He picked up the gift card and frowned at the amount. Twenty thousand yuan.
The money meant nothing to Gu, who was a business tycoon. He’d helped Chen in an earlier investigation, and Chen had also proved helpful to Gu. Gu had since claimed to be a friend of the chief inspector, and he, too, called Chen’s mother his “auntie.”
The expensive gift card would have been acceptable for a real auntie, but as it was, it was just another way for Gu to grease the connection. Still, it was considerate of Gu. What made it difficult for Chen was that the gift card came not to him but to his mother. It wouldn’t be that easy for him to return it.
“I’ll take care of it, Mother,” Chen said, putting the card in his pocket.
His cell phone rang. It was Detective Yu. Chen excused himself and stepped out into the hall.
Yu called to fill Chen in on the meeting that had just finished in the bureau. Among other things, Party Secretary Li had been surprisingly adamant in refusing to acknowledge that Detective Wei’s death happened while he was on duty. Wei was killed during the investigation, but no one knew what he was doing there at that particular intersection, at that particular moment. Li claimed that Wei might have been there for himself, checking out some evening courses at a night school around the corner.
To Chen, the change in Li’s attitude was not too surprising. Initially, Li must have been shocked and saddened, like everybody else in the bureau. Wei was a veteran cop, having worked hard in the bureau for years. But the prospect of pursuing his death as a possible murder case could further complicate the Zhou situation. In the final analysis, any more speculation concerning the Zhou case wasn’t seen as in the Party’s interest.
“His wife is sick and jobless at home, and his son is still in middle school,” Yu concluded on a somber note.
Chen got his point. If Wei had died in an accident, there wouldn’t be any bureau compensation for his family.
Walking back into the room with the phone in his hand, Chen felt even more guilty. Had he attended the meeting, at least he could have tried to speak up for Wei, though he wondered whether that would have made any difference. Probably nothing would, unless it was proved that Wei was doing his duty, investigating around the corner near Wenhui Office Building, when he was killed.
But what was Wei doing there?
“I have to leave, Mother,” he said. “Something has come up at the bureau. I’ll come back soon.”
THIRTEEN
THE NEXT MORNING, CHEN went to Pingliang Road in the Yangpu District.
According to the address he had, the Weis lived on an old lane. In the early sixties, a number of “worker apartments” were built there, which were undoubtedly an improvement over the pre-1949 slums, but each apartment unit had then been partitioned and partitioned again, resulting in an entire family inhabiting one room of the original three-bedroom design, and all of the families sharing the kitchen and toilet.
It wasn’t a surprise that the lane showed all the wear and tear of the past decades, even more so now that the apartment buildings were in sharp contrast to the skyscrapers that surrounded them. As he stepped into the lane, Chen felt a weird sense of disorientation. He was walking under a network of bamboo poles stretched across the lane, filled with damp laundry, like an impressionist expanse obliterating the sky overhead. The lane was rendered even narrower by the bewildering jumble of stuff stacked along both sides—a locked bike with a large bamboo basket, another covered with a large plastic sheet, a broken coal stove, a ramshackle tool-and-junk shed, and all sorts of residential add-ons, legal or illegal, seeming almost to have sprouted magically from the original houses.
It was like another city in another time, and the people seemed baffled at his intrusion: an old man squatting sideways with his bare back stuck against the wall, looking up at him; another straddling a wooden stool with one foot outstretched, inadvertently blocking the lane; and several more farther down the lane, one holding a large bowl of rice, another stretched out on a tumbledown bamboo recliner, and still another vigorously scaling a beltfish in a moss-covered common sink. Chen had never been to the lane before, yet some of the details struck him as eerily intimate, virtually inviting, as if someone close to him was waiting for him in the depths of the lane.
He stopped and knocked on a peeling door, which had to have been repainted quite a few times, at least once in red. It wasn’t a visit he was looking forward to, but he had no choice.
An emaciated woman with swollen eyes and silver-streaked hair opened the door. Behind her was a small room furnished with old, worn-out basic necessities and a new black frame containing a photo of Wei in his police uniform. The woman recognized Chen and seemed flustered.