Killer Fiction: 11 Short Stories of Killers, Fixers, and P.I.s
Author: Simon Wood; Libby Fischer Hellmann; Miles Archer; Mort Castle; Adrian Magson
Date: 2011-10-19 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Five Irresistable Crime Novels
Description: 11 short stories of killers, fixers and P.I.s ranging from dark humor to deadly suspense. Vista with Player, by R.A. Allen: On a Christmas afternoon, an impudent golfer meets more than his match when he interrupts an armed man enjoying the view. Chain of Command, by Mike Wiecek: Forensic accounting with a bullet. In this darkly humorous story, a corporate "fixer" roots out problems. Call Out, by Adrian Magson: Former Royal Military policewoman Sally has a serious problem: her younger half-brother Terry. He's as bent as a dog's hind leg and just as dim, and is soon in deep water. When his venge
Publisher: Sniplits Publishing a division of Stussi, Inc.

KILLER FEMMES

Five Irresistible Crime Novels From Around the World

By

Libby Fischer Hellmann

Christine Kling

Sujata Massey

Zoë Sharp

Julie Smith

This is a work of fiction. Descriptions and portrayals of real people, events, organizations, or establishments are intended to provide background for the story and are used fictitiously. Other characters and situations are drawn from the authors’ imagination and are not intended to be real.

Copyright © 2014 by

Killer Femmes:

Easy Innocence © Libby Fischer Hellmann

Cross Current © Christine Kling

The Flower Master © Sujata Massey

Killer Instinct © Zoë Sharp

Louisiana Hotshot © Julie Smith

All rights reserved

ISBN: 978-1-938733-76-5

Cover by Miguel Ortuno

PR Chicago

CONTENTS

Introduction

Easy Innocence

Cross Current

The Flower Master

Killer Instinct

Louisiana Hotshot

INTRODUCTION

Come on in and make yourself comfortable! We’ll hang your wet trench coat on the rack right next to Libby’s Burberry. Watch that you don’t get clipped by one of the zippers on Zoë’s black motorcycle jacket! The weather outside is terrible—may we make you a cup of hot tea...Really? You’d rather have a bourbon?

Okay…we’ll all get along very well.

Welcome to the Killer Femmes World, where vice is nice and a stiletto heel is a girl’s best defense! Libby Fischer Hellmann, Zoë Sharp, Christine Kling, Julie Smith and Sujata Massey are five mystery authors who have published more than seventy novel, most of them set in unique places around the world. In fact, our books have been published in thirty countries, won numerous awards, are ranked on national and international bestseller lists, and give us the motivation to get up every day and imagine things a lot worse than a rainy day.

In this bundle, each of us is sharing one of our most popular crime novels. Together, the collection moves from Chicago to the Bahamas, Japan to the UK, and New Orleans. Libby starts things off with Easy Innocence, a suspenseful novel set in Chicago, in which P.I. Georgia Davis hunts the murderer of a suburban high school girl and finds much more than she bargained for. In Christine’s Cross Current, you’ll meet Seychelle Sullivan, a sexy salvage boat captain who rescues an orphaned Haitian girl with a big secret in the waters of South Florida. Sujata’s The Flower Master brings Rei Shimura, a savvy twenty-something American antiques dealer to Tokyo, where she is stalked by a ruthless killer with an aptitude for poetry and flowers. Zoë’s hardboiled thriller Killer Instinct introduces Charlie Fox, a beautiful but lethal ex-soldier who rights all kinds of wrongs in Lancaster, England using semi-legal methods. The collection’s final offering is humorous and poignant at the same time: Julie Smith’s Louisiana Hotshot, which sends poet Talba Wallis deep into New Orleans’ music scene to unmask a killer.

All of us started our writing careers fifteen to twenty years ago the traditional way: with agents who sold our work to publishing houses based in New York or London. But as time passed and a little device called an E-Reader materialized, it has become easy to republish some of our earlier titles--and have complete creative control over new stories, novellas and book length fiction.

We hope that the Killer Femmes collection keeps you up late at night, takes you to far-flung settings, and is the start of a beautiful friendship.

WHY THIS BOOK?

Some books come from a vision. Others from personal experience. Easy Innocence, the first Georgia Davis PI novel, came to me out of fear. My daughter was starting high school, I was recently separated, and I doubted my ability to be the single mother of a teenager. A hazing incident at a nearby high school had just occurred -- it made the national media -- and several teenagers ended up in the ER. I started to wonder what if a girl had been killed during the hazing. Why? Who was the killer?

That’s where the story turns to teen prostitution—but with a twist. It turns out that girls from seemingly stable middle-class families were (and are) hooking for money to buy designer clothes, toys, and gadgets that their parents can’t afford. Most of it is motivated by the need to be accepted by their peers

But what does that say about the values we’re teaching our daughters? Easy Innocence and Georgia explore that… and more.

Here’s what folks are saying:

Hellmann brings to life the reality of bullying among teenage girls with enough twists and turns to keep you reading. Highly recommended.

Library Journal, (Starred Review)

Just what’s needed in a mystery… Depth of characterization sets this new entry by Hellmann apart from a crowded field.

Kirkus Reviews

There’s a new no-nonsense female private detective in town: Georgia Davis, a former cop who is tough and smart enough to give even the legendary V.I. Warshawski a run for her money.

Chicago Tribune

This was a book I could not put down, reading it cover to cover during the course of one day. The reader is drawn into the story immediately, and the wonderful writing makes the characters come alive.

Midwest Book Review

Hellmann’s done her homework here and it shows: the writing is assured, the voices authentic, and the understanding both of criminal investigations and relationships among cops, lawyers and prosecutors come to life with great urgency. Her PI, Georgia Davis, works the affluent suburbs north of Chicago, fertile territory for crime that’s lain fallow far too long. Davis’ arrival on the mean streets is long overdue.

Sara Paretsky, Author of the VI Warshawski Mysteries

EASY INNOCENCE

by

Libby Fischer Hellmann

The Red Herrings Press

Chicago

Hardcover, Paperback published originally by Bleak House Books

A division of Big Earth Publishing

Ebook Published by The Red Herrings Press

Audio Produced by Books in Motion

Copyright © 2008 by Libby Fischer Hellmann

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to people or places, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN 13: 978-1-932557-66-4 (Trade Cloth)

ISBN 13: 978-1-932557-69-5 (Evidence Collection)

ISBN 13: 978-1-938733-10-9 (EBook)

Library of Congress Registration: TX7390938

For Robin whose song brings joy and sunshine to my life

CHAPTER ONE

LONG AFTER she moved on, she would remember the smells. Her eyes, she kept closed—she’d never been a watcher, and most of the time there wasn’t anything worth looking at. But the smells were always there. Sometimes she made a game out of it. She could usually tag them by their aftershave. Brut. Old Spice. The man who reeked of Opium. Those were easy. It was when they didn’t bother to clean up, when their greasy hair or body odor or foul breath made her gag, that it got hard. Then she stopped playing the game and took shallow breaths through her mouth.

There was also the dusty smell of the blankets. The starchy scent of the sheets. The faint residue of smoke in the rug and curtains. In nicer hotels, she might catch a lingering trace of disinfectant.

But the smell of sex—that was always the same. It didn’t matter whether the man was white or black or Asian. It didn’t matter the state of his personal hygiene. Sex gave off that slightly chemical, briny odor. Sometimes yeasty. Sometimes flavored with sweat. It wasn’t offensive. Just different.

As she rolled off his body, his aftershave cut through the smell of sex. Spicy but sweet. She didn’t recognize it, but she knew it was expensive. She sat up. The room was large and elegantly furnished. Late afternoon sun spilled through wooden window slats. He always brought her to nice hotels. And he paid well. They never haggled.

She grabbed the small towel she’d left at the end of the bed and gently rubbed his cock. He moaned and stretched out his arms. He claimed he liked to clean up right away, but she knew he just wanted some extra attention.

She kept rubbing. “How we doing?”

He kept his eyes shut, but a smile tickled his lips, and he angled his pelvis up toward the towel. “Mmmm.”

Men were so predictable. But this was what made it worthwhile. Besides the money. She loved the moment when they reached the edge of passion and couldn’t hold on any longer. When they shot into her, relinquishing everything. The feeling of power at that moment was incredible. And addictive.

She massaged him for another minute, then stopped. Always leave them wanting, she’d learned. Sometimes it meant another round. And more money. This time, though, he didn’t move. He lay so still she wondered if he had fallen asleep. She hoped not. She had another appointment.

She bunched up the towel and lobbed it across the room. It landed on her black leather mini-skirt. Damn. She’d paid nearly two hundred dollars for it, another two for the jacket. No way she’d let it get ruined by a sex-stained towel. She got out of bed, picked up the clothes and the Coach bag lying nearby. She remembered when she bought the bag. How she handed over the three hundred dollar bills with a blasé expression, trying not to show how proud she was to have that kind of cash. How the sales clerk at Old Orchard Mall squinted, trying to hide her envy. Yes, it was worth it.

She headed into the bathroom, making sure to leave the door open. He liked to watch her get dressed. She tried to remember if he’d always been that way. She thought not. Of course, things were different then. She smiled to herself. If he only knew. She cleaned herself up and put on the skirt, then the filmy see-through blouse. She checked herself out in the mirror, pirouetting left then right. She’d lost a few pounds over the summer, and she liked her new lean look. She’d be shopping for winter clothes soon. That would be fun.

She was reapplying her makeup, thinking about Prada boots and Versace sweaters when his cell chirped. She heard him curse, then fumble around for his jacket. She heard the metallic click as he flipped the phone open.

“Yeah?”

She studied her hair in the mirror. It had come down, and her blond waves framed her face. But she had another job, so she rolled it back up into a twist. With her hair, her makeup and clothes, no one recognized her. Including “Charlie.” She almost giggled. Charlie. What kind of name was that for a john? He should have been more creative. Sometimes she said her name was Stella. The object of desire. Better than that stupid streetcar.

“I’m in a meeting,” he said into the cell.

She couldn’t hear who he was talking to, but the long exhalation that followed told her he wasn’t going to be hanging up.

“That’s what we’re meeting about.” A pause. “The funeral’s at Christ Church up here. She refuses to go back to the old neighborhood.” Another pause. “Memorial Park.”

She stopped fiddling with her hair.

“I told you. I don’t want to talk about this. I told you I would handle Fred. But you couldn’t wait. Now we’re both up shit creek.”

Fred? She dropped her arms and slowly turned around. He sat on the edge of the bed, his profile to her. His cell was glued to his ear, and he was trying to pull up his pants with his free hand. She leaned against the bathroom door.

“Of course, she’s upset.” He snapped the button of his trousers. “He’s the only one in the family she talked to. For him to die—alone—in a fire—she’s devastated. Everyone is. I told you not to jump the gun. We were practically there.”

She bit her lip, trying to piece it together. When she thought she had it, she sucked in a breath.

He twisted around and stared at her. The anger that ran hard across his face disappeared, and his expression grew puzzled. Then his eyes narrowed. “I’ll call you back.” He released the cell from his ear and snapped it closed.

She looked down. But not fast enough.

CHAPTER TWO

A PRINCESS. That’s what she looked like to him. A fairy princess.

Shh. Quiet. Don’t make a sound. Have to watch the silky, golden-haired girl. See her twist and twirl in the clearing.

He slipped behind a tree. As quiet as a mouse. A furry mouse. Mousekeeters. Karen and Cubby. But the girls with her in the clearing were not quiet. They shouted and laughed. And made the princess spin around in a circle. She stumbled from one to another while they clapped and cheered. They should stop, he thought. Fairy princesses are not meant to fall. Fairy princesses are meant to smile, to soar, to glide. Their wands flickered as they touched the anointed, and the anointed rose up strong and powerful.

No. Must not touch myself. It is bad. Everyone says so.

The branch he’d been holding fell back, but the girls, absorbed in their chanting, didn’t notice. He waited a moment, then lifted the branch again.

The girls had gone. The princess was alone. But she did not flutter from spot to spot, bestowing magic with her wand. She stomped around the clearing, her arms out in front. Long, bare arms, her summer tan not quite faded. He imagined the shapely, tanned legs beneath her jeans. He felt himself stiffen.

She couldn’t see. A white metal bucket covered her head. A foul smell came from the bucket. Fish. Dead fish. How did that happen? She pulled at the bucket, tugging, yanking, trying to take it off. But it would not come off. Her ring made a tinny sound against the metal. A quiet clang. Knock knock. Who’s there? Who’s coming?

“Is anybody there?” He could barely hear her muffled cries. “Please. Help. It’s getting hard to breathe!”

He let the branch fall again. Her ladies-in-waiting had abandoned her. He, the gallant prince, would rescue her. But first he had to attend to the urge. It was strong, his urge. Sometimes it consumed him. It was what he did when he saw beauty. It was the only thing that soothed him. And the fairy princess was very beautiful. He hid behind a tree and dropped his pants. Quiet. Very quiet. Can’t let anyone see.

“Hey. Come on! I need help!”

His heart began to pound. She was calling. I am here, your highness, he wanted to say. I will be there. But first, I need to do this. It will only be a minute. Minute rice. Minute men. Minute. Minute. Minute.

A moment later, he sagged and clung to the tree. He had finished. He peered around. The princess was standing strangely still. Had she heard him? No. How could she? He was always quiet. And she had that bucket on her head.

Bushes rustled on the other side of the clearing. Who was creeping out of the woods toward the princess? Was that a baseball bat in their hands? Or was it his imagination? The doctors kept saying he saw things that weren’t there. Did things he shouldn’t do.

His father had bought him a Louisville Slugger when he was young. Told him about Ted Williams and Harmon Killebrew. Taught him how to swing from his hips. He remembered that day. It was a good one.

Wait. What was happening? The bucket wasn’t a ball. Stop striking the bucket. The princess will get hurt! Already she was swaying from side to side. But the bat kept pounding the metal. Swing and a miss. Strike one. The princess fell to her knees, still clutching the bucket. Ashes, ashes, they all fall down. The princess was down for the count. Ten, nine, eight. One more swing connected with the bucket with a loud clannngggg. The princess dropped to the ground.

Home run. The home team won! Where are the bells? The whistles? The scoreboard lit up like the Fourth of July? A trickle of red seeped under the rim of the bucket onto the ground.

Suddenly it was quiet. Even the crickets stifled their song. He stared at the princess. She wasn’t moving. Oh God, it was good. He was good. His pants were stained. He was wet. Sticky. So was the princess. Have to mop up. Clean us both. Little Miss Muffet sat on her tuffet. Cleaning her curds and whey.

Her sweet, milky neck. The soft, golden hair. Streaked with red now. Did he do this? He was going to be her salvation. The leaves on the trees shivered. He did too.

The Louisville Slugger. It lay close to the princess. He had wanted to play Little League. Shortstop, he thought. Stop short. But he didn’t make the team. His father was angry. He remembered that day, too. It hurt. He stood up and raised the bat to his shoulders. Swing and a miss. Strike two.

Screams pierced the silence of the woods. The ladies in waiting were back. Their hands flew to their mouths. Their eyes grew wide with horror. You are too late, he wanted to call out. You could not save your Princess.

He dropped the bat and knelt down next to her body. He touched the bloody rim of the bucket. He wiped his hands on his shirt. The silence of the woods pressed in. He would have cried, if only he knew how.

CHAPTER THREE

THAT TWO-TIMING bitch,” he spat. “She’s going to pay. Big time.”

Georgia Davis tried to ignore the man’s venom, but the more he talked, the more vicious he grew. A potential client, he’d met her at Starbucks and immediately started to rant about his wife. Georgia listened, hoping she could remain dispassionate. “When did you first suspect she was seeing someone?”

“About six months ago.”

“You waited a long time to act on it.”

“I thought maybe she was telling the truth about the Goddammed class. Then I called the school, and they had no fucking record of her registration.” His face grew so crimson, his body so rigid she was afraid he might explode. “She’s a whore. A Goddamned cheating whore. After all I’ve done for her. She was nothing before she married me.” He bunched his hands into fists. “A fucking nobody!”

Georgia sipped her coffee. The guy had come in as a referral from a PI she hardly knew. The dick worked in the western suburbs, but the client lived on the North Shore, and he thought Georgia would be better suited to the case. She’d gratefully snapped it up, but now she wasn’t so sure. Did the PI know what an asshole this guy was? Maybe she should have grilled him more before she jumped.

Except the guy was paying good money. He hadn’t blinked when she gave him her per diem, payable up front, and he agreed to a bonus if she came up with the goods.

“Let me look into it, Mr. Colley.” She put down her coffee. “If it’s true, you’ll have your proof.”

“What, pictures? Videotape? Or other crap?”

“Something like that.”

“It’s gonna have to hold up in court.”

“It will.”

He eyed her skeptically. “Lamont says you’re new to this game.”

Georgia looked him in the eye. “I was a cop for ten years.”

“Where?”

“Up here. On the North Shore.”

“You spent your days tracking down lost bicycles and cats?”

And covered a lot of domestics, she thought. “Among other things.”

“This job—well—it’s not like handing out speeding tickets on Happ Road. How do I know you can handle it?”

She leveled another look at him. “You don’t.” She paused. “But if you have any doubts, you’re free to find someone else.” She lifted her bag off the back of the chair, and hiked it up on her shoulder. “Thanks for the coffee.” She stood up and turned around.

“Hold on.” Colley raised his hand. “I’ll write out a check.”

***

Something was off, Georgia realized the next night.

The woman threw her arms around her boyfriend, her face so full of joy and abandon it lit up the motel parking lot. As she pressed against him, he tipped up her chin and kissed her eyes, her nose, her throat. Then he tenderly brushed the side of her cheek. She winced. He wrapped his arms around her, and the two of them clung together, as if they might melt into each other through sheer will. The man fished a key out of his pocket and opened the door to the room. The woman followed him in.

Georgia frowned and stopped her digital camera. They didn’t look like a couple in the throes of a tawdry, furtive affair. They looked like a couple in love, the kind of love that makes old people smile indulgently and causes the envious to avert their eyes. The kind of love that refuses to hide, even when it should. She’d been less than fifty yards away from the motel, filming their every move, and they never bothered to check if anyone was watching.

She curled her fingers around the camera and played back the tape through the view finder. When she got to the part where the man brushed his fingers along his lover’s cheek, Georgia zoomed in. She saw a discolored spot on the woman’s skin. A bruise.

Georgia weighed her options. She could delete the tape. Blame it on a screwed-up camera. Being married to that asshole was punishment enough. Then again, this was her living. She couldn’t afford the luxury of scruples. The domestics, the skip traces, the occasional insurance fraud— they all added up. She panned from the motel to the rear of the woman’s white Mercedes and zoomed in on a shot of her license plate. Then she panned into the rear windshield. One of those dogs with drooping folds at its neck bobbed in the window. Brown and white markings and floppy ears. A Beagle.

Finished, she headed back to her car and put the camera back in its case. She was about to start the engine for the drive back to Evanston when she changed her mind. Sliding out of the car, she made her way to the motel room and tapped lightly on the door.

At least they’d have a day’s head start.

***

Georgia watched the steam swirl around her bathroom as she toweled off the next morning. With all the humidity, she ought to buy a fern for the window ledge. But she knew she’d never do it. She had a knack for killing things.

The phone rang in the living room. She scrambled to get it. “Davis here.”

“Georgia Davis?” It was a woman’s voice. Soft. Tentative.

“That’s right.”

The woman cleared her throat. “Hello My name is Ruth Jordan and I’m—uh—I’m calling at the suggestion of Sergeant Dan O’Malley.”

“O’Malley. How is the old—er—coot?”

The woman didn’t reply.

“Sorry, he’s a—well, sometimes, I get, well...” Georgia stopped, feeling embarrassed. “How can I help you?”

“I—I don’t quite know how to explain. I think I’m still in shock. But the Sergeant thought you might be able to help.”

O’Malley referring someone to her? That was a first. “Just start at the beginning and go slowly.”

The woman let out a breath. “Yes. Of course. Like I said, my name is Ruth Jordan. I live in Northbrook. I’m calling about my brother, Cameron. Cam, we call him.”

Wrapping the towel around her, Georgia went to her desk and grabbed a pad of paper and a pen. “Go on.”

“Cam’s always been—well, how shall I say it—he’s not right in the head. Hasn’t been since—since he was a little boy.” She hesitated. “Not that he’s violent or anything. He’s just—well, they never knew quite how to diagnose him. Autistic, we’re pretty sure. But other things, too. We tried everything, of course. Sometimes he seems better for a while. It’s hard to tell. And now that our parents are gone, well, it’s just the two of us, and I—it’s hard, you know?”

Georgia tapped the pen against the pad of paper. “What’s the problem, Ms. Jordan?”

“Cam—well, Cam is in a lot of trouble.” She cleared her throat again. “He was arrested a few weeks ago, and he’s in jail. They say he killed a teenage girl.”

CHAPTER FOUR

SHINY LINOLEUM floors, naugahyde booths, and lots of mirrors tagged the Villager restaurant as a newly renovated diner, but a diner nonetheless. Tucked away on a side street not far from the police station, it had been serving good food at reasonable prices for twenty years. A few years ago the place had been bought by two Greek brothers and their sister, and while the menu now reflected an ethnic flavor, it was still a popular hangout for cops. O’Malley was nursing a bowl of soup. It was mid-afternoon, and the place was practically empty. O’Malley would never have met her here at rush hour, Georgia knew. It wasn’t wise for a cop and a PI to be seen together, even if the PI had once been on the force. So why had he suggested the Villager? Maybe he didn’t care. She slid into the booth across from him.

“Hey, Danny. I appreciate this.”

“Gotta make it quick.” O’Malley picked up his spoon. His red hair, marginally flecked with gray, made him look younger than his forty-five years, but there was no trace of the eager police officer he’d been when Georgia first met him. His face now held a world-weary cast, and his expression was naturally suspicious, even in repose. They’d come onto the force around the same time, but O’Malley was promoted after a couple of years. In fact, he’d been her supervisor when she left. He was a good one, too. Never got tied up in knots over political correctness or idiotic regulations, some of which were designed to keep her a few rungs behind the men. O’Malley told her when she did good and when she screwed up.

She pretended not to notice his thickening gut and chalky complexion. Was he okay? Should she ask? They’d always been straight with each other. Still, she wasn’t on the force any more. She glanced at his soup, a steaming, thick, buttery mass with a few pieces of bacon thrown in.

She motioned to the bowl. “That your idea of healthy eating?”

“Careful, there,” he said, spooning soup into his mouth. He took his time swallowing. “I already have a food cop in my life.”

If anything was wrong with him, his wife Joyce, a strong plain-speaking woman with so much energy she could power the lights at Wrigley Field by herself, would be all over him with a list of remedies she’d discovered on the Internet.

Georgia righted her coffee cup, which had been upside down. As a waitress came over to fill it, she caught a glimpse of herself in a mirrored panel on the wall. Some said she had hard features, especially when she wasn’t wearing makeup. Today, with her blond hair pulled into a butterfly clip, she looked all nose, blue eyes, and pale skin. She started to tug at her fisherman’s sweater, then stopped. She was what she was. She ran her hands down her thighs. The denim of her jeans was comforting.

“So to what do I owe the honor of this referral?”

“Don’t call it that, okay? I told her I wasn’t sure there was anything you—or anyone—could do. But she was—well—persistent.” He put his spoon down and studied her. “Hey. You doing all right?”

Georgia sipped her coffee. “I’m doing fine. There is life after the force.”

“Good.” He shook his head. “The way all that went down, it—it wasn’t right. Olson shouldn’t have... well... Shit.”

“It’s okay, Dan. I’m moving on. You should too. Gotta live for the present, you know what I mean?”

“That’s for sure.” He started to nod then caught himself. “You sound— different.” His eyes narrowed. “You doing some kind of religious stuff? Or yoga?”

Georgia laughed. “Church of life, Dan. Church of Life.”

He snorted and spooned up more soup. It left a trace of white on his mustache.

“So.” Georgia ran a finger over her lips. “Tell me about Sara Long and what she was doing in the Forest Preserve on September 17th.”

He looked up. “You did your homework.”

“It’s not hard when it’s all over the papers. Seventeen years old. A junior at Newfield High School in Winnetka. Clubbed to death with a baseball bat in the Forest Preserve. Her friends find the offender kneeling over her body, holding the bat. The girls run away and call the police on their cells. Police pick him up wandering near the crime scene a few minutes later. Turns out to be one Cameron Jordan, a registered sex offender, and crazy as a loon.”

“That’s just about it.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“So, it sounds pretty cut and dry. Why’d you have his sister give me a call?”

O’Malley pushed his soup bowl away from him, folded his hands on the table, and stared at Georgia. “I don’t like it.” He paused. “And there’s nothing I can do about it.”

Georgia hunched forward, leaning her elbows on the table. She kept her mouth shut. It was a trick she’d picked up from—she forced his image out of her mind. It didn’t matter. The technique worked.

“This one flew up to the State’s Attorney so fast you’d need wings to track it,” O’Malley said. “I never saw anything like it. Wasn’t even half an hour after they picked up the boy that we got the call. Felony Review was here like a shot. We did a show-up, and they approved murder charges right away.”

“Without a CI?”

“They claimed they didn’t need a continuing investigation. Said they had everything they needed. Two days later, they sent the package to 26th and Cal, and the grand jury indicted him for first degree murder. He was arraigned in Skokie two weeks after that.”

Holy—”That is fast. Who does her family know?”

O’Malley shrugged. “Good question. Word is the State’s Attorney’s Office wants it taken care of yesterday.”

“Who’s handling the case?”

“Jeff Ramsey.”

“Don’t know him.”

“He’s First Assistant. From New York. Went to Northwestern Law. Joined the State’s Attorney’s Office four years ago. They say he’s interested in higher office.”

“Aren’t they all?”

O’Malley shrugged. “What’s interesting is that he lives on the North Shore.”

“Is that right?”

“Winnetka,” O’Malley nodded. “Has a daughter at Newfield.”

“Oh.”

Newfield was considered one of the most prestigious public schools in the country, but it was a place that mirrored both the best and the worst of teenage life. People talked about the famous actors, cabinet secretaries, and CEOs who graduated from the school, but with over four thousand students, how any one of them got enough personal attention so they could rise to the top was a mystery to Georgia. She’d gone to St. Michael’s parish school on the West Side of Chicago, where there were forty kids in the entire grade.

“Tell me about the suspect.”

“Cam Jordan is thirty-five. In and out of institutions his entire life. Yes, he’s a sex offender. But he never attacked anyone and he’s never shown any signs of violent behavior. He’s basically just a peeping tom who whacks off in parks and other public places.”

“And scares the shit out of high school girls.”

“There is that,” O’Malley admitted. “But you know the law. You don’t have to be much more than a wand waver to get registered these days. But that’s only one of his problems.” He went on. “We have his prints on the bat, and her blood on his shirt.”

“Sounds like a lock,” Georgia said. “How come you think it’s fucked up?”

O’Malley didn’t answer.

She leaned forward. “Who’s Jordan’s lawyer?”

“A public defender at first. But I heard the sister just got a private defense lawyer.”

“You don’t know who?”

He shook his head. “She told me, but I didn’t know the name. Kelly, I think.”

“Who’s lead detective on your end?”

O’Malley hesitated. “Robby Parker.”

Robby Parker had been Georgia’s partner for two years. She’d endured him. Barely. “Parker’s a dick now?”

“Just.”

Georgia rolled her eyes. “Christ, man, what are you doing to me?”

“That’s not the best part.”

Their waitress appeared with a pot of coffee. Although she’d only had a sip, Georgia let her warm it up. When the waitress left, Georgia leaned back. “So, what is—the best part?”

“What the girls were doing in the Forest Preserve.”

Georgia thought about it. Two years ago, when she was still on the force, a group of high school senior girls had attacked some juniors in the Forest Preserve during what was supposed to be an all-girls powder puff football game. Several of the girls were hurt badly enough to go to the ER. Unfortunately, someone brought a video camera, and when shots of the fracas appeared on TV, a scandal broke nationwide.

She’d been the youth officer on the force at the time, and she remembered questioning some of the kids. It turned out the incident was part of a hazing tradition that had been going on for years. It also turned out that some of the students, including boys, who’d witnessed the hazing, had been drinking beer. And the beer, as well as baseball bats, buckets, and other materials used during the hazing, were supplied by the kids’ parents. Some of the victims filed suits against the school and each other, and nearly thirty students were suspended. Strict anti-hazing rules were enacted, but no one believed the practice had disappeared. It had just gone underground.

“Hazing,” Georgia said softly.

“There’s no video this time, but that’s the operative theory.”

“Was there booze?”

“Looks that way.”

Georgia nodded. “The reports say the girls found her body in a secluded part of the woods.”

“Part of the ritual. They blindfolded her, dumped a bucket of fish guts on her head, then ditched her. She was supposed to find her way back to the picnic area.”

“What about clubbing her with a baseball bat? Was that part of the ritual?”

O’Malley shot her a look. “Just the fish guts. They claim they never used the bat.”

“Right.” She laced her fingers together. “So tell me, Dan. Why do you think the case is moving so fast?”

O’Malley shrugged.

Georgia didn’t say anything. Then, “It hasn’t been reported by the press. The hazing part.”

“It will be. They’ve been sniffing around.”

“But it’s been a few weeks since her murder.”

O’Malley just looked at her.

“Maybe they needed time to get the girls all lawyered up,” she said.

O’Malley spread his hands. “Hey, this is the North Shore.”

CHAPTER FIVE

GEORGIA HEADED home on Ridge, turning west and then south on Asbury. She started looking for a place to park on a side street, but a large orange U-Haul in the middle of the road blocked her. She cursed, squeezed by the truck, and drove further down the block. Five minutes later, she found a spot, parked the car, and jogged back to her building. As she approached, two men were hefting a large bureau toward her front door.

She cut across the grass past the men and climbed up three steps. The door opened into a vestibule just big enough for six brass mailboxes and a small table. Normally junk mail, coupons, and flyers were fanned across the table, but today they were strewn on the floor. She scooped up a couple of pizza delivery coupons. She hoped whoever was moving in was almost done. It was nearly dusk, and despite what the Chamber of Commerce proclaimed, Evanston wasn’t the kind of place to keep your front door open after dark.

She started up the stairs to the second floor. A loud thump made her stop.

“Hey, man. Can’t you be more careful? This belonged to my grandmother.”

“You want a professional mover, hire one,” the other man grumbled.

Georgia peeked over her shoulder. The men looked about her age. One was husky and big like a defensive tackle. The other was tall and thin with sandy hair, long on top, but razor short on the sides. A pair of glasses slipped down his nose. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. The strain of the load made his biceps stand out nicely.

She watched them brace the bureau against the railing as they hoisted it up the steps. It would be a sharp ninety degree turn to get it inside. As the man with the glasses gripped the table and maneuvered it sideways through the door, the light glinted off a thin gold band on his left hand. Georgia turned around and continued up the steps.

She let herself into her apartment, kicked off her boots, and grabbed a pop from the fridge. She took it back into the living room, which doubled as her office. The apartment was spare, even severe. A plain brown couch, beige curtains, two easy chairs, a desk with several shelves above. Once upon a time, she’d collected things: candles, a clock, a bronze rooster, a cloisonné bowl. They were packed away now. Better not to have too many possessions. Who said that? Some French writer, she thought.

She had two jobs lined up: a skip trace, which, if the Internet Gods were favorable, might only take a few hours, and a possible insurance fraud scam. There was no reason she couldn’t handle another job. As a cop, she’d multi-tasked for years.

The problem—as it always was—was money. There probably wouldn’t be much if she took Cam Jordan’s case. Then again, this was the kind of work she’d been yearning for. Something that required more than taping an adulterous affair. She hadn’t confirmed it with Ruth Jordan or the public defender, but she assumed her task would be to establish reasonable doubt that Cam Jordan had killed Sara Long. At least enough to convince a jury.

She’d have to insert herself in the middle of other people’s lives. Which presented a problem. People on the North Shore didn’t take kindly to interference by outsiders. And up here people considered anyone they didn’t already know an outsider. There was also the pressure of a heater case, one that the State’s Attorney apparently wanted to wrap up fast. And she’d be facing her former partner on the other side. That didn’t bother her; she could run rings around Robby Parker. And she did have some knowledge of teenagers on the North Shore from her stint as youth officer. She even knew one or two who might talk to her.

Peeling off her jeans, she went into the bathroom in her underwear. As she splashed cold water on her face, she heard banging and a curse coming from the hall. Groans and scuffles as the furniture was hauled up to the third floor. The new tenants must be moving into the apartment one floor up and across from hers. At least they wouldn’t be thumping on her ceiling.

She rolled the can of soda across her forehead and sat down, tapping a finger against the can. Then she got up and grabbed the cordless phone on her desk. She punched in a number.

***

Lauren Walcher’s hand shook so much she was afraid she might stab herself in the eye. She lowered the mascara brush and stared at herself in the mirror. Thick black hair framed an oval face with blue eyes, thick lashes, and pale skin. With or without the mascara, she knew she was attractive. Even her mother, during those rare moments of intimacy, still called her Snow White. She remembered as a little girl trying to find the magic mirror on the wall. She was sure it was hidden underneath the wallpaper in her bedroom. All she needed were the right words, and the mirror would magically swim to the surface and tell her who was the fairest one of all.

Now, her face illuminated by the theater lights, Lauren knew better. The mirror would never appear. People carried their mirrors on the in-side. They should. Most people were ugly. She raised the brush again and leaned toward the glass. She’d bought the mascara at Sephora last week for twenty-five dollars. It was good stuff. Everyone used it. She tried again to apply it, taking care there were no clumps or goop, but the tremor in her hand wouldn’t stop.

She took a breath to steady herself. She couldn’t fall apart. Everything depended on her. Where was he? She’d called him an hour ago. He always called back. A chirp from the computer sounded, alerting her to an incoming e-mail. He did have a Treo. Maybe he was e-mailing.

She went into her bedroom, a lavender and white kingdom with a huge four poster bed. The dainty print canopy matched the quilt which blended with the curtains and the carpet. A collection of teddy bears and other stuffed animals were piled in a corner. Her mother kept telling her to get rid of them, to give them to needy children. But Lauren couldn’t bear to part with them. She’d named them all.

Next to the menagerie was an arrangement of shelves, drawers, and desk, holding her CD-DVD player, TV, and computer. She clicked on the e-mail. It wasn’t him. She read the message, made some notes, and typed a message back. Then she rummaged in her bag for her cell and made a call.

When she finished, she popped in a CD and lay down on her bed. John Mayer’s mellow voice welled out of Bose speakers. She closed her eyes. What was the last thing Sara heard before she died?

***

It was the beginning of junior year. The toughest year, everyone said. Term papers, ACTs, grades that counted. The powder puff football game in the Forest Preserve was the last frivolous activity before they knuckled down. Even so, Sara hadn’t wanted to go. Neither did Lauren, but she thought it was important to make an appearance. Sara wasn’t convinced until the night before when she called Lauren to say she’d come after all.

“How come you changed your mind?” Lauren asked.

“I need to talk to you about something,” Sara said.

“Is something wrong?”

“No. I—I just want to talk.”

Lauren and Sara had drifted apart recently. After being best friends for years, she wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was just the way it had to be. Now Sara seemed to be opening the door again. At least a crack.

“Okay,” Lauren replied. “We don’t have to stay long. We don’t even have to play.”

The morning of the game was one of those late summer days that breaks your heart with its perfection. A warm sun, a soft, cloudless blue sky, the trees and bushes still plump and green. Lauren waited for Sara at the field. They’d be in and out in a flash, then head over to Starbucks.

She hadn’t counted on the seniors. She didn’t know they were planning to haze them that day. When Heather and Claire ran up, breathlessly whispering what they’d overheard, Lauren scowled. How could her friends be so excited? They seemed almost hungry for the chance to be humiliated. Lauren wanted to leave right then. She should have.

Two seniors sauntered over, both holding cans of beer. Lauren knew them; uninspiring girls whose interests were limited to boys, clothes, and cars. One of them twirled a lock of hair. They wanted Sara, they said.

“Sara?” Lauren replied. “What for?”

The girls exchanged glances. “She needs some attitude readjustment,” one said.

Lauren crossed her arms.

“She thinks she’s hot shit,” the other chimed in. “It’s time to teach her a lesson.”

“Sara? Are you kidding? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You know.” The first girl threw her a meaningful look.

An icicle of fear slid down Lauren’s spine. “No. I don’t.” Sara was beautiful. Every boy in school probably had wet dreams about her. But Sara didn’t flirt. Or lead them on. Lauren had seen her back off when some guy mustered up the courage to approach her. Still, that didn’t stop people from being jealous.

“You ever heard about invasion of privacy?” The second girl took a swig of beer.

So that was it. Lauren broke eye contact with her.

“She’s got to stop messing around in everybody’s business. Trying to know it all,” the first girl said. “She’s not Diane Sawyer. Time for her to realize that.”

Lauren shrugged, as if it couldn’t mean less to her. Except it did. Sara had been getting a reputation for asking personal questions. Trying to find out who was doing what with whom. She read other people’s notes, and someone even accused her of stealing their diary, although why anyone was dumb enough to bring a diary to school was another thing. Lauren thought she knew why Sara was doing it and warned her to tone it down. Sara countered that she wasn’t the only one. Heather, for example, was worse. But Heather wasn’t beautiful like Sara.

Now Lauren steeled herself. “What are you going to do?”

“Actually, you’re going to do it. You and her other little friends.”

When they told her what they wanted her to do, Lauren didn’t like it. Still, if she didn’t go along, the seniors would make her life miserable. Sara’s too. That was something they didn’t need. So when Sara arrived, Lauren told her to be cool and just go with the program. Let them take her into the clearing and put the bucket on her head. Sara hesitated but finally agreed once Lauren promised it would be over in a few minutes and everyone would tell her what a good sport she’d been. Sara always wanted everyone to like her.

Lauren was sure Sara would find her way back to the field. But then she heard the clang of the bat against the bucket. And what sounded like screams. Not just screams of surprise or annoyance. Lauren knew they were screams of pain. Unbearable, excruciating pain.

***

Lauren turned the music up. Shake it off, she ordered herself. She went to her closet, threw open the door, and pulled out a pair of jeans and her Prada jacket. She glanced at the clock-radio on her nightstand. Almost seven. Her parents had strict rules about being home on school nights, even if she didn’t have any homework. Which was usually the case. Unless there was a paper, Lauren could get most of her work done during classes or study hall. Whoever said high school was hard must have been stupid. She slipped on her clothes, then shut down the computer.

As she crept down the stairs, she stayed close to the banister. The stairs didn’t creak on that side. The wicked witch was talking on the phone in the kitchen. Lauren pictured her mother perched on a stool near the wall where the granite counter met the Mexican wall tiles. She’d have downed two glasses of wine by now, but her makeup and hair would still be perfect. So too, the body she spent hours sculpting at the gym, just so she could replicate what Lauren took for granted. Lauren couldn’t resist a smirk.

The hard part was getting out the door. Usually she went out through the garage, but that meant walking through the kitchen. If she was quiet, she could probably duck out the front. The red alarm signal would blink, but with her mother on the phone, chances were she wouldn’t notice.

She slunk past the Chagall in the hall. Her parents never tired of telling everyone it was an original, and if anyone had the gall to ask how much it cost—which was exactly what they wanted—they’d paste on a bland look and say, “Oh, that’s something we never discuss.”

She got to the door and stopped. No warm, mouth-watering aromas drifted out from the kitchen. Only the antiseptic smell of cleaner and furniture polish. Homey smells were for company only. Her mother had taken to bringing things home from FoodStuffs. There was no reason to cook, her mother claimed. Lauren’s father rarely made it home for dinner, and he didn’t like to eat things that had been sitting out. The first part was true. Her father never came home before ten. But the “sitting out” part was bullshit. The meals her mother brought home from FoodStuffs had been “sitting out” in the store for hours, sometimes days.

Lauren listened to her mother’s conversation. It was about Uncle Fred; how he died in the fire a couple of weeks ago. Just when he was struggling to come back from the stroke. Lauren had loved Uncle Fred, and she cried when she heard the news. When she was younger and her parents were out of town, he’d take her out for dinner. Sometimes a movie. But then there was the stroke, and he wasn’t the same. Her mother thought that’s how the fire started. He probably turned on the stove to cook something and forgot all about it.

Then Sara was killed by that creep a few days later, and Lauren cried again. Why did death take the people she loved? If this was what life had in store for her, she didn’t want any part of it.

Now she pulled the door open, slipped out, and quietly closed it. She skipped down the three concrete pads over the goldfish pond. Her mother always corrected her. They were koi, not goldfish. How many other people had fishponds in their front yard? Then again, how many other people lived in a house like this?

She opened the door to her Land Rover and got in. Keying the engine would give her away. Even her half-drunk mother couldn’t help but notice. She started the car anyway.

CHAPTER SIX

GEORGIA’S HEART pounded, her palms were sweaty, and it was only with a huge effort that she was able to put one foot in front of other. She had been inside Cook County jail before, but each time she went in, her chest tightened and she hyperventilated. The air seemed so much thinner inside. She couldn’t wait to get out. Thank God she could. She thought about the tenuous line that separated cops and criminals and shivered.

This time, though, she’d asked to come down. She wanted to interview Cam Jordan. She arranged to meet his sister, Ruth, at the visitor’s entrance after she checked out the crime scene.

She hadn’t seen much. The clearing in the Forest Preserve where Sara Long was killed was fifty yards from the field where the powder puff football game took place. The only hint it had been disturbed were bits of yellow crime scene tape twisted among the fallen leaves. They’d released it fast, O’Malley said. Then again, there wasn’t any reason not to. They had their man. The had their evidence.

She trod carefully, dodging shafts of sunlight that penetrated the still dense, leafy ceiling. In heater cases, the village cops usually brought in techs from Nortaf or the Crime Lab rather than process the scene themselves. It was safer.

The ground was matted with leaves, but underneath it was bone dry. No chance of footprints. Even if there were, they probably belonged to the girls who brought Sara here. The techs would have looked for hair, fibers, even skull fragments, anything that didn’t belong. She wished she knew what they’d bagged, apart from the baseball bat and Cam Jordan’s shirt. She sighed, missing the access and information that came with being a cop.

An hour later, she met Ruth Jordan at 26th and California. They introduced themselves while the guards ran their ID’s and made them fill out three forms each.

Cam’s sister was a small, slender woman with what Georgia called worry-hair: frizzy, mostly gray strands that looked like they had been scratched and pulled and chewed in frustration. An equally worried expression lined her face.

“Cam’s fifteen years younger than me,” Ruth said as they sat on a bench. Her voice was quiet and sad, and Georgia had to lean forward to catch everything. “My parents waited a long time between kids. It must have been like having a grandson, so many years had passed.” She looked at Georgia. “You have kids?”

“No.” It came out fast. Georgia avoided looking at the woman.

“Me neither. I guess with Cam—well...” She ran her fingers across her forehead, wiping away nonexistent sweat.

A burly guard called Ruth’s name, and they both stood up. After searching their bags, he gave them a sticker for their jackets and motioned them to follow him. As he led them outside and around to another building, Ruth added, “I’m not sure you’ll get much. He won’t talk. I can hardly get him to talk to me.”

The guard took them inside a gloomy building, up a flight of stairs, and down a long hallway. Beneath Georgia’s shoes the floor felt sticky. The smell was part dumpster and part gym locker, overlaid with the stench of urine and stale smoke. She breathed through her mouth.

She heard a few catcalls and whistles as she passed. Most of Cook County jail was divided into wards consisting of large, well-lit day rooms ringed by cells. Tables and benches were bolted to the floor, and a TV was mounted high on the wall. Prisoners spent most of their time lounging at the tables. A wire cage the size of a parking lot booth occupied the front of the room—it was there that guards kept watch on their prisoners. Georgia caught a glimpse of the bathrooms as she passed. Just a row of toilets. No stalls, no seats, no privacy.

The guard stopped at a closed door off the central passageway. Georgia peered through a small window in the door. They’d moved Cam Jordan from his cell, and he sat hunched over a table, his legs shackled. She was surprised they’d brought him to an interview room; she’d been prepared for the dingy glass partitions of the visitors’ area. The ceiling of the room was full of exposed pipes covered with chipped beige paint. Everything in Cook County was beige, she thought. The walls, the floor, the uniforms, sometimes even the people.

The guard opened the door. Cam started to rock back and forth. His brown hair was lank and greasy, and his beige jumpsuit hung on his frame. He might have been handsome, given the proper grooming and clothes, if not for his eyes. They were dark and glittering, fixed on some inner vision.

Ruth walked over and gently squeezed his shoulder. Cam stared straight ahead. Ruth sat across from him. Georgia sat next to her. Ruth pressed her hands and feet together. She was holding herself together with effort.

“How are you, Cammy?” She said.

He stopped rocking and issued a series of raspy, phlegmy coughs.

“He’s sick!” Ruth said sharply. She turned to the guard. “Please, can you do something for him?”

“We got nursing personnel 24 hours a day. They’re aware of his—his condition,” the guard replied.

Ruth shot Georgia a helpless look. The guard was referring to the medical staff in Division VIII, the ward where the mentals were housed. But the docs there were looking for things like schizophrenia, homicidal tendencies, and other psychotic compulsions. They’d probably just laugh at a cough.

“Are you eating all your food, Cammy?” Ruth tried again.

No answer.

She bit her lip. “Isn’t there any way we can get him out of here?”

“What was his bail?” Georgia asked.

Ruth looked down at her hands as if she’d just noticed she’d folded them. “The judge set it at three million dollars.”

Three million meant business. Big business. “Your lawyer could ask him to lower it.”

“He said he’ll try, but not to expect much.”

Georgia nodded. No one wanted the man who might have murdered a North Shore teenager walking around.

Ruth turned to her brother. “Cammy, this lady is going to try and help you. Her name is Georgia. Just like the state. You remember the states, don’t you?”

“Florida, Georgia, South Carolina, North Carolina, Virginia, Maryland...”

“That’s good, sweetie. Very good.”

Cam’s expression didn’t change, but his rocking slowed.

Ruth looked at Georgia. “Sometimes when he’s relaxed—and in his own environment, he’ll answer questions. And, once in a while, I catch him smiling. But here...” Her voice trailed off.

“He lives with you?”

She nodded. “In the basement. It’s finished, of course. Nice carpet, paneling on the walls. Soft lights. Quiet. He likes it there. It’s a big room, and he has his own bathroom. With a shower.” She emphasized the last fact like she was proud of it.

“What does he do all day?”

“When he’s home, he plays games. Board games for kids. You know, like Candyland, Chutes and Ladders. Connect Four. He loves them.”

“By himself?”

“Sometimes I play. He watches TV, too. And he’s trying to learn how to ride a bike. But most of the time, he takes walks.”

“Alone?”

“Sometimes. He has a route he usually follows.”

“Through the Forest Preserve?”

She hesitated. “Yes.”

“What about your parents?”

“They’re both gone. My father died about eight years ago. Mother went a year later.”

“Run, hide.” Cam piped up. “Papa has the belt.”

Georgia and Ruth exchanged looks. “My father refused to—well, he never really accepted Cam. He thought he could work it out of him—make him better.”

“He beat him.”

“And the beat goes on,” Cam chanted softly off-key. His voice was thin, sing-song, as high-pitched as a girl’s.

“He uses songs to communicate sometimes,” Ruth explained.

Georgia wondered if there was some way to use that.

“Our father was—a strict disciplinarian. He was a born-again Christian.” Ruth looked at her hands, but Georgia heard the disdain. “I’m Catholic.”

No wonder the kid was crazy. A religious nut for a father who tried to beat Cam’s mental illness out of him. Too bad it wasn’t the kind of thing that would sway a jury. Aloud she said, “I know Cam is a registered sex offender. How did that happen?”

Cam’s rocking sped up again.

Ruth shrank into her chair. “It was about six years ago. He was... I already told you. He liked to take walks in the Forest Preserve. I went with him sometimes, you know? And he was fine. We’d just walk along the path, pick up rocks, things like that. But one day—I wasn’t with him—we got a call from the police. He’d been well, masturbating behind a tree, and this couple saw him. A man and a woman. They were jogging. When they told him to fuck off, he didn’t do anything. Or go anywhere. Just finished what he was doing. The woman thought that was ‘aggressive.’”

“Because he didn’t stop or run away.”

“It’s my fault.” A tortured look came over Ruth. “See, the thing is I knew about his... habit. I’ve known for years. But I never did anything about it. Even if I wanted to, what could I do? Despite everything, Cam is a man, with a man’s hormones... and proclivities. If he wasn’t hurting anyone, what was the harm? I doubt he understands what he’s doing. Or why. And I’m sure he doesn’t know it’s wrong.”

Any more than the monkey in the zoo, Georgia thought.

“But I know—I just know—he’d never hurt anyone. He’s just not capable of it. This business with the baseball bat...” Ruth’s eyes sparked anger. “Look at him. He hasn’t swung a bat since he was six. I’m sure he doesn’t know how.”

Georgia looked over at the waifish man, rocking back and forth, lost in his own world. He looked incapable of withstanding the slightest blow. But how did his sister know he didn’t have another side? A dark, murderous side? What if he’d been in some kind of fugue state, driven by an unknown urge or rage? Could he have summoned up enough strength to wield a bat? Things like that had happened before, especially with the mentally ill. Ruth had told her that Cam was autistic, but there was something else, too. What was it, she wondered.

“Does he have a doctor, a social worker, someone I could see about his—his condition?”

Ruth nodded. “He sees a social worker at North Shore Mental Health Center. I’ll put you in touch with her. And our new lawyer. My parish priest talked him into taking the case.”

“That’s a good sign,” Georgia said. “Ruth... can I talk to Cam?”

“You can try,” she motioned. “But don’t expect much.”

Georgia moved and sat directly across from Cam. His rocking sped up. “Hello. I’m a friend of your sister’s. I’m here to help you. Do you think you can tell me your name?”

Cam looked down. He kept rocking but his movements slowed.

“My name is Georgia. Like the state. I heard you naming the states before. That was very good.”

No response. Cam seemed alternately terrified and mollified by the chaos inside his mind.

“I’d like to get to know you better.”

Nothing.

Georgia sighed. “Okay. Maybe another time. I’d like to come back and visit. Would that be okay?”

Cam blinked.

Georgia looked over at Ruth.

“By the way,” Ruth said, “in case you’re wondering, I have some money from a trust fund that my grandparents set up for Cam. I’m going to use it to pay the lawyer. And you. There won’t be much left afterwards, but I—well...”

“You’re a good sister.”

“That’s not it,” Ruth persisted. “I just can’t stand the thought that he might be locked up for the rest of his life for something that—well—I know he didn’t do. Where would he have gotten the bat, anyway? He doesn’t own one. Hasn’t for years.”

Cam rocked back and forth, singing off-key. “Do do do do do do do do. Batman.”

***

“Cermak evaluated him but didn’t move him into Division VIII,” Paul Kelly said later that afternoon. A small man in a shabby navy jacket, khaki pants, and a blue shirt, he leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his neck. Fluorescent light bounced off his shiny, bald head.

The sign above Kelly’s door said “Paul Kelly: Lawyer & Insurance Agent.” Was that a sign of the health of the law business or Paul Kelly’s competence? His office consisted of two good-sized but sparsely furnished rooms in Rogers Park, a neighborhood on the northern edge of Chicago.

“Why didn’t they admit him?” Georgia sat down across his battered desk. “He’s clearly out of it.”

“Overcrowding,” Kelly said. “Only room for the real sickos. So they do some bullshit tests and then fold ‘em back into the general population.”

Georgia crossed her legs. “You’re officially his lawyer now?”

“As of two days ago.” He smirked. “You should have seen the PD. Kid was so grateful he almost kissed me on the mouth.”

“Can’t you insist he be admitted?”

“I can insist till I’m blue in the face, but it won’t make any difference.” His voice was thin and reedy, but he spoke with a careful, almost melodic inflection, as if compensating for his timbre. “Ms.—er Davis. You’ve heard of a tsunami, right?”

She nodded.

“Well, that’s what this case is shaping up to be. I’ve never seen anything like it. The guy was indicted in three days and arraigned two weeks later. But—get this—the State’s Attorney’s Office has already complied with discovery.”

Georgia jerked her head up. “That’s unheard of!”

“Don’t I know it.” He motioned to a pile of documents on one side of his desk. “That’s what this is. Someone wants this case to go away fast.”

“Why?”

“Who knows?” He shrugged. “The State’s Attorney ran a tough-as-nails campaign last year. He’s probably trying to make good on it.”

“But why this case?”

“Because it’s a slam dunk.”

“Nothing else?”

“Why? What are you getting at?”

“I was told that Ramsey, the First Assistant State’s Attorney and the prosecutor handling the case, lives in Winnetka. His daughter goes to the same school as the victim.”

“Interesting.”

“You think he might be under some kind of pressure?”

“Someone’s always under pressure in Chicago. Why do you think they say you can indict a ham sandwich in Cook County?” He paused. “But if you’re talking about undue pressure...” His voice rose on the word “undue.”

“The murder happened in one of the most affluent—and white—areas of Chicagoland. And yes, if the girl went to school with Ramsey’s daughter, there could be pressure. From the school. The neighbors. The village honchos. No one wants this hanging over the community. At the same time, Ramsey’s got to be pretty damn sure he’s gonna win. I mean, they got the guy’s prints on the bat and her blood on his shirt.”

“I’m guessing that doesn’t give me much time,” Georgia said.

“You got it.” Kelly eyed her. “Look. I know why Ruth Jordan hired you. I know she’s convinced he didn’t do it. But I can’t, in good faith, tell either of you that it’s gonna make a difference. I think our best shot is to plead it out. Let the boy go into the system. They’ll get him a shrink. Who knows? Might even do him some good.”

Georgia uncrossed her legs. If Kelly didn’t want to mount a defense, working with him would be a nightmare. She considered her options. She could tell him what O’Malley said, but she didn’t want to get O’Malley in trouble. Still, she had to give him something, if only to keep him from pleading it out right away. “Actually, the idea of getting me involved came from a cop on the North Shore.”

Kelly arched his eyebrows.

“Ruth didn’t mention that?”

“No.” He leaned forward. For the first time he looked interested in the conversation. “If the cops get their man, they usually don’t go looking for evidence to exonerate them. What’s the deal?”

“A hazing incident was going on at the time of the crime.”

“Hazing?” He frowned.

“The public defender didn’t brief you?”

Kelly shook his head. “I was lucky the PD knew his client’s name.”

“I figured it would be in the police reports. The hazing, I mean.”

“Haven’t read them yet.”

Georgia pinched the bridge of her nose. “Okay. Let me fill you in.”

As she explained about the hazing incident two years ago, Kelly started to nod. “I remember that.” He shifted. “Hold on. Are you saying another kid clubbed her to death?”

“It’s a possibility.”

Kelly shook his head. “But how could—”

“What if things—just spun out of control? They were drinking, don’t forget. What if someone had a few too many and tackled a girl by accident?”

“By accident?”

“It was supposed to be a touch football game.”

“Oh.”

“And, say, a few minutes later, another girl tackles her back. Then someone else picks up a baseball bat, and it escalates. And if one of them had a grudge against the other...” She leaned forward, mirroring his movements. “You know how high school girls are.”

“No. How are they?”

Somehow Georgia wasn’t surprised. “Like quicksilver. They operate mostly on hormones. Which means they can turn on their friends in a heartbeat. Especially if the ‘group’,whoever that group is at the moment, says to. The need for acceptance makes kids do wacko things.”

“A girl would have had to be pretty damn strong to do the kind of damage that was done to the victim.”

“A six-year-old could do plenty of damage with a baseball bat.” She shrugged. “And what if it wasn’t a girl? What if it was a guy? There were boys in the Forest Preserve, too.”

For a moment Kelly looked curious, even engaged, and Georgia dared to hope. Then his expression turned grim. “So there’s a few kids in the woods. And they’re running around half drunk whooping it up. That doesn’t mitigate the evidence against my client. He’s a registered sex offender. You can’t get around that.”

“Mr. Kelly, we don’t know what your—our—client was really doing in the woods. The girls saw him kneeling over the body, but the police found him a quarter mile from the crime scene. Despite his prints on the bat, as far as I know, no one actually saw him kill the girl. And he can’t tell us, one way or the other.” Georgia looked at her hands. “There are a lot of questions that haven’t been answered. Where the bat came from, for instance. His sister insists it wasn’t his.”

“I don’t know,” Kelly said doubtfully. “I still think pleading him out is our best shot.”

Georgia bit her lip. She was close, she could feel it. She couldn’t let it slip through her fingers. She dealt her last card. “Look. I used to be on the force up there, and, like I said, someone I respect—who’s still on the force—thinks we should take a closer look.”

“You were a cop?”

She nodded. “But apparently, no one is—looking into it, I mean. At least not seriously. Which begs the question, why not? Is it possible this Ramsey’s daughter was involved in the hazing? Or another VIP’s kid? Or is it something entirely different that we don’t know yet? We need to find out, but I need time. You’re his lawyer. Can you get me some?”

Kelly drummed his fingers on the desk. The smell of exhaust from a passing bus drifted through the window. Georgia looked out. The bus disgorged a bunch of school kids, who jostled each other and laughed. She turned back to Kelly. She wondered what Ruth Jordan’s parish priest had said to strong-arm Kelly into taking the case.

As if he had read her mind, he sighed. “Father Carroll and I grew up together on the West Side. He begged me to take the case. Told me Ruth Jordan was a decent soul who was carrying a hideous burden. It was the Christian thing to do, he told me.” Kelly laughed. “If I had a dollar for all the Christian things I’ve done, I could buy my ticket to heaven.” He folded his hands on his desk. “I’ll be honest. I’m not optimistic. Like I said, I’ve never seen a case fly through the courts this fast. Not even Gacy. These people mean business. You need to be prepared for that.”

“But what if he didn’t do it?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Georgia just looked at him.

He scratched his head. “But since you’re determined to play Joan of Arc... I have to examine the forensic evidence. That will take time.” He dropped his hand. His scratching had left two whitish streaks on his shiny head.

“How much?”

“Maybe a week or so.”

“That’s not enough.”

“And then there’s the BCX.” He sounded aggrieved that she’d interrupted him.

“BCX? That’s some kind of shrink report, isn’t it?”

“Behavioral Clinical Exam. A psychological exam that’s supposed to determine whether the defendant understands the charges against him, if he’s able to cooperate in his defense, and if he was sane at the time of the crime.”

“You already know he’s not. Why do you need a test?”

“It’ll buy us more time.”

Us, Georgia thought. He said us. “How much?”

Again he tipped his head to the side. “If somebody decides to railroad it, which we can’t discount, given what’s already gone down, maybe a couple of weeks. Then again, you’re dealing with bureaucrats and shrinks who couldn’t turn on a dime if their lives depended on it. It could take a month. Maybe longer.”

That’s better, Georgia thought.

“And...” The hint of a smile appeared on his face. “Depending on what the report says, I might have to ask for a second opinion. From a private shrink. Which could give us another month.”

This time she returned the smile. “So when can you request this BCX?”

A twinkle came into his eyes. “I already did. At the arraignment.”

Georgia’s mouth opened.

Kelly gave her a lopsided but genuine grin.

“Smooth, counselor.” She’d underestimated the man. She made some calculations. Today was the eighth of October. “So it’s possible we might have to go back into court till December?”

“It’s up to the judge. Remember, the prosecution is in the catbird seat. They might even have the judge in their pocket.”

“But you’re trying.”

“Apparently.”

Georgia stood up. “So why did you come on so—hard-assed—in the first place?”

He shrugged.

“You were checking me out.”

He stood up too. “Maybe.” He paused. “Or maybe it was what I told you.”

“What’s that?”

He smiled. “I’m buying my way into heaven.”

She almost believed him.

After copying the discovery documents at a nearby Kinko’s, Georgia returned them to Kelly. She was surprised when he handed her a check from Ruth Jordan.

“A down payment,” he said.

She slipped it into her pocket and headed back to Evanston, grateful she’d passed muster.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE WHITE Volvo careened around the corner so fast the driver had to slam on the brakes. Georgia knew the woman behind the wheel. Ellie Foreman was involved in a case Georgia worked on when she was still on the force. In fact, it was the case that had triggered her suspension. Despite that, Georgia ended up liking Foreman. Except for moments like this when the woman displayed a sense of entitlement that made Georgia bristle. Why did some people assume they could break the rules? To be fair, though, Foreman wasn’t alone. Especially on the North Shore.

“Comes with the territory,” O’Malley used to say. “They’re all lawyers and doctors and VIPs who tell you how connected they are. Some are. Some aren’t. Still, always address them as Miss or Mr. And treat ‘em with kid gloves, even more so when you catch them red-handed.”

As the Volvo lurched to a stop on the driveway, Georgia decided to keep her mouth shut. She wasn’t a cop anymore. What did she care if someone broke the rules? A moment later, the driver opened the door and climbed out, pulling off the baseball cap she wore and releasing a mop of blond curls.

Not Ellie. Rachel, her daughter.

Georgia watched as the girl, oblivious to Georgia, retrieved her back pack and a white plastic bag. She stuffed the bag into her backpack and hoisted it up on her shoulder. When had she turned sixteen? Georgia used to resent it when her grandmother got her age wrong, which happened all the time. She’d vowed never to do that to a young person; it was insulting. She tugged on her corduroy jacket.

“Rachel!”

The girl spun around. “Georgia!” A string of emotions paged across her face: surprise, joy, finally guilt. “Oh, God. I didn’t see you.”

“No kidding,” Georgia said dryly. “You always race around the corner that fast? How long have you had your license?”

The girl’s cheeks reddened. “Please don’t tell my mom. I won’t do it again. It was just—” She cut herself off. “Hey, you’re not in uniform. You have the day off?”

“Nice try. But changing the subject won’t do it. What if one of the little kids you used to babysit was running up the street?”

Rachel nervously unrolled the cuff of her sweater, although it already reached to her wrist. “I won’t do it again. Really.”

Georgia nodded. She didn’t want to be too hard on the kid. Rachel was the reason she’d come over.

Rachel seemed to realize the all-clear had been given and relaxed. “Hey, why are you here? Is something wrong?”

“No.”

Rachel started to shrug the backpack off her shoulder.

“But I do want to ask you a few questions.”

She squinted and furrowed her brow. “About what?”

“How ‘bout we go inside?”

As they walked up to the house, Georgia guessed Rachel had grown at least two inches; she was almost as tall as Georgia. Her blond curls, as distinctive as her mother’s dark ones, were cut short and held in place with a wide headband. Her blue eyes were clear and bright, and the hint of a smile touched her lips, as if she was just waiting for the right punch line to burst out laughing. Rachel was turning out to be quite a young woman.

“What’s up?” Rachel went around to the back door and twisted the knob. It was open.

Georgia stepped into the kitchen. It looked the same as it did the last time she was here: butcher block table, white appliances, dark wood cabinets. “I want to ask you about Sara Long.”

“I thought so.” Rachel rolled her eyes. “That’s all anyone is talking about.”

“It was a...” Georgia chose her words carefully. “... significant event.”

“No sh—kidding.”

“Hey, Rach.” A voice from upstairs called down. “Did you get what you needed?”

“Yeah, Mom.” Rachel slipped her backpack off her shoulder and took out the plastic bag. “Shampoo. It’s new. Cleans, conditions, and highlights all in one step.” She peered at Georgia’s hair. “You should try it.”

Georgia was about to reply when the voice cut in again. “Who’s with you, Rachel? I thought we agreed. Homework first.”

Rachel grinned conspiratorially. “Why don’t you come down and see?”

Georgia heard the scuffle of feet scrambling down the steps. A moment later an attractive, dark-haired woman in sweats and a t-shirt bounded into the kitchen.

“Georgia!” Ellie Foreman’s face lit up, and she threw her arms around her in a hug. “What a surprise!”

Georgia tried not to let her awkwardness show. “I was in the neighborhood...”

Ellie stepped back, a shrewd look in her eyes. “Sure you were.”

Georgia pretended not to notice. “Actually, I wanted to talk to Rachel about Sara Long.”

Ellie looked at Rachel, then back at Georgia.

Georgia went on. “She was just starting to tell me what it’s been like at school.”

“Oh. Well. Don’t let me bother you.” Ellie turned around, opened the refrigerator, and rummaged inside. Georgia pulled out a chair and sat down.

“Like I was saying,” Rachel said self-importantly, “we’ve had advisories and meetings up the wazoo. Social workers and counselors are all over the place, and there’s some new resource every day we’re supposed to know about. Like we don’t have enough help already.”

Georgia stifled a smile. She sounded like her mother.

“They even had the police talk to us.” She paused. “But then, you already know that.”

Ellie turned around, leaving the refrigerator door open. She and Georgia exchanged glances. Apparently, Ellie hadn’t told her daughter about Georgia’s suspension. Not that there was any reason to. Or not to. Georgia answered, keeping her eyes on Ellie. “No, I didn’t.”

“Aren’t you working on the case?”

Georgia had rehearsed her answer, but she hadn’t expected to say it with Ellie in the room. “I am. I’m doing some—research.”

“Why?” Rachel said. “I thought they already got the guy.”

“There are still some... loose ends to tie up.” She and Ellie exchanged another glance. If Ellie was going to blow Georgia’s cover, it would be now. Ellie looked like she wanted to say something, then turned back to the refrigerator. “Who wants a pop?”

“Me,” Rachel answered.

“How about you, Georgia?”

“I’m fine.”

Ellie pulled out two cans of soda and handed one to Rachel. “Well, I guess I’ll go back upstairs. Give a call sometime,” she said to Georgia.

Georgia nodded.

Ellie gave her one more look before leaving the room. She was okay, Georgia concluded. For a civilian. “So there’s been a lot of attention on the incident at school?” Georgia asked Rachel.

Rachel nodded. “They want to make sure everyone who needs it has help.”

“Her friends?”

“Some. But there are plenty of wannabes. You know. Kids who weren’t really her friends but want the attention.” She popped the top off her can.

“Did you know her?”

“Sara? Not well.”

“You weren’t friends?”

“No. I’m not in that crowd.”

“What crowd is that?”

“They don’t really have a name, at least a name anyone would use in public.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the girls are kind of Barbie dolls, you know? Pretty but dumb, cool clothes and stuff. They spend all their time buying makeup and texting each other.”

“Sara was part of that group?”

Rachel nodded. “Yeah. She was gorgeous. She was a year older than me.” She took a swig of her soda. “How come you’re asking all these questions?”

“I told you. I’m just trying to tie up some loose ends.”

“What loose ends?”

Georgia didn’t answer.

Rachel cocked her head. “You don’t think he did it?”

“It isn’t my job to think one way or the other. That’s up to a judge and jury.”

Rachel stared hard at Georgia. “My mother does that.”

“What?”

“Gives me those non-answer answers when she doesn’t want to tell me what’s really going on.”

Georgia bypassed the comment. “Who are Sara’s friends? Can you give me some names?”

Rachel took another sip of her pop. “You’re not gonna tell me, are you?” When Georgia kept quiet, she sighed. “Okay. I know she was friends with Heather Blakely. She’s the anchor for the school news in the morning.”

“The school news?”

“Every morning during advisory, they make us watch the school news on these monitors.”

“You have TVs in the classroom?”

She nodded. “The PTA bought them a few years ago. I don’t know why. We don’t need them. I think making us watch the news is just an excuse to get some use out of them. Anyway, Heather’s the main anchor person. She thinks she’s Katie Couric.”

Georgia pulled out a memo pad and pen. “Anyone else?”

“Well, there’s Claire Tennenbaum. She’s probably one of the dumbest girls you’ll ever meet. But in a cute, puppy-dog kind of way. You know they’re stupid, but you can’t help liking them. Oh. How could I forget? Lauren Walcher. She lives in this incredible house in Glencoe with a pool and a separate guest house, and this goldfish pond that’s supposed to be amazing.”

“You’ve been there?”

Rachel took a swig of her soda and shook her head. “No. Only the cool kids get invited over to Lauren’s. I’m not in with that crowd.”

“For which we should all say a prayer of thanks,” Georgia muttered. She looked up from her notes to find Rachel regarding her, her eyes challenging. Georgia smiled. “You don’t need to hang out with the cool crowd. You’re already one of the coolest kids I know.”

Rachel couldn’t quite suppress a grin.

Georgia hoped she believed it. “What about a boyfriend?”

A blush crept up Rachel’s neck. “Craig? I—I’m not really—”

“Not you,” Georgia cut in.

“Oh.” She smiled sheepishly. “I don’t know. Guys are—were—always drooling over Sara. And her friends. At least in the hall and things. But I don’t know if she was going with anyone.”

“What boys?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Okay. Do any of the girls you mentioned have cars?”

“I think Claire does. Oh, and Lauren too. She has a black Land Rover. She used to give people rides.” Rachel frowned. “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen her much recently.”

“Got it.” Georgia finished writing, closed her memo pad, and dumped it in her jacket pocket. “Tell me something. Isn’t there someone named Ramsey at your school?”

Rachel nodded. “Monica Ramsey. She’s a senior.”

“Was she a friend of Sara’s?”

Rachel shrugged. “I don’t know. Why?”

Georgia shrugged back. “Just curious.”

“Her father’s a big wheel, isn’t he?”

“A very big wheel.” Georgia agreed. “Hey. Do you happen to have a yearbook I could borrow?”

Rachel nodded.

“Maybe you could point out some of the people you just named?”

“Sure. I’ll get it.”

Georgia smiled her thanks. “Including Craig.”

***

Back in her apartment that night, Georgia waded through the police reports, grand jury transcripts, and witness statements. She found interview summaries from all the girls Rachel had mentioned. All three were at the Forest Preserve for the junior/senior powder puff football game.

Georgia pressed her lips together. The hazing incident two years ago had started the same way. Why hadn’t anyone stopped it this time? Surely some adults, teachers, or other school officials must have suspected it could happen again. Memories weren’t that short. She got up from the couch and went into the kitchen. Adults make a decree, the kids ignore it, then the adults do nothing to enforce it. And they wonder why kids have trouble with authority figures.

She got a glass of water and drank all of it down. She was trying to keep herself hydrated. They said it helped. But eight glasses a day? That was overkill. Not to mention all the trips to the john. She finished the water anyway.

The transcripts confirmed what she already knew. The girls came back to the clearing where they saw Cam Jordan kneeling over Sara Long’s body, the bat on the ground beside him. They ran to call the police, and he apparently fled. The police found him wandering around a quarter mile from the crime scene.

Next she reviewed the police reports. They, too, were in line with what she already knew; nevertheless, she went through them carefully. The word “hazing” wasn’t mentioned, and no one confessed to bringing the bucket, the blindfold, or the bat. So how did they get there, Georgia wondered. Did they materialize out of thin air?

Georgia finished reading, then stacked the files in a neat pile on the floor. She knew about powder puff football, and she knew girls sometimes changed the rules to suit themselves. But she couldn’t imagine any rule that would involve Sara Long off by herself with a bucket on top of her head. More significantly, none of the police officers, apparently, had thought to ask. Or if they did, the answer wasn’t reported.

She went into her kitchen and stared out the window. The sun had set hours ago and the blackness outside lay in sharp contrast to her white curtains. The simplicity of the polar opposites was appealing. Black and white could never be confused, misread, or manipulated. She leaned her forehead against the glass. Somehow she doubted Sara Long’s case would have the same clarity.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE BELL rang, signaling the end of the period. Lauren was startled—she’d been deep into a worksheet analyzing the characters of Willy Stark and Jack Burden. She gathered her books, hoisted her Prada bag over her shoulder, and headed out of the classroom. A throng of students pushed and crowded and shoved their way down the hall. Lauren skirted the edges, staying close to the rows of lockers. As she reached the end of the corridor, she spotted Claire and Heather waiting for her around the corner.

“What’s up?” She was irritated by their presence. She had things to do. But they all had a free period at the same time—they’d planned it that way last spring. With Sara.

“You want to go outside?” Heather Blakely, petite and waif-like, prided herself on wearing a size two. Lauren thought she was borderline anorexic—she never ate a thing, at least in front of them. Today she was wearing a denim Citizen skirt with a flounce at the bottom and a pale green t-shirt that looked like it was Express. Feminine. Neat. Very Heather.

Lauren dug out her cell to check the time. “I only have a couple of minutes. Got to do some stuff. And I’m hungry. Let’s go to the cafeteria.”

Claire Tennenbaum, who was tall and slim and towered over Heather, shook her head. Her long brown hair was streaked with blond, and it shimmered, even in the fluorescent school light. “I gotta talk to you guys.”

Lauren frowned. “What about?”

Claire’s denim jacket covered her torso, just barely, and her Sevens jeans were low riders. She looked around and gestured toward the stairwell.

“Why do we have to go up?” Heather’s voice was suspicious. Shit. The girl couldn’t take yes for an answer. She had to know everything, right away. At least Sara had been more subtle.

“Just come upstairs.” Claire usually had a dull, vacant look, as though the neurons in her brain were slow to fire. But today, she looked anxious. Almost scared.

Lauren headed toward the stairwell which led up to a little-used corner on the third floor. Sometimes they camped out up there during free period. Few teachers came up there, if they could avoid it—too many steps to climb.

As they entered the stairwell, a wave of kids flowed around them. There were only five minutes between classes, and teachers enforced it by doling out detention whenever a student was late. Once on the third floor, they pushed through a set of double glass doors. Heather thumped down the hall. In Michael Kors clogs, Lauren noted.

Claire flopped down on the floor at the end of the hall. Heather arranged herself more carefully.

Lauren leaned against the wall, planning to cut out after she heard whatever Claire had to say. “So what is it, Claire?”

Claire’s jaws pumped up and down. She was chewing gum. She leaned forward. “I was coming into school this morning. It was early, ‘cause I was supposed to meet my math teacher to go over some stuff for a test. Anyway, I parked across the street in the lot, and—”

Heather rolled her eyes. “Get to the point, Claire.”

Claire glared at Heather. “I am.” She angled herself away from Heather toward Lauren. “Well, this woman stopped me near my car. Said she wanted to talk about Sara.”

Lauren straightened. Heather, Lauren noticed, took her cue and became interested too.

“What woman?” Lauren said.

“Georgia Davis.”

Lauren frowned. “Was she a cop?”

Claire clacked her gum. “I—I think so.”

“You didn’t ask?”

“She had a bunch of papers, and she kept going through them. I—I figured she was.”

“Was she wearing a uniform?” Heather asked.

Claire shook her head.

Heather stole a glance at Lauren, then pronounced, “Cop or no cop, you know we’re not supposed to talk about anything without our parents there.”

“That’s what I told her.” Claire nodded energetically.

“And?” Lauren said.

“She said we could call them, if it made me feel more comfortable, or we could go home and talk.”

Heather threw an exasperated what-are-you-gonna-do look at Lauren.

Lauren ignored it. “What happened next?”

Claire slowly folded her legs Indian-style and popped a gum bubble. She was thrilled to be the center of attention, Lauren thought. “Well, first, she looked inside the Jeep.”

“What for?” Heather cut in.

“I don’t know. Drugs, maybe?”

“You don’t have any drugs.” Heather scoffed.

“Of course not.”

“Claire...” Lauren cut in. “What did she want to know?”

“Well, she asked me about the powder puff game.”

“What about it?”

“She wanted to know how many girls were there... what the score was... stuff like that.”

“I don’t get it,” Heather piped up. “Why would she ask that? The police already know. It doesn’t make—”

“Shut up, Heather.” Lauren waved a hand at Claire. “Go on.”

Heather shrank against the wall.

“I asked her why I had to go over it all again,” Claire said. “Like, did I say something wrong the first time?”

“And?”

“She said they go over the same thing again and again. That sometimes people remember stuff they didn’t the first time. You know, details and things.”

Two geeky looking boys appeared at the other end of hall, talking boisterously. Both had the gang-wannabe look: oversized pants that hung below their waists, long t-shirts, and baseball hats on backwards. They trudged toward the girls, waving their cell phones, comparing features and games. Having a cell phone on during school was a breach of rules, but you could get away with it on the third floor.

Claire smiled at them.

Lauren shot Claire a stern look, then glared at the boys. All at once they quieted, scurried past, and disappeared through the door. Lauren caught a powerful whiff of aftershave. One of them probably dumped an entire bottle on his face. She turned back to Claire, who was snapping her gum. “How many times do I need to tell you not to waste your time on these guys, Claire? They’re—immature.”

Claire’s jaws stopped moving. She looked like she’d been slapped.

“So what else did this—Davis woman ask?” Lauren said.

Claire picked at her jacket, although there was no lint in sight. “She wanted to know who took Sara away.”

“What did you tell her?”

“The truth.” When Lauren winced, she added, “I had to. The cops already know anyway.”

“Of course. You’re right. What else?”

Claire shrugged.

Heather gave a theatrical sigh. “Claire, I’m sure you can be more specific. Think.”

“Well...” Claire looked from Heather to Lauren, drawing out the moment. “I told her about Sara sticking her nose into everyone’s business.”

Heather winced.

“You know, all the stuff we talked about. Like how Sara had to know what everyone was doing.”

Lauren didn’t react.

“What’s wrong?” Claire asked, her tone defensive. “The police know that too.”

“Did you tell her about the blindfold?” Heather asked.

Claire nodded. “And the bucket. How grody it was, and how bad it smelled.”

“What else?” Lauren asked.

“I said the seniors may have wanted to teach her a lesson, but nobody wanted her to get hurt. I told her the crazy guy definitely did it.” She looked back at Lauren as if for approval.

“Did she ask who the seniors were?” Lauren asked.

Claire nodded.

“What names did you give her?”

“Annie Chernow, Judy Bobalik, Monica Ramsey...” Claire recited.

“You told her Monica Ramsey was there?”

Claire nodded.

“Anything else?” Heather asked.

“That was it. The first bell rang, and I had to go.”

“Nothing else?”

“No. Why are you asking so many questions, Heather?” Claire shot Heather an angry glance. “You can’t broadcast this on the school news.”

Lauren stifled a smile.

“I sit next to Monica Ramsey in Spanish,” Heather said in her self-important voice. A totally irrelevant piece of information, Lauren thought. But you couldn’t blame them. They were both clueless.

“And, like, I know Sara was our friend,” Heather went on. “And that boys were hot for her. But she wasn’t perfect. I mean, there were things she did—well, you know what I mean.”

“No.” Lauren frowned. “I don’t. What things?”

“The thing with Cash, for instance.”

Lauren waved a dismissive hand. “Ancient history.”

“Well, I haven’t forgotten.”

“Better not tell the cops that. Or the investigator,” Lauren said. “They might think you had something to do with her murder.”

“Ewww...” Heather whined, stretching the sound into three syllables. “That’s disgusting.”

“And to top it all off, the woman made me late for my math teacher.” Claire clacked her gum again. “I’m gonna fail this quarter for sure.”

Lauren yanked her thumb toward Heather. “She’s smart. She’ll tutor you, won’t you, Heather?”

Heather pursed her lips.

CHAPTER NINE

SO FAR the job had been routine. So mundane, in fact, that he wondered why his employer needed protection. Maybe he was the type who thought his footsteps made an indelible imprint, who was sure nothing could be accomplished without his intervention. Sitting at the right hand of God.

One thing was clear, he thought as he wiped down the Jag. The man was a micromanager. Down to his instructions on how to wash the car. What cloths to use. How much wax. How long to buff. Still, he was grateful to be working at all. It had been a while. He’d provided references. Impressed them with his resume. And they’d scooped him up. Good thing, too. Any longer and his skills might have deteriorated. He practiced, tried to make sure he was still sharp. But until you were actually on the street, you never knew.

He was the back door guy, the outsider. He didn’t even have chauffeur status. It would stay that way until he earned their trust. But he’d expected that, and he was prepared to take it slow. It was important to be a team player.

He finished buffing the car and went around to the back. A huge turquoise swimming pool bordered by marble statues lay behind a wide veranda. Beyond that was a sweep of broad, sloping lawn with thick green grass. His employer emerged from the water, sun-sparkled droplets beading the gray hair on his chest. A silver mezuzah around his neck flashed in the morning light. Wrapping himself in a soft white towel, he gazed around his estate with a satisfied expression.

A cell phone trilled. The man grabbed it, listened, barked a response. Then he tossed the phone down on the table. He spotted him at the edge of the cabana. His bushy eyebrows rose.

“Lawyers!” His boss spat out. “They don’t do what you want, and they fuck you while they’re not doing it.”

CHAPTER TEN

THE PUNGENT smell of pizza from someone’s apartment wafted through the air vents, making Georgia realize she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She finished her notes, went into the kitchen, and opened the refrigerator. Nothing but mayo, wilted lettuce, eggs, and a hunk of muenster cheese. She got out her one good Cutco knife, sliced a piece off the cheese, and wolfed it down.

Her first full day on the case, but it wasn’t very productive. First she’d played telephone tag with Cam Jordan’s social worker. It was just a courtesy—she figured the social worker would echo what Ruth Jordan said. Still, the call had to be made. Paul Kelly might be able to use the information in his defense, particularly if it turned out Cam had never been known to be violent. But the woman was either in a meeting or out of the office, and when she called back, Georgia was at the gym. She dutifully left her number on the woman’s voice mail again.

She did manage to question Claire Tennenbaum, one of Sara Long’s friends, before school. She hadn’t found out much that wasn’t in the police reports—just that Sara had been taken away from the game “to teach her a lesson,” the girl said. When Georgia asked why, she admitted Sara was a busybody. “Sara had to know what everyone was doing. She’d read people’s notes. Diaries, too.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. She wasn’t always that way.”

“So this—behavior just started recently?”

Claire looked uncomfortable, as if she’d said too much. “I guess. Maybe.”

The most interesting piece of information she’d picked up was the name of one of the seniors who’d been at the Forest Preserve. Monica Ramsey.

Now, she went back into the living room and turned on the news. She was startled to see a photo of Sara Long behind the shoulder of the anchor woman. She turned up the volume.

“... a high school hazing was taking place during the powder puff football game at which Sara Long was killed last month,” the newscaster said. “According to sources, the victim was taken to another part of the forest where she was subjected to taunting and a series of practical jokes. As you recall, hazing is not a new activity on the North Shore...”

File footage from someone’s video camera two years ago flashed across the screen, including shots of girls on the ground covered in what Georgia knew were feces, urine, paint, pig intestines, and fish guts. More video showed girls being punched, kicked, and pummeled with buckets.

The story cut to Police Chief Eric Olson, Georgia’s former boss, who said while the hazing was regrettable, it would not change the course of justice. In a statement that sounded scripted, Olson maintained they had apprehended the offender and had solid evidence to back up their case. They would, however, continue to conduct a thorough investigation into every aspect of this heinous crime. Robby Parker, tall, blond, and smug, stood at Olson’s side, hands clasped behind his back.

So much for keeping the hazing under wraps. Now that it was out, the question of why it had been kept quiet in the first place would undoubtedly surface. Who would take the heat, Georgia wondered? Would school officials claim something about an internal investigation and wanting to be sure before they went public? Would parents admit pressuring the authorities to keep it quiet? Or would the cops and the State’s Attorney’s Office offer some half-assed explanation?

She turned off the TV. The good news was that the fact of a cover-up, however short-term or benign, could help raise reasonable doubt about Cam Jordan. She and Kelly ought to brainstorm some strategies. Maybe talk to a friendly reporter. She’d call Kelly tomorrow.

She looked around the apartment, aware she’d been alone most of the day. Too much isolation wasn’t good. She grabbed her jacket, locked her door, and went down the stairs.

The night air had a snap to it, and a breeze carried the tang of burning leaves. She zipped up her jacket. Another month and she’d be wearing her down jacket. She jogged the six blocks to Mickey’s on the east side of Ridge and pushed through the door.

“Hey, Davis.” Owen Dougherty, Mickey’s owner, grinned. A big man, he wore a flowing white shirt and a bartender’s apron over his pants. He looked a lot like Jackie Gleason in the reruns of The Honeymooners she’d caught on cable. Even the same mustache.

“How’s it goin’ Owen?” she asked, enjoying the rhyme for about the thousandth time.

“Can’t complain.” Over the past few years Evanston had become fashionable, its new condos, upscale eateries, and shops a haven for empty-nesters and singles who didn’t want to live downtown. With its dim light, scarred wood, and good burgers at decent prices, Mickey’s was one of the last of the old neighborhood places. “What about you, Davis?” He wiped down the bar with a damp cloth.

Everyone went by last names at Mickey’s except Owen, and, presumably, the Mickey who owned it before him. She didn’t mind. It made her feel she belonged.

“Surviving.”

Dougherty had bought the place eight years ago. “Didn’t have to change a thing,” he’d said proudly. Gazing at the old neon signs, shabby tables, and scuffed floor, Georgia wasn’t sure that was a good thing. While its grunginess was comfortable, almost endearing, Mickey’s was becoming a dinosaur. Which made it ripe for a buyout. Of course, that could have been Dougherty’s plan all along, which would make him a lot cagier than she thought. She slid onto a stool at the end of the bar.

“So what’ll it be, tonight? The usual?”

She nodded. Dougherty filled a tall glass with ice, reached under the bar for a nozzle and spritzed cola into the glass. He reached under the bar again and came up a slice of lemon which he anchored on the rim. “One Coke, plenty of ice and lemon.”

“Thanks.” She took a pull, wondering why Coke always tasted better here than at home. Swiveling around, she checked out the crowd. The bar was half-filled; most of the faces were familiar. Of the five booths, three were taken, two by couples, and one by a family with two kids. A jukebox stood in the corner, but no music was playing. Instead, a TV above the bar tuned to ESPN was replaying clips from Sunday’s games. At least it wasn’t the news. Georgia took her drink to one of the empty booths. “This okay?” she called out.

He nodded. “Gemma’s not here tonight. You want food, order through me.”

“Make it a burger and fries. Rare, this time.”

He appraised her. “Raw meat, huh? You got something going I should know about?”

“Nope. I’m saving myself for you.”

He ducked into the kitchen. Georgia settled herself in the booth, and thought about the hazing announcement. Two days after she talked to O’Malley, the hazing surfaced. Had he leaked it? It was possible; he clearly wasn’t happy with the way the case was going. But O’Malley was a team player. No matter how unhappy he was, he wouldn’t cause trouble. Or stick his neck out. Leaking the hazing took guts.

She stared up at the TV. A pretty boy with a blow-dry haircut breathlessly proclaimed that last week’s offensive play by Number 49 was a masterpiece. She hardly listened, preoccupied with another issue—this one of her own making. When she interviewed Claire Tennenbaum that morning, she’d had the stack of discovery documents with her, and she pored through them at strategic points during the conversation. She’d let the girl think she was a cop—at least, she hadn’t said anything to contradict it.

The problem was she wasn’t a cop any more. And it was against the law to impersonate one. Ironically, when she was a cop, she’d learned it was okay to lie in certain situations. She’d watched O’Malley extort information from suspects by playing them off against each other, insisting—falsely—that one was framing the other. The tactic usually worked. But Claire Tennenbaum was a kid. Lying to a kid—even misleading her— didn’t feel right.

There was another problem too. Georgia no longer had the insulation that being a cop provided. What if Claire Tennenbaum told her parents she’d been questioned by a cop, and her parents called to verify it? When they found out she’d been posing as one, she could be in trouble. She stared up at the TV, willing her stomach to stop churning.

Ten minutes later Owen arrived with her food. “Burger and fries. Rare.” He set the plate down. “You could do the breast stroke in the blood.”

She took a bite. “Perfect.”

He went back behind the bar, but she knew he was pleased. She remembered the first time she’d come to Mickey’s. Matt had brought her here one rainy spring night three years ago. He’d said it was a comfort zone, the kind of place where people knew you on the surface and didn’t need to dig any deeper. He’d been right. To this day she wasn’t sure Owen knew she—or Matt—had ever been a cop.

She watched Owen flip a white towel over his shoulder. They’d come here so often that she knew the rhythms of the place. How many times an hour Owen wiped down the bar—about twelve. How many TV stations Owen would let customers watch—only two. How many brands of bourbon he carried—seven. She recalled one night, giggling, a few brews to the high side, when she tried to swipe Owen’s towel, just to see what he’d do. She figured he’d freak out and frisk everyone in the place ‘till he found it. She sneaked up behind Owen, ready to snatch it off his shoulder when he whipped around to face her, and the chance was lost. Matt laughed so hard he knocked over his beer. They used Owen’s cloth to wipe it up.

Now, she dipped a fry in ketchup and crammed it in her mouth. When would she stop using Matt to mark time? They’d split up two years ago, but he still haunted her dreams, his face appearing unbidden when she was cuffing an offender, writing tickets, doing laundry. She saw his crooked grin, the way he pushed his hair off his face. Once he’d let it get so long that Olson threatened to buck Matt back to patrol if he didn’t get a hair-cut. That afternoon Matt came back from lunch with a shaved head. She remembered how he walked up and down the hall past Olson’s office—it had to be twenty times—before the Chief finally noticed. And never said a word.

She wiped her mouth with her napkin. Those were the heady days. When the touch of his finger sent shivers down her spine. When just being alone made them tear their clothes off, drunk with the smell, taste, and feel of each other. She thought it would never end. She took another bite of her burger. It was starting to taste like cardboard.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE SOCIAL worker rooted around in a pile of olive green folders, extracted one, and scanned the first page. “Oh, here we go.”

Georgia sat across from Carol Moore, a young woman with ash blond hair and enormous glasses. She was wearing jeans and a ribbed sweater, and she looked like she’d just graduated from high school. She and Georgia sat on either side of a metal desk in the North Shore Mental Health Clinic. The clinic operated out of an Evanston building near Oakton and Ridge that had once been a parochial school. A quick glance around revealed the same peeling paint, green walls, and chipped tiles Georgia remembered from St. Michael’s. A grimy, institutional odor seeped out of the walls. Georgia remembered that too.

“Cam Jordan has been my client for over a year,” Moore said.

“That doesn’t sound like a long time.” Georgia breathed through her mouth.

“Let’s see. I took over from...” Moore paged through the file. “... Margie Hanson. She got married and had a baby. And before that, Shauna Alexander was his caseworker.”

Georgia fidgeted. Passed from hand to hand, Cam was just another file to these people. A case number to justify their budget.

“You have met with him?”

“Of course.” Moore looked offended. “And now that he’s in the news, we’ve gotten more calls. We can’t comment, of course.”

“As I told you, I’m a private investigator working on his case. Anything you can tell me about his mental state would be helpful.”

Moore nodded. “I talked to the director before you came, and—” She looked up. “Hey, am I going to be called to testify?”

“I don’t know if there will be a trial.”

“But is it a possibility.”

“Yes.”

“I just wondered, you know.” Moore flipped up a lock of hair. Then she went back to the file. “The last time he came in was almost five months ago. In June.”

“How often did you see him?”

“Every six months. Unless there was a crisis.”

“Only twice a year?”

“Do you know how many clients I have, Ms. Davis? Some are victims of abuse. Child abuse. Sexual abuse. One of my clients was put in a cage by her father for two years. Another has been in thirty foster homes. Between home visits, clinical practice, and writing reports, it’s a miracle I see him that much.”

Not something we’d want brought out in a trial, Georgia thought. She could just imagine Ramsey: “With forty-two clients and only two visits a year, in reality, you have no idea whether he was violent or not, do you, Ms. Moore?”

Aloud she said, “What can you tell me about those visits?”

“His sister brings him in. I talk mostly to her. It looks like she takes good care of him. He’s always been calm. Not agitated. At least the times I’ve seen him.”

“Is he on any medications?”

She frowned, pulled her glasses down her nose, and sifted through the file. “There’s a note from Margie that he was on Seroquel for a year. And Remeron. But it doesn’t say if they helped. I don’t know if he’s still on the meds.”

“What do those drugs do?”

“One’s an antidepressant. The other is specifically for bipolar disorder and schizophrenia.” She looked at Georgia. “Psychopharmacological agents can improve quality of life for the mentally ill. But the best catalyst for change is still a positive and trusting relationship with a therapist.”

“But you weren’t that therapist.”

“I told you. We only see patients during physical or mental health crises. And check-ups. There’s nothing here about any other therapist.” She closed the file. “I’m guessing there wasn’t enough money for it.”

Georgia motioned toward the file. “May I look through that? Make some copies?”

“The director said you need to put any request in writing. Then it has to go before our internal committee for approval. And then to the state.”

“Well then, may I look through it so I know which reports to request?”

“I’m sorry.” Moore leaned back with an expression that said she was really doing Georgia a favor. “But I can tell you what they say.”

Georgia bit back a reply. It infuriated her when people doled out information a bit at a time. They were usually sadists. Assholes who liked to watch people beg. They’d have to subpoena the records if they needed them. “Go ahead,” she said tersely.

Moore took her time reopening the file and looking through it. “It doesn’t appear that there was any instance of real communication—at least while he was here. When he did talk it was mostly the repetition of certain words, or phrases from nursery rhymes.”

“Are there any notes about his sexual offense?”

“Let’s see...” She pushed her glasses back onto the bridge of her nose. “Everyone agrees he masturbated in public. But apparently, there was some question about physical contact. His sister contends he never touched the woman in the Forest Preserve. The couple said otherwise, of course.” She read on. “Apparently, he had a history of being abused. His father beat him.”

“Yes, I know.”

She tipped her head. “That could be a contributing factor.”

“What do you mean?”

She looked up. “You know. If an individual was abused themselves, they’re more likely to—Oh.” She stopped. A frown creased her forehead.

“What?” Georgia said.

“Well, it says here the couple dropped the case a few months later.”

“Dropped it? How come?”

“Apparently, they separated and got a divorce.” She snorted. “Guess they found other lawyers to give their money to.”

If the couple dropped the case, without a conviction, how had Cam been labeled a sex offender? Georgia made a note to follow up. “Is there anything in his file about him being violent, threatening violence, or doing harm to anyone?”

Moore looked through the file one more time. She shook her head.

“Do you think it’s possible that someone like him, given his record, could suddenly snap and murder a complete stranger?”

Moore gazed at her. “Anything is possible with mentally impaired individuals. But, based on his file and my experience with him, I would be surprised.”

Georgia felt an unexpected sense of relief. “We’ll probably have to subpoena the entire file.”

Moore waved a noncommittal hand. “Whatever.”

Before heading home, Georgia stopped to buy copies of the newspapers. Word about the hazing was splashed above the fold in the Trib and on the front page of the Sun Times. While experts rued the growing violence among teenagers, Chief of Police Eric Olson denied it would affect the outcome of the case. There was no comment from the State’s Attorney’s Office.

CHAPTER TWELVE

“SARA HATED to get up in the morning,” A sad smile flickered across Melinda Long’s face. “I still wake up thinking it’s time to get her out of bed.”

“I’m so sorry,” Georgia said, aware how useless the words were even as they came out of her mouth.

A tall, lanky blonde, Sara Long’s mother retrieved some hangers and garments from the dressing room at New Ideas, an upscale but casual women’s dress store in Northfield. After reading where she worked in the police reports, Georgia decided to take a chance. She wasn’t sure Sara’s mother would be back at work, but she figured it would be less painful to talk outside her home. If she talked at all.

When Georgia walked into the store, she was surprised at its cozy, comfortable feel. A cheerful jumble of brightly patterned sweaters, pants, and even jewelry, New Ideas had a mix of the countrified, horsy fashions worn by North Shore matrons as well as the trendier workout styles favored by the young. Drawn to a rack of sweatshirts and pants, she let her fingers slide down the soft, fleecy garments. She even imagined herself in one of them—the blue one—until she saw the $240 price tag.

“People are shocked I’m back at work,” Melinda said a few minutes later. She nodded toward a woman behind the cash register who was chatting with a customer. “I know Janelle was. But what am I supposed to do? I took a week off, but I just couldn’t bear staring at four walls.” She shivered. “Sara’s brother, Jamie, went back to school. And Jerry’s at work.” She frowned. “I’m sorry. What did you say your name was?”

“Georgia Davis.” It hadn’t been hard to talk to Sara’s mother. She’d recognized her right away. Melinda had the same blonde hair and slim build as her daughter. When she asked if Georgia needed help, Georgia nodded. The conversation had turned to Sara almost immediately. In fact, her eagerness to talk—especially to a stranger—puzzled Georgia, until she recalled that people dealt with grief in all sorts of ways.

“You’re an investigator?”

“That’s right.”

A strange look came over the woman’s face. “Forgive me, did you say you’re with the police?”

Georgia tensed. She didn’t want to mislead the woman, as she’d done with Claire Tennenbaum, but telling the truth might mean the end to their conversation. Still. “Actually, I’m working for some people who want to make sure the right person is held accountable for your daughter’s murder.”

Melinda clutched the hangars and clothes to her stomach. “You’re working for that—that creature, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “But I’m just trying to find out the truth. I have no bias.”

Georgia figured she had about five seconds before the woman kicked her out of the store. But Melinda’s expression was unreadable, and after a moment she headed to a nearby rack and started to hang the garments. “You know, if you had come in here a week ago, I would have thrown your butt out of here.”

Georgia nodded. The woman could see inside her soul.

“I wanted to nail Cam Jordan. I wanted to tear him from limb to limb. Make sure his sorry ass never saw the light of day. It was all so—senseless.” Melinda sighed. “But then, I don’t know. Things started moving so fast it made my head spin. Everything all tied up in three or four days. With a big, shiny ribbon on top. Closure, they say.”

“You had a problem with that?”

“While I was at home, I started to think about it. And now—well—I guess it doesn’t really matter.”

“Oh, but it does,” Georgia blurted out. “If you have any reason to feel Cam Jordan might not be responsible for Sara’s death, you have to speak out.”

“I don’t have to do a damn thing.” Melinda turned around, her eyes flashing.

Georgia’s stomach flipped. Great move, she scolded herself. Her first break in the case, and she’d patronized the victim’s grief-stricken mother. She started to apologize but was cut off by a woman loaded down with jewelry who called over to Melinda in a high-pitched voice. “Do you have this in a six?” She picked up a striped black and white outfit that looked like a zebra costume.

Melinda stiffened just for an instant. “Let me check.” Her voice was tight.

“I’m sorry,” Georgia said. “I was out of line.”

Melinda gave her a curt nod.

“Please. Let me buy you a cup of coffee.”

Melinda looked at her watch. “I’m off in twenty minutes, but I have to go home and start dinner.”

“I can meet you at your house.”

“I—I don’t know. I don’t think it’s such a good—”

“Fifteen minutes. That’s all.”

Melinda started over to Zebra lady. Then, “Fifteen minutes. No more.”

***

Georgia pulled up to a small house in western Wilmette, an area some considered the “wannabe” section of the North Shore. Just inside the boundaries of Newfield High School, the neighborhood consisted of mostly split-level homes on tiny lots, although realtors inexplicably called them colonials.

The bricks on the house needed tuck-pointing, and the white shutters could use a coat of paint. There was an older model blue Camaro in the driveway. Still, it looked like the kind of house Georgia’s parents aspired to, once upon a time. Georgia remembered her mother chattering on about how they’d move to the suburbs, live in a house with a garage. Georgia would take the bus to school every morning, and her mother would meet her every afternoon when she came home. They’d make cookies together in winter, play in the back yard in summer. She was little, maybe five or six. Even then, had she believed any of it would happen?

Melinda led her into a living room so choked with furniture that Georgia pulled on the neck of her sweater.

“I’ll make a pot of coffee,” Melinda said. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Georgia squeezed past an oversized sofa patterned in red and blue and sat gingerly in a large red-brocade chair. The fabric on the arms was frayed. Framed family photographs sat on an end table. A foursome, then the two kids by themselves. The pictures of Sara looked recent.

“Thank you for letting me come,” Georgia called.

“Actually, I was wondering how long it would take for someone to get around to it,” Melinda answered from the kitchen. “Now that the hazing’s out.”

“What do you mean?” Georgia noticed some brownish stains on the white carpet. She hadn’t seen a dog.

“When you live in an area like this, you learn to size it up pretty fast.” Melinda came into the living room carrying only one coffee mug. She sat down on the sofa and took a sip. “We knew moving out here was a risk.”

“In what way?”

“We knew the kids would be exposed to—to different values. That they’d be around people with a lot of money. But Newfield is a good school. We wanted them to have a chance.”

“Where were you living?”

“In the Austin neighborhood. Jerry and I grew up there. No, that’s not true. I grew up on the East side near Cal Park but moved to Austin when we got married. The schools down there... well, we knew we could do better. So we scraped together what we could, and moved up here...” She looked around as if seeing the room for the first time. “We’re hanging on, but barely.”

Georgia nodded, unsure where Melinda was going. “You said you were wondering how long it would take...”

Melinda took another sip of coffee. “I wait on women who come into New Ideas and drop a grand on clothes as casually as you and I—well me, at least—drop a couple of bucks for a latte. Then they come back a week later and do it all over again.” She hesitated. “When people throw money around like that, I wonder what else they’re throwing around.”

“What do you mean?”

Melinda gazed at her. “I mean there are people around here who, because of their wealth or their position, expect certain things... to be taken care of. Fast.”

“Do you mean covering up the hazing or coming up with a suspect in your daughter’s murder?”

“What’s the difference?” Melinda set her mug on a dark wood coffee table with a thud. When the coffee sloshed over the rim, Georgia realized where the carpet stains had come from. “Sara was a little girl when we moved up here. Her brother was even younger. They didn’t know why certain kids never invited them to birthday parties. Or sleepovers. Jamie didn’t care so much, but I remember Sara crying when she discovered a party she hadn’t been invited to. That happened less as she got older. But there were always some girls who excluded her. And then, when she got so pretty, those same girls—well—they resented her. They were jealous.”

Georgia glanced at the family photographs. With her long blond hair, blue eyes, and clear, rosy skin, Sara was beautiful. “What girls?”

Melinda shook her head.

“Mrs. Long, I can’t do anything unless you can be more specific.” When she still didn’t answer, Georgia leaned forward. “Do you have any reason to believe Cam Jordan didn’t kill your daughter?”

Melinda fixed Georgia with a grim look. “Look. I knew what they were planning to do in the Forest Preserve. And I wasn’t the only one.”

Georgia arched her eyebrows.

“The rumors were flying for weeks. Ever since school started.”

“Did Sara tell you?”

“No. Actually, I heard it in the store. Customers—some of the mothers—were talking. It had been two years since the last hazing incident. The girls had learned their lesson. They were going to resurrect the game. After all, it was a school tradition. But it would be harmless this time. Well, maybe a little teasing. But nothing major. Nothing violent.”

“Did you know Sara would be one of the targets?”

“Of course not.” Anger hardened her face. “Sara might not have been part of the ‘in’ crowd, but she had friends. Enough, or so I thought, to keep her from being picked on.” Melinda went on. “She wasn’t like them, anyway. She had a job. She worked after school and on weekends.”

“Where?”

Melinda picked up her mug. “At the café in Old Orchard. Inside the book store. She paid for all her clothes. And cell phone. Got discounts on books, too. She knew the value of a dollar.”

“So you weren’t aware of any problems.”

“What are you getting at?”

“One of Sara’s friends said Sara was too involved in everyone else’s business. Reading diaries. Stealing notes. There was some talk about teaching her a lesson.”

“Sara? That’s just—ridiculous. Sara spent her time, except when she was working, trying to look like them and sound like them... it’s got to be gossip. High school girls being bitchy.” But Georgia saw the hurt spilling out of her eyes.

“Who were her friends?” Georgia asked gently.

Melinda struggled to regain her composure. “Heather and Claire, of course. She’s known them since grade school. And Lauren Walcher.”

“Do you like them?”

Melinda shrugged. “I—I accepted them. Maybe I shouldn’t have.” A faraway look came into her eyes. “You know, now that I’m thinking about it, that was why she went there in the first place.”

“Went where?”

“To the Forest Preserve. She said she wanted to talk to Lauren.”

“She said that?”

Melinda nodded. “I was surprised. She’d said the night before she wasn’t planning to go.”

“Did she say why she wanted to talk to Lauren?”

“No.”

“You didn’t ask?”

“I didn’t want to pry.”

“Do you know the Walchers?”

“Andrea, Lauren’s mother, comes into the store sometimes.” She looked down. “She pretends she doesn’t know who I am.”

“So you haven’t talked to any of Sara’s friends since...”

“Even if I wanted to I couldn’t. Their parents have locked them down tight. That’s my point.”

Georgia cocked her head.

“The hazing. It was a such a brutal... savage act. Throwing a bucket of fish guts on her head? Threatening her with a baseball bat? Can you imagine the hatred they must have had toward my daughter? And then, when you realize the same thing happened two years ago, and several girls went to the ER, well, I just don’t understand. Why didn’t anyone anticipate it could happen again? Why didn’t the school prevent it?”

“They did forbid it.”

Melinda shook her head violently. “No. They issued an edict. Then they buried their heads in the sand, and prayed like hell it wouldn’t happen again. Can you imagine the stupidity? Where were the counselors? The social workers? No one, not the school, not the parents, ever tried to get to the bottom of it. No one took the responsibility to make sure a child would never be hurt from this—this...” Her voice cracked, and she didn’t finish her sentence. “My daughter paid the price for their—incompetence.”

“Are you saying you think one of the girls killed Sara?”

“I don’t know who killed Sara. Maybe it was that... excuse for a man they found in the woods. Maybe it wasn’t. The problem is I don’t think we’re ever going to find out. Everything’s ‘solved’. Done. That’s what’s driving me crazy. I need to know the truth. And I don’t think I’m gonna get it.” Tears rimmed her eyes.

Georgia waited until she pulled herself together. “Mrs. Long, would you mind if I looked at Sara’s room?”

She looked at her watch. “I don’t know. It’s almost five—”

“I’ll be fast.”

“The police were here, you know. They took her laptop and her cell phone. It was one of those camera phones. She just bought it.” After everything she’d endured, Melinda’s voice still held touch of pride. “You won’t take anything...”

“Of course not.”

Melinda hesitated, then stood and led Georgia down a hall. Sara’s room was the second on the right. It felt as oppressive as the rest of the house. Wallpaper teeming with tiny flowers. A double bed. A bureau with several drawers open, a closet with a bi-fold door.

“I haven’t been able to go through her things,” Melinda said, her voice raw.

When Georgia opened the closet door, she was greeted by a pile of clothes on the floor. She rummaged through shorts, tank tops, halters, and high-heeled sandals. She checked the shoes. Manolo. Then she moved to the bureau. Two pairs of Guess jeans. More tops, some of them glittery and revealing. A price tag was still attached to one: Fifty-nine ninety five. Opening the bottom drawer, she found a large mint green purse. The label said Marc Jacobs. Next to it was a digital camera and an iPod. She closed the drawers. Sara must have made a lot of lattes.

“Do you remember if Sara took her cell phone to the Forest Preserve?”

“No. It was here on her bureau when the police came.”

Georgia wondered if the police had checked the call log on the cell. If so, it would have been in the discovery documents, but she hadn’t seen anything. Which either meant they hadn’t checked it or they hadn’t gotten the log back yet. Knowing Robby Parker, she’d bet on the former.

Georgia turned around. “Okay, Mrs. Long, I think that about wraps it up. Thank you. I know this wasn’t easy.”

Melinda stepped heavily back down the hall. Georgia followed her back to the living room.

“How was Sara doing in school?”

“She had a B average. Mostly level three classes. Which was good considering how much she worked. Truth was, between her work schedule and ours, we didn’t see that much of her.”

“She always did her homework?”

“She had a couple of free periods at school. She did her homework there.”

“Who was her advisor?” Georgia recalled that Newfield girls shared the same advisor during all four years of high school. Advisors were teachers who met with small groups of students before class every morning. With over three thousand students at Newfield, daily advisories were like homeroom, designed to give students a sense of belonging to something.

“Ms. Beaumont. Jill. Teaches social studies. Nice woman. She’s called a couple of times.” Melinda faced Georgia. “Tell me. What are you looking for? You obviously think the guy they arrested didn’t do it.”

Georgia weighed her response. “I do know that Cam Jordan is not considered a violent man. And while he is a registered sex offender, his offenses never involved direct physical contact with anyone. I also know his sister is convinced he didn’t do it. And that Jeff Ramsey seems to be rushing this through the courts.”

“Ramsey,” Melinda said. “He’s the prosecutor, isn’t he?”

Georgia nodded.

Melinda tugged on a lock of hair. “If it turns out this man didn’t kill Sara, if it turns out that the girls—that this idiotic hazing was responsible—you’re going to hear about it. I know a few parents sued the school two years ago when it first happened, but believe me, that’s nothing compared to what I’ll do if that—that caused my baby’s death. This has got to be stopped. Once and for all. No parent should ever have to go through— to suffer like us. It’s—”

A key rattled the front door. The door opened, and a male voice called out, “Mel, whose car is in the driveway?”

Melinda went to her husband, a stocky, tired-looking man somewhere in his forties. As she explained who Georgia was, the lines on his forehead deepened. He brushed by his wife and planted himself in front of Georgia. “I don’t know if this is a good idea. I don’t think we should be talking to you.”

“Jerry,” Melinda pleaded. “We talked about this possibility. It’s not so far-fetched. Please listen.”

Jerry shook his head. “If you’re working for Cam Jordan, we have nothing to say to you. Our daughter is dead. Someone has got to pay.”

“But what if they have the wrong person?” Georgia asked.

“No. We’re not going there.” He placed his hand on her arm and guided her toward the door. “It’s time for you to leave.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

LAUREN COULD always tell when her parents argued. There were no screams or shouts; her parents didn’t yell. Instead a frigid hostility would permeate the air, like some unseen but deadly toxin. Her mother, the ice queen, had perfected the technique. She could rip your insides out with a few wintry words, then turn around and talk to a stranger on the phone, all warm and honey charm.

Her father was either too gutless or indifferent to stand up to her. Lauren had only heard him raise his voice once in sixteen years, and it had been at her, when she rode her bike into the side of his new Porsche and scratched the paint. Even then, she suspected the only reason he got so pissed was because her mother was.

She closed the door to her room, a little surprised her parents were home together at the same time. That didn’t happen often. She went to her iPod and turned it on. Sarah McLachlan poured her heart out from the speakers. Her father said the singer reminded him of Linda Ronstadt and Bonnie Raitt. Lauren tried not to focus on McLachlan’s first name.

***

A Sunday night in February. Lauren was twelve, and her parents were in Acapulco—they went to Mexico every winter for ten days. The Walchers’ live-in housekeeper took care of Lauren while they were gone: cooking, cleaning, making sure she got to school. It was usually a quiet week, boring even, except when Uncle Fred took her to dinner.

That evening the doorbell rang promptly at six. Lauren skipped down the stairs and opened the door. Uncle Fred, a burly, bearish man with gray hair curling at the temples, gave her a cheerful hug. Tonight they were going to a Chinese restaurant in Wilmette, and Sara was coming with them. Lauren directed him to Sara’s house, feeling very adult when Uncle Fred complimented her for knowing the way.

Sara was waiting in front of her house. She climbed into the back seat of the Pontiac and leaned her arms on the back of the front seat. They chattered about last week’s episode of “Friends,” the new movie with Brad Pitt, the basketball game their middle school team won against their archenemy. Then Sara handed Lauren a sweater she’d borrowed.

“Oh, just keep it,” Lauren said. “I have plenty of others.”

Sara shook her head. “My mom says I have to give it back.”

Lauren shrugged and took the sweater.

At the restaurant, they sat at a table with a white tablecloth. Uncle Fred let them order whatever they wanted, and they splurged on egg roll, sweet and sour pork, chicken chow mein, and ice cream for dessert. They tried to put on their best manners and act mature, but when the main course came, Sara started giggling at something Lauren said and couldn’t stop. That made Lauren giggle, too, and for the rest of the meal both girls erupted into periodic gales of laughter.

Uncle Fred, who was unmarried and had no children of his own, smiled but looked slightly puzzled, as if he wasn’t sure what sort of species twelve-year-old girls were. Still, he gave them both his arm on the way out, and told them he’d never dined with such pleasant company. That prompted more peals of laughter.

Sara told her afterwards Lauren was lucky. She wished she had an Uncle Fred.

***

Lauren roused herself with a start. She must have dozed off. She pushed away the wispy memories and checked the time. Shit. She needed to catch up with Derek. They had to talk.

She got up and shuffled into the bathroom. Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she dug some dark lip gloss out of her cosmetics drawer and applied it carefully, resisting the urge to smack her lips. Next she pulled on her black Armani sweatshirt she’d worn last night. It still smelled of Black Cashmere. She loved the musky, cinnamon tang. Then she wriggled into a new pair of Joe’s Jeans, the ones with the embroidery up and down the legs. Her long, dark hair lay straight today. Her zits were under control, too. All in all, not bad.

She checked the time again. Thursday night at the mall was tricky. You couldn’t be sure about the crowds. People were gearing up for the weekend, buying a last minute pair of shoes or pants or just hanging out at the Food Court. Derek would be there; it was one of their regular haunts. Plus, she was hungry. She couldn’t have cared less about the lobster bisque and chicken salad her mother brought home. She needed real food. Corner Bakery, maybe. Or Johnny Rocket’s.

Before leaving, she checked her e-mail. She’d checked an hour ago, but you had to keep on top of things. It had been easy to set up. Everyone, especially girls, thought you had to be a geek to do it. Not true. She clicked on her email program. Nothing new.

She was just shutting down when she heard the crunch of tires on the gravel. She went to her window and looked out onto the driveway. A car was rolling up to the house. In the fading light, she didn’t recognize it. For a split second, she panicked. Derek wouldn’t come here. She’d forbidden it. Then she remembered he didn’t drive a Toyota, and now that the car had stopped, she could see that’s what it was.

It seemed to take forever, but finally the driver climbed out. A woman. Blond hair pulled back. Wearing jeans and a blazer. The woman came around to the front of her car and looked uncertainly in both directions. The kitchen door was only a few feet away, but she trudged to the front door.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE WALCHER home—or was it a mansion— stood at the top of a rise that overlooked Lake Michigan. At the moment the water was calm, Georgia noted, almost glassy, but the lake was as fickle as a teenager and could change quickly.

The house had three stories, but the front, a sandy shade of granite, was a monolithic façade like one of those modern museums. A thick grove of trees just now starting to turn provided a natural barrier between the home and the street. She pulled into a driveway shaped like a lower case “h” and parked at the top. The front door occupied the rounded part of the “h.” She walked around.

Three circular concrete slabs, each one higher than the other, bridged a small fishpond at the front entrance. Glimpses of orange and silver flashed in the water. She moved to the side of an enormous wooden door and rang the bell.

A series of musical notes echoed in ever quieter pools of sound. Georgia shuffled her feet. In the past her badge, her weapon, and her uniform had given her instant credibility. Now she had nothing, except her wits.

The tall, thin woman who opened the door was dressed in black crepe pants and a beige shirt. Her dark hair was cut short above her ears, which sported gold hoops. Her angular face and pronounced cheekbones were softened by age and a flawless makeup job. She wasn’t a beauty, but with her dark gypsy looks she was exotic, and she carried herself like she knew it.

Georgia fastened one of the buttons on her blazer. “Good evening, Mrs. Walcher. My name is Georgia Davis.” She peered into a pair of dark, suspicious eyes.

“I thought they said seven-thirty.”

“Pardon me?”

“Seven thirty. You’re from the school, aren’t you?” The eyebrows above the dark eyes rose into perfectly formed arches.

Someone from the school was coming here? Georgia flashed back to her conversation with Rachel. Counselors and social workers were making home visits to help students cope with Sara’s death. She took in Mrs. Walcher’s hauteur, the icy expression. This might be her only chance to interview the girl about Sara Long. She sucked in a breath and made a split decision.

“Um, is this a bad time? I was only a few blocks away...”

The woman’s arched eyebrows were replaced by an irritated look down her nose. “I suppose we might as well get it over with.” She turned around and called down a long hall with a cold-looking marble floor. “Tom, Lauren’s social worker is here. I know it’s early, but we’re both here, and so is Lauren.”

Georgia felt her stomach knot. What was she doing? She’d never get away with it.

“Certainly,” a voice boomed. “Andrea, let the poor woman in.”

As Andrea Walcher opened the door, a man with a broad but curiously flat face that looked too large for his body joined her. His blond hair was parted on the side. Ruddy cheeks framed small eyes and a weak chin. But he was tall and well built, and he wore jeans and a soft-looking green shirt which made him appear younger and less formal than his wife. “I’m Tom Walcher.” He smiled. “You’re from Newfield?”

Georgia remembered Cam Jordan’s social worker. The weary self-importance. The officious manner. She drew herself up. “Georgia Davis.” She sighed and faked another smile.

Walcher smiled back, but it failed to reach his eyes. “Come in.”

Andrea Walcher gazed coolly at her husband.

Georgia stepped inside. Walcher led her into the living room, a huge space with a sunken floor, a thick white carpet over which lay oriental rugs, and a giant picture window. Through the window Georgia saw woods that ended precipitously at a rocky bluff. Rachel had told her there was a pool and a guest house, but they must have been on the other side of the property, because the only thing in front of the window was a bricked patio with a built-in barbecue pit and grill. A pair of tongs and oven mitts lay next to the grill.

A sudden memory of ribs, smoking in an open pit on a hot summer day came over Georgia. Picnic tables loaded with bowls of slaw and corn-bread. Peaches too. Bushels of fresh peaches. “We named you for them, darling,” a musical voice was saying. “But you’re sweeter and pinker and softer.”

“Can I get you something to drink?” Tom Walcher walked around the room, turning on lamps. As the reflection of the lights popped up in the picture window, the view outside dimmed. Georgia forced herself back. The contrast between the Walcher home and Sara Long’s was dramatic. None of the trinkets, sentimental objects, and framed photos she’d seen at the Longs’. The Walcher home felt sterile.

She cleared her throat. “Please, don’t go to any trouble. I—I just wanted to check up on Lauren.”

Andrea Walcher stayed at the entrance to the sunken living room, her arms crossed. Yet her husband seemed to be extending himself to be gracious. Were they playing her? Or just astonishingly dysfunctional?

“Andrea?” Walcher held out his hand to his wife. She took two steps down, but remained at the edge of the oriental rug, her foot poised on the fringe.

“Please, sit down,” Walcher motioned. “You must be as tired as we are. You’re sure you don’t want something?”

“No thank you.” Georgia sat stiffly on a nubby beige sofa with thick cushions. “How has Lauren been? Since the—Sara died?”

Walcher’s face turned solemn, and he clasped his hands together, almost prayer-like. “Well, it’s been—”

“Actually, she’s been fine,” Andrea cut in.

Walcher gave a little sigh and continued. “We all like to put a good face on things, especially Andrea.” He glanced over. “But that’s not altogether true. Sara and Lauren were close friends. This has been a very difficult time for her. Especially on top of her uncle’s death.”

“I’m sorry,” Georgia said. “I didn’t know...”

Walcher nodded. “We’re all—well, we’re all under a good deal of stress.” He looked over at Andrea. Was he apologizing for his wife’s behavior? She glared at him. “But Lauren’s strong. She’ll make it. We’re planning to take her to a therapist.”

Georgia heard an intake of breath from Andrea.

“And, thankfully, the legal wrangling seems to be moving along.” Walcher went on. “I’m a lawyer myself, and I know what legal sparring in the midst of grief is like.”

“Are you involved in the case?”

“No.” He unclasped his hands and leaned his elbows on the back of one of the wingback chairs. “I’m—well, let’s just say I know the players involved.” A trace of self-importance curled his lip.

Did that mean Jeff Ramsey? Were they “buddies?” Georgia wanted to follow up, but she was supposed to be a social worker from the school. Social workers didn’t ask about murder investigations. She leaned back against the couch. Tom Walcher was continuing to play the genial host, but there was something disingenuous about him. And his wife was an arctic wind. What would they do if they realized she wasn’t the person they thought? She should never have come. Too late now. She dug her thumb nail into her index finger and squeezed. “May I talk to Lauren?”

Walcher gestured. “Of course.” He turned to Andrea. “Would you get her, dear?”

Andrea didn’t move. Walcher shot her a questioning look. When Andrea still didn’t move, he moved past her toward the stairs and called out. “Lauren, sweetie. Could you come down for a minute?”

There was no response.

Walcher flashed Georgia an embarrassed smile. “Her door must be closed. I’ll get her.” He started up the stairs.

The few moments she was alone with Andrea Walcher seemed interminable. The woman leveled her with a suspicious look and made no attempt at chitchat. The message was clear: “You don’t belong here, I don’t like you, and I won’t do anything to make it easier.” Georgia’s pulse throbbed against her temple.

At length a noise at the top of the steps distracted her, and a girl’s voice shouted defiantly, “No. I don’t have time.”

A two-way mumble followed, and while Georgia couldn’t catch the words, the girl’s defiance became a whine, and eventually an exasperated, “Oh, all right.” Feet shuffled down the stairs, and Lauren Walcher spilled into the room.

The girl was a younger version of her mother, but with sharper features. Tall for her age, and slim, she had hair the same dark shade as Andrea’s, but longer and thicker. Like her mother, she dressed in clothes that flattered her body. And looked expensive. Lauren’s expression was just as suspicious as her mother’s, and when she saw Georgia, her eyes narrowed.

“Who are you? Where’s Beaumont?”

“What are you talking about, Lauren?” Andrea said. “She’s your counselor from school.”

“I’ve never seen her before. She doesn’t work at Newfield.”

Before Andrea could react, Georgia jumped in. “That’s true. I’ve been brought in as a private counselor. I work in Evanston.” It wasn’t a complete lie.

“Why would they do that?” Lauren’s tone was belligerent. “You didn’t know Sara.”

“Right again,” Georgia said. “But sometimes that can work to your advantage. I’m not bringing any baggage. And I do know how to work with people in crisis.” She gave Lauren the hint of a smile. “It’s my job.” That wasn’t so far from the truth either.

Lauren looked at her watch. “I only have a few minutes. I’m going out.”

“Where?” Her mother asked.

“Just out.” She turned a chilly voice to her mother. “You said to be home by seven thirty. It’s not even five.”

Andrea shrugged in Georgia’s direction. “That was before she showed up.”

If only she could get the girl alone. Georgia turned to Walcher, who had followed his daughter back downstairs. “Would it be okay if Lauren and I talked privately?”

A glance passed between the adults, then Walcher answered. “Normally, I wouldn’t hesitate. But in this case...” he threw his hand over his daughter’s shoulder. “... there’s been so much pressure. I don’t want Lauren to be burdened any more than she already is. I’m sure you understand.”

Georgia struggled to maintain a calm facade. “I do.” She prayed the words that came out of her mouth next sounded convincing. “But it’s hard for me to do my job if Lauren doesn’t feel comfortable and safe. She needs to know she’s not being measured or judged. Which is my goal. As a lawyer, sir, I’m sure you understand.”

Walcher got up and turned on another lamp, which threw a yellow pool of light into the room. It wasn’t totally dark outside, but the reflections of the four of them in the picture window obscured the view. “I do.” He smiled. “But my decision stands.”

Skirmish over. Walcher wins.

Georgia faked another smile. Andrea turned around and left the room. Lauren slouched in one of the wingback chairs. Throwing a jeaned leg over the arm, she swung it back and forth, as if she couldn’t be less interested in the conversation.

Georgia bypassed the preliminaries. “I know there were—difficulties—with Sara and some of her friends. Which might have played a role in what happened in the Forest Preserve.” She cleared her throat.

Lauren glanced at her father. “I don’t think I should be talking about that. With you.”

“Actually, I have no interest in that part of it. My concerns right now are just you girls. You. Heather. And Claire.”

Lauren didn’t say anything. Her leg continued to swing back and forth.

“There can often be a lot of embedded guilt after an experience like this. I want to make sure you know you did nothing to cause it.”

Lauren eyed her.

“Guilt can be the most destructive part of grief. If you are feeling it, I want you to feel free to own it, with me, your therapist, or anyone of your choosing.”

“I don’t feel guilty.” Lauren’s chin lifted. “And my parents are getting me a therapist.”

“I’m glad.” Georgia paused. “So the information I have isn’t true?”

“What information?”

Tom Walcher perched on the end of the sofa. He reminded Georgia of a tiger preparing to attack by feigning disinterest in its prey.

“That Sara came to the Forest Preserve specifically to talk to you.”

Lauren’s leg stopped swinging. A stunned look came over her.

Just then Georgia heard a voice from the kitchen. “Thank you. No, we’ll take care of it.” The phone was put down. Footsteps clacked, and Andrea Walcher came into the living room. All the way in, this time. Planting herself in front of the picture window, she glared at Georgia. “I just called Newfield. They haven’t hired any free-lance social workers, and they’ve never heard of anyone named Georgia Davis. Which means you’re impersonating someone you’re not.”

Georgia gulped air.

“So, who the hell are you and what do you want?”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

ON THE way home, Georgia felt like counting her fingers and toes to make sure they were still there. When Andrea Walcher confronted her, she confessed she was a private investigator working for Cam Jordan. Tom Walcher’s face turned crimson, and he told her to get the hell out of their house. He also vowed to make Goddamned sure she never worked anywhere in the state if he ever found her within a hundred yards of their daughter. He would get a restraining order if he had to. Or take her to court.

She made a speedy exit.

Heading south on Sheridan Road, she slammed her fist on the steering wheel. She’d known it was risky. Why the hell did she do it? Now she had two enemies, and if Walcher followed through on his threats, she might be in deep shit. Particularly since Walcher implied he and Ramsey were pals. What would happen if word got back to the State’s Attorney about her “visit”? What would that do to Kelly? Or Cam? She’d screwed up. Big time.

She cut across to Green Bay Road and parked at the Jewel. Inside she pushed her grocery cart through the aisles. Although food was the last thing on her mind, she grabbed milk, lettuce, bread, and eggs. Then she browsed the pre-cooked foods and threw a pizza in her cart. She didn’t want to go out, and she certainly didn’t have the energy to go to Mickey’s. She paid for her groceries, headed back to her car, and threw the bags in the back seat.

The liquor store was only a block away. This had been one shitty day. Maybe she should stop in.

She was steering the cart into the cart corral when she felt a presence at her back. Her senses went on alert. It was practically dark, and the shadows in and around the parking lot were deep enough to shelter someone. Great. Getting mugged would be a fitting end to this day. Then instinct kicked in. Pretending not to notice anything, she tightened her grip on the cart’s handlebar. With any luck, the attacker would hold off long enough for her to swing the cart out of the corral and launch it toward his groin. Then she would run like hell. Slowly, she started to back the cart out of the corral.

“Hey!” A voice said.

Georgia whipped the cart around, her hands curled into fists, prepared to let the cart fly.

“Wait! No. Don’t!” A girl’s voice.

Georgia froze.

Lauren Walcher emerged from the shadows, waving her arms.

Georgia took a deep breath. Her stomach slowly descended to its proper place. “What—what the hell are you doing here?”

“I followed you.”

“All the way from Glencoe? Why?”

“I want to talk.”

She steered the car back into the corral. “Do your parents know you’re here?”

“Of course not.”

Georgia loosened her grip on the cart. The adrenaline flowing through her began to ebb. “You realize they’d probably lock you up if they found out.”

“No, they wouldn’t.” She shrugged. “I’d just tell them that you waited for me outside the house and forced me go with you.”

Georgia gazed at Lauren. This girl had balls.

Lauren shot Georgia a condescending smile, trotted over to her Land Rover, and levered herself up on the hood. “Here’s the thing. Sara was my friend. If that psycho didn’t do it, I want to know who did.”

Georgia had gotten nothing from Lauren at her house. Her presence here was a gift. Matt used to say never look a gift horse in the mouth— just be careful it’s not a Trojan. She followed Lauren to the Land Rover. “What makes you think he didn’t do it?”

“You tell me.” Lauren crossed one leg over the other.

A sodium vapor light high above them crackled and buzzed. “Why don’t you tell me about Sara’s problems with her friends?”

“What problems?”

“No more games,” Georgia said. “What did Sara want to talk to you about in the Forest Preserve?”

“What are you talking about?” Lauren asked uneasily.

“Come on, Lauren. Her mother told me she was coming to the Forest Preserve to see you. Why?”

The girl shrugged but didn’t say anything.

Georgia forced herself to stay patient. “She didn’t leave a message on your cell? Or text message?”

Lauren jiggled her foot. “No.”

Georgia couldn’t tell if she was lying. “So you have no idea what she wanted?”

“Nope.” Lauren’s foot continued to jiggle.

“You sure it had nothing to do with her... activities?”

She looked up. Her foot stopped jiggling. “What activities?”

“Claire Tennenbaum told me that Sara had a tendency to—well, let’s say she was very curious about other people’s business.”

“Oh, that.” Lauren’s shoulders relaxed. “Claire couldn’t keep anything straight if her life depended on it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Claire is sweet, but she’s as dumb as a plate.”

“So what she said isn’t true?”

“I never saw Sara do anything like that.” But she wouldn’t meet Georgia’s eyes.

“Lauren, when I was your age, I remember thinking that a real friend was someone who kept my secrets. Who would never tell anyone what I said or did. But I realize now that isn’t always true. Sometimes you’re a more responsible friend if you do tell someone those secrets. Especially if it helps us discover why she was killed.” She paused. “Are you sure there’s nothing you want to tell me?”

Lauren hesitated for just a fraction of a second. It was enough.

“Lauren?”

The girl fingered a leather band around her neck. A silver charm attached to it flashed in the orange glow of the sodium vapor light.

Georgia prodded gently. “Did Sara have any secrets she didn’t want people to know?”

Lauren ran a tongue around her lips.

“Something that involved other people?”

The girl stared at her. Then she dropped her hand from the necklace and swung herself down from the hood of her car. She cleared her throat. “Sara was going out with somebody’s boyfriend. Last summer. There were bad feelings about that.”

“What boy? Whose boyfriend?”

“It didn’t last, but that wasn’t Sara’s fault.” Lauren started talking faster. “I mean, she was hot. Guys liked her. You can’t do much about that.”

“Who was the boy?” Georgia crossed her arms. Lauren cut her eyes to the ground.

“Okay. Who was the girl?” Georgia asked.

“Look, I’ve got to go. Maybe you’re right. I shouldn’t have followed you here.” She dug out her keys from her pocket and unlocked the Land Rover.

“Lauren...”

She opened the door and climbed up into the front seat. “Monica Ramsey,” she said softly.

“The daughter of the State’s Attorney?” Georgia’s arms dropped to her sides.

She nodded.

“And Monica Ramsey was in the Forest Preserve the day Sara was killed.”

“Yes,” she said, as if the thought had just come to her. “She was there.”

***

Georgia was lugging the groceries up to her apartment thinking about families and friendship and secrets when she heard the fight.

“I don’t care what you said. It doesn’t mean shit.” A woman’s voice. Georgia stopped and looked up, as if she expected see angry words stabbing the air.

“What do you want from me, Sheila?” A man’s voice. Controlled. But tense.

“I want you to come home.”

“Not after what happened. It’s not going to work. It’s over.”

“Why can’t you forgive me?” Her voice again. “I made a mistake, okay? A bad mistake.”

“For two years?” His voice spiked. Georgia cringed. She could hear the rawness and pain.

“You’re a sanctimonious prick, you know that?”

“Get out, Sheila. Now.”

Footsteps pounded on the floor. Georgia fumbled her key into the lock. She let herself in just as the door upstairs opened.

“You’ll regret this.”

“Goodbye, Sheila.”

The door slammed, and footsteps clomped down the steps. Georgia quietly closed her door.

***

Lauren checked the rear view mirror as she drove to the Mall. Ever since Sara was killed, Lauren had started to look over her shoulder, worrying that someone was watching her. Even the arrest of the freak in the woods hadn’t stopped the feeling. She kept remembering The Ring, the movie that came out a few years ago. Once you watched a certain video, you died seven days later. Okay, it was just a trashy movie. But the thought that someone might—just might—be setting her up the way they did in The Ring was creepy.

No. She was just on edge. Stressed out. No one was after her. Sara was killed by a psycho. That’s what the police said. So did everyone else. The guy was a registered sex offender, for Christ’s sake. So why was this private investigator asking so many questions? Lauren had given her Monica Ramsey. Sent her off on a wild goose chase. Maybe she would leave her alone. The less anyone knew, the better.

Lauren gripped the wheel. She was tired. Weary. Why was she doing everything herself? Wasn’t this supposed to be the time of her life? The bloom of the young rose and all that other crap her father handed down?

“You’re young, white, rich, and gorgeous. Spread your wings.”

Sure, Dad. Like you’d know how to do that. Although compared to the ice queen, he might have a trick or two up his sleeve. Still, nothing ever stopped the ache in her heart each time she thought about her family. She felt like they’d lost something important. Which was weird. How could you lose something you never had?

She parked the Land Rover and hurried into the mall. She spotted Derek as soon as she reached the main promenade. He was lounging on a bench outside Bath and Body Works, thumbing through the pages of one of those graphic novels. Nothing but a stupid comic book, except it cost as much as a CD. Still, she knew why he was carrying it, and it wasn’t a bad prop. She crept up behind him. He looked like he was deep into the book, but she knew he sensed her presence. That was part of the come-on. Don’t act too interested.

“Hey, dude.” She walked around to the front of the bench.

Derek Janowitz looked up. His nose was sharp, and his lips were thin, giving him a haughty expression. He wasn’t that big, but he was a wrestler, and his body was wiry and strong. His best features were his eyes, deep pools of blue that seemed to burrow straight into your soul. It was only skin deep, of course. What did he know about compassion or wisdom? But more times than not, it worked—he got plenty of second glances.

“Whassup?” He put the book down and fiddled with the leather band around his neck. It was similar to the necklace Lauren wore.

“We gotta talk.”

“I’m busy, in case you didn’t notice. Can’t it wait?”

A spit of annoyance shot through Lauren. “No. It can’t.”

He slouched on the bench. “So talk.”

She snuck a look around. A large woman and a teenage boy sat on a bench across from them. The boy looked as if he’d rather be anywhere else in the world than with his mother. But the woman kept her eyes pinned on Derek. Holy shit! She had to be at least forty, and she was ogling him.

“Not here.” Lauren scowled. “Follow me.”

She walked back to the escalator and headed up to the food court, checking over her shoulder to make sure he was following. When she got to Auntie Anne’s, she scooped up a couple of samples on the counter and popped them in her mouth. Asiago cheese. She stopped at a dimly lit table in the back of the food stalls and sat down. A combination of greasy Chinese food smells, pizza and fresh baked cookies drifted over.

Derek joined her a few seconds later. “So, what’s the deal?”

Lauren clasped her hands together. “We have a problem.”

“What now?” He sighed, but she picked up the irritation in his voice.

“No. This is serious.”

“That’s what you said last week, when—”

“That was different. I dealt with it. Not that you were much help.”

“Right,” he scoffed. “You wouldn’t have even known about it without me.”

He was right, but she glared at him anyway. He was starting to tick her off. Claiming she couldn’t get along without him. That she needed him more than he needed her. Were all men like that, or was it just Derek? Her father had his faults, but he didn’t put people down all the time. At least not around her.

Derek raised his palm in a so-what gesture.

“A private eye is working Sara’s case.”

A startled look came over him. “How do you know?”

“She came to the house today. Tried to impersonate a shrink.”

Derek’s eyebrows shot up. “She?”

“Name’s Georgia Davis. Said she was a social worker. Turned out she wasn’t.”

“No shit.”

“You know her?”

“Naw. But a chick. That’s pretty tight.”

Lauren shrugged. “It did take balls. But it’s not good. I had a little talk with her afterwards.”

Derek focused on something behind Lauren, as if intent on some inner thought. She’d been through a range of possibilities on the way over but didn’t have any answers. She certainly didn’t expect Derek to have any. He’d dropped out of high school last year. She wasn’t with him because of his smarts.

She twisted around to see what he was staring at. A tall, thin blonde was passing behind her. She was hot but had on too much makeup. The girl favored Derek with a smile. Derek smiled back.

Lauren snapped. “Not now, asshole!”

Derek flicked his eyes back. He was pissed. Good. At least the smugness was gone.

Derek leaned forward. “How much does this Davis know?”

“She knows Sara came to the Forest Preserve to talk to me.”

“She did?” Derek looked interested. “What did she want?”

“I don’t know. I never got a chance to find out.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed into slits. “I thought you knew everything.”

“Well, compared to some people...”

His eyes turned nasty. She should back off. She continued. “Listen. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t need your help. I tried to sidetrack her, and I think I did. But we need to make sure. Think, okay? Has there been any-thing—well, strange—on your end?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. People asking too many questions? Saying weird things?”

His gaze turned calculating. “You mean besides Sara?”

Lauren ignored the crack. “You know what I mean.”

He slouched in his chair, his brow furrowed. After a long moment, he shook his head. “I don’t like it.”

“Me neither.” Lauren said. A throng of noisy teenagers suddenly appeared and commandeered the table beside them. She had to raise her voice to be heard. “What should we do?”

“Lemme think about it.” He sat up, throwing a withering look toward the boys at the table. One of the boys threw an equally withering look back. Keeping his eye on the boy, Derek added, “But I’ll tell you one thing not to do.”

She glanced at the boy Derek had confronted. He looked younger, maybe about fourteen, but he glared at Derek like he was spoiling for a fight. Why did men always have to stake out their turf? All that testosterone with nowhere to go. “What?”

“Stop looking so freaked.”

“You think I’m scared?” When he didn’t answer, she shook her head. “You really do have delusions of grandeur.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed. “Delusions of what?”

She gestured to the comic book. “You’d know if you ever picked up a real book.”

“I don’t need books for the kind of work I do.”

“Fuck it, Derek. You work in a gas station.”

“I know what people want and how far they’re willing to go to get it.”

Lauren almost rose to the bait, but something inside told her this wasn’t the right time. She took a deep breath. “Just be careful, okay?”

“Always am.” He scooted the chair back. “Time to get back.”

She nodded. She’d have to be satisfied with that. “Anything new?”

“Maybe. If you hadn’t screwed it up.”

She looked at her watch. “I have time. I could stick around.”

“No way. I’m cool. Go home and jump into that fancy hot tub of yours. Let the water chill you out.”

Pity he didn’t know what a mixed metaphor was. It was a hundred and four degrees in her Jacuzzi.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CRISP MORNING sunlight angled through the car window, highlighting the steam rising from Georgia’s coffee. She watched it dissipate into tendrils of fog. She was parked a few houses away from Jeff Ramsey’s home in Winnetka. A rehabbed Victorian on a quiet street off Willow, the house was large but not showy, and it blended well with the other homes on the block. She was surprised—she’d expected him to live on one of the private roads in Winnetka that were little more than driveways. She was grateful he didn’t. It would have been tough to stake out.

She checked her watch. Barely seven. She didn’t have to be here, but she felt more in control of a case when she could ID the people involved. Not that she ascribed motives to people based on their looks—people were consummate actors—but she liked to watch how they carried themselves, whether they looked you in the eye, how they interacted with others. And since she had no reason to contact the Ramseys directly and probably wouldn’t get through if she tried, this was the best she could do.

She riffled through the pages she’d printed out last night. Thanks to Google and Kroll, a security company with a huge electronic database that she could access for a fee, she now had solid background on Jeff Ramsey. Raised in the New Jersey suburbs; graduated fourth in his high school class. Had a scholarship to Penn—the Wharton School—but majored in political science. Ended up at Columbia Law, where he met his wife, Janet. Worked his way through law school—at least partially—playing the piano at private parties and corporate events. Clerked for a federal judge in New York, then got hired by the DA’s office where he emerged as a star trial lawyer with an impressive won-lost record. Came to Chicago four years ago in one of Daley’s sweeps to find fresh talent.

His wife Janet was a lawyer, too, although she didn’t practice. She was the Executive Director of the North Shore seniors organization. She was also active in local politics, and there were rumors she planned to run for the Village Caucus. Monica was their only child.

Two ambitious overachievers in one house. That could put stress on a marriage. Not to mention a teenage daughter.

The front door to the house swung open, and a man with wavy brown hair falling over his forehead came out. Georgia glanced down at the photo she’d printed out. Ramsey. He was followed by a young girl in jeans and a pink sweat shirt.

Monica was about five-four. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She hoisted a backpack on her shoulder and started down a bricked path to the street. She stopped when Ramsey called out to her. Georgia rolled down her window hoping to catch his words. She was still too far away, but Monica nodded, threw him a kiss, and proceeded to a red Honda Civic in front of the house. Wide-eyed, with a pug nose and bow-shaped lips, she was pretty in a fresh, wholesome way. She looked sweet, too. Not like someone who might club another girl over the head with a baseball bat. Then again, Ted Bundy had been a handsome charmer who walked with a cane.

Monica slid into the Honda, and Ramsey cut across the grass to the garage. He was average height and wore a blue pinstripe suit and a red tie, and he walked with an easy, charged grace. Georgia’s throat suddenly went dry. He walked the way Matt did. It had made her smile, Matt’s walk—until the day she watched him walk away from her.

Ramsey watched his daughter drive off, then raised the garage door and climbed into a silver Beamer. He backed out of the driveway and disappeared around the corner. Georgia considered hanging around to check out Janet Ramsey but decided it could wait. She finished her coffee, pitched the cup on the floor, and started her car. As she doubled back to Hibbard, she punched in Kelly’s number on her cell. It was still early, and she reached his voice mail. Rather than leave a message, she hung up and headed for the gym.

She reached him after her workout.

“Kelly.” His morning voice was thin and gravelly.

“Hi, Paul. This is Georgia Davis.”

“I didn’t know if I’d hear from you again.”

“Hey. Does that mean you missed me?”

He groaned.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ I’ve been checking things out.”

He paused. “And?”

She told him about her interviews with Claire Tennenbaum and Melinda Long.

“How’d you get the Long woman to talk to you?” He sounded impressed.

She told him how she’d dropped into New Ideas and ended up at the woman’s house.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She told him about Melinda’s feelings about the speed of Cam’s indictment and the hazing.

Kelly muttered something under his breath.

“Excuse me?” she asked.

“Nothing.” He cleared his throat again.

Georgia let it go. “Her husband wasn’t as... open-minded.” She described how he’d come home from work and promptly asked her to leave.

“That’s more like it,” Kelly said. “Still, we might have some leverage. You think the mother’d testify for us?”

“I’d say it’s a long shot. She’s getting pressure from her husband to steer clear of us. I guess it depends on what else we find.” She told him about the expensive clothes in Sara’s closet. “I’m gonna talk to her boss at the bookstore just to confirm things. But that’s not the best part.”

“You got more?”

“Do I.” She told him about her visit to the Walcher home. “They weren’t cooperative.”

“Walcher? Who the hell are they?”

She explained the relationship between Lauren and Sara. “Of course, it might have been my fault.”

“Why?”

There was no sense keeping it from him—he’d find out eventually. She told him how she’d impersonated a social worker and had been caught.

“Why in hell did you do that?”

“It was kind of—well, it just happened. I didn’t plan it.”

“Sure you didn’t.”

“It’s true.” She wondered why she was defending herself. She didn’t have anything to prove to Paul Kelly. “I wanted to try to get something before they shut down.”

“Yeah, but showing up at their house under false pretenses? He could make trouble.”

“It wasn’t... that deliberate an action. It was more like taking advantage of an opportunity, but you’re right. It won’t happen again.”

Silence.

“I think we can work around it,” she added.

“We?”

Georgia kept her mouth shut.

“What do you want from me?” He sounded pained.

“Tom Walcher—the girl’s father—is a lawyer. He claims he’s not involved in the case. But I’d feel better knowing for sure. Could you check him out?”

More silence. Then, “Maybe.”

“Thanks.”

“Anything else?” He groused.

“As a matter of fact, there is.” She told him what she’d learned about Monica Ramsey. That Sara had apparently stolen someone’s boyfriend, possibly Monica Ramsey’s. That the Ramsey girl might have been in the Forest Preserve at the hazing. That she’d staked out the house.

“Hold on,” Kelly cut her off. “Are you saying the Ramsey girl might be involved in the Long girl’s murder?”

“I’m saying we ought to find out more about their relationship.”

“Whoa. Stop. Right now. What proof do you have that she was even in the Forest Preserve?”

“Two of the girls said so.”

“There was no mention of Monica Ramsey in the discovery documents.”

“That’s true, but—”

“So you’re going to take the word of a couple of teenagers?”

“I can get corroboration.”

“Jesus Christ. You can’t do this. I knew this was a bad idea. I should never have let Father Carroll talk me into—”

“You were ready to plead him out.” She reminded him. “Without any investigation.”

“I’m a lawyer. That’s what I do.”

“Send innocent people to prison?”

“Cut the drama, okay? We both knew this was a long shot from the get-go. Davis, you can’t go after Ramsey’s daughter. What are you gonna tell me next? That he covered up news of the hazing? That he’s railroading Jordan to protect his daughter?”

Georgia forced herself to stay calm. “I’m not going after anyone. I’m just following the evidence.”

“What evidence? Where?” Kelly’s voice was as sharp as a razor blade. “From where I sit, you’ve got nothing but gossip. Can’t even call it hearsay. It’s—you’re...” He sputtered. “Do you know what the State’s Attorney could—could do to me? And you?”

“I understand. But—”

“No. I don’t think you do. I could lose my license. You could never work again.”

“If that happens you’ll have the insurance business to fall back on.”

“Is that a joke?”

“Well, you don’t seem to be working the legal angles too hard.”

A cold silence followed. Then, “Back off the Ramsey girl, Davis. Even if she was in the Forest Preserve, there had to be twenty other girls there, too.”

“Paul, if there’s a chance any one of those twenty is implicated in the death of Sara Long, I need to follow it.”

She heard an exasperated sigh.

***

It was still early, and the aroma of roasting coffee coated the air inside the bookstore. Georgia sniffed her way to the café and bought a latte, hoping the milk would neutralize the acid eating away her stomach. She sipped her drink and looked around, trying not to feel intimidated. She’d never spent much time in bookstores. Her high school English teacher, a shriveled old nun who used to quote Shakespeare at the beginning of every class, tried her best to introduce Georgia to the world of literature. Sister Marion had waxed eloquent about the worlds that would open up to her through reading—except it never happened. Georgia had struggled just to make sense of the words. She found out later she’d been dyslexic: her brain didn’t want to read letters in the right order.

Now, she wandered over to the counter where a twenty-something guy with lots of earrings punched through his eyebrows was working the register. There was only one customer in line, a woman pushing a stroller. Georgia waited until the woman left. “Hi.”

The guy looked up from the register.

“Is the manager here?”

He pointed to the back of the store. “Back there.”

Georgia turned around. The store was as big as a football field. “Where?”

“That door marked ‘employees.’”

She nodded her thanks and made her way to the back, winding through stacks of books, mostly paperbacks. The dry, flat scent of paper replaced the smell of coffee. Had she missed something by not reading? Kids staffed stores like this. Did they know something she didn’t? Had they entered the secret world of literature? Or were they just here because it was cushier than McDonald’s?

She reached the employees’ door and knocked. Nothing. She knocked again. This time she heard a rustle, and the door opened. Another youngish man in a denim shirt and jeans stuck out his head.

“Are you the manager?”

“That’s right.” He looked harried.

“My name’s Georgia Davis. I’d like to ask you about one of your employees. Well, former employee.”

He frowned. “Yeah?”

“Sara Long. She worked at the café.”

He frowned for a moment. Then recognition lit his face. “The girl who got killed in the Forest Preserve.”

“That’s right.” Why did it take him so long to remember? Didn’t everyone at the store know about Sara’s murder?

He scrutinized Georgia more carefully. “Who are you?”

“Georgia Davis. I’m an investigator working the case. What’s your name?”

“Brian Pucinski.”

She noted it down. “Brian, her mother says she worked here pretty much every day after school and on weekends.”

A frown creased his brow. “She did?”

“Yes.” Georgia looked up.

“That’s weird.”

“Why?”

“I don’t think—well, let me check her file.”

“Good idea.”

He held the door open, and Georgia stepped into a cramped room filled with metal shelves from floor to ceiling. Each shelf was crammed with books or cardboard boxes full with books. Some lay flat, some were stacked vertically. More books were piled on the floor, and even more spilled onto counters and cabinets. If they were arranged in some order, Georgia didn’t catch it—except one that would give a non-book person claustrophobia. She took a breath.

Pucinski bent over a metal file cabinet and pulled out a manila folder. He paged through it slowly, then stopped. After scanning a sheet of paper, he lifted it out of the folder and nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

“What?”

“Sara hasn’t worked here in a while.”

“What’s a while?”

“She quit a long time ago.” He held up a sheet of paper. “It’s here on her sheet.”

“When?”

“Middle of April.” He passed her the sheet. “Last spring.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

SOMETHING WAS up. Something he wasn’t privy to. It could have happened before he signed on. Or maybe it just happened, and they were keeping him in the dark. He’d witnessed a flurry of private conversations between Lenny, the security chief and the guy who’d hired him, and his employer. He’d overheard a fragment of one— his boss demanding to know when they would move. Whatever was going had to be serious; his superior was more short-tempered and impatient than usual.

He figured they weren’t going to let him in on it, so he was surprised when Lenny came up to him while he was hosing down the Jag.

“Got a job for you.”

“Sure.”

“Surveillance.”

He looked up, twisted off the flow of water.

“With your experience, it should be a slam dunk. Assuming all those references you gave us weren’t bullshit.”

“You checked ‘em.”

“Umm.” Lenny hesitated, hands in his pockets, as if he was still deciding whether to give him the job. “I don’t have to tell you how important this is. You come through, you’re on your way up. You don’t, well...” The unsaid threat hung in the air.

He cleared his throat. “I won’t let you down.”

Lenny shot him a glance. “The target is a woman. A P.I. Used to be a cop. She’s been nosing around things we’re not... comfortable with. We want you to find out who she’s been talking to. Where she’s been going. We need to know how much she knows.”

“About what?”

Again Lenny hesitated. Then, “You been watching the news?”

“There’s a lot of stories on the news.”

“The girl who was killed in the Forest Preserve.”

“I heard about it.”

“The target is the PI working the case.”

He started winding the hose, making big loops with his hands. “Why her?”

Lenny shook his head. “Sorry. Need to know basis only.”

He shrugged. “She got a name?”

Lenny gave him an edgy look, almost as if he didn’t want to say the name out loud. “Here.” Lenny scrawled something on a scrap of paper and handed it over.

Matt set the hose on the ground and peered at the name. Then he stuffed the paper in his pocket. He picked up the hose and met Lenny’s cool gaze with one of his own. “When do I start?”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

OUTSIDE, INDIAN summer was at its peak, the bright October sun igniting flames of reds, yellows, and oranges. Droves of people would abandon Chicago for Michigan and Wisconsin this weekend, all of them converging on the Chicago Tribune’s “Best of Autumn” leaf-viewing sites. They’d trample through decomposing forests, click their digital cameras, and scold their kids who’d be whining about missing TV or the mall. Then they’d drive back on Sunday afternoon in bumper-to-bumper traffic, satisfied that they’d “done fall.”

Relieved she didn’t have to do things like that, or even pretend to like them, Georgia went back to her car. Sara was supposed to be working at the café in the bookstore. Except she wasn’t. Why had she lied? Did she have another job? If not, how was she getting the money to pay for her cell phone, iPod, and those clothes in her closet?

Something had shifted. Georgia didn’t know what, but the ground under her feet felt less firm. And the most disturbing part was that she might be the only one who knew it. Before leaving the bookstore, she’d casually remarked to the manager, “I guess the police are all over this, huh?”

Pucinski’s brow furrowed. “They haven’t been around.”

Now she tried to recall if she’d read anything about Sara’s job in the police reports. She didn’t think so. She could see Robby Parker letting it slide. Especially when he could reap the fame that came with sewing the case up fast. But this was a homicide. Why didn’t someone follow up? She would have. O’Malley would have, too. Unless his hands were tied.

Driving home, she decided it was time to question Jill Beaumont, Sara’s advisor at Newfield. Advisors knew the child from a more or less long-term perspective. Some became a surrogate parent, some were pals, and some—the good ones—made themselves the adult ally kids needed as they ventured into the world. But she couldn’t meet Beaumont at Newfield. The Walchers had reported her subterfuge to the school; no one would be rolling out the welcome wagon for her. They might even forbid her from going inside.

Back in her apartment, she checked the time. Noon. There was nothing more she could do now. She sighed, booted up her computer, and started the skip trace she’d promised another client.

Jeraldo Gutierrez, a mechanic from the West Side, had made off with twenty thousand of his employer’s hard-earned dollars. His employer, Hector Montoya, was most interested in getting the money back but knew the police wouldn’t be much help. He’d called his lawyer, a kid Georgia had grown up with from the old neighborhood. The lawyer referred the matter to her.

Luck was with her. After searching the Cook County Assessor’s records online, she discovered a bungalow owned by Gutierrez’s wife. Two hours after that, after culling through two more subscription websites, she called a number in Tucson, Arizona belonging to Maria Rodriguez, Gutierrez’s wife’s cousin. Georgia told the woman who answered the phone that she was calling from Mr. Gutierrez’s bank in Chicago, and that a substantial sum of money had just been wired into his account. Was he by any chance there? The woman on the phone said he wasn’t but was expected later that afternoon. Georgia said she’d call back, then called her client with the information.

As she logged off, she felt the ripple of satisfaction that comes with cracking a case. She loved feeling that—it’s what had attracted her to becoming a cop in the first place. The notion that she—ordinary Georgia Davis from the West Side—could actually right a wrong, mete out justice. She and Matt used to talk about what had brought them into law enforcement. For her it was the need for that affirmation. Recognition. For him, it was the need for redemption. Or so he claimed. But when she asked what sins he’d committed, he’d press his lips together and go quiet.

Suddenly she felt a twinge of what—regret? Loneliness? Pain? Time had made these pangs almost second nature, but she still couldn’t quite identify them. That must be part of the process, she guessed. You go on, one day at a time, and for a while the fog of misery thins, even lifts for a moment or two. Then, without warning, tiny knives reappear and slash their way through your psyche.

She and Matt had talked about leaving the force one day. Setting up shop as the “Nick and Nora Charles of the North Shore,” Matt said. Georgia wasn’t sure who Nick and Nora Charles were and had to sneak online to find out. They were different that way. Matt was well-educated. Georgia barely finished Oakton. Matt was Jewish; she was a lapsed Catholic. That didn’t seem to bother him. She didn’t see a problem either. Then.

***

It wasn’t hard to find out where Jill Beaumont lived, so that night Georgia drove down to Andersonville, a neighborhood on the north side of Chicago. Andersonville used to be mostly Swedish, working class and quiet. Now ethnic restaurants and shops elbowed the blander, blonder haunts. As she cruised down Clark Street, she caught a glimpse of a second-story gym in a regentrified building with blue fluorescent lighting. Two guys were lifting barbells, sweat slicking their torsos.

She searched for a legal parking spot and found one two blocks away. Before she was a cop, she parked wherever she wanted, tickets be damned. If a summons showed up in her mailbox, she’d pay a visit to Max, her father’s friend in the Corporation Counsel’s office. She’d bring a copy of the Sun-Times, making sure two hundred dollar bills were nestled between Page Four and Five. Her tickets disappeared.

Then she became a cop and realized she couldn’t be beholden to anyone. Nor did she want to line anyone’s pockets. So she stopped. Max eventually ended up doing two to five in East Moline, and the city’s new computer-generated ticket system was incorruptible. Still, on nights like these, when everyone in the world seemed to have snagged a spot except her, she missed the old days.

She hiked back to Farragut, a quiet block north and east of Foster and stopped in front of a three-story greystone that looked like it had been renovated. Scanning the mailboxes inside a tiny vestibule, she spotted the names Beaumont and Podromos on #3A. She pressed the buzzer.

A tinny female voice replied through the speaker. “Yes.”

“Hello. My name is Georgia Davis, and I’d like to talk to Jill Beaumont.”

“Who are you?”

Georgia squared her shoulders. “I’m a private investigator.”

Nothing happened for a long moment. Georgia imagined Beaumont running through the possibilities, weighing whether to talk to her. It could be she was ordered not to. The Newfield administration might have insisted. They were under enormous pressure, not to mention liability, should Sara’s parents or any of the others decide to sue. She’d met the superintendent during the first hazing investigation. He was a spineless, nerdy type who tried to come on strong but capitulated at the first sign of conflict. When the buzzer finally sounded, she let out a breath.

The woman who opened the door was small and round and wore a curious expression.

“Ms. Beaumont? Thank you for seeing me. I was hoping you—”

“I’m not Jill. I’m her roommate.”

“Oh.” Georgia gave her a flustered smile. “Is Jill here?”

The roommate shook her head. She kept her hand on the doorknob, letting the door stay open just a crack. Even so, the tantalizing smell of pot roast seeped into the hall. Georgia’s mouth watered.

“Does she know you?” She asked.

Georgia tensed. “We—we haven’t met.”

“Does this have anything to do with Sara Long?”

This woman was the gatekeeper, Georgia realized. She needed to play it straight. “Yes.”

“I thought so.” The woman continued to hold the door slightly ajar as though she was using it as a shield. “Jill’s been under a lot of pressure. She was hoping to get away from it for a while.”

“I wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t important.”

“I don’t know if she’ll talk to you.”

Georgia nodded. The tension in her neck and shoulders mounted.

The roommate’s gaze swept over her. “But I guess you can try.” She sighed. “She’s at A Woman’s Place for a poetry reading.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

TWO BOOKSTORES in one day. Was this some kind of sign, Georgia wondered as she walked back to Clark Street. Sister Marion would have said “of course” and would have quoted something appropriate from Hamlet or Macbeth to prove it.

A Woman’s Place was sandwiched between Ann Sathers and a Greek restaurant, but it had started out on Lincoln Park, a few miles south. Within two years, however, it outgrew its space and moved up to Andersonville. Inside was the same cramped, cheery chaos she remembered from Lincoln Park. Books crowded on shelves and counters; colored flyers were tacked on the walls, announcing everything from lost pets and want-ads to spiritual counseling and yoga for same-sex couples. The only concession to modern technology seemed to be the electronic cash register in the front which was operated by a woman who looked familiar—a little grayer, perhaps, but surely the same owner as in Lincoln Park.

Unlike the bookstore this morning, A Woman’s Place was warm and welcoming, and Georgia felt the tension drain out of her as she browsed. She wound around shelves labeled by subject: cookbooks, women’s issues, best-sellers, mysteries, and a gay/lesbian section. At the back was a raised platform with chairs in front. A cardboard sign in block letters said that Red Sladdick would recite poetry at seven thirty. A table with a jug of white wine, Diet Coke, and a plate of cheese squares sat nearby.

Georgia checked her watch. Seven-twenty. Six people had straggled in, five of them women. Which one was Jill Beaumont? Two women sat near the front, holding hands. Their cropped grey hair reminded Georgia of the Sisters at St. Michael’s. Two rows behind was a man seated between two women. The fifth woman sat toward the back, alone, reading a paperback. Slim with blond curly hair, she wore a denim jumper over a long-sleeved tee. When she glanced up, Georgia saw deep-set eyes, prominent cheekbones, and bushy eyebrows. Dark half-moons rimmed her eyes. She looked exhausted. Was that Beaumont?

A few minutes later, another woman hurried in, trailing an exotic scent. Tall and willowy, she was dressed in a tight black sweater, short black skirt, and over the knee black leather boots. Her brown hair was tied back, and her mouth was a bright red slash. She strode to the stage, carrying a book in one hand and a Starbucks cup in the other. The room suddenly seemed charged. Georgia poured herself some soda and sat in the back row.

The woman at the register came to the platform and introduced Red Sladdick. Holding a slim book, she invited the audience to purchase the author’s first collection of poems, Secrets, after the reading. She dimmed the lights and took a seat.

Red straddled a stool on the dais, opened her book, and started to read. Her voice was low and lazy. Georgia scanned the room. The couple in the first row were eye-fucking each other, oblivious to everyone else. The man behind them seemed to be giving Red his full attention, but the two women with him were nattering behind his back. The woman Georgia thought was Beaumont gazed at Red dully, as if forcing herself to stay awake.

After listening to Red for a few minutes, Georgia felt sluggish, too. Whether it was the droning rhythm of Red’s voice, the poetry, or just fatigue, her eyelids drooped and a series of languid images drifted through her mind: Matt’s eyes when he made love to her; a brightly lit Christmas tree topped with a silver angel. She slouched in her seat, her index finger slowly circling the rim of her cup. They should have candles on the stage, she thought lazily, to chase away the shadows.

“We are one with nature... Undulating in the womb of life... So wet, so moist. I put your hand on my breast... you kiss me. I am home.”

Georgia jerked her head up. Did anyone take this seriously? When her eyes focused, she saw that Red was staring directly at her, an amused smile on her face. Georgia’s nerves jangled. For a split second, she was confused. Had Red spoken to her? Was she supposed to say something back?

When she heard weak applause, she relaxed. Red had just finished a poem; that was all. Georgia clapped too. But Red’s eyes lingered on Georgia as if they shared a secret. Georgia’s cheeks grew hot. Beaming as though she’d hit the bulls-eye, Red averted her gaze and thumbed through her book.

Georgia stood up, rolled her shoulders, and went to the back of the room. She was here to do a job. Not to be hit on by another woman. By the time Red was finished, Georgia was back in control. The owner of the store stood up, thanked everyone for coming, and embraced Red. The blond woman in the denim jumper zipped up her jacket and gathered her bag. Georgia hurried over.

“Jill Beaumont?”

The woman turned around. “Yes?”

“Hello. I’d like to talk to you. My name is Georgia Davis.”

Beaumont looked startled. She took a step back. “You’re the one who showed up at the Walchers.” Her eyes turned steely.

“I made a mistake.”

“That’s an understatement.” Her face looked pinched.

“I hope you didn’t catch any flak from it. The last thing I want is to make life tough for you.”

Beaumont pressed her lips together. “Well, you did. Even though I wasn’t involved in your little stunt, some people are questioning my loyalties. One or two actually think I put you up to it.”

“For God’s sake, why?”

“Because Lauren Walcher is in my advisory.”

“Oh shit. I didn’t know.” Georgia blinked. “So they thought you told me about her, then I turn up at the Walchers.”

She nodded again.

“I’m so sorry.”

Beaumont tugged at the sides of her jacket. “Under the circumstances, I have nothing to say to you.” She started to walk away.

“Please,” Georgia threw out a hand to block her. “If there’s anything I can do... write a letter, make a statement, call someone, I will.”

The woman shook off Georgia’s hand. “You’ve done enough. Just leave me alone, okay?”

Georgia barreled on. “But I have a few questions. About Sara Long.”

Beaumont glanced around fearfully, as if she thought she might be under surveillance. “Look. The fact that we had another hazing was bad enough. We could probably have handled it, even with all the media. But then when you add the murder of a student, well, we’re in crisis mode. I have too much to deal with.”

“I get it, and I can’t make you talk to me. But I wish you’d reconsider. I’m only trying to make sure the right person is held accountable for Sara’s death.”

Beaumont faced Georgia. “They said you used to be a cop. Is that true?”

Georgia nodded uncertainly. Where was she going with this?

“But you don’t think the crazy guy did it?”

“It’s not my job to think one way or the other.”

Beaumont was quiet for a moment. “If he didn’t do it, who did?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do—do you think it was another student?” She asked softly.

“Do you?”

Beaumont looked away.

Georgia homed in. “You’re not sure, are you?”

Beaumont didn’t react. Then she shook her head. “I can’t believe any student would—No. Not at Newfield.”

“But it’s keeping you awake at night, all the same.”

She shot Georgia a look.

“Do you know of any problems between Sara and any other students?”

She took a breath, and her body sagged. “No. She and Lauren Walcher were pretty close.” Beaumont’s mouth twitched. “Then again, I gather you already know that.”

Georgia almost smiled back. “Someone I spoke to said Sara stole somebody’s boyfriend. Do you know anything about that?”

“No. But you have to remember something.”

“What?”

“Sara was turning into a beautiful young woman. That can cause all sorts of problems. Jealousy. Sucking up. Saying things behind each other’s backs. Girls can be vicious. This is high school.”

“Had you seen any behavior like that—where Sara was concerned?”

“I’m their advisor. They don’t reveal that side of themselves to me.” She hesitated. “But Sara was fairly level-headed. She and Lauren both. I got the sense they didn’t pay much attention to gossip.”

“Would you happen to know which boys?”

Beaumont looked puzzled.

“Which boys were attracted to her?”

“No clue. But I’m sure the line would have formed to the right, if she’d allowed it to.”

“What kind of student was she?”

“She was—well, to be honest, she was treading water.”

“How?”

“Sara used to be a lot more... involved. As a sophomore, for instance, she joined three different clubs and was in Chorus. Her grades were pretty consistent, too. B plus. But this year,” She shook her head. “She dropped her clubs, and her grades—well—it was too early to tell—but she didn’t seem... invested.”

“Did you ask why?”

She nodded. “She said she had a job and needed to work. To save for college. At the same time, she knew her junior year was going to be tough academically, and she promised to make more of an effort.” Beaumont shrugged.

“You didn’t believe her?”

“It’s not that. I—I got the feeling she was telling me what I wanted to hear.”

“Did she do that often?”

“She was a sweet kid. I think she wanted to please.” The owner of the store started coming toward them, eyeing her watch. “I think we’re being asked to leave.”

“One last thing. Did Sara tell you where she was working?”

“Let me think.” She frowned. “Oh yes. At the cafe. In the bookstore at Old Orchard. I remember thinking at their wages she’d have to put in a lot of hours to pay for college.”

“When did she tell you this?”

“Not long after school started. Why?”

“Nothing.” Georgia changed the subject. “One of the girls I spoke to said Sara always needed to know everyone else’s business. Did you pick up anything like that?”

She shook her head again. “I guess I’m not much of a help.”

“Oh, but you are,” Georgia said. “Listen. I know you still have—questions—about Sara’s death.” When Beaumont started to protest, Georgia raised her hand. “You don’t have to say anything more. And I’ll stay out of your hair.” They headed to the front of the store. “But if something else comes to you, anything at all, will you let me know?”

Beaumont didn’t answer for a moment. Then, “How come you’re not on the force anymore?”

Georgia was taken aback. “I was suspended,” she said after a pause.

“Why?”

“For not following procedure during an incident at a strip club.”

Beaumont threw her a look. “It figures.”

***

After handing Beaumont her card, Georgia exited the store. Her mood had lightened. She’d leveled with Beaumont, and in return Beaumont had leveled back. She might even have gained an ally. At least defused an enemy.

She was heading down Clark Street when all at once a hand clamped down on her arm. Adrenaline flooded through her. Without thinking, she whacked the attacker’s arm with a karate chop and whirled around, ready to gouge out their eyes with her fingers.

“Hey! Chill, sweetheart!” A female voice yelled. “It’s me!”

Georgia froze, her hand in mid-air. Red Sladdick, the poet from A Woman’s Place. She dropped her hand and staggered back. “Jesus Christ!” She sucked down air. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to grab people on the street? Especially at night?”

Red threw her hands up. “Sorry! I wasn’t—I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“Think again.” Georgia tried to get her breathing under control.

“Like I said, I’m sorry.” Red hung her head. “I just wanted—I wanted to know what you thought.”

“About what?”

“My poetry.”

Equal amounts of relief and rage poured through Georgia. “Your what?”

“My—my poetry.” Red turned an anxious face to Georgia. “Did you like it?”

Georgia felt the muscles on her face tighten. No way was she going to discuss poetry on Clark Street at night with a stranger. In the dim light, the woman’s eyes glittered. Suddenly comprehension dawned. “Look. No offense, but I’m not into your scene, okay? I’m not gay.”

Red didn’t reply for a moment. “Just window shopping, huh?”

“I’m a private investigator.”

“That’s cool.” Red grinned. “I’m a nurse. At Illinois Masonic.”

“No. You don’t understand. I was working tonight.”

Red looked her up and down with an expression that made Georgia think Red had her own experience with liars. Even so, it was time to end this conversation. Georgia started to walk away.

“Hold on,” Red called out. “Can I have one?”

Georgia stopped and turned around. “One what?”

Red pointed to Georgia’s pocket. “A card. You gave one to the other woman you picked up.”

Red had been watching her conversation with Beaumont. For some reason, that creeped her out. “I told you I was working.”

“Well, you never know when I might need a PI.”

“You’ll find plenty in the Yellow Pages.”

“Who knows? You might need a nurse.”

Georgia didn’t answer.

Red shrugged. “Suit yourself. But you ever need anything, sweet thing... anything at all... just come on down to the Silver Slipper on Diversey. I’m there every night by ten.”

Red turned around and headed north. Georgia set off in the opposite direction, trying not to run.

CHAPTER TWENTY

THERE WAS more denim at Newfield High than a Levi’s factory, Georgia thought the next day. As she waited in the parking lot across from the school, a steady stream of teenagers flowed past, all of them in configurations of blue: jeans, skirts, vests, jackets. Some of the kids wore smiles, but most had the sullen, rebellious expression that said they were destined for greater things than high school.

A couple of students lit up cigarettes as they exited. They tried to look nonchalant, even bored, but she knew better. They were flaunting the little power they had. See? You can’t do anything about it, even though you’re an adult. Georgia remembered how that felt. She still harbored a gnawing irritation when she had to navigate through the labyrinth of bureaucracy.

Rachel had said Heather Blakely thought she was Katie Couric. Strangely enough, when Georgia checked out her picture in the yearbook earlier, she did resemble the broadcaster: the same chin-length brown hair, big mouth, and petite, self-assured looks. Judging from the photo in which the girl was shoving a mic at Barack Obama during a school visit, she was following the same path, too.

The October morning had been balmy, but now a chill, blustery wind swept fallen leaves into tiny eddies before they tumbled to the ground. Georgia hung back at the edge of the parking lot, checking out the students.

Finding an individual among hundreds or even thousands of people was tricky. She remembered taking part in a NORTAF investigation as a rookie. She and Robby were stationed inside the Rosemont Horizon, waiting for a U2 concert to end. The task force was trying to crack a narcotics ring in Niles, and they’d been told the kingpin of the operation would be at the concert. After analyzing a seating chart, NORTAF posted cops in all the aisles and distributed blurry photos of the target. But when the concert ended, a sea of people streamed past, and she couldn’t identify anyone. It was only when she saw a scuffle a few aisles away that she realized someone else had made him. She hated to admit her relief.

At last, a girl who looked like Heather sauntered across the street. She was with another girl, and a boy who didn’t look old enough for high school. As they reached the parking lot, the second girl peeled off. Heather and the boy went to a silver RAV4.

Georgia hurried over. “Heather?”

The girl turned around. Under her jacket, which was open, she was wearing a white peasant-style blouse and jeans with a beaded design. Some of the beads looked like pearls. It all looked expensive.

“I’m Georgia Davis. I’m investigating the death of Sara Long, and I’d like to talk to you.”

Heather hesitated. Then, “I know who you are. I’m not supposed to talk to you.”

Georgia stepped forward as if she hadn’t heard. “I know you were a good friend of Sara’s, and I know you want to make sure justice is done.”

“Look, I told you. I have no comment.”

Georgia had been trained in media relations back at the Academy, and the trainer said never to use the words “no comment.” It made you look like you were hiding something. Tell them you’re not going to say anything, sure. Just don’t use those words.

“Not the right answer, Heather,” Georgia replied.

Meanwhile, the boy with Heather spoke up. “You’re a real PI?”

“Jason, shut up.” Heather threw him a dark look.

Georgia ran with it. “Yes, Jason I am.”

“Like Magnum? They have these reruns on cable, and—”

“That’s right.”

“Cool. What kind of training do you need to be a PI?”

“I used to be a cop.”

“Magnum worked in Naval Intelligence.”

Georgia nodded, wanting to keep the kid talking, but Heather cut in. “Jason, cool it. Get in the car.” She started to shoo him away.

“Hold on. I just have a couple of questions. I’ve already talked to Claire Tennenbaum and Lauren Walcher.”

“I know,” Heather said.

“Then you know there’s a chance the guy who’s in jail didn’t kill Sara.”

Heather shot her a scornful look.

Georgia shrugged. “Seems to me you, of all people, would want to get the story right.”

“Come on. Everyone knows he did it.”

“Are you sure? Remember when the husband and mother of that judge were killed, and everyone was sure the murderer was a white supremacist?” She paused. “And then it turned out to be this guy who was suing all those doctors? You’re a journalist. You know better than to make assumptions.”

“A broadcast journalist,” Heather corrected.

Georgia nodded solemnly. “Even more so.”

Heather didn’t look quite as sure of herself. “Look, I’ll be in serious trouble if I talk to you.”

“How about if I ask you a couple of questions and you just nod or shake your head? To confirm information I already have. You know—the two source rule?”

A smug expression came over Heather.

“I know Sara stole someone’s boyfriend,” Georgia went on. “And that she was always poking her nose into other people’s business. I also know some of the girls wanted to teach her a lesson. What I need to confirm is whose boyfriend she stole.”

Heather looked at Georgia, then Jason. Georgia looked at Jason, too. Jason slung his hands in his pockets and started to slink away. “Okay, okay, I’m going.”

Georgia nodded. “Thanks, pal.”

Jason shuffled to the trees at the edge of the parking lot. Georgia turned back to Heather. “I need your help, Heather. You’re one of the few people I can trust. We’re after the same thing, you and I.” Jesus, she was laying it on thick. She waited. “Was it Monica’s boyfriend Sara stole?”

Heather bit her lip. Then she nodded. “I’m really sorry she’s dead, but the fact is Sara could have had anyone she wanted. She was that hot. But she picked Cash.”

“Cash?”

“Monica’s boyfriend. Sara hooked up with him last summer while Monica wasn’t around. That wasn’t—well, that was just bitchy.”

“Don’t you think Cash might have had something to do with it?”

Heather shrugged.

Georgia waited.

“Well, maybe,” she said grudgingly. “Of course, I don’t mean to say anything bad about Sara. She was one of my best friends.”

“Of course.” Georgia let it sink in. “So was Monica with you when you dumped the fish guts on Sara?”

Heather shot her a surprised look. “How do you know it was me?”

Georgia shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Claire told you, didn’t she?” An irritated look came over her.

“I can’t reveal my sources. You understand.”

“Claire couldn’t get it right if she tried.” Heather’s tone grew bolder. “Monica was there. But—”

“But what?”

“She didn’t do anything to Sara.”

“She didn’t?” Finally, Heather was talking without being prompted. That was good. “Then who did?”

Heather wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“Heather?”

The girl’s voice was a whisper. “We had to.”

“Why?”

“The seniors made us.”

““ But you and Lauren and Claire were Sara’s best friends.”

“We didn’t have a choice. They pulled us aside before the game started and told us what we had to do if we wanted to make it through the year. They knew the only way Sara would leave the clearing was if we took her.”

“So you did.” Georgia remembered Matt talking about the concentration camps. His grandparents were German Jews who narrowly escaped the Nazis in ‘36. Many of their friends didn’t. Afterwards the survivors told stories about how Jews—prisoners themselves—persecuted other Jews in the camps: taunting, stealing, turning in other inmates. You did what you had to in order to survive.

“Who brought the bucket and fish entrails?”

“Don’t know. They were there when I got there.”

“But Monica Ramsey wasn’t one of the seniors who intimidated you... or Sara?”

“She had no reason to. She and Cash had hooked up again. When school started.”

“How do you know?”

“Monica and I sit next to each other in Spanish. I’m in Spanish IV.”

“Cool.” Georgia paused. “So Monica told you she and Cash were back together?”

“She tells me everything.”

“Tell me about Cash.”

“He’s a senior. He plays bass guitar in a blues band.” It came out almost reverently.

“Was Monica still around, once you left Sara in the clearing and came back to the game?”

“I—I don’t remember.”

“But you just said—”

“I said she was there when we left. I don’t remember when we got back. It was kind of confusing. Too many kids. All over the place.”

“Is it possible Monica might have been hiding behind a tree in the clearing?”

“I—I don’t know.” Heather bit her lip again, her expression guarded. “Look. That’s enough. I have to go now.”

Georgia nodded. “One more question. Do you know where Sara was working after school and on weekends?”

She shrugged and gave a little frown. “At the café in the bookstore.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course.”

“What would you think if you found out she hadn’t worked there since last spring? Would you have any idea where she was instead?”

“She wasn’t at the bookstore?” Her eyes got a faraway look, and Georgia could tell she was trying to work something out.

“What is it, Heather? What are you thinking?”

Heather didn’t answer.

“Heather?”

The girl glared at Georgia. “That’s it. I’m done.” She spun around.

“Jason, let’s go. Now!”

***

Bill’s had to be the yuppiest Blues bar in Chicago. Tucked away on a quiet street in Evanston, the place had a clean floor, polished tables, and wonder of wonders, a spotless bathroom. Unlike the blues joints downtown, which were full of smoke and booze and late night angst, Bill’s sported gaily colored prints of dark-skinned dancers on the walls, and a card on tables explained that the first show of the night was non-smoking. There was even a “family” show on Sundays.

Only on the North Shore.

Ignoring interested glances from several men at the bar, Georgia ordered a soda. The second half of Joe Moss’s set thundered through the speakers, and the place was packed. As Joe cried about his baby leaving him, Georgia tapped her fingers on her leg, feeling the wailing guitars and pulsing beat. Another number and she’d be transported to a place where the pain of unrequited love, of being broke or drunk, was tempered by a bass guitar, funky keyboard, and raspy tenor.

When her drink came, she forked over a couple of dollars and swiveled around. A couple was already dancing in the aisle. Her friend Samantha used to say you could tell how a guy would be in bed from the way he danced. Georgia wasn’t so sure. Matt couldn’t dance at all. He’d throw himself around with more energy than skill, his body all limp and wiggly. But he knew all the right moves between the sheets. She felt a tingle work up her spine. She forced it back.

At the back of the bar four fresh-faced guys sat around a small table, their eyes locked on the stage. She’d called Tommy Cashian’s home earlier tonight. No, Tommy wasn’t home, a harried-sounding woman said. No, she wasn’t sure where he was, but he’d probably end up at Bill’s. He usually did on Fridays. When the woman asked who was calling, Georgia thanked her and disconnected.

Now she picked up her drink and strolled to the back of the bar. Her long blond hair was down, and she was wearing tight jeans and a turtleneck. A multi-colored pashmina, her only concession to fashion, was draped around her neck. As she approached their table, one of the boys glanced up, gave her the once-over, and smiled. Normally she would have ignored him, but tonight, she smiled back. “Are you Tommy Cashian?”

Disappointment flickered across his face. Then a cagey expression took its place. “Who wants to know?”

A thousand possibilities came to her, but in the end, she played it straight. “I’m Georgia Davis and I’m a private investigator.” She had to shout to be heard. “Which one of you is Cash?”

Heaving a sigh, the boy pointed to a young man sitting across the table with long dark hair, a slim build, and piercing eyes. He wore a Hawaiian shirt over his jeans. A long-sleeved thermal shirt poked out underneath. A pair of shades perched over his crown. At the sound of his name, he tore his eyes from the stage. He, too, checked Georgia out. She saw a glimmer of appreciation.

She moved to him. “Cash. Mind if I talk to you? Alone?”

He frowned. “Who are you?”

She introduced herself.

He turned back to the band. For a moment, Georgia thought he was ignoring her. Then he scooted back his chair and stood up. The drummer was into a solo riff, with Joe Moss, the keyboard player, and the bass player nodding approvingly. Georgia motioned Cash to follow her outside.

After the pounding noise in Bill’s, the quiet outside was a welcome reprieve. “So what do you play?” She asked, although she already knew.

“Bass guitar.”

“Blues?”

“And rock.” He wiped his hand across his mouth. “Hey, what’s this about? You didn’t bring me out here to talk about music.” But he didn’t sound hostile, and he lounged against the wall of the building, looking comfortable and composed. Georgia couldn’t help comparing this self-possessed kid to the bundle of insecurities and raw nerves she’d been at that age.

“It’s about you and Monica and Sara Long,” she answered.

A serious look came over him. Was he going over his script? The lines he’d rehearsed in case someone asked? He pushed off from the wall. “What do you want to know?”

“I think you know.”

“I have an idea,” he admitted.

“So tell me.”

“You want to know about me and Sara. Why I broke up with Monica. And why we went back together. And if there’s any connection to Sara’s murder.”

Not only composed, but smart. She could see why Monica Ramsey— and Sara—were attracted to him.

“Actually,” he went on, “I was kind of wondering when someone was going to come around.”

“Are you saying no one’s asked you about any of this?” When he shook his head, she added, “Not even the police?”

“Nope.”

The sound of the band inside was muted, but a few twangs from the guitars and thumps from the bass rumbled through the walls.

“You’re not with the police,” he said.

“I’m working for Cam Jordan.” At his frown, she explained. “He was arrested for Sara’s murder.”

“Right. The crazy guy.”

“You know him?”

He shook his head again. She saw no guile in his manner. Curiosity, but that was it.

“So tell me about Sara.”

He straightened up and took his hands out of his pockets. “I bumped into Sara over the summer. She was—well—Monica was back East with her family. Sara and I—we hit it off right away. She was—fun. “

“While the cat’s away...” Georgia said.

He shrugged.

“So what happened?”

“We hung out a few times. Blues Fest. Printers Row. I took her to Buddy Guy’s. Even brought her here once. I liked her.” He stopped.

When he didn’t go on, she asked, “How much—did you like her?”

Even in the dim light, she saw his face redden. “I wanted—hell, I was ready to get involved.”

“But?”

“Sara put me off. Wouldn’t let me. It wasn’t for want of trying. I tried not to be an asshole, but she was so sweet. And so sexy. And just—well...”

“So you and Sara were seeing each other while Monica was out of town. What happened when she came back?”

“The day Monica came back—in August—I told Sara I was going to break up with her. Monica, that is. I called her and was on my way over to her house when Sara called me. She said we had to meet.” A sad look unfolded on his face.

“What happened?”

“I met her at the bookstore where she... proceeded to dump me.”

“Sara dumped you?”

“She told me not to break up with Monica. That I belonged with Monica. Not her.” His eyes met Georgia’s. “She said—it was weird, it kind of came out of left field—she said I was too good for her.”

“What did she mean by that?”

“I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “I kept asking her but she wouldn’t say more. Just said we weren’t right for each other.” He looked at Georgia with a pleading expression. “She wouldn’t explain. She just kept telling me not to ask. Eventually...” He looked down again. “Eventually, I let it go. And I left.”

Georgia knew how that felt. She let the silence swirl around them for a minute. Then she asked in a soft voice, “Does Monica know?”

“I never said anything, but it got back to her.”

“Through Sara?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. But she—you’ve got to understand something. Monica’s a really sweet girl.”

“You said the same thing about Sara.”

“They both were. That’s why—you know, I read someplace that you get one person in your life who’s your passion, and someone else who’s your partner.” He broke off. “That’s the way I feel. They’re both incredible. Were. One was my passion, and one was...” His words trailed off, and for the first time, he looked uncertain.

Georgia waited until he pulled himself together, wondering how a kid could be so young and wise at the same time. “Did Monica ever ask you about Sara?”

“Just once. It was after Sara dumped me but before school started. I knew she’d heard about it by then. She asked me if there was anything I wanted to tell her.”

“And?”

“I told her that I missed her. And I was glad she was back.”

“She didn’t ask you anything else? Just let it go?”

“She seemed—satisfied. We just went back to the way we’d been. No problemo.”

Or was Monica storing up her anger, planning to take revenge on Sara?

As if reading her mind, Cash added, “Monica doesn’t have a mean bone in her body. She’d never hurt anyone. Including Sara.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I was at the Forest Preserve that day.” He slouched against the wall. “And I took Monica home.”

“When?”

“After the others led Sara away. Monica didn’t like what was going on. She said it wasn’t right. She wanted to leave. So I finished my beer, and we split.”

“Who brought the beer, incidentally?”

“I don’t know.”

“One of the parents?”

He shrugged. “Don’t know.”

If a parent brought the stuff, did they know in advance what was being planned? If so, they might be tagged as accessories. Which would explain why they tried to keep the hazing quiet.

“Who led Sara away?”

“Her friends. Heather and Lauren and the other one.”

That matched. “Cash, did Monica bring a baseball bat to the game?”

“Of course not.”

“Do you know who did?”

“No. It was there when we arrived.”

Georgia nodded. “One more thing. When you were seeing Sara, was she still working at the bookstore?”

He brightened, as if remembering happier times. “I used to drop her off in front. Pick her up sometimes too.”

“Did you ever go inside to meet her?”

“Ummm... let me think. I was going to once, but you know how nuts parking is at Old Orchard. It was easier to wait outside.”

“So you have no way of knowing whether Sara was really working there or not.”

Cash looked confused. “I—I guess not. Why?”

Georgia shook her head. “It’s not important.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

TOMMY CASHIAN was poised, smart, and seemed to have the kind of sensibility you’d expect from a budding musician. But why did that make him too good for Sara? A person says that when they’re feeling shame. Or guilt. Or insecurity. And while teenagers are, by nature, insecure, Georgia didn’t have that impression of Sara. In fact, she’d come away with idea that, with the exception of too much curiosity perhaps, the girl was pretty sensible.

What was she missing? Georgia mulled it over as she went back to her car. Did it have something to do with quitting her job at the bookstore? She didn’t think so—kids don’t care that much about a minimum wage job. They might care about what replaced that job, though, and Sara had been doing something when she told her parents she was still working.

As she passed an alley, she slowed. Two dark forms lurked in the shadows beside a dumpster. A burst of orange flame flared briefly, followed by the familiar scent of weed. She picked up her pace. During the hazing two years ago, parents brought the beer to the Forest Preserve. They rationalized it, claiming kids would have brought it anyway, and at least it wasn’t cocaine. And they wondered why their kids had no respect for authority.

She got in the Toyota and headed back to her apartment. None of this—the beer, Sara quitting her job, her abbreviated relationship with Cash—had been in the police reports. She could write off one, even two omissions to sloppy work—and Robby was sloppy. But all of it? Georgia couldn’t help wondering if the skimpy police reports might—just might—have something to do with the fact that the daughter of the State’s Attorney prosecuting the case was in the Forest Preserve at the time of the murder.

Protection was a natural response when your child faced unwanted scrutiny. It was also important when you were a rising political star. The fact that his daughter was present when a hazing—and a murder—went down could be a major embarrassment for one of the top law enforcement officers in Cook County. Cam Jordan had given Jeff Ramsey a golden opportunity to protect his daughter—and himself. But was it convenience or cover-up? One was politics as usual; the other could blow the lid off Cook County government.

As she searched for a place to park, Georgia decided that despite Tommy Cashian’s smooth defense, she couldn’t ignore Monica Ramsey’s presence in the Forest Preserve. The girl might not have had anything to do with Sara Long’s murder, but the cop in her said not to make assumptions. Kids knew how to gin the system and manipulate others. What if there was a vengeful side to Monica? What if she’d hidden her fury over Cash’s relationship with Sara? There was only Cash’s word they left the Forest Preserve together. What if Monica picked up a bat and went back to the clearing alone, determined to teach Sara a lesson? Or encouraged someone else to do it? What if Cash himself was involved more than he’d let on?

Then again, the murder just might have been the result of a hazing that spun out of control. Kids half-looped. seniors wanting to flex their muscles. Beer and baseball bats at the scene. What if all of them: Monica, Cash, even Lauren, Claire, and Heather had a hand in Sara’s death? Wasn’t she supposed to have read some book in high school about boys on an island who turned into barbarians and killed a kid? Lord of The Flies, she thought.

Or maybe she was overreaching. Maybe Cam Jordan did kill Sara Long in some type of insane frenzy, and she was just too unwilling or stubborn to admit it. As she snagged a parking spot, feeling lucky to have found one on a Friday night, she realized she had more digging to do.

She locked the car and started down the block. A raw, biting chill hung in the air, and leaves tumbled around the cars, almost raining down. The changing of the seasons always touched her with melancholy. Something to do with passage of time, she supposed. She hurried up the walk to her building. She pulled opened the door to the vestibule, anticipating a rush of warmth. Instead, she was knocked back, gagging, by a stench so thick it was palpable.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

THE STINK slammed into Georgia like an angry ocean wave. Nausea climbed up her throat, and her skin turned clammy. She automatically reached for her holster before realizing she wasn’t carrying. She stumbled back outside and gulped down deep breaths. Seconds ago she’d fretted about the coming of winter. Now she needed to suck clean, cold air into her lungs.

A few more breaths steadied her. Wrapping her pashmina around her nose and mouth, she went to the front door and peered in. Nothing looked disturbed. The usual assortment of flyers lay on the table; the floor was clean. She opened the door. Again, the smell attacked her, but this time she was prepared. She tightened the scarf and pushed through.

At first she thought it was a dead body, but aside from the problem of how a corpse managed to get into her building, the smell wasn’t right. She’d been around corpses before. Underneath their rancid odor was a sickly sweet smell. This was fresher. More rotten. Fishier.

The doors to the first floor apartments were closed, and everything was quiet. Too quiet. Where were her neighbors? The smell had to have seeped into their living rooms. Why didn’t she hear exhaust fans, street noise from open windows, loud complaints? For that matter, why was there no sign in the lobby? Unless no one was home. She considered it. It was Friday night, and most of her neighbors were young. They could be out. It was possible she was the first tenant to discover it.

She gripped the banister and forced herself to climb the stairs. The smell grew stronger with each step, and the clammy feeling overspread her skin. But her initial shock was gone, replaced with a grim anger. Who had the balls to do this? How did they get inside?

She saw it before she reached the second floor landing. On the floor outside her apartment door was a pile of what could only be described as gray muck. Disembodied fish heads with glassy eyes stared vacantly into space, while fish tails, entrails, and skeletons were splattered in clumps across the carpet. Bloody carcasses and scales covered the rug, glimpses of silver and red threaded through the mess. She tried not to let disgust overpower her, but there was no way to avoid stepping through it, and she cringed as she reached for her key.

Bits of muck clung to her shoes and the bottom of her jeans as if they had jumped of their own accord. The smell snaked into her nose, her throat, her clothes. She shuddered, imagining crud leaching through her shoes and socks onto her skin. Is this how Sara Long had felt at the Forest Preserve with the bucket of fish guts on her head? She stabbed her lock with her key. She and Sara Long now had something in common.

***

An hour later, after scooping up piles with a spatula, stuffing them into double-bagged garbage bags, and throwing them in the alley dumpster, most of the gunk was cleaned up. She left her apartment door open and opened her windows. She set two fans on the landing, hoping to vent the worst of the smell through her apartment rather than her neighbors.’ She found rug shampoo under her sink and worked it into the hall carpet. It was only a first step; she’d rent a steam cleaner tomorrow. But there was no way she could get through the night at home. She called her friend Samantha and left a message on her cell.

She was on her hands and knees rinsing the carpet for the third time, cursing the specks of silver scales that had embedded themselves in the fibers, when the door to the vestibule downstairs swung open.

“Jesus Christ!” The voice was loud. “What the hell happened?”

Georgia peered over the landing. It was the man from the third floor. With the wife named Sheila. He clamped a hand over his mouth and nose. She called down. “There’s a—a problem.”

“That’s an understatement.” He yelled through his hand. “What in Christ’s name happened?”

Georgia explained.

“This is outrageous. Who did this?”

She struggled to maintain her composure. “Don’t know. I wasn’t here.”

“Great. A building under siege by rotting fish guts.” His eyes flashed.

If she hadn’t spent the past hour trying to clean it up, she might have smiled. “I didn’t ask for it.” A lame reply.

He looked up but didn’t say anything. Then, “What did you do with the—the crap?”

“Cleaned it up and threw it away.”

He wiped the back of his hand across his chin and started up the stairs. “In the dumpster?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. I wrapped it in a couple of plastic bags.”

“No, no.” He waved his hands in the air. “That was wrong.”

She frowned. “Excuse me?”

“Not only will the stench just move out there, but you’ll get maggots by the million. Not to mention the rats and cats who’ll come around. They’re probably already digging in.”

“What would you suggest?”

“The best thing would be to compost it.”

She planted her hands on her hips. “And just where am I going to find compost this time of night?”

“The Botanic Gardens, maybe.”

“At midnight? Are you crazy?”

He shrugged.

“Yeah, well, tell me something. Until I get this magic material, what am I supposed to do with the stuff?”

“You could throw it in your freezer.”

“There are two huge garbage bags of the shit.”

He shrugged again.

“Tell you what. Why don’t you put a bag in your freezer?” He just stared at her. “You’re kind of limiting my options.” It was her turn to shrug. “Maybe I should just haul it over to the lake and drop them in.”

He shook his head. “Not a good idea. If you got caught, you’d be fined. Maybe even arrested. Screwing up the environment and all.”

“You’re just full of useful information.” She snapped. “The thing is I’ve got a situation that needs to be dealt with tonight. Not tomorrow, or Monday, or whenever I manage to rustle up some compost or an industrial-sized freezer.”

He started up the steps. “You have no idea where it came from?”

“I’m guessing Burhops. Or some other fish market. Hey, how do you know so much about this, anyway?”

“Common sense.” He passed by her on the second floor landing, covering his nose with his hand, and mounted the stairs to the third floor. “At least hose it down.” His voice was muffled. “The dumpster, that is. And treat it with bleach. Or Lysol.” He sniffed again but instantly looked like he regretted it. “And don’t forget to call the police.”

“Sure thing.” Georgia watched him disappear up the stairs.

***

The patrol officer left, conceding that because there were no injuries and nothing had been stolen, it wouldn’t be a top priority. Georgia took a shower, then went online to check out fish markets and restaurants. There were plenty of fish and seafood wholesalers downtown, but she suspected the stuff came from someplace on the North Shore. She came away with half a dozen possibilities, all within easy driving distance of Evanston.

Then, just for the hell of it, she Googled “Fish guts.” Sure enough, one of the recommended ways to dispose of them was to compost them. As she read on, she realized her neighbor wasn’t bullshitting about the rest either. Apparently, it was possible to freeze fish bones—assuming they weren’t rancid or rotten—for soup. As if she’d ever made soup in her life.

The key thing, she learned, was to keep the stuff clean. If she hosed down the dumpsters, threw in a cup of bleach or Lysol, the smell wouldn’t get too bad. She logged off, wondering how her neighbor knew that. Was he an environmental geek? A Save-the-Whales-and-along-with-them-the-world kind of guy?

She turned off the fans, locked up, and hosed down the dumpsters with Lysol. Then she drove over to Sam’s.

She’d met Samantha Mosele at Oakton before entering the Police Academy. Sam wanted to be a graphic designer and was taking computer design classes. Georgia was taking sociology in the classroom next door. They’d eyeballed each other for six weeks before acknowledging the other’s presence. Georgia found it hard to make friends with women, and, apparently, Sam was the same way. It wasn’t until they’d finished their finals the same night, and found themselves in the pub down the street that they started to talk. They’d been friends ever since.

Sam wrinkled her nose when she opened the door. “Yuck.”

“I took a shower, but I guess it’s still all over me.”

“Hold on.” She went back into her apartment, returning a moment later with a bottle of perfume. “Here.” She started to spritz Georgia’s t-shirt and jeans.

Georgia held up her hands. “No, it’s okay. I’ll just—”

“Stop complaining. It’s Obsession.” Sam kept spritzing.

Sighing, Georgia submitted to Sam’s ministrations. Probably better to smell like an object obsessed than a rotten fish.

“Who did it?” Sam asked once they were settled in her living room with a cup of tea. An attractive brunette with shoulder length hair, she pushed a lock of it behind her ear.

“I have no idea.”

“But you’re working on something, right?” When Georgia nodded, she added, “You think it’s related?”

“It would seem so.” Georgia explained the case to her.

“How did they get inside?”

Georgia shrugged. “They probably waited till the last person went out earlier tonight and propped the door open.”

“You think they’re sending you a message, huh? A warning to back off?”

“If so, it was a clumsy attempt.”

She sipped her tea. “But the girl in the Forest Preserve with fish guts all over her was killed. Now you have fish guts all over you. Ergo...”

Georgia cut her off. “If someone really wanted to send me a warning, don’t you think a note, or a phone call, would have been more efficient? Why go to all the trouble and expense of buying the shit, transporting it to my place, and then spreading it around in the hall—just to get me to back off? It’s stupid.”

But Sam was enjoying playing armchair detective. “Hold on. Didn’t they do something like that in The Godfather? Didn’t someone send someone a dead fish as a warning?”

“This isn’t the movies, Sam.”

Sam played with her lock of hair. “Well, maybe whoever did this doesn’t realize that.”

Georgia thought about it. She had a point.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

MATT WAS staked out in the shadows of the house across the street from Georgia’s apartment. He’d been tailing her for a couple of days. To the bookstore in Andersonville last night. Tonight to Bill’s Blues where she’d tracked down some kid in a Hawaiian shirt. On her way back to her car, she’d slowed to check out an alley. Once a cop...

He’d been across the street from her building when she discovered the crap in the hall. At first he didn’t know what it was; he had to recon the dumpster to find out. Fish guts? What was that about? He called it in to Lenny, who seemed surprised. After grilling him on the details, Lenny ordered him to stay where he was.

If he moved far enough back and used the binoculars, he could just see into her window. She’d been going from the kitchen to the hall with a bucket, brush, and rags. Forty-five minutes later, the to and fro stopped.

Lenny wanted a report every two hours. More often if there was any action. He pulled out his cell, about to tell Lenny she was in for the night. Then the lights in her apartment snapped off, and a minute later she emerged from the building, hefting a backpack over her shoulder. Her blond hair was down, catching golden sparks from the glow of the streetlight.

Dumping the cell in his pocket, he hurried down the street to his car. He pulled out just in time to get behind the Toyota, making sure to keep a few lengths back. Where was she going? To shack up with someone? She turned west on Dempster. He squinted through the windshield and made the turn. He’d know soon enough.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

DEREK JANOWITZ only worked half a day on Saturdays, but it was the most profitable day of the week. Not because he was a mechanic.

He’d been at Horner’s gas station almost a year. He’d spend a few hours a day tinkering with cars, mostly nice ones, this being the North Shore and all. He’d adjust brakes, replace batteries, change the oil. Sometimes Horner would ask his opinion on a tricky fuel injector or transmission problem. The old man got stumped a lot these days. Everything was digital, he’d grouse. Too complicated. What happened to the time when all you needed to know were carburetors, distributors, and spark plugs?

The lucrative part of Derek’s job came from his other customers. He wasn’t kidding when he told Lauren he knew what people wanted and how far they would go to get it. Derek was a provider. He gave people what they wanted when they wanted it. In fact, he thought of himself as a self-made dude. Like Donald Trump. Or the guy who started that airline. His reputation was growing. Pretty soon he’d be able to ditch this job and tell Horner where to go. Maybe Lauren, too. The bitch never gave him any credit.

He wheeled a white Acura onto the lift. A note from Horner said it needed new pads and a wheel alignment. The car looked vaguely familiar. Probably belonged to some spoiled brat in Northbrook or Glencoe who didn’t know shit about car maintenance, who just fed it gas and expected it to run. He shook his head. If it weren’t for him, a lot of people would be up the creek.

He was raising the lift when a silver Lexus turned into the station. The driver didn’t stop at the pump but pulled up to the little mart. Derek didn’t pay much attention at first. It was probably some asshole needing directions, or a woman who wanted her fix of sugar. Funny how many of them, older and loose around the middle, would come over to the mart to buy a candy bar or Wing-Ding, then sneak it into their purse like it was an illegal drug.

But when the driver got out and started toward him, Derek saw it was Charlie, one of his regulars. Usually, the guy drove a Porsche 911 Turbo. He lowered the lift and wiped his hands on his pants.

“Mornin.” He walked to the edge of the garage where Charlie was waiting.

Charlie nodded.

Something in his nod wasn’t right. Charlie normally booked online. And it was Saturday. Derek’s regulars didn’t do business on weekends. Weekends were for tourists. First-timers. Happily, there were usually plenty of them. And they often turned into regulars. “What’s happening, man?” Derek said.

Charlie walked past Derek into the garage. Derek noticed the guy’s pressed khaki slacks and silk sweater. The rich ones couldn’t dress down even when they tried. Even their jeans were ironed. He watched Charlie slip his hands in his pockets, then take them out and clasp them together.

“I wanted to—check up on a matter,” Charlie said.

Charlie was usually pretty laid back. Not today. “What’s that?”

“You remember the girl I was seeing?”

Derek tensed. He knew who Charlie meant. The guy had sampled all the stock but settled on her. Until a few weeks ago.

“I know you talk to your girls,” Charlie said. “To make sure they’re being treated right. That they’re not being hit or hurt or taken advantage of by their—clients.”

Of course he did. In his line of business he couldn’t risk trouble. He did a pretty good job, if he said so himself. Where was Charlie going with this?

“That’s what I need to know,” Charlie went on. “Did—well—did anyone...” Charlie paused, carefully avoiding any names, Derek noticed. “Did anyone make any comments about unusual activities during their— client meetings?”

“Man, what the fuck are you talking about?”

Charlie hunched his shoulders. His face took on a surly expression. “I’m sure they tell you where they go. And what happens after they get there. Guys like you—I expect they give you—well—a blow by blow?”

Derek ignored the double entendre. Was Charlie some kind of pervert? He wouldn’t have thought so. With his Porsche and nice clothes, Derek had him figured for a guy who just wasn’t getting any at home. Maybe he had figured wrong. Sometimes they couldn’t get it up. Maybe he was embarrassed about it. Until he knew for sure, he should play it cool. “Hey, man, what you do is nobody’s business but yours and your lady’s, you know what I mean?”

An even darker look came over Charlie’s face. Arching his back, slung his hands in his pockets. He looked like he was fighting to control his anger. “That’s not what I meant.”

Derek shifted. “So, what do you mean?”

“Do they ever report back about what happens before and after? Calls or other business related things. Not yours. Mine.”

“You mean who gets the money and how? You know that happens up front.”

Charlie slipped his hands out of his pockets and waved them in front of Derek. “Forget it. This isn’t working.” He shook his head irritably. “Just forget it.”

A chill raced up Derek’s spine.

“Hey...” Suddenly Charlie forced a smile, as if they were old pals. “... What about next Tuesday afternoon?” He crossed his arms. “Say around four? Can you set me up?”

Derek wasn’t buying it. He replied cautiously. “What are you looking for?”

“I don’t know. Something new and different. You decide.”

“That’s cool.”

“Have them come to the usual place, okay?”

“Sure, man.”

Charlie smile’s widened, baring teeth so white Derek knew they were bleached. He dropped his arms, turned, and headed back to his Lexus. Derek watched him start the car, release the brake, and give a little wave as he drove away.

Derek went back to the lift. This was probably the longest conversation he’d ever had with the dude, but that didn’t mean it made sense. What was he getting at? Derek hated it when people talked in that roundabout way, hiding their real intentions, making him figure out what they meant. Lauren did that sometimes. Must be something they all learned in rich school, he thought. He raised the Acura six feet off the ground and shone his light along the frame. Horner had some Nissan brake pads he thought would work. Derek went back to the storeroom to get them.

Thirty minutes later he was working on the car, still puzzling over Charlie’s behavior when he remembered. She had said something. It was one of the last times she’d been with Charlie—maybe the last. A Wednesday afternoon, he recalled. Near the end of summer. When she reported in to give Derek his take, she wasn’t cheerful like she usually was. He remembered asking if someone had roughed her up. No, she said. Nothing like that. Now Derek stared at the underside of the Acura. What was it she said? Something about bad things happening to good people. And that she would take care of it. Yeah. That was it.

Shit. Now that he was thinking about it, she’d been starting to do the same thing as Lauren. And Charlie. What the hell did it mean? She says something. Then Charlie comes around asking questions. The whole thing was weird. Definitely not cool. Not in their line of work. Derek stopped working, dug out his cell, and text messaged his partner.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

AFTER SPENDING an uncomfortable night on Sam’s couch, Georgia rented a steam carpet cleaner, went home, and spent the day scrubbing. She scoured the steps and the landing with carpet shampoo and an enzyme cleaner until most of the smell was gone. The only way you could pick up anything at all was to burrow your nose into the carpet fibers. She half expected to run into her neighbor, but he didn’t appear.

It was a crisp fall day with an achingly blue sky, and late that afternoon she went for a run. She jogged east to the lake and then up to Northwestern, making a loop around Evanston. As she reached the campus, she passed a couple strolling by the lake, their bodies melded together in a two-step of total absorption. She remembered that absorption: the overpowering need that only one person could satisfy, the joy that came from satisfying it. That joy, the joy that framed the corners of most people’s lives, made only a temporary foray into Georgia’s life. A dull pain gathered at the center of her chest.

Back home she showered, dressed, then returned the carpet cleaner to the supermarket. She must have still had soup on the brain, because she picked up a container of tomato bisque along with her other groceries. She wasn’t exactly sure what bisque was. It looked like cream of tomato but was more expensive. What was the difference, besides the fancy French name? She poured it into a pan and set it on the stove.

She’d never been a soup person until Matt. He loved it. Said it must be the peasant stock in him. Shit. She was doing it again—using Matt as a benchmark for the events in her life. When would she stop? She stared at the bisque, then took it off the stove and poured it down the drain.

She was lugging a load of clean laundry up from the basement when the phone rang inside her apartment. She sprinted up the last flight to get it.

“Hello?”

“Davis,” a tinny voice responded. “It’s Paul Kelly.”

Saturday night. She hadn’t figured the lawyer for a weekend worker. “Hey, Paul. What’s up?”

He cleared his throat, and there was a moment of silence. Then, “I was just going over my notes on the Jordan case and wanted to check in.”

“It’s been an interesting couple of days.” She told him about the fish guts. “I could have used your help.”

Kelly mumbled something she couldn’t make out.

“What?” She smiled. “You don’t think cleaning up fish crud is in the line of duty?”

“It was the first thing I learned in law school.”

“Along with due process?” She opened her door to gaze at the now clean carpet. “Well, given that this was the same thing that was dumped on Sara Long’s head, I’d say someone was trying to send me a message.”

“Brilliant deduction,” Kelly said. “But fish guts? It’s crude.”

“That may be the only thing they could think up.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m wondering if the perpetrator was a kid. From the hazing.”

“You have any leads?”

“You’re not going to like this, but one name keeps surfacing.”

“And who would that be?”

“Monica Ramsey.”

She heard him suck in his breath.

“Just listen, Paul. Apparently Tommy Cashian—he’s the Ramsey girl’s boyfriend—had the hots for Sara Long. They hooked up over the summer. It didn’t last, but according to her friends, Monica knew about it. When I talked to the kid, he admitted he was crazy about Sara. He would have broken up with Monica, except Sara told him not to. In fact, she dumped him.”

More silence.

“There’s more. Ramsey was at the Forest Preserve during the game. Several people have backed that up, including her boyfriend. But there’s no mention of Monica Ramsey in the police reports. Not one word. The boyfriend claims he took her home when the hazing started, but maybe he’s covering for her. I’m going to dig deeper, and if we find evidence that she’s unstable, or has some—”

“Davis,” Kelly cut in. “You know how when you want something to be true, you can stack the deck, slant things, so it seems like it can’t possibly be anything except what you want it to be?”

“I’m not doing that.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s a lead, Paul.”

“Is it the only one?”

Georgia hesitated. “No,” she said quietly.

“What else do you have?”

“Sara lied about working at the bookstore.”

“Really?”

“The manager says she quit her job last spring. Hasn’t worked there in five months.”

“What was she doing?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Well now, that’s what I call a lead.” She heard him rustling papers. “What’s more, I don’t see anything about that in the police reports.”

“You won’t. They didn’t follow up.”

“Now that makes things interesting.”

“Can you blame them? They’re convinced Cam Jordan killed her.”

“Like you’re convinced it was the Ramsey girl?”

“I’m not—” She cut herself off.

“Look. Instead of chasing after the State’s Attorney’s daughter, why don’t you concentrate on this job thing?”

“I will. But what about the fish guts in my hall? Whoever sent them clearly doesn’t like me nosing around.”

“Who else have you pissed off?”

“The line forms to the right.”

“I’m listening.”

“There’s Tom Walcher. He’s the lawyer I asked you to check out.”

“I did. Big real estate lawyer. Successful. Very much on the up and up. As far as I can tell.” Kelly harrumphed. “Who else?”

“Sara Long’s father wasn’t too pleased with me. And the girls I interviewed didn’t want to talk to me. I wonder if one of them could be behind the fish guts.”

“You thinking of someone in particular?”

“Not sure yet.” Georgia tapped her finger on the phone. “You know, there’s still the matter of those sketchy police reports.”

“I’m on them.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m working on it.”

“I thought you weren’t going after Ramsey.”

“That’s correct.”

“Well then, who are—” She caught herself. “Are you going after the cops?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

She shifted uncomfortably. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“I used to be a cop, remember?”

“But you aren’t any more. You can’t have it both ways, Davis.”

She thought about O’Malley. He was her mentor and her friend. She didn’t want to make trouble for him. And though she couldn’t defend Parker’s sloppy ways, she’d been his partner for nearly ten years. When you risk your life every day, and your partner’s the only one watching your back, it creates a bond that can transcend the rules.

“Paul, I think it’s more personal. I’ve been picking around the edges, and someone doesn’t like it. Don’t go after the cops yet. Let me follow up.”

“Going after the cops—or, at least, pointing out what’s not in their reports—would buy us more time. And deflect attention away from the Jordan boy.”

He had a point. “Enough to get him out of jail?” Cam Jordan was wasting away in Cook County in what was, for him, barbaric conditions. If there was a chance of getting his bail reduced so he could be released, it would be cruel not to try.

“It’s possible,” Kelly said. “Especially now that the hazing is out. Public opinion is bound to start softening.” He paused. “You have any idea who leaked the hazing, by the way?”

“No.” It came out quickly.

“I see.” Kelly cleared his throat. “Probably just some enterprising reporter?”

“Probably.” It was possible that someone had decided to play hero. O’Malley, for example. Of course, if it was him, he’d never admit it. And she’d never ask. “Paul, I still think we should wait on the cop angle. Keep it in reserve until, or if, our backs are up against the wall. It just doesn’t feel... right.”

“Since when did scruples mean anything to a PI who lies to get what she needs?”

She didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure herself. On the other hand, at least Kelly was involved in the process: brainstorming strategies, trying out leads. One minute he didn’t want to go after anyone, the next he was ready to charge ahead on half-assed theories. Talk about being unencumbered by morals.

“Your wife must love watching you weasel your way out of trouble,” she said.

“I’m not married,” he said in his reedy voice.

Somehow she had the feeling he’d say that.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

NORTH SHORE Fitness was a suburban version of the East Bank Club, a successful downtown facility for exercise, business meetings, and the amenities that fuel them both. Located near the Skokie courthouse, the yellow brick complex met those expectations, right down to a row of glassed-in conference rooms with a view of the racquetball courts and pool. Georgia pulled into the parking lot, having tailed Lauren Walcher from Newfield. She couldn’t imagine what business would draw the teenager to the Club.

Earlier that morning Georgia had visited five different fish markets in the area: two Burhops, Don’s, the Davis Street Fishmarket, and Mitchell’s in the Glen. No one remembered any waste products being taken away, although one of the Burhops managers suggested she come back during the afternoon shift. In an ideal world, she would have gone back to question Sara’s friends, but both Heather Blakely and Claire Tennenbaum were under strict orders not to talk to her. She’d goosed them as far as she could.

Which left Lauren Walcher. Lauren might have an idea about the fish guts, but getting to her was problematic. Georgia wouldn’t be welcome at the Walchers’ home, and another confrontation in a parking lot wasn’t a good idea. She’d decided to tail her and “accidentally” bump into her in a neutral location where the girl might be willing to answer a few questions. Not perfect, but worth a shot.

Georgia parked two rows from Lauren’s Land Rover and kept a discreet distance behind as the girl walked to the entrance. Lauren wasn’t carrying a gym bag, but she might keep her workout clothes in a locker. Georgia would have to talk her way into the locker room or wait until Lauren finished exercising.

The interior of the club looked like a hotel lobby with elaborate chandeliers, floor to ceiling mirrors, and splashy art on the walls. On the left a marble floor led to a cocktail lounge with couches and chairs. On the right was a juice bar and restaurant surrounded by screens and potted palms. Overhead signs that looked like the scrolling marquees inside movie theaters directed visitors to the locker rooms, pool, and courts. It was a far cry from the smelly gym and locker rooms of high school. In fact, Georgia detected a light fruity aroma in the air—peach-scented disinfectant, maybe?

Georgia expected Lauren to go to the locker rooms, so she was surprised when the teenager headed into the juice bar. She followed the girl and peered inside. Half the tables were occupied. Two waiters chatted idly to each other. Lauren went to a table in the back corner where two men and a woman were seated. Georgia didn’t want to show herself, so before she got a good look at them, she slipped around to the back and positioned herself behind a row of palms. The table Lauren had approached was a few feet away. Palm fronds blocked her view, but she could hear clearly.

“Hi, sweetheart,” a man said. His voice was familiar.

“Hi, Daddy.”

Tom Walcher.

Georgia heard a chair scrape. He was getting up to embrace her.

“You have the key to Mom’s locker?”

“Right here.”

Georgia imagined him digging into his pocket. Smiling as he handed it over.

“Thanks, Dad. You’re the best.” Lauren sounded almost pleasant. Daddy’s little girl.

“You’ll bring it home when you’re done?”

“Duh.” A trace of belligerence crept into the girl’s voice.

“Honey, let me introduce you to some people. Harry, this is Lauren, my daughter. This is Harry Perl, sweetheart. He’s a real estate developer.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Perl.” Lauren’s voice sounded mechanical.

“You too,” a nasally voice replied.

“And this is another successful developer. You could do worse than to follow in her footsteps.”

“Now, Tom,” the woman protested. “Don’t do that to the poor girl.”

“Nonsense. You are what you are. Lauren, this is Ricki Feldman.”

Oh my fucking God. For a second Georgia thought she’d said it aloud.

***

They’d made her see a counselor after the suspension. It was part of the process, they said. She dutifully showed up. They moved past the incident in question quickly. Six months earlier Georgia had failed to turn in an offender’s gun, and she’d brought a civilian to a stake-out. Both of those were clear violations of procedure, and she’d been suspended from the force. Georgia understood, took full responsibility for her actions, and told the counselor under the circumstances, she’d probably do the same thing again. There wasn’t much more to say.

The counselor nodded and started asking about her personal life. In retrospect, Georgia realized she must have been feeling chatty, because she actually told the woman about Matt. It was the oldest story in the world, she began. They were dating. She thought they made a perfect couple. They were both cops, they understood each other. Then he found another woman, and he dumped her.

When prodded, Georgia admitted she’d underestimated the pull of his heritage. She’d heard how Jewish men liked to date gentile women. Shiksas, they called them. Especially if they were blond. But when it was time to settle down, they usually married a Jewish woman. It was his family, she told the counselor. His grandparents had escaped the Holocaust, and his parents never let him forget it. She’d met them once. At a Friday night Shabbos dinner. They were polite, even kind. Still, she felt like an outsider. At the time she didn’t think it mattered.

But it did. Never mind that the woman he dumped her for was as shrewd and ambitious as a hungry fox. Never mind that her father had a reputation as a shark. She was Jewish, and Matt had fallen for her.

“What do you mean,’shark’?” the counselor had asked.

Georgia explained. Thirty-five years ago, Stuart Feldman, Ricki’s father, had built a housing development near Joliet. Beautiful homes; affordable, too. The problem was he conveniently neglected to tell anyone they were built on the remains of a toxic waste dump. When abnormally high rates of cancer, mostly neuroblastomas, surfaced among the children living there, Feldman faced a huge class action suit. His business collapsed, and he suffered a stroke from which he never recovered. After his death Ricki took over the business and quickly settled the case.

“But none of that mattered to Matt,” she added. “None of it.”

The counselor listened sympathetically, then tried to explain the five stages of grief according to some woman named Elisabeth Kübler-Ross. Georgia told her it was bullshit. She went through each and every stage at the same time. Grief clung to her, continually reminding her of what she had lost.

Maybe she was stuck, the counselor said, in that nice, antiseptic way of telling someone they were crazy. She should consider ongoing professional help. Georgia told the counselor they were done and walked out.

***

Now the woman she’d been dumped for was sitting next to Lauren’s father.

Georgia’s throat felt thick, her stomach jumped, and she felt hot and cold at the same time. As slowly as she could, she lifted a frond of the palm tree she was lurking behind and peeked through. Ricki Feldman was sitting directly across from her.

The first thing you noticed about the woman was her hair. Straight. Silky. Dark brown. No split ends in sight. Then her eyes—luminous, with thick lashes and perfect eyebrow arches. She had a slender, almost petite build and dressed in what had to be expensive but tasteful clothes. Georgia saw how the men in the room: waiters, businessmen, or exercisers, snuck looks in her direction. Even Lauren’s gaze was admiring.

Screw it. Ricki knew the effect she had on people. Even drinking a pink smoothie, she displayed a studied arrogance, aware she was the center of attention. Georgia watched an enigmatic smile spread across Ricki’s lips after a comment by Walcher. Saw her wave a carefully manicured hand in the air. It was all stage-managed. Orchestrated with the knowledge that even her slightest action was riveting.

Georgia ran a hand through her blond ponytail. She felt like a tacky bland giant in comparison. In a way she couldn’t blame Matt for having been swept away. But she could blame Ricki for stealing him.

She forced herself back. Lauren was still standing by the table, looking speculatively at her father, who was talking to the other man.

“We’re well on our way, Harry. The variance sailed through the zoning committee.”

Georgia focused on Harry Perl. He didn’t seem that tall, but he was sitting down. He appeared to be fit, and he had a full head of curly gray hair worn fashionably long. He wore a plush warm-up suit—he’d probably just come off the racquetball court. He wasn’t unattractive, but something kept him from being truly handsome. Maybe it was his eyes, which darted from person to person but never lit for more than a second. His face was a blank slate.

Perl cleared his throat and opened his mouth. Gold flashed in the right side of his mouth. “Excellent.” He looked over at Ricki.

Lauren watched as Ricki nodded. “Yes. It is.”

Walcher, also in a warm-up suit, folded his hands, the way he’d done at his house. “There are still challenges ahead. The full board still has to approve it. And they’re in the middle of all the low-income housing regs. Anything could happen.”

Perl leaned forward. “That’s why we hired you. To make nice with the board.”

“It will require some—delicacy.” Tom shot Perl a meaningful glance.

Lauren cocked her head.

“But you have—leverage.” Ricki interjected.

“Whatever you need.” Perl added.

Walcher’s nostrils flared. Georgia couldn’t tell if Walcher admired Perl, hated him, or was afraid of him.

There was a brief pause. Then Ricki offered up a dazzling smile. “Lauren, sweetheart,” she said, revealing straight white teeth. “You are such the image of your mother. She’s a gorgeous woman, isn’t she?” She turned to the other men who nodded in unison.

Lauren shot her an almost angry look, Georgia thought, then tried to cover it. “Well, I’ll be going now. Nice meeting you all. Bye.”

Georgia watched her go. She felt heavy and lethargic. Questioning Lauren Walcher would wait. She turned around and headed back outside. As she pushed through the revolving door, she spotted a man getting into a car on the other side of the parking lot. She couldn’t see his face, but he had a slim build and curly, dark hair. Like Matt. No. It was just her imagination.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

WHEN GEORGIA went back to Burhops in Glenview, the afternoon manager told her someone did come in last Friday, looking for a bag of fish entrails.

From the back of the shop came the sound of a radio turned up too high. Spanish rock. “Can you describe the person?” She tried to rein in her excitement.

“A man. A boy, really,” the manager said.

“How young?”

“Maybe in high school. Small. Skinny. Sharp nose.”

“Clothes?”

“Jeans. T-shirt. Work shoes. Oh,” He smirked. “And lots of jewelry.”

“If I showed you a yearbook, could you identify him?”

The manager laughed. “No way! There’s gotta be—what—three thousand pictures in those things? I don’t have time.”

Georgia bit her lip. “Well, tell me this. Did you give him the fish waste?”

He shrugged. “Sure. Less crap for us to get rid of.”

Georgia thanked the manager and left. Was this the kid who was responsible for the mess in her apartment? She thought about running his description past Rachel, Ellie Foreman’s daughter. And if he turned out to be a friend of Monica Ramsey... Then she reconsidered. Better not to get Rachel involved. Lauren Walcher was still her best bet.

That night it rained. A cold, stinging rain that stripped the leaves from trees, clogged gutters, and turned the satisfying crunch of shoes on dry leaves into a slippery ordeal. Georgia started to wander around the apartment. It felt empty and brooding. Too big. She grabbed her jacket and umbrella and headed to Mickey’s.

The place smelled like a combination of wet wool and grease, but because of the rain, it wasn’t crowded. She went to a booth in the back. Owen brought her food promptly. She was on the second bite of her burger when she felt someone’s gaze on her. She looked up. One of the men at the bar was watching her. The light was dim, and she couldn’t quite make him out, but he looked friendly. Indeed, he was smiling. She squinted. He had sandy hair, long on top but short on the sides. Rimless glasses partway down his nose. Jesus! Her upstairs neighbor. She looked down at her plate.

He didn’t get the message, because he picked up his drink and started over. She wanted to tell him she wasn’t interested, but something stopped her. Afterwards, she admitted she didn’t know what it was. Not his clothes; ordinary khakis and a button-down shirt with sleeves rolled up. Maybe it was that he didn’t seem to care that his clothes were fifty years out of date. He looked comfortable with himself. Or maybe it was his smile. Not the plastic grimace she saw on so many men, especially men on the make. His was warm, and that warmth was mirrored in his eyes. Or maybe it was just that it was a bad night, and she was tired of feeling lonely. Whatever it was, when he reached her table, beer in hand, she gave him a nod.

He sat down, the scent of Aramis drifting over to her. “Catch any big ones lately?”

She blinked.

He put the glass down. “Fish. The fish guts.”

“Oh.” She ran a hand through her hair. “You were right, you know.”

“About what?”

“Compost. As a disposal method.”

“How did you figure it out?”

“I went online.”

“First time.”

“What?”

He looked at her. “First time someone said I’ve been right in a while.”

She cocked her head and took a bite of her hamburger. It was missing something. Ketchup? Relish?

“My name’s Pete Dellinger.”

She swallowed her food. “Georgia Davis.”

“Like the state?”

“You got a problem with the South?” But she grinned when she said it. He grinned back. Yes, it was a good smile.

He motioned to his glass. “Can I buy you one?”

She looked longingly at his beer. It had been a tough day, coming up against her nemesis. A beer would take the edge off. A lot more than Diet Coke. Probably make the burger taste better, too. She wanted it. Deserved it. Just this once. Anyway, it was free. The word tumbled out, almost of its own accord. “Sure.”

He got up, went to the bar, and gave Owen the order. Owen dipped his head at Georgia, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. Owen shrugged and poured the beer into a glass. Pete brought it back.

“The bartender seems to know you. Do you come here often?”

The oldest line in the world and the guy said it with a straight face. She bit back a reply. “Yes,” she said simply.

“I like it.” He gazed around with a satisfied expression.

“Glad we have your approval.” She lifted the glass of beer, hesitated, then took a long pull. Just like she remembered it. Frosty and tart with a grainy aftertaste that danced on her tongue. How long had it been? A year? Eighteen months? Damn. There was nothing like a cold brew. She set the glass down and stole a glance at the bar. Owen was watching her, hands on his hips. She looked away.

“So how do you like our building?” She focused on Pete.

“It’s fine.”

“Except when somebody spreads fish guts in the hall.”

“I’m guessing there’s a good story there.”

Georgia took another long swallow. Half gone already. “I’m a private investigator,” she began. Ten minutes and another beer later, she’d told him about the case. Again, she surprised herself. When she was on the force, she rarely talked to civilians about her cases.

Pete listened attentively—she had to give him that. Even though she left out some information, he didn’t interrupt, something Matt used to do all the time. He’d claim he just wanted to understand, but it often felt like he was interrogating her. Pete nodded at all the right times and kept his mouth shut. When she was done, he leaned his elbows on the table.

“So what’s your next step?”

“I’m not sure. Like I said, I have a theory, but not enough evidence.” She finished off her beer.

“Want another?” He pointed to her empty glass.

She hesitated. She’d already downed two. A third would be asking for trouble. But he had to be on his fourth or even fifth by now. If he could handle it, so could she. “Okay.”

He returned with their drinks and settled in, a smile tugging the corners of his mouth. She wondered what was so amusing but felt too shy to ask. Instead she asked, “So what about you? Why did you move in?”

“My wife and I separated.”

“Sheila,” she murmured.

A flush crept up his neck.

“I heard you two arguing the other night,” she added, remembering how quickly Sheila had exploded.

“Oh.” The flush spread to his face. “Yeah. She came over.”

“Sounds like she wants you back.”

“She’s... well...” He shook his head, flustered. “It’s not gonna happen...” He looked over. “Let’s not go there.”

Georgia shrugged and took another bite of her burger. Pete watched with a curious expression.

She caught his look and pushed the food toward him. She wasn’t hungry any more. Alcohol did that.

He frowned at the plate.

“Something wrong?” She asked.

He shook his head again.

She looked at him, then at her plate. “You’re a vegetarian.”

He shot her an embarrassed smile. “Will you still talk to me?”

“Hey, it’s your life.”

A vegetarian. Probably a “my body is my temple” guy. She sighed. How come she always ended up with the weird ones? Truth was, until Matt, her relationships with men had been limited. She’d only had sex with three men. They’d all been sweet, but slightly off: a software geek in high school, an accountant for a chain of pet stores a few years later, then Matt, who, for a cop, was bookish. She must have been sending out subtle signals: all nerds welcome.

She tossed back the rest of her beer. Ricki Feldman wouldn’t do that, she’d lay odds. She’d set her sights on the richest, most handsome man in the room. And get him too. Georgia set her glass down carefully. Too carefully. The room was starting to wobble.

Pete’s eyebrows arched. “You downed that one pretty fast.”

“It’s been a bad day.”

“Aren’t they all?” He asked a little sadly.

He was right. Everyone suffered. She wasn’t so special. Why did she think she was? Suddenly, she couldn’t think. Three beers and practically no food. What happened to her tolerance? She used to be able to toss back four or five with no problem. Now, her head felt too big and too far away from her body. She needed to lie down. She balled up her napkin, tried to pitch it on the table. She missed, and the napkin bounced onto the floor. She stood up unsteadily. “It’s time for me to go.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

THE THING was to act like you weren’t there for anything important. Like you couldn’t care less. That was what she’d told them. After a while you could layer on a smile if you wanted. Make them feel special. Lauren checked her watch. Being prompt was important, too. Clients didn’t have all day. Neither did she. And Derek was late.

She slouched on the bench, wondering whether to call him. Not that it would do much good. He’d have to stop whatever he was doing and call her back. And time was growing short. She looked around the mall. Monday was always slow. Things didn’t heat up until mid-week; Thursday and Friday were busy. And Saturdays were crazy. She usually took off the first two days of the week. Worked out, did her homework, chilled. Her cell phone buzzed. She checked the caller ID. Heather. She ignored the call.

Tonight was meant to be a business meeting. She and Derek had to talk. Derek was recruiting girls who—well—just weren’t good enough. He’d started cruising Golf Mill and Woodfield, but frankly, Mount Prospect and Schaumburg weren’t the North Shore. The girls weren’t as classy— though she’d be the last to admit the North Shore had cornered the market on class. She’d seen plenty of clients who picked their noses, chewed with their mouths open, or sported bellies that hung over their belts. Still, there was a cachet about North Shore girls. After she trained them, they were good. She was proud of her work.

Derek’s point was they had to expand, maybe even start another branch. To stay where they were meant they were falling behind. But this wasn’t fast food, and they weren’t McDonald’s. She liked the control of a small operation. They were pulling down great money. That was important. People respected women with money. Their own money. Like Ricki Feldman. They’d only met for a minute, but they were two of a kind, she and Ricki. She could see it in the woman’s eyes. They understood each other. Lauren recalled her comment about how beautiful her mother was. That was code. Ricki didn’t like her mother. Lauren understood.

She and Derek had to discuss Sara, too. The PI had talked to Claire and Heather. Neither of them knew shit, but it wouldn’t be long until she came back to her. Georgia Davis. Lauren scoffed. Who had a name like Georgia? She hoped Georgia was focusing on Monica Ramsey. She’d planted the seed herself the night she followed her to the grocery store. To take the heat off her and the business. Still, there were problems. The PI had just discovered Sara wasn’t working at the bookstore. And now suddenly Heather was calling all the time, asking tons of questions, like she was going to do some big investigation for the school news. Lauren knew Heather was just being nosy, in that high school kind of way. She should just grow up.

Lauren crossed one leg over the other, letting her foot jiggle the air. Sara had screwed up the bookstore thing. The manager had been a client. He’d lied for Sara, took messages when someone called her at the store, even filled out bogus time sheets for her in return for a blowjob or two. But he had been fired over the summer—they’d caught the jerk with his hands in the cash register—and the new manager didn’t know about Sara’s “employment.” Lauren had told Sara to find another “job”—fast— but two months had gone by, and Sara hadn’t come up with one. Then she was killed.

Lauren’s foot dangled back and forth. They had the crazy guy. The cops were still sure he did it, despite the hazing. Why was a PI on the case? That was the other reason she needed to talk to Derek. He said he would take care of Georgia Davis. She hadn’t seen anything yet. And then there was that text message he’d sent a while back about Charlie, one of their regulars. Whether Lauren had heard from him and to let Derek know if she did.

She uncrossed her legs and checked her watch. Now Derek was really late. She dug out her cell and punched in his number. The call went straight to voice mail. “Hi, leave your name and number.” Nothing cute or fancy. All business. She disconnected.

She got up, walked over to Bath and Body Works, and ducked inside. She bought some Vanilla Cream body lotion but kept one eye on the mall. No Derek. She came back out, her irritation mounting. Damn him. How dare he stand her up?

***

Derek’s apartment in Deerfield was only twenty minutes from the mall, but driving on rain-slicked streets made it take longer. He had two roommates. She’d met them once; she didn’t like either of them. They talked with heavy European accents, and they were a lot older than Derek. One of them wore thick gold chains around his neck, and the other had an ear that was pierced in five places. But when she asked Derek about them, he said they were cool.

How would he know, she wondered as she cut across Deerfield Road. Derek didn’t talk much about his life. His family lived—or used to live— in a small ramshackle house in Wilmette. He had a brother who died two years ago; after that the family fell apart. His mother drank herself to death, and his father didn’t care about anything. Derek had dropped out of school.

She’d first met him in a chat room and started emailing. When he told her he’d gone to Newfield, she met him for coffee. One thing led to another, and they decided to work together. From then on, the business took off. They were both pulling down serious money. So were the girls.

The streetlamps cast pale, watery shadows as she pulled into the rear of the apartment complex. It was only seven, but night came faster now. Daylight savings time would be over in a week. That was the final indignity. Once the sun went down before five o’clock, winter couldn’t be avoided. She parked her Land Rover in the lot behind one of four identical red brick buildings. As she rounded the corner to the front, she fiddled with her umbrella and didn’t immediately notice the flashing lights. When she did, she was almost on top of them. A police cruiser. And a crowd of about twenty people beside it. She froze.

The police car was empty, but one of the doors was open, and the lights on the roof revolved in twin bursts of red and blue. The crowd hovered near the car, craning their necks toward the building’s entrance. Derek’s building. The front door was open. Lauren couldn’t barge inside without the crowd—and the police—seeing her. If they’d let her in at all. She didn’t remember what apartment Derek lived in, anyway. She pulled out her cell and called him again. Again the call went to voice mail.

She was pocketing the cell when a siren cut through the air. She spun around. An ambulance raced into the complex and screeched to a stop outside the building. The crowd parted to let it through. Her breath caught in her throat. She tried to tell herself it was nothing. Someone fell. Cut themselves. Had a heart attack. That’s all.

But when two more police cars and a black van with a blue flashing light swung into the lot, her stomach clenched. The cars sped over to Derek’s building and stopped. Three cops and two other men in uniform climbed out and hurried inside, leaving the engine running. Lauren started to shake in the night chill. She pulled her jacket close. One of the cops came back out and picked up a bullhorn.

“Everybody go home now. Everything’s under control.” He shouted. His voice sounded tinny, mechanical.

Where was Derek? She felt like she was being sucked into a vortex. She stared at the revolving lights on top of the police cruisers. The lights were spinning in time to her racing pulse. She thought about those Japanese cartoons that were supposed to trigger seizures in kids. Was she losing it? Then her brain kicked in. She was fine, damn it. She just needed to know what was going on.

She willed herself to take a step forward. The knot of gapers had moved to the side, but no one seemed in a hurry to leave. Umbrellas sprouted. The sight of the crowd and their umbrellas comforted her. Maybe that’s why people flocked to the scene of fires and accidents. To celebrate that they were okay, that the horror of whatever they were witnessing wasn’t happening to them. She crept closer.

“The kid didn’t have a chance. Shot point blank,” Lauren heard one man say knowingly.

What kid? Panic lodged in her throat.

“Anyone know him?” A woman asked.

“Not me,” the same man answered.

“I might. Doesn’t he live with those Serbians?” Another woman asked.

Lauren tightened her fist around her umbrella. The pressure in her chest moved up to her Adam’s apple. She wanted to escape. Run away. Instead she made herself tap the shoulder of the woman who said she might know him. “Excuse me, what happened?” Her voice was hardly above a whisper.

A dumpy woman turned around, her face alternately blue and pink from the lights.

“One of the tenants was shot. Opened the door to his place and bang.” She made the shape of a pistol with her thumb and forefinger.

“Who?”

“A young kid. Lived one floor below me. With two older guys. Unusual name. One you don’t hear every day.”

“Was it Derek? Derek Janowitz?”

The woman’s face smoothed out. “Yeah. That was it. Janowitz. You know him?”

The eerie, spinning feeling returned, and with it a high-pitched whine. The woman looked at her curiously. Lauren dropped her umbrella, spun around, and stumbled back to her car.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

THE BELL rang. Recess was over. Everyone had to go back inside. But Georgia lagged behind. She’d been sitting on the stone ledge that ran the length of the playground watching two robins hop across the grass. One of them held a piece of straw in its mouth, but as Georgia looked more closely, the straw turned into a snake, writhing and twisting in the bird’s beak. The robin dropped the snake, and it started to slither across the grass, leaving bloody entrails in its wake. The bell rang again, sharper, more piercing this time. An acrid, fishy odor permeated everything. The birds disappeared, and Georgia slowly swam to the surface.

The phone. She covered her head with a pillow. A morning dream. They were always exceptionally vivid, even more so when she’d been drinking. The phone rang a third time. Shit. Who the hell had the nerve to call so early? She let the machine pick up.

After the beep, a familiar voice growled, “Davis. If you’re there, get the damn phone.”

She cracked an eye and checked her clock. It was fuzzy, out of focus. She squinted. Ten AM. Christ. How did it get so late? She rolled over and pulled the phone off the base, forcing back the wave of dizziness that rolled with her.

“Davis here.” She croaked. Her mouth felt like sandpaper.

“It’s O’Malley.” His voice was accompanied by a high-pitched rushing noise. “Dan, where the hell are you? In the middle of tornado alley?”

“You know how hard it is to find a pay phone these days? I’m at the train station.”

“Why?”

“Wake up, Davis. Smell the coffee.”

She swung her legs over the bed and tried to focus. O’Malley was at a pay phone because... It came to her in a heartbeat.

“Shit. I’m sorry. I’m moving slow this morning,” she said.

He grunted in response.

“What’s going on?”

“I got wind of something. Thought it might be of interest to you.”

She sat up straight. “Yeah?”

“You didn’t hear it from me, right?”

“Course not.”

“Uh-huh.” He didn’t sound convinced.

“Dan, you know me.”

“I don’t know anyone anymore.” He paused. “But that’s not your problem.” He sighed. “Here it is. There was a homicide in Deerfield last night.”

“Monday night.”

“If today is Tuesday...”

“Sorry. Go on.”

“They activated NORTAF and some of our guys are on it. A young kid. Name of Derek Janowitz. Lived in an apartment with a couple of Serbians.”

“And?”

“He used to go to Newfield but dropped out a year or so ago. But here’s the kicker. The dicks went through his stuff and found a PDA with all his phone numbers on it.”

Georgia held her breath.

“Sara Long’s cell was one of them.”

***

Georgia got out of bed carefully. Her head felt like it might explode, and her stomach felt like a battalion of tiny soldiers were running maneuvers through it. She swore she’d never take another drink. Ever. She thought about toasting a bagel but couldn’t stomach the thought of eating. She did manage to down two glasses of water and three Advils.

Before hanging up, O’Malley told her the Deerfield cops had interrogated the victim’s two roommates. They claimed to know nothing about their friend’s murder, and so far their alibis checked out. When she asked if Robby Parker, her former partner and the detective handling Sara Long’s case, knew what had happened, O’Malley said,

“If I know, Parker knows. Of course, the fact that Sara’s name was in the vic’s PDA might just be a coincidence.” O’Malley added.

“Right.”

“Hey. I figured you’d want to know.”

She’d thanked him. He’d gone out of his way to call her on an untraceable line. He was still looking out for her. She owed him. After getting dressed, she booted up her computer and Googled the name “Derek Janowitz.” Nothing popped up. She tried some of her other databases but came up cold. O’Malley said the kid worked at the gas station on Shermer in Northbrook. She should drive over.

Before she left, she called Kelly. He picked up right away. “Good morning, Davis,” he bellowed cheerfully. “To what do I owe the honor of this call?”

She grunted. The dizziness was gone, but her head was still pounding, and his reedy voice didn’t help. If they were face to face, she might have slugged him. Instead she told him what O’Malley said.

“Really? Now that is interesting. You’re gonna follow up, right?”

Now she did want to slug him. “That’s the plan.”

“See if you can get me something by Thursday, okay?”

“Why Thursday?”

“Well, if you mosey on down to the courthouse around two, you’ll find out.”

“What’s going on?”

“I filed a motion for a bail reduction for Cam Jordan.”

“You did?”

“Three million dollars is obscene.”

“That’s great!” she replied. “I’m glad. That poor boy needs to get out. When do you—”

“Hold on, Davis,” Kelly replied. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

“Why not? We thought the fact that the hazing was out would make a difference.”

He snorted amiably. “Not enough, I’m afraid.”

“Then why—”

“I want to feel out the judge.”

A wave of pain shot across her forehead. “I don’t get it.”

“There’s no chance Cam Jordan’s sister could pay ten percent of a hundred grand, much less a million, right?’

“Yeah...”

“So if the judge does lower it—even a little—then I know he’s listening to what I got to say.”

“And...”

“And I might go for a bench trial rather than a jury. But if he doesn’t lower it, I know to take my chances on a jury. Capiche? “

“Capiche? “ Last time she’d checked, Kelly was Irish.

“It’s a figure of speech, Davis.”

He pronounced figure “figgure.” She sighed. “Good strategy.”

“I think so, too,” he said jovially. They made arrangements to meet outside the courtroom in Skokie on Thursday. After disconnecting, Georgia stared at the phone. She’d never heard him so happy. Had to be the Irish in him. He was gearing up for a fight.

***

Jerry Horner was stooped and had glasses that slipped down his nose. He wore a grimy uniform with “Jerry” on his shirt pocket and a faded gimme cap low on his forehead. When Georgia arrived, he was slouched in a corner of the garage in an reclining leather chair so old there were more cracks than material. He had to be in his sixties, but right now he was staring fearfully around like a kid who’d been separated from his mother.

Georgia stopped at the edge of the garage. There was no work going on, but the fumes of gas, oil, and cleaning solvents combined with her hangover made her queasy. She angled herself so she was facing out.

“Sorry to intrude, Mr. Horner, but I need to ask you some questions.”

Horner looked over, and a frown spread across his face. “Don’t know what else you could possibly want to know,” he said wearily.

“Excuse me?”

“You done asked me everything except whether I take my coffee with cream.”

“I’m not with the police, Mr. Horner,” Georgia said. “But I am interested in Derek Janowitz.”

“You gotta believe me.” He blathered on as if he hadn’t heard her. “I had no clue what he was doing.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Janowitz, of course. And what he was up to.”

Georgia nodded, playing along.

He rocked forward and adjusted the recliner to an upright position. “I’m just trying to make an honest living, you know? Janowitz started here about nine months ago. Kid seemed to know what he was doing. He was good with computers. Understood the digital crap. Used to say the future of the world was online. That you could get everything you wanted with a damn mouse. But I never guessed...”

“What he was really up to.”

“How could I?” The chair squeaked as he shifted. “In all my years, I’ve never been in trouble with the law. Thought Janowitz was a good kid. Lived around here, used to go to Newfield.” He fixed her with a knowing expression. “Just goes to show you can’t trust anyone.”

“Tell me again what you discovered about him.”

“Me? You’re the ones that came to me. I—”

“Mr. Horner, I’m not with the police.”

He looked bewildered. “You’re not? Then who—”

“I’m an investigator. I’m working on a different case, but your employee had the name and number of my subject in his PDA. I need to know—”

“What’s a PDA?”

She massaged her temples. “It’s a small electronic device that has a digital address book in it, among other things.”

“Oh.” He wasn’t sweating but he wiped a sleeve across his forehead.

“So I’d need to know if you’ve ever heard of her. Her name was Sara Long.”

Horner snorted. “The creep had a lot of girls’ names. And that’s just for starters.”

Georgia rubbed her temples again. Her headache was worsening. “What are you talking about?”

“Janowitz. He was a pimp, the bastard. Running whores right under my nose.”

His words slammed into her like a runaway train. Her hands dropped. “What?”

“You heard me,” he leaned back in the chair and folded his hands behind his head. He seemed to sense that his response had given him the upper hand in the conversation. He almost smiled. “He was a pimp. Pandering. Solicitation and prostitution, the cops said.”

Georgia steadied herself against the wall of the garage.

“The cops were here before I opened this morning,” Horner volunteered. “Five squad cars; I counted ‘em. I swear to God, I thought they were after me. But they wanted to talk about Janowitz. They’d picked up a couple of his hookers overnight. They admitted the kid was running ‘em.” Horner spread his hands again. “A fucking prostitution ring. In my gas station. No wonder they brought five cruisers. They probably thought I was keeping ‘em locked up in the garage.”

Outside, a silver Beamer pulled up to the pump. Georgia glanced over, then back at Horner. She recalled a case she’d worked where they did keep the women locked up. The pimps in that case were hardened criminals. But Derek Janowitz was a teenager. A woman got out of the Beamer and started pumping gas.

They’d given her a heads up about teenage prostitution when she was on the force. It was on the rise, she’d learned, and while a lot of the prostitutes were illegal immigrants, drug users, or runaways, a growing number of younger teens were coming from seemingly stable middle class families. As usual, money was the draw, but not for the next fix. These girls were hooking for triple mocha lattes, iPods, and four hundred dollar jeans.

Georgia recalled the expensive clothes in Sara’s closet. The digital camera and iPod. She remembered Melinda Long saying the family was just making it; they couldn’t afford luxuries. But Sara could. On her minimum wage job. Which, it turned out, she’d lied about.

The woman climbed back into her Beamer and pulled out of the station.

“Like I said, the cops were all over me,” Horner was saying. “They thought I was his partner. I don’t need that, you know? I got four grandchildren, for crying out loud.” Georgia made herself listen. This had to be the most significant thing that ever happened to Horner; he needed someone to witness his fifteen minutes.

“The cops are sure he had a partner?”

“They sure as hell acted that way.”

“And they thought it was you.”

He cocked his head. “Where you been for the past five minutes, lady? That’s what I been saying.”

“Sorry.” Georgia rubbed her temples again. “Can you describe Janowitz?”

“Skinny kid. Not tall. Maybe five six, five seven. Long hair. Wore as much jewelry as a girl. I told him to take it off at work.” Horner shrugged. “Oh, yeah. He had a big nose, too. Sharp. And his eyes were always watching you. Taking it all in.”

Georgia stopped massaging her temples. Where had she heard that before? Someone else had described a young kid in the same way. Recently. She wracked her brain, willing it to come. The afternoon manager at Burhops. He was describing the kid who picked up the fish guts. “Small. Skinny. Sharp nose. Jewelry.”

Horner started shaking his head. “I kept telling the cops I’ve never done a dishonest day’s work in my life. No way was I his partner.”

But someone else was, Georgia thought. And that someone might know who killed Sara Long.

“Mr. Horner, I’m sorry you’ve had to go through all this, but I wonder if you would do me a tiny favor.”

“What’s that?”

“You have Derek Janowitz’s address and phone number. I’d like to have them.”

“Whatever for? It’s not like he’s gonna be answering his phone.”

“The information might help me figure out who his partner is.” She smiled. “And take the heat off you.”

Horner squinted at her, then leaned forward and planted his feet on the floor. He took his time getting out of the chair. “I guess it don’t matter to me. Just as long as you leave me out of it.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

GEORGIA WASN’T surprised to see Robby Parker in court on Thursday, but she was to see O’Malley and Jeff Ramsey. Neither needed to be there—the outcome was a foregone conclusion. Knowing Robby, she would have predicted he’d show up. Anything to get out of real work. But O’Malley? Dan never liked coming down to the courthouse. He’d said—more than once—it was just for show and usually a waste of time. And surely the first assistant State’s Attorney of Cook County had better things to do than appear at a bail reduction hearing. Unless he was there to make a statement. Which, if he did have political aspirations, would make his presence understandable.

Georgia nodded to O’Malley and Parker. O’Malley dipped his head, but Parker refused to make eye contact. She shrugged, making sure O’Malley caught it, and made her way over to Paul Kelly.

To his credit, Kelly didn’t seem to be bothered by Ramsey’s presence. Seated on a bench outside the courtroom, the older lawyer, in a spiffy suit and tie, looked unusually crisp. With his bald head gleaming in the fluorescent lights, he seemed vigorous and happy. In fact, he couldn’t keep from chuckling as they waited. Ruth Jordan, wearing a gray skirt and white blouse, sat next to him on the bench.

Georgia told him what she’d found out about Derek Janowitz. Kelly rubbed his hands together gleefully when she finished. “Good work, Davis! Now we’re getting somewhere. You gonna find his partner?”

“I’m on it. But so are the cops. I heard they’re zeroing in on his roommates. The Eastern Europeans.”

“Which could mean it’s a large, organized ring.”

“Exactly,” Georgia said. “But I’m not real excited about tangling with the Russian mafia, or the Serbian mob, or whatever gang is running hookers on the North Shore.”

“You think it’s a turf war and the Long girl was caught in the middle?”

“I don’t know. Depends on the connection between Janowitz and Sara.”

“But you suspect.”

Georgia frowned. “The girl was killed in the Forest Preserve.”

“So?”

“You’d think if she was a hooker and her murder was related to prostitution, she would have been killed at a job, coming or going. But she was with her high school friends. A universe away from her other life. If she had one.”

“Maybe the killers were counting on that.” The door to the courtroom opened and several people came out. Kelly stood up, held the door open, and motioned for Ruth to enter.

Georgia followed them. “Well, at least things are pointing away from Cam Jordan.”

“It won’t make any difference today,” he said. “And you know in your heart Sara did.”

Georgia cocked her head.

“Have another life.”

***

When the judge entered the room, the clerk ordered everyone to rise. The judge arranged himself behind the bench. Georgia sat next to Ruth behind the defense table. She’d never had an occasion to sit with the “people” before. She’d always been at the cops’ section on the dais. For the first time she noticed how much the Skokie courtroom looked like a church; pews for the congregants, the seal of Cook County above the altar, and the judge’s bench the priest’s lectern.

Parker and O’Malley positioned themselves on the cops’ dais. Parker wore a flashy suit—it probably cost hundreds—and his shield was prominently pinned to his pocket. When detectives were promoted, at least on the North Shore, they got a shield and a clothing allowance and not much more. Promotion to detective was considered a lateral transfer. But Robby seemed to be milking it. He still pretended not to see her.

O’Malley on the other hand, was wearing the tight-fitting navy suit he’d worn to court for years. He looked older: the lines on his forehead looked deeper. His stoic expression didn’t hide the fact he’d rather be fly fishing in the Northwoods of Wisconsin.

She remembered the day she was suspended six months ago. She’d been working her first substantive case, and it was a tough one. A video of a woman getting shot. It wasn’t a snuff film; the video hadn’t been staged. It came from a surveillance camera. It was the middle of winter, and Georgia had been trying to do it by the book. But when she came up against the Russian mafia, procedure took a back seat to survival. She’d ended up in a strip club in Des Plaines with Ellie Foreman, Rachel’s mother, and an unarmed civilian. Georgia had faced down the bouncer and taken his gun. The problem was she never quite got around to turning it in. It didn’t matter that she cracked the case, saved lives, got the bad guy. Olson suspended her because she hadn’t followed procedure.

O’Malley tried to talk Olson out of it, but Olson was adamant. He’d been named chief after a corruption scandal that forced three officers to resign, and he needed to project a squeaky clean image. Georgia was his scapegoat. That was when she realized that, despite being a cop, her world would never be black and white. She would continue to embrace the gray.

Now, Parker nervously toyed with his shield, as if he needed physical proof he was a detective. O’Malley shot him a stern look. Parker dropped his hand and looked apologetic. Was O’Malley baby-sitting him? Is that why he was there? It was possible. This had to be Parker’s his first homicide—he hadn’t worked the video murder with her—and he didn’t have much court experience apart from traffic tickets and DUI’s. She didn’t miss that part of being a cop. Or the paperwork. But she did miss the solidarity, the ability to talk across the desk with someone who knew. Who understood what people could do to each other.

She turned her gaze to Jeff Ramsey. He was at the prosecutor’s table, hands folded. His dark suit wasn’t flashy, and with his rep tie, blue shirt, and a shock of brown hair that kept falling over his forehead, he looked like one of those pictures of Bobby Kennedy she’d seen in books. And just as earnest. He occasionally whispered to a dark-haired female assistant sitting beside him.

The judge had to be in his sixties. Probably a lawyer who’d given up practicing law in return for a steady paycheck. Most circuit court judges commanded respect, and some had amassed a good deal of power. Looking at his sober face and black robes, Georgia wondered if this judge considered himself a successful judge or a failed lawyer. And how that would affect his decision.

Kelly introduced himself and told the judge he’d brought a character reference for Cam Jordan.

“And who might that be?” the judge asked.

“His sister, Ruth.”

“What’s his sister going to say?”

“Your honor, she will attest that Mr. Jordan is not a violent individual and that he poses no threat to the community.”

“Is she a psychologist or a psychiatrist?”

“No, your honor, she’s not.”

“Then, why do I need to hear from her?” The judge rubbed a finger under his nose. “Sorry, counselor. Proceed with your argument.” He looked conspicuously at his watch.

Kelly nodded, and without missing a beat, went on to argue rather eloquently, Georgia thought. The three million dollar bond was totally unreasonable given Cam Jordan’s condition, he claimed. The boy was in-sane—when Ramsey objected, Kelly quickly retracted it and substituted “very disturbed.” He could not reliably tell what was real and what wasn’t. Though he was biologically an adult, Kelly continued, the boy had the mind of a child. He didn’t understand what was happening to him, and the harsh treatment he’d been subjected to at Cook County jail—Kelly stopped short of calling it abuse—was compromising the boy’s physical as well as mental health.

The boy did have a record as a sex offender, Kelly admitted. However, if the record was examined closely, it would reveal Cam had never touched or had any physical contact whatsoever with another individual. His activities were grounded in self-gratification. Only. If he were remanded to his sister’s care, his sister being an exemplary member of the community, by the way, there was no chance he would flee. To be honest, Kelly said, the boy wouldn’t know where to go. The home he had with his sister was the only one he knew.

Compassion alone dictates that his bail be reduced, he went on. The family has limited means and simply cannot pay an exorbitant bond. Compassion, Kelly repeated, and one additional factor.

“We have been collecting information that will cast serious doubt on the evidence against Cam Jordan,” Kelly said solemnly. “In fact, our information points away from Cam Jordan as the killer. We will be making that information available to the court at the appropriate time, but let it be said now that the person who murdered Sara Long is very much an open question.”

“Counsel,” said the judge. “Wouldn’t this be that ‘appropriate time’ to inform the Court of this information?”

“Judge...” Kelly struggled with his response. “It concerns the hazing situation. We are still looking very carefully at the events of that day, and will reveal what we’ve learned at the appropriate time. At this juncture, though, we don’t feel comfortable sharing this information—”

“But I’m supposed to feel ‘comfortable’ just taking your word for it? You’re asking me to reduce bond based on information you won’t share, Counsel.”

The courtroom was hushed. Kelly tried to fashion a response about the sensitivity of the information and protecting his client’s rights. Even Jeff Ramsey paid close attention, and O’Malley was still. When Kelly finished, he headed back to the defense table. The only sound in the room was the soft clicking of the court reporter’s keys.

Then it was Ramsey’s turn. He rose from the table, pushing his hair back off his forehead. Nice gesture, Georgia thought. Then he tightened the knot on his tie. A woman in the courtroom cleared her throat.

“May it please the Court?” Ramsey said.

The judge held out his hand.

“I appreciate the obvious feeling and compassion Counselor Kelly has toward his client. In fact, I would expect nothing less from my esteemed colleague. And I concur that Cam Jordan has faced challenges in his life because of his—difficulties. Some he has mastered. Others, he still struggles with. But, if it please the court, let’s go back to basics. The question of this hearing is really very simple.” He paused and turned around to face the audience. “Do we let an alleged child murderer back on the street to possibly strike again? Or do we keep him where he is and make sure our children and our community are safe?”

Georgia blinked.

“The defendant is thirty-five,” Ramsey went on. “And he stands almost six feet tall. His sister...” Ramsey pointed to Ruth, whose face turned crimson, “... is quite small. Let’s be candid. If the defendant wanted to break free of her supervision, how difficult would it be? All he would have to do is push her, or shove her, or—God forbid—hit her, and she would likely be compromised.

“But the issue isn’t even whether he might or might not harm his sister. The real issue is what he would do if he were allowed out on the street. Here we have a very disturbing pattern. This is a man whose daily walks take him past our public schools, the gathering places for our young. This man is a registered sex offender, with a history of sexual offenses. How are we to believe he won’t commit another one, or two, or three offenses? Because the defense promises he won’t? How can anyone control this man, given his—personality? Regardless of what the defense claims, the answer is we don’t know. And when we don’t know, we must err on the side of caution.”

Ramsey stepped to the side and brushed his hair off his forehead again. Damn, he looked sincere. “Add to that the fact we have incontrovertible evidence that places him at the crime scene when the murder of Sara Long occurred. We have her blood on his shirt. His fingerprints on the bat. Your honor, no matter how you parse it, Cam Jordan is a dangerous man. The law does not allow you to lower his bail. The law does not allow him back out on the street. Indeed, your Honor, if you care about our children, if you care about their safety, you cannot in good conscience agree to this motion. I beg you. Do the right thing.”

“Are you running for something, counselor?” the judge asked dryly.

“Your honor, I would run a marathon if it would keep Cam Jordan where he belongs.”

Good save, Georgia thought. And he didn’t mention a word about the hazing.

Ramsey looked at the judge, then down at the floor, allowing his import to filter through the room. He went back to the table and sat down. The hush in the courtroom deepened. Even the judge was quiet. Georgia looked over at Kelly. When they made eye contact, she knew from his expression they’d lost big.

***

Georgia was on her way out of the courtroom when someone called her name. She turned around. Robby Parker. O’Malley was a few feet behind him. She sighed inwardly. She’d known they’d have to talk at some point. Parker caught up to her, playing with his detective’s shield again. Was he even aware of it, she wondered.

“How are you, Davis?”

They’d been partners for years, and he still called her Davis. “I’m good, Robby. Congratulations on your promotion.”

He drew himself up. “It’s a job.” He didn’t do modesty well. Never had. “I just learned you were working for the defendant.”

She didn’t say anything.

“Why are you wasting your time on a slam-dunk?”

She tried to hide her irritation. “Obviously, I don’t see it the same way.”

“How you do or don’t see it isn’t really the issue.”

Was he trying to mimic Ramsey? “What are you talking about?”

“I—we’ve been getting reports that you’ve been talking to people. Asking questions.”

“That is what an investigator does.”

“Most investigators don’t impersonate a social worker.”

Her muscles locked, and she felt the heat on her cheeks. Tom Walcher, Lauren’s father. He’d threatened to go to the cops. She sputtered, casting around for something to say.

O’Malley caught up to them. “Hey, Davis.” He looked at her, then at Parker. He must have sensed the hostility between them. He should, Georgia thought. It was rolling off her in waves.

“What’s going on?” He asked.

Parker drew himself up. “I was just telling Davis that impersonating a social worker is the kind of thing that can get you into trouble.”

“Parker, lay off.”

But Parker barreled on. “Not that I blame her. When a case is this clear-cut, people get desperate. They grasp at anything.”

“That’s enough,” O’Malley snapped.

Georgia’s throat got thick with anger. She folded her arms and planted herself in front of him. She debated whether to mention Derek Janowitz’s homicide and what Sara might have been doing. But why give him a lead, if he didn’t already have it?

“Glad you’re so confident, Parker. Must be all the great investigative work you’re doing.”

“Oh yeah,” he kept going. “There’s something else, too. When someone starts asking questions about the daughter of the State’s Attorney, they create problems for themselves. Especially if they ever want to come back onto the force.”

How dare he patronize her? She hadn’t intended to get into a tussle, but now the words tumbled out. “You know something, Robby? If the force is run by people like you, I don’t want to come back.”

O’Malley cut in. “Look, kids, play nice. You may not realize it, but you’re both in the same sandbox.” O’Malley loosened his tie. “Parker, you need to learn when to keep your mouth shut. And Davis,” he looked over, “You—you...”

She finished for him. “I need to let things slide off my back. Isn’t that what you were going to say?”

O’Malley sighed. “From your mouth...”

But she’d had enough. “Look, Dan. I owe you. Youknow that. Buthim...” She flicked her hand at Parker. “I got no use for him anymore. Keep him away from me.”

Before either of them could answer, she wheeled around and went back into the courthouse, shaking her head. She’d become a cop ten years ago because of the loyalty and structure it imposed: the rules, clear procedures, and, despite the occasional squabble, the implicit knowledge that if you watched your partner’s back, he’d watch yours. It was like being part of a family, a family she never had. Now, though, that loyalty and structure had frayed, and the family ties were in shreds.

Inside, she started down the hall to the court room. Maybe she’d find Kelly, take him to lunch; congratulate him on his argument even though they’d lost. But as she opened the door, she saw Kelly and Ramsey at the side of the now-empty room, deep in conversation. They were out of earshot, but Ramsey didn’t look happy. Georgia turned around and headed back outside.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

GEORGIA MULLED things over as she drove home. Tom Walcher must have gone to the police after all. Or maybe it was Ramsey he’d complained to. He’d boasted of having connections; but she had no way of knowing how strong they were. Was there a relationship between the two men? Did the men have business connections? Did their spouses work together on Newfield school activities?

Or was Walcher just the kind of guy who liked to buddy up to cops? She’d run into cop-wannabes when she was on the force, guys who scanned police radio frequencies and showed up at crime scenes, sometimes even before the cops. Others hung out at cop bars and restaurants. You had to be careful with them. From time to time they might actually have valuable information, but there might be a quid pro quo when they surrendered it.

She wouldn’t have figured Walcher for a wannabe, but, ultimately, it didn’t matter which type he was. Or who he’d talked to. Parker was a pompous asshole, but he was right about one thing. It had been a mistake to impersonate a social worker. It wouldn’t happen again.

She drove west on Old Orchard Road. A country club took up one side of the road; a cemetery the other. It was a gray day, and the air felt wet and raw. A few dispirited leaves still clung to tree branches, but they weren’t able to muster much fire.

She reviewed what she knew about Derek Janowitz. Was he the one who spread fish guts in the hallway of her apartment? The descriptions matched. But was it his idea? Or could it have been his partner’s? And how could she find out who that partner was? She needed to. Whoever it was could be the only remaining link to Sara Long.

She thought about going to Derek’s apartment and trying to bully her way in to question his roommates. But they’d just endured a rough police interrogation; they’d slam the door in her face. The police had his PDA in any case. A better solution would be to get his cell phone records. She knew his number.

Some people might bicker about the ethics and legality of obtaining cell phone records without subpoenas. Frankly, before she was suspended, she might have, too. But if she was going to be a PI and work big cases, she couldn’t be squeamish about her sources. The police had resources—indeed, access to them was one of the things she missed about being a cop. As a PI, she was a lone ranger, relying on contacts and connections to get what she needed.

Sure, there was a trade-off: tracking bad guys versus infringing—at least a little—on people’s privacy. Still, for a couple of hundred dollars, she could get Derek Janowitz’s cell phone records, and she would have a slew of new leads, any number of which might lead to his partner.

Back home, she called a PI who’d referred a case to her a few months ago. He gave her the name and number of someone in Florida. Five minutes later, after surrendering her credit card number, the number of the cell she wanted to trace, and the dates she needed, she was told they had a heavy backlog. The results would be emailed to her within seven business days.

She hung up the phone and looked around. It was on nights like these that she felt the weight of time and how untethered she was. She had no ties any more, emotional or otherwise. Her mother abandoned her when she was a child, leaving her with a father who ended up loving the bottle more than her. He’d died seven years ago. She was alone now. But she was free, white, and twenty-one, an expression her father liked to repeat between shots. She’d decided that freedom was an overrated concept.

She went around her apartment and lit candles. Although she didn’t collect things anymore, she couldn’t bring herself to throw out her candles. Some were scented, and she breathed in mint, coconut, and berry. When they were all lit, she lay down on her couch and watched their lights flicker. The candles helped chase away the void, providing clarity and definition. They reminded her that, like them, she’d once had fire and heat.

***

Friday morning Georgia went to the gym to work out. Afterwards she stopped for a cup of coffee at a gas station. A radio inside the mini-mart was tuned to the all-news station. She had just forked over a dollar to the guy behind the counter, congratulating herself that she wasn’t springing for a three-dollar latte, when the female anchor came on in the tense, breathy voice that says they have important news. “This just in. State’s Attorney Jeff Ramsey has announced he will recuse himself from the murder trial of Cameron Jordan. Jordan, if you remember, was indicted for killing teenager Sara Long in the Cook County Forest Preserve last month.”

Georgia looked up, startled. The man behind the counter didn’t notice.

“In a statement, Ramsey said the situation has turned out to be more complicated than first thought. Ramsey admitted that his teenage daughter was present in the Forest Preserve during the hazing incident that preceded the homicide. Monica Ramsey is a senior at Newfield High School.

“Ramsey turned over the prosecution of the case to his second in command and said his daughter will cooperate fully. He hastened to say she is not a suspect in the homicide, nor is she directly connected to the crime. He made the decision to recuse himself to avoid even the appearance of conflict of interest. Stay tuned for more developments in this breaking story.”

The broadcast cut to a commercial about a car dealership in Arlington Heights. The man behind the counter absently handed over her change. He hadn’t heard a word. Georgia pocketed the coins and took her coffee outside. She thought back to the bail reduction hearing. Ramsey had won. No contest. Then she flashed to his conversation with Kelly in the courtroom afterwards. Ramsey hadn’t looked like a winner then. He’d looked worried.

Sliding the coffee into the cup holder in her car, she pulled out her cell and punched in Paul Kelly’s number. The call went to voice mail. She left a message.

Kelly had berated Georgia about going after Monica Ramsey. So what if the girl was at the Forest Preserve, he said? You don’t make a case out of innuendo and hearsay. They couldn’t go after the State’s Attorney’s daughter. Evidently, something had changed.

By evening she still hadn’t reached Kelly but at least now she knew why. He’d been giving interviews to the press all day. The story was all over the news, with dueling sound bites from both Ramsey and Kelly. First, Ramsey: “The most important thing to remember is that nothing that’s happened has altered the facts of Sara Long’s murder. We have the offender. We believe he did it, and that he acted alone. However, our office will make every effort to get all the facts.”

Then, a quote from Kelly: “It was clear from the beginning that the State’s Attorney’s Office was attempting to rush Cam Jordan through the system without the proper investigation and care. Now we know why. I think the charges against my client should be dropped.” Kelly turned his head so he was looking at the camera when he spoke, which gave the impression the he was talking directly to the people. Slick, Georgia thought.

Sandwiched between the sound bites were reporters, most of them broadcasting live from the Skokie Courthouse. However, one enterprising woman was staked out at Sara Long’s Wilmette home. The Longs wouldn’t comment on camera, but issued a statement that read, in part: “We hope today’s developments will not deter the course of justice. There is not a minute of any day that we do not grieve the loss of our daughter and what she suffered. We want to see justice served, no matter where it leads.”

Did they really? Georgia wondered. What if the pursuit of justice revealed that their daughter was a whore?

She switched to the public television station and found pundits shouting at each other in the rude discourse that passes for debate these days. Republicans clamoring for Ramsey’s head suggested he pack his bags and go back to New York.

“Don’t be absurd,” countered a woman with long hair and a dour expression. “He’ll ride this out. And rise above it. It was a gutsy thing to do.”

“It was the responsible thing to do,” someone else said.

“It was the only thing to do,” said someone else.

A discussion about ethics followed, and a florid-faced man with white hair pronounced the real winners the people of Cook County. The system worked, and we were all the better for it, he proclaimed.

Georgia snapped off the TV and went into the kitchen. Rummaging through the fridge for something to eat, she settled on a grilled cheese sandwich. She threw bread and cheese into the frying pan. She didn’t know who was right about Ramsey, but she did know one thing. It was easy to be gutsy when your back was up against the wall.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

HER CASE was heating up. Matt continued to tail her up and down the North Shore. To Burhops, the courthouse, even to Mickey’s, where she had dinner with her neighbor. He checked out the guy later; a state bureaucrat. Probably nothing to do with her case. He read the reports about Ramsey, and he wondered if the State’s Attorney’s recusal had anything to do with her work.

Things were heating up for him, too. Especially after he reported how she’d tailed the Walcher girl to the health club. Matt wasn’t part of the inner circle, but he noticed several closed-door meetings between Lenny and his employer, and when the man wasn’t in conference, he was on the phone. Then, a few days ago, Lenny disappeared. Just up and left. R&R, his employer said; the guy needed a break. Just a coincidence that Lenny took off right after the kid who worked at the gas station was killed. The one she visited.

With Lenny gone his employer was pressing Matt. Calling his cell ten times a day, demanding to know where she was and who was she talking to. He knew better than to ask why, but he sensed something had shifted. Intensified. He started to watch more carefully, measured every word, alert for clues, subtle mood shifts, even double entendres.

He wasn’t sleeping well. The stress was getting to him. But this was his gig—he’d wanted it. Except this time he was flying solo. There were no rules, no guidelines about what to do when. He wondered how he’d perform when they gave him a job that required more than surveillance. He needed to come through. He had a feeling he knew what that job was going to be. And he couldn’t let his personal feelings get in the way.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

AT FIRST Georgia didn’t hear the knock at her door. She was working on the computer and the TV was on. When the tapping persisted, she thought about ignoring it. She was in the middle of searching articles on teenage prostitution. Then she realized whoever was there probably could hear the TV’s babble from the hall and knew she was home. Easier just to get rid of them.

She opened the door to see her upstairs neighbor, Pete Dellinger, leaning on a pair of crutches.

Her eyes widened. “What happened to you?”

He smiled sheepishly. “Fractured my ankle playing basketball two days ago.”

She opened the door wider. “Well, I guess you’d better come in and sit down.” So much for getting rid of them.

He hobbled in. He’d cut off the right jeans leg, and the leg was encased in plaster from his toes to his knee. She examined the cast. “All that for an ankle?”

He shrugged, or as good a facsimile as he could while manipulating the crutches. When he reached the couch, he turned around and leaned the crutches against it. Plopping down on the cushions, he blew out a breath.

Georgia followed him over. “Does it hurt?”

“Not too much.” He patted his shirt pocket. “Vicodin.”

She nodded. “What can I get you?”

“You got a beer?”

“You’re on Vicodin.”

“One beer won’t kill me.”

She eyed him, then shook her head. “Sorry. I don’t drink.”

He frowned. “Then what were you doing at Mickey’s the other night?”

“Making a mistake.” She shot him a look, daring him to contradict her.

He looked back. Then his eyebrows smoothed out. “No problem. I’ll take whatever you have.”

She went into the kitchen, got out a couple of Snapples and poured them into glasses. Coming back into the living room, she handed one over. “Did you at least make the shot?” She pointed to his foot.

“Nope. Lost by two points.”

“The final indignity.” She settled on the other end of the couch. “What about your job? Can you work?”

“I’m a bureaucrat. I’m always able to push paper around.”

She thought back to his comments about fish waste and how to dispose of them. “You do environmental stuff?”

He grinned. “Nope. But I used to go fly fishing with my father in the North Woods.” He paused. “I work for the State of Illinois. In the Department of Agriculture’s Bureau of Weights and Measures.”

“Never heard of it.”

“I’m the director.”

“Oh.” She crossed her legs uncertainly.

“Don’t worry. No one else knows we exist either,” he said. “And with any luck, we’ll keep it that way.”

“What do you do?”

“I travel around the state measuring and weighing products.”

“Why?”

“To make sure you get what you pay for. For example, I make sure you’re really getting a gallon of gas, a bushel of potatoes, or a pound of hamburger.”

“How?”

“I weigh things. With my scales.”

“You have a special set?”

“I do. See, most people take for granted they’re getting what they pay for. But the cost of even tiny inaccuracies can add up. For example, an error of one tablespoon per five gallons of gas can mean $125 million a year.”

“No kidding.” She tried to look interested.

“Yeah.” He seemed to be warming to his subject. “And when you compute the added costs of—” He cut himself off. “Hey. You don’t really care about this, do you?”

“Not really,” she smiled.

“That’s okay. No one else does either.” He sipped his drink and looked around the living room. “You live—sparingly.”

Her smile disappeared. “What does that mean?”

“It’s just that you don’t have a lot of things, you know? Pictures, knickknacks, vases.”

She imagined the home he used to share with his wife. It was probably stuffed with “things.” She looked around, trying to see her place through his eyes. It did look bare. Untended. Still. She felt a grain of irritation. “I’m not into clutter.”

He backtracked. “I didn’t mean to—actually I like it this way. More space.”

She figured he was lying but let it go.

“So, what’s been happening with your case?”

She set the glass on the coffee table. “You watch the news tonight?”

He nodded. “I had a feeling you were involved.”

She filled him in, including her suspicions about Sara Long and Derek Janowitz. He listened so intently that her irritation dissolved, but when she finished, he shot her a disbelieving look. “Are you saying a bunch of suburban teenagers are running their own prostitution ring?”

“It might be tied into a larger operation.” She explained about Derek’s Eastern European roommates. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?” She teased.

“Me?” A flush crept up his neck. “No. But I don’t run in those—oh, never mind.” He threw his arm over the back of the couch. “Tell me something. Why would girls do something like this?”

He’d asked the same question she’d been mulling over. “Money, mostly.”

Pete shook his head. “Pretty extreme way to make it.”

“Depends on your perspective,” Georgia said. “You make a lot of money in a short period of time. And all you have to do is take off your clothes and fuck someone.”

He gazed at her. She wondered what was going through his mind. Then he said, “Does that mean the Monica Ramsey angle is a dead end?”

“I’ll continue to pursue it. But this—well, this could lead in a very different direction. It might turn out the only thing the Ramsey girl is guilty of is showing up at the Forest Preserve on the day Sara Long was killed.”

He went quiet again and sipped his Snapple, then held it out and examined it. “This is good. I’ve never had it before.”

“It’s pricey, but I like it too.”

He set down the glass and motioned to the computer. “I interrupted you.”

“It’s okay.”

“What are you doing?”

“You really want to know?”

“It’s got to be more interesting than weighing produce.”

Georgia pulled one of the kitchen chairs over to her desk. Pete got himself across the room on his crutches.

An hour later, they’d printed out and skimmed half a dozen articles about suburban teenage hookers. How girls were approached at malls and recruited with promises of clothes, makeup, and accessories. How one girl started stripping in hotel rooms and “graduated” to placing ads on a personals service. How the term “Trix are for Kids” had a new meaning when girls as young as nine were recruited. They read how educated girls—particularly blondes—were considered preferable, because they worked harder and brought in more money. How the johns in the suburbs were mostly family men in SUVs with baby seats in the back. They also found an article on a new breed of pimp: “Popcorn pimps,” high school students themselves.

“Maybe I’m hopelessly naive, but I still don’t get it,” Pete said.

“Get what?”

His brow wrinkled, and he looked almost pained. “Why?”

Georgia pointed to the pile of articles. “What it says there. Money. Independence. A sense of power.”

“Still, for a girl to go to bed with someone at that age, just for what you can earn....”

“Actually, I think there’s something else at work.”

“What?”

“Peer pressure.”

“Huh?”

“Status—the acquisition of things—is so much more important for kids today. I saw that when I was on the force. It’s not about having a pair of jeans from Gap. It’s about having a four hundred dollar pair of jeans. It’s not about having a Walkman or a stereo; it’s about having an iPod. Or an iPhone. Or a Blackberry.” She paused. “You can’t get those things working at Starbucks or McDonald’s.”

“So they’re having sex for them?”

“Tell me something. If your parents can’t afford to buy them for you, and you can’t earn enough money to buy them yourself, what are your options? Besides shoplifting?”

The monitor cast a bluish light over his face. He looked upset.

“Think about it,” she went on. “For years girls have been getting the message that flaunting and using their bodies is okay. Some of them have just taken it to the next level. So what if you give a few blow jobs? Fuck a few men? If that’s what it takes to buy a Michael Stars shirt or a pair of Jimmy Choos...”

“I suppose I could understand if they were older. Over twenty-one and on their own. But these are teenagers. Living at home. From good families.”

Georgia didn’t answer.

He fidgeted on the couch. “Whatever happened to kids going steady? Dating? Proms?”

“There’s still some of that.” She leaned back. “But a lot of teenagers don’t date like we used to. Or do romance.”

“Come on.”

“I didn’t say they’re not having sex. They are. In fact, it’s all about hooking up. Friends with benefits. That’s what they call it.”

“Call what?”

“Sex without complications. Or consequences. Or even real connections. Like I said, maybe teenage hookers are just...” she paused “... the natural evolution of that.”

He frowned. “How do you know all this?”

“I told you. I used to be the youth officer on the force.”

He didn’t say anything. Then he flipped his hand sideways, knocking his crutch off the chair. It clattered to the floor. “What about their parents? Do they know what their kids are doing?”

She leaned over and picked up his crutch. An image of Sara Long’s parents came into her mind. “They’re working their asses off, trying to make ends meet and give their kids a better life.”

He went quiet. Then, “Both of my parents worked. I’ll bet yours did too. But you didn’t turn into a hooker, and I didn’t end up a pimp. Doesn’t it bother you?”

“It bothers me more when one of those girls gets killed.”

Pete laced his hands behind his head. “You’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?”

Georgia stood up. “Do you have a sister?”

Pete nodded. “She’s twenty-nine. Lives in California.”

“What would you do if you found out she was hooking?”

His brows knit. “She wouldn’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“Why? What are you implying?”

“I’m just asking.”

“I guess the real answer is I don’t know. We’re not that close.”

Georgia glanced at the monitor, then back at Pete. “Maybe you should be.”

***

After Pete left Georgia went through the articles again. One mentioned how prostitution had gone online. How if you knew the right web-sites, you could register by email, enter your zip code, even request a specific girl. Twenty-four hours later you’d get a response—guaranteed. The article went on to say how pimps no longer had to troll the streets any more. With a computer and a high-speed modem, they could run girls from the comfort of home.

She took the empty glasses into the kitchen and rinsed them. When she interviewed Jerry Horner at the gas station, he’d told her how Derek claimed you could get anything you wanted online these days. “The future of the world was in that damn little mouse,” he’d said.

She hurried back to her computer. Starting with Google, she entered “Escort Services.” A flood of websites surfaced; so many she was overwhelmed. She re-entered the words, this time adding the word, “Chicago.” She was still inundated. She started clicking through them. Most had photos of nude women—all of them young and glamorous—in provocative poses. The text invited you to request either a blonde, a brunette, an Asian. Others touted European beauties or Polish princesses.

She ran an irritated hand through her hair. How were these websites allowed to operate so brazenly? Granted, the term “escort service” was a euphemism, but judging from these websites, there was no difference between “escort” and “prostitute.” There ought to be some way to come down on them, shut them down. Then again, vice was always the poor stepchild of every police operation. The oldest profession still didn’t merit the same attention as narcotics or rape or even identity theft. Moreover, a lot of these websites originated offshore, well beyond the reach of U.S. law. In the unlikely event they were shut down, they would simply resurface the next day on another back alley of the Internet.

She kept going, tunneling deeper into online sex. It disturbed her to see pictures of women touching themselves or each other with rapturous, come-hither expressions. Who were these girls? Did they come from families like Sara Long’s? Most looked over twenty-one, but how could you really tell? Were some of the girls’ smiles pasted on? Did some of those toothy grins mask an air of desperation?

She remembered a woman she’d met last year. Mika had left her home in Eastern Europe after the Soviet Union collapsed. She’d fallen into a white slavery operation run by the Russian mafia. Georgia remembered her own rage and helplessness when she’d heard about it. Rage at the exploitation, helplessness because she couldn’t do anything about it.

She stared at the screen, wanting to transfer some of that rage to Derek Janowitz. He was the pimp. The recruiter. But he was dead. Whether or not his death had anything to do with his pimping, he’d paid dearly. And to be fair, she couldn’t hold him solely accountable. She thought back to the expensive clothes she’d seen in Sara’s closet. If Sara was hooking, presumably she was profiting from the arrangement.

After slogging through more websites and come-ons, Georgia spotted a link to a site that offered “hot young babes.” When she clicked, another montage of naked women popped up. The text claimed they were under twenty-one, but some of the women, clearly older, had braided hair tied with gingham ribbons, and wore bobby sox on their feet. Others had no pubic hair and were positioned in gangly teenager poses.

She clicked on the photo of the youngest looking girl and was immediately taken to a website with no name, just an IP address. There were no photos or text on the site either, with the exception of a request for a zip code. She entered the zip for Newfield High School. A moment later, a registration form popped up that asked for her email, a user name, and password. Underneath that, she was to fill in what she was looking for and the dates she wanted her “escort.”

She started to fill out the form. She typed in her e-mail address, entered “Everready” as a user name, and chose a numeric password. She said she was looking for a sixteen year old blonde, and that she was available any weekday after four. She was about to enter the information when she paused, her finger on the enter key.

She had no idea what she was signing up for, no idea if it would get her closer to Derek Janowitz’s operation. She wasn’t even sure he used the Internet to get johns. The fact that it asked for a zip code made her think the site was part of a national consortium or partnership, but for all she knew she might have stumbled onto a mob-run operation. It could be dangerous to give them her email address. She deleted her entries, wrote down the IP address, and clicked off

She started to pace around the apartment. When you were puzzling out a case, O’Malley used to say, change your environment. Get up, take a walk, go work out. He claimed it restored the right-brain left-brain balance, made it easier to receive new input.

She went to the window and opened it. Spits of water clung to the glass, and the streets had that pleasant but sandy wet asphalt smell. It must have rained earlier. The wind was whipping the leaves. Her favorite part of autumn, the sweet part, was coming to a close; the harsh winds of November would soon strip the trees, leaving nothing but bare, gnarled branches.

Directly across the street from her was a two-story bungalow. Three little kids lived there. A tricycle and wagon lay on the front lawn. A modest embankment edged the back. The kids’ mother must have been too tired or too frazzled to bring the toys inside tonight. Georgia hoped no one would steal them. She liked the kids, thought they were cute. But the thought of having her own family filled her with dread. What would she do when they became teenagers? How would she keep them from turning into Sara Longs?

She closed the window. She just couldn’t see herself as a mother. When she tried, the picture went all snowy and gray, like a TV station that’s signed off for the night.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

GEORGIA REACHED Kelly Saturday morning. He sounded like he was still high from his adventures of the previous day.

“So, what did you think?”

“You said you weren’t going to play Ramsey. That it could be dangerous.”

“I rethought it. And hey, it worked.”

“Temporarily. They’re still moving ahead with the case.”

“They’re just trying to save face. Public opinion is swinging our way. They know it’s not a slam dunk anymore.”

“What about Cam Jordan?” Georgia asked.

“What about him?”

“Given Ramsey’s recusal, and the fact that people are taking note of it, wouldn’t this be a good time to try again to get him released on bond?”

“Already done.”

“Really?”

I filed another motion for a bail reduction hearing. It’s on Tuesday.”

***

This time the hearing was perfunctory and short. The news had been full of stories about Jeff Ramsey and his political future over the weekend; public opinion was running high. Both newspapers ran editorials disparaging Ramsey’s behavior, radio and TV commentary followed suit, and the political blogs kept the issue front and center. Reporters staked out in front of his house. There was a shot of Monica coming out the front door with her face averted—her father must have warned her about the cameras.

Despite earnest arguments by a senior assistant State’s Attorney, the judge entered a decision to release Cam Jordan on bond. Georgia drove his sister over to Cook County jail. Cam Jordan emerged a few hours later, looking pale and thin. Georgia, who gave them a ride back to Ruth Jordan’s house, felt optimistic. Although it wasn’t over—the legal process would go forward—for the first time since taking Cam’s case, something had gone right. She was serving the cause of justice.

Back in her apartment, she brewed a pot of coffee and sat in the kitchen. Afternoon sun glittered through the leaves, splashing shifting patterns of light and shadow across the table. She was staring at them, sipping her coffee, when an idea occurred to her.

She went to her computer and connected to Craig’s List. Accessing the Chicago page, she clicked on “Erotic” services. A warning about adult content popped up, along with a plea for safe sex and an admonition that users must be over 18.

When she clicked again, she was taken to a succession of messages, all offering sexual services of one kind or another. Page after page, in groups of 100, contained come-ons, ads, and photos of women, many in lewd poses. Georgia scanned them, paying close attention to pictures of blondes. She didn’t expect to see a picture of Sara, not really. Still, she had to check.

An hour later, she’d found nothing. No face even remotely familiar. She took that as a good sign. Then she pulled out a list of the prostitution websites she’d visited with Pete. She’d written down over thirty URLs. She went back to the computer and clicked over to WHOIS, a database of websites created by the largest domain registration service on the Net. WHOIS catalogued who owned each site, and provided both an administrative and technical contact.

One by one Georgia typed in the URLs from her list. Most were registered to corporations, which, when she cross-referenced them on Google, turned out to be hosting websites. The contacts led back to the web host’s customer service department. She wasn’t surprised—web hosts were as sensitive to privacy issues as everyone else and usually honored their customers’ request for anonymity. If she was still on the force, she might have been able to get a subpoena to break through. Unfortunately, she wasn’t.

After checking twenty websites, she became frustrated. Some of the sites, although they featured American girls, were registered in countries like Russia or Poland. Others were in Barbados, even the Sudan. She’d only found the names of two individuals: one was in Toronto, the other in Santa Monica. Derek might have been connected to them—geography has no meaning on the Internet—but she had no way to verify it.

Only ten websites were left on her list. She typed in nine more URL’s. Nothing. She sighed. It’d seemed like a good idea an hour ago. She plugged in the last URL and watched green bars march across the bottom of the screen, followed by the jump to a new page. Nothing.

She got up. Her back ached, and she had a headache from too much time hunched over the monitor. If Janowitz did run a prostitution website, he must have known enough to cloak himself in cyberspace. She’d wasted almost an entire afternoon.

She was back in the kitchen staring out the window when she heard the chirp of an incoming email. She went back to retrieve it. The message was from her Florida contact, and it contained an attachment. The cell phone records. She’d almost forgotten.

She clicked on the attachment. At the top of the page was 847-555-4586, Derek’s cell number, followed by the dates she’d requested, and a list of at least three hundred calls. She scrolled down. Derek received almost forty calls a day. Most of the calls were preceded by 847, the area code for the North Shore. That made sense. But there were a few 773’s, 312s, and two she didn’t recognize.

She went back to the top of the list. If Derek had a partner, she reasoned, the partner’s number would show up more than once or twice. She reviewed the log carefully. Six or seven numbers popped up frequently. Of those, two numbers recurred more than the others. Both had an 847 area code. She reached for the phone and punched in the first number. The phone rang once. A tingle ran up her spine. It rang again. Then it clicked. “The number you are trying to reach is not in service at this time.”

Was that Sara’s cell? Had it been disconnected now that she was dead? She ended the call. Then she dialed the other number. She closed her eyes, waiting for the call to connect. It rang once. Again. A third time. Then it went to voice mail. She held her breath.

“This is Lauren. Leave a number and I’ll call you back.”

***

Lauren leaned over, picked her Cole Haan purse off the floor, and put it in her lap. She was in History class, and you weren’t supposed to have your cell on in school. She kept hers on vibrate so the teachers wouldn’t notice.

In fact, she had two phones: one for business and one for her personal use. Her parents didn’t know about the business phone, and she intended to keep it that way. She looked inside the bag. The call had come in on her personal cell, but the number was blocked. That bothered her. No one she knew had any reason to block their number when they called her. Did someone have the numbers mixed up? Doubtful. Derek and Sara were the only ones who called both numbers, and they were both dead.

Maybe it was Heather, playing another of her investigative reporter games.

She and Claire both—although how could you get mad at Claire?— still called or text messaged her six times a day with stupid questions like “what do you think of Alicia’s nose ring?”; “Will you pick me up on Saturday?” “Did you see what Cash was wearing?”

Lauren had been like that, but moved on when she started the business. So did Sara. They’d put immature games behind them.

Which made it awkward when the girls still peppered them with questions. They’d kept the business a secret, but it hadn’t been easy. That’s why Sara was always asking questions about who knew what about whom. Lauren had warned her to be careful, not to push it, but Sara was stubborn. Part of it was that she wanted to be liked—doesn’t everyone?—but that wasn’t what drove her. Some girls, Heather for example, equated power with beauty or information. Not Sara. For her it was simple. She craved the things money could buy. She’d been clear about that from the start. But she didn’t want the slightest whiff of attention focused on the business.

The funny thing was that when you stopped to think about it, Sara was probably better suited to the profession than Lauren. Money wasn’t important to Lauren; she’d grown up with it. Sara hadn’t. In fact, Lauren had been meaning to talk to Sara about the amount of time she spent turning tricks. She never said no, and there were times she should have. But they’d drifted apart recently, and their friendship had become strained. Lauren wasn’t sure why.

Now she stared at the blackboard, only dimly aware of the discussion about the Monroe Doctrine. The PI knew Sara came to the Forest Preserve to talk to Lauren. Sara’s mother told her. Lauren figured Sara was concerned that someone might have discovered the business. But what if she was wrong? What if something else was on Sara’s mind? Maybe Sara came to the Forest Preserve to tell Lauren she was sorry they’d grown apart. That she wanted to get close again. A pang of regret shot through Lauren. Maybe if she had, things would have turned out differently.

No. That was retarded. It wouldn’t make any difference now. Lauren crammed the phone back in her bag and tried to pay attention in class. If the person who called wanted her badly enough, they’d try again.

***

But no one did, and by that night, she forgot about it. She was busy working the website; it was almost the middle of the week; requests were heating up. Usually she didn’t mind. She liked the online side of the business. Working online made it seem more remote. Cleaner. Derek had set everything up. He’d even created a simple file sharing system for notes and records. She could match up a customer and a girl in less than five minutes.

She opened the incoming messages. Two requests for the next afternoon. She started to check the girls’ schedules to see who was available, then stopped. First Sara was killed. After her, Derek. Was there a connection? Could the PI be onto something? Maybe the crazy guy in the Forest Preserve didn’t do it. Lauren couldn’t see how—the cops were sure he did. But maybe—somehow—it was somebody else. Someone in the business. Did Sara stiff someone? Did Derek? She didn’t know, and not knowing made her anxious.

What if someone wanted them out of the way? She remembered warning Derek not to get too big. That they were inviting trouble. Bigger fish might swallow them up. As usual, he didn’t listen, and now he was dead. Not even a month after Sara. Could Sara’s death be a warning? A warning Derek didn’t any pay attention to? Was it possible they might come after her now?

A knot of fear tightened her stomach. She hadn’t counted on anything like this happening when she started the business. She’d wanted to keep it local. Small. But then Derek got involved, and suddenly they were running a dozen girls up and down the North Shore. Without Derek, though, it was too much. She couldn’t do it alone. Especially if someone had it in for her.

Maybe she should scale back the business. Keep a low profile. Stay out of trouble. At least until things settled down. Sure. That’s what she would do. She’d email her clients. Tell them they would be on a reduced schedule—a few girls were on vacation. Yes. That sounded good. They’d be back in a few weeks, tanned and rested and hotter than ever.

She sent the email to her client list, then plugged her iPod into her computer, and downloaded some Ashlee Simpson. She could hear her mother puttering around in the kitchen. She was on the phone, as usual. Lauren remembered a book—by Dean Koontz, maybe—where people actually melded with their computers. Sentient machines swallowed up the humans—body part by body part—in a morbid, kinky attack. The result was a monster half human, half computer. She imagined a phone growing out of her mother’s ear. Knowing her mother, she’d see it as some kind of achievement, something to lord over the rest of the world.

Lauren transferred the music to her iPod. Usually she could figure out who her mother was talking to by her tone. If it was cold and hostile, her mother was talking to her father. If she was cool and patronizing, to a repairman or a store employee. But occasionally, there was a soft, honeyed tone. Lauren didn’t want to know who that was.

She was lying on her bed, just starting to relax, when her business cell chirped. She considered ignoring it. She didn’t want to do any business tonight. But the ring-tone, ironically cheerful and upbeat, persisted. Reluctantly, she rolled over and grabbed it.

“Yeah?” Derek always told her not to identify herself. As if she didn’t know.

It was a girl’s voice. Halting. Tearful. “I—I need help.”

She checked the caller ID. She didn’t recognize the number. “Who is this?”

“Jj- Ja- Jathmine.”

One of the girls Derek recruited. Korean, she recalled. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m—I’m in trouble.”

A panicky feeling lodged in her throat. “What’s the problem?”

“I’m hurt,” she stammered.

“Where are you?”

A flood of tears kept Lauren from hearing her reply.

“I can’t understand you.”

In between sobs, the girl repeated herself. She was at a motel in Chicago. On the North side.

“What are you doing there?” Lauren said sharply. “You’re supposed to be at—”

The girl’s sobs filled her ear.

“Never mind,” Lauren said. “I’m coming.”

“I’m in Room 254. Hur—Hurry. Pleathe.”

Lauren snapped off the phone. Her heart was pounding. She looked around her room, trying to figure out what she should bring. A first-aid kit? Tranquilizers? Vicodin? Derek usually handled the onsite things. That was their system. She was just back-up. She didn’t even know the girl. Derek had found her at Golf Mill. She was smart, he said. And ambitious. Wanted to put herself through college.

She quickly grabbed some antiseptic, bandages, scissors, and gauze from the bathroom. She wasn’t at all sure that’s what was needed, but she had to take something. She stuffed the things into her bag. Then she crept downstairs, tiptoed past the kitchen, and out the front door.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

THE FAIRVIEW Motel sat just off Clark Street on a seedy, forgotten block near the city line. The view from its windows was mostly fast food places and shabby warehouses. Whoever named the place must have had a sense of humor. The “E” in the motel sign sputtered and the “W” was missing altogether.

Lauren had never been here before; she made sure the girls went to upscale hotels on the North Shore. In fact, she’d only been to one other rescue job, and the girl had been waiting in the bar of the Hyatt. Thankfully, nothing showed, and the girl had been able to blend in.

Lauren got out of the car. The asphalt in the parking lot was cracked and littered with cans, bottles, and food wrappers. The smell of grease from the burger place next door stuck in her throat. She was alone. And she was about to rescue someone she didn’t know. A trickle of fear slid down her back. She took a breath and fastened the buttons on her Urban Outfitters blazer. Room 254 was around the back. She walked up to it and knocked. Twice, then three times. That was the signal.

The girl who opened the door was tiny, with black, shiny hair that hung to her waist. Ordinarily, she would have appeared cute, elfin, but now her hair was tangled and matted, and her clothes, a tight black tank top showing plenty of midriff and a black miniskirt, were torn. She cradled her left arm in her right.

But it was her face that made Lauren gasp. Bruises under one eye made a swollen mockery of her features. An angry red gash streaked across her cheek. Smaller slashes swept across her arms and legs. It looked like someone had taken a razor blade to her skin.

“Jasmine?” Lauren gripped the door.

The girl nodded, swaying unsteadily.

“Who did this to you?” Lauren’s voice was hoarse from fear.

The girl shook her head. Shit. Lauren should have checked the file before she came. But there was no time for self-recrimination, because the girl burst into tears and pitched forward. Lauren broke her fall. The girl screamed.

“I think my arm ith broken.”

Lauren released her and sat her down on the bed. She gently touched Jasmine’s arm. The girl howled. Lauren went to the bathroom and snatched a towel off the rack. Slipping it under Jasmine’s arm, she fashioned a clumsy sling and tied it around her neck.

Jasmine looked up, tears streaming down her cheeks. Then she collapsed against Lauren, as if she’d been hoarding her last ounce of strength until she arrived. Lauren put her arm around the girl’s good shoulder. It felt unfamiliar and awkward. She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, listening to Jasmine weep. Eventually, the cries subsided.

Lauren dropped her arm. “Can you stand? We need to go into the bathroom so I can check you out.”

Jasmine stood up and started to walk but stopped abruptly. A fresh round of tears materialized. “Hurths,” she cried. “Down there.” She tried to point to her crotch.

Lauren half pushed, half propelled her into the bathroom, and made her sit on the toilet seat.

“What happened?”

Jasmine pointed to the bed. When Lauren looked she saw drops of blood on the sheets. Bright red. Her throat tightened. She forced down air.

“He—he hurt me.”

“Where?”

Jasmine shook her head. “My legth.”

Lauren relaxed fractionally, then realized the girl was lisping. “What’s wrong with your mouth?”

The girl opened her mouth and stuck out her tongue. Lauren recoiled. Her tongue had been pierced, but someone—or something—had torn the stud from its hole, and the tip of her tongue was a bloody pulp.

Lauren squeezed her eyes shut. “How did this happen?”

“He got mad when I took out my tongue stud. He had a razor.”

“He cut your tongue?”

She nodded.

“Oh my God.”

“It hurts,” Jasmine wailed. “Really bad.”

Lauren’s mind raced. The girl needed a doctor. But she couldn’t take her to the ER without answering a lot of questions. And which ER should she go to, anyway? How would she pay for it? She and Derek hadn’t planned for this contingency. Sure, they knew there were perverts out there, but Derek was supposed to have screened them out. Unless Jasmine was freelancing. A strange hotel, not in the prescribed geographical area. Lauren’s eyes narrowed. “Who was the john, Jasmine? How did you hook up with him?”

“Derek hooked us up.”

So much for freelancing. “Was this the first time?”

Jasmine shook her head and held up three fingers.

“What about the first two times?”

“He wath fine. Then, I don’t know. He’d been drinking. I didn’t want to come here. The latht time we went thomeplace nicer. But when I told him I’d meet him there, he thaid no. We had to come here.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

“He thaid he’d talked to Derek and it wath okay.”

“It wasn’t.”

“I want to go home. I want my mother. I’m—” Fresh tears welled in her eyes.

Damn Derek. And damn Sara. Damn them both for leaving her alone. Things were out of control. Maybe she should just drop the girl at the ER and drive away. No. The police would be there in a heartbeat, and Jasmine would tell them everything. She pressed her lips together. “I’ll take care of you. Just give me a minute.”

“What are you gonna do? Where are we gonna go?”

Lauren looked around the room, refusing to meet her eyes. For the first time in her life, she didn’t know.

***

Georgia watched as Lauren emerged from the motel twenty minutes later. Her arm was draped around a tiny Asian girl. Together they shuffled toward her SUV. The dim light cast patchy, elongated shadows over the parking lot, but Georgia could see the girl was hunched over and favoring her left arm. Both girls kept their heads down, but when Lauren looked up to flash the remote key at her car, she looked shaken.

Georgia, parked about two hundred feet away, threw open the door to her Toyota. “Lauren!” she called sharply.

Lauren froze. “Who’s there?”

The girl couldn’t see her in the dark. “It’s Georgia Davis.” The girl stiffened. Georgia got out of her car and jogged over. For a moment, Lauren looked like she wanted to bolt, but then, as if realizing it was a lost cause, she sagged against her car. The other girl looked fearfully from Georgia to Lauren.

“What are you doing here?” Lauren asked.

“I’ve been following you.” She stepped closer and studied the other girl. “This girl needs help.”

“I know.”

“Where are you taking her?”

Lauren looked at the ground. “I—I was going to call one of my—a friend.”

Georgia frowned. “Why?”

Lauren looked at Jasmine, then back at Georgia. She shrugged helplessly. “I—I didn’t—I don’t know what to do.”

Georgia nodded. She took a step toward Jasmine. “Help me get her into my car.”

“Where are we going?”

“To the ER.”

Lauren cried out. “No! I can’t!”

“This isn’t about you.”

“But—we’d be—the police—it would ruin everything!”

Georgia shook her head. “Too late. She’s got to be seen by a doctor.”

“Can’t I just—drop her off or something?”

“Nooo!” Jasmine started to wail again. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“Please.” Lauren turned around and shot Georgia a beseeching look. “There’s got to be another way. Please. I—I’m so scared.” It wasn’t cold out, but she was shivering.

Georgia considered it. Lauren was clearly in over her head. And she was right about one thing. If they went to the ER, it would only take a cursory examination of Jasmine before the police were called. She remembered reporting to the ER for a couple of domestics when she was on the force. She’d filled out paperwork for days.

Georgia weighed her options. Lauren Walcher was at the heart of this case. If Georgia could get Jasmine the help she needed without getting the authorities involved, Lauren would owe her. Big time. She thought about where they were. Not far from Clark Street. A Woman’s Place was just around the corner.

“I know where we’re going.”

“Where?”

“We’ll take my car.” She made a sweeping motion with her hand. “Let’s go.”

“Why should I?”

Georgia stopped and stared at Lauren. “Because you don’t have a choice.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Stop talking and help me get her into the car.”

Lauren looked like she wanted to argue, but Jasmine started to cry again. Lauren squeezed her eyes shut. “Okay.” She was herding Jasmine toward the Toyota when Georgia intercepted them. “Here. Let me.”

She braced herself, bent her knees, and scooped the girl into her arms. The girl was tiny, but a hundred pounds was a hundred pounds. Georgia felt the strain in her muscles. Still, she carried the girl to the car.

“Open the door,” she ordered.

Lauren did what she was told, and Georgia settled the girl in the back seat. She seemed dazed and limp, but her eyes were open, and she yelled when her arm was touched.

“What’s your name?” Georgia asked her.

“Jathmine.”

“What day is it?”

“Tuethday.”

“Where are you?”

“In your car.”

“Okay.” Then to Lauren, “You get in too.”

She waited until the doors were closed and seatbelts were buckled. Then she keyed the engine, backed out of the lot, and headed down Clark.

Traffic was light, and ten minutes later Georgia turned right onto Diversey. In the heart of Lincoln Park, Diversey Parkway was a street that reinvented itself every few years, evolving from a strip of seedy bars and storefronts to an upscale shopping area. But while the stores catered to the affluent of any orientation, the bars were mostly gay. One of those bars was sandwiched between a bookstore and a florist.

Georgia parked in front of a neon sign of a silver slipper that winked at passers-by. “You two stay here. I’ll be back.”

But Lauren, who seemed to have recovered some of her confidence during the drive, groused self-importantly. “What are we doing here? We need to—”

Gerogia glared through the window. “Not another word, Lauren.”

Lauren glared back. Then she blinked.

A wave of heat, perfume, and beer rolled over Georgia as she pushed through the door of the Silver Slipper. Couples, most of them women, idled at tables and booths. Singles drank at the bar. Georgia went to the end of the bar and looked around. It was well after ten, but she didn’t see the person she was looking for.

A room in the back held more tables. She headed back. A tiny dance floor took up the center of the room. The lights were low, and a jukebox blared out a slow Patsy Cline number. One couple was dancing. Another couple kissed, oblivious to everyone else. Georgia was curious in spite of herself. What would a woman’s lips feel like? As soft as Matt’s? And a female body—would it feel the way Pete’s did, his limbs weighing her down, making her feel wanton but protected? Pete. Where had that come from? Matt.The way Matt’s did. She felt her cheeks get hot.

She should go back to the bar. As she turned around, Red Sladdick appeared in front of her. She looked just like she did at the poetry reading: dark hair, scarlet lips, thigh-high boots. Tonight, though, she was grinning from ear to ear. “What brings you down this way, sweet Georgia?”

Georgia waved off the grin. “Didn’t you say you were a nurse at Illinois Masonic?”

“I am indeed.” Her smile wavered.

“I need your help. Now. Please,” she added.

“I don’t—what are—”

“It’s important.”

Red’s smile faded, and her eyebrows arched. Then she nodded. “I’ll get my things.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

AN HOUR later, Jasmine was resting comfortably in a small room at Advocate Illinois Masonic. Red had sneaked them in through the employees’ entrance and found an intern who agreed to treat the girl, no questions asked. He put a cast on her arm and bandaged the worst of the wounds. Her mouth had been treated with an antibiotic, and the intern promised that of all the wounds, the tongue would heal the fastest—probably within a day or two. Until then, he advised Jasmine to eat plenty of jello and ice cream. That prompted a giggle from the girl, which made Georgia realize how young she really was.

“I’ll be back,” Georgia said. “I’m going to tell Lauren you’re okay.” Lauren was in the waiting room.

“Thank you for everything,” Jasmine said.

Georgia nodded and stepped into a corridor. Red was waiting for her. “So what happened?” Red asked quietly.

While she was grateful for Red’s—and the doctor’s—discretion, she didn’t want to tell her what was going on. Still, Red had risked her job for them. She was entitled. She made it brief. “She was hooking and she got a bad trick.”

Red winced. “How old is she?”

“Maybe sixteen.”

Red blew out a breath. “How’d you get involved?”

“It’s one of those long stories.”

Red looked over. “I’d invite you over just to hear it, but I get the feeling you have things to do.”

“You’re right. But thank you for everything. You had no reason to help me, but you did. You could have been fired.”

“All in a day’s work.”

“I owe you.”

“Just my luck,” Red smiled wryly. “To be owed by a straight woman. And a former cop.”

It was Georgia’s turn to smile. “How about dinner when this is over?”

“It’s a date.” Red slipped a hand into her bag and fished out a card. “Tell you what.” Her smile widened. “You take my card this time.”

Georgia slid it into her jacket pocket. She started to walk away, then retraced her steps and gave Red a quick hug. As she exited the corridor, she saw Red shaking her head.

***

Georgia drove Jasmine to her home in Niles, leaving the girl to explain to her parents what had happened. She was no longer responsible for her and didn’t want to be involved further. She did get a description of the john, though. She would call O’Malley tomorrow. She wanted to nail the bastard.

Lauren Walcher, however, was a different story. She was sitting in the passenger seat as they headed north. Georgia checked her watch. Almost midnight, but Lauren’s parents were probably used to her staying out late. She cut back east, taking side streets to avoid the lights.

Many of the houses were decked out for Halloween. As a kid, the holiday used to be Georgia’s favorite: no gifts, no church, just costumes and bags of candy. She was a fairy princess one year, a fireman the next. One year her father, a battalion chief in District Three, brought her a real fire hat. Her mother stuffed tissues into it so it wouldn’t fall off.

Now though, as she passed homes festooned with ghosts, ghouls, and monsters dripping blood, she was creeped out. Some of the decorations were more elaborate than Christmas, but they all looked bizarre and sinister, as if neighbors were competing for the most gruesome display on the block. How had people become so attracted to the grisly and the morbid? Whatever happened to smiling jack o’lanterns, candy corn, and friendly ghosts? If people knew what real darkness was, they’d flock back to Casper in a heartbeat.

She stole a glance at Lauren. The girl was leaning against the window. Who knows? Maybe it all contributed to a lawlessness, a rebellion against morality that allowed kids like Lauren to operate at the margins. She doubled back to Oakton and crossed over the Edens. When she looked over again, tears were rolling down Lauren’s cheeks.

Georgia pulled to the side of the road. “What’s the matter?”

Lauren shook her head and started to sob.

Georgia waited, watching the play of light and shadow on Lauren’s face. The girl continued to cry, long wrenching sobs that tore her heart out. Georgia leaned across her, opened her glove compartment, and pulled out some tissues.

“What’s going on, Lauren?” Georgia asked softly.

“You remember what you said about secrets?”

Georgia tipped her head. “You mean how sometimes you can be a better friend if you tell someone about them?”

Lauren nodded. “I—I can’t do this anymore.” She sobbed. “It’s all coming apart.”

“I know.”

“No. You don’t.” She turned a tear-stained face to Georgia. “You don’t know anything.”

“Then tell me.”

The girl swallowed a sob. Her face filled with fear. “I think whoever killed Sara wants to kill me next. And I don’t know why.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

JUST OFF Willow Road between Northbrook and Glenview is a shopping center with a Steak-n-Shake that stays open until one in the morning. Relentlessly cheery and clean, the décor tries hard for an art deco look, but its black and white striped awning is too modern, its red accents too bold, and the obscure Indian sign lit up in red neon too bewildering. Still, it is one of the only places on the North Shore where young and old, monied or not, can gather for late night snacks. Georgia pulled into the parking lot and slid out of the car. The spill of artificial street lights buzzed with an electric tension, rendering the dark into faux brightness. Lauren sat in the car, not moving.

Georgia leaned back through the open door. “Is there a problem?”

Lauren folded her arms. “This place is a stoner’s paradise. Half of Newfield hangs here. We’re bound to run into people I know.”

“And that’s a problem because...”

She looked down. “People know who you are,” she mumbled.

“Which means you’ll be branded a snitch?”

Lauren didn’t say anything.

“Why don’t you just tell them I’m your dorky cousin from Oklahoma?”

Lauren almost cracked a smile. “Georgia’s more like it.” But she opened the door of the Toyota and slid out.

Inside, a middle-aged waitress in a white-collared t-shirt, black slacks, and a hat that looked like something a short order cook would wear led them to a small table. She slapped two menus down. “Something to drink?”

Lauren nodded as she sat. “Coffee.”

“Two coffees, please.” Georgia sat down, too.

“Coming right up.”

When the waitress brought their coffee, Lauren grasped hers in both hands. Georgia scanned the menu. “Order something if you want. I’m going to.”

Lauren swiveled around and gazed at the back wall where three huge colored photographs hung. One photo was of a banana split, another a milk shake, the third a hot fudge sundae.

“Can I have a banana split?” Lauren asked.

“Why not?”

“With hot fudge on top?”

Georgia waved the waitress over. “A banana split with hot fudge sauce. And a burger—rare. With fries.”

The waitress scribbled on her pad and went away. Lauren looked around and promptly slumped in her seat.

“Incoming?” Georgia asked.

Lauren nodded. “I know those kids.”

Georgia twisted around. Four kids, three of them boys in sweat shirts and jeans, and one girl conspicuously chewing gum, shot curious glances their way. They looked away when Georgia glared at them. She swiveled back to Lauren. “Problem solved.”

Lauren arched her eyebrows but did sit straighter.

Georgia pulled her coffee cup closer. “Okay. The way I see it, you’ve got a choice. You cooperate with me and I’ll protect you as best I can. But you have to tell me everything. And you have to shut down your—business.”

“You know about that?” When Georgia nodded, she asked, “How?”

“I am a PI.”

Georgia could see possibilities being pondered, choices being made. Finally, “What about the police?” Lauren asked in a low voice.

“What about them?”

“Are you going to turn me in?”

“If you cooperate, no.”

“What if I don’t?”

“Then we’re out of here. And I take you in tonight.”

“You can’t do that. I won’t let—” Her expression hardened. “I’ll call my father.”

Georgia sighed. “Daddy can’t get you out of this one, Lauren. You broke the law. Repeatedly. And the two people who broke it along with you are dead. You either talk to me, and we buy ourselves some time to figure this thing out together, or I go to the police.”

Lauren’s spate of overconfidence vanished. “How much time?” Her voice was meek.

Georgia thought about it. It wasn’t her job to find out who killed Sara Long. All she needed to do was to raise enough reasonable doubt that Cam Jordan did. Exposing Sara as a prostitute would do that. And yet, Georgia realized, that wasn’t enough. She needed to find out who was preying on these young girls. She needed to make it stop. “As much time as it takes to find Sara Long’s killer.”

Lauren eyed Georgia. “You don’t think the crazy guy did it.”

“No. And, apparently, neither do you.”

Lauren leaned forward to say something but was cut off by the arrival of their food. Georgia sliced her burger in half and wolfed down the first half. Lauren scooped up a tiny piece of banana, carefully spooned ice cream and sauce on top, swallowed it, then did the same thing all over again. Georgia remembered how as a kid she’d try to make it all come out even. Is that what Lauren was doing?

As if reading her mind, Lauren flashed an embarrassed smile. Georgia recalled during the interview at her house, how she dangled her leg over the side of the chair, as overbearing and arrogant as her mother. Trying to show everyone how tough she was. This wasn’t the same girl. Had Georgia finally broken through?

She bit into the other half of her burger, then wiped her hands on her napkin. “Let’s start at the beginning. When did Sara start hooking?”

Lauren gazed at Georgia in the antiseptic light. The last trace of resentment disappeared off her face. She must have come to a decision. “Six months ago. I recruited her.”

“Not Derek?”

“The whole thing was my idea.”

Georgia hid her surprise. “You?”

“I’d had—a few encounters,” Lauren said.

“You were hooking?” Georgia hoped her face was impassive.

Lauren nodded. “Strictly freelance. It was—well—I liked it. It made me feel—well—like I meant something.”

Georgia stared into a face that was barely past childhood. A face that had seen every advantage, been given every benefit, and yet found it all lacking. What—or who—had made her feel that way?

Lauren must have seen something on Georgia’s face. “You don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

“What an amazing feeling it is to see a man want you—in—that way.”

Georgia didn’t answer. She picked up her fork. “When was the first time?”

“The first time I fucked for money, I was fifteen. It started out as a lark,” she said around a mouthful of ice cream. “I met this guy at the mall. He was from out of town. He bought me a necklace. I knew I shouldn’t accept it, but I did. He called that night and asked me to have lunch with him the next day at the Hyatt.”

“Did he know how young you were?”

“How could he not? I probably told him at some point.”

“Go on.” Georgia dipped a few fries in ketchup and stuffed them in her mouth.

“I ditched school, and we had a nice lunch. Afterwards he told me he had to get something from his room and did I mind coming with him. I knew what the score was. I wasn’t a virgin. Not since I was thirteen. When we got upstairs, he locked the door and started groping me.”

She stopped and eyed Georgia.

“I pushed him away but I could see it in his eyes. He’d just had lunch, but he was—hungry. Just—hungry. I knew from that moment I was in control.”

Suddenly Georgia lost her appetite.

“So I stripped for him. One piece of clothing at a time. First my shoes, then my jeans. Then my jacket. My tank.” She smiled. “His eyes got huge. His cock too. He started to groan and stroke himself. Then he told me to stroke him.” She paused. Then she giggled. “Then we fucked. It was a real high. Talk about leading a man around by his—well, you know. Afterwards he slipped two hundred dollar bills into my purse.” She picked at the banana split with her spoon. “Shit. I would have done it for free.”

“So it’s all about power?”

“Men are so—predictable, you know? They think they’re in control. But we’re the ones who choose it. No one’s making us. We’re getting paid.” Lauren put the spoon down. “I just can’t understand why women have problems with men. Like my mother. I can’t believe she can’t handle Gumby.”

“Gumby?” Georgia called up a dim memory of the rubbery cartoon character.

“I call my father that because he bends over and stretches in any direction just to keep the peace. Even with all that, my mother still fights with him. All the time. She ought to be fucking his brains out.”

A shrink would have a field day with this kid, Georgia thought. Aloud, she said, “Let’s get back to you. What happened after that first time?”

“I decided I wanted to do it again. But I was careful. I only chose guys who looked nice. Family guys who looked like they weren’t getting any at home.”

“Where did you find them?”

She smiled. “Everywhere. It’s easy. Hotels. Restaurants. The mall. They’re all over.” She dug into her ice cream. “A few months later, I was so busy I couldn’t keep up. Then one day last winter, I ran into a woman in a chat room who—”

“A chat room?”

“Yeah. Sometimes I’d meet guys in chat rooms, you know?”

Lauren was talking freely now. Georgia had seen it before. There was comfort in confession. Relief that everything was now in the open. And there were some people who needed to be praised for their accomplishments, no matter how criminal or grisly. People so hungry for praise even a cop’s would do. Truth be told, Lauren was shrewd. It wasn’t easy to pull off a business—any business—whether you were a kid or an adult. Georgia wondered how much she was raking in.

“Anyway, this woman—at least I think it was a woman—said I could make a lot more if I recruited girls myself. I thought about it and decided she was right.”

“You weren’t worried it was wrong?”

Lauren shrugged. “It’s a great way for girls to make money. Men get their rocks off. Everybody wins.”

“What about the fact that it’s against the law?”

Defiance lit the teen’s face. “Why do adults always get down on us for wanting to make something from sex? Isn’t it better than a woman being raped? Or priests doing it to little boys? That’s against the law, too. This is just sex for money. A business transaction. Everybody knows what they’re there for.”

Georgia folded her hands. This wasn’t the time to be judgmental. “How did you recruit Sara?”

“Last winter Sara was complaining about her job at the bookstore. She was making minimum wage. Hardly anything. And her parents couldn’t afford to buy her things. She’d seen my stuff for years—I know it bothered her. I mean, I’d lend her my music, my makeup, even clothes sometimes, but it wasn’t the same.” She took another bite of banana and ice cream. “So I told her I might know a way she could make some real money.”

“She wasn’t bothered by the idea?”

“No.” Lauren’s face filled with insolence. “She knew her way around. At least that’s what she said.”

“Meaning she wasn’t a virgin.”

“There aren’t many girls my age who are, you know.”

Georgia didn’t reply. “So, at the beginning it was just you and Sara?”

“Sara was the only one from Newfield.”

“What about Claire? Or Heather?’

Lauren snorted. “Are you kidding?”

“Why not? Were you worried what they would think?”

“Of course not. They weren’t—they just weren’t the type.”

“But there were others,” Georgia persisted. When Lauren nodded, she asked, “Where did you find them?”

“Grocery stores, restaurants, 7-11’s. The best place is the mall.”

“Why?”

“It gives you a chance to analyze them. See where they fit in.” Lauren pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “You look for girls who’re by themselves. If they’re thin and tall and blonde, even better.”

“Why?”

“Everybody wants a blonde. They work harder.”

Her matter-of-fact tone was chilling. “Like Sara.”

Lauren nodded. “So you go up to them and make friends, like. You talk about clothes or makeup or CDs. You get them to tell you they need money. Then you tell them you know where they can get it.”

“What if they tell you to get lost? Or threaten to go to the police?”

“Some say they’re not interested. But plenty more are.”

“And after they say yes?”

“We email back and forth. Sometimes I went shopping with them for the right clothes. Told them how to act. How to get the money up front. Made sure they knew what’s expected. What to do, what not to do. The best birth control stuff. You know, I’d mold them.”

Georgia sipped her coffee. Was Lauren playing the role of mother/ madam to compensate for the mother she never had? “How many girls are—were you running?”

“Last spring and summer about a dozen. But after Sara and everything, I’m down to four. Not including Jasmine.” She waved her spoon in the air. “They look up to me. I’m their friend, their big sister, their mother, whatever it takes to keep them happy. And,” she said proudly, “I always make sure they’re home by curfew.”

Georgia nearly spit out her coffee. “How—how did Derek get involved?”

Lauren explained how they’d first met up in a sex chat room and started emailing. “At first I thought he was just a john. But then he started to negotiate. He wanted a discount on girls, but said in return he’d help me expand the business.” She scraped up the last of the banana, the last bit of ice cream and put them in her mouth.

She did it. Made it all come out even.

“Turned out he’d gone to Newfield. I didn’t know him, of course. Anyway,” Lauren went on, “eventually we became partners.”

“When was this?” Georgia picked up the remaining half of her burger.

“Derek got involved around May. It all happened pretty fast. I figured I needed a guy anyway. For the heavy lifting. He helped me set up the website. Which brought in more customers. Then he brought in even more.”

“Through his job at the gas station?” Georgia said between bites.

“I guess. I never asked. After a while, we got into this pattern. He would get the johns, I would get the girls. But then, a couple of months ago, he started recruiting girls, too. He kept saying we needed to expand faster.” She played with her spoon. “I told him to cool his jets. That he was going too far too fast.”

“Tell me. The fish guts? Was that Derek?”

Lauren hesitated. Then, “Yes.”

“Why?”

“After you came to our house, I told him you were causing trouble. We agreed we had to do something.”

“Why fish guts?”

“I figured you’d think it was related to the Forest Preserve and the hazing. I wanted to keep the focus off us.”

“So it was your idea.”

Lauren kept her mouth shut.

“Tried to outsmart me, huh?”

She shrugged.

“The same way you did with Monica Ramsey.”

Lauren’s mouth opened. “How did you—”

“It wasn’t a bad move. You had me going for a while.” And forced me to waste precious time, Georgia thought.

Lauren tilted her head, as if she wasn’t sure whether to be proud or ashamed. Good. Keep her unbalanced.

“Let’s get back to Sara.” Georgia polished off the rest of her burger. “Was anything strange going on with her tricks, as far as you know?”

A sad look came over Lauren.

“What’s the matter?”

“Sara and I were—well—we weren’t close anymore. I still don’t really know why. We used to be best friends. We spent all our time together. But then, I don’t know. We drifted apart.” She looked down. “I had this Uncle Fred, you know? My mother’s brother. When we were younger he used to take us out to dinner. Sara and me.”

Georgia smiled. “Sounds like fun.”

Lauren nodded. “Sara liked him a lot. She used to say she’d adopted him as her own uncle. Which made us a special kind of family, she said. But then he had a stroke. And then he died.” Tears rimmed her eyes. “And then Sara did, too.”

Georgia swallowed. She knew what it was like to feel abandoned. To feel like you’ve been cast adrift, torn from the moorings of people you loved and whom you thought loved you back. She wanted to reach out to her but didn’t. It wasn’t the right time. She waited for Lauren to pull herself together. “You were saying—about Sara?”

Lauren cleared her throat and nodded. “Yeah. Something changed. Over the summer.”

“Your relationship changed?”

She nodded. “I don’t know what or why. She just started to get—distant.”

“This was how long after she’d started turning tricks?”

“Months. She started in February.”

“So at least four or five months.” Lauren nodded. “Did Sara ever report any abusive behavior, like the guy with Jasmine tonight?”

Lauren shook her head.

“Would Derek have known if she had?”

“I don’t know. I guess I should check the files.”

“Files?”

“Derek had me fill out notes on each girl and enter it into a file sharing system. Along with the clients and the girls they went with.”

“Why?”

“He said you never knew when it might come in handy.”

Was Derek setting up a blackmail scheme—just in case? Georgia wouldn’t be surprised. Who were these johns, anyway? What kind of man takes the risk of hooking up with a prostitute he knows is a minor?

“I do think you should check the files. For now, though, think. Are you sure there wasn’t anything strange going on with Sara?”

The girl’s brow furrowed. Then she jerked her head up. “You know? There was something. But I don’t know if—it probably doesn’t mean anything.”

“What?”

“I got a text message from Derek.”

“A text message?”

“On my cell. The day he died. He texted me about a client.”

“Which client?”

“One of our regulars. Charlie.”

“And?”

“He asked if I’d heard from him recently.” “Who was Charlie?” “He hooked up with Sara all the time.” Georgia sat up. “Any idea why Derek would be asking about him?” “No. But Derek was killed a few hours later.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

DESPITE THE worldliness and sophistication attributed to the North Shore, its residents live in small enclaves and villages. They all walk the same streets and patronize the same shops, which, in effect, makes for a tiny, insular community. Georgia waited for Lauren the following Saturday at one of those shops, the Starbucks in Glencoe.

Lauren had called that morning to report what she’d found in the website’s files.

“It isn’t much,” she began. “But I did—”

“I’d rather we do it in person.” Georgia cut her off.

“Why? Do you think someone—” Lauren’s voice was tense.

Georgia didn’t answer directly. “I’m going to need a print-out of what you have, anyway. Why don’t I swing by and pick it up?”

“Not the house.”

“Right. How about the Starbucks in town?”

“Okay.”

Now Georgia sipped a latte, watching the Saturday morning pulse of village life. Soccer was in high season, and harried parents with kids in tow hurried in and out. The kids wore brightly colored uniforms and socks. Other adults, past the young-children-at-home stage, relaxed over the Trib or the New York Times. Not too many Sun Times up here.

A few minutes later Lauren came through the door. She was wearing black jeans and a tight gray sweat shirt. But her jeans had rhinestone stitching and her sweatshirt looked like silk. Georgia felt underdressed in her Costco jeans and turtleneck.

“So what did you find?” Georgia asked when Lauren joined her.

“Like I said, there wasn’t much.” She threw her bag on the table and extracted a large manila envelope. “Just a bunch of entries for Sara with Charlie. Including her last one.”

“Her last trick was Charlie?”

“I think so. It’s the last entry in her file.”

“What about Charlie? What’s in his file?”

“Not much.” Lauren gestured to the envelope. “Just when he first signed up.”

“When was that?”

“The end of May. After Derek got involved.”

“Go on.”

“And how many times he’d used us.”

“Which was?”

“Over two dozen.”

Georgia whistled. “That’s some ‘regular.’”

“He was one of our best customers.”

“Do you know who he is or where to get hold of him?”

Lauren shook her head. “He was Derek’s john.”

“You have his email?”

“I have the email he uses to contact us. It’s probably not his real one. Most johns have anonymous or secret emails when they deal with us.”

“But they check them regularly.”

“Sure.”

“There’s nothing in the files that would indicate whether he was a crazy?”

“Sara wouldn’t have been seeing him if he was,” she said confidently.

“And you know that because...”

“Because of what I said before. Most of our johns are just family guys who aren’t getting any at home.”

“What about the asshole last night?”

Lauren didn’t reply for a minute. “There is one thing.”

“What?”

“In the file, it says he only wanted to see girls who were seventeen.”

“Really? Why would he do that?”

“Because seventeen is the age of sexual consent.”

“Of course.” Georgia shifted. In Illinois a john caught with a minor under seventeen could face statutory rape charges. But if the minor was over seventeen, the penalties were less severe. Which meant that Charlie knew the law. Although that might not be significant. Wouldn’t most professional men check before engaging in this kind of sport?

Lauren handed the envelope to Georgia. “Look. I answered your questions. Now, I need you to answer mine. Do you think I’m in danger?”

Georgia stowed the envelope in her lap. “The truth is, I don’t know.” An anxious expression came over Lauren. “But I’m going to do my best to protect you.”

Lauren threw her a look that said she wasn’t sure her best was good enough.

Georgia shifted. “So that’s it? From the website?”

Lauren nodded.

Georgia was about to ask another question about Charlie when Lauren’s purse started to vibrate.

“That’s my cell,” Lauren picked up the purse, fished inside, and pulled it out. “Oh.” Relief flooded her face. “It’s just Claire. On the personal line. I’ll call her back.” She put the cell on the table and smiled, then leaned back against her chair. She seemed much more relaxed today.

Georgia pointed to it. “You have more than one cell?”

Lauren dug into her bag and pulled out a second phone. “This one’s for business. The other is personal.”

“Your parents don’t know about the business phone.”

She slipped the business cell back into her bag and shot Georgia one of those disdainful glares that told Georgia that despite her sophistication, Lauren was still a teenager.

Georgia sipped her coffee. It was cold. “Lauren, you know how I told you to close everything down on the website?”

“I—I haven’t had the chance,” she stammered. “But I will. Today.”

“I’ve been rethinking it. I think we should keep it going for a while.”

“But—”

“Not you. Me.”

“You’re going to run the business?”

“I want you to give me the passwords and talk me through whatever I need to know.”

A sly look came over Lauren. “You’re gonna fake Charlie out, aren’t you?”

Georgia didn’t answer, but Lauren’s expression said her opinion of Georgia had just gone up. “Let me help. I can—”

Georgia cut her off. “No. You’re out of it. But I will need you to help me delete the whole thing when it’s over.”

Lauren’s face scrunched into a frown. “At least let me—” Suddenly she stopped and slouched deep in her seat. “Oh, shit.”

“What?”

Lauren’s chin jutted toward the door.

Georgia turned. Andrea Walcher had just walked in and was heading to the counter. She was perfectly dressed in a pair of corduroy slacks and a plum sweater, but her expression was grim. Did the woman ever smile?

Lauren shot Georgia a panicked look and started to squirm. “Shit on a stick. I’m not supposed to be in the same state as you. What do I do?”

Georgia sucked in a breath. There was no way to prevent what was coming. “I’ll do what I can,” she said quietly.

It was another few seconds before Andrea wheeled around and saw Lauren. Her eyes flicked over to Georgia, then narrowed. She was at their table in three angry strides, her body so tense she was almost quivering.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she barked in a voice that carried through the coffee shop.

Lauren seemed to shrink.

Andrea glared at her daughter. “How dare you meet with this—this—”

“Private investigator,” Georgia finished. “Nice to see you too, Mrs. Walcher.” She smiled coldly. “How are you?”

“Don’t you dare suck up to me.”

Georgia marveled at the woman’s fury. It took enormous energy to be so hostile. “Mrs. Walcher, your daughter was a friend of Sara Long’s. I’m investigating Sara Long’s murder. Lauren could have valuable information.”

“My husband’s warning was clear. You are to stay away from us and our daughter. I should call the police right now. I’m quite sure I could have you arrested for stalking, or trespassing or—”

People from other tables shot curious glances their way. Georgia put on her game face. “Mrs. Walcher, I understand your animosity. And I know you want to protect your daughter. But I have a job to do.”

Andrea frowned, her behavior seeming to waver for an instant. She faced her daughter. “Did she force you to talk to her? Did she threaten you in any way, baby? Because if she did...” She looked angrily at Georgia.

The girl looked at Georgia, then her mother. After a pause, she said, “No. She didn’t force me.”

Georgia felt the knot in her gut loosen a notch.

“Are you sure?” Andrea’s voice was rich with doubt.

“I’m sure.”

Andrea Walcher threw up her hands. “I don’t know whether to believe you or not. I come in here to get coffee and I find you cozying up to a sleazy investigator who’s trying to get a murderer off the hook.” She spun to Georgia. “How much are they paying you?”

Georgia stood up and folded her arms. Protection was one thing. Abuse was another. “Not nearly enough to deal with the likes of you.”

Rage poured into the woman’s face. “If I ever find out you and my daughter have been in contact again, whether by phone or email or even smoke signals, I’ll have you put in jail. You can count on it.” She turned to her daughter. “Lauren, come with me. Now.”

A stubborn look came over Lauren. She shook her head.

Georgia made a quick decision. She wanted the girl to trust her, but she couldn’t insinuate herself into a mother-daughter relationship. Andrea Walcher could cause serious problems. She waved her hand dismissively. “Go ahead. She had nothing to say, anyway.”

Lauren shot Georgia an uncertain look and stood up. Georgia frowned and lowered her eyes. Meanwhile, Andrea Walcher grabbed her daughter’s arm and steered her toward the door. Lauren looked back as they pushed through. Georgia shook her head.

Once they exited, Georgia ran a shaky hand over her face. People like Andrea Walcher enjoyed making waves. And there was nothing she could do about it. Andrea’s reactions, and any repercussions from them, were beyond her control. She just hoped the woman had something more important to do with her time. She started to clean off the table, willing herself to stay focused on the case. But as she pitched napkins and cups into the trash, she still felt disturbed, and she realized it wasn’t all because of Andrea Walcher.

Georgia had dealt with prostitution as a cop. Underage prostitutes, too. But Lauren’s breed was different from the whores she was used to. The hookers she picked up as a cop, whatever their motive—usually money for drugs or their pimps—would avoid looking her in the eye. They might gape at the male cops, even come on to them, but woman to woman, they knew. Despite their tough exteriors, Georgia could see that kernel of guilt.

Lauren, though, showed no remorse. For her, and Sara too, apparently, prostitution was as legitimate a way to make money as any other. Better, since you raked in so much more. Nonchalant, almost arrogant, they refused to think that prostitution was self-destructive, demeaning, or even dangerous. And for what? To impress their peers—mostly other girls—with designer clothes, purses, toys. It wasn’t just Lauren and Sara, either. Lauren was running other girls. Georgia wiped down the table, with rapid, vigorous strokes. Lauren claimed it was a win-win: the men got laid, the girls got money. Maybe Lauren was right. Maybe she was the only one with a bad taste in her mouth.

She grabbed her bag off the back of the chair, almost enjoying her anger—it was a good, clean anger, directed outward for a change—when she noticed Lauren’s cell phone on the table. In the commotion, the girl had forgotten it. Georgia picked it up and dropped it into her bag.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

GEORGIA DROVE the few blocks to the Walcher home, planning to leave Lauren’s cell phone in the mailbox. She wasn’t eager for another encounter with either Walcher. She parked on the road at the edge of the stand of evergreens that shielded the house from view. Grabbing the phone, she climbed out of the car and looked around. The houses up here were huge, and many of them had private drives, which meant the mailbox could be hundreds of yards from the house. She checked both ends of the semi-circular driveway, but didn’t see it.

She started to trudge through the trees, enjoying the crisp, snappy scent of pine and juniper. It must have rained overnight, because the ground was soft, and chunks of dirt clung to her shoes. She was about to break through the cover of trees when she stopped. A black Jaguar was parked in the driveway, its engine running. A man was in the driver’s seat, and Andrea Walcher was leaning over the driver’s side window.

Georgia stared at the man behind the wheel. She could only see his profile, but he had curly gray hair, and he was wearing a warm-up jacket. He looked familiar. She ducked behind a tree.

“I need to talk to you,” Andrea said to the man in the car. “Is everything kosher with the land deal?”

Georgia saw the man’s head bob up and down.

“Then why did Fred say it wasn’t?” Andrea’s voice was tense.

The man cocked his head. Georgia could just make out his reply. “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

Andrea straightened up and folded her arms. “Look. I know he was upset about something. But he didn’t have time to get into it before he died. Tom won’t talk to me about it, so I’m asking you what’s going on.”

His response was so low Georgia had to strain to hear him. “Everything’s fine, Andrea.”

“Don’t patronize me. He was my brother, Harry.”

Harry Perl. The real estate developer she’d seen at North Shore Fitness with Tom Walcher and Ricki Feldman.

“I would never do that.” Suddenly his tone oozed empathy. “It’s just that—well, Tom took care of the details. We’re almost ready to start construction. Things are proceeding nicely.”

Andrea cut him off. “Then why did Fred say he wanted to go to the authorities?” Her body language spoke anger, but something else was there too. Worry. Maybe a touch of fear.

The man’s shoulders hunched. “I wasn’t aware of that. Ask your husband.”

Andrea stared into the car for a moment, then turned on her heel and went inside.

Perl rolled up his window and pulled away from the house. Georgia waited until the Jag was out of sight. The mailbox was in front of the house just to the right of the goldfish pond. She quietly placed Lauren’s phone inside.

***

Fred was Andrea’s brother. “Uncle Fred,” Georgia recalled on the way home. He had suspicions about a land deal he and Harry Perl were involved in, but he died before he could do anything about it. Now his sister, Lauren’s mother, was following up.

Georgia thought back to the conversation she’d overheard between Perl and Walcher and Ricki Feldman at the health club. She’d been distracted by seeing Ricki, but she thought she remembered something about a deal that required Tom Walcher’s help. Walcher was expected to soften up the village board. Perl—or was it Ricki?—had told him to use his “leverage.” Whatever that “leverage” was. Was this the same deal?

She parked on Asbury and headed back to her apartment. Andrea Walcher had been livid in Starbucks, throwing around wild accusations and threats. Was this part of what was troubling her? Maybe Georgia should look into it. It wasn’t directly related to Cam Jordan or Sara Long, but she couldn’t move forward with the prostitution angle without Lauren’s help, and the last thing she needed was to be cut off from the girl. If she uncovered anything significant about the land deal, maybe she could use it to convince Andrea to let her keep talking to Lauren. Apply a little “leverage” of her own.

Back in her apartment, she sat at the computer and Googled Harry Perl. Perl Development came up right away. The website was a class act—he must have paid some agency a fortune to design it. Too bad. Her friend Sam would have killed for the job and probably charged a lot less. A string of pearls were used to tout the “pearls” of the company’s properties. Clicking on any one of them took you to a different project, including a skyscraper off Michigan Avenue, several shopping centers, and housing developments in Will and Lake Counties.

Then there was the Glen, a commercial and residential community built on what used to be acres of Midwestern prairie. It had been a controversial development. Environmentalists fought to keep the land pristine, holding meetings, staging protests, even pulling off a tricky legal maneuver or two. Ultimately, though, the project was green-lighted, and Perl had built dozens of town houses, a nursing home, and a motel.

Now Perl was announcing a new project just east of the Glen. 2500 Chestnut would be twin condos with a small, enclosed, upscale mall. During his conversation with Andrea Walcher, Perl said they were almost ready to start construction. Georgia searched his website for other projects under development. 2500 Chestnut was the only one. The Glen was only a few minutes away. She grabbed her jacket.

***

A dirty overcast grayed the sky, and a damp, earthy scent hung in the air. Georgia turned off Waukegan Road onto Chestnut. The street resembled a war zone between residential and commercial tracts, and the commercial side was winning. An apartment house lined one side of the street, but it was overwhelmed by a strip mall, cemetery, and small office complex on the other.

The property she was looking for occupied the southeast corner of Lehigh and Chestnut. Surrounded by a chain link fence, it was about the size of a football field. Georgia walked through an open gate. Hugging the perimeter were a couple of cranes and earth moving machines. A white RV was parked at the edge of the field. Perl wasn’t wasting any time.

In the center was a hole in the ground. Georgia started towards it. For the second time that day, mud caked the soles of her shoes. She picked up a stick and scraped it off. She peered into the hole, wondering what had been here before. She wasn’t a tree hugger, but she found herself regretting that another piece of the past was gone, unable to serve as a guidepost to the future.

She made a 360. On one side of the field were a couple of newly built townhouses. On the other, a bank and park district facility. But across the street on the north side were five flat-roofed houses that seemed almost defiant in their shabbiness. Most of them had peeling paint, rickety porches and seedy lawns. Between houses two and three was a space that looked like a giant gap between teeth in a kid’s mouth. An “Under Contract” sign staked the lawn of the house on the end.

Georgia picked her way across the street to the most ramshackle house and rang the doorbell.

A young Asian girl opened the door. “Yes?”

The girl looked to be the same age as Lauren. “Hello. Are your parents home?”

The girl looked blank for a moment, then turned and called out rapidly in another language. Chinese? A pot clanged from somewhere in back, and a woman emerged in the hall. When she saw Georgia, her eyebrows arched.

Georgia smiled. “Hello. My name is Georgia Davis.”

The woman frowned and looked at the girl.

The girl translated, then said to Georgia, “She doesn’t speak English.”

“I wanted to ask her about the property across the street.” Georgia waited while the girl translated.

The woman stiffened. Her response was curt.

“She says she doesn’t want to sell and to please go away.”

Georgia held up a hand. “Please tell her I’m not here for that.”

The girl translated, but the woman launched into another diatribe. Embarrassment shot across the girl’s face. “I’m sorry. You have to go.” She closed the door in her face.

Georgia headed back to the sidewalk, wondering whether to try another house. What she was doing probably wouldn’t help her find Sara Long’s murderer, and she wasn’t fond of having doors slammed in her face. Then again, she was here. May as well do a thorough job. She gazed at the other three houses. A rusty commode leaned against the side wall of the house two doors down. Next to the commode was a group of plastic buckets.

She walked over and rang the bell. Nothing happened. After a moment, she rang again. Still nothing. She was about to leave when the front door squeaked open. The woman on the other side was gnarled and old. Patches of pink scalp shone through wisps of straw-white hair, and her wrinkled face wore a dour expression. She was dressed in a bathrobe so threadbare it was impossible to tell what color it had been. On her feet were a pair of incongruously new-looking fuzzy blue slippers.

“Yeah?” She coughed into her hand, a rasping, phlegmy cough that made Georgia want to cover her face.

Georgia nodded. “Hello. I wonder if you could tell me about the property across the street.”

The woman shifted, her manner suspicious. “What about it?”

“I have a few questions.” Georgia made sure to smile.

“Who wants to know?”

“My name is Georgia Davis.”

“You from that realty company?”

“No, ma’am. I’m a private investigator.”

The woman shook her head. A draft of sour-smelling air wafted out of the house. Georgia backed up. “I told them I wasn’t gonna sell. But they keep nosing around. You gonna do something about that?”

“Who’s nosing around?”

“Them realty people.” She looked down at her slippers, as if she was afraid they might dance away from her feet.

“Do you know their name?”

“Something like a jewel.”

“Perl Development?”

“That’s it. Some guy in a fancy suit waltzes in and tells me they wanna buy my house. Building condos and stores, they say. I told ‘im I didn’t think so. That they’d be taking me out of here feet first. He’s been back a couple of times, but I won’t talk to ‘im. I been here over forty years.”

“That’s a long time.”

“You said it. I mean, where am I supposed to go? My nephew says he’ll find me a place, but Lord knows, he’s got his own life to live. Three kids and a bitch for a wife. But now my taxes are going up so high, I may have to.” She sighed. “I just don’t know any more. They got no heart. No soul, either, you know?”

“What was there before?”

The woman slid her fingers along the sash of her robe. “There was a gas station. And body shop. Been there ever since I moved in.”

“Did you know the owner?”

“Of course, I knew Fred. Fred Stewart.”

Andrea Walcher’s brother. Uncle Fred. “Did you like him?”

“Everyone did. He was real people. Always willing to help out, cut you a break if you needed it. My nephew used to work there over the summer. Never had a bad thing to say about the man. ‘Course, after he took ill, he had to close up.”

“When was that?”

The woman squinted. “Over a year ago, now. Last summer. He had a stroke, they said.”

“Who said?”

“I don’t know. The builders he sold it to, I guess.”

“And when did they start coming around—the builders?”

“I guess it was about six months ago when Mr. Fancypants said they were gonna build them condos. And I was gonna have to sell and move.” She glared at the “Under Contract” sign on her neighbor’s lawn. “I’ll probably be the last holdout.”

“I see.” Georgia nodded. “Well, thanks. I appreciate the information.”

The woman spat on the ground. “So you gonna be able to stop ‘em?”

Georgia hesitated. “If I was you, I would call my nephew,” she said carefully. “And take him up on his offer.”

CHAPTER FORTY

GEORGIA WAS cleaning her apartment. She’d been fantasizing about cooking a dinner—lamb roast, baby potatoes, a vegetable, probably broccoli, and salad—and had stopped in at the grocery store earlier that morning. She wasn’t sure who she was cooking it for, but the notion was surprisingly appealing. The phone rang in the middle of sweeping the floor. She’d been thinking about salad dressing, a balsamic vinaigrette. She picked up the phone.

“Cam Jordan’s BCX is back,” Paul Kelly said. “It’s not good.”

“BCX...” The behavior clinical exam. The fantasy dinner melted away. “It came back fast. Didn’t you just ask for it?”

“Less than a month ago. At the arraignment, first week in October.”

“So what does it say?”

She heard paper rustling. “I’ll read it.’Pursuant to your Honor’s order, the undersigned’.. yadda, yadda.. Hold on. Here it is.’Based on the above examination and review of pertinent records it is my opinion with a reasonable degree of medical certainty that Cameron Jordan is presently fit to stand trial. He does not manifest any active symptoms or signs of any mental disorder which would—”

“No signs of ‘disorder’? Is that a joke?”

Kelly snorted. “Listen.’He is cognizant of the charge, understands the nature and purpose of the court proceedings and shows the ability to cooperate with counsel if he chooses to.’”

“That’s bullshit. The guy doesn’t know what day of the week it is.”

“I told you before. Mucho heat on this case.”

“But Ramsey’s out.”

“Doesn’t mean squat. It’s still a heater case. Maybe even more now that everyone knows his daughter was there. Who knows who’s really calling the shots, anyway?”

“Who did the testing? Who wrote the report?”

“Says here a shrink from Forensic Clinical Services.”

“I don’t get it. How can they come back with something so—inaccurate?”

“You can’t tell me you’re surprised.”

“I guess not.” She sighed heavily. “What happens now?”

“I’ll ask for a second opinion, of course. From a private shrink. But I don’t know if the judge will grant it or how long they’ll have to put it together.”

“What’s your best guess?”

“A few weeks. Maybe a month.” He cleared his throat. “But I don’t think we can ignore the signals. We’ve got to start dealing the cards we have.”

“What are you saying?”

“I start talking plea.”

“But he didn’t do it.”

“We still can’t prove it.”

“You don’t have to. Cam’s home, and public opinion’s swinging our way. Put Ruth Jordan in front of the cameras.”

Kelly harrumphed.

“Actually, we’re closer than we were.” She told him what she’d learned about Sara Long and the teenage prostitution ring.

Before she finished, Kelly interrupted. “So the girl really was a whore.”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?—you can’t make that kind of allegation without proof.”

“I’ve got it.”

“What?”

“More like who. The girl who was running her.”

“Her pimp was another girl?”

“Her best friend.”

“Christ Almighty! Were they on drugs?”

“No.”

“Runaways.”

“No.”

“Did their fathers sexually abuse them?”

“No.”

“Then what the hell are teenage girls—”

“Money.”

“Huh?”

“Sara Long wanted to buy things her parents couldn’t afford. Clothes. Makeup. Fancy cell phones.”

“And the other one? The—pimp?”

“That one I’m still trying to figure out. It’s—it’s nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

He went quiet. Georgia wondered what was going through his head. Then, as if remembering he was a jaded lawyer who wasn’t supposed to be shocked by anything, he switched gears. “This is wonderful! It’ll throw the case wide open! How’d you find out?”

“Long story.”

“Which you’re going to tell me, right? In fact, you’re on your way down even as we speak, right?”

“Not really, Paul. I have a few things to nail down.”

“Davis—”

“I have a lead on one of the johns. Someone Sara Long was seeing regularly. Maybe even her last trick.”

“No. Let the police run with that. We need to tell them—Christ! This could be our big break. What we’ve been waiting for!”

“Wait a minute, Paul. This isn’t some pimp running whores for the Outfit. We can’t just throw it out there and—”

“Davis, our job isn’t to find the killer. It’s to raise enough doubt about Cam Jordan so a jury won’t convict him. This goes a long way toward that.”

“I understand, but—”

Kelly made a throaty sound, somewhere between a grumble and a snort. “No you don’t. You’re still thinking like a cop. You want to find the offender and revel in the glory.”

“Is it that obvious?” When Kelly didn’t answer, she went on, “Paul, just a couple more days. Cam’s not in jail anymore. And you can request another BCX. This thing is moving. We’re going to get the asshole. I know it.”

“I should be talking to the state right now. And taking the evidence with me.”

“I’ll get it to you. I promise. As soon as it’s in my hands.”

“I thought you already had it.”

“I do. But I want more.”

“Like what?”

“Documentation. A confession.” She paused. “Maybe even the guy who did it.”

“And just when is all of this going to fall into your lap?”

“A day or two. A week at the most.”

“You’re killing me, Davis. I’m too old for this.” He sounded exasperated.

“Thanks, Paul,” she said cheerfully. “You won’t regret it.”

He grumbled again. “So what else have you found that I need to know?”

He was in a chatty mood. “Well, as a matter of fact, there is something. I don’t think it’s connected to the case, but I had some time, so I kind of looked around, and—”

“Get to the point, Davis.”

She told him about Andrea Walcher’s conversation with Harry Perl and the property near the Glen.

“Walcher? Why do I know that name?”

“He’s the lawyer who’s working with Perl. And the father of the girl who’s running the prostitution ring. You checked him out.”

“He’s back?”

“Maybe.”

He blew out air. “Circles inside circles...”

Georgia went on. “Anyway, the land in question belonged to Walcher’s brother-in-law. Fred Stewart. He sold it to Harry Perl six months ago. It used to be a gas station, but now they’re building a condo and an indoor mall.”

“A gas station?”

“Yeah.”

“And the land was sold six months ago?”

“According to the woman who lives across the street.”

“You say they’re already building?”

“They’re about to.”

“Interesting.”

“Something wrong with that?”

“You happen to know if anybody got an environmental impact statement on the land?”

“Why?”

“Any time you have a gas station or dry cleaner, there’s all sorts of contamination and crud that needs to be cleaned up. I had a client once with a dry cleaners. It was an EPA nightmare.”

“What do you mean?”

“Those businesses spill all sorts of crap into the ground. With dry cleaners it’s chemical solvents and shit. With a gas station, it’s worse. You can have underground storage tanks that leak; accidental spills that drain into the ground. The dirt is laced with all sorts of toxic stuff. You have to clean it up. If it leaches into the water supply, for example, you’re up the creek without a paddle...” Kelly was clearing warming to the subject. “Even if it doesn’t, you pay a frigging fortune to clean it up.”

“So?”

“The point is that the clean-up can take at least a year. Usually more. First you got to test it and get the land classified. Then you got to do the clean-up itself, test it again, and submit a final report. Anyone who’s building just six months after they bought a gas station is cutting it pretty close.”

“Really?”

“I told you. My client who bought the dry cleaners couldn’t do anything with the land for nearly three years. It just sat there, sucking money and blood out of everyone.”

“Maybe I should find out more about it.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey, Davis?”

“Yeah?”

“This case is finally going places. Be careful.”

“Sure.”

Then, “Teenage whores on the North Shore. Christ Almighty.”

***

On the Illinois EPA website, Georgia learned about brownfields, abandoned lots and eyesores that were never redeveloped because of abnormally high clean-up costs, lengthy clean-up processes, or liability risks. The dry cleaners Kelly was talking about must have been one of those. But Fred Stewart’s gas station wasn’t. It was being redeveloped right away.

She combed through the website trying to find an EPA field office on the North Shore so she could talk to someone in person, but the closest she came was a post office box in Elgin. She did find a staff directory for Community Relations officials in Springfield. She picked up the phone.

On the third transfer she got a live human. She explained what she was interested in and was promptly transferred. A new voice mail said to press “0” for assistance. She did.

A female voice with a decidedly southern Kentucky twang answered. “Zane here.”

“Hello. My name is Georgia Davis, and I’m interested in the status of a specific site. I was transferred to you by...” she back-clicked on the website. “... Ginger Mitchell.”

“Uh-huh,” Zane said after such a long pause that Georgia wondered if she was still there. “And what site is it?”

Georgia gave her the location of the land.

“Hold on.”

Georgia took the phone into the kitchen, grateful there was no music or annoying radio station chatter while she was on hold. She opened the refrigerator to check the leg of lamb she bought that morning. She had enough to feed a dozen people. The only problem was she didn’t know a dozen people. She was starting to wonder why she’d bought it in the first place when Zane came back on.

“I see the report here, but you’ll need to file a request under the Freedom of Information Act to get a copy.”

“How do I do that?”

Zane told her there was a website through which she could request the file. Or she could write a letter.

“I’d like the website, please.”

Zane gave it to her.

Georgia clicked to the site and started entering information while she was talking. “This is great. In the meantime, while I’m waiting for the report, could you answer a question for me?”

“What’s that?”

“Can you tell me the name of the company that submitted the report on that property?”

“Well, ma’am, technically, I should wait until I get the FOI request.”

“I’m just sending it now.”

“Uh-huh.” She paused.

Georgia waited.

“Well, I guess it’s okay. Says here the company is Environmental Engineers, Inc.”

“Thank you. Do you have an address for them?”

Zane reeled off an address in Skokie.

Georgia decided to press her luck. “I assume everything was in order? I mean the report met your specifications and all?”

“Well, ma’am,” Zane said, stretching the two words into five syllables. “The NFR letter went out two months ago.”

“The what?”

“When a piece of land is cleaned up right we send out a letter that says no further clean-up is required. It’s called a no further remediation letter.”

“And that went out two months ago?”

“Ma’am, I’ve already told you more than I should. You’re going to have to look at the report yourself.”

“Of course. Thank you very much.” Georgia disconnected and finished sending her FOI request. They said they’d send her the report within two weeks. Too long to wait. She checked the time. Despite Andrea Walcher’s threats, she and Lauren had exchanged hurried emails yesterday. Lauren promised to call after school with the passwords to the website.

That was still hours away.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

ENVIRONMENTAL ENGINEERS was in the industrial backwoods of Skokie, a locale that was dotted with warehouses and small plants. There was a quiet sameness to the buildings: most were one-story, flat-roofed structures made from indistinguishable yellow bricks. Georgia skirted the grass, almost the same pale yellow as the buildings, and walked up to two glass doors. White letters on the left-hand door indicated she’d arrived at the best kitchen remodeler on the North Shore. Black letters on the right spelled out the company she was looking for.

Inside was a small room with a hallway off the back. A young woman in a black t-shirt, black pants, and black fingernail polish sat behind a gray desk. She looked up from a magazine as Georgia walked in.

“May I help you?” she asked in a voice that bordered on surly.

“Possibly. I’m looking for Mr.—uh...” Georgia pretended to search in her bag for a piece of paper.

The girl failed to help her out. “He’s not here.”

Georgia smiled. “I’m sorry. What is his name?”

“Jimmy Broadbent.”

“Of course. How could I have forgotten?”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Georgia Davis, and I wanted to ask him about a project he worked on.”

“He’s onsite today.”

“Where?”

The girl sighed, as if Georgia had asked for the impossible, and rummaged around the desk. Finally she picked up a slip of paper. “Des Plaines.”

Georgia waited. When no further information was forthcoming, she cocked her head. “Des Plaines is a big place.”

The girl’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want him for?”

“We had an appointment. You know, if you would just tell me where he is, I’ll get out of your hair and you can go back to work.” She gestured to the magazine.

The girl glanced at her magazine, then at Georgia. She shrugged. “He’s at Wolf and Dempster. The old Malden plant.”

Georgia made sure to smile. “Thanks.”

***

Jimmy Broadbent looked like his name: stocky, lots of brown hair and a thick neck. Georgia wondered if he’d been a boxer once upon a time. Dressed in jeans, work boots, and a windbreaker with a Sox logo, he was leaning over the ground about ten feet from an abandoned building. As she drew closer, she saw him shove a hand auger into the dirt. An open suitcase with test tubes in two neat rows and a glass jar lay nearby. After a moment, he pulled out the auger, dug deeper with a hand trowel, and poured what he’d collected into the glass jar. She waited until he closed the jar and made some notes on his clipboard.

“Mr. Broadbent?”

He looked up, startled.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—Your office told me I could find you here.”

He leveled a cool glance her way. “I’m pretty busy right now.”

“This will only take a minute. I’m interested in a project you did for Perl Development.”

He didn’t move, but Georgia sensed his muscles tightening.

“You do recall it, don’t you?”

Broadbent frowned. “I work a lot of sites.”

“This was an old gas station. Belonged to a man named Fred Stewart.”

His eyes went flat. “Sorry. Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Are you sure? Illinois EPA said they sent you the NFR letter about two months ago.”

He shrugged. “Like I told you, I work a lot of sites. Maybe they gave you the wrong information. Those government types screw everything up.”

“Sure. I understand.”

He examined her more closely. “Who’d you say you were?”

“My name is Georgia Davis. I’m working on a matter that—that involves the man that used to own the gas station.”

“You got a card?”

Something in the way he was looking at her told her to back off. “Sorry. I didn’t bring any.”

He didn’t say anything. Then he nodded.

“So you don’t remember the Glenview job at all?”

He shook his head slowly. “Nope.”

“Well, in that case, I’m sorry to have troubled you.”

She felt his gaze on her as she went back to her car. Broadbent was lying, that much was clear. But why? She tried to piece it together as she drove back to Evanston. Fred Stewart has a piece of property. There’s good reason to think it was contaminated. He sells it to Harry Perl, and Broadbent cleans it up. Paul Kelly said the clean-up could take years. But Perl gets a clean bill of health in record time.

There was no reason for Broadbent to lie unless he had something to hide. Then again, there was no reason for him to tell the truth, either. He had no idea who she was or what she wanted. Why extend himself? In fact, why was she? The land deal didn’t have anything to do with Cam Jordan or Sara Long, and she didn’t have much ammunition to pressure Andrea Walcher. Still, one nagging thought kept bouncing around her brain: anything was possible when you had the right lawyer to fix things. And Tom Walcher, Harry Perl’s lawyer, was a fixer.

***

Georgia was back in her apartment when the phone rang a few minutes past four. It was Lauren.

“Where do the requests come in?” Georgia asked after they’d clicked onto the website.

“Clients fill out a form, and that form gets sent as an email to my Yahoo account. I get back to them with the dates and the girl and how they’re going to hook up.”

“How can I access those emails?”

“First you need to know how to get around the website.” Lauren gave Georgia the URL, a user name, and a password. Georgia entered the information.

“How do I make changes?”

“It’s a little complicated. We use Dreamweaver. Then we upload it to the server. For now, you might just want me to do it.” She paused. “What changes do you want to make?”

“Nothing right now,” Georgia replied. “But I might later. What about the email account?”

Lauren gave her another password and user name. Georgia clicked to the Yahoo account, then entered Lauren’s user name and password. The website jumped to a page which said “Incoming Messages.” There were none. “How come there aren’t any messages? I thought you had clients writing in every day.”

Lauren’s voice got small. “Well, see, I kind of sent a message to everyone.”

“What kind of message?”

“I—I told them we were going on vacation. That there wouldn’t be any action for a while. But we’d be back.”

“Why?”

“After Derek, well, I—I got scared so I decided to stop work until things cooled off.”

“Probably not a bad idea,” Georgia admitted. “Did Charlie get that message?”

“Sure.”

“Good. Now, how do I send an email?”

“Once you’re signed onto the account, you just send out an email like you would on your own computer.”

“When I send out an email, who will it say it’s from?”

“I’ve been using the name ‘Yvonne.’”

“Did Derek set this up?”

“Yes. But it’s not rocket science,” she said. “People do it all the time.”

Georgia heard a trace of petulance in her voice. “How are things with your mother?”

Lauren hesitated. “She doesn’t like you very much.”

Georgia laughed. “That’s no surprise.”

“Actually, she didn’t dwell on it, you know? Aside from saying you were a turd. She was freaked out about something else.”

“What?” Georgia played innocent.

“Something about Uncle Fred, I think.”

“What about Uncle Fred?”

“I told you he died a few weeks ago, remember? Well, I have a feeling stuff isn’t going the way she thought it would.”

Georgia tapped a pencil against the desk. “What stuff?”

“His will or something. I don’t know.” Lauren said impatiently. “Georgia...”

Georgia stopped tapping. This was the first time Lauren had called her by name.

“If Sara and Derek’s murder are connected to the business, what—what if I’m next? Please...” Her voice trailed off.

“What?” Georgia asked gently.

There was a pause. Then, “Please don’t leave me out there by myself.”

“I won’t.” Georgia stopped short. She was surprised; she’d almost said “sweetie.”

She considered calling O’Malley. If someone was targeting Lauren, the cops had better resources than she. If she did, though, everything would go public, and Lauren’s life—as well as her parents’—would never be the same. Plus, the police never did much to protect people until after the fact. She cleared her throat. “Look. You’re doing the right things. You stopped the business. You’re divorcing yourself from the operation. And you’re talking to me. I’m on your side.” She hoped she sounded convincing.

“Thank you.” Lauren’s voice was small.

She toyed with her pencil. “Listen. I have another question. Where did Charlie take Sara for their—” She couldn’t bring herself to say tricks. “Where did they meet?”

“Charlie likes the McCormick.” When Georgia didn’t answer, she added, “You know, the one they call the Colonel’s place? It’s in Highland Park. It’s more upscale than the Hyatt, but—”

“I know it.” Georgia snapped the pencil in two.

***

The Hotel McCormick was named for a powerful Chicagoan, Robert Rutherford McCormick. Known as “The Colonel’’ from a stint as an artillery officer in World War I, McCormick inherited the Chicago Tribune from his grandfather and ran it for several decades. His politics were to the right of Attila the Hun, and he often went over the top, labeling FDR supporters “Soviets,” for example, and skewering Eastern liberals with withering epithets. But Colonel McCormick was a well-bred, sophisticated man, and the elegant hotel that bore his name reflected it. Tucked away in the woodsy part of Highland Park, it catered to people with business in Lake or northern Cook County. Georgia knew this because she’d spent a weekend there with Matt. It was the weekend they broke up.

She got up and poured herself a glass of water, drank it down. When she got back to the computer, she clicked on the mailing list and found Charlie’s email. She opened the email program, started a new message from “Yvonne”, and proceeded to type.

“For our special customers only! A new shipment has arrived: young, blonde, sexy, and guaranteed to give you pleasure over every inch of your body. To introduce you to these new beauties, we’re cutting prices by 50 per cent! This offer only good for three days, so if you’re interested, act now.”

She was just checking it over when the phone rang. The sound made her jump. She reached over. The caller ID said “Private.” She picked up.

“Hello?”

No response.

“Hello? Who’s there?”

No words, but she thought she heard someone breathing. She quickly disconnected. She didn’t play phone games with creeps.

She went back to the email. It sounded okay. She clicked “send.” Then she changed the password to both the website and Lauren’s email account. Just to be sure.

That night Georgia lit candles. She brought one over to the couch and placed it on the end table beside her. She’d bought it in Galena two years ago during a weekend with Matt. It had a vanilla scent. She lay down, breathed in the fragrance, then gave herself up to sleep.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

LENNY WAS built like an eighteen wheeler with an extra-wide load. Matt didn’t want to tangle with him. He wasn’t talkative, either. He didn’t say much about being away, and he didn’t look like he wanted to be asked. So it was a surprise when Lenny told him they would be doing a job together.

“What kind of job?”

“You’re the marksman, right?”

“Yeah? So?”

Lenny led him over to his SUV and opened the back door. Lying on the seat was a Remington 700 Bolt Action rifle. Lenny eyed him. “You know your way around one of these?”

He nodded.

“Good. “Lenny leaned over, picked up something from the floor, and handed it to him. It was a DNWS26 Day/Night Sniper Scope. “Saves me the trouble of teaching you.”

Matt slid his hands in his pocket. “Pretty high end stuff.”

“Only the best.”

“So what’s the target?” He asked casually.

“The P.I. She’s a problem. Boss wants the broad out of the way.”

“The one I was doing surveillance on?”

“Yeah. And you’re gonna do the deal.”

“When?”

“Tonight.” Lenny tipped his head and gazed at him with a curious expression. “You got a problem with that?”

Matt didn’t react. Then he slowly shook his head. “No problem. None at all.”

***

They met in the back yard of the house across the street from her apartment at two in the morning. Lenny handed him the Remington. He’d attached a suppressor to the barrel.

“It’s still gonna be loud,” Matt motioned to the suppressor.

“No problemo.” Lenny peered across the street. “Ridge is only a block east. If anyone hears it, they’ll think it’s a truck.” Lenny turned around and pointed to an embankment in the back that rose about ten feet above the rest of the yard. “Set yourself up there.”

Matt took the rifle and retreated into the shadows of the evergreens on top of the embankment. A kid’s tricycle was in front of him, a red wagon to the side. He thought about using the wagon to brace the rifle but then kicked it out of the way.

Below him Lenny paced back and forth, muttering about the window and where he should aim. He could see for himself. She was on the couch. She hadn’t moved. A candle was burning beside her.

Lenny stopped pacing and looked at his watch. “Okay. Do it.”

He looked through the scope. He could just see the back of her head. He slid the bolt back, chambered a round, and aimed. Then he squeezed the trigger.

The shot went wide. “Shit!”

“How the fuck did you miss?” Lenny exclaimed. “You’re supposed to be a crack shot!”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. I had her in the crosshairs. Maybe she moved.” But she never moved in her sleep. “Or maybe it was the window. Shooting through glass can deflect the bullet.”

“God dammit fuck it all,” Lenny said. “What am I gonna tell the boss? He was counting on you.”

“I’m sorry, man. Just tell him the truth.”

Lenny glared at him. “Yeah. Well, I hope you weren’t getting real attached to this job.”

Matt stared at the window and saw light flickering from inside. “Oh, my God.”

Lenny twisted around. “What the—?”

“The candle!” he whispered. “There was a candle. The bullet must have hit it. I think it started a fire!”

Lenny squinted and peered across the street. The flickering seemed to grow brighter. “Fuckin’ A! I think you’re right.” He twisted around. “You’re one lucky sack of shit, you know that? You better hope that does the job.”

Matt ran his tongue around his lips. She still wasn’t moving. “I guess so.”

Lenny looked around. “Hey, let’s get out of here. Before the fire department comes.”

“Yeah. Shit.” He tore his gaze from the window and forced his eyes on Lenny’s. “I’m really sorry, Lenny.”

Lenny grabbed the Remington and headed around the corner to his SUV. “Meet me back at the house.”

He nodded and went to his car. At least they’d driven separately. He keyed the engine and racked the wheel. Before he put the car in gear, he pulled out his cell and dialed a familiar number.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

A SHRILL sound woke Georgia. Dimly aware she was still on the couch she rolled over and fumbled for the cordless.

“Yeah?” She croaked, her eyes still closed.

No one, she thought groggily. Damn. When would these hang-ups stop? She tossed the phone back on the floor. A band of pain shot around her head, and she felt hot and sweaty. Had she turned up the heat last night? She should go into her bedroom. It was always cooler there. Slowly she opened her eyes.

Light flickered behind her head. For a moment, she was disoriented. Then a smoky, roasting smell assaulted her nostrils. She shot bolt upright and jumped off the couch. Flames were licking her curtains, producing waves of thick, black smoke. She sucked in a lungful of hot, acrid air. The fire was contained to the curtains, but it was moving quickly. And she didn’t have a fire extinguisher. She ran to the bathroom, grabbed a towel, and drenched it in water. Tossing it over her head, she backtracked to the living room and threw open her front door.

Shit. She shouldn’t have done that. The sudden draft fanned a new line of flames that crept across the floor to the sofa, the same sofa she’d been sleeping on just a moment ago. She bolted into the hall. The fire alarm box was on the opposite wall. She smashed the glass and pulled the lever. A piercing siren blasted through the building. She banged on her neighbor’s door.

“Fire! Everyone out! Fire!” She shouted. “Someone call the fire department!”

Her neighbor across the hall, a graduate student at Northwestern, opened his door. A portable phone was glued to his ear. His roommate hovered behind him. Both were in t-shirts and boxers. “I just called.”

“Good. I’m going up,” Georgia yelled. “Get the first floor on your way out.”

The men sprinted down the steps. Georgia slammed her door closed and raced up to the third floor. She banged on Pete’s apartment. “Pete. Get out. There’s a fire!”

A woman with a panicked expression opened the door across from Pete’s. Inside a baby was crying.

“Take the baby and go,” Georgia shouted. “Now!”

The woman nodded and spun around. “Okay, sweetheart. Mommy’s coming.”

Georgia looked downstairs to the second floor. Despite the fact that she’d closed her door, curls of smoke were seeping under the edge. Eventually, they would rise and balloon out on the ceiling. If she kept low to the floor, she’d be okay. Pushing the towel further down on her forehead, she pounded on Pete’s door again.

“Pete. Wake up! Now!”

Georgia counted to five, then banged again. Pete’s neighbor charged past her, the baby in her arms. “I haven’t seen him all day,” she shouted as she hurried down the stairs. “Maybe he’s not home.”

Georgia stopped. If Pete wasn’t home, she was wasting precious seconds. She should get out of the building while she could. But Pete had a broken ankle. He was on crutches. She thought about breaking down his door and doing a quick search. But that would take time.

The smoke in the hallway thickened and started to billow on the ceiling. She tasted grit. It was getting hard to breathe. She threw herself against the door one last time and beat on it until her knuckles were sore. “Pete Dellinger. If you’re in there, get the hell out. There’s a fire!”

Another ten seconds went by. Smoke blanketed the air, and heat pressed down on her. Beads of sweat broke out on her forehead. She looked back down the steps. An uneven light under her door told her that flames had reached the wall. She couldn’t wait any longer. She sprinted down the steps two at a time. She had just cleared the second floor and was on her way to the first when she heard a latch turn upstairs. A thin voice called out.

“Help!”

She stopped. “Pete?”

“Georgia?”

She spun around and raced back up to the second floor landing. She saw orange under her door. Smoke rolled over her in waves, thickening her throat and nose. She kept going. “I’m coming!”

She scrambled back up to the third floor where she found Pete leaning on his crutches. His face was covered with sweat, and he was wheezing. She slipped the towel off her head and tossed it over. “Cover your head with this.” Then she squatted on the third step from the top. “Throw the crutches away and climb onto my back.”

He took the towel but shook his head. “No. You won’t be able to support me.” His voice was raspy and tense.

“We have to try. Hurry. We don’t have much time.”

She doubled over, giving him her back.

“This will never work,” he said shakily.

“Damn it, Pete. Get your ass on the floor and scoot yourself onto my back. Then grab on and don’t let go.”

He did as she said, but when she felt his weight settle on her back, whatever air she’d managed to keep in her lungs flew out. She grimaced. She couldn’t carry him down two flights of steps. But she had to try.

“Ready?”

“Yeah.”

She bumped her rear end down the stairs, one step at a time. She got three steps down, but the strain on her back was excruciating. She glanced downstairs. Flames were in the hall now, climbing the wall outside her apartment. The heat was unbearable. She heard sirens cut through the air. Thank God. But they were still minutes away.

“Georgia, stop.” Pete said. “We can’t do this.”

“Shut the fuck up!”

She inched down another step. Two more and she’d be at the landing. She tried to take a breath but breathed in hot, smoky air. She kept going. She made it to the landing.

“I have to rest,” she gasped.

He let go and rolled back on the floor. She took in more smoke and started coughing. She twisted around. Pete struggled to sit upright. She crawled to him and propped him up. When he was stable, he shook his head. “You keep going. I’ll—I’ll get myself down.”

The sirens were louder now. Someone yelled from downstairs. “Georgia, where are you?”

She tried to answer, but her voice came out as a whisper. Pete’s voice overrode hers. “Second floor.” He croaked. “Need help!”

“We’re coming. Just hold on!”

“Georgia...” Pete’s voice sounded muffled, as if from a distance. “You’ve got to get out of here. I’ll—I’ll manage.”

She tried to stand, but the heat and the flames and the smoke were too much. Her feet slid out in front of her. Everything started to spin. Black crept across the edges of her vision. Then there was nothing.

***

When she came to, she was lying on a shriveled patch of lawn. She heard the staticky sound of two-way radios, voices shouting, the drone of idling engines. Slowly she cracked her eyes. On her left, a whirling mass of red and blue lights. On her right she sensed, rather than saw, a crowd of people.

“Hey, she’s coming to,” a male voice called out. Blurry faces appeared in her field of vision. “Give her some room. Everybody back off.” The faces retreated, leaving only two. As she focused, she saw that one was a cop in uniform. The other was a woman in blue surgical scrubs and a sweat shirt. A paramedic. She took Georgia’s wrist and stared at her watch.

“How’s... Pete?” Georgia croaked. Her voice sounded muffled. Her mouth and nose were covered with an oxygen mask.

“Don’t talk,” the woman ordered, keeping her eyes on her watch. A few seconds later, she released Georgia’s wrist and wrapped a blood pressure cuff around her arm. Georgia waited for her to finish, then stripped off the mask.

“The guy with the broken ankle,” she said again. “How is he?”

The paramedic took her stethoscope from her ears and unwrapped the cuff. “He ate some smoke, but he’ll be okay. We’re taking him in for the night.” She reached for the mask.

“Everyone else?”

“They made it out just fine, but you need to put this back on.”

Georgia shook her head and raised herself on her elbows. She sucked in cold air. It tasted so fresh.

“Did you hear me?” the paramedic scolded. “The mask.” She adjusted the mask and put it back on Georgia’s face. “Don’t want you to hurt yourself before a doctor sees you.”

She shook her head again. “I’m not going to the hospital.” She muttered through the mask.

“You may not have a choice.”

Georgia stared her down.

The paramedic blinked, got up, and went back to the ambulance. Georgia turned to the cop, checked to see that the paramedic was out of sight, and tore off the oxygen mask. “So? What was it?”

“One of your candles fell over and started a blaze. At least that’s what we think.”

“That’s never happened before.”

“Not to you, maybe. But it does happen. A shitty accident, but an accident just the same.” He cocked his head. “I have a couple of questions. Feel up to it?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not really.”

“Help me up.”

The cop pulled her to a sitting position. A wave of dizziness passed over her. She kept her head down until it passed. Someone brought a blanket and draped it over her shoulders. She looked up gratefully; now that the fire was under control, the night air was chilly. Smoke was still wisping out of her window, and an occasional ember floated seductively to the ground.

Hoses stretched to the front door and curled up a ladder to the second floor. Firemen and cops milled around, some cracking jokes with the forced levity people assume once danger has passed. Back by the ambulance Pete was laid out on a stretcher, and the paramedic who’d taken her vitals was with him.

Suddenly, a movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention. On the fringes of the crowd a figure slipped around the rear of a fire truck and into the shadows. She only caught a glimpse, but she was sure it had been a man with curly dark hair and a slender build that was all too familiar. Matt-familiar.

“Officer.”

The cop at her side looked up from a form he’d just attached to a clipboard. “Yeah?”

“Who was that?”

“Who?”

She pointed to the fire engine. “The man who just disappeared behind the truck.”

The cop squinted in that direction. “I didn’t see anyone.”

“Someone was watching us. Over there. Then he moved away.”

An engine turned over about a hundred yards down the street. A car pulled out and drove away.

Georgia craned her neck. “There he goes.” She stretched her hands out and tried to get up.

The cop blocked her. “You can’t do that now. The paramedics’ll kill us.”

She let him move her back into a sitting position. A cloud of unease settled over her.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

DESPITE THE paramedic’s insistence that she go to the hospital, Georgia borrowed a cell and called her friend Sam, who drove over and took Georgia back to her place. The next morning Sam drove her back to assess the damage. The hardwood floor was badly burned with black scorch marks across it, and her living room furniture was beyond repair. Between the smoke and the flames, most of her clothes in the hall closet were ruined, too. Had she been the type of woman who liked to shop, it would have been a windfall, but for her, replacing them would be a chore.

Her neighbors had fared better. Aside from the smoky odor that permeated the building and would linger for days, no one had suffered a significant loss. In fact, everyone, including Pete, was back in their apartment.

She was making another tour of the place when she noticed a ring of spidery concentric circles on the bottom of the living room window. She stopped to examine the markings. In the center of the circle was a small but distinct conical hole. She knew what made a hole like that. It wasn’t a fire.

A chill ran up her spine. She peered through the window at the house across the street. She saw the tricycle and the red wagon, the embankment in back. Plenty of space for a sniper’s nest. She turned around, imagining the trajectory of a bullet across her living room. She hurried to the opposite wall. There was a black hole in the drywall, the kind of hole that could have been made by a bullet that penetrated into the wall. She looked back at the table where she’d placed the candle that started the fire. It was along the same trajectory.

***

“Who did you tick off?” the Evanston dick asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. She’d debated whether to call the police, then decided it was stupid not to. When they arrived, she pointed out the embankment across the street where the shooter was likely holed up. She wasn’t surprised when they didn’t find any shell casings or footprints or other evidence. They didn’t find the bullet, either. It had probably burrowed into the wall and was buried somewhere in the building’s studs, maybe even the brick on the other side.

“So you have no idea who might have taken a shot at you?”

She told him she was working on the Sara Long case but said she had no idea who might be responsible. He said they’d investigate. He also said he’d talk to Robby Parker.

“And Dan O’Malley,” Georgia said.

He nodded, but she didn’t expect much. Evanston PD would run with it for a while, but without hard evidence beyond a bullet hole, or a victim, they’d move on. Drive-by shootings weren’t unheard of in Evanston. Still, she was glad that they’d tell Parker. Maybe it would make him think twice about the strength of his case. And if anything happened to her, at least it was on record she’d been threatened.

After the detective left, Georgia drove to Carson’s and bought three pairs of jeans, a couple of sweaters, turtlenecks, and a new jacket in less than an hour. Then she stopped in at the drug store to pick up a few essentials. She spent the rest of the day filing an insurance claim, replacing her driver’s license, cell phone, and calling around for estimates on new furniture.

She thought about calling Lauren to suggest she ditch school for a day or two. Whoever was coming after her might turn their attention to Lauren instead. It wouldn’t be a bad idea for her to lay low. But she didn’t; she didn’t want to scare the girl more than she already was. What she should do was call Lauren’s mother and tell her to take care of her daughter. To stop drinking her Goddamm wine and pay attention to someone else. No one, even Lauren, should have to cope with the lack of a mother’s protection.

But she didn’t do that either. Andrea Walcher would almost certainly hang up on her before she delivered the message.

***

That night at Sam’s, Georgia borrowed her friend’s computer and went online. She entered the new password for “Yvonne’s” email account. Her breath caught. A message had come in. She stared at the screen for a moment, then clicked to it.

“I would like to sample the new stock. Tomorrow,4PM. The McCormick Hotel. Charlie.” Her pulse pounding, she emailed back a confirmation.

***

Georgia was back at Carson’s the next morning waiting for the doors to open. She bought a pair of black pants on sale and a black bolero jacket. This was probably as formal a get-up as she would ever wear, she thought as she drove back to Sam’s. Later that afternoon, she dressed and started to put on makeup.

“Big date?” Sam grinned.

“You could say that,” Georgia said, applying mascara to her lashes.

“Is it the guy in your building?”

“You mean Pete?”

“Who else?”

Meeting Sam’s gaze in the bathroom mirror, Georgia realized she wished it was. She shook her head.

“So? Who’s the secret admirer?”

“It’s work related.”

Sam cocked her head. “What kind of work takes you to Carson’s to buy new clothes? And put on makeup?”

“It’s not what you’re thinking.” Sam would never go the extra mile for work. Sure, her career was important, but her personal life took precedence. Sam had never understood why Georgia wanted to be a cop. Happily, it didn’t affect their friendship.

Still, Sam rolled her eyes. “Priorities, kid. Priorities.”

Georgia had her priorities. She kept her mouth shut.

***

Georgia reached the hotel by three-thirty, parked in the back, and headed through a large revolving door. The lobby looked just the same as she remembered: crystal chandeliers, tufted upholstery, thick oriental carpets, and lots of dark wood. A bar took up most of the space on the left. A coffee shop was off to the right. A ten-foot marble fireplace occupied most of the back wall. Three comfortable chairs were grouped around it. She went into the bar and positioned herself on a stool where she had a view of the entrance. Her plan was to watch who came in, then tail them when they left.

She ordered a Perrier. The place was empty except for a man in a suit, talking in the too-loud had-a-few-already voice, and a woman, also in a suit, who looked bored.

She nursed her drink and tried to collect her thoughts. The fish guts were an immature prank. But the bullet through her window was serious. Someone wanted her out of the way.

The only person she’d been in direct contact with recently was Lauren Walcher, and Lauren was cooperating. There was the incident in Starbucks with Andrea Walcher, but that had been serendipitous. Which left Fred Stewart’s land deal. She’d talked to Jimmy Broadbent, asked him pointed questions about the clean-up, tied him to Harry Perl. That night someone took a shot at her. She sipped her Perrier. She hadn’t mentioned the real estate deal to the Evanston cop. Maybe she should have.

She checked her watch. Ten till four. The entrance to the coffee shop was directly across from the bar. She remembered that coffee shop. She and Matt had come down for breakfast the morning they broke up. The weekend was supposed to be a special getaway, a few romantic days together. They’d planned it for months, making sure they both had the weekend off.

But when it came, everything went wrong. They didn’t make love, and Matt wouldn’t look her in the eye. When he ended it the next morning, he was mercifully brief. They hadn’t even ordered coffee when he told her he’d met Ricki Feldman and was in love with her. He should have canceled the weekend, but he didn’t know how. He knew how much she’d been looking forward to it. He was so sorry. Then he left.

A numbing coldness had swept over her, her face freezing into a block of ice. She didn’t dare move a muscle. If she did, she’d crack. So she stayed at the table—she never knew how long—trying to decide whether to go on living. Eventually, the hostess of the coffee shop walked over carrying a pot of coffee. “You look like you could use this,” she said sympathetically. She poured coffee into a delicate china cup, smiled down at her, and walked away.

Georgia could still see the delicate china cup. And the woman’s kind face. She wondered whatever happened to the woman. Was she still at the hotel, doling out free cups of coffee to jilted lovers? Georgia didn’t remember how she’d gathered the strength to go home. How she drove from the hotel back to her apartment. She was surprised to find she had no memory of the ride. In fact, she was so steeped in the past that she almost missed the swing of the revolving door. She snapped back. It was ten past four. She slid off her stool and slipped back into the shadows of the bar.

A man wearing a suit and carrying a brief case pushed through. He stepped into the lobby and looked around, as if he was expecting to meet someone. But he was at least forty feet away, and Georgia didn’t have a clear view of his face. She took a few steps forward, still hugging the shadows. When no one came to greet him, the man shoved a hand into his pocket. A moment later, when no one had yet approached him, he looked at his watch and tapped his foot in irritation. When another minute passed, he spun around to leave.

As he did, Georgia finally caught a clear view of his face. The man had blond hair, ruddy cheeks, small eyes, and a weak chin. Tom Walcher.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

GEORGIA GRIPPED the wheel as she drove back to Sam’s. Tom Walcher was Charlie. Charlie was having sex with Sara. Sara had serviced her best friend’s father. Made possible by the actions of his daughter.

In one way, she wasn’t surprised Tom Walcher was catting around. His wife Andrea was a cold fish, and a hostile one, at that. She could understand Walcher seeking comfort elsewhere. But screwing his daughter’s best friend? An underaged teen? What would make a man so reckless? Was he that arrogant? Or just stupid? The website files said he’d hooked up over two dozen times. He’d put his entire legal career in jeopardy. How could he risk it?

She turned south onto Sheridan Road. It was one thing to discover a supposedly respectable lawyer was making it with a teenage hooker. It was another thing to accuse him of murder. She had no evidence Walcher was involved in Sara Long’s death. And it was possible his showing up was a coincidence. Still, she knew she should go to Kelly with what she did have. They had enough reasonable doubt to sink a battleship.

But something inside her rebelled at doing that. Maybe Kelly was right. Maybe she still was a cop at heart. Cops didn’t just create reasonable doubt. They solved crimes. Or maybe it was her ego. Maybe Georgia just wanted to prove to Robby Parker and the rest of the force that she knew what she was doing. Or maybe it was just that since the fire, the case had become personal. Self-preservation was an excellent motivator.

She stopped at a light just south of Winnetka Road. Twilight came quickly this time of year, cloaking everything in a hazy purple light. She glanced through the windows of homes she passed. Women were preparing dinner in cheerfully lit rooms. Kids lounged in front of the TV or sat at tables. As a little girl, she remembered playing outside on brisk fall afternoons, stopping only when it turned dark and she was sniffling from the cold. She loved coming inside to the warm, cozy house where her mother was waiting, where the aroma of a hearty dinner floated through the air. That stopped when her mother left. Georgia was twelve. She hadn’t seen her since.

Which brought her to another reason she wanted to keep digging. She’d promised to protect Lauren Walcher. No one else was looking out for her—no parent, no one in school, not even her friends. How many times had Georgia wished for someone to watch her back? If she went to Kelly now, Lauren’s life would be shattered. She wanted to delay that—at the very least cushion the repercussions—until she could find a way to shepherd the girl through them. A seed of trust had sprouted between them. She didn’t want to let her down. A shiver ran through her. Was this what it felt like to love a child?

Although she knew the route by heart, she stared through the windshield, suddenly unsure where she was. Dark shadows loomed on both sides of the street, and the landmarks she normally took for granted fell away. Was she still on Sheridan Road? Had she made a wrong turn and wandered into lost territory? The landscape looked eerie and alien, like a dream that was only half-familiar. She was about to pull over when the trill of her cell phone broke the trance. She snapped back. Yes. There was the strip mall with the 7-11. And the print shop next door. She pulled into the 7-11’s lot and answered her cell.

“Davis, it’s O’Malley.”

“Dan, I was just thinking of you.”

“Evanston told us about the fire. And the shooter. You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“That’s good.” She heard relief in his voice. “I think it’s time for you to fold your tent, Davis. Things are—forgive me—getting too hot to handle.”

She ignored the lousy pun. “I’m fine, Dan. In fact, I was—”

“I didn’t expect you to say anything different.”

She transferred the phone to her other ear. “Look, I know you feel responsible because you handed me the case. But I’m making progress. I’ll have it nailed down soon.”

“Assuming someone doesn’t use you for target practice again.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Look, I’d feel better if you turn it over to us. We’re on it.”

“Does that mean Parker is rethinking the Cam Jordan angle?”

“It’s clear there’s something else going on besides a mental running around the Forest Preserve.”

“I appreciate it, Dan, but I’m not quitting.”

“I figured you’d say that, too. Can’t blame me for trying.” He sighed. “Listen... do you still have your—what you need to protect yourself?”

“I’m fine, Dan.” She assured him. “Don’t worry. Now I have a question. I know it sounds crazy, but, have you—or did anyone say they’d seen Matt recently?

“Matt Singer?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Not for a long time. Last I heard he was running around the Holy Land finding religion. Why?”

She frowned. “Nothing. Hey, take care of yourself, okay?”

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

GEORGIA SPENT another night at Sam’s going over the events of the past few days. Tom Walcher figured prominently in Sara Long’s activities. As Harry Perl’s lawyer, he might also have been involved in a land deal that was, at the very least, suspect. He might have some connection to Derek Janowitz’s death. Maybe even to the attempt on her life. At any rate, she had enough questions about him to warrant a closer look. But to do that, she needed help.

She woke up early the next morning, dressed, and crept out of the apartment without waking Sam. Twenty minutes later she was staked out down the street from the Walcher home. About 7:45 Lauren’s Land Rover rolled down the driveway and turned onto the street. A few minutes later, Tom Walcher left too. Andrea Walcher was alone.

Georgia slid out of the Toyota. She was about to walk up to the house when Andrea Walcher emerged at the end of the driveway. She was wearing a fancy warm-up suit, and a sweat band was stretched across her forehead. She looked both ways, but didn’t appear to notice the Toyota. She started to power walk down the street in the opposite direction.

Georgia followed her, hugging the trees to stay inconspicuous. But after a few minutes, Andrea broke into a jog. It was a crisp, sunny November morning, and Andrea was in good shape. Georgia was too, but her thick work boots and jeans slowed her. Within a few minutes Andrea lengthened the distance between them. Georgia abandoned her pursuit and trudged back to the car.

Thirty minutes later, Andrea walked slowly back up the street, breathing deeply, her arms pumping. Georgia waited until she was walking up her driveway. She stepped in front of the Toyota.

“Mrs. Walcher.”

The woman turned around and looked at Georgia. A mix of emotions: surprise, recognition, and anger roiled her face. “Get away from me, or I’ll call the police.”

“That might not be a bad idea.”

Andrea’s eyes narrowed.

“I know about your brother Fred. And the land deal he was involved in.”

“So?”

“Someone tried to kill me, and it could be connected to the sale of that land. I need you to tell me what you know about it. And what role your husband played in the deal.”

“You can’t just show up here, make wild accusations, and demand that I talk to you. Who the hell are you? I won’t do it.”

“I understand completely. In that case, maybe you’d rather talk to the police. Or the State’s Attorney.”

A flash of panic streaked across Andrea’s face. “You can’t do that.”

Georgia stood her ground. “Someone took a shot at me a few days ago. I haven’t given them your husband’s name. Yet. But I will, if you don’t talk to me.”

“What are you talking about?”

Georgia explained.

“You can’t possibly think my husband was trying to kill...” she paused. “...you?” Her face was a mask of annoyance, but Georgia could see an underlying anxiety. Andrea fixed her eyes on Georgia. “What do you really want? How much?”

“I don’t want a dime. But I do want to know who took a shot at me the other night. And who killed Sara Long. And if they’re related.”

“Related? How could they be? You’re grasping at straws. People like you—you’ll do anything to get at us. Take us down.”

Georgia shrugged. “If that’s the way you want to play it, fine. But you might regret that choice.”

“Are you threatening me?”

Georgia tried to remember that rage was the flip side of fear. No one could sustain it indefinitely. “Of course not.” She made her voice sound conciliatory. “It is in your self-interest to talk to me, Mrs. Walcher. There are things going on that aren’t right. And your husband is in the middle of them. It might take me some time, but I will get to the bottom of whatever he’s doing, be assured of that. This could be your last opportunity to help yourself. And your daughter.”

“Opportunity? How can you call it an opportunity when you strongarm your way onto my property?”

“You’ll understand after we talk.”

Andrea gazed at Georgia, seemingly trying to gauge her seriousness. She ran her tongue around her lips. Then she took a quick look around, as if checking to see whether anyone was watching them. Finally, she capitulated. “You’d better come in.”

She went to the kitchen door and opened it. Georgia followed her in. Andrea motioned to one of the stools at the granite-topped island and went to the coffee pot. She poured herself a mug, then held the pot up.

Georgia nodded and sat down at the island. Andrea filled another mug and brought it to the counter. “What is it you want to know?”

“Let’s start with your brother’s gas station. Did you know the land underneath it was contaminated?”

She took a sip of coffee. “Yes,” she said quietly.

“And did you know it got a clean bill of health in record time?”

“I was the one who told Fred. After Tom told me.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“How did your brother react?”

“He—Fred—was angry.”

“Why?”

“Because—because he knew it couldn’t happen that fast.”

“He told you that?”

Andrea looked at the floor and nodded.

“Suppose you start from the beginning.”

She hesitated. Then, “After the stroke Fred was very weak. It was clear he couldn’t go back to work. We all thought—Fred included—that selling the place would be the best idea. He’d have some money to take care of himself; he wouldn’t have to worry. So Tom helped Fred sell it.”

Georgia took off her jacket and draped it over the back of the stool. “To Harry Perl.”

Andrea looked up. “Perl wanted the land and was willing to pay top dollar. It seemed like the perfect solution. Tom brokered the deal.”

“What about the fact that it was contaminated?”

“My understanding is that Tom promised Fred that Harry would take care of it. It was part of the negotiations.”

“Didn’t you wonder how the land came to be cleaned up so quickly?”

“I didn’t think anything about it.” She shrugged. “Not my business. But when Tom mentioned it was done, I told Fred. He knew right away something was fishy. He said you can’t have toxic ground on Monday and then find it’s gone by Tuesday. He said he was going to look into it. And that he might have to go to the authorities.” Her lips tightened. “He always wanted to do the right thing.”

“Did Tom know Fred was upset?”

She nodded. “They had a fierce argument about it.”

“When?”

“It was—must have been a couple of days before he died.” Andrea stopped herself. “Oh, God.” She clapped a hand over her mouth.

Georgia didn’t say anything.

Andrea’s face crumpled. “I—I don’t want to know any more.”

“You don’t have that luxury, Mrs. Walcher.”

Andrea squeezed her eyes shut. Then she slowly opened them. Her voice was tight. “I’m sure you’re wrong. There’s probably a perfectly reasonable explanation for the speed of the clean-up. And the attempt on your life. It could have been a random shooting. Evanston isn’t nearly as safe as people think.”

“Right.” Georgia shifted. “Tell me about your brother.”

“Fred was the only one in my family I talk—talked to.”

“Why is that?”

“The rest of them—well, they were just looking for a hand-out.” Andrea looked around her kitchen. Georgia followed her gaze, taking in the granite counters, the hand-painted tiles, all the latest appliances and gadgets. She looked like it might be the last time she ever did. “We didn’t come from money. It was always a struggle. We were what you call ‘lace curtain Irish.’”

Georgia winced, then tried to cover it up.

But Andrea caught it. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you? An abusive father, a mother who hid the bottle under her bed, siblings always in trouble. The only one who looked out for me was Fred. I got out of there as soon as I could. Became a legal secretary. Met Tom. Put that part of my life behind me. Except for Fred. When Tom found the gas station, we arranged the down payment, and Fred moved up here.” She bit her lip. “It was the least I could do.”

“Until now,” Georgia said.

Andrea gazed around the room one more time. Then her eyes landed on Georgia. “What do you want me to do?” She whispered.

Was she ready to trade off her husband for her brother’s memory? Or was she just trying to protect her life-style? Either way, Georgia knew she had her.

“I need to know how that property came to be cleaned up so quickly,” she said. “I have my suspicions. But I need proof. I want to know whether anything related to the environmental situation precipitated Fred’s—well, I need to find what lengths they went to get that clean bill of health. I want you to keep your eyes and ears open, and call me with any information you find. Does your husband keep records at home?”

“He has an office upstairs.”

“That’s a start. I need information. Documents. Records of meetings or conversations between Perl and your husband. Or any other people. Jimmy Broadbent, for example. Anything else you come across about 2500 Chestnut. You need to report back on anything. Even if you don’t know if it’s important.”

A calculating look came over Andrea. “I thought you were investigating Sara Long’s death.”

“That’s right.”

“How is that girl’s death tied into this?”

Georgia didn’t like Andrea Walcher. She considered telling her about her husband and Sara Long. Maybe the woman’s shock and revulsion—and fear of reprisals—would persuade her to be even more helpful. But she couldn’t tell Andrea about “Charlie” without revealing Lauren’s part in it, and she wasn’t prepared to do that yet. “There might be a connection.”

“How? What?”

Georgia shook her head. It took an effort to muzzle herself. “Not now. Not yet.”

Andrea’s nostrils flared. “How am I supposed to tell what’s important? I don’t know the ins and outs of real estate.”

“You’re smart,” Georgia said. “You know more than you think.”

“And in return? What do I get out of this?”

“In return, I’ll try to protect you. And your daughter.”

Andrea wrapped both hands around her coffee cup, took a sip, and gazed at Georgia over the rim. “You’re going to destroy my life, aren’t you?”

“Your husband started down that road a long time ago, Mrs. Walcher.” She stood and shrugged into her jacket. “Just keep me informed.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

ANDREA WALCHER might not know the ins and outs of real estate, but Georgia knew someone who did.

The area just north of the Chicago River is more upscale than the Loop, and the office Georgia drove downtown to was no exception. Harry Perl had taken over construction of a 93-story glass and steel tower on the lot of the old Sun-Times building after Trump backed out and another developer, Max Gordon, defaulted. Georgia had dealings with Gordon when she was on the force. He was in prison now, serving a life sentence.

The cheapest parking lot was several blocks away under Grant Park, but she didn’t mind the walk. Downtown Chicago was as beautiful as any European capital these days, mostly because of Millenium Park. Despite a multi-million dollar cost overrun, the park had created a corridor of graceful architecture, parkland, and sculptures that stretched from the Field Museum to Randolph Street. As Georgia cut across a wide concrete plaza, she gawked at the outdoor amphitheater. The arrangement of metal on the roof looked like a giant soup can that had been opened the wrong way, but it was supposed to deliver the best acoustics in the world.

She walked from Michigan Avenue to Wabash, then north over the river to the skyscraper. The marble floors, soaring ceilings, and walls of the lobby were as elegant as they were cold. Georgia tugged on her jacket. She’d started out dressing in a pair of nice slacks, an angora sweater, and makeup. She made sure her hair looked good. Then, in a sudden about-face, she changed back into jeans and a turtleneck, washed off her makeup, and pulled her hair back in a ponytail. She’d be damned if she would compete.

The elevator whisked her to the 54th floor. To the right was a law firm with five unpronounceable names, but on the left were two huge glass doors embossed with the words “Feldman Development.” She took a breath and opened the door.

The waiting room was spare and modern and looked like an art gallery: abstract pastels on the wall, area rugs, and an Asian-inspired flower arrangement. She could have sworn there was some kind of fragrance in the air, too. A sweet cinnamon, she thought.

The receptionist was blond and might have been attractive if she hadn’t worn so much makeup. She was dressed in a low cut blouse and miniskirt, and she looked Georgia up and down, taking in her jeans, turtleneck, and boots.

“May I help you?” she asked with that patronizing smile that usually means the opposite.

“Yes,” Georgia replied evenly. “I’d like to see Ricki Feldman. I don’t have an appointment.”

“I’m so sorry.” The receptionist frowned, revealing lines in her forehead that put her closer to forty than the thirty she clearly wanted to appear. “Ms. Feldman is booked all day.”

“Tell her it’s Georgia Davis. And it’s important.”

Either her voice carried more authority than she thought, or the name meant something to the receptionist, because the woman’s patronizing attitude vanished, leaving only the frown. She lifted the receiver of a phone with about twenty-five buttons and pressed one of them.

She spoke softly, and Georgia only caught a phrase or two. “Yes. She’s here now.” A pause. “Okay.” She disconnected and looked up. “Please, make yourself comfortable.” The smile was noticeably absent. “Ms. Feldman will see you shortly.”

“Thanks.” Georgia went to a grouping of low slung chairs near the windows. An assortment of magazines was fanned across a table. She remained standing and looked out the east window, which provided a spectacular view of Lake Michigan. She usually found solace in the whitecaps that sparkled in the sun, the horizon dotted with a few snowy sails. But today was November grim, and a gray curtain of fog hovered over the water, revealing glimpses of angry steel waves underneath.

“Hello, Georgia,” a voice said behind her.

She spun around. Ricki Feldman was standing across the room by a glass coffee table. Her eyes held a curious, appraising expression, but something else was there, too. Georgia couldn’t tell what it was. “Hello, Ricki.”

Ricki sported the obligatory business casual look: a pair of sharply creased gray wool pants, a thick black sweater, and dark but soft looking leather boots. Her silky brown hair, swept back in a knot, made her eyes look enormous. For a moment Georgia regretted she hadn’t worn nicer clothes. Then she rebuked herself for the thought.

“I’m working on a case,” she said, “and I need to ask you some questions.”

Ricki nodded as if she’d been expecting her. “Come into my office.” She turned around.

Georgia followed her down a hall. The same sweet cinnamon scent she’d smelled in the reception area grew stronger. Ricki’s perfume. Ricki led her into a corner office. Light poured in through two large windows, one looking south to the Loop, the other east to the lake. Ricki went to her desk, a huge slab of granite on a steel base, and waved her into one of two red upholstered chairs. Glass and metal shelving units behind the desk were filled with African masks, cloisonné bowls, cuckoo clocks, and other knick-knacks, all no doubt designed to show visitors how well-traveled she was.

Ricki sat, leaned her elbows on the desk, and steepled her fingers.

“I’ll try to be brief,” Georgia said.

Ricki nodded again, but the submissive angle of her head and a slight narrowing of her eyes puzzled Georgia. It was almost as if Ricki was expecting a blow. Georgia dismissed it. Probably her imagination.

“I know this is awkward,” she began.

Ricki cut her off. “In a way, I’m glad. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“Matt and I—well, it was wrong from the start. We—we weren’t compatible.’ She paused. “We—it was like a fire that burned itself out.”

Georgia jerked her head up.

“I’m sorry. That wasn’t what I meant to say. It just—We were just—well, from such different worlds. I’m sorry I caused it.”

Georgia kept quiet, marveling. Ricki couldn’t stop aggrandizing herself even when she was trying to apologize. As if she was the sole party responsible and Matt had nothing to do with it.

“He broke it off, you know. Before he went to Israel.”

She didn’t know. She remembered Matt talking about Israel when they were together. He wanted to make Aliyah, he called it. A pilgrimage to the Holy Land. At one point, he’d asked her to come with him. She would have. She didn’t believe in God, but Matt did, and if it was important to Matt, it would have been important to her. She was even willing to consider converting to Judaism. But then a few months after he and Ricki hooked up, he’d taken a leave of absence from the force. Georgia assumed they went to Israel together. She’d been wrong.

“I’m not here to talk about Matt,” she said finally.

“No?” Ricki looked genuinely surprised.

“I told you. I’m working on a case, and I need information.”

Now Ricki looked flustered. “For the police?”

“I’m working as a private investigator.”

“Really.” Her perfectly plucked eyebrows arched, and the imperiousness returned.

This was the Ricki she knew. “What can you tell me about Harry Perl?” She leaned back in her seat.

“Harry?” Ricki shot her a sidelong glance. “He and my father, and then I, were partners on several projects. He’s a dynamic businessman.”

“Are you still partners?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I told you I’m working on a case, and his name has—come up.”

Ricki stared at her.

Georgia’s breath hitched. She’d been counting on Ricki’s need to impress, to flaunt her knowledge, especially in front of a “rival.”

“Yes,” Ricki answered after a pause. “We have been and continue to work together occasionally.”

“There’s a specific piece of land I’m interested in. On Chestnut Street. Near the Glen.”

Ricki shrugged. “I’d have to check. I’m more or less a silent partner. I don’t know all the specifics.”

Georgia didn’t believe her. “Well, maybe you could answer—on a purely theoretical level. Let’s say there’s a property in the Glen. And the owner was trying to redevelop it quickly. In fact, let’s say there was some urgency to do it fast. Why would there be such a hurry?”

Ricki steepled her hands again. Did she think that made her look thoughtful? “It could be a number of factors,” she said. “There could be pressure from the investors. There could be construction warranties or deadlines. Or zoning issues.”

To her knowledge Perl didn’t have any other investors, and Georgia doubted there were any construction deadlines. She recalled the conversation she’d overheard in the health club. Someone had mentioned the zoning board. “What zoning issues?”

“Low income regs, for example.”

“What are they?”

“New state regulations require a village to have a certain amount of low income housing available. Ten per cent, I believe. But a lot of villages on the North Shore aren’t in compliance.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Georgia cracked.

“The problem is that in a year the governor will establish a statewide panel. The Zoning Board of Appeals. It will have the power to overrule any decisions made by a local zoning board. Which means there’s a chance local villages could lose control of their own zoning process. Particularly if they aren’t in compliance with the low income housing regs.”

“How would that affect our theoretical property owner?”

“Villages are running scared. They’re afraid that if they have too much commercial property now, there won’t be enough land to provide enough affordable housing down the road, and they could lose local control of their zoning, and, ergo, their land.”

“But that’s over a year away.”

“It takes at least a year—usually more—from the time you get the zoning until the building goes up. Your theoretical owner would want to make sure the land is zoned now, the way he wants, before the shit hits the fan.”

Georgia scratched her cheek. “There’s really a chance that could happen? That land could be rezoned?”

“Probably not if it’s a going concern, but if the land has been vacant or idle for a while, who knows?”

“And might he hire a lawyer to help him push things through?”

“What are you getting at?”

Her answer was cut off by a knock at door.

“Come,” Ricki said.

The receptionist poked her head in. She was holding a pink message slip. “Sorry to interrupt, Ms. Feldman.” She paused for such a long moment that Georgia wondered if the interruption had been planned. “Come into the office five minutes after we start talking, Sally—” Ricki could have whispered over the intercom.

“A message just came in. From Mr. Perl.”

Ricki motioned with her hand. “Bring it over.”

The receptionist stepped in front of Georgia, blocking her view, and handed the pink slip to Ricki.

“Thanks, Ashley.” When the receptionist didn’t move, she added, “You can go.”

Ashley turned around and shot Georgia a look. “Yes, ma’am.”

Georgia smiled up at her. Ashley walked out of the room. “Guess you’re not such a silent partner after all.”

Ricki waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, Harry uses the phone the way some people use email.”

“What do you mean?”

“His grasp of technology stopped around 1972. He won’t get near a computer.”

Georgia motioned to the slip of paper. “But he manages to stay in touch.”

“He tracks people down all over the world. He once called me from Greece. At home. At three in the morning. Made me wish I’d never given him my number.” She laughed nervously. “Now, if that’s all...”

Georgia made a decision. She leaned forward. “One more thing. Let’s say this theoretical piece of land had been a gas station in its former life.”

Ricki shifted.

“A gas station which leached all sorts of toxic chemicals into the ground. How long would the clean-up take before it could be redeveloped? Theoretically.”

A muscle beside Ricki’s eye began to tic. “I couldn’t begin to say. Years, I imagine.”

“So if this property—this theoretical gas station—was cleaned up in record time, say six months, and had an NFR letter from the state, that would be unusually fast.”

“It was?” She looked concerned, then tried to hide it. “What are you talking about?”

“Nothing. I figured you would be up to speed on all the appropriate waste disposal regulations. Given your—history,”

Ricki blanched. “You know, I really need to end this meeting. I have another appointment.”

“I thought you might.” Georgia smiled. “Well, thanks for your time.”

She left Ricki staring anxiously at the pattern of her granite desk.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

THAT EXPLAINED the urgency, Georgia thought as she drove north on Sheridan Road. Harry Perl wanted to cash in on the Glen property by building condos and a mall. He couldn’t risk it being rezoned in light of the upcoming low-income housing regulations. So after buying the land from Fred, Perl got Walcher to use his “leverage” with village officials to make sure the zoning went his way. He probably used the same “leverage” with Broadbent to come up with an environmental report that got a clean bill of health from the state.

A weak sun broke through the overcast. Georgia rolled down the window, bracing against the rush of cold air. She was close. When you examined Walcher’s business practices, factored in his relationship with Sara Long, his possible involvement with Derek Janowitz’s murder, maybe even the attempt on her life, even the most aggressive prosecutor—including Jeff Ramsey—would have to take a closer look.

But it wasn’t a slam dunk. She still had no proof Walcher had a hand in Sara Long’s murder. Kelly would insist that wasn’t necessary, that they had enough reasonable doubt to clear Cam Jordan, but Georgia wanted to find Sara Long’s killer. Not just for her own safety, but for Cam Jordan and his sister Ruth. For the Long family, as well, for Lauren, and for all the teenage girls who made decisions that put themselves at risk. The problem was she wasn’t sure of her next move, and she was running out of time to make it.

Her cell phone chirped. “Georgia Davis.”

It was her landlord. They’d finished the repair work, installed a new floor and window, even thrown a fresh coat of paint on the walls. She could move back in.

That afternoon she packed up her clothes, thanked Sam profusely, and went home. The living room was virtually empty, but the walls and new floor gleamed, and they’d put a special chemical coating on the walls and floor to seal in the lingering odor of smoke. The new furniture she’d ordered, thanks to a speedy resolution of her claim by her insurance company, hadn’t arrived, but her new computer, which the super had brought upstairs, was in a large box in the middle of the floor.

Her bedroom furniture was still intact, but her mattress reeked of mildew and smoke. She lugged it down to the curb and, anticipating the insurance reimbursement, went to buy a new one. It must have been a slow period at the mattress store, because they said they could deliver it that afternoon. She swung by Target on her way back and picked up new bedding, towels, and a pillow.

The mattress arrived on schedule, and she made up the bed. She was just pulling the computer out of the box, thinking she’d order a pizza before she assembled it, when there was a knock on the door.

Pete Dellinger grinned when she opened it. “I saw your lights were on. When did you get back?”

“Just now.” Georgia returned the smile. “Good to see you up and about. Are you okay?”

“The hospital kept me overnight, but I came home the next morning.” He kept one hand behind his back. “What about you? I heard someone tried to take a shot at you.”

“Looks that way.”

“Are you holding up?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Everyone in the building got a call from the detective in Evanston, you know.”

“I didn’t.”

“I asked if they had any leads. He said there hadn’t been much movement, but the case was still open.”

“That’s cop speak for ‘we don’t have a clue, and we can’t spend more time on it.’” When Pete frowned, she shrugged. “Happens all the time.”

“How can they just give up?”

“They don’t have a choice. There are always new cases that demand your attention. Cases that haven’t gone cold.”

“Do you think the shooting is related to your case?”

“Probably.”

“Jesus! How can you be so—so calm?”

“What makes you think I am? Hey, let’s talk about something else, okay?”

He looked at her unblinkingly for a moment, then cleared his throat. “Okay,” he said, pointing to his leg. “Look.”

She did. His cast was gone, and he was wearing a sock and sandal on his bad leg. His ankle seemed thick. “I’m down to an Ace bandage. And a cane.”

She looked around. “Where is it? The cane?”

“Still upstairs.” He moved his other hand from behind his back and held out a bouquet of flowers. “These are for you. To thank you.”

Her cheeks grew warm, her neck too. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had brought her flowers. She felt suddenly shy. “Let me find something to put them in,” but even as she said it, she realized she didn’t own a vase. The empty mayonnaise jar under the sink would have to do. She started for the kitchen, then stopped and turned back to the door. “Oh— I’m sorry. Would you like to come in? I promise to scare off any snipers.”

He grinned and limped inside. He was wearing his usual khakis and a button-down shirt. The light blue color set off his sandy hair. She remembered the first time she’d seen him, the day he moved in. He’d been wearing a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. She remembered how his biceps strained against the load.

“Sorry,” she heard herself say again. “I bought some new furniture, but it hasn’t come yet.”

“No problem.” He carefully got himself down on the floor near the computer box. “New?”

She nodded.

“Need help setting it up?”

She didn’t. Computers were easy to assemble. Even a kid could do it. “Sure.”

An hour later, it was done. Including the cable connection, which had somehow survived the fire.

“Did you salvage data from your old machine?”

“I haven’t tried. It’s in the basement.”

“Well, let me know if you want to try. Maybe I can help.”

“Thanks.”

“You want to go online now and send me a test email?” he asked.

“How about we order a pizza first? My treat.”

“Deal.”

After finishing the pizza, they tested out the broadband connection. Everything seemed to be working.

“Do you ever wonder whether all this email has made a difference in the amount of snail mail?” Pete asked. “I mean, the post office ought to be thankful, don’t you think?”

“Why? Their business is shrinking. Then again, we still get mountains of junk mail, so I guess they’re not suffering.”

“And there are always some Luddites who will never use email.” He laughed. “It’s a major accomplishment for them to use a cell phone.”

Georgia stopped short. She stared at Pete.

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I—you just said something that made me think.”

“About your case?”

She nodded.

“What? What did I say?”

“Cell phones. You said—” She shook her head. “Oh, never mind.”

He continued to gaze at her for a moment. Then, “You never stop, do you?”

“What do you mean?”

He shook his head. “Never mind.”

Georgia didn’t know what he was thinking, and that made her uneasy. Pete must have felt the same way, because he said goodnight soon afterwards and went upstairs. As Georgia closed the door, she wondered if she should feel bad the evening ended on a sour note.

Then she pushed Pete Dellinger out of her mind. Ricki Feldman said Harry Perl didn’t go near computers. He used his cell all the time. He didn’t care who or what he interrupted. What if Walcher was with Sara Long when Perl called him? Lauren had said Sara had a special relationship with “Uncle Fred.” How Sara thought of him as the uncle she never had. What if Sara overheard something about Fred and his land and what Perl and Walcher were doing to get it? And what if Walcher realized she’d overheard? What would Sara have heard? And what would Walcher have done?

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

GEORGIA CALLED Andrea Walcher’s cell, hoping to get Tom’s cell phone number, but Andrea didn’t pick up. Georgia left a message to call her back. She considered calling Lauren for her father’s number, but decided not to. Now that Andrea Walcher was cooperating, Georgia needed to “manage” her relationships with mother and daughter. They were both her allies—for the moment—but it was a tenuous balance. If Lauren knew her mother was involved, she might pull away. But Georgia needed Andrea—she was more informed about her brother’s property and in a better position to help.

She paged through the website files Lauren had printed out for her. According to the files, Sara’s last trick with Charlie was Wednesday, September 14. Three days before she was killed. And barely a week after Fred Stewart died in the fire.

She went online and downloaded a picture of Walcher from his law firm’s website. His bio said he’d been with Phelps and Mahoney for twenty years, and was head of the Real Estate Practice in Chicago. He had gone to the University of Chicago Law School, and he was a member of the firm’s Executive Management Committee.

Early Saturday morning, Georgia drove back to the McCormick Hotel. Most of the business clientele had departed the previous day, and the lobby was quiet. The coffee shop was virtually empty, but a fire roared in the fireplace, and a man sat before it poring over a newspaper. A hotel employee in a white jacket and black pants whisked the surfaces of tables with a brush.

Georgia went to the clerks at the front desk. At resort hotels, the weekend shift was the most important and was manned by senior staff. Not here. A young man and woman, neither of whom looked more than twenty, stood behind the marble counter. They both wore crisp white shirts, red ties, and gray blazers with the hotel insignia embroidered in gold on their pockets. Georgia debated which one to approach. The girl might be more cooperative, and she didn’t want suck up to the guy just to get information. Then again, the girl could be the type who always played by the rules.

Deciding to take her chances on the girl, she had just stepped up to the counter when another woman joined them. She wore same uniform as the others, but she was older and rounder, and when Georgia looked more closely, she spotted the word “Manager” on her jacket insignia. A pair of reading glasses was perched on her nose. She started to talk to the two clerks, gesturing to a sheet of paper in her hands.

Georgia was only a few feet away, and after a moment the woman looked up. A jolt of recognition seized her. It was the same woman who’d given her coffee the morning she and Matt broke up. The woman flashed her a puzzled smile that said she thought she knew Georgia too, but couldn’t quite place her.

Georgia recovered first. “Good morning. You probably don’t remember me, but you did something very kind two years ago.”

“I did?”

The other two clerks stopped what they were doing. The woman smiled triumphantly, as if to say “I told you service was important.”

“You were working in the coffee shop. I had just broken up with my boyfriend. You poured me a cup of coffee. Said you thought I could use it.”

The woman’s eyes widened. “I remember.” She studied Georgia. “You were looking quite poorly that morning.”

“I felt poorly.”

The woman’s glance swept the lobby. “You’re—you’re not back with him...”

“No.” Georgia laughed.

“Good. So where’s your new guy?”

“I don’t have one. My name is Georgia Davis, by the way.” She extended her hand.

“Sherry Diehl.” They shook. “How can we help you?” Her gesture included the two clerks.

“Actually, it’s a personal matter.”

The woman gazed at Georgia, then turned to her charges. “It’s still slow. Why don’t you two head into the office and catch up on invoices?”

The clerks retreated into the back room. Once they were out of earshot, Georgia leaned slightly forward and placed her hands on the counter. “I’m an investigator and I’m working on a case. I have a photo of a man, and I’d like to know if you recognize him.”

Suspicion registered on the manager’s face. “Are you with the police?”

Georgia told her the truth. “Up until last winter, I was. I’m working privately now. But the police are working the same case. You may have heard about it.” She summarized it.

Although the lobby was warm, the manager shuddered. “I did hear. I have a fifteen year old daughter.” She frowned. “Wait. I thought they got the guy. A sex offender, something like that? Preying on young girls?”

“There’s evidence that suggests he didn’t kill the girl.”

“Is that so?” When Georgia nodded, she added, “And you’re trying to find the real killer?”

“We think a man who—may be connected to it—stayed here several times.” She pulled out the picture of Tom Walcher. “Do you know him?”

Sherry studied it. Then she looked up. Georgia saw the recognition in her eyes.

“Thank you.”

Sherry nodded. “Is that all?”

“Well, there is something else. I have reason to believe he was here on September 14th. It would help me out a lot if you could confirm that.”

“You want me to check our records.”

Georgia nodded again.

Sherry didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, in a quiet voice she said, “I can’t do that.”

Georgia winced. “We can subpoena them, but you could save us a lot of time. And money.”

“I don’t think you heard me.” Sherry’s voice was firm. “Our records are highly confidential. I could get fired for going into them without authorization.”

“You wouldn’t have to speak or say anything,” Georgia persisted. “Just nod or shake your head.” When the woman didn’t reply, she laid it on thick. “This is a bad guy. If we don’t get him, he could go on killing. Do you really want him out there? What if he runs into your daughter?” It was a shitty thing to say, but she needed the information.

Still, Sherry shook her head. “I’m afraid you’ll have to go through our corporate office. I can give you a name if you’re interested.”

Georgia’s shoulders sagged. In a perverse sort of way, though, she wasn’t sorry. Sherry Diehl was no pushover. The world needed more women like her. She let Sherry write down the name of some corporate officer and headed back to her car.

She had just exited 94 on Dempster heading toward Evanston when her cell trilled. She pulled to the side of the road and answered. It was Andrea Walcher with her husband’s cell number. Georgia could have kissed the woman. As soon as she got home she called her source in Florida. He said she’d have to pay double for a 24-hour-over-the-weekend turnaround. She gave him her credit card number without complaint.

CHAPTER FIFTY

“GODDAMMIT!” MATT’S employer thumped his folded newspaper on the table. “What the hell happened?” Lenny hung his head, as if he was a kid on his way to the woodshed. “The fucker missed.”

His boss spun around. They were in his Lake Bluff study, a paneled room with a painting of a bearded rebbe and a student poring over the Torah on the wall. “I thought you were supposed to be a crack shot, Singer. The Mossad told me you could split a Goddammed hair.”

Matt frowned, but inside he felt relief. His cover was holding. He and the Bureau had created it, step by painstaking step, making sure the right people would vouch for him, back him up. “I don’t have an excuse, Mr. Perl. The window glass I was shooting through must have been too thick.” He shrugged. “Shit happens. I take full responsibility.”

Harry Perl glared at him. “You take responsibility. You....” He shook his head. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t fire you.”

He stared back. “I can’t.”

“Well, boss...” Lenny shuffled his feet. “You could—”

“Was I talking to you?” Perl snapped.

Lenny closed his mouth.

Matt waited. This could be the end of his job. And his undercover work. Maybe even his life.

Perl’s cell phone jangled. “Perl...” A pause. “I can’t talk now, Ricki.” Matt went on full alert. “What are you talking about? You can’t!” Another pause. “I know what happened to your father. He was my partner. But what you’re proposing is unacceptable.” Silence. “Your reputation? This isn’t about you, Feldman. I’ll call you back.”

Perl broke the connection and tossed the phone down on the desk. He gazed at Lenny. “As long as the checks keep rolling in, everyone’s happy. Then the first time something is off, they all want to jump ship.” He picked up the phone and tapped it against the desk. “I told her father I’d look out for her, but she’s turning out to be a problem.”

Lenny nodded.

“Stop bobbing your head like a fucking chimpanzee. If I want your input, I’ll ask for it.”

Lenny looked chastened.

“If I weren’t so Goddamned busy, I’d—” He cut himself off, then sighed. “One step at a time.” He gazed at the painting of the rebbe. “I’ll give you one more chance, Singer. Here’s what I want you to do.”

As Perl explained, Matt felt a buzz along every nerve in his body.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

WALCHER’S PHONE records came back in less than 24 hours. Georgia pored over the calls he received on September 14. Six calls from one number, one of them around 4PM. After making sure her own number was blocked on Caller ID, she dialed it.

“Perl here...”

She hung up. Her heart was pounding hard enough to rattle her teeth.

***

Lauren lay on her bed, eyes closed, earbuds blasting Metallica. If she could only make the black penetrate everything in her mind, her problems would disappear. Nothing would be real. She concentrated on the darkness, hoping the rough, pounding beat would crush her thoughts into dust.

A gust of air rolled over her, and she opened her eyes. Her mother stood at the door. She came to the foot of her bed. Lauren couldn’t remember the last time her mother had actually come into her room. Usually, she’d buzz her on the intercom or shout up the stairs. She was wearing the same grey sweater and taupe slacks she’d worn this morning. Her mother never wore the same thing all day. And her hair looked as if she’d been trying to pull it out.

Lauren propped herself up. Her mother’s lips were moving, but she couldn’t hear her words. Her face was bathed in anger—it never went away—but something else was there, too. It took her a minute to figure it out, but when she did, a chill crawled up her spine. Fear. Her mother was afraid.

She waved her arms. Lauren removed the earbuds. A tinny bass spilled out of them.

“That Goddammed noise...”

Lauren pushed a button on her iPod, and the room went quiet. Her mother lowered her arms.

“What’s the problem?” Lauren asked.

“Someone called a few minutes ago. You answered the phone.”

“So?”

“Who was it?”

“Why do you care?”

“I need to know.”

Lauren cocked her head. Her mother rarely asked that kind of thing. “It was for Dad.” She had been trained from a young age to ask a caller’s name before transferring them to her parents. What if it was someone they didn’t want to talk to? A stranger, or, God forbid, a salesman? “A woman.”

“What woman?” her mother said.

“Ricki Feldman.”

“Did she say what she wanted?”

“No. But she sounded pissed.”

“She did?”

Lauren reached for her headphones.

“Did you transfer the call to your father?”

“Do I look stupid? Of course I did.”

“Sorry.” She gazed around Lauren’s room. “So, what are you up to tonight?”

Lauren frowned at her mother. “I don’t know. Why?”

“I—I thought maybe we could watch a movie or something...”

“Together?”

“Something wrong with that?”

Had her mother been drinking? She didn’t look high, but after a lifetime of wine and martinis before dinner, who could tell? Lauren shrugged. “I guess not.”

“Good. I’ll be back. I just need to check with your father.”

***

It was Sunday night, and Georgia was gazing out the window at the red wagon across the street from her apartment when Andrea Walcher called. “I can’t talk, but something’s going on.”

“I’m listening.”

“Ricki Feldman called Tom half an hour ago. Lauren answered the phone and said she sounded angry. Afterwards Tom called Perl.”

Ricki hadn’t wasted any time. “And?”

“I went into his office and asked him what the calls were about. He wouldn’t tell me, but he said he might need to meet with Perl tonight.”

“On a Sunday night?”

“That’s what I said. He said it was important.”

“Did he say where? Or when?”

“No. But his expression—it was something I haven’t seen before.”

“What was it?”

“It was—empty. Absolutely empty.”

“Don’t let him leave,” Georgia said. “I’m on my way.”

“You can’t come here. He’ll—”

“Make him wait. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

Georgia hung up and grabbed her coat. She’d wanted Ricki to raise hell about the fake clean-up; apparently, she had. She tugged on her boots, then stood up and scanned the shelves above her desk. She took her digital tape recorder and slipped it in her bag. She started down the steps two at a time, then paused at the second-floor landing. She turned around and went back up.

Inside her apartment she went to her closet and pulled out a shoebox. Lying underneath a soft cloth was her Sig Sauer 229. The Sig had the smallest recoil of any nine millimeter she’d used. She liked its feel, too. She’d had two Sigs when she was on the force. When she was suspended, she turned in one along with her badge. The other went into her closet.

She lifted it out along with the kydek holster it was nestled in. She’d bought the holster for times when a concealed carry was necessary. Although it wasn’t leather—a fact which Parker always pointed out—the plastic hugged the contours of her body.

She slipped the Sig out of the holster and checked the magazine. She found a small box of spearhead Gold Dot hollow points and loaded them into the clip. Then she went into her bedroom and changed from the thin black turtleneck she was wearing to a bulky white fisherman’s sweater. She snapped the holster over the belt of her jeans and slipped in the Sig.

As its weight settled against her hip, she realized she’d forgotten how safe a gun made her feel. She was no Robby Parker—her partner used to say that they could take down anyone they wanted, anytime. They were “the Law.” And yet, the Sig did make her feel safe. And powerful. Maybe she wasn’t that different from Parker. She rummaged through the closet again, pulled out a pair of handcuffs, and dropped them in her pocket.

Outside, a light mist spit tiny droplets on the Toyota. She climbed in and turned on the defroster. The wipers smacked against the windshield. She eased out of her parking space and headed north on Green Bay Road. An accident was slowing traffic in Wilmette, so she cut over to Sheridan. As she made the turn, the rain started in earnest. She caught the sandy scent of just-wet concrete.

Despite Illinois’s reputation as a flatland, a string of bluffs hug the shoreline of Lake Michigan from Winnetka north to Lake Bluff. Between the cliffs are steep ravines, and Sheridan Road cuts through them. For a few miles, especially in Glencoe, the road turns into a sharp winding thoroughfare that’s wonderfully scenic but can be treacherous, especially in bad weather.

As Georgia sped north on Sheridan, she accelerated up a hill, crested the top, and started down a straight decline. At the foot of the hill was a sharp curve. She was winding around it when a sudden flash of light seared the darkness behind her. A loud crack accompanied it, and her rear windshield exploded. Glass shattered on the back seat. The sudden rush of air made the Toyota fishtail. She struggled to keep control of the wheel.

Air and rain poured in. She shot a glance in the rear view mirror. Headlights pierced the black void. The downward angle of the beams suggested a high-riding SUV or small truck. She could make out two figures in the front seat. The figure in the passenger seat was aiming a rifle out the window.

Another muzzle flash. She jammed the accelerator, preparing to swerve from side to side. But this stretch of Sheridan was only two lanes, and as she careened around a curve, another pair of headlights swam toward her: a car, speeding into the Toyota from the opposite direction. She jerked the wheel. The Toyota skidded and swerved on wet road. She barely missed the oncoming car. The other car’s horn blasted for a full ten seconds.

Georgia shot another glance into the rearview mirror. Her pursuers were still behind her. Suddenly a driveway materialized on the left, practically on top of her. She wrenched the wheel. The Toyota lurched off at an angle. Tires crackled on gravel. Trees flashed past, and she felt the car bounce wildly onto gravel and rocks. She slammed on her brakes and heard a terrifying screech. The car started to spin. The force propelled her forward, and she strained against the seat belt. She thought she might sail through the windshield. The belt threatened to slice her stomach in half. Another powerful shove threw her back against the seat. Her neck snapped back, but the seat belt held.

Then it was over.

She sucked down wet air and mentally checked herself. Except for a cramp where the seat belt squeezed her chest, and a throbbing in her neck, she seemed to be okay. The Toyota sat partly on a driveway that stretched back into such dense blackness that she couldn’t see where it ended. It was probably one of those private roads that spider-webbed through the North Shore. Her eyes raked the darkness Whoever was shooting at her hadn’t made the turn. She shivered in the rain-soaked cold. They could be coming back. She needed to get to her destination fast. She threw the Toyota into reverse.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

WHEN GEORGIA pulled up, the floodlights above the Walchers’ garage flickered on. The lights cut irregular stripes on the grass, which was covered by a carpet of wet leaves. She parked in the semicircular drive. So far no one had followed her. She got out of the car and inspected the damage to her rear window. There wasn’t much glass left, except in the corners, and the back seat was a blanket of glassy pellets.

She started toward the house, then slowed. Did she really want to confront Tom Walcher? Maybe she should turn it over to the cops. They could bring him in for prostitution. Question him about Sara’s death, Janowitz’s, his brother in law, Fred’s. The attempts on her life, too. No. She’d come too far. She crossed over the fishpond and rang the bell.

Footsteps inside clacked. Her hand casually brushed the Sig and she moved to one side, just in case, but it was Andrea who opened the door. When she recognized Georgia, she scowled, and, without as much as a greeting, led her into the kitchen. A cup of steaming tea sat on the granite counter. A fruity aroma wafted through the air.

“Where is your husband?”

“Upstairs. In his office.” Her face grew worried. “What are you going to do?”

“What happened to the meeting with Ricki Feldman?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“Ricki might be in danger. I need to warn her.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I told her about the ‘expedited’clean-up on your brother’s land. She’s not happy about it. I’m sure that’s why she called Tom.”

“What do you think they’ll do?” Andrea’s expression was a portrait of fear.

Georgia glanced around the room, wondering the same thing. Then she heard a squeak from the hall.

Andrea’s face went ashen. “It’s Tom,” she whispered. “If he finds you here...”

Georgia cut her off. “Why don’t you let me worry about that?”

Her hand slipped to her holster, but before she could draw the Sig, Walcher burst in. He was clutching a .38. “Don’t move. Either of you. And keep your hands where I can see them.”

“Tom!” Andrea’s face twisted in shock. “What are you doing? Put that down!”

“Do what I say, Andrea.” Walcher’s voice was ice.

Andrea raised her hands. He waved the gun at Georgia. “Now you.”

Georgia slowly lifted her hands in the air.

His chin shot up toward his wife. “How did she get in here?”

Andrea didn’t reply.

“You let her in.” His eyes strayed to his wife’s cup of tea. “Planning a tea party?” He took an angry step toward the counter.

Andrea shot a look at Georgia that was a silent plea for help.

Georgia cut in. “Walcher, come to your senses and put the gun down. Let’s talk.”

“I heard plenty of talk out in the hall. I have nothing to say to you.” Walcher flicked his eyes to his wife. “Or you. I should have known you’d turn traitor. What did she promise you? A pass if you turned state’s evidence? She can’t do that, you know. She’s only a PI.”

Andrea wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“I want both of you in the living room where I can see you.” He pointed the gun at Georgia. “You first.”

Georgia moved cautiously. So far he hadn’t noticed the concealed carry. She was glad she was wearing the fisherman’s sweater. Andrea followed Georgia, and Walcher brought up the rear. Georgia’s shoes thudded across the marble floor, then grew silent as she hit the carpeted steps in the living room. She stopped a few feet from the picture window. The glass was beaded with rain, but their reflections were sharp against the blackness. How could she get to her Sig?

Andrea spoke up. “Tom, put that thing away before Lauren sees you. This—”

“Keep your mouth shut.”

Georgia spread her hands. “She’s right. This won’t help your situation.”

“I told you to keep your hands above your head. And what do you know about my situation?”

She raised her arms again. “You helped Perl fake the environmental report on your brother-in-law’s land. Then you and Perl killed him so he couldn’t scuttle the deal. But too many people know about it now. Ricki Feldman. Your wife. Me. You can’t keep killing just to cover it up.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched.

“You had Sara Long killed, too.”

Andrea looked astonished. “Sara Long? What does she have to do with this?”

Walcher’s eyes looked dark, large, and dangerous. She had a sudden vision of what evil looked like.

“You killed Sara because she overheard you and Harry on the phone talking about Fred and the land. You and Harry were afraid she’d tell someone. Like her pimp, Derek.”

“I didn’t kill her.” Walcher spit out.

“You know the law. Doesn’t matter if you pulled the trigger. You’re an accessory.”

“It wasn’t me!”

Georgia pretended to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Then put the gun down and tell me who did. And why you were just on the phone with Perl.”

“Perl can be—he’s impulsive. I was trying to talk some sense into him.”

“He wants to go after Ricki, doesn’t he?”

“I told you. He’s under control.”

“For how long?”

Walcher leveled the .38 at Georgia. “No more. You don’t get twenty questions.”

“Why is she bringing up Sara Long?” Andrea cut in. “And talking about pimps? What the hell is going on?”

“Stay out of this, Andrea.”

“If it wasn’t you,” Georgia ignored Andrea. “It had to be Perl. Put the gun away and save yourself, Tom.”

“Stop!” Andrea hugged her arms. “Both of you! I want to know what’s going on!”

Yanking her thumb toward Andrea, Georgia faced Walcher. “Do you want to tell her or should I?”

When Walcher didn’t answer, Georgia turned to Andrea.

“Your husband had Sara Long killed. And her pimp, too.”

Andrea Walcher tipped her head to the side. Her voice was thick and slow. “Sara—Long—had—a—pimp?”

Walcher’s eyes skimmed Georgia then settled on Andrea. “Don’t believe anything she says, Andrea. She’s trying to drive a wedge between us. She’ll say anything.”

“Sara Long was a prostitute, Andrea, and Tom was one of her best clients.” Georgia said it quietly, but her words cut the air like a scream. She hadn’t promised Lauren not to reveal the prostitution ring, but she had delayed the telling of it. Now it was coming out, and Lauren’s role in it would follow. This family, this girl, would be destroyed. Despite being held at gunpoint, a profound sadness came over Georgia.

Andrea’s body went very still. “Is this true, Tom? Were you screwing Lauren’s best friend? A teenager?”

“You have no proof.” Walcher’s voice was laced with venom.

“You’re wrong,” Georgia said quietly. “There is proof. Right in this house, as a matter of fact.”

“Don’t believe her, Andrea.”

“In your daughter’s bedroom.”

Walcher scowled. Andrea stared at Georgia.

“Your daughter has been running a teenage prostitution ring on her computer.”

Andrea’s jaw dropped.

“In fact, she’s responsible for setting Sara up with you, Tom.”

“NO!” A strangled shout came from Walcher. “You’re lying!”

“For our special customers only,” Georgia recited. “A new shipment has arrived: young, blonde, sexy. Guaranteed to give you pleasure over every inch of your body. Sound familiar, Charlie?”

For a moment Walcher didn’t move. Then, very slowly, he took a step towards his wife. “I didn’t know it was her. I swear. She looked older. Not like one of Lauren’s friends. I didn’t know until—”

“Until she overheard the call from Harry about Fred,” Georgia interrupted.

“I swear I didn’t know.” He continued to move towards his wife.

Andrea threw out her arms. “Don’t come any closer.”

Walcher stopped.

“But once you figured out who Sara was, it gave you another reason to kill her,” Georgia went on. “Aside from not wanting anyone to know you were screwing your daughter’s best friend.”

Andrea’s mouth was working and her lips were moving, but nothing came out.

Georgia tried to muster some pity for the woman, if only because she was Lauren’s mother. She felt nothing.

Walcher was another matter. She hated that he was a fixer with no conscience. She hated him for killing—or allowing others to be killed—so casually. And she hated that he abused young girls, using sex as his private currency. No wonder Lauren had no scruples about prostituting herself and finding a way to profit from it. She started to edge toward him, thinking she would throw herself at him and force him to drop the gun, when a scream split the air.

“I hate you! I hate you all!”

Tom whipped around, the .38 still in his hand. Lauren stood at the entrance to the living room, teetering on the top of the carpeted steps. Her eyes were huge, and her cheeks had spots of crimson on them.

Georgia quickly drew her Sig. “Lauren, get out! Go away! Walcher, drop it!”

But Lauren stayed where she was. She faced her father, her chest heaving. She didn’t seem to notice the gun in his hand. “Is it true? Are you Charlie? Did you have sex with Sara? My best friend? And then have her killed?”

“Lauren, go upstairs. Now!” Georgia yelled again. “Walcher, drop the gun! I’m not gonna say it again!”

Walcher hesitated for what seemed like forever, then closed in on his daughter. Grabbing her arm, he pulled her towards him and thrust her in front of his body like a shield. He slid the .38 against her temple.

“Daddy, what are you doing?” Lauren shrieked. “Let me go!”

“Quiet, Lauren,” Walcher spun her around so they were both facing Georgia. Walcher’s eyes locked on hers. “Your turn. Throw your gun on the floor. Now.”

Georgia didn’t move. Her pulse roared in her ears. “You don’t want to do this, Walcher,” she said slowly.

“Drop it! Now!” His voice was ragged.

Lauren’s eyes filled with panic. A thousand thoughts tumbled through Georgia’s brain, but one took precedence. She’d promised to protect Lauren. And Andrea. Slowly, she extended her arm and lowered the Sig to the floor.

“Now, get your hands in the air,” Walcher barked.

Georgia straightened and raised her hands.

Walcher motioned with his chin. “Andrea. Get the gun and give it to me.”

But Andrea didn’t move. Her face wore a puzzled expression, as if she was watching a movie in a foreign language with no subtitles.

“Did you hear me, Andrea?” Walcher’s voice was so taut it was almost a whisper. “Get her gun.”

“Daddy, please...” Lauren broke in. Her face started to crumple.

“I said be quiet, Lauren.”

Andrea remained as immobile and silent as a statue. Georgia looked at Lauren. The girl’s shoulders were hunched, and her muscles were coiled. She looked scared, but Georgia thought she saw something more just under the surface. Determination. When she threw Georgia a calculating glance, it registered. She was waiting for Georgia to give her a signal. Georgia looked at her Sig, still on the floor.

“Andrea!” Walcher shouted. “Are you deaf? Do what I tell you!”

Suddenly Andrea came alive and launched herself at her husband. At the same time Lauren shoved against her father, broke his armhold, and lurched toward Georgia. Georgia pulled her onto the floor, grabbed her Sig, and threw herself on top of the girl. Walcher struggled with his wife and stumbled. A shot rang out. There was a loud pop, and an abstract but colorful canvas fell off the wall. A wisp of smoke floated out from the point of impact. Andrea dropped to the floor.

For a moment, no one moved. Georgia wasn’t sure if Andrea had been hit along with the painting. Then,

“The Chagall!” Andrea shouted.

Georgia rolled off Lauren, propped her elbows on the floor, and steadied the Sig. Walcher extricated himself from his wife, stood, and pointed the .38 at Georgia, but she was ready. She aimed and squeezed the trigger.

The flash from the Sig was accompanied by a deafening roar. Walcher’s face got soft and rubbery, and his lips curled in a baffled smile. Then his body seemed to fold in on itself, and he collapsed almost gracefully on the floor. Georgia watched a small pool of red soak into the white carpet.

Andrea pushed herself up and covered her face with her hands.

Georgia stood, then helped Lauren to stand. The girl looked at her father, then at Georgia. Her bottom lip quivered, and an anguished sob escaped her lips. Georgia holstered her gun and opened her arms to the girl.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

IT WAS a long night. The Glencoe cops took Georgia back to the station. Andrea was taken to the hospital. Lauren went too and was treated for shock.

Georgia was put in a windowless interview room with cinderblock walls where she was interrogated for several hours. The NORTAF task force was activated, and three detectives wandered in and out. They treated her cautiously: Walcher had been killed in his own home, and they had no way of knowing how or why she was there. Still, she wasn’t too worried. Lauren and Andrea’s stories would back her up, and the fact she’d been a cop should work in her favor.

After going over what happened several times, she told them what she’d uncovered about Harry Perl’s land deal, the bribes, the fake environmental report, the murders, and the attempts on her life. But when she connected everything back to Sara Long’s murder, they looked troubled. Two of the dicks who’d been questioning her left, presumably to check out her story. One of them came back an hour later.

“We called Robby Parker. He says the whole thing is fucked. The Long case is sewn up. They’ve got their man, and they’re ready for trial.”

Anger stung her. “I could have told you he’d say that. I’m working for the defendant.”

“He said you and he used to be partners, but you got suspended. He says you never got over it.”

Her hands clenched into fists. She slipped them into her pockets. “If you’ve been anywhere near a TV recently, you know that’s bullshit. The women backed me up, didn’t they?”

“We’re already looking,” he said tiredly. “Especially into Perl. But as for the rest of it...” He shrugged. “It’s not our case, for starters.”

Georgia paced the room, trying to control her frustration. She should have expected there’d be no help from Robby Parker. But she was sure O’Malley would vouch for her, once he heard about it. Paul Kelly, too.

For the moment, though, she needed to focus on a more critical problem: Harry Perl was still out there. If you believed Tom Walcher, he was a loose cannon, particularly when he was crossed. And Ricki Feldman, her unhappiness over the environmental troubles on record, had crossed him.

“You know,” the dick said, “You’ve been through a lot tonight. You shot someone. Doesn’t happen often. I’ll bet the shrink who counsels cops in your area would be glad to see you.”

Georgia stopped pacing. She’d grapple with that on her own time. “I don’t need a shrink. I need to stop a killer.”

The detective eyed her. “I have no idea what you need, but if half of what you said is true, what you need is to be careful.”

They let her go home around seven the next morning. First she called Henry, a friend who had a body shop on Fullerton. He told her if she brought the car down he’d have it fixed in two days. She said she’d bring it in.

She couldn’t confront Perl—the cops had confiscated her gun—but she might be able to do some reconnaissance. Tail him or his goons. Make sure they weren’t closing in on Ricki Feldman. She told herself she should warn Ricki, too. She also wanted to check on Lauren.

She knocked on Pete’s door, hoping to catch him before work. He was there. She convinced him to lend her his Acura.

After a quick shower, she raced up 41 to Lake Bluff, a well-heeled village adjacent to Lake Forest on the tip of the North Shore. She wound through the village to a street that ended a few feet from Lake Michigan. Overlooking the water was a huge estate that looked like an Italian villa, with carved stone work, Roman arches and gargoyles above.

The driveway in front of the house was empty. Georgia backed up to the road and parked at the curb. Clear morning sunshine threw an innocent light over everything. She’d staked out the house for about thirty minutes when a dark Chevy turned onto the street behind her. She checked the rear view. At the wheel was a lean man with curly, dark hair. Her heart started to hammer. As he passed her and turned into the driveway, he glanced over, and their eyes met. Her breath sucked out, and she felt like she’d been punched in the gut.

***

Matt was still in the Chevy, his hands on the wheel when she climbed out of her car and went over.

“It was you.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Hello, Georgia.”

There were the same brown eyes she’d lost herself in. The curly hair she’d run her fingers through. And glasses. She liked it when he wore his glasses. They gentled him, she said. She started to speak, but her throat closed up.

“You look good,” Matt said.

Georgia gazed at him. Then she blinked it away. “You mind telling me what the fuck you’re doing here?”

“I work here.”

“For Perl?”

He nodded slowly. “It’s a long story.”

“The man’s a monster.”

“I know. “

“Walcher is dead.”

He looked shocked. “When?”

“Last night. I shot him.”

A gleam came into his eyes. “So that’s it...”

“What?”

“Perl and Lenny went out about an hour ago. They told me to stay here.”

“Lenny?”

“My—my supervisor.”

“We need to find them. “I think he’s going after...” She pressed her lips together. “... Ricki Feldman.”

“What?”

“It’s my fault. I set her up.” Georgia explained how she’d gone to her office and told her about the fake report. “If she didn’t already know about it, I was hoping, given her father’s history, she’d raise hell with Perl. And if she did know, I figured she’d warn him I knew. Either way, I figured I could use her to flush them out.”

Matt interrupted, a knowing look in his eyes. “It worked.”

“How do you know?”

“She called Perl. I was there.” He paused, putting something together. “Now it makes sense.”

“I should have warned her. I screwed up.”

He shook his head. “You did what you had to.”

“There’s more. I think Harry Perl had Sara Long killed.”

“The girl in the woods?” Matt looked worried. “That was before I signed on.”

“Walcher was screwing her,” Georgia said “She was a hooker. I think she heard something she shouldn’t have.”

Matt’s mouth opened and then shut.

“Where did they go? Do you know?”

When Matt shook his head, she pulled out her cell and punched in a number. “Is Ms. Feldman there yet?” She paused. “And you haven’t heard from her? Okay.” She disconnected. “She’s not at her office. Hasn’t been in all morning.” Georgia’s pulse started to race. “Where does she live?”

“Hold on.” Matt pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number. “Korman, Singer. I need a GPS fix on the SUV.” He paused. “Yeah. Call me back.” He disconnected.

“A GPS locator?” Georgia narrowed her eyes. “What’s that about?”

Matt didn’t answer.

“Who was that?” He still didn’t answer. “You’re working undercover!”

He didn’t answer for a moment. Then, “Yes.”

“For Olson?”

He shook his head. “When I got back from Israel, the U.S. attorney set me up with the Bureau. White collar crime unit.”

“How did that happen?”

“I’ve known Perl was dirty since Ricki and I were together. It grated on me. I came home to deal with it.”

“The avenging angel.” It came out sharp.

A guarded look came into Matt’s eyes. “Would you believe me if I said I wanted to make restitution?”

She wondered whether to apologize. “For what?”

His cell trilled. “Yeah? Where? Okay. I’m going there now. I need back up.” He dumped the cell into his shirt pocket. “The SUV is on Barberry Lane in Lake Forest.” He swallowed. “That’s where Ricki lives.”

“Let’s take my car.” She headed toward the Acura, then turned around and caught his arm. “Matt, I don’t have a gun. They took my Sig.”

“I can fix that.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

MATT DUG a Glock 27 out of the trunk of the Chevy. He rummaged around, pulled out a box of .40 caliber bullets, and handed them over. She loaded the clip, chambered a round, then slid into the driver’s seat of Pete’s Acura.

“Where did this come from?”

“Lenny makes sure we’re well stocked.” He got into the passenger seat.

She started the engine and pulled away from the house. “What exactly do you do for Perl?”

“I’m his bodyguard. Among other things.”

“Were you the one who shot through my window and started the fire?”

He cleared his throat. “I shot wide.”

“It was you on Sheridan Road, too. The rear windshield.”

“You have to believe me. I would never have hurt you.”

“Why should I trust you? I could have been killed.”

“You wouldn’t have let me get into the car if you didn’t.”

He was right. She turned south on Green Bay Road.

“Why Perl?” She asked after a pause. “Other men have done worse.”

He hesitated. “I—I think it’s because he claims to be such a devout Jew.”

“Perl?”

“He has all the trappings. Keeps kosher. Goes to shul. Observes the Sabbath, at least, when it’s convenient. But he’s a hypocrite. He recites a barucha out of one side of his mouth and bribes a village official out of the other. And when he doesn’t get what he wants... well...” His voice trailed off.

“Maybe he thinks his piety gives him special dispensation. You know, larceny, pay-offs, and murder in God’s name?”

“You mean like a jihad for Jews?”

“It’s been done before.”

“Harry Perl isn’t spiritual. There’s nothing at his core but greed.” Matt sighed. “And Ricki wanted me to study Talmud with him.”

“You knew him before you left?”

“Ricki wanted to introduce us. She knew I was trying to be more observant, and I guess he was the most observant Jew she knew.” He grunted. “She thought we’d have something in common. But we never met.”

“Why not?”

“I was privy to some deals she and Perl were working on. I got suspicious so I started to do some digging. I didn’t like what I found, but I didn’t have the stomach to do anything about it then.” He looked over. “Ricki and I were wrong from the start. We should never have been together.”

Georgia tried to ignore the lump in her throat. She needed to keep on track. “Did you know about Fred Stewart and the property at the Glen?”

“Not until I got back. But there were other deals. Just as dirty. The Feds know about them.”

“When did you realize I was working the case?”

“I knew you were working the Sara Long murder, but I didn’t know it connected to Perl.”

She tightened her grip on the wheel. “So they wired you?”

“That’s how they cracked Greylord, remember?”

She nodded. They’d studied the scandal at the Academy. Twenty years ago an Assistant State’s Attorney, upset with the operations in Cook County court, which included regular bribes to judges, suddenly became a defense attorney. He insinuated himself with the people who were lining the judges’ pockets. No one knew he was wearing a wire. Over 92 people, including 13 judges, were eventually indicted.

Aloud, she said, “How did you land the job with Perl?”

“We let them think I was on the take and was moving ‘product’ in Israel. Arms, mostly. It worked.”

She was quiet for another long moment. Then she turned to him. “What you’re doing—it’s gutsy, Matt.”

“I don’t look at it that way. It’s just something I need to do.”

“I know.”

His eyes softened. His cell phone rang again. “Yeah?” A pause. “Okay.” He put the cell down. “They’re on the move.”

“Where?”

“They’re heading south on Green Bay. We have a choice. We can follow them. Or we can go to Ricki’s house. Make sure she’s okay.” “Back up’s on the way, right?”

Matt nodded.

“Let them check the house. We should follow the SUV. She could be with them.”

Georgia kept driving. “Where do you think they’re going?

“Depends what they’re planning to do.”

“What does Lenny carry?”

“He has a frigging arsenal. A Remington Bolt action rifle, a few semi-automatics, a couple of revolvers.”

Green Bay jogged east and then south again. “What about Perl?”

“I’ve never seen him handle anything. But that doesn’t mean he couldn’t. He might have one of the revolvers. Or a snub nose.”

His cell phone rang again. He listened, then put it down. “They’re moving east on Tower Road.”

“East?” Georgia scowled. “There’s nothing there. It’s all residential.”

“There must be something.”

“Shit! I know where they’re going.”

“Where?”

“The Lagoons!”

***

The Skokie Lagoons, which are actually located in Winnetka, are a series of marshy ponds just east of 94. Originally built by the Civilian Conservation Corps in the 1930s, the Lagoons have been restored. Now there’s fishing, boating, bird-watching, and if you happen to be looking west, you might see the sun set over the water, a rare treat for Chicagoans. Surrounded by woods and thick underbrush, the Lagoons offer something else of value: a treasure trove of hiding places.

“They’ve got plenty of choices,” Georgia said. “If they do it right, the body might not turn up ‘til spring.” She gestured to Matt’s cell. “Find out if they turned south on Forestway.”

Matt called his handlers and asked. He listened, then nodded. “We’re there in five,” he said into the phone, then disconnected. “They did.”

Georgia turned south onto Forestway, a street with the Forest Preserve on one side, the Lagoons on the other. The trees, now bereft of leaves, seemed bowed by the brittle air. On the Lagoon side were parking areas, behind which were stretches of grass and dirt, and finally the shoreline. She slowed down.

“We’re looking for a dark Ford Explorer.”

They came around a sharp curve. A parking area appeared on their right. No car. Georgia kept going. She drove around another curve and reached another parking area. A Black SUV was parked at the far end.

“There it is,” Georgia said.

“Keep driving,” Matt said.

She cruised past the car until they were out of sight, then bounced the Acura up on the curb and parked. They got out and jogged back to the SUV.

Georgia felt the hood. Still warm. A pale sun hung in the cold sky, but everything was quiet. No sound of moving water. No birds. No breeze rustling the tree branches. Even the faraway noise of passing cars and trucks on the Expressway was hushed. It was the silence of impending winter. And death.

Matt pointed to the ground. The dirt hadn’t dried out from the rains of the past few days, and she could make out some partial impressions. They looked like striated shoeprints, prints that could have been made by a man wearing rubber-soled shoes. Matt started to follow the tracks. Then he stopped, turned around. He held a finger to his lips and motioned straight ahead.

In front of them was a thicket of cattails, canary grass, and other prairie grasses. Through it she caught a glimpse of nickel-colored water. Georgia closed her eyes to concentrate. Gradually, she became aware of faint sounds: Rustlings. Grunts. Then a higher-pitched sigh.

She opened her eyes and tiptoed forward. Matt tapped on her shoulder, gesturing for her to go one way. He’d go the other.

She nodded and let out a breath. It left a tiny cloud in the air. She waited while he circled around the thicket. Then she started to pick her way through from the other direction, going slowly, trying not to make any noise. A moment later, a twig snapped under her foot. She froze. Nothing. After a long moment, she edged forward again. The underbrush started to thin, and she could hear voices. Low. But urgent.

She stopped and peered straight ahead. Ricki Feldman was lying face up on the ground in a clearing near the water’s edge. She wasn’t moving. Georgia squinted and thought she saw her breathing shallowly. What had they done to her?

The two men were a few feet away, their backs to Georgia, talking in low tones. One of them was dressed in warm-up pants and a fleece vest. Perl. The other, bigger and brawnier, wore canvas pants and a pea jacket. He’d drawn a gun—it looked like a Glock—and kept glancing back at Ricki, as if he expected she might rise, brush herself off, and run away.

Georgia waited for Matt. He had more ground to cover; it would take him longer to get in position. She quietly unsnapped the flap on her holster and drew out the Glock. She stood for what seemed like a long time, willing the goon to keep talking. Finally, she spotted a subtle movement across the clearing. Matt drew his weapon. She knew he expected her to, also. She pointed the Glock at the two men. Suddenly, Matt emerged from the thicket.

“Lenny, drop the gun!”

Lenny whipped around, surprise on his face. “What the fuck?”

Perl spun around too.

“Don’t move, Perl,” Georgia stepped forward from the other side. “I shot Walcher, and I’ll shoot you too!”

Perl froze, mouth open, eyes huge, but Lenny swung around toward Georgia. A slight smile played on his face. He pulled back the slide on his automatic and aimed. She jumped back and sideways. She lost her balance and fell to the ground.

A shot rang out. Then the quiet rushed in again. Georgia rolled onto her stomach and raised her head. A look of surprise had unfolded across Lenny’s face. His body tensed. A hole in his stomach gushed blood. He fell forward onto the ground. His hands still clutched the Glock.

Perl still hadn’t moved. Georgia scrambled up and trained her gun on Perl, but Matt was already on him.

“Are you okay?” He shouted.

“I’m good, Matt.”

“Okay.” He sounded relieved.

Georgia looked at Ricki. She was still breathing shallowly, but her eyes were open and filled with panic. Matt stayed where he was. He kept his gun on Perl.

“Cuff him,” he called to Georgia.

She pulled out the cuffs from her pocket and bent over Perl. Pulling back one arm, then the other, she snapped them in place.

“Thank God you’re here!” Perl suddenly found his voice. “He...” He gestured with his chin at the fallen security guard. “... He went berserk! He took us hostage. He was going to kill us both. He—”

“Save it,” Georgia said.

“You have to believe me. I would never do anything to hurt my partner’s daughter. He—”

“Shut up, Perl,” she repeated.

Perl’s mouth closed. The distant sound of a siren cut through the air. Georgia glanced back at Ricki. Her skin looked clammy, and Georgia could see sweat on her upper lip. She went to her and dropped down on her knees.

Ricki cringed. What was she anticipating Georgia wondered. A blow? A shot to the head? Or something worse?

“Am I going to die? Please,” she said, her voice weak but desperate. “I don’t want to die.”

Georgia pressed two fingers against Ricki’s carotid. Her pulse was racing. She turned over her hands. Her palms were sweaty, her eyes still panic-stricken.

“What’s happening? Am I dead? Help me, please!”

Georgia studied her nemesis. She thought about what she would want, were she in Ricki’s position. Then she slowly raised her hand—it might have been the hardest thing she’d ever done in her life—and brushed her fingers across Ricki’s brow. “You’re safe now,” she murmured gently. “It’s over. You’re going be okay.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

“IT’S A race to see who gets him first: the Feds or the locals,” Kelly said over breakfast next morning. He’d gone out of his way to drive up to the Lucky Platter in Evanston.

“Has anyone filed charges yet?” Georgia was famished. Between the interviews and debriefings with NORTAF and the Feds, she hadn’t eaten much the past two days. She bit into a strip of bacon. It was perfect: crisp, dry, not too salty.

“Not yet. But there’s a laundry list of ‘em coming.”

“Lenny, the security man, did all the hits, right? Including Sara Long?”

Kelly nodded. “Perl’s trying to finger him, claiming it was all his idea. But no one’s buying it.”

She sniffed, taking in the aromas of fresh coffee, fried eggs, and biscuits on her plate. “Why the bat? He was already carrying.”

Kelly shrugged. “Probably one of those opportunities that just presented itself. Someone brought the bat to the hazing. He saw it lying around and figured it might be useful.”

“It got Cam Jordan indicted,” she said quietly. Then, “You know what I keep thinking about?”

“What?”

“The girls hazed Sara Long because she was too nosy. Insinuating herself in other people’s business. But that was her way of finding out whether anyone knew she was hooking. It was all so... incestuous.”

Kelly reached for his coffee and blew steam off the surface. “Tell me something. You ever kill someone before?”

“No.”

“You holding up?”

“I’ll make it.” At the Academy, they’d warned she might have a reaction if she ever shot someone. They made sure she knew about the resources that could help them through the trauma. But Georgia didn’t need counseling or pills or even booze. Her training had kicked in, and she’d shot Walcher on instinct. Kill or be killed. She’d do it again.

“How much would you say Fred Stewart’s land was worth?” She asked.

“Hard to say,” Kelly replied. “In today’s market, with four or five acres, in the middle of the North Shore, probably a few mill. Maybe more.”

She felt a profound weariness. A murder investigation was all-consuming. It compelled her to forsake everything except the search for the killer. She had gone over every lead, every interview, every detail, almost obsessively, making sure she hadn’t missed anything. In the end, though, a young girl’s life had been snuffed out because of money. It seemed so futile. Even trite. Perl was the ringleader, but it wasn’t just his responsibility. Or Tom Walcher’s. All of them, Andrea, Lauren, even Sara Long, had become broken, in one way or another, because of greed. They were all accountable.

Kelly folded his hands. “You did good, Davis.”

“It was my job.”

A young waitress in jeans and a t-shirt padded over and freshened their coffee. Her shoes hardly made a sound.

“Listen...” Kelly leaned across the table after she was gone. “You wanna take on another job? I got a few lined up. And—well—it turns out I don’t mind working with you.”

Georgia smiled weakly. “Well now, that’s a ringing endorsement.”

“Hey.” He looked injured. “I mean it.”

“I got a call from Eric Olson this morning. He’s the Chief of Police where I used to work.”

One of Kelly’s eyebrows went up.

“When I was suspended, I—er, accidentally forgot to turn one of my Sigs. The Glencoe cops confiscated it Sunday night.”

“So?”

“Olson said he knew I kept it when I was suspended. And that he had to make a decision whether to bring charges—”

“The shithead.”

“Or invite me back on the force so I’d be legal.”

Kelly’s other eyebrow joined the first to form a perfect arch. “What did you tell him?”

“That I’d think about it and let him know.”

Kelly didn’t say anything for a long while. Then, “Make the right decision, Davis.”

***

“What’s going to happen to Lauren?” Pete said that night, scrubbing sweet potatoes over Georgia’s kitchen sink. Georgia had surprised herself by inviting him, along with Sam, and Sam’s boyfriend, for Thanksgiving dinner. He’d surprised her by accepting, though being a vegetarian, he’d skip the turkey. But he came down later waving his mother’s secret sweet potato pie recipe, which he claimed he’d wangled after begging and pleading and a bribe or two.

“She’s been charged with pandering. And if it turns out any of her girls were under sixteen, they’ll add juvenile pimping.”

“What does that mean in terms of a sentence?”

“Pandering’s a Class Four felony.” At his blank look, she added, “One to three years. But she has a shot at probation. Especially if I testify on her behalf.”

“Which you’re going to do.”

Georgia turned on the flame under a large pot of water. “She’s not a bad kid once you cut through the crap. If I were the judge, I’d get her into therapy right away. And make her do community service with abused women.”

“What about her mother?”

“She appears to be remorseful.”

Pete frowned. “But wasn’t she in on the scam?”

“Not really. She didn’t know anything about the deal until her brother died.”

“Do you believe her?”

Georgia didn’t like the woman, but that didn’t make her a liar. She nodded.

Pete dropped the potato into the pot. “This life of yours. How can you do it day after day? Doesn’t it get to you? Don’t you ever want to be—normal?”

She rinsed her hands and dried them with a dishtowel. “Who says I’m not ‘normal,’ whatever that is?”

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

A BLEAK November chill descended the day before Thanksgiving. It was accompanied by unrelenting gray skies above and a layer of frost below. Georgia wandered around her living room, marveling at her new furniture which had been delivered yesterday. A cushiony beige couch, two brown easy chairs, and a real, honest-to-God bronze coffee table. The earth tones gave off a tranquil feeling, and with her desk and shelves, the room looked full.

She was thinking about doing some last-minute errands when the intercom buzzed from downstairs. Thinking Pete must have forgotten something, she pressed the button.

“What did you forget?”

There was no answer.

“Pete?”

“It’s Matt.”

She froze for a moment, then pressed the buzzer to let him in. She thought about hurrying into the bathroom to run a comb through her hair, slapping on some blusher. She stayed where she was. She cracked the door and went into the kitchen and filled a glass with water. While she was drinking it down, her front door squeaked. She went back into the living room.

Matt stood there, unwrapping a plaid muffler. “Hello.”

“Hello, Matt.”

He peered around. “The place looks great.”

“A fire’s a great excuse to get new stuff.”

“May I take off my jacket?”

She folded her arms. She could smell the outdoors on him, a chilly, damp, pungent scent.

He kept his jacket on. “We did great work the other day. It was—a seamless operation.”

She studied his expression. “Your superiors are happy, I’m sure.”

“They are. And thank you for not pressing charges against me.”

“You did what you had to.” He’d said the same thing to her the other day. “I’m okay. And,” she waved her hand, “I got new furniture out of the deal.”

He nodded gratefully. “I have enough to work out between me and Hashem.”

“Your God can’t be that capricious. And if He is, why believe in Him?”

The glimmer of a smile crossed his face. “You get right to the point, don’t you?”

She kept her mouth shut.

“Well, then, I guess I will, too. We make a good team, Georgia.”

A wave of uneasiness washed over her.

“Will you give me a second chance?”

She blinked, trying to will away her disquiet, but it stayed in her gut, hard and heavy.

“I made a mistake,” he went on. “I left a piece of me behind when I went away. It stayed with you. I want to be whole again. Let me make it up to you. You can’t say you haven’t thought about it. Especially the past few days.”

“That’s true. I have.”

“And?”

She bit her lip. “The thing is...” she paused. “I don’t need you any more.”

“You never did.”

Easy for him to say.

“The question is do you want me?” He went still.

She weighed what to say, surprised herself with her response. “Matt, I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

He let out a long breath. “There’s someone else, isn’t there?”

“Not really. Just me.” As she said it, she realized it was the truth.

He hung his head. Then she heard a tap on the steps, followed by a thump. Then another tap, another thump. A knock on her door.

When she opened it, Pete was there, leaning on his cane and grinning. His smile faded when he saw Matt. “Oh sorry...” He looked at Georgia. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s okay.”

“I just came down to say I’ve been working on my sister’s stuffing recipe and I think I’ve got it pretty good. I wanted you to try it.”

“I’d like that. I’ll be up in a minute.”

He glanced uncertainly at Matt, then at her. “OK.”

She watched him ascend the steps, one at a time. She closed the door.

Matt looked at her. “There’s no chance, is there?”

“Matt, what would you do in my place?”

He didn’t answer for a long time. Then, “I’d tell me to go to hell.”

She smiled then, and reached her hand up to his cheek. She traced the line of his jaw with her finger. “I would never say that. You taught me so much.”

“But...” His chest heaved.

“But...” She shook her head. “Not now. Maybe not ever.”

He swallowed and turned away quickly. He opened the door and started down the stairs. She closed the door and leaned against it. She heard his foot clomp on the steps, heard the vestibule door squeak when he went through.

She leaned against the door for a long while, then wiped her hands on her jeans. Pete, Sam, and Sam’s new boyfriend would be coming tomorrow. The new furniture looked good, but something was missing.

Plants. Living things. It was time to buy a ficus. Maybe a fern. She checked the clock in the kitchen. If she went now, she could get them today. She grabbed her coat and her bag.

Acknowledgments

I AM continually amazed by the generosity and patience of so many people, without whose help this book would not have been written. Thanks (again) to Mike Green, Deputy Chief of Police in Northbrook, Illinois; Detective Mike O’Malley of Northbrook; Cook County Prosecutor Robert Egan; P.I. Joel Ostrander (who put up with endless questions); Sue Trowbridge; Attorney Dan Franks; and therapist Rick Tivers. Also thanks to Illinois EPA official Bob Carson;Judy Bobalik (is there anything she hasn’t read?), Kent Krueger, Roberta Isleib, Deborah Donnelly, and Ruth Jordan. And, of course, the Red Herrings.

The transcript of an Oprah show on high school and teen prostitution was also useful.

Finally, sincere thanks to Jacky Sach, who helped conceive the story; Nora Cavin, whose editorial expertise shaped it; Ann Rittenberg, whose insight strengthened it; and Alison Janssen, whose sharp eye polished it.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I hope you enjoyed Easy Innocence and will go on to read the other books in the Georgia Davis series. In fact, I hope you’ll read ALL my books, a list of which follows. The fourth Georgia thriller, Nobody’s Child, comes out in August, and I’ve also included a sneak peek at a chapter.

I would be honored if you visited my website and signed up for my email list. That way you can keep up with all my news and doings. And, if you would, a review of on the forum of your choice is always appreciated. Here’s where you can find me, and thanks again.

http://libbyhellmann.com

@libbyhellmann
http://facebook.com/authorlibbyfischerhellmann
https://plus.google.com/+LibbyHellmann

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Chicagoan Libby Fischer Hellmann is the award-winning author of ten compulsively readable thrillers. They include the Ellie Foreman series, which Libby describes as a cross between “Desperate Housewives” and “24,” the hard-boiled Georgia Davis PI series, and three standalones: SET THE NIGHT ON FIRE, A BITTER VEIL, and HAVANA LOST, a historical thriller set largely in Cuba. She also has written nearly twenty short stories and novellas. A transplant from Washington DC, Libby says they’ll take her out of Chicago feet first.

HISTORICAL THRILLERS

Havana Lost

A Bitter Veil

Set the Night on Fire

THE GEORGIA DAVIS SERIES

ToxiCity

Doubleback

Easy Innocence

THE ELLIE FOREMAN SERIES

A Shot to Die For

An Image of Death

A Picture of Guilt

An Eye for Murder

Nice Girl Does Noir (short story collection)

Chicago Blues (Anthology editor)

SNEAK PEEK: NOBODY’S CHILD

If you enjoyed EASY INNOCENCE, read on for a preview of NOBODY’S CHILD, the 4th Georgia Davis thriller. It will be out August, 2014.

Chapter Eight

When Georgia picked up the tail three blocks from her apartment two days later, an uneasy feeling shot through her. How long had he been following her? How had she missed him? She hadn’t been paying attention, that’s how. Totally unacceptable. Her powers of observation were supposed to be incontestable. First-rate. She tried to rationalize: people didn’t follow her, it was usually the other way around; she had been preoccupied; she wasn’t on the clock.

No. No excuses. She was no better than the teenagers she’d tailed the other day. More important, excuses wouldn’t solve the problem. She forced herself to focus on the now. Do the reconnaissance. Take appropriate action. Passing a bookstore, she stole a glance in the window. A man was about a hundred yards behind her. Burly. Caucasian. Brown jacket, jeans, work boots, wool hat. Shoulders hunched against the cold. Hands slouched in pockets. She couldn’t see his face, but he didn’t seem to be anything special. Just an average guy. An amateur, too, to be so obvious. Was he connected to the flash mob?

Frigid air stung her face, but she picked up her pace. Chicagoland was in the grip of a bitter cold; the kind of cold that made people grateful for any bit of warmth, even the exhaust from a bus. She was bundled up herself, a bulky, nondescript figure heading south on Sherman Avenue. It would be hard to recognize anyone. So where did he pick her up? Had he been staking out her apartment?

She slowed, reviewing basic counter surveillance techniques. She could climb on a bus, take it down to Howard, then switch to the El or a cab. Or she could doubleback to Benson Avenue, cut through the parking lot, and circle around the bank. She’d likely lose him either way, but both options would mean staying outside. The sky was that miserable dirty gray that blankets Chicago from November until March, and the numbing cold sapped her resolve. Losing him wouldn’t tell her why he’d been tailing her in the first place.

She stopped outside a coffee shop on the corner of Sherman and Davis, hoping he’d follow her in. It was a fifty-fifty shot. As she pushed through the door, a coffee-scented gust of warmth wafted over her. She went to the front window and waited.

He didn’t appear. Georgia frowned. Was he not sure he had the right target? Had someone ordered him not to approach but simply report in? Or was he a pervert waiting for the right moment to pounce? She waited another few seconds, then turned around and unzipped her jacket. Whoever he was, whatever he wanted, he could damn well freeze his ass off. She wouldn’t.

She headed over to the counter. There were only a couple of other people in the shop besides Paul Crosby, who was working the afternoon shift. Tall, slim, with brown hair, Paul had a sweet face marred by an ugly mole on his left cheek. She worried about that mole and kept nagging him to get it looked at, but Paul was cavalier, claiming it was the mark of God. What sort of mark, he couldn’t explain. He moonlighted as a drummer for a Blues band, and she’d spent plenty of nights at Hanson’s listening to him jam. He’d even come onto her once or twice, but they were listless, half-hearted passes.

Now he was wiping down the expresso machine. She cleared her throat. He looked up and brightened. “Hey. What’s happening, peaches?”

“My bones are cold.” No sense telling him about the tail. They’d both know soon enough.

“I got just the thing.” Paul began playing with the levers of a giant metallic coffee machine with lots of tubes, valves, and handles. Steam hissed, curled into the air, and dissipated. Black liquid dropped into a cup. He pulled another lever. Something sputtered, and white foam covered the black. He slapped a top on the cup and handed it to Georgia. She took a sip.

“Thanks. This hits the spot.” She went back to the window. She couldn’t see the guy.

“They’re saying more snow tonight,” said one of the people in the shop, an elderly man with snowy white hair and beard.

“Feels that way,” Paul replied and started on one of his rants about the Chicago winter, and how it wasn’t for wimps. Georgia barely listened—it was the sort of mindless chatter that passed for genuine communication today. Instead she mentally reviewed her cases. The flash rob case was over. She was still investigating a domestic and a workers’ comp claim, in which the plaintiff alleged he’d thrown his back out while working in a Lincolnwood factory, except he’d only worked there a week before he was fired for selling crack in the parking lot.

Still, unless her client was holding out on her, it wasn’t a heater. Or dangerous enough to warrant a tail. Neither was the domestic. She doctored her coffee with sweetener, shook off her coat, and sat at a small round table. Someone had left a newspaper, and she idly thumbed through it. The paper, shrunken and plastered with photos and color graphics, wasn’t good for much more than lining a bird cage.

Not that she was a big reader. She’d never been a good student; she discovered in high school she was dyslexic. Overcoming it would require a lot of behavioral changes, they said. Georgia decided she didn’t have the time or the inclination, so she accepted the stigma that came with the label. She had a disability. She was slow. A retard. It hadn’t really mattered. There were plenty of high school boys eager for her expertise in other things.

The door to the coffee shop opened. Georgia went on alert, but it was just a man and a woman, shivering and complaining about the cold. They ordered lattes, sat, and launched into an intense discussion about monetizing websites.

“You should come out to Bill’s tonight,” Paul called out over their chatter and the hum of the expresso machine. “I’m playing with Louie.”

She folded the newspaper and looked out the front window. No one. Had the tail given up?

“Maybe.”

“It might be one of our last gigs there. I don’t think the place is gonna make it.”

“Sorry to hear that,” she gazed out the window.

Paul caught it. “Something going on?”

She shook her head. But his question spurred her to action. She zipped up her jacket and put on her gloves. She didn’t like loose ends. Time to confront the tail, if he was still there. Find out what he wanted. She took her coffee to the counter and set it down. “I’ll be back in a minute. Save it for me.”

Paul’s eyebrows rose.

“Don’t worry.” She flashed him a smile.

She hunched her shoulders and went outside. The sky had darkened, and a few errant snowflakes sifted down. She glanced in both directions. She easily spotted the guy, leaning against the wall of a building on the same side of the street as the coffee shop. His gaze was on the coffee shop door; he wasn’t even trying to be inconspicuous. Irritation flashed through her. She pulled her jacket close, intending to approach him and demand he tell her why he was following her. But as she turned toward him, a black SUV turned the corner and headed down Sherman.

Suddenly a burst of lightning-fast images exploded. The SUV headed toward the man who’d been tailing her. As it came abreast, it slowed. The man who’d been tailing her froze. A look of horror tore across his face. The passenger window rolled down. Georgia knew what was going to happen.

“Drop!” She yelled. “Get down and roll!”

The man didn’t move. He was still staring at the SUV, his features a frozen grimace of fear. Georgia waved her hands and tried to simulate a crouching down motion. But he couldn’t see her. The barrel of a rifle emerged from the passenger window of the SUV. She couldn’t make out the model, but when her tail saw it, his mouth dropped open, and he reeled back.

Not fast enough.

A series of loud cracks split the air. The man who’d been tailing her folded up like an accordion. The SUV driver gunned his engine, fishtailed, then shot down Sherman Avenue.

WHY THIS BOOK?

In late November, 2000, the Cuban boy Elian Gonzalez was found clinging to an inner tube off the coast of Florida, and there was a great controversy over whether or not he should be returned to Cuba or allowed to stay in the US. At the time, I was teaching high school, and I had many Haitian students in my classes. I listened to their stories of arriving in this country as boat people. I often wondered how Elian’s story would have played out differently had the child been Haitian. Then, one day I saw an image in my mind of my character Seychelle alone in her boat on a flat calm sea. I watched as she raised the binoculars to her eyes, and I felt her surprise when she realized she was looking at a little girl. My novel, Cross Current, is the result of what happened when this writer started wondering, “What if…”

Here’s what reviewers say:

“A taut, fast-paced thriller…Kling’s prose is strong and authoritative.”

The Miami Herald

“Exciting…Kling is an author who bears watching. She clearly knows how to add texture and color to her narrative…Cross Current is a keeper.”

The Tampa Tribune

“To her knowledge of the seas and the Keys, she brings a storyteller’s skills and the result is a novel awash with entertainment.”

San Diego Union Tribune

“Kling adds swift plotting, convincing nautical detail, voodoo lore, and tropical scenery, all of which adds up to a satisfying if unsurprising series that is Florida’s answer to Grafton and Barr.”

Booklist, David Wright

“Kling writes with crisp assurance, especially about life in coastal South Florida, and her supporting cast, if crowded, is colorful.”

Publishers Weekly

“Seychelle Sullivan fights off a very real array of land-based predators with a grit and determination that John D. Himself would have cheered.”

Les Standiford

CROSS CURRENT

CHRISTINE KLING

Tell-Tale Press

2012

Cross Current was originally published in hardcover in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., in 2004. The mass market paperback edition was published by Ballantine in 2005, and Random House produced the first ebook in 2007. This digital edition was published by Tell-Tale Press in April, 2012.

This file is licensed for private individual entertainment only. The book contained herein constitutes a copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, stored in or introduced into an information retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means for any reason (excepting the uses permitted to the licensee by copyright law under terms of fair use) without the specific written consent of the author. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions. Your support of authors’ rights is appreciated.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2004, 2012 by Christine Kling

All Rights Reserved

Cover design by Robin Ludwig Design, Inc.

Visit Christine Kling at http://www.christinekling.com

To the memory
of Red Koch,
captain of Hero

“Se bon ki ra.”

Good is rare.

—HAITIAN PROVERB

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank the following people:

Mark Tavani, Tracy Brown, Judith Weber, the Community Policing Division, Fort Lauderdale Police Department, Bon Mambo Racine Sans Bout Sa Te La Daginen, Fred Rea, Ed Magno, Michael Black, Barbara Lichter, Kathleen Ginestra, Ross Prim, captain of Island Girl, Marcia Spillers, Caren Neile, Neil Plakcy, Ginny Wells, Sean Holland, my readers, family, friends, and most important of all, my son, Tim Kling.

CHAPTER ONE

Looking down at the old wooden Bahamian cruiser Miss Agnes, resting on her side on the white sand bottom, it was hard to imagine that people had died here. Every detail, from the peeling, eggshell-colored paint to the frayed wire at the base of the radio antenna, was so sharp, it was as if I were peering through a camera lens in crisp focus. It didn’t look as if it were underwater. The cruiser and the water above were so still and clear that as I leaned over the bow of my boat, I felt like I was floating in air.

“I just can’t picture a vessel that size carrying over fifty panicked people.” I turned and saw B.J. standing outside the tugboat’s wheelhouse door, dripping seawater, his wet suit unzipped to the waist, his long black hair slicked straight back. He joined me at the rail and stared down into the crystal water. “You know, Seychelle, it was like three generations— old people, young, even kids—all jammed in there like cocktail wienies in the can. Hell of a way to go.”

“Cocktail wienies, B.J.?” I turned around and squinted at him, my elbows propped on the aluminum bulwark behind me. We both had to shout to be heard over the rumble of the generator on the barge. “I didn’t think a guy like you even knew such things existed.”

B.J. was my sometime deckhand and mechanic, a sort of New Age natural foods surfer; the only one I’d ever known who didn’t make all that seem kind of fake and wacky. He certainly was not your typical blond surfer dude, since he had at least two college degrees compared to my zero—and an ancestry that was mostly Samoan but included a dash of every other ethnic group that had passed through the Pacific in the last hundred years. Though he’d never been to his islands, you could see in his smooth brown skin and almond-shaped eyes that he carried part of his homeland in him. “Natural” was not a fad to B.J., it was how he lived his life.

“You’re right, I’d never eat such a thing, but I do like to observe the habits of the people around me. Take those guys, for example.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the men working the crane on the barge to which Gorda, my forty-foot tugboat, was moored. We were anchored a couple of thousand yards off the Hillsboro Inlet lighthouse. “Between them, they have three completely different ideas as to where I should put the straps under the hull so that when we lift this wreck to the surface, we won’t break the back of the old derelict. Not a one of them is willing to compromise.”

I looked at the characters he was referring to, and I suspected that not a one of them was hangover-free or had used a razor within the last three days. They looked like a labor pool collected from the Downtowner Saloon at closing. “I gather we’re going to be here awhile?”

B.J. nodded, then moved into the shade, sitting on the deck box at the front of the wheelhouse. He began to scratch Abaco’s ears. She was the black Lab I’d inherited along with Gorda and the Sullivan Towing and Salvage Company when my father, Red Sullivan, died not quite three years ago.

“I got tired of swimming around while they try to make up their minds,” B.J. said, “so I came out here to bug you.” He peeled the wet suit off his broad, brown shoulders. “It’s too early to be this hot.”

I turned away from the view of his chest. Today I had to concentrate on business. After working with B.J. for years, and swearing to myself I would never allow the relationship to change into something different, something romantic, it had changed. The how and why were a long story, but shortly after finding his toothbrush and coconut soap in my bathroom, I’d asked for a hiatus. I wasn’t sure yet I was willing to give up my precious solitude.

The business at hand was a much-needed insurance job. Working for the corporate world beat working for the little guy—you gave them the bill and they paid it. They didn’t cry and complain and try to wheedle you out of every nickel. Gorda and I were here to take the Bahamian cruiser under tow once these guys from Gilman Marine brought her to the surface and got her pumped out. Gilman’s tugs were all huge monsters designed for moving ships, so while they had the barge crane to get the Miss Agnes off the bottom, they had subbed this towing job out to me. My father had designed Gorda and had her built specifically for the small boat and yacht trade back in the early seventies.

I had deck loaded two big thirty-gallon-per-minute gasoline pumps, and as long as she wasn’t holed, we should be able to keep Miss Agnes pumped out and get her down the coast, into Port Everglades, and up to a boatyard. Old planked wooden boats like her would usually leak through their caulked seams, but my pumps should be able to stay ahead of the flow.

I leaned out over the water again to examine the wreck resting on the bottom. The sand beneath her looked as though it had been raked into neat furrows, the product of the swift current that flowed through the inlet. The illusion of flying was harder to maintain now as I spotted a school of smallmouth grunts darting in and out of the open pilothouse windows and a foot-long barracuda hanging motionless over the wreck. “Are you sure they said fifty people, B.J.?”

“Yeah.”

Neither of us said anything for a while. That was one thing about B.J.—he never felt the need to fill the silences with unnecessary talk. When he spoke, finally, his voice was quiet, and I had to lean in closer to hear him. “See the jetty back there, off the north side of the inlet?”

I looked to where he pointed. The Hillsboro Inlet lighthouse stood back from the broad beach tucked in among the scraggly pines and low sea grape trees. The nearly one-hundred-year-old skeletal frame had been painted recently, white on the bottom half, black up top. A small rock jetty jutted out into the Atlantic along the sandy point at the base of the lighthouse.

“Seems the Coast Guard patrol boat was sitting back in there,” he said, pointing to the small cove formed by the point. “It was a moonless night. The smugglers prefer that, but the bad news for them was it meant they didn’t see the patrol boat until they were almost into the inlet. When the Coasties turned their spotlight on, the Haitians panicked— tried to push their way to the far side of the boat. The weather was real quiet that night, and the crew had left all their windows and hatches open. She just rolled over and went glug.”

“I heard six people drowned,” I said. I also had read in the Miami Herald that two of them were children, little girls, ages ten and twelve, but I didn’t say it out loud. I knew that B.J. knew, just as he knew that I knew most of the details of the events that had taken place here the night before last. It was our habit, though, to talk about these salvage cases, to rehash the details when we were working. All too often when salvaging wrecked boats there were also ruined lives, and B.J. and I usually did what we could to get around that, joking and laughing and avoiding the image of how it had happened. Those images would eventually catch up with me, often in that twilight moment that comes between wakefulness and sleep, when my imagination would sneak in the vision of those girls struggling in the water, surprised at the sudden cold, screaming for their parents, gasping what they thought was air but sucking in the sea in its stead.

“Fifty people is really only an estimate,” he said. “These days, Haitians will do or pay anything to get to the States, and the way the smugglers pack the boats, it could have been more.”

“I hope they catch the bastards and charge them with murder.”

B.J. was staring at the little strip of sand inside the jetty.

“Some of them made it to the beach and managed to lose themselves into the city. Probably got into waiting cars. Immigration picked up twenty-seven. They’re either in Krome Detention Center or already back in Port-au-Prince.”

“The Land of the Free,” I said, “but only if you come from the right island.”

“Gorda, Gorda, this is Outta the Blue, over.” The transmission from the tug’s VHF radio was barely audible above the rumbling of the generator on the barge.

“Damn.” I slapped the palm of my hand against the top of the warm aluminum bulwark. “Not again.” When I turned around, B.J. was laughing. “Stop it, you,” I said. “It’s not funny.”

“Bet you he did it again.”

“No way I’m taking that bet.”

I swung around the door into the wheelhouse and grabbed the VHF radio mike hanging above the helm. “Outta the Blue, this is Gorda. You want to switch to channel six eight?”

“Roger that.”

I punched the numbers on the keypad. “Hey, Mike, this is Gorda. What’s up?”

“Hey, Seychelle, isn’t this a scorcher of a day for June? Not a breath of wind out here.”

“Yeah, yeah, Mike. I know you didn’t call to discuss the weather. What’s wrong?”

“Well, I’ve been out here fishing all night with my buddy Joe D’Angelo. Him and me, we go way back. Used to work together. We had some good times back in the eighties, boy.” I made a circling motion with my hand to B.J. when he shot me a questioning look through the wheelhouse window. Mike rambled on.

A former Fort Lauderdale police officer, Mike Beesting had walked in on a disgruntled city maintenance worker who had brought a shotgun to argue an issue with his boss. The end result was that Mike saved several lives but lost his lower right leg to a short-range shotgun blast. Rather than work a desk, he retired from the department and, thanks to a nice settlement from the city, he now lived on his Irwin-54 sailboat at a dock on the Middle River and ran sunset cocktail cruises and chartered day sails.

“Cut to the chase, Mike.”

“Well, we had one light on as we were drift fishing last night, but when we started catching fish, I turned on the spreader lights and kinda forgot and left them on. Joe was nervous about us drifting around out there, so he insisted on watching the radar all night, and then we were playing my whole collection of Buffett tunes ...”

“So you can’t start your engine. Your batteries are dead. Again.”

‘I’ll pay you, Seychelle, you know that. We’re only about six or eight miles out off Pompano. I think.”

“Mike, the last two times this happened I told you to get somebody down to the boat and rewire it so you could keep your engine-starting battery in reserve.”

“And I’m gonna do it, Sey. Next week. I promise.”

Mike was the kind of boat owner—and I’d known lots like him—who would much rather spend his money on stuff he could see, cool new toys like an electronic chart plotter or an ice maker, than something necessary but near invisible, like a replacement for a cracked chain plate or a starter battery. He had his boat so loaded down with gadgets it was more like a floating condo than a sailboat.

B.J. appeared at my side in the wheelhouse doorway. At six foot, he was only a couple of inches taller than me, and for a moment I flashed on how pleasant it would be to slide my hands around his waist and pull his body to mine. Being tall, big-boned, and having the shoulders of a swimmer, I still often felt like the gawky kid I once was, the one who had already grown to five feet eight by the fifth grade, the one other kids called the Jolly Green Giant. But with B.J., since the first time we’d made love, there had always been this sense that we just fit together so comfortably, as though my body belonged in his arms. Maybe that’s what scares me, I thought as I pretended to be interested in the goings-on aboard the barge and stepped to the far wheelhouse window.

B.J. said, “I know you. Somebody’s in trouble, and you’re itching to go out and save him. Even if it is just Mike. Look, it’s going to be at least three hours before these guys get this cruiser up, and then they’ve still got to pump her out. You’ve got the time.”

“I know, and like always, I need the money, but…” The fellows on the barge were still clustered in the shade of the crane, arguing. I wanted to do the right thing here. Working with Gilman Marine meant more referral business in the future. I couldn’t afford to screw it up.

Mike’s voice erupted from the radio. “Sey, Joe says he really has to get back. Says he’ll double your regular rate.”

I turned and grinned at B.J. as I punched the button on the side of the mike. “Just give me your GPS coordinates, and I’ll be on my way.”

B.J. untied my bowline and handed me the neatly coiled line. Once I was at the helm in the wheelhouse, he pushed the tug’s bow away from the barge. Watching my stern to make sure it didn’t bump anything, I put her into gear and slid over the top of the sunken cruiser, where she rested in about fourteen feet of water. I still had a good seven feet of clearance above her cabin. Walking to the end of the barge, B.J. followed our progress as far as he could, and at the corner he stopped and waved. Abaco ran to the stern and danced around, barking at his receding figure, as though to tell me I was making a mistake, forgetting someone. Watching B.J. stand there, his hand raised to shield his eyes, bare-chested and flashing me the whitest of smiles, had my stomach doing its own gymnastics routine.

Once clear of the last channel marker, I put the tug on an east-southeast heading, about 120 degrees, running at six knots. I engaged the autopilot, switched on the radar, found a baseball cap in the wheelhouse, and threaded my shoulder-length hair through the gap in the back. For the last few years, after my father had died from one more melanoma, I had been taking sun protection quite a bit more seriously. I hoped it wasn’t too little too late. Red had had the typical redhead’s complexion, and though I took more after my mom, with easily tanned skin and sun-streaked brown hair, I had enough freckles on my nose and arms to keep me slathering myself with SPF 30 every morning before going to work.

Out on deck, I began to clear away the mooring lines and to prepare a towline for Outta the Blue. Periodically I looked up from my work and gave a 360-degree horizon check to see if there was any boat traffic around me. It was a very quiet Wednesday morning—only one freighter visible farther out in the Gulf Stream, and a little drift fishing boat close into shore. Mike had been right about the stillness out here. There was no way a sailboat could sail herself home right now. It felt good to be moving; the breeze from the boat’s forward motion made my neck tingle as the sweat began to dry. I pulled my damp T-shirt away from my skin. The way the smooth, silvery water reflected the high clouds, it looked like Gorda was motoring through liquid mercury. Tiny particles of dust rested dry on the surface of the sea. Abaco found a spot in the shade of the wheelhouse and stretched out to sleep, her belly flat on the still-cool aluminum deck.

I wondered if the day would ever come when I would be able to put it all behind me, go back to being B.J.’s buddy, forget about the nights we had spent together. In the first years we had known each other, from the time I met him when I used to work as a lifeguard on Fort Lauderdale Beach, to the days he’d starting working for me on Gorda, I had watched him go through a string of beautiful girlfriends, none of whom lasted more than six months. Even though they’d always parted on good terms and remained friends with him, I swore to myself I would never allow my attraction to him to put me in the camp of B.J.’s ex-girlfriends. And here I was, after only four months.

This time, though, I had been the one to put on the brakes. I was the one who said time out. If I were honest with myself, I’d have to admit that it wasn’t only that we were practically living together. What really scared me was the way B.J. had started looking at and talking about families. B.J., the Serial Dater, talking about kids? Even though the end of my twenties loomed only a few months away, and most women my age were thinking about finding a man, settling down, buying a nice little 3-2 out in the western suburbs close to a day care, I just couldn’t picture myself there. The very thought of kids scared the hell out of me. I like sleeping alone, leaving the bathroom door open, getting up at 5:30 and going down for a sunrise run on the beach, or driving over to Lester’s Diner for a piece of pie a la mode at 4:00 in the morning when I can’t get back to sleep. And not being responsible for anyone but me.

About half a mile to the south, a big sportfisherman was heading my way. The thing was throwing up a huge wake, burning about a bazillion gallons an hour, and with no one on the fly bridge, they probably couldn’t even see me from the inside steering station. I slowed down and altered course so he would pass in front of my tug.

Astern, the beach was no longer visible, only the tops of the buildings. I guessed I was seven miles offshore and almost far enough south. According to the GPS, I was little more than a couple of miles away from Outta the Blue. I took the binoculars out of their bulkhead mount case and scanned the hazy horizon for the sailboat’s mast. Other than a flock of circling gulls, I didn’t see a thing. Now that the sun was climbing higher overhead, it would be more difficult to spot the sailboat, and the day’s heat was making the horizon dissolve into undulating heat waves.

The sportfisherman’s wake hit us, and though the tug was nearly as big as their boat, the wake made Gorda rock and buck. Before cranking the engine back up to cruising RPM, I went out to the foredeck with the binoculars to try one last time to spot Mike’s sailboat. Starting left, I scanned the horizon, slowly panning across the water.

Wait a minute. I’d seen something flit past in the viewfinder. Under those birds. I swung the binoculars back to try to focus on it, but I wasn’t entirely sure I’d seen anything at all. Had I imagined it? Where was it? I scanned back, found the seabirds circling tightly over a small area—white birds flying low, then swooping down at something on the surface.

Perhaps it was just a school of fish feeding, and the gulls were picking off the skittish baitfish that leaped clear of the water only to discover another predator above.

No. There. I saw something in the water. Some kind of floating debris, perhaps something washed off the deck of a cargo ship in a long-passed storm out at sea, maybe a black trash bag, maybe something more. Here in the Gulf Stream we often saw logs, jerry jugs, even plastic-wrapped bales of marijuana that had been carried up from the Caribbean, the Gulf, or as far away as the coast of South America. Once, out in the Northwest Providence channel between the Bahamian Islands of Great Abaco and the Berry Islands, I had seen a ship’s container, like the kind they load onto the backs of tractor trailers. It was barely awash, just waiting for some unsuspecting boat to come crashing into it at eight knots.

I tried to refocus the binoculars. I could make out something that looked like a black spot, and the water around it appeared ruffled. Perhaps it was nothing more than a black garbage bag tossed from the deck of some jerk’s boat—there were certainly enough jerks out on ships and boats who didn’t give a damn about trashing up the ocean. Of course, sometimes there were other things floating out here wrapped in trash bags. The locals called them square groupers. If it was a bale, I’d drive on by—wouldn’t want to touch it or get involved in any way. My dad had instilled in me from a very young age that drugs were a no-no because the authorities could impound your boat. But if it was a small boat just awash, it could be worth something. That black thing could be a mooring ball.

“Gorda, Gorda, this is Outta the Blue, over.”

Mike and his buddy were getting impatient. I really needed to boost the RPMs and get moving. I was wasting time here. The Gilman crew back at Hillsboro Inlet would sure be mad if they got that boat up and I wasn’t there to take her under tow.

I set the glasses down on the deck box and wiped my hands on my shorts. Damn, it was hot. Stepping around the big aluminum towing bitt on the bow, I steadied my right hip against the bulwark and gave it one last try, attempting to hold the glasses still just long enough to make out what those birds were so damned interested in.

Then it moved. The black spot lifted up out of the water and appeared to float there for several seconds. I blinked, not at all sure what I was seeing. Then the shape of it changed, it was turning and, through the binoculars, I began to make out features. My sweaty fingers adjusted the focus with the knob above my nose, and I sucked in air so hard the binoculars bounced. I was looking straight into the dark face of a child.

CHAPTER TWO

I lowered the binoculars and spoke aloud—”What the …” —and squinted at the object, trying to verify what I had seen, as though perhaps the glasses had been playing tricks on me. I sighted the speck on the horizon easily now with bare eyes, thanks to the circling birds. Several seconds ticked by as my mind flipped through possibilities: a sinking, a fall overboard, a rental dinghy blown out to sea. Another look through the glasses and now it was difficult to see the child in the round, dark object. The head was down, face almost in the water, no longer moving.

I dashed back into the wheelhouse and took a bearing. After pushing the throttle up to max RPM and adjusting the helm to aim just to the right of her, I reached for the mike, then paused, my arm hanging in midair.

I knew the rules: You sight a vessel or a person in distress at sea, you call the Coast Guard. But the rules about what would happen next were really lousy. I knew for sure that if it was a six-year-old Cuban boy, he might end up a celebrity. They’d take him to Disney World, give him a puppy. My guess was this one would get, at best, a trip to the airport. I decided to wait a bit. The required call to the Coast Guard could be made after I knew for certain what this was all about.

I circled around and began slowing the tug several hundred yards out, preparing to pull alongside. I could see now that it was a wooden boat, about fourteen feet long, probably an island fishing boat, but full of water, the gunwales just awash, rising only a few inches above the calm sea. Even full of water, wooden boats will float. The water inside the hull looked dirty and filled with debris. A large pile of bright-colored clothing was mounded up in the stern, and sloshing around in the water were rusty cans, bits of paper, and white plastic water jugs, now empty. Where the hell had they come from? This was not a boat meant to cross oceans—no sail, no outboard, not even oars that I could see. I didn’t think it was possible they had come up from down island in this boat. But if not from there, then where?

The child was sitting at the bow of the swamped boat, arms wrapped around a wood post. When I came closer, I saw that her hair was plaited in several short black braids. I realized that it was a little girl, maybe eight or nine years old.

She’d heard the sound of my engine and looked up once, lifted her hand a few inches and waved, then lowered her head again to rest against the post. She was wearing a white dress—or what had once been a white dress. From her chest down, where the fabric had been immersed in water for God only knew how long and the fabric floated off her legs in the garbage-filled water, the dress was stained a dirty rust-brown.

When I was about fifty feet off the boat and had put Gorda’s engine into reverse to bring her to a complete stop, I saw that it wasn’t just a lumpy pile of bright-colored clothing floating amid the debris inside the boat.

“Oh, shit,” I said aloud. It was a dress and the fabric was stretched tight. I could now see the other side of that mound, and I could make out the head. The bloated body of a woman was floating facedown next to the child.

I’ve never been seasick in my life, but for just a few seconds I thought I was going to lose it. The birds had been at work on her already, and the bloodless flesh on the side of her head was peeled back, the pink bone showing.

“Hello,” I tried, but my voice sounded strangled. I didn’t want to scare the girl any worse. “Hello. Hey, kid, are you okay?” Whatever island she came from, she probably didn’t speak any English, but I had to say something, to try to get her to raise her head again, to pay attention.

Gorda was now dead in the water, and the child was about twenty feet off the port side, her head still down. She had shifted her position a bit so that her large brown eyes were staring up at me. I expected to see some measure of excitement in her face, a realization that rescue was at hand, her ordeal over, but she simply stared, her eyelids starting to droop, as though she hadn’t even enough strength left for hope.

At the sound of my voice, Abaco got to her feet and padded over. She jumped up and saw the girl over the top of the bulwark and began to bark. The girl’s eyes snapped open, fear causing her to use what little energy she had. I grabbed the dog’s collar, dragged her into the wheelhouse and down to the head.

“Sorry, girl,” I said as I closed the door and locked it. “Let me get her aboard first. Then you can meet her.”

Gorda was up current, to the south of the swamped boat. The relentless Gulf Stream would eventually close the gap between us, but I might need the girl to help me, to take a line. If necessary, I’d go in the water myself, but that would be a last resort.

“Hey, what’s your name?”

She lifted her head and opened her mouth, but no sound came out—at least nothing that I could hear over the sound of Gorda’s idling engine. She was clearly in bad shape, and the exposure to heat and salt and no fresh water had robbed her of her voice.

From Gorda’s foredeck I picked up the fifty-foot length of nylon line I had been preparing to toss to Outta the Blue and tied a quick bowline in the end, then pulled a loop of line through, fashioning a lasso of sorts. I’m no cowboy, though, so I used the boat hook, and as the gap between the boats had closed to about ten feet, it was easy to reach over with the looped line hanging off the end of the pole.

“Sit up, will you? Get away from that wood post.”

She didn’t move.

“Hey, kid.” I motioned with my free hand. “Move. Move over. Sit up. I want to tie your boat to mine.”

Finally, she seemed to understand what I wanted her to do, but she looked from me to the body in the back of the boat and then back at me. Her expression did not change, but she scooted closer to that misshapen thing.

The line dropped neatly over the four-by-four post, and I pulled it tight. Keeping the tension on the line, I rigged my aluminum ladder over the gunwale, down into the water, then began to pull the water-logged fishing boat over to Gorda. It was not easy, not like pulling a boat sitting on top of the water that glides smoothly across the surface. This one had to push aside the displaced water, but slowly I brought in the line. The submerged hull came alongside and thumped against Gorda’s aluminum hull.

After tying off the line, I lay on my belly across the gunwale and reached out to the child. “Here, take my hand.”

She didn’t need to understand my words; my outstretched hand had a universal meaning. She stretched her arm out slowly, and I realized for the first time just how thin she was. I saw the bones of her wrist and elbow protruding beneath the dark skin. There was no return grip in that small hand, but I pulled her up and toward the boat. She reached out with her other hand and attempted to grasp the side of the aluminum ladder, but she didn’t have enough strength in her fingers.

It wasn’t a pretty rescue. When it became clear that her legs could not support her and the ladder was useless, I dragged her light frame out of the water and across the ladder. She landed on the deck like a boated fish, dripping and breathing hard, wide-eyed and twitching.

I grabbed a towel off the bunk in the back of the wheel-house and approached her slowly. “It’s okay. I won’t hurt you. Let’s get this towel around you.”

“Gorda, Gorda, this is Outta the Blue, over.” The radio sounded much louder with the engine down to an idle. The girl’s deep-sunk eyes barely registered my presence, and she didn’t resist when I wrapped the towel around her shoulders. “It’s okay. I’ll be right back.”

In the wheelhouse, I grabbed the mike and we switched to a working channel. I stood in the doorway where I could keep an eye on the girl.

“Listen, Mike, I’ve got a little problem.”

“Hey, Seychelle, we wondered what was going on. We been watching you through the binoculars, and it looks like you’re stopped dead. You got engine trouble?”

“No, it’s not that.” For some reason that wasn’t fully formed in my mind, I was not yet ready to announce over the airwaves to all the bored fishermen and yachtsmen who were eavesdropping on our conversation exactly what was now tied alongside Gorda. “I’ve found something here. It’s a partially sunk boat and a hazard to navigation. I think I’d better tow it in first.”

“Break, break. Gorda, Gorda, this is Little Bitt.”

I blew a lung full of air out through rounded lips and tapped the radio microphone against my forehead. Damn. I keyed the mike and said, “Hey, Perry, should’ve known you wouldn’t have anything better to do than sit around drinking and listening in on my frequency.”

Perry Greene was the owner of Little Bitt, a twenty-eight-foot open tow boat that looked like a floating junkyard, piled high with gas cans, rusting engine parts, and greasy fenders, but she had an engine that ran like a watch. I had to grant that Perry was a hell of a mechanic, but I just wished he’d keep his chewing-tobacco-stained teeth and greasy fingernails as far from me as possible. Since the big corporate giants like SEATOW had come into town in the last couple of years and begun eating up the pleasure-boat-towing market, Perry and I were just about the only two independent operators left in the towing business in Fort Lauderdale, and he had taken to visiting me, perched on Gorda’s bulwarks, Bud in hand. To make matters worse, he always wore these cut-off jeans that were cut way too short, and he apparently did not own any underwear. I had seen way more of Perry Greene than I ever wanted to.

“Matter of fact, Seychelle, I just dropped a boat off at Lighthouse Point Marina, and I was on my way out to see how you was doing with that sunk Haitian boat, and it turns out you ain’t even there.”

Much as I hated to ask, I didn’t see that I had any other choice. “Perry, I was on my way out to tow in Outta the Blue, but something’s come up. Could you go pick Mike up for me? He’s on this same frequency,” I said, as if Perry didn’t know. “Mike, you there?” I called.

“I’m here.” I could hear in his voice how he felt about this. Mike had about as much fondness for Perry as I did, and in just those two words I could tell that he was furious at my handing him off like this.

“Okay, you guys work out the details, and this is Gorda clear and going back to one six.”

I felt bad about it, but I had a problem that was going to take most of the rest of my afternoon. I’d be lucky to make it back to Hillsboro Inlet in time. After I set my radio back to the emergency frequency, my hand paused as I was about to hang the mike on the side of the receiver. By law, I was required to call the Coast Guard right about now. I looked at the skinny kid collapsed on my deck. I watched her chest rising and falling under the white cotton as she took short, shallow breaths. Reading the papers about boatloads of immigrants getting sent back home via Coast Guard cutter had always irked me, but never enough to do anything about it. But this was different. This was personal. I’d found her, and somehow that made her my responsibility.

I grabbed a bottle of water out of the ice chest on the wheelhouse floor.

She appeared to be closer to ten years old when I examined her up close. I offered her the sport bottle. She looked at the top but didn’t move to accept it. I leaned my head back and squirted the water into my mouth, showing her how, and the first little light appeared in her eyes. She took the bottle and drank eagerly, the water dribbling out the sides of her mouth as she gulped at the stream. Her arms gave out after about five seconds of holding the bottle aloft. The plastic bottle bounced to the deck, and I grabbed it and righted it before too much spilled.

“That’s okay,” I said. It didn’t matter if she couldn’t understand what I was saying. I was talking mostly just to soothe her. “You’re not supposed to drink too much anyway. You have to go slow. We’ll see if you keep it down.”

During my seven years as a Fort Lauderdale lifeguard, I had treated many drowning victims, but never an exposure victim as severe as this child. I had been trained as an EMT, and I knew the victim needed to rehydrate slowly. The girl’s large brown eyes were sunk deep in their sockets, and the skin on her forearms was a dark reddish mahogany. Her upper arms showed a distinct tan line, with the skin peeking out from under her sleeves a much lighter shade of brown. She probably had second-degree burns over a good twenty percent of her body and was suffering from heat exhaustion. I couldn’t see any blistering. Her legs were shriveled and bleached-looking from the long-term immersion in salt water, and that might have contributed to keeping her overall body temperature down.

I tried to remember some phrases from my two years of high school French. “Comment tu t’appelles? You know, your name? Ton nom. What’s your name?”

She pointed to the water bottle, and I squeezed another squirt into her mouth. After she swallowed, she licked her lips and whispered something. I couldn’t understand her at first.

“What was that?”

“Solange.” Her voice was a little stronger and, from the name and the pronunciation, I’d clearly guessed right in trying French first.

“Solange?” I asked with my voice if I had pronounced it correctly, and she nodded, again that faint smile flickering in her eyes.

I patted my own chest. “Seychelle. Je m’appelle Seychelle.”

Her lips moved, shaping the word, but no sound came out.

At that point I’d about exhausted what little I could remember from two years with Mademoiselle Goldberg. I pointed at her. “You, Solange, Haiti?”

She nodded and said, “Haiti,” her voice louder now and pronouncing the name Hi-yee-tee, as though correcting me.

The next question was awkward, but I had to know. I had been about her age when I saw my mother’s body on the beach after she had drowned, and I had only recently started to come to terms with that event in my life. And I hadn’t had to spend days in a boat with the body. But I had to know. I pointed to the woman in the boat. “Ta maman? “

She shook her head and reached for the water bottle. I let her drink a little more but stopped her after a couple of mouthfuls.

The dress she wore had been hand-hemmed with tiny little stitches, and the lace around the collar had been added by hand as well. But either she had lost weight during her time at sea, or the dress had been made for a much larger child. I wondered if it had been her First Communion dress. The thin fabric fell in folds off her shoulders and the skirt nearly ripped as I began to wring out the dirty water. The waistline of the dress could have enclosed two little bodies her size.

She licked her lips, swallowed and pointed toward the swamped boat. “Name Erzulie.” She closed her eyes after she spoke, as though the effort had depleted the last of her energy.

“The woman? That’s her name? Er-zoo-ly?” I tried to pronounce the name as she had with that musical rhythm.

She nodded. “Yes.”

I reached for her arm. “Oh my God. You speak English?”

She nodded, every movement an effort. “Papa Americain.”

A white American, I guessed. That explained the light skin.

Her thin arm reached toward me, and I thought she wanted another drink, but she wrapped her small hand around my fingers. “You help me.” The effort of saying those three words completely did her in; her eyelids drooped again, her mouth opened, her breathing came fast and shallow.

I entwined my big fingers with her tiny brown ones and squeezed softly. “Yes,” I said, my throat constricting so this time I could barely croak out the words. “I’ll help you.”

I saw a small twitch at the corner of her mouth. It was almost a smile.

CHAPTER THREE

Holding her arm, I helped Solange to her feet, but her little legs collapsed beneath her. I scooped her up and carried her toward the pilothouse. She was tiny, couldn’t have weighed more than fifty pounds. I could feel her eyes watching my face, and then she rested her head against my shoulder. Her salty braids brushed against my neck, and I touched the top of her head with my chin, cradling her tight to my chest as we passed through the door. I felt as though a fist had grabbed hold of all the organs in my chest and was holding them tight. I didn’t want to let her go.

When I got to the bunk that ran along the rear of the small compartment, I set her down and straightened her dress around her scrawny knees.

“Stay here,” I said, motioning with my hand because I wasn’t certain how much she understood. She curled up on her side and closed her eyes. I covered her with an old beach towel.

Out on deck, I fired up one of the gas pumps and drained most of the water out of the fishing dory. The hose kept picking up floating debris and clogging the filter, but I soon got out enough water that I could climb down into the boat to tie a good towline on her.

I hadn’t been able to smell anything when I’d been up on Gorda’s deck, but once I was down in the boat, with the water now pumped out, the stench from the corpse struck me. It was a thick, cloying smell, almost palpable. I felt it would permeate my hair and clothes the way cigarette smoke does. The woman’s skin was discolored, turned an ashy green, and though I tried not to look at her, I found myself drawn back again and again for a quick glance at the form that had once been a woman. She wore a bright tropical-print dress with parrots and palm fronds. In other circumstances, it might have looked cheerful. I imagined this woman must have thought so when she chose it, and I envisioned her in an outdoor market in Port-au-Prince, carefully selecting the dress she would wear to America, not knowing it would be the dress she would die in.

Nothing from my lifeguard training told me how long it takes a body to swell. Had she drowned? I couldn’t tell without a closer examination, nor could I tell whether the skin on the side of her head had been broken by some blow or simply ravaged by the gulls that had been feeding on her. And I wasn’t about to roll her over. I would deliver her to the authorities as I had found her.

I tied two long nylon lines to the bow bitt and climbed back aboard Gorda. After securing the towlines at the stem, I put the tug in gear and got us on a heading for Port Everglades. In the logbook, I made my entry, noting the time and date and the exact GPS location where I had picked them up—Latitude 26° 11.67 Long 79° 58.12.

Abaco had been cooped up in the head a long time and I could hear her whining. I eased her out and introduced her to the girl. She put her paws up on the bunk, her tongue hanging out the side of her mouth, breathing dog breath all over the kid. The child’s eyes popped open and she reared back against the bulkhead. But when Abaco licked her hand, Solange’s mouth spread in a tentative toothy smile, and I knew they would be friends. I opened a bottle of Gatorade this time, gave her a little, and left them to get better acquainted.

Out on deck, I made a quick check around the horizon for boat traffic, cleaned up, coiled the lines, and checked on my tow. The fishing boat was riding well, given that the Gulf Stream was like a lake. I was glad I wasn’t towing in a following sea. The weight of the body in the back of that fishing boat was making it ride very low in the stern. I checked our progress toward the red-striped stacks of the power plant that marked the entrance to Port Everglades. We’d be in all too soon, and I knew I’d better get a hold of Jeannie so she could meet us at the dock.

I called Outta the Blue on the VHF and asked Mike to call Jeannie on his cell phone and tell her to meet us at the Lauderdale Marina fuel dock in front of the 15th Street Fisheries Restaurant. I knew I’d have to get myself a cell phone one of these days, but I was postponing the inevitable as long as possible. “Tell her it’s an emergency,” I said.

“You okay?” he asked over the party-line airwaves.

“Yeah, sure.” I tried to make my voice sound light and unconcerned. “You know Jeannie—it’s hard to get her moving unless you tell her it’s an emergency.” I laughed and held the mike open long enough for him to hear. When I turned from the radio to check on my passenger, she and the dog were curled up together in the bunk, both fast asleep.

Jeannie Black was my lawyer and best friend. Though she worked out of her home, and her six-foot height and nearly three-hundred-pound figure didn’t fit the image of the high-powered corporate lawyer, I would match Jeannie’s brains and heart against anyone’s. Legal entanglements were a given in the world of no-cure, no-pay marine towing and salvage. The client promises you anything to get his boat off the rocks, but once he’s safely hauled at the yard, he often has second thoughts about the agreed-upon terms. Just recently Jeannie had helped me settle a salvage claim that paid off my boat loans and made Gorda mine, free and clear. She’d shown me how to use the rest to set up a college fund for a young girl we’d met on that job. I knew Jeannie would figure out a way to keep Solange safe.

The rocks at the end of the harbor jetty were abeam before we passed the first pleasure boat on her way out of the harbor. The twenty-foot center console open fishing boat was bristling with dozens of rods and antennae. She was piloted by high school boys. As it was Wednesday, just past noon, they were probably skipping school. Shirtless, they looked like they were wearing white tank tops as their chests still bore the tan lines from their last time in the sun. They hooted and hollered at what they must have thought was a drunk, fat lady facedown in the skiff behind Gorda.

Once inside the harbor, I slowed the tug in the turning basin and pulled my tow alongside. With a small tarp I’d pulled out of the deck box, I covered the body enough so that when we tied up at the pier at Lauderdale Marina, the dock jocks couldn’t speculate on the contents.

The dock in front of the restaurant parallels the Intracoastal and serves as fuel dock space for most of its two-hundred-foot length. Late in the afternoon, the restaurant sends someone out with fish scraps to feed the pelicans, and hundreds of the birds flock to the dock. The nearly tame birds often hang out on the pilings, waiting for an unscheduled handout, and the antics of the greedy pelicans bring the tourists. Some days you had to elbow aside the families in matching mouse T-shirts just to tie up your dock lines. Fortunately, there were no tourists on the dock this afternoon.

No one came out to take my lines. The dock jocks recognized the boat and knew that I preferred to handle my own docking, tie off my own lines. Once the tug was close enough to the dock, I used the boat hook to drop a midships spring line over a piling cleat, then I slowly idled the engine in forward, helm hard over, until she eased in and nudged alongside the bleached-wood dock pilings. When Gorda was secure, I turned off the engine and checked on my tow. I was considering whether or not to tie a stem line on the fishing boat when I saw Jeannie hurrying through the opening between the 15th Street Fisheries Restaurant and the small bait shop. As always, she was wearing a billowing tropical-print muumuu—today’s was decorated with huge red hibiscus flowers; the voluminous straw handbag over her arm had a matching yarn flower sewn on it.

“Seychelle, we’re here!” she called, as though I could miss her. Her twin sons, Andrew and Adair, waved to me and then ran to the bait tank and leaned over to watch the fish, their identical blond heads ducking under the wood lids, rumps in the air as they pointed into the water.

I climbed up onto the dock just in time to be enveloped in a Jeannie hug.

“Are you okay? When Mike called, I was so worried! The boys stayed home from school today with the flu, so we came straight here.”

My face was pressed against a huge red blossom, and I could barely breathe. “Jeannie, let go, I’m okay.” She released me, and I took a deep breath.

“So tell me, then, what’s this emergency?”

I knew it would be hard to explain. “Do you think you can get down onto the boat?”

She eyed the three-foot drop to Gorda’s deck and gave me an exasperated look. “It won’t be a pretty sight, but I can do it.”

She was right on both counts. Once she was down on deck, I led her to the wheelhouse, and while I went in, she stopped at the door. Abaco was still curled up with the girl, but the dog lifted her head when she saw us, and her tail thumped against the aluminum bulkhead. The girl awoke with a start and tried to pull away from us, back into the shadowy corner of the wheelhouse bunk.

“It’s okay. Shhh. It’s okay,” I said to the child. “This is Jeannie. She’s my friend.” The girl’s head dropped, chin to chest, as though the effort of holding her head up was just too much for her. I turned to Jeannie. “We’ve got to get her to a hospital. She needs IV fluids. She’s severely dehydrated.”

“Wait, wait, wait. Whoa. Time out.” She was making referee signals with her hands, and for a moment my mind flashed on the image of her billowing muumuu racing up and down the sidelines of a playing field. “Stop grinning at me.” She pointed at the girl. “Where did she come from?”

“I found her out there.”

“Oh,” she said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm. “You just found her.”

“Yeah. I saw what I thought was a half-sunk boat, adrift, and when I went to investigate I found her in it. I have no clue how long she’s been out there.”

“And apparently you haven’t called the Coasties or they’d be here by now.”

I shook my head.

“What is it with you, Seychelle? Don’t you ever learn? It’s not like they’re going to send you to jail for it, but why do you always have to start by pissing off the authorities?” She shook her head.

“She’s only half of the story, Jeannie. Come on.” I led her around the wheelhouse and pointed down at the fishing boat tied alongside.

“That’s what I found her in.”

“Okay, it’s a boat.”

“Look again, Jeannie.” In the stern, a foot was visible protruding from the tarp.

“Geez, Seychelle, what the...”

“That’s exactly what I said, Jeannie.”

“I take it that person’s in a lot worse shape than the girl?”

“You could say that. It’s a woman—was a woman. The girl says she’s no relation. I wanted you here before the cops came.”

“I guess I can understand that. So I’m here. Let’s make that call. Now.”

“Okay, okay.” I crossed the aft deck, then turned back to face her. “You understand this, don’t you, Jeannie? I mean the kid, she’s Haitian, and you know what they do with illegal Haitians.”

“I know. I know this is just you being you. This time, though, you’re up against the U.S. government—the INS. You probably don’t have a hope in hell of keeping that little girl here. Especially if we continue to delay calling the authorities.”

“But she says her father’s American.”

“You talked to her? She speaks English?”

“Yeah, she speaks a little English—maybe even more than a little. It’s hard to tell. She barely has the strength to say two words. I just don’t want her to get thrown into a foster family, even for a day or two, and then shipped back to Haiti.”

“Seychelle, I’m not an immigration attorney.”

“I know that. I just need you to get me some time, that’s all. Maybe I can find her father.” I climbed up onto the dock, carefully avoiding the dozens of white splotches of pelican poop.

“That’s pretty iffy. For all you know the guy won’t even want to claim her.”

I straightened, brushed off my hands, and paused for a minute, trying to find the right words to express the feeling I’d had ever since looking into those big brown eyes through the binoculars. “Jeannie, there’s something about finding a kid like that.” I thought about how frail and helpless she had felt when I’d lifted her in my arms and carried her to the bunk, and once again I felt the tightness in my chest. “I just can’t turn her over and walk away. I’ve got to try.” I headed up the dock.

Leaning against the side of the bait shop, the pay phone receiver to my ear, I began the second run-through of my story for the 911 dispatcher when I noticed the Coast Guard launch. The hard-bottom inflatable with a center console was piloted by what looked like two well-fed Iowa farm boys in blue coveralls. With their identical builds, Florida tans, and military-style haircuts, they looked like older versions of Jeannie’s twins, only one was blond, the other brunette. It was the blond who motioned for his buddy to back the boat closer to the wooden fishing boat. Though their launch was only eighteen feet long at best, the blond waved his right hand in the air, making concise hand signals to back up a little more, speed it up, slow down, stop, as if he thought he was docking a 747 in her berth at the airport.

When the blond reached down and pulled back the tarp, first he lost his Florida tan as the blood drained from his face, and then his barracks breakfast went when he heaved into the Intracoastal off the inflatable boat’s stern.

CHAPTER FOUR

Over the course of the next couple of hours, Gorda turned into a rendezvous point for nearly every law enforcement agency in South Florida. Abaco paced the decks and barked at the men and women who came aboard, but soon even she was exhausted, and she retreated to the shade of the cabin. The paramedics were the first on the land side, and I was glad to lead them to Solange. Their uniforms, equipment, and squawking radios scared her, but they had to stick an IV needle in her whether she liked it or not. Solange didn’t cry, but the fear in her eyes was naked and raw, and I wished there was something I could do to make it all seem less terrifying. I tried to imagine the world she had known in Haiti. Though I had never been there, I was pretty certain that her former life did not include men in uniforms crowding her, asking her questions, poking her, feeling her limbs.

Several Fort Lauderdale Police Department cars arrived and were followed by a Crime Scene Unit and then the coroner’s van. The FLPD Marine Patrol Unit tied their launch alongside the Coast Guard inflatable after a young woman who worked the dock complained that all the boats were eating up her fuel dock space.

Soon there were two sites being worked: the child in Gorda’s wheelhouse and the wood fishing boat with the dead woman. A turf war was under way as the Coasties and the sheriffs and the local Fort Lauderdale PD all tried to take control of the scene. Shouting men and women on the aft deck of the tug and on the fuel dock tried to move the wooden boat from where it was tied on the outside of Gorda over to the dock so they could begin to collect the evidence and deal with the body. Thus far they were more concerned with all of that than with questioning me, so I sat and held Solange’s thin hand as the medics worked on her. Each time something new and strange was thrust at her, those deep brown eyes turned to me with a yearning for reassurance.

Those eyes did something to me. They fired up some deep inner mechanism I didn’t know I possessed. I wanted more than anything to wrap my arms around her and protect her from harm. I wanted to tell her it was all going to be okay, as my dad used to tell me when things got bad for my mom. He would hold me and tell me that everything would turn out fine if we’d just give her time, only that turned out not to be true at all. I couldn’t be sure that things were going to turn out fine for Solange, either.

The Border Patrol pulled up in a big white Chevy Suburban with green lettering on the side just as the paramedics were pushing Solange on a gurney toward the back of their van. Jeannie told the officers they would have to follow the unit over to Broward General if they wanted to question Solange. I wanted to jump into the back with Solange, but I gave her hand one last squeeze and tried to smile.

A uniformed officer ordered me not to leave the scene until I had spoken to the detective in charge. Jeannie assured me she would follow the ambulance to the hospital and see that Solange got the care she needed, both medically and legally. I thanked her, waved them off, and walked back onto the dock, girding myself to face the grilling I knew was coming.

“Miss Sullivan, over here.”

There, standing next to the bait tank, was the last person I wanted to see. Somehow, though, I’d known all along it would be my luck that he would pick up this case.

“Detective Victor Collazo.” I bobbed my head in a curt hello. He hadn’t changed much in the months since I’d seen him last. Even in this heat, he was wearing black pants and a long-sleeved shirt that was supposed to hide the thick black body hair that tufted out of his collar and around his wrists. His neck was shaved close all the way around. It looked like a firebreak in the black forest. I imagined his barber had to replace his blade after each Collazo visit. In response to the heat, he’d removed his suit coat, and the sweat rings under his arms already reached nearly to his waist.

“You look well, Miss Sullivan,” he said.

Typical, I thought. Telling me, not asking. Collazo had a thing about questions. He never asked any.

He carried what looked like the exact same notebook, and I wanted to ask him if there were still notes in there from the first time we’d met, last March, when he’d suspected me of murdering my former boyfriend.

“Collazo, what do you say we dispense with any kind of pretense that we’re friends or that we like each other? I know you’re here to take my statement, and I’ve got to get back to work. I’ve got a tow waiting up in Hillsboro.”

“Very well.” He rifled through the jacket over his arm and found the gold pen in the inside breast pocket. “You found this boat offshore.”

“Yeah, I was up off that Hillsboro Inlet sinking, you know, the Haitian boat that went down night before last.” I ran through the rest of it for him, all of it, from getting Mike’s call to bringing in the tow to the dock here and calling the police. He wrote very quickly and in a remarkably neat hand. As I talked, I kept focusing on his fingers and noticing how fat they were, like plump, fuzzy caterpillars wrapped around his pen.

“You decided not to call the Coast Guard when you came upon this boat.”

“I don’t know that it was a conscious decision necessarily,” I said, knowing perfectly well that it was. “It was more like I was just too busy at the time.”

“Miss Sullivan, as a professional mariner, I’m sure you are aware of the required procedure. By not reporting the incident in a timely manner, you can jeopardize the investigation.”

“Detective Collazo, you don’t have to lecture me. So, I didn’t call it in right away. I just set about getting her to shore as fast as possible. I’m a certified EMT, so I could do just as much as the Hardy Boys over there,” I said, pointing to the Coast Guardsmen getting in the way of the police officers working the scene aft of Gorda. “I know my tug isn’t any speed demon, but I knew I could get her to port in the time it would take another boat to come out to meet us.”

He stared at me, waiting for me to continue, knowing that silence between us would make me uncomfortable. I hated when he did that. I tried to be strong, tried to stare right back at him, but every time a figure of authority looks at me like I am doing something bad, I feel guilty. It had been going on since Mrs. Laughlin’s first-grade class. I caved.

“It was the kid, Collazo. Did you see her? Skinny little thing? I was just trying to do what was best for her.”

“The child is Haitian.”

“Part, anyway. She said her dad is American, but yeah, she’s Haitian. Her name is Solange. She said the woman in the boat was named Erzulie or something like that. I didn’t get much of a chance to ask her anything else.”

“She spoke English.”

“Not much. She really didn’t say much at all. But her knowing some English jibes with her saying her father is American.”

“Miss Sullivan, you are aware that there is a great deal of difference between the way our government treats immigrants found at sea as opposed to those who make it to shore.”

“Oh yeah, the old wet-foot, dry-foot routine, only if you’re Haitian, they don’t give a damn about your foot. Collazo, I was only thinking about the kid. She needs medical attention, not a Coast Guard cutter ride back to Haiti.”

He stared at me, but this time I held firm, refusing to fill the silence.

“She told you how the woman died,” he said finally.

“No. It’s like I said, I hardly got a chance to speak to her. She was unconscious most of the trip into the harbor.”

Out in the waterway, an air horn sounded a long toot. I looked across Gorda’s bow to see Little Bitt heading toward the dock with Mike Beesting’s big sailboat, Outta the Blue, on a short towline.

Mike shouted from up on the foredeck of his boat, “Is it okay if we raft up to you, Gorda?” while with one hand, he steadied himself on the rigging. As usual, he was not wearing his artificial leg, and his scarred stump protruded from his jeans shorts. He claimed the prosthesis slowed him down as he tried to maneuver around the tight spaces on a sailboat deck.

“Sure,” I called out, and jumped down onto Gorda’s deck to take their lines.

Standing next to Mike on the foredeck of the Irwin-54 was a fellow with easily the best pair of legs I had ever seen on a man. Maybe it was just the perspective, my being on the low deck of the tug, and eyeball-to-kneecap with these muscular, suntanned legs, but it probably had as much to do with my recent decision to avoid men. He looked like a fit fifty-something, wearing a crisp white T-shirt that read “Hard Rock Cafe, Cayman Islands” across the front and was tucked into the trim waist of his khaki-colored cargo shorts. He knew enough about boats not to try to throw me the line from too far out as Perry was easing them in alongside with surprising precision. When only about four feet separated us, he tossed me the line and picked up a white fender to cushion the impact as the two boats came together.

Perry idled his boat off the bow of the sailboat and sauntered back to the stern to untie the towline. I hadn’t seen Perry in a couple of months, and he was now wearing his greasy hair in a shoulder-length mullet style, long in back, razed close on the sides. He pouched his lips out at me in an exaggerated kiss.

“Just say when, baby. You know you want me.” He cackled as he tossed the towline onto the deck of Mike’s boat.

“Yeah, like a dose, Perry. Which, given your personal hygiene, probably isn’t far from the truth.”

Once the sailboat was secure, Mike hopped back to the stem and handed me his shore power cord. That darned cord was nearly the diameter of a fire hose. “Plug that sucker in and we can fire up the AC and cool off that damn cabin down there. It’s hotter than a two-peckered goat out here.”

I took the cord from him. “Mike, you have got to learn you live on a boat. Flattening your batteries like that should be embarrassing to you.”

“Hey, look, it wasn’t me, all right? It was Joe. Man, he had to bum every light in the goddam boat all night.” Mike waved to Collazo on the dock. “Hey, Vic. What’s up, man? Want to come aboard and have a piña colada? Gonna have that blender chugging any minute. What brings you guys down here, buddy?”

Vic? Buddy? Somehow I could never picture either term applying to the Detective Collazo I knew. I plugged in Mike’s power cord before one of the dock jocks could object. When I stood up, Collazo was right there, invading my space, breathing on me as he said, “Miss Sullivan. We haven’t concluded our conversation.” He wiped his brow with an already saturated handkerchief.

“I don’t know anything more to tell you, Collazo,” I said, taking a step back. “I don’t know how she got out there, where she came from, who the dead woman is, nothing.” I put my raised palms in the air. “What more can I tell you?”

“You can tell me the exact location where you found her.”

“That I can do.” I jumped back down onto the tug’s deck, grabbed the ship’s log from inside the wheelhouse, and read off the exact position. I stepped outside the wheelhouse and, looking up at the detective as he wrote in his notebook, described the way the boat had been filled with dirty water and how I pumped it out.

“There is one thing that’s a bit strange, Collazo. I don’t know how much you know about boats, but I can tell you this: There is no way they came from Haiti in that little boat. It’s barely possible a boat like that could make it from Cuba, but from Haiti? With no sails? That’s just not possible.”

Down the dock, the crowd around the fishing boat opened up and several officers hoisted a bulging white plastic bag up to the dock where a uniformed woman stood alongside another gurney. I climbed back up onto the dock. Mike and his buddy Joe followed me. Another uniformed officer split off from the crowd and came over to consult with Collazo. They stepped aside and murmured just softly enough that I couldn’t make out what they were saying.

When Mike got upright on the dock, he asked, “Who died?”

“How about a little courtesy?” I said. “Introductions, perhaps?” I turned to his friend with the great legs. “Hi, I’m Seychelle Sullivan, since it appears our friend is not going to introduce us.”

“Joe D’Angelo,” he said. “Very pleased to meet you.” His hand felt rough and dry, his grip firm and confident. His eyes met mine with a directness, an openness, that I found appealing.

“So, you used to work with Mike?”

“Yeah, I was with the DEA. Retired now.” His dark hair had been “styled,” not just cut, and the only bit of gray was at his temples. He nodded his head toward the far end of the dock. “So, what’s going on?”

I shouldn’t have expected any different. One thing I’d learned about cops is that little social niceties often aren’t on their list of acquired skills.

“Yeah, Sey, that have anything to do with your emergency?” Mike asked.

“The boat I said I found?” I pointed toward the body bag. “That’s what was in it. That and a kid, a little girl about ten years old.”

Joe turned away from the scene and looked at me. His features were pinched with concern, and I could not help but notice how light his green eyes were. “The kid, she was alive?” he asked.

“Yeah, bad shape, though. Dehydration, sun. On her way to Broward General right now. Who knows how long she had been out there.”

Joe shook his head. “Poor kid. It always gets to me when there are kids involved.”

“You got kids?” I asked him.

“One. A grown daughter.” He paused and his eyes went unfocused, as though looking at something far away, before he turned to look across the Intracoastal. Without turning back to face me, he said, “I haven’t seen her in a long time. Too long, I guess.”

He stood there, his head turned away, and I didn’t know whether to speak or to wait or to walk away and leave him alone.

“This kid,” he said, turning to face me and coming back from wherever or whatever memory he had traveled to. “She able to tell you anything about what happened to her?”

“Nope. She could barely talk. She’s so thin, she looks like she’s been starved for months, not just days. Hopefully, she’ll be all right, but then, you know how it is.” I shrugged. “She’s Haitian, so as soon as she’s healthy ...” I motioned with my hand for them to fill in the blanks.

“Yeah. It doesn’t seem fair, does it,” Mike said.

“At least she’s lucky you found her,” Joe said, squeezing and then patting my upper arm. I smiled back at him and nodded, not sure whether or not he was flirting with me and not sure whether or not I liked it.

The officers pushing the gurney with the body bag passed within a few feet of us, and one of them nodded at Mike, left the group, and started toward us.

Mike shook hands with the first officer and several others who followed. Most were big men, either in uniform or plainclothes, and they greeted Mike, shook his hand, and patted him on the back. They gathered around their old friend, and the laughter erupted in sharp, loud bursts, but something about their camaraderie seemed forced. They all tried to look anywhere but at the missing leg.

“Hey, Mike,” I said, “some of us still have to work for a living. Think you could move your boat so I can get out?”

He looked up and our eyes met over the top of the heads around him. He didn’t say anything, but there was gratitude in his eyes. “Come on, Joe—” he clapped the other man on the shoulder—”let’s get ourselves some sea, sun, and rum.”

A voice right behind me made me spin around. “That could very well have been valuable evidence, the water you pumped out of that boat.” Collazo had walked up behind me, and he now stuck his face about six inches from mine.

“What are you talking about?”

“Collazo, back off,” Mike said. “You don’t need to pull that bullshit with her. She’s not going to hide anything from you.”

Collazo didn’t break eye contact with me when he said, “Mike, I know you’d never interfere with a police investigation.”

“Hey, Joe,” Mike said, “I think he’s showing off for us.” Both men laughed. “Collazo, remember Joe? He worked with us back around, what was it, eighty-two? On that Northwest Lauderdale Task Force? Oh, wait a minute, you were still on patrol then, right? I forgot. Didn’t recognize you without your radar gun.” Mike and his friend hooted, while Collazo ignored them.

“I had to pump it out,” I said, “or I wouldn’t have been able to tow it in.”

“That’s why you should have called the experts. The water you pumped out of that boat was probably discolored due to the blood from the woman’s body.”

“The water was…,” I started to say. I’d wrung out Solange’s dress, her white First Communion dress, only it wasn’t white anymore. And how long had she been sitting in that bloody water?

“Perhaps there was blood there from her attacker as well,” he said.

“Her attacker?”

He nodded. “It won’t be official until the autopsy, but this wasn’t a drowning. She bled out from her wounds. It looks like that woman died from a blow to the head.”

CHAPTER FIVE

It was almost three o’clock by the time I finished with Collazo and could get back to work. Mike got his engine started, and I threw off his lines. Joe stood at the wheel, handling the controls better than Mike ever did. Considering he had claimed on the radio that he had an urgent need to get back ashore, Joe certainly didn’t look like he was in any hurry now, with a rum and Coke in the cup holder by the helm and a contented smile on his face. I smiled back at him and waved as they pulled away. His need to get back probably had more to do with boredom than an appointment. Some guys just don’t have the patience or the temperament for the slow pace of sailing. Hell, I’d once had a sailor call for a tow because he had run out of ice.

I got Gorda under way and, once offshore, I poured on the speed to get back to Hillsboro. It took me an hour and a half to cover the ten or so miles up the coast. The Gulf Stream usually gave me a little more push than that, but it seemed the current was not running as strong as usual. While en route, I put Gorda on autopilot and pulled out the large-scale chart for the Bahamas, Cuba, and Hispaniola. The chart showed the Gulf Stream running at a speed of 2.6 to 3.3 knots at its axis. I thought about Solange and wondered what it was like being alone and adrift, in a boat with a dead woman. How long had she been out there? At the Gulf Stream’s usual rate of drift, they would have traveled seventy-five miles in twenty-four hours, and she looked like she’d been out there even longer than that. But there was just no way I would believe they had come from Haiti in that boat. There were times, like right now, when in certain places, the Stream didn’t always run at full strength. And close inshore there was frequently a countercurrent. My guess was that Solange had been on a larger boat before being set adrift somewhere to the south. Of course the Miss Agnes came to mind, but the timing was off—if she’d been set adrift from that boat, she should have been somewhere up off northern Palm Beach County. If I could find the exact time she got into the small boat, I could calculate the rate of drift and figure out where she started from.

B.J. looked happy to see me as he took my lines to tie Gorda back alongside the crane barge. He had been sitting cross-legged on the deck in the shade, his head bowed over a paperback book, when I pulled alongside. I wanted to freeze-frame the image of him sitting there smiling at me and put it away in a special keepsake box before I ruined it. I’d been doing a lot of that lately.

The Miss Agnes was afloat and nearly sitting on her lines, while the crane’s two huge pumps were spewing water out of her innards.

“So Seychelle Sullivan does it again,” B.J. shouted after I turned off Gorda’s engine. The noise from the gasoline pumps still made conversation only marginally possible.

“What do you mean?”

“Out saving the world, rescuing small children, finding dead bodies. Everybody’s talking about it on the radio. Perry and Mike set off a regular gabfest on channel seventy-two.” He pointed to the workers sitting inside the deckhouse. “The guys and I were listening for over an hour while the pumps were working.”

The Bahamian cruiser looked even worse out of the water than it had sitting on the bottom. Peeling paint, soaked cardboard boxes, clothing, and garbage littered the decks and what I could see of the interior of the cabin through the fogged-up windows.

“I’ll tell you about it once we get under way. I’d like to get this boat into the yard before quitting time. Think we can get started and finish pumping her out on the way?”

“I think so. She’s still pretty tight, considering.”

“Okay, let’s do it.”

B.J. and I worked well as a team. We always had and, fortunately, the emotional awkwardness of our current romantic separation didn’t extend onto the deck. We rigged my pumps on the cruiser’s deck, got a good towing bridle secured at her bow, said our good-byes to the Gilman crew, and took off back toward Port Everglades.

Even as late in the day as it was, the heat in the deckhouse was stifling. We set her on autopilot and went up on the bow to catch the breeze we made by traveling at six knots. If it wasn’t for our forward speed, there wouldn’t have been any breeze at all.

I kept seeing Solange’s face, those high cheekbones and big dark eyes—eyes that looked far too old for a child who had lived barely a decade. Though I’d had my share of pain in my childhood, compared to this kid I felt lucky. I could not imagine what her short life had been like.

“You’re different,” B.J. said, not looking at me but scanning the horizon for boat traffic.

“What do you mean, different?”

“Something about finding that kid, it changed you.”

I knew it was true, but somehow his saying it seemed to imply that I had instantly become the maternal type. “Oh, B.J., cut the crap with your pseudo-psychological paranormal bullshit. Geez.” I ran my fingers through my hair. “She’s just a kid.” As I turned and made my way aft to check on our tow, I heard his soft laughter.

It was after six by the time we made our way up the Dania Cut-off Canal toward Playboy Marine, the yard that had contracted to haul and store the Miss Agnes. The yard workers had quit for the day, but they had left the boatyard travel lift parked over the slip, the slings lowered to the perfect depth for the cruiser. B.J. and I tied the boat up and shut down the pumps. If she sank during the night, she would go down no more than eighteen inches and settle right into those slings. They could pump her out again in the morning before they hauled her out.

I climbed aboard the Miss Agnes to take one last look around. B.J. had loaded the pumps back on Gorda, and I’d replaced my towlines with some raggedy old dock lines we’d scrounged off the travel lift. Standing on the cruiser’s deck, I imagined again the scene of fifty people and the belongings they had brought for a new life crammed into these few square feet of space.

Beads of moisture fogged the window in the aft cabin door. As I reached for the door handle, I wondered again if there was a connection between the two jobs I’d worked that day: a boat bringing in some illegal Haitian immigrants sinks, and a day and a half later I find two Haitians offshore in a half-sunk boat. Had Solange started out aboard the Miss Agnes? The problem was that the numbers just didn’t add up. The current should have carried her much farther north. Was there a third boat we didn’t know about? When I swung the door open and peered into the cabin area, the smell of wet, rotting clothes, ammonia, and dead sea critters hit my face, and the rank sun-heated air flowed out of the enclosed space. Coughing and gasping for air, I stepped back and turned my face away from the cabin door.

Abaco growled a low throaty growl from her post aboard Gorda. I could hear the sound of her claws clicking on the aluminum decks as she paced, wanting desperately to come protect me.

B.J. looked down at me from atop the cement dock. “Isn’t it amazing how ripe people’s belongings can get after just a couple of days underwater? After we brought her up, we closed all those windows for a reason, Sey.”

“Oh, man.” I closed the door to the cabin. “I don’t envy the cops who are going to have to go through the stuff in there.” The side decks were clear, so I made my way forward and tested the latch on the door to the wheelhouse. It turned, and this time I took a deep breath and held it before opening the door.

“Sey,” B.J. said, “you do remember that we had clear instructions from the authorities not to touch anything?”

I ignored him and peered inside.

“You told me that this morning,” he said, “and I was careful not to disturb any evidence. Anyway, aside from that, there’s a bad vibe in there.”

Smiling at his comments, I stepped into the wheelhouse, risking the boat’s “bad karma.” Abaco growled again, and B.J. said, “See? Even she knows.”

“Think I’m risking some kind of Voodoo curse, eh, B.J.?” I did not consider myself either a religious or a superstitious person, and, admittedly, I did at times make light of B.J.’s mishmash spirituality, which was made up of bits of Transcendentalism, Eastern religions, aikido, and who knows what all. But deep inside, I knew that he saw and felt things that were totally beyond my ken.

I took a breath, testing the air. It wasn’t as bad in here as it had been aft. The inside steering station on most American boats this size would boast a control panel of electronics rivaling that of an airplane cockpit. The Miss Agnes, however, had an ancient, pre-digital depth sounder with a circular flasher, and that was it. Not even a VHF radio. The compass had clearly been salvaged from a sunken sailboat. It was mounted on the cabinetry above the helm with wood blocks and nails, and I wondered what those nails did to the instrument’s accuracy. That compass had once cost somebody a bundle, but now all the plastic and metal surfaces were covered with bits of calcified shell where barnacles had once grown. It was the helm of the cruiser, though, that really showed the ingenuity of the island people. In place of a steering wheel, the boat was piloted with bicycle handlebars attached to the steering gear that protruded from the cabinetry.

A couple of waterlogged charts were plastered to the woodwork, and other bits of paper and plastic trash littered the cabin floor. Everywhere I looked in the little cruiser’s wheelhouse, I saw another jury-rigged contraption that would have thrown most American yachtsmen into a conniption. I don’t know if it was real or just the power of suggestion from B.J., but I began to feel there was something creepy about the boat. It was depressing to think about the poverty and desperation of the people who struck out in boats like this to try to get to America, but there was something more. Despite the hot muggy air, I felt a distinct chill.

I turned around, overcome by the desire to get off that boat as soon as possible, and I was about to step back through the doorway when I saw something stuck to the glass windshield. It was a small white rectangle of paper, and when I started to reach for it, something skittered through the trash at my feet. I jumped, letting out a high-pitched squeak.

“Are you okay?” B.J. was squatting on the dock next to the cabin door, ready to jump to the boat’s deck.

I pushed aside the wet cardboard on the floor and a small, pale crab scurried for another hiding place. “This place is spooking me out. I just got scared by a crab, for Pete’s sake.”

B.J. stood up. “Come on, Sey. Let’s get out of here.”

Leaning over the makeshift helm, I peeled the paper off the windshield. It was a business card. “Racine Toussaint” was written in plain type above a Pompano Beach address. It didn’t say what business Racine was in, but I slid it into my pocket anyway, careful not to rip the soggy paper.

It was when I was almost out the door that I noticed the sunglasses hooked under a bungee cord that ran across the top of the steering station. Miss Agnes’s crew probably used the bungee to keep charts and equipment from blowing or rolling away out at sea. The shades stood out in that dilapidated cabin because they were obviously very expensive Polarized glasses. That brand started at over a hundred dollars a pair. A beaded string was tied between the two earpieces of the shades to keep them on the mariner’s head, and on the wide sides of the frame someone had drawn crude designs in white enamel paint: little skulls with crossbones.

So somebody fancied himself a pirate? I slid the glasses under my T-shirt and tucked in my shirttail to hold them snug. I didn’t want any arguments from B.J. about my having taken a souvenir.

The last fingers of pink were disappearing from the western sky by the time I dropped B.J. off at the docks close to the Dania Bridge and reached the mouth of the New River. I had piloted the tug upriver after dark many times before, but every time I appreciated the beauty of the homes as though I were seeing them for the first time. The river took on a different character when the big old oak and sea grape trees were lit by floodlights and the red and green navigational lights on the occasional pilings that marked the river’s shallows. Sound carried farther in the darkness, and soft music drifted across the water from the poolside cabana at one of the enormous homes. Many like this one were of recent construction, pseudo-Spanish, and built out to the lot’s limits after the nice little Florida bungalows built in the forties and fifties had been torn down. White twinkling lights wound round the trunks of the oaks and illuminated the three party workers slumped on high stools at the outdoor tiki bar looking bored. The party probably wouldn’t heat up for another couple of hours. That was one of the few riverfront homes with anyone in residence in June; most of the houses on either side of Gorda were shuttered and dark, their owners long since gone in preparation for the coming months of heat, humidity, and hurricanes.

Abaco began to pace the decks and whine. She knew we were nearing home. I lived in a Lauderdale neighborhood called Rio Vista in what had once been a small boathouse, renovated by the previous owners into a tiny, one-bedroom cottage. It was on the property of a riverfront mansion that belonged to a Mr. Lars Larsen, owner of a national chain of muffler shops headquartered up in Milwaukee. Larsen had bought the place as his Florida winter home, and in years past, he’d often had Red tow his various yachts. When Red died, and my brothers and I sold Red’s house where Gorda used to dock, Mr. Larsen called and offered me the boathouse. He said he’d like to have an on-site caretaker for the months when he and his family were not there. The main house was a huge multitowered, Moorish edifice that dated to the 1930s, when the New River meandered through a Fort Lauderdale that was more of a frontier town, back when fish houses and vegetable docks still stood on the New River’s banks. Over the years, a succession of owners had added on rooms and towers, and today, the Larsen house looked like something created by Disney on drugs. The main house was set back from the river, but my cottage was right on the dock, and I could park Gorda just a few feet outside my front door.

When I stepped out of the elevator on the fourth floor at Broward General Hospital, it was ten till eight, and the nurse who gave me directions to room 425 reminded me that visiting hours would be over in ten minutes. The forced congeniality and the low hum of machinery were what I most remembered about the weeks I’d spent here with Red before he died. Indoors is more indoors in a hospital; even the air tastes artificial. I knew it was the cancer that killed him, but I always felt that being shut away from the sunshine and fresh air had hurried that process along.

Jeannie was sitting in a chair next to the bed, her fingers laced together on top of her stomach, watching the TV screen mounted high up in a corner of the room, while a strange man in a dark green uniform sat on the edge of Solange’s bed, speaking to her. The kid looked even smaller in that big white bed, especially because the man sitting next to her had the shoulders of a football player. His biceps stretched the green fabric of his uniform tight and, as he moved, the leather and web belt that held his gun creaked, a continuous reminder that the weapon was there. Again, I felt an odd twist in my gut.

“Well, it’s about time you got here, girl.” Jeannie stood and tugged at her dress to reposition the fabric around her shoulders.

The man stood up and reached his hand out to me. “How d’ya do,” he said. His sandy-colored hair looked a bit shaggy around the ears for a law enforcement type, and the deep tan and white creases at the corners of his blue-gray eyes told me he felt nearly as trapped inside the hospital as I did. “Name’s Elliot. I’m with the Border Patrol.”

In his voice I heard an accent from someplace not too far north of here, which meant the South.

“Border Patrol, huh?” I looked at the writing stitched over his breast pocket.

“Not many folks recognize the uniform. They mostly think we’re park rangers or something.”

I nodded. “You do kind of look like Smokey the Bear. You just need one of those hats.” I made the shape of the flat brim with my hands. He wasn’t smiling at my little joke.

His hand had completely engulfed mine, which doesn’t happen often. I glanced down at the card he’d handed me. It said he was Russell Elliot, Senior Patrol Agent, Border Patrol.

“My friends call me Rusty,” he said.

“Border Patrol? As in Immigration?”

“Basically, yeah.”

“And just what border do you patrol? Georgia? Alabama?”

Jeannie sighed and plopped back down in her chair.

Agent Elliot gave me a look that said that what I thought was a clever line was something he had heard too many times. “Actually, there’s plenty of border down here in South Florida. This state has about seventeen thousand miles of coastline—more international border than any other continental state—and yet we’ve got just one other office on this coast south of Jacksonville. Sixteen people work out of our office, and there’s another ten down at the Marathon branch office in the Keys. We’re the guys who try to catch the folks who don’t come in through normal ports of entry.” His eyes flicked a quick glance at Solange, then he pressed his lips together and raised his brows as though to say “Not my fault.”

Flashing those baby blues at me all innocent like that made me want to yank him off her bed and push him out the door. I squeezed past him and slipped between the bed and the IV stand. “How are you feeling?” I asked Solange.

She looked more alert now, more focused, and it was obvious she had been listening, trying to understand our conversation. But when I spoke directly to her, she blinked once and then lowered her eyes.

“She’s not saying much,” Jeannie said. “She slept for about three hours, though, after we got settled in here. I called my mother, and she came and picked the boys up. This little girl ate a pretty good dinner when she woke up, even though it looked god-awful to me, some kind of clear broth, crackers, and Jell-O. Point is, she kept it down. There was a whole room full of folk waiting for her to upchuck.” Jeannie heaved herself back up to a standing position. “It’s your shift now. I’m heading out.”

I reached across the bed and squeezed her hand. “Thanks, Jeannie. I really owe you this time.”

“Girl, you owe me so much, you’ll never get to even. But today was a pleasure.” She turned to Solange. “I’ll be back tomorrow. You remember what I told you, okay?” She looked at the Border Patrol agent, then gave the girl an exaggerated wink. To me she said, “I’ll call you later.”

After Jeannie was gone, Elliot said, “May I speak to you out in the hall for a moment?”

I wanted to get him out of there, away from Solange, and it appeared I was going to have to hear him out to make that happen. “I’ll be right back,” I told her.

Outside the room, I pressed my back against the wall, and for the first time all day, I felt tired, felt the weight of the day’s events pressing me down. I wanted to slide my butt down to the floor and sit. What I didn’t want to do was stand out there under those fluorescent lights talking to this big man who had come to send that child back to Haiti.

“Can we get this over with as quickly as possible?” I asked. “I’m pretty damn tired, and I’d really rather be in there with that kid than standing out here talking to you.”

“I’ll agree not to take offense at that, if you’ll agree to tell me what happened out there.” There was a definite country sound to his voice. I guessed Georgia.

“Look, I’ve already talked to the local cops.”

“I know that, but this girl isn’t really their case. Their concern is the murder victim, mine is this girl.”

It was the first time I had heard anyone involved with this case say the word. Collazo had already referred to the woman’s “attacker,” but this word was powerful: murder. “Okay, look. I’ll go through the story again, but I’m going to tell you right up front, if you’re making plans to send that kid back to Haiti, I’m going to fight you every inch.”

He pushed away from the wall and slid his hands in his pockets. “This country’s policy is pretty clear on that.” There was a looseness about him in spite of his size, as though he were incredibly comfortable in his own skin. Under other circumstances I would have found that attractive, but now it merely irritated me. It made me have to work that much harder to not like him.

“I don’t give a damn about your policy.”

“If you would let me finish, what I was going to say was that I am not here this evening to talk about her deportation. Don’t get me wrong, Miss Sullivan, we may get to that, but as an unaccompanied minor, we’re not going to hustle her off into the night and onto a plane bound for Port-au-Prince.”

Yeah, right. The Border Patrol trying to make out like they’re really just warm and fuzzy? “But you will get to that point eventually.”

“Well” —he shrugged—”if she doesn’t have any next of kin here in the States, then, yeah, probably. I’m not gonna lie to you on that.”

“So, assuming we don’t find any next of kin in the States, how much time do I have before you get there?”

“A week, maybe ten days, max.”

I stared straight into those laser-like blue eyes of his. “You are not sending this one back. Whatever it takes, she’s staying.”

“Is that a threat, Miss Sullivan?”

I held his eyes as long as I could, but finally I had to turn my head away. I watched the nurse in the room across the hall as she carried a bedpan to the far patient and drew the curtain around the bed. The sound of the steel rings sliding on the rod reminded me of all the times I had stepped away from my father’s bed, both of us feeling awkward about the last days when his body gave out. That was before I finally said “enough” and took him home so he could die in his own bed, and the awkwardness was replaced with a sense of intimacy. I’d often wondered if that sense I had felt as I bathed him and fed him and carried him to the bathroom, that sense of such profound love, if that was the same feeling a mother got as she cared for her newborn child.

“So tell me what happened,” he said. “How you found her.”

I swung my head back around and blinked at him. I’d forgotten for a moment that he was there. Taking a deep breath, I saw her again sitting in that boat, resting her head just inches out of the bloody water, just staring at me with those eyes. She probably would not have survived another twenty-four hours.

“I’ve tried to get the story from her,” he said, “but she either doesn’t understand or she won’t talk. The local cops had a Creole translator here earlier. Same thing. She wouldn’t say a word.”

I knew how that felt; I’d been there once myself. They said I didn’t speak for three months after my mother died. I’d gone to some inner place where none of it could touch me. Once you’ve found your way to that place, it’s hard to come back.

“I noticed the birds first, lots of birds, circling,” I said and went on to tell him about the boat and the body. The voice I was hearing inside my head was my voice, but it didn’t sound familiar. In a flat monotone, I described how weak she was, how, as I’d dragged her aboard Gorda, she’d felt so thin and frail and helpless. “In the end, it was really kind of miraculous that I saw her. I don’t know how much longer she would have lasted out there.”

He put his left hand on the wall next to my head and leaned in closer. “You say she did talk to you. Do you think she understands much English?”

We were close to the same height, our eyes on a level plane, but his shoulders seemed half again as broad as mine, and the muscles in his forearm carved ridges beneath the skin. If his intent was to be intimidating, it was working. “Some, but I’m not sure how much. I believe her when she says that her father is American. That’s probably how she learned the little English she does know, and if he’s here in South Florida like she thinks he is, I’m going to find him.”

“Do you have any idea how many times we hear that? That they have a relative in America?”

“I’m sure that’s true, but this case is different. This time you’ve got me to contend with, and I believe her.” I ducked under his arm, then turned to face him from the doorway of her room. “I found her out there, and the way I see it, that means I’ve got certain salvage rights.”

CHAPTER SIX

When I went back into the room, a middle-aged black nurse was there with a machine, taking the child’s blood pressure.

“How’s she doing?”

“A lot better than I would have thought when they brought her in here this afternoon. She looked half dead.”

I heard a slight Creole accent in her voice. “Are you Haitian?”

The woman smiled as she unwrapped the cuff from the girl’s arm. “That I am, but this little one doesn’t seem to want to talk to me, not even in Creole.”

When I tried to catch Solange’s eye, she deliberately looked away.

“It happens sometimes to kids when they’re traumatized,” I said. “I’d just like to sit with her for a while. They’re not going to kick me out, are they?”

“The other nurses told me you’re the one who found her. Family can stay after visiting hours, and I think you are about the closest thing to family this child’s got right now.”

After she left, I sat down on the yellow plastic chair and tried to make myself comfortable. There wasn’t a book or a magazine anywhere in sight, so I took one of the paper towels off her bedside table, got a pencil out of my shoulder bag, and began to sketch. I’d dabbled for years with water colors and charcoal sketches, having learned it from my mother, so these were all still-life scenes I had sketched in the past. First, I drew little pictures of Gorda, then a beach scene with palm trees and seabirds, a view of my cottage sitting next to the seawall back in Rio Vista.

I knew she was watching every move I made. Her bed was the one closest to the window and, as there was no patient in the other bed, the only sounds came from outside the room— occasional moans, bursts of laughter, or clicking footsteps beyond the walls of our space. I feared she would grow tired of it, just watching me draw, and fall asleep eventually, but there was an intelligence in those eyes that warned me not to underestimate her. It was as though she and I were engaged in a sort of standoff, neither of us willing to be the first to attempt to cross the space that separated us.

It was when I started to draw the picture of Abaco that I heard her shift her position in the bed, trying to get a better look at the drawing. I sketched my dog lying down, her muzzle between her front paws, her big eyes looking up with that funny, guilty look she gets when she has scattered the garbage all over my cottage to get at some chicken bones or is discovered with a squirrel that underestimated her speed.

“What is dog’s name?”

Her voice surprised me, not just because the sound of it broke the long silence, but also because it was strong and clear. She spoke in almost perfect, though accented, English. I found my breathing had gone shallow and sketchy the way it does when I’m nervous.

“Her name’s Abaco. After some islands in the Bahamas.” Red had continued with the tradition he’d started with my mother—after naming all three of their kids after islands, he had named his dog that way as well.

I reached for another paper towel to start a new drawing and set the sketch of the dog aside. I began sketching the Wind Dancer, a lovely little sailboat I had once sailed down in the Dry Tortugas in what often seemed like another life.

“I see Abaco?” She pronounced the dog’s name with the accent on the last syllable instead of the first. She made my dog sound like some Parisian show dog, instead of the strong-willed, incorrigible squirrel chaser she really was.

“Sure.” I handed her the drawing. She held it up in front of her face, and there was a small smile in her eyes, while the rest of her face held strong. “You can keep it if you like,” I said.

She slid the drawing under the covers then, hiding it carefully on the sheet next to her frail body. After she settled the covers back into place, she lifted them one last time to make sure the drawing was still there, then collapsed against the pillows.

“Have you ever had a dog?” I asked.

She shook her head, pressing her lips tightly together. “Mmmm, it’s probably different in Haiti, I guess. I’ve never been there. I’ve been to the Bahamas. Never to Haiti, though.”

“I been Bahamas.”

“Really?” I tried to sound barely interested, didn’t even look at her as I said it. I just shaded in the shadows on the hull of the sailboat on the napkin.

“Dogs bad, like Haiti. Not nice dog, like Abaco.”

I looked up. “You saw dogs in the Bahamas?”

She nodded. “I work with Erzulie. Bad dog come many day.”

I decided to press her a little. “Erzulie, that was the woman in the boat with you?”

She nodded and slid her hand under the bedcovers, feeling for the drawing.

“How did you and Erzulie get in that small boat, Solange?” She didn’t speak for over a minute. I figured I’d blown it, I’d pushed her too hard, and she wasn’t going to talk to me anymore.

“Bad man hurt Erzulie.”

“Do you know the bad man’s name?”

She shook her head.

“He hurt her in the Bahamas?”

She shook her head again. “On boat.”

“Oh, you were on the boat that was going to take you to America? Were you coming in that small boat?”

“Big boat.”

“Like my boat, Gorda?”

“More big. Many people. No dog.”

“So you left the Bahamas in the big boat. What happened?”

“Night. Bad man hurt Erzulie.”

“So how did you get into the small boat?”

She shrugged and didn’t say anything more. Could it be she didn’t know how she got there? It was more likely she just didn’t want to or didn’t know how to tell me.

“Solange, I’d like to help you. I want to find your father. Do you know his name?”

“Papa.”

“No, what did other people call him? Other grown-ups?”

“Papa Blan.”

“Was he the one who taught you to speak English?”

She bit her lower lip and nodded. “Papa—no Kreyol.”

I assumed that meant the father didn’t speak Creole, so he must not live in Haiti. He must only have been visiting. “What about your mother? Was she on the boat?”

She shrugged again.

“Do you know your mother’s name?”

She scrunched the features of her face into a tight little knot. “No maman.”

“You don’t have a mother? Is she dead?”

Again, just the lifted shoulders, more questions she couldn’t or wouldn’t answer.

She pointed to herself. “Restavek,” she said very quietly, refusing to look at me.

“Restavek? “ I repeated the word and she nodded. “I don’t understand. I don’t speak Creole. Can you say that in English?”

She shook her head and then yawned, her wide mouth showing several gaps where teeth should have been. She slid down, pulled the covers up tight under her chin, and closed her eyes.

“Okay, you sleep. I’ll be back tomorrow. Maybe we can talk some more then.”

At the nurses’ station, I couldn’t get anyone to talk to me. The nice Haitian nurse was not around, and the busty young woman at the desk was far more interested in her manicure than in helping me. When I finally succeeded in getting her to acknowledge my presence, she told me with a flip of her blond hair that I was not next of kin, and therefore she could not speak to me about the girl’s medical condition.

“She has no next of kin,” I said. “Does that mean nobody gets to find out how she’s doing?”

The young woman stood up and tugged at the hem of her uniform. The pink polyester was straining at the seams to contain the bust that was perched at an unnatural height, somewhere above her armpits. Her name tag said “Jenna.”

“I have orders from Dr. Louie not to talk to anyone about her, and I have to do whatever Dr. Louie says.”

I wondered how far Dr. Louie took that willingness of hers.

I stopped off in the lobby at the McDonald’s to grab a burger and fries for the ride home. So many hospitals I’d visited lately had fast-food franchises right on the premises, so I no longer found it ironic to be eating heart-clogging grease a few floors beneath the cardiac surgery suites. I couldn’t resist the smell and had just taken a mouthful of hot french fries out of the to-go bag when a perfectly coifed young Hispanic woman approached me just outside the hospital entrance, identified herself as Nina Vidal from Channel 7 News, and asked if I was the one who had found the little girl. I wondered for a minute how she had recognized me, then realized that the salt-stained deck shoes and the Sullivan Towing and Salvage baseball cap were pretty good clues. I acknowledged that I was the one, and I tried to continue on around her. She stepped into my path again.

“We’ll be doing a live feed from here when we go on air at eleven,” she said as she pointed at the van with the long, extended antenna mast. “Would you be willing to wait around a few minutes and answer some questions for our viewers?”

I swallowed the ball of starch in my cheek. “Sorry. I’m headed home to bed. It’s been a long day.”

She continued to follow me out toward the parking area. “What do you know about this child? Can you confirm that she was not alone in the boat? We understand there was a dead woman. Do you know her identity? Do you know if she’s connected in any way to the other victims?”

I stopped and turned to face her. I was about to tell Helmet Hair what I thought she could do with her extended mast, but I reconsidered. “Lady, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I only know that there’s a sick, scared little girl up there.” I pointed to the upper reaches of the hospital. “Just tell your viewers that she’s a really sweet kid, she’s got the face of an angel, and our government shouldn’t send her back to the streets of Haiti. Okay?”

She rolled her eyes and murmured something under her breath as she headed back to the van.

There was nothing left in the bag but some greasy wrappers by the time I pulled my old Jeep into the drive at the Larsen estate. The canvas top on my vehicle was probably the third or fourth one she’d had since her original owners bought her in 1972, but the wind and Florida sun had done their damage, and the back windows always came loose as I drove. An old boyfriend had nicknamed her Lightnin’ after watching me try to accelerate and merge onto 1-95. Thunder might have been more appropriate, though, given the flapping canvas and the engine’s tractorlike rumble. Coming to a stop and shutting her down created a very sudden silence.

I just sat there a minute, too tired to climb out, enjoying the emerging night sounds of insects and far-off traffic. I’d seen the dark brown sedan that was parked on the street in front of the house, and I was certain I recognized the figure sitting in the front seat. I didn’t want to talk to him. Not tonight. When I finally climbed out of Lightnin’, the sedan’s front door swung open and scraped to a stop on the cement sidewalk.

“Miss Sullivan.” Collazo made no other movement behind the dark glass. “I need to speak to you for a moment.”

I walked over to the car and bent down to speak to him through the open driver’s-side window. “It’s late and I’m really tired, Detective.” The drops of sweat on his face sparkled in the light from the street lamps.

“Me too,” he said. He motioned with his head. “Get in.”

He wasn’t a bad guy, Collazo, but he had the social graces of a Neanderthal. As I walked around the car, I wondered if he had any kind of life outside his job. I slid into the passenger’s seat and rolled down the window. Being in a hot, closed car with Detective Collazo was enough to make me revisit my Quarter Pounder with Cheese.

“You went to the hospital.”

“Uh-huh.” Tired as I was, I wasn’t going to make it easy for him. Maybe it was even a little perverse of me, but I found it impossible to be cooperative with this man.

“The girl’s refusing to talk,” he said.

“Yeah, I heard you were there with an interpreter this afternoon. You know, I wouldn’t say she’s refusing, exactly. It happens when you’ve been through something like this. She’s just sort of timed out for a while.” I didn’t want to lie to him, but I didn’t want to tell him that she had spoken to me at the hospital, either. She needed her rest. There would be time for her to tell more, later, when she was stronger.

Collazo stared out the window at the Larsens’ dark, hulking house and didn’t speak for almost a minute. I was about to climb out of the car when he finally said, without turning his head to face me, “She was the fourth one.”

I didn’t know what he was talking about. “The fourth what?”

He didn’t answer me for a long time, and I thought it was another one of his waiting games. When he started speaking, his face was still turned away from me, and I had to sit forward on the seat to hear his voice.

“The first one was found on the beach at Pompano just south of Hillsboro Inlet about three weeks ago. A woman. Witness in one of the condos along that stretch said he had seen lots of people on the beach around three in the morning when, as he put it, he ‘got up to take a leak.’ They were swimming in the surf line, he said. Hundreds of them. Boat must have dropped them off just offshore. Beach clean-up crew found her in the surf line at sunrise.” He turned and looked straight at me. “Severe head trauma. Medical report said it was probably a machete—nearly cleaved her skull clean in half.”

“Okay, but what does that have to do with—”

He ignored my question and continued talking. “Then tonight, this Border Patrol guy, Elliot, tells me the same thing happened in the Keys last week. Down near Marathon. Some smugglers dropped off a load of Haitians in the early-morning hours, and they found one man walking around, hole in his head so big his brains were hanging out. He collapsed on US-1 and died in the hospital down there. Found the other one on the beach the same night. A man. Monroe County medical examiner says it was the same thing— massive head injuries.”

“I haven’t seen anything about this in the papers.”

“They aren’t releasing any of the details to the public. For some reason, the press hasn’t put it together yet. They will with this one, though. They will with number four.”

I thought about what Helmut Hair – the woman reporter had said to me at the hospital. She asked me about the other victims. Now that made sense. “I think they already have, Collazo.”

“We’re putting together a task force made up of FLPD, INS, and the FBI. They’re calling it the Deceased Alien Response Team—DART.”

“Sounds like alphabet soup.”

“The child. She may be able to tell us something, but she seems frightened by authority figures. My Haitian translator tells me that’s typical for their culture. Elliot says they can’t get any of the Haitians to talk about the smugglers. Ever since Papa Doc and the Tonton Macoutes, they don’t think much of police or authorities.”

“I’m impressed, Collazo. You seem to know quite a bit about Haiti.”

Again, it was as though I had not even spoken. “We are operating on the assumption that they were aboard the boat that sank up in Deerfield, and they were put off into the smaller boat.”

“There’s a problem with that theory. The timing doesn’t work. The Gulf Stream runs at two to three knots. That boat should have been much farther north if they were dropped off thirty-six hours before they were found.”

“There were no other boats in the area.”

“None that you know of,” I said. I’d heard estimates that the authorities stopped only ten to twenty percent of the illegal immigrants flooding into Florida.

“We want you to get close to the child,” he said. “See if you can get her to talk, find out what she knows. Anything at all about the people behind this operation and their location in the Bahamas.”

I jumped at the mention of the islands. Tired as I was, I suddenly wondered if they had somehow listened in on my conversation with Solange. “Why do you say the Bahamas?”

“The plastic water bottles and the food cans in the boat with the dead woman. The labels were all Bahamian. Get her to tell us something that will indicate where in the Bahamas.”

“I don’t know, Collazo, she’s just a little kid. I don’t think she knows anything.” I wanted to protect her from this mess. She had talked about the “bad man,” and I was fairly certain she would recognize him if she saw him again.

“It doesn’t really matter what you think, Sullivan. What really matters is what the killer thinks.”

That tightness in my chest returned. I felt so stupid. Why hadn’t I thought of that? I slid over on the seat and reached for the car door. “Solange, they might try—”

“It’s taken care of. There is a guard. She’ll be safe. For now.”

After Collazo left, I opened the gate and walked behind the Larsens’ house to my cottage in such a daze that I barely saw the shrubbery, the path, or the wide yard out back.

Abaco seemed to sense my mood, and though she rubbed her wet nose against my hand, she wasn’t insistent when I didn’t reach down to rub her head. My mind was busy trying to make connections, to draw some kind of lines between the small dots of information I had.

I let myself in and went straight to the fridge, thirsty after all those french fries. A bottle of Corona in hand, I dialed Mike’s cell phone. I pulled out the sunglasses I’d found on the Miss Agnes and examined the paintings of the skull and crossbones under the light as the phone rang again and again. I was about to give up when he finally answered.

“Mike? This is Seychelle. Did I interrupt something?”

“Nah, I just couldn’t find the damn phone. I’m glad you called, young lady, ‘cuz I wanted a chance to give you hell for sticking me with that sniveling bastard Perry Greene.”

“That’s why I’m calling, Mike, to apologize, even though there wasn’t much else I could have done under the circumstances.”

“Apology accepted.”

“Good. And look, promise you’ll get that electrical system fixed. I mean, what were you thinking out there all night using all that juice?”

“It was my buddy Joe, I swear. He called me up to shoot the shit, and we got started talking fishing. I told him I lived aboard a fifty-three-foot sailboat now, and next thing I knew, we were motoring out through Port Everglades. We had lots of catching up to do. Joe always did like flash, and my boat impressed the hell out of him. He wanted me to turn everything on. See, he was DEA back in the eighties when he got to go undercover with flashy cars, big houses, and fast women. I think he misses those days.”

“Yeah, right. The good old days.”

“That isn’t really why you called, the apology thing, is it?”

“Maybe not the only reason.”

“So spit it out.”

“It’s hard to explain. I need someone to talk to—about this Haitian kid. Mike, I’ve got to help her stay in the States, and I don’t even know where to begin. What if her father doesn’t want to be found? What if he’s some married guy who doesn’t want his wife to know he has this kid. I mean, doesn’t it strike you as a little weird that an American father would bring his daughter to the States on one of these cattle boats?”

“Yeah, you’re right. But then again, if there was no birth certificate, no way of proving paternity, he might not have had much of a choice. It’s not like the old U S of A is exactly welcoming Haitians with open arms these days. She could’ve died on the streets of Port-au-Prince waiting for a visa.”

“Okay, then where is he? Shouldn’t he have been waiting for her to arrive?”

“Give it time, kiddo. Tomorrow the kid’s story will be all over the papers and the TV. Maybe he’ll show up, maybe he won’t.”

“It seems like after everything she’s been through, it’s like she’s earned it. The right to stay, I mean.”

“Tell that to the rest of the people here. You know how crowded it’s getting. The last one here wants to slam the door and not let anybody else into Paradise. We may have to rewrite that little plaque on Lady Liberty.”

“But the Haitians are getting an especially raw deal. Back home they face death squads and starvation. They escape that only to die here in America.”

“Like the woman in the boat, you mean.”

“She’s not the only one. Collazo stopped by tonight. He told me that she was the fourth Haitian found dead. They’ve all had massive head injuries. Sounds crazy, I know, but somebody is killing off these immigrants. Maybe they do it to set an example for the others, I don’t know. Hell of a way to prevent mutiny. Collazo says the Haitians are still protecting the smugglers, even when they’re killing off a few on the way over.”

“And Collazo’s pretty certain all four murders are related?”

“I guess so. He says they’ve put together a task force with FLPD, Border Patrol, and the FBI. They call themselves DART—the Deceased Alien Response Team.” It sounded so silly when I said it out loud.

“Oh, that’s good.” He laughed, and I could hear the sound of clinking ice cubes as he took a drink. “Sounds like the pilot for a bad sci-fi TV show.”

“They think Solange can ID the killer, but she’s not talking. Mike, I don’t want to make her any more of a target than she already is.”

“Have they got a guard at the hospital?”

“Yeah.”

“Then don’t worry about her. She’ll be fine. They got nothing on the identity of these smugglers?”

“Nothing they shared with me. Collazo sounded ‘out there’ on this one. He has to be to ask for my help.”

“Yeah, I’d agree with you there.”

After I hung up the phone, I headed back outside with my beer to sit on the dock, my feet dangling over the river. I watched the water swirl past the pilings with the tide. There weren’t many stars visible, but the few that could outshine the glow from the city lights appeared as dancing white dots in the black river water.

The thoughts in my head were churning like the ocean caught between a current and a crosswind. And it was creating just as much turbulence. If Erzulie was already dead, why did someone set her adrift in a boat? Why not just throw her overboard? If they were aboard the Miss Agnes, how did they wind up drifting off Pompano? And why would people who are supposedly making money off immigrant smuggling be killing their cargo? Why didn’t they kill Solange, too? How was I going to find her father? Where would I start?

I was still clutching the sunglasses I’d found on board the Miss Agnes, and I wondered if they belonged to Solange’s “bad man,” the one who had killed Erzulie. The skulls painted on the glasses were in some thick glossy paint, maybe fingernail polish. I could feel the design as I ran my fingers over the plastic, the rounded skulls, eyeholes, crossed bones beneath. Over two hundred years ago, ships had sailed these same waters bearing that insignia. Then, too, the design had signaled that the bearers were dealers of death.

When I’d finished the last of the beer, I had no more answers than when I’d started, but I did feel my eyelids drooping. It took a fair amount of willpower to force my fatigued limbs off the dock and into bed. I felt completely whipped. Seeing a person dead made me feel how fragile human life is. In my bathroom, as I brushed my teeth in front of the mirror, I examined my face, skin over bone and cartilage, brain only a few centimeters below the surface, and I marveled that so many of us live into old age. We are not a well-armored species. With my hand on my neck, I felt the rhythm of the blood pumping through my veins. I thought about the only real armor we humans have—our intelligence and our will to survive.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The night seemed to pass in one quick blink of deep, dreamless sleep. I awoke around 7:30, late for me, but I felt refreshed. A front had moved in overnight, and the dark sky seemed almost to touch the masthead of the ketch moored across the river. The air was thick and heavy with moisture.

I generally tried to fit in some kind of exercise about three mornings a week. Jogging, swimming, paddling—something that was more interesting than using a machine in a refrigerated gym. I pulled on a black tank suit and put the teakettle on the stove for my morning coffee. The wheezing window air conditioner refused to cycle off, so I finally decided to open up and let the humidity in. I gave Abaco fresh water and filled her bowl with dry dog food. In the bathroom, I grabbed a rubber band to pull my hair into a ponytail. This was typical June weather, the start of the hurricane months and the wettest season of the year in Fort Lauderdale.

Grabbing a mug of coffee and my handheld VHF radio, I walked out to the dock where I kept my thirteen-foot Boston Whaler up in davits. I began cranking the winch to lower the boat into the water. Abaco made quick rounds of the yard, checking for new smells, adding her own. When the Whaler hit the water, she came over and whined, begging to go. I told her no, and she dropped onto her belly in the grass and gave me her sad-dog look. It didn’t work this time.

I motored slowly down the New River, waving to the gardeners and the professional boatmen, the only ones out and about at that hour. Channel 16 was fairly quiet, even considering that it was a weekday morning. The only calls I heard were the occasional charter skipper hailing a buddy and switching to another channel for fish gossip.

Down at the Bahia Mar Marina, I navigated through the northern basin to the finger pier closest to the highway. I tucked the handheld radio into the boat’s cubbyhole and locked the Whaler up to the swim step of Jimmie St. Clair’s old Chris Craft launch. B.J. would probably be working here later in the day. The interior of the boat had been riddled with termites, and Jimmie had asked B.J. to tear it all out and start over. He was several months into the project and nowhere close to done.

I made it safely across A1A to the beach, then almost got run over by one of the early-morning sand graders, the big yellow monster machines that comb away the previous day’s trash and footprints, leaving straight lines in the smooth sand. I started to jog down at the water’s edge and kept up a steady pace, the low gray sky doing nothing to slow the sweat that began to drip from my brow into my eyes.

The sea looked about as flat as I’d ever seen it.

I didn’t have any jobs on the books for the next several days, although I always kept my handheld VHF radio close by, just in case. I didn’t usually chase after the emergency tows. Gorda simply wasn’t built for that kind of speed, and there was no way I could compete against some of the corporate fleets like SEATOW or Cape Ann. On the other hand, the big-money guys who needed to get their mega-yachts up the river to the boatyards didn’t like to hire those twenty-something blond boat jockeys in epaulets. Sullivan Towing and Salvage still ruled the river. The business would come, but in the meantime, I was free to see if I could locate Solange’s father.

When I’d jogged my four miles round-trip up the beach and back, I dove into the ocean and logged a good two miles of freestyle. I was puffing and blowing more than I would have liked. Back in the days when I used to work as a lifeguard on this same beach, I’d swim five miles both before and after my shifts. I needed to get a more regular exercise routine.

As I settled into a comfortable rhythm, my mind began to wander. The papers had estimated that there had been about fifty people aboard the Miss Agnes when she sank. Considering the six who had died, as well as those who had been caught and deported, that still left somewhere in the vicinity of fifteen people who must have made it to shore and now could be tracked down. The article said that the captain of the boat had not been among those picked up by authorities, and it was possible even he could be located. I figured that was where I’d start—even if it only served to determine whether Solange was ever on the Miss Agnes to begin with.

After toweling off, I crossed back over A1A and walked down the sidewalk to my favorite morning breakfast spot, the St. Tropez Café. Francine, the French Canadian girl who’d worked there all winter and for some strange reason had not yet disappeared north with all the other Canadians, poured me my café au lait in one of their mixing bowl-sized ceramic mugs and pointed at a gooey apricot pastry with one raised eyebrow. I nodded and she passed me a plate of confection to go with the coffee-flavored milk.

I seated myself at one of the tables outside and picked up the newspaper left by the previous patron. The story about Solange and the dead woman had made the lower left corner of the front page of the Sun-Sentinel:

Her name, Solange, roughly translated, means Earth Angel. She is ten years old, has big brown eyes and thick black braids. Yesterday morning, when other children her age were going to school and playing with friends, the Earth Angel was found clinging to a half-sunk boat three miles out at sea. Rescued off Fort Lauderdale, suffering from hypothermia, she was too weak to stand when brought to safety. The little Earth Angel is currently listed in stable condition at Broward General Hospital while Immigration officials decide her fate. A Coast Guard spokesperson stated that the body of an unidentified woman was also found in the swamped wooden boat.

The author then emphasized the connection between Erzulie and the three other victims.

The unusual deaths, and the fact that they coincide with a sharp increase in the number of illegal immigrants being smuggled into South Florida, have drawn the attention of several federal agencies. Investigators, who are keeping most of the details of the autopsies under wraps, say the deaths could have been accidents. They could have been the result of recklessness on the part of smugglers who routinely overload their boats to multiply their profits. Or the deaths could be something worse.

As I was reading, a shadow fell across my newspaper, and in the background, just past the edge of the story, I noticed a pair of sexy brown legs, the thighs wrapped tightly in black Lycra. “Seychelle?”

I looked up and feigned surprise at the sight of Joe D’Angelo’s face, although I’d recognized the legs instantly. I quickly chewed and swallowed my mouthful of pastry. “Hi, Joe.”

“Mind if I join you?”

“Pull up a chair.”

He set down his tray with a small white cup filled to the brim, a double espresso, a glass of ice water, and a slice of papaya with lime. I glanced at the remaining half of my apricot pastry and felt a twinge of guilt, but I felt much better when I’d taken another big gooey bite.

“You’re looking exceptionally lovely this morning, Miss Sullivan. You’ve been swimming, I see,” he said, then threw back his double shot of caffeine Latin style. He was wearing a crisp new white tank top that said something about a 10K race.

“Yeah, well, thanks for the compliment,” I said, crossing my arms to cover up my midsection where I felt the jellyroll start to grow as soon as I’d swallowed. “I need the exercise, and I find gyms boring.”

“Me too.” He pointed to a red bike locked to the No Stopping sign out by the curb. It was one of those fancy new mountain bikes, the kind with the alloy or titanium frames that look like they’re missing parts. The thing was probably worth more than my Jeep. “I try to log my miles at least three times a week.”

“Nice bike,” I said.

“Yeah, it’s a Klein Palomino. You could call it a nice bike.” He stretched his arms out wide, showing the tufts of black hair under his arms and the lovely curves of the muscles in his shoulders and his biceps. I was thinking about how he could be a poster boy for one of those fit-after-fifty diet and exercise plans when I realized he had asked me a question. “I’m sorry, what was that again?”

“I asked if your father ever mentioned me.”

“No, not that I can remember. You knew Red?”

“Well, not all that well.”

“How did you two meet? I’m curious to know how a retired DEA agent would know my father.”

He laughed. “It’s no mystery. I was with the agency for over twenty-five years, most of it here in South Florida, the Caribbean, or South America. This area was real hot in the eighties—lots of smugglers—and whenever we impounded boats and had to move them around, I always tried to hire Red. He was the best. I was sorry to hear from Mike that he had passed.”

“Yeah, sometimes even I have trouble believing it.”

He reached across the table and placed his hand on my wrist. “He was a good man, Seychelle.” He paused for a moment, then added, “And one ornery son of a bitch.”

I laughed and nodded. “Yup, no question about it. You knew Red.”

He leaned back in his chair and laughed out loud. It was good to laugh about Red. I was tired of crying.

“I’ll bet he was a hell of a good father,” he said.

I pushed away the plate with the remains of the gooey pastry. “Yeah, you know, we were just kids, my brothers and I, and we were always asking for something. In those days my parents didn’t have much money, but if I wanted a bike, Red would spend hours fixing up an old one he’d found at some yard sale. It didn’t matter that we were poor.”

“You think that made you poor? You got a bike. My old man? No bikes there. Five boys in the family, and we’d go days without food. Then he’d bring home some powdered milk, old dry bread, and Spam. I was sixteen the first time I tasted real milk. And the bastard wasn’t just ornery, he was downright mean. Used to beat the shit out of us just because he felt like it.”

“Wow.” I didn’t know what more to say. I’d just met the man and his words seemed too intimate, too soon. Or was it just that it was only okay to talk about a happy childhood in polite company? The growing silence felt even more awkward, so I asked him, “What about your mother?”

He sniffed and grimaced. “She got out when she could. I was fifteen, and it suited me all right. I had a job at a local gas station, and she’d been taking nearly everything I made. Said it was time I paid rent. First time I ever really owned anything of my own was after she left.”

I realized then that it wasn’t intimacy, his revealing these details about his parents. What felt strange was that he spoke of his childhood matter-of-factly, as though none of it really mattered to him. I felt awkward; he didn’t.

“It looks like you did all right for yourself in spite of them. You got your own bike,” I said, nodding at his locked-up mountain bike.

He leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms out again, as though laying claim to the space around him. His lips stretched wide in a closed-mouth smile. He said, “You bet, and nobody’s gonna take it away from me.”

There was something solid and determined about the man. Perhaps it was years of successfully chasing after bad guys that had given him this self-assurance. It wasn’t simply that he didn’t care what others thought about him, it was that their opinions wouldn’t change his idea of who he was. I envied him that confidence.

“So, tell me more about you and Red. Was it like a business relationship, or were you two friends?”

“I wouldn’t say friends,” he said, then he paused to watch a high-speed ocean racer roar by just outside the beach swim area. He turned back to face me. “He ever tell you the story about towing a Colombian’s sportfisherman up from the Hallandale condo?”

“Can’t say as I remember that one, no.”

Joe chuckled to himself. “We had this kid with us, he was new to the agency, and Red and I had him search the boat while we towed it up the waterway on our way to the River Bend Boatyard. Red and I were on Gorda, kicking back and drinking a couple of cold ones, and we were somewhere between the Sheridan and the Dania bridges, when all of a sudden this kid lets out a holler, comes running out of the cabin, and dives overboard. We had a hell of a time getting that tow turned around, then fishing the kid out of the water. Red was cursing up a storm the whole time. Come to find out, the kid had been searching the lockers in the master stateroom, and he’d opened one only to find a twelve-foot red-tailed boa constrictor. Snake was so hungry, he’d tried to coil around that fellow’s arm. That sucker’s body was yea big around”—he held his hands almost twelve inches apart— “and he could’ve eaten a good-size poodle.” He drained his glass of ice water and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yeah, your dad was a helluva guy. I didn’t know him all that well, but we shared a few of my life’s finer moments.” He looked out at the highway, focusing those green eyes of his on the cars disappearing down A1 A.

I was getting used to it, but I still felt slightly uncomfortable whenever people talked about Red. There always came this point when they felt the need to share a moment of silence for the dead man. Like he was looking down on them, and he’d appreciate this somehow. I knew better. Red would have thought it was horseshit and, as his daughter, my spiritual leanings weren’t far from his. I figured you lived your life and then you were dead—end of story.

“You know, Seychelle, Red used to talk about you all the time. He was crazy about his little girl—everyone could see that.” His big hands wrapped around the tiny white espresso cup and clicked it against the saucer in a staccato rhythm. “I have to admit, I was jealous of your dad.”

“You? Jealous of Red? Why?”

“Well, I’ve got a daughter, too. I think I told you.” He pursed his lips and stared into the bottom of his empty cup as though he might find the words in the brown sludge there. “Her mom and I split up years ago, when she was very young. You know, I was on the fast track with the agency, trying to make my mark, and I admit it, I was a lousy father. What would you expect with how I grew up? We were all boys and then I have a girl. Didn’t know what to do with her. Anyway, by the time I was ready to try, it was too late. I’d missed too many birthdays, failed to show up too many times.”

“You’re being kinda harsh on yourself, Joe.”

“No, just honest. We haven’t spoken in over five years now. She’s slammed the door in my face.” Now the bitterness was apparent in his voice. “ ‘Course, it didn’t help that my ex had always been telling her that I was a bastard. Thing is, she’s married now. Got a boy. My grandson. He’s mine, and I’ve never seen him.”

“I don’t get stories like that. I mean, you’re still family.”

“You don’t even know it’s happening when it starts, and by the time you realize it, it’s too late. Nothing like the relationship you had with your dad.”

“Yeah. He was a good dad. Heck, a great dad. Sometimes I still wake up in the middle of the night and think I’ve got to tell Red something. Then I remember he’s gone.”

“Sometimes, it seems as though my daughter is gone, too. Gone from my life, anyway.”

“But she isn’t dead. You still have a chance to fix things with her.”

He leaned back again, so far back that he tilted the chair onto two legs. He bounced his right leg and tapped his fingers on the table. “You’re right. And I’m working on it. I intend to see my grandson.”

I could tell that just talking about his daughter and grandson was making this otherwise confident man a mess of jangled nerves. “You know, Joe, you’re all right. I’ll bet if your daughter got to know you, she’d like you. Your grandson, too.”

He stopped his twitching, leaned forward across the table, and covered my hand with his. “Thanks, Seychelle. That really means a lot coming from you.”

Once again I felt I was getting mixed signals from this man. Was he flirting or being fatherly?

“By the way,” he said, “that was quite a day you had yesterday.” He let go of my hand and rested his elbows on the table. “Finding that little girl like that. What’s her story anyway?” Joe nodded his head toward the pile of newsprint beside my now empty mug. “There’s not much there in the papers about her. Is she able to talk?”

“A little, not much. She speaks some English. Some of it doesn’t make much sense. Seems she’s really afraid of authority figures. She won’t say a word to them.”

“That’s not unusual. I spent some time down in Haiti. Their history has given them good reason to fear the government. But you say she’s talking to you?”

“Well, a little. She told me her dad’s an American.”

“Really? They’re going to let her stay, then?”

Questions, questions. I’d forgotten that Joe was a former cop. “I’ve got to find him first. The Border Patrol guy who came to the hospital last night doesn’t believe this American father exists. He says all Haitians claim to have American relatives.”

“He’s right.”

“But I believe her.”

“So how do you propose to find this guy?”

“I guess I’ll start with the kid. She said a few words to me when I first pulled her aboard Gorda. Last night when I visited her in the hospital, she wasn’t talking to anyone.”

“If there’s anything I can do to help out, don’t hesitate to ask. It would be my pleasure to spend more time with you, and I’d like to know how things turn out for her. Sounds like that poor kid has seen things we can’t even imagine.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

The dark clouds were breaking up, and it was almost ten o’clock by the time I hooked the Whaler back up to the davits at the Larsens’ dock and cranked her back out of the water. The sun was quickly turning last night’s rain to steam. Henri and the three other members of his lawn service crew were working with weed whackers, gas blowers, and hedge clippers. When he saw me, Henri hurried over and waited while I cranked up the dinghy.

“Hi, Henri,” I said as I bent down and scratched Abaco’s ears. “What’s up?”

He looked distressed. Henri was a tall, handsome Haitian in his mid-forties. He was a successful entrepreneur with a thriving lawn service, a good husband, and the father of five beautiful kids. Distress didn’t look right on his face.

“A man came. He said he wanted to see you. I told him you were not here, but he insisted and left his things in front of your house.”

“What?” I stood and started down the brick path to my cottage. I could see the stuff piled in front of my place: a backpack with dozens of patches sewn on it, an army surplus duffel bag, an old footlocker, and a torpedo-shaped blue Dacron bag.

“This man,” Henri continued, “he did not look very clean even though he was very polite. I thought perhaps he was a homeless man. But he claimed he was your brother.”

I whooped and grabbed Henri by the arm. “This is great!” It was the windsurfer bag that had left no doubt: My brother Pit had come for a visit. “Henri, it was my brother, and don’t you worry what he looks like. He’s a great guy.” Sensing my excitement, Abaco came loping over and started to bark. I knelt down and ruffled her ears. “Pit’s come to visit, girl.” Abaco sensed the excitement in my voice and began turning circles. I stood and turned back to Henri. “Did Pit say where he was going? When he would be back?”

“He left a note.” Henri smiled tentatively. “So it is good your brother comes?”

“Oh yes, very good.”

“Then I am happy I did not let Jean-Phillipe chase him off with his machete.”

“Yeah, Henri.” I laughed. “That is good.”

I shoved Pit’s things into a corner of my little living room. Surely he didn’t travel all over the world on the World Cup Windsurfing circuit with all this baggage. The last thing I dragged in was an old footlocker, which I recognized as one that used to belong to Red. When we were kids, we used to get into old clothes and U.S. Navy uniforms he stored in the locker. I remembered it being in the garage when we had cleaned out the house after Red’s death. I didn’t realize that Pit had saved it.

I finally sat down on the couch and read Pit’s note.

Seychelle,

In town for 3 days. Thought I could bunk at Tina’s but she threw me out—along with my gear that Id left at her place. Hope I can borrow your couch for a couple of nights. Gone down to Hobie Beach.

See ya. Pit

My brother Pit was the laid-back middle child, the free spirit. Possessions, timetables, careers—they all made little sense to him. Hobie Beach was the windsurfers’ hangout down on Miami’s Biscayne Bay. Pit was a professional windsurfing teacher and competitor, and while you’d think he’d get sick of it sometimes and want to do something else, it didn’t surprise me that windsurfing was the first thing he wanted to do on his first trip home in years.

After a quick shower, I threw on some old jeans and a T-shirt and dialed Jeannie’s number.

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Hey, you. I was just getting ready to go over to visit our little friend.”

“I was hoping you’d say that. There’s someplace I need to go first, but I’d feel better knowing there will be somebody there with her for the next few hours. Somebody to run interference with cops and reporters, give the kid a chance to rest. At least till I get there.”

“You know me,” Jeannie said. “I’m damn good at interference.”

Ignoring Abaco’s forlorn looks, I locked up my cottage and headed out the gate. Henri and his crew had wrapped up their work and headed out, leaving behind trash cans that smelled sweetly of fresh-cut grass. I propped the business card for Racine Toussaint up on the Jeep’s dash and pulled a map of Broward County out of the glove box. The address was off Hammondville Road in Pompano Beach. I’d read about that part of the county, but I’d never been up there. Back in the fifties, the area was all agriculture, and the mostly black farmworkers had lived in lousy conditions in farmworker housing on Hammondville Road. There was still a good deal of poverty in what was now called Collier City and Western Pompano, and some people would say I was being unwise to go up there alone.

There was a saying about South Florida: To get to the South from here, you had to go north. There was a small kernel of truth in that, but in areas like Hammondville Road in Pompano, I suspected aspects of the old Deep South were still right here. In spite of the glitz and glamour of Broward County’s waterfront and modern facade, racial tensions and segregated neighborhoods were still the norm in much of the county.

Traffic was sparse on 1-95 and Lightnin’ held her fifty-five-mile-per-hour average in the slow lane. The old Jeep wasn’t an expressway vehicle, and given the roaring engine and flapping canvas, I was relieved when I pulled off the interstate at Atlantic Boulevard. In much of South Florida, affluent neighborhoods abut squalid government-assisted housing, so I wasn’t surprised to see the new, gleaming, well-lit gas station and mini-mart, the kind that has disembodied voices that speak to you each time you pull up to the pump, while just beyond the fresh black asphalt were dirt yards around small cinder-block homes and businesses of the old district.

The Haitian Baptist Church, a clean and new-looking structure, indicated how this neighborhood had changed in the last twenty years. This was truly the New South. The huge influx of Haitians and other Caribbean immigrants was apparent in the signs in the stores, the smells of fish and plantain frying, the sound of Creole being spoken on the street.

I located Racine Toussaint’s house a few blocks north of Hammondville and fairly close to Old Dixie Highway. I was pleased to see the place looked so well tended and prosperous in comparison with many of the other houses in the area. The house stood alone on almost an acre of land and looked home-built of gray unfinished cinder block, the mortar between the blocks smoothed out neat and clean. Floral-print curtains fluttered between the bars that protected the front windows, and the wood door was painted a bright sea foam green.

When I turned off the Jeep, I could hear the breeze rustling the branches of the tall Australian pines scattered about the dirt lot that stretched between the house and the road. There were no children’s toys or old abandoned vehicle parts like those that decorated the vacant lots and the yards of many of the houses I’d passed on my way here. Behind the house, a giant strangler fig tree loomed large, the huge limbs framing the house with prop roots supporting the heft visible around both sides. The tree blocked out all sunlight and looked as though it would engulf the house if the inhabitants dropped their vigilance for only a few months. Aside from a couple of free-ranging chickens that darted behind the house when I drove up, there was no sign of life.

I knocked on the green door, wondering if my decision to come alone had been wise after all. Why would the card of the woman who lived at this address be on board the Miss Agnes? But then that is why I was there: to find out if Solange was on that boat. To find out something that would help her stay in the United States.

The place was too quiet. The sound of the traffic out on Dixie and Atlantic was the only noise. For a moment I thought I heard drums from inside the house, but then the amplified voices of angry rappers blasted from a bright orange Impala lowrider that cruised by, the gold rims glinting, the bass booming into the yard and seeming to fill the air with threat. Two muscular young black men in matching white undershirts, flashing gold in their grimaces, glared at me as they rolled by. I faced the street, keeping my eyes on them, refusing to turn my back. There was a slow-mo cinematic quality to the moment, like a high-noon face-off, the only element of speed being my pulse, which had kicked into overdrive.

The door swung inward behind me, and I spun around, my hands rising in the automatic self-defense posture I had learned from growing up with older brothers. The man standing in the doorway was no more than five feet four and impeccably dressed in dark slacks, a long-sleeved white shirt, and a dark bow tie.

“Bonjour,” he said, showing a wide mouth of crowded white teeth. His skin was the darkest black skin I had ever seen, but his hair, what little remained in tufts behind his ears, was bright white. “May I help you?”

I stuttered at first, my mind still not disentangled from the menacing Impala. “There was, out there...” I turned around and looked at the street, but there was no sign of the car. “I mean, uh.” I turned back to face him. He was smiling patiently. “Forget that. Let me start over. The reason I’m here is because I have this boat, a tugboat, and I found this little girl yesterday. You might have heard about it. See, I was looking around the Miss Agnes and I found this card.” I held out the salt-stiff piece of cardboard. He looked at the card and said “Oh” in a very high-pitched voice, as if he had been startled by something. It was a funny sound, and I let loose with a matching shrill laugh.

“Please,” he said, showing me his crooked teeth again, then he bowed his head and stepped back. “Come inside and we will talk.” There was music in the way he pronounced the English words. I had heard Creole accents that were harsh and difficult to understand, but this little man sounded more French.

The room I entered was furnished simply, a living room with a threadbare green couch and armchair, and on the far side a yellow Formica dinette set that looked as though it dated back to the I Love Lucy era. The walls were painted with vibrant colors, each one different—yellow, teal, and coral—and one wall was covered with paintings. Through a door, I could see the kitchen with an industrial-size galvanized sink and huge pots and pans resting on the drain board. He pointed to the couch and waited until I was seated before settling into the chair. The silence stretched out as we sat, each of us waiting for the other to begin. I turned the card over and over, my fingers holding it gingerly by the outer edges. Finally, he reached out and took it from me and then offered me his hand. His skin felt cool and dry.

“I am Maximillian Toussaint. Please call me Max.” He smiled and bowed his head low, revealing the shiny black dome fringed all the way around with delicate cottony filaments. From behind, I imagined his head looked like a dark mountain peak half shrouded in clouds. “Racine” —he held up the card—”is my wife. However, she is very busy today. She cannot see visitors.”

“My name is Seychelle Sullivan.”

“I am pleased to meet you. Would you like some coffee or a cold drink?”

“No, thank you. I’m fine.” I smiled and looked around the small room. On the wall behind him there were primitive paintings of country and city scenes, but each one was crowded with brightly costumed people and animals. There was something about the perspective in the paintings that made them seem very otherworldly. I noticed, too, that some of the people in the paintings wore strange costumes, and masks with horns, and they carried whips. In other paintings, wild animals, from zebras to giraffes and tigers and parrots, all frolicked in big, leafy jungle scenes. Against the wall behind Max’s chair was a sideboard covered with a strange assortment of colorful scarves or flags and what looked like large gourds decorated with paint and beads.

“Have you ever been to Haiti, Miss Seychelle?”

His question startled me. I realized that I had been staring past him.

“I’m sorry. No, I’ve never been.”

“It is a very poor place, this is true, but it is also home to some of the happiest people on earth.”

“Really? Why do you say that?”

“Because it is so. Americans have so many things, and they are not happy. Haitians have nothing, and yet they still laugh and dance and sing.”

“But you live here, not there.”

“Ah, yes.” His eyes really did seem to twinkle. “I can have a full belly and still have Haiti in my heart.” He chuckled but said nothing more.

“I just came to ask you some questions. About this little girl. I promised I would help her. There’s nothing for her back in Haiti, no family. She’s better off here.”

“But of course. I will be pleased to help,” he said, scooting forward to sit on the edge of the chair.

“Do either you or Racine know anything about the boat that sank a few days ago coming into the Hillsboro Inlet? You know the one I’m talking about?”

“Yes, yes, I heard about that. Very tragic. Especially for the children, the little girls.” When he said those two words-— leettle gerls—he sounded just like Maurice Chevalier.

I pointed to the card. “Do you have any idea why your wife’s card would have been on that boat? That’s where I found it.”

He shrugged. “Madame Toussaint is very well known in the Haitian community. She is a force, as you say in America, for justice for the Haitian people.”

“Are you saying she helps illegal immigrants?”

“Non, not at all. Racine obeys all the lwas.” He threw back his head and laughed.

His accent was strange, and it grew heavier when he didn’t want me to fully understand him. I suspected that Max was not about to confide in me. “Yesterday, when I found this little girl, Solange—uh, I don’t know her last name. Anyway, she was floating out in the Gulf Stream in this half-sunk wood boat, and I think she might have come from the boat that sank, the Miss Agnes.”

“Yes, yes.” He nodded and flashed his teeth. “I heard about this also on the radio. The little Earth Angel girl.”

“That’s right. I want to see if I can find her family, her father. There was a woman in the boat with her, but she was already dead. Solange says her name was Erzulie, or something like that.”

When I said the name Erzulie his eyes grew big and round, but it was as though a shade had lowered. He leaned forward. “What did the child say the woman’s name was?”

“Erzulie? Maybe I’m not pronouncing it right.”

He got up then and began pacing back and forth in short, little mincing steps and then spun around. “You really must talk to Mambo Racine. Erzulie? Does the child know what she is saying? What will Racine think of this? She is with her initiates, though. Would she want me to disturb her?” He was talking to himself, not expecting any answers from me. He continued to mutter, then he stopped abruptly and faced me. “Can you return tomorrow? You must speak to Racine. Bring the child with you. In the evening, at, say, seven o’clock?”

I understood only about half of what he was saying. I thought I might have better luck with his wife. “Yeah, I can try. And if you learn anything that would help Solange in the meantime, please, let me know. I don’t want to see this kid sent back to Haiti with no parents.”

“Oui, it is a hard life there for a child.”

“She said she doesn’t know her mother, but her father is an American. I’m trying to locate him, and I’m trying to find out if she and this Erzulie woman were on the boat that sank, the Miss Agnes. If you or your wife know any of the refugees who made it ashore off that boat, please, have them contact me.” I took one of my business cards out of my shoulder bag and handed it to him. “This is my card for my business, Sullivan Towing and Salvage. You can reach me at that number or just leave a message, and I’ll call you back. Could you ask around for me?”

“Certainly.” He stood next to me and was obviously herding me toward the front door. “I will ask, and you will return tomorrow night, correct?”

“Okay.” I smiled and turned and was almost out the door when I remembered one more thing. “The little girl, Solange, she said a word I don’t understand. Maybe you can help. She pointed to herself and said something that sounded like restavik What does that mean?”

Again, a darkness flitted behind his eyes, but he covered it quickly with a gentle smile. “The word comes from the French words reste avec, which means ‘stay with.’ In Haiti, many families are very poor, and they send their children to stay with another family, to work as unpaid domestics. They are called restaveks. Some people think this is very bad, they call it child slavery, but in Haiti, it is the custom. Your little friend is how old?”

“I’d say she’s nine or ten. She doesn’t know anything about her own mother.”

“She probably left home around age six or seven and now doesn’t even know where she used to live. The life of a restavek is not good.” He lowered his eyes, and all of the jolliness seemed to drain out of him. “Some say there are over three hundred thousand restaveks in Haiti today. That is not an aspect of my country that makes me proud.” He shook his head and shoulders, as if to throw off a weight, then sat up very straight. “You are right, Miss Sullivan. Certainement. She has no home to go back to in Haiti.”

When I pulled Lightnin’ into the parking lot at Broward General Hospital, it was past noon. Jeannie’s van was there in the visitors’ parking, as I knew it would be. I was glad to see a uniformed Fort Lauderdale police officer at the nurses’ station across from Solange’s room, even if he was in deep conversation with Jenna. I would have to thank Collazo.

Solange was sitting up in bed, cross-legged. Spread across the sheets in front of her were what looked like hundreds of colorful Lego blocks. She was so engrossed in her play, she didn’t notice me until Jeannie spoke.

“Nice of you to pay us a visit this afternoon.” Jeannie was, I assumed, sitting on the same yellow chair, but her bulk hid all evidence of it. Her reading glasses were perched down her nose, and a flowery-covered novel lay on her lap.

“It took me a little longer than I thought.” Solange looked up and attempted a shy smile. On the floor, I saw the basket of toys Jeannie had evidently brought from her boys’ room. In addition to the Legos, there were trucks, a couple of stuffed animals, and a few picture books. I thought of how nice it would have been if I had thought to bring the girl a toy, too, but it hadn’t even occurred to me.

“Collazo’s already been here,” Jeannie said. Then she chuckled. “He was really pissed off that she still wouldn’t say anything to him or his translator. He gave up after about twenty minutes. Said I should tell you he wants to talk to you, wants to know if she’s said anything.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I said I didn’t know if she was talking to you or not.” Solange watched Jeannie’s face, then turned to wait for my reply.

“That’s good.”

“Hey, it’s also true. And I did pass on the message that he wants to see you, so I’ve done my part.” She reached across and threatened to tickle Solange. “Right, kiddo?”

Solange grinned and covered her sides in self-defense. Evidently she and Jeannie had played this game before.

She looked like an entirely different child from the one I had plucked from the sea just twenty-four hours earlier.

“Have you talked to a doctor? Know anything about how she’s doing?”

Jeannie shook her head. “Aside from someone bringing her lunch and taking the tray away, I haven’t seen anybody. And, by the way, Solange did eat this morning, and kept it down, even though it was some kind of pukey-looking mystery meat. For what they charge, they could provide better food.”

“They probably wouldn’t tell us anything anyway. We’re not next of kin.”

“Ha! You want me to find out?” Not waiting for an answer, she heaved herself up from the chair. “I’ll be right back.”

I set my shoulder bag down on the rolling table that held a water pitcher, cleared aside some Legos, and sat on the foot of the bed. “Are you feeling better?”

She nodded slowly, her head lowered. She twirled one of her braids and played with the beads on the rubber bands at the ends. Someone had rebraided her hair and added the pretty beads. Everyone else seemed to know what to do for a little girl.

“I want to help you, Solange, but I need you to help me. Do you understand?”

She nodded again.

“What is your last name?”

Her eyebrows came together and her forehead wrinkled. Her lower lip jutted out.

“My name is Seychelle Sullivan. You are Solange ...” I motioned with my hand for her to fill in the silence.

She shook her head. “Seulement Solange.” She imitated my motion. “Solange ... non.”

“You don’t know your last name?”

Her shoulders lifted, but she kept her eyes lowered.

I switched tacks. “Can you tell me about the trip to America? Start with Haiti. Do you know the name of the town you lived in?”

“Cap Haitien.”

“Good. And you told me you lived with a family there, as a restavek.”

She lowered her eyes at the word restavek. It seemed to make her ashamed.

“Did you go to school in Cap Haitien?”

She shook her head and still did not lift her head to look at me.

“Who put you on the boat to America?”

“The bad man.” Her voice was barely audible.

“The bad man who killed Erzulie?”

She nodded.

“How did you meet him?”

“Water. I bring water to house. Bad man talk to Madame Maillot.”

“Who is she?”

“I work in Madame house.”

“Had you ever seen this man there before?”

“No.”

“So you came back with the water and he was there talking to Madame Mayo. Then what happened?”

“I wash baby Christophe. Madame say no. She send me away with the bad man.”

“He took you to the boat?”

Her head bobbed once. “Erzulie was there,” she said.

“Anyone else?”

“Bad man. Le Capitaine.”

“The bad man, he was the captain of the big boat?”

Her beads bounced as her head bobbed up and down.

I picked my shoulder bag off the table and reached inside to retrieve the sunglasses I’d found on the Miss Agnes. “Have you ever seen these glasses before?” I knew before I’d finished speaking that she recognized the glasses from the look in her eyes. “Solange?” She continued to stare at the little white skulls.

“Capitaine bawon samdi.” She scrambled to the head of her bed, up on her pillows, trying to distance herself from the sunglasses and began making little squeaky, whining noises. She grabbed one of the pillows and tried to hide under it.

I put the glasses back in my shoulder bag. “Shhh. It’s okay. I don’t understand when you speak Creole, Solange. Did these belong to the captain of the big boat you were on with Erzulie?”

The curved black lashes fluttered several times and a fat tear slid from the corner of her eye, coursing a wet trail down her cheek. She nodded. “He say he take me to Papa, he say Papa want me—” Her rounded shoulders hitched up as she sucked in a quick breath. Her body looked like it was trying to curl into itself.

I slid up the bed, wrapped my arms around her shoulders, pressed her head against the curve of my neck, and rested my chin on her head. Her tiny body trembled with tight, convulsive sobs. As quickly as it had started, it stopped, and her breathing quieted back to a regular rhythm.

“Solange, I promise you, I will find your papa,” I whispered into the dark braids, knowing full well that in order to find her father, I would have to find a murderer first.

CHAPTER NINE

When Jeannie returned, she opened her mouth to speak, but I raised my finger to my lips. I’d just finished tucking the sheet under Solange’s chin, and I was standing there admiring her eyelashes, so long that each one formed a perfect letter C. I motioned Jeannie to go out into the corridor, and it wasn’t until we were both outside the door that I saw what she had been about to tell me. She had a federal escort.

“Nice to see you again, Seychelle,” Rusty said, smiling so broadly that the creases at the corners of his eyes looked like the spokes of a wire wheel.

“Can’t really say the same, Rusty.” He was in civilian clothes today, faded jeans and black T-shirt, sockless, raggedy-looking boat shoes. It was difficult not to notice the way the T-shirt tapered down from those broad shoulders to his trim waist and how those weathered jeans wrapped his hips neatly in denim. It could have been really nice to see him if he wasn’t employed by U.S. Immigration.

“How’s our patient?” he asked, inclining his shaggy head toward the door to Solange’s room.

“Our patient? No, no, no, my friend. You have no claim on her.” I turned to Jeannie. “Were you able to find a doctor?”

“Finally, yes, after walking through miles of hospital corridors and continually getting directions that had me following yellow lines and blue lines all over this friggin’ hospital. But yes, eventually I found this lovely woman doctor, a little bit of a thing. She said the kid is doing great. Much better than should be expected, the doc said, because Solange was malnourished long before this whole boat trip even started. But there’s no need to keep her in the hospital, as long as she is eating and drinking on her own. Doc said she’d be willing to cut her loose this evening.”

“Good,” Rusty said. “We’ll take her into custody. Cases like this we usually send down to Miami to the Girls and Boys Town facility there.”

“No way.” I turned to Jeannie, my mouth open, but she was talking before I could even ask.

“Listen, Elliot, I am both a court-approved guardian ad litem and a registered foster parent. She can stay in my home. Any judge would see that it would be in the best interests of a child who has been through this kind of trauma to be in a single-family home environment instead of some group home.”

Rusty shook his head. “I don’t know about that. The police will want to talk to her.”

“Exactly. They can talk to her at my home if they need to—and she’ll be closer. Don’t block this just to be pissy, Elliot. Think of the child.”

Rusty raised his hands in submission. “Okay, okay, I don’t have a problem with it, as long as she stays where we can see her, and”—he turned and looked straight at me—”you work with me on this. I’m not your enemy, so don’t try anything stupid.”

I tried my hardest to look innocent, to give him a “Who me?” look, but as usual, I felt guilty already. Whenever someone suspected me of something, even if I hadn’t even thought of it yet, I felt guilty.

“Also,” he continued, “I need to interview her officially, and I’d like your cooperation with that. I can’t get her to talk to me.”

Now I knew why I’d felt guilty. “It’s possible I could help you out there.”

“Go on,” Rusty said.

“It’s just possible she has talked a little bit to me.”

Jeannie looked at her watch. “Listen, Sey, I need to take care of some paperwork and buy a few extra things if I’m inheriting a little girl this afternoon. I don’t think she’d be thrilled with Spider-Man jockey shorts. You okay here?”

“Not a problem, Jeannie. You go on. I’ll see you later.” After Jeannie collected her things and left, I turned to go back into the girl’s hospital room.

Rusty touched my arm. “You hungry?”

Fifteen minutes later, Rusty returned with burgers, fries, and Cokes. I had been watching Solange sleep and wondering how I was going to keep this promise to find her father, wondering what my next step would be. I forgot about all of it when the room filled with the odor of french fries.

“Lunch is served,” he announced.

I held my finger to my lips and pointed at the sleeping child, then said in a whisper, “You’re going to drive the rest of the inmates mad with that smell. All they ever get is sugar-free Jell-O and low-fat mystery meat.”

Rusty dropped the paper bags onto the vacant bed close to the door, and he motioned for me to climb onto it. “I’ll take care of that.”

I kicked off my sneakers and snuggled my butt into the covers near the head of the bed as he grabbed the edge of the privacy curtain and drew it closed around us. He smiled and climbed onto the foot of the bed and settled himself, sitting Indian style, not looking nearly as comfortable in that position as B.J. did.

“They’ll never know we’re here,” he whispered as he emptied a mountain of fries onto a paper bag.

I attempted to raise one eyebrow, to give him a look that said “Yeah, right.” With the scent of french fries wafting down the hall? I said, “I can’t quite figure you out, Elliot. One minute you’re ‘the man,’ and the next minute you’re acting like a kid hiding from the nurses.”

From another bag, Rusty poured out some two dozen little pouches of catsup. “I like that. I like being complex.” He started ripping the catsup pouches open with his teeth and emptying them into a puddle on a waxy burger wrapper. “I hope you don’t like catsup. I need every one of these.”

When I ventured to dip a fry in his catsup lake, we ended up in a french fry sword fight.

Too bad he was the enemy. He was kind of fun.

After we’d finished off all but the little burnt stubs of fries, I leaned back against the headboard and laced my fingers behind my head. A feeling of contentment settled into my shoulders, relaxing muscles that had been tense for over twenty-four hours.

“How long you been running that tug?” he whispered.

“Full-time for a little more than two years. As a part-timer, all my life.”

“Must be nice, working on the water.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Looking at you, I’d say fisherman, light tackle, fresh and marine, got about an eighteen-foot Dusky on a trailer you don’t get to take out often enough.”

He smiled. “You’ve sure got me pegged. Only the boat isn’t on a trailer at the moment, and it’s not a Dusky.”

I raised both brows this time. “Go on.”

“She’s in the water at a place I’ve got in Hollywood on the Intracoastal, and she’s a twenty-five-foot Anacapri, built in 1976. Still got the original engines. A classic.”

“That boat’s not a classic,” I said. “It’s just old. What do you tow it with?”

“Another classic: a 1971 Datsun pickup.”

“Geez, how many miles?”

“Over three hundred thousand. ‘Course it’s not the original engine.”

“Now that’s just ancient.” I giggled. “And ugly.”

He didn’t laugh back. He had this deadly serious look on his face. “So what’s the difference? Between old and classic. To you,” he said.

I couldn’t help it. The look on his face. The more I tried to stop, the harder I laughed. Then I began to snort. I hate when that happens.

He was examining the detail in the acoustical ceiling tile. I was about ready to regurgitate french fries through my nose. That was when we heard Solange cry out as though she had been struck.

Rusty was the first one off the bed. He couldn’t find the edge of the curtain at first, and he pulled at the fabric and got tangled in it when it didn’t slide open as he expected. I saw a pair of sneakers run past beneath the hem of the curtain as Rusty struggled. Once he finally drew the curtain aside, we saw Solange, sitting up in bed, her eyes wide open, staring straight ahead.

“She okay?” I hollered as I slid off the bed and under the curtain on the door side of the room.

“Think so,” I heard Rusty say as I went out into the hall. I swung my head, checking both directions. There were several possibilities. To my right, there was a tall black male orderly pushing an empty wheelchair. To my left, a black female nurse and a white male orderly were leaning on the nurses’ station, talking. There were patients and visitors walking everywhere. The corridor was crowded with people wearing white sneakers. I jogged right and caught up to the man with the wheelchair just as he turned into a room.

“Good morning, Mrs. Johnson,” he said to the large lady in the bed. His Haitian accent was unmistakable. He reached down to lock the wheels on the wheelchair. “Are you ready to go to radiology?”

“Excuse me,” I said.

He turned and looked at me expectantly. He was a large man, well over six feet tall, and somewhere in age between forty and fifty. He had a thin mustache and a small goatee.

“Were you just in room four twenty-five?”

“No. Not me. I came from Patient Relations. Must have been somebody else.” He smiled and walked over to Mrs. Johnson to help her into the chair. He was very relaxed, and he looked like he was accustomed to wearing green scrubs. “How are you feeling today, pretty lady?” he asked the white-haired woman as he pulled back the covers on her bed. I noticed he wore large silver rings on three of the five fingers of his right hand. I couldn’t make out the designs. “Let’s go, dear.”

He lifted the heavy-set woman from her bed as though she weighed next to nothing. His name tag said “Todd,” but he didn’t look like a Todd to me. As he swung the older woman around to the wheelchair, he saw I was still standing there. “Is there anything else I can help you with?” He settled the woman into the chair, then turned to look expectantly at me.

I backed out of the room. “No, thanks,” I said. I checked down the hall in the other direction, but the nurse and orderly were gone.

Rusty came charging out of room 425, and I headed back down the hall to hear what he had found. By the time I got there, he was standing nose to nose with the cop in front of the nurses’ station.

“What the hell do you mean, you didn’t see anything? Somebody was just in there.”

The female Haitian nurse who had been so kind yesterday hurried into Solange’s room.

“Is she all right?” I asked.

“She seems to be okay,” Rusty said, not taking his eyes off the other cop.

“I mean I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary,” the duty officer said.

“Maybe you were distracted by something else.” Rusty thrust his chin toward Jenna.

“People have been coming and going all day,” the officer said. “I’ve been watching. Hell, you were in there. Why didn’t you see anything?”

Rusty turned away without answering that question. No matter how he worded it, it wouldn’t sound good.

I left them arguing and tried to go into Solange’s room. The Haitian nurse waved me off, motioning me back outside. She had the blood pressure cuff on the child’s arm.

I crossed to the desk and slipped behind the counter. “Jenna, do you know a guy who works here named Todd?”

She rolled her eyes and sucked her teeth. “Yes. What did he say now?”

“Nothing really, I was just wondering, what does he look like?”

“Oh. He’s like really old, and he’s always telling people I’m his ‘honey.’ He’s too gross.”

The Todd I’d seen was no more than fifteen years older than me, but then again, that might qualify as “really old” to this girl. “Can you give me more of a description? Is he tall, short, white, black?”

“He’s like this little old retired white guy, and I think the only reason he volunteers here is to rub up against me every chance he gets. Old pervert.”

Definitely not my Todd. “Any other guys here with that name? How about an orderly, a tall Haitian guy about forty?” She shook her head so that her blond hair flew out in a golden arc, then smiled at the cop, who had turned his attention from Rusty back to Jenna. “No, nobody here like that unless he’s new,” she said to the cop, who nodded as though he understood what she’d just said.

I grabbed Rusty’s arm. “Come on.” He was striding next to me, trying to keep up without breaking into a trot to match mine.

“Where are we going?”

We rounded the corner into Mrs. Johnson’s room. She sat there alone in the wheelchair, nodding off.

“Mrs. Johnson?”

She jerked her head up, startled.

“Where’s the orderly who was just in here with you?” I asked.

“He said he’d be right back,” she assured me. “I think he might have had to go to the little boy’s room, you know. He just left real sudden, like he had to go, if you know what I mean.”

“What’s going on, Seychelle?” Rusty asked.

I stepped out into the hall and looked in both directions. “Which way did he go, Mrs. Johnson?”

“I’m sorry, dear, I wasn’t paying much attention. Is something wrong? I did think it was a little odd. I didn’t remember anything about radiology today, but you know how it is, when you come into this place, you just stop asking questions after a while.”

“That was him,” I said, and slapped my hand against my thigh.

Rusty sighed, shook his head, and started walking back to Solange’s room. I followed him. This time we were allowed back in. Solange was now on her side in a fetal position, facing the window, her back to the room. When I got to the foot of her bed, I saw her eyes were open, staring out the window. The Haitian nurse looked very troubled as she placed a moistened cloth on the child’s brow.

“How’s she doing?” I asked.

The nurse shrugged.

I turned to Rusty. “I thought you said she was okay.”

“She was just like that when I got to her,” Rusty said. “She doesn’t look hurt.”

I turned to the nurse. “What happened? What did that guy do?”

“What guy?” Rusty asked.

When I explained about seeing the feet under the curtain, Rusty’s face told me what he thought of my story. Typical cop reaction—he didn’t want to believe he’d missed something.

“She is right, that Jenna,” the nurse said. “We have many Haitians working here, but no one by that name.”

I moved in closer, next to the nurse, and asked her, “So what did he do to her? Why’s she like that?”

“It is difficult to say.”

“We heard her cry out, like he was hurting her.”

“I checked her all over, and I cannot find any injuries, no injection site, and the symptoms came on too quickly for it to be something she was given by mouth. I have called for her doctor. She will give her a more thorough examination, but I don’t think she will find anything.”

“What happened, then? Why is she like that?”

“I think…” She paused, as though choosing her words very carefully. “He hurt her here.” She pointed to her head. “He said something, and now it is in her mind, and it frightens her. She is from Haiti, and we are very superstitious in Haiti. Our beliefs are very different from yours.”

“Are you saying he put a curse on her?”

Her brow wrinkled. “Something like that. We must let her sleep. We hope she will be better when she wakes.”

The duty officer stepped into the room and motioned for us to follow him outside.

“Collazo’s on his way over. He said to tell you not to leave. He wants to talk to both of you.”

I pointed down to the waiting area on the far side of the nurses’ station. “I’ll be right back. I need to make a phone call.”

After scrounging thirty-five cents out of the side pocket of my shoulder bag, I dialed Jeannie’s number. Disappointed when I got her answering machine, I left her a message explaining about the incident at the hospital and telling her to keep it very quiet about Solange staying with her. “Somebody out there definitely wants to get to her,” I said before hanging up, “and we’d better keep her whereabouts a secret.” Rusty was buying a soda out of the machine, and he held it up to me with raised eyebrows.

“No thanks, I’ve had enough.” The junk food congealing in my stomach felt like an indigestible lump. I sat down on one of the chairs in the waiting area, and Rusty joined me. The silence between us stretched out until I felt the impossible happen. I was actually looking forward to seeing Collazo.

The elevator doors finally slid open, and Collazo stepped out with an attractive light-skinned black woman in a dark suit. She looked too confident and competent and “in charge” to be a local cop.

“Hi, Maria,” Rusty said, and he stepped up to shake her hand. Manicured, buffed nails, no polish.

“Rusty, what a pleasure.”

Something passed between them, a look or a spark. I could feel the heat. Out of nowhere, I wondered if they had slept together. He turned to me. “Seychelle Sullivan, this is Special Agent Maria D’Ugard, FBI.”

Her grip was beyond firm. Her grip said Wonder Woman. “Sullivan. You’re the tug captain who found them.” She flashed me a two-second smile showing perfect white teeth that contrasted beautifully with her flawless cocoa-colored skin. Standing in front of her in my jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers, I felt like a kid in the principal’s office.

“That’s right.”

The uniformed officer brought over a couple of chairs and then returned to his post, but not before checking out Agent D’Ugard from head to toe. At least I was glad to see he had moved his chair just outside the doorway to Solange’s room. Collazo did not remove his jacket as he and the woman sat down opposite us, but he did take a handkerchief from his breast pocket, ready to mop the sweat. D’Ugard crossed her legs to put her rock-hard calves on display. “Tell us what happened here,” she said.

Rusty jerked his head up, and we both started to speak at the same time.

“Go ahead,” I said. “You tell them.” He gave them a fairly straightforward version of what happened.

Collazo said, “You’re certain there was someone in the room who did or said something to frighten the girl.”

“No doubt,” Rusty said. “The girl’s safety was my first concern, however, and by the time I got to the corridor, the perp was gone.”

Interesting. When I saw him charge out of the room, there was no indication of his looking for a perp. Was he stretching the truth to look good for Wonder Woman?

“I’d like to have us all put our heads together on this,” Agent D’Ugard began. “Miss Sullivan, we are going to share some information that is privileged. I trust you will not share this information with anyone else.”

I nodded.

“We”—she made a circle in the air with her index finger— “local police, Immigration, and FBI, together with the Coast Guard, as an interagency group, have been conducting an investigation into an immigrant smuggling ring based in the Bahamas.”

“Yeah, Collazo told me. It’s called DART, right?”

She flicked her eyes in Collazo’s direction, and even I could feel the rebuke. “Yes, well, while we are concerned about the recent deaths, there are larger concerns. From the condition of the boats we’ve intercepted and of their cargo, we think they have traveled only a very short distance, probably from the Bahamas.”

Tough lady, I thought. She can refer to men, women, and children as cargo?

“Originally,” she continued, “it was just a local matter, but when these murders started, the FBI was brought in. Assuming they are taking place as this one did, beyond the twelve-mile limit, then they come under the category of ‘crimes on the high seas’ and only the federal government has jurisdiction.”

“The Border Patrol,” Rusty said, “became aware of an increase in undocumenteds around March. As the seas calmed down this spring, we’ve seen numbers like we’ve never seen before.”

“Miss Sullivan, this immigrant smuggling group is highly organized and efficient,” Agent D’Ugard continued. “It’s not unusual for them to lose boats like the Miss Agnes—they don’t care, as they have plenty more. At prices ranging from several hundred dollars to seven or eight thousand per head, smugglers are finding that transporting immigrants is as lucrative and less dangerous than the drug trade. If they get caught, the sentences are lighter than they are for drugs, too. We’ve seen quite a lot of crossover from the one trade to the other.”

“I get all that. I’ve seen the changes in the marinas. I know there are lots of go-fast boats switching over to human cargo. But your whole DART thing is about the murders, right?”

“That is one facet of the investigation, but stopping this entire organization engaged in human trafficking is my first priority. Miss Sullivan, this is more than just an assignment to me. It’s personal. My family immigrated to this country from the Dominican Republic.” I was surprised when she said that, as she had no accent. “These people are preying on Dominicans, Haitians, Chinese, East Indians, people from all over. The importers are increasingly brazen, and they don’t care about the lives of their cargo, as they have already been paid.”

“But why kill people? They’re in business to smuggle them in. I don’t get that part.”

“They do it because they can. If anyone complains about the conditions on a boat, they kill one person, and that silences the rest. We suspect that last fall they dumped an entire load of Haitians out in the Gulf Stream when they thought they were being intercepted. A local fishing boat found several bodies, but most of the others were never recovered. Sources in Haiti estimate there had been thirty people on that trip.” She leaned forward, over her crossed legs, and looked directly at Rusty. “We believe there is one man leading this group. Although we have not been able to identify him, we know he is extremely dangerous. He has absolutely no regard for human life.”

Although it seemed like I was intruding into a personal meeting between Rusty and Agent D’Ugard, I said, “Okay, I get it. There’s some really bad guy out there trafficking in human beings. What does this have to do with me?”

All three of them looked at one another as though trying to decide who would speak first. Agent D’Ugard seemed to draw the short straw.

“We believe that this young girl can identify several key players as well as the location of their camp in the Bahamas. Has she spoken yet?”

It had been fairly easy to dodge this issue up until now, but here I was being asked while surrounded by three cops of one sort or another. “Yeah, she has spoken to me a couple of times.” They all hitched up on their plastic chairs. “But that was before this incident in her room just now. I’m not sure what happened to her in there, but I don’t know if I’m going to be able to get her to open up again. I mean, this morning she was playing with toys and acting like a pretty normal kid. Now, she looks like some kind of zombie.”

“You don’t really think—” Rusty began.

“No, I’m not talking about Voodoo like in the movies. But let’s face it, after what she’s been through, she must be pretty fragile psychologically. Think about what she’s seen. She was in a boat with a dead woman watching seagulls eat the woman’s flesh.” I paused for a moment to let that one sink in. “So go easy on her, okay? Here’s what I’ve found out so far. Her name is Solange, but she doesn’t know her last name. She was a restavek, basically a child slave, in Haiti, in the town of Cap Haitien. A man she refers to as ‘the bad man’ was the captain of the boat that brought her out of Haiti. He came to her house and took her away to a boat that took them to the Bahamas.”

Wonder Woman interrupted me. “She is certain this man was the captain of the boat?”

I shrugged. “She seemed to be. She said they stayed in the Bahamas quite a while, and then they got on another big boat—possibly the Miss Agnes—to come here. The same man captained both boats.”

“What about the dead woman? Did the child know her?” Rusty asked.

“She said she was no relation, but she seemed to watch out for Solange, even in the Bahamas. Her name was Erzulie, I think. Oh yeah, and the kid says her father is an American, that she learned to speak her English from him. She doesn’t know his name, just that everyone called him Papa Blan— that means white father—and she was under the impression she was coming to America to be with him.”

“She saw who killed the woman,” Collazo said.

“She says the bad man did it. It wasn’t really clear whether she witnessed it, or was just told he did it. All I know is she’s terrified of him.”

Agent D’Ugard said, “Miss Sullivan, if she can identify this man as the captain of the Miss Agnes and the killer, then that little girl is in serious jeopardy. I believe we should take her into protective custody.”

“Isn’t that what you have here?” I pointed to her room. “A cop outside her door? And isn’t this where somebody just got to her? Come on. It’s not like this is some big mob case. I know she’s not going to be high priority to you guys. My attorney, Jeannie Black, has offered to take her in.” I told them about Jeannie’s background providing foster care and about the security she could provide. To my astonishment, they relented.

We shook hands all around, and then they wanted to see Solange. She was still curled up on her side and her hands were clenched in small fists, resting against her forehead. D’Ugard and Elliot took quick looks, as though they couldn’t bear to look at her, and then left to go have a little private tȇte-à-tȇte in front of the elevator.

Collazo stopped me outside her room. “There is something more. Something you didn’t tell us.”

Leave it to Collazo. It was like the guy had a sixth sense and always knew what I was thinking. “Well, there was something, but Mr. Border Patrol thinks it was nothing.” I told him then about seeing the sneakers under the curtain and chasing down the dubious Todd.

“We know somebody was in there, and I think he was the guy.”

Collazo nodded and took out that little notebook of his and wrote some notes, then stepped in way too close. I could feel the humid heat coming off his body, and I could smell his sweat. “You need to come in to sign a formal statement about finding the body yesterday. Maybe sit with an artist to sketch this orderly. I’ll drive you over right now. Elliot can stay with the girl, and I’ll have an officer drive you back.”

“Okay. I’ll ask him.”

I turned from Collazo and watched Rusty leaning casually against the wall, his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, drawing the fabric tight across his backside, while Wonder Woman leaned in to him, talking with her hands more than her mouth. He had a little half-smile on his face that made him look like he was enjoying every motion she made. I was glad to interrupt them.

CHAPTER TEN

Collazo wasn’t present while a female officer took my official statement. He’d heard the story already and, for once, he wasn’t accusing me of holding anything back. When it had been transcribed and I’d signed it, the woman called in an artist, and we ended with an okay likeness of the man I’d seen at the hospital. I was amazed at how little I really remembered of his face beyond the mustache and beard. When it came to the shape of eyes, nose, and ears, I just hadn’t paid enough attention.

I went upstairs to Collazo’s desk in the back of the room full of detectives’ desks. He sat with his jacket draped over the back of his chair, his head bent over a mound of paperwork.

I sat in the chair opposite him. “Hey, does the Fort Lauderdale PD have a Haitian officer?”

He shook his head without looking up.

“You’re kidding,” I said. “How many people work here?”

“Something like five hundred. The translator I brought with me is a civilian, an outside contractor.”

“You mean you don’t have anyone who speaks Creole working for Fort Lauderdale PD? Man, you guys need to open your eyes. Look around at this city.”

For just a second, he flicked his eyes up at me. “They don’t consult me on their hiring decisions.”

“Collazo, you are a piece of work.” It was kind of nice not to be adversaries, to be cooperating with the detective. He stopped writing and looked up at me. He held his gold pen in front of his face, his hands clasped around it. He seemed to be deciding something.

“You need to get this girl to talk to me,” he said.

This was a moment to remember. Collazo needed my help. I could be nasty and rub his nose in it, but I decided it would be smarter to use the moment.

“You got any kids, Collazo?”

“No,” he grunted, and went back to his paperwork.

“Me neither,” I said.

“Just get her to talk to me.”

I leaned across his desk. “There’s something about this kid. She gets to me. I’ve never even liked kids before. But this one... it’s something about how she looks at me, I think. She totally believes that I can help her. Do you think that’s what it’s like to be a parent? I don’t know. It scares me.”

He looked up from his paperwork. “Miss Sullivan, we are through here.”

“You just want to get to Solange before Miss FBI does, huh?”

He shot me a look that was supposed to deny my accusation but had the opposite effect.

“I might be able to help you, but I need something from you as well. Can you give me the name of your Creole translator?”

He pulled a yellow Post-it pad to him and wrote down a name and number. “She works for a radio station out in Davie—they do Caribbean shows, reggae, that kind of music. You can usually find her there or leave a message.” He tore off the note and handed it to me.

“Okay, the kid has been talking to me. I don’t know what’s wrong with her right now, but as soon as she comes out of it, I’ll call you.”

He nodded and bowed his head over his paperwork again.

“So, anyway, nice talking to you. And thanks,” I said, standing up and holding out the Post-it note. “This is weird, us working together all nice like this. You haven’t even accused me of anything yet. I hardly recognize you.” I smiled at the top of his head and turned toward the door.

“We’re not working together, Sullivan,” he said to my back. “You’re not working anything. Go back to your little tugboat.”

I turned back at the door. “Ah, there you are, the Detective Collazo we all know and love.” I waved my fingers at him. “Bye.”

It was after four o’clock by the time the officer dropped me off at the entrance to Broward General. Rusty was gone, Jeannie had returned, and Solange was unchanged. Jeannie motioned me over to the far side of the room. I brought her up-to-date on what had happened. We spoke in whispered tones because of the cop outside the door. Solange seemed more unconscious than asleep.

“There are two ways we can do this,” Jeannie said. “I could go out and get the paperwork done legally and get myself appointed as her temporary guardian. That might take several days and then any yahoo who is out looking for her would be able to trace her to me. Or we could snatch her. Personally, since I don’t really want any machete-wielding Haitians showing up at my house tonight, I vote for number two.”

“Wouldn’t that be like kidnapping or something? I’m not up for doing something that might get me sent to jail.”

“Nah, not to worry. We’ll let Mr. Greenjeans know we’ve got her, and he agreed to her staying with me. I don’t see it as a problem. We just don’t want to leave a forwarding address here at the hospital.”

“Okay, what do we do?”

Jeannie outlined her plan, which involved me getting Solange to the side door, where Jeannie would be waiting with her van. Out in the hallway, I set about stealing a wheelchair. I headed for Mrs. Johnson’s room first and got lucky.

Jeannie had already pulled out the IV and was sticking a Band-Aid on the girl’s arm when I wheeled the empty chair into the room. She gave me a brown bag with clothing in it. “We’ll dress her and then put the hospital gown back on over her street clothes.”

It was like dressing a doll. Her head rolled around as we lifted her frail body, pushing her feet into the legs of the shorts and her arms into the T-shirt sleeves. We slipped yellow Big Bird slippers on her feet. “I know these aren’t exactly inconspicuous, but they’re the only kid slippers I’ve got. Andrew loved Big Bird, had to have everything Big Bird for a while there.”

“Jeannie, are you sure she’s okay? Maybe she needs to stay here in the hospital.”

“Some kids are like this, Sey. They sleep the sleep of the dead. You could set a bomb off next to my boys and it wouldn’t wake them. She’s going to be fine.”

“How are we going to get her past him?” I pointed to the doorway.

“There’s another set of elevators if you go left and follow the yellow line down the corridor and around to the right. Take the hospital gown off her just before you get into the elevator, in a room if you have to, and then carry her like she’s just a sleeping child visiting someone. When you exit the elevators, go right and find the east parking lot exit. I’ll be out there in the van. Don’t leave the room until you hear me calling for the police.”

She took her car keys and then handed me her purse. “I’m about to get mugged,” she said.

Solange was propped up in the wheelchair, the basket of toys on her lap helping to keep her upright. I was afraid that some nurse or orderly would show up at any minute to take her blood pressure, change her IV, or bring her another hospital meal. I saw Jeannie get on the elevator and disappear behind the closed doors. It seemed to be taking forever. Every time the elevator doors opened, I strained my ears, listening for some indication of Jeannie’s distraction. When it came, I realized there was no way I could have missed it.

“Help! Police!” she bellowed. I heard the chair in front of the door scrape across the linoleum as the officer leapt to his feet. “Help! My purse! He took my purse!”

When I wheeled Solange out the door, all the women in the nursing station were leaning over the counter, staring at the floor of the open elevator. The policeman was bent over, his hand on the back of his neck in a gesture of misery as he contemplated what I assumed was Jeannie flat on her back. It would take some time to get her upright. We scooted down the hall, and no one paid us the slightest attention. Good thing, too, since hanging from my shoulder was the very purse Jeannie was claiming had been stolen.

As I rounded the corner, I saw a group of people at the far end of the corridor waiting for the elevator. No privacy there. I glanced in the rooms on either side of the hall and turned into the first one that had an empty bed. I ignored the moans from behind the other bed’s curtain, parked the wheelchair, took the basket of toys off the kid’s lap, and slid the hospital gown to the floor. The rigging knife from my shoulder bag cut through the plastic ID bracelet on her wrist. I hoisted her onto my hip, rested her head on my shoulder, and grabbed the basket of toys in my free hand.

I joined the crowd waiting for the elevator and when one arrived I squeezed in.

A little man with a white bushy mustache and a porkpie hat looked up at me. “She looks pretty tired,” he said.

I hate it when people want to talk in an elevator. “Yeah,” I said, “we were visiting her mom, and the excitement wore her out.” The elevator stopped at the next floor down, and two more people squeezed in.

“What’s wrong with her mother?”

Geez, what’s wrong with these people? “She was in a car accident. Internal injuries, broken pelvis, may be paralyzed.” That ought to get him, I thought. Nothing will silence people like saying someone’s paralyzed.

“Oh, but you got on at the fourth floor. She’s not on the fourth floor, is she?”

The doors slid open at that point, and I nearly fell out the opening. The lobby. Finally. I nodded at the little old guy and headed off down the corridor. For such a skinny kid, Solange sure was getting heavy. I’m a strong woman, but my left arm felt like cooked spaghetti. I saw the sunlight through the glass double doors that led out to the side parking lot, and I picked up my pace.

“Miss, hello, miss...” A voice and footsteps were coming up behind me. I tried taking longer strides, but I felt Solange slipping, my arms giving out.

“Miss! Please, stop.”

I heard heavy breathing right behind me, and the plaintive note in the voice made me turn. It was Mr. Porkpie Hat. He was leaning over, his hands on his knees, his face so red he looked like a heart attack in the making. He was holding a bright yellow fuzzy Big Bird slipper. “You... dropped ... a shoe,” he said, gasping for air.

I took the shoe from his extended hand. “Uh, thanks. Sorry.” I fast-walked the remaining twenty feet and was glad to see the doors were self-opening. I wouldn’t be required to lift one hand.

Just as I got to the curb, Jeannie’s van came around the corner from the north-side parking lot, doing well over thirty miles per hour. At least if she hit someone, it would be a short trip to the emergency room. I threw the basket of toys in through the open passenger-side window and slid the van’s side door open. Solange flopped down on the bench seat and, for the first time in our whole ordeal, her eyes opened, but they remained unfocused.

“It’s okay,” I said as I jumped in and slid the door closed. “We’re taking you to Jeannie’s house. You’re going to live with her for a little while.” Jeannie took off a little hotter than was necessary, but she seemed to be enjoying her role as getaway driver. I made sure Solange was comfortable on the seat and buckled her in, then I climbed into the front seat. “How’d you get out of there so fast? Last I saw, you were on your back in the elevator.”

“I let that nice young officer lift me to my feet.”

That, I would’ve liked to see.

“And then I said I would go down to the front lobby security desk to report my missing purse. I think he was rather glad, actually. He seemed to be in a bit of pain.” She didn’t take her eyes off the road, but her body shook as she laughed to herself. “I’d left the van parked in the No Parking area right by the front door.”

That explained what had taken her so long to stage her mugging. I jerked my thumb toward the back of the van. “She’s awake, but she’s just staring. Still not talking.”

“Give her time.”

Jeannie circled back and dropped me off a block from the hospital so that I could pick up my Jeep. I said good-bye to Solange but got just a blank stare in return.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I was disappointed to find my cottage empty when I returned home. I’d been hoping Pit would be there, lounging on my couch after his afternoon of windsurfing off the MacArthur Causeway, waiting to regale me with stories about his travels and his quest for the perfect combination of wind and wave.

I have two brothers, and they could not be more different. Our parents had this crazy idea of naming all their children after islands, and sometimes it was a struggle as we were growing up, being saddled with these weird names. Pitcairn’s name fits him, as he’s spent his life roaming from island to island. Pit is the brother I get along with best, the brother I adore. Madagascar, the oldest, is, well, Maddy. When we were kids, if we were eating cookies and I had finished mine first, Pit would share his last cookie with me. Maddy, on the other hand, would snatch the halves out of both our hands and laugh. In school, Pit was the athlete; Maddy was the fat kid. The girls were all crazy about Pit even though he was more interested in the daily surf report. Maddy tried to bully the weaker kids to get the girls’ attention. Pit seemed to glide through life effortlessly, while Maddy was always suffering from demons—most recently his addiction to gambling. I love both my brothers, but even when you’re related, some people are more difficult to like than others.

Abaco was giving me the look that all dog owners know, the one that says, “You’ve been neglecting me, you don’t love me anymore.” The great thing about dogs is that they have such blessed short memories. I reached for the leash, and all was forgotten and forgiven. She leapt and spun in midair, full of pure doggy joy.

I’d just snapped her leash onto her collar when the phone rang.

“Hey, Seychelle, it’s Joe here. I just thought I’d call to see how you’re doing.”

“I’m fine.”

“That’s good to hear. It was nice seeing you at the beach this morning.”

This guy was more than twenty years older than me. While I found the attention flattering, and I did consider him attractive, I felt the need to change the subject—fast.

“Joe, I just got home from the hospital and my dog is desperate to go out.”

“You were visiting your little friend? How is she?”

“Physically, she’s fine. The doctors say that in spite of how skinny the kid is, she’s in good health. She’s bounced right back from the exposure.”

“You know, if there’s any way I can help, I’d like to.” “Well, that’s really kind of you, but—”

“I’m serious. At my age, you want to be helping the next generation. It’s the least I can do for Red’s daughter.”

I liked hearing that. It had been a while since I had thought of myself as a daughter. Maybe I was misreading Joe. Maybe he just needed to feel like a father as much as I yearned to be a daughter again.

“You know I’m retired,” he continued, “and sometimes I get kind of bored. I don’t have enough to do. I know people, I’ve got access to information, and maybe I can help you find her dad. I’m just offering.”

I thanked him and promised I would call him if I needed assistance. In fact, I doubted I would ever make that call. Maybe it was a result of having grown up, from age eleven on, in an all-male household, but I had a very difficult time asking for help.

Abaco and I were about halfway down my block, going very slowly as the dog sniffed every single bush and tuft of grass, when B.J.’s black El Camino pulled up alongside.

“I was hoping you’d be home,” he said. “I brought dinner.” He pointed to several white paper bags resting on the seat next to him.

“Great.” I tried to sound enthusiastic. It’s not that I wasn’t happy to see him, but after living with him for a couple of months, I knew what his version of dinner might be. Granted, after two days of burgers, it would probably do me good, but why did B.J.’s version of good have to taste so yucky? “The cottage is open. I’ll just let Abaco sniff a while longer, and I’ll see you back there.”

When I returned and let Abaco off the leash in the backyard, she ran straight back to the dock where B.J. sat with legs dangling over the water. She licked his ears, and he scratched hers. She soon began groaning in pleasure as his magic fingers did their work. I smiled as I sat next to them. I could relate.

B.J. handed me an icy Corona. He was drinking from a plastic bottle of Florida spring water. “The food’s all ready, I just wanted to sit out here for a bit. Enjoy the river. How’s the little Earth Angel doing?”

“Not good. I mean, she’s recovering from the exposure at sea faster than expected, but something happened at the hospital today.” I hesitated, reluctant to tell the story again, but B.J. just waited quietly until I was ready to start.

We watched a small outboard chugging its way up the river as I talked. An older black man and a boy were in the inflatable dinghy, but with a mere four horsepower, the craft was barely able to make any headway against the current.

“I followed this one guy, a tall Haitian who was dressed and acting like an orderly. He seemed normal enough at the time. I even spoke to him, but I didn’t realize until later that he was probably the one who did it.”

“Did what, exactly?”

“Well, I don’t really know for sure. That’s where it gets weird. None of us saw it, and he was with her for only a few seconds. They couldn’t find any evidence that he had fed her anything or given her an injection, but now she acts like she’s drugged or in a trance. There’s a Haitian nurse who works there at Broward General. She as much as said that she thinks this guy put a curse on her. The kid won’t talk. She just stares straight ahead. She acts like a zombie.” I watched his face to gauge his reaction.

“Hmm. Zombies. Everybody in America hears ‘Haiti’ and thinks Voodoo and zombies.”

“I said like a zombie. I don’t think he really turned her into a zombie. I don’t believe in that stuff.”

“You don’t?” B.J.’s eyebrows arched high.

“Hell, no.”

“You might be surprised at what goes on down there. Don’t be so quick to write it off as silly superstition. There’s a great deal about this world that we still don’t understand, that our science can’t explain.”

“Come on, B.J., zombies?”

“Haiti is so close to the United States, and yet we know almost nothing about it. Did you know, you can do graduate work in world religions in this country and never study Voodoo? Yet they’re right there,” he said, extending his arm out in front of him, his flat palm indicating how close. “Like six million of them, and nearly all of them are Voodoo practitioners. There’s a saying: ‘Haiti is ninety percent Catholic and a hundred percent Voodoo.’ “

I knew one of B.J.’s degrees was in comparative religions, but I didn’t know his expertise extended to Voodoo. “How much do you know about it?”

“Not that much. I’ve read some. I know that it is a real religion, even if to most Westerners it sounds like a bunch of superstitious mumbo jumbo. But if you think about it, Christianity would sound that way if you were hearing about it for the first time.”

“Okay, but we don’t go poking little pins in dolls.”

He rolled his eyes at me. “Sey, Voodoo is a monotheistic religion, which means its followers believe in one supreme being. Not so different, right?”

“Okay.” I smiled. It was really fun sometimes to poke at him when he got all serious. “But what about the zombies and the dolls?”

He ignored my question. “Voodoo originated in West Africa, and in the last three centuries, a lot of Catholicism has been blended into the mix. Voodooists believe in over two hundred different spirits, and many of them are now intertwined with Catholic saints. For example, an altar to their mother spirit—I forget her name—might include photos or statues of the Virgin Mary. They call upon these spirits much as Catholics call upon their saints.”

“Geez, B.J., should I be taking notes?”

He squinted. “You’re making fun of me.”

“No. It’s just that you’re very cute when you lecture.”

He smiled. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to get carried away. Sometimes I can’t help it.”

“I know.”

“I’ve just always felt that Haiti and her culture have gotten a bad rap. Like you said, you thought this child was acting like a zombie. That’s how most Americans see Haiti: black magic, Voodoo dolls, witchcraft, zombies. It’s not your fault. You’ve been fed that image. When a Voodooist enters into a trance—or is ‘possessed’—it is an absolutely amazing thing to see. I’ve only seen it on video, myself. These people are in altered states brought about by their spiritual beliefs. You said this girl Solange has had a curse put on her. Whether you believe in such things or not doesn’t really matter. We may not share her beliefs, but she is in an altered state, and she needs a hougan or a mambo to help her get out of it”

My head jerked up. “What did you say?”

“That’s what you call the priests and priestesses of Voodoo. The men are called hougans and the women are called mambos.”

“This morning I visited this woman, Racine Toussaint. Remember? From that card I found on the Miss Agnes? I met her husband, but I couldn’t see her, he said, because she was too busy. I liked him, but there was something creepy about the house and how he acted. But he referred to her as Mambo Racine. He asked me to bring Solange back to see the mambo.”

“It could be your best bet for this kid. If it is Voodoo that has caused her to be in this state, it’s going to take Voodoo, not Western medicine, to cure her.”

I brought my heels up to the edge of the dock and wrapped my arms around my legs. Part of me wanted to curl into a ball and make all this go away. “B.J., I don’t know what to believe. It was pretty strange today up in Pompano. I wish you could have been there. This house, this man, the way he talked about stuff I didn’t really understand. And then he got all agitated when I told him about the body of that woman who was found in the boat with Solange. He kept repeating her name over and over. He said, ‘Erzulie, Erzulie, I wonder if Mambo Racine knows’ or something like that.”

B.J. snapped his fingers and pointed at me. “That’s it. That’s the name I couldn’t remember. Erzulie is the name of the Voodoo mother spirit.”

B.J. had already set the table with place mats and napkins and little paper packets of wooden chopsticks. All the junk that had been on the table was neatly stacked on the bar that separated my kitchen from the combination living room/ dining room. In the center of the table was a plate that contained what looked like an assortment of colorful little packages, like a miniature birthday party. None of it looked like anything I would refer to as food.

“What’s that?” I pointed to the pile of presents.

“Sushi,” he said with a mischievous smile. “You’re gonna love it.”

That was B.J. He knew very well that I was not going to love it. I don’t like being forced to try new things. Especially pretty things. Food was not supposed to be that pretty.

I piled twin peaks of white rice and some kind of noodles onto my plate and then took the smallest, least fancy-looking little package. B.J. just sat there beaming.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” I asked him.

“Yeah, eventually. I just don’t want to miss any of this.” He nodded in the direction of my plate.

With the wooden chopsticks in hand, I grasped the sushi roll and nibbled a little off one end. It wasn’t half bad. B.J. looked so expectant. He didn’t think I could do it. Just to show him I wasn’t a total wuss, I chomped off a big bite.

The heat started to grow in my mouth. In an instant, my tongue felt like it had turned into glowing charcoal briquettes. After nearly tripping over my chair, I made it to the fridge, grabbed a beer, twisted off the top, and began to chug-a-lug.

B.J. almost fell out of his chair, he was laughing so hard.

“What the hell was that?” I said before taking another swig of beer.

“You picked the one that Sagami’s refers to as the kamikaze roll.” He took a deep breath and tried to make his face look serious. “They’re not all hot like that. Try another.”

“Oh, sure,” I said.

B.J. was trying so hard to control his laughter, but his chest and shoulders kept bouncing as more chuckles burbled to the surface.

I finished the beer, then crossed back to the table and proceeded to drown the rice and noodles on my plate in soy sauce. I pushed the grains of rice around my plate, not eating and not talking. I refused to look up, even when I heard his chair scrape back and B.J. came up behind me and put his fingers on my shoulders. Ever since I was a little girl with two older brothers, I’ve turned very cranky whenever anybody teased me, which was fairly often.

His fingers pushed deep into the tense muscles on either side of my neck, and I tried, unsuccessfully, to suppress the little shiver that ran up my back. The heat from his touch traveled down my arms and made my fingers tingle. Actually, my fingers weren’t the only part of me tingling. He alternated deep muscle massage with a feather touch on my neck.

I knew I should tell him to stop. He wasn’t playing fair. We were supposed to be taking a break, but when I opened my mouth to speak, he ran his hands down my arms, and all that came out were two sharp little gasps for breath. I turned, looked up at him, and then closed my eyes.

I was the first one to push back and break away from the kiss.

“B.J., I—”

He walked around the table, sat, and, smiling, filled his plate with the colorful rolls and began to eat with those precise bites of his, the careful chewing. He was wearing a bright yellow T-shirt with some kind of surfer logo on the front. The fabric set off his teak-colored skin. I watched him fork the last bite of a roll into his mouth, watched his full lips as he chewed.

I was still trying to catch my breath and make the aching go away, and he acted as though nothing had happened.

“Good sushi, huh?” he asked, his eyes sparkling with the message that he was enjoying every moment of my misery.

Why was I pushing this man out of my life? Okay, so he ate weird food. But otherwise, what was the problem? That he wanted to start a family? I thought of Joe, yearning to retrieve his lost family. And then there was Collazo. Geez, I sure as hell didn’t want to end up like Collazo. Was my life alone with my dog and my boat really such a great life?

That was it: The answer was yes. I enjoyed my river, my routines, my rhythms. That was how I defined myself. Sometimes, when making love to B.J., it felt as though I disappeared. I became pure sensation—and it scared the hell out of me. What if I gave in to that, and the me I now know turned into something else? And worse yet, if I let that happen, and B.J. did as B.J. had always done, what would I have left after he went away?

He wiped his mouth carefully with his napkin, crumpled it, and tossed it onto his plate. I glanced down at my still-folded napkin on the table. Oh yeah, I thought. I kind of forgot about that. It’s not something I worry about when it’s just me and Abaco. I wiped my own mouth.

“What’s all that stuff?” B.J. pointed at the gear in the corner of the living room.

“Pit’s in town,” I said, glad that we had found a neutral subject to discuss so my heart rate could ease back to normal. “He dropped that off here this morning, talked to the gardeners, and left me a note. Then took off to go windsurfing. Typical, huh?”

He nodded. “It’ll be good to see him. How long is he going to stay?”

I shrugged. “You never know with Pit. I’m sure it won’t be long, though.” I got up from the table and walked over to the pile of gear. “I have a feeling he’ll be asking me to store some of this stuff.” I pointed with my shoe at the green foot-locker. “Like this, for example.”

“Yeah, too much for traveling the way he does. Not his style.” He got up from the table and began to clear the dishes.

I dragged the footlocker out into the middle of the room and sat on the floor next to it. “He said he’d been storing this over at his old girlfriend’s. I think she got tired of having his junk around.” I ran my hand over the top of the trunk. “I haven’t seen this trunk in years. I remember it was in the garage at the house after Red died, but I didn’t know Pit had taken it. There was so much stuff to be dealt with, I guess when this disappeared, I never even noticed.”

B.J. came over and sat on the floor next to me. He rested his hand on my thigh, and I jumped a little. “This was your dad’s?”

I nodded, started to say yes, but my throat seemed to close on the word. It’s funny how you just never knew when it was going to hit you, that feeling in the center of your chest of missing someone so much. There were lots of times I could talk about my dad without feeling the slightest bit of sadness, and other times when I just wanted to see him again and couldn’t speak without my voice getting tight and my eyes going all blurry. I swallowed and blinked and started again. “When we were kids, Pit and I used to sneak out into the garage and pull this trunk down and get into it even though we weren’t supposed to. Mostly, Red kept his mementos from the navy in here, uniforms, old letters, and photos and stuff. He didn’t really want his kids getting into it, which, of course, only made it all that much more attractive to us. One time we even tried on Red’s uniforms.”

I reached for the brass latches and tried to loosen them. The metal was corroded, green with flaking brown bits. The hinges screeched as they gave way and both latches opened. The smell of musty books, damp wool, and mothballs triggered another montage of memory as I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. I saw my father, back when he seemed so big, bellowing at us, telling us to stay out of the garage, out of his trunk, away from his tools and all his gear. My father, who fell apart after Mother died, until one day when there was no more food in the house and Pit was crying because Maddy was beating on him. That day Red had come into my room and taken me and my brothers to the Winn Dixie and bought boxes of macaroni and cheese and cans of soup. He learned to cook and clean and wash and made us do our share and brought some order to the house and our family and our lives.

And then I saw the three of us, his grown children, so lost that morning after his death. When, by two in the afternoon, all the paramedics and cops had gone, and they had taken his body away, we didn’t know what to do with ourselves. We wandered from room to room, out to the dock and then to the garage, and back into the house, not one of us knowing what to say or do for the others, each of us so alone in our loss and unable to imagine our lives continuing without Red.

The footlocker was only about half-full, just as I remembered it. It didn’t look as though Pit had disturbed the contents. I wondered if he had ever opened it or if he just took it out of the house and stored it at Tina’s, unopened.

I reached in and ran my fingertips over the navy wool of the peacoat, remembering how silly Pit had looked wearing the huge thing. He’d never had the shoulders of his father. Maddy was built more like Red, while Pit had the slim build of our mother.

“You’re lucky,” B.J. said. “I never knew my father. When I was young, I used to make up stories about him—my father, the hero. My mother was a Polynesian dancer, and I spent lots of time in dressing rooms reading books, making up my own stories.” He pointed to the contents of the trunk. “Your dad really was a hero in the navy, and then saving boats and lives with his tug.”

“Yeah, he was.” I paused to get my voice under control.

The way we were sitting, our knees nearly touching, made it easy for him to reach up and give my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Then he pointed into the trunk. “What are those pictures?”

Some were scattered loose and others were bound into packets. A yellowed envelope contained a few dozen slides. Reaching for a packet of photos, I explained. “Mother was into photo albums and organizing pictures into books and all that. Each of us kids had a baby book. I remember she used to ask Red to give her these photos so she could put them into a book, and they argued about it. He didn’t want her to touch them. I was just a kid, I may not have even understood what the arguments were about, but I knew it was a big deal. It would usually send my mother into one of her bad spells.”

My mother had her good days and her bad days. Today, she probably would be diagnosed with bipolar disorder, but back then Red just told us our mother had her moods. When things were good, she laughed and painted and took us on adventures and picnics, and she made the world seem a brighter, more wonder-filled place. When she was having her bad spells, however, we had to tiptoe around the house and take meals to her in bed. I remembered feeling that I wanted her to be the mom, to take care of us, and the fact that it was often the other way around didn’t seem fair. I was eleven years old the day she just walked out into the water and drowned on a calm day off Hollywood Beach. I was the only one of the family with her that day, and I failed to stop her, failed to save her.

I picked up the packet of photos. When I pulled on the rubber band, the old rubber snapped and fell in a limp tangle onto the blue wool jacket. The photos spilled across the contents of the trunk, and several fell to the floor outside the trunk. They were all color photos, but most of them had a greenish tint, as though they had been exposed to too much heat before developing. They were boating pics, shots of people standing around on a sailboat, working the sails, talking on the docks. I didn’t recognize the place, but as I picked them up and stacked them on my lap, I did recognize in one photo a much younger version of my father.

I angled the photo toward the late-evening light slanting through the cottage’s kitchen windows. Instead of the big square man I remembered, the man in the photo had broad shoulders that narrowed to slender hips. He was wearing swimming trunks that showed his well-muscled legs. He still had the red beard, but his hairline was different, his forehead less broad. I had been looking so intently at this younger version of my father, I had not paid much attention to the other man in the photo. It wasn’t until I turned the photo over and looked at the back that I realized why he looked familiar. In pencil on the back, Red had scrawled, “With Joe D’Angelo, Cartagena, 1973.”

I flipped the photo over and looked more closely at the man standing opposite my father. He, too, wore a mustache and beard, brown, streaked with blond, like a golden halo surrounding his mouth. I recognized the eyes, and then the legs, of course. Where Red looked like he was in his late thirties, Joe looked like he was ten years younger. They were horsing around, acting as though they were fighting over a dock line, but they were smiling. The yacht in the background was a classic wooden schooner, gleaming white hull, pristine bright work, the name Nighthawk in gold leaf on the bow.

My mother had often talked about this trip. She brought it up several times when she was arguing with Red over something, and she’d asked him why he didn’t go into the yacht delivery business because he had made so much money on that Nighthawk trip. I had no memory of his leaving—I was only three years old in 1973—but I seemed to remember hearing that he had been gone for two or three months.

The way I’d heard it, he had been just over halfway through the building of Gorda. I’d seen photos of the aluminum hull, deck, and deckhouse all taking shape over time amid the sheds and changing backdrop of boats at Summerfield Boatworks. He eventually got to the point of nearly finishing, but he still needed to power his new boat. He was out of money and in danger of never finishing, of having to go to work for somebody else. He had thought his pension from the Navy would stretch further than it did. That was when he got this offer to go down to Colombia and help a friend deliver a schooner back to Fort Lauderdale. When he got back, he’d made enough money to buy the engine and finish off the boat. Gorda was launched in early 1974.

When Joe said he and Red had worked together, why hadn’t he mentioned this adventure?

“You know that guy?”

“Huh?” I looked up and blinked, tried to focus on B.J.’s face. The last of the light was leaving the room; I would need to turn on a light soon.

“You’re staring at that picture as if you know that guy.”

“Yeah, well, it’s pretty weird. The guy in this picture is Mike’s buddy. You know, the guy from yesterday who was on the Outta the Blue, who’d been out fishing with Mike all night? Mike tried to make out like the dead battery was this guy’s fault. He said the guy wanted to turn on every light on the boat.” Mike had made it sound like Joe didn’t know much about boats. Had that been Mike’s way of shifting the blame? Joe knew a hell of a lot more than Mike if he was on a delivery crew back in the seventies.

B.J. leaned in close to examine the photo. “Odd coincidence, huh?”

“I’ll say. But it gets weirder. I ran into him again this morning down on the beach. He told me that he knew Red, but he didn’t mention that they’d been on this.” I pointed to the photo. “He said back when he was with the DEA, when they used to impound drug boats, he’d hire Red to move them around.”

B.J. picked up the photos that had scattered when the rubber band broke, and he was leafing through them. “He’s in quite a few of these other photos, but there aren’t any more of the two of them together.” He straightened the photos into a neat pile and handed them to me. “Do you think this Joe guy was with the DEA back when these photos were taken?”

“How should I know? He was pretty young then.”

“I don’t mean to belabor the obvious, Seychelle, but think about it—DEA, Cartagena, Colombia, you know. What do you know about this trip your dad was on?”

My mind was still trying to comprehend that Joe and my father had been more than just client and captain. It took me several seconds to get what B.J. was hinting at. “B.J., you are out of your mind! You knew Red. Just a minute ago you were calling him a hero. Do you think for one minute that he would get involved with something like that?”

“Money makes people do the unexpected. You know that.” I dropped the photos back in the trunk and slammed the top closed. “We’re not going to talk about this any longer.” I stood up and looked at the clock on the wall over the kitchen stove. “It’s almost nine o’clock already. Where the hell is Pit?”

B.J. came up behind me and placed his hands on my shoulders. “I didn’t mean to offend you, Sey.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said, jerking my shoulders and walking away, out of his reach. “I’m tired, B.J. I just want to go to bed.” I opened the front door for him. “Tomorrow I’ve got to start looking for this kid’s father, and I don’t even know where or how to start.”

He stopped in the doorway and turned to face me, our bodies less than a foot apart. “Seychelle, please. Don’t push me away.” I looked past him at the trunks of the oak trees barely visible in the starlight. I knew if our eyes connected, something inside me would start to collapse, to go soft and cave in.

“B.J., don’t. Not tonight.”

“You know, Seychelle,” he said as he reached out and tucked a strand of my wayward hair behind my ear, “what’s happened between us these past few months has been extraordinary. You’re feeling it, too, and it scares you. I can see that. That’s why you wanted to step back for a little while. You need to breathe. You are a very independent woman. That’s a large part of what I find so attractive about you, and I want you to know, I’m not trying to change you. It’s just that I’ve known many beautiful and amazing women in my life, but not one of them has ever felt like family. Everything’s different with you. When we are together, I feel like I am home.”

My heart had just gone from zero to sixty in under ten seconds, and I felt light-headed. Family! That meant a mommy, a daddy, and one point two children. I didn’t fit in that picture. What kind of mother could I possibly be? I didn’t even know what to do for a ten-year-old girl, much less an infant. And when it came to mothering, what kind of chance did I have? Look at the role model I’d had.

He was going to outwait me. Silence had never bothered B.J. He was just going to stand there, waiting for me to say something. I inhaled the smell of his sweat, his coconut soap, and the faint lingering odor of the Japanese food. Damn him. More than anything I wanted to mold my body against his, take him into my room, rip off his clothes, and lose myself in our lovemaking. And I knew if I did, it would mean I had made a decision I was not yet ready to make.

“B.J., just go. Okay? This is not a good night for this. Tonight, I just need to rest. I can’t—” I couldn’t what? Look at his eyes? “Night,” I said.

I closed the door and leaned back against it, and when I heard the gate close behind him, I wondered if I would ever have a really good night again.

CHAPTER TWELVE

About the time I figured out that the ringing sound was the phone, and I realized I had better pull myself out of the depths of sleep to answer it, the answering machine clicked on, and I heard myself saying, “I’m either not home or out on the boat, so call me on channel sixteen or leave a message here. Bye.”

After the beep, I heard Perry Greene’s voice. “Seychelle, get your butt out of bed, honey. I know you’re there.”

I wanted to bury my head under the pillow and make him go away, but since the only reason Perry would be calling me at home at that hour would be for some kind of work, I reached over and lifted the phone on my nightstand.

“Shit, Perry, what time is it?”

“There’s my darlin’. It’s what, five-thirty? Hell, the sun’ll be up any minute now. I knew I could call you ‘cuz I bet a foxy chick like you is up at the gym every morning making your hard little body even harder.”

“Perry, this little body of mine is two inches taller and about the same weight as your scrawny ass. What do you want?”

“I’m offering you an employment opportunity, sugar.”

As much as I detested the thought of working with this sleaze, I couldn’t afford to turn down a job. That Miss Agnes job had been my only work in the past week. “When, where, and how much?”

“I got a job moving some eighty-foot Eye-talian motor yacht from Port Everglades up to River Bend. This is an important dude. We’re talking future jobs here. It’s gonna need boats bow and stem. My cousin Leroy was gonna handle the aft end with his launch, but I just found out he got into a little trouble at Flossie’s last night.”

I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed. The size of the boat told me the paycheck would be enough to make working with Perry worth it. “A little trouble?”

“Well, Leroy didn’t know the guy had a knife! Anyways, it’s not so bad ‘cording to my auntie, just a few slashes. He’s over at Broward General now, but we’re coming up on slack high water at nine this morning.”

“I’ll only do it if you’ll go fifty-fifty.”

“Damn, girl. It’s my job.”

“And you need me. Take it or leave it, Perry.”

He barely paused a beat. “All right. The boat’s called O Solo Mio, and she’s berthed between cruise ships right on the commercial dock. You can’t miss her. Be there by eight.”

He’d given in too easily. That could only mean he was hiding something.

I was famished after last night’s sushi, but I didn’t feel like driving anywhere. I had no fresh milk for cereal and no bread for toast. When all else fails, I turn to a supply of toaster waffles I keep in the freezer. I knocked the clumps of frost off a couple of waffles by slamming them into the side of the sink half a dozen times, then dropped them into the toaster. With the coffee water heating and the waffles sizzling, I walked over and lifted the lid to Red’s trunk and took out the stack of photos. While I ate the waffles with my fingers, licking off the syrup and washing it down with two cups of coffee, I sorted through all the photos in the trunk, dividing them into two piles—those taken on the yacht delivery trip, and all the rest. If I’d had more time, I might have been interested in some of the old pictures of my parents hanging out together before they became my parents, or the photos of Red with his Navy buddies, but right now, I just wanted to learn what I could about that trip back in the spring of 1973.

There were six photos of the trip, and I counted four recognizable characters. Besides Red and Joe, there was a young woman and another man with a big black walrus mustache and one of those awful boxy seventies hairdos. There was something odd about his face, as though it weren’t quite symmetrical, but I couldn’t really identify what was off. He was shorter than Red and bowlegged. He looked a good deal like that character in the cartoons—Yosemite Sam. He seemed to be the head honcho. Maybe he was the hired captain of the boat, maybe the owner. I doubted that last, though. He didn’t look much older than thirty, and even back in 1973, a schooner like the Nighthawk was very expensive to buy and even more to maintain. Trying to keep a wooden hull in that kind of shape in the tropics was like fighting a constant war against marine borers, termites, dry rot, the tropical sun, and electrolysis. Classic boats were beautiful to look at, but I sure as hell was glad that there were other people out there working on them, not me.

One of the photos showed a close-up of Yosemite Sam’s face, and I noticed that a wide scar cut through his left eyebrow and the two halves of the eyebrow didn’t align quite right. Whoever had stitched him up had left him with a zigzag look. His nose had been broken as well, and the skin of his face was deeply pockmarked, probably from acne.

I slid the photos into my shoulder bag with the idea that, at some point in the day, I would head over to Mike’s and ask him what he knew about his buddy Joe. Then I dug around in my bag for the Post-it that Collazo had given me with the name of the Haitian translator. The number was for the radio station where the police translator, Martine Gohin, worked. When I dialed it, an answering machine picked up. I left a message explaining to Ms. Gohin that Collazo had given me her name and that I wanted to ask her some questions about Solange.

Perry’s boat, Little Bitt, was already tied up astern of the Italian mega-yacht when I throttled Gorda down in the Port Everglades turning basin. Perry was on the bow of O Solo Mio, readying the towlines. As I knew he would, he motioned me to tie up off the bow. This meant I would end up the head boat, and what had started as Perry’s job was now mine. Not a problem. Gorda had more power than Little Bitt, and I had more experience than Perry at this type of work.

The tricky part of towing yachts this size up a narrow river is that boats get steerage only from moving at a certain speed through the water. If there is no water flowing past her rudders, a boat cannot turn. With the help of twin screws and bow thrusters, some boats are able to spin in their own lengths, but a boat like O Solo Mio still did not have brakes. The regulations required that vessels of a certain length and draft be assisted by a tug when going upriver. So, with five drawbridges standing between Port Everglades and the upriver boatyard facilities, as well as riverbanks that were lined with millions of dollars’ worth of yachts and properties, there was always plenty of business for Gorda.

For three to four miles inland, the river remained tidal so that it reversed its flow with each change of the tide. When towing a vessel, it was always preferable to tow against the current so that Gorda and her tow could be moving at five knots through the water, but actually only be moving at three knots over the bottom and past the riverbanks. I also had to be concerned about depth because there were spots where the river shallowed up to six or seven feet at low water. The trick was to tow upriver just after high tide while the water was still deep but the current was flowing downriver.

After I tied up Gorda, I went to check Perry’s work with the towing harness. Not that I didn’t want to trust him, but, well, I couldn’t afford to trust him. With every job, I put the name and reputation of Sullivan Towing and Salvage on the line. I could get away with an occasional screw-up in many other aspects of my life, but when it came to towing somebody’s multimillion-dollar vessel, that’s where I became a perfectionist. And my insurance agent appreciated it.

Up on O Solo Mio’s bridge, I introduced myself to the yacht’s captain. An Italian in his mid-forties, he had the classic good looks—strong chin and alert eyes—of many yacht captains. I swear they must ask for photos when they advertise for these positions. I’d never seen an ugly one. Apparently, if you are going to drive the yachts of the rich and famous, you must be one of the beautiful people yourself.

He told me to call him Salvatore instead of Captain Lucca, and he asked me if I wanted a tour of the boat. That is one of the best parts of my job—getting to see how the other half lives. Through the main salon with the sleek, mirrored, and brushed-stainless built-in furnishings—including wet bar, stereo, and large-screen TV—he took me through to the owner’s stateroom. I half expected a sound track of jungle animal noises to be playing. The whole room was decorated in exotic animal prints, and in the middle of the cabin was a perfectly round bed that sported a mosquito net draped from above. On the walls were dozens of pictures of the owner and his friends. I was admiring the photos—one with former president Nixon, another with Frank Sinatra. Then I recognized a face.

“Salvatore, who owns this boat?”

In the photo I was examining, a group of ten men, all smiling for the camera, sat around a table in a brick-walled restaurant. One face stood out. I recognized the big handlebar mustache, the zigzag eyebrow. An older version, by maybe ten years, of Yosemite Sam from the Nighthawk photos.

“He is a businessman in New York City.”

“What does he do?”

“I’ve been with him for eighteen years—precisely because I don’t ask exactly what he does.”

He was smiling at me, a twinkle of humor and flirtation in his eyes. I was beginning to understand what Perry hadn’t told me about this job.

“I see.”

“I believe you have been on the water long enough,” he said, “to know exactly what I am talking about.”

Perry’s face appeared in the stateroom’s doorway. “What are you guys doing farting around down here?”

“Captain Lucca here was just showing me around the boat. We were talking about the owner.”

“Hell of a guy,” Perry said, and he gave me an exaggerated wink. “I hear he’s an importer.”

Behind Perry, I saw Salvatore frown. Obviously, Perry did not share his discretion. But he had kept the yacht owner’s affiliations secret from me long enough to get me on the job. Perry knew I usually chose not to work on these yachts.

Perry came up behind me and peered at the photo I had been examining. “Hey, I know that guy.” He pointed to the man with the handlebar mustache. “That’s Gil.” Then he snorted and pulled at the crotch of his pants. “Man, he was just as ugly back then.”

“How do you know him?” I asked.

“Huh?”

Perry had a habit of spacing out in the middle of a conversation. Though he generally wasn’t under the influence when he was working, even when he wasn’t high, Perry wasn’t all that coherent.

“The guy in the picture,” I said. “How do you know him?”

“Oh, yeah, me’n him done some drinking in Flossie’s a time or two. That’s all. Was nothin’.” There was clearly more to that story. Perry was a lousy liar.

“Do you know his last name?”

“Nah, just Gil. Dude’s been around forever.”

I turned to the captain and asked him if he knew the man in the photo.

He shook his head. “No, that photo was from many years ago. Before I came aboard.”

Perry pulled at the front of his pants again. I was about to ask him if he had to go to the bathroom, the way my brother Maddy always asked his son, Freddy, before getting into the car, but then Perry said, “We gotta get going, you guys. Tide’s turnin’.”

He was right.

After a quick peek into the engine room and a check on deck, Perry, Salvatore, and I met to go over the plan. The deckhand was given his instructions. We all decided to monitor VHF channel 72, and then we got underway. Red had taught me that the trick to maintaining control of a large yacht was in using two short towlines or hawsers. Gorda had port and starboard towing bitts located in each corner of her stem. With the short hawsers that ran from those bitts up through the chocks on either side of the bow of the Italian yacht, I could quickly and efficiently turn the ship as we made our way upriver. As we negotiated each bend of the river with Gorda’s Caterpillar engine revved up, pulling the more than fifty tons of aluminum, and Little Bitt pulling the yacht’s stem around, I went through the motions on mental autopilot, all the while thinking about a trip down island back in 1973. Whoever this Gil character was, he clearly had connections with some serious New York wise guys.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

As soon as I finished adjusting the spring line and getting Gorda safely secured to her dock back at the Larsens’ place, I glanced toward my cottage and saw the Windsurfer board and sail spread out to dry on the grass. I gave a whoop and started running. Pit must have heard me because he stepped out the front door and threw his arms around me just as I arrived.

“Hey, little sis,” he said, and stepped back, putting his elbow on my head to show me how much taller he was than me, just as he had when we were kids. “Great to see you.”

I pushed him away and held him at arm’s length. “Where the hell have you been? You drop your stuff off here and then disappear for days. What kind of way is that to treat your baby sister?”

He just grinned that lopsided grin of his and shrugged. “Didn’t know you were going to try to be your brother’s keeper. I’m not used to telling anybody where or when I go.”

“Man, it’s good to see you.” I hugged him once more, then slipped past him into the shade of the cottage’s cool interior. “Come on in and tell me what’s been going on in your life.”

I grabbed a couple of cold beers out of the fridge. It was early, but seeing Pit was worth celebrating. We sat at opposite ends of the couch as he told me a little about what it’s like to be an ocean nomad. He had crewed on the delivery of an eighty-foot racing sailboat down to Rio, flown over to South Africa for some world championship windsurfing tournament, then spent six months in Europe windsurfing the Med’s mistrals. Finally, he’d come back here via the Caribbean and another yacht delivery into Fort Lauderdale.

“So,” I said, “I take it I’m not to expect you to settle down and produce a sister-in-law or any nieces or nephews any time soon?”

He smiled and rubbed his chin for a moment as if he were thinking real hard. “Nope.”

“You goofball,” I said, and kicked him lightly in the shins.

He set his beer down on the end table, turned to me, and narrowed his eyes. “That a challenge?”

“No way,” I said. “Our years of wrestling are over.” But knowing my brother, I placed my beer bottle safely on the other end table. “We’re supposed to be grown-ups now, you know.”

I had barely gotten the last words out before he pounced on me, rolled me off the couch, and had me pinned with my arm twisted up behind my back. “Gonna say uncle?” he shouted.

What he didn’t know was that his little sis had been taking some aikido lessons from B.J., and with a simple twist and roll I was out of his grip and standing on the other side of the trunk that still rested in the middle of the living room. He looked up at me from the floor.

“Damn. Not bad.” He crossed his arms behind his head and, looking up at me, said, “So, what about you? You and B.J. going to be ringing the wedding bells soon?”

I waved my hand in the air as though to dismiss the question. “Let’s not go there. That’s a bit of a sore spot these days.”

He laughed. “Hell, we Sullivans make damn lousy spouses, eh?”

“Just look at Maddy,” I said, and we both giggled.

Pit’s laughter stopped abruptly, and he got to his knees and crawled over to the trunk. “You opened it,” he said, suddenly solemn.

“Yeah. You just left it here and disappeared.”

“I wanted to open it, you know. But something stopped me.”

At that moment, I didn’t want Pit to know about the Cartagena trip and all the questions it had raised. I didn’t want him to feel what I had been feeling, wondering if Red had been involved in drug smuggling. “Yeah, it’s just a bunch of old stuff.” I grabbed the stack of photos off the counter, dropped them into the trunk, and started to close the lid.

“Wait, I’d forgotten all about this old jacket.” He reached in and pulled out Red’s old navy peacoat. The musty smell of the wool filled the room when he stood, shook the coat out, and slid his arm into one of the sleeves. It still didn’t fit him.

“Remember?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said, “that afternoon in the garage.” His eyes seemed to be looking across the living room, but they weren’t really focused on anything in that room. He grinned. “I can still hear him yelling at us.”

I touched the sleeve of the coat. In spite of having been closed up in that trunk for years, it still harbored a faint hint of Red’s smell. I stepped toward Pit and pressed my nose into the rough fabric of the coat’s sleeve and tried to remember my father as he was when he was healthy. I put my arms around my brother and inhaled deeply the odor still living in the wool.

“Some days I miss him so much,” I said in a half-whisper.

“I know,” he said. “Me too. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why I keep moving all the time. Keeps me from thinking about what I don’t have.”

I pushed back and took hold of his hands. “Hey, you’ve still got a family. I’m here. Maddy is, too.”

“Do we have to count him?” he asked, and we both laughed again.

“We really lucked out in the father department,” I said, “but how Red could have sired Maddy, I’ll never know.”

Pit started to take off the jacket. “You know, it’s not nearly as much fun making fun of him when he’s not here to turn all red and get pissed off. What do you say we go down to see him and torture him like we used to?” This time when he laughed, it helped make the tightness in my throat ease off. God, I’d missed Pit.

“I’m afraid Maddy wouldn’t exactly be happy to see me.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It’s a long story, but a few months back he got down several thousand dollars at the track, and some not-so-nice guys I’d been involved with kinda took it out on him. Really did a number on his face. Later, when I bought him out of Gorda and he paid off his bookie, he didn’t cut me any slack. Still maintains the whole thing was my fault.”

“Sounds like my bro.”

When we’d first come in, I had noticed the red light was blinking on my answering machine, but I had wanted to take these few minutes to catch up with Pit first.

“Hope you don’t mind, but I’ve got to check this.” I pushed the button and a female voice, slightly accented, started to speak.

“Allo. This is Martine Gohin.” I sat down on the couch and lowered my head over the machine, anxious to hear every word she would say. “I heard about this Earth Angel child on the television, and I would like to help you very much. I am working on my radio show this morning, but if you could join me at my home for lunch, that would be very nice.” She went on to give her address and cell phone number. I checked my watch. I had about an hour to spare—just enough time to swing by and check on Jeannie and Solange.

When the machine clicked off, Pit asked, “Earth Angel? What are you into now?”

I told him the most abbreviated version of the story that I could manage.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Might be. How are your navigation skills?”

“Great. I was the navigator on the last delivery up from St. Maarten.”

“Okay, then, here’s the problem: I want you to find out how this kid and the dead woman ended up in that part of the ocean. If they weren’t on the Miss Agnes, then I’m spinning my wheels trying to find folks who were aboard that boat. You’ll find the position where I picked up the dory entered in Gorda’s log. The pilot charts are here in the cottage somewhere— probably at the top of my closet. I think Solange and that woman were set adrift from the Miss Agnes as she was making a run across the Gulf Stream. Problem is I can’t quite make it all fit in my head. The Miss Agnes sank more than a day before I found the kid. Why hadn’t they drifted much farther north if they were riding the Stream? Was there some kind of cross current? It would be great if you could find that out for me. Check the Gulf Stream stats for that date, call NOAA if you have to. Let’s see if we can figure out where the boat set them adrift, and then where these smugglers might have their camp.”

“Will do.” Pit saluted me, then headed to the kitchen for another beer.

After changing from my work clothes into a clean pair of jeans and a Hawaiian print shirt, I jumped into Lightnin’ and took off.

Jeannie lived in a neighborhood called Sailboat Bend, upriver from my house. Sprinkled throughout Sailboat Bend are some of the oldest houses in Fort Lauderdale, pretty little Key Westy Conch cottages, half of which were undergoing some form of rehab. The rest of the neighborhood is dominated by bleak cement blocks of government-subsidized housing, and the place Jeannie lived fell somewhere between the two extremes. Her apartment was on the second floor of a concrete-block building that dated back to the fifties. There were only four apartments in the building, and it was set back on a lushly landscaped lot and shaded by a huge hundred-year-old oak tree. The oak’s trunk split into three parts right at ground level, and the nail holes throughout the branches were from all the different tree houses folks had built through the years. Hurricane Andrew had destroyed the last tree house, and Jeannie was petitioning her landlord to allow her to build a new one. Even without a tree house, the tree was her boys’ favorite playground, and I was surprised, when I pulled into the yard, not to see them up there hanging from its branches.

At the top of the exterior staircase I called Jeannie’s name through the screen door, hollering to be heard above the blasting TV. I recognized the music from Sesame Street. Assuming the kids were watching that TV in the family room, I imagined that someone could easily walk right in the front door and snatch a kid without being seen or heard. So far, I wasn’t impressed with Jeannie’s security.

“Morning!” shouted Jeannie. “Welcome to our madhouse.” She punched several keys on an electronic keypad, then opened the door and waved me in.

“Geez, Jeannie. Wouldn’t it be pretty easy for some crazed kidnapper to punch through that screen and snatch the kid?” She smiled and pointed to the screen. “See that thread, how it’s different? It’s wired into the alarm system. I installed these screens last winter after an irate client’s husband came gunning for me one night over a divorce I was working. I needed security, and I hate air-conditioning, so I wired the screens.”

“Okay, I guess that’ll work. So how is she?”

“Not much change. Come on and see for yourself.”

She led me back to the apartment’s third bedroom, which she had made into a family entertainment room with a big TV, video games, stereo, and shelves covered with children’s books, toys, and puzzles. Jeannie’s two boys sat cross-legged on the rug in front of the TV, chuckling at the antics of Cookie Monster. Behind them, Solange sat on the couch, limp, staring at the TV with unseeing eyes. Her eyes didn’t even flicker when we came into the room.

I sat down on the couch next to her and put my arm around her thin shoulders. “Morning, kiddo.” She didn’t flinch, blink, or react at all. I could feel the bone and muscle through the thin white T-shirt, and her body felt stiff and rigid. It was as though there were something inside her, and she was holding on to keep it deep within. I looked up at Jeannie. “Has she eaten anything?”

“Not much. I spoon-fed her some applesauce, and I think some of that got down. She goes when I put her on the pot, but she won’t get up and go by herself. I’ve never seen a kid in a state like this. It’s kinda creepy.”

I pulled the child to me and rested my chin on her head. She smelled of Johnson’s Baby Shampoo. Bill Cosby was on the TV making faces at Big Bird, and the boys on the floor were laughing. Jeannie disappeared down the hall.

I closed my eyes and squeezed the rigid, thin shoulders, trying to make her understand that I would do anything I could to make her pain go away. Even at twenty-seven years old, I had felt terribly abandoned when Red died, and I realized the term orphan applied to me. What would that feel like at her age? I had to find her father. I whispered into her hair, “Remember what I said before. Whatever it takes, I promise.”

The phone started to ring as I walked out of the family room. Jeannie came out of the kitchen and handed me the portable. “It’s for you.”

“How do you know?”

“Trust me.”

I pushed the button. “Hello?”

“What the hell were you thinking?”

“Good morning to you, too, Rusty.”

“The hospital called the cops, you know. You’re lucky you’re not in jail right now. Only reason you aren’t is because your lawyer called me, and I was able to give the cops a plausible story.”

“Your concern is touching.”

“I’m not kidding, Seychelle.”

“Neither are the people who want to hurt this child.”

“And you two think you can protect her better than the cops?”

“They got to her yesterday when she was under your protection, right?”

He sighed. “How is she this morning?”

“No different. Still looks like she’s catatonic. But she’s no worse, and nobody else has been able to get to her. We told you we would be bringing her to Jeannie’s, and you agreed. What, you think we should have waited for you guys to chum out more paperwork and then leave a forwarding address with the hospital?”

“No, we don’t work that way. You need to trust me a little more here, stop thinking you need to do this on your own. And I sure as hell don’t like getting blindsided by cops asking where she’s disappeared to. I look stupid if I don’t have the answers.”

“Well—”

“Hey, watch it.”

“Leave me an opening like that, and I just can’t resist.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s what all the women tell me.”

“Well, maybe I’d be nicer to you if you had offered to share your catsup with me.”

On the other end of the phone I could hear someone talking to Rusty, then more muffled voices as he covered the phone with his hand and talked to someone who was, presumably, in his office. The conversation ended and Rusty came back on the line.

“Sorry about that,” he said, his voice deep and serious. “Seriously, Seychelle, you’ve just got to stay in touch with me.”

After our earlier conversation, I was tempted to ask him what part he wanted me to stay in touch with, but from the sound of his voice he was no longer in a mood to play.

“For now, she’s in good hands here with Jeannie. What about you guys and the DART board? What have you and your friend Miss D’Ugard found out about who was behind the Miss Agnes?”

“We’re working on it. That’s not your concern.” I wasn’t sure whether he meant the working of DART or his friendship with Miss D’Ugard. He sounded peeved all of a sudden. “In fact, aside from the fact that you found her, what is your concern in this? Why not just turn her over to the authorities and get on with your life?”

Damn this man. One minute he wants to play, the next minute he’s on the attack? “Rusty, if I were to walk away right now, what are her chances of staying in the States?”

“Honestly? Not good, unless someone can find a relative.”

“And I’m working on that. That’s your answer.”

I found Jeannie in her study sitting at her computer, and I handed her the portable phone. “Mr. Rusty Elliot is not going to be much help in the Save Solange project.”

“Typical bureaucrat.”

“I don’t know. I can’t figure him out. One minute he’s flirting and seems like he’s going to help me out, the next minute he’s Mr. Immigration drawing the line on ‘undocumenteds,’ as he calls them. Anyway, I’ve got to run around and see what I can find out about Solange’s dad.”

I hesitated before turning for the door, listening to the sounds of canned laughter from down the hall. “Collazo really thinks she’s in danger, Jeannie. Maybe we should just let the cops look out for her. Are you sure you’re all going to be okay here?”

Jeannie stood up to her full height and reached up to the top of the bookshelf in her den. She glanced at the door to make sure no kids were watching, then lifted up a shotgun. “I normally keep this baby locked up because of the kids, but I got it out last night. Nobody’s gonna touch that kid.”

I smiled at her. “And God help them if they try, right?”

Jeannie turned her head and winked at me. “Exactly.”

Martine Gohin lived in Victoria Park, where most of the homes had been built in the fifties or earlier, little cinder-block two-bedroom, two-bath, tile-roofed bungalows. Since the early 1990s when the area became very popular, those little homes had sold for well over $200,000. Martine Gohin’s house stood out on the street because of the color—a light salmon with cornflower blue shutters and a bright yellow door. She seemed to be making a statement with her colors, proclaiming her Haitian heritage in this mostly Anglo neighborhood. A minivan was parked in the driveway, so I assumed she was home from her radio job.

The girl who answered the door smiled shyly when I told her who I was. Her hair was plaited like Solange’s. She wore a simple white cotton shift, but her body had the ripe round-ness of budding puberty. I guessed she was about thirteen years old. She motioned me to come in and kept her head lowered.

“Are you Mrs. Gohin’s daughter?”

She shook her head and walked down the hallway, then pointed through the dining room to open French doors that led out to a wood deck. A very short black woman leaned over a glass table, arranging flowers in a vase, and she looked up when my sneakers squeaked on the dining room tile.

“Oh, allo. I did not hear the doorbell.” She gripped my hand hard with her fat fingers. “I am Martine Gohin, and you must be Miss Seychelle Sullivan. I thought we would eat lunch out here on the deck.” She swept her arm around in a 180-degree arc. “I love the fresh air.”

The wood deck was elevated a couple of feet above the green lush foliage of her backyard. Huge fronds of elephant ears arched over the water of a pond full of colorful fish. I recognized banana and papaya trees, heliconias, orchids, birds of paradise. Her yard looked like something out of a magazine. “Wow, it’s beautiful out here.”

“I enjoy gardening,” she said. She pointed to a cute little shed made to look like a cottage in the back of the yard. “I find it very relaxing to work out there. I have everything I need to pot and germinate many of my own seedlings. It is my passion.”

The girl still stood at her side with her eyes downcast. When Martine turned to speak to the girl, she had to look up at the child. “C’est tout, Juliette.”

Though Martine Gohin stood less than five feet tall, there was a sense of power about her. Her body was thick, and she wore dark glasses with heavy frames. I settled in the chair she indicated and accepted the tall glass of iced tea.

“So what can I do for you, Miss Sullivan?”

“I assume you know that I am the one who found the little girl they’re calling the Earth Angel.”

“Yes, the little Solange. I read about it in the paper.”

“Let me explain what I’m trying to do, and then maybe the rest will make sense to you. See, when I found that girl two days ago, I told her—promised her, really—that I would do whatever I could to help her stay in this country.”

“I wish more people felt as welcoming to Haitian immigrants.”

“I know what you mean. But now the Immigration people tell me that the only way she can stay is if I find a relative. And since the girl told me her father is American, I’m determined to find him.”

“She spoke to you? In English?”

“Yes.”

“That is very strange. I saw her at the hospital. Twice, actually. I guess you know I work for the police sometimes as a translator, but when I saw her, she refused to speak. No Creole, no English, nothing. The police need to interview her if she is speaking now.”

“Well, there’s a problem.” I told her there had been an incident at the hospital. “I’m afraid she’s not talking to anybody right now. She’s clammed up again. But that doesn’t change anything about her status with Immigration. I need to find her father as soon as possible.”

“How do you think I can help?”

“I want to talk to someone who came over on the Miss Agnes, the boat that sank off Deerfield. We know that quite a few people made it ashore, and we think Solange may have started out on that boat. Maybe one of the people who was aboard knows something about her or her family. I was hoping you could get my message out to the Haitian community on your radio show. If someone is willing to give some information, they can stay anonymous, I don’t care, I just want to find her father—if he is, in fact, here.”

She took a long drink from her iced tea, then called out, “Juliette.” The child came scurrying out of the house with a platter of fish in one hand and a bowl of rice and beans in the other. Martine pointed to the food and said to me, “Please, help yourself.”

For the next few minutes, she explained to me how Juliette had cooked the fish according to Haitian custom, and while this meal had been cooked on her electric stove, back in Haiti they had grown up eating the same food cooked over an open charcoal fire. As she spoke, the girl moved silently in and out, serving the food, clearing dishes, bringing more bread, filling our iced tea glasses. Through the French doors, I could see framed photos on the wall unit in the dining room. All were of two parents and a young girl about three years old.

“Is Juliette a relative of yours?” I noticed the girl shot a quick glance at Martine.

Martine wiped at her mouth and swallowed. “Yes, she is my niece. Her mother is still in Haiti, but I brought her here a few years ago so she could learn English and get an American education. I have a young daughter, Camille, who is away at her playgroup right now. Juliette is a great help with her, as well.”

“Is that Camille in those photos?” I nodded toward the dining room.

“Yes,” she said, and smiled broadly, showing very white straight teeth. “She just turned four last week.”

“You are very lucky to have such a family. Two beautiful girls. Why doesn’t Juliette pull up a chair and join us?” The girl slipped through the French doors into the house.

“That is not our custom in Haiti,” Martine said, and then took an enormous mouthful of rice and beans that made further explanation impossible.

The fish was excellent, flavored with lime and some fiery spices. I waited to see Juliette again, to compliment her on her cooking, but she never reappeared.

By the time I left her house, Martine Gohin had agreed to broadcast a request for more information from anyone who was aboard or who knew anything about the Miss Agnes and her fate. She would ask her listeners to call the radio station, and she promised to pass on to me any tips that came her way.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

When I walked out the finger pier next to Outta the Blue, I saw Mike down in his inflatable dinghy off the stem of his boat, staring up at his outboard where it rested on a flatbed dolly on the dock.

“Hey, buddy,” I said, smiling. “Looks like you could use a hand getting that beast on your dink.” The outboard was a twenty-five-horsepower four-stroke Honda, and it probably weighed over a hundred pounds.

“Whew, Seychelle, am I ever glad to see you. I could sure use an extra hand right now. An extra leg, too.” He chuckled at his own joke.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been considering trying to get that thing into your dinghy all by yourself?”

He grinned and shrugged. “Well, I guess I was. Joe helped me get it off the dink the other day and into his truck. We took it back to the dealer because it was running kind of rough. Anyway, I hated to have to call somebody and beg for help.”

“Listen,” I told him, “you’ve got to stop trying to think strong, tough guy on a boat. It doesn’t work. I’m nowhere near as strong as most men in this business, but I can do it because I think smarter, not stronger.”

In a few minutes, I had shown him how to use his sailboat’s main boom as a crane and his mainsail sheet as a come-along. We used sail ties made of nylon webbing to fashion a harness around the outboard and winched it into the air. I swung the boom across the cockpit, then lowered the outboard over the side of the big sailboat and into the waiting dinghy. Mike slid it onto the transom of the inflatable as I fed out the line. Twenty minutes later, the job was done and we were tidying up the cockpit.

“Thanks, Seychelle. Come on below. I owe you a cold one for that. Then you can tell me why you really came over here today.”

Dry, cool air tumbled out the passageway doors and chilled my ankles as I followed Mike down the companionway ladder. I slid the teak hatch closed and latched the clear Plexiglas doors. Down below, Outta the Blue resembled an air-conditioned condo more than a seagoing vessel. Back when he bought the used Irwin-54 with his generous retirement settlement, she had been neglected and needed a complete refit. Mike had refurbished her to suit his tastes. Since he had never owned any boat bigger than a trailerable flats skiff, he had no idea what he was doing and the result was a vessel interior that looked something like a man’s basement hideout. The TV sported video game controllers, and large speakers hung from the overhead in the four corners of the main salon. The chart table was weighted down with a full-size desktop computer with a seventeen-inch monitor. Where most boats use small portable electronic gear, Mike had installed household versions of everything from microwave to VCR. Then he’d allowed the old generator to seize up from lack of use, since he rarely if ever left the dock in those days.

He reached down into the top-loading refrigerator and offered me a frosty Corona. I waved it away.

“It’s still a bit early for me, Mike.” For a second beer, I thought, smiling at the memory of seeing Pit.

He poured himself some dark rum over ice. “So what’s on your mind?” he asked when he finally settled into the other side of the dining booth in the main salon.

“I don’t know where to start.”

“I assume this is about the kid. The Haitian girl.”

“Actually, no.” I watched him finish that rum and pour himself a second. “How well do you know Joe D’Angelo?”

“Joe? What do you want to know about him for?”

I lifted my shoulder bag off the floor and unzipped the side pocket. I slid the photo across the table. Mike reached over to a small cubby by the chart table and retrieved some reading glasses. After adjusting them on his face, he examined the photo.

“Hmmm,” he said as he held the photo far from his face and tried to focus. “Well, I’ll be damned.” He looked up over the top of the reading glasses. “What year was this taken?”

“Nineteen seventy-three. Do you know where it is?”

“I don’t recognize it as any marina around here.” He looked up, slid his glasses to the top of his head, and squinted his blue eyes at me. “Why is that important?”

“Look on the back.”

He flipped the photo over and slid the glasses back down onto his nose. He let out a low whistle. “Cartagena.” He rolled the r when he said the name of the city. He ran his fingers through his stubble, and I could hear the scratchy, sand-papery sound over the low hum of the air conditioner.

“So what do you make of that, Mike?”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Sey. This is the first I’ve heard about this. Joe and Red? Hell, I didn’t meet Joe until about eighty-five. Don’t know for sure when he started with DEA. What do you know about this?”

“I found this picture and some others in Red’s old trunk. I have very vague memories of that time, as I was only about three years old. I don’t know if I remember Red’s being gone, or if I just heard my folks argue about it so many times afterward that I think I remember it. Here’s what I do know: My dad had just about finished building Gorda when he just plum ran out of money. Somebody offered him the opportunity to make a delivery on this big fancy yacht. The pay was going to be enough to buy the engine for the tug, and he’d only have to be gone a couple of months. Even as adults, Red and I never talked about it. When they used to argue, my mother would say that he made a better crew than captain.

He would have made lots more money working on rich people’s yachts than he ever did owning his own boat. Which was true, of course, but Red was never about making money. He just loved that tug.” I had been listening to my own telling of the story. “I know it doesn’t sound good, but I don’t think either Red or Joe would have been involved with anything illegal.”

The look on Mike’s face worried me. He wasn’t looking me in the eyes, and his lips were stretched thin. “Sey, I’ve seen too much of what people are capable of. Are you sure you want to go digging into this?”

I didn’t say anything for a moment. Was I sure? How would I handle it if I found out my father had been involved with something illegal? No, the doubts were worse. I had to settle it.

“Mike, I need to know what really happened down there. Not knowing is the worst.”

“Okay then, if that’s really what you want, I’ll be glad to help.”

Mike sounded less convinced than resigned.

“First,” he said, “I suggest we stop speculating and go talk to these fellas. See, the thing is, I know who this other guy in the picture is, too.”

“The guy with the big mustache?”

“Yeah. And, Sey. The news is not good.”

Mike had been planning on taking his dinghy out for a run to test the outboard that afternoon anyway, so we decided to run down the Intracoastal to the Dania Cut-off Canal and then up the canal inland to Pattie’s Ravenswood Marina. I figured we’d be gone a couple of hours, and there wasn’t much I could do for Solange at this point. Either that or I was rationalizing this trip because I wanted to know what had happened down in Colombia all those years ago.

Mike had tried to call Joe on his cell phone, but he got no answer. He left a message saying he’d just called to say hello, then he told me we’d try Joe again later. That gave us time to check out Gil first.

Mike’s was a rigid-bottom inflatable with a center console. He was standing at the controls, his artificial leg strapped on below his knee and worn-out Topsiders laced onto both feet. I was holding on to the stainless-steel bars around the center console as he told me what he knew about Gil’s background. The inflatable leapt onto a plane when we reached the Intracoastal Waterway, and I flexed my legs to take the pounding as we flew over boat wakes and the small chop from the southeasterly breeze.

According to Mike, the man’s real name was Gilbert Lynch, and he had been a high flier in the drug trade in the 1980s. He had come to Florida from Georgia in the seventies, right after his return from Vietnam, and he had always retained his accent, beguiling his enemies with his slow country boy act and then brutally stomping them out. In his heyday, he used to fill his riverfront estate with his army buddies, and he liked fast motorcycles and faster women. Back in those days, Gil knew everybody in the importing business. He was a real player.

Like many dealers, however, Gil had sampled his own product a little too freely. He started a downhill slide after he fried a few too many brain cells. Mike explained that Gil kept getting busted and eventually lost everything, but he avoided any serious jail time by pleading that he was a psych case. The really big guys in New York never bothered to get rid of him, because, even with all the time he spent in jail, he never talked about their business. Mike said that just proves he’s not as crazy as everybody thinks.

“Today, though, a lot of that has changed,” Mike said as we passed the cruise liners and freighters in Port Everglades. “Several of the detectives have been using him as a snitch. Most of the people Gil hangs around think he’s just another waterfront derelict. They say stuff around him, thinking he won’t understand much. But as long as he keeps taking his meds, he can hold it together, and he’s pretty smart. Well, crafty anyway. I don’t even know if Gil’s gonna remember anything from when those pictures were taken, but if he does, he’ll probably tell you everything he knows for about twenty bucks.”

Mike had heard that Gil hung out at one of the marinas along Ravenswood Road, so we headed south past the entrance to the harbor.

After traveling about a mile up the Dania Cut-off Canal, we pulled into Pattie’s Marina and tied up to the fuel dock. The only other boat tied to the dock was a twelve-foot wooden punt covered with multihued paint splatters. It was obvious that this year’s most popular boat colors were yellow and green. Pattie’s had a small travel lift and boatyard, and the big outboard on the ugly punt meant they used it as a mini boatyard tug as well as the waterline paint boat. Painting a boat while in the water was heavily frowned on by OSHA, but one got the idea that Pattie’s Marina broke more than a few regs.

Several locals were sitting around a table under a thatched Seminole Indian chickee hut, drinking from beer cans and watching us. Mike looped our line over the cleat on top of the marina dinghy’s line, then he ran a cable and padlock around the piling. The group under the hut included two men wearing baseball caps, T-shirts, and jeans. The only distinguishing characteristic between them was that one had long straight hair hanging both in front and back of his big jug ears. Of the three women, two wore halter tops and the third, an older woman, wore a faded Pattie’s Marina T-shirt that stretched tight around her ample bosom and hips. It was hard to tell if the couples lived in Pattie’s Trailer Court or if they lived aboard some of the barely floating homes in the marina. Laundry hung from lifelines, bikes rusted away on decks, barnacles grew along the waterlines, and rotten lines, fenders, toolboxes, and garbage bags littered the decks of Pattie’s live-aboard community. I guessed that the older woman sitting with the group was probably Pattie herself. Though Pattie’s was only five miles or so from the glittering marinas of Bahia Mar and Pier Sixty-six, in other forms of measurement the distance was incalculable.

Mike lifted his hat when he ducked into the shade under the chickee. “Afternoon, folks.”

One of the men murmured something that sounded like “good afternoon,” but the others just stared at Mike’s artificial leg, the stainless-steel knee and ankle joints, and the smooth pink “flesh-colored” plastic calf that protruded below his cut-off jeans. He ignored the stares and pushed on.

“We’re looking for a fellow by the name of Gil Lynch. I understand he lives round here.”

The older woman had been lifting her beer can to her lips, but she stopped, left the beer hanging in midair. “Who’s asking?”

I dropped my business card on the table in front of her. “I’m Seychelle Sullivan. I own the tug Gorda. My business is Sullivan Towing and Salvage.” I didn’t think Mike’s credentials as a former FLPD officer would go over big with this crowd.

The gray-haired woman drank from her beer and then slid my card into the front pocket of her T-shirt. “I seen your boat around.” She reached for a pack of cigarettes on the table and shook one out. With the cigarette dangling from her lips, she asked, “Red’s your pa?”

“Yeah. He died a couple of years ago. I’m running the boat now.”

“Sorry to hear that,” she said, struck a match, and inhaled long and deep.

I nodded. “I understand Gil used to know Red, and I just wanted to ask him some questions about my dad.”

She took the cigarette from her mouth with two cracked, callused fingers, then she thrust her other hand out to me. “I’m Pattie Dolan.” I tried to shake her hand with the same strength and assertiveness that Wonder Woman had used on me, but Pattie’s grip turned mine to putty. She turned from me and spoke to the man with the jug ears. “Go git the truck.” He slid back his chair and started for the once white Ford Ranger parked in the dirt lot opposite the trailer that served as an office.

I rested my hand on Mike’s shoulder. “Pattie, this is my friend, Mike Beesting.” They, too, shook hands. Pattie made no attempt to introduce the others at the table.

“Odds are Gil’s down at Flossie’s this time of day. Jack’ll run you down there. It’s only ‘bout a quarter-mile down the road.”

“I know where it is. Thanks.”

The truck pulled up, and out the open window Jack jerked his thumb toward the back. Mike pulled down the tailgate, and we slid into the truck bed. After a short drive down Ravenswood Road, the truck pulled into a parking lot that stretched along the side of a drab-looking two-story cinder-block building. Downstairs was the dirty glass entrance to Flossie’s Bar and Grill. Upstairs, an outdoor corridor ran the length of the building where the late Flossie had sometimes rented rooms out to her patrons. The parking lot was halffilled with older pickups and a handful of bikes, mostly Harleys. Leaning against the wall of the building was a rusty old beach cruiser bicycle with high, wide handlebars and a plastic milk crate tied behind the seat with a sun-faded polypropylene line.

We slid out of Jack’s truck and waved our thanks as he headed back to Pattie’s. “I’m sure glad I locked up the dink and outboard. I don’t think any of them back there would be above helping themselves.”

“I’m sure you’re right about that,” I said as I pushed open the door and nearly gagged on the cigarette smoke. My ears were assaulted by the sound of Garth Brooks singing about how much papa loved mama. The bar was so much darker than the bright sunlight outside that I stood in the doorway a few seconds, waiting for my eyes to adjust. Mike came in behind me, hooked his arm in mine, and led me past the couple of pool tables to a pair of empty stools on the far side of the bar.

I’d driven by Flossie’s probably a hundred times in my life, but I’d never been inside. I knew about the place because it had been a landmark for thirty-some years, and both my brothers had boasted to me when we were in high school that the bar’s owner, Flossie, never checked IDs. They often came over here to drink and practice being men. The dominant decorating themes went from Nascar to Budweiser, from neon signs to inflatable oil cans to a full-size picture of Dale Earnhardt on the storeroom door. The place was very crowded, although I counted only two women other than the bartender.

I didn’t spot Gil as I surveyed the crowd, but I wasn’t surprised to see Perry Greene sitting at one of the bar-height tables by the door. He was wearing a white mesh baseball cap stuck backward on his head, the straggly ends of his long hair curling around from the back of his neck. Smoking a filterless cigarette no more than an inch long, he squinted across the bar and sucked on the butt, and I was surprised the red glow didn’t bum his fingers.

After Mike secured us a couple of beers, I pointed Perry out to him.

“Check out my competition over there.” I squeezed the lime down the neck of the bottle and took a couple of swallows.

“Interesting,” he said. “Think we ought to mosey over and see who’s smoking that other cigarette burning in his ashtray?”

I hadn’t noticed the smoke rising from the ashtray. “Think he’d tell us if we did?”

“Probably not.”

I told Mike about the tow of the Italian yacht O Solo Mio. “Perry seemed to be very proud of his connections to those big boys. I’ve always thought of Perry as just a sleaze ball— a user, yeah, but not a dealer. A guy not above some smalltime crime if the chance presented itself, but not a big criminal. Do you know anything I don’t know?”

“Not really. I know he’s been busted for drunk and disorderly a few times, and he does sell a little weed to his friends. That’s it, far as I know. I think he’s probably just bullshitting, but then again, I wouldn’t put it past him, trying to hook up with some kind of big-time score.”

“That’s just it. I don’t think anything’s beneath Perry.”

Mike laughed. “Yeah, he’s definitely a bottom-feeder.”

The beer tasted fresh and clean. My throat already felt scratchy from the cigarette smoke and from trying to shout over the noise coming from both the jukebox and the inebriated crowd. I turned around on my stool and watched the game of pool at the table behind us for a few minutes.

“Doesn’t look like Gil’s here,” Mike said, and I could tell he understood how disappointed I was.

A heavyset, ponytailed white man at the pool table was accusing a younger black man of having cheated by moving the cue ball. Ponytail was a biker type with a huge gut and various chains hanging off his belt. On the table, the striped balls grossly outnumbered the solids, and I suspected the accusation was a way of trying to make up lost ground.

I turned around and reached for the last of my beer. “Let’s get out of here.”

At that moment the door to the men’s room opened and a large man walked out, his hands still fumbling with his fly. His belly, stretching the fabric of the faded black T-shirt, was third-trimester size, and his head bobbed as he struggled to get things situated in his trousers. When he stepped into the red glow of the neon Bud Light sign, I saw the wide handlebar mustache and the scarred, off-kilter face. Although the skin was etched with deep crevasses, there was now more to the unbalanced look than just the eyebrow. In person, Gil Lynch looked positively insane.

Gil saw us just as he came abreast of our bar stools, and when I opened my mouth to speak to him, he bolted for the door. The move caught me off guard, his quickness remarkable for such a heavy man.

Mike was off his stool and heading for the door before my brain was able to process what was happening. He turned to me and shouted, “Come on,” his cop instinct just like a dog’s—the sight of a man’s back only whetted his appetite. As my feet hit the floor, I identified the source of my confusion: I couldn’t comprehend why or how Gil would know that we were looking for him. To my knowledge, I’d never met the man before.

I was no more than a few seconds behind Mike, but he had stopped and was holding the door, staring out toward the street. Just before I went through the door, I saw Perry cover his face with his hand. Seemed nobody wanted to have anything to do with me today. Outside, I looked to my right and saw the bike and its rider in a faded black T-shirt turn south in the direction of Pattie’s.

“We’ll never catch him by running, leastwise I never will,” Mike said.

“Think he’s headed back to the marina?”

“Probably.” He stretched out his hand in front of me. “After you.”

The dinghy was still where we’d left it, a fact that caused us both to sigh with relief when we walked down the gravel road in front of Pattie’s office and saw it still floating along the fuel dock. The chickee hut was abandoned, the only sign of its recent occupants an overflowing ashtray and one still-smoldering butt. Gil’s bike lay on its side in the weeds next to the office trailer.

“Come on, let’s have a little talk with the folks here.” Mike stepped up and opened the door.

Pattie sat back in an aging office chair on the far side of a low counter. From where we stood, the counter hid nothing, and I had to stifle a grin when it struck me how much her body looked like one of Abaco’s chew toys—a round piece of red rubber that bulged with multiple rings of ever-widening widths. She sat with her legs spread, her capri pants showing her thick, vein-riddled ankles.

“Howdy,” Mike said, once again removing his hat for the lady. “Seems we just missed Gil over at Flossie’s. I seen his bike out there. Any idea where he got to?”

I was amazed at how well Mike spoke the lingo of those he questioned. The man was a veritable chameleon, but Pattie wasn’t smiling at him this time.

“Shoulda told me you was a cop.”

“Me?” Mike looked absolutely injured. “I’m not a cop.” Then he ducked his head and looked apologetic. “Well, it’s true, I used to be a cop, but not no more. Hell, you ever see a one-legged cop?”

That stopped her. Her face seemed to fold in on itself, eyebrows lowered, chin up, as she mulled that one over. “Yeah, okay. Well, Gil said you was a cop.”

“He musta recognized me from the old days.”

“He’s not so right in the head sometimes,” she said. “He took the marina launch. It’s got a twenty-five-horse engine. I don’t know where he’d be headed. Think he’s got someplace he sleeps up the canal somewhere. You know, he’s good on the water. He don’t want you to find him, you ain’t gonna find him.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

On the fuel dock, we saw that, though the dinghy floated where we’d left her, she was no longer tied to the dock. Gil had thrown off our line to untie the marina boat, and the dinghy painter now trailed into the depths of the brown, oily water. It was Mike’s cable around the piling that had prevented the boat from drifting off.

Once he got the outboard started and we were idling out toward the canal, Mike said, “Pattie’s probably right. We’ll find him another day. I sure as hell would like to know why he’s running, though.”

From Pattie’s marina, we could get back to Mike’s dock by turning either left or right since we were on a big circle made by the New River and the Dania Cut-off Canal. We headed left, west, up the canal, inland. Joe D’Angelo’s house, our next stop on our way back to Mike’s, was far up the New River, and eventually the canal we were on would connect with the river. Mike explained to me that Joe had bought his house in the Riverland neighborhood back in the eighties when a DEA guy could afford those places. His point lot home not far from the Jungle Queen’s tourist compound was the smartest investment the guy had ever made.

As we entered the stretch of the canal that passed through Pond Apple Slough, the canal banks changed from neat lawns to twisted mangroves. The evidence of civilization slipped away. Except for the occasional channel marker, we could have been deep in the Everglades. The Slough was one of the last remaining freshwater swamps on the southeast coast of Florida, and environmentalists had managed thus far to prevent its total destruction. It remained an isolated island of wilderness in the middle of Fort Lauderdale’s urban sprawl.

Mike pushed the throttle forward and the inflatable jumped into a plane. While I would have preferred to dawdle along at five knots, watching for birds and fish and raccoon, I had more important things to do—like find Solange’s father. A snapshot of her face kept popping up in my mind, even as I watched the flocks of cattle egrets take off from the mangroves as our outboard sped by. Occasionally, narrow passages branched off from the main waterway, and I glanced down them, yearning to explore. I’d forgotten how pretty it was up here. I told myself I’d have to come back here someday in one of the Larsens’ kayaks. Maybe bring Solange once this whole mess was worked out.

“Slow down, Mike.” I’d seen a flash of bright yellow and green.

“What’s up?” he asked as the boat settled back down into the water and our wake splashed into the mangrove roots ahead of us.

“Turn around.” We had just passed a little creek or something off the west side of the canal. “I saw something.”

He swung the boat around and motored back the hundred yards or so, then slowed and turned into an opening in the trees. There was a small barge aground about five hundred yards into the swamp where the narrow passage dead-ended. The rust brown sides of the barge blended into the brown and green of the mangroves. I never would have spotted it if Pattie’s paint-splattered boatyard punt had not been tied alongside.

“What do you know,” Mike said. “I think we found Gil’s little hidey-hole, after all.”

“Think he’s there?”

“Naw. He’d have to be deaf not to hear this outboard out here. Like Pattie said, he doesn’t want to be found.” Mike shrugged. “He’s probably slithered off into the swamp. Want to go aboard and check it out anyway?” He bobbed his head in the direction of the barge.

“We could take a quick look, I guess,” I said.

The old iron barge appeared to be no more than sixty feet long. They’d used such barges to haul out the muck back when many of South Florida’s canals were dredged. This one was now holed by rust and waterlogged, resting on the mud bottom in what I guessed was about two feet of water. Even in water five inches deep, the bottom wouldn’t have been visible. The swamp water resembled strong tea, stained as it was from the tannin in the mangroves. A small plywood-and-epoxy deckhouse, no more than ten by twelve, had been erected on the flat surface of the barge in what appeared to be the aft end of the derelict. Small plants, grasses, and mangrove shoots grew out of holes in the iron sides where rust had caused the metal to cave in and enough organic material had collected to allow seeds to root. What had once been a huge metal structure was rapidly being reclaimed by the swamp.

Mike tied the dinghy to an area that looked relatively free of sharp protuberances, and we climbed aboard. Polyethylene plastic sheeting was duct taped over what had once been the wheelhouse windows. It was difficult to see through the plastic film, but Mike was right—it wasn’t likely that Gil was still around. Still, I was happy to let Mike enter the deckhouse first.

“It’s okay, Sey. No bogeymen in here,” he shouted, his voice sounding muffled through the plastic sheeting.

“Hey, I’m not scared.”

He poked his head out the doorway. “No, that’s why you’re standing out there, twenty feet away, looking like you’re ready to bolt at the slightest sound.”

“You’ve got to admit, this place is creepy.”

“You want to be grossed out, come in here.”

The smell in the deckhouse touched off some faint memory I could not place. Human sweat mixed with fishy iodine and the sickly smell of dead things. Rotting leaves and food and papers were strewn around the inside of the structure. A single twin mattress, wet by the smell of it, rested on the floor, and the inside walls were covered with newspapers taped up with wide strips of duct tape. An ornate end table that had probably once sat in a Fort Lauderdale family room now rested between the mattress and the wall, the brass drawer handles rusted to greenish lumps and the wooden top now warped from the damp of the swamp. On the table was an ashtray that held a couple of roaches—evidence that Gil still smoked some weed when he could find it.

While Mike was pulling out the drawers and looking for anything of Gil’s that might tell us something, I noticed the newspaper on the bulkhead closest to the door was newer than the others. The front page of the Miami Herald had a small headline in the lower left corner, “Haitian Boat Sinks in Hillsboro Inlet,” and in the first paragraph I saw the name Miss Agnes.

“Well, would you look at this?” Mike held up a flashy new handheld VHF radio and a Nextel cellular phone. “I wonder where our friend picked up these little items?”

“Pretty expensive gear for a guy who’s homeless,” I said. “Yeah, I think it’s more likely our buddy Gil has sticky fingers than a major credit card.” He pulled out the drawer where he had found the electronics and felt around inside for anything that might be taped to the underside of the cabinet, when he didn’t find anything, he slid the drawer back in place, adjusted his leg, and pushed himself to his feet.

“Take a look at this,” I said, pointing to the newspaper. “What do you make of this?”

“What? That Gil uses newspaper for wallpaper?” Mike leaned in closer to the newsprint and tapped his finger against the headline. “Interesting, but probably just a coincidence.” He held up the phone and radio. “This, however, this intrigues me. I know Gil Lynch is not as loony as he pretends to be.” He handed me the phone and took a scrap of paper and a mechanical pencil out of his pocket. “Read me the number off that phone. I’ll have somebody run it and see who it belongs to.”

After I’d read him the number, he placed the items back in the drawer. “Let’s get out of this stink hole.”

We both managed to climb back down into Mike’s inflatable without falling into the canal or tearing any clothing on the rusty metal edges of the barge. I continued to be surprised by Mike’s agility with his artificial leg.

He cranked up the outboard while I untied our line and pushed the inflatable away from the rusty old derelict. “Tell me what you’re thinking,” I said as we idled slowly out of the little side creek.

“Okay, let’s look at what we know. Gil Lynch is a burnt-out dealer turned snitch. He might get Social Security, but he’s dirt poor, living on the streets, and sleeping in shitty holes like that.” He jerked his thumb back at the barge. “As far as I know, the guy usually doesn’t mind seeing the cops come along. He normally tries to sell some tidbit of information.”

He turned the corner back into the Dania Cut-off Canal and pushed the throttle forward. The outboard noise climbed, and Mike continued by shouting.

“Two things are weird. First, if Gil knows something, why didn’t he try to sell it to me? And second, if he stole that stuff, why’s he hanging on to it? Guys like him usually head straight for the nearest pawnshop when they lift something like that.”

I wasn’t up to trying to shout over the outboard, so I just watched the riverbank flash by, and I let my thoughts blur in the same way. There had once been cypress trees in the freshwater swamp we were passing through, but when developers tapped into the aquifer to water all the green lawns they were planting, the water table dropped and Pond Apple Slough suffered as the saltwater seeped in. The twisted branches of the dead cypress trees still provided nesting space for hawks and osprey, though. I pointed a nest out to Mike. “Osprey,” I shouted.

“Cool.” He nodded.

Red had known Gil for about twenty-five years, and in all the time I had worked for my father on board Gorda, I didn’t remember Red ever mentioning him. Had they stayed in touch after the delivery, when Gil became a big-time drug dealer?

We rounded a bend in the waterway, and I saw we were exiting the swamp. More boat traffic and the bridges of the interstate were just ahead. Mike slowed the dinghy. Finally, he was able to talk in a more natural voice.

“We’re not far from Joe’s house now.”

“What do you think Gil’s connection to Joe is?”

“That’s just what we’re going to ask him,” Mike said.

Joe D’Angelo’s house stood out from its neighbors. The canal that stretched back from the river along the side of his property was lined with simple suburban homes whose backyard embellishments consisted of barbecues and swimming pools. Joe’s house was anything but simple. The large corner lot fronted about seventy feet on the river and another hundred feet along the canal, so you could not miss the elaborate patio and swimming pool with a huge artificial rock waterfall, the built-in waterslide, and the raised Jacuzzi that spilled into the pool. A covered redwood bar adjoined the Jacuzzi so that the bartender could easily deliver drinks to those basking in the bubbles. The pool cabana house had a small satellite dish on the roof, and the ranch-style house had been modified beyond recognition with a raised roof to accommodate the cathedral ceilings and glass walls that fronted the pool area. Davits at the far end of the dock held a black Jet Ski suspended over the water. The only boat tied to his dock was a sleek white Donzi ocean racer, maybe forty-five feet long, with a large cabin forward and room for half a dozen bikinied babes on the large upholstered transom. Judging from the dirt and leaves on the white fiberglass, Joe didn’t take her out much.

Mike slid the dinghy alongside the dock in front of Joe’s boat and killed the engine. After all his shouting and the constant whine of the outboard, the quiet seemed almost unnatural. From up the canal somewhere, the smell of grilling meat mingled with the sound of children laughing and shouting.

Mike took a deep breath. “Hmm. Smells good. Didn’t realize just how hungry I am.” He smiled at me. “No lunch.” He held his stomach. “I’m doing Weight Watchers.”

“What? With all the piña coladas you drink?”

He grinned. “That’s what I like about Weight Watchers. I can drink all my points.”

I shook my head and hopped up onto the dock. “Do you think we should have tried to call again?”

“Nah. When you want information, you don’t let ‘em know exactly when you’re coming. Much better to just drop in.”

Looking around at the elaborate pool and patio setup, I said, “Wow, this is some property. Joe didn’t do too bad as a DEA agent.”

“Like I said, he bought this place twenty years ago when they were affordable, and this particular property was a real dump, I heard. He says he did lots of the work himself.”

We were walking around the Jacuzzi when the sliding doors opened and a stunning, smiling black woman waved to Mike.

“Mister Mike. Hello.” Her head was wrapped in a bright blue headscarf, and she stood in the doorway with one hand at her hip, the other shading her eyes from the sun. The pose was casual, but a photograph of her at that moment could have sold any product. Although her English was almost unaccented, I detected a bit of Haiti in there.

“Hey, Celeste, is Joe around?” Mike asked as we rounded the pool.

“He is not here right now, but he’ll be home soon.” She stepped out of the opening in the sliding door and waved her hand toward the interior of the house. “Would you like to come in and wait?” Her movements were like those of a dancer. Though she was wearing a simple cotton dress and no makeup, her figure and face were striking.

Mike turned to me with raised eyebrows. “Your call, Sullivan. You got the time?”

I shrugged. “We can wait a while. If he doesn’t get here in twenty minutes, though, we’d better take off. I have to meet someone tonight.”

“Fair enough.” He waved his arm in the direction of Celeste. “After you.”

Celeste brought us glasses and bottles of St. Pauli’s Girl beer. She set us up at the indoor bar in the study that overlooked the pool. Clearly, Joe was into bars. I was trying to discern if Celeste was a housekeeper or girlfriend. Or both. When she disappeared and did not come back, I decided on housekeeper.

The decorating scheme for the house could only be called eclectic, but, somehow, it all worked. Along one wall, a narrow section of bookshelves stretched to the ceiling while the rest of the wall was covered with lighted nooks that held sculptures or photos or antiques. A wheeled library ladder reached up twenty feet to a rail that ran just below the ceiling. An antique barber’s chair was bolted to the floor just inside the window where it would have the best view of the river.

As promised, Joe was home in less than ten minutes. We heard the car, followed by a loud greeting, then the hushed tones as Celeste told him we were there. His whispers sounded loud and harsh, angry about something. I wondered if it was us. But when he came through the doors, he was all smiles.

“Mike. Seychelle.” He shook both our hands. “So good to see you both. What brings you by the old hacienda?”

In his white shorts and lime green polo shirt, Joe looked the part of the retiree. I doubted the ensemble was a biking outfit. Maybe golf?

“Hey, Joe. Sorry to barge in on you like this,” Mike said, “but I’m going to get straight to the point. Sey came by to visit me today, and she found some old photos among her dad’s things. She wanted to find out more about the history behind those pics.”

I had already retrieved the photos out of my shoulder bag, and I spread them out on the bar. “I’m more than a little confused, Joe,” I said. “Yesterday morning you said that you and Red used to work together when you were in the DEA, and he used to tow boats for you.”

Joe picked up the picture of the three of them. He had a peculiar little half-smile on his face.

“You never said anything about knowing Red over twenty years ago,” I added.

He didn’t say anything for over a minute. None of us did. We just sat there and watched the shadows in the room stretch out.

“I haven’t talked about that trip in years,” he began. He climbed onto a bar stool on the far side of me. Mike rested his hand on my shoulder. Joe looked up from the photo. “You have grown up to be such a beautiful young woman, Seychelle. I would never say or do anything to hurt you. I didn’t lie to you the other day, I just didn’t tell you everything. That was the way we always handled it. When Red and I began working together again in the eighties, we never discussed the past.” He looked back down at the photo. “Seychelle, I think this is something you should just forget. Destroy these photos, forget you ever saw them, and get on with your life. Trust me when I tell you there are some things you are better off not knowing.”

“I can’t do that, Joe.”

“Then you need to try to understand those times, Seychelle. Everyone was doing it, and your dad was in a bind, as I understand it. Financially.”

“But that doesn’t mean he would—”

He raised his hand palm up. “Hear me out, then, if you insist. I was there as the delivery skipper, already down in Cartagena, and some guys I knew up in Lauderdale recruited your dad. It was a long time ago. I was only, hell, what, twenty-seven, twenty-eight years old.”

“Were you working for the DEA then?” I asked.

Joe’s eyes flickered, sought out Mike, then looked across the room, out the window. He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. “You’re not making this easy. Yes. Yes, I was. I was pretty fresh, only nine months on the job when they asked me if I wanted to go undercover as a yacht delivery captain. Shit. Nobody’s even supposed to know we were doing that back then.”

Part of me wanted to stop him. If it was even remotely possible, I didn’t want to know about it. But it wasn’t possible. Not Red. No matter what Joe said.

“The guy who owned the boat had been under surveillance for quite some time. He had lots of toys and no identifiable means of support. Turned out it was easier than I thought getting hired on as the captain of his yacht. And, eventually, he brought me in on what was really happening. He had this crewman working for him. The guy’s still around.”

“You mean Gil Lynch?” Mike asked.

“Right. Of course, you’d know him, Mike. Forgot about that.” Joe pointed to Gil in the old photo. “That’s him there. This was the early days, before he was known much here in Lauderdale. He became a much bigger player after that trip.”

“You see much of Gil these days?”

Joe grunted a half-laugh. “I’d be surprised if he’s still alive.”

“Oh, he’s alive all right. Sey and I saw him just a few hours ago.”

“Really? Did you talk to him?”

“No. I’ve used him as a snitch in the past, but today he ran from us. Don’t know why.”

“Hmm. Well, it was Gil back then who set up the buy, did all the legwork down in Colombia. But I didn’t bust either him or Red. My bosses were after the yacht’s owner, the bigger fish. I probably shouldn’t have done it, but I protected Red. Hell, you know what I’m talking about, right, Mike? The guy had a wife and kids back in the States, it was his first time getting into something like that.”

“Sure, I know what you’re saying,” Mike said.

My elbows were propped up on the bar, and I rested my forehead against the heels of my hands. I began to shake my head. “No way. I don’t buy it.” I lifted my head and turned to face Joe. “Red did not knowingly get on a boat that was smuggling drugs up from Colombia.” I swung my head back and forth, looking first at Mike, then Joe. Neither would look at me.

No one said anything for several seconds. Mike’s hand rested on my shoulder, massaging the flesh in a little circling motion. I wanted to reach over and smack his hand away.

Finally, Joe said, “Listen, honey, I know you don’t want to think of your daddy—”

I stood up. I wanted to break something. I wanted him to stop calling me “honey.”

“Red didn’t know,” I said. “He couldn’t have.” I could hear that my voice sounded whiny, and it made me even angrier. I slid off my stool and stomped out of the room.

Celeste was standing in the hall, just outside the doorway. As I passed her I asked, “Bathroom?” She motioned for me to follow her.

I sat down on the closed toilet lid and gave myself about three minutes to just let my emotions go. It wasn’t long enough to turn my eyes and face all red and puffy, but it was just enough of a little pffft, like a pressure cooker’s jiggle, to make sure I wouldn’t blow when I went back into that room with those guys. They were undoubtedly talking about me right now—some “poor kid” scenario, where they were painting themselves as the big tough cops who knew how bad folks could be.

But Red was different, and they weren’t used to people like Red. He was a man whose morality was absolute. He would not bend, nor did he ever struggle over a moral issue, much to the chagrin of his teenage daughter. Red would never have willingly smuggled drugs—not even to finish Gorda. That was a truth. I felt it in my gut. I was not sure whether Joe was floating this tale out of ignorance or deceit, but I intended to find out.

After splashing some cold water on my face and relishing the soft, Egyptian cotton towels, I unlocked the door and ventured out. The men’s voices and loud laughter carried from their end of the hall, but I turned in the opposite direction. I decided to explore a little before returning to the boys’ club.

I saw three doors down the hall. The guest bedroom was located diagonally across from the bathroom. The furnishings were expensive and tasteful, but the room had all the personality of a model home. The next door led to the master bedroom, a huge room, nearly twenty by twenty, with French doors that opened onto the pool deck. When I came to the last door, I nearly collided with Celeste.

“Oh, pardon,” she said, looking startled and then lowering her eyes.

“No, I should be saying that.”

Over her shoulder I saw a room that was small and spartan, containing a twin bed, a dresser with a small mirror, and a single chair. Unlike the other two rooms, this one had personal items, a lovely brush-and-comb set on the dresser, a hand-stitched quilt on the bed, a small bright painting on the wall.

“Really, I’m sorry. I was just being nosy. I wanted to have a look at the house. Is this your room?”

She nodded and lowered her eyes.

I pointed back down the hall. “I kinda got in an argument with those guys back there. Do you mind if I just sit here for a while? I could use some female company.”

She smiled and stepped into the room, offering me the chair. After we’d settled ourselves, neither of us quite knew what to say. I could sense her awkwardness. After a while, she began to hum a tune.

“That sounds very pretty. What is it?”

“Oh, it’s a song we used to sing in Haiti. To make children go to sleep.”

“Can you sing it for me?”

She smiled shyly and began to sing softly, but in a strong and pleasant voice.

Dodo ti pitit manman’l

Do-o-do-o-do ti pitit manman’l

Si li pas dodo

Krab la va manje’l

Her voice cracked, and she stopped singing. She stood suddenly, then crossed the room and stared out the window.

“You miss Haiti, don’t you?” She did not move to respond to my question, so I tried a different one. “How long have you worked for Joe?”

“Five years,” she said, so softly I could barely hear her. “That’s when you came from Haiti?”

She nodded and spoke without turning around. “Mister D’Angelo brought me over, and he sent me to school to learn English.”

“Your English is very good.”

She turned around and smiled, then crossed to the bed and sat next to me. “Thank you,” she said. “I cannot read yet, but I will learn.” She sat with her head down, her fingers tracing the floral design on her dress. I had never seen such a beautiful woman behave so modestly. Was it possible, I wondered, she didn’t know how lovely she was?

“So you met him in Haiti?”

She nodded without looking up.

“What was he doing there?”

“He was a drug policeman. There were lots of drugs in Haiti. He help the Haitian people.”

“Hmmm. I’ve met so many Haitian people lately. I didn’t realize there were so many Haitians in Florida.”

She smiled. “Yes, this is true. Haitians are in the supermarket, restaurants, shopping malls. Every year more and more. It is because it is so bad at home.”

“Do you still have family there?”

She frowned and appeared to struggle with her reply. “No,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “All dead.”

“I’m so sorry.” I looked at the top of her bowed head. She looked so young to have known such loss. “How old are you, Celeste?”

“I am twenty-three.”

“Joe brought you here when you were only eighteen?” She looked up quickly. “Yes. I love my country, Haiti, but it was bad there for me. There are many beautiful things in Haiti, many wonderful people. But this is my new country. There is nothing in Haiti for me now.”

Joe appeared in the doorway. “What are you doing back here?” There was something in his voice, some undercurrent of threat that made me feel like a kid who had been caught rifling through her parents’ belongings.

“We were just visiting.” I patted Celeste’s hand. “It was nice talking to you.”

Joe walked us out to the dock, where Mike untied the dinghy line while I prepared to climb down the dock. “Seychelle, I want you to know—” Joe said.

“Joe, stop.” I held up my hand like a traffic cop. “I came here looking for some answers about my dad, about who he was. And you know what? I found out that I’ve known that all along. I’ve always known who Red was. Nothing you say can change that.”

“I’m glad. I hope you understand that I would never intentionally say or do anything to hurt you. Are we still friends?” I nodded once and he leaned in and kissed me on the cheek.

Mike and I didn’t talk much on the ride back. As we cruised through the heart of the city, the late evening sunlight was turning the downtown buildings into golden towers. I sat up on the bow of the inflatable and tried to enjoy the beauty of the river, but my mind kept spinning images: Red, Gil, and Joe dockside in Cartagena; Perry waiting for someone in Flossie’s Bar; Gil’s photo on Perry’s Italian tow; new cell phones and radios. Joe had given me one version of what had happened down there over twenty years before. I needed to hear Gil’s version.

By the time we secured the dinghy and I’d turned down Mike’s dinner invite, it was approaching five o’clock. I drove straight to Jeannie’s to pick up Solange.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

When I pulled Lightnin’ into Jeannie’s yard, I saw B.J.’s black El Camino parked on the far side of her van. I had hoped to just grab Solange and take off for Mambo Racine’s, so this was an unwelcome complication.

I saw him through the screen door when I reached the top of the landing. He was sitting on the couch talking to Jeannie, and in the few seconds before I knocked, when neither of them knew I was there, I watched him. He still gave me that shivery feeling—the way his biceps stretched the fabric of his white T-shirt as he raised his arm, his brown thighs showing beneath his khaki cargo shorts. His back was angled toward the door, and I could see his sleek black ponytail and his neck hairs pulled up into that rubber band. I had a sudden urge to kiss him right there, on his neck, just behind his ear.

I shook my head and knocked.

He was smiling when he unlocked the screen door. “We were just talking about you,” he said.

“Great,” I said as I walked through the door. “Hi, Jeannie. I came to pick up Solange.”

“Hey. I think taking that girl up to some Voodoo lady is nuts, but I can see you’ve got your stubborn heart set on it.” She rocked back and forth a couple of times to build momentum and then lifted her bulk up into a standing position. “I’ll go get her ready. It’ll take me fifteen minutes or so. She’s not dressed.”

I had the distinct feeling that she was giving B.J. time to talk to me.

“I wanted to see you,” he said. “I felt bad about the way we left things yesterday.”

“Listen, B.J., I really don’t have time to get into this now. I’m supposed to have this kid at Racine’s by seven, and I’ve just been on this ridiculous dinghy trip with Mike.” I was still in a bad mood from the conversation with Joe.

“What dinghy trip?”

“I was trying to find out something about my dad. It’s hard to explain. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

We sat in silence for a while then, the only sounds in the room those of the wall clock ticking and, through the screen, the city sounds of traffic and sirens and the far-off music of an ice cream truck.

B.J. took a deep breath. “Sey, I know what it’s like to hear stories about your father. Stories are all I’ve ever had about my dad.”

I knew that B.J. had been raised by a single mother in Southern California and that he had absolutely adored her. She’d died when he was only a few years out of graduate school. It was then that he abandoned the corporate lifestyle, moved to Florida, and started working as a boat carpenter. He rarely talked about his life before Florida, only occasionally letting loose with little tidbits.

“Even though I never met my dad, by his very absence, he played a part in my life. I would imagine he was this very powerful man, and it was the people around him who were preventing him from ever coming to visit his son. When I was in high school, my mother told me that he came from a wealthy Hawaiian family. He had been slumming in Southern California before going back to school up at Berkeley. She was seventeen and dancing in a Polynesian restaurant, and when he found out she was pregnant, he offered her fifty thousand dollars to get an abortion. She refused, he left, and that was the last she ever heard of him.”

“I’m sorry, B.J.”

“Don’t be. I had the greatest mom. No complaints. I just know that I want the chance to do the fatherhood thing right. Sey, being a family doesn’t have to mean polyester clothes and a minivan. Look at me. I was raised in women’s dressing rooms in a handful of Polynesian restaurants.”

I rolled my eyes. “That explains a lot.”

His mouth spread wide, showing his incredibly white teeth. “So I love women. But Sey, of all the women I have known, I’ve never felt like this. I miss you when you’re not there. I’ve never ever missed anyone before.” He took my hand.

Jeannie appeared in the hallway with Solange at her side, and she clutched at her chest and gasped. “Oh, my God. He didn’t propose to you, did he?”

I pulled my hand back and stood up. “Of course not, Jeannie. B.J.? Propose? You’ve got to be kidding. The man loves women. Plural. He’ll probably have a new girlfriend by the end of the week.”

The street where Max and Racine lived looked even less inviting in the dark than it had in the daylight. I was acutely aware of how little protection the Jeep’s soft top afforded us as I rounded the corner and began peering down the unlit street, trying to recognize the cinder-block house that was set so far back from the street.

Jeannie and I had argued before I’d climbed into the Jeep, after B.J. had smiled sadly and left the house. I hadn’t been nice to him. He deserved better than that. Jeannie told me all that and then some, and I knew she was right. Then she called me irresponsible for taking a child into Collier City after dark to see some kind of Voodoo priestess. When she put it that way, it did become difficult to defend. Then I thought of B.J.’s words on the topic, how he had explained it to me the other night, and I tried to tell Jeannie that she needed to step out of her middle-class American point of view and accept the fact that there were alternative religions, alternative ways of healing. She looked like she wanted to slap some sense into me. It had all sounded so much more convincing when B.J. said it.

It wasn’t the house I spotted finally, but rather the number of cars parked in front of the house. What had been a wide, empty dirt yard was now covered with a varied collection of cars, everything from huge sport utility vehicles with dark tinted windows to older-model sedans and shiny new imports.

I parked the Jeep close to the street, so as not to get blocked in by any late arrivals. Solange was sitting up, her eyes open, but she took no more interest in these surroundings than she had taken in me or anything back at Jeannie’s house. She simply stared ahead as though she had retreated to some place deep inside. I helped her out of the car and held her hand as we walked to the door.

Still a few feet from the front door, I hesitated. The front porch was dark, but colored lights behind the house illuminated the branches of the huge strangler fig tree. Loud island drumming and the sound of people laughing and talking drifted over the top of the house, intensifying the stillness in the front yard. I felt like a voyeur about to peep through a window.

I leaned down, closer to Solange’s face, concentrating, trying to see her features in the darkness. “Solange, I wish you’d help me out here, kid. Is this right? I’ve got to find somebody who can help you.” As usual, she showed no reaction. “Do you want to go in? I want to help you, but you probably know more about what’s going on here than I do.”

Nothing. She stared straight ahead. I had no idea if she could hear me or understand me. I didn’t know what else to do, so I took her small hand in both of mine, squeezed it, and walked forward.

Max opened the door. He was wearing a formal black suit and black bow tie. “Bon soir! Bienvenue! I am so glad you have come, both of you.” He bent down and peered into Solange’s face. “This is your young friend?”

“Her name is Solange.”

He said something to her in Creole, which I didn’t understand, and for all the reaction he got out of her, it was as though she didn’t understand, either. His eyes crinkled at the corners when he looked at me again. “She will be fine,” he said. “Ne t’inquiet pas. Don’t worry. Mambo Racine will take care of the child.”

Max led us through the house, and when we stepped into the backyard, it was like stepping into another world. All my senses were immediately under direct assault. At least fifty people stood around the yard, clustered in groups, talking, drinking, laughing. No one turned or paid any attention to us. The women all wore scarves on their heads, and most wore bright, colorful dresses, although a few were dressed entirely in white. Many of the men wore their work clothes, while others were dressed in white with red sash-like belts.

The high thick branches of the strangler fig tree made a ceiling over the fenced-in yard, so it was like stepping into a massive room. The branches of the tree completely obscured the sky, but it was the trunk of the tree that startled me most. Strangler figs start as vines that surround and eventually kill the host tree, leaving a trunk that looks like dozens of roots all tangled and woven together. This tree had been painted with colorful designs that used the natural shape of the twisted roots to form pictures and patterns. There was one especially thick root that twisted around the rest of the trunk, and this root had been painted to look like a rainbow-colored snake climbing the tree. As we stepped down from the back door, I looked up and saw the head of the snake, his tongue and fangs painted on a large gnarled stump of wood in the branches just over our heads. Bits of ribbon and rags were tied among the upper branches of the tree, and other strange artifacts like gourds and beads and dried flowers dangled there on strings. A low, foot-high wooden bench had been built around the base of the tree, and it, too, was painted with vivid designs.

The light in the yard was dim, just one small spotlight at the base of the tree. Beyond the tree, at the very back of the yard, I could make out two smaller buildings, and it looked as though one had designs and human figures painted on its side. The other with its thatched roof looked more like a Seminole Indian chickee hut.

The air was pungent with the smell of wood smoke, though I didn’t see the fire anywhere. A group of three musicians pounded on different-size handmade drums, and the drumming seemed to drive the crowd to laugh and talk louder and louder. Everything in the whole tableau moved to the rhythm of the drums.

“Max ...” I turned to ask him where Racine was, but he had gone. The back door to the house was closed.

I knelt next to Solange and watched her face. “Solange.” I stroked the side of her face and moved my lips close to her ear. “Can you hear me?”

Nothing. She stared straight ahead, her body even more rigid than before.

A hand touched my shoulder and I jumped, nearly falling on my butt in the dirt. When I stood and turned around, I was facing a woman who was taller than me. She had to be more than six feet tall, though from the look of her sharp, jutting elbows I probably outweighed her significantly. Her skin was exceptionally dark, a match in hue to Max’s, but she was so thin that her cheekbones protruded above deep hollows. She wore a bright red dress and an elaborately embroidered straw hat.

“You are Seychelle Sullivan?” she asked, grasping my fingers in her dry, bony hand and shaking it vigorously. Her voice was deep and raspy, as though she had smoked cigarettes her entire life, but she spoke so low I could barely hear her over the pounding drums. “I am Racine Toussaint. I understand you have come here to speak to me.” Her English revealed only the mere hint of an accent.

“Yes, I brought this child,” I said, wrapping my arm around Solange and pulling her close to me.

“I know about the child. Follow me.”

She led us through the crowd. Many of the people had started dancing. Those not dancing were moving off to the perimeter of the yard, while the dancers marched slowly around the tree, undulating to the rhythm of the drums.

We passed a man who was kneeling on the ground, drawing curly designs with sand in the dirt yard. The fine white grains trailed from his fist as he added a final flourish to what looked to me like a large, stylized, compass rose.

Racine stopped in front of a door to one of the outbuildings. Up close, I could see that the paintings on the walls were far more elaborate than I had originally thought. The style was unusual, what fancy art critics called primitif, but the subject matter was clearly religious—from the black Madonna and child on the right of the door to the intricate black cross adorning the door itself.

“Miss Sullivan,” she said, “I understand this must all seem very strange to you.”

I nodded and smiled. While it was easier to speak out here farther from the drums, I still found myself overwhelmed and not sure what to say.

“We Haitians practice a form of Christianity that has blended with the African religions of our ancestors. We call this religion Vodou.” She directed her gaze over my shoulder at the dancers back in the yard and smiled. “Most Americans, when they hear that word, they think of black magic. They have all those images of zombies, curses, and Voodoo dolls from their films. In reality, Vodou is a way of seeing the universe, of being connected to our ancestors, of using nature to heal. I hope you can keep a more open mind.”

I nodded. “I’ll try. But I’ve got to tell you, all this”—I swung my hand in an arc toward the drummers and the people who were starting to dance—”I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s very beautiful, but a little frightening as well.”

She smiled. “I appreciate your honesty. But there is no reason to be afraid. One of our rituals is a sacred cleansing ritual called a lave tete,” she said, pronouncing the words lavay tet with a beautiful French accent, “because we wash the hair several times with special herbs. This clears the consciousness of the individual. This will help the child wash away her fears and bring her back to us. Can you trust me?”

“You’re just going to wash her hair?”

Racine took my hand in hers. Her skin was cool and dry, and her palms felt almost like crepe paper. As she spoke, her dark eyes locked on mine. “I would never do anything to hurt this child.”

I believed her. “Okay. I just want her to get better. I don’t know what else to try.”

“When we are inside,” she said, “I don’t want you to say anything. You may watch, but I ask you not to speak.”

Racine took Solange’s hand and led her into the small room. An involuntary shudder shook my shoulders as I watched Solange pass through that doorway without me. I was seized by an overwhelming urge to grab her, run for the Jeep, and get the hell out of there. Instead, I followed them inside.

The only light inside the room came from dozens of candles on an altar that ran along the right side wall. Scraps of cloth bearing a variety of patterns covered the base of the altar. It was difficult to make out all the paraphernalia that crowded the shelf. There were bottles and jars made of colored glass, a big wooden cross, a stone bowl, terra-cotta pots, and what looked like little packages wrapped in colored paper with ribbons tied round the paper to form long necks. Two low chairs had been placed directly in front of the cross in the center of the room, one in front of the other.

Racine led Solange to one of the chairs and began to undress her. When she pulled the T-shirt over the child’s head, her arms flopped down and dangled loose at her sides. The term rag doll popped into my mind. Solange was flesh and bone, but she seemed to have lost all control of her body. She was wearing only her new white underwear, and I realized again just how skinny she was. She looked so small and vulnerable.

I held my breath, and I was certain my hands would shake if I held them in front of me. What was I doing here?

A woman in white entered the room carrying a small white dress. Racine pulled it over Solange’s head. The skirt nearly touched the dirt floor, and I thought of the white dress Solange had been wearing the day I pulled her from the sea. Racine eased Solange into the front chair, then sat in the chair behind. She gently removed the beaded bands and combed out the braids in the girl’s hair. Two more women dressed in white came in, carrying between them what looked like a huge galvanized soup pot and ladle. As they placed the pot behind the chairs, gentle steam rose from the water inside. The smell was earthy, almost musky. It reminded me of when, as kids, my brother Pit and I used to make “tea” by mixing sticks and leaves from all over our yard.

Racine stirred the pot, then tested the liquid on her wrist, like a mother testing the temperature of her baby’s milk. She nodded, then lifted the child’s chin, tilting her head back, and ladled the steaming water over her head.

Solange showed no reaction to what was happening. I looked around the room. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and I noticed for the first time that there were other observers leaning against the walls. I couldn’t make out the features of a tall man on the far side of the room, dressed all in black, but closer to me, slouching and sucking on three fingers, was a girl not much older than Solange. When she turned to look at me, I recognized her. It was Juliette, the girl from Martine Gohin’s house. She pulled her fingers out of her mouth and pointed first to her lips and then to me.

Did she want to talk to me? I pointed at her and then at myself and lifted my hands and shoulders as if to ask “What?”

She ignored me, walked around the head-washing ceremony, and slipped out the door.

I assumed she wanted me to follow her. I looked back at Solange and was surprised to see her smiling. Racine was saying something in Creole that I could not understand, but the child seemed quite safe. I would step outside for just a minute.

It wasn’t until I opened the door that I realized how well soundproofed the room had been. The noise of the drums hit me, and I could feel each beat pounding in my body. The dancing in the yard had grown more frantic. Nearly everyone was involved now. Some of the dancers were writhing on the ground, and others were jumping around in bizarre contortions that made them look double-jointed. One woman fell to the ground, flopping around like a snake that had just been run over by a car. Three people surrounded her and helped her to her feet, but she seemed to struggle against them. They dragged her from the dance area toward the building that looked like an Indian chickee hut.

“Pssst.” Juliette’s head poked out, then disappeared into the shrubs at the side of the building I’d just left. I started in her direction.

“Seychelle Sullivan? Is that you?”

When I turned around, a short woman in a bright blue-and-yellow dress was coming toward me from the center of the yard. Like all the other women, she wore a colorful headscarf. I used my hand to shield my eyes from the spotlight behind her and attempted to make out the features of her face. She wore heavy, dark-tinted glasses.

“Martine?”

“Mais oui. Seychelle, what are you doing here?”

I pointed to the door. “I brought Solange. You know, the little girl? The Earth Angel? She’s sick. It’s a long story. I found this card on board the Miss Agnes—it had Racine Toussaint’s name and address. They’re washing her hair in there.”

“Ah, the lave tete. Yes, that will help.”

“You practice Voodoo?”

She shrugged. “I am Haitian, non? Come, follow me.”

I glanced over my shoulder. There was no sign of Juliette. Martine led me closer to the dancers. She motioned for me to bend down, so that she could talk over the drums and into my ear.

“Some of these dancers have been mounted by the lwa.”

“What does that mean?”

“The lwa are spirits who can enter the body of a living person and possess him in order to communicate. We call that mounting, just like a rider mounts a horse. You see the tree in the middle of the peristil?” She pointed to the strangler fig trunk. “That is called the poto mitan, or center post. It is hollow, and that is how the spirits pass the Crossroads and travel from their world to ours. Usually it is truly a pole, but Mambo Racine has chosen a tree. It seems to work well enough.” She shrugged again.

At that moment the door to the chickee hut opened, and the woman who had been taken from the dance area emerged wearing a bright red dress. It was difficult to recognize her as the same woman who had been writhing on the ground. Her face was made up, her lips bright red, her hair combed loose, and now she was leading the people who just moments before had been dragging her. She strode onto the dance floor, commanding the attention of all the men, and began a slow, seductive dance. Although she was more than fifty feet away from me on the far side of the yard, I was sure I could smell her perfume.

“That’s Erzulie. She is the spirit of love.”

“You said ‘Erzulie’?”

“Yes, she manifests herself in several different forms— from the gentle seductress to the fierce protective mother. This is Erzulie Danto, the mother. She may have come because of the child. You see that man with the cane? That is Legba.”

Martine continued to talk about many of the other lwa who had possessed the people who were dancing before us, but I ceased to hear as I tried to sort out what all this meant. Why had that woman in the boat told Solange she was Erzulie? Was that her real name? Did Solange think the woman on the boat was a spirit or possessed by one? I had told Racine I would keep an open mind, but it was growing more and more difficult.

My attention was jerked away from the dancers when the door opened and Racine Toussaint marched out and crossed the yard to the thatched hut. Who was with Solange?

“Martine, excuse me,” I interrupted her. “I have to get back to see how Solange is doing. I get worried when I can’t see her.”

“She’ll be fine. In fact, she will be very much better after this. You will see. There are not many children like her who get a lave tete.” She took hold of my arm and held it fast.

I jerked out of her grasp. “What do you mean?”

She exhaled a puff of air. “Seychelle, she is a street child. A restavek. There are thousands of them in Haiti.” There was something about the way she said the word restavek, spitting it out, as though she despised even the word.

“So what? Is that supposed to make her less human?” Martine pursed her lips and turned to watch the dancers. “Martine, I’m going back inside.”

“Okay,” she said, and blew out air through her mouth in disgust. “Go on. And if you see that empty-headed niece of mine—Juliette—tell her to get out to the car and wait for me.”

For such a stocky woman, she was fast. She took off and disappeared into the dancing crowd, leaving me certain that I had offended her somehow.

Just as I reached the door with the black cross, I saw Juliette frantically waving me over.

“Juliette, your aunt wants you to go to the car.” I felt like an idiot talking to the ficus hedge.

“Please, come.”

I dropped my head and sighed. After a quick check to see if anyone was watching, I plunged into the bushes.

On the other side of the hedge, a chain-link fence bordered on an alley. We were standing next to Racine and Max’s plastic garbage cans, and it didn’t smell like Erzulie’s perfume anymore. “Okay, what is it, Juliette?”

“The boat Miss Agnes.”

With that, she had my total attention. “What about it? Do you know someone who was on that boat?”

The girl appeared frightened. She kept tugging at her dress and glancing at the building next to us as though she were afraid she might see someone peering around one of the corners. “I know a girl,” she said in a stage whisper. “She is now restavek with friend of Madame.”

“She’s a restavek here? In the U.S.? But I thought that was only in Haiti?”

Juliette lowered her eyes and breathed deeply, her nostrils flaring. “Non.” She said it so softly I almost could not hear her over the drums. “Restaveks are here, too.”

As the realization settled in, I began to feel nauseated.

“Juliette, how can I find this girl? I must talk to her. Can you arrange for us to meet?”

She lifted her face and there was an eagerness in her eyes, as though she expected something from me.

“Tomorrow. In the Swap Shop. The booth is Paris Kids.”

“What time?”

“Anytime. She work all the time.”

“How will I know her? What’s her name?”

She shook her head. “You will know. Now I go. Madame waits.”

“Juliette.” I had to ask, even though I was fairly certain of the answer. “Martine ... she’s not your aunt, is she?”

She looked down again, refusing to meet my eyes.

“But where is your family?” She shrugged her shoulders very slightly but still did not look up.

“Does Martine let you go to school?”

The young girl raised her eyes slowly and smiled with her lips, but in those eyes there was something old and tired and angry. A fat tear pooled and slid down her smooth cheek.

“Juliette, I’m so sorry.”

I reached out to her, but before I could touch her, she turned and slipped through the hedge.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I had been leaning against the side of the building, deep in thought, when I heard a child’s scream.

A branch of the ficus hedge caught on a button of my shirt, ripping it. The door flew open as I came around the corner, and a huge man, dressed in black and wearing a black top hat, ran out, raised his left hand, and pushed me hard. My feet flew out from under me, and I fell to the ground, dazed. When I sat up, he was gone. I’d gotten only a brief glimpse of his face, his mustache and goatee. My eyes had been drawn to the sequined design that adorned his hat: a skull and crossbones.

I pushed myself up and ran into the dark room.

The chair was empty, the pots gone, but on the floor, glistening in the candlelight, was a pool of what looked like blood. There was no sign of the child.

I turned and ran out into the yard.

The drummers’ bodies were slick with sweat as their hands danced over the skins stretched taut across their drums. The pounding beats bounced inside my head, and the rhythm became almost painful. I wanted to yell at them to be quiet, but a part of me was afraid.

The dancers ignored me as I pushed through them, searching for Racine or Max. One man tipped back a bottle of rum, filling his cheeks, then sprayed out the liquid and lit it with a disposable lighter. The ball of fire jumped out of his mouth and seemed to come straight for my hair. I leaped away and fell backward into the arms of a man who was jerking and twitching, his eyes rolled back in his head. He kept in perfect beat with the drums. I pushed myself away from him only to feel something smack me on the backside. When I reached around, my fingers closed on the shaft of a cane. Holding the other end was a strange man dressed in raggedy clothes and dancing a silly jig. The other dancers were laughing and pointing as he mugged and joked in Creole. I let go of the cane when I felt a hand on my forearm. The lady in red, the one Martine had called Erzulie, was speaking to me in Creole. I couldn’t understand a word, but when I shouted Racine’s name, she stroked my hair and my face, then put her arm around my waist and led me out of the crowd of dancers. She pointed to the hut and said something in Creole, the only word of which I understood was Racine’s name. I ran across the dirt yard and burst through the door.

“Racine,” I shouted. The tall woman stood alone in the room before an altar with a painting of the Virgin Mary and dozens of candles, bottles of perfume and rum. The altar was decorated with garlands of Christmas tinsel, beaded flags, and pink silk roses. “She’s gone.”

Racine put her fingers to her lips, indicating quiet.

“There’s blood all over, and Solange is gone.”

She placed her hand on top of my head as though I were a little child. “Calm down. Solange is fine. She is resting.” Her gravelly voice was soft and quiet.

“I heard her scream, Racine. Then this huge man in a black suit and hat ran out. He had a skull and crossbones on his hat.”

The look on her face changed to one of concern. “Bawon?”

“I’ve seen that skull before. On dark glasses I found on the Miss Agnes.”

“Come,” she said, nodding her head. “We will see.” She put her hand in the small of my back and pushed me toward the door.

We crossed the yard at a pace that required me to trot to keep up. She walked past the bloody chair without concern and led me to the back of the room. There on the floor, a small mattress and bedding had been laid out. The white sheets were streaked with bloodstains. “We left her here, asleep. She must sleep after the lave tete.” She shook her head. “It was the bokor.”

“Bokor? What’s that? I don’t understand. Where’s Solange?” The sound of breaking glass caused us both to turn. One of the bottles had fallen off the altar, and the smell of rum filled the room. Then a section of the curtain beneath the altar moved, and a small hand poked out.

“Solange,” I yelled. The broken glass crunched beneath my sneakers as I reached her side. Her eyes looked huge beneath the white scarf that wrapped her head, and I slid my arms under her and lifted her up so her bare feet would not touch the glass. Her white dress was splattered with blood. Until I felt the tears on my cheeks, I had not been aware I was crying.

I set her down on the bed to check her wounds.

Racine, who was standing behind me, said, “She is fine. She is not hurt.”

“But the blood.”

“It is part of the lave tete. We kill a white chicken. It is a gift for the lwa. The blood is not hers.”

Then Solange pushed her head back and looked up at me, her brown eyes focused. “We go now?” she asked.

My whole body sagged, limp with relief. She was talking again. I wrapped my arms around her and held her. I looked at Racine over the top of her head and mouthed, “Thank you.” She smiled and nodded as though she had never had a doubt that things would turn out this way.

Most of the time I’d felt so awkward not knowing what to do for this child, but hugging her skinny little frame at that moment felt just right. I didn’t care if they had used dead chickens, magic herbs, visiting spirits, or whatever. Solange was back from that place deep inside herself.

“Sure, kiddo,” I said. “We’ll go now.”

Racine accompanied us across the yard, which was still filled with dancers. I carried Solange on my hip, afraid to let her go. Inside the house, Racine put her cool hand on my arm.

“Wait one moment, please,” she said. She motioned toward the couch. “Set the child down a moment. We need to speak.”

“Racine, I just want to get her home.”

“You are looking for this child’s father, non?”

“Yes.” I sat Solange down on the couch and joined her. “Can you help me find him?”

“Perhaps. We are both searching for the same answers, you and I.”

“I don’t understand.”

She took my hand in hers again. “Now it is my turn to trust you.” She paused, as though trying to decide whether to continue. “Many Haitians try to come to the United States. Some make a cooperative and build their own boats. They work together for their freedom, but it can take many years. Others, they pay the smugglers, money-hungry men who sometimes dump their human cargo rather than be captured. People go with smugglers because they feel they cannot wait any longer.”

“But Racine, what does this have to do with Solange?”

“There are people here who get word when a boat has left Haiti. A watch is kept and when the boat comes ashore, people drive down to help any make it safely ashore. I was there that night, waiting for someone, when the Miss Agnes sank.”

“You were there? Can you put me in touch with anyone who might know her father?”

“No. And Haitians will not be willing to talk to you, but perhaps they will speak to me. I will see what I can learn. People are very frightened now. It is the bokor. It is very dangerous for you to be asking these questions.” She squeezed my hand, then let go. “I have something for you.”

She stood and walked into a room at the back of the house. Solange had fallen asleep leaning against my arm. The house was quiet, though the sound of the drums outside grew ever louder. I wanted to get out of there, and I was tempted to just get up and leave. Finally, Racine returned with a small sachet-like bag on a leather thong. She placed it over my head.

“Do not take this off. This is from La Sirene. She will help you, protect you from the bokor.”

I held the bag to my nose and sniffed. It smelled like old seaweed, and I made a face. “What’s in this?”

“Just wear it, and La Sirene will be watching.”

I shook my head. “Who is La Sirene?”

Racine smiled. “La Sirene is the spirit in the sea, and she watches over you. She will protect you from the bokor.”

“And what the heck is a bokor?”

“Americans think Vodou is about black magic. This is not so for mambos and hougans. We are healers. But the bokor...” She looked away and lowered her head. She spoke very softly. “He is not a healer.”

I rubbed my hand over my eyes and then thought about Racine’s kindness and concern. “It’s a lot to digest in one night, you know,” I said. “People possessed by spirits, animal sacrifice”—I held up the pouch—”and magic seaweed.” I shook my head and attempted to smile.

She pointed to a painting filled with bright-colored animals standing around a large wooden cross. “Many years ago, when the missionaries in Haiti asked the African slaves to worship the cross that Christ died on, the Africans saw it as symbolic of the Crossroads—the divider between the spirit world and ours. The Europeans were pleased when the Africans accepted the cross, but what they did not realize was that though they and the Africans were looking at the same cross, each was seeing something profoundly different.” She stroked my hair, as if I were a child like the one sleeping between us. “Always remember, Seychelle, you will see what your experience has prepared you to see.”

All the way to the car, Racine kept insisting that Solange was supposed to sleep in the peristil overnight, that the child needed to stay for the full benefit of the lave tete ceremony. The lwa would protect her, Racine said, and she argued it was too dangerous to take her away.

I thanked her profusely for helping the girl, buckled Solange into the Jeep, then turned back to face her.

“Racine, you said you were going to meet someone on board the Miss Agnes. What happened?”

I could barely make out her features in the dark yard, but I could sense how her body tensed. After several seconds of quiet, I thought she wasn’t going to answer my question. When she spoke, finally, her voice was tight with emotion. “It was my sister. She never made it to shore.”

At the stoplight, waiting to turn onto 1-95, I saw Solange staring into the darkness, the fear raw on her face.

“What happened back there?” I asked. “Why did you scream?”

She turned to face me. “I saw him,” she said.

“Who?”

“Le Capitaine.” She turned her head to stare out into the night as the light turned green.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

As I pulled the Jeep into Jeannie’s yard, I cursed at the sight of the white Suburban with the green lettering. I checked my watch, then winced. It was after ten. I didn’t want to give Rusty Elliot any reason to think I wasn’t taking care of Solange properly, any reason for him to take her away. How the hell was I going to explain bringing her home in a dress splattered with blood?

Racine had handed me a plastic bag with Solange’s shorts and T-shirt as we had passed through the house on our way out, and now I dug around in the back of the Jeep to find them. I figured I would change her clothes before taking her upstairs. It wasn’t only that Rusty was here; Jeannie hadn’t been all that thrilled at my taking the child off to that Voodoo house at night, either. She’d go ballistic, too, if she saw her now.

As I helped Solange unbuckle her seat belt, the porch light went on upstairs, and Jeannie appeared on the landing. “Hey, you. What took you so long? I’ve been trying to entertain Mr. Wonderful up here for a couple of hours now, and he’s been getting more and more charming by the minute. Get yourself and that kid up here.”

Damn. My chance to cover up the evidence had just evaporated. “Okay, we’re coming.”

Rusty came through the door just as we reached the top of the landing. I saw something in the way his face lit up when he saw me that told me he hadn’t come only on business. I was sorry that I was going to disappoint him.

In his green work uniform, with its patches and badges, leather belt and gun, he looked more intimidating than he had in his shorts. This was not a man to play around with.

He looked at Solange. “What the hell happened to this child?” he asked.

She was walking on her own, awake and alert, but in the bright glare of Jeannie’s porch light, it was clear her white dress had red polka dots.

“Calm down,” I said, and as I said it, I couldn’t help but think that those were the exact words Racine had told me less than an hour earlier. “Look at her.” Solange smiled up at me. “See?” I pointed to her smile. “It worked, so don’t gripe.” I smoothed her loose clean hair back from her brow, tucked it into her white headscarf. “And as far as I know, they’re going to eat the chicken.” Rusty’s jaw dropped.

Jeannie pushed Rusty out of the doorway and stood on the landing with her hands on her hips. “What chicken?”

I ignored her, tried to act like it was perfectly normal to come home after ten o’clock at night with a ten-year-old covered in chicken blood. “It’s not really that different from your going to Winn Dixie, when you think about it, except when you buy the chicken there, you don’t risk getting the blood on you.” Rusty hadn’t moved, he just continued to stare at me. Finally he said, “You took this child to some kind of animal sacrifice?”

“Well—”

Jeannie shook her head, took the girl’s hand, and said, “I’ll go wash her up and get her into some clean pajamas.” She fixed me with a stare over the top of Solange’s head and said in a soft voice, “You and I will discuss this later.”

“You didn’t answer me, Miss Sullivan,” Rusty said when Jeannie had disappeared through the door and down the hall. “Did you or did you not take that child to a place where they were engaged in animal sacrifice?”

“Oh Rusty, yes. Yes, I did. Okay? This is South Florida, though. Come on. You’d have a right to be that shocked in Omaha or Wisconsin or somewhere, but not here.”

“She’s got blood on her!” he yelled.

“And she’s Haitian,” I yelled back. “For Pete’s sake, man, down in Miami they’ve got a guy at the courthouse whose job it is to go out and pick the dead chickens up off the sidewalk every morning. Family members leave them when the prisoners are transferred from jail to court. Wake up, man. You’re not in Kansas anymore.”

He crossed his arms, his lips stretched thin. He stared at me for several seconds, letting the silence stretch out. “Are you finished?”

“Yeah, for now.” I stepped around him and walked into Jeannie’s living room.

Rusty followed me. “Seychelle, you don’t seem to understand that I am stretching the regulations very thin even to allow this child to stay in this home.” He reached out and put his hand on my shoulder. “What were you thinking?”

“You are so out of your element on this one, Rusty. Hell, we both are.” I spun away, out of range of his touch. “I’m not sure you and I have an explanation for what happened to her at the hospital the other night or out at Mambo Racine’s tonight. But didn’t you hear what I said? It worked. She’s talking again. And one thing I do know is that those people were not faking it. What I saw tonight—” I paused, not knowing how to explain it to him, how to give it the reality and the dignity I had seen. “Rusty, they believed completely. I’m not sure I’m ready to believe they were possessed by spirits, but it sure as hell was every bit as real as what your cousins up in the Georgia mountains do when they handle snakes and speak in tongues.” I crossed the living room and plopped down on the couch, leaned back, and closed my eyes. “Man, am I tired.” My stomach gurgled, and I pulled my arm across my belly to try to muffle the sound. “And starving. Haven’t eaten anything since about noon.”

Rusty walked over to the front door, crossed his arms again, leaned against the doorjamb, and stared out into the yard.

Jeannie had one of those couches with tons of throw pillows and cushions, and the cushions seemed to be pulling me down, relaxing me. I’d just about nodded off when I heard Rusty say something.

“What?”

“They’ll still be serving over at the Downtowner. Do you want to go over and grab a bite? I’ll buy if you’ll stop yelling at me and tell me what’s really going on with this kid.”

I opened one eye and looked up at him. I wasn’t thrilled about being seen with him in that uniform. Could scare off some of my clients who sometimes tread lightly on the wrong side of the law. But I was starving. “Conch fritters and fries?”

He lifted his cell phone off his belt and dialed a number. “Hi, it’s Rusty. Think you could pick me up at Cooley’s Landing in about ten?... Thanks.” He put away the cell phone, then reached for my hand to pull me up off the deep couch. “Let’s go. The Water Taxi’ll pick us up at the marina.”

I took his hand but let my body remain a dead weight. He had to strain to lift me up from those deep cushions.

“Man, you are heavy, Sullivan.”

“Wimp,” I said, and smiled as he pulled me to my feet, and I bumped into his left side, where the cold steel of his gun brushed against my arm. “Seeing as you are wearing a gun, however, I guess it’s Mr. Wimp.”

“Damn right.”

I stopped briefly to tuck Solange in like my mother used to do for me and wondered, as I kissed her forehead, why I was flirting with Rusty. As I passed by the master bedroom, I told Jeannie we’d be gone for about an hour.

Rusty came down the hall and motioned to me with a “let’s go” signal. I turned back to Jeannie.

“Thanks again, Jeannie. I know she’s better off with you than anywhere he wants to send her.” I cocked my head in Rusty’s direction.

“So I’m the bad guy, eh?” Rusty said over my shoulder.

“Yes,” Jeannie said. “Get over it.”

“Jeannie,” I said, “I’ve got a connection to the Miss Agnes from my visit to Pompano tonight. I’ll tell you all about it in the morning.”

“Sounds good. Animal sacrifice, Voodoo, secret meetings. I can’t wait.” She winked.

The walk to Cooley’s Landing Marina was only about three blocks, but being tired, I began to wish we’d taken the car. The Downtowner was on the other side of the river, and they had a large parking lot, so the car would have been easy. I feared we’d have a long wait for a Water Taxi.

Rusty sensed that I was not in a talkative mood. The streets were dark under the heavy canopy of old trees that covered most of Sailboat Bend.

“Over there,” Rusty said when we reached the marina parking lot, and he pointed to the boat idling at the dock next to the launch ramp. There were no other passengers aboard. “Hey, Carlos,” he said to the captain, a kid about twenty years old. “Thanks for the lift. This is Seychelle Sullivan.”

“Sullivan Towing? Gorda?”

I nodded.

“Thought I recognized you. Seen you go by on your boat a lot.”

“Carlos’s dad works with me at the Border Patrol.” He clapped his hand on the young man’s back. “We’ve been fishing together since this guy was in diapers.”

I leaned back and watched the lights of the parks and businesses downtown as we motored downriver. Too often lately, the river became just the place where I worked. It was pleasant being a passenger for a change, enjoying the view without worrying about bridges or currents or traffic.

The restaurant and bar were nearly empty inside. I waved hello to Pete behind the bar and his one customer, Nestor, a charter-boat captain. Pete raised his eyebrows at me when he saw I was with a guy wearing a gun.

“You want to sit outside?” I asked Rusty. The privacy of it would make it much easier to tell him about the evening’s events—the story still sounded weird even to me—and more difficult for the guys inside to eavesdrop.

I waited until the server had taken our orders and brought us our cold draft beer.

“So tomorrow I’ll go see this friend of Juliette’s at the Swap Shop. I’m fairly certain that this girl actually came over on the Miss Agnes.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to get involved like this. You should leave this to the professionals. We could round up the people who work in this Swap Shop booth and question them all.”

“Come on, Rusty. From the first minute I saw that kid’s face, I’ve been involved. Do you really think these Haitians are going to say anything to Immigration? In their eyes, you guys are worse than the smugglers—even if the smugglers are bashing in a few heads.”

He took a long swig from his beer, then reached for my hand. “I worry about you. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“That’s nice, but I’m just meeting a kid at the Swap Shop—one of the most populated tourist attractions around here. I’m not walking into some den of bad guys. Not this time.”

He shot me a questioning look, and I hurriedly changed the subject. “On the way home tonight, Solange said she saw ‘Le Capitaine’ at the Toussaint house. The guy on the boat that brought her here. He must have been the guy who knocked me down running out of the altar room. I didn’t get a good enough look at his face to say whether or not he’s the same guy who was in her hospital room, but the height, build, and facial hair were about right. And I remember seeing rings, several of them on the left hand, both times.” I thought about mentioning the skull and crossbones on the sunglasses I had found on board the Miss Agnes but thought better of it. I didn’t want to be accused of tampering with evidence. “It’s got to be the same guy, but I don’t know that I could pick him out of a lineup.”

“Here’s a question,” Rusty said, and he hitched forward in his chair, now grasping my hand in both of his. “What was he trying to do to her tonight, and why didn’t he succeed?”

“I assume he was going to shut her up—permanently,” I said. “As to why he didn’t succeed, well, according to Racine Toussaint, he couldn’t do it because the lwa protected her. Racine wanted me to leave her there overnight. She said it was the only place Solange would be safe.” With my free hand, I fingered the pouch Racine had given me that I had tucked inside my T-shirt.

“I’m sorry, Seychelle, but that’s bullshit. I hope you don’t believe that.”

I pulled my hand back out of his grasp and finished off the last of my beer, feeling light-headed and confused from the combination of beer, exhaustion, and an empty stomach. “You know, Rusty, I don’t know what to believe.” Looking around me, at the glamorous yachts docked along the river, and above me at the blue and white lights of the downtown highrises, I found it hard to believe what I had seen in that yard in Pompano just hours before. “I’m not going to just dismiss this as hocus-pocus, though. I can’t. I was there and something very powerful was going on,” I said. “Just because we don’t understand it doesn’t mean it isn’t real.”

“You’re more open-minded than I am.”

“Trust me, open-mindedness doesn’t come all that easily to me. I’m having to work at it. This guy, though, this Capitaine, he scares me. He’s so persistent in going after this kid.” I leaned forward and put my arms on the table. “Let’s just say Solange did see him kill that woman. What can she do to him? She doesn’t know his name. She can’t do anything except maybe pick him out of a lineup. So what’s he doing still hanging around here? Why hasn’t he gone back to the Bahamas? And here’s another thing: If we assume that this guy is the one who killed the other three, then there have been witnesses before, and there are probably more witnesses among the people who came on the Miss Agnes. What makes this kid different?”

“You’re right. And I don’t buy that business about some kind of spirits protecting the kid. He had the chance to kill her tonight, and he didn’t. That means he didn’t intend to. So what does he want with her?”

The waitress brought our food then, and I didn’t say another word as I filled my mouth with conch fritters. The ground conch was sweet and chewy and drowned in fresh lime juice. Rusty had ordered chicken wings, and I found I was unable to look at his plate without my stomach twisting in a little queasy twinge. It might be a while before I felt like eating chicken again.

“I hate all this,” Rusty said, pointing a chicken bone at the brightly lit buildings across the river from us. “Look at that skyline. Have you counted the construction cranes lately? Seven. I counted seven the other day. What are they doing to our town? Remember what it was like when we were kids?”

I smiled. “‘Course I do. But I also remember when downtown was dead, the storefronts were mostly empty, and there were homeless guys wandering all around here. There was good and bad in those good old days.”

He gnawed on his last wing and began licking the sauce off his fingers. I watched each finger slide between his lips and then slip out, making the sound of a kiss. It took every bit of energy I had left to concentrate on what he was saying.

“Nowadays, everywhere’s changed. They’re building on every last scrap of land. And places where there is no more land, they’re just building straight up.” He finished cleaning his fingers and drank off the last of the beer in his glass. “Everywhere you go nowadays, the person serving your food, bagging your groceries, cutting your lawn, or cleaning your hotel room arrived here just a few months ago. And they got here by slipping past me.” He leaned back in his chair and pushed his plate of bones away. “They’re changing this place I call home, and I can’t stop it. I hate it.”

“So get over it, Rusty. All these immigrants make this place the town I love. The cultures, the languages, the religions, mix together here. Sure, Fort Lauderdale is no longer a little dusty, white-bread, cracker town. But hey, some of us happen to think that’s a good thing.”

He grumbled as he waved at the young Latina waitress, signaling her to bring our check.

Rusty and Carlos talked fishing on the way back to Cooley’s Landing. Carlos was saying how he and his dad had chartered with this great fishing guide, fellow by the name of Bouncer, who worked out of Miami. Carlos was saying it was like Bouncer had some amazing sixth sense—he just knew where the fish were, and with Bouncer’s help, Carlos and his dad had won some big deal tournament down in Key Largo.

I thought about how it was okay for a fishing guide to have a little inexplicable magic, but if it was a Haitian doing it, we called it hocus pocus. I felt the weight of the leather pouch around my neck. What did I believe? I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t see the harm in a little extra insurance. I did not intend to remove the pouch any time soon.

I was jerked out of my reverie when the boat bumped up against the dock and the fenders squeaked as the air was squeezed out of them.

“Time to head for home,” Rusty said, hopping out of the boat first and reaching back to offer me his hand. Once on the dock, he didn’t let go. We both said good night to Carlos and started the walk back, still holding hands like a couple of kids.

“Thanks for dinner,” I said.

He didn’t say anything. We walked across the asphalt, listening to the sound of our shoes crunching bits of barnacle from the launch ramp. Just as we reached the grass on the far side of the launch ramp, Rusty pointed to the river on our left. “Look, a manatee.” He let go of my hand, put his arm around my shoulder, and pointed through an empty boat slip. “See those rings in the current mid-river?” Just then the fuzzy snout surfaced, and we saw the black nostrils and the little cloud of mist around them.

“It’s late for a manatee here,” I said.

“Uh-huh,” Rusty said, and from the sound of his voice in my ear, I knew he was looking at me, not the manatee. Then he said, “I’m not very good at this,” and he placed a hand on the side of my face and kissed me on the mouth. While I would have to agree with him that his technique for getting there was rather abrupt, when it came to the actual kissing, he wasn’t half bad.

An alarm sounded several blocks over in the neighborhood, and we broke apart, taking an air break. The alarm continued to whoop, and I said, “Sounds like somebody can’t remember their code.”

“Damned gadgets,” he said. “What the hell good are they when everyone ignores them?”

I didn’t get to answer him. It was then I heard the shot. It wasn’t a little pop like they say gunshots make, and not a whomp like an explosion, either. It was a muffled boom. Like it had come from inside a house. We both started running.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I leaped up to the second step, and my sneaker slid in a puddle of something wet. Blood. I didn’t stop to examine it but took the rest of the steps two at a time, calling out Jeannie’s name as soon as I hit the landing. The alarm was still whooping, but I heard Jeannie’s voice inside.

“I’m in here,” she shouted.

The screen door was shredded and part of the wood frame hung in splinters. Where was Rusty when I needed him? I wondered if Jeannie was alone in there or if somebody was with her holding a gun to her head.

“Everybody okay?” I called out before approaching the door.

“Yeah, we are,” she said. “Not sure about the other guy, though.”

When I went to reach for the handle to open the door, I realized there was no handle left. I grabbed a piece of the dangling wood and made an opening between the screen and the shredded door frame big enough to climb through. Just inside, to the right of the door, the plaster was blown off the wall, the bare cinder block exposed. Jeannie was standing on the far side of the room, staring at the alarm system’s control panel, the shotgun still cradled in her arms. She turned to look at me, her eyes slightly out of focus, as I came through what had been the door.

“Damned if I can remember the code right now,” she said.

All three kids were standing in doorways in the hall, their eyes huge. One of the twins called out the code to his mom, and soon the alarm shut down. No sooner did it stop than the phone started ringing. In the distance, a siren wailed.

Jeannie took a few steps into the living room and looked around for the portable phone. “Geez,” she said as she stared at the damage to her door and wall. Her hands still gripped the shotgun tight across her body, and her fingers, wrapped around the stock, looked white and bloodless. I peeled her hands open and took the gun from her so she could answer the phone. As she lifted the phone, she winced and reached up to massage her shoulder.

The door frame scraped open, and Rusty slipped into the room, holding a handgun down low with both hands. I started to tell him that everyone was okay, but he swept past me, running in a sort of simian crouch, checking every room down the hall. Jeannie finished talking to the alarm company on the phone and hung up about the time Rusty came back into the living room, tucking his gun back into its holster on his hip.

“What happened, Jeannie?” I asked.

Rusty crossed to the front door and looked down into the yard.

“The bastard cut the screen with a machete,” she said. “I grabbed the gun when I heard the alarm go off. When I got into the hallway, he was coming through the door swinging that big old blade. I guess he heard me pump the action on the gun. He must have jumped back and to the left, behind the wall. I’m pretty sure I winged him, though.”

“The cops are here,” Rusty said, looking through the remains of the screen. He turned around and looked at Jeannie. “You definitely grazed him. I followed the guy through the backyard, over the fence, and into the street, but he must have had a car waiting back there. He was losing blood all the way. Anyway, get the kids settled back down. The cops will be up to talk to you when I’m done.” He started out through what was left of the door.

Jeannie made coffee after the kids got settled, and we sat in the living room, wired on caffeine and adrenaline but too tired to talk. A couple of uniformed cops had searched the apartment, examined the torn-up doorway, then just stood there, hands clasped behind their backs, staring at us, waiting. For what, I wasn’t sure. I should have known that a call that involved Solange and me would end up getting to Collazo. I shouldn’t have felt surprise when the raggedy screen door scraped open, and I heard his voice saying, “Miss Sullivan ... again.”

After Collazo, more uniformed officers came through the door, followed by several folks in plainclothes. I didn’t know if they were detectives or technicians. The living room was getting damned crowded. Rusty brought up the rear. They all huddled around the door and mumbled, examining the damaged wall and wood.

Collazo pointed to the shotgun lying where I had left it. He looked at Jeannie. “That weapon belongs to you.”

“You asking me?”

“Jeannie, that’s just his way,” I said. “He doesn’t ask questions. You get used to it after a while.”

She shook her head. “Yes, that shotgun is registered to me, and I am the one who fired it tonight at some dirtbag who was trying to break into my house, waving a machete around.”

“He was entering through the front door.”

Jeannie glanced at me as though to say What is this guy’s problem? I just shrugged. I was enjoying the fact that his non-questions weren’t aimed at me.

Jeannie told the story with the accuracy that one would expect from a lawyer. Her description of the guy made me certain it had been Le Capitaine.

Cops and technicians had been coming and going, and none of us paid them much mind, but when Agent D’Ugard arrived, there was a noticeable straightening of the spines of all the men in the room. She nodded to Collazo and then headed straight for Rusty. When the two of them disappeared into Jeannie’s bedroom in the back of the house, my imagination went into overdrive. I was still staring down the hall when I heard my name.

“Miss Sullivan, your story.”

I blinked. “Oh, okay. Well, I need to back up a little and tell you about what happened earlier this evening. Then, maybe all the rest of this will make sense.” As I told Collazo what had happened in Pompano, I kept glancing down the hall, wondering what they were doing back there. Collazo took in the dead chickens and Voodoo rituals without so much as a blink. Unlike Rusty, this man knew his home turf. “I thought I had really paid attention on the drive back from Pompano, and I didn’t see anybody follow us back here. I don’t know how he knew where to find us.”

“That’s the problem with amateurs,” Collazo said.

“ I have to agree with Detective Collazo.” It was Agent D’Ugard, with Rusty close at her side. They’d just come out of the bedroom. I checked for disheveled clothes or hair, then felt silly for doing it. I cursed my own dirty mind and wondered why I would even care.

“The events of this evening,” she continued, “as related to me by Agent Elliot, are proof enough that you cannot guarantee this child’s safety here.” She turned to Rusty. “You mentioned a group home where you house alien children.” Jeannie opened her mouth and started to protest, but Rusty jumped in and through sheer volume took control of the conversation.

“We need to move them all. Not just the child. None of them are safe here tonight. Even if we remove the girl, there’s no way of being certain they won’t come back here later looking for her. We need a safe house where we can keep this entire family protected.”

Collazo turned to Rusty, a faint smirk dancing around his mouth. “Mr. Elliot, nobody at the department is going to authorize taking all of them to a safe house. There is no evidence Ms. Black is in that kind of danger.”

“Look at my door,” Jeannie shouted.

“Ma’am, there are break-ins in this neighborhood every night.”

“Oh, so you think this was just some crackhead looking to make a score? With all the million-dollar waterfront homes less than two blocks away, you think some whack with a machete is going to choose this dump to rob?” Jeannie threw her hands into the air and began walking in circles, talking to herself. Collazo was right, though. There wasn’t really any way to prove that this incident had been directed at Solange.

“Listen, Maria, Detective Collazo”—Rusty nodded at them each in turn—”what about this idea: I have a little condo down on Hollywood Beach. What if I take them down there? It’s a three-bedroom unit. We could ask the Hollywood PD to keep an eye on the place, and I’ll sleep there tonight. What do you say?”

Agent Maria D’Ugard shook her head and whipped out a tiny cell phone. She walked over to the kitchen as she dialed.

Collazo wandered over to the door frame. The crime scene team had finished with their photos and the removal of several pieces of shot from the wooden door frame. He picked at the plaster with his fingernail and looked outside through the gaping screen.

When Agent D’Ugard finished her call and snapped her phone shut, I said, “May I speak to you for a minute?”

She jerked her head in the direction of Jeannie’s kitchen. Once out of earshot of the others, she crossed her arms and said, “Go ahead, Miss Sullivan.”

I didn’t think she looked too receptive, but I dove in anyway. “There’s something I found out tonight about this alien smuggling ring. Something I thought you and the DART people ought to know about.”

“Why not tell this to Collazo or Elliot? Why me?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because you’re a woman? I know that doesn’t make much sense, but what I am going to tell you is going to sound far-fetched. I’m certain the guys in there would dismiss it. You’re my best bet. Anyway, here’s the deal. It seems these people are importing kids and placing them as restaveks in homes here in the States.”

“And what are restaveks?” Her tone of voice couldn’t have been more mocking.

“In Haiti, when a family has too many kids, and they can’t feed them all, they send off some kids to live with and work for other families. They are basically child slaves. Now they are importing this practice to the United States.”

“So you think they’ve started up the slave trade again? Haiti? The first country in the Americas to outlaw slavery?”

“Yes, strange as that sounds, that’s exactly what I’m telling you. There are child slaves working in the suburbs of Fort Lauderdale, right under our noses.”

“Miss Sullivan, why don’t you leave the investigating to the professionals? That’s preposterous.”

“Think about it. They double their money. The family in Haiti pays to have their children taken to the U.S., and the families in the U.S. pay the smugglers to get a domestic worker who needs no Social Security or even wages. They don’t even send these kids to school. Remember the two girls who drowned off the Miss Agnes? Don’t you think it’s odd that we’re seeing so many more unaccompanied minors?”

She uncrossed her arms and smoothed out the fabric across the front of her skirt. “I’ll certainly keep it in mind.” She turned and left the room, and I heard the sound of the screen opening.

When I stepped into the hall, I saw Collazo standing in the dark at the doorway to the kids’ room. He was watching Solange sleep, and he looked up, surprised when I joined him.

“Isn’t she sweet?” I asked. “She’s got nobody, you know. Do you really want to send her back to the streets of Port-au-Prince?”

“You get them settled into Elliot’s condo. Tomorrow”—he turned and looked straight at me—”I want to talk to the child about this captain.”

We piled toys and clothes and sleepy kids into the back of Jeannie’s van. It took me several minutes to convince Solange that she couldn’t go with me in the Jeep, that she needed to stay in the van with the other kids. Looking like a regular caravan, we pulled out of Jeannie’s driveway—the van, then me in the Jeep, and Rusty taking up the rear in the Border Patrol Suburban. When Agent D’Ugard had left earlier, Rusty walked her down to her car, and although I couldn’t hear what they were saying, I did hear their raised voices.

When we exited Sailboat Bend onto Broward Boulevard, Rusty had us divide up and drive around in some convoluted routes while he backtracked behind each of us, checking for any possible tails. It was nearly two in the morning when we met up in the parking lot at the Howard Johnson’s on the beach. Jeannie and Rusty were there ahead of me, and a Hollywood cop pulled into the lot at the same time I did. Rusty went over and leaned into the car to talk to the officer.

I jumped out of the Jeep and went over to the window of Jeannie’s van.

“How’re the kids?” I asked.

“They zonked out in the first five minutes. I’d like to do the same. What’s Mr. Green Jeans doing, anyway?”

I was trying to come up with a clever remark, but my brain was too exhausted to even approach the realm of slightly amusing.

Just then Rusty stepped away from the cop car, and he motioned for us to follow him. We drove another three blocks north and parked in the lot of a condo building on the Intracoastal side of US-1. The complex wasn’t huge, just a single building four stories high with a rustic wood sign out front that said “Heron Heights Condominiums.” There was no ground floor; the building was built over a covered parking area. Rusty waved as the Hollywood cop cruised slowly past the building, and we each took a sleeping kid and carried them up to the fourth floor.

The door to Rusty’s condo was at the end of the hall, facing north. When I stepped inside his unit, I realized it stretched to both sides of the building, overlooking the Intracoastal to the west, and when I crossed the living room to the sliding glass balcony doors, the ocean loomed as a distant dark mass,beyond the rooftops of the low apartment bungalows between US-1 and North Surf Road.

Rusty flicked a switch and the soft light of a ceramic lamp lit the room. The lamp rested on a dark wood table next to a big leather reading chair.

“Wow,” I said. The place was like something out of an old Key West magazine photo—hardwood floors, ceiling fans, built-in bookcases, and a few perfectly placed antiques.

“In here,” Rusty said, carrying Jeannie’s son Adair into one of the bedrooms. He laid the boy down on the queen-size bed and unfolded the armchair, which was then transformed into a single futon. I knelt down and placed the girl’s thin body on the futon mattress, though it took me several minutes to get her to let go of my neck. Even in her sleep, she was clinging to me in a way I found both unsettling and reassuring, as though whether or not I believed in myself, this child believed in me. Jeannie and I covered all three kids with the sheets and blankets Rusty provided, while he fiddled with the air conditioner to clear out the stale air. He pointed Jeannie to the second room, promising to bring up the rest of the luggage. Jeannie just waved a limp hand in the air and closed the door behind her.

“You can have the bedroom. I’ll take the couch,” Rusty said.

“Nah, I’m not staying.”

“But you must be exhausted.” He rested his hand on my shoulder, and I felt the muscles beneath his touch tighten. “You shouldn’t drive anywhere.”

I shrugged. “Yeah, but I’ve got the dog at home and—” I couldn’t finish the sentence. I looked at him, saw the way his shaggy hair fell across the tops of his ears, the way the light made his blue eyes appear iridescent. I had enjoyed that kiss earlier, and the prospect of another wasn’t exactly unappealing. B.J. and I had agreed to a break. There really wouldn’t be anything wrong with it, would there? My brain felt foggy.

I turned and stepped out of his reach, trying to get the weight of that hand off my shoulder before I did something really stupid. “You got a Coke or something with caffeine? I think I just need a little fresh air.” With barely a touch of my hand, the balcony doors slid open with a soft whoosh, and the moist sea air blew into the opening. I stepped outside and sucked in what a yoga instructor years ago had called a “cleansing breath.” I exhaled loudly through my mouth. Rather than revived, I felt even more dizzy. I was hyperventilating.

Rusty joined me at the balcony rail and handed me an icy soda can. I drank so much, so fast, my chest hurt. Out on the horizon a small pinpoint of light appeared and then disappeared, then came back and grew steady—a small vessel crossing the current, heading for Port Everglades. There was no other traffic in sight, which was unusual for this stretch of the coast. I wondered then, how many boats were out there running dark—running drugs or human cargo?

“This is really a nice place you’ve got here, Rusty. View’s sure spectacular.”

“Yeah, I like it, but I don’t get to use it enough. I keep my boat at the dock out back on the Waterway, and most times I just go out fishing, come back, and never even make it upstairs.”

“I hope you’re going to be ready for three rowdy kids in the morning.”

“Bringing them here solved the problem for tonight, but this is not a long-term solution, you know.”

“Why’d you do it? Invite us over like this?”

He tried to laugh, but it came out a single “Ha,” without humor. “Good question.” He leaned his arms on the balcony railing and stared out to sea. He seemed to be struggling to find the words to say something. I was afraid of what that might be.

I drained off the last of the soda. “Well,” I said, and turned to head for the door.

He reached for my shoulder and slid his big hand around the back of my neck and under my ponytail. He pulled me to him, saying, “It took inviting the entire crew over just to get you here.”

“Now that’s funny, because they’re going to stay and I’m not.” I must not have sounded very convincing at that point because he kissed me. Again. And again, I didn’t protest. In fact, my body became a regular cheerleader for the idea. All kinds of little nerve endings were shaking their pom-poms.

But then I pulled away. “Rusty, it’s late and we both need to get some sleep.”

He tried little kisses then, down the side of my neck, around my ears, and that came very close to making me forget everything.

When I got to the door and had my hand on the doorknob and was almost out of there, he called my name softly. “Seychelle.”

“Yeah,” I said, but I didn’t even turn around.

“Are you sure you won’t stay?”

I couldn’t answer him. My voice would have given too much away.

When I got back to the Larsens’ place and saw Abaco crawl out all sleepy from under her bougainvillea bush, I sat down on the bench outside the cottage door and gave her a good body rub. She groaned in contentment. I patted the bench next to me, and she hopped up and sat there panting. I looped an arm around her and buried my face in the soft fur around her neck. I pulled back quickly.

“You need a bath.” I looked down at my clothes, the dark smudges from the chicken blood still apparent on my shirt. “Me too, I guess.” I scratched her silky ears. “Girl, do you think we’ll ever understand men?” She just smiled her doggy smile.

I started to tiptoe past Pit snoring on the couch, but then I stopped and stood there for a while in the dark, watching his chest rise and fall with each breath. In the face of the man I could still see the features of the boy I had grown up with. The hair at his temples reflected what little light there was in the room. He was going prematurely gray. We were all growing older—Maddy was already quite gray. We had tried to gather as a family at least once a year as long as Red had still been alive, but now we were forging our own lives and seeing less and less of one another. I tried to memorize every small detail of Pit’s features because I knew he was already itching to leave.

I crawled into my bed after a quick rinse in the shower. I was too tired to sleep and still tossing and turning as the sky began to go gray. Rusty’s words, the sound of his voice, the feel of his touch. I kept going over and over every minute of the night, from the restaurant to Jeannie’s to his gorgeous condo. And I kept trying to avoid the question that my mind couldn’t let go. How does a Border Patrol officer afford a half-million-dollar condo on the Intracoastal Waterway?

CHAPTER TWENTY

I’d slept about an hour when I woke to the noise of an exceptionally loud outboard motor headed downriver, and I knew I wasn’t going to get back to sleep. It was not yet six o’clock, but I threw back the sheet and swung my legs to the floor.

My head felt like it was stuffed with dirty gym socks. I knew because I could taste them. After a bathroom trip, and pulling on shorts and a T-shirt, I grabbed a bottle of water out of the fridge and locked up the cottage, my brother still snoring contentedly. I noticed the dining table and floor were covered with charts, and my plotter and dividers were on the bar next to several empty beer bottles. Pit had been hard at work.

The Larsens have a shed full of water toys, and they don’t mind if I use them from time to time. And alternating running, paddling, and swimming did help keep the exercise regimen from getting too boring. I pulled the red, sit-on kayak down to the dock, gritting my teeth as the plastic slid across the gravel. Holding on to the bowline, I tossed it into the river. Getting onto the thing from the dock ladder without capsizing was a feat, but once settled, I paddled upriver, pulling against a river current made weak by the rising tide.

The hour of morning after the sky first starts to turn gray but before the sun’s top curve peeks above the trees and homes of my neighborhood is the part of the day I cherish most. I hadn’t seen much of it recently. Along the banks of the New River, the early morning is when the animals relinquish the world to the humans. The raccoons scurry across backyards and hightail it up trees to their daytime sleeping roosts. The herons stand regal and still on the seawalls, their bills pointed down at the slow-moving water, their dark, sharp eyes their only moving parts.

After I’d passed through the heart of downtown, where the cars were already moving over the drawbridges and aproned men were out sweeping between the waterfront tables, I heard a sharp exhale as I approached the fork where the river split in two directions. I slowed my paddling and watched the surface ahead. Circles again on the surface. Finally, I saw the nostrils blow off my port bow. Our late-season manatee was making her way downriver, and now that the sun was nearly up, the water around her reflected the pink clouds, making it look like she was swimming in a bubble-gum-colored river.

The morning air was still and heavy with humidity. No more than ten minutes after I’d slowed to watch the manatee, the sunlight’s reflection on the river ripples seared laserlike into my eyes. Soon, the sweat was dripping off the tip of my nose, and I was starting to wake up.

I paddled up the north fork of the New River where it meandered undeveloped through some of the poorest neighborhoods of Fort Lauderdale. The riverbanks were thick with trees and grasses, but I knew that less than one hundred feet beyond those wooded banks ran some mean, tough streets. At least it was quiet up there, and there was only the occasional friendly fisherman waving to me from the riverbanks.

The railroad bridge was down, and I was paddling in slow circles, waiting for the freight train to pass, when I sensed a boat approaching me closer than I would like from astern. I turned around and saw Perry Greene’s white blond hair as he leaned over the side of his Little Bitt with his arm outstretched, reaching for my ponytail.

“Don’t even think about it, Perry,” I said, keeping an eye on him.

“Hey, babe, what you doing in that little bathtub toy?”

“It’s called exercise, Perry. Not that you’d understand the meaning of that word.”

He put his boat into reverse and I stopped paddling. We both eased to a stop, side by side and still in the water, but traveling slowly with the tide. The last car of the freight train rumbled over the trestle, and it grew much quieter as we waited for the automated bridge to reopen.

I grabbed the gunwale of Little Bitt. While he was here, I might as well ask him a couple of questions. “Perry, I saw you in Flossie’s yesterday. I’m guessing you were there talking to Gil Lynch.”

He pressed his lips together like he was getting ready to spit, and I cringed. He turned his head aside and blew a mouthful of spittle into the water off the stern.

“God, gross, Perry.”

“So what if I was talking to Gil. It’s a free country.”

“No big deal. I’m just curious what you guys were talking about, and why he ran when Mike and I tried to talk to him. Do you have any idea why he took off like that?”

“He’s crazy. You do know that, don’t you? But the thing is, he’s still got connections. We was just shooting the shit. I told him about towing in your friend Mike and then I was asking him about the owner of that Eye-talian boat we worked. He was just starting to tell me about that dude when he split. So I went back to Flossie’s last night.”

“Perry, you’re at Flossie’s every night.”

He nodded. “Nearly. Anyways, when Gil showed up, he was acting real skittish. Said he didn’t want to have nothing to do with that one-legged cop. Meaning Beesting, of course.”

“That’s kind of weird. What’s he got against Mike?”

“Hell if I know what goes on in that dude’s head. It’s all scrambled in there.”

The railroad bridge sounded the buzzer and the span began to rise. Perry said, “Much as I love chatting with you, sweetheart, I got a Hatteras down at Bahia Mar waiting for Perry to make his magic.”

The rest of the trip downriver hadn’t taken nearly as long since I had the current flowing with me. That was fortunate because the last half hour on the main river, with all the Saturday-morning boating crowd who were jockeying like it was rush hour on the Interstate, churning up the water and impatiently revving their engines, had come close to making me seasick.

My arms burned and my palms were blistered when, finally, I feathered my paddle to ease the kayak into the dock off Gorda’s stern. When I reached up to grab the cleat on the dock, I saw a pair of familiar handsome brown legs walking toward me.

“Morning, Miss Sullivan,” Joe said. He was carrying two covered paper cups and a grease-stained brown bag. “Your cappuccino’s getting cold.”

“Where’s my brother?”

“Nobody here but the dog when I arrived. I knocked on your cottage door and was about to drink your coffee when I saw you come paddling this way.”

“I’m surprised Abaco let you back here.”

“Onion bagels are her favorite. She wouldn’t have done it for honey wheat. I tried that first.”

“Ah, so, do you always bribe women to get what you want?”

He grinned. “I usually don’t need to.”

I was attempting to execute the rather complicated maneuver required to climb off a kayak alongside a dock, and I nearly went into the river at this comment. The tide was high, so very little of the ladder was left above water, and I made an extremely ungraceful landing by sliding onto the dock on my belly. After tying off the kayak’s bowline, I dusted off my hands on my shorts and stood up. Joe’s mountain bike was propped against the trunk of an old oak tree, and he was again dressed in Lycra bike shorts, this time with a baby-blue tank top. He handed me a cardboard coffee cup.

“Thanks.” I inclined my head in the direction of the wood picnic table closer to the Larsens’ house. “Let’s get a ways back from the river. I’ve inhaled enough exhaust this morning.”

“So how’re things?”

I didn’t say anything, just looked into the bag he’d brought, pulled out a cinnamon raisin bagel, and spread the cream cheese on with a plastic knife. I knew what he was doing. Joe was trying to get back on my good side by bribing me with bagels. I’d take the bribe, but as for forgiveness, he was going to have to work for it.

I bit off a big piece and chewed slowly. “Hmmm. These are really good. The coffee, too. Thanks.”

“So, how’s that kid?”

“Fine.”

“Have you been to see her?”

“Yup.”

He tried to wait me out, make me need to fill in the silence. Not this morning. Not after what he’d said yesterday.

“Seychelle, look, I want to help you. I like you. I’m a retired cop and I’m bored, so I’d like to help out any way I can. You’re not experienced. You should use me. Use me and abuse me.”

“It’s nice of you to offer, Joe, but...”

“You’re still pissed off at me, aren’t you. First my daughter, now you. I seem to piss off all the women I try to help. This is about yesterday, isn’t it. About what I said about your old man.”

“Don’t call him my ‘old man.’ “

“Okay, this is about Red, then. Hmm. I thought you were better than that, Sullivan.”

I glanced quickly at him, frowned, and turned away. The bagel tasted lousy all of a sudden.

“You said you were going to find that kid’s father,” he said, “and you sounded like you meant it. I believed you.” He balled up his napkin and crushed his empty coffee cup. “But now you’re so hung up on some old news about what did or didn’t happen more than twenty years ago, you’re gonna turn down a chance to use thirty years of investigative experience because you’re pouting over your daddy.” He stood and collected the bag with the remaining bagels.

I sighed. “Sit down.”

He stood there, waiting.

“Would you sit already?” I said.

“Why?”

“You’re gonna make me say it, aren’t you. Okay. Maybe I could use a little help. There. See, I kinda screwed up last night. Somebody followed me, and it nearly got ugly. I thought I’d made sure I didn’t have a tail, but I guess I’m not a very good Nancy Drew after all. I don’t want to make that mistake again. So, yeah. I’ll take you up on your offer.”

He sat down on the wood bench. “Okay, so you need to find this kid’s father.”

“Yeah. She says her father is an American, and she thinks she was being brought to America to join him. I figured the place to start, then, was the boat that brought her to America. I’ve set up a meeting today with someone who knows something about the Miss Agnes.”

“Would you mind if I tag along? I could watch your back.”

I looked at his bike shorts and clean blue tank top. “I don’t know that you’ll still want to when you hear where we’re going.”

“Where’s that?”

“The Swap Shop.”

What we now know as the Swap Shop started life back in the sixties as the Thunderbird Drive-in Movie Theater. When the owner began running a flea market on the blacktop expanse on weekends, the concept grew and grew, eventually becoming an indoor/outdoor collection of permanent booths with a food court and full-time entertainment including a circus, complete with elephants, rides, and an outdoor carnival. The place still showed movies at night, but the main business now took place during the day when the Swap Shop resembled the outdoor markets of third-world countries more than an American shopping mall.

We got lucky and found a minivan pulling out of a parking space. I whipped Lightnin’ into the spot before a hooked-up Honda Civic with booming bass could beat me to it.

“You like to live dangerously, I see,” Joe said.

Although most of the sky was blue, a small dark cloud just overhead began to spit raindrops on us as we walked across the parking lot. We picked up the pace and ducked under the tent that covered the long rows of outdoor stalls.

“You ever been here before?” I asked Joe.

“No, can’t say that this is my sort of spot.” He seemed to draw into himself, as if he were afraid he might catch something.

I like grit. Always have. And the Swap Shop was one of the grittiest places you could find in South Florida. And that was saying something.

Within a few minutes, the rain had stopped, and the fierce sun was out again, pushing the humidity into the nineties. The odors from fried foods, sweet cotton candy, and sweat mingled with the steam that was rising off the asphalt, making it difficult to breathe. I half expected Joe to pass out.

Hispanic families and East Indian men manned most of the stalls. They called out to us as we passed, offering us their assorted car parts or their knife and sword collections or their T-shirts with off-color slogans. The blacktop beneath our feet was throbbing with the bass from the reggae music as we passed a huge array of subwoofers. I didn’t see many Haitians among the stall owners, though folks in the crowd of patrons seemed to speak more Creole than anything else. I figured that most of the Caribbean islanders probably sold fruits and veggies over in the food market. Joe and I asked an elderly security guard for directions and discovered that Paris Kids was a children’s wear store inside the main building.

“What’s the plan?” Joe asked as we headed toward the double glass doors.

“I don’t have one,” I told him. “I’m supposed to talk to a girl who works in this booth. She supposedly knows something about the Miss Agnes, maybe came over on board herself. I’d like you to just keep back, see if anybody shows an interest in us. The Capitaine guy is a dark-skinned man, well over six feet tall, with a goatee and a mustache. If you see anybody around fitting that description, let me know.”

“Sounds like a plan to me. Consider me invisible.”

From inside the building, we could hear an announcer’s voice booming over a PA system. “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls…” and it was clear that we had arrived in time for the circus performance. The crowd was so thick that we had to turn sideways to fit through the doors and fight our way into the building. An old mirrored ball flung dancing spots of light around the crowd, and neon signs advertising gyros and pizza and Tic Tac Dough lottery cards provided the only other light. I saw the sign for Paris Kids on the far side of the food court and squeezed my way through the crowd in that direction. I’d already lost track of Joe.

When I made it to the shop’s door, I felt like I had just paddled my kayak into a side eddy of the river. I paused to catch my breath, and before I became aware of anything else in the shop, a woman was at my side.

“Can I help you?” She was a matronly Haitian woman in her mid-forties.

“No, thanks. I just want to look around.”

“Do you have something special in mind?” Her fingernails were long and painted with some kind of intricate designs. Little jewels glued to the nails glinted in the fluorescent lights.

“No, I just want to look around, okay?”

The store was filled with hundreds of little white dresses. There were maybe ten out of the hundreds that were either a pale pink or blue. The rest were all white.

“How old is your daughter?” the sales lady asked.

“I don’t have any kids.”

She made a sympathetic sound. “Awww, I am so sorry,” she said. “Are you shopping for something for a niece or nephew, perhaps?”

Hey, lady, I wanted to say, bug off. There’s nothing wrong with not having any kids.

Then the phone rang. “Pardon,” she said, and hurried into the back of the store. On her way through the door she hollered, “Margot! Viens ici! “

The young girl who emerged wore a deep, permanent scowl on her face and a large loose gray T-shirt that hid her body almost to her knees. A blue-and-white bandanna covered her head, and her face was makeup free. She looked about seventeen years old.

“Hi, Margot. I’m Seychelle Sullivan.”

She jerked her head toward the racks of dresses on the far side of the front door.

When we got there, I pretended to look through the dresses, sliding each little hanger around the metal bar. “Do you know who I am?”

She nodded.

“Juliette told me you would talk to me,” I said. “You know something about the Miss Agnes?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“Yes.” She didn’t say anything more, and I was beginning to think this was pointless when she added, “He killed my brother.”

The suddenness of her revelation startled me. “Who did?”

“Le Capitaine.”

“The captain of the Miss Agnes killed your brother?”

“Oui.” It sounded more like a sharp inhalation than a word. She looked out at the crowd and scanned the faces, then turned back to me. “Very bad man. In Haiti, he was Ton-ton Macoute. Everybody afraid of him.” She looked to the back of the store, and she sniffed. “I not. My brother was come from Haiti take me home. He pay Le Capitaine eight hundred dollar to come for me. Get away from Madame. That why Le Capitaine, he opened his head.”

“Your brother died of head wounds?”

“Oui, they told me Le Capitaine put everybody in the sea, then he cut Jean-Pierre. Push him in the sea, too. He like it when some can’t swim. He laugh.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said, my voice shaky. Her dark eyes gazed past me, reflecting the red circus lights like a pair of smoldering coals. I actually felt scared watching the hatred in her face. I didn’t know much about Haiti, but I had heard of the Macoutes—Papa and later Baby Doc’s much-feared security force. No wonder this guy was so good with a machete. “Your brother didn’t want you to work as a restavek any longer?”

She shook her head. “I come to Florida eight month ago. No school, only work. Jean-Pierre say he take me to school. Now ...” She shrugged.

“Margot, I am trying to help another girl. She’s younger than you are, and she came on the Miss Agnes this week. She was coming to live with her father here in the States, and I need to find him.”

She shook her head. “All the girl come on Miss Agnes are restavek here in Florida.”

I turned from her and held up a dress as though for her approval. My eyes swung across the crowd, and I noticed a familiar face. Then the face was gone. He had melted back into the sea of faces, but I would know that pockmarked skin and that zigzag eyebrow anywhere. What was Gil Lynch doing at the Swap Shop? Following me?

“Margot!” The saleslady emerged from the back of the shop shouting.

“Ma’am,” I called out to her, “is it okay if Margot helps me pick out a dress for my niece? She’s a very sweet girl.”

The shop owner looked astonished that anyone would call this scowling girl sweet, but she was afraid to lose the sale, so she left us alone.

I pulled a dress off a rack and held it up, asking Margot to tell me what she thought. The music from the circus swelled, and the audience oooed. Apparently the elephants had entered the ring. I scanned the crowd again, trying to spot Gil. For just a second, I questioned whether he had really been there. Where was Joe?

The girl pointed to the lace around the collar of the little dress, and she said quietly, “You stop Le Capitaine?”

She wanted something from me that I couldn’t promise. I put the dress back, moved a little farther down the rack, and examined a pale blue dress with a deep V neckline. Why the hell would a seven-year-old kid wear a neckline like that?

“He know Madame,” she said.

“You mean the woman who owns this store?” I jerked my head toward the woman with the fingernail jewels and then whipped a dress off the rack and held it up as though for her opinion. “She’s a friend? Of the captain of the Miss Agnes?”

Again, she nodded almost imperceptibly. “No friend. Business. He name Joslin Malheur. He come see Madame two day ago. He pay her money.”

“Margot! Qu’est-ce qui ce pas?” Madame called from across the store. I didn’t know what she was saying, but I could tell from the tone of her voice that she was suspicious.

I grabbed the biggest dress off the rack. “I’ll take this one,” I said, handed it to the girl, and followed her back to the cash register. The older woman rang up the sale, her lips pursed, her long nails clicking on the machine’s keys. Margot bagged my purchase, her eyes downcast. When I’d received my change, I said to the girl, “You were going to point out the ladies’ room?”

We walked to the store’s entrance and were once again enveloped in the music and roar of the circus crowd. She pointed to the stairs and explained that I should turn left at the top to find the ladies’ room. I whispered to her.

“Do you know where I can find him?”

“He tell Madame he go back to Bahamas on Bimini Express.”

“Thank you very much, Margot.” I turned to go, but Margot reached out and grabbed my forearm.

“You help Juliette?” She gripped my arm even tighter and moved in, her mouth close to my ear. “Monsieur Gohin. He hurt her.” She turned around and hurried to the back of the store.

I plunged into the crowd and made my way away from the store and the prying eyes of Madame. My stomach churned as I thought about Margot’s last words. She had to have been referring to sexual abuse. Child slavery. I looked at the smiling crowds leaving the circus bleachers. Would any of them ever believe such a thing was happening in their backyards?

I’d heard of the Bimini Express. It was a little interisland freighter that usually sailed in and out of either Port Laudania or the Miami River. Back when I was a kid, Red used to work some jobs down on the Miami River. I’d gone with him, and I vaguely remembered seeing that name on a little freighter even back then.

Clutching my purchase, I wormed my way through the crowd that was now breaking up. Evidently the circus had finished. I looked everywhere for a familiar face, but there was no sign of either Joe or Gil. I decided to head over to the stairs to see if Joe was on the upper level, and he seemed to magically materialize at my side.

“How’d it go?” he said.

“I’ve been looking all over for you. How come I didn’t see you till you were right next to me?”

He winked. “Trade secrets.” He pointed at an electronics booth jammed with stereo gear. “See that store? It’s owned by a buddy of mine. He let me stand behind the counter. You weren’t looking at the people behind the counters.”

“You’re good,” I said.

He shrugged. “My buddy and me, we’ve been catching up a little about the old days. Things were really good back then.”

“Hey, Joe. You didn’t happen to see Gilbert Lynch go by while you were standing behind that counter?”

“Gil? No, why?”

“I could have sworn I saw him in the crowd. But, you know, it was just a glance and he was gone.”

“Even if it was him, Seychelle, I wouldn’t make too much of it. Gil’s pretty harmless. From what I hear, he’s not exactly firing on all pistons these days, but he’s never hurt anybody.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“So, we done here?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s go.”

“Is it okay with you if I stay? My buddy over here”—he pointed toward the booth—”offered to buy me lunch at a little Cuban place he knows about. That is, if you don’t need me anymore.”

“It’s okay with me,” I said. Actually, I felt relieved. I’d been wondering how I was going to get rid of him now that I had accepted his offer of help.

I tossed my bag in the back of the Jeep and headed out of the parking lot I had no doubt about where to go next. After talking to both Juliette and Margot, I figured Martine Gohin had some explaining to do. Abusing children may be an acceptable practice in her own country, but not here.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The traffic on Sunrise was miserable, and it was nearly thirty minutes later that I pulled into Martine’s drive. Her minivan was there, so I assumed she was home. Juliette answered the door, and she drew in a sharp breath when she saw it was me.

“I need to speak to Martine.” The child backed away, opened the door wide, and lowered her eyes. I could just about smell her fear. I would have to be careful that Martine never learned that Juliette had spoken to me.

“Seychelle,” Martine crooned, “what a nice surprise. Come join me out on the patio.”

“Martine, this isn’t really a social visit.” I stopped in the foyer and refused to follow her any farther into the house.

“Ah, you want to know if we have received any information at the radio station. I am sorry, but no one has called.”

“Thank you. But no, that’s not why I’m here.”

“Oh?”

“I want to talk to you about Juliette.”

“I do not understand.”

“Martine, you know I’ve been running around trying to figure out how to get in touch with Solange’s father. Well, it’s become obvious to me that the Miss Agnes was in the business of bringing young girls to Florida who weren’t coming to see fathers or join relatives here. They were coming to be sold, to work as restaveks, like Juliette here.”

Martine’s mouth opened in a round O as she inhaled. “That is ridiculous,” she said. “What do you mean coming in here and making those accusations? Juliette is my niece.”

“Oh, please. Martine, don’t lie to me.”

“Miss Sullivan, you don’t understand a thing about Haitian culture.” As she talked, Martine’s hands flew through the air, making wide gestures. “We have traditions in my country that you will never be able to understand, but at least you could respect them. But no, not you Americans. You think all the world should be like you. You are so arrogant. You would like to see a McDonald’s in every city, your music on the radio, and all the world just like your country.”

“Martine, child slavery is not some quaint Haitian custom that needs preservation.”

She made that sound again with her mouth, expelling a puff of air through her pouty lips, and she rolled her eyes. “You come into my home. You make these ridiculous lies, these accusations—”

“And what about the captain of the Miss Agnes, this Joslin Malheur. You know him, don’t you?”

“Of course not.” She turned away and busied herself going through a stack of papers on a console table in the hallway. She had not turned away soon enough, however, and her eyes had widened almost imperceptibly at the mention of his name. She knew Malheur.

A phone started to ring in the kitchen. “Excuse me,” she said, still not meeting my eyes with hers. She hurried off into the other room. I could hear her muffled voice as she spoke, but mostly she seemed to be listening while the other party did all the talking. From the entry to her house, the living room opened up off the hall to the right, and I took a few steps forward to explore while I waited. The room was decorated with paintings and artifacts from Haiti. There was a carved gourd and a beaded flag on display on the bookshelf. On the top shelf of the unit lay a machete in an intricately designed leather scabbard. I was just reaching for the machete when Martine appeared in the hall. She had her pocketbook slung over her shoulder.

“Miss Sullivan, we are going to have to cut our visit short, I am afraid. That was the police dispatcher, and they need my translation services. I must go.”

“What happened?”

“There’s been a homicide,” she said, and waved me in the direction of the front door. “They need me to interview some of the possible witnesses. I really must be going.”

Martine opened the door, and we both walked out onto her driveway, squinting into the glaring sunlight. As she put the key in the driver’s-side door of the minivan, she turned to watch me leave. “We are finished, Miss Sullivan, non?”

I wondered if she was referring to our friendship or just this afternoon’s meeting, but I supposed she was right in either case. “I’m not giving up, Martine. I’m not going to let them send Solange back, and I’m going to report this restavek business to the authorities.”

She looked at me thoughtfully, then opened her door. Just before she climbed in, she paused. “Miss Sullivan, I am a civilian contractor for the Fort Lauderdale Police Department. I have worked with them for almost five years. You think they are going to believe a word of this nonsense of yours?” She made that dismissive spitting sound again, then looked at her watch. “This is going to take most of the day. The Swap Shop,” she said, shaking her head. “They couldn’t have picked a place with more Haitians.”

“It’s at the Swap Shop?”

“Oui, probably some kind of gang activity. Kids these days, eh?” She slammed her door and the van started up.

I jumped into Lightnin’ and backed out of her way. After she had turned out of sight, I followed. I hadn’t been willing to ask her if it was a boy or a girl, but in my gut I knew.

When I pulled back into the Swap Shop parking lot, there were more than half a dozen police cruisers, several unmarked county vehicles, and a white van with the words Fort Lauderdale Police Crime Scene Unit emblazoned across the side. The sad part was how little attention the crowd of police vehicles warranted among the weekend shoppers; they passed by as though this level of police activity was something they saw every day.

Inside the building, it was different. A crowd had gathered around to peer in under the circus bleachers at the shrouded body lying on the cement floor next to a dusty carousel horse. Mothers stood on tiptoes, holding their children’s hands, the children’s eyes wide in their painted faces, their helium balloons bobbing overhead. An older black gentleman wearing red suspenders to hold up his sagging black trousers was mumbling a prayer, though it was barely audible over the calliope music being broadcast over the PA system.

On the far side of the building, families sat eating their McDonald’s burgers, people were buying Lotto tickets at the Tic Tac Dough window, and ladies were bargaining with a turbaned shopkeeper for imitation eelskin handbags.

She was just a kid who was trying to help me, trying to get back at the man she suspected of killing her brother. What part had I played in her death?

A woman started wailing somewhere in the crowd. I pushed my way to the front where bodies pressed up against the crime scene tape. The woman stood between two uniformed officers, her face covered with both hands, her fingernails brightly detailed little jewels sparkling in the flash of a camera. She lowered her hands suddenly and turned her back to me. She began to speak to someone on the far side of the crowd, but I couldn’t see who was there because the two patrolmen, who supported her on either side, blocked my view. I tried to get the attention of the female cop who was handling the crowd, to ask permission to speak to the saleswoman, as if I didn’t know who was there under that black plastic sheet.

I was concentrating so hard on getting her attention that I didn’t even notice who had walked up on the other side of me.

“It’s happening again, Miss Sullivan,” Collazo said.

Even with all the noise in that place, hearing his voice startled me. I jumped back and collided with him.

“Geez, Collazo, give me a heart attack, why don’t you.”

“I go to a scene, and somehow you are involved.” He had removed his jacket, and when I bumped into him, his freshly ironed shirt felt damp. He mopped the back of his neck with a handkerchief.

I pointed to the covered body and said, “I didn’t have anything to do with this.” But even as I said it, I knew I was protesting more to convince myself than the detective. She was dead because she had talked to me.

“Madame Renard, the store owner,” he said while flipping through the pages of his note pad. “She just identified you as a customer who was here this afternoon. You talked to the victim and bought a dress.”

He didn’t have to finish the thought. I’d been accusing myself the entire drive here.

I could not stop staring at the tarp. “She just wanted to go to school, Collazo.”

He pulled at the neck of his shirt, and the movement drew my eyes away. He ran a hand around the back of his neck where the tufts of black body hair curled over the top of his collar. The air-conditioning in the building was practically nonexistent, and the humidity was off the chart. “You came here to the Swap Shop to see her, and you were one of the last to see her alive.”

I nodded. “Someone set up the meeting. I wanted information about anyone who had been on that boat that sank up in Hillsboro, and this girl”—I pointed to the draped body— “her name was Margot. She had come over on the Miss Agnes, but several months ago.” I looked around at the crowds and the lights. “Collazo, are you telling me that this girl was murdered here in this crowded place, and no one saw anything?”

He nodded. “Either saw nothing or will say nothing.”

“What about the store owner. What does she say happened?”

He shrugged. “The girl was there. The owner went into the back room, came out, the girl was gone.”

“What about that snitch, that guy, Gil Lynch. I saw him in the crowd while I was talking to the girl.”

“Interesting.”

“And I came with Joe D’Angelo. After I talked to the girl here, Joe took off to have lunch with some buddy of his.”

“Miss Sullivan, start over. Tell me how you got here, what you talked about.” He had his gold pen out, and he flipped to a new page in that little notebook of his. I found it reassuring somehow: As long as Collazo made those little notes in his neat writing, he might help me make sense of this.

After telling him the whole story, I added, “The Haitian term for them is restaveks, but they are really child slaves. It’s not unusual for them to be molested by family members— they are seen as the property of the family. Apparently this restavek business has been going on for decades in Haiti, but Joslin Malheur, the captain of the Miss Agnes, and all his crew, they’ve imported the concept here to the U.S. They are in the business of bringing girls here and selling them into slavery. Margot said Malheur is a former Tonton Macoute. He likes to hurt people. Gets off on it.” As I was telling him the story, it began to sound more and more far-fetched. “I think he’s responsible for all these DART killings. Including this one.

“Miss Sullivan, you are telling me that these killings are about child slavery, here in Fort Lauderdale.”

“Yes, Collazo, that is exactly what I’m saying. Okay, so the restaveks aren’t the only part of their cargo—they do make money from bringing in your standard, old-style, illegal immigrants, too. In fact, this girl, Margot,” I said, “told me that her brother paid eight hundred bucks to come here to the States in order to take her away from these people.”

“These people. You mean the slavers.”

The tone of his voice told me what he thought about my theory.

“You’re telling me,” he continued, “that the police translator who is here somewhere right now taking witness statements is really a child slaver.”

“I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true, Collazo.”

“And this young Haitian girl was telling you all about this when most Haitians won’t say anything to an American.”

“The only reason she was helping me out was because she wanted to bring this Malheur guy down. He killed her brother. She said he was going back to the Bahamas on the Bimini Express—a little freighter that usually sails out of Port Laudania. Please, check that out, even if you don’t believe me.”

He didn’t say a word for almost a minute.

“Come,” Collazo said. He walked over to the body, now abandoned and covered and waiting for transport. I followed him, thinking he wanted to speak to me out of earshot of the crowd. He bent down and, with a flourish, pulled back the sheet. It was the last thing I expected him to do, and I didn’t have time to avert my eyes.

“What the ...” I turned aside and felt the bile rising in the back of my throat. A porous blackness began to creep in around the periphery of my vision. I put my hands on my knees and dropped my head, breathing deeply. I had seen her, and already I wished I could erase those few seconds from my memory. The left side of her head looked like someone had cut a deep groove from the top of her scalp all the way down to her eye, and dark blood mixed with grayish brains spilled out across the concrete and across her face. Her eyes and mouth were open, as though she were still screaming.

“They have determined that he does it with a very sharp machete. He must be an immensely strong man. The MO’s the same as the other four victims.”

“You could have just told me, Collazo. My God. I think I might be sick.” I was having trouble breathing, and my eyes filled with tears. “You bastard. I was just talking to her a couple of hours ago.”

“And that’s exactly why I showed her to you. Child slavery.” He cleared his throat and stepped in close, invading my space, making me feel sicker still. “I’m going to tell you a little secret about people.” He paused for effect, then said, “They lie.” He stopped and smiled, showing the wide gap between his front teeth. “All the time. People lie to us to try to get us to do things. Things they want us to do for them. Go home to your little tugboat, Miss Sullivan. Amateurs like you, you go out and try to play detective, and people wind up hurt or…” He gestured at the body. “I don’t want to be scraping your brains off the pavement next time.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I thought about Collazo’s words all the way home, thought about what I’d seen beneath that tarp. How could someone do that to another human being? Even that scowl of hers, the anger she’d wrapped herself in, none of that had obscured the fact that she was a beautiful child. Could Margot have been lying to me? I didn’t think so. The hate for Malheur I had seen on that girl’s face was real. She had taken a risk by talking to me. And I had put her in terrible danger by talking to her. If only I hadn’t gone to speak to her, if only I had taken her with me, put her in the same house with Solange. If only the world weren’t a place where children were abused and killed. And then there was Juliette. I had seen it in her eyes, too. Someone was hurting her. On the one hand, I was terrified that my blundering around would result in someone else getting hurt or killed. Yet, on the other hand, no one else was doing anything to stop this restavek business. Whether or not Collazo and D’Ugard believed me, this was real.

When I came around the hedge on the side of the Larsens’ house, I saw Pit sitting at the picnic table in the backyard, charts and papers and books spread out on every surface of the table and wood benches.

He looked up. “Hey, I got something to show you. Come here.”

After scratching Abaco’s ears, I joined my brother in the shade of the live oak.

“What have you got?”

“I think I can see what might have happened that night. From what you told me earlier, and from looking at the charts, I’d say their base camp is probably out in the bush somewhere on Bimini.”

“Yeah, that makes sense. A girl I met who came on an earlier trip on the Miss Agnes” —and a girl who is now dead because she talked to me, I thought but didn’t say—”told me that Malheur, the captain, is heading back to Bimini on one of those interisland freighters.”

“Here’s the way I see it.” He pointed to the chart of the Straits of Florida, and we both stared while he gathered his thoughts. The coast of South Florida and the Keys ran down the left side. The Great Bahama Bank bordered by the Biminis, Gun Cay, Cat Cay, and, to the north, Great Isaac’s Light, were on the right side of the straits. Flowing north through the middle of all this was the Gulf Stream, pouring through this narrow slot at speeds of three knots or better. “So they house the people over here” —Pit pointed to Bimini—”until the weather is calm, and then they try to make a quick run across the Gulf Stream to dump their load and run back to the Bahamas. Their boats are primitive, and they don’t have fancy navigation gear because it’s only a forty-to fifty-mile run. They count on conditions being the same for each run. I suspect the night Solange was set loose out there the current wasn’t exactly cooperating.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sey, you found the kid right here” —he pointed to a penciled letter X on the chart—”on Wednesday morning around eleven a.m. The Miss Agnes had sunk going into Hillsboro about thirty hours earlier. In a two-to three-knot current that kid would have traveled sixty to ninety miles north by then.”

“Right. That’s why I couldn’t make any sense out of it.”

“I think the Miss Agnes was originally headed for Miami Beach. Say they left Bimini early Monday morning planning to unload their cargo late Monday night. They assumed the current was hauling ass as usual, so they cranked an extra thirty degrees into their course to compensate. Only, due to a cross current and a slowing of the stream from the previous week’s norther, they ended up down off Elliot Key by mistake. I still can’t explain how Solange and that woman ended up in the boat. But if they got in the boat off Elliot, and the stream was running at less than two knots, which, by the way, I have verified to be the case with a windsurfing buddy of mine who works down at the Rosenstiel School—”

“Where?”

“You know, the oceanography place down at UM? They do satellite imaging of the oceans and, by looking at temperature and all that, they can determine how fast the current is running. Very cool stuff. Anyway, it was abnormally slow that night—that whole week, as a matter of fact.”

Trying to keep Pit on track sometimes took some nudging. “Okay, so they’re down off Elliot Key, and they dump those two into the dinghy. Then how did the Miss Agnes end up at Hillsboro sixty miles north?”

“Easy.” He reached under the chart and pulled out a wrinkled newspaper. He pointed to a story he had circled with a yellow highlighter. “This article is about the huge Art Deco festival they’ve been having on the beach. Been going on all week. There were concerts and lights and all kinds of stuff happening down on Miami Beach. Scared ‘em off. They’ve been dredging Haulover Inlet, so the lights on the barges there probably made them pass on that entrance. They kept heading north, looking for a quieter place to land. Coming into Port Everglades was too dangerous with the Coast Guard station right there. Eight hours later they were coming into Hillsboro Inlet in the wee hours of the morning. That captain must have been desperate to get rid of his cargo by then.”

“So you’re saying the Miss Agnes motored up the coast in eight hours, but the dinghy drifted the same distance in just under two days.”

“That’s how it would have happened with the current running less than two knots, which my buddy says it was.”

“Okay.” I shrugged. “Lots of things are beginning to make more sense.”

He cocked his head to one side and looked at me. “This kid, why are you putting yourself in danger for her? These guys have killed people, Sey.”

“I know it doesn’t make much sense to anybody else. And I don’t know how to explain it.” From down the yard, out on the river, the deep rumbling of a high-powered ocean speedboat’s idling engines was making the brass dividers jump and vibrate on the picnic table. My world was boats, engines, saltwater. I knew nothing about kids, how to do their hair, what kind of toys or clothes to buy them, and I was so afraid I’d end up like my own mother, unable to handle it. But for some reason something was different with Solange. “Pit, if I hadn’t found her, she probably would have died. Yeah, maybe someone else would have come along, but the thing is it wasn’t someone else. It was me. That makes us connected somehow. And if I just let them send her back to Haiti, there’s a good chance she’ll die there. I can’t just sit back and watch that happen. Do you know anything about what it’s like for a street kid in Haiti? Okay, I know I’m not going to change the world, but if I can just save this one kid...”

Pit was shaking his head. “Okay, I get it, I get it. Why did I even need to ask? I should have known. Just tell me you’re not planning on talking to this captain dude.”

“Pit, I’m sure he knows where this kid’s father is. I mean, if he was just bringing her over as a restavek, she’d be dead by now. He’s had two chances to kill her, and he hasn’t done it. I know a Haitian woman who thinks it comes from some sort of magic. I’m not quite ready to go that far yet. But I do think there’s something special about this kid.”

“So you’re just going to find this Haitian captain and walk up to him and ask him where the kid’s dad is?”

“Not exactly. I’m still working on that part. I think if I can find some evidence that he is importing these kids as child slaves, and locate him, the police will take him into custody and maybe I’ll get the answers to my questions then. I hope to get some help from this Border Patrol guy I know.”

“Sey, sometimes I wish you were as concerned about yourself as you are about all these wounded birds you adopt.”

We both started collecting the charts and books and instruments that were spread out on the picnic table. When my arms were full, I headed into the cottage, dumped the stuff on my dining table, and went to the fridge for a cold beer.

“By the way, sis,” Pit said as he came through the door. “B.J. came by looking for you earlier. He told me a little bit about what was going on with you two. All joking aside, what’s up? B.J.’s a great guy, and last time we talked on the phone, it seemed like you thought so, too.”

I carried my beer bottle across to my bedroom door, then turned to face him. “Pit, I told you, I don’t want to talk about that. Besides, look how late it is. I’ve got to change, then get down to Hollywood and check on how things are going, say hello to Solange. Want to come along?”

“Can I bring my board?”

I rolled my eyes at him. “You haven’t changed.”

As soon as I parked in front of Rusty’s building, Pit pulled his sailboard out of the back of the Jeep and was ready to go. I noticed the Paris Kids bag back there and I picked it up. Might as well give it to her. She probably wouldn’t like it anyway.

I undid the clasp on the dive watch on my wrist and handed it to him. “Meet me back here at seven, okay?” He disappeared across A1A in the direction of the beach. The breeze was decent, a solid twelve to fifteen knots out of the south-southeast. Storm clouds lined the eastern horizon, but that wouldn’t matter to Pit. I figured I wouldn’t see any more of my brother until it grew too dark to see the waves, which, in June, wasn’t until after eight.

There was no sign of Rusty’s vehicle in the parking lot. Back at the cottage I’d found myself standing in front of my closet trying to decide what to wear, knowing that there was a chance he would be here. Then, of course, I had felt really stupid and had just thrown on some baggy cargo shorts and a T-shirt. At the last minute, on my way out of my bedroom, I’d grabbed a Hawaiian print shirt and tied the shirttails around my waist so I could at least look a little feminine.

Jeannie opened the door with a curt nod, and when I stepped into the condo, I was hit smack in the center of my chest by an airborne miniature helicopter.

“Ouch, that hurt!” The slightly larger of Jeannie’s twins had collapsed in hysterics at my dismay, and his brother pounced on him and took away the ‘copter launcher.

“Mom!” the older boy screamed, and punched his brother in the back as he fled into a bedroom.

“Welcome to the madhouse,” Jeannie said. She sat back down on a tiny chair in front of a computer and seemed to ignore the screaming and the sound of fists hitting flesh that was coming from the bedroom.

“Don’t you think you should do something?” I pointed to the bedroom door.

She didn’t even look up from the computer screen when she said, “They’ll work it out.”

And I felt it again, that I could never be a mother.

“Where’s Solange?”

Jeannie inclined her head toward the other bedroom. “She’s been asking about you all day.”

Solange didn’t hear me enter the room. She was sitting on the bed, playing with two stuffed animals, and while the bear was neatly tucked in with the covers up to his chin, it appeared that the monkey was getting a hell of a chewing out in Creole. I didn’t understand the words, but I sure knew that tone of voice.

“Hey, kiddo, how are you?”

Her face lit up, and she slid off the bed, dashed over, and wrapped her arms around my waist, her head pressed against my tummy. I patted the back of her head and hoped that was a correct response to this kid hug.

“Everything going okay? You having fun around here?”

“I don’t like boys,” she said, looking up at me with a very serious look on her face.

“Trust me, kiddo. You’ll change your mind one day.”

I remembered the bag I’d brought and I told her to sit on the bed. I pulled out the white dress and held it up. “This is for you,” I said.

She reached out and fingered the lace at the hem, a look of disbelief on her face. I could see already that it would be much too big for her.

She jumped off the bed and hugged me again, rubbing her cheek against the fabric of the dress where she had pinned it against my body.

I heard the sound of the front door opening, and then someone else was enduring an attack from the twins. I let go of Solange to go see who had arrived. After I’d spread the dress on the bed, she slipped her hand into mine and followed close by my side.

On his back in the middle of the living room, Rusty Elliot, special agent to the INS, lay pinned to the floor by two blond dervishes who straddled his body, threatening him with Super Soaker squirt guns nearly as big as they were.

Jeannie looked up from her computer and shrugged. “He didn’t know the password,” she said.

“It’s his house! Doesn’t that count for something?”

She indicated her sons and smiled. “Not with them.”

At that point the floor erupted with flying limbs, streams of water, and giggles. Apparently the special agent was fighting back by tickling, and he was winning. The boys tumbled off of him and retreated to the far side of the room. Then Rusty held up his hand.

“Hold it.” The water streams stopped. “I think this battle needs to continue in the pool. What do you say, kids?”

The boys cheered and Solange smiled. I didn’t think she understood the word pool, but the entire scene had been extremely entertaining. I wondered if she’d ever seen an adult horsing around with kids like that before.

Rusty got up and brushed the water off his clothes and hair. He was wearing a white knit sport shirt and khaki cargo shorts. There was no avoiding it. The man looked good. He nodded to me. “Good afternoon, Miss Sullivan.”

“Hey.” I started to say something, but he’d turned and disappeared into the bedroom. He came out a few seconds later, drying himself off with a towel. “You’re good with kids.”

“I got a bunch of rugrat nieces and nephews. They keep me in shape.”

“You seem to like them as much as they like you,” I said, thinking that if most men had any idea how attractive it made them to be comfortable around kids, they’d all be pushing strollers.

“What’s not to like? They’re great. Anyway, how’re things around here? You been here long?”

“I just got here a few minutes before you. Jeannie? How’s the day been?”

She turned from the computer as the page she was browsing shut down. “Nobody but me’s been near these kids today—not that I haven’t felt like killing them myself a few times this afternoon. My boys are set on getting that girl to play with them, and she doesn’t want to have a thing to do with them. She’s a quiet little thing.” She heaved herself up out of the chair and walked to the bedroom door. She turned back to Rusty. “You sure it’s safe to take these kids down to the pool? I’d love to get out of here for a while. I’ve got a serious case of cabin fever.”

“We’ll be all right. I’ve checked with the local PD, and they say no one has shown the least interest in this place all day. The pool is screened from the road, and we’ll all be there watching them.”

She turned into the bedroom. “Okay, boys, swim trunks on, now.”

“What about Solange?” I asked.

A pair of red swim trunks flew out of the bedroom and hit me on the side of the head. I handed them to the girl. “Go put these on.”

She started toward the bedroom, dragging my hand. “You don’t need me to come with you.” I looked around the room and my eyes lit on Rusty’s. He was smiling.

“Don’t look to me for help, Sullivan.”

The kid squeezed my hand even tighter and looked up at me with those big brown eyes.

“Oh, all right,” I said. “Let’s go.”

The pool deck at the Heron Heights condo complex was on the north side of the building, just two steps higher than the wood docks where a collection of power and sail craft were tied up to pilings and small finger piers that jutted out into the Intracoastal. A rough wood fence shielded the pool on three sides, effectively keeping out the neighbors and the noise and prying eyes of the motorists passing on A1A. The view, however, was open on the water side, and when Rusty opened the gate and the boys darted through, I thought about how nice it would be to live like this someday. Across the tops of the boats in the marina, on the other side of the Intracoastal, I could make out a flock of egrets roosting in the mangroves of West Lake Park. Except for the occasional passing boat and the balconies up above, the little pool area was surprisingly private. Solange pressed her body against my side and held my hand tight as I arranged a chair in the shade at one of the umbrella tables.

“Don’t you want to go into the water?”

She shook her head.

“Tell you what. We’ll go check it out together in a few minutes,” I said, and pulled her onto my lap as Jeannie and Rusty installed themselves in chairs around the table. Jeannie, whose webbed pool chair was creaking in a disconcerting manner, was the only adult who had changed into a swimsuit, although she was still wearing her muu-muu over the top. Today’s version had green curly-tailed lizards pictured in the tropical print.

“Seychelle, we need to talk,” Rusty said. “I heard about what happened this afternoon.”

“Hey, not here,” I said, nodding my head to indicate the child sitting on my lap.

“Then let’s go where we can talk. Collazo called me. This situation is becoming very difficult to defend. After today’s events, it’s time to turn her over—”

I cut him off. “Rusty, I said we’d talk later. After we let these kids burn off a little energy and we give Jeannie a break.”

“Speaking of which,” Jeannie said, “I think I’m ready to try out that water before this chair demonstrates what happens when you exceed its load capacity.”

“I think we are, too. Right, kiddo?” Solange didn’t look too happy about it. She was wearing red boys swim trunks and a bright yellow tank top. We both sat on the edge of the pool, dangling our feet in the water, and watched Jeannie as she unzipped the front of her muumuu and stepped out in a matching lizard-covered swimsuit. The great thing about Jeannie, though, was how at ease she was in her body and how light on her feet. She walked down the steps and lowered herself into the water, bobbing right into the middle of a splash fight between her boys, dunking one and splashing the other with a playfulness and ease I envied. Some people seemed to be born knowing how to act around kids.

Little fingers tapped my upper arm. Solange was looking up at me and speaking softly. “I go home with you? I stay with you and Abaco?”

“No, look, I can’t keep you at my place. I... you know, I’m not set up to take care of kids, with the right food and all that.”

“I don’t eat much.”

“Ah, geez, Solange, it’s not that.” I put my arm around her narrow shoulders and hugged her to me. “It wouldn’t be safe. We’re keeping you here because the Capitaine doesn’t know about this place. He could find you at my place.” Bringing up the Capitaine’s name reminded me that I needed to get over to Port Laudania to look for the freighter. After another half hour or so around here, I’d have to bow out and take a quick trip up to Dania.

Solange tapped my arm again to make me look at her. “You stay here, too. You be safe.”

“Oh, I’m okay. And I’m hardly ever at my place these days. You know, I’m going to have to leave in a few minutes. I’ve got to find your father, your papa.”

She didn’t say anything after that. We just sat together and watched as Jeannie threw her boys into the air and the three of them laughed and hooted and splashed.

Rusty stood and called out to us, “You guys want to see my boat?”

His boat was the last one at the north end of the condo complex’s docks. He’d trotted on ahead and was already standing in the boat tying a canvas strap to the side of the hull when Solange and I arrived on the dock off the stem of his boat.

“Oh my God, Rusty. Why do rational people completely lose it when it comes to naming their boats?”

“You like it?” He looked so damned cute standing there grinning up at me, his shaggy blond hair falling in his eyes, that knit shirt showing off his sculpted chest.

“Folks must figure you either work for Immigration or Allstate,” I said, pointing to the lettering on the stem that read INS AGENT. “What were you thinking?”

Rusty’s boat was not the prettiest thing on the dock, but the man kept it immaculate. For a boat that was over twenty-five years old, it looked great. He had repainted the fiberglass hull with one of the new polyurethane paints, and all the stainless was polished to a mirror finish. The blue canvas bimini that provided the shade Rusty was standing in looked brand new. The tide was such that the deck of his boat was almost perfectly level with the wood dock, and even Solange had no trouble hopping aboard. The steering wheel was offset to the left, and just forward of that and down a step, double wood doors stood open, revealing the tiny sink and V-berth in the cuddy cabin.

Solange let go of my hand and moved away from me for the first time since I’d arrived. As she scampered down into the cramped forward cabin, I thought that I should feel relieved, but I was starting to enjoy the attachment.

“There you go, young lady,” Rusty said, bending forward at the waist to look into the cabin. Solange was stretched out on the bunk. “You’re just about the right size for that cabin.” He stood up and faced me. “She’s a twenty-five-foot Anacapri with double bunk V-berth in the cuddy cabin along with an enclosed head. Well, the head is mostly for people about Solange’s size, too.” He went on to show me his collection of rods stowed neatly in the cabin’s overhead, his fresh bait well, his cast net for catching bait, lifejackets, flares, the inflatable dinghy in the seat locker with C02 cartridges so it could double as a life raft. I understood that he was damn proud of that boat, but it wasn’t like I had never seen a standard boat U.S. flare kit. I was beginning to think the term obsessive-compulsive might apply. Then I saw him rub my fingerprints from the gel coat after I touched the topsides rail, and I was convinced.

“So, this is your ‘classic,’ eh? I gotta admit, you keep a clean boat, Agent Elliot. I assume your engines are just as clean?”

“You bet. Twin Mercs. They’re not the newest engines, but if you spend the time and give them a little TLC, they’ll keep running for a long time.”

“I wish more people thought that way. If it weren’t for all the yahoos out there breaking down every weekend, there probably wouldn’t be so many people jumping into the towing business. It’s getting harder and harder for a slow boat like Gorda to make it.”

“You do all right.”

“How do you know? You been checking up on me, Agent Elliot?”

“Let’s just say I wouldn’t have let this child go into the hands of people I knew nothing about.” He pointed down toward the cuddy cabin where Solange, lying on her belly on the blue canvas mattress, watched us with her head propped up on her two fists.

Rusty looked at his watch. “Hey, it’s almost five-thirty. You getting hungry?”

“I guess I could use a little something. I haven’t eaten much all day.”

“What do you say we take the boat down the Intracoastal a bit and hit one of those waterfront restaurants? That would also give us the chance to talk in private.”

I had just been thinking about getting a look at Port Laudania, and here was the perfect way. “Sounds good to me, except, there’s this place up the Dania Canal—”

“Sure, I know the place. Tugboat Annie’s? Perfecto. Then I’ll be able to say—”

“Just stop it right there,” I said. “There is nothing original about making a Tugboat Annie joke to me.”

Tugboat’s was a favorite waterfront bar and restaurant with an outdoor dining area that served up barbecue and reggae, along with cans of Off on weekend afternoons for those brave enough to face the no-see-ums. Their logo and namesake was a caricature of an old crone smoking a pipe, leaning out the wheelhouse window of a tug. I’d been the object of way too many jokes that noted some physical similarities between the crone and me. I kept pointing out to folks that I’d never smoked a pipe.

“Okay, I promise. No Tugboat Annie jokes if you’ll lay off the name of my boat.”

“Deal.” I shook his hand, then peered down into the cuddy cabin. “Come on, kiddo. Let’s get you back to Auntie Jeannie.”

The boys were still splashing and shouting in the pool, but Jeannie had installed herself on a wrought-iron bench that looked far sturdier than the webbed pool furniture. The bench backed up against the wood fence around the pool and Jeannie looked absolutely regal surveying the pool deck from beneath the brim of a white floppy hat. She turned to us and waved as we came around the corner and up the steps from the docks.

“I wondered where you two had disappeared to.” Rusty had stayed behind to prepare the boat.

I pointed to the north end of the dock. “Rusty’s boat.” I sat down on the bench next to her, and Solange squeezed in next to me. “I don’t get him, Jeannie. On the one hand, he does a damn good job of playing the rustic redneck type. But then there’s this condo with a million-dollar view, finished like something out of Southern Living magazine. And his boat down there? It’s old, but it’s immaculate. He wants me to think otherwise, but my guess is it’s professionally maintained. Where does a Border Patrol agent get the money for all this?”

“You like him, don’tcha .”

“What?”

“Seychelle, my friend, you are so transparent. Soon as you like a fellow, you start picking on him. I pity the poor man you marry.”

“Marry? Why’s everybody got to talk about marriage all the time?”

“Everybody? Seems like I’m the only one around here just now.” She leaned forward and looked past me at Solange. “Tell me, missy, did you discuss marriage with this lady?”

Solange giggled and hid her face behind my back. Whether or not she understood Jeannie, the tone of voice and the face were enough to make anybody crack up.

“Seems to me, Seychelle, that you are the only other one around here who could have been contemplating marriage just now. Hmm ... Was it to B.J.? Or to Rusty?”

Rusty came bounding up the steps from the docks.

“You ready?”

“Oh, uh, Jeannie and I were just talking. Jeannie, Rusty and I are going to run up to Tugboat Annie’s in his boat and get some dinner. That is, if you don’t mind.”

“You go on. After all, this is just what I went to law school for—to be a babysitter.”

“I’m sorry. Forget it. We’ll stay.”

“Girl, you are taking me way too serious today. You two go on. You’ve got a lot to talk over. Besides, my boys are always with me. And this little thing?” She reached over and poked Solange in the belly button. “She’s so quiet you don’t hardly notice she’s around.”

“You want us to bring you something back?”

“Barbecue? Absolutely!”

I told Rusty I would meet him at the boat after I put a note on the Jeep for Pit. He ran upstairs to grab his wallet. I peeled Solange’s hand out of mine, knelt down next to her, and told her good-bye for now. The look on her face made me feel like a real creep, and I could feel her eyes on me as I crossed the pool deck on my way to the parking lot.

After I’d finished the note to Pit, I noticed the dark clouds gathering out west over the Everglades, and I decided to take the time to snap the side windows back onto the Jeep. I didn’t have a rain jacket, but I did find an old zip-front hooded sweatshirt.

Rusty and I arrived back at the boat at nearly the same time. Without a word, I untied the dock lines while he started the engines. We were like a couple of kids trying to sneak off.

“So,” Rusty said over the noise of the idling outboards when we were about five yards from the dock, headed north up the Intracoastal. “I hardly recognize you without your shadow.”

I turned away from him and looked through the windshield, up the waterway toward the Sheridan Street Bridge. The sun had slid behind the mass of clouds and squalls out to the west, bringing on an early twilight, and the cars driving over the metal grate in the bridge already had their headlights on. The air had that thick, menacing feel of an impending storm.

“I know what it’s like,” I said, “to really want to have a mom. At least when I was Solange’s age I still had my dad.” Rusty put his hand on the back of my neck and squeezed lightly. I felt his touch course through my body like heat lightning.

“Hey, I was just kidding,” he said.

“I know, but I can’t get over thinking about how alone she must feel.” I looked into his eyes. “Sometimes ‘alone’ feels really rotten.” I turned away again and spoke to the mangroves on the west bank of the Intracoastal. “The thing is, I don’t know how to be a mom, and I can’t be her mom.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. You’re doing all right with the kid. In fact, it’s kind of neat watching you with her. There’s some kind of special bond between you two.”

“Thanks,” I said, keeping my face toward the mangroves, not wanting him to see how much I wanted that to be true.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

We squeezed into the last little bit of space at the restaurant’s dock. Before long, boats would start rafting up, tying to the outside of other boats, and later in the evening, they would be three deep in places. The restaurant was already crowded, but we got one of the high bar tables outside with a low powerboat at the dock in front of us. There’s nothing quite like waterfront dining when your view turns out to be the glossy fiberglass sides of fifteen-foot-high sportfishermen. Although we were a little downstream of the port, I sat on the side of the table that looked up the canal and had a great view across the water to Port Laudania. The lights around the port were blinking on as the last traces of daylight were swallowed by a low, dark sky.

Directly across from the restaurant, the pitted concrete dock was empty. The only things tied to it were the huge tires that served as bumpers along its entire length. A hundred feet or so back from the dock was a large white aluminum building with a green sign that read “G&G Marine, East Terminal.” A crane, tractor-trailers, and containers all sat idle. It was well after quitting time, and if there was anybody over there, I sure couldn’t see them. There wasn’t any sign of the Bimini Express. But, really, I wasn’t even certain this was where the little freighter was likely to dock. Here or in Miami? For all I knew, Capitaine had already left. On the other hand, would Malheur leave without tying up that last loose end that was Solange?

Once again, I flashed on the image of the girl Margot on the concrete floor at the Swap Shop when Collazo had pulled back the tarp. She would still be in the shop, scowling at Madame, if she had not spoken to me.

“What are you thinking?” Rusty asked after the waitress left with our orders. My eyes had been focused on the docks across the way, but my mind was filled with images from the past few days. The sound of Rusty’s voice brought me back to the restaurant.

“Huh? Oh ... I don’t know. I guess I was thinking about the people who are so desperate to get to this country that they’ll get involved with monsters like this Capitaine Malheur. Think about how bad it must be if the alternative to Malheur is even worse than he is. They climb aboard these crowded, rickety boats, leaving behind their families and all that was familiar. For freedom. And then they end up in the hands of a man like Capitaine. God, Rusty, what he did to that girl?” I pressed my hands against my eyes, trying to wipe the images away. It didn’t work. I tried to focus on Rusty’s face. “It probably wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t talked to her.”

“Hey, stop talking like that,” he said.

“Think of the courage it took. She went against her culture. She spoke to me, told me Malheur killed her brother. She was trying to bring Malheur down for that.”

“See, so if it hadn’t been you, she would have talked to someone else. It certainly wasn’t your fault.”

I propped my elbows on the table and leaned my chin on my clasped hands. “Maybe. But your saying that won’t make this feeling in my gut go away. He’s got to be stopped. I’ve got to make sure the same thing doesn’t happen to Solange.”

“Seychelle, why do you think that hasn’t happened yet? Malheur could have killed her. I mean, let’s go all the way back to why she was alive in that boat. Why did he take the risk that someone would find her?”

“We don’t know that he put her in the boat. Maybe she escaped?”

“I don’t know,” he said, and his eyes focused on something in the distance on the other side of the canal. It was almost totally dark, but across the way, in the branches of a dead tree, I could see the silhouette of an osprey against the pinkish gray sky. “I think if she was just any restavek, she would be dead by now.”

He reached across the table and took my hand. I felt that titillating surge of excitement and dread that I get when I know my relationship with a man is about to change from friendship to something else.

“Seychelle, there’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you,” he said.

“Rusty, the other night—”

“Yeah, that’s what I wanted to talk about. And I’m not real good at this kind of thing. Talking about it, anyway.”

His “aw shucks” demeanor was incredibly disarming. “I can’t figure you out, Rusty Elliot.”

“What do you mean?”

“You come across as this simple down-home Georgia guy who’s trying to stem the tide of illegal immigration, and then ... I would say that little ‘second home’ of yours back there is worth close to half a million. Either Border Patrol agents make a lot more than I thought, or you’re not who you let on to be. You tell me.”

The way his smile glowed in contrast with his tanned cheeks, it made me want to forget all my questions and just kiss him.

“Okay. I do wonder what kind of thing you’ve been imagining, but here’s the truth. The beach condo was my mother’s. Her second home. We always had a beach house in South Florida, this one’s just the most recent. My mother was a Depression baby and she saved everything. Over the years it mounted up. The real family homestead is up on Jekyll Island in Georgia. I keep that rented out most of the time now. I’ve tried to dodge around it, make my own way in the world, but the fact is, my mother was wealthy, and I was her only child.”

“In other words, you don’t need to work. You just chase after bad guys for the fun of it?”

His grin grew wider. “And to meet beautiful women.”

“Hey, I thought you said you weren’t very good at this?”

The waitress arrived, bringing our appetizer of blackened grouper bites and a couple of beers. He let go of my hand, and I dug in with relish.

After what I had been thinking about earlier, I was worried I might have lost my appetite, but not with Tugboat Annie’s grouper sitting in front of me. Rusty didn’t try to talk as we ate, and he jumped another notch in my esteem as a result. When we finished, he waved to the waitress for two more beers.

“I really need to check in with the station, and I left my cell in the truck back at the condo.” He looked around at the interior restaurant. “There’s got to be a phone around here. I’ll be right back.” He headed through the double doors into the bar. Once he was out of sight, I took the opportunity to get up and stroll up the dock to see Port Laudania from another angle.

At the far end of the dock I heard the noise of a large engine firing up somewhere across the canal. Through some shrubbery I saw another terminal building and could make out the outline of a small ship’s bow poking out of the trees. I didn’t remember that the port continued that far up the canal, but they are always building new docks at the commercial ports in Florida. I closed my eyes for several moments to get them accustomed to the darkness. When I opened them, I could easily make out the first few letters of the name on the bow: BIM. Just then the red navigation and masthead lights blinked on.

“Shit!” I said aloud. I began running, dodging between the tables, barely aware of white moon faces and startled eyes staring up at me. I had to find Rusty.

I pushed through the swinging glass doors that led to the inside bar and hollered at the bartender, “Phone?” He pointed at the opening in the wall next to the front door. After shoving my way through the crowded bar, I finally made it to the phone, only to find some young, heavily made-up twenty-something in a miniskirt and tube top screaming into the handset.

“I don’t give a fuck what you say, you son of a bitch,” she said, holding the phone away from her ear and hollering directly into the mouthpiece.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Did you see where the guy went who was on the phone here?”

“Fuck you,” she said, and turned her back to me.

Try as she might to be intimidating, it wasn’t working. I was tempted to try one of B.J.’s fancy aikido moves on her, but I just used the strength in my swimmer’s arms instead. I grabbed her by the shoulder, spun her around, and pinned her to the wall with my forearm across her throat.

“I asked you a question. Have you seen a blond guy, late thirties, wearing cargo shorts and—”

“He got pissed off waitin’, cussed me out, and took off out the front door. Now let me go, bitch.”

Part of me wanted to take her into the ladies’ room, stick her head under the faucet, wash all that makeup off her face, and continue the soap treatment on the inside of her mouth. Instead, I said, “Thanks,” and pushed my way out the heavy wood front door.

The parking lot was full of cars, but there was not a single person in sight. I called Rusty’s name a couple of times but knew that if he was in a car or on a boat with the air-conditioning running, he’d never hear me. Thinking I’d missed him somehow, I pushed my way back through the bar and out to our table. Still no sign of him there, and I knew that if I searched much longer, the Bimini Express would be long gone. I had no desire to take on Malheur myself, but maybe I could delay the little freighter from leaving until Rusty could get there with the authorities.

I saw our waitress standing by another table, and I interrupted her recitation of the daily specials. “When my friend comes back to our table, tell him I took his boat and went across the canal to that big ship down there, okay?” I pointed at the Bimini Express, and she nodded, turned to the young couple at the table, and started reciting the night’s specials all over again. I just had to hope she would remember.

I trotted back to Rusty’s boat and breathed a sigh of relief that no one had rafted another boat alongside it. Once aboard, I threw off the dock lines and gave the piling a good shove so the boat would drift into the canal. The engines purred to life at the first turn of the key, and I silently thanked Rusty for taking such damn fine care of the old girl.

My blue sweatshirt was where I’d left it, tucked up on the dash against the windshield, so I pulled it on, zipped it up, and pulled the hood up over my head. When I was a lifeguard, this had been my uniform on cold mornings, and with my broad shoulders, I’d often been taken for a man. I hoped the same would be true tonight.

Pulling up next to the little ship might attract too much attention, so I slowly idled past her bow and into the large basin with the commercial shipping docks on one side and the yacht yard docks on the other. Just a few days earlier, B.J. and I had towed the Miss Agnes through this same basin. I tried not to look at the Bimini Express as I slowly passed, but out of the corner of my eye I could see three men standing outside the wheelhouse up on the wing deck, two island men close together in conversation, the third man standing apart, talking on a cell phone. I couldn’t see well enough to tell if one of the two islanders was Malheur, but even at that distance, I recognized the third man’s wide mustache and protruding belly. They belonged to Gil Lynch.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

I pulled Rusty’s boat into the haul-out slip at the Playboy Marine Boat Yard and grabbed hold of the rungs of the iron ladder that was bolted to the concrete walls of the slipway. We were at about mid-tide but, even so, when I was standing up in the boat, my head was several feet below the top of the wall. I raised the hatch on the seat locker and pulled out the cast net Rusty had shown me earlier. The weight of the net surprised me. The lead weights attached to the nylon were quite small, but there were enough of them that I worked up a sweat just hefting it around. I threw a couple of hitches around the ladder with the bowline, flipped the fenders over the side, and hoped that the barnacle-covered walls wouldn’t chew too badly into Rusty’s flawlessly painted topsides.

Before leaving the boat, I paused for a couple of seconds, checking to see if I’d forgotten anything. How had my search for Solange’s father and my search for the truth about my own father converged on this former drug smuggler on a Bahama-bound freighter on the Dania Cut-off Canal?

At the top of the ladder, I raised my head slowly over the lip of the concrete dock. I didn’t see any movement, didn’t hear anything. Several of the sailboats were propped up on the hard in the boatyard, and warm yellow light spilled from their port lights. Playboy Marine was often used by live-aboards. The dark hulk on the far side of the yard I recognized as the Miss Agnes. She would certainly be stickered all over with U.S. Customs impound stickers.

The Playboy yard butted up against the G&G West Terminal, but I could see that the fence separating the two didn’t extend all the way to the end of the dock. It was simple enough to slip around. Then I ducked down behind some pallets of brick pavers to reconnoiter. To my left, out by the road, was a security guard shack. A spotlight lit the area around the little building and there were about twenty wild cats scarfing down food from dozens of plastic bowls and tins. The music from a Spanish-language radio station was playing inside.

Keeping my body low, I ran across the concrete dock to a small school bus, waiting for transport to some island. I leaned my back against the vehicle. The net I was carrying was so heavy that my thick sweatshirt was already damp with sweat. The security guard’s shack was north of me, and the Bimini Express was south. It was hard to find a spot where I wouldn’t be seen from one direction or the other.

The Bimini Express was stern-tied to the wharf. She was probably no more than eighty feet long, with her bridge and superstructure all jammed up forward in the bow so that everything aft could be used for cargo. There were big doors in her stern that flopped down to form a ramp onto the ship. They loaded her first with the vehicles they could drive on, and then they used a forklift to add the pallets. The cargo looked mostly like building supplies. No doubt in the Bahamas they were doing the same thing as in the Everglades. Like the lyrics to that old Joni Mitchell song my mother used to play, “They paved paradise and put up a parking lot.” At least this one would be a nice parking lot with pavers.

What I needed to do was to get at her prop. Fishermen throw their cast nets so they open into a perfect circle, and then the weights sink the net down over their prey, little bait-fish. My intended prey was the ship’s prop. I hoped the net would wind around the prop and disable the ship until Rusty, who I was sure must be freaked back at the restaurant, could get here with the cavalry.

At least that was my plan.

I ran from the school bus to a forklift to a huge pile of plywood. As far as I could tell, no one had seen me. I was now only about two hundred feet from the stern of the vessel. They had already raised the transom doors, and they were pretty damn ready to depart. Only a small gangway remained on the dock. I wondered what they were waiting for.

The men I had seen earlier on the bridge had vanished. I could stay hidden among the cargo pallets and the empty shipping containers, but at some point I would have to dash across the wide-open space and run down that gangway onto the ship. That was when I would be the most vulnerable. I worked my way forward, and at one point I could have sworn I saw movement behind me, but when I looked back, directly at whatever it was, there was nothing there. I rubbed my hand over my eyes and my fingers came away dripping with sweat.

I don’t remember making the decision to go for it. I was just standing there one minute and then I was hurtling across the open concrete wharf, my feet pounding across the gangway, then ducking between the stacks of shipping containers that covered the stern of the vessel. I stopped and leaned against a pallet of lumber, breathing so hard that I was sure the guys up on the bridge would hear me. I simply couldn’t catch my breath. When I heard the sound of footsteps on the gangway, I stopped breathing entirely.

They were light footsteps, like someone sneaking. There was no question now that I was being followed, and whoever was there knew exactly where I was. I slid around the corner of a container and onto the stern, but it was far too exposed back there. There was the housing for some crane machinery a bit farther forward up the ship’s starboard side, and it looked like something to hide inside. I eased my way forward, trying to figure out how to use the net as a weapon. I started unfolding it, readying myself to throw it the way I had seen the surf fishermen do. Half the net was over my shoulder, hanging down my back, the other half in my hands in front of me. The crane machinery didn’t provide much of a hiding place, but I pressed myself back into a shadowy crevice and waited.

I heard something like a snort or a sniffle. Evidently the guy had a cold or a bad coke habit. Then I heard it again, so close this time that I tensed, ready to throw the net at the first sign of movement in front of me. I was looking for some giant Haitian captain, and when I finally realized there was someone right in front of me, it was too late to throw the net. Arms wrapped around my waist and a head pressed hard against my belly.

The name escaped my mouth before I had time to think. “Solange?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

She was crying. She didn’t make any sounds other than the occasional sniffling, but I could tell by the way her shoulders were shaking that she was crying hard. It was a good thing she wasn’t bawling like most kids do, because the guys up on the bridge were outside again, talking to one another and pointing toward the dock.

I let the cast net fall to the deck, and I knelt down next to her. How on earth did she get on the Bimini Express? Her snuffling grew louder, and I tried to comfort her so the men above couldn’t hear us. I could tell from their voices that the two black men were Bahamians, and they shouted to someone as a vehicle approached on the dock. I could see all the way forward along the starboard side of the vessel, and to my surprise I saw motion up on the starboard ladder to the bridge. A deckhand had been sleeping on a pile of lines about twenty feet from us. It was a wonder he hadn’t heard me when I cried out. He passed around the aft end of the deckhouse and headed for the stern. If he was headed aft to throw off the dock lines, then we had better get the hell off this ship.

The approaching vehicle sounded like a truck. It stopped on the dock, and I wanted to see who or what was being delivered. The ship’s engines, which had been turning over at a very gentle idle, now revved up and smoke billowed out of the stacks above the wheelhouse. I heard voices over by the gangway and held my finger to my lips so Solange would know to be quiet. Then I loosened her arms from around me and pushed her back into the shadows of the crane’s machinery. I slipped over to the end of the containers to try to see across to the other side of the boat. What I saw made my stomach threaten to eject the dinner I’d eaten at Tugboat Annie’s. Climbing the stairs to the bridge deck, dressed all in black and wearing wraparound shades, was Joslin Malheur. He began slapping the Bahamians on the back like they were old friends. Gil was nowhere in sight.

It was then that the deck beneath my feet began to shudder as the screws bit into the water.

I’d waited too long. The two deckhands threw off the lines, the gangway clattered aboard, and the Bimini Express slowly eased her way forward. The gap between the ship and the dock was widening, already too far to jump. If I didn’t do something fast, Solange and I would be on our way to the Bahamas.

Now was the time. The ship would soon be reversing her screws to pivot around, and the prop wash would suck in whatever I threw down there.

“Stay here,” I whispered, my lips close to her ear, and I again motioned with my finger to my lips for her to be quiet.

Keeping my body low between the piles of cargo, I huddled down over the net, which I had balled up in front of my body. I hurried toward the transom.

The crewmen were gone, so I quickly divided the net weights and threw half of the bulk over my shoulder. Bright lights shone from the bridge onto the aft deck, and I wondered if anyone was watching me as I stood and ran to the rail. Bending down as I’d seen the surf fishermen do, I made ready to cast the net.

Even over the noise of the roaring engines and the churning water, I heard her scream. I turned back, and though I could make out only his silhouette, I knew that the man standing there, his right elbow askew as if he were holding a weapon against Solange’s body, was Malheur.

I moved my head off to one side and squinted into the brilliant light. “Leave her alone. Please. Don’t hurt her.”

He laughed. It was a big, loud, booming laugh, and I heard Solange take two quick sharp gulps of air. She knew to be terrified of that sound.

Another man materialized out of the darkness and grabbed my upper arm, squeezing so tight that the folds of my sweatshirt cut into my skin. I let out an involuntary cry. Malheur said something to him in Creole, and both men laughed. I shaded my eyes with my free hand, and I was surprised to see that the man gripping my arm was Gilbert Lynch.

The Bimini Express had made her turn and the small ship was starting down the Dania Cut-off Canal. We would be passing Tugboat Annie’s in a few minutes—my last chance to attract Rusty’s attention. If only I could break Gil’s grip, I might be able to run and jump over the side. But then I immediately dismissed that thought. I couldn’t leave Solange behind. I flashed on the image of Margot on the cement floor at the Swap Shop. I could not leave Solange alone with Le Capitaine.

Malheur spoke again in Creole, and Gil pushed me forward, up the starboard side, just as the lights and music from Tugboat Annie’s started to spill over the little ship. Although I could see people sitting at tables, they weren’t looking up or paying any attention to the ship passing on the canal. For a moment, I thought I saw Rusty standing at the hostess station, talking into the phone, and I raised my free hand, tried to shout and wave. But the words strangled in my throat when Gil slapped me open-handed on the side of my head and dragged me forward, then shoved me down between two stacks of plywood. He held me down and mumbled something unintelligible. We were now amidships in the shadow of the upper deck, and I could see Malheur, his skin so dark I could barely make out his features. The white skulls on the sides of his sunglasses reflected the light from the floods on the aft deck. He was wearing a tight-fitting black T-shirt, and around his elbow and upper right arm were white bandages, evidence that Jeannie’s shotgun had inflicted some damage. The weapon he held across Solange’s chest was a machete with a long shiny blade, narrow at the hilt but broadening out to four inches of steel at the tip.

Malheur lowered the machete and pushed Solange over to Gil, who pulled me to my feet. I stood facing Malheur, staring at the black lenses that covered his eyes. He brought the tip of his machete up under my chin and pressed the sharp end against the soft place at the top of my throat. I stopped breathing, though the steel barely touched my skin.

Malheur smiled broadly and began to raise his other arm. I thought he was going to hit me, kill me, but I was determined not to let him see me flinch. He took hold of the zipper on my sweatshirt and began to draw it down, slowly. I could feel the vibration as the slider passed over each metal tooth. His knuckles pressed into the flesh of my breast and then my belly as he dropped his hand lower.

He wouldn’t have to hit me. I was going to kill myself if I didn’t breathe. I swallowed and felt a sharp stab of pain as my muscles pressed against the blade at my throat. I felt sick with shame. I was letting him humiliate me. That tiny touch of cold steel had turned me into a victim.

When I couldn’t take it any longer, I looked away and found Solange’s frightened eyes, her features otherwise calm.

I knew I had to make him stop. So I lied.

“You don’t scare me,” I said. My voice trembled and my chin quivered, but I never again took my eyes off those shades.

Malheur threw back his head and laughed, then spoke for what seemed like forever in Creole—either to me or to Gil, I couldn’t be sure—all the while still holding the machete to my throat. In midsentence, he lowered the machete and turned, grabbing Solange. He headed for the door that led into the crew’s quarters. I dropped my head and inhaled a deep lungful of air, and though it was scented with diesel exhaust, it tasted sweet to me.

Malheur turned and spat some words at Gil, and I thought I understood the words gros kochon—in French class we’d giggled over the phrase that meant “fat pig.”

Gil grabbed my arm even harder, scowled at Malheur’s back, and pushed me to follow them. Malheur held Solange’s arm so high in the air that her feet barely skimmed the ground, and he lifted her into the air to get her over the steel threshold of the watertight bulkhead door. When I came out from behind the stack of plywood, I tried to look for Rusty on shore, but Gil grunted and pushed me through the door. I tripped and almost went down, slamming my head and shoulder into the steel bulkhead inside the dark companionway. My vision blurred while I struggled to remain standing, and tears began to fill my eyes. I was reaching up to feel if there was any blood in my hair when he shoved me again, through another door. This time I did trip—my feet got tangled up and I fell—and while it occurred to me as I was going down that I needed to protect my head this time, something hard and cold came out of the darkness all too soon.

The first thing I became aware of was the motion—that feeling that the deck beneath you is suddenly falling and you are falling, only your stomach has decided not to fall, and then you are rising, and your stomach is trying to relocate somewhere down in your bowels.

I moaned aloud when I tried to move. I was all twisted up and my neck was cramped and hurt like hell. As soon as I tried to move, however, I forgot all about my neck as my head started throbbing from the inside out. It felt like a cartoon character’s thumb after he’s banged it and it’s ballooned to three times its normal size. I wondered if my head was three times its normal size.

I felt a lump the size of a walnut just back from my hairline above my left temple. My hair was encrusted with dried blood.

A small hand brushed across my forehead and pushed the stray hairs out of my face. Although the room was pitch dark, I didn’t need to see her to feel her fear.

“Solange?”

“Oui,” she said, pronouncing it as an inhaled gulp of air.

“They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

“No.” I felt her hand on my head again. “You hurt.” It wasn’t a question. She knew.

“I’m okay. How long have I been sleeping?” Through the ship’s deck I could feel the vibration of the engine and the sudden surge of the RPMs as a wave lifted the stem of the ship, causing the prop to spin faster. Waves would have to be at least ten feet high to do that. We were out in the Gulf Stream already.

“Long time,” she said.

It was a stupid question for me to have asked her. She had no way of measuring the time. Ten minutes alone in the dark, not knowing if I was dead or alive, would seem like an eternity. She didn’t even sound like she’d been crying. But I guess it wouldn’t have been the first time she’d ended up on a boat with a dead woman.

I felt around my surroundings and realized that I was sitting on the floor of a crewman’s cabin, my back against the bunk—probably the same bunk I had hit my head on when I fell. When I got to my feet, my legs almost gave way again from the wave of dizziness that grabbed hold of me. I reached out and placed my palms on the wall, bent my knees to the corkscrew motion of the ship, and waited to get control of my body again. When I opened my eyes and turned around to face the bunk, I wasn’t expecting to see anything. I was surprised to make out a dim light from what looked like a porthole in the hull just above the bunk. In the faint glow, I felt around the cabin to familiarize myself with the space.

The door was locked; no surprise there. There were a couple of built-in drawers under the bunk, and they were filled with men’s clothes, neatly folded. I felt under and around everywhere, but there were no shaving articles with razor blades, no pocketknives—nothing we could use as a weapon. I crawled onto the bunk, feeling for Solange, and put my face to the porthole.

The cabin we were in was on the starboard side of the ship, and in the distance, a bit off our aft quarter, I could make out the horizon with a bright glow above it. There were only a couple of places where actual building lights were visible; the lights of the city had just dipped below the horizon. The ceiling of clouds hung very low, and it looked like it might be raining out there. If we were headed for Bimini, that would put us on a southeast heading and that would be the North Miami skyline I was looking at. Judging from the brightness of the skyglow, we were probably ten miles offshore, about fifteen miles out of Lauderdale.

“I guess I really was out a long time, wasn’t I?” I said as I reached for Solange and pulled her over onto my lap. I remembered the rough way Malheur had been treating her, and I was terrified to think of what he could have done to her while I was unconscious. “You’re sure no one hurt you?” Although I couldn’t see her in the dark, I felt her nod. “Boy, have I ever gotten us into a mess.” I pushed her away for a minute, tried to see her in the dark. “How’d you get here, anyway? I suppose you hid on Rusty’s boat when I went out to the Jeep?”

Again I felt her nod.

There was something else I wanted to ask her, but I wasn’t sure her English would be good enough, or even if I was ready to hear the answer. “Did you understand what Capitaine and that other man were saying in Creole?”

Her head bobbed up and down.

“Can you tell me?”

She didn’t answer right away. “He say Bwon Samedi going to take you over.”

I’d heard the phrase before, I just couldn’t remember what it meant. “What is Bwon Samedi?”

“He is a lwa. Capitaine say when we get to the island, Bwon Samedi, he going to take you over.”

After she said this, she began to cry softly. I had no idea what it meant to her, the phrase “take you over,” but it was obvious she thought it was pretty bad.

“Okay, kiddo, listen. I’m not going to let the Capitaine or this Samedi guy or anybody else hurt us. I’m going to figure out a way to get us out of this mess. Okay?” I gave her a quick tight hug, and she squeezed back so hard I thought my pounding head would explode. “I reckon this little ship does about ten knots.” It didn’t matter that she didn’t understand ninety percent of what I was saying, I had to talk out loud to convince myself, since it was wildly improbable that I was going to come up with any sort of workable plan. “It’s roughly fifty miles across to Bimini, not taking the Gulf Stream into consideration.” I reached for my wrist to illuminate my watch, but it wasn’t there. I’d forgotten that I’d given it to Pit. “So let’s figure this out. We got to the restaurant around seven. The Bimini Express probably left after eight, and it’s about ten now. I’d say, given this weather, we should get there in about four hours, maybe a little more. That will be two a.m. There’s really nothing we can do now. The best thing for us is to try to get some sleep.”

There were bedclothes on the bunk, and though the room was hot and stuffy, I pulled back the sheet and tucked Solange in, kissing her lightly on the forehead as my mother used to do to me. I lay down next to her on top of the covers, though I didn’t intend to sleep. I thought I might have a concussion, and I couldn’t remember whether it was good or bad to sleep. The fact that I couldn’t remember didn’t make me feel so great about the health of my head.

“Solange ...” I spoke softly in the darkness, not sure she was even still awake. “What happened on the big boat with Erzulie?”

She didn’t speak right away. I’d about given up when she whispered, “Le Capitaine and Erzulie fight.”

“Why?”

“Erzulie mambo, le Capitaine bokor.”

“Oh, she was a mambo. Okay, I see. She didn’t like what was happening on board the boat. She challenged him.”

I heard the covers rustle as she pushed herself up to a sitting position. I could barely make her out in the thick darkness. “Le Capitaine make—” I felt her hand give me a soft judo chop to the side of the head. It didn’t help the pounding inside, but I knew what she was trying to say.

“The captain hit her in the head with a machete.”

“Oui.”

“So how did you both get in that boat?”

“Le Capitaine go inside. People put Erzulie in boat.”

“The other people on board the Miss Agnes put her into the boat’s tender to save her from the captain?”

“Oui.”

“And she was still alive?”

“Oui.”

“And you, how did you get into the boat?”

“Erzulie say come. People make me go.”

She lay back down and rolled onto her side, and her breathing started to deepen its rhythm.

“Miss?”

I thought she had fallen asleep, and her whispered voice surprised me. “Yes?”

“Don’t cross over.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t cross over,” she repeated.

“Solange, it’s not like we have a whole lot of choice. If you mean the Gulf Stream, this boat is crossing the current, and we’ve got to go where the boat goes.”

“No. Cross over. Like Erzulie.”

I understood. The crossroads. I searched for the words to comfort her, but in the end, I said nothing. I didn’t want to lie to her anymore.

By the time I could tell Solange was truly asleep, when her breathing had evened out and the tension in her body had fled, I was thinking about what Rusty had said back at Tugboat Annie’s. He agreed with me that there was something special about Solange, that she was not just another restavek. What took place on the Miss Agnes seemed to bear that out. Why had the other passengers felt it was important to get her off the boat? What was the reason Malheur wouldn’t or couldn’t just kill her? Why hadn’t we been deep-sixed as soon as the boat got offshore? Unless, of course, they were just waiting until we got a little farther out into the Gulf Stream.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

I woke when the RPMs on the engine dropped down, and I noticed immediately that the rocking and rolling motion had steadied out. We had to be in the lee of the islands. The inside of my mouth tasted like stale beer and rancid grease, and when I tried to sit up I got another monster case of the dizzies. I felt like I was going to puke. I forced myself to swallow the acid taste; whatever it was, it seemed to get stuck halfway. Finally, the nausea began to subside.

Through the porthole I could see the dark outline of a low island off our starboard beam. The dense cloud cover hid the stars, but I knew that on this night, clouds or no, there would be no moon. Just as city people always know when it’s legal to park on the street, knowing the phase of the moon comes with my job. Had Malheur planned this trip for a night with no moon?

The little ship was starting to make her turn in the inner harbor when I heard voices outside in the companionway. Solange was sleeping, so I shook her shoulder and sat her up. I’d taken off my sweatshirt so she could use it as a pillow, and it was too hot in the cabin to bother putting it back on. Solange was still rubbing at her eyes when the door to our cabin swung open and someone shined a flashlight into our faces. I threw up my hand to try to shield my eyes, but the light seared my eyeballs and intensified the pulsing pain in my head. The light clicked off just as abruptly, and all I could see were bright red and white dots swimming in the darkness. The footsteps I heard enter our cabin sounded like they came from leather-soled shoes, and while I flinched just a little, expecting brutality, the arm that grabbed hold of mine did so almost gently.

“Come. Please, make no noise or I will have to hurt the little one.” As my eyes began to readjust to the darkness, I saw that the voice belonged to a slender Haitian man. His voice reminded me of Racine’s husband, Max, when he said “leetle wun.” They both had that same touch of Maurice Chevalier.

My eyes had cleared by the time we passed through the companionway door and out onto the cargo deck, and though I looked, I saw no sign of Gil or Joslin Malheur. The Haitian man who was leading us had me on one side and Solange on his other. He paused in the shadow of the ship’s superstructure, waiting for the deckhands to secure the ship to the dock.

I had never been to Bimini before, but I had been to Nassau and Eleuthera on a former boyfriend’s sailboat. Most Bahamian towns had a government dock for cargo ships and a place for yachts to get their customs clearance. I figured that Alice Town, the only real town here on Bimini, would be the same. The floodlights that lit up the ship’s cargo deck illuminated the dock as well. It was a concrete dock now slick with rain; though it was not raining at the moment, the humidity had to be in the upper nineties.

The captain of the Bimini Express had dropped a bow anchor out in the middle of the harbor, and he was backing into the dock so he would be able to roll off his cargo. Other than a sleepy-looking dockworker who was securing the ship’s lines and a pack of five or six wet and bedraggled stray dogs who stood scratching themselves, Alice Town looked to be fast asleep. My estimate of a 2:00 a.m. arrival time might have been a little on the short side. Judging from Bimini’s reputation, I would have thought there would still be some music and bar traffic if it was only 2:00. Instead the town seemed eerily quiet.

As soon as the cargo ramp had clanged down onto the cement dock, our escort hurried us back through the pallets of building materials and shipping containers and led us off the ship’s stern. We turned to our left on the government dock, and there, tied alongside, at the south end, was a twenty-foot open fishing boat, outboard idling, the single man aboard holding on to the concrete dock with his hands: It was Gil.

I thought about screaming for help, trying to escape, running into town, throwing myself on the mercy of some of the local Bahamians, but then I remembered how strong Gil’s grip was. I remembered, too, the Haitian man’s comment that he would hurt Solange if I did anything foolish.

As I slid into the boat, Gil turned around and directed me to the stern.

“I’ve got to help her,” I said, pointing to Solange. I reached up to the girl, got my hands under her arms, and started to lift her into the boat. Gil came up alongside me and took the child out of my arms. He startled me, and when I turned to look at him, I saw that his eyes were clear. Once you got past the scars, big mustache, and misaligned features, there was an intelligence there. Was the craziness an act he could turn on and off at will?

He settled Solange gently on the stern.

“What are you doing with these guys, Gil?”

He whirled around, his arm upraised as if to strike me. “Shut up.”

I turned my head aside, waiting for the blow, but none came. When I opened my eyes, he had his back turned to us, and he was watching the bridge on the Bimini Express.

“You knew my father, didn’t you?” I said.

He remained standing facing the ship, but I could see his profile. “Your father?”

“I saw pictures of you,” I said, “with Red in Cartagena almost twenty-five years ago. You and Joe D’Angelo were—”

Once more Gil surprised me with how fast he could move. In an instant, he was at my side, squeezing my arm in that grip. “I said, shut up,” he hissed, and shoved me hard toward the back of the boat with Solange.

Then I heard another voice behind us, speaking Creole. Malheur had arrived, and he was castigating the slim Haitian man for not doing something to his liking.

Gil had done his best to hide any reaction, but I had seen his eyes widen slightly at the mention of Red and Cartagena. He had been surprised.

Once we were all in the boat, Gil shoved off and headed the boat back toward the harbor entrance. Our leather-shoed friend pushed Solange and me down in the back of the boat, making us sit on the wet deck so that our heads were not visible above the boat’s gunwales. The boat would look like it carried three men going fishing. When they were all deep in conversation, I raised myself up on my knees and took a look over the rail. We were idling along, passing a marina, and I nearly did a double take when I saw a familiar boat tied up to the seaplane dock. It was an Anacapri with two big outboards, just like Rusty’s.

I sat down quickly when Gil turned around to check on us. He glanced over at the seaplane dock, and even in the darkness, I could see the recognition on his face. That boat meant something to him, too, and he turned around and shoved the throttles forward. We surged up into a plane and sped across the channel toward South Bimini. Like the Anacapri, this boat could do maybe twenty knots—more than twice the speed of the Bimini Express. Now, with our bow raised and the stern lowered, I didn’t need to get up on my knees to see over the top of the outboards. Under the bright dock lights, I could just make out the name of the boat tied to the seaplane dock: INS AGENT.

We had not yet left the harbor basin when we abruptly slowed and turned into a canal on our left. What we call Bimini is really two islands—North and South Bimini—and the harbor entrance is through a slot where the two islands overlap. The canal entrance on South Bimini was next to a dock. I’d heard there was a ferry between the two islands, and I presumed we were passing the ferry dock as we idled into the canal. Although the night was very dark, I could see that there were a few homes lining the canal as we motored back in. The farther we traveled, the more numerous the homes, though all looked dark, perhaps deserted. At one point we took a hard left turn, then passed what looked like an abandoned hotel. Soon after, there were no more concrete seawalls, and then, finally, we were traveling through something that looked like a scene out of the old Bogart movie The African Queen—a narrow creek with low-hanging branches forming a canopy over the waterway.

Swamps have never been on my list of favorite nightspots. There was no breeze whatsoever, and as the outboard slowed, and we inched our way up the creek, I felt the mosquitoes on my back and arms and legs. I couldn’t swat them off one patch of bare skin before another bug landed somewhere else. These weren’t really the kind of mosquitoes you swat, either; these were the kind that smeared into your sweat, leaving a black sooty smudge mixed with blood across your skin. The odors of ammonia and rotting vegetation combined with the gas fumes from the outboard engine that was right next to Solange and me, and it made me start to feel sick. I was grateful when I heard Gil shift the engine into neutral, and we glided up to a rickety wood dock where the waterway dead-ended.

Something about Gil’s docking was not to Malheur’s liking. As the other Haitian man tied up the boat, Malheur yelled at Gil, his nose almost touching Gil’s, and then Malheur spat in his face. The two men stood with their faces inches apart as a large wad of spittle slid down Gil’s cheek. When the Haitian captain turned his back, Gil’s lip under that huge mustache curled back in a soundless snarl.

Malheur then jumped onto the dock and disappeared into the brush without a glance back. I helped Solange out of the boat and held her hand as they led us into a dark passage someone had cut through the mangroves. Gil was in the lead with the flashlight that, this time, thankfully, was not pointed into our eyes. Someone had attempted to build a dirt path above the tide line, but the earth underfoot gave with each step, and when I walked through a puddle, the water that seeped into my boat shoe felt more like mud. My feet were soon slipping around in the grit inside my shoe. The Haitian crewman brought up the rear, apparently guarding us, and I wondered how he was doing in his leather shoes.

The smell was the first thing I noticed. The stink of the rotting vegetation in that mangrove swamp was nothing compared to the stench coming from somewhere up ahead. I pulled my shirt up over my nose. The deeper into the mangroves we walked, the more putrid the air grew.

Then I noticed the quiet. It seemed as though even the insects and the slithery mangrove critters had decided to take a night off. The stillness was giving me goose bumps in spite of the sweat that had now completely soaked my shirt.

We came to a piece of high ground in a clearing; there the cause of the stench became clear. A cinder-block house stood in the center of the clearing. It had been built on big concrete columns so the tidal surge of a hurricane could pass beneath. But tonight, it wasn’t water moving under the house and spilling out across the cleared land. Gil swung his light across the silent ground, and I saw eyes. As the flashlight beam played across their faces—black, white, Asian, Hispanic, Indian—they all turned their heads away, as though ashamed to be found living in such conditions. Hundreds were trying to sleep on the ground, on top of one another, with no shelter from rain or bugs or whatever might come crawling up out of those dark mangroves.

Above us, I heard a door slam, and from the middle of the sea of people came a cough—a chest-rattling, wet, phlegmy cough. Then another. From the other side of the clearing, I heard a young child start to cry and then a mother’s voice speaking softly to him in Creole, trying to calm him. The moaning began from several directions at once and in a variety of pitches, all of them resonating with a hopelessness that was painful to hear. From beyond the tree line, somewhere out in the mangroves, came sputtering noises from somebody suffering from a case of explosive diarrhea.

They’d somehow kept quiet as Malheur had passed.

“My God, who are all these people?”

“None o’ yer business,” Gil said as he stopped at the bottom of the stairs, clicked off the flashlight, and drew a pack of cigarettes out of his pants pocket.

As my eyes grew more accustomed to the dark, I saw next to the house several rusted drums attached to a water catchment system on the roof and a two-burner propane stove resting on a plywood sheet on sawhorses. I wondered if this was the place Solange had worked with Erzulie. No wonder she’d been so thin.

“But they’re human beings. The smell, these conditions— so many kids, too—and they’re sick, Gil.”

He sucked on the end of his cigarette, making the ember glow bright, then nodded his head toward the top of the stairs. “You think he gives a fuck?” His voice sounded different from that of the man who had been yelling at me to shut up in the boat.

I thought about the immigrants who had been killed in Florida and about Margot at the Swap Shop. “But if he is going to sell the restaveks, he must want to keep them healthy.”

“They don’t normally stay here this long,” he said, then he took another long drag on his cigarette. He blew smoke toward the upstairs. “He hasn’t been making runs across since he’s been trying to track down the kid there. He don’t usually stay in Florida.”

“What is it about her? What do they want with her?”

Gil ignored my questions. He dropped the half-smoked butt and ground it out. “You really Red Sullivan’s kid?”

“Yeah, I run Gorda now. So, you did know Red.”

From upstairs came the sound of a door opening, and streams of angry-sounding Creole poured out. Gil mumbled something unintelligible and pointed to the concrete stairs. “Git moving,” he said, and nodded toward the upper landing. “He wants you upstairs.”

I helped Solange up the stairs and through a wood door at the top. Gil was breathing hard just from the climb up the stairs. The room we entered reminded me of Racine Toussaint’s place in Florida. The main light came from two pressurized kerosene lanterns, but at one end of the room was an elaborate altar with dozens of flickering candles, as well as dolls and shells and what looked like a real human skull resting on a crossed pair of thigh bones. Off to one side was a wooden cross that looked like it had been removed from a grave—the downward stake was caked with dirt on the lower third of its length. A rusty shovel leaned against the wall.

Gil and the slim Haitian left us and began talking to some men in an adjoining room. I had no idea what they were saying, but I recognized Malheur’s voice. As the conversation continued, Solange squeezed my hand tighter and she pressed her body against mine.

Seconds later, Malheur made his entrance. He had changed clothes and was now wearing what he had worn that night at Racine’s—black suit, white shirt, narrow black tie, and top hat with a skull and crossbones made of metal studs. His machete was in an elaborate beaded and fringed scabbard on his belt. The slim Haitian entered the room, pushing two other fellows dressed in rags. The three of them crossed to the altar and pulled out drums from beneath the cloth. Malheur produced a bottle of rum and began passing it around. The men drank from the bottle, tipping their heads back, their Adam’s apples pumping as they gulped the liquor. The volume of their voices increased in direct proportion to the amount of rum they consumed, but all the talk was in Creole. Malheur and the other men exchanged comments, looked at me, then burst out laughing.

You don’t have to know the language to know when men are talking about sex. It’s in their eyes, in the way they laugh. I remembered the Capitaine’s little game with my zipper on the ship. I began to understand why Solange was acting as though she feared she would never see me again, and I imagined that anyone looking at the side of my neck would see my pulse pounding in the veins there.

Malheur seated himself with a flourish on a big wooden spool next to the altar. The spool’s wood was weathered to a silvery gray. Probably, it had once been used to run wire around the island, but now it served as a throne for the leader of what seemed to be shaping up to be a Voodoo party.

Solange and I were still standing against the wall about ten feet from the door. I squeezed her hand, and she looked up at me. Inclining my head in the direction of the door, I raised my eyebrows slightly to ask her if she understood. She nodded. Very slowly, we began inching our way toward the exit.

Malheur lined up several bottles and clay pots and produced a mortar and pestle from beneath the table. He began adding ingredients from the pots—dried leaves and dark, foul-smelling liquids—and grinding them together. After pouring some of the rum into the stone bowl, he lit the mixture with a wooden match. He waved his arms in the air over the blue flames and spoke aloud, but his voice was blotted out by the drums that had just started. I had thought the drums at Mambo Racine’s were loud, but these were brutal. It felt as though the drummers were beating directly on my body.

I pressed my hand against my chest and felt for the pouch that Racine had given me. The drums, candles, lanterns, potions, real human bones—these produced some kind of irrational fear. Potions couldn’t hurt me. To be afraid of a six-foot-four-inch murderer was perfectly logical, but it was the blank stare of that skull that made me want to clutch the pouch and start talking to La Sirene.

Malheur had his back to us, but because he was sitting at an anlle, I could see part of his face. We had halved the distance to the door when he called out my name.

“Seychelle Sullivan,” he said, his voice loud enough to be heard over the drums.

Gil appeared at my side. He grasped my arm and put an end to the progress we had made toward the exit. He shoved me in front of Malheur. I never let go of Solange’s hand.

Malheur’s eyes looked really out of it—drunk or high. The look was not the same I’d seen on the faces of the people at Racine’s who claimed to have been possessed by the lwa.

“The bokor is gone. I am Bwon Samedi.”

He grabbed at the front of my shirt and pulled me down to him. I tried to twist out of his grip, to turn my head aside, but he just held me there, my face not two inches from his. I could feel and smell his breath on my cheek. He didn’t try to kiss me or bite my nose off—he didn’t do anything. The longer we stayed like that, the more frightened I grew. What was he doing? Then he leaned in until his nose almost touched my cheek and his nostrils flared. He was sniffing me. I squirmed when his nose actually ground into my ear, and he made grunting noises like a foraging pig. Then he leaned back, though he still held the front of my shirt. I felt a second of relief before he smacked me open-handed across the face.

I was dazed, couldn’t see a thing out of my left eye, and probably couldn’t have told you my own name. I stumbled back, the room spinning, but I was determined to stay upright. Too late, I realized I had let go of that little hand.

I heard her call out over the noise of the pounding drums and saw the blur of her yellow tank top and bright red shorts as the Haitian crewman disappeared with her into the other room.

“Solange!” I cried as I started toward the spot where the blur of color had disappeared.

The second slap rocked me even harder, and I tasted the blood where my teeth had pierced the inside of my cheek. The pain must have shown on my face because Malheur threw back his head and laughed again. He was standing now, and he motioned to Gil, who stepped in and grabbed my arm again in his viselike grip. I shook my head to try to clear my blurry vision. There seemed to be only one other room in the house, and though I called out her name, I could barely hear my own voice inside my head. Malheur lifted the bowl that contained the mixture he had cooked up earlier, then shouted something to the drummers, and the rhythm grew even faster. Gil dragged me out the front door and onto the landing. Malheur followed, bringing one of the kerosene lanterns to light up the clearing. Whatever he intended to do to me, he wanted an audience to appreciate it.

The drumming stopped and the silence was nearly as painful as the noise had been. My head had taken too many blows; it felt as though my brain had been jarred loose. The hiss of the pressure lantern was the only sound in the night air when Gil pressed me against the railing at the edge of the landing. Though my vision was blurred, I could still make out the countless white eyes looking up from the dark ground. Malheur held the stone bowl over his head, and he began talking to them in Creole. In the flickering lantern light, it grew clear to me that this man, this bokor, thought himself some kind of charismatic leader. Power. And fear. These were what he fed on. The machete on his belt, the potion in his hands, the death images on his hat and glasses—these were the instruments of fear he used to gain power over these people, just as he had done years ago in Haiti under the Duvalier regime.

As my eyes grew more accustomed to the dark, I realized that, from the balcony, we were able to see across the tops of the mangroves to the ocean beyond. We’d entered on the west side of the island, and now I could see open water ahead through the mangroves. I knew South Bimini wasn’t very big, but I didn’t realize that we had nearly traversed the width of the island on our canal passage. As Malheur continued his speech in Creole, I scanned the water off to our right and understood that I was looking at the Great Bahama Bank that stretched out eastward toward Andros. And there, traveling not more than a quarter mile offshore, I spotted the dim light of a small boat. I wondered if it was Rusty.

“Don’t look this way,” a voice whispered right next to my ear.

I gave a barely perceptible nod of my head.

“Don’t swallow,” Gil whispered, so quietly that I could barely hear him over Malheur’s rantings.

“What?”

Malheur abruptly stopped speaking and motioned to Gil to bring me closer to him. Gil grabbed my ponytail and yanked my head back, while Malheur’s huge ring-covered hand pulled on my chin to open my mouth. The move took only seconds and surprised me. I couldn’t clamp my jaw shut in time. Malheur splashed his mixture on my face, getting equal parts down my throat and all over my shirt and hair. The taste was foul, and as I gagged and choked, some of it went down my windpipe. When Gil finally let go of my hair, I bent forward from the waist, coughing and trying to spit it all out on the ground. But I knew, as I gagged and tried to make myself vomit, that I had swallowed some as well.

Malheur spun around and went into the house, calling out instructions to Gil.

Gil let go of my arm for a few seconds, walked to the door, and checked to make certain it was closed. Malheur had taken the lantern with him. It was now pitch-black outside. My coughing had just started to subside when Gil emerged from the dark, grabbed me, pried my jaws apart, and stuck his fingers down my throat. I heaved what tasted like pure stomach acid, and Gil jumped back while I puked over the railing.

“Geez, Gil,” I said. My throat burned. Then I had another, milder coughing fit.

“He uses drugs. He wants the people to think he’s a hot shit Voodoo priest, that he’s making people into zombies. He makes it look like a potion, then he just mixes in some drugs—roofies. Makes people kinda paralyzed. He does shit to ‘em then. Plays with ‘em.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Go. Get out of here.”

“What? Why?”

“You’re right, I knew Red. He was all right. Malheur’s a psycho prick and I’m sick of his shit. Thinks he’s my boss. That’s the last time that asshole’s gonna spit on me.” Gil spat onto the deck. “Now get outta here.” He pointed down the stairs. “He expects you inside.”

I looked out across the mangroves. The white light was still out there. It wasn’t moving now. Maybe it was just some fisherman anchored out there. Maybe it was someone coming to help. “I can’t leave Solange.”

He shook his head. “Shit.” He walked away and then returned. “Act like you’re totally drugged out.”

He grasped my arm and dragged me to the door. Inside the Voodoo room, the drummers were gone, and the bright lantern was out. The only light in the room came from a couple of candles on the altar. There was no sign of Malheur or the other Haitian man. Gil took me to a chair at the far end of the room, and I sat, slumped over, eyes closed.

Gil and Malheur were speaking in Creole in the other room for quite a while before things grew quiet. Then I heard footsteps crossing the room. They stopped in front of me. I had ingested enough of the drug that I was feeling woozy and disoriented. It was growing more and more difficult to remain still. It felt as though the room were tilting, and I was in danger of slipping off the chair.

A hand enclosed mine where it rested, loose at my side. I could feel the cold metal of the silver rings, so I knew it was Malheur. He lifted my hand level with my shoulder and then let it drop, evidently testing my drugged state. I let the hand flop free and swing.

His breath smelled of rum and cigarettes, and the odor mixed with the earthy smell of the potion he had spilled all over me, making me feel like I was going to vomit again. His face was so close to mine that I could hear the noise his breath made in his nose.

Then a new sound. An odd sort of swish. The sound of two surfaces sliding against each other. Then something cool touched my cheek, and I knew that the sound I had heard had been the noise of his machete being drawn out of the sheath on his belt. The steel lay flat against my face. He pulled it away, and the smell of his breath disappeared. Then the thin sharp edge came to rest on my upper arm. I’d seen how much damage that blade could inflict. It took every ounce of willpower I possessed not to flinch as he drew the steel across my arm and began to cut into my flesh.

I heard running footsteps, then the scream. At first I thought it was me screaming, until I opened my eyes and saw Solange on his back, her tiny fists pounding around his shoulders and knocking the sunglasses off his face. When he stood, she rose with him, still clinging to his back, shrieking at him with words I could not understand. I looked down at the blood dripping to the floor from the cut in my arm, and I felt that it was all happening to someone else. I didn’t feel any pain. Then Malheur reached around and threw the child to the ground. She landed in a still heap, and he was looking at her, laughing, his face turned away from me, his shoulders shaking.

I laced my fingers together, shot up out of the chair, and slammed my hands down across his injured arm just above his grip on the machete. The weapon flew from his hand, and I kicked it across the floor. He roared like an enraged animal and backhanded me across the face with his ring-encrusted hand. I fell against the altar table and heard the sound of breaking glass, saw the flames where the candles ignited the rum, and then I fell to the floor when the table collapsed beneath me. At once, Malheur was standing over me, the whites of his eyes made red by the flames and the rum, his goatee and mustache making him look like Lucifer incarnate. I reached through the rubble, trying to get my hands on a piece of a broken bottle or splintered wood. The flames caught at the nylon tablecloth that had covered the altar and raced toward me. Malheur bared his teeth in a sickening grin, then his eyes grew unfocused and he fell forward on top of me.

The cloth of his black suit was suffocating me as the weight of his body pressed down on my abdomen, nose, and mouth. I couldn’t move his massive chest off my face because my arms were pinned down where his arms crossed mine. I squirmed and struggled, unaware at first that he was not trying to rape me, that he was not, in fact, even moving.

Then the weight was lifted off my face, and I gasped for air and crabbed my way across the floor, away from the bokor and the flames, into a corner of the room. Gil was holding one of Malheur’s arms, and when he released it, the Capitaine flopped back to his facedown position. I saw the machete driven deep into the back of the big man’s skull.

I retched up more stomach acid as I crawled toward Solange’s still form. I hovered over her protectively, eyeing Gil, who stood frozen, staring at the body. I knew the drug was affecting me, and I wasn’t even sure if any of what I was watching was real. The whole table was in flames now, and the smoke was making it difficult to breathe.

Solange began to cough. “Are you okay?” I asked when she opened her eyes. She sat up, rubbing the back of her head, and coughed some more. “We’ve got to get out of here.” I stood up, took Solange’s hand, and gave Gil’s shoulder a shove. “Come on.”

We crossed to the door, and before I opened it, Gil put his hand on my arm, touched the blood. “You’re cut,” he said.

I nodded. “It’s not deep. Come on.”

“I’ve got to stay. He’s coming.”

“Who’s coming?”

“You go. Take the kid. Stay away from the dock—go the other way. You don’t want him to find you.”

“Come with us, Gil.”

“I can’t.” He shrugged. “Get her out of here before he gets here.” He pushed open the door, then grabbed a blanket and started beating at the flames that were now licking around the body on the floor. He looked up. “Get the fuck out of here,” he shouted.

I grabbed Solange’s hand, and we raced down the steps, then bore right, away from the direction of the dock where we’d arrived. There was a pathway of sorts through the bodies stretched out on the ground, but as we passed, the path widened as the people drew back. They were clearly accustomed to violence, and they did everything they could to stay out of reach. At the edge of the clearing, we stepped onto a crudely built wooden walkway that led out through the mangrove swamp toward the island’s eastern shore.

The wooden walkway led out to a short pier over open water, at the end of which was a small shed. I’d seen this type of thing before in the islands. No plumbing required for this head; it was a straight shot down to a tidal flush.

We stopped at the base of the pier, and I looked at the dim white light bobbing about half a mile offshore. It was all shallow out there. The banks stretched for miles. Probably just some fisherman. But it might be Rusty. The light looked like it was dancing, and every time I tried to look right at it, it swerved out of my line of vision.

I looked down at Solange.

“Can you swim?” I asked.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

She cocked her head at me, not understanding. I pantomimed an Australian crawl, and she shook her head.

“Okay, get on my back and put your arms around my neck.” I adjusted her around behind me piggyback style. I could feel her body trembling, and I knew it was not from the night air. “See that white light?” I pointed the light out to her, attempting to focus my own eyes. I figured she would be less frightened if she could see our destination. “I think that’s Rusty’s boat.” I felt the cut on my upper arm. While not deep, it was still oozing blood. “I’m going to swim us out there, okay?” I tried to sound more confident than I was.

For the first hundred yards or so, I was able to walk across the uneven bottom, my sneakers crunching on the shell and coral, the soles of my shoes getting sliced up in the process. I began to worry about someone seeing us, so I lowered my upper body into the water and started a slow but strong breaststroke. I was glad no one was there to watch my technique— I’d never felt so uncoordinated in the water. It was as though part of my consciousness were standing aside, looking at the rest of me, which was impaired—mentally and physically. The night was so dark, I couldn’t even make out the line of the horizon, where the clouds ended and the waters of the Bahama Banks began. The white light we were headed for looked like it was suspended in a black sky. I began to feel that vertigo again, like I was swimming uphill.

We were not far enough away from the little pier when I heard voices from the island. I didn’t dare waste the energy to turn around and look. My strength has always been in my arms, but my deltoids were burning already. Back when I was working the beach, I had pulled in guys who weighed four times as much as Solange. Tonight, I began to worry I wasn’t going to make it.

The voices on shore multiplied, and I judged I was only about halfway to the boat. I hoped Rusty didn’t hear the ruckus and decide to lift anchor and split. I hoped the boat really was Rusty’s. The cool water was helping my wooziness, but I found the best thing was just to concentrate on that light and block out all other thoughts.

My arms were starting to go numb. It should have been an easy swim – would have been had I been clearheaded and on my own, even wearing all the clothes that weighed me down. I didn’t want to think about the blood I might be losing from the wound on my arm. Or what it might attract. Not only was I fighting off some kind of poison in my system, but I was also trying to keep a low profile and hauling a kid on my back. Not that she weighed much of anything, but she kept trying to climb higher up my shoulders, almost onto my head, and that pushed me down, under the water. I’d gulped seawater a couple of times when I came up for air, and in her panicked state, she’d pushed me back down.

I could make out the outline of the boat finally, but I couldn’t see any sign of a person in it. It sure looked like Rusty’s. From the sounds of the voices behind me, they seemed to be searching among the mangroves along the shore. I didn’t want to confirm my position for them, but I did want Rusty to get that anchor up and get ready to haul ass out of here.

“Hey,” I tried calling out, not too loud, between panting breaths. “Rusty, hey, over here.” There was still no sign of anyone on board. I wondered if he was below in the bunk.

Surely he couldn’t sleep out here, knowing that Solange and I were ashore with Malheur.

When I reached the fiberglass hull, I banged on it to awaken him, then swam around to the stern to climb aboard. Where the hell was he? I pushed Solange onto the swim platform first, and then I crawled up. When I stood up and started to lift her over the transom onto the apparently deserted boat, I heard the first gunshot.

“Shit. Stay down,” I said as I dragged her the rest of the way into the boat. “Get in the cabin.”

The next bullet entered the water with a pfft noise just off our stern, a fraction of a second before the boom of the shot rang out. I spaced out for a few seconds, staring at it. Solange reached through the cabin doors and put her hand on my leg. I blinked, then slid into the helmsman’s seat and reached for the keys. I gave silent thanks when I found them in the ignition. I turned the key and the engines fired right up, still warm from having made the trip over here.

“Stay here,” I told her as I leaned into the cabin and turned off the anchor light at the panel. Then I stepped up onto the foredeck cabin to retrieve the anchor. I heard two more gunshots from the shore, but thanks to the dark night, none came close.

Maybe I should have waited around for Rusty to return, but with bullets hitting the water all around us, I pitched the little CQR into the foredeck anchor well, ran back to the helm, and shoved the outboards into gear. I tried to picture a chart of South Bimini. The island was roughly rectangular, running about two and a half miles long, east to west. We’d entered a canal on the northwest corner, and I was now on the north coast. The quickest way back to deep water and the straightest shot to Florida was to head west, back to the town and the harbor entrance. I’d also have to pass the canal entrance, and they might be heading out that canal right now in their boat. If I headed away from Alice Town, I would have to go a couple of miles in the opposite direction, and I knew there was very thin water over the coral.

Knowing there was a good chance I’d kill us both if I ripped the bottom of this boat out doing twenty knots, I turned the wheel to head for the faint glow of Alice Town.

We still had roughly half a mile of very shallow water to cover before we would reach the main channel and pass in front of the canal that led to Malheur’s camp. I’d sweat gallons along the way, hoping we had enough depth under the outboards, because on this dark night I couldn’t see a thing.

I motioned for Solange to come closer. She wrapped her arms tightly around my waist and pressed the side of her face against my ribs, staring up at me. She opened her mouth as though to say something, but with the noise of the outboards and the constant jarring of the boat as it pounded across the flats, she closed her mouth again, gritting her teeth in a terrified grimace. Clearly, she did not like small boats, nor did she like the speed we were traveling. “Lifejackets?” I said. “Do you know what they are?”

She answered me with a puzzled look.

I lifted up the driver’s seat and found a big foam lifejacket in there. “Like this. Find a small one for you, okay?” She nodded and turned slowly, making her way back down into the cuddy cabin.

After what seemed like an eternity, we reached the end of the island and the deeper channel. As we made our turn and passed in front of the entrance to Malheur’s canal, I saw the red and green of a pair of running lights far back in the canal. A boat was coming out.

A little nudge to the throttles didn’t do much to change our speed. Rusty’s boat was giving it everything she had, and I just had to hope that it would be enough. I wondered if he was somewhere on the dark island, watching his boat speed off. I was confident he could take care of himself and find his way to the ferry and back to Alice Town, but I was also pretty sure he’d be pissed at my stealing his boat a second time.

Bimini is not a harbor to go in or out of at night without local knowledge or a chart. The channel runs parallel to the island for about half a mile with a sandbar and reef between the channel and the open sea. In places, there was four feet of water over the reef, and I’d have no problem crossing over; in other spots, though, there was only inches over coral heads that on this dark night would be absolutely invisible. Though heat lightning now flashed intermittently on the horizon, and the pregnant-looking clouds overhead appeared about to burst, there was little wind and the surface of the sea in the lee of the island was oily smooth. There were no breakers to show me the end of the reef. I would have to guess.

For some reason, the boat had not followed us out into the channel. I could see their lights behind us, and they were headed across to Alice Town.

Solange came up from the cuddy cabin holding two life jackets. I quickly showed her how to step through the crotch straps, then snapped the front of her jacket.

I slung the larger one onto the deck as I saw a house on the beach off to our left. I knew there were range markers somewhere around that house, but I’d never find them in the dark. I decided it was time to go for it.

“Hold on tight,” I shouted over the roar of the engines, and I swung the wheel.

I braced myself, waiting for the crunch, for the jarring stop that would send me through the windshield, but it didn’t come. We sailed on out into the dark sea.

We had been on a course heading roughly due east for about ten minutes, making a good speed of about twenty knots, when we began to clear the lee of the island. The increase in the wind chop and swell wasn’t all that gradual. I was down in the cabin, digging out Rusty’s binoculars, when the boat became airborne and slammed nose first into a big swell. So much for a quick trip back. I tossed the binoculars out onto the deck and jumped to the helm. After I’d disengaged the autopilot, I lowered our speed and checked the gauges.

“Shit.”

Solange poked her head out the cabin door and looked up at me with alarm.

“Hey, sorry. Just go back and lie down, okay?” There wasn’t any need to make her even more scared. I had no idea what the boat’s fuel tank capacity was, but I was pretty certain that a gauge reading less than a quarter of a tank meant we did not have enough fuel to get back across the Gulf Stream to Florida. That was probably why we had no pursuers—they were at the fuel dock.

Maybe we’d get within VHF range of the coast, and I could call for a tow. There would be a lot of charter and tow-boat captains who would find that highly amusing. I’d probably never live it down, but given that just an hour ago I was wondering if we were going to live at all, I guess it wasn’t so bad.

I made a quick 360-degree check around the horizon. To the north, a nasty squall loomed like a black hole and seemed to suck what little light there was into its dark curtain of rain. I was running without lights, trying to make sure I saw any other boat traffic out here, because they sure as hell weren’t going to see me.

I went below to dig around and see if I could find a chart. The mainland wasn’t all that hard a target to hit, but I was certain we didn’t have enough fuel to get there. I wanted to make sure we were in the most populated shipping lane when the tanks ran dry. Thinking about how this boat with no power would wallow in the swells, I knew we would need to get found pretty damn quick.

When I came out of the cuddy cabin, the air temperature had dropped a good fifteen degrees and the wind was starting to pick up. Ahead, the rain was visible, even on this dark night, and it looked like we were about to drive into a black wall. I checked the autopilot and the fuel gauge. We’d already used half of the fuel we’d had when we left Bimini. I didn’t know how much longer the boat would run, but hopefully, it would run long enough to get through this squall.

The wind hit us about thirty seconds ahead of the rain. It was as though someone had turned on a hurricane-force wind machine. Some of the gusts must have been clocking at over forty-five knots, and when the rain hit, it felt like we were being attacked with an air stapler. The stinging raindrops made it nearly impossible to open my eyes, so I huddled behind the windscreen for cover. Within minutes, I was drenched down to my underwear, and the rain was so cold, I trembled uncontrollably. Solange opened the doors to the cuddy cabin and stuck her head out. I could see she was crying.

“So much water,” she said.

“Yeah, I know. It’s the rain,” I shouted over the noise of the storm. “It will be over soon.”

The wind and rain had not yet let up when the outboards started to sputter. I throttled back, thinking I could keep the engines running a little longer at the lower speed, stretch out our fuel, but both engines immediately quit. The boat didn’t glide to a stop, she just lurched down, dead in the water, and immediately began to roll in a wild corkscrew motion driven by the waves kicked up from the squall. Solange opened the doors to the cuddy cabin, and when I saw the water sloshing over the cabin floor, I realized what she had been trying to tell me earlier.

“Watch out,” I said as I pushed her aside and dove below. I located the electrical panel and tried the manual override on the electric bilge pump. Nothing happened. “Okay, Rusty, where’s your hand pump?” I started going through lockers and finally found a cheap little plastic pump under the bunk. Of all the things for him to cheap out on, I thought. I handed Solange the end of the hose and told her to hold it out the doors as I pumped the water out of the cabin, onto the deck, where I hoped it would drain through the aft drain holes—if they weren’t already underwater.

I started strong, pumping like our lives depended on it, which of course they did. After about five minutes, I still couldn’t tell if I’d made any progress, and I had to switch arms. I stood for a second to shake out my shoulders, and I watched as a large green wave dumped across the boat and gallons of seawater sloshed through the companionway into the cabin. I shook my head. This was futile. She was going down.

I went back to pumping, but I started directing Solange to put together a survival bag of things that we would need in Rusty’s life raft. She found bottles of water and a box of protein bars. I took a couple of the candy bars and stuffed them in the pockets of my jeans. I’d need to keep my strength up to keep going with this pumping.

When she came across a diver’s buoyancy compensator, I had her hand it to me, and I put it on, checking to make sure the C02 cartridge was in the pocket. I hated life jackets, but with this less bulky vest, I could inflate it only if I needed it. I took the whistle and small strobe light off an adult life jacket and attached them to my buoyancy compensator.

Sound travels better through water than through air. When you’re inside a boat, and another boat approaches, you will always hear the engine through the water first. I knew exactly what that rumbling noise meant the minute I heard it.

From down below, it was impossible to tell what direction the boat was coming from. I told Solange to stay in the cabin, and I went out on deck. The squall had let up, and the gray light of morning had increased visibility tremendously, but the sky still hung very dark and low. When we rose to the top of a swell, I looked all around the horizon, but I didn’t spot the boat before we immediately plunged back into a trough. I tried the VHF radio at the helm but discovered that all the electronics on the boat were dead. I could see now how low Rusty’s boat was riding in the water, and I understood why the waves were breaking over the gunwales, swamping us. I remembered Rusty’s flare kit in the seat locker and dug it out, fitted a flare to the gun, and shot it into the air.

I waited until we had crested an entire series of waves, and I still didn’t see anything. The noise was growing louder, though. I had just decided to try another flare when the approaching boat went from being a distant possibility to being right there, coming over the top of a wave, headed straight for us. Although I couldn’t see anyone on board, the high white fiberglass bow of what looked to me like an ocean racing boat seemed to appear out of nowhere. For an instant, I feared the captain didn’t see us, wasn’t slowing down, and he was going to run us over, slice our boat in two. At the last minute, the racing boat veered off, the stem swung around, and I saw the trademark name Donzi painted along the waterline. The boat looked to be about forty-five feet overall, and as it slowed and the engines went into neutral, a man stepped away from the helm and leaned over the side. I realized that I knew him.

“Seychelle?”

“Joe?”

“Are you okay, honey? What the devil are you doing out here? Take this.” He tossed me a line, and I tied it off to a midships cleat on our sinking boat.

“Man, am I ever glad to see you,” I said. “This boat’s taking on water, and we were getting ready to abandon ship.”

Then I felt a small hand on my thigh. I reached down and pulled Solange up so that Joe could see her, too.

I started to speak again when Solange called out at the top of her voice.

“Papa!”

I looked at him and then at her. “No, Solange, this is Joe,” I said. When I turned back to look at him, he wasn’t alone anymore. Gil Lynch stood to one side and the slender Haitian man who worked with Malheur stood to the other.

Solange cried out, a plaintive wail so full of pain that I wrapped my arms around her and turned my back to the men on the big ocean racer. I stroked her head as she gulped for air.

Joe D’Angelo was Gil’s boss? I wanted to cry out, too. There was nowhere left to go.

Joe called out to her. “It’s okay, kid. Don’t worry. These are my guys. I won’t let them hurt you.” I watched over my shoulder as the Haitian man, lying on his belly on the stem of the ocean racer, reached for the side of our boat.

Joe reached his arms out for Solange, and she buried her sobbing face in my neck. He handed the line to Gil, who shoved his handgun under his belt at the small of his back, then pulled our boat in tight alongside theirs. I saw the Haitian man tying us together at the stem as well.

“Go to hell, D’Angelo,” I said. Gil stood back behind Joe, and his eyes flashed at me. He was trying to tell me not to push him, but I wasn’t going to give Joe the satisfaction of watching us just climb into his big ocean racer.

Joe laughed even louder that time. “Hell? Isn’t that where all us smugglers go? Like Red?”

I turned and opened my mouth, started to speak, when over Joe’s shoulder I saw Gil, frantically shaking his head.

Then Joe was right there, holding his arms out in my face.

“Hand her to me, Seychelle.”

“I don’t get it. She’s your daughter? And you left her in Port-au-Prince all these years as a restavek?”

Joe turned to the Haitian and pointed at the sinking boat. The man fired several rounds into the hull, only hurrying along the obvious.

“I said give her to me,” Joe said. He had his hands on her shoulders, yet she held tight to me, screaming as he pulled at her. “Seychelle, now.”

He was hurting her. “What do you want with her?” I yelled at him. “You left her once. Leave her again.” I struggled to hold on to the child, the water sloshing around my knees. I was sinking down, farther from his grasp, but he wasn’t letting go.

“No,” he shouted, and then he enunciated very clearly: “She belongs to me.”

In the end, he was stronger, and she was gone, yanked out of my arms, crying like a lost child, only she was in the arms of her father. I scrambled over the gunwale and across the upholstered white vinyl on the racer’s transom.

“I go wherever she goes, Joe.”

Gil and the Haitian untied the lines, and Rusty’s boat disappeared in a vortex of bubbles.

Joe turned away from the sight and looked at me with a half smile, then looked at Gil. “Shoot her,” he said.

Solange began kicking and screaming even louder as Joe tried to haul her toward the companionway leading to the cabin below decks.

Joe shook her tiny body hard. “Shut up,” he yelled. Solange sobbed, even as her head flopped on her shoulders as he bounced her body back and forth. Then he turned to Gil, who was standing next to me in the stem, head lowered, eyes fixed on the gun in his hand. Joe yelled, “I said shoot her.” Gil looked up, and his handlebar mustache was twitching. “Boss, let’s just leave her out here.”

“Son of a bitch,” Joe said, and nodded at the Haitian man, who had been watching the scene with a perplexed look. “Take this kid below and shut her up.” He handed the bawling child to the slender man, and the two disappeared below. Joe turned back to Gil. “When I tell you to do something, Gilbert Lynch, you damn well better do it.”

I watched Solange disappear into the cabin, and all I could think of was that I hadn’t said good-bye.

Gil said, “Just let her get in a raft. She probably won’t make it. Boss, she’s Red’s kid.”

“I don’t give a fuck whose kid she is.”

“Cartagena, Joe. Remember? I owe him.”

“You crazy son of a bitch. The only person you owe a damn bit of loyalty to is me. I own you. You’d be rotting in some federal cell right now if it weren’t for me. And now when I tell you to do something, you’re talking back to me about some piddly-ass tugboat captain?”

Gil was still holding the gun, but it was lowered, hanging at his side now. He turned to me. “Look, I’d been drinking and whoring down there. On my way back to the boat, a bunch of locals tried to rob me. They knifed me in the gut, left me for dead. Your daddy found me, woke up some local doc, saved my life.”

“Shut up, Gil,” Joe said, “nobody cares about that old story. It’s all a fabrication from that burnt-out brain of yours.”

Gil continued as though he hadn’t heard Joe. “I wanted to send your daddy back to the States—didn’t want him involved, but it turned out I’d cut one of them Colombians, too, and the Federales come looking for me. Joe told the Federales a pack of lies, and we sailed out of there that night, straight shot back to Florida. We never told Red what was under the floorboards. Red was such a straight shooter, he woulda turned hisself in if he knew—and us in the process.”

“Gil, shut your mouth and take care of business.”

Gil turned from me and raised the gun, his hand shaking, pointing it at Joe. “I ain’t gonna shoot her, Joe,” he said.

“Shit. First I lose Malheur, and you try to tell me he fell off the balcony, busted his head.” Joe’s voice remained steady, even calming, as though he were talking about taking out the trash.

Gil’s mustache started to twitch again, and his lips were bulging over his teeth, the hand holding the gun shaking wildly.

“And now you’re turning on me. Telling drug-induced lies about something that never even took place. I think you’ve finally gone off the deep end, Gil.”

When Joe made his move, it happened so fast, I didn’t realize what had gone down until I heard the shot. Joe had spun around, come up alongside Gil, and taken the gun from his hand. Then he’d stepped back in front of Gil, raised it to the man’s forehead, and fired. A spray of red spewed across the stern cushions seconds before Gil’s body fell backward onto the vinyl.

Joe squatted, lifted the man’s legs, and said, “The very deep end.” He slid the body into the water, then rubbed his hands on his pants. “Shoulda done that years ago,” he said, standing and surveying the blood-spattered stem. “Shit, what a mess. Sullivan, get a bucket out of that deck box and clean up my boat.”

A part of me wanted to scream and give in to the horror of what I’d just witnessed, but at the same time I felt numb to it. This whole thing couldn’t really be happening. I wasn’t really about to die.

I found the bucket and a scrub brush and dipped the bucket full of seawater. As I poured the water over the racing boat’s padded stem, I watched the red turn pink when the blood mixed with the sea. My arm was moving across the plastic, but I wasn’t aware of being in charge of that arm. It was as though I were watching someone else scrub away the streaks of Gil’s blood.

They had chased us out here, and now both Malheur and Gil were dead—and all for this little girl, Joe’s daughter. I remembered him shaking Solange, her head bouncing around on her shoulders. I had to know. “Joe, what do you really want with her?”

He waved the gun, motioning me to keep working while he sat down on the helmsman’s seat. “You’re as much of a pain in the ass as your old man was,” he said. “Maybe more. At least Red knew when to look the other way. Didn’t go butting into other people’s business, trying to save the fucking world.”

With the barrel of the gun, he pointed at a spot I’d missed. “The world’s a fucked-up place, Sullivan,” he continued, “and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. This was all supposed to be so simple. All I asked Malheur to do was to bring this kid into the States on one of our boats. I mean, shit, this is what we do for a living. No big deal, right? Ninety percent of our runs slip straight through, no problems. It’s not like I was gonna go to the embassy and claim the little shit and do the paperwork to try to get her in legally. Right, and wait years? Then some bitch on the boat gets Malheur pissed, he whacks her in the head, and when he’s not looking, the fuckin’ Haitians stick the two of them, my kid and the bitch, in their tender. Malheur doesn’t even realize the kid’s gone until the boat is off Hillsboro, ready to go in. He looks around for the dinghy and the kid—both are gone.” Joe spread his hands wide, still holding Gil’s gun. “I got nothing but fuck-ups working for me.”

I dropped the bucket into the ocean and pulled up another load of clean seawater, then sloshed it across the vinyl. I wanted to keep him talking, but I also really wanted to understand the how and the why of all this business. “Joe, she’s your daughter.”

He waved his arms in the air. “Don’t talk to me about daughters. When a daughter won’t let her old man see his own grandson because of some half-breed kid down on a shithole of an island, you know the world is fucked up. I never should have told her about the kid in the first place. But there it is. I don’t get to see my grandson, my one and only male heir, until I can prove that the kid is in America, living with a family. Ha!” he said. “I’ll place her with a family all right.”

“A restavek. You plan to make your own daughter a child slave, in the States?”

“Beautiful, right? Get paid coming and going. Plus, I get my grandson. Best gig I ever come up with. Used to be my guys took a boat south and bought the product—coke—now the product pays them! Best part is the kids take up less room on the boats. And the market in the States ... you would not believe it. No wages, no Social Security, and they work twice as hard as any Yank kids would. We’ve had a waiting list from the very start.”

I was scrubbing the last of the blood off the vinyl, and I sat up on my heels when Joe said, “You about done there? Good.” One minute I was sitting on top of the engine housing on the back of this ocean racer, getting ready to climb down into the cockpit, and then I saw Joe slide the throttles forward as he shouted, “So long, Sullivan.”

The boat leaped into motion like a panther after her prey, and I tumbled in a backward somersault off the transom, back into the sea.

I came up sputtering, having swallowed a mouthful of seawater in my surprise. I heard the engine roar through both the water and the air. As the distance between the boat and me grew, a wave lifted me, and I saw Joe at the helm. He didn’t even bother looking back. When I crested the next swell, I could no longer find him. The boat must be in a trough, I thought. He couldn’t have disappeared that quickly.

Or could he? I stopped dog paddling for a few seconds to listen, and the weight of my shoes and clothes pulled me down so that a wind wave broke over my head, and I went under. I pushed back up to the surface and sucked in a breath of air so violently that it hurt. It seemed to scrape the back of my throat and stretch the limits of my chest. I clawed at the surface of the water, thrashing, trying desperately to keep my head from going under again. Finally, I recognized what I was feeling: panic. I’d seen it in a hundred near drowning victims but had never expected to experience it myself. I kicked off my shoes while I blew some air into my buoyancy compensator, then I rolled onto my back and floated, slowing my breathing and my heart rate.

Too bad I couldn’t slow my mind as well. Thoughts kept tumbling in this chaotic montage. When people talked about that cliché of your life flash before your eyes, I always thought it would be like a feature film played on super-fast-forward, and you would watch yourself grow up and then old, like in time-lapse photography. But that wasn’t what I was seeing at all. One minute I was trying to calculate how long we had been traveling in Rusty’s boat, and at what speed, in order to figure out how far we’d made it across the current, and then, bam! My mind jumped to an image of my mother laughing and tickling Pit, and then, bam! An image of her cold and wet and blue on the beach, and then, bam! I’d see a seventeen-year-old girl I once pulled from the sea, her hair dry, still wearing her life jacket, no water in her lungs, dead from hypothermia three days after her family’s fishing boat sank out in the Gulf Stream.

Images flitted in and out of my brain as though I had lost control of my own mind. I saw Gil’s face again when the gun was pressed to his forehead, his eyes showing something that looked almost like relief. His body was here in the water with me, floating somewhere, possibly not far off, leaking blood and attracting…what? I lifted my arm out of the water and looked at the puckered white skin around the wound in my own arm. At least there was no more blood there. Straight beneath me, thousands of feet down, was an unexplored world. Humans had never walked down there, and no one really knew much about those depths or what lived down there. Sharks? I saw myself then from beneath, floating at the surface, as though I had stepped outside my body, swum underneath, and looked up, and then I realized I was just replaying a scene from the movie Jaws. My mind pictured whales and sea monsters, even Nemo’s giant squid. None of that frightened me.

Hypothermia. That was how I would die.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Swimming seemed pointless. The buoyancy compensator was inflated just enough so that I could float on my back. Which direction would I go? As far out into the Stream as I was, the current would be pushing me along no matter what I did.

My thoughts bumped around my brain so haphazardly that it occurred to me that “train of thought” was grossly inaccurate. It wasn’t a straight rail in my head, but more like a traffic jam, a major snarled-up mess in a place with no roads. The ocean is like that. A place to get lost.

I’d been dozing, floating on my back since daybreak, when the vibrations started up. I didn’t know what it was at first. I’d only heard the sound of outboards through the water before. When I realized it was an engine of some kind, I stopped floating on my back and searched the horizon. As I crested the top of the next swell, I saw a long white cruise ship three to four miles off and coming my way.

The damn thing passed me less than a mile off. I flailed my arms and screamed, but a lot of good that did me on that rainy, overcast day. I wished like hell that I had some of the flares that went down with Rusty’s boat. Why hadn’t I tucked one or two of those in my pockets? I was laughing out loud at that thought when the ship passed at its closest point. I could even see people leaning over the rail on the upper decks. Not many, just a few loners in rain slickers, out enjoying the dark, brooding afternoon. I thought about the dry beds and hot meals and long lives that awaited them. The ship disappeared over the horizon in a matter of minutes. That was when I cried for the first time that day.

At some point, a band of blue appeared at the horizon—I did not know whether it was east or west or whatever. The sky that had been this big gray dome slowly metamorphosed into individual clouds with depth and design and beauty. B.J. would have loved those clouds, and he would have started seeing shapes and pointing things out to me—animals, mountains, and faces, shapes that I never would have been able to see on my own. I tried to look at the clouds as B.J. would, tried to see the world and my predicament as he would see it, and thinking about him, trying to get at the essence of him like that, made me feel angry. I’m not ready to let go of him yet, I thought, not ready to say good-bye to that… what? What did I call what I felt for him?

How poor our language was with this one word: love. The Polynesians had dozens of words for coconut, the Eskimos had their variations to describe snow, but we had only this one word to communicate the most important aspect of life, the multitude of ways we can connect with other beings. What I felt for my parents, my brothers, Jeannie, my dog, B.J., and now Solange—all were variations of this emotion, yet all were so different. How could that one little four-letter word encompass all that range of pain and joy and sorrow?

I tried to focus, to slow my mind down. I felt that I was on the verge of some moment of enlightenment. Then a larger than normal wind wave slapped me on the side of my face, and I snorted seawater up my nose and swallowed a mouthful. Coughing and gagging, fighting against the burning sensation in my sinuses, I thought, I’m not ready to drown yet. I need more time, dammit.

Time. It appeared to lose all meaning out there. The day seemed to not want to end, yet I was not looking forward to the dark. When I became aware that I was cold, I realized that I had been cold for a very long time. I began kicking and rubbing my skin, trying to warm myself up. The wind had dropped down to almost nothing, and while there was still some swell, there were no longer the little wind waves that splashed me in the face.

Three times during the day I saw helicopters or planes pass overhead, and I waved and shouted as I had at the cruise ship, but I’d flown in an airplane over these same waters before. I knew how unlikely it was that anybody up there would be able to spot a person in the water. I wondered if all the air traffic had anything to do with me. Had Rusty reported his boat missing?

Two large clouds parted and a column of sunlight lit up a small circle of ocean not far from me. It reminded me of those paintings of angels or Jesus, where they stood in a shaft of celestial light. Maybe this was a sign, maybe a miracle was about to take place, another boat would appear, and I would be plucked from the sea. I waited, allowing myself a tiny bit of hope. The lovely shaft of light broadened as the clouds drifted apart, and soon the whole sky was flecked with spots of blue. No boat appeared, and I beat my hands against the surface of the sea, splashing my own face, angry at myself for wanting to believe.

When the sunlight finally reached my part of the ocean, I could feel the temperature change. I closed my eyes, pointed my face to the sun, and let the heat soak into my skin. I leaned the top of my head back, and my feet floated right to the surface. I began to feel some warmth, even in my legs.

For a time, I actually dozed off into real sleep. That bit of late afternoon sunny warmth reenergized me, and when I woke, I remembered that I had those candy bars in my pocket. The saltwater had not penetrated the vacuum foil wrapper, so when I tore it open with my teeth, the chocolate bar inside was squished but dry. I usually complained about the chalky taste of those health food store protein bars when B.J. offered me one, but this one tasted so good, I nearly gobbled down the second as well. I pulled it out of my pocket but then stuck it back, thinking that night was coming, and it would take every bit of energy I had to survive through those long dark hours.

Night came on as quickly as the cruise ship had passed. It seemed as though one minute there was sun, then a flamboyant red sky had melted into a million stars. The sky was not as dark as it had been the night before. Out of reach of all the mainland lights, there were so many stars there was little black sky left. I couldn’t ever remember having seen so many stars.

No, that’s not true, I thought. There was that time, down in the Dry Tortugas with Neal, my former boyfriend. Neal, who had shown me the stars, named the constellations, and made love to me on the sand of an island that disappeared at high tide.

Was Neal waiting for me at the Crossroads, along with my mother and Red and my dear friend Elysia and Margot and all the others I had not saved?

The skin on my fingers had lost all sensation. When I touched my fingers to my dry cheeks, it felt like I was pressing slimy sea creatures to my skin. I put a finger in my mouth, and it was more like a cold thin pickle than a part of me.

Sleep was the enemy, and I battled against it by singing songs I’d learned as a child, songs like “This Land Is Your Land” and “America, the Beautiful,” by gliding my hands through the water and watching the blue green contrails of bioluminescence sparking off my fingertips, by naming the stars and constellations I could remember: Orion, Betelgeuse, Altair, Sirius.

Just in case there really was some kind of search-and-rescue effort happening out there, I turned on my little strobe light. It had a big pin on one side, and I had attached it to one of the straps on my buoyancy compensator. As I adjusted the straps on the BC, I felt Racine’s pouch float up under my chin. I grasped it tight in my fist and stared upward, but the bright flashes of my strobe blinded my night vision, ruining my view of the stars. I was way beyond caring what seemed rational and what did not. I called her name out loud, La Sirene, and I told her that I didn’t believe, but if she wanted to help me anyway, I wouldn’t turn down the offer. That made me smile, and I wondered if it would be the last time.

It didn’t take long once it was dark for the cold to set in. I tried curling my body into a ball, swimming, rubbing my limbs, but nothing worked. A part of me welcomed the numbness because it stopped the aches in my body and the pain in my head. At one moment, I was sure I heard my mother’s voice, and we had quite a long conversation. She told me drowning really wasn’t so bad. “Sey, dear, when you’ve really had enough, just breathe the water. Simply put your head under and breathe.”

“Mother,” I said as I kicked my legs, spinning my body around looking over the waves. “Mother, where are you?” She wouldn’t answer me, and I was so cold. And so sleepy. I would never do as she said, never breathe in water, but it would be nice to stop struggling and sleep for a little while. Maybe, just maybe, the darkness and cold would be gone if I could only sleep through the night. Yes, sleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

I was down in a deep, dark cave where the cold and damp got into your bones. Waiting, but for what, I wasn’t sure. Then I saw a shaft of light shining in the cave, just like the light I had seen at the surface. And she was there, crying, asking me to hurry, please. I pushed back the strands of my long black hair that were floating in the water, waving about my head as she reached out to me. Help me, I heard her say inside my head, just like that first day I’d found her. Help me. You promised. I called out to her, Where are you? I could see her, but I could not reach her. When she answered, she asked, Who are you? and I told her, La Sirene.

A hand grabbed hold of my clothing and started pulling me up toward the surface. I struggled, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to go. Then I heard the voice of a man speaking Creole, and I knew I was not going to let them take me away from Solange again.

“No,” I cried out, and swung my fists at the arms that grasped my clothes. I was dragged into the bottom of a boat, and a plastic tarp was thrown over me. I felt the weight of several people lying on top of me. I stopped struggling because if they didn’t get off me, I would soon suffocate.

The corner of the tarp lifted. My strobe light was still flashing in my eyes, and I couldn’t see anything. A hand reached in and turned off the light. Red lights continued to dance in my vision.

“Lady?” someone said. It was a young man’s voice, and the accent was distinctly Haitian. Maybe this was another of Malheur’s henchmen. “You okay, lady?”

I tried to blink away the red spots. My eyes began to focus on the person nearest me, a woman. Her skin was very dark, and she was wearing a headscarf. She was the one sitting on my midriff. The young man was behind her, and there were other faces behind them, more and more as my eyes started to see better.

“What—” I tried to speak, but with the woman sitting on my diaphragm, it was difficult to get enough air. Then I looked up, above all their faces, and I saw the sail. It was made of flour sacks and other odd bits of fabric. It puffed out, round-bellied and pulling hard in the strong night winds. I looked back at the woman sitting on me. “Can I get up?” My voice sounded strange even to me.

A puzzled look crossed her face, and she looked over her shoulder at the young man. He smiled and nodded, saying something to her in Creole. She laughed and wiggled her way to a stance.

When I tried to stand, I discovered my legs could not support me, and I collapsed back to the deck of their boat. In the moment I had tried to rise, however, I had seen that the boat I was on was only about thirty-five feet long. People were packed into every square inch of space. They had squeezed even closer together to make space to pull me aboard. There, where I collapsed on the deck, exhausted and suffering from hypothermia, the lady who had been sitting on me took over and began to undress me.

I didn’t have the strength to object. She removed all my wet clothes and paused as she fingered the pouch at my throat.

“No,” I told her, not yet wanting to remove the pouch.

She smiled and muttered to herself as she wrapped me, naked, in a blanket. She was telling a story to the others in Creole as she began to rub my arms and legs, and I heard the same words repeated, passed from person to person across the crowded vessel. In the starlight, I saw face after face smiling in my direction. The woman handed me a plastic water jug and I drank the water in great gulps.

When the young man came close to the woman rubbing my legs, I asked him, “Do you have any idea how far we are from Florida?”

He shook his head. “We leave Haiti five days ago. Weather very bad.” He pointed toward the bow of the boat. “Florida, soon.”

He looked to be no more than eighteen years old. “What is your name?” I asked him.

“Henri Goinave.”

“Will you please tell the captain, thank you, thank him for saving me.”

The young man smiled shyly. “Oui,” he said. “He is my papa.”

The woman who had been rubbing my back then handed me a plastic glass. Thinking it contained more water, I took a big gulp, then grimaced at the taste of the raw burning liquor. Many of the people near enough to see me laughed and talked around me. Their voices reminded me of Solange. I returned the glass, and she handed me a comb and a fragment of a mirror.

“Thank you,” I said to the woman, and I began to comb some of the knots out of my hair. The voices around me grew louder, and it seemed everyone on the boat was watching me. Then, to the young man, I added, “Can you tell everyone thank you?”

“You make them very happy.”

“Why?”

“La Sirene will guide us to Florida.”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“When we saw you in the sea, we spoke, and you say your name is La Sirene.”

“No, I was dreaming.”

He shook his head. “Eyes open,” he said. “And we asked you in Creole.”

Henri was shaking my shoulder. “Miss,” he said. He pointed to the bow. “Florida.”

I sat up and stretched my legs out. I’d been dreaming again about Solange. She kept crying out, Help me. It took me a few seconds to get her voice out of my head. I tried to stand and realized I hurt in every part of my body. The woman who had undressed me earlier arrived with my shorts and T-shirt. They were stiff with salt, but nearly dry. Once I had dressed, Henri motioned for me to follow him. When I stood, I saw the bright lights of the Florida coastline no more than a mile off our beam. Henri led me through all the people sitting, sleeping, but mostly standing and staring at the lights. At the bow of the vessel, he introduced me to a distinguished-looking gray-bearded man who stood staring at the lights.

“Papa, ici c’est La Sirene.”

The older man was wearing a dark shirt buttoned to the neck. He nodded and shook my hand, then turned to his son and acted as though I were not there. While they spoke to each other in Creole, I searched the coastline for a familiar landmark, trying to figure out where we were. Finally, I spotted the Hillsboro Light to the south of us. We would be off the coast of Deerfield Beach, then. I was amazed that the Coast Guard had not yet intercepted us. It looked to me like the boat was making a good four to five knots through the water, and we were headed straight for the beach.

“Henri, can you tell your father that there is a harbor entrance back to the south of us. It isn’t very far.” The young man translated what I said, and then the older man spoke to him at length, frowning and ignoring me.

“My father says if we go into the harbor, they will only send us back to Haiti. He says we will land on the beach.”

I could see even from as far out as we were that there was surf breaking on the beach, swell left over from the weather system that had passed over us. The hotel lights lit the mist from the breaking waves. I’d seen boats go on the beach in weather like this, and it wasn’t a pretty picture. “Henri, tell your father that people will get hurt and drown if he beaches a boat this size.” Again, he translated, and again the father was very emotional in his reply, but he would not look at me.

“My father says everyone on the boat agrees. We didn’t come this far to look at the sand and trees of Florida and then get sent back to Haiti. We come to stay, even if some die getting there. Some will live, and they will be free.”

I looked around me, and I saw weak, sick, tired adults, some teens, and a few younger children. “Do any of these people know how to swim?” I asked.

“Few,” Henri said. “I do. I lived in Miami for two years, and I learned to swim in school.”

“Good. Henri, will you tell your father that I am a trained lifeguard, and I am the captain of my own boat, a tugboat. If he will listen to me, maybe nobody will get hurt.”

The old man looked at me for the first time, and I saw questions in his eyes. He was trying to decide whether or not to believe me. I held his gaze, willing him to trust me. Finally, he nodded.

“Okay, Henri, this is what we’ll do.” I explained to him that we would have to get just outside the surf line and then sail parallel to the coast, luffing the sails until we felt a big set of breakers pass. We’d then make our turn and try to sail in on the smaller set. The point was we didn’t want the boat to broach, or turn sideways and roll over while surfing in on a wave. The shore was so close. This section of the beach was where the private homes north of Hillsboro ended and condos began. The swim ashore would be nothing for me, even as exhausted as I was. That beach was life and liberty and happiness for the folks on this boat, and it was very possible some of them would not make it.

The sky was just starting to lighten along the eastern horizon when we tightened the sheets and felt the wind begin to push us onto the beach. Some early-morning beach walker whipped the T-shirt from around his shoulders and waved it at us, swinging it round his head. I wasn’t sure what he was signaling, if he was saying come on or go back. The first couple of waves passed under us as mere ripples, barely lifting the heavy island boat. It was the third wave that came and lifted our stern, and when I looked at the old man, I could see that though he gripped the wheel, he had lost all steerage as we started to surf toward the shore. I clutched the pouch at my neck and figured it couldn’t do any harm to ask La Sirene once more to watch out for us, to help us make it ashore.

The old boat must have had a nice long keel on her, as we held a steady course and made it through the surf without broaching. It was only when the bow grounded that the stern swung around, and the whole boat rolled onto its side. We had grounded on a sandbar about forty feet from the beach.

People were scrambling everywhere. Many had been thrown off the boat when she rolled. Children were crying, and I heard splashing and saw folks running up the beach in every direction. I jumped off the boat and was surprised to find the water nearly over my head. Many of the smaller people on board would need help getting to shallow water. I ferried children and women to where they could reach shore. The waves continued to roll in, battering the sick and the weary even when they’d found bottom under their feet. Many jumped off the boat and went straight down and had to be plucked, sputtering, from underwater. My body ached in every fiber, and each time I turned back toward that listing wreck, I thought my arms would not be able to grasp another person. On my fourth trip, I carried in a little boy, no more than five years old, and looked around for an adult to take charge of him. I was startled to look up and see Racine Toussaint standing there at the water’s edge, holding up the hem of a long black dress.

“I’ll take him,” she said, reaching with one arm.

Someone a few feet away shouted something in Creole, and I felt the temperament of everyone change. Racine took the child, turned, and without another word disappeared into the darkness. Beyond the sand, I saw blue and red flashing lights, and I knew that some would get caught, but others still might make it away. I stayed in the water until the last person was off the boat and clear of the breakers, then I swam away from the wreck down the beach to where a small unit of condos had a back door onto the beach. To the east, the sky had turned a whitish blue and the clouds on the horizon looked like ash-covered charcoal with the glow of the occasional burning ember shining through. I exited the water, not sure I had the strength to stand, and staggered right into the building. No one paid any attention to me. There were far more Haitians than there were cops on the scene.

I walked through the condo lobby, down the driveway, and out to A1A. I could still see blue flashing lights to the south, so I turned north and began walking along the highway toward the city of Deerfield Beach. I was gauging the distance to a small minimart where I might locate a telephone when an older-model station wagon pulled up alongside me and stopped. I bent down to look inside the dark car, but before I could make out the identity of the driver, I heard Racine Toussaint’s gravelly voice say, “Get in.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

Racine drove north until she found a driveway large enough for her to be able to make a U-turn in her big station wagon. She paused before pulling back out onto A1A and sat looking at me in the dark car.

“I lost her,” I said, my voice breaking with emotion.

Racine reached over and placed her hand on my arm. “Yes, I know.”

“She’s in terrible trouble.”

“Tell me what happened.”

I swallowed hard to try to get the tears under control. The place where Racine’s hand rested on my arm grew warm, and when I placed my hand on top of hers, I felt a sense of relief flow through me, knowledge that I was not alone in this. “We had moved her to this condo on Hollywood Beach, thought she would be safe there, but when Rusty and I went out to dinner, she must have hidden in the cabin of his boat. She followed me.” I went on to explain all of it—the boat trip on the Bimini Express, the camp on South Bimini, Malheur, the encounter with Joe, and getting rescued by the Haitians.

Though we were still in the shadow of the tall building, I noticed the tops of the coconut palms were lit with the first bright rays of the sun. I said, “I didn’t think I was going to see this morning. I really believed I was going to die out there, Racine.”

She squeezed my arm. “La Sirene would not allow it.”

Staring out the car window at the silver blue sky, I touched the still-damp pouch hanging around my neck. “I’m not sure who to thank, but I am thankful.” I twisted around on the car seat and faced her. “But now, I’d be so much more thankful if I could find Solange. Her father is going to make her a restavek again, here, as soon as he’s used her to get what he wants. But there’s something even worse. I don’t know what, but she needs our help, now.” I could not explain how I knew, not even to Racine.

She stretched her hands out toward me, palms up. I placed my hands in hers, and she said, “We will find the child, and the lwa will take care of this man. You are not the only one who has suffered a loss to him. Many have died on his boats. I told you I came that night looking for the Miss Agnes, hoping to find my sister?”

“I remember.”

“Her name was Erzulie.”

If my pounding on his hull didn’t wake Mike up, I had decided I was going to climb aboard his boat and roll him out of his bunk. The companionway hatch slid back just then and Mike’s tousled hair was the first thing out.

“Jesus H. Christ, what the blazes is going on out here?”

“Mike, get dressed. I need your help.”

During the drive south on the coastal highway, Racine and I had discussed how best to get Solange back. My first thought had been to go to the police, but Racine pointed out to me that I had absolutely no evidence to prove any of my story. And to make matters worse, she said, Joe was a retired law enforcement officer. Yes, I had witnessed him kill a man, but where was the body? It was my word against his, and whom were they more likely to believe? And, as for Solange, what could I accuse him of? Kidnapping his own daughter? I wondered if this was Racine’s natural Haitian fear of the police, or if she was right. She kept telling me not to worry, we would get her back and that the lwa would protect us.

I finally explained that I’d feel a lot more protected by a guy with a gun.

Mike rubbed his eyes. “Seychelle? I heard you were missing.”

“You heard wrong. Now come on. Put your pants on and let’s go.”

Mike emerged a few minutes later wearing a wrinkled T-shirt that read “Arms Are for Hugging” and had a circle and slash over a rifle. He sat on the cabin top and began strapping on his leg.

Racine looked at me with raised eyebrows, as though asking “This is the fellow who is going to protect us?” I knelt down and began to untie the dinghy painter and pointed for Racine to get into the boat.

“Geez, it’s hot out here already,” Mike whined. “What time of the god-awful morning is it, anyway?”

“It’s six forty-five, Mike. We’re taking your dinghy. Like your shirt. You’ve got your gun?”

He finished with his leg and smoothed his pant leg down over the prosthesis, but he made no move to get up. He said, “Sey, you asking about my gun makes me think I need to know just a bit more about where we’re going.”

This was the moment I had been dreading. Just because Mike was now retired didn’t mean that he no longer thought like a cop.

“Okay, Mike, here it is. Your buddy Joe D’Angelo is the brains behind this whole immigrant smuggling outfit. I’ve been to their place in the Bahamas. Mike, he shot and killed Gil Lynch right in front of me, then left me to die, dog-paddling in the middle of the Gulf Stream. Yeah, Malheur was the instrument that Joe usually used, but Joe’s a killer, too. And now he has Solange, and I’ve got to get her back.” I paused, knowing that what I was saying to him would sound so outrageous, he was probably thinking about hauling me off to a psych ward. “I know this is a lot to take on faith, and I’ve got nothing to prove any of it is true, but please, Mike, I need you to trust me here.”

Mike shook his head, then he looked up at me, squinting his eyes. “Joe D’Angelo?”

I nodded.

Mike sat there without moving for so long that I thought for certain he was going to say no. I had about given up and was beginning to formulate Plan B when he finally said, “Okay. I’m going to agree to go along on this one, Sey, against my better judgment. If this was anybody but you, I’d be saying you’re full of shit—and so would any cop. But the guys on the force don’t know you like I do. If it was a toss-up as to who to believe, they’d go with Joe. But I’ll go along with you—to a point. Let me talk to the man, alone. I don’t like what I see or hear, and” —he lifted the pant leg on his good leg and showed a small stainless revolver in a holster strapped to his ankle—”I’ll keep Mr. D’Angelo tied up while you ladies call the police. You realize, we’d better figure out a way to do this so he doesn’t know what’s up. Joe was a hell of a good cop.”

“From what I’ve seen, Joe was never a good cop. But he’s mighty good with a gun.”

On the ride up the river, we ignored all the speed limits, the manatee zones, and the no-wake areas. Even with the three of us in his dinghy, that twenty-five-horsepower Honda four-stroke of Mike’s pushed his dink up onto a plane, and we rounded the curves in the river sliding sideways, barely missing the yachts tied along the seawalls. Racine sat on the seat in front of the center console, her body rigid, her back straight, black dress flapping around her legs, eyes squinting into the wind. The closer we got, the higher the sun crawled up into the sky, the stronger I felt it. Solange needed help now.

After I told Mike the details of what had happened on Bimini, he brought me up-to-date on what had happened in Florida since I’d left. “You disappeared Saturday night along with the kid. Jeannie told me nobody realized Solange was gone until you all were off at Tugboat Annie’s. Then, when Elliot called in, and when they told him the kid was missing, it really hit the fan. Seems there was some girl on the pay phone at the restaurant, so he had gone to use the phone on the boat of a friend of his. He got back to the table at the restaurant, and you were missing, and so was his boat. He was pretty damn pissed, I reckon. By the time they figured out you musta been on that island freighter, the ship had been gone over an hour. Rusty found his boat and took off straightaway. Your brother Pit was on the first morning seaplane over there. Far as I know, they’re both still over in Bimini looking for you.”

We were passing the Larsens’ estate, my cottage, and Gorda. All looked deserted. I turned to Mike, but he had guessed my question. “Jeannie’s been taking care of your dog. She might have taken her over to her place last night.”

After a few more minutes, he said, “So what makes you so sure the kid’s in terrible trouble?”

“I can’t explain it exactly. What I do know for sure is that Joe told me he needed her to prove something to his other daughter. He evidently told her that he had a child in Haiti, and she wigged out. She wants him to take care of this half-sister of hers. She’s refused to let him see his grandson until he can prove that Solange is safely in the U.S. and being cared for. Joe doesn’t seem to give a damn about either one of his daughters, but this grandson is the male heir he’s always wanted. In fact, he intends to sell Solange as a restavek, but as far as the daughter knows, she’ll be living with this American family. I’m just hoping he’s still got the kid with him and that he hasn’t already sold her off to some family we’ll never find.”

When we were still around the bend from Joe’s house, Mike pulled over to a dock, and he had Racine and me lie down on the fiberglass bottom of the dinghy. He covered us with a couple of dirty, musty-smelling beach towels that he pulled out of the bow locker.

As he put the outboard back in gear and began the approach to Joe’s, he filled us in on what he saw. “There’s no sign of anyone on the pool deck. With the sun shining on the windows, I can’t see too much inside. It’s just going on eight o’clock. They might not even be up yet. I’m going to tie the dinghy up here, out of the sight line of those pool-deck windows. You two stay down till I get back.”

We never heard voices or knocking, but Mike didn’t return, so we assumed he was in.

Now, I will be one of the first to admit that patience is not one of my stronger character traits. That wasn’t the only thing that made me want to get up out of that dinghy and do something, though. We hadn’t been there five minutes before the heat began to suck all the energy out of us. It was already in the upper eighties outside, but under those towels, with the sun beating down, it must have been over a hundred. I couldn’t even remember how many days ago it had been since I had either bathed or changed clothes, and my shorts and shirt, which had been stiff with salt, were now drenched with sweat. Breathing was becoming impossible. I don’t know how Racine stood it as long as she did. Droplets of sweat rolled across my forehead and into my eyes, across my belly, and out of the creases behind my knees. I had to move.

“Racine?” I said, looking at the back of her head in the filtered sunlight. “How long do you think Mike’s been gone?”

“Fifteen minutes?”

“What if something’s happened to him?”

She didn’t say a word.

“Racine, we could suffocate under here, or die of heat stroke. What do you say we go look around? Think we can do that without anybody seeing us?”

“Whatever you choose. The lwa will protect us,” she said.

When we peeked out from under our cover, we saw that our dinghy was tied up at the far end of Joe’s dock where the fence divided his property from his neighbor’s. The bow of the Donzi ocean racer was just off the dinghy’s stem, and it helped to screen us from the side windows on the house. The stainless-steel bow rail was still coated in salt from the trip across from Bimini, and judging from the condensation on the port light windows in the hull, whenever Joe had returned, he’d just tied up the boat, locked it, and left. He seemed to have a penchant for asking others to clean up after him.

I climbed out of the dinghy and turned around to give Racine a hand. I needn’t have. She hopped onto the dock without help, and we both slipped into the bushes that ran along the fence line.

The blinds were drawn in the guest bedroom window. From inside the house came the sound of unintelligible shouting. Someone, it sounded like a man, was barking orders. I inched my way back toward the river side of the house to see into the den. Holding my breath, I took a quick peek past the edge of the sliding glass door. In that one second, the tableau inside told me the story. Mike was sitting on a dining room chair in the middle of the room. Joe had his back to the window, but I could see the small silver gun he was waving around—probably Mike’s—and Joe was hollering at Celeste to get something for him.

I jerked my head toward the street. “Come on, Mike’s in trouble. We need to get some help.”

The dinghy was too exposed, but I figured we could run to a neighbor’s house and ask to use the phone. A narrow concrete walkway led around the side of the house to the front circular driveway. I could see, before I reached the end of the house, that a black iron electric gate blocked our exit out the driveway. The fence closest to our side of the house was shielded by a tangled thicket of bougainvillea, but ahead, on the far side of the drive, was a stretch that was free of the prickly shrub.

I turned back to Racine. “Think you can climb over that iron fence?”

The look she gave me told me not to underestimate her. “Okay, then, let’s go,” I said, but when I reached the corner of the house and made my turn, I ran straight into Celeste.

“Bon dieu! “ she exclaimed, her hand rubbing the spot on her chin where our heads had collided. She was wearing a tiny, strapless, tropical-print minidress, a matching headwrap, and high wedge sandals. She looked like she should be posing for Vogue.

I held my finger to my lips. “Shhh, please,” I whispered.

“You must go. Get away from here.”

“Yeah, I know. But we need your help. Please.”

“He won’t be happy if he finds you here.”

Racine stepped forward and placed her hand on the young woman’s neck, just under the curve of her elegant jaw. She whispered something in Creole. Celeste closed her eyes for a moment and bowed her head.

“Celeste,” I said, “I know that Joe doesn’t want to see me here. But listen, we’re looking for a little girl. Did he bring her here? She’s Joe’s daughter. Her name’s Solange.” Celeste just stood there, frozen. She cocked her head as though she had just heard something from the house. Obviously, she didn’t want him to find her out there talking to us. “Celeste, when did he get back from Bimini?”

Celeste looked at me with vacant eyes, as if she were looking through me instead of at me. “Yesterday afternoon, four o’clock.”

“Shit,” I said, jerking my head down and turning aside in frustration. “It wouldn’t have taken him more than a couple of hours if he’d come straight back here. Means he went somewhere else. Probably to dump her off with someone.”

Abruptly, Celeste turned and walked toward the front door.

From inside the house, Joe hollered, “What’s going on out there, Celeste?”

She glanced back at us with a raised eyebrow. I shook my head at her and mouthed the word Please. Her gaze jumped from me to Racine, and suddenly Celeste stood up straighter and nodded her head curtly in the older woman’s direction.

“It is nothing, Joseph,” she called back into the house. “Just some kids.” She reached inside the door and touched something on the wall. The gate began to slide open.

She held out her hand, indicating the gate, and mouthed the word Go.

Racine took my hand in hers, and we started running across the drive toward the gate.

We’d taken no more than a half dozen steps when Joe called from the doorway, “Well, if it isn’t Sullivan. Back from the dead. Keep going, ladies, and you can say good-bye to Mike here.”

“Sey, go, keep running,” Mike yelled.

I slowed and glanced over my shoulder, just in time to see Mike’s head bounce in recoil from the blow Joe had delivered with the fist that gripped the small stainless gun. Blood trickled from a cut under Mike’s eye. Racine and I both stopped and turned. Celeste had twisted her face away from the violence.

“Smart decision, Sullivan. Come on inside and join us.” Joe stood by the door, dressed in white shorts and polo as if he were ready for a morning tennis match. He was holding Mike’s arm with one hand, pointing the gun at his ribs with the other. Racine and I approached them, and Joe said, “What’s with the old woman, Sullivan? You haven’t got enough people killed?”

“You’re the killer, Joe.”

“I don’t think so. Gil and that kid at the Swap Shop— they’d both be fine if you hadn’t stuck your nose where it didn’t belong.”

“You killed Margot?”

He shrugged. “Couldn’t let her talk and get away with it. There were plenty of places there to buy blades, and I figured I’d make it look like another of Malheur’s temper tantrums. See, that was the beauty of his whole bokor bit. I was pissed the first time he killed one of the cargo, but then I realized it worked for us. Kept the Haitians too scared to talk.” He jerked his head toward the front door. “Inside now. Head left,” Joe said, “into the den.”

We entered the same room Joe and I had been in a couple of days earlier, with a bar along one side and windows that overlooked his pool deck. Joe pushed Mike into the room after us, and then he turned to Celeste and spoke in a voice I had not heard from the man, all soft and almost like baby talk. “You go stay in your room, sugar. This is business.” Racine then said something softly in Creole, and Joe swung around and yelled at her, “Shut up, old woman. Think I don’t understand Creole?” He pointed the gun at her head. “You say another word of that Voodoo shit to my woman, and you’re dead.”

I put my hand on Racine’s arm, trying to tell her not to upset him any more. When Joe crossed to the bar, she turned to me, her eyes sparkling with humor, and whispered, “He doesn’t know it, but he is dead already. Here.” With her fist tight she pounded her chest just over her heart.

Joe slid behind the bar and took a bottle of water out of the fridge back there. “So how’d you do it, Sullivan? Back from the dead, eh?”

My mind was spinning, looking for any excuse, any way out of this. Mike had a defeated look about him that made me think he wasn’t going to be much help. Whatever had transpired between him and Joe had taken away something more than his gun. “I guess I just got lucky, Joe. Who’da thought I’d get picked up out there? By a Haitian boat, no less.”

Joe laughed at that and pointed his finger at me. “That’s a good one.” Then he looked at his watch. “Well, I’d say you’ve about used up all your luck. No Haitians to rescue you this time. I do have an appointment later this morning, but it can wait. Mike tells me you all came in his dinghy, so we’ll just tow her along behind my Donzi and take a little trip up the river, over into Pond Apple Slough. Won’t be the first time folks went missing in that swamp. Let’s go.” He pointed Mike’s little gun toward the sliding glass doors.

We were walking ahead of Joe across the den, and I had almost made it to the glass doors when a voice called out in a commanding tone, “Monsieur Blan, where is my child?”

Mike and I turned around to see Celeste standing in the hallway, both hands holding the wood-handled gray gun Joe had taken from Gil. She had it aimed at Joe’s midsection.

“Listen, sugar, put that gun down. That’s a Sig. That’s got quite a kick. You know how you hate loud noises.” There was something sickening about the babyish voice he was using.

“Where is she, Joseph?”

“You don’t know what you’re doing, sweetie. This is your Big Poppy here. Now I told you, your baby girl is gone. She’s been dead, honey, a long time.” Joe was moving toward her slowly, his right hand reaching out to her.

Mike stepped between me and Racine and put his arms around the two of us. He began to steer us toward the side of the room. He’d faced a gun once before and knew enough to keep us clear of her line of fire.

“Don’t you lie to me, Joseph. That woman told me you just brought her here. She did not die in Haiti like you told me. Where is my child?”

“Celeste, baby, who you gonna believe? After all I’ve done for you?” He continued to take small steps, closing the gap between them. He was measuring her determination, judging whether or not she really could fire the gun. “Honey, I love you. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“You stay back, Joseph. You think I won’t shoot? You taught me to use a gun to protect myself, and I will use it. Where is Solange?”

“Babydoll, you don’t need to protect yourself from me. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Only five feet separated them when Joe made his move. Unlike Gil, Celeste didn’t hesitate. She fired the instant he began to lunge, three quick shots, and his legs buckled under him. Instinctively, I dropped to the floor in a squat and put my arms on top of my head. In the aftermath of the shots, the only noise was the high-pitched buzz inside my head. I didn’t want to stand up and look, but I couldn’t play ostrich forever.

I rose slowly from where I had crouched behind a white leather chair. Joe’s body lay sprawled on the floor, one leg bent awkwardly under him, his eyes open but dull as unpolished pebbles. His arms were flung wide on the floor, his right still loosely wrapped around Mike’s gun. A growing red stain colored his white shirt just above his left breast. Racine, still standing, had not flinched at the piercing noise or from the horror of what now lay on the floor. When our eyes met, she nodded, and with her clenched fist she hit her chest again, just over her heart. Celeste knelt and laid the gun on the floor next to the body. Without so much as a slight quaver in her voice, she said, “Let’s go find my child.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Mike made us sit in the living room, away from the body, to wait for the police, and from the moment the first patrol car arrived, things seemed to shift into slow motion. The head count on law enforcement personnel multiplied exponentially within the first hour, as photographers and crime scene techs wandered throughout the house, but no one appeared to be accomplishing anything, other than gawking at Celeste’s legs as she offered them Styrofoam cups of coffee from the kitchen.

I wanted to yell at them, Get on with it. We have to get out and start looking for Solange. She needs help.

When Collazo arrived, he, too, seemed to be moving as though he were underwater. He questioned us in the living room while several patrol officers searched the house, the pool cabana, the garden shed, and he had each of us slow down and repeat our stories over and over. Agent D’Ugard arrived and she dove right in, asking us to start again, from the beginning. Judging from the angle of the sun, I figured it was nearly eleven o’clock, and I was exhausted, but every time I closed my eyes, I saw that image from my dream. Long black hair floated around the periphery of my vision, and Solange called to me, Help me.

Collazo believed me this time when I told him about his police interpreter, and they sent a car over to Martine’s house. Later, an officer reported to Collazo that Martine Gohin had given the police permission to search her house, not thinking that they would search her whole property as well. In her backyard gardening shed, sleeping on the floor on pallets, the officers found thirteen Haitian girls, aged eight to eighteen. Martine claimed they all were nieces before she asked for a lawyer and stopped answering any more questions. Solange was not among the girls.

On hearing the word lawyer, I excused myself and went to a phone to call Jeannie. After the expected tirade about how I better not scare her like that again, she informed me that B.J. had taken off the day before in Jimmie St. Claire’s partially remodeled Chris Craft, headed for Bimini to join the search.

When I returned to the living room, Celeste was telling Collazo and Agent D’Ugard for the third time that Joe had not returned to the house until four o’clock the day before. He had not said anything to her about a child, and they spent the afternoon and the evening together at home. He had been in a very bad mood, throwing things around and cursing at her for nothing. He became furious when he asked her to pour him a drink and she told him they were out of rum. She offered to go out to the boat and get a bottle out there, but he exploded, screaming at her about her incompetence, and he hit her. She pulled back her headscarf to show the bruise at her hairline.

One minute it seemed as though I could not breathe, as though I were underwater and drowning, and the next thing I knew, I was in my element. I saw her, and I saw where she was. The condensation on the windows, the appointment this morning, Joe not wanting Celeste to go for the rum. I jumped to my feet and said,”Come on,” and ran to the sliding glass doors.

The Donzi’s cabin door was secured with a stainless hasp and a padlock. Rather than look for the key, Mike kicked at the doors with his good leg. On the third kick, the wood splintered, and I had to turn my head aside as the blast of superheated air poured out the companion way.

Every year, I see the stories in the newspapers about some child who got left or locked in a vehicle in the Florida sun, and the result is usually death or permanent brain damage. We found Solange bound and gagged, locked in the forward cabin, behind another door that Mike kicked in. I could not detect any respiration when I tore off the gag. I sat down on the bunk next to her and felt her neck for a pulse. Faint, but it was there. “Solange,” I said as I picked her up and carried her limp body off the boat, “I’m here. Like I promised.” When we entered the living room, Celeste was sitting alone on the couch, her head bowed, her hands covering her face. It had not occurred to me until then that the men had not told her what we had been doing outside. Solange and I were both dripping wet—I’d taken her into the pool to bring down her body temperature. She was now weak but conscious.

“Solange ...” I stopped in the middle of the living room, set her on her feet, and knelt next to her. She looked at me with questioning eyes. She did not recognize this woman, but she sensed I wanted her to try.

Celeste’s head had snapped up at the sound of my voice, and she watched the child, hungry for some reaction.

“Solange,” I said, and raised my hand to indicate Celeste. “This is your mother.”

At first the kid didn’t move. I watched her face, the lines of concentration etched in her little forehead as she tried so hard to remember something from a life she had once known but had long forgotten.

Then, in a soft voice, Celeste began to sing:

Dodo ti pitit manman’l

Do-o-do-o-do ti pitit manman’l

Si li pas dodo

Krab la va manje’l

“Maman!” Solange cried out, and she ran into her mother’s arms.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

When we still hadn’t heard anything from Pit or B.J. by that afternoon, I called my brother Maddy, and he offered to run me over to Bimini on his charter sportfishing boat, the Lady Jane. I met him at the fuel dock, and I was surprised to see his hair had gone completely gray in the few months since I had seen him last. The size of his beer gut hadn’t changed, and I wondered if I would believe he was only thirty-two if he weren’t my brother.

I spent most of the four hours of that crossing slumped in a chair up on the fly bridge, my feet on the dash, looking out to sea, trying to figure out why the world was such a shitty place. Yeah, I know the world is full of ugliness. I didn’t need Joe D’Angelo to tell me that. But I still couldn’t fathom a father who didn’t love a kid as great as Solange. We’re not talking about a crime against strangers here, she was his own kid. I thought of the way the little kiddo had looked up at me all the time, the way her serious face would be transformed when her lips parted and those small, perfect teeth showed in her shy, tentative smile. I thought of her hand, how it slipped into mine and squeezed with a slight pressure that asked me to love her. And oh, damn, how I did.

The June storm had passed several days before, and any traces of that wind and swell were long gone now. As we charged across the Stream at over twenty knots, we created our own wind up there on the bridge. I was wearing a baseball cap to tame my hair and as protection from the sun, and I kidded myself as I tugged the brim lower that the tears on my cheeks were caused by the wind burning my eyes. The still water out in the Stream was back to the familiar luminescent inky blue strafed with golden shafts of sunlight. The current looked both beautiful and benign, though it had been neither when I’d watched the sun set the night before, assuming that sunset would be my last.

On the drive down to Maddy’s dock in Surfside, I had learned from Jeannie that Rusty was still over on Bimini, working as a liaison with the Bahamian government to deal with the illegal immigrants who had been at Joe’s camp on South Bimini. They had reportedly found over four hundred people living there in squalor.

Rusty told Jeannie he had been hiding in the mangroves that night, trying to spy on Malheur, when Solange and I had surprised him by taking his boat. There he was in the mangroves, his binoculars trained inland, trying to figure out how to rescue us from the clutches of Malheur, when we tore past him on our way out of the cut. He saw the smugglers go out the canal shortly thereafter, and he wound up swimming across the harbor back to Alice Town.

“He called me this morning,” Jeannie said, “before I heard from you. I told him not to worry, you were a survivor, and he asked me to call him if I heard anything. He said he was staying at the hotel that has all the Hemingway stuff, what’s it called?” Then she snapped her fingers. “Oh yeah, the Compleat Angler,” she said. “He sounded pretty damned upset, girl. Both that nobody’d heard from you, and that there was no report of his boat showing up at any ports along the Florida coast.”

I had been watching the road outside my window flying past in a dizzying blur of asphalt, cars, and strip shopping malls. “I hope he cares enough not to kill me when I tell him what happened to his boat.”

We got into Bimini just before dark, and Maddy tied up the Lady Jane in a slip at Freddie Weech’s Bimini Dock, moving easily around the boat in spite of his size. The little fifteen-slip marina was where he usually brought his long-term charter guests. Freddy rented the guests rooms, so he offered captains, like my brother, a discount on the dock rental. Maddy took care of Immigration while I hosed the boat down.

When he got back with our papers, Maddy said he wanted to eat dinner on the boat first, but there was no way I could sit still knowing that Pit and B.J. were out there somewhere, worrying that I might be dead. I convinced him that we should go out and have a look around, see if somebody couldn’t tell us where we might find a crazy American windsurfer and his big Samoan friend, maybe spot the Chris Craft B.J. had brought over.

The sun had set behind the island, but the sky above the collection of concrete-and plywood-buildings was filled with salmon-colored furrows of cloud, the sky behind the clouds, a washed-out, waxen blue. The precision of the formation reminded me of the ridges in the sand bottom back at Hillsboro Inlet, and I remembered B.J. standing on Gorda’s deck, the water dripping off his bare chest where he had unzipped his wet suit. Was it really possible that was less than a week ago?

We stopped in at the Compleat Angler, and while Maddy was playing at big game fisherman, asking the other American yachties in the bar if they had seen anything, I spotted two Biminite ladies working the barbecue in the courtyard, turning the blackening chicken quarters with large tongs. I admired their cooking and asked after the health of their families, and soon I was on a first-name basis with Charlotte and Liz. When we got around to what I was doing there in Bimini, they told me that they had heard that there was an American camped out on the beach at the north end of the island, off Paradise Point.

“There is an old house out there, we call Rockwell House,” Liz told me. “Nobody live there now. They say he sleep in a tent,” she said, and she chuckled softly, shaking her head as though this were something only an American would do. She said that her son worked on a fishing boat, and he’d told her that the American had been inquiring on the docks about the whereabouts of a young woman who fit my description. Her son told her that this American traveled everywhere on his sailboard, she said, sneaking a nod to Charlotte, confirming this wild report. Whether coming to town or visiting South Bimini, he treated the sailboard like it was his dinghy.

I headed back into the bar to find Maddy and in the entry of the old inn, I literally ran into Rusty.

“Sey!” he shouted, and scooped me up in those football player arms of his, squeezing me in a breath-stealing hug. After holding me just long enough that I was beginning to think I might suffocate, he kissed my ear through my hair and dropped me back to the ground. He was wearing a long-sleeved white T-shirt and worn blue jeans, and he smelled of shampoo and shaving cream. From his days over on Bimini, his tan was even darker, making his deep blue eyes look electric. When he cupped his hands around my face and kissed me gently on the mouth, he fired up all the same tingles as on our first kiss, and I gave in to it, tasting his minty mouth and reaching up and over those strong shoulders of his.

“I was so worried,” he said when I pulled my mouth away and placed both hands on the center of his chest. Brushing his hand against the hair on the side of my head, he said, “I thought I’d lost you.”

I looked around the room at the hundreds of black-and-white photos hanging on the walls from years of Bimini fishing, gray, blurry images of men standing next to their hanging catch. There was a lot of history in that room.

I shook my head. “Rusty, I’m really sorry. Your boat... I shouldn’t have taken it... that was yours, and it really is lost. Gone, sank.” I thought about how to say the rest, and there didn’t seem to be an easy way.

“Hell, Sey, I can replace the boat, but if I were to lose you—” He wrapped his arms around me again and squeezed. I couldn’t breathe, but it wasn’t because of his embrace.

“Rusty?” He let go and held me at arm’s length, staring at my face. “I spent a long time treading water out in the Gulf Stream, yesterday. Had lots of time to think about my life and, you know, think about the big questions, like why are we here and all.” I paused and took a deep breath.

He hugged me again before I could go any further. His lips were next to my ear, his breath hot on the side of my head, when he said, “You’re trying to tell me I never had you.”

I squeezed him tight, thankful to him for saying it for me. I broke the embrace so I could see his face as I said, “Rusty, I’m so sorry.”

He smiled. “I’m gonna miss you, Sullivan. And what might have been.”

“No doubt about it, Elliot. We would have been great.”

The walk to the north end of the island was only just over a mile, but Maddy complained all the way out there. It was past nine o’clock, and he had neither eaten nor had his evening quota of beer. I tried to tune him out. The slender new moon had already set, and the walk through the Australian pines was dark. Little animals scurried in the underbrush, lizards probably.

We smelled the campfire first. The abandoned house loomed dark at the end of a driveway that once had been paved but now was a mass of weeds and broken concrete. Liz had told me this place had been built in the forties and fifties as a private home for an American from Detroit who invented car bumpers. Three stories high with a small tower up top, it looked like a ferryboat perched out there on the limestone bluff. The east side was lit by the firelight from Pit’s camp, and as Maddy and I approached, he looked up from the flames.

“Sis!” He jumped up and trotted over to me and threw his arms around me, lifting me off the ground and twirling me around. When he put me back down, he looked up and nodded at Maddy, who stood off to one side of us. “Cool,” Pit said. “A regular Sullivan family reunion.” Then he collared Maddy in a hammerlock, bringing him into our little circle. We stood there in the firelight together, arms over one another’s shoulders, the tops of our heads touching, each of us lost in thought about those who weren’t there.

Maddy pushed away first. “Okay, enough of this mushy stuff. You got any beer, bro?”

Sitting around the fire, I told my brothers about the camp on South Bimini and Solange and my hours out crossing the Gulf Stream. I told them about the picture in the trunk and what Gil had said about our dad and what he had done, and not done, down in Colombia. I was able to tell the whole story without breaking down, but telling the end about the kid and her mother, and how Agent D’Ugard had said they would probably both be able to stay since Celeste had her green card—that part made me miss Solange even more. Pit said B.J. had left that morning, taken the Chris Craft down to South Bimini and Gun Cay to continue searching for me. Maddy promised to take the Lady Jane down there to find him in the morning.

I’d left my brothers chattering around the fire then, told them I was going off to explore the big vacant house, but really I just needed to get away.

The Bahama Islands are made of old coral reefs that once were beneath the sea, but when the sea level changed, these reefs dried out. They are limestone islands, made of the skeletons of long dead animals, and now with a thin layer of soil, a few struggling plants eked out an existence in the salt spray. Out along the edge of the bluff they’d named Paradise Point, the bumper man had built an iron-and-concrete walkway around three sides of his elaborate island home. Salt and rust, and perhaps even hurricanes, had eaten much of it away over the last fifty years, but I wandered out onto one of the remaining sections of concrete and looked down the fifteen feet or so at the ocean that was rising and falling around the rocky bluff. There must have been a small cavern below me, because when the swells came in, the air was expelled with a loud rush.

I didn’t even hear him walk up behind me, but in an instant the scent of coconut soap mingled with the iodine smell of the sea, and I sensed the size of him standing next to me. There was a comfort in his presence. I didn’t need to look to know he was there, leaning on the rail, looking out at the ocean as I was. We stayed like that for the longest time, not saying anything, not knowing what to say, but comfortable in the silence.

In the end, I was the first to speak.

“I found her mother,” I said, breaking through the weight of the humid night air that seemed to be pressing down on me. “They say she can stay in the States now.” The rocks below exhaled with another powerful whoosh. “That should make me feel good, shouldn’t it?”

“Sure,” he said. “That was a great thing you did.”

We both watched as a local fishing boat motored by, her running lights lit, her outriggers heavy with nets.

“So tell me, why does it hurt so much?”

“Because you love her.”

“And I’m going to miss her.”

Neither of us said anything more for several minutes. We stood there watching the stars and their reflections on the blackened swells, listening to the rocks’ rhythmic breathing.

“You’ll still get to see her,” he said. “You know, families come in lots of different shapes and sizes these days. You decide what feels right for you.” He slid his hands into the pockets of his cargo shorts and took a deep breath. “You could be Auntie Seychelle. Make Solange and her mother part of the family.”

I leaned back and looked up at the broad bright band of the Milky Way. “I like that: Auntie Seychelle,” I said, trying out the sound of it. “Come on, we’d better get back,” I said, slipping my arm into his and starting to walk down the concrete toward the campfire. “And what about you?” I asked, turning my face up toward his.

White teeth glowed against his dark skin. “Uncle B.J. works just fine for me.”

THE END

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Thank you for purchasing and reading CROSS CURRENT. If you enjoyed the book, please consider posting a review on the site where you purchased it. And tell your friends! I’m always pleased to hear from readers, and I welcome comments and feedback.

I’d also like to invite you to sign up for my Inklings Newsletter so you can be among the first to hear about new releases, special offers and news of my latest sailing adventures with the Yorkshire Terror.

Website: ck@christinekling.com

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Christine Kling has spent more than thirty years messing about with boats. It was her sailing experience that led her to write her first suspense series about Florida tug and salvage captain Seychelle Sullivan. Christine earned an MFA in creative writing from Florida International University and her articles, essays, and short stories have appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies. Hernew Shipwreck series features a female singlehanded sailor in Circle of Bones (2013), and Dragon’s Triangle (June 2014). Christine sails the waters of the Pacific, the Atlantic, and the

Caribbean with her pup Barney, the Yorkshire Terror, and she goes wherever the wind and good Wi-Fi may take her. Visit Christine at http://www.christinekling.com

Dragon’s Triangle

Circle of Bones

Wreckers’ Key

Bitter End

Cross Current

Surface Tension

SNEAK PEEK: DEVIL’S TRIANGLE

Excerpt from the novel DRAGON’S TRIANGLE (pub date June 1, 2014)

CHAPTER ONE

Ao Chalong Anchorage

Phuket, Thailand

November 15, 2012

When the voice erupted from the VHF radio, Riley jumped. The sandpaper in her hand slid off the teak handrail and scratched the boat’s gel coat.

“Bonefish, Bonefish, this is Merlin II.”

Eerie to hear this call just when she was thinking about him—as though he were reading her mind. She wanted to talk to him, too. His wet swimsuit lay on the cabin sole where he had stepped out of it, and his iPad and sheet music covered the main salon table. He had been sitting below playing guitar and crooning his Carolina Bluegrass while she sanded and put another coat of varnish on the starboard handrail. Okay, it wasn’t his boat, so she couldn’t expect him to do the maintenance, but before he hopped into that dinghy and raced off to the yacht club, he might have cleaned up after himself. He now spent so much of his life with the 1 percent he often forgot how the rest got by.

In two steps she was at the chart table, and she grabbed the microphone.

“This is Bonefish. Up one?”

He started speaking immediately on the new frequency. “Riley, glad you were listening. I think you’ll want to come ashore.”

“Okay, what’s up?”

“There’s something here you’re going to want to see right away.”

She climbed up the steps and peered across the still, flat water of the bay. She spotted the lighthouse and then looked right until she could make out the low structure of the Ao Chalong Yacht Club.

“What’s going on? Are you at the club?”

“Yeah, I played one set, and when I went to the bar for a cold one, Roger told me he had something for you.”

Riley cocked her head to one side and stared at the mike in her hand as though it could explain what he was talking about. When it didn’t, she pressed the button and said, “Go on.”

“It’s a letter, babe. Postmark is Bangkok. No return address. Funny-looking handwriting. Kinda looks weird, nervous-like. Anyway, I figured you’d want to know.”

A letter for her? Addressed to the Ao Chalong Yacht Club? Who even knew she was here? When she communicated with her employers at Mercury Security or with her best friend Hazel it was always by email. Snail mail was about as relevant to her as a vinyl record.

Still, someone had sent her a letter. Who the hell wrote letters anymore?

There was one very remote possibility. She shook her head. No way. She was done chasing after that dream.

Only one way to find out. She keyed the mike. “Thanks, Billy. I’m on my way in.”

The oars struck bottom, and with one last pull she drove the flat-bottomed dinghy onto the beach. Riley hopped out and pulled the boat a few feet up the sand. She ran her cable around a palm tree and through the dinghy pad eye, then snapped on the big combination lock. Security was never far from her thoughts, just as when she set her alarm system before leaving the boat. The sun had already set behind the island’s mountaintop Big Buddha statue. Even with the sun gone, the sweat dripped from her brow and upper lip. She’d rowed as if there were some hurry, and harder still when her old Marine Corps shoulder injury began complaining. Somehow it felt right to punish herself for even considering that remote possibility. After chasing shadows from Martinique to Venezuela to Panama and across the Pacific for more than three years, she had moved on. Billy was proof of that, wasn’t he? She dug her grapnel anchor into the sand and started up the beach toward the lights of the Ao Chalong Yacht Club.

A big white awning covered the deck, protecting the dark wood tables and wicker chairs from the effects of both Thai seasons—wet and dry. At one end of the deck, Billy Barber sat on a stool picking his guitar and nearly swallowing the microphone as he wailed “Honey, let me be your salty dog” to the three occupied tables. Riley stood next to a palm tree out in the dusky darkness. She knew he couldn’t see her yet.

Damn, he looked good. When it came time for them to part, and she reckoned that time wasn’t far off, she would miss him. His deep tan and the almost-white blond hair falling into his eyes made him look like the quintessential surfer dude. In fact, he was a Grand Prix–level professional racing sailor conditioning here in Phuket and preparing for the King’s Cup Regatta in December.

They’d met at a bar that belonged to an Aussie, a former sailor. The bar was sort of a yachtie hangout, and Billy had been telling stories about his racing success as bowman on Merlin II, the custom eighty-footer that belonged to some gazillionaire. Billy’s North Carolina twang brought back bittersweet memories, and Riley had been smiling as she listened to him regaling the crowd with tales of a spinnaker run on the Route du Rhum race that finishes at Pointe-à-Pitre on the Caribbean island of Guadeloupe. He must have thought she was smiling at him because when he finished his story, Billy Barber came over and introduced himself. And after all the lonely, abstinent years, she’d given in to him.

It had been four years ago, back in the spring of 2008, that Riley had learned of her father’s terrible secrets and witnessed his murder. She and Cole Thatcher had gone on to share an adventure like nothing she had ever experienced—up until that day when Cole disappeared at sea while diving in the wreck of the World War II submarine Surcouf off Guadeloupe. Believing she might still find the love of her life alive, she raced halfway around the world trying to decipher the clues Cole had left for her: a Spanish Lullaby and those engraved numbers on the French Angel coin. She’d tried every combination she could think of to break the cipher. But nothing worked. She couldn’t find him in Venezuela or the Cayman Islands. He’d mentioned the Dragon’s Triangle, but it turned out to be a big stretch of empty ocean between the Philippines and Japan made infamous by strange disappearances of ships and planes—on the exact opposite side of the world from the Bermuda Triangle, where the Surcouf had disappeared.

Thailand had been her last hope.

She’d never found Cole Thatcher or his boat, the Shadow Chaser. The US Coast Guard no longer listed the vessel in their documentation records. It was as though the Dragon’s Triangle had swallowed Cole and his first mate, Theo, and the Shadow Chaser, and there was no proof left they had ever existed.

But sailing single-handed was lonely and chasing never-ending dead ends was frustrating.

And then along came Billy. Just like that song. There was no romantic pretense between them—it was pure, no-strings-attached sex. She and Billy both knew the connection would last only until one boat or the other hoisted anchor and sailed away. And lately, she’d been itching to do just that.

The problem wasn’t that he was boring or messy and certainly not that he didn’t please her as a lover. The problem was that Billy Barber couldn’t compete with a dead man.

When Billy finished his song, Riley stepped up onto the concrete slab and crossed between the tables. He saw her and smiled. Then he turned and spoke to Roger, who walked to the other end of the bar and grabbed something next to the cash register. By the time she reached him, Billy was holding out an envelope.

“Here you go. Your letter.”

“Thanks.”

“Why don’t you stay for a drink?” he said. “My set will be over after a couple more songs.”

Riley nodded, though she wasn’t certain what he had said. She was staring at the handwriting on the crumpled envelope. Her throat tightened. Of course she knew better, but still she had allowed herself to hope. The address was printed in block letters by what looked like a shaky hand.

She slid onto a stool and placed the letter on the bar. With her elbows planted at either end of the envelope, she rested her forehead on the heels of her hands and stared at the handwritten address. It was all wrong: the handwriting, the postmark, and the name Marguerite Riley. No one called her that. Least of all Cole.

Roger set down an icy Singha beer next to her. Ignoring it, she slid a finger under the flap and tore the envelope open. She slid out one sheet of paper and unfolded it. The words were written in the same squiggly block letters.

Dear Marguerite Riley,

You do not know me, but I was a friend of your grandfather, Lieutenant Oswald Riley during WWII. We were in the OSS together. I have an antique trinket he gave to me back in ‘45, the last time I saw him. I should like very much to meet you, to tell you about my friend Ozzie, and to give you this remembrance of your grandfather. I promised him I’d give this to his family, and too much time has passed. Now, I don’t have much time left and I’d like to fulfill this promise to an old friend.

I apologize for this abrupt request, but I hope you can meet me at noon on Saturday in the Chatuchak Weekend Market in Bangkok. A friend has a booth called Land of Smiles Antiques on Soi 3. I work there sometimes.

I hope you can make it. I will tell you what happened to your grandfather.

Regards,

PeeWee

When her eyes got to the end of the page, they bounced back to the beginning and she read it again. And then again.

Riley was not aware the music had stopped until Billy slid onto the stool next to her.

“So what’s in the letter?”

She looked up and handed him the paper. As he read she did some quick calculations. This PeeWee would certainly be in his nineties, just like Henri Michaut, that other World War II survivor she and Cole had met back in the Caribbean.

Billy chuckled when he got to the end of the page. “PeeWee?” he said. “Doesn’t that sound just like a character right out of an old World War II movie? He’d be the sidekick guy you’d know was going to die before the end.”

Riley took the letter back from him and read it again. She looked up at Billy and shook her head. “I don’t get it. How did this guy find me?”

Billy shrugged. “It’s getting to be a pretty damn small world.” He waved his hand to take in the crowded anchorage. “At least half those boats out there have websites and blogs, and they’re always writing about the other boaters they meet.”

“Most ninety-year-olds aren’t reading blogs, though. You’d think he’d explain a little more. Like what does he mean—a trinket?”

“Don’t know.” He rested a hand on her bare knee.

Riley looked at the hand and quashed the impulse to brush it aside. “I wonder what he really wants from me.”

Billy shrugged. “So what do you know about this granddad?”

She shook her head. “Not much. He died long before I was born—in the Second World War.”

“Surely your dad must have said something.”

“My dad—” She coughed as though to clear her throat. Even four years after his death, she still had difficulty talking about her father. “My father didn’t talk about my grandfather much, and I was five when my grandma died. I barely remember her.”

“No family photos or anything?”

She lifted her aching shoulder, leaned her head into the pain, and then stretched her neck by looking up at the patio’s white awning. She drew in a deep breath. “My dad had one photo album with a few old black-and-white pictures in it, but he never said much about it. The only thing he ever said about the war was that my grandfather joined the Coast Guard before Pearl Harbor, then got recruited into the OSS.”

“What’s that?”

“The Office of Strategic Services. Military intelligence. My brother Mikey tried one time to find out more about our grandpa, but the records were still sealed.”

“So no idea what happened to him?”

Riley shrugged. “Dad said the military never told his mother any details. Only that Grandpa was transferred to the Pacific after the Germans surrendered in May of 1945, and then—he just disappeared.”

WHY THIS BOOK?

I was fortunate enough to live in Japan for two wonderful years during the 1990s. Every day felt like an adventure, and I traveled throughout the country from my home base in the beach town of Hayama, an hour south of Tokyo. One of my weekly activities was ikebana (Japanese flower arranging), a very old art I studied both in teachers’ homes and the headquarters of the Sogetsu School in Tokyo. Most of the teachers were aged 40 and up, hailing from a generation who were not supposed to work outside the home. Ikebana was an area where women could achieve high “professional” rank—although men were typically school headmasters. As a result--there were some rather competitive individuals in the business.

I also wanted to write about the toxic costs of beautiful flowers shipped to us from Latin America, the world of tea ceremony, Japanese restaurants, poetry and kimono fashion. If you want to know what happens to Rei after this exciting cherry blossom spring, The Floating Girl is next in the series.

Here’s what the critics say:

“What Sujata Massey excels in, as evident from two previous Rei Shimura thrillers, is the arranging of plot details, interwoven with sprays of scene and freshly cut dialogue.”

Baltimore Sun

“Her best yet. Intricate plotting and writing as beautiful as the ikebana described.”

Laura Lippman, author of Butchers Hill

“Massey not only fleshes out each of [the] subplots but weaves them together to illuminate conflicts of old and new in Japanese manners, morals, family, and love.”

Kirkus Reviews starred review

“A harmonious mix…The narrative is enhanced greatly by the richly detailed Tokyo setting, from ancient teahouses to arcane rituals involving the cherry blossom festival… An appealing sleuth.”

Publishers Weekly

“The book is a delight…If you missed the first two in the series, don’t miss this one, too.”

Contra Costa Times (CA)

THE FLOWER MASTER

By

Sujata Massey

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2013 by Sujata Massey

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and articles. Please contact sujatamassey.com for more information.

This book was originally published in hardcover by HarperCollins USA in 1999, with ISBN 0-06-I09734-9, and had an Avon Books edition in 2000. The author is grateful for full copyright reversion by HarperCollins in 2012.

Cast of Characters

REI SHIMURA: California girl turned antiques buyer in Japan

NORIE SHIMURA: Rei’s aunt, who is married to Uncle Hiroshi and is the mother of Rei’s doctor-cousin Tsutomu “Tom” Shimura

MASANOBU KAYAMA: Iemoto or ‘headmaster’ of the Kayama School of Ikebana. His daughter, Natsumi, and son, Takeo, are training to take over the business. His wife, Reiko, is deceased.

ERIKO IWATA: longtime Kayama School student who is Norie’s best friend

MRS. KODA: senior administrator at the Kayama School

SAKURA SATO: Kayama School teacher

LlLA BRAITHWAITE: a Kayama School student who heads the foreign students’ association and is Richard Randall’s cousin. Lila is the mother to Donald, David, and Darcy Braithwaite.

MARI KUMAMORI: amateur potter and student at the Kayama School

RICHARD RANDALL: Rei’s close confidant and a Canadian teacher of English

CHE FUJISAWA: an environmental activist from Colombia

ENRIQUE: Peruvian barman who catches Richard’s fancy

LIEUTENANT HATA: Tokyo Metropolitan Police detective

MR. WAKA: proprietor of the Family Mart convenience store

YASUSHI ISHIDA: antiques store owner who serves as Rei’s mentor

MISS OKADA: receptionist at the Kayama School

PLUS a dash of environmentalists, antiques customers, and spoiled children

CHAPTER ONE

Nobody runs in Japan. A nation of naturally fast walkers has no reason to pick up its pace—except for emergencies like a closing train door. During four years in Tokyo, I’ve noticed few runners outside of senior citizens chasing a better cholesterol count, or teenagers trying to make the high-school team.

That morning I was jogging at a pathetically slow pace, the better to weave between office workers without toppling them. The city is crowded, and there are unwritten rules about knocking people down. At the Roppongi Crossing intersection, I had to wait two minutes for the light to change so that I could cross over and go three blocks farther to the Kayama Kaikan, the landmark building that was headquarters for one of Japan’s leading schools of flower arranging.

Being late was my fault. I had lingered over my morning coffee, watered all my plants, and found a half dozen other reasons to dither so that, in the end, I had to jog from the train station to the school. As my aunt Norie frequently points out, my job as a freelance antiques buyer gives me control over my time. Not making it to the Kaikan on time was my own passive-aggressive response to her demands.

As someone who is half-Japanese and half-American, I sometimes struggle to fit in with my father’s Yokohama relatives. I can understand most of the jokes in movies, drink tea correctly, and even prepare my own pickled daikon radishes. Still, I was clueless about ikebana, the uniquely Japanese art of flower arrangement. The last time I’d overstuffed an urn with plum branches, my aunt stared at it without speaking. Shortly after that, she informed me that I was enrolled as a part-time student at the Kayama School.

I had only been to the Kayama Kaikan twice, but that was enough for me to learn that in ikebana, less is more, and I’d rather spend less time arranging flowers in an overheated classroom, and more time outdoors. That Tuesday morning in late March was bright, with temperatures in the sixties—almost time for the blooming of sakura, the cherry trees that are Japan’s premier symbol. A weatherman on the morning news forecast that Tokyo’s cherry trees would be in flower within five days, remaining at peak condition for no more than two weeks. Viewers were encouraged to plan their cherry blossom-viewing parties accordingly.

“But watch closely, because clouds over the moon may mean storms over blossoms!” the reporter added with a corny smile. He was making a double entendre—referring to the likelihood of rain, as well as offering up an old proverb that meant misfortune is lurking even at times of great happiness.

Prediction is a risky game. During the time that I’ve lived in Japan, I’ve marveled at the number of people who insist that the future is determined by patterns held in the past. I’m not good at predicting things; that sunny spring morning, I had no idea what I was running toward. The next fortnight’s cherry blossoms would bring a storm of death and revelation that none of us—my clever aunt, the proverb-quoting newsman, and especially not I—would have expected.

***

The Kayama Kaikan was erected in the 1980s, as Japan soared toward the bubble years of vast economic expansion. The mirrored asymmetrical tower spoke of innovation, wealth, and power, the traits that had made the Kayama family successful in teaching ikebana from the start. Aunt Norie had told me that the land-owning family began the school in the 1860s, when the second son in the family abandoned training as a Buddhist monk, but decided to teach others the flower-arranging skills that he had learned in a temple setting. The students of the first iemoto, or headmaster, were the socially ambitious wives of Japan’s growing merchant class—similar to today’s students, almost all the wives of salarymen.

The Kayama School and many other ikebana schools like it prospered into the twentieth century, but following World War II, there were few Japanese women with the money and leisure to continue flower-arranging studies. Not ready to shut down, the iemoto invited an American general’s wife to see his work, and after she enrolled, many other officers’ wives followed. The Kayama ikebana philosophy became more avant-garde and international, spurred on by the new student body and the current headmaster, who traveled the world. By the late 1960s—a full century after the school had opened its doors—the small cement building where my aunt had trained had grown into a low-rise, which was demolished in turn to give space to the shiny new tower.

Walking through the school’s giant glass doors, I faced its signature artwork, an installation of jagged sandstone boulders. It would have been interesting to climb through the rock garden to examine the flower arrangements peeking from various crannies, but I didn’t have the time. I stepped into the large elevator with mirrored walls and a polished granite floor, and sailed up to the fourth-floor classroom.

Outside the classroom doors, tall containers sat filled with a lavish assortment of flowers and branches. At my previous class I’d learned that each student was allowed to choose a bunch of line materials—branches that would give a dominant shape to the arrangement—and another bunch of smaller, decorative flowers to use as an accent. Today I took the last bunch of cherry blossoms and some white asters, and slipped into the classroom, where a dozen women were working at the two long tables. Aunt Norie was snipping loganberry branches with her best friend, Eriko Iwata, at a table close to the Tiers lectern. Norie and Eriko were like two peas in a pod: both slender housewives in their early fifties, who looked about thirty-five. They wore their hair in pageboy styles, and had chosen similar gabardine slacks and silk blouses with sleeves folded over, exposing their hairless forearms. Why the two of them felt it necessary to shave their forearms, let alone wear silk blouses to a flower-arranging class, was beyond me. I was dressed in a short-sleeved striped cotton sweater over a pair of flared jeans I’d picked up at a teen boutique in the Harajuku district. Even though the jeans were a nice deep black, I doubted my aunt would be fooled into believing they were proper ladies’ trousers.

“Ah, at last it is Rei-san!” chirped Eriko, who had known me long enough to greet me by my first name.

Aunt Norie put down her ikebana scissors with huge, scary blades and looked me over. “Did you have some trouble getting out at the correct subway station?”

“No, I’m just late. Sorry,” I said, perching on a hard stool next to her.

“Your hair looks nice. But such big, ugly shoes!” Norie winced as she regarded my running sneakers. I’d once pointed out that trendy teens were wearing Asics like mine with everything from jeans to dresses, but she countered that a twenty-eight-year-old antiques dealer had no business looking like an eighteen-year-old.”

If it wasn’t for these shoes, I’d be even later. They allow me to run,” I said defensively.

“You haven’t missed anything!” Eriko soothed. “There is plenty of time to make an arrangement before Sakura-san starts the lecture. Just take a container from the shelves the way you did last time.”

If I’d been at home, I would have arranged the three branches of cherry within a few minutes. But the school environment made me nervous, and the branches wouldn’t lean the way I wanted. In the narrow earthenware vase I’d selected from the classroom shelf, they fell against one another instead of stretching up gracefully the way Aunt Norie’s and Eriko’s flowers did. Was I the only one who couldn’t do it? I looked over at the next table.

Lila Braithwaite, a tall Canadian who was president of the foreign students’ association, had mixed cherry with azalea in a very professional arrangement. Nadine St. Giles, her French friend, had chosen the same materials but wasn’t quite as confident using them. I most admired the work of a student called Mari Kumamori. Mari was working with heather, its pale purple blossoms making a delicate contrast with a celadon bowl.

“I like Mari-san’s bowl. Are there any more?” I asked Aunt Norie.

“It’s not the school’s property. She makes her own pottery and must have brought it from home. Anyway, the container you have is correct for your particular arrangement. Just make a slanting fixture, and your branches with stand straight.”

Slanting fixtures, I’d learned the week before, had something to do with cutting a gash into one of the branches before inserting a second, shorter branch into the cut. It was an act of precision that I barely managed before turning to my aunt for help with the next step. After all, she had earned a Kayama teaching degree more than thirty years ago and was in class primarily to be with her friends.

“I can’t get it to look like the picture in my book. And I can’t read the directions.” Because I was a beginner, I had to form my arrangements after models in the Kayama School handbook, earning a stamp for each of them before I could progress to the next one. I could understand the diagrams, but very few of the words.

“Oh, I didn’t know you couldn’t read Japanese.” Eriko sounded mournful. “Let me see if I can find a lesson book with an English translation. That’s how Lila-san and Nadine-san are able to study.”

“Rei-chan, it’s up to you to make your arrangement,” my aunt reproved. “If I move the branches for you, you will not have the confidence you need. There is nothing wrong with making mistakes. And very soon, when you progress to freestyle, you will have to follow your own intuition.”

I was working slowly, distracted by my aunt’s conversation, when the class was called to order by Mrs. Koda, director of the teaching program. “Sakura Sato has graciously agreed to demonstrate to us today the challenges and joys in working with one floral material. After she speaks, I will provide an English translation for our visitors.”

Mrs. Koda spoke English loudly, as if the foreigners in class were not only language-impaired, but also deaf. I was pretty sure this wasn’t meant to be malicious, but it was unfortunate that she’d labeled Lila and Nadine visitors instead of bona fide members of the school. I understood why Aunt Norie had been adamant that I sit with her and Eriko. She didn’t want me to get stuck in the gaijin ghetto.

I hastily finished off my arrangement by throwing in a few asters. My aunt was smiling at Mrs. Koda— she had known her for more than thirty years, ever since my aunt began studying ikebana. I’d seen photographs of Mrs. Koda from that time and found it amusing that she still had not updated her hairstyle from the hard black beehive of her younger days. Despite her thick, upswept bouffant, Mrs. Koda had a drawn, weary-looking face. She had moved slowly when she gave me a tour of the school the previous week, using a cane to help herself along. She’d been apologetic that the school’s headmaster, Masanobu Kayama, was away in Luxembourg, and she promised I’d have the chance for an audience with him some day.

Mrs. Koda bowed deeply to Sakura Sato, a woman of Aunt Norie’s age dressed in a pale pink suit. As Sakura stepped briskly to the lectern and slapped down a notebook, her elbow flew out, causing Mrs. Koda to lose her balance and bump the edge of a student table. The crowd of ladies murmured with concern, and Aunt Norie came forward to take Mrs. Koda’s arm. Seeing no more stools in the classroom, I stood up from mine so the elder lady could take it. Aunt Norie gave an approving glance. Feeling vindicated, but realizing I no longer had a place to sit, I retreated to the back of the classroom. A young man in a Greenpeace T-shirt and jeans was rummaging through a drawer. I perched in a corner that was not in his way and still offered a view of the teacher. “Could someone please lower the blinds? The sun distracts me,” Sakura said, and Eriko, who was close to the window, slipped over and drew the Venetian blinds across the view of the Tokyo skyline.

“As many of you have heard already, the iemoto chose the name Sakura for me when I was selected to become a teacher twenty-four years ago.” Miss Sato delivered a thin, superior smile to us, cementing my instinctive dislike of her. “I had made an arrangement entirely from cherry blossoms that actually was contrary to the mixed materials required for the lesson. I could not help myself—the cherry was so beautiful. It was as if nature had entered me and taken hold.”

Everyone in the room appeared rapt. Some women were writing down her words in their Kayama School notebooks. “Kayama-sensei laughed when he saw my arrangement and said that since I liked cherry blossoms so much, he would give me the formal teaching name Sakura, to celebrate the flowering cherry tree that is our national treasure. And whenever sakura are in bloom, he asks me to come up with something special to decorate our headquarters.”

Aunt Norie had been given the flower name Hasu, meaning “lotus.” She used it only for identification in ikebana exhibitions. I doubted I’d be part of the Kayama School long enough to receive a flower name. Dealing with my own Japanese name, simply pronounced “ray,” had been a complication during my California childhood. There were even troubles in Japan, since the name was written with an unusual kanji character meaning “crystal clarity.”

“As you know,” Sakura said, “it’s a great challenge to communicate the essence of ikebana—heaven and God above man—when the flowers in question are all identical. How does one guard against massing the same color and shape? That is our question for today.” She glanced at the table in front of her, which was bare except for an industrial-looking black container. “My flowers do not seem to be here, nor are my ikebana shears. Could someone please bring them?”

I glanced at the casually dressed young man, since he looked to be the most likely candidate for gofer in the room. He wasn’t bad- looking, with his high cheekbones, golden skin a little darker than mine, and eyes the color of espresso. He stared back at me blankly when I gave him an inquiring look. He clearly didn’t feel obliged to help Sakura. Feeling embarrassed, I looked away but stayed put. I wasn’t doing Sakura any favors, not when she’d caused Mrs. Koda to trip.

Mari Kumamori, the woman who had brought her own celadon dish from home, stood up and spoke softly, using a supreme honorific. “Please, Sakura-sama, exactly what may I bring you?”

“Cherry,” Sakura barked. “Or have you been sleeping while I was talking?”

Mari blushed, and hurried to the outer room where I’d chosen my flowers. She was gone for a long minute, and Sakura filled the time by chattering about how the headmaster had personally asked her to arrange flowers for a big installation in the lobby of the Imperial Hotel. When Mari came back, she hurried up to the front of the room, and whispered something to Sakura, who laughed shortly and addressed the room.

“Apparently cherry is such a popular flower that all of it has been taken for use by the class members. Well, I shall improvise. That is the challenge that faces us when we create ikebana. Remember, the term literally means living flowers. We must endeavor to make the most realistic arrangement with the natural materials to which we have access.”

Her curt words made me feel guilty. I’d been the one to take the last bunch of cherry blossoms from the bucket in the hall. I could race to my flower arrangement and retrieve the few inferior branches that I hadn’t yet cut up, but I could imagine how nastily she would accept them.

“I shall use forsythia,” Sakura said to Mari, who ran out again to bring a big bunch of green-and-yellow branches to the head teacher. “Please strip the bottom foliage,” Sakura commanded her volunteer assistant. Mari had given her own scissors to Sakura, so she was forced to rip off the offending leaves with her bare hands.

“With this design, I am creating a contrast between light and dark,” Sakura lectured. “The container is a length of industrial drainpipe that I painted black—an unorthodox material that reflects Kayama innovation. Any material, from drainpipe to wire netting or paper, may be combined with fresh materials. In all situations, the characteristics of the materials must be vividly expressed. If the container and flowers do not truly relate, the work will not be beautiful.”

I was skeptical about whether Sakura could succeed in making the crude drainpipe beautiful. She thrust forsythia branches into holes she had punched at various places in the pipe, and in the end created something that looked remarkably like a black centipede with long, funny yellow legs. Had the cherry branches been available, the centipede would have been pink.

Sakura showed her versatility by arranging more forsythia in an antique stone container, a fairly classic arrangement that made everyone sigh in relief. She took a few softball questions from the audience, then set out to evaluate each student’s arrangement, the entire cluster of women following her to hear the verdict. She praised the first few students profusely, but was surprisingly cool to Lila Braithwaite.

“By stressing the idea of shape, you are losing the truth in the flower’s nature,” Sakura told Lila, who nodded, looking unhappy when she heard Mrs. Koda’s translation of the words. On the other hand, Lila’s friend Nadine’s lopsided arrangement of cherry blossoms received a sweet smile and a compliment on her sense of color. Both women had identical flowers. Why did one get praise and the other criticism?

Sakura dismissed Mari Kumamori’s heather arrangement by saying the pale green of the celadon was wrong for the flowers. Mari bowed very low and thanked Sakura for her wise criticism. I was curious what Sakura would say about Aunt Norie’s arrangement. Last time Norie had mentioned that she, Eriko, and Sakura had begun studying together the same year, but Norie and Eriko had both taken off for more than a decade to care for their young children. Sakura had never married, so she stayed active in the school, rising to become a staff teacher. My aunt had a second-degree teaching certificate, and Eriko had a third-degree one, which meant that both of them were entitled to teach classes in their homes but not at headquarters.

Aunt Norie had assembled a mass of fluffy white rhododendrons accented with loganberry vines. The arrangement in a blue glass container had a snappy feeling, like my aunt herself.

“Well, Shimura-san. You used rhododendron.” Sakura paused. “It is such a common bush.” She bowed slightly, and Aunt Norie responded in kind. When Norie’s face came up, I read the irritation. Sakura had not criticized her outright, but she had refused to give anything that could be regarded as praise. She had said rhododendrons were common. Nothing more.

Eriko received similar treatment. “What a classic container,” Sakura said, tapping the smooth length of bamboo springing with long grasses and camellia blooms. She moved on, not saying anything about the flowers. It was hard for me to understand why my aunt and Eriko even bothered with the class, except that Sakura Sato wasn’t always the lecturer. The previous week Mrs. Koda had given an interesting talk on hanging arrangements, and her comments when she’d come around the room had been helpful.

Now it was my turn.

“You are Shimura-san’s niece from California? I see the family resemblance.” Sakura took in my clothing, then the cherry branches I’d arranged. I wondered if she’d deduced that I’d taken the last bunch.

“May I touch your arrangement?” Without waiting for my answer, Sakura reached in and touched the branches making up my slanting fixture. They fell apart, but she wasn’t interested in that. “The parts of these branches that are underwater still have some foliage.” She tapped the tiny cherry blossom buds that I hadn’t removed.

“I didn’t want to cut off anything that might bloom later,” I explained. There was such a deathly silence in the room, I wondered if I’d accidentally used an impolite word. Then I realized the mistake. I was the first person who’d made an excuse for doing something wrong.

“As you arrange more flowers, you will notice that water contaminated by plant matter will begin teeming with bacteria, thus cutting short the life of your arrangement.” Sakura whisked sharp scissors out of her suit pocket and began snipping away the buds. “The lines are wrong in this arrangement. Isn’t this lesson eight, basic slanting style?”

“It’s lesson three, actually. Basic upright style,” I said.

“How far your branch leans! Much greater than fifteen degrees.”

She removed my branches and rearranged them according to her desire. “It’s surprising to have junior-level students in this advanced class. Normally one must have completed the beginner’s book to enroll in this class. I suppose family connections make such things possible, neh?”

Without bowing, Sakura moved on to the next person. Unfortunately, I knew that she was right: I’d been admitted because Aunt Norie had sweet-talked Mrs. Koda.

But my aunt couldn’t let things go. In a pleasant but firm voice, she called after the teacher, “Sakura-sensei, is there a problem?”

Without turning around, the head teacher said, “I’m afraid I must discuss the next student’s arrangement. If you have questions, please see me after class.”

“The school’s teachers certainly have changed their attitude since I was a young student. I apologize to everyone present for you,” Norie called out clearly. With her falsely courteous manners, Aunt Norie was picking a fight. Everyone knew it. The other women in the class started studying the floor.

Sakura finally decided to face my petite aunt. She had a six-inch advantage and a voice that carried a cool, menacing authority. “Shimura-san, you know the motto for the school is truth—”

“Truth in Nature!” Norie interrupted. “Flowers should be the focus of our class, not personal situations.”

All the women began murmuring as if to cover up the breach of etiquette that had occurred. Only the sharp crack of a wooden stick stopped the verbal explosion.

“Be quiet, please!” Mrs. Koda returned her cane to her side and spoke up in her quavering voice. “It is time for our class tea break. Everyone please be quiet and drink tea!”

CHAPTER TWO

“I’m not going back. It was like a Wild West showdown, only the gun-toting cowboys were replaced by ladies wearing silk and carrying scissors,” I told Richard Randall later that night at the Mister Donut near Sendagi Station. In the time I’d taken to tell the details of my dreadful class experience, I’d accordion-pleated my paper napkin into something like origami. I was still upset.

“Your aunt sounds like she has a split personality!” Richard mused. “Why else would she speak out like that? Japanese people have the best manners. They would sooner die than cause a scene.”

A teenage boy two tables away suddenly decided to stand on his chair and begin singing an Oasis song.

“You were saying something about the Japanese?” I reminded Richard, indicating my head toward the boy.

“He’s not the norm. He’s drunk and sixteen,” Richard said, looking the boy over a little more fully. “Mmm. Think he’s interested in improving his English?”

“He’s got a girlfriend.” I inclined my head at a teenager with dyed red hair and a Hello Kitty lunchbox.

“How do you know? They could be like us, a pair of asexual soul mates.”

When I’d first arrived in Tokyo, Richard and I had shared a miserable apartment while we taught English to kitchenware salesmen. We drifted apart when I’d become romantically involved with a Scottish lawyer. Like most foreigners, Hugh Glendinning eventually left Japan for home. He became deeply involved with organizing the new Scottish parliament, and with the Honorable Fiona Somebody, according to the gossip pages in Tatler. I’d called up Hugh’s international toll-free number to find out the details, but the number had been disconnected.

Feeling abandoned, I’d plunged into work. Eventually I had enough money to rent a small one-bedroom apartment in a historic inner-city neighborhood called Yanaka. The apartment was on the ground floor of a seventy-year-old, barely renovated wooden house. To most Japanese, it appeared to be a nightmare dwelling, but I thought it was charming. I had painted the walls the color of dried persimmons, laid fresh tatami mat flooring, and installed a brand-new peach bathtub and matching tiled wall and floor. There was no central heat or air-conditioning, but I loved the place, which had the benefit of proximity to Richard’s language school in Ocha-No-Mizu. After Richard finished teaching he often dropped by for dinner, and even occasionally could be persuaded to spend a Sunday morning shopping the antiques flea markets with me. I valued him more for his company than his muscle power. At five-feet-four inches, Richard was exactly my height, but skinnier. His slight frame, combined with white-blond hair and blue eyes, gave him the look of a delicate angel, the kind of doll that filled Tokyo department-store windows at Christmas. Ladies would beg to help carry his load, which worked out well for both of us.

“I think you should go back to that flower-arranging school just to see what happens next week. And it could only improve your social life.”

“What do you mean? It’s all women, except for one lazy young man who might have been a florist. If the worker could have found Sakura some more cherry blossoms, maybe she wouldn’t have gone off on such a tear in the classroom.”

Richard raised his eyebrows. “Think he’s gay?”

“Just because a man works with flowers doesn’t mean he’s gay. You, of all people, should be ashamed of yourself for your stereotyping.” I couldn’t help admitting, though, that I’d wondered the same, since the florist had looked right through me.

“I’m looking to meet someone, okay? Don’t be so uptight,” Richard said, his mouth full of bean-paste doughnut. “So what’s the reason for the long-simmering vendetta? Did your aunt ever explain?”

“Of course not. She went into the ladies’ room for ten minutes and came out with red eyes and a little white mask stretched over her nose and mouth. She said she had to go home because her allergies were acting up.”

The excuse had been almost plausible because a sizable number of Japanese people wore gauze facemasks to avoid cedar and cherry blossom pollen. However, Aunt Norie had planted both kinds of tree in her home garden, so I doubted her allergy. She probably was carrying the mask around in her purse because it was left over from the last time she suffered a cold.

“Sakura seems more involved than Norie in school politics. That could be cause for friction,” Richard said.

“But Sakura’s already on top. Her behavior to my aunt and the others before her was incredibly rude. I don’t know why the school lets her carry on that way.”

“You could complain to the headmaster.”

I laughed in astonishment. “Richard, I’ve only been to the school twice. I’m not even supposed to be in the advanced class, but my aunt convinced Mrs. Koda to allow me to work at my beginning lessons with my aunt at my side. Given such privileges, I really have no right to complain.”

“Maybe my cousin could say something.” Richard sipped his coffee, staring pensively at the young couple kissing each other at their table.

“Don’t tell me you have some secret Japanese relatives,” I teased.

“No, but my cousin Lila takes classes at the Kayama School. She moved here a year ago, but you were too busy with His Hugeness for me to introduce you.”

I decided to overlook his cruel joke about Hugh’s name. “Lila Braithwaite, the president of the foreign students’ association? There’s not much resemblance between you two.”

“Her father was French-Canadian. She inherited dark hair, and a taste for Hermes scarves. She’s also got three little kids who are a riot. She recruits me to baby-sit when her nanny can’t take it anymore.”

I didn’t know Richard was a baby-sitter, but it made sense, given his playful nature. I asked, “What does Lila tell you about the Kayama School?”

“Not much. She started studying flower arranging when she got here. Her husband’s pretty high-ranking at some Canadian steel company, so she gets asked to chair various ladies’ committees. But for expat society, she’s not bad. She shops a lot.”

“Antiques?”

“Rei, they have a cost of living allowance. Of course she buys antiques. Actually, she inhales them. You should hit her up.”

I would do as he suggested. Newcomers to Japan were wonderful customers because their apartments were bare and their sponsor companies often provided generous expense accounts. That had been Hugh’s situation. I’d transformed his apartment into a veritable showplace. When he gave up his apartment, he asked me to sell everything. Then he wouldn’t take the money. Unable to bring myself to spend it, I threw it into the U.S. stock market. It was a smart move. But as the dividends grew, so did my sadness.

***

The next morning I left a message on Lila Braithwaite’s answering machine about the interesting assortment of antique Japanese china I had for sale. Then I called a country auctioneer about an upcoming sale I needed to attend. When the other line beeped, I switched lines.

“My dear niece!” It was Aunt Norie.

“May I call you right back? I’m on a business call. Are you home?” I knew my aunt’s morning schedule, and since it was only 9 A.M., she probably hadn’t yet hung out the day’s laundry.

“You don’t want to talk to me.” Her voice broke. “Well, I can understand that, after my appalling performance yesterday! You must want to disown me.”

I told Norie to hold on while I got off the phone with the auctioneer. When I came back, she sounded cheerful.

“Rei-chan, we are going to make amends. This afternoon we will go to the Kayama School and present some gifts to Mrs. Koda and Sakura Sato. We have to do it. The school is going to invite its top members to do a big exhibition at the Mitsutan department store, and I cannot have bad feelings during that time. I also want to save your chance to make a good impression in the school.”

“Sakura was being honest when she said l didn’t belong in that class,” I reminded Norie. “I’m no good at ikebana. Let me work in your garden or something. I like flowers, but I don’t want to stay in the Kayama School.”

There was a long silence. “You mean you want to quit your study of ikebana? To quit is unlike you.”

She was right. Since I’d come to Japan, I’d never quit studying kanji characters. I’d never stopped learning new dishes, new vocabulary, and new ways to survive and thrive. I mumbled, “I’m just not talented, and it’s so expensive for you to pay my way. I’d pay for the classes myself if I wanted to go on, but I really don’t want to!” As I made my excuses, I was aware of how lame they sounded.

“I prepaid your classes through July,” Aunt Norie said flatly. “That’s how I managed to get you enrolled in that special class with me.”

“Let me reimburse you.”

“Inside a family there is no such thing as reimbursement. Tell me, what would your father think about you quitting your studies prematurely? I believe he would be very disappointed.”

My father, who practiced psychiatry in San Francisco, had emigrated to the United States in part for a greater sense of personal freedom. If I told him what Aunt Norie was putting me through, he’d recite a soliloquy on the manipulative power of Asian families and then tell me to come home—that is, to the United States.

“I cannot force you to go,” my aunt continued. “However, I would like you to speak to Mrs. Koda. Otherwise she may think you were pressured to leave the school, and that would be very bad for morale.”

“I’ll go with you,” I said at last. “But not today. At three I’ve got to see a client.”

“We’ll meet after your appointment, at five o’clock inside My Magic Forest in Roppongi. I’ll pick up the gifts there. I’ll be wearing my yellow Hanae Mori suit, so please dress yourself accordingly.”

With that fashion directive, my aunt rang off.

***

That afternoon I made some quick yen appraising the porcelain collection of an old woman who was handing her house over to her children, minus its contents. As I admired Mrs. Morita’s pieces of old Imari porcelain, I listened to the story about how she had acquired them as trousseau gifts in the I920s.

“I can photograph the pieces, if you like, and try to find some buyers,” I said. “It’s much nicer that way—no chance of damage or theft, the way you would have in a shop.

“What kind of people are these buyers?” Mrs. Morita sounded suspicious.

“High-class ladies who want to treasure Japan’s past. I have many contacts in the international community,” I said, thinking of Lila Braithwaite.

“You should find a Japanese buyer, not a foreigner,” Mrs. Morita told me.

“Foreigners are the only people who would buy a set like that,” I said, indicating four dinner-size round blue-and-white plates decorated with a little bit of red, green, and gilt overglaze. The plates were pretty, showing a rock garden with a plum tree, small chrysanthemums, and bamboo. The china wouldn’t attract Japanese buyers, who usually insisted on buying plates in sets of five. Foreigners didn’t know the importance of having a good-luck number like five for their dishes.

“Yes, I know it’s an odd number of dishes,” Mrs. Morita said, grimacing. “I had them buried away, so I’d almost forgotten about them. You may as well take them with you. If you can sell them, I will consider giving you the chance to sell my other things.”

That was a pleasing bit of serendipity. I carefully wrapped the plates in tissue paper and placed them in their original container, a sturdy pine box. Then Mrs. Morita surprised me by wrapping the box in a pretty pink scarf, creating a furoshiki carrier that I could take with me on the street.

“Keep the furoshiki,” she told me. “It is cherry blossom pink, and you can always use it as a scarf around the neck of that lovely dress.”

Having taken Aunt Norie’s fashion hint, I was wearing a dress, pale pink pique with white collar and cuffs. The A-line shift came only to mid-thigh, but the white collar and cuffs made it almost school-girlish, a perennial hot look in Tokyo. I caught a few glances while walking through Mrs. Morita’s expensive neighborhood. The dress was one that my mother had worn at the end of the swinging sixties. I imagined she was a startling vision of glamour to my father, a young resident struggling hard to stay awake at Johns Hopkins Hospital. My father’s parents had been unhappy when he announced his plans to many an American woman, but his younger brother, Hiroshi, who eventually married Norie, had been supportive. Beginning when I was very young, Uncle Hiroshi and Aunt Norie had invited me to stay with them in Yokohama every summer. These regular visits made me fall in love with my father’s country, something that ultimately backfired on my parents. I’d gone home to San Francisco only once in four years—and that was because I needed knee surgery.

I glanced down at my left knee, which looked sturdy under the sheer nylon stockings I was wearing. A car had hit me the previous summer, but my knee had healed well. Otherwise I never could have managed the many flights of stairs involved in Tokyo living. I was slightly out of breath when I climbed out of the correct subway exit at Roppongi Station and set off for My Magic Forest.

When Japanese retailers appropriate English names for their businesses, the results are often comical. But My Magic Forest fit its fairy-tale name. Stepping inside, I passed between thirty-foot faux Greek columns draped in ivy and Christmas tree lights. From there, I could spend an hour happily wandering through the dimly lit fantasy flower market. I strolled from a Dutch tulip farm with a small windmill, to a cheerful English cottage garden, and then into Tuscany, where lemon trees sprang from terra-cotta pots and white roses spilled out of an antique-looking urn.

The Kayama School ordered flowers from the same suppliers who served My Magic Forest, but the materials I’d seen at the school were less lavish than the shop’s regular stock. I bent over the $500 verdigris urn and inhaled the scent of the luscious roses, $15 apiece. In this place, the Japanese philosophy of less is more had been thrown out of the stained-glass window.

“Rei-chan! Isn’t this a lovely place?” My aunt had crept up behind me. She was holding a wicker shopping basket already filled with a porcelain flowerpot painted in a lively Portuguese style, and a pair of cast-iron ikebana shears with oversized circular handles.

“Lovely.” I faltered at the ten-thousand-yen price tag. At the current rate of 145 yen to the U.S. dollar, the shears cost about seventy dollars. “Are you sure you want to give such expensive presents? There are other things on sale. Look at the iris.”

“The teachers receive all the flowers they want at school. Quality tools are a better gift. Don’t you remember how Sakura needed a pair of shears? It would be thoughtful to give her a brand-new pair. And Mrs. Koda has a small window garden at her apartment, so a nice pot would be very welcome.”

“I owe you five thousand yen for the shears. How much for the other?” I asked dutifully.

“You owe nothing, although I’m going to say the presents are from both of us, neh? I’m the one who caused the embarrassment. Besides, I have a frequent-shopper card, so these two purchases will take me a little closer to choosing a ten-thousand-yen gift for myself.”

By the time Aunt Norie had paid for the gifts, the weather outside had changed. It was raining, but a large group of people had gathered at the shop’s entrance. There was nothing unusual about crowds on the Roppongi streets, especially outside the record store on the day a new Namie Amuro disc is released. But this time several dozen denim-clad young people had congregated directly in front of My Magic Forest, barring the door. They waved signs in Japanese, English, and Spanish. I rarely used my high-school Spanish, so I had to think a little before I could translate the messages. BEAUTIFUL FLOWERS KILL PEOPLE, one sign read. A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME STINKS. END PESTICIDE USE.

“It’s an anti-flower group,” I said, looking closely at the young protesters. About half were Japanese; the others looked Latino, or had a combination of Japanese features and darker skin. I guessed that the last group was descended from Japanese people who had immigrated to Latin America at the turn of the century. Their offspring often returned to work in Japan. Japanese pay, even for lowly jobs in restaurants and construction, was higher than in their home countries.

“The signs in Japanese say ‘Blossoms Bring Storms’ and all that nonsense. Come, let’s look for a taxi.” Aunt Norie, small as she was, plunged into the solid wall of people, leading with her left shoulder weighted with her school tote bag.

“Buying flowers from Colombia supports an industry that is killing its workers. Madam, you surely don’t want to kill?” a young woman implored my aunt.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Aunt Norie gave her the kind of benevolent smile one gives preschoolers blocking an escalator.

“Japanese people demand extremely fresh and beautiful flowers from overseas. For you, the flower ranchers in Colombia spray their flowers with ten different pesticides. Female workers cut the flowers, and they become ill. Their babies are born deformed. At least twenty-eight people have died from pesticide exposure!”

Aunt Norie’s face fell, and I imagined she was thinking about the many bunches of imported flowers she used weekly for ikebana. In a halting voice, she asked, “Which flowers are these?”

“Roses and carnations are the most common imports from Colombia, but there are others. If you boycott the store with us, it will force the flower ranchers to change their ways.”

But if the flower shipments to Japan decreased, the ranchers would need to grow even sturdier, longer-lasting blooms, and so they would have to use stronger chemicals, wouldn’t they? I wanted to ask the young woman, but she was blocked by a young man with Japanese eyes, and thick, curly black hair. The man wore a denim jacket embroidered with the name CHE on one side and STOP KILLING FLOWERS on the other.

“Will you join our boycott? Are you a flower lover or a people lover?” Che demanded.

Aunt Norie retorted, “Actually, I respect all forms of life. I would like to hear more, but I must hurry to make it to the Kayama Kaikan.”

“The Kayama School’s headquarters? That school is completely amoral! They spend a fortune on flowers from my homeland. There are babies being miscarried or born without arms, all because the Kayama School ladies love flowers more than people!” Che’s face was inches away from Norie’s, and I could see her begin to cower.

The Kayama family are the Nazis of the flower world!” another protester chimed in.

“Yes, indeed.” Che was a small man, but he thrust his body forward aggressively. “Since you honorable customers buy flowers from the Kayamas and this wretched retailer, you’re as good as double murderers!”

“But I didn’t buy flowers. Look!” Aunt Norie tore the seal off the top of her shopping bag, and pulled out a gift-wrapped box. When the crowd still did not part for her, she unwrapped the box and pulled out the ikebana scissors, holding them high in the air.

“She has a weapon!” Che bellowed. “Comrades, employ passive resistance!”

Of course, the crowd broke into pandemonium. People cried things to one another in Spanish and Japanese: “Be careful!” “Call the police!” “Remember passive resistance!”

Aunt Norie kept the shears in the air, and I tightly clutched the package of Mrs. Morita’s plates as we scurried through. She was shaking, and I had a run in my panty hose, when we finally settled into a taxi that stopped for us a block away.

“I was sympathetic to those people, but they turned on us! Can you believe they thought I was violent?” Aunt Norie sniffled into her handkerchief.

“They shouldn’t single out the Kayama School. There are hundreds of flower-arranging school’s in Japan. I’m sure all of them use Colombian flowers!” I was surprised to hear myself defending the ikebana school, but Che and his gang had been pretty frightening.

“Our iemoto is one of Japan’s ten wealthiest individuals. That makes him an easy mark, but it is unfair to target him. If those young people spent half an hour with Masanobu-san, they would learn what a great man he is.”

I guessed that Aunt Norie could use the headmaster’s first name because she had been one of his students long ago. She had been part of the inner circle. As we got out of the taxi and stepped up to the Kayama Kaikan, the doorman who had watched me enter without lifting a finger the previous day, rushed to open the door for Aunt Norie.

“Shimura-san, you must be here for the Mitsutan exhibition planning.” The young woman receptionist in a green suit beckoned my aunt over to her polished paulownia desk. The table was bare except for a vase with a sole white calla lily that looked as suggestive as the ones Georgia O’Keeffe had made famous.

“I’d almost forgotten about the meeting. Okada-san, can you tell us where it is being held?” Aunt Norie asked.

“In the fourth-floor classroom,” Miss Okada replied. “They’ll be glad you are participating. Your arrangements are always among my favorites.”

“Oh, my work is just average,” my aunt said. “Actually, I have an inconvenient request—I must wrap up a gift in some nice paper. Do you have wrapping paper anywhere in the building?”

“I have a roll of washi paper in my office. It is flecked with dried cherry blossom petals, which makes it appropriate for this season!” Miss Okada beamed at this opportunity to help out. “Please come back in ten minutes and I’ll have it wrapped up for you.”

“Ara! How can the ladies be glad to see me when I was not invited?” Aunt Norie fumed when the elevator doors had closed and we were heading up to the second floor, not the fourth. “That meeting is surely a gossip festival. Well, our troubles will be over after we deliver these gifts to Koda-san and Sakura-san.”

“I hope we find them, because I don’t want to have to come back another day.” My knee was beginning to throb. I’d twisted it during our dash through the picket line.

We passed a section of secretaries working at computer terminals; all of them wore heavy aprons, the protective kind of garment I’d worn when my knee was being X-rayed the year before. In Japan, it was believed that computer monitors gave off radiation that could harm women’s reproductive tracts.

Suddenly my aunt said, “Oh, look down the hall by the administrative offices. That’s Natsumi Kayama, the headmaster’s daughter. I want to introduce you to Natsumi-san and her twin brother, Takeo.”

We approached Natsumi Kayama, my aunt beaming while I kept a neutral expression. Natsumi was dressed in a sunny yellow and orange Lilly Pulitzer dress—a highly exclusive label, sold only at Mitsutan—with orange stiletto-heeled pumps that made her slim legs look marvelous. I remembered the run in my own stocking but couldn’t think of a way to hide it. Natsumi had smiled automatically at Aunt Norie, but was gazing at me as if she’d discovered a long-lost friend.

“Courreges?” Natsumi breathed, and I realized she was talking about my dress.

I nodded. “It was my mother’s. I took it out of her closet when I was last home.”

“Natsumi-san, may I present my niece Rei Shimura? Rei was born in San Francisco but lives here now. Natsumi arranges flowers with a very youthful spirit,” my aunt said to me.

“I’m really bad at it,” Natsumi tittered. “They say I have been studying for a long time because I am slow.”

“Nonsense! You have arranged some very special floral displays in fashion boutiques—Rei, I’m sure you saw the one that was photographed for Hanako,” my aunt said.

Being unable to read standard adult-level Japanese, I rarely bought young women’s magazines like Hanako. So I smiled politely and asked Natsumi if she’d seen Mrs. Koda. We could at least get that part of the business done before picking up the wrapped scissors to give to Sakura Sato.

“Ah, Koda-san! I was looking for her, too. Nobody has seen her for at least an hour but she must be nearby. Because of her cane, she cannot walk too far.”

“Maybe she is in the meeting taking place on the fourth floor?” I asked.

“That’s finished. The ladies are drinking tea in the restaurant,” Natsumi said.

“Where is Sakura-san? Maybe she can help us,” Aunt Norie suggested, and I could envision the wheels turning as she tried to get us back to our agenda.

“Mmm, she’s probably still inside the fourth-floor classroom. You have missed the meeting about the Mitsutan exhibition, haven’t you?”

“Thank you, Natsumi-san. Give my regards to Takeo-san and your esteemed father. Let’s go up to the classroom, Rei.” My aunt seemed annoyed at the second mention of the meeting from which she’d been excluded. As I started to follow her toward the elevator, Natsumi stopped me.

“You’ve got a hole in your stocking,” she whispered. “I have an unopened package of stockings in my desk that you could have.”

I smiled at her. “Thanks, but it’s okay.”

“Sakura will notice,” she warned. “She is so very critical! I don’t want your feelings to be hurt.”

Judging by the sheen on Natsumi’s long, slender legs, I imagined she was wearing something pretty expensive. I’d probably get a snag putting on her spare stockings, and replacing them would break my budget. I shook my head and said, “Please don’t worry. And thank you very much for your kind offer.”

I swung away from her worried face and went to the elevator. The doors had closed, and it appeared that my aunt had gone up to the fourth floor without me.

I pressed the call button and waited for a while, watching a panel of lights over the door tell me where the elevator was traveling. It went all the way up to the ninth floor and then slowly descended, stopping on each floor before the empty elevator finally arrived. I got in and used the mirrored wall to do a quick lipstick touch-up. Natsumi’s perfect looks had made me self-conscious.

I took the elevator to the fourth floor, where I stepped out into the foyer where I’d picked up my cherry branches for the previous day’s class. I did not see Aunt Norie. She might have gone into the classroom. The door was closed, so I knocked on it.

A soft noise coming from within sounded like a cat’s meow, and I recoiled. I associate cats with death because of a bad experience from a year earlier. Since then Richard had tried to get me interested in adopting a kitten, but I’d always refused. Cats scared me. To be on the safe side, I laid down the package of antique plates and opened the classroom door.

My aunt was at the distant end of the room by the blackboard and teaching table. I heard the mewing again and realized it was her voice. I drew closer and saw she was bent over a long white boulder. A woman was lying on the ground. Somebody had fallen, and Aunt Norie was staying with her until help arrived. I rushed forward to see what had happened.

Aunt Norie looked up at me, and her face was wet with tears. She croaked, “Stay away, Rei-chan! Don’t come near. Don’t look, I beg you!”

But I’d already seen Sakura Sato laid out on her back as if in slumber. Her eyes were closed, but her mouth gaped, revealing a few gold fillings. Blood trickled in a sticky red river down the neck of her white silk blouse. At the source of the river was an instrument: the ikebana scissors. I recognized the oversized black handles and looked to Aunt Norie for confirmation.

But she wasn’t there.

CHAPTER THREE

I fled into the hall, the door knocking against the package of plates I’d left outside. The row of lights above the elevator showed it was on the ninth floor, so I ducked into the emergency exit staircase and began running downstairs. I heard footsteps a few flights down from me. When I burst out on the second floor near the administrative office, I found my aunt collapsed in the arms of Miss Okada.

“Sakura,” Aunt Norie moaned. “Sakura!”

When the police came, I was stunned to see among the stern-looking blue-suited men, a young Japanese officer with unruly black hair and warm brown eyes that I knew well. Lieutenant Hata, of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police, had helped me through a series of adventures the year before. I shouldn’t have been surprised to see him there, since Roppongi was his territory. He raised one eyebrow slightly as a sign of greeting but didn’t say anything more, probably due to the presence of an inspector from the National Police Agency. The inspector was a bossy-looking man in his forties who was loudly asking questions of the doorman, the only male Kayama employee in sight.

As this inspector started querying Aunt Norie, she broke down sobbing on the shoulder of Miss Okada. Lieutenant Hata urged her to sit down, and the inspector began grilling me. I was going over the sequence of events as carefully as possible, when the school’s elevator announced its arrival with an electronic chirp. As the doors parted I saw Natsumi Kayama’s bright yellow and orange dress. She had her back to us and was arguing loudly with somebody in the elevator.

“I cannot stand the way you behave!” she was saying to whoever was with her. As her companion hit the elevator door to keep it from closing and stepped around her, I recognized the cool young man who had been at the previous day’s ikebana class. Instead of jeans, he was wearing a loose-fitting linen suit. He looked elegant and intensely annoyed, as he stepped around Natsumi and headed down the hall.

“You can’t do it. Don’t try!” Natsumi hustled down the hail after him, but at seeing all of us, she stopped and bowed. “Oh, I’m sorry! My brother and I had a slight disagreement. I hope we didn’t disturb you.”

So the insolent-looking young man who’d been lounging in the back of the class was a Kayama. It made sense. Even though women made up the vast majority of the millions of ikebana practitioners in Japan and throughout the world, men were almost always the school headmasters.

“Why aren’t you at the front desk?” Takeo asked Miss Okada. “If the police need help, you should have telephoned Mrs. Koda.”

“She’s not here! I looked everywhere!” Aunt Norie spoke shrilly, her first real sentence since the police had come.

Lieutenant Hata’s attention turned from me to the Kayama heir. As he began introducing himself to Takeo Kayama, the young man cut him off.

“Nice to see you. We already donated money to the neighborhood beautification campaign.”

Lieutenant Hata smiled tightly and told Takeo that he was not there to solicit funds. He explained to him that Norie and I had found Sakura Sato upstairs, and that the medics who had tended to her had declared her deceased.

At this retelling of the cold, hard facts, Natsumi gave a small bleat and swayed as if she was going to faint. Takeo caught her by the arm just as the elevator door opened once more, and a half dozen flower-arranging students filed out. The ladies stopped short at the sight of all the men in blue.

“I thought the school was officially closed! How many people are in the building?” The National Police inspector sounded furious.

“I don’t know exactly, “ Takeo Kayama said. “With staff and other students, perhaps thirty.”

“In a ten-story building? That is relatively few.”

“Floors six through eight are vacant space,” Miss Okada explained. “Ten is the Kayama family penthouse, and as you can see, the iemoto’s children are here.”

“Seal the exits,” the inspector directed two assistants. “Miss Okada, please help them.”

“But our families are expecting us to come home to make dinner,” Eriko said. She obviously had no idea of what was going on. The other Japanese women began murmuring, and the two foreigners in the group, Lila Braithwaite and Nadine St. Giles, looked toward me for help. Mari Kumamori, the student with a talent for pottery, seemed frozen in place.

“Sakura Sato is dead,” I said in English. Lila gasped and Nadine reached toward her, inadvertently knocking against the receptionist’s table. The calla lily arrangement fell over, spilling water across the glossy rosewood surface. The spreading water on the red wood reminded me of Sakura’s blood, which by this time had probably flowed enough to make a red sea.

The National Police Agency inspector tapped the slate floor impatiently with the tip of an umbrella. “Shimura-san, we need you and your niece to accompany us upstairs and retrace your steps toward the scene of the death.”

“I can’t. Oh, please.” Aunt Norie began sobbing, and Eriko rushed to embrace her friend.

“She is in shock. She must take a rest,” Eriko said sternly to Lieutenant Hata.

“Yes, I’ve been trying to get her to sit down for the last five minutes. Can you help with that? In the meantime, the niece will accompany me upstairs,” Lieutenant Hata said. I followed him into the elevator, admiring the way he hit the door-close button so swiftly that the inspector had no chance to follow us. Well, he would probably be busy enough questioning all the ladies.

“The National Police Agency heard what happened over a scanner. Murder is big enough news for them to get involved in Metropolitan Police business. Especially in this neighborhood.” He raised his eyebrows at me. “I’m sorry, Shimura-san. How are you?”

“Pretty upset. Do I have to look again?”

“Not so much at the body, but at the scene. I want you to explain again what you noticed before and after you entered the room. I’m hoping that will help you remember more details than you told us downstairs.”

I’d thought that I’d done a pretty thorough job of talking. I didn’t respond, just stared at the elevator floor. There were a few cherry blossoms in a corner that had probably fallen off the bundle of flowers a student was taking home.

“It will take only a minute, Shimura-san.” As we stepped off the elevator, Hata and I took off our shoes, leaving them with a line of footwear that had been taken off by crime personnel already collecting evidence in the room.

I walked forward in my sheer stockings with the worsening run in them and looked at Sakura’s body.

To my relief, her blood hadn’t formed a lake. It had not dripped much further than her collarbone. A police photographer tiptoed around her taking photographs, while three other officers crawled on the floor collecting pieces of dirt for later analysis.

Sakura looked the same. The scissors were still buried in her neck. But there was something different about the lighting. I said, “The window blinds were open when I walked in and saw my aunt and Sakura. Somebody closed them.”

“We did that for lighting. And to keep people outside from looking in,” the photographer said.

The Kayama Kaikan was covered in mirrored glass; you could see out but not in during daylight hours. I supposed the photographer hadn’t thought of that. In fact, the only reason the blinds were ever used was because the midday sun could be blinding. The day before, Sakura had asked for the blinds to be drawn so that she could see her work better.

“Sir, there is a suspicious package outside the classroom door.”

Another officer came in from the hallway to Hata, and we followed him out to Mrs. Morita’s furoshiki. I explained the package contained a box of plates that had been consigned to me.

“Just in case, may I check inside?” Hata asked me.

“Sure.”

“Dust for prints,” Hata said, and the young officer untied the furoshiki and spread powder over the wooden box, quickly tracing the fingerprints I was sure would prove to be Mrs. Morita’s and mine.

When the box was carefully opened, the other officer became very excited. “Someone must have stolen one of these antique plates. The box with five spaces has only four filled.”

“I was given four,” I explained. “That’s why I’m trying to sell them.”

From the way he and the photographer exchanged glances, they obviously thought it was a lost cause.

Lieutenant Hata rode the elevator down to the second floor with me.

“Do you need assistance getting home?” he asked.

“You mean you’ll let me go free?” I was amazed, given my previous experiences with the Japanese police.

“You’re not going to flee the country, are you?”

I shook my head. “I’m just going to northeast Tokyo. My new address is on this business card.”

“We will keep you and your aunt informed about everything. This was a terrible thing for you to witness, but I know you will have the strength to get through.”

Lieutenant Hata let me use his pocket phone to call my cousin Tsutomu ‘Tom’Shimura at St. Luke’s International Hospital. Aunt Norie was too shaken to travel back to Yokohama alone, but she insisted that I not go out of my way to accompany her home. After I told Tom the facts, he said he would get another doctor to cover his shift and come to the Kayama Kaikan to take his mother home.

True to his word, a half-hour later Tom had arrived still wearing a white doctor’s coat over a nondescript gray suit. A few of the ikebana students looked at him approvingly; he was in his early thirties, handsome, and without a wedding ring, perfect for somebody’s daughter.

“How did this happen, Rei?” Tom’s face was red, as if he’d run for miles instead of just stepping out of the taxi I saw waiting outside.

“We were in the wrong place at the wrong time,” I said to him in English, which he understood well. I was tired of all the ladies listening. At first they had been upset at being detained by the police. Now they were fascinated, taking in every word for gossip broadcasts of the future.

But Tom had turned his attention away from me and was staring hard at Takeo Kayama, who was standing in his glamorous wrinkled linen and talking to the National Police Agency inspector in a voice too low for us to hear. I wanted to ask Tom if he knew Takeo, but there wasn’t a chance. He was busy shepherding his mother into the waiting taxi for an insulated, expensive ride home.

CHAPTER FOUR

The Chiyoda Line was jammed with evening rush-hour commuters. Just twenty minutes, I promised myself. Twenty minutes and I’d be home. The afternoon before, people on the subway had steered clear of me because of my armload of cherry blossoms. Now I had been contaminated by murder, but there was no outward sign. Office ladies and salarymen were molded into my back, while schoolchildren filled the spaces under my arms. Following subway etiquette, we pretended not to be aware of how closely we were touching. Nobody noticed me as I silently began to cry.

Outside Sendagi Station, I wiped my damp eyes with some tissues given to me by a young woman hawker wearing a doctor’s coat similar to Tom’s, but in the style of a minidress.

“Cherry blossom allergies, neh?” the hawker commented sympathetically. “These tissues are distributed with the compliments of Nezu Natural Medicine Clinic. Please give the clinic a try!”

I sniffled a thank-you and began my walk up Sansaki-zaka into Yanaka, the Edo-period village that had survived World War II bombings with many of its buildings, and almost all of its charm, intact. I adored my neighborhood, where there was a traditional cracker or tofu shop on almost every street, and the residents decorated the narrow pavement with potted plants and unchained bicycles. Yanaka had security and warmth and history like no other place in Tokyo.

Once inside my apartment, I double-chained the steel door and turned two deadbolt locks. Despite the safety of the neighborhood, I couldn’t shake patterns that I’d learned growing up in San Francisco. I curled up on my futon couch and gazed around the room, lit only by two paper-shaded lanterns. They filled the room with shadows, a look I used to think romantic. That night it felt spooky.

Even though the police had let us go home, I knew that my aunt’s future was not secure. Norie was the one who had bought the ikebana scissors that had been in Sakura’s neck. We’d been in the school just fifteen minutes before the pruners had found their way into her throat.

How could my own flesh and blood be a killer? It was unfathomable. Still, I hadn’t seen what had happened when Norie first stepped into the classroom and found Sakura. My father had told me that a person suffering a psychotic break could commit acts and not have any recollection of what had happened. When Aunt Norie finally spoke a few words to the police, she’d moaned about not being able to remember everything that had happened inside the classroom. She also had not mentioned her argument with Sakura. I doubted that would stay secret after the other flower arrangers had talked to the police.

I felt too shaken to make dinner, so I drank a cup of green tea and took a few bites out of a sembei. The salty-sweet cracker soothed my stomach and made me crave another. Before long I had finished the five-pack and walked into the closet-like space that qualified as my kitchen to throw away the wrapping. The blinking light on the answering machine stopped me, and I pressed play.

“Rei? This is Lila Braithwaite, from icky-bana.” She was mispronouncing the word for flower arranging the way many North Americans did, instead of using the phonetic “ee-kay-bah-nah.” I listened as Lila continued in her brisk, happy voice. “I’m glad you called, and I’d love to talk with you about antiques. I’ll be at home tomorrow morning until eleven. I live in Roppongi Hills, number seven-oh-two. Call me if you can stop in for a visit.”

Obviously she had made the call before Sakura died. I wrote down the apartment number but not the street directions. Roppongi Hills had been my last address. No doubt her apartment was even larger than the comfortable two-bedroom model I’d shared with Hugh. Going back would be horrible. I imagined walking past the concierge, who would remember me, and then having to travel upstairs in the elevator, stopping a few floors short of the place where Hugh and I had lived in unmarried bliss. I couldn’t go back.

I dialed Lila, thinking that she probably wouldn’t want me to come, not after what had happened at the flower-arranging school.

“Oh, it’s you!” Lila sounded out of breath when she answered. “I just got back from the Kayama School. The police talked to all of us. It was absolutely awful. I wish that I could disappear into a hot bath for a few hours, but my little ones need dinner, and I’m going crazy.”

“I’m sorry to disturb you. I was just calling back about tomorrow morning. You want to cancel, I assume.”

“Tomorrow morning? Goodness, that call I made to you. I almost forgot.” Lila paused. “I don’t want to cancel.”

“But you said that you were wiped out from the police—”

“I like to have lots of things going on! It keeps life from being dreary.”

She was too lively for me. “Sorry, but Roppongi is hard for me to get to. Could we meet elsewhere?”

“The Kayama School is in Roppongi. You were there yesterday and today,” she reminded me.

“Yes, but, well, the circumstances are a bit difficult. ...” I was making a typically Japanese excuse. It worked well in the original language, but sounded pretty phony in English.

“I need to talk to you,” Lila insisted. “Not about antiques. About the Kayama School.”

Why talk to me instead of Lieutenant Hata? I thought of how Lila had seen Aunt Norie break down crying in front of the police. Maybe Lila was afraid that things would be worse for a foreigner such as herself.

“All right,” l said, compassion rising. “Can we meet somewhere besides your apartment?”

“Oh, I can’t leave. I have three small children, and my nanny doesn’t arrive until eleven. Then I have aerobics class, and after that it’s a women’s club luncheon. Every second after eleven is completely booked.” Lila sounded desperate.

I buckled under.

***

“You look so different, Miss Shimura!” Mr. Oi, the Roppongi Hills concierge, greeted me with a startled expression when I walked into the sun-filled marble and glass lobby.

“It’s my hair,” I said gloomily. My hair had once been short and chic, but I was letting it grow. The ends had crept over my ears, and it would probably take another year for all the different layers to match up. For now, I used gel and bobby pins and slicked everything back behind my ears. Richard Randall said the style looked like a low-budget Isabella Rossellini, but I didn’t believe him.

“No, not the hair. It is your eyes. You look tired and almost sad.”

I had good reason to feel sad. But I didn’t want to tell the concierge about the murder at the Kayama School six blocks away. No, he could find out on television or through a tabloid.

“I’m here to see Lila Braithwaite,” I told him. “In Apartment seven-oh-two.”

“She is expecting you? Feel free to go ahead. I trust you in the building.” He sighed heavily. “Is Mr. Glendinning returning to Tokyo?”

“No,” I said flatly, realizing that was the reason Mr. Oi thought I was so blue. The death of someone was worse than losing a bad ex, but I didn’t want to get into it. I just said good-bye and went to the seventh floor.

Lila’s door, unlike the others, was decorated with a few hand-painted children’s works of art. I knocked carefully so that I wouldn’t disengage the taped pictures, and Lila opened the door. She was dressed in her aerobics gear, turquoise leggings topped with a short Tokyo American Club T-shirt. A three-year- old girl was clinging to her slim thigh. I could hear the sound of Doraemon, an animated cat video, blaring from a nearby room, and two children were screeching somewhere else.

“What are the proper words of welcome?” Lila asked wearily. “Irrasshai? The maid hasn’t come in yet, so I apologize for the clutter.”

“Mummy, I want crackers now,” her daughter demanded, and as Lila went to get them, I spent a moment looking around the apartment, which had a similar layout to the one I’d lived in, but felt so different. An army of plastic dinosaurs lay scattered across a Chinese rug, and sippy cups and brightly colored plastic bowls were ringed around an arrangement of cherry blossoms on the glossy paulownia tea table. A handsome Meiji-period tansu chest stood in the dining alcove, a protective plastic sheet draped over the top. Hugh had said he wanted marriage and children. I felt a slight pang, remembering.

Lila stuck a cracker in her daughter’s mouth and carried her into the room where the television was blaring. She then shut the door and came back to me.

“It’s too chaotic here. Let’s go in the kitchen.”

I cleared a few cereal pieces off a chair and sat down at a scrubbed wooden table decorated with a pitcher of pink and white roses. They probably had been bought at My Magic Forest, which was only two blocks away.

Lila buzzed around microwaving us two cups of tea. She put milk in both our cups without asking, but I had to ask her for sugar. She put it in for me herself, as if I were one of her children, while prattling about Richard Randall and how glad she was he had a suitable girlfriend, because his parents worried endlessly about him, and she’d not been able to introduce him to any girls who worked out. I rolled my eyes at that but figured now was not the time to tell her we weren’t romantic partners.

“What is it about the Kayamas?” I put down my overly sweet cup of tea. “I mean,, that’s why you wanted to talk to me, isn’t it?”

“I was wondering…” She trailed off, looking uncomfortable. “How is it that you already knew one of the policemen at the scene?”

“Lieutenant Hata gets around,” I said, adding, “There was a burglary in Roppongi Hills last summer.”

“A burglary in Roppongi Hills? My God!” She glanced toward the closed door of the TV room, as if to make sure her children were still safe.

“The break-in was an extremely rare, isolated event.” I reassured her. “Did Lieutenant Hata interview you yesterday? His English is good, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think I understood him, and I might have misstated the facts.” Lila grimaced. “I’m afraid I left a wrong impression.”

“Did you tell him about the argument Norie and Sakura had in class?” I asked. That was what had worried me.

“No. He just wanted to know our movements in the school that day, and I guess I told him that I was somewhere that I wasn’t. Now I realize that he’s probably going to find out the truth, and I’m a bit scared.”

As Lila spoke, she lifted clean glasses from the dishwasher up into the kitchen cabinet. Her cropped T-shirt rode up, exposing her slim back, which was marred by a few scratches. She must have gotten them roughhousing with the kids. Motherhood really was a formidable task.

“Don’t be scared of Lieutenant Hata. He’s a very kind person, and he’s young, like us, without the formality of the older generation. You can tell him what you’ve told me.”

“Couldn’t you do it?” Again, she made the same slight grimace. “You understand both cultures, and your Aunt Norie is very influential in the school. By the way, I don’t want to forget about the antique dishes you have for sale.”

The transition, and its implications, were rather crude. As much as I wanted someone to buy Mrs. Morita’s unlucky plates, I wouldn’t tell the lieutenant stories that might not be true. In a cool voice I told Lila, “I’m afraid I already have a buyer for the plates. And as far as my aunt being influential, she certainly wasn’t told about the Kayama students’ private meeting yesterday.”

Lila looked away. “It wasn’t our idea to meet alone. You and your aunt left the Kaikan early yesterday. After you were gone, Sakura said we had to come back the next day to go over the final layout for the flower exhibition at Mitsutan. We assumed Mrs. Koda or another staff member would call Norie with the details. I’m surprised that it didn’t work out that way.”

I could accept that, but I still watched Lila, waiting for more.

“I told your lieutenant that I arrived at the school at four o’clock, and went upstairs with my friend Nadine to the classroom. Sakura talked to us for about half an hour, and then a group of us decided to stop in the school’s restaurant for tea. When we were leaving for home, we took the elevator down to the main floor and ran into the police.” She took a deep breath. “What really happened is that I didn’t join the others for tea until the last five minutes. I went looking for Mrs. Koda.”

“Mrs. Koda wasn’t around,” I said. “My aunt and Natsumi and Miss Okada all couldn’t find her.”

“Oh, could that help me? That nobody could find her?” Lila asked eagerly. “Lila, I’m sure that if you walked around the administrative office on the second floor, a dozen secretarial workers would have seen you. There’s your alibi.” I looked at my watch, thinking I’d wasted my morning.

“But nobody saw me! I didn’t go to the second floor. I went up to the Kayama family’s penthouse.” Her face flushed. “I know where it is because I’m president of the foreign students’ association and was invited to dinner.”

Until the day before, I had not known the Kayamas lived in the school building. Norie had mentioned they had a lovely country residence. I asked, “How does one reach the penthouse level? The elevator doesn’t list any floor above nine.”

“You ride the elevator to nine and go into a small hallway just off the main one. There’s a private staircase leading up.”

“Why did you think Mrs. Koda would be in the personal apartment? She’s an employee, not a family member,” I asked as a piercing screech came from beyond the kitchen.

Lila bolted, and I followed. The daughter who had wanted crackers was lying on the floor. A little boy of about four was sitting on top of her. He was flexing a pair of scissors in his sister’s wispy blond hair.

The scene of Sakura lying dead with scissors in her throat came back to me. I gasped, and Lila’s third child, a seven-year-old boy, looked up from the television to my face.

“Mummy, you said no more Japanese babysitters!” he cried.

“I’m not from Japan,” I said, trying to gain composure. “I speak English, just like you do. We’re from the same continent but not the same country. Can you think of where that is?”

“You’re…you’re from a weird place!”

“Hush, Donald,” Lila implored while trying to pull the scissors from her daughter’s hair. I saw now that the scissors were child-safe, made of blunt plastic pieces that couldn’t cut flesh. I relaxed, but Lila was still upset. “You children are impossible. If you don’t behave, I’m going to run away!”

“You already do. Aerobics, shopping…” Donald, the television watcher, cataloged nastily. Had Richard really said Lila’s children were fun?

“I’m so sorry, Rei.” Lila didn’t even look up. “We’re going to have to finish later. Darcy’s hair is so tangled she’s going to need a cream rinse. And David, you need a time-out!”

David, the four-year-old who had done the bad deed, started to cry as loudly as his little sister. Donald aimed the remote control at the TV, turning up the volume to rock-concert level.

“When can we finish our talk?” I shouted over the din.

“Oh, I don’t know! Come to the exhibit tomorrow at Mitsutan. Maybe I can slip away, get a moment of peace.”

Would the Kayama School go on with Friday’s exhibition after the death of a star teacher? It seemed callous.

I left Roppongi Hills with my old, troubling memories and a few new ones.

CHAPTER FIVE

I telephoned Aunt Norie in Yokohama, but she didn’t answer me personally.

The machine spoke in her soft voice, requesting me to leave a message. I did that and spent the rest of the afternoon at an auction, wandering past tables laden with old prints, but I was too distracted to make any bids. In mid-afternoon I left the auction house and went out onto the street. A newsstand was loaded with copies of the Asahi Shinbun. The front page bore Sakura’s face, and right underneath it was a photo of Aunt Norie posing next to a flower arrangement that had won Best in Show at an exhibition in 1996. The story jumped to an inside page, where there was a recent photograph of Takeo and Natsumi Kayama in formal dress and a year-old snap of me with shorter hair than I had now, wearing an equally short evening dress. How could I have dressed like that? The dress was no longer fashionable, and looking at it now made me feel half naked. Since I couldn’t read much of the story, I returned to Yanaka and stopped in at the Family Mart. Its owner, my friend Mr. Waka, had enjoyed so much success with his first convenience store in Nihonzutsumi that he’d opened a second one in Yanaka.

“Shimura-san, welcome!” my friend called when I stepped through his spotless glass doors decorated with cheerful green and yellow cartoon figures. No matter where you went in Japan, Family Marts were all the same, bright and sparkling and filled with comic books and good things to eat. The difference in this particular shop was a proprietor who ate half of the candy display when he was bored, giving rise to his gently rounded stomach.

“Oh, the wide worlds ways. Cherry blossoms left unwatched even for three days!” Mr. Waka said when I came up to the counter.

“Is that another cherry blossom proverb?” I asked.

“No, it is a haiku by the poet Ryota. It means that when a cherry tree is not observed for a few days, the blooms will disappear. Just as a person who has been away from one’s eyes can also suffer great change. In the short time I have not seen you, you have come close to the face of death.”

“You know a lot about poetry,” I said.

“My surname, Waka, literally means ‘poetry.’ Perhaps that’s why I have a fondness for the literary form.” Mr. Waka beamed.

“Well, I came to ask you about news articles rather than poetry,” I confessed, holding out the Asahi that I couldn’t read.

“You look hungry as well as unhappy,” my friend said gently. “Go to the candy shelves and choose something sweet to perk up the afternoon.”

I came back with a box of Pocky and chewed the chocolate-covered pretzels slowly as Mr. Waka translated. The Asahi reported that “Sakura Sato, a high-ranking teacher at the Kayama School, had died of knife wounds. Police investigation was proceeding at priority speed. The death had been reported by Norie Shimura, a flower-arranging student, to the police.”

“My aunt is a teacher, not a student,” I objected.

“Miss Rei Shimura, a civilian homicide investigator, assisted Lieutenant Hata of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police at the crime scene. The niece of Norie Shimura is of mixed Japanese and American blood. She is permitted to live in Japan because she has a cultural work visa. Her antiques-buying business had a gross of two million yen last year.”

I didn’t know what to be more upset about, the ridiculous labeling of me as a civilian homicide investigator, or the revelation that I’d made less than fifteen thousand dollars in my first year of business. I had thought it was a decent start—at least I wasn’t losing money—but the small figure might turn off some of my well-heeled clients. Then I shook myself. What was I doing worrying about business when I was caught up in murder?

“In a related story, witnesses report both Shimura women were involved in a savage altercation outside My Magic Forest, a trendy flower shop in Roppongi. See inside page for details.’“ Mr. Waka turned the page. “The headline reads, ‘Terror at My Magic Forest Is a Prelude to Murder.’“

The reporters had worked hard, interviewing almost everyone on the scene. A salesclerk at My Magic Forest recalled that Aunt Norie and I argued over a pair of ikebana shears, which Norie purchased with her credit card, taking the time to request a proof-of-purchase stamp on her frequent- buyer card. Outside the shop, Stop Killing Flowers director Che Fujisawa alleged that Aunt Norie had waved the scissors in a threatening manner at people participating in a peaceful protest. Che went on to declare that Aunt Norie was a typical example of the Japanese bourgeoisie, unafraid of the human costs of selfish pesticide use. Norie’s violence did not frighten him, he said. In fact, he would give his life if it would stop harmful pesticide use.

“He’s exaggerating, and he makes my aunt sound like a madwoman! She’s not. You’ve met her,” I reminded Mr. Waka. “We came in together when I was buying supplies for my new apartment.”

“That’s right. She said the food in my take-out section was not fresh, and my household goods were overpriced!”

“I’m sure it was a misunderstanding—”

“Probably not! Should I keep reading? Do you want to hear the official comments from Mr. Kayama?”

“Do you mean Takeo?”

“No, Takeo is only the heir, not the leader of the school. And did you know the meaning of the kanji that spells his name?” Ever the teacher, Mr. Waka showed me the paper.

“Bamboo?” I guessed, looking at the character that was usually one of the first hundred students learned.

“That’s right. Apparently the flower family’s children all have flower-related names. The sister’s name, Natsumi, means ‘flower gathering.’ And judging from her picture, she is the very flower of young womanhood.”

“Mmm,” I said. “What is the rest of the article about?”

“The report says that Masanobu Kayama, the sixty-five-year old headmaster of the school, was preparing for a major exhibition at the Mitsutan department store when the incident occurred. In a late evening interview at his penthouse apartment in the Kayama Building, he expressed sorrow at the loss of one of the school’s most prominent teachers. Headmaster Kayama said, ‘Sakura Sato gave twenty-five years of her life to ikebana and had been awarded riji status, the highest possible teaching certification, two months ago. Her flower arrangements were creative and an inspiration to all, and her thoughtful essays on flower arranging were published in Ikebana International magazine and the Kayama School’s semiannual publication, Straight Bamboo. Miss Sato performed demonstrations throughout Japan, England, Australia, and the United States, spreading the school’s motto, ‘Truth in Nature,’ to a global audience. In honor of Sato, members of the Kayama School will plan a special memorial at the Mitsutan exhibition, to be held Friday through Sunday, ten o’clock to eight o’clock daily.’“

Now I had the answer to whether the Kayama School would go on with its exhibition. I was stunned at their merger of practicality and public relations. At the same time, I was intrigued by the fact that Masanobu Kayama had listed Sakura’s accomplishments without saying anything nice about her personality. Maybe he hadn’t liked her. She could have been a thorn in more than one side.

“So what are you going to do about your situation?” Mr. Waka asked.

“What can I do except pray the police don’t arrest my aunt?” I was walking around the store, trying to find something to buy.

“You are an amateur investigator. Surely you can help,” my friend insisted.

“I’m an antiques buyer, not an investigator. Oh, you’ve got sakura-mochi.” I selected a package of glutinous rice cakes wrapped in fresh green cherry leaves. They’d be good for a business visitor coming that weekend.

“You must help your aunt. It is your filial duty as a niece,” Mr. Waka lectured as he rang up my purchase.

I’d thought Mr. Waka didn’t like my aunt. Either he was more forgiving than I’d thought, or he was hungry for a continuing stream of gossip. I figured the latter.

***

At home I listened to my answering machine. Richard had left instructions on where we should meet for drinks on Friday night. My mother wanted to know why I hadn’t telephoned in a month and gave me the number of the estate she was redecorating in Southern California. I dutifully wrote down the number, but I knew that I wouldn’t call. If I did, I would wind up having to say something about Aunt Norie’s and my trouble, and that would lead to another push for me to come home. My mother was like that.

I turned the page of my message pad and on a blank sheet wrote “People at the Kayama School at time of death.” Lila Braithwaite, and her friend Nadine St. Giles; Mari Kumamori, the pottery artist Sakura had been rude to; Eriko, who was Aunt Norie’s best friend. Then there were Takeo and Natsumi Kayama, and Miss Okada, the school receptionist. There were a few other Japanese women students whose names I could check with my aunt.

Under “People missing” I listed Mrs. Koda and the headmaster, Masanobu Kayama. Lieutenant Hata probably possessed this information. Maybe he had cleared everyone on my list and was looking for a serial killer. Of course, there have been very few serial killers in Japanese history.

I turned to look at Mrs. Morita’s four plates, which I had displayed in a kitchen tansu that took up the length of a wall. Each shelf of the cabinet had a door with a railing that protected the china inside from falling out should an earthquake hit. I wondered how long I’d be responsible for the unlucky group of plates. I put away the notebook and dialed my aunt’s telephone number, hoping against hope that she would answer. The recorded greeting came on, but as I began leaving my name, Aunt Norie answered.

“Thank you for calling so many times, Rei-chan.” She sounded weary.

“How are things in Yokohama?”

“The reporters are outside the house,” she whispered, as if they might be able to hear. “It is absolutely awful. Somebody even brought a futon and slept on the street! They are waiting for me to come out. My husband was going to come back from Osaka tomorrow afternoon, but I warned him not to, for fear of what will happen. Are the press doing the same to you?”

“No, it’s all clear.” Looking out my window, I saw a couple of drunken university students staggering down the street, but nobody else. I was glad again for having an unlisted address and telephone number. I had purposely left my name out of the NTT telephone book because a feminine name was an invitation to obscene callers. The only concession I made for running my business was listing a fax number under Rei Shimura Antiques. I’d actually received eight media messages that day on the fax, and simply turned off the machine.

“Why don’t you stay with me?” I suggested. “I’m not listed in directory information. My sofa folds out into a bed.”

“When one is in trouble, she should seek shelter under a big tree, not a seedling,” Norie said. “Besides, I could not leave without being followed. They are stalking me, and I know they will catch up, because I have to leave the house tomorrow to help put together the exhibit at Mitsutan.”

“That doesn’t sound wise,” I said.

“We need to be there. There is an allotted three-meter space with the Shimura name on it. To have it empty would be disgraceful.”

“We? I would ruin your arrangement. Remember what Sakura said about my skills?”

My aunt spoke in the wheedling tone that she used whenever she wanted me to dress in kimono to show off to her friends. “If we hide from the other school members, it sets us apart. It is like an admission of guilt. We need to carry on proudly, as the Shimuras have done for many centuries. Our surname is common in Japan today, but please remember that my husband and your father are descended from an important family. We must defend the family name.”

Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to have Aunt Norie stay with me. I could imagine her lecturing me around the clock on my samurai heritage. “Aunt Norie, I love you. It it’s that important, I’ll work with you on the installation at Mitsutan.”

“It will only take a few hours,” she said, sounding happy for the first time. “It will make such a big difference for everyone there. And for me.”

We hung up and I had dinner: a glass of Asahi Super-Dry beer and some old rice that had hardened in my tiny refrigerator, with a bit of pickled daikon radish and plum on the side. The meal seemed lacking. When living with Hugh, I used to cook elaborate dinners of grilled fish, stir-fried vegetables, and perfect sticky rice. These were the dishes that Aunt Norie had begun teaching me to make as soon as I was old enough to use a kitchen knife. She’d been very strict on how to cut swiftly but safely.

I flashed quickly to the vision of Sakura with the shears in her throat. My aunt had nothing to do with her death.

Then why, when I fell asleep, did I dream of my aunt slipping like a wraith into the room? In the dream she stood at my window, begging me not to look outside. I looked out and saw a carpet of lilies and chrysanthemums tossed haphazardly over the tarred street. The flowers were dying, their petals and leaves turning brown and ugly. I could smell the stench.

“It’s a funeral!” my aunt cried. “My funeral.”

In the weird, jerky way that one travels in dreams, I was suddenly standing in front of a coffin covered by white brocade. Tom was weeping. My father and mother were dressed in their travel clothes with luggage at their sides.

“No!” I gasped, and woke up with a horrible start.

My small apartment was peaceful and dark, lit only by the small red pinpoint of light on a water heater in the kitchen. I stared at the red dot, willing my heart to stop thumping, trying to get beyond the dreadful feeling that Aunt Norie needed me to save more than our family name.

CHAPTER SIX

It’s hard to pick a favorite department store in Japan, but Mitsutan has always been mine.

From the giant doorway on Shinjuku-dori, I entered a dazzling space lit by chandeliers, and the bright smiles of young women dressed in pink suits and pink-and-white hats. I passed the Prada, Gucci, and Coach leather boutiques to take the slow route up the escalator. The store was made up of two eighteen-story buildings joined by walkways on four different floors, creating a gigantic maze of consumption. Six floors alone were devoted to women’s fashion. Cruising past the foreign designer level, I ignored Chanel, not my taste, but sneaked a glance at the sleek little spring dresses on mannequins surrounding the Nicole Miller section. My eyes stopped on a familiar pair of lissome legs, and I recognized Natsumi Kayama in a short blue dress. She bent over to sort some roses, revealing the lacy edge of her white girdle—I’d noticed that regardless of size and age, Japanese women adored girdles. Natsumi was making an elaborate bouquet, perhaps to go in the mannequin’s hands. I wasn’t surprised that Mitsutan would go to the trouble of using real flowers, but I hadn’t expected that Natsumi would be working two days after her big shock at Sakura’s death.

My escalator ride took me past menswear, then the children’s department, then and an entire floor of restaurants. Finally I was on level twelve at Musee Mitsutan, the department store’s in-house museum. A ticket to a show of Matisse paintings in the north gallery was a whopping four thousand yen, making the thousand-yen admission for the upcoming Kayama School show a relative bargain at about $7 U.S. dollars.

The cream and gold gallery was crammed with long florist boxes full of flowers and buckets overflowing with long branches. The women were so busy arranging that they didn’t notice my arrival. When I found the area marked with the Shimura name, Mrs. Koda greeted me.

“Miss Shimura, how nice to see you. You’ve arrived before your aunt and Eriko-san,” she chirped, as if I’d truly accomplished something. “The bamboo and lilies are here. I removed them from the florist boxes, cutting the stems under water and allowing them to rest in this bucket, where they can enjoy a nice long drink.”

Did she think the flowers were human? I nodded as if I agreed and pushed on with my agenda. “My aunt and I came to see you the day Sakura died, “ I began.

“I heard,” Mrs. Koda said in a soft voice. She didn’t look over her shoulder to see if anyone was listening, but her thin shoulders jerked, as if she wanted to do that.

“Where were you?” I asked, belatedly realizing how aggressive the question sounded.

“I was in the building,” she said, but didn’t look at me, concentrating instead on moving a flower stem that had popped up out of the water.

“In the Kayamas’ apartment?” I asked, thinking of Lila’s suggestion.

“No! I was on the ninth floor working in the iemoto-designate’s office. You should have asked Miss Okada.”

It would be impolite to bring up the fact that the receptionist hadn’t known where Mrs. Koda was. I changed the subject, trying to cover up my uneasiness. “I think I’ll walk around and see if I can learn something. By the way, have you seen Lila Braithwaite?”

“No, but she called to say that she was running late. Some problem with the nanny,” Mrs. Koda said. “Well, as you walk around, take your time, but remember that we are supposed to be finished making our arrangements by six o’clock tonight.”

I eyed the lilies, which were the same yellow as the flowers in my nightmare, and decided I wanted to avoid working with them at all costs.

Mari Kumamori, the student whose work I’d admired in class, was winding a long green vine around a tall earthenware jar. There were four jars behind the one she was working on that needed to be filled.

“Did you make those containers?” I asked, recalling what Aunt Norie had told me about her talent.

She nodded, looking embarrassed. “They are very poor quality, but I tried to model them on some sixteenth-century Bizen ware.”

“Do you work from photographs?” I was amazed.

“No, I collect as many old pieces as I can, and then when I’ve got them in my hands, I try to reproduce something similar.”

I blinked. Bizen ware was very expensive. I wondered what her husband did to bankroll her collecting, and then chastised myself for being sexist. Mari’s money might very well be her own.

“Your work is extraordinary,” I said, wishing there were American-style assertiveness-training courses in Tokyo that Mari could benefit from. “If you made more of them, I’m sure lots of people would buy them.”

“Ceramics is just a hobby,” she demurred.

“You’re more of a professional than a hobbyist,” I insisted.

“Not many people share your opinion.” Mari kept winding the vines as if she wanted to avoid my eyes. “Actually, I don’t feel like talking today. I am mourning Sakura-san’s passing.”

Sakura had been so unfriendly to Mari, but I could understand why she was upset. I was apologizing for my intrusion into her grief when Aunt Norie suddenly appeared.

“Your friend Eriko hasn’t arrived yet,” I said.

“Then that leaves the two of us!” Norie said. “I’m so glad you came to help.”

“If there is anything I can do, please tell me,” Mari said. “My work is almost finished, and I have plenty of vines.”

“We’ll see,” Norie said, striding back to our designated site. Once there, she bowed and greeted all the women working around her. She was making a tremendous effort to appear normal, and it was all for nothing. All the women bowed back, but they didn’t answer her with any customary pleasantries.

“I don’t like these lilies,” Aunt Norie said to me when it became clear that nobody was going to talk to her. “They look too old. I’m glad I brought some extra flowers from my garden.”

She showed me a pail of Japanese irises: dark, velvety purple blossoms still tightly furled. I breathed a sigh of relief at not having to work with the yellow lilies from my bad dream. But first we had to thoroughly wash the bamboo, then cut each stalk to a prescribed length, removing the membrane inside so it could be filled with water. It was two hours of backbreaking work in a large tub set up in a staging area behind the main gallery, but at least it put us out of the eyes of the silent flower arrangers working around us.

When we came back to the front of the room, we arranged the bamboo in an upright semicircle, and I used an electric saw to trim the bamboo into a wave- shaped design. The easy part would be to fill each bamboo stalk with irises, then add a few harmonizing curves of Mari’s vines.

“This isn’t what you planned, is it?” Natsumi Kayama pointed a French-manicured fingernail at the rippling lines of bamboo. “Koda-san told me about your original plan, but this is different.”

“The florist sent lilies that were not worthy of the exhibition, so we have improvised,” Norie said in the falsely cheerful voice that had been driving me crazy.

“Somebody’s going to have to rewrite the place card going in front of the flowers, because it says lilies, while you’re really working with rabbit-ear irises.” Natsumi sounded aggrieved.

“Actually, the flower is roof irises,” Aunt Norie corrected.

“How many kinds of irises are there?” I was amazed.

“Our school’s ikebana handbook lists seven. There is dwarf iris, and fringed iris, and Dutch, German, and Japanese varieties,” my aunt counted. “Anyway, I will take care of changing the place card.”

“Oh, no, the calligraphy must be consistent!” Natsumi would not relent. When I’d first met her and she clued me in on my ruined stockings, I’d thought she was being kind. Perhaps she’d done it because she delighted in pointing out flaws or was obsessive-compulsive.

Striving to distract her, I said, “You have so much to do, Natsumi-san. It must be really tiring to be here after all your hard work in the women’s designer section.”

“The Nicole Miller dress display.” She made a face. “The bouquets I made for it are supposed to make shoppers aware of the exhibition. It’s rather pointless work.”

“I don’t think so!” Norie said, as if to make amends.

“Young women aren’t going to want to spend the time or money to walk around our exhibit.” Natsumi was filling out a new place card for our installation, drawing clear kanji characters with a green marker. “They’d rather spend a thousand yen at Mister Donut.”

I thought of my own recent meal at the local chain. Was Natsumi also a fan of their French crullers? Her stomach was so flat, it didn’t look as if there was room for even one.

“Attracting young students is a challenge,” Aunt Norie conceded. “In my generation, most girls in their twenties had to study ikebana.”

“That was because they had to get married,” Natsumi said. “Didn’t you study in order to catch your husband? And then once you had your children, you stopped. Because your nest is finally empty, you’ve come back like all the others.”

“I have always loved ikebana.” Aunt Norie’s voice shook slightly. She was not afraid to show her displeasure with me, but it seemed that she was being very careful with Natsumi Kayama. “Even when I could not travel to the school, I practiced at home.”

“My aunt has her own group of students,” I said, feeling defensive of Norie. “Several women come to her house to study each week. She’s a real professional.”

Professional. I had just used the word with Mari Kumamori. Even though Mari and Aunt Norie were called housewives, they were certified teachers of flower arranging. The problem was that they gave the token payments from their students straight to the Kayama School. From listening to some of the other flower arrangers’ conversation, I’d learned that everyone making flower arrangements in the exhibition had paid a fifteen-thousand-yen “creative fee” to the school. I would have to figure out a way to reimburse Aunt Norie, who had paid my fee in advance. It pained me to think she had spent close to $250 just to be twitted by this bitchy young woman into whose pocket the money was headed.

***

Leaving Mitsutan an hour later, I caught a glimpse of a TV camera crew outside the main doors. They must have been denied access upstairs and were simply waiting for Kayama School flower arrangers to emerge. Fortunately, my cousin Tom had brought the family car to the store’s underground parking lot. I said good-bye to him and Aunt Norie, sure that they’d escaped media scrutiny.

Now it was my turn to be evasive. I turned around from the main entrance and found a discreet employees-only exit.

“No hablo Japones,” I said loudly, deciding to pass as a Japanese Latina when the guard tried to stop me. I was in a Latin mood, thinking of my plans for the evening. Richard had insisted we meet at Salsa Salsa, a Brazilian bar that had just opened on the edge of Nishi-Azabu, a posh neighborhood slightly east of Roppongi. At home I changed into a short, flaring red slip dress appropriate for Salsa Salsa, if not my emotional state. I hunted for a pair of sheer stockings without any snags; not finding any, I went bare-legged. This was a bit unusual for Tokyo, where women wear pantyhose under shorts in ninety-degree summer heat. The temperature had gone down into the fifties, so my legs were chilled, and my bare feet stuck to the lining of the black patent sling-back pumps, making squishy sounds as I walked. With luck, the bar would be noisy and nobody would hear.

Salsa Salsa was in the basement of a dull, boxy retail structure that looked like many other buildings on the southeast side of Roppongi-dori. Stuffed parrots guarded the turquoise doorway, which was appropriate given that the band playing that night was called the Lovely Parrots. A Japanese Latino man looked me over before waving me inside. The cover charge was normally two thousand yen, so I was glad to get in free. Entering the room, which was gaily decorated with bright wooden carved animals, I pressed my way past the salsa band and through the mix of good-looking, young Japanese career people and foreigners.

At the small, polished teak bar, Richard was talking animatedly to a handsome bartender who looked barely twenty-one. There was a queue of people waiting to place drink orders, but the bartender’s ear remained close to Richard’s mouth.

“You’re early, Shimura.” Richard looked annoyed when I gave him a friendly punch in the biceps. “You’re also wearing my favorite dress. You must want something from me.”

I ignored his meaningless flirtation and asked, “What’s good to drink here?”

“The Caipirinha. It’s a Brazilian drink made with lemon and sugar and lots of love, right, Enrique?” Richard spoke in Japanese to his new friend.

“The liquor is called cachaca.” Enrique shook his head, making the large gold hoops in both ears dance.

“Do you speak Spanish or Portuguese? I asked Enrique in Spanish.

He looked surprised. “Spanish. I’m from Peru, not Brazil.”

“That makes you a Perujin, doesn’t it, Enrique?” Richard asked.

“They call me nikkei Perujin—Japan-related Peruvian. I’m not a regular gaijin like you, little blond one.”

“I find dark men attractive. Rei doesn’t. For her, it’s always been the whiter the better.”

“That’s not true! I’ve had three Japanese boyfriends, but none of them worked out,” I explained to Enrique in my high-school Spanish. “May I have a Caipirinha as well?”

“A good stiff drink after finding a good stiff body,” Richard said to me in English. “You told me that was a cutthroat class, but I didn’t know you were speaking literally.”

“Let’s discuss it elsewhere.” I didn’t want the whole bar to hear my sad story.

“He doesn’t speak much English. Just Japanese.”

Enrique went to the other end of the bar to get lemons and was immediately accosted by his long- suffering line of customers. Richard gave me a quick embrace.

“Sorry. I joke like that, you know, to make things seem better.”

I let myself be held for a minute, relishing the human contact that I had so infrequently these days. “Well, things are terrible. And as for my aunt—you should see how she’s covering things up, coasting along and insisting on taking part in that ikebana exhibition at Mitsutan.”

“That sounds smart,” Richard said. “What do you want her to do, hide in the suburbs? If she stays isolated, she could have a nervous breakdown.”

The Lovely Parrots were doing a loud cover of “Macarena.” A group of office ladies jumped into a line and began dancing in front of the band. The young salarymen at the bar surveyed the women moving like a line of matched dolls, arms rising and falling to reveal perfect bosoms, bodies turning to show off slim behinds. They watched without approaching. Only a gauche foreigner with a telltale Marine crewcut dared to jump in the middle of the girls and dance along.

“Norie’s all alone out there. My Uncle Hiroshi is still in Osaka, and my cousin Tom’s always busy at the hospital. I invited Aunt Norie to stay with me,” I told Richard.

“She’ll drive you crazy!”

“Well, she’s not coming. She thinks it will draw the press to me, and she’s probably right. Tom drove her home from the Mitsutan exhibition. I can only hope they don’t get ambushed.”

“Did they attack you?” Richard gestured to my hands, which he had been stroking. They were crisscrossed with tiny scratches I’d received while stripping the bamboo.

“No, this is from working with bamboo. I need to go back tomorrow to make sure the arrangement still looks okay.”

“Poor baby. You shouldn’t let your aunt boss you into doing things like that.”

“In a Japanese family, you have to listen to your elders,” I reminded him.

“I don’t let my family control me,” Richard said.

“Oh, really? Then why does your cousin Lila Braithwaite think you’re straight?”

Richard flushed deeply but didn’t say anything. When Enrique came back with the drinks, Richard began whispering in his ear. Feeling like the proverbial third wheel, I gazed around the room until I caught a glimpse of a booth with a coat peg on the side. Hanging from the peg was a denim jacket decorated with distinctive embroidery. I craned my neck and saw the environmental activist Che Fujisawa sitting in the booth, staring at, but not touching, a plate of food in front of him.

I stared at Che, thinking about how he had criticized my aunt for being a member of the Japanese bourgeoisie. According to the menu, the rice and beans he was going to eat cost twenty-three hundred yen. He was a real hypocrite. All thoughts of social class faded when I saw Che rise and greet the person he was going to have dinner with—someone I’d considered his enemy.

Takeo Kayama wasn’t in his corporate drag, but a black T-shirt and what looked like 1950s Levis—the kind Japanese people pay $700 for. Being in the antiques business, I could evaluate old textiles pretty well. As Che filled Takeo’s glass with beer, I watched incredulously. Then I realized I’d better get out.

I nudged Richard, who was writing down Enrique s phone number on the back of his hand. “I’ve got to go. I see two men who mustn’t see me.” I envisioned Che leaping up and coming after me, and Takeo sneering at the ensuing melee.

“Which men?” At last Richard raised his head. “You haven’t dated in months. Of course you should let these men see you.”

“Adios,” I said, standing up.

“No, I’m not letting this opportunity slip by. Enrique and I will make you look popular.” Richard slid off his barstool and grabbed me around the waist. “Recognize the song?”

“I don’t know how to do the lambada. Seriously!” The only thing worse than having Che and Takeo see me hanging out at the bar was being spotted making a fool of myself.

“I adore serious, clumsy girls. Enrique, can you help?” Richard curled his index finger toward the bartender.

“He’s working,” I pointed out.

“This is my break time for relax.” Enrique laid his cocktail shaker aside and swept out from the bar to join Richard and me.

“Oh, good.” Before I knew it, they were sandwiched on either side of me in the middle of the dance floor. As they gyrated toward each other, grinding me in between, some of the office ladies looked envious. I looked stupid standing still, so I danced awkwardly on my three-inch-high patent leather pumps.

I tried to escape when the song ended, but another one began. Enrique tried to teach us both the merengue, holding hands with Richard and trapping me in the middle. The other customers were laughing and clapping. Then the music changed abruptly to U2. Or rather, the Lovely Parrots slowed down and began singing ‘Discotheque’ in a mixture of English and Spanish. The shift in rhythm gave me a chance to slide out from between Richard and Enrique’s sweaty bodies. Richard pinched my arm hard but whispered in my ear, “Good luck. Now you’re the belle of the ball.”

Completely mortified, I ran straight for the door and into the massive Latino-Japanese bouncer who had let me in for free.

“Your drinks are not paid,” he said.

I felt for the shoulder strap of my purse before remembering Richard had swept me up so fast I’d not been able to take it to the dance floor. I made some pleas, and the bouncer followed me back to the bar, where my purse had been perched next to my glass. Both the glass and the purse were gone.

I glanced toward the dance floor, but enough people had stormed the floor at the change in music that I couldn’t see Richard and Enrique. I would have to handle things myself.

“Somebody in your bar is a thief,” I said to the bouncer.

The man laughed. “Si. You are talking about yourself, trying to sneak out like a bandito.”

“I had a bag with twenty thousand yen on the counter, and its been taken!” Credit cards, address book, my MAC lipstick—all those things were also lost.

“Is this what you want?” Takeo Kayama was suddenly standing next to me, dangling my small purse on its long chain like a used tea bag.

I grabbed it from him, wondering if he had taken it in the first place. I glanced toward his booth and saw that Che had vanished.

I opened my bag. The money, lipstick, and address book were all there. “What do I owe?” I asked the bouncer.

“Two thousand fifty,” the bouncer said, slightly mollified.

Takeo watched closely as I handed over two thousand-yen notes and one hundred-yen coin.

“I will get change,” the bouncer said.

“Don’t bother.” I hastened toward the door.

“People don’t tip in Japan,” Takeo said, following me.

“I’m not standing around for fifty yen, okay?”

“You’re dressed up like a little gladiolus. Where are you going?” There was laughter in Takeo’s voice.

It was obviously the way a headmaster-in-training could speak to his underlings.

I didn’t answer, just kept walking. I was furious about his participation in my little drama.

“Maybe you’re going home. Twenty-five-fifty Shiomodai, apartment one. Yanaka is a rather old- world neighborhood. I didn’t know any young people lived there.”

“So you went through my address book? Either you want to date me really badly or you’re planning to kill me.” I stopped. What would have normally sounded like a snappy comeback was suddenly inappropriate.

Takeo stopped smiling. In a lower voice, he said, “Let’s go around the corner. There’s an izakaya where we can talk.”

He was suggesting we go to a pub on the spur of the moment, as if I were some kind of pickup. Or because he was worried that I’d seen him with Che Fujisawa.

I shouldn’t have gone, but looking over Takeo’s lean frame, I decided that, angry as I was, I could still stand having a drink with him. Especially if he paid the bill.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The izakaya around the corner was packed but, to my eye, disappointingly bright and ordinary. Students, young salarymen, and office ladies were squeezed into booths, the tables between filled with bottles of beer and small plates of grilled sardines and rice balls. We had to wait in a line in the vestibule with everyone else. So much for being with the son of one of Japan’s ten wealthiest men.

Takeo seemed blasé about the wait. He lifted a pack of Mild Sevens out of his jacket pocket.

“Smoke?” he asked.

I shook my head and said, “I wouldn’t have thought you’d smoke, given your interest in environmentalism.”

“Nicotiana is a marvelous plant. I became interested in it when I was studying horticulture in California. But you’re right, smoking is a bad habit. I’ve been trying to quit.”

After five more minutes, a waitress with a pierced eyebrow led us through the rowdy front section to the back section, where we had to take off our shoes and step up to a floor covered with tatami mats. Here the low tables were made of pine, and the seats were blue-and-white print cushions. It was nicer than the booths, but I felt embarrassed to take my shoes off and reveal that I didn’t have stockings on. I swiftly tucked my feet under me in the traditional kneel and watched Takeo lower himself into a careless cross-legged position. Men could get away with that.

“Is this your old college hangout?” I asked.

“No. In fact, I’ve never been here before. I’ve just walked past.”

“I won’t ask you for any recommendations, then.” I studied the laminated menu.

“Are you able to read Japanese?” he asked, sounding honestly curious.

“Sure,” I fibbed. Fortunately, enough was written in hiragana that I could make a selection. “I think I’ll have the green pepper and scallion yakitori. Do you want to share a large bottle of Kirin?”

Takeo looked startled. “That’s very Japanese, to anticipate the taste of the person with you. To understand without asking is very good.”

I smiled, allowing him to enjoy his fantasy. I knew which beer he liked because I’d watched him drink with Che.

Takeo gave the waitress my order and requested edamade for himself. When he saw my eyes light up at the mention of the dish, lightly steamed soybeans still in their green pods, he ordered a double.

“You’re a vegetarian,” he said.

“Well, I eat fish. But I’d rather eat it somewhere a little more…”

“Elegant,” he finished for me. “This place isn’t good enough. I’m sorry. I wanted to get you somewhere alone to talk about, well, the incident that happened the other day.”

“Really,” I said, playing for time.

Takeo was silent, but I figured it was his turn to speak. In short order the food and drink came. He poured the amber lager into my glass with a slow, relaxed tilting of his right wrist. His motion was so methodical, it reminded me of the tea ceremony.

“It seems unbelievable that it happened. I just cannot believe she is gone,” Takeo said, his tone leaving no doubt as to whom he was speaking about.

“What was your relationship with Sakura like?” I asked, sensing that he wanted me to take the next step.

“It was very close. She became practically a member of our family after my mother died.”

This item of information startled me so much that I spilled a little beer on the way to my mouth. “I’m sorry,” I said, for want of something better. “I hadn’t heard about your mother.”

“It was twenty-two years ago,” he said. “I was just six.”

So he was the same age as I. My aunt had been studying ikebana at that time. I wondered why she hadn’t mentioned that Mrs. Kayama had died. “Was it a car accident?” That was the most likely way to die before your time in Japan.

“No. She fell down the steps in the garden at our country house. I remember the ambulance coinming to take her away. Everyone called it jiko, the word meaning ‘accident.’ I believed it was something that could be fixed, like the time I ran my bicycle into a curb, or when I pinched my fingers hard with ikebana scissors. I did not understand that she had died until Sakura explained it.”

“So how close was Sakura, exactly? Did she live with your family?”

“Just for a few months after the accident. She slept in my bedroom or Natsumi’s, in case we had bad dreams.”

I wondered at the detail about bedrooms. Was he trying to make a point that nothing had gone on between Sakura and his father? Sakura’s helping with the children might have helped her rise in the Kayama School, but I wasn’t going to pursue that with Takeo seeming so sad.

“That’s interesting about your family,” I said, sliding the yakitori off its wooden skewer.

Takeo frowned, and I could practically see the storm clouds move in. “Why? Does it give you a different impression of me?”

“Yes.” I had been surprised that Takeo was so forthcoming. I could understand his awkwardness with people now, given that he’d lost his mother and had only Sakura to guide him. I still was suspicious about his association with Che. Now was probably as good a time as any to reveal my hand. I cleared my throat and said, “One thing I wonder about is your relationships with others. Che Fujisawa, for instance.”

“The environmentalist at Salsa Salsa? We talk from time to time.” Takeo didn’t bat a sooty eyelash.

“Don’t you think it’s a conflict of interest?” I asked. “His group is rabidly anti-Kayama. I have to assume that you, as heir to your family business, are pro-Kayama.”

“I want our school to do well.” Takeo snapped a soybean out of its pod. “At the same time, I want to support flower workers’ health and the environment.”

I thought about my own mixed reactions to the message of Stop Killing Flowers and to the actions they’d taken. “Could you make peace between the two sides?”

“Creating cruelty-free flowers?” he asked sarcastically. “The MAC lipstick that you carry in your handbag is promoted as cruelty-free. From Canada, isn’t it? I know it’s very popular in your country and Japan, too.”

“You went through my bag pretty thoroughly.” I was outraged.

He laughed. “Don’t worry, I didn’t try it on. And I think the cosmetic industry is actually smart to latch on to things that young people care about. Protect the eyes of little bunnies from dangerous chemicals, protect beef from becoming somebody’s dinner…it all goes together.”

We paused as the waitress arrived with a second bottle of beer. I hadn’t noticed that we’d drunk so much. When she’d gone, Takeo picked up the conversation again. “Remember how I mentioned nicotiana?”

“Oh, right. The tobacco plant.” I sipped the new glass of Kirin he had poured for me with the same hypnotic slow movement.

“I’ve been growing it in my country garden. It thrives there without any pesticides or much irrigation. It’s a fantastic plant. I’m growing more of what I call humble plants—Japanese native grasses, wildflowers, and what many consider weeds. These are ideal materials for ikebana.”

“What’s your school slogan, something like ‘Truth in Nature?’“I couldn’t quite translate what was written in the front of my Japanese-language ikebana textbook.

“That’s right. I think that going green really would be a way of expressing ‘Truth in Nature’, but unfortunately, my father doesn’t agree. He says that if we stopped using imported or hothouse-grown flowers, we would alienate distributors, florists, and students. After a pretty bad argument we had last year, I stopped talking to him about it. He doesn’t even know about my garden of humble plants.”

“Why did you tell me?”

Again, not a shadow of discomfort flickered across his handsome features. “I’m trading information with you. I told you something interesting in the hopes that you will do the same for me.”

“You want me to go over the crime scene? I really don’t think I should do anything that might, ah, compromise the investigation. If you care so deeply about Sakura, you would want her murderer to be found.”

“That’s not what I require. I need you to give me information about a certain woman. Her family life, her interests and assets.”

“Is this a girl you’re seeing?” For some reason I felt slightly deflated. “Hire a private detective. There are a lot of them around.”

“You’d be better. You are much closer to the person I’m interested in, and you actually have experience in criminal matters. I read that in today’s newspaper.”

“Who is the woman?” I asked, running through a mental list of attractive women I knew, Japanese and foreign.

“Norie Shimura.”

My fingers tore through the soybean pod I’d been trying to open and sent the pale green orbs flying. “My aunt?”

“Yes, the one who brought you to the school in the first place. Don’t worry—I don’t suspect her in Sakura’s death. The homicide investigation is entirely the business of your Lieutenant Hata.”

“I’m not going to spy on my aunt.” I felt myself begin to sweat through the thin silk dress.

“Hey, all I want is something you already know. Family history.”

“Well, I don’t live with her. I’ve only been in Japan for a few years. You should ask your father. They’ve been friends since before you were born.”

“I mentioned earlier that my father and I do not communicate.” Takeo picked up the bill that had been brought with our meal.

“I’ll split it with you,” I said, reversing my original plans. There was no way I wanted to feel beholden to him now.

“Sorry, that’s impossible,” he said.

I struggled up to a standing position. One of the feet I’d tucked under me had gone to sleep, so I had to wait a minute before I could hobble after Takeo, who had already paid the bill at the restaurant’s register.

“Next Tuesday I’ll pick you up to go to Izu. I want to show you my garden, and we will talk more about your aunt.”

I was beginning to realize that Takeo automatically expected me to go along with every plan he suggested. I didn’t like it, so I said, “No, thank you. I have work to do that day.”

“You’re freelance, which means you make your own schedule. Look for a Range Rover outside your apartment building at ten in the morning. I imagine that parking is impossible in your neighborhood, so look out for me, please.”

“I won’t,” I said, but he would not listen.

Takeo insisted on escorting me to the subway for my safety. I’d walked the streets of Tokyo many times past midnight, so this gallantry was ridiculous. The only seedy part of the walk involved passing by an “image club” where Russian women dressed in short fur coats and high heels draped themselves over Takeo, cooing of the pleasures within. As he tried to hand their free-drink coupons back to them, I took advantage of the confusion to cut across the street and dash downstairs into Nogizaka Station. I didn’t want him following me all the way home.

Once I had worked through my anger at how aggressive Takeo had been, I thought about the irony of the situation. If Aunt Norie knew that Takeo Kayama had asked me to his country house, she would be beside herself with delight. She had been trying to find me a decent Japanese boyfriend for years. Here was someone beyond her wildest dreams of economic stability—and he liked to garden.

But Takeo was interested in Norie, not me. Even though he said he didn’t suspect her of killing Sakura, there was no other reason for him to be interested in Norie. He’d made a snap decision, given the circumstances of the crime.

Of course, there was the chance his belief could be replaced by something better, like the truth. Maybe if I elaborated on the boring details of Norie’s life—the laundry washed every morning, the multiple-dish dinners cooked for hours, the conversations she had with neighbors about eliminating black spot on roses—he would reject her as a suspect. I could even get him to sit down with Norie over coffee and cake, maybe my aunt’s famous gateau au chocolat. He would be overcome by sweetness.

I went on plotting as I disembarked at Nezu Station and headed home.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Richard Randall telephoned on Saturday afternoon, just as I was in the middle of negotiations with a dealer from Kyoto.

“Enrique and I lost sight of you at the bar, and we heard later there was some problem with the bouncer. Mea culpa, babe,” Richard drawled over the line. “Let me apologize at a cherry blossom viewing party tonight. It’s bring-your-own-bottle, on the street running through Yanaka Cemetery—”

“Certainly. May I return your call later?” I said as pleasantly as I could. I didn’t want Mr. Noe to think I was making a date for a drinking binge during a business meeting.

“Just tell me, did the Lambada strategy work? My spies tell me that a young tycoon followed you out of the place.”

“Yes, I understand you are interested in the screen with cranes, but I have another buyer right here. It’s such a shame, but another piece will come along. Good-bye, Mr. Randall. My best to your family in Toronto.” I hung up and smiled at Mr. Noe.

“Your customer from Toronto is calling at … midnight? Overseas customers are strange.”

I should have pretended the call came from Los Angeles. I improvised, saying, “Mr. Randall always takes my schedule into account. He’s a very gracious customer.”

“Well, I have no interest in the four plates you are trying to sell. The kanji for four means death, neh? If only they were a full set of five. I shall consider the crane screen. I don’t believe it’s from the Edo period, of course, judging from the gilding on that corner,” Mr. Noe said.

“I never made a claim of age; however, the work was stored carefully for many decades in my client’s kura. That’s why the gilding is still so attractive,” I said. It was true. When antiques were protected from light and wind in traditional storehouses, the quality often remained exquisite.

“Well, I could only give you two hundred thousand yen for the screen. I understand if you would prefer to go with your Canadian customer.”

I hadn’t meant to pretend there was a second buyer for the screen; that wouldn’t be ethical. I thought two hundred thousand yen, a little under fourteen hundred dollars, was an okay price. But prices were always worth testing.

“I think if you check the price that a similar screen went for at the last Sotheby’s auction, you would find two-forty to be a very reasonable figure.”

Mr. Noe studied me, and I tried not to flinch. “What are the terms?”

“Payment due within thirty days. If you pay me today, though, I could give you a discount of five percent.”

Mr. Noe scratched his chin. “I prefer dealing in cash. Very well, Miss Shimura.”

We concluded business amiably over cups of green tea and the sakura-mochi cakes that I’d picked up at Mr. Waka’s Family Mart. Instead of serving the sweets on my mismatched antique Imari, I used pale green plates decorated with a pattern of pink cherry blossom petals. Aunt Norie had given them to me for my last birthday.

“We have had our cherry blossom season in Kyoto for the last two weeks,” Mr. Noe told me. “It’s such a shame that Japan’s most beautiful city is no longer its most visited. Whereas you certainly have the cherry blossom lovers enjoying parties under the trees in Ueno Park.”

“Are the cherry trees in bloom?” I had been so consumed with the Kayama School problems that I hadn’t noticed.

“Of course! But your shoji are closed,” he said, gesturing toward the paper shades drawn over my window. “How can you enjoy nature?”

I had trotted downstairs for a jog earlier that morning but had not opened the door when I saw a Fuji TV truck parked in the road. It lingered all morning, and I was careful to keep my blinds drawn and my lights dim. It could have been there to report on cherry blossom parties—or to report on me. Now, as I discreetly moved the shoji aside to look at the avenue of trees running through Yanaka Cemetery, I saw that they were fully afloat with pink blooms and that the television van was gone. After Mr. Noe left, I would be able to travel unhindered to Mitsutan to refresh the bamboo and iris installation. I’d told Aunt Norie I’d be the one to add water to the arrangement, thinking that it would be better for her not to face the coldness of the other flower arrangers again.

Mr. Noe gave me a fat envelope of cash that I deposited at my bank’s cash machine on my way to Mitsutan. Saturday afternoon meant school was out, so the streets were packed with shopping families. The crowd was particularly thick around Mitsutan, and when I drew closer, I saw a familiar embroidered denim jacket. Once again Che Fujisawa was leading a Stop Killing Flowers protest.

A YELLOW ROSE MEANS DEATH TO PEOPLE OF ALL COLORS, one sign read, referring to Mitsutan’s official yellow rose emblem. THE FLOWERS YOU ADMIRE POISON OUR YOUNG, said another. WHEN IS DEATH A BARGAIN? was the final cryptic message. The signs, lettered in Japanese, Spanish, and English, moved up and down as the mix of Japanese and Latin-Japanese young people slowly circled the store entrance. A number of uniformed guards stared down the protesters but appeared unable to do more. Customers headed for the store merely bypassed the main entrance and entered through side doors. The protest was visible, but it wasn’t stopping people from shopping.

Che didn’t hold a sign; he was too busy handing out leaflets. When I came up, he didn’t recognize me, perhaps because I had sunglasses on and was wearing jeans instead of a dress. Maybe I looked like a likely convert, because he murmured, “Sister, please join our fight against the death fields of flowers. Boycott the Kayama exhibition.”

I took the leaflet and ducked into the store, which didn’t seem to be suffering any from the protest outside. Mitsutan was packed with housewives hefting large shopping bags decorated with the yellow rose that Stop Killing Flowers was railing against, as well as affluent teenagers clutching Prada totes, and toddlers with Sanrio 9backpacks on their backs. Everyone had a status bag of some sort. I was carrying a slim wallet tucked into my jeans, having been sobered by the near loss of my tiny handbag the night before.

Riding up the escalator to the gallery floor, I stopped off on the young designers’ floor to see how Natsumi Kayama had decorated the mannequins in the Nicole Miller boutique. The mannequins were dressed in orange and green silk dresses, and Natsumi had given them bouquets of fat yellow roses mixed with orange striped tiger lilies and trailing ivy. The flowers were undoubtedly imported.

A long queue of people was waiting to get into the Matisse exhibit in the north gallery. There was no line at the south gallery, which housed the Kayama show.

“How are things going?” I asked Miss Okada, who was in charge of admission.

“Mmm, not so well,” Miss Okada sighed. “There is a protest outside. We had the same ones outside our school building, but it is really embarrassing to have them make trouble at Mitsutan. And we’re losing lots of money.”

Once I entered the hall, I understood why she was worried. The spotlighted floral wonderland was a lonely country unto itself. Kayama School students dressed in matronly, expensive-looking suits or kimono, treaded softly between the spotlighted arrangements. I viewed Mari Kumamori’s ceramic urns draped simply with vines, and then Lila Braithwaite’s arrangement of showy white orchids.

Aunt Norie’s bamboo and iris installation appeared like a graceful purple and green wave. The iris had been tightly closed the day before but had opened under the warm spotlights. Thank God I wouldn’t have to do much more than adjust the flower that was falling out of one of the bamboo stalks.

Lila cut across my line of vision, rushing toward her arrangement. She was wearing a dark blue suit with an Hermes scarf tied into a big ruff around her neck.

She stopped when she caught sight of me. “Oh, hello, Rei. I’m just here for five minutes—my children are waiting with the nanny outside.” She lowered her voice. “Did you tell Lieutenant Hata about me?”

“Not yet.” I was struck by an idea. “Lila, you should be with me when I talk to him.”

“With my schedule, that’s impossible!”

“You can make it to a flower-arranging show but not to police headquarters?”

Lila’s face reddened. “Well, nice seeing you. I’m on my way out.”

“You can’t go,” said Nadine St. Giles, running up to both of us. “He’s here. You’ve got to stand by your arrangement and take the criticism!”

“He?” Lila and I asked in unison.

“The iemoto! Mr. Kayama has come, and I believe he’s going to critique everybody’s arrangement.”

Aunt Norie would be sorry she was missing this. Or maybe it was better that I was there instead of her—if he didn’t like our arrangement, she would be devastated.

Nadine, Lila, and I ran into the herd of Kayama students, who had assembled in complete silence by the door to await the headmaster. He was entering the gallery with Natsumi. Masanobu Kayama looked like an artist, from his long silver hair tied into a low ponytail to the ascot tucked into the neck of his cream-colored silk shirt. My eyes ran over the black corduroy Levi’s covering his long legs and settled on his extraordinary footwear, a pair of Japanese flip-flop sandals worn with white cotton socks called tabi.

The man was a walking cultural contradiction. I wanted to gaze at him longer, but the student group had collectively swept themselves into a knee-grazing bow, and I figured I’d better follow. The headmaster bowed back, stretching his back into a less-demanding angle, as befit his rank. Afterward his eyes traveled over the students and came to rest on the small grouping of Lila, Nadine, and myself. He smiled with a warmth that was surprising. Lila and Nadine beamed back as if hey had been blessed.

“My dear students. I am humble before all you have done for me.” Masanobu Kayama spoke softly, without an ounce of arrogance.

“On the contrary, we have done a very poor job. Excuse us,” Mrs. Koda answered for the crowd.

“Your kind words are comforting in our time of sorrow, Koda-san. I can only wish our Sakura-san were here. Let’s explore the work together. And we will start with the memorial flower arrangement. Who are the arrangers?”

“We are,” Mrs. Koda said softly, indicating herself and Natsumi. Natsumi screwed her face into an unconvincingly humble expression and mimicked Mrs. Koda’s deep bow. It must be odd to bow to your father, odder still to have him criticize your work in front of a few dozen people.

I regarded the grouping of Sakura’s black drainpipes, standing upright instead of lying flat as she’d done in class. White magnolia stretched heavenward, with the soft pink tendrils of cherry woven through the branches, giving the feeling of a fairy forest arising from factory smokestacks.

“Of course, it is just an awkward attempt to recall the grace of Sakura-san’s work. We beg your forgiveness for our poor arrangement,” Mrs. Koda murmured, pro forma.

The iemoto walked around all sides of the arrangement, his sandals softly slapping against the polished pine floor. Then he returned to the front of the arrangement and addressed his comments to all of us in a sonorous voice. “When one loses a loved one, it feels as if winter has arrived. There is numbness, a sense of unbearable cold. Perhaps an arrangement marking a death should be one without leaves, without beautiful flowers?” He paused theatrically. “I think not. To remember the grace and style of Sakura, one thinks of our school motto, ‘Truth in Nature.’ But that does not mean nature cannot be fantastic. This arrangement captures the unearthly quality of the ikebana that Sakura-san loved best.” The women in the audience murmured their agreement.

“However,” the iemoto continued, “My daughter still needs to learn ikebana. She should have chosen some cherry branches that are not in flower yet. Because she chose branches that offer complete fulfillment today, this will lead to a less beautiful viewing for our guests who come tomorrow.”

Natsumi smiled as if she were grateful for the criticism and bowed in perfect harmony with Mrs. Koda. I thought it was significant that the iemoto had blamed the arrangement’s flaws on his daughter, and not on Mrs. Koda. It was traditional for parents in Japan to speak disparagingly toward their children when in public. I wondered, though, if the iemoto was especially hard to please. Takeo had tried to suggest a green approach for the school and he’d been shot down.

The iemoto moved on to the next arrangement, which was by the arranger I admired most, Mari Kumamori. “Kumamori-san, may I ask if you made these urns?” Headmaster Kayama asked her.

Mari Kumamori was already hanging her head. With the headmaster’s words it just sank a little more deeply, her small chin almost hitting her chest. The flexibility of polite women was amazing.

“What a skilled artisan you are. The urns are influenced by the Bizen period, but their use here today reflects a modem sensibility. Nothing is too precious to contain our flowers,” he said, making me glow with pride for Mari.

“And—nothing is too precious to be altered.” Headmaster Kayama carefully unwound the vines from the first urn in the arrangement. He murmured something to Natsumi,who reached into the basket she was carrying and handed him a small towel. The headmaster spread out the towel on the gallery’s polished hardwood floor, then placed the urn on top. I wondered if he was nervous about spilling water on the floor. I’d watched Mari make the arrangement, so I knew there was no liquid inside. No need to worry.

“Hammer,” Masanobu Kayama said to his daughter. Out of the gardening basket came a steel-headed tool that I wouldn’t have expected a flower arranger to use. Masanobu Kayama brought the hammer down, breaking Mari Kumamori’s beautiful urn into a few large pieces. I recoiled, as did some of the other ladies around me. Mari just looked frozen.

“You will find that by integrating some broken pottery, we will add a sense of movement to this static arrangement,” Mr. Kayama said, already moving the urn pieces into the foreground of Mari’s flower arrangement. He trailed a few vines here and there over the pottery shards.

The women began murmuring about how wonderful it looked, but they shut up quickly when the headmaster made it apparent he was not finished. He asked Mari, “Are these urns watertight? “

She nodded.

“Good,” he said. “Mrs. Koda, could you bring me some roses?”

Mrs. Koda hobbled to the back of the gallery, disappearing behind an unbleached linen curtain. She came back holding a bundle of white roses.

“Just what we need.” Mr. Kayama took the flowers from her. Natsumi handed him a pair of ikebana scissors and he snipped off the stems. My aunt had taught me to cut flowers under water, but obviously the headmaster had rules of his own. Masanobu Kayama slid the roses into the mouth of one of the urns. The vine-draped urns had seemed serene and unpretentious before. Now there was a bizarre contrast, the showy white roses outlined starkly against the dull pot. And the broken shards in front looked to me as if they needed sweeping up.

“What does Mrs. Braithwaite, head of our international students, think of the arrangement now?” Mr. Kayama said in English, surprising me—and Lila, too, as I gathered from the way she stiffened.

“Oh!” Lila paused, her eyes darting from the flowers to Maris bowed head and then to the iemoto. “I am struck by the contrast between black and white? Between clarity and illusion?”

“I agree.” The headmaster looked at Lila for a long moment. “Well, let’s move on.”

Mari Kumamori appeared so dejected that I wanted to stay back and squeeze her shoulder, but Mr. Kayama was already standing in front of Aunt Norie’s and my bamboo fence. I had to be there to take whatever he hammered out.

“Well!” Masanobu Kayama laughed heartily. Natsumi joined in with a few giggles, but from her face I could tell she didn’t know what was going on.

“At our country house we have a bamboo fence,” the iemoto explained. “When my children were young, they once decorated it with some flowers from the garden.”

“They were very naughty, completely beheading the iris garden on the day some people from the French embassy were visiting,” Mrs. Koda said, smiling as she spoke. “I remember it clearly. Sakura sent you to bed early.”

“She always sent us to bed early,” Natsumi said, startling me.

There was an awkward silence until the iemoto broke it. “This arrangement certainly is enjoyable. You’re playing with the concept of heaven and earth, placing the iris up so high. I like that.”

He moved on to the next arrangement, but I didn’t really hear anything. I was too busy trying to decode what had been said. Did the headmaster really like the arrangement, or was he telling me that it was as clumsy as a child’s work? Natsumi had looked at our arrangement when it was finished the day before. She hadn’t said anything then about it reminding her of her childhood. But maybe that was what had upset her enough to argue with my aunt.

In the time since Masanobu Kayama had begun the critiques, a few more visitors not affiliated with the school had entered the show. One of them had brought a camera and was starting to photograph the arrangements.

“We are getting some people at last!” Mrs. Koda said. She had surprised me by coming up after the headmaster had passed on to critique the next arrangement. “Shall we have a cup of tea? I don’t think the iemoto needs me.”

“I would like that,” I said, walking slowly with Mrs. Koda toward the beverage service. There were only two tables with chairs, and I wanted to be sure to find one for Mrs. Koda.

“Did you know that our school has its very own boxed tea and cookie sets imported from France? The black tea is perfumed with cherry, and the madeleines are flavored with almond. I know because I ordered the refreshments myself. Let me show you.”

“Please just sit down and relax,” I urged her, picking up a tray for both of us.

I made Mrs. Koda sit down and set off for the tea service. A cast-iron teapot, the kind that imbues tea with a lovely flavor, was waiting, along with a tray of Wedgwood teacups and dessert plates. The madeleines lay on a tray with silver tongs next to it. I picked up a few cookies and poured two cups of tea.

Miss Okada appeared from behind the linen curtain. “Ah, Shimura-san! You are the first to try our refreshment center. I’m afraid there is a fee—the cookies are two hundred yen and tea is five hundred.”

“Please keep the change.” I said, giving her fifteen hundred yen. Once again the Kayama School was forcing its students and teachers to tithe. I realized part of my irritation was due to the fact that she seemed to think I’d intended to steal the tea and cookies. There had been no sign telling about the fees.

“The iemoto liked your arrangement. You should tell your aunt,” Miss Okada said.

“I’ll try. She’d probably be more likely to believe the comment if it came from you,” I said while lightly sugaring my tea. Japanese people didn’t usually add sugar or milk to tea, so I left Mrs. Koda’s cup plain.

“Certainly. But she hasn’t been to the school since the accident.”

“Yes, it’s been hard. The ladies aren’t speaking much to her.” Beyond Miss Okada, I saw the back of a woman wearing a fancy kimono and carrying a hot-water heater. As I spoke, the woman stopped in her tracks and then scurried off in the same direction from where she had come. The woman was probably one of the Kayama School members who had been ostracizing my aunt. It was a shame that I didn’t get a look at her face. I could only imagine that she was blushing.

“I’ve been here all morning, and can you believe you are the first person to buy a cup of tea? Thank goodness! If only more people would come!” Miss Okada was refusing to stay on the uncomfortable topic I’d broached.

Feeling resigned, I said, “There are plenty of people in the department store, but apparently they aren’t interested in ikebana. Natsumi Kayama told us she thinks the younger generation doesn’t care about flowers.”

“It is true, Shimura-san. That is why we need you to become part of our circle. You will be a wonderful ikebana artist. I can tell by your sense of commitment.” Miss Okada smiled with what looked like phony approval as I picked up the tray of tea and cookies and brought it to Mrs. Koda.

“Ah, how delicious-looking. Itadakimasu.” Mrs. Koda offered the brief Japanese grace meaning ‘I shall receive,’ and we both took sips of our tea.

“So how was it for you to undergo your first critique by the headmaster?” Mrs. Koda asked.

“It was Aunt Norie’s work, not mine.”

“How Japanese of you to give your senior credit. That is polite, Rei-san, but I have not kept my eyes closed. I watched you handle the irises yesterday and today. You are growing in confidence. You cut each flower to the right length without hesitation.”

I had been working fast because I wanted to get out of the department store and back to my antiques work. I couldn’t reveal that, so I said, “I’m unskilled. Mari Kumamori is much better.”

“Mrs. Kumamori did an arrangement without flowers, just vines that are considered by the headmaster to be weeds,” Mrs. Koda said.

“But she was doing freestyle!” I protested. “Doesn’t freestyle mean free choice?”

“It lacked emotion,” Mrs. Koda said. “Your work was exuberant. Hers was too quiet.”

“I always believed quietness was considered a Japanese virtue,” I said, draining my cup. Despite the amount I’d drunk, my mouth felt dry. Still, I wasn’t going to shell out five hundred more yen for a second cup. I turned to look at Mari, who was on her knees, touching the broken shards of pottery. She had remained beside her arrangement, even though the headmaster and his flock had moved closer toward the refreshments area.

“I liked Mari Kumamori’s arrangement before the headmaster broke it,” I told Mrs. Koda.

“Shhh,” she cautioned, inclining her head toward Eriko, who had taken it upon herself to guard the tea and cookies. “You don’t want rumors spreading that you are undisciplined.”

I decided Mrs. Koda wasn’t as sweet as my aunt had told me. In fact, I felt sick listening to her. I put a cookie in my mouth. If I could finish the snack, I’d have a good excuse to get away from her.

“It was interesting that your bamboo and iris arrangement brought to mind the prank the Kayama children played so long ago,” Mrs. Koda said. “With a memory as sharp as his, the iemoto will probably run the school for twenty more years!”

“Really? You think that Takeo won’t be able to take over until he’s”—I quickly calculated—”almost fifty?”

“Of course. Usually the takeover does not come until the death of the headmaster. That was the way it was for Masanobu-sensei. His father practiced until seventy, and then he took over. It was just twenty years ago.”

“A few years after his wife was killed,” I said, fighting the queasiness inside me. Maybe I was coming down with change-of-season influenza. If so, I should really consider buying a little white half mask for my subway ride home. Mitsutan probably sold them in their toiletries department. Surely one of the ladies had one in her purse. The thought of shopping seemed impossible.

“Not killed,” Mrs. Koda corrected. “Mrs. Kayama died because of an accidental fall.”

“Takeo told me,” I said, putting my hand over my mouth as I felt myself start to gag. Yes, I definitely was sick.

“You must say Takeo-san or Takeo-sensei,” Mrs. Koda corrected me. “I know that he is your age, but you must still show respect.”

The nausea was overpowering me. I stumbled to my feet, preparing to run to the ladies’ room. Headmaster Kayama and the knot of women stood between the gallery exit and me.

“Rei-san? Is something wrong?” Mrs. Koda asked.

“Chotto shitsurei shimasu!” I bleated the traditional words of departure. They translated as “I’m going to be a bit rude,” and now I feared it would literally be true.

I was too dizzy to move in a straight line. I tripped over Mrs. Koda’s cane and glanced off the side of the cafe table. I heard the porcelain teacup smash just before I vomited. A bizarre hallucination flashed through my brain, a vision of myself as some kind of grotesque watering can. I had never been so embarrassed in my life. Then I blacked out.

CHAPTER NINE

When I opened my eyes, I focused on cherry blossoms so big and dazzling that they looked fake. I blinked and moved my head slightly. More flowers. Daffodils, azaleas, lilies… Was I lying in the middle of a huge flower arrangement? No. Beyond the flowers was a wall of familiar wood-block prints. I was at home, albeit with an extremely sore throat and a dull ache in my buttocks, thighs, and shoulders.

“Rei-chan! You are awake!” My Aunt Norie spoke, brushing her hand across my forehead. “Tsutomu, come and look at her.”

I adjusted my head until I was looking straight up into my cousin Tom’s face. When he began shining a flashlight into my eyes, I threw an arm over my face for protection. “That’s obnoxious,” I muttered.

My cousin smiled. “Good verbal skills. Apparently there’s no brain damage.”

“I wanted you to wake up at home surrounded by beauty,” Aunt Norie said.

“I couldn’t possibly arrange all these flowers. Why not potted plants? They live forever,” I said, feeling strangely weak.

“A potted plant is bad luck for a sick person. It suggests that you will grow roots and never get out of bed. Now, how would you like that?” Aunt Norie tucked a thermometer under my arm.

“The flowers are get-well wishes from your friends and colleagues,” Tom added. “Everyone was so worried after you collapsed at Mitsutan.”

“I got sick there, didn’t I?” I suddenly remembered my image of the watering can.

“That’s putting it mildly,” Tom said. “You vomited and fainted on Saturday afternoon. Its now Tuesday. You were at St. Luke’s until yesterday afternoon, when you insisted on signing out. I promised to coordinate your follow-up care, and you would ordinarily be at our house in Yokohama, but my mother decided it would be better for you to be away from the media.”

I did have a dim memory of being in a bed fitted with starched white sheets. Another memory of a taxi ride with a lot of people around me. What else had I missed?

“I telephoned your parents to tell them about the crisis. They also agreed that it would be best for me to nurse you,” Aunt Norie said. “I’m here for as long as you need me.”

Now that my eyes could focus past the flowers, I saw unfamiliar quilts, two suitcases, and an extra- large rice cooker. Aunt Norie appeared to have moved in. “This is rather a lot of fuss,” I said. “What do I have, a bad case of the flu? My throat still hurts.”

Tom shook his head. “Your throat is sore because we had to put a tube down in order to do the stomach pumping. And you received a series of intramuscular shots over the last forty-eight hours. You’ve been through quite a bit, Rei.”

“Stomach pumping? Are you saying I overdosed on something?”

“You were poisoned, and we are still trying to determine the poison. I have my own suspicions, because grocers and home cooks do not always store food hygienically. I have seen patients who became seriously I’ll ill after eating grilled fish left out overnight on the kitchen table, or even mixed rice dishes left in the rice cooker too long.”

“To refrigerate would ruin texture!” Aunt Norie chided, pulling the thermometer from under my arm. She handed it to Tom to read.

“Normal temperature,” Tom said. “Did you eat some very old leftovers, Rei? Or perhaps you accidentally bought tainted food at a shop or restaurant?”

I’d had my usual breakfast of toast and tea. I’d skipped lunch but had eaten a few rice cakes that I’d bought from Mr. Waka. “There were some sakura-mochi cakes I ate with my client. They came from Family Mart.”

“The police found the mochi package in your trash and took it for testing. That seemed to be all right.”

“The police went through my garbage?” Even though I imagined it was in my interest, I felt violated.

“Yes, and I promised to call Lieutenant Hata to allow him to question you once you awakened,” Tom said.

“I’ve been telling you all morning that Rei’s too weak. Just because she opened her eyes doesn’t mean she’s ready to speak,” my aunt defended.

“If we don’t find out where she bought the poisonous food, more people in the city could become I’ll or even die,” Tom lectured. “It is her citizen’s duty to share information.”

I agreed with him, although I wasn’t a Japanese citizen, and I didn’t particularly feel like seeing Lieutenant Hata. All I really wanted was a hot bath. Standing up, I was still so unsteady that I had to have Aunt Norie help me to my bathroom.

“But, Rei, you should shower first. Please, I’ll help you,” Norie protested when I stepped directly into the tub that she was filling rapidly with hot water.

“I can’t stand up long enough to shower.” It was true. My poor, shot-up buttocks were screaming in protest. I didn’t care that stepping into a bath unclean went beyond the limits of Japanese etiquette. It was my own bathtub, and as long as I didn’t use soap I wouldn’t damage the heating mechanism.

“Ah, you really do need me. Don’t worry. I will take care of everything.” Aunt Norie placed a warm washcloth on my forehead and left the room.

My gaze went around the tiny peach-colored room. As was traditional in Japanese bathrooms, the tiled room worked like a giant shower stall, with a small but very deep bathtub taking up one side. Aunt Norie had shaken some bath salts into the water; a quarter cup of powder turned a plain bath into a bright yellow scented one.

I lay back, letting my hair get wet and fan out like strands of seaweed in the surreal yellow sea. I couldn’t believe that I’d vomited in front of everyone at the ikebana show. I had felt fine before I went to Mitsutan. I could not have poisoned myself with leftovers.

“Rei-chan, I am coming back in.” Aunt Norie poked her head through the door. “Tsutomu has gone away, so you can dress outside. But do it soon, neh? The lieutenant is on his way, and it would not be good for you to be undressed.”

Not even my bathroom was private. But when I limped out of the bath, I realized I needed Aunt Norie to help me. I allowed her to bundle me into tights and a wool skirt and jacket, clothing that was slightly warm for the season, but what Norie considered appropriate for a police interview. She had also tucked away my futon.

“There, you sit in that chair and wait for the lieutenant. I feel terrible taking you out of bed, but it’s not appropriate for a lady to receive a gentleman that way.”

“But I thought you told Tom I was too weak to see the police,” I protested, longing for the soft quilts and cushions.

“Tsutomu is the man of our family, Rei. What he says must be done.” Norie sighed. “At least he won’t be here for a little while. If you feel well enough, you can use your free time to write thank-you letters for your beautiful flower gifts.”

My aunt whipped out a pad of stationery for the purpose: pale yellow sheets patterned with flowers. At the top was inscribed the word FLORESCENCE in capital letters, and following it was the Keats quotation “A thing of beauty is a joy forever; its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness.” Only in Japan, the country that had invented the word ‘salaryman,’ could a word like ‘florescence’ pop up on stationery. The message didn’t make sense to me, either—the words about beautiful things remaining joys forever. It was a vast exaggeration. All one had to do was consider the flowers around my apartment, which would no doubt be wilted within a few days.

Most of the participants in the ikebana exhibit had sent a bouquet. I wrote to Lila Braithwaite in English, and to Mrs. Koda, Mari Kumamori, and Natsumi Kayama in Japanese, with Norie serving as my hand- writing coach. It turned out the cherry blossom bouquet that I’d immediately noticed upon waking was as artificial as I’d thought. The cherry blossoms came from Richard Randall, who either was being ironic or didn’t have the cash for anything fresh.

Aunt Norie stamped the letters when I was finished and put them in her handbag to take out to the post office. Lieutenant Hata was due any minute now, so my aunt bustled around the kitchenette, turning on the small water heater on my counter to boil water for tea.

“You know how sorry I am about everything, Rei,” she said.

“You mean about not being on hand when I vomited? Obasan, that was something you really couldn’t have prevented.”

“No, I mean that I feel regret about the whole business of asking you to study flower arranging when you didn’t want to do it. I had the best of intentions, you know.” She took a deep breath. “I enrolled you at the Kayama School in part because ikebana is known to sometimes lead to…marriage.”

“But it’s all women there!” I couldn’t help laughing, although it hurt my stomach.

“I thought the nice ladies who study there could introduce you to their sons or nephews.”

“How can you talk to me about arranged marriages when you and Uncle Hiroshi didn’t have one?”

“I did meet Hiroshi myself, and if you would be as lucky as that, I would not worry. But consider your life! You were with the nice Scottish lawyer for a little while, but then he left. Now you are twenty-eight years old and alone. As you lie ill in bed, only one man in Tokyo sends you flowers, and those are made of cheap polyester. Artificial flowers, when all of Japan is in bloom!”

I wasn’t going to bother explaining that Richard wasn’t interested in me that way. I think she already knew that, although I’d never explicitly said to her that Richard preferred men. I steered us away from the topic by saying, “Growing up means relying on yourself, not your parents or relatives.”

“I can tell you about that!” Aunt Norie muttered, turning her back to me and searching my kitchen for something.

“Please do.” I adjusted myself in the chair, bringing my knees up to my chest, which helped a bit with my stomach cramps. Takeo’s request for biographical information on Aunt Norie floated into my mind, but I pushed that memory away. I was listening for my own benefit, not his.

“I was a first-year student at Ocha-No-Mizu Women’s College, very shy and unsure of myself. Our school was holding a dance and I had no boyfriend to invite. In the end, I invited a male friend I knew from high school who had gone on to study at Keio University. At that time, women could not enroll there.”

These days it was still hard for women to gain admission to top schools such as Keio and Tokyo University. I’d thought about trying for a fellowship but, considering my poor kanji knowledge, had decided not to bother.

“My friend asked me to find a girl who would be good for his friend Hiroshi Shimura, who came from an old samurai family. I begged my friend not to bring Hiroshi, because I hadn’t met many people of that class. I was afraid that I would use the wrong words or manners. We are no longer a nation of masters and servants, but I felt too insecure to spend time with a samurai.”

“But you were one of the wealthiest young women in Yokohama!” I objected. When my father had told me, I’d been very surprised, because Norie was the kind of person who did her own cooking and cleaning and never put on any kind of airs.

“Not upper-class,” Norie said swiftly, and I sensed an old hurt. “My father was a pharmacist, and with his savings, he bought some cheap parcels of bombed-out land in downtown Yokohama. During the rebuilding he was able to sell them for higher prices. Whereas the Shimura family had lived for five generations in a large house in West Tokyo. You could have built six homes with gardens on the property they had.”

Dad never told me about that. All I ever knew was the apartment where Grandmother forbade me to touch any furniture, I said. Part of the reason I’d built a career in Japanese antiques was because I had been so resentful about not being able to touch such things in my grandparents’ apartment.

“Your grandmother had to sell the house and move to an apartment to pay off the high inheritance taxes that were levied when your grandfather died. This happened around the time Hiroshi was an undergraduate at Keio, and your father was already doing his residency in the United States.” The water heater beeped its readiness, and Norie poured some into an Arita teapot to get the ceramic properly warmed. She turned on the water heater again and continued. “Hiroshi wanted to be part of Japan’s industrial future as soon as possible, while your grandfather had wanted him to work in a more scholarly area.”

That didn’t surprise me. Although I’d never known my grandfather, my father had told me that he’d been a professor of classical literature at Keio. After the war, my grandfather had found it difficult to abandon the idea of Japan as the world’s supreme culture. He had been forced to retire and, until his death, spent his time working on a manifesto that was never published but probably rivaled Yukio Mishima’s work in terms of right-wing ideological passion.

“So what was Uncle Hiroshi like when you met him?” I asked.

“Let’s get back to the dance. My friend insisted on bringing Hiroshi, and so I set up my friend Eriko, whom you know from ikebana class, to be his date. She didn’t like Hiroshi because he was two inches shorter than she was. She danced off with somebody else. I felt sorry about her behavior and stayed next to Hiroshi, talking nonstop so he couldn’t ask me what had happened to her. It turned out that no young woman had ever chatted so long to him. He asked me to go for a walk the next day to see if I would have anything left to say!”

“You almost lost your husband to Eriko?”I was stunned by the implications. How lucky that Eriko had been a snob about height.

“Actually, Eriko blames herself for making a poor choice. The tall, handsome man she married became a heavy drinker. Last year his company fired him. But don’t worry about that. Here, please try the tea.”

“Is this some kind of meat broth?” I had been expecting smooth and subtle green tea, but this brew was reddish brown and surprisingly salty.

“No, it is tea made from the beefsteak plant. It’s very good for invalids.”

Regarding the mound of shopping bags on my kitchen table, I had a feeling I was going to be exposed to more foods for the sickly. I tried to suppress the sensation that I was drinking beef bouillon and took another sip. “So you and Uncle Hiroshi decided to manrry.”

“Decide is a strong word for it. We asked our parents for permission. Mine were delighted, but they were too obvious in their pleasure. Mrs. Shimura and her high-class relatives thought we were trying to better ourselves.” Norie sighed. “It became very painful. When Hiroshi’s parents said no, he was very discouraged and said that it would be impossible to go against them. My parents decided that if they had several proposals for me from other families, this would build my value in front of the Shimuras. So they contacted a matchmaker who suggested I study ikebana and tea ceremony to become more cultured. These activities took so much time that I was forced to drop out of college. And I was afraid that in the meantime my parents would find somebody else for me to marry.”

“Ah, so you didn’t want an arranged marriage. Like me, you wished your relatives would stay out of your business—”

“Actually, I found that through their clever thinking, I was being called to drink tea in hotel lobbies with many interesting men.” She smiled coyly. “The girls studying at the Kayama School had brothers, and of course at that time Masanobu-sensei was a young teacher supervising us, and he was very attractive. I kept in touch with Hiroshi through occasional telephone calls, and when he called once and my mother greeted him with the name of one of my other suitors, Hiroshi became jealous. He told me that he wanted to manrry me as soon as possible, and he told his mother that if she would not allow me to join the Shimura family register, he would change his name and join mine. Mrs. Shimura decided they could not afford to lose their name.”

“How were things with my grandmother after you married?”

“My family was worried that I’d be treated badly by Mrs. Shimura, so they built us a house all to ourselves in Yokohama. As a matter of pride, Mrs. Shimura never visited us there, not until Tom was born. A grandson who would perhaps earn a doctorate from Keio! She could not stay away.”

“But what about girls? I met my grandmother when I was four. I wonder if she ever imagined that I’d come here to live for good,” I said. What I mainly remembered about that first visit was how funny it was to lie next to my parents on a futon spread underneath a grand piano, because there was no spare room in my grandmother’s place.

“It was hard at first. You actually first visited Japan when you were one year old. Your father and mother tried to visit your grandmother, but she refused to see them. She made an excuse about being too tired. Your parents were devastated. They stayed with us that year, and each year after that until you turned three.”

“Why was my grandmother so hateful?” I felt as if I’d been slapped.

“Your father had married out of his racial group. He was removed from the family register. And she really didn’t want to see the issue. I’m so sorry, Rei-chan. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings. But that is the truth about your grandmother.”

I turned away from my aunt’s concerned gaze, trying to compose myself. This was a major shock. I never really had warmed to my grandmother, but I thought it was because she was so old and formal, so different from my beloved Aunt Norie, who had gone to the effort of enrolling me in summer kindergarten and primary school classes so I could learn what it was like to be a Japanese child. I asked, “How did it ever come about that my parents were allowed in my grandmother’s apartment?”

“I mailed your grandmother a photograph of you wearing a kimono at age three, when you participated in a coming-of-age ceremony at the Meiji Shrine. I dressed you in a kimono similar to one she’d worn for her own childhood celebration. You were the exact image of her at that age. Her heart softened, and she invited your parents to see her the next time they were in Japan.”

“She cared about how I looked. The surface,” I said.

“She was a strong woman,” Norie said. “But think about things from her side. After the war, she and her husband lost their entire world. All they had was their name, and neither of their sons married women befitting it.”

“And now you are the champion of that name.” The conversation that started off as an idle diversion had wound up making me feel bitter. I shouldn’t have felt angry with my grandmother, who had died from a stroke years earlier—but hearing these stories, I was.

CHAPTER TEN

The buzzer at my door sounded, signaling a visitor.

“That must be Lieutenant Hata,” Norie said. “Sit politely, Rei. Yes, with your skirt over your knees and your feet on the floor.”

I had pulled my knees up to my chest because it lessened my stomachache slightly. I rearranged myself into decency as Lieutenant Hata came in, murmuring the customary words of apology for disturbing the household. He looked around swiftly and then smiled at my aunt.

“You’ve been busy cleaning, I see.”

“Just a little dusting. My niece is not one for housekeeping. How about a cup of tea?”

“Oh, please don’t go to the trouble of making tea,” Lieutenant Hata said.

“It’s ready. You must have some.” Aunt Norie carefully poured three cups of the beefsteak tea and brought them to the tea table.

“You have been sleeping a long time. You probably do not know that it has been raining heavily since last night,” Hata said, pushing back the damp hair that had fallen into his eyes.

“The rain is terrible for the cherry blossoms. They’re barely opening, and now they are being shaken off the trees!” Aunt Norie complained.

“In an odd way, the rain actually helped our investigation of your poisoning,” Hata told me. “Our pathology unit was scheduled to enjoy a cherry blossom viewing party yesterday, but it was called off because of the weather. That meant there were lab technicians available to run many different analyses.”

“But you don’t know everything I ate on Friday and Saturday,” I cut in. “There’s still a lot of work to be done.”

“Actually, we have concluded that your stomach contained traces of a heavy metal.” Lieutenant Hata said the itadakimasu grace under his breath and reached for his cup of tea.

“Do you mean I ate a bit of foil? I’m sure I didn’t eat anything that tasted like it contained metal.”

“We found a particular heavy metal. It is a poison called arsenic. Have you heard of it?”

I nodded as my stomach went into a spasm. Psychosomatic, I hoped.

“Arsenic is serious! It is supposed to work over a long period of time. Can it still hurt my niece?” Aunt Norie demanded, as if the bearer of bad news was the one who had perpetrated the act.

“Too little was ingested for that to happen.”

“Rei-chan, have you been eating in bad restaurants?” Aunt Norie asked crossly. “How terrible, when you could be living with me and having my home cooking.”

The lieutenant and I exchanged glances. She didn’t get it.

“The poisoning took place at Mitsutan, when Miss Shimura drank a cup of tea,” Lieutenant Hata explained. “The sugar she added to her cup contained granules of ant killer. The ant killer itself is a mix of sugar and arsenic meant to attract and kill ants crawling on flowers.”

“I know that product,” Aunt Norie said. “I feel terrible about using it, but my peonies would be destroyed if I didn’t.”

“How interesting that you mention it.” Lieutenant Hata turned his penetrating gaze on my aunt. “A container of ant killer was discovered in the staging area at the flower exhibition. Particles of dust and pollen on its surface matched that in your garden shed. Our tests make it seem that the ant killer container had been in your shed originally.”

Aunt Norie swallowed. She opened her mouth, though nothing came out but a soft moan.

“It’s all right, Obasan. I don’t believe that you poisoned me.” To Lieutenant Hata, I said, “Don’t even hint at something like that! If you knew how my aunt has been the only true friend to my family since my birth—the one who made everything possible for me—”

“Let your aunt speak,” Lieutenant Hata said.

“It is obviously my fault.” My aunt paused. “I never keep the door of the shed locked. Anyone could have gone in.”

“I don’t know why you got the idea to snoop around my aunt’s garden,” I said, feeling fierce. “Are you searching all the garden sheds in the Kanto region? Surely others have pollen and dust that are similar.”

“Her son gave us permission to search. We were there yesterday when you were at the hospital. It was not a matter of trying to sneak in, but speedy discovery of the poison was very important in this case of attempted murder.”

“Am I a suspect?” Norie breathed the last word softly.

“Do you think you should be?” Hata asked swiftly.

“I am guilty of carelessly leaving my shed open and of not being with my niece to protect her against the poisoning person at Mitsutan. And I am guilty of disliking Sakura Sato, even speaking unkindly to her—”

“This is ridiculous.” I interrupted my aunt’s litany of self-blame. “As we all know, my aunt wasn’t even at the exhibition the day I was poisoned. She wanted to come, but I told her not to. And the ant killer wasn’t at Mitsutan on Friday, because I saw everything she brought in. Two buckets of irises. That was it!”

Lieutenant Hata held up his hand in a stop gesture and spoke softer, as if trying to calm down two unruly children. “We are not putting you in prison, Shimura- san. But we do need to keep track of you and your niece, as much for your own safety as that of others.”

Norie nodded unhappily. Her mood was probably as low as mine. My throat still ached, so I bent forward to pour myself some more tea. As I did that, I caught sight of one of my antique kimono hanging on the rack behind Lieutenant Hata’s raincoat. The early-twentieth-century robe, made of geometrically patterned orange and white silk, was hung in a manner displaying its beautiful deep sleeve. Now, staring at the sleeve, I had a startling thought. Mrs. Koda had been wearing a kimono with similarly capacious sleeves. Could she have tucked a packet of ant poison in her sleeve, flicking it into my cup when I wasn’t looking? She, more than anyone, had had the opportunity to hurt me. I told Lieutenant Hata what I had just remembered.

“How can you say such things, Rei-chan?” my aunt said when I was finished. “Mrs. Koda is my lifelong friend! She would never hurt you.”

“A lot of people you consider your lifelong friends haven’t been very kind to you,” I reminded her. “Remember the way the ladies didn’t talk to you when we were arranging flowers at Mitsutan?”

“That theory about Mrs. Koda poisoning you in the individual manner is doubtful,” Lieutenant Hata said. “The poison was placed in the sugar bowl for all to use. Therefore the intent might have been to poison many people at the exhibit.”

“A terrorist act?” Tears came to Aunt Norie’s eyes.

“Why not?” I asked. “Che Fujisawa and the Stop Killing Flowers group were in front of Mitsutan when I went in.”

“We know that, but we doubt they are involved, because the poisoning at the flower show bears similarities to the poisoning death of Sakura Sato.”

It drove me crazy how Lieutenant Hata chose to reveal bits of information at his leisure. But I wasn’t going to complain about his conversational style, since this was the first time I’d heard that Sakura had been poisoned, which raised a host of new questions.

“We saw her with scissors in her throat. Was the poison on the scissors?” I spoke loudly, because somebody in the street was honking a car horn.

“This is where the situation gets complicated,” Lieutenant Hata said. “I would like to discuss it with you, but I’m afraid my language might be disturbing.”

“Nothing could offend me,” I assured him.

“When you found Miss Sato, you may have become shocked by the sight of the blood,” Lieutenant Hata said. “But the truth is that there was only a modest amount of fluid on her neck and blouse. That is because blood had stopped flowing to and from her heart before the incision was made.” Hata paused, looking toward Aunt Norie as if he was worried she would break down. She nodded at him, silently telling him to go on. “Miss Sato was poisoned with the same type of ant poison as Miss Shimura, but she was not quite as strong. She went into a seizure and died. We believe she drank an individually poisoned cup of tea in the lounge and soon began suffering ill effects, because she excused herself to the other students and went into the ladies’ room. The tea drinking broke up shortly after that, so someone could easily have gone into the ladies’ room and found her. Or perhaps she met her killer before she reached her destination. In any case, her killer must have taken her into the classroom and stabbed her as a final gesture.”

Why would someone bother with such superfluous details? I thought, but then reminded myself that flower arrangers lived for details. Flowers were first killed through cutting, then twisted and further altered to make a beautiful arrangement. Whoever had killed Sakura seemed to have made a grisly allusion to the art of ikebana itself.

“A flower arranger.” I spoke my thought aloud.

“We aren’t ruling anyone out,” Lieutenant Hata said. “However, it is very important for you to think of anyone at all who might have a reason to want to cause you and your aunt trouble.”

“I thought people liked me.” Aunt Norie was weeping in large, gulping sobs. “Everyone except Sakura-san.”

The doorbell buzzed again.

“Are you expecting a guest?” Lieutenant Hata asked.

“No,” Aunt Norie sniffled. “My son advised that Rei couldn’t have visitors until tomorrow.”

“We can’t face anyone right now,” I said to Lieutenant Hata.

Lieutenant Hata walked softly across the room in his stocking feet and went to the window, moving the shoji slightly so he could see. He swore under his breath, then said, “I didn’t expect this. Miss Shimura, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?” I asked with a sinking feeling.

“That you’re involved with Takeo Kayama. He’s waiting outside the door with a bundle of something in his arms.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Don’t answer the door,” I pleaded. “I’m not supposed to have visitors.” Normally I wouldn’t have been such a wimp, but the thought of having to smilingly receive flowers from someone with a hostile chorus surrounding me was too much. Why couldn’t Takeo have sent his bouquet to the hospital, as everyone else had done?

“Let’s sit in complete silence, and maybe he will think nobody is here,” Norie said, surprising me with her shyness.

“But that would be a shame, as I want to talk to him. Hello, Kayama-san!” Lieutenant Hata said as he pulled the door open.

“Sorry. I must have the wrong address,” Takeo said hastily.

Lieutenant Hata’s solid frame kept me from getting a glimpse of Takeo, but it sounded as if he was turning around to leave. Relieved, I slumped back down in my chair.

“Just a minute, Kayama-san. Rei Shimura is here, if you want to speak with her.”

It was too late to hide in the bathroom. I sat miserable and immobile as Takeo gazed past Lieutenant Hata’s shoulder and into the small room crowded with flowers, Aunt Norie, and myself.

“Oh, you’ve got visitors. I’ll be off. I have a Range Rover double-parked outside.” Takeo bobbed his head at me in apology.

“A Range Rover? My street’s only ten feet wide! How did you get it in?” My embarrassment turned to outrage. The neighbors would see Takeo coming out of my door and think that I’d taken up with a real space hog. For an environmentalist, he was pretty insensitive about issues of space.

“My niece has just come out of the hospital. She is so weak she cannot use the bathroom by herself,” Norie said acidly. “She could not survive a car ride with you. Where were you planning on taking her?”

“Please stop, Obasan!” I was dying a thousand deaths again.

“I’m sorry,” Takeo said, looking at me with new interest. “I didn’t know you were ill.”

“Is that so? You brought something—is it flowers?” Lieutenant Hata inclined his head toward what Takeo was carrying: a bulky, grey washi-wrapped bundle.

Takeo spoke directly to me. “I only wanted to show you the kind of plants I’m growing—you know, to give her an advance look at my country garden.”

“Please come in,” Hata said, holding out a hand for Takeo’s beaten-up-looking leather jacket. Takeo took off his shoes and stepped up onto the tatami flooring. Then he laid the wrapped-up flowers atop one of my tansu chests. “Kayama-san, didn’t you hear about what happened at the Mitsutan flower show?” the detective persisted.

“I stopped in early Saturday morning for a check before the show opened. I couldn’t stay. With Sakura’s death, everything has been so chaotic.” Takeo gave a helpless shrug. I noticed he’d kept his coat on, but that was proper etiquette. I hadn’t asked him to stay.

“So chaotic you were planning a leisurely drive to the country?” Hata responded sharply. “Didn’t your father and sister mention Miss Shimura’s violent case of poisoning?”

“I told you I didn’t know. I haven’t spoken to my father and sister all weekend,” Takeo said.

“Or to me. I’ve been trying to have an interview with you for a while,” Lieutenant Hata said meaningfully.

“Right. Let’s plan on talking sometime,” Takeo said vaguely. Looking directly at me, he said, “Please telephone me when you feel better.”

“My niece does not telephone young men,” Norie said acidly.

“Actually,” I said, rebellion flaring in me, “I’d like to talk to Takeo-san right now. Lieutenant Hata, if you want to have your interview, why don’t you wait a few minutes? If you go into the kitchen with Aunt Norie, I’m sure she can make you another cup of that nice beefsteak tea.”

***

When they had gone into the kitchenette, which was only three feet away from my chair, Takeo jerked his head toward the door.

“Over here,” he mouthed.

Let the crown prince come to me, I thought. I smiled in what I thought was a feeble manner and said, “I’m too weak to stand.”

Takeo came over, covering the length of the small room in five strides. He got down on a knee and whispered in my ear, “You should have called me to cancel. I wasn’t expecting to see her. Or him.”

“I never said I’d go to Izu with you! You showed up uninvited!” I whispered back.

“Hey, I understand that pain may be making you ruder than usual. But don’t worry. I ate some bad chicken once, and the whole drama was over within a few days. I certainly didn’t make anyone take me to the hospital!”

“I was poisoned by arsenic, not salmonella.”

Takeo drew back and stared at me. As this happened, I felt a slight uneasiness to having shared this. Maybe it was information that Lieutenant Hata wanted to keep quiet for the purposes or his investigation.

“Why—why would anyone want to kill you?” Takeo practically breathed his question, his voice was so low.

“That’s what we were trying to figure out before you interrupted us.” I looked at him hard, deciding to withhold Lieutenant Hata’s hypothesis that a larger group of shoppers at Mitsutan were the intended victims. I’d let those details emerge in their interview if Hata wanted. For the time being, Takeo remained on my list of potential slayers, and I would be careful what I said.

“Strange things are happening. I wanted to tell you in the car,” Takeo muttered. “But taking you out to talk seems impossible.”

“What strange things?” I felt a shiver run through me.

“Not so quick. I’ll tell you in exchange for information that I need from you.” He jerked his head toward the kitchenette. “When are they leaving?”

“They aren’t leaving. I mean, Lieutenant Hata’s going to have to go back to his office, but my aunt is staying. She thinks that I can’t take care of myself. After all, I nearly lost my life.”

Takeo looked down at the tatami, and I imagined that my poignant statement had made an impact. But he was only picking up a white rose that had dropped from one of the many vases of get-well flowers.

“I hate these stupid imported flowers, he said quietly. “Compare their blowsy, over-the-top fullness with the simple beauty of the bittersweet I brought for you.”

I looked over at the paper-wrapped bundle and saw a few branches extending outward that had tiny yellow flowers. So that was bittersweet. It looked more like a weed than a flower.

Takeo carefully inserted the fallen rose in with its fellow flowers in a vase on the tea table. As he did this, I saw dirt under the fingernails of both hands. It seemed odd for someone of his rank to have gone into a field and cut wildflowers with his own hands. But his hands told the truth.

***

“Rei-chan, let’s agree that from now on, you will not see Takeo Kayama.”

I could hardly believe what I was hearing from the aunt who so desperately wanted me to be married. Ever since Takeo had shot out of the apartment with Lieutenant Hata behind him, my aunt had been on a tear. I should have nothing to do with the Kayamas. Natsumi was a rude girl, and her brother was even worse.

“You don’t understand,” I said, shutting my eyes against the sight of her angry face. “I’m not interested in Takeo.”

“But he’s interested in you!” Norie cried. “To have brought you flowers!”

“I don’t think so,” I demurred. “He’s trying to expose me to all those weedy things he believes in.”

Lieutenant Hata came back in. He was wet and grumpy, and had been unsuccessful in obtaining an interview. Shaking his head, he said, “I ran behind the Range Rover for two blocks, but he would not stop. Now I’ll have to go to the Kayama Kaikan and confront him.”

“Can you wait a minute, please? I want to show you something.” I smiled at Norie and said, “Obasan, would you bring me the papers in my top desk drawer?”

When I had the list I’d drawn up earlier in hand, I put an asterisk next to the names of the people who had been present both at Sakura’s slaying and also at my poisoning at the Mitsutan exhibition. There were only a few names that crossed over both ways: Lila Braithwaite, Natsumi Kayama, Eriko, and Mari Kumamori. I hated to mention Mari’s name, given that she’d suffered so much discrimination, but I was trying to be complete.

After quietly reading it, the lieutenant said, “You forgot to list your friend who was just here. He and his sister rode down in the elevator together at the school right after I arrived with the other police. And he just now admitted to being at Mitsutan on Saturday morning. He could have tampered with the sugar.”

“Okay, count him in.” I felt a bit shaken at the thought of Takeo as a murderer, but Lieutenant Hata was right.

“May I speak?” Aunt Norie asked. “I’ve been thinking about something the lieutenant said before we were interrupted. If the killer’s goal is to disgrace the Kayama School, he or she must be an outsider. There is every chance that an environmental terrorist could have walked into the Kayama Kaikan and Mitsutan to conduct the crimes.”

“Environmental activist, not terrorist,” I corrected my aunt. “And if you’re thinking about outsiders, what about considering members of rival ikebana schools? Wouldn’t you say that the Kayama School is competitive with the Sogetsu School? Could one of their people be envious of the Kayamas?”

“What do you know about the Sogetsu School? I thought you didn’t like flower arranging.” Aunt Norie demanded.

“Obasan, their headmaster is very famous. He made a film in the sixties called Woman in the Dunes.”

“Still, he’s not as artistic as our headmaster!” Norie sniffed.

“Our headmaster is too cold for my taste,” I said. “During the critique session, Mr. Kayama smashed up Mari Kumamori’s pottery and called it an improvement. I thought that was a terribly cruel thing to do. No wonder Sakura was so mean to her students. She learned from him.”

“I also learned directly from Masanobu-sensei. You have seen me teaching classes in my home. Do you believe I’m cruel to students?”

“Of course not. I was just saying—” I cut myself off, realizing that I was on the verge of fighting with my aunt.

Lieutenant Hata cleared his throat. “Ladies, I think we have covered all the necessary business. Miss Shimura, I will examine your suspect list. However, the most important thing you can do is to remember what happened at the Mitsutan exhibit—particularly any people going to and from the refreshments area. You may recall a detail that is important to the investigation.”

After he left, I tried to make peace with Aunt Norie. I started by saying, “Please understand that I did not invite Takeo here to see me. But I’m curious what’s so wrong with him—in your opinion.”

She pressed her lips together. “Rei, he’s not the right one for you.”

I agree, I wanted to say, but couldn’t, as I recalled the memory of Takeo’s lips moving against my ear. He had only come close in order to ensure his words were private, but I’d felt oddly excited.

“Obasan, just forty-five minutes ago you told me you wanted me to get together with a Japanese man from a good family,” I reminded her. “I thought you adored the Kayamas.”

“As Lieutenant Hata pointed out, he could be the killer! And even if he is innocent, he is bad for you.”

“We’re acquaintances—not even friends. Actually, at some time I did want to have Takeo over for tea, and I would love for you to be there to get to know him a little better…”

“I’ve known him since he was a baby,” Norie said shortly. “I don’t need an introduction. Now, how about doing something to take our minds off the Kayamas and their troubles? Let’s rearrange the flowers that were sent to us. Don’t strain yourself by moving from your chair, Rei-chan. I will set up everything on the tea table in front of you.”

Because I didn’t own any proper ikebana vases or dishes, Aunt Norie rummaged through the china in my cabinets looking for flat-bottomed bowls that would have enough room for an arrangement. She picked up one of the plates I had taken on consignment from Mrs. Morita.

“The fifth plate doesn’t exist,” I said, answering the unspoken question. “It’s an odd set that I’m hoping to sell. Do you know any likely clients?”

“I’ll think about it. Too bad you didn’t invest in some ikebana containers. I suppose we could put some flowers in those hibachi.” She gestured toward some sizable blue-and-white urns that had been used as charcoal braziers in earlier times. “The daffodils will look handsome against the blue and white pattern, but of course it would wind up being more of a Western arrangement than an Eastern one.”

“I try not to use things I hope to sell.” I should have saved my breath. She placed the two hibachi in front of me with an extra bowl of water, a pair of scissors, and a kenzan: a small iron weight topped with short spikes that held flowers firmly upright. In the West, a kenzan was called a ‘frog,’ a name that probably referred to the fact that it sat in water.

“I’m going outside to mail your thank-you notes and to pick up some groceries for supper. With the telephone at your side, you should be safe for a few minutes.”

“Yes, yes,” I agreed, waving her toward the door.

“Don’t answer the door to anyone.” With that final warning, she left.

***

As soon as my aunt departed, I painfully made my way to the telephone. I took the cordless receiver, and when I was rearranged in cushioned comfort, I dialed Richard Randall at the office.

“It’s me. Can you come over and save me from my aunt?” I pleaded.

“Oh, you’re finally well enough! When I called to find out why you didn’t show up Saturday night, your aunt said you had to go to the hospital because of food poisoning. So what did you eat, pasta primavera past its prime?”

“A tasty spoonful of ant killer. Could you come over right now?”

“I’d love to, Rei, but I can’t. I’m running late.”

I looked at my watch. “Five o’clock? It’s still early.”

“I’m supposed to go to the Cherry Blossom Blowout party at Salsa Salsa. Enrique is expecting me. I couldn’t possibly cancel.” He paused. “We could stop by afterward, maybe bring you their special cocktail to go. It’s vodka served on the rocks, and the rocks have cherry blossoms frozen within. Of course, the ice will melt by the time I get to Yanaka, but I could add more vodka if the drink is weak.”

“Have you forgotten my stomach already?” I didn’t hide my irritation. “The last thing I want is vodka. And I’d really like to talk things over with just you.”

“Rei, you’ve going to have to get used to my spending time with Enrique. We’re deeply involved.”

“Isn’t that rather sudden?”

“We just know,” said Richard, with the infuriatingly smug tone of a man in love.

“So when are you going to introduce him to Lila?” I said, still on the offensive.

Richard lowered his voice. “I don’t think she could handle it.”

“Richard, she’s a pretty sophisticated woman. So sophisticated, in fact, that I’ve got a few questions about her myself.”

“Well, I could stop by, but it couldn’t be before midnight. And the trains stop after that, you know, so I’d have to sleep over.”

“That won’t work,” I said grimly. “My aunt is using the spare futon. And even though she knows your orientation, she’d hardly approve of us sharing a bed.”

“It sounds as if your apartment has turned into a Catholic-school dormitory,” Richard snorted. “I’ll try and sneak by sometime. But I’m sorry, I absolutely have to leave for Salsa Salsa now if I’m going to catch the early-bird drinks special.”

***

My aunt was staying away longer than I’d expected. I made a small arrangement with the roses, and then I managed to limp over to the tansu to retrieve the bouquet of bittersweet that Takeo had brought me. I decided it wasn’t as weedy as I’d first thought. The slim branches had plenty of elegant, natural curvature—I did not need to bend them into tortuous angles.

I arranged the branches with the azaleas Mrs. Koda had sent, but their bright, trumpet-like shapes seemed wrong next to the demure bittersweet. I decided to work with the bittersweet alone. Aunt Norie had left my lesson book handy, inspiring me to follow an assignment from the middle of the book, just a few months ahead of schedule. Nobody needed to know.

As the hours went by, my apartment grew dark. I turned on a lamp and wished that I hadn’t put away my small portable gas heaters in a fit of confidence about the spring weather. The day’s dampness left me positively chilled. I wasn’t feeling strong enough to retrieve the heaters from the top shelf of my closet, so I slipped on two sweaters and an extra pair of socks and settled in to watch the nightly news.

The anchorman reported that over the past three days, 150 people had been treated at Tokyo hospitals for alcohol poisoning that occurred during cherry blossom viewing parties. The day’s rain would provide a welcome lull in emergency room admissions. The weather was expected to improve the next day, though, and that might bring in a new rash of crashed-out cherry blossom drunks.

Following the news, a game show came on in which the contestants all wore cherry blossom headgear. Feeling bored, I switched to the next channel, which was showing a documentary about cherry tree farming. The camera zoomed into the center of a pale pink flower, revealing a crawling bug of some sort. Disgusting. I switched off the television. I didn’t want to see another cherry blossom.

I heard a scraping sound outside my door and thought, At last. I watched the doorknob move and stop. Well, of course. The door was locked. Aunt Norie would have taken the key. Or maybe she’d forgotten?

“Just a minute! I’m coming,” I called as loudly as my sore throat would allow. I stood up and began a slow progression toward the vestibule.

There was no affirmative response from the other side. Well, perhaps it was hard to hear my voice against the street noise. In the gap between the bottom of the door and the floor, something white shot under the door toward me. An envelope.

I should have been curious, but I felt dread. Who would send a letter this way instead of putting it in the mailbox? And if the letter was a neighborhood cleanup reminder from Mr. Waka’s brother, who was the president of the neighborhood association, he would have rung the doorbell first. Whoever had pushed the note under the door didn’t want to have contact.

It took me a long minute to decide whether or not to open the door and look for the person with the note. Taking a deep breath, I did so. Nobody was out there but some schoolgirls on their bicycles, and they were cycling toward my building, not away from it. I closed the door and put the letter on my desk under a bright lamp. Putting on the white gloves I sometimes wore when handling old paper, I used a letter opener to delicately slit the envelope open. I imagined Lieutenant Hata congratulating me on my care as I pulled out a sheet of thin white rice paper patterned with cherry blossom petals. The message was written in three lines in hiragana so it was fairly easy to understand.

Yotte nemu
nadeshiko sakeru
ishi no ue.

I knew that nadeshiko were the flowers known as pinks and sakeru meant “to bloom.” The poem was something about sleeping, pink flowers, and rocks. Weird, but the three-line format made the message seem like a possible haiku.

I crawled to my telephone and called Mr. Waka at the Family Mart.

“The strangest thing happened!” he chortled. “Your aunt came to shop in my store.”

“Yes, it proves what I said: she doesn’t think your food is bad,” I reassured.

“She carefully checked the date on the eggs and asked if I had any that were refrigerated. Refrigerated! Who refrigerates eggs?”

“When did she leave your store?” I asked, not wanting to offend him with my opinions on egg safety.

“About two hours ago. And it’s cold enough outside that you don’t need to worry about her groceries spoiling, neh?”

I couldn’t explain my true worries. Instead I brought up the message I’d received.

“Oh, that’s a poem by Basho, the most famous haiku poet of all,” he said after he’d heard it. “I know because I had to memorize his works when I was in junior high school.”

“How can it be a haiku it the first line has only four syllables?”

Mr. Waka laughed and said that there were five kanji and hiragana characters used to compose the first line. I couldn’t have known about the kanji used to originally write the poem, since the letter I ‘d received was written completely in hiragana.

“I still can’t put together the meaning,” I said. “The verbs in the first line, yotte nemu, don’t seem to go together.”

“You don’t know yotte? Yotte nemu?”

“I know that nemu means ‘sleep.’“

“Yotte nemu means getting so drunk that you fall asleep, like the cherry blossom drunks that are spending all day and evening in Yanaka Cemetery! If you want to practice yotte nemu, go there.”

Now I could fully translate the message. I wasn’t going to bother with an English five-seven-five formulation because I wasn’t teaching a poetry class. I came up with:

Intoxicated

Slumbering amid pinks

Laid out on a rock.

CHAPTER TWELVE

My first feeling was annoyance that the poetry sender believed I’d fainted at the ikebana exhibition because of alcohol intoxication. And was saying the cultured Japanese equivalent of nah-nah-nah.

But as I continued thinking, I became paranoid. Perhaps somebody wanted to see me laid out on a rock. Or even dead, lying amidst the flowers decorating a coffin. I remembered the coffin in my dream from a few nights before. Obviously my subconscious was trying to tell me that I was at extreme risk.

I ended my conversation with Mr. Waka and telephoned Lieutenant Hata. He was out, so I left a message with a secretary. I placed the letter and envelope in a plastic bag, the way I’d seen it done on Furubata Ninzaburo, a cop show that used to run on television. I hid the bag in the yukashita, the cut-out hiding place in my kitchenette’s floor. I was on my knees, just putting down the lid, when Norie came back.

“I shouldn’t have left you!” she exclaimed. “Are you hurt? Where is gas heater? It’s cold in here.”

“It’s in the closet. I’m fine. It’s just that my stomach hurts too much to stand up straight.” I would tell her about the ominous poem later.

“I’m going to give you some more of the painkillers Tsutomu left for you. I’m sorry I didn’t make up the futon for you to take a rest. I’ve been such a terrible caretaker, but I’ll try to make up for it with a good, healthy dinner.”

“What’s that going to be?” Was she talking about her light-as-air vegetable tempura or my favorite noodles dipped in sesame dressing? I was beginning to see the advantages of having my aunt in-house.

“Okayu!” She was talking about very bland rice porridge. The last time I’d tasted it was at a Zen temple. While the monks and old people had eaten it with relish, I’d barely been able to get it down my throat. “I found some of the ingredients at your Family Mart, but I also had to travel to Seibu department store to get the right kind of pickled plums. It will be a small meal, because Tsutomu said that we must not test your weak stomach.”

I would have to eat a lot of it—and show dramatic improvement in energy—to get her off my case. I offered to remove the stones from the pickled plums and she agreed, helping me sit down at the tea table with a knife, a cutting board, and the jar of pickled plums. Reaching into the Seibu shopping bag, I pulled out the receipt, gaping at the amount my aunt had spent.

“Now I have enough goods to cook for you for a week! The question is, where will I store it all? I’m going to have to use the yukashita.”

“No! It’s a bit crowded down there,” I said, thinking of the haiku letter I had hidden in its depths.

She looked panicked. “Oh, I need a cool place to leave the vegetables. Tsutomu was pointing out that we Japanese must change our food storage habits. Eggs should be stored under refrigeration, and rice should not be left warm in the rice cooker for longer than a few hours. I must remember all these things, or Tsutomu will send me away and send you back into the hospital.”

“Wouldn’t the back garden be cold enough for the vegetables? I left a tansu out there that I’m refinishing. If you wrap up the vegetables, you could just put them in a drawer. I don’t think insects would get in.”

“But it’s been raining! How can you possibly leave furniture outside?”

“It hasn’t been refinished yet, and it’s under plastic.” All wrapped up, like the secret I was not ready to share with her.

***

The next morning I felt much better. In fact, I had rolled out of the futon and started walking toward the bathroom before I remembered how I hadn’t been able stand up straight the day before. Tom’s painkillers had worked.

After serving me a breakfast of properly refrigerated okayu that I hadn’t been able to finish the night before, Aunt Norie began a big cleanup of my apartment, using a rag duster she’d brought from her home, and a trusty bottle of My Peto household cleaner.

I was feeling pretty firm on my feet, so I pitched in, and at the end of it all I asked Aunt Norie whether she’d be taking an afternoon train home.

She shook her head vigorously. “I plan to stay the entire week. Why stay in Yokohama, where criminals broke into my garden shed? No, I’m not returning until Uncle Hiroshi comes back from Osaka.”

“But you have a life in Yokohama. Students who take flower-arranging classes in your home, a son who needs you to cook for him—”

“All changed,” Aunt Norie said cheerfully. “I’ve given my students your address. In fact, at one o’clock this afternoon a few students are coming by. Do you have your lesson book? You can work with us as well.”

“Aunt Norie, I made three flower arrangements when you were gone yesterday,” I pointed out. “I don’t need to go to the school, when I can study from home.”

“Yes, and from looking at them I can tell that you were under the influence of painkillers. Today, since you’re so nice and strong, you can rearrange them. Although I suggest you let me dispose of the bittersweet. It’s drooping, and I found some nasty insects on it.”

That’s because Takeo gave it to me, I thought. She was as prejudiced toward him as he was to her. “I’ll try to attend your class, but Tsutomu wanted me to visit the hospital. Then I have a couple of work appointments.”

“Just because you can walk to the bathroom, it does not mean you can walk to the train station, especially up and down stairs.”

“I’ll be fine—”

“But you catch motion sickness so easily. You’ve been that way ever since you were a toddler.”

“Not with your good breakfast in my stomach.” I patted it for emphasis. “If Lieutenant Hata calls, please tell him to try me this evening.”

I set off with my aunt’s worried blessing, a plastic bag, and a fresh handkerchief. As the TV news had promised, the sun was shining, and the cherry trees that lined the road going through Yanaka Cemetery were in full frothy splendor. A pink carpet under the trees revealed how the rain had knocked down many blossoms. A shame, but it was the way of the season.

I took the stairs down to the station slowly, which was easy since rush hour was over, and rode out to St. Luke’s for my checkup. After a lab tech took a blood sample, an internist poked at various places and told me I was in recovery. After he was done, I went to the emergency room to find my cousin.

“You look so much better today than yesterday!” he greeted me with a wide smile. “Are you ready for lunch?”

After nothing but okayu, I certainly was ready for a real lunch. Tom exchanged his white coat for a suit jacket and we walked a few blocks to Tsukijii, the wholesale market where huge fish were laid out in the early morning, then sold off to Tokyo restaurateurs. By this hour everything had been sold, but there were a number of modest, bustling restaurants open for business.

“The best thing for you is well-cooked food,” Tom said sternly. “I know a good ochazuke shop. My colleagues and I eat there regularly, and I’m sure they observe proper food hygiene.”

Soon we were sitting at a well-scrubbed counter with the dish in front of us. Ochazuke was a bowl of bouillon with rice and seaweed floating inside. It was only slightly more interesting than my last two meals of okayu.

A small green blob of wasabi paste accompanied the dish. As I used chopsticks to mix it into the soup, Tom shook his head. “You will aggravate your stomach, which is temporarily weak. Don’t do it.”

“The dish is so mild otherwise,” I protested.

“I’d think that after your poisoning, you would want things that are mild.”

“It wasn’t any particular food that made me sick, it was ant killer! If I stay out of the flower-arranging business, I should be okay.”

“Yes, I’ve heard the final report from Lieutenant Hata. Still, it’s better for you to eat meals that have been prepared by my mother using hygiene guidelines, or to ask our opinion of the restaurants you visit. You must be careful where—and with whom—you eat.”

“What do you mean by with whom?”

“Takeo Kayama.” He curled his lips around the name, looking as if he had tasted something bad. “My mother says that he came to your apartment, hoping to take you on a date to the countryside.”

I smiled at my cousin and said, “Tom, you and your mother are disturbed anytime anyone shows interest in me. You can’t expect me to believe this one’ s any worse than the others. At least he’s Japanese!”

“Rei, I know Takeo from my time at Keio University.”

“How? You’re six years older.”

“Yes, but I was working as an intern at the campus hospital. I knew him well.”

“What, from his medical record? Did he have a sexually transmitted disease or something? If so, I can tell you not to worry. We haven’t done more than have a beer together, okay?” I snapped.

“Rei-chan, you know that, by law, I cannot violate the confidentiality of a medical record. I would also never judge a person’s morality by his or her health. But I received the true picture of Takeo’s character on the night I was called to give first aid at a campus riot.”

This made me sit up straight, almost forgetting the nagging ache in my belly. “A riot at the sedate private university that our family so admires?”

“Yes. Grandfather certainly would have been furious, had he still been alive. It all happened when some undergraduates protested a rise in tuition. They decided to cause the administration trouble by eliminating the university’s water supply. A large group planned to flush all the toilets on campus simultaneously so that the university’s water supply would be gone.”

“So Takeo flushed a toilet. That sounds like a fairly harmless prank.”

“No, he was on the other side. He was the president of the students’ environmental club. In the interest of water conservation, he asked the students to protest in some way other than toilet flushing. The group would not, so in a last-ditch attempt to stop them, Takeo and his friends borrowed weapons from the kendo club and stormed the lavatories, threatening to hit the students who flushed the toilets.”

“Wow! Isn’t that really dangerous?” I knew Kendo as a martial art that involved charging an opponent with a length of bamboo bound with cord: weapons powerful enough that kendo athletes were always required to wear protective helmets.

“Yes. And because Takeo was the ringleader, he was the one charged with responsibility for the fights that broke out between students in several lavatories on campus. Many students were hospitalized, including one who was in a coma for a week.” Tom looked at me. “Takeo was never charged with attempted murder, although I thought he should have been. However, he was kicked out of Keio. I don’t think he has any kind of university degree.”

“He must have finished up in California,” I said, remembering the horticulture program he had mentioned.

“No offense to you, Rei, but an American degree doesn’t carry much weight here. After leaving Keio, nobody would hire him but his father, I’m sure.”

“Thanks for the intelligence, Tom.” I looked away from his scowling face.

“You’d never guess a guy who played with flowers all day could be so violent, neh?”

“He certainly does break the stereotypes.” I toyed with a few grains of rice that were stuck on the side of the bowl. “Do you think he could have killed Sakura?”

Tom sighed. “I don’t know. But seeing him at the Kayama Building, he spoke so arrogantly to the police, the same way he spoke after the lavatory riots. There’s a saying that a mature rice plant lowers its head, but he certainly didn’t. He hasn’t changed.”

“I wonder if that’s why your mother doesn’t like him.”

“I didn’t tell her. She has always admired the Kayama family so much. I could not be the one to break her illusion.”

“She must have heard something somewhere. She definitely doesn’t like Takeo.” I still wanted to know the rest of the story. “So what happened at Keio with the toilet-flushing protest?”

“Actually, the fights provided enough of a distraction that only fifty or so toilets were flushed at once, so there was no crisis in water supply. Takeo’s idea worked, but at a terrible human cost.”

I was silent for a minute, digesting the story. “What happened to the other students who were working with Takeo?”

“Nobody else was expelled. Takeo admitted the riot was all his own fault.”

“That’s very Japanese,” I said, thinking about a news story from a few years ago about three companies facing bankruptcy. The three CEOs, all friends, had gone to a hotel, taken a last drink together, and then hanged themselves, taking responsibility for the failure.

“How can you call that Armani-wearing hypocrite Japanese?” Tom snorted.

“It wasn’t Armani, it was Issey Miyake, who just happens to be a Japanese designer. I know because I saw his suit in Tatler, the magazine you gave me expressly to show the photograph of Hugh Glendinning and his new girlfriend.”

“You’re attracted to well-dressed men, Rei. It’s your personal weakness. But the outside is not an accurate reflection of a person’s inside.”

I could have told Tom that I thought Takeo’s stomach looked amazingly lean under the stretched cotton of his worn Greenpeace T-shirt, but that would only bring more ire. So I turned back to the thought that made me the most unhappy and fearful. Clearing my throat, I confessed, “I saw Takeo talking with Che Fujisawa, who is the leader of Stop Killing Flowers. I wonder if they’re planning something.”

“Do you think they were involved in Sakura’s death?” Tom asked.

“Only if Sakura did something against the environment. Something really terrible,” I guessed.

“Rei-chan, you’re not thinking of getting involved in this, are you?” When I didn’t answer, he went on in the needling tone that I hated. “You’ve had some chances to help the police before, but that doesn’t mean you should make it your unpaid part-time job. You’ve been poisoned. You need to recover and get on with your life.”

“Thanks for taking care of me. I’m already feeling much better.”

I’d given a perfectly appropriate answer, but I could tell from my cousin’s scowl that he knew I was being evasive. Sakura Sato and Takeo Kayama were my problems. Not his.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

On the way home, I visited some antiques shops to show Polaroid photos I’d taken of Mrs. Morita’s plates. The negative responses confirmed my fear that I’d taken on a real albatross, but I couldn’t bear to return to Mrs. Morita with a failure. Enough had gone wrong in my life lately. I was determined that at least one thing would work out.

Norie’s ikebana class was in full swing by the time I reached Shiomidai Dori. Three women I didn’t know were fussing with flowers on my newspaper-covered tea table, and Norie’s friend Eriko was working at the kitchen counter. I’d never seen so many people at one time in my small apartment. Everyone bowed when I entered, but I was struck with an odd desire to excuse myself. Norie introduced me to her students, but I was too tired and stressed to remember their names. At least I knew Eriko, who patted a cushion for me to rest on. She alone seemed to understand I felt overwhelmed.

“You’re in good time, Rei. We saved an extra portion of flowers for you,” Norie said.

I deduced from the unfamiliar shopping bags bulging with bubble wrap that the students had carried their own ikebana containers from home. However, the chrysanthemums and ferns going into them looked oddly familiar.

“Where did you get the flowers?” I asked.

“The florist down the street. Because of the cemetery up the hill, it turns out there are many places to buy flowers,” Norie said. “Of course, they are not of the highest quality, but I needed something fast.”

Flowers meant for dead people made me shudder. Perhaps my aunt understood my feeling, because she said, “We’re getting ready for the certificate examination next month. Chrysanthemum is often a flower the students must arrange, so today is good practice.”

“What’s this about examinations? I thought students automatically received a certificate of completion after finishing each book.” I’d read in the foreign students’ handbook that I needed to complete twenty lessons and pay ten thousand yen to the school to receive a fourth-grade certificate.

“That is the way it works for international students. Japanese have to create two flower arrangements for a formal examination,” Norie explained. “They have no choice in materials, and one arrangement will be assigned, while the other can be freestyle. Then the highest-ranking teacher judges the arrangement.”

“Does the judge watch them and then make an oral evaluation?” I asked, remembering how nerve-racking it had been to wait for Sakura and Masanobu Kayama to deliver their verdicts.

“No, the students arrange their flowers first in a room by themselves. They place a number next to their arrangements and leave the room. The judge comes inside and inspects their work. It’s a way of judging on merit and not personality,” Norie said. “I was actually hoping that you would want to take the examination, Rei. Not next month, of course, but by next year’s time.”

“Yes, you did well with our arrangement at Mitsutan,” Eriko assured me.

“Really?” Norie turned to her friend. “Please tell me what the iemoto said.”

“It wasn’t that much of a rave,” I interrupted. “He started talking about a memory of the time Takeo and Natsumi stuck irises inside a bamboo fence. I think he was saying the installation was like a child’s work.”

“Oh.” Norie’s face fell, and I realized suddenly that I shouldn’t have said anything so negative with Norie’s students listening. Not only had I disappointed my aunt, I’d caused her to lose face.

“I think the master liked the arrangement and was just nostalgic,” Eriko said. “Rei didn’t understand the nuance of his language.”

“Yes, of course I have trouble with Japanese,” I said, accepting the correction for my aunt’s sake. “Anyway, your students’ upcoming examination is much more important. Who will be the judge?”Norie didn’t answer. After a pause, one of her students said, “It used to be Miss Sakura Sato.”

“She and sometimes some of the school’s other grandmasters,” Norie corrected.

“Could you ever be a judge?” I asked my aunt.

“No, because your aunt and I are not high-ranking teachers,” Eriko reminded me. “My guess is the judge will be either Mrs. Koda or, for family reasons, Natsumi Kayama.”

“I hope it’s Mrs. Koda. She has so much experience, and she’s very kind. I’m sure that some of the more experienced foreign arrangers—Lila Braithwaite, for example—would be willing to take the examination if they had the chance,” I said.

“Foreigners don’t need a real degree,” Eriko insisted. “It’s just a hobby they do for the year or two they’re in Japan. When they go home to the West, they have something to show off to the ladies in their garden clubs!”

“Have you been to the West? To these garden clubs?” I asked Eriko a bit sharply. I didn’t like the way she was talking about my countrywomen.

“Of course not. But I’ve met the women.” Eriko raised her eyebrows, which were shaped like two perfect half-moons.

“We should never forget that foreigners saved the Kayama School.” My aunt surprised me by speaking up. “After the war, most Japanese people did not have enough money to buy rice, and certainly not flowers. The only people able to afford ikebana classes were the Americans. A navy admiral’s wife became a student at the Kayama School, and after that many foreigners joined. These women made many generous donations to keep the school alive until Japanese women were again able to afford ikebana.”

I followed my aunt as she turned her attention to her students’ work. She suggested small things: the turning of a branch so that the arrangement would be beautiful viewed from all angles, or the rearrangement of a clump of ferns so that they looked as if they had naturally grown from the middle of an ikebana dish. The students did not bow their heads the way they had before Sakura or the headmaster. They seemed eager for Aunt Norie’s guidance, moving the flowers as she suggested.

While my aunt concentrated on her students, Eriko whispered to me, “I’m sorry I upset you about the foreign students, Rei-san. I think of you as one of us. It was wrong of me to make you feel bad when you are still so weak from your illness.”

“I’m making a good recovery, thanks to my aunt and people such as yourself,” I said. In standard Japanese etiquette, you were supposed to attribute good health and success to whomever asked after you. Remembering what Norie had said about the financial hardship in her marriage, I added, “Thank you very much for the beautiful white roses. They are such a luxury.”

“I first brought them to you in the hospital, but you were too sick to notice then. But look at this charming room! Full of flowers from many well-wishers—Takeo Kayama even.” Eriko gave me a tiny, sparkling smile.

My aunt must have complained to her about Takeo’s visit. Nervously I said, “It isn’t anything, really.”

“Because your aunt doesn’t want it to be.” Eriko kept her kind but knowing gaze on me. “Do you want to talk about it later on? I understand how difficult Japanese relatives can be.”

“I’ll be fine. There ‘s nothing to talk about.” As I rejected her offer, I felt glum, although I didn’t understand why.

***

The class ended an hour later. After moving the furniture back to its proper place, Norie made up my futon so that I could lie down. Nestled in the soft quilts, I slept solidly all afternoon. I awoke to a room gray with the onset of evening. Aunt Norie sat close to the andon lantern, using its weak light to illuminate the sewing that she was doing. She was trying not to disturb me.

“What kind of embroidery are you doing? Sachiko work?” I raised myself on my elbow to get a better look.

“No, I’m darning your brassiere! The band is almost worn through.” She stood up, snapping on the harsh overhead light and dangling my bra so that I could see all its faded glory.

“I planned to throw it away,” I said.

“Actually, you wore it under your clothes at the Mitsutan exhibit. I saw it when the nurses undressed you at the hospital.”

My groan was interrupted by a ringing telephone, which Norie answered. “Oh, Richard-san! How nice of you to call again.” She paused, listening to whatever he was saying to her. Richard spoke very good Japanese. After a few moments she laughed and said, “So desu, neh!” They were in agreement over something.

“Your aunt’s a sweetie. Why are you so scared of her?” Richard asked when my aunt finally handed the receiver to me.

“I’m not! It’s just that I occasionally feel stifled,” I said in the English I hoped she wouldn’t understand.

“I suggested that I take you out for a health drink at the tea shop. She strongly believes in homeopathic remedies, did you know?”

“Yes.” So Richard wanted to see me tonight. I was still smarting a little over his rejection of me twenty- four hours earlier.

“I’m just recording a few more lines on an English tape for a student. By the time you get dressed. I’ll be ringing the doorbell.” Richard seemed to become aware of my stillness. “That is, if you still want to go.”

“Okay,” I said. “I could use the break.” I dressed quickly, not wanting a debate with Norie about what I was wearing. I chose a pair of leggings that didn’t constrict my bruised bottom, and a large DREAMS COME TRUE sweatshirt—”large” in Japan meaning the equivalent of a women’s size six. As I sat in the entryway, tying my beloved Asics sneakers, I thought sadly of the many miles I’d run in the shoes over the past year. Now I could barely toddle to a teashop.

Richard blew into the apartment like a small black bat. His tattered leather jacket glistened with rain, and the small ring in his lower lip trembled as he spoke to my aunt in super-polite Japanese. “Shimura-sama, I apologize for my disturbance. I see you are embroidering a garment. How lovely your work is! I wish that I could sew. With a needle and the right pair of scissors, I could have the perfect wardrobe.”

Norie quickly buried my bra in her sewing basket. If my futon was considered too intimate for outsiders’ eyes, underwear was even more taboo. Waving me off, she admonished, “Come back quickly. Dinner will be ready soon.”

“She didn’t invite me to dinner,” Richard complained when we were on the street.

“Japanese rarely invite people home for dinner. Not because they’re unfriendly, but because they think their homes are too small and the menu won’t be good enough,” I said as we passed a yakitori shop with its traditional welcome curtain flapping in the chill breeze. The tantalizing, smoky smell of grilled chicken made me almost wish that I weren’t a vegetarian.

“Mmm, yakitori. I don’t suppose you want to change our plan, maybe have a beer and a few skewers?”

“I worry that my aunt would smell the evidence. Besides, I’m surprised you would have time for something other than a quick cup of tea. Don’t you normally see Enrique at this time?”

“Jealousy rears its ugly head,” Richard teased. “Well, you should be glad I saw him last night at Salsa Salsa.”

“Why?” The pavement was wet with some kind of slop from the tofu-maker, and I skidded as we rounded the corner.

Richard caught my arm protectively. “I’ll wait with my news till we’re sitting down.”

“How exciting can it be?” I asked, consciously trying to slow down as we turned into the narrow alley that housed the Yanaka Tea Shop. Mr. Waka’s Family Mart notwithstanding, this was my favorite neighborhood business. The small wooden shop, built at the turn of the century, still had most of its original exterior, including an exquisitely carved panel over the door showing a samurai gentleman and lady taking tea. Inside, old wooden placards hung on bright red walls, advertising teas that could help with everything from constipation to a broken heart. Shelves full of boxed teas available to take home lined one side of the store; on the other side, a few tables were available for those who wanted to drink their potions in-house.

“Special of the month is a snake-blood beverage. It’s supposed to be very powerful against hangovers, but it’s expensive.” Richard, whose kanji knowledge was far greater than mine, paused while reading the menu. “How about Sakura-yu? That’s a tea made from pickled cherry blossoms. That would be salty, right?”

I nodded, although the last thing I wanted was a taste of cherry. Luckily, our waiter advised that I drink ginseng tea for energy and matters of the heart. Since he had no troubles with romance, Richard tried kombu-cha, which was made from a type of kelp that was supposed to ensure long life.

The tea was served in small tea bowls, with a smooth glaze on the inside and a rough outward surface that was similar to the urns Mari Kumamori had brought to the ikebana exhibition. I put the small bowl to my mouth and, after a few sips, decided it tasted similar to green tea. I looked around at the other tables and noticed that a significantly large number of young people were drinking tea. Was tea becoming trendy?

“So, tell me about last night,” I asked after the tea’s heat poured down my sore throat, making it feel better.

“Well, Enrique was still tending bar when I arrived, so I got a drink and circulated a little. My ears perked up when I heard the Kayama School mentioned.”

I shook my head. “What? I can’t believe the flower-arranging ladies would go there!”

“Actually, these gossips were guys, speaking in Spanish. One of them had a jeans jacket embroidered in Spanish. Could your aunt do a cherry blossom appliqué on my favorite pair of Levi’s? It might be a good way to cover up the hole you say is obscene.”

I had to keep him on task. “Che. Was that the word you saw on the jacket?”

“That was it! Is it a name, or what?”

“I think it’s a nickname that means something like good friend; an informal form of address. Did you ever hear of Che Guevara, the Argentine activist who led various Latin American government overthrows?”

“Not really. Who knew you’d need Spanish to navigate Tokyo? Aside from a few words, I understood nothing of their gabfest.” Richard’s face puckered as he sipped his tea. I guessed that he didn’t like it.

“Why didn’t you ask Enrique to translate?” It seemed that he’d missed major information.

“Like I told you, he was behind the bar, and I wasn’t sure whether the conversation was really worth anything. Still, I thought of you, and I wrote down the words I heard on a cocktail napkin.” He whipped out a wrinkled piece of pale blue tissue pock-marked with words.

I read through them. Kayama School. Mitsutan. St. Luke’s Hospital. Rei Shimura. Yanaka.

“They know about my poisoning. Look at all these linked words!” I was nearly beside myself with a mixture of rage, fear, and elation. At last I had some proof of a connection.

“Chill out. Lots of people knew you got sick.”

“Not really,” I said. “It wasn’t in the papers. Did you tell anyone about it?”

“I told Enrique. He wanted to know why you weren’t at the party Saturday night.”

Could Enrique have been the leak, speaking to Che at an earlier point? Or was the leak Takeo Kayama, who had gone through my address book and knew where I lived? “The men you overheard mentioned this neighborhood. Did you hear any numbers? Were they discussing my street address?”

“It’s hard to tell. Like I told you, they were speaking mostly Spanish. There were a couple of Japanese guys who seemed to understand as well. Or maybe those guys were Latin Americans of Japanese heritage. It was difficult to tell.”

“If only I could get Lieutenant Hata and a Spanish translator to stake out Salsa Salsa,” I thought aloud.

“Don’t do anything to cause Enrique trouble.” Richard glowered at me. “He’s my everything.”

“Shouldn’t you be spending your time getting to know Enrique outside the bar? It sounds as if everything that’s going on between you is washed down by too many Caipirinhas.”

“At least I have a relationship. That’s more than I can say for you, Miss Congeniality.”

“How does Enrique know Che?” I ignored his insult. “Was there any sign of familiarity?”

Now Richard grinned. “I saved the best for last. It turns out they know each other slightly, so I asked Enrique to introduce me on the way out. Che’s a pretty friendly guy. He even offered us a kind of short-term job, but we said no.”

“What kind of job?”

“He said it had something to do with gardening. Enrique assumed that it was off-the-books—you know, illegal. He’s got a legit job at Salsa Salsa and a visa in good standing, so he obviously wouldn’t take a risk like that.”

My heartbeat felt stronger all of a sudden. Either I had gotten a case of jitters from the ginseng tea or I had a terrific idea brewing. “Do you think you could convince Enrique to find out more about that job?”

Richard shook his head, making his pewter crucifix earring fly out at a ninety-degree angle. “Enrique’s adamant about spending all of his free time with me.”

“If it’s short-term, why don’t you do it? Just once?”

Richard ran a finger around the edge of his moist tea bowl. “I suppose that I wouldn’t mind taking off my shirt and getting a tan. Enrique makes me feel so white.”

I took Richard’s tea bowl from him. “Did you know I could read tea leaves?” I asked. As I stared at the dark pieces of sea vegetable clumped on the bottom of Richard’s empty bowl, I said, “The pattern here reveals that it would be good for you to do something outdoors.”

Richard sighed. “You sound like Lila. But the option she always presents me with is taking the kids to Tokyo Disneyland.”

“This will be so much better than that phony playland,” I promised. “All I’m asking you to do is dig up a little dirt. An afternoon’s worth.”

“For you, babe, I’ll dig it up in spades,” Richard said, taking his bowl and clinking it against mine.

He was in.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

There are times when I think my actions make perfect sense. Then, a few hours later, I realize that I’m crazy.

As I walked out of the teashop with Richard, I was caught up in the heat of the moment, the certainty that Enrique and Richard were the perfect moles to infiltrate Che’s organization. I went to bed stoked on ginseng and the promise of discovery.

I woke up the next morning, though, with an unbearable need to use the toilet, and feelings of doom. Richard could no more carry off an underground sting than I could pass a flower-arranging exam. And there was the question of whether Enrique could be trusted, given that he’d fallen into my friend’s arms just a few days earlier.

“Do you want me to answer the telephone, Rei-chan?” Aunt Norie murmured from her futon. I had just flushed the toilet and was coming back into the bedroom, not having heard the telephone’s first few rings.

“No, I’ll get it.” As Lieutenant Hata’s voice began speaking into my answering machine, I took the cordless receiver back into the bathroom. Running the water in the sink so that Aunt Norie couldn’t hear my voice, I began the saga, starting with the mysterious haiku I’d received two days earlier.

“That was written by Basho,” he said after I’d recited the three lines. “I had to learn that poem in school.”

“Do you understand why it makes me nervous?” I asked.

“Not particularly. It is a tradition in Japan to present poetry to others as a gift. In fact, during the classical period, young men would send poems as thank-you letters to the courtesans they had affairs with. I’m surprised that you cannot guess who sent it.”

I was silent until I realized the implication of his comment. “I’m not having an affair with Takeo.”

“Well, then, why did you deploy me to the kitchen so you could have a private conversation? And you aided in his escape,” Hata added, his bitterness practically cracking the telephone line.

“Takeo left the apartment on his own. Its not like he’s a fugitive,” I said. “The one you should be suspicious of is Che Fujisawa. There’s a good chance he or one of his gang poisoned me.”

“Miss Shimura, you may need to return to St. Luke’s Hospital, because it sounds as if you are having delusions! Since when has an environmental group become a gang?”

“Two nights ago, at a nightclub called Salsa Salsa, Che and a friend were overheard talking about the Kayama School, Mitsutan, St. Luke’s Hospital, and Yanaka.”

“Really?” He sounded wary. “There was no news about your sickness in the newspaper.”

“Yes, they would have no reason to know. Obviously they are involved.”

“What did you hear exactly?” For the first time in our conversation, I heard the scratching of a pen. He was taking notes.

“It was overheard by a friend,” I said, mindful that Richard hadn’t wanted me to identify him or Enrique. “The conversation was in Spanish, so only the few Japanese words spoken were noted.”

“Where is Salsa Salsa?”

“On Roppongi-dori, heading toward Nishi-Azabu. But you can’t just walk in; you’ll stick out terribly. And you’ll need a Spanish interpreter.” All of a sudden I was worried.

“We have plenty of those. And I do have plain clothes.” I could hear the smile in his voice.

I thanked Lieutenant Hata for his time and hung up. Aunt Norie had been knocking on the door for a few minutes, and I could no longer ignore her.

“You don’t have to hide your telephone calls from me. I know it was that policeman.” Aunt Norie leaned in the doorframe, her yukata robe snugly belted over flannel pajamas. Her hair was tousled and pale blue traces of her nighttime beauty face-mask clung to her skin, making her look like a sci-fi character out of a comic book.

“I didn’t want to disturb your sleep,” I said.

“Leave things to him,” Norie said. “He can find out better, and it is dangerous to get close to the Kayamas. I know.”

“Did something happen between you and the Kayamas? Tell me.”

“Water washes everything away,” Norie said. It was one of her favorite proverbs, one that meant it was better to forgive and forget. “Speaking of water, are you going to bathe before breakfast? If you do that now, I’ll prepare the okayu.”

Over large bowls of the last of the restorative gruel, I searched for ways to get Norie to open up about the Kayamas, but it was impossible. She wanted to talk about my Uncle Hiroshi, who was at last returning from Osaka for a visit. I couldn’t understand the stamina of tanshin funin: absentee husbands who accepted their company’s orders to work far from home but didn’t take their families with them. Norie had gotten caught up in a murder a week ago, and Hiroshi hadn’t been available to offer her support. I supposed his homecoming was better late than never.

The Japanese press said my generation had a different attitude toward work, but I doubted it. As I rode the Hibiya subway line into Roppongi, I checked out a few good-looking young businessmen.

I had identified a Hibiya Line type, a species of tall young man with cheekbones like razors and slicked-back hair, usually dressed for business in a European suit. An English wing-tip shoe might bounce gently as he rested in his seat. It was a law of nature that HLTs never had to stand on trains. I watched a twenty-something guy who fit the profile sit down across from me, only to dash my fantasies by opening the latest edition of Jump. How could I ever get involved with a grown man who reads boys’ comics? Sorry, I said in my thoughts to the HLT, it’s not going to work.

Takeo Kayama lived within walking distance of the Hibiya Line, but I didn’t think of him as an HLT. He had the height and bones, but his hair was long and floppy—all wrong. As was his dark wardrobe of jeans and T-shirts. Even the business suit he had worn on the day of Sakura’s slaying had been wrinkled. Besides, HLTs had jobs. Takeo was a puppet in the Kayama administration, hanging around to collect cash from students and teachers. No, Takeo Kayama was not my type.

You’re lying, the voice inside me said. To still it, I stared all the harder at the good-looking guy reading Jump. He must have felt it, because he eventually looked up. He hissed a single word at me: “Hentai.” It meant ‘pervert.’

He felt sexually harassed! I shouldn’t have giggled, but I did. I put my hand over my mouth and looked down at my knees until I reached Kamiyacho Station. Then I strode out of the subway car without a second glance at the poor abused businessman.

***

Ishida Antiques was located on the grounds of the family home where my seventy-five-year-old friend Yasushi Ishida had been born. Since World War II, the structure had been rebuilt every ten or twenty years, metamorphosing from a wooden house into a neat stucco box similar to the other shops around it. Mr. Ishida lived alone upstairs, having turned the ground floor into a crowded showplace for old furniture. The only item not for sale was a miniature shrine set above the door, decorated with miniature paper prayer strips and today’s fruit offering to his departed parents, a fragrant peach. The fruit was changed daily, so the aroma was always fresh.

Today he had a customer, an elegant Japanese woman in her late fifties. Mother of a Hibiya Line Type, maybe. Mr. Ishida sent me a swift glance that said to look around quietly while he completed his sale.

Mr. Ishida’s shop reflected the same cherry blossom fever as the rest of Japan’s commercial world. He had decorated a lacquered stand with a mauve kimono patterned with pink cherry blossoms. On a tansu chest he had a cherry blossom arrangement in a large black suiban container. Surrounding it were similar ikebana containers of the same vintage. These weren’t filled with water or flowers, so I turned one over to look for an artist’s mark. Stamped into the ceramic were two simple kanji I recognized: those for “flower” and mountain. Together the words were pronounced ‘ka-yama.’

I wondered if someone in the Kayama family made pottery but dismissed the idea. Most likely the dish was made to order for the school, just like the minimalist modem stoneware that currently filled the shelves of the Kayama classroom. What was surprising to me was how these ceramics reflected a 1930s art moderne feeling. The colors of the ceramics—happy shades of orange, pink, and green— reminded me of American Fiestaware. At the same time, one could argue that these were the same colors that decorated typical Japanese kimono.

As I tried to figure out whether the containers were more Japanese or American, things were proceeding well for Mr. Ishida. His lady customer was on the verge of buying a tansu priced at a cool seven hundred thousand yen, about $4,800. She stroked the smooth lacquered finish, and I wondered what it would be like to buy something in perfect condition that was practically guaranteed to rise in value. Nice, l imagined. Very nice.

After the business was concluded, the lady left to deep bows from Mr. Ishida. He was still horizontal when she slipped out the door, and he took his time coming up, rubbing at the small of his back.

“I missed my tai chi practice for only two days, and it has turned me into an old man,” Mr. Ishida grumbled.

“Never.” I smiled at my mentor and settled down at the tea table crowded with papers and books, the prime spot where Mr. Ishida liked to serve tea and gossip.

“What a good day this is, Shimura-san. That tansu has taken up space for the last eight months. I was worrying that it would never sell.”

“I have a problem like that,” I said, and told him about the plates.

“I am sorry, but I couldn’t buy them from you,” Mr. Ishida said. “I’ve got a set of nine dishes like that, and they’ve been around for five months. This market is terrible.”

“That’s what I’m learning.” I was going to have to find storage for all the brilliant consignments I’d taken on. I held up a shallow pink ikebana dish and asked, “Can you tell me about this?”

“That is a suiban made to order at a kiln on the island of Kyushu for the Kayama School. So much was made in the early part of the century that it was known widely as Kayama ware. I have a lot of them right now. I’d say the piece you’re looking at was made in the thirties.”

Mr. Ishida didn’t seem to catch on to the irony of the fact that he was selling china from the death-marred flower school, but then again my guru did not own a television or read anything except antiques journals. A murderer could be running around Kamiyacho Station, but unless the killer committed his acts with a vintage samurai sword, my friend would be oblivious.

I examined the suiban again, thinking the pink color would not set off every flower to advantage. I held the dish up and asked, “This isn’t as old as your usual merchandise. Why did you take it?”

“I took it all because I realized that I would be the only dealer in Tokyo, perhaps Japan, with such a large collection. I hope that a Kayama enthusiast will come and buy the whole lot.”

“I’ve been taking classes at the school. Unfortunately, I’m not an enthusiast.” I smiled wryly.

“Nevertheless, you will meet very cultivated people through the world of ikebana.” He paused. “I don’t suppose you know the Kayama who sold me all the dishes?”

“One of the family came here?” I was stunned. Well, the shop was only a few blocks from the headquarters. I supposed it was convenient.

“The seller was a mature woman. Well-dressed, slim and tall.”

“There don’t think there are any older Kayama women,” I mused. “Just Natsumi, who is my age.”

“This lady was in her fifties, and I only say that because Japanese women have more luxuries to help keep their skin looking young these days,” Mr. Ishida opined. “She was pretty, but not too…friendly. I expect that she found it hard to part with her collection. These days, with the financial instability, I am receiving many more consignments from private people, and I imagine the tension of the situation added to her manner.”

But the Kayamas weren’t in financial trouble. Or were they? Intrigued, I asked, “What did the woman do that made her seem cold?”

“She demanded an immediate answer about whether I wanted a collection of two hundred pieces or she was going to leave. And then, when it came to the terms of our arrangement, she wanted to keep eighty percent of the sale price and give me twenty!”

Consignment agreements were usually sixty-forty in the consignor’s favor, so this was an outrageous request. I asked, “What did you do?”

“I told her I would offer her sixty-five percent of the sale price, but no more than that. And if the goods were not sold within two months, she would need to take them all back. She agreed to that; no doubt she had been to other antique dealers and had her terms rejected. But the pieces she’d brought were special.” He ran a finger over the smooth glaze of the suiban that I’d placed on the table between us. “Somehow I felt that I should take them.”

He’d fallen victim to antiques lust. It was the reason I’d taken Mrs. Morita’s dishes: a hunch, a desire to have something with me for a little while. I’d thought that I took the plates in order to sell them for a profit, but now I was beginning to wonder. Maybe I just wanted to give a dinner party.

“I understand,” I told him.

“Oh, I was very stupid. I must have been distracted during our conversation, because I took the details of her telephone number, and that number is disconnected. And even more unfortunate is the fact that the woman has not called me back. It has been almost three months since she came in and I have sold nine containers. Yet I cannot give her any payment.”

I made up my mind. “I’ll be happy to do what you asked me to do: that is, I’ll find out whether there’s a middle-aged aunt or somebody like that.”

“But you just told me you are not enthusiastic about ikebana.” Mr. Ishida sounded skeptical.

I sighed. “It’s just that I want to know who the lady is, too. For a personal reason.”

He nodded as if this made sense. “It would be helpful if you could uncover her new telephone number.”

“I’ll try. But unless some distant relative has come into Tokyo to pawn family wares, I suspect an impostor visited your shop.”

“That sounds—unlikely.” But there was a hint of uncertainty in Mr. Ishida’s voice that told me he was worried. He needed my help.

“I promise you that I’ll be discreet. Let me buy the suiban, and that will make my interest in the issue seem more natural,” I really did want to buy the container. I thought that I could give it as a thank-you to Aunt Norie. In fact, presenting her with it would help communicate that her job taking care of me was complete and that she should return to Yokohama and continue her flower-arranging classes there in peace.

As I walked into Roppongi I bought a copy of the Japan Times. At least the English-language press had lost interest in the Kayama School murder. All the news was about the banking crisis. Japan’s stock exchange had sunk to number three, behind the United States and England, although government officials remained optimistic. So what else was new?

After finishing the depressing news, I stuck the newspaper in my backpack, which was already bulky, thanks to the suiban I was carrying. When the whole thing was mounted on my back, I caught sight of myself in the reflection of a window and decided that I looked like the youngest woman on earth suffering from osteoporosis. Turning onto Gaien Higashi-dori, I was glad to find My Magic Forest did not have any protesters outside. I was determined to buy a large bouquet of flowers to use as a prop at my next destination.

Stepping through Grecian pillars, I entered the shop, which smelled of earth, moss, and exotic blooms. I walked through the lavish international garden displays that I’d seen with Aunt Norie and toward a sale bucket of long-stemmed pink roses. I noticed the petals’ dryness.

“These roses. Where are they from?” I asked a shop girl who was fussing with some jasmine nearby.

“Latin America. I’m not sure which country, but I assure you that our supplier says that nobody who picked them was the victim of any pesticide poisoning!” She looked as nervous as she sounded.

“Actually, the roses look a little brown around the edges.”

“They arrived two days ago. They did not sell, so we have dropped the price. If madam does not like the roses we have today, why not consider some Dutch tulips? Or Thai orchids?”

“Do you have any locally grown flowers?”

“Oh, yes, but they’re very expensive.” She glanced at my overstuffed backpack, which must have given the aura of a budget shopper. I slid the backpack off my shoulder and shook out my Burberry so that the clerk could see the plaid lining. Even though my coat was from my mother’s chic 1980s wardrobe, it was a major status brand in Japan.

“Cost is no object,” I said, madness kicking in. “Not when it comes to ikebana.”

“Oh, is madam a teacher?” she asked in a friendlier manner, leading me through a mini-park of cherry and white-plum blossoms. Entire trees, with their roots protected in earth and burlap, were available for sixty thousand yen and up. I vetoed cherry due to my blossoming hatred of the tree, and in the end chose branches of mock orange that had pretty white flowers. I added some lotus leaves and a few sweet little purple cosmos. I handed over five thousand yen—about thirty-five dollars—without too much pain.

“We offer a choice of wrapping in either recycled newspaper or our signature silver paper. What would madam prefer?”

I debated the choice and decided to stick with My Magic Forest’s silver paper. With luck, it would make me look like a regular student at my next stop, the Kayama Kaikan.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

To avoid having the doorman recognize me as the harbinger of illness and death, I shielded my face with the bundle of flowers as I entered the Kayama Kaikan. I needn’t have worried. He was occupied holding open the door for a German tour group. I squeezed in behind them and stayed with the group until they got to the elevators. At that point, I melted up the stairwell marked EMERGENCY ONLY.

I knew from the Kayama School schedule that on Tuesday afternoons the administrative office was closed so that the employees could engage in continuing ikebana education or free activities of their choosing. The time was perfect for what I wanted to do.

At the second-floor landing, I stepped out into the gray-carpeted hallway that led to the administrative office. As was typical for a Japanese office, it was a large, open space filled with desks, each completely void of clutter or personal artifacts, but emblazoned with an employee nameplate.

Fortunately, I knew how to read the names Koda and Sato. I located Mrs. Koda’s desk next to one of the long window-walls. At first I hung back from the window, but then I remembered that it was the kind of glass that couldn’t be seen into from the outside during the daytime. I surveyed the sweeping view of office buildings and trees, thinking that although the desk seemed to be in a good position, it actually reflected Mrs. Koda’s declining role in the school. If she really were functioning as the head administrator, her desk would have been in the center of the room so that she could call out orders to the minions around her. Sakura’s desk was squarely in the center of the room; she had been the queen bee.

The police had been through Sakura’s desk already. I noticed a thick black powder on its stainless steel surface and the drawer handles: a powder I guessed had something to do with dusting for fingerprints.

I turned back toward the windows, seeing Mrs. Koda’s desk from a different angle. A slight shadow caught my attention. There was a gap between the top drawer’s edge and the desk. The drawer was open.

Temptation bit me as sharply as one of the tiny bugs that live in old tatami mats. Couldn’t I just slide the drawer a bit farther open? I wouldn’t be breaking into her desk, just checking it. I would simply look for any address book that she might have, go straight to the Ks, and see if I could find anything on the mysterious Mrs. Kayama.

The drawer slid open soundlessly, revealing a few slim notebooks, a case of pens, a case of pencils, and a tissue box. No address book. I flipped open both notebooks and found them unreadable, except for a few flower names and locations in Tokyo. A roster of teacher names and addresses was printed in both English and kanji. Deciding that the teacher list might be nice to examine later, I went to the photocopy machine. It had been turned off, and when I pressed the on button, it groaned to life with a frighteningly loud noise. I hoped nobody else was on the second floor to hear it.

The machine was very slow. By the time I was finished copying the list, the clock on the wall showed ten minutes to two, the time when the staff flower- arranging session would be over.

I returned to Mrs. Koda’s desk with the master list. As I slid it into the drawer, I noticed that I’d gotten black powder on the drawer handle. I must have brushed against Sakura’s desk. I reached into Mrs. Koda’s tissue box for something to clean the handle, and my hand knocked against a small plastic container. With the tissue around my hand, I pulled out a small bottle made from orange plastic, the kind that protects medications from light. The label was typed in English and said MOTRIN 800 MG. How ironic it was, that the medication I used to tame occasional cramps was something that could help an older woman with arthritis.

The lid was half off—in Japan, childproof lids are not mandatory on medicine bottles—and a tablet fell into my hand. It was small and white, with a cameo of a woman’s head carved into its surface. There could be a chance that Motrin had a different design here, but the woman’s head seemed an unusual feature. I turned the tablet over and saw that it was inscribed NOLVADEX 600.

Mrs. Koda was taking something stronger than Motrin but was using a Motrin bottle to hold it. It was either for her own use—or for somebody else’s.

Like me, Sakura had been poisoned. Lieutenant Hata had told me that it was arsenic. As I stared at the little tablet with the woman ‘s profile on it, I felt the same nausea that had hit me at the Mitsutan ikebana exhibition. What did Nolvadex contain? Could it be something that could cause a fatal overdose?

I wrapped the tablet in a fresh tissue and stuck the ball in my raincoat pocket. I closed the desk drawer, wiping off the remaining traces of black powder, and turned off the photocopier. Before I left, I threw both tissues into a covered bin that said, in English, LET’S ENJOY RECYCLE. Takeo’s project? If so, he should have corrected the English. I thought about that while I walked down the stairwell. Then I heard a set of footsteps a few flights behind me. Someone else was using the stairs.

I hurried all the faster, taking a corner so sharply that a few stalks of patrinia caught against the railing. I was dropping flowers, but there was no time to clean up. With a burst of speed I made it out to the building lobby. I hefted the flowers protectively in front of my face again and proceeded to the door.

“Excuse me, madam, but we need to check your bags.”

The doorman’s command forced me to stop. From behind the flowers I murmured, “You mean my flowers? I never unwrapped them. You see, I had a mix-up about there being a class this afternoon.”

“No, just your backpack. I apologize for the inconvenience, but we are conducting examinations of all visitors as part of our new security system.”

I laid down my backpack and the wrapped flowers on a polished walnut table.

“Shimura-san! How is your health?” Miss Okada left the reception desk to greet me.

“Fine. As you can see, I’m up and around, and I made the silliest mistake about class time.” I kept my eyes on the doorman, who was slowly proceeding through my backpack. I hoped that he wouldn’t notice the roster of teachers, its pages still warm from the copier, tucked between the pages of the Japan Times.

“Please, will you take these flowers?” I blurted in an attempt to get Miss Okada to look at me, and not the sloppy assortment of goods coming out of my backpack. “I went to the administrative office to present them to Mrs. Koda, but she was not there.”

Miss Okada nodded absently, because she was staring at the doorman. I followed her line of vision to the doorman’s hands, which were opening the box containing the ikebana container. Once the suiban was revealed in its pink glory, he started to cover it again.

“Just a minute,” Miss Okada told the doorman. “May I see that piece?”

“Certainly,” I said, although I wasn’t sure whether she was asking permission of the doorman or me.

She turned the piece over immediately, and looked at the Kayama seal on the underside. “Why, this is Kayama ware!”

“That’s right. I wanted to show it to somebody here. I was thinking of Natsumi-san.”

“She is not here today. Won’t you sit down for a minute, Miss Shimura? I will telephone Mrs. Koda to come downstairs and assist you.”

Settling down on a steel bench, I stared at the Kayama School’s massive sandstone sculpture, sensing that I was between a bunch of rocks and a very hard place. I should have stuck to one excuse for being in the school instead of making three. Now it was up to Mrs. Koda to figure out the truth. Perhaps she would go straight to her desk, count the tablets in her medicine vial, and realize I’d stolen one. If not, she’d see the smudged tissue I’d foolishly left in the recycling container, or notice that the photocopier was warm. Or was I being paranoid?

Miss Okada was still on the phone, keeping her eyes on me. The receptionist bowed slightly, signifying the end of one telephone call, and then made another call to somebody. She kept her eyes on me the whole time. I looked away, trying to seem fascinated by the sandstone sculpture.

After five long minutes Mrs. Koda arrived via the elevator. She was wearing a skirt and sweater topped by a traditional quilted jacket, and with her slightly bent posture, she looked like a cozy grandmother out of Japanese folklore. She smiled comfortingly at me and bowed but did not come close. She was intent on examining the suiban, which Miss Okada had moved to her receptionist’s desk, the same place where Norie had left the pruners to be wrapped.

Her eyes brightened, and she half smiled when she turned over the suiban and looked at the seal. Mrs. Koda said something to Miss Okada that I couldn’t hear before she came to me.

“Please.” I jumped up and offered her my place on the bench.

“Sit, please. There is room for us both,” she said. “First of all, thank you for your kind letter. I felt so bad when you became ill at the exhibition. I was such a terrible person to suggest you drink the tea! I never would have dreamed it was tainted by poison.”

“The poison was in the sugar, not the tea, so it actually was my sweet tooth that was at fault.” I usually disliked the back-and-forth exaggerated apologies that were key to Japanese etiquette, but today I wanted to do it for a while.

“No, my selfish demand led to your violent illness. There is no doubt about that.” Mrs. Koda looked at the flowers I’d laid on the table. ‘Those are much lovelier than the azaleas I sent you. It is difficult to get quality flowers outside our regular school supplier.”

So she hadn’t bought the azaleas at My Magic Forest? Maybe she was secretly environmentally conscious or she was living on a tiny salary. It was likely that the Kayamas paid their employees poorly, keeping their fabulous wealth to themselves.

“Oh, the azaleas were outstanding.” I tried to manufacture a compliment soulful enough for someone who believed that flowers were conscious beings. “I made an arrangement in a blue-and-white hibachi, and the freshness and beauty of your flowers set against the old pottery made up for my poor skill as an arranger.”

“Do not doubt your ability. You see into the hearts of flowers, remember?” she chided. “Although I agree that the container one chooses adds a grace note to any arrangement. The suiban you were carrying today, for instance, was designed in the 1930s, breaking with the ornate nineteenth-century tradition of Japanese ceramics.”

“Oh. Is it valuable?” I’d thought the price Mr. Ishida had charged me was reasonable.

“I think so. Only one thousand of these Kayama ware containers were fired at a kiln in Kyushu that did work for our school. Then came the war, and our school kiln was turned over to make military goods. After the war, there was no money for making or buying ikebana containers until the late 1950s, when we began using different techniques in order to illustrate the school philosophy, ‘Truth in Nature.’”

I nodded, wondering where she was leading me.

“It is impressive that you managed to find one of the 1930s containers.”

“It was just blind luck, and it wasn’t expensive at all,” I assured her, before realizing that my careless words made it sound as it I didn’t value the school artifact.

“Did you say that you bought the suiban?” She sounded surprised.

Just then the door to the stairs banged open. Takeo Kayama emerged in his old Greenpeace T-shirt and Levis. He looked as if he was planning to do manual labor of some sort. The thought of Che’s garden work opportunity flashed in my mind, but of course Takeo didn’t need to work for money.

Takeo spoke to Mrs. Koda without even looking at me. “She had it in her backpack?”

“I believe so. We were just talking about how she bought it,” Mrs. Koda said.

“I’ll take care of it now.” He shifted his gaze to me as if that were painful. “Come up to my office. Well take the elevator this time.”

So he’d seen the broken flower heads I’d dropped on the stairs. Connecting me with them was pretty easy, given that the opened bouquet was lying on the table by the door.

“Takeo-sensei, will you excuse me? I’m feeling rather tired,” Mrs. Koda murmured.

“Of course. Do you want me to take you upstairs?” His voice softened.

“No, I will just have a cup of tea and then return to my work. Don’t worry about me.” I picked up my backpack and smiled artificial thanks at the doorman for setting off the whole annoying chain of events. Then I followed Takeo, who was carrying my suiban into the elevator. We stepped in, and I kept my eyes on the floors lighting up. Three, four, five…soon we were at nine, the floor that Lila had told me had a private entrance to the Kayamas’ personal penthouse.

“Get out,” he said when I didn’t move.

“I was waiting for you. In this country, it’s customary for men to step in and out of elevators ahead of women.”

“Were you planning on hitting the door-close button and escaping? Perhaps sneak out on one of the middle floors and switch to the stairs? Unfortunately, you’d run into the doorman again, and he’s not going to let you leave without my permission.”

“Not if I get the right exit.” I stalked out of the elevator ahead of him. “In a building this size, you need more than one staircase to meet the fire code and more than one exit to the outdoors. There are other routes through the building that are less well marked.”

“That’s right,” he said as he followed me off. “In fact, you’re about to discover the route to my office.”

“Is it in your family apartment? There’s a set of stairs that can be reached from a smaller hallway that stems off this main one.”

“I live in the country, not here.” He looked at me hard. “Walk to the left. It’s the fifth door.”

This section of the building was more elegant than the efficiently decorated administrative office on the second floor, and the bare, sunlit classrooms on four. The walls in the hallway on nine were a deep cinnabar color and decorated with small spotlights that fell upon small framed paintings. I recognized an infinity net painting by the Japanese artist Yayoi Kusama, and a small striped picture that looked like something by Mark Rothko. Could it be? I stopped dead in my tracks.

“Yes, it’s a Rothko,” Takeo said. ‘Tm surprised you didn’t take it.”

I continued down the hall.

“Don’t play games. You know the off-limits sections of this building very well.”

“I heard about the path to your apartment from a fellow student. She’d been invited up for a dinner once.”

“Lila Braithwaite,” he said in a flat voice as he opened a nondescript door. I went into what looked like his office, thinking nothing bad could happen to me. Mrs. Koda, Miss Okada, and the doorman knew I was in this jumbled-up office with walls lined with framed photographs of weeds and wildflowers, a desk with a computer terminal, and a couple of club chairs upholstered in ancient brown cotton. The room was the antithesis of the spare, minimalist design of the Kayama Kaikan.

Takeo picked up a stack of National Geographic magazines towering on the seat of one of the chairs and motioned for me to sit. I did, falling deeply into the chair, the springs of which had probably been broken thirty years ago.

“You and I have something in common. I also buy old furniture,” I said, unable to hide my amusement. “So which is your favorite Sunday shrine sale?”

Takeo’s voice rose an octave. “It’s not from a flea market! This is furniture from the original building my family lived in. The chairs were in my mother’s suite.”

Once again my American openness had gotten me into trouble. I felt terrible to have knocked his family heirloom.

“You’re not here to appraise the furniture, anyway. I want to hear from you about what you were carrying in your backpack.”

“I presume you’re interested in one thing in particular?” I used sarcasm to hide my growing worry.

“You were carrying an art moderne ikebana container that was manufactured for our school during the 1930s. Only a thousand vessels were made. To find one today is rare,” Takeo said.

“That’s what Mrs. Koda told me.”

Takeo swung his legs over the side of his armchair, as if he was planning on staying there for a while. “Out of the one thousand containers produced, there were two hundred different styles. Five samples were made of each. Some of them were given to teachers as gifts, while others were used at the school. Of course, some of them broke in daily use or disappeared.”

I stared at the reddish earth on the bottom of his Frye boots, wondering why they remained so popular in Japan while the trend had died long ago in the United States. Would he care about such things, if he knew? I doubted it.

“Then the war came, and the military government seized many of our things. Metal containers were melted down for bullets, but most of the ceramics—particularly the ones without any gold leaf or elaborate painting—were left. The art moderne containers survived the war, but in the late forties there was no interest in mass-producing the collection. They weren’t in fashion anymore, and even if they were, nobody had the money to invest in new ikebana containers.”

I pointed out, “The American women who studied ikebana might have.”

“No. In the 1940s, leftover things from the thirties were regarded like clothes or furniture from the seventies are for us. Tacky. Besides, my father told me that military wives wanted antiques, pieces of old Nippon to take away with them. Just like you.”

The 1970s had been the major fashion influence on Japan for the last five years, but making that point would have muddied what I needed to say. “I’m not trying to take things out of Japan! I’m helping to raise the value of and appreciation for Japanese decorative art treasures. In a sense, my work is cultural consciousness-raising. “

Once the words were out, I could have bitten my tongue. Cultural consciousness-raising. I sounded stupid and Californian.

Takeo stared at me coldly. At last he said, “It amazes me that you would use the excuse of cultural consciousness-raising to justify theft.”

“Theft?” I repeated, suddenly realizing why he’d been so mean.

“The only reason the police aren’t here is because I can’t count on them to tell me everything that you confess. After all, they didn’t tell me anything of value after Sakura died.”

“What’s this about theft? Somebody stole something from the school?”

“You did, Rei. That’s why you’re here. I want to ask you how you stole the entire Kayama ware ceramics collection and why you cared to do it.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“Takeo.” I stressed his first name, given that he had used mine without invitation or even as much as a -san ending to show respect. “Takeo, you certainly have a vivid and creative way of looking at the world. I guess that’s why you ‘re going to be the school’s next headmaster.”

“You stole that suiban along with our entire art moderne collection. I don’t know how you pulled it off, but you did it. Bravo.” Takeo spoke in the authoritative manner he’d used when the police arrived at the building after Sakura’s murder.

“Go ahead, call the police,” I dared him. “I’d be happy to take them to the shop where I bought the suiban this morning.”

“You’re fabulous at lying, Rei. Your lies are almost as fabulous as your dancing.”

That was as blatant an insult as I’d ever received. But I merely raised my eyebrows and said, “Look at my sales receipt.” Taking my time, I withdrew my wallet and found the paper Mr. Ishida had given me.

“Don’t tell me that your accomplice is old Mr. Ishida!”

“You sound familiar with him.” I was surprised.

“Yasushi Ishida was named in several articles that were written about you last year. I think the fact that the venerable expert is now trafficking in stolen antiques will be even more newsworthy, don’t you think?”

The issue of theft was being raised again. Trying to sound reasonable, I asked, “Stolen? From where?”

“Our school’s archives.”

“When did it happen?” I asked.

“About six weeks ago. But you know that already. Why are you asking?” Takeo snapped.

“Six weeks ago I was in Sapporo appraising an estate. For the entire week and two weekends on either side of it.” There, I was in the clear.

“Well, I don’t know the exact date. You or your friend could have taken the Kayama ware earlier. Its just that I noticed it at that time.”

“My first step into this building was two weeks ago, when I came for a students’ orientation with Mrs. Koda. She took me all over the school, but not to any archive. Ask her.” My words were braver than I felt, as I remembered how suspicious Mrs. Koda had seemed when she’d asked me about the Kayama ware.

“If you weren’t on the premises, maybe your aunt was,” Takeo said. “She has easy access to the building.”

“So do hundreds—thousands—of other teachers and students. But go ahead and blame my aunt. She thinks that finding Sakura’s body ruined her image here forever, so I’m sure this new bombshell won’t make a difference.” I was really angry with him. “What about you? You could have taken the Kayama ware a while ago and had somebody fence them to Mr. Ishida. You apparently already knew that I’m close to Mr. Ishida, that I would wind up noticing the Kayama ware in his store. Then, presto, I get caught with a piece and take the fall for your crime.”

“Presto?” He repeated the word as if he wondered what it meant. “Rei, my personal net worth is more than one billion yen. That’s seven million American dollars at this week’s exchange rate, and you know I’ve got much more coming when my father dies. Why would I be interested in fencing an insignificant collection of 1930s ceramics?”

“Earlier you told me that the ceramics were rare. Now you say they’re insignificant? What is the truth?” I seized on that as a way to hide my annoyance that someone my age had such a revolting amount of money.

“The Kayama ware is important to me because it is my family property. That’s all.” He looked at me hard. “Even if you unsuspectingly bought the suiban at Ishida Antiques, it’s still stolen property. Ishida- san could be charged for selling it. I could report him with one telephone call to the police.”

I envisioned my seventy-five-year-old friend being forced to kneel for hours in a harsh prison cell, and a wave of depression swept over me. I couldn’t look at Takeo’s triumphant face anymore, so I looked at my lap. How was I going to get out of this room and this terrible situation?

I heard a creaking of chair springs and then felt a hand on my shoulder. Takeo was touching the place where a bra strap would have been, had Aunt Norie not decided to confiscate most of my underwear for mending.

“I’m not calling the police yet.”

“Oh?” I asked grimly.

“Yes, a murder and a poisoning within one week ‘s time are about all the school can handle.”

I sat up straight in the sagging chair, shaking Takeo’s hand off my shoulder. “I’m not a thief. I will even speak to Lieutenant Hata about it—if you’ll come with me and tell what you know—about everything. I think the theft of the containers is probably related to Sakura’s death.”

“How so?” Takeo was studying me in the same intent manner as a crow watching the garbage being put out in my neighborhood.

I told him about the woman who had swept into Ishida Antiques, arranged for a consignment ratio strongly in her favor, and left a phony telephone number. Takeo’s expression didn’t change, but at the end of my recitation he walked to one of his crowded shelves and removed something. He handed me a framed photograph of a slender young woman in a garden holding two infants. Both babies were wearing blue-and-white cotton kimono and were absolutely adorable, with small heads bristling with thick black hair and big eyes peering from sweetly round faces. They were much cuter than Lila Braithwaite’s sniveling children. I smiled.

Takeo made an irritated sound. “Don’t waste your time staring at Natsumi and me. You know us already. This is my mother. The one and only Mrs. Kayama—excepting, of course, my grandmother, who died five years ago.”

“The woman who came to Mr. Ishida was in her fifties, he thought,” I said.

“My mother would have been fifty-three this year. I don’t think there are any other Kayama women in the same generation.” Takeo kicked at some lint on his junk-covered rug, and the stack of National Geographics toppled. He didn’t pick them up.

“I want you to talk to Mr. Ishida about her,” I said. “But the only way I’ll introduce you to him is if you promise to be polite. You cannot go into his shop blazing with the outrage you showed me.”

Takeo pressed his lips together. “Blazing with outrage? Is that how you see me?” When I nodded, Takeo said, “I’ll try to stay in control. Will you take me there now?”

“Better not,” I said, thinking that I needed to warn Mr. Ishida about the situation ahead. “Mr. Ishida’s shop closes at six. Maybe I could get him to meet us for dinner.”

Takeo shook his head. “You and I can’t be seen together.”

Feeling insulted, I said, “What about the izakaya? You took me there for a beer right after the murder.”

Takeo wrinkled his nose. “Nobody knew me in that dive.”

“I see. Well, I’ve enjoyed the interrogation, and I wish you luck in your ventures. I’ll be leaving. Would you be kind enough to call off the Rottweilers downstairs?” I waved and headed for the door.

“Rei.” He looked at me with his bottomless-cup-of-coffee eyes.

“What is it?”

“The reason I can’t be seen with you is that you are the blood relation of a woman who is the chief suspect in a murder committed in my family business. If you want me to meet you and Ishida-san tonight, I’ll come. But not in this neighborhood. Yours.”

While sketching him a map showing the directions from Sendagi Station to the teashop, I said, “The best place to go is the Yanaka Teashop. If you put on a decent suit and trade those hiking boots for wing tips, nobody will recognize you as the Kayama School’s billion-yen boy.”

“Look like a salaryman, you mean?” Takeo sounded annoyed.

I picked up my suiban, silently defying him to tell me that I couldn’t take the property I’d paid for.

He let me go.

***

In the lobby downstairs, I was met with deep bows.

“I am so sorry that I did not know about your special historical project. Takeo-sensei just telephoned to tell us about it,” Miss Okada said.

“I apologize for delaying you, madam.” The doorman’s eyelashes were practically grazing his green polyester knees.

So Takeo had called downstairs and given me a cover. I could give as good as I got. “Oh, please don’t apologize! It was my fault for not explaining the situation.”

“We are so looking forward to reading your article on the historical significance of ceramics in the Kayama School,” Miss Okada said.

“What’s that?”

Smiling, she replied, “I’m speaking about the article that will be published this fall. Takeo-sensei said you will be writing about the Kayama ware for Straight Bamboo magazine. How lucky for us.”

I smiled faintly and headed out into the spring afternoon. Takeo had provided a believable excuse for my having the suiban, but he wouldn’t be the one who would have to explain months later what had happened to the article. Even if I were a writer, I wouldn’t waste my time writing about the Kayamas.

Still, I knew that Takeo had let me off easily. He could have tried to have me arrested for buying stolen goods. Instead, I’d made it out of the school with my flowers, the suiban, the list of teachers, and Mrs. Koda’s mysterious white tablet, as well as an evening appointment that could prove fruitful.

Half an hour later, as I turned into my street, I heard the cheerful calls of children racing on bicycles. Expecting little ones on bikes with training wheels, I was almost knocked over by two girls in their late teens riding mountain bikes. I should have remembered that girls tried to sound childlike as long as possible; it was considered very cute. Funny how Lila Braithwaite’s seven-year-old son had sounded considerably more world-weary. Western kids grew up faster, even in Japan.

Inside my apartment, I shut my windows against the squawking girls. The air was heavy with the smell of My Peto cleaning spray. My aunt had cleaned recently, but she wasn’t around.

I played back the messages on my answering machine to see if she’d called me. However, both of my calls were from overseas, the first a message from my parents asking about my recovery, and the second from my ex-boyfriend Hugh Glendinning. He’d seen a photograph in a newspaper somewhere of cherry trees in bloom and thought of Japan, and of me. Too little, too late, I thought, and erased the message.

I called Mr. Ishida to book him for the evening, and once that was done, I called my cousin Tom. He said that he had heard of Nolvadex but would need to check the Physicians’ Desk Reference to get more details.

Disappointed that he wouldn’t give me a quick answer about the drug’s toxicity, I hung up. I stared at the freshly vacuumed tatami, spotless except for a crumpled paper lying near the door. I must have dropped it on my way in, because Aunt Norie would never miss such a thing.

As I picked it up, I realized it was an envelope folded in two. I opened it and saw the same cherry blossom paper decorated with three lines of text. The poem was once more written in hiragana so I could read it.

Haru kaze ni

Osaruru bijo no

Ikari kana!

In English, I knew it as:

The breezes of spring

Push the beautiful girl,

Arousing anger.

I held an image of a rough spring wind whipping a girl’s hair into her face. Perhaps the poet was saying that the girl was irritated by the wind. But like its predecessor, this haiku could be read in a more sinister way. A girl pushed. Was someone threatening me?

Although I was certain both poems had come from the same person, I still wanted to compare this new haiku with the other one. I pried up the lid of the yukashita, where I’d placed the first haiku letter for safekeeping underneath a box of Belgian chocolates. I lifted up the box and stared down at the storage drawer’s bottom. It was no longer grimy, and the letter was gone.

***

Damn my cleaning-genius aunt. I jammed the latest haiku in my raincoat pocket, which was the only safe place that I could think of and left. I moved as if I was on automatic pilot through Yanaka Cemetery’s road, bedecked with cherry trees, to my favorite temple.

Although the sky threatened rain, I wanted to be outside. Sadly, the tranquil small garden was now littered with cherry blossom petals, leftover sake bottles, and sushi boxes. I sat down anyway on a small bench and took the papers out of my pocket. I first studied the haiku and then read the Stop Killing Flowers flyer that Che had given me outside Mitsutan. It was printed in three languages, and the English text was well written and easy to understand. Colombia, the world’s second largest cut-flower producer, employed young female workers to grow and cut the flowers to be shipped for overseas sale. The flowers were heavily sprayed with pesticides, including the highly toxic methyl bromide, endosulfan, and parathion, pesticides that were banned in most parts of the world. Making matters worse, some flower producers sprayed the flowers while the women were working in the greenhouse, giving them only torn masks and gloves for protection. The effects of the pesticides on the women ranged from fainting and skin irritation, to respiratory and neurological problems. If the women workers became pregnant, miscarriage, premature births, and birth defects often followed. The pesticides also had a possible link to breast cancer, based on evidence from a study done on female agricultural workers in Hawaii.

Because Colombia had laws on the books against use of these pesticides, environmental activists had tried to get the government to force flower ranchers to change their practices. However, there were only two health inspectors for the region, and some companies denied the inspectors access to their sites. The inspectors quietly went away, and the dangerous practices continued.

I shut my eyes, imagining what it would be like to work in a thick fog of chemicals, snipping flowers for women to arrange in their ikebana classes. They were my age, but they just happened to have been born into the wrong country and economic situation. The dash of ant poison I’d tasted was nothing compared to what they had to endure on a daily basis.

I watched a middle-aged couple ladling water over their hands, a step symbolizing purification, before they approached the temple to worship. My thoughts turned from pesticides to the way that money was running through my own hands. I hadn’t brought in any income since the gilded screen I’d sold to the dealer from Kyoto—yet I’d just bought flowers at My Magic Forest and an ikebana container. At the rate at which I was going, in a months’ time I wouldn’t have money for rice, let alone pesticide- free flowers from My Magic Forest.

There was something familiar about the couple who had washed their hands. They stood praying a few feet away from the main religious building, a wooden structure with its doors open to reveal a bronze figure of Buddha. After studying the woman’s familiar lavender coat, I realized the worshiper was my Aunt Norie. Her male companion had a light suitcase on wheels at his side. The man’s bowed head revealed the same light thinning as my own father’s. I recognized Uncle Hiroshi, back at last from Osaka. He and my aunt had come to the shrine to pray before they even dropped off his luggage at my apartment.

They had walked straight past without noticing me moping under the cherry trees. I was not certain whether I should stay put or interrupt their prayers. When Aunt Norie finished the prayer by throwing some money into the wooden box in front of Buddha, she turned around and saw me. She beamed and called out my name. Uncle Hiroshi bowed, not a formal, waist-deep gesture, but a quick inclination of his head and shoulders.

“Welcome home, Ojisan. It’s so good that you’re here.” The words sounded flat, but I really didn’t know what else to say to the man I had not seen in two years, not since his transfer to his company ‘s regional office in Osaka. I didn’t think the years away from Norie had been good for him; he was heavier, and his face wore a tired, unhappy expression. I wondered if my aunt was still glad that she’d struggled for the right to marry him.

“What a pretty sight: my niece under the cherry blossoms.” Uncle Hiroshi ‘s voice sounded reassuringly the same—as deep and sonorous as my father’s. The stress and accent in their speech were the same, although their languages were different. My father usually spoke English to me, while Hiroshi naturally preferred Japanese.

I spoke quickly to my aunt, making an excuse so that she wouldn’t think I’d been following her. “Isn’t this a nice place? I sometimes come here at lunchtime.’’

“Have you eaten already?” Norie surveyed the wooden boxes and paper wrappings around me with disapproval.

“No! This was left from the cherry blossom viewing parties, I’m sure.”

“It’s terrible for a religious place to be littered! The partiers are allowed to drink on the streets only, not in here. We’d better clean up.”

The one small trashcan near the temple entrance already overflowed with cherry blossom party leftovers. This was evidence of Tokyo’s philosophy on waste collection: the unwritten rule that everybody carried his or her refuse home for disposal.

At my aunt’s suggestion, we carried an odious collection of garbage home in the clean, used, shopping bag she always carried folded in her purse. My building had a small area behind it for trash collection, so we threw the garbage on top of what was already there. Uncle Hiroshi hefted the largest bags up and over, making me worry about his back. The Shimuras tended to have weak backs. But Hiroshi and Norie were very satisfied to have performed their act of environmental do-gooding.

“Leave a place cleaner than when you arrived. That should be your guideline, Rei-chan,” my aunt said.

“Well, it’s certainly yours!” I was thinking of how she’d cleaned out my storage compartment and stolen my haiku evidence.

We slipped out of our shoes in the entryway, went inside, and washed our hands thoroughly. I put the water heater on to boil for tea and set out some rice crackers.

“Your apartment is very comfortable, Rei-chan. Did you find it by yourself?” Hiroshi asked.

“Well, Obasan was kind enough to sign the lease,” I answered. “A foreigner can’t rent an apartment without a Japanese citizen to vouch for her.”

“It’s a ridiculous law, considering all the good things Rei has done to the place,” Norie said. “When I first saw it, the walls had peeling paper, the tatami mats were infested with bugs, and there was no bathtub. Our niece is a good home designer.”

“It’s certainly nice and clean,” Uncle Hiroshi complimented as he accepted his cup of tea.

“That’s Obasan’s hard work. Since she ‘s been here, she ‘s done so much cleaning, all the way from the windows to the yukashita.” I was speaking in a way that seemed metaphorical, but also expressed an awareness that my aunt might have snooped in the kitchen’s underground storage.

“I did a bit of spring cleaning. It was necessary because of the visitors during her illness. She is barely recovered—in fact, I really shouldn’t have asked her to carry the park garbage.” Norie sounded nervous. “Please forgive me, Rei-chan!”

Uncle Hiroshi, blithely unaware of the conversation’s subtext, sipped his tea with relish. “Ah, I haven’t had a tea like this in a long time. Is it from the beefsteak plant?”

“Yes, Obasan brought the tea during my illness—one of the many kind things she has done for me. Obasan, I have something small to give you in thanks for all you’ve done.” I handed her the wrapped bouquet of flowers, only slightly the worse for wear.

“Oh, you don’t need to give me anything!” Norie said, unwrapping the package anyway. “Is this mock orange? What an original combination, with the lotus leaves and cosmos.” She smiled at me. “How nicely your taste is developing.”

“I thought it would look great in one of the earthenware containers you have in Yokohama,” I said.

“Yes, we can arrange it together there. Bring your lesson book, so I can check off another step toward your first certificate.”

I was upset at the implication that the flowers were going to be treated like mine, not hers, and that I would go to Yokohama. I asked in my politest voice, “Obasan, you’re returning to your home, aren’t you? Now that Uncle Hiroshi is here, you need to take care of him.”

I beseeched them with my eyes. All the organizing Aunt Norie had done couldn’t change the fact that there wasn’t much room for three people in two rooms the size of fourteen tatami mats, total.

Aunt Norie put her cup down with a click. “Tsutomu says that the journalists are no longer outside the house, and we have a free bedroom waiting for you. Please come home with us tonight. Spend one night and see how you feel tomorrow.”

“The problem is that I have a meeting tonight with Mr. Ishida! You know how I’ve been neglecting my business. Its very important that I see him as planned.”

“Why can’t you do business during daylight hours? It is not safe for a young woman to be walking alone at night,” Norie countered.

“Mr. Ishida is Rei’s mentor. It’s true that Rei cannot show him disrespect,” Uncle Hiroshi said.

“Yes, it’s just like your situation, Ojisan,” I said, seizing the argument. “You want to live in Yokohama with Norie, but your company ordered you to Osaka, so you went. There was no choice.”

Hiroshi and Norie looked at each other for a minute, and I wondered if I’d said something inappropriate.

Norie said, “Actually, that is no longer the case. His company is closing its Osaka operation.”

“You’ll be back in the Tokyo office! That’s wonderful.” It took me a few seconds to realize that I was the only one who seemed excited about that. Uncle Hiroshi looked as unhappy as he had at the temple, and Norie was staring into the red-brown depths of her tea.

“Well, it certainly will be a change,” I continued.

“It is not our desire to put a burden on you when you have enough troubles already,” Aunt Norie said.

“You’re upsetting Rei,” Hiroshi chided Norie. But he touched her hand, which I thought was a good sign.

“Rei is part of the family. She deserves the truth,” Norie insisted.

“It’s not so bad, really. I’m sure I’ll find something new,” Hiroshi said in a brisk voice. It was the way businessmen talked to one another on the subway: cool, dispassionate.

Now I suspected that Hiroshi’s problem had something to do with work. Maybe the Tokyo move meant that he was getting demoted to a desk by the window. I looked at my uncle, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes.

Aunt Norie walked across to the bathroom and turned her head, signaling for me to join her. I did. When she had closed the door and turned on the bathtub taps, she spoke in a voice so low that I had to strain to hear it.

“Ojisan cannot say it aloud to you, because he did not even say it to me. I found out from his supervisor that due to the economic crash, the bank is closing. Your uncle no longer has a job.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A salaryman without a salary is Japan’s unspoken nightmare. Hiroshi had joined his bank in the 1960s. My father had told me that these were tough years, when people still used hibachis instead of space heaters to warm their houses and babies wore diapers made from old yukata robes. And for the men who worked at reorganized or new companies, the order of the day—and the night—was work. Hiroshi debuted as a junior executive working sixty-hour weeks that turned into eighty-hour weeks as he progressed in responsibility. Three years ago he had left his family because the company wanted him to oversee a new office in Osaka. Now the institution he’d given his life to was no more.

There was nothing shameful about the layoff, Aunt Norie said. He wasn’t being fired because he had embezzled money or sexually harassed anyone. But given his age, fifty-eight, he would probably not be hired by another bank.

“Have you saved a lot of money?” I asked. Like most housewives, Norie paid all the bills and allotted her husband an allowance for daily necessities.

“Of course. I invested your uncle’s extra salary along with my family inheritance in many different stock accounts. But the Asian stock market is so bad that our funds have lost over fifty percent of their value. We must leave them untouched and hope that they will regain their value.” As she looked at me, the woman whose skin I’d recently admired was suddenly showing crow’s-feet and shadows. I knew why she and Hiroshi had stopped to pray at the temple before coming to the apartment.

“Ojisan must not give up. I’m sure an employment agency would have something for him, maybe even in the same field—”

“Yes, perhaps he can work in a different bank as a floor walker, the man who directs customers to the correct place,” she said without irony. “We must go back to him and be sweet and cheerful. Please don’t ask him anything about the exact details of his job loss.”

As she made a move to turn off the water, I said, “Before we leave, please tell me why you took that letter from the yukashita.”

Norie sighed. “That haiku was meant not for you, but for me.”

“How do you know that?”

“I have received such poems for many years. The haiku are all famous classics, so they could not possibly be perceived as threats. But the messages!” She shuddered.

“The one you took applies to me,” I said, feeling stubborn. “The message is about somebody wishing I would drink enough to go to sleep permanently.”

“It is about death, but not yours. Don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry? I reported it to Lieutenant Hata. He thinks it’s worth worrying about!”

Norie took a shaky breath. “You shouldn’t have done that. Say that you won’t talk to him again.”

I objected, “But there might be something about the notes that could identify Sakura’s murderer.”

“I’m sure there isn’t!” she snapped. “Don’t you understand that this has been going on for a long time? It has everything to do with me and my reputation. Nothing else.”

“Why don’t you let Hata-san see the other haiku that were sent to you? He might be able to catch whoever is doing it and save you a lot of future misery.”

“I don’t have them anymore.” Norie sounded almost smug.

“Surely you tucked them away somewhere—”

“No, I flushed them down the toilet, just as I flushed the one that you tried to hide from me in the yukashita. It’s the safest method of disposal, and the only way I can put the issue to rest.”

Water washes everything away. My aunt’s favorite saying was coming back to haunt me. I was so angry that I couldn’t look at her. I stared into the tub, where the stream of water was being sucked down in slow, lazy circles, just as one of the few clues to Sakura’s killer had been flushed away.

“Do you treat your own children this way, or do you do this because I’m the outsider? The one who doesn’t know enough to take care of herself, despite her pathetically advanced age?”

“Don’t talk that way.” Aunt Norie had edged all the way to the door, as if she was trying to bar my exit.

“You want to take away my freedom of speech along with everything else? I won’t let you.” I grabbed the doorknob, yanking open the door and storming out of the bathroom.

I took my raincoat, backpack, and umbrella, not looking to see what was going on with Uncle Hiroshi. As far as I was concerned, Norie and he could have my place to themselves.

I still had four hours until my meeting with Takeo and Mr. Ishida, which was a good thing, because I felt too shaken to be with anybody. I wanted to curl up alone in a quiet place and sob my heart out. But finding a public place to be alone in Tokyo is a tall order. The only thing I could think of was going to the movies, where it would be too dark to see people.

The Yebisu Garden Cinemas was showing a revival of Mabaroshi no Hikari. The film, the title of which meant “phantom light,” told the story of a young woman struggling to build a life after her husband inexplicably kills himself. The action shifted from a depressed Osaka neighborhood to a beautiful fishing village. The woman struggled out of her sorrow and into a feeling of belonging in the new community.

When the lights came up, the mostly female audience gathered up their purses and raincoats. I stayed in my seat, watching the credits on the screen, hoping to delay my return to the reality of busy, noisy Tokyo. I knew very little about the old-fashioned places where people fished for their dinners and dried their own seaweed in the garden, but that fishing village looked like a far better world than the one I was living in. If Uncle Hiroshi and Aunt Norie sold their house and moved to the countryside, they too could have a second lease on life. Hiroshi could spend his days fishing and Norie could tend a garden. They would worship at a small country temple with no litter problems. And if the new home was hundreds of miles from Tokyo, my relatives would never interfere with my life again.

I smiled sarcastically to myself, but my expression froze as I saw a willowy figure pass my seat. The woman was slightly hunched in the way girls are when they want to hide their height, or their developing chests, from the world. But I recognized her right away as Mari Kumamori, the shy fellow student I’d met at the Kayama School.

The moviegoers behind Mari must have thought I was smiling at them, because they bowed briefly, which forced me to bow, and in the end caused a lot of confusion. I cut into the aisle behind them so that I wouldn’t miss Mari.

I spotted her outside the theater, moving slowly toward Ebisu Station. I didn’t want to scare her, but I was worried that I would lose her in the evening rush-hour crowd. I ran through the misty rain, not wanting to pause to stop to remove the compact umbrella in my backpack. I hadn’t worked out much in the last week, and the exercise felt good. When I caught up with her, I wasn’t even winded. “Kumamori-san,” I called, and she turned around.

“Miss Shimura.” She looked startled.

“I think we were at the same film.”

“Mabaroshi no Hikari?” When I nodded, she said, “I’ve spent my day watching three films. It’s a very lazy thing to do, but there was no ikebana class today, and I didn’t have the heart to make any pottery.”

“I’m sorry you’ve felt discouraged about working. Sometimes I have a bad day when I can’t bring myself to get anywhere close to selling antiques. Its good to take time off.”

“I’m thinking about quitting pottery forever,” she said. “You saw how the headmaster broke my ceramics. Most of my work should be broken up like that. Sakura Sato once advised me that if I wanted to make good use of the pottery, I should smash it all and place the bits at the bottom of potted plants for drainage. “

I could have told her that Sakura was just being nasty, but by now I understood Mari’s style. She would never let herself feel like anything but the lowest garden worm. I thought carefully about how I should phrase my request. “I’m in a bad situation, too. The only thing I can think of is asking you for advice.”

“It’s hard to believe that a person such as myself could help anyone, but please tell me what you need.” Mari stopped, as I guessed she would. A frenzied commuter rushed by, letting his briefcase swing out, and it bashed her pelvis. I gave him a dirty look while Mari swayed, trying to regain her equilibrium.

“I’d be grateful if you’d allow me to visit your pottery studio. I’m trying to figure something out about a set of plates that I am trying to sell. Since you collect ceramics from all periods, I think that if I could compare what I have to your collection, I would have a better idea about what I’ve got. I’ve tried to find something similar in shops, but…” I waved my hand in a vague movement suggesting despair.

“What period is your plate?” Mari asked. Her eyes looked a bit moist, perhaps from excitement. I hadn’t realized how interested she was in collecting.

“I’m not sure,” I hedged. “That’s why I want to bring it to you for identification. And if you like the style, you could use it as a model for your work.”

“My pottery collection is very humble, as is my home. It’s in a small town called Zushi, south of Yokohama. I’m afraid it will be a long train ride for you.”

“Oh, I know Zushi.” I wrote Mari’s number on the back of my theater ticket and slipped it into my pocket. My hand brushed against the haiku letter I’d hidden there, and I wondered if the delivery of it was the real reason that Mari had spent her day in Tokyo. Mari had been treated so terribly by Sakura that she had a definite motive to kill. Furthermore, her presence at the film was strange. I’d thought that I was chasing down Mari, but perhaps she was following me.

***

I was dreading finding out whether Norie and Hiroshi were still in my apartment, and I had a good excuse not to stop there, because I was almost late for my appointment at the Yanaka Teashop. I hoped that by now my cousin Tom had come over with his car, loading up his parents and all the bedding and kitchen implements Norie had brought.

Glancing into the fogged glass window of the teashop, I saw Takeo, his dark hair falling over half of his handsome profile. Mr. Ishida was waiting at a table just beyond Takeo’s. My aged friend, lacking interest in television and newspapers, would not have recognized Takeo Kayama, even though he knew the family ‘s reputation.

I rushed to Mr. Ishida’s table, murmuring apologies for my tardiness, despite the fact that I had just made it on time. On the way I nodded at Takeo, indicating that he should switch tables to join us. Etiquette-wise, it was the right thing to do; Mr. Ishida was old, and he was doing Takeo a great favor by meeting him outside of his shop hours.

Takeo bowed when I introduced him to Mr. Ishida—a polite but not extremely deep bow, the same movement that his father made. Mr. Ishida inclined his own head and shoulders slightly. He had no reason to stand up; he was the senior person.

“I’m so sorry for being late,” I apologized once again.

“What do you want to drink, Rei?” Takeo asked. “I understand the stinkweed-seed tea is a specialty. Is that what you’re drinking, Ishida-sensei?”

Mr. Ishida raised an eyebrow slightly, as if noticing Takeo’s use of my first name without an honorific. Still, he replied cordially enough. “Yes, that is what I am drinking. Excellent for postprandial digestion.”

“I had ginseng last time. I’ll just go for a normal green tea this time around.” I said, remembering the jitters I’d suffered.

“For me, it is between the ginseng and the stinkweed,” Takeo said. “Both have their charms, but I think I’ll follow Sensei’s choice.”

I had begun to believe that the Kayamas wouldn’t treat anyone outside their family as a superior, but Takeo was using a high honorific that meant the equivalent of “learned one” for Mr. Ishida. I gave Takeo the kind of look my aunt used to give me when I did things right.

Mr. Ishida began rattling on about various teashops in Tokyo, and I felt frustrated for a few minutes before remembering that this was how he operated. It wasn’t until I’d drunk about a third of my cup of green tea that he turned to the evening’s real business.

“I imagine that I may owe Kayama-san an apology,” Mr. Ishida said. I’d already warned him over the telephone that Takeo said the school’s Kayama ware collection had been stolen. He had remained calm at the news, saying only that he would be interested in hearing the details from Takeo that evening.

“Not at all,” Takeo assured him. “You were an easy mark for a criminal. I’m only sorry that she caused you so much trouble.”

Was Takeo talking about the consignor or referring to me?

“Usually I never accept consignments from strangers. I broke my policy with this woman,” Mr. Ishida said.

“Women can make you do things you wouldn’t ordinarily,” Takeo commiserated. I was annoyed enough to kick his leg lightly. When Mr. Ishida winced, I realized that I’d assaulted the wrong man.

“I’m so sorry! “ I glanced at a folk art mouse adorning the shops counter and added, “I thought something scurried under the table.”

“Don’t be afraid of mice. They are part of the ecosystem,” Takeo said.

“There used to be a tea made from mice bones,” “Mr. Ishida said contemplatively.

“What?” Takeo and I exclaimed in unison. He appeared as shocked as I was. That broke the tension, and we all laughed.

“That’s right, children, I’m joking. Let me return to my point. I behaved contrary to my business policy because of two factors. One, the lady told me her name was Kayama, which seemed to make sense if she was offering me a consignment of Kayama ware. Two, this collection of ikebana containers, which a pair of deliverymen carried in the next day, was immense—two hundred pieces total. I asked the woman if she would be willing to share the cost with me of advertising the collection in Ikebana International and Daruma magazines, but she said no. At the time I thought it was because she did not want to spend money in advance, but now I must consider that it was because she did not want the school to learn about what she had done.”

I dug into my backpack and pulled out a magazine that I’d bought at the subway station. “I wonder if you could find someone in here who looks a little bit like the woman. Or perhaps you could just show us her hairstyle.”

“This is a typical magazine?” Mr. Ishida blinked as he slowly paged through.

“Not really. It’s just a guide for women seeking better hairstyles.” I began wondering how my own ragged locks were behaving after my mad dash from the train station to the teashop. I tucked the ends behind my ears and hoped for the best.

“Yes, it was a woman’s hairstyle. Like that,” he said, nodding at a picture of a woman with a shoulder-length pageboy.

“My mother wore her hair that way,” Takeo said. “I used to watch her turn it under with a curling iron in front of the mirror.”

Practically everyone I knew wore their hair in a pageboy: Aunt Norie, Eriko, and Mari Kumamori. Sakura also was right on target—fifty-two years old, with her hair in a shellacked pageboy. Her hair had looked harder than anyone else’s in class.

“Do you know the exact day that the woman came in?” I asked.

Mr. Ishida pulled a receipt out of the small man’s purse he carried. “She was here on January fourteenth.”

Nobody needed to say that Sakura Sato was alive on that day.

“What were her clothes like?” Takeo asked.

“Ah, I’ve been waiting for you to ask. That was interesting. She was wearing an early-Showa-period silk kimono, orange and yellow with a pattern of the moon and stars woven into it. Most unusual.” Mr. Ishida rubbed his chin.

“Why was it unusual?” Takeo asked. Mr. Ishida nodded at me, so I answered, sharing my knowledge of Japanese textiles.

“In the years of the Emperor Showa—the 1920s and 1930s—machine-woven kimono fabric was just coming into its own. Rising to the opportunity presented by the new machinery, designers went wild creating textiles that reflected the artistic influences of the period. Showa kimono are beautiful and usually available in near-perfect condition, but most Japanese people don’t think of them as treasures, the way I did. A middle-aged Japanese woman wearing a sixty- or seventy-year-old kimono would be considered eccentric.”

I moved from the topic of the kimono to ask about the exact words the woman had used. Mr. Ishida replied that he could not remember the words, but the woman spoke politely and sounded as if she came from Tokyo or its suburbs. They had settled on the consignment percentages, and then the woman had taken a receipt for the goods and departed.

“Rei said you hadn’t given the woman the money for the nine Kayama ware pieces that were already sold,” Takeo said.

“It was impossible for me, because the woman left a telephone number that doesn’t work, and she hasn’t been in contact. It is strange behavior, because private sellers usually buzz around me like mosquitoes until they get their money.”

Takeo and I exchanged glances, and I was wondering if he was thinking, as I had earlier, that the mystery woman had to be Sakura Sato.

“I suppose there’s no way to retrieve the containers that you already sold.” Takeo sipped his tea. “It would be bad for your business to call people up and say they had to return something they bought.”

“There are one hundred and ninety-one containers left in storage, so don’t worry, Mr. Kayama. You still have the majority of the collection.”

“Do you mean that you will return the collection to me? I am stunned by your generosity,” Takeo said, smiling at Mr. Ishida.

“Yes. There ‘s just the matter of the registry.” Mr. Ishida said.

“What registry?” Takeo looked blank.

“Doesn’t your family have a registry of all its possessions? I need a list with pertinent descriptions of each Kayama ware piece that was taken from your archive.”

“I’ll have to look for it.” There was a waver in Takeo’s voice, and I guessed that there was no list. The Kayama ware were all test pieces, items probably not considered valuable enough when they were put into the archives during World War II to be listed among the school’s regular collection of ikebana ceramics. This meant that although Takeo had threatened to bring in the police, he hadn’t a leg to stand on if he couldn’t produce a registry.

“I hope you understand,” Mr. Ishida said. “Imagine what would happen if the woman came back, and I’d given everything in her consignment to you, without taking in money. Since we don’t actually have proof that she’s taken anything, we cannot accuse her of being a criminal.”

“Of course not,” Takeo said. “And I don’t think this is a matter for the police. When she returns, would there be a way for you to telephone me immediately? I’d like to follow through myself.”

“That’s not a good idea,” I interjected. “Takeo, you say that you live in the country. If you are there, you couldn’t get to the store quickly enough. Mr. Ishida should just call the police.”

“I’ll get a beeper,” Takeo said. “In the meantime, I’m going to search the Kayama Kaikan for a record of those containers. If I cannot find the record, I would like to purchase every piece of Kayama ware that you have. So I don’t want you selling any more of them to anyone.”

“I would not want to take advantage of you!” Mr. Ishida sounded anxious. “I haven’t built my career stealing from people.”

“Of course,” Takeo said. “But the money isn’t an issue for me.”

Mr. Ishida nodded and made a movement to pick up the bill. I got to it first and went up to the teashop counter. This was one check I wanted to pay, given that I’d brought two people together for an endeavor that had bombed. Besides, the cost of three cups of tea was less than a thousand yen. I could afford to be magnanimous.

When I returned, Takeo was helping Mr. Ishida on with his coat. “I’m giving him a ride back to West Tokyo. Come with us. My car has plenty of room.”

“No, thanks. I live just around the corner.” There was no way I was getting into a Range Rover in my neighborhood. It would ruin my image. To change the subject, I reached into my backpack and withdrew the ikebana container that had started all the trouble. “I’ve decided to give you the suiban I bought from Mr. Ishida. It obviously means more to you than to anyone else.”

“I know,” he said, picking up the suiban. “Thank you very much. I’ll pay you back.”

“Don’t bother. Think of it as another donation to your school.” Feeling a mixture of many things—sadness, worry, and the oddest tinge of desire—I slipped into my raincoat and out into the dark, rainy night.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Norie’s things were gone from my apartment.

There wasn’t even a good-bye note. It seemed that my outburst at her had done terrible damage. The message on my answering machine was not from her, but from her son Tom, who in a whispered tone asked me to call him at work the next morning instead of at home.

Following Tom’s gloomy request was a message from Mrs. Morita asking when she’d get the money for the plates she had given me. As Mr. Ishida had said, consignors liked to check on your progress.

Nine-thirty was too late to call her, I decided, and my stomach was empty and needed something. I was too tired to cook a real meal, so I decided to finish the refrigerated leftover okayu. As the gruel heated on the range, I watched small bubbles pop up from the depths, breaking its smooth gray surface. I was almost hypnotized by the rhythm of the breaking bubbles and watched them for some time before I smelled the burning bottom of the cereal.

I turned the gas off and poured the edible portion of the okayu into a saucer that I grabbed from the drying rack. The ceramic made an odd whining noise. I looked down and realized that I’d picked up not a saucer, but one orf Mrs. Morita’s antique plates. The horrible sound was the glaze crackling under the boiling gruel.

Part of me raged at Aunt Norie for washing the plates and leaving them on the drying rack for me to make a mistake with. Even away from my apartment, my aunt caused me to screw up. I spooned the hot okayu off the plate and into a soup bowl. Then I turned my attention to rinsing the plate off with tepid water. After I was through, I couldn’t see or feel the place where the finish had cracked. It wasn’t damaged, but now I knew that it was heat-sensitive.

I stirred brown sugar into the okayu to make it tastier, and ate quickly. Then I decided it was time to address the question that had nagged at me since the afternoon.

“Family Mart!” Mr. Waka answered cheerfully on the first ring.

“Waka-san, it’s Rei. I telephoned with a haiku question. This one is about a beautiful girl being pushed.”

“Ah, you are continuing your literary studies. I’m sorry, but I have many customers at the moment and cannot chat.”

“Cherry blossom viewers? I understand. Thanks.”

“No, there’s been an accident. Some fool driving a Range Rover hit a light pole. What he was doing with such a big vehicle in a small street, I do not understand. An accident was bound to happen. My brother on the neighborhood council says vehicles over a certain weight should be banned, and I certainly agree.” Mr. Waka rattled on, despite his initial protestation that he had no time to talk.

I felt my chest tighten. “Were there two people in the Range Rover?”

“Yes, and wouldn’t you know that a young man would be the driver? There is an old man in the passenger seat, maybe his boss or his grandfather. Nobody knows, because they haven’t removed the bodies yet.”

“The bodies!” I cried out. “Are they dead?”

“I don’t know if they are dead or alive. I hope to hear from the ambulance staff.”

I moved so quickly to pick up my coat, keys, and umbrella that I dropped the phone. “Shimura-san? What happened?” Mr. Waka’s voice bleated from the receiver lying haphazardly on the floor.

I picked it up. “I’m going there. Did you say the accident was in front of your store?”

“No, the little street that runs behind it. You cannot enter because the police have put up a safety barrier.”

I thought for a second. “I’ll come through the alley. Talk to you later.”

***

Conditions were perfect for an accident, I thought as I ran down the wet road, grateful for the rubber soles of my trusty Asics. A blanket of fog reminiscent of old Basil Rathbone movies hung over the streets slick with rain.

Takeo should have taken well-lit, wide Kototoi-dori to get back to West Tokyo. Obviously he had been confused by the lack of street signs in the old section of Yanaka. If only I had been in the Range Rover to navigate.

My familiarity with the neighborhood’s tiny alleys let me enter the accident scene from a different angle than the regular traffic. From the end of the block, I saw the light pole that had toppled over the crumpled front of the sport utility vehicle, which had veered crazily to the right side of the street. The only source of light was the ambulance. From behind the battered vehicle its lights flashed on and off, reminding me of the sparkling, multicolored lights decorating Salsa Salsa’s dance floor. I recalled how grim I’d thought life was that night at Salsa Salsa. In comparison to this evening, that night had been wonderful.

Because the Range Rover was so tall, I had a good view from a block away of the cracked windshield and, behind it, a huge expanse of white. It was as if clouds had filled the front seat. A rescue crew was trying to force open the driver’s-side door. The passenger-side door was already open. Couldn’t they just reach across to make the rescue? No, not with the big airbags.

Running at top speed toward the accident scene, I nearly fell when something sliced right through my shoe and into my foot. It didn’t hurt terribly but was bad enough to make me stop, leaning against a storefront to take off my shoe.

A tack had penetrated the rubber sole. Not the kind used for pinning posters to a bulletin board, but a very long and sharp one that was used for upholstery. I pulled out the offending item and put it in my pocket. As I moved forward more carefully, my shoe glanced against another piece of metal. I bent down and swept my hand over the street. It was too dark to see much, but it was covered by masses of tacks.

There was no sidewalk, but I tiptoed along the edge of the street to avoid more hazards as I proceeded toward the car. I heard two loud bangs come from the Range Rover. The airbags that had been blocking the front windshield collapsed. I guessed that the emergency workers now pulling out Mr. Ishida had popped the bags. Mr. Ishida seemed able to move on his own. Soon he was standing on the street, with his hand over his face.

“Ishida-san!” I hurried forward, ignoring the emergency worker holding up his hand in the stop position. Who did he think he was, a traffic cop?

“My eye!”Mr. Ishida moaned.

A second paramedic coaxed him onto a stretcher and peered into Mr. Ishida’s face with a flashlight. “The gentleman’s eye has been hurt. Try to be calm, sir. We will take you to the hospital.”

The airbag must have hit Mr. Ishida’s eye. He was only five feet tall, which meant that he sat lower than the dashboard.

“Will you take him to St. Luke’s? They have an excellent emergency department,” I suggested to the emergency worker.

“Nippon University Hospital is closer, and you may not come with us,” he whined. “The public must stay behind the barricades.”

“I’m not the public!”

“Are you a blood relative?” the emergency worker demanded.

“Not exactly,” I faltered.

“She is like my granddaughter.” Mr. Ishida said, and I squeezed his hand. He wasn’t angry with me, despite the fact that I’d called him out of his safe home and into a near-death nightmare.

“You’re going straight to the hospital, sir. Please let go of the woman’s hand. She could cause you further injury.”

The doctor’s daughter in me saw several things the emergency workers had done wrong that could have hurt Mr. Ishida. They had pulled him out of the vehicle in a sitting position, let him stand, and then decided to put him on a stretcher. If he’d suffered a spinal injury in the accident, he could have been paralyzed. I didn’t think that was the case, fortunately.

I glanced back at the Range Rover and saw that Takeo was standing on the driver’s side talking to the police. I deduced that the airbag had hit his chest, because I saw him rubbing it.

A crowd of people—the public the emergency worker had referred to—suddenly began cheering from their position behind the barricades.

“They’re both alive! “

“Do you want to drink a beer?”

The raucous cries went on. I had to strain to hear what Sergeant Mori, the nice young policeman from the Yanaka Cemetery police box, was saying to Takeo. From the way the sergeant bowed his head to me, I knew that he’d recognized me as the neighborhood girl who occasionally had a question about an address.

“Your registration?” Sergeant Mori asked.

“Registration? I don’t know about such things…” Takeo’s voice faltered.

“Try the glove compartment,” I suggested, hoping that it was there.

The sergeant went around to the left side of the car and rummaged around. When he came back, reading the paper by flashlight, he asked Takeo, “Do you reside at the Kayama Kaikan in Roppongi?”

“Yes, that is the official address.”

“So you are…Takeo Kayama?”

“Yes. Here’s my driver’s license.” Takeo pulled out his wallet, and I remembered how he didn’t want to be recognized with me in public.

“Mr. Kayama, may I ask you to describe the circumstances leading up to the accident?” Sergeant Mori was being very polite.

“Why is that woman still here?” interrupted the emergency worker who was my enemy.

“She could be a witness,” Sergeant Mori said, surprising me. I wasn’t going to argue with him. This was the first time that I’d ever wanted to be detained by the police.

“We were leaving the neighborhood after having tea with Miss Shimura,” Takeo said, surprising me with both his cogency and his forthrightness. “There was a black truck ahead of me moving slowly. Maybe it was because it’s a small street. I wouldn’t have turned in here, but I wasn’t sure of the way, and I thought that the truck would be headed toward the main street. Suddenly, bright spotlights came on from the top of the truck’s cab. The light was blinding, so I honked briefly to encourage the driver to turn them off. People use those spotlights to trap animals and then shoot them. The lights usually face forward, but these were reversed.”

I revised my opinion about Takeo’s cogency. He was rambling about the environment now, a sign that he was possibly in shock.

“So it was because you were blinded that you drove straight into the light pole?” Sergeant Mori’s assistant piped up.

“I think that my right tire blew out, and I lost control of the vehicle. I remember pulling to the right side of the road and then we crashed.”

“What about the truck? Did you observe the license plate or at least the model? How about the people inside the truck? How strange that they did not stop to help you,” the assistant opined.

“It might have been a Nissan. That’s all I know. I couldn’t actually see if anyone was in the back of the truck. The light was too strong.”

“You escaped injury, but your cross-country vehicle did not. And the streetlight is damaged,” the police officer pointed out, as if Takeo hadn’t noticed the tall steel beam knocked across his Range Rover’s hood.

“I’m very sorry. I’m willing to pay for any damage to the streetlight.” Takeo drew a shaky breath. “And the street.”

“Mr. Kayama, the sheer size of your vehicle helped protect you from a fatality. It’s ironic that the dangerous factor is what ultimately saved you.” Sergeant Mori was turning out to have a real philosophical bent.

In my mind I turned over Takeo’s story and what I’d encountered when I ran toward the accident scene. I held out a tack to the police officer. Its sharp point glittered under the flashing ambulance lights.

“I think you’ll find one of these in the tire that blew out,” I said.

“But how could—did you?” Takeo sounded upset, and I realized that he thought that somehow I might have caused his accident.

Hastily I said, “I stepped on a few of these when I was running over. The street just beyond the car is covered by these tacks. The trucks driver must have spilled them onto the street, intending for an accident to happen.”

Two other policemen ran forward with flashlights to investigate the area I’d mentioned. A chorus of painful cries led me to believe that the tacks were slicing through their shoes as well.

“Hold everything!” Sergeant Mori advised. “We need a spotlight and a photographer to document this possible crime scene. Until everything is cleaned up, this is a hazardous zone.”

“I will take pictures for you!” A drunken cherry blossom viewer waved a trendy digital camera.

“Mr. Kayama, why don’t you come along in the ambulance with Mr. Ishida to have your own injuries inspected?” Sergeant Mori asked.

I looked over to where Mr. Ishida had been lying, but his stretcher had been loaded onto the ambulance and the back doors closed. I’d lost track of him when he needed me.

“I’d rather get home,” Takeo answered.

“I can telephone your family and tell them what happened,” the sergeant persisted.

“No!”

“How will you get home?” Sergeant Mori asked. “Your vehicle cannot be driven.”

“I’ll go by taxi or subway. Whatever’s closer.”

Takeo was obviously dead set on avoiding the hospital. I had been thinking of following Mr. Ishida there but now changed my plan. My elderly friend had a bruised eye and would soon be in competent hands. Takeo, who was refusing a medical examination, could be at greater risk. He might have a concussion or other head injury.

I assured Sergeant Mori that I’d keep Takeo safe, and led him back the way I’d come, close to the buildings on the side of the road where there weren’t any tacks. Sergeant Mori’s assistants backtracked around the block to start a search for the truck, which was no doubt far away by now.

Takeo walked at a normal pace until we could no longer be seen by anyone. Then he stopped, leaning against a building for support.

“You’re not feeling well,” I said, growing nervous. He really should have gone to the hospital. He might collapse in the back alley, and I certainly didn’t have the strength to carry a five-foot-nine-inch man who probably weighed 170 pounds.

“I’m just a bit shaken. Let me rest a minute.” What he needed was to lie down and be observed. Unfortunately, there was only one nearby resting place that I could think of. I offered, “You could stop at my apartment. Just to get your breath, and then I’ll put you in a taxi.”

“I’m going back to the Kayama Kaikan. I’ve got work to do.”

“But you almost lost your life! “ I reminded him as we started walking.

“I can’t rest after hearing Ishida-san’s description of the woman who came in.” We were standing near the Family Mart, and its fluorescent sign cast an unattractive glow on his angular features. Through the glass, I could see that Mr. Waka was involved in an animated discussion with a customer in the candy section.

“Do you think the woman who stole the Kayama ware was Sakura Sato?” I asked, offering him my conclusion.

He shook his head.

“Who, then?” We had started walking again, and Takeo still seemed slightly off balance. He didn’t object when I took his arm.

“It sounds crazy. Especially since I’ve just come out of an accident. I don’t think you’ll believe me.” Takeo’s words came in a rush.

“Try me,” I insisted.

“When Ishida-san mentioned the old kimono that the woman was wearing…after you explained about the age of the fabric, I understood. My mother collected old textiles, old poetry scrolls, the kinds of things you do.” He stopped again to lean against a soft-drink vending machine. “In fact, in that picture I showed you she’s wearing an orange- and- yellow Showa-period kimono.”

So that’s why Takeo had given me a significant glance when Mr. Ishida had described the kimono. I’d thought that he just wanted to know more about textile history. Now it all came together. “Somebody stole your mother’s kimono!”

“Perhaps. But now I believe the lady who visited Ishida-san really was…” He paused, as if unable to give me the last bit. “A Kayama.”

“It can’t be Natsumi. Mr. Ishida said the woman was in her fifties.”

“No, I mean Reiko Kayama. My mother. I’ve been thinking for some time that she might be alive.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Any child who had lost a mother might dream of her magical return. In my gentlest voice I told Takeo, “Let’s sit down and talk this over. My apartment is nearby.”

“No, I need to go home. I want to show you something tonight, when nobody is at the door to make a record of your visit. Tomorrow we’ll go to Izu to look for some things in my family storehouse. You can drive, can’t you?”

“Yes, but I’m busy tomorrow.” I was also overwhelmed by his sudden, urgent flurry of demands. He was behaving irrationally. He had to be in shock.

“Very well, then, I won’t force you to join me, but I’m getting that taxi.” Takeo stepped into the road and lifted his arm to hail a car slowly driving down the street.

“I’m sure it’s got passengers,” I said, expecting the laws of rainy nighttime taxis to be in force. But the taxi was free. Its door swung open, and Takeo got in.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“The rich have all the luck,” I said, worry mixing with irritation. The taxi would not have stopped for me. I just knew it.

“The Kayama Kaikan,” Takeo told the driver, who did a double take in the rearview mirror. He’d recognized the billion-yen boy. Takeo didn’t seem to notice; he fell into a silence, staring out the window at lights blurred by rain. I sat on the far side of the taxi seat, pushing wet strands of hair out of my face. We couldn’t really discuss Takeo’s mother in front of the taxi driver, but I was anxious to hear what Takeo had to say.

When we disembarked, my thoughts turned to how one entered the Kayama Kaikan after hours. Would Takeo press his fingertips against a panel that would then shoot open the doors, or would a microchip card get him in? I imagined a few James Bond-like possibilities.

To my surprise, the utterly modern glass- and- steel tower had a very old-fashioned side door. Takeo used a regular key to unlock it. As I caught the heavy door—at least it was fireproof steel—I let Takeo go ahead of me. I expected him to turn off an alarm system, but it turned out there was none.

“This building is about as secure as one of those cardboard boxes the homeless live in at Shinjuku Station,” I told him. “Even my apartment is better than this. I have three locks on my door and you have just one.”

“It’s convenient for me to come and go, but I suppose you’re right. I’ll get the message to my father.” Takeo opened a door along the hallway, and as frigid air rushed at me, I peered at tall buckets of flowers and branches. He said, “This is where we keep some flowers for classes. We tend to rely on daily deliveries, so there’s not that much stock here.”

The next room he showed had a humidifier, so it was as moist as the rainy evening outside, but not as cold as the refrigerated room. It was lined with floor- to- ceiling wooden shelves that were filled with labeled boxes. Takeo told me they held wooden ikebana vessels and ceremonial boxes that were used for entertaining.

“Is this where the Kayama ware was stored?” I asked, not seeing any empty spaces.

“Next room.” As he snapped on the light in the next cool cell, he waved at a seven—foot-high-by-twenty-foot-wide section of shelving that was empty. “That’s where the Kayama ware used to be.”

“It’s strange that your thief didn’t leave the boxes behind to make it look as if nothing had been taken,” I said.

“The Kayama ware is worth more with the boxes. It had our school stamp, the year, and the artist’s signature.”

“And people who buy special things expect custom boxes,” I agreed. “I wonder why none of the staff noticed the containers were gone. Who goes into these rooms?”

“Almost all the employees. If you want to make a flower arrangement for the receptionist’s desk, for example, you’d come here to pick up a suiban instead of taking one from the classroom stock. These pieces are older and more interesting than the pieces used for teaching. That’s why we like to use them in ceremonial places.”

The next room he showed was not humidified and contained short, thin boxes. “These are my mother’s poetry: or rather, works that she copied. She was a calligrapher. She liked to copy haiku, especially those with flower themes.”

I felt as cold as when I’d been in the refrigerated room. “Has somebody been sending you haiku?”

Takeo stared at me. Then he walked quietly behind me and closed the door. When he came back, he said softly, “How did you know?”

“I’ve gotten two under my apartment door in the last two days. But my aunt’s been getting them for years.”

“It’s been three months. It’s usually in a rice-paper envelope tucked under the wiper blade on the Range Rover. Because the vehicle is parked behind the building, I just assumed the poetry was coming from a secretary or worker.”

Someone who had a crush on him. I bet that was a common occurrence. “Where else have you found poems?”

“The day that Sakura died, one was slipped under my office door. It was by Issa and read something like: ‘A daimyo! And what thing makes him get off his horse? Cherry blossoms do. ‘“

“A daimyo is a nobleman,” I said. “Maybe the poem is suggesting that Sakura’s death has thrown an important guy such as yourself off your metaphorical horse. In this case, the horse should be swapped for a Range Rover.”

“If that’s the meaning—and I really don’t know—it could be that my sister sent it. You know that we don’t get along that well.”

“Why?”

Takeo busied himself straightening the boxed scrolls on the shelves before answering. “When my mother was alive, Natsumi and I were together all day long. After the death, we started drifting apart. We were put in separate bedrooms, which I suppose makes sense for a boy and girl growing up, but we lost our connection. I started studying ikebana—wanting to be like my father, I suppose—and Natsumi was more interested in playing with little girls.”

“Does she have an interest in haiku?” I asked.

“I don’t think so. I mean, not in composing the poetry. Were the haiku you received original?”

“No. Right after I was poisoned, I was sent a haiku by Basho that said, ‘Intoxicated—slumbering amid pinks laid out on a rock.’ This afternoon I received a poem that said ‘The breezes of spring push the beautiful girl, arousing anger.’ I haven’t found out the poet’s identity yet.”

“My mother’s calligraphy is organized by the flower, so I am able to show you the first poem you recited.” He pulled out a long, slender wooden box and tucked it under his arm. “We probably don’t have a scroll illustrating the second haiku because it doesn’t mention flowers. Everything here must relate to ikebana.”

Takeo opened a door that led to the stairs. I jogged up the first flight but then abruptly remembered Takeo had been in a car crash.

“We could take the elevator instead. Nine is pretty far up,” I said, looking at him slowly proceeding upward.

“Impossible. The light would come on, and if Natsumi comes home from her date, she will see the light panel showing where we’re going. It wouldn’t be a problem for me to be seen going upstairs, but you wouldn’t get away with it.”

We continued up the stairs, Takeo keeping hold of the railing while I hovered by his side. I was practically as tired as him by the time we reached the 9th floor and entered the main building. Only a red EXIT sign illuminated the hallway; our shadows tailed us, leaping against the walls in a most sinister way. I was glad when Takeo unlocked his office and turned on his desk light. My gaze went around the room, which had been slightly straightened since my visit that afternoon. The magazines had been collected into a neat pile, and a small arrangement of camellias with insect-bitten leaves graced his desk.

“This is the picture,” Takeo said, holding one of his mother playing with him and Natsumi at age four. Reiko Kayama was wearing an orange and yellow kimono patterned with the moon and stars, just like Mr. Ishida’s visitor.

“Mr. Ishida should see it,” I said. “Will you let me borrow it to show him?”

“His eye is injured, Rei. Have you forgotten?”

“He’s got another one that’s still working! Once he feels better, he will be able to make a good guess at whether your mother and the consignor are the same person.”

“I don’t want to give you that picture. It’s the only one I have,” Takeo said.

“I’ll take care of it,” I said. “I’ve never lost any of my consignments.”

“Unlike me. I’m sorry to tell you this, but the Kayama ware container that you gave me earlier tonight smashed when my car hit the pole. I was too depressed to bother removing the shards.”

I felt for him, but I knew we had to move on. “It’s all right. Will you show me your mother’s calligraphy scroll?”

Takeo cleared off the remaining items on his desk and unrolled the scroll, weighting each end with a kenzan. I joined in his scrutiny of Reiko Kayama’s rendering of the ‘Slumbering amid pinks’ poem. Her calligraphy was gracefully rounded and similar to that on the haiku that I’d received. But the scroll looked different from the note I’d gotten. I couldn’t pinpoint the differences, because Aunt Norie had destroyed the note.

“Even though I don’t have the copy of the ‘pinks’ haiku anymore, I think the writer is different from your mother. Look at the other note.” l pulled out the poem I’d just received, about a beautiful girl being pushed.

Takeo read it silently, and I saw him shudder.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Just a bit cold.”

“Do you have any other examples of your mother’s everyday handwriting?” I was still studying the scroll. In addition to the three short lines of writing, there was a small watercolor illustration of a pink flower head lying on a bed of gray river pebbles.

Takeo shook his head. “She was never separated from us, so there were no letters. I imagine that my father might have some letters, but I couldn’t ask him.” He added, “Your aunt might have something from my mother.”

“Aunt Norie was just a normal student in the school. Why would she have letters from your mother?”

Takeo slowly settled into his chair, and I remembered again that he’d just been in an accident. He was silent for a minute and then said, “Do you remember when we went to the izakaya for a beer and I asked you to give me some information about your aunt? You seemed to think I was trying to blame Sakura’s murder on her. It wasn’t that. I’m interested in how she and my mother got along.”

“Why?”

“There was a bad feeling between your aunt and some people here. The rumor was that her teaching certificates were always speeded through, she always gets the best placement at exhibitions, and she was even offered a good teaching position within headquarters.”

“But she never took any paid position,” I protested. “She dropped out of flower arranging to spend more time when my cousin Chika was born.”

“How old is Chika?”

I thought carefully. I hadn’t seen Tom’s little sister more than once or twice in the last few years, because she was studying in Kyoto. “She’s twenty-three.”

“An interesting coincidence. My mother died twenty-three years ago,” Takeo said. “Chika’s birth was a convenient excuse for Norie to leave. Sakura once hinted that maybe…Chika was not really a Shimura. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

I turned away from Takeo and toward the window, the black night sparkling with rain and little lights from the windows of other buildings. I remembered the mirrored glass of the skyscraper and realized that now, because it was dark outside and light where we were, people could see in. I wondered why there were no shades in the room, nothing to hide me as I struggled to maintain my self-control.

“Sakura hated Norie,” I said. “She would say anything to hurt her.”

“I’m sorry,” Takeo said from his distant armchair.

I asked, “If your mother is alive, why would she not be with your family?”

Takeo sounded weary. “Twins are a lot of trouble, don’t you think? Maybe we were too much for her.”

“I’m sure that’s not the case. The picture of your mother holding you shows such love. Look at her face.” As I spoke, I remembered how Lila Braithwaite’s children had overwhelmed me. Raising twins was probably as challenging as raising three children. But surely Takeo’s mother wasn’t the kind who would run away.

Takeo continued. “Or what if—because of my father’s feeling for your Aunt Norie—my mother decided that she wanted to just leave the marriage? Divorcing him would be something the Kayama family wouldn’t allow. Mistresses are considered all right—my grandfather and all my great-grandfathers had them. People say that my father hasn’t remarried because it’s too enjoyable to be an unmarried man.”

“But didn’t somebody find your mother’s body? Surely that’s irrefutable evidence she died.”

“The coroner could have been bribed. He could have helped, maybe even providing the body of somebody anonymous who had died.”

Takeo really wanted to believe that his mother was alive. The compassion I’d felt for him earlier swelled again. How could I get him to give up his ghost?

“Okay, say that your mother is still alive and she’s been sending Norie poems all along to make her feel bad about breaking up the marriage. Why on earth would your mother send menacing haiku to my aunt? Or me?”

“She doesn’t want history to repeat itself,” Takeo said grimly.

“No need to worry. Your father has seen me only once, and it was when I was vomiting at his ikebana exhibition. He’s not likely to ask me out.”

Takeo snorted. “My father’s not the one at risk of capitulation.”

“Who is, then?” This entirely Japanese conversation about parents, love, and death was confusing me. I turned away from him to look out the window, thinking over his last words.

Takeo came up and stood directly behind me. When he spoke, I felt his breath on the nape of my neck. “Maybe you thought I was gay. Because I like flowers.”

“No. I know gay men,” I said sharply. I was surprised by Takeo’s revelation, but not by the way it made me feel. With the warmth of his breath on my skin, I felt my cold, celibate self start to thaw.

Takeo’s hands touched my shoulders very lightly, and a current shot through me as his hands stroked down my bare arms. “It’s been tough. I’ve grown up in this sterile tower with a father who won’t talk to me, a sister with a shopping addiction, and a bunch of middle-aged women who want to be my mother. You’ve been the youngest, realest woman who has ever made it past the doorman.”

“Don’t call me young. We’re the same age—”

“You are the only one who doesn’t bow to me. And who looks beautiful in old clothes, instead of swaddling herself in Chanel and Escada.”

“I didn’t bow because I thought you were a florist,” I said, unable to stop smiling at the memory. “And then, well, it didn’t seem as if you liked me very much, so there was no point in courtesy.”

“I do like you,” Takeo said. “But it’s hard for me to know what my chance is. I talked with Mr. Ishida for a while before I started the car. He said that you lived with a foreign lawyer, but that he left you last fall. Has it really ended?”

It was painful hearing Hugh described that way, but it was true that I had been more or less abandoned. I released my arms from Takeo’s touch and turned around to face him. Despite my suspicions of him, I could not deny that I was attracted. But the prospect of being deceived again was overpowering. “It has. But being alone doesn’t mean that I’m easy.”

“On the contrary, I think you’re rather hard.” Takeo’s eyes were on me, and I wondered if he was speaking metaphorically or had noticed the situation underneath my thin angora sweater. I blundered forward, as much to move my breasts out of his line of vision as to get away from him, but he matched my move with one of his own. Kendo training. The next thing I knew, his arms were around me.

It was too late to pretend disinterest. I parted my lips, receiving his kiss with some curiosity. I’d had Japanese boyfriends before, but none of them had ever tried to get close to me without insisting that we take a shower first. I had nothing against cleanliness, but it felt much sexier to be messed up from the rain, kissing someone who tasted faintly like tea.

Soon my curiosity was replaced by urgency. He really was a delicious kisser, and I wanted to devour him. Our bodies moved into each other, a near-perfect fit with him only half a foot taller. As his fingers grazed my breasts, my own hands streamed up his body to explore his chest. He recoiled slightly, and I remembered that he was probably sore from the car accident.

“This isn’t a good idea,” I murmured and broke away. We were visible in the silver tower. Anyone could see into the room, perhaps even the person who had killed Sakura and wanted Takeo and Mr. Ishida dead.Takeo’s face was as flushed as I imagined mine was. In a low voice he said, “I disagree. And from the way you kissed me, I think you feel the same. We have this—thing—blossoming between us, and starting tomorrow we’ve got a lot to do. We’ll find my mother and clear your aunt’s reputation.”

I couldn’t bear to look at Takeo, so I stared at the cover of a National Geographic lying on the floor. I concentrated on a tiger mother and cub. “It’s pretty hard to clear someone else’s reputation when your own is so bad.”

“What? If it’s about being half American, or the fact that you don’t earn so much, money, don’t worry. I don’t care about that.” He came within inches of my face, and when I didn’t lift my face to him, he stepped around me and simply put his arms around me again. I rested lightly against his wounded chest for a brief moment. I couldn’t help it. It just felt perfect, despite the harsh words I had to say.

“The one with a reputation is you,” I said. “Some people remember that you were kicked out of Keio University for almost causing another student’s death.”

Takeo’s chest stiffened, but he didn’t let go. “I voted against bringing kendo equipment into the lavatories, but I couldn’t stop them. I spent two months making daily visits to the hospital to see the student. We all did. Did you hear that part of the story?” I didn’t answer. “I admitted it was my fault, so I was expelled. Then I enrolled at UC Santa Cruz, where I learned about organic horticulture and other things.”

Here was something I could seize on. I needed an argument to keep me away from him, an excuse not to care. Rapidly, I said, “Is that where you learned your moves, Takeo? When you were in the UC dormitory, with other California girls?”

That did it. Takeo released me so quickly that I almost lost my balance. I didn’t turn around but heard him ease back into his chair. “Sorry. My timing’s bad. If there was one thing that my father’s tried to hammer into me, it is the virtue of patience.”

“I think I’d better go. The subway…”

“Of course, “ he said. “Thank you for seeing me home. Will you find your way downstairs by yourself?”

Going through the Kayama Kaikan alone in the dark was not a prospect I relished, but being with him was potentially just as bad, given my treacherous hormones.

I found the way down.

CHAPTER TWENTY

I felt completely bereft when I woke up the next morning: alienated from Takeo and also from Aunt Norie. There was no savory smell of miso soup, no slap of my aunt’s slippers against the floor as she walked to the door to pick up the newspaper. My aunt had been such a presence in the few days that she had lived with me, and now she was lost to me, along with all the other people I’d angered.

Perhaps it was just as well Norie wasn’t around to see me in such a state. After returning home, I’d felt so shaken by the night’s events that I wound up downing a seven-hundred-milliliter bottle of Kirin. Instead of helping me sleep, the alcohol perversely caused me to awaken throughout the night. I spent long minutes staring at the digital display on my alarm clock while I ran through possible links between Sakura’s death and Takeo’s story about a mother who might still be alive.

My morning-after felt lousy, but I knew I had to get up. While I waited for the electric teakettle to make my cup of tea, I called Mari Kumamori, who agreed to see me at noon. Next I called Tom at the hospital. I was put on hold for a while, during which time I drank the tea and did some leg-stretching exercises. I’d decided that even though I felt weak, I might as well go for a run. It could only make me feel better.

“Hello, Rei,” Tom said when he finally came on. “You don’t have to make up a phony doctor’s name to get them to page me. Everyone in my department knows you.”

“It’s my accent, I bet.” I was crestfallen.

“No, it’s just that you’re very polite. Nobody would think you’re a physician.”

There was a compliment somewhere in his self- deprecating joke, but I didn’t want to kid around. “What’s happening with your parents?”

“They told me about my father’s job loss. Its hard, but we will get through it.”

“And your mother?”

“She is actually more upset than he is.”

“It’s because of me. I tried to force her to tell me about something that happened long ago. She wasn’t ready.”

“Well, I’m ready. To tell you about Nolvadex, at least.”

I stopped stretching my hamstrings and got out my notebook to write down the details.

“It’s a drug used in treating breast cancer,” Tom said. “Usually after a woman has the cancerous tissue removed, she will undergo a course of chemotherapy. And after that she might be prescribed Nolvadex to help keep the cancer in remission.”

“Wow, isn’t breast cancer here quite rare? I thought Asian women were practically immune,” I said, reaching into my Jogbra to make a quick self-exam. Remembering Takeo’s hands gave me a slight twinge.

“There are plenty of women with breast cancer in Japan, but they don’t run around with pink ribbons pinned to their blouses and talk about it to everyone.”

“Maybe they should. Anyway, do you think the drug could be prescribed to an older woman? Say around seventy years old?”

“Are you talking about Mrs. Koda?”

“Yes,” I admitted. “But please don’t say anything to your mother. I have a feeling that if she was hiding the drug in a Motrin container, she doesn’t want people to know.”

“You’re probably right,” Tom said. “Over the last few years I’ve noticed how frail Mrs. Koda has become. I’d always thought of it as old age. In hindsight, she might need the cane to help her walk, because dizziness and nausea are side effects of Nolvadex.”

“It’s a strong drug, then,” I said. “Could someone overdose on Nolvadex and die?”

“If you’re thinking that Nolvadex was what made you sick at the ikebana exhibition, no, you don’t need to worry. It’s an estrogen receptor antagonist, and there are no known problems with overdose. You were definitely poisoned by arsenic.”

After we’d said goodbye, I called Nippon University Hospital to speak to Mr. Ishida. I was relieved to hear that he’d been released, although when I telephoned his shop, he didn’t answer. Maybe he was resting upstairs in his apartment. But I didn’t know the number, and that made me concerned.

It was time to run. I tried to pound away my worries, my feet hitting the potholed streets of my neighborhood with loud, angry thuds. Now I was sorry that I’d spent time with Takeo instead of trailing Mr. Ishida to the hospital.

I ran into the alley where Takeo’s Range Rover had crashed. It was gone, and a city employee was sweeping up tacks while a few more worked on removing the toppled streetlight. Speeding around the corner, I continued thinking about the Nolvadex. Either Mrs. Koda had cancer or she was hiding someone else’s anticancer drug in her desk drawer. The latter did not seem likely.

As I moved faster, my mind raced to the Stop Killing Flowers flyer about pesticide use in Colombia. Che’s information about the workers who had gotten sick was the first part of the equation. Surely the pesticides tainting the flowers would remain present on the blooms after they were shipped overseas. Maybe the person at the Kayama School taking Nolvadex had developed cancer because of long-term exposure to pesticide-treated flowers. If Stop Killing Flowers knew about that detail, they would have an extremely convincing argument to give the Japanese public. Rumors about pesticides, dyes, and additives had stopped imports of food from North America many times.

I ran through the twisting streets crowded with parked scooters and vans, visualizing myself moving through a field of native grasses and wildflowers, nothing treated, everything real. After each step I took, the grass would spring up again, healthy and undamaged. Probably the Kayamas’ country house was surrounded by fields like that—land they owned and had the luxury not to develop. It was all very nice for Takeo. I was suddenly angry about this, as well as for the casual way he’d unloaded Sakura’s cruel stories about Norie. It was adding insult to injury that he had kissed me a few minutes later.

After the run, I showered and slipped into my favorite black jeans, which fit better than they had in years. My poisoning had taken off about an inch. I tucked a ribbed T-shirt into the jeans and tied a scarf around my neck. My sneakers were still damp from the run, so I wore my penny loafers instead. Aunt Norie would have almost approved of the outfit I chose to wear to Mari Kumamori’s.

I had a seat on the midday train to Zushi, so I was able to study the Kayama School teachers’ certificate list, referring to my kanji dictionary to help me translate the spelling of some names. The trip took about an hour, and by the time I disembarked at Zushi Station, I had skimmed through a few hundred Yumikos, Marikos, and Sachikos. The suffix -ko, which means “child”, was common in women’s names. I felt lucky to have been named Rei and not Reiko, a very popular Japanese name that meant ‘beautiful girl-child.’ Takeo’s mothers name was Reiko. Beautiful girl. The ominous haiku message came back to me, and I pushed it away. I wasn’t classically attractive by Japanese standards, no matter what Takeo had said.

According to this list, Sakura’s real first name was Shizuko, which meant ‘quiet child.’ A ridiculous misnomer, considering the way she had raised her voice to Aunt Norie. I chided myself for being so uncharitable about a person who’d been killed. Everyone had something good inside them—even Sakura. Takeo had spoken of her with respect, recalling how she’d cared for him after his mother’s death.

Mari had given me directions to her house via a bus, saying the trip would take seven minutes from the train station. I’d wanted to walk, but she had insisted that the streets were difficult for pedestrians. Once I was aboard the bus, zooming down an expressway, I could see why. Getting around in suburban Japan required wheels. During the short bus ride, I noticed several supermarkets with parking lots crowded with sport utility vehicles and mini-vans. There were few mom-and-pop stores, and no teashops or tofu-makers.

Mari’s house was in a hilly district of houses that seemed like the same architect had built them all in the late 1980s, before the bubble economy burst. The houses were built out of a yellow material that looked like brick but wasn’t, with leaded-glass windows and shingled roofs—a hodgepodge of European house details that looked awkward and expensive.

I rang the doorbell and waited. I rang again, and after five minutes I decided Mari wasn’t going to answer. I knew that I had the right address, because I’d recognized her surname on the mailbox on her gate. I was gathering up my backpack when I caught a flash of movement along the side of the house. I peered over the faux brick wall to see Mari slowly carrying a cardboard box into a tin-roofed shack with windows. Her pottery studio, I guessed. There was a real brick kiln next to the shack that was also covered by a tin roof, and, to my surprise, there was also a small wooden shrine standing on a pole next to it. Under the shrine’s tiny roof sat a family of bears, all fashioned out of clay and glazed a deep brown. Maris last name, Kumamori, meant ‘bear in the forest.’

Mari came out of the shack without the boxes and smiled tentatively. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”

“Sorry. This is a lovely place,” I said. “I never would have expected a shrine, though.”

“Those bears are the gods protecting the kiln. I made them myself, so they’re not very good.”

“They’re very cute,” I said. “You could sell them.”

Mari sighed. “Always you talk about selling. That isn’t my interest.”

“It’s not that you need the extra income. It just might be fun for you to be a businesswoman.”

“I have fun already,” Mari said, waving me into the pottery studio ahead of her. Sun flooded through the windows, lighting a large worktable. A potter’s wheel and chair filled one corner of the small studio, and the walls were covered with shelves holding finished ikebana containers. I noticed a row of vases in the classic gray, cream, and brown hues the Kayama School favored, as well as a second row of brilliantly colored containers. They were all in shades of celadon ranging from pale aqua to a deep yellow green. I’d never seen celadon used at the Kayama School. Its strong color probably went against the ‘Truth in Nature’ coda, although celadon ikebana vases were featured in old wood-block illustrations. Mari’s work was a rephrasing of tradition.

“The celadon is marvelous,” I said. “And you’ve got so much variety in color. Was that difficult to achieve?”

“Some parts of the kiln are hotter than others, and that affects the color. I used the very same glaze for all of them.” She gave me a nervous half smile.

“May I show you what I’ve brought?” I unwrapped one of Mrs. Morita’s plates.

“This looks like a sometsuke porcelain dinner plate. Do you have more?”

“Three more, all identical. None of them has a stamp on the bottom. Do you think it looks like it’s from Imari?” I inquired.

“Yes. It’s definitely Imari made during the Meiji period. I think that it should retail for about fifteen thousand yen per plate. If only you have ten. You could sell such a set for at least one hundred and eighty thousand.”

“How do you know that?” I was amazed at the way Mari had ticked everything off so quickly.

“I grew up near Imari village on Kyushu. My family has been potters for six generations. We don’t make blue and white porcelain, though; we specialize in celadon.”

“Koreans are famous for celadon,” I said, a bit confused.

“We are the ones who brought the tradition to Japan.” Mari had opened up the box she’d carried in and taken out a long sausage of wet clay. She stood at her worktable, wedging the clay as she spoke. “The potters were kidnapped from Korea and set up in villages in Kyushu, where they were forced to make pottery for their Japanese lords.”

“And your family learned the art from the Korean potters?” I sensed that she was deeply sympathetic to the group.

Mari continued pressing and turning the clay, fashioning it into a shape that looked something like a chrysanthemum. “We are Korean. Didn’t you know?”

I was thrown for a loop. “But your name is Japanese.”

Mari shrugged. “My married name. And I don’t even speak Korean. Yet I was fingerprinted in childhood. I don’t have a regular passport. And I never could rent an apartment or buy a house without a Japanese guarantor.”

These were the same hassles I went through as a foreigner in Japan. But Mari had been born in Japan, so it seemed blatantly unfair. “What’s your maiden name?” I asked.

“Nagai. My family took a Japanese name, and throughout the years we have intermarried with some Japanese. But the government still has records showing our family line is Korean. I met a fully Japanese man who fell in love with me when he was on vacation in our region. We married and I moved to Tokyo. His family would not allow my name to be listed in their family registry. So even though I’m called Kumamori, it’s not really official. And it’s why I haven’t had children. Because of his parents’ feelings, they would not be allowed into the family register.”

Mari’s story about unfriendly in-laws was similar to Aunt Norie’s. However, because Norie was pure Japanese, her story had a happy ending. Now I wondered why my aunt, who had never said anything against Mari, yet wasn’t her friend. Could she be prejudiced?

“Shimura-san, don’t look so sad.” Mari seemed to sense my discomfort, because she smiled at me. “I’m proud to be a Korean Japanese. That’s why I make celadon porcelain. It relaxes me, brings me closer to my family so far away.”

“You’ve never brought the celadon to ikebana class.”

“No. I bring the dull-colored stoneware ones that fit the motto ‘Truth in Nature.’“

Catching the resentment in Mari’s voice, I ventured, “Do you think things at the school are different for you because you’re Korean?”

Mari slapped the clay hard. “Sakura never liked me, and I guess that she heard rumors or did some research. She asked me to stay after class one day two years ago. She told me that I should drop out and switch to one of the other schools because the Kayamas had never granted a teaching certificate to a Korean. Then she added something like, ‘It’s a matter of kindness that I’m sharing this information with you. I don’t want you to waste your time.’“

“You could have gone to Mrs. Koda.”

“Koda-san comes from an old samurai family. She feels the same way about Koreans as Sakura-san.”

“But you’re so good—and the higher you rise in the school, theoretically the more money you bring to the Kayamas. Which student level are you?”

She smiled tightly and said, “The final stage before the teacher’s certificate. In fact, during the past two years, I have been repeating the lessons in book four. At the end of the lessons comes the examination for a teaching certificate. I’ve taken the exam three times but have never passed it.”

“Is this the exam where one’s arrangement is identified only by number? Where one stands waiting outside the classroom while the teachers examine the flower arrangements?”

“That’s just how it’s done.” Mari sounded glum. “The strange thing is that when I returned to the classroom after waiting outside, I saw that the flowers in my vase looked even worse than I remembered. Somebody tampered with the arrangement so that I wouldn’t pass.”

“Do you think it was Sakura?” I remembered how she had rearranged my own awkward attempts with cherry blossoms and made the arrangement truly awful.

“Of course I’ve thought of it. But I had no proof.” Mari took a rolling pin and began rolling out her clay. “And now, since she’s dead, things might change for me. I could take the examination in two months if I wanted to.”

I did not like to think that Mari might have wanted the chance to take the test so much that she’d kill Sakura. Fearful of my face giving me away, I changed the subject. “Did you ever hear of a type of ceramic called Kayama ware? Some containers were made in the 1930s for the school.”

“I’ve never heard of it.” She didn’t raise her eyes from the container she was hand-building. “Did you bring an example?”

“No,” I said, not wanting to tell her too much. “I think this kind of ware is more colorful than the containers the headmaster prefers us to use. You might like it.”

“My pottery is influenced by many periods, but the twentieth century is not one of them.” She placed the container—a long, narrow vessel that reminded me of a canoe—on a plaster board and went to a sink to wash her hands. “If you like, I’II show you what I have in the house.”

We left the pottery and went into the house through an unlocked back door. The interior was not as gaudily Western as the exterior. I noticed handsome Korean tansu chests with typical butterfly metalwork in the living room. I had been thinking about collecting Korean furniture, but didn’t have much more room in my apartment.

“I really like this furniture. Are they your family’s pieces?”

“Some of them. Others we bought. Fortunately, my husband also really likes Korean furniture.” She slid open the door to one tansu to reveal tidy rows of old cups, plates, and bowls. Some of them were celadon; others blue-and-white. It was a smaller collection than I had, but much older and finer.

“You chose these yourself?” I asked.

“Yes. You will notice there aren’t any sets. I buy singles, which are more affordable.” She reached into the back and pulled out a plate that was similar but not identical to Mrs. Morita’s. “This is the other reason I’m so sure of the age of the plate you brought me. “

“Too bad it doesn’t match. We could make a larger set and sell it for a bit more money,” I mused.

“I’m not interested in money,” Mari reminded me.

“How admirable.” Suddenly I felt embarrassed that I’d made the suggestion. She was different, far less materialistic than I.

“Your mission to see me was not very successful,” Mari said. “I’m very sorry.”

“Actually, I learned a lot. And don’t worry about my problem with the Imari plates. I think I’ll return the unlucky consignment to its owner.”

“Won’t you have a cup of tea before you leave?” Mari asked.

Something about the way she kept glancing out to the kiln told me that she was anxious to get her containers fired. I shook my head and said, “You’ve been very kind. I’ll just see myself out through the garden.”

On the way out I passed the little shrine with the ceramic bears. When I’d first looked at them I thought they were smiling, but on reexamination they looked as if they were snarling. Or maybe it was just my paranoia.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Back home in Yanaka, I popped into the Family Mart to see Mr. Waka. As I came through the door, he looked up from restocking the Lotte gum display and smiled.

“Busy last night, neh? I hear you solved a crime.”

“Who told you that?” There had been nothing in the papers. One car colliding with a light pole didn’t warrant a story.

“Some policemen came into the shop to ask about a towing service. I told them about my brother, of course. While they waited, they discussed among themselves how you had identified sharp tacks lying on the street. The litterbugs in this city are becoming a real menace!”

“Whoever dropped the tacks wanted Takeo Kayama to crash his car. Did the police talk about that?”

“They were arguing about that idea. One policeman said he thought so, but the others thought it was just chinpira playing.” He tore open a pack of strawberry- flavored gum and gave me a stick.

Chinpira were junior gangsters, the kind who were trying to become full-fledged members of the yakuza. I said, “If they were chinpira, they were hired by somebody to do the job.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps. Between crime fighting and haiku study, I don’t know how you have time for your antiques business.”

“I don’t. It’s a problem.” I chewed the sickeningly sweet gum, wishing I could take it out of my mouth but not wanting to offend him.

“So, what’s the new haiku? The one you telephoned me about?”

I didn’t have the poem with me, but I knew the words and recited them.

“Oh, the old poem about the girl who gets caught up in the wind. I believe the poet might be Gyoutai. He lived in the eighteenth century and is not as popular as Basho.”

I filed this away for follow up. “Tell me, do you find the line ‘the girl is pushed’ to be ominous?”

Mr. Waka paused, then shook his head. “No, the poet means she is pushed by the wind. It means her hair and kimono were disorganized.”

“Is that a normal poetic metaphor?” I pressed. “Might it have another meaning?”

“These poems are very common, as I told you before. They’re in schoolbooks. Now, if you want to learn more haiku, you should take a night class at our community center!” Mr. Waka’s eyes glowed. “My brother is on the board and can give me a schedule.”

“Thanks. Well, I’m sure I’ll have another haiku to ask you about in a few days.”

“What does that mean, in a few days? That’s not a serious study plan. You must work at haiku every day. I would like to hear your own verses.”

“Someday,” I promised, thinking I’d be as likely to compose a poem about blossoms as to write an article on Kayama ware for Straight Bamboo magazine. In other words, not likely at all.

***

A new letter had been slid under the door of my apartment. I felt unnerved, because now it seemed certain that I was the intended recipient, and not my aunt. But I could cross Mari Kumamori off the list of suspects. It was not likely that she had raced me back to Tokyo to plant the letter while I was spending five minutes with Mr. Waka.

I put on my gloves, opened the envelope and read:

Gaikotsu no

Ue wo yosoute

Hana-mi kana

This haiku could have been written in homage to the innocent cherry blossom-viewing taking place at Yanaka Cemetery. But I found it chilling.

Viewing the blossoms

Spread in festive apparel

Above the dead bones.

I placed the poem and its envelope into the plastic bag that held the earlier haiku about the beautiful girl being pushed. I didn’t need help from Mr. Waka for this one. I thought of my other old friend, who needed my help: Mr. Ishida. I dialed Ishida Antiques once more, hoping that he would have recovered enough to answer. He did.

“You’re home safely!” I said.

“More or less. My eye is going to be fine. I have a corneal scratch, which is very painful, but with time it should improve. I am very glad, because for someone who makes his living with a magnifying glass, the loss of an eye would be catastrophic.”

“I’m very sorry I dragged you out last night. If I had left well enough alone, nothing would have happened.”

“It was the right thing,” Mr. Ishida replied. “When Kayama-san says that his family’s Kayama ware is gone, I believe him. On the other hand, it could be true that the consignor brought me Kayama ware that was not from the school’s archive. I need an official registry of the collection to make sure that I am not making a mistake.”

“Why don’t you just let Takeo buy the containers? He doesn’t care what it costs to get the containers back.”

“It would be unethical for me to sell to him, Shimura-san. How could I expect a crime victim to pay for goods stolen from his own home?”

After more discussion, there was still no way out of this etiquette conundrum. I said good-bye. Then I telephoned one of the funeral florists in my neighborhood and asked them to deliver to Mr. Ishida a springtime arrangement that did not look funereal, with a get-well card from Takeo and me. Four thousand yen poorer, I made myself a cup of beefsteak-plant tea and brooded.

I needed money. Although I still had the equivalent of ten thousand dollars in my savings account, and much more in the untouchable Hugh Glendinning furniture fund, I hadn’t earned money since my poisoning. I hadn’t seen any private antiques buyers, and the antiques shop owners to whom I’d talked hadn’t been interested in my inventory.

The Sunday morning shrine sale might be a good place to sell my wares directly to the public. I didn’t really want to do it, because if my acquaintances saw me selling my wares from a tarpaulin laid out on the sidewalk, I could be pigeonholed as a lower-class dealer. My business card described myself as a purveyor of fine antiques, not flea-market goods.

I looked at my calendar. This weekend the traveling association of dealers who ran the sale was going to be at the Togo Shrine, a prime location near the international neighborhood of Omote-sando. If I could get in touch with the organizers, I might be able to make the Sunday sale.

My mind made up, I plowed on to the next item of business: Mrs. Koda. I could not talk to her at the school, where other people might be listening. Now that I had the list of teachers from the school, it was easy to look up her home telephone number. Her address was in Hiroo, a sedate and expensive neighborhood near the Kayama Kaikan.

It was seven o’clock. I pictured her cooking a small dinner for herself, maybe one fish and some rice and vegetables. I got a little bit hungry thinking about it. As a single person, I rarely went to the trouble of cooking such a meal for myself. Aunt Norie’s culinary reign—okayu notwithstanding—had been a memorable one.

“Please forgive me if I am disturbing your evening meal,” I said when she answered the telephone.

“I do not eat formal meals alone, Rei-san. But for you to be awake so late is not good! You must rest and recover from your illness.”

“I’m recovering nicely, thanks to your concern. I even ran a few miles this morning, and I went out to Zushi to look at Kumamori-san’s pottery.”

“She is a talented potter as well as an excellent flower arranger. It is rare to be able to handle both the heaviness of clay and the lightness of petals. Her hands are a treasure.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to bring up the fact that the Kayama School kept flunking Mari for the teacher’s certificate exam. But it wouldn’t do to be confrontational over the phone. I reminded myself of my goal, to get an audience with her.

“What is your schedule like?” I asked. “I would like to invite you for tea.”

“How kind. I would enjoy it as well. There is a restaurant inside the Kayama Kaikan. Aren’t you coming for class tomorrow?”

I hadn’t been planning on it. “Actually, my days are so busy, packed with appointments and such, that I’d really like to spend an hour or so with you in the evening. I need to explain about what happened yesterday.”

“Oh, with the Kayama ware? Don’t worry. Takeo-san explained the situation.”

“Mmm, there’s a bit more to it.” I paused significantly, hoping to arouse her curiosity. She didn’t reply. “As you know, my Japanese is not very good. Especially on the telephone. I’d rather be able to explain it in person. I must make sure that there is no longer a terrible misunderstanding between myself and my aunt’s most honored teacher.”

“Your aunt is worried? Oh, she mustn’t be that way.” Warmth flowed through the telephone line. “By all means, we must relieve her anxiety. Of course I will be happy to visit with you in my home when you have some free time.”

“I’ll be there in forty minutes. Thank you for your kindness.” I hung up before she could make any kind of protest.

***

I would not be late this time. I jogged downhill to Sendagi Station, flitting through groups of blue-collar workers and students. People here were used to my running and didn’t break their stride or stare the way they did in Roppongi. The neighbors just called me the “Running Girl,” according to Mr. Waka, which was an eccentric, but not particularly cruel, nickname. On the occasions when the young men from Tokyo University ‘s running club saw me, they gave a quarter bow, shoulders only, so as not to break their stride.

A block ahead I saw a young man with short, spiked blond hair wearing a conservative blue blazer and gray trousers. He was walking with a taller, dark- haired man. From the backs of their heads, I guessed that the pair was Richard Randall and his new friend Enrique. I was pleased, because we’d be able to ride the subway together. To catch up with them, I increased my pace, and when I reached Richard, I playfully grabbed the back of his jacket.

My friend did not turn around but gave a small yelp. In the next moment his companion had slammed me against the station’s grimy tiled wall. I stared into the angry face of Che Fujisawa, the environmental activist who had led the protest outside My Magic Forest.

“It’s rude to surprise people,” Che growled.

“No problemo, I’m sure the young lady meant no harm. My jacket isn’t even torn!” Richard jabbered in a bizarre mixture of Spanish and Japanese.

Belatedly I realized that I was in danger of blowing Richard’s cover in Che’s organization.

“Gomen nasai, gomen nasai!” I apologized, diving forward into a deep bow. Che was standing so close to me that my forehead knocked his jaw. The collision must have hurt him more than me, I thought, judging from the way he moaned and stepped back, clutching his mouth.

“You fool!” Che raged at me in Japanese. “I know you from somewhere. I’m sure of it!”

“She’s just a crazy girl who works at the Family Mart,” Richard said quickly. “She has a crush on me, the owner says.”

“Gomen nasai.” I bowed once more and darted off through the ticket wicket, glad I had a prepaid card. I looked over my shoulder and saw Richard searching for coins to pay for his fare at the ticket machine, no doubt causing a delay so that I could make a getaway on an earlier subway train. Richard was martyring himself for my cause. When Che had me up against the wall of the station, he’d seemed ready to beat me up. What he could do to someone smaller and less athletic than myself was too frightening to contemplate.

I’d believed that Richard’s connection to Enrique would protect him within the ranks of Stop Killing Flowers, but I was wrong. I needed to get Richard out, and I was annoyed with myself for not grilling Takeo about his own connections with the group. Mrs. Koda might have a sense about whether Takeo felt more loyal toward his family’s school or Stop Killing Flowers.

I rode the subway to Hiroo. Once on the street, I obtained the directions to Mrs. Koda’s home from a policeman on duty in his box. He told me to look out for the apartment building with flower boxes at every window. It sounded charming, but when I saw the flowers they looked suspiciously fake—red geraniums at every window seemed too much to be true—and the building itself was a dumpy white tower faded to gray by pollution. I never understood why Japanese architects kept designing urban buildings in white. It was a losing battle with grime. In the early 1990s it seemed that a new white building went up in Tokyo every hour. Now the buildings all looked like ghosts with five o’clock shadow.

In a lobby decorated with European-style bouquets of artificial flowers, I found an intercom box and buzzed Mrs. Koda’s apartment.

“You are downstairs? I wasn’t aware you were coming tonight.”

I’d thought that I’d been so clear. “Um, I can leave if it’s not convenient.”

“Please take the elevator to nine. I’ll meet you there.”

Outside the elevator doors stretched a hall covered in light green carpet. The pale blue walls were decorated with fluffy clouds and a depiction of the sunrise over Mt. Fuji.

“This is a very interesting building,” I said to Mrs. Koda as we walked slowly together to her apartment. When she let me in, I was relieved to see it was a regular white-on-white apartment, clean and comfortable-looking and not excessively flowery. In fact, there weren’t any flowers at all.

“I’m pleased to be in the middle of city life. For a long time I was in the suburbs with my husband. I hated that!” she confided.

“I brought something small for you,” I said, handing her a nicely wrapped box of strawberries that I’d picked up outside the station. I could not enter anyone’s home in Japan empty-handed.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” Mrs. Koda said, refusing it three times before she accepted it. “I’ll put these in the refrigerator to enjoy tomorrow. Would you like some tea?”

“No, thank you. I had some at home…Really, no, I’m perfectly fine!”

Despite my protestations, she made me a cup of tea, placing it on a flowered cotton napkin atop a coaster set on a lacquered tray. I stared at the precise arrangement of china, textile, and wood, hoping Mrs. Koda wouldn’t notice if I didn’t touch the tea. She seemed like a nice old lady, but the fact was, I’d been poisoned while drinking tea with her before. I could pour my tea into a potted plant if she briefly left the room. Unfortunately, there were no potted plants.

“Let’s sit down,” Mrs. Koda said. “I’m sorry my sofa isn’t very comfortable.”

“Oh, it’s soft as a cloud! This new furniture is so much nicer than the old pieces I have at home.”

“Is your aunt still staying with you?” Mrs. Koda smiled at me.

Things were going so well in our etiquette match, it was a shame that I was going to have to get down to business. “I’ve recovered, so she has returned to her own home. My uncle is back from Osaka. He needs her.” Plunging ahead, I said, “I should explain about the Kayama ware.”

“Takeo informed me that you’re writing an article about it. If you’d only said something to Miss Okada and me downstairs, we would have understood right away.”

“Were you nervous because all the Kayama ware was missing from the archives?”

Mrs. Koda looked startled. After a beat she said, “Yes.”

“Who discovered the loss?” I asked.

“Miss Okada noticed six weeks ago, because she goes into the archives regularly to find containers for display in the reception area. Then she came to me. I discussed it with Takeo, and he didn’t have the heart to tell the iemoto about the loss. He’d thought maybe the containers were misplaced and that he could find them.”

“I bought my piece of Kayama ware at an antiques store a few blocks away. There’s more there, perhaps the rest of the collection. To get it back, the store owner needs proof that they’re registered as school property.”

“What kind of proof?” Mrs. Koda asked. I noticed that she didn’t seem at all concerned about who might have brought the Kayama ware to the store.

“An itemized list. Takeo-san thinks that one doesn’t exist.”

“Of course there is a list,” she soothed. “I make lists of everything. I compiled a list of Kayama ware twenty years ago. Don’t worry. I’llII find it for you. Rei-san, thank you for bringing this to my attention. You did the right thing.”

“Speaking of missing objects, I found something else.” I pulled the Nolvadex tablet wrapped with tissue out of my pocket and held it out to her. “I was worried that you lost this.”

She squinted at the tablet, turning it over in her hand. “Where did you find it?”

“In the school office. It’s Nolvadex, isn’t it?”

“I must have been careless.” Mrs. Koda put the tablet down with a click on a side table and refolded her hands. She looked defeated.

“Is it cancer?” I asked.

She gave the slightest nod. “Nobody except for Takeo-san knows.”

“That’s so hard on you. Everyone at the school cares—they would support you in every way they could.”

“They would suggest that I resign,” she said. “And then I would have nothing to do. Ikebana is my career. I want to continue as long as I can.”

“Do you think that your cancer could have been caused by flower arranging?”

“I don’t know.” From her wary expression, though, I guessed she had heard the question before.

“Did your mother or aunt have breast cancer?”

She shook her head and stretched her hands out toward me. “How old my hands look now! In the beginning, when I was a young girl arranging flowers from my family’s garden, my fingers were so soft and smooth. I did an ikebana demonstration for my future husband, and he always said that he fell in love with my hands.”

“What a romantic man. But to get back to our discussion, if you have no family history of breast cancer, it might be an environmental factor that triggered the disease.”

“My husband wanted control,” she said, continuing her parallel conversation. “He did not allow me to work, although I had a wonderful invitation from Masanobu Kayama, who had taken over the school in the early 1960s from his father. Masanobu-sensei needed me, but my husband insisted that a woman of my station must not work. So I came to the school as a volunteer and worked here during the daytime while my husband was at the office. Only after he died could I become a true employee.”

“You’ve been handling imported flowers for about thirty years?” I asked.

“A bit longer than that. The school became able to afford imported flowers in the late fifties.”

Feeling like a member of Stop Killing Flowers, I told her, “Strong pesticides are sprayed on flowers, especially roses and carnations from Colombia. That could have caused your cancer. Of course you should keep teaching flower arranging, but maybe only with organically grown plants.”

“It is too late for me.” She lightly touched the right side of her chest. “They cut it out. To stop working with flowers would cut out my heart as well.”

“I’m terribly sorry about what’s happened to you. And of course I’ll keep your health private. But don’t you think that sharing your illness with others could serve as some kind of warning?”

“Many of my friends who practice ikebana are fine. I’m an isolated case. I just happened to arrange more flowers than I should have. Maybe I did not wash my hands after each session. If people wash their hands, that should be enough. Takeo-san has ordered the staff to hang signs over the classroom sinks that encourage people to wash their hands after flower arranging. And at his suggestion, I live in this apartment with no living flowers.”

“How did Takeo-san find out about your illness?” I asked.

“When Takeo-san was a student at Keio University, he had some trouble fitting in, so he came to me often to talk. When I was on vacation from school, undergoing chemotherapy, he came here unannounced. When he saw that I had lost much of my hair, he demanded to know what was happening. I could not keep a secret from the boy.”

I began to put the pieces together. It was during the university years that Takeo had become a fervent environmentalist. Perhaps his worries about Mrs. Koda had led him in that direction.

“At that time, Takeo-san helped me make a plan to continue working. He found a wig that matched the hairstyle that I always had so that nobody would guess I was in bad health. He also allowed me to rest in his room whenever I wanted. Whenever anyone asked about my absence, I would say that I was doing a special project for him.”

“Were you resting in his office when Sakura died?” I asked.

“Actually, I was at the doctor. But I have had so many absences lately that I couldn’t bear to say that. It was just easier to pretend I was in the building.”

I groaned. “Do you realize you have a perfectly decent alibi that you ‘re not even using? By insisting you were in the building when nobody could find you, you’re making yourself appear a lot more suspicious. The police may not have asked you much, but you must be honest with them.”

“Rei-san, you don’t think…that I hurt Sakura-san?” Mrs. Koda’s sad eyes blinked rapidly. “Of course you must. That is why you haven’t touched the tea.”

I looked straight at her. “I became very sick the last time we had tea together. The police haven’t caught the person who did it. Since then I’ve been careful.”

After a slight pause she said, “That is sensible. It is what I would do myself if I were in your situation.”

“I want to ask you one more thing. Why hasn’t Mari Kumamori passed the teaching exam after trying it three times?”

“She’s very good at her class work, but when it comes to the examinations, she must get nervous. There is always a major flaw in the arrangements. I would like to give her a passing grade, but I cannot. The errors are too obvious.”

“In testing, is there any time when nobody is in the room? I mean, between the time the students make their arrangements and leave the room, and when the judges come in?”

“The room is always under supervision. We want to ensure that the students don’t cheat, and also that they are treated fairly.”

“Do you monitor the room during the time the students are waiting outside?”

“Up until about ten years ago, I did it. Then the iemoto asked that I give the responsibility to another teacher.”

“Who is that?” I asked, although I could anticipate her reply.

“Sakura Sato. And now that she is gone, we need to find somebody else.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I never touched a drop of tea, but when I left Mrs. Koda’s apartment twenty minutes later, I felt totally wired.

I considered telephoning Mari immediately, but a train was just pulling in, so I decided to catch it and telephone from home. I sat on the train, taping my foot restlessly as the stations went by. Even though it was nine o’clock, the train was filling up with salarymen just getting out of the office. The men slumped into their seats, newspapers falling out of their hands as they passed into sleep. No doubt some of them were absentee husbands who had been transferred away from their families, like Uncle Hiroshi. I wondered if Hiroshi and Norie were home that night. I was continuing to feel guilty about how we had parted. My aunt had taken care of me for three days, and I’d stormed out of the apartment without saying good-bye or thanking her. Calling her to apologize was going to be even more difficult, since I had heard Takeo’s insinuation about her possible romantic relationship with his father.

When I arrived home, I called Mari Kumamori. She answered the phone herself, and when I told her the news about Sakura’s intervention in her testing, she thanked me. “I will try the exam again, Shimura-san. How strange that this time of tragedy has brought a benefit for me. Do you think that the police will be suspicious?” she asked.

“I don’t think so!” Surely being held back from progressing in a flower-arranging hierarchy was not a serious enough motive for murder. Or was it?

After I finished talking to Mari, I dialed my aunt and uncle’s home in Yokohama. Tom answered and told me that his parents had gone to bed.

“But it’s only nine-thirty!” Japanese families routinely didn’t go to bed until after midnight, based on the schedule of husbands and children coming home between ten and eleven.

“They’re spending a lot of time together. Mother’s got Father talking, and now his emotions are spilling forth. The problem is that she has neglected me. I’ve had to do my own cooking, because they disappear for hours having their private conversations.”

“Tom, just think about how your future wife will enjoy those cooking skills,” I teased. “Are you far enough from your parents that they can’t hear you?”

“Sure. I’m in the living room, and they’re upstairs.”

“I want to ask you something. Your mother mentioned that for years she has received anonymous letters. The letters were haiku by famous poets, but they seemed to send some kind of hidden message. Do you know about this?”

“She’s never mentioned any notes. Although about a year ago, I did see her crying in the laundry room with a crumpled-up letter in her hand. I asked her why, and she made up a story about a high utility bill. But I’d noticed that the letter didn’t have a company name or even a postage stamp on the outside.”

“So…you just said okay and walked off?”

“What reason would my mother have to lie? I was more concerned with whether she was going to have my lunch ready to take to work. I’m afraid I was rather selfish.”

I changed tactics. “Did she talk much about the iemoto when you were young?”

“Not really. Mother kept her flower-arranging world to herself. Besides, only since Chika went away to college has she been really active.”

The phantom of my cousin Chika again. Baby Chika and adult Chika appeared like bookends surrounding the time that Norie had been involved—and uninvolved—with the Kayama School.

“Does the iemoto have something to do with the notes?” Tom asked.

“I think so,” I said. “At the very least, can you keep an eye on your mother? I’m worried about her.”

“I’m worried about you, Rei. It sounds as if you’re off on a strange new tangent. What happened with the Nolvadex?”

“You were right. I asked Mrs. Koda, and it turned out that she is recovering from breast cancer. I promised that I wouldn’t tell anyone, but of course you already knew.”

“She will have confidentiality with me, I promise. Has she had a relapse? If she has any questions about her disease, I could make an appointment for her at our oncology department.”

“She’s still under the care of a doctor. I wouldn’t mind speaking to someone in oncology, though. I want to find out whether there is a definite link between pesticides and breast cancer.”

“Are you working with those environmental zealots who railed against my mother?” Tom sounded horrified.

“No, but it’s a health concern your mother and all women who work with flowers need to consider.”

“Listen, Rei, there are far worse things that could kill my mother.” Tom’s voice lowered. “They’re opening the door upstairs. Someone’s coming down. I’ve got to go.”

With that, he broke our connection.

***

I dreamed of oversized flowers emitting toxic fumes all night long, and I woke early the next morning, probably from the stress. It was 7 A.M, and since it was a Saturday morning, I wouldn’t have to worry about morning rush-hour fumes. In fact, the streets were so free of traffic that I was able to jog from Yanaka to the Ocha-No-Mizu district without having to slalom. I ran under a stand of cherry trees, thinking that it was interesting that people didn’t sweep up fallen cherry petals the way they did leaves. The fallen cherry blossoms weren’t considered litter, but a supreme ornamentation. Under my feet, the petals were crushed into pale pink polka dots, a sophisticated design against the dark gray of the sidewalk.

I was glad that Tom had recalled Norie crying over a letter. There was a good chance that it was a haiku. I was tempted to tell Takeo about this, but my recent experience with him had left me feeling unsure. Did he really want to clear my aunt and find Sakura’s killer, or was he just out for an easy grope?

I knew there were enough men in my life: my cousin Tom, to give me medical advice and be like a big brother; Mr. Waka, to feed me gum and gossip; and Mr. Ishida, to supply me with wisdom. Not to mention Richard, who had been my best friend for years but now could be in serious danger from Che Fujisawa’s environmental group. I had to talk to Richard before he got hurt.

I was headed for It’s Happening! Language School, Richard’s current place of employment. I ran down a few side streets before I found a small building that looked like the place that he’d dragged me to as his cover date for the previous Valentine’s Day. An advertisement for the language school was in a second-floor window. It was early, but there was a chance a few workers were in—the perfect time for me to leave him a warning note. I buzzed the school office.

“Hai?” a young man answered, sounding weary.

“I have a message for a teacher. May I come upstairs and leave a note?” I put a hint of desperation in my voice, as if I were a student rushing off to my workplace.

“Rei?”

There was only one person at Its Happening! who would recognize my voice so swiftly. But I wasn’t taking any chances.

“Randall-san, could it be you?” I asked, still speaking Japanese.

“Who else? Come on up.”

I ran up the steps and through the office door Richard was holding for me. He was wearing the same shirt and pants as the night before, with the jacket I’d almost torn slung over one shoulder. He looked as rumpled as a salaryman who’d missed the midnight train home, a sorry state for somebody who was fastidious about fashion.

“Richard.” I fell into his arms, but he shrugged me off.

“You’re all sweaty!” Richard picked up a can of Georgia Coffee. He took a long sip, and stared at me suspiciously.

“Is that hot coffee?” I asked.

“Mmm. It’s from the machine in the hall. Want one?”

“No money. I was out jogging.” I turned out the pockets of my shorts to prove it.

“Okay, okay. I’ll spring for one. I owe you for that last Caipirinha at Salsa Salsa.”

“Thanks,” I said, taking it and sinking down on the floor, not wanting to leave damp traces on any of the office chairs. “I’m really sorry about everything. I never thought things would get so bad that you would have to sleep at work to avoid Che Fujisawa.”

“That’s not it at all.” He yawned, revealing a tongue stud that I hadn’t known he still wore. “I’m just trying to stay away from Enrique. He’s moved into my apartment, and I’m starting to go mad.”

“You mean you’re still cool with Che?”

“Yes, that liaison is fine. It’s pretty exciting, to tell the truth, though it was stupid of you to grab me at the station. You almost blew my cover.”

“Sorry. From the back, he looks a lot like Enrique.”

“I’m not into Enrique anymore, okay?” Richard snapped.

“But your feelings were so strong. You said you were in love!”

“We had an argument,” Richard said. “Enrique thought I was getting too involved in Stop Killing Flowers. He would rather go dancing than save lives.”

I looked at Richard carefully, to see if he was kidding me. “Okay, I won’t say the E-word again. Just tell me what’s going on with Stop Killing Flowers.”

“They talk Spanish half the time, which makes it hard, but from what I’ve been told by Che in Japanese, something really big is going to happen. Something that will make national news headlines, given the season.” Richard paused, clearly enjoying his effect on me.

“I’m sympathetic to the cause of the workers. I just hope Che doesn’t do anything too extreme.”

Richard raised his eyebrows. “The demonstrations they’ve made in the past have gotten some press attention, but the Japanese imports continued. They’re going to do something major this time. It will make the Sunday night news, I’m sure.”

“This action is something the police should know about. If Lieutenant Hata is on-site, he can make sure you don’t get killed or arrested—” I was so agitated that my coffee can fell off the knee I’d been balancing it on and spilled a light brown puddle across the carpet.

“Don’t you dare stop anything.” Richard grabbed a wad of tissues and pressed it on the carpet. “You’re such a mom. I would have told you, but now that you’re threatening to bring Officer Friendly into the picture, I won’t.”

Mom! That was a truly rotten comment. I tried to keep from screeching when I told him, “If you’re so loyal to your new friends, consider the fact that they might be the ones who almost killed Mr. Ishida and Takeo two nights ago. Or maybe you were part of it. Very nice. You’ve gone from teaching English to attempted murder!”

“We heard about the accident, but it wasn’t us. Che told me last night. Why would we hurt someone who’s a friend of the group?” Richard asked.”What does this ‘friend of the group’ business really mean? Is Takeo in or out?”

“Well, he’s donated some yen to the cause, but he will not join. Che told me that he considers joining us impossible, given his family background.” How self-destructive for Takeo to give money to an anti-flower group—even though I had come around to believe that Stop Killing Flowers had an important agenda. I asked Richard whether he had heard that Takeo Kayama was involved with their Sunday event.

“Of course not,” Richard said smugly. “That event is members only.”

“I see.” If Richard wouldn’t tell me something he knew, it was clear that I’d lost my best friend. I must have been showing my feelings, because Richard took my hand and gave it a quick squeeze.

“I know you’ve always thought of me as a supreme goof with no real ambition or social conscience,” he said. “Things have changed since I’ve joined Stop Killing Flowers. But because you seem so committed to becoming a police informer, I’m not going to talk to you anymore. At least not about environmental things.”

“Take care of yourself.” I took one last look at the heart-shaped face topped with a slightly greasy halo of blond hair. My little angel was metamorphosing into someone else. I remembered the cult that had risen to prominence in the mid-1990s, transforming young Japanese college graduates into subway-gassing psychos. At least with environmentalists, I wouldn’t have to worry about gas. Or so I hoped.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

I ran home and spent the rest of the morning going through the final administrative hurdles necessary for my flea market debut. In Japan, it seemed impossible to do anything without a permit. Then I made a personal call on Mr. Ishida at his shop. After thanking me for the flowers I’d sent, he gave me some suggestions on what I should try to sell at the shrine sale. Since he wasn’t going to be able to drive until his vision was better, he lent me his van to transport my wares to the shrine sale. I drove it to my neighborhood, parked legally, and spent two hours carefully transporting boxed china to it. Then I tucked it into bed in a parking garage two miles away that cost four thousand yen for overnight parking.

I returned home realizing that I’d forgotten to show Mr. Ishida the photograph of Takeo’s mother. I’d stashed it safely in my apartment, and now I transferred it into the money belt that I’d wear the next day at the flea market. Mr. Ishida had promised to stop by and see me there.

My Saturday afternoon mail had arrived. There was a gas bill that made me sorry I was still using my space heater on chilly days, and something very unexpected: a creamy, square-shaped envelope that bore the Kayama School’s address. I opened the envelope and read the message, which was printed in English calligraphy on one side, Japanese on the other.

The iemoto, Masanobu Kayama, requests the pleasure of your company at a cherry blossom viewing party at the Garden of Stones, Sunday, April 7. The favor of a reply is requested by April 5.

April 5 had been the day before. Mrs. Koda could have said something about the party when I was visiting her, but she hadn’t. Perhaps she didn’t want me to go. I thought of the haiku I’d most recently received, the one that spoke of viewing blossoms dressed in festive apparel above dead bones. Was the writer speaking about the Kayamas’ party?

The telephone rang, and to my surprise, Aunt Norie answered my greeting.

“Rei-chan, I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to return your call. How are you feeling?”

“Perfectly fine. I’m embarrassed, though, about what happened between us,” I apologized.

“No need to speak of it,” Norie said briskly. “I called to wish you well and also to see if you have something suitable to wear to the cherry blossom viewing party. It’s going to be at the Garden of Stones, the Kayamas’ country property.”

“You received the invitation today?” I asked, guessing that she also had received an afternoon delivery. “Don’t you think it is odd that the party is going to be held tomorrow?”

“Yes, the invitation is very late, but perhaps it’s because it’s hard to know when the cherry blossoms will be at their best. The Izu Peninsula has a different weather pattern, you know.”

“The Izu Peninsula is hours away. Are you sure that it’s worth going?”

“Now that Hiroshi’s back, he will be happy to drive us. And the Kayamas’ residence is really worth seeing.”

“I don’t think we should attend. Another haiku was slipped under my door, and it seems to refer directly to the party. I think that’s a bad sign.”

Aunt Norie paused, and I guessed that she was debating whether to ask me what the haiku said. She didn’t. Instead she said, “If I don’t attend the party, the other women will think I’ve been thrown out of the school. I won’t let that happen.”

Shimura pride. It was a damnable thing to have, but I couldn’t let her go alone.

“All right,” I said.

“Very good. What we need to settle now is what you are going to wear. I can lend you a kimono that is too girlish for me. Do you have a pair of zari that fit your great big feet? And tabi to wear underneath?”

“I have my own kimono…and is it a good idea for Uncle Hiroshi to come with us? He might be bored.” I was angling for Tom, because I thought he was younger and stronger, better to have nearby in a confrontation.

“Your uncle is looking forward to attending, because he’s always missed the party in past years. Tsutomu will be along as well, because I have my eye out to introduce him to some of the other teachers’ daughters. I have already left an RSVP that we will be present: Hiroshi, Tsutomu, you, and me. The Shimura family!”

***

Once again Norie had conned me into doing something that I didn’t want to do. Now I was torn. I wanted to stay in Tokyo and trail Richard to his rendezvous with Stop Killing Flowers, but I had a responsibility to protect my aunt, although it might turn out that my aunt and Richard would both be at the same place—the Garden of Stones.

I pondered the problem while opening up the chest where I stored my vintage kimono. I had more than twenty to consider. I’d chosen the robes for their folk art value instead of fashion purposes. While many exhibited special tie-dye techniques and subtle organic colors, I knew they might not be fancy enough for the Kayamas. I lifted out layers of silk before I narrowed the selection to a few robes in spring-like hues. The party was going to take place at night, so I wanted to make sure the color of the robe I chose was light enough not to get lost in the shadows.

I slid on a pale pink kimono patterned with delicate green leaves and was trying to figure out which obi harmonized best with it when my doorbell rang. I moved the screen covering the window aside. I couldn’t see who was standing at the door, but I did see a Range Rover filling up the street.

I didn’t want to see Takeo, especially when I was half dressed like a courtesan. I called through the door for him to wait a minute, and I began unfurling the sash that I’d tied around my waist. I buttoned up my shirt all the way and smoothed my hair before opening up.

It wasn’t Takeo, but Natsumi.

“Were you sleeping?” She peered at me critically, and I realized then that she’d noticed my pajama bottoms underneath the kimono. Natsumi was wearing a shiny black patent leather coat with matching pants, Gucci stacked-heel loafers on her feet, and a black- and- gold police-style hat on her head. I thought she looked like a storm trooper, or at the very least, a hostess at an S&M- themed parlor.

“No. I was relaxing.” I tried to look warmer than I felt. I didn’t want to reveal that my sloppy outfit was par for the course, just as I didn’t want her to know I was consumed with finding the perfect kimono to wear to her family’s party. I wondered if Takeo had sent her in his stead because he was too stressed to see me. Trying to get a feel for the situation, I asked, “Is that your Range Rover in front of my neighbor’s driveway? You might get towed.”

“It’s on loan from the dealership, so who cares? Besides, the car’s bigger than most tow trucks, so it would take some effort to move it. When Takeo crashed our car here a few nights ago, the police had to find a special tow truck to remove it.”

So, despite Takeo’s efforts to keep the accident a secret, she knew. Was that a good or bad thing? I had to find out. I said, “Why don’t you come in?”

“Not many women our age have their own apartments,” Natsumi answered, stepping out of her shoes that I’d seen at her home. “Do your parents fund you?”

“I earn enough to support myself. And this place isn’t that nice.”

“Oh, don’t talk like that. We Japanese say that kind of thing about our homes all the time—it’s so ugly, it’s so poor—but this place is really something. You’ve got a good eye for interior design.”

“I’m terrible with flowers,” I said, watching her examine the arrangement I’d made from the bittersweet her brother had brought me.

“It takes time to learn ikebana. Look at your aunt and her friends. They’re been working at it for almost forty years.”

“How long have you studied?” I asked, going into the kitchen and plugging in my small immersion water heater to make tea.

“Since I was sixteen. Takeo started much earlier because he is going to take over the school.” Natsumi’s patent leather pants creaked as she settled onto one of the low chairs near my gas heater, which was glowing like a little fireplace. “I told them that since I was just going to get married, there wasn’t any point in training me. But my father thinks nobody would many a Kayama who couldn’t arrange flowers. So now I make arrangements in department stores, which is a lot more fun than hanging around the Kayama Kaikan.” Natsumi waved a slender hand with nails painted the color of blood. “No tea, it stains the teeth.”

“Oh. I also have water, milk or grapefruit juice.”

“Do you have Evian?” When I shook my head, Natsumi said, “Oh, well, I won’t take anything then. Can’t be too careful.”

Even though I’d been the same way about drinking things at Mrs. Koda’s, I was pretty irritated that she was hinting I might poison her. It would be rude to drink tea in front of her, so I left my freshly brewed cup of Darjeeling on the counter. I sat down across from her, moving aside the kimono that I’d tried on. The silk cascaded over the floor, a glossy waterfall of pink and mauve.

“Getting ready for a costume party?” Natsumi asked.

“Not exactly. But it’s interesting that the Victoria and Albert Museum in London had a major exhibit of old kimono last year. Other cultures seem to value antique Japanese kimono more than we do here.”

“Actually, I’m not here to talk to you about fashion,” said Natsumi, overlooking the fact that it was she who had commented on the kimono in the first place. “I’m here because I want to warn you, girl to girl, about my brother.”

“Oh. What’s your warning?” She must have known that I had been in the office with him a few nights earlier. How much could she have heard through a closed door, though? Or had her twin told her?

“I worry that your feelings might get hurt. He might play around with you, but it would never come to anything serious.”

I felt my face becoming warm. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Oh, I understand the appeal. He’s single, rich, and the right age, while you’re not getting any younger.” Natsumi’s sneering face, underneath the military-style hat, reminded me of the meanest police chief I’d encountered in Japan. But I hadn’t broken a law. She had no right to insult me.

“I’m the same age as you and Takeo. I consider both of us equally marriageable, and let me assure you, I have no designs on your brother.” It was true. He had come after me, not the other way around.

“How dare you lie to me like that?” Natsumi’s voice rose.

“Takeo is your brother, not a husband,” I said. “He’s not cheating on you if he spends time talking to other women. He doesn’t love you any less.”

“What do you know about love or family? You don’t even live with your parents, probably because they threw you out! Yes, you and your aunt obviously share the same blood type.” Natsumi sat bolt upright in her chair, glaring at me.

“My aunt wasn’t thrown out of her home,” I said. “And I must tell you that while I don’t know whether Norie is type O, we are not genetically related. Her husband is the brother of my father.”

“A Japanese father doesn’t make you Japanese. You would never be accepted by my father, and that means that Takeo will never marry you.”

I did some deep breathing. “You’re the only one who has marriage on her mind. I have better things to think about.”

“Well, get back to your career, then. Stop pretending to study flower arranging. And you’re right, you’re really bad at it! Some people have the knack; others don’t. As for you, there’s no hope, even if you studied every day.”

While Natsumi went on spitting venom, I listened with one ear to the commotion in the street outside. I went to the window, casually shifting the shoji to look out. I slid it closed again and came back to Natsumi.

“Are you sure you don’t want some tea? Your throat must be sore.”

“No, I’m sure you’d poison it! You obviously know just the way to do it since you made yourself sick so easily at the Mitsutan exhibit. It might have fooled Koda-san and my brother, but not me!” Natsumi jumped up from the chair, knocking her leg against the gas heater. She swore, and I smelled something acrid.

“Are you okay? I don’t want you to go up in flames,” I cautioned.

“I’m melting!” Natsumi screamed, and shook her patent-leather-covered leg in distress. I made certain that there was no flame before I let my laughter release.

“You’re just too hot, Natsumi-san!”

She threw me an evil look and stormed out, squeezing her feet into the tight loafers as she slammed the door behind her. I slid the shoji aside to look out the window as Mr. Waka’s brother’s tow truck began hauling away the Range Rover. As the tow truck lumbered along, dragging the mammoth vehicle, Natsumi screamed. The truck kept going and Natsumi limped behind in her high-heeled shoes, flinging out obscenities that I would not have expected from a flower heiress’s mouth.

***

“My brother took that truck to his parking lot. That nasty little princess will have to pay forty thousand yen to get behind the wheel again,” Mr. Waka said when I walked into the Family Mart an hour later.

“How did you know it was Natsumi Kayama who visited me?”

“She stopped to buy some cigarettes and asked about your address. She had the building number but didn’t know the streets.”

“So you sent your brother and his tow truck after her?”

“Well…I gave her an earnest caution, mentioning that a vehicle of that very size and make had been recently involved in an accident. I told her that there would not be space to park a Range Rover on your street, and she called me a meddling little man! So I made a phone call to Yuji, and, well—” He giggled merrily. “The Yanaka Neighborhood Improvement Society has no tolerance for illegally parked vehicles. Fate followed its course.”

“I just hope she doesn’t come back to haunt us.”

“Yes, that young lady is trouble.” He broke off when a middle-aged male customer came up to the counter and asked for a cup of oden, the murky, ever-simmering fish stew that was the Family Mart’s signature dish. Mr. Waka ladled out a serving and rang it up with a smile and a comment about how nicely the customer’s son had behaved when he came in the previous day. After the man’s departure, the door chimed, and Mr. Waka resumed our conversation.

“Natsumi Kayama could have killed Sakura Sato. She was at the school the same evening it happened, and furthermore, she was at the exhibition when you were poisoned.”

“I don’t remember telling you about the poisoning.”

“Your aunt told me when she came to buy eggs. She mentioned it when she told me that she needed the freshest food possible to restore your health.”

“Don’t tell anyone else about my poisoning,” I said.

“Why? If you meet with foul play, this will be important evidence. I refuse to let a murderer get away with such a crime!”

“The police know everything already. I’d rather you didn’t mention it to anyone because that would only further scandalize the Kayamas.”

“And since when have you cared about them?” Mr. Waka exclaimed.

“I don’t.” I shifted uncomfortably. “It’s just that the school has enough trouble with a murder at their headquarters and an environmental group trying to shut them down.”

“And a daughter who breaks traffic laws. The iemoto must be ashamed!” Mr. Waka said. “I wonder how much longer until he removes her from the family register.”

“Don’t make me laugh,” I said to Mr. Waka. “I’ve laughed too much already on this crazy afternoon.”

“Laughing is good for the health, and so is this new gum made by Lotte! It’s a mixture of cherry blossoms and St. Johns wort that can freshen the breath while fighting depression. Won’t you try some?”

I needed to maintain full alertness, so after I left the Family Mart I spat the gum into its paper wrapping and looked for a place to throw it away. There were a few more trash cans around since the cherry blossom parties had gotten into full swing, so I pitched my tiny bit of litter into one near the park.

“O-nee-san.” A drunken laborer lying on a blanket under a tree called me sister in the way men did with girls they wanted to pick up. “Come have a beer. You look like you’re ready for a nap—heh, heh.”

“Yes, take a rest with us!”

I knew the men were harmless enough, but they had noticed what I’d forgotten when I’d left the apartment—that I was still wearing my pajama bottoms. I looked down at the pants’ faded pink-and-green-checked print, wondering why Mr. Waka hadn’t commented on them.

All I could do was put my chin in the air in the best imitation of Natsumi Kayama that I could muster, and pass. Laughter followed me like steam curling out of Mr. Waka’s pot of oden.

I longed to run, but that would only inspire more hilarity, so I maintained a steady amble past the Yanaka Teashop, glancing in the window and hoping not to see Richard or anyone else that I knew. He wasn’t there, but a pair of college-age girls pointed at my pants and giggled. I acknowledged them with a nod and continued on and around the corner to my apartment. Inside, I locked the door and collapsed. I poured myself a beer then and toasted the end of a very bad day.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Loaded up at 6 A.M. on Sunday morning, I drove to the Togo Shrine and discovered that I’d been assigned a spot near the exit. Sadly, this meant most of the market shoppers had spent their money by the time they came around to me. But some people tarried, and after two hours I’d made about twenty thousand yen—approximately $160. At nine o’clock, when I was counting my cash, I noticed an old man with a patch over one eye trailing past. I called out his name, and Mr. Ishida stopped.

“I was looking for you, but I have only one eye to see from,” he apologized, stooping to talk with me. We must have looked like two old-time villagers hovering over the old blue-and-white hibachi.

“How is your eye?” I asked.

“I still have a headache, and my vision is blurred. The doctors tell me it will take time to heal.” He lowered his voice so the other dealers wouldn’t hear. “ I lent you the van because I wanted you to succeed in this venture, but now I’m wondering whether it was such a good idea. It’s sad to see a purveyor of fine antiques sitting on a tarpaulin and bargaining! Maybe you should have asked someone else to do the selling for you. How about your friend Richard Randall?”

“Richard’s more of a shopper than a seller,” I said, not wanting to explain how troubled our relationship had become. “Why don’t you sit down for a moment? There’s something I want to show you.” I unzipped my money belt and withdrew the photograph of Takeo’s mother. “Imagine this woman twenty years later. Do you think she’s the one who came into your shop?”

Mr. Ishida studied it for a long time, bringing it close to and away from his face. “The kimono is the same, but I am not sure. This young woman is so lovely. I don’t think she would grow up to look like a typical middle-aged lady.”

“Okay, next photo.” I rummaged in my backpack and located a Kayama School brochure I’d been given when I started my studies. The brochure contained a picture of Sakura cutting flowers and the caption, ‘A flower master shares wisdom.’

Mr. Ishida handled the brochure the same way he had handled the portrait of Takeo’s mother. His face was expressionless, but after a minute he nodded. “This could be the woman I saw, but I am not certain. My vision is not good now. Looking at the picture hurts my eye.”

“I apologize. I’m asking you to do too much.” Feeling guilty, I put away the picture and brochure.

“Actually, my eye is tired because of some concentrated studies I was doing half an hour ago,” he said. “Around the corner, where the better dealers are, a plate sold that was remarkably similar to the Imari plates that you have.”

“Really?” If only I’d been able to walk around and shop. My position as a vendor restricted me.

“The dealer was asking five thousand yen. She didn’t know what it was worth, and of course it was a single.”

“What a deal,” I said glumly.

“If you could sell five plates instead of four, you could achieve extra value. Sell the set for thirty or forty thousand, perhaps,” Mr. Ishida mused.

“But someone already bought the plate. You said it was sold.”

“To me.” Mr. Ishida held up a shopping bag. “Would you like to see?”

The plate was perfect. The blue and white underglaze was as creamy as on my pieces, and the green, red, and gilt depictions of birds, butterflies, and bamboo were all in the right places.

“Would you resell the plate to me?” I asked. “You were the middleman, so I’d be happy to pay you more than the asking price.”

“Oh, just the cost is fine. Four thousand.”

“But I thought the plate was five thousand.”

“I bargained.” Mr. Ishida held up a cautionary finger. “This is why I don’t want you selling things in this market. It’s too easy for the customers to bargain, and too hard for the dealers to make a profit.”

I carefully wrapped my wonderful new dish with plenty of newspaper and put it in the van for safekeeping. I expected that I could sell the set next week to one of the fancy stores for a price that would be much better than I’d get at the flea market. Mr. Ishida watched my goods while I went to the van, allowing me enough time for a restroom break and a quick cup of coffee and a chocolate crepe from a vendor in Harajuku.

When I returned to my position, I thanked Mr. Ishida and he went home to rest. I stared out at the crowd, realizing again how much I hated having to stay in one place. In the next hour, my only customer was a housewife who bought three blue-and-white saucers that she said matched two she had at home. “Now you have a perfect set of five,” I complimented her, thinking about the terrific potential sale I had with my new set of five plates.

Thinking about my improved business position was a distraction from what would happen later in the day. I wondered what Che was planning that would shake Tokyo. If it were something truly awful, would I be considered an accomplice for not sharing my scanty knowledge with Lieutenant Hata?

My reverie ended as a small foot slid onto my tarpaulin. It was followed by the body of a small blond boy who tumbled into the midst of my wares.

“Ow!” the boy shrieked, then broke into noisy tears. He’d landed on a grouping of antique baskets instead of my neat line of porcelain soba cups.

“You’re okay, sweetheart,” I said, straining at having to use such an endearment on someone who had nearly devastated my inventory. “Where’s your mother?”

“Mummy’s busy. Uncle Richard lost me!” the boy wailed. I looked at him more closely, taking in the Doraemon sweatshirt and pale blue eyes. I recognized the child as Lila Braithwaite’s middle son, the one who had tried to cut his younger sister’s hair with the toy scissors. The ‘Uncle Richard’ he mentioned was my Richard, eco-terrorist in training.

“You’re Donald, aren’t you?” I asked, marveling at how he’d managed to slide into my display and not anyone else’s. Richard had chided me for being as bossy as a mom. Obviously it showed.

“David!” the boy corrected.

“Okay, David. Did Uncle Richard bring you to the flea market?”

He nodded and cried harder. I thought of hugging him, but I really didn’t want to, not with his runny nose. Instead I handed him the rest of my chocolate crepe. He stuck it in his mouth.

It was such a mess, being with the chocolate-and mucus-streaked boy and not a helping hand around. I felt guilty for having felt judgmental toward Lila for her desire to get away from her three children on an occasional basis. I could barely deal with David on his own: I needed to get him back to Richard.

“Excuse me, but could you please watch my goods for a little while? The prices are marked, and you could give anybody who wants one a ten percent discount,” I said in a rush to the middle-aged dealer who had been scowling at me all morning from his display of nineteenth-century erotic cartoons.

“I’m afraid not.” He only scowled harder. “You should keep your children at home, not bring them to the market.”

“He isn’t mine!” The snotty David and I looked nothing like each other, I hoped.

“If he’s not yours, take him to the police,” the man turned away from me firmly and went back to sorting his erotica.

“We are going to have to work together,” I told David. “Do you like baskets?”

David tried all the baskets on his head or arms. Now that I had a small foreign boy amidst my wares, more people were stopping to look, and I even sold one of the drool-covered baskets, although David wailed when he had to part with it. My annoyance faded because I knew that it was better that David Braithwaite had tumbled onto someone who recognized him rather than a non-English-speaking dealer. We spent an hour together, and I kept my eyes fixed on the crowd looking for Richard and the others. No luck.

By one o’clock the market was slowing down, and I decided that David’s safe return took precedence over a few thousand more yen. I tied a kimono sash cord from my wrist to David’s to keep from losing him as I made multiple trips carrying china to the van parked nearby. To some it might have looked inhumane, but David laughed when I told him that we were playing puppy and owner.

We walked the entire flea market twice, looking for David’s siblings. I asked every vendor if a small blond man with two other children had been spotted. I finally had luck with a woman at the entrance to the flea market.

“A sweet blond angel dressed in black leather?” she said with a lascivious grin. “He was pushing a stroller with a little girl in it, and there was another boy by his side.”

“Which way did they go?”

“Through the market and then back. In the end they crossed the street and went to a police box.”

I walked David across the street to the police box, where it turned out that Richard had in fact placed a missing-persons report. The policeman on duty looked David over while I explained that I knew the child and his mother and uncle. Seeming vastly relieved, the policeman suggested that I take the boy directly to Roppongi Hills. This seemed pretty trusting to me, but I guessed that the way David was barking and crawling made the officer afraid to remain alone with him.

By the time I’d secured David in the backseat of the van—with no child safety seat, I was praying for no accidents—he was still growling and yipping like a canine.

“I believe that you’ll be the first dog to be allowed to live in Roppongi Hills,” I said, feeling quite cheerful as I started driving. If Lila or no other family members were home, I knew that Mr. Oi, the building concierge, would look after him.

“Mummy says dogs are dirty.”

“Well, I can see how other dogs would suffer in comparison to such a handsome cocker spaniel as you.”

“Doberman! David is a Doberman!” he shrieked.

At Roppongi Hills I left the van double-parked in the portico and went inside, holding David’s hand.

Mr. Oi looked startled to see me with my new mate. “Mrs. Braithwaite is home. I shall call her to announce David-chan’s arrival,” he said, and called up over the intercom. He gave David a cherry-blossom-shaped lollipop to suck on while we waited.

“There’s no answer,” he said, looking at me with a puzzled expression. “The only explanation is that she is also on the telephone. She has two lines, you see, and if she is busy talking to somebody on one line, she may not want to answer our call. I let the telephone ring, but she is not answering. She must be home, because I sent up a guest earlier.”

I had a similar phone system and was occasionally guilty of not answering an incoming beep when I was involved in something important. “Should I go upstairs and knock?”

“Yes, please. Miss Shimura. If she doesn’t answer, please come downstairs with the child. I can entertain him with a small portable television.”

“David watch Doraemon cartoon!” my charge demanded as I led him away.

Riding up in the elevator, I glanced at our appearance in the mirrored wall and straightened both of us up a bit. Last time I’d been in the elevator, I’d longingly looked there for the memory of Hugh. I didn’t this time. Somehow the romantic feelings were gone.

When had I changed? Sometime between the night Takeo had followed me out of Salsa Salsa and our last awkward time together in his office, when he had stood close enough for me to feel his breath on my neck. Yes, I was starting to fall, but for somebody who had been upset with me during our last encounter, and probably would be even more depressed when I suggested that the person fencing Kayama ware was not his long-lost mother but Sakura. It would be the loss of a dream that he had kept alive for so long.

David skipped toward his doorway on the seventh floor, and I hurried to catch up with him. I rang the doorbell. Lila didn’t answer it, so after another minute I buzzed again. I felt the first stirrings of fear. Mr. Oi had been certain that Lila was upstairs in her apartment, and if she wasn’t answering, it might mean that she was injured. Or dead, I thought with a chill.

“David wants to wee.” David pressed his hands against the front of his pants.

“Please wait,” I pleaded, mind flashing desperately between two possible disasters: a deceased Lila Braithwaite, or David letting loose on the cream-colored hallway carpet. I knew David didn’t wear diapers, because I’d lifted him into the back of Mr. Ishida’s van.

I knocked loudly and called Lila’s name. David was moaning even more about needing the toilet. There was one thing left in my arsenal: my key ring. I’d never been asked to give up the copy of the key Hugh had made for me, and there was an off chance that it might fit Lila’s door. I located the key in the bottom of my backpack, and when I put it into the lock, it didn’t turn. However, the pressure I’d applied moved the door. I put my hand directly on the knob and turned it. The door had been unlocked the whole time.

David ran straight for the powder room, and I hoped that he wouldn’t need my assistance there. I stepped into the apartment, which was as jumbled with child paraphernalia as I’d seen it before. There was a splendid flower arrangement on the coffee table, cherry blossoms stretching upward and draped artistically with gauze. It looked very Kayama. I passed into the kitchen looking for Lila. I saw a bottle of Cristal champagne and two goblets standing nearby: probably she was planning to welcome home her husband. I peered in the children’s bedrooms and the master bedroom, where the bed was unmade. Mr. Oi had guessed she might have been resting; maybe she had only recently awakened. But where was she?

David flushed the toilet and was skipping through the apartment. “You and me can play all day,” he chortled.

“We need to find Mummy, and she’s not here. I’m afraid I’m going to have to take you back to Mr. Oi. You like him, don’t you?”

“Lolly man?”

As David mulled over the suggestion, I said, “Why don’t we take your favorite toy downstairs? Who is it?”

“My Doraemon. He was playing in there.” David led me back to his mother’s bedroom and pointed toward the closet.

“Okay, let’s get him.” I flung open the door to the walk-in closet, looking for the toy that matched the cartoon show.

I didn’t know who screamed first, but suddenly the apartment was filled with sound. Instead of finding a stuffed animal in the closet, I’d found two: Lila Braithwaite, cowering in a black lace teddy, and Masanobu Kayama, the iemoto of the Kayama School, wearing nothing more than a towel.

“Mummy shouldn’t play in the closet with Doraemon,” David said with satisfaction, grabbing a big blue stuffed cat from behind the iemoto’s ankles. “He belongs to me.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

I escaped, but it was a disaster. Lila was sobbing about invasion of privacy while Masanobu Kayama shouted that if I breathed a word of foul gossip to anyone, I’d never get a teaching certificate. Through it all, David sang the Doraemon theme.

I was shaking as I rode the elevator back down and could barely acknowledge Mr. Oi when he called out good-bye to me. I got into the van and sat still for a few minutes trying to get a handle on things.

Lila was sleeping with the iemoto. Now I understood why she knew the way to the Kayamas’ private floor—and why she had scratches on her midriff. They were marks of passion. Had Sakura known? Most certainly, especially if the headmaster had made a habit over the years of seducing selected students. Lila was in her mid- thirties and extremely attractive—in the teddy, her aerobicized body had looked fit and fabulous. Poor Mr. Braithwaite, away in Canada. He probably was too busy to suspect his wife was involved with someone else. Richard might have known. I imagined that he baby-sat when Lila needed time for her lover. How the woman had energy for a love affair when she had three small children around, I didn’t understand. Although she had once said to me, “I like to have lots of things going on. It keeps life from being dreary.”

I put the van in gear and headed toward Richard’s apartment in Shibuya. The police had told me they would call him there with the news that I’d found David. After finding a rare free parking place in a side street, I locked the van and walked around the corner to Moonbeam Villa. The building was more expensive than mine and housed many foreigners as well as Japanese tenants. I couldn’t have afforded it with my unstable income, but that was all right with me. I liked Yanaka better.

A young man in a red baseball jacket was sitting on a fussy-looking faux Victorian chair in the lobby reading a Spanish-language newspaper. I hung back until I was sure that the person was not Che. It was Enrique, Richard’s former boyfriend.

“Aren’t you Enrique?” I asked in Spanish, and he looked up in surprise.

“Oh, Rei-san! “ He smiled up at me. “I’m taking my siesta while Ricardo takes care of the children. They’re too lively for me.”

Remembering how energetically Enrique had danced, I rather doubted that. I sat down next to him and said, “So Richard kept the other two here with him? I wonder why the police told me to take David on his own to Roppongi Hills. What a mistake!”

“Yes, Richard was upset when the cops called him. What happened there?” From Enrique’s expression, it was clear that he knew about Lila.

“I walked in on them,” I said. “Now I feel like the biggest fool in the world.”

“Che told us that the flower-arranging boss was a man of bad moral character. Its true, isn’t it?”

“Well, he is a widower, so I suppose that his actions aren’t hurting a spouse. But Lila is married.”

“That is not the way love should be,” Enrique said with vigor.

“What is your ideal?” I asked. It felt strange to be having this conversation. I was jealous when Richard had put Enrique ahead of me, but now I was determined to give him a chance.

“I believe that love is forever. You do not fall in love with one person and the next week or year with another! Love is difficult for Ricardo,” Enrique said. “He falls madly, madly, and then he cools off. It is like being in a heat wave followed by snow. The only one he keeps a strong, consistent feeling for, is you.”

“Not really. He blew up at me, did you hear that? He’s switched over to Che’s world. He won’t tell me what he ‘s going to do later on today.”

“Maybe he doesn’t quite know himself,” Enrique said. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned about that boy, it’s that he is more show than go.”

I smiled at his use of the Western expression and asked, “Do you know what’s going to happen later today?”

Enrique shook his head. “I’m not in the important circle. Richard, with his ability to speak to foreign journalists, is closer. But still not entirely there.”

“It’s such a shame. Such a waste of a good person. Well, I’m going upstairs. I need to talk to him about Lila.”

“In front of the children?” Enrique sounded horrified.

“I’ll be discreet.”

Richard had always kept an immaculate apartment, with gleaming wooden floors, black leather furniture, and the only splash of color coming from bookcases lined with the bright covers of animation videos. I was worried that the Braithwaite children might have trashed the place. Donald and Darcy, however, were parked in front of his television set watching Pocket Monsters, the cartoon that achieved notoriety in the late 1990s when thousands of children in Japan went into epileptic seizures triggered by a cartoon character’s flashing eyes. From the way Donald glanced away from the set, gave me a bored look of recognition, and stuck his finger inside his nose. Darcy, the baby, was placid, alternating her attention between her sippy cup and a chocolate biscuit.

“You really know how to take care of children,” I complimented Richard.

“No, you’re the one! The police called, and I owe you everything for finding David. But where is he?”

“Long story. I’ll get to that when we have some privacy. How did you ever lose him in the first place?”

“He slipped away when we were looking at vintage Levis. I searched for half an hour before getting scared that somebody might have snatched him. That’s when I made the police report.” Richard crooked his finger, indicating that I should follow him into his bedroom in order to talk more freely. We kept the door open so that we could see what the children were doing.

“I left David at Roppongi Hills. Lila was home, and she had company.” I raised my eyebrows, so he caught my meaning.

“You know.” Richard sighed heavily. “In the beginning, I had no idea why she wanted me to baby-sit on weekends. When the children started talking about a flower man, I thought they meant a cute young delivery boy. Che and the rest of them in Stop Killing Flowers told me the headmaster had a secret friend.”

“Are they in love?” I mouthed the last couple of words, because I too wanted to shelter the children. They had a father. For all I knew, Lila’s marriage would survive and her relationship with the iemoto would wilt like picked violets.

“I don’t think so. It’s all about power. She gets to be president of the foreign students’ association and has already got three certificates under her belt. Garter belt, I should say. I’m sure she has great lingerie.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “La Perla.”

“You didn’t catch them in flagrante delicto? Wow!”

“Uncle Richard, I want another biscotti!” Donald whined.

“The jar is on the table, my sweet. Help yourself,” Richard called back. To me, he said, “I’m trying to teach him to be more self-reliant.”

“The situation with the iemoto sounds like a potential case of sexual harassment. If he drops Lila, she might sue. But who knows?” I was trying to give Richard’s cousin the benefit of the doubt.

“How many members does the school have nationwide?” Richard asked.

“Twenty thousand. And twelve thousand of those have teacher credentials.”

“He’d have to be busier than a hooker in Bangkok to sexually harass everybody up for a teacher’s certificate.”

“And if he was that type, my aunt and all her friends would not be part of the school,” I said. “I doubt it’s a situation where a woman has to sleep with him to get ahead.”

“Sakura might have known!” Richard said. “Lila told me that she was freaked out once when Sakura secretly followed her from the Kaikan all the way to Roppongi Hills. Lila thought that Sakura wanted to check out how fancy the building was, whether she was worthy enough to become the foreign students’ president. In hindsight, I bet that Sakura was interested in knowing where the iemoto was dropping in for a matinee.”

Lila and Masanobu Kayama had a definite motive to kill Sakura, but for them to be falsely accused of such a crime would result in terrible things: disgrace to the Kayama School, and perhaps Lila’s losing custody of her children in a divorce. The idea that the headmaster and Lila could be killers made me feel suddenly anxious about David.

“I shouldn’t have let David stay there. It was irresponsible of me.” I leaned against Richard’s wall.

“Look, you found him at the shrine; that was pretty damn lucky. Come over here and sit down. The longer you slouch against my Mapplethorpe print, the more glass cleaner I’ll have to use to get off the smudges. You look like hell, babe.”

“Well, I was at the shrine sale. Why were you there, anyway?”

“Don’t you remember the good old days when I helped you carry things? I thought it might be a way to make up. Of course, I stopped looking for you after I lost David.”

“You don’t keep track of the shrine schedule. And I didn’t tell you that I’d be at the Togo Shrine.” I was disturbed by Richard’s facile answer. It just didn’t ring true.

Richard was silent for a minute. “I heard you might be there from Che.”

“What is he doing, tapping my telephone?”

“Oh, no. What do you think we are, the government?” Richard bristled. “There’s a lookout in your neighborhood, though. Stop Killing Flowers wanted to see if you really worked at Mr. Waka’s Family Mart, as I told Che you did—”

“Oh, no!”

“Relax, Mr. Waka told them that you’re his apprentice.”

I was too worried to appreciate the irony in Mr. Waka’s defense. “Has Che been slipping notes under my door?”

“No, but it’s interesting that you mention that. Richard paused. “I really shouldn’t be telling you this, but the Stop Killing Flowers lookout person saw a lady slip a letter under your door two days ago.”

“Was there a physical description?” I asked, feeling excited.

“A middle-aged woman with flowers under one arm—a typical flower lover. I told them it was probably your aunt dropping something by, but they said no. They remember your aunt well from the protest outside My Magic Forest.”

“If only they could just forget about the Shimuras—”

“If only you could forget about SKF. Seriously.” Richard glanced at his oversized Swatch. “It’s two-thirty. Lila asked me to have the kids back to her by three. Do you think you could drop us off in Roppongi Hills in Mr. Ishida’s van?”

“There is no child safety seat. You’d be better off on the subway.”

“What are you, a cop?” he asked grumpily.

“I have enough involvement with them already, so I’m not risking anything else. But I hope this doesn’t impact your, um, plans for today,” I said with significance.

“You said you wouldn’t ask me about SKF!” Richard reminded me.

“Right! Let’s just hope we both live through the next twenty-four hours.” I kissed the top of my friend’s spiked head and gave each of the young Braithwaites a biscotti before departing.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The art of kimono dressing is like preparing for war.

First comes the planning: selecting an underskirt and a full-length, long-sleeved under-robe of the right color. I had one in blue that contrasted well with the pink and green kimono, but it took a long time to iron. Once it was on, I secured a silk collar around my neck, and I also tucked a rectangle of folded washi paper (in case I needed a napkin while drinking tea) and an ironed cotton handkerchief between my bra and the neckline of the under-robe. At last I slipped on my silk crepe kimono, and then the real battle began: tying a ten-foot-long obi, a silk brocade sash that was surely invented to confound anyone who ever had trouble folding an origami crane.

It felt like a week had passed, but it actually took an hour to get dressed, and then twenty minutes to powder my face and to figure out which of my lipsticks was subtle enough to work with the kimono. Finally, I picked a frost called Frenzy, which was pretty much the way I felt. I longed to sink down on my futon for a brief rest, but the huge, stiff bow I’d tied over my hips made that impossible. How could I ride in this condition to Izu? I was pondering this question when a car honked outside.

Aunt Norie slipped out of the Honda Accord’s front seat, revealing her splendid purple silk kimono patterned with lacy plum blossoms. Her red obi was embroidered with gold. Norie shifted to sitting in the backseat with Tom. I tried to convince her to regain her rightful position next to Uncle Hiroshi, but she refused.

“Your stomach, Rei-san. It will be easier for you up front.”

“Okay, thanks.” I guessed that she remembered all my carsick trips to Lake Biwa when I was younger. “How long is the trip going to take?”

“Two hours. Do you think you can last?” Tom asked.

“Of course. I have a bag of crackers to eat if I feel queasy. Want some?” I held up the plastic bag I’d bought at the Family Mart.

“Rei, don’t. You’ll get crumbs down your kimono. It’s too loose, anyway. It reveals the nape of your neck, which makes you look like a geisha!” my aunt chided. To fix things, she rose from the backseat and began tucking my kimono more tightly across my chest, which already had so many layers over it that it resembled a hard shield.

“I’m glad to see you have a handkerchief with you, because the Kayamas usually serve the most delicious chirashizushi, and you may need to wipe your lipstick. It is the fluffiest rice, topped with little bits of green onion, sweetened egg, and shrimp. Now that you can eat normal food again, you can enjoy it!” Norie chirped.

“I doubt Rei feels like eating any food served by the Kayamas. I wouldn’t,” Tom said.

“Don’t be rude,” Uncle Hiroshi sniped, his first words since I’d entered the car. I wondered what was going on with the Shimura family.

After an hour’s drive, the grimy, monster-sized buildings that made up Tokyo and Kawasaki gave way to smaller buildings spaced well apart, and then towering pine trees. Another hour and we’d reached the Izu Peninsula. The scenery would have looked prettier if the sky hadn’t been so gray. There was a storm warning on the radio, but before I could get the details, Uncle Hiroshi abruptly switched to a station playing Japanese oldies. As a high-pitched woman’s voice crooned the popular song Sakura, I closed my eyes. If the rain came, all the cherry blossoms would be washed out and we could make a quick round-trip home.

“Their house is in the mountains. The iemoto’s grandfather was clever to build in such a remote area. Now the beaches of Izu are cluttered by mansions and souvenir shops, it’s a horrible place to visit,” Aunt Norie opined.

“And outrageously priced,” Uncle Hiroshi added. “For what you pay for a view of thirty snack shops, you could have an apartment in Hiroo!”

“Mrs. Koda has an apartment in Hiroo,” I said.

“Oh? Did she invite you?” Norie seized on my comment.

“I stopped by for tea the other evening to thank her for sending me the flowers.”

“You should have asked her to your place for tea, not gone to her house. Rei, I hope you didn’t invite yourself. That may be an American habit, but it’s not proper in Japan.”

My irritation was rising. “She has trouble walking, so I thought it would be unkind to make her visit me, especially with the subway stairs in my neighborhood.”

“How considerate!” Tom broke in. “Father, did you see the sign for the detour coming up? You must move into the left lane.”

“This road was supposed to be improved because of tourism, but it’s just one hassle after another,” Uncle Hiroshi complained.

“Do you want to switch at the next rest stop? I like driving,” Tom said. “I drove the car all the time when you were gone.”

“Yes, and now that I’m back, you must be disappointed!”

A rusted metal figure of a policeman with his hand outstretched clearly marked the detour. Hiroshi whipped the Honda into the turn so fast that the car’s bumper hit the faux policeman. He fell over with a resounding clang into the roadway, but my uncle drove on.

“Other cars cannot get by. We must drive back and stand the figure back up,” Norie fretted.

“You want to fix everything,” Hiroshi said. “But this is not the same as carrying garbage out of a temple garden. We’re on a one-way road. To turn around and drive back is illegal.”

The tension was making my stomach lurch a bit. I wanted out of the car. I suggested, “Why don’t you stop the car on the shoulder and I’II hurry there and back?”

“In zari?” Norie asked, referring to my fancy thong sandals.

“I’ll take them off!”

Hiroshi never slowed. We debated the situation of the fallen policeman for the next ten miles, until we exited the paved road and started following a rough earthen track.

“Too bad we don’t have a cross-country vehicle. Four-wheel drive would make me feel safer. Please reduce your speed,” Norie instructed her husband.

I began dreaming of the Kayama family’s Range Rover that had been smashed, and the loaner that Natsumi had been driving. The interior was probably wonderful—leather seats, walnut dashboard, CD changer. Perfectly comfortable and quiet for a couple driving into the woods toward their assignation. I wondered if Masanobu Kayama had ever taken Lila to his country house. From what I’d read in classic Japanese novels, love affairs usually took place on a neutral ground such as an inn or a teahouse, not the family home.

“Didn’t you hear me, Rei-chan?” Norie broke into my thoughts.

“Sorry. What is it?” I asked.

“I asked you whether Mrs. Koda told you how she was planning to get to the party. The nearest train station is twelve kilometers from the house. I hope the Kayamas are giving her a ride. I would have offered our car, but with the four of us inside, there isn’t much room.”

“Perhaps she isn’t coming,” I said. “Mrs. Koda didn’t mention this party.”

“It is true that the invitations arrived very late. Usually the invitation is mailed the day after the Tokyo cherry blossom season arrives, with the party date set for seven days later. Such terrible events happened at the school during those early cherry blossom days, it is no wonder that the invitation came late, and the RSVP number was to an outside line.”

“What’s that about the RSVP?” I asked, not understanding.

“In past years, the number given for RSVP purposes was Mrs. Koda’s extension at the school office. But this time the number was that of a professional answering service. I chatted with a young lady on the other end, and she said this party was the biggest ever. More than two hundred are planning to attend.”

Takeo had probably arranged for the outside service to give Mrs. Koda a break. Despite all the bad things I’d heard about him, I’d noticed the way he was sensitive to the elderly woman’s needs.

“Father, when was the last time you came to one of the Kayamas’ parties?” Tom asked.

“Mmm, it was the last year I was here before the transfer to Osaka. Must have been three years ago. Yes, that’s right. But the party to remember was the one when Takeo and Natsumi were teenagers.”

“I remember that party,” Norie said. “Takeo did some kind of mischief with music.”

“Yes, there was a classical music recital going on in the reception room. But when the musicians finished playing, he blasted some kind of American rock music.”

“Really?” I was amused. “What was Natsumi like then?”

“Quite beautiful already,” Norie said. “She was wearing a kimono from her mother’s collection that was said to be worth more than eight million yen.”

“I remember she spent the whole party smoking on the verandah. It was disgusting to see a young woman with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth like that. You don’t smoke, do you, Rei?” Uncle Hiroshi asked.

“No. I tried it when I was a teenager, but it made me nauseated.”

“Of course it would.” Tom chuckled.

I was still interested in the idea of the kimono. “How do you think the Kayamas store a kimono that’s worth so much—in a vault?”

“Oh, no, the Kayamas have a kura, a storehouse for their valuables. They opened it for a tour about ten years ago. Each kimono is stored in an individual lacquered box. The system is very organized.”

“Like the archives at the school,” I said.

“How do you know about the archives?” Norie queried. “I hope that you haven’t been asking the school staff too many questions.”

“I feel sick,” I said, popping a cracker into my mouth and chewing.

“Rei’s obviously feeling sick, so let’s not press her for conversation,” Tom said. “Mother, if you don’t mind, let’s stay quiet for the rest of the ride.”

“Which way is it now?” Uncle Hiroshi demanded. He stopped at the end of the dirt road.

“Oh, dear, I was talking so much that I didn’t notice. I think we missed a turn, because I’ve never been to this place before,” Norie said.

“All your gossip distracted me!” Uncle Hiroshi cried. “Now we’re lost.”

“Father, I remember this area. I humbly ask that you let me take the wheel,” Tom said.

“Fine! You do everything better than I do.” Uncle Hiroshi unfastened his seat belt, threw his door open, and got out of the car. Tom left the back and took the driver’s seat. Now the young ones were in front, the elders in the back. How odd that felt.

Tom turned the car around. The road was so rough that small rocks flew out from under the wheels. It was definitely bumpy enough to make me sick, but Tom continued at a slow, steady pace. We traveled back about two miles to a fork in the rough trail.

“Yes, that’s where the correct turn is,” Norie said. “It’s a very subtle entrance. But look, there are pretty pink lanterns in the trees. And there is a car ahead of us! We must be on the right path.”

The car’s taillights vanished around a stand of tall oaks. Tom continued at his measured pace, and when we rounded the bend the car was no longer in sight.

“Just follow the lanterns,” Norie advised. “I’m sure they lead to the side of the house where the gardens are.”

I wished it weren’t so dark. I wondered if we were passing Takeo’s experimental garden—there was no way to tell. I only had a sense of vast fields and trees, a luxury of space that I’d rarely experienced in Japan.

“You see? Here we are!” Norie said.

Ahead of us lay a low, sprawling villa that reminded me of early-twentieth-century modernism and Frank Lloyd Wright. The house was built of stone, a material rarely used for houses in Japan, but had a traditional tiled roof. It looked very interesting. Now I didn’t care about the long, uncomfortable car ride or my uncertainty about the party ahead. “Aunt Norie, did you bring a camera? I’d like to take pictures.”

“Yes, yes.” She passed me a pretty little silk bag that felt heavy. “You can use my Nikon, it’s just point and shoot, neh? Just be sure not to use up the film. I’d like to have my photograph taken against the famous cherry trees.”

“They haven’t marked the parking,” Hiroshi complained. “Last time we came, we parked on the grassy area over there.”

“With Takeo-san’s interest in environmentalism, he might want to save the grass,” Tom said dryly. “I’ll get a bit closer to the house, and maybe we will see a parking valet.”

There was no valet. However, about a dozen cars were parked along the edge of the driveway. I recognized Lila Braithwaite and Nadine St. Giles, both dressed in sequined cocktail suits, emerging from a Mercedes and walking toward the house. Did Nadine know about Lila’s affair? I wondered about that, as well as about who was babysitting the Braithwaite children that night.

“Well, I’m stopping here,” Tom announced. He parked the car. After getting out, I arched my back with pleasure. The obi’s thick bow had forced me to sit ramrod straight the entire journey.

“Isn’t that Natsumi at the door? I must say she doesn’t look a day older than she did at nineteen,” Uncle Hiroshi said.

I looked and sure enough, Natsumi stood between two tall sliding doors. She was not wearing an eight-million-yen kimono—just a pair of black jeans and a T-shirt.

“You said I had to dress up!” I turned on my aunt in horror. If this was going to be a party full of young hipsters in black jeans, I’d feel ridiculous.

“I don’t understand why she is dressed that way! And keep your voice down!” Aunt Norie whispered forcefully.

“Ohairi kudasai,” Natsumi called, the standard polite welcome that one made to guests. Her voice was slurred, and she leaned in the doorway as if to support her body.

“She seems drunk,” Hiroshi said under his breath.

“Who cares? We all need a drink after that drive,” Tom muttered.

Intoxicated. Slumbering amid pinks. I thought of the haiku as I trailed them toward the house.

“Our house isn’t very clean, and I’m afraid we haven’t prepared the right food!” Natsumi spoke in a breathless singsong as we all bowed to her and passed into the house’s entryway. In most Japanese homes, this was a space no larger than five feet square, but in this house the fieldstone entrance was about thirty feet long and twenty feet wide. I longed to use the camera in the silk bag dangling from my wrist, but I’d have to wait until later, when the entryway wasn’t so crowded. Also, I’d straighten it up a bit before taking the picture. A newspaper lay atop the hall table, where there was no flower arrangement of any sort. I would have expected some hint of cherry blossoms, since this was a cherry blossom party.

“I wonder where the servants are,” Aunt Norie said to me sotto voce as we peeled off the light silk haori coats covering our kimono. Tom and Uncle Hiroshi had worn business suits, so they had nothing to do but step out of their shoes. Natsumi was rummaging in a long, low cabinet and then began tossing out dozens of slippers for us to wear.

I stepped out of my zari and into a pair of woven straw slippers waiting for me on the polished oak floor. Then we all moved into a large reception room furnished comfortably with low chairs and sofas.

Bottles of hard liquor waited on a table made from a highly polished slab of zelkova, but the cups next to them were of oddly mixed sizes and included a plastic tumbler decorated with Doraemon, the magical cartoon cat that had stalked me throughout the day.

I choked back a laugh. At a minimum, I’d been expecting tuxedoed waiters handing around drinks on a tray to the forty guests who were already there. The house was beautiful, but the preparations were so awkward that even I could have done better.

The saving grace was the cherry garden, revealed by the room’s three glass walls. The trees were in full splendor and softly lit with pink lanterns such as we’d seen on the path coming in.

In the garden, Norie’s friend Eriko, who was wearing a dark blue kimono, was chatting with Lila Braithwaite. Norie immediately began making noises about wanting to talk to them. I thought it was better that I didn’t come face-to-face with Lila, so I made an excuse about exploring the house. I made a drink for myself and then went into the dining room, where I had caught a glimpse of Takeo.

He was on the telephone, pacing around a striking dining table carved from a single huge slab of oak. He was wearing jeans, like his sister, and his Greenpeace T-shirt.

“I understand that you’re twenty kilometers away. You’ve just got to come.” His voice had a hint of desperation. I must have made a sound, because he looked up at me. To my surprise, he motioned for me to come in and close the door. I sat down on the edge of a black leather chaise longue and listened. “I need sashimi, twenty platters of your best. I know this is an inconvenience. I’ll pay extra.” Pause. “Do you have chirashizushi? No? What else could you do on short notice?”

At that moment I knew why he and Natsumi were in jeans and the house wasn’t ready. They hadn’t known any guests were coming. Aunt Norie had commented on the unusual RSVP procedure. She had written it off to unrest at Kayama School headquarters. But it was obvious that someone who hated the Kayamas had sent the invitations and arranged for an answering service outside the school to take the RSVPs. Furthermore, the invitations had been mailed during the weekend, so there would be no danger of anyone chatting about it at headquarters. The event had been planned so that the Kayama family would not see it coming.

After he finished the call, Takeo put the telephone down. “Maybe I should call McDonalds. Do they deliver?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

Takeo leaned against the wall and shut his eyes. He spoke as if in a trance. “This is a disaster. I can only imagine how many dozens more will arrive. I could kill my father for doing this to me!”

“Save your energy,” I said, getting up and going over to him. “It’s not his fault. I don’t know whose it is yet, but I’ve a sense that’s why we’re all here. To find out.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Before I earned a B.A. from Johns Hopkins and an M.A. from Berkeley, my top qualification was a Girl Scout badge for emergency preparedness. I recalled the stay-calm, deep-breathing part while dealing with Takeo. I decided that now was not the time to hit him over the head with the unhappy news that his father was carrying on with Lila Braithwaite. I let him rant about how horrible it had been when guests had started arriving an hour ago, when he had been peacefully working on a compost pile, and Natsumi had been painting her toenails in the living room.

“As the flower master designate, you can be as eccentric as you’d like,” I told him. “Make them believe that you purposely were working outside and dressed in a Greenpeace T-shirt to communicate the message of the school’s new green policy.”

“There’s no green policy,” Takeo said, drinking from the Doraemon tumbler that I’d filled with a bracing mixture of vodka and tonic.

“You are the next master,” I repeated. “It’s your duty to inform us about the direction the school is taking. And saying something from your heart about the school’s future commitment to the environment might actually save the evening.”

“You’re crazy!”

“Not as crazy as your friends. I suspect that Stop Killing Flowers is planning something so major that they assembled all of us to be their audience.”

“But I gave them money! They were supposed to stay away from the school.”

“Blackmail never works. When shopkeepers pay gangsters protection money, the fee always goes up. But in your case, the stake is something you care about. Right?”

Takeo didn’t answer me. He seemed mesmerized by the crowd, which had swelled to about a hundred. A young deliveryman with dyed yellow hair and an earring was unloading cases of sake and beer.

“Sir, won’t you stay to help serve?” Natsumi flashed cleavage along with her mournful expression as she bent to help him.

“Sorry, but that’s impossible. I’m on duty,” the deliveryman stammered.

“I’ll make sure that you’re well paid,” Natsumi purred. “If it’s a matter of calling your employer, I’d be happy to do that.”

“Well…maybe for a little while.” The man stepped behind the table and unscrewed the cap of a bottle.

“Good work, Natsumi-san.” I shot her an appreciative look that she didn’t acknowledge. I guessed that she was still angry about her visit to my apartment. I decided to reassure her brother instead.

“Things are going to be fine,” I told him. “Just greet your guests and try to relax so that you can make a good speech in the next hour.”

“Please don’t leave.” Takeo gripped me by the arm as I started off.

“I just need to find a telephone. Is there one in a more private location than this?”

“Upstairs. We have one in each bedroom.”

As Takeo and I headed upstairs together, we had to pass Aunt Norie standing in the hallway with her friend Eriko. Eriko smiled, but my aunt looked venomous.

“Rei-chan, don’t you remember what I told you?” Norie was acting as if we were going upstairs for a quickie.

“I’m just making a telephone call,” I said and hurried on before she could find another reason for keeping me.

Takeo showed me into a charming small bedroom with exposed stone walls on two sides and a fireplace, which was a very unusual feature for a Japanese home. I knew it was his room from the stacks of environmental magazines on the floor. A calligraphy scroll that looked like his mother’s work hung in an alcove above a vase of bittersweet.

“For propriety’s sake, maybe I should call from another room,” I suggested.

“Oh, is that what your aunt’s so upset about?” Takeo asked. “She thinks I’m like my father!”

I nodded, embarrassed because I now understood that he knew about his father’s relationships.

“You have the same opinion.” Takeo sounded bitter. “That’s why you ran out on me the other night. You think I’m some sort of cad.”

“Just let me use the phone, please.” I knew that I sounded brusque, but now was not the time to go into my own confused feelings for Takeo. I resolutely turned my back on him and picked up the telephone receiver. By the time I’d reached Lieutenant Hata’s home, Takeo had slipped out.

***

“You’re calling me on Sunday? The only day of the week that I don’t have to work?” Lieutenant Hata grumbled after his wife put him on.

“Emergencies don’t keep to a weekday schedule,” I whispered. “Do you think you could make it to the Kayamas’ cherry blossom viewing party? I can’t give you directions, but maybe somebody on the police force here could help you find the Kayama family estate. It’s in Izu.”

“That’s the other problem, Miss Shimura! My territory is Roppongi, not the wilds of the Izu Peninsula.”

“Please listen. This is serious.”

Lieutenant Hata listened while I explained about the surprise party that I suspected had been orchestrated by Stop Killing Flowers. But at the end he sighed and said, “As far as this party goes, it sounds like a comedy of errors. And we already know SKF’s big plan.”

“What—what are they doing?”

“They are holding a festival in the Yanaka Cemetery with mariachi bands, mimes, and various other entertainers. Che Fujisawa is giving away free organic cherry tree seedlings and asking people to sign a petition. I saw a story about the festival on the television news, and it looks like a fine event. The group is collecting plenty of signatures, and three senior politicians made a surprise appearance and have pledged to sponsor legislation calling for safe flower imports.”

So Che’s big surprise had been politicians? This was the secret Richard had kept from me? I was irate but not ready to give up. Trying to sound reasonable, I said, “You make it obvious that I’m wrong about Stop Killing Flowers putting on this party. But I still think it’s a dangerous situation. Why would somebody have brought together everyone from Sakura’s death scene? Could we be waiting for somebody new to die?”

Lieutenant Hata was silent for a minute. “Are the guests eating anything?”

“There is no food. People are complaining mightily about that. However, some sashimi is going to be delivered, and I suppose an evil person could sprinkle something on it.” I played up the last few words, hoping it would make an impact.

“I’ll call the district commander in Izu. But you must understand that the peninsula is large, and you’ve not given me much information about the location of the Kayama estate. I can’t promise that the local police will make a trip to this party. Without a crime having been committed, the only way I can interest them is by saying someone called me to make a report of excessive noise and unruly behavior. Miss Shimura, would you agree that there is excessive noise and bad behavior at this party?”

I understood my cue. “Absolutely there is.” So what if the guests were mostly in their fifties and extremely unlikely to swing from the rafters? Since the liquor delivery, the party had gotten slightly louder.

“Don’t drink too much, and please give me the number there so I can check in on you.”

As I recited the telephone number to him, I heard the clicking sound of somebody hanging up a telephone. Either the officer’s wife had listened to our conversation, or somebody in the Kayama house had.

“Do you know where your wife is?” I asked Lieutenant Hata.

“Certainly. She is sitting at the table with me, shaving a bonito fish to use in our evening meal. Why do you ask, Miss Shimura?”

“Ah…” I didn’t want to say that I thought some- body was eavesdropping. “I look forward to seeing the police force,” I said, and hung up.

Downstairs I passed Takeo standing in the hall with Mari Kumamori.

“I want you to take the teacher’s test again,” Takeo was telling her. And perhaps you would be kind enough to consider letting me borrow a few of your containers for an exhibit this fall.”

“Oh, no!” Mari breathed in sharply, but although her words were negative, her face was filled with delight. “My work is so awful!”

“I think it’s in the vanguard. With our school’s growing commitment to the environment, pottery with natural glaze is perfect. He changed focus from Mari to me as I passed him and stepped down into the entryway to put on my zari. “Please don’t leave, Rei.”

“I’m just going outside for a little while. Don’t worry. I’ll be back.” Feeling like Arnold Schwarzenegger, I decided it was too bad that I had to step into my one-inch-high sandals instead of combat boots.

The line of parked cars stretched out for an eighth of a mile. The vehicles were mostly Japanese sedans, although there were a few trendy sport utility vehicles. I walked in the dark along the line of cars, examining the line of the guests still arriving. We all nodded at one another or made half bows. I didn’t recognize any school employees.

The path curved around the back toward the ring of cherry trees. In between the trees were decorative stone lanterns and small boulders. The Garden of Stones appeared to be a hybrid of classic Zen gardening and American landscape design. I saw my relatives and moved in for a quick read on the situation.

“I don’t care about the flowers,” Uncle Hiroshi was grumbling to Norie. “I just want something to eat. Where is the chirashizushi you promised they would serve?”

I came between them. “The food will come. There was nothing on hand because this whole party was unplanned.”

“But how can that be?” Hiroshi asked.

“Somebody sent invitations for all of us to come, but the Kayama family didn’t know.”

“Who would do such a thing? To have guests when a house is not ready and food is unprepared is ...a humiliation!” Aunt Norie said. Eriko leaned in from a nearby conversation and nodded in agreement.

“We don’t know who did it,” I said. “The important thing is not to let too many people know, because then they’d all feel bad for being here. Takeo has ordered some food to be delivered. It would be a great kindness if you would help put the dishes into something resembling a buffet when it all comes.” I didn’t add the request to stay and watch the food because I knew that would come naturally to her.

“Of course. It will be thrown together, but it shouldn’t look too bad. I know exactly where the china is and how I should serve. “ Norie paused. “Is this why you went upstairs a little while ago? To help Takeo make a plan to save the evening?”

I nodded.

“You are a good girl.”

Peace restored, I walked back out to the driveway and then down a stone path curving toward a small white plaster outbuilding. When I came close, I realized that it was probably the kura, the storehouse used for family treasures. A vehicle was parked in front. When I walked closer, I stopped. It wasn’t the Range Rover, but a black Nissan truck.I moved to the hood, which was giving off some light pinging sounds, as if the ignition had been recently turned off. The hood was warm. The zari made me a bit taller, so I could see into the truck. In the pale light from the lanterns in the trees, I could make out the objects on the passenger seat: a fishing net, a ladder, and a few folded pink paper lanterns. So this vehicle belonged to the person who’d decorated the driveway. Now the secret party-giver might be inside the kura stealing the Kayama family’s treasures.

I wasn’t reckless enough to go in, but there was something I could do. I took out Aunt Norie’s camera and snipped a picture of the items on the car seat and then one of the rear of the truck, making sure that the license plate was included. Then l headed back toward the house, wishing that I had a flashlight. The woods around the house seemed unbelievably desolate. I was probably only fifty yards from the house, but nobody could see me.

I walked fast and was relieved when I came close enough to the house to see other guests leaving their cars. I hadn’t seen a single Kayama School staff person at the party; not Mrs. Koda, nor Miss Okada, nor any of the other important teachers or office ladies I’d seen at the headquarters. Certainly not Masanobu Kayama. Perhaps he was storming around his Tokyo penthouse, wondering how to punish me for discovering him and Lila.

Could Lila, who was absent, be with him now? Had she masterminded the whole party in order to ruin Takeo’s chance to take over the school? If so, that would mean she wanted to manrry his father and make her own children the new heirs. No. It wasn’t worth anything to be trapped in the Kayama family. Lila probably liked her affair just the way it was.

I entered the Kayama house close on the heels of a guest I recognized as the party page editor for the Tokyo Weekender. If a candid description of the party ended up in the biweekly tabloid, it would be devastating to the Kayamas. I went in resolutely and exchanged my shoes for slippers under Natsumi’s gaze. As I stepped up on the polished floor, she grabbed my wrist. After the editor and his entourage passed into the main room, she said, “I want you to go upstairs, take off your kimono, and give it to me.”

The alcohol on her breath was so strong that it made me step back. “Why?”

“I’m the hostess. I need to look beautiful,” she said, sounding as desperate as her brother had earlier.

“Don’t you have your own clothing? What about your mother’s famous kimono?” I asked.

“I wore that a few years ago.” She sneered, revealing dark lipstick on a front tooth. “I cannot repeat an outfit.”

“Well, you’d be repeating my outfit if I gave you my kimono. And what do you propose I wear? I’m too big for your black patent leather suit or even those jeans,” I said, examining them. They looked like the equivalent of an American size two, while I wore a six.

“There’s a kura on the other side of the house where you can find one of my mother’s old things to wear. You like vintage clothing! Take the key.” Natsumi fished in a chest of drawers, then slammed it shut. “I can’t find it. Well, that probably means that the kura is open. Maybe my brother’s there.” She wiggled her eyebrows at me. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you—some time with him?”

“You’re drunk, and I’m not going to the kura,” I said, thinking of the black truck parked outside it. “Please be reasonable. Everyone has already seen what you’re wearing and thinks you look lovely. Just sit down quietly and you’ll be fine.”

“This is a semiformal party,” Natsumi said in a slow, superior voice. “You don’t understand Japanese etiquette. Clothing is very important. That’s why I need you to give me the kimono.”

I’d had You don’t understand Japanese etiquette said to me so many times that it no longer hurt me. I looked straight back at her and said, “Very well, Natsumi-san. If you want to wear one of your mother’s kimono, you’re going to have to pick one out yourself.”

“Girls, people can hear you arguing!” Aunt Norie came upon us like a small tornado. “I’ll go with Rei to find the kimono. I know where the kura is.”

“Oh, that would be so kind.” Natsumi delivered an exaggerated smile to my relative. “Be sure to find an underskirt and under-robe and an obi. I trust your judgment to choose things that match!”

“But you’ve got something else to do,” I said in a low voice to my aunt. “The food.”

“I’ll ask Tsutomu to set things out. He’s become very good around the house.”

“I’m going to go upstairs to get undressed and wait,” Natsumi said.

“Of course,” Aunt Norie replied.

I didn’t like the deferential note in Norie’s voice. When we got outside, I told her, “We’re being set up. Something—I mean someone—is waiting for us in the storehouse.”

“That’s very silly, Rei-chan.” Aunt Norie snapped on the flashlight and began walking down the dirt road toward where the black truck was parked.

“The storehouse is the root of all the trouble. Just as Sakura went into the school archives to take Kayama ware, she must have gone to the kura to take Reiko’s kimono. While she was there, she came across something that led her to be killed.”

“What is this story about Sakura wearing Mrs. Kayama’s clothing?” Norie stopped and looked at me strangely.

“Well, I’m not absolutely positive it was her,” I amended. “But a middle-aged Japanese woman stole Takeo’s mother’s yellow kimono and called herself Kayama when she went to Mr. Ishida’s shop. She fenced some 1930s ceramics that were produced by the Kayama School.”

Aunt Norie began breathing rapidly. “Oh, dear. I think I’ve seen a woman dressed like that, but she was shrouded by early morning mist, so I couldn’t see her face. I thought she was Reiko-san, come back from the dead to haunt me.”

“Why?”

“She’s come to my garden a few times, always around the anniversary of her death in early spring. I am sure that the woman who appears there is the one sending the haiku,” Norie’s words came out in a flood that had been held in too long.

“But how can it be Sakura if we’ve received haiku since her death?”

“It’s a ghost who has come to haunt me for my sin,” Norie said.

Just how bad was her sin? I cleared my throat and said, “You and the headmaster. Did you…”

“Yes, I did. I hurt him terribly!” Norie’s voice shook.

“Don’t feel bad, Obasan. He manipulated you, and he does the same to other women in the school. These days they’d call it sexual harassment!”

“No!” She stared at me as if horrified. “There was nothing romantic with the headmaster. What I mean is that I hurt him by causing his wife’s accident.”

“Takeo told me that she fell down a flight of steps in the garden. How could that be your fault?”

“I was at the bottom of the steps, cutting daffodils for a forthcoming exhibition. My scissors were too dull to do a good job, I realized. Because I was pregnant with Chika, I did not have the energy to go up the steps. Also, the weather had been rainy, so the stones were very slick, and that made me nervous. I called to Mrs. Kayama, who was on higher ground, asking if she could ask one of the other students to bring an extra pair of scissors.” Norie spoke slowly, as if each word hurt. “She called out that she would walk down herself and give me her own scissors. I called back an apology, because I hadn’t expected the iemoto’s wife to do such an annoying errand. But she called down that she truly wanted to join me in cutting daffodils. But when she came, she fell head over heels down the steps. She landed, falling on the scissors she had been carrying for me. They pierced her throat.”

A freak accident—repeated as Sakura’s murder. Feeling a chill, I said, “That’s why, when you saw Sakura dead at the Kayama School, you were so devastated. You were remembering Mrs. Kayama’s death.”

Aunt Norie nodded. “Yes, and the others knew it, too. Twice I’ve found women dead with scissors in their necks. It’s a bad record.” She paused. “You don’t think—you don’t think there’s a body lying in the kura? And I’m meant to discover it, just like the other times?”

“We should wait for the police.” At my aunt’s surprised look, I said, “I called Lieutenant Hata. He ‘s going to send the local police out to look around.”

“Ara!” my aunt exclaimed. “So when you were upstairs, you were not just calling a restaurant. You were calling the police!”

“Yes. Takeo was showing me where I could telephone privately.”

“Are you sure you can trust him?”

I thought about Norie’s question and the various guises in which Takeo had appeared to me. I’d first seen him as an arrogant rich boy, then a possibly dangerous environmentalist, and finally an emotionally needy young man who missed his mother.

“I guess so.” I knew that sounded less than confident.

“Then you should ask Takeo-san to go into the kura. He is the man of the house.”

Norie wanted to see how brave or honorable Takeo would be in the context of danger at his home. But this was the wrong test. Takeo would no sooner go hunting for a kimono for his spoiled sister than I would.

“Nobody’s going in there until the police come,” I repeated. “Come on, let’s go back into the house. I’d feel better if the Shimura men were offering us support, wouldn’t you?”

Aunt Norie did not argue.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

“I’m bored to death,” Tom said when I came upon him pondering a calligraphy scroll in the house’s grand hall. “Can we leave? The Kayamas have vanished, and I’m running out of things to do. I’ve already made six rounds of the cherry blossoms.”

Norie and I exchanged glances, and I imagined she was thinking there were worse things to die from than boredom. After hearing about Mrs. Kayama’s death, my cousin’s exaggerated complaint was almost offensive.

“Tsutomu, your services may be needed. You should stay a little longer,” Norie murmured, smiling pleasantly at more party guests arriving.

“If somebody gets too drunk, as most of them are”—he waved his hand dramatically toward the crowd drinking on empty stomachs in the living room—”I will be asked to help them? Just because I’m the only physician here?”

“Nobody will ask you to do that,” his mother snapped. “You don’t have to do that at St. Luke’s, do you? The tough jobs are given to nurses. To women.”

Was this a bit of feminist consciousness surfacing? I looked at my aunt in surprise, and the tense moment was mitigated by the arrival of the sashimi. Because Takeo didn’t seem to be evident, I directed the deliveryman into the kitchen, and Norie and I swiftly moved the takeout food from its plastic trays onto the Kayamas’ antique wooden trays. Norie asked Tom to carry out the food and stand guard over it.

“Guard against what, the guests eating?” Tom grumbled.

“No, against poisoners! “ his mother shot back.

Tom raised his eyebrows but did as he was told.

Where was Takeo? I wondered about that when I got caught up in a dispute between Uncle Hiroshi and the deliveryman who wanted to be paid. In the end, Uncle Hiroshi handed over his credit card and said that he would guarantee the payment if the Kayamas hadn’t made good on the bill by the next morning.

“That was very generous of you,” I said to my uncle.

“I still have some money,” he said stiffly. I had almost forgotten about his unemployment, and now that unhappy specter reared its head again.

As the elegant crowd stampeded toward the sashimi, I overheard a woman commenting that there were no flowers garnishing the food. Aunt Norie and I had operated in a rush and overlooked this important detail.

As far as I was concerned, there were other priorities. I headed upstairs in search of Takeo, thinking that perhaps he had retreated to his room like an adolescent trying to avoid his parents’ friends. But that would be out of character for someone who had been calm enough to order enough food for two hundred.

The door to the room he’d showed me earlier was closed, so I knocked, not wanting to alert Natsumi in her nearby bedroom that I had come back to the house without a kimono for her. If Natsumi knew that I was upstairs, she was liable to off my kimono and stick me with her too-small jeans.

Hearing no answer, I cracked the door to Takeo’s room a few inches. It was empty. I closed up the room and surveyed six other doors. One of them was slightly open, so I peeked in.

I’d found Natsumi. She was lying sprawled across a canopied bed in a matching purple lace bra and panties that I would have envied if the situation had not been so dire. This small bit of jealousy helped to quell the fear that was rising inside me. Natsumi couldn’t be dead. I hurried forward and was greatly relieved to see the rise and fall of her tiny breasts under the lace. I shook her warm, smooth shoulder, and it flinched under my gentle grip. Looking at the jeans crumpled on the floor, I could figure out what had happened. She’d undressed to get ready to put on a kimono, and then she’d blacked out.

I shouldn’t have felt glad that Natsumi was out of commission, but now at least she wouldn’t be hassling Norie and me to go into the kura for her. Thank goodness for small blessings. I left the room, closing the door rightly to ensure Natsumi’s privacy. I’d heard a door open and then close in the hallway.

I didn’t think that it was a door to one of the bedrooms, but more likely the toilet. The tiny square window of patterned glass at the top corner of the powder room door indicated that someone was inside. Perhaps the unconscious Natsumi was going to be the first of many victims of too much drinking and too little food. The party columnist would have plenty to report on. I slipped into Takeo’s vacant bedroom to wait, leaving the door cracked so I could catch sight of whoever came out.

Takeo’s room was colder than the rest of the house; I wondered if he ever built a fire on cool nights like this one. There were no traces of logs on the grate, just a pile of environmental magazines. I was not a tidy person by nature, but not even I hoarded old publications to this extent. I turned my back on the clutter and toward the alcove where one of Takeo’s mother’s calligraphy scrolls hung above an arrangement of thorny branches.

I looked at the scroll he’d chosen to hang on the wall above the flowers. One of the nice things about Reiko Kayama’s calligraphy was that her hiragana lettering and kanji were sketched clearly enough for me to decipher. Usually the lettering I saw in calligraphy artwork was unfathomable.

It also helped that once I’d read a few words, I recognized the haiku as one I’d told Takeo about: The breezes of spring push the beautiful girl, arousing anger.

I’d first thought those words were a threat to me; now I understood that they were a recounting of the situation in which Reiko Kayama had fallen. Norie had told me that she thought Reiko slipped, but when she’d described the scene to me, she had only mentioned seeing Reiko falling. Norie hadn’t said it aloud, but I thought it now: Reiko Kayama could have been pushed.

Who would have pushed the iemoto’s wife? Logic told me the pusher had to be the headmaster or Sakura or another person within the Kayama School. But I could think of a young boy who might have playfully bumped against his mother. She had been unable to regain her balance and tumbled down the long flight of steps. The boy would come to bear such guilt for the succession of events that he would spend years copying more of his mother’s haiku and sending it to Aunt Norie, thinking she had seen him. How he managed to masquerade as his mother in a kimono I didn’t understand. Had he faked his own car accident because he needed to make sure Mr. Ishida wouldn’t connect him to the Kayama ware?

My vision blurred, and I realized that it was because there were tears in my eyes. How had I allowed myself to begin to become fond of Takeo? Norie had been right that he was the wrong person for me.

“What are you doing in here?” Lila Braithwaite’s voice cut through my thoughts. I spun around and saw her standing in the doorway. In her white sequined cocktail suit, she resembled an ice queen.

“I’m waiting. And I’m sorry about what happened earlier today.”

“So am I!” Lila’s words tumbled out in a long, angry rush. “When I met you at first, I really thought you just wanted to sell me a few antiques. And I would have bought them, you know. Is that why you ruined my life—because you were annoyed that I didn’t want your stupid plates?”

“Don’t you think you’re the one who designed your life’s plan? It was your choice to be with the iemoto. If it wasn’t that, well, you should tell the police. There are laws against sexual harassment.”

Lila closed the door behind her and came closer to me. “You’re a regular little tour guide to Japan, aren’t you, Rei? You speak the language. You sell the furniture. You even give legal advice! Well, be assured that Masanobu isn’t harassing me. We’re two adults who made a choice to do something together. Apart from our children. Just for us!”

I was about to respond rather snappishly that she did have a husband somewhere, even if I’d never seen him, but I controlled myself. She was right. I’d opened first her apartment door and then her bedroom closet door. You couldn’t get much more invasive than that.

“I’m not going to tell anyone.” I meant that. “I couldn’t bear for Takeo to go through the embarrassment of knowing what his father had done. He had enough pain trying to work through the loss of his mother.”

“I don’t believe you.” Lila’s voice trembled.

“I promise.” I kept my eyes on her. “As long as you don’t have a connection with Sakura’s murder.”

“I—we—she—” Lila stammered a bit, then spoke in a dead tone. “Sakura knew. She was mean to me in class, and she hinted about her knowledge to Masanobu. But he just gave her a new promotion. He made her a super-grandmaster, with a new salary scale. Money solves everything, you know. Masanobu would never, ever lift a finger to hurt a woman.”

“But he scratched you,” I said, remembering the marks I’d seen when she was getting teacups in her kitchen.

Lila was silent for a beat, then said, “I asked him to do that.”

“Do you mean…” A vision of kinky sex flashed into my mind.

“You’re not married,” Lila said bluntly. “When you’re a single woman, love is supposed to be hearts and flowers. Well, when you’ve been around for a while, sometimes you want to be pricked by thorns.” I must have been blushing, because Lila snorted. “You’re embarrassed. You’re so young, aren’t you? Well, be assured that our love affair is over. He’s no longer interested.”

“He broke up with you?”

“Masanobu rushed off, saying the relationship would be impossible to pursue now that you’d found us out. I begged him to calm down and think it over, but he insisted he needed to leave. I assumed he would be coming here to oversee the final preparations. I think the only reason he isn’t here is to avoid me. But it’s a terrible party without him! I don’t know how his children are going to carry on the show. They’ve failed miserably tonight.”

“Did the headmaster mention this party to you?” I asked.

Lila looked startled by my question. “No. I received my invitation yesterday but didn’t bring it up. I had other things on my mind. Our time together was so limited.”

“If it’s any consolation, he didn’t know about this party,” I said. “Natsumi and Takeo didn’t know, either. It was set up with RSVPs taken by an answering service outside of the school so that Norie none of the Kayama staff would get wind of it and tell the family. That’s why Mrs. Koda isn’t here.”

“Then…who sent the invitations?” Lila’s eyes were wide.

“I don’t know. My guess is someone who wants to devastate the family.”

“Or who loves the family,” Lila said softly. “If nobody had sent out invitations for tonight, there wouldn’t have been a cherry blossom viewing party this year. The person who sent the invitation was saving the tradition—one hundred and forty-five uninterrupted years of cherry blossom viewing parties. For the Kayamas, tradition is everything.”

***

I pondered Lila’s theory after she left, hurrying down the stairs to Nadine, who was calling for her to join in a group photograph.

Tradition. I thought about the years of Kayama history as I found myself again looking at Reiko Kayama’s scroll hanging in Takeo’s bedroom alcove. I knew that I should go downstairs and try to find Takeo and ask him about this idea of tradition. Maybe he had noticed a teacher or student who had exhibited a strange fascination with the past.

Before leaving the room, I wanted my own record of Reiko Kayama’s artwork. I pulled Aunt Norie’s camera out of the little handbag I’d been dangling from my wrist and focused on the scroll. I wanted to get a close view of her writing, so I zoomed in with the telephoto lens.

Looking at the scroll, I was struck once more by its dissimilarity to the haiku letters I’d received. The handwriting style would be different, but there was something else. As the flash went off, the answer came to me.

The difference was that in the text of Reiko’s original scroll— the one that I was looking at now—there were four kanji characters: the ones for “spring,” “wind,” “beauty,” and “woman.” I had skimmed over them without a hitch because I was getting better at reading kanji. The notes that were slipped underneath my door were written completely in hiragana, the phonetic lettering.

Hiragana was used specifically for me. The person sending me the note thought that I couldn’t read much Japanese and wanted to ensure that I understood the message.

Who knew that I couldn’t read kanji? Not Takeo. I’d fibbed to him in the restaurant about being able to read the menu.

Who knew that I couldn’t read? I repeated to myself, and then I remembered.

***

“Where’s your mother?” I asked Tom as I hurried up to him. He was standing tense and unsmiling over the emptying buffet table.

“Oh, there you are! She wanted me to tell you that she was going outside to get something for Natsumi.”

“She went with Uncle Hiroshi?” I guessed.

“No, look at him!” Tom inclined his head toward the garden. I could just make out Uncle Hiroshi talking animatedly to a small man with a familiar-looking back. “He’s talking to the president of Sendai Limited. Mother saw that, and she didn’t want to disturb him.”

“Oh, no!” I knew Masuhiro Sendai, one of Japan’s captains of industry, through my ex-boyfriend Hugh. Sendai Limited had meant phone calls disrupting dinner and sleep on a daily basis. How ironic that Sendai was already distracting Hiroshi when his wife needed him.

“It doesn’t hurt for my father to talk with Sendai- san. It can only help,” Tom told me.

“But your mother shouldn’t have gone out into the dark alone. Forget about watching the food, Tom. We must find her.”

“I’m sure that she’ll be safe. She’s with Iwata-san.” When I looked at him uncomprehendingly, he added, “That’s right! You know Iwata-san by her first name. I’m talking about her friend Eriko.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Several of the lanterns hanging in the trees had blown out, so it was even darker outside. A wind had come up from nowhere, and there was the feeling of approaching rain. I kicked off the cumbersome sandals and jogged in my silk-stockinged feet toward the kura. The little purse was a hindrance, so I set it down on a rock, taking out the camera and slinging it around my neck.

The kura, which had seemed small to me before, looked larger this time. It was a building the size of a typical house in Yanaka and appeared to be two stories, I guessed, from the bits of light seeping through a shuttered window set high above the door. Just like the tiny window in the Kayamas’ toilet room, this window served an important function. The storehouse hadn’t had a light on before. Someone had been, or still was, inside.

I was glad to be without shoes as I crept up to the storehouse. The entrance was similar to a pair of barn doors, with a latch in the middle that had been opened. I pulled softly on the left door, cringing in expectation that it would creak. It was well oiled, though, and swung open without a sound.

I stood in the doorway, scanning the storehouse. Now I understood why there were no windows on the ground level. All the walls were lined by deep shelves that went up to the second level; and all the shelves were filled with large, lacquered boxes. A step tansu chest that was built in the form of a staircase accessed these shelves. I’d seen step tansu used decoratively in houses, but not in a way such as this. The tansu didn’t look like a staircase I’d trust, given that the treacherously narrow, steep steps were aged and dry wood. As I ventured a bit further into the room, I saw that a storage box close to the far wall had been opened. Red silk cascaded over the edge. Maybe it was one of Reiko’s kimonos. But where was my aunt?

With the crackling sound of lightning hitting something outside, the lights went out. I was left in stillness, and the kura’s special fragrance, a mixture of old wood, fabric, hay, and earth, had been replaced by the smell of my own fear. Rain pounded on the tiled roof as musically as a taiko drummer. The storm was on.

I edged back toward where I remembered the door was. I was at an advantage, being downstairs and close to the exit. But as I moved, I became aware of a new scent, a heavy floral perfume.

I had lost my orientation in the darkness. I was no longer sure of the way back to the door or the distance to the shelves full of boxes. I stretched my hands out carefully, trying to gauge things, and moved sideways. I had to be quiet.

After three minutes of moving very slowly, I bumped into a row of shelves. The sound of my hand knocking against wood was like the thunder outside. Remembering the layout of the shelving, though gave me an idea. I crouched down and used my hands again to ascertain how high and deep the bottom shelving was. It was probably large enough for me to crouch in, if I could move one of the cumbersome kimono boxes out. I did that with very little noise and squeezed into the vacated space.

The temperature in the storehouse seemed to have risen a notch. I guessed it was my anxiety. The air was faintly smoky, as if somebody was smoking a cigarette.

Takeo smoked. I remembered his long-ago offer of a cigarette. I’d declined and bhe had never smoked in my presence after that. Was he inside and smoking as he leisurely made his way toward me?

No, he wasn’t the one. I knew that the danger was Eriko Iwata. I heard feet in zari clopping carefully down the wooden-step tansu and onto the ground floor. My territory.

“Is it you, Rei-san?” Eriko’s soft voice reached me. “Your aunt had an accident up in the loft when we were looking for Natsumi’s kimono. I need your help.”

Nausea punched at my stomach as I thought of what Eriko had done. The realization had come when I was contemplating Reiko Kayama’s calligraphy scroll written in kanji, not hiragana. I remembered Eriko noting my inability to read kanji at the ikebana class. The woman running back into the shadows of the refreshment area at the Mitsutan exhibit had been Eriko. She’d tried to kill me. Now she had my aunt.

The sound of steps came close, and I caught a glint of something in the darkness. What was it? Civilians weren’t allowed to carry handguns in Japan.

Eriko coughed. The smoke was affecting her, too. But the cough was more distant—she had passed and gone in another direction.

“I’ll help you, just as I helped the others. Especially the headmaster,” Eriko said in a wheedling tone. She was unhinged, I realized. And nobody had ever known.

“You made him miserable! And all of us as well!” Takeo’s voice rang out from somewhere above me.

This was a shock I hadn’t expected; and I felt my anxiety rise even higher. How had a woman only five feet two inches tall overpowered a man significantly larger, stronger, and younger than herself? She was an enemy like none I’d ever faced.

I heard the sound of a bolt slamming into place, and I realized the door had been latched. Had she locked us in and left?

“Where are you?” I called to Takeo.

A flashlight’s wide yellow beam flashed over the shelves where I was hiding. I bumped my head in my eagerness to get out of my hiding place, but I stopped when I heard sandals clip-clopping back in my direction.

“Thank you for speaking. Ah, there you are!” Eriko said.

The flashlight illuminated my face. She shone the light so closely at me that I couldn’t see much of anything except the shining steel samurai sword outstretched in my direction.”This is one of the Kayama family’s prized blades. I asked Takeo-san to take it out of storage for me,” she said.

“Don’t touch her—I thought you’d use it on yourself,” Takeo shouted from above. “Isn’t that the honorable thing for someone to do after she’s been revealed as a murderer?”

“The sword is to make you move where I want you to go,” Eriko said tightly. Come out of that place, Rei-san. I don’t want your blood to soil the premises.”

“Is this how you trapped Takeo?” I asked. “You convinced him to give you the sword, and then you turned it on him? What did you do to my aunt?”

“I’m with your aunt on the second floor,” Takeo called down to me in English. “Eriko was attacking her with ikebana scissors when I came in. She’s still alive, but she’s very weak.”

My aunt was bleeding to death. I knew it without needing to see her. I felt something inside me break. How much I loved Norie—and how rarely I told her. And now, we would all die.

“Move,” Eriko ordered me, waving the tip of the sword in front of my face.

I began edging my way out, and Eriko backed away slightly, keeping the flashlight and sword aimed at me. I unfolded myself and stood up, using my hand to keep myself steady. One of my feet had gone to sleep. Within a few seconds, as blood rushed back to it, it would prickle painfully.”Go!” Eriko ordered me, waving the sword in my face.

“My foot went to sleep, so it will take a minute—”

“Believe her,” Takeo called down from upstairs. “Her foot went to sleep the first time I took her out. It’s the problem with Japanese raised in the United States. You’re going to have to give her a few minutes to get her strength back.”

I called back to Takeo in English, “How did you get caught?”

“I came in because I saw the light in the storehouse from my upstairs bedroom. I thought that if Stop Killing Flowers were here, I could calm them down. I walked right in, and Eriko called from the loft that Norie was hurt. When I made it up the stairs, Eriko threw a fishing net over my head and said that if I didn’t tell her where the swords were stored, she’d throw your aunt over the edge and down to the floor. She tied both of us together against one of the beams. She invited all the people here to embarrass my family and keep everyone occupied while she finished off your aunt and you.”

“I understand English,” Eriko spat back. “Don’t talk behind me.”

“Good, we’ll speak to you directly then.” Takeo was using the icy delivery he employed with underlings, which worried me. If Eriko became very angry, she was liable to slash through me.

“Move in the direction I’m pointing you, please.” Eriko continued speaking to me in formal Japanese, but her polite words were belied by the sword, which made a tearing sound as it sliced through my kimono and the silk under-robe.”The sword is going to be sold along with all the other Kayama things,” Eriko said. “You would be surprised to know that your work finding unappreciated treasures and selling them for high profits has been my inspiration.”

“Really,” I said. “Don’t you think you’ll get caught?”

“Not at all!” Eriko sounded cheerful. “You will die from the small fire that is just smoldering now. A lantern that was hanging in the trees was knocked over by accident by Takeo and Rei when they came inside to enjoy a covert romance and were interrupted by Norie.”

“I’ve been trying to tell you,” Takeo coughed, “that among the weeds you used as kindling, is poison ivy. You pulled it from the back wall of the kura, didn’t you? Your hands will be covered with a rash. You can walk back to the party, but within a few hours the evidence will be visible.”

“Eriko, put the fire out at least,” I begged. “The ivy releases dangerous fumes. It will kill you, too.”

“We’d better hurry then,” Eriko said. “Rei-san, you must walk up the tansu to the loft so that I may arrange everything.”

“That’s how it was with Sakura, wasn’t it?” I asked, stumbling in the dark as Eriko’s sword tore a new hole in my kimono. “You poisoned Sakura first. Then, when she was dying, you used the shears to cut into her neck. You made a very... “— I searched for an appropriate word—”… dramatic arrangement.”

“I succeeded in reminding people of Norie’s guilt in Reiko Kayama’s death. She killed her, and nobody punished her!” Eriko cried.

“It was an accidental fall,” I said as my foot knocked into the first step of the tansu staircase. “My aunt feels terrible because Takeo’s mother fell while bringing her some scissors. But it’s not her fault.”

“Your aunt was telling me the facts before she lost consciousness,” Takeo said. “For years I refused to believe it was an accident, but now I do. Too late.”

“Someone needs to remember,” Eriko said. “I reminded Norie every year of the crime she committed. And I reminded you with letters, Takeo-san, when you were not following the correct path of your father. But you did not listen.”

“What about me?” I asked. “Why did you poison me first and then start sending those notes? I had nothing to do with Reiko Kayama’s death.”

“You were too close to the truth. Just as she was.” Eriko’s voice softened. “Rei-san, please be careful climbing the stairs. Your body must be placed on the second floor with Takeo-san and your aunt. You must not fall down. That kind of accident would ruin my arrangement.”

I lifted my skirts and stepped slowly up the staircase, which creaked ominously. Eriko’s and my weight on the steps at once might be too much for the old wood to bear.

“Don’t tell me that you killed Sakura because you were jealous of Norie!” Takeo’s voice was weakened, probably because he was so close to the poisonous fumes. If he got out of this alive, I bet he’d never pick up a cigarette again.

“Save your breath,” I said to Takeo. As I made my way up the steep steps, I was formulating a new idea. It was risky, but what else could I do? In the meantime, I talked. “Eriko-san, I think Sakura discovered that you had worn Reiko’s kimono and were selling off the Kayama treasures. Then Sakura confronted you, and you decided you might as well kill her and implicate Norie for the crime.”

“There’s a danger in being too clever, Rei-san,” Eriko’s voice said from behind me.

“Ah so desu ka—Is that so?” I asked while making a giant stretch up two steps instead of one. As my left leg moved to join my right, I sensed Eriko’s surprise at my departure. In the split second the sword slipped off my back, I whirled around and aimed my camera at her face. I pressed the picture-taking button, and the flash went off with an explosion of glare.

Faced with the blinding white light, Eriko’s mouth gaped in surprise and then horror as she tripped backward away from the light and into nothingness. Almost immediately I heard a body hit the cement floor with a sickening thud. The sword made a jangling sound as it fell on the other side of the steps.

Eriko’s whimpers turned into sobs. She begged me to help her, first in Japanese and then in English. But I had other priorities. I needed to put out a fire, stop my aunt’s bleeding, and untie Takeo. I had no time for Eriko’s troubles. Instead, I put my hands on the edge of the loft and pulled myself up.

CHAPTER THIRTY

My back was killing me as I bent forward and shoved a spade into yet another square of Aunt Norie’s lawn. I’d never realized how hard gardening was.

“Be sure that you are reaching below the roots, Rei. Look how nicely Takeo-san is doing it. Just follow his example,” Norie called from the chaise longue on the stone patio where she was supervising.

Takeo and I had been digging up the lawn for what seemed like hours, under the strong May sun. Aunt Norie thought the storm that raged the night of our near tragedy at the Kayamas was a harbinger of the rainy season, and the second she had regained consciousness at the hospital, she had begged me to make sure her garden was planted in time to take advantage of the rain.

I was so grateful that Norie was alive that I would have done anything she asked. The lasting damage from Norie’s struggle with Eriko was a large number of deep cuts on her forearms and hands. Over three hundred stitches had been needed to close her wounds, which meant that for the time being, Norie couldn’t arrange flowers, cook, and certainly not put in the native plants that Takeo had given her. Fortunately, the poison ivy fumes hadn’t hurt any of us.

I resettled the triangular-shaped straw hat on my damp head, imagining that I looked like a stereotyped Asian rice farmer. Takeo looked gorgeous under his hat, but then again, he looked that way in everything, his Greenpeace T-shirt notwithstanding. That T-shirt covered with Norie’s blood, had been seized by the late-arriving police as evidence for Eriko’s murder trial. The police had also taken my torn kimono off my back and Norie’s camera, which turned out to have taken a very good picture of Eriko holding the sword in front of her in the second before she fell and broke her back. The poison ivy rash that developed on Eriko’s hands matched with the small burned pile of poison ivy plants in the loft—even more evidence against her, because she obstinately refused to confess.

Looking at the bittersweet bushes lined up against the stone wall, I thought about how sad it was that Takeo had lost his last hope that his mother might be alive. Aunt Norie had lost the woman she thought was a close friend. Tom and I could talk to her about the loss, but Uncle Hiroshi was not around much, since he’d started a new job with Sendai Limited, a company I knew a little about because Hugh Glendinning had worked there.

I could guess what would happen. Hiroshi would regain his sense of self but lose his chance to spend significant time with Norie. But at least he would spend his nights at home, not in Osaka.

“You’re so lucky to live the way you do,” I grunted to Takeo as I began turning the earth once again. “You have the ability to spend your days playing in dirt while retaining the title of flower master. After you’re through redesigning Norie’s garden, it may very well become a Yokohama landmark.”

“I’m afraid not.” He didn’t look at me, but just kept digging. “I should tell you that my father decided that it would be better if Natsumi becomes the next master.”

“That’s not fair.” I still thought that one of the problems with ikebana is that there weren’t enough women as headmasters. But Takeo would have been a visionary, modern headmaster. And even though the iemoto had broken off his relations with Lila, word about the ill-fated liaison had gotten around, and many of the students were demoralized. The school needed fresh leadership.

“Natsumi didn’t get in trouble at the party,” Takeo told me. “She fell asleep upstairs instead of getting covered with blood. But don’t cry for me, Rei. I’ve always had mixed feelings about whether I wanted to be the iemoto. After what we went through, I understand that life is too precious to waste. I talked to my father about my commitment to the environment. He and the board of directors thought I’d ruin their relationship with the entire floral industry. So I’m out.”

“You’re completely out of the Kayama School?”

“That’s right. You won’t be able to call me the billion-yen boy anymore. Right now I’m an unemployed gardener.”

“You could go full steam ahead with Stop Killing Flowers,” I suggested. “You know Mrs. Koda is doing that.” The day after the disastrous party at the Garden of Stones, Mrs. Koda had thanked me for saving the Kayama School’s treasures and reputation. In return she would do something to help all women who loved flowers. She wanted to chair a campaign to raise funds for the study of the effects of floral pesticides on people.

When Richard and Enrique, who had reunited during a date I engineered for them at Salsa Salsa, told Che Fujisawa about the forthcoming cancer study, the Stop Killing Flowers leader begged to be allowed to be included in Mrs. Koda’s press conference. Mrs. Koda agreed, in exchange for Che’s promise to praise the Kayama School for bringing the serious health issue to the forefront. Mari Kumamori had volunteered to design a celadon suiban as a premium for the campaign’s generous donors. After her suiban was featured in the lifestyle section of Asahi Sbinbun, orders for all kinds of pottery to be made by her began flooding the Kayama School reception desk. The only one who didn’t have a great job future was Takeo.

“I want to be a simple gardener. Isn’t that enough to fill my days?” Takeo had laid down his shovel and was looking at me. Staring in my face, searching for something.

“My aunt will give you a good reference. You could get a lot of nice jobs in the Yokohama suburbs,” I said, waving to my aunt as she got up from her lounge and disappeared into the house.

“Those aren’t the kind of projects I’m interested in, Rei.” He moved closer to me and looked deeply into my eyes. “After finishing this garden, the next one I want to do is in an old Tokyo neighborhood. It’s a tough job that would involve blasting through concrete to make room for the smallest camellia seedling. I’m pretty sure the neighborhood association would let me do it, but I’m not sure how the tenant would feel.”

“It might take a while to gain her approval,” I said lightly. I had meant it teasingly; but when I saw Takeo’s face fall, I realized that he hadn’t understood. And suddenly I wanted him to know exactly how interested I was. Ignoring the fact that our bodies were flecked with earth and grass, I put my arms around him.

Our gardening hats bumped as our mouths came together. Takeo made an irritated sound and knocked both hats to the ground. We were lost in each other for what felt like hours, but then Aunt Norie’s voice returned like a bee buzzing through the garden.

“Gomen nasai. Excuse me for interrupting!” she called out, the tone of her voice belying the words.

Feeling strangely unembarrassed, I turned my head to smile at my aunt. “We’ll get back to work in a minute. After we’re through getting reacquainted.”

Norie clucked her tongue, but when I looked at her, she was smiling. I radiated my happiness back to her, then returned to Takeo and our wonderful work in progress.

It was going to take a while to plant Norie’s new garden. But I had the time.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The Flower Master was a lot of fun to write. I hope it will make you think about Japan in a new way… and perhaps even travel there to have your own cherry blossom spring.

If you think other people should know about this book, please post a review with the Internet bookseller or reading forum of your choice.

The action continues with The Floating Girl, Book 4, in which Rei Shimura and Takeo go underground for a mystery involving Japanese animation. This novel fell out of print a few years ago, but I’ve just reissued it as an e-book and paper novel on sale at most Internet booksellers.

The very newest Rei Shimura novel, The Kizuna Coast, will be published in early fall 2014. When you sign up for Asia File, my e-mail newsletter, you’ll get a look into my writing life, and be the first to hear about e-book releases and giveaways. You can communicate directly with me through my website. Thanks again for reading!

Sujata

http://sujatamassey.com/newsletter
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sujata Massey was born in England to parents from India and Germany. She studied writing at the Johns Hopkins University and worked as a newspaper reporter for five years before giving it up for love and a move to Japan. Sujata was based in Hayama, Japan, during her late twenties. She spent these glorious years working as an English teacher, studying ikebana, and coveting antiques she could not afford.

To date, there are ten Rei Shimura novels, beginning with The Salaryman’s Wife. The Flower Master, the third novel in the series, won the Macavity Best Mystery Award for 2000. A brand-new Rei novel, The Kizuna Coast, will be published in August 2014.

Sujata also writes the Daughters of Bengal series, suspense fiction set in early 20th century India.

The Rei Shimura Mystery Series:

Shimura Trouble

Girl in a Box

The Typhoon Lover

The Pearl Diver

The Samurai’s Daughter

The Bride’s Kimono

The Floating Girl

The Flower Master

Zen Attitude

The Salaryman’s Wife

Daughters of Bengal Series:

The Ayah’s Tale (novella)

The Sleeping Dictionary

SNEAK PEEK: The Floating Girl

If you enjoyed The Flower Master, then read on for a preview of the next book in the Rei Shimura series,

The Floating Girl.

“Is the pain killing you? Shall I stop?”

I shook my head because the pain had eased temporarily.

Miss Kumiko sighed, and stroked more sticky warmth over my inner thigh —a deceptively pleasant sensation. I knew that six more inches needed to be cleared. The aesthetician pressed a strip of cotton over my thigh, and I sucked in my breath as she began to pull.

“Oh!” I gasped as she yanked dozens of hairs from their follicles.

“Japanese women don’t like to cry out,” Miss Kumiko said brightly. “Not even when delivering babies. When my niece was born, my sister was silent. At moments of severe pain, she bit a handkerchief. Would you like a handkerchief?”

“No thank you, and this is hardly child birth. It s a bikini wax!” Damn my American half for making the process necessary. If I’d been fully Japanese, I would have inherited the hairless gene. But I was a hafu or hanbujin or konketsujin or whatever name Miss Kumiko secretly used for mixed race people. I also lambasted the American vanity that had brought me into Power Princess Spa before the start of the July beach season. I had one final business appointment that afternoon, and then a drive the next day to the beach. But first, I had to get through the pain.

“Madam, it is not that I mind, but the manicurist in the next cubicle has problems,” Miss Kumiko whispered. “Surprise screams from customers can cause her to lose rhythm.”

“Maybe there’s a reason your customers scream,” I said.

“Ja, we are all done!” Miss Kumiko made a series of light slaps against my groin. This was kinkier than I’d expected, but then again, this was my first experience with waxing in Tokyo. I would live and learn.

I put on my skirt and limped out to the stylish black-and-white reception area.

“Rei Shimura?” The salon’s bleached blond receptionist called me up to her stylish chrome desk.

“Yes?” I continued at my slow pace, thighs sticking together because of a few remnants of wax.

“We have two kinds of bikini wax, large and small,” she announced so clearly that some of the other customers in the waiting area looked up from their magazines. “When we spoke on the phone, we thought you were a typical Japanese, so we quoted you the price for a small wax. However, Miss Kumiko reports that you required the large wax. Therefore the fee is a bit higher: six thousand yen. Is that fine?”

The entire reception room seemed to be leaning close to hear my embarrassed answer.

“Fine,” I said glumly. With an exchange rate of 120 yen to the dollar, the price of the wax about $50, twice the going rate in the United States. I paid up, thinking the only silver lining was that Miss Kumiko wouldn’t require a tip. This was Japan, where you never paid extra for good service. It was expected.

I walk this uneasy line between pleasure and pain — and understanding and confusion— almost daily. Four years ago, I emigrated from San Francisco to Tokyo seeking a job working with Japanese antiques. Nobody would hire me, so I had to establish my own business. It’s been a struggle at times, but I’m proud to say that at last I’ve leaped the poverty line. Miss Kumiko would not think of asking me to find her an antique chest, but plenty of older, wealthy Japanese have done that. Even in an economic downturn, I’d had some very lucky breaks.

As I struggled out of the Power Princess Spa, I was headed toward my latest lucky spot: the Gaijin Times, an English-language magazine aimed at foreigners living in Tokyo. Their editor, an ambitious young woman journalist called Whitney Talbot, hunted me down after she’d read my article on ceramics for a Japanese antiques magazine. Whitney had asked me to write similar articles with, as she put it, ‘an element of street sass.’ I was apprehensive, but when she named a price for a monthly column, I decided I had to try. My first article was a guide to haggling for antiques at the weekend flea markets held at Tokyo’s Shinto shrines. It was sup-
posed to be a do-it-yourself article, but my phone started ringing off the hook with insecure foreigners willing to pay me to haggle for them. It had become very good business.

I put my quick rush of pride away as I entered the narrow sliver of a building that was home to the Sanno Advertising Agency and the Gaijin Times. I rode the elevator up to the third floor and a hall painted a dull beige.

Throbbing music coining from speakers stationed on either side of the Gaijin Times office door was the first indicator that the magazine was striving to break free from a beige mold. Inside were chocolate- colored walls, chocolate brown tables, and a gray lump lying across the chocolate-and-strawberry print carpet.

I drew closer to the lump to identify it. Alec Tampole, an Australian who edited the magazines copious nightclub listings, was stretched out on the floor, arms angled out from his side in an A shape, his knees curled snugly against his chest.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, hurrying over.

“I’m doing some Pilates exercises. I forgot you were coming in today, Rye.” He pushed his legs over his head in a move that looked like the yoga plow.

“My name is actually pronounced Rei. As in Sugar Ray,” I said, striving for a pop music reference that he would understand.

“Come closer so I can hear you over the music —” Alec slowly lowered his legs, grunting with exertion.

I stood as closely to his ear as possible and shouted the correct pronunciation.

He laughed. “Right, Rye. Had an accident coming over?”

“No, what do you mean? Is something going on outside?”

“That’s not the kind of accident I’m talking about. What’s that gunk on your knickers?”

“You bastard!” I realized belatedly that the music maven had been angling himself for a perfect view up my skirt. I leaped away from him.

“Heh, heh. Had a hot wax for a hot date, eh?” As he swung his hips over his head once again, I kicked his large, khaki-clad behind. His anguished yelp was music to my ears as I left the reception area, heading into the tiny warren of offices and my next assignment.

“Where is Whitney?” I aimed my question at Rika Fuchida, the magazine’s college intern, who was standing with bare feet on Alec’s desk taping up the edge of a Chibo Matto poster that had come loose. I was surprised Alec wasn’t in the room watching Rika. Her skirt was shorter than mine.

“Oh, hello, Rei-san!” Rika was Japanese, so she had no trouble with my name. “Didn’t you hear that Whitney-san is not here anymore?”

“Is she working from home?” I glanced at my watch. I had to be somewhere else in two hours, but I really had wanted to see the Gaijin Times editor for approval of my next column topic. I was proposing a do-it-yourself piece on how to buy and refinish a tansu chest for less than $1000.

Rika shook her head so vigorously that her trendy
short pigtails bounced. “Whitney quit.”

“No way!” I was aghast.

Alec leaned in the doorway and joined our conversation.

“She took a job at the Asian Wall Street Journal. Going on to greener pastures, heh heh. Good thing for all of us that she did a bunk. This magazine needs to be more culturally connected. Whitney spoke the language, but she didn’t know much about the pulse of modem Japan.”

“If the Journal hired her, somebody obviously thinks she’s good.” I said. It was true that Whitney had only been in Japan for about six months, and she’d been quite open about how she needed a crash course in Japanese culture and history. That’s why she’d hired me, in fact. But if management was unhappy with Whitney, they might not be excited about the contributors she had hired.

“Mr. Sanno, the magazine’s owner, is sitting in on the story meeting today. He’s the one who’s going to select the new editor.” Alec looked as if he would explode with excitement. “Don’t get any ideas about showing off during the meeting. I saw your resume. The only journalism experience you’ve had prior to this is your university News-Letter.”

“I’m not interested in the editor job,” I replied coolly. His mention of the magazine owner made me nervous—would Mr. Sanno even want to keep me on as a columnist? I was very grateful for the publicity that the Gaijin Times column had given my business. My net earnings were twenty percent higher since I’d started being published in the magazine.

“It’s almost time for the meeting,” Rika said. “May

I pause in your office redecoration, Alec-san, in order to serve the coffee?”

“I’ll help you,” I offered, not wanting to stand next to Alec for a minute longer. It was only when Rika and I were placing small glasses of iced coffee on wooden coasters around the conference table that I realized how foolhardy my move had been. I was acting like an obsequious office lady. This was not the way to reinforce my stature as a columnist to the magazine’s owner.

I wondered what Mr. Sanno was thinking when he took the seat of power at the end of the battered steel table. The magazines staff of six full-time editorial employees was a motley assortment of young people who perfectly reflected patterns of immigration to fin-de-siècle Japan. There was Joey, the half-Taiwanese, half-Japanese restaurant critic; Norton Jones, a fresh Columbia University graduate who covered national politics; Toshi Ueda, a recent Waseda University graduate who was the photo editor; my friend Karen Anderson, a former model who had put on weight and now wrote about fashion trends; the repulsive Alec, who did the music and entertainment listings, and Rika Fuchida, Alec’s intern assistant. The gang wore assorted hues of patterned polyester, double-knit and jersey, vintage and new. Earrings swung from multiple pierce-holes, and heavy rings and bangles clattered against the table whenever anyone reached for their coffee. There was also an undeniable odor of tobacco hanging over the group, although nobody was smoking yet, perhaps in deference to the magazine’s owner.

Mr. Sanno appeared a youngish fortysomething. Instead of the gray or navy suit that was de rigueur with men his age, was wearing a flashy green suit with wide lapels. He sat at the end of the table flipping through a large ring binder filled with pages of spreadsheets. Numbers, I thought, tensing up. I suspected that he would talk about what had proven profitable in the past, and how we would need to change. “Thank you for allowing me to join your regular story meeting. You are kind to let me intrude into your busy day.” Mr. Sanno’s voice was surprisingly high. I wondered if this was because he found speaking English a strain. He spoke at the level of someone who did business on a daily level with English speakers, but not with the fluency of Japanese who had lived or studied overseas.

“Hey, no worries! I’d like to see a lot more of you,” Alec said in his brash Australian way, and I sensed stiffening around the table. Alec was trying to turn his role as de facto editor into a permanent promotion.

“Thank you, Mr. Tampon,” Mr. Sanno said, smoothly botching the pronunciation of Alec’s surname. I didn’t hide my smile. “We shall all sorely miss the leadership of Miss Whitney Talbot. However, as we frequently say in Japan and China, the kanji character for “crisis” is made from two words: “danger” and “opportunity.” Our challenging time offers a great chance to move forward, to create a larger circulation for Gaijin Times.”

I stopped smiling. Mr. Sanno had turned to talking
about numbers even sooner than I’d expected.

“You may know that Gaijin Times is the only magazine that Sanno Advertising owns. Perhaps you would like to understand why we created this magazine.” He glanced around the table. “Because we own Gaijin Times, we can run advertisements on its pages for free. Of course, we charge our clients the cost of our advertising services, and they agree that it is a fair system. If we have a Mexican restaurant client, so we run an ad for the spot, and in the same issue, Joey Hirota gives it a good review.”

“Mr. Sanno, if I might say a few words, the magazine is more than a advertising circular. I report stories on the banking crisis, the yakuza, the future of the Diet,” Norton interjected.

Norton didn’t know the right etiquette for a conversation with a Japanese boss. I exchanged quick unhappy looks with Toshi and Rika. Joey Hirota was staring down in his lap, as if he’d been horribly embarrassed to be revealed as having written phony reviews. I should have figured out the reason for the review scam long ago. Personally, I never took much stock in anyone who thought you could buy a decent chimi-changa in Tokyo.

“With changes in the economy, however, our loyal advertisers have less money to spend. To keep the magazine alive, we need more subscriptions.”

I did know that the business of being a working foreigner in Tokyo had gotten tough. Salaries for English teachers, bar hostesses and the like had dropped precipitously in the last seven years. Young gaijin were deeply skeptical of the length of time that they could make a living in Tokyo, which made the prospect of their paying 6,000 yen up-front for twelve magazines unlikely.

“I agree that we need to up our subscriber list,” Alec chimed in. “We have to increase page space for music and clubs, things that remind gaijin of the things they left behind. A cover with the Beastie Boys or Fiona Apple would sell far more than one with a Japanese person on it. Get it?”

“I see your point,” Toshi Ueda, the photographer, said. No Japanese person would blatantly tell another person he was wrong, but I had a sense that Toshi had something up his sleeve. “Speaking of musical culture, it is interesting that the Amuro Namie cover sold more than any other issue to date.”

“Yes. Sales of that issue prove that Japanese idol singers appeal to foreigners. Foreigners come to Japan because they admire our popular culture!” Mr. Sanno s mild voice had become vehement, proving to me that Alec s brash, anti-Japanese comment had annoyed him.

I saw my chance to make a gentle comment to help my own cause along. “I agree. Another aspect of Japanese culture that foreigners love is Japanese antiques. Even if budgets are small, people will go out of their way to study and perhaps buy vintage Japanese furniture.”

“What about original Japanese fashion?” Karen chimed in. “Why don’t we point out some of the local designers who aren’t yet in the department stores, and are thus less expensive?”

“So many good ideas.” Mr. Sanno rubbed his smooth chin. “In this case, I have looked at the Japanese publishing market for guidance. Can you identify the single largest selling category of book in Japan?”

“Business,” Norton said with a yawn.

Mr. Sanno shook his head.

“Pornography,” Alec said with a sneer.

“No, I’m afraid it’s something rather more innocent in its nature.”

Rika raised her hand. When Mr. Sanno nodded at her, she said timidly, “Manga?”

He smiled expansively. “That’s right. Forty percent of all written material sold in Japan is a comic. Will the young lady please tell me her name? I’m afraid we haven’t met.”

“Rika Fuchida. I’m just the intern here from Showa College.”

“A fine school. I am a graduate.” Mr. Sanno twinkled at her. “Do they still have the animation club?”

“Oh, yes. I’m a member.”

Mr. Sanno flipped open the binder he’d been perusing, and read from it. “As Rika-chan could probably tell you, there are several English language magazines aimed at fans of Japanese animation. But there has not yet been an English language comic book that tells foreigners how to live life in Japan.”

Was he going to turn Gaijin Times into a comic book? No wonder Whitney had quit. Every face at the table was neutral. I could only imagine that the others were as shocked as I.

“When do you anticipate the change happening?”

Toshi’s voice croaked. I imagined he was pondering what role his artsy, black-and-white photographs could have in a comic magazine.

“Since most of the three future issues’ articles and art are already completed—yes, Miss Talbot was very efficient—that must not go to waste. However, I would like to see at least two articles in next month’s issue that explore the idea of animation. We will also put out a call for cartoonists to audition their work and begin running two or three different comics per issue. It’s now July, so let’s see, a full comic book format issue by December would be reasonable. With the hard work of everyone, it could happen. Joey will write his restaurant reviews as a comic strip—imagine the possibilities. People will not only read about what the food is like, but will see
food in a manner like never before. Likewise for you, Miss Karen. Photographs don’t accurately express fashion.”

“What do you mean?” Karen sounded confused, and I couldn’t blame her.

“If a dress is not flattering to a woman, the real life appearance—” Mr. Sanno gestured to Karen’s muumuu-like black dress — “makes it look bad. Likewise, photographs tell the true story, which can make the retailer look upset. A cartoon illustration, on the other hand, can make any dress look truly fine.”

I felt strange, as if I were hovering over the table and witnessing the beginning of a disaster. Karen felt bad enough about her weight gain, which Mr. Sanno was cruelty pointing out. What would happen to the rest of us, and to the publication? The Gaijin Times had never been a prize-winning publication, but it had done a decent job imparting crucial lifestyle information to foreigners. I’d used it to search for apartments and jobs when I’d arrived. Come to think of it, I’d learned about the waxing specialists at Power Princess Salon after reading an article Karen had written in last month’s issue. Could all that be scrapped for wasp-waisted, big-eyed androids carrying guns?

“I assume you’ll bring in a new editor.” Joey sounded glum. “One who is expert in comical matters?”

“We Japanese always believe in promoting from within,” Mr. Sanno said. “I am certain that one of you could easily rise to shine in the transition. We will decide on some projects for all of us today, and that will keep us busy before I select the editor.”

There was a long silence, and I imagined everyone was trying to think of projects.

“I’ve heard there is an American scholar who is an expert on comic books aimed at salarymen. I could explore the changing ethos of work in Japan through animation,” Norton suggested. “Toshi could take pictures of salarymen reading comic books on the subway to go with the story.”

“The photos can be used as a basis for comic book sketches,” Mr. Sanno said. “And if the salarymen are ugly, the drawing can make them look better. In my opinion, there have been too many ugly people in the magazine lately.”

Mr. Sanno was not exactly a Japanese version of Hugh Grant, but of course, nobody could say that.

“Well, that salaryman idea takes care of Norton and Toshi. But what about Karen-chan?”

Mr. Sanno was calling all the women in the room by the suffix ‘chan,’ which meant little. I could tell that Karen thought it was demeaning, because her pale skin flushed. She spoke rapidly, another sign he’d rattled her.

“I was writing a story about fall cocktail dresses worn by some of the top bar hostesses in town. I will consult a fashion illustrator who can sketch the clothes on the girls. They’re very, very attractive,” she added, as if to head off further comments on ugliness versus beauty.

“What about sketching the clothes on well-known cartoon characters?” ventured Rika, the intern.

“It might not be legal. Betty and Veronica are probably copy-righted,” I said swiftly to avoid having Mr. Sanno slap Karen with an impossible assignment.

“Actually, it s different here,” Rika replied. “Japanese manga publishers don’t really care if amateur artists copy the figures. What the amateurs sell is called doujinshi, and when those doujinshi comics sell, it is believed to create publicity for the original series.”

“Rika-chan is right.” Mr. Sanno nodded at Rika, who promptly hung her head and mumbled how worthless she was. It was a perfect Japanese etiquette moment that I would have appreciated if Mr. Sanno had not swiftly turned his gimlet gaze to me. “Rei-chan, I know that you are only a part-time employee, but you will be a part of the transformation. Your column relates to antiques and fine arts, so you will have many possibilities.”

“I know very little about animation,” I admitted. “My background is in Japanese decorative arts.”

“Manga are today’s most important art form,” Mr. Sanno said. “Can’t you write that in your column?”

A battle raged inside me. I wanted to walk away from this stupid fantasy comic book of Mr. Sanno’s, but I didn’t want to give up seeing ‘Rei Shimura Antiques’ in 14-point type once a month. I spoke carefully. “My goal is to help the Gaijin Times be the best that it can be. That is why I would be willing to resign if my writing doesn’t fit the new format.”

“Are you hoping to be fired, Rei?” Alec asked. I was really beginning to hate him.

“I know what you can do, Rei-san!” Rika offered. “Since you are a serious person, you can write a serious article about the history and artistic significance of Japanese animation. If you can present manga in a worthwhile light, the readers will become prepared for the switch to the new format.”

“That’s right, Miss Fuchida! Please help with Miss Shimura’s assignment.”

Rika, sitting across from me in her short pleated skirt, knee socks, and braids, still looked more like a junior high school student than a senior at Showa College. But at that moment I, and probably every other staffer in the room, could imagine what form she would emerge into as surely as Clark Kent transformed himself into Superman: she’d be Rika Fuchida, Gaijin Times’ youngest ever editor-in-chief.

WHY THIS BOOK?

This is the first book in the Charlie Fox series, so it seemed logical to introduce her to readers not familiar with the character right back at the beginning of her story. When you have a series character you have to decide early on if you’re going to keep that character static, unchanging from book to book—hardly even ageing—or whether to let them grow and evolve as time goes on.

Keeping the character unchanging has its advantages. New readers can pick up any book without wondering what came beforehand, or what they’ve missed. But for me as a writer I like to constantly challenge Charlie, to put her in new and difficult situations to see how she copes. And, equally, to see what experience and even damage she carries forward with her from one story to the next.

In KILLER INSTINCT, although Charlie is not yet working in close-protection, she certainly shows the early signs of what she will become. And she learns what is perhaps her most important lesson—about what she is really capable off, when her back is against the wall and a life other than her own is at stake.

Here’s what reviewers say:

‘Charlie looks like a made-for-TV model, with her red hair and motorcycle leathers, but Sharp means business. The bloody bar fights are bloody brilliant, and Charlie’s skills are both formidable and for real.’

Marilyn Stasio, New York Times

‘If I were a woman, I’d be Zoë Sharp. If Jack Reacher were a woman, he’d be Zoë’s main character, Charlie Fox.’

Lee Child

‘Sharp deserves a genre all her own – if you are just discovering Zoë Sharp then you are in for a real treat.’

Crimespree Magazine

‘Charlotte (Charlie) Fox is one of the most vivid and engaging heroines ever to swagger onto the pages of a book. Where Charlie goes, thrills follow.’

Tess Gerritsen

‘Ill-tempered, aggressive and borderline psychotic, Fox is also compassionate, introspective and highly principled: arguably one of the most enigmatic—and coolest—heroines in contemporary genre fiction.’

Paul Goat Allen, Chicago Tribune

‘Charlie Fox is a heroine you can root for, a rare combination of coolness, strength, and heart. Get to know her from the very beginning with this impressive debut. Charlie Fox and Zoë Sharp aren’t messing around.’

Alafair Burke

KILLER INSTINCT

Charlie Fox, Book One

Zoë Sharp

Foreword by

Lee Child

Murderati Ink [ZACE Ltd]

Murderati Ink [ZACE Ltd]

Registered UK Office:

Kent Cottage, Bridge Lane, Kendal, Cumbria LA9 7DD

Copyright © Zoë Sharp 2001

Foreword copyright © Lee Child 2010

First published in Great Britain 2001

Judy Piatkus (Publishers) Ltd

This edition published 2013

Murderati Ink [ZACE Ltd]

The moral right of the author has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the author, nor otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than in which it is published.

ISBN-13: 978-1-909344-08-2 (trade paperback)

ISBN-10: 1909344087 (trade paperback)

ISBN: 978-1-909344-00-6 (eBook)

All characters and events in this novel, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

FOREWORD
by Lee Child

I WAS on tour in the UK in the spring of 2002, for my sixth novel, and at the end of one of the events a woman came up to me and told me she loved my books, which is always wonderful thing to hear. I responded happily—believe me, no forced politeness is ever required on such occasions—and then she said, “But Zoë Sharp is better.”

Naturally I asked, “Are you Zoë’s mom?”

She denied any family connection, and I filed the name away, because at heart I’m a reader, not a writer, and if a well-read fan offers a recommendation, I take it seriously. I write only one book a year, after all, but I read hundreds, and life is too short for bad books. Rushing from place to place on tour didn’t give me time to go shopping, but fortunately free books are a currency in the publishing trade, so I had my publicist call Zoë’s publicist, and within a day a copy of KILLER INSTINCT was biked over to my next stop, and I read it in short order.

And was very impressed.

Triply impressed, actually. Firstly, because apart from anything else, this was a debut novel, and there was nothing shy or tentative about it, and it waded straight in and tackled—secondly and thirdly—two huge challenges. Some things are just very, very difficult to do, because of the weight of cultural heritage and tradition and the limits set by others’ prior failures—but Zoë had gone right ahead and done them very successfully. (Full disclosure: Obviously I had never met Zoë at that point; knowing her as I now do, if I see her tackling a challenge, I get the body bag ready—for the challenge.)

The first challenge she beat was the difficulty of creating a truly convincing tough-girl protagonist. It shouldn’t be difficult, but it is. (Don’t get me—or Zoë—started on the legacy left by two centuries of sexism in our culture.) But Charlie Fox came across as real, true, and authentic. She wasn’t like anyone I knew—which to me is the point of thrillers: I don’t want to read about people like the ones I know—but she was someone I would want to know, and she felt like she could show up around the next corner. She wasn’t over-explained; her backstory was sketchy … above all, she didn’t seem invented. She just was.

The second challenge Zoë beat was to make an obscure and provincial place—in this case Lancaster, in North West England—seem convincingly dangerous. None of us has a problem believing New York City or Chicago or LA are jungles, but almost no writers can make a smaller location tough without a few winces and a lot of suspension of disbelief along the way. But Zoë did. As it happened, I knew Lancaster fairly well—I lived near it for seven years—and she wrote it like I felt it.

So, two big challenges easily defeated in a debut novel. Triply impressive. The next day I asked my publicist to call for Zoë’s second book, which was just out. I read it—and it was just as good. I have been a big fan ever since.

CHAPTER ONE

I SUPPOSE I ought to state for the record that I don’t make a habit of frequenting places like the New Adelphi Club, which is where this whole sorry mess began. Maybe if I’d run true to form and avoided the place, things might have turned out differently.

The New Adelphi was a nightclub that had risen phoenix-like from the ashes of the old Adelphi, a crumbling Victorian seaside hotel on the promenade in Morecambe. It had a slightly faded air of decayed gentility about it, like an ageing bit-part film actress, hiding her propensity for the gin bottle under paste jewellery and heavy make-up.

I should have seen the changes coming, of course. Over the last eight months the Adelphi has had “under new management’ written all over it. The first inkling of a revolution had been a line of skips along the front wall of the car park. The next, a sheepish visit from Gary Bignold, the assistant manager, to tell me that I no longer had use of one of the upstairs function rooms for my Tuesday night class.

“Sorry, Charlie,” he’d said awkwardly as he’d broken the news. “We’ve got a new boss man and he’s sweeping clean. He’s decided that making a few quid every week so you can teach a load of frumpy housewives how to slap down flashers in the park just doesn’t fit in with his game plan.”

I teach women’s self-defence, have done for four years now. I use gymnasiums in local schools, indoor badminton courts in leisure centres, and even the converted ballroom of a country house that’s now a women’s refuge. Finding a replacement venue for this class wasn’t going to be impossible, but it wasn’t going to be a piece of cake either. I thought regretfully of the lost revenue, and shrugged.

“Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it,” I said. He’d caught up with me in the car park, near the skips. I was packing my jogging pants and trainers into the tank bag of my RGV 250 Suzuki for the ride home to Lancaster, only five miles or so away.

Gary hovered from one foot to the other until I’d double-zipped the bag and clipped it down. “So what’s happening to the old place then?” I asked, tucking my scarf round the neck of my leather jacket. “They going to pull it down and build yet more luxury flats that nobody wants?”

“Nah, this new bloke, he’s dead switched on,” Gary said, relieved enough to be chatty. “He’s going to turn this old dump into a nightclub. I’ve seen the plans. It’s going to be absolutely excellent. Couple of bars, split-level dance floors, bit of food. The business. You’ll have to come. Opening night. I’ll get you in free, no trouble.”

I raised an eyebrow and he looked hurt at my scepticism. “I will,” he repeated. “I’m going to run the bars for him. It’s all been agreed.”

I didn’t say anything as I swung my leg over the bike and kicked it into life. Gary sometimes lets his enthusiasm run away with him. He looks too wide-eyed to ever be put in charge of anything more than asking the next person in line if they want fries with that.

I gave him a cheery wave as I circled out of the car park, ignoring his shouted assurance that he’d give me a call when they were about to re-launch.

It’s a good job I wasn’t holding my breath.

***

The New Adelphi Club opened about six months afterwards, just after Christmas. In record time if the murmurs in the building trade are to be believed. It seemed Gary had been right about the new boss being a mover and shaker.

At night the neon on the outside of the building lights up low cloud with an eerie violet glow and is visible from halfway across Morecambe Bay. It’s become quite a local landmark.

I learned from the local paper that Gary did, indeed, become the bar manager for the new enterprise, but he never called to offer me those free tickets. I must admit I hadn’t really expected him to.

It came as quite a surprise to myself, then, that I ended up at the place only a month or so after it opened.

That was my friend, Clare’s fault, not mine. She’d dropped it on me over the phone a few days before. “There’s this karaoke competition on at that new club in Morecambe this Saturday,” she’d said, out of the blue. “I fancied giving it a whirl, but Jacob won’t go, so will you come along and lend some moral support?”

I hesitated. Clare’s a mate. I’ve known her and her feller, Jacob, ever since I first moved to Lancaster, but I thought such a request was stretching a friendship too far. “I didn’t know you were into that sort of thing,” I said cautiously, playing for time.

She laughed. “Well, Jacob says I haven’t much of a voice. He says my strangled mewlings make the nocturnal warbling of our elderly tomcat sound like Pavarotti, but I reckon he’s just too much of an old fogey to want to go to a nightclub.”

I vaguely heard rude mutterings by someone at the same end of the line as Clare, and she laughed again. Jacob must be in his early fifties, his dark wavy hair streaked through with grey, but he’s one of those men who oozes sexual attraction. Always laughing behind eyes the colour of expensive plain chocolate, and just as tempting. If he could reproduce that kind of chemistry in a lab he’d be a millionaire.

Clare is twenty-five years his junior, more my own age. Tall, slender, she has endless legs and a metabolism that means she can binge peanut butter straight out of the jar without putting on an ounce. I recognised years ago that food was not going to be one of my indulgences in life if I wanted to stay under a size twelve.

I envied Clare the ability not to gain weight more than I envied her her looks, which were stunning. She had long straight hair to go with the legs, golden blonde without bottled assistance, and a sense of style I guess you just have to be born with.

She also rode a ten-year-old Ducati 851 Strada motorcycle like a demon and had the distinction of once having outrun a bike copper through the local Scarthwaite bends at well over a hundred. He’d pulled her over out of curiosity and his chin had bounced off his toecaps when she’d taken off her helmet. Where anyone else would have had their licence taken away for three months, she didn’t even get a producer.

“So, Charlie, what do you say?” Clare prompted now. “I don’t really want to go by myself,” she admitted.

I heard Jacob in the background again, loudly this time. “You’re not going alone until they’ve caught that bloody rapist!”

“Yeah, that too,” Clare said. “You’ve heard about that, I suppose?”

I agreed that I had. It was a vicious attack that had only happened a few weeks previously. I’m not the morbid type, but I took a professional interest in the crime. Enough to keep tabs on the progress—or lack of it—in the news reports.

When you make your living teaching people, mainly women, how to avoid potentially ending up in the same situation, you tend to notice anything that affects business. When new pupils turn up at my classes with a sudden burning desire to learn how to reduce a large, hairy would-be mugger to a jellied heap on the pavement, you tend to ask what sparked off their interest. You don’t come out of it looking too good if you haven’t heard all about the latest stabbing, rape, or murder. Particularly if it took place on your own doorstep.

In this case, the victim was just turned eighteen, walking home along a gloomy footpath near the River Lune late one Thursday night and not smart enough to take a taxi. When she’d regained consciousness two days later she was only able to give a hazy description of her attacker.

He’d raped her with a knife held at her throat, then beat her savagely around the head. The police announced piously that it was a miracle she wasn’t dead. As it was, the doctors predicted that she was going to need months of physio, speech therapy, and counselling. The surgeons had managed, after a fashion, to save her right eye.

Lancaster may have its share of violence, but it’s still not the kind of town where things like that happen on a regular basis. The local paper was having a field day with tabloid-style headlines it never normally got to air. Public figures expressed their outrage. Worried citizens wrote to their MP.

Prominent policemen promised early results. It was a brutal and senseless attack, their spokesman said. The culprit must have been covered in his victim’s blood. He must have been spotted arriving or leaving along the busy main road which shadows the river. He must have got home in a dishevelled and excited state. He would, they prophesied, soon be under lock and key.

As it was, several weeks had now gone past. Nothing happened. Appeals were made on the television and would-be witnesses obligingly came forward by the dozen. Unfortunately, none of them had anything of real value to tell. It appeared that the only witness of any sort was a derelict wino called Jimmy.

Jimmy thought he might have seen a car, and he even thought it might have been on that evening, but through the fog of his perpetual alcoholic stupor, he couldn’t quite recall the registration number. Or the model. Or the colour.

There was an air of fear in the city that you could almost reach out and touch. I’d noticed it in my students, seen it on the street. Even over the distortion of the telephone system I could hear it now in Clare’s voice—and in Jacob’s, too.

I sighed.

“OK,” I said. “I’ll come with you. Just don’t expect me to sing!”

Which was how, a few days later, I came to be waiting for Clare in the car park of the New Adelphi Club, twiddling my thumbs and rapidly having second thoughts about the whole exercise.

It was partly because the noise level belting out of the place was so high I feared permanent hearing damage if I ventured any closer. The bass could be physically felt across the other side of the tarmac. I could well imagine that at closer proximity the high frequency would qualify as an offensive weapon.

In the ten minutes or so since I’d parked up and sat, watching people arrive and go in, I’d come to the conclusion that I was probably ten years too old to be there, which made most of the clientele too young to buy cigarettes, never mind alcohol. Also, in a clean pair of black jeans, an almost-ironed shirt, and my least tatty leather jacket, I was wearing way too many clothes.

Despite the chill of the evening—it was February, after all—the boys were all wearing tight little vests that showed off how many hours they’d spent down the gym, or untucked luridly coloured shirts that tried to hide the fact they didn’t know where the gym was. The girls looked like they’d come out in their nightdresses. God, I felt old.

A new set of lights swept into the car park, and Jacob’s rusty old cream Range Rover pulled up next to where I’d parked the bike. Clare waved through the window as she killed the motor and hopped down out of the driver’s seat.

“Hi,” I said. I nodded to the car. “I thought for a moment Jacob had changed his mind about coming.”

“Oh no,” she replied with a little grimace. “He drew the line at just lending me the car.”

I eyed the skimpy little frock Clare was nearly wearing as I dumped my helmet on the Range Rover’s back seat. “The way you’re dressed I won’t ask why you didn’t come on the bike.”

She looked down at herself with a wry smile. “It would have been cold, wouldn’t it?” she agreed, then nudged my arm. “Come on, Charlie, lighten up.”

“Lighten up? You’ll be beating them off with a shitty stick looking like that and I’m the one Jacob’s relying on to get you home in one piece,” I grouched. In view of her glam appearance I tried to do something with my untidy mop of pale reddish blonde hair, but it spent too much of its time stuffed under an Arai bike helmet to pretend to have a style now.

She grinned at me again. “Don’t worry, if we walk in holding hands they’ll all just assume we’re gay.”

“Yeah,” I said sourly, “and I don’t have to ask which one of us they’ll think is butch.”

Clare locked the Range Rover’s door and linked her arm through mine. “Well,” she said, a smile dimpling her lovely face, “we should both be safe then, hmm?”

To start with, we nearly didn’t get into the New Adelphi Club at all. Gary’s new boss man had employed some very useful-looking door staff. Two big guys I didn’t recognise, which came as a bit of a surprise really, when I think about it. I thought I knew all the local hardcases.

Clare didn’t have a problem. They waved her through staring at her legs so hard that afterwards I doubt they would have been able to pick her face out of a line-up.

I didn’t merit such appreciation. I just got an arm like a steel girder across my path as one of them grabbed hold of the front of my jacket.

“Oi, can’t you read?” he demanded. He jerked his head to the six-inch square sign half-hidden behind him on the wall, which was headed “Dress Code”. “No leather jackets and no denims!” he stated, stabbing a finger at the appropriate lines. God knows what he would have done if he’d known about the Swiss Army knife I always kept as an emergency tool kit in my jacket pocket.

I looked down at the meaty fist screwing up the leather. He had gold sovereign rings on three out of four fingers and a blurred blue tattoo disappearing up his wrist into the sleeve of his dinner jacket. It reappeared again over the top of his shirt collar, an indecipherable squiggle just to one side of the knot of his clip-on bow tie.

I couldn’t help getting the feeling that if Clare and I had been dressed the other way round, she probably would have still walked straight in, but now wasn’t the time to lose my rag. I always have the greatest respect for someone whose pain threshold allows a tattooist to stick so many needles into their neck.

“How about you let go of me and we’ll start this again?” I said, keeping my voice reasonable.

“How about you just fuck off and come back when you’re properly dressed?” he sneered, shoving me backwards half a step.

“How about you learn to pick up your teeth with broken fingers?” I shot back. He was pissing me off big time, and this was not professional behaviour. He was muscle and menace, not the right material for working the door. They should have kept him in a cage somewhere until they needed real trouble sorting out. I didn’t think I qualified for the strong-arm tactics straight off.

“Hey, what’s going on? You causing problems already, Charlie?”

We both turned, which is not easy when you’ve got someone practically lifting your feet off the floor.

It was Gary. He was wearing a white dinner jacket to distinguish himself from the underlings, and trying to look like Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca. I don’t think he quite pulled it off.

“It’s all right, Len,” he said. “Charlie Fox is OK. I know her. What’s the problem?”

The doorman slowly, and with great reluctance, uncurled his fingers from my jacket and put me down. “She’s not properly dressed,” he muttered, a bully caught in the act by one of the teachers. He didn’t quite shuffle his feet, but he came pretty close to it.

Gary gave me a studied glance. “That’s about as properly dressed as she gets,” he said, flashing a quick smile. “I think we can bend the rules about the jeans just this once, but the boss man’s in tonight so you’ll have to lose the jacket,” he told me apologetically. “I’ll check it for you.”

I shrugged out of my jacket and let him hand it over to the cloakroom staff. Len stood and glared at me like a lion that hasn’t made a kill for weeks and who’s just been whipped back from a freshly slaughtered antelope.

The other doorman was also dressed in a dinner suit, and sporting that comedy blend of joined beard and moustache that just circled his mouth. The rest of his head was shaved smooth of hair. Both of them were wearing walkie-talkies with clip-on mics and earpieces. Curly wires disappeared under their jacket collars.

The bald doorman had been leaning against the wall during the whole exchange. His only energy expenditure was to chew gum. He made no moves to get involved on either side. Now he grinned at me slyly as Clare and I passed through into the bowels of the club. It made my scalp itch.

“You’ll have to tell me what you think of the place now it’s been re-done,” Gary yelled down my ear over the thunderous beat of the music.

The narrow entrance way had opened out into the club proper. It had changed so much since I’d last been inside the old Adelphi that if it hadn’t been for the unaltered façade I’d have thought they’d pulled the whole place down and started again.

We’d come out on what was now the first level, overlooking the basement dance floor. I looked up and saw the cellars weren’t the only thing that had become open plan. The ceilings of the next two floors up had been partially dismantled, revealing bars and more dance floors. I didn’t want to be impressed, but I couldn’t help it.

Clare and I fought our way through the crush to one of the bars on the next level up where Gary gave us both a drink on the house. The full extent of his generosity became apparent when I looked at the prices, even though Clare just had a glass of dry white wine and I stuck to mineral water.

“So, when’s the karaoke start?” Clare asked him, leaning close so he could hear her over the din.

“Oh you’re going to have a bash at that are you?” he said, preening under the attention. Like most fellers he had to look up slightly to make straight eye contact with Clare. Particularly when she was wearing four-inch heels. “That’s terrific,” he told her. “To be honest, it’s been a bit slow to take off. The girl who’s won it the last three Saturdays in a row isn’t much cop, but she’s got enthusiasm. The crowd seem to like her.”

He offered to take us up to the smaller dance floor where the contest was taking place and introduce Clare to the DJ who was in charge of it. “Dave Clemmens is a scream,” he said. “Just tell him what you want to sing and he’ll look after you. No trouble.”

We followed him deeper into the club, up a winding spiral staircase. Out of habit I checked out the nearest exits as we went. Dave the DJ held court at one side of the raised stage area on the other side of the floor. Gary guided Clare across with his hand resting lightly on the small of her back. I was deemed strong enough to make my own way there unaided.

Dave was another of those blokes who obviously spent more time admiring himself in the mirrors down at the gym than he did slouched in front of the TV at home. He’d worked hard on the vanity muscle groups, emphasising his biceps and pecs.

As Gary introduced us to him, his eyes flickered from Clare’s face down her body to her legs and back again, with a slow smile forming on his lips as he offered her his hand.

“Delighted, Clare,” he said, holding on to her fingers slightly longer than was necessary. Clare gave him the sunny smile of someone who’s used to eliciting such a response from men.

The stare he treated me to was less driven by lust, more by curiosity. I could see him playing mix and match with the relationship between the two of us. Frankly, I didn’t much care what combination he finally came up with.

He soon switched his attention back and started asking a few questions about Clare’s background. Had she sung before? Had she entered a competition like this before? She answered them all easily enough, leaning forward to talk to him. “So where are you from, Clare?” Dave asked now, scribbling notes on a pad balanced in front of him. His other hand worked the controls of the deck with the sureness of long familiarity.

“I live near Caton village, just the other side of Lancaster,” she said.

“Uh-huh, and what’s your phone number?” It was tagged so neatly onto the back of the other questions that Clare nearly fell for it, opening her mouth to speak, then closing it again quickly. She shook her head with a smile and wagged her finger at him.

“Ah well,” he said, “you can’t blame me for trying.” He checked the list on his pad. “You’ll be up last, but there’s only eight tonight, so don’t stray too far. If your friend wants to stay about here she’ll get the best view.” He put just enough emphasis on the word friend to give it a whole host of meanings.

I smiled sweetly at him and said nothing.

He shrugged, reaching for his microphone. “OK, ladies and gents, this is what you’ve been waiting for! Another chance to hear the least-talented people in the area step up to the mic and make arse-holes of themselves!”

I was surprised at the intro and didn’t try to hide it. Dave grinned at my reaction.

“OK, first up, as always is the reigning champion from last week. Where is she? There she is, can’t carry a tune in a bucket, but what she lacks in being musical, she makes up for in volume and guts. Step up to the mic, Susie Hollins!”

Despite this remarkable lead-in, the girl who scrambled up onto the stage was flushed with excitement rather than anger. She was pretty in a conventional sort of way, medium height, blonde streaks running through naturally dark hair, and a blouse that went see-through enough under the artificial lights to show the generous cut of her bra.

There was something vaguely familiar about her that I couldn’t place. Funny how you can never recognise someone out of context. I frowned while I dredged through my memory files, but came up empty.

Now, Susie stood fiddling with the microphone and primly adjusted her micro-length skirt as Dave gave his spiel about her.

“You all know Susie. She works behind the meat counter at our local supermarket, and she can weigh out my sausages any time! She’s here tonight as usual with Tony—give us a wave, Tone—there he is! Got your own groupie, haven’t you, Sue? Mind you, with a voice like this, she needs all the help she can get. Give it up now, ladies and gents, for Susie Hollins!”

Susie launched straight into her number with plenty of gusto, but Dave was right. She did need a watertight container to carry the tune. She didn’t have the range to hit the high notes, or the breath control for the phrasing of the song.

Still, you had to hand it to her, she was up there giving it her all, and the crowd were cheering her on. Or maybe they were just trying to drown out the sound of her voice.

One thing was for certain, though. Susie Hollins may have been no great shakes as a karaoke singer, but I didn’t think that was reason enough for anyone to want to kill her.

CHAPTER TWO

SUSIE FINISHED her song, bright-eyed and breathless. Dave shook his head at the reception she got, including a very possessive kiss from Tony. He’d elbowed his way to the front of the crowd while she’d been doing her bit. The way he dived on her mouth the moment she hopped off the stage was like a brand.

Tony was short and stocky, with eyebrows that met in the middle over the bridge of his nose. He looked thick as a brick. He was also well on the way to being plastered, and as he pushed his way up to speak to Dave, I carefully stepped back and gave him room.

“We’ll be at the bar when you need us,” he told Dave arrogantly, one arm draped round Susie’s shoulders.

Dave replied with a quick gesture of fingers to forehead that could almost have been taken as a salute. Judging by the wink he gave me, it was more likely to have meant “dickhead”. Tony didn’t seem to notice. He steered Susie away and they swaggered across the dance floor.

The contestants that followed demonstrated clearly why Susie had won so often and so easily. In the kingdom of the blind, she was definitely the one with the monocular vision.

Seventh up was a spotty teenager who clearly thought he was a star in the making. “There you go, ladies and gents,” Dave commented as he left the stage, “perfect boy band material if ever I saw it—can’t sing and can’t dance, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a recording contract before the night is out.”

There was general laughter and he paused to nod to Clare. She smiled nervously, clutched quickly at my hand, and was up on the stage. There were a few whistles of appreciation which Dave waved into silence.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, but settle down, boys. This is Clare Elliot, and it’s her first time up here on karaoke night at the New Adelphi Club, so go easy on her, OK?” There were raucous shouts at that and Dave grinned at them. “Clare’s an accounts secretary for the local paper, lives in Caton, and—sorry to disappoint you, boys—but she’s already spoken for.” He looked at me as he said that. I held his gaze levelly and gave it back to him without additions or subtractions.

“So, here she is, and even if she turns out to be as tone-deaf as the rest of you lot, at least you can put your fingers in your ears and enjoy looking at her. Give it up now for Clare Elliot!”

As the cheers died down I realised that I’d no idea what song Clare had chosen. It took me a couple of beats of the introduction before I recognised “Cry Me A River”. Clare paused a fraction to gather herself, then closed her eyes and started to sing.

Life’s a bitch, isn’t it? Not only had Clare been front of the line when looks and brains were handed out, but she’d been right up there in the queue for vocals as well.

The familiar words of the song came out clear and powerful, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. To begin with there was a stunned silence. By the time Clare reached the first chorus it was obvious she was far and away the best there.

I felt someone jostle my arm and glanced sideways to find Tony had returned from the bar, dragging a disgruntled-looking Susie with him. He didn’t look any more attractive when he was gawping, and her prettiness had disappeared in the face of jealous spite.

“She’s a ringer,” Susie swore. “That bitch is no amateur. They’ve brought her in just to stop me winning again!” Her voice had that slight slur of someone who’s approached the evening’s drinking not as the designated driver.

Tony wasn’t so good at expressing himself in words, but he managed a couple of things of an earthy nature that only succeeded in making him sound more ignorant than he had before. Susie stood fuming visibly for another half verse, then resorted to violence.

As she launched herself at the stage, Clare stopped singing and gave a squeak of fright. Susie tried to snatch the mic out of her hand. I looked round for security, but there was no sign of anyone near. Even Gary was long gone.

When Clare had asked me for moral support, I didn’t think this was quite what she had in mind. I had already started to move when Susie backhanded Clare across the face. Oh shit.

The stage was a couple of feet above the dance floor, which gave her an advantage of superior height. I evened up the odds by bringing Susie back down to my level. I simply grasped hold of one leg, swung her round off her feet, and let go.

She had no idea how to break a fall and she landed, hard, on her backside a couple of metres from the stage, showing her underwear to the world. A space in the club goers appeared magically around her. Everyone backed away to the edges of the floor. It was clear I was going to get an audience rather than any assistance.

I stepped between the two women with my hands spread to placate. “Come on now, Susie, don’t make trouble,” I said. “Just leave her alone.” I had to give her a chance to back down, otherwise if I damaged her I was going to be neck-deep in trouble.

Susie cursed as she scrambled to her feet. She was quite a bit taller than I was, and she had me easily in weight. My only advantage was complete sobriety and the sort of blacklist of dirty tricks that I definitely don’t teach to my pupils.

She came at me again. I stood my ground until she was half a stride away, then ducked under her reaching claws, grabbed, and gave a good twist with some leverage in just the right place. Susie ended up right back where she started. Well, maybe she landed a little harder this time.

She wasn’t short of guts, I’ll give her that. As fast as she could get back up she was charging me again, like an enraged Spanish bull. I felt like a matador as I fended her off. I noted with mild interest that she travelled further face down, sliding along the polished dance floor on her lavish bosom.

I had time then to look round for back-up, which seemed to be a damned long time coming, in my opinion. I made sure the fourth time Susie went down, she went down more solidly, and stayed down for longer.

She had no special fighting skills, had lost her temper, and was too close to being drunk to work out a decent strategy of attack. I was working round a fairly basic series of aikido throws, using her size and speed against her, but I was getting pretty bored with the game.

This time when she regained an upright position it had finally penetrated that she had to be more careful. She clenched her fist and tried to throw a good old-fashioned right. She couldn’t have given me any more warning of the punch if she’d sent me faxed confirmation.

I blocked her easily enough, and caught hold of her arm, circling her wrist to dig in deep with my fingers and thumb on the underside. She bellowed and froze like her muscles had gone into spasm.

I was suddenly aware that I had something of a tiger by the tail. As long as I kept hold of her I was OK. The pain you can inflict using Kyusho-Jitsu pressure point techniques is more than enough to render an opponent immobile. But unless I was prepared to actually knock her out, things were going to get very interesting when I let go.

There was also the possibility that sooner or later Tony was going to come out of his stupor long enough to wade in. I didn’t want to have to hold on to Susie, and deck her amorous boyfriend at the same time. Not without either giving or receiving some serious injury. Damn it.

The problem was solved for me by a big man who pushed his way through the crowd. I noticed the way people deferred to him, and stood my ground. Our gaze met over Susie’s loudly swearing form and his brow quirked upwards.

He stopped a pace away and took in the scene, not rushing into anything. He was wearing black trousers, expensive enough to drape well as he moved, and a black silk shirt without a collar. His eyes were so pale a colour as to be almost translucent.

“You seem to have everything pretty much under control, but would you like me to take this off your hands?” he enquired politely, inclining his head slightly as he spoke so that it was almost a bow.

“What?” I said, then glanced down as if noticing Susie for the first time. “Oh, this? Well, that would be kind of you,” I smiled, adding with an edge, “seeing as the security in this place seems to be worse than useless.”

He paused a moment, the merest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, then took hold of the back of Susie’s neck hard enough to whiten his knuckles, professionally yanking her free arm round and halfway up her back. I relinquished control with some relief.

“Don’t go away, I’d like to talk to you,” the man said to me, adding cheerfully to his captive, “Come on, lady, time to go!” He strode off the dance floor propelling Susie vigorously ahead of him.

I turned back to the stage. Clare was standing with her hands over her face, sobbing.

Tony was glaring furiously. He started forwards as soon as Susie and the man disappeared. I backed off rapidly, but he swept straight past me, muttering, “The stupid, dozy bitch!”

Dave suddenly seemed to recover his powers of speech. “Hey Tony, looks like Susie really goes for the caveman approach,” he called after him.

Tony spun round, eyes blazing. “And you can shut up an’ all, you dickless little shit!” he yelled at him. “It’s all a bloody fix, anyway!” and he stormed off.

“Oh excuse me! What’s the matter, love, haven’t you been milked yet?” Dave returned, and laughed. After a brief hesitation, the crowd joined in, but they were laughing to cover their own uneasiness. There was no humour there.

I went and gave Clare a hand down from the stage, finding her trembling. I cut dead Dave’s solicitous remark and led her upstairs to one of the quieter bars. I left her at a corner table while I went away and came back with a non-diet soft drink.

“Here, drink this,” I said. “It’s only lemonade, but you need the sugar.”

She took the proffered glass with a shaky smile. “I thought it was supposed to be brandy for shock?” she managed.

“Yeah, well. For one thing I can’t afford brandy in here, and for another I don’t think Jacob would appreciate me letting you get nicked for drink driving in his motor on the way home.”

We sat for a few moments in silence while she emptied the glass and set it down. She touched a hand to her face gingerly.

“You’re going to have a hell of a black eye in the morning, but the skin isn’t broken,” I told her. “Some decent make-up should cover up the worst of the damage.”

“Thanks,” she said ruefully. Even bruised she still looked glamorous, like someone out of one of those made-for-TV movies about marital abuse.

“How do you do it, Charlie?” she asked suddenly, taking me by surprise.

“Do what?”

“One minute there was this loony grabbing at me, the next she was on her nose on the floor. Every time she came at you, you just knocked her straight back down again. She just came at me so fast I panicked, but you made it look easy. Maybe I should enrol in one of your classes. I could do with knowing how to throw the bad guys lightly over one shoulder.”

“That’s only a very small part of what self-defence is all about, Clare, and you know it,” I said hurriedly. “You are far more likely to be injured if you stand and fight. The best idea is to learn to spot trouble at a distance and then get well out of the way.”

“Yeah,” she said with some asperity, “like you’ve just done, you mean?”

I sighed and said nothing. I’d broken my own rules with Susie, and it didn’t sit well with me. Once you decide that you have no choice but to fight someone, you have to go in hard and fast and finish it quickly.

If she’d had any sort of training—and any sort of wits about her—I would have had big problems just by messing about with her the way I had done. I’d given her more than enough time to get the measure of me. Time to realise that she had to look past the surface illusion.

To most opponents I don’t seem like much of a threat. I just look ordinary. Nondescript shaggy hair, average height, medium build. Most of the time I don’t set out with a confrontational stance; that’s almost as bad as appearing weak. If you go looking for a fight, you’ll probably find one, and you shouldn’t be surprised about it if you do.

I view self-defence like wearing an expensive watch. You don’t keep flashing it about trying to impress people. Instead, you keep it up your sleeve, but in the back of your mind you have the confidence of knowing that you have the exact time whenever you need it. I felt I’d been waving my timepiece under Susie’s nose, and it ruffled me.

“Hey, Charlie! I can’t leave you alone for five minutes before you’re getting into trouble again, can I?”

I twisted in my seat as Gary approached and sat down. He grinned at me, then noticed Clare’s face.

“Oh Christ, I didn’t realise that little cow had actually managed to land one on you,” he said. “From what Dave’s just told me I thought Charlie had got to her before she had a chance. Are you OK?”

Clare drummed up a brave smile and nodded. She aroused this immediate, instinctive desire in the male of the species to protect and pamper. I wondered if she was even aware that she was doing it.

“Look,” Gary said, “I’m really sorry about what happened tonight. I hope you won’t let it spoil your view of the club. Things like that just don’t happen here very often.”

“Come off it, Gary,” I snorted. “You’ve got real security problems, and you know it. This place is a rabbit warren. Oh, you’ve got plenty of cameras dotted around the place, but it’s no use having that kind of surveillance if either nobody’s watching the screens, or they just don’t react to what they see.

“When it comes to keeping a lid on any trouble you’re way understaffed. You haven’t even got a man on every floor, and the guys on the door are so hyped up on testosterone they’re more likely to start a fight than stop one. If Susie had been packing a knife she could have had Clare cold and melted away into the crowd before your lads got their act together enough to get their fingers out of their arses.”

From up on my high horse I’d ignored the way Gary’s eyes had started to bulge when I’d launched into my speech. The reason soon became apparent.

“You seem to have a pretty low opinion of my club, Miss Fox,” said a deep voice from behind me. I didn’t have to turn round to recognise the man in black who’d disposed of Susie for me. Oh shit. Ah well, attack to defend.

“There you go,” I said to Gary, without breaking stride. “This is exactly my point. You’ve even got the boss man reduced to playing chucker-out. Now is that the best use of his time?”

I heard the man chuckle as he moved into my line of sight, sitting down at the same table. It was starting to get crowded. Gary fidgeted nervously, like he didn’t know whether to stay or go.

“You have a certain style, Miss Fox,” the man said. He offered me a well-manicured hand, adorned with a signet ring. Fire flashed from the whole carat diamond set into the gold. “My name is Marc Quinn.” His grip was firm, but light. Obviously Marc was sure enough of himself not to feel the need to clasp hands like he was trying to crush a billiard ball. “I’m delighted to meet you properly, in slightly more conducive circumstances,” he added.

“Me too,” I said. I introduced Clare and Marc made a gracious apology. He assured her that Susie was currently cooling her heels in the gutter outside, then strangely switched his attention back to me. Those pale eyes were disturbingly intense.

“It’s a few weeks since I was last here and I don’t get round each of my clubs as often as I’d like,” he remarked. “Have you been to the New Adelphi before?”

I laughed. “Oh come on,” I said. “You must be able to think of something better than the old “do you come here often?” line!”

He allowed himself a tight smile. “If that’s what I’d meant, then yes I probably could,” he returned coolly. “I was merely trying to find out if you’d noticed these problems with my club security over a period of time, or picked up on it all this evening.”

I took a mental step back. “This is my first time at your club,” I said, making my tone as businesslike as his own. It would probably be my last, I didn’t add.

“In that case, you’re very astute, Miss Fox,” he said. That incline of his head again, regal. He had his hair cut by a stylist, not a barber, but at least they hadn’t managed to make him look like a football player.

“I reckon we need someone like Charlie working here, Mr Quinn,” Gary put in eagerly, only to be silenced by a barbed glance from Marc.

“It might not be quite up Miss Fox’s street to throw out drunken troublemakers in a nightclub,” he pointed out dryly.

“It should be. She teaches self-defence. Used to hold a class here before the place was altered. Isn’t that right, Charlie?”

I agreed that it was and could see Marc reassessing.

“Really? I thought you handled yourself pretty well back there,” he said. “Ever done any of this kind of work before?”

“The odd time or two, nothing heavy,” I said. Just keeping the druggies out of the ladies’ loo on disco night at a local pub. I’d learned some illuminating new swear words and a respectful caution when it came to dealing with fired up girls who had long fingernails.

He sat back in his chair, considering. As he moved the silk shirt flowed like liquid. It would have cost me a week’s money.

“I’ll be frank with you, Charlie,” he said, coming to a decision. “We do seem to be having trouble recruiting staff here. I try to use people I’ve worked with before, but getting them to stay in this area is proving difficult, to say the least. The ones I am getting simply aren’t the right calibre. I came up yesterday to personally take care of two people I suspected were stealing from me.” He made it sound like they were now reinforcing concrete in a motorway bridge support somewhere.

“Stealing from you?”

“That’s correct. A hand in the till, some computer equipment, wine from the restaurant.” Out of the corner of my eye I saw Gary’s Adam’s apple give a convulsive jerk at that. Marc went on without a flicker. “When they started getting blatant about it I decided the time had come to let them go. Now I find that the safety of the customers is compromised, and I have to act quickly. Would you be interested in meeting with me to discuss a possible part-time job here? Just Saturday evenings for now, Fridays later if it works out?”

“OK,” I said. I couldn’t see the harm in talking to the man further, whatever the final outcome. I didn’t kid myself that the money wouldn’t come in useful. Besides, he intrigued me.

He reached into the single front pocket of his shirt and pulled out a business card with a designer look to it. There was a handwritten phone number on the reverse, local, by the first three digits, and a mobile. “That’s where I can be reached for the next week or so. Call me—and don’t leave it too long.”

That slow smile again. He stood up, shook Clare’s hand and mine, then got in one last shot at Gary. “By the way, when it says no denims in the dress code, it means it. If you work for me, you don’t break my rules—not for anyone,” he said, and walked away across the bar.

Gary waited until he was out of earshot, then let his breath out in a gush of relief. “Wow, Charlie, he must have really taken a shine to you.”

“Hmm.” I looked at the card he’d left with me again, and stuffed it into the back pocket of my offending jeans. If I’d any idea of the trouble it was going to cause, I’d have borrowed Gary’s lighter and set fire to the damn thing instead.

CHAPTER THREE

I SLEPT in until eight the next morning, but made up for it by working out before breakfast. I was inspired to take up weight training again when I moved into my current flat, which was once a gym. It stands on the increasingly fashionable St George’s Quay—rented, I might add—overlooking the River Lune.

When it had been a gym, it had never been a frilly sort of a place. Apparently the only women who used to go there were the owner’s girlfriend, and a strapping wench who went in for Miss Great Britain competitions. It was a place for people seriously interested in building their bodies, not posing in a leotard.

When I moved in all the previous owner had done was to haul out the fixed weight machines and benches. The walls are still peeling whitewash, except the one still covered full length in mirrors. The light bulbs and the floorboards are bare. I’d taken down the posters of oiled muscular men and women demonstrating the visible benefits of vitamin supplements, ripped out the urinals in the gents’ changing room and put in some old kitchen units I bought cheap from the second-hand furniture place two doors along.

The rest stayed more or less as it was. What was the office now houses my bed, and the main gym area has become my living room. I’d even hung my punchbag on the hook in the ceiling that had been put there for that purpose anyway. It swung elegantly in a corner, lending a certain sophisticated something to the place.

People usually comment admiringly about the size of the flat, and how lucky I am to live there. They don’t notice the creeping damp patches, or the collection of buckets for when the wind is driving the rain under the roof slates from just the right angle.

I pay a pittance in rent, but with no written agreement. I knew full well when I moved in that the whole building was under sentence, and the landlord could chuck me out at any moment. Still, having viewed an increasingly depressing range of rat-infested bedsits when I first came to Lancaster, I figured that on the whole, it was worth the risk.

When I’d had enough of the weights I dropped them in a corner and headed for the shower, stripping off my jogging pants and T-shirt as I went.

While the roomy gents’ changing room has since become my kitchen, the smaller ladies’ room I use as a bathroom. I’m the only person I know with no bath but three showers. It still has the sign of a muscular female in a typical body builder’s pose on the door. The only way you can tell the sex is that she has a bikini top stretched round her rippling upper torso. I leave her there to encourage me not to go over the top with the training.

Afterwards, I dressed in jeans and an old shirt. Breakfast was toasted crusts, because I’d already eaten the rest of the bread and forgotten to get a new loaf. I dumped my toast plate in the sink and scooped the jogging pants into the washbag when I was done. Living on my own I have to be strict about being tidy, otherwise I’d never be able to see the floor.

On a reflex I refilled the filter coffee machine and switched it on. Before long the whole place was filled with the heavy wafting scent of own-blend Java from the tea and coffee merchant in town.

I emptied the kitchen rubbish bin, a tricky operation because I never get round to doing it until it’s way overflowing, and struggled down the stairs to dump a weighty black bin bag out on the pavement. They come first thing on a Monday morning and I always forget until I actually hear the council truck grinding its way along the quay, by which time I’ve usually missed them.

I was just making sure the top of the bag was secure to prevent it being raided by the swat team that is the local semi-stray cat population, when I heard the heavy rumbling of a big diesel. I looked up to see the local mobile video man, Terry Rothwell, pulling his big Mercedes van into a parking space on the other side of the road.

Everyone round here knows Terry. He’ll never go down in the history books as a great thinker, but his heart’s in the right place. I met him not long after I moved in, through his business partner, Paul. Paul runs a video shop in Abraham Heights, just back from the quay, and rides an old, but pristine black Kawasaki GPZ900R.

It often works out that way. If you have a bike, everyone you seem to meet has one too. I think nearly all my friends in Lancaster have some connection or other to motorcycling.

When I first arrived here, Paul and Terry were great. Helped me sort out the wiring and even found me a second-hand video player at right money. I may not own any carpets, but you’ve got to get your priorities right when it comes to life’s luxuries. In my case it was hi-fi, microwave, video—probably in that order.

Even if you don’t hire out movies you can’t miss Terry’s van. It’s green. Not a nice subdued British Racing, more Kawasaki Racing. A bilious shade of lime, bordering on fluorescent. On the side, in big pink letters, are the words, “The Big Green Video Machine’. I asked him once whose idea the nauseous colour scheme was. He proudly accepted full responsibility. “You may not like it,” he said, “but you sure as hell can’t ignore it.” I had to agree he had a point, there.

Terry himself is a pretty noticeable character. He’s about six-foot four and rather rotund with rubbery features that make him look more like a caricature of somebody else than a person in his own right. His hair is also receding and he will insist on growing the remainder long and brushing it forwards to cover the inadequacies. Windy days make him comically nervous.

He seems to do well out of the video game, though. The van was only two years old and when he’s off duty I’ve seen him driving round in a two-door Merc coupé with a private plate on it. Somebody once told me Terry thought driving a prestige car would help him pull the birds. No offence to the guy, but a crash diet, plastic surgery and a decent hairstyle would probably work better.

By the time he’d eased his bulk out of the van I’d crossed over to meet him. “I’m glad you’re in,” he said. “I’ve got that new Keanu Reeves film in we were talking about.”

He unlocked the side door and slid it back. Inside are racks of the latest films. I leant against the door aperture while he scribbled in his book, scouring the shelves with my head on one side to read the titles. He has so many films I want to watch that I always come away with a crick in my neck.

“You’re in a good mood,” I observed, climbing in.

“Well, I’ve had a very useful morning so far,” he said, shutting the book and giving me a satisfied smile. “Been round chasing a bad debt.”

“Successfully, obviously.”

“Oh yeah, the guy didn’t have the cash on him, but I don’t think I’ve done too badly out of it. He gave me this instead, look,” he said, and leant over into the front of the van to retrieve something from the passenger seat. I averted my eyes from the buttock cleavage that suddenly appeared at the back of his jeans. When he straightened up he was holding a rectangular object, about the size of a telephone directory. He flipped the lid open to reveal the neat screen and keyboard of a portable computer. It looked like a toy in his huge hands. “Well then,” Terry said proudly, “what d’you think of that?”

“Neat,” I said, trying not to sound too nonplussed. I can’t get over the uneasy thought that computers are something I really ought to get into and understand, but I just can’t raise the enthusiasm. “Where on earth did you pick this up?”

“Ah-ha! Like I said, I’ve been debt collecting. A customer who hadn’t paid his video hire bill. Bloke from that new club in Morecambe, as a matter of fact.”

It took me a moment before his words sank in. Then I suddenly remembered Marc’s comment from the night before. A hand in the till, some computer equipment, wine from the restaurant …

“Terry,” I said. “Are you sure it’s legit?” Something in my voice bothered him and I watched a myriad of expressions register across his rubber-like features.

“What?” he demanded, suddenly looking from me to the computer as though it had abruptly burst into flames. He scratched worriedly at his armpit. “Well, yeah,” he said, sounding anything but positive. He turned the computer over as if it might have “stolen” written on the underside. “Come on, what gives, Charlie?”

I explained about my conversation with Marc. “It just seems a bit of a big coincidence, that’s all,” I said. “I don’t know how much they cost, these lap-tops, but they won’t be cheap. If they came by it by legal means, someone must have borrowed a barrow-load of videos at a few quid a time to owe you enough to do a straight swap.”

Terry smirked. “Ah, I wasn’t born yesterday, “ he said, “I’ve been offered enough hooky gear in my time to be able to smell it.” He tapped the side of his nose to indicate it was very hush, hush. “But there’s videos and then, there’s videos.”

I said, oh yes in what I hoped was a knowing sort of way, and left it at that, but Terry wasn’t to be deflected. He put the computer down. After a quick look round in a shifty manner guaranteed to make any casual observer sit up and take notice, he lifted up a false panel above the cab of the van, whipped out a video and handed it to me.

It wasn’t in one of his usual cases, which are the same squint-inducing colour scheme as the van. This was in a very plain, rather cheap-looking wrapper. I forget the title now, but it was wincingly corny. I knew instantly that the film inside would contain a warbling sound track, repetitive dialogue, no plot to speak of and lots of writhing bodies filmed from angles that were gynaecological in their intensity.

I’ve seen one or two and they make me feel deeply uncomfortable. The dead look in the performers’ eyes—I can’t bring myself to call them actors—disturbs me. I can never believe that the people involved are doing that sort of thing from choice. They all look doped up to the eyeballs in any case. I pulled a face and handed the video back.

“It doesn’t take long to build up a big bill when you’re hiring two or three of these a week,” he said and named a price that made my eyebrows rise of their own accord.

“That’s for renting them? For that money I’d want shares in the film company.” I was intrigued despite my distaste. “What’s so special about them, or don’t I want to know.”

Terry grinned and opened the box. The video inside had the title repeated on an otherwise plain label. “There you are,” he said. “No certificate. This little lot are hot off the boat from Spain and Amsterdam and they didn’t come via the official board of censors. You wouldn’t believe what’s on half of ‘em, sadomasochism stuff, animals and all sorts—but I draw the line at kids,” he said quickly, with the air of someone adopting a high moral tone. “If anyone gets caught with one, they didn’t get it from me, that’s for sure. They could throw away the key just for what I’ve got in the van at the moment.” He jerked a thumb at the false floor.

“So some guy hired out enough of these that he gave you a lap-top computer in payment?” I said again. I still found it hard to believe.

Terry nodded, grinning. “He’s got a week to come up with the money, otherwise this goes straight into the small ads,” he said. “Although, actually, I might keep it. I’ve never had one of these before.” He picked up the portable again, fiddling around until he found the on/off button.

The little computer whined into life, making buzzing and clicking noises like an electronic budgie. He stared for a few moments at the screen, which was tilted away from me, jabbing a couple of buttons, his brows drawn down. “The cheating bugger,” he said.

“What’s up?”

“It’s asking me for the password. He never mentioned anything about passwords. Bloody hell.”

“Can’t you go back and ask whoever it was you got it from what the right password is?” I said, peering over his shoulder.

“We didn’t exactly part on good terms,” Terry admitted. “In fact, he probably did this on purpose. Bugger.”

I sighed. For someone who’s obviously pretty successful in business, he can be very naive sometimes. He stood there looking at the little computer like a kid who’s just had his new toy broken in the school playground by the class bully. I swear I saw his bottom lip quiver. Mind you, the way parts of his fleshy face tended to wobble out of sync with the rest of him when he moved quickly, it was difficult to tell.

A sudden thought seemed to occur to him. “Hey, are you still mates with that computer bloke up at the Uni?” He raised his eyebrows hopefully.

I sighed again. No way did I want to help Terry get into a possibly nicked computer, given to him by some bloke in payment for illegal porn videos, but Terry’s been a bit of a mate and I just couldn’t stand the thought of the hurt look if I said no. Besides, I probably owed him a favour or two.

“OK,” I said. “I haven’t seen Sam for ages, but I’ll ask him if he could try and get round it for you, if you like?”

Terry looked relieved. He switched off the computer and folded the lid shut again. “Would you?” he said. “That’d be great. Tell you what, shall I leave it with you? If you can get your mate to have a play with it, I could pick it up later on in the week sometime.”

I agreed and he handed the machine across. It wasn’t much bigger than a ream of A4 paper, and looked so innocuous. We hopped back out onto the street. He swung the Merc’s side door shut and climbed into the cab. “I’ll see you right for videos,” he called as he started the engine. I stuck the computer under my arm and walked back up the stairs to the flat.

***

When I got up the next morning the lap-top was where I’d left it on the coffee table. I worked round it for most of the morning, but eventually I couldn’t put it off any longer.

I looked up the number of the university and dialled. After a short delay, they put me through to the right department. I asked whoever picked up for Sam, and the receiver was plonked down on a desktop. I heard someone calling, then cowboy-booted footsteps.

“Yeah?” His voice sounded bored. It was nearly lunchtime.

“Hi Sam, it’s Charlie.”

“Oh, right!” he said, suddenly perking up. “Great to hear from you. When are we going out for another razz?”

I’d met Sam out one day in the Trough of Bowland. When the roads are quiet the Trough is fantastic biking country. In the summer I tend to go out there early in the morning when you can just get stuck into those long sweeping bends.

I was doing that at about six-thirty one Sunday morning when an old green 750cc Norton Commando appeared out of nowhere and proceeded to trample all over me. I gave chase, but I just haven’t got the faith, or the courage, to hammer fully committed into blind corners and crests.

After a few miles he pulled in to a lay-by where there was a little burger caravan and I followed. The look on his face when I took my helmet off would have been worth a photograph. We had a brew, got to the point of exchanging phone numbers and met up regularly after that for a quick blast.

When Sam started suggesting we met up in the evenings, however, and without the bikes, I began to back off. He’s a sweet bloke, but a touch on the sensitive side for my taste. Chaotic dark hair framing the long face of a Chaucer knight, with expressive dark eyes that follow you round the room like one of those Greenpeace posters against seal clubbing.

I suppose I knew he’d take things further if I gave him a sign, but I also knew the sparks were all on his side. I didn’t think it was fair to let him believe anything might come of it, and I hadn’t spoken to him for a few months.

Now, I explained about Terry’s password-protected machine and asked if he thought there was anything he could suggest. I don’t know exactly what it is that Sam does with computers, but he seems to be a bit of a whizz kid.

“Yeah, no problem,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do. Most of these lap-tops aren’t that difficult to get into. What’s the make and model?”

I grabbed the computer and read off all the identifying marks I could find. “Shall I bring it round?” I asked.

“Er, well, you’re just down on the quay, aren’t you? Why don’t I pop round to you tonight, about eight-thirty?” he said, adding quickly. “If that’s OK, of course. I just thought it would save you carting it about strapped to the back of that bloody Jap rice-burner of yours.”

“At least my bike only burns oil, it doesn’t dump most of it on the road,” I said. “Half eight is fine. I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah, great. I’ll look forward to it,” he said.

I put the phone down wondering if I’d done the right thing.

***

In the afternoon I packed my work-out clothes into my rucksack, climbed onto the Suzuki, and headed across town to the refuge.

I’ve been holding self-defence at the Shelseley Lodge Women’s Refuge for the last couple of years. On paper, I suppose it doesn’t make much financial sense to do so, but actually the arrangement suits us both quite well.

I teach there three times a week. The classes are open to all, and often people mix and match which days they attend, depending on their schedule. The residents of the Lodge are free to join in any time.

My regular students pay me their tuition fees direct, but Shelseley take the class fees themselves for their own people, if they charged them at all. Still, I didn’t have to fork out for use of the venue, so I couldn’t begrudge them my labours. Not for the work they were doing.

Shelseley Lodge had been turned into a women’s refuge some time in the early seventies by the late mother of the present owner. Old Mrs Shelseley had used premature widowhood as the perfect opportunity to take in single mothers and battered wives as fast as she could make up camp beds for them. And if deserted husbands turned up in the middle of the night to kick up a fuss, she’d even been known to appear, a terrifying apparition with a shotgun and curlers, to show them the error of their ways. I’d never met her, but I thought she sounded wonderful.

I very much doubt that the new Mrs Shelseley knew one end of a shotgun from the other, but she was just as effective at shifting unwanted visitors. Ailsa had arrived temporarily at the Lodge as a trainee solicitor to offer advice to the residents on matters of divorce and child support.

She’d taken a fancy to the place in general—and the owner’s son, Tristram in particular—and had stayed put. Although she’s since given up the law and retrained as a counsellor, she can still spout enough legalese to put the fear of God into marauding men when the need arises.

I reached the entrance to the Lodge and turned the bike between a pair of red brick gateposts. The driveway was short and claimed to be gravel, but every summer the dandelions staged another covert incursion and I think they were finally winning the battle.

As always, there was a motley collection of cars sprawled in front of the impressive Victorian house. Where space was tight someone had even driven one of them onto the lawn, leaving gouges in the sodden grass like a mistreated billiard table.

I slid the bike into a gap near one of the elegantly proportioned bay-fronted windows, and killed the motor, pulling off my helmet. Into the quiet that followed came the raucous squeal of children at war. Somewhere upstairs, a baby cried relentlessly.

The front door stood open as usual beneath a fanlight made from delicately-coloured glass in leaded panes. The matching panels in the door itself had long since fallen victim to one set of angry fists or another, and now consisted of reinforced safety glass. My boots echoed on the faded black and white tiles as I walked down the hallway, calling a hello as I went.

Ailsa stuck her head out of what was supposed to be their private sitting room and beckoned me through. When I went in I found Tris squeezed into a corner, trying to read a book on William Blake. Nearly all the other available chairs were taken up by a bedraggled-looking woman with bruised eyes and four young children.

“Hi Charlie,” Ailsa said brightly, subsiding her generous frame onto a seat, her loose Indian cotton dress billowing around her for a moment like a collapsing big top. “Won’t be a moment. We’re just trying to sort out these forms from the Social. Be a dear, Tristram, and put the kettle on.”

Out of his wife’s line of sight, Tris sighed, carefully inserted a bookmark as he rose, and disappeared into the narrow kitchen. When I couldn’t stand the scruffy round-eyed stares of the kids any longer, I went to join him.

Tris was standing at the sink, staring out into the garden at the lines of terry nappies, flapping like pennants. He was absently trying to dry a teapot with a towel that was too wet to make any difference.

“D’you want a hand?”

“Hmm?” He took a moment to bring his mind back on track. “Oh, yes please, Charlie. Sorry, miles away there.”

Ailsa had cut his hair again, I noticed. It looked like she’d done it with blunt nail scissors, by candlelight. There was a chunk missing over one ear, and half his fringe stood straight up in the air. Ailsa had all the hairdressing aptitude of a bottle-nosed dolphin, but Tris was too good natured to complain.

Left to his own devices he would have favoured something more in the romantic poet style but, he once explained to me with a weary smile, the proliferation of unwashed small children about the place made head lice a very real concern, and a short haircut a necessity.

He was still wearing his working uniform of a short-sleeved white tunic over black trousers, and he smelled of lavender, and orange blossom. When what had once been the drawing room hasn’t been commandeered as an overflow bedroom, Tris uses it for aromatherapy massage.

The kettle on the hob began to scream and I lifted it off the heat with a slightly scorched oven glove. Between us we managed to load a tray with all the required equipment for tea and were manoeuvring our way back into the sitting room when the door into the hall swung open again.

A small boy in a football jersey shoved his head through the gap. “‘Scuse me, Aunty Ailsa,” he said, a vision of angelic politeness, “but the filth’s here.”

Ailsa smiled at him, taking the news of the arrival of the police without undue surprise. For one reason or another, they were regular visitors at Shelseley.

“OK love,” she said to him. “You’d better show them in. Oh, hello Tommy,” she went on when the first of two uniformed constables edged into the room, taking off their hats.

The young officer she’d addressed manfully stifled a blush at her familiarity, and tried to ignore a derisive glance from his colleague. The other man was the older of the two, though that wasn’t saying much. Neither of them looked old enough to drive. Wasn’t that supposed to be another sign that advanced age was creeping up on me? My God, I wasn’t expecting that when I’d only just hit my quarter-century.

“Now then,” Ailsa said briskly, “what can we do for you this time, Tommy?”

From his expression, Tommy’s dearest wish was that she’d stop calling him Tommy, but he decided to let it pass. It was his mate who spoke up instead.

“Actually, Mrs Shelseley, it isn’t you we wanted to speak to today. It’s Miss Fox.”

I’d been halfway through pouring a cup of tea, and the guilty start I gave at the mention of my own name sent a splatter of hot brown liquid over the table top. I glanced up quickly while Ailsa rescued her forms from the flood and sent Tris for a cloth.

I helped mop up, glad of the pause so I could rack my brains to try and come up with a suitable reason why the police were after me. The first thought that popped up was that it might be something to do with the hooky lap-top Terry had given me.

“Yes, that’s me,” I said. “Why, what’s the problem?”

Tommy’s mate ignored the question. “Is there anywhere we can talk in private, Miss?” he asked.

Tris offered use of the drawing room and led us through, frowning. The room was huge. Clean and bright, with his massage couch set up in the centre and a stack of clean dark green towels on a rattan sofa to the side. Tris hastily shifted the towels so we had space to sit down, and left, still looking pensive.

“So, what’s the problem?” I said again when I was alone with the policemen.

Tommy’s mate ignored my question a second time. He was really starting to become quite tiresome. Instead, he posed an unexpected one of his own. “Were you at the New Adelphi Club in Morecambe on Saturday evening?”

“Yes,” I said, feeling suddenly cold. I sank down onto the sofa Tris had cleared, and clamped my hands together in my lap.

Even as a kid I’ve always been more afraid of getting into trouble than of getting hurt. I frantically tried to think back over the weekend’s events. I knew, logically, they couldn’t possibly be here because of Terry’s computer, and I couldn’t find anything else that would call for two coppers to be tracking me down at work and giving me the third degree. “What’s this all about?”

I’m always wary of the police. You ride a motorcycle and it tends to colour your view of the boys in blue. Still, I suppose it was a nice change to be greeted by a uniform whose opening gambit wasn’t, “Are you aware of the national speed limit, madam?” Maybe, in this case, it would have been preferable.

I looked from one to the other. Tommy sat down at the other end of the sofa and tried a reassuring smile, but the other one paced round the room, poking along the bottles of Tris’s essential oils and making little snorting noises to himself as he read the labels. “Look at this lot, Tom,” he said. “Frankincense, chamomile, ylang-ylang.” He picked one of the bottles off the shelf, turned it in his hand. “Sandalwood. What’s that for, then?”

I dredged through my memory for Tris’s explanations. I knew sandalwood was calming, a sedative and an aphrodisiac, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. It also had antiseptic properties, and was good for dry skin. “Acne,” I said shortly.

He was still young enough for the terrors of rampant spots to be too close for comfort. He put the bottle back on the shelf quickly.

“Look,” I said, “I very much doubt you two are here for a guided tour of aromatherapy oils, so why don’t we just cut to the chase?”

They glanced at each other and the younger one, Tommy, pulled out his pocket book. “According to reports we’ve received, you had a bit of an altercation with a woman at the New Adelphi Club on Saturday night. A Miss Susie Hollins?”

So that was it. “Altercation isn’t quite the word I’d use to describe it.”

“And what word would you use, exactly?”

I didn’t like the tone, it was too quiet, too tactfully noncommittal.

I sighed again. “She clouted a friend of mine,” I said. “All I did was hold her off until the management arrived. She started it, as any one of a number of witnesses should be able to tell you. If she’s telling you I jumped her, she’s lying through her teeth. Is that why you’re here? Is that what she’s saying?” I looked from one to the other, seeking confirmation, but they were giving nothing away.

“Oh, she’s not saying anything, Miss Fox,” the older policeman said.

That chill again. “Why? What’s happened?”

“I’m afraid Miss Hollins is dead,” he said. It was obviously the most thrilling bit of news he’d had to impart since he left police training college. He was trying hard to put the right subdued note into his voice. “Her body was discovered yesterday morning.”

I stared at them blankly. Susie was dead? “How?”

Tommy gave me an old-fashioned look which said I should know better than to ask, and consulted his notebook again. “Obviously we can’t discuss details, but I can tell you we’re now involved in a murder enquiry,” he allowed. “We understand you were one of the last people to see her alive, so we need to know all of what you can remember about Saturday night.”

I told them everything then, of course I did. About rescuing Clare from Susie’s attack, about Marc Quinn stepping in to deal with her. “He told us he’d thrown her out of the club, and I didn’t see her again for the rest of the evening,” I finished.

“And her boyfriend, this Tony, you said he seemed pretty upset with her?” the younger one asked.

“Highly pissed off, but he didn’t leave when Susie did. I don’t know when she was killed, but I saw him again a couple of times later on. Once about half an hour after she’d been chucked out. He was consoling himself by chatting up a red-head in the lower bar. When Clare and I left at about quarter to midnight the pair of them were staggering into a taxi, giving each other a pretty good impression of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. It was a private hire cab, I think, a blue Cavalier. I didn’t notice which firm, sorry.”

“That’s OK, we can check with the club. They would have had to call it from there.” He made scribbled notes, then backtracked to the previous page. “So, you said Mr Quinn threw Miss Hollins out and then came to speak to you? How long was he with you?”

I frowned, considering. “He was there about ten minutes or so. Then he disappeared and I didn’t see him again until just after Dave had done his final set. That’s when they presented Clare with her karaoke prize. We left shortly after that.”

“That would be Dave Clemmens, who was the DJ in charge of the karaoke, right?”

I nodded.

“And what about you? Where did you go when you left the New Adelphi Club?”

“Can I prove my whereabouts, you mean?” I demanded. “Why, do you think I killed her?” I held his gaze levelly.

“No, Miss Fox,” he said, with a grim smile. “I don’t.”

I didn’t understand exactly what he meant by that until later, after the police had gone, when I heard the regional report on the afternoon news. They didn’t name her, of course, but I don’t think there was more than one murder of a young woman in the area for them to go at.

Details were sketchy, but the reason I wasn’t on the suspect list was immediately obvious. I just wasn’t equipped for it. In addition to having her throat half cut and being beaten to death, Susie Hollins had been repeatedly and viciously raped.

CHAPTER FOUR

CLARE RANG me later that evening. The police had been to see her, too, and she was as stunned as I was by the whole thing. I let her talk it through without major interruptions. To let her equilibrium right itself.

“I can’t help feeling guilty,” she finished, illogically. “I mean, it was sort of because of me that Susie got chucked out, and if she hadn’t …” Her voice tailed off uncertainly.

“Oh Clare, don’t even think about that,” I told her. “Susie made her own choices. She just made some bad ones. Getting thrown out of the club was her fault, not yours. You didn’t provoke her. And she could have just got herself a cab home.”

“I know, you’re right,” she said, sounding forlorn. “I just feel really bad about it.” She paused, sighing. “I’m glad you were there, though.”

“That’s OK,” I said. I was standing leaning against one of the deep set windows in the flat, watching the lights of the traffic on the other side of the river, streaming across Greyhound Bridge towards Morecambe. The movement was soothing, hypnotic in its droning regularity.

I took another swig from a bottle of cloudy wheat beer I’d found as a pleasant surprise lurking in the salad drawer at the bottom of the fridge. “So, how’s the black eye?”

“Oh, don’t. Jacob’s been giving me stick about that ever since, but it covers up all right. One of the boys on the crime desk wanted to interview me about my little fracas with Susie as a side story for the next issue, by the way,” she added with an audible grimace. “He not only wanted to get Photographic to take pictures of me without make-up, but said he’d get the art department to touch it up and make it look like a really worthwhile bruise. Cheeky bastards. I told them you were the one they should be talking to.”

I spat most of the mouthful of beer I’d been about to swallow back into the bottle. “Oh no,” I said, spluttering. “I can just see the way they’d write the story and I can quite do without that kind of publicity, thank you very much!”

“Oh come on, Charlie, it might give business a boost. After all, there should be hordes of women who want to learn self-defence after this. You’ll be turning them away in their hundreds.”

The laughter in her voice was infectious and I couldn’t help a smile, but kept my voice sober. “Oh yeah? All some tacky story in the local paper will do is throw down a challenge to all the punky kids in the area. Remember that boy last year?”

He’d been fourteen or so, cocky, sneering. He’d walked into one of my introductory classes unexpectedly armed with a small pocket knife. I hadn’t moved quite fast enough and I still had the scar, a pale three-inch line across my ribcage that didn’t tan well in the summer.

“Oh,” Clare said, suddenly becoming serious. “Yes, I do. Sorry, Charlie, I wasn’t thinking.” She was sounding subdued again.

“Don’t worry about it. And don’t dwell on this whole thing, either. It sounds heartless to say it, but people do stupid things every day and get away with it. Susie was just plain unlucky.”

How many times did I teach my students how to avoid making themselves easy targets? Don’t walk home alone at night. Don’t take short cuts. It seemed so obvious to me that I found myself unsympathetic towards anyone who didn’t follow the simple rules. Some people seemed almost to have a death-wish.

Rape is one of those life-changing experiences that you never entirely recover from, you never really get over. You put it behind you, and you try to move on, but it will always be there, colouring your thoughts and actions. Like a big mental and emotional scar.

If it’s touched you personally, you look at other people taking risks with a sense of anger, as though they’re belittling your own experience. Like a cancer victim watching people casually smoking. If I could have done anything to avoid having been attacked, I would have done it.

“I don’t care how stupid she was. Nobody deserves to die that way,” Clare said now, with a touch of belligerence. “What he did to her—it just makes me feel sick to my stomach.”

“They must have told you more than they told me, then,” I observed. “The police wouldn’t do more than say it was a murder enquiry.”

“I talked to the girl on the crime desk at work,” Clare admitted. Although she was only in accounts, Clare’s always seemed to be very pally with most of the editorial staff at the paper. “She knows all the gen, but they’re not allowed to publish half of it. The police want to hold back as much as possible to try and trap the killer. They don’t want a copy cat, either, which doesn’t really bear thinking about.” I could almost hear her delicate shudder.

“Can you find out some more of the details for me?” I asked. I’d already had twenty questions from Ailsa. My pupils were bound to talk about the Susie Hollins murder, too. Bound to ask me if I really thought my theories could help them to avoid meeting a similar fate. Until I knew what had happened to Susie, I couldn’t answer that. Students get very nervous at unanswered questions. She hesitated.

“Clare,” I said dryly, “I’m hardly likely to go to print in the rival freesheet with it, now am I?”

“OK, I’ll ask,” she said, “but I can’t guarantee she’ll tell me more than she has already.”

She agreed to give me a call later on in the week and invited me round for a meal the following weekend. I rang off with a feeling of unease that I couldn’t shift. And although Jacob makes curries that strip the enamel off your teeth, it had nothing to do with the prospect of his cooking, either.

***

The sense of foreboding still hadn’t gone by the time Sam arrived. He turned up so exactly on the dot of eight-thirty that he must have been waiting outside the door, one finger hovering above the doorbell, eyes on his watch.

I answered the door to be met by a big smile and a waft of expensive aftershave. I always find that strange on someone who obviously doesn’t own a razor. The lower half of Sam’s face is covered by a straggly anarchist’s beard. He sauntered in, the only way you can walk when you’re wearing cowboy boots, in a pair of black Wranglers and a bike jacket. “Hi,” he said, dumping his battered AGV helmet on a chair and shaking a box of computer disks at me. “Lead me to your computer.”

“Hi Sam, I’ve put it on the desk. Help yourself.” I offered coffee and went to see to the machine, which was down to the last nutty dregs in the bottom of the pot. I like coffee that way, but it’s the sort of thing other people tend to tip into plant pots when they think I’m not looking. That can be a real pain when you consider I don’t have any pot plants.

I gave up and flicked on the kettle. When I came back Sam had opened up the lap-top and was pondering the message on the screen. He’d put on a pair of wire-rimmed glasses for close work and his long eyelashes brushed against the lenses. Most women would kill for them.

“We need a password. I don’t suppose we know anything about the guy who owned this, do we?” he asked. I shook my head. I wasn’t about to tell Sam that the only thing I knew about the previous owner was that he was a weirdo. “Pity. People usually use something obvious like their date of birth, or their dog’s name as a password.”

“Fido?” I suggested.

Sam rolled his eyes. “In this case, it has to be something with seven letters,” he said.

“How about if you spell it, P-h-i-d-e-a-u?” I got a dark look. The kettle clicked off and I retreated to pour water on the instant coffee.

“I’ve tried a few obvious ones, like ‘let-me-in’, but I think we’ll try a more lateral approach,” Sam said when I returned. He linked his hands together and cracked his fingers out straight in front of him. It made me wince.

He picked out a disk, switched the machine off and slid it into the drive slot before switching back on again, holding down a number of keys as he did so. The lap-top whirred and hummed again, then presented him with an “A” and a flashing block at the top left hand corner of the screen.

“Way to go,” I said, impressed.

“Thank you for your adoration, but we’re not there yet,” Sam said, darting me a quick grin over his shoulder. “That’s just logged me on to the floppy disk drive.” His hands flew over the keys with the sureness of a touch-typist. He had long slender fingers, spoilt only by the fact that he bit his nails. “I have a little program here that will keep bombarding it with seven-letter words until we hit the right one. All I have to do now is let it get to work.”

He leant back in his chair, looking smug and reaching for his coffee cup. We talked about something and nothing while his program ran, making the little computer buzz and hum to itself. Sam might have sounded confident, but I noticed he kept one eye on the screen all the time.

“Thanks for taking so much trouble over this,” I said.

He waved a negligent hand. “No sweat. Besides, this is kiddies’ stuff, really.”

“I’m sorry if the challenge isn’t up to your usual standard. What do you normally do for laughs—hack your way into the Bank of England?” I said in a sarky voice.

He grinned in such a way that I realised he probably did.

“So, where did you get it, this password program?” I asked.

“All my own work,” he admitted modestly.

“You ought to market it.”

He snorted into his cup as he took another slug of coffee. “Yeah, and the profits might just pay enough to keep me one step ahead of the serious fraud squad. Think about it, Charlie, if you need to get into a password-protected computer without the password, you’re not exactly on the level, now are you?”

I raised my eyebrows, but was saved from having to think of a reply by the computer itself, which had stopped making noises and was displaying a single seven-letter word on the screen.

“Ah-ha, here we are. Bacchus,” Sam read. “Bacchus? Mean anything to you?”

I trawled through my mental vocabulary and shook my head. “Not a thing.”

“OK, pick a new seven-letter word and I’ll over-write it.”

“Pervert,” I said immediately, almost without thinking. He raised his eyebrows, but typed it in anyway. “OK, now let’s see just what he’s got on here that he didn’t want us to see. Hmm, that’s odd.”

“What?” I asked.

“There’s nothing here to protect,” Sam said. “Of course, he could just have been trying to make life awkward for your pal.”

“What are all those?” There seemed to be a list of files available.

“They’re just the system files, the ones that tell this lump of plastic that it’s a computer to start off with,” he explained. “I meant there are no actual data files on here. He must have wiped them all off before he handed the machine over.”

“That’s a pity,” I said. It could either mean that the guy was perfectly legit, and just didn’t want Terry reading his private correspondence, or it could mean that he didn’t want anyone to be able to prove the machine had originally belonged to someone else—the New Adelphi Club, for instance.

“Of course,” Sam said slowly, “It just so happens that I can probably retrieve whatever it is that was on there.” I realised by his smug expression that he’d been playing me along, waiting to see my reaction.

“Go on,” I said.

“I’ve got a utilities program that can un-delete files. I can even retrieve data off floppy disks that have been re-formatted.”

This didn’t mean too much to me, but it was obviously an impressive feat. I looked impressed. I was about to thank him for his trouble, but it was clear he loved the challenge of this sort of thing, so I just said, “I just hope when you’ve done all this there’s something interesting on the damn machine to read.”

He drained his coffee cup and stood up. “If you’re not busy I’ll nip round tomorrow after work and we’ll see what we can come up with,” he suggested with studied casualness.

“I’m teaching tomorrow evening, and I’ve got an interview for a new job sometime this week,” I improvised quickly, “but Wednesday would be OK.” I didn’t like the light that had come on in his eyes and I really didn’t want the guy getting ideas about me. I like Sam, don’t get me wrong, but I just didn’t want to lose him as a friend by having to turn him down on a more intimate level.

“What’s the new job?” he asked now. “You starting another class up?”

I shook my head. “I broke a fight up at that new nightclub in Morecambe, the New Adelphi, and the boss offered me a job on the doors.”

Sam stared. “Don’t take it,” he said bluntly.

I cast him a speaking look. One that said there’s a line here, Sam, don’t cross it.

He flushed. “Sorry, I know it’s none of my business, but you’d be a fool to get into that game, Charlie. A few of the lads from the Uni are into it, and it’s shit money for the amount of abuse you have to take. The cops never believe your story over a punter.”

I bridled a little at being called a fool. As far as I’m concerned Sam doesn’t have the right to make judgements on what I do with my life. Things like that have a tendency to make me stubborn. And that’s when the trouble starts. Sam must have known he was pushing his luck because he changed the subject and, soon after that, he left.

After he’d gone I dug out my old school dictionary and looked up Bacchus. It was only an abbreviated pocket version and it didn’t list either Bacchus or Adelphi. Not much help there, then.

With a sigh I put the dictionary down and moved into the kitchen. I put together a rough and ready tea from the freezer. I really must remember to go shopping. I ate listening to the hi-fi and planned an unexciting evening involving a paperback novel and an early night.

***

It wasn’t until the following day, when I was gathering clothes together for a darks’ wash, and checking through the pockets, that I found Marc Quinn’s business card. It was still in the back pocket of the jeans I’d been wearing to the New Adelphi Club.

On impulse, I tried both the numbers. The land line turned out to be the most expensive hotel in the area. Marc wasn’t in, so I left my name and number, but no message, with the frighteningly efficient receptionist. I tried his mobile next, but that was switched off. I left a brief message on the answering service, then promptly forgot all about it.

I spent an uneventful day, the calm before the storm. I did the washing, made an initial stab at the ironing. I had a trip round the covered market in the middle of town and stocked up on real vegetables rather than tinned or frozen substitutes. I even finally got round to buying some fresh bread.

In the early evening I went and taught my class at the university leisure centre how to escape from a front stranglehold. I was back in the flat by eight. I must only have been home around half an hour when the phone rang.

I hesitated a moment before picking up the receiver. I suppose I’m just naturally cautious, but a year or so ago I picked up a fascinating gadget that alters the tone of your voice, making it deeper, more like a man’s. It was specially made for women who live alone, for fending off obscene calls. I flicked it on and reached for the receiver. “Hello?”

“Good evening, may I speak to Charlie?” A man’s voice, the accent neutral. Initially I failed to place where I’d heard it before, but the interesting way he curled my name round didn’t incline me to hang up.

“Hang on, I’ll get her,” I said. “Who is it?”

“My name is Marc Quinn. She does know me.”

I pressed the secrecy button on the phone and switched off the device. It gave me a moment to think. I hadn’t been prepared for him to call so soon.

“Hi, Marc,” I said, speaking undisguised. “I just called you earlier to arrange that appointment you mentioned. I didn’t think you’d to get back to me so quickly.”

“Ah, well, when there’s something I want, I don’t like to wait,” he murmured seductively.

I pulled a face. “In that case, remind me not to have sex with you,” I said waspishly.

He laughed out loud at that. “Touché,” he said with a wry note in his voice. “Not very good at accepting flattery, are you, Charlie?”

“When that’s all it is, no, I’m not,” I agreed flatly.

“Hmm, you need the practice, then. So, how soon are you going to come and see me?”

I reached over to the desk and retrieved my diary. It was more of a play for time. I already pretty much knew when my classes were during the week. He suggested a time for the following afternoon at the club. It seemed ironic that the excuse I’d made to Sam was solidifying into reality, even if it was a day late.

I have to admit, I liked listening to Marc’s voice. Concealed in the background was the faintest trace of a regional accent. He had obviously worked hard to eradicate it, but on the phone it seemed more noticeable than it had face to face. I tried and failed to place it.

“Until tomorrow, then,” he said as we wound up our conversation, and the line disconnected.

I looked at the dead receiver before I put it down. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Fox,” I said, but I wasn’t giving myself any answers. I guess I was just obstinate that way.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE NEW Adelphi Club looked different in daylight. Seedier, somehow. Less inviting. It was certainly quieter than it had been that Saturday, though, which had to be a bonus.

I parked up the bike at the front of the car park. I noticed with approval that security cameras had been installed overlooking the parking area, although I couldn’t remember whether they’d been there before. I made sure the Suzuki was covered by one of them.

Even so, I stuck my roller-chain round the rear wheel and swinging arm, just to make sure. The insurance premiums I pay on the bike, considering it’s coming up for seven years old, are stratospheric. I don’t want them going into low earth orbit because of a theft claim.

The main entrance was locked up tight when I arrived. There didn’t seem to be a doorbell, and hammering on the door itself produced no signs of life. After a few minutes I gave up and wandered round towards the rear of the building.

The back entrance was where the old kitchens had once been and nothing much had changed. Where the front of the Adelphi had been grand and sweeping, the back was a hotchpotch of styles. Hasty additions built for function rather than form. It was interesting to see that Marc hadn’t bothered spending his valuable money on tidying things up back there.

The old kitchen door was propped open with a broken breeze block, and a Transit van was pulled up close to it. As I approached Gary came out, carrying a crate of bottles, which he dumped into the back of the van. He was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, and looked much more at home in them than he had in his penguin suit of the weekend.

“Nice to see somebody working,” I said by way of a greeting.

He spun round with a start. “Christ, Charlie, you frightened me to death!” he cried. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, it was your idea, actually,” I told him. “I’m here to see Marc about a security job. You suggested it.”

Gary was pale and sweaty. I think his idea of physical exercise is lifting the arm holding the remote control for the TV. “Marc’s coming here this afternoon?” he demanded now. I nodded. “Oh hell, we’re way behind today. I was supposed to have all this lot swapped over this morning. Give us a hand, will you?”

Which is how I came to be lugging bottle crates between the numerous bars and the back of the van. I quickly came to understand Gary’s breathless and perspiring state. I stripped off my leather jacket and dumped my helmet on a chair, but I couldn’t do much about my leather jeans. By the time I’d made half a dozen trips myself I was in pretty much the same state as he was.

“How often do you have to do this?” I gasped as I reached the van with yet another crate of empties.

“Too often,” he grinned back, wheezing.

I picked up one of the bottles from the latest batch. It was vodka, I think, with nearly an inch of liquid remaining in the bottom. “Hey, you got a glass on you? There’s still some left in this one.”

“Very funny,” he said, retrieving the bottle and ramming it back into the crate. “The bar optics don’t always pick up the last dregs, and it’s not worth the hassle of taking them down and pouring them by hand. Not with the amount of spirits we go through here in a week.”

He hopped out and slammed the van doors shut behind him. As we walked back through into the club he caught my arm. “Listen, Charlie, do me a favour and don’t mention this to Marc, will you?” he said suddenly. “Like I say, I was supposed to have all this done this morning, and the boss can get really funny if you don’t do things by the book.”

“No problem,” I said. “My lips are sealed.”

I collected my jacket and lid, and he led me back through to the main lower dance floor. Without the heavy musical overlay, milling bodies, and the clever lighting effects, the decor just looked tacky, overblown. The smell of last night’s cigarettes hung on the air like a leaking gas main.

I perched on a bar stool and watched Gary work. His movements were quick, economic, as he worked his way along the line, fixing new bottles upside down onto the optics to replace the ones he’d taken away. I like watching anyone with such manual dexterity. Plasterers and pastry chefs fascinate me.

There was the sound of locks being worked and a heavy door opening on the split-level above us. It threw a shaft of natural light into the club that had been missing before. I looked up and watched three shadows growing larger as they advanced.

“Look, I better finish off upstairs,” Gary said hastily. “I’ll see you later, Charlie.” And he scurried off.

The shadows finally took solid form on the gallery above the dance floor where Clare and I had had our first view of the revamped club. It was Marc, flanked by the two doormen who’d been working that night; the bearded one, and my old mate, Len.

“Charlie? You’re early,” Marc said when he caught sight of me.

I glanced at my watch. “No, actually I believe you’re late,” I said calmly.

I saw Marc’s head come up at that, surprise tinged with a trace of anger. Well, tough. The job would be useful, but I didn’t need it. No way did I want to be scuttering around like Gary, afraid of treading on the boss man’s toes.

Even from that distance, I saw Len’s big hands instinctively curl round the top rail of the balustrade. You didn’t have to be a psychologist to work out he’d rather have them round my neck. What’s your problem, sonny? I made a mental note to be careful around him.

The trio moved down the stairs to my level and Marc came across to shake hands. “Regardless of the timing, I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “I believe you’ve already met Len and Angelo.”

We nodded to each other. Angelo didn’t look like he belonged to his name, but I wasn’t about to point that out. Today they were both in their civvies, black bomber jackets and trousers, and vaguely police-issue rubber-soled boots.

Angelo was shorter in stature, but just as broad as Len. At first glance, he looked mildly less psychotic than his partner, but that wasn’t saying much. They took up station a respectful distance from their boss.

Marc offered me a drink as he waved me to one of the tables. I asked for coffee. “Of course. There’s a filter machine in the office. In fact, I’ll have one, too,” Marc said. “Len, would you mind?” I glanced up and was surprised to see that the big man moved instantly to fulfil the request. No sullen hesitations at being asked to play waitress. Marc obviously commanded respect as well as obedience.

“So, Charlie, how do you come to know so much about security?” Marc asked now, sitting back in his chair to study me, head tilted to one side. He was wearing a dark suit that he hadn’t bought on his local high street, over a hand-stitched shirt that even someone with my limited sartorial knowledge could tell was Italian, and damned expensive.

“I picked it up, here and there,” I said cautiously. I wasn’t about to tell him about the rather specialised training I’d been through. It felt as though it was all a long time ago, in another life.

Before you can attack a building, they’d taught me, you have to know how to secure it. Points of entry, minimum number of personnel, and their most effective positioning. The New Adelphi had too many twists and turns, too many dark corners. It would not have been my first choice of somewhere to try and make a stand. It was too perfect for an ambush.

“Here and where would that be?” Marc pressed now.

“Army, mainly,” I said and watched his eyebrow lift.

Behind him Angelo made a succinct and uncomplimentary remark about the Women’s Royal Army Corps. I turned my head to meet his eyes without flinching, but then, I’d heard them all before, and worse. Much worse. Angelo stared back at me as he put a match to the end of a cigarette, challenging.

Marc backed him down with a single look, then turned back to me. “How long were you in?”

I knew to the day, but I shrugged. “Long enough,” I said.

“Why did you leave?”

“I was asked to go,” I said, forestalling any further questions on that tack by adding, “It’s personal, and I’m not prepared to talk about it.”

He heard the finality that flattened my voice, and those pale eyes searched my face for clues. I didn’t give him any.

“So after you were asked to go,” he went on, putting emphasis on the last three words, “what have you done since?”

“I’ve done a bit of keep fit and aerobics training, a bit of personal training at the local gym, but mostly I teach self-defence to women.”

Len reappeared at this point. He obviously had more domestic graces than I’d given him credit for, because he neatly placed two plain white cups in front of us. Individual portions of cream and sugar were balanced with the spoon on the saucer of each. I was impressed.

Len ignored my murmur of thanks, but Marc’s nod of approval seemed to keep him happy. He retreated to a bar stool next to Angelo, holding station a discreet distance away.

“Textbook theories are all very well,” Marc said, stirring the cream into his coffee, “but unfortunately the sort of opponent you’d have to deal with in a nightclub has probably never come any closer to martial arts than watching a Bruce Lee film. They have an unpleasant habit of not playing by the rules, don’t they Len?” he called.

Len came to his feet again and moved back across the dance floor with a nasty swagger, flexing his fingers by his sides. He was grinning in a way that made sweat break out on my palms. “Martial arts, eh?” he said. “Load of bollocks. Go on, then, how about you try having a go at me?”

Ah shit, I thought. Just what I need. I glanced back at Marc, but his face was shuttered, withdrawn. It was clear this was a test, and I was on my own to prove I could pass it.

I slid a fairly big smile onto my face and forced myself to stay sitting down. I didn’t want to put forward any form of provocation. If I stood up now, took up any sort of stance, or appeared to be taking him seriously, things were going to get way out of hand.

I knew little about the sort of ability Len had. I had to guess from his behaviour the other night that he’d started—and finished—more than his share of brawls. If he’d been working club doors for any length of time he was going to know at least as many dirty tricks as I did, and probably more. He was also maybe twice my weight, and a good six inches taller.

I was further handicapped by being dressed in bike leathers and boots, which would cut down my speed. Plus the fact I had no real desire to hurt him. That is not a good way to go into a potential scrap.

It’s one of the things I stress hardest when I’m teaching my classes. By the time events reach the stage where you have to stand and fight, you have to be fully prepared to put everything you’ve got into it and not hold anything back. You might only get one chance.

Most important of all now, was the fact that I didn’t want him to damage me.

Most people would have taken his expansive stomach as their first objective, but he looked like he was packing too much muscle. That left me with the smaller, harder to hit targets—ears, eyes, nose, throat and groin. These required less strength, but more accuracy and speed.

I’ve found from experience that even the most slow-witted of men have pretty good reactions when you go for their wedding tackle. Often out of all proportion to the value of the equipment.

While I didn’t think for a moment that Len would go so far as to beat me to a bloody pulp right there on the dance floor, if I didn’t come up with something pretty quickly, it was probably going to hurt. Lateral thinking was called for.

I rubbed my hands together and glanced around me. “So, do we fight here or shall we go outside?” I said briskly, looking expectant. “Only, I’d hate to bleed on the furniture, seeing as the cleaners have obviously been round already today.”

I glanced at his face and saw the faintest flicker of surprise. “Eh?” he said.

“Well,” I went on, looking doubtfully around me at the floor space available. “I suppose we could have a go here, but if we’re going to do the thing properly, there’s not much room. I’d hate to crack my skull on the table leg when I fall over. Not on top of you already having broken my nose,” I added cheerfully. “God, they’ll be mopping bits of me out of here for weeks. I hope your cleaners aren’t squeamish, Marc?”

Len was looking less sure of himself. I pressed the advantage, such as it was, for all I was worth. “Are you left or right handed? I only ask because I’ve been having a bit of trouble with a tooth on this side,” I said, gesturing to my mouth. “If you’re going to clout me hard enough to knock a few teeth out, do you think you could make it on the right, about up here? It might just sort it out.”

Len’s hands had stopped clenching at his sides. He was starting to grin, which was not a pretty sight in itself. Thank Christ for that.

I got to my feet, dragged my chair a little way from the table, and stood on it. I purposely didn’t stand up straight, so that it only lifted me slightly higher than my opponent. “That’s better,” I said. “Now I can reach.” I put my hands up in the classic mock-fisticuffs position. “OK, guy, whenever you’re ready!”

That did it. He threw his head back and laughed out loud. Then he turned and strutted to his bar stool. “See,” he said to Angelo, “I told you it was a load of bollocks.”

I climbed down from my chair slowly and moved it back, feeling drained. You don’t realise how much adrenaline you’ve been pumping round your body until suddenly you don’t need it any more. My legs were wobbling so much I had to sit down. When I looked up Marc was watching me carefully. “Nice act,” he said quietly, with a cynical smile. “So, is this martial arts thing a waste of time, then?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know,” I said tiredly. “I don’t teach martial arts. I teach self-defence.”

“And what’s the difference?”

“Self-defence,” I said slowly, looking him straight in the eye, “is all about getting out of dangerous situations without getting hurt.”

The smile faded gradually and he looked rueful. He nodded, understanding. “Like that?” he asked, inclining his head in Len’s direction.

“Yeah,” I said, finding a smile of my own. “Just like that. I’ve just defended myself. The fact I didn’t have to resort to violence to do it is just my good fortune.”

Marc looked thoughtful as he drained his coffee cup. He came to his feet. “I’m not sure whether your peculiar brand of diplomacy won’t be lost on most of my customers, but I think I’d like to see you try it out,” he said, as he buttoned his beautifully tailored jacket. “You can start on Saturday.”

***

It only dawned on me afterwards that until Marc Quinn’s question I hadn’t thought much about my army career recently. The realisation came as a surprise. There had been a time when it seemed I’d never be able to forget a single day of it.

Things hadn’t started off bad. In fact, being in the regular green army had probably been the best time of my life. I sometimes wondered what might have happened if I’d stayed there.

But I had aptitude and ability that caught the eye of those further up the food chain. Worse still, I was ambitious. They decided to use that—and me—as a guinea pig. Afterwards, part of my guilt was not just at my own weakness, but the implied failure of all women looking to train in specialist branches of the military.

I felt I’d let them all down.

I could picture the start of that fateful training course like it was yesterday. Selection had been brutally tough, but I’d made it through. It was no secret that certain elements did not want females in anything other than support roles and they’d done their best to “discourage” us from succeeding.

Still, three of us made the grade, and I knew without undue bravado that I had the edge over the others.

And that’s when I met Sean Meyer for the first time.

He was there to greet us when we clambered, stiff-legged and weary, out of the back of the four-tonners, boots landing hard on frosted tarmac outside the barracks that would be our new home.

He stood and watched us, quiet, still. I’d already clocked the stripes on his sleeve and made him for an NCO—someone to be wary of. He wasn’t as big as I’d expected, either in height or bulk, but there was something unnervingly solid about him. Hit him with an iron bar, and the bar was likely to be what bent.

“Listen up,” he said when we were all out. He didn’t have to shout and he didn’t have to say it twice. “My name is Sergeant Meyer and it’s my dubious honour to be in charge of you little lot during your initial training.” He paused, let his gaze travel over us without expression. “Don’t worry—you’ll remember the name, because before this course is up, you’re all going to hate my guts.”

There were a few nervous laughs, but he’d spoken entirely matter-of-fact, without relish or menace. A straightforward statement, and all the more chilling because of it.

“If you don’t hate me, that means I’m not pushing you hard enough—and you’re not pushing yourselves hard enough either. Nobody slacks on my time,” he went on. “So, if you’re not prepared to put in total effort, total commitment, you might as well leave now—save us all a lot of pain.”

He paused again, as if expecting a few dropouts right there. His eyes never stopped ranging over us. I’m sure it was my imagination, but they seemed to linger longest on the three girls. I lifted my chin and met his gaze, unable to contain a hint of defiance.

He stared me out for a moment longer, nothing in his face, then nodded towards the gate we’d just entered by. It had already closed behind us, was guarded by sentries with guns and dogs. “You’ll notice the fences round this camp are designed to keep undesirables on the outside,” he said. “Any time you want to leave, go—you’ll find it’s a hell of a lot easier to get out than it was to get in.”

Again there were a few nervous smiles, even the odd chuckle. Meyer heard them and his expression darkened. “One last thing,” he said. “You can forget everything you’ve achieved so far, because now you’re going to have to prove how good you are all over again.” A pause, the timing deadly. “The bad news is you’re going to have to prove it to me.”

And with that he gave a curt dismissive nod, turned and walked away.

I remember watching him go, the effortless way he moved, and I recognised the danger he presented—on all kinds of levels.

“Whew, he’s a bit of all right, isn’t he?” said one of the other girls—I think her name was Woolley. She sniffed. “Mind you, he don’t half know it.”

But that wasn’t how I saw him. In fact, I’d never encountered anyone so self-aware. He had the air of a man who could close his eyes at any time and describe everything around him down to the last detail. There was a calm confidence, a coiled lethality. You just knew, without quite knowing how, that he could kill you without a flicker, but there was no swagger to him, only that deep stillness I’d first noticed, like a glacier. Implacable, immovable, and colder than the sea.

And I swore I’d break through that cool, by being better than the rest—someone he’d remember. Shame things didn’t quite turn out the way I’d planned.

***

After I left the New Adelphi Club I just had time to call in at the supermarket before I was due at Shelseley Lodge. I was getting low on the essentials like toothpaste and washing up liquid and I couldn’t put it off any longer. I went via the nearest petrol station. The Suzuki’s a thirsty little sod unless you take it really easy, and I was running on fumes.

I suppose I’d enjoy shopping more if I had a car, or a big touring bike with hefty panniers. As it is I have to watch the size and shape of what I buy as much as the content. If it’s a choice between dried packet peas or the tinned variety, I go for the packet just because it’s easier to carry.

I usually go round with two baskets, because I know that’s roughly what will fit in my tank bag and rucksack. When they’re full, I have to stop, although there are occasions when I’ve ridden home with a box of cornflakes stuffed down the front of my jacket. Or had to eat some surplus item standing in the car park, purely because there was no way of carrying it. Such are the routine problems of everyday biking life.

I started riding a motorbike while I was in the army, mainly I suppose just to annoy my parents. Not that joining up hadn’t done so enough already. Still, when you’ve been nothing but a big disappointment to them from the word go, you may as well go the whole hog.

My parents are typical upper middle class. Nice big detached Georgian house in the country, Volvo estate and Jaguar saloon on the gravel driveway. My mother even has the obligatory brace of Labradors and owns a pair of those green Wellington boots with the buckles on the side.

My father is a doctor—a surgeon. I failed to live up to his expectations from a very early age. I should have been the first-born of twins, a girl and a boy, but by some freak of fortune I came into the world alive and my twin reached it dead.

I think things began to go downhill as soon as the midwife turned to him and said, “Well congratulations, sir, at least you have a daughter.” He went off to cancel my brother’s place at Gordonstoun and his interest in me was never really revived.

The cool and logical mind that makes him so good at his profession is carried over to his personal life. He and my mother must have had sex at least once—I’m an only child—but conjuring up the image of it defies my imaginative powers.

He never even flickered when I told him I was joining up. He asked in a detached manner where I was expected to do my training, and to please let my mother know in advance when I was coming home on leave, so she could get my room ready. Then he went back to his newspaper as if the subject was of no further interest to him.

My mother was horrified, but more, I suspect, for the social implications than anything else. A son in the army is one thing, although unless it’s one of the more up-market regiments it doesn’t hold quite the same kudos that it used to. A daughter in the WRAC is quite another thing. She even took me off to one side and asked me if I was gay.

I think it was about my third or fourth leave that I turned up on the first motorbike I bought after passing my test, a second-hand Yamaha 350cc Powervalve.

It provoked the strongest reaction from my father yet. He took me off into his study, sat me down, and handed me pages of case notes. They were all of people he’d dealt with who’d received injuries in motorcycle accidents. It was gory stuff, made all the more gory for being written in such a detached, clinical manner.

Case after case, they made me shiver. Eventually I looked up and demanded to know if my father thought this would put me off motorcycling. “I know the risks and I’m careful,” I said defiantly.

“I’m sure you are, Charlotte,” he replied. “I have no intention of trying to influence your decisions one way or the other. The only thing I ask is that you ride with the correct protective clothing.” Just when I thought he was showing signs of affection, he added, “It makes reconstructive work so much easier.”

In the end, though, it wasn’t my fondness for motorbikes that curtailed my army career. I wonder if my parents would have found it easier to forgive me if it had been.

Or for me to forgive them.

***

By the time I came out of the supermarket, the light had gone and it was threatening to rain. The wind was a lazy one—it went straight through you because it couldn’t be bothered to make a detour.

I rode quickly through the dwindling daylight to the Lodge and slotted the bike into a space at the edge of the gravel, near the overgrown tangle of rhododendron bushes. Lights were blazing from every window as I walked through the front door.

I called out as usual as I hit the hallway, but no one answered. I poked my head round the door into Tris and Ailsa’s sitting room, but that was empty too.

Moving more cautiously now, I walked through the ground floor of the house, under ornate plaster mouldings muffled by years of magnolia emulsion. Where were they all?

The only logical place to look for the entire household was the ballroom, and that’s where I headed now. It sounds grander than it is. At some point early in her opulent marriage, old Mrs Shelseley had commissioned an extension on the back of the Lodge specifically for parties. The structure the architects had devised was around forty feet square, elegantly proportioned, with a line of French windows down one side leading out into the gardens. A row of dusty chandeliers hung from the high ceiling.

Apart from children’s birthdays, and at Christmas, the room was mostly idle now, although I understand that events there used to be the height of the local social calendar. Tris still calls it the ballroom, with hazy childhood memories of a more glorious age. Ailsa just calls it a bugger to heat. I used it for my classes and for that it was perfect. It even had a proper sprung wooden dance floor.

As I came in I found just about everyone gathered round where Ailsa was urgently speaking to them. Half the people present turned to glance at me, then shifted their attention back to Ailsa.

“Look, I’m sure it’s just a coincidence,” she said. “The police would have said if there was any reason to be concerned, surely? There’s nothing to worry about. Please.”

She was trying to be reassuring, but there was a note of strain in her voice that belied her soothing words. Like Tris, Ailsa wore her hair short, making her head seem too small for her body. She wore large silver hoops in her pierced ears, that caught the light and jingled slightly as she spoke.

Whatever the discussion had been, my arrival seemed to mark its closure. The women dispersed, muttering, clutching children who were unnaturally quiet and well-behaved. It was probably that which unnerved me the most.

“Ailsa?” I said, moving forwards. “What’s the matter?”

“Oh hello, Charlie love,” she said. She sank onto an elderly brocade chair, shoulders slumped, looking more tired than I’d ever seen her. “Some of the girls are a bit bothered by this Susie Hollins thing, that’s all.”

I must have looked a little baffled. Attacks on women happen, as most of the residents could testify first hand. It still didn’t quite explain the council of war. Ailsa saw my expression and gave a heavy sigh.

“They were both here,” she said reluctantly.

“What do you mean, both here? Who was?” But even as I asked the question, I knew. It came to me with a sense of creeping awareness that as soon as Susie Hollins had climbed onto the stage at the New Adelphi Club, I’d known that I’d seen her before.

“Susie and the other girl who was raped,” Ailsa confirmed. “In fact, Susie was only here a month or so ago. That boyfriend of hers, Tony, has a hair-trigger temper and a jealous streak, which is not a good combination at the best of times. He’d convinced himself that she was seeing someone else, apparently, and beat her up. She spent about three days here, I think, swearing long and loud that she was finished with him for good. Then he came round grovelling and back she went.” Her lips twisted into a bitter smile. “Like a lamb to the slaughter.”

She suddenly seemed to realise the macabre aptness of the expression. Her mouth formed a soundless oh, and her eyes began to fill.

Tris patted her shoulder, looking awkward. “Come on, love,” he murmured. He was trying to be bracing, but there was a note of panic there that only men get when faced with a woman about to cry.

Ailsa gave him a wan smile, sniffed, and made a determined effort to pull herself together. “I’m all right,” she said. “Really. I must get on, there’s so much to do. I just don’t know what to say to them to convince them they’re over-reacting, that’s all.” She got to her feet, moving as far as the doorway before she paused. “Two of the girls have left already, you know,” she said. “Just packed their bags and went. They never even said goodbye.”

“It’s their loss, Ailsa,” I said. “You put your heart and soul into this place. They won’t find anywhere better.”

She nodded jerkily a couple of times, grateful for the support and still trying to hold back the tears. “I know, it’s just—” she trailed off, then finished with feeling, “Oh, bloody men!” and stamped away down the corridor.

I turned to find Tris standing where she’d left him, looking downcast.

“I wouldn’t take it personally,” I told him.

He sighed. “I stopped doing that a long time ago,” he said. “Otherwise I would have thrown myself off a cliff by now.”

CHAPTER SIX

THE CLASS I taught late that afternoon was packed, mainly with Lodge residents. It seemed that just about all the women at Shelseley had suddenly decided that self-defence was a subject they could no longer afford to ignore.

I had planned to teach them how to escape from a pinned-down potential rape situation on the ground, and had dragged out the heavy crashmats ready, but at the last minute I changed my mind. Something told me that particular lesson would have been a little too emotive right now. I went through wrist locks instead, and came away vaguely regretting that I’d chickened out.

Afterwards, I stuck my head round Tris and Ailsa’s door to find Ailsa alone, poring over what looked like books of accounts. She invited me in for a cup of chamomile tea. I accepted more to be sociable than because I especially like the stuff.

“It was busier than I was expecting,” I said as she poured the straw-coloured liquid from a chipped Wedgwood teapot.

“Well, love, I suppose I can’t say I’m surprised,” she said, but her eyes had drifted back to the books in front of her. Distracted, she brushed a hand through her spiky hair.

I put my head on one side and regarded her. “What happens if they all leave?” I asked quietly.

Her hand stilled, then dropped. “We struggle,” she said briefly, closed the book and sighed. “When old Mrs Shelseley died she left us some money to maintain the house for as long as it remains a refuge, but we had to re-roof the entire place about four years ago, and that ate up most of the capital. We get grant money, and some charity funding, but the bulk of it comes from social services, and to be honest, Charlie, that’s what pays the bills. We can’t afford to lose them.”

She looked about to say more, but a commotion had kicked up in the hallway outside, and Ailsa paused as she worked out if it was serious enough to warrant her intervention. Years of experience had tuned her senses to the point where she could instantly recognise the difference between the screams of a playfully violent children’s game, and those which greeted the unexpected arrival of a drunken ex-husband and father.

It was soon clear that this was neither. After only a moment’s hesitation, Ailsa was on her feet and moving for the doorway with the sort of speed you wouldn’t expect from a woman of her size. Slower in mind, if not in body, I was half a stride behind.

We weren’t alone in recognising an emergency in progress. Doors were opening all along the hallway, and up on the landing as well. There were already half a dozen women in the hall itself, clustered round a dark-haired girl in her late teens or early twenties. She was slumped on her knees by the bottom of the stairs, clutching at the ornate newel post like a drowning swimmer, and wailing.

“Oh God,” Ailsa muttered. She hurried forwards and bent close to the girl. “Nina, love, what is it? What’s happened?”

The girl turned her face in the direction of the voice, but her eyes had that thousand-yard stare of deep shock.

“O-outside,” she managed at last. She swallowed a couple of times, her throat working convulsively. “There w-was a man. Outside.”

Ailsa threw me a single pleading look over her shoulder. I gave her a slight nod, knowing immediately what she was asking of me. This wasn’t the time to argue, and besides, the girl, Nina, had started to shudder and shake. I thought there was more than a fair chance she was going to throw up, which didn’t make me eager to hang around here.

I stepped round both of them, heading for the open doorway, and the darkness beyond it. The group melted back to let me through. Nobody offered to walk with me, but then, I hadn’t really expected them to.

I went down the stone steps and moved quickly to the side of the house. I stood there for a minute or so, out of the sweep of light flooding from the un-curtained windows, waiting for my eyes to adjust, and my nerves to steady.

The pause gave me chance to listen for the sounds of movement, but there was nothing apart from the rattle of wind across bare branches, the hum of traffic from the main road, and the jump of my own heart.

I was mildly surprised to find that I wasn’t scared, though. Not that mind-numbing fear that freezes your blood. Instead, I could feel my senses dilating, my instincts reaching out into the night. Rather than dulling my responses, apprehension was serving to give me a sharper edge.

I had no doubts that if the girl said she’d seen a man lurking out here, she was probably right. His intentions might be sinister, but I was determined that I was not afraid of him, whoever he was.

I’d been down that road once before, and had returned coated with the bitter grime of pain and experience. I had so nearly not come back at all. It was interesting to know some good had come of the journey.

I eased myself away from the wall and tried to walk quietly across the gravel, which was an impossibility even in bare feet, never mind in the heavy-soled bike boots I’d changed into after the class. Every few strides I had to pause to clear the echo of my own footsteps from my ears.

I spent a quarter-hour moving as silently as I could through the area surrounding the drive. I wasn’t stupid enough to force my way deep into the undergrowth. It would have been asking for trouble.

Even so, I found no trace of an intruder. Nothing.

By the time I got back into the hallway, the crowd had mostly disbanded. One or two of the hardier ones were lurking on the stairs. They asked me if I’d spotted anyone, and took my negative answer with sceptical smiles. Whether that was because they doubted there was anyone to find, or because they thought I was just trying to allay their fears, I couldn’t be sure.

I found Ailsa back in the sitting room, squeezed onto the sofa with her arm round Nina, who still seemed as distraught as she had been when I’d gone out. Tris had appeared by this time, and was perched on a chair on the other side of the room, hollow-eyed and anxious.

Ailsa glanced up at me sharply when I came in, but I shook my head. She looked relieved.

I moved round into Nina’s line of sight, and crouched in front of her. “Whoever he was, Nina,” I said, speaking carefully, “he’s gone now. You’re OK.”

Nina had her arms folded round her body, and was rocking gently back and forth. “It’s my fault,” she mumbled. “It’s all my fault.”

Uncomprehending for a moment, I caught Ailsa’s sorrowful glance, and I understood then why Nina was at the refuge. She’d been raped.

I remembered Ailsa telling me a few details when the girl had first arrived. She’d been raped by a friend of the family, and when she’d told her parents, their first reaction had been of disbelief, and denial. Betrayed, Nina had run, ending up at Shelseley.

I put my hands on her shoulders. “Nina, listen to me,” I said, my voice sharp enough to cut through the layers. “It’s not your fault. Nothing that has happened to you is your fault. Don’t let it destroy you, or he’s won. Do you hear me? Is that what you want? To give up?” I ignored Ailsa’s murmur of protest and plunged on. “Come out fighting, Nina, come back stronger. Stop giving him this power over you, otherwise you’ll never be rid of him.”

She twisted weakly in my grasp. “You don’t know what it’s like,” she moaned.

“Oh yes I do, Nina,” I said, and my voice was grim enough to register. “Trust me, I know exactly what it’s like.”

There were certain similarities. I’d also known the men who had raped me, all four of them. Donalson, Hackett, Morton, and Clay. The names ran through my mind like a mantra. They’d been on the same military training course and while they hadn’t exactly been my friends, I was supposed to have been able to trust them with my life.

I still don’t know why they picked me. There were only two other girls on the same course, so I suppose that cut down the odds a little. I spent months afterwards wondering what weakness in me they’d recognised. What had marked me out as a victim.

Eventually, I’d realised that I was not special, nor fatally flawed. I’d simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sometimes, it’s easier to believe in fate. That the story lines of our lives are already written, you just follow the script. But maybe I just didn’t want to believe that my whole reason for being was to be raped and beaten by a group of drunken squaddies.

People told me I’d been lucky to survive, but it took me a long time before I could begin to view that state of affairs with any sense of happiness. Fear had evolved very slowly into anger. A desire followed first to learn self-defence, and then to teach what I’d learned to others. It gave me back control of my own existence.

I stood up, letting go of Nina’s arms, and watched the top of her bowed head. She’d stopped caring much about her appearance since the attack, never wearing make-up and letting her hair grow unstyled. It hung lankly around her face, so fine that her ears stood out through it. Her shoulders were rounded. I don’t think I’d ever seen anyone look more utterly defeated.

Ailsa made “leave now” motions with her eyes. I nodded silently, and headed for the door, picking up my helmet and rucksack as I went. Tris got up to show me out.

“Don’t you think you were a little hard on her?” he said quietly, once the living room door was closed behind us.

I shrugged my way into my rucksack. “She’s had months of hand-holding and sympathy,” I said. “She’s physically recovered, the memory’s fading. What she needs now is pushing until she starts to push back. She needs to face what she’s been through and deal with it, not bury it under layers of cotton wool and hope it all goes away.”

Tris considered that for a moment. “Not everyone responds the way you expect to that kind of stimuli,” he pointed out gently. “Not everybody has the strength of character to cope.”

“They have to,” I said, glancing at him as I turned to go. “What else is there?”

Despite my words, I looked around me carefully as I walked down the steps again and across the gravel to the bike. The screen of rhododendron bushes looked quiet, but to be truthful, for all I could see through it, it might as well have been one-way glass. I jammed my helmet on, feeling suddenly vulnerable as it cut down my peripheral vision.

The Suzuki started up first kick. For once I didn’t linger to let the motor warm up fully, paddling it backwards out of its space and moving quickly towards the road.

All the while, I could just feel a set of eyes on my back. It might be paranoia, but I couldn’t seem to shake it.

I rode straight home, taking the shortest route. On the way I passed Terry’s video van parked up on his round. You couldn’t fail to recognise that revolting colour-scheme, even in the dark.

When I reached the flat I had just enough time to hurriedly tidy my usual debris before Sam was due to arrive. As I passed the answering machine I noticed that the message light was blinking and I hit the rewind button.

It was Clare. “Hi, Charlie. I’ve got the details on that, er—story you were after. I can’t give them to you over the phone, but if you want to call round, I’ll let you know what I’ve managed to find out.” Her voice sounded strangely solemn as she added, “I hope you’ve got a strong stomach.”

I almost rang her there and then, but a glance at the clock told me there wasn’t time. As it was, Sam rang the bell just after six, armed again with a box of computer disks and a big grin.

He was wearing his usual scruffy bike jacket and battered AGV lid, together with dusty black trousers and trainers. He had a long college scarf wrapped round his neck to keep out the wind, but no gloves and his fingers were white from the cold. I don’t know how he stands it.

He presented exactly the sort of image that people like my parents hate so much about motorcycling. The fact that Sam has a very good degree in something to do with computers and could probably be earning a fortune as a programmer instead of tinkering at the Uni has nothing to do with it. A lout in a suit with a sharp haircut would get their vote every time. Even if, when you asked him a difficult question, someone else had to push his chest in and out.

Sam unfolded the lap-top on the coffee table and his fingers started dancing over the keyboard. I put the coffee on and left him to it. I had to admire his concentration. By the time the coffee had filtered and stopped making blocked drain noises, he was still tapping away. He barely turned his head when the mug went down beside him, just murmured his thanks and carried right on.

I was in the kitchen, staring moodily out of the skylight and thinking about Nina when Sam gave a sudden whoop of triumph. I moved back through to find him sitting back and taking a swig of his coffee, looking pleased with himself again. The Cheshire cat would have been a manic depressive by comparison. “OK, we’re in,” he said. “What am I looking for?”

“Some clue as to the original owner of the machine,” I said.

Sam put his mug down and scanned the list of files that had appeared on the screen. “Of course, some of these are incomplete, but I should be able to find something,” he said.

“Great.” I hesitated, fought briefly with myself, then gave in. “Have you eaten? I was going to chuck some pasta together if you fancy it? Nothing outstanding.”

“Terrific!” Sam said. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

“You shouldn’t make rash statements like that until you’ve tasted it,” I warned and headed back to the kitchen. I dug out the dried tagliatelle, a tin of plum tomatoes, garlic, chilli, and the secret ingredient, a Hot Pepperami sausage. Not exactly cordon bleu, but then, I wasn’t out to wow him with my cooking.

I threw the ingredients together quickly. It was my usual stand-by and I could do it in my sleep. I set the kettle boiling for the pasta and went back to see how Sam was getting on.

“I hope you don’t mind breathing garlic fumes all over everyone at work tomorrow,” I said.

He looked up blankly. “Hmm?”

I shook my head. “Never mind. How’re you doing?”

“Well, not as well as I’d hoped,” he admitted. “The most I seem to be able to get is some of the file names, but the contents might as well be Swahili for all the sense I can make of them. Look.”

He opened a file at random. All I saw was a string of smiley faces and the sort of squiggles that could have belonged to some complex algebra problem. He shut the file down again and tried another, with the same result.

“Here are the file names, if they mean anything to you—delivery dates, stock, distribution, contacts. It just looks like it’s been used for standard accounts stuff. I assume they copied everything before they passed the computer on to your mate, otherwise somebody’s going to have quite a bit of explaining to do to the tax man.”

“And there’s no way of finding out anything else?”

He rummaged in the disk box he’d brought with him. “Well, if it’s a very simple file I might have something here that would work, but it’s a bit of a long shot,” he said doubtfully.

I heard the kettle click off and went back to the kitchen to pour the boiled water into a pan with the pasta. I stuck it on the hob and returned to the lounge.

By the time I got there Sam seemed to be having more success. “Here’s what’s in the delivery dates file, but it’s not a lot,” he said. “Some of the data at the top of the screen is just totally corrupted. There’s not much hope of getting anything out of that. Then we’ve just got a string of numbers. They could be dates, but it’s not much to go on.”

I sighed, disappointed. “OK, Sam, thanks for trying anyway,” I said.

“No problem,” he replied, but didn’t sound as though he meant it.

He was still frowning when I left him to go and see to the food. When I came back with two plates Sam had shut the computer down, in disgust presumably, and had left it on the desk. He was sitting on the sofa, chin in his hands, and looking deep in thought.

It didn’t affect his appetite, though. He wolfed down the pasta making all the right appreciative noises. He ate with his fork turned round, scooping food onto it and into his mouth. My mother would have fainted at the sight.

Still, at least he was well trained enough to clear the plates away afterwards without being asked. He hadn’t progressed past the stacking them in the washing-up bowl stage, but you can’t have everything.

It was just after eight-thirty when he left. As soon as he’d gone I rang Terry. I tried his mobile number first. It was switched on and he picked up straight away. I told him we’d managed to get into the computer, and what Sam had found on it. It sounded pretty lame when I laid it out for him, but Terry seemed pleased.

“That’s terrific! That should be just enough to worry the bastard!” he said, sounding devious. “Do me a favour and hang onto it for me for a few days, would you? I’ll come and pick it up over the weekend. Cheers for that though, Charlie, you’re an absolute doll!”

“Oh great,” I muttered as he rang off. “Now I’m inflatable.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

ALMOST AS soon as I put the phone down, it started ringing. I picked it up half-anticipating that it might be Terry again.

Even though I’d been thinking about her earlier, I certainly wasn’t expecting it to be my mother on the other end of the line.

“Charlotte,” she said. She was trying for friendly warmth, but unease pitched her cultured voice a tad too high. I even thought I could hear the faint rustle of a nervously twisted string of pearls.

For a moment I almost panicked as I opened my mouth and nothing happened. No sounds emerged. I shut it again quickly.

“Charlotte?” she said again, a question this time, sharper. “Charlotte, are you still there?”

I cleared my throat. This time it worked. “Yes, I’m still here,” I said neutrally. “What do you want, Mother?”

She didn’t ring so often now. Just after I got kicked out of the army and the fuss had started to abate, her attempts then to build a bridge between us had been more earnest, and more frequent. She’d written long letters that I pointedly returned to sender. She’d even driven over to see me a few times.

Now she’d fallen back on the telephone, and even that method of communication had become sporadic. She’d become slowly discouraged by my stubborn lack of cooperation, my refusal to acknowledge that the stance she’d taken had any basis in validity.

I don’t know what irritated more. That in some ways she seemed to be giving up on her only child so easily, or that she doggedly persisted. Even with the constantly increasing timescale, I was dismayed to find that talking to her still actually hurt. A physical pain I hadn’t been prepared for.

There was a mildly offended pause before she replied, swallowing my snotty behaviour, pouring oil, as she always did. “I don’t want anything, darling,” she said soothingly. “I just wondered how you are, that’s all. We haven’t heard from you in a while, and I just thought—”

“Mother, you haven’t heard from me for several years,” I interrupted, stony. “Why would I suddenly either want to get in touch with you now, or want you to get in touch with me?”

Another hesitation, like a fractured satellite link. “Well,” she stumbled. It was uncharacteristic, and unlike her. She valued her poise as much as she valued her classically understated wardrobe and her middle-aged Tory-politician’s-wife hairstyle. “I just thought there might be something you needed, or—”

“There’s nothing I need from you,” I said, appalled by the waver I let slip through unmasked. I closed my eyes with the effort of stopping back the tears. It was suddenly vital that I didn’t let her know she could still get to me. “There’s nothing I want that you can give me,” I went on, colder now, in control. “Unless there’s something wrong, or either of you are ill, please stop calling me, or I’ll have my number changed.”

I thought I heard a soft gasp at the deliberate cruelty. “Oh, Charlotte,” she said, letting her distress through for the first time.

“Goodbye, Mother,” I said, and put the receiver down.

For what seemed like a long moment I sat and stared stupidly at the dead telephone. Parents are supposed to love their children regardless, aren’t they? Overlook their faults, forgive their sins. And most of all they’re supposed to trust and support them in times of trouble. Not back away. I could understand Nina running for shelter when she’d failed to get the loyalty she’d anticipated from her own parents.

After all, it’s not in the Good Parenting Handbook that they’re allowed the luxury of letting their distaste show all too clearly, however sordid the predicament in which their offspring find themselves. That’s not in the rules.

I thought of Nina again. Oh yes, I knew exactly what it was like. To have your parents frowning at you, with doubt behind their eyes. I think that was the worst thing. That they’d believe I’d willingly taken part in what my attackers were claiming was practically an orgy.

The court martial of Donalson, Hackett, Morton, and Clay had been a shambles. Faced with the prospect of helping convict their mates, vital witnesses on the same squad miraculously developed myopia, or amnesia, or both.

Even one of the girls who was supposed to speak up for me seemed suddenly unwilling to stick her neck out. Either by accident or careful design, it began to look as though I was totally to blame for the “incident”, as they politely termed it.

The end result was that the four accused were let off, and I was unceremoniously chucked out. That should have been the end of it. Sometimes, I wished to God I’d left it there. That way, my mother would never have had the chance to express her doubts about my innocence so publicly.

I sat there, fighting the emotions that crashed over me in waves. Anger was followed by a bitterness I could taste in the back of my throat, and a fierce determination not to forgive my mother, however Christian it might make me feel.

Much as it gives me no satisfaction to admit it, a good dollop of self-pity was in there somewhere, too. I thought I’d stopped feeling sorry for myself. It was disappointing to discover that all it took to bring it all back was something as trivial as an unexpected phone call.

It took me a while to shake myself out of it, to get back to the more pressing problems at hand.

Partly to make sure the phone was engaged if my mother tried to call me back, and partly so I wasn’t upset if she didn’t bother, I rang Clare. I forced my mind back to the message she’d left on the answering machine. “I hope you’ve got a strong stomach,” she’d said. Did I really want to know what she’d found out?

I dialled the number anyway. I had another class to teach the day after tomorrow at the refuge, an open one this time, and I just knew I was going to get asked awkward questions about Susie. I needed to know, even if I didn’t really want to hear.

I shivered abruptly, as though someone had walked over my grave. Maybe that incident at Shelseley, and now that brief contact with my mother, had just made me more jumpy than usual.

Jacob answered the phone just when I was about to hang up. He told me Clare was in the bath. “Come round if you like,” he offered generously. “It might persuade her to get out of the water before she turns into a completely wizened old prune. I’m going out in half an hour in any case, so you two can have a girlie chat.”

My vision of a quiet night in evaporated. I sighed as I picked up the bike keys and my leather jacket. With a sense of foreboding, I headed for the door.

***

I have to admit that I approached the subject matter for my next class at Shelseley two days later with a new wariness. I’d spent a couple of hours round at Jacob and Clare’s place. When I’d left I had a much clearer idea of what had happened to Susie Hollins, and a sickness in my soul.

Susie might have been stupid, and petty, and quick to temper, but as Clare had said, nobody deserved to die that way. The picture that emerged from the police reports the paper had obtained was not a pretty one.

Susie had either gone willingly with her attacker, meaning it might have been someone she knew, or she’d been too frightened by his threats to put up much of an initial struggle. He’d taken her out to a secluded spot, not far away, and there he’d had his fun …

Now I faced my class with a new passion. We were in the ballroom, as usual. The light had gone early, dimming until only blackness was visible through the French windows, and all detail of the garden had disappeared from view. Years ago, the ornamental wall sconces had been augmented by a haphazard array of fluoro tubes. They added significantly to the overall light level, but did nothing for the ambience.

It was a largish group, a dozen or so, ranging in age from late teens to late forties. They listened to me gravely. After the earlier rape, and now Susie’s murder, I knew I had their full attention.

“Attacks and sexual assaults on women,” I told them, “are rarely carried out in the place where first contact takes place. “We’ll call this first location point A, and the second one B. A is where he picks you up, grabs you, and B is where the actual assault takes place.

“Point B is his choice, his territory,” I added. “If you allow yourself to be immobilised and taken there, you will be on his ground. You will not only be at a major psychological disadvantage, but the risk to you doubles. You must do whatever you can to avoid being taken to point B.”

I glanced round their serious faces. I didn’t have to elaborate further than that.

“Supposing he’s got a knife?” one woman asked. Joy was in her late twenties, skinny to the point of gauntness, but with a very pretty face if you went for the emaciated look, and red hair cut in a bob. She was a relative newcomer, but keen, often turning up at several classes in a week.

I gazed at her levelly. “Run away,” I said.

There was a smattering of laughter at that, but it died away when I didn’t join in.

“I’m serious,” I continued. “Choosing to stand there and fight someone who’s got a knife is lunacy. Trust me on this. Unless you’re cornered, you turn and you run like hell. That’s your best option by far.”

“Yes, but supposing he’s in trainers and you’re in high heels,” Joy persisted. “You’re not going to get very far, are you?”

“True,” I allowed. “OK, I know it isn’t always possible to run, which is why we’re going to cover knife defences in this class.” I went over to my rucksack and pulled out the fake plastic daggers I used just for this purpose.

I told the class to pair up and handed the daggers round. There was an odd number, and it was Joy who ended up with me. She looked nervous at the prospect. I grinned to reassure her as I handed her the dagger.

“OK, to start off with, let’s look at what to do if he’s got the knife at your throat.” I positioned us so that she had a hold of the front of my sweatshirt with her left hand, the knife held against the side of my neck with her right. “Come on, Joy, take a firm grip,” I instructed. “Remember, you’re trying to kill me here.”

Whoever had killed Susie had got a firm grip on her, all right. A death grip. He’d jammed the knife so hard against her throat that the blade had peeled back the skin, slicing into flesh and muscle, opening up the blood vessels so her strength and her will to fight drizzled away. Had he enjoyed then violating her slowly weakening body? Had it given him an added thrill?

I swallowed as I buttoned down tight on the thought. I showed the class how to twist suddenly away from the weapon, dropping away and down to the side, then striking at the hand that held it. By wrenching the wrist back on itself, you could turn the tables, taking control of the knife hand and using their own blade to shear at the arm that still held you captive.

It was a fairly simple movement, and repetition made it surer. I went through it again a few times, then let them all practise for five minutes or so.

“Remember,” I said, “go for the arm that’s holding you. Don’t be tempted to stab them anywhere else. You’re not out for vengeance here, you’re just effecting your escape.”

“If it came down to it, could you actually do it?” Joy asked now, and there was an edge to her question. “Could you actually kill a man who was attacking you?”

I paused, giving it some serious thought. I noticed the rest of the class had hesitated, stopped to listen.

“It depends what you mean,” I said at last. “If you’re asking have I got the ability to do so, then I suppose yes, I have. I know where and how to hit somebody to do them serious damage, but that proves nothing. You are all physically capable of ploughing through a bus queue in your car, or holding a cushion over your granny’s face, but that doesn’t mean you’d actually go through with it.”

There was another twitch of amusement from the others and I grinned at them. I hoped nobody would notice I was side-stepping the question, because I didn’t really know the answer.

In the relatively short period I spent in the British army I was never required to get close enough to the enemy to actually shoot at them. I learned to fire handguns, rifles and light sub-machine guns simply as part of the training. I often wondered when I was out on the ranges how I would feel about squeezing the trigger if that cut-out board thirty metres away was a living, breathing person.

When you went to paste the little squares of paper over the holes left by the high velocity rounds in your target, all you found were sets of splintered holes. No blood, no shattered bone or ripped intestines, no screams of the wounded. I avoided finding an answer. That was OK, because the occasion never arose.

And afterwards, when my blood should have been up, when I should have been out looking for violent retribution, I folded like a coward. I tried to comfort myself with the knowledge that it was the only sensible course of action. It took me a long time to come to terms with the fact that I’d run away.

Donalson, Hackett, Morton, and Clay. They’d threatened me with death, and I’d believed them. Believed them enough not to fight too hard to save myself. I’d always wondered what would have happened if I’d had the skills I now possessed. How far I would have gone to survive.

I shook myself out of it as Joy looked vaguely dissatisfied and I tried a different tack. “The law says you’re allowed to use the minimum amount of force necessary,” I said. “Gauging exactly what constitutes minimum force is not an easy one. You just have to use common sense.”

I picked up one of the fake daggers again. “Look at what we’ve just been learning today,” I said. “When you’ve got the knife away from your attacker, use it to skewer his hand to the ground—just remember if you’re on concrete that doesn’t work so well, so take the knife with you.”

More laughs, short, nervous, fading quickly. I waited a beat, then went on. “Do not sink the knife hilt-deep into his jugular vein. I’m afraid that doesn’t really constitute minimum force in the eyes of the law, whatever satisfaction it might give you at the time.”

But if it was me—now, today—I considered privately, I might just be tempted. I thought again of the list of dreadful injuries inflicted on Susie Hollins. Oh yes, I’d be tempted to go for it and to hell with the consequences. I looked into Joy’s eyes, and saw the same thoughts reflected there.

“OK,” I said, “let’s go through that again. Change partners this time so—”

I broke off suddenly. I’d turned as I’d started to speak and a movement at one of the French windows had arrested my eye. The curtains were rarely drawn at Shelseley. I think the faded velvet drapes in the ballroom would have disintegrated if you’d try to release them from their tie-backs, in any case.

As my eye passed over the window I’d just caught the flash of a moving shadow on the other side of the glass. It’s amazing the way the human eye works. It only needs a fraction to fill in the missing pieces and put together a complete image.

A man, watching.

I knew I shouldn’t have jumped to that conclusion over gender, because I didn’t see his face. Not even a pale suggestion, which implied a mask of some sort, but I was working on instinct.

He ducked back out of sight instantly, and I felt a corresponding crunch of fear. Nobody goes lurking round windows with their face covered unless they’re up to no good. I remembered the figure Nina claimed to have seen, and I just knew it was the same man.

A few of the others had seen him, too. There was a ripple of fright, anger, at this furtive observer. The first instinct of some of the women was to retreat. Others went straight on the attack.

“Come on!” cried Joy, heading for the door. “If we’re quick we can catch him!”

I ran, too. I told myself it was to see that she didn’t get herself into trouble, but I was lying. I wanted the bastard who was playing games with Nina, and now with me. I wanted him badly.

We pelted along the hallway and took the front steps in a flying leap, neck and neck. I vaguely remembered that Joy ran half marathons and tried not to disgrace myself. A couple of the others soon fell back.

With the gravel slick under our feet we slithered round the corner of the house, heading for the back garden. There were no exterior lights, and we slowed from necessity, unable to see a clear way forward. I wished I’d stopped to grab a torch. Ailsa kept a couple in their sitting room, in case of power cuts, but I hadn’t wanted to let Joy race on ahead. Not alone, at any rate.

The back garden at Shelseley consisted of a large lawn area leading down to trees and shrubbery at the bottom end. Nearest to the house was a mossy terrace, now criss-crossed with washing lines, which flew rows of brightly-coloured children’s clothes like a regatta.

The far end of the garden, down past where the ballroom jutted out from the main body of the house, was a place of shadows and imagination. I didn’t want to go poking about down there in the dark, but Joy started forwards again, and I had little choice but to press on.

The air was grainy with early evening mist. When we stopped near the line of laurel bushes at the edge of the lawn, we could see our breath in clouds against the cold night air.

“He’s gone,” I said, trying not to pant. “There’s no chance of finding him out here. I don’t even want to try looking.”

“Who on earth do you think it was?” Joy asked. She didn’t seem to be out of breath at all. God, I needed to do a better cardiovascular work-out. My stamina levels were lousy.

I shook my head. “Who knows?” I said. “Maybe it was just some guy who gets his kicks looking at a bunch of girls wrestling with each other.”

“Jeez, some people!” Joy said, pulling a face. “Doesn’t he have satellite TV?”

Noise from up the garden behind us made us turn. Ailsa appeared from the back door, carrying a flashlight. There was a big group of Lodge residents with her, spilling out onto the terrace. Everyone seemed to be talking at once.

“Charlie?” Ailsa called, her voice high with alarm. “Are you all right, love?”

I shouted back that we were fine, and we started trudging back up the grass to where she was standing. Ailsa had pulled on a huge knitted shawl against the cold. Tris was beside her, huddled into his old parka.

“That does it,” Ailsa said tightly when we were closer. “I’ve called the police. They’ve said they’ll send somebody out right now.”

Not wanting to just sit around twiddling my thumbs until the cops arrived, I took my students back into the ballroom and continued the class. For all the good it did me. They were nervous and distracted, and I admit that I taught the rest of the lesson with half my attention on the row of French windows, just in case our mysterious observer was stupid enough to put in a reappearance. Needless to say, he wasn’t.

The police, in the form of a small Asian WPC in a Fiesta panda car, turned up about half an hour after I’d finished. By that time my students, including Joy and any other potential witnesses, had all gone home.

She had a noisy poke round the back garden, came and made a few desultory notes, and left again. It didn’t do much to inspire confidence in anyone, least of all me. I gathered from Ailsa that Nina had locked herself into her room and was refusing to answer the door. I couldn’t really say I blamed her.

I told myself that finding out the details about Susie had made me jumpy, that was all, but that didn’t have much of a calming influence, somehow. When I left the Lodge later and started up the Suzuki I was aware of a sudden overwhelming vulnerability that I didn’t like.

I didn’t like it at all.

CHAPTER EIGHT

BY THE time I started my stint at the New Adelphi Club that Saturday night, the police had made little progress in tracking down Susie Hollins’ killer. According to Clare’s contact on the crime desk, at any rate.

I asked her to keep me informed, and she promised to give me an update when I went over to eat lunch with them on the Sunday. I think it was Clare’s not-so-subtle way of reminding me to turn up.

I was still smiling to myself at her heavy hints when I pulled into the car park of the New Adelphi Club. I left the bike in a corner. Out of the way, but still covered by the cameras, of course, and ambled round to the back door.

Deciding what I was going to wear had been a difficult one. Marc eventually relented on the black jeans front. Considering my limited wardrobe, he didn’t have much choice.

Some discussion had taken place about the rest of me, apparently. The best compromise they could come up with was one of the badged polo shirts worn by the bar staff. It was the only thing they’d got that was something like the right size.

Marc said if it worked out on a longer-term basis, he’d see about getting me something more suitable. He didn’t specify what. I had visions of the mini-skirt and stiletto outfits worn by the girls waiting on the tables at the club. My acid comment that putting me in high heels would reduce my agility to that of a kipper had been received in noncommittal silence. Ah well.

I hammered on the back door until it swung open. I was expecting Gary, but it was Len who admitted me, dressed in his usual dinner suit uniform. I could imagine him going to ASDA, or down the launderette in it.

He looked me up and down insultingly, making it clear he didn’t think he was looking at much. I kept my expression bland while he played his little game. I’ve dealt with the Lens of this world before, and this time I didn’t want to join in. So I didn’t challenge, didn’t show fear or irritation. I just stood and waited until he decided I’d had enough.

“Let’s just get this straight from the start,” he said at last, bolshy, jabbing a sausage-like finger a millimetre from my nose. I resisted the urge to bite at it. “The boss may have hired you, but I’m in charge of security in this place, see? You got a problem, you come to me. You don’t go running to Mr Quinn. Clear?”

“Crystal,” I said, making my voice drawl just because I knew it would wind him up.

He grunted, but said nothing, turning and stamping off down the corridor and leaving me to follow on in his wake.

I sighed. It was going to be a fun evening.

Len eventually led me to one of the bars where the rest of his team were gathering. He didn’t bother to introduce me while we waited until the last of them turned up. There were six of us altogether, including me, which proved me right in my own mind about Marc’s problems. For a place the size of the New Adelphi, a dozen working security wouldn’t have been overdoing it.

They were uniformly big men, who walked with their arms pushed out from their sides because of the amount of time they spent working on their back and chest muscles. It must be a qualification for the job that you have to have your neck shortened. I made an educated guess that their combined police records would make long and interesting reading.

They obviously all knew each other, judging from the friendly jokes and comments that were being tossed back and forth. I was carefully excluded from this display of macho camaraderie.

As opening up time approached, the walkie-talkies came out. Some of the team looked mildly taken aback when Len handed one to me.

“This is never the new lass is it, Len?” one of them asked. “Sorry, love, I thought you were bar staff,” he said to me. “The way Dave described you, I thought you’d be bigger.”

“Has nobody ever told you that size is not important?” I asked dryly. “You do surprise me.”

There were a few jeers at that. Even Len grinned, but he didn’t ease up enough to show me how the walkie-talkie worked. He left me to work out the tangle of wires by myself.

Eventually I got it sorted. The main device, about the size of a mobile phone, hooked onto my belt, with a separate earpiece and a clip-on mic. The mic had its own remote transmit button. By leaning over someone’s shoulder I gathered the channel we were operating on.

Len’s only advice was short and sweet. “Unless it’s a real emergency, stay off the air,” he told me, then turned to the others. “We’re still spread thin, so you all know your areas. If you get a problem, give us your location first, then what’s happening, otherwise we don’t know where to come and get you out of the shit, do we?”

“So what’s my brief?” I asked as the rest of the team each headed off to their own pitch.

“You can stick with me for tonight, I suppose,” he said grudgingly. “You can make regular checks on all the ladies’ loos, and if Angelo needs you to search anyone on the door he’ll send for you. He’s not allowed to search the birds.”

At risk of appearing stupid, I chanced a question. “What am I looking for?”

He shrugged. “Nobody gets in if they’re carrying a weapon,” he said. “If they’ve got drugs on them, it depends how much. If it’s for their own use, we take it off them and let them in. If it’s enough to deal, they’re banned.”

“Sounds reasonable,” I said, nodding.

He swung round and glared at me unsuccessfully for signs of insubordination. That meaty finger prodded at me again. “They might offer you something to turn a blind eye. Don’t take it—and if you do, don’t think I won’t find out about it,” he advised grimly. “Nothing—but nothing—goes on in this club that I don’t know about. Clear?”

***

The evening started slowly enough. I shadowed Len for the first couple of hours or so as he made his rounds. It was interesting to take note of the reaction he received from the punters in the club. Most people dived out of his way as he strutted past, anxious not to attract his beady eye.

“So, how long have you been in this game, Len?” I asked when we reached a bit of a lull. He’d stopped pacing and we were leaning on a balcony overlooking one of the dance floors. His eyes never stopped moving over the growing crowd below us.

“Ten years, on and off,” he said shortly.

I waited, but he wasn’t going to elaborate without further encouragement. “You must have seen quite a bit of trouble,” I ventured.

He glanced at me sharply, then nodded. “Goes with the territory.” I’d seen people give up teeth with less reluctance, but I thought I detected the faintest loosening.

“How does the New Adelphi compare?”

He shrugged. “No better, no worse,” he said. Just when I thought that was going to be the end of it, he decided to expand on the theme, turning towards me. “You’ll always get the Friday night heroes when you open a new place. Want to prove how big a man they are by having a go at the doormen, right? Happens everywhere. That’s why Mr Quinn brings his own people in, like me.”

He jabbed a thumb at his own chest. “Me and Angelo, we’ve been working for him in Manchester for years. He knows we’ll stamp out the trouble before it starts. We’ve had to crack a few heads up here to begin with, but it doesn’t take long before your reputation is enough to keep ‘em out. You take on local guys and you don’t know who they’ve pissed off and who they’ve given in to. You just run the risk of long-running feuds being brought into the club.”

It was the longest speech I’d heard him make. I opened my mouth to ask more, but my earpiece crackled. “Len, it’s Angelo. Go to seven, mate.”

Len straightened up. “Keep checking for trouble in the loos, then stay round this area,” he ordered, striding away fiddling with the settings on his walkie-talkie and muttering into the mic.

I did much as I was told for the next hour. Nothing untoward appeared to be going on under my nose on the dance floor. I was quite surprised who I saw at the club, though.

I recognised one face, but took a few moments to put the right name to it. Joy, the brave one from my last class at the Lodge. She looked different away from her baggy track suit and serious expression.

Tonight she was thrashing around on the dance floor with a group of other girls, laughing and joking, with her arms draped round their shoulders. She didn’t see me and I was suddenly wary about calling too much attention to myself.

At regular intervals I patrolled the ladies’ on each floor. I nodded to Gary who was busy serving drinks in one of the upper bars. He flashed me a quick grin, harassed and sweating.

The loos didn’t yield anything much to report. I wandered in, but nobody was actually shooting up over the washbasins. The most I found to complain about was the ladylike way some of the girls stubbed out their dog ends on lipstick-coated bits of sodden tissue in the sinks.

I discovered one couple in a passionate clinch in one of the cubicles and was about to throw one of them out for being in the wrong toilets when I realised they were both female. I made a mental note to ask the club policy on lesbian behaviour and left them to it.

I hardly saw Len again for quite some time. When I did he seemed to spend most of his time checking out the gents’. It was an interesting way to make a living, I supposed.

When I got back to the lower dance floor, Dave was well into his second set of the evening, lording it over his decks. He was biting his bottom lip in concentration, body jerking to the pulse beat of the music.

He had headphones, worn half on so they only covered one ear. More form than function. He looked up and caught sight of me, pulling his mic down to his lips with a wolfish grin. “Hey, it’s the Foxy lady!”

I rolled my eyes, ignoring the smirking glances thrown in my direction. “Up yours,” I mouthed, heading for the stairs. I went back up to the next level, and resorted to watching the goings on from the balcony again.

“Don’t worry about Dave, he tries to wind everyone up,” said a voice next to me. I turned to see one of the girls from the bar, carrying two fistfuls of empty glasses. She was tiny, not much over five foot, with dramatically spiked white blonde hair. The plastic badge pinned to her boyish chest told me her name was Victoria.

“I can handle him,” I said.

“Oh I don’t think you’ll have any problems,” she said. She broke into a big grin, the action dimpling her cheeks. She had a silver ring circling into one side of her nose, and two diamond-studded pegs through her eyebrow. “He’s like a dog chasing cars, if you know what I mean—wouldn’t know what to do with one if he got hold of it. And I should know.”

“He’s tried it on with you, has he?” I asked.

She laughed. “Tried being the operative word. Trust me, the only place Dave can keep anything up is on a dance floor! Now Angelo on the other hand …” She winked at me, and darted away, somehow managing to pick up another glass as she weaved a careful path through the crush.

I turned back to the floor. Dave was just coming to the end of his shift. He handed over to another DJ and jumped down off the stage. It took him a while to get across the dance floor. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to stop him and give him a thumbs up, or pat him on the back. Anyone would think he’d just picked up a medal.

He jogged up the stairs and spotted me, grinning as he came over. He leaned on the balcony next to me. Sweat was dripping off him, his tight-fitting T-shirt streaked with dark stains.

“Well, Charlie, what did you think of the set?” he asked, although clearly he was already well aware of his own brilliance. He wiped a hand across his face, but he was sweating too much to make a difference.

“It seemed to go down very well,” I said cautiously.

“Very well? “ he repeated, his voice almost scathing. “They love me out there. That’s real power, that is. And there’s nothing like it.” He looked down at himself. “I gotta go change before I go on again,” he said, straightening up.

He saw my sceptical look and fixed me with an intense gaze. “Believe me, Charlie, out there, knowing I’ve got this whole place in the palm of my hand—well, it’s the best feeling I’ve ever had!”

He swung away. Victoria’s scornful words came back to me. “Yeah, Dave,” I muttered under my breath, “for you, I bet it is.”

I was just about to go and make another dutiful tour of the toilets when my earpiece crackled again.

“Charlie? Front door,” came Angelo’s distorted voice. “I need you for a search.”

I obligingly made my way to the entrance. Angelo and one of the other doormen were involved in a stand-off with a group of three blokes and their dates. They all looked pretty useful, and the body language when I arrived made it clear a confrontation was almost inevitable, if not already in progress.

“Listen, dickhead,” Angelo was growling at one of them, nose to nose. “The last time you tried to come in here, you had some stuff on you. Either you all get searched, or you all piss off. Now, which is it to be?”

“You lay one finger on my girlfriend and I’ll fucking take you apart,” snarled the other bloke.

“I’m not going to lay a finger on her,” Angelo said, managing to imply that the girl was somehow unclean. He smiled his crocodile smile and gestured to me. “She is.”

The bloke looked like he was going to make a fuss, then realised he’d been backed into a corner. His girlfriend came forwards with a dare-you look on her face, her arms spread. I could have told Angelo I was wasting my time before I began by the gleeful look on her face, but I kept my mouth shut.

The last time anyone did a search on me it was a bored-looking policewoman on the way into one of the big indoor bike shows. I think they’d had a bomb scare. She seemed very keen to feel carefully along my arms. I remember wondering at the time if people really carried plastic explosive stuffed up their sleeves.

I racked my brains to recall the procedure and gave the girl what I hoped was a pro-looking pat-down search. I checked her pockets, then ran my hands along her arms and legs, waistband and back. I stepped back and shook my head at Angelo. He just smiled and held his hand out to her.

“Handbag,” he demanded, beckoning.

I saw the alarm flash across her face then. “You’ve no right to go through my things!” she blustered. Angelo beckoned again, making it clear his patience was wearing pretty thin.

I don’t know what the girl had in her bag, but as she handed it over her boyfriend took advantage of Angelo’s distracted hands to throw a fairly hefty punch at him.

He was obviously an amateur fighter, hoping to end it quickly with a heavy right. He wasn’t prepared for Angelo’s snake-like reactions. Wasn’t ready for a swift and merciless counter-attack.

The fight that ensued should have been a one-sided affair. Three blokes and three women against two and one. It should have been, but it wasn’t. The other doorman waded in to one of the men with a cheerful brutality. Word games were not his forte, but when it came to violence he was a poet.

Angelo was something one step removed. When I’d first seen him with Len, I’d thought he was the milder of the two, but I was wrong.

Now I had a chance to watch him in action as he head-butted the first bloke, then punched low into another’s stomach, using more than enough force to put him down. When one of the girls jumped onto his back and tried to claw at his face, he dealt her a savage back-hand blow that knocked her sideways, without hesitation.

He spun round in a half-crouch, hands clenched, just waiting for the next chance to strike. His lips were drawn back from his teeth in a soundless snarl. The blood vessels under the shaven skin of his head were pronounced and pulsing.

I recognised the blood lust in him, saw it in the wide, exultant eyes. Where Dave got his high from mixing music and controlling the crowd, Angelo’s kick came from sinking his fists into another’s face. No drink or drug could equal the buzz.

The girl’s friends joined the battle with a shriek at that point. Angelo shrugged them off like he was batting away flies.

The man he’d head-butted was back fighting by then, blinking away the blood from a cut across his eyebrow. He took advantage of the girls’ attack to launch a counter-offensive on Angelo’s blind side. I reluctantly supposed it was time to put my two-penny-worth in.

I stepped round his flying fists without much difficulty, getting a good grip on his shirt front. I twisted my body into him and he flew straight over my hip, landing heavily. Before he had time to catch his breath I punted him over onto his face, yanking his arm up behind him and angling a pretty effective lock onto it. It was enough to keep him where he was and out of the action until it was all done.

Angelo and the other doorman looked disappointed that the clash was over so quickly. The opposition retreated, apart from the one I’d still got on the floor. I was about to ask what to do with him when Angelo ambled up.

Before I could react, he’d kicked the man viciously in the kidneys.

I couldn’t keep the shock out of my face. My feet took me forwards on a knee-jerk reaction, not to assist Angelo this time, but to obstruct him. I seriously contemplated taking him down.

Angelo looked all set to go after the guy again, but he caught my intention and stiffened, neck banded with gorged muscle, hands clenched. We stood each other off, my eyes meeting his steadily. I don’t know what Angelo thought he saw there, but for some reason he changed his mind about the pursuit.

He exchanged a nasty grin with his colleague. “You gotta deal with trouble hard and fast, Charlie,” he said when his victim had crawled to his feet and staggered away, helped by his mates. “You show any sign of weakness, and they’ll rip you to pieces.”

He gave me the once-over, as if making up his mind about something. “You’ll probably do,” he decided, his patronising tone putting my back up. “Your reflexes aren’t bad. You just don’t have the killer instinct.”

He turned away then, clapping the other doorman on the shoulder. They straightened their jackets, looking pleased with themselves. Angelo inspected his knuckles, which were slightly skinned. I could see the fresh wounds alongside the scabs from some previous engagement with the enemy.

He was trying to act calm, but he was still wired, jittery, couldn’t keep his hands still.

Len arrived at this point. “You!” he said, glaring at me. “Get back to the lower floor.”

“Suit yourself,” I said as I moved past him. “Angelo called me up here.”

“Trouble?” Len asked him.

Angelo gave him a big smile. He flickered a glance over to me before replying.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” he said.

When I got back to the lower dance floor things looked pretty quiet down there, if quiet’s the word to use for music belted out of a massive sound system at full whack. Still, at least Marc seemed to have fitted decent equipment, and had it set up to perfection. Distortion is very wearing to listen to. At the New Adelphi, there wasn’t any.

I made another round of the loos, still without finding anything startling to report. I noticed Len coming out of the gents’ again on one of the upper floors. Either the guy was paranoid about the punters getting up to mischief in there, or he needed a good dose of Imodium.

I worked my way back down through the different levels again. If nothing else, climbing all these stairs was going to get me fit.

The club was starting to really fill up now. Getting from floor to floor was more of a push and struggle. My eyes were beginning to ache from constantly scanning the crowd in the smoky gloom. From trying to spot the furtive movement, the sly gesture. The first hint that something was wrong.

In the end I didn’t see the trouble going down.

I heard it.

CHAPTER NINE

I WAS on the stairs down to the lower dance floor when I first heard the screaming. I took a moment to focus on the direction, then started sprinting.

I took the last three stair treads in one stride and tunnelled through the press of bodies on the floor itself. Once I got closer I didn’t need to ask exactly where the problem was. The way everyone was scrambling out of the way told me the answer to that one. The more hurriedly they were moving, the closer I was getting to the epicentre.

Finally, I broke through the edge of the dispersing crowd and found the tableau.

There were three players. The girl was doing the screaming, the action revealing her pierced tongue. She was dark-haired and rather plump, in a skirt too short and a lycra top cut too low.

On the face of it, she was an unlikely inspiration for a jealous rage, but from the look of the battle going on around her, she was certainly the prize. She didn’t look like an athlete, either, but there was nothing wrong with her lung capacity.

The lad I immediately pegged as the prospective boyfriend was on his hands and knees at her feet, dripping blood from his lacerated cheek onto Marc’s polished flooring. The other—clearly the rejected suitor—was still standing, a few feet away.

He was rigid with fury, breathing fast through his nostrils like a hard-run racehorse. He still had the neck of the broken bottle clenched in his hand.

I thumbed the transmit on my walkie-talkie. “Len, it’s Charlie,” I said. “Lower dance floor. There’s a nasty one going on down here. I need some help. Now!”

The girl carried on screaming, at that high, intensely irritating frequency of small babies and hotel fire alarms. The boy with the bottle was momentarily distracted. As though he couldn’t decide if his best next move was to continue the fight with the prospect, or hit the girl just to shut her up. He shook his head suddenly, as if to clear it.

While he was diverted, I took a deep breath, tried to centre myself, and stepped into the fray. At least with the noise she’d been making, Len and the rest shouldn’t have any trouble finding us.

It was immediately clear that neither of the two lads really wanted any outside interference. The reject was desperate for the total humiliation of his rival. The prospect wanted the opportunity for revenge, served hot. It was like breaking up two fighting Pit Bulls. I was more likely to find them both turning on me than I was of stopping them ripping each other to shreds.

“Come on now son, put that down and let’s finish this the easy way,” I said.

He twisted towards me, mad-eyed so the whites of them showed all round the irises. “I’m not your fucking son,” he hissed. He brought the bottle up towards me, warning. The gleaming blood of his last victim still decorated its wicked edges. “Stay out of it, bitch, or you’ll get some, too.”

He was dangerously hyped up for it to be drink, or simple jealousy. It was in his voice, his eyes. The way he held his body, jerkily stiff, uncoordinated. There was a sheen of sweat pearling on his face, but he was shivering. Great! Where was bloody Len when I needed him?

The prospective boyfriend had used the break in the reject’s attention to climb warily to his feet. I risked a glance at him. The bottle had been applied by someone who’d had practice. The thrust-and-screw technique had opened up the whole of the left-hand side of his face. The skin hung in ragged peels from the top corner of his lip to just below his eye. It was going to take a micro-surgeon with a special interest in jig-saw puzzles to piece him back together again so he looked anything like the picture on the box.

I flicked my eyes towards the girl. She’d stopped screaming by now, shoving both hands over her own mouth and gagging as though about to be sick. I turned back to the boy with the ruined face. I hoped whatever she’d been offering him had been worth it.

I didn’t like the look in his eyes. He didn’t need to touch a hand to his face to know what had been done to him. The evidence was splashing down the front of his shirt in a scarlet river.

He started to swear then. Softly at first, but growing in profanity and volume as he launched himself at his attacker, oblivious to the dangers of the slashing bottle.

I couldn’t let them come together again. I knew that. I took the prospect first, sweeping his legs out from under him to send him crashing. I only just managed to jump back out of reach of the reject as he sliced the bottle at me, aiming for my stomach.

I caught him a fast blow to the face as I dodged away, bloodied his nose. There was no real weight to it, but a remarkable amount of nerve-endings meet in the nose. It should have been enough to put him down, should have slowed him down at any rate, but he was feeling no pain. He shook it off like a light tap and kept coming, weapon lifted now, like a dagger.

Christ! Now would be a good time, Len …

I swallowed hard. I was going to have to hurt him to stop him. My mind shied away from it, but the facts didn’t change. I dithered and nearly lost it altogether.

I hadn’t heard the prospective boyfriend get back on his feet until he grabbed me round the neck from behind. The rejected one was still coming, but now I was almost immobile and a much easier target.

I switched off my conscious mind and put a muzzle on my conscience. I needed fast, clinical action. The outlines of all the techniques I’d ever learned unrolled behind my eyes like computer graphics, clear and precise. There was no room for hesitation here. No time for compassion either.

I shifted my hips sideways and used a clenched backfist to hit the boy holding me hard in the groin. I didn’t need to deal with the arm round my throat then. It simply melted away.

I shrugged him off as he crumpled backwards away from me, and moved forward to meet the charge of the crazy boy with the broken bottle held overhead. With deadly accuracy, he stabbed the glass down at my left eye. So directly that when I looked up I could see straight into the taper of the neck.

I blocked him high with my forearm, grunting at the jarring impact. I weaved my right arm quickly up through his to meet it, clasping my hands together round his wrist.

The movements were automatic, fluid, but I didn’t want to do this! Oh I knew the moves, had nearly carried them to completion a hundred times, but I’d never had to take that final step. It was crossing the line. It was too far.

I looked up to see the stump of the bottle again, inches from my face. It was quivering from the sheer effort he was putting into trying to drive it downwards towards me. Into me. Oh shit …

Leverage is everything. They reckon it takes just eight pounds of pressure to break almost any bone in the human body. I must have applied quite a bit more than that now. I shut out the last lingering doubts and heaved, sideways and down.

The boy’s shoulder dislocated with an ease that was mildly surprising. It made a soggy popping sound, like a spoon being pulled out of a bowl of set jelly.

I put my shoulder out once, falling off a horse when I was a kid. The pain is indescribable. You can’t escape from it, can’t move anywhere to make it hurt any less. It focuses you utterly and you’ll do anything to make it stop.

The boy dropped slowly to his knees, the wild light in his eyes dulling as the biting pain of his injury finally took the edge off whatever was floating him. He let the bottle fall to the floor. I kicked it away.

There was the thump of heavy footsteps and I turned to see Len and Angelo had, at long last, deigned to put in an appearance. They skidded to a halt and took in the scene. One boy writhing on the floor, a trail of slimy vomit now mixing with the blood from his face.

The other was still on his knees, whimpering, his torso deformed into an unnatural shrug. Len stared between them, open-mouthed. Angelo just regarded me with those calculating eyes.

“What fucking kept you?” I demanded, stalking past them. I ignored Len’s shouted order that I stay put. He was in charge, wasn’t he? Well let him sort the mess out, then!

Behind me, the dark-haired girl had started screaming again.

***

I left Angelo and Len to deal with the aftermath. I went upstairs to one of the quieter bars and ordered coffee as an excuse to take in some sugar.

When it arrived, I found my hands were shaking too much to lift the cup.

I thought of Angelo’s earlier treatment of the three couples outside the club. If you dealt with it every day, you became hardened to violence. If that was so, I didn’t want to deal with it every day. Maybe Sam was right and this move was a mistake. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken the job on.

Or maybe Angelo was right. I just didn’t have the killer instinct.

“Are you OK?”

I hadn’t heard Marc come up behind me. Without looking round I said tiredly, “Yeah, just wonderful, thanks.”

He came and sat beside me, linking his well-manicured hands together on the table top. He was wearing another devastating suit over a collarless white shirt with no buttons visible except the pearl stud at the neck. I wondered how long it took him to choose his wardrobe in the mornings.

With a supreme effort, I managed to take a sip of coffee without slopping most of it down the sides of the cup. When I looked up at Marc it was with steady eyes.

He was watching me with a half-smile quirking his mouth. “Once again it seems I have to say you’ve handled yourself pretty well,” he remarked.

“Once again without any back-up from your own security people,” I put in bitterly.

“So it might seem.”

It was the slight emphasis that tipped me off. My head came up and I stared at him. “You told them,” I said, my voice a whisper as the realisation hit. “You told them to leave me to it, didn’t you?”

“I wanted to make certain you could cope on your own, take care of yourself,” he admitted without any visible signs of remorse, “so, yes, I told them to let you handle the first incident that came up solo.” He allowed himself a rueful smile. “I didn’t realise it would be one quite so … serious.”

I felt a cold sweat break out between my shoulder-blades, prickling my skin. Would I have willingly gone into it knowing I had nobody behind me? I replayed the scene in my mind. Saw again the broken bottle, and the blood. I knew I couldn’t have walked away and let those two slug it out until only one was left standing. “And if I hadn’t been able to cope?”

He left the question hanging for a few moments. “I didn’t doubt for a moment that you could,” he said calmly. His eyes shifted to focus behind me. “Ah, Len, is everything sorted down there?”

“Yes sir.” Len took a chair alongside me, leaning back and scowling. “Bad one. We had to get a meat wagon for the pair of them.” He glanced at me and said grudgingly, “You did OK, but you should have gone in sooner. We’re not the police. We don’t have to give them a chance to surrender. You go in hard and fast so they don’t know what’s hit them.”

He demonstrated his point by smacking a fist against his palm. “As soon as trouble starts, you stamp on it. Trying to talk them out of it is just a waste of time and it’ll get you hurt.”

“Being reasonable is never a waste of time,” I said, trying not to grind my teeth. “Most people will respond to reason, given the opportunity. Most people will respect reasonable force as well. Unlike back there at the door when Angelo kicked that guy when he was already down and out of the play. That’s not being reasonable. That’s just vindictive. That bloke’ll remember that, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s back with a few more of his mates later. That is what will get you hurt!”

I watched with mild interest as the blue touch paper of Len’s temper ignited. Marc’s presence was probably the only thing that was keeping his hands clenched on the table top instead of round my windpipe. “You don’t know the first thing about this game, so keep your half-baked opinions to yourself,” he growled. “We’ve seen it all. Done it all. And we know how to handle it!”

Irritated, he lifted himself back to his feet and stumped away.

I swivelled round in my chair and waited until he’d made two strides. “If you’re so all-seeing and all-knowing, perhaps you can tell me what the boy was on?”

Len stopped, revealing quite a bit by the way his head ducked at the question. He turned back slowly, eyes flicking nervously to his employer as he did so.

“On?” It was Marc who made the demand, his voice sharp.

“Yeah, Len here was only too keen to let me know earlier that nothing went on in this club that he didn’t know about, so he should be able to tell me—what was he on?”

“What are you talking about?” Len asked. He didn’t make it sound convincing.

“The kid with the bottle,” I said patiently. “I hit him hard enough to put him down, but he stayed on his feet, and he kept coming. I don’t know what shit he had in his system, but I’d lay money that you can’t buy it over the counter at Boots.”

Marc sighed, as if talking to a child. “Charlie, we don’t ask people for a blood sample on the door before we let them in. If he had taken something, he probably did it before he came into the club.” He pinned me with those pale eyes. “I can tell you now that nobody with any sense tries to bring anything in to my place. Not if they know what’s good for them.”

Len vigorously voiced his agreement. Marc glared at him. He made a swift exit.

Marc stood, smoothing out his jacket, his face tightly controlled. Abruptly he leant forwards, resting his hands on the back of my chair and the table top. He spoke in a voice quiet with fury. “I will not have anyone spreading rumours that the New Adelphi is open house for aspiring chemists. Is that understood?”

I had to force myself to hold his gaze, not to back away from him. Pure pig-headedness made me pause for a few moments, defying him, before I nodded.

Satisfied, he straightened up. “Now,” he continued, his voice icy, “if you’re sure you’re all right, I have a club to run.”

***

I fully expected that to be the last I saw of Marc all evening, but to my surprise he reappeared just as we were packing up, around two.

Most of the security lads had already said their goodnights, climbed into their cars and departed into the night.

It had started to drizzle around midnight, a fine spray which sat on people’s clothing like dust when they came into the club. Now the rain had started in earnest. I wasn’t looking forward to the ride home. What a night to forget my waterproofs.

I’d already pulled on my leather jacket and scarf when Marc caught up with me. “Have you got a moment, Charlie?”

I paused, running quickly through a mental checklist to see what else I’d done to deserve another talking to. I couldn’t think that the way I’d handled the brawl on the dance floor could have been dealt with any better. Angelo, of course, would have just kicked both their heads in. And probably the girl’s as well.

Now, I just nodded and followed Marc upstairs. We went right the way up to the small dining area on the top floor. I was surprised to find one of the chefs waiting for us, still in his whites.

Marc turned. “I was going to have a bite of supper. Will you join me?”

It was phrased as a polite request, but I wasn’t sure of the reaction I’d get if I said I’d rather be on my way home to bed. I hesitated. Although I’d had a break at ten, I’d been too unsettled to do more than drink coffee. It had been good strong stuff and now it was doing its best to burn a way out through the front of my chest. Eating something might dampen it down a bit.

I smiled. “Yes, please, that would be great.”

We made our way over to a centre table and two place settings were whisked in front of us. Marc ordered wine. Mindful of having my wits about me for the ride home, I stuck with water.

“You should smile more,” Marc said as he lifted his glass. “It suits you.” His voice was strangely neutral. I looked hard for mockery, but couldn’t find it in his impassive features.

I took a swig from my glass and avoided his eyes. When I next looked up it was to find him amused.

“What’s so funny?”

“I was just thinking what a contradiction you are, Charlie,” he said. “You field a right hook more easily than you take a compliment.”

“Maybe I’m just used to men seeing me more as a potential sparring partner,” I hedged. Or as a target.

The chef reappeared at that moment with two succulent Spanish omelettes that melted on your tongue. We both dived in like we were starving. There was a long pause before Marc took up the thread of the conversation again.

“I think it’s only fair to tell you that a sparring partner is not how I think of you at all,” he murmured. His voice was rich with hidden meanings, most of which I didn’t want to think about right now.

“Yeah, right,” I said, trying not to squirm.

“So cynical for one so young.”

I regarded him straight-faced. “I’m forty-five really, but I’ve got this painting in the attic,” I said.

To my surprise, he frowned, shaking his head. “I don’t get you.”

“Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray,” I explained and dredged the abridged story line from a long-forgotten pigeonhole in my memory. “He was an exceptionally beautiful young man who lived a life of total depravity, but he had a portrait of himself which he kept hidden away, and while he utterly escaped the ravages of time and the effects of his own immorality, his likeness in the picture grew more hideous and more ugly.” I shrugged diffidently. “We studied him at school.”

Marc raised an eyebrow, and took another sip of his wine. “They didn’t go a bundle on Oscar Wilde where I went to school,” he said wryly. “Didn’t go much on education either, for that matter.”

“It doesn’t seem to have done you much harm,” I commented.

He inclined his head slightly with a modest smile. I must remember that method of accepting praise. It was gracious without being smug.

“Ambition can overcome plenty of obstacles if you’re determined enough,” he said quietly. He pulled out a packet of cigars and lit one, dunking the end directly into the flame until it caught. “I grew up with plenty of ambition and not much else.”

He pushed his empty plate to one side and twirled the stem of his glass between his forefinger and thumb. He watched the pale golden liquid shimmer in the bowl for a few moments, lost in his thoughts. That single diamond on his little finger dazzled as it caught the light.

Finally he looked up, and met my eyes levelly. “I was born in one of the grimmest tower blocks in the roughest areas of Manchester,” he said. “My mother overdosed when I was seven.”

The bald statement hung in the air between us like it had suddenly grown a body. Stricken, I searched for the right thing to say, but had to admit defeat. There wasn’t any right thing.

Marc suddenly seemed to realise what he’d said. He waved an elegant hand mockingly towards his expensive attire, as if only too aware of the contrast with his present-day situation. “If you saw anybody round my old haunts wearing a suit it was usually because some time that day a judge was going to be referring to them as ‘the accused’.”

I felt my shoulders relax a fraction. “Sounds like one of those places where the ambulance crews have to go in wearing flak jackets.”

Marc half-smiled, little more than a derisive twist of his lips. “Oh no,” he said, “they never bothered sending ambulances.”

***

When I finally left the New Adelphi Club it was almost three-thirty. There are not normally two three o’clocks in my day and I was shattered. My eyes felt as though someone had emptied the contents of a seaside sandal into them. My hair and even my fingernails stank of cigarettes.

There was almost no traffic on the ride home, and I was able to give part of my brain over to thinking about the snippets of his past that Marc had handed to me during supper.

The contrast with my own upbringing was stark. While he’d been avoiding rats in pissy stairwells, and dodging the drunken fists of yet another temporary uncle, I’d been taking ballet classes and going to the Pony Club. There’d been a lot of distance travelled between then and now. For both of us.

The rain hadn’t eased off on the way back to Lancaster, so I wasn’t surprised when I hit the light switch at the bottom of the main staircase in the hallway below my flat and nothing happened.

I think the wiring in the whole of the building was rejected by Noah for the ark because it was past its best even then. Every time there’s heavy rain with the wind in the north-east the water seeps in somewhere like a thief and the circuit breakers in the basement click out.

It took me ten minutes or so, swearing, to stumble down there with a torch and flip them back in line. I tripped over a pile of junk on the way and I just knew I was going to have a bruise on my shin the size of a beer mat.

Great! Still, the way things had gone at the club, it was probably the perfect end to a pretty shitty sort of a day.

I fell into bed and into sleep almost simultaneously, but it wasn’t untroubled slumber. I woke abruptly in the early hours, before it was light, from a jumbled dream where my father was trying to inject my mother with rat poison through a huge syringe.

She kept screaming and struggling and my father was ordering me to hold her down. I tried to do as I was told, crying because I knew it was wrong. When I looked up at him and he’d changed into a giant rat with yellow eyes.

I looked back down at my mother, but she’d changed, too. It was Susie Hollins I was holding now, on the dance floor at the New Adelphi, while a shadowy madman with a razor-sharp knife reared over us both. He laughed as the blade came slashing down to cut her throat.

CHAPTER TEN

AFTER THE rain, Sunday morning showed up dry, lit by pale watery sunshine. The sort of crisp weather, close to warmth, that fools spring plants into making an early break for the surface, only to be decapitated by the next frost.

Not that I saw much of the morning. By the time I’d dragged myself out of bed it was past ten o’clock. I worked out to try and lift my energy reserves up from semi-dormant, but I’m not sure I managed to hoist them much over hibernating tortoise level.

I showered straight after, glad to finally wash the last of the smoky smell out of my hair. I dumped all the clothes I’d been wearing into the washing basket, wrinkling my nose.

I had grapefruit juice for breakfast, drinking a glassful with the shutters open, looking out across the Lune. The water level was high that morning. Sometimes the river seems no more than a stream, sandwiched between two rock-strewn, greyish mud banks. But during high springs, with an onshore wind giving it a step up, it can completely flood the stone quay.

At times like those the residents try, Canute-like to fend the water away from their front doors and cellar windows with sandbags. The unlucky ones discover just how good the anti-corrosion warranty is on their cars, parked outside.

I took the precaution of buying a set of tide tables just after I moved in. If the weather looks bad I shift the bike up the ramp they used to use for loading trucks at the back of the building. It leads to a solid brick platform, about four feet above pavement level, just outside the old boarded-up rear doorway. Then I watch the mopping up exercise from the safety of my first floor balcony.

OK, so maybe balcony makes it sound grander than it really is. In reality all I have is an old iron railing about three feet off the floor, embedded in the sandstone and misshapen with rust. I usually treat its protective qualities with caution. I’ve no desire to find out the hard way that the railing is only held in by the skin of its teeth and a bit of flaky mortar. There’s a good twenty-foot drop to the flagged pavement below.

Now I stood leaning on the stonework enjoying the view. I checked my watch, looking forward to nothing more strenuous than a ride out to Jacob and Clare’s for lunch.

Afterwards, I looked on the half an hour or so I spent then as a little oasis of calm before I was hit by a full-blown hurricane. Complete with monstrous winds and tidal waves.

Traffic on the other side of the river heading into Morecambe was reasonably light. There was just the soothing rumble of a train crossing the Carlisle Bridge to the west of me. The odd car moving past on the quay below.

Then the phone started ringing.

Reluctant to spoil the mood, I turned away from the window and went to answer it. I had no premonitions as to who was calling me, just a mild curiosity. My pupils tended to respect my weekends, and I’d never built up the kind of friendships with people who loved to chat from a distance.

“Hello?”

“Hello Charlotte.” A man’s voice, authoritative, but quiet and self-contained. The sort of voice you could imagine imparting the news of terminal cancer with cool detachment. He had probably done so on more than one occasion.

My father.

I was momentarily stunned. In all the time since the rift between my family and I had first opened up, through all the attempts by my mother to heal the breach, he had never contacted me. Not once.

The last time I’d seen him was just before the court martial. He hadn’t bothered to embroil himself in the civil action I’d then impulsively brought against my exonerated attackers. Not after I’d turned down the exclusive legal services of one of his golf club cronies. The guy was a full-blown silk and I couldn’t afford those sort of rates. Not when, if I’m honest, the realistic chances of winning looked so slim.

My father had offered to pay, of course, but by then relations had deteriorated enough for me to haughtily refuse my parents’ charity. Perhaps, if I hadn’t been so proud, the outcome might have been very different.

“What do you want?” I demanded roughly now, shock making me ungracious, and resentful that he was the cause.

I could just picture him, sitting in his study at home, with his back to the high sash window. His rosewood desk would be in front of him, with the leather-cornered blotter sitting exactly centred. Besides the telephone, there would be nothing else on the desktop. Paperwork was ruthlessly dealt with the moment it arrived.

“Your mother is very upset,” he said, his tone eminently moderate.

“That makes two of us, then,” I shot back.

He sighed. “At risk of stooping to cliché, two wrongs do not make a right, Charlotte,” he said.

“Is that so? Perhaps she should have thought of that before she betrayed me.”

“Don’t be so emotive,” my father rapped, more like his old self. It made what he said next so much greater a surprise. “Can’t you simply accept that she made a mistake? An aberration in a weak moment. It’s something that she bitterly regrets, and it’s causing her untold grief that you can’t find it in you to forgive her.”

Typical of my father, that. Giving with one hand and taking back with the other. An admission of guilt coupled with a pointed reminder of my own failings. He made my reaction sound like a character defect. Hardly surprising, when I thought about it.

“An aberration?” I snapped, unable to prevent my voice rising like a police siren. “She refused to stand up and support me when I was on trial, and you call it an aberration?”

“The evidence against you was substantial, Charlotte. On principle, she had to believe that the judicial system came to the correct conclusion. You must understand that,” he said, more gently. “She is a Justice of the Peace, after all. What else could she do?”

“What about me?” I cried, feeling like a child. “What about her daughter? Surely that takes precedence over the damned system? Where were her principles then?”

“She is sorry, you know. She may not be able to admit it outright, but she is, all the same,” he went on, as though I hadn’t spoken. “For the damage she’s done.”

I tried that out for size on the twisted corner of my psyche that had been feeding on my bitterness and hostility towards them for the last couple of years. It had been leaching acid into my mind like a perforated ulcer. His words should have acted like a balm, but all they did was make it burn more savagely. So she was sorry, was she? For the result, not for the cause.

It was much too little, and way too late.

“And what about you?” I demanded.

His pause, a fraction too long, spoke volumes. “That’s not the issue, here, Charlotte,” he said evasively. “This was never about you and me.”

“No, it never was, was it?” I said woodenly. “I don’t think I’ve anything more to say to you.” And I’m not ready to forgive either of you, I added silently.

“In that case, I’m sorry to have disturbed your Sunday morning,” he said without inflection. “Goodbye Charlotte.”

The phone clicked and went dead in my hand. I put it down like it weighed heavy, and moved slowly back to the open balcony, but where before the hum of cars across the river had been hypnotic and anodyne, now it grated.

I finished off the last tepid dregs of my coffee and was about to turn away from the view when I idly noticed the Vauxhall police car approaching along the quay. I felt the first stirrings of apprehension as it moved slowly into view, the occupants glancing up at the houses, obviously looking for an address. They stopped outside mine.

Two uniforms climbed out, adjusting their caps. It looked like the same pair who’d come looking for me the week before at Shelseley. I sighed, and went to spoon instant coffee into a couple of mugs. If being paid a visit by the local law was going to become a regular occurrence, I suppose I’d better at least be sociable.

I left the front door open and heard them stumping their way up the wooden staircase, having a minor argument about who’d done what in the staff canteen the night before. When they reached the landing they paused uncertainly.

“Come on in and take a seat,” I called through. “The kettle’s on.”

“Morning Miss Fox.” They did as instructed and made themselves at home on the sofa. As I appeared out of the kitchen, drying my hands on a tea towel, they’d taken their caps off and plonked them upside down on the coffee table. I almost expected them to put their feet up.

I left them to it while I ducked back into the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with two mugs of instant coffee. “So, what can I do for you this time?” I asked, handing them out.

“Yeah, this is getting to be a bit of a habit, isn’t it?” the older one said with a grin.

“I didn’t realise this was going to happen every weekend or I’d have bought some cake,” I said waspishly, taking the chair across from them.

They looked disappointed, then exchanged glances and pulled on businesslike expressions.

The younger one, Tommy, pulled out his notebook. “We’re here because there’s been a very serious allegation made against you,” he said, consulting it, “of causing Grievous Bodily Harm during an incident at the New Adelphi Club in Morecambe last night.”

“What?” I realised I had my mouth open and shut it abruptly. “You are joking?” I said, looking from one to the other. Actually, they were both looking faintly amused, as though the whole thing was some gigantic wind-up.

“I’m afraid not, Miss Fox,” Tommy said solemnly. “At the moment no charges are being brought, but we’ve had an official complaint, backed up by a medical report, that shows one young lad with a forcibly dislocated shoulder, and another with severe facial lacerations and―,” he looked pained, “―a ruptured testicle.”

“Nasty,” agreed the older one, straight-faced but only just. I wondered if they were practising a comedy double act.

“Hang on a minute,” I said, feeling my temper beginning to rise. “Who exactly is it that’s made this complaint?”

He read out a female name, which meant nothing to me.

“And who is she, for heaven’s sake?”

“She claims to be the fiancée of one of the injured parties, whom you attacked, without provocation, on the dance floor at the club.” I remembered the dark-haired girl with the pierced tongue.

“OK,” I said, holding up my hands. “I’ll admit to the shoulder and I suppose to the testicle, but one of them had already glassed the other one in the face before I got there. That was nothing to do with me.”

“So you just waded in there, two against one, when you claim one of them was armed with an offensive weapon, and you inflicted major injuries on the pair of them?” the older one demanded incredulously. He caught sight of my punchbag on its hook in the corner of the living room. “A bit of a boxer, are you?”

I ignored his last sarky remark. “Yes, he still had the bottle on him when I got there,” I said. “Look, I was employed as a member of the security staff to deal with trouble. I saw the fight and I went to break it up, but they both had a go at me. What was I supposed to do while one had his arm round my throat and the other was trying to disembowel me—reason with them?” Oh God, I sounded like Len.

“And you fought them off?” Tommy asked, a picture of dubiousness.

“That’s right.”

“By yourself?”

“Yes!”

“Any ideas what started this fight in the first place?” the older one put in.

I shrugged. “It looked like it was probably a classic case of “Oi, get your hands off my girlfriend” but it didn’t help that he was definitely on something at the time.”

I thought of Marc’s warning, delivered almost as a threat. Nobody spreads rumours that the New Adelphi is open house for aspiring chemists, he’d said. Don’t worry, Marc, the only people I’ve mentioned it to are a couple of coppers. Oh well …

The pair opposite me exchanged pointed looks again, but to my surprise they didn’t pursue it further. On cue they both got to their feet.

The older one screwed his hat into place and regarded me dubiously. “That will be all, for the moment, Miss Fox,” he said. “We’ll let you know if any charges are being brought.”

I rose, too, stuffing my hands into my jeans pockets. “Is that likely?”

“Who knows? But if I were you,” he said with a faint patronising tone, “I’d try and stay out of trouble for a while.”

“Thanks a lot,” I muttered under my breath as they disappeared down the staircase. “That’s a great help.”

Their footsteps faded as they reached the street. It was only as I turned away from the door that I saw Tommy had left his hat lying upside-down on my coffee table. I crossed the room and picked it up. I was just debating whether I wanted to bother going after them to give it back when I heard a single set of footsteps on the stairs again and Tommy reappeared in the doorway.

I dangled the offending item from a finger. “Forgotten something?” I asked, my voice acidic.

To my surprise, he gave me a level look as he retrieved his headgear. “No, actually,” he said, “I just wanted a chance to have a quiet word with you. On your own, like.”

I raised my eyebrows and said nothing.

Tommy hesitated, glancing uneasily over his shoulder as though his mate might somehow miraculously materialise on the landing behind him.

“I just wanted to give you a word to the wise,” he went on, hurriedly. “On the face of it, you don’t look a likely candidate for a Section Twenty assault, know what I mean? You haven’t got a record, but quite a few of the guys Quinn’s got working for him have. You’re mixing in dangerous company if you want to keep your nose clean.”

“You mean you don’t believe that’s how it happened?” I demanded, feeling my temper rise like a prickle of hairs. “You think that the kid was clean and I just went overboard?”

He flushed, looking uncomfortable. “Quinn swears security’s tight enough so that nobody manages to get into the place with anything on them,” he said.

When he saw my face he added hastily, “Not that I take that as gospel, but by the time the boy was through with Casualty and our lads got to see him, he wasn’t showing any signs of being on anything. On the other hand,” he went on, “he didn’t seem very happy with his girlfriend that she’d got us involved, which was good for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if he hadn’t been so dead against pressing formal charges, we’d have been breaking your door down at five this morning and hauling you down the station instead of coming round now for a friendly chat, like.”

“But I was just doing my job,” I protested.

He shrugged. “That’s not the impression we got from Quinn’s staff. They were dropping hints that you might have gone in too hard, like. You want to watch your back there, Charlie.”

“I will.” I managed to remember my manners enough to be slightly less ungracious. “Thank you, anyway. I appreciate the warning.”

He looked embarrassed. “Yeah, well, you do quite a bit of work up at the Lodge, don’t you?” he said. “I get called out to a lot of domestics. Mrs Shelseley’s a nice lady.”

“Tom!” yelled a voice from the bottom of the stairs. “Are you going to be all day? Get a shift on, will you.”

“OK,” Tommy called back. “I’m on my way.”

He flashed me a quick smile, jammed his hat on, and trotted away to join his colleague.

I sighed, trying to roll away the tension that was cramping my shoulders. All in all, it wasn’t quite the way I’d envisaged starting off my quiet Sunday morning.

***

By the time I’d changed into my leathers, got the bike fired up, and locked the flat, it was well past the eleven-thirty by which I’d promised to be at Jacob and Clare’s. I knew Jacob, who timed the cooking of his meals like a covert military operation, was going to be spitting feathers, but I also knew it was going to be easier to explain my lateness face to face.

As I gunned away along the tree-lined quay towards town I should have been having a good time. The weather was just right, the sort of cold air the Suzuki really runs well in, but I would have felt better if it had been dark grey skies and raining buckets.

I was so angry it made my hands ache.

I slipped through into a gap in traffic on the main road going past the bus station and weaved smoothly across all three lanes to make the best progress. If I was going to ride like that, I really should have been giving it all my concentration, but half my mind was on other things.

How dare they not believe me! OK, so you tend to get pulled by the lads on Traffic more when you’re on a bike than if you drive a car. Even so, that hardly made me a criminal, for heaven’s sake. And anyway, it was clear they didn’t have a clue about my past to damn me by.

I barrelled left round Sainsbury’s and, by dint of dropping down two gears and caning it, managed to hit the temperamental lights on Parliament Street just as they were turning to amber.

I always used to think of myself as very law-abiding. Still do, I suppose—I even have a TV licence. But when I’d needed justice in the past, it had been spectacularly unforthcoming. Now I was suddenly on the receiving end of the boys in blue, when all I’d been doing was my job.

If this was the sort of treatment I could expect working for Marc, I made up my mind to tell him to stuff it!

I made it out to Jacob and Clare’s place on the outskirts of Caton in record time for me. Clare came out to greet me as I pulled up. She had a couple of the dogs with her, a loopy wire-haired terrier called Beezer and a clumsy old half-blind black Labrador named Bonneville.

I wasn’t surprised to see Clare waiting for me. Jacob not only deals in classic bikes, but all sorts of interesting antiques as well. He stores the stuff in the numerous barns and outbuildings dotted around the place and he doesn’t like surprise visitors.

Somewhere along the drive are two hidden sensors, connected to warning buzzers inside the house. I’ve never been able to work out exactly where they are.

Now I cut the engine and toed the side-stand down, pulling off my helmet. Beezer greeted me by bouncing three feet into the air and yapping excitedly. Clare took one look at my face and swallowed the crack she’d undoubtedly been going to make about me being late.

“What’s happened?” she demanded, leading the way in through the studded oak front door.

“Don’t ask,” I said. My anger had dissipated, replaced by a weariness that went through to my bones. I told myself I was just tired, but I knew it went deeper than that.

We moved along the uneven stone flags of the hallway to the big cosy kitchen, where Jacob should have been slaving over a hot stove.

He was actually sitting at the scrubbed pine table. There was a glass of wine by his elbow and a pile of paperwork in front of him, and he was speaking in what appeared to be Klingon on the telephone. It turned out to be Japanese. Clare whispered to me that he was winding up the sale of a pair of restored Velocettes to a collector in Tokyo.

“On a Sunday?” I whispered back.

Jacob looked up and dazzled me with that slow grin of his, then went back to his unintelligible conversation.

Clare dragged me a cold beer out of the fridge and we went through to the snug back sitting room to leave Jacob to finish the call in peace. Despite the sun outside, a blazing fire was lit in the huge open hearth. I disappeared into the depths of their big squashy sofa when I sat down, quickly buried by the arrival of the terrier on my lap.

“So,” Clare said when I’d had my first mouthful of beer, “are you going to tell me what’s been going on?”

I told her the whole tale about my experiences at the nightclub since I’d rescued her from the clutches of Susie Hollins. Jacob came in just as I was telling her about my confrontation with Len. They both sat in silence until I’d gone through the events of the night before in full, and my subsequent encounter with the police that morning.

“The fascist little shits!” he said with feeling when I’d finished. “Do they honestly think you’re going to start a major fight on your first night? Unbelievable!”

“What are you going to do?” Clare asked. Bonneville came waddling into the lounge then, following the sound of our voices, and collided with a standard lamp. Clare caught it without taking her eyes off me, well used to the dog’s blunders.

“There’s not a lot I can do,” I said. “I’m not sure I want to carry on working at the club, though. I rely on recommendations from the local police for some of my business. I can’t afford to upset them.”

“What interests me,” Jacob put in slowly, “is why they came round to see you at all.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, why didn’t this Len and Angelo back up your story? I thought you bouncer types were supposed to stick together,” he said with a bit of a grin. “It doesn’t sound like they’ve tried to help you at all. In fact, it sounds more like they’re actively trying to drop you in it.”

I thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “I know Marc said afterwards that he’d told them to let me handle something on my own, just to check me out, but I would have thought it should have been obvious to someone of their experience straight away that it was serious.”

“Exactly,” he said, downing the last of his wine as he stood up. “Perhaps you should be asking yourself what you know that could be so important, Charlie. Or what you might find out when you’re there. It might tell you why someone seems to want to get you out of the way.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I argued. “I didn’t go after them for a job at the place. Marc made me an offer last Saturday night when Susie had a go at Clare. Why on earth would he do that one week, then try and get rid of me the next?”

“Maybe he didn’t have a choice,” Clare put in. “If I remember right it was actually that bar manager chap—Gary is it?—who first suggested they employ you. Maybe Marc couldn’t say no without it appearing suspicious.”

“Suspicious to whom?” I asked, idly scratching the terrier’s head. Beezer wriggled her muscular little body with delight. “He could have shot Gary down in flames instantly and it wouldn’t have looked anything out of the ordinary. No,” I shook my head, “he seemed quite keen then.”

“So,” Jacob said, “what happened between then and yesterday to make him change his mind about you?” He moved stiffly over to the door. “Do you want to come through to the kitchen, by the way? I’ll see if anything of my culinary masterpiece can be salvaged at this late hour.”

Clare grinned at me behind his back as I stood up, tipping the disgruntled terrier off my knees. We followed Jacob’s halting steps back along the hallway. He walks with a permanent limp, his legs more steel than bone in places.

Jacob used to race bikes when he was younger, with more courage than was good for him. If he travels abroad he jokes that he has to take his X-rays with him to avoid being strip-searched going through the airport metal detectors.

Once we were settled round the kitchen table and Jacob had retrieved an absolutely perfect beef and baby onion stifado out of the oven in the Aga, he repeated his earlier question. “So, come on—what’s happened to warrant this man Quinn’s sudden reversal of opinion of you?”

“Susie Hollins was murdered for a start,” Clare supplied, getting carried away with the idea. “Hey, that could be it! She’d just been in his club, and we’ve only got his word for it that he actually threw her out.”

“Clare,” I said, tearing off a hunk of crusty bread to shamelessly sop up my gravy with. “Marc was sitting down talking to us just after that. I hardly think he’d had time to do Susie in, change into an identical set of clothes so there’d be no bloodstains, and get back upstairs to chat, all within the space of about ten minutes, do you?”

She looked crestfallen. “Oh. No, I suppose you’re right.”

I recalled the incidents at the Lodge, but I didn’t mention them to Jacob and Clare. I don’t know why. I suppose I just didn’t want to admit that since Susie’s rape and murder someone had been taking rather too much of an interest in other vulnerable women. It was as if putting voice to my fears would make them more real.

Jacob got up to replenish our drinks, giving Clare’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze as he went past. “Anything else you can think of?”

“Well, Terry did come round last Sunday with a computer he said he’d picked up from someone at the club as part of a debt,” I said uneasily, remembering he’d been supposed to be collecting the lap-top this weekend, but he hadn’t been in touch.

“Hang on a minute—who’s Terry?” Jacob said, sitting down again.

“He’s the local mobile video man,” Clare put in promptly. “He comes round to the office every Friday. Or he usually does, but this week he didn’t show up.”

“And he gave you a computer as part of a debt?”

“No, no,” I explained. “He told me that someone at the club owed him money, and they’d given him a lap-top computer instead, but they’d password protected it, so Terry couldn’t use it.” I forked a chunk of meat into my mouth and savoured it as it dissolved on my tongue. If I believed all the scare stories that I was going to get mad cow disease from eating British beef, I reckoned it was probably worth it.

“So why did he come to you?” Clare asked. “You don’t even own a computer.”

“No,” I agreed, “but I have friends in low places. You remember Sam Pickering, with the Norton? He’s a bit of a whizz with the things and he managed to get round it, no problem. The only thing was, when we got into the machine, there didn’t seem to be anything on it, so I don’t know if it was one stolen recently from the club itself, or if it just happened to belong to somebody who worked there.”

“How did Sam get round the password?” Clare wanted to know, elbowing Beezer who was trying to sneak onto her lap to beg food from her plate.

I shrugged. “I’ve no idea.” Under the table, Bonneville decided I might be a softer touch and dumped her greying muzzle on my knee, sighing noisily. If she thought I was going to share Jacob’s cooking with her, she had another think coming.

“More to the point, what was the password?” Jacob asked.

“Bacchus,” I said, spelling it.

“Bacchus,” he repeated, almost to himself. “Hmm. Someone’s into Greek mythology with a twist.”

“You know what it means?” I asked, surprised. “My dictionary didn’t include it.”

“It’s the Latin name for Dionysus, who was the son of Zeus and the god of wine,” Jacob said promptly, raising his glass and grinning at me. “Your education is sadly lacking, Charlie.”

“That’s a bit obscure, isn’t it?” Clare demanded. “And anyway, apart from the wine bit, what’s the connection with the nightclub?”

Jacob held up a finger to silence our questions and left the table. After half a beat, both the dogs scrabbled after him. Bonneville cannoned off the door frame on the way out.

Jacob returned a few minutes later, carrying a book on Greek mythology. The dogs circled him expectantly. He sat down and pulled out a pair of delicate half-moon glasses. They should make him look like an old man, but they actually have a magnifying effect on his sex appeal.

“Ah, here we are. Bacchus. Also known as Bromius the Boisterous, which gives you some idea what he got up to in his spare time. Married Ariadne. He was also god of tillage, law-giving and intoxicating herbs like ivy and laurel. And,” he looked at me, “he was worshipped at Delphi.”

I felt a shiver ripple across my back.

“But Delphi isn’t the same as Adelphi,” Clare protested.

“True,” he allowed. “Adelphi isn’t mentioned by the ancient Greeks at all, but it would be an easy mistake to make.”

“Particularly,” I said slowly, meeting Jacob’s dark gaze, “if your education was sadly lacking.”

***

In the afternoon we had a ride up to the local bikers’ meeting spot at Devil’s Bridge near Kirkby Lonsdale, stayed there until about three, then headed back towards Caton.

I was easily persuaded to stop off at Jacob and Clare’s for another quick coffee, and we ended up slouched in the lounge watching the Superbike racing on Eurosport. It was past five o’clock and pitch dark outside by the time I dragged myself reluctantly away.

The lack of cloud cover meant the ground was crystallised with frost. I rode back into Lancaster very cautiously, taking corners strictly upright and feeding the brakes in gently. The Suzuki’s pathetic headlight, even on high beam, would have made hurrying a reckless exercise, in any case.

Town was quiet as I stooged through and I was soon chaining the bike up outside the back of the flat. I pulled the cover over it and set the alarm, then ambled round to the front of the building.

I jogged up the wooden staircase without any thoughts of stealth, my bike boots clattering loudly on the treads. My mind was on nothing more than a bite of supper and trying to catch up on some of my lost sleep from the night before.

I was right up to the flat door before I noticed that it wasn’t locked any more. Wasn’t even shut, in fact. Before it dawned on my sluggish and outrageously slow brain that getting away from the place very quickly was possibly the best idea I’d had in a long time. Maybe I just wasn’t having a logical day.

Of course, in that sort of situation the last thing you actually want to do is walk away. I was filled with anger that someone had broken in, gone poking through my things while I’d been away. Pawed all my belongings. I thought all too briefly of bringing in reinforcements, then pushed open my front door.

I only took a couple of steps inside the door of the flat when I froze. Almost literally. It was like an ice box in there. I realised I’d been so irritable when I’d left that morning, I’d forgotten to close the shutters to the balcony. Now the night air cast an arctic chill over the interior. Damn.

The second thing was the smell of cigarettes.

Not only do I not smoke, but I don’t let anyone else who does do so in my flat. My heart lurched in my chest. I turned to flick the overhead lights on and that’s when they jumped me.

Something very hard, moving very fast, landed with a sickening crunch just over my right ear. I remember starting to fall, but there the recollection ends.

By the time my floorboards had rushed up to meet me, I was out of it.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

MY AWARENESS returned slowly, and not without discomfort. It brought with it an irritating headache like pins and needles, as though from the release of a constricted limb.

I was still lying face down on the floor, presumably right where I’d fallen. There was an annoying tickle round my right eyebrow. It took me a moment before I vaguely registered it was probably blood. By the feel of the dull throbbing, there was a lump behind my ear the size of a closed fist.

I mentally retraced my steps. I remembered chaining the bike up, and walking up the stairs. Then what? Oh yeah, the busted lock and the smell of cigarettes.

I could smell them again now, stronger and fresher, if that’s the right word to describe the sickly choking odour. Whoever had decided to lamp me over the head had obviously lit up shortly afterwards. A sort of debonair Neanderthal.

I could hear lowered voices, arguing somewhere in the middle distance. I struggled to orientate my thoughts. It all seemed unconnected with me, somehow. As bizarre as a dream.

Without opening my eyes I could tell that somebody had got round to completing my last manoeuvre and switched on the lights. No need for stealth now they’d got me right where they wanted me.

Footsteps approached, causing the floorboards to bounce under my cheekbone. I struggled not to wince at the vibration it set up through my head. I kept my eyes shut, trying to regulate my breathing so they didn’t realise I was conscious.

“You shouldn’t have hit her so fucking hard!” one voice said. It was harsh, raspy. I put him down as my smoker.

“Well he never told us it was a girl, did he?” complained a second voice, with a strong Liverpudlian accent. I hazily wondered if men’s skulls were generally considered thicker than women’s. “Charlie’s a feller’s name, for Christ’s sake!”

“If you’ve killed her, the shit’s really going to hit the fan after last time,” the smoker warned.

“Look, she’s not dead, all right? Let’s finish what we came for and get the fuck out of here,” the Scouser said. “Have you got it?”

“Yeah, for what use it is. We’re going to have to bring her round, though, just to make sure.”

“OK, get her legs and we’ll stick her over there.”

One pair of less-than-gentle hands grabbed my arms, while another got hold of my leather jeans. When they swung me off the floor and carried me across the room, it took more willpower than I thought I possessed not to go utterly berserk.

I gritted my teeth. I knew I had to stay quiet for as long as possible, but having their hands on me was almost too much. A wave of pure panic washed down over me. I fought to keep it under control, but long term I knew I was onto a losing battle.

Fortunately, after no more than a few yards, they stopped. I was dropped onto what felt like my own sofa, and rolled, half-sprawled onto my back. Still I kept my eyes shut, allowing my head to loll over to one side.

I heard one of the men move away. The other one went very quiet for a few moments. All I could hear was his breathing.

“Well, well,” he murmured, “aren’t you the pretty one?”

My skin crawled so hard it tried to turn inside out. That was it! I was going to have to make a move. I took in a last deep breath, preparing to tense my muscles before I struck.

Suddenly, all the air was ripped out of my lungs as freezing cold water landed across my face and chest. I must have inhaled half a cupful, because I instantly started heaving and coughing, doubled over. I opened my eyes then, but could see nothing for wet hair plastered over them.

Blinded and gasping, I spent what seemed like an interminable age fighting for breath, but it can only have been half a minute or so. When they deemed I’d had enough time to recover, a hand grabbed hold of my hair and yanked my head back.

The sight that faced me then was of two men. Big, thickset, purposeful-looking men, wearing gloves and ski masks. The one who had hold of me had a cigarette poking out through the mouth hole of the fabric covering his face. The other still clutched one of my saucepans, which was what he’d used to tip a couple of pints of cold water over me. Hadn’t these guys ever heard of smelling salts?

The ski masks both terrified and reassured me. If whoever had sent these men wanted me dead, they wouldn’t have bothered hiding their faces. If, on the other hand, whoever it was wanted me severely done over, I was going to be lucky to come out of this with my kneecaps intact.

This was not a situation where looking strong was going to have any benefits. I let my face crumple, let my fear show. It didn’t take much acting ability on my part.

“Please!” I whimpered. “Don’t hurt me!” I reached up to clutch at the wrist of the hand that was still buried in my hair. My fingers located three useable pressure points, but I hesitated from drilling deep in to them. Not yet, Fox, not quite yet …

Even through the ski mask, I could see the twist of disgust on the smoker’s face. He gripped harder and wrenched me off the sofa onto the floor. If I hadn’t been taking my own weight by holding on to him, he would have torn my hair out by the roots. I gave a squeal of shock that I didn’t really have to feign.

“Shut the fuck up!” he roared. He slapped me across the face, making my eyes water. I slumped at the base of the sofa, my left cheek on fire. I couldn’t work out which side of my head hurt worse.

I don’t know what they’d hit me with to start off with, but blood from the hole it had made was still running into my right eye, making me blink.

“What do you want?” I sobbed.

The Scouser moved in then. He grasped the back of my neck to jerk my head up, and pushed a flat square object under my nose, about the size of a telephone directory. I recognised the lap-top computer Terry had given me. Oh shit.

“See this?” he demanded.

I tried to nod, but the steely fingers digging into my neck gave me a very short range of movement. He shook me viciously. Like he was training a stupid dog that continually stayed when it should have sat, and rolled over when it should have come to heel.

“Wrong!” he snarled as he rattled me. “You don’t see it. In fact, you’ve never seen it. You don’t even know it exists, right?”

“O-OK,” I mumbled. He threw me back on the floor with a grunt of contempt.

“She don’t sound too sure,” the smoker observed dispassionately. He sucked on his cigarette until the end glowed red. “She might do something stupid when we’ve gone, like call the filth. I think we might have to be a bit more persuasive, eh?”

A cold fear gripped me then. Unless I did something drastic, and real soon, I was going to get a pasting. Sadly, it seemed that my assailants had overcome their initial squeamishness over gender. Now I was afraid they were going to go overboard to compensate.

For the first time I noticed the state of the rest of the flat. It had been comprehensively and professionally trashed. My books had been pulled from the shelves and littered over the floor, my TV set had the tube put through. Even the sofa had its stuffing protruding from a dozen slashes in the fabric.

My heart-rate kicked up into overdrive. I hadn’t seen a weapon, but one of them had to be carrying. Or possibly both of them. I had no way of telling. But if I went for one bloke and the other pulled a knife on me, I was going to be in more than deep trouble.

I was going to be dead.

I took a full breath. I told myself that I’d taught plenty of class scenarios covering attacks by two players. I wasn’t kidding myself that it was easy, but I knew I could do it.

Don’t think. Just act.

In the event, it was the smoker who acted first. He strolled over to me as though he was out for his Sunday constitutional and punched me hard in the sternum, putting his bodyweight behind the blow.

I rolled away, gulping for breath, ending up at the furthest edge of the sofa. He advanced, smirking, with his hands clenched by his sides, and making no attempt to keep his guard up.

Still making a play of looking terrified, I managed to slide onto my knees. We’d moved ten feet or so away from the Scouser, and there was an overturned chair between us. The odds were lousy, but they were probably as good as they were going to get. When the smoker was towering over me again, I went for it.

His kneecaps were about on eye-level. Blocking out the pain in my ribs, I drew back and hit the one nearest to me. The heel of my open hand landed just under the patella itself, slanting upwards. I closed my mind to the wet crunch his knee made, like a big dog chewing through chicken bones.

He staggered back, bellowing. I reinforced the damage by smashing the point of my elbow into his thigh, dead-legging him. He went down like a knackered lift.

Unfortunately, the Scouser’s reactions were faster than I’d hoped. He leapt over the fallen chair like an Olympic hopeful. By the time he landed, a wicked-looking hunting knife with a six-inch blade had magicked into his hand. Sheer rage boiled out of the holes in his ski mask, fuelled by the smoker’s screamed instructions that he should kill the bitch.

The Scouser did his best to comply, cornering me by the balcony. We were in full view of the opening, silhouetted against the lights.

A brief thought flashed into my head that if a bored passenger on a bus happened to glance across the river, they could suddenly find themselves in the middle of a Hitchcockian nightmare.

I had no time to expand on that theme, mentally or otherwise. The Scouser launched a blistering attack of swipes and slashes, but he’d let his anger contaminate his judgement. He was getting wild, leaving himself more and more open. I paused momentarily. Timing was everything.

Then he thrust the knife at me once more. I dodged and it slid past my side with inches to spare. I locked my fingers round the wrist of his knife hand. Control the weapon, and you’re halfway to winning the fight.

Using my own forward momentum to tip him off balance, I swept his legs out from under him and dropped him heavily onto the floor. I went forwards onto one knee with him as he went down, keeping hold of the knife hand. I now had his elbow straightened out nicely over my bent leg and I levered it hard, clawing my fingers into his wrist. Drop the knife, damn it!

He was a big tough bloke, but it’s difficult to keep your mind on stabbing somebody when your elbow feels ready to explode. For a bit of extra persuasion I jabbed a knuckle into the hollow just below his ear. The combination was enough. His fingers went suddenly nerveless and the knife clattered onto the floor.

“Good boy!” I said tightly, and hit him with my clenched fist on the side of his neck. I don’t know why I chose that target. It was exposed, and I took the opportunity. Striking the muscles there makes the throat contract and can leave you fighting for breath. If nothing else it’s painful and worrying, but I knew at best I’d gained only a few seconds of escape time.

By this time the smoker had crawled to his feet and was hobbling forwards, looking malevolent. He was between me and the front door. I just had time to scoop up the fallen knife and fling it out over the balcony, praying there were no passing pedestrians below at the time.

Despite clutching at his throat and squawking, the Scouser didn’t stay on the floor for long. He was soon back in the play. He started for me as well, and there was death in his eyes.

The balcony suddenly seemed my best option. I turned and ran the last few strides towards the opening, aware all the time that the Scouser was only a heartbeat behind me.

It seemed ironic that only that morning I’d been wary of even leaning on the rusted balcony rail for fear that it would give way. Now I swung myself over it, double handed, with a certain amount of gusto bordering on abandon. I winced as I heard the dusty graunching noise of the rail’s anchor points taking the strain.

For a moment I dangled there, suspended over a drop to the pavement below that looked horrendous from this angle. Oh great idea, Fox! What the hell are you going to do now?

The Scouser made it to the balcony and he decided my next move. Now he’d had his toy taken away from him he resorted to simply punching me in the ribs, through the railing. The air gushed out of my lungs and my hands simultaneously lost their strength.

I let go, half-falling, half-slithering down the crumbling sandstone front wall of the building, my fingers scrabbling at the masonry. I managed to find a tiny crevice on top of a window lintel, and gripped on to it by the weakening strength of three fingers.

I know it’s possible to support your body weight by such slender means. I’ve seen them do it on the telly. Unfortunately, I’m not a whipcord-thin elastic free-form climbing expert. Maybe I just needed one of those little sacks of chalk on my belt. Or is that Sumo wrestlers? Whatever, inexorably, my fingers started slipping.

The Scouser decided to put his two penny-worth in by depth-charging me with what was left of an occasional table. I ducked instinctively, my grip slackening in panic, and I plunged the final ten feet towards the pavement.

In theory, a human body falls at thirty-two feet per second, per second. This probably explains why one moment I was suspended in mid-air, and the next I was thumping down onto the flagstones, with no discernable gap in between.

I landed on my feet, but my legs were forced up and I crashed straight onto one side. Never have I been so grateful for wearing leathers. The kevlar reinforcement in key areas saved my hip and elbow from real damage, but I still hit the ground with enough violence to bash the air out of my battered lungs again.

I forced myself to my feet out of sheer bloody-mindedness. OK, so the smoker might be out of the play as far as a running chase was concerned, but the Scouser was only injured enough to make him mad. If I wanted to be able to stay moving, I had to start moving. Now.

Head thumping, I dragged myself upright, snivelling with the effort, and limped off along the frosted quay.

As a getaway it was pitifully slow. I was so numb that I didn’t even register until I’d been going maybe fifty yards that I was heading the wrong way. Not towards the middle of town and the brightly lit, crowded bus station, but towards the industrial estates. Hardly likely to be Piccadilly Circus at this time on a Sunday evening.

I hesitated, nearly turned back, but then I heard the thunder of heavy feet rushing down the wooden staircase. The Scouser was coming after me. I put my head down and stumbled on.

Even in my leathers, the cold was biting. My breath was visible in clouds around me. It didn’t help that the whole of the front of my shirt was soaked through. I was wheezing like a chronic consumptive on their last legs.

I ducked through the next alleyway which brought me out onto the waste ground behind the building. They’d pulled down most of the Victorian factory next door, but never really got round to finishing the job, never mind redeveloping the plot.

One piece of the building was still standing, a gable end wall, two storeys high, with part of the roof beams sticking out from it like a skeleton. The rafters hung down at a drunken angle, and there were huge cracks in the brickwork itself. I always expected to wake up one morning to find the whole thing had collapsed and saved the demolition team a job.

The ground was littered with broken bricks and debris. It made my progress far too slow. I turned and headed for the road again, only to spot the silhouette of the Scouser moving along the pavement, obviously searching.

I held my breath, but he was in the glare of the streetlights, and I was still in the shadows. As long as I stayed here I was hidden, but it was a temporary respite.

The Scouser turned inwards, away from the river, and started coming towards me. I edged back the way I’d come, aware all the time that I was fading.

The cold was scorching my lungs and leaching the feeling out of my fingers. I’d started to shake with delayed reaction. My head was banging so hard it was making me feel sick.

All the while, I cursed myself for not hitting the Scouser harder. I could have continued the lock I had on him to its logical conclusion, and cracked his elbow joint using my knee as a fulcrum. I could have hit him in the groin while he was down on the floor. I could have fractured his clavicle, one of the easiest bones to break, or thumped him in the throat to slow down his breathing. I could even have jabbed at his eyes, which would have required little strength and given me a much better chance of evading him now.

I knew, though, that part of me had revolted against what I’d done to stop the fight at the New Adelphi Club. I just hadn’t been able to bring myself to do it again. I’m sure my reasoning must have been clear and sound at the time, but now it seemed a foolish, if not deadly mistake.

I tried to creep quietly over the rough ground, while the Scouser closed on my position in a less surreptitious manner. I could see the alleyway in front of me. Only a few yards more.

At that moment, I saw the headlights of a car approaching along the quay. The extra illumination bled into the alleyway. I heard a roar of triumph from behind me, and realised that it had given away my location to the Scouser.

I abandoned all attempts at secrecy and made a run for it. I burst onto the pavement just as the car was drawing level. With my attacker only a few feet behind me, I had no choice but to keep going.

I threw myself into a forward roll, hit the front wing in a dive and clattered over the bonnet. I even had time to realise that the vehicle was a big BMW as I spilled across the bodywork.

The Scouser didn’t have quite the same incentive to practice his aerobatics. He skidded to a stop on the pavement, and judged in a second that the odds had tipped against him. He turned and pelted off along the quay on foot.

The BM driver’s reactions were remarkably fast. He had already slammed on the brakes by the time I made contact with his paintwork. As I bounced off the other side and tumbled into the far gutter, he had already opened the driver’s door and was halfway out.

“Charlie!” he yelled. “Christ, are you all right?”

It was Marc Quinn.

CHAPTER TWELVE

I TRIED to climb to my feet, but my legs wouldn’t obey the usual commands. I made two attempts, like a punch-drunk boxer with the count on him. I ended up on my knees both times. The referee would have had no choice but to stop the fight.

Marc saw the state I was in at first glance and his face closed in with fury. He looked longingly after the rapidly disappearing Scouser for a moment, then moved quickly to pick me out of the gutter.

His instinct was to grab me round my ribs to lift me. The pain it caused made me cry out, pushing back away from him and ending up back where I started.

He started to swear then, amazingly inventive oaths about what he was going to do to the people who’d worked me over, as and when he ever caught up with them. It was educational to listen to even if, afterwards, I couldn’t remember a single piece of invective.

Eventually, using him as a crutch, I managed to haul myself upright more or less under my own steam.

“Can you make it to the car?” he asked, his voice terse. It was only ten feet or so away, but it seemed like half a mile to go round the bonnet to the passenger side.

I took a deep breath, regretting it as my ribs protested, and nodded.

“OK, come on, take your time.” He put a gentle arm round my shoulders, keeping it light. “I’ll be right here.”

I stopped suddenly and peered up at his face. “Marc, what are you doing here?” I asked. My voice seemed awfully reedy and thin. I was still shivering from the cold, which was making my ribs hurt all the more.

He gazed down at me, reaching to move my hair away from my eyes. Most of it on the right-hand side was now glued to my scalp. I daren’t even begin to imagine what I looked like.

“I came to see you,” he said, smiling that slow long-burning smile of his.

My heart flip-flopped over in my chest. I couldn’t help it.

Maybe it was a ploy to take my mind off things, because the next thing I knew he was pulling open the passenger door of the BM. I stopped short when I saw it had a cream leather interior.

“I can’t, Marc, I’ll ruin it,” I protested. Not only was half my hair plastered with blood, but I’d picked up a good layer of masonry dust sliding down the front of the building, and a liberal coating of road dirt from the gutter.

“I’ll have it valeted,” he dismissed impatiently. “Now for Christ’s sake lady, get in!”

I subsided into the soft upholstery without further demur. He slammed the door and moved round the bonnet to the driver’s side, looking suddenly hard and dangerous. An unexpected fear needled me. Was I doing the right thing allowing myself to be put into his car so easily?

I quashed it as he climbed into the driving seat and glanced at me, the concern clear in those pale eyes.

“I think perhaps I should take you straight to Casualty,” he said.

“No!” It was a reflex. I hated the damned places. Besides, I had a good enough knowledge of my own body to recognise when an injury was serious. Those I’d sustained this evening were painful, but they were in no way life-threatening.

“Well, I need to do something with you,” he said, touching a hand to my cheek. His fingers felt so hot they almost burnt me. “You’re freezing and you’re in shock.”

He took my hands between his and tried to rub some warmth into them, but I yelped again. Turning them over, I realised I’d torn and scraped my palms and fingers, but I couldn’t for the life of me remember doing it.

He gave me a dark look, but said nothing. Instead, he settled for just turning the car’s air con control round to maximum heat and putting the fan on full blast.

We set off sedately along the quay, turning left away from the river to weave through the back streets up towards the railway station, and the castle.

By holding my hands directly over an air vent in the dash for a few minutes, I managed to persuade some sensation to return. Unfortunately, with it came a pulsating pain in my fingers. I clamped them together in my lap and tried not to think about it too much.

As the heat permeated the interior of the car, I was aware of a grinding weariness soaking down over me. “Aren’t you going to ask me what that was all about?” I said tiredly.

Marc glanced sideways at me, his face lit by the eerie orange glow from the car’s instruments. “I assumed you’d tell me when you were ready,” he said, concentrating on the road ahead.

“Someone at your club doesn’t want me there, Marc,” I said, feeling abruptly groggy, “and I don’t know why that is.”

I felt the BM react as his hands twitched on the wheel. He favoured me with a brief look. “Do you have any idea who?” he asked sharply.

“Not a clue,” I said hazily. I let my head flop back against the padded rest.

“So why do you think someone doesn’t want you there?” he demanded. “Come on, Charlie, talk to me!”

I opened my leaden eyelids with an effort. “Hmm? Oh, I don’t know,” I mumbled. “And I don’t know what I do know, either, which Jacob thinks is half the problem.”

“Charlie,” he said dryly, “you’re rambling.”

“Mm, sorry,” I muttered indistinctly. For some reason a picture of the man outside the French windows at the Lodge slid into my woolly mind. He’d worn a mask, too. “Somebody’s been watching me, and I’ve got a bad feeling about it,” I informed Marc with a sigh. “A very bad feeling.”

The line between consciousness and oblivion was blurring. I felt it closing in on me.

I slept.

***

It only seemed a few seconds before I felt a hand on my shoulder, shaking gently.

“Charlie, come on, wake up.”

I came fully awake with a jerk, automatically tensing to strike before I recognised Marc. He backed off quickly. “It’s OK, don’t panic.” His voice was calm, soothing.

I realised he’d stopped the BM, and slithered further upright in my seat. I recognised the front entrance to one of the most up-market hotels in the area. His hotel.

“Why are we here?” I felt dazed, disconnected. My mind seemed to be working at half speed.

His face was unreadable in the gloom inside the car. “You were most insistent I shouldn’t take you to a doctor, and I didn’t think it was wise to take you home again,” he said. “It was either here or drive you round in circles all night.” He put his hand under my chin and tipped my face up, studying. “You’re a mess,” he added. “We need to get you cleaned up.”

“Thanks,” I said, “you really know how to make a girl feel good about herself.”

He flashed me a quick smile as he opened the car door and climbed out, moving round swiftly to help me out of my side. I got out experimentally, and found my ribs seemed to grate protestingly when I moved. I stifled a gasp as I stood up.

Marc caught me. “Are you OK?”

I shook my head. “It’s nothing. I’m fine. Nothing a hot bath and a stiff whisky wouldn’t cure—and not necessarily in that order.”

Despite my denials, it seemed a long walk to the front door. Marc walked slowly alongside me, watching like a hawk for the first sign I was about to keel over. At one point I stumbled and his arm snaked round my shoulders instantly. His musky aftershave mingled interestingly with the smell of man.

“I can manage,” I said. Having him so close when I wasn’t in full control of my senses to begin with was altogether too distracting.

The expression on the receptionist’s face when we staggered in to the grand lobby area of the hotel spoke volumes about the state I was in. I suppose with my bloody face, dirty soaked shirt and scuffed leathers, I wasn’t exactly representative of the target clientele. Marc silenced her protest with a single hard stare.

“Miss Fox has had an accident,” he said, his voice like stone, brooking no argument. “She will be in my suite.” The woman probably thought he’d run me down in his car.

Somehow, I don’t remember the ride in the lift, or how I got from there to Marc’s room. The next memory I have is the crackling noise of an open grate. I opened my eyes to find I was on a deeply cushioned sofa, with a soft blanket thrown over me. Marc’s face appeared.

“You had me worried for a moment there,” he said. “Here’s that whisky you wanted, and the bath’s running.” I fumbled to a sitting position and he handed me a lead crystal glass of liquid the colour of old gold.

I stuck my nose into the glass, recognised single malt quality, then gulped two-thirds of it down like a rough blend anyway. The resultant fire lit my stomach and roared through my veins with a welcome blast.

Marc moved round in front of me. He’d taken off his jacket, and folded back the sleeves of his shirt, revealing muscled forearms, covered with a fine layer of dark hair. I was surprised to see he had tattoos on both arms, blurred with age. He was carrying a wet flannel and a towel with the hotel crest on it.

“Now,” he said, “let’s get the worst of that off and have a look at the damage.” He smoothed my hair back and dabbed efficiently at the blood on my forehead.

I sat with my eyes closed and let him get on with it, too weary to put up much of a fight. His hands were cool and careful, their touch firm but reassuring. The movement lulled me.

“It’s only a small cut, and it’s stopped bleeding,” he murmured at last. “Scalp wounds always look worse than they are to begin with.”

He took my hands and turned them over, wiping the worst of the grit away gently.

“They’re not too bad,” he decided. “Where else do you hurt?”

I opened my eyes reluctantly and admitted that my ribs were still aching. Hardly stunning when I thought about it. I was lucky to be still walking.

Marc had pulled my shirt out of my leather jeans and started to unbutton it before I had the wit to object. “Hey!” I tried to bat his hands away, but my depth perception was off, and he was determined. When he slid his hands over the skin of my ribcage my protests died in my throat as my heart leapt up and bounced there.

“You’re going to have some cracking bruises, Charlie,” he said, and his voice suddenly seemed very deep. “I don’t think there’s anything broken.” He seemed to be too close to me. I could see the individual pores in the skin of his face. The faint line of an old scar running through his eyebrow. Much too close. My breath hitched.

He looked straight into my eyes and smiled, then got to his feet. “I think I’d better go and check on that bath,” he said, and strolled away.

The brief pause gave me chance to look round the suite for the first time. The sofa had a low mahogany table in front of it, and beyond that was the open fire I’d sensed, full of burning logs. It was so healthily ablaze that it could only have been one of those fake gas affairs, but it was pretty convincing.

There was a desk on the far side of the room, and doors leading off for the bathroom and bedroom. The decor was subdued, expensive. I didn’t even begin to want to know how much a night it was costing him. I chucked back the remainder of my whisky and set the glass down on the polished wood without regard for watermarks.

Marc returned, drying his hands on a towel. “You’re all set,” he said. “Do you need any help?”

I wavered for a moment, enticed, then shook my head. “I can manage,” I said. It was becoming a mantra.

I got to my feet stiffly, trying to ignore the complaints from my body, and tottered across to the bathroom. Inside it was all white marble and mirrors clouded with steam from the bath. I almost groaned at the sight of it. Marc had dropped in a generous quantity of the foam bath furnished by the hotel, and hadn’t stinted on the hot water. It was filled to the brim.

I shut the door and took a moment to study my reflection in the mirror. What I saw made me grimace. Marc had managed to mop away most of the blood from my face, but my hair still looked matted like a stray cat’s. The flesh over my left cheekbone seemed swollen, closing my eye a little, but some ice would probably sort it.

I stripped off my shirt and prodded experimentally at my ribs. There was moderate blueing along them that was slightly alarming, but it was nothing I couldn’t handle. More bruises came to light as I peeled off my leather jeans. Even with the kevlar and the padding, the hip I’d landed on was turning a regal shade of purple.

I held my hands out in front of me and inspected the damage. A few cuts and scratches; a big graze on one palm. Nothing drastic. All in all, I was lucky to have got away so lightly.

Despite my aches and pains, I finished stripping off in record time, sliding chin-deep into the delicately scented water. For someone who doesn’t own a bath—all the flat has is a shower—it was the apex of luxury. I lay back and let the heat seep into my bones. My eyes closed, and I drifted off.

It didn’t seem like more than a minute or two before I was groggily awake again to find Marc perched on the side of the bath, staring down at me.

“Is there no peace?” I grouched, nerves jangling at the sight of him. It didn’t help that he was still fully clothed and I was naked. The bubble bath, traitor that it was, had dispersed enough to leave little to his imagination.

“You’ve been in there nearly an hour,” he pointed out mildly. “I was worried about you and besides, the water’s cold.” He reached in to the far end and yanked the plug out. The admittedly tepid bath water started to slip away with disturbing speed. It hadn’t provided much in the way of a modesty blanket, but it had been better than nothing.

Oh, what the hell. If he fancied me when I was doing my best impersonation of a human punchbag, the man needed help. I struggled to my feet, suddenly ponderous. He moved back to let me step dripping out of the bath, his face giving nothing away.

Marc engulfed me in a huge fluffy towel, warmed from the heated rail. I was happy to sag weakly against the strength of his body. I rested my head against his crisp shirt front, and let him rub me dry. My eyes closed again, but even I couldn’t sleep standing up.

He sat me down on the edge of the bath while he dried my legs, then towelled my hair. I was so far gone I nearly nodded off while he was doing it.

“Oh Charlie,” he said ruefully, catching me as I rocked. “You’ve no idea what a temptation you are, but if I take advantage of you now it will practically be necrophilia.”

I was too drowsy to make either comment or objection as he hoisted me up into his arms and carried me through to the bedroom. The bed was voluminous and gave invitingly when he tipped me gently onto it. He pulled the covers up round my chin and tucked my damp hair away from my face, as you would a child.

I think I was asleep before the mattress finished swaying.

***

I started into wakefulness four hours later with a clear head and no idea where I was. I sat up abruptly, the bedclothes tangling round my legs so that when I tried to climb out of bed I ended up dropping in a knotted heap heavily onto the floor. The jar of it highlighted a myriad of bruises. Despite my efforts to stifle it, I cried out.

It was only then I realised I wasn’t alone in the room. I could sense someone’s movement, but it was too dark to see them. I tried to scramble away, get to my feet, but the bed covers were relentless in their grip.

There was a man looming over me. Instinctively, I lashed out with a strong right, connecting into unbraced muscle with enough force to leave him winded. Mind you, the effort didn’t do my own ribs any good, either.

“Charlie, for God’s sake, it’s me!”

I recognised Marc’s voice over the thundering of my heart, and dropped back, sweating and breathless, clutching at the bedclothes. I heard him move away and the next thing the bedside lamp had been clicked on.

When I’d finished blinking in the glare, I saw Marc by the switch, rubbing at his stomach. One of the large armchairs had a rumpled pillow and quilt on the floor next to it. He’d evidently been keeping his eye on me.

Marc was wearing the thick towelling robe the hotel provided, and pretty obviously nothing else. I felt a furious colour flaming my face. Never a good idea to blush when you’ve got my hair colouring. It clashes horribly.

Marc looked at me sardonically. “You’re feeling better,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

“I’m sorry,” I said, shakily, climbing hastily back onto the bed and pulling the covers back with me. Marc came and settled on the edge, looking dangerous again, but for a different reason. I swallowed nervously as he traced a finger round my face, my eyes fixed on him.

“Oh Charlie, you’re such a puzzle,” he said, almost to himself. “So strong, but so vulnerable. Such a temper to go with that red hair.” He picked up a few strands, let them slip through his fingers, murmuring half to himself, “Not that it’s really red; all those different shades of copper, and honey, and gold. And who’d have thought there’d be such a glorious body under all that denim and those heavy leathers you wear, hmm?”

Looking back afterwards, I can’t think what made me do it, but at the time it seemed the most natural thing in the world. To reach up for the back of his neck, and pull those tantalising lips down to meet mine. Maybe it was just the best way of stopping a flow of compliments I still didn’t know how to cope with.

He kissed me slowly, with great precision, pulling back after a few moments to look deep into my eyes as if asking a question. If I wanted to turn back, now was the time. I didn’t want to. I closed my eyes and kissed him again, feeling little feathers of reaction stir through my body. I wanted him. It was as simple as that.

There had not been many times over the period since my attack when I’d felt the urge to go to bed with a man, I admit, but that didn’t mean I’d been celibate, either. I’d learned, almost to my surprise, that the horrors of rape had not made me shy away from all physical contact. Instead, they had served to detach it in my mind from the emotional involvement that seems to be so much a part of the female psyche.

I didn’t know if my reaction was normal for victims of sexual assault. I’d been offered the usual counselling, but the thought of discussing what I’d been through with anyone, however well-qualified and sympathetic, had sickened me. I’d turned them down, turned in on myself for a time, and followed my own direction instead.

I suppose what made it worse, in some ways, was that I’d believed myself to be in love at the time. Sean Meyer had seemed so perfect, so right, and I’d been crazy about him. He’d gone overseas just weeks before the night when Donalson, Hackett, Morton, and Clay had buoyed themselves up with a malignant mix of alcohol and bravado, and my nightmare had begun.

I’d discovered afterwards, to my utter disillusionment, that Sean was nothing like the hero I’d always imagined he would turn out to be. It had taken me a long time to forget him. I wasn’t in any hurry to expose myself again by replacing him with anyone else in my affections.

I’d developed my own code of conduct instead. One that said if it feels good, and doesn’t hurt anyone, then do it, and to hell with the hearts and flowers.

Besides, I was willing to bet that anyone with Marc’s magnetism was either going to be a striking success, or a spectacular disaster in bed.

And I was intrigued to find out which was right.

Marc proved himself an experienced and sophisticated lover. Somewhere along the line some farsighted woman had taken the time to develop his natural ability. He must have been a Grade A student.

Some men appear to take it for granted that the knowledge of how to make love is instinctive, something they’re born with. It isn’t. It’s a skill that has to be worked at and acquired like any other, although some do seem to have more aptitude than others.

I was neither surprised nor insulted when Marc pulled open one of the bedside drawers and produced the sort of protection you can’t afford to be without these days.

I wasn’t under any illusions that this was a sudden out-of-character burst of passion on his part, just as it wasn’t going to turn into a great romance on mine. Sex was obviously just something he enjoyed, and was good at. I couldn’t really see him being unprepared for it.

Men, I’ve always thought, find it difficult to hide aspects of their true character when they’re in bed. Marc was no exception. He was unselfish, yet at the same time utterly ruthless, and his control was absolute.

If the way he reduced me to bonelessness, then rolled me gasping over the final precipice was masterly, it was perhaps because he wouldn’t have tolerated the failure of anything less.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE NEXT morning Marc took me back to the flat. It wasn’t something I was looking forward to and, if I’m honest, I was relieved to have him with me.

He drove back into Lancaster as he did everything, with a kind of restlessness bordering on restrained anger. His mobile phone rang almost from the moment he switched it on and he spent most of the journey with the lump of plastic stuck to the side of his head, steering with one hand. I was glad the BMW was an automatic.

I took advantage of my enforced silence to turn over thoughts about last night. We hadn’t talked much afterwards, not of anything that mattered, at any rate. Taken purely as a physical experience, though, it had been quite something. I couldn’t honestly say I regretted it.

He’d ordered a late supper—very late, actually—from room service. The elderly waiter had taken in my discoloured face as I sat huddled in a bathrobe on the sofa in front of the fire, and favoured Marc with a scandalised look.

When Marc offered a folded banknote as a tip on the way out, the man had glared accusingly at him and point-blank refused. I managed to hold on until the door had firmly closed behind the waiter’s back before I collapsed in a fit of giggles.

Marc, who’d missed the man’s glances, looked bewildered at his behavior, and mine. “What the hell is the matter with everybody?” he demanded.

“He thinks you’ve been indulging in a bit of S&M and been beating me up,” I said when I’d calmed down.

Marc’s head reared up, shocked.

I took one look at him and burst out laughing again.

***

When we’d eaten we’d gone back to bed, together. I was used to sleeping alone, but tonight it was nice to have the warmth of a male body curled round me. My eyes closed straight away and didn’t open again until the grey streaks of morning came slinking through the arrow-slit between the drawn curtains.

In the cold light of day we’d edged round each other carefully, being too polite about who got first crack at the bathroom, dressing coyly behind closed doors. Two breakfasts arrived, kept warm under silver domes on a spotless trolley. I realised, as I poured from the silver pot, that I’d been to bed with the man and I wasn’t even entirely sure how he took his coffee.

We left about half an hour later making a very odd couple. Heads turned as this flawlessly dressed businessman, and a beat-up scruffy little biker ambled out side by side. Hell, I’d managed to sponge the worst of the blood off my leathers.

Such was Marc’s pull with the hotel, they’d even arranged for someone to clean the interior of the BM while we slept. The cream interior was immaculate again, as though last night’s events had never happened.

Although I was nervous about returning to the scene of the crime, I was glad of the breathing space it gave me. I was going to have to get my head around what had happened. Both with my masked attackers, and with Marc. I needed some time alone.

Eventually, we pulled up on the quay outside the flat. While Marc finished his last call I sat for a few moments, staring out of the window. My eye rested briefly on the wreckage of the small table the Scouser had thrown over the balcony at me, still lying in a splintered heap on the pavement. I wondered vaguely what had become of the knife I’d sent spinning out of reach into the night.

Marc switched his mobile off and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket. I started fumbling with the release for my seatbelt when he reached across and undid it, along with his own. I glanced up at him in surprise.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” he quizzed with a touch of impatience. “You don’t think I’m going to let you go up there alone, do you?”

“I hardly think they’ll still be hanging around,” I pointed out. Mind you, after what I’d done to his kneecap, the smoker would have probably needed assistance to make it down the stairs. I was disconcerted to find the thought cheered me immensely.

“I’ve seen half of what they’ve done,” Marc said, his glance flickering down my body. “Now I want to see the rest.” He spoke in a quiet tone, but I knew that arguing would have been futile.

I shrugged and heaved myself out onto the pavement. I was feeling the after effects good and proper. There didn’t seem to be a part of me that didn’t ache, and I never realised bruises drew from such an inventive palette of colours.

A sudden thought struck me, and before we went in I tottered round to check on the bike. I admit I breathed a bit of a sigh of relief when I saw it, still chained and covered. Whatever else they’d done, at least the Suzuki had escaped unmolested.

By chance, I’d still got my keys in my leathers, but I wasn’t too surprised, when I finally managed to stagger to the top of the wooden staircase, to find my front door standing wide open.

In daylight, the mess looked a lot worse. I stood in the living room, staring round me, feeling detached. Marc prowled through the rooms, head down, jaw clenched, simmering.

Finally, he came back into the living room. “Bastards,” he said tightly. “Pointless bastards! What the fuck did they think they were doing?”

I glanced at him, a half-smile twisting my lips. “You need a reason to be a psycho?” I asked.

He came and put his arms round me, but I stepped out of his embrace and moved away from him, uneasy. I knew I didn’t want his comfort, nor his pity, but I wasn’t sure what I did expect from him.

We seemed to have bypassed the first few stages of normal courtship, moved too fast into intimacy. We’d become lovers when we hadn’t even had time to become friends.

I wandered through into my bedroom. It hadn’t escaped their attentions, either. The Scouser had sliced his way through my mattress, the curtains, and even taken the knife to every pillow. One of them was from my mother’s, a feather one. The stuffing was now scattered all over the room like confetti at a full church wedding.

The ingredients of my drawers had been turned into a novelty carpet. He’d taken particular care to rip his way through what seemed to be my entire stock of underwear. It was symbolic, somehow, too personal, and it sent a prickle of apprehension through me.

Marc had followed me through. Now he gripped my shoulders and turned me to face him. This time I didn’t pull away.

“Charlie, listen to me,” he said urgently. “Whatever it is you’ve been doing, stop it. Let it go. Whoever these people are, they’re obviously deadly serious. Don’t take any risks.”

I broke eye contact and let my gaze slide across my ransacked home. “But there’s a connection to your club,” I argued.

He cut me short, curtly. “If there’s anything going on at the New Adelphi, I’ll take care of it,” he said grimly. “I don’t want to see anything like this happening to you again. Understand?”

I bristled under his glare, wavered for a moment, then gave in. I let my shoulders slump.

“Yes,” I said at last, wearily, “I understand.”

***

When he’d gone, promising to call me, I sat on the remnants of my sofa for a long time without doing anything other than thinking. I hadn’t recognised the two men who were responsible for my new line in interior decor. It certainly wasn’t anyone who I’d met, or they would have known that in this case Charlie wasn’t a man’s name. So who were they and, more importantly, who had sent them?

I thought, briefly, about calling the police, but decided against it, for a number of reasons. I tried to tell myself that my reluctance to involve the authorities had nothing to do with the men’s threats, but I’m not entirely sure I believed me.

In any case, what did I tell them about Terry’s computer? I was pretty sure it had been nicked from the New Adelphi, which meant I’d been handling stolen goods. And the last time our paths had crossed they’d as good as accused me of beating up the two boys at the club. Somehow, I couldn’t see my current predicament interesting them greatly, especially after the desultory response they’d made to Ailsa’s call from the Lodge.

Shelseley. The name almost made me start. I’d just assumed the prowler there had some link with the residents. An ex-husband or boyfriend maybe. That it was just coincidence he’d first appeared right after Terry had given me the lap-top. Was there a connection there?

I turned this idea over a few times, then dismissed it. The men who’d come after me were too professional to go in for such half-hearted scare tactics. They knew what they wanted, and they’d gone straight for it.

I’d had time to conduct a quick search, and discovered the lap-top had definitely gone. Either the Scouser had come back for it, or the smoker had hopped away with it under his arm.

If that was the case, if my manic burglars were solely connected with Terry’s damned computer, and they hadn’t been trailing me round to Shelseley, then how the hell had they known where to look for it?

“If you’ve killed her, the shit’s going to really hit the fan after last time.”

I remembered the smoker’s words. What last time? I thought of Susie, and shivered, trying to push the sudden irrational fear out of my mind.

It wasn’t the same man, I told myself. It couldn’t be the same man. I closed my eyes with the effort of forcing a return to calm, and order. I would not let myself be terrified by what had happened.

People lock themselves away, turn their homes into fortresses when the possible risk simply doesn’t demand such precautions. Their own sense of panic imprisons them. Marks them out to be victims. If I let myself become incapacitated with fright, I was halfway lost before I began.

I dredged up enough energy to stir myself off the sofa, climbing stiffly to my feet. Despite my resolution not to be scared into retreat, my first action was to sort out the busted lock on the front door. I rang a local firm who said they were stacked out, but promised to be round at four that afternoon.

I tried Terry’s mobile number again, but it was still switched off, and his home number rang out without reply. I couldn’t face starting on the clearing up, and I didn’t want to sit around and mope all day. Besides, I needed to do something about my mobility. I stuffed some surviving clean clothes into my tank bag and headed out.

I pulled the front door closed behind me and left it at that. Everything of value I owned appeared to have been trashed anyway. I didn’t think any opportunist burglar could do anything more than had been done already. Maybe they’d even tidy things up a bit.

The Suzuki was reassuringly familiar as I cruised out along the quay, even if riding it made me wince. My back and shoulders felt as though they were wired tight, and every pothole and undulation in the road surface jerked the breath from my lungs.

I needed time to think, and some mindless activity to keep the rest of me occupied while I was doing it. I rode round the one-way system and up to the gym I use. It was once a dubious auto salvage yard, but that went by the wayside years ago. The graffiti-decorated corrugated iron fencing that used to keep the guard dogs in is still up, though. It tends to discourage the posers, but the hard-core of people who go there to train don’t do it for the image.

I sometimes do a bit of work for the owner, a strapping German whose real name had been lost in the mists of time. For as long as I’d known him, I’d never heard anyone call him anything but Attila.

He was into body building of serious proportions, and was constantly being offered doorman jobs. This was despite the fact he was as soft as they came. He confided to me once in a reflective moment that he actually fainted at the sight of blood.

I hadn’t been in to the gym for ages, and was feeling guilty about it. Right now, it was the nearest place I could think of that had a decent steam room.

I spent the next two hours sweating. The first hour it was caused by trying painfully to force some flexibility back into my screaming muscles. The second it was brought on by the eucalyptus-scented wet heat from the sauna.

As I sat, wrapped in a towel and dripping, I had time to consider what had occurred with Marc. I’ve always been attracted to bad boys, and he definitely had that air about him. Physically, we were certainly compatible.

The only thing that bothered me was that I’d thought he would be more aloof with his one-night stands. The last response I’d expected from him was to cling. He was good company, but that didn’t mean I wanted commitment from him. Did it?

I shook my head, feeling the sweat drop from my hair. There was no way I was going to open up on an emotional level. Not to Marc. Not to anyone. Not again.

I comforted myself with the thought that his base of operations was Manchester. He’d soon be itching to get back there. I was never going to be more than a mildly interesting diversion for him.

Which was OK, because that’s all he was to me.

Afterwards, I stood in the shower, letting the water run as hot as I could stand it. I didn’t think I was kidding myself by claiming I definitely felt easier. I dressed again and walked—OK, hobbled—out to say goodbye to Attila.

“You want to go and get yourself a decent massage,” he told me, eyeing my stiff movements critically, like a vet watching a horse trot up that’s severely lame all round.

A picture of Tris and his array of soothing essential oils popped into my mind so suddenly I’m amazed a lightbulb didn’t blink on over the top of my head.

I borrowed Attila’s phone and called Shelseley. Tris, bless him, said he could slot me into his schedule right away, if I could get there inside a quarter of an hour.

“No problem,” I said gratefully. As I put the phone down I silently blessed the bike’s ability to slide through town traffic.

***

In fact, it took me less than ten minutes to get to the Lodge. Tris was already in the drawing room, sitting reading a faded little book. When I stuck my head round the door he closed its fragile covers with great care and went to return it to its place on the shelves.

The ceilings are high in all the downstairs rooms at Shelseley, and two huge bookcases in the alcoves on either side of the fireplace took full advantage of the fact. Tris even had one of those short wheeled ladders so he could reach the ones at the top.

“What were you reading?” I asked, unwinding my scarf and dumping my helmet and gloves on the rattan sofa.

“W.H. Auden,” he said, eyes still roaming the shelves with the affection of any collector. “It was my father’s. A first edition. He—”

Whatever else he was going to say was lost as the door burst open and three small boys came tussling into the room. They were bound up in some violent game of tag, the rules of which seemed to demand the forcible removal of a quantity of the taggee’s hair.

Whatever, the two taggers had the smaller of the trio in a pretty effective headlock and were attempting to comply with enthusiasm. They danced further into the room, clanging off items of furniture as they went. Tris only reacted when they came perilously close to his collection of essential oils.

“Now, now lads,” he said nervously, trying to intercept them. “Calm it down a bit, hey?”

One of the taggers raised his head enough to give him a single stare that said clearly, “You have to be kidding.” Then they carried on with their game as if he hadn’t spoken.

Tris jumped in front of his oils with his hands out, jigging from one foot to the other like the smallest school team goalkeeper, faced with the other side’s biggest striker. Eventually, inevitably, the ball was going to come smashing into the back of the net. It was just a matter of time.

I sighed, moving over to the boys. It only took a moment to visually unravel them enough to identify the taggers. I dived into the scrimmage, and came out with a hard grip on the back of a pair of grubby necks.

The two boys wriggled briefly, then went limp in my hands like cats. The taggee took the opportunity to bolt, letting the door swing wide on his way out.

I bent down enough to be able to look straight into two sullen faces. They must have been about eight. “That’s a great game you’re playing,” I said conversationally. “Now go and play it somewhere else.”

I let go and watched them disappear rapidly into the hallway with the heavy footsteps of someone twice their size. It would have been too much to expect them to close the door behind them. Tris did it instead, taking a key out of his pocket and locking it firmly behind them.

“Thanks,” he said, relief in his voice. “I wish I could deal with them so easily.”

“They just need a firm hand,” I said. “Well, strong fingers, anyway.”

“I have to be so careful, you see,” he explained, anxiety underwritten by just a thread of annoyance. “With half this lot you only have to raise your voice and they threaten legal action.”

I briefly considered telling Tris he ought to call their bluff, but thought of Ailsa’s reaction, and re-considered again.

He turned as I shrugged my way out of my jacket. “Now then, what have you been up to?” He looked at me properly, and frowned. “What happened to your face?”

“I lost an argument,” I said.

He looked about to push it further, but changed his mind. “Do I take it that’s why you’re here?” he said instead. I grimaced. “I’ve felt better,” I agreed.

He asked where the problem areas were, and I listed them. It would probably have been quicker to tell him which bits didn’t hurt.

He nodded a couple of times, moved over to the shelves, and took down several of his little bottles without seeming to hesitate over the choice. It was strange to see the normally abstracted Tris so focused.

“I’ll just go behind there and mix these up for you,” he said, indicating the old-fashioned concertina screen that stood in front of the bay window. “If you’d like to slip out of your things and lie face down on the couch. There are warm towels on the heater. Help yourself.”

In fact, the couch in the centre of the room was surrounded by four small free-standing electric radiators like a heated corral. I left my clothes draped over the arm of the sofa and struggled into a prone position as instructed.

Tris seemed to know when I was ready, and he popped out from behind the screen rubbing his hands together briskly to take the chill off them. He covered me in another couple of hot towels, then placed his hands quietly on my back for a few moments, rocking me gently.

I hadn’t had a massage for years, but even so I could remember enough to tell that Tris had a real talent for it. After the first five minutes I felt my muscles begin to unlock themselves and I allowed myself to fully relax.

“I’m using frankincense for calming, and eucalyptus and rosemary for the aches and pains,” he said, sliding his hands long and slow up the nape of my neck and into my hairline.

He worked his way down my spine slowly, easing the loops out of my trapezius, sensitive to my nervous twitches when he went in too keenly. “You’ve got good muscle bulk,” he told me, “but you probably need to stretch more.”

He hesitated altogether when he reached the badly discoloured hip I’d landed on. “Are you sure you want me to work on this?” he asked.

I gritted my teeth. “Keep going. I’ll let you know when I can’t stand it any more.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” he said doubtfully. I heard him lift another bottle down from the shelf and unscrew the lid. “I’ll add in some lemongrass, then. It should help with the bruising.”

He started in, tentatively at first, while I bit back the odd groan. I searched my mind for a subject to take my mind off it. “Any more sign of your prowler?” I asked, almost on a gasp as Tris’s fingers plunged unexpectedly deep into torn and knotted muscle.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “You really should have seen a doctor for this, Charlie.” When I remained stubbornly silent, he went on, “Anyway, no, we haven’t had any more unexpected visits.”

“How’s Nina?”

“She’s still very upset,” he said, and I could hear the distress in his voice. “Hardly comes out of her room, poor kid. Ailsa’s worried about her, but she’s got a lot on her plate anyway at the moment,” he added. “Another of the girls has left, did you know?”

No, I didn’t. I paused to catch my breath as he leant the heel of his hand into my gluteal muscles and put his weight behind it.

When I could speak again, I said, “What will she do if they all go?”

“I don’t know,” Tris said. “I thought maybe we should start planning for the worst, though, you know? Look at the possibilities of changing direction a little. Ailsa did hypnotherapy when she trained as a counsellor, and I’ve done reflexology as well as aromatherapy.” I felt him shrug, before adding diffidently, as though wary of ridicule, “I thought we could maybe look at becoming a sort of holistic healing centre.”

He straightened up, pausing to squeeze more oil onto his hands. Tris used to have his oils in delicate little bowls, hand-painted in rainbow colours. They had been a wedding present from a glass-blowing friend, but the decoration had proved too glittering, and the glass too fragile, to stand up to a house full of other people’s careless, magpie children. Now he used a selection of lidded plastic bottles, like you’d find put out for ketchup in a cheap roadside café.

I considered the idea in silence for a few moments while he circled his thumbs down the back of my hamstring. Beyond trying the odd homeopathic cold remedy from one of the health food shops in town, I’d never given alternative medicine much thought. I certainly didn’t know what sort of a local following it would generate. “What does Ailsa think?” I asked cautiously.

He sighed, “I haven’t really talked to her much about it,” he admitted.

“Well, I suppose at least it would mean you could keep this place afloat,” I said. “Save you having to sell up.”

Tris’s fingers stilled momentarily. “Sell?” he said, in the same shocked tone of voice that he might have used if I’d suggested sacrificing small children. “There’ve been Shelseleys on this site since the Wars of the Roses. We couldn’t ever sell the Lodge.”

He ran his hands down my calf, and announced I was done. “I’ll leave you to get dressed in your own time,” he said, wiping his hands on a towel. “Try not to bathe for a few hours. The oils will keep working as they’re absorbed into your skin, but drink plenty of water.”

He unlocked the door and slipped out of the room quietly. I sat up, feeling strangely light-headed. But better. Definitely better.

Despite Tris’s warning about the oils, I admit I wiped the most obvious excess away with a towel, otherwise I was going to need my leathers dry-cleaning before I could wear them again. As it was, the hair round the back of my neck felt slick with it.

When I went out into the hall, I was pleased to discover that the limp had almost gone. Tris was waiting for me by the front door.

“How does that feel?” he asked brightly.

“Much better, I think,” I said. “What do I owe you?”

He shook his head. “Compliments of the house,” he said. He looked at me seriously. “I’m just sorry that I hurt you.”

I shrugged. “I’ve had worse,” I said. “Besides, there’s a school of thought that says if it doesn’t hurt, it’s not working.”

“I’ll take your word for it. You take care now, Charlie.” He flashed me a quick grin. Topped by that ragged haircut, it lent his face an urchin’s charm. “And maybe next time you have a massage, it’ll be for pleasure, rather than because you’ve been arguing with someone bigger and uglier than you.”

I smiled back. “Let’s hope so,” I said fervently.

***

I stopped in at the indoor market on the way back round town, picking up what fresh fruit and vegetables I could fit in my tank bag. By the time I reached the flat again, it was early afternoon.

Making it up the stairs still took noticeable effort, but at least the single flight no longer seemed like the difficult way up K2. I was three treads from the top when I realised I wasn’t alone.

The hairs prickled on the back of my neck. I dumped my tank bag down slowly on the top step, moving up onto the landing with my back to the wall. I ran through a mental checklist of options and actions. Movement, when it came, was sudden enough to be shocking.

A figure reared out of the shadows on the other side of the landing, making me spin round fast. I had an instant flashback to the night before.

I went straight into a half-crouch, with my heart pounding, eyes frantically straining to catch the first glimpse of the angle of attack.

“Bloody hell, Foxy, you don’t mess about, do you?”

I recognised the voice and unwound gradually, coming upright. I took a couple of deep breaths to try and slow my body systems down. My hands were clenched so tight into fists I could feel my fingernails digging in to my palms.

The fear had made me suddenly cold, and now I shivered. “Christ, Dave,” I said, annoyed to hear my voice shake. “You frightened the shit out of me.”

Dave grinned. “Better than you beating the shit out of me,” he said. As he came forwards into the light I saw he was dressed in zip-up orange nylon jacket that I thought went out of fashion twenty years ago. If you were into the club scene it was probably right back in now, which shows how much attention I pay.

I picked up my bag again, still feeling ruffled. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you,” he said. The grin died and he was suddenly pensive. “Look, Charlie, I need your help.” His voice grew sober. “There’s some serious shit going on at the New Adelphi and I think I could be in danger.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I CONSIDERED him for a few moments, trying to gauge if he was serious or just winding me up. I couldn’t help but be intrigued. It was worth the trouble of finding out, I suppose.

I pushed the front door open. “Come on in, it isn’t locked,” I said.

He looked disgusted. “You mean I’ve been hanging around on your draughty landing all this time when I could have been lounging around on your—” He saw the state of the living room and stopped short.

“I should point out that this is not my normal idea of good housekeeping,” I told him dryly.

“Fuck me,” Dave murmured in wonder, looking round wide-eyed.

I thought his reaction was a bit over the top. Irritated, I dumped my tank bag down on the table. If I carried on like this, most of the fruit I’d bought was going to be so mashed I was going to have to purée it.

“OK Dave,” I said with a touch of impatience, “what’s the script? As you can see, I’ve got rather a lot on my plate at the moment.”

He swallowed and dragged his eyes away from the slashed furniture. “What happened?”

I sighed, not really wanting to have to explain. “Just cut to the chase, will you?” I said tiredly.

“Sorry.” He finally managed to get his thoughts back on track. “This is just so—” His voice petered out and he shrugged, lost for words.

I glared at him. He took the hint.

“OK, OK. It’s just that there’s something spooky going on at the club right now. Len and Angelo have been in foul moods since last week, and so’s Mr Quinn, but it’s been worse the last couple of days. At first I thought it was the fuss over those lads you laid out on Saturday, and having the police round. The way you did that was brilliant, by the way,” he added, flashing me an engaging grin.

I refused to warm to his charm. Disconcerted, Dave ploughed on. “Well, then yesterday I was in the club sorting out some new material. I’m normally there on a Sunday. Anyway, when they came in—Len and Angelo—that is, they didn’t know I was there.”

He eased his shoulders nervously, almost a twitch. I didn’t interrupt him, waiting for him to carry on. After a pause, he did.

“Len was furious about something, really crazy with it. He was practically screaming at Angelo that he’d gone too far this time, and he—Len—didn’t think he could cover up for him. Angelo was just really on edge, not far away from exploding. I thought they were going to start killing each other at any moment. It was scary stuff.”

“So what had Angelo done?”

“I don’t know. Len was yelling like a madman, when the boss man walks in.”

“Marc?” I said, startled.

“Yeah,” Dave grinned again at my reaction, more slyly this time. “He broke them up and they all went into the office. They were only there about five minutes before there was all this crashing and shouting going on and they came bursting out of there. Of course, I stuck my head up to see what was happening.”

“And?” I prompted.

“Well, it looked like Mr Quinn had clouted Angelo good style, split his lip and everything. The boss was white with anger. You know how some people go kind of deadly quiet with it? He told Angelo he’d broken the rules and he wasn’t going to stand for it, no way. Len looked like he didn’t know whose side to go for. I mean, Angelo’s his mate, right? But it’s pretty obvious he thinks Mr Quinn’s the dog’s bollocks.”

“But why on earth did Marc hit Angelo?” I wondered.

Dave shrugged. “Search me. Old Angelo’s obviously been up to something he shouldn’t and got found out for it. Maybe Mr Quinn found out that the kids in the club are not just getting their kicks from the music, if you get my drift?”

He shivered suddenly and when he next looked up at me, there was fear in his eyes. “They saw that I was there, then, and Mr Quinn really lost his rag. He got me up against the wall and told me to keep my nose out of things that didn’t concern me. Look.”

Dave unzipped the top of his nylon jacket. It crackled with static as the material folded. If he walked across a man-made fibre carpet and then went out in the rain, he’d probably electrocute himself. Underneath the jacket he wore a T-shirt. The round neck revealed a band of livid bruises circling his throat.

I eyed the yellow and bluish marks with a certain amount of sympathy. After all, I had more or less a matching set of my own. My body seemed to be covered with them. Big blotches like spilt ink on tissue paper. There were so many smaller dabs I’d lost count. “So why are you telling me all this?” I asked, keeping my voice neutral.

Dave tried another grin, but it didn’t quite come off. “I’m scared, Charlie,” he admitted. He fastened the jacket right up to the top again and gave me a level stare.

“I need your help,” he said baldly. “I need to know how to look after myself because, I tell you, whatever’s going on at the New Adelphi, it’s starting to get real nasty.”

“What do you mean, Dave, it’s getting nasty at the club?” I asked. I tried to shake off an uneasy sense of misgiving. If this was true, what was Marc’s real part in it?

Dave looked indignant. “Isn’t this enough?” he demanded, gesturing to his neck.

I gave him a pointed stare. “All that proves is they don’t like eavesdroppers,” I told him.

“Oh come on, Charlie! Think about it!” Dave jumped up, agitated, and paced around. The floor was too cluttered in debris for him to make a proper job of it. After a few moments he sat down again, leaning forwards with his muscular forearms resting on his knees, intent. “Look, I’ve seen quite a few of the kiddies on the dance floor high as kites, even though Mr Quinn swears nobody brings anything into the club, right?”

Reluctantly, I nodded.

“So, they must be getting it from somewhere, yes?”

I nodded again.

“And if they’re not bringing it in, they must be getting hold of it after they’re inside. If Angelo’s been indulging in a bit of private enterprise, and Mr Quinn’s found out, he’ll be for the chop—one way or another.” He shivered again. “If Mr Quinn’s going to get serious about it, well,” he swallowed, “he won’t want any witnesses, will he?”

“I suppose not,” I agreed slowly. Something wasn’t right with Dave’s argument. Something didn’t gel, but right now I couldn’t put my finger on just what it was.

I knew Marc worked by his own code. The lines he drew might not have matched legal ones very closely. If you stepped over them, his retribution would be swift and without mercy. I could almost feel sorry for Dave. His fear seemed genuine, even if I wasn’t sure about the cause.

“So what help do you want from me?”

“Well, like I said, I want you to teach me some self-defence.” He regarded me hopefully, looking anxious when I didn’t immediately respond. “That is what you do, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I agreed tiredly, “but it’s not as simple as that, Dave. You can’t just have a quick lesson and turn into Jackie Chan overnight.”

Without persistent training, knowledge was irrelevant. In fact, it was probably more dangerous than not knowing anything at all. Understanding the right moves for taking the knife away from the Scouser last night would have been useless without an instinctive reflex speed and sense of timing. That only came with constant practice. It seemed I’d been getting plenty of that lately.

“No, no, I want you to teach me regularly,” he said. “I’ll pay.”

I was about to refuse. When I glanced at him he was so tense you could have tuned a guitar by banging his head on a chair and listening to the resonance.

I sighed. “OK, Dave,” I said.

He jumped up again, unable to contain his bounce. He made me feel dog tired by comparison.

“That’s great!” he said. “When can we start?”

“Soon,” I promised. I got to my feet with an effort, my muscles protesting from the brief period of inactivity. The flexibility from Tris’s ministrations earlier seemed to have evaporated. I flicked him a pained look. “Just not right now, OK?”

***

After Dave had gone I made a half-hearted attempt at clearing up a little. At least I managed, with sweat and swear words in almost equal amounts, to turn my shredded mattress over so I had something solid to sleep on.

The locksmith turned up with commendable promptness, only shortly after four o’clock. He was a skinny old bloke with a sorrowful expression, and a foul-smelling cigarette permanently drooping from his bottom lip. For once I was too wearied to protest.

He came in, clucking at the state of the place, and barely concealing his disgust at the lack of security provided by my existing lock.

“Can’t beat a good old five-lever mortice,” he said, wriggling his eyebrows. It was only when he asked if the police thought they’d catch the little buggers who’d done it that I realised I still hadn’t called them.

It didn’t take me long to work out that I wasn’t going to.

When he was finished, I thanked the locksmith and secured the door behind him. A locked door might not have proved much of a barrier last time, but I admit it made me feel better.

I ate a thrown-together tea in silence. Mainly because everything I owned that made noise had been comprehensively destroyed. It was eerie and uncomfortable.

Then I dragged myself back out to teach my usual class at Shelseley, rearranging the curriculum so I did as little physical stuff as I could get away with. One or two of my pupils looked curiously at the more visible bruises, but they didn’t ask too many questions. I was grateful for their reserve.

I made it home again by early evening, and the time seemed to stretch away in front of me. I tried ringing Jacob and Clare, but there was no reply. Even Sam’s answering machine was on. I put the phone down without leaving him a message.

Instead, I managed to uncover the local phone directory, and looked up Terry Rothwell’s address. It wasn’t too far away, one of the new estates, and the weather was uncharacteristically dry. I had quite a few questions for Terry, not least of which was to find out from whom, exactly, he acquired that damn lap-top in the first place.

My next question would probably have concerned the fact that he chose to drop my name into it, when all I’d been doing was a favour for a friend. As I gathered up my leather jacket and helmet, I was in the mood to get stroppy with someone who wasn’t in a position to shout back.

***

I found my way to the collection of streets where Terry lived easily enough, but finding his house was another matter. The planners in their infinite wisdom had used the same name for a Street, an Avenue and a Way, all right on top of one another.

The light was gone by the time I got there. I had to park up and dig out the piece of paper I’d scribbled his address down on before I could discover which one Terry actually lived on. By that time it wasn’t worth moving again and I left the bike where it was. I didn’t chain it up, just set the alarm, and took my helmet with me.

Wilmington Avenue consisted of a featureless sprawl of brick boxes. They were detached, but only just, with an alleyway between each that was so narrow you could have reached out and touched both walls without stretching.

At first I couldn’t work out what looked wrong about the way they were laid out, but then I realised there were no pavements along each side of the road. The pocket handkerchief-sized front lawns ran straight down into the gutter with only a line of edging bricks between the two.

I didn’t know how long the estate had been built, but little attempt had been made by the occupants to individualise the houses. A few little stunted shrubs in the gardens, the odd neat planting of small clumps of unidentifiable greenery. In the driveways stood two- or three-year-old sensible saloon cars.

As I rounded a curve in the road I spotted Terry’s house. There was nothing very different about the exterior, except for the fact it had his damn great green Merc van parked smack outside. I’d bet the residents’ association—and there had to be one—loved that.

I toddled up by the side of the van to the front door, wondering how he put up with keeping it next to the house. It must block out half the light from the downstairs area. It was pretty dark down there as I rang the bell. The door was made up of wooden slats, with long thin frosted glass panes between. I peered through the glass and could see a light on, somewhere in the back.

I rang the bell again, listening carefully for the chime indoors to make sure it was working. I tapped on the glass with my keys as well, just to be certain, but there was no movement inside.

I carefully made my way round the side of the house, squeezing through the narrow alleyway between house and garage. There was a window into the garage and, instinctively nosy, I peered in through that as well. I could just make out the front wing of the Merc coupé in the gloom. If the car and the van were here, Terry surely must be, mustn’t he?

Bolder now, I carried on round to the back, looking warily round the darkened fence bordering the garden. There were no lights on in the houses overlooking the rear of the property, which made me feel slightly better. If Terry wasn’t in, the last thing I wanted to do was get wrestled to the ground by some rabid Neighbourhood Watch brigade as a suspected burglar.

The back garden was as featureless as the front, with a flat slabbed patio and a couple of steps leading up to a big sliding door. There was a bit of light sliding out down the steps from between partly drawn curtains and I cautiously edged my way over to it.

The first thing I saw, when I looked through, was a picture on the far wall oddly tilted to about a forty-five degree angle. The wallpaper was a horrible mixture of red, grey and silver diagonal stripes. Hmm, very eighties, Terry. I moved round slightly to get a different view, and saw a small table tipped over, with the clock and ashtray that had obviously been on its surface strewn across the carpet.

A kind of fear jerked in me then. Even for someone who was as much of a slob as Terry, this didn’t look like normal living conditions. I moved further, jigging from side to side like some obscure exotic dancer to try and get a full picture through the narrow gap in the curtains.

A lampshade was awry, throwing strange long oval shadows up one wall. I caught a glimpse of a sofa, in grey velour, which had a hole in the backrest, the yellow foam puffing out of it like a dirty cloud.

I peered more intently. The place was a mess. There were dark patchy stains all over the carpet. Right at the extreme edge of my vision was the doorway leading, I assumed, out into the hall. On the wall by the door frame was a handprint. It looked as though whoever had made it had dipped their hand liberally in brown paint, there were drips running down the wallpaper. Perhaps Terry went in for finger painting. Or perhaps …

I shook myself, suddenly feeling cold with an unease that gripped me tightly, making it hard to breathe. Without really knowing why, I reached for the handle of the patio doors. Partly to my surprise, they moved.

I should have turned round then. I should have walked away down the side of the house and not looked back, but I didn’t. And it probably wouldn’t have made any difference to the final outcome, anyway. The train was already rolling down this line, and the brakes had failed.

With my heart pounding against my ribs, and my mouth dry, I slid the door open a foot and slipped through the gap into Terry’s lounge.

From inside, the room looked even worse than it did from the garden. The sofa had been comprehensively slashed, the stuffing bursting out from a dozen slits in the fabric. Books, papers and a broken glass vase were scattered across the floor.

I crouched and looked more closely at one of the rusty brown stains. Was it blood? Frankly, I’d no idea. It was dried in, just a dull mark. Where the water from the vase had run across one patch, it seemed paler, but it could have been anything, including beer, or wine.

Who was I kidding? I just knew it was blood. You don’t spill alcohol round the place in such a way that it sprays across a room, up the sides of the sofa, on the coffee table, even across the face of the TV.

I moved carefully over to the door and checked out that handprint. It was so detailed that the hand which made it must have been covered in blood. The lounge door, the usual flimsy internal plywood job, had a splintered fist-shaped hole at about shoulder height.

I moved cautiously through into the hallway, looking very carefully each way before I did so, like a kid on a kerb who’s just had the Green Cross Code hammered into them. I felt like a character in one of those films where you sit there clenched on the sofa watching, shouting, “No, don’t go in there! Get out of the house!” because you know full well the madman with the axe is lurking behind a curtain in the next room.

Damn it, why do I have to go thinking thoughts like that? I shook myself, annoyed. Just get on with it, Fox. On the other hand, technically I was breaking and entering. Legally, I didn’t have a leg to stand on when it came to a right to be there. I knew I should just turn round and high-tail it out of there. I should, but I didn’t.

Just plain nosy, I guess.

I edged forwards into the hallway, pausing just inside to let my eyes accustom to the gloom. Right ahead of me was the slant of the stairs. There was another brown stain round one of the bannister rails, which had dripped down onto the wallpaper beneath. A small, three-legged, triangular table was upturned against the skirting board. It was black and modern-looking, like some cast-off from a progressive milkmaid.

I crept further on towards the front door. I could focus more easily now, could see the tangle of jackets half-pulled from the hooks on one wall. There seemed to be debris scattered all over the floor, coats, a strange trilby-type hat, pairs of battered slippers and a single training shoe.

It slowly dawned on me as my eyes scanned the objects that there was something different about that trainer. It seemed to take an awfully long time for me to realise what was wrong.

There was a foot in it.

Not just a disconnected foot, but an ankle as well, leading into a leg. I could see about to mid-calf, before the rest disappeared round the bottom of the staircase. It had to be Terry’s foot. He usually wore designer trainers, but he walked with his feet turned in, pigeon-toed, and he always seemed to wear his shoes down at an extraordinary and uneven rate. After a month on his feet a pair of top of the line sports shoes looked like something he’d bought from a market trader.

For a few moments I just stood and stared at the foot, as though expecting it to move. It didn’t. Then I realised I could see his other leg. It was stretched out along the bottom of the front door, like a rather ineffective draught-stop. A tumble of mail from the letterbox had fallen on top of it.

I think it was only then I started to realise that this was looking very, very bad. The letters meant he’d been there all day, at least. It could only mean he was badly injured. Or dead.

My heart had the right idea. It was doing its best to make a break for it through the front of my ribcage. I only recognised I was holding my breath when I started going dizzy. I forced myself to relax enough to gulp in some air.

As soon as I began breathing again, the smell hit me. The same smell as a piece of meat that’s fallen out of the rubbish bag and been lurking in the bottom of the kitchen bin for a week or so, right next to a radiator.

My feet were taking me forward, but the rest of my mind and body didn’t really want to go. I shuffled on until the rest of Terry’s body came into view. I was moving a millimetre at a time like someone balanced on the edge of a cliff. This was going to be bad news, I just knew it.

Even so, it was worse than I was expecting.

I never thought of myself as being a particularly hairy person. As soon as I saw Terry, all the hairs on my arms and neck stood bolt upright. I almost jumped backwards away from the sight of him, going, “Oh shit, oh shit.” My voice was a subdued wail.

Terry had always been sensitive about his appearance, but he wasn’t in any state to be offended. He wasn’t in any state to be anything, come to that, apart from very, very dead.

Unless you go in for the particularly gory sort of horror films, which I don’t, most portrayals of dead bodies are pretty tidy, really. They might be liberally sprinkled with fake blood. They might have wide open, staring eyes, but they’re usually all together, in one piece.

Terry was only just together, only just in one piece. The same knife that had made light work of his sofa had made light work of Terry as well. He had been wearing a pale T-shirt, but this was almost totally soaked through with blood. His hands were across his stomach, the arms drenched up to the elbows. His forearms were covered with slits and minor wounds. One thumb had been sliced through to the point where it was nearly completely severed.

At first I thought he had something on top of his stomach, a weird blueish, greyish mass of bundled twisted cloth, smeared with blood. It took a few horrible, horrifying moments for me to realise that it probably was Terry’s stomach.

He’d been split open right across his gut and the contents had spilled out in a tumbled heap. He must have tried to fight off his attacker in the lounge, then staggered through here in search of help. The telephone sat unmarked on the window ledge above his head.

I glanced at his face. He’d been cut there as well, the skin peeling back raggedly to reveal the white-ish gristle of his nose. His dull, flattened eyes seemed to be looking straight at me, accusingly.

I couldn’t hold it any longer. My stomach revolted. I turned away, stumbling, and retched in long, convulsive heaves on the hall carpet until there was nothing left in my system to chuck. What a hell of a way to diet.

For a minute or so afterwards I stayed clinging weakly to the bannisters. Then I pushed myself away and started to think. Did I call the police from here? In which case they were going to ask an awful lot of questions I didn’t want to have to cope with. Like why did I call round to see him? And what about this computer which I’d accepted from him, in the full knowledge that it might be stolen? Oh yeah, I’m sure everyone says they were just trying to return it to its rightful owner …

Or I could do what I should have done as soon as I saw that handprint on the wall. I could make a fast exit and ring the police from a call box as far away from home as possible. I looked at the disgusting calling card I’d just left on Terry’s floor. That couldn’t be helped. I was just thankful I’d kept my gloves on.

Turning my back on Terry was one of the most frightening things. As though he was suddenly going to sit up and reach for me. Too many films, too much imagination. I don’t know why, but I wasn’t afraid that whoever had rearranged Terry’s features was still going to be in the house. He’d obviously been dead too long for that.

I retraced my steps through into the lounge and out into the garden, sliding the patio doors shut behind me. They seemed to close with a terrifyingly loud thunk. I ducked into the shadows by the garage and waited, heart thudding, listening for the sounds of alarm, pursuit.

None came.

I moved down past the side of the garage and along the path, walking back along the street as quickly as possible, trying hard not to break into a run. My back was tense. I expected any minute a voice to shout, “Oi you, stop—murderer!”

It never happened, of course, but I was never so glad as to see the bike sitting waiting for me, like the hero’s faithful steed in an old black and white western. Shame I couldn’t whistle and have the Suzuki start up and meet me halfway. I dare say if there was the demand the manufacturers would work on it.

I couldn’t decide if it would look more suspicious to push the bike quietly out of the road or start it up there as normal. I plumped for the latter, but made sure my helmet was on before I kicked the two-stroke motor into life. It sounded raucously loud. I didn’t look, but I could just feel all the curtains twitching in the surrounding houses.

Without waiting for the bike to warm up, I did a wobbly U-turn in the road, abandoning my dignity and paddling it round, feet down. I felt an awful lot better once I was on the move. The solidity of the bike was comforting. I leaned down and patted the bulge of its tank. A ridiculous action, but it made me feel more secure.

Part of the road leading away from Terry’s place wasn’t streetlit. The cone of illumination thrown out by the bike’s dipped headlight seemed pitiably feeble. My eyes were constantly at its outer limit, waiting for the mad-eyed murderer with the bloodied knife, or the accusing policeman, to suddenly step into my path.

The streets of Lancaster were quiet, which was probably a good thing, because I was riding like a first-day learner, fluffing my gear changes and over-revving the engine, riding corners jerkily upright, too tense to be anything like smooth. The Suzuki’s gearbox had never sounded so clunky, nor the motor so harsh.

I reached home in only a few minutes and left the bike parked up in the road outside. I ran up the steps, ignoring the dissent from half a dozen different muscle groups. I was panting as though I’d run a marathon.

I let myself into the flat like it was some sort of sanctuary. Well, they say an Englishman’s home is his castle. Yeah, said a little voice in my head, tell that to Terry, lying slaughtered behind his own front door …

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I SLAMMED the door behind me and spent a few moments leaning back against it, eyes closed. It was only then that the full force of reaction hit me. I made a dash for the bathroom and spent the next few minutes heaving fruitlessly into the toilet bowl.

I needn’t have bothered. I’d completely emptied my stomach in Terry’s hallway. All I succeeded in doing was make my eyes and nose stream, and leave a vile taste in my mouth. My ribs felt as though the Scouser had been back for a rematch.

Suddenly I remembered again the words I’d half-overheard while I was lying on my lounge floor. The smoker had said, “If you’ve killed her the shit’s really going to hit the fan after last time …” I’d initially thought they somehow referred to Susie’s death. Now they made chilling sense.

I sat down on the toilet floor, resting my head on the seat. My skin felt cold and clammy and my hands were shaking. I knew I had to pull myself together, but it was a real case of easier said than done.

Finally, I staggered to my feet, blowing my nose on reams of loo paper. I splashed cold water on to my face, and cleaned my teeth. After that I felt almost human again.

I was going to have to call the police, but I made up my mind to do it from the anonymity of a public call box. I know you can dial 141 to stop your telephone number being registered by the person you’re calling, but I’d never tried it. I didn’t think this was the time to find out the police could override the system anyway.

I searched round for my voice changer device, but I hadn’t yet found it among the flotsam that covered the lounge floor. I dithered over searching for it, then decided no. A good old-fashioned scarf would have to do the job of disguising my voice.

I had a complete brain dump about where the nearest phone box was. The marketplace. There were three or four phone boxes in the marketplace, near to the fountain. No, they were too public.

I racked my brains before I remembered the one on Caton Road. Not perfect, but it would do. At least you weren’t likely to get loads of people hanging round it while you were trying to cryptically explain the discovery of a dead body to the desk sergeant.

By the time I’d ridden the short distance and parked up at the kerb next to the phone box, I was annoyed to find my hands were shaking again, so much I could hardly get my helmet off. I spent a few minutes just sitting there, trying to relax enough to work out exactly what I was going to say.

Finally, I couldn’t put it off any longer. I left my gloves on just in case and fumbled dialling the Lancaster cop-shop, wrapping my scarf firmly round the receiver as I did so. A rather bored-sounding woman answered the phone.

“Listen up,” I said, my voice echoing gruffly in my ear. “You got a pen? Then write this down.”

“Hang on—yep, go ahead,” the woman said. She sounded suddenly more interested.

“There’s a body of a guy in a house on Wilmington Avenue, the one with the big van outside.”

“A body? What do you mean?”

I didn’t think I could have been much clearer. “What do you mean, ‘What do I mean?’? A dead guy, he’s been knifed. Just get there.”

“OK son, don’t worry, we’re on our way. What’s your name?”

On cue, I put the phone down. I hurried outside, cracked the bike up and struggled into my helmet. I expected a squad car to come screeching up at any minute and haul me inside, but there were only the usual few cars and trucks ambling past. I waited for a gap in the traffic and did another of my wobbly U-turns, then rode sedately back towards the middle of town.

In my mind I was going over it, trying to work out if there was any way I could be linked to Terry’s place. It was only then that I remembered Terry’s business partner, Paul. Shit. I didn’t know if he was aware that Terry had given me the lap-top, but he was certainly the first person the police were likely to contact. If he mentioned me, and if any of the neighbours remembered seeing the bike …

With rather more urgency than before I dived through the traffic round the town centre and headed out towards Abraham Heights. On my way I passed the police station, lit up like late-night shopping.

There were no signs of undue activity and I wondered briefly if they’d taken my message seriously. I don’t know what I expected to see—dozens of cars screaming out with lights and sirens blazing, I expect.

I got lucky with the traffic lights, and it was only a few minutes later that I pulled up on the pavement outside the video shop owned by Terry’s partner. Or should that be ex-partner.

When I walked in Paul was lounging on the counter reading a sci-fi novel with an infeasibly well-endowed blonde in a sprayed-on jumpsuit on the cover. It must have been captivating, because he looked up with that slightly irritated expression of someone who really didn’t want to be disturbed right at that moment.

Still, when he saw it was me he broke into a smile which did nothing to improve his looks. He and Terry had always made an odd couple. Where Terry had been fat, Paul was thin to the point of gauntness, his hunched shoulders emphasised by the bagginess of his jumper. Where Terry’s features were spread across his face like he’d had a hard impact with a fast-moving object, Paul was sharp-looking, almost feral.

He had a small compressed line of a mouth, and a long narrow pointed nose. His chin was a good match for his nose, with a cleft. That would have been all right on Michael Douglas, but regrettably on Paul it looked like he had a small pair of buttocks hanging off the bottom of his face. I’d vaguely wondered once if the two men had been initially drawn together because each thought the other made him look more attractive.

“Er, hi Charlie,” he said. “What’s up? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I made sure the shop was empty before I launched straight in. “I’ve just been round to Terry’s place.”

“Oh, right. I’ve been meaning to go round there myself. He’s been off the last couple of days and I’ve had people from his normal round phoning up because he hasn’t shown up. Did you find him?”

“Yeah,” I said grimly, “I found him all right.” I paused awkwardly. “Look, there isn’t an easy way to say this, but Terry’s dead.”

Paul took the shock well, but his skin actually turned slightly grey. In that moment I believed completely that he had nothing to do with his partner’s death. Not that I had Paul pinned as much of a suspect, in any case. I don’t know anyone who can change colour at will without the aid of a bottle. It had to be a genuine reaction.

“Poor bastard, what happened? Did he have a heart attack? I mean, is he in hospital? Are you sure he’s dead?”

I nodded to the last bit. “I saw him and I’m quite sure,” I said. “And he didn’t have a heart attack, he was stabbed.”

His head snapped up at that. “Shitfire, when did this happen?”

I shrugged, leaning on the counter and suddenly feeling unutterably tired. “I don’t know,” I said wearily. “It must have been at least a day or so ago.”

He blanched at the implications. “Hang on.” He moved round the counter towards the door, turning the open sign to closed and flicking the catch. “Come on,” he said. “You look as though you could do with a drink.”

He led me through to the back of the shop where they had a small, untidy kitchen. There was an odd assortment of cracked but neatly washed up mugs on the scarred stainless steel draining board next to the sink. Paul cleared a load of scrap posters off a rickety, paint-splattered chair and motioned me into it.

He mentioned that he still had a bottle of leftover Christmas brandy about somewhere, and set about making coffee with generous slugs of the spirit in it for us both.

“So,” he said when we were sipping the steaming, biting liquid, “you want to tell me exactly what happened?”

I went through the whole tale of going round to Terry’s and finding the body, not skimping on the details. Paul made me feel better about my own weakness of stomach by turning quite green when I described the state Terry was in.

“I don’t suppose there’s a chance that it was suicide, is there?” he asked, almost hopefully.

I shook my head. “Disembowelment’s not a common method of suicide these days, unless you’re a Samurai, I suppose, but in that case he wouldn’t have had cuts all over his forearms from trying to fight the guy off, and there was no knife next to the body. Whoever did it came and went with his own equipment.”

“Shitfire. Poor bastard,” Paul repeated, nose in his cup. He looked up at me. “How can you be so calm?” he demanded. “I’m gibbering and all I’m doing is hearing about it.”

“Swan syndrome,” I said, taking another swig of coffee and trying not to chip my chattering teeth on the enamel of the mug. “Unruffled on top and paddling like hell underneath.”

He gave a half smile, which disappeared as a sudden thought overtook him. “Did you call the police? I mean, they’ll have to be involved, won’t they? If Terry’s been murdered, there’s no way they won’t be.”

“I rang them before I came here, from a call box.”

“Shitfire,” he said again. “I could be in big trouble.” He saw my raised eyebrow and went on, “I suppose you know Terry runs—was running—a little sideline in videos that are, well, for a slightly more specialised taste.”

“Hard porn,” I supplied helpfully, amused at his discomfort.

“Well, yes, but the thing is, if the police start nosing around, they’re going to find out about it and I could end up in prison. Terry was the one behind it, not me.” His voice sounded aggrieved.

“So claim you didn’t know anything about it,” I said. “Did he keep anything here, or was it all on the van?”

“Most of it was on the van, or I think Terry kept some stuff at home. His client book’s here, though. He left it on the counter the last time he called in …” His voice faded away as though suddenly realising that Terry was truly dead and gone, and the last time he had been into the shop was actually the very last time.

My own last conversation with Terry came to mind, when he’d said none of his mucky video customers were written down in the usual book. “Paul, could Terry’s death have had anything to do with those videos?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, they are highly illegal, the people who make them must be a pretty nasty bunch to cross.”

“Exactly, so he never crossed them, cash with order, no questions asked. He wasn’t a fool.”

I felt my shoulders slump. Somehow I’d been hoping that there might be an explanation other than the one that was forming in my mind. I didn’t like the sound of the one I’d come up with. It was too close to home.

“Paul,” I said, “did you know anything about a lap-top computer Terry accepted as part of a debt for his porn videos?”

Paul shrugged. “Terry ran that side of the business his way. I didn’t really want anything to do with it. He’d quite often work on a barter system as far as payment went.” He gave a half-smile at the memory. “He’d accept more or less anything, from servicing on his central heating system to booze and fags.”

“What about drugs?” I don’t know why I asked it. The question just arrived on my lips without passing selection by the brain first.

Paul didn’t need to think about that one. He shook his head emphatically. “No way. Terry may have been into some dodgy stuff, but he was dead against drugs,” he said, without apparently hearing the irony of his own words. “All you had to do was mention that you thought the government ought to legalise cannabis and he used to practically go up in flames. We used to have quite a laugh winding him up about it,” he finished sadly.

But, Terry’s computer had come from the New Adelphi Club, and from what Dave had hinted at, there could be something going on there that was tied up to illegal substances. I recalled Terry’s words when I told him what Sam had managed to get off the computer. “That’s terrific!” he’d said, sounding tricky. “That should be enough to worry the bastard!”

“So if someone offered him drugs in payment for his porn videos, what do you think Terry would have done about it?” I asked slowly. There was a theory forming, but right now it was so fluid any slight imbalance might make it disappear.

Paul looked evasive, shuffling in his seat and taking a swallow of his coffee before he answered. “Well, he might have tried to use that information to, well, put a bit of pressure on them, in one way or another,” he said, eyes not quite meeting mine.

“Blackmail, you mean,” I put in.

Paul dipped his long nose back into his mug and gave a faint nod. “Yeah, something like that,” he muttered.

“Is that what happened this time?”

Paul didn’t answer, looking more shifty than before.

“Paul, come on!” I said, losing patience. “Last night I think the same people who knifed Terry came after me. They took back the computer I was looking after for him and damned near killed me, too.” His head came up at that, shock blanking his expression. “I need to find out who it is, Paul.”

“God, Charlie, Terry would never have willingly got you into trouble, you should know that.” He hesitated for a while, then put down his coffee mug, standing and walking back into the shop. He was back a few seconds later, carrying a small blue book, which he handed to me.

“That’s Terry’s client book,” he said, “but the truth is, I don’t know who he got that computer from,” he admitted. “He rang me just after he’d got it, told me it had come from someone at that club in Morecambe, but he didn’t say who and I didn’t ask. Like I said, I don’t really get involved. When he didn’t show up for work this week I had a look through the book, but he only kept a note of initials, and none of them mean anything to me …”

A sudden banging on the shop door made us both jump. Paul peered out through a gap in the stud partition wall between the kitchen and the shop.

“Oh shitfire, it’s the police,” he said. He snatched the book I was still holding, grabbed an empty video case and shoved it inside. “Look, take this with you, see if you can unravel any of it,” he said hurriedly. “Don’t worry, I won’t mention anything to them about you. Go on, get out of here!”

I didn’t argue as we both moved back through to the shop, trying to look nonchalant. There were a pair of uniforms standing with their faces pressed up against the door glass. One gave his mate a nudge and a leer when he saw us emerge together.

I have to give Paul credit, he did make a reasonably convincing display of surprise and concern at seeing two officers of the law on his doorstep. He unlocked the door and let them in. “Er, can I help you?”

They asked him his name in serious voices and, feeling like a traitor, I kept walking. “Cheers for this, Paul,” I said, motioning to the video case as I left. “I’ll drop it back later in the week.”

He nodded and gave me a distracted wave, but one of the policemen turned round. “What’s the film?” he asked.

I thought my heart was going to stop, or burst, or both. “Psycho Cop,” I said immediately. “It’s the English version. A group of deranged lads from Traffic go berserk on the M1 in unmarked Maestro vans.”

He gave me a twisted smile. “Yeah, yeah, very funny,” he said, and they turned their attention back to Paul.

Once I was safely outside I shoved the video case down the front of my jacket, yanked on my helmet, and started up the Suzuki. I then made a complete fool of myself by trying to toe it into gear with the side-stand still down, which cuts the motor. Come on, Fox, get it together.

As I rode back towards the middle of Lancaster and home, I could feel the video case pressing against my ribcage. Did it hold the key to Terry’s murderer? God only knew, and she definitely was keeping that kind of information to herself. What an unholy mess.

***

It was too late by the time I got back to the flat to do more than glance at Terry’s book that night, but the following morning I spent a couple of hours going through it.

He seemed to have a good system, keeping careful track of dates the porn videos had been borrowed and returned, by whom, and when the monies were collected. I say seemed because it told me just about nothing.

I managed to work out that the videos themselves weren’t named, just numbered. They were expensive enough for one night’s hire to make my eyebrows lift. And some people seemed to get anything up to half a dozen of them out at a time. It was hardly surprising that those paying on a weekly or monthly basis suddenly found themselves with a hefty bill.

As for the people, they were a mystery. Terry hadn’t named anyone in full, relying on sets of initials. AC, AZ, BT, CA, DJ, EG, FA, GB. I stopped when I found PC, just in case it was connected to the lap-top, but the initials cropped up so rarely there was no way that PC—whoever he was—could have owed Terry enough to give him a computer.

As well as initials, there was a three-digit number preceding each one. A lot of people had the same number prefix. Eventually I cottoned on to the fact that the numbers probably related to an address. An office building, a private house—or a nightclub. I couldn’t really find enough to identify there, either.

The only thing that was easy to understand was the day of the week when Terry called at each undisclosed location. He’d brought the computer round to see me on a Sunday morning, but that could mean anything. Did he usually call round at the club then, or had he just dropped in unexpectedly to do his debt collecting?

I tried again later that evening, when I got back from teaching my Tuesday evening class at the university leisure centre all about head-locks, but it made no more sense than it had done earlier.

With a sigh I shut the book and threw it down on the coffee table, rubbing at my aching eyes. Last week I was just an average person, living my life and paying my bills on time—mostly.

Now I was mixed up in porn videos, illegal drugs, rape and murder. I had a feeling things were going to get worse—and probably much worse—before they got better.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I TAUGHT my usual class at Shelseley Lodge the next day. A couple of nights’ sleep made my grisly discovery seem more distant. It was as though I was disturbed by having seen a violent film, rather than witnessing it in real life.

When Marc rang, asking how I was, it was difficult to recall that he was referring to my own attack, rather than simply my reaction to Terry’s murder. I must have sounded vague and unfocused. He asked me three times if I was sure I was OK, and seemed dissatisfied with my woolly answers.

Despite another work-out and a couple of saunas at Attila’s, I was still as stiff as an elderly Labrador with dodgy hips, so I abandoned my normal syllabus again and taught the class kicks and punches instead.

That didn’t require much active participation on my side. I arranged the crashmats standing up, four-deep against the wall, and unrolled the targets over them. There was general giggling amongst my students as I set up. When I was done I grinned at them.

My targets were two long rolls of vinyl with life-size thugs printed on them. I’d chosen vinyl because they had to stand up to quite a bit of hammer. They were representations of big ugly fellers with bulging muscles and scowling faces. I found a long time ago that unless I gave my students something a bit more realistic to aim at, they were never going to be able to defend themselves against anything other than attacks by rabid gym mats.

“Meet Curly and Mo,” I said. “I want you to divide into two groups and form an orderly queue to give these two a bit of stick. Basically, do what you like to them. Punch them, kick them, knee them in the knackers. Pretend they’re your boss, your spouse, or whoever’s been giving you grief lately.”

There was laughter at that. I showed them the basic line to aim for with a punch, from the temples down to the groin, taking in the nose, jaw, throat, and solar plexus on the way.

“OK,” I said. “Anybody—where would be your first choice target?”

It was Joy who answered first. “The goolies,” she said promptly. Several others concurred, with varying degrees of embarrassment.

“Go for his eyes,” said another. She was one of my older students, a middle-aged lady called Pauline, who’d only recently joined the class, but was taking to it with real enthusiasm.

When there were no further guesses I turned to the targets. “Actually, you’re all right,” I said. “Any one of those areas can be very effective, as long as you practise it so it’s second nature; so you don’t have to think about it. If you have to nerve yourself up to hit someone, it’ll show in your face, your body language, and they’ll be ready for you. Given a choice, I’d go for the nose.”

I demonstrated with several different techniques. An open-handed chop with the edge of my hand, a swinging elbow, and a hammer fist, as well as a straightforward punch. I knew where the nose area of my targets was without having to sight on it first. I kept my eyes on my students instead, gauging their reaction.

“The nose will be unprotected by heavy clothing or glasses and a blow there will stop most attackers in their stride,” I told them. “It’s difficult for someone to keep fighting while their eyes are streaming.”

My own favourite was a sweeping chop upwards just underneath the nose, right on the sensitive septum between the nostrils. Get the angle right and even the biggest, toughest of blokes will hit the dirt.

Of course, angle the blow too straight onto the top lip, and you run the risk of paralysing the respiratory system by damaging the cranial nerves. Angle it too high and you can splinter the nasal bones where they meet at the bridge of the nose, with the inherent danger of then driving the fractured ends onwards, into the brain.

To do that you had to deliver an accurate and powerful punch. I glanced briefly round the group in front of me and considered that none of them were potential heavyweight boxers in the making. Their strength was limited to the point where telling them about the dangers would inhibit them too much. None of them were street-fighters by nature. In an attack situation, I wanted them to hit out as hard as they could, not worry about exactly where they placed the blow.

I showed them a few other locations, for good measure. “Most areas of the face are pretty vulnerable to attack, like the hollow in the cheeks, the skin just under the eye, and then there’s always the throat,” I went on. “The throat is always a good one to go for, as is the side of the jaw. On the down-side, you are just as vulnerable to attack in that area, so be careful. That’s why boxers keep their chins tucked in.”

“I always thought it was because they had glass jaws,” Joy commented.

I shook my head. “If you keep your jaw shut it’s more difficult to do it damage. You’re much more vulnerable when you’ve got your mouth open.”

“My ex-husband would agree with you there,” muttered Pauline. There was laughter again.

I showed them how to form a fist without danger of dislocating their thumbs the first time they hit anything solid, and explained how you had to imagine punching straight through the object you were hitting, rather than pulling back when you made contact.

Then I let them get on with it. It never ceased to amaze me how much built-up anger and aggression came out during this particular lesson. People always claimed to feel surprisingly better afterwards. I know I usually did. I could recommend having a punchbag in the corner of the living room for stress relief and relaxation to anyone.

My mind drifted as I watched a group of normally sober and well-behaved women beat Curly and Mo to a pulp. I wondered how things might have turned out with the Scouser if I’d taken my own advice and hit him, hard, with no mercy and no hesitation.

Maybe my own doctrine that the law of self-defence was to use the minimum amount of force necessary had taken over. But maybe, if I’d known that he’d already got Terry’s scalp on his belt, I would have been a lot less squeamish. I reflected, with some bitterness, that the Scouser and his mate certainly overcame their initial reluctance to beat up a woman with remarkable speed.

The thought jarred with me and I struggled to work out why. I backtracked. Somebody at the club gave Terry a computer as part of a debt. OK, I was clear on that. Then he’d tried to worry them by hinting that he knew what information had been stored on the machine. I was guessing for this part, but it seemed feasible.

He must have succeeded in worrying whoever it was. To the point where they had come round to retrieve the computer, with violence. Terry must have told them that I’d got it, and having seen what they’d done to him, I couldn’t honestly say I blamed him for giving me away.

OK, so having failed to get the computer from Terry, why had they then waited a day or so before coming round to see me? Why hadn’t they turned my place over on the Saturday night, when I was safely out of the way at the New Adelphi? And why, if they were connected to the club themselves, hadn’t they known that Charlie was a female name …?

The pieces of the puzzle just didn’t fit together. Without them I was never going to see the picture clearly.

“Charlie, are you OK?” Joy broke into my thoughts, peering anxiously at me.

I shook them loose and smiled at her. “Yeah, sure. What’s up?”

She asked a question about elbow strikes and I stirred myself to demonstrate the technique. Joy wasn’t a bad student, quick and smart, even if she did tend to forget some of the moves from one lesson to the next.

I kept stressing practice, practice, practice, but everybody was there by their own choice. I couldn’t exactly put them in detention if they didn’t do their homework.

She stayed behind to help me clear away after the rest of the class had gone, which was another point in her favour, considering my current state of health.

“So,” I said, stifling a groan as I bent to pick up the final mat, “I saw you at the New Adelphi at the weekend. Have fun?”

I glanced up at her as I said it, and was surprised to see a strange mixture of expressions frozen on her face. Guilt warred with defiance, mingling into embarrassment.

In a heartbeat, I knew.

“Fun?” she repeated, her voice pitched slightly too high. She swallowed and lowered the frequency. “Er, yeah, it was great. I didn’t know you were into clubbing, Charlie.”

“I’m not,” I said as I straightened up. I fixed her with a grim smile, turning the screw. “I work security there.” I paused just long enough to let the implications sink in, then spelt them out for her anyway. “I keep the druggies out.”

She jumped as though I’d dropped ice down her neck. A strong suspicion became a dead certainty.

“Oh, really?” she said nervously.

“Yeah,” I said. “So, purely as a matter of interest, what did you take on Saturday night?”

She opened her mouth to deny it, saw the expression on my face, and shut it again.

“T-take?” she tried, circling her head as though by doing so she could evade the line of questioning.

I sighed, dropping the mat back onto the pile and turning to face her. “Joy,” I said. “I have no interest what shit you want to shovel into your system in your own time, but I do have an interest in finding out where you got something at the New Adelphi, when I’m supposed to be doing a job there.”

She wavered for a moment, then sat down on one of the row of chairs that were pushed back along one wall, not quite meeting my eyes. I waited for her to form the right words.

She began with justification. “I’m not into anything heavy,” she protested. “A few tabs of Ecstasy at the clubs; a couple of joints to chill out again afterwards. Sometimes I’ll go months without anything, then some stuff will come my way again.” She flickered her eyes up to mine, then slid them away, suddenly fascinated by a hangnail on her thumb. “It’s less addictive than alcohol and—”

I held up my hand, cutting her off. “Joy, I’ve already said I don’t care what you take, just tell me where you got it. Did you already have it before you got into the club?”

She gave me a slightly scornful look. “Do restaurants let you take your own food in?” she challenged. “You don’t get to carry anything into that place. They want to make damned sure you’ve got to buy fresh on the inside.”

I was startled and tried not to show it. I thought of Marc’s adamant statement that nobody brought anything into his club, and of Len’s that nothing went on that he didn’t know about. Were they naive, or just very clever? Mind you, if they suddenly found out that Angelo had been running a nice little sideline in disco biscuits, it would explain Marc’s explosion of anger …

I turned back to Joy. “So who did you go to for yours?” I demanded.

I viewed a first flash of temper. “What the hell business is it of yours, Charlie?”

“You have no idea,” I put in quietly, although my own irritation was rising fast.

After a few moments Joy’s eyes dropped from mine again. She shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said, almost sullen. “I was with a group of friends. One of them went away and he just came back with some gear.”

“And you didn’t see where he’d got it?”

She shook her head, then remembered something. “The only thing was, I told him I was worried about taking anything so openly on the dance floor, in case we got thrown out by one of the bouncers. He just laughed and said where did I think the stuff had come from in the first place?”

“But you didn’t see which one?”

She shook her head with such certainty I realised I was getting the truth.

I took a deep breath. “Look, Joy,” I said. “I really need to know who’s dealing drugs at the club. Next Saturday, can you get your mate to identify who sold him the stuff last time for me?”

I knew I was going out on a limb on the grounds of a tenuous friendship, and it didn’t quite come off the way I’d hoped. Her face flushed and she jumped to her feet. “No way!” she cried. “Oh sure, I do a bit of blow every now and again, and you want me to tell you everyone who’s ever passed me a joint. You teach me self-defence, Charlie, not morality. If I want my soul saving, I’ll go find a priest! Don’t be so fucking high and mighty!”

She started for the door. I moved after her. “Joy, wait, let me explain—” I was going to have to tell her about Terry, about the connection with the New Adelphi, about my own attack, but she had already reached the door out of the ballroom.

She rounded on me, eyes bright with tears. “Just go to hell, Charlie!” and she rammed the door open, disappearing through it with an air of absolute finality.

I started after her, but as I reached the door myself, stretching a hand out, it opened inward towards me and a girl stepped through.

We both stopped with a little exclamation of shock. My mind registered the short frame and spiky hair of Victoria, the waitress from the New Adelphi, even as my mouth was saying, “Sorry, excuse me a moment, would you?”

I dived out into the corridor, but Joy had already disappeared along the hallway, heading for the front door. I caught a final glimpse of her stiff back as she hurried down the front steps. I called her name again, but she was gone.

With a sigh I went back to deal with my new visitor.

“Have I come at a bad time?” Victoria asked with a hesitant smile.

“Oh no,” I sighed. “I’ve just opened my mouth and only succeeded in changing feet. Don’t worry about it. Now then, what can I do for—?”

I’d glanced up as I’d spoken and my voice died in my throat as I looked at her.

“Christ, Victoria, what the hell happened to you?”

The left-hand side of her face was one huge contusion, the bruising starting dark purple round her swollen eye and fading out to a sickly yellow at chin and hairline. Steri-strip dressings closed the edges of cuts to her cheekbone and eyebrow. Through the slit of distended lids, the white of the eye itself was speckled with blood. She looked like shit.

Victoria couldn’t fail to take in my reaction. She gave a bravado half-smile that made her mouth tremble, suddenly in danger of losing the last thread of her slender self-control.

I put my arm round her shoulder and led her to the chair Joy had so recently vacated. Victoria sank onto it as though her legs wouldn’t support her any more, twisting her hands together in her lap.

I perched alongside, keeping my arm round her and digging in the pocket of my jogging pants for a respectable handkerchief to offer. She threw me a brief smile of thanks and we sat in silence for a while as she searched for a logical entrance to her story.

I didn’t try and hurry her into it. Whatever had happened to Victoria, although obviously not really fresh, was still close enough to be traumatic. By the way her hands where shaking, she was probably still in shock.

The shock always gets you. It certainly did with me.

The bright lights and the warmth of the Lodge receded, to be replaced with the memory of another time, and another place. It had been dark then, frosty, and cold enough for snow.

Donalson, Hackett, Morton, and Clay.

I’d been younger then, in some ways more self-assured, in others more vulnerable. We’d been learning some hand-to-hand stuff as part of the course, but my attackers knew exactly the same techniques as I did, and I was outnumbered four to one.

In reality, I didn’t really know any more about self-defence than to try and knee my attackers in the groin, or punch them in the stomach. Now I can put my mind to over fifty sensitive areas on the face and neck alone.

I was strong and a bit of a fitness freak back then, but even so it was no match for superior male muscle. Under pressure I’ve always been able to think fast. So I didn’t cower. I fought and kicked out instantly, tried to yell blue murder.

I suppose it was about then that the four of them realised they were going to have to kill me to keep me quiet about what they’d done. The memory that has stayed with me longest is of lying half-insensible on the frigid earth, listening to them discussing in panicked undertones how best to dispose of my body.

The emotional aftershocks had taken a long time to die down. I doubted I’d ever be without the ripples left behind. When I was able to view the events with the clarity of distance, I was just left with the anger of my own helplessness.

I felt a burst of that same anger looking at Victoria’s battered face, and knowing that had she come to my classes I probably could have taught her how to avoid the worst of it.

Now, she made a determined effort to get herself together. I smiled encouragingly.

“D’you want to talk about it?” I ventured at last.

She sniffed and nodded. “God, sorry, look at me, falling apart on you,” she muttered, blowing her nose loudly, which started it off bleeding. I made a quick decision that she could keep the handkerchief.

“Who did this to you, Victoria?” I asked gently, although I think I already knew the answer.

She sniffed again, dabbing at the fresh blood. “Angelo,” she admitted, her voice breaking. “We’ve only been going out for a few months, and at first he was great, but lately …” She tailed off, glancing at me, and I realised that the blood from her nose had been caused by the ring she usually wore there being half ripped out through the skin …

I was trying so hard not to let Victoria see my distaste at this piece of mutilation that I almost missed what she was saying next.

“He seems to really hate you, Charlie. It scares me.”

“Angelo hates me?” I stared at her blankly. “Why on earth does he hate me?”

“Because you’re not afraid of him,” she said, as though stating the obvious. “He expects everybody to be afraid of him—especially women. He likes his women passive—submissive, even. When you’d been to the club for your interview he was dead scathing about you because you wouldn’t take Len on. He thought it was because you couldn’t do it. Then you took care of that fight last Saturday and now he thinks you were taking the piss out of them both.”

I made no response to that. There didn’t seem to be much I could say. Victoria took my silence to be scepticism. She peered at me again. “I think he hates the control you’ve got,” she went on, hesitantly. “Angelo’s driven by his anger, it takes him over. You’re different. You get mad, but you use it. You don’t let it dominate the way you behave. Angelo doesn’t understand that, and it infuriates him.”

“So he takes it out on you?” I demanded.

She shrugged her thin shoulders. Some big man Angelo was, turning his fists onto a girl a third of his size and weight. It made me burn with the sheer injustice of it.

“What do you need from me, Victoria?” If there was anything I could do, I’d do it.

She looked surprised. “I don’t need anything from you,” she said. “I just thought I ought to warn you, that’s all—about the way Angelo feels.”

“Does he know you’re here?”

A furtive flicker crossed her face. “God, no! He’d go mental if he found out,” she said, unable to keep the trace of fear out of her voice entirely.

I turned to her, gripped her arm. “Victoria, get away from him,” I warned. “If he did this to you, get out now, while you still can!”

She slid her gaze away. “I’m OK,” she protested. “He’d had a bit to drink. He didn’t know what he was doing and he was really sorry afterwards.” She got to her feet, tried a bigger, braver smile. “He’s promised it won’t happen again.” I couldn’t work out if it was me she was trying to convince, or herself.

I walked with her along the corridor to the hallway, and out into the gloomy evening. The air was biting, enveloping me in its bitter embrace as soon as I left the warmth of the house. I shivered and dug my hands deep into the pockets of my jogging pants. Victoria was only wearing a light denim jacket, but she seemed not to notice the cold.

Her car, a grubby-looking Mini with a different coloured front wing and a reshaped coathanger for an aerial, was parked with two wheels into the bushes, down near the bottom of the drive. A streetlamp outside the gate threw a sodium yellow glow onto it.

For a few moments I watched her walking away towards the Mini, head down as though trudging into rain. She made a diminutive figure, vulnerable, exposed. Despite her assurances, I worried for her.

I shook my head and turned away, intending to go and have a quick brew with Tris and Ailsa before I changed for the ride home. I must have managed about three strides.

Then all hell broke loose.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

VICTORIA DIDN’T so much start screaming, as let out a single high-pitched yowl of terror. It lacerated the night air, and gave me instant goose bumps. I spun round so fast I skidded and nearly tripped over my own feet on the lichen-covered slabs.

I had time to see a darkened figure grab Victoria’s shoulders to shove her out of the way, thrusting past her. She crumpled by the side of the Mini as the figure made off down the drive and out into the road.

Something about the way it moved told me the flying outline was a man. Not only that, but the same man who’d fled from outside the ballroom window. He had his covered head down and was fleeing with a purpose, already thirty yards away. For a moment I was torn over direction. Did I give chase, or go to Victoria’s aid?

Rescue won out over capture. I ran over to her, heart thundering far more than it should have been from such a short burst of exercise. To my relief, she was already starting to regain her feet, clinging onto the door handle of her car for support, her back half-towards me.

As she heard my footsteps she gave another stark cry, cowering back. It took me a couple of attempts—speaking loudly and calmly, and not trying to touch her—before her brain registered my voice. She quietened with a sob.

Then, she let me reach out to her, to help her up. I let go once she was on her feet and propped against the side of the Mini. My hands came away wet, and sticky.

Under the gloomy lighting it was difficult to distinguish the colour, but I knew.

“Victoria,” I said, “where are you hurt?”

She looked at me blankly, then saw the blood on my fingers, and her legs gave out again. She slid down the bodywork, ending up back on the ground.

I checked her over quickly, searching for the wound, but I couldn’t find one. There was blood on both her upper arms, quite a lot of it, but it didn’t seem to have come from Victoria herself.

A little slow-motion action replay rolled through my mind. I saw again the black-clad figure swinging Victoria roughly aside. Saw his gloved hands grasping her shoulders …

I straightened up. Victoria’s assailant could only have come out of the darkened foliage that bordered the drive. I didn’t want to go in there, among the dark whisperings of the leaves, but I wasn’t sure I had a choice. The man hadn’t moved like he was injured. What did that leave?

As I started to move round the front of the Mini, I felt Victoria grab at the bottom of my sweatshirt, trying to prevent me from going. I had to prise her hand away from my clothes. “It’s OK,” I said. “I need to check.”

Brave words. Shame I didn’t quite have the brave heart to go with them.

It was dark in front of the Mini, the car casting its own shadow onto the gravel from the lighting in the road behind it. I edged forwards until my toes bumped against the terracotta coping that marked the border between drive and shrubbery.

But coping stones aren’t soft, and they don’t flinch when you kick them …

I spun round, told Victoria to turn her headlights on so I could see what I was doing, but didn’t get a response.

When I glanced at her I found the blonde-haired girl had one hand clamped over her mouth as though to either prevent a rising tide of nausea, or bite back on her screams. Above her blenched fingers her eyes were stretched wide, the white gleaming clearly all around the iris. She kept moaning, over and over, “Oh God, oh God.”

I went through her pockets until I found her car keys, opened the door, and fumbled with every knob and switch I could find on the Mini’s dashboard until the headlights blinked on.

What I saw in their feeble glow made me wish I hadn’t bothered.

The figure of a woman was lying in an almost perfect recovery position, with her feet disappearing into the shrubbery, and her upper body onto the gravel. She was on her left side, but nearly rolled onto her face, with her back to the Mini’s front bumper. One arm was out behind her, the other crooked up in front.

It briefly crossed my mind that she might have fallen and hit her head. Blood had haloed round her face, soaked into her clothing. The palm and fingertips of her forward hand rested in the growing pool that covered the stones around her.

Victoria whimpered behind me. I turned back to her. Her ashen face made perfect sense to me now. I squatted alongside her.

“Victoria, listen to me,” I said gently, holding her head so she had to look straight into my eyes. “I need you to go back into the house and get them to phone for the police, and an ambulance. I’ll stay here and see what I can do for her. Go and find Ailsa and tell her what’s happened. Can you do that for me?”

She clutched briefly at my hand, her fingers almost unnaturally cold, then gave a hesitant nod. She was shaking as she climbed to her feet. I watched her as she stumbled numbly back towards the lights of the hallway, like someone sleepwalking.

I hung back just until she was close enough to the front steps for me to be sure she was going to make it without collapsing, then turned back to the woman.

I got the same crunch of fear in my gut that I’d felt when I’d first seen Terry’s body. I wondered how many corpses you had to see before you got blasé about them.

I pushed the memory of the fleeing man from my mind, and trod carefully round the prone form on the ground. The girl’s legs were bare and one shoe was missing. Her hair had fallen partly over her face, and her coat collar had rucked up. I’d already crouched and put a hand out to smooth them away when I stilled, recognition as jarring as an unexpected thorn in a bunch of roses.

It was Joy.

Fearing the worst, I pushed her hair back, intending to check her airway was clear. She started under my fingers, making me jump back with a muffled curse. Her eyes opened, smoky with pain. She seemed to gaze at me, but unfocused, and began to struggle in panic.

“Joy, it’s OK, it’s me. It’s Charlie,” I told her, trying to keep her steady. Christ, I needed to keep her still. I’d no idea what her injuries were. “Don’t worry, help’s on the way. Where are you hurt?”

She was still thrashing around, hands fluttering at my wrists, making unintelligible noises like a wounded animal. I just couldn’t understand what she was trying to tell me. Later, it was the sounds she made that haunted me.

She lifted her head, eyes wide. A spurt of blood oozed from between her parted lips, staining her teeth like a heavy smoker. It joined the steadily expanding puddle, which was pooling round my feet. Joy was losing it at an alarming rate. I knew I needed to stem the flow if there was going to be any chance of saving her.

The fight went out of her abruptly and she sagged back. It seemed like even that short spasm of energy had drained her. I took advantage to open her coat, searching for the cause of all that bleeding.

It didn’t take me long to find it.

As I pulled back her collar I couldn’t suppress a gasp of revulsion. Joy’s throat had been slashed straight across from one side to the other.

Her windpipe, a tangle of sinews, and disconnected blood vessels were all clearly visible through the gaping wound. Blood was pumping out at a speed which dismayed me. I yanked my sweatshirt off over my head, balling it up into a pad to hold over the gash. I dredged through my memory and recalled that pressure was the only way to stop bleeding. Trouble was, how did I press on her windpipe without hastening her death?

I squeezed as tightly as I dared, but all that seemed to happen was that my sweatshirt turned steadily dark with blood.

Joy was lying quietly now, her skin taking on a clammy pallor. Her breathing was so shallow I could hardly tell if she was still alive or not. Come on, for God’s sake! How long does it take to get an ambulance up here? They always seem to be in a damned hurry whenever I’ve hustled the Suzuki out of their flightpath.

“Come on, Joy, don’t give in!” I think I knew in my heart that she was fighting a losing battle.

I felt tears begin to slide down my cheeks. I didn’t notice the cold, even though I was down to a thin T-shirt. I knelt beside her, not caring that her blood soaked into the knees of my jogging pants.

I ran our last conversation round and round like a loop tape. I couldn’t get it out of my head. If I hadn’t confronted her, we would probably have walked out together. Her attacker might have backed off. If he had got brave then maybe, together, we would have been able to take him down.

Right now we should have been laughing and congratulating each other, boosted by the adrenaline thrill of success. We should have been waiting for the cops to show up and cart off a very surprised and down-trodden mugger. One who wasn’t expecting his victims to fight back.

Instead I was waiting for the paramedics to come and tell me with their serious eyes and their sober stance that there was nothing they could do …

The sound of running footsteps shook my foggy mind aware. I glanced up and saw Ailsa and one of the other residents hurrying down the drive towards us. The other woman took one look at the scene illuminated in the Mini’s headlights, then reeled away and threw up onto the edge of the lawn.

Fortunately, Ailsa had a slightly stronger stomach. She came forwards like someone approaching the loose edge of a chalky cliff, her hand squeezing my shoulder in silent support.

More footsteps made us both turn. Tris came jogging out of the house, pulling on his old parka jacket and carrying a couple of blankets. “Help’s on the way,” he said in a hushed voice when he reached us. “Is she …?”

I grimaced up at him and shrugged.

Joy’s eyes snapped open again at that moment, making the pair of them jerk backwards, cursing. With a sharp movement she gripped tight onto my wrist, desperation lending unearthly strength. She tried to mouth words her destroyed voice box couldn’t begin to form.

Blood bubbled between her lips, speckled with saliva, then she went limp. I swear in that moment I watched the light dim in her eyes, like the last flicker of a torch with an exhausted battery.

In the distance, came the faint wail of sirens.

***

It was well after midnight when I wearily climbed the stairs to the flat and let myself in. The half-cleared debris of the interior seemed even more depressing as I flicked on the lights.

I put the kettle on for coffee as a reflex rather than out of any real desire for caffeine. I was too wired to sleep, too tired to do much else. My mind couldn’t stop turning things uselessly over and over.

I stripped out of my ruined jogging pants and threw the sweatshirt straight into the rubbish, pulling on fresh clothes. I suppose I could have soaked the blood out of them in a bucket of cold water, but I didn’t have much of an inclination to try.

The pants had been pale grey and looked worse than the shirt, which was green. Blood goes black on a green background. I remember my father telling me that was why surgeons wore it. Saves making the relatives faint when they came straight out of the operating theatre splattered with the stuff.

I checked the answering machine for messages. There were a couple of pupils letting me know about classes they couldn’t make, and one from Sam, asking me to get in touch. The last message was from Marc.

“Just calling to check you’re OK,” said that rich voice, perfectly at ease talking to a machine. “You sounded slightly off-line the other day. Call me, Charlie. Any time—I mean it.”

I half-smiled. People who say things like that on answerphone messages so often don’t really expect you to take them up on it. Like the ones who say, “you’re always welcome” or “see you soon”. They’d be horrified if you actually turned up on their doorstep at two the following morning.

On an impulse, I picked up the phone and dialled Marc’s mobile number. I nearly changed my mind in the time it took to connect, but once it had started ringing out I held my nerve.

“Yeah?” His laconic greeting wasn’t quite what I expected. For a moment I couldn’t think what to say that didn’t sound foolish, or inconsequential. “If that’s you, Zachary, you better have a good excuse for ducking out of work tonight! Hello? Talk to me.”

I rushed into speech. “Hi Marc, it’s me. You said call any time, so—I’m calling.”

A fractional pause. “Charlie! How lovely.” There was genuine warmth in his voice. “It’s late. Are you all right?”

“Er, yes—no. I don’t know,” I faltered. There was the heavy beat of music in the background at his end of the line. He must still be at the club. Busy.

“Want to tell me about it?” he suggested without impatience. The gentleness in his voice was nearly my undoing. I’d been fine all through the impersonal information-gathering of the police who’d turned up at the Lodge. Now I was in danger of losing it big time.

Victoria had gone to pieces so badly that a woman constable had driven her home in the battered Mini, after the medics had given her a sedative. It was the only effective thing they’d been able to do. By the time they arrived Joy was past even their best-trained ministrations.

“A friend of mine has just died,” I said. It sounded so lame, such an inadequate way of describing the events of the past few hours.

“Oh Charlie, I’m sorry,” he said politely. “Was it sudden?”

“You could say that. She had her throat cut. I was with her.” The surface tension broke and the tears spilled over. “I watched her die, Marc, and there was nothing I could do.”

There was another pause, longer this time, tense. “Would you like me to come over?”

I pulled myself together. “N-no,” I said. “I’ll be OK.” I caught sight of the hand that gripped the phone receiver and stretched the other one out in front of me. They were both ingrained with dried blood, sunk deep into my pores and laced under my nails. I grimaced at the sight of it. “Besides,” I added with the semblance of a smile, “I look a mess.”

He laughed softly. “How very female,” he murmured, then, “Hold on a moment, would you?” I heard him take the phone away from his mouth. There was the mutter of voices in the background.

I took advantage of his absence to sniff loudly and tell myself to get it together. I suppose I should have been grateful that I hadn’t gone off the rails quite as badly as Victoria. Maybe I was just getting used to bloodied corpses...

“I’m sorry,” I apologised when he came back on the line. “You’re obviously busy and the last thing you want is me blubbering at you.”

“Don’t be stupid. You’re hardly blubbering,” he said. “It’s been a relatively quiet night, but Len’s just been having fun and games with a couple of rowdy punters. We’re a bit short-handed.”

“I would have thought all you’d have to do is let Angelo off his leash and stand by with a mop and bucket to clear up the aftermath.”

“We probably would have done, but he wasn’t in tonight,” Marc said with a hint of annoyance. “He called in sick. In fact, that’s who I thought was calling me now. I tried him earlier and couldn’t get a reply. He’s either too sick to answer the phone, or he’s not sick enough and he’s gone out somewhere.”

“He’s probably too busy beating up his girlfriend,” I muttered, recalling suddenly the way Victoria’s eyebrow rings had been torn out of her face. It made me wince to think about it. I didn’t even have my ears pierced. Still, that was nothing compared to the level of violence that had been shown towards Joy …

“Sorry, Charlie the line just crackled. What did you say?” Marc asked.

“Oh, nothing,” I said, shaking my head to clear it. “Look, I’m sorry Marc, I’m still all mixed up and my brain just seems to be going off at a tangent half the time.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come round? I can be there in less than twenty minutes.”

“Yes I’m quite sure,” I said more firmly. “Thanks anyway Marc. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“OK. I’ll call you,” he promised. “And if there’s anything I can do, Charlie, you know you only have to say.” I heard the sincerity in his voice, knew he meant it.

“Thank you,” I said, grateful for his understanding, “but I think I’ll be OK. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

As he rang off he told me to get some sleep. His tone suggestive enough to almost make me offer him a place in my bed to help me try.

***

Maybe, if I’d gone to bed then, I would have managed more sleep than I did. I sat for a long time on the most solid part of my leaking sofa—I really must finish clearing up the stuffing—cradling another cup of coffee and trying to blank the vision of Joy’s desperate struggle to cling to life.

Would I have been able to fight any harder? Would I have held out any longer than she had? I looked down again and saw my bloodstained hands.

With a grimace I set down my cup and went to scrub the traces away. Soap struggled to shift the blood now it was dry. I ended up using washing up liquid, with some gritty brown sugar thrown in as an improvised scouring agent. By the time I’d finished my skin was pink and raw, but at least it was clean.

I had just walked back into the lounge again when the phone rang. I picked it up with a smile on my face, thinking that at this hour it could only be Marc, with some just-remembered remark.

“That was a close one, wasn’t it, Charlie? Next time, it could be you.”

I lurched. It wasn’t Marc. Instead, I heard a quiet sexless voice with a faint mechanical twang to it that took me a moment to place. Then I realised it was the way you sounded when you were using a voice-changer device, like mine. Correction—like the one I used to have, but hadn’t been able to find since the flat had been turned over …

“Charlie? I know you can hear me,” the voice went on nastily. Oh shit. I jerked away from the receiver as though it had burned me. “I know you’re listening. Not so brave now, are you? Your friend wasn’t brave. She hardly even struggled. No sport there, Charlie. Not like you.”

“Try me!” I threw at him. Oh Christ, where had that burst of bravado come from? The fear rippled down me, making my spine twitch. I wanted to run away screaming with my hands over my ears, but I was caught, dazzled, like a rabbit in the headlights of the car that was just about to run it over.

The voice gave a delicate laugh. “Maybe next time, Charlie,” it said. “Maybe I will.”

“There won’t be a next time,” I said, amazed at how level my own voice sounded.

“Oh there’ll definitely be a next time,” repeated the metallic voice. “You won’t know where, and you won’t know when, but it’ll happen. You can count on it.”

I didn’t have the capacity to breathe enough to answer that one, but I didn’t have to. There was a click and the monotone whirr of an empty line. I let the receiver drop back onto its cradle slowly, stunned.

My legs suddenly opted out of supporting me. I wasn’t close enough to the sofa to make it, and I ended up on the floor. My vision started to tunnel out, the blood thundering in my ears. I didn’t know if I was going to pass out, or throw up, or both.

I sat there for some time, eyes staring without seeing. He’s coming after me! I couldn’t get it out of my head. I wanted to panic, or run, but common sense told me that wasn’t the answer. If I didn’t stand and fight this, I was never going to be able to stop running.

I shook myself out of my stupor long enough to dial 1471. The frosty-voiced automated lady at BT told me I had been called today and gave me the precise time, then added unsurprisingly that the caller had withheld their number.

“Thanks,” I told her. “That’s a great help,” but she didn’t respond to the jibe.

***

I didn’t move far that night. I dozed fitfully, shivering, wrapped up in what was left of my quilt and still wearing the clothes I’d changed into when I got home. The thought of facing a would-be murderer naked was too much to bear. It was a long cold night, and I’m not just talking about time and temperature.

I kept the light on, and stayed away from the windows. The phone rang another couple of times in the early hours, but I’d put the answering machine back on by then. Both times the caller rang off without waiting for the beep as instructed, and the numbers were withheld.

I could only guess it was my friendly neighbourhood psycho again. It seemed only too likely.

By seven I gave up any idea of sleep and got up, pacing round the flat restlessly, unable to settle to anything. Eventually I gave in and admitted defeat. I picked up the phone, dialling Lancaster police station quickly, before I’d chance to chicken out.

When they answered I asked to be put through to whoever was dealing with Joy’s death.

A detective inspector came onto the line and I explained to him who I was. “I don’t wish to sound alarmist,” I said carefully, “but I think whoever killed Joy might have decided that it’s my turn next.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

BY THE time the doorbell rang just after nine-thirty, I had managed to keep myself occupied by clearing up more of the rubbish. There was now a row of eight or so plastic bags near the door and I was just tackling the stuffing from the sofa.

I straightened up slowly, my vision narrowing sharply as I did so. Jesus, I was going to have to eat something soon. I hadn’t been able to face food when I got in last night, and I’d missed breakfast.

Over-cautious, I checked through the Judas glass to see who my visitor was. A man was holding up an open wallet towards the outside of the glass. Even through the fish-eye lens I could recognise the police insignia. I unlocked the door and opened it warily.

“Miss Fox, is it?” he asked politely and I agreed that I was indeed she.

The man was smartly dressed, a good dark blue suit, well cut, with a startlingly white shirt and a conservative tie. At first I’d thought him in his late thirties, but looking closer I realised he was probably ten years older at least, wearing well. His eyes were an indistinct green colour, and they looked straight at me without blinking.

“I’m Detective Superintendent MacMillan,” he said, his voice was well-spoken, with a purposeful clip to the words. “I thought it was time we had a little chat.”

He handed me the wallet. I’ve always thought warrant cards look more like a bus pass, encased in clear plastic with an unflattering photo on the front. I studied it for a while before handing it back and stepping to one side.

“Come in,” I said, adding wryly. “Excuse the mess, won’t you, but I’ve had visitors.”

The Superintendent favoured me with a moment of brief stillness, hovering between amusement and censure, then he walked into the flat and looked around him with detached professionalism. He didn’t make the expected comments about how shocking the abrupt viciousness of Joy’s departure from this life had been, or shake his head in disbelief at the whole sorry business.

There was a weariness about him that told me clearly he’d seen far too much to be shocked by anything any more, and I could guess there was very little he wouldn’t believe when it came to the lower reaches of human nature.

“Do you mind if I carry on sorting this out while we talk?” I said, gesturing to the half-filled bags. “Only it’s taken me ages to work up the energy to make a start and I don’t want to stop now.”

He gave me a shrug of assent. “Would it be pointless to ask what happened here?”

“I should have thought it was pretty obvious,” I said. “I was burgled.”

“But you didn’t report it,” he pointed out with a hint of reproof, and it was a statement, not a question.

“I was here at the time,” I said, opting for a half-truth. “The men who did this made it absolutely clear what they’d do to me if I involved the police.” I bent to shovel more debris into the bag. “Things can be replaced.”

The Superintendent didn’t reply immediately, just favoured me with a long cool stare. He moved round the perimeter of the lounge with measured precision, ducking his nose into all the rooms with deceptive speed. He paused momentarily in front of the punchbag, still suspended from its hook in the corner.

He never seemed to be in a hurry, but by the time I’d thought to object to his inspection, it was too late, he’d already done it. I left him to it and carried on scraping more of the sofa stuffing into another bag.

By the time I’d finished he was back in the lounge, staring with a touch of wistfulness out of the window at the quay and the river below.

I straightened up and regarded him bleakly. The Superintendent reminded me of some of the best martial arts experts I’d come across. There was a deadly kind of calm about him. He was the sort who could walk into a pub where there was a full scale brawl going on and practically quieten the room with a half-dozen carefully chosen words.

He had an authority that doesn’t just come with rank. And he was perceptive. I got the impression that very little escaped those muddy green eyes. He rattled me, and I was trying hard not to let it show.

I tied the top of the bag with string and chucked it onto the growing pile. He watched me in silence until my patience gave out. He’d probably intended that it should. “So, what’s the script?”

“You tell me, Miss Fox,” he said, turning away from the window with reluctance. “You told my inspector that you’d had a threatening phone call last night. What did this man say? I assume it was a man, by the way?”

“I think so,” I told him. “It was difficult to tell, but the speech rhythms were more male.”

He frowned. “Difficult to tell—how?”

“I think he was using a voice changer. They’re popular with women who live alone. It makes you sound more masculine, but there’s a slight artificial note when you’re using it.”

“You sound very well informed.”

I shrugged. “I teach self-defence to women,” I said, adding with remarkable composure, “and I used to have one myself.”

Used to, being the operative way of putting it. I’d spent a couple of fruitless hours searching the flat before he got there, but I’d singularly failed to turn up my voice changer box. I had to admit it—it was gone.

That was a nasty coincidence I didn’t really want to believe in, but I didn’t have much of a choice. For the moment, however, I pushed it to the back of my mind and tried to make like it wasn’t there.

I repeated what my mystery caller had said to me as closely as I could remember. It wasn’t difficult. The words were acid-etched into my brain.

When I finished the Superintendent looked pensive. He came and perched on my sofa, rubbing his chin absently. I noticed he was old-fashioned enough to be wearing neat gold cuff-links.

“You do realise, of course,” he said, “that we have reason to believe the incident last night is linked to the serious assault on another young woman a few weeks ago, and a more recent rape and murder?”

My heart over-revved so hard it bumped painfully in my chest. My mouth was suddenly dry. “It’s the same man who killed Susie Hollins?” I said faintly. “But she was raped, and so was the other girl. Does that mean—Joy—did he—?”

MacMillan’s face was shuttered, giving absolutely nothing away. It wasn’t difficult to imagine him sitting quietly behind a table in a darkened interview room somewhere, watching some villain sweat as he twisted on the hook of a confession. People would talk just to fill the silence in him.

I opened my mouth to ask, “If it’s the same bloke, how does Terry fit in?”, but then I remembered I wasn’t supposed to know about that. There hadn’t been much in the press about his death yet. Not enough for me to have a viable reason to believe they were linked, at any rate.

I glanced up and found MacMillan studying me, as though he’d been eavesdropping on my thoughts. Instead of my question about Terry, I swallowed and said, “So, what happens now?”

“Well, we could put a tap your phone and trace all your calls, intercept your mail, and put a watch on the place—if you really want us to go to those lengths, of course,” he said, his voice casual, even as he was studying me with a sudden intensity. “If someone really is threatening you, we can probably get them by one of those means.”

“What d’you mean, if?” I could feel my voice rising, and made an effort to control it. “You mean you don’t believe me?”

He cocked his head on one side. “Well, let’s look at the facts for a moment shall we, Miss Fox? We’ve got a rapist and murderer on the loose. A very dangerous man, but at the same time one who’s shown himself to be both clever, and careful. So far, he’s been selecting his victims apparently at random, probably because he knows how difficult that makes it for us to catch him.”

MacMillan started to pace again, measured steps, light on his feet. “But now,” he continued in an almost silky tone, “now, miraculously, he’s made the seemingly ludicrous mistake of telegraphing his next move to us by ringing you up and nicely telling you that you’re to be his next target.”

I felt the knife twist in my side. I’d been faced with this kind of suspicion before, and it had damned near finished me.

“Why would I lie?”

“Well now, Miss Fox,” he said quietly, “it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve cried this particular brand of wolf, would it?”

I wanted to speak, but my tongue seemed to have stuck itself to the roof of my mouth.

“I have to ask,” he went on remorselessly, “why you think that claiming people have threatened to kill you would work any better in civilian life than it did four years ago when you were facing being thrown out of the armed forces? What do you hope to gain this time, Miss Fox?” There was something about the stress he put on my surname that alerted me to the dangers of this soft-spoken man. Much more than the actual words.

I met his eyes, and realised with a cold clutch of dread that he knew. He knew everything.

“I suppose I shouldn’t really call you Miss Fox at all, should I?” MacMillan said, with the slow inevitability of a steam traction engine. “Seeing as it was only when you moved to Lancaster that you changed your name, wasn’t it? To Fox from Foxcroft. Now, why was that, exactly?”

There was no point in prevarication, or lying. “You’ve obviously done your digging,” I said instead, feeling my face curling up like a salted slug. “Why don’t you tell me?”

My words were empty bravado. I didn’t need the Superintendent to remind me what had happened.

My case at the court martial had rested mainly on the testimony of another soldier, Kirk Salter. A man I barely knew, but one who’d saved my life.

Kirk had scraped onto the course mainly because of his physical prowess. His head might have been little more than a life support system for a beret, but he could carry a GPMG and two hundred rounds of belted ammunition over an assault course without breaking sweat. And his heart was firmly in the right place.

If he hadn’t stumbled on my attackers before they’d put their cover-up plan into action, I’d have ended up as another tragic crime statistic. If my body had ever been found.

Donalson, Hackett, Morton, and Clay.

They’d been fully intending to snap my neck like a winged pheasant and bury me in shallow grave somewhere in the nearest woods. Kirk had stopped them going through with it, and I’d always be grateful to him for that.

Then he’d been pressured—bullied, cajoled—into denying, under oath, that such a plot had ever existed. I reckoned that just about cancelled out the debt.

“Was changing your name your idea, or your parents’?” MacMillan asked now. “It caused quite a scandal at the time, didn’t it? First the court martial, then when you tried to pursue the matter in the civil courts.” He looked at me briefly and I thought I saw the pity in his face before he lowered his gaze to concentrate on adjusting his cuff-link. “The tabloids had a high old time of it with you, didn’t they, Charlie?”

I swallowed. Oh yes, they had indeed.

There hadn’t been anything in the papers to start with, of course. The army don’t tend to wash their dirty linen in public if they can help it. Once I’d made the foolish mistake of bringing a civil action, though, then they really let rip.

To begin with, the headlines had just been sensational. Girl soldier gang-raped by fellow squaddies. As if the ordeal itself hadn’t been enough to live through, I’d then had to face the vindictive clutches of the media. At first they’d overflowed with fake sympathy. My story should be told, they said. Make it a lesson that others could learn from. Stop it happening to some other poor girl.

Then, God knows how, some particular ferreting had brought out my relationship with Sean. Oh, he wasn’t married, or anything like that. That would have been too straightforward. Instead, he was one of my training instructors, and that was a complete no-no as far as the top brass were concerned. Relieved to have so easy a get-out presented to them on a plate, the full might of the army had swung against me. I never stood a chance.

As for the press, in the space of a print-run I was transformed from an innocent victim into an immoral slut. If I was prepared to screw one soldier, why not a whole bunch of them? Maybe, they reasoned, the men’s claims that I’d been a willing participant weren’t so far-fetched?

My parents’ house had been besieged. We had reporters and photographers creeping through the garden for weeks. By the time of the civil case, the twisted facts and outrageous stories they’d printed had hopelessly biased any chance of my getting a fair hearing. The media went into a frenzy over the Not Guilty verdict against my attackers. By the time they’d finished with it, it was me who was as guilty as hell.

“It must have been quite a shock that your mother refused to support your appeal,” MacMillan said now. “Especially with her being a magistrate herself.”

“She’s a great believer in the criminal justice system in this country,” I said through gritted teeth. So great a believer that she’d refused to acknowledge the possibility that there might have been a miscarriage of justice. She’d shut her mind to it. And shut me out. It had been the final nail in my coffin.

The Superintendent made no comment as he came to his feet. He’d obviously gone over the reports from the time, and the scepticism was plain on his face. I’d been pilloried as a cold-blooded liar in a court of law. Why on earth should he take my word as gospel now?

“I don’t suppose,” he said, although clearly not holding out much hope, “that you do have any idea of who might be behind these attacks?”

I wasn’t sure whether to be surprised that he’d bothered to ask my opinion, or insulted, but I remembered Joy, and gave it thought. “There’s always Angelo—one of the doormen from the New Adelphi,” I suggested. “The girl who found Joy yesterday, Victoria, she’s his girlfriend. He’d beaten her up pretty badly, and I’d say he probably enjoyed doing it.” When MacMillan didn’t respond, I added, “And he could have picked both Susie and Joy when they were at the club.”

“That would be Angelo Zachary, would it?”

I nodded.

“We’ve already interviewed Mr Zachary after the death of Miss Hollins,” he said. “He had an alibi from the bar manager, Gary Bignold from the time Miss Hollins was ejected from the club, to well past the time we believe she was killed.”

If it had been Len who’d vouched for Angelo, I would have suspected it, but Gary had no special allegiances as far as I could tell. I shrugged. “I can’t help you, then.”

He moved to the front door, paused on the threshold. “Not very loyal to your colleagues are you, Charlie?”

I just glared at him, and he sighed, reaching into an inside pocket of his jacket. He produced a rather plain-looking business card, enlivened only by the colouring of the Lancashire Police crest. “If you do have any further contact with this man,” he instructed, “call me.”

I took the card. It gave me a good reason to unclench my hands. “Will you let me know—if you make any progress?” I asked.

He nodded. “Of course.” There was a pause, then he said, “You’re not quite what I was expecting, Charlie.” He cocked his head on one side.

“Maybe I just don’t scare easily,” I said. But I was more scared than I would like to admit. Not to the Superintendent, and not to myself, either.

It was a nasty, insidious kind of fear, that eats away at you from the inside out, twists your guts into knots, beads sweat on your upper lip.

You only have to relax your guard for a second and it’s away and running, like a bolting horse. I concentrated on keeping a tight rein on mine.

MacMillan showed himself out, and I watched from the window as he climbed into a big dull-coloured Rover saloon parked next to the far kerb. Just before he drove away he glanced up and looked directly at me. It was too late to pull back without making it appear more suspicious, but the whole encounter left me feeling restless and uneasy.

***

It didn’t start out badly, the Special Forces course. I wasn’t training for the full-blown SAS, which is everybody’s first assumption. There are still no women allowed there, but that didn’t mean there weren’t plenty of other opportunities in the lesser-known covert units. Ones where females had proven far more effective at undercover surveillance work.

And I’d been good enough. Without conceit, I knew it.

The trouble had come when the others realised it, too.

To begin with, Sergeant Meyer kept his promise to push us all hard—harder than we’d ever experienced. By the time the course was halfway through, almost fifty percent of the trainees had chosen to go outside the wire and not return.

But after a while it seemed he was on my case far more than the others. I couldn’t turn around without encountering that brooding scrutiny. I refused to let it intimidate me, used it to drive myself to greater heights and plunder deeper internal resources than I’d ever known I possessed.

Looking back, the turning point was my ability to shoot. I was pretty good with a long gun, but when it came to pistol it was a whole different ball game. Even the range instructors couldn’t quite get their heads around the fact it soon emerged I could take the bull’s-eye out of a target with a 9mm handgun at the limit of the thirty-metre range. At first, they treated it almost as a joke, and then the prospect of using me as their secret weapon at the next Skill-At-Arms meeting went from canteen banter to an actual plan.

They started to coach me outside the confines of the normal training program. It wasn’t long before Sean Meyer got involved. He’d been teaching us unarmed combat and tactics, and the first time he turned up on the range to watch me practice, he made me so nervous my hands shook loading rounds into the magazine.

“Charlie, isn’t it?” he said.

“Yes, Sar’nt.”

“Relax, soldier, or the only thing you’re going to hit tonight is the sand berm at the back of the range.”

I kept my eyes firmly fixed on the task at hand, mumbled, “Yes, Sar’nt.”

I heard him sigh, saw him move towards me in my peripheral vision, and jerked my head up. Normally, the only time he came anywhere near me was to demonstrate a chokehold, strike or throw. And they always hurt, as they were designed to.

He saw my instinctive reaction and his mouth twitched into the ghost of a smile. He reached across for one of the empty magazines and started threading in rounds, hands moving automatically through a ritual as familiar to him as a rosary. The action was companionable, almost friendly. Ironically, it only served to make me even more wary of him.

“So, where’re you from, Charlie?” he asked.

“Just south of Manchester,” I said cautiously, knowing that telling him my parents lived in the stockbroker belt of Cheshire probably wouldn’t win me any respect.

“I’m from up north myself,” he said. “Arse-end of nowhere. Couldn’t wait to get out, to be honest.”

I glanced at him in surprise, at the conversational tone as much as the information. I hadn’t given any thought to his background. People like him were born with three stripes on their arm and a badged beret moulded to their head.

Before I knew it, though, we were chatting. There was no other word for it. And I realised I’d stopped flinching every time he came near me, and the tension had gone out of my shoulders.

He finished loading the final magazine, slapped it a couple of times against his palm to seat the rounds, and laid it on the firing point next to the others.

“OK, let’s see what you can do now,” he said, stepping back and reaching for his ear defenders.

I lifted mine into position, took a deep breath and slotted the first mag into the pistol grip of the 9mm Hi-Power. Then I pinched back the slide to chamber the first round, shifted into a stance, and began to shoot.

It was only later, when I’d got back to the female quarters, showered and scrubbed the mix of burnt powder and gun oil off my hands, that I discovered we’d been seen together. It didn’t take long before the rumours started.

And after rumours came jealousy, and betrayal.

***

After the Superintendent had gone I hadn’t the will to go back to my clearing up. Instead I dug out Terry’s code book and leafed through it again, half-heartedly. The sets of initials swam past my eyes.

I tried to remember people’s surnames from the club. Gary’s was Bignold, but there were several different GBs listed. Dave’s was Clemmens. Hmm, not so many DCs.

“Oh this is hopeless!” I muttered, throwing the book down on the sofa. It landed open and something caught my eye. I stopped dead.

Angelo. Angelo Zachary. AZ. I grabbed the book again. Those initials were only listed with one number prefix, 168. I’d found the New Adelphi.

All I had to do now was find out which of the people listed in Terry’s book had owed him big sums of money. That should lead me to his killer. A man who’d started getting his kicks out of raping and murdering women.

And now, it seemed, he was hoping to get a real thrill out of planning to kill me …

I jumped up. I had so many disconnected theories forming and I needed someone to bounce some ideas off. To see if I was way off base. Most of all, I needed to get away from the possibility that the phone was going to ring at any moment and scare me to death again.

I thought all too briefly of calling the number on the card the Superintendent had given me, but I had no desire to get back into the ring for another round. He didn’t trust me, and I suppose I couldn’t really blame him for that.

I went over to the phone and snatched up the receiver, dialling Jacob and Clare’s number. To my surprise Clare answered. I’d expected her to be at work, and I’d planned to run a few things past Jacob’s cool, logical mind.

“No, I’ve got a day off,” she said. “Why, what’s up, Charlie?”

“I can’t really explain over the phone,” I hedged. “Look, are you in all morning? Can I come round?”

“Of course,” Clare said promptly. “I’ll put the coffee on now. You sound very mysterious. I can’t wait!”

I climbed into my gear, aware that I was still feeling stiff and inflexible as I struggled into my leather jeans. It was raining when I got outside. Miserable great grey blobs that made me blink when they splashed into my hair. By the looks of the darkened sky, this was as good as it was going to get all day. I was glad I’d put my waterproofs on.

The Suzuki, bless it, fired up first kick and it didn’t take more than ten minutes before I was bumping down the drive to Jacob and Clare’s place.

This time, with one eye on the downpour, the dogs made do with greeting me by way of excited barks from the shelter of the porch. Sensible animals. Clare came out, though, with Jacob’s giant waxed cotton stockman’s coat draped over her head.

“Come in and dry off by the Aga,” she instructed, grinning at me with button-bright eyes. “Jacob’s all agog to know what you’re being so secretive about!”

It didn’t take long, once I’d got into my story, for the smile to leave Clare’s face. We sat round the kitchen table to talk, warming our hands on mugs of hot cappuccino, sprinkled with real chocolate.

Having made sure there was no food on offer, Bonneville had retreated to her blanket pressed up against the front of the Aga. The room was soon permeated by the vague smell of hot dog. Beezer had made straight for Jacob’s lap. She was now sprawled on her back there, delighting in his preoccupied scratching of her tummy.

I brought them up to speed on recent events, including the break-in at my flat, Terry’s murder, and now Joy’s death. They both listened in horrified fascination, and it took a while to satisfy them that I really was OK. I suppose it helped convince me at the same time.

“It sounds like this Angelo bloke is a complete psycho,” Jacob commented. “From what you’ve said he has a remarkable capacity for violence.”

I nodded. “And he’s got a rotten temper to go with it. So, maybe if Terry had found out that Angelo was dealing drugs, and then been suddenly presented with something that he thought might give him leverage against Angelo, Terry might well have decided to indulge in a little extortion.”

“If that’s the case, he certainly picked the wrong man to blackmail,” Jacob put in grimly.

“So Angelo goes round to see him. Maybe he was intending to pay him off. Maybe he was intending to do him over. Who knows?” I went on. “But that wasn’t how it happened. Terry didn’t have the computer to give back to Angelo, because he’d already given it to me. So Angelo pulls a knife and guts the poor bastard.”

Clare pulled a squeamish face and got up to refill our coffee mugs. Jacob just nodded at my logic.

“It would be a real 1984-type Room 101 scenario,” he mused. “‘Don’t do it to me; do it to Charlie! She’s the one you want!’ That sort of thing.”

George Orwell’s classic had made enough of an impression on me as a schoolkid for me to know what he was on about. “Exactly,” I said. “So, in the meantime, Len—and then Marc—find out about the drugs Angelo’s been dealing in. Marc would never go to the police in a thousand years. But he’d take action of his own.”

“But you said it wasn’t Angelo who beat you up, so who were those two men?” Clare queried as she sat down again.

“I’ve no idea,” I shrugged, frustrated, running a hand through my hair, “though there’s no reason why Angelo would need to turn out in person. He must know plenty of hired muscle in his line of work. The trouble is, when I got that phone call last night I was convinced that whoever killed Joy—and Susie—was connected to whoever had come looking for that damned lap-top.”

Clare’s mouth opened, and stayed that way for a while. “You mean you think Angelo killed them all? But why?”

“The voice changer,” Jacob said slowly, as it came to him. “They must have taken it when they ransacked your flat.”

“Exactly,” I said. “And if the same man murdered both the women—which was certainly the impression I got from MacMillan—then it can’t be Angelo. He’s got an alibi for the night of Susie’s death.”

“What did the police say about Terry?” Clare asked, but Jacob answered her before I could.

“Come on, love, Charlie’s not supposed to even know he’s dead. She couldn’t very well start giving the old Superintendent the third degree without admitting she was the one who discovered the body, now could she?”

Clare was frowning. “But, if it wasn’t Angelo, who does that leave?”

I drained the last of my coffee. “I wish I knew,” I said. “I’m going over to see Ailsa this afternoon to see if there’s anyone she can think of that they’ve had trouble with at the Lodge. A husband or boyfriend maybe. After all, it seems that our murderer was hanging round there on a couple of occasions before he got Joy.”

Besides, I’d promised Dave his first self-defence lesson, and the Lodge was as good a place as any to teach him.

They stood silent as I climbed back into my waterproofs. Clare had hung them in the inglenook near the Aga, and they were not only bone dry, but the plastic material was almost too hot to touch.

“I could be way off base about it all, in any case,” I said as I made my way, rustling, to the front door. “Just because Angelo beats up his girlfriend doesn’t mean he’s a murderer. It could be someone else at the club who’s involved with the drugs, and gave the computer to Terry. I don’t have a shred of proof. I just wish I knew if there was any forensic link. That would really clinch it.”

“I’ll try my contact on the crime desk again, but she’s going to get very suspicious if I suggest something the police haven’t already come up with by themselves,” Clare said. “I’ll come round on the bike on Sunday morning and let you know what she says. We can have a blast up to Devil’s Bridge together.”

I nodded, aware that when Clare said a blast, she meant it. I usually struggled to keep up.

Now though, she was still frowning in thought as she came to the door to see me off, hugging herself against the cold. “There must be some other way to find out, isn’t there?”

“I’m sure there is,” I said. I pictured myself calling up MacMillan and asking to pick his brains. It would be a cold day in hell, I predicted, before that happened. I gave her a wry smile. “I just haven’t thought of it yet.”

Jacob came up behind her, put his hands on her shoulders, smiling. “What you need is a tame doctor,” he said to me. “Don’t you know anyone you could sweet-talk?”

It wasn’t until I’d said my goodbyes, coaxed the Suzuki into life, and was halfway back to Lancaster that Jacob’s words sparked a thought. A thought that was so ridiculous it made me snort with suppressed laughter inside my helmet.

Yes, I did know a doctor. Was very well-acquainted with him, as a matter of fact, but whether I could sweet-talk him into anything was another thing altogether.

My father.

***

When I got back to the flat, I went straight upstairs to the phone, without even stopping to take off my waterproofs. I knew my parents’ phone number off by heart and I dialled it without having to think about it. Maybe if I had, I would have hesitated.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, it was my father who answered the call.

“Good evening,” he said, giving his number clearly and precisely. I knew I should tell him it was bad practice to do that, but at the same time I knew I wouldn’t bother.

“Hi, it’s me,” I said.

There was the fraction of a pause. This really was a very bad idea. “Charlotte,” he said neutrally. “It’s nice to hear from you. Are you keeping well?”

“I’m fine. No, that’s not true, I’m not fine,” I said crossly. The gulf between us seemed suddenly wider than the Grand Canyon. I had no idea how to begin going about crossing it.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “What seems to be the matter?”

I sighed. I hoped he showed more warmth to his patients, but I wouldn’t bet on it.

I swallowed. “I need your help,” I said. God, it was difficult to say.

There was a longer pause this time. “In what way?” he asked cautiously. Not, yes of course. Not, anything I can do. Not, you only have to ask, darling …

“There’ve been three murders in Lancaster over the last few weeks,” I said, forcing myself to speak quickly in case I changed my mind. “Two of them are rape murders of women that are definitely connected, but the third was a stabbing of a man. I think there’s a link between all three. The police don’t. I need to know if there’s any forensic evidence that relates them.”

I rushed on, listing the names before he had a chance to refuse. When I’d finished I held my breath, tense, waiting. It seemed to take him a long time to speak again.

“May I ask what makes you think I might be able to help?” His voice sounded cold over the phone line. It wasn’t quite the response I’d been hoping for.

The tension snapped. “Of course you could help—if you wanted to!” I cried. “How long were you a consultant at Lancaster hospital for heaven’s sake—ten years? You should know everyone there, or didn’t you ever speak to the pathology department?”

He chose not to answer that one, asking instead, “Don’t you think the police are perfectly capable of handling something like this without your somewhat amateur interference?”

“Probably,” I snapped. “In the meantime someone’s beaten me up, trashed my flat, and threatened to cut my throat. I’m sorry if that doesn’t mean anything to you!” I gave a laugh, more of a half-hysterical yelp. “Of course, how silly of me, I was probably asking for it, wasn’t I?”

I slammed the phone down, staring at the pattern of the fabric on the sofa for a few moments, determined not to cry.

He’d never been like other fathers, but I should be used to that by now. As a teenager I’d always been quite proud of the fact that he hadn’t embarrassed me with public shows of emotion like the other kids’ dads. That he hadn’t tried dancing at the school disco. Hadn’t make a fool of himself on sports day.

I shook my head to clear my vision of the tears that had been threatening dangerously to spill over. I grabbed my helmet again and moved to the door. I didn’t care about the filthy weather. I just needed to get out there and ride. To give the bike some pain, get it out of my system.

Most of all, I needed to get away from the silent telephone. To escape from the fact that I’d just dropped an emotional bombshell on my father. And it didn’t seem to have gone off.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

DAVE WAS standing in front of me with both his hands clasped round my throat and, in my opinion, he was putting a bit too much gusto into pretending to strangle me.

“I can only show you roughly the sort of things I normally teach,” I told him. “Most of my students won’t be as physically strong as their opponent. They have to be a bit more scientific because half the time brute force just won’t cut it. See?”

I demonstrated by tugging at his wrists. All I succeeded in doing was making him tighten his grip round my windpipe. Throwing him a sideways glance I said, “This will be the shortest set of lessons in history if you choke me to death on the first day.”

He slackened off slightly with an apologetic half-smile, but was obviously happy that he’d proved his point. That the only reason I wasn’t getting hurt was because he was being gentle, not through any level of skill on my part. Typical macho bullshit.

We were alone in the ballroom at Shelseley Lodge. I hadn’t particularly wanted to teach Dave at the flat, and he claimed his own place was so small that swung cats left with a blinding headache.

The Lodge had seemed a logical compromise, and Ailsa had put forward no objections. The police had finished combing their way through the gardens, she told me, although the area where Joy had fallen was still fenced off with fluttering yellow incident tape.

I’d spent a little time with Ailsa before Dave had shown up, seeing if she could think of any possible suspects. There were plenty of women who’d passed through Ailsa’s care with violent and unpredictable men in their lives, but no one specific sprang to mind.

“Besides, the police already asked me all this, love,” she said, giving me a tired smile. “I had some hawk-like Superintendent round yesterday, asking endless questions.”

I didn’t like to press her further. She had enough problems of her own to worry about. When I’d arrived there were a couple of cars in the driveway being loaded with possessions, as more of the Lodge’s residents moved out.

The day had been lit by thin pale sunshine and now the light level was falling fast. I had to flick on the overhead lights before Dave and I could continue.

Now, I re-focused with an effort. “OK,” I told him, “your priority here is to get away very quickly. It takes remarkably little time to be strangled. You can’t afford to waste it.”

I suppose I cheated a bit, really. I’d left my hands on his wrists and as I spoke I went for two pressure points on the back of his right hand. A quick twist and I’d not only broken his grip, but I’d put a solid lock onto his wrist and started taking him down with it.

Dave could have stayed upright, if he’d been really determined, but it would have hurt him to do so. The only way to escape the pain was to roll with it. When I let go he favoured me with a rueful smile and climbed to his feet again.

“Nice one,” he allowed grudgingly. “Can I try that on you this time?”

I nodded and put my hands round his throat. He was wearing another of those dreadful nylon jackets, but today it was over a lime green polo-necked jumper with a designer label stitched into the collar. I remembered the bruising from his altercation with Marc and tried not to clutch him too tightly.

I’d found Marc’s hands much more careful when they were touching my body. And dextrous.

I brought myself back on track with some difficulty and explained the technique to Dave. Finding the right pressure points isn’t easy. Most people require practice to get it right, but Dave picked them up more or less straight away.

Next thing I knew I was hitting the crashmat in a half-roll. As I came back to my feet, I found him watching me with a crafty grin on his face.

“You’ve done this before,” I said accusingly.

He looked suddenly innocent. “I’ve just always been a quick learner.”

Before I could answer there was a tentative knock on the already open door to the ballroom. I turned to see Nina hovering from one foot to the other on the threshold.

“Hi,” I said, giving her an encouraging smile. “Come on in.”

“Oh.” After some hesitation, she advanced further. She was wearing a long knitted skirt and ugly shoes that seemed to be the zenith of current fashion. I would have broken both my ankles the first time I tried to walk down a flight of stairs in them. “I don’t want to disturb you,” she said. “I just came to say goodbye, that’s all.”

“You’re leaving?” I tried to sound surprised, but I don’t think I could really raise it.

She nodded, not quite meeting my eyes. She flicked a nervous glance in Dave’s direction. He caught it, and casually wandered off to one of the French windows in apparent contemplation of the rapidly darkening garden. I watched some of the tension seep out of Nina’s body as he moved away, and was grateful for his unexpected sensitivity.

“I wanted to say thank you as well,” she said.

“What for?”

“Well, for the other night.” Edgy, she checked that Dave was far enough away not to be obviously listening in. “You went out to see if you could find him—you know, th-the man I saw.” She was wearing a Celtic design silver ring on one hand, and was twisting it round and round until I thought she’d screw the end of her finger off.

“I didn’t know, you see, not until Ailsa told me—what h-happened to you,” she said quickly, when I still looked nonplussed. “But you went out anyway, into the dark. I-I don’t know how you could bear to do it.” She shrugged, almost helplessly. “I hope one day I’ll be able to do that, too.”

“You will,” I said, and meant it. “If you want to, you will.”

She seemed about to say more, but a middle-aged couple appeared in the entrance to the ballroom and made throat-clearing noises. They were too well-dressed, too well-fed, to ever look comfortable in their present surroundings, and by the looks of it they hadn’t tried too hard.

“Nina,” the woman said, “we need to go, darling, if we’re going to miss the worst of the traffic.” There was a trace of strain in her voice, like the owner of a runaway dog forced to pick out their prized pedigree hound from among the mongrels and strays of the city pound.

“OK, Mummy,” Nina said over her shoulder. She turned back, gave me a smile that hinted at the sunny teenager she used to be, and impulsively hugged me. Her thin arms were fleetingly tight around my shoulders. “Thank you,” she said, breathless, then she was scurrying away across the wooden floor.

Her parents both put a protective arm around their daughter as she reached them, and their brief stare in my direction was cold to the point of hostile. I ignored them.

“Take care of yourself, Nina,” I said, giving her a final wave.

When they’d gone, I turned to find Dave watching me with curious and calculating eyes.

“What happened to her?” he asked, nodding towards the empty doorway.

“She trusted someone who wasn’t to be trusted,” I said shortly. “Now, are you here to talk, or fight?”

I spent the next half an hour or so running through various moves with Dave that should get him out of a few potentially nasty situations. By the time we’d finished both Dave and I were sweating and breathless. I was down to a T-shirt and Dave had lost the jacket, but he must have been regretting the choice of jumper, bruises or no bruises.

To finish, we did a brief recap. I quickly ran through each of the moves again, but there was really no need. He’d got the hang of them.

Afterwards, he helped me drag the crashmats back over to their corner and stand them up against the wall. I pulled my sweatshirt on again, and Dave shrugged back into his jacket. He dug into a pocket and handed over the amount of cash we’d agreed on for the first of his lessons. I accepted without demur. I think I’d earned my money.

It wasn’t until we’d moved out of the ballroom and along into the hallway that Dave voiced the question that had probably been on his mind for a while.

“D’you really believe that the stuff you teach these young lasses can actually save them?” he said. He clearly had Nina in mind, but I immediately thought of Joy. It took me a moment to answer.

We’d covered knife attacks in the classes Joy had attended. She knew the theory. She should have been more than capable of fending off her attacker, disarming and disabling him.

Should have been.

But wasn’t.

And now she was dead. Just thinking about it twisted a knife in my own side. Joy had paid a mammoth price for not doing her homework. Still, I couldn’t help wondering about it. Were her reflexes against a surprise attack really so poor that she’d let a stranger, whoever he was, get close enough to her to pull out a knife and slash her with it? Surely not.

I hedged. “If I didn’t believe it, I wouldn’t be doing it.”

“Don’t you think, though, that people misjudge you at the outset, like those two kids at the club last week, and you rely on that element of surprise too much?” he asked. “OK, so you’re fine against someone with comparatively little skill, who’s not expecting a counter-attack, but against a stronger opponent, one who knows what he’s doing, no way.” He shook his head, grinned at me. “I mean, come on, Foxy. No woman could ever hope to beat a man when their abilities are well matched.”

By woman he meant a smaller, lighter, weaker adversary. I thought of all the martial arts gurus whose work I’d studied. Hardly any were six-foot blokes. They were mostly short in stature, quick and nimble. I’d seen them wipe out bigger, heavier challengers without raising their pulse rate enough to register on an electrocardiogram.

“I’d have to disagree,” I said.

Dave just grinned again as he zipped up his jacket, dug in the pocket for his car keys. “Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you?”

I was just about to argue, when the door to Tris and Ailsa’s sitting room was flung open, and the lady of the house came galloping out. Grasped in her upraised right hand was a heavy rolling pin with wooden handles and a white marble centre.

“Quick, quick!” she yelled. “I’ve just seen him, from the kitchen window. He’s heading for the front!”

I didn’t stop and ask who she meant. I didn’t need to.

Before Ailsa had even reached us, I’d spun round and was already running for the open front door. I took the entire flight of steps in one reckless bound, then skidded and nearly lost my footing on the mossy flags at the bottom as a result.

As I fought to regain my balance, cursing, a figure came bolting along the side of the house. Even with the loose gravel underfoot, he was running like an Olympic sprinter, arms working furiously to propel him forwards in a desperate rush.

He came level with the front steps, passing within about twenty feet of me, and moving fast. He must have caught the flurry of movement, though, because he turned his head and looked straight into my eyes.

It almost seemed like everything moved forwards into slow motion. I had time to create a mental record of the dark trousers and ribbed sweater, the black ski mask covering his features. Only the eyes stood out, whites gleaming.

The sudden, stark memory of the two masked men who’d broken into the flat materialised like a phantom, and almost sent me reeling. It was only the thundering approach of Ailsa, with Dave following on, that jarred me into action.

I set off like a hare across the lawn on a diagonal intercept course. The grass was easier to run on. Anger gave me speed. I didn’t care that the man was most likely carrying a knife big enough and sharp enough to cut my throat. I didn’t care that he’d already proved beyond any shred of doubt how prepared and how capable he was of using it. Stupid, really.

The man almost made it out of the gateway, but at the bottom of the drive the gravel was at its most rutted. Two deep troughs had been gouged out by the constant wheel tracks of the cars turning between the gateposts.

He caught his foot on the crest of one, stumbled with his arms outstretched, and nearly went headlong. The streetlight from the road outside was shining down onto him. In the yellowed glow I saw the fingers of his gloved hands splay outwards. Open.

Empty.

That was all it took. In the next moment I’d taken a final stride forwards, and leapt.

I hit him with the point of my right shoulder just an inch or so below the small of his back, and grabbed. He went down with a violent whumph, like he’d been hit by a fridge.

The force of the impact drove us skittering along the drive for another ten feet or so after we’d hit on the ground. The man was face-down in the gravel, floundering. Of the two of us, I reckon I probably had the easier ride.

We were half out onto the pavement itself by the time we slithered to a messy halt. The man brought his elbow back sharply, more wild than scientific, but it was enough to throw me off his back.

I landed hard, but scrambled up instantly, screwing round into a crouch. The man was on his knees, taking longer to rise. His mask and the front of his jumper were torn and bloody. Frantic, I checked his hands again, and readied myself to strike.

Then, a whirling figure entered stage right at a dead run and unfurled a sweeping upward blow with the rolling pin that snapped the man’s head sideways, blood spraying. It would have made an easy six over the boundary, had the head not been still firmly attached at the neck. If the England cricket team selectors had been there, Ailsa would have been capped on the spot.

The man’s arms flapped as his body twisted, then he slowly collapsed backwards onto the pavement behind him. I had to grab Ailsa’s arm to stop her going in for the kill. She was trembling violently all over, and screaming abuse so tangled it was almost totally incoherent.

The noise had brought out most of the remaining residents from the Lodge. They filed down the drive and approached cautiously across the lawn, but they had the grumbling air of a lynch mob about them. It would only take one brave one to throw the first stone, and things were going to get very nasty.

I thrust the still-quivering Ailsa onto Dave, having first carefully prised the bloodied rolling pin from her fingers. Robbed of the adrenaline that had fired her, she more or less fell into his arms. He took her weight with obvious strain.

Over the top of her head he demanded, “What the hell is going on?”

“Remember Susie Hollins?” I nudged the inert form on the ground with my boot, none too gently. “I think this is the bastard who killed her.”

Surprise and awareness leapt in his eyes.

I dropped down by the side of the man and reached for the edge of the balaclava.

“Now then, shithead, let’s have a look at you,” I muttered. I yanked off the mask, to reveal a face that was horribly familiar. The silence that followed screamed at all of us.

Before I could move to block her, Ailsa had peered down over my shoulder. She let out a single wailing cry, then collapsed totally. Dave tried manfully to keep her on her feet, but he was fighting a losing battle from the outset. In the end, the best he could manage was a kind of controlled descent.

Looking back at the figure on the ground, lying bleeding and unconscious, I could understand Ailsa’s reaction completely.

After all, it’s not every day that you take on a terrifying masked intruder, armed with little more than a marble rolling pin, and discover that the man you’ve just knocked halfway into next week is your own husband …

***

This time, the police arrived at the Lodge much quicker than they had when Ailsa had summoned them before because we’d spotted a prowler in the garden. In fact, Tris was only just starting to come round when they rolled up with lights and sirens blazing.

We didn’t get much out of him before he was bundled into the back of a police Transit, other than a single quiet apology to Ailsa.

Somehow, that made it worse.

Right up until then, I suppose I’d still been hoping that he might deny it, that there might conceivably be another reason for him to be running through his own garden, heavily disguised in a manner designed to spark panic, and confusion. In the end, I had to face it, there wasn’t.

The idea was taking me some getting used to. OK, so I hadn’t known Tris for more than a couple of years, but he was the last man I would have had down as a sadistic rapist and murderer.

My mind re-ran recent scenes like a video that was stuck on “play”. Memories that made my scalp break out into a sweat, and my stomach churn. It was as much as I could do to stay on my feet and functioning until the police took over.

I remembered Tris’s soothing hands gliding over the skin of my back. Had he spent all the time he’d been giving me a massage wondering what it would be like to run a knife blade across my throat?

The concealed voice on the other end of the telephone the night Joy had died. I tried to match up Tris’s gentle tones with the malicious spite that had hummed clearly along the wires. How could it be one of my friends who had done this?

I tried hard not to let it get to me. Not until the police had carted Tris away, and Ailsa had been given a sedative by her doctor. Dave had ducked out as soon as the emergency services had reached the scene, relieved to hand Ailsa over to the professionals. The Shelseley girls banded together to offer comfort in such a way that I felt like an outsider among them. It wasn’t hard to make my own excuses, and slip away.

I rode home slowly, and with great care. It’s difficult to watch where you’re going when your eyes are burnt with tears.

I stopped on the way to stick another few gallons of juice into the Suzuki. The tank on the RGV is pretty small, and if you’re giving it some serious beans you go onto reserve after less than a hundred miles.

I was just squeezing the last few drops into the filler when there was the roar of a Norton pulling in alongside. I looked up to see Sam’s big brown eyes crinkling at me through his open visor.

“Hi, Charlie. I thought it was you,” he said, pulling off his helmet and stuffing his scarf into it. “Didn’t you get my message?”

“Yeah.” I vaguely remembered Sam’s voice on the answering machine. It seemed like years ago. I hung the nozzle back into the pump and locked the filler cap back down. “Sorry, I’ve had a bit on my plate.”

“What could be more important than talking to me?” he demanded with an irritatingly cheeky grin.

“A friend of mine was murdered,” I dropped on him, just to watch his smile fade. I knew I wasn’t being fair, but what the hell? Life’s like that, and I wasn’t feeling very fair right now.

He made all the usual noises of shock and commiseration, but his eyes had that twitchy look of someone searching wildly for a suitable change of subject. He opened his mouth, but only succeeded in changing feet. “So, what happened to that lap-top, then?”

As he spoke it suddenly occurred to me that it was probably only Terry’s ignorance of Sam’s full name and home location that had prevented my unwanted visitors from paying him a nocturnal visit as well. No doubt they would have got round to forcibly extracting that information from me, if I’d given them the chance. “The computer was nicked when my place was turned over at the weekend.” I said flatly.

He looked stricken. I was almost beginning to feel sorry for him. “Jeez, Charlie, I’m sorry. And about your friend. What happened?”

I gave him a brief précis of how Joy had met her death as he filled up the Norton’s tank. He took it in pale silence, and we went in to pay together. There were a couple of people in front of us, dithering with chequebooks. The girl behind the counter looked hard-faced and bored.

As I stood there in the queue, I knew I still hadn’t really taken it in that Tris, my friend, was a cold-blooded murderer. That he was responsible for three vicious crimes. I couldn’t begin to understand what had driven him to do it.

I idly watched another car pull up to the pumps, catching the monochrome echo of it on the security monitor behind the cashier’s head. Sam must have been following my gaze.

“It’s a shame there weren’t any closed circuit cameras at that Shelseley place where you teach,” he said. “They might have spotted who did it.”

“Oh, we know who did it, and they’ve got him,” I said automatically as I stepped forwards to pay.

I waited while Sam handed over the money for his own fill-up, then we walked back to the bikes.

When I’d said the words, it all sounded so cut and dried, but somewhere in the dark recesses of my brain there was a stirring of unease, of apprehension.

There was still a connection with the lap-top Terry had given me that I hadn’t figured out yet. Otherwise, how had my voice changer got from the flat on the night of the burglary, and into Tris’s hands? And where did Angelo fit in to all this?

Something wasn’t finished, wasn’t over, but I was damned if I could put my finger on exactly what it was.

***

I pottered the rest of the way through the dark and busy city streets and down onto the quay. I was surprised when I got back to the flat to find Marc’s sleek BMW waiting outside. I don’t know how long he’d been there, but he was still sitting in the driver’s seat when I arrived.

As I parked the bike up, he climbed out, leisurely, pulling on a superb long wool overcoat against the bitter wind.

“Hi,” he said. “Are you OK?”

I found myself smiling as I took off my helmet. “Yeah,” I replied, unsettled to find how pleased I was to see him. He was slipping under my skin. I wasn’t sure if that was really where I wanted him.

Heedless of the dirty weather, he stood waiting for me to pull the cover over the Suzuki, then followed me up the stairs.

I bunged the coffee machine on, and went to change into some dry clothes. Waterproofs over the top of leathers make you look like the Michelin man and rustle so alarmingly when you walk that you have to resist the tendency to raise your voice to be heard over the noise.

When I came back, having hastily thrown on some clean jeans and a shirt, Marc was standing by one of the windows, staring out across the river. Everyone seems to be fascinated by the view. I must admit it was one of the things I most liked about the flat when I moved in.

He offered to take me out for dinner, but I passed on that one. I didn’t feel much like eating out. In the end I rang one of the local Indian takeaways and they brought round chunky lamb tikka and chicken dupiaza with sweet moist peshwari naan bread and crisp poppadums.

I’d only seen Marc on his terms, as lord of the New Adelphi, and in his up-market hotel suite. It was a nice surprise to find that he could still slum it. He lost the overcoat and his suit jacket in short order and we sat on cushions on the floor to demolish the food, mopping up with bits of naan bread and fingers.

“I like watching you eat,” he said at last. “You don’t order the most expensive thing on the menu and then make a pretence of picking at it.”

I eyed him over the last piece of poppadum. He didn’t get to it fast enough. “You’ve been going out with the wrong women,” I said, grinning as I used it to scoop up the last of the mint raita.

He smiled at me for a moment, then his expression sobered. “You’re looking better than I expected,” he remarked, leaning back against the arm of the sofa with his head tilted to one side, considering. “It’s not every girl who could go through what you’ve had to over the last few days and come out of it looking so unruffled.”

I shrugged. “You either cope or you give in. I don’t like to lose.”

“I don’t see you as the losing type,” he said, smiling wryly. “You’re quite a fighter, Charlie Fox.”

“I wasn’t always,” I said suddenly, needing to tell him. “I was a victim once. I swore nobody would ever make me feel that way again.”

He frowned. “But you were still attacked.”

I gave him a level stare, told him, “It’s a state of mind.”

I left him to ponder that one while I fetched us both a coffee. When I came back he’d cleared the debris of the meal into the cardboard box they’d delivered it in, and put it by the door to take out. Not bad—house-trained as well.

He smiled lazily at me from the sofa and motioned for me to sit in front of him, with my back to his legs. When I complied he began to knead the knots out of my shoulders. Those long, agile fingers were merciless, but the results felt wonderful. I was aware of the tension slowly loosening up, like ice defrosting from a long-neglected freezer.

Then, in the midst of it, I had a vision of Tris again, rubbing scented oil into my skin with hands that had robbed two women of their lives, and raped and beaten a third.

I smelled Joy’s blood again, snapping upright and jerking away from Marc’s hands.

“Calm down, Charlie,” he said. “What do you think I’m going to do to you?”

I gave him an apologetic smile as I twisted to face him. “Sorry. I’m still a bit jumpy.”

He smiled also. “Well, at least you didn’t punch me this time.” He smoothed a strand of my hair away from my face. “You need to relax more.”

“I can’t afford to,” I said. I couldn’t afford to let my guard down, even for a moment. It seemed that I’d dipped out of getting my father’s medical assistance, but I still needed to find that link between Terry’s murder and the attacks on the women. And then between those and the New Adelphi Club …

“Would it help to talk about it?” Marc’s voice broke into my thoughts.

I took a deep breath, then launched straight in. Once I’d started, it was difficult to stop. It all just came tumbling out like I’d opened the door on a precariously over-stuffed cupboard.

I told him the story right from the start, all about Terry coming round with the lap-top, and how I’d agreed to help him get into it so I could find out if it was the one Marc had mentioned. I only left out my suspicion that Terry had known about drugs at the club. Whenever I’d brought that subject up in the past, Marc had really gone off at the deep end. I carefully skirted round Sam’s role in the proceedings too, unwilling to expose him to any further danger.

As it was, Marc listened with a face that might as well have been cut from stone. When I got as far as relating the fact that my voice changer had seemingly disappeared from the flat during the robbery, then apparently turned up again in the hands of Joy’s killer, he jumped up and moved over to the window.

“Are you sure it’s the same device as the one that was taken from here?” he demanded.

“Not absolutely,” I admitted, “but they aren’t exactly commonplace, and mine has definitely gone. Apart from the lap-top, it was the only thing those two jokers took.” I spread my hands, indicating the debris around us that I’d only partly finished clearing. “They simply smashed up everything else.”

“And who did Terry say he got that computer from?”

I shrugged. “He just said he’d been debt collecting at the club, but he didn’t mention any names.”

Marc looked thoughtful. “The only lap-top of that type that’s gone missing went weeks ago, and I’ve already sacked the culprits, or thought I had, at any rate,” he said, letting out an annoyed breath. “I don’t suppose you got any inklings from this Terry character who it might have been?”

I thought of Terry’s coded client book, but I wasn’t quite ready to turn that over to Marc. Not just yet.

“Terry had quite a few video customers among the staff at the New Adelphi who weren’t exactly hiring out The Little Mermaid,” I said, and saw from his face that I didn’t need to explain any further than that. “I think one of the people who owed him a bucket of money was Angelo.”

For a moment Marc stared out into the darkness with no expression on his face, but the way he held his body stiff spoke volumes about the anger, bubbling away just beneath the surface.

“Angelo!” he said at last, and his voice was quiet, as though he was speaking to himself more than to me. “He was the one who pointed the finger at the lads I sacked. If I’d known he was the one I would have …”

He broke off, glanced in my direction, made a visible effort to control his temper.

“Of course, there is a way we might be able to find out what Angelo’s been up to,” I said, almost diffidently.

Marc turned back in to the room. “How?”

I hesitated, although I knew what I was going to suggest. Had known it ever since I’d filled up with petrol earlier.

“You have security cameras all over the inside of the club, don’t you?”

Surprise crossed his face at the question. “Yes, of course, covering most of the main areas, anyway.”

“After Susie Hollins was killed, did the police take the tapes from the internal cameras?”

“Yes, they did,” he said slowly. “But there was some sort of glitch in the recording. They didn’t get anything out of them beyond blurs and static. They gave me a hard time about that, as I recall. They seemed to think the interference was caused deliberately. But why? What does Susie’s death have to do with the lap-top? I thought you said they’d got the man who killed her.”

“Well yes,” I said, still unable to think of Tris without a shudder. “But supposing those tapes also showed Terry being given that computer the following day. What then?”

I saw the relevance strike him, then he sighed, and made a frustrated gesture. “It’s all immaterial,” he said. “There’s nothing on those tapes to see.”

“Yes,” I said again, “but what if it was put about round the club that you were getting in some computer techie whizz who reckoned he could clean up the image enough to get an ID?”

“Is that possible?”

I shrugged. “I’ve no idea, but then, neither would anyone else. If it was you, would you want to risk it?”

He frowned, thinking hard. “If that rumour was put about, whoever tampered with those tapes might start feeling pretty insecure. He might be tempted to come and destroy or even completely remove them, just to make sure.”

I nodded. “Where are the tapes kept?”

He smiled again. It would have been sinister if it hadn’t been following my own train of thought so closely. “Locked away in my private office. No one has a key except Len, and he knows it’s more than his life’s worth to let people go wandering about in there when I’m not around.”

“So all you have to do is spread the word, then pretend to be out for the evening, and see who comes a’burgling.”

Marc’s head came up. “I’ll see to it,” he said, and the cold tone in his voice was unforgiving.

“I want to be there when the trap’s sprung,” I warned.

He nodded shortly, crossing the distance between us on long legs. “If it is Angelo, we’ll get him,” he promised. “And I’ll deal with him in my own way. No police. Agreed?”

After a moment, I nodded. I didn’t know what Marc had in store for Angelo, if he was guilty, and I didn’t really want to know.

“I don’t want you doing any more digging on your own, Charlie,” he said. He gripped my shoulders and I couldn’t help but stare up into those compelling pale-coloured eyes. “I don’t want you taking any more risks alone, OK?”

“OK.” I just had time to murmur my agreement as his mouth came down onto mine. Hard, fast, demanding.

I let go of everything and drowned in the sensation.

***

Marc left at around three the following morning, slipping into his clothes and out of the flat quietly, leaving me dazed and exhausted.

As I slid into sleep, I realised that I felt safer than I had done in days. Safer for the knowledge that I wasn’t fighting this battle single-handed any more.

CHAPTER TWENTY

WHEN I went in to the New Adelphi Club that Friday evening, ostensibly to pick up my pay packet for the Saturday before, I’d been racking my brains for a way to get the subject of the security tapes into casual conversation. In the end, I needn’t have bothered trying to be so devious.

As I walked in through the back door, the capture and subsequent arrest of Tris Shelseley was the main topic under discussion. I knew there was something up the moment I arrived by the way most of the security team stopped talking and turned to stare at me.

“What?” I demanded. I paused, hands on hips. “Do I have something in my teeth?”

“Most of that Shelseley bloke’s knackers, by all accounts,” one of them said with a grin. “Proper little terrier, aren’t you, Charlie.”

I pulled a face, dumping my helmet and gloves down on the bar top where Gary was sorting bottles into the appropriate return crates. I should have taught a class at the Lodge earlier that day, but it hadn’t seemed right, in the circumstances, so I’d rung round as many of my regular students as I could and cried off. I couldn’t help wondering, once the news about Tris got out, whether any of them would want to go back there, in any case.

Dave, I noticed, was eyeing me now with that sly smile. He was sitting in the midst of the group, relishing his role as storyteller, and I wondered what embellishments he’d added to the tale. In particular, about his own role in the proceedings.

“So, they reckon it’s the same bloke as got that girl who was here as well, eh?” another of the doormen commented. “He must have been here that night, then. We might all have seen him.”

“Well, they’ll know better in a few days, won’t they?” I said casually. “When they’ve had chance to look at the tapes properly.”

It was Len, bless him, who bit. “What tapes?” he growled.

“The ones from the internal security cameras,” I supplied helpfully. I was watching Angelo while I said it, but he just bent his head to light a cigarette with calm deliberation. Then he looked at me through the smoke, slowly, almost in challenge.

His lip was inflamed, I noticed, and remembered what Dave had said about Marc hitting him. There was also a nasty cut just below his right eye, just scabbing over, which Dave hadn’t mentioned. Was that work, I wondered, or pleasure?

“But they said there wasn’t anything on those tapes,” Dave objected.

I remembered Terry’s client book. There wasn’t a DC for Dave Clemmens listed under the number for the New Adelphi, which surely meant that, if Dave wasn’t hiring out blue movies from Terry, he was in the clear. There was a GB, on the other hand. Gary Bignold, possibly? There was no L either, although I didn’t know Len’s surname. I made a mental note to ask Marc later, just to be sure.

For now, I shrugged as though the whole thing was of minor importance. “Don’t look at me,” I said. “All I know is, they’re bringing in some spotty computer nerd tomorrow to look at that weekend’s tapes, and he reckons he can get something out of them. Why don’t you ask the boss about it, if you’re so worried?”

“He’s not in tonight,” Len said, grumpy. He pointedly checked his watch. “And that doesn’t mean you lot can slack off. Get your kit and let’s get this place opened up on time, right?”

I hung around while everyone collected their walkie-talkies, then moved up one of the spiral staircases and made my way surreptitiously to the manager’s office on the second floor.

I tapped on the locked door. Marc came to let me in, then went back to his desk to complete a phone call. He waved me into one of the leather chairs opposite, and I took it to wait until he’d finished.

Behind him was a bank of half a dozen television monitors, showing black-and-white pictures from the security cameras around the club. The outside ones covered bits of the car park, including the main entrance, and round the back where I’d tucked the Suzuki away.

I looked round the office as Marc talked on. It was furnished in a fairly spartan, modern style, limed oak cupboards and minimalist light fittings over abstract paintings. Through a partially open doorway I could see a private toilet and washbasin. Just so the manager didn’t have to mix with the proles, not for any reason.

Marc’s desk was large, with curvy sides and a fashionably modern matt-finish surface. The chair behind it was a high-backed leather swivel job, in the best James Bond villain tradition. There was a low suede sofa against one wall that looked like it had been designed purely for its stylish appearance, with no regard to comfort.

Over on the cupboards was a stainless steel coffee machine, with half a pot of coal-black liquid gently steaming. The smell of it was enough to set my mouth watering. I looked at it longingly and Marc caught my gaze.

He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. “Help yourself,” he murmured, smiling. “Two sugars in mine.”

I poured for us both, discovering a small built-in fridge containing the milk behind one of the cupboard doors, like a hotel mini-bar. All mod cons.

Marc finished his call and sipped his coffee. “So,” he said, “Are we all primed up and ready?”

“I think so,” I replied. “None of them seem to have cottoned on to the fact that you’re here, and Len took the bait beautifully.”

Marc nodded.

“D’you think—if it is Angelo—he’ll bite?” I asked, frowning. My nerves were jittering and I was so taut it was making my head ache.

“I don’t see how he can’t,” he said confidently. “If he’s been responsible, and he’s got away with it so far, how can he fail to be burnt up by the fact that there might be some evidence he’s overlooked?”

He put down his cup and moved smoothly round the desk, perching on it in front of me. His black suit and dark hair made him suddenly look like Lucifer. His fingers were cool on my face, making me jump. “Don’t worry, Charlie. If it’s him—he’ll come,” he promised solemnly. “And if he does, we’ll get him.”

I didn’t reply to that, just drained my cup and put it back by the coffee machine. Marc went to check the office door was secured, removing the key from the mortice lock.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I queried as he dropped the key onto the desktop. “What if he comes and tries the door, finds it’s locked, and simply goes away again.”

“The office door is usually locked when I’m not here,” he said. “It would be more suspicious for it not to be. Besides, Len leaves his keys in his locker. It wouldn’t be that difficult for someone to get hold of them, if they really wanted to.”

I nodded, appreciating the logic. “So, what do we do now?” I asked, on edge.

Marc turned off all the lights except a small desk lamp. “Now,” he said, smiling whitely in the semi-darkness, “we wait.”

***

We waited for three hours.

Three hours during which time the clock slowed to half-speed, while my heartrate alternately over-revved or stopped altogether, in line with every unexpected noise from outside the door.

We heard the club opening up, the music getting under way. The melody was indistinct through the various walls and floors between us and the source. Only the beat of the bass came through.

It was enough covering noise for us to be able to speak in whispers to each other. We talked of something and nothing, nervously passing the time.

The security monitors showed groups of people arriving at the club doorway, being admitted. It wasn’t difficult to recognise Angelo’s shaven head and swaggering stance, even through the grainy distortion of the lens.

Peering closely, I could even see the marks on his face. I glanced at Marc’s hands, relaxed on the arms of his chair, and wondered how much further he’d go to punish Angelo if he thought the man had crossed him.

I wondered again about that cut under Angelo’s eye. I didn’t think Victoria had managed to land a punch on him, more’s the pity. I thought of the petite waitress and my thoughts hardened. Christ, the bloke was a complete bastard.

“He really isn’t right for working the door,” I muttered.

Marc glanced sideways at me. “He’s a good man in a scrap,” was all he said, voice neutral.

“Yeah, I’m sure he is,” I agreed dryly. “The trouble is, he probably started the fight in the first place.”

Marc opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak something made me reach out and grip his arm, bringing a finger to my lips to caution silence.

He frowned at me, was about to question my action, when the noise came again, louder this time.

The unmistakable sound of a key being fumblingly slotted into the lock.

Marc’s eyes narrowed and he was on his feet in a moment, moving stealthily to the shelter of the hinge side of the door. It looked strange to see him dressed like a city slicker, but behaving like a commando.

I joined him, trying to stay flat to the shelving unit.

Marc cupped a hand round my ear and whispered. “You get the door—I’ll take care of our friend.”

With only a fraction of hesitation, I nodded. I remembered the professional way he’d grabbed hold of Susie Hollins that night when I first met him. God, it seemed so long ago. I knew I’d feel happier tackling Angelo myself, if it was him, but now wasn’t the time or the place to argue about it.

The door opened with agonising slowness. I felt Marc half-crouch alongside me, instinctively tensing his body without realising he was doing it. I knew I was probably doing the same. My blood was pounding so hard in my head I could hardly hear anything over the roar of it.

The door inched further open and a figure started to appear round the leading edge.

“Now!” Marc yelled.

I hit the door with my shoulder, slamming it shut. Marc went straight for the man who’d entered, body-slamming him low, taking him down hard and fast. I had a moment to admire the precise economy of his movements, then all three of us were on the floor.

The man didn’t even get a chance to lash out. We had him face down in a flash, rearranging his nose into the pile of the carpet. Marc rammed the bloke’s arm up behind his back so forcibly his joints cracked. I’m amazed he didn’t fracture the bone.

As I got shakily to my feet, the adrenaline still pumping, one overwhelming realisation hit me.

It wasn’t Angelo.

For a start, he had far too much hair. And the build was wrong. He was much too slight. Marc must have come to the same conclusion because he let go of his arm lock and punted the man over onto his back so we could get a better look at him.

“Bloody hell,” I swore. “Gary?”

Marc’s face closed in with an anger that was more frightening because of its apparent calm. He hauled his hapless bar manager to his feet and almost threw him onto the hard sofa. Gary cringed away from the pair of us, cradling his arm as though it didn’t work any more. His colour was high and he looked close to tears.

“I don’t suppose you’d care to tell us exactly what you were up to?” Marc enquired silkily.

“Nothing!” Gary protested, his voice high and whingey. “I haven’t done anything!”

Marc didn’t bother with threats. He crossed the distance between them with deceptive speed and hit Gary with a considered and quite clinical blow to the face. I tried not to wince at the squelchy tear of cartilage.

Gary squawked and clamped his hands to his nose. Blood immediately started dripping out between his fingers. He automatically leaned forwards so it didn’t ruin his evening suit.

I went into the bathroom and brought out a roll of toilet tissue. Gary didn’t acknowledge me when I handed it over, just ripped off a dozen sheets and held them to his face. He was rocking slightly backwards and forwards, distressed and shocky.

Marc was sitting on the edge of the desk, watching him like a Rottweiler eyeing up a baby. He took advantage of Gary’s distraction to wink at me, but I was too shocked to return the gesture, even though I tried not to show it. Marc had slipped so easily into the role of interrogator. Too easily for comfort, perhaps?

“Cut the crap, Gary,” he said coldly now. “You’re not entitled to keys for this office, and you know it. So what were you doing sneaking in here?”

For a heartbeat Gary gave thought to another lie. Marc only had to shift his weight towards getting off the desk for the other man’s nerve to fail him. The menace he projected in that room was oppressive.

“OK, OK!” he cried, voice nasal and muffled. “I came for the damned tapes! From the bloody security cameras.”

The words sent a chill washing down over me. I hadn’t even considered Gary as a player in all this.

“And why would you want those?” Marc demanded softly.

“I, well, I—” He glanced from one of us to the other, but obviously didn’t see a way out written in either of our faces. He swallowed convulsively, grimacing like someone trying to take a pill without water. The bleeding seemed to have slowed and he pulled the makeshift handkerchief away from his nose, heedless of the bits of fluffy tissue left adhered to the light stubble of his chin.

Marc sighed. “Don’t make me hurt you again,” he warned, sounding tired.

Suddenly, I remembered about all those not-quite-empty bottles Gary removed from the club bars, his uneasiness, and I put it all together.

“Why don’t I help you out, Gary?” I suggested. “Why don’t I tell your boss about your little scam?”

His eyes widened, flickering apprehensively to Marc, then back to me. “S-scam?” he tried. “What scam?”

Marc’s second blow landed deep into his solar plexus. Gary spent a couple of minutes doubled up on the chair, gasping and moaning. I twitched with the memory of the smoker’s fist landing on my own body and scowled at Marc over Gary’s wheezing head, but he just met my gaze levelly.

He didn’t enjoy this sort of thing, I realised, not in the way Angelo would have done. It didn’t please or excite him. It was just a job to be done, ruthlessly, efficiently, and he had no qualms about doing it.

And it worked. When Gary could speak again he didn’t bother with any further denials. He launched straight into a full confession.

“All right, all right, I’ll tell you all about it,” he said sullenly. “When I’ve been bottling up the bars I’ve b-been—” his voice wavered, but he swallowed again, less awkwardly this time, and went on, “I’ve been changing the bottles in the optics a bit early.” The last piece came out in a rush, as though saying it quickly would make it easier.

“A bit early,” Marc repeated. Something in his voice made me turn towards him. “Every bottle, in every optic, on every change, throughout the club?” he queried.

After a moment’s hesitation, Gary nodded. When Marc put it like that it started to sound like a major fraud. I had no idea about the price of spirits. With the exception of the occasional whisky, I was more of a beer drinker myself. I liked the odd glass of wine, but hated the pretension that went with it.

I suddenly remembered the price of drinks in the club, when I’d been that first time with Clare. It wasn’t so much that Gary was robbing Marc of vast amounts, but he must surely have been curtailing his profits by quite a chunk.

Marc slid off the desk, dismissing with a contemptuous glance the way Gary shrank back away from him. He moved over to the coffee machine, pouring two cups and handing one to me. When he spoke again his voice was deadly quiet.

“And did you really believe, with computerised tills which record every drink, that I wouldn’t notice?” he asked. “That I wouldn’t begin to wonder why the bar costs were higher here at the New Adelphi than at any other club I own? Why, miraculously, you didn’t seem to be able to squeeze the standard twenty-eight shots out of a bottle that they manage everywhere else.”

The dismay flared in Gary’s eyes. He had that trapped look, that look of someone who’s slipped and slithered their way into deep trouble, rather than taking a calculated gamble. He knew that he was in way over his head, but there was still something that might drag him out of the slime again.

“He made me give him an alibi,” he said quickly. “Angelo, I mean. The night that girl was killed—Susie. Angelo knew what I was up to and he said if I didn’t cover for him, he’d drop me in the shit.”

He looked from one of our faces to the other, opened his mouth to speak, then wisely realised that anything he said would probably make things worse. He shut it again.

Marc sat down in his leather chair behind the desk. With his dark colouring and clothing he looked like a Mafia don. “Just get out,” he said grimly. It sounded like as soon as Gary turned his back Marc was going to shoot him in it.

Gary got painfully to his feet. “A-am I sacked?”

Marc tilted his head on one side and considered him, like something he’d picked up on his shoe. “I don’t think so,” he said, surprising both of us. “Not this time.” He stood abruptly. “But if you ever try stealing from me again, I’ll finish you,” he said, his voice chillingly pleasant. “You won’t work again.”

He could have just meant “in the licensing trade”, but the way he said it made it sound like Gary’s lack of employment would be caused by his sudden inability to eat solid food.

Gary stumbled out of the office, pulling the door shut behind him. For a moment there was silence.

Without looking at Marc I asked, “So, how long have you known about Gary’s little scheme?”

He smiled at me. “Right from the start,” he admitted.

“So why did you let him keep doing it—keep robbing you?”

“I’ve found staff are notorious for it,” he said, as though it was obvious, “but if they’re putting their energies into comparatively small-time stuff, like Gary was doing, at least they’re not ripping me off in any bigger way. I look upon it as an acceptable level of loss.”

“And what about this business of him giving Angelo an alibi for the night of Susie’s death. What on earth is that all about?”

I was about to ask more, but suddenly Marc’s body stiffened and he came out from behind the desk at a half-run, his eyes fixed on the other side of the room.

I snapped my gaze in that direction, just in time to see the door swinging ajar.

Marc reached it first, wrenched the door open wide, and we hit the corridor outside almost together.

It was empty.

“Shit!” Marc snarled. “There was somebody there!”

We charged down the short corridor, turned the corner and kept running. The noise of the music was getting louder with every step as we made the main body of the club.

The corridor brought us out onto the gallery area near the entrance, overlooking the lower dance floor. The place was already crammed. It was impossible to tell who had been lurking outside the office door.

Marc swore, slamming his clenched fist down onto the rail in frustration.

I scanned the room again. My eye was caught by a still figure among the swaying of the clubbers and I froze.

Angelo.

Over on the other side of the gallery, near the entrance, he was standing looking directly across at me. The swollen lip was distorting his mouth into a scornful Elvis-type sneer.

Or maybe that was just Angelo’s intended expression. That he knew I’d tried to trap him. And had failed.

With a final, arrogant glare, he turned away, disappearing into the crowd.

I realised I was grasping the railing so hard my knuckles were showing white through the skin. When I unclenched them, I was annoyed to find my hands were wavering.

I’d made my move and, with a shiver of foreboding, I knew the next one was probably down to Angelo.

All I could do was wait for it to happen.

***

I left soon after that. There wasn’t much point in staying, and neither Marc nor I had the stomach for going on with it.

I rode the bike home through the gloomy streets, feeling as though I was permanently living my life in semi-darkness. I hate the winter, with its slow mornings and quickened afternoons. It doesn’t matter how much they fiddle with the clocks, there just isn’t enough light to fill a day.

I pulled the bike off the road onto its usual slab of concrete and killed the motor. I was bone tired, and not really concentrating, which was pretty dumb, when I come to think about it now.

I pulled my helmet off, set the bike securely on its side-stand, and climbed off trying to ignore the protesting of my muscles. It wasn’t until I was crouched by the rear wheel, and was halfway through threading the roller-chain round the swinging arm that I heard it.

Slowly—too slowly—it seemed, I realised that I could hear someone breathing. And it wasn’t me.

I got to my feet gradually, tense, started to turn. There was movement in the shadows, close to the wall of the building. My heartrate stepped up, but I wasn’t prepared for the sheer intensity of the emotion that rose up when the figure of a man emerged fully into the light.

“Hello Charlie,” Tristram said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

A SENSE of pure panic assaulted me, ripping and tearing. Oh God, I couldn’t see his hands. What did he have in his hands? I stumbled back against the bike, nearly rocking it off its stand. Where was the knife?

With something like a moan, I reached down and grabbed one end of the unfastened roller-chain, yanking it out of the spokes of the rear wheel like a whip. It wasn’t the most wieldy weapon, but it was hard and heavy, and it was all I’d got. It would have to do.

For a moment, Tris stood and watched me in a kind of suspended hush. It was cold enough to be able to see his breath. Then he did the most extraordinary thing. Possibly the last thing I was expecting him to do.

His face crumpled, his shoulders began to shake, and he burst into helpless, racking floods of tears.

My first instinct was to offer comfort, but it didn’t last long enough to translate into movement. I hardly needed to remind myself that Tris had stalked, and raped, and murdered. He was not the gentle man I thought I knew. He was a stranger. A monster. Maybe this was the ploy he’d used to get Joy to drop her guard. How he’d lured Susie to her death.

“Tris,” I said carefully, loud enough to be heard over his wretched sobbing. “What are you doing here?”

He looked up at me for a second, too distressed to speak. He cut a desolate figure, with his ragged haircut and old-fashioned parka. Slowly, his tears subsided into a soft gulping. He lifted his hands to wipe his nose and eyes. Hands, I noted with relief, that were empty.

“I came to s-say I’m s-sorry,” he said at last. “The police released me. You can call them if you like,” he added, reading my mind. “I’m not on the run or anything stupid like that.”

“Why did they let you go?”

“Because I didn’t do it,” he said simply. He shrugged at my doubtful silence, as if he hadn’t really expected me to believe him, and I was surprised to find how much that hurt. “They have a certain amount of forensic evidence, so I understand. I gave them sample of everything they could possibly wish for,” he shuddered delicately at the memory, “and it didn’t match. So, they let me go.”

I took a little while to digest the information. Tris wasn’t the rapist. A sense of utter relief washed over me, but was short-lived in its duration.

“So what on earth were you doing skulking around the grounds in a balaclava?” I demanded.

Tris gave me a sad smile, and stuffed his hands into the front pockets of his coat. “Making the most stupid and ridiculous mistake of my entire life,” he said, heartfelt.

I recognised the truth of that, felt some of the tension unwinding out of my shoulders. “You’d better come up and tell me about it,” I said.

He looked pathetically grateful to be invited in, but even so, as I finished securing the bike, I made sure I turned my back on him as little as I could get away with. He seemed to understand my circumspect behaviour, not following me too closely up the wooden staircase, and standing well to one side while I unlocked my front door.

In the flat, I switched on the lights, and noticed for the first time how pale he was, with the exception of his nose, which had bloomed in the sudden warmth. He made no move to take his coat off, and he was shivering.

“How long have you been waiting?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “They let me go late this afternoon, and I went straight to see Ailsa. Then I came here. Four, five hours. Something like that.”

He hadn’t, I deduced, spent long with his wife. “How has she taken all this?” I asked.

“Badly, as you’d expect. In fact, when I arrived she and the girls were busily throwing all my stuff onto a mammoth bonfire in the garden. My books mostly.” His voice was neutral, but he was struggling not to cry again.

I thought of all those poetry first editions, and my heart went out to him. Ailsa had a huge capacity for compassion, but I could also well believe that she had an equally elephantine memory when it came to being wronged. And Tris had wronged her, of that there was no doubt.

I made him coffee, sat him down on my sofa, and gradually, in fits and starts, he told me all about it.

“I was eight years old when my father died,” he began. “He was a wonderful man, but he had very set ideas about the role of women. He would never have approved of my mother having a job, but charity work was all right. So, she got herself involved with battered wives, and when he died she turned her whole life over to the cause. My life, too.”

He stuck his nose into his coffee, took a slurp, then went back to thawing his hands out round the mug. “I suppose I was spoilt as a child,” he went on. “I was the only one, the centre of attention, but after my father died the house was suddenly constantly full of children who all needed my mother’s attention much more urgently than I did. I grew up on the sidelines, ignored.”

It sounded almost petulant when he said it, but I could still appreciate the sense of desolation he must have felt. There are more ways to abandon your children than to leave them wrapped in a blanket on someone else’s doorstep.

“There’s never any peace in the house,” he said. He stopped, sighed, and searched for a better way to explain. “You have a baby of your own, and for the first year or so you expect sleepless nights, and constant crying, but they grow out of it.” He looked at me, and I saw the pain in his face. “There have been babies crying in that house for nearly thirty years. I just wanted a little peace.”

Understanding arrived slowly, like a murky sunrise. “So you thought you’d frighten them away,” I said, taking a sip of my own coffee.

Tris ducked his head, and an ugly red stain crept up the side of his neck. “When Susie Hollins was—killed, we realised that both she and that other girl had been at the Lodge at one point or another. Some of the girls made the obvious connection, and they started to get nervous. Two of them left that night, you know.”

I nodded, but I remembered Nina’s paralysing fear and had to bite down on my anger. “Didn’t you know how much you’d terrify them, doing what you did?”

He shifted in his seat, awkward. “I suppose so, but it just seemed the easiest way. I knew Ailsa would never be persuaded to just close the place down. She’d see it as betraying the girls, throwing them out on the streets. But, if they left of their own accord, and the house was empty, then she might think differently.” He gave me another forlorn smile. “I never meant to hurt anyone.”

“But it was you we saw, running away that night Joy was murdered, wasn’t it?” I said. I have a clear memory for shapes and faces. The way someone moves is as distinctive as a signature. The masked figure who had shoved Victoria aside that night had been the same we’d captured. I would have staked my life on it.

“I found her,” he admitted, swallowing back the tears again. “I was trying to help her when that girl saw me and started screaming. I-I panicked. I knew I couldn’t explain what I was doing there, so I just ran. I’m so sorry.”

I didn’t say anything to that. Joy’s injuries had not been survivable, no matter how quickly we’d sent for the paramedics. I didn’t think Tris’s actions—or lack of them—had contributed to her death, but I couldn’t find it in me to offer words of consolation, even so.

“So it wasn’t you who rang to threaten me that night?” I asked.

He shook his head straight away. “No, of course not. I never meant anyone any harm, Charlie,” he said, trying not to plead. “You have to believe that.”

I asked him if he had anywhere to spend the night, but I confess I was relieved when he said that a friend out in Quernmore had offered use of a sofabed.

I called Tris a taxi. He wouldn’t stay inside until it arrived, saying he preferred to wait in the street. I let him out in silence, unable to condemn or condone.

At the top of the stairs he turned back, and his voice when he spoke held the plaintive note of the eight-year-old boy he’d once been. “They took away my home, Charlie,” he said. “I just wanted it back.”

After he’d gone, I sat for a long time on one of the flat slate window ledges, hugging my knees to my chin, and staring out through the darkened glass without seeing anything beyond my own reflection.

So, Tris wasn’t the cruel murderer I’d been so quick to believe he was. The relief was tangible, like a taste in the back of my throat. I was just disappointed in myself that I hadn’t wondered more, doubted more. It didn’t matter that the evidence against him had seemed so overwhelming.

I’d spent some time sitting there, in silent contemplation, before it registered with a creeping chill that this hadn’t solved any of my problems. Far from it.

If anything, it had made them worse.

***

The next morning I woke up instantly panicky, heart screaming into the red line like a two-stroke motor with its throttle jammed wide open. When I opened my eyes I found I was already tensed upright in bed, shivering from the chill of the cold air on my sweating skin.

For a moment I froze, uncertain whether I’d really heard the noise that roused me, or if it was part of some instantly forgotten dream. I scrambled out of bed on legs that weren’t quite steady, pulling on a towelling robe, and padded through to the lounge.

There was an untidy sprawl of mail across the doormat. I thought I heard footsteps retreating down the stairs, and when I crossed quickly to the window I saw the postman emerge from the doorway below. The sudden surge of relief left me feeling limp.

I went to pick up the mail, but my hand stilled. For a moment I couldn’t escape the memory of those tumbled letters in Terry’s hallway. The way they’d spilled down over his corpse. They might even have been delivered by the same postman.

I took a deep breath and gathered the mail quickly, almost trying not to look at the mat for fear that I’d see an inert trainer-clad foot at the end of rumpled jeans. I didn’t, of course, but what I did see turned out to be much more frightening.

A plain white envelope.

It had obviously been hand delivered, pushed furtively under the door rather than dropped through the letterbox, because one corner had slipped under the doormat itself. I’d already got it in my hand before it dawned on me what it might contain.

I carried the letter over to the coffee table very carefully, at arm’s length, as if it might explode at any moment. Placing it down gently, I went and fetched a pair of the thin latex gloves I normally use for cleaning the bike.

I checked with my fingertips for lumps, bumps or wires, then opened the letter with great delicacy, as you would if you were handling some long-buried ancient parchment. If this was a begging letter from some local charity, or a note from my landlord, I was going to feel the biggest fool going.

Inside was a single sheet of A4 paper, good quality laid stuff, folded with origami precision. I eased it flat, trying not to touch more than the edges. In the centre were two brief lines of bold type.

YOU WANT TO PLAY?

GAME ON

I put the letter down onto the table slowly, my mind numb. I didn’t realise I’d got my hands to my face until the rubbery smell of the gloves started making me feel sick. Maybe I would have felt that way in any case.

So, the killer possibly suspected that the police were keeping an eye on my phone. Maybe he’d been watching this place the day that Superintendent MacMillan called round. Maybe he just knew the score because he’d done this sort of thing before. So, he’d decided to pay me a visit.

The sudden thought that the man who’d viciously raped and murdered Susie Hollins and Joy had been right up to my front door while I slept was too much. I lurched for the loo, and spent some time there, not exactly engaged in thoughtful meditation.

When I straightened up and studied my reflection in the mirror over the sink, a haunted face met my gaze. My skin looked white and stretched tight over my bones, emphasising the last vestiges of the bruising round my cheekbone. My eyes seemed sunk back into their darkened sockets, like a heroin-chic model. There was no getting away from it. I looked like shit.

I peeled off the gloves, washed my hands, then scrubbed my teeth thoroughly. For someone who’s not normally sick, I’d spent far too much time throwing up lately. I didn’t want to end up needing expensive dental work because the acid from my stomach had rotted out my teeth like an anorexic.

As I staggered back through to the lounge I wondered long and hard about calling Superintendent MacMillan. I thought about it, dug out the card he’d given me with his phone number on it, turned it over in my hands.

Trouble was, I’d been pretty badly mauled during our last encounter. I’d no desire to be accused of fabricating the note myself in order to reinforce what MacMillan saw as a dubious claim that I was under threat.

I had a growing conviction that the man they were after was Angelo. It had to be. Who else was there? Unfortunately, I didn’t see that the Superintendent was any more likely to take my word for it now than he had been the first time I’d mentioned Angelo’s name.

Besides, the police had already dismissed him as a suspect on the strength of an alibi I now knew to be bogus. The trouble was, Gary’s admission had not been extracted without a certain amount of coercion that would probably make it totally inadmissible in any court in the land. And MacMillan was certainly not likely to take my word for it.

Then I remembered. Tris had told me that the police had enough forensic evidence to eliminate him from the suspect list as soon as they’d run the right tests. If I could get Angelo taken into custody, for whatever reason, they’d have their chance. I was sure MacMillan’s finely-honed instincts would do the rest.

The only thing I could think of straight off was the possibility that Angelo was involved with supplying drugs at the New Adelphi. Trouble was, if I just made an anonymous tip-off about chemical activity at the club, it was likely to get raided, and that meant all the staff would probably be arrested. All of them. Including me.

I knew Marc had sworn to deal with Angelo in his own way over that matter, but the stakes had risen since then. Way risen. And besides, if Angelo was also guilty of rape and murder, I wanted more than the beating Marc was likely to arrange for him. I wanted justice.

And I wanted it quickly.

I looked again at the sheet of paper on the table. I couldn’t do nothing. Couldn’t let him stalk me, torture me with threats and promises. I had to act. Had to! If I wanted to stay sane.

If I wanted to stay alive.

And if I wasn’t prepared to place my trust in Superintendent MacMillan and simply tell him the whole story, right from the beginning, I had to do it some other way.

I picked the phone up, dialled a number, listened to it ringing out. On the tenth ring, just as I was about to give up, it was answered by a voice thick with sleep.

“Hello?”

I ignored a pang of guilt when I realised it was only just past eight-thirty, and on a Saturday morning at that.

“Hi, it’s Charlie,” I said. “Yeah, I know what time it is, sorry, but listen, I need to ask you the most enormous favour. Are you into clubbing?”

***

When I went in to work at the New Adelphi Club that evening, my nerves were racked so tight I could hardly breathe evenly.

Burning a hole in the back pocket of my jeans, wrapped in a plastic bag, was the threatening note I’d received that morning, together with MacMillan’s card. I thought I might need both before the night was out.

We went through much the same ritual I’d been through the Saturday before. The security team all clipped on their walkie-talkies, straightened up their bow ties, and disappeared into their own areas of responsibility.

Len came stamping in, glowering at everybody, but particularly at me, it seemed. I wondered if I was just being paranoid, or if Angelo had told him about my failed attempt at entrapment. If he had, I wasn’t sure if that meant things had just got safer, or twice as deadly.

I had plenty of time to think about it. The evening started painfully slowly, but put on speed and weight with an air of overwhelming menace, like gathering storm clouds in the tornado belt.

I went through the motions of my job, patrolling the ladies’ washrooms, breaking up a cat-fight between two girls who’d just found out they’d both arranged to go home with the same bloke. I thought they should have been tearing lumps out of him, not each other, but I kept that opinion to myself.

I tried taking the quieter of the two out of the fray, but that didn’t quell things. I ended up propelling the more aggressive of the pair towards the door. She was making an almighty racket, and grunting with the effort of trying to embed a four-inch spiked heel into my shin along the way. It probably made me not quite as gentle with her as I could have been.

We waltzed our way to the main entrance, and I gave her a bit of a push-start into the car park. She reeled away, dishevelled, screeching her thoughts on my parentage and sexual preferences to the world at maximum volume.

I listened with polite disinterest. When I’d had enough I turned away from her, catching Angelo and Len studying me with an intensity that jarred my already edgy nerves.

“What?” I demanded, my voice harsher than I’d intended.

Len shook his head and stalked away. Angelo flipped his cigarette end spinning into the darkness with a deliberation that was almost an insult.

“Getting a taste for this, aren’t you?” he said. “Thought you would. Hasn’t taken you long, though.”

I was saved having to think of a suitably cutting reply by the arrival of a new group of punters. Among them was a bearded man with baby seal brown eyes. He looked nervous and fidgety, eyes dancing everywhere, fingers never still.

Angelo took one look at him and wanted to see the contents of his pockets. In the top one of his shirt was a twist of paper containing a couple of elongated yellow capsules.

“Oh yeah, and what’s this then, sonny?” Angelo sneered.

“They’re for me sinuses!” the man protested, none too convincingly.

Angelo just smiled and confiscated the pills, but waved the bearded man into the club.

Just then, my walkie-talkie crackled. “Charlie, it’s Len. The ladies’ on the upper floor need checking. See to it.”

I thumbed the transmit button and murmured my agreement.

Angelo’s leer was still in place as I made my way back inside. I gave him a stony glare, which he ignored. I was halfway along the entrance passage when I heard him on the radio to Len, with the obscure instruction for him to go to seven.

I’d heard Angelo and Len trade the same message the week before, and hadn’t thought any more about it. Now it gnawed at me like a starving rat.

I made my way through the growing throng and caught up with the bearded man in the general press by the top of the stairwell on the first floor.

“So,” I asked him quietly, checking round for signs that any of the security staff were watching our exchange. “What were those pills?”

Sam gave me his most innocent smile. “They really are for my sinuses,” he said, “but with the name scratched off. It’s not my fault if King Kong back there didn’t believe me.”

“I’d be careful who you say that to,” I told him. “I know he’s just a big ape, but if the real King Kong gets to hear about it, he might well be insulted enough by the comparison to sue for defamation of character.”

Sam just grinned. I’d warned him about the dress code, and he looked surprisingly smart in black trousers and a reasonably stylish shirt. It made a change to see him out of leathers.

I told him to keep his eyes peeled and to make out like he was a man in need of replacement chemicals, then climbed another few flights of stairs to find out what Len was after. Not a lot, as it turned out. I got the distinct impression I was just being given the runaround.

By ten-thirty my head was starting to ache with frustration. My eyes were twitchy from constantly scanning for some clandestine movement in the crowd. No one seemed to be very interested in selling anything to Sam other than over-priced drinks.

I dropped in past one of the bars, seeing Gary in his usual frantic guise. He looked up and caught sight of me, a mixture of fear and loathing on his face. The savagery of it took me aback. Christ, I didn’t make him steal from his boss. I just helped catch him at it.

Dave was in his usual position, nodding so hard to the beat of the music that it moved his whole body, like the tail of a dog who’s really happy to see you. He was wearing skin-tight trousers and another high-necked jumper, stained dark with sweat.

He also gave me a cooler glance than was his norm. I tried to work out what I’d done to offend him. Maybe he’d been told about my part in Gary’s disgrace. I’d stepped over the line from being one of the gang to teacher’s pet. It was like being in No Man’s Land.

I kept my eye on Angelo as much as I could, but he barely shifted from the door, apart from a couple of short breaks. Well, I suppose you can’t crack heads all night without a rest.

Just when I was starting to think I was utterly wasting my time, that I’d dragged Sam out on a wild goose chase, he brushed past me deliberately in the crowd.

“Bingo,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth.

I fought hard not to show any reaction to the news, just followed him casually into a quiet corner.

“What?” I demanded. “What’s happened?”

He looked around, then fished a couple of tablets out of his top pocket. Small round, white pills, slightly bulbous on the sides, without sharp edges. There was an impression stamped into them, but the meaning wasn’t clear. It didn’t take a genius to recognise Ecstasy.

“Where the hell did you get those?”

He smiled at me. “I have to admit it’s a slick operation,” he said smugly, basking in the fact he’d got my full and undivided.

I rolled my eyes. “You’re the one who’s going to need an operation unless you tell me who dealt you those,” I growled.

Sam, however, wasn’t to be deflected from his moment of glory. “You see, they take anything you try and bring in with one hand,” he said, “and sell you something else with the other hand. Very neat.”

“Sam—” I warned.

He must have seen the glint in my eye, because this time he cut to the important bit. “The bald-headed bloke on the door took my own stuff off me, then one of the other penguins sidled up to me and offered me something for the weekend,” he explained.

“Just like that?” I asked, my face blank with something approaching disbelief. “He offered you drugs right there in the middle of the dance floor?”

Sam gave me an old-fashioned look. “No, not just like that,” he said. “He made some casual remark about me looking like the type of bloke who wanted more than a quick drink in a place like this.” He laughed. “To start with I thought he was offering me a woman.” He flashed me a quick grin and I realised that to Sam, this was all an adventure. A game. He hadn’t seen first-hand what the penalties were for losing.

Terry had, though. Seen and suffered them. I came down hard on that line of thought. It was too dangerous to my resolve.

“And?” I prompted now, sharply.

“Well, we went up to the gents’ on the upper dance floor, and by this time I was thinking, no he isn’t going to offer me a woman, he’s going to offer me a rent boy.”

He paused for me to make the appropriate response to his mind-bendingly funny joke. I glared at him in the sort of silence that has rocks in it.

He swallowed and went on. “Anyway, once we’re inside he asks me what I want, tells me how much it’s going to cost me, and shoves me in to one of the empty cubicles. He tells me to stay put for a minute—and it was only a minute—and when he comes back and opens the door, there they are. Cost me a packet—about twenty percent over market value, I reckon, but then I suppose they have got a bit of a captive audience.”

“How come you’re such an expert on Ecstasy prices all of a sudden?” I challenged.

He grinned at me again. “Come on, Charlie, I work at the university. The place is crawling with students. You work it out.”

“So who was it?”

“Well, we didn’t exactly swop names and addresses so we could send each other Christmas cards,” he said with a sarky tone to his voice.

I wanted to scream at him, but settled for grinding my teeth instead. “OK,” I said with remarkable calm, “tell me what he looked like!”

Sam shrugged. “Like a bouncer. I don’t know—a big bloke in a dinner suit.”

Terrific. That description fitted most of the lads working security. “But not the same one who was on the door?”

He shook his head emphatically. “Oh no, definitely not.”

Not Angelo then. Christ, just how many of them were in it with him?

“Can you point him out to me?”

Sam grinned again, said no problem, and we moved back towards the main body of the club. I’d already got a sneaking suspicion about who he was going to tag, but I needed to have it confirmed.

It didn’t take us long to find him. We were moving along one of the galleries when Sam nudged my arm and pointed down to the next level where one of the security men was leaning on the rail, watching the milling clubbers below him.

“There you go,” Sam said. “That’s the feller.”

“Are you sure?” I asked, not really doubting him, but wanting to be dead certain.

“Absolutely,” Sam verified. “Why—who is he?”

“That,” I said grimly, “is Len, who’s head of security. He’s the one who’s supposed to be in charge of keeping the drugs out of this place.”

I suppose, really, I should have known. Only the previous week Len had told me of his involvement in a roundabout sort of a way. “Nothing—but nothing—goes on in this club that I don’t know about!” he’d said. “Clear?”

Oh yes, it was clear now. He and Angelo were in it together. In it up to their necks. In it plenty deep enough to resort to murder to keep Terry from exposing their activities. And to have me worked over as well.

So where did Susie and the rest fit in? Maybe they were just a diversion—a little side-line that Angelo was running for his own amusement.

I couldn’t prove any of that. Not without the forensic evidence that was out of my reach. For now, the drugs would have to do.

I pulled Sam away from the balcony rail, so we were out of Len’s possible sight.

“Listen, Sam, I want you to get out of here—right now,” I said, trying to get urgency across to him without the fear. I fished Superintendent MacMillan’s card out of my pocket and slipped it into his. “Call MacMillan, tell him about the drugs. Tell him if he wants to catch the guy he’s after for the murders he needs to come down here mob-handed. Tell him,” I added, taking a deep breath, “that I’m going to go and try and find those drugs before Len or any of the others has a chance to destroy them.”

Sam took all this in open-mouthed, but wisely decided against long questions. “OK,” he said. “I’ve borrowed a mate’s car tonight. It’s only a shitty old Peugeot, but he’s left his mobile phone in the glovebox. I’ll call ‘em from the car park.”

“Just make sure none of the security lads see you doing it then,” I cautioned.

He sobered when he realised there wasn’t a hint of humour in my voice, then nodded, swallowing, and started to turn away.

“Oh, and Sam?”

He paused, turned back. “Yeah?”

I mustered a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “Tell MacMillan he’d better hurry.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I WATCHED Sam leave the club, feeling a certain sense of relief as he cleared the front door without any apparent attention from Angelo or the rest of the security crew. I wasn’t aware until he’d disappeared from view that I’d been holding my breath.

I picked my way back upstairs, feeling as though I’d got a neon sign over my head announcing my intentions. I suddenly couldn’t think how to act natural, relaxed. My movements felt jerky, lacking in coordination, and I’d begun to sweat.

My nerve almost failed me. I stopped climbing on the next floor, breaking off my ascent to needlessly check round the bar area and washrooms. I glanced at my watch. When had Sam left the club? I cursed the fact I hadn’t made a note of the time. How long would it take MacMillan’s men to get here? More to the point, would they come at all?

Either way, I had to find that proof.

Unable to put it off any longer, I hit the stairs, reached the top level. I paused there for a while, peering over the balcony down to the floor below. I caught a glimpse of Len marching through the crowd, but he didn’t look like a man in pursuit.

Even so, I couldn’t help but wish he was further behind me.

I observed the gents’ washroom Sam had indicated for a few minutes, mentally counting people in and out. When I reckoned it was about empty, I pushed myself upright away from the rail, and covered the distance to the door.

It was instinct to glance furtively round me before I went in, but I forced myself not to do it, not to look as if I was doing anything out of the ordinary. If you’ve got enough front, you can get away with anything.

Inside, the gents’ was larger than the ladies’ washroom on the same floor. The walls were completely covered with dark blue tiles, lit by low voltage spots sunk into the ceiling. I walked quietly past a row of uninhabited urinals to my left, with sinks beyond. Two big square pillars spaced along the centre line of the room helped support the roof. I checked carefully that there was no one lurking behind them.

There were no cupboards under the sinks, and no obvious breaks in the grouting round the tiles to suggest a hiding place. I thought of the ceiling, but when I looked up all I saw was solid textured plaster. No lift-out panels. Besides, there was no overall lock on the door to the gents’, and I didn’t think Len would want to be so exposed if anyone came in unexpectedly.

To my right was a row of numbered cubicles. They looked much more promising. I made my way along them, pushing the doors open carefully as I went. The cisterns were all enclosed in the tiled wall behind each toilet bowl. Just above, though, was an access hatch about eighteen inches square. I was sure I was getting warmer, but I could tell by the layers of undisturbed paint that this one probably hadn’t been removed since the club was refurbished.

I tried the next, but that was the same. I was halfway along the row when the cubicle door nearest to me opened and a man walked out. I had to bite down hard on the startled shriek that nearly burst from my lips. To be fair, he looked as surprised as I did.

“Are you in the wrong place, or am I?” he asked.

I tried a casual smile. “Just a security check,” I told him as cheerfully as I could. “Wouldn’t want you walking out of here with anything unsecured, now would we?”

He left quickly with a worried expression and I swore under my breath. If he went and complained to Len or any of the staff about them sending a woman in to check the gents’ I was going to be in deep trouble.

I quickened my step. It wasn’t until the last cubicle that I saw what I was looking for. I dodged into it quickly, shooting the bolt across behind me. The bolt was a flimsy-looking affair. A hefty shoulder to it would have popped the mounting screws from their chipboard holes like a fat man’s shirt buttons, but it was better than nothing.

This time, in contrast to the bolt on the door, the panel on the back wall was held in place by a heavy duty lock. It didn’t strike me as the type that could be picked easily, even if I was equipped or qualified to try. Without the right key I was going to be knackered before I began.

The smell from the toilet was making me feel vaguely sick, but maybe I would have felt that way in any case. I knew Marc had the cleaners round regularly, and wondered what it was about the male diet that could reek so badly at the other end. Perhaps, in prehistoric times, they’d used it to mark their territory, like tomcats.

I pulled my Swiss Army knife out of my pocket and pondered over which of its attachments would be best suited to the job of breaking and entering. Unfortunately, that was one purpose for which the Swiss Army didn’t seem to have designed a specific tool.

There was a short, narrow blade on the back of the knife that I think is for cleaning mud out of the tracks of your hiking boots. It looked sharp and pointed enough for me to be able to use it to make an initial hole in the door just above one of the hinges. I hesitated a moment before digging it in, tapping the panel lightly with my knuckle. If it was made out of metal I wasn’t going to be able to do more than scratch the surface. All that would do would be to alert Len that someone had cottoned on to his stash.

Oh, to hell with it! With a deep breath I carefully lined the blade up with the hinge and leaned my weight into it. It actually sank in much easier than I was expecting. Despite the valuable nature of the contents, the door was only made from bog standard eighth-inch plywood.

I quickly replaced the tread scraper with the shorter of the two knife blades, cursing the fact I hadn’t bothered sharpening either of them for months. In the end, the slightly serrated edge of the nail file proved to be the most effective.

Even so, it was slow work. Every time someone came in to the washroom I had to stop, tensing myself into silence and praying that no-one would get inquisitive enough to peer over the top of the partition from the next stall. I wished I’d had the forethought to scribble “Out of Order’ on a sheet of paper and stick it to the outside of the cubicle door.

The earpiece of my radio crackled a few times, but fortunately it was other instructions for other members of the security brigade. Nobody, it seemed, needed my services for anything in particular. Good. As long as no one knew I was missing, they wouldn’t be looking for me.

I worked on frantically, scuffing and scraping my hands on the rough edging I was opening up. My finger ends, still sore from my Spiderman impersonation down the wall of my flat, soon started to bleed. I mopped them up with loo roll from the dispenser and kept going.

I had made a hole nearly two inches long running down next to one hinge, but the panel was being surprisingly stubborn about giving way completely. It wasn’t big enough to get my shoulder to, and the cubicle was too small and too awkward a space to kick at it with any degree of success.

I knew if I punched it, I was just going to break my knuckles. I couldn’t afford to risk an injury. At the back of my mind was the knowledge that, if Len discovered me here, doing this, I was going to need to be very much intact to stand any chance of holding him off.

Although I was waiting for it, when the call came over the radio, it made me jump.

“It’s the police! We’re being fucking raided!” Angelo’s voice, crackling with sheer rage. “Len, go to seven, mate! Go to se—!” His transmission was abruptly chopped off. I could just imagine the reason for it.

I fumbled with the bolt on the door. The last thing I wanted now was to be trapped in an area too small to defend myself. The bolt stuck and as I tugged at it I was rocked by a moment of sheer panic.

I stopped, took a breath. Calm down, Fox! I couldn’t let my fear incapacitate me. I let go of my anger, my fright, breathing out fully. If I wasn’t calm and focused, I was nothing. I tried again. The bolt slid straight back without resistance.

As I stepped out of the cubicle into the empty washroom, I passed the number on the door almost at eye level. Number seven. I did a double-take.

Seven!

“Go to seven, mate!” Angelo had said. I’d always thought it was a preset channel on the walkie-talkies, but I was wrong. It was just Angelo’s way of telling Len that someone wanted to buy drugs from him.

In this case, I didn’t think MacMillan’s men were interested in a purchase, but Len would know he had to get rid of the stuff. Quickly. Oh shit.

I’d just time for the realisation to hit. Not enough to form a plan of attack, to decide a strategy. I’d just time to whirl round to face the outer washroom door as it burst open.

It flew back so hard on its hinges there was a sharp crack as the wood twanged against the frame and gave way. Len stood in the doorway, chest heaving from the exertion of getting here so fast. There was a sheen of sweat on his face, and his gaze when he caught sight of me was savage.

He advanced into the room, past me, slammed open the door to cubicle number seven. Saw, in an instant, the damage to the panel. Knew, just as rapidly, that it was down to me. He whipped back to face me. Fury and hatred began emanating from him in tangible waves, furring the air like a jet exhaust.

I knew we had a couple of minutes at the outside before MacMillan’s boys reached the upper floor. No doubt that was why Len choose this particular place of concealment for his stash. Unless the drug squad had taken to helicopter assaults from the roof tops, any entry at ground level gave him more than enough time to flush the lot.

You don’t have to take him out, I told myself as I dropped instinctively into a combat stance, you just have to slow him down until the cavalry gets here.

It wasn’t much of a comfort.

It was crystal clear from the outset that there was going to be no chance for negotiation here. Len wasn’t interested in any verbal attempt I might make to calm him down. He was too busy winding himself up to explode.

He started to swear. Spitting words bitter as poison, spilling over his teeth in a gush like blood from an arterial wound. If he could have struck me down just with the vitriolic force of them, I would have been dead already.

I wanted to recoil on a reflex, to cringe away from him, but to do that would have been disastrous. I stood my ground, faced him off, watched the chain reaction of his temper form until it was toxic in its intensity.

The stand-off didn’t last long, a few seconds maybe. Then he snapped.

Len charged at me with a primeval roar. Two hundred and twenty-five pounds of solid muscle, shaped from years of cracking skulls, backed by a whole supermarket full of dirty tricks, fuelled by a vicious wrath.

I knew I couldn’t retreat, knew I had to go forwards to meet his attack, but I daren’t lose my control, or I’d lose even the sliver of a chance of winning.

The lessons I’d learned with the Scouser and the smoker in my flat still clung painfully. If I got the opportunity, this time I wouldn’t hesitate.

I blocked his first punch as it sliced towards my face, jarring my forearm hard enough to feel the bruises forming instantly. Ignoring the discomfort I kept going forwards, moving in close and grabbing for his neck. Control the head and you control the point of balance. Where the point of balance goes, the body will follow.

The muscles in Len’s neck were thick as a Pit Bull’s, leading into massive shoulders, but I gouged a knuckle deep into the side of his chin and their resistance simply crumbled. I twisted his head round as though I wanted to rip it apart from his body and slammed him into the nearest pillar hard enough to burst the tiles.

The man’s constitution must have been phenomenal. He rocked once, then straightened up, shook his head to clear it, and stormed me again. The blood dripping from the ceramic splinters in his forehead was a minor annoyance to him.

This time when I blocked Len’s first swinging right, he didn’t make the same mistake twice. He followed it up with a fast left to my ribs that ripped the air from my lungs in an explosive gust. I tried desperately to stay on my feet, allowing myself to reel backwards, absorb some of the impact.

Len sensed first blood. He came in like a dervish then, fists flying. I went down under the onslaught. I had no choice. I crashed backwards into the door frame, bumped past it, and went sprawling onto the floor of the club outside the washroom.

For the moment any attempt to re-group was impossible. I just rolled with the pounding, and tried not to let him hit me anywhere that was going to do me serious damage. The pain was coming from so many different directions it seemed to totally surround and immerse me.

As I fell back, Len pursued, lips drawn away from his teeth in a deadly grimace. His eyes had turned feral. His control was gone, shattered into fragments.

That was what defeated him.

He wasn’t bothering to defend himself properly now, didn’t feel the need to keep his guard up. As he leant over me, I lashed out for his throat. It was a lucky contact, and lighter than I’d hoped, but it halted his next assault. I twisted onto my side and swept his legs out from under him.

As soon as he was on the floor, I brought my heel down brutally into his exposed groin. Most men would have been out of the fight right there and then. Not Len. He howled like a scrapyard dog, starting to push himself off the ground with one hand, grasping for me.

I kicked his arm out from under him, aiming for the elbow joint, connecting with a dull crack. He folded. It sent a fierce and bitter spike of triumph lancing through me. I knew the feeling was wrong, knew I should feel nothing but a calm consideration of my leading options and next moves. But I couldn’t help it.

I reverse scuttled out of range on my backside and was up on my feet in a flash. Len’s jaw presented itself, just perfectly aligned and I pulled back my fist to strike, to finish this. It was a punch I knew would knock him cold.

I never got to land it.

With a shocking suddenness, my arms were banded to my sides by hands like mechanical steel clamps and I was hauled away from Len. I could hear someone baying in protest, a primitive shriek of sheer anger and frustration, the pack hunter with the fallen prey, denied the kill. At first I didn’t recognise the source. Finally, it registered that it was me.

The policemen who had hold of me didn’t so much put me down as throw me onto the floor. I quickly found myself face down without the opportunity to resist, my arms wrenched behind me. I felt cold circles of metal as the bracelets of the handcuffs were ratched tight onto my wrists.

If it took two of MacMillan’s men to restrain me, it took four to control Len. They jumped on him with ruthless efficiency, not careful where they put their boots and fists to bring him down. He didn’t go without a fight and, in the end, they were forced to settle for cuffing his hands in front of him, just to get him secured.

I let my eyes close briefly, weak with defeat. I was bone tired, my whole body felt pulpy from the beating I’d only been partly successful in dodging. One eye was swollen, my back was giving me hell where I’d hit the door frame and my left knee was on fire. I didn’t even remember getting that thumped. Thank God it wasn’t the right one or I’d never be able to kick-start the bike.

“Well, well Miss Fox,” said a man’s voice from somewhere way above my head. “When I asked you to call me if you had any more contact with him, I was talking about threatening phone calls,” he went on, annoyance making his voice more clipped than usual. “This wasn’t quite what I had in mind.”

I opened the eye that wasn’t throbbing, leaving the other one to rest. All I could see at my level was a pair of good conservative black leather shoes. I watched them approach another couple of steps with mild interest, following the neatly creased trousers upwards past the suit jacket to the tilted head at the top. It seemed a long way away and much too small for the rest of his body, especially his feet.

“Hi Superintendent,” I mumbled, my throat raw. “It’s nice to see you, too.”

MacMillan jerked his head to someone out of my range of vision. The handcuffs were released and my arms, suddenly unsupported, flopped back to my sides. It seemed to take a long time before they’d obey the usual commands to lever my torso into an upright position.

One of the policemen who’d jumped me at least had the grace to offer me a hand up. It took my brain a moment or two to recognise him as Tommy, looking pale with excitement. I wondered briefly if he’d ever been on a drugs raid before.

“What the hell did you think you were doing, young lady?” MacMillan demanded quietly. When I looked at him fully, I could see the anger pinching his nostrils, flattening his mouth into a narrow, almost lipless line. He treated me to withering scrutiny.

“Finding you some proof,” I tossed back at him, trying not to sway on my feet.

“Did it not occur to you that we might have been in the middle of a highly sensitive investigation of our own,” he grated out carefully, as though speaking to someone of limited intelligence. “That your interference could have put it in jeopardy, if not ruined it altogether.”

I’d had enough. I hadn’t expected a commendation for stopping Len destroying the evidence of his own drug dealing, but I hadn’t expected a damned lecture either.

“Up yours, MacMillan!” I snarled. “While you were meandering along in your own sweet way, people were threatening to kill me. Excuse me if I didn’t sit around twiddling my thumbs while I waited for it to happen.” I waved a hand towards the gents’ washroom. “You look in cubicle seven in there and you’ll find a locked panel—Len should have the keys on him—behind which you’ll find enough drugs to start a bloody dispensary, if you’re interested!”

MacMillan paused, considered, then signalled two of his men to go and check. We all watched them go, and missed the fact that Len had also been listening to the conversation.

Now he seized the chance presented by the drop in numbers to swing his handcuffed hands, club-like, into the gut of the policeman next to him. The man didn’t so much fall as plummet. He ended up on the ground, curled foetal and gasping.

Len nimbly hurdled his prostrate form and headed straight for my throat, hands clawed and reaching.

I elbowed the Superintendent out of the way and jumped forwards to take the offensive stand. This time I was going to make sure Len went down hard and fast. And that he stayed there!

Then MacMillan shouted, “Gas him!” and my brilliant plan went all to shit.

In a practised instant Tommy brought his hand up easily from his belt, aiming a small aerosol. It was the smell of the propellant that was over-powering and horribly familiar. Reflex made me stop breathing, spinning my head away, squeezing my eyes tight shut. Len’s fingers just brushed my throat as I tumbled past him. As for me, I missed my intended target completely, but at least I managed to avoid the spray.

Len wasn’t so lucky. He got the full brunt, flat in the face. He made it worse for himself by having his eyes and mouth wide open, drawing in breath to yell a defiant battle cry as he went. The effect as the fine mist hit him was electrifying.

His eyes and nose began to stream instantly, like he’d been drenched with water. His face bloomed into redness. In half a second he was on his knees, hands over his face, contorted and screaming.

I ended up on my hands and knees almost alongside him, but he was too wrapped up in his own torment to care. He’d lost all interest in whatever nasty end he’d been planning for me, utterly compelled by the burning agony of his skin, the acid scorching of the delicate membranes.

The British police use CS gas in a six percent solution, stronger than the stuff they’d practised on us in the army. And that was more than enough to fell an ox, to turn grown men into cowering wrecks. I’d just caught a by-blow and I knew I’d got away lightly.

Tommy helped me to my feet for a second time, and told me not to rub my eyes. I fought hard against the swell of nausea that rolled through my body. I reckoned I was probably in enough trouble without adding “vomiting on a police officer” to the list of charges.

The other men returned with a clear plastic bag filled with goodies from Len’s store cupboard. MacMillan looked at them for a long moment, then turned back to me with something akin to respect in his muddy green eyes.

He put his hand on my arm, gave it the faintest squeeze. It was probably as near as I was going to get to thanks or apology. He let his hand drop and turned away from me. “Right, bring the van round and let’s get laughing boy here taken down to the nick before he really loses his temper and—”

“Would someone mind telling me what the fuck is going on in my club?”

Marc’s voice cut through the assembly like a samurai sword through silk. He advanced smoothly and took in the scene. The numbers of police, MacMillan’s unspoken authority, Len’s incapacity, the damning bag of drugs.

Maybe I only saw the fractured moment of hesitation because I was looking for it, searching for it. Hoping against hope that I wouldn’t see it.

Marc turned to me. Handsome, successful, sleek and charming Marc, who’d rescued and bedded me. And I’d rolled over like the stupid gullible little fool that I was.

“Charlie! Christ, are you OK darling?”

I moved towards him. He held his arms out to me. There was relief in his eyes. I could see his mind beginning to whirl, searching for an escape, an excuse. In his mind, Len was already convicted, jettisoned, betrayed. He was clinging to the chance to move forwards, move on.

My eyes were locked on a point to the side of Marc’s beautiful lean jawline. As my fist landed I must admit it made a very satisfactory smack. I connected plenty hard enough to make my already bruised hand sing.

Marc’s head snapped round to the side and he staggered backwards, pupils dilating, glassy. Only shock kept him on his feet. One of the coppers had to grab his arms, steady him, or he would have ended up on the floor.

MacMillan rounded on me, pinned me with an astounded glare. “What the—?”

“If you’ve got a van on the way, you may as well take him, too,” I said, my voice clear and cold as Christmas. I nodded to Marc, then to Len and the drugs. “He told me once that nobody with any sense tried to bring anything in to his club, and he was right. They didn’t need to, because he knew, better than anyone, that they could buy whatever drugs they wanted once they were here. He’s the real one behind all this, not Len. Isn’t that right, Marc?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“I THINK,” MacMillan said grimly, “that you’d better start at the beginning and this time, tell me everything.”

We’d moved from the club proper to the manager’s office where I’d set my abortive trap for Angelo. Len had been carted away, still yelling, but Marc had been handcuffed and brought with us. After recovering from the shock of being clouted so unexpectedly, his face was utterly unreadable.

Now MacMillan took the chair behind Marc’s desk, subtly supplanting his authority. He leaned his elbows on the desk top and linked his fingers together with great precision.

“Well, Charlie, I think it’s safe to say that you have our undivided attention.” He’d dropped the Miss Fox again, I noted wryly.

I swallowed, easing myself into one of the leather chairs opposite. They’d given me a cold cloth to hold over my swelling eye, but I had the mother of all headaches lurking just behind it. Everything hurt. I flexed my right hand warily. The knuckles had stiffened until I couldn’t clench them without feeling as though my skin was going to split.

I glanced at the two men opposite. Both had their eyes fixed on me, expectant.

“It started with a man who wanted so desperately to escape his roots that he lost his sense of morality somewhere on the journey,” I began, staring Marc straight in the face.

He made a growl of protest, shifted his weight as if to stand, but MacMillan stilled him with a small movement of his hand. “Sit down, Mr Quinn,” he warned softly. Marc subsided, looking disturbed with himself that he should have obeyed the Superintendent’s quiet command.

“When you’ve no money, no qualifications and are given no quarter by anyone, drugs must seem a very attractive proposition,” I went on neutrally. “Where better place to sell the more up-market stuff—Ecstasy, cocaine, speed—than in a nightclub? After all, the boys on the door will make damned sure nobody brings their own in, so they’re a captive market, a ready audience. And it was all going swimmingly until Angelo Zachary stepped out of line.”

Marc’s head came up. He was too proud to beg me to stop, but there was the fear in his eyes now, and maybe even a trace of hurt surprise, too. I closed my heart to the fact I held his future, his freedom in my hands, and pressed on.

“Angelo, you see,” I told MacMillan, “has some nastily sadistic tendencies. When he’s not playing SS man here, he likes to watch videos designed for a very specialised taste—that’s when he’s not beating up his girlfriend, of course.”

I glanced at the Superintendent, not entirely sure what I’d see, but both he and Marc were sitting impassive. MacMillan gestured silently for me to go on.

“Unfortunately, they don’t come cheap, and Angelo hired out rather a lot of these videos, from a guy called Terry Rothwell.” The policeman tried not to show he had just snapped to attention, but I caught the betraying twitch of his hands.

“He had so many, built up such a tab, that when Terry eventually insisted he settle up, Angelo couldn’t do it. So, he faked a robbery here at the club. He nicked a few expensive items of office equipment, like a lap-top computer, making sure others took the blame, and paid his debt that way.”

That was one thing Marc hadn’t figured out. Not until I’d opened up to him that night in the flat. He’d agreed to set the trap for Angelo not because he wanted to see if he’d killed Terry. Oh no, he already knew all about that. He wanted to know if Angelo had committed the far more serious crime of lying to him.

“The only trouble was,” I continued, “that I think the lap-top had been used to record information about the drugs being dealt here, and although Angelo wiped the data files, he thought he’d get cute and not tell Terry about the password. If he hadn’t done that, Terry would probably never have looked any further into it. As it was, he just made it more suspicious. And Angelo wasn’t to know that Terry would have a friend who had another friend who was good enough with computers to retrieve the files.”

“You.” MacMillan murmured the single word as a statement, not a question.

I nodded briefly, wanting to keep Sam out of this. “I didn’t know where he’d got the damned thing, but when I told him what data we’d managed to restore, Terry obviously decided to have a go at a little light blackmail.”

It was MacMillan who nodded now, understanding. “And when he tried that, Angelo killed him,” he said, almost to himself. He moved quickly to his feet. “I’ll make sure we’ve got Zachary.” He frowned as he noted my more obvious injuries. “Will you be all right on your own here with him for a moment?”

“I expect so,” I said. Even in this state I was fairly sure I could handle a handcuffed man on my own. It seemed so wrong to see Marc restrained in that way, as though all his self-confidence and polish was slipping away.

MacMillan nodded, as though he hadn’t really doubted that I could, and hurried from the room.

As the door closed behind him I glanced at Marc, taking up the thread again for his benefit, and feeling I could speak more freely now. “The problem was, when Angelo went round to see him, Terry didn’t have the lap-top to give back to him, not with any persuasion. It could be that Angelo had meant to kill him anyway—he’s certainly the type—or maybe he just lost his rag. Whichever way it happened, afterwards Angelo panicked, and he came back to tell his mate, Len what he’d done.”

I remembered Dave’s report of the conversation he’d overheard. Len telling Angelo that he’d gone too far this time, that he didn’t think he’d be able to cover up for him. At the time I’d thought Angelo was dealing drugs off his own bat. Now I knew different.

“Of course, the first thing Len did was turn to you.” I flickered my gaze towards his face, but was not rewarded with a response. “Len thinks you walk on water,” I said. “He would follow you to hell and back and not turn a hair.” I paused, then couldn’t resist adding icily, “It’s a good job, because after this, he’s probably going to have to.”

Marc’s face twisted then. He must have known what was coming, but had still hoped against hope that I would veer off course at the last minute. I watched the realisation form for a few moments before I dug the knife in.

“He knew you would take care of the problem, and that problem was me. I suppose I should have known,” I murmured. “The first time I met you, you gave me fair enough warning. If you work for me, you don’t break the rules, you said. Not for anyone.” I shrugged. “I didn’t realise you meant your rules. I unwittingly stepped on your toes, so you sent the boys round. Nothing personal, that’s just the way the game goes. Simple, really.”

He spread his hands to the limit of the handcuffs’ chain, then let them drop back into his lap. “I couldn’t just let it go, Charlie, you must realise that.” I was surprised to hear a note of pleading in his voice. “I never dreamed you’d get so involved, would take it so far. I told them to go easy on you. They didn’t listen.”

I gave a short, harsh laugh. “And I’m supposed to be thankful for that? Oh you told them to go easy on me all right, but not so easy. You didn’t bother to tell them that Charlie wasn’t a bloke’s name, did you? What’s the matter, Marc, afraid your boys wouldn’t have the stomach for beating up a woman? Well, at least they didn’t quite manage to stick a knife in my guts, like poor old Terry got from Angelo, now did they?”

He tried to run an exasperated hand quickly through his hair, nearly smacked himself in the face when the other one came along with it. Even his coordination seemed to have gone.

“That was a mistake. Angelo went too far.” He stopped, took a breath, started again. “All I wanted to do was scare you off, stop you from following this course. I should have known that you wouldn’t scare so easily.” He tried a half-hearted smile, rose and made as if to move towards me. “Charlie, it doesn’t need to end like this.”

“That’s plenty far enough, Marc.” There must have been something in my face. He searched it for a long moment, then advanced no further.

“The really ironic thing is,” I went on, “that Terry didn’t have anything to threaten you with anyway. All we were able to get off that damned computer were a few file names and one list of dates. There was nothing that couldn’t have been explained away or swept under the carpet.” Marc closed his eyes as if asking his God to help him.

“I don’t know how Terry got to know about what was going on here. Maybe Angelo offered him something in the beginning as a trade. Terry wouldn’t have accepted it. He was very anti-drugs.

“Whatever,” I continued, “Terry had enough to drop a few of the right words onto Angelo. Did he ask for money? A charitable donation, maybe? That would have been like him. Striking a blow for freedom, he would have seen it as. A bit of private enterprise.”

“Charlie—” Marc protested.

“You took great pains to retrieve that computer, didn’t you?” I ploughed on as though he hadn’t spoken. “That was why you sent your thugs after me. They obviously had orders not only to get the lap-top back, but to persuade me not to go to the police as well.”

I put a trace of emphasis on the word “persuade”, just as I could imagine Marc had done when he’d originally briefed his boys. I understood the reason for the delay coming to get me now. He’d had to bring them in from one of his other clubs specially. And he couldn’t take them away from work on a Saturday night, now could he?

Marc didn’t deny it. A part of me still hoped that he would, that I was wrong. He sat looking defeated, shoulders slumped, and didn’t even meet my eyes. I hardened my heart along with my resolve, and kept going.

“What I really can’t forgive, Marc,” I said acidly, mildly gratified by the fact that my voice didn’t waver, “is that after you’d let your boys work me over, you took me back to your hotel and gave me a working over of your own. Was that all part of the careful plan? The softly softly approach just in case they hadn’t been able to beat enough out of me?”

His head came up at that, eyes haunted, face bloodless. “Charlie, I swear I never meant for that to happen either.” His voice was a whisper, truth cutting through like daylight. Not that it mattered, I suppose, whether he was lying or not.

Not any more.

“Are you so cold,” he demanded, “that what we had together—what we shared together—really meant nothing to you?”

I’d shied away from pursuing that subject too closely. The wound was still too raw. Instead I met his gaze levelly. “Not when you saw it as nothing more than a means of control over me,” I said, “no it didn’t.”

The silence was still hanging between us when the door opened and MacMillan reappeared. His sharp eyes flicked between us, as though expecting to see fresh blood on one or the other.

“Well,” he said, “you didn’t hit him again, then.” I couldn’t tell from his tone whether he was relieved or disappointed.

“Did you get Angelo?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Not yet, I’ve got my men checking, but it’s chaos out there, I’m afraid.” He peered at me closely, seemed to read my mind, and sighed. “What else haven’t you told me?”

I hesitated before I spoke. “Yesterday we tried to lay a bit of a trap here for Angelo. Both Marc and I wanted to confront him about the lap-top, but not for the same reasons, it seems.”

MacMillan perked up again. “What happened?”

“We didn’t catch him, but we did discover that his alibi for the night Susie Hollins died was false,” I said. I took a deep breath. “I think he might be your serial rapist.”

I explained about Gary’s confession. “Angelo must have thought it was a close call. This morning he left me this.” I peeled the anonymous note I’d received out of my back pocket and handed it to MacMillan. He looked at it without removing it from the clear plastic bag I’d put it in, his expression sober.

“You need to be very, very careful on this until we’re sure we’ve got him in custody, Charlie,” he cautioned. “He’s a very dangerous man.”

“No shit, Einstein?” I bit back, unable to stop the rising sarcastic inflection. Careful? Right now I didn’t even have the energy to go carefully down a flight of stairs.

MacMillan frowned at me and was about to speak when there was a knock on the door and one of his plainclothes men leant round the edge. “Sorry to interrupt, sir,” he said respectfully, “but there’s no sign of Zachary. Apparently when we showed up he belted one of the bobbies good style and did a runner. I’ve got a car on the way to his last-known address now.”

“He was going out with one of the bar staff, a girl called Victoria,” I informed him. “She might know where he’d have gone. You can’t miss her—she’s the one Angelo’s been using for target practice.”

The man nodded without asking for further explanations, and ducked out again.

MacMillan nodded, satisfied, and got to his feet. “I think you can leave things solely to us from now on, Charlie,” he said firmly. “I’ll have you escorted home and get a WPC to stay with you until we’ve got our hands on this Angelo character.”

“But can you at least tell me if that fits?” I demanded. “If there’s any evidence to link Terry’s death with those of the two women?”

The Superintendent wasn’t to be drawn. “I’m sure you understand that I can’t say anything that might prejudice ongoing investigations,” he said, falling back on that old fob-off line.

I sighed, resentful. A couple of uniforms arrived to conduct Marc to the waiting van, but as they took him away I stepped in front of him. There was one last question I had to ask.

“Why, Marc? Why did you do all this?”

He paused. “Why?” he repeated, his voice vibrating with the same anger that suddenly lit his eyes. “Like you’ve just so accurately reminded me—I was born in a slum, Charlie. Everything I have, everything I am, I created myself. I worked for it, fought for it, every step of the way.”

His carefully modulated accent was dissolving, the flat vocal tones of his long-suppressed Manchester beginnings seeping up through the cracks. “Who are you to judge me when you were brought up in comfort, luxury even,” he jeered. “You’ve never had to live day by day with hunger, fear, desperation.”

“That’s true,” I admitted, “but that doesn’t excuse what you’ve done, Marc. Making other people desperate, and hungry and afraid doesn’t make it right. Plenty of people have escaped from poverty without resorting to dealing in drugs to do it.”

“Oh yeah?” he flung at me. “Name one!”

“That’s enough,” MacMillan put in with that same measured quietness. He nodded sharply to the coppers and they resumed their escort duty. He put a hand on my arm. “Are you sure you’re OK? Would you like me to get one someone to give you a lift home?”

I thought of the Suzuki waiting in the car park and shook my head. The ride would do me good. I planned to take the long way back to Lancaster. I was weary to my bones, but I knew I needed to get the cobwebs out of my head before I stood a chance of sleep.

Besides, I realised as I watched the strange trio passing through the doorway, with Marc irrevocably lost to me the prospect of going to bed no longer held quite the same appeal.

***

Surprisingly perhaps, I slept deep and untroubled that night. At around quarter to eight I woke with no nightmare sweats, just a vague sense of deep unease.

I climbed stiffly out of bed and pulled on my towelling robe, shuffling into the lounge. I registered without undue amazement that there was a small blonde policewoman dozing on my ripped sofa. I left her to sleep and headed for the shower.

I showered carefully, inspecting the new bruises that were mingling sociably with the fading old ones. My eye was puffy and tender and my back ached like I’d been doing twelve hours of manual labour. My hand had been so sore last night on the ride home that I could barely operate the front brake lever. I’d had to rely on the foot-operated rear brake to do all the work.

I dressed in jogging pants and an old T-shirt, then moved through to the kitchen, filling the filter machine. I think it was the smell of fresh coffee brewing that finally brought my companion round.

She sat up, doe-eyed with sleep, and looked round groggily. The change in attitude set off the sort of racking cough only committed smokers have first thing in the morning. When they haven’t had the first cigarette of the day to bump-start their lungs. If she thought she was going to light up in here, though, she had another think coming.

MacMillan had introduced her last night only as WPC Wilks who, he declared somewhat cryptically, was going to look after me. She’d climbed into a panda car and patiently followed my meandering course along the seafront to Hest Bank before doubling back to Lancaster.

Once we’d arrived she hadn’t tried to make our relationship any less formal, standing over me while I chained the bike down at the rear of the building. She took up station in the lounge when I went to bed, and now she was fully awake, she was sturdily back on duty again.

I had a sneaking suspicion Wilks was there to keep an eye on me as much as to protect me. She must have been two inches shorter, and weighed down with her kevlar vest and bulky uniform. I tried not to let stereotyped prejudice colour my view of her. After all, clipped to her equipment belt she had the same aerosol spray of CS gas they’d used last night to such effect on Len. I dare say Angelo wouldn’t prove any more immune.

It was clear, though, that the Superintendent didn’t think Angelo would be stupid enough to come back for me. They were obviously expecting him to be halfway to the other end of the country by now, lying low.

I remembered the phone call, and the note, and I didn’t share their confidence.

Wilks unbent enough to accept a cup of coffee, taking it Turkish—black with three sugars. She asked me if I minded her smoking, but took my solid refusal without offence.

I found her presence disconcerting, without really knowing why. I forced myself to go through some stretching exercises to try and loosen up my aching muscles. Wilks watched me with a polite expression on her face, as though I was performing some bizarre ritual.

“Did you know half your back’s gone purple?” she remarked now.

I turned my head, surprised to see her staring slightly wide-eyed, and realised that my T-shirt had ridden up to expose some of the results of last night’s activity.

“Yes,” I said curtly, pulling the cotton material down again.

She looked about to say more, but there was a robust knocking on the door. Wilks crossed to it, studying the visitor through the Judas glass for a few moments.

“It’s an oldish-looking feller,” she said after a few moments, adding businesslike, “Would you come and see if you know who it is before I open the door?” I took her estimate of age with a pinch of salt. She didn’t look like she’d yet escaped her teens, so anyone over thirty could well qualify for that description.

I took her place at the Judas glass. It only took a second to identify my caller. It was just the shock of recognition that delayed my response-time. The man knocked again, louder this time, with a hint of impatience.

“Well?” Wilks demanded. “Do we let him in or not?”

“I suppose we should do,” I said slowly, reluctantly. “Seeing as he’s my father.”

I stepped back and left Wilks to admit him, looking all official. My father reacted well to having his daughter’s door opened by an officer of the law. But then, we had been through something like this before.

“Charlotte,” he greeted me impassively. Eyes the same colour as my own studied the contusions on my face with professional detachment. I saw them shift downwards, as though calculating what other injuries lay beneath my clothing. I could almost hear his mind ticking over probable cause, course of treatment.

He looked the same as ever. Thinning grey hair cropped close to his scalp, skin tanned from three foreign holidays a year. He was wearing a good if rather funereal suit, topped by an impeccable raincoat, and carrying a leather dispatch case.

He could easily have been mistaken for a retired army officer. Major at least, but more like lieutenant-colonel. Matey enough with the lower ranks to earn loyalty rather than just expect it, I considered. And remote enough to order them to their deaths without a qualm.

Wilks broke in to our mutual visual assessment, cheerfully offering my father coffee, calling him sir.

He thanked her gravely, then returned his gaze to me. I waved to the sofa and, after a moment’s hesitation at the prospect of placing himself on something with such a motheaten appearance, he removed his raincoat and sat.

“I take it,” he said, choosing his words with care as he checked the crease in his trousers, “that there have been further developments since we last spoke.”

“You could say that,” I returned with equal caution.

Wilks reappeared with the coffee and then hovered, looking uncomfortable. “I don’t suppose you would be compromising your orders if you went to make a check on the stairs and left us to chat for a while, would you?” I asked her.

She smiled, looking suddenly human, and made for the door. I could see her brightening at the prospect of the day’s first delayed fix of nicotine.

My father waited until she was gone before he slid the dispatch case onto his knees and unbuckled its leather straps. He pulled out three slim files and stood the case back on the floor.

“I didn’t think it was wise to discuss these while your little friend was around,” he commented. “Particularly as officially I’m not supposed to be in possession of them, let alone be showing them to you.”

He handed me the files. For a moment I stared at the stamp on the front that identified them as the property of a pathology lab in Preston. “Are these what I think they are?”

He inclined his head in agreement, suddenly—painfully—reminding me of Marc. “Results of the post mortem examinations on the three people you mentioned,” he supplied. “It took me a little while to locate them. Suspicious deaths aren’t dealt with at Lancaster. Those are the full reports,” he added. “Would you like me to go through them and give you the layman’s précis?”

I resisted the urge to bite at him and acknowledged that he wasn’t being condescending. Left to my own devices I probably wouldn’t be able to make out a single useful piece of information.

I gave in, not very gracefully, and he opened the first file. “If we take the male victim first,” he said, his voice coolly unemotional, as though we were discussing the weather. “This is a fairly straightforward case of disembowelment. Apart from numerous superficial defence wounds, there was a single large incision to the abdomen. Death was caused by massive trauma to just about all the major organs, blood loss, and shock.”

“Even I could spot that one,” I pointed out.

He stilled. “You saw the body?”

I realised I’d just made a mistake, but covering it up now was going to be difficult. “Yes,” I said shortly. “What about the others?”

He continued to stare at me for a moment longer, then consulted his other files. “The two girls were killed by the same man, without question,” he said. “DNA evidence confirms it, not to mention the modus operandi. It seems he raped them both at knife-point, probably inflicted some of the injuries seen on the head and neck at the same time. Then he cut their throats. The first girl—Susie—was subjected to a longer, more sustained attack. Her facial injuries are more severe. The second victim was dealt with much more hurriedly, and she managed to scratch her attacker. Skin and hair samples were recovered from under her fingernails.”

I sat for a few moments digesting what he’d just said. I vividly remembered the marks on Angelo’s face I’d seen the night we’d tried to trap him at the club.

Before, I’d assumed he’d either received that at the same time, or maybe Victoria had managed to land one on him during their bust-up. Instead, it must have been Joy who’d done him the damage …

“So Angelo did them all,” I murmured, almost to myself.

My father glanced at me. “You think these three crimes were all the work of one man?” he asked. There was something in his voice that grabbed my attention.

Pulse jumping, I turned to him. “Aren’t they?”

He didn’t answer outright, picking up the reports again. “The knife wound to the man runs left to right, as you’d expect from an assailant who was right-handed,” he explained, “but the two women were beaten on the right-hand side of their heads, and the initial wounds to the throat are also on the right side, indicating strongly that the rapist is a left-hander.”

He regarded me solemnly, and I didn’t doubt for a moment that he was right. “But if that’s the case …” I began, my voice tailing off.

He nodded, following my line of thought. “That’s right. There are two very different men at work here, Charlotte. I’m afraid there’s no doubt about it.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

BY THE time WPC Wilks returned from her crafty cigarette, my father had gathered the post mortem reports back into their individual files, and discreetly returned them to his dispatch case.

There was more I wanted to ask him, but felt inhibited by the third set of ears. Wilks tried not to make it obvious that she was eavesdropping, but they were flapping, all the same.

My father left soon afterwards, giving me the sort of impersonal kiss on the cheek you would a maiden aunt. “Take care of yourself, Charlotte,” he told me, his voice serious. “And call your mother.”

“I will,” I promised, and realised that I probably meant it. “Just don’t tell her about—this,” I finished lamely. “I don’t want her to worry about me.” Or not to care, I added silently.

He nodded and agreed to keep my mother blissfully unaware of my troubles. I almost detected the faintest glint of a conspiratorial smile as he turned away down the stairs.

When he’d gone I sat on one of the window ledges, staring out across the river, lost in my thoughts. It was cold and windy, and by the look of the clouds sweeping across the sky, soon the rain would arrive to make it a hat-trick.

If Angelo had killed Terry, but not the women, then who had done it? And how had they got hold of my voice changer?

On the other hand, if Angelo wasn’t Terry’s murderer, then who was? I’d been so sure it was the same man that, suddenly faced with evidence to the contrary, I was utterly lost.

I tried to remember who at the club was left-handed, but even that fact escaped me. I couldn’t recall ever having noticed Angelo writing anything down. He fought fairly evenly with both hands, and I’d never seen him pull a knife.

Somewhere, in the back of my mind, something rang a bell, but the harder I reached for it, the more elusive it became. Eventually, with a sigh, I gave up and climbed awkwardly off my perch. More coffee, that was what I needed.

I tottered through into the kitchen, my aching muscles protesting at the simple activity of refilling the filter machine. The rain started to fall, abrupt and heavy on the skylight over the sink. I had a sudden thought that there was no way I was going to ride up to Devil’s Bridge with Clare if I didn’t have to.

I moved back through to the lounge straight away, and picked up the phone, punching in Jacob and Clare’s number.

Jacob answered, sounding slightly taken aback, but I jumped straight in with my excuses. “Hi Jacob, it’s me. Could you tell Clare that I’m not really feeling up to Devil’s Bridge today? Would she mind if we called it off?” I paused expectantly. “Jacob?”

“She’s already set off,” Jacob said slowly, and I could hear the worry climb in his voice. “She left a good hour ago. I thought the two of you would be up there by now.”

My mouth dried. “Are you sure she was coming straight here?”

“Positive. Look, I’ll have a run out in the Range Rover, just in case she’s had a problem with the Ducati. You know what the electrics are like on these old Italian bikes. One drop of rain and they give up the ghost,” he said, trying not to sound as though he was panicking. “If she turns up at your place in the meantime, let me know, would you?”

“OK,” I said, and rang off with my own anxiety rising to match. I had just started collecting my gear together when the phone rang again. Wilks looked up from her study of one of my fitness magazines, saw I was closer to it than she was, and went back to her reading.

I was half-expecting it to be Jacob again, to say everything was all right, but it was Clare herself on the line.

“Charlie?” To begin with I was too relieved to recognise her voice to realise that the pitch was slightly off and she sounded strained.

“Oh, hi, I was just about to come and look for you,” I babbled. “Have you had problems with the bike? Have you rung Jacob?” I paused. Nothing. “Clare?”

“Ye-yes, I’m still here,” she said jerkily. “Listen, Charlie, there’s someone here who wants to speak to you.”

“Clare, what’s the matter?” I said, more warily now. “You sound like you’ve been crying. Are you OK?”

But it wasn’t Clare who spoke. Instead, I heard that metallic voice I’d come to dread.

“Your friend doesn’t seem too happy to be here with me,” it said.

The fear laced down my spine, riffling the hairs, causing an involuntary spasm in my hands. “What do you want?” I said sharply. Wilks looked up, but I ignored her inquiring glance.

“What do I want, Charlie? Now that’s an interesting question,” purred the voice. “I want vengeance. I want you naked and screaming under me. That’s what I want.” The voice halted a moment, then delivered the death blow. “But if I can’t have you, I’m willing to take a substitute. Your friend Clare, for instance.”

“Go on,” I said tightly. There were bands round my chest. I couldn’t breathe fully. I was gripping the phone so hard it made my hand pulse.

“The New Adelphi. Be here in ten minutes. If you’re late, she dies,” the voice commanded, and even the voice changer couldn’t disguise the swell of triumph. “Oh, and Charlie, I know your place is crawling with filth at the moment, so make sure you wash before you come. Any sign of the boys in blue and she’ll be dead before you make it through the door.”

“If you harm her …” I began, my own tone quiet but frozen. He didn’t reply to that one. There was just a soft click, and he’d gone.

I put the phone down slowly, and turned to find Wilks at my shoulder, looking suspicious.

“That was him, wasn’t it?” she demanded. When I nodded numbly, she turned up her lapel mic to her mouth and started to call her HQ.

It was enough to shake me out of my stupor. I grabbed her hand. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Let go of me, Charlie. I’ve got to call it in,” she said.

“You don’t understand. He’ll kill her if your lot show up!”

She gave me a patronising look. “We are trained for this sort of thing, you know,” she said. “Did he tell you where he was?”

Anger star-burst behind my eyes. Without realising I’d done it, I’d shifted my feet into a stance, gauged the distances. “Please,” I said. “Let me handle it.”

She disregarded my final plea, so I hit her, just under her chin with my upswept elbow. Her teeth clacked together alarmingly, then her eyes rolled back in her head, and she started to crumple.

I half-carried, half-dragged the unconscious policewoman over to the sofa and left her lying on it. I suppose part of me was hoping she wouldn’t hold it against me for ever, but part of me didn’t care.

Within seconds I’d grabbed my jacket and helmet and pelted down the stairs to the street. The rain lashed down over my back, sliding under my collar. WPC Wilks’s panda car was still parked three cars down, where she’d left it last night, but behind it, rear wheel slanted in towards the kerb, was Clare’s Ducati.

When I looked, I found the bike’s keys were still in the ignition.

Oh God, I’d never heard her arrive. He must have been waiting around outside the flat. Unwilling to come in and get me because of the obvious police presence. So he’d been waiting for me to come out. And he’d grabbed Clare instead.

Just for a second, I debated on taking the Ducati. It was far faster than the Suzuki, but an unknown quantity as far as handling went. I couldn’t risk it.

I ran round to my own bike and slipped the chain. My only thought was that if I didn’t get to the New Adelphi in time, Clare would be dead. And it would be all down to me.

I jammed my lid on, wincing as the side padding squeezed the swollen flesh round my eye, and kicked the Suzuki into life.

Usually I’m religious about letting the bike warm up, but this time it was in gear and moving the moment the motor caught and fired. I snapped the throttle wide open in the first three gears as I roared along the quay, short-shifting as the Suzuki squealed its outrage, the cold engine stuttering without revving freely to the red line.

There was hardly any traffic as I joined the main road and I gassed it again. As I hit the long tight left-hander over Greyhound Bridge on the river, I realised just how greasy the roads were.

The back end started to slide out. I daren’t touch the brakes. I had to try and desperately control it on the power, feeding the throttle in evenly to compensate. By the time the road straightened out under the railway line, the speedo needle was wavering round ninety miles an hour.

By the college the cars were thicker, people on their way to the ferry terminal at Heysham, the supermarket or the Drive-Thru. I skimmed down the outside, slithering over the slick white lines, kicking up rooster-tails of spray like a water-skier.

I squinted through the rain blurring my visor, overtaking on the wrong side of a pedestrian refuge in the middle of the road when a truck blocked the left lane.

I braked hard for the first of the roundabouts, feeling the compression up through my arms, the pain in my hand. I ignored it, blanked it out. The Suzuki hit a trace of diesel on the second one, and shied sideways, damned near high-siding me into the back end of a lumbering Volvo saloon. It would have made an ironic change for a biker to have wiped out a Swedish tank, I suppose. I don’t think the driver even noticed.

Come on, faster, faster! There’s no clock on the bike, and the last thing I was going to do was take one hand off the bars to fumble for my watch. I had no idea how long it was since the phone call. It seemed like it had taken me hours to get this far.

I nearly didn’t make it at all. A car on one of the side roads off Broadway misjudged the speed of my approach and pulled out in front of me. For once I didn’t bother stabbing my thumb on the horn button, or gesturing rudely at him. I just swerved within a foot of the bumper and whacked the throttle against the stop, fighting to keep the front end in contact with the tarmac.

By the time I hit the car park at the New Adelphi, my heart was slamming like I’d just run a marathon and stinging beads of sweat were running into my eyes.

I kicked the side-stand down and jumped off the bike, yanking off my helmet. My left knee complained bitterly at the exercise as I ran for the main entrance on legs that trembled perilously.

When I reached it, the front door was firmly bolted and draped with “police—do not cross’ tape.

I stood back, wheezing, cursing, then jogged round to the back entrance. The tape had been pulled aside here, and the door was propped open with half a breeze block again, revealing a dark aperture beyond. The lion’s den.

I took a deep breath, and stepped through the doorway, moving quietly along the corridor until it opened out into one of the main dance floors. My breath was coming in gasps now, my heart about to burst. I bent and deposited my helmet on the floor, putting it down without a sound.

As soon as I moved out onto the darkened floor, the big lights in front of the stage blazed on. I flinched back, couldn’t help it, shielding my eyes with my hand.

The voice spoke from the other side of the lights, mocking. “Ah, Charlie! Just in time. I do so love a woman who’s punctual!”

The voice was undisguised and in a moment the tumblers of my mind turned, the lock shifted into perfect alignment, and the door swung open to reveal all the dark secrets that slithered inside.

“Hi Dave,” I said, admirably calm, coming further forwards. “What have you done with Clare?”

“Oh she’s here,” he said, disembodied in the shadows. “I’m sure she’ll be very relieved that you’ve come to give yourself up for her sake. Greater love hath no man—or no woman, in this case—than he will lay down his life for his friend. Isn’t that the saying? Mind you, I thought there was something going on between you two the first time I saw you. I thought if I got lucky you might invite me to join in.”

I ignored the shudder of revulsion that twitched my shoulder blades. “Dream on, Dave,” I said, my voice thick with contempt. “That sort of thing only happens in the sick videos you used to hire out from Terry. Oh, I missed it at first. I was looking for DC, but he used to identify you by your job, not your initials, didn’t he? Terry’s client book was filled with references to DJ and I didn’t spot it. I doubt the police will be so slow.”

He advanced then, jumped down off the stage with a supple agility that made the hairs rise on my arms. He had forsaken his polo-necked jumper in favour of a T-shirt. Where I expected to find the bruises round his neck from Marc’s punishing grip, instead I saw two deep scratch marks, scabbing over. Oh Christ, Joy …

I’d missed that one, too.

He came towards me, menacing. I forced myself not to take a stance. I couldn’t afford to provoke him without knowing where Clare was. What he’d done with her. To her.

Besides, gripped in his fist—his left fist, of course—was a survival knife with a metal-topped rubber handle, and a wicked eight-inch blade. I tried to avoid staring at it, but it pulled my gaze like a magnet.

“What’s the fascination with me, Dave?”

“We’re alike, you and me. Soul mates.” He circled me. “I saw the way you dealt with Susie—so casual, so easy. And when I saw you fight those two lads that night in the club I knew, then,” he purred. “I knew that you were just the same as me, Charlie. You had the power over them, and you revelled in it.”

I shook my head. “I did what was necessary, Dave, and I didn’t enjoy it,” I stated calmly. I turned to glance at him. At him, not the knife. “You’re forgetting a major difference between us. I didn’t kill them. And I didn’t rape them first.”

“You’re a woman. Women are weak, stupid, vain,” he threw back at me. He paced then. Quick, short strides, agitated, speaking almost to himself. “They promise everything with their come-to-bed eyes and their come-on bodies. Dressed up like whores, most of them. I see them!”

He spun back to me, his eyes fired. “Every night, they come in here, flaunting themselves in front of me. Teasing. Look don’t touch. They pretend they’re going to come across, then they dance back out of reach. Make you beg for a touch, a taste. Well I wasn’t going to let those little bitches taunt me any longer! I showed them who was in control!”

“So first you raped that young girl,” I said. “Then you decided she didn’t light your fire, so you raped and killed Susie. What made you pick her out, hmm?”

He flushed, his cheekbones turning a dull red. “She led me on, let me down, and then told that bastard boyfriend of hers all about it,” he complained. “They were laughing at me!”

I remembered the insult Tony had thrown at Dave as Susie was dragged away. “You can shut up an’ all, you dickless little shit!” I wonder if he ever realised those careless words would be the cause of her horrific death.

“What’s the matter, Dave, wasn’t she very sympathetic when you couldn’t get it up? Oh she probably promised you a quick one if you’d keep her winning the karaoke, but you couldn’t do it without a fight, could you? So you waited until she’d been thrown out of the club and then you raped her instead. Nobody noticed you disappearing on your break, and you always changed clothes between sets anyway. It was the perfect opportunity. That was much more like it, wasn’t it Dave?” I allowed a sneer to creep in. “Bit more of a thrill? Made you feel more of a man, did it?”

I saw his hand clench convulsively round the handle of the knife. Dare I push him any further? Oh, I dared!

“Joy put up more of a fight, didn’t she, Dave? Caught you unawares, marked you, but even that wasn’t enough was it? So then you came looking for me. Taking my voice changer threw me,” I admitted. “I thought the thugs had lifted it, that it could only be Angelo threatening me. I didn’t realise it was a little runt like you.”

Stupidly, I’d missed the fact that Dave had been inside the flat the morning after Marc’s boys had turned it over. I remembered his exaggerated surprise at the damage. He was over-reacting because he’d already seen it …

“You think it can’t happen to you? Your over-confidence is your weakness,” he hissed. “I’ve watched you for a while, Charlie. You think you’re equal to a man, but you never will be. Don’t forget, I’ve had a private lesson. I know all about your feeble abilities. You’re just like those other bitches, and you’ll scream like them when I’m fucking you. You’ll scream and you’ll beg me to stop, just like the rest.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” I said tautly.

“No? How about I just let you watch while I do your friend? She’s a looker, all right. I bet she’ll scream.”

I smothered my rising panic and shoved it viciously back down into the depths of my psyche. “That’s always the way with you, isn’t it, Dave? Taking the easy way out,” I taunted. “What challenge is Clare to you? She can’t fight. There’s nothing to stop you raping her, but I’m what you’ve really been after. Why waste time?”

“This—is—my—game!” Dave spelt out, face white with sudden fury. “We play it my way!”

I knew I’d gone too far. I backed down. “OK, Dave, whatever you say,” I murmured, holding my hands out, palms upwards, supplicant.

I didn’t move while he stepped smoothly back into the shadows. He’d dropped all pretence now, and was moving like a pro, sure and economical. How could I have missed it before? I hadn’t bothered to look beneath the surface veneer, to see past the mirage he’d created and I was kicking myself for it. How many times had people made that very same mistake with me? So often I’d almost come to rely on it as part of my camouflage.

When Dave reappeared, only moments later, it seemed, he was dragging Clare’s weeping figure after him. I was horrified to see he’d bound her slim wrists together with one of the heavy duty plastic zip-ties he used to fasten his disco gear down. I knew that some police forces used them because the breaking point was phenomenal. It offered minimal chance of Clare being strong enough to force her way free.

Never let yourself be immobilised. It was one of the basic rules of self-defence.

When he reached the middle of the dance floor, Dave stopped and let Clare go. Without the support she collapsed, whimpering, cradling her wrists to her chest. The plastic had been snatched tight enough to dig cruelly through the skin. Now they left smears of blood on the front of her pale cream jumper.

Instinctively, my legs took me forwards. Dave stepped fluidly to the side, grabbed a handful of Clare’s hair to yank her head up, and slid the blade of the knife under her delicate jaw. She went rigid, eyes wide with terror.

I froze, unable to take my eyes off the knife. Unable to move as Dave increased the pressure a fraction, so the razor-sharp edge just bit through the top layer of her skin and her blood began to weep down over the polished steel. I swallowed, my mouth abruptly arid, tongue swollen like a man too long in the desert.

Dave tutted, grinning. “Oh no, Charlie, not so fast,” he warned. “Your reflexes might be passable, but even you couldn’t get over here before I’d given your friend a second mouth to feed. And you won’t be able to save her afterwards, will you? Remember Joy?”

“So what happens now?” I asked, my voice a whisper.

“You strip,” Dave said. “Get rid of that leather jacket, for a start.”

I did as I was told without protest, dropping the offending piece of clothing onto the floor next to me. Stared at him. Tried not to concentrate on Clare’s shock-glazed face.

“And the boots. Take them off.”

I bent to unfasten them, but as I did so I had a chance sighting of Dave easing the knife slightly away from Clare’s throat, changing his grip.

It was a chance, a slim hope, but it was there. There was nothing else I could do but grab it with both hands and pray.

Arms outstretched, yelling, I drove my body upright and onwards, and launched myself at Dave.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

DAVE KNEW all the rules of hand-to-hand. I found that out the hard way, but the surprise of my initial charge had the desired effect of making him move back, putting some distance between him and Clare. I hoped she’d take the opportunity to make a run for it, but catching a glimpse of her inert form slumped on the floor, it seemed unlikely.

Dave and I circled each other, half-crouched and intent. He held the knife like an expert, with the pommel of the hilt upwards and the blade slanted down, protecting his forearm. It stopped me being able to get a grip on his wrist, putting a lock onto him that would force him to his knees and disarm him.

I switched tactics. I blanked my mind of the knife, but at the same time was acutely aware of its position and direction. Instead I concentrated on the man behind it. He was focusing all his energies into the weapon he was carrying, relying on it to be both offence and defence. If I could just slip past his guard …

I tried it, feinting right, then dodging left and lashing out with my boot to his kneecap. Dave’s reactions were faster than I’d hoped. I caught him a mild blow, enough to hurt but not disable, and received a thin slicing cut across my bicep for my trouble.

He only just nicked me. If I’d still been wearing my jacket, I doubt it would have pierced the skin, but the thin material of my T-shirt offered little armour.

I made a big play of clamping my fingers over the wound and grimacing, but in fact the pain was little more than a twinge. Knife wounds are clean and straight, and unless they’re deep enough to be serious, they heal quickly. A punch on the nose would probably have done me more damage.

“You think you can defeat me,” Dave crowed now, “but you’ve got no chance. You know what? I think I’m going to have you, then have your friend as well. She looks sweet enough to be dessert.”

“You better be into necrophilia then,” I growled, “because you’re going to have to kill me first, you sick bastard.”

Dave straightened for a moment, and the look in his eyes was quite insane. “Oh by the end of this you’re going to be dead, Charlie,” he said, his voice almost distant. “Even if I don’t manage it today, you’ll always know that one day I’ll catch up with you, and when I do, you’ll die.”

He started to laugh, and as he did so, I shifted and sprang.

I managed to dive under his guard, get past the first layer of defence, but he swung his fist round sideways and hit me hard in the face, with the steel pommel of the knife. It landed just under my eye and the noise of my cheekbone fracturing sounded disgustingly loud inside my head.

Streaks of pain shot round my skull like cracks, stars exploded in my vision. That side of my face felt as though it had instantly swelled up to twice its normal size, half closing my eye.

I stumbled and fell onto the flooring. Once I was down Dave kicked me twice in the ribs, vigorously, just for good measure. Then he stood over me and checked my reaction like he was studying a lab rat. My body turned in on itself, fighting the pain. My ribs were on fire, every breath was agony.

“Where are all your supposed self-defence skills now, Charlie?” he demanded. “You’re never going to compare to a man with half your ability, never mind one who’s your equal or master. You’re nowhere near. Face it, you just don’t have what it takes to stop me killing you. I think I’m going to enjoy it.”

“You can’t hope to get away with it,” I said, my voice coming in gasps. It was an awful cliché, but right at that moment I didn’t care. I just couldn’t seem to fill my lungs with enough air. It was like I was drowning.

“Oh can’t I?” he said softly. “And who’s going to stop me?”

“I am,” I said fiercely, pivoting onto my side and booting his legs out from under him.

The break-fall he did as he landed was practised and proficient. It took some of the shock out of it, but I’d hit the same leg as before, compounding the effect. It was enough to slow him down and for a moment he was down on his back, arms outstretched.

I scrambled onto my hands and knees and jumped for the knife, clamping onto his wrist, but I’d over-reached, was off-balance a fraction. He stuck his leg up and tipped me over, rolling his bodyweight crushingly on top of my tender ribs, with the knife still clutched firmly in his hand.

I could only watch in horror as it descended, as the blade disappeared from my field of vision and closed in on my throat. I felt the chill steel line of it, resting on my windpipe. The memory of Joy was stark and shocking. I looked up and saw death in his eyes, just as she must have done.

“Well, well, Charlie, looks like I’ve finally got you where I want you,” he panted, lips back from his teeth in a mirthless smile.

“Go fuck yourself!” I gasped. I desperately twisted my head sideways and back, bucking under him, clawing for his eyes.

He jerked. With a cold sense of finality I felt the sting of the knife going in, but there was little real pain. It was like being prodded with a stick. Just the sickly metallic smell of blood and the warm greasy wetness running down my skin.

Oh sweet Jesus, I thought. He’s done it. He’s cut my throat …

The cold logical side of my brain registered the probable depth of the injury. If I was lucky the main arteries into my brain would have been severed. I would quickly lose consciousness and bleed to death in minutes.

If I was unlucky the bleeding from the lacerated tissues would slowly weaken me. If it clogged my ruptured windpipe, I would quite simply drown in my own blood.

In the knowledge that I was most likely dead already, I went ballistic.

I had nothing to lose.

Ignoring the knife, I reached up, managing to grab hold of his ear, digging my nails in deep to the sensitive skin behind it. I used all my strength, ripping it sideways and down, and bringing his body with it. He tumbled to the side of me, bellowing, and the knife rattled to the floor.

I staggered to my knees. The blood was soaking down into the front of my T-shirt like a grotesque bib. I caught sight of the knife, clutched it, hurled it away into the shadows.

Dave lurched to his feet, his own blood sliding down the side of his face. He put a hand up to it. “You bitch!” he howled. “Look what you’ve done to me!”

Look what you’ve done to me, sunshine, my brain thought whimsically. I tried to get up, to match him. It was like wading through the surf on a loose shingle beach. I blinked to try and clear my vision, but it remained obstinately hazy.

The blast of adrenaline made me feel as though I’d been kicked in the chest. My heart was helpfully hammering my blood out of the hole in my neck as fast is it could muster. I was terrified I was going to pass out, lose by default.

Robbed of his weapon, Dave turned wildly to the stage, just behind us. He snatched up part of a mic stand, a thin metal rod about three feet long, and advanced, snarling.

I knew the end was coming, inevitable. It seemed important suddenly that I be on my feet to meet it. I lumbered upright, shaking uncontrollably, holding on to the edge of the stage to keep my balance as I turned to face him.

With an animal grunt, Dave swung his makeshift club double-handed at shoulder height like an American baseball player going for a home run. He put all his bodyweight behind it, the effort lifting him onto his toes, his face contorted with a burning passion.

I only saw him vaguely. My vision was tunnelling out, the edges blurred with smears of colour like spoilt film. I was going down, and I knew it.

The rod sizzled the air as it sliced through it. I did the best block I could manage considering I was fairly sure the floor was at ninety degrees to its real location. I took the full brunt of the blow diagonally across my left forearm and I swear I heard the radius and ulna let go with a sharp, staccato snap. The X-rays taken later showed a level, clean break line, as though the bones had been cut straight through.

The sound and the feel of the blow vibrated through my whole body. The impact spun me round and left me sprawled face-down over the stage, limp and nauseous.

Dave grabbed hold of my shoulder and yanked me over onto my back. “Oh no, I want to see the look on your face, bitch,” he said quietly, his voice twisted and breathless.

I looked up numbly, my expression blank. It was his eyes that were the most frightening, wild with the excitement of what he was doing.

I struggled to a sitting position on the edge of the stage, using only my right arm to push myself upright, my broken left dangling uselessly by my side. I slowly pulled my feet back so they were under my knees to give me balance. Dave stood over me, breathing heavily, the rod lowered in front of him now he had me beaten.

Afterwards, I couldn’t explain how I came to the decision. I didn’t do it consciously, which scares me. The opportunity presented itself and I took it instinctively, that’s all. I didn’t hesitate for a second, didn’t agonise over the moral rights and wrongs, didn’t stop to consider the consequences. Dave had dropped his guard and I took advantage of it to hit him as hard as I could.

Yelling from the base of my screaming lungs, I burst suddenly upright, ramming my feet into the floor to lift my body off the stage as my arm straightened.

I hit Dave just under the tip of his nose with the heel of my open hand, but I was aiming for a spot about eight inches further on. It was a deadly punch to throw, and I was fully aware of the fact. I put everything I had left into it, every scrap and ounce of energy. The forfeit for failure was an ugly, prolonged, and vicious death.

It didn’t fail. The force and the angle of the blow caused Dave’s nasal bone to shatter just at the bridge of his nose, between his eyes, as I’d prayed it would. The sheered end was driven onwards and upwards, slicing deep into the frontal lobe of his brain.

According to the police pathologist, he was dead before his body finished falling.

He splayed backwards, landing hard on the dance floor, head cracking hollowly against the polished wooden surface. His body continued to jitter, trying to evade the creeping paralysis that slowly enveloped it as his heart finally gave up the fight.

It took a while for him to stop twitching. The lifeless fingers relaxed. The mic stand rolled out onto the floor, rocked a little, and lay still. It was only then I could bear to look.

There was a dribble of saliva stringing from the corner of his slack mouth. His eyes were still open in his flattened, distorted face, frozen with the momentary surprise that had been his final expression, right in the instant before I killed him.

For a while I was too exhausted to move. I don’t know how long I sat there, shivering. It seemed an age. Finally, I dragged myself shakily to my feet, edging round Dave’s sprawled corpse, and swayed drunkenly over to Clare.

At first I thought she was unconscious, but when I touched her shoulder she jolted like I’d stung her. She looked up, her pupils pin-point dots in her unfocused eyes.

“Charlie?” she murmured, her voice thready. “You’re all covered in blood.”

“I know,” I croaked. I reached up tentatively to my throbbing neck, suddenly realising that I could still breathe and talk. My fingers touched ragged ends of flesh and I dropped them away. If it wasn’t that bad, I didn’t need to worry about it, and if it was, I didn’t want to know.

Besides, my left arm and my face were yelling at me through the central nervous system equivalent of a megaphone. I felt light-headed, and freezing cold. I couldn’t stop my teeth clattering together like a flamenco dancers’ convention. In a detached way I registered that my body was shutting down, going in to shock. I knew if I didn’t do something soon, I was in big trouble.

One-handed, I couldn’t manage to undo the zip-ties round Clare’s wrists and had to give up trying. “I’ll get help,” I muttered.

It seemed a hell of a long way across the dance floor to the bar, where the nearest phone was, but I managed to get there by sheer bloody determination.

I had to dial the number of the police station three times before I got it right, and when they answered I asked them to put me straight through to MacMillan. There was only a short pause before he came on the line.

“Superintendent, it’s Charlie Fox,” I said, my voice wavering.

“Charlie! What the hell do you think you’re up to?” he demanded.

“Angelo didn’t kill Susie and Joy,” I told him, launching straight in without preamble. “It was Dave Clemmens and I missed it, all along. He raped and killed them, and he’s just tried to kill me.”

“Charlie, listen to me. Stay right where you are.” His voice became terse, persuasive. “I’ll send a car to pick you up straight away. I give you my word that you’ll be quite safe.”

“OK,” I said meekly, “I’m at the New Adelphi Club.” He relayed the information to someone alongside him. I suddenly felt unutterably tired. I slid to the floor, cradling the phone with my good hand. When he spoke again I said, “There’s no need to rush—the bastard’s dead.”

EPILOGUE

IN THE end I didn’t go to trial for the murder of Dave Clemmens. They didn’t even charge me with his manslaughter, which was a bit of a surprise really, considering the technique I’d used. I suppose if I’d waited until later and stabbed him to death with a pair of pinking shears, they would have sent me down for life.

Ironically perhaps, the only charges I did face were for assaulting a police officer. I think WPC Wilks’s ego had been more bruised than her jaw. They let me off with a caution, though. MacMillan delivered my stern lecture himself, with only the barest hint of a smile.

The thing I regret most about this whole business is the effect it’s had on my friends. Physically, Clare emerged from the encounter relatively unscathed, but the road back from the mental trauma she’d suffered looked like being a long and tortuous one.

Any attempts I made to offer comfort seemed to make things worse. Eventually I just had to leave her be and hope that, when she’d recovered enough to view things with a clearer perspective, she didn’t hold me entirely responsible for what had happened.

It’s bad enough that I blame myself.

Ailsa sent me a short little note telling me she didn’t feel it was appropriate for me to continue my classes at the Lodge. She was divorcing Tris on the grounds of gross mental cruelty and, with the facts as they were, I doubted there was a judge this side of senility who wouldn’t come down heavily in her favour. She had already announced her intention of selling the house to a local property developer and moving the refuge to somewhere on the north Wales coast.

I had a feeling Tris would mourn the loss of his family home more than the disintegration of his marriage, but I don’t know for sure how he took the news. He never contacted me again.

The police picked up Angelo a couple of days after the raid on the New Adelphi. He’d gone to ground with an old mate of his from Liverpool. I couldn’t ignore the possibility that the man was probably one of the pair who’d ransacked my flat, but there wasn’t the evidence to pursue it. There was enough forensic to bind Angelo to Terry’s killing, though, and that was the main thing.

When it came to Dave, after reviewing all the facts, the powers that be decided my claim of self-defence was justified. They judged that I didn’t have a case to answer, and I walked away free. The police were able to lay the three recent attacks firmly at Dave’s feet without question. It looked like I’d done everyone a favour.

But that doesn’t make it any easier to forget.

The doctors at the hospital told me I’d been lucky, that wrenching my head away had caused the knife blade to slice into the side of my neck rather than across my throat, missing by fractions the trachea and vital arteries, which had slid back behind my neck muscles. They stitched me up again and set and plastered my arm. The ribs and the cheekbone, so they told me, were best left to sort themselves out, given time.

They sent me to see a community psychiatric nurse for counselling about coming to terms with what I’d done, but I have a feeling the bones will be mended long before my conscience.

Like I said, the worst part is knowing that, if I was ever in the same situation, I’d do exactly the same thing again. No doubt about it.

It doesn’t sit well with me, that—the realisation that I have not only the knowledge, but the instinct to kill. It sets you apart from the other people you pass in the street, makes you feel alone, less human than they are.

I proved Dave wrong, though. Given a straight fight between a man and a woman, neither with any particular advantage in skill over the other, it isn’t a foregone conclusion that the man will always win. I suppose then, right at the end, I could have said to him, “I told you so.”

Just as long as I’d said it fast enough.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

FIRST OF all, I have to thank those people who patiently let me pick their brains; especially PC Michael Wilkinson for his inside information on police procedure; James for filling me in on what really happens behind club doors; Ian ‘this won’t hurt’ Cottam and Lee Watkin for teaching me the basics of self-defence; Colin and Jane Greenhalgh for their extensive bar experience; and remedial therapist Wendy Seabrook. Any mistakes are strictly by my own introduction.

A few people trawled through the initial drafts and pointed out the major plot-holes. My grateful thanks for this dedication go to Peter Doleman, Claire Duplock, Sarah Harrison, Tim Winfield, and all the members of the Lune Valley Writers’ Group, particularly Clive Hopwood, whose criticisms were the most painful, but the most accurate. You were all brilliant.

The biggest thank yous of all belong to my husband, Andy, who has suffered with me all the way; to Derek and Jill for encouraging me to write in the first place; to the staff at Piatkus Books who first gave me a chance; to my gracious copyeditor Sarah Abel; to David Thompson at Busted Flush Press, who took Charlie under his wing; to ZACE eBook Conversion for the immaculate conversion work to e-format; and to Jane Hudson at NuDesign who came up with the terrific new e-covers. And also to all the authors and online writing community who encouraged me to get these early books out there into the e-niverse.

Lastly my grateful thanks to the inimitable Lee Child, for being such a big supporter of my work and all-round nice guy.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

THIS note was originally written for the Busted Flush Press US trade paperback edition of KILLER INSTINCT, published in 2010. Publisher David Thompson planned similar editions of RIOT ACT, HARD KNOCKS and ROAD KILL, but he tragically died, suddenly and unexpectedly at the age of thirty-eight, shortly before the second book was due to go to print. This was a huge loss to everyone who knew him—one from which we are all still reeling.

When David asked me to write an afterword for the new edition of KILLER INSTINCT, it made me think afresh about this, the very first Charlie Fox book, and why I chose to join her story at this point.

This is not, after all, the beginning of Charlie’s journey, but I look back on it as the major turning point in her life. The events covered during the course of the book change her forever from having been a victim, to not only fighting back on her own behalf, but as a protector for others. It sets her out, whether she is aware of it at the time, on the path she will subsequently follow into the world of close protection.

Ironically enough, it was Charlie’s first official job as a bodyguard, in the events of book four in the series, FIRST DROP, that brought her to US shores for the first time in more ways than one. Setting FIRST DROP in Daytona Beach, Florida over the Spring Break weekend caught the eye of a New York editor, who decided that’s where the story should start for American readers, and the title mistakenly gave the impression there was no history to Charlie before then.

But there is, and KILLER INSTINCT is the first instalment.

I wrote this story at a time when I had just been the target of a number of death-threat letters through my work, and I probably identified with Charlie more closely during the course of this book than any other. Of course, those letters never escalated to anything like the level of threat that my protagonist faces here, but they planted the germ of the idea. And it did inspire me to go out and learn a lot of self-defence techniques, which have stood me in very good stead ever since.

I chose the northern English city of Lancaster for the setting because it was not only an area I knew well, but because I was intrigued by the dual-edged personality of the place. By day it’s an attractive university town, filled with history and the kind of elegant Georgian architecture that has seen it called the Bath of the North.

But by night the number of pubs and clubs give the city an altogether darker feel. At one point it had one of the highest violent-crime rates per head of population in the country. And although one or two people asked if the events described in the book could really happen in a place like Lancaster, my answer is … they did, more or less.

In one of those weird twists of fate, shortly after KILLER INSTINCT was published, one of the local nightclubs was shut down after a drug-dealing scandal, in which the owner and half the door staff were allegedly involved. (And if you’re cheating, and reading this afterword before you’ve read the book itself, you better just forget that bit!)

So, how does it feel to finally have the beginning of Charlie’s story out there again? Bloody marvellous, if you must know …

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Zoë Sharp opted out of mainstream education at the age of twelve and penned her first novel at fifteen. She became a freelance photojournalist in 1988 and wrote the debut in the highly acclaimed Charlie Fox crime thrillers after receiving death-threat letters in the course of her work. She has been nominated (sometimes more than once—always the bridesmaid, never the bride) for Edgar, Anthony, Barry, Benjamin Franklin, and Macavity Awards in the United States, as well as for several CWA Dagger Awards. Her work has also been optioned for TV, turned into a short film, inspired and original song, and even used in an English language school textbook in Denmark.

Please connect with her online: www. ZoëSharp.com

Sign up for her e-newsletter: http://www.Zoësharp.com/newslettersignup.htm

Contact her on the group blog: www.MurderIsEverywhere.blogspot.co.uk

Twitter: www.twitter.com/AuthorZoëSharp

Facebook: www.facebook.com/pages/Zoë-Sharp

Goodreads: www.goodreads.com/authorZoëSharp

Also by Zoë Sharp

THE BLOOD WHISPERER

FOX FIVE: a Charlie Fox short story collection

ABSENCE OF LIGHT: a Charlie Fox novella

DIE EASY: Charlie Fox book ten

FIFTH VICTIM: Charlie Fox book nine

FOURTH DAY: Charlie Fox book eight

THIRD STRIKE: Charlie Fox book seven

SECOND SHOT: Charlie Fox book six

ROAD KILL: Charlie Fox book five

FIRST DROP: Charlie Fox book four

the second three Charlie Fox books are also available as an
e-boxed set:

ANOTHER ROUND OF CHARLIE FOX
with a bonus short story Tell Me

HARD KNOCKS: Charlie Fox book three

RIOT ACT: Charlie Fox book two

KILLER INSTINCT: Charlie Fox book one

the first three Charlie Fox books are also available as an
e-boxed set:

A TRIPLE SHOT OF CHARLIE FOX
with a bonus short story Last Right

More information on Zoë’s titles (including where to buy them) are here:

http://www.Zoësharp.com/bookshelf.htm

SNEAK PEEK: THE BLOOD WHISPERER

Prologue

She wakes to the smell of blood.

It saturates the air to lie metallic across her tongue—so fresh-spilt it has not had time to spoil.

She knows the scent well enough to be calm and yet also terrified. It is not that she is squeamish but the implications are clear to her.

What the hell is happening here? And where is here?

She gradually returns to herself, realises she is lying face down on a hard surface. Her whole body feels gripped by the aftermath of a fever. Her head is turned slightly to the side, legs splayed as if to mimic running and arms twisted behind her. The position is awkward, like she dropped in mid-stride or was flung there. She flexes her wrists half expecting to find them bound but she is not restrained.

She takes a moment to examine if this makes things better or worse.

The answer doesn’t come readily.

In fact nothing comes readily, neither awareness nor memory.

Mentally she fumbles backwards for her last clean recollection. It remains blurrily beyond reach.

That alone is enough to start the panic forming a bubble in her chest. It compresses her heart, squeezing her lungs against her ribcage so she can hardly breathe.

She forces her eyes open.

From this perspective the room has tipped sideways. It seems familiar but she doesn’t recognise it. Maybe the bloody pool seeping across the boards towards her has something to do with that.

The encroaching tide jolts her out of lethargy. Her adrenal gland fires a staccato burst into her system and she flinches from the shock of it, tries to roll away. Instead she flops raggedly onto her back, gasping. It’s a start but not much of one.

Her eyes slide closed again and she discovers her limbs are not yet her own. They refuse to know her, fighting every attempt to control them. She growls in frustration-laced fury.

And all the time the smell of the room overloads her senses. She has the educated palate of a connoisseur. Underneath the sharp tang of blood she detects the lingering slurry of fear.

The kind of fear humans embrace when there is nothing else left to them.

Her own fear motivates her eyes to reopen. They do so with reluctance akin to peeling a limpet from a tidal rock.

The room is still there. She’d been hoping to blame some kind of waking nightmare but this is real.

Far too real.

A crowd of images jostle her, elbowing for supremacy. She grasps the analytical part of her brain by its scruff and shakes it into concentration. Sluggishly she notes the blood pool leads away from her.

She lies still for a moment and monitors her own body as the extremities slowly come back online. She aches right down to the roots of her hair as if from a beating but as far as she can tell there’s no specific damage.

So the blood isn’t mine.

Of course it isn’t hers, she reasons. She can recite the facts as well as anyone—that the human body holds between three-point-five and five-point-five litres. A loss in excess of forty per cent is almost invariably fatal and experience has shown her exactly what that kind of exsanguination looks like.

To have this amount of blood let must surely mean …

Her heart leaps into her throat and bounces there.

With a grunt of outright effort she makes it up onto one elbow. The room sways and distorts alarmingly before it steadies.

Progress, of a sort.

What she sees next is not progress of any sort.

The body is no more than two metres away. Blood haloes around it and edges ever closer as if seeking a living host. It leaches from a dozen ragged slits in clothing and skin.

The face is turned towards her, features bisected by a diagonal slash from cheekbone to chin. The lips are peeled back in the parody of a sneer.

Even in death the eyes are flatly accusing.

In the past she has seen the aftermath of violence too many times to count, but this? This finally overbalances her. She scuttles backwards instinctively from the sight of it, a moan of horror and despair escaping her.

Pure visceral emotion rises along with bile. She feels her stomach give a lurching heave and she reaches to cover her mouth—an instant reflex to avoid contaminating the scene.

It is only then she realises she is clutching something in her right hand so tightly her fingers are locked around it.

She pulls back, staring dumbly. It takes a long time for her to register she is holding a knife.

The blade catches the light and gleams darkly wicked.

It is blooded to the depths.

And so is she.

CHAPTER 1

Tyrone wasn’t fazed by death. But as he shouldered open the door the only thing on his mind was getting the job done and getting out of there fast.

It wasn’t as though he couldn’t hack it—he could wade through gore as well as anybody. It was just something about this job was freaking him out.

He bent to put down the plastic gallon-drum of chemical enzyme cleaner onto the bathroom floor. As he did so he felt the back seams of his disposable Tyvek oversuit start to rip like they always did.

They were supposed to be one-size-fits-all but that didn’t take account of the fact he was six-foot-plus and well into his sports. He’d shot up while he was still at school and now at nineteen he’d finally grown into his shoulders. It looked good but didn’t help him find an oversuit that fit.

Still, at least they didn’t have to wear masks for this one.

Tyrone inhaled cautiously just to be sure. The only smell was a kind of sticky sweetness with only a hint of sour at the back of it, like emptying the kitchen bin in the flat for his mum only just before what was in it went bad.

That was the upside of gunshot suicides. They made so much noise they were found quick and there wasn’t time for decomp to set in. The quiet ones—where nana died in her bed and was left to seep into the mattress for weeks before her loving family even began to wonder—now they were bad news.

He straightened and took in the bathroom.

Man, this place is huge.

He glanced to where Kelly Jacks stood across the other side of the room. She was far enough away that if he stretched out his arms all the way he still wouldn’t be able to touch her.

Kelly’s suit didn’t fit any better than his. She always had to roll up the cuffs and the ends of the legs and the crinkly material ballooned round her narrow waist. On just about anyone else it would have looked like some kind of clown. Funny thing was, he thought Kelly looked great whatever she wore.

Tyrone opened his mouth ready to make a snappy remark, a joke. But something about the way she stood there, staring at the place where it all went down, had the words dying on him.

“I know that look. What’s up Kel?”

He moved across, careful not to slip on the Italian tile. The boss made them wear plastic booties for work. Tyrone thought it made him look a right prat but he’d soon found that trying to scrub God-knows-what out of the treads of his boots at the end of the day was far worse.

Small hard lumps crunched under his feet. He didn’t have to look to know they were fragments of bone and teeth. When he’d first started this job he’d been surprised at the distance stuff travelled from this kind of head wound. Man, how those suckers could bounce on a hard surface like this.

But at least the tile meant not too much was wedged into the walls. Brain sludge set like cement and scraping it off fancy wallpaper was a right pain.

Kelly raised her head but she didn’t really see him. A frown carved twin dents between her eyebrows.

She only just came up to Tyrone’s chin and he’d felt like a big brother since they’d been teamed up, even though at forty she was old enough to be his mum. Hell, the way some of the girls round home get themselves knocked up soon as they hit puberty, she could have been a grandma by now.

Not that you’d know how old Kelly was, not really, with that short choppy haircut, clear skin and the little diamond stud through the left-hand side of her nose. Amazing she looked so fit what with all she’d been through.

“What’s up?” he asked again.

Kelly shook her head, murmured, “There’s something not right here.”

Tyrone peered over her shoulder down into the blood-swilled bathtub with the exploded hole in the tiles at one end and the cast-off spray across the snazzy window blinds. There was something so careful about it made him shiver.

“Well she puts on her best gear, climbs into the empty bath with one of her old man’s rifles and blows her brains out, yeah?” he said trying to nudge Kelly out of introspection. “‘Course there’s something ‘not right’ about that.”

Kelly shook her head and for once didn’t lighten up. Every now and again she could be like that—all quiet. Like she folded in on herself.

It bothered him at first. He’d worried it might be something he’d done or said, but in the end he’d accepted that prison made people go that way. He’d seen enough of it to know.

Tyrone wasn’t sure what Kelly had been inside for and it wasn’t something he would ask. But she knew stuff about the scenes they were sent to that she shouldn’t—couldn’t—know unless she’d worked right there up alongside death all close and personal.

Tyrone didn’t think he had an overactive imagination but sometimes Kelly freaked him out just a little too.

“It’s the blood,” she said now, almost to herself. “There’s something not right with the position of the blood.”

Tyrone bit back the comment about how maybe that was because blood was supposed to be worn on the insides of a body. Besides, he always tried to look beyond the mess to what was underneath it. Their job was to put things back the way they were before—to wipe out not just the mess but the memory.

He and Kelly had done jobs where they’d had to rip out skirting boards because of what had leaked behind them, scrub textured ceilings, take down light fittings. And they bantered while they worked. It was the only way to deal. But this was the first time he’d heard her so unsure about anything.

It worried him.

He looked at the bath trying to see it through those cool brandy coloured eyes. Like the bathroom the tub itself was huge—big enough for a family to stretch out in easily—with fancy whirlpool fittings and real gold taps. The tub was sunk into a raised platform by the pair of tall plain glass windows where you could just lie back and enjoy the view. No need for coy frosting when the nearest neighbour was a mile away.

So much luxury and yet this Veronica Lytton chick had still wanted to end it all in a way that was all drama and real messy, he thought. A way guaranteed to cause maximum grief to her family.

Man, that was cold.

Tyrone shook his head. This woman had the kind of up-there lifestyle he knew a black kid from Tower Hamlets was never going to live this side of legal. Maybe that’s what was making him so uneasy—the feeling that the likes of him didn’t ought to be here.

The bathroom in the housing association flat he shared with his mum and younger brother and sister was about the same size as the walk-in shower in this place. At home the pedestal sink overhung the loo cistern on one side and the half-length bath on the other. Getting fixed to go out in the mornings was a battle of wits and wills and elbows between the four of them. He couldn’t imagine what it must be like to have so much space, all to yourself.

Bloody miserable, if Mrs Lytton was anything to go by.

“Look, if Plod wasn’t satisfied it was suicide they would never have let this Lytton guy call us in, yeah?” he tried, aware that time was getting on and they were not.

“Hmm,” Kelly said, distracted. “Still, I’m going to give the boss a call—maybe even send him the ‘before’ pix and see what he makes of them.”

She stepped back, stripping off the blue nitrile gloves and making for the door with that loose-limbed yet compact stride. The one he always thought made her seem like a long distance runner.

“Kel—” Tyrone protested. She stopped, glanced over her shoulder as she pulled off her booties. Tyrone spread his hands helplessly. “I don’t get it. We done gunshot suicides before. What’s so different about this one?”

“I’ll be back in a couple of minutes,” she said flashing a rare smile. “Until then … see if you can work it out.”

CHAPTER 2

By the time she’d got hold of Ray McCarron, sent over the pictures and waited for his opinion, twenty-five minutes had gone past. It was quite a trek back to the bathroom on the upper floor from the van parked in the courtyard to the rear of the house—the tradesman’s entrance. Nobody wanted a big white Mercedes Sprinter bearing the name McCarron Specialist Cleaning Services parked smack outside the front door.

May as well issue open invitations to gawp.

Kelly was halfway up the sweeping staircase when she heard raised voices from above. She increased her pace, jogging the last flight and hurrying along the plush corridor to the master suite. The house was cool inside but the van was parked in the sun and she’d stripped her oversuit halfway off while she talked to Ray, tying the arms around her waist. She was aware that she didn’t exactly present a picture of authority but it would have to do.

Just before the final corner she paused, took a steadying breath. Relatives and friends of the violently deceased were often emotionally erratic. Suicides had the worst effect on them. They needed to lash out at somebody and the cleaners were the people eradicating that last link with the dead.

By definition McCarron’s team moved fast and the messier the tragedy the more he charged for making all visible signs of it go away, which in itself could cause bitter resentment. What it was to offer a service that was wanted least when it was needed most.

Usually Kelly was good at spotting confrontations early enough to divert or avoid them but sometimes she was glad of Tyrone’s bulky presence on the job.

This time Tyrone was the one taking flak. He hovered awkwardly in the doorway to the suite, head ducked as if to protect his ears against the verbal blows.

Not that the man with him looked set to get physical. Kelly read anger in the tight lines of his body, yes but not that dangerous boiling rage. She willed herself to relax knowing calm reason was the best form of attack.

“Can I help you?” she called aiming her voice low and pleasant.

Both men twisted in her direction. Kelly kept her body language neutral as she closed the distance between them.

The quick relief in Tyrone’s expression would have been comical in other circumstances but Kelly’s eyes were on the newcomer.

She’d initially thought he must be a member of staff. The comfortably middle-aged housekeeper had let them in. She showed them as far as the right corridor before she fled but a property this size needed more than one domestic to keep it in shape. It would be no surprise if the Lyttons employed a major-domo—the kind who’d get shirty on his employer’s behalf for a job running behind.

The man turned. She caught the way his suit moulded across his back, the fabric draping casually back into place and she didn’t need to spot the exclusive watch and handmade shoes to know she was dealing with serious money.

Uh-oh.

He stood with feet braced apart but arms folded in an unconscious contradiction of gestures that piqued Kelly’s interest.

“You must be Mr Lytton.” She held out her hand so that good manners compelled him to uncoil long enough to respond, turning his upper body away from Tyrone as he did so. The man nodded as he treated her to a fleeting handshake. She said, “We apologise for any distress caused by the delay.”

He studied her for a moment without speaking. There was a compressed energy to him that was not simply anger but also contained more than a trace of shock. It made her suddenly very wary.

“I was just explaining ‘bout the blood Kel,” Tyrone put in nervously over Lytton’s shoulder. “I didn’t see it right off but then I spotted it, yeah? The bit you said—”

“It’s all right Tyrone,” Kelly said softly, her eyes still on the client. Lytton had dark hair a little on the long side, styled but not too fancy, a strong nose and eyes the colour of old Welsh slate—dark grey with a hint of green. “I’ve just spoken to the boss. Wait in the van would you?”

Tyrone hesitated. “You sure?”

A brief smile flickered across Kelly’s face. “I’m sure.”

Reassured, he loped off along the corridor with his oversuit rustling as he went. The man watched his hasty exit with an expression that was now hard to discern. Kelly wondered about her earlier conclusions. Had she been wrong about the shock?

“Bit young for this kind of job isn’t he?” he demanded as if Kelly had a say in it. His accent was not the cut-glass she’d expected. So he probably made his money rather than inherited it. She stifled an inward groan. Sometimes with self-made men it was nice of them to take the blame for what they’d made of themselves.

“Tyrone’s a good worker,” she said. “Very competent.”

“I’ve no doubt but is this—” he jerked his head towards the doorway, “—the sort of thing a kid his age ought to see on a regular basis?”

Kelly put her head on one side. Hmm is that a social conscience I detect?

“He makes good wages. They help support his family. And some of us don’t have the luxury of being shielded from the harsh realities of life Mr Lytton,” she murmured. “Tyrone saw his first OD while he was still in primary school.”

A muscle clenched in the side of his jaw. “And that makes either of you experts at distinguishing suicide from … something else does it?”

Kelly felt the jolt of his words go through her but she’d taught herself not to let her emotions show outside her skin. Learned it in a hard place where any sign of weakness got you beaten or killed.

So she merely raised an eyebrow at the hesitation and didn’t pursue it. “It wasn’t our call to make,” she said instead which was the truth—as far as it went. “My boss has told us to hold fire until he’s double-checked certain disparities in the scene with the investigating officer. Until then everything needs to stay as it is. I’m sorry.”

He sighed, a thin hiss of pure exasperation. “The police told me as far as they’re concerned the case is closed. She killed herself. End of story,” he threw out. “And believe me, they looked hard.”

Not hard enough. Kelly shrugged and dug a business card out of her back pocket, held it out. The cards held the firm’s name and contact details but no personal information. “You’re welcome to speak to Mr McCarron directly if you like.”

He took the proffered card and fingered it for a moment but made no moves towards a phone. His next words surprised her. If the look on his face was anything to go by they surprised him too.

“Show me.”

She arched an eyebrow.

He gave a shrug of frustration. “You must have seen it first,” he said. “The kid—Tyrone? He mentioned something about the blood.”

Kelly hesitated. Ray insisted that they were efficient, professional, neat and respectful at all times but she’d never encountered this kind of morbid curiosity from the deceased’s nearest and dearest before.

“The blood spatter is inconsistent,” Kelly said at last, keeping her tone neutral.

“Inconsistent,” Lytton repeated flatly. “What does that mean?”

All Kelly’s instincts warned her not to get into details. She’d said too much already. If there was the slightest chance the case might be reopened she needed to stay as far away from it as possible. To say anything else was self-destructive madness.

Kelly shifted her stance. “I’m sorry but I can’t say more,” she said. “It’s not my call. Until I’ve had absolute confirmation we can’t disturb the scene.”

“Can’t or won’t?” His eyes narrowed on her face, the scrutiny uncomfortable. She’d met people before with eyes like these. Mostly the wrong sort of people in the wrong sort of places. It had rarely ended well.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, “but I’m afraid you need to speak with—”

His step forwards was enough to cut her off in mid-sentence.

“No,” he said quietly, “I believe the person I need to speak with is you.” His head tilted a little as he looked down into her face. “You suspect I had something to do with it? I wasn’t even in the country when Veronica died.”

Kelly felt the angry intensity, the urgency behind his words. It mattered to him that she believe him but she didn’t know why. She suppressed a shiver and hated it. Not the shiver itself but the reason behind it.

“We’re not accusing you of anything Mr Lytton,” she said carefully. She was suddenly aware that she was alone with the guy in part of a house big enough so that a scream from one wing could hardly be heard in another. And she’d stupidly sent her back-up well out of earshot in a misguided attempt to protect him.

He stepped back abruptly and Kelly tensed in automatic response but he swung away from her, staring down into a pit of his own making.

“I did not kill my wife,” he said quietly. “I had no desire to do so and no need.”

He glanced back at Kelly’s expressionless face but she gave him nothing in return. He gave a brief nod as if he’d expected that and turned away.

She let him make it almost to the doorway then said, “How much do you know about high-velocity gunshot wounds?”

He turned back, stuffed his hands casually into the pockets of those well cut trousers.

“I hunt,” he said shortly. “Mate of mine has to cull the local deer population every now and again or they strip his plantation. He doesn’t always choose his marksmen … wisely. So yes, I’ve seen what the odd wild shot can do.”

Kelly recalled, perhaps too late, that it was one of the man’s own hunting rifles his wife had apparently chosen for her demise. Or someone else had chosen for her.

Damn. Ah well too late now.

“Then you’ll know there’s always blowback spatter from the entry wound and forward spatter—projected spray and debris—from the exit.” Her voice matched his own, cool and dispassionate.

“But?”

She hesitated again. Ah well, in for a penny.

“You’d better see for yourself,” she said and moved over to the bathtub.

He joined her with only fractional reluctance. Kelly wondered if she thought more or less of him for that.

Side by side they stared down into the carnage left by violent death, smeared by the paramedics and the forensics teams that followed. What remained was somehow damaged, dirty and sad.

“How can you see anything inconsistent through all that?”

“Because I know what to look for.” She crouched careful not to touch anything and used a pen as a pointer. “Void patterns in the spatter confirm the position of the … of your wife at the time of the shooting,” she said choosing her words with great care.

“You can refer to Veronica as ‘the victim’. The police certainly did damn well often enough,” he said tightly. “I won’t bite.”

Kelly gave a faint smile, recognising the grim humour for what it was. “You can see here the back spatter from the entry wound. It’s very fine, almost a mist, travelling in the opposite direction to the bullet.”

“And you can tell that how, exactly?”

Kelly rose, reached for her camera and flicked through the stored images. “Look at this one,” she said. “You can see it’s teardrop-shaped—rounded at one end and with a streak at the other. The streak always points in the direction of travel. See?”

She zoomed in and tilted the camera screen towards him without thinking. He stepped in close to look and Kelly suddenly felt crowded, hot, trapped. Her fight or flight response tried to kick in. She had to stamp on it firmly before she either belted him or ran. Or both.

“So, the opposite of something like a comet tail?”

“Exactly. As the droplet hits a hard surface the back edge holds its form while the front edge breaks into what looks like a tail. It’s how we can fix the directionality of the spatter.”

Lytton straightened without apparently realising how near he’d been to serious injury. He was frowning.

“And you think there’s some problem with that directionality?”

“It’s possible.”

“Look just spit it out will you?”

Kelly took a breath and said in her best evidence-giving voice, “I observed an additional void pattern on the side of the bathtub in this area here.”

Lytton leaned over the bath holding his tie flat to his chest with one hand to prevent it dangling.

“I don’t see this void you’re talking about.”

“You won’t,” Kelly said. “It would appear to have been filled in.”

“Filled in.” Again that dead flat sceptical delivery. Again the command: “Show me.”

Kelly indicated with the pen. His face stayed expressionless.

“I can’t see any difference.”

“It appears correct at first glance but when you look closer you can see the directionality is actually totally opposite,” she allowed. “My guess would be someone dipped into the spilt blood and flicked it across the void to cover it. If it wasn’t for the difficulty of flicking it upwards instead of down I might not have spotted it.”

For maybe ten long seconds he said nothing. Then he stepped back as if to distance himself from her.

“That’s it?” he demanded. “That’s the reason you’ve put this whole job on hold? A tiny patch of blood sprayed so fine you can hardly make it out with the naked eye, when I’ve had half of Thames Valley and the Met crawling all over this place for days? And that’s all you have?”

His hands twitched in a gesture of frustration or despair. Kelly refused to cringe in the face of his anger. She kept her head up, aware she came barely to his chin.

“Once this is gone it’s gone,” she said indicating the bloodied bathtub. “I just need to be absolutely sure I’m doing the right thing.”

Lytton snorted. “Yeah of course you do.” He passed a tired hand across his face. “I … apologise. I’m sure you can appreciate that I’m anxious to get this over with—try to put it behind me.”

“Of course. Just as I’m sure you can appreciate that we have to work strictly by the book.”

He tensed, mouth flattening. For a moment she saw the swim of mixed emotions in his face, his eyes. Instead of the sorrow she’d been expecting there was only anger and confusion and a fleeting trace of something Kelly recognised as guilt.

Whatever else had been part of Veronica Lytton’s life she considered, that didn’t include a happy marriage.

She forced a smile to soften the blow and put a placating hand on his arm. “I’m very sorry for your loss Mr Lytton but I can’t ignore what the evidence is telling me.”

Lytton withdrew his arm fast, almost jerky as if he felt tainted by her touch. He was at the doorway before he delivered his Parthian shot with unknowing but deadly accuracy:

“This evidence you set such store by—suppose what it’s telling you is wrong?”

WHY THIS BOOK?

Talba Wallis, the multi-talented P.I. of LOUISIANA HOTSHOT, appeared first in a different series, and kind of stole the show. When people suggested she should have her own series, I was badly in need of a breath of fresh air, so I jumped at it. The Skip Langdon series, where she was born, can be really gritty and depressing at times. And Skip, much as she chafes at it, has to follow the rules because she’s a cop. Talba can do anything she wants, and usually does. She’s a computer genius, poet, free spirit, PI, and all-around fun companion for the word-jockey here. A real relief from the Mean Streets!

Here’s what they’re saying about it:

Can’t wait for the next Evanovich? Check out Louisiana Hotshot. It’s Stephanie Plum with Tabasco, dawlin’.”

The Clarion Ledger (Jackson. MS.)

“A stroke of genius…Louisiana Hotshot is fresh, fast, and touching. Just like New Orleans, it has a lot of ‘tude and a big heart.”

The Times-Picayune (New Orleans)

“Don’t miss this one!

Library Journal

“New Orleans and its diverse inhabitants shine in Louisiana Hotshot. Talba, sassy and vulnerable, is a fascinating character made all the more so by her interactions with the gruffly likeable Eddie.”

Romantic Times

“If you haven’t read Smith before, it’s time to start. If you’re a fan you’re in for yet another treat. “

Marcia Muller

“Julie Smith writes like jazz should sound—cool, complex, and penetrating right to the heart.”

Val McDermid

LOUISIANA HOTSHOT

The Talba Wallis Series

By

JULIE SMITH

booksBnimble Publishing

New Orleans, La.

Louisiana Hotshot

Copyright 2001 by Julie Smith

Cover by Nevada Barr

ISBN: 9781617500008

Originally published by Tor Books, published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York.

www.booksbnimble.com

All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

First booksBnimble Publishing electronic publication: February, 2013

To Steve and Dianne

CHAPTER ONE

Nerd wanted. Nerdette wouldn’t be too bad. Young hotshot, under thirty, 5 yrs. computer, 10 yrs. investigative exp. Harvard ed., no visible piercings. Must play the computer like Horowitz played piano. Slave wages.

“Huh. This one see you comin’—he as picky as you.”

“Let me see that.” Unbelieving, Talba Wallis grabbed for the classifieds. She was having breakfast with her mother at the old black-painted table, trying to ignore Miz Clara’s morning meddling.

Talba had nothing against getting a job, indeed fully intended to. She merely preferred to peruse the Times-Picayune ads at her own pace, if at all. The best jobs in her field would be on the Internet, so why bother?

However, she had to admit her mother had happened on a rare gem—an honest ad. The kind you usually saw only in the personals: “Fat toad, sixty-five, stinks, seeks hard-bodied blue-eyed blonde for hideous perversions. Must be 18 and star of own TV series.”

“Must be some kind of joke,” Miz Clara said. “Nobody under thirty with all that experience.”

Hardly hearing, Talba took the paper and wandered toward her room. Who the hell would place an ad like that? It was easy enough to find out, and she couldn’t resist—it was a slow Sunday morning. Darryl had his kid for the weekend.

Actually, she met quite a few of the criteria. She was under thirty, had no visible piercings, did have investigative experience, and was, in fact, the Horowitz of the computer. She’d probably be employed if she weren’t so damn good. In fact, she certainly would be—she’d just quit a cushy gig at United Oil out of pure boredom. Elsewhere, there were plenty of jobs for an African-American nerd of her distinction, but Talba was a New Orleanian through and through. Her mama was here, and her boyfriend was here but that was only part of it.

Her heart was here.

The last line of the ad said “Fax resumé,” and gave a number. That was all she needed. A few strokes of the keyboard and she had a name: Edward Valentino.

A few more and she had another: E. V. Anthony Investigations. A detective agency on Carondelet. No website.

“Well, well, well, well, well. What can we deduce from this?” she mumbled to herself, thoroughly delighted. Her mentor, Gene Allred, had told her he got a good percentage of his work from being first in the phonebook—therefore, given the “E. V.,” there probably was no Anthony. Carondelet Street was in the CBD, or Central Business District—therefore maybe Valentino was a pretty respectable guy (which was more than she could say for Allred.)

She grabbed for the Yellow Pages. Aha, an ad. Twenty-five years’ experience. Specializing in criminal defense, undercover, divorce, child custody, missing persons, insurance, prenuptial. In other words, not specializing.

Interesting, though—the ad didn’t mention too much about background checks. Corporate and prenuptial might cover that, but something told Talba Mr. Valentino didn’t care much for doing heavy computer searches.

Well, hell. That was a nerd’s job. She got back on the net and sometime after lunch had a stack of papers half an inch thick. An excellent day’s work. She decided to give her mother a treat.

“Come on, Mama. Let’s take a ride.” Miz Clara was dozing in front of the television set.

“Where ya want to go?”

“Let’s go see Aunt Carrie. I’ve got this nice car— we might as well use it.” She had bought a five-year-old Camry out of her United Oil earnings.

Miz Clara said, “Hmmph. Not nice enough.”

“Oh, yeah, I think so. In this neighborhood, I think it’s quite nice enough.” Her mama lived in a run-down cottage in the Bywater, on a block poetically situated between Desire and Piety..

Miz Clara went off to trade her floppy old blue slippers for a pair of Nikes, and find herself a wig to wear. When she came back, she said, “What you been doin’ in there by ya self?”

“Writing poetry,” said Talba, and Miz Clara shut up.

***

It was eight-forty-five the next morning when Talba tried the door marked E. V. Anthony. It was locked. Good. That probably meant they came in at nine. She found a ladies’ room in which to replenish her lipstick, and returned to stand guard. At approximately nine-oh-five, a young white woman unlocked the door. “Are you waiting for someone?”

“Edward Valentino.”

“Come on in. Do you have an appointment?”

“No. Just taking a chance.”

“Can I help you with anything?”

“Oh, no thanks, I’ll just read a magazine.” It was obvious the woman was dying of curiosity, but Talba figured once was enough to tell her story.

It was another few minutes—twenty maybe— before a stocky man came in, a man who’d be sixty-five in a matter of days, stood five-feet-ten, and limped a little. Not even giving him a chance to greet the help, she rose and extended her hand. “Mr. Valentino, I presume.”

“Good morning. Good morning,” he said, clearly a little flustered.

“I didn’t know about the limp.”

“Say that again?” Now he was irritated.

Talba noticed that he said “dat” for “that.” He had the kind of New Orleans accent that sounded, for all the world, as if he’d grown up in Brooklyn. She held up her file. “Everything else was on the Internet. But I missed the limp.” She nodded at the secretary. “You’re Eileen Fisher, aren’t you?” She turned back to Valentino. “And you’re about to have a birthday. Congratulations.”

Smoke was starting to come out of Valentino’s ears. “What the hell is this?” What da hell is dis?

“This,” she said, “is a young hotshot, able to play the computer like Horowitz tickled the ivories. No visible piercings and well under thirty. Talba Wallis at your service.”

Valentino looked exhausted, but he stuck out his hand manfully. “Eddie Valentino. You gotta be a friend of Angela’s.”

“Angela? I must be missing something.”

“Come on, come on. Angela put ya up to this.”

“Angela. Your wife’s name is Audrey, it can’t be ... oh! Daughter. She must be your daughter.”

He was laughing now. “Angie, Angie—don’t you ever give up?”

“Mr. Valentino, I’m as much of a hotshot as you’re gonna get, but your daughter’s name wasn’t in any of the databases. Now if I’d known I was going to need it, I could have had it in two seconds.”

A look of astonishment spread over his features. Talba figured he was starting to catch on. “How’d you know who placed the ad?”

Talba shrugged. “You advertised for an investigator. I investigated.”

Valentino closed his eyes and shook his head slowly, a man clearly at the end of his rope. “Eileen, you got any coffee?”

“Yes sir. Of course.” The girl looked terrified.

“Bring us some, will ya? Ms. Wallis, come on in.” He led the way to one of three other rooms she could see, another of which seemed to be a combination coffee and copy room. Valentino’s office wasn’t a whole lot grander. He turned on a light and slipped behind a desk, gesturing at two facing chairs. Talba took one, and for the first-time really looked at him.

His hair was salt-and-pepper, not yet white, and not soon to be, but his face was deeply lined. Almost as if it had been carved out of a once-handsome, very Mediterranean demeanor that had become, for some reason, very tired. Deeply, deeply tired. The bags under his eyes were duffels. She almost asked if he were getting enough sleep.

“Start at the beginning, Ms. Wallis.”

She passed him most of the file, holding back her ace in the hole. “Here’s the background check I did on you, complete with driving record and newspaper clips. I see you worked on the Houlihan case.”

He nodded impatiently. “Yeah, yeah. Okay, you’re a hotshot. Ya went to Harvard?” Eileen brought in a couple of mugs of coffee, and he had his to his face almost before he’d finished speaking.

“Xavier. Computer skills mostly self-taught, except for five years at TeleSyst. Five years off and on, I mean—some of it was summer stuff while I was in school. But I bow to the applicant who did go to Harvard and brings you a package like this.”

“Pretty pushy broad, aren’t ya?” His eyes crinkled a little. He was starting to loosen up. Talba knew guys like this—the way they showed they liked you was to get insulting.

Best to let it go, she thought. Stow the righteous indignation. She gave him a grin instead. “I try to be.” He had drunk about half his coffee by now, and it was doing him a world of good. His skin was looking less gray, his eyes starting to show some spirit, the purple of the duffels smoothing to puce.

What’s in that stuff? she thought, and took a sip herself. If she hadn’t already been sitting, it would have knocked her on her butt.

“How much investigative experience ya had?”

“About two months.” She paused. “Not counting the ten minutes I spent on this.” Gesturing grandly at the pile she’d given him.

He didn’t crack a smile, and she made a mental note to lay off the bragging. It wasn’t going over. “I’m just kidding. It really took me about an hour and a half.”

“You tellin’ me the truth?” Da trut.

She made an attempt to look modest, but it was something she hadn’t tried before; she wasn’t sure she succeeded. “Yes sir. Give or take.”

“Tell me about your experience.”

“Well, it was a funny thing. I had a problem I needed a private eye for. So I picked one out of the phonebook, and the guy hired me.”

“Oh, yeah? Who was that?”

“Gene Allred.”

He leaned forward a little, and his eyes threw off sparks like a couple of mini-fires. The guy had something she hadn’t seen at first. “Gene Allred? I knew Gene Allred. Crooked son of a bitch.”

Talba laughed. “Guess you right.” She hardly ever lapsed into dialect, but this guy was such an old-time New Orleanian it was catching. “A little sleazy, but he sure could detect.”

“What was so special about ya he just had to hire ya?”

“He said I had the right demographics.”

Valentino raised an eyebrow.

“Meaning I could go undercover in places he couldn’t. That and my computer skills. Gene was kind of a Luddite.”

“A what?”

“Luddite. You’re one too, aren’t you?”

“I’ll let ya know when ya clue me in what ya talkin’ about.”

“A Luddite is somebody who’d rather give the government thirty-four cents than send email.”

“I got no time for that crap.”

“I rest my case. But an awful lot of detective work is done on computers these days. Which must be why you advertised.”

“It ain’t the business it was.” Valentino’s shoulders sagged forward as if he’d just suffered a defeat. Talba hated seeing him that way; found it made her truly sad, and noticed for the first time the sadness in the detective’s eyes. The sadness, and the intelligence; and the kindness.

Oh shit, she thought, realizing she had started to care about him. She recognized instantly that it wasn’t a sexual thing—never could be, never would be. She had a great boyfriend, a dynamite boyfriend, and this dude was white, married, old enough to be her father, and so depressed he probably couldn’t get it up. Definitely not sexual, but definitely something, and something she thought she recognized. Something not too healthy.

Valentino’s eyes—the sad, intelligent, oh-so-kind eyes, the terribly caring, deeply understanding, tender-as-the-night eyes, were the sort of eyes sometimes referred to as soulful; the sort that, in a young, attractive man were almost guaranteed to get a young woman in trouble.

She had seen those eyes before, seen them on many an attractive, hurt, tough, scary young face; and she had followed them where they had led and had gotten in the kind of trouble they invariably got you in. She was such a sucker for that kind of thing her mother and brother had sunk to trying an intervention to get her to dump her last boyfriend, the one before Darryl, the one she now recognized was the second biggest asshole in the city of New Orleans (she being the biggest for not seeing it sooner).

She knew perfectly well why these eyes were so attractive. They were irresistible because they were the only soft thing in a hard face; a worldly, leather-tough face that had seen it all and dealt with it, a face you wouldn’t want to mess with. They were a cry for help from a soul that desired no help, wanted no help, chose no help, couldn’t in any way be helped.

They were not eyes that cried, they were themselves the tears; they were the fatal tip-off that that mutilated and now aggressively armored soul needed to be kissed and made well. That the imaginary tears must be wiped away: crying, desperate eyes replaced by the carefree, corner-crinkled eyes of a man who has just been made to laugh by his beloved; or the devoted, follow-you-to-the-grave eyes of a man who has just made love to her. Or to anyone. Or to a plank with a mink-lined hole in it.

Oh, yes. Talba was not only under thirty, but well under twenty-five, and already she knew everything about eyes like that—everything except what they meant when they were underscored by velvet-soft pouches so big they needed a bra; so bloodstained, so seemingly bruised you wanted to order emergency ice. What they meant when they sometimes sparked like small fires and peered from the head of an old white man who said “dese” and “dose.”

When Eddie Valentino spoke again, interrupting her silent ocular love song, she nearly did a double take. “I’ll think about it, Ms. Wallis.”

“You’ll think about it? Here I stay up half the night to show you what I can do, and then I get here before sunrise, and you’ll think about it?”

And for the first time in the interview, sad, soulful Eddie Valentino really did smile—a broad, amused, gotcha smile. “I thought it only took you ten minutes. Hour and a half at the most.”

“I’m making a point, Mr. Valentino. I tend to exaggerate when I’m making a point. And the point is, I’m your hotshot. Who else was here before your door opened with a complete dossier on you? I mean, what’s the definition of a hotshot?”

He smiled again, “You’re a ball of fire, all right. I just gotta sleep on it, that’s all.”

“Oh. Well.” Twice Talba had made him smile. Maybe that’s what her mission was; maybe that was all she was meant to do. Of course he had to sleep on it. What was she thinking?

I’m believing my own P.R. , she thought, and felt embarrassed. What did I think he was going to do? Welcome me like a long-lost daughter?

CHAPTER TWO

Eddie rubbed his eyes. Whoa, he thought. Pushy. I better get some more coffee. He watched her indignant tail switch out of the office, and thought how tired he was; how much he wished he had Talba Wallis’s energy. How much, in fact, he wished he were her age again.

He forebore to ask Eileen to bring him a cuppa joe—lately everything he did was construed as being old, infirm, or otherwise messed up—and limped in to get one for himself.

Hell, he thought. Just hell. And tried calling his daughter. Of course he didn’t get her. He never got her. He tried her on her cell phone.

“Yeah?” she said. Just like that.

“Ya gotta talk like a truck driver?”

“Dad, I’m in court. Judge Hart’s gonna ream me out—I forgot to turn my phone off.” She hung up.

What the hell was up with girls anymore? Or maybe it was just Angie. Maybe she was a dyke. There were people who said so. Hell, he thought again, not sure why he was in such a crummy mood.

He figured he’d wasted enough time. Sighing, he turned on the damn computer. He’d lost his zest for the job, really lost it. These days, fifty percent of it—thirty, anyhow—had to be done on a computer—and the damn thing made his eyes hurt. Made his wrists hurt. Oh, yeah. Carpal tunnel, the whole thing. It gave him the worst headaches he’d ever had in his life. So bad Audrey and Angie kept hounding him to go to the doctor.

Yeah, right. He was sure gonna go to some pansy-assed doctor. When hell froze over. He didn’t even want to go when he got hurt; figured the leg would heal on its own, and it might have. He just would have bled to death first.

Well, Angie was right about one thing—something had to give. He just didn’t know what.

On the whole it turned out to be an okay morning. He’d done two employment checks and one premarital when his daughter breezed in. He was glad to see her. It meant he could turn the damn machine off, rest his eyes a little.

“Angie! Help yaself to coffee.”

“No thanks. My damn client didn’t show. Hearing got postponed.” She was wearing a black tailored suit. That was all she ever wore these days—all any women ever wore, seemed like.

He passed her yesterday’s Times-Picayune, the section with his ad circled. He knew she wouldn’t have seen it—nobody reads classifieds unless they’re looking for a job.

“Daddy! Don’t tell me you ran this.”

“Ya didn’t want me to? Ya wrote it, didn’t ya?”

“I was just trying to illustrate that the person you claim to want doesn’t exist.”

“I happened to interview a very qualified applicant already.”

“Oh, yeah?” She brightened up, smiling like the old Angie, the little kid he never wanted to lose. It really pissed him off that she grew up. “What’s he like?”

“Kind of like God,” he said. He’d been waiting to deliver that line.

“What?” She spoke in the tone of a mother whose kid has just told another tall one.

“You heard me.” He was enjoying this.

“What in the name of all that’s holy does Eddie Valentino find godlike about a computer nerd?”

“She’s black.” Eddie couldn’t help it, he had a weakness for dumb jokes. The older the better.

Angie didn’t even laugh, way too snotty to even be bothered. She was so staggered by the information she just repeated what Eddie had said: “She’s black?”

“What’s wrong? Ya prejudiced?”

“No, but you—uh—”

“Ya got me wrong, Angie—I’m not prejudiced. I don’t like pushy broads, that’s all.”

“What about Mama?”

“I’m stuck with her.”

“What about me?”

“Can’t stand ya.” He swatted her face ever so gently, and gave her a half smile.

“Oh, Daddy.” Like a fourteen-year-old. He liked it. “Tell me about the applicant. What’s her name?”

“Hell if I know.” He shuffled some papers. “Talba Wallis.”

“How old is she?”

“ ‘Bout twenty-two. Twenty-three, maybe.”

“That’s way too young to have the experience you wanted. She must have gone to Harvard.”

“Xavier.”

Angie was looking exasperated. Eddie hadn’t had so much fun in a month. Teasing his daughter was one of his greatest pleasures, especially since she hated it so much. It kind of got her back for having the gall to grow up. “Well, what the hell was so qualified?”

“She passed on faxing a resumé. Showed up at my door before I did this morning. With this.” Eddie handed over the dossier Talba had compiled on him.

“Holy shit.”

“Angela. There’s no need for foul language.”

“Is this what I think it is?” She ignored him. Went right about her business as if he’d never spoken. He didn’t know what to do about it when kids got out of control. Nothing he’d ever tried had worked worth a damn.

“Yeah, it’s what you think it is. Said it took her an hour and a half.”

“Holy shit,” she said again. “Did you hire her?”

“No, I didn’t hire her. She’s pushy.”

“In a good way, it sounds like.” She was treating him like he was the child.

“I been workin’. I haven’t even had time to do a background check.”

“Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s do it now.”

He liked that idea. Angie could do a background check as well as he could—better, probably. She was about ten times as good as he was on the computer, which would have intimidated him if he had any respect for the damn machine. A video camera— now that was a piece of hardware he could love. Computers were just something outside his purview, like sewing. He could work fine with Angie without feeling like a sack of shit. But what appealed to him about the idea, if she was going to help him, she was going to stay with him a while. Maybe she’d even have lunch with him.

He got up and gave her his chair. “I’ll just be in the video room.”

Angie was leaning forward, her fingers racing. “Hey, Dad, wait. I’ve got something. She’s got a website. Your little applicant’s got a website, and you don’t even have one yourself! You gotta get this girl. She’s hot stuff.”

“Yeah, yeah, she mentioned it.”

“Her website? I should think.”

“No, the hot stuff part.”

“Holy shit.” She was leaning intently, as if she didn’t care if she fell into the screen.

“Angela. Language.”

“She’s a poet. Omigod, I’ve heard of her. Is this woman for real? Why would she want to work for you?”

“Whaddaya mean, poet?”

“Take a look at this.” She turned the computer screen toward him.

Slowly, his bullshit detector turned on “high,” he walked back around his desk. “What the fuck? (Excuse my French.) AKA The Baroness de Pontalba, for Christ’s sake? She’s been dead for a century. And she was white.”

Angela was looking way too amused to suit him. “Did you say something about foul language, Daddy dear?”

“I got a double standard; you know that.”

“Yes, Daddy.” He hated it when she gave him that suppressed-grin thing, “Listen, I know about this woman. They call her the Baroness—it’s her nom de plume.”

“I’m gonna nom her plume,” he said automatically, and finally looked at the screen. There, sure enough, was the applicant in some kind of purple flowing thing with a turban on her head. A goddam turban. “I guess she’s an African baroness,” he muttered. “Why in the hell does a poet want to be a detective?”

“No money in poetry,” Angie said. “They have to have day jobs. Hey, look, here’s a schedule of readings. There’s one tonight. Shall we go?” Evidently, it was a rhetorical question. Her fingers were working again. “Ah. Here it is. I thought I remembered this.” She’d somehow, in the flash of a fingernail (Angie wore Mandarin Red) pulled up a Times-Picayune story. “Great big piece by Jane Storey.”

“Let me see that.” Eddie pulled the screen toward him and read the piece aloud, as naturally as he’d once read his daughter The Cat in the Hat. “Yeah, she said she worked for Allred.”

Angie nodded. “I guess it was around the time he had that unfortunate collision with a hunk of hot lead.”

He stared at her. “What you been readin’? You’re talkin’ funny.” Without waiting for an answer, he kept putting things together. His head started bobbing, as if a puppeteer were running it. “Yeah. Yeah. She checks out. Looks like she’s who she says she is. Damn. She helped break the Russell Fortier case.”

Angie leaned back in her dad’s chair, looking smug—as if the entire female sex had been challenged and had passed the test “Dad, you’ve got a problem.”

“What’s that, baby?” He was still staring at the screen, distracted.

“She’s not going to go for those slave wages you’re offering.”

“Who’s offerin’? I don’t know if I could work with a woman like that.”

“A woman like what? Black or female?” His daughter’s voice was cool, but her eyes were hot and dangerous. She could turn on him like a snake—she had a history of it.

“I’m not prejudiced, Angie.”

She said, “I ought to know whether you are or not,” and walked out, scooping up her purse on her way.

I could call her back, he thought. Maybe she’ll go to lunch, anyway. But physically, he couldn’t. His throat had closed. When that chasm opened between them, that Grand Canyon of a thing that cracked open as suddenly as a fissure in an earthquake, he felt as if someone were sitting on his chest, squeezing the air out of him. The world turned gray, and he floated above himself, watching his body, shriveled and ancient, lying in a hospital bed and facing a wall, a gray wall in a gray world, perhaps for all eternity.

It hadn’t always been this way. He didn’t know what was happening to him, exactly, except that it was a form of hopelessness and it wasn’t about Angie. Or wasn’t all about Angie. He sensed that it was partly about his impending birthday, and wondered if it happened to everyone, and if so, if it ever went away.

He decided against lunch; it would only prolong life.

***

It was three when Audrey called, and his stomach was sour from too many cups of coffee. “EdDEE,” she said, the way people in their old neighborhood called each other. He’d say “AuDREE” if he wanted her. “Ya want meat loaf and red gravy tonight?”

His stomach growled. He wanted some now, he realized. He wanted some bad.

“Come home early,” she said. “The poetry readin’s at seven.”

“What? The what’s at seven?”

“The thing Angie’s taking us to. I thought y’all talked about it.”

Damn, he thought Why bother thinking up a good name for your kid? We might as well have called her Devila. He said, “Okay, Audrey. I’m leavin’ early, anyway.”

“Why? You don’t feel well?”

He almost said, The goddam screen. It’s giving me a headache. But he caught himself. By now, Angela would have rounded her up; the two women would be irrevocably locked into a conspiracy against him, a mission to get him to hire a nerd to save him from himself. This nerd, apparently. The one who thought she was royalty. Why the hell Baroness Pontalba? he wondered, and thought with resignation, I bet I’m about to find out.

Some four hours later, full of the promised protein and tomato concoction as well as a mountain of mashed potatoes, he and his wife and daughter (who’d not-so-coincidentally been invited to dinner) found themselves at a restaurant on North Carrollton it would never have occurred to them to patronize in other circumstances. Or Audrey and Eddie, at any rate. For all Eddie knew, it was Angie’s favorite hangout.

Reggie and Chaz was a black-owned restaurant for starters, a gay-owned joint for a follow-up. It was fairly new as well. All those facts added up to a hip restaurant, a multicultural, happening kind of restaurant, of a sort that would normally have merely bewildered the elder Valentinos, who leaned more toward the likes of Mandina’s. Tonight, they got the hang of it, though; it was a venue for Art.

If that was what poetry was: Eddie really wouldn’t know.

He looked around him. The place had a little bar, which was fortunate, since the three of them had already eaten dinner and would certainly be expected to spend money for the privilege of this great artistic experience. Aside from that, though, to say it was simple would be bragging on it. Ah, no, Eddie thought That’s not fair. It was simple, but it had flair. The walls were tastefully dotted with masks, most of them grotesque, some of them African, presumably; some Indonesian; some Mexican, certainly. Not expensive, but, boy, did they make a statement. Woven Guatemalan belts hung from the ceiling like so many colorful snakes—or like confetti, Eddie thought.

Grudgingly, he had to admit there was something festive about it.

The crowd was mixed—salt and pepper, young and old, hip and conventional. Sure, Eddie thought. Poets and their parents. You don’t have to be a detective to get the hang of that one.

He was surprised when the first poet to read was older than he was, a distinguished black man, professor type, in a handsome dark suit.

Several poets were evidently about to perform, singing for their supper, which was being served at a large raucous table more or less in the middle of the restaurant. The applicant was there, looking totally different from the businesslike young woman who’d called on him that morning. She wore a cobalt blue, silky flowing thing, like the one in the picture on her website, and she had something on her head that looked like two silk scarves somehow woven and twisted together and tied across her forehead, Indian-fashion. He hadn’t thought about her appearance that morning, other than to register that she had a lot of hair, but now he noted that he was looking at a very striking woman. How did women do that? he thought. Turn from mice to birds of paradise, depending on the time of day?

He looked at his wife and daughter. Angie had changed into black jeans and a black T-shirt, and Audrey was wearing a soft green pantsuit. Celadon, she called it. Any man in the room would look at either of them; probably had by now. Italian women didn’t do the metamorphosis thing, he thought— didn’t need to.

The black man was going on and on about something historical. He was boring the pants off Eddie. Poetry! Jesus Christ, what he did to please his women. He was going to bust a gut if the guy didn’t shut up soon.

He had by now managed to secure a scotch and water, and he clutched it like a baby clutches a bottle, figuring there was one tried-and-true way to stave off the worst boredom in the world. He ought to know—he’d done it often enough before. The poem was about slavery, and it quickly went from boring to angry—or at least the poet was angry. Eddie wasn’t; he was merely uncomfortable at the man’s rising voice. He sipped away at the scotch, vaguely noticing that Audrey was giving him a disapproving look. (She herself was slurping on a white wine, but in her book that wasn’t the point—she liked being boss of herself and Eddie.)

The poet finished, to a faint flutter of applause— evidently the rest of the audience was as difficult as Eddie. And after him came a white woman, housewife type, who read obscene limericks. That he hadn’t expected, and he was oddly disappointed. If he was going to have an intellectual experience, then let it be shaggy-haired, dammit, even if it bored him to the toenails.

After the white woman came a black woman who’d had a job where people treated her badly. White people, of course. Too bad, but was it poetry? He was in critic mode by now, and also on his second drink. He was kind of enjoying hating it all so much.

Three more poets came after the black woman, but when Eddie tried later to remember them, he found they all ran together, but it couldn’t have been the scotch, because what he heard after that he remembered vividly.

He was just ordering a third drink when the emcee said, “And now for our star attraction—someone who got her start at Reggie and Chaz, one of our very first readers, a young lady who’s starting to make her mark in the poetry world—the Baroness de Pontalba!” The guy sounded like some asshole on TV.

Eddie settled down in his chair, getting comfortable and feeling grumpy, as the applicant flowed forward. The deep blue sea herself, he thought, and decided he had an aptitude for this crap himself— probably a lot more than the rest of these bozos.

He was paying for his drink while she introduced her first poem, but the gist of it seemed to be that some other poet that she didn’t even seem to mind stealing from had written some idiot thing about a cat having three names and she, Miss Talba de Baroness (he was proud of himself for that one) was like a little pussycat herself. He figured he was about to get a month’s worth of ribbing material for Audrey and Angie out of this one.

One thing, though. The woman’s voice was like cream. Or maple syrup, maybe.

No, it was butterscotch. Yeah. Unbearably sugary and sweet and exotic. Less familiar than chocolate, yet with more personality. Gentler. More tantalizing. Maybe the best stuff in the world, if you didn’t count oyster po’boys. When he was a kid, he didn’t give a damn for chocolate. Give him butterscotch every time.

“I am like a cat,” the poet said.

For Christ’s sake, give me a break, he thought. And then she really got going.

When I was born, I was a little piece of toffee.

Brown toffee.

Soft and sweet and just as innocent as the baby Jesus.

Just as innocent as my mama.

Or maybe I should say my sweet mama was just as
innocent as
her own sweet baby.

My sweet mama was so proud.

My sweet mama was so proud.

Even though her own sweet baby was born at

Charity Hospital—

(Couldn’t have been worse—there ain’t really no St.

James Infirmary)

She was lyin’ there at Charity like Cleopatra in exile

And she says to the Pill Man, the one who pulled her
baby out of her womb and stopped that relentless screaming pain—

She says to that nice young man, “What you think I ought to name my baby?”

My mama so proud of her little piece of toffee,

She wants to name her somethin’ fine. Somethin’ fancy.

Somethin’ so special ain’ no other little girl got the same name.

And the doctor say, “Name that girl Urethra.”

And my mama, she just as pleased, and she so proud,

And she say, “That’s a beautiful name.

Ain’nobody in my neighborhood name Urethra.

We got Sallies and we got Janes and we got Melissas and

Saras—we got LaTonyas, just startin’ to have Keishas--but

Ain’ nobody else name Urethra.

I’m gon’ name my baby Urethra for sure.”

And that’s my first name—the one they put on my birth certificate.

I am named Urethra. Now ain’t that a beautiful name?

But somebody knew. Somebody in our neighborhood.

Somebody told my sweet mama she name her little
candy girl
after some ol’ tube you piss through.

My name is Piss Tube.

My name is Pee Place.

My name is Exit for Excreta.

And my sweet mama so proud.

Now she call me Sandra. I never did find out why.

Must be for the sand got in her eyes when she listen to that white man.

Do I look like a Sandra to you?

My name is Urethra.

My name is Exit for Excreta.

And I am a baroness.

Because a cat has three names and I am like a cat.

My sweet mama’s broken and weak now,

After what that white man did to her—

She never did trust no one again, black or white.

And I can never say again, “My mama’s proud. “

I didn’t want no African name,

‘Cause I am African-American, love it or hate it,

And I didn’t want no LaTonya, I didn’t want no

La Keisha,

Latifah, Tanisha, Marquita, Shamika—

White asshole steal somethin’ from me.

I’m gon’ steal somethin’ right back.

I AM THE BARONESS DE PONTALBA,

AND YOU
can kiss my aristocratic black ass.

***

Shock value, he thought. She’s just going for shock value. Everybody’s heard that stuff about the interns at Charity Hospital, but nobody believes it. It’s just a story, for Christ’s sake. This is the kind of thing keeps the races apart. This girl isn’t doing anybody any good with this kind of crap.

Still. The poem made him feel a little shaky. Awkward, kind of. He stole a glance at his wife and saw she was staring at Angie, who was in tears. Good. A way out. “Angie, ya so softhearted,” he said.

“I don’t see what’s wrong with her,” Audrey said. “I thought it was supposed to be funny.”

“Supposed to be. Sure—supposed to be,” he said, “Well, I thought it was supposed to be sad and funny at the same time, but I don’t think it was either one, ‘cause I don’t believe a word of it. I think the Baroness is a hype artist.”

Angie gave him an, “oh, Daddy” look, and the poet started up again.

“That’s from a series of poems I’ve written—still writing, matter of fact—about my favorite subject: The Baroness Myself. ‘Course, I wouldn’t want you to think I’m self-involved or anything, but after a hard day of makin’ up verses, I find I still don’t have enough to cover the rent and shrink bills both. So I just get up and dive a little deeper the next day and put off that shrink appointment until the Hollywood money starts to roll in, and whatever I write keeps me sane. So y’all are going to have to forgive me if these things sound a little crazy.” She paused a second, and Eddie nodded to himself, thinking she really was an excellent performer. “Got another one for you. It’s called ‘Queen of the May.’ “

Other girls’ daddies are po-licemen bankers, lawyers, tubewinders, tolltakers,
worthless layabouts, drug dealers,

And cable TV installers.

Mmm-mmm.Not my daddy.

My daddy ain’ nothin’ like nobody else’s daddy.

My daddy say, you ain’t no Baroness,

You Queen of the May

And I…

Am your faithful servant, at your service today.

Your Majesty, honey,

Come fly a kite with me.

And he take me out to the park to fly a kite,

And I cry ‘cause only the kite can fly and not me.

And he say, lucky for you we in the Enchanted Park.

Enchanted Park? I say.

He got my attention now.

“Only park in the history of the world

Got flyin’ horses.

You ever fly on a horse?”

And I say, “Daddy I never even rode on a horse.”

And we fly on the flyin’ horses

And I cry ‘cause they ain’t even real,

And already

I seen too many things match that description.

But he say, you want a horse?

I’ll get you a horse.

Great big chestnut horse

With a long silky mane and A hand-tooled leather saddle,

And he be real big and warm

And make you feel safe like nothin’ ever did in this world.

Mmmm hmmmm. Other girls’ daddies be plumbers, accountants, shoe salesmen,
bus drivers, bail bondsmen,

Preachers, and the random city councilman.

Not my daddy.

My daddy my faithful servant,

Do anything I want

Anytime I want

Because I…

Am Queen of the May.

So he get me that great big chestnut horse

And he put me up on top,

And I never in my life felt anything so big and warm and safe

Except my own sweet daddy’s lap when I climb up and give him a hug.

Every mornin’ now my mama come in,

Come floppin’ in in her funny ol’ fuzzy slippers

And she say, Girl, why you sleep so late?

Who you think you is?

You think you Queen of the May ?

And I say, five minutes, Mama, jus ‘five minutes more.

And I close my eyes

And I saddle up my horse

And we go flyin’ off again.

And I never in my life felt anything so big and warm and safe.

***

It’s her voice, Eddie thought. It’s her goddam voice. That and the scotch. He felt like crying, and he had to blame it on something. Audrey was cocking an eyebrow at him. He wasn’t actually tearing up, but he turned away just in case.

He hated this woman. Actually hated her. He could probably hire her for pennies, but he was willing to pay a living wage just to get her out of his life. Tomorrow he’d bite the bullet and run a real ad and get some young male hotshot. Angie had made her point.

The poet read some other stuff and it was quite a bit lighter, kind of funny, some of it. He even halfway enjoyed it, now that his decision was made.

And then it was over, and everyone was standing and chattering, and she was coming. She was headed right for him, cobalt folds flying about her, holding out her hand as graciously as a queen. The woman was scary.

“Why, Eddie Valentino, I never figured you for a poetry lover.”

“My wife made me come.”

He could hear Audrey gasp at his side, but the Baroness was utterly unfazed. “Audrey? Delighted to meet you. And you must be Angie. It’s so lovely of you to come. Will you come meet my mama?”

Then, somehow, they got sucked up into the maelstrom of people around her and Audrey was falling in love with the woman the Baroness said was her mama: “She calls herself Miz Clara, but you can probably call her ‘Miz’ for short.”

Angie was trading wisecracks with some black guy—good-looking dude, way too handsome for Eddie’s taste—who was probably the poet’s boyfriend or husband or something, and he was forced to talk to the damn woman herself.

“Tell me something, Miss, um…Miss…” He’d forgotten her name.

“Why don’t you call me ‘Your Grace’?”

“Uh, tell me something. Where’d you go to school?”

“Harvard. I told you that.” She was laughing at him.

“Oh, yeah, Xavier. Ya graduate?”

She nodded. “With honors.”

“Well, you talk like an educated lady. Why ya write ya poetry in ebonics—idn’t that what they call it?” He was proud of himself for remembering.

“You really want to know?”

Not really, he thought, but he had to talk about something. “It just seems like kind of a waste of education.”

“I do it because that’s how I hear it.”

He thought she’d say more, but she didn’t. Superior bitch. He truly hated her.

CHAPTER THREE

Before it was over, Talba had managed to get him together with Miz Clara. The Baroness might be too much for him—she was pretty sure she was—but no one, at least no one like Eddie, could resist Miz Clara when she was in church-lady mode. She came to Talba’s readings dressed to uphold the family honor in the face of her daughter’s outlandish persona, and that meant pantyhose, heels, tight little dress with peplum, and Sunday-best, not-a-hair-out-of-place-wig-hat-on-her-head. She worked as a housecleaner, which she would probably work into the conversation, just because she liked to get it out there in case it was an issue, and Talba figured that could work to her advantage. It would show that she came from modest beginnings and therefore couldn’t be too threatening.

Talba had kept an ear cocked while she talked to Eddie’s very hip daughter—whom she liked a lot— and heard Miz Clara going on about how honored she was that Eddie had come to hear her humble daughter and even brought his exalted family. She might not actually have used those precise adjectives, but Talba thought there was something downright Japanese about the way she carried on about the honor he and his were heaping on her and hers by their luminescent presence. Her mother must really want her to get a job.

Her brother Corey already held one of the three positions Miz Clara deemed acceptable for her offspring, the other two being president and Speaker of the House. Corey was a doctor. Miz Clara hadn’t signed up for a poet.

Worse, she hated most of Talba’s poetry, because it revealed too much about the family. What she did like was the adulation it got her daughter, which Miz Clara felt reflected so well on her it actually was hers. And so, gradually, ever so gradually, she’d become willing for Talba not to go off to Palo Alto and become an Internet millionaire, so long as she did some kind of honest work. Evidently, she’d liked Audrey enough to make Eddie okay with her. And okay in Miz Clara’s book meant she was going to stay on Talba’s back—and maybe Eddie’s—till Eddie hired her.

That morning she had knocked on Talba’s door, and shouted, “Girl, who you think you are? Queen of the May?”

Talba smiled. “Come on in, Mama. I’m sorry you hate that poem so much.”

“Hmmmf. Describe you, all right. Got coffee made.”

Talba had stayed out late with Darryl after the reading—she found it took her hours to wind down from these things—and had slept much longer than usual, too long to join her mother for coffee, as usual.

When Miz Clara had left, and she had drunk her coffee and worked up her nerve, she took a breath and called Eddie. “Mr. Valentino? I just wanted to thank you again for coming to my reading. I was really very touched and just wanted to say ...”

But he interrupted her. “Ya busy this morning? Why don’t ya come on in?”

For what? she thought Am I hired? But she didn’t ask. What the hell, she wasn’t busy. She put on her one good suit.

Eileen Fisher looked up only briefly. “He said to send you right in.”

Talba thought he looked a little better this morning—maybe a little less tired. Probably a load off his shoulders, knowing he was about to get such a competent assistant.

“Ms. Wallis, ya got an investigator’s license?”

“License? Well, no, I thought if I worked for you ... why? Do I need one?”

“To be an investigator ya do.”

Fool. She hadn’t checked that out.”What do I have to do to get one?”

“Ya gotta go to Delgado or UNO and take a course. Take ya coupla weekends. But you gotta wait till they give the class.”

“Oh.” She sat still for a moment, taking it in. Finally, she said, “Well. I’m in your office. There must be some reason for it.”

“I’m willing to take you on as an apprentice while ya get ya license.”

“I see.”

“And I was wonderin’. You’re so good with the computer—ya got a program for keeping books?”

“You want me to keep the books as well?

He shrugged. “Not that much to do. It’s just a pain in the ass if ya don’t have the software.”

“You want me to do two jobs? Is that it?”

“Well, ya won’t be doing that much investigating--mostly just tagging around with me and learning. With your skills, the bookkeeping won’t take ya more than a few hours a month. I’d say it’s about three-quarters of a job, really.”

“Wait a minute. None of that’s my real job—what you really want’s a computer jockey, right?”

He leaned forward, getting aggressive on her. “That’s nothin’. That’s like a hobby for ya.”

She was considering flouncing out of the office when suddenly she noticed something she’d never seen in this man before. Somewhere between the lizardly hoods of his eyes and the purple luggage below was a glint of amusement. He was playing with her.

She reached for the file she’d withheld from him the day before, the one that held his financial report, setting it provocatively on his desk. “You’re right. Piece of cake for a hotshot like me. But you don’t know me—how come you’d trust me with the books?”

“I wouldn’t. I’m gonna micromanage ya until I’m sure ya’ve got the hang of it.”

“I mean, how do you know I’m honest?”

“Are you serious, young lady? You should never have introduced me to ya mama—you don’t do right, Miz Clara’ll be the first to know.”

If he was the laughing type, he’d be roaring at this point.

She concealed her irritation. “What kind of salary did you have in mind?”

“Tell me what ya lookin’ for.” He looked like a buzzard circling prey so helpless it already stank.

She said, “Oh, about eighty grand.”

He did a histrionic double take. “Grand is right, Your Majesty. We’re talkin’ grandiose.”

“Your Grace will do.” She gave him a full-wattage smile.

“I was thinking more like twenty-five.”

Good, she thought Excellent. He was probably really thinking about seventeen.

She opened the folder. “Well, now, I’ve already given a little attention to your books.”

He snatched the folder out of her hands. “Where’d you get this?”

“Same place that high-priced service of yours gets it. You’ve got one, don’t you? You probably pay them twenty-five a year. I can save you that much just by doing your financial checks for you. So look—take that twenty-five and the twenty-five you just offered—I’ll do it for fifty.”

The amusement was gone now. He was starting to look dangerous. “You got some nerve, ya know that?”

Talba was wondering if she’d gone too far when a timid voice spoke behind her. “Mr. Valentino?”

“What is it, Eileen?” His voice was furious. Talba could see the woman wince, bracing for a temper that he probably didn’t bother controlling if he didn’t feel like it.

“I’ve got a call for Ms. Wallis.”

“Ms. ... Ms. ...” He seemed to be struggling to remember who the hell Ms. Wallis might be.

“May I take it here?” Talba asked coolly, and picked up the phone.

“Did I get you at a bad time?” It was Darryl.

“Couldn’t be worse. How’d you find me?”

“Took a chance. Listen, there’s no time to talk. I’m sending you a client. You got the job, I presume.”

For the benefit of Valentino, who was hanging on her every word, Talba said, “I see. You’re sending us a client.”

“Look, it’s a lady whose kid goes to another school. She just made a scene in the counselor’s office, and I thought of a brilliant way to get her out of here.”

“Uh-huh. What was that?”

“Suggested a hotshot P.I. Oh, shit, she’s yelling again. Listen, I’ve got to go.”

Talba set the receiver down, wondering what this was going to do to her negotiation. She decided not to go the apologetic route. Instead, she smiled and held out her hands. “Well. Looks like I’m a rainmaker.”

“You’re mighty damn big for ya britches, you know that?”

“Actually, I’m a little embarrassed about that—I didn’t solicit it; it just happened.”

“And how exactly would you define ‘it’?” he asked.

“A friend said he had a client for us. No details; no nothing.”

Valentino shook his head. “Well, I can’t pay you fifty thousand dollars.”

He damn sure could, she thought. She knew exactly what he was taking in. But she said, “Okay. Forty-five.”

Eileen Fisher appeared again. “Another call for Ms. Wallis.”

Again, Talba picked up. “This is Aziza Scott. Darryl Boucree called about me.”

“Yes, Mrs. Scott. He called, but he didn’t tell me what it was about.”

“I’m calling from the car. See you in ten.”

Valentino seemed hardly to notice the interruption. “Twenty-seven tops,” he said.

Tops, my ass, Talba thought, and tried not to think about what Darryl was sending them. She was starting to perspire, partly from fear, and partly from the realization that she was doing it, she was going to get what she wanted. “Forty plus benefits.”

“Of course benefits,” Eddie said. “Think I’m a piker? Twenty-seven and benefits.”

Several thousand dollars later, when they had finally shaken hands, a well-dressed woman arrived, nervously twisting the nice-sized diamond she wore. Talba breathed a sigh of relief—apparently, she was able to afford an apprentice hotshot.

Valentino was suddenly the perfect host. “Come in, come in, Mrs. Scott. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

The woman was tall, African-American, straight-haired, straight-nosed, and probably, if her clothes were any indication, straitlaced. She was dressed for the business world, and from the looks of her gray suit and gold jewelry, high up in it. Talba thought she looked like a bank officer.

The woman addressed herself to Talba. “Mr. Boucree seemed to think you’d be able to relate to my daughter.”

“Mr. Valentino and I work as a team. Excuse me a moment, will you? I’ll get another chair.” She was making it up as she went along, but it seemed to be working. The woman relaxed and sat.

When Talba came back with the chair, Eddie was already talking. “What can we do for you?”

“My daughter’s been molested.”

Talba gasped, but she kept quiet, taking a cue from Eddie, who shook his head slowly, murmuring, “Mmm. Mmm. Mmm.”

“The thing is, no one will do anything!” Scott sounded whiny and at the end of her rope.

“I’m so sorry.” Talba said, no longer able to contain herself.

“She still has braces on her teeth.” The woman was twisting a tissue, but maybe, just maybe, she didn’t seem quite as anguished as Miz Clara might have been in her situation.

“Why don’t you start at the beginning,” Eddie said quietly.

Aziza Scott took a breath. “I read her diary. I don’t like to admit it, but I didn’t know what else to do. She wasn’t acting right. Nothing made her happy all of a sudden—she was sullen and pouty all the time instead of only three-quarters of it.” She tried out a smile on this one, but none of the three of them had the stomach for it. “I thought maybe I could find out what was bothering her.”

Talba didn’t think this was a first, the thing with the diary.

“It was in there.”

“That she’d been molested?”

“That she’d had sex. Here. You read it.” She handed it to Talba, opened to a page with a section marked in yellow highlighter, and Eddie had no choice but to wait until she’d read it.

***

He picked me over. Shaneel! Bet that’s never happened to her in her whole life. “You, “ he said. “Come with me. “Just like that. As soon as we were in the bedroom, he said, “Baby, you beautiful. Anybody ever tell you that? You got a bottom like somethin’ out of the movies. You want me to rub your back? Come on. Let’s go over to the bed.”

Well! I’m embarrassed to write what happened next—stuff I never even heard of. Wow. I can honestly say he taught me things about my body I never suspected. Oh, yeah—all right! That part was real good. But it still hurt when we did it.

Why doesn’t anyone ever tell you it’s going to? I asked Shaneel and she just laughed at me. I wonder if it always does—every time, I mean?

At first I wasn’t going to do it. No way, José! Cassandra Scott from Catholic School? I don’t think so. But then, while I was lying there feeling like that, I just thought, why not? Why not do it with him? I’ve got to do it with somebody sometime, and he’s a grown man—been everywhere, done everything. Why not find out what it’s all about?

Anyway, I made him wear a condom.

***

Talba handed the diary to Eddie, and asked, “How old is she, Mrs. Scott?”

“Fourteen. And you see what she says about him.”

Talba said, “Statutory rape.”

“Not exactly,” Eddie said, “Louisiana law is tricky. Here, it’s called ‘carnal knowledge of a juvenile.’ “

“But it’s still a crime. Why not go to the police?” asked Talba. Eddie gave her a look that told her not to rush things.

“Cassandra says she doesn’t know who the man was. I tried to get it out of her, and I did go to the police. They say they can’t do a damn thing without a name. Then I went to find that little bitch Shaneel, and the idiot counselor wouldn’t even let me talk to her. Goddammit, you see how frustrated I am? No one will do anything!” Talba remembered what Darryl had said about her causing a scene in the counselor’s office. She hoped it wasn’t going to be repeated.

Grasping at straws, she said, “There’s no name anywhere in the diary?”

“Oh, yes, there’s a name. Toes.”

“Toes.”

“My daughter had her first sexual experience with a man named Toes.” She twisted the tissue till it tore, and at this moment, her anguish seemed real to Talba. She didn’t care much for the name Toes herself.

Eddie said, “We need to talk to the girl.”

Scott nodded. “Might as well. She doesn’t talk to me, that’s for sure. But I don’t think it’s—I don’t want to be rude, but I really think she’d respond better to Ms. Wallis.”

Take that, Talba thought. Take that, Eddie Valentino. I’m the right demographic—young, female, and as dumb as the kid when it comes to guys. Scratch that. Formerly as dumb as the kid.

She was feeling magnanimous. Instead of letting Eddie do the dirty work, she jumped in ahead of him. “I’ll be happy to talk to her, but we do work as a team. Okay if Eddie comes along?”

“I guess it can’t hurt.” Scott didn’t seem happy about it.

CHAPTER FOUR

She was pushy, she was smart-mouthed, she was probably brilliant (or thought she was, which was just as bad). She was also cute as a button, and the whole package added up to one large pain in the ass. But after the reading, once he got home and got sober, Eddie found he didn’t hate her at all. In fact, he had to admit she reminded him of someone—an awful lot, as a matter of fact. Except for the little matter of skin color, she was just about a clone of his daughter Angela.

The thing he hated was Angie and Audrey pushing her down his throat. Sometimes it seemed like he never got to make any decisions on his own. They worked on him all the way home from the damn reading--both of them seemed to think she was Sherlock Holmes and Robert Frost rolled up in one—and in the end he ran out of excuses.

Yes, she could probably make his life easier. And yes, she was about ten times more qualified than anyone else he’d probably be able to get. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to make the mere facts that she was black, female, pushy, and had an uncanny ability to get around him outweigh the rest of it. Matter of fact, not a single one of the four facts could even be mentioned outside a poker club in Arabi.

Plus, that poem about her father had really gotten to him. He hated it when she read it because it made him so goddam sad—like maybe he was missing something. He didn’t see why it was anybody’s business to go and make him feel like that. But the girl really loved her father. You couldn’t fake a thing like that. That had to count for something.

“Okay, okay, okay. I know when I’m licked,” he had said, slamming the door of his Buick, and Angie had given him a big sloppy kiss. That part was okay, but he hated it when she followed it up with crap like, “Dad, I’ve been so worried about you.”

Worried about him, hell. He could damn well run his business by himself.

Anyway, he thought he could until the damn Baroness stuck a gun to his head and walked away with everything he’d ever worked for. That was what he was going to tell Audrey, but actually, once he realized how much she was going to save him on the financial reports, he didn’t mind that much—might even come out ahead.

That was an interesting thought. He had business—had plenty of business—but to his recollection, he’d never had an African-American client who wasn’t referred by a lawyer. What if there was a nice little market there, and Ms. Talba Wallis could tap into it for him? Blacks did business with blacks, and now he had one on his staff. He could even give her a little commission for each new client she brought in—sweeten the pot a little, get her to put the word oµt.

He was most impressed with Aziza Scott as a client. Not only hadn’t she balked at his considerable hourly fee, she’d turned out to be a hospital administrator. Hospitals were big businesses. They got sued; they had employees who stole; they had plenty of investigative needs. Also, from the looks of her, Ms. Scott was plenty well-fixed and likely had plenty of friends who were—and who might need a little divorce work or something.

If he could just do something about her mouth, the Baroness might work out.

One thing about it bothered him a little—the coincidence of Scott making a scene at Talba’s boyfriend’s school at the very moment she was negotiating her salary. He decided to let it go. He knew it had to be a setup and a pretty transparent one—but if Scott’s money was good, what the hell did he care? Let the Baroness play games all day and all night if she wanted; if she thought she was fooling him, so much the better. Being underestimated was always an advantage.

After the client left, he said, “Ya got a car, Ms. Wallis?”

She came back with, “How about if we do ‘Talba’ and ‘Eddie’?”

Damn, she could be irritating. It was his place to say that, right? Who the fuck did she think she was? But what the hell, it was going to come to that, anyway. So he just said, “Whatever Your Grace desires. Ya got a car or not?”

“Yes sir. Nice little Camry.”

“Well, get out to Delgado and sign up for the next investigators’ course. But first call up the state Board of P.I. Examiners and apply for your apprentice license.” He paused. “Oh, and by the way—nice of ya to include me in on the interview with the kid.”

She gave him a smile he could only construe as mischievous. “I thought I had to.”

“Ya damned right ya had to. Ya can’t do a damn thing on this case—or any case, ya got that?—till your apprentice license comes through.” He paused, his gaze boring right through her—this was something you couldn’t mess around with. “Ya know why?”

“My mama always said, ‘because I told you not to’.”

“Well, there’s three thousand better reasons— one for every dollar I’m gon’ get fined if ya do. Now get outta here.”

While she was out, he and Eileen rearranged the copy room so she could use it for an office.

Talba was touched to find the little office they’d carved out for her—Eileen had even put some flowers in there. Still, it wasn’t quite what she expected. The obvious space was the room down the hall, the one that appeared more or less empty.

“What’s with that one?” she asked. “Is there another employee?”

Eileen shook her head. “Oh, no. That’s the video room. It’s Eddie’s pride and joy.”

“What do you need a video room for?”

“We do these ‘Day in the Life’ things, see? Like if somebody gets mangled up in a car accident and they’re suing. We do a little movie showing how tough their life is when they can’t even move their little finger.”

Talba winced. “Omigod. I hope I never have to do that.”

“No fear. Uncle Eddie loves it—he’d do nothin’ but that if he could. That and divorce work— anything, so long as it doesn’t involve computers.”

“Did you say Uncle Eddie?”

“Oops, did I? ‘Scuse me, I’m not supposed to do that. Anyway, it’s on Aunt Audrey’s side.”

That was good information—there’d be no antagonizing this one. Eileen said, “Make me a list of what you need, okay? There’s already a phone line in there. Oh, and I’ve ordered you a cell phone. Eddie thinks you should have one. You got a camera?”

“Not a very good one.”

“Okay, I’ll get you one.”

“I’ll probably need another phone line for the Internet.”

“Sure. He said to get you whatever you want.”

“Great. How about a nice green Jaguar?” Talba slipped into her new office and started setting things up. There were a bunch of folders in her in-box with a note on them: “Not to be touched until you have your license.” They were mostly credit checks. Easy-peazy. She had them nearly all done by five-thirty, and the interview with Cassandra was at six. Eddie didn’t say a word when she laid them on his desk.

“Pontchartrain Park,” he said as they piled into his Buick. “Birds of a feather still flock together.”

Talba racked her brain, but in the end had to give up. “Eddie,” she said, finally, “what language was that?”

“It’s where we’re going. Where the rich black folks live.”

She almost said, “I don’t think so—or my brother’d be there,” but that sounded snotty even to her. She settled for, “Oh. Thought that was Eastover.”

“Pontchartrain Park’s older—must not be fashionable anymore.”

“Well, I sure wouldn’t know. I live in the Ninth Ward.” She said “de Night Wawad,” like a native, and actually got a laugh out of him.

The neighborhood was on the lake and nicely appointed with a golf course, but by nineties standards it was really pretty modest—a tasteful collection of ranch-style brick homes, nearly fifty years old by the looks of them.

Aziza Scott’s was no different, being well-kept and sedate, though the Mercedes in front was one of the better cars on the street. The inside, by contrast, was mildly chaotic.

Scott had had time to change into khakis and a T-shirt, but her makeup hadn’t had an update for hours. “Would you like to talk in the living room?” she asked, and Eddie shook his head, perhaps thinking the room too formal. That it was, but it needed a good dusting.

Scott said, “Cassandra’s watching TV,” and started toward the back of the house.

The dining room table was piled high with papers and files—work stuff, probably the mom’s or dad’s, and they’d spilled over onto a buffet with a silver tea service pushed to one side.

Eddie asked “Is your husband home?” and Scott said “I’m divorced.” She tried out a wry smile, but it never really took off.

Talba glanced off to the right and saw that the kitchen looked, as Miz Clara used to say, like a cyclone had struck it. A whiff of garbage that needed emptying drifted out of it.

Scott waved at it. “The cleaners come tomorrow.”

Teenage girls contemplating pregnancy should be forced to visit, Talba thought. The house was a powerful argument against single parenthood.

The family room where they ended up, by contrast looked a little better. Scott must have admonished her daughter to clear out discarded socks and leftover pizza before the visitors arrived.

The moment Talba saw the girl she had a bad feeling. Cassandra was a tall drink of water well on her way to babehood, clearly with little else on her mind. Her skin was a luscious golden color, lighter than her mother’s, and her hair was curlier. She had pulled it through a rubber band somewhere near the top of her head so that it formed an exuberant pouf while exposing a graceful neck. Spidery arms protruded from a sleeveless shirt that failed to cover her navel and skinny legs from a pair of abbreviated shorts. Her bare feet revealed green-painted toenails. Sullenness enveloped her like a thick, sticky cloud.

For the first time, Talba’s confidence faltered. I don’t know if I can do this, she thought. The girl was clearly a bird with a broken wing, but not only from the rape, Talba thought. The wounds didn’t seem fresh.

She and Eddie sat down while Scott turned off the television. Talba caught the way the girl looked at her mother, something nasty flashing suddenly from her eyes, and then turned away from her, toward Talba, her mouth hanging slightly open, giving her a somewhat retarded look and showing a mouthful of hardware. Perhaps the braces made it hard for her to close her mouth, Talba thought, and felt a twinge of sympathy for her. Pretty as she was, she was profoundly awkward; and so deeply unhappy you could see it from ten paces.

I know this girl, Talba thought. I’ve been there. Being fourteen is like a prison sentence.

Aziza, the mother, was trying to help her out. “Ms. Wallis is a poet, Cassandra.” Darryl must have told her. “And a detective. How’s that for a combo?”

Talba smiled at the girl. “Poetry doesn’t really pay the bills. I’m a pretty good computer jockey too. You on the Internet?” She was trying to get down to it right away, find out if the girl had met her attacker on the net.

Cassandra shook her head, not deigning to speak, her mouth still hanging open and hatred coming out of her pores.

Another shrug.

“She sings in a choir,” Aziza said.

Talba tried to sound enthusiastic. “No kidding!”

The girl flared. “I don’t see what you’re trying to get at.”

Eddie ignored her. “My little grandson’s into hip-hop. Ya know what? Some of that stuff’s pretty good. Ya like tigers?”

Talba could see that the girl was getting ready to shrug again, and fairly nastily, but she stopped in mid-motion, apparently taken aback by Eddie’s non sequitur. “There’s a band named Tigers?”

“No, I mean tigers like at the zoo. I was askin’ ‘cause my grandson volunteers over at Audubon Park, and they’ve got this new baby tiger he was telling me about.”

For the first time, the girl seemed actually interested. “Oh, wow, really?”

“He said it’s just like a real big kitten—cutest little thing you ever saw.”

“He gets to pet it?”

“Yeah, sure. Hold it and everything.”

“Ohhhhh. Lucky!” Talba could hear the longing in her voice and thought that Cassandra was someone who seldom got what she wanted. She realized that, in spite of herself, the girl was taking to Eddie—that somehow or other he’d gotten around her. And that Aziza had been completely wrong: Talba would get nowhere with her. So far, she was anything but an asset.

For some reason, Eddie was kicking at her, gently. She had no experience with kids, no knowledge of them, and absolutely no idea what to do now. All she knew was, she was pissed off at the kid, Eddie, and herself, in that order. “Aren’t we getting a little off the subject?” she said, and felt ashamed when she heard the testiness in her voice. She was being childish, and she knew it.

And yet, Eddie stopped kicking her. Even spoke kindly, sounding a little abashed that he wasn’t acting properly. “Yeah, I guess we are. Listen, Cassandra, I know it’s hard for you, but we’ve been hired to find the guy who—uh—you know—” He actually started to blush.

“The asshole,” Talba said, suddenly seeing her role and warming to it: she was the bad cop.

“He is not an asshole,” Cassandra flashed. “He’s just somebody I met.”

Eddie said, “My grandson’s a—you know—a young male. People could say things. I know how you feel, baby.”

Drunk with power, Talba said, “How’d you happen to meet him, Cassandra?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Aziza spoke sharply. “Cassandra!”

Cassandra telegraphed her a couple of hate-rays, and spoke to Eddie: “We were just at somebody’s house and somebody knew him, so we called him to come over.”

“Whose house, baby?”

Before the girl could speak, Aziza Scott said, “Shaneel’s. Shaneel Johnson, the girl who goes to Fortier.” Darryl’s school.

“And how do you know Shaneel?”

She was quiet for a while, but Eddie waited her out. “Choir,” she said at last.

“Was Shaneel the one who knew him?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Well, who else was there?” Talba gave her voice an edge.

“I don’t remember.”

Eddie said, “Was he somebody’s brother or boyfriend? I mean, why’d you call him?”

She looked down, obviously hating the question, but not wanting to be rude to Eddie. “He knows cool people. He said he could introduce us.”

“To cool people?”

“I guess so.”

“So did he bring them over?”

“No.”

Aziza Scott apparently could stand it no more, the way they were tweezing information, hair by hair. “He took them over to his house.”

Eddie looked at the girls from over his eye pouches. “That so, baby?”

Cassandra nodded.

“How many girls?”

She shrugged.

“And were the cool people over there?”

Slowly, she shook her head.

“You must have been together quite a while, right?” He waited for her to nod. “Ya mama says you don’t know his name.”

“I do know his name. His name’s Toes.”

Talba said, half-kidding, “Oh, no. Now Eddie’s gonna think all black people have weird names.”

“Toes what, baby?”

“I don’t know.”

Eddie considered. “Well, honey, you’re a beautiful girl, you know that? Why would a beautiful girl like you ...”

“He said he could really love me!” The words came at them like a punch in the mouth. She screamed them, eyes flashing fury at all three of them.

“But he did tell you you’re beautiful, didn’t he?” Eddie spoke infinitely gently. “Because you are, honey, you are. Don’t ya ever sell yaself short again.” He touched her gently on the shoulder, in a way that managed somehow not to be patronizing.

He got up to leave, and Talba took her cue from him, standing as well.

On the way out, he said to Aziza: “Did he hit on Shaneel? Or anyone else who was there?”

“Cassandra says not. And you saw what the diary said—about how flattered she was to be singled out.”

“Ms. Scott,” Talba said. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

Scott’s face broke out in smiles; she all but wriggled. “Why, yes, I do. Why do you ask?”

“I think your daughter needs you worse than he does right now.” She figured since she was already pegged as the bad cop, she could say anything she wanted.

They were silent for the first part of the drive home, and Talba was grateful for it. He wasn’t saying a word about either her ineptitude or bad manners. Finally, deciding he wasn’t going to, she got up the courage to speak. “Eccch. Can you imagine? Taking a bunch of fourteen-year-olds over to his house?”

“We got a real piece o’ toe jam here. He’s got the right name.”

“Think she knows the real one?”

“Yep. They all do—all the kids who were there. Ya want to go with me to see Shaneel?”

“Sure.” Is the pope a bear! she thought. She said, “Eddie, I gotta ask you something. I thought Angela was your only kid.”

He shook his head. “Nope. Got a son.” He stared off into space for a moment, and said, as if he wasn’t used to the word, “Anthony.”

“He must be a lot older than Angie.”

“Younger. Why?”

“‘Cause I don’t get it. How could you have a grandson old enough to volunteer at the zoo?”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t? “

“Ms. Wallis, ya got a lot to learn. Lemme tell ya somethin’ll be the best thing I ever taught ya: all women like babies. Even if they think they don’t, they do. Ya want to get to a woman, ya talk about babies. And if she’s under fifteen, ya make it baby animals—furry ones. Ya can’t go wrong.”

She stared at him in shock. “No grandson and no baby tiger?”

“Could be a baby tiger. Cats are randy as goats, ya know that?”

Feeling slightly breathless, she changed the subject on him. “Where’s your son live?”

“Who knows? Haven’t heard from him in ten years.”

She knew she should back away from the subject, but she was in too deep to just let it hang there. She tried to sound casual. “Your choice or his?”

“Both, I guess. Neither one of us has a bit of use for the other.”

Talba suddenly felt exhausted, too tired even to go out with Darryl, and that meant breaking a date. She never did that.

CHAPTER FIVE

“It’s your fault,” she said when he phoned. “You got me the client.”

“Whooo. Some piece of work, isn’t she? I don’t think I’ve ever heard that much noise coming out of that poor counselor’s office.”

“She strikes me as somebody who expected the kid to raise herself, and then when Cassandra got in trouble she had to point the finger somewhere else. I mean, that’s the only reason I can think of for pursuing this through a detective.”

“Ah. Beautiful, poetic, and perceptive. She’s a type—every teacher’s seen her a million times. The kid’s grades are bad, so it’s the school’s fault— usually, that’s what you hear them yelling about. They always want you to tell them what a good kid they’ve got, because if the kid’s not so great, it reflects badly on them. They’re embarrassed. I mean, embarrassment’s their reaction to their kid having problems. So it’s somebody else’s fault—if not the school’s, then the other kids’.”

“Wait a minute,” Talba said. “I don’t know if I buy this embarrassment thing. It seems like more than that. I mean, if it’s somebody else’s fault, then it’s not only not their fault, but they don’t have to do anything about it.”

“Oh, man, you wouldn’t believe! I had a woman last fall at parents’ night—the kid’s grades were falling, he was acting up in class, the whole thing. And this woman asks, quite naturally, what she can do. So I say, ‘Easy. Take away the TV, the phone, and the computer, and have the kid do his homework in a central area, somewhere near you, like in the dining room if you’re working in the kitchen, so you can answer questions if he has them.’ Now tell me, Your Grace—does that sound unreasonable?”

“Sounds a hundred percent right to me.”

“You know what the woman said? She said she couldn’t do that, the kid would get mad at her.”

“And then she’d have to deal with it.”

“You got it.”

“And she couldn’t be bothered because she’s busy getting her presentation ready for work. Or going out with her boyfriend.”

“You got her down cold. Her and Aziza Scott both.”

“Aziza’s a type, huh?”

“Oh, yeah. A pretty far cry from Miz Clara.”

Talba sighed, but Darryl continued. “And woe betide the younger generation. I swear I think it all fell apart when families stopped having dinner together.”

“Well, hell. I may not think Aziza’s the greatest mother in the world, but I can handle her. At least I got the job. I’ll make it up to you—canceling like this.”

“I don’t get it. That job can’t pay much. I mean, you’ve had much better ones in terms of compensation. And if you just wanted to be a detective, why didn’t you go out and do it on your own? Why wait to answer an ad?” He sounded genuinely puzzled.

“There’s something about this guy Eddie. I can’t explain it—I feel like he might have something to teach me.”

“Oh, please. Don’t go mystical on me.”

“I don’t know. It’s sweet the way he is with his family. And he came to my reading—how many potential bosses would do that?”

“You poets really live on crumbs.”

“Yeah, well. I’ve got a day job now. Can we come interview Shaneel?”

“At school? You’ve got to be kidding—we got a bureaucracy going here.”

“Oh.” For a moment, Talba felt deflated. “Wait a minute—I’ve got an idea. Maybe I could get someone from child protective services to come with me.”

He laughed, and it sounded like a bark. “Lots of luck with that one. But sure—if you could get somebody from there, it would probably work. It’s a mighty big ‘if,’ that’s all.”

Later, she reported what he had said to Eddie, who made no effort to control his contempt. “Bull-bleep. We don’t need no stinkin’ badges.”

“How do we get around it?”

“You might work out real well, Ms. Wallis. Maybe I should of hired you a long time ago. Ya got the right demographics, all right. Gene Allred was right about that one.”

“I’m not sure I see what you’re getting at.”

“Well, let me spell it out for ya. Call the counselor, say ya from Child Protection, and ya’ll be right over to interview Shaneel.”

Talba had a brief moment of hope, but in the end it came as no surprise to her that the lady from Child Protection had to be accompanied by her older, male colleague. Eddie trailed her like a duenna. The counselor, a Mrs. Terrell, looked a little perplexed but not enough to ask for stinkin’ badges. She was a middle-aged woman, African-American, and a church lady if Talba ever saw one, but not the overbearing kind, the nice kind.

“I’m so sorry about the Scott girl. Her mother seems so...” She stopped, evidently remembering her manners, and left to get Shaneel.

The girl was pudgy and cute as a kitten, much darker than Cassandra, her cheeks little black apples, the light glinting off them so they sparkled like a second pair of eyes. She wasn’t nearly as pretty as Cassandra, but she had a sensuality about her, and a sense of fun that probably made her a more popular kid. She was a hell of a lot friendlier. “How ya’ll?” she said by way of greeting, as if she’d been properly raised, this public-school girl, as opposed to Cassandra, the zombie from Pontchartrain Park. Once again, Talba pondered Aziza Scott’s mothering style.

When Eddie smiled back, Talba saw the look in his eyes a dad gets watching his kid at Little League, or maybe a recital. I wonder how I know that? she thought. She’d never known her own father. “Baby, we need to ax ya about a man named Toes.”

“I’d tell Miz Scott if I knew. I don’t know the rest of his name.”

“Ya know what happened to Cassandra?”

She looked at her lap. “I know.”

“Ya think that’s right?”

When she raised her head, she had a great big smile pasted on the bottom part of it, plenty of teeth and no joy, little tense lines around her mouth. “I’d tell ya if I knew. You know I would.”

Eddie said. “I know ya would, honey. Ya don’t have to worry about that. Just tell us who else was with ya that day.”

The girl wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Nobody.”

Talba thought, I can’t make it any worse, and took her shot. “Look, this man hurt your friend Cassandra. Maybe it comes down to who’s the better friend, Toes or Cassandra. You really think he’s worth protecting?”

Shaneel’s eyes had started to glint. “He ain’ my friend. I don’t want nothin’ to do with him.”

“Then who called him, honey? Cassandra didn’t know him—if it wasn’t you, who was it?”

Shaneel only stared at her lap.

“You sing in a choir, don’t you?” Talba wasn’t much on church, but her mama was, and she knew the drill. “I know you believe in God. And in having the courage to do the right thing. Only good can come out of it if you tell us. You know that, don’t you?”

The girl shook her head, not lifting her eyes, clearly torn between her conscience and something else. Whatever that was was the key.

“What could happen if you told us?”

“Cassandra my best friend. She’d never speak to me again. Pammie either, prob’ly.”

There it was. The three adults looked at each other. Eddie said quietly, “Where does Pammie go to school?”

The girl raised her head, and her face, though tear-streaked, was profoundly relieved. “She go to Ben Franklin.”

“And she’s the one who called Toes.”

“He a friend of Pammie sister. Rhonda.”

“Rhonda was there too?”

“No. Rhonda wasn’t there.”

Mrs. Terrell cut in curtly. “Pammie who, Shaneel?”

But the girl merely sat there, tears welling and overflowing. She’d tell, Talba thought, she’d certainly tell. She just had to believe she hadn’t really told.

“How do you girls know each other?” she asked.

“Choir. We all in choir—and all our mamas work. We all we got. We go to a different person’s house every day after school. If Cassandra and Pammie cut me off, I ain’ got nobody.”

Eddie patted her. “Where’s that choir you sing in?”

Shaneel was silent, but Mrs. Terrell said, “Gethsemane Baptist Church. That’s right, isn’t it, Shaneel?’’

The girl nodded.

Mrs. Terrell got up. “I’ll call the church. Shaneel, you can go back to class.”

Eddie said, “Baby, ya did just fine. Nobody’s gonna be mad at ya.” To Talba’s surprise, he got a smile out of her.

The Pammie in the choir was Pamela Bergeron.

***

Once in the car, Talba called Ben Franklin and was told Pamela wasn’t in school right then. Something seemed funny about that, she thought. Why not, “She’s not in school today?”

She asked for the girl’s address.

“I’m sorry,” the receptionist purred. “We don’t usually give out addresses.”

“It’s really very important—it is a police case and...”

To her surprise, she didn’t even get to finish her sentence. “Of course. We’re all terribly sorry about what happened. But it is our policy not to give out addresses over the phone.”

Talba had no idea what was going on, but she wasn’t above exploiting it. “Ma’am, we’re really wasting time. Isn’t there some way...”

The woman’s voice softened. “Well, under the circumstances, I think there might be. Her dad owns that little card store over at The Rink—why don’t you check with them?”

“Thanks.” To Eddie, she said, “Got a phone book?”

“Backseat.”

In five minutes, she had lied her way into the address and given it to Eddie, unable to keep the triumph off her face. “How’m I doing?”

“Ya doin’ okay.”

“That’s all you can say?”

“Ya got a lot of mouth on ya.”

Oh, well, she thought. I should have known better.

He wasn’t done. “Ya know it’s a crime to impersonate a police officer?”

“I didn’t impersonate anyone. I just mentioned it was a police case.”

“Which it isn’t. Watch ya mouth, missy. Just watch ya mouth.”

An odd thing, though. When they arrived at the girl’s house, a police car was parked in front. Other cars were there as well, and people milling.

“Something’s going on here,” she said, but Eddie ignored her.

He hollered at a cop who was walking back to the district car. “Billeee.”

The cop smiled. He was white and middle-aged. “Eddie Valentino. How you been doin’?”

“We’re just here on a routine case. What’s goin’ on?”

The cop shook his head, and Talba thought she saw real sadness in his face. She wouldn’t have expected it. “Oh, man. This is a heartbreaker. Hit-and-run. Young girl killed—just like that.” He snapped his fingers, perhaps, Talba thought, thinking how easy it would be to lose his own kid.

Eddie’s face went gray. “Jesus God. Rhonda or Pamela?”

“Rhonda. Ya know her? Ya know the Bergeron girls? Damn shame, Eddie. It’s a damn shame.”

***

They rode back to the office in silence, Talba trying all the way to get Eddie in a conversation, Eddie not, as he mentioned to her, in the fuckin’ mood. The minute he said it he was sorry, too. He hated the word. He thought it showed a great lack of imagination, not to mention class, and yet, at the moment he was so completely not in the fuckin’ mood it popped out of his mouth.

He rubbed his head, then realized he was doing it. Damn! One of his headaches. No way, he thought. I can’t get a headache now. Can’t. The damn computer causes them, and now I have a computer jockey. No reason in hell I should get a headache.

He willed it away.

This thing had him all messed up. It involved a whole lot more women than he was used to dealing with in the course of a day. Girls, really. Even Talba; for the life of him, he couldn’t shake off the sense of a resemblance to Angie. She was just a kid, and she was way too big for her britches, but he had let her get away with stuff and wasn’t sure how he felt about it. A little voice inside of him said it wouldn’t matter, wouldn’t be his responsibility once she got an apprentice license and he didn’t have to witness the crap she pulled. But he also felt an uncontrollable urge to straighten her out, the way he did with Angie half the time, even though she was a grown woman.

He could have crawled under the carpet when Talba mouthed off at the client. On the other hand, the woman’s idea of motherhood appeared to be letting the kid’s little friends baby-sit while Aziza fucked her boyfriend. Sure the kid wanted to have sex—she probably even wanted a baby. Anything to get away from a woman who declared herself in charge, probably nagged a hundred and fifty percent of the time, and didn’t enforce rule one around the house. Eddie didn’t have to see it to know what Scott’s mothering style was like. He could hear it now:

“Cassandra, you ready for church?”

“I’m not going. “

“What’s wrong, baby? Aren’t you feeling well?”

“I’m not going, that’s all.”

“Baby, church is very important for your spiritual well-being.”

(Eye-rolling at this point.) “Now go get your good clothes on.”

“Mama! You can’t—there isn’t time. You just can’t make me do it. It’s too mean.”

Whereupon Aziza would look at her watch, her boyfriend would arrive in a suit and tie, and she’d dash out the door, leaving Cassandra to watch cartoons on television.

Of course, the kid felt superior to her mom—she probably won every argument with her. What the hell, Eddie wondered, ever happened to “because I said so”? The kid was a mess—even Talba, a kid herself, could see that and could see why. Eddie frankly thought Aziza should be prosecuted for neglect, but there weren’t any laws to handle it, and, furthermore, she was the client. He wasn’t about to mention her maternal shortcomings.

So he’d let Talba do it for him. Do it and get away with it. He wondered if he could work up the resolve to reprimand her for it.

Then there was the way she took over the interview at the school. Totally out of line. But the girl’s instincts were good. When he tried to get around that one, he couldn’t.

It was also sharp of her to pick up the bad-cop role at Scott’s house. Or had she realized she was doing it? He had his doubts.

She was a handful. But other things were bothering him.

Cassandra was. He hated seeing a kid that miserable. He wanted to get the bastard who’d exploited her, but in truth he was as angry at the mother as he was at the rapist.

Most of all, there was this Rhonda thing. The coincidence of her death was a bit too much to buy. Eddie had been a cop for a long time, and his cop’s belly told him one thing: Toes.

Maybe the kids weren’t lying about his identity— maybe they really didn’t know who he was. And maybe Cassandra told her friend Pamela that her mother was pulling out all the stops to find him, and Rhonda told Toes, who realized she was the only one who knew who he was, and he killed her. It was amazing how little regard some people had for human life. A guy who’d lure three fourteen-year-olds to his house and have sex with them was a monster by definition.

But taking it further—this was what bothered him the most—taking it further, maybe the others did know his identity. Maybe Rhonda was only the first.

This was why he was in no mood. He needed to figure out what the hell to do.

Okay. First call Scott and tell her to call all the other parents. That was obvious. But damn, he hated the idea of that call. Maybe Talba could make it.

Also, there was the question of telling the police the whole story. It was going to be a few hours before he could find out if anyone saw the hit-and-run. Maybe if a white woman were driving ... nah, that was no good. No matter who was driving, Toes could be behind it. No question he had to warn Scott. Damn. He had to talk to her himself.

When they got back to the office, he said, “You take Rhonda. I’ll take the cops and Aziza,” and closed the door behind him.

His head pounded. At this rate, he thought, I’m not gonna make sixty-five. His birthday was two weeks away.

CHAPTER SIX

Talba thought, Okay, fine, if you want to be that way, and closed her own door. That would mean he’d have to come to her and knock—or at least send Eileen. Anyway, she had some stuff to do she didn’t want him to know about.

But first the case. She hoped to hell Rhonda hadn’t been married—the hardest thing about the Internet was tracing people whose last names you didn’t know.

Well, there was a Rhonda Bergeron at the address they’d gone to to find Pamela—evidently she’d lived with her parents. She was eighteen. Damn. So far, Talba had been too puzzled and hurt by Eddie’s refusal to talk to feel much for Rhonda. But eighteen! She was starting to feel plenty, including an urgent need to get going on this. Come up with something. Goddammit, protect her somehow, though it was too late.

No newspaper clips. Hmmm.

Talba’s fingers flew like a flock of finches. Not much on the father, Lloyd Bergeron, except that he was married to a woman named Marilyn. Decent credit, good driving record. Nothing on Marilyn.

Johnson, as in Shaneel, wasn’t even worth trying.

Just for good measure, she put together a dossier on Aziza Scott and printed it out for Eddie, along with the tidbits on Rhonda. No surprises there either.

She needed to talk to people, to go back to Shaneel— the most likely whistle-blower—and threaten to wring her little neck if she didn’t talk. But Eddie’d wring her little neck if she did.

She went to lunch and lingered until she was bored. When she got back, she was faced with the same old empty in-box. She felt tense and frustrated.

And so she did what she always did to clear her head—started noodling on the net. Which reminded her—she was really going to have to set up a website for Eddie, and soon too. Her pride wouldn’t permit working in a place that didn’t have one. Besides, if she was going to be a rainmaker, it was probably the best thing she could do to bring in business.

She was on Eddie’s time, why not do it for him now? She needed to register a URL. EddieValentino.com had a ring to it.

No, wait a minute. The name of the agency was Anthony Valentino. Anthony! He’d named the agency after his son.

She forgot about the website and started fooling around with “Anthony Valentino.” She could always do a people search, starting in Louisiana, then more or less guessing, but that was way too boring. Newspaper articles were a lot more fun. She hit a few more keys.

And there they were—news stories. About a dozen of them, modest-sized articles in modest-sized papers all over the country. Interviews. There were schedules too, and reviews. Anthony Valentino no longer went by that name (though he mentioned it in every single interview).

Anthony Valentino, formerly of New Orleans, had metamorphosed into bluesman Tony Tino. Now he probably did have a website.

Yes, indeed. There it was. Even a picture of him, looking more like Angie than either of his parents. He had on a narrow-brimmed hat like an old black man might wear, someone playing in a joint like Ernie K-Doe’s Mother-In-Law Club. You couldn’t see his hair, but she was betting on thick and curly. The face looked fine. It was an Italian face, big-nosed and bold, with a hint of the balefulness so striking in his father. In a young man, lugubriousness contrived to be sexy, and no one knew it better than Talba. It was hard to say from a head shot, but Talba’s impression was of leanness, a build more like his mother’s than his father’s. His expression was cocky, in the manner of musicians posing for photographs, but the tiny bit of sadness and something else, something about the set of the features, suggested a vulnerability, a sensitivity, the kind of thing women went mad for. Oh, hell, including me, she thought. Eddie’s kid’s a hunk. Wonder what he plays?

Whoa. Harmonica. A blues harmonica player. He even had a CD out. Pretty accomplished guy.

She rifled through the interviews, which he had attached to his home page—not only that, he sounded literate and charming. Actually, not charming. Anyone could be charming. The man sounded nice.

He was... look at that… living in Austin. Practically a stone’s throw. There was no mention of a wife or kids, which she supposed befitted a blues musician. A bachelor would have more time to brood.

Now why in hell didn’t Eddie know where he lived? Wait a minute here—she consulted the schedules and interviews. Tony Tino had played New Orleans, but hadn’t been interviewed there. Oh, well, never a prophet, she thought—or perhaps it was Tony’s choice. Maybe he didn’t want to fling his long-lost self in his parents’ face.

Parents, Maybe it wasn’t both of them. Maybe it was Eddie only.

Still, why didn’t Eddie know where his only son lived? He might hate the Internet, but he was on it every day of his life. Why the hell wouldn’t he type in his son’s name and see what came up?

Maybe he had. Maybe he’d lied about not knowing.

Her doorknob rattled. “Ms. Wallis, what’s this closed door stunt? What ya doin’ in here?” She barely had time to get out of Tony’s website before the elder Valentino came crashing into her office.

“Thought you were going to call me Talba,” she said, and then was sorry she hadn’t been more respectful. Eddie looked like hell, his face pinched with pain. “Eddie, what’s the matter?”

“Ah, it’s nothin’, I just got one of my headaches.”

“Headaches,” she said. “Have you had that checked out?”

He swatted the air in front of his face, indicating his disdain for the question. “The driver was a black male.”

“Damn! Do you think we should tell Aziza?”

“Oh, yeah. Hell, yeah, I think we should tell Aziza. But she left this morning on a business trip, and her office won’t say where she went.”

“What about Cassandra?”

“She didn’t go to school today, and nobody’s answering the phone at home. For all I know she was in the car with the hit-and-run artist.”

“Is there any description on him?”

“Uh-uh. Just black, average build, probably in his twenties. Two of them in one car, which was a medium-sized beige job.” He paused and rubbed his head. “Cassandra might be staying with one of her little girlfriends—maybe we could get their numbers from her school. Ya want to call ‘em for me?”

Talba looked at her watch. “School’s already out.”

Eddie shrugged, but she thought she saw a tiny tightening in the lines between his eye. “Oh, well. Maybe her mama’ll call me.”

“Are you going to tell the police about Cassandra?”

“I don’t think yet. It’s a long way from havin’ sex with a teenager to killin’ somebody. Think about it— you ever have sex when you were fourteen?” He looked horrified at what he’d said. “I mean, uh, excuse me, I was thinkin’ out loud.”

Talba had to laugh. “Sixteen. With a boy who was nineteen. My mama found out about it, and there was hell to pay. And then, what do you know, the same thing happened all over again, with another boy.”

“Anybody go to jail or get killed?”

“Uh-uh. It was more like a tempest in a teapot”

“Yeah. So I think maybe we’ll leave the police option up to Ms. Scott, if we ever find her. Ya get anything on Rhonda?”

“Just a DUI. I printed out the stuff on her and everybody else I could think of.” She handed him the package.

He nodded briefly, letting her know he’d heard and wasn’t much interested. “I need ya to do something for me.” He looked like he was about to fall over. “Sure, Eddie. Look, you think you should go home or something?”

“I’m goin.’ Oh, yeah, I’m goin’. Headache like this can last two days.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I need ya to go to the funeral. And the visitation if there is one.”

“Me? Without my license?”

“Ehhh, maybe it’ll come tomorrow. I probably crossed the line already lettin’ you make that appointment with Ms. Terrell. But it’s the same thing again—you’d fit in, I’d stick out.”

She couldn’t resist interrupting him. “How on earth did you get along without me?”

He didn’t dignify that with a response, not even a tilt of an eyebrow. “You won’t be workin’, if you catch my drift.” He held out a pair of palms-up, innocent hands. “Anybody can go to a funeral.”

He didn’t come in the next day. A great day, she thought, to work on his website—she’d surprise him when he came back. Not that that’s all there was—Eileen popped in about ten with an armful of files. “Mostly employment checks,” she said. “He said to have you work on them. Oh, and Angie called for your address—I said I’d call her back. Okay if I give it to her?”

Talba was puzzled. “Sure, but why would she need it?”

“She wants to send you an invitation to Eddie’s sixty-fifth birthday party. Are you free Saturday after next? March twentieth, I think it is. Angie’s throwin’ it, so you know it’s gonna be nice.”

“I’m flattered. I hardly know him.”

“Angie likes you. And also, uh... it’s going to be, like, a roast. She thought you could maybe... um ... I know she wouldn’t come out and say it, but I think she’s kind of thinkin’, you know ...”

Talba finally got it. “She wants me to write a poem? Well, now I’m really flattered.”

Eileen smiled.

“Let’s see, I think it’s going to be about the bags under his eyes.”

Eileen left, tittering politely.

She thinks I’m kidding, Talba thought to herself. A rap, maybe. I’ve never done one.

***

No visitation was announced for Rhonda Bergeron, which struck Talba as strange for a girl as young as she was, as vital as she must have been. But she knew little about such things—perhaps the body had been cremated, and there’d been a private wake (or whatever Methodists called it) at Rhonda’s parents’ house. It occurred to her to bake a cake and take it over there. She could say she’d met Rhonda in some context they wouldn’t know about. But in the end, she thought it too risky, and when she got to the funeral, she thanked her stars she hadn’t done it. She was almost the only black person in the congregation.

Oops, Eddie, the joke’s on you.

Evidently, Rhonda had been white, which must mean Pamela was white as well—a peculiar thing, considering this crowd, to hang with two black girls.

There was another strange thing—though there were only five or six black faces in the pews, the choir was nearly all African-American. She could pick out Cassandra and Shaneel, very solemn in their black robes, Cassandra looking drawn and miserable. Pamela, though, appeared to be sitting with her family, the little redhead with the long straight hair, Talba thought.

Rhonda, by contrast, had lustrous long black hair, clearly visible from her casket at the front of the church. Evidently, she hadn’t been cremated. Talba felt her throat catch as she forced herself to look at the face, pale and thin, set off by a pale blue dress with lace; something vintage, Talba thought. It looked like silk from where she was. Her imagination roved freely, concocting, before Talba could stop it, a vision of the girl as she must have looked, alive, in that dress—tall and very thin, black hair blowing in the wind, granny boots on her feet, skin pale and delicate, body a little too wispy.

Druggie, her mind said, and her eyes overflowed. What the hell? she thought. I didn’t even know the girl.

Someone from the funeral home closed the casket, and she nearly sobbed aloud.

Talba had never been to a funeral before, in fact had never set foot in a Methodist church. She and her mother were Baptists, and plenty of her friends were Catholic, but she didn’t know that many people who weren’t one or the other. (Except for a few Muslims, of course—there were plenty of those around. And the odd Pentecostal.) She didn’t really know what to expect, but the proceedings had an antiseptic quality that surprised her.

The family came in right after the minister. They were brought in in a formal procession, after which there was a prayer and a chance—while everyone’s eyes were closed—to survey the crowd more closely.

The choir was made up mostly of women, though there were a few men, most of them older than the one she was looking for, and some of them white. There was one who looked to be in his early twenties, a short round kid with a shaved head and such a cherubic expression he looked like an African-American Cupid. Not him, she thought. If the rapist was Rhonda’s friend, it wasn’t somebody from the choir. Anyhow, that kid couldn’t seduce a sheep.

In the congregation, none of the bowed heads appeared to be Aziza’s, though surely she’d come back from her business trip by now. There were a few older black couples, though. Talba guessed they were parents of choir members. She didn’t see a single black male under forty.

Almost as soon as the hymn was over, the choir stood and began to sing, an uplifting hymn, the sort that church people call “joyful,” but by the second bar, Talba was crying.

She was amazed at herself. What the hell was this? Not only was she crying, she was sobbing, in great big embarrassing gulps, as if she’d been Rhonda’s best friend. The woman next to her reached out and put an arm around her shoulders, and the woman’s touch was anathema, poison, felt like fire. Talba didn’t know why. She almost screamed, but stopped herself in time, and jumped away. In the silence, she could hear sniffling from the front of the church.

When the hymn was over, the fit stopped, whatever it was.

The minister came forward to thank “the choir of Gethsemane Baptist Church, which has come to worship with us today and to help us surrender up to God the soul of Rhonda, beloved sister of Pamela Bergeron, a devout and faithful member of the Gethsemane choir.”

Talba was struck by the word “devout.” Somehow, neither of the girls she and Eddie had interviewed seemed all that devout, but how could you know if you didn’t ask? She particularly didn’t see Cassandra as a Jesus freak, but the girl was in a choir. Why? Talba wondered.

The minister got on with the show. He said he had known Rhonda personally, but not well, and had interviewed all her family about her and that she, too, had loved music, almost as much as she loved Jesus and her family. Oh, yes, she loved music, and she loved animals, too, and had once had a dog named Grizzy. And she had graduated from Ben Franklin High School and had gone on to pursue a lifelong interest in fashion, taking a job at Millie the Milliner’s, though it took her far from home, deep into the dark heart of the French Quarter itself. And she had done well there, and she had thrived, and now this young woman had been taken from her family and her loving friends…”

He went on like that for a while. He mentioned the way people loved her and she had made the customers feel at home, and she had been a faithful and loyal employee, but, in truth, the gist of it seemed to be that Rhonda hadn’t done very much with her life except work in a hat shop.

But she had loved music and she had loved to hear her sister perform with the Gethsemane Baptist choir, and her favorite song had been “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,” which the choir would now perform and would like to dedicate to her memory and to the Bergeron family.

They hadn’t even gotten to “sweet” before Talba was sobbing again. Before, it had been as if she had contracted a sudden crying disease, a bug that simply came and controlled her body, pushing out of it tears and unwanted sounds. This was different. A flood of sadness had enveloped her and invaded her and was now flailing for expression. And the flood of sadness was an old friend.

She knew it as well as she did her own skepticism, her dislike of sanctimonious ministers, be they Methodist or Baptist, black or white, and yet she could not imagine how she did.

I’ve been here before, she thought, and suddenly she wasn’t Talba Wallis going out of control in one of the pews, but a tiny brown angel floating over the congregation, looking down at the people, staring down at Rhonda’s casket, and the salt-and-pepper choir, and seeing, quite distinctly, Urethra Tabitha Sandra Talba Wallis, the Baroness de Pontalba, keening like some Third World mourner for a woman she never knew.

She must have truly been making a spectacle of herself, for once again, the woman to her right, so soundly rebuffed before, dared to touch her again, to put an arm around her. And with the touch, the vision dissolved.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Eddie had awakened Monday with yet another headache, but he damn sure wasn’t going to give in to it. He downed three cups of black coffee, and pried himself into his office.

Audrey kept nagging him to see a neurologist, and if the headaches kept up, he was going to have to. He felt like shit. They always left him feeling washed-out and without enthusiasm. Depressed, Audrey would say.

This getting old most assuredly was not, as they said, for sissies. Sixty-five in a couple of weeks and he felt a hundred and five.

He had a bad feeling Audrey and Angie were up to some damn thing, mostly because they hadn’t nagged him about having a party. Five or six of his old buddies from his cops-and-robber days were taking him to lunch at Galatoire’s, something they never did. Therefore, Audrey had probably put them up to it to make him think that was the party. But there had to be more. Audrey and Angie were going to try to cheer him up, he knew it

Damn, he felt bad. He thought the reason he was so depressed was the damn machine. The way his business had changed from active pursuit—the real deal—to sitting in his office hitting a keyboard.

Well, now he had a Baroness to deal with that shit. So why did he have headaches? He couldn’t figure it, unless he had a brain tumor.

“Hello, Eileen. Anything up?”

“Talba’s at the funeral, like you said. Aziza Scott called. She’s coming over on her lunch hour.”

Charming. As if he didn’t need a lunch hour.

He went in his office and called his doctor. What the hell. His eye bags were turning into steamer trunks.

At twelve-eighteen precisely, Aziza Scott arrived on the warpath. “Eddie Valentino, what the hell do you mean leaving messages at my office and all over my answering machine?”

Eddie leaned back in his chair and gave her his Italian-Southerner act. “The best way to reach somebody is usually to leave ‘em a message. Seems like I heard that somewhere.”

“It is nobody’s business at my office that I’ve hired a private detective.”

“Ms. Scott, I didn’t tell ‘em I’m a private detective. I needed to tell you there was a chance your daughter might be in danger.”

“She was fine. She was with her grandmother.”

She seemed to be calming down a bit, and Eddie patted the air to set the mood. “Well, that’s fine. Yeah, you right, that’s just fine.” Behind her, he saw Talba walk past on the way to her office. “Ms. Wallis. Ya got a minute?”

“Sure, Eddie.” She stepped in, and he noticed she was wearing a dark suit, looking fairly civilized despite her wild hair. “Hello, Ms. Scott.”

Eddie said, “Sit down. Sit down. How was the funeral?”

“Sad. I saw Cassandra there.”

Scott looked bewildered. “You went to the funeral? Why?”

Eddie spoke quickly before Talba could. “As a gesture of respect.” He hoped she’d catch the subtle put-down. Damn this woman. Try to tell her her child was in danger, and she reamed you out. “Look, Ms. Scott, I don’t know if you actually got the gist of the messages or not, but it’s this: there could be a connection between your daughter’s rape and this girl’s death.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“Why do you say that?”

She stood. “You people live in a world of paranoia, you know that? I’d hate to live like you.”

Eddie patted air again. “Well, I’m sure you’re right. We felt we had a duty to apprise you of the possibility, that’s all.”

She was tall to begin with, and she wore high heels; she looked down at Eddie as if he were a nest of vermin. “I need you to attend to the matter for which I hired you.”

She left like a runway model, grand and dramatic.

Talba said, “What was that about?”

Eddie sighed. “The thing the shrinks call denial. She came over here because she’s scared shitless (excuse my French), but she’s not about to interrupt her big important life to do anything more than throw money at the problem.” He spread his open hands. “What the hell. We tried, huh?”

Ms. Wallis had the look of a KO’ed fighter coming to, kind of dazed and disoriented. “She’s batshit. Uh ... excuse my French.”

Eddie didn’t want to excuse it at all—it was one thing for him, another for a young lady employee, even a black one. But under the circumstances, there was nothing to do but let it go. He rubbed his head. The fool headache was coming back. “You get anything at the funeral?”

“Well, the killer wasn’t there unless he’s really a master of disguise. I picked a few names off the guest registry.” She shrugged. “I could call them about her, see if she’s got any black friends they know of—there sure weren’t many at her funeral. But the obvious thing’s to ask Pamela.”

“What ya sayin’?”

She looked at him as if he were speaking Chinese. “Ask Pamela. If anybody’d know who Toes is, she would.”

“Not that—the other thing you said. Everybody in the whole case is black—whatcha mean she doesn’t have black friends?”

“Oh. I forgot you didn’t know. The Bergerons are white. Pamela’s one of a handful of whites in that choir the girls sing in.”

“She must have some voice,” Eddie muttered. He was a little embarrassed, though exactly why he couldn’t have said. “Give me the names from the registry. We can’t talk to the poor kid the same day they buried her sister. We’ll wait a coupla days on the Bergerons. Ya understand me?”

“Sure. But why don’t I call the people at the funeral?” Something mischievous played in her eyes. “I mean, I’m the right demographic and everything.”

He sighed, once again feeling a lack of enthusiasm. “I better do it.”

“You sure?” She smiled, and waved a letter. “My license came.” She looked full of beans and ready to face the world, like a kid who’s just graduated. Eddie envied her.

“Well, that’s a damn relief. Yeah, you do it.”

“Also, she used to work in a hat shop. I’m going there first.”

He put his head in his hands. “Good idea. Just be sure ya leave Eileen a list of places you’re goin’ to. And leave the Bergerons alone. Ya understand?”

“Eddie?” she said. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Get outta here, all right? Don’t mess with those people. I mean it.”

Hell. All he wanted to do was go home and sit in a dark room for a couple of hours. Take a few aspirin, see if it got any better.

***

When she saw him, Audrey’s face froze in a mask of fear under its pound of makeup. “Eddie. What are you doin’ home?”

“What’s the matter? Got the mailman in the bedroom?” It was an automatic line, stupid and trite, but now he really looked at her. Her habitual heavy makeup wasn’t quite immaculate, indeed seemed streaky and tatty. Her hair was a bit unkempt, as if she’d been lying down, but she was dressed up. “Hey. Where ya goin’?”

“I just got back.” She stood tall and planted her feet. “I’ve been to my shrink’s, Eddie.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve been seeing a therapist.”

“Are you nuts or something?” He was too panicked to say anything else.

“I’ve been so worried about you I had to talk to somebody. I can’t go through this alone; I swear to God I can’t.”

He covered the room between them in three steps and put his arms around her, held her tight to him, something he never did. Was everything in the world coming apart? “Go through what, baby? What’cha talkin’ about? I’m here with ya. You don’t have to go through anything alone.”

“I have to watch you fall apart. All by myself, except for Angie. You’re just letting it happen, and you won’t do nothin’ about it, and I can’t. I’m going crazy, Eddie. I’m going crazy.” She wasn’t crying the way he’d expect her to be; just talking, sounding sad, like she was already all cried out—like some pathetic client of his, someone with problems. Not like Audrey, his wife.

“He thinks it’s because of Anthony, Eddie.”

He was suddenly livid. “You talk to some asshole about me? Ya talk about me? You can’t do that— what the hell ya think ya doing?”

She shook her head, as if he were some kind of hopeless case, and got herself a drink of water. He waited for her to answer, but she just stood there drinking her water, looking at him.

***

Talba was starting to wonder what the hell she’d signed up for. Eddie wasn’t well. She’d have to speak to Eileen about it—maybe he had a drug problem or something. But his money was good and the work was pretty fascinating.

She’d been to her first Methodist church and her first funeral, and now she was about to visit Millie the Milliner, always a treat. Millie, whose name had probably once been Thelma or Elsie, made exquisite nineteenth-century-style hats, perfect to wear with vintage clothing of the type Rhonda had been buried in. They were huge veiled bonnets piled high with flowers and fruit and foliage, each flower, each grape, each leaf lovingly handmade. They could easily have been parodies of themselves, but Millie managed by a millimeter to keep from crossing the line.

Her own work cost hundreds of dollars, but she also sold hats by lesser artists, smaller, more contemporary items more to Talba’s taste, if the truth be told. But though Talba’d probably never wear one of Millie’s masterpieces, she’d once spent a delicious two hours minutely examining every item in the store and finally walked away with a purple sequin fantasy that had a kind of Garden of Eden scene worked into it—entwined snakes and apples and branches—a thing entirely befitting a Baroness. The shape of the hat was African—a kind of pillbox more often worn by men than women—and the decorative work was like Haitian sequin art. She often wore it for performances.

The day she’d shopped there Millie herself had been absent, but today, she recognized the woman in charge as someone she’d seen earlier. She’d have to be blind not to have seen her.

The other woman spoke first. “I saw you at the funeral, didn’t I?” She was dressed in a taffeta teal suit with a fitted jacket and calf-length full skirt, the jacket cut for maximum decolletage and trimmed with lace and black buttons. The suit was clearly contemporary, perhaps something the woman had whipped up herself, but the style was kind of a Gay Nineties variation, happily absent the bustle. With it, she wore a close-fitting hat of exquisite feathers in rusts and browns and gold, plucked from pheasants, probably.

The outfit was nothing you could miss, but on this woman, once you saw it, it was a picture you’d never forget. She had masses of tumbling flame-colored curls trailing halfway down her back, a prominent hawky nose, and about a hundred and fifty pounds over the limit. She was one of those fat women who had perfect, tint-tipped hands and moved like a wood nymph. But she wasn’t pretty, and it wasn’t only the nose that kept her from it. She had slightly scarred skin and a perennially wary look; her eyes moved too fast, scanned too much. Already, Talba felt like a shoplifter.

The thing to do was disarm her.

She stuck out her hand. “Millie? Talba Wallis. I’m such a fan of yours. One day I’m gonna get my mama one of your hats. I know she’d just love one.”

“Your mama? “ The woman turned her eyebrow into an arch that could have held up a bridge.

Talba could have bitten her tongue. “Well, she’s a church lady. Before today, I would have said I don’t go anywhere good enough for them, but then I didn’t know I was going to be going to a funeral, did you? That was a shocker, wasn’t it? Rhonda, I mean.”

Millie’s wariness crystallized into action. Evidently, the thing she feared had come to pass, and it was Talba herself. She was probably about five-seven and wore three-inch heels, so that, with the hair and hat, she was a good six feet, and she drew herself to full advantage. The suit, as if not already wide enough just to go around her, was equipped with shoulder pads. She thrust her arm out to full length and brandished a needle-sharp, blood-red nail. “If you’re a friend of T and T’s, you can just get out of here.”

Talba wasn’t sure what she was hearing. “TNT? The explosive?” She was too baffled even to get out of the way.

Millie stepped forward, the point of the nail a hair from slicing Talba’s nose. Her voice was low and commanding. “I said get out of here.”

Talba felt her face start to lose composure. Bafflement was starting to give way to alarm. She stepped backward, stumbling in the process, and said, more or less to the floor, “I don’t think I’m who you think I am. I’m an investigator looking into Rhonda’s death.”

“You’re what?” Now she seemed as bewildered as Talba. “You’re a cop?”

“Not exactly.” Not at all, actually. “I work for a man named Eddie Valentino. To tell you the truth, I never even heard of Rhonda Bergeron until three days ago. I wouldn’t know she worked here if it hadn’t been for that smarmy preacher.”

Unexpectedly, Millie barked out a laugh. “Oh, God. Didn’t he make you feel like taking a bath?”

Talba rolled her eyes. “I suppose that’s one way of saying good-bye.” She looked full into Millie’s face and saw that her eyes were some kind of blue-green mixture made up to match her outfit. The liner was smeared in the heat. “Who did you think I was?” she asked.

Millie’s cheeks flushed. “Nobody. I just got mixed up for a minute.”

Talba was starting to get the hang of this, and she liked where it was heading: Millie had evidently come to a conclusion based on color. She said, “Look. Let me be honest with you. I’m looking for a black man in his twenties who may have committed a crime. I know he knew Rhonda, but I don’t know his name. Is TNT black, by any chance?”

Millie gasped. “You really don’t know them, do you?”

Talba was silent, allowed her head to move only slightly.

Millie said, “What crime?”

Again, Talba was silent, though now she was buying time, trying to figure out what to say. She wasn’t sure what the detectives’ code was.

Again, Millie leaped to conclusions. “Murder, right? You think he killed Rhonda. The family hired you, right? Oh, shit, I knew it! I told Danielle, ‘this is no accident. You don’t mess with those kind of people.’ “

Bingo, Talba thought. Drugs. Isn’t it always?

The woman kept on talking. “Goddam, I felt guilty when that asshole was talking today, knowing all the while it happened right in my shop. She’d never have gotten mixed up with that asshole if it hadn’t been for me.” Her face crumpled and tears rolled. She pulled a tissue out of her all-too-evident bosom.

Talba saw an opportunity to inject humor: “She was mixed up with the preacher?”

Millie barked her laugh again. “No, a different asshole. I’m going to tell you about it. I’m going to tell you all about it. I swear to God, I hope that asshole gets the chair.”

Talba thought, You just do that thing, but Millie said abruptly, “You got any I.D.?”

“Sure.” She brought out the letter that constituted her apprentice license, trying not to show how embarrassed she was at being not merely a novice but a newborn.

But Millie didn’t seem to notice, just nodded, satisfied. “You ever heard of Baron Tujague?”

“Well... sure. Everybody’s heard of Baron Tujague. I think he owns half the city by now.”

“Yeah, and he’s got about ten Grammys.”

Tujague was a rapper, and that wasn’t the half of it. He also had his own label, which employed a good number of people; he’d been responsible for discovering three other musicians who’d had gold records, and he had a new crop of protégés coming up. Plus, he was an extremely prominent speaker-at-schools and maker of public-service commercials.

Millie sneered. “And big in the role-model business. Tell me something—does a rapper need hats? Does he need funky, floppy hats, and fancy pimp-style hats, and little bitty pillbox hats with sequin pictures on them? Think he might need a whole wardrobe of hats? Well, where would he come?”

Talba smiled. “Pretty good customer to have.”

“Oh, yeah. Great customer. I’ve got this designer named Danielle, who does these incredible sequin things—”

“I’ve got one of her hats. You mean the Baron and I have something in common?”

“He just loves Danielle. Commissions stuff from her.”

“What’s the deal—is Tujague TNT?”

“Half of it—T and T, I said. That’s what they call themselves, The other one’s a creep named Toes.”

Talba almost gasped aloud.

“Look, I haven’t got anything against Tujague, except maybe he’s a little arrogant, but, hell, if Tom Cruise came in here, would he be arrogant? He’s a movie star. Of course, Meryl Streep wasn’t arrogant— man, does she look good in hats. But mostly, stars believe their own press.” She shrugged, and it was a little like an earthquake. “It’s a fact of life. For one thing, they have these entourages.” The last word was delivered with such contempt you’d have thought she was a born-again with a thing against sinners.

“Ah,” said Talba. “Toes.”

“Oh, yeah, Toes. The motherfucker. Excuse my French.”

What was it with white people and this French thing? Talba said, “Hey, it’s the French Quarter.”

Millie looked at her, probably actually taking in her face for the first time. “You’re pretty funny. And you look... I don’t know, like a performer. I get ‘em in here, you know? Show me that license again?”

“I am a performer—this is my day job, okay?” She pulled herself tall and declaimed. “By day, a simple private eye, and by night, the Baroness de Pontalba.” She bowed.

“Cool. I knew it. You a rapper too?”

“Talba’s my name; poetry’s my game. I don’t hang in TNT circles, believe me.” She handed over the license, but this time Millie didn’t even look at it.

Millie sighed. “Well, the long and short of it is, poor little Rhonda didn’t have any better sense than to fall for him. You really didn’t know her?”

She pointed to a picture taped to the cash register, of staff members clowning. “Well, this is what she looked like, not—” she shuddered “—nothing like whatever that was in the casket.”

She wasn’t quite so thin in the picture; she was a beautiful, vital girl, wearing a vintage dress and a hat. “She looks like a princess.”

“She was one of the prettiest girls I ever saw. And Toes—shit. Toad’s more like it. Skinny, ugly little creep. Kind of a monkey face. But it was like ... I don’t know... I guess she thought he somehow was Tujague even though he’s probably some penny-ante little dealer or something. I don’t know what he is, and neither did Rhonda, even though she dated him off and on for three months.” She paused and got dreamy. “Three months. Is that all it takes to ruin a life? Hah! Dated. Did I say dated? She didn’t date him, she was his slave. He said rabbit, she hopped. She talked to a man, even a customer, he beat her up. He’d come by and get her, take her away for an hour, screw her, bring her back with her dress torn. God, she was a mess.”

“Why do you think he killed her?”

Millie looked at her accusingly. “You’re the one who said it. I didn’t.”

“I think I just said a crime. Seriously--why do you think he killed her?”

“Come on—why do you think so?”

This is going nowhere, Talba thought. “Who is Toes, exactly? Doesn’t he have a name?”

Millie shrugged. “Not that I know of.”

“Do you know his address or phone number? Any way at all I can reach him?”

“No. He’s a friend of Tujague’s, but I hear the Baron’s a little hard to get to. Being a jillionaire and all.”

“Well, I know a few hundred people who can get to him. And they’ve all got blue uniforms.”

Millie looked startled. Her smile, when it came, started out slow and spread over her face. “I kind of like that idea.”

Talba wasn’t sure Eddie would, but she wasn’t about to call him at home. The ethics of it seemed simple: she had information that could lead quickly to the rapist’s arrest—but only if the police were involved. She could spend days running down pals of the Baron. The cops could just turn up and ask him who Toes was; if he didn’t answer, they could make him miserable, at least for a few hours. She and Eddie couldn’t compete with that.

She knew one cop in the whole department, and it happened to be a detective who’d worked Homicide for years. She went back to her office and put in a call to the Third District. “Skip Langdon, please.”

Langdon came on the line. “Baronessa. How the hell have you been?”

“I was doing great till Miz Clara made me get a job.”

Langdon was a big strong white woman with hair so thick and curly it was almost nappy. She laughed, and Talba could picture brown curls shaking all over her head. “Tough luck. You making those computers smoke?”

“I’m working for a private detective.”

“Oh, God, some people never learn. Remember what happened to the last one you worked for?”

“This guy’s a different animal. You know Eddie Valentino?”

“Sure. Everybody knows Eddie. Now, he’s a good guy. But I don’t see why someone with your skills…”

“Miz Clara’s sentiments exactly. Call it the thrill of the chase. Would you know anything about that?

“Oh.” The cop’s voice was subdued. “That’s a nasty bug to have bite you. You’re going to be poor for the rest of your life.”

It was Talba’s turn to laugh. “I doubt it. I’m probably going to get fired for calling you. But I think at this point I might be obligated to.”

“I’m all ears.”

Talba ran it down for her, pausing for interruptions of “Jesus!” and “What a turd.”

When she had finished, Langdon said, “Well, you did the right thing, assuming the person handling the case is a halfway-decent cop. But could I give you some unsolicited advice?”

“Sure. What?

“Keep working the case.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning don’t count on anything. The Baron’s got a lot of pull in this town.”

“In the department? “ Talba was shocked.

“About six months ago, a couple of baby rappers got into some trouble over a few guns and a little rock. It was kind of strange how easily they walked away from it. Guess whose label they record on?”

“Ah. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. This was still Louisiana the last time I looked.”

“Let me find out whose case it is—in Child Abuse, I mean—and they can call you if that’s okay.”

“Sure.”

“The Homicide thing’s a little more delicate. I think I’ll just say I got a tip that it might involve a carnal knowledge case—give the detective the name of the Juvenile officer, and let him or her run with it. That way you don’t have to get involved. Okay by you?”

“Couldn’t be better.”

She spent the rest of the day calling people whose names she’d gotten from the funeral registry, but none would admit to knowing a Toes—or any black friend of Rhonda’s.

And by the end of the day, no call had come from the Juvenile Department.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“A man named Toes. What’s wrong with girls these days?” Darryl Boucree was grinning at her across the table at Bywater Bar-B-Que, which, despite its old-fashioned name, was the kind of place decorated with Barbies in birdcages.

Across from Darryl was a good place to be. That way you could look at him. He had to be the best-looking history teacher in the parish. Talba had no idea how he kept the Fortier girls at bay.

He was a little bit scholarly-looking, which befitted his day job, and a little bit devilish, which was more appropriate for his two night gigs, bartending and playing the trumpet. He was a sometime member of a band called the Boucree Brothers, which was more or less a pickup band made up of family members, not all of them brothers. Darryl was someone’s nephew, Talba couldn’t quite remember whose. He probably had the best smile in Louisiana.

“Do you know Shaneel? Cassandra’s friend?”

“Not really. I hear she’s a pretty good kid.”

“Well, Cassandra’s a mess. I’d like you to meet her.”

“Thanks so much.”

“She’d like you.”

He shrugged. “Kids do. It’s rare to encounter such extraordinary brilliance and wisdom in one so young and handsome. They recognize it.”

Talba rolled her eyes. “And Millie said Tujague was arrogant.”

“Now, him I do know. He came and did an assembly for us once.”

“Hey! He did?” She saw an opportunity here. “Could you—”

“I met him is all. He wouldn’t know me.”

“Oh.”

“I thought he was a good guy. But I bet Millie’s right—there are guys who surround themselves with sycophants. Not that I know anything about the rap scene. But I guess a groupie’s a groupie, no matter what their sex is.”

Talba was playing with her food, her mind wandering, suddenly fixing on the pitiful image of Rhonda lying in a pretty blue dress in her nice padded casket. “Can I tell you something weird that happened to me? I cried at the funeral.”

“A lot of people cry at funerals. I hear it’s more or less expected.”

“No, you don’t get it. This had nothing to do with Rhonda.”

He took her hand. “Well, stress. And that music. It always gets you.”

She pulled her hand away, wanting to be taken seriously. “Darryl, I’m telling you. This was weird. It wasn’t just crying, it was like the floodgates had broken. And I had this strange sense of déjà vu.”

“Funerals are pretty much the same, I guess.”

“But that’s just the thing—this is the first one I’ve ever been to.”

He made a fist and banged the table. “You know what? That’s the trouble with our society. You don’t get to have an experience, because you’ve already had it. Sure, you’ve been to funerals. You’re been to hundreds of funerals—it’s just that you were at the movies at the time; or in your own living room with the TV on.”

“But I didn’t cry then.” She heard the whine in her voice, the faint childish note of desperation.

Darryl sobered instantly. “You sound like you’re about to now.”

She was shaking her head. “I don’t know. This was just so off-the-wall.”

He clasped his hands together on the table, serious at last. Apparently he’d finally gotten the picture: something weird had happened. “You know there’s something we’ve never talked about? Whatever happened to your father?”

“My father?” She was taken aback. “Oh, I see what you’re getting at. Well, he’s not dead or anything. He just… left my mother.”

“So you weren’t at his funeral.”

“No.” She felt her lower lip start to quiver.

Darryl wouldn’t quit. “Do you ever see him? I mean, you must have been close at one time.”

They might as well have been talking about calculus, this was such bewildering territory. “Why do you say that?”

He looked a little bewildered himself. “The poem…’Queen of the May.’ “

“Oh, the poem. My mother hates that poem.”

“Really? She should be glad you had such a good dad—I’d love to be a father like that.”

“Well, actually, it’s just about ... oh, hell, you should never try to explain a poem. Let’s just call it poetic license. I don’t remember my father. I don’t...” She stopped. She’d been about to say she didn’t even know what he looked like, but that surprised her so much she didn’t want to go on with it.

Darryl said, “It has to hurt.”

“No, really. I didn’t even know him.”

“It has to hurt,” he repeated. “It’s got to. Why else would you have written the poem?”

He spoke with such emphasis that she looked him full in the face, and saw there, in the set of his jowls, in his usually laughing eyes, such sympathy, such pain on her account that she had no idea what to make of it; literally couldn’t imagine where it had come from. And then, in the midst of her confusion, her throat closed; a flock of butterflies took flight in her stomach. She thought that she was frightened, that she somehow remembered these sensations, as if she were having another déjà vu— but frightened of what, she couldn’t imagine. She was in a nice restaurant with nice Darryl Boucree, beloved by everyone from his students to Miz Clara. It was hard to imagine anything safer.

Her first thought was to hide what was happening to her. She drank some beer, hoping to open up her throat, and it worked, a little. But it made her feel queasy.

Darryl looked at her critically. He said, “You don’t look so good.”

She forced a quarter smile. “Just tired. I think I better go home.” It wasn’t a real date, anyhow—just a friendly supper. Darryl had a gig in a while, and she was planning an evening in cyberspace.

Once they were in the car, her throat closed again, and her eyes felt oddly tight. She didn’t speak, which was unusual for her, and later she couldn’t remember anything about the ride home. When he pulled up at Miz Clara’s, she turned to kiss him and felt herself withdrawing instead. She went through the motions rather than give away the fact that anything was wrong, but once in the door, the flood began. She’d barely gotten to her room before the sobs rolled out along with the tears. It was exactly the same as before—like being possessed. What the hell was wrong with her?

She lay for a long time on her bed and stared up at the ceiling, not only unable to answer the question, but even to wrestle with it. When she finally stirred an hour later, she couldn’t name a single thing she’d thought about. Yet she hadn’t been asleep or even in some state of semi-consciousness. The whole time she’d been dimly aware of her mother puttering in the kitchen, turning off the kitchen light, turning on the television—and then the rhythmic bursts from the TV itself.

She turned on the computer and went to Baron Tujague’s website, which was considerably more elaborate than Tony Tino’s. Carefully, she read every word, and not once did the word “Toes” appear. Next, she did a search on Tujague and printed out everything that had been written on him in the last year or two—about a pound and a half of material to read at her leisure. She scanned it quickly, noticing that it was all celebrity puff stuff—no reports of arrests or other nastiness.

She had drunk no more than half her beer at supper, and, frankly didn’t care much for beer at the best of times. A nice glass of wine was what she wanted now—something to take the edge off the weirdness her psyche was putting her through. She rummaged in the kitchen, hollering out to the living room. “Mama, you want a glass of wine?”

“Why, I b’lieve I would,” Miz Clara answered in a tone of delicious surprise, as if she just couldn’t imagine anything quite so odd and yet so delightful. “It’s so hot in here.”

She was fanning herself when Talba brought her the wine, though it wasn’t hot in the least. But Miz Clara was a church lady; a glass of wine was at least as much a sin as chocolate cake for dessert.

“Mama, have I ever been to a funeral before?”

Her mother wore neither wig nor scarf, just a close-cropped cap of wiry hair. She had on a kind of muumuu thing with short, bell-shaped sleeves and her favorite floppy slippers. The elegant wineglass seemed to perk up the outfit. “Why you askin’ me? If you don’t know, who does?”

“I mean when I was tiny, maybe. Something I might not remember.”

“You ain’t never been to no funeral.” Miz Clara spoke huffily, as if this was a subject simply not discussed in the Wallis home. And yet she and Talba’s Aunt Carrie dissected in detail every funeral they ever went to.

“Mama, why don’t you ever talk about my father?”

“What? What’d you say to me?” She was way beyond huffy. She was mad. Really mad.

Talba couldn’t remember it, but maybe that was a subject that really had been forbidden. She stood her ground. “I said why don’t you ever talk about my father?”

Miz Clara turned back to the television, her mouth set tight, teeth clenched so no crumb of information, however tiny, could possibly escape. “Ain’t worth talking about,” she said.

“Would you just answer one thing for me? Is he dead or alive?”

Miz Clara whirled, nearly knocking over the wine she’d set down on the table next to her chair. “What’s wrong with you, girl? You ain’t got no father. Don’t make no difference whether he dead or alive.”

“But...”

Miz Clara interrupted, not looking at her, showing every sign of having forgotten she was there. “Wish to God he was dead,” she said, as if she were talking to herself.

Talba poured them both a second glass of wine and went off to her room. Once again she lay staring at the ceiling, but this time a thousand things occurred to her. She didn’t even know if her parents had been married.

She thought back, back, way back to the time when a child would have wondered where her daddy was. She couldn’t for the life of her remember asking; but on the other hand, she hadn’t the slightest recollection of being forbidden to speak about it.

But there was something even more surprising. She had researched Tony Tino yesterday, wondering how Eddie, with a computer so close at hand, had never thought to try to locate his son. And yet she, who lived and breathed computers, had never thought to research her father.

Something was wrong with this picture.

CHAPTER NINE

All she wanted to do was sleep, and the flesh, aided by the splendid soporific of a nice glass of wine, was certainly willing. She slept as if drugged for five hours and woke in the middle of the night feeling ready to take on tigers.

She thrashed for an hour or two, mind racing, and about half an hour into it, it occurred to her to turn the thing to her advantage. She put her mind to the question, not of her father (anything to avoid that one for a while), but of how to find Toes, and in the morning, dug out one of the outfits comprising her “right demographics” disguise. She had a closetful of white blouses and navy skirts left over from her temp days.

She had been hired by her original mentor, Gene Allred, to plant a bug and do some other spying in an office in which most of the clerical workers would be young, black, and female. He even knew a temp agency that could get her placed.

The same thing would probably work again if she could just get past Eddie.

Eileen, a moonfaced, plainish girl under the best of circumstances, looked drawn and strained when she arrived. “Audrey just called. She says Eddie’s gonna be out another day. Wants to know if you can handle what needs to be done.”

“Oh sure, no problem.” On the one hand, this was great news—she’d be left to her own devices. On the other, what was going on here? “Eileen, does he get these headaches a lot?”

“They just started a couple of months ago—well, I wouldn’t say that. Before that, he’d have one every three or four months. Lately, he’s been missing a day or two every couple of weeks. I’m getting worried. I’ve got to tell you, I’m really starting to worry.”

“What does Audrey say?”

The girl shrugged thick, ungainly shoulders. “She doesn’t say anything. And that’s nothin’ like Aunt Audrey.” Eileen looked as if she might cry.

Talba’s stomach flip-flopped. Damn! Eddie’d gotten to her. Racist, sexist old tyrant that he was.

“What about Angie?”

Eileen made a face. “I’m not her favorite cousin.”

Talba saw what the problem was. Angie was all business. She probably thought Eddie ought to hire somebody bright and attractive and competent instead of offering charity to a woman she probably considered her slow-witted cousin. Talba decided to worry about that later. She said, “I guess we’ll just have to do the best we can.”

“Hey, I got you something.” She opened a drawer and came up with boxes and bags. “One cell phone, one camera, and one pager.”

“Pager?”

“Eddie said to get you one. He thought you’d like it...it being modern technology and all. He said to get him one too.”

Talba did like it, especially the fact that Eddie’d gotten himself one. It made her think he meant them to work as a team.

She went into her office to call CompuTemps, and asked for a man named L.J. Currie. “Hey, Mr. Currie, Talba Wallis. Remember me? From Gene Allred?”

“I remember ya.” He sounded downright unhappy about it

“Now don’t be like that. You know I’m a great worker.”

He sighed. “Where ya need a job?”

For the right price—or if you had something on him—Currie could get you a job almost anywhere.

“Baronial Records,” she said.

“Sorry, they don’t use us.”

“Oh, come on. You’ve got connections, L.J.” She wasn’t sure he did.

“I could give you a referral to CompTask. Their Ms. Brown has that account, I believe.”

“I need a job today.”

“I’m sure Ms. Brown can expedite that, if you explain your problem right.” Talba thought, Cross her palm with silver. “Is there a referral fee?”

“Ms. Brown will take care of that.”

A kickback, then—for which Talba would no doubt be charged, plus there’d be some kind of bribe for Ms. Brown. But that was the cost of doing business. Talba could care less. It was the way the system worked, and she was going to use it.

Before she trundled over to CompTask, she checked the web for “spy equipment.” Remembering the bug she’d placed for Allred, it occurred to her she’d better get hold of some tiny transmitters. Probably Eddie wasn’t the bugging type, but Eddie wasn’t around.

It was amazing how easy it was to find this stuff. In five minutes, she’d ordered various bugs for telephones and other locations, but passed on what she really wanted—you could now get a GPS for tracking cars. You put it in the car (hardwiring it if possible), and then you could track the vehicle at home if you liked, on your desktop computer—or if you wanted to follow it, with your laptop in your car. Now this was really her style. Unfortunately, it was way out of her price range. But she was so impressed with the concept she phoned the seller, struck up a conversation, and eventually he mollified her with a couple of ancient “bird dogs” he knew how to get—old-style homing devices you could attach to a bumper. The problem, he warned her, was an extremely cumbersome and short-range receiver. Damn! She wanted that GPS.

But of course Eddie would probably kill her if she used any of this stuff.

Feeling cocky, she hied herself over to CompTask, where, it seemed Ms. Brown hadn’t worked for three months. Damn, she was mad! (Mostly at herself, though she thought it entirely possible L.J. Currie’d shined her just to get her out of his hair.)

Okay, there was more than one way to skin a cat. She called CompTask and said she was from Baronial Records. She had a bit more up her sleeve, but it wasn’t necessary. No sooner were the words out of her mouth than the auditory red carpet rolled out. She was switched to a Ms. Lewis, in whose mouth butter wouldn’t melt. Too bad for you, Talba thought. Here goes. And she did her best imitation of a bureaucrat in high dudgeon. “Excuse me, Ms. Lewis, but it’s nine-thirty and my temp isn’t here for the third day in a row. I’ve got a department to run—can you please tell me what in the name of God is going on?” As if the world would come to an end if the filing didn’t get done.

Ms. Lewis was flustered. “I don’t understand. I know Liza was there—”

“Oh, she was here—-just not when I needed her. Ms. Lewis, I’m sorry to be harsh, but the girl’s late for the third time—that is, if you even sent her.”

“Of course we sent her. But Liza’s never late—it just isn’t like her.”

“Are you sure she went to the right department?”

“Actually—”

“Yes? Actually?”

“Usually Ms. Regan in your personnel department disperses the girls—but since there’s only one today—”

Thank you, God, Talba thought.

“—there couldn’t really be a mistake. She’s been there a week, and she’s scheduled for another.”

“Let me get this straight, Ms. Lewis. You sent her to Purchasing, is that correct? She has not arrived. Maybe you’d better send someone else.”

“Purchasing? Liza’s in Legal. Oh my God, were there two work orders?”

Having now gotten what she wanted, Talba was feeling generous. “Millicent, what is it?” she said, as if speaking to an underling. “Oh. Very good. Ms. Lewis, I beg your pardon. Liza’s here; someone sent her on an errand.” She hung up quickly, hoping Ms. Lewis wouldn’t catch on that there weren’t actually two work orders.

The bad news was, there didn’t seem to be a way to get to Baronial today. Still, tomorrow would probably do. After a decent interval, she phoned Ms. Lewis again, said she was calling for Ms. Regan in Personnel, and they wouldn’t be needing Liza the rest of the week.

Still no call from the cop on Cassandra’s case. Talba’d had about enough of waiting for it. She called Skip Langdon again, got the name—Officer Dinel Corn—called Corn, failed to get her, and left a message.

Hell, she thought. That just isn’t good enough.

She called Aziza Scott at work and found her surprisingly pleasant. “Hey, Talba, how’re you doing?”

“Okay, thanks. How’s Cassandra doing? That’s the question.”

“She feels bad about Rhonda. And also Pamela— she can’t get through to her. I called that family, by the way. The Bergerons.”

“You did?”

“I got to thinking about what you said about Rhonda’s death being coincidental. I thought they should know. They wouldn’t even talk to me.”

“Well, their daughter was buried yesterday.”

“And they won’t let Cassandra talk to Pamela. You know what I think? They’re racists, pure and simple.”

Talba said, “I’m sorry about Pamela,” and she was. Sorry on Cassandra’s account. She had her own opinion about why the Bergerons wouldn’t want to talk to Aziza. “I just called to find out if you’ve heard from Officer Corn.”

Silence came from Aziza’s end. Finally, she said, “Is that someone I should know?”

“She’s the cop on Cassandra’s case.”

“Oh. I can’t remember things like that. Should I have heard from her?”

Talba itched to say, “Do you ever answer a question except with a question?” but thought better of it. Instead, she wriggled her way out of what was shaping up as an extremely unproductive conversation, and sat for a while staring into space.

She wanted to talk to Eddie.

She was starting to get a very uneasy feeling. Langdon had spooked her. Not hearing from Officer Corn was spooking her. What if she’d set something in motion that further endangered the girls?

Pamela had the information she needed. If Eddie hadn’t forbidden her to talk to the Bergerons... but he had. In the end, she couldn’t bring herself to go against his wishes.

She paced.

There was plenty to do. She could work on setting up Eddie’s website, and she could always work on the books—she’d promised, after all. But, somehow, it didn’t seem decent just to break into Eddie’s accounts and start organizing them without him.

So she did work on the website. And then, somehow or other, she wasn’t quite sure how, she found herself emailing Tony Tino. Just one sentence— “Are you Eddie Valentino’s kid?”

Within an hour, he answered: “Who are you? Is my father all right?” and she broke out in a sweat. She’d done it as a lark, hadn’t really expected him to answer...

Who’d believe that? she thought suddenly. Why the hell had she done it?

She sat with her head in her hands for a while, feeling paralyzed.

And then she began looking for her father. She spent several minutes getting into a search engine and locating a peoplefinder. She was all set to type in his name when she realized she didn’t know it. Stunned, she sat there holding her head, willing something to come to her. Donald, she thought. She had heard it once, at least. She had heard her mother and her Aunt Carrie mention her father in a conversation she wasn’t part of. She’d been ten or twelve maybe. The sisters probably didn’t know she was in the room. They were talking about a man they didn’t like, and Talba was pretty sure it was her father. Donald or David. Something like that. She figured she’d try both and once again was all set to begin when it hit her that she didn’t know his last name. Didn’t even know if her mother and father were married.

How could you look for someone when you didn’t know their name?

It might be on her birth certificate, she thought, almost certainly would be. Only she didn’t have a copy of it.

A scrap of memory flashed uncomfortably: Needing her birth certificate to get her driver’s license; her mother giving her a folded copy; unfolding it eagerly only to find herself staring, horrified, at the four words she hated most in the world.

Her name.

The unspeakably ugly words—Urethra Tabitha Sandra Wallis—shamed her so badly she refolded it without even looking at the intriguing tiny hand-and footprints. At that point, it ceased to be an object of interest or curiosity, and became solely a rather unpleasant device to get her license. She handed it to the clerk, and later handed it back to her mother without ever unfolding it again.

She shrugged off the memory and checked her mail, just in case. Sure enough, Tony Tino was still on her case—he’d sent another email.

Okay, okay, she had to bite the bullet. “Didn’t mean to alarm you,” she wrote. “If Eddie’s your dad, he’s fine (though not nearly so tough as he thinks he is). I’m just a fool who works for him. Please forgive the intrusion—just couldn’t resist.”

To which he replied: “You couldn’t possibly work for him if you’re not a relative. And you couldn’t possibly be a relative if you’re in touch with me. Who are you? “

There was only one answer to that one: “Not to brag, but I am a Baroness. Check out my website, www.Baronessa.com.”

Twenty minutes later, he got back to her: “Wow. I’m impressed. But now I know you couldn’t work for my dad. Black, female, and smart? Uh-uh. I don’t think so.”

Suddenly the thing was a conversation:

“Your mom and Angie made him hire me.”

“How are they?” he fired back.

Why don’t you know? she wondered. She wrote: “They’re just great. Planning your dad’s birthday party.” As if she didn’t suspect anything was the matter.

And if it was a gambit—she wasn’t sure herself—it worked: “Wouldn’t know about that. My family and I don’t talk.”

“Figured as much—I’m a detective in training. :) Want to talk about it?”

“I don’t know if I should. I don’t really know anything about you.”

“What? I thought you saw my website.”

“Are poets compassionate people?”

“Ezra Pound was an asshole. And Byron was a womanizer. Sylvia Plath was crazy; Anne Sexton molested her kid ... but me? I am a Baroness. Eddie’s a difficult man. I like him a lot.”

“It’s not so easy for me.”

“You’re just lucky you have a dad. I’m not sure if I do or not.” Whoa, she thought. Where’s this thing going?

But he didn’t pick up on it. “Why’d you write to me? Is my dad really okay?”

“Actually, he’s home with a headache. Which, I guess, is why I wrote to you. Bored.”

“Thanks a lot!”

She could see it was starting to deteriorate into one of those insufferably boring email exchanges, and so she made a quick exit. “Oops, phone. Nice talking to you.”

“We didn’t really talk,” he answered, leaving her feeling oddly betrayed. Did he mean they hadn’t exchanged meaningful thoughts, or simply that email wasn’t talk?

She worked on the “locates” and employment checks Eileen placed in her in-box. Eventually, the day crawled by.

Eddie didn’t have a real reason to get mad at her for temping at Baronial Records, but he might anyway. She half hoped he wouldn’t be back the next day. The less he knew, the better. Still, no way around it. She scribbled him a note saying she’d be out all morning, thinking she’d call in at noon.

Instead of going home, almost without making a decision to do it, she went to visit her aunt Carrie.

Aunt Carrie lived across the river in a little brick house—a very little house—with window bars protecting a lifetime of souvenirs and mementoes. Aunt Carrie was poor, but that certainly didn’t keep her from shopping. She had little of value in her house, but she made that up in volume. The place was chockablock, a jumble of junk that necessarily collected dust and grease. Talba didn’t know how she could stand it.

Like her sister Clara, Carrie had no husband, but she had had one once. Uncle Frank—a man, unlike her father, whom she could vaguely remember. She had only one cousin, La Jeanne, a girl Talba’s age who’d had a baby in high school, but married later and had another baby. Talba was happy for her. Miz Clara had nothing but contempt—she wasn’t president and she wasn’t a doctor. If you don’t watch out, ya gonna end up like ya cousin La Jeanne. Talba’d heard it a hundred times.

She rang the doorbell, knowing Aunt Carrie was there. She was home all the time when she wasn’t shopping. She was on disability on account of asthma and some other things—Talba didn’t really listen when she started talking about it.

She came to the door with a kid clinging to her— La Jeanne’s younger boy, who was three. Carrie babysat him for a few extra bucks. She had other things she did too. She sewed a little, she gambled some, with mixed results. She kept thinking she’d win the Lotto.

She was wiping her hands on an old frayed apron, like some stereotype of a nice aunt. “What’s wrong with Clara? Oh, Lord, what is it?” Dread sat like a spider on her round face.

“Nothing. She’s fine. Why?” But Talba knew why. Belatedly, she realized she’d never showed up at her aunt’s door unannounced, certainly not at this time of day.

“What you doing here, child?” She made no effort to move aside, to let her niece in.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I need to talk to you.”

“Come on in, then.” Reluctantly, she opened the door and Talba entered. It was obvious Aunt Carrie felt the visit boded poorly.

Talba didn’t know how to put her at ease, realized she didn’t know her aunt well anymore; since she was nine or ten she had seen her mostly as an extension of her mother. In truth, once La Jeanne and Talba were out of the toddler stage, the sisters hadn’t had much use for their offspring when they were together, preferring to chatter like squirrels with each other. What they talked about Talba hadn’t really noticed, except that one time when she was sure it was about her father.

“Hey, Marcellus,” Talba said, thinking it polite to talk to the kid. “How ya doing, boy?”

Marcellus took off as if chased by bears. She laughed. “Looks like he likes his grandma all to himself.”

“You want a glass of tea, girl?”

“Sure.” She followed her aunt into the kitchen, hoping they could sit at the small table there. For Talba’s money, the kitchen was the least oppressive room in the house. In addition to being full of junk—and dusty, greasy junk at that—Aunt Carrie’s house was dark, the curtains always drawn in an effort to keep the place as cool as possible, save money on air-conditioning.

But the kitchen wasn’t bad. It was cluttered, two or three meals worth of dishes always piled on the counters, jars of strawberry preserves and peanut butter open with knives left in them; but at least dishes, by their nature, had to be washed now and then. Talba couldn’t understand how her mother, who ran such a tight ship, and her Aunt Carrie could possibly have come from the same family. They could both cook, though; she’d say that. You couldn’t tell one of them’s gumbo from the other’s; either could win prizes. Aunt Carrie had a pot of it on the stove now. She nodded at it. “La Jeanne coming for supper.”

Without waiting to be asked, Talba sat down at the little plastic-covered table. Her aunt gave her the tea but didn’t sit, letting her know she wasn’t to settle in. She’d obviously made up her mind to get this over with as soon as possible. It was the worst atmosphere possible for Talba’s mission.

“Well?” Aunt Carrie had her hands on her hips. “What is it, girl?”

Suddenly, Talba’s feelings were mightily hurt. She felt her eyes start to water. Damn! This just wasn’t like her. She swallowed a few times. “I’m your niece. I thought it would be okay to visit.”

The older woman softened and sat down. “It’s okay to visit.” She spoke a little more kindly. “It’s just fine. What ya got on ya mind?”

“I just wanted to ask you something.”

Her aunt nodded. “Well, go ahead, then.”

Talba couldn’t think where to start. In the end, she blurted, “Why won’t anyone tell me anything about my father?”

“What?” Her aunt’s face clouded. She stood up, furious. “That what you come for, girl?”

Talba nodded and opened her mouth to speak again, explain, maybe, but Aunt Carrie wasn’t about to relinquish the floor.

“You come in here, no call, no nothing, scaring me out of my wits, thinking something’s happened to my sister, then maybe Corey, even La Jeanne. Couldn’t figure out what kind of ugly thing you bringin’.” She stopped and shook her head. “Umm umm umm. And then you bring up ya father. That what you come here for?”

“I don’t even know his name.” She heard herself whining like a three-year-old.

“Girl, you be glad ya don’t know his name. Last thing ya want to know’s that man’s name!” Marcellus, alarmed by the excitement, came in crying, and grabbed his grandma’s leg. She picked him up and cooed at him. “It’s all right, baby. It’s all right now.”

Talba thought, Why isn’t she like that with me? and remembered that once she had been. She felt herself going utterly out of control, letting go of the last thread of adulthood, regressing to about Marcellus’s age. “I don’t even know if my parents were married.”

“That’s what’s eatin’ at you? Whether you a bastard or not? They was married, all right. Umm umm.” She shook her head, as if she wished she could change history. “Rue the day.”

“No! That’s not it at all…”

“What is it, then?”

“It’s... I can’t put it into words. I just need to know, that’s all.” Suddenly she got righteous about it. “Don’t I have a right? What if I wanted to have a baby? Was he bipolar or something? I’d need to know that, wouldn’t I?”

Carrie grabbed her arm, hovering like a crow. “Ya pregnant, Sandra? Tell me ya ain’t pregnant. Break ya poor mama’s heart.”

“I’m not pregnant.” She felt defeated. “I just need to know.”

Perhaps she sounded so desperate her aunt loosened up, Talba wasn’t sure. All of a sudden Carrie stepped back and looked her in the eye. “Maybe ya do have a right. I don’t know, maybe ya do.” She seemed to come to a decision. “Ya daddy’s name was Denman.”

Talba took it in slowly. “Denman. Denman Wallis.”

“Denman La Rose Wallis.”

“La Rose? You telling me La Rose?” She could barely breathe. It couldn’t be a joke—Aunt Carrie was hardly a student of Shakespeare. The irony of it was smothering.

Her aunt shook her head in puzzlement. “That mean somethin’ to ya?”

“No kidding—that was really his name?”

“I tol’ ya it was. Prob’ly shouldn’t have, but I tol’ ya. Ya think I’d lie about it?”

Talba thought, Yes. At this point, I’d think anything. She said, “I guess not. I just don’t understand why everyone’s so secretive about him.”

“ ‘Cause it’s over and done with, that’s why. That man nearly ruined ya mama life—didn’t do you and Corey no good either...”

“We wouldn’t be here without him.”

“It’s a miracle you here with him. I done somethin’ for ya, Sandra. I gave ya his name, and I done it for a reason. I want ya to promise me somethin’.”

Talba knew what was coming. She felt her stomach seize up. “What’s that, Aunt Carrie?”

“I want ya to promise to let it be. Ya don’t know what ya do to ya mama when you bring that man up. I want ya to let her alone. Go on about ya business and leave it in the past, where it belongs.”

Talba hated this. Damn if she wasn’t tearing up again. Aunt Carrie, for all her gruffness, all the distance she was displaying today, had been an important figure in her early childhood, a nurturing second mother, often more tenderhearted than Miz Clara herself, who preferred Corey, anyway.

“I can’t promise that, Aunt Carrie. I’m sorry, I just can’t.”

Carrie said, “God help ya then, girl,” and there was something unexpected in her eyes and voice, something different from the anger Talba expected. It was something soft and compassionate. “God help us all.”

What the hell had happened to cause that kind of reaction? Talba thought about it all the way home. He must have molested us, she thought. Corey and me.

It would certainly explain the secrecy, and the paranoia when anyone brought him up.

But Talba felt oddly distanced from the notion. She ought to be a bit more creeped out, it seemed to her, and thought it must be so thoroughly buried she’d have to dream to bring it back up.

Miz Clara had supper waiting when she got home. “Where ya been? I expected ya home an hour ago.”

Now or never, thought Talba. “I went to see Aunt Carrie.”

“Carrie? What ya need from Carrie?”

“Same thing I wanted to ask you.”

“About what?”

Talba wondered if she was pretending—if she didn’t even know how obsessed her daughter had become. “About my father,” she said.

“Ya father! Honey, you ain’t got no father. You an example of spontaneous combustion—or whatever they call that thang.”

Miz Clara had been ready for her—that was as close as she got to kidding around. Talba knew damn well she shouldn’t push it. “Mama, just tell me one thing. Only one thing, and I’ll never ask anything else.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Ya sound like ya ‘bout seven years old.”

“Just one thin fact; that’s all I ask.”

“Go ahead and ask. I ain’t saying I’ll answer.”

“Why do you hate my dad so much?”

It was evidently the simple three-letter word that did it. Miz Clara went up like Vesuvius. “What in the name of God ya mean ya ‘dad’? Sound like somebody ya know and see every day and helps ya mama raise ya, and even helps support ya. Tell me, girl, ya got one of those? I don’t want to hear none of this ‘dad’ stuff—not now and not ever. You mention that man to me again, and I swear to God I’ll boot ya right out of this house ya was raised in. Now you go to ya room, just like you was a little girl. And without ya supper too! Yeah! I mean it! And don’t you ever, ever bring up that man’s name to me again.”

Very seldom did Miz Clara get on such a high horse.

She’d never throw her own daughter out; Talba hadn’t the least fear of that. Somehow, she’d manage to stop herself on a technicality. But Talba sure wasn’t ever going to bring up the man again.

She went to bed and dreamed she had a baby and it was crying. Too trite, she thought. Too damn trite for words. If I had a shrink, I wouldn’t even tell him. In the morning, she picked a white blouse and blue skirt out of her closet and headed out to exercise her demographic advantage.

***

Baronial Records was huge, much larger than she expected, something like a campus way out in New Orleans East. She had imagined one dingy building, but this place looked like some kind of African-American Skywalker Ranch. It was a veritable anthill of activity, which excited her. Everybody looked jazzed, and almost everybody was black. She liked that a lot until she realized that almost everybody was male as well.

Wondering what her job was (but guessing it was filing), she made her way to the legal department, and announced herself as Liza’s replacement, poor Liza having awakened with the stomach flu.

As it developed, she was the assistant of a Ms. Jackson, Ms. Jackson being a lawyer, apparently. Ah— she was a legal secretary. Well, she could do it. If it involved a computer, there was no question she could do it. It and lots of other things. She practically smacked her lips.

She had a plan—a plan so simple it couldn’t go wrong. All she had to do was find out who Toes was, then get a picture of him, and get the kids to I.D. it. And they’d given her a computer to play with. If the word “toes” was in it anywhere she’d find it.

She went in and prowled. Ah, yes. Toes. Toes and more Toes. Though never as a word—always as a syllable. As in tomatoes, potatoes, even pimientoes. Certainly not as a proper noun.

Well, hell. Toes had to be a friend of the Baron’s, didn’t he? He might even work for him. Therefore, somebody must know him. She got herself invited to go to lunch with a bunch of clerical workers and tried it out on them: “Ya’ll know anybody named Toes?”

Hilarity followed. Appendage jokes. Remarks about the things parents name kids. One woman had known an “Ears,” and someone else a “Sweet-eyes.” The one who knew a “Brown Nose” was probably joking.

The conversation was flying out of control. Talba tried to rein it back in: “No, really. He’s a good friend of the Baron’s—they call each other T and T. My sister met him at a party.”

More hilarity. “Girlfriend,” one of the ladies confided, “every stud in the state claims to be a friend of the Baron’s, black or white. Which color’s this dude? Or is he that soft creamy color I could eat with a spoon—you know, that color that’s mostly gold, with just a little red in it? Mmmmmm. Yeah.”

Evidently nobody in the group knew the gentleman. But maybe the legal department wasn’t the best for picking up on who did and didn’t know the Baron. After lunch Talba took a quick tour of the building, approaching the receptionist in each department with “a fax for Toes.” She failed to score, but it was barely a start—there were plenty more buildings, plenty more departments. She just had to be patient. Had to keep working there a few more days, asking around. Something might happen.

But they probably wouldn’t keep her. She had a pile of work when she got back to her desk, and it wasn’t computer work—she was very slow at plain old typing, which is what it mostly was. She was behind and probably wouldn’t be asked back. She had to think of something before the gig blew up in her face.

Somewhere near quitting time, she thought of it. The key was the Baron. He did know Toes, had actually been seen with him. The thing was to get to the Baron. And it could be done. All she needed was his schedule, which was sure to be in the computer somewhere.

Excited, she thought, I wonder if there’s something tonight?

And then it occurred to her that if there was something big and public, it would be on his website. She went there first, and wasn’t disappointed. There were three good opportunities, the first of which indeed was that night, and it was something she’d probably be able to get into, even this late.

But wait, she thought, I could have done this without wasting a whole day working here. So she went looking for his nonpublic schedule again, and found plenty of other opportunities. She printed it out and went back to her contracts.

Her last act before leaving that night was to call CompTask and, in the guise of Ms. Jackson, ask them to send Liza back.

CHAPTER TEN

“No. No way. Negative. Uh-uh. Over my dead body.”

Talba stared at her email and thought perhaps there was room, after all, for the Luddite opinion that not all business need be conducted on the Internet. She had simply inquired of Darryl Boucree if he would care to accompany her to a program of indigenous rap and hip-hop music featuring national artists, and even offering to supply the tickets. Surely this was too strong a reaction.

She tried the phone. “Mr. Boucree, sir, I find that usually when I ask a gentleman for a date, I get a much more polite reaction. I just don’t believe you can say to my face what you said to my computer.”

“Ms. Wallis, ma’am, I don’t believe I heard you. Put your sweet lips a little closer to the phone.”

“Perhaps we could trade. If you’d do this one little thing for me, no telling what I might do for you.” She spoke in a whorehouse whisper.

“Not on your life,” he answered. “Not for all the money in the world. Not even if...”

“I wasn’t thinking about money.”

“Not even for your precious smooth black skin.”

“Dark brown, actually. And surely you jest.” People liked her voice. Some had joked that she could make a bundle doing phone sex. She put all the sweetness she could muster into the last four words.

“You’re on your own, Ms. Wallis.”

She was getting exasperated. “Well, what’s the big deal? Rap’s an African-American art form. Why all the resistance?”

“It’s also a part of kid culture that I get all too much of. You know what that asshole calls women?”

“What asshole? There are three artists on the program.”

“You know what asshole. Baron Tujague.”

“I thought he came to your school, and you liked him.”

“All right, all right. He’s civic-minded, I guess. This thing tonight, for instance. It’s just that I hate that shit. It’s so slick and ugly.”

“Slick and ugly... mmmmm. Sounds like fun. Slick and uuuggly.”

He laughed. “God, you’re a sexy woman.”

She pressed her advantage. “Listen, this thing’s for the Musicians’ Clinic. How in the name of your profession are you going to find a better cause? And they’re each only going to do one number. Rich people are going to be there—think they want to hear rap?”

It was a promotional party for the second CD produced by the Musicians’ Clinic at LSU, this one all rap, all original songs. Darryl’s own band, the Boucree Brothers, had a song on the first. Tickets were two hundred bucks apiece, and Talba figured she could expense a couple.

“Why is it so important to have me with you?” Darryl asked, and she could see she just about had him.

She thought of something to say that finally convinced him—or maybe it was the way she said it. It had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with her feelings for him.

The thing was a two-hour deal at the House of Blues, a venue of which Darryl disapproved on grounds that the acoustics of the place were wasted on rap. But there was nothing, as Talba pointed out, wrong with the drinks. She was wearing one of her Baroness outfits, flowing fuchsia harem pants with tight shiny top and the hat she’d bought from Millie the Milliner.

Because the point of the CD was to promote health, and because much of the Baron’s fanship was perceived as being drug-friendly, to say the least, he’d been asked to write an antidrug song. And had. A song about dying and all your friends dying and leaving your kids behind, still little kids, “no daddy or nothin’, and your mama cryin’.”

“Rhymes with dyin’,” Darryl noted, but even he found it hard to find fault.

“Now, listen,” said Talba, when the songs had been sung and the pitch made, “you’re a famous musician. Here’s the deal. You go suck up to him, and while you’re at it, introduce your friend who could be his sister, their names are so similar.”

He smacked his forehead. “This is what it was all about.”

She shrugged. “Well, the other thing and this— the thing I mentioned.”

“You mean you love me so much you can’t stand to be away from me, even for one evening.”

“Well, yeah, sure. You know that’s true. Except for the evenings I can.”

“God, what I do for women.” He grabbed her hand and started to blaze a trail through the crowd.

“Better lose that plural,” she said automatically, but she could see he didn’t really mind doing this for her, that in fact he was pleased about it, and she thought that if she had put it to him this way in the beginning, he might have been more forthcoming with the favor. But then at the time, she hadn’t really been sure how she wanted it to work. She’d just known she needed Darryl; the world of rap made her nervous. To be sure, she had a poet’s contempt for rhyme that wasn’t poetry, or if it was, then poetry in the service of commercial interests.

Yet she did feel there was nothing wrong with making money, and in a perfect world that all poets would make money. So what, she thought, was her problem?

Commercial poetry, perhaps, that promoted violence and hatred, particularly of women. Yet not all rap did, and she knew it.

It was just baggage she carried.

When Darryl had elbowed their way within a couple of feet, the Baron himself signaled him. “Hey, man—aren’t you Darryl Boucree? Been knowin’ your work for years. The Boucree Brothers are an institution. Ain’t that right, Thomasino?”

The man beside him, smaller and seemingly overwhelmed to be in the Presence, showed a good set of teeth, and said, “Tha’s right,” and followed up with a brace or two of nods.

“Hey, Kassim! Hey, Raynell—got somebody I want you to meet. Hey, Darryl, these are my buddies— and this is my brother, Thomas Toledano. Darryl Boucree, gentlemen, Darryl Boucree of the Boucree Brothers—one of the premier musicians currently residing in this town.” Kassim and Raynell were wearing gangsta rap outfits—baggy pants, backward baseball caps, the whole thing, but the Toledano brothers—if that was their real name—were dressed in casual slacks and shirts, out of respect for the occasion. Talba gave them points for that

She also observed that the Baron definitely didn’t talk like a thug. He didn’t speak standard English, exactly, but he came pretty close. That interested her almost more than anything else about him, because she, who always spoke correctly, didn’t even say stuff like “I be ready” in jest, also wrote in dialect, and did it because, as she’d told Eddie, it was the only way she could imagine writing.

“Darryl. Darryl.” The Baron spoke urgently, as if Darryl might get away from him. He seemed more wound up than he ought to be, even though he’d just performed. She knew perfectly well what that did to you. “You’re gonna hear about these boys soon. Kassim and Raynell, AKA Pepper Spray. They just cut an album on our label—look out for it.”

Darryl said he was pleased to meet them and Thomas as well, and he was about to get a word in edgewise when a half-drunk dude came and leaned on the Baron and tried to give him a joint, which seemed to embarrass him. “Hey, Nito, come on. Come on, this ain’t no place for that shit. Come on, meet Darryl Boucree. Darryl, my buddy, Benito— Nito, you know who Darryl Boucree is?” Benito didn’t seem interested. “And who,” said the Baron, “is this lovely lady with the beautiful hat?”

He extended a hand to Talba, and seeing his chance, Darryl said, “This…” He paused as if waiting for a drumroll, “is the Baroness de Pontalba.”

At which the Baron looked utterly nonplussed, like he knew he ought to know her, but couldn’t quite place her. ‘You’re a rapper, too,” he finally said, as if he’d managed to put his finger on it.

Talba smiled, and it wasn’t entirely phony. She sort of liked the guy. “A humble poet,” she said. “But I am a Baroness.”

“Well, isn’t that a coincidence?” he said. “Because I am a baron.” He said it the way she did when she performed, emphasis on the “I”.

“Hey, I know you. I know ya.” It was the brother.

Oh. shit, she thought. He must have seen me at Baronial Records.

“I know this chick’s into that shit. She got a book with one of your poems in it. I’ve seen it, man— remembered the Baroness thing. Hey, you really are a poet—how ‘bout that? Hey, Tujague, she the real thing.”

“I can see she’s the real thing.” The Baron spoke with an edge of smarminess, the kind of automatic seductive note guys on the street affected without even thinking about it. ‘Ummm, hmmm”.

No doubt he meant to be flattering, but this was the kind of thing that turned her off about the whole rap ethos. “Hey, maybe we could do somethin’ together sometime—you know, we both rhymesmiths—some kind of thing in the schools or somethin’. Get kids interested in poetry.” He turned back to his brother. “Like we been talkin’ about. Hey, whatcha think, Darryl?”

Darryl smiled and settled into an easy slouch, as comfortable and natural as this man was overbearing and false. “You’re welcome at Fortier any time.”

“How ‘bout that, Your Highness? You up for it?”

“ ‘Your Highness’ isn’t necessary. ‘Your Grace’ is sufficient, thank you.” Talba gave a little curtsy.

He looked at her kind of quizzically, as if he’d only just really noticed her. This time, when he spoke, his voice had none of the street smarm that had crept in before. “You got a real nice voice, you know that?”

“Why thank you, Your Grace.”

“No, I mean it I’d like to work with you. You up for it?”

“Sure. I’d love to.”

“Okay, then, we got a deal. Darryl…” He held up a hand for Darryl to slap. “Good to see you, my man.” And he moved out among his admirers.

“Real sincere dude,” Darryl said.

“You mean my new best friend that I’m going to do a gig with?”

“You mean my new best friend.”

“Well, he did know you. He’s the one called you over.”

“I guess I was wrong when I said he wouldn’t remember me from Fortier. But I guarantee you that’s the only place he knows me from. He wouldn’t know the Boucree Brothers from the Crips.”

“What do you mean? You can’t know who comes to your gigs.”

“Well, if he had, and he really was a fan, he would have introduced himself. Now wouldn’t he?”

She thought it over, imagined a shy young wannabe and how he’d behave, but she couldn’t make the Baron fit the image. “I don’t know. He sure knew you.”

Darryl shrugged. “The principal gave him an album when he came to the school. It was kind of embarrassing at the time, but she meant well.” He looked uncomfortable. “You want to get out of here?”

As they walked over to Chartres, where they’d parked Darryl’s car, he said, “By the way, did you get what you went for?”

“Are you kidding? An introduction to my idol, who offered to do a gig with me? We’re practically engaged.”

Darryl was silent.

“What?” she said finally. It was unlike him.

“I don’t know. He seemed like he was on speed— never a good sign. But not only that… these rappers, I just don’t know—a lot of them really do seem to be gangsters. You check his rap sheet, Ms. Dick?”

She shook her head. “Even I can’t get in the police computer. But you’re cute, you know that? To be so concerned.”

“I’m not kidding. It spooks me.”

“Hey, you called it a minute ago.”

“I called what?”

“When you called me Ms. Dick. Trouble is my business, know what I mean? Besides, he’s got semi-good manners, except when he thinks he’s being sexy. I think there’s a mama in the woodpile.”

“Interesting choice of words.”

“Apt, I believe. If he’s from a good family, he wouldn’t want anyone to know it.”

She thought about that. She hadn’t compiled a dossier on him, in fact had read only his own press about himself. She should do that first thing in the morning.

Or maybe she should just call him up and say, “Hey, Baron, know anybody named Toes?” And he’d give her a name, and that would be the end of it.

She needed to see him again. Well, hell—she checked his schedule, and to her surprise, he was doing something in the morning—first thing in the morning. And something weird, if you considered the lyrics of his songs, which were mostly about mayhem. He was on the program at a breakfast sponsored by the archdiocese. I wonder, she thought, if he’s running for office.

But it occurred to her the answer was probably much simpler. The man was currying favor. Baronial Records was big, and it was probably going to get bigger. It was going to want more land and plenty of tax breaks, and who knew what else. The archdiocese was one of the most powerful political forces in the city.

She didn’t see crashing the breakfast after meeting the Baron the night before—he’d probably have her arrested for stalking.

Or wait. Maybe that wasn’t a bad idea. She could pretend to be a groupie—hang out, get to know some of the female hangers-on, and chat them up. She’d have Toes’s name within a week. Come to think of it, the man had practically invited it—that stuff about her voice and how he’d love to work with her. Sure. He’d just love it. He’d probably love a few other things as well, and that was the dicey part. How long could she hang out without having to put out?

One thing, she thought ironically, she did have groupie credentials; she’d been with a musician the night before. For all the Baron knew, she went out with a different one every night of the week.

The strategy was dangerous, but it might be the shortest distance between two points. Before she went to bed, she left a message on Eddie’s phone telling Eileen she’d be late, she had an errand to do.

She woke up to a downpour.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Miz Clara banged on her door. “Sandra, you gettin’ up? Who you think you is? Queen of the May?”

That was what the title of the poem was about. When she was a little girl, her mother used to do that, and she’d think, If my daddy were here, he wouldn’t treat me like that. He’d treat me like I really was Queen of the May.

She rolled over and laughed at herself. Queen of the May indeed! Where in hell had Miz Clara even gotten the phrase?

She thought: What shall I wear to a prayer breakfast? Ah, I have it. How about a nice white shirt and a blue skirt?

Uh-uh. Not if I’m playing a groupie. That calls for Baroness clothes.

But if Eddie comes to work, he’ll fire me.

She ended up in flowing bronze with a change of clothes in her car. But as it turned out, she just could not make herself get out of her car and walk blocks in the pouring rain, ruining her Japanese silk kimono and her cute sandals that went with it. Absolutely couldn’t. Anyway, was a sodden groupie sexy?

How about if I surveil him? she thought, and wondered if she’d just invented a word.

The idea appealed to her. She parked half a block away from the Ramada Inn, where the breakfast was being held, and about fifteen minutes later the Baron walked out along with one of the men she’d met last night, and got in a warm, dry limousine.

Right decision for once, she thought, and took off after the limo, trying to remember the name of the man with the Baron. Kassim, she thought. These people all ran together.

The limo turned around and threaded its way back down St. Charles to the interstate. Evidently it was going to New Orleans East, where Baronial Records was. She followed on 1-10. The car took an East exit, all right, but it didn’t go to Baronial Records. Instead, it stopped at the Shoney’s near Home Depot.

She did a double take. Shoney’s? All the money in the world, and these guys were having fast food. She figured they’d send the driver in for supplies, but instead, four men tumbled out of the limo and went in as if one of them wasn’t one of the hottest stars in the country. She parked in the lot, thinking the groupie routine wouldn’t fly in this all-male atmosphere. These dudes were definitely not going to be in the mood for chicks.

The rain had let up, and she could actually see pretty well through the window. The four guys met two others, and they all sat down to have breakfast. Real breakfast, unaccompanied by prayers.

The record company was pretty close—maybe this was a hangout, someplace where the Baron knew he could go and be left alone.

Surely you wouldn’t take a business acquaintance to Shoney’s. And she recognized three of the men— Kassim, Raynell, and the Baron’s brother, Thomas. These were probably the rapper’s best pals, and the brother fit the description Millie had given: he was pretty much a toad and had a name starting with an “T”.

She decided to take a chance—if it paid off, she was the hottest shot in Louisiana. If it didn’t, she didn’t think she’d lost anything.

She got out her camera and her cell phone, got the number from information, crossed her fingers, and dialed Shoney’s. Someone answered on the fifteenth ring.

She said, “This is Cassie from Baronial Records. Is Toes in there with the Baron? I’ve got a little emergency here.”

The employee who answered put the phone down on the counter and went over to the table. She could see just fine, but she couldn’t hear. What did the woman say? Did she say “Is one of you Toes?” or did she say, “Emergency at the office”?

Oh, who cares? she thought, I’ll just photograph them all when they come out.

But her heart speeded up when the Baron’s brother got up to take the call.

Could it be this easy? She moved her car, so she’d be in a better position to photograph them when they came out, but even so, she only managed to get two, the brother and one of the ones she didn’t know.

She dropped the film off at a one-hour-processing joint and hurried back to the office. Too late, she remembered she’d forgotten to change clothes. If Eddie was there, it was going to be embarrassing.

Eileen Fisher’s bland features showed something, but Talba wasn’t sure what. Excitement, maybe.

“Is he here?”

Fisher nodded. “He wants to see ya.”

Glancing into his office, Talba couldn’t bring herself to enter. Eddie was like a dragon in there, breathing so much fire she was afraid of getting scorched from the doorway. What in hell had she done?

Well, plenty, but what that he could know about? Where to start? She decided on, “Eddie, I’m sorry I’m late ...”

He said, “Where in the hell do you get off?”

I’m fired, she thought. Damn. I was liking it, too. Crazy little job, but never boring.

“Listen. Eddie. I think I’ve got the guy.”

He stood up and shouted her name. Shouted it. “Talba, sit down.”

She was quite honestly afraid to. She hovered at the door, not sure whether to flee or what.

“Goddammit, get in here.” He sat down and spoke a little more softly.

Okay, he’d backed off a little. She took a tentative step into the room, but she wasn’t about to sit.

“Sit down, goddammit.” The bags under his eyes were black. Nothing like her own skin, which was brown and smooth. These were darker, a mottled gray-black that she hadn’t associated with human skin. It crossed her mind that he was really very ill, that the headaches were either a cover story or a symptom of something much more dire than she’d imagined.

She more or less slunk into a chair. “Are you all right?” she said, unable to focus on anything else.

“Whaddaya mean am I all right? Do I look all right?”

She opened her mouth to speak, but he said, “Or do I look like I’m about to kick your ass all the way to Canada?”

She closed her mouth, thinking that this was no way at all she’d expect him to speak to a woman. Whatever she’d done, it was worse than she thought. Her mind leapt to the worst. Had she endangered Cassandra? It must be that. There must be some eventuality she hadn’t foreseen. Her skin was suddenly clammy. “Has something happened to Cassandra?”

***

“Cassandra?” Eddie stared at her, absolutely blank. What the hell kind of monkey wrench was this? Who the fuck was Cassandra?

The call had come half an hour before. He had simply picked up and the voice, a voice he didn’t recognize, had said, “Dad, it’s Anthony,” and there was a collision in his brain.

It was the last goddam thing in the world he wanted to hear. And yet, all the turbulence, all the spiked, barbed, jagged, nasty, hateful projectiles flying around in his head had suddenly stopped their yammering and all was quiet in there, as if their motors had turned off and they were gliding now, gliding peacefully, simply sailing around between his ears in harmonious silence. He had listened to the silence for a while, not a thought in his head. Shock, he thought later. It must have been shock.

“Dad, are you there?”

And that’s when the collision came. The motors that had turned off flicked on at triple speed, so that everything flying around in there, everything in that momentarily peaceful cavity, everything ugly and barbed and jagged, crashed into everything else, and threatened to blast his skull open. It sounded like a thousand ringing phones, a dozen roaring beasts, a season of hurricane wind. “I can’t talk to you,” he said to his son, and it was literally true.

“I got an email from someone who works for you. She said you were out sick. I thought I’d call and see how you are.”

Eddie couldn’t stand the noise, couldn’t take the roaring and the ringing, the cacophony, the stroke it was giving him, the apoplexy. He was going to be dead in a minute. His heart was going to stop from the strain of this.

“I can’t talk to you,” he said again, and his voice was raspy, something like the sound a bear might make after a winter of hibernation—aggressive but none too alert.

He hung up the phone, and when it rang again, he let Eileen Fisher take it and when she came into his office bearing a pink message memo, he said, “Where the hell is Talba Wallis?”

He had sat there staring at the wall until his assistant came in, letting the debris inside his skull grind itself into particles, letting it grind his soul along with it, letting it grind up what was left of his life, and when she appeared in the door of his office, dressed for Mardi Gras or something, he had to restrain himself from grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her till her teeth rattled.

Cassandra.

Cassandra was the fucking client, that’s who Cassandra was. What was wrong with this girl?

“How the hell should I know how Cassandra is? What the fuck’s that got to do with anything?” He didn’t even bother to excuse his French.

To his utter frustration, she said, “What have I done?”

He truly couldn’t believe it. “Idiot! Goddamn little idiot!”

“Did they fine you the three thousand dollars?” She was almost whispering, she was so scared.

“The what?” he said, and suddenly got it. She was a retard. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Fuck the fuckin’ three thousand dollars. Where in hell do you get off talking to my kid?”

But there was no contrition on her face, only bewilderment. “Angie? I haven’t talked to Angie today.”

“Anthony!” he bellowed.

“Anthony? Oh, Tony. I didn’t talk to him, I emailed...”

“For God’s sake. That chair is smarter than you.”

And finally, she caught on. He could see the light dawn on her face. She talked fast, shaking her head. “Eddie, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude on your privacy.”

“I got family problems, all right? Ya think that’s ya business? Who the fuck ya think ya are?”

She shrugged in that helpless way people do when they’ve exhausted their reservoir of apology. “I never thought he’d call you. I thought we were just talking.”

“What right did ya have?”

“I didn’t have any right. I don’t know. I just...” She squirmed, trying to think up some excuse. “I just think he’s lucky to have a dad,” she blurted, and looked as if she could die of embarrassment. What an unspeakably stupid thing to say, he thought. She rambled on. “I mean, I don’t even know if I’ve got one.”

“And so you thought you’d fix us up. My son and me.”

“No, it wasn’t that”

“What are you saying, then?”

“I don’t know. I just wanted to talk to him. I was being playful, I guess.”

Without realizing he was doing it, Eddie rose up out of his chair and stood over her, his face close to hers. “Playful? You were playing with other people’s lives?”

Her chair scraped on the floor as she pushed it back, alarm spreading like a stain over her features. For some reason, that made him even madder. “Get outta my sight! Just get fuckin’ out of here!”

She was already at the door. “Okay, Eddie,” she said, evidently feeling safer. “Sure I’ll excuse your French.”

He knew what was going to happen, and it was unacceptable. He needed her gone. Completely gone; off the premises.

He stomped out into the hall. “All the way out! Eileen, you too!”

Neither of them needed to be told twice. He was speaking to their backs.

Only when the door had snicked shut did he allow himself to acknowledge that he was choking to death, that his throat had closed. He gasped; and a howl came out of him, a baying, as if he were an animal. He half expected the women to come running back in alarm, but nothing happened. He locked the door with shaking, sweaty hands, still roaring, bellowing, and when his throat was raw, he sat down on the sofa in the anteroom and let the tears flow.

The funny thing was, he didn’t even know what he was crying about.

CHAPTER TWELVE

For Talba, the hardest part, almost, was going down in the elevator with Eileen Fisher. They both understood that something more embarrassing than scary had happened, but Talba had other baggage as well. She thought, Eileen’s going to say, “he’s not himself,” and I’m gonna puke.

But when Eileen said it, she didn’t puke, instead cracked, “No, he’s the Antichrist,” which set the girl to giggling, and allowed her to stare at the elevator walls in peace.

When she was safely in her car, she bent over the steering wheel, trying to get her breath, heart pounding, hands shaking. She was sweating too. She blasted the AC up to Arctic and sat there, contemplating the enormity of her sin.

He had asked her why she did it, and she had had an answer, had been on the verge of saying, “It didn’t involve you. It wasn’t about you.” But that sounded so stupid and lame and phony she couldn’t get it out. Now, seeing what had happened, she didn’t even believe it.

She had meddled, whether she had the sense to realize she was doing it or not. Without meaning to, she had wounded this great male beast, had hurt him so bad he might never forgive her.

And in turn that hurt her, made her realize how fond of him she was. Sure, he’d been abusive. Sure, he’d cursed her out, called her an idiot—a chair, for Christ’s sake. But he was out of control in a way she couldn’t have predicted. She’d gone someplace forbidden, opened some sort of secret door, and it had unhinged him. Actually unhinged him.

For a while there, on the short walk to her car, she’d considered calling Audrey or Angie. But she recognized instantly how wrong that would be. Even if Eddie committed suicide, he had to be left to do it in dignity. Not that that was going to happen. She didn’t know what the future held, hadn’t a clue whether she still had a job, but there was no doubt in her mind Eddie would weather this. At least if there was anything to the ancient maxim that you shouldn’t hold things in. The sounds that came out of him after she and Eileen left were a lot like an explosion. If they didn’t rip him apart, nothing was going to.

She looked at her watch. Not quite lunchtime, but getting there. She might as well work as not. The film she’d dropped off would be ready by the time she got there; if it turned out, she’d have an excuse to go shopping on Eddie’s nickel. But first, she needed comfort food.

For Talba, that meant a shrimp po’ boy, something in which she indulged about once a year. Today, she decided, was going to be the day, and she was going to drink a Barq’s with it.

She had to go to the French Quarter anyway— she’d get one there. In her opinion, this was nature’s most nearly perfect food. Talba liked hers dressed—native speak for “decked out, baby-child,” as she’d written in a poem once. Slathered with mayonnaise, topped with crisp tomato slices, then blanketed with lettuce, cut in strips and tucked in like confetti. The shrimp, of course, would be fresh and flash-fried; the bread sweet, French, and so fresh it would still be fragrant. The Barq’s would be cold and sweet as running creek water, but a good deal more caloric. Maybe she’d write another poem about this particular lunch— “ain’ nobody po’ that’s got a shrimp po’ boy”—well, no, but she’d work on it.

Actually, she kind of liked it. The sentiment, not the line—that was far too cornball. Ah, she had it— she could put it in Miz Clara’s mouth. That would work just fine. In fact, she wasn’t altogether sure her mother hadn’t said it at some point. She’d been forever making points about what did and didn’t make you poor in some kind of spiritual sense that wasn’t Christian (though Miz Clara was). Some kind of thing that went beyond Christian.

Talba stopped to eat at a place on Conti Street, a place where they charged about three times what she’d have had to pay in her own neighborhood, at least a few years ago. There had been a little store around the corner where she and her brother Corey went when her mama gave them money.

He was a butt now, but Corey had been a great brother to have at the time. He had warded off the bullies and taken care of her when Miz Clara couldn’t. Hey! She could write him a poem. That would do a lot to heal the chasm that had opened between them when she drifted into a life that wasn’t about money, and he married Miss La-di-da with skin more like cream than coffee.

That’s some silly shit, Talba thought. She shook her head at her own absurdity, able, with a bite of nectar and honey in her mouth, to be generous toward her sister-in-law. This was far from the best shrimp po’ boy she’d ever had—couldn’t even touch the ones she and Corey used to go get—but it was still nectar and honey. It was greasy and the bread was old— the shrimp fried too slow, the tomato limp and lame, the lettuce going brown—carelessly, lovelessly made. But it was still a shrimp po’ boy and a shrimp po’ boy was still finer than nightingales’ tongues.

The poem was coming. She took out a pen and started scribbling.

My brother used to say, “Little Bird…”

(he call me Little Bird)

He say, “… Little Bird, I’m gon’ get you a wriggle
o ‘worms

You ain’ goin’ hungry with Big Bird around…

You ain’ goin’ hungry with worms in your tummy,

You ain’ goin’ hungry this fine day in June…Dry those tears and flap those wings…Open that beak and …

And what? Talba stared at the paper, wondering where on earth this stuff came from.

Little Bird? She had no recollection of Corey ever calling her that. And yet it came out so naturally. She focused on her chewing, staring out the window, trying to clear her head.

A picture came gradually into her mind—of herself, watching television. Sesame Street was on. And she was crying. Corey came into the room and left again, perhaps saying something to her.

Then he came back, wearing some sort of yellow outfit—pajamas? His? Miz Clara’s?—and he’d used something to simulate feathers. Maybe it was the kind of grass that came in Easter baskets ... something like that, anyway. And he pretended to be Big Bird, and she laughed.

And maybe then he took her out to get a po’ boy. That wasn’t part of the memory, if this was one, and she had a feeling it was. It was too vivid simply to have popped from whatever mysterious place poems come from.

How strange, she thought, to forget a thing like that

And then:

He was the only father I had.

Her eyes started to water, taking her by surprise. It wouldn’t have occurred to her in a million years to go all gooey over her yuppie brother.

With the aid of the Barq’s, she swallowed the last of the sandwich—a good thing, since she felt her throat swelling. She was getting into father territory again, and she hated it. But it was more than that— it was a sense of wonder that so much of her childhood seemed lost—specifically, that whatever tenderness there had been between her and her brother had been allowed to die.

By me, she thought. By me. Corey didn’t do it.

But in some ways he had, and she understood that, even as she romanticized him. He chose to go snobbish and materialistic and judgmental when he became a doctor. She didn’t do that to him. In spite of it, though, Miz Clara still loved him. Why couldn’t Talba?

Maybe I do, she thought. I guess I still do. I wonder what he knows about our father?

The last thought, the thought about her father, came tacked on to the rest of it, clear out of left field, and, as with so many things lately, she wondered why she hadn’t thought of it before.

Probably because they walked on eggshells around each other. She never voluntarily asked him for anything. If Miz Clara needed something other than medical care—where Talba happily bowed to her brother’s expertise—she’d customarily get it herself even if it meant taking some job she hated.

Like the one at United Oil, which had replaced the rotting stoop and painted the house. The cottage looked like new now, put the others on the block to shame, and Corey had chided her for it— said he didn’t see why she hadn’t asked him for the money.

She hadn’t said what was on her mind: You could see what she needed as well as I could.

And she wondered why she hadn’t.

She picked up the photos from Shoney’s and found herself pleasantly surprised—not bad at all, though she only had two of the men. Still, she had hopes.

She strolled into Millie the Milliner’s, happily full of her favorite food, confidently carrying a possible break in the case, happy to be there. She’d put the morning behind her—the rain, the near faux pas of barging in on the prayer breakfast, Eddie’s wrath, and most of all, her shame. She had done a truly bad thing, and she knew it, but she hadn’t thought of it for half an hour. She was looking forward to a little browse through Millie’s, and also to a chat with Millie herself.

Millie was helping a customer. She was dressed today in purple—flowing purple pants worthy of Talba herself, gorgeous purple top in tie-dyed silk, knee-length lavender jacket. Her chapeau dujour was something D’Artagnan would have been proud of, royal purple felt with a luxuriant black feather. Her nails were blood red.

Talba caught her eye and gave a little wave and a smile, but evidently Millie didn’t see her. Either that or she ignored her, and Talba couldn’t see that. Still, she seemed to be taking a lot of time with her client.

Another came in, and Millie went right to her, leaving Talba feeling snubbed. Oh, well, she thought, I’m not a paying customer. She amused herself trying on hats.

And finally, when the second customer had gone, and they were alone in the shop, Millie disappeared into the back. Something was up.

Talba followed her, but with care. She had no idea who else was back there. But no one was there except Millie, organizing bits of trim as if it were the most pressing job in the world.

“Hey, girlfriend. What’s going on?”

“This part of the store’s my private space.”

Talba shivered. “Wooo. Have you got a thermometer? It got real chilly all of a sudden.”

Millie smoothed out a piece of bronze velvet. “I’m afraid I can’t help you today.”

“Today? Why not today?”

“Look, Miss, I’ve spoken to my lawyer, and I really can’t help you.” She was keeping her eyes on her workbench, not meeting Talba’s.

“Oho. You seem to have forgotten whom you’re dealing with. Not ‘miss.’ ‘Baroness.’ “

“Baroness.” The way she kept her eyes down made Talba distinctly uncomfortable.

Talba opened her purse and brought out the folder of newly printed photos. “I’ve got some pictures to show you.”

At last, Millie raised her eyes, and they were formidable. “I need you to leave my shop, please.”

“Hey, I thought we were friends.”

“I’m ordering you to leave.”

“I thought you were Rhonda’s friend. I thought you wanted to get the creep who killed her.”

For answer, Millie picked up the phone, dialed information, and said, “The number for the Eighth District, please.”

Probably just for effect, Talba thought. Nobody wanted police in their shop. But she was making her point, loud and clear.

“Okay, I’m out of here. Call me if you need me.” She scribbled Eddie’s office number on a piece of Millie’s gift wrap, and made a mental note to ask Eileen to get her some business cards.

She breathed deeply as she walked back to her car, trying to regain her composure. She was more shaken than she wanted to admit. Toes got to Millie, she thought, and the thought wasn’t pretty.

Whether he did it with money or threats, he’d realized it had to be done, and done it fast. He was covering his tracks well. Talba was afraid for Shaneel and Cassandra. Close to panicked, in fact.

Fingers shaking, she dialed Aziza on her cell phone. “I need to talk to Cassandra right away. Can you call the school and fix it?”

“For heaven’s sake, Ms. Wallis. What on earth is it?” She was irritated, a woman accustomed to full reports, not cryptic requests.

“I may have an I.D. on the perp.”

“What? Who is he?”

“I don’t have a name yet. Just a picture.”

Aziza sighed. “Okay, show her. Where are you?”

“Just leaving the French Quarter.”

“I don’t think you have time to get to her school. Today’s choir practice. She takes the bus to the church—why don’t you head there?”

“Okay.” She took down directions so precise it was like talking to a cartographer.

By the time she got there, choir practice had started. Her mission was certainly urgent enough to interrupt, but Talba didn’t at first, preferring to listen for a few minutes to the voices, male and female, young and old, blended in the pure joy of singing. Shaneel was there too, openly having the time of her life, and Cassandra, while not exactly abeam with delight, seemed at peace. Maybe she wasn’t enjoying herself, maybe she wasn’t even able to, but Talba could see she was finding something in herself most people didn’t have. Whatever it was, it was getting her through, and God knew she needed it. Or Goddess knew, Talba thought. The girl needs a mother.

Listening to the choir, watching the girls, she was catching on to why they did it when they didn’t seem even slightly religious. They had a beautiful gift, something special, something outside the mundane. She was happy for them. It was the thing she told kids to look for in themselves when she went to high schools to talk about poetry. Not many of them had a clue what the hell she was talking about.

Where’s Pam? she wondered, scanning the choir for the little redhead. Since almost everyone was black, she’d have stuck out like a snowball. She wasn’t there; still in mourning, perhaps.

Talba listened for twenty minutes, absolutely unable to bring herself to interrupt, and did so only when the choir stopped for a breather. She spoke with the leader, who called the girls down from the choir loft to mundane ground.

They were avoiding her eyes, sneaking glances at each other. “Hello, women,” she said.

Shaneel couldn’t help a smile; Cassandra couldn’t manage one for the life of her.

“I’ve got some pictures for you.” She gave them each a picture of the baron’s brother, and one of the other man, the man she didn’t know.

Cassandra said, “So?”

“Have you ever seen either of these guys?”

Cassandra shrugged, not even deigning to answer.

Slowly, as if she really hated to, Shaneel shook her head. “No’m,” she said, finally. “No’m, I don’t b’lieve so.”

“I think one of them might be Toes.”

Cassandra shrugged again, managing to pack so much contempt into a simple shoulder gesture that Talba wondered if she might have a future in the theater.

This time Shaneel shook her head vehemently, apple cheeks shining in indignation. “No’m,” she said. “Absolutely not.” Talba looked at her quizzically, struck by a false note somewhere or other. “He don’t look a thing like him. Neither one of ‘em.”

She was lying, and very poorly too. “Which one of them doesn’t look like him?”

Cassandra said, “Neither one of them does,” each word a dagger. The girl was so full of hostility Talba thought she might burst into flame.

“Girls. The man’s dangerous. What’s the deal here?”

“Thought we was women.” Shaneel sounded disappointed.

“I think you’re about to get demoted. If you’re afraid of this guy, let’s get him behind bars.”

Cassandra was wearing overalls and a pink T-shirt. For once, she looked no older than her age. The little puffball atop her head gave her the look of a baby animal—fuzzy and vulnerable. She gave another of her mighty shrugs. “Who’s afraid of him? He was just somebody to fuck.”

“Young lady, you might shock your mother, but you can’t shock me. At your age, I’d done more rebelling than you ever thought about doing.”

“I’m supposed to care?” Cassandra could have been made out of caramel-colored stone. Shaneel looked panicked, as if she’d somehow been betrayed—whether by Cassandra or Talba herself, Talba couldn’t tell.

“Shaneel, could you excuse us a minute, please?”

Tears started to glisten in the girl’s eyes, but she turned back to rejoin the choir. Talba stopped her. “Can you wait a minute? Sit over there, will you?” She was embarrassed at having “young lady’d” the girls; it was the sort of thing she told herself she’d never say. She turned to Cassandra. “You remind me of somebody, you know that?”

Not even a shrug this time. Just a blank stare.

“It’s me, honey. I used to hurt as bad as you do. I used to hate the world as much as you.”

Nothing.

“It’ll get better, I promise you.”

The girl turned faintly interested eyes on her.

“Do you believe me? Fourteen’s the worst age in the world, unless you count twelve. I swear to God it’ll get better.”

“No, it won’t.” There was still no expression on Cassandra’s face. She might as well have been a doll. But her voice had a slight catch.

“I promise you.”

The shrug was back, the contempt.

“You’re smart to sing, you know that? It’s the way to get through. Here’s my phone number.” Talba ripped out a deposit slip imprinted with her home phone, something she hadn’t been willing to do for Millie. “Call me if you need me. I mean that; I’m there for you.” It was a lot like talking to one of the pews.

She called Shaneel over again. “Honey, you’re not a very good liar.”

“What you mean?”

“You know one of those men is Toes.”

“You ain’t no welfare lady—you Miz Scott’s detective, ain’t you?”

“Yes, and I’m pretty good, don’t you think? I got past your principal.”

She was amused. “Yeah. Yes’m. Guess you are.”

“So which one is it?”

“Ma’am?”

“Which one’s Toes?”

“I ain’ know.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I was asleep that day—when Toes come by the house.”

“You went to his house with him. You already told me that.”

“I ain’ remember.”

This was going nowhere. Talba gave her a deposit slip, her “card”, and left feeling like a failure. There was no doubt in her mind that Eddie would have opened up the girl like a calzone—gotten secrets flowing out of her like cheese-and-mushroom filling. She missed the man.

Maybe I should send him some flowers, she thought. By way of apology. But she dismissed the gesture as too theatrical.

If she got to thinking about Eddie, she was going to go into a funk. The thing to do was to keep moving, to do something constructive. She headed for the Bergeron house. Eddie hadn’t lifted his embargo on the dead woman’s family, but she felt a decent amount of time had gone by. And getting to Pamela was absolutely crucial.

The woman who came to the door was thin and drawn, no one Talba remembered from the funeral. Her hair and lipstick were too dark for her skin, making her look older than she probably was. She had on neat polyester slacks in a charcoal color, and a tailored print blouse. She was dressed for doing errands, perhaps, or receiving visitors. Talba remembered that Shaneel had said the three girls hung together partly because their mothers worked. This woman must still be on bereavement leave, still trying to accept the finality of her daughter’s death.

She had deep lines between her eyes, a perfect eleven, and the forehead above them was furrowed as well, contorted so heavily Talba was reminded of a sharpei. Her eyes were frightened, darting behind and around her visitor. It made Talba uneasy.

“Mrs. Bergeron?”

“Yes?” The woman wasn’t openly hostile, but she was on the verge.

“I’m a friend of Aziza Scott. Cassandra’s mother.”

“Cassandra?” Her brow curled further in on itself; her eyes became wilder still.

“Pamela’s friend from choir practice.”

“Pammie never mentioned a Cassandra.”

Talba was at a loss. Aziza had said she phoned and talked to the Bergerons; Talba was sure of it. And that Cassandra had phoned, but couldn’t get through to Pamela. I couldn’t have dreamed it, she thought.

But it was clear that being Aziza’s friend wasn’t going to cut any ice. “Look. I’m a detective ...”

Mrs. Bergeron didn’t wait to hear any more. “Lloyd! Lloyd come here!”

Almost instantly, a man appeared, his arm encircling his wife’s waist as he stepped up behind her. He was quite a bit taller than she was, and he carried a pillow of fat at his center. He wore a short-sleeved white shirt that fit him in such a way that it emphasized both his spare tire and his sloping shoulders. It was an odd shape for a man of his size; perhaps he had never done manual work or exercised.

He was almost bald, but still had a few strands of light brown hair between the two side tufts, worn too long, so they were limp and lifeless. He wore a pair of thickish glasses with thin-rimmed frames, and his face had a vague, confused look.

“Lloyd, this woman says she’s a detective.”

The man held out his hand, as if entreating a child to give back the butcher knife. “Lemme see ya badge.”

“I’m not a police officer. I’m a private detective, and I’m extremely concerned about your daughter. Let me show you some I.D.” She started to reach into her purse, but the man grabbed her forearm. She raised her chin, alarmed. Behind the glasses, Bergeron’s eyes flamed.

What the hell was going on here? She was starting to panic.

She spoke softly. “Okay, now. Okay. Everything’s all right.”

She started to step back, but Bergeron pulled her into the house, slammed the door, and slung her across the foyer. She crashed into a wall and tried to come back to her height with dignity, suddenly remembering the sensation of playing statues as a kid. The door was closed, and Bergeron had his back to it, blocking her from leaving. His wife stood at his side, forehead still furrowed. Talba’s heart thundered. What the hell is this? She hoped she hadn’t spoken aloud.

Bergeron spoke in a controlled, menacing voice. “Now you get on the phone and you get her back over here.” His arms were folded over his chest and his feet were about a foot apart. He sounded like a poor man’s Clint Eastwood.

How in hell to defuse this? Talba found she wanted nothing so much as to curl up and have a nap. She knew the impulse well. Miz Clara had been sick once when she was a child—confined to the hospital—and Talba and Corey had gone to stay with Aunt Carrie. Talba had spent the whole time under her cousin’s bed sucking her thumb. When she came back to herself, the grown-ups talked about her “coming out of her shell.” It happened to her again the first time a boyfriend broke up with her, yet again the time she saw someone struck by a car. By that time, she had a name for it—the turtle response, she called it. It was her invariable reaction to stress, and she was never more aware that it could hardly be less appropriate.

Struggling to lift the veil of lethargy that was settling over her, she ran her mouth, blurting just to keep herself animate. “You mean Pamela?” she said. “Get Pamela over here?”

“You heard me. Do it. Marilyn, bring her the phone.”

Mrs. Bergeron left, and Talba kept talking. “Mr. Bergeron, I’m really sorry about what happened to Rhonda. I’d like to help you, but I need you to ...”

He spit on her. “Don’t you mention my daughter’s name.”

Talba was still trying to assimilate the fact that she was standing there with saliva on her face when Bergeron spoke again. “Nigger.”

Talba jumped back and hit the wall again, revolted beyond anything she’d ever experienced, though whether at Bergeron or his saliva she couldn’t have said. It was pretty much a toss-up.

Her anger was starting to come up, which, in this circumstance, might be more dangerous than the turtle response. The man was a racist who’d probably see anything she said as an excuse to hit her. She had to keep calm. “Mr. Bergeron, let me leave, please.”

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Even in her fear, Talba almost laughed. The man had seen too many movies. She said, “I need to go now, please.”

Marilyn Bergeron returned with a cordless phone. He took it. “Force your way in here, like that... I’m gon’ call the police on ya.”

Talba could feel her shoulders lower an inch or two. Call them! Tell them I’m the reincarnation of Bonnie Barrow. Say I shot down Amelia Earhart and killed Jimmy Hoffa. Just call them, please. Eddie would kill her, but it was better than being killed by Lloyd Bergeron.

“Give me that phone, Marilyn.” He grabbed it out of her hand and turned back to Talba. “I’m callin’ the police.”

His wife said, “Lloyd, for God’s sake.”

But he focused on Talba. “What you think if I called the police?” Talba was quiet. “Huh, nigger? What you think?” He kicked her, barking her shin, but once more she didn’t respond. “Answer me!”

“Do what you have to do, Mr. Bergeron.”

It was the wrong answer. He threw the phone across the room and looked straight at her, yelling so loud she thought the windows would break. “That was my daughter in her coffin the other day!”

Something had happened to him, something Talba had never seen before. Before her eyes, he’d grown a good three feet, and his eyes had somehow assumed the size of personal pizzas, red and flaming behind the glasses, which only served to magnify them. His breath was a dragon’s and his voice a hammer, pounding at her. “That was my daughter! That was my daughter! “

He took a step toward her. “What the fuck do you mean comin’ in my house like this?”

Talba turned and ran, flat-out pounded through the house hoping to hell she’d get to a door. There was a long hall, and then, blessedly, a kitchen, and— yes!—a back door.

Bergeron was following. She shrieked, “You’re scaring the shit out of me!” and it was true, but she realized later he wasn’t exactly trying to catch her. In fact, if he had a purpose at all, it was probably scaring the shit out of her, but more likely he’d just lost it. And no telling where it was going to lead, once started.

The door had a button lock on it, which slowed her down not at all. She was out in a trice, and down the three steps to the side of the house. Outside, she felt secure enough to slow down a bit—she could be heard if she yelled for help, though actually, she’d prefer a quiet to a noisy exit.

However, no such luck. Bergeron stood on the stoop and hollered after her, continuing till she was out of earshot and for all she knew, long after. “This is my house. My fuckin’ daughter! Who do you think you are?”

She was in her car with the door locked before she understood just how unnerved she was. She was clammy all over, heart racing, limbs weak. Her hands were shaking badly.

Adrenaline, she thought. It’s the fight-or-flight response. Guess I’m a flyer.

She felt badly disoriented—figured it must be part of the same thing.

She breathed from her belly until she felt calm enough to turn on the ignition, and, as she drove back, worked on what she was going to tell Eddie. That wasn’t too hard: everything, probably. She’d just have to hope he wouldn’t be too sarcastic.

That is, if she was still working for him, and if he ever spoke to her again. In either case, she still had to tell him she’d called on the Bergerons, because she’d learned one important fact—Pamela was missing.

She called the office but got no answer. Eileen must not have gotten brave enough to reenter. Talba didn’t see why she should be the first.

What do I need? she thought. What do I need to get back to normal?

Coffee and water, came the answer. One to drink, the other to look at.

She was starting to feel drowsy, maybe the crash from her adrenaline high; the coffee ought to help with that. She stopped and got some at a place on Veteran’s Highway and made her way out to the lake, where she parked and got out to drink it. She tried to clear her mind of the case, of her fear, of her shame at her fear, of the memory of being spat upon and bullied. She tried just to breathe and drink and look at the lake. She didn’t succeed, or even come close to it. But by the time she got to the bottom of the cup, she knew she’d gotten far enough away to address it again.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

She had a little spying to do. She drove over to Aziza’s and knocked boldly on the door. No answer.

She knocked again, making it as scary a police knock as her small knuckles would allow.

Still no answer, so she did it again.

Maybe nobody was in there, but she was working off a lot of her aggressions. Just when she was about to go sneaking around peeping in windows, she heard steps coming toward her, small uncertain ones. Only then did she realize she’d probably terrified the very kid she was trying to help.

“Cassandra? You in there, baby? It’s Talba Wallis.”

The girl flung open the door. She looked pale, her face drawn as if she was about to cry. “I didn’t know who you were.” Her voice was panicked. Poor kid was home alone. She should have considered that possibility.

“Listen, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just thought you couldn’t hear me knocking.”

A voice called out from somewhere in the house: “Cassandra? Who is it, baby?”

Aziza. She was home.

The girl turned and shouted, “That detective.” She made it sound like “that whoremongering child-beater.”

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

Hell with that, Talba thought. “Can I come in?” she said.

Cassandra shrugged as if she couldn’t waste words on so pathetic a being as Talba. But she stepped resentfully aside.

The girl led her through the same chaos Aziza had a few days before, to the same snug back room. Talba could hear the low drone of Aziza’s voice on the telephone.

“Cassandra, listen,” she said. “If I asked you something, would you tell me the truth?”

The girl laughed. It came out a short, nervous bray, perhaps meant to convey contempt.

“I get it,” Talba said. “Depends on the question, right? Okay, how about this one—can I have a drink of water?”

Cassandra was openly contemptuous now. That and puzzled. “Can you have a drink of water? That’s what you want to ask me?”

“Well, the first thing.”

The girl heaved her shoulders yet again, shrugging being a mode of expression she obviously preferred to speaking in the affirmative. She padded off to get the water.

Quickly, Talba looked for a place for one of her bugs, but Aziza buzzed in before she had a chance to plant it.

Damn! The tiny things were so useful!

The mother was as cheerful as the daughter was sullen.

“Hi, Talba. How’d you enjoy choir practice? They’re good, aren’t they?”

The question took Talba aback. Choir practice seemed weeks instead of hours ago.

“Yes... they’re quite good.” She was trying to collect her wits, having lived several lifetimes, or so it seemed, since then.

“I just got home.” Aziza had changed clothes, though—she was wearing shorts. And she’d had an extended phone conversation. “Cassandra said you didn’t have anything.”

“I showed the girls two pictures. They said they didn’t know the guys.”

Aziza sat down opposite Talba, kicking off a sandal. She curled her legs under her. “I didn’t get the details. The phone rang.”

Cassandra returned with the water and gave it to Talba. Talba passed the pictures on to Aziza. “These are the photos.”

“Oh, my God. It couldn’t have been one of these guys. Could it?” She looked at her daughter.

Cassandra gave the teenager’s “no,” the one that comes out like a whiny screech.

“You’re sure?” She gave the girl a level look, not even halfway stern. The woman wasn’t scary enough to frighten a moth—Miz Clara could give her Mom lessons. Even Talba could.

“Oh, Mom!” Another screech.

Aziza lifted a what-can-you-do eyebrow, and said, “She says she’s sure.”

“One of them’s a friend of someone who’s extremely powerful in this town. The other’s his brother.”

“Can I go, please? I’ve got homework.” Everything the girl said had a whiny edge to it. Maybe she was always that way, but Talba thought she was under a lot of pressure. She spoke before Aziza could. “I’d like you to stay a minute.” Cassandra sat down hard on a sofa, a little black cloud that plopped rather than floated.

“What man?” Aziza said. “What powerful man? These guys look like gangsters.”

“Baron Tujague.”

Aziza said, “Who?”

Cassandra said nothing. Talba watched her face.

Absolutely inscrutable.

Okay. That proves it. “You know who he is, don’t you, Cassandra?”

“Of course.”

“You don’t seem surprised that these guys are close to him.”

Aziza said, “Will someone please tell me who Baron Tujague is? A drug dealer or something? I know very few African-American barons.”

Cassandra’s silence was so deafening she almost had to hold her ears. Finally, Talba answered herself. “He’s a rapper.”

The girl said, “Can I go now?” and Aziza nodded, not even looking at her.

“I think I know who you mean,” she said. “The guy who owns the record company?”

“The same. I think his brother’s called Toes.”

“But Cassandra says no.”

“Aziza, tell me something. What teenage girl wouldn’t react if you showed her pictures of anyone—not even someone she’d had sex with, anyone at all—and said he was the brother of a big-deal rapper? None. Not one—unless she was hiding something.”

Aziza considered it. “I don’t know. Rap’s not Cassandra’s thing.”

“Oh? What kind of music does she like?”

“She likes ... well, she ...” Aziza stopped cold, clearly at a loss. “She sings in a choir, for Christ’s sake!”

“Does she have a Walkman?”

“Of course she has a Walkman. She’s a kid. What does that have to do with it?” She was getting testy.

“She may be playing music you aren’t aware of.” Talba felt stupid, stating the obvious so wimpily, but this woman had a lot of hard truth to wake up to. She had a set of nasty blows to deliver—she might as well start out with a love tap.

As casually as she could, she said, “Did you know Pamela Bergeron’s missing?”

“Cassandra didn’t mention that.”

“She may not know.”

“How do you know?”

“I went to show Pam the pictures. Her parents told me.” (That was close enough to the truth.)

“Look, if Cassandra and Shaneel say you don’t have the guy, you probably don’t.”

Here was a woman, Talba thought, who’d go through near-boggling mental acrobatics to avoid looking at the truth.

She felt utterly out of her depth, feeling as she did that Cassandra was in grave danger, yet not wanting to drive Aziza farther into her shell of denial.

This was a job for Eddie. She realized it suddenly and certainly. There was no way in hell she was going to get through to this woman, but Eddie might be able to.

She said, “Back to Pam a second. Is she here, by any chance?”

“Here?”

“Staying with you.”

“No, of course not. Don’t you think I’d have told you?”

“Could Cassandra be concealing her?”

“Are you kidding? The way she keeps her room you couldn’t get a kitten in there, much less another kid.” She raised her voice. “Cassandra! Come out here a minute, please.”

The girl appeared with her Walkman still in place. With a show of huge inconvenience, she removed the headset. “What?”

“Cassandra, is anyone visiting?”

“What? You know no one’s visiting.”

“Tell me the truth. Is Pamela Bergeron here?”

Wonderment appeared on Cassandra’s face, so far her only expression besides clamped shut and angry. “Pam? Are you kidding? She wasn’t even at choir practice.”

“Okay, you can go.”

The girl hesitated. “Why? Why do you want to know?”

Talba said, “Her parents are worried about her.”

Disdain appeared briefly on the teenage features, and then Cassandra showed them her cute little backside switching down the hall. If it involved parents, it had all her contempt.

“Ms. Scott,” Talba said, “I think you’ve got a bigger problem than you think you have. I’m going to have Eddie call you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You may have a dangerous situation here.”

Anger flickered on Aziza’s face. It was quickly replaced by suspicion, and then a certain wiliness, the sort that could outsmart itself. “Oh, I get it. Oh, yes, it’s all coming clear. Don’t tell me: you and Eddie probably want to recommend a bodyguard. And your firm just happens to supply them. That’s it, isn’t it? We came to you in good faith, and you’re trying to scam us.”

There was no doubt in Talba’s mind she really did believe it.

Oh my God, I’ve blown this so completely. I’m not cut out for this shit. If that kid gets killed, it’s my fault.

She felt so miserable she wasn’t even angry at the insult. She said what she always said when things were so badly out of control she felt she was about to hit a tree at high speed: “I think we’d better talk about it later.”

And for the second time that day, she got yelled at: “What kind of fool do you think I am?” Aziza just took the one shot and left it at that. Considering the kind of day Talba’d had, it seemed the mildest of attacks.

When she was in the car, she thought, That’s three times if you count Eddie. I wonder what my horoscope for today is.

***

The unaccustomed experience of tears left Eddie feeling punchy and bewildered. What in all hell had that been about?

Anthony. It was about Anthony.

I miss him, he thought. Well what the hell, he’s my son. Sure I miss him—but why would I cry about that?

Because of the way he is and what he did.

He was getting up a little outrage, and that felt better. He was stronger, surer, the minute the grudge started to gather. This was familiar territory, the place he needed to be.

Goddammit, the kid never… Anthony always…His mind was blank. It was huge what Anthony had done. Unforgivable. He’d left home without Eddie’s permission, refused to finish school, sashayed off... and then he’d ... Eddie didn’t want to think about it.

The phone rang. He ignored it.

Goddam that Talba. Where in hell did she get off? How dare she? He found it absolutely incomprehensible that one human being could invade another’s privacy like that.

Would I do that to her? he thought. How the hell could she?

Dad, for Christ’s sake, you’re a private eye. It was Angela’s voice, implanted somehow in his brain. You do shiftier stuff on a daily basis.

He really wished his daughter would clean up her language. Also, get out of his head.

He picked up the phone and listened to his voice mail—Angie again. In his head and out of it. “Dad, I got the weirdest phone call. Where’s Eileen? What’s going on over there?”

He went to find some aspirin. He had some kind of tired, naggy headache, but nothing like one of those big babies that kept him out of work. Surprising, he thought. His eyes hurt from the tears, that was about all.

He choked down the aspirin, washed his face, looked in the mirror, and thought, I want to see him. I really want to see him.

It was a big fat mistake. A horrible sound came out of him, and then more tears. Damn. He hoped nobody came in before he could get this thing under control. But what in hell to do about it? Every time he turned around, it ambushed him.

Lots of things ambushed him. Things Anthony had said to him wouldn’t let up, kept cycling round and round his brain, leading nowhere.

Dad, I’ve been thinking about you a lot. I mean, with your birthday coming up and all.

This was the son who had defied him, left home at sixteen, quit school. Quit school when Eddie himself had had to work two jobs just to finish high school, and never had gone to college. Mr. Big Shot Spoiled Brat Anthony just thought he could up and do anything he wanted.

“I just wanted to pursue happiness in my own way,” he’d said. “I don’t understand why the people I love most want me out of their lives.”

“Because you’re a bum, Anthony,” was what Eddie wanted to say. “Because you don’t care about us. Why the hell should we care about you?” But something prevented him, something in his son’s voice, some remembered note, a remnant from the boy’s childhood that brought back his feelings for his son before it all went sour.

He had loved that kid. Loved him more than Angie, and that was the truth. He saw bits of himself in Anthony, little inklings of an innocence he couldn’t remember having, but must have had—a purity of heart that might once have been his, that maybe he could recapture. Intelligence as well. Lots of it. More than he had ever had, he was damned sure of that. Of course Angie had it too, but Angie was a girl; she intimidated him. She was foreign. Anthony was familiar. Like Eddie himself, only better.

Could have been better. Should have been better.

What the hell was he thinking? He had no idea what Anthony was. For all he knew, his son was now the junior senator from Idaho.

What was “better,” anyhow? Some part of his brain was asking a question: Does it mean doing better? Or something else?

I don’t understand how all these years have gone by and now you re almost sixty-five. I got this email today from a girl who works for you and I thought I might not see you again, or Mom or Angie either.

When Eddie heard those words, something exploded within him. He felt it start in his stomach and shoot up to his skull. It was pear-shaped and purple and when it popped open it was spiky inside, like the inside of a fig. It was fury.

He honestly believed he would have killed Talba Wallis if she’d been near enough at the time. He wanted to smack her across the room and stomp her.

It wasn’t an urge he’d ever had before. It scared the hell out of him.

Goddam you, he had shouted, and hung up the phone. Now these tears.

And the headaches, Audrey had said. The headaches were about Anthony.

Oh, Audrey. Audrey, what have I done to you?

The shame of it, of her going to a shrink, going on his account, because of what he was putting her through—that was more than he could take. It sat on him like a boulder.

He closed his eyes. He was lying on the sofa in the reception room with all the lights out, and now he just wanted to rest.

His brain kept cycling, round and round and round, endlessly, endlessly, and then it stopped.

He slept.

He dreamed he was in a courtroom, and Talba Wallis was the judge. She stood before him like a crow in her black skin and black robe, and then he was led to the guillotine. He wanted to tip the executioner, having read that it was the done thing, but the man turned away from him, muttering.

No words were spoken in the dream, but in the clarity of the dreamscape he understood his crime.

It was doing the unforgivable.

He awakened moaning, trying to call for help, to be heard, and tried to remember what it was that he had done in the dream. What was unforgivable?

He knew.

It was something so contemptible, so petty and mean, so wrong and immoral, so childish and stupid and arrogant and utterly vile he couldn’t even think about it. It couldn’t have been he who had done it, it was impossible. The best thing was just to bury it, never to name it in his mind again, never to put words to it, never to let it into his consciousness.

But now there was this thing with Audrey and the shrink. That was right in his face, and it was his doing. That he had to own up to. And if he did that... If he did that, the whole house of cards came down.

Let it, he thought. Goddammit, let it.

His son had left a phone number on his voicemail—he didn’t know if he had the balls to dial it.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Ms. Wallis came creeping in like an old cat in a yard full of new smells, unsure what might leap out of the dark.

“Eddie? You in here?”

“Waiting for you. Audrey called.” She had called the house thinking he’d be there—as he would have any other time. But tonight he wasn’t ready yet. What had happened to him was far too intimate to talk to Audrey about.

“Come on in, Ms. Wallis. I’m not gonna bite you. Hell froze over.”

“Eddie, let me just say… “

He stopped her with a slap at the air. “Ya know what we guineas say? Fuggeddaboutit.” He took a sip of the scotch and water on his desk. “I learned that in a mob movie. What’s ya pleasure, Ms. Wallis?”

“Nothing, thanks.”

“Ya better have one, or we won’t communicate. I’m way ahead a ya.”

She seemed to relax a little. “You have any white wine?”

“Are you kidding? Detectives don’t drink white wine. It ain’t macho.” When he was drinking, he couldn’t be bothered watching his grammar.

“This one does.”

“Oh, all right. I’ll get ya some.” There was a little refrigerator in the copy room that now served as her office.

“I’ll get it.”

While she was gone, he had a little more of his own drink. He had a real nice buzz, and he wanted to keep it going. She came back with the glass in one hand, the bottle in the other. “I ran into some problems, Eddie. It’s nice you’ve forgiven me, but…”

“I didn’t say I forgive ya.”

“Well, anyway, we’re talking. We might not be after I tell you what’s going on.”

“Damn, Ms. Wallis. Can’t it wait? I talked to my son tonight for the first time in ten years.”

She forced a smile. “I’m happy for you, Eddie.”

He could see that she was, or rather he somehow felt that she was, because of a certain softness that had crept into her voice and the set of her shoulders. But she was so tense she could barely bring herself even to utter the social niceties.

He went into his tough-guy routine. “Yeah, so, we’ll get to that. What’s on ya mind? You were gon’ talk to the hat-shop lady, weren’t ya?”

“Omigod. Is that where we left off? That was about three lifetimes ago.”

He found himself getting irritated. “You been doin’ stuff I told ya not to?”

She was gulping her wine. ‘Yeah. Oh, yeah. I think I really blew it too.”

“Oh, shit, is anybody hurt? Excuse my French.”

“Maybe. But that part isn’t my fault. What might happen is.”

He held up his glass and saluted her. “Good thing I’m drinking this stuff.”

She tapped his glass with hers. “Me too.” She giggled.

“That’s it. Ya gotta keep smiling.”

“The good news is, I’m pretty sure I know who the guy is who had sex with Cassandra. The bad news is, I’m afraid she’s in danger.”

He snorted. “Danger’s a way of life with that kid. Mama like that, she’ll be lucky to get through high school.”

“Shall I start at the beginning?” She looked as if she were trying to get her breath.

Eddie nodded. “Take ya time.”

“Millie the Milliner told me Rhonda used to date a black guy. And guess what his name was?”

“I don’t know. How’m I s’posed to know?”

“Toes.”

“Well, great. Toes who? Mystery solved. Older sister’s beau seduces kid sister’s kid friend. Toe jam, like I said.”

“Toes Who is the question, all right. I found out he’s a friend of Baron Tujague.”

It took Eddie a second to place the name. “The rapper?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Damn.” That struck him as not a good thing— too much power and ruthlessness on the loose.

“So I did a little investigating...”

“Wait a minute. Not so fast. What exactly did ya do?”

“I went to work as a temp for Tujague.”

“You what?” He really couldn’t help laughing. She had more balls than Spalding. “Little lady, you got cojones.”

“I’m not little, and I’m not a lady.”

“You right about that—if that trash mouth of yours is any indication.”

To his surprise she let that one go by, even though it was practically an invitation for a “fuck you.” “To make a long story short, I met him, I met his brother and some of his friends, I followed them, and I figured out Toes is probably the brother.”

Eddie was starting to grasp the seriousness of the thing. “Whew. Heavy-duty.”

“Yeah.”

A light sweat had broken out on his upper lip, an instinctive sign he sometimes got about trouble.

“So I took some pictures and showed them to the girls—Cassandra and Shaneel.”

He leaned back in his chair and rocked. “Good,” he said. “Good.” She was brash, but she knew how to get the goods. Actually, he was kind of proud of her.

“They denied knowing either of the guys I showed them. So I thought, okay, I know someone who knows the guy for sure—Millie the Milliner.”

Eddie approved. He actually approved. It must be the scotch.

“Well, that’s when the fun began. She tossed me out of the shop.”

He might have known. “What’d ya do to her?”

“Nothing. I swear to God I didn’t even say anything.”

“Come on, Ms. Wallis. What’d ya do?”

“Just walked in. And she said she’d talked to her lawyer.”

“Lawyer? Well, what’d ya do the first time?”

“Eddie, you’ve got to trust me. I probably did make some wrong moves, but not with Millie. What I think is, somebody got to her.”

“Paid her off, ya mean?”

“Or threatened her. Could have been that.”

He thought about it. “Yeah, you right. Could have been that.”

She hunched up her shoulders, as if to ward off an attack. “So I had no choice but to try Pamela. I know you told me not to, but—”

“No. At that point ya had to.” Only, he should have done it himself, Eddie thought. But he’d been out of commission, covering up a ten-year-old sin.

Talba put her hand on her chest and exhaled. “I thought you were going to kill me.”

“Give me time. I might still.”

“Well, her parents were abusive from the start. They’re obvious racists—”

“I don’t want to hear that. I will not tolerate calling people names as a result of your failure to get along with them.”

“Eddie, you hired me. Would you just try to trust me? They’re the ones calling names. The father called me the ‘n’ word.”

Eddie realized she was right She was brash, but she was showing pretty good judgment on most things. He really should try to trust her. He was embarrassed, both by the conclusions he’d been drawing and by Bergeron’s use of the epithet. Unfairness always embarrassed him. “You right, Ms. Wallis. You right. I ought to trust ya. And I’m real sorry ya had to go through that. But would ya mind telling me what set it off?”

“I reached for my I.D. and he grabbed my arm and pulled me in the door—I think he thought I had a gun.”

“Why would he think that? Ya think he’s just paranoid?”

“He might be; he sure acted crazy. And one thing I’m sure of—he’s really distraught about his daughter dying. It might just be that. But I think he’s got a reason.”

Eddie said, “Now why would that be?”

“When he had me inside, he said—wait a minute…” She set down her wineglass and prowled around in her purse until she found a tiny notebook. “I wrote this down later; I thought it might be important. He said, ‘now you get on the phone and you get her back over here’.”

Eddie’s sweat-alarm had spread from his lip to his pits. “They’ve got Pamela.”

“Yeah. And I guess he thought I’m one of them. Because I’m black.”

He saw she was right. They would think that because they wanted to; their imaginations, in their panic and disorientation, would tell them that any black person must be at fault for the disappearance of one daughter and the death of another; and therefore that any black person could deliver Pamela back to them.

They must be out of their minds with fear. Eddie thought briefly about Angela, his own daughter dead or missing, but let it go quickly; you didn’t think about the unthinkable.

“Bergeron kicked me, by the way.”

“Ya want to press charges? Ya could, ya know.”

“Nah. Goes with the job.”

He could tell she was trying to impress him. Well, hell, he thought. She’s succeeding.

“It did occur to me Pamela was hiding out at Cassandra’s, so I went out to her house to check, and she wasn’t. But I did lay it out pretty thoroughly for Aziza—Rhonda dead, Pamela missing, people who might think they’re God in it up to their eyeballs.”

“How’d she react?”

“Like always. Utter and complete denial. She says if Cassandra says Toes isn’t one of the guys in the pictures I showed her, then he isn’t.” She shrugged. “And he might not be. I honestly don’t know if Toes is the brother, or a friend I wasn’t able to photograph.”

Eddie reached for the telephone. “Well, hell, Ms. Wallis, it’s time to get the police in on this. They can just walk up to Tujague and ask him. If he don’t want to answer, they can sweat him.”

“I thought of that.”

“Ya thought of that? Well, did ya call ‘em? What’s the point of thinking about it if ya didn’t call ‘em?”

“I called them several times.”

He was getting pissed off—she thought of every damn thing. “And?”

“And they didn’t call me back.”

“Oh. Well. Ya have to call somebody ya know.”

“I did. I called Skip Langdon. By the way, she says she knows you.”

“Skip Langdon didn’t call ya back?” He had a hard time believing that one.

“She did, but the Juvenile officer didn’t. The one on Cassandra’s case.”

“What’s his name?”

“Her name’s Detective Corn.” She emphasized the “her” ever so slightly, and perhaps a bit triumphantly. Eddie recognized it as the sort of thing that usually irritated him, but he was getting used to Ms. Wallis. And he was pretty mellow from the scotch. And beyond either of those things, he wanted his assistant to have dinner with him. He wasn’t ready to go home yet, and he wanted to practice talking about his son, try out saying his name a few times, before he did.

“Well, I’ll call her,” he said. He did, and he also called a buddy of his, exactly as Talba had, and left messages for both of them.

He was about to ask her to come grab a bite when he noticed she was staring intently at him. “Eddie?” she said. “How bad did I screw up?”

He thought about it. “I don’t know that you screwed up at all. Sounds like you might have done a pretty good job, all things considered.”

He was deeply ashamed that it had fallen to her to work the case by herself. “Come on. Let me treat you to dinner. Ya like the Bon Ton?”

“I just keep thinking about Cassandra. Eddie, tell me something. Did you ever lose a client?”

Talba was way too tired and discouraged to eat, but if ever there was a business dinner, this was it. She couldn’t imagine what Eddie was going to tell her—everything he knew, she hoped (“Secrets of a Hard-Boiled Dick—Revealed At Last”)—but if he was going to impart knowledge, she was going to be there to receive it.

Of course, maybe it wasn’t that. Maybe he was just trying to cheer her up for screwing up so badly.

She’d never actually been to the Bon Ton, though the minute she saw it, she knew it was Eddie all over. These days downtown was full of fancy new places— the Metro Bistro would have been more Talba’s style—but the Bon Ton was the exception. It was all checked tablecloths and crawfish bisque—an old-line Creole joint famous for its bread pudding with bourbon sauce.

It was a comfort food kind of place, a restaurant for rainy winter days, not a see-and-be-seen, crawfish-eggroll-with-caviar kind of place. She and Eddie both ordered the shrimp étouffée. “I think I’ve had enough scotch” he said, and ordered a bottle of wine to share, though Talba didn’t think she’d drink much, especially if there were things to be learned, wisdom bytes to be stored.

It was a good bottle, too. Eddie tasted with relish. He might talk like something out of an old movie, but he’d been around, and not just on the mean streets. She said, “You know a lot about wine.”

He gave her a raised eyebrow. “How do you know? I just ordered one bottle.”

Her cheeks heated up in embarrassment. She raised her glass. “Well, so far, so good.”

“Ya stereotyped me, didn’t ya? Ya think just because I’m a wop, I gotta be ignorant.”

“I didn’t. I.. .”

“Client cultivation, Ms. Wallis.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That’s why I learned about wine. Had this old guy, rich as Croesus, used to hire me every couple of months to follow his wife. She never was up to anything, but he was.” Holding a wineglass, he really looked quite sophisticated. “See, he used to come over from Houston to see this lady, but she worked as a secretary or something, so he had nothing to do in the daytime. He liked to go to this one place for lunch, so I’d go with him. Usually turned into an all-day thing, and over the course of it, my favorite waiter’d teach me a little and then a little more about what wines to order.”

“An all-day thing sounds like Galatoire’s.”

“Ahhh. That was the punch line. I was savin’ it. This guy—the client—called it Galatorey’s; always, no matter how many times he heard it right.”

“You kidding? Galatorey’s? “

“Swear to God.”

And all of a sudden, they were laughing, the two of them; belly laughing, carrying on far out of proportion to a simple mispronunciation. It was a great tension release.

Something was wrong with the story, though. “I don’t get it,” Talba said. “The guy was from Houston? You had to go there to spy on his wife?”

“Noooo. No way. She lived Uptown. They’d been separated for years.”

“Worse and worse.”

“Let me try again—they were separated, but he came here to see his mistress and while he was here, he used the time productively to get the goods on his wife.” Eddie shrugged. “Guess he was tired of supporting her. She later turned up dead—accidental overdose.”

“Woo. You believe that?

“Could have been. She liked her booze and pills.”

“But did you do anything about it?”

“Sure. Told the cops. What else could I do—solve the case myself? Ya think I’m Sherlock Holmes or somethin’?”

She had to smile. “More like Mike Hammer.”

“Who’s that?”

“He’s not real, either.”

Their étouffeé came, and Eddie tore into his with a gusto she was glad to see. Though he didn’t show the least sign of being drunk—except, perhaps, for an unaccustomed affability—she definitely didn’t want to end up driving him home.

And yet, when she really thought about it, it wasn’t that. She just didn’t want to see him drunk.

“Lady, ya want to know who I am? Want to know who I really am?”

“I’m not sure. I mean ... I looked you up on the Internet. I know enough.”

“No, ya don’t. Ya really don’t.”

“Okay, who are you then?” Actually, she was curious.

“I’m a guy who always wanted to be a cop.”

“Well? That makes sense. You were one.”

“I never was. I was a deputy sheriff.”

“I didn’t know there was that big a difference.”

“To me there was—real cops wear blue. And I was too short to be one. You got any idea how that affected my work? You’re an amateur psychologist, aren’t ya? Everybody is these days.”

“You don’t have to be too much of one to figure that one out. Especially since I’ve read a bunch of news stories on you. You overcompensated, I gather?”

He laughed again, though this laughter lacked the purity, the unadorned enjoyment of their mutual belly laugh. It was a bittersweet laugh, a laugh contaminated by regret. “You bet I did, Ms. Wallis. I’m ‘on tell ya. I was the best damn Deputy Dog this state ever had.”

“So I gathered from the clips.”

“Give me a case, and I’d work it till it was raw. Somebody ended up behind bars or dead, always. Every damn time.”

Talba hated this kind of talk. It was the kind of macho posturing that gave rednecks a bad name.

“Quit wincin’, Ms. Wallis. Only one of ‘em ended up dead. Thirteen years on the job, and I only drew my gun once.”

“What happened?”

He held up his glass as if about to give a toast. “Ah, that’s for another day. Tell me about, you, Ms. Wallis. Tell me about you.”

“Me?” She could hardly have been more taken aback. “Well, I haven’t lived very long, so there’s not a whole lot to talk about.”

“In that case, where you get off writin’ poetry?”

“Well, I... I don’t know. I think about things a lot.” She was deeply embarrassed, hadn’t dreamed he’d get personal with her.

“Tell me about ya dad.”

“My dad?” This was going from awkward to nightmarish.

“Yeah, ya dad, remember? The one that took ya to the park and let ya ride the flyin’ horses. You know, the guy whose lap felt safer than a real horse—is that part real, by the way—about the horse? Come on, where would ya keep a horse in New Orleans?”

It was a lifeline; something to grab on to. She conjured up a smile. “Poetic license. They fine you three thousand dollars without one.”

“So ya didn’t have a horse?”

“Pony ride at a fair once. Does that count?”

“Well, ya dad musta been a pretty nice guy— sounds like ya loved him a lot. How’d you lose touch with him?”

Talba was feeling a little sick.

“I mean, ya said ya weren’t sure ya even have a dad. I’m a detective, ya know. In case ya’d like me to find him.”

She nodded, not meeting his eyes, unable to speak.

Evidently, he caught on that this wasn’t her favorite subject. “Sorry to intrude, Ms. Wallis. I’m ‘on tell ya somethin’—can I tell ya somethin’?”

Talba was trying hard to swallow. She’d taken a bite to distract herself and now discovered that her throat was closed.

She nodded and pointed at her cheek, as if she had way too much in her mouth, and had to chew for a while.

“I been thinkin’ about Anthony ever since I heard ya poem.”

He must have seen her jump.

He patted the air. “No, now. I have. I gotta say I’m sorry for getting so mad at ya. I talked to my son today for the first time in ten years, it’s like a milestone or somethin’. But all I did was, I just called up and said was he all right and I was doin’ good and Angie graduated law school and his mama’s fine, ya know? And then I didn’t know what else to say so I got off the phone. I been drinkin’ ever since—that and trying to figure things out.”

What things, Talba wanted to ask, but she had enough sense to respect his privacy.

“So I was wonderin’—what do you know about him?”

“Me? What do I know about him?”

“Well, I mean—you found him. How’d ya do that?”

“Oh, I see. I did what I always do.” She spread her palms in the what-else gesture. “Went online. He’s got a website. He’s a musician, you know—or didn’t you?”

Something happened on Eddie’s face, something complex and regretful. It took a long time; he didn’t bother hiding his emotions while he thought it through, but it wasn’t something you could follow like a play. All Talba could really tell was that this had resonance for Eddie. When he finally let something win on his features, it was a pleased smile, but he could have been acting. “Is he now?” he said.

“He plays harmonica, and seems to do quite well for himself. Oh, and he’s known professionally as Tony Tino.”

“Catchy.” Eddie put his wineglass down and poured himself some more. He’d quit drinking all through the étouffée, but as soon as the talk turned to his son, he started in again.

She kept talking—it seemed to be what he wanted. “He lives in Austin—did you know that?”

“Austin.” He looked genuinely surprised. “That’s close.”

“Good place for blues—that’s what he plays. The website doesn’t say if he’s married or has kids.”

Eddie looked away from her. “He’s too young for that.”

“How old is he?”

“Let me think about it. He must be...I guess he’s twenty-six or seven.”

“Well, it’s not impossible.”

But the next thing that happened was, Eddie’s eyes misted over, a sight she’d never in a million years expected to see.

It was so pronounced he actually dabbed at them. “ ‘Scuse me, Ms. Wallis—it’s the wop in me.”

“What is?”

“I was imagining what it might be like to have a grandbaby.”

Grandbaby. That was the way her mama and her Aunt Carrie talked. Old people talked that way. Black people. Talba found something infinitely touching in the way it came out of Eddie’s mouth.

He was recovered now, though having himself another little sip. “Does he—you know—tour? Is that what they call it?”

“It is, and he does. I know the jargon ‘cause my boyfriend’s a musician.”

All of a sudden, he busted out in smiles. Old, sad, pathetic Eddie, who even seemed miserable about talking with his son, beamed out big-time. “Ya got a boyfriend, Ms. Wallis? Good for you.”

She wished she hadn’t turned the spotlight back on herself. She said, “Your son had a lot of really great reviews.”

“Tell me somethin’, Ms. Wallis—did he ever play New Orleans?”

She had known he would ask that question. “I’m not sure,” she said. “I kind of don’t think so.”

But he would go to the website himself, and know that she lied. Maybe he wouldn’t mind. “You’re really going to be proud of him, I think. Oh, by the way, did I mention he’s a hunk?”

“Oh, yeah? Ya mean his picture’s on there? I can’t get used to this stuff.”

“He looks a lot like Angie.”

“Yeah. He always did.” He stared off into space for a while, as if there were a very interesting fly on the wall of the restaurant, and once again, something sad came over him. Something about Angie. Talba wished she had the nerve to ask what it was. “Bread pudding and coffee?” he asked.

She looked at her watch. “No, I really should be—”

“Come on. Help an old man sober up.”

In fact, she’d already thought of that. He needed a break from the alcohol before he got in his car. “Okay. Let’s split the bread pudding, though.”

He put in the order, and when he turned back to her, he had a new alertness about him. “Let’s talk about the case a little more. You satisfied you’ve identified Toes?”

“No. I’m really not. But I don’t think Cassandra’s going to confirm any I.D., and everyone else who could I.D. him is clammed up. I do think the kid needs protecting. Probably Shaneel too.”

“Maybe that’s who we need to lean on. She a nice kid?”

“A lot nicer than Cassandra.”

“Mmm. Mmmm. Child with problems. I’m gon’ try Shaneel myself. Who are her parents?”

“I, uh, haven’t gotten that far—her last name’s Johnson. But the church could probably help.”

He leaned back and nodded. “Guess that’s the way to go.” Talba could hardly believe this was Eddie Valentino. She didn’t know what to make of this new, mellow version.

Booze, she thought. He’ll be the usual old crank in the morning.

She said, “What about Cassandra?”

“She’ll be all right in school. Needs watchin’, though. This thing’s out of hand.”

“I mentioned that to Aziza, and she accused me of trying to sell her bodyguard services.”

“I better have a little talk with Ms. Scott. Meanwhile, you ever heard of a little thing called client reports?”

Well, hell, she thought. How dare he pull that on her after what she’d been through? “Eddie, that’s not fair. I haven’t had a second, and you know it.”

“Relax, Ms. Wallis, relax. Don’t go touchy on me just when we’re gettin’ along so well. I’ll do the damn report. Just need your notes, that’s all.”

“Okay. I’ll give them to you first thing in the morning.”

“Mmm. I don’t think so. I want ya to stay home tomorrow morning. Did ya taste this bread pudding? Nectar of the gods.”

She felt as if he’d hit her. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s a late night, and you’ve had a hell of a day. Besides, you’re kind of green around the gills—have been ever since I mentioned your father.”

“Oh, come on, Eddie, I’m just tired.”

“My point, Ms. Wallis, my point. Take the morning off and organize your notes. You can email ‘em and come in after lunch.”

That was better. At least she wasn’t fired. And a morning off would suit her fine. She might still be able to see Darryl tonight—in which case she’d be up late. “Okay, Eddie, sure. But, as you would say, can I ask you somethin’?”

“Ask me anything. I might not answer, is all.”

“Are you ever going to call me Talba, or not?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Well, Ms. Wallis, I expect I will every now and then. If I’m real mad at you.”

“That certainly bodes well.”

“I’m ‘on tell ya somethin’—I’m probably gon’ say ya name pretty often.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

His wife, having heard the car, was standing in the door when he came in, wearing a robe that zipped up the front, not meant to be sexy at all. But it couldn’t hide who she was. She was skinny, always had been, but she had a good chest on her, and that beautiful heart-shaped face. She’d been a platinum blonde the whole time he’d known her, though they had two dark-haired children. She had hair that pouffed and bounced, hair that got a lot of attention. Even now, it looked as if she’d spent a while puffing it up nice.

“He called here, Eddie. I know what ya did.”

“Anthony? Anthony called here?”

“I know what ya did, Eddie.” She was like a sentry waiting for the countersign.

He didn’t know what it was. He didn’t think there was anything in the world he could say to entitle himself to admittance. “I was a fool, Audrey. I could kill myself.”

“Ya shouldn’t have put us through it, Eddie.” She moved aside and he entered, but her voice was like a metal blade left out in the cold.

“Audrey, I been drinkin’…”

“Yeah. You been drinkin’. Ya couldn’t face it. Ya couldn’t face it now and ya couldn’t face it then and ya body nearly couldn’t take it, all that stress ya put on yaself. I was wrong about those headaches, wasn’t I? It wasn’t the reason I thought—it wasn’t because ya missed Anthony. It was because ya told all those lies.”

He didn’t know about the headaches, but it occurred to him his heart was going to be the next to go, and pretty soon, if this kept up. He felt as if he were splitting apart.

He could have argued with her. He could have ignored her. He could have walked past her to bed and dropped into unconsciousness.

Instead, he held out his arms and said the thing on his mind: “Audrey. Ya think you can ever forgive me?”

To his surprise, she moved a step back, something she’d never done in the history of their marriage. She said, “I can forgive ya. I just don’t know how long it’s gonna take.” Her voice chilled him.

“Audrey, I love ya.” Again, it was all that came to mind.

“Ya better sleep in the guest room.” She turned and left him there, staring after her like an idiot.

What he had done was so monstrous that he had every idea she was right—it probably was what was giving him the headaches. Probably it was some feeble attempt of his brain to purge itself of the information it held—to explode and destroy it forever.

Sometimes in dreams, Eddie could hear his own smarmy voice saying the things he had said, and he would wake up clammy, unbelieving. He had to believe he hadn’t said them. Because if he had said them, there was no hope for him as a husband and a father and a human being. Therefore, he couldn’t have said them.

He’d almost convinced himself of it. Could a thing like that give you headaches? he wondered.

“Your mother doesn’t ever want to see you again as long as she lives. After ya left, she cried for a week and couldn’t eat, and then she was sick in the hospital. She’s so ashamed of ya she won’t even let me say ya name. You ever call here again and I’ll track ya down and get ya knees broken for ya.”

It was worse, what he told Audrey—that he’d fought with his son because he found him with a young cousin—”hurting” her, Eddie said, refusing to say more so she’d draw her own conclusions.

For Angie he had only had to make up a fight in which Anthony had said hurtful things about every member of the family, especially her. He cringed now at the phrase, “my fat-assed ugly sister,” coupled with Anthony’s supposed abuse of his parents. Angie was a beautiful girl, but she thought she wasn’t; she was thin, but she worried about her weight; and she couldn’t tolerate injustice. He knew all that about her, and he used it against her.

And for what? Why? How in God’s name could he have gotten angry enough to sink so low?

In his heart of hearts, he knew how—out of stupid pride. He wanted to control his son’s future, and if he couldn’t, he wanted to destroy it. But only for a moment! Only for a millisecond, it seemed now, looking back. Yet by the time he came to himself the damage was done—Eddie was something less than a man, and he’d been living with it ever since.

He heard Audrey sobbing into the night, and after a long time getting his nerve up, he went to comfort her. She jammed a chair under the doorknob.

***

Talba had drunk enough wine to cloud her judgment and enough coffee to keep her awake. Her mind was hopping around like a kid with a sugar high. There was Eddie, there were the Bergerons, there was Cassandra. And there was her father.

Eddie, with his off-the-wall question, with his improbable tale of reconciliation (precipitated by her— she couldn’t forget that) had stirred it all up again.

No question it was a riveting subject, but there was so much else. Just now, it wasn’t appropriate to obsess over it. But she had been warned off, and that had to mean something. That was the part that had started to gnaw at her.

She couldn’t work on the case. In all probability, she’d already done too much. Eddie had told her to go home and rest.

Fat chance, she thought. Wired like this, I’d pace all night and keep Miz Clara up.

She wanted to see Darryl. Badly.

Mentally thanking Eddie for her cell phone, she called, but got his voice mail. Maybe he was home, but in the shower. She could try back in a few minutes.

She looked at her watch. It seemed like midnight, but it was only nine-thirty. I could go see Corey, she realized. Even he doesn’t go to bed at this hour.

She thought about it. Corey and Michelle were overscheduled and didn’t enjoy Talba’s company a whole lot, anyway. If she tried to set something up, they’d just put her off.

Because of the wine, perhaps, or because it was time (she thought that later), she took the unprecedented step of driving out to Eastover to see her brother.

Eastover was not the kind of place you went unannounced. Aaron Neville lived there. Several Saints lived there—the football kind, not the martyred kind—and a few well-known politicians. It was said to be nearly equally divided among wealthy blacks, whites, and Asians, but Talba had been there only once, and most people she saw were African-American. It was a gated community in New Orleans East, an area not otherwise known for its affluence.

The guard asked if Dr. Wallis was expecting her. For a wild, panicky moment, she thought simply of turning around and pretending it never happened, but she said no, tell him his sister was there. Admission approval came so fast she realized why—it was going to be an instant replay of the scene with Aunt Carrie. Quickly, as she picked her way to her brother’s house, she called on the cell phone: “Nobody’s sick. Everything’s fine. I just need to see you.”

“Sandra! It’s the middle of the night.”

“Omigod. Are you in bed? I didn’t think it was that late.” She thought, This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. “Listen, this can wait. Really. I’ll call you later in the week.”

Corey said, “You’re here. You might as well come on,” and she could hear the tiredness in his voice.

He was wearing shorts and a T-shirt, hastily thrown on perhaps. He wasn’t even wearing his glasses. Michelle, standing in a half-dark kitchen in silhouette, wore a satin robe that showed Talba something she hadn’t known. She was so taken aback she gasped instead of making her manners.

Corey was trying to calm an overexcited dog. He looked up, alarmed. “What is it?”

Michelle took a step forward into the light, and the curve Talba had seen straightened a bit. She was smiling. “I think she thinks I’ve put on weight.”

“Oh, that.” Corey smiled back at her, a caressing, intimate smile that made Talba feel as if she were peeking in their bedroom. He strode forward and took her hand, his shaved head shining. “Well, you have.”

“And there’s a lot more to come.”

They turned away from each other and toward Talba, as brides and grooms do when the ceremony is over. They were grinning like hyenas. “Congratulations,” she said. “This is a little bemusing.”

Michelle frowned. “How’s that?”

“I just wondered when you were planning to tell us. When the kid goes to first grade?” She sounded so petty she hated herself, but she spoke on her mother’s account.

They weren’t even slightly daunted. “Matter of fact,” Michelle said, “we called Miz Clara tonight, but there was no answer. We wanted to have you all over this weekend.”

Corey said, “Don’t tell her till we do, okay?”

“Of course not.”

Michelle said, “Well, why don’t we all sit down?”

“Actually, if you don’t mind ... “

“Oh, you need to see Corey alone? Sure. I’m dead tired anyhow.” Michelle was so damned cooperative, even that was irritating. Talba never had liked her, and she didn’t want to start now.

She didn’t like her because Michelle was so patently a trophy—the perfect figure, the show-stopping face, the near-white skin (this part embarrassed Talba); most of all, the fact that Michelle didn’t work, did nothing all day but arrange flowers, it seemed to Talba. And now this Stepford-wife routine.

She’d have liked for Corey to marry someone with a little more edge, some bite, maybe. A brain or two. Someone more like the women in her own family. And now there was going to be a mini-Michelle. She wasn’t exactly jumping up and down.

Talba said no, thanks, she didn’t need anything, and when Michelle was out of earshot, Corey said, “You been drinking?”

“Wine with dinner. Why?”

“You smell like you bathed in it.”

He was making her mad. It was obvious this whole damn thing was a mistake. Here she was in her brother’s “great room” with its cathedral ceilings and its sleek Italian furniture, and that alone made her uncomfortable. Then he had to come at her like that. She stood up. “Maybe I better just go.”

The dog wagged its tail, as if it liked her, anyhow.

Corey looked at her a different way, a gentler way, like he was beginning to see her distress. He said, “What’s wrong, little bird?” and that did her in.

She sat back down as if struck. “You did call me that.”

“Well, yeah. I did. That supposed to mean something?”

“I don’t mean now. You did when we were kids, didn’t you?”

He looked a little hurt. “You don’t remember?”

“I just did. You dressed up like Big Bird, didn’t you?”

“Best performance of my life. You mean you don’t treasure it every day of your life?”

She laughed, suddenly delighted with him, seeing a side of him she’d almost forgotten about. Maybe the baby had softened him up. “I remembered today.”

“And you just had to come over and shout a belated ‘bravo.’ Well, now, I appreciate that.”

“Corey, something strange is happening to me. I think I’ve forgotten a lot of stuff.”

“What’s strange about that? You’re getting old is all. We’re all losing brain cells.”

It wasn’t like him to kid around like that and yet ... it used to be. He really was more like his old self than he’d been in years.

“Listen, I want to know something. Do you remember ...” She stopped, unable to get the word out.

“Do I remember what?”

“Our father.” It came out in a dull monotone, barely audible.

He sank back on the white leather. “Woo. What are you thinking about? Why would you bring up something like that?”

Suddenly she was angry. “Corey, you should hear yourself. Since when is a person’s father ‘something like that?’ Since you’re about to be a father yourself seems like you’d have a little more understanding.”

His forehead was rumpled up like a bed. “I hear you.” He seemed to be trying to stave something off, keep it out of his own mind. “I shouldn’t have said it that way. But I can remember things you can’t... and you should count your blessings.”

“But, Corey, I want to know.” Whiny, she thought. Ever the whiny little sister.

“You were two when he left. For practical purposes, he wasn’t your father at all. You’ve got no reason to do this.”

“He did something really bad, didn’t he?”

Her brother stretched, putting his feet on a glass coffee table. He looked exhausted. “I don’t know. I don’t know that he did. He drank and helled, I guess. He led Miz Clara a merry chase. Maybe there wasn’t much more to it than that.”

“Then why doesn’t anyone talk about him? You just said you could remember things. What things, Corey? I need to know. Do you realize I didn’t even know his name before yesterday? Isn’t that a little weird? Having a father so bad you don’t even mention his name in the family?”

“If you didn’t know his name, it’s your own fault. It’s on your birth certificate.” He was back to his old supercilious self, the Corey she knew so well.

“Corey, if I mention him, Miz Clara goes through the roof.”

“Well? She was married to him—what do you expect?”

“Aunt Carrie too.”

“Look, all I can remember is being miserable. All of us being miserable. I can’t really remember details.” He shrugged and looked very sincere. She knew he was lying. “I can’t help you, Sandra.”

“Corey, please. Please.” She hadn’t dreamed she was going to beg. “I really need you to try.”

“Why?” he said. “Why all of a sudden?”

“Oh. Well, that’s a good question. Something really strange happened to me. I went to a funeral. Now, I’ve never been to a funeral in my life and yet, it felt like I had. I could remember things about a funeral, like I knew I’d been to one. And there was something else—I mean, something really weird.”

He was sitting up straight now, had lost his wary look. Something she’d said had piqued his interest.

“Well. I started crying. I mean crying and crying and crying, like it was my own funeral, the minute they started playing the first hymn.”

He started laughing.

“What?”

He was roaring, out of control.

“Corey, what the hell is wrong with you?”

“I’m sorry.” He was coming around, starting to pull himself together. “I’m sorry, really. It’s just that ... that music. It’s happened to me a million times.”

She was offended. “Well, I hope for your sake, you haven’t been to a million funerals.”

“Only four or five. But I cried at every one of them.”

“Cried how much, Corey?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“I mean, a little bit or a lot?”

“Oh, you know. Teared up.”

“Listen, Big Brother, I’m talking buckets. The Mississippi River.”

“Oh, please.”

“Okay, the Atchafalaya.”

To her surprise, he actually cracked a smile. He almost never laughed at her jokes. In fact, it always seemed to her he disapproved of them, considered them somehow a sign of her frivolous nature. “Look, you must have been under pressure.”

“Okay, don’t take me seriously. Nobody else has. But I’m telling you something. Something happened to me at that funeral. I had some kind of flashback. I’m not a baby anymore. I have a right to know what happened.”

He crossed his arms and stared straight ahead, lips together as if honoring a long-ago promise to keep them that way.

I’ll wait him out, she thought. I’m not going to blink first.

And finally, still not looking at her, he spoke to the wall. “I guess you do,” he said. “I guess you do.” He spoke so gently he hardly sounded like her brother.

Fully five minutes had passed by then, so much time she couldn’t remember what he was responding to. “I do what?”

“You’ve got a right to know.”

Her stomach did a somersault. A bullfrog or something leapt into her throat and clogged up her breathing. “Tell me,” she said, and was surprised to hear no sound at all. She knew she had moved her lips.

“I’ve got to get a drink.” He rose, went into the kitchen, and started rattling ice cubes. ‘You want one, too?”

“No, thanks.” She felt icily calm. Detached. She just sat there while he made himself a tall cold one, not thinking anything, not seeing anything, not moving, suspended in space.

He was drinking scotch, she thought; anyway, something tawny. He took a sip, and she could have sworn he made a face, as if he didn’t really enjoy it. She realized he wasn’t much of a drinker, that she must be putting him through a version of hell if he felt he had to do something he didn’t like in order even to talk. But she rationalized that it had to be done—she couldn’t continue to live like this.

When he could look at her, he said, “Look, he’s dead.”

“Dead?” It was what she was looking for, but it seemed anticlimactic. Was this all there was? “What’s the big deal if he’s dead?”

He gave her a smile that was just on the edge of goofy—the scotch was doing its work. “I guess we still think you’re the baby girl.”

“So you’re trying to protect me?”

He gave her one of those tiny neck shrugs that are meant to be self-deprecating, but, to Talba’s mind, often signal a guilty conscience. “Kind of silly, isn’t it?”

“Corey, it just doesn’t fly. I never even knew the man. How’s it going to hurt me to know he’s dead?”

Corey gulped down a big swallow. “Miz Clara’s proud; she didn’t want you to know.”

“To know what? The way he died?”

He was silent.

“What happened? Jealous husband shoot him? Something like that?”

He couldn’t meet her eyes. “Something like that.”

“Well, what, Corey? Tell me the story. You can’t just leave me with one little shred of it. Listen, you want to know something really, really weird? I have this feeling. I’ve got this feeling I know a whole lot about it—I’ve just forgotten it.”

“Oh, Sandra, hell! He died of an overdose, okay? Yeah, you’ve got memories—but you just remember the funeral, that’s all. That’s why you cried when you went in that church—it’s that simple. But know one thing, girl, and know it well—if Mama finds out I told you any of this, she’s going to kill me. I wasn’t even old enough to know what I was saying, and she made me promise I’d never talk about it with you. You know how hard it is to go back on a promise to Mama?”

She thought that once, a long time ago, she might have seen him wear a look of anguish like the one he had on at the moment, but she couldn’t place the time. She could only place the feeling, and it was desolation. She touched him, something she seldom did. “Oh, Corey, I’m sorry. I had to know.”

He nodded, once again looking at the wall. “I know you did.”

“Mama’s some lady, isn’t she? Trying to keep something like that a secret. Half the daddies in our neighborhood probably died of overdoses.”

“A bit of an exaggeration.”

“It’s not exactly stigmatizing. That’s what I’m getting at.”

“Mama’s old-fashioned.”

“Yeah, but something’s wrong here. Mama doesn’t lie. Now, let me think about this.” Miz Clara had some kind of pact with herself—with Jesus, she might have said. She might dance around the truth, but she’d never tell an outright lie.

“She tell you he wasn’t dead?”

“Let me think. No, not exactly. She said something like, ‘wish to God he was.’ “

He snorted. “See? That’s Miz Clara.”

“I don’t know. This sure seems like a stupid thing to keep secret.”

For once, he did look at her. “I agree. I agree with you. But do me a favor—please save my behind and don’t tell Miz Clara we talked about any of it. Promise?”

“I don’t know.” She was dead against it.

Corey looked at his watch. “It’s getting late, you know that? Michelle’s going to kill me. Hey, listen, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.” His mood had lightened—he seemed almost happy, almost normal, as opposed to the Type-A Corey she was so used to.

“Okay. Sure.”

“I was kind of wondering—how come Michelle and I have never met your beau?”

“My beau?” She was taken aback.

“Darryl.”

“Oh, yeah, I know who you mean. I just thought—”

He chuckled. “Quaint usage, huh?”

“I’d say so.” She couldn’t help laughing as well— Corey was actually making fun of himself, an unprecedented occurrence.

“How come you haven’t introduced us?”

“That’s funny—I really don’t know. I guess the time hasn’t been right.” In truth, it had never occurred to her to introduce Darryl to Corey and Michelle. She preferred to tell him amusing stories about her stuck-up, pompous ass of a brother and his BAP of a wife.

“How about we make a date?”

“Oh. Okay. Sure.”

“You don’t seem that enthusiastic.”

“No, really. Let’s do it. How about Saturday?”

He frowned. “Umm. No go—already booked. Tomorrow’s good, though. How about tomorrow?”

“If Darryl’s free, you’ve got a deal. How about something simple? Sid-Marr’s, maybe.”

“Oh, no. Hell, no. We don’t go out that often. We’ll take you to Brigtsen’s.”

“Who could say no to that?” And yet, she kind of wished she could; kind of, but not really. She also kind of liked the idea.

But, driving home, she felt disoriented—the dad thing, the Darryl thing, the baby thing. You name it, it was wearing her out. She felt as if she’d eaten a meal of chocolate bars—unsatisfied and undernourished, with a strange, sticky taste in her mouth.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

She was wired, and it wasn’t late—only twenty of eleven. She pulled out her cell phone and called Darryl from her car. “You’ll never guess what. Brace yourself—it’s not all good.”

“I’ve got it: Oprah wants you—but only if you clean up your language.”

She laughed at the ludicrousness of either possibility. “This is only slightly less likely. My brother wants to meet you.”

“Hey. What’s so weird about that? I’m an okay dude; halfway famous, even.”

“No, it’s weird for him to be interested in me. He wants to take us to Brigtsen’s. Tomorrow.’’

“Oh, hell, I’m playing the governor’s mansion.”

“Oh.”

“What do you mean ‘oh’? Tomorrow’s good. Count me in.”

Talba was quiet. She’d half hoped he’d refuse.

“What’s wrong,” he said. “You don’t want to do it?”

“No, I just... I’m going to be with you tomorrow, and it’s late, and everything... “

“So?”

“Well, okay. I was kind of hoping to see you tonight. But I guess that would be superfluous. I mean, I know it’s a school night and everything.”

“Talba, what’s wrong?” If he’d sounded tired, he didn’t now. His voice was all concern and alertness.

“Nothing. I just wanted to see you.”

“Should I put the coffeepot on, or chill the wine?”

“Wine. Definitely wine.”

Darryl had recently moved to Algiers Point, and a more peaceful place would be hard to imagine. It was part of Orleans Parish—therefore part of the city—but it was on the west bank of the river. Though the houses were strictly old New Orleans— neat little shotguns and larger Victorians—it had the sleepy feel of a small town. Each well-kept home was set back from the street on a nice-sized yard, and the residents took pride in their gardens.

Young families could afford to live there—and did—but because of the neighborhood’s age and a sprinkle of gay couples, it escaped the sterility of a suburb. Darryl said he’d picked it because the price was right and on the weekends it was like being on vacation. Talba, who frequently visited for the weekend, had to agree—yet if you wanted dinner, you got on the ferry and six minutes later got off in the French Quarter.

She went by ferry tonight, thinking how odd it was to be going there this late, and in the middle of the week. I should call Miz Clara, she thought, and yet it was really too late. Maybe that was good. If she stayed over, she could go home after Miz Clara left for work. She didn’t much want to see her mother right now.

Darryl met her with a glass of wine in each hand. “For you, Your Grace.”

“Woo. Do I need it. I’ve had one hell of a day.”

“Sit down and tell me.” Darryl had guy furniture— big and comfortable. He liked to sit in an old, beat-up leather chair he’d gotten at a garage sale, with his feet on an ottoman. Talba, in turn, would lounge on the deep, soft sofa upholstered in brick red corduroy.

They assumed the positions, Talba setting her drink on a massive wooden coffee table. She looked around her, getting her bearings. “I love this room.”

“Come on. Talk.”

“I’m feeling better. Really. Just being here.”

“Talk, girl.”

“Okay, here’s the short version. The day started out with a prayer breakfast, moved on to almost getting fired, getting frozen out by one person, yelled at and chased by another, and finding out my father’s dead.”

Without missing a beat, he picked up on the relevant part. “Your father’s dead?”

“If Corey isn’t lying. Which he might be. Everyone seems to be trying to keep me from finding out anything about my father.”

“Oh, God. This is tied in with that funeral thing, isn’t it?”

Talba, lying down on a fat cushion, stared up at the ceiling. “Well, now, my mother says I’ve never been to a funeral, and if I ever mention my father’s name, she’ll throw me out of the house. However, two days ago I couldn’t mention my father’s name because I didn’t know it. My aunt, who practically threw me out of her house, finally deigned to tell me it was Denman La Rose.”

“Your mother wasn’t married?”

“Oh, yes. It was Denman La Rose Wallis. But that’s all I know. No matter what else I ask, a hundred roadblocks go up. Nobody wants to talk about him, but most of all, nobody wants me asking about him. Finally, I went to Corey, and you know how desperate I had to be to do that.”

“More wine?” He poured them both a glass. She was beginning to feel better. The wine was helping, but mostly, being with Darryl was, in his peaceful, comfortable little house.

“Darryl. This really means a lot to me.”

He held out his glass. “I know. But don’t worry— they have AA chapters everywhere.”

“You know what I mean.”

He smiled at her. “Glad to be of service, ma’am.” They locked eyes for a moment. Darryl broke first. “So what’d Corey say?”

“He told me our father is dead—even though Miz Clara told me he wasn’t. You know Miz Clara’s lying thing? How she never will lie, but if she can wiggle around the truth, she doesn’t think it’s the same thing?”

He laughed. “No, but it sounds right for a church lady.”

“Well, she wiggled and she lied. Or else Corey did. I realized it on the way over here. She says I’ve never been to a funeral; he says I was at my father’s, and that must be why I had that weird experience at Rhonda’s. She also says he’s not dead—but that’s the wiggle part. What she really said was ‘wish he was,’ or something like that.”

Darryl considered. “Hmm,” he said finally. “Are we overanalyzing?”

“About Miz Clara, maybe. Who knows what she’s up to? But, still, it remains clear no one wants to talk about the man.”

“Talba, has it occurred to you that something really bad happened. Like maybe he…”

“Molested me?” Her stomach gave a little shudder. “Yeah, I’ve thought if it. Maybe she found out and threw him out. Kind of depressing, isn’t it?”

“How old were you?”

“Two.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah.” Once again, she inspected the ceiling. “But I just thought of something. It’s perfectly in character for Mama and Aunt Carrie to behave like this. But what about Corey? He’s a doctor. He must be aware that you’re supposed to talk about these things. Like—you know—how can you have a healthy relationship with a man if...”

“Hey! Maybe that’s why he wants to meet me.”

“What?”

“You know. To vet me. Make sure I’m not a pervert. See if we really do seem healthy.”

Talba sat up, suddenly amused. “Oh, man. What an opportunity. You got a dog collar I could wear? Something with spikes, maybe. And I could get a nice latex dress ...”

“See? You’re better. All you needed was a drink with Uncle Darryl.”

“That’s not all, Uncle Darryl.”

“Well, it’s all you’re getting. School night, remember?”

“Never stopped you before.”

“Okay, Your Grace. Anything you like.”

She shook her head. “No, I’m kidding. To tell the truth, tonight a good long cuddle’s more to the point.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Listen, I want to ask you something. You know that poem, ‘Queen of the May’? You said you’d like to be a father like that.”

“Uh-huh. I would.”

“Well, I was wondering—what kind of father are you?” She paused, but he didn’t answer. “I mean— how come you never talk about your kid?”

“Oh, man. Let’s don’t get into that.”

She looked at him hard. “More secrets?”

“Raisa’s a great kid. I wish I could see more of her.” He stared at the old-fashioned ottoman with his Nike-clad feet on it. When he looked up at her, he was clearly so miserable she wished she could withdraw the question. “What made you ask?” he said.

“Nothing. I didn’t realize it was such a sensitive subject.”

“It’s not. Really.” He gave her a smile so forced it looked squeezed out of a toothpaste tube. “What brought it up?”

“I just thought ... with Corey suddenly asking to meet you ... I was wondering why I’ve never met Raisa.”

“Oh.” He sat back in his chair and blew out his breath. “Good question.”

“Maybe for another occasion?”

“Almost certainly for another occasion. Are you staying here tonight?”

“If I may.”

“I insist.”

She couldn’t imagine Darryl having a secret. And yet, he hardly ever talked about his daughter. Never, in fact, except to mention her in passing.

Hours later, she blinked awake, terrified, Darryl touching her face. “Talba. What is it?”

“Whooo. Nightmare.”

“You’re soaking wet. You were moaning.”

“There was all this blood ... a horrible noise, and then people split open, and blood poured out of them. Rivers, I mean. Like a cartoon or something. It was like rain—it just kept getting deeper and deeper and deeper.”

“What kind of noise?”

“I don’t know. Like a crash. A boom or something.”

“A gunshot, maybe.”

“Too loud, I think.” She shuddered. “Can I have some water?”

He got her some as if she were a child, and once again, she fell asleep in his arms. She felt as if she might cry when he got up and dressed and left for school.

It was raining out, and she fell easily back to sleep. Eddie was right. She needed to decompress.

She slept as long as she could and went in to make herself some toast. Darryl had made coffee for her. Maybe, she thought, I should marry him.

But you could hardly marry a man who didn’t know your brother. And who had a kid he never talked about. I wonder, she thought, if we really do have such a healthy relationship. God knows I’m no judge.

One thing she did know—Darryl made her happy when many men had made her cry. Good enough, she thought. Good enough. And Miz Clara likes him.

On the other hand, Miz Clara might not be infallible in these matters—by all reports she’d chosen poorly herself.

The rain made her want to stay put, but there was little point without Darryl there. Her own house— Miz Clara’s house—seemed lonely without her mother, who had left a tart note asking please to call her at work and say whether she was dead or alive. It brought a small lump to her throat, made her realize how accustomed Miz Clara had become to their arrangement.

Originally, her mother had permitted her to move back in for a reason—she had some poems to write, and a project to do, involving her given name and the intern who’d stuck her with it. When she’d gone back to her day job—which she roughly thought of as “computer genius”—she had never moved out. Neither she nor her mother had ever mentioned it. She’d just started working for United Oil, paying rent, and putting money into the house when it needed something.

Of course, she’d met Darryl in the original move-back period. If she had had a different boyfriend— somebody like Lamar, the last one, Miz Clara would have thrown her out on her ear. But she was probably more smitten with Darryl than Talba was; she was happy to put up with her daughter to have him around.

Talba dressed for work, but it was only midmorning. She was so depressed, so disoriented as a result of yesterday’s events, that she thought of going in early.

Instead, she did a search on the name Denman La Rose Wallis. As expected, she came up with nothing. It was an odd name.

Well, hell, she thought. If I want to see it written down, I know where to go.

After a maddening phone search to find where the records she wanted were kept, she drove to the State Building, went to the Office of Vital Records, and applied for three documents: First, a copy of the marriage certificate for Clara Suzanna Guidry and Denman La Rose Wallis. It cost her, but she asked also for the birth certificate of Urethra Tabitha Sandra Wallis, grateful she had to write the name so she wouldn’t have to say it.

The cruelty of the name—to Miz Clara; she didn’t care about herself—at one time had made her so angry it ran her life. But now her mother’s innocence moved her more. That, and her genuine wish to give her daughter a pretty name. Her second name, indeed, was not TABitha, but TaBEETHa, to rhyme with Urethra.

Third, she requested a copy of the death certificate for Denman La Rose Wallis.

And then she settled down to wait. After an hour, she left, cursing bureaucracy and uncooperative civil servants. She tried to walk off some of her nervous energy, returning flushed, sweaty, and just as antsy as before. She still had to wait another twenty minutes.

Finally, having sweated a quart of blood, she had the documents—at a collective cost of $27, the marriage license being the cheapest. She folded them carefully into her purse and found a place to have coffee before she looked at them. Urethra Tabitha Sandra Wallis, (later to become the Baroness de Pontalba) had been born to Clara Suzanna Wallis and Denman La Rose Wallis in 1977. Seven years later, her father had died. That was wrong, she thought. Corey had said she was only two when he died. Had he made a mistake or lied? She looked at the cause of death: Gunshot wound to the chest. Not an overdose. He had lied, and about more than one thing. She was seven at the time, not two.

No one, it seemed, could be trusted on the subject of her father. She closed her eyes in frustration, and immediately felt sick, felt something the size of a porpoise leap out of her stomach and into her throat, something slimy and thrashing. Something she recognized.

It was fear.

The world in front of her, the backs of her eyelids, turned red. She snapped them open, but it didn’t help. She felt as if her body was swaying, as if she might fall. She closed them again, against the disorientation, and she was a child, almost a baby. Someone was lying on the floor on an old rag rug, bleeding from the chest, and there was an ancient red upholstered chair in the room. The loudest noise she’d ever heard echoed in her ears.

The memory—if it was that—flitted so quickly away she had only the vaguest impression of the person on the floor, but the room was vivid. And the fear was monstrous. The leaping porpoise had grown quickly to the size of a whale, and it was no longer in her throat, but had liquefied and seeped into her cells, contaminating them and making it impossible to focus, even to ...

She felt a steadying hand on her back. “Are you all right, Miss?”

She turned to look at the good Samaritan, a white man. “I think so. I...”

The look on the man’s face stopped her cold. “Put your head down,” he said. “Head on your knees.” He helped her lower it. She wondered if she was going to throw up.

But in fact she felt better in a moment, and the man, holding the back of her neck, let her up. “Are you ill?” he asked.

She faked a smile. “I’m fine, I think.” She held up her cup. “Too much sugar in my coffee. Thanks for your help. I’m okay. Really.”

He said she was welcome, and walked away frowning, as if he didn’t feel his work with her was done.

And truth be told, she still felt shaky. I was there, she thought. I saw him die. And I wasn’t any two, either. I had to be seven. Why’d Corey tell me two.”

Why, in fact, had anyone told her anything, even that she should keep her nose out if it? They were trying to protect her, she knew that, but from what? Not just the memory of her father bleeding, though that was plenty.

More than that.

Talba thought about it hard, and tried to come to terms with the notion that her mother might be a murderer. She wondered how to research it. First the newspaper, she thought, but there must be something else. Police records? Could she ask Skip Langdon?

No, she could not. No way in hell. And she was suddenly aware that she wasn’t going to look it up in any newspaper files, either. She was going to forget about it. She hated to admit it, but they’d been right, the whole damn batch of them. She was wrong to pry into this thing, and she was going to drop it.

If Miz Clara had shot her husband, she must have had a damn good reason.

Was it about me? she thought, remembering her worry that he’d molested her, that that was what the silence was all about.

If it was, she didn’t want to know.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Eddie was in the office early, even before Eileen, having slept barely at all. Listening to Audrey cry like that, knowing he couldn’t go to her, was probably the hardest thing he ever had to do. It made him think of something else almost as bad— the time the maid had called him at work and told him to meet Audrey at the emergency room.

When he got there, he could hear his son screaming behind walls and curtains, stranded somewhere in a labyrinth of treatment rooms he couldn’t have navigated even if he’d managed to penetrate the shield of bureaucracy that was the first hurdle.

The boy had been five, stricken with acute appendicitis, but at the time Eddie didn’t know that, knew only that his son was in agony somewhere that Eddie couldn’t go. It was the first time he realized how much he loved his son, how crazy he’d go if anything happened to him.

It was the night he’d taken the vow, too. The vow. The pledge. He’d completely forgotten. And that was what this whole ten-year thing was all about.

He thought about that. He’d forgotten the thing this was all about, the thing that was so important it had kept him from speaking to his son for a decade.

He could get mystical about that, if he let himself, his taking the vow, never being able to break it, then forgetting it, and now Anthony back and Audrey reminding him of it with her crying. There were people who’d say things about it being meant to be and everything happening for a reason, but Eddie didn’t have two seconds for people like that.

So far as he was concerned, there was nothing beautiful or symmetrical about this, it only made him feel like a piece of crap, which was what Audrey thought, anyway. Angie would, too. Maybe he should try to get to her first, before Audrey or Anthony.

But what would I say? he thought. “I can explain?” He couldn’t, not even to himself.

The vow was this: I’m going to send my son to college no matter what.

How was he supposed to explain that it had become the most important thing in his life and that Anthony had made it impossible for him to keep it? The damn vow had become more important than the kid.

He brushed at his face, as if he could make it go away. It just got out of hand, was the best he could do.

That was so lame it made him want to puke. He couldn’t say something like that to Angie. He couldn’t say anything. Hell, let her think he was a piece of crap; he thought so himself.

His mind wouldn’t stop. It kept going on like that, never giving him a minute’s peace. Finally, he’d just gotten up and dressed in yesterday’s clothes. He thought he’d go to the office, at least try to make peace with his business—do something right. Audrey had come into the kitchen while he was puttering around. She’d walked up to him and taken his hand and squeezed it and looked into his eyes, her own overflowing.

He didn’t know what to do. His tongue seemed to be nailed to the roof of his mouth. Finally, she said, “Eddie, ya did what ya thought was right,” and released his hand. She poured herself a cup of the coffee he had made, all the while keeping her back to him, and finally, she said, “Ya look terrible. At least go put on some clean clothes.” And that was how he knew he was once again welcome in the bedroom.

So here he was with a bad taste in his mouth from too much coffee too early, and a head spinning from the barrage of memories, the fusillade of guilt that had besieged him in the night. He was staring balefully at the pile of papers on his desk, trying to think of a way to avoid it, when he was startled by the phone.

He looked at his watch. Eight-thirty. Way too early for anyone to call. Still, it beat unloading his in-box. He picked up and was once again startled by a little female gasp; of horror, it sounded like. “I was going to leave a message. I didn’t think anyone would be there.”

He was surprised that he recognized her voice. “Good mornin’, Ms. Scott. Lovely mornin’, don’t you think?”

She’d apparently gotten over her initial panic, and moved on to haughtiness. “Mr. Valentino. I’m in a terrific hurry. I called to leave you a message. I won’t be needing your services any longer.”

He pulled out his drawl for her. It was slow and sounded halfway stupid; with arrogant people, it tended to put him at an advantage. “Well, I reckon not. Ms. Wallis tells me she’s about got to the bottom of things.”

“Ms. Wallis! Ms. Wallis is who I want to talk to you about.”

“I thought you didn’t want to talk to anybody. Isn’t that why you called so early?”

“I don’t have time to talk to anybody. But it would seem that we’re talking. So let me be brief and to the point. I am extremely sorry to report that Ms. Wallis has behaved unprofessionally. She came highly recommended and indeed I chose your firm because of her reputation. But I do not feel she is an asset to you, and I feel you should know. She has been very disappointing, and that is why I am turning the case over to another private investigator.”

Eddie reflected how strange it is that people stop using contractions when they get up on their high horse. He made his voice even slower and sleepier than before. “Well, now. Just what did Ms. Wallis do to get ya so upset?”

“It wasn’t what she did to me. It was what she did to my daughter.”

“And what was that, ma’am?”

“She badgered her. She visited her at choir practice and then again at our private home, trying to get her to identify a man Cassandra has never met. As a matter of fact, she behaved as if Cassandra were the suspect rather than the victim. She made her cry, Mr. Valentino. She made my fourteen-year-old daughter cry!” Her voice rose with every sentence. Eddie made sure his dropped.

“Well, now, I’m real sorry to hear that.” He spoke so softly he even annoyed himself. “Ms. Wallis is one of my best investigators.” The words came out about one every three seconds.

“I was under the impression she is your only investigator.”

He allowed himself a chuckle. “Well now, I guess you’ve got me there, ma’am. Tell me, what exactly did Ms. Wallis say that Cassandra found so offensive?”

He heard her draw in a breath. He could almost hear what she was thinking: If I’d been able to leave a message, this conversation wouldn’t be happening.

“It wasn’t what she said, it was her manner.”

“And what was that, ma’am? Was she belligerent?”

“I’m not sure I’d…”

He didn’t let her finish. “Was she threatening?”

“She just wouldn’t let up.”

“Ah. She was persistent.”

“You can call it what you like, Mr. Valentino. My daughter’s been in tears ever since her visit.”

That he could believe. “I want to thank you for tellin’ me about this. I’m gon’ make a note to give Ms. Wallis a talkin’ to.”

“You do that, Mr. Valentino.”

“I enjoyed meetin’ your lovely daughter. I wonder if I could tell her so myself?”

“I think she’s been upset quite enough.”

“Well, I enjoyed meetin’ you too, Ms. Scott. Let me know if I can do anything else for ya.”

“I think that, under the circumstances, you ought to return the retainer.”

He’d known that one was coming. People like Aziza Scott didn’t cut you an inch of slack. “I don’t know, Ms. Scott. We put in a lot of work on this. Maybe we could negotiate something in between.”

“If a check for the entire amount is not on my desk before the end of the week, you will be hearing from my lawyer.”

Once again, she’d lost her contractions.

“Well, like I said, it’s been real nice workin’ for ya.” He figured even she would see through the sarcasm, but he didn’t have it in him to excise it.

***

Eileen was at lunch when Talba arrived, but the minute her foot crossed the threshold, Eddie’s voice boomed out, “Ms. Wallis, get in here.”

She almost wished she’d stayed out the whole day. She was in no mood for Eddie’s blustering. Something about her face must have made that clear. She’d gotten only as far as his door when he said, “Good God, what is it? I give ya the morning off, and ya come in looking like ya haven’ t slept.”

“Not to be rude, but that’s a perfect description of you.”

“Touché, Ms. Wallis. Touché.” He shook his head and his eye bags jiggled. They looked to be developing cellulite. “Sit down, why don’t ya? Now tell me what’s wrong.”

“It’s nothing. I mean, it’s nothing to do with the case. I just... you know, a female thing.”

It was all she could do to suppress a giggle when, on cue, Eddie’s color deepened. She didn’t know all that much about white men, but one thing she knew well—any mention of menstruation, no matter how oblique, and they were on the next train out of town. She truly treasured this about them; it afforded her the one foolproof form of manipulation she had. She wished she could remember to use it more often.

She shrugged, as if in apology. “Sorry. You asked.”

“Hey, I got a wife and daughter. Hell, Eileen too. Misses three days every month. You gonna do that?”

She even loved the way they got defensive about it. “Uh-uh. I’m going to give you worse things to worry about.”

“I got a little taste of that first thing this morning. Client called and fired us.”

Nice segué, she thought. Just when we were playing so nicely. “I’m not surprised,” she said. “I got the feeling she’s rethought the whole situation.”

“How so?”

“I don’t think she really wants to find the guy. I think she’s thrown money at it and assuaged her conscience. End of story.”

“That sounds a little self-servin’, don’t ya think?”

Alarm bells went off. “I don’t understand.”

“She complained about ya, Ms. Wallis. Said you’re unprofessional, and she’s hiring another detective.”

“I see. And what was the nature of her complaint?”

“I think you know.”

Frantically, Talba flipped back through her encounters with the Scotts. Nothing came up. “I’m not getting anything. I wonder if it had something to do with what happened at the Bergerons’.”

“Said ya made the kid cry.”

“Oh. She didn’t cry while I was there. She was damn surly, though.”

“Did ya reprimand her?”

“That’s not my place.”

“Did ya cuss her?’

She was outraged. “No! Did Aziza Scott say I did?”

He chuckled. “Take it easy, Ms. Wallis. I’m teasin’ ya.”

Talba closed her eyes in frustration, sorry she’d taken the bait. “Well. Sorry she wasn’t pleased. Does this mean we don’t get paid?”

Eddie drummed his fingers as if the question wasn’t worth his time. “Ah, hell. It ain’t no big deal.”

“Well, what was that we just went through, then? What was, ‘Ms. Wallis, get in here.’ “

“That was me bringing out the rubber hoses. If you were guilty, you woulda confessed.”

“Oh, come on. Pretty gentle for an interrogation.”

“If you were guilty, it wouldn’t have been. But you weren’t. I can read people.”

Oh, right, she thought.

“I put a pile of stuff on ya desk. See if ya get through it today. If you’re done by four o’clock, I’ll start showing ya the books—so you can take ‘em over.”

Her chair scraped on the wood floor as she got up. “I was hoping you forgot.”

She turned on her computer and checked her email. Tony Tino had written her. Had thanked her and invited her to write him again. She didn’t know if she dared.

There were various other missives from various friends—mostly fellow nerds—and there was something so unexpected she wondered if it were real:

Talba—I’m writing on a cokmputer at school. I enjoyed meting you. lm really really relaly worried about paemla. dont tell anyone i wrote you. cassandra

She printed it out and took it in to Eddie. “What do you make of this?”

He read it and looked up at her, keeping his chin down, so that his eyes looked like two brown moons over the purple ponds of his eye bags. “The kid’s scared to death.”

“If I’m the only one she can talk to, she really is in trouble. Before this, I’d have said she hates my guts.”

“You think this thing’s authentic?”

“All I know is, it really did come from her school. Xavier Prep, if you recall. I don’t think any of the other players would have access to it. Shaneel goes to Fortier.”

Eddie drummed his desk. Talba noticed that he did that a lot. “We’re out of it,” he said.

“What about Pamela?”

“We’ve got to assume if she was missing, her parents would report her missing.”

She was disappointed. She realized she’d been expecting more; hoping for more.

I’m losing it, she thought. I’m getting a dad thing for him. For times like this, she kept a diary file in her computer.

She went back to her office and started messing around in it: Repeat after me, please: Eddie Valentino is no knight in shining armor. He’s just a guy in business. If nobody pays for it, it isn’t his job, okay? You got that?

Yes ma’am, Miz Talba, yes ma’am. You sure are one good mama—darn near as good as Miz Clara herself.

Good. Now go do your job. Think you can manage that?

I don’t know. What if I went to Skip Langdon and told her everything?

You’ve already done that, idiot. She knows about Toes.

Yes, but Pamela.

You can’t report a missing person if you don’t know she’s missing. What are you thinking of? Just do your job.

Okay. Pep talk over.

It was as good a way as any to warm up for work. For a while, she hacked away at the pile of employee checks Eddie had put on her desk. Fortunately for their potential bosses, they were all upstanding citizens. Unfortunately for her, however—it was turning out to be one of the most boring afternoons she could remember. And to top it off, she was about to have dinner with Corey and Michelle. That didn’t sound a whole lot livelier.

About four, Eddie popped his head in. “How ya comin’ ?”

“Drowning in paper.”

“Now ya know what this job’s all about. Forget about the mean streets. Ninety-nine percent of it’s as routine as filing ya nails. Listen, let’s do the books another day—I’ve got to go see Angie about something.”

“Sure. I’ve got plenty to do.”

“By the way, Pamela’s okay. Her parents sent her out of town for a while.”

A sunburst of relief fanned out in Talba’s chest— and it had nothing to do with Pamela. “How do you know that?”

“I’m a private dick—you hadn’t heard?”

But something was funny about it. “Why would they send her away in the middle of the school year?”

“Distraught about her sister—near nervous breakdown.” He put on his sport coat. “It happens. Have a nice weekend.”

Talba stared after him, feeling like a dog newly rescued from the pound—falling in love with the hand that feeds it. Love was about right. The moment she realized he’d checked up on Pamela, she had an unreasonable surge of affection for him. The trouble was, she knew what it was; she knew exactly what it was.

And that old white man is most assuredly not my father! she told herself. He’s not even a good father. Ask Tony Tino.

In the end, she did. After a premarital investigation (or sweetie snoop, as she’d quickly dubbed it) that had proved to be lots of fun—Impostor Caught Red-handed by Brilliant Computer Jockey—she emailed Tony, and caught him online.

He wrote back, “Shall we have a drink? Meet me in my favorite cyber-bar.”

A few directions later, they were ensconced in a private chat room.

“Got your martini?” he asked.

“I’m having tea. You?”

“Beer—this is Texas. Listen, I have a lot to thank you for. You know how long it’s been since my dad’s spoken to me?”

“Ten years, I gather. He’s born again, Tony—a completely new person. He even took me out to dinner last night.”

“Your treat, I’m sure.”

“I’m not kidding. I think he wasn’t quite ready to tell your mother he’d talked to you. Also, he wanted to tell me about you.”

“All bad, of course.”

“He’s really missed you.”

“Actually, I called my mother and told her. And I found out something really bad.”

Talba’s mouth went dry. “He’s not sick, is he?”

“Nothing like that. I’m not ready to talk about it yet—and probably shouldn’t, to one of my dad’s employees. Still, unloading to a stranger is what chat rooms are all about. Families are a pain—you know that? Didn’t you say your dad passed away? I’m sorry about that.”

“No, because I didn’t know it when I wrote you before. I think I just said, ‘You’re lucky to have a dad.’ Since then, I found out he is dead. But it’s not like I ever knew him.”

“D-i-v-o-r-c-e?”

“Yes. But there’s some big mystery going on— nobody in the family ever mentions his name—and I mean that literally. I didn’t even know it till this week—I mean I didn’t know it for sure. Get this— his middle name’s La Rose!”

“La Rose by any other name…”

“As far as I can tell, nothing about him smelled sweet. I’ve started to have flashbacks.”

“Of memories? Do you think your family’s protecting you from something?”

“They even say they are. You know what I think? I think I was there when he died—and I know he died of a gunshot wound. That’s a matter of record.”

“Who shot him?”

“That’s the question. My mother hated him enough—that’s for sure.”

“What’s your memory?”

“Just the shot. The body on the floor; some furniture. Funny thing, though—my brother said it happened when I was two, but going by the date on the death certificate, I was seven. He also said my father died of an overdose.”

“Weird. Was there anyone else in the room?”

“Arrrgh. I don’t know if I want to go there.”

“Uh-oh. I don’t blame you. Know what—I’m getting the feeling this isn’t fun for you. I don’t want to make things worse—especially after what you did for me.”

“I’m fine, really. I’m pretty detached from it.” They said their electronic good-byes, and Talba closed down her computer with a big fat exhale. The truth was, she couldn’t believe she’d done what she’d done—talked to a perfect stranger about something so intensely personal. For her, computers had always been a tool to work with—not a social or therapeutic avenue. She felt embarrassed and drained. And not at all like having dinner with Corey and Michelle.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Because she’d had plenty of time to get to work, she hadn’t brought her car, instead had ridden in on the 82 Desire, the bus that replaced the streetcar when progress progressed. Talba gloried in it not only for the literary reference, but also for the thing that had captured Tennessee Wìlliams’s imagination in the first place—the innate poetry of it. Except she had a layer the playwright hadn’t had— this was a much faster, uglier, fouler-smelling vehicle than the one he’d had to work with. She never rode it without thinking about that.

She’d once had an ambition to call a collection of poems 82 Desire, just because she liked the name. But she’d since refined the idea. Now she had a plan to write a cycle of poems about her fellow riders— not their real lives, about which she couldn’t know, but their imagined lives. It had come about because that was what she did when she was on the bus— make up stories about the people, try to put herself in their houses, in their marriages, feel what it must be like to be them. She had a notebook full of thoughts and observations and three or four drafts of poems, but since she’d gotten the car, she’d sort of forgotten about the project. She thought about it on her way home and felt ashamed.

And yet this was no night to write. Her mind was in such a swivet she could barely focus long enough to find the fare, much less to think literary thoughts. She should never have gotten into that discussion with Tony Tino—and not just because it was stupid and embarrassing. Because she couldn’t get the damned movie out of her head.

Another thing she shouldn’t have done—referred to it as a movie. It was running over and over, an endless loop, and everything was different. She knew perfectly well what repressed memory syndrome was, and also knew some people said it didn’t exist. She could see the problem.

There was no doubt in her mind that what she was seeing was real, it was someplace she’d been, something she’d seen, but she also knew that it was both embellished and diminished. It was clear to her that her imagination was filling in blanks, adding details, and also that her mind was withholding data. For instance, in the first flashback, the shot, the unbearable loud noise, had come after she saw the body. Therefore, she concluded, her brain had simply provided it because it ought to be there.

Sometimes now, when the movie ran, it came before, but that, she figured, was because she knew it ought to go there. Perhaps there were two shots, she thought. Whichever it was, this wasn’t a detail added by an overwrought imagination. She had most assuredly heard that shot. She knew by the way she felt about it. By the terror; by the bafflement; most of all, by the sorrow—the inconsolable sense of regret.

So either there were two shots, or she’d remembered the sequence incorrectly. In that case, what else was wrong? Not that it mattered much—there weren’t really enough details to piece together a story. She couldn’t tell one thing about the body except that it was bleeding. Maybe it had on jeans. Had her father worn jeans? She wasn’t even sure of that. And she couldn’t say why except that the memory-movie was like a dream, in which you know you’re with a particular person, yet he looks entirely different from the way he actually looks; in which things sometimes appear three-dimensional and perfectly normal, except that when you try to remember later, all you recall is an impression. This was like that. An impression.

Why the hell, she thought, did Corey say it happened when I was two—and the death certificate says five years later?

She kept playing the movie. Sure enough, she had the definite sense of being very young, almost infinitesimal. Was it something to do with height, with how far above the floor she seemed? That was crazy.

She closed her eyes and tried to think of something else.

And when the movie came again, she saw something different. Looking down at the floor, she could see a shoe tossed carelessly near the chair, as if the owner were a child who had simply left it there. It was her own shoe—one she remembered perfectly. A pink sandal, half of a pair she’d had the summer before first grade. Now that made no sense—she hadn’t had the shoes at either age, two or seven.

She had no idea if it had been there all the time, or if her overactive brain, abhorring a vacuum, had thoughtfully filled it in.

She went in and stood in the shower a long time, hoping to get her balance back.

She chose her clothes carefully. She had the distinct feeling her brother’s wife hated the way she dressed, but she could hardly change her personality just for the evening—Darryl would never speak to her again.

She chose an ankle-length dress in deep green, the most conservative thing she owned, accessorized it with a full-length flowing jacket in an African print, six-inch-wide orange-beaded belt, and three or four silver necklaces. Looking in the mirror, she thought, Oh, well and quoted herself aloud:

I am the Baroness de Pontalba and Michelle can kiss my aristocratic black ass.

For good measure, she turned around and mooned her own reflection.

Darryl was in the kitchen with Miz Clara, sitting at the old black-painted table that Talba suddenly realized she really ought to replace.

Miz Clara said, “Well, ain’t you the Queen of the May.”

“Indeed not. I am a baroness.”

Darryl said, “You’re a queen to me, baby,” thus earning one of Miz Clara’s rare ear-to-ears. Darryl was a person of whom she thoroughly approved, which was the only thing that made Talba suspicious of him.

Corey and Michelle were waiting for them, Michelle in a little pearl gray suit with pink-pearl blouse fastened with white-pearl buttons. Her only jewelry was a pair of pearl stud earrings. Her hair was caught back in one of those little George Washington ponytails that men wore. Talba honestly couldn’t recall ever seeing a black woman with that hairstyle.

Michelle’s mouth flew open at the sight of her sister-in-law.

Talba beat her to the punch. “Like my outfit?”

Michelle blushed.

Talba wagged a finger at her. “See, your face gives you away. It’s okay; really—everybody’s different. I don’t go in for bivalve by-products.”

Michelle’s giveaway face announced that she was struggling to get the reference. Corey got there first. “Pearls. Pretty good, little bird.”

Michelle said, “Little bird?” in a tone of pure horror, as if Corey had used a pet name for a mistress.

Darryl simply stared at Talba, evidently feeling a new and unpleasant facet of her personality had just been revealed.

As it has, she thought. As it has—even I didn’t know I was that bad. We’ve got ourselves an inauspicious beginning here.

Corey ignored his wife and held out his hand to Darryl. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Darryl said, “I’ve heard about both of you. I think congratulations are in order.”

Michelle looked down at her stomach. “Oh. I didn’t think…”

Darryl chuckled. “No, Talba told me. Nobody could guess.”

Corey said, “Hey, I’m a doctor, and I couldn’t tell if I didn’t know.”

Oh, right. Of course he had to announce that in the first five minutes. They hadn’t even gotten inside the restaurant and Talba was embarrassed three times over—though as much at herself as her relatives.

Evidently, Corey and Michelle came to the restaurant a lot. The maître d’ fussed over them and the waitress called them by name. They ordered drinks, and when Corey asked for “the usual,” Talba could have puked.

But she couldn’t have said why.

She was in a rotten mood, that was why. Something like a headache was lurking just behind her eyes. Maybe a drink would help. She slurped down a couple of glasses of wine in short order, and found her instinct exactly right. It helped a lot.

She listened with detachment as Michelle turned her well-bred charm on Darryl. “I hear you’re a man of many talents,” she said.

Michelle was from a famous old New Orleans family, a member of the class of people known in the city as Creoles. In other places, the word may mean as little as “mixed race.” In New Orleans, it connotes an entire culture, dating back to the Free People of Color of the previous century.

Before the Civil War, they formed their own tight-knit, often profitable community in the French Quarter and the Tremé. They were artisans, dressmakers, professionals, and most important, property owners—even the women, who were frequently participants in a genteel body-exchange called plaçage. Under this system, girls as young as fourteen were taken by their mothers to the Quadroon Balls, where, if they were lucky, they might catch the eye of a wealthy white man and end up under his “protection.”

But a would-be protector would first have to strike a deal with the girl’s mother, preferably for ownership of a house and a proper education for the children of the union. Then, having bought himself a mistress, he’d move her into her new house and spend as much time there as his life with his white wife permitted. Because of the racial makeup of the arrangement—the lightest girls were considered the prettiest—the offspring of the placées became whiter and whiter over the years, frequently becoming passants blancs.

Many who retained color, however, became wealthier and wealthier, more and more respected and influential, until eventually they became the city’s power elite—and not the city’s black power elite. They were its political center, period.

This was what Michelle Tircuit came out of. In her own hometown, she was as much a blueblood as any Mayflower descendant in the country.

The Tircuits originally owned stables, eventually, as cars came in, moving on to become manufacturers and merchants. They now owned a locally famous foundry, which made high-end hardware and accessories for old houses—doorknobs, shutter hinges, heavy-duty latches, faucets, and cabinet handles. Tircuit’s was the place to go if you were restoring a house, or even building a new one—and with all the yuppie developments cropping up, they’d now branched out to contemporary goods.

Michelle’s brothers, sisters, and cousins were doctors, lawyers, fund-raisers, accountants—not a blue-collar worker among them. Miz Clara was deeply impressed.

And, truth to tell, so might Talba have been if Michelle had not, with a Howard University education, taken a job as a receptionist, apparently to mark time till she was married. And then, having caught Corey, quit her job to devote her life to shopping and grooming.

The woman had never shown the slightest interest in anything else—and to think, with all that time and money, the best she could come up with was a little gray suit and pearl earrings. The lack of imagination made Talba almost as mad as the lack of ambition.

Darryl was telling her and Corey about his three jobs—schoolteacher, bartender, and musician. (Actually, he was laying it on a bit—he hardly ever tended bar any more except as a substitute.)

Corey was trying to steal the floor—getting up a good whine about how hard he’d had to work during his residency.

The weenie-waggling began in earnest just as the entrées arrived—at least Talba imagined that was what it was. She wasn’t privy to it because Michelle was bending her ear.

“God, I wish I could have a drink. Do you know how careful you have to be when you’re pregnant? My older sister developed placenta previa, and couldn’t get up for the last four months—can you imagine?”

“Not really.” But I bet you could. I bet you’d love it.

“Talba, that is the most amazing outfit—where do you find these things? I could shop and shop and never even come across anything like it.”

“I’ve got a feeling we go to different stores.”

Michelle laughed, filling the air with malice. Her Ms. Nice guy act of the night before had withered after Talba’s bivalve crack. “Well, there’s no doubt about that.”

Change the subject, Talba thought, and drank the last of her fourth glass of wine. Get out of this before you lose it. But what the hell to talk about?

Kids were always good. “Tell me—are you hoping for a boy or a girl?”

“Oh, a girl. Of course.”

“Why ‘of course’?”

“Well, every mother wants a girl. So she can dress her up and teach her things.”

Oh, God, Talba. Don’t say ‘Things like, what color pink to put on her nails. Just don’t say it. Instead, she said, “Things like Faulkner and Shakespeare?”

She knew she was starting to lose it.

“Why... no.” Michelle looked uncertain, not really wanting to believe she’d been insulted. “Things about life.”

Things about life. What the hell does the Black Barbie know about life? Her fury was getting out of hand. She nodded to take up the slack while she broke off a piece of bread, buttered it, and stuffed it in her mouth to avoid saying the wrong thing. Which would be just about anything, considering her mood. She tried to analyze it.

She was nice to me last night. She got all dressed up and came out just to honor me and my boyfriend. Why am I so hostile toward her?

The answer came so fast it shocked her: It’s the baby. I don’t want her having a Wallis baby.

Wallises were achievers; Michelle was a parasite.

The humor of it eluded her—the likelihood that Michelle’s family would feel the same way about a Wallis baby, for entirely different reasons. She turned furious eyes on Michelle, who seemed oblivious. She had used the time to think of a way to change the subject. “Sandra, I’ve been thinking.”

“Talba.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Talba. My name’s Talba. Why can’t my own family even call me by my name?”

“Oh.” Michelle seemed genuinely startled. “I thought that was just your professional name.”

“No, it’s my everyday name. The name everyone calls me.”

Michelle took a bite of lettuce. Talba was sure nothing fat, sweet, salty, or chocolate ever entered her mouth.

“Corey says you’ve really had it tough with that name of yours. And there were other things too. I want you to know that we understand how badly damaged you are,… ah, how deeply it affected you, and we just…” Her hands flew and her perfect red talons were arrowheads. “... that is, we want to accept you for who you are and we’re trying to…”

Talba set down her wineglass so hard it spilled. “How badly damaged I am?”

She realized she must have spoken loudly. Both Corey and Darryl were staring at her. A pool of silence had fallen at the surrounding tables.

Corey said, “What’s going on here?”

“I didn’t mean that. It came out wrong.”

But Talba knew she was quoting her brother, and the knowledge was balling up in her stomach, as hard as a baseball and about that size.

Michelle’s face flashed a distress call. “All I meant to say... I know you’ve had a really hard time ... even you don’t know…”

“You’re goddam right I don’t know. And why the fuck don’t I?” The little pool of silence had overflowed into every corner of the restaurant. Even the wait staff had frozen. Darryl put a hand on her thigh, but she ignored it. “It makes you feel so damned important to have a secret, doesn’t it? You’re so pitiful. Just so insecure with your little half-baked psychological homilies—as you damned well ought to be. Anybody as inadequate as you should feel inadequate—and if your pathetic little secret knowledge makes you feel like a real person for once in your pathetic little life ...”

The maître d’ appeared, running. “Everything all right here?”

Talba would have expected Corey to grovel and snivel. To her surprise, he barked at the man. “Everything’s fine. We won’t be needing your help.” He turned to Michelle. “Leave. Quickly.”

“Me? But Sandra’s the one

“Michelle. Leave. Wait in the car.” She stared at her husband in astonishment, biting her lip, then pushed back her chair and swept out.

This turn of events was so unexpected that Talba’s anger began to abate, and the restaurant came back into focus. It was as if she’d passed out for a moment. Darryl had risen and put an arm around her, but it was Corey’s face she was staring at. He said, “You okay, little bird?”

She couldn’t speak to him, only stood and let Darryl steer her out. Corey followed, having apparently made some deal to settle up later with the restaurant. Talba could only imagine what sort of apologies he’d given— “under a strain,” “medication,” something like that.

She was intensely moved by the way he’d rescued her; and constitutionally unable to face him. Saying nothing, she let Darryl lead her to the car, and bundle her into it He tried to hold her, but she couldn’t stand being touched, couldn’t even stand to look at him. He started the car.

“You taking me to the emergency room?” she said.

“Would you like me to?”

She shook her head. “No. I want to go home.” Her voice was a watery trickle.

She didn’t speak again till they’d arrived at Miz Clara’s, and neither did Darryl.

Her mother met them at the door. “Ohhhh, baby. Oh, my baby. Come on in this minute.”

Corey had phoned and told the whole sorry story. Talba felt a sudden automatic jet of fury, but humiliation smothered it. She covered her face with her hands. Darryl said, “I think she needs to be alone,” and what happened next was at least as amazing as Corey’s ordering Michelle from the restaurant.

Miz Clara said, “You take her to her room—will you? In case she needs any help.”

Even in her stupor, Talba knew that her mother had just given Darryl permission to enter her daughter’s bedroom, indeed to stay with her all night if need be. She was too far into her turtle shell to contemplate the meaning of it.

She lay down on the bed without even thinking, but Darryl lifted her shoulders, took her by the arms, and pulled her to a sitting position. “You can’t sleep in that.”

And she had let him take off the African-print jacket, the three silver necklaces, the beaded belt, and, finally, her green dress and bra. He had let her keep her panties, but she wriggled out of them. “I’m cold.”

He found her a T-shirt to sleep in, and asked her if she wanted him to stay. She shook her head, once again unable to speak. He kissed her forehead and left.

She heard him talking to Miz Clara, but she was past caring.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Her mother woke her as usual: “Who you think you is, Queen of the May?”

But it was Saturday, and Talba was damned if she was getting up. Miz Clara was gone by the time she got around to it—she worked every other Saturday for a lady in the French Quarter. A note on the kitchen table noted tersely that: Darryl Boucree is as fine a Christian as I have ever seen.

Not just any old thing could amuse Talba that morning, but that did. She’d never asked Darryl if he was a Christian; she herself was not, though she’d never mentioned that fact to Miz Clara.

She made herself coffee, and as she waited for it, considered a drink instead. She wasn’t really going to have one, she knew that in advance. But the idea was certainly appealing—anything to avoid the shame of the previous evening. The shame and the ramifications:

Corey would never be able to go back to his favorite restaurant.

Michelle would divorce him, and he’d never see his child.

Miz Clara would choose between her children, and she’d pick Corey.

Darryl would never call her again—no one would date a crazy person.

Did she dare call him?

She didn’t think so.

She found his note when she went to make her bed, pinned to the pillow like a good-bye in a country song. She picked it up with dread. But all it said was, “Your Grace: Call me, why don’t you? Your faithful servant.”

What to make of that one? “Faithful” was good, maybe all wasn’t lost. Then again, maybe it was. If the news was bad, she wasn’t ready for it.

On the other hand, the note poked her out of her shell. She was ready for something—but what? She went back into the kitchen, poured herself a second coffee, and sat down to think.

Uh-uh, that didn’t work. Too painful.

She wasn’t actually conscious of any transition, was simply aware that she was back in her room, sitting at the computer, having utterly renounced her vow of the day before, to forget about her father. This thing wouldn’t wait.

The only thing was, she couldn’t get what she wanted online. She’d give anything to be able to hack into the Times-Picayune library. Frustrated, she wondered if the public library was open on Saturday, and then had a better idea. She had a friend at the paper, a reporter who’d once done a story on her—maybe Jane Storey would look up what she wanted. She gave her a call.

Unfortunately it meant telling a lot of her personal business, but that was what it took to get a reporter intrigued. Even so, it looked like it wasn’t going to work until finally Talba blurted, “Dammit, Jane, I’m a baroness! You have to do what I say.” A good laugh, it seemed, was almost as good as information. “All right, all right.” Storey giggled. “Anything you say, Your Grace,” and went off to check the old files.

It was a thumb-twiddling thirty minutes before the phone rang. “Hey, Baroness, I think I’ve got it. Listen to this: ‘Body Found in Apartment’ But I warn you, it’s not pretty.”

“I can handle it.”

“Okay, here goes. It’s mercifully short.”

It was only about two paragraphs, and all it said was that Denman Wallis had been found in his own living room, dead of a gunshot wound. Or that was almost all—it said he’d been found after neighbors reported a foul smell. The body was in an advanced state of decomposition.

When she had thanked Jane and hung up, Talba closed her eyes to see if she could still run the movie. It was there like before, only now she saw only the blood, a flowing, fearsome lake of it. For the first time she heard a voice— “Sandra! Oh, baby, baby, baby! Oh, baby!” Miserable. Keening. “Come here, baby. You all right. Everything’s okay.” And then arms around her. Being picked up and held by someone.

Not Miz Clara. A man.

Her eyes were open now, staring at the screen, but she was still watching the movie. Only now it was more like a video game, with characters interchangeable at her whim. She played it as it must have happened.

If mother-as-murderess was what they were keeping from her, then who had picked her up? Could it have been Corey?

No. If she was seven, he’d have been fourteen, and even now he wasn’t a big man—as far as she remembered, he’d been a runty teenager. This was definitely an adult. She couldn’t think of anyone close enough to the family to be there at a time like that. There must have been an argument—nobody would argue in front of guests.

Unless the argument was about the guest.

Did Miz Clara have a lover? The idea was so preposterous Talba almost laughed. If she and Corey hadn’t existed, she’d have thought her mother had never had sex in her life—never had the slightest interest in it.

Maybe Miz Clara had learned the hard way.

Talba’s overloaded brain was screaming with the effort of it. Come on, folks, is this worth driving me crazy for? Give me a fucking break!

She realized she was furious.

“Goddam it to hell!” She yelled loud enough to be heard on the north shore and threw a shoe across the room. Unsatisfied, she threw the other shoe. “Motherfucking motherfucker!” No doubt Mrs. Glapion down the block had heard her, but she was well beyond excusing her French.

She sat down hard on the bed and lay back, staring at the ceiling. This is what made me so mad last night. The goddam conspiracy.

They are not getting away with it. There’s got to be something.

There were several things. There was an old cedar chest in which her mother kept—what? She didn’t know.

There was a hall closet that hadn’t been cleaned since her childhood, that she knew of.

And there was an attic.

It was Saturday, and she had all day.

Every instinct told her to go for the cedar chest, that that was where it would be, if it existed. She’d never even known Miz Clara to open it.

But she couldn’t do that quite yet. She was angry at her mother, but such an invasion of privacy was going to require an act of will she wasn’t yet up to.

She figured the heat in the attic would be unbearable, but she was still willing to go there first. To get to it, you had to pull down a door in the ceiling and climb a folding ladder. Armed with a flashlight, she ascended gingerly, on fastidious alert for crawly things.

But it was remarkably clean up there. This was where her mother kept her winter clothes in summer, and her summer clothes in winter. There were garment bags there, and some black-plastic leaf bags closed with a twist of wire.

Talba worried them open. Clothes were inside— clothes of her mother’s that she could remember Miz Clara wearing fairly recently. Certainly nothing from another era. They were probably things waiting to go to the Goodwill, or maybe a rummage sale at church.

She was drenched when she descended and folded up the ladder. Okay, it was done. Some iced tea and then back to work.

Was she ready for the cedar chest?

Now or never, she thought. Let’s do it.

She popped briefly by the closet, just to reassure herself, and found it so packed with things she couldn’t identify, she found she actually preferred the chest.

Ms. Clara used the top for a catchall. It was stacked with old church bulletins and boxes of pledge envelopes. There was a little shell-encrusted figure of Jesus on a cross that Talba had brought her from Florida once when she was a child. It made Talba wince, as it had even at age nine, but she’d known her mother loved Jesus, and there wasn’t that much of which Miz Clara did approve.

There was a cardboard stationery box of cards her mother had saved, birthday and Mother’s Day cards from Talba and Corey, which made Talba tear up. Things like that were private; they shouldn’t be seen by anyone but the collector—especially not by the collected. There were some pills, too, and some old magazines, mostly copies of the Watchtower left by Jehovah’s Witnesses. She had heard Miz Clara promise the Witnesses she’d read them, and Talba was sure she still meant to, though some were seven years old and had never been touched.

Talba took careful note of where everything was and then laid it all out in the same pattern on her mother’s carefully made bed.

She opened the chest. The smell of cedar filled the room. Startled, she jumped as if an animal had leapt out.

Fitted onto an inch-wide wooden shelf that ran round the perimeter of the chest was a sort of shallow drawer that lifted out, divided into two small compartments and one large. Lying there right on top, in the middle of the large one, was something that took her breath away. Her parents’ wedding picture, framed in silver.

She picked it up, taking in every detail. Miz Clara thirty-odd years younger and wearing a white dress! She couldn’t get over it. Absolutely could not imagine such a thing.

It was a long, beautiful, lacy white dress, with veil to match. Absolutely the whole nine yards. Ten minutes earlier, Talba would have bet money that Miz Clara had worn a church dress down to City Hall to get married.

But her mother had been a real bride, as radiant as the cliché held. Talba kept staring, inspecting the picture for signs of her mother’s cynicism, her brittleness, even her stoicism, and all she could see was happiness. And hope. And real hair, she was pretty sure—Miz Clara had been buzz-cutting her hair and wearing wigs for dress-up ever since Talba could remember.

She thought: Why don’t I know about this? What little girl doesn’t know about her parents’ wedding?

A memory came blasting back—Talba playing with her dolls, humming the “Wedding March,” Miz Clara yelling at her. “Girl, you stop that foolishness. You want to end up pregnant at fo’teen? Ya want to finish school or not?”

She had been nine at the most.

Talk of marriage was as verboten in the Wallis household as talk of Daddy. Miz Clara had always said, “Don’t you ever depend on some man to take care of you. You got one person you can depend on, and her name’s Sandra Wallis. That’s all you got in this world.”

Hurt, she had asked, “What about you, Mama? I thought I had you.”

And her mother had laughed. “Baby, you got to take care of me.”

She looked at her father’s picture. He was handsome. So handsome she was instantly drawn to him, though perhaps that was because she knew she was looking at her father. He was a nice medium brown color, like she was, and he had an Afro (though her mother’s hair was straightened). He also wore a lush moustache, a masculine attribute for which she’d always had a weakness. He was dressed in black tie, proper as you please, standing politely behind his bride. You’d never have guessed he’d become a druggie and die of a gunshot wound.

Talba felt herself tearing up again. What a waste!

She was disgusted with herself: Get a grip, girl. The guy was worthless. Everybody says so.

Still. You only get one father.

There were other pictures in the drawer-like compartment, though this was the only framed one. The others were loose, as if carelessly tossed, though there was nothing careless about Miz Clara. They must be things she couldn’t bear to part with, no matter how much she professed to despise her husband’s memory. The first one Talba saw was a two-by-three-inch photo of herself, snaggletoothed and pigtailed; a school picture, probably from second grade. Again, she felt like an intruder. She didn’t want to know that her mother had saved a picture like this of her, and she knew her mother wouldn’t want her to know. It was far too sentimental a gesture for Miz Clara to acknowledge.

There were more pictures of her, and some of Corey, and some of Aunt Carrie. One that really got to her was of all of them, six-year-old Corey all dressed up in a suit like his dad’s, their father wearing a tie, Carrie and Clara in dresses and hats, each holding a baby daughter, each daughter decked out in white lace. On the back, someone had written, “Easter, 1977..” Talba wondered who had taken it.

It was hard, looking at those pictures. She wanted to stare at each one forever, and yet the most cursory glance made her feel so guilty her stomach hurt. The phone rang, and she nearly threw herself under the bed.

Darryl, she thought, and let it go. Pausing now wasn’t going to make it any easier.

She did stare at them for a while, even laid some on the floor and looked at them in the aggregate. There was so much so see... so much it took her nearly an hour to find the flat, green-leather album at the bottom of the pile. It was trimmed with gold and looked bought at a stationery store, an extravagant purchase for someone like Miz Clara. It was no one’s idea of a wedding album, yet that was what it was—and indeed it had a dignity that one of those white shiny ones wouldn’t have had.

For the first time, she saw a picture of her grandmother. Her grandfather had died when Carrie and Clara were in high school, and her grandmother, when Talba was a baby. Talba thought it odd that there were no photos of her anywhere in the house—but then, there were no photos at all. They were all, it seemed, in the cedar chest.

If her father had parents, they hadn’t come to the wedding—perhaps he had come from too far away for poor folks to travel. Aunt Carrie had been maid of honor, and there was a best man—someone named William Green whom Talba didn’t recognize. He’d be difficult to trace with a name like that, but she could try. There were no bridesmaids and no groomsmen.

The photographer evidently hadn’t shot pictures of the guests as well as the wedding party, in the casual manner of the late nineties. But there was a face she knew. There was a great shot of the bride and groom saying their vows, the preacher’s solemn brown face peering out above their clasped hands. And he was someone she knew. He was a man she remembered from her childhood, when her mother had made her go to church every Sunday—the Reverend Clarence Scruggs, as nasty an old devil as she’d ever met in her life.

Old. The thought chilled her. Maybe he was dead. Still, though—she remembered the Easter finery— her parents had gone to church. She looked closely at the pictures, and there could be no doubt—it was the same church her mama went to to this day. Surely someone there would remember her father. Someone. Surely.

There were no papers, no other clues in the shallow compartment. What on earth was in the chest proper? She tugged the container off its narrow shelf, no easy job, since the chest was probably two and a half by five feet.

It was only about a third full, and what was in it was underwear. A satin robe and nightgown; some lacy slips and panties. She knew instantly what it was—her mother’s trousseau.

Talba had been a fairly decent history student— she was perfectly aware of the turmoil of the sixties. She knew all about Black Power and Black Panthers and Black Is Beautiful. (And personally, she thought of herself as black—”African-American” was too cumbersome and sounded like a euphemism. She’d run across the old rallying cry, “I’m black and I’m proud” and wondered whatever had become of it.) When all that was going on, her parents were getting married. Her mama was shopping for a trousseau, dreaming a dream.

It was enough to make you cry.

She felt around in the bottom of the chest, just in case, and, in fact, felt something hard, something in a little plastic envelope. Fishing it out, she beheld her mother’s diaphragm, which she dropped like it was radioactive. Quickly, she pushed it to the bottom and fluffed some underwear around it, so maybe Miz Clara would never know her daughter had done this. Talba was numb with remorse.

She had the whole thing back together, church bulletins, seashell Jesus, and all in ten minutes. She would die, would absolutely, no question, croak if Miz Clara ever knew she’d touched her diaphragm and eyeballed her undies.

She went in her own room and flopped again on the bed, feeling the turtle response setting in.

Uh-oh, she thought. Gotta fight it. She breathed some, counting the breaths, a technique she’d learned from a boyfriend who was into martial arts. In fact, she promptly went to sleep, which was full-tilt turtle, she knew from experience, but she slept only a few minutes, waking refreshed and hungry.

She took a shower, fixed herself some lunch, and made up a story to tell when she called the church. She checked her voice mail, but if Darryl had called, he wasn’t owning up. Maybe it was Corey, she thought, and realized for the first time she was going to have to apologize to Michelle.

Oh, God. Maybe I could find a fairy godmother to turn me into a real turtle. Permanently.

A machine answered when she called the church. The days of full-time church secretaries were apparently over—but then it was Saturday. Still, things would be going on there. Maybe some ladies cooking for a needy family, something like that—maybe someone’s house had burned down, and they needed a casserole.

Aha! She had an idea. The latest church bulletin was on the cedar chest, and she was in luck—it listed a White Elephant Sale for the Wednesday Night Prayer Group. That meant plenty of ladies, some of them old. Most of them, probably. She thought about taking the plastic bags from the attic, but the minute she did, Miz Clara would declare the missing garments her favorites—there was a law about that.

So she packed up some stuff of her own and drove on over, surprised she could still find the place after her long absence.

She made her manners and her donation and started asking around, getting all the wrong answers: “Why, no, I don’t b’lieve I do recall a Clarence Scruggs.”

“Brother Scruggs? Why, he’s been gone a long time. Must be ten, twelve years.”

“I haven’t thought about that old man in a month of Sundays—I wonder whatever did become of him?”

“You might ask Lura Blanchard. She said she’d pass by later on.”

Anybody might pass by later on—maybe even Clarence Scruggs himself. But Talba was a woman on a mission; if she lost her momentum, she’d go back in her shell. She started wandering.

It was amazing how things came back to her. She knew exactly where to find the downstairs powder room, the social hall, the Sunday school rooms, and that indispensable repository of records—the church office. Mailing lists and tithes were probably computerized now, but they hadn’t always been. Talba was hoping for some old-fashioned file cabinets. Unfortunately, the office door was locked.

Could she unlock it with a credit card? Getting caught would be ugly, but what the hell.

She gave it a shot, but couldn’t make it work.

There was always the window. She could heave a rock through it.

She heard footsteps. Quickly, she knocked, to give the appearance of innocence. An old woman came into view, a woman who looked at least ninety. She was wispy, thin like old people get, and the kind of short that has once been tall. Her skin was light and her wiry white hair was cut in an ear-length bob and parted on the side. She walked with a cane, but that didn’t stop her from wearing two-inch heels. She looked elegant with her white hair, navy dress, and spiffy shoes. She was the sort of old lady who’d probably bury all her friends and die with her funeral perfectly planned, right down to the hymns.

“Hello, Sandra Wallis,” she said. “I heard you were looking for me.”

Talba was speechless. She’d never seen the woman before in her life. Maybe she was the church ghost.

“I know ya,” the apparition said. “Been knowin’ ya all ya life.” She waved an encompassing arm. “All those sisters out there—they know ya. This a Christian church, girl. Once you in it, ya in it forever.”

That wasn’t Talba’s understanding of the way the thing worked, but she understood that that was a technicality—Miz Clara had raised her in this church, and no matter what kind of heathen she’d since become, they were always ready to take her back—even if she didn’t remember them.

She gave her new pal a great big granddaughterly smile. “I know your face—I just can’t recall the name.”

“Lura Blanchard, dollin’. You axed for me, didn’t ya?”

Talba put out her hand to shake, but to her surprise, the woman gathered her up in a hug. “Welcome back, child.”

“Why thank you, Miz Blanchard. I was just wondering if anybody’s in the office.”

“Well, I used to be—every day of my life.”

The same face, much plumper and smoother, appeared on Talba’s mental screen. “You were the church secretary.”

“Tha’s right, dollin’. For thirty-odd years. See, ya do remember.”

Talba was starting to worry about the old lady. She looked around wildly, hoping for a couple of armchairs. “Is there anyplace we can go to sit down?”

“Sho’ honey. Got my key right here.” Lura Blanchard reached in her elegant dress and pulled a key from her bosom. “Never gave this up for just that reason. Every now and then, I like a quiet place to sit down.”

Without an apparent second thought, she broke into the church office. Talba must have been showing her amazement. Lura Blanchard said, “It’s all right, dollin’. What belongs to the church belongs to all of us.”

Sure enough, there were a pair of good chairs in there. Each of them took one. “I understand you looking for Reverend Scruggs.”

“Yes, ma’am. I wonder if you know where I can find him?” Talba hoped she didn’t sound too phony. The effort of behaving genteelly was getting to her.

“You want him or ya mama?”

It was a tough one. Talba didn’t know which was the preferred answer. She decided she’d better not lie. The whole thing was going to get back to Miz Clara, if it hadn’t already. She had no idea these people kept such close tabs on one another. “It’s for me,” she said. “I need to ask him about a bit of church history.”

“Is that right, now? Well, I might be able to help. I been here longer than anybody but God.”

“Miz Blanchard, are you a close friend of my mama’s?”

“Clara Wallis? As fine a Christian woman as I’ve ever met in my life.” That didn’t actually answer the question, but it was rhetorical anyway.

“I’m asking because I thought she might have told you about my job. I’m doing some confidential investigating for a security company. I’m afraid it involves something I’m permitted to talk about only with those who’re directly involved.” She babbled on, to cover the awkward moment. “I’m awfully sorry—for me, I mean—’cause I’ll bet anything you do know.”

Lura Blanchard gave her a wry smile that didn’t tell Talba whether she’d bought the lie or not. She said, “Well, let me see what I can do for ya.” And proceeded to rifle the church files.

She knew exactly what she was looking for and where to find it. In less than a minute, she had an official-looking card in her hand. “Uh-huh. Here’s an update on his address. We don’t see much of Reverend Scruggs anymore.” Her small, proper mouth assumed another wry little twist. “ ‘Course, some folks think tha’s a good thing.”

Talba matched her smile for smile. “He was kind of an old terror, wasn’t he?”

“Wasn’t much joy in him—all hellfire and damnation. I don’t believe tha’s God’s message, but that was Reverend Scruggs’s path, so who am I to criticize?”

“Surely the church paid him. I’d have thought you’d have some say-so.”

“Well, we must have needed him—he was what God sent us. And I certainly wouldn’t argue with His plan for us. Would you?”

Talba sidestepped that one. “Guess you right,” she said, in her one habitual lapse of standard English— she found it smoothed over a multitude of sticky situations. “Shall I copy down Reverend Scruggs’s address and phone number?”

“Help yaself, child. Help yaself.” The old woman sighed in what might have been resignation. Talba wondered again how good a friend of her mother’s she was. On impulse she said, “Did you know my father?”

“Ya father? Why no, I didn’t. I don’t b’lieve he was a member here.”

And yet he had worn that Easter suit.

Talba helped the old lady back downstairs and thanked her as curtly as she politely could—a process she managed to pare down to twenty minutes or so. She was itching to get to the Reverend Scruggs before her mother found out she’d been trespassing on her turf.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The good reverend had evidently fallen on hard times, or perhaps Baptists simply didn’t pay their ministers much. These days he was living in public housing for seniors.

She dreaded going to see him. She could remember his flashing, angry eyes, the way he pounded and paced when he really got going. One sermon she particularly remembered, delivered when there had been a lot of gang activity: “The Lord will not tolerate such as this. He will destroy these young people as he destroyed the Canaanites, as he destroyed the Philistines, as he destroyed all the enemies of Israel. Destruction shall rain down upon them and peace shall be restored.”

So far as she knew, peace hadn’t ever been restored, but within three months, seven or eight young men in the gangs had been destroyed. Talba was young enough to be impressed. When she thought about it, that particular sermon had done more than anything else to make her lose interest in the church.

Considering the neighborhood she was going into, she wished she had a steering wheel lock. The kids in the streets looked pretty much like the ones upon whom the Reverend Mr. Scruggs had called down destruction all those years ago. He must have lost his touch.

Now don’t you worry, she told herself. Crime is down all over the city.

Still, a woman alone didn’t go places she shouldn’t, and Talba really shouldn’t be here. She wondered if she should get a gun, and almost laughed: I’d probably shoot myself.

The man who came to the door looked about as old as Lura Blanchard, but he’d fattened up where she’d thinned out. He had quite a watermelon on him, showed off by a wife-beater T-shirt. Chest hair that peeked out of it was as white as the hair on his head. He was barefoot and struggling to get a pair of specs on his face. “Are you the lady from the home health? We weren’t expecting you today.”

“Reverend Scruggs?”

He smiled at that—he must not hear it much anymore. “Brother Scruggs is fine.”

“Lura Blanchard told me where to find you.”

“Why I’ll be darned—Lura Blanchard! Come in, come in.” And he opened the door. “Will you ‘scuse me a moment?” He looked hugely uncomfortable.

A female voice called from another room: “Clarence? Who’s that?”

“ ‘Scuse me, will you?” The Reverend Mr. Scruggs hitched up his pants as he departed.

His hair had been black when Talba knew him, and his manner so fierce even some of the congregation’s adults found him scary. More than his belly seemed to have softened up.

Talba checked out the room while she waited. It was short on furniture and long on mementoes. In fact, there was really nothing large in it but a couple of bookshelves, a television, a table against a wall, and two chairs with a small table between them. Bookshelves, tables, and walls were loaded, however—with pictures, diplomas, newspaper clippings, scrapbooks, awards, certificates of appreciation, everything he could scare up to remind him of the life he used to have. Talba wondered which was better—the remembered or the current one. This one looked meager and hard, but the man seemed more at ease with it.

He returned wearing a fresh white shirt and a clean pair of trousers. Talba could see that he’d also splashed water on his face and guessed he’d brushed his teeth as well. He extended his hand. “Well, now. Well, now. Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”

“Talba Wallis, sir. I used to be called Sandra. My mother’s Clara Wallis. Perhaps you remember us from First Bethlehem Baptist.”

“Wallis? I remember your mama. Yes.”

The voice called to him again. “Clarence? Who is that with you, Clarence?”

“Excuse me a moment, will you?” he said, and this time she heard him speaking softly to someone. When he came back, he closed a door somewhere behind him. “My wife,” he said. “She is an invalid, I’m afraid. She had a stroke several years ago, and has never fully recovered. Her memory is very poor.”

Talba was intrigued. The notion of being what amounted to this man’s prisoner would have horrified her at one time, but he had spoken to his wife as gently as any nurse. She asked if he was her principal caregiver.

“I am, yes. It pretty well keeps me occupied.”

“It must be hard on you.”

“On the contrary. Had it not been for my wife, I might have lost my way entirely. She is my dearest love, and I find it a privilege to care for her.” The words would have been difficult for most people to say—far too intimate to fit into the twenty-first century—and yet he had spoken them simply and sincerely, without the pastoral bombast of previous years.

“You seem different from the way I remember you.”

He nodded. “Yes, ma’am, I am different. And I am proud of it too.”

“What did your wife say to you? I mean, how did she...” Talba felt she’d gone too far, but didn’t know how to extricate herself. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s none of my business.”

“No, it is not, and yet I am quite happy to tell you. It was not what she said, but who she was. We had a child who was stricken with a rare and painful disease. I felt as though the Lord had turned against me. I was devastated and I was angry—after all, I was the fiercest soldier in His army. And then I gradually came to see that the God I had been looking for, the holy spirit itself, dwelt in this woman who took such loving, uncomplaining care of our stricken child, and I vowed to remake myself in her image.”

Talba wasn’t quite sure what she was hearing. “Are you saying that… uh…”

“Not that I worshiped my wife. Certainly not. I worshiped her only in the sense that any man worships the woman he loves. I mean only that the holy spirit dwells in all of us and that in her I was able to see it shining through and to understand its shape and its texture, its beauty and its glory, to see for the first time that which had eluded me for so many years. And I felt that I was home.”

“Well.” Talba hardly knew what to say—the simplicity of his belief, his lack of bombast, was really quite moving. “You still preach a beautiful sermon.”

“I meant that as no sermon, young woman. Simply as a statement of fact.”

She smiled at him, beginning to get over her embarrassment. “And I thank you for it, sir.” She was starting to talk like him.

“What can I do for you, Miss Wallis?”

“Ah. Me.” She had actually forgotten about herself for a while. This felt a lot more like being in church than sitting in First Bethlehem ever had— maybe the Lord really did move in mysterious ways. “I don’t know where to start.”

“Why don’t you start at the beginning?” Kindly old uncle eyes looked out at her from behind the specs. She might as well have been talking to Santa Claus. It occurred to her she could unload on this man—he was a perfect stranger, and he used to be a preacher.

“Have you got a while?” She asked, “I might need a little pastoral counseling.”

“Certainly I have. Let me just go see to Ella.”

While he was gone, she halfway considered bolting, but coming back would be too hard. At the very worst, maybe he’d tell her if she needed a shrink.

“Would you like some coffee?” he said. “Mine is not very good, but it may pump you up for the ordeal to come.”

“What ordeal?”

“You are not looking forward to talking about it, are you?”

“Listen, let me just dive in while you’re making that coffee.”

He motioned her to come to the kitchen, and began to move clumsily about it.

“I made a scene in a restaurant last night. My brother’s probably never going to speak to me again. My boyfriend’s probably given up on me.”

“If you have come to me, this is not the beginning of your problem.”

“Everybody’s keeping a secret from me. A big, big deal of a secret.”

“I see.” He nodded, and held out a cup of coffee. Indeed he looked like a shrink. Maybe it wasn’t going to be too bad.

Seated at his old kitchen table (which was every bit as disreputable as Miz Clara’s), she poured out the story in little clumps of remembrance—some from childhood, most from the last few days, and some the gray-mist ones of the movie in her head—ending with the scene from the night before, the compulsion that had come over her this morning, even the White Elephant Sale and Lura Blanchard, whom she ratted out for breaking and entering, thinking she and the reverend might have a big old laugh about it. And indeed, they were such pals by that time, that it came, as he might have said, to pass.

He filled her cup again and looked at her over the top of his glasses. “What are you afraid of, child?”

She wondered why he hadn’t read as much between the lines as she did. “I think my mother killed him. I think…maybe ... there might have been another woman, and it might have even have been…” She had a thought way the hell in the back of her mind. Was it too stupid to say it? Spit it out, girl. Come out of your shell. “My aunt Carrie,” she said at last. “That man? You know, that man I remember? It could have been my uncle. That’s the only person it really could be—maybe he killed my daddy because, you know, he caught him with his wife…”

“Slow down. Slow down now. I can’t tell whether you think your uncle killed him or your mama.”

“I’m afraid it’s my mama. I guess I was just hoping maybe it was the man—because nobody loved me like that that I can remember. My uncle would have been the only one, you see? The man picked me up and hugged me and tried to comfort me ... “

“Well, your mind can play tricks on you.”

“I guess it can.” She was deeply disappointed— she wasn’t getting much in the way of wisdom out of Reverend Born-Again.

“But I want you to rest easy, now. Your mama didn’t kill your daddy.”

She looked at him curiously, unsure if he was speaking from knowledge or opinion.

“I remember a lot about the story. No ma’am. Your mama didn’t kill him and your Aunt Carrie didn’t carry on with him. I don’t care what her name is.” He laughed at his own small pun. “That I can promise you. Yes ma’am, I can promise you that. But there was another woman—you’re right about that. And that’s what broke your parents’ marriage up. Your daddy left home when you were just a baby.”

“Oh. I thought they lied about when he left—I guess I took ‘left’ to mean disappeared or dead or something. I didn’t catch on that he moved out.”

“Oh, yes, I remember it well. He and your mama were separated. Not divorced, though; don’t believe they ever divorced.”

“Did he move to another city or what?”

“He didn’t move to another city—that I remember. Wait a minute, why do I think that?” He closed his eyes for a minute and bent over the old table. He could have been praying, for all Talba knew. “Yes. Yes, I do remember. I saw him in church after that, with you and your brother.”

Talba couldn’t feature that one, considering the way Miz Clara felt about him to this day. The wound would have been much fresher then, more tender and sore. “You mean, he sat with mama and us?”

“I don’t think so. I can’t seem to recollect seeing your mama with the three of you.”

“Well, I appreciate what you’re saying, but I’m still not getting why you’re so sure Miz Clara didn’t kill him.”

“I know what I know, girl.” A touch of the old fierceness had crept into his voice. “I can’t divulge your mama’s secrets, but I know what I know.”

There it was—the same old thing again. “What is this thing with secrets?”

“Now, hush, Sandra. You just hush now.” He spoke just above a whisper; Talba could imagine him speaking that way to his demented wife. “By the time your daddy died, your mama had moved on. She had other things on her mind. Yes, ma’am. Yes, she did.”

“You sound as if you remember when he died.”

For the first time, he seemed confused. “Well, now, I can’t say I do exactly. The service must have been somewhere else—maybe his woman’s church, or his parents’. But one thing I can say for sure. Miz Clara wasn’t studying on that man anymore. She had moved on from that.”

Suddenly the light started to dawn, so clearly she didn’t see how she could have been so stupid. “Are you saying my mama had a boyfriend?”

“Child, you know I can’t talk about something like that. You know I can’t. If Miz Clara won’t talk about her own life, far be it from me.” He stood up. “Let me just check on Ella.”

When he came back, Talba had readied herself to leave, a process that took only a little longer than leaving Lura Blanchard had. After many thank-yous and be-goods and take-care-of-yourselfs and promises not to be a stranger, they finally severed the connection.

Talba was a little disoriented, but otherwise okay. Feeling turtlelike, that was all. And utterly unprepared to see Darryl’s car in front of her house when she arrived. Darryl was coming down the walk, just leaving.

“How’s Your Grace this fine afternoon?” He was trying to be his old easy self, but there was something stiff about him.

“Embarrassed,” Talba said. “Humiliated beyond all imagining. Abject. Do you think you could possibly ever forgive me?”

He relaxed a bit. “Consider it done. But we do have to talk—I’m not kidding. I got worried when I couldn’t get you on the phone.”

“I was too embarrassed to call.”

“Can we talk?”

She shrugged, wondering what fresh hell this was. “If we go somewhere else. I’m not in the mood for Miz Clara right now.”

“Nor am I. Let’s take a walk, why don’t we? City Park, maybe. Or maybe not. Too many flying horses. Maybe out by the lake.”

Talba thought that ideal—the man was better than a doctor. She got in the car with him and started up again. “I don’t know what got into me—I swear to God I don’t.”

“If I had to guess, I’d say it was frustration. You’re right. They’re all lying to you. They even kind of know they’re wrong, but they can’t not do it.”

She whirled toward him. “You know something I don’t.”

He laughed. “Uh-uh. Not till we get there. Think about something else till we get there.”

He thought that was funny. He didn’t have a clue how blank she could make her mind, how easy it was for her to settle back in her shell—the more stress, the easier. And this was stress. Smugly, she idled her mind, and not until they were walking did he speak.

“You’re not going to blink first?”

“You challenged me. But enough’s enough. Out with it.”

He picked up a stone and skipped it across the silvery surface. “Unfortunately, there is no it. Nobody told me what it is—-just that it is. Goddam, Baroness. Something’s funny in your family.”

“Come on—everything! Now.”

“Well, first Corey. Frankly, my dear, you were a tiny bit out of line.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“But did he get upset? No, he got protective.”

“Yeah, I noticed it too.”

“And there was Miz Clara, waiting up for us with hot milk…he’d called her, of course. But you’d have thought she’d be panicked. I mean, what it looked like, speaking from the outside, was that the very distinguished Baroness de Pontalba had just flipped her famous lid.”

“Oh, God, it’s going to get around town.”

He dismissed that one. “You’re a poet. You can get away with it. But Miz Clara almost seemed to be expecting it. And she did talk to me.”

“You’ve been holding out on me.”

“Uh-uh. I didn’t learn a thing, except that they’re holding out on you. She said I had to be especially nice to you, that you’d been a real nervous child, and the family was always ‘scared something would happen.’ “

“Scared what would happen?”

“You got me. I asked her specifically. All she’d do is put her lips together and shake her head. So I got tired of it, finally. I said, ‘Look. Did something happen to Talba when she was little?’ “

“Ha. What’d she say to that?”

“She narrowed her eyes and gave me the mother look—you know that look? All kids know that look. And she said, ‘Chew mean, boy?’ I know that ploy. I do it with my students all the time. And so, plunging boldly into the abyss, I said, ‘Did Talba see someone shoot her father?’ “

Talba heard blood pounding in her ears. Whizzing through her temples. Zing. Zing! An artery was probably going to burst. “Oh, my God. I’ve got to sit down.” Instead, remembering the man who’d kept her from fainting, she leaned over and touched the grass, as if stretching her back. That was no good—what she needed was less blood to the head.

She did sit down, and Darryl with her, rubbing her back, sharing his warmth. Gradually, her runaway heart began to subside. “What did she say?”

“She said, ‘Oh, no. Didn’t see no such thing. Sandra didn’t see no one shoot her daddy—you crazy as she is, boy.’ “

He did such a perfect Miz Clara that Talba, in the midst of a near heart attack, burst out laughing. “You shouldn’t make fun of my mama.”

He was laughing too. “I know. I hate myself when I do it. But you think maybe she’s protesting too much?”

“Sounds like it, doesn’t it? But I’m halfway relieved you actually asked her. See, Mama doesn’t lie.”

“She was lying. Maybe you had to be there—I was as sure of it as I am of... of...”

“Of what?”

“Oh, you know. Sky’s blue, water’s wet—that sort of thing.”

“Your baby loves you?”

“Does she?”

“Does he?” She was feeling better, but after the night before, looking for a little reassurance.

“Can’t. Sorry.”

The blood started to zing again.

“A common man is not permitted to love a Baroness.”

She relaxed. “How about if commanded?”

“Maybe if commanded.”

“I so command.”

He laughed. “Pushy, aren’t we? Listen, I need to talk to you about something.”

“Oh, God. I definitely need to lie down. Can I lie down for this?”

“No. Sit up, damn it. This is serious. I had kind of a revelation last night.”

“Oh, shit.” She put her hands over her ears. “I don’t need to hear this. Not today, Darryl.”

But when she looked at him, he was laughing. “Don’t be silly. I’m not trying to break up with you— is that what you think?”

She executed five or six whole-body nods.

“Well..,no. Not that I didn’t consider it for a while—there in the restaurant. You know how sometimes you can think you know a person and yet…” He didn’t have to finish. She was doing nods again. It was exactly what she thought he’d be thinking.

“And then, one look at Corey’s face, and I knew something was badly wrong—and not with you. Your brother loves you very much, Talba.”

“He does not. If he did, he wouldn’t have married that… that marshmallow fluff.”

“Oh, come on. Michelle isn’t so bad.”

“She is. You know she is.”

“Just because she doesn’t dress like a baroness…”

“Okay, okay.” She wanted to get to the meat of this, whatever it was.

Darryl stood up. “Come on, let’s walk some more. I want to walk.”

She sensed that he wanted her beside him, so that they weren’t looking into each other’s eyes. “Fine with me.” She dusted off her butt.

They were quiet for a few minutes. Talba was afraid to speak, but the suspense was so severe she had to take giant breaths to keep from hyperventilating.

It was getting late now, low sun glinting on the lake. The world was still, except for a faint lapping, and the occasional pelican’s dive. She tried to absorb the calm.

When the words came, they glided to her out of nowhere, seeming not to be in Darryl’s voice at all. “I wanted to protect you. I wanted you home with me.”

The sentiment was so unexpected she blurted “What?” in a loud, outraged-sounding whine.

He put his arm around her waist. “It’s okay. I’m not pushing you. I’m not asking you for anything. But I was thinking ... maybe I will someday.”

Talba’s throat started to close. A turtle attack was coming, and she wasn’t sure why. She loved Darryl. Why should she be afraid of this? This was what women wanted.

Darryl said, “Hello?”

“I, uh ... sorry. My software’s slow or something. I’m still downloading.”

She could feel him withdrawing from her, knew it was a response to her own aloofness. “Look, there’s a reason I’m saying all this.” He was nervous. She heard it in his voice, and it amazed her. By day, Darryl Boucree taught high-school kids and by night, he played music all over the city. It took a lot to make him nervous. “All this talk about secrets is starting to get to me.”

“Fine. I won’t talk about it. Forget I ever said anything.”

“Hold it; you’re not getting it. I want you to talk about what’s bothering you. Like I said...” He seemed to be having trouble getting it out

“Yes?”

“I want to protect you. I want to help you. But I’ve started to feel like I’m not all there for you.”

Was it reassurance he wanted? “Darryl, no one could have been more kind and understanding ...”

He stopped walking, turned toward the water.

He was standing with his hands in the pockets of his jacket, braced against the breeze. He looked like a god. She had an image suddenly of a man standing just like this, hands in pockets, the wind blowing as it was now, only he was a white man and so his hair moved when the wind blew, and he was smoking a cigarette and the wind blew the smoke as well. It was a kind of déjà vu, perhaps something she’d seen in a movie, and it was inexpressibly sad, the man remembering something he’d lost.

She knew in that moment that this was not the kind of sadness she saw in the eyes of men who could never be cheered up, that at least some of his sadness had been caused by her, and that she was capable of causing it again, and that any person who could cause this man to feel this way was not worthy of him.

“Darryl, I swear to God I’ll never be such an asshole again.”

“Get off that, will you? What I’m trying to say is that you were onto something the other night— there’s a reason you’ve never met my daughter.” He frowned. “How to say this? She’s kind of a handful.”

“You mean a brat?”

He looked hurt, and she remembered how she’d just seen him and what she’d realized. She could have kicked herself.

“It could be more than that—she’s being tested. For now, let me just say she’s difficult.”

Talba knew what she should say—even wanted to say—but now, under pressure, it was a fight to get the words out. “Could I meet her?”

He nodded, slowly, solemnly, then he grinned.

That gave her courage. “Do I have to?” she said.

He swatted her on the backside. “Yep. You do.” He was smiling like his old self.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Eddie had it out with Angie over the weekend. She was tougher than Audrey, tougher than Tony. Hell, face it, she was tougher than Eddie.

But, knowing it was coming, he developed a strategy—he’d just say, yeah, yeah, she was right, and he didn’t know what got into him, and it must have been temporary insanity, and then when she ranted on, he could act hurt and say why was she so mean to him?

It worked, too, up to a point. At least it freed him for thinking up anything to say to defend himself. Because it wasn’t a strategy at all—it was really a decision just to lie down and take it. That was how it was with Angie. She wasn’t a lawyer for nothing. She had things to say, she was going to say them— usually two or three times. Listening was no picnic— but on the other hand, it was the only alternative to fleeing the country.

So that was how his Saturday went. Sunday, he went to Mass with Audrey, and, afterward, they took a drive. This was something they never did together. But he found himself suggesting it, and then there they were off to the Gulf Coast to have lunch. Audrey was like a girl, she was so happy—happy that the last ten years had been wiped out and things she’d thought were true weren’t and never had been. Happy that her baby boy was back. Even happy with Eddie. She had forgiven him big-time.

They ended up gambling in one of the casinos and-what-the-hell, spending the night there and, most amazing of all, having a nightcap and making love. Really doing it, not just Eddie getting off, which was what it usually felt like anymore—as if Audrey weren’t there at all. Like she was just a prop.

All of which is to say, that was how he missed the eleven o’clock news, which it was his religion to watch. He picked up the paper Monday morning with a twinge of guilt, but it was nothing to what he felt when he actually saw what he saw—a picture of Aziza Scott, missing person. She hadn’t come home from work Friday night; her ex-husband had reported her missing after his daughter called him, terrified. There was a picture of Cassandra on an inside page.

Eddie had dropped the ball.

He had let the case go when she fired him. Hadn’t followed up with Shaneel. Goddammit, what was wrong with him?

“Audrey, we’re going.” She was still asleep, still in the afterglow of the night before.

Eddie was in another world by then. Because he took confidentiality seriously, he couldn’t even tell her what was wrong with him, why his mood had suddenly turned demonic.

He had a very bad feeling about this. So bad he felt a tight metal band close on his midsection. He’d had this before; he knew all about it. It could be an ulcer symptom, but in his case it probably wasn’t— it was stress. And he lived his life under stress. It took an awful lot to cause something like this.

He dropped Audrey off without so much as going in to change his socks and underwear. It was nearly nine o’clock. He drove straight to the Scott house. A man answered the door, colored fellow, seemed nice, but a little sad. The kid’s father, in from Baton Rouge. Eddie explained who he was and said he had to see Cassandra.

She hadn’t gone to school that day. She was still in bed, probably crying. She got up and dressed to talk to Eddie.

He said, “How ya holding up?” and all the obligatory stuff, and then he got down on one knee to talk to her, just the way he had with his own kids when he had something really important to tell them. “I’m ‘on tell ya something. I’m gonna find your mama for ya—you believe that?”

She shook her head. Her father said they couldn’t afford Eddie’s services.

He ignored the dad and spoke directly to Cassandra. “Listen, honey, ya mama fired me. I’m not working for her or anybody else now. Just you. And I work for you for free, ya got that?”

The dad said, “We really don’t need your services,” but Cassandra said, “Daddy!” in that teenage way, and he shut up. The kid was scared spitless.

“Now I need ya to promise me some stuff.”

She was nervous, kept glancing at her dad. Finally she said, “Daddy, can I talk to Mr. Valentino alone?”

He said, “Certainly not. I’m your father. Anything you say to him can be said in front of me.”

He didn’t know about Toes. Eddie realized suddenly that Aziza hadn’t even told him—was probably afraid the whole incident would reflect badly on her. He said quickly, “It’s okay. Just stay with ya dad—will ya promise me that?”

“I have to go to school.”

“Just today, okay? Promise.”

She nodded, utterly miserable. The phone rang, giving Eddie, after all, a minute alone with her. He said, “You know Toes has her, don’t you?”

She screamed, “No!” so loud he saw he wasn’t going to get anywhere.

He left her and drove to the office, where he kept a few clean clothes he could change into. He’d just done that, and was coming back from the men’s room, when Talba came in fit to be tied.

“He’s got Aziza.”

“Yes, Ms. Wallis. I b’lieve you’re right.”

“Well, what if he goes after Cassandra next? Or Shaneel?”

“Now calm down, Ms. Wallis. Just try to be calm. Cassandra’s father is with her. And Toes can’t get Shaneel during school hours.”

“How about after school?”

“We’ll just have to get there first, won’t we?” He hoped he sounded calm; if he did, it was a front.

Her eyes were wild things, operating with a mind of their own; her voice vibrated with panic. “Shouldn’t we call the police. I mean, this is two murders that we know of…”

He sat down, moving slowly to calm her. He patted air, slowly. “Ms. Wallis, Ms. Wallis. For all we know, Ms. Scott took off with her boyfriend. We don’t even know she’s dead, much less that this is a murder. We had information about Rhonda Bergeron, and they weren’t even interested. Now, we could call the police again. We could. But what would we say?”

“How about if we just call the tip line and say check out Baron Tujague’s brother in the Scott case?”

“Now what’s that gon’ do?”

“I don’t know, but it’s something.”

“Go do it then. Ya got my blessing. Whatever works. And whatever doesn’t work, I don’t care.” He waved her away and called the church to see if he could get Shaneel’s home phone number.

They said they didn’t have one. Hell.

And Talba, with all her machines and magic, couldn’t find out where the parents worked. Their only chance to see her was after school, and there was a small problem with that. Eddie shrugged it off—a very small one. He stopped in his assistant’s office on the way out. “Ms. Wallis, I got a lunch date I can’t break.”

When she turned from her screen, her eyes were scooched up again, and flame shot out of them. He wondered if she had any idea what a presence she was—how easily she made herself known without ever saying a word. He said, “I see you think I should break it,” and Eileen Fisher’s voice sang out from the anteroom, “You’re going, Uncle Eddie. Forget about it. You’re going.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going. Look, there’s nothing I can do until after school, anyway—I’ll meet ya at Fortier, okay?”

She tried to smile, but it didn’t come off. Well, hell. He gave her points for trying.

***

Talba had been trying so frantically to come up with something—anything—that she hadn’t even checked her email. She had brought herself a tuna sandwich from home. She could eat that at her desk and catch up—she was way too hyper to try to relax.

But she did go out for a second—to a deli to get a Diet Coke, and, during her errand, she let her mind wander in Darryl’s direction. Their relationship had unquestionably changed, whether for the better she didn’t know. It was both more intimate and more distant, both states caused by his revelation. They were wary of one another now, each circling till there were further developments, yet both knew the meaning of what he had said, the long-term point of it. It was an incredibly brave thing to do. Talba deeply admired him for it. Loved him for it. And wished he hadn’t done it quite yet.

Talba wasn’t much on kids. Did she really need Darryl’s difficult daughter in her life?

She scolded herself: Stupid! Shallow! Hateful! That man is so good to you it’s like eating love-flavored ice cream. After the way you acted Friday night too! Women would kill to have a man like Darryl Boueree. What the hell’s the matter with you?

You are going to love this man. I don’t care how mean and small-minded you are—you are going to get over it!

She was genuinely ashamed of herself. But she’d turned a corner—she’d had a talk with herself and gotten through to what was real. And what was real was Darryl’s simple, honest love for her; his decency; his choice to be honest with her. A rolling tsunami of love threatened to overwhelm her. She felt tears coming and blinked them back.

Nonetheless, Eileen greeted her with, “What’s the matter?”

“Oh, nothing.” She switched the Coke can from one hand to another—she had refused a bag, and the thing was giving her frostbite. “Just worried about the kids, that’s all—Shaneel and Cassandra.”

“You know, today’s Eddie’s birthday lunch.”

She’d forgotten all about the damn birthday. “I thought there was a party. I’m supposed to be writing a poem, right?”

“Oh, the party’s still on. This is just some old pals of his taking him to lunch. Aunt Audrey put them up to it, so he won’t suspect anything.”

She went in her office and attacked her tuna fish and email. Ah. Tony Tino had dropped her a line:

Guess what? I’m coming to town! Mom invited me to Dad’s birthday party. This is a big deal—I’m bringing my fiancée. Did I mention I’m getting married? Also, I’m the entertainment—or part of it, anyhow. I hear you are too. Looking forward to meeting you.

And there was a p.s. that was the real heart of it: About this getting married—we’ve been meaning to do it for a long time, and now Cara’s pregnant. So it’s sooner rather than later. When I got your email, I’d been in a funk for days, thinking about my family, and how my kid would never know its grandparents. See, what happened— Dad told Mom and Angie some lies about me and he told me some lies about them. That was how he kept us apart. So I couldn’t just call—or anyway, I didn’t think I could. Your email was what it took to push me over the edge. I was so ripe for plucking I was starting to ferment. I owe you a lot, Baroness.

Quickly, she composed an answer:

Wow. For once, the Baroness is humbled.

And she was, more or less. What she had done she did on impulse, and it nearly went the other way. I ought to be more careful, she thought.

***

She got to Fortier half an hour early, wondering how she was going to spot Shaneel in the swarm of kids leaving the building. She didn’t even know what the girl was wearing. With two of them, though, they’d have a good chance—and they’d almost certainly be able to see it if Baron Tujague’s brother approached her.

When the bell rang, Eddie still hadn’t shown. Talba thought, Must have got sloshed.

Shaneel was a big girl and fortunately, she’d picked today to wear a sweater of bright orange— the color hunters wear so they can see each other. Talba’s eye was drawn to it. A break, she thought. Maybe this’ll go right.

“Shaneel! Hey, Shaneel—can I talk to you?”

The girl waved, even, under the circumstances, seemed happy to see her. “Hello, James Bond. ‘Zat who you are? Or ya Jessica Fletcher?”

“Neither one, exactly.” Talba thought what a shame it was, there wasn’t a female analogy in popular culture. She forbore to mention Nancy Drew. “Got a minute?”

Shaneel waved good-bye to the kids she was walking with. “Sure. I got a minute.”

“You know about Cassandra’s mother?”

“Oh, yeah. She didn’t come home from her date or something.”

“Her date?”

“I don’t know. She’s always out on a date.”

“Shaneel. She still hasn’t come home.”

Alarm flooded the girl’s plump, carefree features. “She gone the whole weekend?”

“You haven’t talked to Cassandra about this?”

She shook her head vigorously. “No. Haven’t talked to Cassandra.” And then she got a sort of stupefied look, as something came back to her. “Didn’t talk to her today. I talked to her; sure I talked to her.”

“Talk to me, Shaneel.”

When the girl turned her face up to Talba’s, it was like a lovely dark moon, wide and innocent, not overbuilt with suburbs and subdivisions; a small place in the universe that hadn’t yet been wrecked. “Whassup?” she said. “You look kind of funny.”

“I think Toes got her. Kidnapped her.” She said it for shock value, didn’t really expect it to have any resonance, but to her surprise, Shaneel’s eyes grew into cookies, a dark raisin punctuating the center of each.

“Why you say that?” she asked.

“Shaneel, you know something. Tell me. We don’t have any time to waste.”

The girl took a step back, horror smeared like mud on her face. “Her mama called him. Her mama talked to him.”

“Aziza called Toes?”

“Yes’m. She called Toes.”

“Come on, honey. Keep talking.”

“She told Cassandra they could get money from him—she said he owed it to her for what he did to her.”

“So he was one of the men in the photos.”

“Yes’m. But Pammie said he was a friend of Baron Tujague. You come in, sayin’ he’s the Baron’s brother, well, Cassandra’s mama smells money. She called the Baron’s office and made a stink—Cassandra heard her do it, right on the telephone. Finally, she got Toes and made an even bigger stink, and Toes said she was right, he did owe her money behind it. He was gon’ pay her the next day.”

Talba suddenly felt steely and hard inside, for once calm and capable. She found that, often, with her worst fears confirmed, a great calm descended, and she was feeling that now.

“See, Cassandra ...”

But Talba interrupted her. There was something she wanted to make completely clear. “That was the day she disappeared, Shaneel.”

The girl wouldn’t stop. “See, Cassandra wasn’t like—like you think. Cassandra loves to sing more than anything in the whole world—me and Cassandra both; Pammie too. Well, Pammie’s sister Rhonda knew this dude who knew the Baron and Pammie said maybe he could help us get started. You know, the Baron’s got his own recording studio.”

“Ah. The light dawns.” Shaneel looked at her like she was speaking French, but she couldn’t really help the outburst. She realized she’d just gotten a piece of the puzzle that had been eluding her— exactly what flavor of toe jam she was dealing with. “Go on, honey.”

“We thought maybe we could make a CD—the three of us, you know? Maybe we’d get high with this guy and he’d listen to us sing. Only, Cassandra ... I don’t know... he said he had something special to talk to her about.”

“Okay, Shaneel. This is not a nice man we’re talking about.”

“You got that right.”

“A man who would have sex with a young girl isn’t nice. But Rhonda’s dead and Aziza’s disappeared. This is way beyond ‘not nice.’ “

Shaneel wouldn’t meet Talba’s eyes. “Pammie’s gone too.”

“Her parents sent her away.”

“No’m, I don’t think so—they call my house last night to see was she there.”

Damn! They’d lied to Eddie.

The girl looked miserable. “After Rhonda got run over, Pammie say maybe Toes done it. She say…”

“Rhonda knew about Toes and Cassandra?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

Because she had to—otherwise Pammie wouldn’t have put it together. And, sure enough, just like we thought, that’s what started it all. Talba could see the whole thing: Rhonda gets outraged, partly on behalf of her own baby sister, pitches a fit, and threatens to go to the cops.

It had to be that—if it were blackmail, he probably would have just paid her. But by the time Aziza got around to blackmail, the stakes were a lot higher. Now he couldn’t just pay—he’d already killed one Bergeron sister and maybe two.

And thanks to me, Aziza knew.

“Never mind, baby,” she said. “A lot of bad stuff’s been going on. It’s time to go to the police about this.”

The girl took a step backward, dread inching over her face. “No po-lice. Uh-uh. No po-lice!”

Talba tried to think how to talk about this without scaring her—if she hadn’t already figured out she and Cassandra were in danger, she was plenty scared about something. Adding to it was only going to make it worse. “Why not?” she asked. “What are you afraid of?”

Shaneel took off running. Talba started to chase her, but a boy, a football player from the size of him, bumped her out of the way. She tried again, but everywhere she turned, someone else blocked her. Apparently, the kids at Fortier stuck together. Shaneel was gone by the time she threaded her way to the sidewalk. Gone, and she didn’t know where the girl lived.

But there was always choir practice. She called the church and learned it wasn’t being held today.

Okay, she thought. Back to Uncle Eddie. Also the drawing board.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

It was possible to walk to Galatoire’s from the office, but Eddie’s limp posed a problem. He could make it fine, but his leg would ache tonight. And right now he was feeling good. Anthony was back in the family, he and Audrey were lovers again, and he hadn’t had a headache in almost a week. No point messing it up with an aching leg—there was a perfectly good parking lot at Dauphine and Bienville.

He was meeting three guys from the old days--Calvin, a deputy along with him; Sal, a prosecutor; and Philip, a judge. Of the four, only Philip still had his old job. And why not? It was a good gig. The other two reeked.

Sal and Calvin had long since gone into business for themselves, much as Eddie had. But one had a video store and the other worked for a shipping company—as far as Eddie was concerned, he was the only one still in the trenches. A couple of days ago, he’d have said that was a bad thing. Today he was feeling smug.

The others, in keeping with New Orleans tradition, had come early to save a table. Eddie sailed past the jealous folk still waiting for one, greeted the maître d’, shook hands with his favorite waiter, and nearly teared up at the sight of his old buddies. He wanted to hug them, but Galatoire’s was more a handshake kind of place, more French than Italian. A lot of masculine back-clapping was a pretty good substitute.

Sal started the bidding. “Eddie, ya lookin’ good for an old coot.”

Philip said, “Eye bags are the latest thing in Paris.”

“That’s what I tell my wife,” said Calvin. “She still wants a face-lift. Audrey still gorgeous?”

They could go on like that for hours, and did, insult piled upon courtesy, thrust following parry, joke chasing joke, crab salad disappearing, trout meunière appearing, crumbs from the crispest, sweetest bread blanketing the table.

There was wine too—not too much for Eddie, because of the kid he had to see after school—but enough to make everybody sentimental. Eddie rose and proposed a toast: “To my three oldest friends. And to friendship. And to living so goddam long we’ve known each other forever—excuse my French.” They’d barely gotten their glasses to their lips, much less thought of a counter-toast when he said, “I got good news. Anthony’s back in the family.”

And then of course he had to tell the story, which produced such an orgy of storytelling they might have closed the place down if such a feat could be accomplished—on Fridays, men who go for lunch just call their wives to come join them when they check their watches and find it’s dinnertime.

Eddie took quite a bit of ribbing about his new assistant being black, female, smart, computer literate, and a poet—all stuff of which he vigorously disapproved. But, hell, it was worth it—she’d gotten the kid back, glued the family back together. This week he was running a one-time-only special—she was in his good graces if she didn’t get anyone killed. He was in one hell of a mood.

By the time the coffee came, they were all young and fearless again, back at their old jobs and kings of the hill. Sal was punching Eddie on the arm. “Goddam! Remember those illegal wiretaps?”

Philip said, “I didn’t hear that.”

“Aw, Phil, we did boocoos of ‘em—everybody did it.”

The judge pretended to hold his ears. “Not for my shell-pinks.”

They ignored him. Sal said, “Oh, yeah, you guys were famous—how the hell did you get those telephone-company trucks?”

“Trade secret. But it worked like crazy. We’d get enough for a warrant and say—”

Philip abandoned all pretense. “—ya got it from a ‘confidential informant.’ Oh, yeah. You guys single-handedly gave snitches a rotten name. Confidential informant, my ass. You guys were the original fruits of the poison tree.”

“Watch who ya callin’ fruit, big boy. We got past you a time or two.”

More than a time or two. They all knew it and acknowledged it with big sloppy laughs.

Calvin said, “It’s just too bad Eddie had to get shot for it.”

And Sal said, “What’s that?”

Philip wrinkled his brow.

Calvin said, ‘‘Uh-oh. Did I speak out of school?”

Eddie’d been shot by the widow of a serial rapist who hung himself in jail. Guilty as sin—two women mutilated for life, three destroyed every other kind of way.

Entrapped by Eddie.

The guy knew it too—figured it out, and told his wife before he died. She believed hubby, tried to kill Eddie. He deflected the gun and took the hit in the thigh. Nearly bled to death.

Almost no one knew the story. It made Eddie cringe.

He said, “What the hell, Calvin. What the hell— we’re all friends here. Nothing’s gonna mess this day up. I’ve done some things I’m not proud of, and maybe that’s one of ‘em.” Another was the thing with Anthony—lying to him, lying to Audrey and Angie. Jesus! Yeah, that was another. It was behind him now. Everything was fresh and beautiful.

“Hey, let’s have some cognac. I got time.” School wasn’t out for forty-five minutes. “Did I tell ya Anthony’s comin’ home? I don’t know when yet; we’re working it out. He’s gettin’ married—I gotta meet the bride, don’t I?”

When the brandy came, he had another toast: “Here’s to all the stupid stuff ya do before you’re old enough to know better.”

Philip said, “Hear, hear.”

Eddie tossed down the rest of his drink. “Okay, old farts—whose birthday’s next?”

Calvin said, “Mine,” and they agreed to do it again, if they all made it that far.

Eddie left them to settle up the bill while he went to intercept Shaneel as she came out of school. For two hours, he’d been able to leave the case completely alone. He had a twinge of fear on the way to the parking lot. But he was in way too good a mood to indulge it.

He was crossing Dauphine, wondering with some interest what it might be like to be a grandfather, when he saw the white car barreling out of nowhere.

***

Talba figured Shaneel’s sudden departure was a good enough reason to interrupt Eddie’s birthday lunch. Nonetheless, she was slightly relieved when he didn’t answer his cell phone. She paged him and left the number of her own cell phone, then called the office. “Eileen, is he there?”

“Still at lunch. You know how it is when these old guys get together.”

“I’m on my way in—if he calls or comes in, tell him it’s urgent that he call me.”

She didn’t expect to hear from him. Consequently, when her cell phone sang out from the seat beside her, she nearly crashed into the car in front of her. She picked it up. “Eddie?”

“Talba, it’s Angie.”

“What? Angie, what is it?” Whatever it was, it was bad. She could tell by Angie’s voice.

“I’m at Charity Hospital. Dad’s been ...” Here she broke off, unable to form words. All Talba could hear was a kind of gasping.

And then Eileen’s thin, frightened voice came over the line. “He’s been hit by a car. I just got here.”

“How bad is it?”

“I don’t know. Audrey’s with him. We’re waiting.”

The emergency waiting room at Charity was grim and depressed; most people there were in pain of one kind or another. Those who weren’t worked there and lived with pain on a minute-to-minute basis. They knew far more than people should about life and death, and it had made them slightly brittle. What was worse, though, was that the room itself seemed alive, the air writhing with the spirits of people in pain or dying or grieving or half-worried to death. It sounds frightening in the telling, and could be, but in the end, it was oppressive instead. Entering, Talba felt as if someone had dropped a cement apron over her.

There was no sign of any member of the Valentino family. Panicked, she approached one of the guards outside the accident room, noticing that another was in a near-comical encounter with a man holding a handkerchief over his bleeding hand, jerking his head periodically, swearing under his breath, and trying to explain that what he had was Tourette’s, not a rotten attitude.

“I’m looking for Eddie Valentino. Accident victim, came in about half an hour ago?”

“You’re a family member?”

She shook her head. “Employee.”

“Let me see what I can find out.”

Figuring she was in for the usual interminable wait, she settled down to chew her nails, only to be interrupted almost immediately by a smart-looking woman in a burgundy smock announcing on the left chest that she was an “Emergency Department Patient liaison.” Once again, Talba explained who she wanted and was left to her own devices. And once again, she got action almost immediately.

“He’s in surgery,” reported the patient liaison. “May I escort you to the family waiting room?”

Dazed at the contrast in what she expected— good service versus bureaucratic attitude and sloth— she followed the woman to the elevator.

She found Eileen and Angie and Audrey sitting in a triangle of grief and worry, Angie looking like a mourner in her usual black. Audrey had on a gray sweat suit, something Talba felt sure she’d never be seen in, given the choice. She looked at Talba with dull, shocked eyes.

Talba said, “How is he?”

Audrey merely shrugged. Angie said, “If they know, they won’t tell us. They’re operating. That’s all we know.”

“Does anybody know what happened?”

This time, Audrey answered. Her elaborate coiffeur was flat in the back, wild in the front. She must have been napping when she got the news. “Some bastard ran him down. One of those idiots who barrel through the Quarter, think they own the town.”

Talba wouldn’t have believed she even knew the word “bastard,” half expected her to excuse her French. Audrey’s shocked eyes were suddenly snapping.

“Some Texan.”

Talba realized she’d been holding her breath. “A Texan. So they got the guy. It wasn’t a hit-and-run.”

“It was a hit-and-run. People saw it—ran him down like a dog. Left him to die in the street.” She was shaking with anger.

Talba said, “They got his plate number?”

Angie came to the rescue. “Mom, we don’t really know it was a Texan.” She turned to Talba. “We don’t know anything.”

“But we do know Eddie was on foot and somebody mowed him down?”

Angie nodded. “Bastards,” said Audrey. Talba noticed how thin she was, and that she looked old, her skin gray and cracked.

“They didn’t give you any idea what his injuries are?”

“His face looked terrible. They broke his nose.” She turned to Angie and started crying. “They broke ya poor father’s nose.”

That was probably all she knew right then. Talba sat down to wait for news, her mind working. “What about the car? Did the witnesses say what it looked like?”

Angela shook her head. Audrey was already back in her own world. Eileen sat like a stone, withdrawn and miserable.

Toes could have followed him from the office. He could have watched him park and waited for him to come out of the restaurant. If he already knew where he’d parked, he didn’t have to follow him from the restaurant. All he had to do was lurk near the parking lot.

She fidgeted for a while and then she could stand it no longer. “Angie, can I talk to you a minute?”

“Sure. Let’s go get some coffee.” She seemed glad of the chance to flee her mother’s fear.

Talba hadn’t the patience to go for coffee and then drink it. As soon as she had Angie in the hall, she said, “Has he talked to you at all about the case we’re working on?”

Angie looked shocked. “He never talks about cases.”

“Well, I’m talking about it. I think there’s a very dangerous person involved. And there’s been another hit-and-run.”

“Oh. So much for the Texas theory.” The words were brittle, but Angie’s voice wasn’t. It was tired, and her face was drained. Her usual slash of red lipstick was long gone.

“Did the cops say anything at all about the car?”

“There weren’t any cops here when I got here.”

“The paramedics then.”

“All that was over by the time they called us. He was already in some cubicle being felt up for fractures.”

“Listen, I’m going to the police. Eddie and I should probably have already done it. I guess I’m kind of in the way here, anyway.”

Shyly, Angela put a hand on her arm. “No. Thanks. Thanks for being here.”

Talba only nodded, a little embarrassed.

“Could you do us a really, really big favor? I mean really big. If you don’t want to, you can say no.”

“Sure.”

“Anthony’s coming in in a couple of hours. I can’t leave Mom. Could you possibly...”

To save her embarrassment, Talba interrupted. “Could I meet him at the airport? It would be a pleasure. It would sure beat sitting around the hospital.”

She was looking for a pay phone when she remembered she had a phone in her purse. Unselfconsciously she pulled it out and dialed, walking down the corridor with it pressed to her ear. If it had been anyone else, she would have thought them terribly self-important.

Skip Langdon, her friend at the Third District, was just about to leave. Talba begged; she had to talk this out. “Listen, just stay till I get there. Please.”

“You’re not confessing to anything, are you?”

“Are you kidding? This is informational. That’s it. Except that I’m worried to death about my new boss.”

“Eddie? You don’t have to worry about him—he’s honest as the day is long.”

“Skip, it’s not what you think. Eddie’s in surgery at Charity—hit-and-run.”

“Oh. That kind of worried.” She sighed. “How is he?”

“Nobody knows yet.”

“Come on over.”

Langdon was a tall white woman, and Talba was no giant, but there was something about the cop that reminded her of herself. Or maybe that was wishful thinking—Talba admired Langdon for her quickness, her authority. Maybe when I’m seasoned, she thought. That was what it was—Langdon was seasoned. She’d seen enough strange things that they were familiar to her. She knew what was coming next most of the time. It was a stage of life Talba’d be happy to reach.

She said, “You’re looking good, Baroness.”

“I’m a wreck, but thanks. Look, you know that stuff I told you about Baron Tujague? It’s escalated. Remember that other hit-and-run—Rhonda Bergeron? Well, now Eddie.”

“Could be coincidence.”

“Skip, I know I’m supposed to observe confidentiality, but I’m too green to handle it. The client’s Aziza Scott—the woman who disappeared over the weekend.”

“Whoa. Mind if I tape this? That way I can just ship the tape out to the relevant officers.”

“No, of course not.” Talba filled her in a little more. When she’d stopped talking, Langdon turned off the tape and thought a moment. Finally, she said, “There’s something I don’t get. How’d Toes know Eddie was working for Aziza?”

Talba mulled it over, rocking slightly in her chair. She was a good deal more taken aback than she wanted to let on. “I don’t know. Maybe somebody saw something.” But she knew as soon as she spoke that it wasn’t Eddie they’d have seen.

Skip said, “Or somebody ratted.”

“Maybe Aziza.”

“Could have been. Certainly could have been. But you do realize, don’t you, that if Toes knows about Eddie, he knows about you?”

“Yeah. I think I do.” The possibility hadn’t occurred to her until thirty seconds ago, a circumstance that amazed her.

“You watch your back, Baroness.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“And call me in the morning—if you’re still alive.”

Cop humor, Talba thought as she left. She didn’t find it funny. Her hands slid on the wheel, slick with sweat.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

She called Darryl from the car. “Bad, bad, bad news. Somebody tried to kill Eddie—he’s in surgery now.”

Silence filled the line.

“Darryl? You there?”

“Yeah. Bad news thing threw me—I thought it was Miz Clara.”

“Listen, I don’t think I can see you tonight. I have to go get Tony at the airport.”

“You wouldn’t want company, would you?”

“Oh, I would. I really truly would. But I wouldn’t put you through all this—after I get him, I have to take him to the hospital.”

“Talba. You know what we talked about yesterday? Did you think I meant it or not?”

She sidestepped that one. “Nah, it wouldn’t make sense to come get you. I’m already out by Bayou St. John.”

“When does his plane get in?”

“In forty-five minutes.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

It was crazily quixotic—then they’d have two cars at the airport. But she didn’t care; she gave him the particulars.

She had no wish to be alone tonight, even alone with Tony. She wanted someone with her whose hand she could squeeze if they got bad news. And she wanted all the company she could get. Toes wouldn’t try anything in front of witnesses.

She thought of the lonely walk from the airport parking lot and phoned Darryl again. “Hey, listen. I’m going to stop at Barnes & Noble and get some coffee at their cafe. Can you meet me there? We’ll leave my car and take yours to the airport.”

“Sure, but why?”

“Toes got Eddie—he might know about me too.” She wasn’t happy to sound like a wimpy female, but Darryl had a right to know what he was getting into.

All he said was, “Pick me up a latte, will you?”

When he’d arrived, gathered her up, and collected his latte, he said, “So. This guy’s a one-man crime wave. Don’t you think it’s time you went to the police?”

“Skip, you mean.” She’d always suspected he had a crush on the cop. They’d met through her, in a sort of a way. No, actually, now that she thought of it, that wasn’t it, exactly. Skip and Darryl had both been part of a group that came to hear her read. The woman he was with that night was the police psychologist.

“I saw Skip an hour ago; she said to watch my back.”

He was having trouble driving and drinking his latte. Talba reached out to take the cup from him.

His fingers feathered her thigh, barely touching. “How’s Eddie? I’ve been afraid to ask.”

“Nobody knows. Maybe Audrey does, but she’s not talking. Everybody’s pretty glum, though.”

“I’m sorry.”

Speaking of Eddie had caused a curtain of pain to descend, a reminder of death and of fate, and they dealt with it silently, each in his or her way. When Darryl had parked, they reached automatically for one another and walked to the gate hand in hand, Talba’s fingers squeezing Darryl’s. They waited nearly half an hour, barely speaking at all. But she was glad to have him there.

Tony looked tousled and tired when he stepped off the plane. He was alone, and Talba was glad. The Valentinos had all they could handle right now, without a pregnant fiancée.

Talba stepped forward. “Tony. Talba Wallis.”

“Ah. The Baroness.” He managed a bow, but no smile. She introduced Darryl, and then spoke before Tony could. “Your father was still in surgery when I left. I’m sorry; I don’t have any more news than that.”

He nodded that he understood, and she noticed that his cheek was working, as if he were biting it. He seemed jumpy and irritable, like someone who’d just quit smoking.

They stopped at Barnes & Noble, where she and Tony transferred to her car. Being in it with him was like being locked up with a lion. She wished she had a cigarette to offer him.

When she got him to the waiting room, Angie and Audrey melted onto him. They were all three crying and kissing when she left, unnoticed.

She asked about Eddie at the desk. He was still in surgery.

She followed Darryl home after that, tears streaming at last. Being caged with Tony’s grim self-containment was the thing that had finally gotten to her.

***

It was an odd night for Talba and Darryl. They ordered out for a pizza, and drank some wine, but neither one could seem to relax. Neither did they want to make love. The tension tugged at them, the strange dance of the last two days embarrassed them. They needed a break from each other, and yet they didn’t want to be apart.

Talba didn’t want to present a target for Toes, and she sensed that Darryl wanted to watch her. One thing: they hadn’t been followed to Algiers Point. The neighborhood was too quiet, the streets too narrow for concealment.

She phoned Miz Clara. “I’m at Darryl’s. You all right?”

“ ‘Course, I am. Why wouldn’t I be?” Her mama’s intuition at work.

“I don’t know. I guess I’m paranoid—Eddie got run over today.”

Miz Clara tried for composure, but Talba heard her gasp. “He all right?”

“I hope so, Mama. He’s in surgery.”

“You say Darryl’s with you?”

She was exhausted all of a sudden. “St. Darryl’s right here.”

“What’s that, girl?”

“I’m kind of tired, Mama.”

“You watch yourself, Sandra.” Everybody seemed to be telling her that.

Sometime in the night, she found peace. She woke up in full sunlight, tucked into Darryl’s armpit, leg flung over him. He was trying to extricate himself.

“No,” she said. This was way too good to give up.

“Got to go to school. You sleep some more.”

She slept two more hours and woke up with the strength of ten women. Eddie! she thought, and called the hospital.

He was in “guarded” condition. She didn’t like the sound of it but it beat “deceased.” She ordered him some flowers and made some oatmeal.

When she had eaten it, she called Skip Langdon. “Hey, Skip. Talba. How’s it going? You got anything for me?”

“I’m going to turn you over to Sergeant Aucoin on that.” The cop spoke in a clipped, distant voice. No, “hey, Baroness,” no ‘Your Grace,” no nothin’. Talba might as well be speaking to a stranger.

“What’s wrong?”

“Sergeant Aucoin is coordinating that case. Would you like his phone number?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure. Certainly.” She was so disoriented, trying so hard to recover her equilibrium she wasn’t sure she was getting the words right. Finally, she managed to break through it. “Can’t you tell me anything?” She knew she was whining.

Skip’s voice was low, hardly more than a whisper. “Your man has alibis for every minute since the second he was born.”

“I’m starting to get it. Alibis and connections.”

Skip said, “Glad I could help,” as if someone was listening.

“Wait. Listen. Hold it.”

“I’ve got another call.”

“What about the girls? Can’t you protect them?”

“It’s not in the cards, Baroness. I’m as sorry as I can be.” Talba could almost see her swiping curls off her forehead, cupping her head in frustration. Something was going on here.

She called Sergerant Aucoin, who made a big show out of using Ebonics and calling her “sister.” She had a mental picture of him: forty-fiveish, portly, and possibly bald; as dark as she was, conservative dresser; the kind of man who went to church, but tried too hard and sweated too much. Smarmy, she thought.

“Sergeant Aucoin, I gave Officer Langdon some information.”

“Yes ma’am. How can I help ya, Ms. Wallis?”

“I’d like to come in and talk about it, maybe fill in some details for you.”

“Sister, I don’t think that’s gon’ be necessary. We got everything under control. You don’t need to worry about nothin’. We the po-lice here.”

She thought, Try scaring me with that po-lice shit.

“I have reason to believe two teenage girls are in danger.”

“From Mr. Toledano?” He came right out with it.

“I think they could be.”

“Well, you ain’ got nothin’ to fear from that quarter. Now, don’t you worry about a thing. We ‘bout to get this thing handled. Mighty nice of you to call, though.”

“Anything new on Aziza Scott?”

“Lots of things. We developin’ a case. But we can’t discuss it with the public, ya understand? We got it under control, Ms. Wallis. We got it under control.”

She asked him if he knew Eddie, tried a few more ploys to try to get through, but every time came up against a blank wall. Or a closed door, she thought. Something is very wrong here.

She could see what the thing was, too. She saw its reverse all the time. She saw rich white people get away with things. She saw them exercise power and get smug behind it. This was a city where black people could do it, if they were rich enough and powerful enough.

And dishonest enough.

Toes was all three, it would seem. Or his brother the Baron was. Power was happening here. Male, monied power. It was making her mad.

But it was scaring her too. Someone had to look out for the girls.

She closed her eyes and felt tears of anger squeeze out of them. Eddie, I swear to God I won’t let anything happen to those girls. And I will get that bastard. Single-handedly. I promise you I will.

She was so mad there was no question in her mind she was going to make good on the promise or die in the attempt. She had half a mind to take Aucoin down too, mostly because he’d called her “sister.” She was no sister to pond scum, she didn’t care what color he was.

The question was, how was she going to protect two girls at two different schools, single-handedly? She couldn’t, obviously. She needed help. Darryl was out of the question for many reasons, one being that he not only wouldn’t do it, he’d try and stop her as well. Another being that she was damned if she was going to run to her boyfriend every time the going got tough. A third being that she needed someone in the business, someone cued in to the case. Eileen Fisher was the only person she could think of, and she was an even more absurd idea than Darryl.

Angela, though—now there was a thought. A little on the hysterical side, but game, very game.

Suddenly the solution occurred to her. Not Angela. Tony. He was an Italian male whose dad had been shot—and who had plenty of guilt about said dad. She figured he’d already have hit the streets if he’d known where to look.

She reached him at the hospital. “Tony, Talba. How’s your dad?”

“Hanging in there.” He sighed. “He’s still in a coma. That’s the scary part. Goddam, this is frustrating.”

“What is?” she asked innocently.

“I just wish there were something I could do.”

“Tony, I think I know who did this.”

“Who did it? You mean it wasn’t an accident?”

“I don’t think so; I really don’t. You want to get together and talk about it?”

They got together over some truly terrible hospital coffee, and Talba told him everything. She started with Cassandra, then graduated to Toes-as-the-Baron’s brother, the death of Rhonda, the disappearance of Aziza, the disinterest of the cops, and ended, finally, with the hit-and-run attack on Eddie. He listened with a great deal more attention than she’d have thought an Italian male had in him, not once interrupting her, until that last, crucial chapter.

“Wait a minute. Hold it. Why just Eddie? Why not you?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Good question. Maybe not yet me. But I’ve been watching. So far, no tails.”

He shook his head and made a sound like someone with a mouthful of food. “Mmmmf. Not yet’s right. If there’s anything to your theory, you’re an endangered species, baby.”

She didn’t mind that he called her “baby.” She liked it. She’d long since realized that in a city as affectionate as this one, feminist objections applied only if there was malice involved. She said, “It’s not me I’m worried about. It’s those two girls.”

He stood up, slapping his own face. “Oh, shit. This guy’s not a crime wave, he’s a tsunami. He’ll go for ‘em. Sure he’ll go for ‘em.”

“Yeah.” She was letting it sink in.

“Maybe we can hide them somewhere.”

“I thought of that. Cassandra’s scared, I can tell you that. I could try to convince her. If it worked, maybe she could help us with Shaneel. The problem is, their parents.”

“Why don’t we just whisk them away?”

“And face kidnapping charges? Besides, where would we take them?”

“Yeah, yeah. Yeah, you right. I used to say that all the time.”

“I still say it.”

“Well, what’s the alternative?”

“Just be there. Keep an eye on them—be ready in case he tries anything.” She flung her arms wide, feeling helpless.

He pulled at his lip, maybe to stimulate thought. She had an image of him as a child, a fifth-grader maybe, doing the same thing and getting scolded for it. On the adult, it looked cute as anything.

She kept talking. “The only problem is, they go to different schools.”

“Well? There are two of us.”

It was what she was hoping he’d say, but she was suddenly overcome with doubt. “I don’t know, it could be dangerous. And you’re about to get married—and with the baby and all...” What had she been thinking? But it was too late now.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. I’m a man.”

You sure are, she thought. That’s how they think.

They went back and forth a time or two, and then they were both in it, both determined, both unstoppable. And when it got to that point, they were partners.

Talba volunteered to take Shaneel because this way, once and for all, she could follow her home and at last confront the parents, maybe talk them into sending Shaneel away for a while. It made sense for another reason—Tony could recognize Cassandra by the picture of her that had run in the paper when her mother disappeared; he’d never find Shaneel in the crush at Fortier.

Talba gave him directions to Xavier Prep School and left, the better part of the day still ahead of her; school wasn’t out till after three. She decided to go to the office, just in case—there could be voicemail or email, or even snail mail that needed attending to.

On the short drive over, she thought about what Tony had said about her being an endangered species, and what Skip had said about watching her back, and about the role she’d played in this case. If Toes wasn’t after her—and careful observation told her he wasn’t, at least so far—it could only be because he didn’t know about her. He certainly knew her as the Baroness; but if Cassandra hadn’t ratted her out, he’d have no reason to connect her with Eddie. Which still left a mystery—how the hell did he know about Eddie?

Maybe Eddie’d called him. It was the sort of thing he’d do without telling her. Maybe it was something like that. And if so... well, then, she was free to approach Toes in her other persona. If she could think of a point to it.

Was there one? She needed data.

And if anyone knew how to get it, it was Talba Tabitha Sandra Wallis, AKA the Baroness.

She was surprised to find Eileen in the office, trying to keep things together and keep the hysteria out of her voice. But despite a human presence, the place had a forlorn, ghostly feel. Talba shivered and turned on her computer, as if it could warm her. Whatever voice and snail mail there was, Eileen had already taken care of. Talba briefly perused the email and answered what couldn’t wait.

Funny, there was one thing she hadn’t done. Depending on Cassandra to solve the Toes mystery with a photo I.D., she hadn’t bothered going online to research the Baron’s brother. She did it now—went to Yahoo and typed his name in: Thomas Toledano. To her amazement, he had his own website.

Well, why not? He’d probably behave as his famous brother behaved—be much more savvy about self-promotion than most people—and a lot more arrogant about needing it.

She clicked on the website and there he was, looking ugly as ever, sole proprietor of Big Easy Sound, whatever that was. Closer inspection revealed it to be a music promotion company, whose clients included Baron Tujague and various lesser rappers, all, Talba’d bet the ranch, Baronial artists. In other words, as far as she could see, Big Easy Sound—hence T. Toledano—was simply the promotion arm of Baronial. Probably, to give his brother a little dignity and something he could call his own, the Baron had spun it off as a separate company. For all she knew, it wasn’t even real—it stood to reason the Baron had actual professionals out there working for him. Maybe this was just a shell to make the brother feel good. Well, I’ll make him feel good, she thought. If only for a minute.

A minute was all she needed, and a plan took shape in her head in another minute. The address on the website was in New Orleans East, probably on the Baronial campus, she figured. And she was almost right. It was about two blocks away, on its own little spit of property, though in truth it was a pretty primitive structure that might have been an abandoned garage. Several cars were parked on the premises. She checked them all out, even going so far as to record their plate numbers. If Toledano was Toes, at least one of them was probably his— she was betting on the Lincoln Navigator.

She got out of the car and swept into the building, hoping she was being observed. Despite her hurry to get here, she’d taken a quick detour home to get into Baroness mode. Royal purple was appropriate, she thought, and, fortunately, she had a lot of it— caftans, harem pants, flowing pants, even dresses. For this occasion, she dressed for freedom of movement, in a silk outfit she’d had made for her in the style of Indian pajamas—long, loose top over tight-fitting pants. She wore boots with it because she could run in them if she had to, and for warmth and dash, she threw over it a red-velvet cape. Finally, because it was intimidating, and also because it might jog his memory, she added the purple sequinned hat she’d worn the night she met him.

This was a performance like any other. She intended to pass herself off as a representative of a distinguished organization—as well as royalty.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The Toledano version of Eileen Fisher was quite a bit more glamorous, though not half so well dressed—she wore baggy bell-bottoms and a T-shirt meant for a smaller girl. Talba took a second look at her. She wasn’t half as old as Eileen, either. In fact, she looked a lot like Cassandra—same light skin, snaky little body, attitude to burn. She was chewing on a hunk of bubble gum as big as an egg.

Somewhere not far away, a card game was in progress. The riffle of cardboard and dollars, the clink of change, the rat-a-tat fuck-fuck-fucks of young, black world-by-the-tails was so loud you couldn’t have heard the phone ring. Testosterone hung in the air like jasmine in spring.

Bad time, Talba thought, and considered leaving. These dudes might be drinking, though, come to think of it, there was more in the air than hormones. Smoking made people mellow—at least she devoutly hoped it had in this case.

The receptionist mouthed something, which might have been “May I help you?”, and Talba mouthed back that she was there to see Mr. Toledano, and then the receptionist put her hand behind her ear, engaging in what Talba could have told her was a losing game. She motioned for something to write on, and when the girl ducked to find it, saw Toledano himself, walking down the little hall behind the front counter, checking his zipper. Today, he was dressed in a deep red custom-made suit and walking like a pimp. Whether the walk itself was a pimp or whether the man thought he was fine, Talba couldn’t have guessed.

He spoke before she could. “Well, hello, you fine thing. Be right with ya. Lemme just exterminate some vermin.” The phrase chilled her.

He went into the room with the card players. “Listen up, y’all. We got royalty out here. Ya’ll get ya sorry asses out my office and do it now. Come on, yeah! Go ‘head and do it.” Like he owned the world.

And in a moment, the men came out, baggy-jeaned and sullen, sneaking glances at the woman he had called royalty. When they had gone, he spoke to his young helper, “Mika, we got a Baroness here. Don’t she look fine.”

Talba almost regretted the getup, but not really. She understood that it was what had moved him to action. This was a man who was into appearances, a man so unsure of himself the mere fact that she was in his office was an event.

“I didn’t mean to break up your game,” she said.

“Wasn’t no game of mine—motherfuckers come in every day, try takin’ over my office. Can’t get no business done, that racket goin’ on.”

“I won’t take much of your time. I wonder if we could talk for a moment?” She’d decided, in view of his evident insecurity, to play it haughty. She remembered how he’d been the other night—overshadowed, seemingly overwhelmed by his brother; excited as a kid to report that he’d actually heard of her.

“We can sure do that. You come right on in.” He led her into an office so littered with papers, CDs, cigarette butts, every kind of thing you could think of that she found it hard to believe he did any business here at all. He probably doesn’t she thought. His brother probably just gave him this to keep him out of trouble.

There was a round table in the room, piled high, with several chairs around it, and a desk with a chair for the owner and two facing it, for supplicants. He sat her in one of the supplicants’ chairs and assumed the owner’s position. Exactly what she’d expected.

The desk had a nice lip on it, she noticed. Perfect for her purposes. How the hell to get him out of here so she could go to work? She could ask for coffee, but he’d probably just send the receptionist.

“What I owe the honor to? Little bit unusual,” he said, “Baroness comes to call.”

“I’ve got a proposition for you, Mr. T.” He opened his mouth, but she held up a forestalling hand. She wasn’t about to let him get going with that one. “Are you familiar with NOAAP?”

“NOAAP?” She could see he hadn’t a clue; therefore, he was going to ridicule it. “What the fuck’s a NOAAP?”

She chose that moment to start coughing. She screwed up her face and held her throat. “Allergic,” she managed to gasp. “Dust.” Hack, hack.

He shouted, “Mika. Get your ass in here. We need some water. Now!”

Talba was practically throwing a fit, bugging her eyes out, letting the tears roll down, twisting her whole body into scary spasms. “Mika!” He was out of there—-just couldn’t stand to look. She dipped a hand into her bosom and pulled out a tiny transmitter wrapped in a tissue. There was banging around outside. She took her time fixing the bug to the underside of the desk lip and then coughed some more into the tissue. Standing now, as if she could somehow calm her troubled body. On the desk she saw something that froze her—the burgundy binder Eddie used for client reports, with his name embossed on it.

It was Aziza’s; had to be. Which left little doubt about what had happened to her.

She understood that she could go to Skip Langdon with this, that this was evidence Sergeant Aucoin couldn’t brush off. She needed a picture of it, though, and footsteps were coming down the hall. She hacked a little harder.

Toledano handed her a glass of water; Mika followed him into the room, carrying a pitcher. She drank long and convincingly, she hoped. “Thanks. It happens sometimes. If there’s—uh—dust.” She paused, as if suddenly remembering her manners. “Or mold, of course. Do you have allergies, Mr. Toledano?”

The question was meant to throw him off-balance, and did. “Shit, no, I ain’t got no allergies,” he said, sounding half furious, half-embarrassed. Perhaps he found it an affront to his masculinity.

But maybe he had something else to be angry about. She was undoubtedly named in the client report. Would this ape connect the poet with the baby detective? Probably not, she thought, if he’d even read the thing—Mika’d probably given him an executive summary.

“Say, what you think of Mika?” He was admiring the rear view of her as she returned to her post.

Talba was so taken aback she almost started coughing for real. “She my girl,” he said proudly. “My oldest.”

“Your daughter?” Now, there was a wrinkle. “She’s beautiful. Smart too, I bet.”

He nodded. “Yep. We got her fillin’ out applications for college. She gon’ be the intellectual in the family.”

That won’t take a lot, Talba thought, unless the mother has it quite a bit over this piece of garbage. God, she hoped the girl hadn’t seen the client report. “Well, anyway, about NOAAP,” she said, eager to stop thinking about this man as someone with a family, people who loved him, and just as eager to leave behind the recognition of Mika’s similarity to Cassandra.

He nodded. “Yeah. Ya proposition.” He was almost smiling normally, hardly leering at all.

“It stands for New Orleans Association of African-American Poets.”

He nodded again, looking almost alert.

“We had this idea. We’d like to put together a book of rap lyrics.”

“And you’d like to use some of the Baron’s.”

“We sure would. And some by those artists I met the other night—Pepper Spray, wasn’t that it?—and some by other indigenous groups. The idea’s to use only New Orleans artists ...”

She half expected him to ridicule the word “indigenous,” since she figured he hadn’t a clue what it meant, but instead, he said, “Now what’d we want to do that for?”

“You’re the Baron’s promotional manager, aren’t you?”

“Ya got the right department. I’m just askin’, what’s in it for us?”

“Money, you mean?” She perfected her posture, looking elegantly down her nose; she could do haughty pretty well. “I wasn’t under the impression the Baron really needed any.”

“Get real, lady. Ain’ nobody work for nothin’.”

“They certainly do, Mr. Toledano. It’s called pro bono.”

“Pro boner?”

She ignored his stupid shit-eating grin. “The collection will benefit children with birth defects caused by drugs—” She was making this up as she went along. “—I recall that the war against drugs is an important cause of the Baron’s.”

“Lady, you got to be kiddin’.”

“But...” She made herself the very picture of confusion. “Wasn’t that how we met? He wrote that song... we thought it could be the centerpiece of the collection ... the title could come from it, perhaps ...”

“Shee-it” He was laughing now. “The Baron don’t care ‘bout that shit. That was just P.R. Ya know what I mean? Just P.R.”

She smiled, ever so knowingly. “And so would this be, Mr. Toledano. So would this. We thought you could get quite a lot of good press out of it—and so could we. It wouldn’t cost anybody anything—the songs have already been written. And the kids would get a little money, too. Which is really the important thing.”

The light dawned on his slow features like the first rays of the day. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, tha’s the important thing. I don’t mind tellin’ ya, I thought ya was hustlin’ me when ya first come in wi’ that. But I see you really got somethin’ to say. Ya really got a idea there.”

“I thought you’d think so.”

“I’m gon’ run that by the Baron. I think it’s somethin’ he might like to do.”

“Great” She stood and held out her hand. “That’s all I can ask.”

“You got a card?”

“The best way to get me’s on my cell phone. Let me give you the number.” For good measure, she threw in her pager number as well.

She mentally congratulated herself—it really was a good idea. She’d damn near convinced herself. Her only regret was that she hadn’t had a minute to photograph the client report. Still, maybe there was a way to get back in; she looked at her watch. Not now. She just had time to grab a quick bite and get to Fortier before Shaneel got out of school.

But on the way out, there was one little thing she could do. She noticed most of the cars had been driven away by the card players. When she was near enough to the Navigator, she surreptitiously opened her purse and upended it. With a little squeal, she squatted to pick up the mess, taking a moment first (very carefully, so as not to set off the alarm) to place one of her magnetized homing devices on the underside of the car—it might not be his, but she’d bet a hundred dollars it was.

She was in her own car, thinking about the Shoney’s where she’d seen the Baron’s gang, when her phone rang. Her stomach shimmied—with Eddie in the hospital, any call could be bad news. “Hello?”

“Your Grace, it’s the Baron.”

“Why, Your Grace. Wha’s up?”

“I hear ya been to see my brother.”

“News travels fast.”

“I got my feelings hurt. Why didn’t you come see me?”

“You’re kind of an important man. I didn’t think I could get an audience.”

“Pretty lady can always get an audience. You got one now. How soon can you get here?”

She thought about it; this was going to make things tricky, but the opportunity to bug the big man’s office was too good to pass up. She could do it if she forgot about food. “Where are you? I’ve got a three o’clock.”

“Come on. Give me five minutes. You got to be in the ‘hood—you just saw Toes.”

Toes. There it was, crouching on the line like a spider made out of words. “I saw who? “

He laughed. “Tha’s what we call my brother. T-h-o-s, Toes. It’s from Thomas.”

“Oh. Gotcha.” She made him give her directions, though due to her recent foray, she really didn’t need them. Seven minutes later she was standing in his office.

Today he was dressed in the universal baggy rap uniform. She gave a little bow. ‘Your Grace.”

He nodded, not standing to receive her. “Welcome.” He leaned back. “I know you’re in a hurry, so listen up. That’s a dynamite idea you got.”

“It wasn’t mine—it’s the organization’s.”

He waved at her. “Yeah, yeah.”

Seeing her chance, she said, “I got the impression your brother didn’t think much of the idea.”

“Oh, yeah? That’s not what he told me. He sounded real excited.”

“Oh. Well. I guess I got the wrong idea. I got the feeling he thinks you don’t like to do pro bono work.” The Baron made no attempt to conceal his annoyance. “And that he thinks my project’s kind of smalltime.”

“Goddammit, if I’ve told him once, I’ve told the sucker ... “ He caught himself and let the sentence trail off.

Talba was drunk with power. “I mean, I didn’t really appreciate it when he called the kids freaks.”

“What kids?”

“You know—the ones we’d like to benefit, the kids with birth defects. He called them ‘deaf-and-dumb freaks with flippers’—it’s ... you know... kind of an expression that sticks in your mind.”

“Goddammit! I’m gonna...”

“Oh, no, no. I didn’t mean to get him in trouble. It’s okay—he did tell you about the project and I think, after we’d talked a little bit, he was genuinely convinced of its value—at least from what you tell me. Funny, though, when I left the office I still thought he was hostile to it.”

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you, Your Grace.” He rose and started pacing, eventually turning to look out the window in the direction of his brother’s office. Hardly believing her good luck, she slipped a transmitter under the lip of his desk.

This was working out a lot better than she thought. The idea of turning brother against brother had strictly been an impulse. She was astonished by her own strength, and trying hard not to get too carried away, pull back before he caught on. But for the moment he seemed lost in his own private anger. “He’s gon’ be the death of me, you know that? You got relatives, Your Grace?”

“I’m an only child—but I’ve got a mama, and watch out for her.”

“Whooo, I know what you mean.” He turned to face her again, and it occurred to Talba that the whole thing might have been a performance for her, a ploy to show off his famous rear. But surely he wasn’t so vain he thought it looked attractive in baggy jeans—it must have been real, especially given what she knew about Toes. He was going to be a big embarrassment, and soon. The Baron had to suspect that.

She glanced at her watch. “Well, look, let me describe the project…”

“No need. No need at all. You just go ahead and count me in. That’s all I wanted to tell you.” He took out a checkbook. “And I wanted to give you a little something toward publication.”

“Oh, no, really.” She was horrified. But what the hell, she could just tear it up.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Yes, indeed.” He seemed determined to undo whatever damage his brother had done.

“Well, we’re grateful. Could you make it to NOAPP?”

“Oh, that takes too long—tell you what, you just endorse it to them, why don’t you?” And he made it to her, for five thousand dollars.

When she saw the size of it, she wondered if it was intended as a bribe. Walking back to her car, she felt her legs go rubbery. All that self-congratulation must have been premature. It looked like the Toledanos were onto her.

She walked fast. Surely the Baron would call his brother after her visit. The whole damn thing could be over by the time she got to her car.

Fumbling, she tuned the radio to the frequency she’d set up for the Baron, and was immediately reassured. Her luck was even better than she’d hoped—the Baron was on the speakerphone. Quickly, she retrieved a tape recorder from the glove compartment and let it roll.

She’d just tuned in to the Baron in high dudgeon, an event not nearly so aristocratic as the Baron granting an audience. The “motherfuckers” were flying thick and fast. Talba was having a ball, taking it all in and laughing to herself till she got to this part:

“Goddammit, motherfucker, goddammit! Every time I turn around you’re fuckin’ up again. And after I sent Bingo and Pig to take care of that goddam woman for you. Did I do that for ya? Huh? Didn’t I do that? I’m goddam sick and tired of doing your goddam dirty work, cleanin’ up your mother-fuckin’ messes. I swear to God I’m cuttin’ you loose if you don’t start gettin’ somethin’ right for a change.”

Talba heard Toes answer, “I’m sorry, man, I’m sorry. Look, I’ve got to hang up; I’m almost at the school.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

She’d cut it way too close. Kids were swarming out the door by the time she got to Fortier. Heart thumping, she stopped in the middle of Freret, willing someone to pull out of a parking place. She swiveled her head, panicked, looking for anything at all to focus on, and there it was—Shaneel, talking to two adult men. Horns blatted behind her; the men looked up. They were two of the no-accounts she’d seen earlier that day, hanging out at Toes’s office. Whether or not they saw her, they were evidently moved by the horns. They melted into the crowd, crossed Joseph street, disappeared. Shaneel fell in with a group of girls, walking toward Talba— and then past her.

Talba was moving now, having no choice unless she wanted to be the latest victim of road rage. She circled the block and saw no sign of Shaneel’s group. Finally, she thought she recognized a purple top on one of the kids. She gave that kid’s group a pass. Yes! There was Shaneel. She needed to park and follow on foot. Damn! Toes had said he was on the way to the school. She could kick herself for her detour. And yet, she might have gotten some evidence. To her, the tape sounded like a confession of murder, though she figured a defense attorney would make mincemeat of it. Still, it might be enough to get someone’s attention—if not that of the cops, maybe the media’s. She loved that idea. The media. By all means. If she could just keep the kid alive in the meantime.

The hell with the car. She parked in someone’s driveway, praying they weren’t home and wouldn’t be till she could get back.

Ah, that was better—like getting rid of a couple of tons of excess weight. This way she could slither unobserved. A car shadowing at five miles an hour was about as unobtrusive as a spaceship.

There was no sign either of Toes or his two thugs. She was doing fine until the group split in half, some kids continuing their happy, giggling journey, the others settling at a bus stop. Shaneel was among the latter.

Talba cursed. The kid would see her if she got on the bus, and she wasn’t ready for that. She’d have to get the car. She took off running, hoping Shaneel wouldn’t glance in her direction.

She arrived back at the bus stop, once more behind the wheel, just as a bus was closing its doors. It peeled out, and Talba didn’t see Shaneel in either direction; she could only hope the girl was on it. She followed its stop-start progress, inspiring hatred in her fellow drivers as she halted at each stop, inspecting the exiting passengers. Just as she was about to decide she’d been tricked, that Shaneel wasn’t on the bus at all, the kid alighted. And once more the trick was to follow her home.

She lived in the Magnolia Project, or at least she was going there. The idea of entering alone made Talba shiver. Miz Clara’d kill her if she knew. And yet, this kid apparently did it every day—unless she wasn’t going home, but was paying a visit to one of the thugs Talba’d seen at the school. Her blood ran cold. Goddess help her if that was the case.

Shaneel pulled something from around her neck and inserted it in the lock—latchkey kid, true to stereotype. Talba hollered, “Shaneel!”

The girl turned and, to her surprise, broke out in a grin. “James Bond.”

Sometime she really did have to enlighten this kid about the difference between a spy and a detective— if they both lived long enough. Right now she said, “How’re you doing?”

“What you doin’ in the projects?”

“I came to talk to you. This where you live?”

Shaneel nodded, once, hand still on her key, still half-turned toward the door, half toward Talba. A perfect metaphor for ambivalence.

“I’ve been worried about you. Who were those two guys you were talking to?”

Talba almost answered with her: “What two guys?”

She said, “I saw you with them at school. Adults. Looked like gangsters—I don’t know what your mama would say.”

“Oh, you mean Bingo and Pork? They’re real nice guys.”

Talba’s gut jigged. “Pork? Is he ever called Pig?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know ‘em. They were waiting for me when I got out of school, said they were friends of Baron Tujague’s and they had to talk to me. Man, you should have seen my friends when they said that. I was a hero. You ‘magine that?”

“What did they want?”

Evidently whatever it was was important enough to distract her attention. She released her grip on the key, turned toward Talba, and reached in her pocket She pulled out a handful of cardboard strips. “They gave me free concert tickets. A whole lot of ‘em—for me and all my friends.”

“Did they ask you to do something in return?” Like keep your mouth shut about half a dozen serious crimes!

She looked bewildered. “Do something? No. Why would they do that?”

Either she was so slow on the uptake the bribe hadn’t worked, or it worked so seamlessly she’d forgotten what she knew. Talba wasn’t sure which, but at any rate it beat the hell out of kidnapping. If Shaneel had been followed home—that is, by anyone else—Talba was reasonably sure she’d have spotted him. She decided to find Tony now and catch Shaneel’s parents later that night. “This where you live?” she repeated.

“I told you I did. Why you care?” The girl was almost pouting, an unusual attitude for this kid.

“Maybe I want to bring you a present too.” Perhaps some candy—she’d have to remember to pick something up. “When do your parents get home?”

Shaneel shrugged. “It’s just me and my mama.” She barely spoke above a whisper.

“Well, when does your mama get home?”

“I don’t know.” She turned the key and disappeared.

Talba fast-walked to her car and dialed Tony. She’d snagged Eddie’s cell phone for him, and they’d agreed to leave both phones on, but for some reason he didn’t answer. Take it easy, she told herself. If Shaneel’s okay, Cassandra’s okay—it follows, right?

But it didn’t. Cassandra was the one who’d had sex with Toes; the one with the missing mother. Damn! Why the hell didn’t I think of that? Why didn’t I take Cassandra? Toes must have been going to her school.

She could think of a million reasons why Tony wouldn’t answer his phone, why everything was probably just fine and dandy, but that did nothing to keep her heart at a normal pace. Should she check out Cassandra’s school? She looked at her watch. Pointless. School had been out for an hour. Tony should have reported in.

She turned toward Pontchartrain Park. Maybe he was out of his car. But, no, that wasn’t their deal— they’d agreed to keep their phones with them.

Traffic was nasty. It took a century to get to the lake.

But she breathed deeply when she saw Tony’s car in front of the Scott house. Okay. Everything was fine.

Half-smiling, she went to the door, rang the bell, and waited. She’d been there a long time when she remembered how far it was to the front of the house, how long she’d waited before. She rang the bell again, went through the whole thing one more time, and in frustration finally tried the door. It opened.

Shocked, she poked her head in, trying to decide whether to call out or creep around. Oh, hell. If they were there, they already knew she was too. It hardly made a damn.

She found that was a good thing because she was suddenly aware of her panic. Creeping was no longer an option. Her mouth opened and her feet stomped. “Tony? Tony, you here?” The answering silence was more frightening than a scream. “Cassandra?” She was racing, raging against that deathly quiet, willing it broken. She kept yelling as she ran through the house, so loud she started to get hoarse. “Tony, where the hell are you? How the hell could you do this?” Exactly what he had done she couldn’t have said, other than fail to answer. “Cassandra, come out of there!” No one answered.

And when she reached the dining room, she knew no one would. Two chairs had been overturned on their sides, a pile of books knocked off the table, as if someone had come in, gotten this far, and met with resistance.

Even after that, she couldn’t stop screaming their names, though she knew perfectly well that if they were there, she was about to find them dead.

She found nothing. No sign they’d ever been here. They must have been taken out the front door and forced into a car.

She righted one of the dining-room chairs and sat down, shaking, sweating, trying to get her thoughts together. But there was no choice. There was one thing to do and one thing only. She had to call the cops. And yet... and yet, there was something wrong with that plan, something that niggled at her. She did deep breathing and tried to get at it.

Ah, there it was: They’d ask her her name and make her wait there.

Still. It had to be done. She called Langdon.

Not in, and she had no voicemail.

Not having her pager number, Talba left a message with some anonymous detective: “Tell her to call the Baroness right away. It’s extremely important— can you page her?” The detective snorted. Too late, she realized the word “Baroness” had probably identified her as a nutcase. He might or might not page Langdon.

And then she remembered something—the bird-dog homing device she’d attached to the car parked in front of Toledano’s office. She just might be able to pick up a signal. If she could, and it was Toes’s car, she could find him.

But the thing had a very short range. No time to wait for the cops. She had to get going. And there was one other thing. She was unarmed. What the hell was she thinking of?

Without a second thought, she ransacked Aziza’s house, turning up what appeared to be an automatic handgun on a shelf of the woman’s closet, along with several clips of ammunition. She’d never shot a gun in her life, but how hard could it be? She knew damn well she was smarter than the humanoids who had Cassandra. If they could do it, she could.

She rushed to her car, did a makeshift hookup on the receiver and...against all odds, started to get something.

The beep was coming from the east. On the road, she used her cell phone to dial 911, and ran the whole thing down to a dispatcher who kept interrupting with pleas for her name. Finally, she exploded, “Jesus, lady, I’ll be in touch!”

The signal was getting strong.

It took her to the river, and then she lost it. What had he done, driven into the river? The closest thing to doing that was driving onto a ferry, and she ought to know. She did it often enough. She did it now. And sure enough, picked up the beep on the other side. The car was headed north.

Algiers Point wasn’t only delightful, colorful streets. Uh-uh. There were woods and swampland to the north, with mosquitoes the size of bats. It was a favorite place for dumping bodies and dealing drugs.

It was where Aziza probably was.

Maybe Cassandra and Tony were dead already; maybe Toes was taking them out there to dump them.

But surely not. There’d been no blood in the house. Where would he have killed them, and how? She was feeling desperate. She tried calling Langdon again. No go.

Who else to call? There was one person, but it might not be a good idea. A person who disapproved of Toes’s activities and felt threatened by them. Yet also a person who had a big fat stake in keeping them quiet. But she couldn’t call the Baron. Could she?

She damned well had to. She had to do anything she could.

The cops again? Sure. Anything. And she had the license plate. She tried a different tack this time— terrified motorist.

“Nine-one-one? I just saw a man with a gun pointed at a little girl—a teenager. Omigod, I’m losing the car—yeah, he’s in a car. Yes. Yes, I have got the plate number.” Pretty suspicious given the rest of the message, but what did she care? “Algiers Point. Near those woods—you know? Omigod, I just heard shots. Hurry, Officer. Hurry! It’s a black Lincoln Navigator.”

It probably sounded phony as hell, like some angry wife with a grudge, but she knew they couldn’t ignore it.

She couldn’t stop her fingers, they moved on their own, dialing up Baronial Records, and then her mouth got out of control. “The Baron, please. Tell him it’s the Baroness de Pontalba and if he wants to save his brother’s sorry fucking life, he better get on the phone now.”

Excuse my French, Eddie.

The Baron came on the line. “Baroness, what the hell’s going on?”

“Your crazy-assed brother just kidnapped a teenage girl and my partner’s son. I’m in a car right behind them.” (That was close enough.) “We’re in Algiers Point.”

“You on drugs, Your Grace?”

“You killed the mama, didn’t you? Listen, I know the whole story. How Rhonda Bergeron made a stink and ended up dead. Then so did Cassandra’s mama. The detective she hired’s in a coma. If he dies, that’s three.”

“You are the craziest chick I ever met in my life.”

So why didn’t he hang up? “He’s got two more in his car, and I’m on their tail. If he takes us all out, that’ll make six. It’s not going to fly, Baron. You can’t save your brother. I’m giving you an opportunity to save yourself. Take it.”

She could see the Lincoln SUV now; it was parked by the side of the road. She was sweating. The Baron said, “What do you want?”

“Call him. Call him now. Page him. You must have some kind of emergency code.” She could hear the panic in her own voice.

“Why should I?”

“What?” She was struggling to see if they were still in the car.

“Why should I call him?”

“Because I have a recording of you admitting you sent Bingo and Pig to take out the mother.”

“Sheeit! Ya got no such thing.”

“Walk around to the front of your desk and feel under the lip. Go ahead, do it. Remember when you turned toward the window and gave me a look at your fine black ass? Know what I put there? Go see. Feel it?”

She thought she heard him swear under his breath. “That’s a little transmitter I put there. I put one in your brother’s office as well. I’ve got a recording of the conversation you had when I left your office. You stop him, I give it to you. He touches that kid, and the rest of your life you’re doing the midnight show at Angola.”

“Give me your number.”

She rattled it off. “Baron, there’s one more thing. I’m armed. I’d as soon kill your brother as swat a fly. In fact, I’d love to. You don’t want to make me mad.”

He laughed, and for a moment she thought she’d overdone it. Probably she sounded like some fifties TV detective. But he said, “That’d be the best thing for everybody, now wouldn’t it?”

He hung up, leaving her shaking her head to clear it. It had to be a pose. He’d hired killers to protect the man, he wasn’t about to throw him to the lions— or rather, the lioness. She liked the sound of that.

She dialed 911 again, and with appropriate histrionics, gave the dispatcher her location.

Her cell phone rang as soon as she hung up. The Baron said, “I can’t get him. Where are you?”

“Why?”

“I’m coming. I’m in the car.”

He could of course send a fleet of thugs to whack her. Better come clean, she thought. “Baron. The cops are on the way.”

“The fuck! My brother’s crazy, you understand? I’m coming.”

The fuck! she thought. He had a point. She told him her location.

And then she put a clip in the automatic and another in her pocket. She got out of the car, and started toward the SUV, wishing for a bulletproof vest, a motorcycle helmet, suit of armor, anything at all. “Toes?” she hollered. “Toes, I’ve got a message from your brother.”

There was no answer. She had a bad feeling no one was in the car, and it proved out.

That meant Toes was in the nasty, swampy woods with Cassandra and Tony. She’d have to be crazy to go in there. Nevertheless, she was going to. She took off her hat and her red cape and started walking, glad she had on boots.

She moved timidly, taking very small steps in the hope they’d be quieter. She had no idea which direction to choose, and she paused frequently to listen. Finally, she thought she heard a male voice. And another noise, some kind of repetitive thumping. She headed toward it, ever so slowly and quietly.

She saw them before she could figure out what was going on—all three of them, alive. One of the men was sitting on the ground, and so was Cassandra. The other was bending over and straightening up, the same action over and over again. At this distance, she couldn’t see color, and if the three had been strangers, sex might have been questionable.

Moving closer, it was a nightmare tableau. The man on the ground was Toes, the action was digging— he was forcing Tony, probably at gunpoint, to dig his own grave.

Yes, the gun was there. Talba felt for her own. She had no idea what its range was, but decided not to go any closer. If the situation changed, she could at least fire warning shots.

The boots that were even now saving her from snake and mosquito bites were too noisy to try any kind of surprise attack. The only thing she could think to do was wait, and there was nothing she hated more.

The change, when it came, surprised her as much as Toes. It was a shout, impossibly loud, right in her ear (or so it seemed). “Toes Toledano!”

Goddammit, don’t! she thought. Shut the fuck up. He’s going to go crazy and shoot them both.

Instead, he rose and broke into a big silly grin, ready to high-five the newcomer. “Hey, T!” he hollered, and Talba whirled to see the Baron behind her, megaphone in hand.

He said, “Give it up, brother. It’s over.”

“Whatchu talkin’ ‘bout? What’s that shit you talkin’?”

“It ain’t no good, Toes. Give it up. The bitch called the cops.”

“I didn’t do nothin’. I was just gon’ give the bitch some tickets.” (Presumably not the same bitch who called the cops.) “Asshole comes along, says he’s a cop—what I’m s’posed to do? Huh? Answer me that?”

“Hey, brother. The bitch called the cops. The Baroness.”

“The poetry bitch?” There were probably plenty of bitches in Toes’s life. “Where she now?”

“Her car’s here.”

And Talba suddenly realized neither one of them had seen her. She heard sirens.

It was over. It was as good as over.

And yet... and yet...as long as they couldn’t see her...

It occurred to her she could walk in a circle and come up behind Toes. It would be tricky—her purple outfit wasn’t exactly invisible. And it would be dangerous—if the cops started shooting, she’d be right in their line of fire. On the other hand, wasn’t this what backup was? Being there just in case?

It was a terrible idea. A perfectly awful idea. But curiously, she didn’t feel the fear. She felt calm and detached. This was probably the other adrenaline response, the one that didn’t result in a turtle imitation. It may never happen again, she thought I may as well enjoy it. She started moving.

She was so intent on her own stealth she didn’t notice that the place was overrun almost before she had a chance to notice. Quietly, cops fanned out in a semicircle around Toes. And there weren’t only cops. Television crews were right behind them— dangerously close, she thought, cameras like great metal pets on their shoulders. How the hell had they gotten into it?

Talba stopped and watched. The cops were apparently in the act of trying to arrest the Baron, or at least get him the hell out of there, and Toes was going crazy. “You let him go! Let my brother go! Swear to God if you don’t let him go, gon’ kill this motherfucker!” He jumped Tony, pulled him into a death hug, and stuck the gun in his ear. Cassandra whimpered. Talba was close enough to see that the girl’s hands were tied behind her. She couldn’t see her feet.

She continued moving. What if she came up behind Toes and shot him in the back? She didn’t rule it out.

At this point, she certainly didn’t.

Some cop told Toes to take it easy, and backed away from the Baron, who talked quietly with him a few minutes. After some amount of palaver, they both nodded and the Baron again picked up his megaphone. “Let him go, bro’. S’pose you kill him— what happens then? Then they kill you. And our mama never stop cryin’.”

“You don’t own me, T. I’m my own man, goddammit! You don’t own me!” He sounded like Pamela’s father yelling about his daughter. What was it the sound of? What did it mean?

Furious.

Well, sure.

Powerless and desperate.

What could she do with that? Desperate for what?

Pamela’s father needed his daughter back; Toes needed what he said he had—to be his own man. To feel free of his brother.

She was somewhat to his left now, still a long way from his rear flank. But this was her shot. She saw the one thing she could do.

She rolled down the sleeves on her Indian-style top and measured. Both covered her hands, and the right one almost covered the gun. An inch or two stuck out, but maybe he wouldn’t notice. She stepped into the clearing where he could see her; she was close, no more than fifty feet from him. She held her hands at her sides.

A roar went up from the cops. “What the fuck! Get that woman out of there! Goddammit! “

As if they could do anything about her.

She said, “I didn’t call the cops. He did.” She jerked her head toward the Baron. “I tried to talk him out of it”

“Fuck you, T!” He shoved Tony to the ground and pointed the gun at his brother.

Talba fired.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

She had no idea the shot would be so loud. She stood there in shock, half-deaf, and men were pointing guns, shouting. “Drop the gun!”

“Drop it!”

“Put your hands on top of your head!”

It didn’t occur to her they were talking to her until she heard Tony calling her name. “Talba! Drop it, or they’ll shoot you!”

She’d forgotten she was holding a gun. It was like part of her now aching arm, but she felt her fingers release it, saw it fall to the ground. “Cassandra?” she said, and the girl answered. For a second, a second fragment, really, a blink, she had that sick feeling again, that about-to-faint feeling, and once again, she heard her name: “Talba!”

When she opened her eyes, a cop was standing over her, taking her pulse, putting something under her feet. The noise was unbearable—people shouting, sirens blaring, newscasters mouthing their spiels. Nasty harsh lights shone in her eyes, from the televison cameras. She closed them again.

It was big-time turtle-time. She stayed like that, in a near coma, for nearly the whole time it took the ambulance to get there and whiz back to Charity, coming out of it only once. When they got her on a stretcher and put her in it, when she caught on that that was what they were really doing, she said, “Am I shot?”

And someone answered, “No, you’re okay. You’ll be fine.”

She wanted Tony with her in the ambulance, but she couldn’t poke her head far enough out of her shell to mention it.

They had an awful time with her in the emergency room, couldn’t seem to bring her around. She knew because she was partly awake; what she was doing was perhaps a form of playing possum, she wasn’t sure, honestly didn’t know if she could come fully back if she wanted to. What she did know was she didn’t want to.

She had learned things in that sorry swamp. It wasn’t even a swamp, just a wet piece of woods, a pathetic, ugly place, and she’d learned pathetic, ugly things there. She had seen her whole life pass before her in the moment she shot Toes. Or enough of it to know the rest was a sham.

When she felt the kick from the gun, she knew. She knew she’d felt it before. When Toes fell, when she saw the blood, the unstoppable scarlet fluid flowing out of him, flowing toward her in a thick, sticky ribbon, she knew she’d seen it before. She understood why the flashbacks were so terrifying. If the stream of blood touched her, she would die. She’d felt it today in Algiers, and she felt it that other time, God knew where it was, just that it was. She’d felt the same inconceivable terror when she shot her father.

***

Eddie’s dream was too loud, too chaotic; he’d as soon be awake for all the rest he was getting. His son Anthony was in it, looking handsome, heavier, more grown-up—more manly, truth be told—than he had a decade ago. Audrey and Angela were there as well, Angie wearing that eternal black of hers, looking pinched and pale. Something about her was way off. Her confidence was gone. Fear was coming out of her pores like sweat. She seemed small and dried-up and not herself at all.

The other person there was his new assistant, Talba Wallis, and she was worse off than Angie. Her rich brown skin seemed to have turned gray. She looked like an animal someone had beaten. She was telling some crazy story about a police shootout, except that, in the weird way dreams twist things, she was telling it as if she’d been there, had actually done the shooting.

Anthony was trying to calm her. “Far be it from me to tell a lady she didn’t save a gentleman’s ass, but you probably missed him by a mile. The cops shot too, you know—-it stands to reason a trained marksman’s the one who actually hit the mark.”

She seemed meek and subdued, like she was halfway somewhere else. Like she’d just lost a relative. Except that the person they were talking about wasn’t a relative. Whoever it was had apparently been holding Anthony prisoner and Ms. Wallis was claiming to have rescued him, only she didn’t seem real proud of it.

“How’d you get there?” she said. “What in hell happened?” She sounded agitated and furious, more or less her usual state. He wondered if Ms. Wallis was ever going to settle down.

“The thing was,” he said, “I saw the car before I ever saw the kid. That big old Lincoln Navigator you told me about. It just stood to reason and sure enough, a black dude was driving, looked kind of like a toad.

“Looked like a toad, but he was acting more like a hawk. Just lurking there in that big old black car. Then the kid comes out. I knew her right away from her picture. She’d be cute if she ever smiled, you know that? And she gets in the car with someone else—with some other kids, I mean. I guess it was the carpool person. And he follows. The Lincoln follows. Man, my heart was thumping!”

Ms. Wallis said, “You should have called me on the cell phone.”

“Yeah, well, I tried.”

“Mine was on,” she said. “Did you have the wrong number or something?”

“It was my dad’s phone, remember? I guess he forgot to charge it up. I tried to plug it in but—I don’t know—it was hard enough trying to follow all those cars... I couldn’t seem to do two things at once. And then things started happening so fast I had to keep moving.

“The carpool mom took her home, and she got out and ran in. Then Toes pulls up in the driveway, and rings the doorbell. By the time I could get the car parked and get out, he was banging on the door and saying he had to talk to her. I came up behind him and he turned around and...”

He seemed to be groping for words, but Ms. Wallis wouldn’t cut him any slack. “Well? And what?” Pushy as ever.

“I did something kind of stupid. I said I was a cop. And the guy tried to kill me!” Anthony was outraged. Eddie didn’t really know his son these days, but if he had to guess, he wouldn’t expect him to be too worldly-wise. Sounded like he’d have been right.

It seemed the guy had jumped him or something, and then the person inside, a kid, panicked and opened the door. And that was it—the Toad had a lot more experience and a lot more meanness in him than either Anthony or the kid. He pulled a gun on ‘em, bundled ‘em into his car, and made Anthony drive somewhere else. And that would have been all they wrote if it hadn’t been for Ms. Wallis— or so her story went.

Goddam! What a bunch of crazy fools he had in his life. It wasn’t a good dream to begin with, but it suddenly got out of control.

Angie shrieked, “What the hell was that?”

Audrey sounded like some hysteric at a funeral: “Eddie! Oh, my Eddie, my Eddie. My Eddie! “

Anthony just said, “Dad!” in wonderment.

Jesus! Crazy fools was right. They were calling doctors and nurses. Now that he thought of it, this place was a hospital. He knew by the smell.

The medical personnel were acting hysterical. They were doing things with instruments and firing staccato questions at the rest of them. “You sure he spoke?”

“Well, some of us heard it.”

Ms. Wallis said, “I didn’t.” Right. Way too busy listening to the sound of her own voice.

“What did he say?”

“It sounded like ‘racy bush.’ “

“No, boost.”

“Foos. Like water racing. Racy foos.”

“Foolish, maybe.”

“Racy foolish?”

He hadn’t said a damn thing. This was ridiculous, and not only that the crazy fools were talking too loud. He took the pillow and put it over his head. And still they wouldn’t shut up.

“Hey, look, he’s trying to move his hands. Like a dog dreaming about running—look at his wrists.”

***

Talba called her mother as soon as she came back to herself, but it was too late. Miz Clara had already been besieged with calls from reporters and, hysterical, had called the police and been referred to Detective Skip Langdon. She’d just put down the phone when Talba herself called. By that time she not only knew her daughter was fine but had also realized that she was enjoying her fifteen minutes of fame. Further, that this was something she could piggyback onto. In the midst of their conversation, Miz Clara had to excuse herself because the evening news shows were coming on. Talba would have laughed if she’d felt up to it.

She didn’t want to see anyone except Tony, to tell him how sorry she was that she’d sucked him into this, and to touch him, to reassure herself that he really was all right. But he was in his father’s room, and that meant braving Audrey and Angie and the gray, shrunken, pathetic Eddie, for whom she really wasn’t ready at this point. But she had to see him.

Tony caught her in a bear hug that said it all. To her surprise, Audrey and Angie hugged her too, apparently hadn’t caught on that it was she who’d nearly gotten him killed.

She stayed a few minutes to hear Tony’s story, and she was glad, because Eddie mumbled something, and that had to be a good sign.

And then the cops took her away. They were there the whole time, hovering, awaiting their chance. She had had to insist, to threaten a scene, even to get the few minutes with Tony, because she knew it was going to be a long haul.

When they finally let her go, Darryl was there for her. She hadn’t called him, but she knew he’d be there. She should have been happy about it. She was miserable. She didn’t want to be with anybody for a while. But home meant Miz Clara and a hundred reporters. She gratefully accepted his offer to stay at his house.

She was surprised that she couldn’t talk to him. He wanted her to tell him everything, to fill him in, but she couldn’t. All she could do was lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling. He was dying to watch the footage of the scene, but she couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t even let him hold her.

When he went to work the next morning, she found some bourbon and drank enough of that to put her out again, and she slept until he came home from school. He let her sleep until early evening, when he made her some spaghetti with red gravy—a known comfort food—and forced her to eat it.

They talked small talk until he said, “Listen, you’ve really been through some shit.”

It didn’t seem worth the effort to answer.

“You want to talk about it?”

“I can’t think about it.”

It was a mistake to say that. He gave her a lot of guff about what was healthy and what wasn’t and how victims have to tell their stories, and that kind of crap.

“No, you don’t get it. I can’t think about it.”

“Listen, I think I should call Cindy Lou.”

Cindy Lou. The damn police psychologist. The one who was with him the night they met. She was going to have to kill him.

“Talba, you’re hurting yourself, just lying around like this. Your mother’s worried about you, your brother’s worried about you ...”

“You’ve been talking to them!”

“Hey, don’t be mad. Be grateful. I’ve kept them away so far. You know that wasn’t easy.”

“I’ve got to work this through on my own terms.”

“All right. Okay.” He didn’t sounded surprised. “You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do. Look, would you like to be alone tonight? I could go stay with a friend.”

“Let me think about it.” But even then she knew she was going to break through it. It was probably the simple act of his backing away that did it. She wasn’t ready yet to say, No, stay with me! but she was pretty sure she was about to be.

She thought about it for half an hour or so, and then she asked him to stay and she told him why she couldn’t even think about the shootout at Algiers Point. “It’s because every time I try, something weird in my mind takes over, and I’m back in that room again, with my father.”

He started making “it’s-only-natural” noises, but she had to stop him. “No. The gun brought it all back—shooting Toes.” She choked over the words. “Darryl, I didn’t see someone shoot my father, I shot him.”

“Oh, my God.” He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, as if he’d suspected all along, but his handsome face was tragic. “Oh, my God.” He was barely whispering. “That’s what they were trying to protect you from.”

She nodded. “Yeah. It all makes a crazy kind of sense when you know. If I saw it, then they just seem like a crazy, overprotective family, but if I did it, they’ve got a reason not to tell me. I almost agree with them.”

“You do?”

That was when the first tears came. “Darryl, I do. You don’t know how awful this is—to realize something like this!” She cried a long time, and then she told him all that she remembered and all that she didn’t. When they had hashed it over a thousand times, they went to bed, and when she awakened he was gone.

Again, she got drunk and went back to bed. Sometime that afternoon, one or two o’clock, maybe, she was awakened by the smell of coffee brewing, and bacon cooking. It had to be Darryl, but how had he gotten off from school? She didn’t try to figure it out, just closed her eyes and went back to sleep. The person who shook her awake was Miz Clara.

“Who you think you is? Queen of the May?”

“Go away, Mama.”

“Come on, girl. You got to eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“And brush your teeth. You smell like a brewery.”

Talba closed her eyes. Miz Clara pulled the sheet off. And Talba got up and brushed her teeth.

She went into the kitchen and drank coffee and ate eggs, bacon, and toast while her mother bustled around the kitchen swiping at surfaces, removing ancient fingerprints, doing what she did all day at white ladies’ houses and then again at home. Miz Clara talked too, all about Talba’s star turn on the news and about how good she looked and how proud she was of her.

Very atypical talk for Miz Clara.

Talba didn’t trust it, but her mother was in an unusual mood—she might answer a straight question if Talba asked it. “Did they show me ... pulling the trigger?”

“No, girl, they ain’ show that. They show him aimin’ at the camera.”

“At his brother. He’d have killed his own brother.” And then she realized what she’d just said, how close to home it was, and her throat closed.

Miz Clara sat down at the table. “Now listen up, girl. You didn’t kill your daddy.”

She had said the “D” word. Even now, now that Talba knew, her mother’d do anything to keep her from knowing. How goddam misguided, she thought, overwhelmed by the wrongheadedness of it. But at the same time, she was touched by it. She laid her hand on her mother’s. “Mama, you don’t have to lie anymore. I remember it.”

“You don’t remember nothin,’ Sandra. Not nothin.’ You didn’t kill your daddy.”

Talba didn’t even answer, just closed her eyes and bowed her head in frustration.

“You kill his woman.”

Her head jerked up. “What?”

Her mother spoke as softly as she ever had in Talba’s memory. “We didn’t want you to know, baby.”

“Mama, tell me. Tell me now!”

Her mother stroked Talba’s arm. “You just shush and listen. That’s what I’m here for.” She had on a bandanna, and Talba realized she’d taken off from work to come; she was losing half a day’s pay.

Miz Clara took a breath. “He was a bad, bad man, your daddy. Denman La Rose Wallis. Umm ummm ummm. Rue the day I take that man’s name. Bad? Girl! He done it all—alcohol, drugs, women. The other thing, too.”

Talba would have thought “the other thing” meant sex. But Miz Clara had just mentioned sex. “What other thing?” she said.

Miz Clara bowed her head, something she only did in church so far as Talba knew. She raised it abruptly. “He hit us.”

“Both of us?”

Her mother nodded. “Corey too. But one thing— the man only good quality—he love his chirren. He did love his chirren. I wouldn’t try to stop him from seein’ y’all, no matter how much I want to.”

I love this, Talba thought. She sent us over there to be beaten. But that was unfair, and she knew it. Her mother had done what she thought best. That was all that could be said about it.

“Women? Wooo, he had women. But one in particular. One he live with.” She looked down again. “One he have a baby with.”

“A baby? You mean I’ve got a sister?”

“ ‘Nother brother, maybe. I don’t remember.”

“A baby? “

Miz Clara moved right away from that one. “We had some real hard times with yo’ daddy gone.” She looked so sad Talba patted her.

“I know, Mama.”

“And maybe I say some things I shouldn’t.” Her eyes filled up. “Baby, you was always such a good little girl.”

“What? What, Mama?”

“Nothin’, honey. Nothin’ at all. You was a good little girl. Yo’ daddy was a bad man. Tha’s the whole story in a nutshell. He hang out with the criminal element and he carry a gun sometime. I know. I find it once or twice. Baby, precious ...” Tears were spilling out of her eyes. “… you find it too.”

“I found it?”

“You weren’t but five, darlin’. You weren’t but five. What kinda man leave a gun lyin’ aroun’ where a five-year-old could find it? You answer me that? What kind of man do that?”

Until now, Talba hadn’t entirely trusted the story, had thought Miz Clara was still trying to soften the blow. But the movie was playing again. The man who picked her up, the one who tried to comfort her, was the man in the photo she’d found. Was unquestionably her father.

Unless my memory’s playing tricks again.

“Was my father there when it happened?”

“Ohhhhh, yes. Yes, ma’am, he certainly was. He’d left the gun on the coffee table. On the coffee table! Can you feature a thing like that?” Her voice was shrill with outrage. “He left his gun on the coffee table!”

“Well, what happened?”

“You was playin’ with the gun and it went off. Tha’s what happened. The woman died, your life ruined. Or could have been. Could have been ruined.

“Honey, we tried so hard to protect you. All in the world we was doing was tryin’ to keep you from knowin’ somethin’ ugly like that.”

She was crying in earnest now, and Talba felt her own tears ball up in a big clot at the back of her throat—they weren’t going to melt out of her for a while. She knew how it worked—she was going to have to feel lower than a worm until the crying worked its way to the surface, and there was nothing she could do to hasten the process. Nothing but lie down and stare at the ceiling.

“I know, Mama,” she said. “I know.”

She wondered if she should try to embrace her mother, but she thought not. This was a private grief.

“But why would I shoot the woman?” she said.

Her mother looked at her squarely. “I ain’t know, precious. The good Lord the only one know the answer to that. The good Lord the only one.”

Later, during the three subsequent days she stared at the ceiling, another movie took shape in her head: Corey spilling milk on the kitchen floor, Miz Clara screaming in frustration and despair. “Look what you done now! We ain’ got no money to buy more! Ain’t got enough for a quart of milk. And your daddy don’t even care, livin’ with that woman, neglectin’ his own two chirren—oh, Lord, I wish that woman was dead!”

Talba asked her mama if she’d ever had a kind of paisley overblouse, a sort of blue-and-gold print, that she wore over jeans, and Miz Clara said, “Girl, how come you remember a thing like that?”

Talba said, “I remember Corey spilling some milk and you were wearing it.”

Miz Clara’s face closed down as if Saran-wrapped. “I don’t remember no such thing.”

There was another memory she tried to tease out. So far she hadn’t succeeded, and there was comfort in that. In her worst moments, she had the sick, scary feeling that she’d said something like: “I thought you wanted me to, Mama. I thought you wanted her to die.” But if she had, it was staying buried, at least for now, and she could only pray it would forever.

She hoped to God Miz Clara hadn’t had to live with that.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Once during her lying-in period, someone other than Darryl and family had tried to come see her—but she wouldn’t get up even for the Reverend Clarence Scruggs, which deeply embarrassed her and scandalized her mother. But she couldn’t do it. Truly couldn’t.

The thing that finally got her up was the discovery of Aziza Scott’s body in the woods at Algiers Point, buried in a shallow grave. Or more properly, Miz Clara was the thing that got her up. She brought in the Times-Picayune and thumped it “Bless that poor little child’s heart, her mama dead! Bad enough, ya won’t even get up and go see ya own boss in the hospital. Ya can’t be bothered visitin’ a little girl whose mama died a horrible and violent death, the good Lord forgive ya.”

Miz Clara was right about this one. Even if she had to take Prozac, she had to visit Cassandra.

She made it without benefit of chemicals, and she was touched by the girl’s reception. As soon as she walked into the crowded living room, Cassandra ran to her, threw her arms around her neck, and held on. Cassandra’s dad thanked her for saving his daughter. Shaneel was there, too, with her mama, a nice woman who seemed to consider her an old friend.

And so was Pamela. “Girl!” Talba blurted. “You don’t know how worried I was about you.”

The little redhead looked bewildered.

Remembering they’d never actually met, Talba introduced herself.

The girl’s face glowed. “Oh! The woman who saved Cassandra. Let me shake your hand.” While Talba complied, Pammie kept talking, nervously. “I’m a little embarrassed that I disappeared, but you have to understand how freaked out I was. See, Toes called and threatened to kill me if I ratted him out. I didn’t even think—all I wanted was out.” She laughed a sad little laugh. “I wish I was more proud of myself. I found out later I wasn’t the only one— he called Shaneel and Cassandra too.”

“You did the right thing, little pumpkin head.”

“I don’t know—I was scared, that’s all. I didn’t even tell my parents—-just took the bus to Millie’s. She’s like my aunt, kind of.” The girl said the last part shyly, as if confessing a secret crush. “You know—Millie the Milliner? She felt bad about freezing you out—she thought she had to do it to protect me.”

“Well, that clears that up. I thought she had a sudden attack of racism.”

Pamela was clearly mortified. “Oh, no! She’d die if she thought—”

“I was just kidding. But one thing puzzles me— your parents said they sent you out of town.”

The girl looked at the carpet. “I guess they were embarrassed they didn’t know where I was. I did call to say I was okay.”

Cassandra had stood by during the conversation, listening mutely, wearing a slightly dazed expression but conveying as well an aura of urgency, as if she had something on her mind. Talba bided her time till she could get the girl aside. When it was finally accomplished, Cassandra said, “I thought about you a lot—about what you did, how you saved me and Tony.”

Talba was embarrassed, but Cassandra was even more so. She kept talking, fast. “I wanted to ... well, I wanted to...I can’t say it. I thought you were really great, and so I did something really weird. I wrote a poem.”

Talba was so bowled over by this revelation that she could only repeat the words: “You wrote a poem?”

The girl nodded. “Uh-huh. About my mom. About what she meant to me. Maybe when ... when this is all over or something, you could take a look at it.”

Talba said, “Sure. I’d be glad to. I think that’s wonderful, baby.”

The girl had something else to say. “Is Eddie okay? How’s he doin’?”

“He’s better.” That was the rumor, anyway.

“Listen, I...” She was squirming with embarrassment “Could you tell him it’s okay? I know he did all he could. Could you tell him I know he tried?”

“Well... sure. But I don’t understand, exactly.”

The girl closed her eyes and water squeezed out the bottom of each. She could only whisper. “He told me he’d find my mama for me. I know he feels real bad.”

Talba felt as if someone had sprayed her face with rosewater. She couldn’t believe what the kid had done—how she was handling this thing. The girl seemed to have grown up overnight.

Talba thought, She’s doing better than I am, and felt ashamed. She went home and wrote a poem about the kid who wrote a poem about her mother.

After that, she didn’t go back to bed except during normal sleeping hours. Somehow or other, she and Eileen Fisher had to keep the agency going. Also, she had a bit of unfinished business. She had to figure out how her father happened to get a fatal gunshot wound.

Eddie had broken his nose, left scapula, two ribs, and his right tibia. Once he came out of the coma, his most serious injury was the leg break. That took a while to heal, and it made him cross.

But he was coming in to the office after about a month, tearing apart everything Talba and Eileen had put together. They’d gladly have sent him back, but Angie and Audrey were being very Catholic about the thing. Or maybe just Italian. Talba wasn’t sure where it came from, but it went like this: they felt guilty about Eddie’s injuries, largely because, as Talba understood it, he’d missed his own sixty-fifth birthday party, which it was their duty to throw for him. Thus, the only way to expunge their guilt was to throw it anyway. Only the hotel ballroom they’d booked for the occasion was now booked until July with conventions, graduations, and weddings.

So the second week of JazzFest, they took advantage of the gorgeous weather to throw a crawfish party at their own gorgeous house out by the lake. Eddie agreed to it for one reason and one reason only—it was also a party to announce the engagement of his son Tony Tino, the well-known blues musician, and Tony’s very pregnant bride-to-be. This scandalized Audrey—which was probably what Eddie liked about it—and amused Angie no end.

Eddie was feeling so expansive, he said to her, “Ya got a boyfriend? Always room for one more.”

To which Angie replied, “I thought you thought I was a dyke.”

Damned if Eddie didn’t blush. “Goddammit. Bring yours then, Ms. Wallis.”

“Audrey already asked him. Along with his daughter, my mother, Cassandra, her father and his girlfriend, Shaneel, and her mama. Is that too many black folks for you?”

He looked at her seriously. “No. No, Ms. Wallis. That’s about the right amount—just so long as Miz Clara doesn’t bring a boyfriend.”

Miz Clara had brought him greens and chicken twice a week during his recovery, and he claimed to have fallen in love with her.

Talba, meanwhile, had met Darryl’s daughter, Raisa, twice, and found her as difficult as advertised. Yet it was Darryl’s weekend to have her, and it wasn’t a good time to mess with her schedule. So Raisa was coming.

The air was thick with citronella when Talba got there. Tables were all over the backyard, covered with newspaper, and two great cauldrons of crawfish, potatoes, and corn bubbled away. There were also tubs packed with beer and soft drinks for the children, of whom, Talba was relieved to see, there were quite a few. What did I expect! she thought These people are Italian.

To her immense relief, Shaneel and Cassandra took a shine to Raisa, who, even Talba agreed, was an exquisite child.

Though her mother was black, some ancestor hadn’t been. The girl had taupe-colored skin and shiny hair that billowed behind her in a golden cloud. Talba had never seen anything like it on any child, black or white, and it was probably going to turn dark in a year or two; but right now, it was ethereal.

Because she looked so much like an angel, you could almost forget that at any given moment she might throw a tantrum.

With luck, she’d grow out of it. And with more luck, she’d remain angelic at least another few minutes.

Talba had a poem to perform—the one she’d promised Eileen Fisher so long before. Between the consumption of crustaceans and the playing of blues, she took the floor.

“For all y’all who don’t know me, I am the Baroness de Pontalba, also known as Eddie Valentino’s humble assistant. While I do write and perform poetry on a regular basis, I’ve never exactly written a poem in this form before. But because of the kind of person we all know Eddie is, I put in a lot of special effort to come up with something ethnically appropriate. Ya’ll ready?”

Tony, who’d been carefully coached, led the cheering.

“It’s kind of a new thing for me, now. Okay, here goes.”

Tony, who’d borrowed a drum to accompany her, tapped out a rap.

Mistah Eddie Valentino he a one of a kind

He a crime-fightin’private eye that ev’rybody know

He talk like a thug, but he ain’t your average Joe

He look like a thug, but he really know his wine—

He’d act like a thug if his family weren’t so fine.

Got some moves when he clash with Mistah Dangerous Foe

Gettin’ old, but got his ducks pretty much in a row

You a thug, you a gangsta, make you cry and make you whine

But ain’t none of that stuff what makes the dude unique—

Got backpacks hangin’ down the front of his mug

Now you could carry the mail in them pouches on his face,

‘Cause the baldface truth is the man is a freak,

He got sleepin’ bags for squirrels, they big enough to hug

‘Cause the baldface truth is the detective’s a case!

When she was finished, and had received her share of foot-stompin’ appreciation, she bowed in her usual regal fashion: “The Baroness myself thanks you.”

She was leaving the stage in triumph, when Tony, next on the program, took the mike and fed her the straight lines she’d requested: “Not so fast, Baroness. Come on back up here.”

When she had obeyed, he said, “I don’t quite understand your logic here. I know you wanted to honor my father and all, but just how exactly is a rap ethnically appropriate to a man whose last name ends with a vowel?”

“Baby, that wasn’t no rap.”

“Come on, Baroness. If it walks like a duck, and it quacks like a duck...”

“Well, then, it’s a wop poem.”

“If that’s a wop poem, you and I were listening to some different quacking.”

“No, we heard the same quacking. My interpretation threw you off a little, that’s all.”

“What do you mean, your interpretation? I think I know a rap when I hear one.”

“Well, Tony, honey, I just said your daddy a fourteen-line poem in iambic pentameter with one octet and one sestet, and a rhyme scheme of ABBA in the octet and CDE in the sestet.” She turned full face to the audience. “You know what you call that, Mr. Eddie Valentino? That is a very ethnically appropriate Petrarchan sonnet. Known familiarly as an Italian sonnet.” She bowed again, but before the expected applause could get started, Eddie slipped in and got the last word.

“Ciao, grazie,” he said. And then, expansive as a talk show host: “Arrivederci, alligator.” Talba never was sure whether the resulting applause was for her or for him.

THE END

Acknowledgments

So much goes into a book and so many people contribute! Some are sources of information, some sources of inspiration, and some are sources for the sources. In the course of writing this one, Chris Wiltz, Betsy Petersen, Marigny Pecot, Prieur and Mathilde Leary, AJ. Valenti, Linda Buczek, Chuck Hustmyre, Andy J. Forest, Ken White, Sonya Hardy, Roger at Spytek 2000, and Pat Brady generously provided counsel and shared their expertise. I’m hugely grateful to them all, as well as to my agents, Charlotte Sheedy and Vicky Bijur; and to Win Blevins, the kind of editor they don’t make any more. Finally, my most special thanks of all go to Lee Pryor, untier of plot knots, tireless location-finder, and the kind of husband they don’t make anymore.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I’m Julie and I’m a serial serialist—the author of four mystery series. Evidently I have a little writing problem. The downside is no vacations—but the upside for you, I hope, is there’s a lot to choose from. The Talba Wallis PI series, represented here, is a spinoff of the Skip Langdon series, which features a New Orleans cop. Then there’s Rebecca Schwartz, the funny San Francisco lawyer, and Paul Mcdonald, the clueless almost Bay Area sometime PI. Actually, don’t choose—read them all!

I f you’d like a free review copy of any of my books, write me at julieorleans@cox.net . By the way, I’m a publisher as well as an author, so that goes for all the books I publish. Would you like to know about new ones? Visit our website, www.booksBnimble.com and sign up for our mailing list. I’m on Twitter as @booksBnimble, and you can find me here on FaceBook: https://www.facebook.com/julie.smith.1671897 .

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Novelist and publisher Julie Smith is the author of more than twenty mysteries, most set in New Orleans and starring one or the other of her detective heroes, a cop named Skip Langdon, and a PI named Talba Wallis. (Both female, both tough and wily.) Her most recent novel is BAD GIRL SCHOOL, a paranoramal YA adventure tale, starring a tough, wily, but somewhat younger female protagonist. NEW ORLEANS MOURNING, the first book in her Skip Langdon series, won the Edgar Allan Poe award for best novel. A former writing teacher, she has recently published her course on writing novels in the form of an ebook, WRITING YOUR WAY. Her digital publishing website is www.booksbnimble.com.

The Skip Langdon Series (in order of publication)

NEW ORLEANS MOURNING

THE AXEMAN’S JAZZ

JAZZ FUNERAL

DEATH BEFORE FACEBOOK (formerly NEW ORLEANS BEAT)

HOUSE OF BLUES

THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS

CRESCENT CITY CONNECTION (formerly CRESCENT CITY KILL)

82 DESIRE

MEAN WOMAN BLUES

The Rebecca Schwartz Series

DEATH TURNS A TRICK

THE SOURDOUGH WARS

TOURIST TRAP

DEAD IN THE WATER

OTHER PEOPLE’S SKELETONS

The Paul Macdonald Series

TRUE-LIFE ADVENTURE

HUCKLEBERRY FIEND

The Talba Wallis Series

LOUISIANA HOTSHOT

LOUISIANA BIGSHOT

LOUISIANA LAMENT

P.I. ON A HOT TIN ROOF

As well as:

WRITING YOUR WAY: THE GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL TRACK

NEW ORLEANS NOIR (ed.)

BAD GIRL SCHOOL

And don’t miss ALWAYS OTHELLO, a Skip Langdon story, as well as the brand new short story, PRIVATE CHICK, which asks the question, “Is this country ready for a drag queen detective?” More info at www.booksBnimble.com.

SNEAK PEEK: LOUISIANA BIGSHOT

Chapter One

Under normal circumstances, getting a Louisiana PI license is so routine as to be boring—you take a course, you pass a test, and you pay your money. Usually, there’s only one slight catch—you can’t be issued a license unless you’re already hired. But Talba Wallis seemed to have found another one.

She was already hired, and she’d made ninety-seven on the test. For nearly five months she’d worked as an apprentice for Mr. Eddie Valentino of E.V. Anthony Investigations.

And still, she almost didn’t get her license.

You have to submit a few little things with your application—a copy of your driver’s license, five-by-seven-inch photo, and fingerprints. For the last, the State Board of Private Investigator Examiners provides official FBI cards. All you have to do is take them to any law enforcement agency that offers a fingerprinting service and plunk down a few small bucks.

“Piece o’ cake,” Eddie said. “Take ya ten minutes, max.”

So one gorgeous September day on her lunch hour, Talba drove out to 715 South Broad Street, headquarters of the New Orleans Police Department.

A good thing it’s close, she thought. She had a client coming in at one, and at three, she had to resume her surveillance of a suspected errant wife. The woman was a college professor whose last class was over then, and Talba was in a hurry to wrap up the case. Eddie’s jokes about “extracurricular activities” were getting tedious.

Nonetheless, she was in a great mood. She sailed in feeling buoyant and powerful. Finally, finally, she was getting the damned license. She liked the job a lot. A whole lot. And a funny thing, it was a great way to make friends. It wasn’t something anyone ever thought about on career day at school, but once you said the words private investigator, it was amazing how many people blurted, “I’d love to do that!”

They wouldn’t, of course. For one thing, there was the tedium—of records searches, surveillance, online research, court appearances, intake interviews, half a dozen other things. For another, most people thought divorce cases were sleazy, and these were a good chunk of the work. Actually, Talba liked them—she liked catching scumbags (of either sex) and, though originally hired for her computer skills, she’d turned out to be good at it. It wasn’t a job for everybody, but, despite the fact that she was such a computer wiz she impressed even herself, a sensitive and talented poet (in her opinion), and a baroness (she’d decided), it suited her.

So she was in an excellent mood as she entered the building. A female functionary sporting two-inch purple nails with a tiny picture on each of them pointed to a door on the right. No stairs, no elevator. Couldn’t be more convenient.

Talba stepped through to a nearly dark, closet-sized anteroom opening onto a large, light comfortable-looking room, which was populated by two people—an enormous woman in a black dress and a smallish, wiry-looking man in uniform. Both were African-American, as was Talba herself. The well-padded woman had a motherly look to her. Pencil in hand, she was poring over something in which she seemed to have a deep and abiding interest.

She may or not have heard Talba enter, but either way, she didn’t look up. The man was talking on the phone. Talba stood politely for a few minutes, curious as to what was so important the woman couldn’t take time out to serve a customer. And finally, she got tired of it. “Excuse me,” she said.

The woman looked at her over nondescript glasses that couldn’t hide a pair of bulging eyes. A thyroid thing, Talba thought, figuring it was causing the weight problem.

“I’m here to get fingerprinted.”

“Whatcha need prints for?”

“I’m applying for my PI license.”

“That’ll cost ya thirty dollars. You can get it done for fifteen dollars at the Jefferson Parish Sheriff’s Office.”

“Here’s fine. I don’t mind the charge.”

The woman raised an eyebrow, as if she disapproved of spendthrifts. “Ya filled out ya cards?”

“No, do I need to?”

“Use black ink and be sure ya print.”

In the anteroom, there was an end table she could probably write on, but not enough light to see. “May I come in to fill them out?” There were at least five empty desks.

“This room’s part of the police department.” The woman went back to her paperwork, leaving Talba rummaging for a pen and hoping if she found one, it would be black.

She ended up going outside to fill out the card.

When she returned, the large woman seemed almost cordial. “Come on in,” she said, with a near-smile, and Talba opened the dutch door separating the spaces.

The other woman came forward to sit at the front desk. “Let me have the cards and ya driver’s license.” The instructions on the application had been explicit—the fingerprinter must see the applicant’s license. The woman studied the documents for almost five minutes before she finally raised her head, face outraged, suddenly a different person.

“You got different names on these things!”

It was true.

Talba’s birth name was an embarrassment to all concerned—to herself, to Miz Clara, and to the human race in general. A white obstetrics resident who thought he was funny had named her. However, the state required the same name on your driver’s license that appeared on your birth certificate.

“Talba” was her own name, the name she’d given herself and always used except when performing her poems, at which times she used its ceremonial form, “the Baroness de Pontalba.”

She pointed out where she’d written her official name on the FBI card, in the space asking for aliases and AKAs. “I’d prefer to use ‘Talba’ on my license,” she said.

“You can’t do that. Ya name’s Urethra.” It took all Talba’s strength not to wince.

Damn! Something was severely off here. The license was issued by a state board—what right did a city functionary have even to express an opinion on the subject?

But the fat lady wasn’t the sort you argued with. Talba said, “The board might agree, I don’t know. Can’t know till I apply.”

The woman wasn’t listening. She’d begun doing something online, holding Talba’s license and FBI cards as she clicked her way through what was evidently a Yellow Pages site. “There’s no Eddie Valentino in here.”

The card had asked for her employer’s name and address. “I work for E.V. Anthony Investigations. Eddie’s the ‘E.V.’ part.”.

“I’m gon’ call the state board.” The woman got up and waddled to a glass cubicle in the back of the room. Talba heard her dial and say, “This is Sergeant Rouselle.”

This woman was a cop? That was a shocker. She wasn’t in uniform and she wore no badge. Besides that, she seemed not to have either the personality or the build for it. Minor bureaucrat was the way Talba’d pegged her. The sort who got off on ruining people’s days.

Cop or no, she suddenly realized, she was about to become snarled in a bureaucratic snafu that was going to make her miss her one o’clock.

She walked back to the cubicle and held out her hand. “Sgt. Rouselle, I think I’ll go over to Jefferson Parish, after all. May I have my license, please?”

The sergeant turned on her, shouting, bulging eyes blazing behind dirty lenses. “You’re going to jail if you snatch this out my hand!”

Talba backed away, “I wasn’t going to—”

The other officer got off the phone quick and strode over to the cubicle, patting air as if to calm a child. “Now, ma’am, just calm down. Just take it easy now.”

“But I didn’t... look, all I want to do is go. I’m on my lunch hour.”

“I get the feeling you’re worried you’re going to get your boss in trouble. This is nothing to do with you and nothing to do with him.”

What language was he speaking?

Who cared?

“Look, Officer, I’m on a schedule.”

“Just take it easy and nobody’s going to get in any trouble.” It suddenly got through to Talba exactly what the situation was: He was telling her the sergeant really could throw her in jail if she wanted to. All she’d have to do was say Talba assaulted her to get her license; or had pot breath; or anything she wanted to. In a word, she was trapped.

She sat and steamed. After about twenty minutes, Officer Rouselle waddled on out. “All right. You want to get fingerprinted?”

Talba looked at her watch, considering. There was still time to make her one o’clock—barely—if the show could just get on the road. “Can we do it now?”

“ Now? “ the sergeant shouted. “Can we do it now? You don’t respect my title or my position, do you? I need a little more respect out of you, missy. Hear me: you must use the same name on these cards as is on your driver’s license...”

Talba was desperate to scream at the woman: It’s not up to you, Fat Stuff! It’s up to the state board. But that was definitely going to get her arrested.

It developed the sergeant could read her mind. She just stared, heaving a huge sigh. And then, still clutching Talba’s license, she picked up the phone.

“Captain Regilio, please. Well, then, the lieutenant.” Talba’s heart thumped in a way it hadn’t since she’d gotten in a shootout the previous spring. It’s the adrenaline, she realized. Damn! This petty bureaucrat has me scared to death.

That pissed her off almost more than the rest of it.

Then there was the problem of how the hell she was going to explain to Eddie (or her mother or even her boyfriend) that she was innocent—whatever the charge. The fact was, she did have a mouth on her. The irony was, for once she was keeping it shut. Eventually, two uniformed male officers and one white woman in shorts arrived to receive another ten minutes of Sgt. Rouselle’s rants. “I called y’all in because this woman’s trying to provoke me.”

Suck it up, Talba told herself. Keep your mouth shut or you’re going to jail.

Her teeth hurt from gritting them. Finally one of the other officers gently pried the license from Sgt. Rouselle’s grasp and handed it back to Talba, who once again held out her hand. “May I have my fingerprint cards?”

“I’m gon’ confiscate those. They’re not your property, they’re the FBI’s.”

Oh, yeah? So now you’re the FBI?

She looked beseechingly at the others, but they only stared back poker-faced.

Well, who cared? At least she was legal to drive back to the office. She never had to breathe a word. She’d just go tomorrow to Jefferson Parish and no one would be the wiser.

She arrived back at the office at five after one. Her client was sitting in the reception room, and Eileen Fisher, Eddie’s office manager, looked way too nervous for comfort. “That Ms. Wallis?” Eddie hollered. “Ms. Wallis, could you come in here a minute? I just had a phone call from the state board. What’s this about you gettin’ arrested?”

It was a hell of a way to begin a career.

But Eddie had been gentle with her. “I’m gon’ let you off this time, Ms. Wallis. So long as you learned somethin’ from this experience.”

“If you mean I’m supposed to suck up to some power-hungry harpie out of Kafka’s worst nightmares...”

“I don’t mean that a’tall, Ms. Wallis. I mean I hope ya learned to never, ever, for any reason do anything in any New Orleans city office you can do somewhere else. I mean that, now. Save us both a lot of time, lot of headache.”

She was about to say, Yes sir, she sure wouldn’t, and leave clicking her heels together, when he held up a finger. “And one more thing if you don’t mind—could ya make some kinda effort not to be more trouble than ya worth?”

That was a month ago. She had her license now—in the name of Talba Wallis, thank you very much. But the whole gig looked to be falling apart again.

She could barely hear the words through the fuzz in her brain: “ Miss, are you all right? “ The speaker was the other driver, a white man in his forties.

Hell, no, she wasn’t all right. Four days of surveillance and she finally had the pond scum in the Cadillac with the paramour, feet away from her camera lens. Inches from delicious triumph.

But now nothing. Nothing but a hurting back, a totaled car, maybe a missed paycheck. Maybe even the ax—after that little episode with Sgt Rouselle, Eddie’s patience was pretty thin.

And her mama, Miz Clara, did so love having her baby daughter employed! Even as a PI. Time was when Miz Clara thought there were only three suitable jobs for a Wallis child—doctor of medicine, speaker of the house, and first African-American president. But that was before she caught onto the stage-mom potential of having a flamboyant daughter who happened to be not only a poet, performance artist, and computer genius but also a detective.

And now a little thing like a missed stop sign was about to ruin it all. One minute Talba was barreling toward truth and justice; the next, a force from hell struck with a sound like a gunshot, leaving her humiliated and hurting. For a moment she thought maybe it was a gunshot; she wouldn’t put it past the lying, low-down sack of manure she was following.

But, no, it was a Ford Explorer—a car about twice the size of Talba’s Camry—which had been lawfully moving through the intersection. She hadn’t seen the car or the stop sign. A crowd was beginning to gather. A siren wailed in the distance. And Talba’s back was killing her.

In her current state, she really couldn’t go back to the office and deal with Eddie about this thing. He could be slightly more of a pain in the patootie than Miz Clara herself.

There was only one good thing about this—that it wasn’t Eddie’s car that got wrecked. And not just because his was really his wife Audrey’s Cadillac. It was handsomely appointed with the Global Positioning System that Talba had bought half-price from some fly-by-night spy shop having a fire sale. She had a weakness for shopping at spy shops; her idea was, with the GPS Eddie could track her if she got in a tight spot. But after spending a week’s salary on it, she realized he didn’t even have a laptop for the tracking system. So, under great protest, she’d made him let her install it in his own car.

Under very great protest. Eddie claimed the Twenty-First-Century PI needed only six pieces of equipment, one of which was a child’s toy and only two of which were electronic—cell phone, tape recorder, video camera, conventional camera, binoculars, and Tee-ball bat. The last was the closest thing to a weapon he ever carried. “It’s well-balanced, with a good grip, and heavy enough to do some damage. And it’s absolutely legal,” he told Talba when he presented her with hers.

Groaning, she retrieved it now, along with her maps and the other five items. She put the entire PI kit in a Guatemalan bag she had in the trunk, thinking that where it really be- longed was in a new car. But she sure couldn’t shop for one bent over like she was.

So she called Babalu Maya for an appointment and got the tow truck to drop her at Whole Foods on its way to Camry heaven. Babalu, bodyworker extraordinaire (whose real name was probably Barbara), lived within spitting distance of the only store in New Orleans where you could buy a head of lettuce for the cost of a new Camry. Talba could walk the block and a half if she didn’t collapse first; she could hobble it, anyhow. Or so she thought. She found the effort made her nauseous.

“Girl!” Babalu’s face said Talba’s pain was her pain. “I swear to God you’re pale.”

Babalu was white; she said things like that. Talba was not merely African-American but black. Good and black, thank you very much. She knew she was nowhere near pale, but she couldn’t be looking her best.

“Give me that bag and sit down. Just sit down, now.” Talba still had stairs to climb. Babalu exerted pressure on her shoulders; Talba yielded. And before she knew it Babalu had done something, she hadn’t a clue what, that made it possible to straighten up.

“Can you make it upstairs?”

Talba nodded gratefully and hobbled up ahead of Babalu, who evidently thought she might have to catch her if things didn’t go well. Talba knew the drill so well she didn’t even pause, just went into the first room off the hallway, removed her shoes and earrings, and slid gingerly onto the massage table.

Babalu said, “Tell me about it.”

“Well, I didn’t see the stop sign. This tank or something hit me on the shotgun side—caved in my whole front end.”

“You are one lucky female.” Babalu’s pretty face screwed itself up. She had short blond hair that she wore in a careless, shaggy bob, clear, satiny skin, and some kind of chain tattoo crawling up her arm—Celtic knots, she said, but it gave Talba the creeps. Like some kind of metaphorical half-handcuffs. Babalu had smiled the time she mentioned it—and not a nice smile, either; as if the effect was deliberate.

Talba said, “Lucky. How come I can’t quite see it that way? I’m pretty sure my car’s a total.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Wish I had one to lend you.” That was the way she was, Talba thought. A nurturer; a healer. She knew Talba only as a client, and yet she behaved like a friend.

Talba groaned again and changed the subject, hoping for distraction from the intermittent pain. “Okay, enough about me. What’s new with you?” She arched her back against Babalu’s fingers.

“You haven’t been here in too long, or you’d know. Feel that? These muscles think they’re bone. A little stress, I’d say.”

Talba ignored the last part. “Or I’d know what?”

Babalu waved her left hand provocatively; its fourth finger glinted. “I’m getting married.”

Talba tried to sit up, just to take in the news. Babalu leaned over her chest and pushed her down. Tough. But her cheeks were flushed and she was smiling. Talba gave up. “Hey, that’s fantastic!”

“Yeah. I’m pretty happy.” The blush deepened.

“Well, tell me everything.” This was good. There was nothing so distracting as a little romance.

“He’s ... cute.”

“Yes? And?”

“Well, he’s from Mississippi, and his name is Jason. He’s about six feet tall with dark, gorgeous hair ...”

“Umm hmm. Blue eyes, I bet.”

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“You like that. I remember.” A bodyworker, she reflected, was like a hairdresser or an exercise partner. There you were for an hour, just the two of you—of course you were going to talk about who you were dating. “He’s probably an actor.”

Babalu nodded. “Pretty good, too.”

“I knew it. You’re such a stage-door Jenny.”

“I like people with talent—the way I grew up was just so ... I don’t know ...”

“Stuffy?”

“What makes you think that?”

“You’ve got that deb look. Except for the tattoo, of course. And the zany hair.”

Babalu laughed. “Carefully cultivated. We were trailer-trash, actually.”

“Back to the guy. Does he have a day gig?”

“He’s... ummm... a stock trader.”

“A trader? With the market in the toilet?”

Babalu shrugged. “He seems to do okay at it.”

“That’s a fair-sized rock he gave you, anyhow.” She realized Babalu hadn’t said one really personal thing about the man. “What about him really, though? What’s your favorite thing about him?”

“My favorite thing?” The question seemed to catch her offguard, but she recovered quickly. “You think I’m going to talk about that? “

“Don’t. Ow. It hurts to laugh. Also, you’re mashing a tender spot.”

Instantly, Babalu’s fingers lightened up. Talba sought once more to distract herself. “Okay, what do you like least about him?”

“Least?”

“Yeah, least. I know you’re crazy in love and all that but search your conscience—there’s got to be something.”

Talba could have sworn Babalu’s hands tightened on her back—even pinched a bit. She heard a sound like a sniff. Damn! She sure didn’t want to get a cold.

But it wasn’t that. The sniff was followed by a sound like snurf, a smothered sound, but there was no mistaking it; Babalu was crying.

“What is it?” Once again, she tried to rise, thinking to hug the healer, but Babalu held her down.

“No. Let’s finish the session.”

Talba didn’t move, but she wasn’t about to keep quiet. “Girlfriend, what is it?”

“I think he’s cheating on me.”

Oh, boy. Talba had heard plenty of this kind of thing lately. Louisiana might have no-fault divorce, but there was still the issue of spousal support, which was why she was surveilling a low-down scumbag cheater when the Explorer slammed her. Proof of catting around could pay off handsomely, but that was irrelevant in Babalu’s case. What was relevant was, the marriage was off to a rocky start and it hadn’t even happened yet.

“You can’t marry an asshole who’s cheating on you. Babalu, hear me—you do not deserve this. Give the man his ring back.”

“You’re scrunching up again.”

“You’re getting me upset.”

“Well, I just said he may be. He’s probably not. Maybe he’s... I don’t know—maybe it’s something else.”

“Talk to me. Tell me about it.”

“I can’t. You’re scrunching up. You want to walk out of here or not?”

Talba tried to relax.

“You know what I need? I need a detective.”

“No, you don’t. You need out.”

“Could you relax, please? Look, can I come to your office tomorrow? Talk to you about it?”

She sounded so pitiful Talba said okay, maybe they could trade services. But she never thought Babalu’d show up.

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Table of Contents

Start
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
EASY INNOCENCE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Acknowledgments
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SNEAK PEEK: NOBODY’S CHILD
CROSS CURRENT
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SNEAK PEEK: DEVIL’S TRIANGLE
THE FLOWER MASTER
Cast of Characters
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SNEAK PEEK: The Floating Girl
KILLER INSTINCT
FOREWORD
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Also by Zoë Sharp
SNEAK PEEK: THE BLOOD WHISPERER
LOUISIANA HOTSHOT
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Acknowledgments
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SNEAK PEEK: LOUISIANA BIGSHOT