by Ingrid Thoft
Olivia scowled. “Maybe it’s reasonable, but it’s completely inaccurate.”
“So what did you do for the boss?” Fina shifted in her seat. Her limited patience was even more limited than usual. The soreness of her arm, coupled with the inconvenience of the cast and her general frustration with the case, was making her irritable.
“I was a booker. I worked the phones—vetted potential clients and set up the appointments for the girls. It sounds easy, but it isn’t. You have to be very careful what you say on the phone.”
“I bet.”
“You can’t be explicit about the services, and you can’t piss off the clients. It’s a whole new level of customer service.”
“So you would book Brianna on jobs?”
“And the other girls. But I really liked Brianna. She was cool. We hung out sometimes away from the office.”
“Was anything different about her recently? Did she seem upset about anything?”
“Not really. She mentioned that someone was hassling her a bit, but she didn’t say more than that.”
“Was it a client?”
Olivia shrugged. “I don’t know. She didn’t seem threatened exactly, more like annoyed.”
Fina bit into the croissant. She might have been the irritant in Brianna’s life. “Why do you hate your boss so much? And what’s her name?”
Olivia leaned forward with her elbows on the table. “Her name is Bev Duprey.”
“Tell me about her.”
“She’s old, you know, sixty.” Fina swallowed some coffee and marveled at the time horizon of twentysomethings. “She’s rich and very proper. From the South, originally.” Olivia arched one of her eyebrows to stress the information, but Fina wasn’t sure what message she was meant to extrapolate from the gesture. That Bev was like a Civil War–era plantation owner?
“Bev fired you?”
“I quit.”
“Why?”
“Because Mrs. Duprey is a racist bitch.”
Fina bit off an edge of flaky dough, and a crumb disappeared down her arm. She shook her cast toward the floor to try to dislodge the tidbit. “What did she do specifically?”
“I started working for her after I spent a year in a corporate job. I had to do all kinds of shit to fit in there: wear certain clothes, keep my nails a particular length, and straighten my hair. It makes white people nervous if your hair looks too natural. Makes them worry you’re going to break into some kind of tribal dance.”
Fina snorted. “I hate the corporate world.”
“So, I got the job with Mrs. Duprey, and after I’d proven myself, I decided to give the relaxer a break and go au naturel.”
“I think your hair’s gorgeous.”
Olivia pulled on a curl. “So do I, but she didn’t. She called me in and told me that I wasn’t meeting the personal appearance standards of the company. I might understand if I were seeing clients—we’re talking about a lot of old white guys, after all—but I never saw clients. I didn’t see anybody but Mrs. Duprey and the other girls in the office. It’s not like it was dirty. She’s racist, and the worst kind, too. She pretends to be genteel and so well mannered.”
“So, you don’t only want to find Brianna’s killer,” Fina said, and popped the last bite of croissant into her mouth. “You’d like to screw over your old boss if possible.”
Olivia shrugged, and a sly smile crept across her face. “I’m very efficient. I like to kill two birds with one stone.”
“You’re my kind of woman, Olivia. Where can I find Mrs. Duprey? Did you guys really call her that?”
“Oh yes, ma’am,” Olivia said in an exaggerated tone. “I told you, she’s all about the facade. She’s always trying to catch flies with honey.”
Olivia gave Fina the address of an office in Back Bay and a description of Bev, and the two women gathered their bags and walked out to the sidewalk. Not even ten A.M., and Fina could already feel the sweat beading on her brow.
“Where are you working now?” she asked Olivia.
The young woman frowned. “I’m looking. There’s not much out there.”
“Write down this number,” Fina said, and dictated the number for Matthew’s office. “Tell the assistant that Fina wants Matthew to see if there’s a spot for you.”
“What about my work history?” Olivia asked.
“Don’t worry about that.” Fina waved her hand in the air. “They’re ambulance chasers; they’re the definition of sleaze.”
“Is he going to try to make me change my hair?”
Fina guffawed. “Hardly, but if he does, tell him to take it up with me.”
“Thanks,” Olivia said, and put her phone into her purse. “You’re much nicer than Dante made you sound.”
Fina gently flexed the fingers protruding from her cast. “Dante’s afraid I’m going to shoot off his balls. I would expect him to have some reservations about our relationship.”
She watched Olivia walk down the street and disappear into a T station.
Fina was sweaty and sore and grouchy, but she had a name.
Finally, she had a name.
Fina went to Rand’s house next, where she found Scotty’s kids yelling and splashing in the backyard pool. She waved at them and said hello to the teenage girl who was acting as lifeguard. Inside the house, Patty was dumping a bag of tortilla chips into a bowl and grabbing juice boxes from the fridge.
“Who’s the lifeguard?” Fina asked, grabbing a handful of chips.
“Our neighbor. Helps me out when I need an extra pair of hands.” Scotty and Patty could afford a platoon of nannies and au pairs, but Patty had never warmed to the idea of having a stranger in the house. “She wants to work in education,” Patty continued, “hence her willingness to babysit.” The sons and daughters in the Ludlow social circle weren’t interested in summer and weekend jobs; they were too busy interning at million-dollar hedge funds or the mayor’s office. Babysitting was a quaint concept left to those with futures in poorly paid yet essential professions.
“Why aren’t you at your pool or the club?” Fina asked.
“I thought there was a better chance of crossing paths with Haley on her own turf. Also, Rand is doing some work from home, so your parents and Matthew will probably stop by at some point. Give the kids a chance to see them.”
“No need for me to linger, then.”
“Fina,” Patty said sternly, and folded down the top of the chip bag.
“I’m kidding . . . kind of.”
Haley and Rand walked into the room together, but were quiet. Fina couldn’t tell if the silence was on purpose or if they’d reached a natural pause in their conversation.
“What happened to your hand?” Patty asked.
Fina held up the cast. “I broke my wrist,” she said. She glanced in Haley’s direction. “No biggie.”
Haley opened the fridge door and perused the options.
“There’s nothing to eat,” she proclaimed and swung the door shut.
“There’s tortilla chips and salsa, and I got some of that hummus you like,” Patty said, and she put the drinks and snacks on a tray.
Haley didn’t respond. Rand stood next to her and grabbed a chip from the bowl.
“I can’t have this crap in the house, Patty. I’m going to get fat.”
“Mom always had it, and you didn’t complain,” Haley said.
Rand ignored her and brushed the salt off his hands.
“Haley needs a check for the country club overnight,” Patty told Rand. “And you need to sign the permission slip.”
Fina leaned back against the island and watched her brother and sister-in-law work out the details of Haley’s upcoming weekend away. Haley stood next to her father. She was wearing a tank top that exposed her bra straps and a pair of sweat shorts that had a logo emblazoned across the
ass. Her hair was loose down her back, and after a moment, Rand reached out and ran a hand down it. It was the sort of long, silky mane that women paid good money for, but rarely achieved. He did it a second time. Haley closed her eyes, and a grimace washed over her face. She stomped out of the kitchen.
Patty stopped talking midsentence, and the three adults looked toward the door through which Haley had disappeared.
“What now?” Rand exclaimed. He ran his fingers through his own hair. “Christ! I can’t do anything right.”
“Exactly. Stop trying. She’s a teenager,” Patty said. “I’m heading out back.” She picked up the tray and left the kitchen.
Rand reached into one of the cabinets and pulled out a glass. He filled it with water from the fridge dispenser and gulped half of it down in a few swallows. “Do you have anything good to tell me?”
“I got a name that might be helpful. I’m going to set up a meeting.”
“Who is it?”
Fina rested her cast on the counter. “That doesn’t matter right now, but it’s a lead related to the hooker who was killed. The hooker they questioned me about. I assume you heard about that.”
Rand nodded. “What does that have to do with Melanie?”
“That’s what I’m figuring out.”
“Sounds like a dead end to me.” Rand finished the water.
“It may be, but I have to follow every potential lead, even the long shots.”
“It just seems like maybe you could spend your time more productively.”
Fina snorted.
“What?”
“So says the man who visits hookers in his free time.”
Rand glared at her, but she pointed at him with her cast before he could speak. “And I got this broken wrist because of your shit, so spare me the performance review. I’m not in the mood.” Fina grabbed her bag and started toward the door.
“Always a pleasure, little sister,” Rand said, and put his glass in the sink.
Fina stomped out, not unlike (she realized) her niece had just moments before.
Bev fiddled with the satin ribbon that marked the place in her day planner. She’d been put on hold. It infuriated her.
“Rebecca? It’s Mrs. Duprey,” she said when the young woman came on the line. “Why was I put on hold?”
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Duprey.” The young woman didn’t stammer exactly, but stumbled over the apology. “We’re a little shorthanded at the moment.”
“Why is that? Who didn’t show up?”
“Danielle, but she’s on her way. I think she had car trouble.”
“Ask her to call me after she completes her shift.”
“Yes, ma’am. How can I help you?”
Bev stood up from the table with her cell at her ear and pulled a small pair of scissors from one of the kitchen drawers. She returned to the table and snipped off the fraying end of the ribbon. “Who’s unmatched for tonight?”
Rebecca took a moment and then read Bev a list of names. Some clients requested a specific girl or type, but some liked to sample a little of everything, like dipping into a box of high-end chocolates.
“I’d like to match client number oh-eight-oh-seven with Katelyn. She’s on tonight, isn’t she?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good, but let me call her, Rebecca. We have something else to discuss.”
“Of course, Mrs. Duprey.” If the other girls noticed her heightened interest in Katelyn, they kept it to themselves.
“Thank you, dear.” Bev ended the call and remained seated at the table. She gazed out the window to the garden in the backyard, which her neighbors had reclaimed from the wilds. Technically, it was a community space, but she was happy to have them exercise their green thumbs if it improved her view. She certainly didn’t have time for anything as quaint as gardening. Even if she had the time, Bev wasn’t one for hobbies. When Chester was in good health, they hadn’t pursued leisure activities. Their businesses were all-consuming, and what was more satisfying than making lots of money? Bev would work until the day she died.
The TV was blaring in the living room, and Bev took a deep breath and pushed through the door leading from the kitchen. Chester was lying in his usual position, and the nurse was seated in the recliner next to him. It was an ugly chair, but once Bev started spending all her nights at his side, she broke down and bought the hideous yet surprisingly comfortable piece of furniture. Now they were like every couple their age in the middle of the country, spending their evenings with their eyes glued to the TV. How had it come to this?
The nurse straightened up when Bev entered and put the magazine she was reading on the side table.
“I’m on my way out,” Bev told her. “Is there anything you need for Mr. Duprey?”
“We have everything we need, Mrs. Duprey.”
“Good. You can reach me on my cell. I’ll be back in a few hours.” Bev leaned over the bed and kissed Chester’s cheek. He smelled faintly of talcum powder, and she fought the thought that flooded into her brain: Her husband was an infant.
She hurried out of the condo and pulled the door closed. She leaned against it and gasped for breath. Some moments were unbearable.
Fina circled the block a couple of times and finally found a semilegal parking space across the street from the address Olivia had provided. She was on Beacon, amongst the four- and five-story brownstones that loomed over the street. Fina rolled down her windows and turned off the car. The hot breeze gently rustled the leaves and at least provided a change from the relentless humidity.
She was thirsty, but hadn’t picked up any liquid, not knowing how long she was going to be doing surveillance. Fina didn’t yet have a plan for approaching Bev Duprey, but sometimes, staking out someone’s territory was enough get her creative juices flowing.
She didn’t even expect to have a sighting, but when a sixtysomething woman climbed the steps of the address, Fina was fairly certain she was looking at the madam of the best little whorehouse in Boston. The woman was elegantly dressed in a pale yellow skirt suit. Her hair was neatly coiffed, but natural, as if she’d just come from the salon where a stylist pulled and teased the pieces just so. Bev was slightly overweight, a bit round and padded through the middle, but her posture was outstanding. Someone had spent her youth walking around with a phone book on her head.
Before confronting her, Fina needed more information. She also needed some junk food and some pain pills, so she headed to Nanny’s.
The prospect of a cool shower was appealing, but exhausting, so Fina ran a cold facecloth over her skin in an effort to clean off the day’s first layer of sweat. She washed a pain pill down with a diet soda and two of the four sections of a Sky Bar, vanilla nougat and caramel. Yum. That left fudge and peanut for later.
In the living room, she flopped on the couch and picked up her phone. She left a message for Emma asking for info on Bev Duprey and was about to call Milloy when there was a knock on her door.
She peered through the peephole and saw Hal.
“I was about to call you,” Fina said as she ushered him into the condo.
“I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d bring you the update in person.”
“Great. You want water or a soda?”
“Just water,” Hal said, and lowered himself into Nanny’s side chair. “How’s your wrist?” he hollered while she was in the kitchen.
“It’s broken,” Fina said, and walked back into the living room. She handed him a glass of water. “It’s a pain in the ass, but no big deal.”
Fina sat down and tried to figure out where to rest her casted wrist. It was heavier than her arm, and the plaster was obviously unyielding. You didn’t really think about your limbs until you had to carry them around and they did nothing for you in return.
“So you have some info?”
“I fi
nally have a name connected to Zyxco, Inc.” Hal struggled to free a phone from his pocket and tapped on a few buttons. “I can’t take complete credit for it. Emma narrowed down the list of names from the phone dump, so I was able to dig deeper into a focused group.”
“And? The suspense is killing me, Hal.”
“The owner of Zyxco, Inc. and hence, Mode Accessories, is . . . Chester Duprey.”
Fina paused with her soda can in midair. “What?”
“Chester Duprey.”
“Duprey?”
“Duprey.”
“How is that spelled?” Fina took a swig and placed the can on the coffee table.
“D-U-P-R-E-Y.”
Fina stood up and paced the floor in front of the windows overlooking the harbor.
“Is there a problem?” Hal asked, concern etched on his face.
“Yeah. I think my head’s going to explode.”
“Ahhh,” Hal murmured. “Not sure what to do about that.”
Fina came back to the couch and sat down on the end closest to Hal. “Give me all the details on this guy,” she said, and Hal took a deep breath. She held up her hand. “Wait. Not all the details. Give me a high-level, critical detail summary.” Fina had worked with Hal long enough to know that he was a closeted Chatty Cathy. Wind him up, and he would go on forever.
“Chester Duprey is seventy-six years old, originally from Biloxi, Mississippi. He’s owned a number of successful businesses, mostly in various parts of the South. Before coming to Boston, he was in Richmond, Virginia, for four years.”
“How long has he been in Boston?”
Hal consulted his phone. “About five years.”
“What else?”
“No trouble with the law, although he’s been audited a couple of times. Gives a decent amount of money to charity. Lives on Beacon Hill.”
“Family?”
“A wife and a son. Beverly and Connor.”
Fina reached into her cast and tried to scratch an itch with her fingernail, but she couldn’t reach it. She cast her eyes around the room for an implement. “I can’t focus with this fucking cast!” she exclaimed and went to the kitchen. She returned a minute later with a tiny two-pronged lobster fork in her hand, which she proceeded to slip into her cast.