The Lake Ching Murders - A Mystery of Fire and Ice (9 page)

It didn’t feel like any meeting Fong had ever attended. Why should it? Fong was now a convicted felon. He hadn’t even seen these people for five years. Then, of course, there was Chen. Who was he? Whom did he report to?

For his part, Chen felt out of place. The two new people totally ignored him and when they did take note of him they always spoke Shanghanese. On occasion they referred to him as “Shrug and Knock the Second.” They never explained the reference. Although he could understand their Shanghanese dialect, he was often lost with the complex slang. But he didn’t need to understand every word they said to know that they thought him nothing more than a local party hack. It angered him. It was wrong and it was stupid. If nothing else, he knew his way around this part of the Shanxi and he could be of real use to the investigation.

Fong turned to the coroner. He looked ancient — more ancient. Even five years ago he’d looked like he’d been recently exhumed. Now he smelled like it too.

Lily looked older too. She must be thirty-four by now, Fong thought. She still dressed exquisitely and entirely Western. She’d have to be accompanied out on the streets here. It wasn’t Huai Hai Road out the door. He watched her sip her tea. Her slender lips poised to accept the heat. Her deep, liquid eyes, eternally sad, now seemed at least a little bit at rest. His eyes drank her in — the arch of her hand, the curve of her fingers, the length of her neck. Then she smiled. “Talk time, short stuff.”

“No fair. I don’t understand English,” barked the old coroner. “You drag me all the way out to the very centre of nowhere and then talk that jibberish. It hurts the ears. Besides I don’t believe it’s really a language at all. When none of the black-haired people are around I’m sure that they speak Mandarin like everyone else. This English is just a big scam. It’s their version of a joke. Not funny. Stupid.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” said Fong in the Common Speech. “Let’s get started. I hope that by the end of the meeting we’ll know where to begin with this . . . thing.”

“Show us the model,” said Lily.

“Later. Last,” Fong replied.

“Why not now?” asked the coroner.

“Because I said so,” replied Fong. Reasserting his authority wasn’t going to be simple. Then he caught Lily’s eye. She approved. “Let’s start with the victims. That would be you, Captain Chen.” Fong was careful to use his full title.

Chen was anxious to make a good impression on these Shanghanese. He opened his book and readied his notes. “I was assigned to updating and collating material on the victims. I’m going to do this by country.” He looked up for confirmation. None was forthcoming so he put his head back down and read from his notes. “The Americans were both lawyers for a big firm in California. They were corporate litigators. Both specialized in something called patent law. I’ve got calls in to try to explain that to me.”

“Well done, fire plug, solid investigative work that,” snarked the coroner.

“It’s all I could find on short notice,” Chen snapped back. The air momentarily crackled with anger. Then Chen backed off. “I’ll find more in the morning, Grandpa.”

The coroner stared hard at Chen for what he considered an uncalled-for familiarity. Then he reminded himself that this was the country. “Grandpa?” he grunted.

Chen was about to apologize when Fong broke in. “Better than old fart! Any guesses what brought them over here?”

Shoulders were raised, heads shook, the usual blank looks that a Chinese person gives when asked about a foreigner’s behaviour or motives. They were baffling — beyond rational comprehension — completely inscrutable.

“Let’s move on. What about the Japanese?” asked Fong.

“Scientists,” said Chen, happy to get back to his notes. “I’ve just begun to piece together what kind of scientists they are — were. One was the head of the biology department at a major university in Tokyo. Another worked as a researcher for an industrial conglomerate.”

“What did he research, Chen?” Lily asked in her beautiful Shanghanese.

Chen had trouble with the Shanghanese idiom for a second then got it. “Genealogy. He researches genealogy.”

“Genealogy needs researching?” asked the coroner, hawking to get some unruly phlegm up his throat.

“Evidently, Grandpa.”

“I’m not your grandpa, Captain Chen,” the coroner said simply.

“There’s always something to be thankful for, huh?” said Fong. “What about the other Japanese?”

“Microbiologist, geneticist and computer analyst,” Chen said, flipping through his notes.

“Anything else on the Japanese?”

“Yeah, like where were they during the rape of Nanjing?” asked the coroner.

“They’re old enough to have been there. All of them,” said Chen.

“Then maybe they got what they deserved,” said the coroner bluntly. Fong looked at the old man. He’d known him for years, but really didn’t know much about him. Was it possible that he had lost people in the slaughters at Nanjing? Possible. Fong looked back at Chen. “The Koreans?”

“Industrialists. All three. They own scientific laboratories all over the stupid peninsula.” Chen looked up quickly to see if anyone was offended by his comment. No one was. “Government-backed corporations of some sort,” he added.

Fong noted the flare of anger when Chen spoke of Koreans. Interesting. He filed it away and asked, “And what about the dead Taiwanese?” This time it was he who was careful to hide the edge in his voice.

“A little of each. Some in banking, some in industry, some in science. One a lawyer.”

“I didn’t know that Taiwan had laws,” said Lily. They laughed. But none of them found it very funny.

Fong asked, “Which one was hung from the rafters?”

“The lawyer.” Lily, the coroner and Chen had spoken in unison.

“So, just looking at victims, what does this add up to?” asked Fong. He waited for a moment but no one spoke. “All right. How about something simpler: Why were those men on that boat?”

“They were celebrating.”

“I agree, Lily, but celebrating what? What had they accomplished that merited the reward of a celebration?”

This was greeted by a silence. Finally Chen spoke, “I don’t know, sir, but I’ve found something that I think might be important.” They all looked at him. “I think there was a Chinese man who’s not accounted for.”

“Maybe he was tossed overboard?” said the coroner and spat again.

“Maybe he wasn’t, Grandpa.” Chen’s voice was hard. Fong hadn’t expected this in the young man. He was evidently tenacious once he got his teeth into something. Like a short stumpy rat, Fong thought. Fong liked that but warned himself to hold off any judgement of the young officer until he knew more about him.

“What’s on your mind, Captain Chen?” asked Fong.

“The Taiwanese all stayed in Xian in one of the big tourist hotels. There were seven Chinese bodies found on the ship. They had reservations for eight rooms.”

“An extra room for the whores?” suggested Lily.

“Two of them bunking together for unnatural purposes?” asked the coroner as sweetly as a child asking for a second rice cookie.

“All indications from the boat suggest heterosexual dalliance. Besides that would have made for the use of six hotel rooms not eight,” said Lily, matching his smile with an innocent one of her own. “Having trouble with addition these days, Grandpa?”

“Grandpa from you too?”

“Seems to fit, Grandpa,” said Fong.

“Fine. I accept. I also vote for the room of whores that Lily is suggesting.”

“The hotel bill may have been picked up by the Taipei government, but I doubt that even those pimps would pay for an extra room for the girls.” Fong turned away from them. He shivered as the mongoose circled the base of his spine. Tiny claws tore the ground with anticipation. Fong’s teeth clacked. They did that now when he got excited. He looked up and they were all looking at him.

“Sharing time, short stuff?”

Before the coroner could complain again about the use of English in the Middle Kingdom, Fong replied in English, “Not yet — tall glass of water.” Lily’s confusion pleased him. Then in Shanghanese he quickly said, “You’re up, Lily.”

Lily hesitated then laid her notes on the table in front of her. She liked the spotlight. “The boat was filled with clues, but some of the investigation at the crime site is debatable. Whoever this specialist was, he knew his stuff, but the locals are amateurs.” Before Chen could defend himself she added, “It’s probably not Chen’s fault, but soldiers are soldiers and cops are cops.” She looked at Fong, a churlish smile on her face. In English she said, “East is East. No?”

Fong had no idea what she was trying to say. So he responded in Shanghanese, “I’m sure you’re right.” Then to the men’s querying looks, he simply shrugged his shoulders. A gesture a Chinese man uses in circumstances varying from learning that his wife has given birth to quintuplets to being told that the bus he is waiting for is going to be late.

The other men shrugged back at him. It was used for that too.

Lily didn’t shrug. She threw an evidence bag with two spent cartridges on the table. It landed with a thunk. Then she splayed seven photographs of the large bar indicating exactly where the cartridges had been found. Chen picked up the evidence bag and turned it slowly in the light.

“Give that to your grandpa. You’re way too young to identify those.”

Chen handed the bag to the coroner who held it at a distance from himself to get a good look. Fong marvelled that the man’s vanity still prevented him from wearing glasses. Fong wondered when vanity finally left a man alone. Gave him some peace. Then he realized that when vanity left, so did a part of life — a part he wasn’t ready to let go of just yet.

“These belong in a museum,” the coroner said. “I’m surprised they actually fired. Doesn’t gunpowder deteriorate or something?”

“It does, Grandpa,” said Lily.

“So, how did they fire?” asked the coroner.

“They’re new,” said Lily.

“What? He just said they were ancient, Lily,” Fong said.

“They were. And Grandpa is right that gunpowder deteriorates. These were the original shells — probably from the 1860s or 1870s. I’ll have to check that. But they’ve been recharged with modern powder, although no doubt fired from the original weapon. If you look at the markings on the shells, I think they were made in Japan, Tokugawa era or some such.”

“Why? Why bother? Weapons aren’t that hard to get. Why bother filling old gun shells with new powder? Why would Triads bother with that?” asked Chen.

Fong was happy when the coroner jumped in, “More important, why leave them there to be found?” His old face was a mask of confusion. “There were at least five gunshots fired in that bar room. But the specialist only found these two shells. Why? And look where the shells were.” He shuffled through the photographs and found the wide-angle shot of the room with the two shells circled on the floor. “Right in the middle of the room. Why would they end up there? It doesn’t make sense.”

Fong felt their eyes move toward him. He kept his face as neutral as he could but his mind was racing. The bar room. The faceless Chinese men. Each countenance one large dark mouth, screaming. Gunshots. Knife wounds. A man hog-tied and allowed to bleed to death from the wounds on his face — one awful red cry.

“Good questions,” said Lily. “Here are some more mysteries to ponder. The splatter patterns on the walls of the bar indicate that some of the other shots were from modern weapons. The distance between the deceased and the marks on the mirrors indicate that a high-powered, definitely modern, handgun was used. Without the real bodies, we’ll never be able to know exactly what kind of weapon it was. Apparently the lake is filled with eels. By the time they’ll be able to retrieve the bodies there won’t be enough left to bury, let alone autopsy. But the issue remains. The splatter marks indicate that there was at least one high-powered weapon on the boat. Why bother using an antique when you have a modern gun?” Without waiting for discussion, she reached into the box with the evidence bags at her side. She tossed the bag with the Triad medallion on the broken chain onto the table. “Typical ‘14K’ stuff. I’ll check, but my guess is that it’s pretty low in the hierarchy. A foot soldier would be my guess. Then there are these.” She tossed out the four photos of the amulet on its chain. “A lot of pictures for. . .” Lily never completed her thought.

“Film’s cheap. He took a lot of pictures of all the Triad markings,” said the coroner.

“Next,” said Fong, not wanting to deal with Triads just yet.

Lily pulled out the Hong Kong video and tossed it onto the table. “Standard issue pornography — of the hetero variety. I guess we could track down where in Hong Kong it was made but I doubt that there’s anything to it.” She looked at her male company. “Just guys having their boyish fun.”

The men averted their eyes as if looking at the black rectangle implicated them somehow in the event.

Lily held the plastic bag with the set of Parisian glasses taken from the Japanese man. “I have no idea why the specialist insisted that they be itemized. There are no doubt prints on them but whose is beyond our ability to determine. Same for the CD from the runway room.” She tossed it onto the table.

Fong picked it up. It was American. He wasn’t much on Western music but Fu Tsong had insisted that he listen to all sorts of things that her lover, the Canadian director Geoffrey Hyland, had given her. He allowed the thought to dissipate into the thinness of the air. It’d been a long time since that jealousy had haunted his thoughts. He looked at the CD and forced himself to remember his English sounds. Somehow they were easier when he spoke than when he read.
Counting Crows.
He wondered if that was the name of the artist or if it was a group. Surely “Counting” was an odd first name. His English didn’t extend to bird nomenclature. He had no idea what “recovering the satellites,” which was written in odd print on the cover, meant. He turned the casing over and read the names of the songs. His eyes landed on title after title:
“Angels of the Silences,” “Daylight Fading,” “Children in Bloom,” “Millers Angels,” “A Long December.”