Death of a Red Heroine

otherwise, would be replaced.
    A model worker in the early nineties, Guan might have had more realistic worries. While on display, young, vivacious, she could admire her reflection in the ever-changing window of politics, but she must have been aware that her charm was fading. The myth of the model worker, though still honored in the Party newspapers, now appealed to few. Intellectuals got media attention. Entrepreneurs got money. TOEFL test takers got passports. HCC got positions. A model worker got less and less.
    No reversing time and tide, Guan knew. The way things were going, in a few years, to be a model worker would literally be a joke.
    For her, however, it had never been a joke. It had been the meaning of her life, and her life had not been an easy one. She’d had an obligation to be a model at all times: to say the right words, to do the right things, and to make the right decisions. A model—it was, and was not, a metaphor. That’s where she had found her life’s worth—at the moment of being admired, and emulated by others . . .
    Once more his thoughts were interrupted by footsteps coming from behind him. He seemed to hear a young girl’s giggle. Chief Inspector Chen must have presented a sight —a police officer gazing at the window full of glamorous mannequins in scanty swimming attire. He did not know how long he had been standing there. He took one more look as he started to move on.
    Across the street, a small fruit store was still open. He was familiar with it because his mother had used it as a shortcut to a lane where one of her close friends had lived. The lane had several entrances. One, facing Nanjing Road, had at first been partially blocked by a fruit stall, which had then been converted into the fruit store, totally blocking the access. Behind those tall shelves of fruit, however, there still was a back door opening from the inside, and the store employees used it for their own convenience. He had no idea how his mother had discovered it.
    Chief Inspector Chen had not used the shortcut before, though the owner greeted him warmly like an old customer. He stepped behind the first row of shelves, examining an apple like a fastidious customer. The back door was still there. He pushed at it and it opened into a half-deserted lane. He cut through the lane with quick steps. The other end led out to Guizhou Road, where he stopped a passing taxi, and gave the driver directions. “Qinghe Lane, on Hubei Road.”
    He made sure he was not being followed.

Chapter 36
    T he stick of sugar haw was as yet unfinished when the taxi pulled up at Qinghe Lane.
    Chief Inspector Chen threw the stick into a trash bin. A few feet away, an idiot stood tittering all by himself, holding a plastic bag above his head like a hood. He did not see anybody else near Guan’s dorm building. The Internal Security people were probably stationed under his own window.
    On his way up to Guan’s room he met nobody. It was a Friday night. People were watching a popular, sentimental Japanese soap opera that showed a young girl losing a battle to cancer. His mother had told him about it; everybody was enthralled.
    Not Guan.
    At her door, the lock remained unchanged. He still had the key. Once inside, he locked the door behind him. He did not turn on the light; instead, he took out a flashlight. He stood in the middle of the room. There was something he wanted to find. Something crucial to the conclusion of the case. If it had ever been there, it might have vanished by now. Wu might have been to the room, found it, and made away with it—hadn’t one of the neighbors mentioned a man who might have come from Guan’s room? Perhaps he should have searched more thougroughly, should have borrowed a forensics expert. But they were so understaffed, and it had not seemed worthwhile. The small room could not conceal much.
    If Guan had intended to hide something from Wu, where would she have put it?
    Any searcher would have looked in the desk, and the drawers, tapped on the walls, turned over the bed, combed through every book and magazine . . . Chief Inspector Chen had already checked these obvious places.
    He let his flashlight sweep around the room without consciously directing it: An effortless effort, as advocated in Tao Te Ching . The light finally came to a stop at the framed portrait of Comrade Deng Xiaoping hanging on the wall.
    He did not know why the light had stopped there. He stared at the now illuminated portrait. It was