Don't Cry Tai Lake (19 page)

“So, is it required that people sign in and out here?” Chen asked the security guard, pointing at the register book.

“We're from the Wuxi Police Bureau,” Huang said, producing his badge in a hurry.

“Anything you want to know, sir,” the security guard said, “and yes, that's the rule. All visitors have to sign in.”

“Oh, and there's a video camera here too,” Chen said, pointing at it.

“Yes, our late boss ordered a lot of equipment, including the video cameras. They're state of the art, appropriate for a large state-run enterprise, but we still stand here on guard twenty-four hours a day.”

“I see. That's good. I'd like a copy of the visitor registration book for the last seven days, along with the tapes from the camera.”

“That can be easily done, sir,” the security guard said, nodding his head like a rattle drum.

But it took more than a few minutes to duplicate the tape and the pages. Huang was watching, bewildered, when his cell phone rang. He looked at the number, excused himself, and walked over to a shaded corner, out of their hearing.

It proved once again to last longer than he had expected.

When he returned to the front entrance, Chen was already holding a large envelope in his hand.

“Let's have a bite at the canteen here,” Huang said. “I still have the company canteen coupons Fu gave us the first time we were here. So I can afford to be your host today.”

“That's a good idea,” Chen said.

They made their way to the canteen. It was past the lunch hour, but there were still a handful of employees eating and talking. They chose a table toward the side, close to the window, where there were no people around.

“What do you think?” Huang said over a steaming-hot bowl of beef noodles strewn with chopped green onion.

“To begin with, Mi may be an unreliable narrator.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's a term I picked up in my literature studies in college, which means a narrator who doesn't provide a reliable account from an unbiased perspective,” Chen said, adding a lot of black pepper to his noodles. “Mi put on a passionate defense of Liu, but it was more a defense of her own actions, at least subconsciously, on the grounds that a happy, contented husband wouldn't have an extramarital affair. Like an echo of the old saying, ‘If the fence is tight, no dog will stray in.' But it's undeniable that Liu hadn't been a good husband, and that he kept the home office for his rendezvous with Mi. In her attempts to defend her position as a little secretary, Mi may not be able to give us truthful statements.”

“I see your point, Chief. There are some inconsistencies in the statements regarding Liu. I put them together on a piece of paper while she was talking, in an effort to connect them, but some of them simply couldn't be connected.” Huang then said, “I still like the theory that Mrs. Liu was responsible.”

“That's just one of the possible theories,” Chen said, seeming to back away from his earlier assertiveness. “It's unsupported so far.”

“True. By the way, the phone call I took earlier was about a new development. Well, not exactly new, since it's based on an old scenario being pushed by Internal Security. As of now, they have reached their conclusion, obtained approval from above, and officially taken Jiang into custody.”

“Have there been any new evidence or breakthroughs?” Chen asked, apparently surprised at how quickly Internal Security was moving the case along.

“No, not any I'm aware of. From what I just learned from the head of our local team, the case has been attracting a lot of attention internationally; the longer it drags on, the more damage it could do to the government's image. So people from above gave the green light to Internal Security's plan. I don't like it. If this is how it's going to work, then what the hell are we cops for?”

“I don't like it either,” Chen said, putting down the chopsticks even though he hadn't finished his noodles. “Can you me get a copy of Jiang's statement regarding his argument with Liu?”

“Yes. He insisted that he hadn't talked to or met with Liu for months. I'll get you a copy.”

“Also, can you get a copy of the phone records for the company? Particularly the general manager's office, if that's available.”

Huang wasn't sure he was following Chen's thinking. He had assumed the scenario in which Mrs. Liu murdered her husband was beneath Chen's approach, his examination of the crime scene, and the questions he asked at the company.

Perhaps Chen had another objective in mind, Huang mused. Maybe he wanted to rule out the possibility of Jiang's being the murderer.

But was it too late? The “approval from above” that Internal Security had received sounded ominous. A chief inspector on vacation, no matter how well connected, could hardly match that. Perhaps that was what made Chen a different kind of cop—persistence. Chen plodded on, conscientiously, if circumspectly, in his own way.

“But Internal Security is ready to conclude the case in the interests of the Party. It'll be over in just a matter of days, I'm afraid,” Huang said, broodingly. “Not that I'm not willing to confront them if we could obtain any real evidence or witnesses, and with you at my side—”

He broke off his sentence, however, at the sight of Shanshan walking into the canteen and striding over toward them.

“Oh, you're here, Chen!” Shanshan said, fixing her stare on him, “and along with Officer—”

Her face showed surprise, which was quickly turning to something like anger.

There was surprise on Chen's face too, though perhaps for a different reason.

“This is Shanshan, my friend. And this is Officer Huang.” Chen rose and made a hurried introduction, which wasn't necessary for either of them. “He is a fan, having read every one of my mystery translations.”

The second part of the introduction was meant for her benefit, Huang realized. He wondered whether she would buy that explanation, but he picked up on the cue not to reveal that Chen was a cop.

“Mr. Chen is truly a master. I've read all the books he's translated. He's also a poet, you know, and that makes a huge difference in his translations. The language is superb.”

“You seem to know your fans among the police very well, Master Chen,” she said, with undisguised sarcasm. “Or is this another ‘chance' meeting?”

“I think I have to leave now, Mr. Chen,” Huang said, rising. “You may call me any time.”

“No, stay, Officer, and please continue discussing your important police work,” she said. “I'm leaving.”

They watched her retreat from the canteen in a hurry.

“I have some explanations to make, I think,” Chen said, rising and smiling a bitter smile.

“Catch up with her,” Huang said. “We'll talk later.”

All of a sudden, the legendary chief inspector looked defeated and crestfallen, not that legendary after all.

TWELVE

CHEN DIDN'T CATCH SIGHT
of Shanshan when he hit the street after hurrying out of the chemical company. She must have turned at the intersection, but in which direction, he had no idea. She had walked away fast, in a state of high dudgeon.

Her reaction wasn't beyond comprehension. She'd asked him about his connection to the police officer who had released her, a question he'd parried, keeping his real identity a secret.

But he had his reasons for doing so, at least during the course of the investigation.

He turned onto a small road, which he thought might lead to the center. He was pondering what he had just learned from so many different sources. He had to sort out the information.

Then he saw her walking in front of him.

“Shanshan,” he said, breaking into a run. “Let me explain.”

“You're horrible,” she said without slowing her steps. “Officer Huang listened to you so reverentially, nodding all the time like a puppet. Do you still want to tell me that you met him by chance in a barbershop?”

“I owe you an apology,” he said, deciding to reveal his connections, if not his identity. “I have connections with the police here. That's not something I really want to show off, or talk to you about, but in today's China, you can't do anything without connections. You know that.”

“You don't have to waste your breath explaining anything,” she said, walking on with her head down. “I'm surprised that a master of connections like you actually has time for me.”

“You don't have to say that, Shanshan. As for Sergeant Huang, he happens to be a fan of the mysteries I've translated. That part is absolutely true, and that's the reason he calls me a master. As a matter of fact, I didn't know Huang before this vacation. After meeting you, however, I thought I had to establish and develop the connection here.”

“You're full of connections, both old and new, as you've already told me,” she said, with a distrustful edge still in her voice. “What do you want from me?” She seemed to be gradually recovering from her initial shock.

“We need to talk, Shanshan. Let me tell you something I've just learned from Huang. According to him, things are getting uglier for Jiang.”

“How?”

“He'll be convicted of murder in Liu's case.” He resumed after a pause, “I don't know Jiang from Adam. Whatever happens to him, it's not my business. But it involves you. That was why I had to tell you that it was a chance meeting between me and Huang. Because it wouldn't do anyone any good to reveal such a connection. Especially at this juncture.”

They must have walked for some distance without paying attention to the direction. At an intersection ahead, another turn brought them to the beginning of the small, quaint road that lead back to the center.

She slowed down before finally coming to a halt, hesitant as to whether to walk any further with him. This was the only road in the city of Wuxi that was familiar to him. He remembered some of the tourist attraction signs he had seen.

“There's a pavilion, I think, halfway up the hill. It should be a quiet place to talk.”

She followed him without saying anything. They started up the steps, which were half-covered in moss and weeds.

To their left, the flat surface of the rock cliff had lines engraved in red- or black-painted characters left by people years earlier. Among them was a couplet by Qian Qianyi, a Qing-dynasty minister who had first served in the Ming dynasty. The couplet was partially blocked out by “Long March,” one of Mao's poems, which had been carved by Red Guards during the Cultural Revolution. Beneath Mao's poem, a young couple had recently chiseled out a romantic pledge, with their names carved under a red heart. Perhaps they believed their names would last forever this way.

The trail, winding between clumps of larches and ferns, became rugged, slippery, even treacherous in places, with the stone steps in bad repair. Fortunately, as they labored up the trail in the heat, a breeze occasionally found its way through the groves of small spruce.

An old, ramshackle pavilion came into view. It had a yellow-glazed tile roof supported by vermilion posts, and the posts were set into curved wooden benches with exquisite lattice railings above. Chen was momentarily confused by a sense of déjà vu. Which was odd. It was nothing like the dilapidated pavilion overlooking the lake and its turtle-head rock in Yuantouzhu.

Shanshan sat down, leaning sideways against the post, fanning herself with a newspaper that she pulled out of her pocket. He sat down beside her, his arm stretched out onto the railing.

In the trees behind them, small birds chirped. Among the trees, there was an ancient stump surrounded by an abundance of yellowish weeds and a flattened white fungus across the top.

“I'm afraid Jiang will be charged and convicted,” Chen started, “in a couple of days.”

“How could that possibly be?” she demanded. “They don't have a shred of evidence.”

“They think they have. And that's what matters. They aren't ordinary cops, you know. They are Internal Security.”

“But why?”

“It's the politics behind the case, Shanshan,” he said carefully. “Jiang is a troublemaker, not only in Wuxi, but to the people high above in Beijing too.”

“Because of the environmental issues he brings up,” she said. “I guess you do know everything.”

“Once he is sentenced, it will be impossible for anyone to turn the situation around—whatever their connections. I know hardly anything about Jiang, so I'm in no position to speak for him. That's why I really need to talk to you.”

“I understand, Chen. Sorry that I was too upset to listen.”

“You don't have to apologize for anything.”

They didn't speak for several minutes.

He shook a cigarette out of his pack. For once, he didn't ask for her permission, just lit it. The distant sky was dappled with white clouds like lost sails, purposelessly moving, torn at the edges.

“I'm trying to help, Shanshan,” he repeated. “Please tell me what you know about Jiang.”

She sat unresponsive, statuelike. The hills behind them were spread out like a traditional landscape scroll.

“Only by clearing Jiang,” he went on in earnest, “can I hope to help you and get you out of trouble.”

“I don't know how you can help,” she said softly, but she started to tell him what she knew.

“Jiang had started as an entrepreneur in Wuxi in the late eighties. Having made a small fortune for himself in the early waves of China's economic reform, he began to take note of the deteriorating environment in the area. A native of Wuxi, he had grown up by the lake, so he took it as his responsibility to draw attention to the issue. Initially, his efforts were not without support, and he had limited success. The media mentioned him as a fighter for the environment, and he even appeared on provincial TV and radio programs. With his firsthand knowledge about the problems with local industry, and by talking and writing about them, he was able to get several local factories to mend their ways—at least to some extent.