Death of a Red Heroine

high cheekbones, and large eyes, her hair in an unruly mass of tangles. The smooth flesh beneath her eyes was smudged with black shadow. She was wearing a paint-smeared coverall drawn in at the waist by a black leather belt, and standing barefoot.
    “Sorry to interrupt you at your work,” Yu said, quickly taking inventory and producing his I.D. “I want to ask you a few questions.”
    “The police?” She put her hand up to the door frame and studied him intently without making a gesture of invitation. There was a look of confident maturity about her. Her voice was deeply pitched, bearing the trace of a Henan accent.
    “Yes,” he said. “Can we talk inside?”
    “Am I under arrest?”
    “No.”
    “Do you have a warrant or something?”
    “No.”
    “If not, you’ve no right to push your way in here.”
    “Well, I’ve just a few questions, Comrade Jiang, about somebody you know. I cannot force you to talk, but your cooperation will be greatly appreciated.”
    “Then you cannot force me.”
    “Listen. Comrade Chief Inspector Chen Cao—you know him—is my boss. He suggested I come to you this way first. It is in our common interest.”
    “Chen Cao—why?”
    “The situation’s quite delicate, and you are well known. It would not be a good idea to draw publicity to you. Unpleasant publicity. Here’s a note from him.”
    “I’ve had plenty of publicity,” she said. “So why should I care?”
    But she took the note and read it. Then she frowned, standing with her head slightly bowed, gazing at her bare feet, which were spotted with paint. She must have been working.
    “You should have mentioned Chief Inspector Chen earlier. Come in.”
    The apartment was a studio but also served as a combination bedroom, dining room, and living room. Apparently she did not care much about the appearance of her room. Pictures, newspapers, tubes of paint, brushes, and clothes lay scattered all over the place. Dozens of books were shelved against the wall in different positions and at various angles. There were also several books on the nightstand, with a bottle of nail polish among them. Shoes, most of them separated from their mates, had been abandoned around the bed. The other furniture consisted of a large working table, a few rattan chairs, and an enormous mahogany bed with tall posts. On top of the table were glasses of water, a couple of containers filled with wilted flowers, and a shell ashtray containing a half-smoked cigar.
    On a pedestal in the center of the room stood a half-finished sculpture.
    “I’m having my second cup of coffee,” she said, picking up a mug from the table. “What would you like to drink?”
    “Nothing. Thank you.”
    She pulled over a chair for him, and another for herself which she set opposite him.
    “Questions about whom?”
    “Wu Xiaoming.”
    “Why me?”
    “He has taken pictures of you.”
    “Well, he has taken pictures of a lot of people.”
    “We’re talking about those—in the Flower City— ”
    “So you want to discuss the art of photography with me?” she said, sitting up in her chair.
    “I’m a common cop. So I’m not interested in talking about these pictures as art, but as something else.”
    “That I can understand,” she said with a cynical smile. “As a cop, you must have done some research work.”
    The shadows beneath her eyes somehow gave her a debauched look.
    “Well, it’s to Chief Inspector Chen’s credit, I have to admit,” he said.
    But how Chief Inspector Chen recognized her, Detective Yu did not know.
    “Really?”
    “Yes. So we believe you may want to cooperate.”
    “What do you want to know about Wu?”
    “What you know about him.”
    “You are asking for quite a lot,” she said. “But why?”
    “We believe Wu’s involved in a murder. It’s the case of Guan Hongying, the national model worker. There’s a special investigation under way.”
    “Ah—I see,” she said, without registering too much surprise on her face. “But why does your Chief Inspector Chen not come to interrogate me himself?”
    “He is away in Guangzhou, interviewing a witness.”
    “So you are serious?”
    “Yes, we are.”
    “You must know something about Wu’s family background?”
    “That’s why we need your help.”
    Detective Yu believed he detected a change in the artist’s tone, and also a subtle sign of it in her body language, as she slowly stirred her spoon in the coffee mug, as if measuring out something.
    “You’re so