Red Mandarin Dress

doom.”
    “You’re full of associations,” Jia said.
    In a way, Jia had suffered a similar fate, helpless, doomed in spite of all his struggles. Looking into the glass pot, Chen had a momentary vision of the turtle turning into a boy, holding out his hand against the inevitable. He felt a sick knot churning on his stomach.
    But as a cop, Chen was responsible for punishing the man for his crime against Jasmine, against the other girls, and against Hong, his colleague.
    “So inhumanly cruel,” he muttered in spite of himself, “but I can do the same.”
    “You are lost in the flight of your imagination, Chief Inspector Chen.”
    “No, I’m not,” Chen said.
    He rose, scooped up his trench coat from the clothes tree, and put it over White Cloud’s shoulders. Reaching his hand out, he buttoned a breast button for her before he said, “Thank you so much for all your help. You are done here. Keep yourself warm. It’s Dongzhi night, and you may want to join your family.”
    “No.” She blushed, looking more attractive than he had ever seen before. “I’ll wait outside for you.”
    After she left the room, he said to Jia, “No, it’s not a night for stories, or special courses, you know, Mr. Jia.”
    “You mean it’s Dongzhi night? Yes, I know.”
    “I want to thank you first for filling in the holes in the red mandarin dress case,” Chen said, “but it’s time for a showdown between us.”
    “What? What are you driving at? You said you wanted to tell a story. Perhaps there’s something else in the story, that much I guessed, but now it is becoming the red mandarin dress case!”
    “We don’t need to pretend any longer. You are the protagonist in the story, Mr. Jia, and also the murderer in the red mandarin dress case.”
    “Now, Chief Inspector Chen. You can write any story you like. But such a fictional accusation—you don’t have anything to support it. Not a single shred of evidence, or the shadow of a witness.”
    “Evidence and witnesses there will be, but they may not even be necessary. The murderer will talk—with or without them.”
    “How? Now you’ve crossed the line into fantasy. As a reader, I don’t see how you as a cop could do anything to prosecute such a case as described in your story.” Jia remained calm, hanging onto his role as a reader. “If a cop were really so confident, he would be writing a case report instead of fiction.”
    “You keep using the word fiction, Mr. Jia. But there is also nonfiction. Nonfiction sells better in today’s market.”
    “What do you mean by nonfiction?”
    “A real story about Mei and her son. Authentic, nostalgic, graphic, and tragic as the Old Mansion itself. A lot of people will be intrigued. For the time being, I may not even have to elaborate on the mandarin dress case aspect. Just some hints here and there. You can bet it would be a sensational bestseller.”
    “How could you stoop so low, Chief Inspector Chen, for the sake of making a bestseller?”
    “It’s about the tragedy of the Cultural Revolution, and its tragic repercussions even today. As a cop and a writer, I don’t see anything low about it. If it becomes a bestseller, I’ll donate the money to a private Cultural Revolution museum in Nanjing.”
    “A nonfiction writer has to be wary of being sued for slander, Chief Inspector Chen.”
    “I am a cop, and I write like a cop, basing every detail on evidence. Why should I worry about a lawsuit? It will bring in a lot of publicity, and a large number of reporters too. They are hunting for anything related to the red mandarin dress case. Don’t expect them to miss the point in the book. And along with the text, I have something that will grab their interest.”
    “What cards have you not yet put on the table?”
    “Remember the pictures I’ve told you about on the phone—oh, I’m so sorry. I should have shown them to you earlier,” Chen said. “The old photographer used five or six rolls of film. I’ll have all of them published.”
    He produced the pictures from his briefcase and spread them out on the table.
    It must have taken all Jia’s willpower not to snatch up the pictures. Instead, he cast a casual glance at them in nonchalance.
    “I don’t know what pictures you are talking about, but you don’t have the right to publish them.”
    “The photographer’s widow has the right. For a poor old woman, the money from the pictures may help a little.” Chen helped himself to a spoonful of the