Whispering Shadows (25 page)

“Yes, you're right,” Zhang replied obediently.

“When will you be back at work?”

“In a few days, I hope.” He heard Luo's heavy-smoker's breathing on the other end—he still seemed to have something on his mind.

“Zhang, just think. He who seeks revenge should not forget to dig two graves.”

Zhang tried to think of a saying that defined the difference between justice and revenge, but nothing occurred to him. “I know. How does the saying go? Of the thirty-six possibilities open to one, flight is always the best option.”

“Who said that?”

“Sun Tzu in
The Art of War,
I think.”

“You are right. Don't forget it,” Luo said, hanging up.

What made Luo think that he was trying to take revenge? Did he know something about Tang's and Zhang's past? Impossible. Luo probably thought that revenge was the only possible motive for him; why else would a policeman look for a murderer when a confession was already at hand?

Paul had followed the conversation with interest.

“Tell me, does Mei actually know where you are and what you
are doing?” he blurted out.

“Not exactly,” Zhang replied evasively.

“What does that mean?”

“I told her the same thing I told Luo, that I'm with you because you booked an appointment with a knee specialist.”

“Why don't you tell her what you are really doing?”

Zhang hesitated before replying. Yes, why didn't he? Because there was a time for every truth to be told and the right time for him to tell this truth had long passed? Because he loved his wife immeasurably and did not want to inflict his pain on her? Because she would be in danger if she knew? Because he was a pathetic coward?

“I didn't tell her anything because it would only worry her,” Zhang said in a subdued tone.

“And because she would have tried to stop you?”

Of course she would have done that, Zhang thought. By every means possible. He nodded instead of saying anything.

“That is . . .” Paul searched for the right words. He wanted to voice an objection, but at the same time not to make any terrible accusations.

Zhang interrupted him. “I know what you want to say, and you're right. But there was no other way. If I had told her anything I would not be here right now. I had no choice.”

They fell silent and looked at the sea and the container ships in the roadstead being unloaded by smaller vessels.

“What should I tell Mrs. Owen?” Paul asked.

“Everything we know. That her son's murderer is still at large. That an innocent man is in prison. That he will be sentenced to death tomorrow and executed soon after. If Elizabeth Owen does not help us once she hears us out, then she or her husband have something to do with the murder.”

Paul stared at him incredulously, as if to check that Zhang really meant what he said.

“What are you making that face for? Do you think that's out of
the question?”

After a long silence Paul said, “I don't know. I don't even want to imagine such a thing.”

———

When he walked into the bar of the InterContinental about two hours later, Elizabeth Owen was already waiting for him.

XXII

The dry martini was good, very good, in fact, even better than at the Drake in Chicago, where she normally treated herself to one at the end of a long shopping trip on Michigan Avenue. The martini there was sometimes too warm and a little watery; this one here was blissfully cold and strong, and it did not take long to take effect on her. After the second sip, Elizabeth already felt a warm shudder of well-being course through her whole body. Much better than the tranquilizers that she had been taking for days. They made her terribly tired, every movement was an effort, sometimes even speaking was too much. What had the doctors been thinking? If Richard had not insisted on them she would have stopped taking the medication yesterday. This morning she had pretended to swallow the pills to please him, but flushed them down the toilet later.

The martini worked wonders, giving her an inappropriate but nevertheless wonderful feeling of lightness. It soothed her soul without numbing her; on the contrary, she felt wide-awake after half a glass. She was able to be impressed by the view of Hong Kong's skyline from the large windows, with the colorful lights reflected in the water of the harbor. When she scrunched her eyes up a bit, it looked like a display of fireworks that went on and on. This was a fascinating view, she conceded to herself, even if she couldn't otherwise stand the city. She liked it as little as Shenzhen, Shanghai, and Beijing and all the other places she had been to in the past few years. She did not understand what her son had found
so wonderful about this country. Nowhere did Elizabeth Owen see what her son had rhapsodized about so passionately: the magic of thousands of years of ancient history, the supposed intelligence of the people, their optimism, or their creativity, which was said to be so similar to the American mentality. Everywhere she went she saw dirt and rubbish. She saw far too many people who, whenever she came into contact with them, pushed and shoved, who burped and farted while eating, who had bad breath and who dared to smile at her despite their terrible teeth. She heard a language in which not a sound was familiar to her. To her, Chinese sounded like a series of strange, often sinister-sounding noises. Sometimes the people made themselves understood by purring, piping, and almost singing, only to change to a hard, brusque tone the next moment, hissing, growling, and shouting, so that every sentence sounded like a dangerous threat or an order that brooked no resistance. It hurt her ears.

At some point she had decided to simply suffer through the trips to Asia patiently, the price for seeing her son on a regular basis. The country itself meant nothing to her; the business in China existed to make the company flourish and ensure that there was enough money in the bank account and that they would not, as Richard had once feared, go bankrupt and have to compromise their retirement.

Now Michael had paid for his enthusiasm and his trust with his life, battered to death by a totally insignificant worker who probably couldn't even read and write. Who could ever understand this?

From afar, she saw Paul Leibovitz enter the bar and look around for her. He was a handsome man with a striking face and his curly white hair suited him. The look in his eyes was a little too weighed down, but this melancholic air did give him a certain aura, something mysterious. She raised her right arm and waved at him to come over.

“Paul, here!” she called, making the other hotel guests around her pause their conversations for just a moment. That had been too loud. Much too loud.

She had to be careful. The martini. One too many and friends
would turn into enemies.

Elizabeth Owen stood up and greeted Paul, going through the motions of an embrace and a kiss on each cheek.

“I have to talk to you about something,” Paul said. His voice was almost as melancholic as his eyes. “There've been a few developments.”

“I know. The court case against Michael's murderer has been pushed forward. It starts the day after tomorrow,” she said, pleased at the surprise on his face.

“How do you know that?”

“From Mr. Tang. He rang this afternoon.”

“Did he also tell you that the man who will stand before the court is not the murderer?”

She must have heard wrongly. “Can you please repeat what you said?”

“The man who will be sentenced to death on Friday is innocent.”

“Innocent?” she repeated, as though he was speaking a foreign language she was not fluent in. “How do you know that?”

“My friend Zhang and I have done a little independent investigation. The man has a cast-iron alibi.”

“I thought he signed a confession.”

“He did. But he was probably forced to do so. That is not unusual. It happens every day in China.”

“You really mean that?”

“Yes.”

“I don't understand. I mean, if the man can prove his innocence, why is he still in prison?” Even she recognized how naïve this sounded but right then she could think of nothing else to say.

“We think it's because the real murderer is being protected.” Paul said nothing more for a moment. He clearly wanted to give her time to process the news, but he could have kept silent until sunrise and it would not have helped her. She merely looked at him questioningly.

“Your son must have been involved in some kind of situation and
made powerful enemies. Do you know who or what they could be?”

Elizabeth Owen simply could not focus. Michael had had enemies? Her baby, her little Michael? Out of the question. In America he had only had friends. In America, they had called him the gentle giant from high school through to college; he had gotten along with everyone.

“No, my son had no enemies.”

“Or someone who he had fought bitterly with, who might have felt threatened?”

She shook her head. “His father, at most,” she blurted out with a short, almost hysterical laugh that she choked down immediately.

“What did you say?”

“I didn't mean that seriously,” she replied, when she had calmed down. “But the two of them fought almost constantly.”

“Over what?”

“Over everything. My husband was terribly jealous of our son, he always was. I think from the day of his birth. Don't ask me why. I have no idea. How can a grown man be jealous of a baby? But no matter how much they fought, Richard always loved Michael, of course. He was his son, after all. He never wanted to harm him.” The rest, thought Elizabeth Owen, was none of Paul's business. The tears. The threats. The sleepless nights when she heard the shouting of the two men in her life echo through the house.

“Did they also argue over the business?”

“As I said before, over everything, but I kept out of the discussions about the company and our investment in China. In our family, business is for the menfolk, if you know what I mean.”

“Does the name Wang Ming mean anything to you?”

“No, I've never heard it.”

“Lotus Metal?”

“No.”

“Did you know that your son often traveled to Shanghai?”

“Did he?”

“Can you tell me why?”

“No, I have no idea why. My husband may know more. He's on his way back to the hotel.”

“Did you know that Michael had an apartment in Shenzhen?”

Did you know, did you know . . . She wished he would stop these did-you-knows.
No
. No, she did not know. She would have liked to shout it out loud, so loud that the cocktail and champagne glasses shattered in the hands of all the well-groomed people in this hotel lounge. What was he telling her? Michael had had a second apartment in China. He had had a Chinese lover. Who he had wanted to move to New York with. Which Michael was this Leibovitz man talking about?

Was it possible that she knew so little about her son? After nearly thirty years? Why had he kept all this from her? Why did he not trust his mother? Had he been afraid that she would immediately tell Richard everything? She had never done that. She had been loyal to him, always, all through the years and the endless fights between father and son. She had been on his side, even if she had not always been able to show it. She would not have betrayed him. Not this time.

“I expect my husband any moment. He will certainly be able to answer some of your questions,” she said, seeing Richard at the reception desk just then. He looked like a stranger, face flushed red, damp, tousled hair, and light-blue shirt covered with dark wet patches.

Richard Owen sat down with them reluctantly. Elizabeth could sense that her husband was not at all keen to have a conversation with Paul.

“Mr. Leibovitz, please could you repeat for my husband everything you have just told me?” She wanted to see how Richard reacted.

Paul cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “I've come to tell you that the man who will stand before the court charged with murdering your son is innocent.”

Richard Owen did what he always did when he was surprised by bad news: his head jerked a few times and his mouth fell open. It looked like he could no longer control his body movements.

“Mr. Tang told me that the murderer had signed a confession.”

“That's right. But that was a confession under duress.”

Elizabeth Owen saw how her husband was seething. She saw how he struggled, how he fought not to lose control of himself. And she saw exactly how, after a few seconds that must have seemed endless to him, he calmed down and his features relaxed a little, as though he knew, after a moment of being at a complete loss, exactly what he had to do.

“I'm sorry, but I don't know what you mean. After a big investigation, the police in Shenzhen arrested a man who confessed to the crime. As far as I know, there are even eyewitnesses, who saw the fight with my son. And you say the confession is not genuine? The man could be sentenced to death for it. Why should he sign a false confession?”

“We think he was probably forced to.”

“Who exactly is ‘we'?”

“My friend Zhang and I.”

“The two of you, conducting your investigation, wish to call the work of the entire homicide squad into question? Who asked you to look further into this case in the first place?”

“No one. Zhang discovered a few inconsistencies in the confession that he followed up on. There's no doubt the accused has an alibi: he was ill in bed that day. And there are no reliable eyewitnesses for the crime.”

“I suggest we wait for the court case. In America the courts are there to establish whether the accused is innocent or guilty. As far as I understand, it's no different in China.”

Richard Owen started to get up. For him, the discussion was over.

“May I ask you nonetheless to answer a few questions?”

“You may, but I will not answer,” he said, and stood up.

“Then answer
my
questions.” Elizabeth Owen had followed the
conversation intently. She felt a rising rage inside her as she saw Richard dodge Paul Leibovitz's questions. Her body stiffened, as it always did when she got angry.

She took a deep breath. The soothing, relaxed feeling the alcohol had given her was completely gone. But her mind was clear and focused: Her husband was hiding something, and she wanted to know what and why.

Richard Owen looked at his wife, completely confused. This force, this sharpness in her tone, and in front of a stranger too. The way she gazed at him. He did not want a scene, not here in the lounge, so he sat down again.

“Did you know that Michael had an apartment and a lover in Shenzhen?”

“No.”

He was lying. She could tell, but she did not want to stop now. They would discuss that later.

“Who is Wang Ming?” she asked as calmly as she could.

“The name means nothing to me.”

“What is Lotus Metal?”

Richard Owen gave a deep sigh before he replied. “That was a crazy idea of Michael's. Our business was going so well he wanted to set up a second joint venture with a company from Shanghai. It was to be called Lotus Metal. I didn't think it was a good idea, and nothing came of it.”

“Did you fight about that two weeks ago?”

“Darling, I don't know if this is the right time to . . .”

“Did you fight about it?” she insisted.

“Yes.”

“What does Tang have to do with it?”

“With Lotus Metal? Nothing. I . . .” The ring of his cell phone interrupted him.

“Richard Owen speaking. Victor, what a coincidence. I'm sitting here in the hotel with Elizabeth and our friend Paul Leibovitz and we've just been talking about you.”

Richard Owen nodded a few times while he listened to the long reply, his gaze moving from his wife to Paul and back several times.

“Yes, that's right. You're right. It's a good idea, thanks. I'll ask them now and let you know right after.”

He ended the conversation with a tap on his phone.

“That was Victor Tang. He's invited us to dinner at his house tomorrow evening. He'll send a car. He would be very pleased if you, Mr. Leibovitz, would come with us. Would you be fine with that? Is that all right with you, Elizabeth?”