Fong nodded then indicated that Shrug and Knock should close the door.
Fong slid the glasses out of their case and put them on. They made a difference. He caught a reflection of himself in his office window. He didn’t like what he saw. He took off the glasses and slid them into his pocket.
He looked again at the dossiers of the “interrogatees.” He really didn’t think these folks were very promising suspects. Geoff’s death smacked of real intricacy. Something that linked more logically to his Beijing keepers and what they wanted him to find in Geoff’s room. But he hadn’t found anything of any particular interest. He loosened the tension in his shoulders and read through his notes on the people waiting for him in the various interrogation rooms around the station one more time.
An hour later, he realized that he hadn’t heard from Captain Chen since he reported his key findings to Li Chou. When he contacted the front desk, he was told Captain Chen had booked off sick. Fong didn’t like it but he put it aside and completed his preparations for the interrogations.
CHAPTER TEN
The young man playing Hamlet was, well, young. And vacuous and “really sorry that Mr. Hyland was gone.” The man was so wrapped up in himself that Fong cut him short with a demand for an alibi for the night of the murder. The young man supplied both the name of an all-night dance club and those of five of his dance partners. For a second time Fong noted that the man looked like a younger Chinese version of Geoff but there was nothing in Hamlet’s words or actions that was even remotely revealing. Fong ended the interrogation early. After all, how many times could he hear “What am I going to do without him, you know, like, what am I going to do?”
Fong’s second interrogation was more complicated. Hao Yong had been an admirer of his wife and for a very brief time had been Geoff’s lover. “I was young but not a child. I take full responsibility for my actions. I am sure that I gained more from our relationship than he did. The time we spent together was very important to me both as a person and as an artist.”
“Do you still . . . ”
“See Mr. Hyland? Only professionally. I would work for him at any time . . . ” then she stopped herself, evidently realizing for the first time that she would never again be guided through a play by Geoff.
Fong surprised himself with his next question. “Was Geoff sad or upset?”
“The Screaming me-me’s got to him.”
“The who?”
“The me-me’s are what Geoff called the two Canadian lady producers.”
Fong nodded, “I’ve met them.”
She nodded back and a gentle smile creased her lips for a moment. Then she bowed her head. Fong thought she might cry. But she didn’t. She raised her head. Her eyes glistened. “Detective Zhong, if you could go through your loss and not take your life, what could possibly cause Mr. Hyland to take his?”
“But Geoff did not take his own life,” Fong thought.
She stood. “Anything else, Detective Zhong?” she asked.
“Was Geoff ‘seeing’ anyone this time?” He knew the question would hurt Hao Yong and he had no desire to inflict any pain on her but he needed to know.
“I am a married woman, Detective Zhong, with a baby girl. I mind my own business and do my own work so I would not know the answer to your question.”
After a sigh, he requested her alibi. She supplied her husband’s phone number to corroborate her story, turned and left the room.
Fong felt her absence the moment the door closed behind her. “Artists do that,” he thought, “leave a room wanting when they leave.”
The third interrogation was with the actor playing Horatio. The young man was clearly conflicted. He thought Geoff was an extraordinary artist and was thrilled to work with him but was angered that he had been consigned to playing what he called “Hamlet’s best bud.” “There’s just not a lot of latitude in the role and I really wanted to show Mr. Hyland my stuff. He’s amazing. Have you seen the show? Look what he can do.” He stopped himself, realizing that he was speaking of Geoff in the wrong tense.
Then suddenly he was speaking very loudly. “Why him, Detective Zhong? There are hundreds, maybe thousands of awful directors. Power-mad maniacs who don’t know anything. Then there was Geoff. You know what I mean?” Fong did but he dodged the question then requested and received a substantial alibi for the hours in question. He took his leave of the young actor and headed to the next room.
The interview with Da Wei, Geoff’s homely translator, yielded even less than the previous three. It began with Da Wei crying, continued with her in tears and ended with her sobbing, “He gave us so much.” Fong got an address from her and told her, “I’ll see you later when you’ve calmed down a bit.”
The actors playing Ophelia and Laertes sat side by side as Fong entered their interrogation room. They were an attractive young couple. Her long hair was held back by a large clip. She had the gentle softness that made some Asian beauty so unique. She also had a deep sadness in her eyes. Fu Tsong had done a lot of talking about eyes. “We wear our history in our eyes, Fong. All our joys and troubles are there. It’s why so many women have sad eyes. But as an actress I must not let the audience see my eyes first. I must make them see my mouth, then my eyes.”
“You have sad eyes,” he’d said.
She had smiled and said, “I have earned my sad eyes, Husband.”
“But your sad eyes don’t make you a sad person,” he’d replied.
“You would think I was a sad person if I let you see them first. Instead I drop my sense of myself down to my mouth. You look there first and then, only after acknowledging me as Fu Tsong, do you notice that my eyes are sad. It is then that they become beautiful because they sit in opposition to what you see when I make you deal with my face from the mouth up. Besides, there are three positions to wear your eyes.”
“Wear your eyes?”
“Yes, that is the right phrase, Husband, wear your eyes. You can make them hard where they become mirrors. Most people have lots of practice doing this since they have been in boring school forever and they do that hard-eyed thing to give off the international signal for ‘I’m not sleeping, heck no, I’m listening.’” He’d laughed at her impersonation. “Or you can wear your eyes soft where they become, as Mr. Shakespeare says, the windows of the soul, or you can retract them – sit behind them if you wish. It is the place of waiting or watching. It is a wary place, a dangerous place.”
“ You can do that? Really?”
“Really, Husband.” And then she’d done one of each “wearing position” in such quick but accurate succession that he began to laugh. “What?” she’d demanded.
“Well, which one are you?”
“This one,” she said and softened her eyes that made his eyes drop to her mouth. Her gentle beauty overwhelmed him. Then he noted the sadness in her eyes, which so perfectly contrasted with the strength of her face that he smiled.
“You are very beautiful,” he’d said.
She had not responded, just removed her gown and slipped into bed and nestled into his side.
He smiled, then noticed that Ophelia and Laertes were looking at him. He wondered for a moment if he’d said any of this out loud. From the looks on their faces, evidently not. Just taken a very long pause. He continued the pause and looked carefully at Laertes. He was not as attractive and a bit older than his Ophelia and he sat behind his eyes – in the place of waiting and watching. As Fu Tsong had said, a wary place.
Laertes leaned forward in his chair. His eyes softened as he said, “Mr. Hyland’s death has touched us all.”
Fong looked at the young couple. They held hands. She leaned against his shoulder. Then Ophelia began to cry.
Fong had had quite enough of women crying and snapped at Laertes, “I’ll be next door. When your friend has regained her composure, tell the guard outside and he’ll get me.”