Red Mandarin Dress

Revolution as a symbol of the bourgeois lifestyle, it had staged a surprising comeback among the rich in recent years. But he had never seen anyone wearing it like that—without panties or shoes.
    He spat on the ground three times, a superstitious ritual against the rotten luck.
    Who could have chosen to dump a body here in the morning? A sex murder, he concluded.
    It occurred to him to report the crime to the police. But it was still too early. There was no public phone service available. Looking around, he saw a light flickering, distantly, across the street. It came from the Shanghai Music Institute. He started shouting for help.
    “Murder! Red mandarin dress murder!”

ONE
    CHIEF INSPECTOR CHEN CAO , of the Shanghai Police Bureau, was startled out of his dream by an early phone call.
    Rubbing his eyes, as he snatched up the receiver, he saw the clock on the nightstand pointing to seven thirty. He had stayed up late last night writing a letter to a friend in Beijing, quoting a Tang dynasty poet, to say what he found difficult to say in his own words. Afterward, he managed to lose himself in a dream of the heartless Tang willows lined along the deserted bank in a light green mist.
    “Hello, I am Zhong Baoguo, of the Shanghai Legal System Reform Committee. Is this Comrade Chief Inspector Chen?”
    Chen sat up. That particular committee, a new institution under the Shanghai People’s Congress, exercised no direct authority over him, but Zhong, higher in the Party cadre rank, had never contacted him before, let alone called him at home. The fragments of the willow-shaded dream were fading quickly.
    It could be one of those “politically sensitive” cases, preferably not discussed at the bureau. Chen detected a bitter taste in his mouth.
    “Have you heard of the West-Nine-Block housing development case?”
    “The West-Nine-Block? Yes, Peng Liangxin’s development—one of the best areas in the center of the city. I have read articles about it.”
    In China’s ongoing reform, some of the most unbelievable business opportunities were in housing development. In the past, with all the land controlled by the state, people had depended on the state housing assignment. Chen, too, had been assigned a room through the bureau quota. But in the early nineties, the government started selling land to emerging entrepreneurs. Peng—nicknamed the Number One Shanghai Big Buck—was one of the earliest and most successful developers. Since Party officials determined the land prices and allocation, corruption swarmed around like flies chasing blood. Through his connections, Peng obtained government approval for the West-Nine-Block development project. There, the old buildings had to be pulled down to make way for the new, and Peng drove out the original residents. It did not take long, however, for people to start complaining about the “black holes” in the business operation, and a scandal broke out.
    But what could Chen do? Obviously, for a huge project like West-Nine-Block, a number of officials were involved. It could turn into a major case with disastrous political impact. Damage control, he guessed, would probably be the assignment waiting for him.
    “Yes, we think you should look into the case. Especially into the attorney, Jia Ming, who represents those residents.”
    “Jia Ming?” Chen was even more puzzled. He did not know any details about the corruption case. He had heard of Jia as a successful attorney, but why should an attorney be the target? “Is he the attorney who defended the case for Hu Ping, the dissident writer?”
    “That’s him.”
    “Director Zhong, I am so sorry. I am afraid I cannot help with your case.” He promptly came up with an excuse, instead of saying a straightforward no. “I have just enrolled in a special MA program at Shanghai University. Classical Chinese literature. The first few weeks are for intensive studies—I’ll have no time for anything else.”
    More than merely an improvised excuse, it was something he had contemplated for some time. Technically, he wasn’t yet enrolled, but he had made preliminary inquiries at the university about it.
    “You are kidding, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen. What about your police work? Classical Chinese literature. Not in the line of your job at all. Are you looking for a new career?”
    “Literature used to be my major—English literature. To be a competent investigator in today’s society, one has to acquire as much knowledge as