Singapore Noir

“It’s an app,” Joyce said. “No, wait. Never mind. You won’t know what that is.” She tried to think of the right way to describe it. “It’s like a video-phone thing? Like on Dick Tracy? You see someone’s face and they see yours? On the screen?”

The geomancer said nothing.

Keung explained: “Alberto was going to a job. He’s a food taster. Perfect job for him. I called him. He put me on Facetime, that’s a video-phone thing like this girl says. Says he has a job and can’t talk now. I don’t know anything else until an hour later, when he calls me again. This time he is frantic, worried. Before, the first time, he was outside, near a palm tree. Now he’s inside a building, all dark. Dad, he says, I’m being arrested. Get help. They say I poisoned two people. And then someone grabs his phone and it goes dead. So I called your office.”

Wong nodded slowly. “So where is he? Where is he working? His job.”

“I told you,” said Keung. “In a place with pavement out front and some palm trees.”

“But that could be anywhere in Singapore.”

“You are detectives. You find it.”

Joyce leaned forward and gave the old tycoon her most winning smile. “Mr. Keung, we’d love to help. When Alberto was talking to you the first time, could you see where he was? Can you give us any details about the pavement, the trees, the buildings? What color were they, for example?”

Keung thought for a moment. “The pavement was pavement-colored, sort of light-grayish, what else could it be? There was a building which was sort of darkish-brownish, or maybe gray. And the trees, well, they were tree-colored, of course — green leaves, gray trunk — what other color can trees be?”

Wong stood up. “I have a very busy day today. We need to get this finished. We need a taxi. Find this place. You look around, tell us when we get there.”

Keung was horrified. “No way. I have agoraphobia! You know that. I never leave this house. Nothing you say will make me go out that door.”

The sun was hidden by clouds as they drove through the central business district of Singapore. Sigmund Siu Keung lay down in the back of the car curled up in a fetal position, his hands over his face, still in pajamas and dressing gown. He swore under his breath.

Wong sat next to the driver, his lips a tight line. The sports event seemed to be going okay. Maybe he didn’t need to be there. If he could help Keung with his son’s problem, he might be able to get an extra fee today. This could be good. Yet he didn’t feel celebratory. There were still too many variables.

He turned around to stare at the old man huddled up on the backseat. Joyce, squashed against the door, was absently patting the shoulder of the hermit tycoon, as if he was some kind of large dog.

“Mr. Keung?” she said. “Every time we get to a palm tree in front of a brownish building we’ll stop, and you sit up and take a look, okay?”

Keung howled: “I am not going to open my eyes until you take me home again, you horrible bullies. I could sue you for kidnapping, do you realize that?”

Finding the right spot turned out to be tricky, they discovered over the next twelve minutes. The problem was that Singapore appeared to consist entirely of palm trees, and every one of them had a brownish building in the near vicinity. The only helpful factor was that occasionally the pavement was pink, so those streets could be ignored.

After several stops produced negative responses, Joyce tried to fish out more information. “Mr. Keung, can you remember anything else at all? Like sounds, were there any noises in the background?”

“No,” the old man said. “Of course not. If there were I would have told you before.” Then his eyes shot open and he glanced at her. “Wait. Maybe.” He closed his eyes again. “There was a shhhhh sound. Like a tap, or water. Alberto raised his voice to speak over it. Probably a fountain behind him, or next to him.”

“Good boy,” said Joyce, patting his head. “Okay, that gives us more to work with — a brownish building with palm trees and maybe a fountain in front.”

The hermit rearranged himself so that his head was now on Joyce’s lap. She absentmindedly played with his hair.

They traveled slowly down Orchard Road. They passed several places that seemed promising. And then Joyce jerked to attention and pointed out the window to her right. “There. Look,” she said. “That could be it.”

Singapore’s overbright sun chose that moment to peek out from behind the clouds and shoot a laser death-ray into the car — and right through Keung’s eyelids. He groaned and curled himself up more tightly. “I want to go home,” he whined, cupping both hands over his face. “I’m an agoraphobic. I could have a heart attack. Then you two would be locked up for murder.”

“Like your son,” growled Wong.