Crazy Rich Asians

At the base of the escalator on Queen Street, Astrid took a deep breath and plunged into the fast-moving river of pedestrians. There was something about Hong Kong’s central district during the day, a special frenetic energy from the hustling and bustling crowd that always gave Astrid an intoxicating rush. Bankers in smart pinstripes walked shoulder to shoulder with dusty day laborers and teenagers in school uniforms, while chicly outfitted corporate women in don’t-mess-with-me heels melded seamlessly with wizened old amahs and half-clothed street beggars.

Astrid turned left onto Pedder Street and entered the Landmark shopping mall. The first thing she saw was a long line of people. What was happening? Oh, it was just the usual queue of Mainland Chinese shoppers outside the Gucci store, anxiously awaiting their turn to go inside and get their fix. Astrid expertly negotiated her way through the network of pedestrian bridges and passageways that connected the Landmark to neighboring buildings—up the escalator to the mezzanine level of the Mandarin Oriental, through the shopping arcade at Alexandra House, down the short flight of steps by Cova Caffé, and here she was in the gleaming lobby of Wuthering Towers.

The reception counter appeared to have been sculpted from one massive block of malachite, and as Astrid approached, a man with an earpiece in a dark suit intercepted her and said discreetly, “Mrs. Teo, I’m with Mr. Wu. Please come with me.” He waved her through the security checkpoint and into an express elevator that zipped straight up to the fifty-fifth floor. The elevator doors opened onto a serene, windowless room with alabaster-white walls inlaid with hairline circular patterns and a silvery blue sofa. The man ushered Astrid wordlessly past the three executive secretaries who sat at adjoining tables and through a pair of imposing etched-bronze doors.

Astrid found herself in Charlie’s atrium-like office, which had a soaring pyramid-shaped glass ceiling and a bank of flat-screen televisions along one entire wall that silently flickered financial news channels from New York, London, Shanghai, and Dubai. A very tan Chinese man in a black suit and wire-frame glasses was seated on a nearby sofa.

“You almost gave my driver a panic attack,” Charlie said, getting up from his desk.

Astrid smiled. “You need to cut your staff some slack, Charlie. They live in complete terror of you.”

“Actually, they live in complete terror of my wife,” Charlie responded with a grin. He gestured to the man seated on the black sofa. “This is Mr. Lui, who has already managed to find your husband by using the cell number you gave me last night.”

Mr. Lui nodded at Astrid and began speaking in that distinctive, clipped, British-accented English that was so common in Hong Kong. “Every iPhone has a GPS locator, which makes it possible for us to track the owner very easily,” Mr. Lui explained. “Your husband has been at an apartment in Mong Kok since last night.”

Mr. Lui presented Astrid with his thin laptop computer, where a sequence of images awaited: Michael exiting the flat, Michael exiting the elevator, Michael clutching a bundle of plastic bags on the street. The last picture, taken from a high angle, showed a woman opening the door of the flat to let Michael in. Astrid’s stomach tightened into a knot. Here was the other woman. She scrutinized the picture for a long while, staring at the barefooted woman dressed in denim shorts and a skimpy tank top.

“Can we enlarge the picture?” Astrid asked. As Mr. Lui zoomed in on the blurry, pixilated face, Astrid suddenly sat back on the sofa. “There’s something very familiar about that woman,” she said, her pulse quickening.

“Who is she?” Charlie asked.

“I’m not sure, but I know I’ve seen her somewhere before,” Astrid said, closing her eyes and pressing her fingers to her forehead. Then it hit her. Her throat seemed to close up, and she couldn’t speak.

“Are you okay?” Charlie asked, seeing the look on Astrid’s face.

“I’m okay, I think. I believe this girl was at my wedding. I think there’s a picture of her in a group photo from one of my albums.”

“Your wedding?” Charlie said in shock. Turning to Mr. Lui, he demanded, “What do you have on her?”

“Nothing on her yet. The flat’s registered owner is Mr. Thomas Ng,” the private investigator replied.

“Doesn’t ring any bells,” Astrid said numbly.

“We’re still assembling a dossier,” Mr. Lui said. An instant message flashed on his phone, and he reported, “The woman just left the flat with a young boy, approximately four years old.”