“Wise man. Why don’t I pick you up from the Kerry at about nine-thirty?”
“Sure, but how did you know I was staying at the Kerry?”
He laughs. “A guess. It’s where I would stay if I were new in town and the person I was trying to find was last seen there.”
He’s good.
This is going to be a great partnership.
There are not quite as many staff at the Hilton’s concierge desk as there are at the Kerry, but they seem equally eager.
“I’m trying to find one of your guests,” I say, “a Mr. Aleksander Gutkowski.” I spell the last name for them.
“Certainly sir,” one of them says as he taps away at the keyboard. A small frown crosses his brow. “Mr. Gutkowski checked in on May thirteenth for five days but he never checked out.” He makes a couple more taps on the keyboard. “The front desk held the room for twenty-four hours but then released it.”
It fits with what Janusz said; Aleksander stopped communicating after three days.
“Can you tell me what happened to his clothes and luggage?”
Another one of the concierges, a young woman, says, “It’s our policy to store the items for the guest. Would you like me to check for you?”
“That would be great. Thanks.”
She disappears through a door behind the desk and returns within seconds bearing a big smile. “Yes, we have them here.”
“Do you think I could see them?” I ask.
She cuts a glance to her colleague who intervenes, “Are you a family member sir?”
“No,” I say, “but I’m a representative of the family. They have asked me to find their son.” I take out a business card and offer it to him with both hands and a slight bow. He takes it with a matching gesture and a deeper bow.
“One moment sir,” he says. He picks up his phone and talks rapidly in Cantonese. There is a pause and he says a few more words before hanging up. He smiles. “Yes sir,” he says, “my superior has authorized you looking at the items, but emphasizes that you may not remove anything.”
“Thank you so much.”
He says a few words to his female colleague who takes me through to the back room. She leads me over to a shelving unit and points to two items of luggage, a suitcase and a soft, leather carry-on bag. I take them off the shelves, place them on the floor then squat. I open the suitcase first. It has been meticulously packed with each item carefully folded and wrapped in tissue paper—all part of the Hilton service I suspect. I check through it but it holds only clothes and toiletries. I unzip the carry-on, take out the most obvious item, a computer, flip it open and power it up. While it boots up, I remove one of those neck pillows for use on planes and sort through the remaining items, which are just things you might have on an aircraft: books, a couple of maps, breath mints and bottled water. Nothing of interest. The computer has come to its log in screen and, as expected, it’s password protected. Just for dogs, I try Zelena’s password 'zelrocksit’ then 'aleksrocksit’ then I enter Aleksander’s name spelled backwards, with and without the capital A. None of them works but it was a very long shot. I power it off and return everything to the carry on. I look up at the concierge who is standing beside me, ostensibly to answer any questions but probably more likely to enforce the mandate that I don’t remove anything.
“There’s no passport,” I say. “Do you keep passports and valuables separately?”
“No sir,” she says. She squats beside me and takes the carry-on. She rotates it, unzips a side pocket, peers in and removes a passport, an envelope—which looks like it contains currency—and a notepad, similar to the one I always carry with me.
The envelope isn’t sealed. It contains a thick wad of five-hundred Hong Kong dollar notes. I close it and put it back. The passport is Aleksander’s. I put it back and open the notepad.
The first page is a to-do list with several items checked off, the last of which reads 'Find private detective.’ I flip the page. There are notes about his conversation with the concierge staff at the Kerry. The last item says, 'Talk to night concierge, Mr. Zhao.’ He obviously had the same conversation I did. I flip to the next page. It’s headed, 'Private detectives.’ There are three names with addresses, written in neat block capitals. The first is Phil Jiang. There are four stars outlined beside his name. The second is a Mr. Paul Yip. His name and address are neatly crossed out. The third is a Mr. Henry Wang. There are no stars beside his name but there is a double exclamation mark. It’s the name Janusz Gutkowski mentioned. So there is a Mr. Wang. Janusz wasn’t confusing it with Jiang. I think back to my conversation with Inspector Ho this morning. He said he had never heard of a PI named Wang. I remember his words. 'You should be careful who you deal with. There are some shady unlicensed operatives who you don’t want to get mixed up with.’ I wonder if Aleksander’s double exclamation marks indicate he had his doubts about Mr. Wang too. I put my finger beside the address. “Where is this?” I ask my watchdog.
“About a ten-minute walk from here,” she says.
I flip the page, it’s blank. I riffle through the remaining pages, also blank. Three clicks with my camera records the notebook’s details. I return it to the side pocket and replace the carry-on and suitcase on the shelf.
It’s four hours until dinner with Tina.
I’ve got time.
The building is older and seedier than the one housing Phil Jiang’s office but the corridor has the same fifty-year-old feel to it. The door numbered two-oh-seven has Chinese characters painted on the glass but there is no English translation. It is one of the few things I’ve seen without bilingual signage. I knock. I see no movement behind the frosted glass and no sounds come from within.
I knock again and, after a decent interval, try the door handle.
It opens.
Unlike Phil’s office, it doesn’t open into a large room. It’s a small, old-fashioned, wood-panelled waiting room with two doors leading off it and three, wooden, waiting-room chairs. It looks like a doctor’s office from a bygone era. There is a stillness to the air and a disquieting silence.
“Hello,” I say. “Anyone here?”
Nothing.
I tap on the first door and open it.
It’s a file room crammed with filing cabinets and shelves stacked with papers, files folders and boxes. It’s lit by a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. On top of one of the filing cabinets is a printer, its green 'on’ light glowing.
There is no response to my knock on the second door.
I open it slowly.
I notice the buzzing first.
Then the smell.
Then the sight.
The body is held bolt-upright in its chair by the wire around its neck. Even from where I’m standing, I can see the flies and maggots feasting on the protruding eyes. The hands are flat on the desk, held in place by knives through their backs.
I close the door before the smell makes me gag.
I guess I’ll be meeting with Inspector Ho for a second time today.
Inspector Ho’s investigation was perfunctory to say the least. The dead man was, as I suspected, Henry Wang, the other private detective whom Aleksander Gutkowski engaged. Ho asked me a few questions and let me go. I couldn’t get hold of Phil Jiang but I left him a voicemail telling him to watch his back.
My text with Tina said she wouldn’t be back here at the hotel until seven so I have about forty-five minutes. I text Harvey Lim and get lucky. He’s in the Red Sugar bar on the fourth floor. I take the escalators from the lobby and go into the bar. I have to walk along two corridors, flanked with private rooms and booths, before coming out to the main bar. At the far end it has a spectacular view of the harbour. Harvey is sitting at a table drinking a red cocktail of some sort.
He stands when I arrive at the table and shakes my hand. “Have you found out anything?” he asks.
The waiter arrives as we sit down. This must be the service that staying at a five-star hotel buys you. I order a local beer. “
Yes, I have,” I say to Harvey. I tell him about my meeting with Phil Jiang and his lead to the IF nightclub but omit any reference to the late Mr. Wang.
“Can I come with you?” he asks.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea; the place sounds a bit sleazy. Don’t worry, I’ll keep you informed.” He looks a bit crestfallen. “Have you discovered anything?” I ask.
“I haven’t had a lot of time. I had some important business meetings to attend but I did talk to my friend Leo. He’s one of the owners of the Golden Dragon nightclub, he’s there every night. I asked him if Zel had been there but she hasn’t. He’s a very well-connected guy and he’s agreed to send her photo to a bunch of other nightclubs and bars, asking them to let him know if she shows up.”
He takes a sip of his cocktail.
“I was looking at the map of Hong Kong. The IF nightclub is in Stanley, which is on Hong Kong Island. You said there was a man who you thought might have followed you and Zelena on the ferry to the island. Did you think any more about whether he might be the man in the Instagram post?”
“It might be but I can’t be sure.” There is a bleep. He takes out his phone taps on it and gives a big sigh. Without speaking, he turns the phone in my direction. There is a picture of Zelena in what looks like a market. She has a big grin on her face and her arm’s around a handsome young man in jeans and an expensive leather jacket. It is a different guy from the ones in the previous two posts. And she’s wearing a different dress. The message says, 'Look what I found in the Stanley Market. Helloooo extremely lovely person?’
I look at the pain on his face. “I’m sorry.”
“Do you think I should comment?” he asks.
I think about it for a bit.
“Sure, see if she replies.”
He does.
We wait.
She doesn’t.
“Will you let me know, if you hear anything?” he asks.
I can’t help feeling sorry for him. “Absolutely,” I say.
He hands me his business card. “Here’s my Hong Kong number, call me any time, night or day.” I smile encouragingly at him and pretend not to see the tear in his eye, looking instead at his card. In Hong Kong fashion, it is printed on one side in Chinese and on the other in English. The name of his company is vaguely familiar.
I need to track down Zelena. She’s the only lead I have to finding her brother but when I do I’m going to give her a piece of my mind.
Doesn’t she care about the pain she’s putting people through?
13
Zelena
They took me out again today but this time it was to a different market. He made me pose with some random guy. He gave me my phone so I could post it on Instagram then took it away again. He makes me do the posts because his English isn’t very good. I hope someone sees what I did in the post. Maybe it will make them contact the police. Maybe if he gets me to do more posts, I can put in more clues. Someone will get it. Please.
At one point, I could have run away. He was talking to the other guard and they weren’t looking at me. I thought about it for a moment but then remembered what they said they would do to Zander if I didn’t obey them.
It was nice to be out in the fresh air for an hour but it makes it so much worse to be back here tethered in the star room. The first winner of the day comes to take me off to one of the silk bedrooms. I hope he’s gentle. But he won’t be. They never are. That’s why they come here.
14
Cal
I walk past the concierge desk on my way to the entrance door. At this time in the evening there’s only one person on the desk. He must be the one who was on duty the night Zelena went missing. Mr. Zhao, the head concierge called him. I check my watch. Nine thirty-five. Better not stop and talk to him now, Phil Jiang is probably already here waiting patiently.
As I walk through the main door, a grey Lexus LC flashes its lights at me. Nice ride. Jiang must be pretty successful. With Nick running the business, we’ve been pretty successful too… anyway we were until this scam hit us. I wonder how many other clients have cancelled. It’s still early in the morning in Vancouver, I’ll call later and get an update.
An attentive doorman holds the passenger door open for me and I climb into Jiang’s car. “Hi Phil,” I say.
“Mr. Rogan?”
It’s not Jiang behind the wheel. It’s a short, squat man, with a chubby face showing no hint of a smile. He’s as different from the urbane Phil Jiang as I am from Nick. I start to apologize for getting into the wrong car and then realize he knows my name.
“Yes,” I say, “I’m Cal Rogan.”
“I am Mr. Lee, Mr. Jiang’s partner.” He doesn’t offer to shake hands. “He had appointment. I drive you to club. Meet you there.” His voice is heavily accented.
“Thank you.”
He drives down the ramp to the street, checks the traffic and accelerates so hard the tires squeal. “About how long is the drive to IF?” I ask.
“Sorry, no English.”
I’m not sure if it’s a statement of fact or an order, so I keep quiet, trying not to wince as he throws the car into turns and around roundabouts with seemingly no regard for any speed limit. It is all made more frightening by the fact that they drive on the left in Hong Kong and my heart keeps pounding every time I think he might be in the wrong lane.
To my shredding nerves, it seems to go on for ever, but I’m sure it’s not been much more than twenty minutes before he pulls the car to a halt.
He points a fat finger at a doorway.
“This is IF?” I ask.
He just nods and jabs his finger again.
I get out of the car and close the door behind me. Mr. Lee peels another layer of rubber from the tires and screeches around the corner. I take a deep breath of air—grateful I still can—and survey the scene. It’s not like Kowloon. There are far fewer people on the streets, the buildings look generally poorer and the brass door, which Lee pointed at, looks out of place. There is no signage indicating this is the place I’m looking for; nothing that even hints there’s a nightclub here. I cross the sidewalk and grab the door handle. This close, I can see a Chinese character and the word IF pressed into the brass of the door. I pull the door open and step into a darkened lobby area. I am confronted by a man the size of a small house. He is about my height—he’s the first person I’ve encountered here who is—but almost wider than he is tall. As my eyes get accustomed to the lower light level, I see that he’s perched on a stool and when he stands… well, make that a large house.
He steps past me and opens a door. “Please step inside sir,” he says in perfect, unaccented English. I think of Caliban: I must obey: his art is of such power. I have no option, so I step through the door.
The IF nightclub is bright and simultaneously part-garish and part-elegant. There are more men than women and many of the women are draping themselves over their male companions and sipping champagne. Everyone is very well dressed. To my left, there is a restaurant area where couples and groups of men are dining. Ahead of me is an almost-empty dance floor, beyond which is a bar.
From my right I hear a voice. “Cal, over here.” I look and see Phil Jiang sitting alone on a couch with a martini in his hand. I walk over and join him.
He stands and shakes my hand. “Sorry to subject you to Lee’s driving but I had some business near here on another case, so I thought it would be better to have him bring you. He lives a few blocks from here.” We sit down and he waves over a waiter. I order a Hoegaarden. He lowers his voice. “This place is very well-known in Hong Kong. The girls are all independent and very expensive. The management lets them use rooms upstairs, provided they make the men buy a couple of bottles of the overpriced champagne and give a percentage of their fees to the house. It’s not exactly legal but it is… what’s the word…? tolerated.
“I’ve only been here for about twenty minutes but I’ve been observing operations. You see the guy in the red shirt behind the bar?”
I nod. “He’s running the place. The girls get room keys from him and when the men come in, they go to him and he makes sure there’s a girl to take care of them. He’s the guy we should talk to. Nothing happens here that he doesn’t know about. Whether or not he’ll talk, I don’t know. But what I do know is he won’t talk for free. Are you prepared to give him a few bucks?”
“Sure. How much?”
“A thousand, maybe two.” He sees my eyes make like saucers and grins. “That’s Hong Kong dollars.” My eyes settle back into my head as I do the math. Janusz Gutkowski will be OK with me spending about three hundred Canadian, I’m sure.
Except there’s a problem. “I don’t have that much cash on me.”
“I can cover it,” he says.
“OK. Let’s do it.” We down our drinks and head over to the bar. As we sit down, a pretty barmaid comes and says something in Chinese. Phil replies to her and she goes over to the man in the red shirt and says something to him. He takes a long look at us and then nods. The girl goes to serve another customer and red shirt comes over to us. He has a slight limp.
“How can I help you, gentlemen,” he says in serviceable English. Jiang looks at me and nods.
I pull out my phone and show him a picture of Zelena. “Do you remember this girl being in here two weeks ago today?”
“Two weeks?” he says. “That’s a long time.” I’m the only Caucasian in here and I’m betting someone looking like Zelena would be remembered for months to come. But before I can say anything, Phil slides a brown note across the bar. It disappears into red shirt’s pocket.
“Yes, she came in here at about eleven o’clock.”
“Was she alone?”
“Huh,” he grunts. “A girl looking like that doesn’t come in here alone.”
Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 4, 5 & 6 (Box Set) Page 57