Evil in All Its Disguises

by Hilary Davidson

  “I got a pretty big imagination. Try me.”

  “I don’t even know where to start,” I said. “It’s a long, complicated, sad story.”

  “Well, you gotta cough up the details sometime, Tiger Lily.”

  I knew Jesse was right, but I really didn’t know how to start. Instead, I let Jesse fill in the spaces with his usual cheery chatter. Bruxton was mostly silent as he took us down the FDR Drive. It was a sunny day with a bright blue sky, and I felt as if Acapulco were on another planet. I stared toward the East River, taking in Roosevelt Island and bits of Queens. Even the Pepsi-Cola sign over the now-defunct bottling plant was a welcome, familiar sight. I was home, and I could forget about what had happened. I was in sunlight again, and I never wanted to leave.

  By the time Bruxton took the exit at Fifteenth Street, even Jesse was subdued. The tiny stretch of road before you got to Avenue C was a wasteland of empty lots and wire fences.

  “That SUV’s comin’ up behind us real fast,” Jesse said.

  Bruxton pumped the gas pedal, but even as we shot forward, the black SUV that had followed us off the highway caught up to the car and slammed into the back. We weren’t hit hard but the jolt still came as a shock.

  “What the fuck is he doing?” Bruxton said.

  We looked back. The SUV was revving toward us.

  “Both of you duck,” Bruxton ordered.

  I didn’t see what happened next, but I heard gunshots. Then the car ground to a halt while squealing tires took off. When I looked up, the SUV was half on the sidewalk and half on the road, disappearing onto Avenue C.

  “Is everybody okay?” Bruxton asked. We were shaken but unharmed. “Lily Moore, that was one hell of a welcome home.”

  CHAPTER 49

  Officers in patrol cars turned up almost immediately and took our reports. Emergency medics checked us out. When they finally let us go, I was shaking badly. Jesse hugged me, but that didn’t calm me down.

  “Tiger Lily, you have any idea what that was all about?” Jesse asked.

  “No.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  A tow truck wheeled Bruxton’s car away. The windows were broken in bits over the seats. It was a miracle that the flying glass hadn’t cut any of us. A cop drove us over to Jesse’s apartment building at Broadway and Eighth.

  “You going to be okay?” she asked me as I got out.

  “I wish I knew,” I said.

  Upstairs, Jesse vanished into the kitchen, saying he was going to call a deli to deliver some food. As soon as he disappeared, Bruxton turned to me and put his hands on my shoulders.

  “You have any idea who that was? Because I don’t believe in coincidences,” he whispered.

  “No. I can’t even imagine. Everything happened so quickly.”

  “I understand that. But the cop part of my brain—which is most of my brain—can’t help but think about the fact that you get off a plane from Mexico with your shady ex-boyfriend, and on your way home somebody ambushes you.”

  “There was a man named Gavin Stroud who wanted Martin dead. But he’s dead now, so—”

  “How’d he die?”

  “I’m not sure how much I can tell you.”

  Bruxton’s expression was as skeptical as if I’d been a perp he’d caught red-handed. It made me feel ashamed, because it synced with the part of my brain that told me I should come clean. “Did your shady ex have him killed?”

  “No! He wanted to shoot Martin but Martin shot him first.”

  “When did your Sklar become Quick-Draw McGraw?” Jesse asked, stepping out of the kitchen.

  “I know you two both hate Martin, but this wasn’t his fault,” I said.

  “You gotta lot of ’splainin’ to do,” Jesse said.

  It was only after the food arrived, and we sat down in the living room to eat, that I started to tell them what had happened in Acapulco. They were both quiet. Jesse gave me encouraging glances, but Bruxton’s hard eyes never veered from my face, which unnerved me.

  I told them the story of what had happened in all of its confusion and madness. There were things I couldn’t explain, and I didn’t even try. When I got to the part about Gavin shooting Apolinar, and Martin shooting Gavin, Bruxton got riled up.

  “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. You know there’s never going to be justice for any of these people. Martin Sklar is going to walk away unscathed, yet again.”

  “He shot Gavin in self-defense. He had no choice. Gavin had already killed Apolinar. He was going to kill Martin and then me.”

  “You’re actually defending your ex,” Bruxton said. “He killed a guy, and you’re okay with that?”

  “A guy who killed Apolinar and tortured Pete?” I demanded. “I was there. Gavin Stroud poisoned me.”

  “It’s a good thing Sklar shot that lowlife Stroud, ’cause it saves me from havin’ to go after him,” Jesse touched my shoulder. “’Cause you know I would.”

  “I know.” I hugged him, grateful to always have him in my corner. “There was nothing else anyone could do. Gavin lured me down there because he wanted to kill Martin. He was going to kill me, too.”

  Bruxton looked away. He’d reminded me of a pit bull the first time we’d met, and he did so again; even his eyes were on me, he wasn’t making eye contact. “I’m going to make sure there’s a cop detail watching this place for the next few days. I don’t think you should go out, Lily.”

  “I was a prisoner in Acapulco. I’m not going to be a captive here, too. Look, Gavin Stroud is dead and so is the man he relied on to do his dirty work.”

  “What, you think he only had one?” Bruxton asked.

  “There’s no way he gave an order to have someone follow me from the airport. He was planning to kill me in Mexico.”

  “What about Skye’s killer?” Jesse asked. Both Bruxton and I turned to stare at him. “Don’t y’all give me the hairy eyeball. Lily, you said you didn’t reckon Gavin killed her. Who do you think did?”

  “I have no idea,” I admitted. “Gavin had a lot of people working for him in the hotel. Any one of them could have been the killer.”

  “Yeah, but not many of them could get someone to attack you in New York. That’s got to narrow it down,” Bruxton pointed out.

  I ran through the list in my head. “I honestly can’t think of anyone.”

  “Keep thinking,” Bruxton said, getting up. “I need to get going.”

  “I’ll walk you out,” I offered. I shadowed him through the living room into the alcove of the foyer.

  “So, I guess I’ll be seeing you around,” he said. For some reason I couldn’t explain, that caught me in the chest like a punch. See you around sounded like a brush-off.

  “You’d better. When?”

  He looked at me. “I guess that’s up to you, Lily.”

  “You’re always asking me when I’m coming to New York. Now that I’m here, you don’t know?” I tried to keep my voice cool, but I was hurt. My nerves were still jangled and I and couldn’t hide it.

  “Tell me something. Why didn’t you leave Sklar’s hotel when you found out he owned it?”

  “I wanted to leave, but it was late, and Skye had vanished, and I wanted to make sure she was all right.”

  “You sure that’s the real reason?”

  “Is that what you’re upset about? The fact that I didn’t run screaming out of the hotel?”

  He flushed, and I braced for a biting comeback. “I never thought you’d make up with that bastard. I don’t care how nice he dresses or how swell he talks, he’s a scumball.”

  I started to argue but Bruxton put up one hand, palm forward.

  “I know he didn’t kill your sister. But he’s a bad guy. And now you’re talking about him like he saved your life. Like—” Bruxton stared into my eyes “—like you still love him.”

  His honesty caught me by surprise. “Seeing him was hard,” I admitted. “He’s sick, and he looks like he’s got one foot in the grave. I can’t pre
tend that didn’t affect me. It made me sadder than I ever imagined I could be for him.”

  “He went running down to Mexico to get you out of there. I know I should give him props for that. But it just makes me hate his guts.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I wish I’d gone down there to save you.”

  I was touched and flattered and annoyed all at the same time. I hadn’t realized it at first, but Bruxton was seething; everything I said about Martin was making it worse. Ingrid Bergman had once been quoted saying, A kiss is a lovely trick designed by nature to stop speech when words become superfluous. There were no words I knew that could help me, so I leaned forward and kissed him. He pulled me against him and kissed me so hard that I moaned.

  “Well, you two don’t waste time gettin’ reacquainted, do you?” Jesse said. Bruxton and I moved apart, as if jolted by electricity. Jesse laughed and disappeared back into the living room.

  “I’ll call you,” Bruxton said, opening the door. “Make yourself comfortable with New York’s finest watching you twenty-four-seven.”

  “Brux.”

  He turned to look at me.

  “Just for the record, Martin didn’t save me.”

  We stared at each other.

  “I almost forgot,” he said, breaking the spell. “You wanted to know who Skye called on Friday night, before she disappeared.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded slip of white paper. Ellis Burke, he’d written in blue ink, with a phone number after it.

  I’ll be back in a couple of minutes, Skye had said. I just need to call m— um, someone. I’d wondered if “m—” meant Martin. Had I misheard her? It didn’t matter anymore. Skye was dead and there was nothing I could do to help her now.

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  “You tell me.” He reached for the back of my neck and kissed my forehead. “Be careful.” A muscle in his jaw twitched just before he turned and walked out, closing the door behind him without another word.

  CHAPTER 50

  “Lily and bruxton sittin’ in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G,” Jesse taunted me, putting his long legs up on the coffee table.

  “How come you spell out the G but you never say it?”

  “That’s culturally and linguistically insensitive, y’know.”

  His breezy tone didn’t make the heavy weight in the middle of my chest any lighter. “Do you think there’s anyone running around New York who wants you dead?”

  “Nope. I’m as lovable as it gets.”

  “What about Bruxton?”

  “I don’t reckon there are many folks who’d take him on in broad daylight.”

  “So that leaves me as the target.”

  “Which is not to say you’re not lovable, ’cause you are. But you got a knack for gettin’ into trouble.”

  “All I did was go on a press trip!” I protested.

  “Yeah, this one ain’t your fault. It’s your ex’s. You know what freaks me out most in all this? I’m feelin’ sorry for Sklar and that monster kid of his.” Jesse’s mother had had cancer, and her death, when he was eighteen, was still a subject that could bring him to tears.

  “I know. Ridley is only sixteen. He’s not a monster. He’s sweet but a mess.” As I said the words, I wondered if that was why Martin didn’t want to talk about the company. Do you think you can bury the fraud at Pantheon, too? I’d asked, and Martin had simply said Yes. Was Martin trying to do something with the company so that Ridley would be taken care of after Martin was gone?

  “Okay, Ridley’s a sweet monster,” Jesse allowed. “What are you gonna do now?”

  “Run back to Barcelona. Think about getting another job. I love to travel, but I’m sick of travel writing. There’s got to be something else I can do.”

  “Like what?”

  “I have no idea. Writing is the only skill I have.”

  “We could start a magazine,” Jesse said. “I’d call it Truth in Travel, ’cause we all know there’s not much truth to do be had out there, ’specially in travel. All this glossin’ over the problems in a place. ‘Hey, don’t mind them guards with machine guns, they’re just protectin’ this beach from poor folks.’”

  “That is the truth.” I yawned, and tried to remember when I’d last slept. No wonder I was about to drop. “One of Martin’s people said I’d get my computer back. Gavin confiscated it. I think he stole my cell phone, too.”

  “Well, if you ever wanted to be incommunicado, here’s your chance. But you’re welcome to use my computer, Lil, and you can call in for your messages from my phone.”

  “What would I do without you?” I asked him, not for the first time. He passed me a cordless receiver, and I dialed my number and got into voice mail. There were several messages waiting for me: a brief one from Martin, saying he was on his way to Acapulco and to hold tight; an equally brief one from Bruxton, wanting to know if I was okay; one from Ruby, who’d called that morning, wanting to know where the hell I was. Then there was a message from a voice I didn’t recognize at first. “Hello, Lily, this is Ryan Brooks. You telephoned me yesterday. I’ve been trying to reach Skye but I’m only getting her voice mail. Can you call me, please?”

  I listened to his message over and over, with my heart feeling heavier each time. I’d forgotten that I’d called Skye’s former fiancé, and the realization that he—and Skye’s friends and family—didn’t know she was dead made me want to run away. Gavin had told me he’d disposed of Skye’s body, but I had no idea what he’d actually done. The people who loved her wouldn’t know the truth. Would they take my word that she was dead? Would I have taken someone’s word that Claudia was dead, if I hadn’t learned the truth? Part of me would have wanted to continue on in hope and desperation, walking that fine line between heaven and hell, unable to let go.

  Jesse listened to the message. “You want me to call him?” he offered.

  “No, I have to do it. I was there. I need to tell him how it all happened.” The prospect only made me feel empty. Maybe calling Skye’s former fiancé wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe he had a new girlfriend and the call wouldn’t leave a gaping hole in his life. But I found that hard to believe. Knowing that Martin was sick had affected me more than I could put into words. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t in love with him anymore. I had loved him, and that feeling had mutated and transformed, but it hadn’t died.

  Dialing Ryan’s number, I held my breath. When he answered on the first ring, I tried to keep my voice steady. “This is Lily Moore. I just got your message.”

  “Have you heard from Skye yet? Is she all right?” His voice was frantic; I could picture him waiting by the phone for news about her.

  “I am so sorry to have to tell you this, but Skye is dead,” I said. “They found her body in a room at the Hotel Cerón yesterday afternoon.”

  Ryan’s ragged breathing made him sound almost like an obscene phone caller. It was a full minute before he said anything. “The Hotel Cerón. That’s a Pantheon hotel, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  Ryan let out a cry of pure anguish. “She was murdered,” he gasped. “I told her if she kept digging, she could die. That bastard Martin Sklar killed her.”

  CHAPTER 51

  Jesse wouldn’t let me go out to Brooklyn alone. “You got rocks in your head again?” he mocked when I told him I had to see Ryan Brooks. Instead, he got the apple of his eye—his baby blue 1968 Camaro, Ginger—out of the garage down the street and steered us over the Manhattan Bridge. A police car followed us at a not-so-discreet distance.

  Even though the Brooklyn Bridge was considered the iconic one, the Manhattan was the one I loved best. It marked the point where my old neighborhood, the Lower East Side, bumped into Chinatown. Driving east on Canal Street, we could see the gleaming white arch and colonnade, the Beaux Arts style so distant from the neon-lit buildings standing near it.

  “I love this,” I said. “I miss seeing it every day.”

  “Well, there’s only one remedy for that. You th
ink when you move back to New York you’ll want to be on the Lower East Side again?”

  “Who said anything about moving back?”

  “You said you missed it.”

  “If I were to move back, there are things about Barcelona I’d miss, too.”

  “Uh huh. Remember back in Peru, when you told me that Elinor Bargeman lady compared you to a mule with a nail in its head? You got all huffy about it, but she ain’t wrong.”

  He teased me all the way across the bridge, but got quiet as we turned onto Tillary Street in Brooklyn. It was a short drive from there to Ryan Brooks’s building. Seventy-Five Livingston was part of downtown Brooklyn’s Skyscraper Row, and its Art Deco facade matched the grandeur of any downtown Manhattan tower. It reminded me of the Woolworth Building, with its bands of neo-Gothic detailing. But whatever charm it had held for me in the past had evaporated by the time we parked the car, waved to our new cop friends, and walked along Court Street. I was afraid to go upstairs and hear what Skye’s ex had to say.

  “You look real nice,” Jesse said in the elevator. “Did I mention that already?”

  “Do I look that nervous?”

  “Yep.” He shrugged. “But purdy anyway.”

  The doorman had called upstairs, and Ryan Brooks was waiting with his apartment door open. He was on the short side and heavyset, with wire-rimmed glasses and curly black hair. His eyes were half-swollen, no doubt from crying. We introduced ourselves and shook hands; he looked so forlorn I wanted to hug him.

  “I can’t believe she’s gone,” Ryan said, after we got inside. The apartment was a riot of Elsie de Wolfe-inspired design: heavy drapes swagged over tall windows, pale green walls holding molded white rectangular panels, antique wood furniture and leopard-print accents. There was a portrait of Skye hanging over the mantelpiece; in it, her hair was still golden blonde, and she was wearing a strapless lavender ball gown. She was unbelievably gorgeous, but the picture didn’t hint at her personality; it was like one of those old MGM studio shots. There were gold-framed photographs of her dotting every table in the room. Ryan, in his well-worn jeans and black T-shirt with arcade fire embossed on it, stood out against his surroundings as the one thing that didn’t belong. The apartment felt less like the place where he lived and more like a shrine to Skye.