Singapore Noir

“That’s the second time you’ve brought up ‘rights.’ Rights have nothing to do with anything. Is that the lawyer in you talking? Or the Singaporean?” She pulled me down and whispered in my ear, “Sometimes we do things out of need, and sometimes just because we want to.”

As she placed her lips on mine, I realized I couldn’t remember the last time I’d made love. There were adolescent fumblings, but love... This. This might have been the first time.

The last time I’d seen a dead body was a drowning as well.

I was on holiday in Port Dickson with my family, and I’d scurried to the front of a crowd gathered at the beach, thinking they’d landed some fish, or maybe a turtle. Instead there was a drowned boy, his body sallow and stiff as a candle, save for his wrinkled hands and feet. It was the first thing that came to my mind when I saw the Comrade’s pallid, distended corpse on the mortuary gurney.

She identified him to the police investigator with a single, solemn nod. There were no tears.

Outside in the hall, Mr. Chong told us he was confident the coroner would rule the death an accident. In the harsh fluorescent light, she shook her head and said, “No, he died of a broken heart.” I put an arm around her shoulder, and told her she was very kind.

In the morning, I would brief her public relations firm to tell the press that she was “shocked and dismayed by the tragedy,” but would not be canceling the upcoming dates of her Southeast Asian tour. In fact, she would dedicate a song to her “childhood friend.”

I would go on to share with them only the facts: the Comrade’s body was found floating on a stretch of the Singapore River not far from the bars on Boat Quay, where he had been witnessed drinking heavily. He had been under a lot of stress since the Commercial Affairs Department had begun investigating him for possible money-laundering offenses, allegations which he had strenuously denied.

I would not share with them, or her, or Mr. Chong, just how the CAD had come to build their case.

The last time I saw her perform in China, it was a multimedia extravaganza involving giant props, a multitude of costume changes, and an army of backup singers, dancers, and engineers.

Her premiere in Singapore was a pared-down affair, just a chamber orchestra and her voice — a velvety, almost husky instrument that occasionally swelled into a melismatic yodel to devastating effect. On that first night, I felt as if my senses had been fully activated for the first time. I started becoming aware of the smallest details.

The dust motes dancing in the spotlight above her.

The way her upper lip arched when she reached for the high notes.

The box that the Comrade bore away from her dressing room after the concert, and how it looked exactly like the one in which she had stashed his gifts of jewelry.

The fact that I never saw her wear a gift from him more than once.

The first time I’d actually taken a proper look at the paperwork was in the wee hours of the morning after her opening night.

As a lowly first-year associate, the main job Mr. Chong had given me was to ensure that the Comrade signed the correct documents in the correct places, the correct way, and by the correct time, and in a manner that caused him the least annoyance. It was more than a full-time occupation, but it involved relatively little legal analysis on my part, which was, frankly, fine by me. All along, I’d assumed the documents contained standard boilerplate culled from hoary precedents anyway. And they did.

But even after over a year of flying to and from Beijing, I didn’t really know the extent or substance of the Comrade’s business. There were various corporations with bizarre relationships, some of which had been in operation for years without any record of financial transactions. There were also multiple wire transfers between multiple accounts in multiple names in multiple countries, and subsidiaries purchasing everything from real estate to antiques to art to yachts to jewelry.

I’d just presumed it was all the usual rich-guy stuff. You know. Like keeping a mistress.

A mistress who could fly out of countries wearing expensive trinkets without attracting scrutiny from customs officials.

Trinkets that could then be resold or exchanged for amounts that might not reflect their true market value.

“Last time, money-laundering laws here covered just drugs,” said Inspector Chia, almost apologetically. “Now we’re more neow.” I forced a smile at his use of the almost onomatopoeic Hokkien term for finicky.

The Comrade hadn’t been seen for three days, since his outburst at the theater, and a warrant had been issued for his arrest.

I wasn’t sure whether the authorities had been motivated by public relations considerations in calling her in for questioning only after her final performance in Singapore, but it was a lucky thing. Her voice was hoarse from continually breaking down in shocked response to revelation after revelation about the Comrade’s true objectives.