“Me and the team,” Saifuddin answers with pride.
“After he sends us on a wild-goose chase,” Mislan sneers.
“It was not a wild-goose chase. He was there,” Saifuddin says, taking offense.
Mislan waves away Saifuddin’s response, “You techies can’t take jokes, can you? You know what a joke is, don’t you?” He laughs. “Can I have copies of the video?”
“Deleted,” Saifuddin says.
“You didn’t make a copy before it was taken off the site?” Mislan asks, ready to explode.
Saifuddin laughs. “It’s a joke, OK. You crime-busters can’t take a joke, can you?”
Johan laughs.
“Both?” Saifuddin asks.
Mislan nods, saying, “For a techie, you’re OK.”
Sherry pops her head around the door.
“The laptop owner Massayu’s waiting in the meeting room.”
Mislan ignores her and walks up to the flowchart.
“Can I see your investigation papers for the first case?”
“Remind me after the interview.”
Massayu binti Datuk Yunus is a petite girl in her late teens, sweet-looking, with short hair and a fair complexion, dressed in an orange vintage, square-neck, button knitted top, jeans, and little makeup. The mother, on the other hand, is literally painted with cosmetics. The girl sits next to her mother engrossed with her cell phone, oblivious to what is going on around her. The presence of the two officers doesn’t even distract her attention. Sherry introduces Mislan to them, which Massayu doesn’t acknowledge.
A spoiled brat, Mislan thinks.
“You said you’d tell me what this is all about when we’re at your office. We’re here now, so what are we waiting for?” the mother demands.
“I’m sorry, Datin, I wasn’t at liberty to tell you earlier, as you insisted on bringing your daughter here yourself. Massayu is registered as the owner of the Apple MacBook bought from the MacStudio in Low Yat in June of last year. We need to examine the laptop,” Sherry says, unperturbed by her demand. Datin is an honorary prefix for a wife of a person awarded the title Datuk.
“Why do you want to examine it?”
“We’re investigating a case, and some information was uploaded using the laptop. Is that the computer?” Sherry asks, pointing to the one in the unzipped backpack on the table.
Massayu instantly grabs her backpack, saying scornfully, “No way.”
Mislan makes a move to stand and Sherry kicks his leg.
“Massayu, we need to check the MAC address. If it tallies with the one our IT Forensics have identified, we may have to confiscate it for evidence. If that’s the case, we’ll make a copy of any private information or college material for you.”
“No way! You’re going to read all my personal things,” she snarls, turning to her mother. ”Mummy, call Daddy and tell him about these people.”
Unable to control himself at her bratty behavior, Mislan leans forward and hisses.
“What’s your father going to do, deport us? The laptop’s evidence in a murder case. Hand it over, or we’ll take it by force.”
“Mummy!”
“What murder?” the mother asks, taken aback.
Her hand gropes the interior of her Louis Vuitton handbag. Probably searching for her cell phone, Mislan suspects.
“Everybody stay calm.” Sherry butts in, taking control of the situation. “Massayu, we promise you, your personal information will not be revealed without your consent. Datin, there’s no need to get Datuk involved. It may attract publicity that may not be pleasant.”
“What murder is he talking about? You said the laptop was bought in June of last year?” the mother asks.
“Yes, June 14.”
“That laptop was stolen. Daddy bought this notebook in August, after my notebook was stolen,” Massayu asserts boldly.
“Was the incident reported?”
“Yes.”
“Which police station did you go to, and do you remember the report number?”
“No, not to the police, to the college. They told me not to make a police report, and reimbursed me for the loss.”
“Can you give me the name of the person who handled the report?”
“Mr. Lai, he’s the Student Affairs manager … officer … whatever.”
“Okay, but I still need to verify the MAC address of your computer. It can be done here in your presence.”
Massayu places her backpack on the table and extracts the laptop.
After the mother and daughter leave, Mislan asks Sherry if the Datin looks a little too young to be Massayu’s mother. Sherry is taken aback by his question and gives him a curious look.
“Why do you ask? What has it to do with the case?”
“Just asking.”
“If you have money, cosmetic surgery can make a woman look forever young,” Sherry says.
“No, I looked at her hands. They’re the hands of a young woman. Massayu’s what, nineteen, twenty? And the mum, she couldn’t be more than forty.”
“She probably married young, and Massayu did call her ‘Mummy.’ You heard her.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. The father might have insisted on it.”
“Why are you so interested?” Sherry asks suspiciously.
“Not in the way you’re thinking.”
“Is there any other way?” she teases him.
20
DOCTOR SAFIA HAS HER mind set on chicken rice for dinner. Mislan suggests she takes the Light Rail Transit and meet him at Gloria Jean’s in Sungei Wang Plaza. Johan declined his invitation to join them, saying he wants to visit the Beach Club to find out more about their victim. Mislan suggests, if he has the time, to pay a visit to Punk Bistro in Damansara Utama and speak to Fatimah a.k.a. Tim.
“Who’s she?” Johan asks.
“The rape-suicide victim’s housemate. Here, her particulars are in this file. She’s the manager or assistant manager there.”
“OK.”
When Mislan arrives at Sungei Wang Plaza on Jalan Bukit Bintang, Dr. Safia is already at Gloria Jean’s. Decades back, Sungei Wang Plaza was one of the hip malls. Now it is just another aged mall in a city flooded with malls, with the shinier Lot 10 and Pavilion just across the street. When the big-name retailers moved out of the newer malls, Middle Eastern and other Asian businesses filled the vacuum.
They walk across the street to BB Hailam Chicken Rice and pick a table along the sidewalk. Dr. Safia is casually dressed in jeans and crewneck T-shirt and open-toe sandals. Her thick black hair is tied in a ponytail. Mislan likes the way she’s dressed—simple and practical.
“You been here before?” he asks, while waiting for a waiter to serve them.
“Yes, a few times.”
Mislan orders chicken rice for two, one young mango salad, and two iced barley waters.
“Steamed or roasted?” the waiter asks.
“Roasted. Make the chicken in one plate.”
The waiter nods and disappears.
“I like coming here. The chicken rice’s good, and you get to watch all sorts of people. They used to be mostly whites, but now they’re Arab, Vietnamese, or African. Look over there.” He gestures with his head. “An entire row of Middle Eastern restaurants.”
Dr. Safia turns to look. “You should visit Jalan Aman. The entire street is lined with Middle Eastern restaurants. It’s a fad now. People like to hang out there, smoking shisha pipes and drinking their horrible spiced coffee.” She laughs.
“Hookah or shisha, not pipe.”
“Whatever. I thought it had been decreed haram, but I see them in almost all mamak restaurants!”
“Haram doesn’t necessarily mean illegal. It’s up to the people to smoke it, or not.”
The food arrives, and the conversation stops as Dr. Safia attacks it with gusto. She cleans her plate in less time than it took the waiter to bring it. Mislan orders another round of iced barley and lights a cigarette.
“You must ha
ve been starving.”
“Famished, I didn’t have lunch. Finished the last case around two thirty and decided to skip lunch.”
“Anything interesting about my cadaver?”
“As I told you, cause of death was a severed sternocleidomastoid, cutting through the digastric and mylohyoid—”
“Why do you always give me the medical mumbo jumbo whenever I ask you about the cause of death? Why can’t you say it in plain English?”
“I was hoping some medical terms might rub off on you and boost your image as a homicide investigator,” she says, grinning.
“I’m a real-life police officer, not a TV cop. I’m sure you know that by now,” he says in good humor.
“Okay, in English, a main blood vessel had been cut, namely the common carotid artery behind the neck. In short, the victim died due to excessive bleeding and loss of blood to the brain. The cut was deep and clean. There was no bruising on her face or chest to indicate she was held from behind. No defensive wounds.” Dr. Safia pauses and takes a drag on her cigarette. “I told you all this already. Why are you asking me again?”
“Desperate and hoping there’s something new.”
“Sorry, nothing new. Oh, I forgot, the victim’s alcohol blood level was above the permitted level for driving.”
“She worked at the Beach Club, which would explain the alcohol level. Jo is going there later this evening to make some inquiries.”
“Now, this is not a scientific or medical observation …”
Mislan looks at her.
“This is from a woman’s point of view,” she says. “When I undressed the victim, I noticed that the bra was tight, much too tight. What was even more surprising were the pads. She had put hard padding into the cups to press down on her breasts.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s like she wanted to flatten her chest. You know, to look like she’s flat-chested.”
“The paddings, were there labels on them?”
“No, they looked self-made.”
“You’re a woman, you should know about these things.”
“Thank you for noticing. No, it’s not something I’m familiar with. Generally, women like to show off what they’ve got, not hide them,” she replies.
“Maybe she was a different kind of woman. A pengkid.”
“Ahhh, now that makes sense.”
“You know what a pengkid is?” Mislan asks, surprised.
“Yes. Unlike you, I keep up with society and the world,” she says, laughing.
Mislan gives her a disinterested stare. “Anyway, the rape victim admitted that they’re a couple.”
“So your deceased’s the top.”
“The what?”
“Top, meaning she’s the dominant one in the relationship, the provider … giver.”
“You mean the man in the relationship.”
“In our world, you can say that, yes.”
Driving Dr. Safia home, Mislan checks with Johan and is told the victim had worked as a waitress at the Beach Club for just over a year. The staff knew the victim is a pengkid and called her Zac. Hard-working, well-liked, and was earmarked to be promoted to supervisor. Before the Beach Club, she’d worked at the Concorde Hotel as a room attendant.
“She was treated like the rest. I mean, like one of the boys.”
“See if you can find out more about her relationship with the rape vic.”
“Will do.”
“Jo, on your way home, stop by the Concorde and talk to the staff. See what they say about her.”
“OK. Are you coming back to the office?”
“No, let’s call it a day. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
When they enter her apartment, Mislan goes to the kitchen and makes himself a mug of coffee, while Dr. Safia goes into her bedroom.
“You want coffee?” he calls from the kitchen.
“Tea, please.”
He carries the two mugs to the living room and slumps on the sofa. Dr. Safia has changed into a black lace satin nightie. She joins him on the sofa, leaning against the opposite armrest with her legs on his lap.
“This case, is there something bothering you about it?”
“What do you mean?”
“You seem detached. But I can see the usual MCCS.”
“MCCS?”
“Mislan’s compulsive closure symptoms,” she says, giggling. “Want to talk about it?”
He laughs. “You have a medical term for it? I mean the CCS part?”
She sits up and kisses him lightly on the cheek. “We have medical terms for everything.”
They chat about everything but mostly nothing through the night until they decided to move to the bedroom.
Mislan wakes up to the ringing of his cell phone alarm. The faint odor of dried perspiration blends with her overnight Dolce & Gabbana perfume on the bedsheet. It reminds him of the intense and wondrous night they shared. Reluctantly, he disengages her arms from his chest, slides off the bed, and gets dressed in the dark. Kissing her lightly on the forehead, he leaves without waking her.
21
THE SPECIAL INVESTIGATIONS OFFICE is buzzing when Mislan walks in. He notices the detectives and clerical staff looking at him. Mislan gawks at them, thinking, Shit, do they know I had a great time between the sheets last night and the religious police are waiting to arrest me? He spots his assistant briskly approaching.
“The OCCI was here looking for you,” Johan whispers anxiously. “When Reeziana told him you’ve not arrived he marched off to ma’am’s office.”
Mislan looks at the time on his cell phone.
“It’s not even seven forty-five. What’s he doing in the office so early?”
“Ass-hunting,” Inspector Reeziana shouts from across the room. “To be specific, yours.” The investigators and their assistants laugh with her. “What have you done to piss him off this time?”
“Now we’ll all have to sit through his lion dance,” Inspector Tee moans. “And Gong Si Fatt Choi was long over.”
“He misses me,” Mislan says with a swagger.
The front desk clerk pokes his head in and announces that morning prayer will start in five minutes.
“It’s only eight, I haven’t had my coffee. Shit, so now I’ve to sit through his blabbering on an empty stomach,” Mislan grumbles.
“He must really miss you to get ma’am to start at eight,” Johan teases him. “I hope you’ll still be in the mood for breakfast after his lion dance, because I’ve got your favorite, nasi lemak with squid.”
“Save it for me. I’ll certainly need it to cheer me up later.”
When the D9 officers file into the meeting room, they’re surprised to see Superintendent Lillian and Inspector Sherry in there. The D9 officers greet them and take their seats. Lillian and Sherry return their greetings with tight smiles and baffled looks.
Senior Assistant Commissioner Burhanuddin barges into the meeting room like a raging bull. Everyone is silent. Sitting at the head of the table where Superintendent Samsiah usually sits, he immediately erupts into a stream of verbal diarrhea—accusing police officers of not having any respect for senior government servants, people who have dedicated their entire lives to serve the nation and the public, blah blah blah. When he finally realizes that most of those present are not paying attention and are either checking their watches or cell phones, his focus turns to Mislan.
“And you, Mislan,” he roars, catching everyone by surprise, “who the hell do you think you are?”
All heads turn toward Mislan in unison.
“Going around arresting a girl at her school, embarrassing her in front of her school friends? Threatening her in front of her mother and slandering a Datuk, a senior immigration officer.”
Mislan holds his tongue and gazes at the OCCI unblinkingly.
“What excuse do you have for such unprofessional conduct?” Burhanuddin barks. “He intends to sue the police for false arrest, intimidation, and slander, unless you apologize immediate
ly to him and his family. And I’ve assured him that you will.”
Mislan turns to his boss, his eyes pleading for permission to speak.
“May I know the actual allegations against Mislan?” Samsiah asks.
Burhanuddin turns to her, his face contorted with anger.
“False arrest, humiliating his daughter in front of her school friends, intimidation, and slander. If I have my way, I will add insubordination, too.”
“Sir, the girl, Massayu, was not arrested. She was brought here by her mother, and Mislan was not even present. By the way, she’s a college student. The interview was conducted by Inspector Sherry. Therefore, there is no basis for any of those allegations made against Mislan.”
“I don’t care who did the interview. He was there, and the allegations are against him,” he growls. “I’ve promised Datuk that he will apologize, and he shall do so. You make sure of that.”
Mislan opens his mouth to answer, but Samsiah beats him to it.
“I’m sorry sir, I don’t think it’s appropriate for my officers to apologize for wild and unfounded allegations. May I call Datuk to clear the air?”
“If you want to stick your neck out for him, it’s up to you. However, if Datuk sues the police, I’ll hold you responsible.”
With that, the OCCI abruptly stands and leaves the meeting.
Superintendent Lillian, Inspector Sherry, and Mislan follow Super-intendent Samsiah to her office. The D11 officers take the two guest chairs while Mislan stands leaning against the file cabinet.
“What a start to the day,” Lillian says.
Samsiah smiles at her statement.
“Ma’am, what has he got against me?” Mislan asks.
“What makes you think he has something against you?” Samsiah answers with a question.
“If what just happened isn’t sufficient proof of him gunning for me, then I don’t know what is.”
“Look, Lan, nobody is gunning for you. He’s under tremendous pressure. Getting threatening calls from influential people can make even the toughest among us lose our cool. And you trying to stand your ground will only aggravate matters. Just let it slide and continue with your investigations. I’ll handle Datuk.”
“But why must we explain ourselves when we’re only doing our jobs?” Sherry says in defense of Mislan.
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