A Case of Two Cities

Director Dong. Not in that circle anymore.”
     
    “Director Dong—any new development?”
     
    “Not yet,” Chen said. “I’ll keep you posted.”
     
    * * * *
     
    For quite a long while afterward, Chen remained upset with the news. Why should Party Secretary Li have trumpeted his investigation like that? It was putting him on the grill of public attention. Not to mention the political.
     
    He made a few more calls for interview appointments.
     
    An still didn’t call. Chen gazed at the scroll and lit a cigarette. The ashtray was already full. It was shaped like a shell, as if trying to catch a message from the distant oceans. He was seized with a portentous feeling. She should have touched base with him, progress or not. So he called her. No one answered. Neither in her office, nor at her home.
     
    Around six o’clock, he opened a can of Qingdao beer with a pop, and again dialed her home number. It was answered by an unfriendly, unfamiliar male voice.
     
    “Who are you?”
     
    “Oh, I’m a friend of hers,” Chen answered. It was not her husband Han, that much Chen could tell immediately.
     
    “A friend of hers—” the man said. “What’s your name?”
     
    Chen wondered whether it could be someone she was seeing—possibly none other than Jiang. But the way the man asked the question was ridiculous. Whoever Chen was, the man had no reason to be jealous. An was probably not at home, otherwise she would not have permitted another to talk like this.
     
    “What’s that to you?” Chen said, ready to hang up. “I’ll call back later.”
     
    “Don’t hang up, man. It’s useless. I’ve got your number.”
     
    That was strange. Caller ID was still something rare in the city. She might have it at home, but what could the man do? Chen took a gulp of the cold beer and said, “What do you mean?”
     
    “Tell me who you are, and your identification card number too, or we’ll find out, and then it will be big trouble for you.”
     
    “Are you a cop?”
     
    “What the hell do you think I am?”
     
    “What do you think I am?” Chen snapped.
     
    “Listen”—the man at the other end of the line raised his voice—”I am Sergeant Kuang of the Shanghai Police Bureau.”
     
    “Listen—I am Chief Inspector Chen Cao of the Shanghai Police Bureau.”
     
    “What—oh, I am so sorry, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen. It’s like the flood washing away the Temple of the Dragon King.”
     
    “What has happened, Kuang?”
     
    “An Jiayi was killed early this morning.”
     
    “What?” Chen was stunned. “So you are there in charge of the homicide case?”
     
    “Yes. I’ve just arrived.”
     
    “Where was her body found?”
     
    “At home. She was supposed to appear at the TV station in the afternoon, but she did not turn up. People called everywhere, without success. She had never missed a show before. According to the secretary at her PR company, An complained about not feeling so well the last few days. So the station sent someone over to her home, and they discovered her body.
     
    “Don’t move the body or do anything,” Chen said. “I’m on my way.”
     
    “I won’t. Celebrity cases can be too tough for our ordinary homicide squad.”
     
    Chen detected the sarcasm in the response. Kuang wasn’t eager for his cooperation. Every now and then, Chen’s special case squad had to take over the politically sensational cases—which was not pleasant for him. Still, such a division of labor was far from pleasant for people in the homicide squad too, depriving them of the limelight as it did.
     
    The traffic was bad, as usual. Along Yen’an Road, the taxi simply crawled, like a disoriented ant. It had grown dark when the taxi finally arrived at the high-end apartment complex on Wuzhong Road. There were a couple of guards standing at the entrance. Apparently it was a secure, high-class neighborhood.
     
    The apartment building in question had already been roped off. A man in plainclothes standing near the entrance recognized the chief inspector, nodding vigorously, but Chen failed to place him.
     
    Kuang was waiting for Chen outside the apartment on the third floor, waving a newspaper like a fan. A short skinny man in his early thirties, Kuang had protruding eyes like a special kind of goldfish Chen had seen in his childhood.
     
    Chen went up and said, “Well?”
     
    “Doctor Xia has come and left,” Kuang said. “According to him, she was strangled to death early