Aunty Lee’s Deadly Specials

by Ovidia Yu

  Staff Sergeant Timothy Pang was staring at the computer monitor in his cubicle. Tim Pang was one of very few men who found good looks a disadvantage. He suspected his looks had blocked his boyhood dreams of becoming a detective. His superiors were always joking (at least he hoped they were joking) that SS Timothy Pang was only useful as bait for toilet vice raids. Even now, in International Affairs, colleagues were constantly asking him out for drinks and trying to set him up for dinners with their daughters, their sisters, or themselves. He was still very new to the department—perhaps this was just how they welcomed all new staff?

  So it was not surprising that Timothy winced when footsteps approached his cubicle, heralding the interruption of his report writing.

  “Tim! How are they treating you in Special Ops?”

  “Staff Sergeant! I mean Inspector Salim!” Timothy whirled around and rose to his feet in one smooth move. “Inspector Salim, good to see you, sir. What are you doing here? Can I do anything for you?”

  “Are you free? Have you got a couple of minutes to spare?”

  These days SS Timothy Pang felt he was never free, yet nothing ever seemed to be achieved or accomplished. Now his biggest frustration with criminals was the amount of administration paperwork they generated. But paperwork, like the poor, would always be with them, and Inspector Salim would not be visiting without reason.

  “Buy you a coffee, sir? Not as good as in the old place, unfortunately—”

  Timothy Pang had once thought Salim Mawar unambitious and the Bukit Tinggi posting dull. Now he appreciated his former boss’s fairness and avoidance of favoritism. And he missed the food in the vicinity of his previous posting!

  “You miss the old place?”

  “Yes, every day—every lunchtime and break time, to be precise!”

  “Someone there misses you too.” Salim gestured to the doorway, launching a multicolored whirlwind that had been held back till now.

  “Yes! That’s who that man at the gate reminded me of! Of course I know it wasn’t Timmy Pang. But so much like! Timmy, do you have any brothers? Or any cousins who look like you?”

  Staff Sergeant Pang grinned to see the short, stocky woman who somehow managed to look soignée in an embroidered pink blouse, pink-and-yellow floral sarong skirt, and pink-and-white sneakers. Aunty Lee had dressed up in all her finery for this visit to the police headquarters but she must have left her decorum back at the shop as she flew over to throw her arms around him.

  “Aunty Lee, good to see you again!” Aunty Lee’s frequent treats had been one of the things Timothy Pang missed most about his previous posting. It was a sign of his sweet nature that he was as glad to see Aunty Lee as he was to see the basket Nina carried in her wake. His new colleagues were already looking up and sniffing.

  “Timmy, I must tell you this funny thing that happened. Last week I was catering a party and a man that looked so much like you came to the house. He looked so familiar but at the same time not familiar at all; it was driving me crazy. But now of course I understand why. Timmy, he looked so much like you but he was not you!”

  “You have a brother who looks like you?” Salim asked.

  There were times Timothy Pang wished he did not have a brother, especially not one like the brother he had. Their lives ran on strictly separate tracks, but now it seemed his brother had done a crossover.

  “I have one brother. People say we look alike but I don’t see it myself. Why didn’t you just ask him?”

  “They wouldn’t let him in the gate. I thought the doctor was going to break his arm! Then they found the dead bodies and I didn’t get the chance to go after him.”

  “The dead bodies?”

  Aunty Lee nodded many times, “Yes, yes, yes!”

  Inspector Salim nodded once.

  “Come with me,” said Staff Sergeant Timothy Pang as he headed for another door. “The meeting rooms should be free—Kiruthiga, I’m taking the key to room one—”

  “Kiruthiga? Please try some of my special buttery pineapple tarts,” Aunty Lee said, pushig the box at her as she followed in Timothy’s wake.

  “Something about your jaw and forehead is quite distinctive . . .” Aunty Lee said as they settled around the small table, Nina taking a chair by the door.

  One of Timothy’s new colleagues appeared with cups of coffee and was rewarded with golden pastries and instructions to make sure they were not disturbed.

  “I haven’t seen much of Patrick since he moved out of our parents’ place.”

  Timothy Pang still lived among his noisy extended family in Queenstown, the Housing Development Board estate they had grown up in. His mother’s sisters’ families and his father’s cousins and children all lived within walking distance. Timothy hoped to get his own flat in the same area someday (on his marriage or thirty-fifth birthday, whichever came first). Patrick had got as far away as possible, as fast as possible.

  “Pat was a music teacher for a while but I think most of his money comes from writing songs for other people to record. He even wrote one of the National Day songs a few years back. Actually he called me last month, said a friend of his was missing. But he didn’t want to file a missing persons.”

  “What did he want you to do?” Salim asked.

  Timothy Pang could not shrug his shoulders to a senior officer, no matter how friendly, so he said nothing.

  “That friend of his. You didn’t think he was missing?”

  “He’s missing all right. But I don’t know whether he’s missing on purpose.”

  “Ah.”

  “Ben Ng,” Aunty Lee supplied.

  Timothy nodded. “I think that was the name. Yes.”

  “Why makes you think he’s missing on purpose?”

  “No reason. Just that Pat’s friends are sometimes . . . no reason.”

  “Do you know what kind of work his friend was doing for the Sungs?”

  “I didn’t ask.” Timothy saw Salim make a note of this and wished he had paid more attention to his brother.

  “Why don’t we go and visit your brother?” Aunty Lee proposed brightly.

  “What? Now?”

  “Why not? I got some extra kueh in the car we can bring.”

  Timothy looked at Inspector Salim. It was Salim’s turn to say nothing. Most important, he did not say no.

  “All right. But not right away. Let me talk to him first and I’ll get back to you.”

  Pat answered his phone immediately.

  “Kor?” Timothy automatically used the Chinese honorific for older brother. “It’s Tim. Can you meet me?”

  “It’s Ben. He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  They met downstairs of Patrick’s flat in a recently upgraded estate and went to the hawker center food court nearby. It was early for lunch, not quite eleven thirty, but in Singapore a meal is always the best solution to initial awkwardness. Patrick, who knew the area, bought mee kia for both of them.

  The teasingly rich and tender freshness of perfectly cooked pork liver was the taste of loving nurture, however fleeting. Along with crispy fried cubes of lard and the slightest sheen of vinegar, the enticingly chewy mee kia linked the brothers to each other and their shared childhood.

  “That time you called you said a friend of yours is missing.” Timothy Pang pushed his empty bowl aside. “Still haven’t heard from him?”

  Patrick shook his head. “He’s not just a friend. He’s—a very good friend.” He took a sip of his plum juice to prepare himself. Timothy Pang suddenly felt an irrational panic rising and had to stop himself from pushing back his stool and shouting, “Don’t tell me! I don’t want to know!”

  Instead he said, “It hasn’t been so long, you know.”

  “Almost two months now.”

  Timothy shook his head. “Don’t worry, that’s not long at all. People go away, they forget to tell their friends—it’s no big deal.”

  Patrick sat silently, obviously unconvinced.

  “Anyway, it’s up to his family to file a mis
sing-persons report if they are worried. Your friend might just have gone on a holiday or something.”

  “His family is all in Malaysia. I got in touch with them, they haven’t heard from him. I don’t think they know he’s missing yet. He didn’t really stay in touch with them so . . .”

  If Patrick disappeared how long would it be before his brother and parents noticed? Timothy wondered. He eyed the hot and cold desserts stall, debating whether a chendol or tau suan would be most worth the calories. His pork noodles had been satisfying but this difficult conversation needed a sweet touch.

  “Wait till the family gets worried. For all you know, your buddy met someone special and isn’t ready to tell the rest of you yet. You want chendol?”

  “No. If Ben met someone else he would have told me. He was very excited about this big job he was doing at the Sungs’ place. He said soon he would have enough money to buy us a place together. He didn’t tell me much but I know he was designing some end-of-life home-care system. He was doing a special power supply and life-support monitors and everything and he said he was going to get paid a lot. The last time I saw him he was going to do a final system test and collect his check. He told me he would buy champagne on the way back. I bought steaks to grill when he got back. But he never came. And the ceremony was supposed to be last Saturday—”

  Staff Sergeant Timothy Pang looked at his brother. Patrick met his gaze, saying nothing till his younger brother asked.

  “Ceremony?”

  “We were going to exchange vows, have a commitment ceremony. I know it won’t be legal here but we wanted to.”

  There was a long silence. Patrick did not know why he had said so much. Timothy Pang was a police officer, even if he was Patrick’s brother.

  “How long have you two been together?”

  “Five years now.”

  Was Timothy going to play the police-officer role and cross-examine instead of help him? It was too much, on top of all the friends who he knew assumed Ben had got cold feet and run off. Patrick struggled to his feet, unbalancing his plastic stool so that it tumbled over.

  “Wait.” Timothy reached across the table and took his brother’s wrist in a firm grasp. “Kor, I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? Sorry about what? What are you going to do?”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t know. I’m sorry you never told me you found somebody special.”

  Patrick stared uncertainly, all his panicked bravado melting. He remembered his quiet younger brother again. A year younger, Timothy had somehow managed to be outside Patrick’s classroom at recess time every day for two months after class bullies gave him a black eye. They had sensed he was different even then. He didn’t know what Timothy had sensed. Timothy had already been a school hero, a Schools Nationals judo champion and captain of the mixed-martial-arts team. Somehow the features that looked so effeminate on Patrick had made Timothy the most handsome boy in school. And every day he had been there on the flimsiest pretexts. “Kor, can you explain this maths problem to me?” “Kor, I forgot my money, can you lend me fifty cents?” Timothy’s presence had been enough to ensure Patrick was never picked on again.

  Suddenly Patrick was close to tears. He could not remember why he had so dreaded telling his brother.

  “I thought you would be angry.” It was easier to say “angry” than “ashamed” or “disgusted.”

  “Of course I’m angry with you. I’m furious. You plan to have a commitment ceremony and never tell your only brother. Who wouldn’t be furious?

  Patrick could not speak.

  “Look,” Staff Sergeant Timothy Pang said. “We’ll find him somehow. But if I find out this guy walked out on you without a word, I’m going to disappear him myself!”

  14

  Patrick Pang’s Flat

  “You sure it’s okay for them to come here to talk to you?” Timothy looked around the small front room. There was an anniversary photograph of their parents on a side table, next to one of himself receiving a framed commendation. The latter looked as though it had been cut out of the newspaper and slipped into an IKEA frame. Timothy felt moved. He had always assumed Pat thought himself too good for his family and wanted nothing to do with them.

  Though there was no good reason, the thought of Aunty Lee and Inspector Salim coming to visit and possibly investigating his brother was making SS Timothy Pang uncomfortable.

  “Yes, it’s okay. I want to talk to anybody who might help.”

  “You want to come back for dinner tonight? Ma and Pa would be happy to see you.”

  No they wouldn’t, Patrick thought.

  “Not tonight,” he said. “Thanks.”

  Patrick Pang and Benjamin Ng rented a flat on the top floor of one of the older Housing Development Board projects. The weather- and water-stained common space beneath the block and wheezing lift showed their age, but the grime-stained walls concealed higher ceilings and larger rooms than would be found in newer housing projects.

  As the lift made its way up slowly, Aunty Lee thought how unfortunate it was that public housing was shrinking as the population grew in size and number. In contrast to the faded gray walls on the ground floor, on the nineteenth floor the wall of the open corridor leading to Patrick and Benjamin’s apartment was painted pale peach. As Aunty Lee walked with Inspector Salim toward the unit at the farthest end of the corridor, painted birds and butterflies appeared on the wall, then twining tendrils and leaves and trees leading to an arrangement of potted dwarf palms, bougainvillea, and flowering sweet peas that flanked the dark wooden doorway. There was a pleasant warm breeze carrying a hint of sea salt from the shining waters far away and far below that could just be glimpsed in between the other buildings around them.

  Aunty Lee was intrigued. Something about these plants and painted walls signaled an important connection but she could not pin it down yet. One drawback of growing older was how many more memories there were to sift through before you found what you wanted. Aunty Lee had never liked the idea of living on anything higher than the third floor (what if the lifts broke down?) but at the moment, to her surprise, she found it very pleasant being elevated high above the noise and business of city life.

  “I’m sure this is illegal,” Inspector Salim murmured. “Graffiti is not allowed on public walls without permission. And fire regulations state that common corridors should be left clear.”

  “But it looks nice,” Aunty Lee said.

  Salim pressed the doorbell (the belly button of a miniature laughing Buddha statue) and was rewarded by a cacophony of birdsong. He winced. Aunty Lee was delighted.

  “Yes! You are the one! I saw you at the Sungs’ house trying to get in the gate that day when the people died!”

  Patrick had stood up as his brother let the old lady and police inspector in.

  “Yes, it was me. But I didn’t get in, I didn’t see anything. Timothy said you wanted to talk to me about Benjamin?”

  “Yes, but I want to talk to you about a lot of other things as well. Can we come in?”

  “Yes. Of course. I’m sorry. Please don’t take off your shoes,” Patrick said with automatic politeness. The young man was genuinely distressed, Aunty Lee thought. The dark circles under his eyes and the weary tension in his shoulders showed he had been under stress for some time. And under stress he was polite.

  “Have you found a body? Do you need a sample of his DNA? Benjamin’s dead, isn’t he? I knew it!”

  “We haven’t found anyone. This is not an official visit,” Salim said calmly. “We just need to ask you a few questions—unofficially.”

  He bent to unlace his shoes before slowly slipping them off. Aunty Lee, who had slipped off her pink-and-white sneakers in a flash, watched Patrick use the time to take a deep breath.

  “If you haven’t found him then he’s probably still alive, right?”

  “We just want to ask you a few questions,” Salim repeated. “We should make sure he’s really missing and not just gone off on holiday or something without
telling you. If he just took off and forgot to let you know, he wouldn’t thank you for making a police report.”

  “He wouldn’t do that. But I know what you mean. I did try to make an official police report but I couldn’t because I’m not a family member. That was even before I called Timothy. By the time I went to the Sungs’ house, I was desperate.”

  His voice shook slightly. Aunty Lee felt sorry for him.

  “This is a very nice apartment. But isn’t it hot staying on the top floor?” Aunty Lee asked with genuine interest.

  “Ben likes it because there are no ugly pipes in the toilets and kitchen. I’m sorry, please come and sit down. I like it because there are no neighbors above us to stamp on the ceiling or drag things around and no laundry and rubbish dropping into our drying area.”

  “And in older flats like this, people are less likely to complain about you painting on the wall,” Aunty Lee said.

  “Oh yes. Ben painted those. He had some exhibitions in galleries and they liked his stuff. Some Italian magazine even came to take photos of the paintings in the corridor. Of course they couldn’t say where it was because it’s illegal.”

  Neither of the police officers appeared to hear this. Aunty Lee carried on.

  “He is an artist? Wah! But your friend Benjamin is also an architect and an engineer, right? So multitalented. He used to design buildings and he worked on a project for Mabel Sung?”

  “Yes he is.” Patrick assumed Aunty Lee was a friend of the Sungs. “Ben still did some architectural design on the side. He was really good at it but he didn’t want to work for any of the big companies and he didn’t like running a business himself, so he ended up taking on freelance work.”

  “Why didn’t you say so earlier? Kor, your friend disappeared after working on a project for two people who end up dead and you don’t even mention the fact?”

  “He disappeared last month—almost two months ago. Long before anybody ended up dead.”

  And those people had died right after Patrick tried to force his way into their house. Not good, Salim thought.

  “What exactly was the purpose of the building your friend constructed for the Sungs?”