“What?”
She stared through the windshield at the swirling snow. Then she sighed. “Nothing. It can’t be helped.” She seemed to be talking to herself more than me.
Petrovsky started the Buick and pulled out of the lot. Davis backed out and swung the wheel left. The car went into a skid. “Fuck.” She muttered under her breath.
I belted myself in.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Following a car in the middle of a snowstorm is not an easy task. A blustery wind tossed the snow around in bursts. Traffic was slow and the streets were already clogged with fender benders. An occasional red-and-blue Mars light pierced the gloom. Still, Petrovsky was pushing it five miles above the limit. Must be all those Russian winters.
Rand Road runs generally south and east, except for a few sharp angles. Petrovsky plowed down for a few miles, then turned off, ending up on Northwest Highway—the same one that runs through Park Ridge. The snow intensified, and eddies of white, illuminated by the Saturn’s headlights, almost obscured our view. Even Petrovsky slowed to a crawl.
While Davis concentrated on her driving, I dug out my cell and called home. Rachel was making soup.
“Katie’s coming over to do homework,” she said.
“Her mother’s bringing her over in this?”
“Her feet work just fine. And she’s got boots.”
Her one-liners were starting to remind me of Dad.
“They’re out of hot chocolate, and I told her she could take some of ours. Oh, by the way, Dad called.” It took me a second to realize she meant Barry. “He was returning your call. He said he was sorry he didn’t get back to you sooner.”
My ex-husband and I got divorced, at least in part, because I didn’t like the people we were becoming: defensive, mean-spirited, and petty. But we’d been on unusually good terms recently. I wasn’t sure why; I hoped we were finally achieving a degree of rationality. Even maturity. “I’ll call him when I get home. But it won’t be for a while.” I looked over at Davis.
“No prob. I’m cool. See ya later, Ma.”
As I dropped the cell back into my bag, Petrovsky braked hard and turned right into a parking lot.
Davis braked, too. The Saturn fishtailed, then skidded to a stop. “Roll down your window,” she ordered.
A blast of icy air swept through the car. She craned her neck and looked past me through the window. A green-and-blue neon sign on the side of a small frame building read: “Celestial Bodies—A Gentleman’s Club.” The letters D, I, and E in bodies sputtered. The Buick nosed into a space directly underneath the sign. Petrovsky climbed out.
Davis drove a few yards past the lot, then made a U-turn, provoking a chorus of angry horns. She U’ed again, swerving in back of a snowplow that was spewing out streams of salt. She snapped on her turn signal, but by the time there was a break in traffic, Petrovsky had disappeared. She pulled into the lot, parked five spaces away from the Buick, and cut the engine.
“I want you to stay in the car.” She looked over. “I’ll leave the keys so you have heat.”
I peered at the neon sign, the seedy building, the blinding snowstorm. “I don’t know where we are or what we’re doing. All I know is that I’m outside some strip joint in a strange place in the middle of a blizzard. If you think I’m gonna stay in a car by myself, you’re nuts.”
She looked like she wanted to argue the point. Then she squinted through the windshield. Someone was coming around the back of the building. It wasn’t Petrovsky—this man was big and husky, although the heavy parka he wore might have added to his bulk. Still, he wasn’t the kind of man I’d want to meet in a dark alley. Or parking lot. He flicked a lit cigarette into the snow and headed over to a Blazer parked near the Buick.
Davis watched him open the door and slide inside. The wipers snapped on. When the Blazer’s windshield and rear window were clear of snow, he backed out.
“You think he saw us?” I asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“Who is he?”
“I’d lay odds he’s the bouncer.”
“How do you know?”
“You see the size of him?” Her eyes slanted sideways. Then she sighed. “Okay, you can come. But stay close to me. And don’t say one fucking word. You hear?”
We climbed out of the car. A surge of raw, biting air stung my face and snatched my breath away. The Hawk was out tonight. I followed Davis to the front of the building. She shoved her shoulder against a thick metal door. It gave an inch, but she had to push again before it opened.
We entered a large shadowy room, illuminated by disco balls on the ceiling. About twenty tables were grouped around a makeshift stage, but no one was sitting at them. A brass railing curled around the edge of the stage. To the left was a bar, a portable affair that looked like it had been hastily added. I wondered what Celestial Bodies had been in an earlier incarnation. A furniture showroom? A hair salon?
Speakers hung from the walls on either of the stage, but the faint instrumental music filtering out wasn’t coming from them. It seemed to be coming from the back. It sounded like something from Zorba the Greek.
Two women, one blond and one with long hair so black, it couldn’t be natural, sat on the stage, their legs dangling over the edge. Dressed in bathrobes, they smoked cigarettes and chattered in a guttural language that might have been Russian. Their faces looked green in the light.
My eyes were still adjusting to the gloom when the blond stood up and ground out her cigarette on the stage. When she spotted us, Davis started forward, navigating the narrow space between tables. Davis’ jeans were tight, and her hair was down. The blond ran her tongue around her lips.
“We close now,” she said in a thick accent, but her interested expression hinted that something could be arranged.
Davis cleared her throat. “I just want to talk.”
The woman pouted.
I took a step forward. The blond was older than I first thought, in her late thirties, maybe even forty. The one with the black hair was younger but had a glazed, vacant look. I wondered what she was on.
Davis brushed snow off her jacket. “I’m looking for the man who just came in.”
The women exchanged blank glances. Was it possible they hadn’t seen him?
Davis must have been thinking the same thing. “Short. Big hat. Brown coat?”
The blond shrugged. “Many men in and out. But not now. We take break.”
Davis kept her gaze level. “He came in, not five minutes ago.” When the woman still didn’t reply, she said, “Well, then, would it be okay if I took a look myself?” She ducked under the railing and swung herself up, bracing her arms on the stage.
The blonde blocked her path. “You no go.”
Davis pulled out her badge and flashed it at the woman. “Ma’am, I’m a police officer.”
The blonde gulped down air. Taking a cue from her companion, Blackie scrambled to her feet.
“Where are you going?” Davis said. Blackie froze. Davis eyed her. “If you were thinking you might yell out a warning or something like that, well, that probably wouldn’t be a good idea.”
The two women exchanged looks. The blonde looked in my direction.
Davis followed her gaze. “She’s with me.” She looked back at the women. “Like I said, I hope you don’t mind if we take a look backstage.” The blonde didn’t answer. “It would be even nicer if you ‘escorted’ us,” Davis added.
The blonde hesitated, then started tentatively across the stage. Blackie followed. Davis brought up the rear. Halfway across, she looked at me over her shoulder.
I hung back, not at all sure I wanted to explore the bowels of a unfamiliar building with strangers. But Davis was a cop. She must know what she was doing. I swung myself up under the railing and fell in behind.
Backstage reminded me of one of those seedy Vaudeville theaters you sometimes see in movies. I caught a glimpse of a birdcage, a feathered boa, manacles, and something that might have been
a trapeze. We passed through a door on the right, which led to a hallway. The women, padding in white socks, stopped halfway down at a closed door. The music was louder here.
Davis proceeded to the end of the hall and looked around. “Back door,” she muttered. Was that for my benefit, or was she checking it out for herself? She came back down the hall. “What’s in there?” She pointed to the closed door.
The blonde shrugged and knocked.
A high-pitched female voice replied in a stream of incomprehensible language. We didn’t need a translator to hear her peevish tone.
Davis answered in English. “Police, ma’am. Open the door.”
The music stopped, and it suddenly grew very quiet. Davis’ hands slipped to her sides. Then the door slowly opened, and a woman stuck out her head. Another blonde, her hair was piled high in a twist. Heavy makeup surrounded blue eyes. She wore a flowered Oriental robe sashed at the waist. Large, fuzzy pink slippers covered her feet.
“Da?” Like the others, she had an accent.
Davis flipped open her badge.
I could have sworn the woman flinched, but it was subtle, and I could have been wrong. In any event, she recovered quickly, and her lips parted in a smile. Gold flashed in her teeth.
“I’m looking for a man who just came into this—this building.” Davis described him.
“No men. You see?” She swung the door open, then leaned against it, sliding her sash through her fingers. “Just us girls.” Her smile broadened as she caught sight of me. “You pretty girl. You want come in and see Sofiya?”
Davis answered, “She’s with me.”
The woman cocked her hip. “That’s okay. I very sexy. They give movie contract me almost.”
A rush of heat streaked up my spine, but Davis seemed unperturbed. “Ma’am, you do realize you’re speaking to a police officer, don’t you?”
Sofiya’s smile dimmed. She gestured for us all to enter. The women from the stage, whose trepidation seemed to have melted away once they realized Davis wasn’t out to bust them, flocked to a sofa, eyeing us with curious glances. I hung back near the door.
The room had been cobbled together into a crude dressing space. Two bathroom mirrors hung on a wall. Someone had thrown up a strip of theater lights on top. Underneath was a makeshift vanity covered with hairbrushes, lipsticks, and other cosmetics. Clothes were piled everywhere—on the couch, on chairs, spilling onto the floor. In one corner was a rack of skimpy costumes with lots of sequins, spangles and rhinestones. A dozen pairs of glittery high heels lay on a rack below. Most of the costumes were shabby and threadbare, and a musky, female scent permeated the rack.
“What’s your full name?” Davis asked Sofiya.
“I Sofiya Cakars.” She cranked up the wattage on her smile. If it grew any wider—or more brittle—her face would crack. “What this man do?”
Davis shook her head. “I just want to talk to him.” She glanced at the other women. “Ask them if they’ve seen him.”
She said something in what I assumed was Russian. The women shrugged. “They no see.” Sofiya faced us. “They know nothing. I here four years,” she said proudly. She looked over at me. “You see sign? It say ‘Sofiya and the Angels.’”
I hadn’t, but I nodded.
She nodded back, apparently satisfied. Then she turned the radio back on. Slow, mournful music spewed out. Her voice dropped to a stage whisper. “They good girls. They do nothing bad. Just dance.” She nodded again vigorously, as if that might convince us to agree with her. “But no people come tonight.” She looked out a small barred window. “Too many snow.”
“You’re here alone?” Davis asked.
“Manager get dinner.”
“Look,” Davis said. “I’m not here to give you any trouble with immigration. And I don’t give a shit what you’re snorting or smoking or shooting. I just need information.”
As Sofiya translated, the remaining tension in the room dissipated, and the women on the couch relaxed. Sofiya’s mood changed, too. Her smile faded, and a calculating look came into her eyes. I sensed that beneath her affectations lay a hard-nosed businesswoman.
Davis pulled out a Polaroid of the woman on the tape and handed it to Sofiya. “Do you recognize this woman?”
Sofiya’s mouth tightened as she studied the photo. Then she looked at Davis with what I took as genuine distress—witnessing death tends to sober you, even if it’s just a snapshot after the fact. She shook her head, and passed it to the others. The blonde winced and uttered a soft exclamation, but Blackie, the one who was stoned, looked at it dispiritedly and passed it back without comment.
Sofiya said something sharp to her in Russian, making me think the girl might be a problem in other ways besides drugs. As Blackie launched into what must have been, from her tone, a defense of some kind, a fourth woman appeared at the door. She wasn’t more than a few feet away, but she didn’t appear to notice me. Probably because I was wedged up against the wall.
Another blonde with short, spiky hair—someone probably told them that American men preferred blondes—she was wearing faded jeans and a denim shirt, mostly unbuttoned. Gold tassels hung from her nipples. She was painfully thin, and her eyes were slightly crossed. She looked like she might have been pretty once, but time had flattened her features. The women in the room, while not acknowledging her presence, didn’t seem concerned by it, either.
“There’s something else I’d like you to see,” Davis said. Standing at an angle to the door, she didn’t see the new arrival and pulled out another photo. I recognized the tattoo on the dead woman’s wrist.
Sofiya took a look at it, then passed it on. This time, no one spoke. Or looked up. When Sofiya finally did, she looked at Davis, then me, then the wall. Everywhere—it seemed—except the woman in the doorway.
“Well?” Davis asked.
Sofiya shook her head.
“What about the others?”
The women shook their heads, but one of them threw a furtive glance at the woman with the tassels. Davis didn’t catch it.
“What about the design? You ever see these stars and flame before? Maybe not on a tattoo, but something else? A paper, a coin, a piece of clothing?”
As Sofiya translated, the woman at the door started to fidget. Her eyes darted around the room, and the rapid rise and fall of her chest made her tassels swish. When her gaze landed on me, she froze for an instant, her eyes wide. Then she edged away from the door, turned around, and hurried down the hall.
A buzz skimmed all the nerves of my body.
Davis was distributing business cards, her back still to the door. “Something comes to you, anything at all, you call me. The girl in this picture was young, you know? Someone should pay for her death.”
She still hadn’t seen the woman in the doorway. I shifted. I wasn’t supposed to get involved; Davis specifically ordered me not to. But this woman appeared to know who I was. Shouldn’t I find out how? What if she had something to do with the tape? A tide of conflicting urges swept through me. Davis didn’t want me to interfere, but if I didn’t follow the woman, we might miss a huge opportunity. I stole another glance at Davis. Her back was to me. I peered down the hall. I slipped out the door.
The woman was working her way to the backstage door.
“Hey, you,” I called. “Wait!”
She whipped around. Panic shot across her face.
“Don’t go!” I raised my hand in the air. “I—I need to talk to you!” She paused and turned around for a moment, like a bird hovering in mid-flight. It occurred to me I had no idea if she spoke English. I thrust my hand into my bag, which was slung over my shoulder. “Look.…”
She recoiled, turned around, and sprinted through the door. Damn. She thought I had a gun. “Wait! It’s just my card. My business card!”
But she didn’t stop. I started after her, but she’d already ducked out of sight. I hurried through the backstage door after her, trying to figure out which direction she’d taken. I guessed
left and tentatively started across the stage.
Another door slammed somewhere in back, and a man’s voice cut through the air. Then a woman’s—it had to be her—in low, urgent tones. A second man’s voice followed. Petrovsky? Had he been here the whole time? Before I could think it through, the door slammed again. Moments later the whine of a car engine floated through the air.
I stopped. I should go back to the dressing room. Tell Davis what happened. She’d want to know about the woman—and the men whose voices I’d heard. I started to creep back across the stage, trying to stay in the shadows, hoping no one would see me.
Halfway across, the footlights slammed on, and a deep, male voice bellowed out, “Stop!”
I stopped.
“On your knees!”
I dropped. I tried to make out who was there, but the glare of the lights blinded me. A large, beefy man hurled himself onto the stage. The man who’d taken off in the Blazer. Except this time he wasn’t leaving. He was heading straight toward me, and he was pointing a gun at my head.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The wind moaned fitfully as it whipped through the walls. I didn’t move. I hardly breathed. But my heart was pounding so loud, I was sure he could hear it above the wind.
The man jammed the gun against my forehead. “Don’t move!”
He had the same accent as Sofiya. I tried to focus on his tone and inflection, thinking I might gauge his mood, but a woman’s voice overrode him. High-pitched. Jittery. I snuck a look. The woman with the tassels stood at the edge of the stage. Our eyes met. She looked away. The man with the gun wedged it farther into my flesh.
“Please. Could I explain—”
“Shut up! Look at floor!”
I bent my head. The man snarled something, all the while keeping up a steady pressure on the gun. The woman closed in and helped herself to my bag. She pawed through it, and made a triumphant exclamation, as she pulled out my wallet. More conversation as she flipped through the plastic sleeves. She stopped at one and squinted. In broken English, she recited, “Eleanor Foreman. Two, four, nine.…” Then she lapsed back into Russian. I recognized the first three digits of my Social Security number. She was reading my driver’s license.
An Image of Death Page 11