The Magistrate

Book 3: Inspector Lu Fei Series

by Brian Klingborg

Genres: International Crime & Mystery; Police Procedurals

Synopsis

A brutal murder investigation with connections to corruption at the very highest level threatens not just the career but also the life of Inspector Lu Fei in Brian Klingborg's latest mystery . . .

Release date: May 2, 2023

Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

Print pages: 320

Sample

PROLOGUE

Chen steps out of the crowded, stifling bar for a breath of air. It’s ten thirty on an overcast October evening. A fine silver mist blurs the headlights of passing cars. Chen tilts his face up to the heavens and sighs as a crisp autumn breeze soothes his overheated flesh.

They say the human body is sixty percent water. In Chen’s case, after several hours of concentrated boozing, it is verging on equal parts water, beer, and whiskey highball.

The occasion of his inebriation—as if he really needs an excuse—is Golden Week, an annual holiday commemorating the founding of the People’s Republic of China. For most citizens, Golden Week is observed with fireworks, parades, and a week’s vacation. For Chen, it’s a pretext to go out drinking every night and sleep until noon the next day.

Chen feels his head spinning like a propeller. Perhaps he’s overdone it. He opens his eyes and shuffles over to lean against a wall. He belches, feels hot liquid rush into his throat, thumps his chest with a fist. He lights a cigarette and hungrily smokes it. A pair of pretty women totter by in short skirts and high heels.

“Have fewer children, raise more pigs!” Chen shouts.

This is an old slogan from the late seventies, when the one-child policy was strictly, and sometimes brutally, enforced. Now that the country is experiencing a population decline—today’s youth is overworked and undersexed—the needle has swung one hundred and eighty degrees back the other direction.

Chen knows this, of course. He just thinks he’s being funny. He laughs uproariously, but the women are not amused. They clutch each other for safety as they hurry past.

Chen finishes his cigarette—the nicotine has vastly improved his condition—and tosses the butt onto the sidewalk. He smooths his hair and looks at his watch. One more for the road. Maybe two. He stumbles toward the bar entrance. He doesn’t see a car roll up to the curb and a tall man dressed in a drab suit and a cotton face mask hop out. The man makes a beeline for Chen.

“Director Chen?”

Chen stares blearily at the man. The mask doesn’t trouble him—nowadays mouth coverings are de rigueur for citizens with the sniffles or who fear the latest rumored outbreak of coronavirus. “Yes?”

The man flashes an ID. “Harbin Metro Public Security Bureau, Financial Crimes Division. Would you come with me, please?”

Chen cups an ear. “What?”

“Harbin PSB, Financial Crimes. Please come with me, sir.”

“There must be some mistake.”

“You are Chen Jianguo, director of the Nangang District Investment Inviting Corporation?”

“Yes—”

“Then no mistake. Let’s go.” The man takes Chen’s elbow and tugs him toward the car.

“No, wait! I don’t—”

“Don’t make a scene, Director. It will only serve to embarrass you. And your fellow conspirators.”

“Conspirators?” The warm liquor sloshing around Chen’s belly abruptly turns to ice water. “What is your name?”

“You can call me Zhang.”

“I will make a call.” Chen reaches for his cell phone.

Zhang snatches it from his hand. “No calls.”

“How dare you!”

“Get in the car, please.” Zhang herds Chen into the backseat, climbs in beside him, pulls the door shut. The driver, likewise wearing a face mask, eases into traffic.

“I think you’d better tell me what this is all about,” Chen says after a few minutes. Zhang doesn’t answer. “I have powerful friends, you know!”

Zhang gives Chen a short, vicious uppercut to the chin. Chen’s head snaps back. He sees stars. Then crashes painfully back to earth. He touches his mouth—his

fingers come away bloody. His fear turns to fury. He wings an elbow at Zhang. Zhang deflects it and jams a black device into Chen’s neck.

Chen experiences a violent, shuddering jolt, followed by intense shooting pain. His body stiffens, then goes limp.

“Be still,” Zhang says. “Be quiet. Understand me?”

When Chen can speak again, he gasps: “You’re not the police!”

“I said, be quiet.”

They drive for twenty minutes. Chen racks his brain: Who are these men? Why do they want to harm him? Sure, he has stepped on a few toes to get to where he is now. He’s used and discarded women. Played fast and loose with other people’s money. Leveraged what political influence he possesses to benefit himself. But no more so than anyone else would do in his position!

The driver parks in an industrial no-man’s-land. At this hour, the windows of the surrounding factories are dark, their parking lots empty. Zhang hauls Chen out of the car and tosses him onto the ground. The driver opens the trunk, removes two thick bamboo sticks. He tosses one to Zhang.

“Thank you, Mr. Li,” Zhang says.

“You’re welcome, Mr. Zhang,” Li says. He keeps a stick for himself.

Chen makes a run for it. Zhang catches up and cuts him across the back of his thighs with the stick. Chen stumbles and falls. Zhang and Li stand over Chen and take turns thrashing him, like railroad workers pounding a spike. Chen shrieks and flails, seeking shelter from the blows, but there is none to be found in the cold pavement.

Afterward, Chen lies bruised, broken, weeping.

Zhang squats down, slightly out of breath. “The Magistrate sends his regards.”

Zhang and Li return to the car and drive away.

---

Exactly one week and a day later, Director Liu of the Nangang District Public Rental Housing Corporation boards an elevator at the Four Seasons luxury apartment building and presses the button for the lobby. As the car descends, he checks his appearance in a mirrored panel on the wall. Hair combed. Clothes free of stray hairs. No trace of lipstick on his face.

Liu does not live at the Four Seasons, but his mistress, Ms. Hu, does. She’s twenty-four, slim, with an adorable melon-seed-shaped face and perfect alabaster skin. They met at a restaurant when Hu was twenty-two and Liu was forty-one. On their first date, Liu took her shopping at Prada and bought her a dress, scarf, and wallet, paying thirty thousand yuan. Later that night, she demonstrated her gratitude by emerging from the bathroom of their suite at the Shangri-la Hotel wearing the scarf—and nothing else.

Aside from paying for Hu’s apartment and monthly living expenses, Liu takes her on an annual holiday somewhere sunny and lavishes her with small g

ifts. In return, she launders and folds the clothes he keeps at her apartment, rubs his head when he wakes up with a hangover, and listens patiently while he complains about work. And there is sex, of course, depending on the ebb and flow of Liu’s libido.

Liu checks the time. Cao! It’s later than he realized. His wife doesn’t much care where he spends Friday night, but on Saturdays she prepares an elaborate meal and expects him to eat with her and the children. If the soup gets cold because of his tardiness, she’ll give him a tongue-lashing.

It’s Ms. Hu’s fault. After breakfast she insisted—the naughty minx!—that they attempt a pair of rather acrobatic Daoist sexual positions: Spring Phoenix Ascends the Jade Pillar; Hungry Tiger Cub Enters the Flesh Grotto.

How could he possibly refuse?

The elevator reaches the lobby; Liu rushes outside to flag a taxi. He is pleasantly surprised to find one already idling out front. He waves at the driver, who gives him a terse nod.

Liu opens the back door. “Waiting for someone?”

The driver is wearing a hat, glasses, a cotton face mask. “Just dropped a customer off. Where you headed?”

Liu gives him the address. The driver agrees to take him. Liu slides onto the backseat and pulls the door shut.

They travel a few kilometers down the road before detouring down a side street.

“Where are you going?” Liu asks.

“Traffic ahead,” the driver says. “Shortcut.”

“What traffic? On a Saturday?”

The driver turns down another street. Liu leans forward to look at the ID placard on the dashboard. “Driver Li, do you suppose I’m a tourist and you can gouge me by taking backstreets?”

“No.”

“Then where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“Here.” Li turns once more and pulls to a sudden stop.

Liu’s anger grows. “What are you doing, you idiot?”

“Just one moment, sir.”

“Wang ba dan!” Liu reaches for the door. But before his fingers can grasp the handle, the door opens, and a man pushes his way inside.

“Hey!” Liu protests.

“Hey, yourself,” Zhang says. He jams a Taser into Liu’s neck and gives him a jolt. He pulls the door shut. Up front, Li shifts into gear and speeds down the street.

“Sit quietly,” Zhang tells Liu. Like Li, he is wearing a hat and mask. “Don’t make a mov

e. Don’t make a sound.”

“Is it money you want?” Liu gasps, probing the seared flesh of his neck. “I’m not rich, but—”

“Give me your cell phone.”

Liu hesitates. Zhang brandishes the Taser. Liu hands over his phone with a trembling hand. Zhang tosses it out the window.

Now Liu is no longer angry. He is afraid.

Li drives to a quiet side street and parks behind a white van. He gets out and opens the van’s rear door.

“Let’s go,” Zhang says. He manhandles Liu into the van and pulls the door shut. It’s dim inside, but Liu can just make out an apparatus bolted to the floor, one that looks very much like a “tiger chair”—an ugly metal contraption used in Chinese police stations and black jails to keep suspects immobilized during interrogations. “Sit,” Zhang says.

“Who are you people?” Liu asks, voice quavering.

Zhang shoves Liu into the chair. Liu struggles. Zhang tases him again, then straps Liu in—ankles, wrists, lap, chest. Up front, the engine starts and the van rolls forward.

Zhang makes himself comfortable on the floor. Liu wheedles and begs until Zhang threatens to tase him again. They drive for a while and then stop. Li opens the back door, climbs in, and pulls it shut behind him.

“Please—” Liu begins.

“Don’t bother,” Li says. He lifts the bottom of his mask, places a cigarette between his lips, lights it. He holds his hand in front of his mouth, the cigarette protruding between stubby fingers.

Zhang flicks on an overhead light. He hums an old pop tune as he picks up a plastic box and opens the lid. He removes an object that resembles a big fat stylus.

“What is that?” Liu moans.

Zhang clicks a button. The tip of the stylus whirrs and vibrates. “I’d advise you to be very still. Otherwise, I might poke an eye out.”

“No!” Liu wails. “I’m begging you!”

“Quiet!” Zhang lowers the stylus and presses his other hand on Liu’s forehead to keep him immobilized. Liu whimpers as the tip inscribes a searing pattern onto his cheek. After several excruciating minutes, Zhang switches off the stylus and steps back. “What do you think?”

“You’re no Wang Xizhi,” Li says. He is referring to a famous fourth century scholar who, as legend has it, practiced his calligraphy beside a pond, dipping the tip of his brush into the water to wash off the ink; such was his diligence that the pond eventually turned completely black.

Zhang smirks beneath his mask. “For a man who can barely read, you’ve got high standards.”

Li drives them back to a residential neighborhood. Zhang unstraps Liu from the chair and pushes him out onto the street. “The Magistrate sends his regards,” he calls out. He pulls the door shut and the van speeds off.

Liu scrambles to his feet and runs like a madman. He passes several pedestrians, who hasten out of his way. Eventually he grows exhausted and slumps onto a bench at a bus stop. As he catches his breath, he considers what to do.

Go to the nearest PSB station? No—he doesn’t know why these men targeted him, and u

ntil he does, it’s better to be circumspect. Find the nearest medical clinic? Yes, but first he wants to see what they’ve done to him.

Liu walks to the nearest parked car and looks at his face in the side mirror.

He is shocked and appalled.

His cheek is red and inflamed and it bears a sloppily rendered tattoo of a Chinese character in black ink: 贼.

THIEF.

 

ONE

The phone rings just before midnight. Lu Fei, deputy chief of the Raven Valley Township Public Security Bureau, groans. At this hour, a phone call can only mean one thing.

Trouble.

Lu Fei doesn’t want any trouble. What he wants is for the phone to stop ringing and to remain right where he is—in a warm bed, pressed up beside a warm body.

Especially because the bed and body belong to Luo Yanyan. His girlfriend.

Lu smiles to himself in the dark. Girlfriend. He likes the sound of that.

When contemplating his relationship with Yanyan, he pictures a wisteria plant: a slow-growing creeper, requiring a great deal of patience; only recently showing signs of blooming after years of diligent cultivation.

While they have not articulated the parameters of their relationship in so many words, they are, more or less, a couple. Lu sleeps over at Yanyan’s house a few nights a week. If he stops by the Red Lotus after work, she is less reticent to openly display her affections for him—gently resting a hand on his arm when she serves him a drink, bringing him a cup of tea at the end of the evening when she’s decided he’s had enough, that sort of thing.

And when alone, they simply cannot keep their hands, lips, and other body parts off one another. It’s as if they are two randy teenagers who’ve been given the keys to the Pent-up Lust Suite at a tawdry love hotel and told to indulge in their wildest fantasies.

Even at this hour, despite the incessant ringing of the phone, Lu’s proximity to Yanyan leads to feelings of arousal. He snuggles up behind her and reaches around to cup one of her breasts. “Marry me,” he says. He makes this request at least once a day.

“Are you planning on letting that ring all night?” Yanyan growls.

“Ta ma de!” It’s times like these Lu regrets he was reinstated as deputy chief after his recent suspension. He rolls over and fumbles for his cell phone. “What?”

It’s Constable Sun, whom Lu has come to regard as one of the most reliable and competent members of his team. “Sorry to bother you at this hour, Deputy Chief. But we have a body. A homicide.”

“Where?”

“Off the expressway. Near the bridge where it crosses the river on the west side of town.”

“How do you know it’s a homicide?”

“The body was set on fire,” Sun says. “And it has no fingers. Or teeth.”

“I’m on the way.”

---

Lu dresses with the lights off and kisses Yanyan goodbye. She waves him off grumpily. He goes downstairs and walks a block or so to where he’s parked a patrol car. He feels justified in retaining the vehicle for his personal use because Chief Liang, Lu’s boss, is usually steeped in whiskey and beer at some local karaoke joint by 9:00 P.M. Consequently, whenever something happens after hours, it is Lu who gets the call.

Lu yawns as he cruises through a dark and somnolent Raven Valley. He sees only a handful of cars on the road. Folks in these parts are early to rise and early to bed. Especially now that autumn has arrived and temperatures are already dipping below freezing at night.

He drives to the outskirts of town, passing a few lonely and isolated farmhouses before reaching the bridge. The paichusuo’s other patrol vehicle is parked there, red and blue lights flashing. Lu pulls over, takes a flashlight from the console, and climbs out. His breath steams in the night air as he fetches a pair of paper booties and latex gloves from the trunk. He switches on the flashlight and picks his way down the steep

grade to the riverside, where Constables Sun, Li the Mute, and Fatty Wang are huddled beside a dark splotch lying in the weeds.

As Lu draws near, he catches a whiff of charred meat. A sulfurous stench of burnt hair. A taste of copper on his tongue.

Constable Sun briefs him: “A car passing by on the expressway saw flames and called it in. Fire and Rescue got here first. The body was smoldering, so they sprayed it down and tossed a fire blanket over it.”

“I hope they didn’t wash away all our evidence. What time was the call?”

“Log says eleven twenty-two P.M.”

“What time did you get here?”

“Just after Fire and Rescue.”

“Let’s have a look.” Lu dons the paper booties and gloves. Fatty Wang and Li the Mute remove the silver blanket covering the corpse, then step away. Lu shines his light on it, head to toe, then back again.

He sees a body, male, nude, skin blackened, arms and legs warped and twisted. He leans closer. The mouth is a gaping silent scream. As Sun said, no teeth. The victim’s hands are curled into unnaturally truncated fists. No fingers, either.

“The murderer doesn’t want us to ID the body,” Fatty Wang offers.

“Looks like,” Lu says.

“No speed cameras along this stretch of the expressway,” Li the Mute offers. “No video of the body being dumped.”

Lu is shocked. Not by Li’s policework, which is just common sense, but by the fact that Li has spoken of his own volition. Li so rarely opens his mouth; Lu half expects a puff of dust to emerge when he does. “Thank you, Constable Li.” He takes a moment to organize his thoughts. “Constables Li and Wang, please get some tape from your vehicle and rope this area off. I’ll want to return at first light and search the area thoroughly. Will you two be all right safeguarding the scene until then?” Lu raises a hand. “Don’t bother answering, that was a purely rhetorical question.”

---

Lu takes Sun with him back to town. He has her call the county coroner while he drives. Afterward, they ride in silence, Sun uncharacteristically quiet. Lu assumes she’s just tired—it is the middle of the night, after all. But eventually she clears her throat and says: “Can I discuss something with you?”

“Sure.”

“I’m … I’m getting

 married.”

“What? Congratulations!” Lu didn’t even know Sun was dating someone. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

“His name is Yao Jun. His father owns the Fengman organic food processing plant.”

“No kidding? That’s a big plant! I guess he’s kind of rich, then.”

“Well, his dad is kind of rich.”

“Where’d you meet?”

“Tantan.”

Lu could have guessed as much. Tantan is a popular online dating app. Such modern conveniences have gradually replaced more traditional ways of meeting a mate in the People’s Republic.

“The thing is…,” Sun continues.

Lu thinks, Other shoe dropping in three, two …

“He’s thirty-five. And I’ll be thirty in a few months. And he’s eager to start a family.”

“Right,” Lu says. “Well, I haven’t looked into the specifics, but I think you’re allotted ninety days of maternity leave, and I’m sure you’ve accrued additional vacation time.”

“Yes, but … he doesn’t want me to work anymore. He’s traditional that way.”

“By traditional, you mean he wants you to stay home and change diapers and have supper on the table when he comes home from a hard day at the plant?”

“No need to make it sound so awful,” Sun says.

“Sorry,” Lu says. “It’s just that—you strike me as someone who enjoys her independence. And you’re a very good police officer. With tons of potential. Who knows—maybe you’ll even be chief of your own station someday?”

“He doesn’t want to be married to a police officer.”

“Why? Because it’s dangerous?”

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” Sun says. “I’m just giving you notice that I’ll be resigning soon.”

“And your mind is made up?”

“Yes.”

“This is what you want?”

“I want to get married.”

Lu sighs. The role of women in society has changed a lot over the years, but the pressure to marry, have children, continue the family line, remains strong. “Can I meet him?”

“Why?”

“If I’m losing my most trusted constable, I want to at least make sure she’s in good hands.”

Sun hesitates before answering. “Are you going to be nice?”

“Aren’t I always?”

“Not really.”

“Well … I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“Will you bring Ms. Luo?”

“Sure.”

“All right. I’ll ask hi

m.”

Lu drops Sun off at her home and drives back to Yanyan’s house. He undresses and climbs into bed but can’t sleep. He finally gets up an hour before dawn and goes downstairs to make tea.

 

TWO

For Choi Hyunjoo, age sixteen, and Lee Eunji, nineteen, the universe consists of a tiny room, windowless, a peeling vinyl floor, scuffed white walls, two narrow beds with threadbare flower-print sheets—and, for upward of sixteen hours a day, twin laptop computers featuring the latest in webcam technology.

The two young women are let out periodically to use the restroom or take meals in the apartment’s cramped kitchen. On rare occasion, they may be granted a few minutes on the roof under the watchful eye of the man they call the Director, or his wife, whom they have been instructed to address as Umma, meaning “Mom” in Korean. The Director is Korean, but his wife is Chinese, and her Korean language skills are those of a six-year-old child.

Choi has been in China for thirteen months and her Chinese is, if anything, worse than Umma’s Korean. It’s not really Choi’s fault—she spends most of her time in this room, and, aside from Lee, the Director, and Umma, interacts exclusively with men from South Korea who pay for her time—and other things—online.

Choi is from North Korea. As a child, she endured gnawing hunger, bitter cold, and regular beatings from her disciplinarian father. The cold and hunger, at least, are a familiar part of most childhoods in North Korea. But Choi’s generation had the benefit (or curse, depending on your perspective) of something previous ones did not—access to the wider world through a burgeoning black market that offered knockoff luxury goods, counterfeit fashion, pirated movies, and foreign music.

Consequently, Choi and her friends knew just enough about life outside the Hermit Kingdom to know what they were missing.

At the age of fourteen, Choi decided to defect. She spent the next year searching for a broker who would smuggle her across the Tumen River into China, where she dreamed of working in a high-end department store and marrying a rich, kind, and handsome Chinese husband, like the ones she saw on pirated Chinese soap operas.

But when she finally found a broker, instead of helping her secure a job or husband, he sold her to a sex trafficker. The trafficker forcibly took Choi’s virginity and then resold her on down the line, and so on, until she ended up here, in this squalid room in a run-down apartment building in Harbin.

Even so, Choi considers herself one of the lucky ones. Yes, she is forced to smile and flirt with men who pay to chat with her online. And sometimes, if they pay more, take off her clothes and even perform pornographic acts that would make her poor mother’s hair turn white. But at least she is not working in a roach-infested brothel, ...