The Next Best Thing by Wiley Brooks

Author:Wiley Brooks [Brooks, Wiley]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Wiley Brooks
Published: 2019-06-12T22:00:00+00:00

Mason was finishing breakfast in the hotel dining room. It was a decent American-style breakfast of sunny side up eggs, chicken sausage because pork is forbidden in Muslim establishments and buttered toast with jam. But Mason had a hard hankering for grits. Christ, he missed grits. He had found an international market in Bangkok that sometimes carried instant grits. No self-respecting Georgia boy would eat instant grits back home, but he looked every single time he was in the store. Bo walked in a few minutes before eight.

“Good morning, partner,” Bo said, eyeing a tired-looking Mason. “Rough night?”

“I’ll be fine.”

Mason downed the last of his coffee, had the waiter bring the check and charged it to his room. Then they headed to Joey’s last known address.

They parked a half block from the run-down apartment building. A plainclothes cop walked over and leaned in Bo’s window. Before he spoke, he took in the American sitting next to the detective. Unusual, he thought, but then refocused on Bo.

“Good morning, Detective Jun,” the man said. “I’ve seen no one who fits the description of the suspect. And I couldn’t find a motorcycle that matched the registration, either.”

“Has anyone come and gone?”

“Yes sir. Between six-thirty and a few minutes ago, I saw seven people leave the building,” he said, checking his notes. “One couple who I would put in their thirties, a woman who I’d say was early twenties. And four single men of various ages. Not our guy, though.”

“Thank you, sergeant. Please stay with the team a little while longer in case we need help.”

The sergeant nodded.

Bo had one of his men go to the back of the building, then stationed the sergeant and the other officer near the front door.

“Let’s go, Mason,” Bo said. They rang the buzzer for the apartment manager.

“No vacancy,” a voice squawked back at them through an old intercom.

“Sorry to bother you, sir. I’m Chief Detective Jun Shan-Bo of the Penang Police. We need to speak with you about a tenant.”

The door buzzed and Bo and Mason entered the building. The inside looked no better than the outside. The hallway was dimly lighted by a single overhead exposed bulb. There was a musty smell about the place. The walls hadn’t seen fresh paint in many years and what paint was there was peeling. The floor creaked with every step. A man in a white undershirt opened a door and stepped out.

“What tenant you want?”

“Can we step inside for privacy,” Bo asked, showing the man his police identification.

The manager, a Chinese Malay, said his name was Daniel Heah. He had been manager for more than ten years.

“Does a young man live in the building named Yusof Zaina?”

“No more. He move maybe three year ago.”

“Do you know where he moved to?”

“Beach.”

“Do you know what beach?”

“No. Maybe Batu Ferringhi. He said he like Batu Ferringhi.”

“When was the last time you saw him?” Bo asked.

“I see him on motorcycle in town maybe one month ago. He not see me.”

“How about before that. Has he been back to visit?”

“No.

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