I hummed an off-key version of Canon in D, my fingers tapping lightly on the steering wheel. In the rearview mirror, the carefully wrapped blue gift box swayed gently with the car's motion—my wife's favorite color. We hadn't seen each other in three weeks, but this Tiffany necklace should be enough to make her forget my little slip-up of missing our anniversary.
My tune came to an abrupt halt as the car turned into the neighborhood gate.
Four police cars sat around Building 17, the yellow-black police tape glaring in the twilight. My fingers unconsciously tightened around the steering wheel, and the leather let out a faint groan.
"Sir, may I see your access card?" A uniformed officer stopped my car.
I rolled down the window and slid my attorney ID from my suit pocket into my hand. "I'm the owner of 17B, Michael Ye." The badge gleamed under the officer's flashlight. "What happened?"
His expression subtly shifted. He murmured something into the walkie-talkie on his shoulder, then gestured for me to pull over. "Please wait here. Captain Victor Wu would like to speak with you."
I unbuckled my seatbelt, glancing up at the windows of 17A. The curtains at Henry Wang's place were all drawn for once, and a few figures in hazmat suits moved inside. A cold premonition crawled up my spine.
"Mr. Ye?" A lean man stepped out of the shadows, a police badge gleaming coldly on his chest. "I'm Victor Wu from the criminal investigation division. May we speak in private?"
I followed him to a bench by the landscaping, my heartbeat steady in my chest. After that rainy night seven years ago, I never let my emotions get the best of me again.
"You know Mr. Henry Wang of 17A?" Victor Wu took out a pack of cigarettes, offering me one casually.
I politely declined. "Just acquaintances. He helped me fix a pipe once." That was true—though I left out some details. Like how, while fixing the pipe, he had "accidentally" noticed the old newspaper tucked into my Selected Criminal Law Cases on the bookshelf—the one with the article about a business tycoon's mysterious death.
Victor lit his cigarette, the ember flickering in the dusk. "At 4 p.m. today, property management received a complaint about a smell from 17A. When they forced the door open, Mr. Wang was found dead." He exhaled a smoke ring. "Initial estimates put time of death at over 48 hours ago."
My eyebrows lifted just the right amount. "That's awful. Do you need my help?"
"Routine questioning." Victor took out a recorder. "Where were you between 5 and 7 p.m. on the 29th?"
"The Cartier store on Wutong Lane," I replied, pulling up the e-receipt on my phone. "Buying a gift for our anniversary. The clerk should remember me—I spent nearly two hours choosing."
Victor nodded and jotted something down, then changed direction: "Have you had any recent contact with Mr. Wang?"
"Last Friday, I think. My toilet clogged." I put on a thoughtful look. "He brought his tools and worked for about half an hour." Also true—except I left out how, as he waved his phone and said, "Lawyer Ye, I kept a backup of your father's autopsy report," I had handed him a glass of whiskey spiked with a sedative.
"And after that?"
"He left. My wife happened to video call from abroad." My expression dimmed naturally. "She won't be back until next month."
Victor's eyes drifted to my car. "You were out buying a gift today too?"
"A backup one." I chuckled, nodding at the gift box in the back seat. "You know women—never enough jewelry."
The questioning lasted about twenty minutes. As Victor closed his notebook, a sycamore leaf landed squarely on his shoulder. I noticed a ring mark on his left ring finger and worn cuffs—a divorced workaholic. The hardest type of officer to deal with.
"Mr. Ye," he asked suddenly as he stood up, "are you a criminal lawyer?"
"Mostly corporate mergers," I smiled. "Why do you ask?"
"Just a habit." He handed me his card. "Call me if anything comes to mind."
At home, I locked the door, drew the curtains, and fetched a bottle of Yamazaki 18 from the liquor cabinet. The amber liquid swirled in the glass—eerily like Henry Wang's eyes when his pupils dilated on the floor.
I remembered the night of the 27th clearly: Henry Wang slumped on his leather couch, a smug smile frozen on his lips, phone screen glowing—"Ye Group Chairman Dies Under Suspicious Circumstances: Forensics Say Head Wound Doesn't Match Bottle Shape." I had put on gloves, unlocked his phone using his fingerprint, and set the smart home AC to 16°C via the app. Cold temperatures delay decomposition—throwing off time of death estimates.
As the glass emptied, my phone buzzed. The caller ID read "Darling," and I adjusted my expression instantly.
"Guess who I just bumped into at customs?" My wife's voice was laced with airport noise. "Officer Jack Liu! He's in town on business and insisted on driving me home."
My fingers clenched, the glass groaning ominously. Jack Liu—the officer who handled my father's case—now head of the provincial Major Crimes Unit.
"You weren't supposed to be back until next week…" My voice cracked slightly.
"Wanted to surprise you," she giggled. "Oh, and Jack said he hasn't seen you in ages—wants to stop by and say hi."
I glanced at the clock—9:20 p.m. Enough time to check everything one last time.
"Of course," I said smoothly. "There's actually something I'd like his advice on."
After hanging up, I strode to my study. The smart home control panel was still open on my computer; Henry Wang's AC was still running at 16°C. I shut it off and deleted the app entirely.
At the entryway, I dabbed a bit of dust onto the soles of a pair of neatly placed pink slippers. Too clean would look suspicious in a single man's home.
The doorbell rang just as I poured the last drop of whiskey down the drain.
"Old friend!" I greeted the graying man at the door with open arms. "It's been what, five years?"
Jack Liu's sharp gaze swept the living room, finally settling on me. "Heard you moved here. Been meaning to visit," he said with a tight smile. "Didn't expect to bump into Claire at the airport."
While my wife made tea, Jack lowered his voice. "You heard about 17A?"
"Just now, from the police." I sighed. "Life's unpredictable."
"It sure is." He pulled up a photo on his phone. "Recognize this?"
A bloodstained brass ashtray, its rim etched with distinctive patterns. My temples throbbed—that was my housewarming gift to Henry Wang. I'd had "TH" engraved on the bottom.
"Looks familiar, but can't place it." I accepted the tea tray from my wife. "Your major crimes team handles this sort of case?"
"Something's off about the time of death," Jack said, sipping tea. "The body was oddly well-preserved at 29°C—like…"
"Like it was refrigerated," I finished for him, feigning realization. "You mean the killer messed with the AC? Smart homes do make things easier."
Jack's gaze sharpened. "Interesting theory. But the killer forgot one thing—the AC filter logs runtime."
My wife returned with fruit, shifting the conversation to college memories. But as she turned for napkins, Jack mouthed three words at me: "The ashtray."
I raised my glass with a smile, thoughts racing. The filter logs can be wiped. I'd cleaned the fingerprints. The only issue—the damn ashtray. I forgot to take it.
As I saw them out, Jack said at the door, "We're doing a full sweep tomorrow. These days, no matter how perfect the crime, there's always a trace. Don't you think?"
"Of course," I nodded, smiling. "Justice never sleeps."
Closing the door, I immediately dialed a number I hadn't called in seven years. It rang five times before someone picked up.
"Old friend," I said into the phone, "I need a favor. Remember that 'accident' in the chem lab sophomore year?"
Outside, red and blue police lights still flashed—just like that stormy night seven years ago. I ran my fingers over the Selected Criminal Law Cases on my shelf. Tucked inside was a newspaper clipping: "Famed Lawyer Suspected of Patricide; Key Evidence Mysteriously Vanishes."
My wife hummed softly in the bedroom as she unpacked. I opened my phone—the smart home app icon was gone, but in the cloud backup, that 16°C setting remained, clear as day.