The Mao Case

last night.”
    Song stared at Chen, who said nothing else. It was a surprise move by Jiao, for which Chen didn’t hold himself responsible,
     though it served his purpose.
    He decided to leave. There was no point staying with Song, who appeared increasingly infuriated with the unexpected development.
     With Xie and Jiao providing alibis for each other, it would be out of the question for Internal Security to revert to their
     original plan.
    Besides, Chief Inspector Chen was going to make a phone call to Beijing, like a capable and conscientious cop, as the minister
     had commended.

THIRTEEN
    AGAIN, CHEN WAS LOST in a recurring dream scene — of an ancient gray gargoyle murmuring in the twilight-covered Forbidden City, in the midst of
     black bats flapping around the somber grottos — when he was awakened.
    For several seconds, he lay with his face burrowed in the white pillow, trying to tell whether it could possibly be the sound
     of water dripping in the palace. It was the phone shrilling through the first gray of the morning. Picking it up, he heard
     Yong’s voice coming from Beijing.
    “She has come back. You know what? He has a little secretary, that heartless bastard. She just found out. So she’s staying
     with her parents for now.” Yong’s voice was crisp and clear, not at all like the blurred murmuring in the dream. He listened,
     rubbing his eyes, still disoriented.
    “What?” he said. “Who has a little secretary?”
    “Who else? The damned bastard she married.”
    “Oh.” He reached for a cigarette when the anger in Yong’s voice finally dawned on him. He propped himself up on an elbow.

    “Now don’t keep saying
oh.
Say something else. Do something, Chen.”
    But what could he do?
    It wasn’t for the police to catch somebody’s “little secretary,” which had become part of the “socialism with Chinese characteristics.”
     An upstart invariably had a little secretary — his young mistress — as a symbol of his wealth and success. In some cases, even
     a “little concubine” as well. For Ling’s husband, a businessman and official of an HCC family background, it would actually
     be surprising for him not to have one.
    “Things might not be beyond hope between you two. Come to Beijing, Chen. She isn’t happy. You and Ling should talk. I have
     a lot of suggestions for you.”
    “I’m in the middle of an investigation, Yong,” he said, his mouth inexplicably dry. “An important investigation.”
    “You’ve always been busy — thinking of nothing but your police work. That’s really your problem, Chen. She told me she thought
     of you even on her honeymoon. You may be an exceptional cop, but I’m so disappointed in you.”
    Yong hung up in frustration — an echo of his neighbor’s door slamming shut across the corridor.
    Chen dug out the ashtray full of cigarette butts and burnt matches from the last couple of days. What he had told Yong was
     true. This was a Mao Case, he couldn’t explain even to her.
    It wasn’t the time for a trip to Beijing, even for all the suggestions Yong would offer him Ling’s honeymoon was barely over — whatever
     problem she might have at the moment, it wasn’t up to him to interfere.
    He finished his cigarette before getting up. Still groggy from the shattered dream, he went to the sink and brushed his teeth
     vigorously, the image of the gray gargoyle fading, yet a bitter taste lingering in the mouth.
    There wasn’t much left in the small refrigerator. A leftover box of roast duck from about a week earlier and half a leftover
     box of barbeque pork from god-knows-when — both from meals with business
associates — and a bowl of cold rice as hard as a rock. He was in no mood to have his breakfast out. In the last two weeks,
     he had already spent his monthly salary and had to dig into his savings again. He could have some of the recent expense reimbursed
     in the name of his special assignment, but he wasn’t sure how the Mao Case would end up, and he didn’t want to submit a staggering
     bill for nothing. He decided to make himself a chop suey with all the leftovers boiled in a pot of hot water, along with the
     remaining scallion and ginger and dried pepper from the refrigerator. On an impulse, he took out the small bottle of fermented
     tofu and threw in the last piece along with the multicolored liquid.
    As the pot was boiling on the gas head, Song called.
    “I’ve talked to Gao Dongdi, a lawyer for whom Yang had