Why do I keep putting it off?
Marsh is a creep. But does he deserve to get whacked by Sidney for that? I mean, who’s the worse influence here, Marsh or Gugu?
Like I’m going to tell Sidney about Gugu’s milk fetish.
Maybe I’m overreacting here. Maybe Sidney won’t actually kill Marsh. Those guys his men smoked a couple of months ago, that was a little different, right? They were bad guys, hired guns who nobody much was going to miss, and it was kind of a kill-or-be-killed situation. Like combat. You engage the enemy. Someone’s going to end up in a glad bag.
I’m thinking all this, and someone pounds on my door.
This time Mimi barks and bares her teeth.
I grab her collar. “Quiet. Sit.” I brace my hands on the table and push myself up. “Stay.”
I hobble over to the door. Peer through the keyhole.
A guy in a uniform and a man in plainclothes behind him.
I’m on the fifth floor. There’s nowhere to run.
And this whole drill is starting to feel almost routine.
So I open the door. I don’t even bother to say anything.
“Ellie McEnroe?” It’s the plainclothes guy in the back. Fortyish. Slacks, white short-sleeved shirt.
“Yeah?”
I’m thinking, more tea with the DSD.
Except the uniform in front has a patch on the shoulder of his light blue shirt with the Great Wall and the olive leaves that says 警察 and then, in English, police.
Regular cops, more or less.
This is confirmed for me when the guy in plainclothes says, “We are from Beijing Municipal Public Security Bureau. I am Inspector Zou. This is Sergeant Chen. We think perhaps you can help with our investigation.”
“Sure. Okay.”
I open the door wider and step aside.
I mean, what else am I going to do? Ask for a lawyer? This is China.
The two of them walk in. The uniform, Sergeant Chen, stations himself close to the front door. He’s tall, young, lanky, all angles, like a jointed puppet, and has a messenger bag slung across his shoulder.
Mimi stands by my side, neck arched, tail up high and stiff. Ready to attack.
“No, Mimi,” I whisper. “Be a good dog.”
The man in plainclothes, Inspector Zou, leans back on his heels, a little freaked. “Will he bite me?” he asks. “I do not know dogs well.”
“Oh, no,” I say, because I’m having these nightmare scenarios where they shoot her or drag her away and sell her for hotpot. “She’s just nervous with people she doesn’t know.” I ruffle the scruff around her neck. “Right, Mimi? Don’t bite Officer Friendly.”
Mimi’s tail relaxes. A little.
Sergeant Chen approaches us. Her tail stiffens again.
Oh, fuck. Please do not shoot my dog.
“Sit, Mimi,” I say. She doesn’t. She hugs my hip, and I can feel her muscles tense.
Sergeant Chen crouches in front of Mimi, so he’s at her level. Cautiously extends his hand, palm up, even lower, so it’s practically scraping the floor. His expression never changes. Not scared, not happy, just neutral, as far as I can tell.
She sniffs his hand. Her tail relaxes. Slowly swishes back and forth.
I guess he smells okay.
“I’m just going to put her in the bedroom,” I say. “Come on, Mimi. You can sit on the bed if you want.”
When I come out of the bedroom, Zou is strolling around the living room, his hands clasped behind his back, peering at the stack of DVDs on the coffee table, at the books on the bookcase behind the couch. He’s shorter than Chen and a bit stocky, with buzzed hair that looks as if it would grow in like brush bristles.
“You are… Jidujiaotu…? Christian?” he asks.
I shrug a little. “My mother.” I’m not going to bust out the Mandarin yet. Sometimes it’s better to act like you don’t understand. Play dumb. Besides, his English is pretty good.
Zou nods. “I see. Your mother lives here, too.”
Which you must already know, I almost say. Because she had to register with the PSB when she came to stay with me.
But apparently we are doing small talk before we get down to police business.
“Would you like some tea?” I ask. “Maybe a beer?” I’m kind of snarking but figure he can’t necessarily tell.
Zou pauses in his wandering. Tilts his head up, like he’s seriously pondering this.
“It is… very hot today. The… kongtiao… the cold air… in our car… is broken. So. Yes. I would like some beer.” He grins. “Officer Chen is the driver.”
Well, okay, this is weird.
The three of us are sitting around the dining-room table snacking on spicy peanuts and shrimp chips. Inspector Zou and I have Yanjing Draft in little glasses, the open bottle and a fresh one on the table. I gave Sergeant Chen a Coke.
“This is… nice apartment,” Zou says. “Do you like this area in Beijing?”
“Yes. Yes, I do. Very convenient.”
Zou nods. “Not so many places like this left, with the siheyuanr, the old kind of houses,” He says it with an “r,” like a proper Beijinger. “When I was a boy, my family live in siheyuanr, near Dazhalan. You know it?”
“Sure.” Dazhalan’s down by Qianmen, an old neighborhood south of Tiananmen that mostly got chai’d for the Olympics, the main street rebuilt into a Disneyfied version of itself, a fancy pedestrian mall that’s half empty.
“Very dirty, really,” he says. “Toilet outside house in hutong. I don’t miss this part.”
Zou pauses for a sip of beer. I refill his glass. He drinks. Puts his glass down with an audible thunk.
“So.” Zou suddenly slaps his hands on the table. “The investigation.” He tilts his head toward Sergeant Chen. “Chen Jingguan, gei wo zhe zhang zhaopian.”
Sergeant Chen, get me the photograph.
Chen reaches into his messenger bag and pulls out a manila folder. Opens it, extracts a glossy piece of paper. Hands it to his boss.
Who lays it on the table in front of me with a small, satisfied smile, like he’s flipping over his hole card.
A dead woman.
“This woman, do you know her?” Zou asks.
She’s young. Chinese. The shot is a close-up of her face. It’s bruised. One eye swollen shut, the other clouded and flecked with dark red specks. Nose broken, shunted to one side, dried blood covering her split lip. Below her jaw, around her throat, more purple bruises.
“No,” I say.
“You are certain?”
I shake my head. “I don’t recognize her.”
I want to say more, something like, It’s possible I met her once, but the way she looks now, how could I tell? Except I haven’t had enough beer to say something that dumb.
“This does not disturb you?” Zou asks.
Oh, I’m supposed to gasp and cry or something? Go all to pieces over a photograph?
Maybe I should feel something, but I really don’t.
“I was a medic in the Iraq War. I saw dead people in person. This is just a picture.”
“I see.”
Fuck. Maybe I should’ve pretended. But I’m not a very good actress.
“If you are a… medic? Is that a doctor?”
“No. More like… we’re first responders. We help people on the scene, when someone’s hurt. Do first aid. Stop the bleeding if we can.” I try to gauge his reactions. I’m not sure if he’s understanding me, but one thing I’m pretty sure of: he’s not stupid.
“But still you are a medical person. So. How is she dead, then?”
“You mean, what killed her?”
“Yes. In your opinion.”
I look at the photo some more. “I couldn’t tell you from a photo. No one could for sure. Not even a doctor. Not unless it was something really obvious. But someone beat her up. Maybe choked her.”
“Choke?”
I put my hands on my own throat for a moment. “This.”