That's Not My Wife

I’m just a junior detective.  I don’t know much, but I know the area around Hollywood Road, the hilly Hong Kong street that runs down to Connaught Road.  Strange things turn up in that half-kilometer area crammed with antiques stores, coffee shops and tourist dives.

Right now, I am looking at this hwa-chiao, a Chinese-American tourist at the station house who’s bitching at Inspector Chan.  Mr. Wu claims he’s an important visitor, but I think he’s FOB — fresh off the boat Chinese.  He’s shaking his finger and saying, “I report my wife Mei-Yuan has disappeared, then I came back to find an imposter in my hotel room, not even a good duplicate.”  Of course, from his mouth it comes out like “fucking imposter” and “goddamn duplicate.”  Most bad guys use bad language to show their sincerity.  This guy Wu is the slickest bad boy I’ve seen and I have seen a lot of them, from Guangzhou to Macao.  His missing tài tai was Shanghainese and one of the richest women around.

“Well, it’s simple,” I say.  “If that woman in your hotel room is not your wife, then the one you want may be dead or run off to Shenzhen with a pretty boy or kidnapped by pirates….”

Inspector Chan didn’t like me calling the guy a killer and it showed on his little college-boy face.  I told him before it was a simple thing to come here on homeland vacation and knock off his old lady.  Her disappearance now puts this guy into the top five percent richest club.  Wanting to inherit a pile of money is a good motive for murder.  Simple as that.

Inspector Chan is insisting over the guy’s objections that the woman back at the Peninsula Hotel in Kowloon really truly is his wife.  “She was picked up wandering around Hollywood Road acting confused,” he says again.  “Our Detective Huang — a good officer in spite of his impolite attitude — brought her back.  May I suggest you may be suffering from delusions?”

Inspector Chan is one of the new breed of cop in China, college-educated and even one year studying at UCLA.  Now he’s telling the Chinese-American, “Perhaps your problem is something called Capgras Syndrome and you should see a psychiatrist.”  He’s smiling, proud of his analysis.

About me

This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)