The Lake Ching Murders - A Mystery of Fire and Ice (14 page)

The image was startlingly clear. “So that’s what a transparency does,” thought Fong.

Chen turned on his second projector. The image of the two murdered Americans lying on the bed filled the west wall.

“Who’d have guessed that the fire plug is mechanically inclined,” snarked the coroner, but there were traces of admiration in his voice.

Chen turned on the last two projectors, bringing to life the video room with the dead Koreans on the south wall and the runway room with the mutilated Japanese on the north wall.

Fong rose. He found himself literally surrounded by death. The bar room, the bedroom, the video room and the room with the runway — and him in the middle.

“Turn them off,” Fong said. His voice was harsh.

All four images disappeared. There was a moment of darkness then Chen turned on the factory lights, “I’m sorry, sir, I just thought . . .”

“Don’t be sorry, Captain Chen.”

“Shall I take down the projectors, sir?”

“No, leave them for now. Your work is good. Very good. But it gets us ahead of ourselves. Right now, I want the reports I asked you to prepare.” He looked to the coroner. “Well,” said the coroner, opening the notebook in front of him, “the guy who supplied the food for the boat party claimed that a boy came with the order and the money.”

“Did he have it delivered to the dock?” Fong asked.

“Yeah. And the guy was pissed off that they wouldn’t use his sons as waiters. The bandit claims he threatened to cancel the whole order.”

“And the Pope wears a dress,” said Lily sarcastically in English. All the men, Fong included, turned to her with questioning looks on their faces. Lily smiled. It occurred to her that this would be more fun if there were another woman around. She laughed to herself. What an out-and-out lie that was. She nodded and said in Shanghanese, “I don’t believe the restaurateur, do you?”

Fong compared “I don’t believe the restaurateur, do you?” with “And the Pope wears a dress” and, despite his comprehensive knowledge of both languages, could not find a single point of commonality between the two statements.

“Who was the boy who came with the order and the money?” asked Fong.

“The asshole didn’t know him. Said he looked retarded,” said Grandpa.

“From the island?” asked Fong, suddenly interested.

“Who knows?”

“So he cooked the food and brought it to the boat, right?”

“He
prepared
the food, Fong. Yes, he was very precise on that point. He
prepared
the food.” Each time the old man said “prepared the food” he lisped a little more.

“You make a terrifying homosexual,” said Lily. In response, the coroner added mincing to lisping.

“Who received the food at the dock?” asked Fong, trying to keep his temper in check.

“Not just food. Food and substantial quantities of liquor.”

“Okay, food and liquor. Who received them?”

“No one.”

“What?”

“He was instructed to leave it in a cart by the wharf.”

“Could he describe the cart?” asked Fong.

“He could and did — wood frame, wooden wheels, long timber poles to attach to an animal’s harness.”

“Great, that narrows it down to every farmer within a day’s ride,” snapped Fong.

The coroner began to chuckle.

“Something funny, Grandpa?” Fong demanded.

“Have you ever drunk champagne, Zhong Fong?”

“No. Why?”

“Well, this restaurateur was asked to supply champagne for the festivities.”

“So?”

“So, he was asked to supply it in bottles with twist-off caps.”

“So?”

“So, good champagne doesn’t come with twist-off caps. They have sealed tops and corks,” said Lily. Everyone looked to her. “As an attractive and available Han Chinese girl, on occasion I am treated to the delectations of the West — by boys.”

Fong was happy she hadn’t tried to say that in English. But he was concerned that things were getting out of hand. “So what, I repeat.”

“So,” Lily said in English. “Twist-off cheap, cheap. Why cheap, cheap for boat guys? No sense makes.”

Bad English or not, Lily’s point was made.

Fong began to nod his agreement as Chen and the coroner complained loudly about Lily’s use of English. In the midst of Lily’s repetition of her sentiments in Shanghanese, Fong said, “That’s how the poison got on board.”

“That would be my guess,” said the coroner. “Of course, it’s possible that the local cuisine killed these guys without the use of additives. It’s sure doing its work on me.” At that the old man’s flatulence filled the air.

“Nice, very. In a lady’s front, no less,” shouted Lily in English.

Fong grinned. Lily did not.

After a brief recess, literally to allow the air to clear, it was Chen’s turn to report on his conversation with the boat owner.

“May I point out something?”

“No,” snapped Fong, “just do what I asked, Captain Chen. Tell us exactly what was said when you interviewed the boat owner?”

“Exactly?” Chen asked.

It appeared to Fong that the man was blushing. He couldn’t guess why, so he bulled forward, “Word for word.”

Chen coughed into his hand to hide his embarrassment. Then he flipped open a notebook and read from his notes.

Q: Are you the owner of the boat that sank in the lake?

A: No.

Q: No?

A: This is China. No one owns anything.

Chen said, “He laughed then.” Under his breath he muttered, “He laughed a lot.”

Q: Are you in charge of the rental arrangements for the
boat that sank in the lake?

A: Who the fuck are you?”

Q: I’m a police officer investigating the events that transpired
on board that ship.

A: You talk funny and you are a seriously ugly puke.

“He stopped at that.”

“Did you threaten him, sewer rat?” asked the coroner nonchalantly.

“No,” Chen said threateningly.

“Let’s get on with it,” said Fong. “What happened next?”

“I showed him my ID.”

“Not the picture one, I hope,” gulped the coroner.

Chen looked to Fong. Fong shrugged in the coroner’s direction, “He’s overexcited because he’s out of town. What did you ask next?”

Chen took a deep breath and started again.

Q: So are you the person in charge of the boat?

A: I was.

Q: Was?

A: It’s sunk, gone, no more. So I’m not the person in charge
of the boat anymore, am I? You going to write all this down?

Q: Yes. Who rented the boat from you?

A: A guy.

Q: Which guy?

A: The guy who rented the boat.

Q: You always such a smart ass?

A: Your face always look like a pimpled ass?

“Hide you ass,” Lily said in her personal variant of the English language.

“So ‘Hide you us’ means
hideous.
Swell.” Fong thought. But what he said was, “What did you learn from this turd, Captain Chen? What did you learn that we need to know?”

Chen put aside his notebook. “The guy had all the necessary clearances to give the boat to foreigners. His men got the boat out onto the lake, handed the controls over to the Taiwanese guy with the pilot’s licence then took one of the lifeboats back to shore.”

“Did he or his men see anyone, other than the dead men, on board the boat?”

Chen hesitated.

Before Chen could speak, the coroner piped up with, “Shit.”

Chen smiled. The smile sat oddly on his features.

“May I add my information now, sir?”

“Certainly, Chen,” Fong responded testily.

“Thank you, sir.” He took a breath, enjoying the moment then said, “They saw the girl.”

“Which girl?” asked Lily.

Captain Chen’s smile increased. He reached into his pocket and took out one of the business cards the Triad man gave him. “This one.” He flipped the coloured business card onto the table.

“Nice picture,” the coroner said.

“Doesn’t that ever go away,” Fong thought. “What about the writing, Grandpa?” he asked.

The coroner moved the card far from his face and read in a booming voice:
“Sun Li Cha — Mistress of the
Ancient Arts.
Then some foreign scratching.”

Lily grabbed the card. “It’s English, I think,” she said in Shanghanese. The coroner looked at her. “English speaks me. It doesn’t read me,” Lily told him.

Fong took the card and read the English.
“Sunny Lee
— Mistress of the Cervical Arts.”
Fong didn’t have a clue what that meant. But Lily was suddenly on her feet, pacing.

“I know that reference in English. I’ve heard it before,” she said in Shanghanese. “I’ve seen it on TV.”

Fong stared at her. Unless television had changed drastically during his years on the other side of the Wall, he doubted that Sunny Lee’s artistry had ever been seen on a television set in the People’s Republic of China.

“Got it!” Lily announced. “Got it! It’s that game the British play with sticks and balls on a green table. The announcer calls it (here she switched to English) ‘The Academy of Cervical Arts.’”

Fong briefly wondered if Lily knew any English at all. Then he recalled dealing with a rape case early in his time with Special Investigations in Shanghai. He remembered his embarrassment when he was forced to learn the English names for female private parts. In many ways, it was an education for him since the Chinese names were more fanciful than scientific. He remembered nodding like an idiot as the doctor briefed him on the assault. Then he took the doctor’s report home to Fu Tsong. They were eating a meal he had prepared when he chose to ask his questions. She’d at first found it funny then slowly realized that Fong was deadly serious. Embarrassed, but deadly serious. So she led him through — part by part.

It had bonded them even closer together — had made her infidelity even more devastating.

Fong spoke. “Let’s leave it that she was part of the entertainment on board ship, shall we?”

Chen took the card from Fong and flipped it over. “Personally, I thought this was of more interest.” He pointed at a phone number. Fong swore under his breath.

“It’s a local Xian number.”

“It’s probably just a cell phone,” said Grandpa.

“She’d have to register an address to get a cell phone,” said Chen.

“And I’m sure she gave an accurate account of her lodgings to the authorities, fart face.”

“Get her name and picture to Xian vice. Xian’s a big tourist town, they’re bound to know her,” said Fong.

Chen nodded, was about to say something then thought better of it.

Fong said, “Well done, Captain Chen.”

“Thank you. I can complete the transparencies if you want, sir.”

“Complete how?”

“With more projectors I can detail the floors and ceilings to go with the walls.”

“Do it, Chen.”

Chen nodded and headed out.

The coroner spat a wad across the room then said, “So who does he work for, Fong?”

Fong didn’t respond. Everything about Chen was confusing. A good cop, but a yes man. In charge, but obviously a junior officer. Fong could see him as a party man, but there was something wrong about that too. It didn’t sit well. “Didn’t stack well” was the phrase that came to him and, with a smile, he filed it away. “I don’t know, Grandpa. What’s your guess?”

The coroner cleared his throat. “He’s connected, but not like the commissioner back in Shanghai or the guy who put that leg cuff on you.”

“Then how is he connected?”

“Have you been to Beijing, Fong? No, course not, you’re just a stupid cop when all is said and done.”

“Thanks.”

“Think nothing of it.” Something sad crossed the old man’s features. “Beijing is set up in boxes, Fong. Then boxes within those boxes. And each box is kept apart from all the other boxes. Mao understood revolution, after all. And he, and those who followed him, knew how to prevent further revolutions. Stop the boxes talking to each other and make them do all their communicating through the chairman’s office. Then be sure that only the chairman’s office deals with the outside world. But sometimes boxes get it in their heads that they can make their own connections without the chairman’s office — first to other boxes and then to the world beyond boxes — beyond Beijing. Sometimes they even try to spawn boxes of their own. They’re called rogues.” He said the word
rogues
a second time but this time it was in a hoarse, pained whisper. “Very Chinese if you think about it. I was called once from one such box.” He paused as if something sour had touched his tongue. When he spoke again, his voice was thin. Uncertain. “A man had been decapitated in a party hotel suite. The wife had called me. She was a powerful government minister. Head of a box.” He chuckled briefly, but the sound was as dry as the air from a hot kiln. “She’d found her husband down in Shanghai with a younger woman or a boy — it really doesn’t matter. What matters is that I was called in. At first I thought it was through official channels. But quickly it became apparent that wasn’t the case. The wife was acting on her own — as a rogue. She wanted a death certificate stating death by natural causes. I laughed at her and told her, ‘Sure — he came so hard his head fell off.’ She didn’t laugh.”

The old man paused. Pain passed over his features like a cloud obscuring the sun. He spat angrily.

“I’m a diabetic. She knew. She told me that if I didn’t give her the death certificate, my supply of insulin would be cut off.”

Fong thought he’d never seen anyone look so old.

“I signed the papers. I got the insulin. I’m still here.” His voice was light as dust in the wind.

Fong thought about it. The coroner had covered up a murder. A crime. But if he hadn’t, he’d have died a long time ago. Would it have been worth dying to punish the party woman? Fong didn’t know. In the years since the incident, the coroner had been invaluable in bringing hundreds of cases to successful completion. Without him — who knows? Fong shook his head, but said nothing. He just filed it under “another case of relative justice.”

“So you figure Chen may be on a leash from one of those Beijing boxes, Grandpa?”