David Rotenberg - The Shanghai Murders

“You don’t think he left his bicycle there, do you?”

“No, our friend kept his bicycle with him. There are too many alleys and ways out of this market for him to chance leaving it and then coming back for it.”

“I agree,” said Wang Jun.

But there was a shred of an idea here, thought Fong. The killer would need his bicycle to stalk the man. Would he then kill and ride it away? Perhaps. A bike offers speed but removes some mobility. The complex laws in Shanghai about where and when you can ride a bicycle are strictly enforced. Would the murderer chance the attention of one of the thousands of cops assigned to monitor bike traffic? Or would he leave the bike after the murder and simply slip into the mass of people always around in Shanghai?

Both men knew that a bicycle in Shanghai attracted attention if it was left overnight. For the first time, it occurred to Fong that they might be able to find the killer’s bike, but not here-nearer the scene of the murder perhaps.

As they walked Wang Jun caught Fong up on his newspaper investigation. It was simple-they were stonewalling him. His many queries had come up short. The whole thing had been handled by the editor-in-chief to whom Fong had spoken on that first morning. The editor claimed to have gotten the story straight off a cell phone report from one of his field guys and then banged out the story almost straight onto the printing press. Naturally, he refused to give up the guy’s name.

“But what about clearance? ”

“He claims it was one of those things where the Communications Ministry contact was actually in the building at the time and stood over his shoulder as he wrote it.”

“The timing’s still wrong.”

“I told him that. He claims that with the new technology they can alter an edition at the last moment, which allows them two more hours before press deadline.”

“Check that for me, will ya?” Fong was not pleased. But at that moment he wasn’t sure if he wasn’t pleased with the answers to Wang Jun’s inquiries or Wang Jun’s inquiry itself. They continued in silence for a few minutes. As they entered the heart of the food market Fong stopped and consulted the African’s itinerary. “Next thing that we know is that Mr. Chomi bought a skinned snake . . .”

Fong looked up.

Amanda was well ahead of them. She had joined a crowd and was on her tiptoes trying to get a better look at something on the ground.

The skinning of a live king cobra was shocking even if you knew it was about to happen. Amanda didn’t know.

Fong raced up, afraid that Amanda would faint.

The children in the crowd screamed in delight as the snake merchant flung the skin, still wriggling, into the air.

Amanda stood very still, very white, and took it all in.

The skinning did not make her faint. It made her understand something-understand it deeply.

Lunch at the Old Shanghai Restaurant upstairs in the Old City, around the corner from the famous YuYuan Gardens, was not all that Fong had expected. It seems that Ngalto Chomi had brought his freshly killed snake to the restaurant to have it cooked. He had done it several times before and the cooks knew him well. For a foreigner, especially a black foreigner, his memory was treated with surprising deference by the staff at the Old Shanghai. Wang Jun suggested that they should have brought a snake too, but Fong didn’t respond. Ms. Pitman’s silence had been ominous since the snake merchant had displayed his unique talent. Fong wondered how much whiter Amanda Pitman could get. He also wondered if all this was too much for her.

“Would you like me to get an officer to drive you back to your hotel?”

In her distracted state she had to ask him to repeat himself and he did. She declined his offer, but also declined all food at the restaurant. She smoked instead.

Chinese women smoked, but not in public. It would be wrong to say that both Wang Jun and Fong didn’t find it just a little bit titillating to be at a table with a tall blond white woman who was smoking cigarettes.

As the men finished eating their lunch Fong turned to Amanda. “You could help us by filling in some of your ex-husband’s background.”

Through the plume of her cigarette smoke, she said, “Shoot.”

“He was a police officer in New Orleans?”

“Not really.”

That surprised Fong. “His identity papers said that he worked for the New Orleans Police Department.”

“Where’s New Orleans?” Wang Jun asked in Shanghanese.

“Ohio, I think,” replied Fong in English.

“What’s Ohio?” said Amanda.

“Where New Orleans is,” said Fong.

“It’s in Louisiana, if that makes any difference.”

“Fine, Louisiana, but he wasn’t a police officer?”

“He technically worked for the New Orleans parish police department, but he was seconded from the federal fish and wildlife department,” said Amanda.

“And what did he do there?” queried Fong.

“He specialized in the prevention of the poaching of endangered species.” Fong quickly translated into Shanghanese and a bored Wang Jun perked up and took note.

“Ask her if he’d ever been to Africa,” said Wang Jun in Shanghanese.

“Later,” replied Fong, “after I find out if he was a cop on the take.”

“Anyone care to translate for me?” snapped Amanda.

“Wang Jun was just expressing his condolences for your loss.”

Amanda looked at Fong for a moment and then viciously spat out, “My husband was a much better liar than you, Inspector Zhong.” On Fong’s stunned look she rose from the table and, ignoring all the sidelong glances of the Chinese men, made her way to the ladies’ room.

Once she was gone, Wang Jun asked for a translation of the last few moments and got them. Then he turned to Fong and said, “We don’t need her for the rest of this. The next part is going to get pretty rough. Why do you want her here anyway? Get her a ride back to her hotel. You and I can complete this.”

But Fong wasn’t listening. He was watching the movement of people in the room. “You figure there’s a back way out in the kitchen?”

“There has to be by law.”

“Since when do restaurants listen to the law? If he did leave through the kitchen, the killer must have been waiting by the alley entrance. Someone might have noticed. Check if he left that way.”

Wang Jun had just entered the kitchen when Amanda returned. From the glint of moisture on her face, Fong could tell that she had splashed it with cold water.

“Feel better?”

“A little, thanks.”

“You don’t have to go through with this. The next two stops aren’t going to be pleasant, that I can guarantee you.”

She didn’t say anything. Then carefully Fong moved forward. “How much did the State Department tell you about your husband’s death?”

“Just that he’d been murdered and . . . and I wouldn’t be able to view the remains . . . and that, uh”-she was getting faint, he could tell from her pallor-“uh, that it wouldn’t be possible to have an open-casket funeral.” As if having said it relieved the pressure, some colour came back into her face.

Unable to resist her vulnerability, Fong chipped in, “Did you love your husband, Ms. Pitman?”

Her “no” came out so loudly that several other people around the restaurant turned to see who was speaking.

Then a chatter of explanation, mao, boo she, boo dui.

“Mao what?” said Wang Jun.

“Nothing, just a comment from Ms. Pitman.”

“Well it’s mao from the kitchen too. There’s no exit and besides, one of the waiters remembers Mr. Chomi going out the front.”

Getting up, Amanda asked, “Who’s paying?”

She didn’t offer up any cash but moved through the crowd toward the exit as the two men fished out some bills and tossed them to the waiter. Then Fong went ahead to catch up with Amanda while Wang Jun yelled for a receipt. On a monthly salary of under 600 yuan, called kwai by the locals, about $75 U.S., he was damned if he was going to pay 68 kwai for a meal that he didn’t enjoy.