John Burdett - The Last Six Million Seconds

They returned to the party, but after forty minutes Angie admitted she was hating it too. The women sneered at her cheap cotton dress, and the British men cringed at her accent. The Chinese noticed only that she didn’t have money and ignored her.

Chan used his chin to point to the door. “Let’s go.”

Angie gave him a grateful smile. “It’s all right, I can stand it for another twenty minutes. Hadn’t you better talk to your sister and your brother-in-law?”

“I guess.”

“That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

Chan shrugged. “You know… parties. I don’t know why she invited me.”

Angie looked baffled. “But she’s your sister, Charlie. She loves you, mate.”

Chan nodded. “Sure, you’re right.”

He found a criminal defense lawyer he knew for her to talk to while he went to the kitchen to hunt for Jenny. She was there supervising the Filipino maid. Her husband, Jonathan Wong, was talking to a famous Chinese woman whom Chan now recognized from newspaper stories about the glitterati. He recognized her from her dress too. It was silver and shimmered like water.

“This is my notorious detective brother-in-law,” Wong said when he saw him. “Charlie Chan, meet Emily Ping.” Chan summoned a smile for the famous Chinese woman, who looked into his eyes, winked once and held out her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

Chan glanced around the kitchen for her blond friend. Apart from the Filipino maid there were only Chinese in the room. “Hi. Look-”

“It must be fascinating to have a lawyer and a detective in the same family,” Emily Ping said. “What do you talk about?”

She was tall for a Chinese woman, over five feet seven, but she would have been striking at any height. Her black hair was swept back from a high forehead, the silver dress dipped almost as deeply in front as at the back, revealing most of two ivory globes that Chan found difficult to ignore; she stood straight as a post with a jaw you could hang a Chinese lantern from. More Rambo than bimbo, Chan decided. She was older than he would have guessed from that first glimpse. Mid- to late thirties with an unbroken history of money and power; only the very rich were quite so shameless. She gazed at him for a moment with a kind of nonspecific lust, then smiled. The blond boy? Eaten and forgotten already?

“Oh, he has all the interesting cases. We only talk about his work; mine’s too boring for words.” Wong spoke in English with an impeccable Oxford accent. He pretended not to see the brazen gaze in Emily’s eyes.

“What are you working on right now, for instance?” Emily asked Chan.

“The Mincer Murders. Maybe you read about them. Three people fed live into an industrial mincer.”

She was tough. She blinked, smiled again. “How interesting. Yes, I remember. In Mongkok, wasn’t it?”

“Where else?”

“And have you solved the mystery yet?”

Despite himself, he was held by the authority in her manner. In an unbroken motion he drew a packet of Benson & Hedges from his pocket, flipped open the top, knocked it against the palm of his left hand, withdrew the cigarette with his lips, lit it with the lighter he’d lodged in the other hand in preparation: the expertise of an addict. Then he looked into those fearless Chinese eyes. To his surprise they seemed genuinely interested.

“No. We don’t even know who the victims were. No fingerprints, no ID tags-nothing to go on. They were shredded. All we have is a vat full of human hamburger.” He didn’t mention the heads. He was keeping them out of the public domain for the moment.

The other people in the kitchen had stopped to listen. There were muted squeals and winces all around, except from Emily Ping. She was amused by his provocation. Or perhaps she enjoyed gore. The rich could have strange tastes.

Chan turned to Jenny, drew her into a corner. “I’m sorry, I’ve got to go.” He spoke in Cantonese, exaggerating tones to carry his point.

She made a face. “Is it really that bad? Jonathan had to invite all these people; it’s business. You’re my only real guest.”

“I don’t believe you. They all love you, and you’re a perfect hostess. Look, it’s just me, isn’t it? I’m sure they’re all great, wonderful, warmhearted, humble-like most billionaires.”

Jenny’s eyes pleaded. “Don’t go yet. Let’s go somewhere private for a moment. I need a real person to talk to, and I have news.”

Her eyes searching his face expressed something close to adoration. He noticed Wong looking at her, a husband’s complaint in his expression: You never look at me like that.

“Okay.”

Chan followed her to the same corridor and eventually the same room as that where the seduction of the blond young man had so recently taken place. Chan sniffed at a fading odor of sex and perfume and told her about it as they entered the bedroom together. Jenny winced as she closed the door.

“She has a hell of an appetite. I think I’ll lock the door. God knows what people would accuse us of if they came barging in.” She looked up at him and cocked an eyebrow.

She turned a bolt, then held his hand to lead him to a small window with a view over a mountain at the back of the apartments. The room was unlit except for safety lights from the grounds of the apartment building and from lamps that lined a mountain road. About every thirty seconds a car rounded a certain point in a bend and illuminated the room. He stood still while she kneaded his hand. Her dress was a deep crimson that contrasted with her black hair. It was as expensive as any other woman’s, but, on her, twice as beautiful. Standing so close to her, he could smell her perfume and underneath it a faint musk that he remembered from childhood. Odors could be like fingerprints.

Her voice was full, rounded, confident; she was a natural princess who found it easy to charm these people. When she was in the mood, anyway. Tonight there was a glint in her eye.

“We’re going through a bad patch, Jonathan and I. I’m not sure how much of all this socializing I can take. He lost his rag with me when I refused to wear a triple string of pearls that he bought me last week.”

“How selfish of him.”

“I refuse to be got up like a pet poodle. I don’t mind the odd party, but it’s every night, sometimes cocktails at one place followed by dinner at someone else’s-it’s so artificial. What are you grinning at?”

“The problems of the rich-how can you stand it?”

“I’m serious. We’ll have to reach a compromise.”

“Two strings of pearls?”

“Smart-ass. You know, sometimes I feel, living this life, that I’m being disloyal to Mum.”

He lit a cigarette without offering her one. “That is a little farfetched.”

“Is it? Okay, you being so street-wise, tell me what you noticed about all those people out there tonight, especially the Chinese.”

“Apart from wealth, arrogance and a serious lack of depth, nothing. They all looked disgustingly happy to me.”

She lowered her voice. “Exactly. They’re mostly Emily’s people. Jonathan invited them because of her. Her main business is with the PRC; she’s well in with some big shot general called Xian. Only two months to go till the Communists march in, and these people alone are happy, not a care in the world. Why no June neurosis? Because they’ve made their connections, their guanxi , as everyone’s calling it now, with the killers over the border. Their positions are secure after June. That’s why they’re so happy.”

Chan shrugged. “There’s no money in heroic resistance. They’re smart; to survive an invasion, you have to befriend the invader.”

Jenny scowled. “You don’t really think that; you’re just saying it because you know I’m stuck with these people, for better or worse. To me, it’s like collaborating.” She looked him in the eye. “You loathe them as much as I do. More, probably. You don’t really approve of Jonathan. Why did you encourage me to marry him?”