Qiu Xiaolong - Red Mandarin Dress

“Sorry, I have to take another phone call,” Chen said, rising to move to the window. The garden outside was entirely submerged in darkness.

“Nothing in the car, Chief,” Yu said. “I studied the parking spot. It’s true that he could move from there and in through the side door without being seen by others. The front is hidden from view by a grove of bamboo. So I got in with the key.”

“Anything in his office?”

“It’s a large suite. In addition to the office, a reception room, and a study, there is also a small bedroom with a bathroom.”

“That’s not surprising. According to Xia, he often stays overnight there.”

“But that made it possible for him to wash Jasmine’s body.”

“That’s true.”

“I haven’t seen any bloodstains or anything like that there. The carpet must have been cleaned of late. It still has a detergent smell, and I saw a steam vacuum cleaner. But that’s something. In those high-end offices, cleaning is usually taken care of by professional people. Why would an attorney have done the cleaning himself?”

“That’s a good question.”

“Then I noticed something else, Chief. The color of the carpet. It matched that of the fiber stuck on the foot of the third victim.”

“Yes, he brought her in without being seen, but he failed to notice a fiber stuck between her toes.”

“But any result from the fiber test won’t be available until tomorrow morning. Besides, fiber evidence may not be conclusive for a homicide case.”

“It will be enough to hold him for a couple of days, and to justify a full search.” Chen added, “At least he can’t do anything during that period.”

“Should we start tonight?”

“Don’t rush. Wait for my call.”

When Chen moved back to the table, the turtle was turned over with its belly upward, a ghastly white belly, motionless in the pot.

“As a cop,” Jia said, “you have written a compassionate story.”

Chen wondered whether it was a sarcastic comment or if it indicated a subtle change on the part of Jia.

“Compassionate characterization is essential for any story,” Chen said, facing Jia. “You may think no one understands you, informed by all the absurdities and atrocities you suffered during the Cultural Revolution. You are like software written by all these events, and as a result, you can operate only one way; it’s beyond your own comprehension. But let me say that I tried to understand. Learning about all of your experiences, I kept saying to myself: but for luck, what happened to Jia could have happened to me.

“I couldn’t help identifying with the boy in the picture. How happy, holding her hand like the world, how unprepared for the disaster already drawing close to the horizon. I tried to think from your perspective. I felt like I was going mad.

“In the days after her death, whenever your neighbors looked at you, you thought they were seeing her running out after you in her nakedness. It was like a demon eating you up. So you moved out, tried to leave everything behind you. Later you even changed your name. But as in a poem by Su Dongpo, you were ‘trying not to think, but forgetting not.’

“Cop or not, I don’t want to condemn you for taking justice into your own hands-at least in the beginning, delivering those relentless blows to Tian. What a blinding force revenge can be, I understand. I, too, was beside myself over the death of a young colleague of mine. In the Jing’an temple, I swore I would do anything to avenge her.

“But things were getting out of your control. You discovered your sexual problem, the cause of which you must have guessed. As a celebrated attorney, known for politically controversial cases, it was too much of a risk for you to go to a shrink. So you had to hang on, like you did in the black back room of the neighborhood committee, except then you still had hope, with her waiting outside for you.

“Then you collapsed with the crisis over Jasmine. Panic turned you into a killer. When you put your hand on her, the repressions or suppressions built up in you all these years erupted. As for the rest, I don’t think I need to repeat any more.

“I’ve come here not as a judge, Mr. Jia, but I can’t help being a cop. That’s why I have made special arrangements, hoping we may be able to find a different way-”

“A different way? What difference will it make to a man who, as you’ve said, sees no light at the end of the tunnel?” Jia said slowly, deliberately. “Now what do you want?”

“What I want, as a cop, is for the killing of innocent people to stop.”

“Well, if tomorrow’s trial goes on as scheduled. If nothing happens to it-”

“That’s what I hope. Nothing happens to it,” Chen said, glancing at his watch. “Nothing out of the way.”

“Oh, it’s Friday already. You don’t have to worry about it,” Jia said, as if reading his thoughts. “And those pictures have to be destroyed.”

“They will be destroyed. All the negatives too. I give you my word on it.”

“Are you still going to write your story, Chief Inspector Chen?”

“No, not as long as I can help it; not that nonfiction, I mean.”

“Not that nonfiction, and not that particularly or personally, but so far, there isn’t a single good book written about the Cultural Revolution.”

“I know,” Chen said. “What a shame.”

“And I have a personal request.”

“A personal request?”

“Don’t quit. This may sound condescending coming from me. But you are quite unusual for a cop, and you know stories are not simply black and white. Not too many cops share your understanding.”

“Thank you for telling me that, Mr. Jia.”

“Thank you for having told me the story, Chief Inspector Chen. Now, it’s time for me to go back and prepare for the trial tomorrow-today,” Jia said, rising. “After the trial, you may do whatever you want, and I’ll try my best to comply.”

When they walked out, they saw White Cloud still staying outside. She must have fallen asleep while waiting there, curled up on the leather sofa, her mandarin dress rumpled, and her feet bare. She wore nothing under the dress.

Jia recoiled. It was the weird hour of the night when fantasies suddenly flipped like bats, and a vision like that startled him.

THE TRIAL FOR THE West-Nine-Block housing development case appeared to be proceeding smoothly Friday morning.

It was in the court of Jin’an district, in which the West-Nine-Block was located. The building was a Catholic school in the twenties. In the early sixties, it was turned into a Children’s Palace, Chen remembered. Only two or three stained-glass windows in the courtroom reminded people of the earlier days.

According to the inside information Chen had just received, Peng was to be sentenced to three years. An assuring message to the people in a time when the gap between rich and poor was widening like an approaching earthquake. It was in the best interest of the government to bring the case to a quick and smooth conclusion, highlighting Peng’s punishment for his improper use of the state fund and for his gross negligence in the business operation.

Such a conclusion appeared to be understandable, and supposedly acceptable, to most of the public. It wouldn’t touch the corrupt Party officials involved behind the scene. At the same time, it would be an opportunity for the government to show its solidarity with the ordinary people. With the state fund reassigned for residential relocation and possibly some other remedies, the residents would be satisfied, and some of them might also choose to move back into the area. As for Peng, he should know better than to protest about three years. With his connections, he would be able to get out in a couple of months.