sloppy. The old man, his uncle, would be really pissed this time. No doubt Director Ho would arrange for an expert to sweep the room. For now, though, Yi would have to get as far as he could from room 607 of the Golden Lion Hotel.
TWELVE
Detective Wang Yong-qi regarded his shoes. One glance at his surroundings made him regret he hadn’t polished them recently.
The ambience of the Golden Lion Hotel had no such command over his partner. Cheng suppressed a snort, seeing as there was no appropriate place to spit. Unable to resist the urge, he hunched his massive shoulders forward, coughed loudly and discharged into his hand.
Cheng was exactly what he appeared to be: a rough rural peasant with a brain. A bear of a man, he was the muscle of the pair, but possessed a quick mind that often surprised others with its intuitive scope. He and Wang made a formidable team, each compensating for the other’s deficiencies. When Wang got himself all tied up in trying to over-think a simple problem, Cheng would cut through the crap.
Wang’s expertise covered the mental gymnastics of psychology. He reigned supreme in the dark corridors of the criminal mind. If a mystery involved intrigue and called on a deeper, more subtle understanding of human motivation, Wang was the man for the job.
In The People’s Republic of Communist China, Detectives Wang and Cheng considered themselves to be a unit apart from their kind. They understood each other – both thrived on the art of ‘solution’. Together they maintained the top case-closure record in all of Guangxi Zhuang Autonomous Region, an achievement that had remained unsurpassed for three years.
It would not surprise Wang to learn they held the highest record in all of Southern China, but there were no reliable statistics to support that belief.
The concierge hurried toward the men carrying a box of tissue, which he waved in front of Cheng. Cheng took one and wiped the phlegm from his hand before shoving the tissue into his pocket. He scanned the lobby unselfconsciously, committing the scene to memory through bloodshot eyes. Two weeks on the night shift had done nothing to enhance Cheng’s normally seedy appearance.
Wang groaned inwardly, embarrassed, but nonetheless taking a perverse pleasure in the concierge’s obvious distaste for his partner.
“ Which room?” he asked.
“ Come with me.” The dapper little hotel man shook a set of magnetic cards and led the way to the elevator. Mercifully the hotel’s bar had closed some time ago so only staff occupied the communal areas. A man and his wife had been wandering around the lobby when the ambulance arrived. The manager had herded them back to their rooms, offering a lame story about an elderly guest having suffered a heart attack.
The elevator stopped on the sixth floor. The concierge, who, according to his tag, bore the unlikely name of ‘Henry’, bustled down the hall with Wang and Cheng in tow. Henry stopped in front of room 607 and slid a master pass through the slot. He opened the door and was about to enter when Detective Cheng touched him gently on the shoulder. He understood and stepped back into the hallway.
It was widely known in the Department that Cheng possessed a photographic memory. Although he didn’t immediately grasp the significance of everything he saw, he could recall images to within a rate of ninety-five percent accuracy. He stood in the doorway, studying the room and memorising details, like the fact that the lights were off and the music from a small battery operated cassette deck continued to play softly.
Cheng motioned for Henry to turn on the lights. The concierge inserted his master pass into the slot and the room was suddenly illuminated. The three men continued to stand in the entryway for an eternity of less than sixty seconds while Cheng’s eyes made a record of the scene.
Cheng entered first. For a man of his size, he was surprisingly light on his feet. He moved carefully through
TWELVE
Detective Wang Yong-qi regarded his shoes. One glance at his surroundings made him regret he hadn’t polished them recently.
The ambience of the Golden Lion Hotel had no such command over his partner. Cheng suppressed a snort, seeing as there was no appropriate place to spit. Unable to resist the urge, he hunched his massive shoulders forward, coughed loudly and discharged into his hand.
Cheng was exactly what he appeared to be: a rough rural peasant with a brain. A bear of a man, he was the muscle of the pair, but possessed a quick mind that often surprised others with its intuitive scope. He and Wang made a formidable team, each compensating for the other’s deficiencies. When Wang got himself all tied up in trying to over-think a simple problem, Cheng would cut through the crap.
Wang’s expertise covered the mental gymnastics of psychology. He reigned supreme in the dark corridors of the criminal mind. If a mystery involved intrigue and called on a deeper, more subtle understanding of human motivation, Wang was the man for the job.
In The People’s Republic of Communist China, Detectives Wang and Cheng considered themselves to be a unit apart from their kind. They understood each other – both thrived on the art of ‘solution’. Together they maintained the top case-closure record in all of Guangxi Zhuang Autonomous Region, an achievement that had remained unsurpassed for three years.
It would not surprise Wang to learn they held the highest record in all of Southern China, but there were no reliable statistics to support that belief.
The concierge hurried toward the men carrying a box of tissue, which he waved in front of Cheng. Cheng took one and wiped the phlegm from his hand before shoving the tissue into his pocket. He scanned the lobby unselfconsciously, committing the scene to memory through bloodshot eyes. Two weeks on the night shift had done nothing to enhance Cheng’s normally seedy appearance.
Wang groaned inwardly, embarrassed, but nonetheless taking a perverse pleasure in the concierge’s obvious distaste for his partner.
“ Which room?” he asked.
“ Come with me.” The dapper little hotel man shook a set of magnetic cards and led the way to the elevator. Mercifully the hotel’s bar had closed some time ago so only staff occupied the communal areas. A man and his wife had been wandering around the lobby when the ambulance arrived. The manager had herded them back to their rooms, offering a lame story about an elderly guest having suffered a heart attack.
The elevator stopped on the sixth floor. The concierge, who, according to his tag, bore the unlikely name of ‘Henry’, bustled down the hall with Wang and Cheng in tow. Henry stopped in front of room 607 and slid a master pass through the slot. He opened the door and was about to enter when Detective Cheng touched him gently on the shoulder. He understood and stepped back into the hallway.
It was widely known in the Department that Cheng possessed a photographic memory. Although he didn’t immediately grasp the significance of everything he saw, he could recall images to within a rate of ninety-five percent accuracy. He stood in the doorway, studying the room and memorising details, like the fact that the lights were off and the music from a small battery operated cassette deck continued to play softly.
Cheng motioned for Henry to turn on the lights. The concierge inserted his master pass into the slot and the room was suddenly illuminated. The three men continued to stand in the entryway for an eternity of less than sixty seconds while Cheng’s eyes made a record of the scene.
Cheng entered first. For a man of his size, he was surprisingly light on his feet. He moved carefully through
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