He Will Be My Ruin

by K. A. Tucker

  CHAPTER 18

  Maggie

  December 6, 2015

  I smile at the security guard as he sits unmoving, watching me saunter toward the front desk. “I’m here to see Larissa Savoy, please.” I tried her cell earlier this morning—twice—but she didn’t answer. I decided I couldn’t wait.

  He picks up the phone and dials, while I study the glitzy lobby of this prewar boutique condo in the heart of Midtown south. Larissa has clearly done very well for herself.

  I wonder just how much of it is on account of her career as a lawyer.

  “Your name, miss?” he asks.

  “My name is Maggie Sparkes. I’m a friend of Celine Gonzalez.”

  I watch the middle-aged man repeat my words and listen to the speaker on the other end of the line. I’m expecting to be turned away, preparing exactly what I’ll say to convince her that she needs to meet with me—now—when he waves me toward the elevators.

  Fantastic.

  Luckily, I’m more apprehensive about this meeting than about my own mental issues in the elevator at the moment.

  The second I lay eyes on Larissa Savoy, I can tell that she’s both a lawyer and a whore. Okay, maybe “whore” is too judgmental. But we started off on the wrong foot long before she ever opened her mahogany door.

  “Miss Sparkes?” She pushes a hand through a thick, shoulder-length mane of auburn hair. Equally wary eyes—pretty, deep amber, and almond-shaped—survey the simple pants-and-blouse outfit I pulled from Celine’s closet this morning, partially hidden under a winter white coat. Also Celine’s.

  “Yes.”

  Her slippered feet slide back several steps to allow room for me. “Has something happened to Celine? I haven’t spoken to her in a few months.”

  Since the end of July, if the cell phone records are accurate. “Yes.” My gaze wanders around the corner unit, the view of the Empire State Building spectacular. “She killed herself.” While I’m not convinced of that, no one else besides Ruby, Doug, and Detective Childs needs to know that yet.

  Larissa’s hands fly to her mouth to cover her gasp. It’s one of those gasps that makes me suspicious. Then again, everything makes me suspicious lately. It’s not a far distance to her couch, and she somewhat staggers over to take a seat, her dark complexion ashen.

  I’ll admit, it’s hard to fake that reaction.

  Finally, she manages a ragged, “How?”

  “A mixture of medication and alcohol.”

  “Was it . . . ,” she struggles for the words, a few tears slip out, “accidental? I mean, could she have made a mistake?”

  “The police have ruled it a suicide.”

  She nods to herself. “Thank you for telling me. I’ve known Celine for a few years now and considered her a friend. I met her through a mutual acquaintance several years ago, way back when I was still in law school.”

  “I’m sure you’ve come a long way since being a student.” My eyes scan the condo again. It’s nice, modern, clean. Doug said this unit sold for 1.3 million last June. “And so quickly.”

  As if pulling on a mask of composure, she sits taller. “I suppose I chose the right profession.”

  I’m guessing her second career isn’t one she broadcasts widely. It probably wouldn’t be great for her professional reputation at Delong and Quaid. I’m having a hard time biting back the cynicism, leveling my gaze at her harshly. “Yes, I’m sure you’re very good at what you do.”

  Her eyes narrow for just a flash, so quick that I almost think I imagined it. “I’m surprised you thought to track me down.”

  I can tell she’s mentally playing out a conversation, trying to figure out exactly what I know and how I know it. I save her the trouble. “I know that you were the one setting Celine up with ‘companions.’ ” I air quote that word.

  She clears her throat. “She told you?” I hear her add in a low mumble, “I didn’t think she would.”

  “She wrote about it all in her diaries.”

  Larissa’s color returns, her cheeks flushing suddenly. “She was a friend who needed to make money to pay for school. I simply introduced her to a few older gentlemen who I know like to take pretty, young women to social events. That’s all I did and there’s nothing illegal about that. Unless of course she didn’t claim the income for tax purposes. I warned her to.”

  I highly doubt most of these girls working under Larissa file taxes for sex work. It’s free cash on the side. Scanning Celine’s tax files, it appeared that she started out honest, including a secondary income amount in her yearly income when she was serving strictly as a companion. But, based on my quick scan of last year’s filing, she wasn’t claiming everything that was in her notebook. “I’m still sorting through that. What I do know is that some of these men paid for an awful lot more than a social event.”

  She shrugs, seemingly more relaxed. “I specifically told her that getting paid for sexual favors is illegal. Anything in those diaries that indicates I said otherwise won’t stand in court.”

  “Right. If she decided to make a little extra money, that was on her. Not you. Because you were very careful about what was ever recorded. So tell me . . . do you claim that ‘twenty percent referral rate’ that you make your girls pay you?”

  Larissa’s initial shock over Celine’s death has quickly given way to a cold exterior, rank with self-preservation. She presses her lips shut tightly. When she speaks again, it’s with a smile. “You’re obviously mistaken about that. I realize that you’re looking for people to blame for what Celine chose to do with her life. But might I remind you that making accusations without solid proof will only harm you and Celine’s memory. Any pot you’d like to stir will end with her mother finding out what she was doing. Do you really want that? I think the poor woman has been through enough, don’t you? From what Celine told me of her, that kind of news would kill her.”

  Well played, Larissa. I grit my teeth against the urge to scream at her. Scream and reach out to wrap my fingers around her spindly neck and shake her until her head topples off. She’s right. It would kill Rosa to know. And the truth is, I don’t have any solid evidence. A diary with a person by the name of “L” gives me nothing.

  I won’t get anywhere with this woman by threatening her. “Did she ever mention that one of her ‘clients’ ”—I roll my eyes—“was a man who worked in her building?”

  “No, I don’t recall anything about that,” Larissa answers quickly, dismissively, checking her fingernails. She’s lying. I know she is. She’s protecting herself. But I’ve got no way of proving it.

  I exhale heavily, preparing to use the power that I try so hard never to wield. “I have a private detective on retainer and an inexhaustible amount of money to spend digging up every last piece of information I want, if I so choose. So please . . . don’t piss me off. I need to know about the client who worked in her office building. He would have gone by Jay, or Jace.” Would he have used his real name at some point with Larissa? How thorough was she, really, when she set Celine up on “dates”? Real escort agencies would have background checks and a paper trail, however well concealed. I’m getting the impression that this operation of Larissa’s was extremely “off the books.”

  We simply sit and stare at each other, each weighing the threat that the other may pose. I hold my back rigid, my legs crossed, my face coolly collected, just as I imagine the most astute femme fatale might in an interrogation.

  Finally, Larissa relents. “A guy called. He told me that one of my regulars had referred him and he asked for a young, pretty Hispanic companion. Obviously, I thought of Celine. I arranged for a meeting between the two of them.”

  “Where?”

  “A hotel. I can’t recall which one. But it was for drinks,” she quickly adds. “I never met him, I don’t know what he looked like. He introduced himself to me as ‘Jay.’ ”

  “And this regular of yours—”

  “Is too valuable for me to lose, as are all of my regulars, so go and wa
ste your money trying to find the name if you want, because I won’t give it to you willingly,” she snaps, the stubborn set of her jaw telling me that she’s not bluffing.

  “Did Celine ever see this ‘Jay’ again?”

  She folds her arms over her chest, and I read that as a sign that the information vault is officially closed. “You tell me. She’s the one who wrote about her exploits in her diary, right?”

  If Larissa doesn’t know, then it’s either because Celine only saw Jace that one time, or because Celine decided to pocket Larissa’s cut and not tell her.

  “Celine stopped taking client calls through me after the incident, so if she was meeting with men after that, I had no involvement.”

  “Incident? What incident?”

  “A new client whose tastes are very particular, and not something that Celine wanted to be involved with.”

  “What does that mean, exactly?” Forced sex? Bondage? How bad could it be that it would make her stop?

  “Check her diary. Maybe she wrote about it.”

  Maybe she did.

  And maybe that’s why that diary is missing.

  No, I need to focus on Jace right now. Jace holds the secret here, I’m sure of it. But I file the other possibility away in my mind. I’ll flag it to Doug, just in case.

  Larissa stands and begins walking to the door, signaling the end of the conversation. I follow, admiring her firm, curvy profile. I can see why men would buy her. I just can’t understand why she—already a successful woman—would sell herself. But I guess it’s like Celine said about me: I’ll never have a good grip on reality because I’ve never wanted for anything. Not financially, anyway.

  “Why are you so interested in this ‘Jay’ anyway?” she asks.

  “Because I think he was very important to Celine.”

  She folds her arms over her chest. There’s a hint of concern in her eyes, which makes me think she’s not just a money-hungry bitch. “How important?”

  “Too important, maybe.”

  Larissa opens the door. “So, are we square here?”

  She means: Am I going to drag her name through the mud, forcing her to do the same to Celine?

  “I have no interest in Rosa ever finding out what her daughter was involved in.”

  She offers a tight, satisfied smile. “Good.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Maggie

  December 9, 2015

  The intercom begins buzzing in rapid succesion, as if someone’s pounding on the button over and over again, until I’m rushing out of the bathroom to shut it up, with Celine’s hot rollers in my hair and one eye finished with mascara. “Let me in!” Hans screams.

  I have just enough time to throw on the satin robe that hangs from a hook in the bathroom before the sound of feet pounding up the stairs and down the hall has me opening the front door. “Where is it!” Hans screams, his winter clothes in disarray.

  “Where is what?”

  He pushes past me just as Ruby’s door creaks open and she sticks out her head. We exchange shrugs.

  “The twin! My voice mail!”

  I glance over at my phone, plugged in and on “Do Not Disturb” so I can get ready for lunch with my mother, in town for business and the Sparkes-sponsored charity gala this coming Sunday.

  “The missing twin! Where is the twin?” Ruby now joins me in a salmon-colored terry-cloth robe that could be pushing thirty years old, to watch Hans as he crouches and frantically scans the handwritten labels on the boxes stacked against the wall.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The missing twin!” I’ve never seen his eyes so wide, heard his voice so shrill. He whips out one of Celine’s journals where she catalogued everything she ever bought and shoves the opened page in my face. “The eighteenth-century Qing Dynasty porcelain vase that is worth millions!”

  I study the picture—a tall, thin vase with a golden yellow base, decorated by colorful floral detail around the neck and a red dragon on the body. “I don’t remember packing this one.”

  “But you did, right? You had to!” Spotting the box of vases, he lifts it as if it’s laced with C-4 explosives and places it on the ground ever so gently. “So help me God, if you didn’t wrap it properly . . .”

  “Let me see that.” Ruby slides her glasses down onto the bridge of her nose and reaches for the journal. I watch her study it, her gaze darting back and forth between the picture and the top shelf where Celine’s collection of porcelain vases used to sit. “Ah, yes.” She smiles. “I thought something looked different when I was here last. It was almost too tall for the space. Oh, Celine was so excited about this vase.”

  Hans prattles on as he unwraps each fragile piece, his voice shaky with nerves. “I can’t believe Celine would have had this and not phoned me right away! It’s a well-known story. The seventh emperor of the Qing Dynasty—the last Chinese dynasty before the Republic of China was formed—commissioned two such bone china vases to be added to his imperial collection, in honor of his firstborn, a set of twins who died three days after their birth. They were exact replicas of each other, made using the bone ash from the children’s bodies.”

  I cringe at the thought.

  “I know. Creepy. And to use red, which is considered a celebratory color in my culture, was just tacky. Anyway,” he dismisses that with a wave, “one had a red phoenix to represent the girl, and one”—he stabs the picture of the vase with his index finger—“had a red dragon, to represent the boy prince.”

  “So, this is a knockoff.” I’m sure there were plenty made.

  Hans isn’t listening to me. “When the palaces were pillaged by Anglo-French troops in the Second Opium Wars, both vases were taken by people who clearly didn’t understand the significance of keeping them together. The vase with the phoenix—the emperor’s twin daughter—was recovered in the early 1900s in an attic in London during an estate clean out. It went for almost a hundred thousand pounds to a private collector in France—an exorbitant amount for Chinese art at that time. That estate held on to it until 1996 and then sold it to a collector in Beijing for the equivalent of thirteen million dollars.”

  “That’s some serious inflation!” Ruby exclaims.

  “Yeah, well the heirs of that French collector are probably ready to hang themselves now. Had they just held on for a few more years . . .” Hans tsks. “The Chinese art market has exploded over the past decade. They could get double for it. Triple! I can’t even be sure! And that is for the daughter’s vase. I don’t have to tell you how much the Chinese value their sons, do I? Especially in the dynasty era.”

  “And you think Celine had this twin?” I start to laugh.

  “If I could just see the official period seal . . .”

  “That I’m sure anyone could Google and copy,” I rationalize.

  “Not a seal written in kaishu!”

  “Hans . . .” Sometimes I wonder if he truly forgets that normal people don’t know what the hell he’s talking about, or if he just likes being questioned so he can share his vast, impractical wealth of knowledge in that condescending tone he gets when he’s talking about antiques.

  He heaves an exasperated sigh. “It’s handwritten, which means it’s that much harder to copy. It’ll match the seal on the twin vase.”

  Ruby and I watch Hans dismantle a day’s worth of packing work, handling each vase as if it might shatter under the weight of his fingertips.

  As hard as it is to believe that his hunch could actually pan out, I have to remind myself that this entire investigation of Doug’s is based on a hunch, too. My belief that Celine didn’t kill herself.

  I kneel down beside Hans and begin helping him unwrap. “So, you said this could be worth millions?”

  “Chinese collectors are paying record-setting money for imperial work to preserve their history. Another Qing Dynasty vase went up for auction six years ago. They appraised it at over a million pounds at a UK house. And do you know how much it went for when the auction actual
ly opened?” I wait for him to answer as he pauses to glare at me. “Equivalent to eighty-five million dollars!”

  Ruby lets out a low whistle.

  “And that was an ordinary vase, by comparison. Of course there are nonpayment issues because of a fee disagreement between the buyer and the auctioneer. Some people are accusing the Chinese government of sabotaging the sale because they believe the vase was stolen and therefore still rightfully theirs, but—”

  “Okay, calm down, Hans. You’re not even breathing.” He’s talking a mile a minute.

  “Don’t you see? Everyone assumed the male twin vase had been destroyed and was lost forever. Can you imagine what this would mean?” He stops to stare at me, his eyes full of wonder. “An artifact with actual emperor DNA in it! Celine would have made a monumental discovery. And she had a keen eye. She wouldn’t have mistaken a fraud easily. I really think she might have had something here.”

  It’s time for a reality check. “And what are the chances that Celine found this missing twin vase for”—I check the journal record that sits beside me—“fifteen dollars at a garage sale in Queens?”

  “The guy who bought that vase six years ago paid twenty for his,” he shoots back. “If I can just find it and check the markings, then I’ll know if it’s worth taking to my director. We’ll need multiple appraisals, of course, and testing, and—”

  “What about the pictures I sent you? Didn’t she take all the angles?” From what I saw, if there were any signatures, Celine had made sure to capture them.

  “That’s the thing! There weren’t any pictures of this vase on that jump drive, period. It’s a complete fluke that I even saw that page in her notebook, to be honest. I was flipping through, looking for something else. It’s her last purchase, from the looks of it.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. She was always so meticulous. Why include it in this book but not in her other cataloguing?” I frown, eying the now empty desk, where her desktop used to sit. Could someone have erased the pictures of this vase? Her passwords were sitting right there.