He sounds a little friendlier than I expected. At least he’s making an effort to put on a decent act.
Betty, on the other hand, looks startled and wary. She blinks a few times. Like maybe I’m this hallucination that she hopes will vanish.
“Hi, Betty,” I say. “Hao jiu bujian.” Long time no see.
She nods, too quickly.
“I’m happy you could come down,” Gugu says. “And sorry that we haven’t yet had a serious talk about my father’s museum.”
Well, this is a first—I think Gugu is actually sober.
“Maybe on this trip,” I say. “Later, when you’re not so busy.”
He nods. “Yes. After we finish filming for the day, we can discuss.”
I wonder, does he know about Celine? I mean, assuming he didn’t kill her, does he know that she’s dead? Do any of them?
“Hey, Guwei!” One of the crew, a young guy with a shaved head, pierced ears, and a visible tat on his forearm, jogs over. “You yige xiao wenti,” he says, leaning over the chair—there’s a small problem. He goes on about something involving an actress and a location that I can’t quite make out.
Betty sidesteps away from Gugu, then turns and double-times it down the fake Qing street, away from Gugu’s set.
Whenever people want to get away from me, I figure they know something they’d rather I didn’t find out about.
“Hey, I’ll get out of your way and let you do your work,” I say to Gugu. “Looking forward to catching up later.”
He nods, distracted, and turns back to his conversation.
I take off after Betty.
So here’s a big problem with me playing Nancy Drew: just about anybody who’s in decent shape with two good legs can run faster than me.
Not that Betty’s running, exactly. But she’s walking really fast, and I almost lose her in a crowd of costumed extras heading up the street. Luckily, the rhinestone trucker cap stands out in a crowd of Qing-dynasty peasants hauling baskets and carry poles across their shoulders.
I make my way through the extras, up the street, and see Betty take a turn down an alley to the right.
“Hey!” I call out. “Deng yihuir!” I’m jogging now, my chest already burning from the smog. “I need to talk to you. About Celine.”
I see her at the end of the alley. She half turns, pauses, her eyes wide with an emotion I can’t read—fear? grief?—and for a moment I think she’s actually going to talk to me.
Instead she pivots and takes off.
I almost throw in the towel right there. Because I can catch up with her later, right? But I don’t. Because … I don’t know, I’m pissed off. I’m tired of not having any answers, and I don’t want to wait anymore.
Besides, now I see she’s wearing these stupid platform versions of Chuck Taylors, and that means she can’t run all that much faster than I can.
The alley leads into another village street, this one with a temple and a teahouse and a sign for something called the “Ningbo Cathouse.” Old Shanghai cigarette ads are pasted up on the walls. Maybe we’re out of the Qing dynasty now? There’s a little production set up here, nowhere near the scale of Gugu’s, just a single camera and a diffuser and two actors, a young guy lying on the ground with a bloody shirt and a girl cradling his head in her lap, weeping. A small group of tourists in matching baseball caps stand around, watching the scene. No one pays any attention as I jog past after Betty. Maybe it was a rehearsal.
I see her circle the temple, running awkwardly in her goofy platform sneakers. My leg is cramping up, my daypack’s bouncing against my back, and my lungs are screaming for some breathable air, but I am catching up to her, and I am not giving up.
I reach the back of the temple. There’s Betty not too far ahead, going down a street flanked by a low grey wall on the left and an artificial lake on the right. Across the lake I see a giant hot-air balloon. Don’t ask me what dynasty that’s supposed to be from.
Up ahead, the path we’re on dead-ends into another wall, a taller one this time, like maybe we’ve reached the rear of the lot, a road running along in a T intersection, one way along the “lake,” the other heading back into the sets.
I am so close now. “Hey, I just want to talk to you!” I gasp as she starts to turn left, toward the sets. She totters a bit on an uneven flagstone, and I think, I am going to catch her, and she’s going to talk to me, and I’m going to get some answers, finally.
That’s when one of those bicycle carts wobbles down the road from the opposite direction, the two teenagers driving it giggling and swerving and taking selfies, and I have to throw out my arms to keep from running into it, and my palms bang into the frame, sending shock waves up to my elbows.
“Fuck!”
“Duibuqi, buhao yisi,” one of them says, looking like she’s actually sorry, while the other giggles with her hand over her mouth.
“Mei shi,” I manage. It’s not important.
I steady myself, take a deep breath, cough a few times, and hobble off.
Up ahead there’s a big signboard with arrows pointing in all different directions: IMPERIAL PALACE, PRINCE’S GARDEN, MING STREET, OLD GUANGZHOU. No sign of Betty.
“Shit,” I mutter. If I had something to throw, I’d throw it.
But I’ve got time. She’s here with Gugu. Where’s she going to go?
She can’t run forever.
CHAPTER TWENTY
★
I TAKE ADVANTAGE of the walk back to Gugu’s set to call John. He picks up on the third ring.
“You are okay?” he asks.
“Fine. You?”
“Xing.” Good enough.
“Did you find out anything about who killed anybody?” I mean, I’m not picky at this point.
“A little. The girl, the second one, she died from some drug. Baifen.”
“Heroin?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“What about Inspector Zou? Have you seen him?”
A pause. “It is complicated.”
“Complicated, how?”
A longer pause.
“I think maybe Yang Junmin interferes with the case.”
I feel a prickle of cold sweat. Not that it’s a surprise. You’d expect a guy with his clout to try to control the investigation.
That’s not the part that’s got my heart thumping hard right now.
“Did you go to see Zou? Does he know who you are?”
Because you also have to figure that Uncle Yang’s keeping a close eye on things. That anyone coming around asking about the case is going to get noticed.
“No. I have some contacts in Beijing PSB. They cannot say who. Only they hear Zou Qishi no longer controls the investigation.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“I mean, that you didn’t see Zou.”
“I will speak to him when it’s time.”
I shouldn’t have to lay it out for him. If anyone knows this stuff, he does. But he’s the one who blew everything up that night at dinner, when he met Yang Junmin.
“John, look … you need to stay away from this.”
A snort. “That is a funny thing for you to say.”
“Yeah, hilarious. Okay, I don’t know what faction is what and who’s fighting who, or any of that. But I do know this guy’s a da motou, that there’s a leadership transition coming up, and if he finds out you’re with the DSD? That’s not stirring the pot, that’s throwing dynamite in a firecracker factory. Do you want that kind of shitstorm coming down on your head?”
Another pause.
“Not yet. I have to first line up the ducks.”
This just gets more awesome by the minute.
I recap in my head as I limp up the Qing Village street toward Gugu’s production.
John is on some crazy crusade to bring down Yang Junmin. Why, I don’t know, and I’m not sure I really care. What I do care about is my ass, and though he swore on a stack of Little Red Books that he’s going to fix my PSB problem, and
I think he believes that he means it, the shit John’s stirring up could swamp both of us.
I’m going to have to handle this on my own somehow.
I look at it this way: Sidney asked me to investigate his kids. To find out if any of them are involved in a murder.
Sidney’s a powerful guy, and even if he can’t control Uncle Yang, he might have the pull to get me off the PSB’s list of convenient suspects.
So I’m doing what Sidney asked me to do. I’ll try to figure it out. If I do what he wants, then the way I look at it is, he owes me.
Okay, he’s sort of holding my mom as a hostage, and that was a total dick move. Or maybe he’s keeping her safe from Uncle Yang. I’m guessing it’s a combination of both.
But knowing Sidney, either way, if I help him, I think he’d be willing to do me the favor.
Speaking of.
I swap SIM cards and call him.
“We have a wonderful time! First today we golf.”
“Golf?” I don’t think my mom has ever played golf.
“Yes. Her friend likes to golf. Your mother give it a good try. It was very much fun. Tonight we can sing some karaoke and watch movies. My home theater is very nice.”
“That’s … great. Listen, I just want you to know, I’m with Gugu and Meimei now. So I’m doing what you asked me to do. Spending time with them.”
“What have you learned?”
Don’t snark at the homicidal billionaire kidnapper, I tell myself. “I just got here,” I say. “I’ll call you as soon as I find out something important.”
“What about Tiantian? Will you see him?”
“I, uh … yeah. I will. Soon.”
“Good.”
How I’m going to handle the whole Tiantian issue, I have no idea. I don’t want to go anywhere near him. Because with Tiantian comes his wife, Dao Ming. And with Dao Ming comes Uncle Yang.
My mom swears that everything’s fine. Golf was fun, “and tomorrow I guess we’re playing paintball.” She lowers her voice. “I think Sidney might be a little lonely.”
It’s possible, I guess. Though he could afford to buy himself as much company as he wants.
“How much longer do you think … ? I mean, we’re having a nice time and all, but …”
“Soon,” I tell her. “I just need to … line up the ducks.”
They’re shooting in a different place when I get back to the set, around the shops in the village street. The crew moves light stands and diffusers, checks makeup and wardrobe of the actors. I don’t see Marsh. Maybe he’s done being an evil imperialist for the day.
What I do see, up ahead in the “town square”: a parked black BMW sedan. Standing next to it is Tiantian.
I skid to a stop. Turn and walk as fast as I can without running until I reach the alley that goes alongside one of the “shops.” Turn the corner, hug the wall, and peek around it.
Tiantian’s talking to a guy with a clipboard. I look for Yang Junmin and Dao Ming, but I don’t see them.
I do see a guy by the driver’s side of the car: buzz cut, military vibe, plainclothes, doing a slow survey of the set.
I don’t know if he’s one of Uncle Yang’s helpers, but I can’t afford to assume that he isn’t. I scurry down the alley and then around a corner along the back side of the shops.
Now what?
I’m hiding out in one of the courtyards of the “Imperial Palace,” just inside a big hall with red columns and a gold-painted throne up on a dais, surrounded by carved screens, brass incense burners, and giant character signs. Tourists dressed in Qing costumes pose for photos—there are racks of costumes to the right of the throne and a small line of customers waiting to change and have their pictures taken.
Who narked me out to Tiantian? I figure his showing up here is no coincidence. I’m guessing Meimei—she’s the one who knew I was coming, who even made a joke about inviting Tiantian along.
But she might have called ahead. Marsh and Gugu didn’t seem surprised to see me. Either one of them could’ve called Tiantian.
If Tiantian’s brought Uncle Yang’s soldiers with him, there’s no way I can stay here.
But if I leave and I don’t have any answers for Sidney … that’s not going to go over very well.
Though I can’t exactly figure out what Sidney’s game is.
If I tell him that one of his kids is a murderer … what would he do with that information?
I watch a young guy slip a robe over his Paul Frank–branded jeans with the little monkey face on the back pocket.
Betty, I think. She knows something. If I can get her to tell me what it is, maybe that will be enough for Sidney.
I dig out my phone, the one I haven’t turned on since I left Uncle Yang’s place. I’m going to have to risk it to retrieve Betty’s number. I assume it’s been hacked, but I don’t really know what that means. If I turn it on, will he instantly know where I am?
If that’s one of his guys with Tiantian, then he already knows.
I turn it on, heart hammering as it boots up.
I grab a pen from my backpack and scribble the number on my palm.
Then I power off the phone and retrieve my backup. Punch in Betty’s number and text: THIS IS ELLIE. YOU CAN TALK TO ME OR YOU CAN TALK TO THE POLICE OR HOW ABOUT INTERNAL SECURITY? THEY’RE LOOKING INTO TIANTIAN’S PARTY. CALL ME OR I’LL GIVE THEM YOUR NAME.
A minute later she texts me back.
NOT SAFE TO TALK TO YOU.
YOU’RE NOT SAFE NOW, I type. LOOK WHAT HAPPENED TO CELINE.
I wait for a return text. For a minute, nothing. I think maybe she isn’t going to bite.
Then: WHAT HAPPENED?
YOU BETTER COME TALK TO ME, I type back.
I’m sitting on a bench outside the hall wearing a gold Qing-dynasty robe over my jeans and T-shirt and a hat with an embroidered band, dangly beads, and a crown that’s a cloud of wispy feathers when Betty shows up.
She’s looking around and not spotting me. Which is good, because I don’t want to be spotted. I might not look Chinese, but at least I look like a tourist.
“Hey.” I lift up my hand.
She does a little double take. Lifts her own hand to her mouth and almost giggles before I guess she remembers there’s some serious shit going on here.
She approaches the bench, her fingers clasped in front of her, her feet turned slightly inward, wobbling a bit on her platform Converse sneakers. Stands in front of me. I can see the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes, along the lower lids.
“You better sit down,” I tell her.
She does, on the bench next to me.
Now that she’s here, with her Ed Hardy baseball cap and skinny jeans and designer sequined T-shirt, I don’t know what to say. She looks like a kid. A little kid, on the verge of crying, her lower lip trembling. Like she knows she’s going to hear something bad, but she’s still hoping she’s wrong.
“Celine’s dead.” Because just get it over with. There’s nothing I can say that would make this news any better.
She squeezes her eyes shut and nods.
“They think it was heroin. Baifen,” I add. “Did she do drugs like that?”
Betty shakes her head, her eyes still squeezed shut. Then she says, “Maybe, sometimes. But not a lot.”
Well, that’s the way it goes with heroin, right? You don’t do it regularly, you don’t do it a lot, you encounter some good, relatively uncut shit, and you die.
“She died the night before last,” I say. “At a gallery in Caochangdi. Do you know anything about that?”
Betty gasps and chokes back a sob. Nods.
“You better tell me,” I say.
She looks around, like she’s making sure no one can hear us. There are a couple of other costumed tourists clowning around by a guardian-lion statue, taking pictures of each other. They aren’t paying any attention to us.
“Gugu and Marsh pick us up to go there,” she finally says. “Celine knows the owner. Sometimes she wo
rk there. We go because Gugu want to look at this new art. He say he want to learn about it. But he is already very tired.”
“Tired. You mean drunk?”
She hesitates and nods.
“What time?”
“Maybe ten.”
So after dinner. Yeah, Gugu was pretty drunk.
“Who else was there?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Some people. Like a little party.”
“So what happened?”
“We just … Gugu doesn’t want to stay. He is too tired. Celine and Marsh say they are having fun, so …” She sobs for real this time. “We just leave them there.”
Celine and Marsh.
She’s crying now. “I didn’t think … I didn’t think anything bad …”
“But something bad happened at Tiantian’s party. And you know about it.” Now I’m pissed off. “Come on, Betty. Don’t bullshit me.”
“I just … hear bad things,” she whispers.
What she tells me is this:
It got late. Most of the guests went home. A few men stayed. “They have girls for them,” Betty says.
“Where was this? Where in the siheyuanr?”
“I was in the front north house.”
The main house. Where the bigwigs were hanging out.
“I see a few of those men go across courtyard to that east house.”
Where Gugu was. Where I left Marsh.
“I want to leave, but I come with Gugu, and I don’t know where he is. If I can find Celine, I just leave. But I cannot find her. So I wait. Play games and watch video on my phone.”
“You were alone?”
She nods. “I think maybe I fall asleep for a while.” She squeezes her eyes shut. Shakes her head back and forth like she’s trying to shake the bad thoughts out of it.
I know how that goes.
“I hear screams,” she says, whispering again. “A girl’s screams. A man, shouting. He is angry.”
“Could you tell where it was coming from?”
“The back house, I think.”
Tiantian’s man cave.
“She keeps crying, but not so loud. She … she moans. Then I can’t hear her anymore.”
I have a sudden flash of those photos of the dead girl, of her battered, swollen face.
“Okay,” I say. “What happened next? What did you do?”
Dragon Day Page 22
