A Case of Two Cities

you know, among old writers. So far, I have only published one poetry collection. That’s far from enough for a delegation head.”
     
    “Many writers are not always easy to get along with, but you are not exactly one of their circle. That should help. I don’t think the old writers will make things hard for you.”
     
    “Because of my law enforcement background?” Chen said alertly.
     
    “You don’t have to think that way. But now that you have mentioned it, I don’t think it will be hard for you to enforce discipline—if need be.”
     
    “To enforce discipline, indeed—”
     
    “This is an assignment you cannot say no to, Comrade Chen Cao. It’s in the interests of the Party.”
     
    “In the interests of the Party!” Chen ground out his cigarette in disgust, a gesture invisible to the chairman in Beijing.
     
    There was no immediate response from the other end of the line. Wang might be waiting for him to go on. A small commotion seemed to be breaking out in the street. He looked out to see a dog barking in a red convertible stuck in the traffic congestion. For the first time, the word pet had become a reality in Chinese life. He had never before seen such a scene except in American movies.
     
    “As you may or may not know,” Chen went on, “I’m engaged with a special investigation under the Party Discipline Committee.”
     
    “We know. We’ve talked to several leading comrades here.”
     
    “Oh, you have?” Chen said, not really surprised. For such an assignment, his background check might have been made by the very committee.
     
    “They all have a high opinion of your work. Your temporary assignment is only for a couple of weeks, so they think it will not be a problem. By the way, Comrade Zhao Yan has left for Shanghai.”
     
    “Really. Do you know why?”
     
    “No, I don’t. Old comrades like Zhao usually go somewhere else in the summer. He will probably contact you too, I think.”
     
    “I see,” he said, coming to the realization that it would be futile to argue any more. “I’ll call you back, Chairman Wang.”
     
    Long after the phone conversation was over, he could not brush aside a feeling of uneasiness.
     
    Could it really be a coincidence?
     
    As a cop, he didn’t think so. But he didn’t think that Jiang could have orchestrated such a surprising move only one night after their talk. Besides, what was the point? Chief Inspector Chen would be back.
     
    * * * *
     

10
     
     
    W
    HEN HE ARRIVED AT the bureau office, the documents for the writers’ delegation had already been delivered there. Things could be efficient in China when the Beijing government gave the order directly. On top of the stack was a camera-ready copy of his business card for his approval:
     

     
    Whoever had designed the card knew better than to list his police position. Chen crossed out the third line. For the coming trip, he was supposed to be a writer, not a politician. The phone number was that of the Writers’ Association, Shanghai Office, which was not unacceptable. He went there from time to time.
     
    Then he dialed Jiang’s office. Jiang was not there. According to his secretary, Jiang was having an important meeting in Nanhui for the day. He did not have a cell phone, which was hard to believe, but the secretary said he might call in during lunchtime.
     
    Chen then dialed Sergeant Kuang, who hadn’t made a report to him, but it wasn’t really something officially requested. After all, An’s death wasn’t assigned to the special case squad.
     
    Presently a large envelope came through the bureau mail. It was from Kuang, containing a transcript of An’s phone calls for the last three days. Sending it instead of bringing it to Chen’s office in person was perhaps Kuang’s way of showing Chen the reluctance of his respect. Chen began reading the transcript at once. Over the last three days, An had made six phone calls. Three to her son’s school. One to her company assistant. Two to someone in the city government about a possible cultural festival. Not a single call was remotely related to Ming, or to Xing.
     
    Was it possible that something had been deleted from the records? Chen didn’t think so. There was also a short note in the envelope, saying that Kuang had been making a list of the people she had met in the last few days. The list could be a long one. It had obviously not been traced as far back as Chen yet, but it would be, eventually.
     
    He tried