But that seemed to be enough for Director Zhong to conclude that Jia took the case for revenge over the Cultural Revolution.
Chen moved on to the part about Jia’s personal life in the last few years.
Again, it was scanty. Perhaps because Jia kept a low profile in spite of his controversial cases. It was said that the US stocks left by his grandfather were worth millions, making Jia one of the most eligible bachelors in the city. So his continuous celibacy was noteworthy. Some even had suspicions about his sexual orientation, though there was nothing to support that. In fact, he’d had a girlfriend-a model-though they had since parted. She was surnamed Xia, about fifteen years younger than he.
On impulse, Chen snatched up his cell phone and called White Cloud.
“Do you know someone named Xia in the entertainment business? She was a model before.”
“Xia-Xia Ji, possibly. I don’t know her personally, but she’s well-known in those circles,” she said. “She no longer works as a model. She’s said to have shares in a bathhouse, Gilded Age. She’s a success story, which is why I’ve heard of her.”
“A model for the bathhouse business?”
“Do you really not know?” she asked. “In a massage room there, everything is possible. But she’s a partner in the business.”
He recalled something about the model girlfriend of Jia’s somewhere. He remembered because of her name, Xiaji, which in Chinese could also mean “summer.” Chen had actually met her on a panel for a contest entitled “Three Beautiful Contest-Heart, Body, and Mind,” a pageant sponsored by the New World Corporation. Chen served as a panelist out of obligation to Gu. As a published poet, he was supposed to be “capable of judging what’s poetic.” Xia was also there as a panelist. They didn’t talk much during the contest, nor had they spoken since.
“Thank you, White Cloud. I’ll talk to you later,” he said, finishing up the phone call at the sight of Fan returning with an envelope in his hand.
“Comrade Fan, would you tell me the boy’s name again?”
“Why? Xiaozheng, or Zheng, so that should be Ming Zheng, or Ming Xiaozheng. I don’t remember which particular written character for ‘zheng.’ As for ‘Xiao,’ the character could have been added to the little boy’s name as a sort of endearment, you know.”
“Yes, occasionally my mother still calls me ‘Xiao Cao’ too.”
“What’s your point?”
“Chinese names are capable of meaning something. For instance, Jia Ming can mean ‘fictional name.’ And Ming Zheng, at least in pronunciation, can mean ‘name real.’ ”
“What are you driving at, Chief Inspector Chen?”
“If that little boy changed his name to something like Jia Ming-false name of the descendent of the illustrious Ming Mansion, would that make sense?”
“In Chinese culture, few would change their family name, but for Mei’s son, I would say it’s possible. The past could have been too painful for him. And the pseudonym may have a message in itself, as if telling the world that the one with that name was ‘fictional,’ hiding his real identity from public scrutiny. But who is Jia Ming?”
“At this moment, it’s only a guess.” Chen decided not to go into detail and changed the subject. “Oh, you’ve brought the pictures.”
Fan produced a bunch of photographs. They were black and white, not of high quality, shot from a number of perspectives. Some close-ups were blurred and out of focus.
Still, they were shocking images. Different poses of a dead woman, abandoned, lying naked on the gray concrete ground. As Chen gazed, he juxtaposed them with the photograph of Mei wearing a mandarin dress, taking her son’s hand…
In poetry, when two images are juxtaposed, a possible new meaning emerges. He didn’t exactly grasp it yet, but he knew one was there.
“I don’t know how I can ever thank you enough, Comrade Fan.”
“I took the pictures as a cop,” Fan said with a sudden suggestion of uneasiness, “but I soon realized there would be no investigation. Who was going to bother about such a ‘black’ woman? And I hated the idea of having the pictures of her naked body being passed around-not for the investigation, but for-you know what I mean.”
“You are a man of principle,” Chen said. “I am so glad I have met you today.”
“After the Cultural Revolution, I thought about reopening the case. But the government wanted people to look ahead. So what could I do-with no evidence and no witness? Besides, Mei may have died because of Tian, but technically, it wasn’t even a homicide case.”
“You are right,” Chen said, wondering why Fan made the speech.
“I think you may be right about her son’s name change. He wants to forget about the past. That’s why he sold the Old Mansion and never came back here.” Fan paused shortly before he went on, “I have done nothing for her, and if what I have told you will be used against her son-”
“I have nothing but a theory at the moment. Whatever you have told me will never be used against him,” Chen said, deciding that was true, to a certain extent. “A child’s suffering in those years was no crime.”
“Thank you for telling me that, Chief Inspector Chen.”
“I have to ask you a favor. Can I borrow these pictures for a few days? I won’t show them to irrelevant people. I will return them to you as soon as I finish using them.”
“Of course you may.”
“Thank you, Comrade Fan. You have helped a lot.”
“No, you don’t have to thank me for anything,” Fan said. “It’s what I should have done. If anything, I should thank you.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
FOR THE FIRST TIME, Chen felt he was on the right track.
After leaving Fan, he made a phone call to Jia’s office. A secretary answered the phone and told him that Jia was out of town until this afternoon. That might be just as well, Chen reflected. He needed time to think.
He contacted the housing office of the district government, asking for the documents concerning the sale of the Old Mansion, particularly the seller’s real name and his relationship to the original owners of the mansion. The clerk promised to provide the requested information as soon as possible. For the moment, Chen decided not to reach out to Director Zhong for any more background information about Jia.
But in the meantime, he thought he should do something else. So far, what he had learned was about Jia’s past, things that had happened over twenty years earlier. Now he had to learn about Jia’s current life. Too much was at stake that night, and Chen couldn’t afford to make a mistake.
He dialed Little Zhou and asked him to meet him in front of the Old Mansion.
He walked over to the restaurant, which looked different in the morning. With no neon lights and pretty waitresses standing outside, it looked more like a residential building.
After finishing a cigarette, he thought about calling Overseas Chinese Lu, when Little Zhou arrived in the bureau car.
“Do you know Gilded Age?” Chen asked.
“The bathhouse on Puming Road,” Little Zhou said. “I’ve heard of it.”
“Let’s go there. Oh, stop by a bank on the way. I need to get some cash.”
“Yes, it could be obscenely expensive,” Little Zhou said, starting the car without looking over his shoulder.
Chen could see the bureau driver glancing at him in the rearview mirror. A morning trip to a bathhouse was unusual, not to mention his unexplained disappearance for the past week.
The traffic was terrible. It took them about forty-five minutes before the car arrived at the bathhouse, which looked like a splendid imperial palace. There were already a large number of cars in the parking lot.
“I may need the car for the day, Little Zhou. Can you wait here for me?”
“Of course,” Little Zhou said readily. “It’s important, I know.”