Shanghai Redemption

by Qiu Xiaolong

  Was Kai the one working against Chen behind the scenes?

  But despite the failure of the raid, it didn’t make sense for her to continue putting pressure on Shen. After all, Chen would never step back into that nightclub.

  By why did Shen call Kai a bitch when he was talking to White Cloud?

  And what about the sudden shift of topic—when Shen went from talking about Kai to bringing up the dead American? Was there some unseen connection? It wasn’t simply that the American died in the nightclub or not. Kai didn’t have any reason to be concerned about that.

  The death of the American was also mentioned at the ernai café. Chen recalled hearing a fragmented sentence on the tape about “the death of a laowai”—a “foreigner.” Some of the ernai’s men were high-ranking officials, and the ernai might have heard something from them.

  He got up, made himself a cup of coffee, and started surfing the Internet again, this time focusing on Kai. But, after a half hour of searching, all he could find was a short bio of her.

  Kai was born into the family of red generals. After graduating from Beijing University, she started her own law firm. Her marriage to Lai was believed to be a “red alliance.” As a capable attorney, she won a number of major cases, including high-profile international ones. Her practice expanded rapidly, establishing branch offices in several large cities. When Lai was appointed Shanghai Party Secretary, Kai was then referred to as the “First Attorney,” her firm ranking as the top in the city, and also as the “First Lady,” because of her marriage to Lai. But shortly after he became First Party Secretary, Lai made a surprising announcement: Kai had resigned from her firm to avoid any appearance of conflict of interest due to his official position. After that, she seemed to have faded from public view.

  To the best of his knowledge, Chen hadn’t been involved in any investigations related to her law firm.

  Perhaps all of this was just a red herring. He couldn’t afford to waste any more time looking in a direction that might have nothing to do with his crisis.

  He broke out into a cold sweat, soaking his shirt. He felt weak. Staring at the cup of coffee he’d made, he decided against drinking it.

  Perhaps a good Chinese breakfast could help. He had eaten so little the previous day.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, he was walking up the stairs to the second floor of Cai’s Noodles.

  The waitress recognized him, meeting him at the landing of the staircase. “Morning, sir. Are you alone today?”

  “Yes, it’s just me this morning.”

  He’d eaten here with Qian just the other day. He didn’t see her case as particularly urgent or relevant to his own troubles, though Old Hunter had already started working on it. She had, however, alerted him to the connections between the nightclub and Kai.

  “You know how to appreciate noodles,” the waitress said. “Is there any particular table you’d like?”

  “Could I have the same table by the window?”

  Sitting by the window, he checked his cell phone and found that he’d missed a call from Old Hunter last night. Perhaps it was about some new pictures taken by the errand boy, which would be something he could show Qian. He wondered whether she’d been able to ferret out more about the nightclub or had learned anything else that she could share.

  “Good choice. The section is quiet this morning.” The waitress came back with a menu. “Today’s special is organic rice paddy eels. Mr. Cai has several acres of rice paddies where the eels are raised. We guarantee that the rice paddies are pesticide free, and the eels are raised without hormones or antibiotics.”

  Chen was struck with a feeling of déjà vu. The waitress had recommended almost the same special the other day, but then she couldn’t be expected to remember what each customer had ordered.

  “Fine,” Chen said. “I’ll take the rice paddy eels. I’ll have them wok-fried with chopped green onion as a separate cross-bridge dish, as well an order of noodles with stewed pork, and a bowl of white soup.”

  “May I recommend a seasonal topping of sliced pork, bamboo, and pickled cabbage? I think you’ll find it has a surprisingly fresh and delicious taste.”

  “Very well, I’ll take your recommendation.”

  “The chef will start deboning the eels, and once he’s done, it’ll take a short while to cook them in the traditional way. If you’d like, the noodles can be served first, while you wait. The noodles will be from the first pot of the day.”

  “Thank you—that’s very thoughtful.”

  As before, two tiny saucers of peanuts and pickles were placed on the table, along with a pot of green tea as well. Sipping at the tea, Chen thought of Qian. He considered calling her, and he pulled out his cell phone. But it was too early to call, so he put it away again.

  That impossible romantic. That’s what Peiqin had said about him, jokingly.

  The noodles were brought out, and the topping of sliced pork, bamboo, and pickled cabbage was as delicious as the waitress had promised.

  When he was only halfway through the noodles, the rice paddy eels arrived. “Sizzling oil style,” the waitress said, strewing a handful of green onion on top of the fried eels before pouring hot sesame oil over the dish.

  “That’s the way to serve eel,” he said approvingly.

  The fried eel surpassed even his most optimistic expectations. He’d become so used to the hormone-injected eel that was found in Shanghai that he must have forgotten how good fresh, traditional eel could taste. He decided to take his time savoring the organic delicacy.

  After he finished, Chen felt completely recharged. He paid the tab, leaving a small tip just like the last time. Outside, on Ten Perfections Street, he made a left turn and stepped into the public phone booth at the intersection to make a call.

  “Who is it?” A male Beijing-accented voice answered on the first ring. “Qian’s not home.”

  Chen was nonplussed. Qian had told him that she lived alone. But he couldn’t rule out her having a visitor—someone on intimate enough terms that he felt he could answer her cell phone.

  “I’m just a friend of hers,” he said.

  “What’s your name?”

  That was a good question. Even Qian herself didn’t know his real name.

  “I had noodles with her just the other day. She knows me.”

  “What’s your phone number?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing important. I just want to say hi,” he said. “Who are you?”

  “I’m … her father. She mentioned you. You met just the other day. She said you like Suzhou noodles.”

  Something was amiss. Qian’s parents had supposedly refused to set foot into her apartment ever since learning about Sima. Of course, they might have reconciled with their daughter, but it was unlikely that she would have told her father about the private investigator she’d engaged to gather evidence against her man back in Shanghai.

  “You’re from Shanghai, aren’t you, Mr. Cao? You can leave your message with me. I’ll give it to her as soon as possible. I’ve got your cell phone number right here.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll just call back.”

  He hung up without waiting for any further response from the other end. Something was terribly wrong. He stepped out of the phone booth and walked away briskly, shaken by a deep sense of foreboding.

  He didn’t know what to do about this disturbing situation. His mind was completely blank.

  He thought he might as well take a short walk, since walking sometimes helped him think. As he walked along Ten Perfections Street, he passed by a local candy shop, which was selling sweet sesame cakes, another favorite from his childhood. Not far away, a rickshaw driver was hawking his services, waving a tourist map in one hand, and a little further down the street, an elderly peddler was displaying colorful paper pinwheels in a holder that looked like a long-handled feather duster.

  Chen was in no mood for any of them, nor did his thinking get any clearer as he walked along the busy stree
t. So he gave up and hurried back to his hotel.

  Up in his room, he drew himself a bath. Traditionally, a hot bath was how a gourmet would follow up an excellent meal, letting the body relax as the food digested. But Chen had something else in mind. Still at a loss for what to do, he was hoping the hot water would jump-start his brain.

  Unsure if he was under close surveillance, he put the CD Qian gave him into a player in the bathroom, to give the impression he was truly indulging himself.

  From the speakers, Qian’s soft, sweet voice poured out like rippling water.

  Myriads of maple leaves / upon myriads of maple leaves / silhouetted against the bridge, / a few sails return late in the dusk. // How do I miss you? // My thoughts run like / the water in the West River, / flowing eastward, never ending, / day and night.

  It was a poem written by the Tang courtesan Yu Xuanji. Her social status in the ninth century was pretty close to the present-day ernai. She got involved in a murder case, quite possibly a crime of passion, and was executed. Centuries later, the Dutch mystery writer Robert van Gulik wrote a novel called Poets and Murder based on the story. But Chen didn’t think van Gulik really appreciated her poetry.

  Chen pulled his thoughts back to the present. Who could the man that picked up her cell phone have been? It wasn’t her father, not with that strong Beijing accent, and it wasn’t Sima, whom Chen would have recognized immediately. Was it possible that Qian had talked about Cao, the private detective, to some other man in her life? It seemed unlikely.

  The only other conclusion was that the calls made from or to her cell phone were being tapped.

  The man said he had Chen’s phone number. His special cell number? He had only given it out to a few: Old Hunter, Peiqin, White Cloud, and Qian.

  Panic-stricken, he went over all the calls he’d made and received in the past few days. He had made a point of calling from public phones. Old Hunter was experienced: in spite of the new SIM card, he dialed from public phones. Peiqin had only called him once, and that was to tell him about the ransacking of his mother’s room and her subsequent admission to the hospital. Ultimately, it was a phone call that didn’t really matter, not to anyone who might be listening in, anyway. White Cloud had, as instructed, called him from a public phone, and the only other time they’d spoken on the phone was when he was at her apartment and she had called him there, at her own home number. That left only Qian who called him on his cell the other day, a call that was quite possibly incriminating.

  Even though his replacement SIM card wasn’t registered to his name, it was only a matter of time before the “phone police” managed to trace one of his calls to this number. From there, it probably wouldn’t be too difficult to trace any incoming calls.

  He jumped out of the tub, dried himself in a hurry, dressed and quickly left the hotel.

  He would have to change his phone number again and then let his Shanghai contacts know about the new number in person. It was too risky to call them from his old number.

  That meant making another trip back to Shanghai.

  But before he left, he had to try to find more out about what was going on with Qian.

  She said she lived in an area close to the Temple Market. That was about all he knew, but even if she’d given him her address, it wouldn’t be a good idea for him to go there and ring her doorbell.

  At a newsstand on Ten Perfections Street, he bought several new SIM cards, and then stepped into another public phone booth and dialed her cell phone number.

  “Who is it?”

  It was the same Beijing-accented voice that had answered her cell phone the last time. Chen hung up.

  SEVENTEEN

  IT WAS GOING TO be another busy day, Yu thought, when he woke up.

  It was still quite early when he heard Peiqin slip out of the room lightfootedly. Her long-standing morning routine was to get to the food market before six a.m., and then back home to prepare the breakfast for the family. Lately, though, she hadn’t been getting up that early, what with Qinqin staying at his college dorm during the week, and her going to bed later, after staying up surfing the Internet.

  The moment she closed the door, he sat up and reached for the case files. Taking out a pack of cigarettes, he hesitated, but then lit one. He started reading over the files yet again.

  About six twenty, Peiqin came back with a basketful of vegetables, fish, and a live chicken.

  “Is someone coming for dinner?” he asked, quickly moving the ashtray out of sight.

  “No, it’s for Chen’s mother. She’s checking out of hospital today. So I’m cooking something for her.”

  “That’s a good idea. How is she doing? You didn’t tell me much about how she’s coping.”

  “There’s nothing really wrong with her, but she was badly scared. She’s a frail old woman, and the doctor is concerned. He’s not sure her heart could stand that kind of shock again.”

  “That worries me too. Whoever is after Chen will not let him go so easily.”

  “Then whatever happens next, no one can tell,” she said, taking a plastic container out of the basket. “Oh, I almost forget. I also bought soy milk for you, fresh from the market. Drink it. And the earthen oven cake too. Eat it while it’s still hot.”

  He took a bite of the cake. “Another question. You’ve been spending a lot of time online. Have you found anything special?”

  “About your boss?”

  “Or anything related to Chen, even remotely related.”

  “Well, I haven’t seen much about the police department, but there seems to be a lot of chatter about Red Prince Lai and his campaign of red revolutionary songs,” she said, perching herself at the edge of the bed and breathing into the cup of soy milk in her hand. “You know I’m not interested in politics, but those red songs give me goosebumps. I remember how, during the Cultural Revolution, I trembled, along with my black parents, the moment those red songs started blaring from the street loudspeakers. Are we really going back to those days?”

  “I doubt it. I don’t think people are interested in going back to those years.”

  “But Lai is on the rise. He’s the head of the red princelings. With his ever-increasing band of followers, it seems that he’s on his way to the very top. There are rumors and stories about power struggles in the Forbidden City,” she went on, sipping at her soy milk. “For instance, there’s an article online about Lai’s son, and with it is a picture of him, clearly drunk, standing with the American ambassador’s daughter. The caption on the photo is, ‘A red prince of the third generation.’ The article seems to reveal a lot about his behavior at college, an expensive American Ivy League college, and how he’s spending money like water. As for how they can afford to send him to such an expensive university, Lai has told contradictory stories. On one occasion, Lai said his son was able to enroll because he was awarded a scholarship, and on another, he declared that they were able to pay the expensive tuition with his wife’s savings, money she earned as a most brilliant lawyer. Even though she publicly resigned, she’s rumored to be still in control of the law firm. She was initially nicknamed ‘the First Lawyer,’ and now that she’s resigned from her firm, they call her ‘the First Lady.’”

  “The First Lady—” Yu cut in. He’d heard that before, but referring to her that way publicly was taboo in China’s politics. That title was reserved for the wife of the Party’s general secretary, the number one. “But what does all that have to do with Chen?”

  “It’s about making sure all the prince’s men are lined up behind him. That’s an absolute necessity in China’s politics. Is Chen one of Lai’s men? Hardly, and if he’s not, how can Lai allow Chen to remain in such a crucial position? He can’t. He can’t afford anyone who isn’t completely loyal. The Party congress scheduled for the end of the year is Lai’s big opportunity, and there’s not even the slightest chance he’ll risk letting anyone spoil that for him.”

  Peiqin knew what she was talking about. However, it was one thing t
o remove Chen from his crucial position in the police department, and it was another to go after him relentlessly, determined to publicly destroy him. Events were coming to a crucial juncture, with the Party congress coming up, and such a move against Chen could backfire. Chen had been a popular chief inspector, having conducted a number of high profile anticorruption investigations.

  “There’s also one post about your new position,” she said. “It’s in relation to your investigation of the Liang case.”

  “What about it?”

  “Commenters have proposed a lot of different interpretations, speculating about what really happened to Liang. Generally, they believe that Liang was caught off guard but that he had been preparing for his exit, securing a passport or even several of them, a long time ago. So as soon as the Internet started buzzing about him, posting evidence of his corruption, he fled.”

  “But there’s no record of him leaving the country.”

  “He could have sneaked out under another name, with a false passport, or he could be in hiding somewhere in the country. With all the money that he’s hoarded away, it wouldn’t be difficult for him to lie low for a while and then, when the time is right, stage a comeback.”

  “You’re right, Peiqin,” he said, finishing the cake. “But I think I have to leave early this morning. There are so many pending cases that the squad is investigating.”

  “You go ahead. After I finish preparing the dishes for Chen’s mother, I’ll go see her at the hospital, and then I’ll leave for the restaurant around noon.”

  Yu didn’t explain what he was going to be working on that day. Yesterday, Party Secretary Li had initiated another talk with him, asking questions about the squad’s work, focusing on the progress of the Liang case. Li seemed anxious for Yu to declare it a “cold case.” In other words, a case that wasn’t yet resolved, but one on which there was no more productive work to be done.

  Yu called Xiao Yang, a young officer in the squad, telling him that he had to take care of something and would be in later. After hanging up, he headed to the subway entrance near Huangpi Road.