“I can assure you that the Hong Kong police are taking Mrs. Lombard’s disappearance seriously.”
“Do they consider Mr. Lombard a suspect?”
A wry smile twists Leigh’s face. “Isn’t the husband always a suspect? But if I had a guess, I’d say she’s with the ex-boyfriend.”
“Ex-boyfriend?”
“Eva Lombard lived here in Hong Kong for a couple of months some years back. Had a pretty serious relationship by all accounts. Her sister says he was her last serious relationship before she married Peter. It stands to reason that if she was fighting with her husband she ran off to see her ex.”
“You seem very sure that nothing bad has happened to her.”
That wry flash of smile again. “Wishful thinking maybe. Don’t ever want to think the worst has happened to an American citizen here in Hong Kong. And the statistics support that. Have you been in Hong Kong long, Mr. Bernake?”
“Just coming on two months. After a stint in the London office.” Jake wonders if he always lied so effortlessly, or if it’s a talent he’s acquired since working with Catherine. He shifts his focus back to the legate’s icy stare as she continues.
“Then you should know by now. The Triads control much of what happens in this city. Crimes against American tourists are good for nobody’s business, so they control that too.”
“Is there anything our firm can do?”
Leigh glances at her own business card, still sitting on the desk before Jake. “Excuse me, but are you even old enough to be a lawyer?” she asks suspiciously.
“I get that all the time.” Jake smiles easily. “I’m older than I look.” He leans forward, hands spread in supplication. “I’m sure they sent me because I’m a Yank. Not too many of us here in the Hong Kong office.”
“Look. Random violent crime is rare here. I lay odds on a wife trying to teach her husband a lesson.”
“I hope you’re right. Nothing would make me happier than to be wasting your time, Ms. Leigh.” Jake unleashes his most disarming smile.
“Mrs. Leigh. It’s always a pleasure to meet another American in Hong Kong.” She smiles, but Jake observes it does nothing to warm her chilly gaze. “What club do you belong to?”
“Aberdeen Marina. Came with my comp package.” Another easy lie. But membership there would have come with an employment package as an associate at Kingsford, Downes & Faulkes, and he knows Catherine has added “John Bernake” to the rolls of the club if anyone bothers to check. To the law firm’s website too, for that matter; she’s always thorough.
“Perhaps I’ll see you there. We have friends who belong.”
“That would be my pleasure. Let me guess—Atlanta?” he hazards.
“Born and raised in Augusta,” Leigh replies with the first warmth he’s glimpsed. “You have a good ear.”
Jake extracts a gold case and lays down a card with the embossed KD&F logo, enjoying the look of mild surprise on Leigh’s face. Once again he appreciates Catherine’s faultless attention to detail. “Feel free to call me if we can help in any way. That’s my direct number.” The number on the card will divert to one of Jake’s cellphones.
“I’ll do that. Thank you for coming in.”
Ex-boyfriend. Funny how Peter Lombard didn’t mention that.
STICKY FINGERS
Stephanie Regaldo, aka Stevie Nichols,
Hong Kong Island
Flyers affixed with cellophane tape litter the plate glass windows of the Good Luck Dim Sum Shop, all but obscuring the patrons inside. If Stephanie hadn’t been planted across the street for over thirty minutes already, she wouldn’t even be sure that S.I. Alan Tsang had stopped in for his usual lunch. But, armed with knowledge of Tsang’s habits as supplied by Catherine, she’d been in place to observe the policeman’s entry. Luckily the cop’s a creature of habit, stopping in to this place for a solo midday meal nearly every day.
Stephanie snakes her way across the crowded street, acutely aware of how very foreign she is here. How strange it is to be one of the few white faces among the many Asian ones. It makes her feel exposed, the anonymity she could take for granted back in the States a squandered, unappreciated asset, one she won’t be quick to dismiss again.
She pulls open the door to the restaurant. It’s a narrow joint, no more than one long counter crowded with stools. Clouds of steam rise in gusty puffs; there’s the sizzle of oil and a lingering scent of burnt grease in the air. Tsang’s seated at the far end of the counter, a bamboo basket before him. He shovels in great mouthfuls, barely taking time to swallow one greedy gulp before he pushes the next one in.
Luck is at hand again; the seat next to Tsang is empty. Stephanie perches on the stool and fixes a pointed look of longing at Tsang’s lunch.
“I’m sorry, I speak no Chinese; do you speak English, by any chance?” Stephanie fixes Tsang with what she hopes is an expression of optimistic innocence.
Her quarry shrugs irritably. “Yes. How can I assist?”
“Oh, fantastic,” Stephanie babbles. “If you could just help me order? Last time I tried pointing and I ended up with, god, I don’t know, it might have been tripe, even though I’m not even sure I know what tripe is exactly, but I suspect something totally disgusting, by the looks of the stuff.”
Tsang’s expression shifts to one of mild amusement. “Anything besides tripe you’d prefer to avoid?”
Stephanie graces Tsang with a radiant smile. “You tell me.” She leans over and inspects the contents of his bamboo basket. “What have you got there? That all looks yummy.”
Gesturing with his chopsticks, Tsang points out the items in turn. “Pork bun, shrimp shu mai, soup dumpling.”
“Perfect. I’ll have that. Would you order for me? Thanks so much.”
Tsang barks a few words at the counterman, a balding old man with hunched shoulders and a basketball-sized belly. They’re speaking Cantonese, Stephanie suspects based on her research about the island, although she wouldn’t be able to tell one Chinese dialect from another if they punched her.
Tsang returns to his determined demolition of the dumplings in front of him, eyes fixed firmly on the task at hand.
A cup of hot tea is placed in front of Stephanie, swiftly followed by her very own bamboo steamer. The counterman lifts the lid. Delicious scents tantalize from within, both savory and sweet.
A stab of hunger both primal and urgent hits her as she realizes it’s been close to eighteen hours since she’s eaten. She often forgets, only to be crippled with hunger when the pangs finally hit, something Catherine has lectured her about repeatedly. She bites into a pillowy dumpling that squirts hot broth into her mouth.
“Hmmm. Delicious.”
She takes her best shot at engaging Tsang in further conversation, offering prepared tidbits about being an art student on a gap year. Stephanie prides herself on the attention to detail she’s invested in her cover story and is eager for an opportunity to show it off. However, she receives only grunts and monosyllabic responses in return. Tsang finishes his food, pays with cash, and departs the shop without a backward glance. Stephanie follows suit a few moments later.
She blends seamlessly into the pedestrian surge, turns a corner, hails the first cab she sees, and settles inside it. She may not have succeeded in chatting up Tsang, but she does have his spiral notepad, neatly lifted from his jacket pocket and transferred to hers.
Stephanie cracks open the notepad, hoping for English, unsurprised to see mostly Chinese characters with the occasional English word scattered throughout: Thursday, American, Holcomb.
Holcomb. A shiver of excitement courses through Stephanie’s body. She doesn’t know exactly what she’s looking at in Inspector Tsang’s notes, but at least she’s looking at something.
OUT
Peter Lombard,
Hong Kong Island
He�
��s been drinking all day. Just beers, but sucked down in a steady succession since he woke up this morning. Come to think of it, was that morning? Peter realizes he’s not quite sure what day it is. Or time it is. His sleep has been fitful, naps at odd hours, chunks of Ambien-induced oblivion tortured by fragments of disturbing dreams. A permanent buzz seems to encircle him, a prickly energy force field built of anxiety and uncertainty, interfering with rest and clear thought.
I’m going out.
He pulls on sneakers and, after a glance out the window, a rain jacket. Now that he’s decided to go, he can’t move fast enough. He shoves the hotel card key into his wallet and jams it into one pocket, his cellphone into another.
The hotel hallway’s decorations in their muted, sandy tones with their vaguely Chinese, wholly corporate accents seem unbearably creepy to him all of a sudden. He races to the elevator and punches the DOWN button. The car crawls up to the thirty-second floor. Peter can’t contain himself; he bounces back and forth from foot to foot, desperate to move, unsure what it will accomplish.
The elevator door slides open. Finally. Peter steps into the cab. Hits the LOBBY button. The elevator stops on the eighteenth floor, admitting two businessmen in sharp suits with flamboyant silk pocket squares. One addresses the other in what Peter guesses is Italian, resulting in guffaws of hearty laughter from his companion. Peter’s suddenly conscious of his stubbled jaw and wrinkled, food-stained button-down, embarrassed by his agitation, furious at Eva.
When the elevator lands at the lobby, he bursts past the Italians, eliciting another round of laughter from the two of them and an ugly stream of consciousness inside his own head: Fuckers. Are they laughing at me? Let’s see how they hold up if their wives go missing! Eva. How dare you? Where are you? Fuck. How can I be this worried and this angry at the same damn time?
A thick bank of dark gray clouds hovers overhead, and although the rain holds off for now, the blocked sun gives the streets an eerie, shadowless cast. It feels as if the entire world is holding its breath and waiting.
Agitated, directionless, Peter tugs at his unruly hair and mutters to himself as he strides wildly forward, oblivious to the larger world around him. He brushes and knocks into passersby and is cursed out more than once, and in more than one language.
Peter walks himself breathless and tired. His steps lag.
“What the…!” he cries as each of his arms is suddenly seized in a viselike grip. He’s pulled into a narrow, garbage-strewn alley.
“Stop!” he shouts. “Help!” before a solid punch to his mouth leaves him spitting blood and, oh fuck, a tooth. Were those brass knuckles?
Peter tries to wrestle free of his attackers, but takes a knee to the groin that sends him crumbling to the filthy ground.
His head spins with agony; he thinks he might vomit. A hail of kicks rains down on him, curling him into the fetal position. Please stop. He thinks it, but his mouth can’t form the plea.
Why? Why? Why are they doing this to me?
A pointy toe connects with his ear and leaves his skull ringing. Protectively, Peter curls an arm over his ear. He screws his eyes shut as a hand wrenches his arm away. Tenses as he waits for the next blow.
He gasps at the feel of the intimate brush of lips against his earlobe, more unsettling than the onslaught of kicks and hits. Recoils at the whisper that follows: “Get your bitch under control.”
Peter lies there for an eternity after he suspects they’re gone, long after the last stinging blow. His ears ring with a shrill whine. His entire body pulses with pain.
He chances opening his eyes, but his left one seems to be swollen shut. He pulls himself up into a sitting position with a groan. He wipes a handful of blood and spittle away from his mouth.
A tiger-striped cat sashays past him with a haughty twitch of her tail. Observing the cat’s pathway, Peter’s one good eye meets the impassive, black-eyed stare of an impossibly ancient woman seated in a white plastic chair at the far end of the alley. She methodically shells peas, uninterested in Peter’s predicament. Next to her, an open door leads to a bustling kitchen, in which he can see four sweating men intently focused on their bubbling pots.
“Thanks,” Peter mutters sarcastically. “So nice of you to call for help.”
He hauls himself to his feet, wincing as each new injury announces its painful truth. He stumbles from the alley and back out into the street, nearly crashing into a pair of laughing young lovers who lose their gaiety upon seeing his battered face.
“Are you all right, mate?” The young man frowns.
Australian, Peter thinks, not English. Why would it matter?
“Clearly not,” his girl adds. “Just look at him!”
“I think I was mugged,” Peter rasps, although he knows a mugging is not the likely explanation.
“Get your bitch under control.”
“What’s the emergency number here?” the girl demands, fishing a cellphone from her backpack. “Zero, zero, zero, like at home?”
“I jus’ wanna go back to my hotel….”
“Got to get you to a hospital, mate.”
“No!”
Peter can interpret the layers of complexity contained in the looks exchanged between the young couple.
We have to help. What if he’s dangerous? Shouldn’t we call the police? Is this any of our business? Are we safe? What should we do?
With a bruising rush Peter’s thoughts turn to an incident early in his relationship with Eva. They’d just come out of a movie and were wending their way to dinner. After a long gray February, the first teasing hints of spring were in the air. Peter tucked one of Eva’s hands inside his for the very first time as they strolled; he was conscious of a current between them and hoped she felt it too.
They were heading west on 57th Street toward Lexington when they saw another couple crossing the avenue in their direction. They were of similar ages to Peter and Eva, he’d guess, and alike in other ways too—the man wore a down vest the same make as his own, the woman’s chestnut brown hair was close to Eva’s own color. These assessments he made instantly and unconsciously. It was only later that he figured out that these surface similarities were partly why what happened next was so startling.
Cocooned by the warmth of his burgeoning intimacy with Eva, Peter was inclined to look at every stranger with a smile. But this pair practically threw sparks as they raged at each other, shouting expletive-laced insults at the top of their voices. He drew Eva to the side, protective, as the pair neared, but still they were up close and personal when the guy sucker punched his companion in the nose.
The woman howled. Blood spurted.
Eva gasped. Halted in her tracks. Her eyes met Peter’s. In an infinitesimally brief exchange they had exactly the same kind of silent dialogue this Aussie couple is having now.
What do we do? Should we get involved? How dangerous is he? Is this? How can we leave that girl?
Peter had acted before he thought.
“Hey,” he shouted, placing himself in between the puncher and both women. “Cut that shit out.”
He saw a flash of pride in Eva’s eyes; it pumped him up. He turned to the bloody victim. “Do you want to come with us? You should get some ice on that.”
The woman’s eyes blazed. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing getting in our business?” One bloodied hand clawed out and raked Peter’s cheek. He jerked back but not fast enough. He still has a little scar where she marked him.
Although it’ll probably be buried under new scars now.
He had grabbed Eva’s hand and they ran together, horrified, laughing, bonded. After their blood cooled, they’d talked for hours, starting with a shared abhorrence of the scene they’d witnessed, which led to a larger discussion about male-female dynamics and gender norms. Eva engaged and challenged him; he found it damn sexy. She’d cleaned his sm
all wound, kissed it better, and the deep kiss they shared at the end of the night left them both breathless. The “Incident on Lex” became a chapter in the library of Peter and Eva’s personal history, one of the threads in the fabric of their interwoven lives.
The couple they were then, the optimism and happiness he’d felt, all now seem as ancient and blank as the old woman he’d left back in the alley with her peas.
“I’m fine,” he mutters at the Australian couple as he lurches away. “Don’t worry about me.”
“You sure?” The Aussie girl’s nasal query floats after him. “You look like you took the worst of it.”
He’s not at all fine and he knows it. But what are these two kids with their strangled vowels going to do for him?
He feels invisible to the Asian pedestrians he passes; their eyes don’t even flicker. White passersby, the expat and tourist crowd, avert their eyes from his bruised face and bloody shirtfront. He runs the tips of his fingers along his ribs and finds the lump that’s swelling there. He staggers along in what he hopes is the direction of the hotel.
Frustrated, lost, hurt, and miserable, Peter catches his breath in front of a shop selling an astonishing variety of gaudy gold jewelry, bangles as wide as his arm and thick, flowing bibs of interlocking golden flowers or dragons roaring flame. A golden rooster, accented with a red enameled comb and wattle, sits among silk flowers in a glass box rimmed with fairy lights.
Eva would have laughed. Would have found just the joke to make him laugh too.
“Get your bitch under control.”
What the hell did that mean? Peter’s not sure, but doesn’t the phrase imply that whoever did this to him didn’t have “control” of Eva? Hope flutters in his chest.
Peter fishes in his pocket for his cellphone. Is not at all surprised to see the screen spiderwebbed with cracks. Not built to withstand a literal beating, after all. At least it works, he thinks as he presses a stored number.
The Empty Bed Page 11
