The Little Burgundy: A Jeanne Dark Adventure

by Bill Jones Jr.

  “Polonium?” He stopped himself, looked around, and lowered his voice. “Polonium? How d’you know that? Who’d he get it from?”

  “Let’s just say I have an expert source. We don’t know from whom yet. That’s what I was hoping you could tell me.” Rob frowned and shook his head. I filled him in on what little we’d learned of the case, being certain to leave out any bits other than the use of polonium that would likely be classified. To his credit, he listened attentively, but took few notes. The man understood what off the record means. “My partner and I suspected Danni was involved, and your photo of her current condition is pretty damning evidence. If Danni’s been exposed to Po, odds are he did it to himself.”

  “Where the hell would a former porn star get a substance like polonium?” Rob asked.

  “An excellent question. What do you know about a Russian being involved in the escort ring?”

  “Russian …” He toyed with that in his head for a few minutes while I motioned to the barman for another round and ordered a turkey and Swiss on rye. I’d barely finished when Rob snapped his fingers. “Rudenko!” He rummaged through his files, and pulled out a notepad, rifled through it, and stopped at a neatly penned page. “Yes, brilliant! Danni’s birth name is Danya Rudenko. He’s not Russian, but Ukrainian. Maybe this Russian you’re looking for is a friend from back home.” He scratched his head. “Although it says here in my notes Danni was born and raised in London. No real mention about family life.” He began scribbling in his notebook and muttering. “Still, I’m finally bloody getting someplace. It might be nothing, but I can start working contacts in the Ukraine.” Snapped out of his reverie by some reporter’s instinct, he stopped and looked at me. “What makes you think this Russian has something to do with the polonium?”

  “Would you entrust a major political plot and the acquisition of a rare toxin to an ex-porn star with a quick temper?”

  “I certainly would not. And if I were said Ukrainian, I’d be fairly vexed to know Danni managed to get some and use it.”

  “And if you were Danni?”

  “I’d be more afraid of the Ukrainian than the police.” A grin spread across his face. “I have a good idea where he might be hiding.” He began scribbling notes. “You, my lovely friend, are going to make me a celebrity.”

  I raised one finger. “Not until our investigation is wrapped up. Then, I promise, you’ll be the first to know any unclassified data for your report.”

  A frown spread across his face, bending down the curl of his mustache. “And how am I to be certain that the United States won’t declare all of this classified and leave me out in the cold rain, so to speak?”

  I gave him a direct stare. “Because I take care of my own.”

  “Am I one of your own?”

  “You are now.” There was a frightening second when I realized he may have been asking me if I were gay. Then I figured, what the hell. It not like he’d ever get a chance to find out it wasn’t true.

  He sagged against his seat’s back and placed a hand to his chest. “That’s good enough for me, mate.” He fanned himself. “Is it warm in here?” he asked, giving me an extended look. It wasn’t—for me—but I found it amusing that he thought so. I looked away and suppressed a smile. It was then when a bronze-skinned beauty with cat-like features and rich honey-tinted eyes floated into view. She wore a crimson, turban-like head wrap with a loose-fitting, matching dress and carried a tray containing our beers and my lunch. I caught her eye from across the pub and was rewarded with a smile that made this my new favorite pub.

  “Well, look who’s here,” Rob said, interrupting my mind’s imagining of the evening’s fun. “If it isn’t Pearl Evans.”

  The waitress stopped just short of our table and looked at my companion for the first time, an expression crossing her face that was a wretched mating of fear, disgust, and surprise. Rob stood and reached for her before I knew what was happening. Pearl responded by shoving the tray full of my lunch at him, pushing him onto the table. From the bar, I heard the publican scream her name along with, “Are you mad? What the hell are you doing?” Pearl took off running, but not before Rob grabbed her arm. She spun, reached into her apron and jabbed an arm at him. I caught it, stopping her hand and the knife she wielded, inches short of his midsection.

  “Fuck, woman! I only wanted to talk to you,” Rob said, practically falling over backward.

  The publican arrived in a rush of indignation and apologies. I calmed him down with forty quid for the damages and assurances that Pearl’s actions were justified. “It’s my fault,” I said. “I put my hands where they didn’t belong and startled the poor girl.” He seemed skeptical, but I’d paid for the food and drinks, and having disarmed the girl, he never saw her attempted assault. Another tenner convinced him to let her take a break with Rob and me in the adjacent alley, and I led Pearl out the back.

  She pulled away as soon as we hit the street, standing across from me with her arms folded. “I suppose you’ll be calling the police now, yeah?” she asked.

  “Nope.” I looked at Rob, who nodded his confirmation.

  Pearl looked from him to me. “What you on about then? If you think you’ll both be having me, I don’t go in for that sort of thing.”

  I raised my hands. “No one’s having anybody.”

  “Certainly not,” echoed Rob. From his tone, I thought he was more horrified than offended.

  She was still raging, and she wasn’t listening. “I’ll take you on, alone,” she said, looking at me. “But I don’t do threesomes, especially if you’re a couple of fairies.”

  Rob’s frown turned to a snicker; I frowned. “I’m not gay,” I said, “and I’m not looking for a date.” She looked at me with a noticeably softened demeanor.

  “Pearl here used to work for Danni. She was quite popular from everything I can glean. I’d just about convinced her to talk to me when she disappeared.”

  “You almost got me fucking killed, that’s why. Danni found out I was talking to the press and beat the shit out of me.” She lifted up her head wrap, showing a small bald patch at the back of her head. “Look what she fucking did to me!”

  “Look,” I said, “we don’t want to get you in trouble, and I can arrange for protection if you need it. All I want to know is where to find Danni.” She’d looked down and away, likely shielding herself from another disappointment. I couldn’t feel her like Dark would have, but I’d seen enough hurt to recognize its fossil residue. I lifted her chin with one finger. “I promise you can trust me. Whatever you know, it’ll help, and I’ll make sure no one hurts you again.”

  She pulled away, removing herself from my touch but not my gaze. “Are you with the old bill?” she asked.

  “No, I’m with myself,” I answered.

  “Good, I don’t trust police.” She adjusted her head wrap and then fixed me a long stare. “Why are you being so nice to me?” The hopeful edges of a smile leaked from beneath her bright eyes.

  “I’m a nice guy.”

  She beamed at me. “I bet you are. You should be more careful about the company you keep.” She jabbed a pointed stare at Rob.

  “Cheers,” he said.

  Sixty minutes later, I’d checked out of the hotel and was on my way to the south of England, courtesy of the address Pearl supplied for Danni’s summer home on the coast. I left Pearl and Rob in the alley with barely a goodbye, after entrusting him with getting Pearl to Samuels to arrange for witness protection. Pearl insisted that I take her instead of Rob, but I knew I could trust him. I had access to information he wanted. Besides, I had two things on my mind: find Dark and then find Danni. I still didn’t know what my partner was doing in Scotland, but I guessed she was clever enough to wrap that business up soon enough and eventually head south after Danni.

  11 - Holmes, Jeanne Holmes

  For the life of me, I do not know why Foss believed I had run away from home like a petulant schoolgirl. He was asleep and the case required that I make progress
. I simply—as he would say in his vernacular—took care of business. Besides, if he was at risk, it was the fault of his male ego. He told me he only need rest; I had no reason to doubt him. That man’s moody emotionalism inhibits my intuition like a giant cell phone would a taxiing jet. It was safer for me to turn it off with him. Alas, with this episode, I was beginning to understand that conjoining his conflicting signals was to be my Sisyphean burden. He loves me. I irritate him beyond measure. I am a good partner. I am flighty and unprofessional. Intuition had told me to stay, to allow him to awaken to my soft body, and to heal him that way, but I ignored it, dressed, and departed. Had he admitted how hurt he was, I never would have left his side. Leaving him in that state took all my resolve, which is something he did not appreciate. That became clear once we reconnected and his emotional wounds spilled out over the airwaves. As do most men, he attempted to cover his pain with exaggerated anger.

  “Dark! Where the f— ?” He paused and gathered himself, although I could hear the sound of his squeezing fists in my head. “Where were you? I was worried and Hardesty’s all but called in the Marines to find you.”

  “I missed you too.”

  He grumbled a grizzly bear response.

  “Perhaps he should have checked his office phone,” I said. I made certain to speak in measured tones, as I’d learned it soothes Foss’s spirit like a fresh salmon thrown to my angry bear. “I left Monsieur Hardesty a message telling him where I was and that I would reconnect with you as soon as you were well.”

  I heard heavy breathing and could feel his seething intensity wash over me like a humid blanket. It seemed we were to begin anew precisely where we had left off at the big blue cock. This time, however, it wasn’t only me who frustrated him. “Hardesty didn’t get your message. He was too busy hopping on a plane to look for you.”

  “Well, that was stupide. I was not lost.”

  “Stupide, or not, it was your responsibility to check in with him.”

  “Do not mock me, Foster Cain. I am proud to be French.”

  His imitation French accent was atrocious, made more irritating by his heavy breathing in my ear. “Did you think to try his cell phone?” he asked.

  “Oui. He did not answer and so I chose not to leave a second message saying the same thing as the first. He can check his office messages from his mobile, can he not?”

  “Not while he’s on a plane, no.”

  “Oh. I am sorry to hear about his plane crash. I’m sure his wife must be aggrieved.”

  “Dark, what the hell are you talking about? His plane didn’t crash.”

  “Then whose fault is it that he didn’t know where I was? He should hire a secretary.” I paused while he muttered barely audible indignities. “I am not Sainte Jeanne and I am not a pain in the ass.”

  That was succeeded by sullen silence, which he broke by saying, “I hate it when you do that mind-reading thing.”

  “Then don’t be so predictable. If you are going to insult me in your giant chocolate head, at least be original. I have heard the Jeanne d’Arc burned at the stake joke my entire life.” I considered telling him he mumbles aloud, but decided to leave him thinking I have mystical powers. I sipped from my coffee. It was magnifique, as was the view that surrounded me. It was an unseasonably warm day, and I sat breathing in the salty air and listening to the soothing, green cry of sea birds. My toes delighted in the feel of the sun caressing them. It was a sensual symphony, made more so by the slowing of my partner’s breathing and with it, his ire. When he spoke again, it was softer, with the gentleness that I’d come to value so much.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s going on? Why haven’t you been answering my calls?”

  “Simple. I am an idiot. I dropped my phone in the toilet. You would not believe how much they want for a new phone in England. It is outrageous. I finally capitulated and bought a new one today. You are the first one I called.” He paused again. This time, his muttering was even louder. “I can hear you, you know,” I said.

  “Sorry. I’ve just been … like I said, I’ve worried about you.”

  “I regret that I made you concerned. Please forgive me, cher.”

  My sincere apology seemed to break his wall of faux anger. He said, “After Danni assaulted me, I thought maybe he’d gotten to you too. Apparently, she has a history of violence.”

  “I promise everything has been fine. In fact, I have been very busy.”

  “Well we’ll have to compare notes when we hook up. I’m on my way to Brighton.”

  “Really? Brighton?”

  “Yeah, I made a couple of contacts, including one on the inside of the escort ring. She gave me the address of Danni’s vacation home. It’s supposed to be a nice little beach town.”

  “Oui, I like it a lot. The Hove section is more posh, but Brighton is bright and energetic—full of people and life, perfect for a synesthete like me.”

  “You’ve been there?” he asked.

  “I am here now, at a café in the North Laines. They have the best coffee.” I took another sip. “When can you come?”

  He exhaled exasperation into the phone once again. “I’m about an hour out. Give me the name of the café and I’ll meet you there.”

  I hesitated, but then decided to put pride aside. “So, you love me again?”

  He was quiet for long enough that I began to wish I had not taken the chance to ask him. Then he spoke in a quiet voice. “I can’t do this without you, Jeanne.”

  “Why would you want to be without me?” Sometimes, my impetuous emotionalism gets the better of my judgment. To my relief, his answer was swift and sweet.

  “I’ll never want to again.” I suppose his male ego took over from there as he filled the next five minutes with testosterone-laden harrumphing about meeting a reporter and a pretty prostitute masquerading as a waitress. It was good detective work, to be sure, but bragging about one’s accomplishments is a male enterprise. I knew he was simply sweeping dust across the road that led to his heart lest I find it and discover his secret. But he’d given away the route; he loved me, and I knew it. Accordingly, I listened politely to his monologue until he said something I cared about. “I met your sister, Jette.”

  His use of the family nickname startled me. Foster was the first man other than Papa or her husband I’d heard call her anything except Dr. Dubois since she finished medical school. My sweet grizzly bear had charmed even the frozen heart of my sister. The man was capable of surprising me after all. I felt a smile consume the full of my face. “You spoke to my Juliette? About what?”

  “You, obviously. She told me you were in Scotland.”

  “Non, I told her I was going to Scotland. I didn’t say when.”

  He sighed into the phone once more. “You really are a pain in the ass.”

  “I love you too.”

  His silent grin vibrated in my ear.

  “Um, so what’s in Scotland, anyway?” he asked.

  “I will tell you when you arrive. We have a lot to discuss before meeting with Danni and Rosie.”

  “Wait, you made contact with them already?”

  “Non, I wouldn’t do that without my partner. I need—how you say—backup.”

  “Yeah, backup. That’s me alright.”

  “I am on a stakeup.”

  “That’s stakeout, Jeanne.”

  “Oui, with good French roast and croissants, like civilized people.”

  One more asthma attack in my ear. “Do me a favor. Don’t call Hardesty. Leave that to me.”

  “If you insist.” I didn’t bother to tell him I had no intention of calling M. Hardesty.

  “See you in fifty minutes.” Foss growled and hung up.

  Some people do not appreciate how to enjoy their work.

  ***

  After an awkward attempt at a hug, we sat in my favorite booth in the little café, while the blond waitress fretted over my partner’s every whim. To my surprise, instead of the suits to which I had become accustomed, he wa
s dressed in a hot pink shirt and jeans that hugged his thighs like an abandoned lover. Given her brazen stare, I was surprised the waitress didn’t sit on his lap. Once we were able to shoo her away, Foster proceeded to fill me in on his adventures of the past days. His confirmation that Danni was a former porn star was valuable in that it affirmed my sources as being trustworthy. In detective work, one’s sources are only as reliable as the setting in which they are encountered. I told him that I’d met mine in some of the seedier lesbian bars between London and the south coast.

  “So I’ve been worried about you for days while you’ve been hanging out in gay bars all night?”

  “Oui, it was a logical place to start.” From the flash in his eyes, I could tell he not only agreed, but was kicking himself for not having thought of it. “Danni is transgendered. It stood to reason that he would surround himself with likeminded people.”

  Foss looked out the window toward the row of two-story buildings that lined the street opposite us. They were lit by the warm light of the dying evening sun, bathing them in a glow that resonated in my ears like the strumming of a bass guitar. Above, the occasional seagull added its beryl song to the fray. Once purely houses, the lower levels of each row house now served as store fronts. A few blocks over, the streets quieted into a mélange of cream and white townhouses, identical life boxes that lined the narrow street. Here, however, the crowded streets exploded with color and movement while the residents bathed themselves in the trappings of English tourism. Amidst them was a long, grey house that sat backwards, its opening facing the quiet residential street a block over while the others faced the bustling Laines. On the second level of the grey house was a pair of bay windows shielded by tan curtains. Behind them, I was certain, Danni and Rosie lurked. In the five hours I had been watching, the curtains had not opened, nor had they the previous evening after I first learned the address of Danni’s Brighton hideaway. I had been watching in the evening, catching a few hours sleep in the day while a pair of youngsters I’d encountered monitored the pair during the day. The two ragged teenaged boys happily agreed to watch the house and anyone who left for the paltry sum of twenty pounds for the day. I got the feeling they would have done so for less, since it was apparent they had nothing else to do but hang about. I hoped they were not using the cash for drugs.