10
Lau Pa Sat
August 27, 11:00 a.m. SGT
“If you haven’t experienced a hawker center, you must do so while you are here,” Emily said, hailing a taxi. “It’s a must-do for everyone who comes to the island. The market I will take you to is in the middle of the financial district. Lau Pa Sat was one of Cassandra’s favorites.” She opened the door. “We are only half a block away, but shall we take a small tour of the area first? Perhaps this will allow you to see Singapore through her eyes.”
I pushed aside the now-familiar twist of the knife as I followed Emily into the cab. I wondered how I’d be able to stomach any food, no matter how good.
But to be with Ocean House meant leveling up. The client is God, and valued employees are demigods. Their needs dictate yours. Stay out to all hours, smoke if the client does, drink if the client wishes—but nurse that cocktail and swallow the yawn. Bestow carefully crafted compliments, lay out free theater tickets, and visit employees in the hospital or maternity ward.
Throughout, never lose your poise.
“What are hawker centers, exactly?” I asked, although I barely cared.
She smiled. “They are the culinary soul of Singapore.”
The taxi driver turned down a tree-lined avenue. His comparatively leisurely pace would have infuriated customers in America, but I was grateful for the air-conditioned respite, a gentle glide through a shimmering concrete canyon as Emily pointed out landmarks. Architecturally grand skyscrapers towered over small restaurants on well-marked corners. Ornate temples, crowded with worshippers, came and went with startling regularity. Pedestrians strolled—or occasionally ran—along wide sidewalks and stopped obediently at intersections under signs that offered paternal advice to watch for traffic. Not a single stray bit of graffiti or so much as a wisp of trash marred Singapore’s reputation as a clean, wholesome place to live and conduct business. Even the people looked flawless in their suits and sheath dresses and chic haircuts.
The driver let us off at the corner of Boon Tat Street in front of an octagonal, open-sided building with iron pillars, a red-tiled roof, and a clock tower rising from the center. Even before we walked up the steps and into the building, smells washed over us through the open doorways and three-quarter-high walls. Frying bread, spicy curries, roasting meat, and the homey aroma of rich broths. Despite my sorrow, my stomach growled.
Inside, the heat pounced, unmoved by the fans whirling overhead.
Aisles lined with food stalls marched toward the center. I blinked against the cacophony: the roar of voices, metal spoons striking serving dishes, forks scraping the melamine serving ware, the hiss of meat sizzling, and phones chirping and squawking and beeping. Everything was clean and modern and of a high gloss—a blur of light and people and the kind of food I’d seen only in magazine spreads.
Emily urged me forward, leading me down one of the aisles. “Something you should know before you order your food is a simple truth about Singaporeans.”
“And what is that?”
“They love their chilies. The hotter the better.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Cass detested spicy food. How could this be one of her favorite places?”
“Oh, not so. Cassandra adored the food. She used to beg the chefs: hot, hotter, hottest.”
I was skeptical. My sister, who’d refused to eat Isabeth’s one attempt at green chili sauce. Or even a dish with paprika.
Had she changed so much?
I let Emily steer me to a table, where she placed her umbrella to mark our territory while we shopped.
“Do you believe Singapore changed Cass?” I asked.
Emily slid through the crowd. “It is true that she had fallen in love with the country. And to fall in love means you must change.” Her voice held a plaintive note.
“Singapore hasn’t worked the same magic on you?”
She looked away. “It is not my place to fall in love with this country. It does not belong to me. Nor I to it. Now”—she glanced at her watch—“we should order. We do not have a lot of time.”
Minutes later I stared down at a bright-red bowl of bee hoon noodles floating in a vivid orange broth.
Laksa , Emily called the dish. Cassandra’s favorite. She had ordered a version for me that was topped with shelled prawns and tiny cockles. Now she pushed a small bowl containing what looked like freshly ground red chilies. She looked at me sideways, from under her eyelashes.
“Cassandra liked her food with much heat,” she said.
I heard the challenge in her voice and nodded. If hot was how my sister preferred her food, then I would do the same. After all, I’d loved Isabeth’s green chili. I used my chopsticks to scoop some of the chilies into my bowl, stirred them into the laksa, then lifted a prawn from atop the steaming noodles.
I popped the prawn in my mouth.
Two seconds later, my head exploded.
Emily covered her mouth with her hand to hide her grin, but I saw the glee in her eyes. She pushed a bottle of water toward me as tears sprang to my eyes and my cheeks caught fire.
I swallowed the prawn; the searing heat left a smoldering trail down my throat and spread across my chest. I guzzled the water. The men at the next table over lifted their own bottles and cheered me.
I dried my eyes with a napkin.
“Cass really ate this?” I asked when I could speak.
Emily had regained her composure. “Not at first. I should have encouraged you to go more slowly. But perhaps it is like diving into the work required for Red Dragon : There will be much pain at first. But then will come the joy.”
My mouth was in flames. “This was a test.”
“Maybe a little. Now let me get you something less lethal. I know what you will like. Wait just a moment, please.”
She headed briskly away.
A breeze rushed through the open doors, and a sudden rain fell, drumming on the high roof and splashing the sidewalks outside. The temperature dropped a degree or two. People chatted around me in a smattering of foreign tongues.
I was putting away my sunglasses when a familiar figure standing in a nearby queue caught my attention. The man flashed briefly into view and vanished again as the crowd shifted.
A moment later, he reappeared.
I sat up. The man was lean, with short-cropped black hair, wire spectacles, and a black trench coat.
It was the man who’d been watching me at the morgue. The man who’d called me by name. He stood on the other side of the alleyway, waiting in line near a stall advertising Malay food.
At that moment, Emily returned bearing a bright-blue plate piled with rice and chicken and naan. She placed it in front of me with a small flourish.
“Hainanese chicken rice,” she said as she took her seat. “Singapore’s national dish. Not hot.”
“Emily,” I said.
She looked over at me, and I leaned across the table.
“Remember the man I told you about yesterday?” I said, keeping my voice soft. “The one who was watching me after we spoke with Inspector Lee? He’s here now. At the Malay stand across the alley. Second in line.”
Emily picked up her water bottle and nonchalantly looked around as she drank. She froze when she saw him. She gave a faint gasp, and the water bottle slipped from her hand and hit the tile with a thwack.
Alarmed, I said, “Who is he?”
Her wide eyes came back to me. She’d gone as pale as the orchids in the Raffles lobby. Her hands shook as she picked up her half-empty bottle.
“You know him!” I whisper-shouted through the melee around us. “Who is he?”
“No, no,” she protested. “I do not know him.”
“Then why are you afraid?”
“It is just—”
I glanced over at the food stand and back to Emily. “He’s coming.”
In seconds, a kaleidoscope of emotions flickered across my assistant’s face: anger, fear, panic, and finally resignation.
Then the man was at our table.
“Miss Brenner. Miss Tan.” His eyes lingered on Emily. “Are you enjoying your lunch?”
Emily looked down, firmly dropping the ball in my lap.
“I don’t believe we’ve met, Mr. ...”
“My name is Charlie Han.”
Automatically, I offered my hand, and we shook even as gooseflesh rose on my arms. What was Emily so afraid of?
She kept her eyes downcast, offering no clues.
Han was slim and compact, a man who held his body tightly, the way a snake might coil before striking. His up-tipped chin suggested arrogance. I noticed again the missing nails on his left hand.
He said, “I am sorry about your sister, Miss Brenner. It is a tragedy.”
Sudden sweat beaded at my hairline. “How did you know Cass?”
“Your sister and I had occasion to work together.”
“You’re in the yachting business?”
He peeled back his lips in the likeness of a smile. “Ah, no. Other business.”
My heart lurched. “And what business is that?”
He glanced at his watch. “I’m afraid I must go, Miss Brenner. I hope we have the chance to speak again. Miss Tan, do take care.”
He bowed to me and slid away through the crowd.
Emily stood abruptly and removed a folded tote from her purse. “We should pack up our food and take it back to the office. The staff will be arriving soon. I will get containers. Please, Nadia, remain at our table.”
I watched her go. Across the alley, a worker at the Malay stall handed the man a paper bag. The man crooked it in his left arm as if it were heavy and strode toward the door. At the entrance, he paused and popped open an umbrella. Just before he walked out into the storm, he glanced back.
The coiled energy of his body, the manner in which he leaned forward that suggested a threat, made me shrink into my seat.
Our eyes met briefly before he turned and vanished into the rain.
“Who is Charlie Han?” I asked Emily as we stood on the steps while our driver approached and pulled to the curb. The rain had stopped, and already the sun burned down.
Emily held up a finger to the driver that he should wait, then glanced around. She had regained her composure—perhaps her superpower, like mine, was her ability to feign calm. Casually, she opened her purse as if searching for something.
“I do not know Mr. Han,” she said softly. “But I know his kind. China has citizen spies everywhere. They are like grains of sand, each adding their small piece to the picture China creates of everything within and outside its borders. It is the price of doing business with the Chinese.”
“Han is a spy?”
“Spy. Informant.” She kept digging in her purse. “I do not know. Perhaps he is a wolf warrior—diplomats known for being aggressive and combative. It is common for them to approach civilians.”
“But he said he knew Cass.”
“Likely a lie meant to gain your confidence. Do not trust him, Nadia. He and his kind are dangerous.”
Trust no one.
But another thought pushed at me, turning me cold in the heat of Singapore’s sun. “Could he have something to do with Cass’s death? He was at the morgue.”
Emily removed her sunglasses from their pocket within her purse and closed the bag—her search had been a tactic. Her face slid from a veneer of composure into sadness.
“I think, Nadia, only Cass had anything to do with her death.”
Emily pasted on a cheerful expression as we walked into the offices of Ocean House, where a tall man stood in the lobby. She introduced me to Mr. Mèng’s broker, Andrew Declough.
I banished my irritation, summoned a gracious smile from the depths, and offered my hand to Andrew.
“A pleasure,” I said as we shook.
“All mine,” he answered, his accent Liverpool Scouse.
Emily gave a small bow and peeled off to her own office.
“I’m so sorry about Cassandra,” Andrew said. He was a rumpled man in his fifties with a creased face, a forehead high as the Cliffs of Dover, and a head of graying hair that flowed to his shoulders. “She spoke highly of you.”
My smile flagged. “Thank you, Andrew. Is management here?”
“In the conference room and eager to meet our new lead. You are our new executive admin, right?”
I hoisted my smile, injecting confidence that—no matter what—Ocean House carried on.
“Absolutely,” I said.
To complete the logistical nightmare of outfitting Red Dragon , Ocean House employed 150 workers in the yard, plus management staff. Outfitting is a tremendously expensive and complex process during which a variety of systems and equipment are installed and integrated. The process involves teams for electrical, mechanical, plumbing, interior, security, an on-site project manager, and the build supervisor.
Today I was meeting with the team leads from each department except security—I would see Connor McGrath of NeXt Level Security at dinner. Our team consisted of a multiethnic mix of two women and five men. Clearly mourning Cassandra’s death, they nonetheless made me welcome and spent the afternoon updating me on their specific areas of the project. They were smart, enthusiastic, and ambitious. But it was obvious the constant schedule changes had damaged morale. The build supervisor—whose job required him to spend every day in the trenches—looked especially morose.
I would have to get on top of things quickly.
“We’re going to get back on schedule,” I promised them after listening to their reports and suggesting ways we could tighten and accelerate the timing. “We’re going to finish Red Dragon .”
They actually cheered.
At five I sent the managers to a local bar, promising I’d join them shortly, food and drinks on the House’s tab. The last thing I wanted was to sip cocktails and make small talk with a group of relative strangers. But these were our strangers, and this was about rebuilding the team, making myself accessible, and cheering up the lot of them.
“Did it go well?” Emily asked as she entered Cass’s office, where I was reviewing reports.
“They’re a good group.” I made a final note from the meetings today and slid the papers into my briefcase. “They’re eager to get back on schedule.”
“Cassandra was a good recruiter.”
“She was good at a lot of things.”
Emily trailed a finger along one of the bookcases, straightened a few of the books so that their spines lined up like good soldiers. “I spoke with Inspector Lee this afternoon.”
I felt a moment of whiplash as I swerved from Red Dragon to my sister. I zipped my briefcase closed and turned to face her. “What did he say?”
“Nadia, you will not like this. But”—she met my gaze—“they have decided not to do an autopsy. The investigation is complete.”
I recoiled as if she’d struck me. “It’s been twenty-four hours.”
“Inspector Lee has ruled Cassandra’s death a suicide. He will still run a toxicology report to be thorough. But the witness who saw her jump is unimpeachable. And her neighbors mentioned that she had seemed distraught. Most importantly ...” She came toward me until we were almost touching. “They found a note.”
“A note.” I sank into my chair. Cass’s chair.
“The inspector found it at her condo. A postcard. Addressed to you, but never mailed.”
She’d been planning this? For how long?
I bit down on my pain before I hurled myself out my own window— her window.
Why, Cass? Why would you do this to all of us? We always said, where there’s life, there’s hope.
The word condo hit a moment later. I needed to visit Cass’s place. Go through her things. Feel her presence. That thought had been slipping in and out of my consciousness all day like a cobra winding through tall grass—I was afraid to go. Afraid that I would carry what I’d seen in the morgue into her home and taint her memory.
Step up, Nadia.
I rose and moved away from Emily’s hovering warmth, the exotic scent of her perfume.
“What does the postcard say?”
She held out a blank # envelope.
“Inside is a photocopy of the postcard,” she told me. “I do not know what it says. I hope it offers some comfort.”
I took the envelope but didn’t open it. It seemed to glow in the light from the lamp even as, outside, evening encroached with the stealth of a spy.
“I won’t stop searching for answers,” I murmured.
Emily reached out and grasped my fingers.
“It is a mistake to chase illusions, Nadia. To look for tigers in an empty jungle. Cass took her own life. Would you throw yours after? You are a stranger to this land, but I know that Singapore holds invisible currents and riptides. If you are not mindful of where you go, of whose path you cross, you could be swept away.”
I shook my head derisively. “This is Singapore, not Moscow.”
Emily tightened her grip on my fingers, then released them. “But men,” she said. “Men are the same everywhere.”