False Impressions

by Laura Caldwell

  “The thing is…about the sharing…” His words died away and he stared at the ceiling as if searching for his words there.

  “They want you to share, and when you don’t, they get annoyed at you?”

  “No.” He looked at me with a big smile. “They all seem to think, in one version or another, that I’m slow to love. And maybe I am.”

  “Maybe you are?” I said, intentionally letting the sarcasm leak in this time.

  “Okay, I’m agreeing with you.” Another Italian shrug. “But they like it.”

  I laughed at the surprise in his voice. He talked some more, then we ate for a while in companionable silence, a new thing for us.

  “Did Mayburn tell you his idea about me as a blonde?” I asked.

  My dad nodded. “I think it’s worth a shot.”

  “I wonder if people will buy me as a blonde.”

  “Only if you like it,” he answered quickly. “You can’t just sell it. You have to be it. And you have to like it.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because if you enjoy it, then you’ll have credibility.”

  I wondered how much my father knew about being someone else. I couldn’t help but return to the topic of his dating, and a question I wanted to ask. “Is Cassandra, Mom’s friend, one of those people who thinks, and likes, that you’re slow to love?”

  A couple beats went by. “She is, in fact.”

  “You felt okay having Mom set you up with her?”

  He put down his fork. Paused. “I did, in fact.”

  “Huh,” I said. The wonders never ceased with my parents. “You know, Dad, anyone would be lucky to go out with you.”

  He had been picking at his scramble, lifting up pieces of vegetables and inspecting them. He put his fork down and looked at me. “Thank you.”

  “Sure.”

  Stirring brown sugar into my oatmeal, I noticed he’d stopped talking, hadn’t continued with his food. I looked up at him. I wanted to ask him if he was still considering leaving Chicago, but I didn’t want to press him too much.

  “Thank you, Isabel,” he said again. “Very much.”

  And that was all I needed to hear for now.

  35

  A few days later, I got out of a cab on Hubbard Street, right behind another cab that happened to hold Madeline Saga. I handed my cabbie a bunch of money, told him to keep the change and then said I’d be sitting in the cab for a minute or two. I had to watch Madeline closely, and I didn’t want to get into the club before her.

  I had thought about bringing Jeremy, someone I could talk to. But I had the distinct feeling that I would want to kiss him.

  I liked kissing him. I couldn’t imagine doing anything else with him because I hadn’t ruled him out as the source of the forgeries. But the kissing was great. I also needed to keep an eye on Madeline. Plus, Jeremy had told me that he was seeing the Fex tonight to discuss custodial arrangements and ‘more financial bullshit.’ Things, if they had been amicable, didn’t seem to be so any more.

  Madeline must have been paying with a credit card in her cab or getting change, because it took her a moment to get out. We’d already been to the gallery opening, where I stood far apart from Madeline, watched her work the room. There was no one obviously following her.

  I glanced out the cab window at the brick building painted black. The club took up the top two floors. Through the snow that was starting to come down, I saw red lights flashing from those floors. When I opened the car door, I heard the music pulsing from within.

  I saw Madeline get out of her cab, wearing a blue fur over a black dress. She was stopped by a guy I’d seen at the opening. They began talking.

  “Can I hang here just another minute?” I asked the cab driver. He nodded, apparently pleased with my tip.

  I watched Madeline and the guy talk. He didn’t seem threatening. If I remembered correctly from meeting him at the opening, he was an interior designer. A man came up to them and the designer introduced Madeline. The three of them stood under the outdoor heat lamps and seemed in no hurry to get inside, so I sat back in the cab seat. And I couldn’t help it—I played with my hair. My new blond hair.

  I’d refused to cut and dye my hair the way Mayburn had wanted me to. Are you insane? Lucy had said when she’d overheard. Izzy McNeil does not color that red hair!

  So I’d gone to a stylist recommended by my mom, who’d custom-fitted me with a wig that was white-blond, chin length and wispy.

  In order to complete my transformation as someone who was…well, someone who was simply not me, I’d bought a dress I probably would never have worn before—a thin, yellow sweater dress with a peek-a-boo cut-out over the chest. I wore it with camel patent-leather boots. It was all very seventies mod, and they seemed like blonde clothes.

  Madeline’s eyes had gone big when she spotted me at the gallery opening. I saw her smiling as she turned away. And the time or two I caught her glancing at me, she was beaming. I think she saw me as a changing art installation.

  It had been hard to keep an eye on Madeline, though, because my new blond self kept getting hit on by men who would never had noticed me before—Euro types, hipsters in skinny jeans. I had no idea what kind of slogan they were reading from me as a blonde—Easy but not cheap?—but in the hour we were at the opening, one of the guys had offered to buy me a featured sculpture—a graphite hand that was part silver, part black with colored finger nails. I hadn’t liked the sculpture very much (and I knew that it would freak me out if it lived in my house) so it was easy to say no. When I got a look at a price list, I almost choked on my champagne. Thirteen thousand dollars.

  “Hey, ya using this cab?” It was a bouncer from the club, opening my taxi door farther and gesturing for me to get out.

  “Yes, I am using it. I’ll just be a minute.”

  Madeline was accepting a business card from the second guy, and again, they didn’t seem in a hurry to move.

  The bouncer pulled the cab door open more. “Let’s go, lady.”

  “‘Let’s go, lady?’” I repeated, my blond hair making me feel a little frostier than usual. “I have paid this gentleman—” I held my hand toward the cab driver “—to wait for one moment.”

  The driver smiled and nodded.

  “One.” The bouncer held up his index finger. “There. Your one moment is up. I got customers I have to put in this cab if you’re not using it.”

  “I’m about to be one of your customers,” the blonde said.

  “That remains to be seen.”

  I huffed. Or the blonde did. One of us was really pissed off.

  I started arguing with the bouncer, using legal terminology to explain the concept of sales transactions as they pertained to my paid use of the cab. I was no dumb blonde.

  But then I looked away from him. And Madeline wasn’t there.

  “It’s all yours,” I said, stepping out of the cab.

  I hurried toward the club door. No sign of Madeline. The club had to be reached by elevators, and yet no one was at the elevator bay. Clearly, she had already gone upstairs.

  Another bouncer inside studied my ID intently. “This is you?”

  “Of course,” I said, somewhat distractedly, hoping to nonchalantly draw him away from the fact that the person in the ID had deep orange-red hair. “Hey, I have a question for you,” I said. “What floor is the entrance to the club? Three, right?”

  “Or four,” the bouncer said. “Doesn’t matter. There’s entrances on both.”

  “Damn.” How was I supposed to tail Madeline if I didn’t know where she was?

  “Damn what?” the bouncer said.

  “What?”

  “What are you saying ‘damn’ for?”

  “What is this, church?” Geez, the blonde was sassy. “I’ll talk how I want.”

  The bouncer frowned. Waited. Then finally, slowly, he handed me my ID.

  “Thanks.” I snatched it from him and half jogged to the elevator, wanting to see if I could read the
display that indicated the floor where the elevator had stopped.

  Right then, though, the elevator dinged and the door opened. I dodged inside.

  “Hey, there’s a fifteen dollar cover!” I heard the bouncer say.

  “I’ll get you on the way down!” the blonde yelled, right as the elevator doors closed.

  36

  I got off at the third floor, and thankfully I saw Madeline immediately, still with the two guys she had been speaking with outside. The designer held her blue fur coat over his arm, looking gallant.

  I ordered a club soda with lime and made my way around the place, all the while keeping an eye on Madeline. The place was dark, sexily lit with candelabras, filled with little conversation nooks and crannies.

  After the second round about the premises, a bartender signaled at me. I went up to the bar.

  He pushed a martini glass across the bar. “Your friend said to give you this.”

  I sipped it. “A lychee martini?”

  The bartender nodded. I turned and found Madeline with my eyes. She was sitting at a high-top table now, with the original two guys plus three others. She glanced at me and winked. Then she nodded at the dance floor in front of her, as if to say, Think about getting out there.

  I made mental notes about each of the guys she spoke with, utilizing the way I’d seen witnesses and suspects described in the police records that had become a part of my legal world. Male, light brown complexion, eyes brown, short hair. And Male, Caucasian, eyes blue, hair gray and so on.

  The lychee martini slid down nicely, and Madeline was sitting tight, so I could scan the crowd for anyone who was watching her, as well. No one stuck out.

  I took a few steps back and ordered another martini from the bartender. When he delivered it, I took it to the edge of the dance floor on my side of the room, looking around, checking out the DJ, dissecting the group of girls now behind Madeline. Female, dark complexion, eyes green, hair—braids. But no one I saw seemed to be super aware of anything but their own fun at that moment.

  The second martini went down smoothly, perhaps too much so. The blonde started to sway her hips to the music. This soon drew a few guys my way. They were all very cute, all seemed very nice, but if I paid attention to them, I wouldn’t be able to do the same for Madeline.

  To get a little privacy, I stepped onto the dance floor, made my way about ten feet forward, past a few people. I was far enough from Madeline to observe her and those around her.

  I swayed my hips some more, but I must have looked mechanical because Madeline glanced my way, frowned and made a show of taking a deep breath in, then letting it out, then nodding her head my way. Try it. Relax. Enjoy.

  So I did. I closed my eyes, and I breathed. Then I did it again. And again.

  The music pulsed around me; it pushed and pulled me, that’s what it felt like, suddenly. I let my head fall back, but I kept my eyes closed, and inside my lids I saw red lights that spun, sparklike, over the room, breaking up before they hit anyone on the dance floor. Before anyone could feel them. Except for maybe me.

  I liked this blond thing. I liked how my hair was like white light, wispy. Without my heavy, long curls, I felt free to take in more, something I’d been doing since I’d met Madeline—more emotion, more desire, more everything.

  I sensed a shift in the crowd, sensed I had been given more room. I heard Madeline’s message again—relax—and so I kept trying. I let my arms fall out from my sides, let them arc as I spun more.

  “That’s enough.” The harsh words jarred me, the voice even more so.

  I stopped, felt the wisps of light hair hit my face and then settle on my neck.

  His eyes bore a disappointed—or was it disgusted?—tinge. I felt a wave of shame, but then pushed it away. I would not be shamed by this man. Oh, no.

  As if to steal some power from her, I gazed across the room.

  But Madeline was gone.

  “Let me guess,” Detective Vaughn said. “You had a friend who was here, and now she’s gone. Again.”

  “She is here.” I looked around. Didn’t see her. “I was watching her, because we’re pretty sure someone is following her, and…”

  I was relieved, despite myself, when I glanced at him again and saw that the potential disgust disappeared from his features. But then Vaughn frowned. Deeply. More disgust? Or just confused disappointment? Both?

  “Did you pay to get in here?” he asked. Vaughn crossed his arms.

  “I came with my friend,” I said.

  “There’s still a charge.”

  “What are you, a bouncer now?”

  Vaughn uncurled his arms. He wore his gray coat and jeans rather than his usual khakis, along with black snow boots.

  “Turn around,” Vaughn said. “Hands behind your back.”

  “Excuse me?” My tone was indignant.

  He repeated his words. “Turn around. Hands behind your back.”

  I still couldn’t read the expression on his face. He was frowning, that much was clear.

  “Fine,” he said. “I’ll do you favor and cuff you in the front.”

  I felt something cool against a wrist. I looked down, saw something silver, heard someone say in my mind say, Handcuffs? Really? A little much, don’t you think?

  But no sarcastic or other actual voice came out of my mouth. And so I was wordless as Vaughn and I both stared at my hands, as he finished one motion—click—then another. Click, click. Our eyes met. He looked surprised or maybe regretful. I almost thought he was going to apologize to me, but then he led me out.

  37

  The police?

  Yes, an officer apparently, because the man was flashing a badge. Then flashing handcuffs.

  Was it cracking apart—this life. (This was a life, wasn’t it?)

  Had revenge gone too far? Were the police in on it?

  But no, he was handcuffing the redhead. He was taking her outside.

  And that’s when a wonderful realization hit—Madeline was alone.

  38

  It had been snowing—thick, fast snow—when Vaughn and I had first gotten in the car. Now, as we headed down Western Avenue, outside was a blur of white, the snow pelting the windows of the car.

  “I have to find Madeline,” I said.

  He ignored me.

  “Vaughn, seriously. Someone has been following her. As a cop, you should be helping me.”

  Still nothing.

  “Give me back my cellphone,” I said.

  “Can’t. Protocol.”

  “Don’t be a jackass.”

  He glared in the rearview mirror. “Say that again and I’ll book you for something else.”

  I was about to ask what in the hell he was doing, when sirens screamed and a snowplow barreled through the street, making way for two ambulances.

  The night was veering away from me, the situation hard to process. Although I’d been questioned by the cops before, although Vaughn had had me in the back of his car recently, I’d never actually imagined myself being arrested. Not ever.

  And what of Madeline?

  The blonde wanted to give him a piece of her mind, but more sirens, more plows barreling and then a fire truck.

  What is happening?

  I bit my lip. Stayed quiet for a few minutes.

  “Goddamn it!” Vaughn said, smacking his dashboard.

  “What are you all worked up about?” I said.

  “Shit,” Vaughn said.

  “What?”

  “Shit.”

  I looked outside, saw drifts of snow collecting along the street.

  “I don’t know if we’re going to make it,” Vaughn said, almost as if he were talking to himself.

  Vaughn turned onto a side street to avoid hitting cars that were starting to get stuck in drifts. “Shit,” he said again.

  The side street was narrow and covered with more drifts.

  “It’s a one way,” my blonde said, unable to help herself. “You’re going the wrong way.”

/>   Vaughn said nothing, and somehow I could feel his stress pouring through the hole in the safety glass between the front and back seats. There was no point in trying to get him to help me find Madeline until he calmed down.

  “So,” I said, trying a nicer tone. “Are we supposed to get a lot of this stuff?” Outside the window, snow pounded harder. It began to be difficult to make out the homes on the sides of the road.

  Vaughn lifted his chin, moving his face toward his rearview mirror, so I could see his irritated expression. “You fucking kidding me? There’s a blizzard coming.”

  “Right. Snowmageddon. Well, if there’s a blizzard coming, why are you out picking me up from a nightclub for… What was it again that you’re charging me with?” I said this somewhat nonchalantly, but frankly I was scared suddenly.

  “Why am I picking you up?” Vaughn said with scorn. “Because you’re getting in trouble. Because you have to turn this ship around.”

  “Turn this ship around?” I repeated incredulously. “What does that even mean? And more importantly, why are you captain? Or first mate?” And the blonde was back.

  “Did you pay to get in that place?” he asked.

  “I came with my friend,” I said. “The one who’s missing.”

  “There was still a charge.”

  “Are you seriously arresting me for not paying a fifteen dollar cover?”

  Nothing from Vaughn.

  “Why do you even care?”

  Still no comment.

  “Well?” I said, leaning toward the safety glass and angling my mouth toward the talking piece. “Well?”

  I was about to demand that he stop the car and let me out. I was about to argue that he had no cause to arrest me (although I could probably make an argument for the other side of that, as well). I was about to tell him again that I had to find Madeline. But then the car stopped.