“What an exploiter!” Qiao went on indignantly. “Xing just played a cheap PR trick at my expense.”
“Please explain it for me, Qiao.”
“When China Can Stand Up in Defiance was a national hit, he arranged a meeting at the Shanghai Hotel. The meeting was reported in newspapers-the generous support promised by a successful entrepreneur to a struggling writer. But when the initial sensation of the book ebbed, he did not keep any of his words.”
“What did he promise you?”
“The larger check he had promised never came. Among other things, a three-bedroom apartment, which disappeared into the air like a yellow crane in that Tang poem.”
“He offered to buy you an apartment?”
“No, he said he would give me one when the construction was completed, but then he didn’t contact me anymore. I called him several times. He never returned my calls, not a single time.”
“Did he put down anything-black and white on paper?”
“No. The sum he gave me there and then was only two thousand yuan. Like a pathetic, meatless bone thrown to a starving dog.”
“Now about the construction project-his own property in Shanghai?”
“That I don’t know. But it sounded like it.” Qiao said with a frown, “Let me think. ‘I’ll talk to my little brother about it. And he’ll give you the apartment key as soon as the complex is done.’ I think that’s what he said-or something like that.”
“Anything else can you remember about your meeting with Xing?”
“We met in a restaurant at the hotel. He talked most of the time. He had a young secretary with blond hair, dyed, and a tall bodyguard. The little secretary made notes of our conversation. She talked to the reporters afterward, I think. That’s about all I remember.”
“Frankly, I don’t think you were involved with Xing. But if you can think of anything else about him, let me know. You have my phone number.”
“If I can remember anything.”
“I still want to buy this stuff,” Chen said, taking out his wallet. “As for your bookstore business, it is not my concern, but it could be somebody else’s. You are clever enough to run a decent and profitable bookstore, like the West Wind. You might also try to contact the Writers’ Association for help.”
“Are you an executive member there?”
“Yes. I’ll put in a word for you,” Chen added, “because I did not write the preface. I remember.”
“Thank you. I’ll think about it.”
“I’ll come here to buy books. Good books. See you.”
When Chen stepped out of the bookstore, instead of getting into a taxi immediately, he decided to walk for a while.
The meeting between Xing and Qiao was perhaps no more than a PR trick-on Xing’s part. It was no surprise that Xing didn’t keep his word to Qiao, whose value disappeared once his book dropped off the best-seller list. So there was hardly any possibility of Qiao knowing about Xing’s business practice here. So far, the strategy of cutting through the Chen trail wasn’t working.
After crossing He’nan Road, he turned onto Shandong Road. Like Fuyou Road, it was lined with peddlers’ booths. Absentmindedly, he almost bumped into a booth of sugar-covered hawthorn when he saw a girl biking out of a winding lane, carrying books on her bike rack, riding swiftly past as on a breath of wind. She was obviously not bothered by the street commerce.
It reminded him of a scene in Beijing, years earlier, of a young girl gliding out of a hutong by the white and black sihe style houses, a lone peddler selling orange paper wheels, old people practicing tai chi, a pigeon’s whistle trailing in the clear sky, the girl’s bike bell spilling into the tranquil air… For a moment, it was as if he were back in his college years, standing on a street corner near Xisi subway station, when life seemed to be still so simple. He bought a stick of sugar-covered hawthorn, which was rare for that time of year.
He took a bite of the hawthorn, which tasted different than he remembered. There was no stepping back into the river for a second time. Chief Inspector Chen had to move on.
But why should Xing have chosen to make such a gesture to Qiao? It was a controversial book. Perhaps not a lot to gain from such a gesture for a businessman like Xing. Or could it have been done for somebody else who, much higher in Beijing, favored the nationalist stance? That was possible, but unsupported.
Then Chen thought of something said by Xing-”little brother.” It was a term that referred to one’s younger brother, or to someone in a triad organization, perhaps a member lower in the rank. Xing had no younger brother, but for such a businessman, a triad connection was not unimaginable. Possibly one of his gang buddies from Fujian was doing business in Shanghai.
He dialed Old Hunter, who had once worked on a case in Fujian in the sixties. That was probably how the old man had learned about Detective Hua’s death-through his own channels there.
“I’ll find out for you,” Old Hunter said without asking why, “who this ‘little brother’ could be. I still have some friends there who acknowledge my old face. It’s not a world of rats yet, red or black.”
“Be careful, Uncle. Don’t let anyone suspect your interest in Xing’s case. Not a single word about my investigation.”
“You don’t have to tell me that, Chief. I have been a hunter for years, and a hunter never retires.”
“I really appreciate your help.”
“You don’t have to say that. Hua was an old friend of mine. If I ask questions there, people will simply think me a retired old busybody.” Old Hunter added after a pause, “That’s the least I can do for him. You be careful, Chief Inspector Chen. I’m old, but you are still young.”
5
THE NEXT ON THE list Chen had circled as a possible interviewee was An Jiayi.
He should have approached her first. For some reason, however, he had chosen not to do so.
But after the talk with Qiao, especially after the new information from Old Hunter, Chief Inspector Chen had no excuse not to. He made up his mind in his bureau cubicle.
Old Hunter’s response had come early in the morning. The old man must have moved heaven and earth in Fujian. According to his connections, Xing had a “little brother” named Ming-or a half brother, to be exact. Xing had never openly acknowledged him as such, but it was not a secret among the local people. Xing’s father had died when Xing was very young and his mother had a hard time bringing him up by herself. There were various stories about that period. In one version, she worked as a maid for a high-ranking Party cadre family, where she was said to have had sex with the master, and left to give birth to a son in secret in the countryside. When Xing grew up, he never told anyone. It was said, however, that early in his political career, Xing had been helped by that high-ranking cadre. Also, Xing was a filial son. Since his mother doted on the little son, Xing, in turn, helped Ming in whatever way possible.
Ming had kept a low profile in Fujian, but two or three years earlier, he started a real estate business of his own in Shanghai. That explained why Xing had bought the mansion for his mother in the city. Then Ming disappeared, allegedly in the company of Xing.
Chen was disturbed. The fact that there was no information whatsoever about Ming in the original file spoke for itself. For a Shanghai cop, the identity of Xing’s little brother was a mystery, but it should not be so with the Fujian police. It should have been followed up on as an important clue.
Chen immediately made inquiries through his private channels into Ming’s business in Shanghai. He was even more disturbed by what he came up with. The little brother had connections to a number of big officials in the city. While he kept a relatively low profile here as well, he had hired a PR firm through his company. And that firm was run by none other than An Jiayi.