Death of a Red Heroine

caviar to a Chinese customer on that particular night. If this information is accurate, it means she had caviar somewhere else. With somebody who kept caviar at home.”
    “That’s something indeed,” Yu said.
    “Hold on,” Zhang raised his hand to interrupt Chen. “So you are suggesting the murderer could be somebody Guan knew?”
    “Yes, that’s a possible scenario: perhaps the murderer’s no stranger to Guan. After she left home, they met somewhere and had a midnight meal together. Possibly at his home. Afterward they had sex—remember, there were no real bruises on her body. Then he murdered her, moved her body into his car, and dumped it in the canal. The plastic bag would make sense, too, if the crime was committed at the murderer’s home. He was afraid of being seen in the act of moving the body—by his neighbors or other people. Furthermore, that also explains the choice of that far-away canal, where he hoped that the body would never be found, or at least not for a long time. By then no one might be able to recognize her, or remember with whom she was involved.”
    “So you don’t think it’s a political case either,” Zhang said, “though you are offering a different theory.”
    “Whether it is a political case or not, I cannot say, but I think there are some things worth further investigation.”
    Yu was even more surprised than Zhang by Chen’s speech.
    The plastic bag was not something new, but the caviar was something they had not discussed. Whether Chen had purposely saved it for the meeting, Yu was not sure. It appeared to be a master stroke, like in those of western mysteries Chen had been translating, perhaps.
    Was Chen doing this to impress Commissar Zhang?
    Yu did not think so, for Chen did not like the old man either.
    It was nonetheless a crucial detail Yu had overlooked, that portion of caviar.
    “But according to the information at the department store,” Yu said, “Guan was not seeing anyone at the time of her death.”
    “That puzzles me,” Chen said, “but that’s where we should be digging more deeply.”
    “Well, do it your way,” Zhang said, standing up to leave. “At least, that’s preferable to waiting for the criminal to act again.”
    So Detective Yu was placed in an unfavorable light. A cop too lazy to attend to the important details. Yu could read the negative message in the old man’s knitted brows.
    “I overlooked the caviar,” Yu said to Chen.
    “It just occurred to me last night. So I have not had time to discuss it with you.”
    “Caviar. Honestly, I have no idea what it is.”
    Afterward he made a phone call to Peiqin. “Do you know what caviar is?”
    “Yes, I’ve read about it in nineteenth-century Russian novels,” she said, “but I have never tasted it.”
    “Has your restaurant ever served caviar?”
    “You’re kidding, Guangming. Ours is such a shabby place. Only five-star hotels like the Jinjiang might have it.”
    “Is it very expensive?”
    “A tiny dish would cost you several hundred Yuan, I think,”
    she added. “Why your sudden interest?”
    “Oh, just something about the case.”

Chapter 11
    C hief Inspector Chen woke with a slight suggestion of headache. A shower did not help much. It would be difficult to shake off the feeling during the day. And it happened to be a day in which he had so much work cut out for him.
    He was no workaholic, not in the way some of his colleagues claimed. It was true, however, that often it was only after he had successfully forced himself into working like a devil, that he felt the most energetic.
    He had just received a rare collection of Yan Shu’s poems—a hand-bound rice paper edition, in a deep blue cloth case. An unexpected present from Beijing, in return for the copy of the Wenhui Daily he had sent.
    There was a short note inside the cloth case.
Chief Inspector Chen:
Thanks for your poem. I like it very much. Sorry I cannot send you anything of my own in return. I alighted on a collection of Yan Shu’s poems in Liulichang Antique Fair a couple of weeks ago, and I thought you would like it. Also, congratulations on your promotion.
    Ling
    Of course he liked it. He recalled his days of wandering around in the Liulichang Antique Fair, then a poor student from Beijing Foreign Language Institute, examining old books without being able to buy any of them. He had seen something like it only once—in the rare book section of the Beijing Library where Ling had compared his ecstatic