Dragon Day

Chapter Nine

★

I’m riding the subway one stop to home, and I keep saying to myself, That’s it. No more stupid stuff.

I need to stop drinking so much. I need to exercise more. Figure out how I’m going to manage my pain without Percocet.

Or how to get more Percocet.

And I need to stop doing stupid stuff.

I just have to keep pushing things to the edge. Why do I do it? I’m starting to think maybe I really do want the buzz.

Or maybe I just don’t give a fuck if I keep pushing and one of these times I fall off the cliff.

Ever since the Sandbox, ever since I got blown up, I haven’t been able to get my head on straight. Before that I was so young, who knows what kind of person I’d be now if I hadn’t gone to war? Maybe I’d still do stupid stuff. But it’s like I never got the chance to actually grow up, like a normal person.

Of course, what are the odds that I would’ve grown up normal anyway?

What wakes me up the next morning is Mimi, barking.

I freeze, heart pounding. Listen.

Happy barking.

Okay, then. I settle back into bed and try to relax.

“Who’s a good dog? Who’s the best dog?”

My mom.

I reach around for my phone, which is somewhere on my bed, I think. My fingers brush against its shiny glass.

It’s 11:51 a.m. I guess I can get up now.

I mean, I walked Mimi hours ago, for about five minutes. Which I guess is not really a “walk.” But after last night…

It’s not like I had that much to drink, for me. Just the wine, and then a couple of beers when I got home. My mind wouldn’t stop going for a while, after that party.

John’s right. The second-generation rich are a creepy bunch. And if Dao Ming, Mrs. Tiantian, is a hong er dai with connections to the Party leadership…

These are really not people I want to be hanging out with.

I mean, I already have my rich friend Harrison and a Party friend… spy… whatever he is, John.

That’s enough.

There’s a Chinese proverb I learned once. Something about when tigers fight, you sit on the mountain and watch.

What you don’t do is make friends with one or both tigers. Pick the losing tiger, you’re fucked. Try to make friends with both, one of them’s bound to eat you.

I drag myself out of bed. My head feels swollen. I didn’t have that much to drink, I tell myself. The atmosphere over there was poison, that’s all.

“What am I doing?” I say out loud. “I have to stop doing this.”

I’m not sure what “this” even is.

“See what Andy got me?”

My mom is standing in the living room. There’s a big, round, cast-iron griddle sitting on top of a box next to the dining-room table.

“Was it here last night?”

“No, it just came. It’s a jianbing griddle.” She peers at the box. “I think the other thing’s a stand and a propane tank.”

“Oh, yeah.” I limp over to the kitchen. I’m thinking coffee. It occurs to me to ask, “You want to make jianbing?”

“Tortillas.”

“Oh.” I get out the coffee, scoop some into a filter. Another thing occurs to me.

“You’re not going to cook in here with that, are you? I mean, a propane tank?”

“Only if it’s safe.”

Deal with this later, I tell myself, pouring water into the coffeemaker.

Mom waits until I sit down at the table with a fresh cup before she says, “Andy and I have been talking about opening a restaurant.”

I have coffee in my mouth, so I can’t answer that right away. When I do, the best I can come up with is, “A restaurant?”

“A Mexican restaurant. Tacos mostly. Nothing too complicated.”

“Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

“Well, I think there’s a real market for it,” she says, and it’s hesitant enough to sound almost like an apology. “The ones I’ve tried here aren’t very good. I know I can make better salsas. I just have to get the tortillas right. And find enough good avocados for a decent price.”

I take another gulp of coffee, because this time I don’t really want to answer right away. I swallow.

“Mom, opening up a business here, it’s very tricky for a foreigner. With restaurants people’ve even had them shanzhai’d. Copied. The original owners thrown out and the business taken over.”

“I know you need a reliable Chinese partner,” my mom says. “That’s why it makes sense to do it with Andy. Andy has some money. Or he can get some money. He owns a few apartments. Plus, he has a friend who might want to invest.”

I don’t even know where to start with this.

“Okay, you’ve known Andy how long?”

Mom scrunches up her face like she’s calculating. “I think it’s been almost four months.”

“Do you even know what he does? Why he has money?”

“Some kind of state job? I think? He might be partly retired. He doesn’t seem to have to show up all the time. He said he bought the apartments back when they were cheap. I know one of them’s in Qingdao.”

“What happens if the two of you break up?”

There’s a long pause. Then a sigh. “Well, I hope that doesn’t happen. But the thing is, Ellie…” She sits down across from me. She seems… I don’t know. Weirdly calm. “Both of us want to try something new. We think this could work. And sometimes you just have to go for it.”

I study her. Her face is slightly flushed. She looks good, I think. She’s been exercising, she and Andy, ever since we got back from Yangshuo, where they bicycled and did tai chi classes together.

I think about this, about my mom being fifty-one and trying to make a fresh start yet again.

“Yeah,” I say. “I guess you do.”

What else can I say? And maybe she’s right.

“Andy and I are going to get lunch. And, after that, check out a few potential locations.” She twists her hands together, uncertain again. “Do you want to come? It’d be great to get your opinion.”

I realize, all of a sudden, that the uncertainty isn’t about what she wants to do, with the restaurant and with Andy. It’s with me. Like I’m this cat that might respond with a hiss and a scratch.

“Yeah, I’d… I’d like to. But I have some things I need to do.”

I really am a shit.

She doesn’t look surprised, or even disappointed. It’s probably what she expected me to say.

“Maybe, if you want, we could look at some places in a couple of days?” I offer.

She smiles. “That sounds great, hon.”

She probably thinks I don’t really mean it. Who knows? Maybe I don’t. But I could. I could be a little nicer. Pretend like I’m a grown-up, even if I’m not.

Mimi dances around my mom like she’s about to get a walk. “Sorry, puppy,” my mom says, ruffling the fur at her neck. “Some of these places probably don’t like dogs much.”

“Except on the menu,” I mutter.

My mom rolls her eyes.

“I’ll take you for a walk, I promise,” I tell Mimi after she leaves. “I just have to do some stuff first.”

What stuff, I really don’t know. Check email. Shower maybe.

Decide what I’m going to tell Sidney about last night.

We haven’t had the museum meeting yet, I tell myself. I could try to put it off a little longer.

Why do I keep putting it off?

Marsh is a creep. But does he deserve to get whacked by Sidney for that? I mean, who’s the worse influence here, Marsh or Gugu?

Like I’m going to tell Sidney about Gugu’s milk fetish.

Maybe I’m overreacting here. Maybe Sidney won’t actually kill Marsh. Those guys his men smoked a couple of months ago, that was a little different, right? They were bad guys, hired guns who nobody much was going to miss, and it was kind of a kill-or-be-killed situation. Like combat. You engage the enemy. Someone’s going to end up in a glad bag.

I’m thinking all this, and someone pounds on my door.

This time Mimi barks and bares her teeth.

I grab her collar. “Quiet. Sit.” I brace my hands on the table and push myself up. “Stay.”

I hobble over to the door. Peer through the keyhole.

A guy in a uniform and a man in plainclothes behind him.

I’m on the fifth floor. There’s nowhere to run.

And this whole drill is starting to feel almost routine.

So I open the door. I don’t even bother to say anything.

“Ellie McEnroe?” It’s the plainclothes guy in the back. Fortyish. Slacks, white short-sleeved shirt.

“Yeah?”

I’m thinking, more tea with the DSD.

Except the uniform in front has a patch on the shoulder of his light blue shirt with the Great Wall and the olive leaves that says 警察 and then, in English, police.

Regular cops, more or less.

This is confirmed for me when the guy in plainclothes says, “We are from Beijing Municipal Public Security Bureau. I am Inspector Zou. This is Sergeant Chen. We think perhaps you can help with our investigation.”

“Sure. Okay.”

I open the door wider and step aside.

I mean, what else am I going to do? Ask for a lawyer? This is China.

The two of them walk in. The uniform, Sergeant Chen, stations himself close to the front door. He’s tall, young, lanky, all angles, like a jointed puppet, and has a messenger bag slung across his shoulder.

Mimi stands by my side, neck arched, tail up high and stiff. Ready to attack.

“No, Mimi,” I whisper. “Be a good dog.”

The man in plainclothes, Inspector Zou, leans back on his heels, a little freaked. “Will he bite me?” he asks. “I do not know dogs well.”

“Oh, no,” I say, because I’m having these nightmare scenarios where they shoot her or drag her away and sell her for hotpot. “She’s just nervous with people she doesn’t know.” I ruffle the scruff around her neck. “Right, Mimi? Don’t bite Officer Friendly.”

Mimi’s tail relaxes. A little.

Sergeant Chen approaches us. Her tail stiffens again.

Oh, fuck. Please do not shoot my dog.

“Sit, Mimi,” I say. She doesn’t. She hugs my hip, and I can feel her muscles tense.

Sergeant Chen crouches in front of Mimi, so he’s at her level. Cautiously extends his hand, palm up, even lower, so it’s practically scraping the floor. His expression never changes. Not scared, not happy, just neutral, as far as I can tell.

She sniffs his hand. Her tail relaxes. Slowly swishes back and forth.

I guess he smells okay.

“I’m just going to put her in the bedroom,” I say. “Come on, Mimi. You can sit on the bed if you want.”

When I come out of the bedroom, Zou is strolling around the living room, his hands clasped behind his back, peering at the stack of DVDs on the coffee table, at the books on the bookcase behind the couch. He’s shorter than Chen and a bit stocky, with buzzed hair that looks as if it would grow in like brush bristles.

“You are… Jidujiaotu…? Christian?” he asks.

I shrug a little. “My mother.” I’m not going to bust out the Mandarin yet. Sometimes it’s better to act like you don’t understand. Play dumb. Besides, his English is pretty good.

Zou nods. “I see. Your mother lives here, too.”

Which you must already know, I almost say. Because she had to register with the PSB when she came to stay with me.

But apparently we are doing small talk before we get down to police business.

“Would you like some tea?” I ask. “Maybe a beer?” I’m kind of snarking but figure he can’t necessarily tell.

Zou pauses in his wandering. Tilts his head up, like he’s seriously pondering this.

“It is… very hot today. The… kongtiao… the cold air… in our car… is broken. So. Yes. I would like some beer.” He grins. “Officer Chen is the driver.”

Well, okay, this is weird.

The three of us are sitting around the dining-room table snacking on spicy peanuts and shrimp chips. Inspector Zou and I have Yanjing Draft in little glasses, the open bottle and a fresh one on the table. I gave Sergeant Chen a Coke.

“This is… nice apartment,” Zou says. “Do you like this area in Beijing?”

“Yes. Yes, I do. Very convenient.”

Zou nods. “Not so many places like this left, with the siheyuanr, the old kind of houses,” He says it with an “r,” like a proper Beijinger. “When I was a boy, my family live in siheyuanr, near Dazhalan. You know it?”

“Sure.” Dazhalan’s down by Qianmen, an old neighborhood south of Tiananmen that mostly got chai’d for the Olympics, the main street rebuilt into a Disneyfied version of itself, a fancy pedestrian mall that’s half empty.

“Very dirty, really,” he says. “Toilet outside house in hutong. I don’t miss this part.”

Zou pauses for a sip of beer. I refill his glass. He drinks. Puts his glass down with an audible thunk.

“So.” Zou suddenly slaps his hands on the table. “The investigation.” He tilts his head toward Sergeant Chen. “Chen Jingguan, gei wo zhe zhang zhaopian.”

Sergeant Chen, get me the photograph.

Chen reaches into his messenger bag and pulls out a manila folder. Opens it, extracts a glossy piece of paper. Hands it to his boss.

Who lays it on the table in front of me with a small, satisfied smile, like he’s flipping over his hole card.

A dead woman.

“This woman, do you know her?” Zou asks.

She’s young. Chinese. The shot is a close-up of her face. It’s bruised. One eye swollen shut, the other clouded and flecked with dark red specks. Nose broken, shunted to one side, dried blood covering her split lip. Below her jaw, around her throat, more purple bruises.

“No,” I say.

“You are certain?”

I shake my head. “I don’t recognize her.”

I want to say more, something like, It’s possible I met her once, but the way she looks now, how could I tell? Except I haven’t had enough beer to say something that dumb.

“This does not disturb you?” Zou asks.

Oh, I’m supposed to gasp and cry or something? Go all to pieces over a photograph?

Maybe I should feel something, but I really don’t.

“I was a medic in the Iraq War. I saw dead people in person. This is just a picture.”

“I see.”

Fuck. Maybe I should’ve pretended. But I’m not a very good actress.

“If you are a… medic? Is that a doctor?”

“No. More like… we’re first responders. We help people on the scene, when someone’s hurt. Do first aid. Stop the bleeding if we can.” I try to gauge his reactions. I’m not sure if he’s understanding me, but one thing I’m pretty sure of: he’s not stupid.

“But still you are a medical person. So. How is she dead, then?”

“You mean, what killed her?”

“Yes. In your opinion.”

I look at the photo some more. “I couldn’t tell you from a photo. No one could for sure. Not even a doctor. Not unless it was something really obvious. But someone beat her up. Maybe choked her.”

“Choke?”

I put my hands on my own throat for a moment. “This.”

“Ah.”

We fall silent. The photo sits between us on the table, a piece of paper that suddenly feels like it weighs a ton.

“Why are you asking me about her?” I finally say.

Zou crooks his fingers at Chen, who makes a show of shuffling through the manila folder before he gets out another piece of paper and hands it over to his boss.

Zou studies it for a moment, then looks at me. Lays the paper on the table and slides it across.

That’s when I realize: This is his hole card. Because the Xeroxed image on this piece of paper is a business card.

My business card.

I feel myself flush and then chill as I break out in a sweat.

“Yeah,” I say. “It’s mine.”

Zou eyes me like he’s monitoring every twitch, every drop of sweat. “Do you have something else to say now?”

“Yeah. Where’d you get it?”

“You don’t know?”

Asshole. I feel a little rush of anger. It almost feels good, that surge of chemicals, and suddenly I can focus again. “Actually? I don’t usually ask people questions when I already know the answer.”

“Ah.” Zou allows himself a small grin. He points at the photo of the dead girl. “This card was on her body. In her pocket. So you can see why we want to talk with you.”

I don’t feel anything right away. Just blank. Like any thoughts I had just got sucked out of my head.

What I say is, “Makes sense.”

I pick up the photo of the dead girl. Study it again. If I know her, I don’t know her well, not well enough to make up for how the swelling and bruises and busted nose have distorted her features.

“I really don’t recognize her,” I finally say. “Maybe she’s someone I’ve met, but the way her face looks now, I just can’t tell.”

“Then how can she have your card?”

“I don’t know. Look, I give my card to a lot of people. At galleries and openings and parties. She could be someone who was interested in an artist I represent. I have no idea.”

I push the photo back toward Zou. “Are you going to tell me who she is?” I ask.

“Ah.” Zou straightens up. Has another sip of beer, like this is a happy social occasion. “You see, this is also why we want to talk to you. We don’t know. She has no purse. No… no zhengming.”

No identification.

Nothing but my card.

Now my heart’s pounding, and I’m thinking, It’s a setup, it has to be, but who-and why?

Marsh. Or maybe Tiantian. Someone at that party.

Okay, McEnroe, slow down, I tell myself. You can’t just assume that.

“Can you tell me when she died?” I ask.

“Why you wish to know?”

He’s still smiling, but the way he says it isn’t friendly. Like I have no business asking and it’s suspicious that I’m doing so.

“Because she’s dead and my card was in her pocket,” I snap back. “So maybe she got my card not too long before she died. It might help me narrow it down.”

Or she’d stuck it in her jeans or whatever she was wearing, forgot about it, and it was still there when she put them on again.

I push that thought aside.

Zou draws in a deep breath. Crosses his arms over his chest and pats his elbow with an audible slap.

“Sometime last night or early this morning. We still wait for… the study.” He uncrosses his arms to sip more beer. “Some workers find her out near Sixth Ring Road. In some… some trash. This big trash mountain by an old village they…” His forehead wrinkles. He can’t come up with the word. “Very embarrassing,” he mutters. “My English.”

“Your English is very good,” I say automatically.

What I’m thinking is, She died last night or this morning.

Ding, ding, ding-we have a winner.

Meanwhile Zou’s tapping something on his phone. A dictionary, I’m guessing. I have one on mine. “Demolish,” he says with emphasis.

But Marsh wasn’t the only one at that party who had my card. I’d given one to Gugu and to Meimei and… did I give one to Tiantian? Yeah, I think I did, right as I was leaving.

All three of the Caos. If I tell Zou that…

What’s Sidney going to do if I tell a cop about his kids?

I think some more, back to the night of Gugu’s party. I handed them out to that girl, the blogger, to Celine, and to her friend Rhinestone-Cap Girl-Betty.

Could the dead girl be one of them?

I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure.

“Does this give you any idea?” Zou asks.

A few too many, I’m thinking, but I don’t say that.

What I say is this: “I was at a party last night. I don’t think I gave my card to anyone there, though.”

It’s only a small lie.

Along with a big omission.

“A party. How late you stay?”

“Mmmm, about midnight?”

“And there are people from party to… to…” He checks his phone dictionary again. “Verify this?”

I shrug. “Sure.” I hope.

“Who?”

Oh, shit. But there’s no way around it. If I don’t say where I was, Zou’s going to have an even bigger hard-on for me.

“The name of the host is Cao Tiantian,” I say. “I can give you the address.”

Lucky me, I don’t end up handcuffed in the backseat of a squad car or in some unmarked sedan with a bag over my head. Instead I pour out the rest of the beer, like a good hostess, and Zou finishes his glass. Then he stands. Sergeant Chen rises with him.

“If you can think of something to help us, please call me.” Zou reaches into his little man bag, pulls out a card case, and gets a card. Hands it to me with both hands.

I make a show of examining it. Chinese on one side, English on the other.

Chief Inspector Zou Qiushi.

I wonder if he had these made himself or if this is the Beijing PSB’s attempt to be all hip and modern?

“I will,” I tell him. Who knows, I actually might.

I look at the Chinese on the back of the card. I still don’t read as much as I speak, but I’m getting better.

“Qiushi-you know the meaning of this name?” Zou asks suddenly.

“I, uh…” Dumbshit, I say to myself. Way to show you know the language. Well, that and the Chinese dictionaries in the bookcase.

He probably already knew anyway.

“Seek truth, right?” I say.

He beams and nods. “Yes. And you say qiushi a different way, can mean ‘jail cell.’” His smile broadens. “I like this name of mine.”

I’ve just told a Beijing homicide detective he should check out the people at Tiantian’s party. What’s going to happen when Sidney finds out? I don’t think he’s going to be happy.

The idea pops into my head I could just tell Sidney that Marsh is a bad element, and whatever ends up happening because of that… well, all I did was tell Sidney, right?

But I can’t. Marsh might not have anything to do with it, and I’m not going to have that on my head. Anyway, even if he does, would Marsh’s getting whacked by Sidney solve my problem? Because even though I haven’t been arrested, I can’t assume I’m off Zou’s suspect list. I’m pretty sure the PSB would love to pin this on a decadent foreigner.

“Fuck,” I mutter, and I go to the fridge and get another beer. I shouldn’t, I know I shouldn’t-I mean, I’m already a little buzzed, and it’s barely lunchtime, and I’m having a hard time thinking this through as it is.

Oh well.

I open up the bedroom door, beer in hand, and Mimi trots out, still on alert, eyes wide open, ears pricked forward.

“They’re gone,” I tell her. “Let’s go sit on the couch. You can help me figure this out.”

I pour out a little glass of beer and sip, and I think about what makes the most sense for me to do.

Okay, actually? The most sensible thing would be to just hit the eject button on this country.

To leave China.

Except where would I go? It’s not like I can expect a warm welcome in the good US of A.

I sink back against the couch cushions and pat the seat next to me. “Come here, Mimi,” I say.

She clambers up in that stiff-legged way dogs have.

If Marsh did do it, I could go to Sidney and suggest that rather than having his rent-a-goons kill him, Sidney use his money and influence to make sure Marsh gets arrested. That could work. It would get me out of trouble, right?

But what if Marsh didn’t do it? What if this has nothing to do with the Caos at all?

Then what could I do that might be productive but that probably wouldn’t get someone else killed or falsely thrown in prison?

Okay, I think. Okay. I gave cards to Gugu, and Meimei, and maybe Tiantian. Marsh. Celine and Betty.

There’s a dead girl.

So candidates for Dead Girl that I gave my card to would be Celine, Betty, and Meimei.

Therefore first order of business would be find out if any of them are dead.

I refill my little beer glass, kind of proud of myself for figuring this out so logically and all.

I lift up the glass. And it suddenly occurs to me I can’t do this right now. I need to stay frosty. I’ve got stuff to do.

I take one final sip of beer and put the glass on the coffee table.

Meimei first, because I don’t have to reach too far to come up with a reason to call her.

She picks up after about five rings. “Wei?”

“Cao Meimei, ni hao. Shi…”

“Of course I know you are Ellie McEnroe,” she says with a hint of amusement. “This is why I answered the call.”

That’s a good thing. I guess.

On the other hand, she’s a Cao, and who knows what she’s after?

Well, she’s not dead anyway.

“Did you enjoy the party?” she asks.

“Oh. Yeah. Sure.”

She laughs. “Oh, I forgot. My brother’s wife was very rude to you. But you shouldn’t care too much. She is crazy.”

“Good to know,” I say.

“You are calling about our dinner?”

“Yes,” I say, relieved, thinking, Cool, I didn’t even have to bring it up. “Because I need to go out of town maybe, and I wanted to make sure that we scheduled something first.”

“I see.” A pause. “Let me talk to my brothers. I think we can arrange something soon. Then you can go out of town if you like.”

That went well. I think.

Next Celine.

Unlike Meimei, she doesn’t seem to recognize me. So I continue with the introduction: “I’m Ellie McEnroe. We met at Gugu’s party.”

“Ah!” I can picture her wide-eyed smile on the other end. “The family friend of the Caos.”

The way she says that, I’m pretty sure she’s mocking me. I want to tell her, Hey, so not my choice to be a Cao family friend. The Caos make me nervous. But I don’t say any of that.

“I wanted to talk to you about your website,” I say.

“My website? Oh, you like it?”

“I haven’t seen it yet. That’s why I’m calling. I have an artist who’s interested in… a collaborative project that involves, uh… the impact of social media on… discourse centered on female sexuality.” Whatever. “And I thought she’d be interested in your website. But I lost your card.”

“Oh.” A pause. “That first part, that was… yidianr buqingchu.” A little unclear. “You mean some kind of artwork?”

“Yeah, sure. Maybe. It’s more… research to… to inform the work.”

“Okay.” I’m guessing she’s still yidianr buqingchu about the whole thing. Which, given that I’m just spouting bullshit jargon I pulled off the top of my head from a bunch of different art magazines, is not too surprising. “So you want my website’s address?”

“Right.”

“Okay. I can text to you.” I can hear her long nails tapping on the screen of her phone. “Funny, though,” she adds.

“What?”

“You have my phone number. But you say you lost my card.”

Oh, well, shit. She’s not dumb. “Yeah. I put your number in my phone. I must have gotten interrupted, because I didn’t put in the address of the website, and now I don’t know what happened to the card.”

“Ah. I see.”

I’m not sure whether she buys this or not, but I don’t really care, because she’s not dead, and that’s all I need to know.

“Do you have Betty’s number?” I ask.

“Betty?” I don’t think I’m imagining the suspicion in that one word. Why would I want to call Betty? I don’t have a good explanation. But one thing I’ve figured out lately. Sometimes if you just act like you’re entitled to something, you’ll get it.

“Yeah. We talked about getting together for coffee. But I forgot to ask for her number.”

There’s a silence on the other end, and I can picture her again, maybe taking a moment to light one of those Panda cigarettes while she considers what to do.

“Sure. I can text to you.”

“Thanks. Looking forward to checking out your website.”

“I think maybe some topics I write about might interest you,” she says. “I hope you have a look.”

“I definitely will,” I say. “Thanks again.”

We disconnect.

I’m thinking about what I should say to Betty, if she isn’t dead, when the bamboo chime on my phone announces an incoming text.

From Celine. It says, LettersFromTheDeepYellowSea.com. Celine’s website.

Huh. Not a.cn address. I wonder if her site’s hosted outside of China? Makes sense if she’s posting anything even a little sensitive. I really should check it out.

While I’m looking at that, another text. A cell-phone number, with the name in caps: BETTY.

I’ve really got nothing to say to Betty. I barely said two words to her, and she didn’t seem to like me much. But does it even matter what I say? The only thing I care about is whether she’s alive or not.

So I touch the number on Celine’s text until the phone starts ringing.

“Wei?” Her voice sounds small. Shaky.

“Ni hao, shi Betty ma?”

“Ni shi shei?” Who are you? And I realize what that note in her voice is: fear. She’s scared.

“Duibuqi. Wo buxihuan mafan ni.” Sorry. I don’t want to bother you. “It’s Ellie. Ellie McEnroe. We met at Gugu’s party.”

If I thought this was going to calm her down, it pretty much does the opposite.

“Why are you calling me?” There’s a ragged edge to her voice now, like she’s barely holding it together.

I almost hang up, because I don’t know what to say. I should have thought of something. Should’ve planned it better. But I wasn’t expecting this.

“I… uh, sorry. Just, I… I’ll call you later. It’s not important.”

And then I do hang up.

So here’s what I know.

Meimei, Celine, Betty, not dead. Betty’s scared. If that really was Betty. I barely talked to her at Gugu’s party.

That’s about it.

I sip the very strong cup of coffee I made. Think it through, McEnroe. Think it through.

How does this help me?

It doesn’t, I conclude. Not really. None of the women I gave my card to who were at Tiantian’s party are dead, assuming I just talked to the real Betty. The dead woman could be someone else who was at that party-shit, maybe even Milk Lady-and I have no way of knowing. Or she could be someone who wasn’t at the party at all.

I already told Inspector Zou where I was last night. If I tell him more than that, like who I gave my cards to, there’s going to be Cao-related blowback. Count on it. Bad enough I had to tell him about Tiantian’s party.

Maybe once he finds out who he’s dealing with, he’ll lay off. You don’t want to go after people like the Caos. Not unless you’ve got your own powerful backers who want to see them brought low.

It would be a hell of a lot more convenient to go after someone like me. Never mind that I had nothing to do with it. Forget that I have absolutely no motive or that I don’t even know who the girl is. They could just make some shit up. Close the case, wipe their hands, and that’s that.

Is there any kind of bone that I could throw Zou that isn’t going to get me in even deeper?

I could tell him about Betty, or whoever it was who answered Betty’s phone. She was scared of something.

“Fuck,” I mutter. Because I don’t want to sic the cops on Betty. I don’t know what her connection to the Caos is, other than that she hangs out with Gugu. She could be another fu er dai or hong er dai for all I know, with her own powerful guanxi.

So what do I do?

I could call John.

I slump back against the couch. I call John, what’s he going to say?

That I should have listened to him. I should’ve stayed away from the Caos.

Like I really had a choice.

What happens when somebody connects the dots? When Inspector Zou finds out I’m in deep shit with the DSD? Because he will find out, sooner or later. And watch me go from person of interest to the perfect scapegoat.

Pompadour Bureaucrat would be the happiest little totalitarian ever.