Join the Ghost for a (relatively) quiet evening...
The Ghost Observes
The restaurant Le Jardin occupied the forty-second floor of the International Finance Centre, its floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of Victoria Harbour that justified the astronomical prices on its menu.
Mae Ling sat at a corner table, positioned with her back to the wall and clear sightlines to both entrances—habits ingrained so deeply they no longer registered as conscious choices. The Dover sole she'd ordered was perfectly prepared, delicate flesh yielding to her fork with minimal resistance, accompanied by a Chablis that complemented rather than overwhelmed the subtle flavors.
She ate slowly, savoring each bite while her peripheral awareness catalogued the restaurant's other patrons. A business dinner at table seven, three men in expensive suits discussing merger terms in Mandarin. An anniversary celebration at table twelve, the couple's body language suggesting genuine affection rather than performance. Detective Inspector Chan at the bar, nursing what appeared to be sparkling water and pretending to check his phone while maintaining his usual surveillance. And at table nine, approximately fifteen feet to her left, a couple whose tension had been escalating throughout their meal.
The woman was in her late thirties, elegant in a navy-blue dress that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent. Her companion was older, mid-fifties, with the soft hands and expensive watch of someone who'd never done manual labor. Their voices had been rising steadily for the past ten minutes, though Mae Ling had paid them only cursory attention. Domestic disputes held little interest for her professionally, and she'd learned long ago that the most dangerous moments came when you were distracted by irrelevant drama.
"You promised me," the woman hissed, her voice carrying despite her obvious attempt at discretion. "You said this would be different."
"Keep your voice down," the man replied, his tone sharp with embarrassment. "We'll discuss this at home."
"We never discuss anything. You just make decisions and expect me to accept them."
The argument continued, building toward its inevitable crescendo. Mae Ling took another sip of wine, her attention drifting to the couple at table four—a woman in her forties dining with a man who appeared to be her husband, based on the comfortable silence between them and the matching wedding bands. The woman had glanced toward the arguing couple twice in the past minute, her expression difficult to read from this distance.
The man at table nine stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the polished floor. "I'm leaving. You can stay and make a scene if you want, but I'm done with this conversation."
The woman stood as well, her face flushed with anger or wine or both. "Fine. Run away. That's what you always do."
They moved toward the exit together, their body language radiating hostility. The man paused at the maître d's station long enough to throw several bills on the counter, not bothering to wait for change or acknowledgment. The woman followed him out, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor.
The restaurant's ambient noise resumed its normal level, the brief disruption already fading from collective memory. Mae Ling returned her attention to her meal, cutting another piece of sole with surgical precision. The fish was excellent, the wine better, and the view spectacular. A perfect evening, really, marred only by—
A scream shattered the restored calm.
Mae Ling's hand moved instinctively toward the knife at her side before her conscious mind registered that the sound came from table four. The woman who'd been watching the argument was on her feet, her chair toppled backward, her hands pressed to her mouth in horror. Her husband—or the man Mae Ling had assumed was her husband—had collapsed forward onto the table, his body convulsing violently.
The restaurant erupted into controlled chaos. A waiter rushed forward. The maître d' was already on his phone, presumably calling for emergency services. Other diners stood, some moving closer to help, others backing away from the disturbing scene. Mae Ling remained seated, her expression neutral, her mind cataloguing details with the automatic precision of long practice.
The convulsions lasted perhaps twenty seconds before the man went still. Too still. The waiter who'd reached him first checked for a pulse, his face going pale. He looked up at the maître d' and shook his head slowly.
Mae Ling set down her fork and reached for her wine glass, taking a measured sip while her mind replayed the past fifteen minutes. She'd been half-paying attention, her focus primarily on her meal and the view, but her training ensured that certain details had registered even when she hadn't been paying close attention. The arguing couple. The woman at table four glancing toward them. The timing of—
A hand settled on her shoulder.
Mae Ling didn't flinch, though few people would have dared such familiarity. She turned her head slightly, already knowing who she'd see. Detective Inspector James Chan of the Hong Kong Police Force's Financial Crimes Unit had been following her for three months now, convinced that her legitimate business consulting work was a cover for something more sinister. He wasn't wrong, but he'd never be able to prove it.
"Detective," she said calmly, her Cantonese carrying the neutral accent of someone who'd lived in many places. "I hope you enjoyed the show. As you can clearly see, I've been sitting here the entire evening, nowhere near that unfortunate gentleman."
Chan was in his early forties, with the tired eyes of someone who'd seen too much corruption and the stubborn jaw of someone who refused to accept it. He wore an off-the-rack suit that had seen better days and a wedding ring that suggested he had something to go home to besides case files. His hand remained on her shoulder for another moment before he withdrew it, moving around to stand where she could see him without turning.
"I'm not suggesting you had anything to do with this," he said, his voice low enough that nearby diners wouldn't overhear. "But I think you know who did. And how."
Mae Ling raised an eyebrow, her expression one of polite curiosity. "That's quite an assumption, Detective. What makes you think I know anything about a random medical emergency?"
"Because you're the Ghost of Hong Kong," Chan said quietly. "And ghosts see things other people miss."
She studied him for a long moment, weighing her options. Chan was persistent, intelligent, and dangerously close to understanding the nature of her work. But he was also, in his own way, trying to do the right thing. The world needed people like him, even if they occasionally made her life more complicated.
"Hypothetically," Mae Ling said, setting down her wine glass, "if I had been paying attention to my surroundings—which any sensible person would do in a public space—what might I have noticed?"
Chan pulled out the chair across from her and sat without invitation. "You tell me."
Mae Ling's mind assembled the pieces with the efficiency of a computer processing data. "The couple that was arguing. They left approximately three minutes before the man collapsed. The woman at table four—the one who's currently hysterical—she watched them leave. She glanced at them twice during their argument, but not with the casual curiosity of someone observing a scene. She was tracking them. Waiting for something."
"Go on," Chan said, leaning forward slightly.
"The timing is interesting. The argument provided a distraction, drew attention away from the other tables. In that moment, when everyone's focus was on the drama, someone could have moved quickly. A hand reaching across a table. Something dropped into a drink. It would take seconds, and no one would notice because they were all watching the show."
"You think the wife poisoned him?"
"I think the wife knew the couple that was arguing," Mae Ling corrected. "I think they staged a distraction so she could introduce something into her husband's beverage. The convulsions suggest a fast-acting neurotoxin, probably something that mimics a seizure or heart attack. Elegant, really. In a restaurant full of witnesses, she commits murder in plain sight."
Chan's expression darkened. "That's a serious accusation."
"You asked what I might have noticed," Mae Ling said with a slight shrug. "I'm simply following the logic of a possible scenario."
The widow's hysterical voice cut through their conversation. She was being comforted by the maître d' and several other diners, her body shaking with sobs that seemed genuine enough. "I don't understand," she wailed. "He was fine. We were just having dinner."
Mae Ling watched carefully, trying to read the truth beneath the obvious distress. The woman's grief appeared authentic—trembling hands, flushed face, the kind of full-body shock that was difficult to fake. But there was something about the way she'd positioned herself, angled slightly toward the restaurant's entrance rather than leaning into the comfort being offered—it was as if she subconsciously wanted to escape if need be. And those two glances during the argument—had they been nervous awareness of a brewing confrontation, or something more deliberate?
Mae Ling had seen enough death to know that genuine shock and calculated theater could look remarkably similar. The widow might be an innocent woman watching her husband die unexpectedly. Or she might be exactly what Mae Ling suspected. The truth would reveal itself eventually, but for now, it remained frustratingly unclear.
"I don't know her motive," Mae Ling admitted quietly. "But I suspect you'll find the answer once you locate that couple. They're the key to understanding why this happened."
Chan stood, his expression thoughtful. "The security cameras will show if you're right about the timing."
"They will," Mae Ling agreed. "Though I imagine the footage will be ambiguous. These things usually are."
"Thank you for your help," Chan said, his tone formal but not unfriendly. "But don't think this changes anything between us. I'll still be watching you."
Mae Ling picked up her wine glass again, swirling the pale liquid gently. "I apologize in advance for how bored you're going to be. My life is remarkably mundane."
"Somehow I doubt that," Chan replied. He started to turn away, then paused. "The Ghost of Hong Kong. Do you know why they call you that?"
She raised an eyebrow. "I didn't know they called me that."
"Because you don't leave traces," Chan said. "You're there, and then you're not. No evidence, no witnesses who can quite remember your face." He paused. "But also because ghosts are supposed to right wrongs. To settle unfinished business. To bring justice when the living can't or won't." He met her eyes directly. "Some people think Hong Kong needs a ghost."
"And what do you think, Detective?"
Chan was quiet for a moment, his expression unreadable. "I think the law should be enough. But I also think the world is more complicated than I'd like it to be." He nodded once, a gesture that might have been respect or acknowledgment or both. "Enjoy the rest of your meal, Ms. Ling."
He walked away, moving toward the widow and the gathering crowd of police and emergency personnel. Mae Ling watched him go, then returned her attention to her Dover sole. It had gone slightly cold during the interruption, but the quality was still evident. She ate slowly, methodically, while her mind continued processing the evening's events.
The arguing couple had been professionals, their performance calibrated to draw attention without seeming rehearsed. The widow's reaction was equally skilled, though perhaps a touch overdone. And the victim—Mae Ling hadn't paid him much attention while he was alive, but now she found herself curious about what he'd done to warrant such an elaborate execution.
Because it had been an execution, regardless of how it appeared. The planning required, the coordination, the risk of performing the act in such a public space—these weren't the actions of a desperate spouse. This was something else. Something that suggested the victim had made enemies who wanted him dead but also wanted to send a message.
Not my concern, Mae Ling reminded herself. She had her own work, her own targets. Getting involved in someone else's operation would be foolish, potentially dangerous, and completely unnecessary.
Still, she found herself memorizing the widow's face, the cut of her dress, the way she moved even in apparent distress. Professional curiosity, nothing more. If their paths crossed again, it would be useful to recognize her.
Mae Ling finished her meal, paid her bill with cash, and left a generous tip for the waiter who'd tried to help the dying man. The restaurant was still in chaos as she departed, police officers taking statements and examining the scene. Chan was speaking with one of the emergency responders, his notebook out.
He glanced up as Mae Ling passed, their eyes meeting briefly. She inclined her head slightly—acknowledgment, not quite respect, but something close to it. He returned the gesture, then went back to his interview.
The elevator ride down forty-two floors gave Mae Ling time to consider the evening's implications. Chan was getting closer, which meant she'd need to be more careful. The night air hit her as she exited the building, carrying the familiar scents of Hong Kong—salt water and exhaust fumes, street food and expensive perfume, the eternal mixture of old and new that defined the city. Her phone buzzed. An encrypted message: new assignment, details to follow. Someone, somewhere, had committed transgressions serious enough to warrant her attention.
Mae Ling deleted the message and continued walking, her path taking her through crowds that parted around her. The widow would face justice eventually, assuming the evidence held and she didn't flee to parts unknown.
But that was someone else's problem.
The Ghost of Hong Kong turned down a side street and disappeared into the darkness.
--
If you enjoyed this tale, you can read more about the Ghost of Hong Kong in a collection of 15 short stories, which is available at DriveThruFiction and DriveThruRPG.
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