Chapter 8
I WAS PULLING into the parking lot below Private when my cell rang.
“Hey Darlene. So what’d you find out?” I wiped away a trickle of sweat running down my cheek. My car’s thermometer read ninety-two degrees.
“The police have ID’ed the victim. His name’s Ho Chang, nineteen, left Shore School last year. His father is Ho Meng, a well-known and very wealthy importer/exporter. The boy was reported missing two days ago.”
“Well that’s something.”
“I found out some other stuff too.”
“Great … What?”
“I’d rather show you – in the lab.”
“See you in a minute.”
Mary and Johnny were in reception before me. I was surprised. It was only 8 am. I was even more surprised to see a tall man in a finely tailored suit getting out of one of the chairs across the coffee table. Beside him stood a guy in a gray suit. A bodyguard, I guessed. He had that boneheaded look about him.
Johnny retreated and Mary led me over. “This is Mr Ho Meng … My boss, Craig Gisto.”
We shook hands.
“I just heard,” I said. “Please accept my …”
He raised a hand, shaking his head slowly.
I was lost for words for a moment, then put out a hand to indicate we should walk along to my office.
Mary and Ho sat at opposite ends of my sofa and I pulled round a chair. The bonehead stood by the door, arms folded.
“Mr. Ho and I have met before,” Mary began. She was wearing cargo pants and a tight, short-sleeved tee that accentuated the girth of her arms. “Mr. Ho was a Commissioner in the Hong Kong Police Force. I met him when he delivered a special lecture at the Military Police College a few years back.”
“I would like you to find my son’s killer,” Ho responded. His voice was remarkably refined. I guessed Oxford or Cambridge.
“I assume the police are …”
“I do not trust the Australian police, Mr. Gisto.”
I watched him. He’d drifted off into grief for a second, but then his expression hardened, a carefully constructed shield against the world.
“Well, of course, Mr. Ho. That’s what we do.”
“My son was reported missing more than two days ago. His death was preventable. The police did nothing.”
“I’m sure they tried.”
“Don’t make excuses for them, Mr. Gisto.” He had his imperious hand up again. “They’re either incompetent, lazy or lack resources. Whatever it is I won’t work with them.”
“Mr. Ho, what can you tell us about your son? Any clues how he got into trouble?” Mary asked.
He sighed. “Chang was a wonderful boy. Headstrong, for sure. He was profoundly deaf, but struggled for independence. He was a brilliant lip-reader. Insisted he have his own apartment as soon as he left school.”
“He was deaf?” I said, surprised.
Ho nodded. “From the age of four.” He glanced at Mary. “I would be the first to admit that this is partly my fault. I’ve not exactly been a model father. Chang’s mother died twelve years ago. I’ve been obsessed with my business. I could never find the time. I shouldn’t have let him leave home so young.”
“When did you last see your son?” I asked.
“Thursday night. A family dinner … rare.” Ho stopped speaking and looked away.
“So that would be three days ago?”
“Yes. I went to his apartment on Friday morning. He wasn’t there. I tried to SMS him, emailed him. Nothing. I reported him missing by late afternoon.”
“The police called me just after midnight when they’d identified Chang’s body. I went to the morgue at six this morning.” His voice was brittle. “I saw what they did to him.” He looked at Mary and then at me, his face like a mannequin’s. “You have to find the killer Mr. Gisto. I am a very wealthy man. I don’t care what it costs.”
Chapter 9
DEPUTY COMMISSIONER THOROGOOD was coming through the main doors just as Ho Meng was leaving. I met him in reception and we walked along the corridor.
“That was the father of the murdered kid,” I said as we sat down. “He’s mighty pissed with your people.”
Thorogood’s face creased into a frown.
“He can’t understand why you didn’t save his boy.”
“So, he’s come to you?”
I nodded.
“Well, you know our agreement, Craig. We share Intel.”
“He doesn’t want to talk to the police.”
The Deputy Commissioner blanched, anger building in his eyes. “Well it’s not up to him, is it?” he snapped. “If he’s withholding evidence …”