Apricot's Revenge

by Song Ying

  Zhong was visibly friendly to the questioners. He explained that in the wake of an emergency meeting, the Landmark Board had agreed that the company would continue to operate normally. But this was a difficult time and everyone, from top to bottom, was busy with Mr. Hu’s funeral arrangements, so he hoped that friends in the media would be understanding and forgiving of any slights.

  Off to the side, the two staffers were pasting an announcement on the marble wall.

  Some of the reporters rushed over.

  It was the yellow sheet of paper, the black ink still dripping wet.

  ANNOUNCEMENT

  On the evening of June 24, Mr. Hu Guohao, CEO of Landmark Corp, suffered a heart attack and died while swimming. He was 58. All members of the Landmark family express their shock and deepest sorrow over Mr. Hu’s sudden, untimely death.

  The passing of Mr. Hu is a grievous loss to Landmark Realty. But the company will continue its current development strategy. At the moment, everything is in normal operation and the Board of Trustees will soon name a qualified successor for the shareholders and the Board to make the final decision.

  A memorial for Mr. Hu will be held on July 2 at the Shenzhen Funeral Home.

  Office of Landmark Realty Board of Trustees

  June 26

  “A memorial on July second?”

  “That’s this Sunday.”

  Some of the reporters were mystified. Obviously they thought it was too soon to hold a memorial and that something else might be going on.

  Nie Feng shared their reaction. Landmark Realty seemed in a hurry to put this Hu Guohao business behind them. Wanting to reduce the impact and aftermath of the CEO’s death to protect the company’s interests was understandable. But no one could deny that the cause of his death seemed somewhat suspicious. Based on news reports, the cause, drowning or heart attack, had yet to be determined, though the company’s announcement clearly pointed to the latter.

  He’d also found some unusual things in the papers he’d read that morning.

  Why, for instance, if Hu had been swimming in Greater Meisha, had his body washed up at Lesser Meisha, more than three miles away?

  Also, no personal effects were found near the body, neither on the beach, in suite 204 of Greater Meisha’s Seaview Hotel, nor in the locker room at the beach.

  “Media friends are welcome to attend the memorial,” Zhong announced as the reporters began to drift away.

  Nie Feng walked up to Zhong.

  “Hello, Mr. Zhong.”

  “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Nie.”

  They shook hands.

  They’d met when Zhong arranged for Nie to interview Hu Guohao. Nie was quick to come up with his piece.

  “I’ve already sent in my interview, but my editor wants me to verify some numbers.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem,” Zhong said, greeting the guards as he entered the elevator with Nie. They stopped at the twenty-fourth floor, where a black stainless-steel door decorated with gold speckles opened.

  Zhong led Nie into the luxuriously appointed reception room.

  After they were seated in brown leather chairs and tea was poured, Zhong, in a rather laconic manner, gave Nie a brief description of the situation.

  According to the ME’s report, the cause of death was indeed drowning as a result of cardiac arrest while swimming. He died around midnight on the twenty-fourth. There was a three- to four-millimeter scratch on the left side of his chest, probably caused by a sharp rock. A preliminary investigation by the police showed that Hu was dead before being washed up on Lesser Meisha beach.

  Nie followed that up with some questions.

  “Did Hu Guohao often swim at Greater Meisha?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he a good swimmer?”

  “Everyone in the company knew that Mr. Hu was a terrific swimmer.”

  “In other words, under normal circumstances, he would not likely drown.”

  “You could say that.”

  “Did he look normal to you in the days before his death?”

  “Normal?” Zhong stared at Nie, “By that you mean…”

  “Like his state of mind,” Nie explained. “Or did he meet anyone out of the ordinary?”

  “I don’t believe so.” Zhong did his best to recall.

  “I see.” Nie nodded.

  Someone knocked at the glass door.

  Zhong went over and opened the door. It was Hu’s assistant, Ah-ying, wearing a dove-gray suit, and looking sad.

  Casting a glance at Nie, she said to Zhong, “The police are here with more questions.”

  “Hello.” Nie greeted her.

  “Oh, you made it here fast,” Ah-ying replied casually.

  Zhong ushered the police into the room.

  Leading the way was Cui Dajun, his keen eyes surveying the room. He was followed by two young uniformed officers, a chunky youth in his early twenties, apparently a recent academy graduate, and a petite woman with a poised manner.

  Ah-ying brought everyone paper cups of tea.

  “We’re here on a routine check of facts,” Cui said after greeting Zhong. “Who’s in charge of everyday company affairs now?”

  “Mr. Zhou, the deputy CEO, but he just went to report to City Hall.” Zhong continued, “The Board met this morning, with Big Sister Zhu in attendance. She’s still here.”

  “Big Sister Zhu?” Cui asked, alert to the first mention of the name.

  “Mr. Hu’s wife, Zhu Mei-feng. She rarely came to the office when Mr. Hu was alive, and she always stayed clear of company business,” Ah-ying explained to Cui.

  Noticing Nie for the first time, Cui turned to ask Zhong, “And this is?”

  “He’s a feature reporter for Western Sunshine magazine,” Zhong said.

  “My name is Nie Feng,” Nie said with a smile as he stood up and offered his hand.

  Cui gave him the cold shoulder, so Nie lowered his hand without seeming offended.

  “We have no comment to make to the media,” Cui said with a haughty air.

  Nie gave him a funny look as he scratched his cheek.

  “Mr. Nie interviewed our CEO last week and is here to double-check some facts,” Zhong explained on Nie’s behalf.

  “I see.” Cui did not relent in his indifference to the journalist.

  The moon-faced male officer gave Nie a look of understanding.

  Nie nodded an acknowledgement.

  “You’re from Sichuan, aren’t you?” Moon Face said to Nie.

  Nie laughed when he detected the policeman’s familiar Sichuanese accent.

  “We’re from the same province,” Nie said, a common ploy to get close to someone.

  “I’m Wang Xiaochuan, from Chongqing.” Wang appeared to take to Nie right off.

  “That’s enough socializing.” Cui waved his disapproval at Wang before turning back to Zhong. “We’d like to speak with Zhu Mei-feng.”

  — 2 —

  Zhu Mei-feng, Hu Guohao’s widow, ran a beauty salon. A pretty, refined woman who was always tastefully dressed, she looked to be in her thirties, though she was older than that. Everyone in the company called her Big Sister Zhu.

  She met with the police in the CEO’s reception room, where a beige leather sectional sofa surrounded a heavy, rectangular, glass-topped coffee table, alongside a potted “get-rich” tree, a common office sight in Guangdong.

  Zhu sat on the central sofa section facing Cui and Yao Li across the table, on which an imported crystal ashtray had been placed. Xiaochuan sat on a side section, notebook in hand.

  “We’d like to know more about Mr. Hu, and we’re sorry to trouble you at a time like this,” Cui said apologetically.

  “It’s all right. You can ask me anything.” Zhu was intent on being cooperative.

  “We’ve heard that Mr. Hu had a history of heart trouble. Is that right? What medicine did he normally take?” Cui asked.

  “Everyone in the company knew, but he never took it seriously.”

  “
What does that mean, never took it seriously?” Xiaochuan cut in.

  “He always said he was a man of steel.” Zhu cast Xiaochuan a glance, and continued in a mocking tone, “See what happened? Even a man of steel can fall.”

  There was a hint of irony and resignation in her words, giving the impression that she was not devastated by news of her husband’s death. For all anyone knew, Hu Guohao ran a tight ship at home as well.

  “What medicine was he taking,” Yao Li followed up, poised but alert.

  “Aspirin, four a day. And two more, something called Metoprolol and some other sort of beta blocker, I can’t recall the name. But he stopped after taking them for a few days.”

  Xiaochuan wrote this in his notebook as Cui nodded to show he understood.

  “Did he suffer from insomnia?” Yao Li asked.

  “What does that have to do with his death?” Zhu turned to Yao with a questioning look.

  “Well, the coroner found residue of aspirin and sleeping pills in his stomach,” Cui said. “The amount of aspirin was as you said, but the dosage of sleeping pills was way over the normal amount.”

  “He did have trouble sleeping and frequently took sleeping pills,” Zhu said calmly. “Sometimes he’d be awake all night, and it wasn’t unusual for him to take more if something was bothering him.”

  “What sleeping aid did he normally take?” Yao asked.

  “He used to take a sedative called Limbitrol. But it stopped working, so he changed to Wintermin.”

  Yao and Cui exchanged a look.

  “I see.” Cui looked relieved.

  “Mrs. Hu—” Xiaochuan wanted to ask a question, but Cui stopped him with a look.

  “Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Hu,” Cui said, “Please accept our condolences for your loss. We’ll be back if we need more information.”

  “That won’t be a problem. Now, if that’s all, I’d like to go home.”

  With a graceful nod of her head, Zhu Mei-feng stood up and left the office.

  When she was gone, Xiaochuan mumbled softly, “Why did you cut me off, Chief?”

  “What else was there to ask? It’s clear he had a heart attack,” Cui scolded the young man. “Don’t complicate matters just to impress people.”

  “Mrs. Hu didn’t seem all that sad about her husband’s death,” Xiaochuan argued.

  “Does she need to make a show of looking sad for you? You don’t know what it means to be the wife of rich man like that.” Cui paused, before continuing. “Do you have any idea how many unhappy wives and mistresses there are in the paradise of Shenzhen?”

  “No, I don’t,” Xiaochuan confessed.

  “Neither do I, but Zhu Mei-feng was clearly one of them. So there you have it.”

  “You mean she was one of the unhappy wives?”

  “What else could she be, a mistress? How could you be so dense?” Cui demanded.

  “Oh.” Xiaochuan scratched the back of his head, looking confused.

  Yao Li covered her mouth to mask a smile.

  “Based on what we’ve learned so far, I think we can abandon the thought that ‘accidental death from drowning’ was not the cause of Hu’s death.” Cui paused, “Unless—”

  “Unless what?” Xiaochuan asked, a bit too eagerly.

  “Unless we find a reason to be suspicious,” Yao interjected.

  Cui had nothing to add to that.

  “I see, Chief.” Somewhat chastened, Xiaochuan appeared to be on the same page.

  — 3 —

  After the police left the building, Nie Feng remained in the reception room to talk to Ah-ying, hoping he might get some behind-the-scenes information.

  Ah-ying, whose full name was Feng Xueying, was an attractive white-collar worker. A graduate of the PR department at Guangzhou’s J University, she was still single and had worked for Hu Guohao for four years. At the moment, her eyes were red and puffy. Her shock and sorrow at Hu’s sudden death was visibly genuine. Instinct told Nie, a journalist with a master’s degree in psychology, that his best bet to learn hidden details of Hu’s life was to talk to his admirers. But first he had to create the right atmosphere. When suffering a loss, people need to talk to someone so as not to feel alone. But Ah-ying would not likely open up to friends, and probably not to family, either. Rather, a perfect stranger, someone likable, someone she knew only in passing, would be the one to whom she could pour out her heart.

  “Mr. Hu’s views on the western development of real estate were a real eye-opener,” Nie Feng remarked. “He was incredibly forward looking. I was impressed. I’ve interviewed many renowned businessmen, but few have been as decisive as Mr. Hu.”

  Ah-ying looked up at him.

  “Mr. Hu’s picture will grace the cover of the upcoming issue of Western Sunshine,” Nie said, and followed that up with a sigh. “What a shame he won’t be able to see it. How fragile human life is.”

  She seemed moved by his apparent sincerity, which was enough to encourage her to reveal things about Hu Guohao, including a degree of doubt regarding the cause of death.

  “There’s something not quite right about his death.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Just a feeling…”

  As the conversation progressed, Ah-ying revealed something totally unexpected.

  “Was he acting differently in the days before died?” Nie had asked her.

  “Yes, there was something.”

  She told him that on the morning before his death, when she brought some files to his office, on his desk she noticed a strange piece of paper with a red sign in the shape of an ingot with a curved bottom. A series of printed numbers in bold script appeared under the sign. After Hu came in and sat down, he picked it up and examined it closely. At first he seemed puzzled; then he squinted to examine the row of numbers, and the expression on his face changed abruptly. He quickly put the paper away.

  “What kind of paper?”

  “An ordinary sheet, letter-size paper.”

  “Do you remember the numbers?”

  “I just glanced at the paper and didn’t pay much attention. I think the last three numbers were seven-nine-one.”

  “Seven-nine-one?” Nie Feng considered this new information. “Do you recall what his mood was like at that moment?”

  “I can’t really say, but the look on his face was strange, like he’d seen something spooky.”

  A hidden clue to murder?—the thought quickly flashed through his mind.

  “Did you tell the police about this?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “They didn’t ask,” she said. “And I didn’t know if I should mention it, because—”

  “The paper’s missing.” Nie finished her thought for her.

  “Yes. I searched Mr. Hu’s office after his death, couldn’t find it.”

  “What about his desk drawers?”

  “I checked them all. Nothing.”

  “Did he have a safe?”

  “No.”

  Nie thought she hesitated a bit, as if she weren’t altogether sure.

  “I searched every place I know,” she added.

  She seemed to be telling the truth, but he couldn’t help feeling that she was referring to something specific when she said “every place I know.” Since it was just a hunch, he decided not to follow it up. He also felt that there was something more to her sadness, but he couldn’t put his finger on what that was.

  “May I take another look at Mr. Hu’s office?” he asked politely.

  “Of course.”

  She took him back into the luxurious office, next to her own.

  Walls covered in high-quality fabric, a carpet decorated with auspicious patterns, the carved wooden crocodile, and the crystal ashtray. Everything looked the same and yet, now that the occupant was gone, it was different somehow. The high-backed chair sat forlornly behind the big desk, and the giant photo of the Landmark Building hung quietly on the wall behind it.

  He looked al
l around; there was no safe.

  Through the enormous bay window, he was looking down at structures all the way to the horizon; the entire jungle of Shenzhen’s buildings seemed to be within his view.

  Memories of the interview from four days ago were still vivid. Five or six people had been sitting in chairs outside his office, all waiting to see Hu Guohao or to report to him. Hu Guohao had been at the helm of the entire Landmark Building, like the captain of a giant aircraft carrier. But now that he was gone, the reception area outside his office looked empty, which gave rise to a feeling that all that luxury was but a dream, and a sense of the inconstancy of the world.

  * * *

  That night Nie Feng placed a call to his editor-in-chief at Western Sunshine.

  “Hello, Mr. Wu. It’s Nie Feng.”

  “How’s everything going?” Mr. Wu sounded concerned.

  “Everything is a mess. I need to do some more digging and interview some people.”

  “That won’t do. You’re needed here.” Wu was not happy.

  “Hu Guohao’s death was unusual,” Nie said to convince his editor. “There’s something going on here, secrets to be unearthed. Just think, a real estate tycoon dies suddenly under suspicious circumstances. I guarantee you it’s a story everyone in the media will be chasing.”

  Wu remained unconvinced.

  “I’ve found some clues.” Nie upped the ante.

  “Very well then. I’ll give you a week, and you give me a follow-up report.”

  “A week may not be long enough. You can’t solve a case in a week.”

  “All right, then, ten days.”

  That was clearly Wu’s limit.

  “Thanks, Mr. Wu. Have you read the piece I e-mailed you?”

  “I did. It’s good. It’ll run tomorrow.”

  “I think you should change the title.”

  “Change the title? Why?”

  “Add a subtitle—Hu Guohao’s Final Interview.”

  “Genius! That’ll grab the readers’ attention.”

  No wonder Nie was Wu’s favorite contributor.

  THREE

  Three Beneficiaries

  — 1 —

  The following afternoon. Y District Public Security Bureau. The criminal division leader’s sixth-floor office.