“Come in,” a male voice called.
Leslie turned the knob and pushed the door open, revealing an office space about thirty square meters. Directly in front of her was a gray, institutional-looking metal desk, similar to hers, with a man sitting behind it.
He stood and stretched his hand out. “Hello. How can I help you?”
She didn’t bother to shake his hand. Instead she produced identification. “Roger Song?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“You can start by answering a few questions.”
Song’s smile disappeared, and his lips covered his yellowish square teeth. “Aw, man. Is this about that body in my building? I already told your boss everything.”
He plopped down in his chair and leaned back. He wore grey slacks, a pressed white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a blue and yellow striped tie.
“One. He’s not my boss. Two. Telling him everything is not the same as telling me everything.”
“At least tell me I can resume demolition,” he said, motioning for Leslie to sit.
“That’s not happening.”
Song slouched further in his chair, his chin nearly resting on his chest. He had a large brown mole on his left cheek, and his hair showed signs of thinning at top. He kept his desktop neat, just a laptop and his cell phone. There were no filing cabinets. In the corner was a potted plant struggling for life.
Leslie’s thoughts about the starkness of the décor must have reflected in her expression.
“This office is temporary,” he said
“You a one-man operation?”
“Sure. I can do it all. I like it this way.”
“Well, I don’t want to take up too much of your time. From my understanding, you’re a developer, but you didn’t construct the building.”
“That’s right. I bought the building because I want the property. It’s near the promenade—a perfect location for a luxury condominium. My intention was always to tear it down. It’s a piece of crap anyway.”
“Why do you say that?”
Song sat up. “The previous owner let it fall apart, put nothing into it.”
“Was it empty when you purchased it?”
He rolled his eyes. “No way. The owner leased out the spaces to small businesses—”
“Like yours?”
“Yeah, you could say that. There were lawyers, small tech companies, a massage parlor, even a porno company. Man, what a headache, breaking all those leases. There were about thirty in all. The owner didn’t even tell them the building was sold.”
“Can you tell me his name?”
“He’s a she. Tough negotiator, I tell you,” he said pointing at me. “No leeway with her. This whole deal has been nothing but a big pain in my butt.”
“Sorry to hear that. What’s her name?”
“Sheila Yang.” Song leaned forward. “You know, she’s lucky I was even interested in the property.” He tapped his forefinger on the desk. “She never maintained it. I’m surprised she had any tenants.”
“Was there a business in the office where the skeleton was located?”
Song shook his head. “It was a load-bearing wall and not part of any office.” He poked at the keyboard on his laptop and then turned it around so the screen was facing me. “That’s her number. She’s the one you should be talking to.”
I punched her number into my cell phone along with her name.
“You know, it wouldn’t surprise me if she put the body there. Probably did.”
“What makes you say that?”
“She’s one of those slum landlords. She keeps her rents just below market, but the offices are shitholes. She preys on those who can’t afford much.” He pushed up his bottom lip. “That woman only cares about one thing. Money. Isn’t that the reason why most people are killed?”
Chapter 11
The kids and Po Po stood in front of the TST Clock Tower with smiles stretched across their faces…well, the kids did anyway. I was kneeling and angling my phone upwards, trying to get them and as much of the red brick tower in the picture. I mostly succeeded.
The interior wooden stairs that led to the top were closed and under maintenance. It bummed Ryan, and I pretended to be disappointed. Inwardly, I was ecstatic. Climbing forty-four meters’ worth of claustrophobic stairs wasn’t my idea of fun. I was pretty sure Po Po agreed.
“Okay, since climbing to the top of the Clock Tower is a no-go, we can go to the Space Museum. It’s just over there,” Ryan said pointing.
“Don’t forget we’re having lunch with Aunt Leslie first. We can go there after we eat.”
Just then, my phone rang. It was Leslie.
“Hey, how are things so far in Hong Kong?” she asked.
“So far so good. We’re checking out the promenade. Are we still on for lunch?”
“Um, that’s the reason why I’m calling. A case fell in my lap, and I’m trying to get a leg up on it. I’m sorry. Can we reschedule for dinner tonight?”
“Not a problem.”
“Okay, there’s a great restaurant I want to take you guys to. Also, word got around that you’re back in town, so a few of your old coworkers want to see you. Is it okay if I invite them to dinner?”
“Absolutely, it’ll be fun to see some of the old crew again.”
“All right, we’ll talk later.”
I tucked my cell phone back into my purse. “That was Aunt Leslie. There’s been a change of plans. We’re having dinner tonight. Everybody okay with this?”
All three nodded. Since lunch with Leslie was postponed, we decided to hit up the Space Museum first and then eat. Po Po had mentioned a dim sum restaurant located in the Mong Kok neighborhood, away from the harbor, so it made sense to see the museum first.
Po Po and I fell a few feet behind the kids, allowing us to watch them. The joy of vacationing with my kids was watching them experience things. Nothing quite like it.
“Abby,” Po Po said, “remember I tell you about my friend Liu?”
“You want to see her, right?”
“I want spend two days with her. I don’t know when I see her again.”
When Po Po lived in Hong Kong, Liu was her best friend. As far as I knew, the two had known each other most of their lives. I had met her a few times before Peng and I had married and a few times after, mostly over dinner. They were the same age and pretty mobile. The two had weekly chats on Skype, but there was nothing like a face-to-face, in-person conversation.
“So what are you thinking?” I asked.
“I think in two days I go her place. You okay?”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll be fine with the kids. Enjoy your time with Liu.”
By the time we finished touring the museum and arrived at Chen’s Dim Sum, it was creeping up on two p.m. Patience was short; only food could return us to our normal state. It didn’t help that I had also limited the amount of snacking on the street goodies we passed all morning long. Waiting had better be worth it, I thought as we entered the restaurant.
The smell and the sight of the small metal pushcarts loaded with tasty morsels triggered the inside of my mouth to rain. So far, so good. We ordered a variety of dim sum: steamed vermicelli rolls with dried shrimp and leeks, shrimp dumplings, pork buns, steamed beef balls, steamed cake mala style, beef wrapped in rice noodles, chicken lotus leaf rice, and a number of other dishes. It was more food than any family of four consisting of one petite woman, a senior citizen, and two small children should have had, but that was what we did. We overate.
As soon as the small dishes hit our table, conversation died and we feasted. The next thirty minutes focused purely on devouring everything in front of us. Clinking of chopsticks in bowls, the slurping of noodles, and forceful breaths to cool the freshly steamed dumplings were all that could be heard. Someone moaned. I was not sure who…might have been me.
It was nice to hear tonal ups and downs of our native Cantonese throughout the restaurant. We were the only foreigners. Only lo
cals occupied the surrounding tables, and the menu was written in Chinese. I had told Po Po earlier there was no way we would dine in any of the tourist traps, such as the floating restaurant in the bay. The kids probably would have enjoyed it until the food hit their mouths. Food made the meal, not the décor or the view.
On this trip, we would only eat at restaurants Po Po and I were familiar with—our favorites when we’d lived here. Chen’s Dim Sum was Po Po’s pick. A good one.
After our smorgasbord, I had to loosen the top button on my jeans—that was how many dumplings I shoveled into my mouth. One of these days my six-pack is going to say buh-bye. We sat for about another fifteen minutes or so drinking tea and letting the food settle. We didn’t stay much longer because I knew the kids would fade fast now that their bellies were stuffed.
I paid the bill and flagged a taxi to take us back to the hotel. Ryan jumped in the front seat and Lucy sat between me and Po Po. I couldn’t help but think that the trip to Hong Kong was off to a great start. Any concerns I had about the past casting a shadow on our holiday were quickly fading.
Chapter 12
The traffic light turned green, and Leslie punched the gas pedal. The SUV lurched forward into the intersection, the tires screeching as the vehicle turned left, just narrowly missing the oncoming traffic. She had no patience for sitting at the light, waiting for an opportunity to make a left turn. Aggressive driving paid huge dividends in Hong Kong.
Leslie was on her way to meet Sheila Yang. She had been able to reach her on the phone shortly after talking to Song, and they agreed to meet at a location in the Sham Shui Po district on the Kowloon side of Hong Kong.
That particular district consisted mostly of the poor working class. Leslie found most of her visits to the area involved investigating crimes. Housing wasn’t anything like the luxury apartments punching the skyline on Hong Kong Island. Instead, the area was populated with five- or-six-story apartment buildings housing entire families in one-or-two room flats. Hanging from almost every window were colorful arrays of clothing, resembling patchwork quilts. The streets were narrow in this area of Kowloon and the footpaths, when there were any, were occupied by small vendors, forcing residents to share the road with the vehicles. Most of the businesses lining the streets were mom-and-pop shops, selling everything from freshly butchered meat to lingerie to zippers and buttons.
Leslie dangled her left hand over the top of the steering wheel and leaned slightly right, her arm resting on the leather console between the two front seats. The drive from Song’s offices in Wan Chai would take forty to fifty minutes.
She sat up straight at the sound of wind chimes from her cell phone—an old Chinese folk song.
“Inspector Choi,” she said, answering on speakerphone.
“Leslie, it’s David Lee.”
“Hey, what’s the latest?”
“I put a call in to the government’s office of records to find out the name of the original developer of the building, but there appears to be no record of the building on file.”
“Oh? How did you know it was built fifteen years ago?”
“On my visit to the construction site, I noticed a metal plaque attached to the building. It had the name and date it had been built. But listen, I have a contact there that I’ll reach out to for help on this. I think visiting in person might deliver better results.”
“Keep me posted.”
“How did your conversation with Song go?”
“He spewed the same info he gave you earlier, except I also got the name of the previous owner. Her name is Sheila Yang. I’m meeting her at another building she owns. It should be interesting.”
“Okay. I’ll go ahead and run her name. If something comes of it, I’ll let you know.”
The address Sheila had given Leslie was for a two-story office building. It had a faded-yellow, open façade with front-facing doors for small businesses. Much of the paint was chipped, and a few areas were stained with a dark color that looked like mold.
Leslie pulled her SUV into the small lot out front and parked next to a silver Mercedes Benz S550 sedan. As she climbed out of the vehicle, her head swiveled toward the sound of several people shouting.
Over in the far corner of the building, next to the stairs leading to the second floor, were two men and a woman engaged in a heated discussion. Something tells me I just found Sheila.
The woman wore an off-white dress with matching heels. Jade bracelets jangled on the arm she used to punctuate her words. The other held on tightly to a black designer handbag.
Leslie’s approach must have caught the woman’s attention because she quickly lowered her voice and said only a few more words before turning to face Leslie. That was when Leslie noticed the make-up on the woman’s face. She wore heavy eyeshadow, a generous layer of white foundation, and burgundy lipstick. She hurried in tiny steps toward Leslie, waiting until she was out of earshot of the two men. “Inspector Choi?” she asked, her voice low.
Leslie flashed her identification. “I am.”
She quickly motioned for Leslie to lower her hand. “There’s no need for that. I trust you,” she said with a laugh, but not before turning back for a quick look to see if the two men had seen my ID.
“I’ll assume you’re Sheila Yang?”
“That’s correct. We can talk privately over here.” She took my arm and ushered me back in the direction I had come.
“Is your office this way?”
“No, I have something better. My car. I’ll turn up the AC, and we’ll be comfortable.”
I don’t care where we have the conversation, so long as we have it, lady. Sheila remotely unlocked the doors to the Mercedes, and Leslie made her way around to the passenger door. She settled in to the leather seat while Sheila started the car and then fiddled with the button controlling the air conditioning.
“You look busy, so I’ll get right to the point,” Leslie said.
“Hold that thought,” she said as she reached over to the glove box and removed a silver flask. “Whiskey? It’s the good stuff,” she said, offering Leslie the container.
“No, thank you. I’m working.”
“Me too.” She unscrewed the tiny cap and took a swig. “But it helps me relax. What you witnessed earlier was just one of the daily hassles I have to deal with.”
“What’s the problem?”
“Something about the electricity not working properly. As if I have control over that. That’s the city’s doing, not mine. But enough about that.” She waved a hand. “What’s on your mind?”
“The building you sold Roger Song.”
“Oh, yes. The Missing Mummy case. Isn’t that what they’re calling it on TV? I no longer own the building, so you wasted your time coming here. It’s not my problem.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Until you’re cleared from this investigation, you’ll remain a person of interest.”
That accusation caused Sheila’s eyebrows to shoot up as she inhaled sharply. Great acting. The only thing missing was a pressed hand against your chest.
She gasped. “You seriously don’t think I put that body there, do you?”
“Did you?”
“I certainly did not. You should really be looking at Roger Song.” She waved her finger.
“Why do you say that?”
“He’s got beady eyes. People with beady eyes can’t be trusted.”
“You did business with him. Seems as though you trusted him.”
“Don’t get me started on that deal. What a cheap son of a bitch. I barely made any money off the sale. And anyway, you’ve seen my buildings.” Sheila gestured to the building in front of us. “I don’t put any money into them. That building I sold Song I owned for fourteen years and not a single renovation.” She smiled proudly. “I don’t do renovations. I run the properties down until they’re of no value and then I sell them for the land.”
Leslie raised an eyebrow at Sheila’s bold admittance.
“Look, I’m
a businesswoman. My goal is to make money. That was my intent from the very beginning when I bought the building.”
“And who did you buy the building from?”
“Oh I can’t remember his name right now but I believe he was also the developer. I’ll have to look at my records.”
Leslie removed a business card from her purse and handed it to Sheila. “You do that.”
Chapter 13
After returning from lunch, everyone took a dive onto the beds. We had adjoining suites: Po Po and Lucy were in one, and Ryan and I were in the other. A couple of hours of snoozing and then a hot shower would put us in feast mode for dinner at a popular restaurant not far from our hotel.
“Abby!” Leslie called out from the table as she stood. She and a few of my old colleagues had arrived before us.
“Leslie!” I screeched back.
We squeeed like sisters who hadn’t seen each other in years and squeezed each other in a gigantic bear hug. We were about equal in height, with the same black hair and fair skin. We really could pass for sisters if it weren’t for my green eyes. Despite my Irish heritage, everything else about me screamed Chinese.
“Oh my God, I can’t believe I’m with you right now,” I said, holding her by her arms out in front of me as I gave her a once-over before hugging her again.
“Same here. It’s been forever. Your hair…it’s so long.” Leslie said as she twirled the silky ends in her hand. “It looks amazing though. You always had great hair.”
Since leaving Hong Kong I had allowed my hair to grow past my shoulders, something I never did while working for HKP.
We kept on pinching and grabbing each other to ensure we weren’t dreaming. Then Leslie peeked around me.
“Lucy. Ryan,” she said. “You’ve both grown so big. And Po Po, you look wonderful.”
Kowloon Bay (Abby Kane FBI Thriller Book 3) Page 4
