needed to let her know that he was concerned.
“ Momentai,” he said.
They saw Sonny leaning against the Mercedes, talking to a couple of policemen. He rushed to Uncle as soon as he saw him, grabbing the carry-on. The policemen lowered their heads in Uncle’s direction.
“I’m staying at the Mandarin Oriental in Central,” she said to Sonny as the car pulled away from the curb. “But drop me off at the Star Ferry terminal in Kowloon. I’ll take the boat over to Central. That way you won’t have to fight the Harbour Tunnel traffic.”
“Hot pot tonight?” Uncle asked.
Ava hesitated. “I may work late. The sooner I start on this case, the sooner I’ll get it behind us.”
“That is sensible,” Uncle said.
“I’ll keep in touch,” she said, kissing him on the forehead as Sonny eased the car up to the terminal entrance.
At just past one o’clock she boarded the ferry. It was a gorgeous day. Spring was the only season she had ever enjoyed in Hong Kong. The summers were oppressively hot and the fall was too often cold and rainy. The winters were perpetually damp, with temperatures low enough to make the chill seep into the bones. She was able to get a seat near the front but she moved back from the rail to avoid the odours wafting off the water. As the ferry churned its way across Victoria Harbour towards the Hong Kong shoreline, Ava watched the sun flicker off the skyscrapers, the light shimmering on black, silver, and gold glass. What a marvel it is, she thought for the second time in two days. People raved about the view of the harbour from Victoria Peak, but for Ava there was no better way to see it than from the ferry on a beautiful day.
When the boat docked, she walked across Connaught Road to the Mandarin Oriental Hotel. Entering through its front doors was like coming home for her. She was a frequent guest, and within five minutes she was checked in and had been escorted by one of the front desk associates to her room.
Ava quickly unpacked. She put her laptop on the desk, turned it on, and then opened her Moleskine notebook, where she had copied the notes May Ling had given her. She found the phone number for Brian Torrence and dialled it.
“Torrence,” he answered.
He can’t be senior, she thought, if he’s answering his own phone. “Hello, my name is Ava Lee. May Ling Wong gave me your number.”
“I spoke with her this morning.”
“Good. So you’re free to talk to me?”
“Whenever you want.”
“How about right now? I’m staying at the Mandarin Oriental. Your office is no more than a five-minute walk.”
“Have you had lunch?”
“No.”
“Me neither. There’s an Italian restaurant on the ground floor of my building. Why don’t you meet me there in about ten minutes? Ask for me, or just look for me. I’m tall, skinny, blond hair, and I’m wearing a navy-blue suit today.”
“Mr. Torrence, did May Ling tell you why I want to talk to you?”
“There’s only one thing it could be about,” he said. “Truthfully, I found it a puzzling request.”
“Why is that?”
“I’ve never heard of you, and in my field there aren’t that many strangers.”
“Well, I guess we’ll have to remedy that.”
(8)
Ava walked into the Italian restaurant and quickly found Brian Torrence. Even seated he seemed taller than the waiter who was attending to him, and his bushy mop of blond hair was hard to miss.
“Mr. Torrence,” she said.
He looked up and smiled. He’s young, probably in his mid-thirties, she thought.
“Call me Brian,” he said, without getting up.
“And I’m Ava.”
“Your accent — I can’t place it. Certainly not Hong Kong English.”
“I’m Canadian.”
“The Wongs reach out to a young Canadian woman? The mystery deepens.”
“I’m hardly mysterious.”
“But you are here to talk about the paintings?”
“Exactly.”
“Quite a problem.”
“So it seems.”
The waiter interrupted them. “I’ve ordered sparkling water, unless you want something stronger,” Torrence said.
“That’s perfect.”
“I recommend the antipasto, and they make a damn fine Caesar. And the brick-oven pizza isn’t half bad.”
“Then why don’t you order for both of us,” she said.
After the waiter had taken their order, Torrence turned back to Ava and said, “The first thing you have to tell me, Ava, is what do you know about this apparent mess we’ve unearthed?”
“Virtually nothing.”
“So you aren’t you in the art business?”
“No, I’m an accountant.”
“I don’t mean to sound rude, but why would the Wongs hire an accountant to help out with this problem? Do you have extra qualifications in the art field?”
“None whatsoever. I barely know anything at all about art.”
He chewed on a breadstick. “I don’t understand.”
“The Wongs have been defrauded of many millions of dollars. My company specializes in finding out who did it and where the money is. We then do what we can to recover as much money as possible. It doesn’t make any difference to us if we’re dealing with computer parts, shrimp, textiles, or paintings.”
“But if you know nothing about the art world, how do you even know where to begin?”
“That’s why I’m here. You’re my beginning.”
“Ah, silly me.”
“Do you have plans for this afternoon?” she asked.
“If I did, I imagine they’ve just changed.”
“I like perceptive men,” she said.
Their food came all at once and the conversation dwindled. Ava waited until the pizza was almost gone before taking out her notebook. “Can we stay here to talk?”
“I don’t see why not. But if we do, I expect you to buy me something stronger than sparkling water.”
“Whatever you want.”
“They have a brilliant Chianti.”
“Order away.”
She passed on the wine, which didn’t seem to bother Torrence. He downed one glass quickly and was halfway through a second by the time the table was cleared.
“I need to understand how it’s possible for the Wongs to end up with all of those fakes. Wong isn’t a stupid man. He isn’t an art expert but he does seem to know a lot about the Fauvists. And then there’s that man Kwong. They seem to think he may have had nothing to do with it, that he was as much a dupe as they were. So explain to me, how does something like this happen?”
