The Lady Upstairs

by Halley Sutton

  I looked at what I had left. I was looking for a number that had been dialed more than once, and that had called our office more than once. I circled anything that came close. One of the numbers looked familiar and appeared over and over again in the records for the past month. Not the Lady’s number, but I felt uneasy. I stared at it. I could see my fingers punching in the number barely a week before, the crisscross pattern of my thumb on the keys.

  Howdy, pardner, what’s on the mayhem menu today, Ellen’s voice chirped into memory, and then a cackle as she laughed to herself, knowing how much that greeting would annoy me. That same plucky voice pleading, No, no, please, I won’t, I’m sorry, I didn’t, it’ll be, just let me, no, no, no.

  Ellen’s number. Of course. I gulped the water, shaking slightly, then crossed her number out, over and over until you couldn’t read it at all. I tore a small hole in one part of the invoice with the pen.

  By the time I was done, there were only two numbers left. I wasn’t positive that I would remember what the Lady’s voice sounded like. I closed my eyes, tried to think. No accent that I remembered. More nasal than husky, more alto than soprano.

  Nothing to do but try.

  I picked up the phone, cradling the receiver between my shoulder and ear. I dialed the first number on my list. It rang and rang, eventually disconnecting without anyone picking up. I breathed a sigh, somehow relieved. I checked the next number that I’d circled. Another try to find the Lady. I was starting to dial when the phone merengued to life in my hands. I froze. Lou grinned up at me from my phone. How appropriate that she’d want to talk after a case, even if she didn’t know it was happening. It would distract me, and I didn’t want to be distracted tonight. I brought the glass to my face, tried to cool myself down. But if I didn’t pick up, she’d keep calling.

  “Hello.”

  “Hiya.” Lou’s voice was chipper on the other line. It almost always was, after she got laid. “What are you up to?”

  “Lou, what do you want?” I unbuttoned the top of my white dress, crumpled under Carrigan’s touch. There were dark smudges near the collar and along the hem. It would never look the same, even laundered. But I didn’t need it to.

  “Touch-y,” Lou said, clicking her tongue over the line. “Come outside.”

  “What? Why?”

  She huffed a sigh. “C’mon, do it.”

  I pulled back my curtains, looked down to the pool in the center of the courtyard. Lou sat on the rim, her toes in the water, jeans rolled up to her knees. The phit-phit-phit of night-running sprinklers fizzed the air behind her. A bottle of champagne was tucked against her side, the steam from evaporating chlorine probably warming the glass. I wondered if it could be considered a tradition if we’d only done it twice in two years. She gave me a warm smile, held up a hand. I held up two fingers—two minutes—and let the curtain drop, hanging up the phone.

  God, this heat would never let up. Even at night. The cotton of the dress chafed against my chest, which was damp, clammy. I stood up, unbuttoned the dress the rest of the way, balled it up, and threw it in a corner. Maybe I’d never have to look at it again. I tucked a towel under my armpits and went down to meet Lou in my bra and panties.

  “Look at you,” Lou said, giving me an appreciative once-over as I sat down. She handed me the bottle of champagne already opened.

  “I thought you were pissed about my drinking.” I pulled the edges of the towel down and turned to face her head-on—if she was going to ogle, she might as well get the whole thing. I took the bottle and chugged. I passed it back to Lou, who was making a point of keeping her eyes firmly aboveboard.

  “You lied to me,” Lou said, taking the champagne bottle from my hand and carefully fixing her lips to the spot where my mouth had been. A shiver twitched my shoulder blades and my nipples hardened. “That’s what I was pissed about. I thought we told each other everything.”

  “Everything,” I repeated, thinking of all the lies I’d told over the last few weeks. All of it spurred by the biggest lie—not that Lou would call it a lie, exactly, the fact that she’d kept the Lady from me. But all the same, it was, in its own way. Loyal Lou, who loved the Lady. Loved her so much, she kept her closer than anyone. Even after all we’d done together. “Like the name of the Lady Upstairs.”

  Lou set the bottle down between us. She studied her toes in the pool, swishing her legs back and forth. The water was a cloudy yellow in the night lights, and it bounced light back under her chin. “It’s the only thing I can’t tell you,” Lou said finally. “You know that.”

  “The only thing.” The champagne was warm, and too sweet, but I liked the burn of the bubbles on my lips. I took two more swigs for courage. “Okay. How was Mischa the other night? Was she a good lay?”

  Lou gaped at me, then glared. The freckles jumped on her nose as her face went pale. “Great,” she said. “I came six times.”

  I choked on the champagne. “Six?”

  “Of course not, you asshole,” Lou said, still glaring at me. The humidity from the pool was causing her hair to frizz and a fine sheen of sweat appeared on her upper lip, her hairline. Her shoulders dropped and she shook her head. “Christ, do you remember when our conversations didn’t always end in arguments? I’m not sure I do.” She was silent for a moment, and then she said, more to herself than to me, “How did it all turn out like this?”

  I didn’t have anything to say to that. The champagne bottle was going more quickly than I’d expected, and I could still feel Carrigan all over me, could still smell him on me. I wondered if Lou could, or what it would make her feel if she did. She’d care because it was Carrigan, of course—would she have cared if it had been anybody else? I stood up, and I could feel Lou’s eyes flick up at me. Her mouth dropped open to ask what I was doing, and then I dove into the pool.

  I held my breath underwater as long as I could, feeling the water break around me, slosh against the sides of the pool and back again. I opened my eyes underwater, liking the sting of the thickly chlorinated water, and I made for the outline of Lou’s pale toes, grabbing her feet, which kicked and jerked, as I surfaced.

  “Don’t,” Lou warned, her face even paler. She’d dug her nails into the grout around the edge of the pool like that would save her if I tugged her in. I let go of her foot, treading water on my own, and she visibly relaxed.

  “If she didn’t want either Jackal or me to know who she was—if anonymity was so important to her,” I said, watching Lou’s face, “why did she stop by the office? Why risk it?”

  Lou shook her head. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “Please don’t ask me again. Please, Jo. We’re so close. It’s almost over. Then we can go back to the way that everything was.”

  Her eyes were big and pleading, and she even leaned closer to me, closer to the water.

  But it would never be over, I thought, not for me. There wouldn’t be a night I wouldn’t see Ellen’s face before I went to sleep. That was a given.

  And going back to a normal where Lou went home with bartenders but came to me for a midnight chat when she needed to feel like her real self again wasn’t going to work, either.

  I put my hands, wet, on either side of her legs, soaking her jeans, and when Lou looked down to see what I was doing, I pulled myself close to her so we were almost touching but not quite.

  “No more bartenders,” I said quietly. Lou’s mouth twitched. I took a deep breath; then I pressed myself up until we were nose to nose, my wet legs against her jeans, my mouth hovering only a few inches from her. I remembered the feel of her mouth on mine at the Olvera Street bar, and I remembered Carrigan, having to push him into wanting me, having to pretend to be someone soft and pliant. I was so sick of pretending I didn’t want the things I wanted.

  So I kissed her.

  My mouth must have been salty from the chlorine, and Lou’s breath was a little sour from the champagne. When
Jackal kissed me, he was all tongue—penetration always. Lou’s kisses were softer, breathier, and she was holding herself very still. One slight push from her and I would’ve fallen back into the pool. Instead, she sat there still as a stone, and let me kiss her.

  After a moment, I let myself drop back into the water. I side-stroked away so she couldn’t see my face. I’d always thought that Lou was holding herself back from me because she thought it was unprofessional of us to get involved, or because she’d been hurt so many times before. But maybe the truth was she didn’t want me.

  I blinked tears away, ducking my head under the water for cover. If Carrigan was here, he’d be hard as a rock, I thought, emptying my lungs in a big air bubble.

  From Lou’s side of the pool, a big crash. I broke the surface to see Lou, determinedly clinging to the side of the pool, her arms firmly hooked on the asphalt behind her. A slightly terrified look on her face. She bit her lip and stared at me.

  “You’re my best friend,” she started, and then stopped. She wasn’t going to say it out loud; she wasn’t going to tell me. But I knew.

  This time, Lou was greedy, her mouth moving all over mine, down my neck to my ear, which she tugged on with her teeth. A little gasp came out of me, and I threaded my fingers into her hair, pulling her head back to mine. I used my body to keep her upright against the side of the pool, and she wrapped her scratchy wet jeans around my waist. My tongue was exploring the jumping contours of her throat when she whispered something above me. I kissed my way back up to her mouth.

  “What did you say?”

  Lou’s eyes were closed, and her head was tilted back against the asphalt. She didn’t open her eyes, but she rolled her head slightly away from me, like she didn’t want me to see all of her face as she said it. “Rita Palmer,” she repeated, quietly. “That’s her name. But promise me . . . you won’t tell anyone. Not even Jackal. Promise me, Jo.”

  My fingertips began to tingle and I kissed her again, harder and deeper, moving my lips all over her now, promising her secret was safe, she wouldn’t be sorry she’d trusted me, we were really, finally, finally partners now.

  I sucked on a salty spot on her neck and came up for air giddy. “God, Lou, thank you—when it’s all over, you won’t regret this, I promise, we don’t need her, we’ve never needed her, it’s going to be so much better when we’re not under her fucking thumb—”

  Lou’s head snapped forward, nearly hitting me. She pushed me away, frowning. “What do you mean? Of course we need her. I didn’t tell you her name because I wanted you to . . . because . . .”

  I bit my bottom lip, swollen from Lou’s kisses, and treaded water. Lou was shriveling against the side of the pool with every passing second, staring at me in horror.

  “I don’t know what I was saying,” I said, trying to backpedal. I’d jumped the gun—I hadn’t meant to say anything, certainly not yet, not until I had it figured out. Not until I could come to Lou with a plan, with the money. I hadn’t even realized I’d made the decision until the words came out of my mouth. “I didn’t mean it.”

  Lou didn’t say anything, just turned her back on me and started to haul herself out of the pool. She bent over and grabbed the towel, refusing to look at me.

  “Lou, I’m sorry, I swear I won’t—”

  “No,” she said, turning to me finally, eyes blazing, her wet T-shirt clinging to every curve and dip of her. “You won’t. You won’t say anything to anyone. Or else you’ll be sorry.” She grabbed my towel and the bottle of champagne, the rusty door separating the pool from the street clanging behind her, and she was gone before I could even ask her what she meant.

  Lou had told me once what she owed the Lady—that she’d been the one who’d plucked Lou from the streets, from bad men who liked to hurt her. Sometimes for money, sometimes for love. There was no way Lou would leave the Lady on her own.

  Unless.

  Unless the choice was taken out of her hands. Unless the Lady was already fingered by the police, with Ellen’s and Klein’s murders laid at her feet—as they should be. I’d only done what I had to do—what Lou had told me we had to do.

  It was all so clear now. Lou believed the Lady was the one keeping her from harm, but she hadn’t yet realized what Carrigan had taught me: there was no reason we needed the Lady anymore. And she was too dangerous now, too powerful. I just had to explain it to Lou. Lou was a survivor, smart enough to read the changes in the wind.

  If the choice was taken out of her hands. If I had a way out. If I had a plan—for us both.

  I had a name I could give to MacLeish, along with Jackal’s photographs, to make this—all of it, Ellen, the pool, everything—go away. They’d put the Lady away, and Lou and I would be free and clear to do anything we wanted. I’d take the money I earned from Carrigan, money I had no intention of turning over to the goddamn Lady or anyone else, not now, and we’d start over. The two of us, together. Go somewhere until the media furor over Ellen’s and Klein’s deaths blew over. Maybe, I thought, thinking back to the black-and-white movie, the women in the car, maybe the Mediterranean.

  Maybe Lou really would never talk to me again after I did what I now knew I was going to do. But I had to try.

  Sleep was still a long time coming. I took a shower, washing the traces of Carrigan and chlorine off me. I fixed myself a drink—something to help me sleep. I hoped I’d be lucky, that I’d dream of pleasant things, of Carrigan’s money, or even of his touch, if it came to that. Of Spain, or anywhere else, any landscape that wasn’t the hollow black of the canyons at midnight. Lou’s green eyes on a beach, smiling at me, seeing the reason for what I’d done, proud of it. The blue of the water setting her hair even more ablaze, fingers reaching for me. A new and different life. One free of black-eyed corpses.

  I hoped I’d be lucky. I knew I wouldn’t be.

  Chapter 27

  Jackal had emailed me the photographs first thing in the morning and I’d been right: the best shots he’d taken were the ones of Carrigan holding me, my face buried in the crook of his shoulder. There was an intensity to our intimacy: from a bird’s eye view, we really did look like lovers. In the first frames, too many of the photographs centered on my face. We’d have to get rid of those.

  I went back through the last few shots, and they were all there, Carrigan unmistakably in the throes of coitus, my own face a big blank, as though I were wearing a mask, or like nothing was happening at all. Even, in that bunch, a few in which Jackal had gone tight on my face, and all there was to see was nothingness. I shivered. Was that always what I looked like having sex? Or only when I was doing it for money?

  I stood up, made myself a drink. Before I’d even sat back down, I’d dialed Carrigan’s number. He picked up on the fourth ring, his voice irritated. “Ron, can’t this wait?”

  “Please, I really need to talk to you.” I paused, trying not to enjoy it yet. “I really need your help.”

  “I’m out with my family,” Carrigan said. It sounded like he had his jaw, that one I’d licked and nipped not twenty-four hours before, clenched. “Make it fast.”

  On my desk, one of our photographs stared up at me. I could’ve been a human blow-up doll for all the expression on my face. I flipped the photograph over. “It’s my ex. He’s been driving by my house again. I don’t know what to do.” I quickened my breath. “I couldn’t sleep last night.”

  Carrigan lowered his voice. “Christ, why are you calling me? Try the police.”

  “Please,” I said, letting my voice crack around the s. “I’m so scared, I don’t know what to do. They won’t believe me. They say they can’t do anything because it’s a public street.”

  Silence. I held my breath. Then: “What do you need me to do?”

  “Tomorrow,” I said. “Meet me tomorrow afternoon. Around three. That’s usually when he shows up.”

  “Tomorrow? There’s no way—”
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  I dropped my voice out of the breathy, virginal register I’d been copping, and the relief was immediate, like unzipping a too-tight dress. “Meet me tomorrow with fifty thousand dollars, or else the Friday papers will have photos of you and me doing a dirty tango on my couch. Although I think the ones where you’re holding me might be worse. They don’t make you look very . . . married. How do you think your prospective constituents would like that? Three generations of Angelenos and adultery.” A thick, stunned silence on the other line.

  I heard Carrigan say to someone, muffled like he had his hand over the mouthpiece: “I’ll be right back, don’t wait for me.” The shuffling of a phone being moved to another room. Then: “What did you say?”

  They never believed you, not the first time you said it. Always thought they could change your mind, charm you back into bed. Like it was something you’d thought up that moment, on a whim.

  “Are you seriously trying to—”

  “I’m not trying to. I am. It’s nothing personal,” I assured him. “But that’s the way it is.”

  “Goddammit, who in the hell do you think—”

  “I think my favorite is the finisher,” I said brightly. “My poor dress will never be the same, but it’s actually quite a beautiful shot.” I paused. “If you will.”

  “Hold on one goddamn second,” Carrigan snarled into the phone, and I could hear his huffing breath. I couldn’t tell if it was anger or if he was pacing. “How do I even know you have these photographs?”

  “That’s really a risk you’re willing to take, baby?”

  “Do you know who my father-in-law is? You think he doesn’t have connections with the LAPD?”

  “Silly me,” I said, and I laughed. I’d been paying so much attention to his family name, and I’d missed the forest for the trees. “Silly me,” I said again, and I could almost hear Carrigan’s relieved sigh on the other end. “It’s not your constituents who will care. It’s your wife. And her father. Explain to him that not only were you caught playing around on his beloved daughter—the wife who is so devoted to you, she gave you that name that keeps opening doors for you—but that you picked someone who photographed you in the act, to boot. I think their blissful ignorance is worth a little more, don’t you think? Ignorance is such expensive bliss. Let’s call it an even seventy-five.”