Inspector O 04 - The Man with the Baltic Stare (14 page)

It was simple, I thought as the stairway swallowed her. When you’re young, five months can solve everything.

The next day, as soon as I found the right person, I would be able to see what was bothering Kim. The problem was finding the right person. It was already warm by eight in the morning,
with the promise of humidity breathing down my neck. Even so, the sky sparkled; the streets were noisy with buses and taxis and motorbikes. It felt like a different town from what I’d seen last night. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Everybody I asked was polite, but no, it was not possible for them to interact with me on an official basis without express approval of the proper authority. And who would that be? It was impossible to reveal without the authorization of that excellent person. At last, I was told that if I went to the post office in Senado Square and asked at window five, there would be a message waiting. The square was not far away; the clerk at window five produced the message as if passing messages were her main job. I was to call a certain phone number before noon. It was nearly 11:55, and there wasn’t a phone in the post office—a machine selling all manner of phone cards, yes, but an actual telephone? The clerk shrugged. I spotted four phones in the office behind her. No, she said, and closed her window, it was not possible for an unofficial person to use one of those official phones. Perhaps, I said, the clerk would be kind enough to point me in the general direction of a pay phone? She recited the directions: “Outside, turn right, go up the square—though it isn’t really a square,” she said, “more like a cardboard box that has collapsed at one end—past St. Dominic’s, which is yellow and not easy to miss, bear right, turn left at the ice-cream shop, and there, about twenty-five meters on the right, will be two phones. Only one of them works, unless, as sometimes happens, neither does.” She gave me a faraway smile. “One never knows.”

I trotted on the path she indicated and found what she promised. The phone on the left had a dial tone. I threw in all manner of coins and was connected to a male voice. It was 11:59.

“Ah, Inspector, I’ve been wondering if you had decided to go home.”

“The idea occurred to me.” I had no idea who I was talking to, which put me at a disadvantage, because the person on the
other end seemed to know me. “We might have saved time if you had left this number at my hotel.”

“But we did; we did! The old man at the front desk didn’t give it to you?”

“He did not.”

“In that case, where did you get the number?”

“At the post office.”

“Indeed!”

“Perhaps we should meet, assuming you are the excellent person who can help me.”

“God helps those who help themselves, Inspector.” It was possible that Kim had told this man to expect me. Or Pang. Or even Zhao. The passport didn’t list my title, and for purposes of this trip I was a diamond salesman, which I had put down on the immigration card. “But I do what I can. It might be wise if we continued our conversation in my office.”

“And where would that be?”

“The location is not well known.”

“Perhaps you could tell me—quickly. I think I’m running out of coins.”

“You are where?”

“Past St. Dominic’s, and a few steps beyond the ice cream.”

“There are two phones? The one on the right does not work?”

“Correct.”

“Then we are very near to each other!”

“God’s will,” I said, only because I had a feeling it might get me somewhere.

“Unlikely. No, in this case I suspect it was the Ministry of State Security man who parks his van near the Lisboa at night to keep an eye on the Russian prostitutes and their clients. You talked to him?”

“I don’t know who I talked to. The van was a trash heap.”

“Yes, he loves pork buns. Buys them by the bagful.”

“So, MSS is part of this?”

Laughter. “My goodness, how could they not be? Very well, you’re within a few meters of a sign with an arrow pointing toward the ruins of St. Paul’s. Head in that direction for another twenty meters. On your left will be a small shop, dark, and very crowded with machinery and tools and wood.”

“Wood?”

“The sign painted over the doorway will say: ‘Carpenteria.’ It is a place where they make fine furniture and intricate wooden screens. As you’ll see, it is really quite beautiful. My office is in the back. I’ll let them know to expect you. They close at noon, so hurry.”

There were no introductions. The man behind the desk pointed to a chair, checked his watch, and began to summarize from a folder that he held casually in one hand:

“A young man, very rich, with the violent temper that came from too much pressure and too much restraint, had taken a very pretty, very elegant, very expensive prostitute into his room. They’d ordered dinner, watched a movie, and then started to argue. She threw things. He strangled her. In a panic, he cut her up in the marble bathroom and put her in a four-wheeled suitcase. Then he took a shower, went to breakfast—coffee, no cream, one sugar—read the paper, told the Assistant Manager he needed a limo to the airport, settled the bill in Hong Kong dollars, and all at once changed his mind. He didn’t want to go to the airport, he said. No, he needed a rental car, something with a big trunk, so he could drive around and see the sights before he left. He produced a map—which way was the harbor?” The man looked up to assure himself I was listening closely.

“About breakfast, no rice congee?”

“No, why should he have rice congee for breakfast?”

“Just wondering.” Major Kim’s story suddenly had holes.

The man studied me a moment and then continued, “Security has tapes from the surveillance cameras. A girl had gone into his room. She did not rappel down the side of the building from the thirty-fourth floor. A helicopter did not pluck her from the balcony; indeed, the room had no balcony, even though that was what the young man had requested. The girl never left, it was concluded by all who watched the tapes, not unless you counted the drops of blood on the carpet down the hallway to the elevator.” The folder was closed and put on the desk. “His fingerprints are on the knife.” The room was growing hot. A fan started up and blew the hot air into a corner. It also blew the folder off the desk. The man smiled. He was cool and collected, a nice-looking, gray-haired policeman, rather thin, with long-fingered hands that he used to emphasize various points he seemed to think I might otherwise miss. He wasn’t what anyone would call rugged, and he had about him what can only be called an indescribable air. He didn’t look Chinese to me; I would have said he was Portuguese.

“I don’t know why rich people do it,” he said, and his long fingers sliced the air, “but they often chop each other to pieces, like a plate of Portuguese chicken.”

I decided this was my opportunity to throw in a few questions, not only to get some answers but also to test his technique. “Rich. Do we know that?”

“Very few street people take suites at five-star hotels.” He smiled. “How did I do, Inspector? Passing grade?”

“So, you have a suspect, a rich male. You’re not saying, but I assume he’s Asian.” There was no sense specifying where in Asia I meant if for some reason they didn’t already have that. “If he was a Westerner, you wouldn’t even be talking to me. And where is he now?”

“Don’t know.”

“He’s left Macau?”

“Don’t know.”

“He’s still in Macau?”

“Possibly.”

“ ‘A change in pattern responses represents a break in the subject’s concentration, which is useful to exploit.’ That’s from our training manual, if I recall correctly. Can you still remember yours?”

“Our manual said ‘when the subject attempts to raise a new topic, it’s a sign of stress.’ Relax, Inspector; no one is going to bite you. And neither of us is a subject, as far as I know. Please, if you wish, assume our man is still in Macau. In fact, assume anything you want. Assumptions are fine. They are like bouquets of flowers, nice to have around. Or should I compare them to the bottled water in your hotel room? Compliments of the house.”

There was no such thing in my hotel room. No bottle, no space for a bottle. “I assume you have a full file, something other than that folder that is on your desk.” It was actually on the floor, the papers fluttering whenever the fan swept over them. Pointing that out seemed unnecessary.

“Of course I have a file. We exist on files. They are like vitamins, like oxygen, like red blood cells. Your department has another approach perhaps? Something more modern? If there is a way to the truth without files, I’d like to know what it is.”

“We swim in paper, same as you.” I surveyed the office. No computer. That was comforting. It meant not having to deal with references to nodes and links and regressions.

“You share your files with anyone who walks in the door, of course.” He walked his fingers up to the edge of the desk and then let them jump off.

“Yes, that is our approach exactly. Files to the people.” I smiled to demonstrate I was not going to be a burden on his day. “I assume you eat lunch?”

The man immediately stood up and buttoned his jacket. He had the figure of a bullfighter. “I do, as often as I can, though the
limits of custom and of government regulation dictate I enjoy lunch only once a day. It is my favorite meal. Dinner has considerable freight attached to it. Breakfast is an evolutionary afterthought. But lunch! Just as the day is reaching full potential—the sun scorching, the air heavy, the restaurant cool, the dark glass along the front turning the outside into a dance of vivid color while the leaves of the ficus trees flutter in a breeze God grants only to them. And on the table, a glass of wine, a plate of chicken and rice, a freshly baked roll dozing on its own little blue plate. What could be wrong with life at such a moment?” He shook his head. “Do you favor ficus trees, Inspector?”

“I’d have to think about it.” Actually, I found them despicable trees, twisted around themselves as if they were afraid of the sky. “Why do you ask?”

“There are so many of them in Macau. They are like people.”

“Interesting thought.”

“Look at them closely when you have some time. They grow apart and then together again.”

“My grandfather thought chestnut trees were like people—old people and foreigners. He considered them cranky.”

“Interesting thought.”

“Let me buy you lunch, then.”

He bowed, a little stiffly. “My name is Luís da Silva Mouzinho de Albuquerque.” He paused and observed me through slightly narrowed eyes. “I notice you do not laugh. The name means nothing to you?”

“It’s long, but I can’t say it tickles me.”

“Good. Some people smile when they hear it. Luís da Silva Mouzinho de Albuquerque existed long ago. He was a man of many facets, and had one of those tangled lives that great people in those days lived. He was no relation to me, none that I know of, but it amused my father, who was Macanese, to name me after this man. My mother, a Chinese woman of strong opinions, was not so amused. Worse, there was never room in the space
provided for ‘name’ on all the applications necessary for one’s journey through life. Believe me, it was not always a pleasure. It is also, I realize, not as easy to remember as ‘O.’ Please call me Luís.” He extended his hand. “I appreciate your invitation. It is very kind of you, but I fear I can’t accept. It would be against all regulations, in force and contemplated—part of our anti-corruption drive, our fourth in as many years. I cannot go into a casino unless in pursuit of a suspect, I cannot be in the presence of any gaming authority unless there are three other people present, no two of whom can know each other, and I cannot accept a meal if it means sitting down.”

We shook hands warmly. “You have to remain on your feet when you eat?”

“Yes, if someone else buys the meal. Standing is less corrupting, apparently. I can nibble tiny sandwiches by the plateful. I can heap on lobster, eat caviar with a shovel. But only if I stand.”

“Perhaps, Luís, there is a restaurant where we can stand at the bar?”

He bowed, with more grace than the first time. “I have heard of such a place. In fact,” he said as he straightened his tie, “I have heard it is nearby.”

“How did you know my name, incidentally?”

“This is Macau, Inspector.”

The bartender was a woman with a neck as thick as her head. All the more surprising that she had a voice as sweet as the spring breeze across a field of wildflowers. She and Luís exchanged a few words in what I took to be Portuguese. It sounded like Russian, but it was too wet around the edges.

“If you heard her on the radio,” Luís said in English to me,
“you’d fall in love, as I already have.” He kissed her hand. “This is Lulu,” he said. “She can do no wrong.”

Lulu blushed, which must have put a strain on her heart. “And what would Senhor Police Captain like to start off with?” she asked. The room was suddenly a meadow in the glories of May. Exactly as Luís had said, the ficus trees rustled in a breeze; the colors of the day flowed through the darkened glass of the long front window.

“A leg, my dear Lulu. Surrender it to me or I shall go mad.” Luís’ voice was low and dreamy.