that a rule—that all press releases and attachments have to be approved by this office?”

  “Anything about the housing market can be extremely sensitive. A careless remark from someone in our office can cause panic among the sellers and buyers. That’s why a rule was instituted: for an important speech like Zhou’s, Zhou himself would review the text, and sometimes the pictures as well, before his secretary sent them out to the media.”

  “Can I talk to her—the secretary, I mean?”

  “Fang’s not in today. She called in sick early this morning. Jiang talked to her, though, and she told him that she merely sent out the things Zhou gave her, and only under his specific instruction. She’s just a little secretary.”

  “A little secretary,” Chen repeated reflectively. The term could mean a mistress—usually much younger—serving under the guise of being a secretary. There was nothing about that in Wei’s folder. Chen didn’t push. Dang didn’t elaborate. Still, Chen asked for her name, address, and phone number before he took leave of Dang.

  Back out in the People’s Square, Chen saw a group of elderly people exercising to loud music blaring from a CD player. It was a song that was familiar to him, played often during the Cultural Revolution. “Generation after generation, we will always remember the great deeds Chairman Mao has done for us.”

  It was one of the rediscovered “red songs,” popular again because of the dramatic change in the political environment. But for these people, it was perhaps just a melody they could energetically dance to.

  Chen hailed a taxi back to his own office, feeling exhausted.

  NINE

  IT WASN’T UNTIL FIVE past nine that evening that Chen got back home.