“No way. Living in a hovel, smelling of booze at ten in the morning waiting for us to find him and question him: who would do that?”
A faraway look comes into his eyes. The cogs in his brain are turning over. “He went downhill fast,” he says. “A year ago he was a practicing lawyer, presumably making good money. Then he gets disbarred and in the space of a year he… Wait a minute. Do we know when he was disbarred?ˮ
“No,” I say, “but I could look it up.”
“The receptionist at his old office said he moved out a few months ago,” Adry adds.
“It makes even less sense. A few months ago he’s functioning well enough to have a law office and now he’s an incoherent drunk. Something doesn’t add up here,” he says.
“Well duh! I’ve been kicking it around in my mind most of the day.”
We slip into a silence. Adry breaks it with, “Did you check Instagram yet Cal?”
“No. What did she post?”
When she says the words 'Behind the Watchman’, he looks like he’s been hit by a bolt of electricity. “There’s a building behind where the watch vendor used to be on Temple Street. It was number one-oh-five.”
“One-oh-five?” A frown comes to Adry’s face but only for a moment. “OMG! Zelena’s other post talked about, '7 15 year old girls.’ Seven times fifteen is one hundred and five. That’s the place.”
He gives a whoop. “At last a real lead!”
With a bit of luck, Rogan will be talking to Zelena before the day’s over.
He outlines his plan. “Sounds good,” I tell him. “Make sure you keep us up to date.”
After he hangs up, Lucy laughs. “This is so exciting. I so hope Cal finds Zelena and her brother too.”
“I’m looking forward to making the call to the parents telling them their son and daughter are safe,” I say.
“Go team!” Adry high fives us.
A new voice intrudes. “Has the great Nick Stammo solved yet another case?”
I swivel my chair around and feel my smile getting bigger.
“Hi Stewart,” I grin.
“Hi Lover,” he says and I feel myself blushing. I suppose I’ll get used to being gay at some point, but after rejecting the way I was born for so many long years, it still feels a bit strange.
“What are you doing here Stewie?” Lucy asks. She always calls him that; apparently it’s a reference to some character in a TV show. He seems to like it. They get on so well.
“Didn’t he tell you? No, of course he didn’t. I’m here to pick him up. We’re catching an early movie and then I’m taking him out for dinner. Friday’s our five-month anniversary but I’ll be on nights, so we’re celebrating this evening.”
“You guys are so cute,” she laughs.
“Huh” I grunt, pretending to be annoyed.
I haven’t been called cute since I was five.
We are in the Cactus Club at English Bay beach. It has an amazing view of the sunset and has the added advantage of being a couple of blocks from Stewart’s apartment. We are sharing the white chocolate cheesecake and drinking cognac. As the last sliver of the sun disappears, my phone pings. I look across the table at him. He smiles and nods. I pull out my phone. It’s a text from Cal and it’s not one-hundred percent what I wanted to hear. I show the text to Stewart.
“It must be tough on the parents,” he says.
I nod. “I’ll have to call them and pass the news on.”
Something tells me not to do it right now.
After a moment Stewart speaks. “I lost my older brother a few years back.”
“You didn’t tell me about it. I’m sorry.”
He shrugs but I can tell he’s close to tears. “Still too painful,” he says. “He OD’d. He lived in the States. Got addicted to Oxycontin after an operation and went from there to fentanyl and then…”
I reach out and put my hand on his.
With his other hand, he takes out his wallet and slides out a photograph. “This was us a few weeks before. I begged him to come back to Canada for the operation but he was stubborn.”
I take the photo. Stewart and his brother are standing on a pier with the ocean behind them. “Newport Beach,” he says. They are very much alike. Not like Roland and Connor McCoy who don’t look like brothers at all. Stewart’s older brother looks less fit and doesn’t look like he has the same unlimited energy Stewart always has. It’s probably the illness. They are so similar yet so different. It’s like—
Then it hits me. “Oh,” I say.
“What?”
“You may just have solved a mystery,” I tell him. I squeeze his hand. I want to tell him I love him. But I’m not ready.
Not yet anyway.
27
Cal
Tuesday
He gives me a dead stare across the table. “Mr. Rogan,” he says in his perfect British accent, “how many times do I have to say this? You say you were a policeman, so you must know I can’t just raid a building without any evidence. No judge in the territory is going to give me a warrant to search a privately owned building, based on the social media posts of a young woman who appears, in those self-same posts, to be free to come and go as she pleases.”
Trying hard to curb my irritation at his pedantry and general prissiness, I say, “But Inspector Ho, the posts where she’s asking for help—ˮ
“Not evidence, Mr. Rogan, not evidence. It’s just your interpretation of her turn of phrase.”
“Could you just come with me to the building? We could go in and you could ask whoever’s there to let us look around.”
He sighs and looks up at the ceiling. “I would be happy to do that, if and when you have any evidence.”
I look into his eyes and get an implacable stare in return.
If it’s evidence he wants, I know how to get it.
I call Phil Jiang for the third time this morning. There’s still no reply so I leave him a voice message outlining my plan. I’m going to have to go it alone.
Temple Street looks completely different in the morning. There is no sign of the stalls, which will line both sides of the road this afternoon and evening, but, from across the street, the entrance to number one-oh-five looks as forbidding in the daylight as it does at night.
It looks like a cheap apartment building, shabbier than the buildings on either side. There are windows at each level, some with air-conditioning units. But there’s something missing. Almost every apartment in Hong Kong has laundry hanging out to dry on racks or clothes horses. This one doesn’t have a single item. And something else is wrong: all of the windows have either roller blinds or paper covering them. Whatever happens behind those windows is kept from the neighbours’ eyes.
I cross the road and stand on the threshold.
I have only the vaguest idea of how to proceed. I’m going to have to wing it.
The stairway up has an almost-abandoned feel to it. The concrete walls are covered to about elbow height in what used to be white paint. Loops of white and grey electrical wire hang from the ceiling and the stairs look like they haven’t been swept since the Lunar New Year. I get the sense that this air of both dilapidation and menace is a purposeful device to keep strangers from entering.
Taking a deep breath, I start up the stairs, ducking under the wires so they don’t even brush against my hair. At the top of the first flight is a scuff-marked wall, which used to be powder blue. There is a black, window-sized piece of metal set into the wall and I have absolutely no idea what it might be used for. I turn around and with a last glance back to the safety of the sidewalk below, I take the second flight up. It ends in a bare concrete hallway.
At the end of the hallway is a panelled door, unusual in two respects: one, it looks new, painted in black, with expensive-looking brass fittings, one of which is a five-pointed star, set exactly between the upper panels; two, there is a brass-and-leather barstool beside the door.
The occupant of the barstool looks up from his book. He is a young
man in an expensive suit, with a mild expression which changes when he sees me. He smiles, stands and places his book on the stool. Although his smile is welcoming, I recognize his stance. It screams 'martial arts.’
“How can I help you sir?” he says in passable English. He has a lisp and the last world comes out as 'thir’.
I step very close to him. “I’ve come to see Zelena,” I say.
He shows no sign of surprise or puzzlement at the mention of her name.
“Come back. Thicth tonight.” His smile is a model of polite, friendly service.
I look at my watch. “But I have a special appointment to see her now,” I say. Then, as an afterthought, I add, “I arranged it with Leo.”
That causes a smile and a nod. “OK,” he says.
He turns and reaches for the door handle.
I wait just long enough to ensure the door is not locked.
With just a touch of regret at how I’m repaying his politeness, I step forward and with as much force as I can muster, I drive my left fist into his kidney. Before his “Ooof” is fully exhaled, I grab his hair and smash his head into the concrete wall beside the door. He goes limp and slides down the wall to the floor.
I step over him and push through the door.
I am in a small, elegant bar, empty of people. There is seating arranged on an expensive carpet but the chairs are enveloped in dust covers. Behind the bar there’s a small array of liquor featuring several brands I can’t afford. But it is only a quarter full. There are boxes on the bar full of bottles. I say a silent thank you that whoever is stocking the bar is not there right now. There are two doors off the bar. One is a replica of the door through which I just entered, complete with brass star. The other, off to the right, is similar with a small plate bearing Chinese characters and the word 'Staff.’
I take the staff entrance.
Elegance is replaced with utility and I smell food.
Again I’m in an anteroom with doors leading off. I can hear the sounds of people and a huge clatter of kitchen implements. If I take any of the doors I am going to encounter people, something I don’t want to do just yet.
To the right is a wooden staircase. If Zelena is being held here, it will likely be upstairs. Prisoners are always held in high places. I take the rickety stairs two at a time, as quietly as I can, using what Ellie calls marshmallow feet. At the top of the stairs is yet another door, held closed by a heavy-duty bolt. I feel the thrill of getting close.
I need to be fast.
The guard won’t stay unconscious for ever.
As I slide back the bolt, I hear one of the doors below open. I made the right choice. I am in a hallway with eight doors leading off. I open the closest one. It’s a tiny bedroom and it’s freezing cold. It has a bed and nothing else. Two of the walls are bare concrete. In one there is a barred window high up close to the roof. In the other there is a vent and I can hear the sound of some sort of motor or pump.
The next door reveals a similar room except that all four walls are covered in particle board and it’s much warmer. I keep going. They are all the same until I get to the last door on the left.
It’s locked.
This is it.
The door is cheap. The frame is cheap.
I’ll risk the noise I’m going to make.
With a firm hold on the door handle, I take a half step back and propel my shoulder into the door. A sharp crack and it gives way. I manage to stop myself from falling into the room.
It’s a mirror image of the first room.
Except that it has an occupant sitting up in the bed, eyes wide.
It’s not Zelena.
But through the bruises and incrustations of dried blood, I know who it is.
“Aleksander,” I whisper. “My name’s Cal. Your father sent me to get you.”
“Thank God,” he grunts pushing himself up off the bed.
He stands swaying.
“I have to get you out of here fast. Can you walk?”
He nods.
“Let’s go then,” I say, taking him by the elbow.
“We have to get Zel. She’s here too.”
I process it for a second. “I need to get you out of here first. With your evidence, we can have the police raid this place and rescue her.”
“No.” He says it more loudly than I would like. “I’m not leaving without her.”
“Keep your voice down! Zelena’s not on this floor. She’s in a part of the building that’s full of people. I can’t get you both out at the same time.”
“Then leave me here. I’m not going without her. Go tell the police and have them come for both of us and the other girls too.”
I think of the intransigent Inspector Ho. Will he take my word for it or will he go on about hearsay evidence? I’ll need Aleksander in the flesh to force Ho’s hand.
“I respect your loyalty to your sister but I can’t leave you here. I can only persuade the police to raid this place if I have you as a witness.”
He thinks this over.
I pull gently on his elbow. “We don’t have time.”
Footsteps.
Trudging slowly up the stairs.
Only one person… I think.
I weigh the dwindling options.
He’s probably been sent to investigate the noise I made pushing in the door.
I have to take him out.
“For Zelena’s sake, follow me!” I hiss at Aleksander.
As quietly as I can, I sprint down the corridor towards the open door at the top of the stairs. As I get within about two metres, I hear a grunt of surprise. He’s seen the door’s unbolted. I have to take him out before he calls for reinforcements.
I step into the doorway and come face to face with an old woman. She’s carrying a tray bearing a meagre supply of food.
Her surprise gives me a fraction of a second.
My left hand reaches down and grabs a big handful of her clothing below her throat as my right hand takes hold of the tray. I yank her and the tray up the last two stairs. It only partially worked. A bowl of rice and a plastic cup of water drop to the floor making way too much noise.
She opens her mouth and takes in a breath.
I drop the tray and, fighting against all feelings of chivalry, I jab my right fist forward into her jaw and a horrendous pain shoots up my arm from my broken fingers. I can’t suppress the grunt of pain.
She goes limp.
The clatter of the tray hitting the wooden floor is eclipsed by a shout. The woman’s not alone. Of course! Her guardian lunges for me. His enthusiasm is greater than his fighting technique. I let go of the woman’s clothing and smash my elbow into his throat.
He staggers back. I reach out to grab him but he pitches backward down the stairs, making enough noise to be heard throughout the building.
Our window of time is slamming closed.
At least Aleksander obeyed my command to follow me. He is standing wide eyed beside me.
“Let’s go.” I lead the way down the stairs and hear him follow.
At the bottom, I’m amazed to see the doors to the anteroom are closed.
I pull open the door that leads to the bar.
It brings me face to face with the young man who was at the front door.
Before he can react, I use my forward momentum to snap my right foot up into his crotch.
He drops gasping to the floor.
Today is definitely not his day.
I look over my shoulder. Behind Aleksander, I see one of the doors to the anteroom crash open. A man in chef’s uniform comes through. “Come on!” I shout and dash across the barroom. I can hear Aleksander behind me.
I wrench open the outer door and rush down the hallway. As I get to the top of the stairway down, I hear a crash.
The chef has pushed Aleksander to the ground. He yells something over his shoulder, a call for reinforcements, I guess.
As Aleksander scrambles backwards, the chef reaches down and takes hold of an ankle
.
Behind them, a tough-looking thug bursts through the doorway. He shouts something to someone back inside. It’s in Cantonese but I recognize one word in the stream of sounds: 'Rogan’. He turns back and starts to race toward us.
There is no way we are both going to get away now.
Do I run and try to persuade Inspector Ho to raid this place or do I stay and try and fight these two with one good hand and one broken hand?
The decision is made for me.
Aleksander arches his back, putting his weight on his shoulders and pulling his entrapped foot down hard. The movement forces the chef to bend down further or lose his grip. As the chef’s head pitches down, Aleksander’s other foot smashes up into his face. In an instant he’s free and on his feet. That move was a thing of beauty.
“Go, go, go!” he shouts.
We dash down the two flights and burst out onto the street.
I turn north and run into the intersection, almost smashing into a red cab.
We scramble inside.
As the cab pulls away, I see the tough-looking thug standing in the middle of Temple glaring at us.
I smile and wave.
Four hours later, I am standing on the street outside one-oh-five Temple. This time I’m under strict orders from Inspector Ho: I am to wait here while he and his squad of armed officers go through the building. They went in about five minutes ago. This time Phil Jiang is standing beside me. As I get to the end of telling him my story of breaking Aleksander out of there, I remember something odd.
“As we were leaving, one of the guards shouted something and I’m sure he used my name.”
“How would he know your name?” Phil asks.
“I don’t know but I’m sure he said 'Rogan’”
He thinks for a moment. “The Cantonese word ruògān sounds like Rogan. It just means several.”
Further speculation is interrupted by Inspector Ho. He exits the building and crosses the street to where we are standing.
“Come with me.” He does an about face and heads back across the street. We follow. He leads us up the stairs and along the corridor. As we go through the first door with the star on it, I see the smear of blood on the wall from where I rammed the guard’s head into it. Except for an armed police officer, the bar is empty. Not one of the expensive bottles of liquor is in evidence. The chairs are moved over to the side of the room and are still under white dust covers.
Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 4, 5 & 6 (Box Set) Page 65