The Zhao Glassworks dominated the eastern edge of Luming, its furnaces burning day and night, casting an orange glow against the perpetual fog that rolled in from the river. Chen Wei parked his sedan in the visitor's lot and sat for a moment, watching workers in blue coveralls stream through the factory gates like blood through a vein.
Zhao Mingxuan received him in an office that smelled of sandalwood and old money. The glass merchant was a tall man in his sixties, his hair silvered at the temples, his hands scarred from decades of working with molten silica. He did not rise when Chen Wei entered, merely gestured to a leather chair across from his desk.
"My wife is dead," Zhao Mingxuan said. It was not a question.
"I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. Zhao. When did you last see her?"
"Three days ago. We had... a disagreement. She went to the hotel to 'clear her mind.'" His fingers drummed against the desk, a rhythmic tapping that seemed almost mechanical. "I was at the factory all night. Ask my night supervisor, Wu Feng. He'll confirm."
Chen Wei made a note. "Can you tell me what you argued about?"
Zhao Mingxuan's jaw tightened. "Family matters. Private."
"Mr. Zhao, your wife was found with a glass swan beneath her chair. Its neck was broken. Does that mean anything to you?"
For just a moment, something flickered in the old man's eyes-fear, perhaps, or recognition. Then it was gone, replaced by the polished composure of a man who had built an empire from sand and fire.
"Glass swans were my wife's hobby," he said carefully. "She collected them. We must have had fifty in our home."
"And the portrait with the red X? The white lily?"
Zhao Mingxuan stood abruptly, turning to face the window. Beyond the glass, the factory's smokestacks belched white plumes into the gray sky. "Detective, my wife had enemies. She was... not always kind. Twenty years ago, there was an incident. A young woman who worked in our household. There were accusations, rumors. Lihua never spoke of it, but I know it haunted her."
"What kind of incident?"
"The girl's name was Su Yue. She was seventeen, beautiful, ambitious. She worked as my wife's companion. One day, she simply disappeared. The police investigated, but nothing was ever proven." Zhao Mingxuan's voice dropped to a whisper. "They say she drowned herself in the river. They say her body was never found."
Chen Wei felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. "And you think this Su Yue-"
"Su Yue is dead, Detective. Has been for two decades." Zhao Mingxuan turned back, his face carved from stone. "Whoever killed my wife is very much alive. And I expect you to find them."