Umbrella Man (9786167611204)

by Needham, Jake

  Oddly enough, Tay was at that moment only a few blocks from the Marriott. He was stretching his lunch hour a bit browsing in Sunny’s, a used bookstore whose cheerful disorder was almost an act of public rebellion in tidy little Singapore. Sunny’s was on the third floor of Far East Plaza only a couple of hundred yards up Scotts Road. Was that just a coincidence, Tay wondered, or was he being summoned because the OC somehow knew he was at Sunny’s? He doubted his personal habits were that well known, but in Singapore you could never be absolutely certain about a thing like that.

  Tay took the steps down to street level and walked quickly up Scotts Road. As he dodged through the sidewalk crowds he tried not to think too much about where he was going. He didn’t just dislike the Marriott, he loathed the goddamned place.

  The Singapore Marriott was a thirty-three story octagonal-shaped tower crowned by a gigantic Chinese-style roof that loomed over the corner of Scotts and Orchard Roads, the busiest intersection in the city. The roof was no doubt supposed to soften the building’s appearance by making it look vaguely reminiscent of a traditional Chinese pagoda. Tay thought that was ridiculous. What it really made the building look like was a giant dildo. Worse, the stupid roof was green with something right at its peak that resembled a red pom-pom. The Marriott not only looked like a giant dildo, it looked like a giant dildo wearing a green rubber with a red tip on it.

  Merry fucking Christmas everybody.

  It broke his heart sometimes, this city of his. Back before the Marriott had been built, there was a traditional Chinese department store on that very same corner. It was a glorious building, each of its five floors wrapped in graceful, iron-arched galleries supported by tiled colonnades. Tay remembered the mysterious air they had cast over the structure, the way they had obscured its interior in dim shadows and enveloped it in an unnaturally soft, almost dreamlike light. Parallel lines of dark green shutters bordered every floor of the store and, as Singapore’s warm winds blew in and out of the half-open windows, the shutters clicked and clattered together with a sound that came back to him now with absolute clarity even after almost forty years.

  Buildings like that were all gone, as gone as if they had never existed at all, and now the city was mostly somewhere he did not know, somewhere he had never been. For over thirty years the people who decided such things, the bastards, had been tearing down glorious structures just because they were old. Sometimes they even replaced them with new structures touted as modern versions of whatever they replaced. They never were, of course. They never were anything, really, other than just new. Through the merciless grinders of progress the soul of a city had passed, along even with Tay’s own soul, and each of them had emerged as…well, he really had no idea.

  Sometimes Tay thought he could close his eyes and see everything again just as it had been before, back when he was eight years old and Singapore was thrilling to him; but he wasn’t absolutely sure anymore he really could. Was he seeing something he actually remembered, or was he only seeing something he hoped he remembered?

  The older Tay got, the harder it was for him to tell.

  ***

  Tay’s sergeant, Robbie Kang, was waiting for him just inside the Marriott’s main entrance. Kang had long, black hair and a fair complexion and was tall and gangly for a Singaporean. He was wearing his customary short-sleeved white shirt with a button-down collar and a pair of dark chinos.

  “What’s going on, Sergeant?”

  “They didn’t tell you, sir?”

  “All I know is that somebody called to say the Chief wanted me here fast. And when the big bull trumpets, I answer the call.”

  Kang didn’t smile, so Tay stopped smiling.

  “What is it, Sergeant?”

  “We’ve got a deceased woman upstairs, sir. A homicide. It’s…” Kang hesitated and Tay could see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “I’m told it’s messy, sir. Very messy.”

  Inspector Tay did not like messy. He and Sergeant Kang didn’t talk about it, but Tay knew Robbie Kang knew perhaps all too well. He really did not like messy.

  “You haven’t looked at the scene yourself yet, Sergeant?”

  “No, sir.” Kang shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his forefinger. “Not yet.”

  Tay had never before had to deal with a woman found dead in one of the city’s five-star hotels, not even a neatly expired woman let alone one who had become deceased in such a manner that Sergeant Kang felt compelled to describe it as messy. And he really didn’t want to start now.

  Even after nearly twenty years as a policeman, each time he approached the scene of a violent crime he struggled against a squeamishness he feared might yet master him entirely. For years he had watched his colleagues out of the corner of his eye searching for someone else who shared his secret weakness, but he had never found anyone at all. As far as he could tell, his colleagues thought nothing of spending an afternoon poking around the charred corpses of two children killed in a suspicious apartment fire and then going straight out for a rare steak.

  Tay couldn’t do it. Whatever gene might be required to achieve that sort of detachment, he lacked it.

  For a fleeting moment, Tay toyed with telling Sergeant Kang that he could no longer bear any of it. He would not on this day stand gazing down at broken bones, unsupported flesh, and extruded innards. He would not squat down next to a glistening heap of blood and tissue, poke at blood-drenched clothing, and try to still his pounding heart while he fought against nausea. He would not do that again. Not ever again.

  But Tay said none of that.

  What he said was this.

  “Okay, Sergeant, let’s get to it then.”

  The elevators were only a few steps away. Kang pushed the call button and one opened immediately. Inside, Kang touched twenty-six, Tay heard a slight humming sound, and the elevator doors closed as silently as they had opened. As he and Sergeant Kang levitated in an air-conditioned hush, Tay tilted his head back against the polished wood paneling and shut his eyes.

  Singapore was normally an uncomplicated place to be a policeman, particularly one who investigated homicides. In Tay’s tiny country — its five million people an ethnic stew of Chinese, Malays, Indians, Caucasians, and Eurasians together with a smattering of almost every other race on earth — there were few criminals and even fewer killers. No more than a couple of dozen murders were committed in Singapore each year, almost all of which were the result of domestic violence. But that Singapore’s few killers mostly killed people to whom they were related did nothing to make the killings any easier for Samuel Tay to take.

  In his two decades in the Criminal Investigation Department of the Singapore Police Force, Tay had seen enough dead bodies to last him several lifetimes: bodies broken in stairwells and bodies dumped in alleys; bodies battered by cricket bats and bodies crushed with tire irons; bodies opened with gaping knife wounds and bodies flattened by cinder blocks; bodies beaten into raw meat with golf clubs and bodies ripped into unidentifiable shreds by dogs; bodies in bed with their hands neatly folded and bodies in the harbor with crabs crawling out of them. Tay had stared at all kinds of dead bodies and he could remember each and every one of them with a clarity verging on the pornographic.

  Murders in Singapore weren’t the romanticized duels between clever killers and plodding investigators that ended up as Michael Douglas movies. They were mostly sad and sordid events perpetrated by people who had lost money, lost a job, lost a spouse, lost hope. When Tay entered the places where desperation had taken control of people and turned them into killers, he could feel their sadness and despair pressing down on him. It was as real and palpable as a shroud.

  Was he just getting old or was the carnage getting worse? When Tay first began investigating murders, he assumed he was dealing with people who were more or less like the people policemen had always dealt with, but he wasn’t so sure of that anymore. More and more these days, Tay found himself thinking that the truth of it was really quite simple: w
e are worse people now than we were twenty years ago, and every year we get even worse.

  Tay didn’t want to believe that, he really didn’t, but so help him God, at the bottom of whatever passed for his soul these days, he was certain it was true.

  TWO

  “HERE WE ARE, sir,” Sergeant Kang said when the elevator doors opened.

  “What’s the room number?”

  Before Kang could answer, a blue-uniformed patrolman appeared from somewhere. “I’m sorry, sir, but this floor is closed to all—”

  Tay lifted his right hand, palm outward. “CID-SIS. I’m Inspector Tay and this is Sergeant Kang.”

  “Yes, sir. Could I see your—”

  “What room, Robbie?” Tay asked again, cutting off the patrolman.

  “2608, sir.”

  Tay strode off down the corridor and Sergeant Kang pulled his plastic-coated warrant card from his back pocket and draped the chain around his neck. The patrolman barely glanced at it. Instead, he shot a look toward where Tay had already disappeared.

  “He’s okay,” Kang said. “He’s just having one of his twitchy days.”

  “If you say so, sir.”

  The Marriott has only sixteen guest rooms on each floor. All of them face the outside of the tower while a wide corridor carpeted in wine red and bordered with brown-and-white marble traces the building’s octagonal shape around the core where the three passenger elevators and the service elevator are located. The corridor itself is entirely white. White walls, white doors, white ceiling. Lighted by a soft glow from the wall sconces spaced evenly along both sides, the whole effect is tranquil to the point of being spooky.

  There were four men outside the door to room 2608. Three wore dark suits and were arrayed in a sort of arc facing the doorway, in front of which the fourth, a uniformed patrolman, stood with his arms folded. The grouping made Tay think of a tiny band of Christmas carolers waiting for a choirmaster to lead them in song.

  “I’m Inspector Tay,” he announced when he got to where the men were standing. “And this is Sergeant Kang.”

  “Oh, thank Christ. I’m Bill Barwell. I’m the general manager.

  Tay examined the man who had spoken and registered both his American accent and the chummy way he had introduced himself. Was anyone actually named Bill? That was just a nickname for William, wasn’t it?

  “This is Mike Evans, my Executive Assistant Manager,” Barwell continued, indicating the man on his left, “and my other colleague is Ramesh Keshar, our Chief of Security.”

  Tay glanced at Evans, whose short hair and well-scrubbed face unmistakably marked him as another American. So far, Tay thought, this had all the makings of an authentically crappy day. First the stupid building, and now all these Americans.

  Tay didn’t dislike Americans. Not as such. Not really. Some of his best friends…well, no, it wouldn’t be true to say that. Tay had to admit that there were a number of things he admired about Americans. Their self-assurance, their boldness, their generosity, their even-handedness, their easy manner, their willingness to take risks. Most of all, he admired their sense of absolute certainty that the world would step aside and make room for them wherever they went merely because they were Americans.

  Neither any of those character traits nor that kind of self-confidence were commonly found in the Singaporean temperament so Tay’s experience in dealing with people like that was limited. Actually, to be entirely honest, Samuel Tay didn’t really understand the first thing about people like that. He supposed that was why Americans made him uneasy. They scratched him where he didn’t itch.

  Tay ignored both Barwell and Evans and looked at the security man.

  “You’re a local hire?” Tay asked him.

  “Yes, sir, I am,” Keshar said. “Singaporean born and bred.”

  Tay nodded at that. At least there was one person he could talk to here who wasn’t an American.

  Sergeant Kang took out a notebook and turned to Barwell. “Did you discover the body?”

  “Me? Oh, good Lord, no. Not me.”

  “Then who was it, sir?”

  “Someone from housekeeping, as I understand it.” The manager flicked his eyes to Keshar. “Is that right, Ramesh?”

  “Yes, sir. She was running her regular room checks. When she found the body, she called me and I came right up.”

  “Where is the maid now?” Tay asked Keshar.

  “She’s a housekeeping supervisor,” the manager interrupted. “Not a maid.”

  Tay kept his eyes on the security man and waited.

  “Downstairs in my office,” the security man eventually replied when he saw that Tay intended to ignore the general manager until he did. “The poor woman is hysterical. I left her with my secretary.”

  “Where did this…” Tay shot a quick glance at the manager, “housekeeping supervisor telephone you from?”

  “Probably the service area. I’m not really sure. She certainly wouldn’t have stayed in there to call.” Keshar inclined his head toward the door to 2608 and Tay noticed he looked away from it when he did.

  “You’ve been inside the room?” Tay asked.

  “Just long enough to verify what the housekeeping supervisor told me. No longer than I had to.”

  Tay finally shifted his eyes back to the manager. “You, sir?”

  “No, no.” The man shook his head quickly and his pale skin seemed to grow even paler. “Jesus Christ, no. Not me.”

  Tay found himself enjoying the manager’s discomfort and kept his eyes on him until the man glanced away. Only then did Tay turn his attention back to Keshar.

  “What did you do when you went into the room?”

  “I just rang the…it’s actually a one-bedroom suite, Inspector. Not an ordinary room. I rang the bell several times. When there was no answer, I let myself in with my security card.”

  “And you could see the deceased from the doorway?”

  “No, sir. She’s in the bedroom.”

  “How could you be sure the woman was deceased? Did you check for vital signs?”

  “There isn’t any doubt she’s dead, Inspector. Go in and see for yourself.” Keshar clamped his mouth shut and seemed to struggle for control.

  “What did you do after you confirmed the presence of the deceased?”

  “I got out of there, you can bet. I made sure the door was locked, then I went downstairs to Mr. Barwell’s office.”

  “You didn’t just call him?”

  “No, I went right down to his office. I guess I could have telephoned from somewhere, but that just didn’t seem like the right thing to do.”

  “I called the police as soon as Ramesh told me about this, Inspector,” the manager cut in. “We waited for the officers at the concierge desk and then brought them directly up here.”

  Tay continued ignoring the manager. “Who is the room registered to?” he asked the security man.

  “They haven’t told you?”

  “Told me what?”

  “About the room. The registration.”

  “No.”

  “Ah, I see.” The security man hesitated, cleared his throat unnecessarily, and then he plunged ahead quickly. “There is none.”

  “You’re saying you’ve lost the registration information for this room?”

  “No, that wouldn’t be possible. I mean the suite isn’t registered to anyone. This suite is empty.”

  Tay glanced toward the door to room 2608. “Apparently not.”

  “Yes,” the security man nodded. “Apparently not.”

  “When was it last occupied? At least as far as you know.”

  “Not for some time. A week or so?” The security man glanced at the manager, who nodded. “Something like that. I can get you the exact date.”

  “And the name and address of the last occupant.”

  “Yes, Inspector, of course.”

  Tay pursed his lips and thought for a moment while everyone waited in respectful silence.

  “Sergeant, put pa
trolmen at all the lifts. The stairs, too. No one except our people on this floor until I tell you otherwise.”

  “Inspector,” the manager spoke up, “there are nine guests staying on this level and they will have to—”

  “Yes, we’ll need a list of them along with all their registration information. Also a list of everyone else who has checked out but may have stayed on this floor any time within the past week.”

  “Naturally, Inspector. But as for the guests who are on this floor now—”

  “You’ll have to make other arrangements for them. Sergeant Kang will get a patrolman to accompany each of them back into their rooms to retrieve their personal belongings as soon as possible.”

  “I see.”

  The manager didn’t see, of course, but he was smart enough to recognize there was no point in arguing with Tay.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” Tay said. “If you will wait downstairs in your offices, either Sergeant Kang or I will be down shortly to talk to you further.”

  Keshar looked for a moment as if he was about to say something else, but then he merely nodded. The manager, however, was less reticent.

  “I am completely at your service, Inspector, as are all the members of my staff,” he said in his most sincere voice. “This is a terrible thing. Terrible. And we want to do everything we can to help you bring whoever did this horrible thing to justice. Of course, at the same time, we naturally would prefer that the hotel’s involvement in this unpleasantness be kept to the absolute minimum and we hope you will do your best to help us to accomplish that end.”

  Tay hardly thought it worth the effort to point out that a hotel with a murdered woman lying in a presumably unoccupied suite was about as involved in unpleasantness as it was ever going to get. Instead, he just held out his hand to Keshar.

  “May I have your passkey, please?”

  “Of course, Inspector.”

  The security man fished a plastic card out of his pocket and handed it to Tay, who turned it over several times and examined it with evident curiosity.